Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12)

by Anna Markland

  His arrival, and the scowl on his face when he saw her and the boys, confirmed her conviction that Saltwood had been their destination from the outset. She wondered again why the two men had arranged to travel separately and why Hugh’s friend was clearly bothered by her presence.

  Barr awoke before dawn and rose slowly. Every bone in his body ached from lying on the stone ledge.

  After a frugal breakfast of watery oatmeal in the monks’ refectory, he spent a frustrating morning attempting to ascertain the name of a person who might arrange for an interview with the archbishop. His search led him eventually to a cramped office tucked in behind the chapter house.

  A young, pimple-faced clerk sat at a desk piled high with parchments and books. His thinning hair was oddly grey for a youth who couldn’t be more than twenty years of age. Frowning, he glanced up when Barr entered.

  “Edward Grim?” Barr asked, fearing this might be another dead end.

  “I am he,” the clerk replied impatiently.

  “I seek an audience with the archbishop. It’s urgent.”

  Sighing, Grim leafed through the pages of a large tome on his desk. “Tuesday week is the earliest appointment.”

  Barr clenched his jaw. “This is a matter of life and death.”

  Smiling weakly, Grim rolled his eyes. “Aren’t they all.”

  Barr pressed both fists into the wood of the desk and leaned forward. “I am Sir Barr de Montbryce.” He doubted the name would mean anything to this lowly clerk, but he carried on. “I am aware of a threat to the archbishop’s life.”

  Grim’s eyes widened. “Goodness me, I am only recently arrived from Cambridge, but it seems every day there’s talk of threats to the archbishop. He predicted in his sermon on Christmas morn that Christendom may soon have another martyr. We didn’t know what to make of it.”

  Barr had feared Henry’s outburst would prompt others to attack the archbishop, but a thinly-veiled reference about his own martyrdom seemed presumptuous, even for the rigidly ascetic Becket. He tried another tactic. “Where is His Grace now?”

  Grim shrugged. “I am not privy to his comings and goings. I’m simply a clerk. He’ll come to the cathedral to say Vespers. Of that you can be sure.”

  Resigned to wait, Barr rejoined Axel outside. “We’ll return an hour before dusk. Becket will be in the vestry preparing for Vespers.”

  Tired of brooding, Hollis wrapped the boys up in warm clothing, pulled woollen hats over their curls and took them for a walk along the beach. Deep ruts and a multitude of footprints bore witness to the long struggle to free the wagon.

  Apprehension tightened her throat when two dogs bounded out of the castle to join them, but the Rottweilers proved to be playful. Her nephews complained about the cold at first, but their cheeks were soon rosy, their noses bright red after chasing the exuberant hounds along the shore.

  They threw sticks into the waves, screeching when the dogs returned with their prize and shook icy water over them.

  Hollis skimmed pebbles, gradually remembering how to accomplish six or seven skips. Skimming stones into the ocean wasn’t very different from watching them skip over a moorland river. John and Arthur’s attempts plopped unceremoniously into the sea, until she showed them how to angle the pebbles correctly.

  She enjoyed the children’s laughter and took pride in their ability to learn quickly. Despite the winter chill, it was a lovely afternoon, but melancholy still dogged her. She loved John and Arthur, but they would eventually grow up and leave. They weren’t her sons and she had no husband.

  The man who’d fathered her nephews was closeted in Saltwood Castle, unaware of their new-found delight in skimming.

  A smug thought occurred. Even when they were children, she’d always bested her brother at skimming stones. He didn’t have the patience.

  Aura

  Barr spent the afternoon pacing the precincts of the cathedral, hoping his fears were unfounded. “It’s inconceivable such an impressive and historically important edifice might become the scene of evil deeds,” he told Axel.

  “It is magnificent,” his servant replied. “Can we go inside?”

  Barr acquiesced and they knelt in prayer for a long while, two among the hundreds. His mind wandered. He fidgeted with the shriveling sprig of holly, unable to rid himself of the certainty that if Hugh de Moreville did intend harm to the archbishop, the resulting censure would inevitably fall on his family—on Hollis.

