Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12)

by Anna Markland

  Fear squeezed her heart when he replied, “After Canterbury.”

  Barr preferred to go straight home to Normandie and never set foot in Canterbury again.

  Yet, he admitted inwardly that wasn’t strictly true. Despite the turmoil, he’d found peace in Canterbury and rediscovered a side of himself buried away for too long.

  He and Hollis had acknowledged their feelings for each other in Canterbury, although he’d known as soon as he set eyes on her in Hugh’s doorway that she was for him. His body had acknowledged it even if his mind hadn’t immediately realized.

  In a perfect world, Canterbury was where they should wed, but the world was far from perfect and his parents would be bereft if he didn’t marry at Montbryce.

  He understood why Hollis didn’t want to go to Canterbury, but this wasn’t the time to enter into a long discussion about his own rebirth. Instead, he gave voice to an inevitable reality. “We must return the stolen chalice and the other items.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said. “My brother…”

  “No one will blame you for what has happened. They won’t even know who you are.”

  She nodded and allowed him to lead her into the chamber where a few hours ago he’d brought her to ecstasy.

  Her throat tightened when they espied John and Arthur, still locked in an embrace, fast asleep.

  He sat in the chair and drew her into his lap. “You can cry now.”

  She lay her head on his chest and he rocked her as she wept.

  A long while after the tears subsided and he was certain she slept, he carried her to the bed and covered her, feeling privileged to stand watch over three sleeping souls whose lives had been thrown into turmoil.

  He took a deep breath and returned to the chair, certain in his heart God had brought this woman and these children into his life to give it new purpose.

  He dozed contentedly until dawn broke. When the boys stirred, he beckoned them to his side, took a deep breath, and hoped to find the right words to explain the heinous act their father had committed.

  Hollis kept her eyes tight shut, trying to ignore whoever was poking her shoulder.

  “Aunty Hollis.”

  She opened one eye, surprised to discover she was lying on a bed. There was enough light in the chamber to make out her nephew’s earnest little face. “John,” she gasped, sitting up quickly.

  Arthur stood behind his older brother, his hand in Barr’s.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I seem to be the only one still abed,” she murmured lamely.

  “We wanted to let you sleep,” Barr explained, “while we men had a talk.”

  John nodded. “Sir Barr has shared the secret. Papa carried out a very dangerous mission for the king,” he said proudly. “But some people might not understand that Papa acted at the king’s command so, for a short while, he’s gone to Scotland.”

  Arthur lifted his chin. “We’ll miss him, but Sir Barr has promised to take us to his castle in Normandie while we wait for Papa to send for us.”

  “And William and Martin FitzRam are coming too,” John exclaimed gleefully.

  She glanced up into the blue eyes of the man she loved. “Yes,” was all she could think to say. The knight who’d told her he had no children of his own had known exactly what to say, whereas she would have been a weeping mess. Barr de Montbryce had the makings of a loving father.

  He bent close to her ear. “Lady Beatrice has taken to her bed,” he whispered, “but Sir Richard has rallied and there’s food in the dining hall.”

  She took his hand and let him help her rise. “Poor Beatrice and Maud are now dependent on her brother-by-marriage for a roof over their heads. I’ll never understand any of this,” she admitted.

  He tapped a finger to his lips. “But we won’t voice our thoughts out loud. Remember, new beginnings.”

  She nodded, melting into him when he kissed her.

  It was a chaste kiss, but her nephews giggled.

  “Aunty Hollis,” John chided with a grin.

  Unlikely Hero

  The road to Canterbury was choked with wagons, carts, donkeys, horses, and people. Indignant men, harried women and whimpering children, all loudly bewailed the murder of the archbishop and shouted for the murderers to be hunted down. Word of the atrocity had apparently spread like wildfire.

  Sir Ranulf’s driver had fled Barham Court in the night, no doubt terrified by the arrival of bloodied knights. William and Martin drove the wagon, but progress had ground to a halt, adding to the general mood of anger and frustration.

