Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12)

by Anna Markland

  “Good,” Axel replied. “I’d like to spend a few more days here before we return to Normandie. I might never get another chance to visit England.”

  Barr finished his breakfast and drank the last of his ale, admitting inwardly he didn’t want to go back to Normandie yet. He had to see Hollis de Moreville again. She needed protection from her hot-headed brother. Such a beautiful woman shouldn’t be condemned to a spinster’s life rearing another man’s children. He sensed a spirited passion in her, a glint in those warm brown eyes. She was made to bring pleasure, companionship and love to a man. He’d spent too long denying he needed all those things. He was tired of living in the past. His mourning had gone on long enough.

  Canterbury had opened his eyes. He still had love to give, sons to sire. The vision of Hollis round with his child filled him with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. He determined to woo her if he ever saw her again.

  But why not make sure he did? Where was she now? Perhaps already well on her way to Cumbria. Burgh was a long journey, but… “Mayhap I’ll take you north and we’ll visit Ellesmere en route.”

  Axel grinned. “A chance to meet your Montbryce cousins in the Marches and receive a cask of apple brandy! How much more fortunate can a man get? I’ll need a horse, though.”

  Barr laughed, feeling he’d emerged from a cocoon and was standing on the threshold of a new beginning.

  Sir Ranulf’s ostler steered the horses through Saltwood’s perimeter gate and onto a rutted track. “It’ll be rough for a bit,” the elderly man told Hollis, who was clutching the wooden seat as the wagon lurched from side to side. “The sun’s baked the frosted ruts hard. The going gets better when we join the Canterbury road.”

  Shrieks of laughter came from within the wagon and she could imagine the boys bouncing around. She hoped none of the baggage toppled onto them. “We’ll follow the road to Canterbury?” she asked.

  “For a while, then we leave it to turn north to Teston.”

  She glanced to the right, wondering how to convey an idea brewing in her head to William FitzRam who rode alongside. It was foolhardy, but if she could contrive to get his horse and reach Canterbury…

  Within a few minutes, they encountered a wider track, but their wagon was no longer the only conveyance. Carts, donkeys loaded with all manner of paraphernalia, and families on foot made for slow going.

  “Main road,” the ostler remarked.

  “But where are all these people headed?” she asked.

  “Canterbury, most likely,” he replied, scraping dirty fingernails through his beard. “Some are anxious to hear the famous Archbishop Becket preach. He only returned from exile this month after six years in France. Or they want to pay their respects at the altar of Edward the Confessor on the upcoming anniversary of his death. Advent is over and many celebrate the nativity until the feast of the Epiphany. There are all kinds of excuses for leaving the daily grind for a little while, and, as you see, some plan to ply their wares.”

  It occurred to her she didn’t need a horse. “How far is it to Canterbury?”

  “Ten miles, give or take.”

  She’d trekked the wild moors of Cumbria since childhood. Many of the peasant women walking jauntily alongside the wagon looked a lot older than she was. “I’ll walk with them for a while,” she said.

  He eyed her curiously, but reined the horses to a halt. “You’ll be cold.”

  She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and climbed down. “Just for a little way. I’m used to the cold. I’m a northerner.”

  Several people gawked at her standing in the roadway as the wagon moved on. Martin FitzRam dismounted. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  It would be necessary to take the twins into her confidence if the ploy was to work. She took a deep breath. “Just keep riding alongside the wagon. I plan to slip away with these pilgrims. Keep the ostler’s attention on the road. If he notices my absence, tell him you saw me climb back inside. I’m entrusting the safety of my nephews to you and your brother until I can reach Barham Court.”

  She expected an argument, but none came. “Go with God, my lady,” was all he said as he remounted and coaxed his horse back to its place alongside the wagon.

  She set off walking, encouraged by the smiles of other women when she wished them good morrow. Her toes were already going numb when the wagon turned onto the Teston road. She pulled the hood lower over her head, fisted her freezing fingers into the wool of her cape and carried on to Canterbury amid the throng.

