In a day or two he’d have no option but to deliver his spirited sister back into the hands of the crone. He understood Swan’s turmoil, but did she have to behave so outrageously, flaunting her opinions, as if they mattered? She was right, of course, and was only repeating discussions they’d had with their father many times, but her demeanor had certainly riled Rodrick de Montbryce.
And meeting Rodrick’s sister had been a shock. He’d long since buried his male urges with two wives who hadn’t survived bearing his stillborn children. He was determined never to endure such pain again, but Grace’s hair, as red as his own, had caught the attention of his shaft. Strange how she had inherited her mother’s hair coloring, yet looked exactly like her dark haired twin. It was a potent mix.
But she was a widow, and his cousin. He wouldn’t be living too far away at Shelfhoc. It was unlikely she’d marry again. Perhaps they might prove to be good company, one for the other.
CHAPTER THREE
Rodrick entered the crowded Great Hall an hour before midday, apprehensive as to the outcome of the Assembly. His father hadn’t confided his decision to him, though as the next Earl he would have to live with the consequences. But he would support his father.
He felt great empathy for the dilemma Gallien de Montbryce faced. It was one understood by every man in the Great Hall. They had declared for Stephen in the year of our Lord Eleven Hundred and Thirty Five, believing he would be as strong a king as Henry Beauclerc. The Montbryce’s had even named a son for their king. Time had proven them wrong. Over the last few years he had watched his father’s frustration and disillusionment with Stephen intensify.
As luncheon was served, his gaze wandered over the men assembled in his home. Powerful barons, yet they had been powerless to remedy the dire situation in which England floundered. The hubbub caused by their discussions was deafening.
When the luncheon was over, the women left the Hall while the trestle tables were being removed by servants. It suddenly occurred to him the intelligent females of his family had much to contribute to the discussion. However, he was certain his mother would have made her opinions known to her husband, and Grace was never hesitant to inform their father of her thoughts. Aurore was the quiet one in the family. It seemed that was often the way for the middle child.
Suannoch FitzRam bestowed a glowing smile on William and Stephen as she left, but didn’t look his way. Strangely disappointed, he was further incensed when several of the belching barons elbowed each other, arching their brows as their eyes trailed after the departing novice. The prospect of any one of them laying a hand on her—
A vision danced behind his eyes—Suannoch, naked except for the cursed wimple. How to discover the color of her hair? Her name sounded like swan. Did she have a long graceful neck like the royal bird? What a coincidence she wore white!
A hush had fallen over the assembly. He dragged his thoughts back to the gathering. His father had risen from the lord’s chair on the dais.
The presence of many anxious and impatient men, all lavishly dressed and recently fed and watered, had made the Hall intolerably hot and malodorous. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to alleviate the ache in his temples and elsewhere.
His father cleared his throat. “Fellow nobles, my sons and I welcome you to Ellesmere. We recognise the journey has been perilous for many of you.”
Robert, Earl of Leicester came to his feet. “Aye! You’re lucky here to be somewhat removed from the Midlands where a man cannot walk abroad in the light of day without being accosted by foreign brigands. Peasants are starving, serfs are forced into arms by landowners seeking to protect their estates, leading to a dearth of workers to tend the land.”
Gallien raised his hand. “Happy as I am to see you here, Robert, I intend first to make my remarks, then I welcome discussion.”
Robert harrumphed but regained his seat.
“All of us face a dilemma of enormous proportions,” his father began. “Our great families own lands in England and Normandie, ancestral lands, lands stained with the blood of many of our forebears.”
Try as he might, Rodrick couldn’t think of a single Montbryce who’d died in defence of any of the castles and manors they controlled in England or Normandie. Cousin Alexandre had successfully repelled Geoffrey’s attacks on Montbryce Castle, thanks in large measure to a new rampart built to protect the precious orchards the Angevin had once put to the torch. But the words rang true for many in the Hall who’d lost sons in the struggle for Normandie.
