Sinful Passions

by Anna Markland

  Bronson had insisted he was well enough to be left during the night and Grace had been convinced to take Swan’s place in the bed in the upstairs chamber.

  This morning he’d voiced the desire to move back into the master’s chamber, and Rodrick had helped Tybaut and the lads move pallets and rearrange sleeping accommodations.

  Swan insisted she understood why he had to return to Ellesmere, but he recognised she was bereft at his leaving. At first she’d whined. “Why can I not accompany you?”

  “What’s the point? I have to leave with father on the expedition to aid Robert of Leicester in closing two mercenary castles. And in any case, Grace and Bronson cannot be left alone here together. They’ll be good company for you.”

  She sulked, studying her feet. “They only have eyes for each other.”

  He tilted her chin to his gaze, wishing to carry the memory of her lovely face with him. “Like you and me.”

  Hoping to erase the pout, he added. “And Papa is talking of going personally to see Archbishop Theobald, in which case I’ll go with him.”

  Bringing his thoughts back to the track, muddy now after the mild weather, he touched his fingers to his lips, savoring the taste of their farewell kiss in the courtyard. He offered a silent prayer that the Archbishop would grant the dispensation on which much depended.

  Bronson had mixed feelings as he watched Rodrick disappear over the horizon, and suspected he wasn’t the only one. He put an arm around his sister’s shoulder. “You’re sad to see him go, Swan, but his mission is an important one.”

  Swan sighed. “Yes. England needs to be rid of the mercenaries.”

  “True, but I meant the petition to the Archbishop.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Yes, that’s important to both of us now, brother.”

  He scratched the irritating whiskers under his chin, stretching his arm around Grace’s shoulders when she took over the job. Somehow her touch was more effective. “Indeed, and with the men he’s left here and the ones we brought from Northumbria, we are well protected.”

  It didn’t ring completely true. They’d been protected before and succumbed to treachery. He would feel vulnerable until Godefroy was captured or confirmed dead.

  Grace’s scratching wasn’t helping any longer. “I have to get rid of this beard. Today!”

  “I can do it,” Swan volunteered. “We had planned to have Lucia take out your stitches too.”

  His sister had shaved him before, but it was the touch of another female he craved. “I was going to ask Grace to do it.”

  Swan’s lip quivered. She darted a jealous glance at Grace. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best time to mention it. He opened his mouth to soothe her hurt feelings but she scurried off towards the stables, leaving them to enter the house without her.

  Grace hesitated on the threshold. “I should go after her.”

  “No. She’ll spend some time with Cob and be over it soon. She has to get used to sharing me with another woman. She’s taken care of me since—”

  The dark memories threatened to surface.

  Grace turned to face him and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. The darkness lifted as she thrust her tongue into his mouth. When they broke apart, she smiled mischievously. “A bath is in order once we get those stitches out. You still reek of onions.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “I can hardly wait.”

  Watching nervously as Bronson sharpened his razor on the leather strop, Grace wished she’d spoken up. Swan may have shaved her brother, but Grace’s brothers had valets to take care of such things. An Earl’s daughter was never called upon to groom males, even when the men in question were her brothers.

  Jolly bustled in with a bowl of hot water and linens, followed by Tybaut with a bar of what appeared to be soap held aloft in both hands as if it were a Mass offering. “Here we are. My finest hard shaving soap, handmade from beeswax and lard and my special secret ingredient.”

  He placed the bar next to the bowl of water on a small table Jolly had provided near the hearth in the solar.

  With a flourish, he produced a furry object from the pocket of his tunic. “There aren’t many of these around, my lord Bronson. Please accept it as my humble gift.”

  Bronson furrowed his brow as he examined his gift. “Boar’s hair?”

  Tybaut grinned gleefully. “I sensed you were a perceptive man of good taste.”

  Grace, who’d believed the boar’s hair object had been a lucky rabbit’s foot, wiped her sweaty hands on the apron Jolly had provided. The Steward stared at her for long moments. She eyed the table on which the brush, the razor, the hot water, and the soap had been lovingly placed. “All is in readiness?” she ventured.