  He barely knew the woman, yet she’d somehow insinuated herself into his blood. The prospect of her being implicated and punished for her brother’s misdeeds was intolerable.

  And what of the FitzRam boys? He owed it to his kinswoman Grace to save her sons from whatever cataclysm was about to be unleashed, for he was dogged by a dire premonition evil was afoot.

  Reluctant to remain on his painful knees any longer, he rose and wandered around the cathedral, eventually coming to Saint Andrew’s chapel. He bowed in respect. “This is the altar to Edward the Confessor,” he whispered to Axel, fairly confident the lad couldn’t read the inscription.

  “A man’s whose death changed history,” his servant replied.

  Barr’s heart raced. If Becket was assassinated, the ramifications were too complicated to even contemplate. The future might indeed change cataclysmically in this holy place. However, as he gazed up into the high ceiling seeking guidance, a calm certainty stole over him. His own future was about to change—for the better. Belinda was dead, but he was alive. Meeting Hollis and being immersed in the cathedral’s mystical aura had made him acknowledge the insanity of continuing to shun the joys life had to offer. He was done atoning. A weight lifted from his shoulders.

  He became aware of a presence behind him, surprised to see Edward Grim.

  “His Grace is preparing for Vespers,” the clerk whispered, pointing to the vestry.

  Barr unbuckled the belt of his scabbard and handed it to the young man. “I don’t want to alarm him,” he explained.

  Grim accepted the weapon. “Better if your squire remain here.”

  Axel nodded and took the scabbard and sword for safekeeping.

  Barr entered the vestry and immediately went down on both knees, head bowed before the unexpectedly tall, sparse figure donning his robes. “Your Grace,” he said respectfully.

  Two priests helping Becket with his vestments hurried to manhandle Barr out of the vestry.

  He held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I am Sir Barr de Montbryce, and I’ve traveled from Normandie with a warning,” he protested. “I am not armed.”

  Becket waved the priests away and continued to prepare. “It seems everyone is full of dire warnings these days. Who sent you, young knight?”

  “I may be younger than you, Your Grace, but I’ve spent a good part of the afternoon on my rheumatic knees and I’d feel better if you granted me permission to stand.”

  Becket chuckled. “Rise indeed, Montbryce. You’re from an illustrious family that has always been a friend of the Church. Speak.”

  Barr stood. “When news of the excommunications came to Caen, my father and I were there and he tasked me with carrying the message to the king.”

  “I don’t suppose Henry was happy. But what were you doing in Caen at Yuletide?”

  Barr didn’t want to go into the reasons for his father’s annual pilgrimage to Caen in memory of Barr’s grandfather, so he went on to describe in detail the king’s outburst.

  “I’m not surprised by what you say,” Becket replied, settling the mitre on his dark head. “I expected as much.”

  Impatience with the primate’s flippant attitude raised gooseflesh on Barr’s nape. “However, I have reason to believe certain knights took the king at his word. They may be on the way here to confront you. It would be advisable to remain out of harm’s way until…”

  Becket raised a bony hand. “I am the shepherd of this flock. I don’t intend to hide.”

  Barr tried another approach. “Perhaps if you sent word
to the king that you are willing to discuss the excommunications, I would gladly be the bearer of…”

  Becket shook his head. “There is nothing to discuss. The Archbishop of York, and the bishops who assisted him all knew when they crowned Young Henry in York as his father’s heir-apparent that it was a breach of Canterbury’s privilege of coronation. I will not welcome them back into the Church.”

  Barr realized he was dealing with a powerful man as stubborn as Henry. It was small wonder they’d been at loggerheads for so long. He hesitated to make his third suggestion since it bordered on treason. “You could make an alliance with the barons to better persuade the king.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Becket said with a smile.

  Barr’s frustration boiled over. “So you prefer death to compromise?”

