Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12)

by Anna Markland

  “Perhaps the children should go to the kitchens with your servant,” Barr suggested.

  “We can go with them,” William FitzRam volunteered.

  When he was sure the little ones were out of earshot, Barr related the events of the last few days.

  Beatrice wept softly.

  Richard’s sagging shoulders and furrowed brow aged him twenty years. “I cannot believe my brother would risk everything to attack the archbishop.”

  “I can,” Beatrice said hoarsely. “Reginald thinks the king can do no wrong. He hangs on Henry’s every word and follows him around like a loyal dog, just waiting for an opportunity to earn the king’s regard. Think about the company he keeps. Richard le Breton has openly sworn vengeance on Becket whom he blames for the death of his friend, the king’s brother.”

  Hollis looked to Barr, obviously not understanding.

  “Some say William FitzEmpress died of a broken heart when Becket refused to sanction his marriage to Isabel de Warenne,” he told her. “Henry certainly blamed Becket for the untimely death.”

  Hollis shook her head and reached to dab Maud’s tears dry. “I can readily believe my brother thinks he is carrying out the king’s wishes.”

  Richard nodded with resignation. “Reginald too.”

  Barr needed to dispel the gloom. “Let’s not forget, we may be mistaken. We will wake up on the morrow and discover Becket has had a long talk with the four knights and agreed to revoke the excommunications and make peace with the king.”

  He wasn’t surprised when a stony silence greeted his words.

  Beatrice suddenly snapped out of her trance. “If, as you say, Reginald is in England, we can only hope he will come home tomorrow and all will be well. I bid you stay as our guests until then.”

  Hollis breathed more easily when exhaustion carried John and Arthur into a deep sleep. She gazed at her nephews, tears of dread welling when she thought of what might become of them—sons of a man who seemed bent on carry out the unspeakable deed of attacking, or even murdering an archbishop. The reasonable and persuasive Barr had been unsuccessful in his attempts to persuade Becket. She had no doubt Hugh’s flimsy control over his emotions would snap when the cleric refused to listen.

  She left them to keep vigil with Beatrice FitzUrse who sat in a chair by the bedside of her sleeping daughter.

  They kept company in silence for long minutes, then Beatrice bade her go to bed. “Worrying will do no good.”

  Hollis regained the chamber they’d been allotted, surprised to see Barr standing by the bed, staring at the boys.

  He gathered her into his embrace. “Try to get some sleep,” he whispered.

  “Stay with me,” she replied. “I know it’s not seemly, but I don’t want to be alone.”

  He nodded and led her to an upholstered chair in a corner of the chamber. “I hoped you’d ask me to stay. I’m too old to worry about seemliness,” he countered, pulling her into his lap. “And I want to spend every minute soaking up the light you bring to a world of darkness.”

  Smiling, she tilted her head. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He delved his fingers into the hair at her nape and bent to nibble her lower lip. She stopped breathing when his tongue plunged, coaxing hers into his mouth. He growled as his hand cupped a breast, his thumb grazing her nipple.

  Molten desire ran rampant from the rigid bud down her spine, up her thighs and thence to her most intimate place. She suddenly knew what it was to crave union with a man.

  Hugh and his cronies didn’t matter. A worthy knight desired her. The world revolved around him. “I will marry you, Barr de Montbryce. I am falling in love with you,” she whispered, throwing caution to the winds. Few noblemen were in love with their wives.

  “Curse of the Montbryces,” he rasped with a chuckle, lowering his head to kiss her again, hungrily, as if he wanted to devour her.

  She became aware of his warm fingertips on her cold thighs. It was scandalous with her nephews sleeping a few feet away, but her heart urged him on and groaned its delight when he touched her there, where she most wanted him to.

  He broke off the kiss and smiled. “You’re wet.”

  “I know,” she replied, feeling the heat rise in her face.

  “A man loves it when a woman is wet for him,” he rasped.