  Irreverent Kiss

  By mid-afternoon, Barr was beginning to think the intrigue surrounding Thomas Becket wasn’t the only reason he’d been led to Canterbury. “I’m glad I came here,” he told Axel after their third tour around the exterior of the entire edifice. “I feel renewed.”

  “It’s a sacred place,” Axel agreed. “I think it unlikely anyone would commit a violent act in the holiest church in England.”

  Barr reasoned he was right, yet he couldn’t ignore the vestige of foreboding in his heart. “Especially with so many pilgrims,” he replied, more in an effort to convince himself.

  “Are you hungry, milord?” Axel asked as they neared the stalls set up behind the cloister.

  Barr recognized the ploy. “We ate pickled duck eggs not two hours past.”

  “But the vendors aren’t so busy now. It would be a good time to…”

  Barr didn’t hear the rest, his attention riveted on a woman buying food from the same farmer who’d sold them breakfast.

  Something about her bearing held his eye. When the hood of the cloak slipped to her shoulders, he knew exactly why he’d come to Canterbury. “Lady de Moreville,” he shouted, hurrying to her side.

  She turned. Despite the red nose and the face pinched with cold, there was no mistaking the relief in her eyes when she saw him. “Sir Barr,” she murmured, swaying into his embrace when he enfolded her in his arms. It was completely inappropriate, yet felt so right.

  “Is the lady ill?” the frowning tradesman asked, still holding out the food.

  “No, I’m well,” she replied hoarsely, leaning against Barr.

  She trembled as he paid for the food and gave it to Axel to carry. “You’re frozen. Let’s get you inside.”

  She allowed him to guide her towards a side door of the cathedral. “You cannot know how I prayed you would be here,” she murmured, tears welling.

  In normal circumstances, Barr would never have touched a woman he barely knew in the way he held tightly to Hollis, but he wanted to share his heat, to reassure her. He had to hope she’d been as preoccupied with him as he was with her.

  He steered her away from St. Andrew’s chapel, already crammed with throngs of people praying at the altar of Edward the Confessor. “What are you doing here, Hollis?” he asked as they sought refuge in the transept near St. Martin’s altar. He savored her given name on his lips, elated when she didn’t rebuke him for the familiarity.

  A few curious folks eyed them, but quickly lost interest when he rubbed her upper arms. They hopefully looked like just another couple trying to get warm.

  Still swaying, she looked into his eyes. “I suspect for the same reason you are. I believe my brother and his friends plan to confront the archbishop.”

  She told him about the events since they’d last met.

  “You walked ten miles?” he asked, filled with admiration for her courage.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she countered with a mischievous smile that caused a pleasant stirring in his balls. “I’m from Cumbria.”

  “Forgive me, milady,” Axel interrupted. “Are you going to eat the bread?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m too anxious.”

  Barr nodded to his grinning squire. “Take it outside. And keep your eyes peeled.”

  He led Hollis behind a pillar in the shadows of the transept and shared his whispered fears regarding her brother and his discussion with Becket.

  She’d stopped shivering, b
ut still leaned into him. “I don’t understand. The archbishop refused to protect himself?”

  He rested his chin atop her golden curls and gave voice to what had been an unwelcome suspicion. “I believe he seeks death.”

  “Martyrdom lures him,” she whispered.

  They clung together, like long-lost lovers, contemplating the possibility a cataclysm might still descend on Canterbury. Barr marveled that he could share such profound matters with a woman he didn’t know. Yet… “I feel I’ve known you forever, Hollis,” he rasped.

  She pressed her forehead against his chest. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the morning at Bures, and I confess to having noticed you at Prince Henry’s coronation. It’s foolish.”

  “Non, it isn’t. There’s a reason we met. You have brought new meaning to my life. I saw you in the doorway of Hugh’s house in Bures, your beautiful hair shining golden in the torchlight, and I knew then, deep in my heart.”

