SINFUL PASSIONS
By
Anna Markland
©Copyright 2014 Anna Markland
CONTENTS
Dedication
Copyright
Start Reading
More Anna Markland
From the Author
Markland’s Medieval World Glossary
Lexicon
Family Tree
DEDICATION
For my Grace Anne, with love
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
―Mark Twain
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2014 by Anna Markland
ISBN 978-1-927619-30-8
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Early Reviews
***** 5 Stars. This book links to previous stories about the Montbryce and FitzRam families, but you could easily read it as a standalone.
There are two couples featured here. One of the heroes is twin brother to one of the heroines, so that is only right that their stories are told together.
Lots of fascinating historical facts mixed in with a beautiful story. If my history classes at school had been as interesting I might have studied more.
Keep these wonderful stories coming, Anna. I love them.
~Warrior Woman Winmill’s Blog
CHAPTER ONE
Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, July 1153 AD
“This argument is a waste of time. Prince Henry Plantagenet will be our next King,” Suannoch declared.
Rodrick de Montbryce bristled, as did most of the men gathered in the gallery of Ellesmere Castle. Even Bronson FitzRam, whose sister had made this shocking pronouncement, seemed outraged.
Rodrick’s irritation grew when his twin sister, Grace, smiled broadly, obviously amused by the discomfort of the men. He was compelled to reprimand her. “Suannoch is a mere girl of eight and ten years, a visitor at that, who is not qualified nor entitled to speak in such a manner. Don’t encourage her.”
“Imagine!” his sister replied gleefully, looking to the rafters. “The stir she’s caused in the air has made the banners waft a little.”
That Suannoch FitzRam was shrouded from head to toe in the white robes of a novice, her face squeezed into a red ball by the tight coif, only served to compound Rodrick’s indignation. “And to stand warming her derrière by the hearth as if she were a man—”
“Hush!” Grace admonished. “If the pout she’s sending your way is any indication, you spoke too loudly, brother dear.”
His visiting Northumbrian relative had raised his hackles, but it was good to be sparring with Grace again. He’d missed her since her marriage. He regretted it was widowhood that had brought her home, but she seemed to have taken the loss of her husband in stride. Rodrick was aware the marriage hadn’t been a love match. Victor de Cullène had been more of a father figure than a husband. It saddened him she was now considered too old to marry again. She’d have made a wonderful mother.
Bronson glared at his sister. “Your pardon, uncle,” he said to Rodrick’s father, Gallien, Earl of Ellesmere. “Suannoch has a habit of not minding her tongue. She takes after our aunt Ragna.”
The novice pursed her lips and returned her brother’s glare.
Strangely, Bronson’s eyes darted to Grace and his face reddened.
Rodrick smirked. “It irks that these northern cousins have been invited to join this family gathering on the eve of one of the most important meetings ever hosted at Ellesmere Castle. They don’t belong at an assembly of barons and lords from every part of the country who are coming here to discuss the civil strife tearing England apart.”
Grace shrugged. “The FitzRams are cousins, but at least twice removed, and half cousins at that. I assume Bronson addresses Papa as uncle because of the difference in their ages.”
Rodrick agreed. “If I recall correctly our red headed cousin is a mere three years older than we are. Strange he shares your hair color. They aren’t here to attend the deliberations, although the FitzRams are wealthy Northumbrian landowners and Bronson will doubtless have valuable insights to offer on the situation in the northern reaches.”
Grace eyed Bronson. “He says the reason for his presence is twofold. He’s journeyed to the Marches to take possession of Shelfhoc Hall, bequeathed to him by his late uncle Edwin, and to deliver his sister to the convent at Whitchurch.”
Their father graced Suannoch with a smile Rodrick recognised as one of his indulgent Earl smiles. “Not at all,” he replied to Bronson’s apology. “I hope you will be at the meetings tomorrow.”
To Rodrick’s amusement, the girl bristled at the implication she would be not be welcome at the morrow’s assembly. Did she imagine her opinion would be consulted? As the conversation turned to Shelfhoc Hall, he studied her. Confinement to a nunnery probably hadn’t been her choice. It was the fate of many young women whose husbands-to-be got themselves killed.
Did Suannoch mourn her betrothed, killed in a skirmish with King Stephen’s soldiers? The wimple and coif did nothing to enhance her features, but she had good skin—fresh, healthy looking. Her fingers were long, elegant. The robe smothered the remainder of her body, rendering it impossible to tell if she had decent breasts.
Something stirred at his groin when he noticed she was staring back at him. He straightened in the chair, brushing at nonexistent lint on his doublet.
Get your thoughts back on the conversation and the upcoming meeting.
“I was named for Lady Ascha Woolgar.”
Again, every eye swivelled to Suannoch who had taken a seat next to Rodrick’s mother.
The Countess put her hand on the girl’s. “You’re right, my dear. Your second Christian name is that of your great grandmother.”