  His deep voice uttering such intimacies and the press of his clever fingertips carried her into a previously unknown world. He gathered her closer to his body, as if he knew she needed his support when he slid a finger inside, then out, in, then out. “Come for me, Hollis,” he said.

  Something was coming. How did he know? The question faded from importance when she tumbled into blissful euphoria, her body flooded with rapture from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. The waves of pleasure crested again and again when his finger moved within her, until eventually she curled into his warmth and fell asleep.

  Murder In The Cathedral

  The liturgy of Vespers flowed from Thomas Becket’s lips, but his thoughts were on the recent interview with young Montbryce.

  The conversation mirrored a vivid, recurring vision in which he was visited by three tempters, just like our Lord in the desert.

  The first tempter offered him the assurance of a long life, if he left well alone.

  “I’m not willing to allow temporal power to hold sway over the souls of men,” he always replied.

  The second tempter offered riches and fame—if he bowed to the king’s authority.

  His retort came easily. “I cannot let Henry have his way.”

  The third tempter whispered of treason. An alliance with powerful barons would carry the day. Before Thomas could refuse, a fourth tempter appeared, offering martyrdom. “Then you will hold the keys of heaven and hell. Power to bind and loose. Bind king and bishop under your heel.”

  With Vespers completed and the congregation dismissed, Thomas knelt before the altar. The fourth temptation was the biggest treason of all. “I do not seek sainthood,” he confessed to his Savior. “But I accept my imminent death as inevitable and for the greater good.”

  Filled with a peaceful certainty he had made the right decision, he was still on his knees in the silent cathedral when a commotion erupted behind him. They had come. He put the mitre back on his head, looked up at the Crucified Christ and prayed for courage.

  Sword drawn, Hugh de Moreville cringed when the heavy door of the cathedral banged shut behind him. He peered into clouds of incense floating in the gloom of evening shadows, swallowing hard when he espied the archbishop on his knees before the altar.

  Becket rose, turned and opened his arms.

  “It’s as if he knew we were coming,” Richard rasped.

  “Aye,” Reginald replied grimly. “He’s been forewarned, but we cannot falter now.”

  “We must persuade him,” William insisted. “Henry requires it of us.”

  Hugh expected Becket to flee or call for help as they hurried to the altar to confront him, but he stood his ground. “Here I am, not a traitor of the king, but a priest of God. What do you want of me?” was all he said.

  His apparent lack of fear was unnerving. What kind of man didn’t show alarm in the face of four armed aggressors?

  “The King has sent us,” Reginald declared.

  “I recognize the devise on your surcoat, Sir Reginald,” Becket replied. “Your family is from these parts. How is Henry?”

  When Reginald thrust out his chest with his family’s bear crest, Hugh saw no point in hiding his identity. This meddlesome priest evidently didn’t understand the gravity of the peril he was in. He was too composed, too complacent. “I am Hugh de Moreville, and your king is angry. You must revoke the excommunications, absolve those you have condemned.”

  “I cannot do that,” Becket replied. “They broke the law of the Church.”

  “They acted at the king’s behest,” William shouted.

  “Temporal powers cannot hold sway over the Church.”

  Hu
gh clenched his jaw, trying desperately to think what his monarch’s retort would be to such a statement, but Richard intervened. “You will renounce the powers you have claimed.”

  “My only power comes from God.”

  “You will bow before your king,” Reginald insisted.

  “I will not.”

  Hugh looked into the eyes of his friends and knew with a sinking heart there was but one possible outcome. However, committing murder in a cathedral… “Drag him outside.”

  Becket caught hold of a pillar as they tried to haul him from the chancel. He seemed to have the strength of ten men as he shouted, “I will die in the cathedral.”

  Grimacing, Reginald struck Becket’s hand with the flat of his sword. The archbishop released his grip and fell to the tiled floor, his mitre knocked askew.

  Eyes bulging, jaw clenched, Richard glared at their prey for a moment before thrusting his sword into the archbishop’s chest. “I am Richard le Breton,” he declared. “I strike this blow for my friend, William FitzEmpress.”