  Hollis looked up into Barr’s dark, intense gaze and knew he was about to kiss her. It was sacrilege to permit a man’s kiss in such a holy place, but she instinctively parted her lips as his mouth came down on hers.

  His kiss was irreverent, hungry, passionate, a mingling of warm breath, savory tastes and sweet. She clung to him, whimpering as his strong arms lifted her to his hard body and their tongues mated. Feet dangling in air, she let him breathe his life into her, filled with the revelation she was under the spell of an undeniable alchemy. This was the right time, the right place and the right man.

  “Barr,” she whispered when they broke apart, but her heart was singing Alleluia!

  A wilted sprig of holly pinned to his gambeson caught in the wool of her cloak. He carefully untangled the prickly leaves. “I wore it as a memento of our meeting,” he explained.

  Overwhelmed by his words and that he had even remembered her, she traced a finger over the silver brooch holding it in place. “Scottish,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he quipped in a Scottish brogue. His lecherous smile produced peculiar but not unpleasant sensations in a very private place. “My mother’s.”

  He led her to a small bench tucked into the wall and took her hand. “I’m no longer a young man, Hollis, but I want you for wife. Will you wed with me?”

  Doubt and confusion reared its ugly head. “You barely know me and I’m a nobody, the spinster daughter of an obscure Cumbrian family. You’re a Montbryce.” Then she remembered what he’d said on the day of their meeting. “Besides, you plan to join the Templars.”

  He laughed, drawing censorious glares from several people praying nearby. “That notion flew away the moment I set eyes on you. I need a strong woman as my comtesse.”

  Winged creatures fluttered in her belly. “Comtesse?”

  He shrugged. “I’m actually my father’s heir.”

  She’d known that, but now the significance of it was overwhelming. She meshed her fingers with his, her emotions all at sea. “You were married before. I know nothing about being a wife and even less about being a countess.”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “I will teach you,” he vowed, his blue eyes alight with a promise that prompted a wanton desire to be his willing pupil. “It’s astonishing to me some handsome young nobleman hasn’t whisked you to the altar before this.”

  “I was betrothed,” she admitted sadly. “Gareth died before we could be wed.”

  Resentment tightened Barr’s jaw. Hollis had known sadness and grief. Hugh de Moreville had taken advantage of his sister’s bereavement. The thought gave him pause. “Where are your nephews?” he asked.

  “I left them in the care of the FitzRams. Hopefully, they’ve reached Barham Court by now and are safe. I despaired at leaving them, but I had to do something to protect my brother from his own folly. From what you’ve told me about Becket, Hugh’s temper will explode quickly. I don’t want my nephews to lose their father to a hangman’s noose.”

  “The blame for this folly lies at Henry’s door,” he whispered. “I was there and can fully understand why more than a few knights took Henry’s words at face value.”

  “Martin FitzRam told me of the king’s anger, but surely he didn’t truly want Becket killed.”

  “Many feel that’s exactly what he intended. If your brother is on his way here, he thinks he’s doing Henry’s bidding.”

  “What must we do?”

  Barr replied without hesitation. “I have spoken bluntly with the archbishop and warned him the threat is real. I can do no more. He seems unconcerned. If four armed men come to Canterbury with murder in mind—a murder they believe is sanctioned by a king—there isn’t much one man can do against them. And, to be frank, having just rediscovered my joy in life, I’m not willing to give it up.”

  He needed to explain when she eyed him curiously. “After my wife’s death, I withdrew into myself. I’ve been going through life day by day without really living. It took the sight of you standing in the doorway of your brother’s house to snap me out of my trance.”

  Hollis nodded. “I understand. I fell into despondency after Gareth died. I know now I wasn’t in love with him, yet I grieved. He was a good man, and for some reason I blamed myself, though there was nothing I could have done to prevent his death. As time went on, I resented him for leaving me to a life of spinsterhood—as if it was his fault.”

  “Sometimes our emotions can be confusing,” he replied. “We end up taking responsibility for things that aren’t of our making.”

