Sinful Passions

by Anna Markland

  Leicester had been right—odd-looking was a good way to describe the Plantagenet prince. He had a large, round head. His ruddy face was covered in freckles. He was broad and square in the chest, his arms strong and powerful. Grey eyes had widened when their party first entered the pavilion. Bronson wasn’t certain but he thought the prince nodded at him while tapping his own red hair.

  “This land is war-weary,” Henry announced to no one in particular in an unexpectedly harsh and strident voice. “Oncle Stephen and I have sat here for days on end, facing each other outside Wallingford, neither wanting a clash of arms. What’s to be done?”

  Leicester and another man stepped forward. Bronson assumed from their resemblance this must be Robert’s twin, Waleran.

  “My prince, if I may be so bold, there is one thing the people of England resent more than anything else in this senseless conflict. They despise and fear the foreign mercenaries who have torn their land apart. We urge you to send home your foreign soldiers as a sign to your people.”

  The prince reddened further and he thrust his neck forward from his shoulders. Neither Robert nor Waleran flinched, though Bronson feared one of the famous Plantagenet rages was about to be unleashed on them.

  “You are not the first to suggest this, Robert of Leicester, and I have already given orders for five hundred of my hired men to be sent back across the Narrow Sea.”

  Bronson noticed Gallien’s rigid spine relax.

  Leicester and Waleran bowed their heads in acknowledgment of the concession.

  The prince grinned, slapping his thigh. “Not all the tidings are dire. I have already begun negotiations with Stephen through Archbishop Theobald and Bishop Henry of Winchester. Many barons have come over to our side since my triumphant tour of the Midlands. I am pleased beyond measure to see the Montbryces here.”

  Gallien and his sons bowed deeply.

  “And a cousin from Northumbria, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Bronson bowed his head. How had the would-be king known that?

  “Later, when we are done with this siege, you and I must discuss the situation in the north, Bronson FitzRam.”

  People turned to see who this unknown person was the prince knew by name. Gallien too looked back over his shoulder, his smile full of pride.

  The prince came to his feet. “Good barons of England. I sense the end is near.”

  Bronson doubted he was the only one who hoped the prince meant the end of the conflict.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A fortnight after the men’s departure, Grace and Swan were in the weaving shed. Grace was explaining warp and weft and the use of shuttles and heddles. Swan was feigning interest.

  Tybaut bustled in, a sweating messenger in tow. Grace’s heart stopped for a moment when she recognised him as an Ellesmere man who had obviously ridden hard. He bent the knee before them. She gripped Swan’s hand as the color drained from her cousin’s face. “What tidings, Rolf de Grise?”

  Rolf licked his lips, still panting. “Glad tidings, milady. King Stephen and Prince Henry have settled upon a truce.”

  Swan’s fingernails dug into her flesh. “Without a battle?”

  The messenger smiled, handing her a parchment. “Aye, milady. The Earl sent word.”

  With trembling hands she unfurled the document, recognizing the hand of the scribe who had accompanied her father. She read the message out loud.

  “The king marched a splendid army out to meet the prince, but what happened at Malmesbury was repeated. Fellow countrymen shrank from a conflict that would likely mean the complete desolation of our beloved England. Everyone recognised victory for one side or the other would mean massive land confiscations and continued bitter divisions. Stephen’s army refused to fight.”

  Swan swayed, grasping for the wooden loom.

  “The king and the prince had a conference alone together, across a small stream, about making a lasting peace.”

  Grace crumpled the parchment to her breast. “Praise be to the saints. They have woken up at last.”

  “But did Stephen acknowledge Henry as his heir?” Swan asked, her eyes welling with tears.

  Grace scanned the creased parchment once more. “Father writes that the terms of peace are obvious to everyone. Stephen will have to recognize Henry as his heir.”

  Swan grabbed the parchment. “But what of Eustace?”