  Seemingly overwhelmed, Marguerite had grown unusually docile and obedient.

  Barr kept Trogen close to the wagon, increasingly worried about Hollis and her nephews huddled together inside—with the incriminating sack of looted treasure.

  Perhaps Canterbury was a bad idea. They’d been on the road over an hour and were only now approaching Maidstone. “It’ll take us two days at this rate,” he complained to William.

  As they entered the town, more traffic joined the throng from the south. “Where have all these people come from?” he asked a richly-dressed man riding a well-groomed horse.

  “By way of Loose, Linton and other towns and villages,” came the reply.

  “Beyond that, the road leads to the coast?”

  “Aye. Hastings.”

  Barr dismounted, handed the reins to Axel and climbed inside the wagon, perplexed by Hollis’ pallor. “I’ll make better progress alone with Trogen,” he said as he hunkered down beside her. “You take the road south to the coast. I’ll catch up with you there.”

  She frowned. “Must you go?”

  He gathered her into his embrace and gave her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. “You know the answer.”

  She nodded slowly and handed him the sack. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He shook hands with John, then with Arthur. “I’m depending on you young knights to take care of your aunt.”

  Their chests swelled. “We will, sir,” they chimed in unison.

  He got to his feet, climbed out of the wagon and secured the sack to his pommel. “Turn off here,” he told William. “It will eventually take you to Hastings. Axel will recognise our galley. Do not wait more than a day.”

  It took some maneuvering to get people and conveyances out of the way so the wagon could change direction, but the mostly peasant mob was bent on pilgrimage, not revolution. Barr watched for long minutes to make sure they were safe before he turned his horse and forged a path through the crowd bound for Canterbury.

  His instinct was to ride as fast as he could, but he didn’t want to attract attention to the sack, and people seemed willing to let him move steadily through the press. He sensed it wouldn’t take much for their anger to turn on any knight. A few even muttered treasonous accusations regarding the king, adding to his fear that Becket’s death might cost Henry the throne.

  His patience was nearing its end when he finally rode into Canterbury three hours later. The area around the cathedral had been busy on his last visit. Now it was a seething mass of humanity, all clamoring to get into the cathedral and witness the very spot where the murder had taken place. A few strutted about with red stains on their clothing, loudly proclaiming they had dipped their garments into the blood of a martyr.

  You got what you wanted, Thomas Becket, he muttered under his breath.

  The ten or so stalls hawking food and trinkets had swelled to countless dozens.

  Barr had no wish to see where the murder had taken place, but he had to get the looted goods back to the monks. He left his horse with Brother Jairus in the monastery stables, untied the sack from his pommel and went in search of the clerk he’d met on his first visit.

  He shouldered his way through the small crowd near the northeast transept door, where he was challenged by a sweating monk. “No one can pass, my son,” the cleric said.

  It was on the tip of Barr’s tongue to argue that it was sacrilegious to deny entrance to the house of God, b
ut he thought better of it, hurriedly trying to remember the name of the man he sought. “Grim,” he said, holding up the sack, hoping the bloodstains had faded. “I must speak with Edward Grim.”

  The monk scowled, his wide eyes darting from Barr’s face to the sack and back. “Edward isn’t…”

  Something in Barr’s stern expression must have convinced him to open the door and allow entry, much to the loud annoyance of others shoving to get in. “He wants to see Grim,” the monk told another brother waiting inside the door.

  Barr recognized the cleric who’d greeted him the night of his arrival. “Brother Philip, can you take me to Edward Grim?”

  “Follow me,” Philip said, remaining silent until they came into the cramped office where Barr had tried to convince Grim to let him see the archbishop. “Edward isn’t expected to survive. What is your business with him?”

  The air whooshed from Barr’s lungs. He suddenly knew the identity of the clerk who’d intervened to protect Becket. “I don’t understand,” he lied.