  Tybaut looked down his nose. “One more thing.” He opened his palm to reveal a tiny jar, big enough for only a fingertip to be dipped inside. “Just in case.”

  Frowning, she sniffed the contents. “What is it?”

  “A perfumed ointment of my own creation, with the added luxury of spider webs soaked in oil and vinegar.”

  She stifled a giggle at the thought of the portly Tybaut harvesting spider webs. “What on earth is it for?”

  He laid it on the table that now looked like a sacrificial altar. “In case of accidents.”

  As Lucia prepared to remove Bronson’s stitches, Swan refrained from commenting on the nicks and scratches on her brother’s face. Served him right for not letting her shave him, though she had to admit Grace had done a creditable job, considering it was likely the first time she’d ever shaved a man.

  It was curious. Grace was a widow, yet she was reluctant to speak of her husband, and seemed to know nothing about him. Lucia also avoided answering questions concerning life at Cullène Hall.

  Poor Grace. She was trembling like an aspen tree and looked exhausted.

  Bronson gazed down at the scar on his chest. “Looks good, Lucia. Fine needlework.”

  The maidservant blushed. “Thank you, my lord. You have healed well.”

  “Too bad the colorful stitches have turned black,” Swan teased. “You looked pretty when they were a rainbow.”

  Bronson laughed.

  Grace tsked. “You must keep still. Lucia is using the smallest pair of cisoires in this masculine household. These are pivoted and are normally used for—”

  Her face reddened considerably. “What I mean is—”

  Swan had to rub salt in the wound. “What she means is they are from her sewing supplies and are normally used for embroidery.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Grace glared at Swan. Lucia’s eyes darted from one face to another. Tybaut coughed.

  Bronson leaned back in the chair, staring into the rafters. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to you two sparring like fighting cocks. Snip away, Lucia.”

  Swan felt badly. She loved her brother. She was elated he seemed ready at last to put the past behind him. There was no better sister-by-marriage than Grace. But she missed Rodrick terribly, and he’d been gone less than a day.

  “I apologize, Grace. I don’t understand why I am being mean spirited. My brother looks much better without his beard. You did a fine job.”

  Grace took her hand. “You miss Rodrick. I understand.”

  “At last!” Bronson exclaimed, startling them both. He came to his feet, scratching his chest. “I am no longer a tapestry.”

  Swan clapped her hands together, gladdened by the return of her brother’s good humor. He had grieved for too long.

  “Now for my bath. Which one of you lovely ladies will scrub my back?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tucking the eating dagger he’d wiped clean into his belt, Rodrick grinned at Bronson. “There you were, alone at Shelfhoc with two lovely women doting over you, yet you chose to join the fray.”

  Bronson scratched his chest. The scar no longer itched, but the scratching had turned into a habit. He wondered if coming to Ellesmere to join Gallien and his sons in the ongoing fight against the Flemish mercenaries was
indeed the decision of a madman. How to explain? “Grace and Swan may be lovely, but—”

  Swan narrowed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip.

  Grace glared at him.

  Careful!

  Rodrick chuckled, stretching his arm around his betrothed seated next to him in the Hall. “I understand. I see my Swan’s ruffled feathers.”

  She shrugged away from him, but he held tight. “Let’s not fight. We haven’t seen each other for sennights. Spring is already upon us.”

  Bronson was happy to see the pout leave his sister’s face as she nestled into Rodrick. He glanced up at the head table, relieved to see his future father-by-marriage nod imperceptibly when he put his arm around Grace.

  The Earl had proposed they take the opportunity of everyone’s presence at Ellesmere to formally sign betrothal documents. He hadn’t yet been able to procure an appointment with Archbishop Theobald and believed signed documents would help the cause once an audience was granted.