  Becket locked eyes with his. “I do not fear death,” he said, his pale face suddenly flushed. “Our Blessed Lord did not compromise. Now, you must excuse me. The faithful are assembled for Vespers.” He held out a limp hand. “Thank you for your concern.”

  Left with no alternative, Barr bent to kiss the archbishop’s ring and watched him process out of the vestry with his entourage, pungent clouds of incense already billowing around him.

  “Well?” Axel asked as he handed back the sword in the chapel.

  “He doesn’t see the danger,” Barr rasped, but he knew it for a lie as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Becket saw himself as another Christ and was prepared to be martyred for what he believed. The archbishop had intended to goad Henry into taking drastic measures against him.

  However, he could share none of these suspicions with Axel. “We’ll have to do what we can to protect him from himself,” was all he said.

  Ranulf de Broc presided over an evening meal in the Great Hall of Saltwood Castle that was more like a wake than a Yuletide homecoming to England. John and Arthur were excited to tell Hugh about skimming stones and the dogs on the beach, but a glare from their stern-faced father soon quieted them.

  William de Tracy and Richard le Breton had appeared as if from nowhere.

  The same question gnawed at Hollis. Why had her brother and his three friends all contrived to arrive at Saltwood by different routes?

  She tried to keep her attention on her young charges, but her gaze kept returning to the four knights eating the greasy mutton as if it was their last meal.

  Paralyzed by a sense of impending doom, she hadn’t found the courage to ask her brother what was going on.

  She’d barely finished what little she could eat of her food when Hugh curtly dismissed her and the children. He also sent the FitzRam twins to their chamber.

  She obeyed, convinced the scheming would begin as soon as they left the hall. But what were they plotting? The notion it had something to do with the archbishop was preposterous, but she’d learned from the maidservant that Saltwood was only a day’s ride from Canterbury.

  There was no one with whom she could share her suspicions. If only Sir Barr de Montbryce…

  She clenched her fists in frustration. Why did her thoughts continually go to the Norman knight? Perhaps she was losing her wits.

  She went through the motions of preparing the children for bed. When they fell asleep, she gazed at them for a long while, filled with an inexplicable but certain dread that they would soon be orphans.

  She wandered to the window and looked out into the darkness, repeating an age-old mantra her mother had taught her.

  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  No matter how many times she chanted the refrain, she knew in her heart the morrow would bring nothing but grief.

  Wiping away her tears, she looked up at a star shining brightly in the clear winter sky. “Give me strength to bear whatever fate awaits,” she prayed.

  Exhausted with worry, she collapsed into bed and soon fell asleep. She dreamt of swords, of blood, of anguished cries. A thick fog swirled, obscuring what was happening. Then, out of the mist rode a knight. She cried out with relief that Barr de Montbryce had come to her rescue.

  Slipping Away

  Tuesday, December 29th 1170

  The next morning, Hollis chivvied her nephews to get ready to descend to the Great Hall to break their fast. She’d slept deeply—thanks to exhaustion and worry—and, as a consequence, risen later than usual. “We’re going to be late,” she scolded.

  John and Arthur were dear to her, but they weren’t her children and she resented being an unpaid nanny. Hugh seemed to care little for their upbringing. Her unmarried state was a convenience for him.

  She chastised herself. Continually harping on the same grievances would turn her into a crotchety old maid. The prospect brought her close to tears.

  Finding Sir Ranulf seated alone at the head table in the hall came as a surprise. William and Martin FitzRam sat below the dais with other young men who appeared to be squires. Ranulf rose immediately and greeted her. “Good morrow,” he gushed. The stern set of his jaw belied the cordiality of his words.

  “Good morrow,” she replied.

  “Where’s Papa?” John asked, looking around.

  Sir Ranulf chucked the boy under the chin. “Don’t be concerned about your father,” he said in a false tone that convinced her she should indeed worry. “He and his companions have already left with instructions for you and your aunt to go to Barham Court today.”

  “To the home of Reginald FitzUrse?” she asked. “Is that where they’ve gone?”