  “You’re right and, if I am honest with myself, what can a woman do against four knights? Hugh has never listened to me. It isn’t likely he will now. I too long for happiness, contentment, children of my own, but I cannot give you my answer in the current circumstances. Let us be gone from this place.”

  “To Normandie?” he asked, hopefully. “If it becomes necessary, my parents will gladly shelter you and your nephews.”

  “That is generous,” she replied. “But if I can do nothing for Hugh, I must try to protect his children.”

  “Barham Court, then,” he said, extending a hand to help her rise.

  “Yes, though I confess I don’t know the way. And I have no horse.”

  His mind conjured a rousing image of Hollis on his lap atop Trogen, the beloved horse swaying beneath them. “Don’t worry. You can ride with me, and Axel is resourceful. He’ll find the way. There’s still daylight left.”

  Barham Court

  Cradled in Barr’s arms atop his horse, Hollis felt completely safe with a man she’d met scant days ago. Agreeing to marry him would perhaps be deemed impulsive by many, and out of character, yet her heart knew it was the most rational decision she could make. If Hugh was bent on throwing his life away, she had to consider her own happiness. Barr de Montbryce drew her like a lodestone.

  Although she was a spinster, she knew men’s bodies were made differently. She’d glimpsed Hugh’s male parts when they were children and had bathed his sons often enough.

  She might have realized a boy’s shaft would grow as he became a man, but the hard, male length beneath her bottom was startling—and intriguing.

  Despite the dire events in which they’d become embroiled, a peacefulness stole over her as they traveled. She wasn’t responsible for her brother, nor was she his keeper. If Archbishop Becket was determined to beard the dragon and drive the king to violence, there was nothing more Barr could do, or say, to change the situation, short of risking his own life.

  Their fears might come to nothing, but the upheaval had brought Barr to her—the honorable knight of her girlish dreams she’d abandoned hope of ever meeting.

  Even Marguerite’s frequent braying barely intruded on her optimism.

  She was anxious to be reunited with John and Arthur, but was nevertheless disappointed when Barham Court’s white walls came into view. The sight of the wagon standing outside the stables jolted her back to reality.

  Barr reined Trogen to a halt in front of the door o
f the massive manor house and dismounted. He was lifting her down when a group of agitated people erupted from the dwelling. Her nephews ran full tilt to cling to her skirts once she had her feet on the ground. Their red-rimmed eyes were a source of alarm.

  William and Martin FitzRam shook hands with Barr, looking relieved to see him.

  A scowling young nobleman braced his legs and drew his sword. A frantically barking mastiff strained at the leash he held. A plump woman cowered behind him, holding the hand of a little girl who was wailing loudly.

  Barr moved to protect Hollis and the boys. “I am Sir Barr de Montbryce. Lady Hollis de Moreville and I come as friends.”

  Marguerite brayed loudly, stunning both the wailing child and the dog into wide-eyed silence.

  The young man put up his sword, but did not abandon his aggressive stance. “I am Richard FitzUrse. This is my brother’s house.” He gestured to the woman behind him. “Beatrice is Reginald’s wife and Maud his daughter. I demand an explanation. Who are these children and where is my brother?”

  Barr snaked his arm around Hollis’ waist to reassure her and exhaled slowly. “This is going to take some explaining,” he whispered.

  She spoke to Hugh’s boys. “Everything will be all right,” she promised. “Stay with Martin and William for a while.”

  When they nodded their agreement, she turned to Beatrice FitzUrse. “I am Hugh de Moreville’s sister. I apologize for sending my nephews here, but I had to keep them safe. May we enter and explain?”

  Her steady voice seemed to calm Beatrice, all the while conveying a sense of urgency. Barr was more convinced than ever she would make an excellent countess. Neither Richard FitzUrse’s anger nor the intimidating mastiff had deterred her.

  Indeed, the young man softened his stance, handed the dog off to a servant and gestured to the doorway.