Suannoch’s eyes widened, their amber brilliance catching him off guard. He noticed for the first time the contrast between her dark eyebrows and the white of her wimple. Perhaps her hair was black. She beamed a smile that transformed her heated face into a thing of beauty, renewing the interest in his couilles.
“Yes, she was the lady of Shelfhoc.”
Rodrick wavered between scoffing out loud and revisiting his indignation. He threw up his hands. “Is she unaware it was Ascha Woolgar who gave birth to our great grandfather’s illegitimate son?”
Now Grace glared at him. “Keep your voice down. Caedmon and his family were welcomed as Montbryces and he accepted the Norman patronymic FitzRam.”
Rodrick wrinkled his nose. He was never rude to guests, no matter how tiresome, but this chit of a girl was an irritating cocklebur. He scratched the back of his neck.
Gallien de Montbryce gave the novice another indulgent smile. “It’s important to be proud of one’s ancestors. My half uncle C
aedmon aided in the rescue of oncle Robert many years ago, and saved my father’s life in Italy. Without his bravery I wouldn’t be here today.”
Rodrick felt badly. Perhaps he should be more tolerant of these FitzRams. After all, he and Grace and Bronson and Suannoch shared a great grandfather, a hero of the Battle of Hastings, Ram de Montbryce.
Suannoch wished cousin Rodrick would stop staring. Had he never seen a nun before? And what was the reason for his scowl and the rude remarks he’d made to his sister? She’d met Grace earlier in the day when the women of the household had welcomed them with genuine warmth, and liked her immediately. She was relieved Grace wandered over to sit beside her now. She leaned close to her cousin’s ear. “I can understand why the older men might object to my asserting my opinions, but your brothers are young men. William and Stephen seemed interested and slightly amused by my comments, but Rodrick simply glared.”
Grace put a hand on hers and smiled. “Mayhap being the heir to an Earldom means a man has to affect a serious demeanor.”
Suannoch chuckled. Grace had spoken loudly enough for her twin to hear. She decided to compound his obvious discomfort. “If he smiled he might be considered handsome. He’s certainly tall, and strong looking.”
“Do you think so?” Grace asked, staring at her brother. “I never noticed!”
They laughed out loud, but her body heated. She regretted taking a seat too close to the hearth. Her face was burning. The cursed robes were heavy for summer, and why was a fire necessary anyway? Her gaiety fled. How to bear the coarse fabric against her skin for the rest of her life?
What gave her intended father-by-marriage the right to demand she be shut up in a convent because his son Hiram had been killed?
Poor Hiram—more poet than warrior.
She ached at the terror he must have endured during the brief skirmish he hadn’t survived. She wasn’t in love with him, but he deserved a better fate than the one imposed upon him by his father.
Now the pompous, overbearing man had sealed her fate too. Her parents had protested, her mother heartbroken, but Cuthbertson had the ear of King David of Scotland. Sir Aidan FitzRam would have a difficult time indeed holding on to Kirkthwaite Hall without the king’s benevolence. There was certainly no hope of support from the English monarch, Stephen, a man who had turned out to be a weak king, unable to summon enough support among England’s barons to effectively counteract his cousin Maud’s invasion fourteen years before.
Now England endured two governments, Stephen’s in Westminster and Maud’s headquartered in Devizes in the west. Both issued their own coinage and edicts aplenty—none of which were obeyed by the thousands of mainly Flemish mercenaries who had taken advantage of the anarchy to rape and pillage the English countryside, finding refuge in hastily constructed fortifications. The rule of law had dissolved.
Grace’s voice jolted her. “Do you believe Maud should have been made queen as her father, King Henry, wished?”
Suannoch snorted. “I do, but the opinions of women counted for even less back then. The English barons were outraged at the notion of a woman being Queen in her own right.”
Grace sighed, casting a sideways glance at her mother. “You know my father was one of the leaders of the movement to support Stephen’s claim to the throne?”
“Yes, and I’m sure he regrets it. Powerful men such as uncle Gallien have been unable to prevent England sinking into a morass of despair—a broken land.”
The Countess leaned closer. “My husband is aware that if it wasn’t for the traditional cessation of hostilities during Lent and Advent, the whole country might have gone up in flames. Thousands have already died of starvation, their crops burned, villages destroyed.”
Suannoch wondered what the Earl truly thought of his precious Stephen after nearly two decades of civil strife. Would he switch allegiance at the assembly on the morrow? One could only hope. She hesitated to ask Grace, who probably wasn’t privy to her father’s opinions. Indeed she’d be surprised if the Countess would attend the meeting. At least Bronson would be there. Perhaps her dear brother’s keen mind might affect some change. And his participation would give her a day or two’s reprieve from the convent. She was grateful he had insisted the Mother Superior allow her to visit their nearby relatives. At least at Shelfhoc he wouldn’t be too far away. Would he be permitted to visit her?