  Swan had never been a good student. Sitting still while the monkish tutors her father provided for all his children droned on had been torture. As a child she never understood the purpose of learning to read. Now she was elated that she grasped most of the missive as her eyes danced over the symbols. At first she thought she had misunderstood, but then she laughed out loud, gripping the parchment.

  “You’ll tear it,” Grace admonished, frowning sternly. “What is amusing?”

  Swan inhaled deeply. “Eustace is dead.”

  Grace stared.

  Relishing the moment of superiority that she knew something Grace didn’t, she paused before continuing slowly. “Angered by his father’s truce with Henry, he set about raping and pillaging again. He fell ill one afternoon and was dead by nightfall.”

  Only the sound of the jubilant messenger’s heavy breathing disturbed the silence as both women stared at the document. There was no mention of the cause of Eustace’s death, and Swan wondered if she dared breathe what she supposed many suspected.

  Poison?

  Grace looked at her. “Rotten food do you suppose?”

  “Probably,” she murmured.

  “You’re not setting a good example for our younger brother,” Rodrick yelled at William over the din of celebration, wishing they had chosen a seat further away from the musicians playing shawms and hurdy-gurdys.

  William tightened his grip on the waist of the village wench on his lap in the overcrowded Hall of Wallingford and laughed. “The people are relieved we’re here, especially the women. I am merely taking advantage of their hospitality. Because you’ve sworn off the fairer sex doesn’t mean—”

  Rodrick banged the table with his fist, sending ale slopping over the lip of his tankard. “I haven’t sworn off women. I consider myself betrothed to Swan and I don’t intend to betray her with any of these doxies.”

  The wench giggled and thrust out her ample bosom as William nuzzled her neck, both apparently oblivious to the insult Rodrick had uttered.

  His brother would soon celebrate twenty years, an age when young men’s thoughts often turned to matrimony. He supposed he shouldn’t judge William too harshly. After all, he hadn’t given a thought to marriage, despite the entreaties of his parents, until Swan had come along. And William didn’t have the responsibility of the earldom, unless Rodrick fell. Grace would make a better job of running Ellesmere than William, but sadly she would never be given the chance.

  He wondered idly what would happen if he and his two brothers fell in battle. Perhaps Ellesmere would devolve to his uncle Étienne, his father’s brother. But he had no children of his own and lived with his long time paramour Tandine. Mayhap the head of the family, Comte Alexandre, might decide Ellesmere should go to his son, Barr, or to his brother, Romain. Whatever happened in such dire circumstances would lead to dissension within the family, and unity was what had helped the Montbryce family survive and prosper when others had fallen beneath the weight of political intrigue.

  Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he eyed Stephen at the other side of the Hall, carousing with a group of rowdy knights, enticing a young lass onto his lap.

  “Be careful, William, not to sow any wild oats. Papa won’t be happy if you get any of these women with child. It’s frustrating being stuck here, but—”

  William leaned close to Rodrick’s ear, grinning broadly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered.

  Whatever he was about to say next was strangled by a hiccup, followed by a loud belch. Rodrick wrinkled his nose, fanning away the unpleasant stench with his hand.

  William laughed then continued,
a forefinger pressed to his lips. “I take care to withdraw before—”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, as if he’d offered sufficient information for his brother to comprehend.

  Rodrick rolled his eyes and decided to move to where Bronson sat alone, nursing a tankard.

  “All alone, Bronson?” Rodrick asked as he took a seat across from him. “None of these wenches appeal to you?”

  Bronson shrugged off his irritation. “And greetings to you too, cousin.”

  Rodrick looked sheepish. “Your pardon. I was rude.”

  He grunted his agreement, unable to look at Rodrick’s face without thinking of Grace. Better to establish good relations with his cousin, especially since he would be living close by the castle Rodrick stood to inherit.

  To his surprise, Rodrick held out a hand. “We should be friends, you and I, if I’m to marry your sister.”