  “Er…yes,” he replied. “From thence you can take the north road to Cumbria.”

  She narrowed her eyes, sensing he was lying. “And how are we to proceed?”

  He gestured to the FitzRams. “They’ll be your escort. I’ll assign an ostler to drive the wagon.”

  Her first reaction was one of relief. At least Hugh hadn’t involved the twins in his scheme. “Why did my brother not wait to take us himself?” she asked.

  She felt a momentary pang of pity for Sir Ranulf. He was obviously an honest man whose wrinkled brow betrayed his discomfort with the lies. “Er…he and the others have important matters to discuss.”

  Dread threatened to rob her of breath. “Do these matters have to do with the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  She recognised her mistake instantly when his face took on a stern, threatening demeanor. Women did not question the actions of men.

  “Don’t worry your pretty head,” he hissed. “Help yourselves to ham and bread from the servery. Then you can be on your way.”

  She bowed graciously, all the while muttering curses under her breath. Her brother seemed hell-bent on the road to perdition. She had to think of some way to stop him.

  Barr awoke in his monastic cell after a restless night, his sleep alternately troubled by the macabre specter of a smiling Becket drowning in blood, then calmed by the memory of Hollis’ golden hair shining like a beacon in the dark entryway of her brother’s house. It came as a relief he hadn’t been roused by cries of murder during the night.

  He and Axel had been obliged to share the spartan accommodation. The numbers of pilgrims converging on Canterbury had swelled. They were coming for the archbishop’s much-anticipated sermon on the last day of December, two days hence. He didn’t envy his servant the night spent on a cold, stone floor, but the lad seemed not to mind and gave no indication he’d heard his master call out Hollis’ name.

  Such discomforts hadn’t bother him in his youth. Not that the stone ledge on which he’d slept was much better. He definitely wasn’t suited to the austere life of a warrior-monk.

  “I wandered round the precincts earlier,” Axel told him as they walked out into the bright sunshine. “There’s talk Becket will deliver a fiery diatribe against the king.”

  Barr filled his lungs with the crisp, clean air. “It’s possible the danger has passed and de Moreville and his cronies have missed their opportunity to get close to the archbishop. Last night would have been their best ch
ance.”

  “The crowds will only grow,” Axel agreed.

  Barr scanned the temporary stalls already set up on the grass outside the cloister. “And, as usual, local folk are prepared to profit from feeding them. Let’s see what’s to eat.”

  “It will be an improvement on what the monks served yesterday in the refectory,” Axel replied with a grin.

  A jovial, round-faced fellow sold them a heel of black bread piled high with chunks of smoked ham, and a tumbler of ale. A low wall provided a place to sit.

  Barr turned his face to the sun, feeling its warmth seep into his body. “It’s hard to believe I was slogging through snow a few days ago.”

  Axel swallowed a mouthful of bread. “It’s as though the world has turned topsy-turvy. How can it be warmer here than in Normandie? We rarely see snow in Alensonne, and Bures isn’t far from there.”

  The hearty food filled Barr with renewed optimism. “Maybe it’s a sign from God. He’s sent his sunshine to bathe this glorious church in its heavenly light.”

  He let his eyes rove slowly over the cathedral. Something that had been tightly wound inside him for years continued to uncoil as he inhaled deeply, feeling at peace for the first time in many a year. The shackles of guilt over his wife’s death were falling away. “No wonder Becket seems calm here.”

  Axel took a swig of ale. “You found him contented?”

  “Strangely so. It’s as if…”

  How to explain to this young man something he didn’t understand himself? He wondered if Becket was disappointed to wake up alive this morning. “We’ve done what we set out to do,” he said instead. “I made the archbishop aware of King Henry’s tirade against him. All we can do now is keep our eyes open and hope de Moreville and the others don’t appear.”

  What effective action he could take as one man against four swirled in his head like an insoluble riddle posed by a wandering minstrel. Becket would never allow him to stand guard, and he’d no wish to sacrifice his own life to save that of a man intent on death.