Forbidden

by Markland, Anna

  Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he eyed young Stephen at the other side of the hall, carousing with a group of rowdy knights, enticing a young lass onto his lap. “Be careful, William, not to sow any wild oats. Papa won’t be happy if you get any of these women with child. It’s frustrating being stuck here, but—”

  William leaned close to Rodrick’s ear, grinning broadly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered.

  Whatever he was about to say next was strangled by a hiccup, followed by a loud belch.

  Rodrick wrinkled his nose, fanning away the unpleasant stench with his hand.

  William laughed then continued, a forefinger pressed to his lips. “I take care to withdraw before—”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, as if he’d offered sufficient information for his brother to comprehend.

  Rodrick rolled his eyes and decided to move to where Bronson sat alone, nursing a tankard.

  * * *

  “All alone, Bronson?” Rodrick asked as he took a seat across from him. “None of these wenches appeal to you?”

  Bronson shrugged off his irritation. “And greetings to you too, cousin.”

  Rodrick looked sheepish. “Your pardon. I was rude.”

  He grunted his agreement, unable to look at Rodrick’s face without thinking of Grace. Better to establish good relations with his cousin, especially since he would be living close by the castle Rodrick stood to inherit.

  To his surprise, Rodrick held out a hand. “We should be friends, you and I, if I’m to marry your sister.”

  Bronson shifted his weight, suppressing the notion bubbling in his throat to reveal his feelings for Grace. If he admitted them to Rodrick, he’d have to acknowledge he was falling in love with her. Love and marriage led to despair. He’d been comfortable with both wives, but he’d never felt for either of them what burned in his gut for Grace. “I want my sister to be happy, and it seems she is anxious to wed with you. However, you recognize the difficulties ahead.”

  Rodrick took a swig of his ale. “I do, and I had hoped to speak to Prince Henry about an interview with the Archbishop but, since news came of Eustace’s death, he’s been involved in negotiations with King Stephen.”

  “In which Archbishop Theobald is playing a vital role and is likely too busy to deal with a trivial matter such as the marriage of two cousins.”

  “Aye,” Rodrick replied dispiritedly. “Especially since I’m the son of a baron who led the fight to have Stephen crowned.”

  “My hope is you succeed,” Bronson said, saddened by the despair on Rodrick’s face.

  The smile returned. “We will. I was granted a sign.”

  Bronson’s heart thudded, Rodrick’s words reminding him of his dream. “Tell me.”

  “Near the stones. I caught sight of a family of swans. A male and female with a brood of cygnets.”

  It gladdened Bronson to picture Swan with a brood of children, but he wished the details of his own dream were clearer. Some vital part of it danced around his memory but refused to reveal itself. “I believe I was given a sign at Hrolla-landriht.”

  Rodrick arched his brows, making him wish he’d guarded his tongue. Now he’d be obliged to explain. Mayhap if he shrugged it off, Rodrick might think he’d misheard amid the din.

  “A sign of what?” his cousin insisted, eyeing him curiously.

  “It’s probably nothing. I had a dream, but I’m sure many others dreamt that night. Standing stones often cause men to believe they have visions.”

  “But it bothers you.”

  Bronson had never been a liar and his insightful cousin would recognize a lie if he told one now. “It does. I was standing by the King Stone.”

  “And?”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping his cousin wouldn’t guffaw too loudly. “I was naked.”

  Rodrick narrowed his eyes, staring at him closely. “Were you alone in the dream?”

  Bronson closed his eyes. “No. There was a woman. I walked towards her. She held out her hands in welcome.”

  “Was it someone you recognised?”

  Bronson opened his eyes and his heart leapt into his throat. He was staring at the face he’d seen in his dream, except—

  He looked away quickly, a prickly sensation creeping over his already heated skin.

  “It was Grace, wasn’t it?” Rodrick said.

  There was no censure in his cousin’s voice, but Bronson put his head in his hands, the dream clear now. “Aye, but it cannot be.”

  “Why not? It seems Montbryces and FitzRams have a liking for each other.”

  He raised his head, Rodrick’s wry smile lightening his heart for a moment. But then he shuddered at the sudden memory of a part of the dream he’d forgotten—the Dark Angel. “I’ll not wed again.”

  He sensed Rodrick wanted to press him further, but he was spared the interrogation by the arrival of William who staggered to the seat next to him and promptly retched all over the table.

  Scruffy Imp

  “We’re at last summoned to Winchester,” Gallien de Montbryce announced to his kinsmen long months later as they gathered around the brazier to break their fast. The chill of the grey November dawn seeped into Rodrick’s bones. He rubbed his frozen hands together over the glowing embers, the stale bread and moldy cheese clamped between his chattering teeth. “Thanks be to God. I am sick and tired of sleeping in a tent.”

  He recognized he was being testy; they were all weary of the tedious days spent ensuring the security of Wallingford. Some of Stephen’s supporters, disgruntled by the turn of events, lingered in the vicinity. Rodrick recognised his sister’s stepson, Godefroy, among them.

