Mathieu paced.
Dreadful anticipation welled up in Denis’ heart. “By all the saints, tell me.”
Mathieu braced his legs and folded his arms. “Adam’s male parts—”
Denis lacked stature, but his shaft performed admirably whenever he romped in the hay with a willing village wench. However, Adam was not the philanderer his father had been before marrying. He had taken his role as the heir to Belisle seriously, insisting on saving himself for his bride.
If Adam had been robbed of his ability to sire children, Denis feared for his brother’s sanity and worried about the implications for the succession of Belisle Castle.
Impediments
Kingston Gorse, Sussex, England
Rosamunda Lallement had spent all of her seventeen years in captivity, hidden away as soon as her impediment became apparent.
Her imprisonment was not harsh. She enjoyed many comforts in the suite of rooms atop the manor house at Kingston Gorse. She was not alone in her captivity. Her older sister, Paulina, shared her confinement.
The doors were not barred, but leaving their chambers was forbidden. Servants made certain they did not wander into the main part of the house. Thomas and Agnès took care of their needs, and were always close at hand in their own chamber in the attic. But they were of peasant stock and never showed warmth or tenderness for their charges. Rosamunda suspected they too were not free to do as they pleased.
The only other people aware of their existence were their brothers. Lucien and Vincent visited often. Their father came infrequently. Rosamunda and Paulina had not set eyes on their mother since they were infants.
Maudine Lallement still grieved that she had birthed two deformed children, refusing to acknowledge their existence. Rosamunda suspected her mother wished her daughters had never been born.
She asked her brothers if their mother still lived.
Lucien understood and responded with sarcasm. “Oui, despite assuring us daily she longs for death, Maman yet lives.”
Vincent was more forgiving of his mother. “Maman is unwell. We must be patient.”
Rosamunda fisted her hands and scowled. The longing to leave their prison and wander to the edge of the cliff she espied from the tiny window had stolen her patience. The salty tang of the sea filled her nostrils, but she could not see it. Vincent had told them that sometimes the land of their forefathers was visible across the Narrow Sea. Their maternal grandfather, and their father, had both been born in Normandie.
Paulina, on the other hand, preferred to live away from gawking eyes. Rosamunda’s affliction was invisible; her sister’s was not. Even on tiptoe, the top of Paulina’s head came only to the level of Rosamunda’s breasts.
Paulina was a lovely doll, her skin flawless, complexion rosy. Dark, silky hair fell like an elegant drape, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her lips were pouty and full. When she was troubled, her almond eyes wide, she looked like a pensive angel. Her rare smile turned her into a madonna.
Rosamunda envied her sister’s full breasts and well-proportioned figure. Despite her lack of height, Paulina was stunningly beautiful. Yet, she considered herself ugly and believed in the rightness of her imprisonment simply because she was half as tall as most people. Rosamunda raged at the injustice of it.
On the rare occasions their father visited, she dragged him by the arm to the window, pointing to the outside world. She pressed his hand to her face, tears welling in her eyes as she turned to him in supplication.
Marc Lallement always shook his head sadly. “Your maman will not hear of it. You must remain hidden. At least you are comfortable here at home. Many families shut their malformed daughters away in convents.”
Lucien had hinted his mother blamed her husband’s ancestry for their impediments. Perhaps, he blamed himself.
Rosamunda pondered these thoughts as restlessness gripped her this day—their brothers had failed to appear as promised. She threw her mending to the floor and stormed to the window. Trees were turning color, leaves swirled on gusty winds. Autumn was in the air. She pulled her hair out of the braids she hated, ruffling the thick blonde locks into a tangled nest.
Paulina continued to ply her needle. “I know you are bored, but there isn’t much else to do.”
Rosamunda went to sit at her sister’s feet, grabbing the half-finished embroidery sampler from her hands and flinging it to a nearby chest. She grunted impatiently. “Tell.”
Paulina sighed. “Will you never tire of hearing the stories?”