  “His arm was nigh on severed when he rushed to aid the archbishop. You did not know this?”

  Barr resolved to keep as close to the truth as he could. “I heard someone had been wounded. I didn’t know it was Edward. I met him the other day when I…”

  Philip held up a hand. “You’re the knight who came to warn the archbishop.”

  His answer could lead to arrest. “I am.”

  Philip shook his head. “And he refused to listen to you, just as he refused to pay heed to any of us who tried to turn him from the road to destruction.” He reached for the sack. “The objects stolen from the cathedral?”

  Barr handed it over. “Yes, but I cannot tell you where I found it, nor the names of those involved.”

  Philip let the sack sag to the stone floor. “It’s well known who instigated this attack, though you might accuse me of treason should I utter his name.”

  Barr stayed silent. This was dangerous territory.

  “In any event,” Philip continued, “Sir Reginald FitzUrse made no attempt to hide the bear on his surcoat. It’s easily recognized in these parts as his family’s crest. Edward claims the others all shouted their names proudly.”

  Barr’s thoughts went to Beatrice FitzUrse and her little girl. He could do little to protect them. “The perpetrators are long gone. To Scotland.”

  Philip didn’t even blink. “And you?”

  “Back to Normandie.”

  “I wish you calm seas and clear skies. Will you make a report to your king?”

  Barr didn’t know the answer, so he simply said, “Perhaps. I will pray for Edward.”

  Philip nodded. “An unlikely hero, don’t you think?”

  Hollis was in her beloved England, but it felt more like they were traveling in hostile territory.

  The hordes of people outraged by the archbishop’s murder swelled at every turn in the road to Hastings—thankfully all going in the opposite direction.

  Without Martin and William’s reassuring, stoic presence she might have shrieked like a lunatic. Neither twin knew the route, yet they persevered, calmly seeking directions each time they got lost.

  It wrenched her heart to see her ashen-faced nephews terrified into silence upon hearing their father decried as a traitor. She might never look like a normal person again after keeping a forced smile plastered on her face for the benefit of Hugh’s sons.

  “If anyone comes too close,” Axel assured her. “I’ll make sure Marguerite deters them.”

  She breathed again when William informed her they were close to the docks to the south of Hastings, but it seemed to take an interminable amount of time for Axel to locate the right galley among the scores moored there.

  Berries

  The swell of the waves tugging at the moorings of the Montbryce galley echoed Hollis’ inner turmoil. The wagon had already been pulled aboard by Barr’s loyal crew shortly after Axel directed them to the vessel. Waiting without being able to see anything was more nerve-wracking than the interminable trek from Maidstone to Hastings, prompting Hollis to climb out onto the deck.

  Teeth chattering, she scanned the shore every few minutes and paced back and forth, watching for hours as the tide came in and went out. What if Barr didn’t come? He might have been arrested as a suspected accomplice to the murder.

  “Don’t worry, milady,” Axel said when he brought bread and cheese. “It will take a few hours to ride from Canterbury. Milord told us to wait for a day, at least.”

  “You believe he will come?”

  “Oui,” he replied. “He promised me a cask of Montbryce apple brandy, and he’s a man of his word.”

  She appreciated his effort to raise her spirits. “You must have served him for many years.”

  He shook his head. “Non. I met him in Bures. But I’ve worked for the Montbryce family at Alensonne since I was a boy.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d only known Barr a few days and trusted him immediately. He wore a mantle of nobility. An honorable man. Not to mention the wonderful sensations that ran rampant through her body every time she looked at him.

  She fanned her face, heat rising at the mere thought of lying abed with a ruggedly-made warrior like Barr de Montbryce. The prospect was daunting, but exciting too. She was confident he would be gentle with her, just as he was at Barham Court.

  For all his strength of body and character, she sensed a vulnerability in him. His wife had been dead for years, yet he’d never remarried. He must have cared for her very much. She made a silent promise to fill his life with love.