  Bronson shifted his weight, suppressing the notion bubbling in his throat to reveal his feelings for Grace. If he admitted them to Rodrick, he’d have to acknowledge he was falling in love with her. But love and marriage led to despair, though he’d never felt for either of his wives what burned in his gut for Grace. “I want my sister to be happy, and it seems she is anxious to wed with you. But you recognize the difficulties ahead.”

  Rodrick took a swig of his ale. “I do, and I had hoped to speak to Prince Henry about an interview with the Archbishop, but since news came of Eustace’s death, he’s been involved in negotiations with King Stephen.”

  “In which Archbishop Theobald is playing a vital role and is likely too busy to deal with a trivial matter such as the marriage of two cousins.”

  “Aye,” Rodrick replied dispiritedly.”Especially since I’m the son of a baron who led the fight to have Stephen crowned.”

  “My hope is you succeed,” Bronson said, saddened by the despair on Rodrick’s face.

  The smile returned. “We will. I was granted a sign.”

  Bronson’s heart thudded, Rodrick’s words reminding him of his dream. “Tell me.”

  “Near the stones. I caught sight of a family of swans. A male and female with a brood of cygnets.”

  It gladdened Bronson to picture Swan with a brood of children, but he wished the details of his own dream were clearer. Some vital part of it danced around his memory but refused to reveal itself. “I believe I was given a sign at Hrolla-landriht.”

  Rodrick arched his brows, making him wish he’d guarded his tongue. Now he’d be obliged to explain. Mayhap if he shrugged it off, Rodrick might think he’d misheard amid the din.

  “A sign of what?” his cousin insisted, eyeing him curiously.

  “It’s probably nothing. I had a dream, but I’m sure many others dreamt that night. Standing stones often cause men to believe they have visions.”

  “But it bothers you.”

  Bronson had never been a liar and his insightful cousin would recognize a lie if he told one now. “It does. I was standing by the King Stone.”

  “And?”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping his cousin wouldn’t guffaw too loudly. “I was naked.”

  Rodrick narrowed his eyes, staring at him closely. “Were you alone in the dream?”

  Bronson closed his eyes. “No. There was a woman. I walked towards her. She held out her hands in welcome.”

  “Was it someone you recognised?”

  Bronson opened his eyes and his heart leapt into his throat. He was staring at the face he’d seen in his dream, except—

  He looked away quickly, a prickly sensation creeping over his already heated skin.

  “It was Grace, wasn’t it?” Rodrick said.

  There was no censure in his cousin’s voice, but Bronson put his head in his hands, the dream clear now. “Aye, but it cannot be.”

  “Why not? It seems Montbryces and FitzRams have a liking for each other.”

  He raised his head, Rodrick’s wry smile lightening his heart for a moment. But then he shuddered at the sudden memory of a part of the dream he’d forgotten—the Dark Angel. “I’ll not wed again.”

  He sensed Rodrick wanted to press him further, but he was spared the interrogation by the arrival of William who staggered to the seat next to him and promptly retched all over the table.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “We’re at last summoned to Winchester,” Gallien de Montbryce announced to his kinsmen as they gathered around the brazier to break their fast. The chill of the grey November dawn had seeped into Rodrick’s bones. He stuck the stale bread and moldy cheese in his mouth while he rubbed his frozen hands together over the glowing embers. “Thanks be to God. I am sick and tired of sleeping in a tent for months on end.”

  He recognized he was being testy; they were all weary of the long months spent ensuring the security of Wallingford. Some of Stephen’s supporters, disgruntled by the turn of events, lingered in the vicinity. Rodrick recognised his sister’s stepson, Godefroy, among them.

  Tempers had grown short, patience in short supply. His father said nothing, but Rodrick sensed he missed his wife keenly. Despite the warnings, William had impregnated a village wench and the Earl had been obliged to make provision for the girl and her unborn child.

  Rodrick hadn’t been present, but whatever Gallien de Montbryce had said to William had chastened the young man considerably. Now he behaved like a monk, spending most of his spare time in the nearby monastery. Young Stephen too was rarely seen in the company of women.

