Robert resolved to start a tally. He had already lost track of the days. The only event marking the passage of the hours was the arrival of food. Having nothing to write with, he added one piece of straw to a pile each time the first meal arrived.
After several days, the mute goliath motioned him to push the straw out through the barred door and stand back in the cell. He indicated to Robert to strip off his robe and hand it through the grate. Robert obeyed and shivered with disbelief as the guard picked up a bucket and threw ice cold water at him. It took his breath away, but he was thankful for the rough piece of lye soap the mute threw into the cell. He could barely pick it up. He soaped his filthy body, his teeth chattering. The mute motioned for the return of the soap and then doused Robert with another bucket of icy water. The guard shoved a pile of fresh straw and the robe under the door and tramped away with the buckets. Waiting for his frozen body to dry before reluctantly resuming the detested robe, Robert tried desperately to recall how many straws had been in his little pile.
Gradually a pattern developed and he deduced they changed the straw and allowed him his ‘bath’ once a sennight. He did not have to count the days. He could count the sennights. The revelation brought exhilaration and despair. Sennights! He had been in this hell hole for sennights.
His hair and beard grew. Lice were a constant problem. The food and filthy conditions played havoc with his bowels. The penitent’s robe he wore had not been replaced and he could barely stand the stink of it. The drain hole was the only place to relieve his bodily needs, the rats his only company—until another creature stalking rats took an interest in him.
At first he had shooed away the fat mangy cat that stalked the cells at night. But he woke one night finding comfort in the warmth of the creature’s body curled into his back. On the nights when the cat did not share his bed, he felt bereft and missed the soothing purr of its contentment. He named it Espérance, his only hope. “You’re as lonely as I am, aren’t you, you miserable excuse for a cat.”
He concentrated his anger and frustration on Pierre de Giroux, but was sure the boy could not have accomplished this plot on his own. Who wanted him to be penitent? Penitent. Penitent. Who wanted him to be sorry? The answer came.
“Curthose,” he whispered. “I am in the Duke’s castle in Caen.”
Still the torturers did not appear, and gradually he came to grimly accept that his isolation, his unbearable solitary confinement was his torture. Curthose planned to leave him here to rot slowly. He could not rid himself of the growing knot of fear in his belly.
He became emaciated. He dreamed strange dreams. He had visions of Pierre’s uncle, Phillippe de Giroux dragging his mother by the hair, Robert’s severed head held high in his other hand. He dreamt of Pierre plunging a dagger into Dorianne’s belly, killing their unborn child. He screamed at the horror of his dreams, but there was no one to hear, no one to comfort him.
His body grew stiff, like an old man’s. He determined to pace his cell, to keep his muscles strong, but the monotony of the few steps back and forth, back and forth drove him to hysteria. He exercised his arms by splaying his hands on the damp stone, standing back with his feet spread and then pushing his body up and down from the wall. He continued till his muscles burned. When his arms grew stronger he did the same thing on the floor, urging his body through the searing pain in his biceps.
When the robe interfered with his movements, he discarded it and exercised naked. The hateful garment was replaced when it rotted. In its place he was given a shirt, pantaloons and a coarse blanket. No serf on the Montbryce lands wore such poor clothing.
He thought often of his captivity in Wales as a child and how the so-called barbaric Welsh had made sure he was clean, well fed and properly clothed. Now he was a prisoner of a noble Norman and he was being treated like an animal. What did Curthose want of him? To be sorry? He was sorry indeed. Sorry he could not cut the Duke’s throat.
He might go mad if this confinement went on any length of time. It was the feeling of powerlessness that threatened to consume him. He was confident efforts would be underway to rescue him. He was not alone in the world. It was his responsibility to remain sane until his rescue. He thought on the good things in his life and resolved to concentrate on those and those alone. He sat cross-legged on the dank stone floor and conjured a vision of Dorianne.
He thought of the first time he had seen her raven hair peeking out from under her wimple in the Hall at d’Avranches, of her bewitching hazel eyes, of her breasts glowing with fragrant oil, the nipples hard under his thumbs, of the taste of her sex on his lips, of the blushing smile when she told him she was enceinte. He wept at the memory of her radiance after the birth of his daughters, and lamented he had not spent more time with his girls. The images of his wife brought him solace, but had their negative side—they drove him mad with desire. He cried her name as he spilled his seed on the damp straw.
He conjured an image of his father—greeting his sons at the bridge when they were ransomed, accepting Caedmon as his son, smiling whenever his mother entered the room, sharing his love of the castle Montbryce with his children when they visited there, telling them the story of Hastings when they went to Bayeux. His visions of his father were a source of strength for him and he prayed to his father’s memory in thanksgiving for his Montbryce blood.
“Give me courage, Papa. Help me endure this,” he prayed.
When his father came to him in his dreams, the family motto was always on his lips, “Fide et Virtute! Have faith! Have faith!”
His visions of his mother brought him the most relief from his anguish. He was aware of the hardships she had undergone as a child, and yet she had survived and become one of the most loving and forgiving people he had ever known. “Help me endure this maman, I know your thoughts and prayers are with me here. Try to find Dorianne. Help her.”