“When our good King Henry died, we believed Stephen was the man born to be king of the English and Duke of Normandie. He was a grandson of the Conqueror, wealthy, charismatic, and capable. He’d grown up at Henry’s court, been a favorite of the King. We supported him though King Henry had coerced our forefathers to swear for Maud.”
“Aye, but once he had the throne he alienated his supporters,” someone shouted.
Hushed murmurs of agreement crept around the Hall. Treason was treason after all.
Gallien didn’t continue until silence reigned once more. Pride soared in Rodrick’s heart. His noble father had reason to be resentful of Stephen’s apparent inability to see that he had over and over again slighted some of his most faithful supporters. Yet he stood now, dignified and seemingly unperturbed by the diplomatic revolution taking place in their midst.
“You all recognise me as an ardent supporter of Stephen. When Maud’s half brother, Robert of Gloucester, abandoned our king and declared for Maud, I was outraged.”
Rodrick, nine years old at the time, well remembered his father’s anger.
“A year later, Ranulf of Chester betrayed Stephen and captured Lincoln. We admired our king’s determination to retake the stronghold. Do you recall our anguish when Robert of Gloucester joined the fray and routed our monarch, taking him prisoner?”
Murmured ayes did little to break the oppressive silence. Rodrick had wept into his pillow at the thought of his king in chains.
“The imperious Maud then declared she was Lady of the English—whatever that meant—and attempted a coronation in Westminster.”
Laughter greeted this remembrance. All recognised Maud’s abrasive nature had soon alienated the people of London who’d run her out of the city.
“They chased her to Oxford, where she took refuge, but she became a prisoner there, pinned down by Stephen’s forces.”
“She may have been pinned down but her half brother launched an attack on Winchester.”
“And look what that decision got him. Capture by Stephen’s army.”
Rodrick had long thought that had Stephen’s capable wife Matilda not taken charge of her husband’s army he might have languished longer in prison instead of gaining his freedom in a prisoner exchange. Gloucester’s life for Stephen’s.
As the volume of voices grew, Rodrick feared his father had perhaps lost control of the gathering, but a simple gesture brought attentive silence once more.
“Then Maud showed us courage we didn’t think she possessed. She escaped from Oxford, alone and on foot, wrapped in a cloth of white that concealed her passage through fields of snow.”
“Eight miles to Abingdon she walked,” someone observed. “In December.”
Gallien continued. “And for ten years now, we have suffered two governments, both equally incapable of enforcing the rule of law, and David holds sway in Northumbria.”
He gestured to Bronson who voiced his agreement. “With no English king to stop him, David has claimed Cumbria and Westmoreland too, but the Scottish king believes in order, and from what you’re saying, life is more secure there than here.”
Rodrick wasn’t sure if his father appreciated Bronson’s observations. To suggest a barbaric Scottish monarch might be a superior ruler to Stephen would once have bordered on heresy in the Montbryce household.
Gallien assumed control again. “On top of our problems in England, we have the situation in Normandie.”
Rodrick’s heart
ached for his father. This would be the difficult part.
“I have no love in my heart for Maud’s late husband, Geoffrey of Anjou and most of you know why.”
Wooden benches scraped against stone as men shifted their weight. Some coughed.
“However, I won’t dwell on that story now.”
A collective sigh of relief soughed through the Hall.
“To my everlasting regret I persuaded my cousin in Normandie, Alexandre, Comte de Montbryce to switch his allegiance from Maud to Stephen years ago.”
It was likely most of those present at the gathering were aware of the other reason Alexandre had changed sides—to save the lives of the Scottish widow he married and her children.
“After years of valiant opposition to his armies, our homeland fell under the control of the red headed braggart from Anjou. You are all aware my beloved wife came from that cursed land, and therefore I do not subscribe to the legend that all Angevins are descended from Satan’s daughter, Melusine, but I have to wonder about Geoffrey.”
“Your beloved wife would have something to say if you perpetuated the myth that such fiendish blood still bubbles in the veins of her descendants,” someone shouted. This remark was followed by loud laughter.