Rosamunda shook her head, smiling broadly.
“Very well. I’ll tell the story of our maternal grandfather.”
Rosamunda rubbed her hands together gleefully.
Paulina began the familiar tale. “Sir Stephen Marquand came to England and settled at Kingston Gorse before the invasion, under the protection of the Saxon king, Edward the Confessor. He passed on to his children the tales of the Conqueror’s feats. Our mother continued the tradition with Lucien and Vincent, who in turn told us the stories.”
Paulina told of battles, of heroic victories, of Saxon revolts, of the great advances in architecture the Normans brought with them. Part of Sir Stephen’s story touched on another tale, Rosamunda’s favorite. She urged Paulina to recount it next.
Her sister pouted, eying her sampler, though Rosamunda knew she loved the tale too. She assumed a pleading expression, confident it would not take much to convince Paulina.
“Oh, very well.”
Paulina shifted her weight in the chair. Entwining her fingers in the tangled strands of Rosamunda’s hair, she embarked on the story of two brothers of a noble Norman family. Antoine and Hugh de Montbryce were heroes of the Battle of Hastings. “The Conqueror granted Hugh oversight of neighboring Melton Manor, where he discovered his true love, Devona Melton.”
Rosamunda sighed and laid her head in her sister’s lap.
Paulina huffed. “You must do something with your hair. It looks like windblown straw.”
Rosamunda blew out exasperated air from between her lips. It was a familiar scolding. She sat up, swatting away her sister’s fingers. There was no-one to see her hair.
Paulina continued, a patient smirk on her face. “Antoine helped Hugh rescue Devona from an abusive Norman who had usurped their estate. Grandfather assisted them with the loan of a rowboat.”
Rosamunda had never known Sir Stephen, but it pleased her he had been willing to aid in the rescue of a damsel in distress. He would not have locked away his granddaughters. She loved the story of the intrepid Montbryces navigating caves and secret passages. She imagined herself in the stead of Devona Melton. But who would be her hero, her champion? No man wanted to marry a woman with her impediment. Vincent sang chansons courtoises, songs of courtly love, but it was unlikely a tall, dark knight would ride to their rescue.
She grunted the question. “Melton?”
Paulina reached to retrieve her embroidery.
Rosamunda tore it once more from her grasp. Now it was Paulina’s turn to snort, but she carried on the tale, only too aware of Rosamunda’s stubborn nature. “Lucien says the Montbryces still come from time to time from their castle in Normandie to visit Devona’s childhood home. He and Vincent have befriended Hugh’s two sons, Melton and Izzy de Montbryce, but they speak only in passing of their sister, Antoinette.”
Rosamunda and Paulina had both laughed upon first hearing the name Izzy, even after Lucien explained it was a nickname for Isembart.
“Our brothers are also acquainted with Adam and Mathieu de Montbryce. They come frequently from Normandie to East Preston, an estate granted to their father, one of your heroes, Antoine. Adam and Mathieu have a half-brother, who has never accompanied them to England, and two sisters. Lucien and Vincent hardly mention them.”
Rosamunda understood why their brothers perhaps had difficulty socializing with their friends’ sisters. She often daydreamed about these friends her brothers boasted of, and wondered if any of them ever visited Kingston Go
rse.
* * *
Paulina had long ago become resigned to a life cloistered in the upstairs chambers of her parents’ home, but shuddered at the lonely existence it might have been if her sister had not been incarcerated with her. She thanked God daily for denying Rosamunda the gift of speech.
It riddled her with guilt. Her beautiful sister suffered confinement because she was mute. Their parents had failed to recognise her many talents. Rosamunda had a keen, inquiring mind. Her green eyes sparkled with laughter and her elfin smile lit up a room. Despite their situation, Rosamunda loved to laugh. She had no voice, yet Paulina understood everything she said, or did not say.
Birthright Renounced
“He will never sire children.”