~~~
Robert was wakened one night by the sound of an animal in distress. His back was cold. A shiver of dread trickled through his veins. Where was Espérance? He came to his knees and felt for her. She was lying in the corner. As soon as he put his hand on her, he realized what was happening. Kittens! How could he not have known?
Her belly contracted. She licked his hand. He sat back on his haunches and sobbed, thinking of his wife and the son he prayed she still carried.
Espérance was stoic. It probably wasn’t the first litter of kittens she had borne. Robert could tell when each was about to be born—it was the only time the cat cried. He heard the rasp of her tongue licking them dry and the gnawing sounds as she chewed the afterbirth, separating them from her body. Tears flowed when he thought of his little girls, Catherine and Marguerite. His obvious disappointment that they were not boys must have hurt his wife. Had he made her feel she was to blame?
When the four new arrivals were licked clean and suckling hungrily, he reached out slowly and scratched the cat’s ears. “Well done, Espérance. You must take good care of your family. Better care than I took of mine.”
She and the kittens purred.
He lay for hours watching her with her brood, until the gaoler brought his food. Panic seized him then when he remembered this was the day for his straw to be replaced. He had looked forward to it for days. What would happen to the kittens? How could Espérance protect four of them when the ice cold water was thrown into the cell?
By the time the mute returned with the straw and bucket, Robert had devised a plan. But he would try to communicate first with the giant.
“My cat,” he said, pointing to the kittens, slightly startled to hear his own voice.
The man looked at the cats, shrugged and motioned for the straw.
Robert was torn. What would happen if he refused? He desperately needed to feel clean. If he made a fuss, the mute might take the kittens and dispose of them. He removed his clothing and passed it to the guard, then gathered up the straw and pushed it out of the cell.
Espérance arched her back and hissed. She
picked up one kitten by the scruff of its neck. Robert hoped she would understand what he was about to do. Carefully he picked up the remaining kittens. Espérance struck out and clawed his hand, but he persevered. He cradled the squirming newborns to his breast. As the gaoler doused him he turned his back. Espérance screeched and darted out of the cell. The three kittens struggled, but he held them firm, elated he had successfully protected them.
He shook his head when the lye soap was proffered. Water would have to be enough. The gaoler shrugged and shoved the fresh straw under the grate. Robert kicked some into a pile in the corner, knelt, and laid the mewling kittens atop it.
“There,” he sniffled, his arms across his chest, trying to hold on to the warmth he had derived from their little bodies. Then he turned to reach for the clothing the guard held out to him. It was the first time he had seen the mute smile. He smiled back.
Within minutes, Espérance had crept back into the cell, still carrying the kitten she had rescued. Her green eyes followed him as he dressed and hunkered down beside her, watching her suckle her brood once more.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered.
~~~
Dorianne chafed at captivity. While preparations were made for her to go to a nunnery, Pierre relented and allowed her to leave her room to eat in the Hall. She spoke to her parents, seeking their aid.
“Papa,” she said softly, “I can’t believe you condone what Pierre has done. Robert is my lawful husband. You’ve broken God’s law by separating us. My children are without their parents. What has Pierre done with Robert? If he has killed him—”
“It’s out of my hands, daughter,” her father replied angrily. “I can do nothing. You shouldn’t have married Montbryce. But he’s not dead. They won’t kill him.”
He hurried away. Her mother sat with her head bowed, refusing to look at Dorianne.
“Maman, you know this is wrong,” she begged.
Her mother scurried off. Dorianne wanted to scream. If Robert was not to be killed, did that mean torture? She pushed the possibility away as it threatened to rise up her throat. She made her way back to her chamber where she lay awake until exhaustion took her. She dreamt of Robert’s hands on her breasts, his mouth on her sex, his manhood deep inside her. She woke sobbing his name, her hands cradling her belly, protecting the child she carried within her—Robert’s child.
“Be brave, Robert. Somehow we will be rescued.”
PASSION IN THE BLOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY
King Henry was furious when news of Montbryce’s abduction was brought to him soon after the event. Though the report spoke of the Giroux family, he suspected his brother was behind the plot. He itched to march into Normandie and put paid to the Duke of Normandie’s claims and aspirations. He was a much better ruler for the combined kingdoms than his brother. This vengeful abduction of a prominent Norman nobleman proved it. The time would come, but he could not make his move too soon. He dispatched messengers to Ellesmere to inform Baudoin of his knowledge of the crime and summoned the Earl of Ellesmere to Court.
Baudoin and Caedmon both rode to meet with the King. Henry laid out his plans for an invasion. “However, we can’t proceed yet. When the time is right we’ll take Bayeux and then Caen from the Duke. If he has your brother he’s doubtless in the fortress at Caen.”
Baudoin hesitated. “Majesté, the Montbryce men stand ready to aid this invasion. But you can understand our desire to rescue Robert and Dorianne at the earliest, if they are still alive. What’s your estimate for your plan to commence?”
Henry was pensive. “Six months from now I hope to be underway.”
Baudoin and Caedmon opened their mouths to protest, but Henry held up his hand. “I cannot attack without success being assured.”
