Rodrick chuckled, enjoying the reference to the curse. Since the time of his great, great grandfather, Comte Bernard, the Montbryces had been different from most noblemen—they loved their wives passionately.
As she and Grace approached Ruyton Swan marvelled out loud at the efficiency of Steward Bonhomme. “He’d seen off a huge expeditionary force less than a day before yet managed to provision our escort to Shelfhoc.”
Grace concurred. “Indeed, our family has been blessed by the talents of the Bonhomme family, both here and in Normandie. They’ve served us faithfully for nigh on five score years.”
“He didn’t blink an eye when I told him we planned to leave the following day. I didn’t want to wait any longer to see Shelfhoc.”
“I agree. It was good to get underway. The August weather is fair, and we should be there soon. The men who came with you from Northumbria seemed relieved not to be bound for Wallingford and are only too glad to be travelling with us. Two of them have gone ahead to secure our passage past the guards on the rampart ditch. You’ll soon espy the little church within the boundaries of Shelfhoc.”
The tower appeared shortly thereafter. Swan’s head filled with the notion of being wed in the tiny church, though Rodrick would no doubt want to hold the ceremony at Ellesmere in the grander church built by Ram de Montbryce, symbolic for both of them. But she mustn’t dwell too long on those thoughts, just in case.
Her first impression of Shelfhoc as they entered the courtyard was of a house not dissimilar to Kirkthwaite Hall, but much older.
A short, balding man clad in the livery of a Steward emerged to greet them. “Bienvenues, Mesdames, milady Grace and milady Suannoch.”
Stable lads ran forward to assist them as they dismounted. Swan was heartily glad to get off Cob after close to two hours riding side saddle.
“Tybaut is the fourth generation of stewards to serve Shelfhoc,” Grace explained.
Swan acknowledged his bow. “On behalf of my brother, I thank you for your service to my uncle Edwin.”
“A fine man indeed,” Tybaut murmured with obvious reverence. “I miss him. Milord Bronson has not accompanied you?”
“No,” Swan replied. “He’s gone with the Earl to help lift the siege of Wallingford.”
Tybaut’s eyes widened as if this news surprised him, then he clasped his joined hands to his chest, looking to the sky. “Dangerous times we live in. I thank God daily we have been spared the ravages plaguing other parts of England.”
He ushered them into the house.
“Shall I show you everything now,” Grace asked enthusiastically, “or do you want to rest first?”
“Time for rest when we retire,” Swan replied.
As her cousin led the way she savored every lime-washed panel, every stair, every chamber. “It’s a grand house,” she remarked to the Steward following attentively behind them.
“Two stories high, as you see,” he replied, his chest swelling with pride. “Built from split and planed timbers, fastened together with iron nails.”
The interior was elaborately decorated with ornamental wood turnings, the creaking wooden floor softened with wattle mats. The roof was well thatched. The sturdy outbuildings were framed with large timber uprights, filled with wattle and daub and chinked with moss to keep out the winter cold. The stone kitchen was set apart from the wooden house.
“This used to be the weaving shed,” Tybaut explained, as they entered a long, narrow building. “Perhaps you ladies might start up the use of it again? It wasn’t used during Milord Edwin’s residence here.”
He lifted the end of a heavy canvas covering. “I’ve kept the old looms covered.”
“Perhaps,” Grace replied. “I love to weave.”
Swan doubted she’d ever set foot in the shed again, but as she touched a hand to the wooden loom beneath the canvas it was pleasing to imagine her namesake great grandmother creating woven goods in the place, and her grandmother Agneta after her. Had her father, Aidan not inherited Kirkthwaite in Northumbria, he might have lived out his life here.
There was a modest Great Hall where she conjured a vision of her grandfather, Caedmon, conducting business, enacting justice and speaking judgments. Had he sat in the massive thane’s chair on the dais, his wife Agneta by his side, and signed contracts, praised good deeds, eaten with his men? The Hall was long and narrow and had two doors, one at each tapered end.
“The four windows have wooden shutters for defense and to keep out the cold,” Tybaut explained.
She thought of her ancestors here in the days after her grandfather’s return from the Crusades, watching the smoke make its lazy way up from the hearth in the middle, out through the hole in the roof.
Shelfhoc was where the FitzRam family had its beginnings on that fateful day so long ago when Ram and Ascha met.
A sense of homecoming washed over her. “I love this place,” she whispered to Grace. “And Bronson will love it too.”
Her cousin’s shoulders drooped. “How far do you think they’ve traveled?”
Swan took her hand, happy not to be the only one missing the men they cared for. “They hoped to reach Fernhill Heath by this evening and on to Chipping Norton on the morrow.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bronson prided himself on being an excellent rider, but was weary of being on a horse. It seemed he’d barely arrived at Ellesmere after a gruelling and unhappy journey with Swan over the Pennines when the call had come to travel to Wallingford. Arriving exhausted didn’t bode well for his chances of staying alive if they engaged Stephen’s forces.