These thoughts seethed through her brain as she watched the men talk on and on and the women nod politely. “Am I the only one who sees the injustice and folly?”
Grace shook her head. “No, you’re not,” she replied quietly.
It was some consolation. “Can they not see Maud’s son Henry is destined to be king?”
“Patience,” Grace said, taking her hand. “We’ll find out on the morrow. I’m for bed. Walk with me.”
The men seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as they left. When they reached her chamber Grace pecked a kiss on her cheek and bade her goodnight.
She curled up on her bed. Surely Christ and his saints would awaken from their slumber and realize Stephen’s son, the brutal and murderous Eustace, was not fit to wear the crown his father seemed determined to pass on to him.
She smiled at the recollection of her prickly cousin’s discomfort, suddenly seized by an inexplicable urge to stretch like a languid cat. He might be a typical male, but he was attractive.
What did it matter? Her life was over. No use getting hot and bothered over the likes of Rodrick de Montbryce.
CHAPTER TWO
As her maidservant assisted with the removal of her gown, Grace de Cullène mused happily that it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed an evening as much.
“It’s a relief to be back at Ellesmere,” she confided to Lucia, the maidservant who’d been the only bright spark in dark times.
“It was a difficult year of mourning,” Lucia replied, unpinning her mistress’s hair, “for all of us. What a dreary place. I’m glad to be home too.”
Lucia had been born in Ellesmere and had missed her family as much as Grace had missed hers. “I was happy to deed Cullène Hall to my stepson.” She shivered. “Godefroy would probably have plotted some way to do away with me had I not satisfied his thirst for the estate.”
Lucia pulled the bone comb through her tresses. “I fear you are right, milady. He’s a sidekick of the cruel Prince Eustace.”
“He’s welcome to Cullène, and I’m relieved to be free of him and the house. Papa succeeded in getting my dowry lands back, so he won’t get his greedy hands on those. I don’t blame him for wanting the estate. He was assured of it until I came along. Do you recall upon first arriving how full of the enthusiasm I was, ready to enliven the manor house with refurbished tapestries, rugs, banners?”
Lucia snorted. “The whole house needed a good scrub.”
“But Victor would have none of it, content to wallow in the same dusty dankness he’d apparently enjoyed for years.”
Guilt lay heavy in her heart. She had at times wished for his death during the three years of their marriage. To this day she wasn’t sure why she had agreed to it. She supposed she’d thought him charming, wise, an older man who would protect her. And why had he married her? Certainly it wasn’t for the pleasures of the marriage bed. He lavished more attention on his Steward than on her.
She’d cried on her wedding night, left alone in her bed. She admitted now it wasn’t because she’d wanted him to bed her. Indeed she’d feared it. She’d sobbed out her isolation and the dread of long, lonely years ahead.
Godefroy likely labored under the unfounded fear she would get with child and he’d be disinherited.
No one but she was aware she was still a maiden, though Lucia probably suspected. She intended to take the knowledge and her maidenhead to the grave, filled with a strange guilty relief that she had failed to appeal to her husband. Never again would she put herself under a man’s thumb. Men were repellent—although Bronson FitzRam had caught her eye this evening. That
hair! Redder than her own. She closed her eyes, conjuring a vision of him with war braids framing his strong face.
“Did you happen to see my cousin from Northumbria?” she asked her trusted servant, wondering why it had suddenly grown warm in the chamber.
“The nun?” Lucia replied, her eyes full of mischief.
“No,” she exclaimed, swatting Lucia’s derrière. “You know who I mean.”
“You’re blushing, milady,” her maidservant teased.
Grace rose abruptly. “Fetch my nightgown, bad girl. It’s a passing fancy. Seems to me I recall something about him being married.”
Lucia slipped the nightgown over her head. “There’s no wife with him now.”
For some reason she was suddenly lightheaded. “Turn down the linens, then leave me. I was happy this night, and I want to savor being free.”
After Lucia left, she sat in the chair by the hearth for a while, wiggling her bare toes. Yes, it was good to be home, and after she had fulfilled her responsibilities to her father’s guests on the morrow, she would start to enjoy her freedom. She crawled into bed thinking it was a pity Bronson FitzRam would be occupied in the assembly. They might have gone riding together. He would be a pleasant companion—and safe. After all he was her cousin.
Bronson tossed and turned, sleep eluding him. It had been an unsettling day. He’d disliked the Superior at the convent on sight, which only aggravated the bile in his belly when he thought of his sister incarcerated in the cold place.
The woman wanted to give Swan’s clothes to the poor. The idea of his mother’s beautiful handiwork being torn to shreds for rags by some impoverished peasant was too much. He’d insisted on taking the garments, suspecting her true plan was to sell the stuff to some local noblewoman.
She’d also balked at the notion of Swan accompanying him to Ellesmere, until he reminded her who their powerful relatives were.
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