  It was a source of pride for Bronson to represent his father in signing the documents pledging Swan to Rodrick, but he hoped Grace hadn’t noticed the tremor in his hand as he’d signed his own betrothal document in the Chart Room. He had no doubt he loved her, but this was a momentous step he’d sworn he would never take.

  He wondered why she seemed as apprehensive as he. Perhaps all brides-to-be were nervous at their betrothal ceremony, although Grace had been married before. She knew what to expect. But she’d never borne a child of Victor de Cullène. Perhaps she was barren. Strangely, the possibility depressed him. She was a woman born to be a mother.

  Swan’s voice broke into his reverie as he sifted his fingers through Grace’s hair, conjuring images behind his eyes of a child born of two redheaded parents. “Seriously, you’re not going off to fight simply to get away from me and Grace?”

  “No,” he replied truthfully. “I am recovered from my injuries and anxious to join the battle to restore peace to England. I was a boy when King Henry died, but I remember life being more secure than it has been under Stephen’s rule. If it wasn’t for the Scottish king’s intervention in Northumbria, we’d have descended into the same anarchy.

  “Besides, the news of a plot to assassinate Henry Plantagenet brings to mind a certain young man who I would dearly love to come face to face with.”

  “You believe Godefroy still lives?” Rodrick asked.

  “My bones tell me he does, and I would have vengeance for what he did to Grace—to all of us.”

  Rodrick fingered his nose. “Yes, I remember it well, and I too would love nothing better than to despatch the wretch to his Maker. We leave on the morrow to rejoin Robert of Leicester who reportedly has spies among the conspirators. There are rumors Stephen’s son William is involved.”

  Grace snuggled into him, the swell of her warm breast against his arm stirring the interest of his shaft. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

  Bronson wanted nothing more than to whisk her to her chamber and lie abed there for sennights, but revealing his thoughts would be deemed inappropriate with others present, although Rodrick probably wanted to say the same to Swan.

  At least he and Grace had been able to spend time together at Shelfhoc, whereas Rodrick and Swan had been parted for sennights, and on the morrow would have to say farewell once more.

  “We’ll have many happy years to enjoy together in peace and prosperity once we rid our country of troublemakers,” he said.

  Rodrick arched a brow. “And if Henry Plantagenet lives up to expectations as our king.”

  Swan sighed. “He has to be crowned first.”

  Strolling through the ornamental garden at Ellesmere, Swan fanned her face with the parchment Steward Bonhomme had handed her. “Is it usually so hot here at this time of year?”

  “This is a very hot summer,” Grace replied trying to wrest the message from her hand. “But I’ve heard it said the weather is normally warmer here than in Northumbria.”

  Swan stepped away, unfurling the long awaited missive. “It’s from Rodrick.”

  Grace pouted.

  “But Bronson has added a note at the end.”

  Grace put her hands on her hips. “Have you noticed, sister, we are the best of friends until our men intrude?”

  Swan had indeed remarked on it, but was too intent on reading Rodrick’s letter to respond. Her eyes widened at the news he’d imparted.

  “What is it?” Grace asked impatiently.

  “The conspirators in the assassination plot have been arrested. Godefroy languishes in the Tower with his confederates, awaiting Prince Henry’s wish and pleasure. Prince William has been exonerated of any complicity.”

  Grace gasped and threw herself into Swan’s arms. They both laughed and sobbed and laughed again.

  When they broke apart, Swan handed the missive to Grace. “My brother misses you.”

  Grace read Bronson’s note, then clasped the parchment to her breast. “Perhaps now they will come home.”

  Grace tugged her cloak more snugly around her shoulders as she watched the leaves fall from the oaks in the ornamental garden. “It reminds me of the splendid oak that burned the day I was rescued,” she told Swan as they huddled together on a bench. “It seems a lifetime ago and yet it hasn’t been a year.”

  “Time crawls by when you’re waiting for someone to come home,” Swan replied.

  Grace agreed. “Thank goodness you are here. I would have lost my wits without your friendship to see me through these long separations. I had hoped after Godefroy’s capture and execution our men would return for good, but they’ve only been home three times since then.”