~~~
As the months dragged by, Dorianne feared it would be impossible to hide her pregnancy much longer. When she undressed, the swell of her belly was unmistakable. She concealed it beneath many layers of loose clothing, relieved Pierre had not allowed her the luxury of a maidservant. She feared her mother already suspected and was terrified Pierre would kill her baby if she did manage to survive long enough to deliver him. She was sure she carried Robert’s son.
The more she remembered of the night of their abduction, the more convinced she became Curthose was behind the crime. She remembered her father’s words. They won’t kill him. Why else would her husband have been forced to wear a penitent’s garb?
If Curthose has him, he’s in Caen.
She sought out her mother—her only hope. “Maman,” she whispered, putting her mother’s hand on her belly, silently praying this was the right thing to do. “Can you feel it? Can you feel the heart of your grandchild beating within me? You must help me. You must convince Pierre to send me to the Abbaye aux Dames, the convent built by the Conqueror in Caen. The nuns will protect me and give me and my babe sanctuary.”
A tear trickled down her mother’s face. “I’m afraid of Pierre,” she whimpered. “He’s full of hate.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother seemed to be on her side. “Maman, we must protect my baby from him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s ruled by anger. Please, convince him, but don’t reveal I’m enceinte.”
Her mother wiped her tears with her sleeve and walked away, looking around nervously.
~~~
A sennight later, Pierre strode unexpectedly into her chamber.
“Prepare yourself, Dori,” he ordered. “You’re to be taken to the Abbaye aux Dames in Caen. The nuns there have agreed. You will join the community where you can spend your life atoning for your sins. You may take nothing from this castle.”
He left the chamber as abruptly as he had entered it. Dorianne’s knees gave way and she slumped to the floor. She was elated she was being sent to a safer place for her baby, but devastated she had lost her brother forever to the madness of his hatred.
“We’ll be in Caen,” she whispered to the child within her. “Nearer to your Papa.”
Two days later, when she arrived exhausted at the Abbaye aux Dames she asked immediately for an audience with the Abbesse. She was ushered into the office where a tall, thin woman greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome Dorianne de Giroux, our newest novice.”
“Madame l’Abbesse,” Dorianne replied, clutching the woman’s hand. “You’ve been misled. My name is Dorianne de Montbryce. I am the wife of Robert, Comte de Montbryce, and I’m enceinte with his child. We were both abducted by my brother. I don’t know where my husband is. I seek sanctuary here within these walls built by our great Conqueror, and your help with the birth of my child.”
The Abbesse was plainly shocked. “Dear girl. I had heard of the Comte’s abduction, but I had no idea—what an ordeal you’ve had. I grant you and your child sanctuary.”
Dorianne fainted with relief.
~~~
Robert was not sure how long Dorianne had been pregnant when she had told him—perhaps two months? By his straw tally he had been in captivity seven months. He closed his eyes and saw her rounded belly swelling with his child. When he estimated the time for her delivery might be close at hand, he knelt in silent prayer for hours in the damp straw, day after day, willing his child to come into the world whole and his wife to be well. If she still lived. He had a persistent feeling she was somehow close by.
As he knelt in prayer, Espérance rubbed against his hip. He took it as a good omen. He rarely saw her kittens any more. They could survive without their mother now.
He had become disgusted with his inability to control his burning physical need for his wife. He could not get images of her naked body, her face, her hair, her smile out of his head. “Nothing of my body works properly any more except my cursed shaft,” he lamented, meeting his own needs time and again. “If I’m rescued, Dorianne will never look at me again. I’m nothing but an animal. I look like one, I smell like one and I behave like one.”
~~~
He did not kno
w it, but Dorianne was not far away in the Abbaye where the sisters helped her deliver a sturdy baby boy. She had refused to send word to Montbryce. Isolated from the events of the world, she did not know who remained there, and she held firm to the belief she had to stay in Caen. Her baby had to be born there.
“Your Papa is alive, mon petit,” she murmured to the child when he was brought to her breast. “He’s praying for us. I can feel it.”
She turned to the Abbesse and made a request. “Ma mère, now we need to let Robert’s family know about the birth of this child. He’s the heir to the Montbryce lands. Please send a message to my mother-by-marriage at Saint Germain.”
PASSION IN THE BLOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After their interview with King Henry, Baudoin and Caedmon took ship for Normandie and joined a distraught Mabelle at Saint Germain. They rode out on regular sorties with a contingent of their men-at-arms searching for any rumor or trace of Robert and Dorianne.
“This isn’t the Normandie we love, you know, Caedmon,” Baudoin lamented one afternoon. “It’s become a land of danger and foreboding. Everyone knows war with Henry is coming.”
Caedmon nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. It seems a very different place from when we were here with Father on our way back from the Crusade.”
The two men smiled at the shared memory.
“We’d better turn back,” Baudoin suggested. “No use getting too close to the Duke’s lands. We don’t want to make it easy for him to get his hands on two more of the sons of Ram de Montbryce, if he indeed is the abductor.”
They entered the Hall at Montbryce just as a monk was ushered in by Bonhomme.
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