They’d been on the road three days, this last being the longest, and he was heartily relieved to see the motte at Chipping Norton loom out of the late afternoon fog. The only good thing to come from the journey was it had afforded him a chance to get to know his Montbryce cousins. William and Stephen were friendly and outgoing at first meeting, but he was uneasy with Rodrick. However, on the long march he had seen many good qualities in the man who professed to love his sister.
Rodrick would make a good husband for Swan. But the road ahead was murky, filled with ecclesiastical potholes. He and Grace faced the same problems if they—
A commotion up ahead caught his attention. William was slowly riding back towards him, a pained expression on his face. “What ho, cousin?” he asked.
William rolled his eyes, “Seems we’re not welcome at milord FitzAlan’s demesne. His steward told our scouts he doesn’t want our men tramping around the area where he’s building his castle.”
Bronson groaned. “Where will we camp?”
“A place called Hrolla-landriht—Hrolla’s land. Don’t worry. They say it’s only another two miles or so. There’s a meadow where we can pitch our tents, and standing stones, apparently.”
Wearily, he turned his horse north to follow the others, hoping or so meant less rather than more. William rode alongside him. Being a Northumbrian, Bronson had experience of standing stones and the superstitions they gave rise to. “Ancient monuments speak of fairies and the like. I hope they don’t keep us awake this night.”
William wiggled his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind bumping into a winsome fairy who might cast a spell to ease these tired bones.”
Bronson laughed, but in his heart he was thinking of a red headed sprite he’d like to be abed with. He straightened his aching spine. It was time to be done with these fantasies that were bound to lead to unhappiness.
After half an hour, the weary army arrived at their destination, a meadow a stone’s throw away from an impressive ring of some four score standing stones. They weren’t as tall as some he’d seen.
“They look like worm eaten stumps,” William remarked with a shiver.
“Limestone, I think,” Bronson replied. “The fog’s lifted, but this place is eerie.”
“And damp, despite the heat of the day,” William said resignedly, getting off his horse. “Let’s get the men organised to pitch camp.”
It didn’t
take long for the infantrymen to have tents and pavilions pitched, and Bronson wandered off to take a closer look at the circle of stones.
The August evenings were long and the fog had cleared, but mystery and magic hung in the still air. He wasn’t afraid of standing stones, but knew enough to be wary. He’d heard tell of strange inexplicable events at some circles. He wondered about the men who’d placed these stones here, long ago. What was their purpose?
“They’re the King’s Men.”
He whirled around, caught off guard by a voice he didn’t immediately recognize. Leicester stood behind him, in the company of Rodrick and his father. It was Leicester who had spoken. He supposed the Earl would know the legend behind this local landmark, being from the Midlands.
“And over there, the bigger one, it’s the King Stone.” He pointed to a taller rock Bronson hadn’t noticed before, preoccupied as he was with the circle.
“Underneath the King Stone and the King’s Men there are supposed to be caves that are the haunt of faeries. At midnight they come out of a hole in a bank and dance around the Stones by the light of the moon. If the hole is blocked up with a flat stone it will have been turned over by the time the morning sun rises.”
An owl hooted, raising the hairs at his nape. He sensed the uneasiness of the other men, all except Leicester who simply laughed.
“There are reports of people disappearing into faerie holes for what seems like many years. When they emerge, however, they discover they have only been gone for a matter of hours.”
“Folk tell the same kind of tales in Northumbria,” Bronson said.
Leicester played with the lobe of his ear. “Then you likely have the tradition of leaving a token gift for the faeries, for good luck.”
Rodrick cleared his throat, grinning at Bronson. “I’ve heard tell some of these standing stones promote fertility if you touch them.”
“Don’t mock, young Rodrick,” the Earl chided. “Such is true of the King Stone. It’s rumored young maidens come here on a certain night to touch their breasts to it, then make merry with cakes and ale.”
“Hope it’s tonight.”
They turned to see William and Stephen. William’s red face and Stephen’s stern look betrayed who had made the jest.
Leicester walked away. “Further along, you’ll see the Whispering Knights.”
They followed and came soon to a group of five upright stones.
“Legend has it the Knights are guarding a burial chamber, thousands of years old. They are so named because of the conspiratorial way in which they lean inwards towards each other as if they are plotting against their king.”
Heads swivelled to look at him. He grinned back. “Close to the bone, eh lads?”
Their laughter relieved the tension in the air. Gallien slapped Leicester on the back. “I admire a man with a sense of humor.”
Leicester put a finger to his lips. “Hush, listen. Young men and women come to hear the Knights whisper the name of their future wives and husbands.”
The others listened for a few minutes, then wandered away back to the camp, laughing and jesting. Only Bronson and Rodrick remained, stock still, staring at the silent stones as darkness crept into the meadow.
Grace had often accompanied her father on visits to Uncle Edwin at Shelfhoc. She called Edwin uncle, but he was actually her half cousin once removed. Edwin and her father were great friends, and his dogs were always excited to see her. Today had been no exception and she and Swan had romped with the dogs all afternoon in the field behind the manor house after visiting the church. Prior to that they’d discussed with Tybaut a few changes they thought the new master would require. It was apparent it had been the home of a bachelor, and they’d planned and plotted as to how to introduce feminine touches without offending Swan’s brother.