  Hugh held his breath, expecting Becket to cry out, but the dying man made no sound. To fill the eerie silence, he and his comrades loudly proclaimed their names. The racket drew a handful of clerics. Most stood back in the shadows, buzzing like a swarm of bees, aghast at what they were witnessing, but one clerk rushed forward to protect the archbishop.

  Fool, Hugh thought. You are one unarmed man against four. However, things were too far gone now to retreat. He slashed at the pimple-faced youth.

  An unholy howl echoed off the cathedral’s ceiling as the young man fell, his arm nigh on severed.

  Hugh regretted the action, but his comrades were hacking at Becket’s body, and he had to do his part. His king required it of him and his rewards would be rich.

  Seconds later, spattered with blood, the four friends gulped air, satisfied the stubborn archbishop lay dead at their feet.

  Richard turned the mutilated body over with his foot. “We have fulfilled the mission entrusted to us,” he declared.

  “The archbishop’s death was right and for the best,” Hugh shouted to the clerics cowering near the altar. “It was in the right spirit, sober, and justified. The Church cannot undermine the monarchy.”

  His terrified audience scattered when William rushed to the vestry, reappearing a few minutes later with a bulging sack.

  There was no time to argue the problems inherent in stealing plunder from the Church. “We must flee,” Hugh said hoarsely, leading the way out into the courtyard and their hidden horses.

  Hindered by a persistent trembling, he finally mounted and rode away into the night.

  Flight

  In the tiny chamber at Barham, Barr reasoned there was no possibility of plunging his swollen shaft into Hollis’ wet heat—not this night. But every pulsating clench of her warm inner muscles on his finger played havoc with his reasoning. Resigned to celibacy for too long, he felt like a youth in the first flush of manhood.

  Smugly satisfied no man had ever brought her to release, he drifted into a doze, content he’d staked his claim. Hollis desired him and wanted to be his wife. Her physical response had been more than he could have hoped for. He’d often wondered if Belinda’s avoidance of sexual congress was due to something lacking in him.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when Marguerite’s braying jolted him awake.

  Then Axel’s urgent call. “Milord. Vite. Quickly.”

  Hollis startled awake and scrambled off his lap, smoothing down her skirts. “They’ve come,” she murmured, her face ashen.

  He stood and pulled her close, determined to allay whatever fears were causing her to tremble. “Firstly, there is no shame in the intimacies we have shared this night, only beauty. Secondly, no matter what has happened, it isn’t your fault or mine. It’s on their heads.”

  She nodded. “And King Henry’s.”

  John and Arthur sat up in bed, rubbing their eyes.

  “Stay here,” Barr told them sternly.

  They clung together, lips pursed, chins quivering.

  Richard, Beatrice, the FitzRams, Barr, Hollis and the mastiff emerged into the entry hall. As long as he lived, Barr would never forget the sight that greeted them. The dog growled at the four haggard and bloodied men who clattered in from the dark. Hugh and his sweating comrades were barely recognizable.

  Beatrice swooned.

  Apparently taken off guard by the unexpected presence of so many witnesses, William de Tracy dropped a sack he carried. A gold chalice, silver plate, vestments and books tumbled out.

  Hollis glared at her brother. “You have actually murdered the archbishop,” she hissed.

  “Aye,” he confirmed. “The king’s command has been fulfilled.”

  Barr couldn’t help but think Becket’s most fervent desire had also come to fruition.

  Hollis didn’t later recall much of what happened next. Her first instinct was to rant and rave at her selfish brother, but that would change nothing. It evidently didn’t matter to him that the de Moreville name would forever be associated with murder most foul. “Please tell me you didn’t slay him in the cathedral,” she pleaded.

  Hugh averted his gaze. “There was no choice. We reasoned with him, but he was adamant and refused to revoke the excommunication orders.”

  Reginald hunkered down to help Beatrice to her feet. “We tried to drag him outside, but he held onto a pillar. I struck the first blow for the king.”