  Tempers had grown short, patience in short supply. His father said nothing, but Rodrick sensed he missed his wife keenly. Despite the warnings, William had impregnated a village wench and the earl had been obliged to make provision for the girl and her unborn child.

  Rodrick hadn’t been present, but whatever Gallien de Montbryce said to William had chastened the young man considerably. Now, he behaved like a monk, spending most of his spare time in the nearby monastery. Young Stephen too was rarely seen in the company of women.

  “We’re to be there by the morrow,” his father continued, “which means a long day in the saddle if we want to arrive before nightfall. I’ve already instructed the men to strike camp. Get your belongings and let’s go.”

  Rodrick threw the remains of his food into the fire. He didn’t need to be told twice. The summons to Winchester meant only one thing. The old Minster, resting place of Saint Swithun and legendary Saxon kings, was where English kingship was sanctified. A truce was to be signed.

  Then they could go home. He longed to see Swan again, worried about how she fared at Shelfhoc, though her missives were full of details of what she and Grace had accomplished. It amused him that there was always a note for Bronson from Grace, ostensibly explaining some change or other she wanted to make, asking his permission. However, the way Bronson salivated when he read the notes confirmed what he suspected—his cousin was pining for his sister.

  The journey to Winchester was long, but Rodrick sensed optimism had taken hold. People no longer took flight when they passed. For most of his five and twenty years he had lived in a land filled with fear, and he counted himself lucky to have spent his life in a place isolated from the worst ravages of the civil war. But travel had always been a dangerous pursuit. Hearing the cheers and seeing the relief on the weathered faces of peasants gladdened his heart.

  He slept soundly that night, for the first time in a long while, and felt refreshed as he and the rest of his family gathered in the chill of the cathedral to witness the momentous occasion.

  Stephen and Henry came to stand in front of the high altar.

  Rodrick hazarded a glance at his father’s stoic face. What must he think now of Stephen, the man in whom he’d placed such faith?

  “He’s a relic of a departing generation,” Gallien de Montbryce murmured.

  Rodrick
thought he should say something to make his father feel better. “But he is dignified.” It sounded weak to his own ears.

  “Henry looks like a scruffy imp with his wild hair,” William whispered.

  Stephen’s raspy voice broke the utter silence. “Know that I, King Stephen, appoint Henry, Duke of Normandie, after me as my successor in the kingdom of England and my heir by hereditary right. Thus, I give and confirm to him and his heirs the Kingdom of England.”

  “Eustace must be turning over in his tomb,” Rodrick whispered.

  His father chuckled. “Best place for him.”

  Henry more or less repeated the same words, then did homage to Stephen and received the homage of Stephen’s younger son, William.

  “It appears William is more accepting of the new order of things than his late brother,” Rodrick observed.

  Bronson shrugged. “No doubt he has been adequately compensated for the loss of a throne.”

  Gallien inhaled deeply. “Henry has muscled his way into the succession through great military leadership and superb diplomacy. Let’s hope it augurs well for the future. Now hopefully we can go home.”

  A man standing behind them leaned into their conversation. “Not yet. The new king designate will expect us to join the lavish procession of bishops and notable men planned for the streets of Winchester, then we’ll proceed to Westminster where the documents will be signed and sealed.”

  The stranger must have sensed the despondency his words caused. He offered his hand to Gallien. “Henry of Huntingdon, at your service, my lords. Be glad. What inestimable joy! What blessed day! Peace has dawned on the ruined realm, putting an end to its troubled night. We are fortunate to bear witness to this long awaited occasion. I intend to describe it fully in my Chronicles.”

  Home At Last

  Shivering, Swan and Grace stood together in the windswept bailey of Ellesmere Castle, the countess and Aurore at their side. Bonhomme had provided the women with woolen blankets to wear over their heavy cloaks—an extra layer to ward off the bitter cold Advent had brought.

  The deep chill and the apprehension of seeing Rodrick again had turned Swan’s belly into a writhing nest of adders. She curled her frozen toes inside ice-cold boots, hoping she wouldn’t have to flee to the garderobe before the men of the family rode into the bailey. They’d been sighted five miles away by outriders.

  During Rodrick’s prolonged absence, she had begun to wonder if mayhap the night he’d brought her to a pinnacle of ecstasy with his mouth and fingers had been a figment of her imagination. The muscles of her cleft clenched. Her most intimate place remembered. It had been real. The blanket suddenly seemed too heavy.

  Would he taste the same, smell the same? Or had he forgotten her? Perhaps he’d met some winsome noblewoman in Wallingford to whom marriage wasn’t laden with the difficulties Swan represented.

  Grace’s teeth were chattering. Her cousin was as nervous as she. Swan thought she knew the reason. Despite her insistent attempts to hide her feelings for Bronson, it was obvious she pined for him. Swan recognized another woman in love. “You’re relieved to see my brother return,” she teased.