  “We’re to be there by the morrow,” his father continued, “which means a long day in the saddle if we want to arrive before nightfall. I’ve already instructed the men to strike camp. Get your belongings and let’s go.”

  Rodrick threw the remains of his food into the fire. He didn’t need to be told twice. The summons to Winchester meant only one thing. The old Minster, resting place of Saint Swithun and legendary Saxon kings, was the place where English kingship was sanctified. A truce was to be signed.

  Then they could go home. He longed to see Swan again, worried about how she fared at Shelfhoc, though her missives were full of details of what she and Grace had accomplished. It amused him that there was always a note for Bronson from Grace, ostensibly explaining some change or other she wanted to make, asking his permission. However, the way Bronson salivated when he read the notes confirmed what he suspected—his cousin was pining for his sister.

  The journey to Winchester was long, but Rodrick sensed optimism had taken hold. People no longer took flight when they passed. For most of his five and twenty years he had lived in a land filled with fear, and he counted himself lucky to have spent his life in a place isolated from the worst ravages of the civil war. But travel had always been a dangerous pursuit. Hearing the cheers and seeing the relief on the weathered faces of peasants gladdened his heart.

  He slept soundly that night, for the first time in a long while, and felt refreshed as he and the rest of his family gathered in the chill of the cathedral to witness the momentous occasion.

  Stephen and Henry came to stand in front of the high altar of the Minster.

  Rodrick hazarded a glance at his father’s stoic face. What must he think now of Stephen, the man in whom he’d placed such faith?

  “He’s a relic of a departing generation,” Gallien de Montbryce murmured.

  Rodrick thought he should say something to make his father feel better. “But he is dignified.” It sounded weak to his own ears.

  “Henry looks like a scruffy imp with his hair all over the place,” William whispered.

  Stephen’s raspy voice broke the utter silence. “Know that I, King Stephen, appoint Henry Duke of Normandie after me as my successor in the kingdom of England and my heir by hereditary right. Thus I give and confirm to him and his heirs the Kingdom of England.”

  “Eustace must be turning over in his tomb,” Rodrick whispered.

  His father chuckled. “Best place for him.”

  Henry more or less repeated the same things, then did homage
to Stephen and received the homage of Stephen’s younger son, William.

  “It appears William is more accepting of the new order of things than his late brother,” Rodrick observed.

  Bronson shrugged. “No doubt he has been adequately compensated for the loss of a throne.”

  Gallien inhaled deeply. “Henry has muscled his way into the succession through great military leadership and superb diplomacy. Let’s hope it augurs well for the future. Now hopefully we can go home.”

  A man standing behind them leaned into their conversation. “Not yet. The new king designate will expect us to join the lavish procession of bishops and notable men planned for the streets of Winchester, then we’ll proceed to Westminster where the documents will be signed and sealed.”

  The stranger must have sensed the despondency his words caused. He offered his hand to Gallien. “Henry of Huntingdon, at your service, my lords. Be glad. What inestimable joy! What blessed day! Peace has dawned on the ruined realm, putting an end to its troubled night. We are fortunate to bear witness to this long awaited occasion. I intend to describe it fully in my Chronicles.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Swan and Grace stood together in the windswept bailey of Ellesmere Castle, the Countess and Aurore shivering at their side. Bonhomme had provided the women with woollen blankets, their heavy cloaks insufficient to ward off the bitter cold Advent had brought.

  The deep chill and the apprehension of seeing Rodrick again had turned Swan’s belly into a writhing mass of adders. She curled her frozen toes inside boots turned to ice, hoping she wouldn’t have to flee to the garderobe before the men of the family rode into the bailey. They’d been sighted five miles off by expectant outriders.

  During Rodrick’s prolonged absence, she had begun to wonder if mayhap the night he’d brought her to a pinnacle of ecstasy with his mouth and his fingers had been a figment of her imagination. The muscles of her cleft clenched. Her most intimate place remembered. It had been real. The blanket suddenly seemed too heavy.