  Richard le Breton boasted, “And I have avenged my friend, Prince William.”

  Hollis held on to Barr’s strong arm like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Were you seen?” Barr asked, keeping her upright.

  “Most of the clerks and monks fled. One remained and tried to intervene. I slashed at his arm with my sword and wounded him grievously, which I regret.”

  Barr shook his head. “Blinded by bloodlust, you may have slaughtered a brave, innocent man who came to the aid of the head of the Church in England.”

  Hollis cringed when le Breton growled at Barr. “You were there in Bures when the king commanded loyal subjects to rid him of the meddlesome priest. You have no right to condemn us.”

  Before Barr could reply, Hugh suddenly grabbed Hollis’ arm. “There’s no time to argue. Get the boys ready. We’re going to Scotland.”

  Barr unhooked Hugh’s hand from Hollis’ arm and gripped his wrist. “She’s not going with you.”

  Hugh tried unsuccessfully to pull free as Barr moved Hollis away from her brother. “Of course she is. She’s my sister. The children need her.”

  “She has agreed to become my wife and will travel with me to Normandie.”

  Hugh snorted derisively. “You want to marry Hollis? I forbid it.”

  Barr was about to retort, but Hollis strode to within an inch of her brother’s nose. “You forbid it? You stand here covered in a priest’s blood and presume to deny me my happiness?”

  Reginald came between them. “Be done, Hugh. We must travel fast. We’ll send for our families later. The ostler has fresh horses ready.” He handed a crumpled parchment to his brother. “I’ve deeded the house to you, Richard.”

  “Reginald,” Beatrice whimpered, stirring from her stupor.

  Her husband pecked a kiss on her forehead, then, as quickly as they’d come, they were gone, riding away into the night.

  “He didn’t say goodbye to Maud,” Beatrice murmured.

  “The children are the last thing on their minds,” Hollis replied.

  Every Ending

  An eerie silence settled after the assassins fled.

  Seated on a chaise, Beatrice stared into nothingness, one hand on the dog’s head. The panting mastiff sat beside his mistress like a statue, apparently aware barking would serve no purpose.

  Jaw clenched, Richard FitzUrse gripped the crumpled parchment his brother had thrust into his hands.

  William and Martin studied the pattern of the tiled floor. Axel cr
ept in from outside and joined them.

  Hollis swayed, unable to take her eyes off the gold chalice. Reflected in its shiny surface she saw only the terrified faces of her nephews as they clung together in a strange bed. “How can I explain this to John and Arthur?” she whispered.

  Barr put an arm around her waist. “I’ll tell them.”

  She leaned into him, needing his strength, his warmth. The FitzUrses were drowning in their own grief. “I would be facing this alone if I hadn’t met you,” she told Barr.

  “You’ll never face any crisis alone, ever again,” he assured her.

  “My brother has brought shame on our family name. How can you want to marry me now?”

  He drew her away from the pillaged treasures. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, Hollis de Moreville. I’m marrying you, not your brother.”

  She curled into his embrace. “Hugh is lost to me forever.”

  “You’re probably right, but it has just recently struck me full force that every ending is an opportunity for a new beginning. That’s ultimately the message of Christ’s birth—the reason he came to live among mortal men.”

  He held her tightly, giving her time to grapple with what he’d said.

  “My heart knows it’s true,” she replied. “I suppose it’s the reason I can’t cry.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “The tears will come once the shock wears off. Now, we must see to the well-being of two little boys.” He turned to the FitzRams. “I don’t think your parents will object if you come to Montbryce to continue your training.”

  Some of the color returned to both lads’ faces. “We’d like that, sir,” they chimed as one.

  “Axel, we’ll leave as soon as we can on the morrow. You’ll help William and Martin ready the wagon and horses.”

  Still in a fog of disbelief, Hollis was utterly relieved Barr had taken charge of matters. “We’ll make our way back to the coast?” she asked.