  If only he would come.

  Barr rode south with as much speed as the traffic would allow, keeping an eye out all the while for a holly bush. His sprig had long since turned brown and been discarded; a fresh one would lift Hollis’ spirits.

  He eventually located a clump of bushes with the help of an elderly peasant—one of many he asked—who likely thought he’d lost his wits. He took out his dagger and decided to cut a few sprigs as good luck tokens for the crossing.

  “Ye have to take male and female if ye want to see berries on yer own shrubs,” his guide told him.

  He realized he had no notion if holly grew on any of the Montbryce lands. Surely it must. However, why not try to grow the plant at Montbryce Castle itself in honor of his new wife? The serfs who tended the orchards would be knowledgeable about such things. Whereas he…

  “Male and female?” he asked, experiencing a pleasant stirring at the prospect of bedding a certain female and producing his own crop of little berries.

  The peasant pointed out the difference between the two and how to cut the sprigs in the best way, then wrapped all but one in long strands of dead grass from the side of the road.

  Barr rewarded him handsomely for his help, tucked the treasure in his satchel, pinned the last sprig to his gambeson and set off again.

  As darkness fell, he lost his way more than once in the laneways of various hamlets, but finally inhaled the smell of the sea. He had a healthy respect for the dark waters of the Narrow Sea, but had never feared it—a legacy he supposed from his Viking ancestor, Bryk Kriger, who’d come to Normandie hundreds of years before with the great Rollo.

  It was fully dark by the time he located his galley. Axel quickly quieted Marguerite with a tidbit when she brayed a greeting to Trogen.

  “Milady de Moreville kept watch for hours,” the servant explained. “But she has succumbed to exhaustion at last.”

  The notion of a woman longing for his return filled Barr’s heart. “Speak with the captain. Tell him to set sail as soon as the wind and tide are favorable.” He handed over his satchel. “And take very good care of that.”

  Weary, but anxious to make sure Hollis was well, he climbed into the wagon, tapping a finger to his lips when Martin FitzRam stirred. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

  The youth nodded and curled into his blanket.

  Barr hunkered down beside Hollis and studied her face
in repose. She was no longer a young girl, and the unimaginable events of the past days had left lines of worry, but her features spoke of strength, of forbearance, of a gentle spirit. She had a natural beauty that would stand the test of time. He was impatient to get started planting his own seeds.

  For now, a kiss would have to suffice. His beloved slept on the floor of a wagon surrounded by two sleeping children and his cousins’ boys, all wrapped in blankets he suspected she’d had the foresight to provide.

  He kissed her forehead, inhaling the elusive scent that always clung to her.

  She opened her eyes slowly. “Barr,” she whispered, lifting one edge of the blanket. “Keep me warm.”

  It would be sweet torture to lie chastely beside her all night, but he brushed away the glistening tears with his thumb and accepted the invitation.

  It was the same dream.

  Hollis was safe in the arms of Barr de Montbryce as the wind and waves tossed the galley on the Narrow Sea. But this time was different. The hard body pressed against hers was no elusive phantom that would disappear with the daylight. “Are you asleep?” she whispered, suspecting he wasn’t.

  “You expect me to sleep with your tempting body pressed against me?”

  She’d been selfish and tried to ease away, but he held her tight. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she confessed, tracing a finger over the fresh sprig of holly pinned to his tunic.

  “No danger of that,” he replied. “I told you before, you’re stuck with me.”

  She snuggled into him. “What happened in Canterbury?”

  “On the morrow,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Sleep. You’re going to wake the children.”

  “Yes, milord,” she teased before tumbling back into the dream.

  Coming Home

  The raucous cries of scavenging seagulls and the familiar odors of a fishing village alerted Barr to their imminent arrival in Ouistreham. He kissed Hollis. “Wake up, we’re home.”