Denis recognised Mathieu might be right, but it angered him that their younger brother was adamant in his insistence Adam could no longer be the heir to Belisle.
They had argued back and forth for a sennight while Adam convalesced. Denis fisted his hands at his side. “You cannot be sure of that. His hearing has improved a little. The physicians agree the disease has apparently changed the size and appearance of his—”
He glanced at his mother, not sure if this was appropriate conversation for a woman. He soldiered on. “But they also see no reason for his present inability to—”
He had never felt so uncomfortable. His mother’s tear-filled eyes told him she understood his torment. He searched for alternative words to shaft, erection, arousal, but his mind went blank.
Damned if he could recall the Latin words he and his brothers had bandied about with great hilarity in their youth. Latin would have sounded more dignified somehow.
“Let’s not mince words here,” Mathieu interjected. “I am as distraught as anyone at my brother’s distress, but if it is permanent, Belisle will fall to me or my children anyway.”
Denis strode to stand nose to hip with the brother he had never felt close to. “Unless you die first.”
Mathieu braced his legs and looked down his nose scornfully. “You think Papa will give Belisle to you?”
Denis shook with rage, but he regretted threatening Mathieu. He had been driven by an instinctive need to defend Adam, not a desire for control of Belisle. How had their amiable relationship come to this?
Antoine came between them, his voice tired. “We cannot allow this curse to tear us apart as a family. Mathieu, you know Denis has no designs on Belisle, as Denis knows you want only to secure the succession. What has happened is God’s will. We must all bend to it, including Adam.”
* * *
The next day, Antoine de Montbryce blinked away tears, praying that when he opened his mouth to speak, sorrow would not choke off his words. He had never imagined he would be forced to ask his eldest son to renounce his birthright.
He gripped his wife’s trembling hand.
Bernardine and Florymonde clung to each other, sobbing quietly. Mathieu and Denis flanked their sisters, one holding his head high, jaw clenched, the other with stunned disbelief evident on his swarthy face.
Adam stood by the hearth in the gallery where they had shared many happy family gatherings. He shifted his weight nervously, mayhap suspecting what was about to befall him. As if his torment not great enough. He turned to the fire as his father approached.
Antoine swallowed the lump in his throat and put a hand on his son’s shoulder, turning him so they were face to face. “Look at me, mon fils.”
Antoine saw despair in the beloved blue eyes. He prayed for strength and hoped his words would penetrate the deafness.
Adam stared at Mathieu, then at Denis. He held up his hand. “I know what you intend to say, Papa, and I agree I am no longer suited to the role of heir.”
Mathieu took a step forward, but Antoine waved him off. This had to be done, but he would do it. Adam’s gaze seemed fixed on his father’s mouth. Was he hoping to read there words of reassurance that Belisle had not been taken from him? It broke Antoine’s heart he could utter no such denial. He resisted the temptation to raise his voice. “You are a courageous man, Adam. You must trust that what has happened to you will not be forever. You may recover your hearing, and your—”
He kept his gaze fixed on Adam’s face. “Perhaps both maladies are temporary. But the succession must be secured.”
Adam squared his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and fisted his hands at his side. “Mon père, I accede to your wishes. It is evident I will never sire children. Belisle needs heirs, and I am now only half a man.”
Denis flinched, his brow furrowed.
Adam strode over to Mathieu and offered his hand. “You will make a fine Seigneur for Belisle, brother. In these troubled times a warrior needs all his abilities. Belisle deserves better. It deserves you.”
Mathieu accepted the handclasp, but seemed at a loss for words. Bernadine and Florymonde sobbed louder as Adam hugged each of them in turn before returning to his father. Raking his hands through his hair, he rasped, “I have decided to leave Belisle, make a new life, and learn to live with my deafness.”
Sybilla came to him and cradled her son’s face in her hands. “But why must you leave us? Why not stay here, regain your health with the help of those who love you?”
Adam’s eyes filled with tears. “I am aware you love me, but your faces are full of pity. I must go.”