She’d always enjoyed coming to Shelfhoc, but now she saw it through different eyes—as a home. It was presumptuous of her, since Swan had more right to be regarded as lady of the manor than she did. She pouted when Swan suggested things she didn’t believe would work, quickly countering them with ideas of her own.
They’d each gone to their chamber after an exhausting day, still friends, but Grace sensed impatience in her cousin. Swan had claimed the master’s chamber, which clearly Bronson should have.
She tossed and turned for many hours, wondering how he fared. She presumed all was well. If disaster had befallen her twin she would have known, and she sensed nothing of the sort.
At last she fell into a fitful sleep. And dreamed.
She was standing next to a tall weathered stone. At first she expected to see a vision of her cousin, Adam de Montbryce, who had once saved his lady love Rosamunda from a fall from atop a monolith in Bretagne, but then she was suddenly in the center of a grassy circle of smaller stones.
Hundreds of faeries danced around her, giggling. Uncertain, she glanced back at the tall stone. A man stood beside it. His face was shadowed, but his hair was long—and red.
And he was naked.
The faeries giggled again, and she looked down at her own body. What had happened to her clothes? She looked back at the stone. The red-haired man was striding towards her, his hands held out.
She reached to welcome him, as he pressed his body to hers. Desire blossomed in her woman’s place. She moaned and arched her back.
The faeries fell silent and fled. She gasped at the advent of a black-winged angel that flew around the circle then alit on the large stone. The man shook his head and withdrew into the fog. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Please, don’t go.”
She startled awake, sweating, ashamed to discover her hand in a place it should not have been.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
While the men were striking camp in the predawn darkness, Rodrick wandered off to find somewhere he might wash his face and hands and see to the call of nature.
Beyond the King’s Men he stumbled upon a pond. His mind on his ablutions, he was startled by a movement—something white. He looked across the water as the sun rose, astounded to see a beautiful white swan preening the feathers of its long neck. It stopped when it caught sight of him, and stared for a minute or two. As they gazed at each other, another swan glided towards the first. Riding on its back was a handful of fluffy white cygnets.
He fell to his knees in the marshy ground and thanked God for this sign. Swan would be his.
His heart full, he hastened back to camp, gathered his gear, donned his armor, and mounted in time to join his father, brothers and cousin as they set off for Wallingford.
The trek took the better part of six hours. No one sang. Rodrick assumed the men’s thoughts were on the looming battle, as his were. But the sign he’d been granted gave him hope. He would survive and return to wed Swan.
Their father and Leicester spent the better part of the last hour of the journey preparing them for their meeting on the morrow with Prince Henry Plantagenet.
“Remember,” Robert reminded them, “Henry was only sixteen when he landed on the shores of Devon and declared himself leader of the Angevin cause after his mother’s retirement. She had filled his head with the notion that the throne of England was his birthright and even at such a tender age he burned with the fervor of his mission.”
“I was told he doesn’t speak English,” William said.
Leicester chewed on his lower lip. “Non, but he understands our language. I followed him as he traveled throughout the Midlands this past spring campaigning to convince people of his cause. Instead of ravaging lands, he held court and invited nobles to come in peace. Rather than burning crops, he issued charters guaranteeing our land rights in England and Normandie.”
Rodrick’s father continued. “When he was nine his mother had him brought to England, before her escape from Oxford. He studied in Bristol for fifteen months and met the famous astronomer and mathematician, Adelard of Bath who dedicated a treatise on the astrolabe to him, so impressed was he with the young man’s learning.”
&nb
sp; “But he returned to Normandie,” Stephen observed.
“He did,” Leicester confirmed. “England was a dangerous place with his mother and King Stephen chasing each other from town to town and from castle to castle. And his father, Geoffrey wanted him back in Normandie to aid in his campaign to claim the duchy.
“He’s an odd looking young man, Norman blood from his mother, Saxon from his grandmother and Angevin from his father. But beware of his temper. He can change in seconds from good humor to fierce anger.
“He’s a keen rider, often galloping off at breakneck speed. He’s been involved in his father’s military campaigns and political manoeuvrings since he was eleven. Geoffrey taught him how to conduct business and war in a treacherous land.”
“Sounds like the right person for the job of king in this troubled country,” Rodrick observed.
Standing in the royal pavilion with the Montbryces and a dozen other barons, Bronson peered over Gallien’s shoulder to study Henry FitzEmpress Plantagenet who sat upon a wooden camp stool, meaty legs splayed, hands on hips.
He pressed his knuckles to his mouth as a yawn threatened. They’d been roused at dawn and summoned. Sleep on the road had been fitful at best, especially after a dream of standing naked by the King Stone near Chipping Norton. He’d spent most of the final leg of the journey trying to recall other details of the unsettling dream.
In the camp at Wallingford sleep had been impossible. With a massive force already assembled, they’d had scant space in which to pitch their tents. He and his cousins had been forced to share their accommodations with several other loudly snoring knights. There seemed to be activity of one form or another going on all night. Stephen’s army was close at hand outside the walls of the beleaguered town. The reek of smoke from campfires over which game had been roasted earlier filled the air.
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