Gallien chuckled, nodding, and was on the point of continuing when a voice declared, “But we don’t have to travel far back in time to see the corruption in Geoffrey’s bloodline.”
“Aye,” another said. “His great grandfather had his own wife burned at the stake in her wedding dress on suspicion of adultery with a goatherd.”
A dark cloud settled over Gallien de Montbryce’s features. Rodrick held his breath. This was too close to the bone. Did men not think before they blurted things out? He watched his father struggle to regain his composure, relieved when he spoke again in a calm voice. “Aye. Fulk the Black’s reputation as a perverted rapist and plunderer reached to the Holy Land. But enough of this talk of Anjou. We’ve had to live with the reality that three years ago Geoffrey declared his son Duke of Normandie, a title Stephen clings to still, though he hasn’t visited there in more than a decade. We are in the untenable position of paying homage to two lords for the same land.”
If it had occurred to anyone to question Gallien’s reference to Normandie as his homeland, there was no sign of it. But all were aware he was the second generation of the Anglo-Norman Montbryces to be born and brought up in England.
“Alexandre, titular head of our family, had to recognize the rule of a man he loathed, until the Good Lord in His infinite wisdom took the Angevin to his eternal rest eighteen months ago.”
Robert of Leicester stood again, his impatience evident in his scowling features. “We are well aware of this history, milord Earl. Many of us are in the same predicament. We fought Geoffrey for years while he tried to take Normandie, bit by bloody bit, but he was victorious. Normandie is lost to the Plantagenets. The decision we face now is how to solve the failure of either Stephen or Maud to rule successfully here. When Stephen’s demoralised forces refused to fight for him at Malmesbury in January, it became evident that he doesn’t inspire the confidence of the barons. Maud has more or less given up and gone back to Rouen, leaving her son to fight Stephen. God forbid Eustace take his father’s place. Then we’ll be in worse straits. I’m for the upstart Prince.”
Rodrick’s mouth fell open. How had Suannoch known the direction the discussions would take?
The Hall was in an uproar. Gallien called repeatedly for order, and calm was eventually restored.
“Let us take a look at this Prince who would be king,” he said calmly. “Is he a prince, or merely the son of a land grabbing Comte from Anjou?”
“He’s the son of an Empress, grandson and namesake of King Henry,” one baron shouted.
Gallien held up one finger. “A true prince then. Has he proven his prowess on the battlefield?”
This was greeted by hoots of laughter. Rodrick wanted to contribute to the discussion. “He was a mere lad when he first came to England, yet he led an attack against Stephen.”
His father smiled. “Yes, and it was a complete failure because Henry had no money to pay his mercenaries. Stephen paid them off and sent the boy packing back to Anjou.”
Rodrick jumped to Prince Henry’s defence. “But the point is he was willing to fight. And King David knighted him.”
“David is his grand uncle.”
“But later the same year he relieved the town of Devizes after Eustace laid siege.”
“A brave soldier then,” Gallien confirmed, holding up two fingers.
There was general agreement.
Rodrick took a deep breath. “But we also need to consider the power he now wields. Since his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine, he controls vast territories that stretch to Spain and encompass more lands than those of the King of France, though Henry is his vassal—Normandie, Anjou, Maine, Blois, Touraine, Aquitaine.”
Gallien narrowed his eyes at his son. “It seems you deem him a fit candidate to be king.”
Was his father testing him?
Rodrick clenched his fists. “I do. I have long feared what might happen if Eustace inherits the Crown.”
Gallien smiled as he put his hand on Rodrick’s shoulder. “Good, I agree.”
Robert of Leicester thrust his fist in the air. “As do I.”
Pandemonium broke out. Several barons stormed out of the Hall. Others rallied around Gallien and Robert as they clasped arms to seal their new alliance.
CHAPTER FOUR
News of the outcome of the Assembly traveled quickly along the halls and corridors of Ellesmere Castle. It permeated the chapel where Suannoch knelt in silent prayer, her only remaining hope that God would somehow intervene and she’d be spared a life of religious discipline.