Antoine recognized his son’s determination. He gritted his teeth and clasped Adam’s hand, speaking slowly. “Where will you go?”
“To inspect your estates in England, with your permission. I thought to use East Preston as a base.”
Denis stepped forward. “I will come with you and be your ears until you heal.” He chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood with a jest. “Perhaps two half men will make a whole.”
* * *
Sybilla de Montbryce’s throat tightened. Long ago, after Denis’ birth, despair for his future had threatened to destroy her. As she lay on the floor in a stupor after unsuccessfully trying to prevent the midwives from racing off with him, a part of her had perhaps hoped their murderous intent might come to fruition. The despicable old man her father had sold her to was dead. She was a prisoner of the hated Normans and didn’t have the wherewithal to care for a deformed child.
But the intervention of her maidservant, aided by Antoine, had given Denis a chance at life. Antoine’s love had saved her from madness and her son from a lifetime of rejection and degradation. Her firstborn’s life had not been easy, but he had become a source of pride.
She hugged that truth to her heart now as he insisted on accompanying his brother. Adam had lost much. With Denis’ help, he might survive the catastrophe that had befallen him. A spark of hope flickered in her breast.
* * *
A maelstrom of emotions swirled in Adam’s heart. He and Denis had long been friends, the Giant and the Dwarf. But the giant had been brought low, and no longer cared about the future.
Denis’ devastation at his half-brother’s illness was obvious, but his eyes had never held pity, rather compassion. Denis despised those who pitied him.
“I will not be a good traveling companion,” Adam rasped.
Denis put his fingers at the corners of his mouth and forced a wide grin, wagging his head from side to side. “Whereas I am well-regarded as a jocular fellow with whom people love to travel.” He linked his arm with Adam’s. “We will make a perfect pair, as we always have, mon frère.”
Adam clenched his jaw, trying to break the link. “I am not the same. Things are different now.”
Denis braced his legs, poking Adam in the belly. “You are still my brother. With or without your agreement, I will follow you to East Preston.”
The determined jut of Denis’ chin convinced Adam there was no point arguing further. “Very well. We depart on the morrow.”
* * *
The next day, Denis breathed a sigh of relief as Adam took his leave of their grieving parents and sisters in the windswept bailey of the castle. Mathieu had rasped his adieu in the G
reat Hall after the family had broken its fast in uncomfortable silence.
The autumn wind carried a hint of the coming winter. Denis hoped for better weather for their crossing of the Narrow Sea.
He had expected his half-brother to fight harder. Denis had tasted the bitterness of despair and rejection. He had learned to rise above it, to be the best man he could be, despite his stunted stature. He’d been born a dwarf, whereas Adam was a strapping warrior ladies swooned over. His illness had seemingly robbed him of his potency as a male and his hearing. He looked pale and dispirited.
The physician remained puzzled by Adam’s impotency, and his brother refused to discuss it further. Denis prayed it was a temporary malady. Whenever he felt low, he usually found a good romp in the hay with a willing wench the perfect cure. Obviously, that was not a solution for Adam in the present circumstances.
His brother had never treated him as half a man. Denis resolved not to allow self pity to destroy his beleaguered giant.
A Troubled Household
Agnès tapped at the door of her mistress’s chamber, expecting no reply from the lady of Kingston Gorse. Clenching her jaw, she entered.
As usual, Maudine Lallement lay curled with her knees to her chest in the small bed, bemoaning that she had awakened at all.
“Another day of grinding misery, Agnès. Death would be preferable to the burdensome guilt I carry daily.”
Agnès knew all about guilt. She muttered gentle admonitions to the woman she had served, but never liked, for more than twenty years. “Come along, milady. I’ll brush your hair. It always makes you feel better.”
With a deep sigh, her mistress stirred to perch on the side of the bed. Agnès took up the brush and waited for the litany to begin.
Birthright Page 2