  Swan shivered in the chilly breeze. “I suppose as long as Stephen lives, there will be factions who will oppose Henry. Once Plantagenet is king—”

  She jumped to her feet as Rodrick sauntered into the garden, followed by Bronson. Grace’s heart turned over as she ran through the crackling leaves into his arms, savoring his warmth. “We didn’t expect you.”

  “Come inside,” Rodrick said as he and Swan broke apart. “There is much to tell you.”

  “Tell us now,” Swan demanded impatiently. “Is it good news?”

  “Some good, some bad,” Bronson replied.

  A shiver of apprehension danced up Grace’s spine. Bad news meant—

  “Stephen is dead,” Rodrick declared.

  But this is good news.

  Swan laughed. “I suppose one shouldn’t rejoice at the death of a king, but—”

  Rodrick put a finger to his lips. “No, but you’re right. Henry can now be crowned and we can hope England will be a safer place with a strong king.”

  “What happened?” Grace asked. “We didn’t hear of his illness.”

  Rodrick scratched his scalp. “Apparently he was meeting with the Comte of Flandres when he was suddenly seized with a violent pain in his gut, accompanied by a flow of blood. He took to his bed in Dover Priory and died.”

  Grace glanced from her brother to Bronson to Swan. Were they thinking the same thing she was? “Like his son. A sudden death.”

  “He’ll be buried with Eustace, and his wife Matilda at the Cluniac monastery in Faversham,” Bronson said.

  By now they had reached the warmth of the Great Hall, where Grace’s father and mother stood warming themselves by the fire. Grace embraced her parents. “We are at long last to have a new king.”

  Her father clenched his jaw. “But Henry is in Normandie, which means a coronation will have to be postponed until he returns. Have they told you the other news yet?”

  Bronson put his arm around her waist, preparing her for the worst.

  “Archbishop Theobald denied our request, didn’t he?” she murmured.

  “No!” Swan shrieked.

  Rodrick stroked her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. “He has been named Regent until Henry is crowned and claims to be much too busy with his new responsibilities. He has recommended we petition the Pope.”

  “That will ta
ke months, years,” Grace said, clinging to Bronson, feeling she should sit down before she fell over.

  “Perhaps not, if you go in person,” her mother said.

  To her surprise, her father seemed to agree. “Oui, Theobald insists you make a pilgrimage, only then will you prove yourselves worthy. He wants you to go to Rome and speak directly to Anastasius.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Preparations took a sennight. Grace’s father set about informing a wealthy family in Rome that Ellesmere had traded with for many years. Ram de Montbryce had met with the influential Italians on the return journey from Constantinople. A reliable system of pigeon relays had been established linking Ellesmere, the Montbryce holdings in Normandie, and the Frangipanes. “Oddone Frangipane will be only too happy to take care of you once you arrive in Rome,” her father assured them.

  Bonhomme organised a contingent to accompany them—three cooks, two monks, a blacksmith, four ostlers, several archers and huntsmen, two falconers, squires to pitch, strike and repair tents, and a brigade of handpicked men-at-arms.

  Swan and Grace would share Lucia’s services as their lady’s maid. To everyone’s surprise, William and Stephen de Montbryce volunteered to act as valets for Rodrick and Bronson.

  “I wonder if my father suggested it as a penance for my wayward brothers?” Grace mused as they sat in the chapel, listening yet again to Père Rigord’s explanation of the pilgrimage route they would take.

  “I never heard of Archbishop Sigeric before now,” Swan whispered as the elderly priest droned on.

  “Neither have I,” Grace whispered back, “But it is more than a hundred and fifty years since he wrote of his trek from Canterbury to Rome.”

  Père Rigord suddenly stopped talking and glared at Grace. She felt her face redden as Bronson and Rodrick grinned at her discomfort.

  “Did you have a question, milady Grace?” the priest asked. “Something you wished to say?”