Obedience had always come hard. Perhaps it was because of her willfulness that she was being punished. But to never ride a horse again, never to feel the wind on her face as she and her siblings galloped across the moors of Northumbria; never to set eyes on her beloved family, to savor the warmth of her mother’s kiss on her cheek; never to know the love of a man, the fulfillment of children. It was unbearable.
For the umpteenth time, she contemplated escape, but where would she run? And Cuthbertson would likely punish her parents if she fled.
Excited whispers among the handful of kneeling servants jolted her from despondency. Ellesmere and Leicester had chosen to support Henry. She smirked, filled with a notion to seek out Rodrick de Montbryce and stick out her tongue at him.
Perhaps the evening meal in the Great Hall might not be the tedious event she had dreaded. The Earl had graciously invited her and Bronson to sit at the head table, an honor considering the illustrious guests who would be present. With any luck she might get to sit beside Rodrick. Then there’d be opportunity to irritate him further with her insights into the wretched state of England. Bronson wouldn’t be happy, but she had little time left to speak her mind.
Yes, Rodrick would be a worthy adversary who would likely challenge her solely because she was a woman. But at least it would be conversation, a chance to be herself for perhaps the last time.
It was getting hot in the chapel with all the excitement. She made the sign of the Savior across her body, rose from her knees, and hurried to her chamber. Bronson had balked when the nuns had proposed giving her clothing to the poor. It was difficult to imagine a peasant decked out in her fine wools and silks.
Everything was in his trunk in the chamber next to hers. She doubted he’d locked it. Why not enter the Hall in her own clothes? She wasn’t a nun yet. Geography alone had caused her and Bronson to stop at the convent first.
They’d barely exchanged a word in the two hours it had taken them to ride from Whitchurch to Ellesmere. He’d only grunted when she’d thanked him for insisting she be allowed to visit her relatives before entering as a novice. It hadn’t hurt that the relatives were a powerful Earl and his family.
It was the first time she�
�d visited Ellesmere, the castle built by her great grandfather. It was impressive, much bigger and grander than Kirkthwaite Hall, though her home was the largest manor house in the vicinity of the village of Bolton. At the end of the last century, the same great grandfather had seen to the rebuilding after its destruction by marauding Scots.
As she hurried along the corridor, dodging servants lighting torches, she contemplated the strange twists and turns of destiny that had brought her to this place. She wished she’d met the great Ram de Montbryce. Did Rodrick resemble him? According to her father, all Ram’s sons had taken after him, including her grandfather Caedmon.
But the present Earl had silver grey hair, perhaps because of his age. Apart from the difference in their hair color, Rodrick did resemble his father.
She’d been told often enough she looked like her aunt Ragna whom she’d met more than once during visits from Denmark where she lived with her husband and family. Suannoch failed to see the physical resemblance, apart from their fair hair, but recognised the same stubborn traits in her aunt that she was often chided for. Ragna had confided gleefully her family had nicknamed her the Wild Viking Princess because of their Danish heritage on their mother’s side.
What would Rodrick think of her blonde Danish hair when she showed up in the Hall without the cursed wimple and coif? A gurgle of excitement bubbled up in her throat, taking her breath away. She’d obviously hastened too quickly along the corridor in the heavy habit.
She shook off her irritating preoccupation with Rodrick de Montbryce as she tapped lightly on Bronson’s door.
From down the corridor, Grace espied Suannoch knock on Bronson’s door, then enter. It seemed strange because she was sure he wasn’t in his chamber. She tiptoed to the door and put her ear to the wood, then eased it open. She cursed the Steward for not making sure the hinges were oiled. Suannoch, kneeling by her brother’s trunk, looked up sharply, her arms full of clothing—women’s clothing. For a moment Grace wondered if there was something about Bronson she hadn’t suspected, but her fears were quickly allayed when Suannoch scrambled to her feet.
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