  “Aye, it’s been too—”

  She glanced sharply at Swan.

  “—I mean I’ll be glad to see them all return safely, not only your brother.”

  Swan eyed her skeptically, but all other thoughts fled as her kinsmen trotted into the bailey. She saw only Rodrick. He looked exhausted and in need of a shave, but his eyes lit up when he espied her. He leapt from his horse and strode towards her like a hungry dragon, his breath steaming on the frigid air. He stretched his arms wide, holding open his cloak. She tossed away the blanket and pressed her body to his as he folded the cloak around her.

  “Swan,” he murmured. “I have missed you.”

  She swayed against him, unable to speak, warmed by his heat, though his nose was cold. Inhaling the scent of man and leather and horse, she relished the strength of his arms, the power of his thighs, and the potency of the hard maleness pressed against her. Her belly was at peace. All was well.

  * * *

  Grace hugged her father and younger brothers warmly, relieved to see them return safe and sound. William seemed subdued and left quickly to enter the keep with Stephen.

  Rodrick and Swan were in a world of their own, cocooned in her brother’s cloak.

  Her mother and sister continued to cling to her father as she turned to Bronson, feeling like a frozen fool. She’d dreamt of his return, conjured visions of him enfolding her in his cloak as Rodrick had done with Swan, whispering words of love.

  Instead, he stood before her, kicking a toe into the icy cobblestones, his eyes downcast—an unbroken stallion snorting frigid breath in defiance of anyone who might presume to tame him. He still held the reins of his lathered horse in one hand, ready to flee.

  Rodrick and Swan broke apart. He picked up the blanket she’d thrown off and wrapped her in it, never taking his eyes from hers.

  She walked over to welcome Bronson, her smiling lips swollen.

  Rodrick embraced Grace. “Sister,” he declared. “How good to see your beloved face.”

  She laughed, hazarding a glance at Bronson, now embracing Swan. If only the words had come from him.

  “I am beyond relieved to see you, brother,” she murmured.

  Rodrick too glanced at Bronson, a strange smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Let’s get inside, out of this cold,” the countess urged as everyone made their way to the doors of the Keep.

  Only Grace and Bronson remained.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, hoping her words wouldn’t emerge as shards of ice. “Welcome back, Bronson.”

  Finally, he looked at her. “May I kiss you, Grace?”

  Her heart raced. She parted her lips. He took her hands and pecked a kiss on her cheek. Disappointment and anger surged, prompting her to do the unthinkable. As he stepped away, she stood on tiptoe, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him firmly on the lips.

  His eyes went wide. For a moment, she feared he might pull away. Had she offended him, or perhaps it was disgust burning in his green eyes?

  Suddenly, the blanket was gone, tossed to the ground by Bronson as he groaned, put his arms around her, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She felt the hard evidence of his arousal as he lifted her. Her feet dangled in air. Desire skittered up her thighs and into the most private of places. Oblivious to the howl of the chilly wind and the grinning faces of the ostler and his lads, she clung to him, savoring the warmth of his salty taste. She pressed her face against the soft stubble of his unshaven face, overwhelmed by the dizzying power of being completely in the thrall of a strong man.

  As if awakening from a trance, he broke their kiss and stepped backwards, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Grace,” he said hoarsely. “I forget myself.”

  Her heart turned to ice, her knees threatened to buckle. Her reckless act had merely awakened his male lust. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, dismayed her voice trembled. “I kissed you.”

  He smiled and proffered his hand. “Aye, you did. And a nice welcome home it was. Let’s get indoors. It’s freezing out here.”

  Nice?

  She had poured her heart into the kiss and he thought it was nice? The unsettling feelings she had for him were obviously not reciprocated.

  * * *

  The weary travelers slept for most of the afternoon, but the family gathered in the gallery before the evening meal. Rodrick chuckled at the sight of Swan in front of the hearth warming her derrière. He recalled his outrage at her behavior when they’d first met, yet now his mind filled with the notion of applying his hands to those warm cheeks.

  She beamed a big smile and came to greet him. “My lord Rodrick,” she breathed, desire burning her in eyes.

  He brushed a chaste kiss on her cheek. “My lady Swan,” he replied, his throat suddenly as dry as the eastern plains the crusaders told of.

&nbs
p; His mother beckoned them. “Come, sit while your father tells us of your adventures.”

  Rodrick shrugged. “There was more tedium than adventure.”

  Bronson agreed. “You’re right, cousin.”

  William and Stephen mumbled something unintelligible. It occurred to Rodrick he was more at ease with his cousin than with his own brothers.

  “Now,” his mother declared, getting comfortable in a chair near the hearth, “explain what kept you in Westminster after the truce was signed. We expected you a fortnight ago, now here it is, almost Yuletide.”

  To Rodrick’s surprise, his father proffered a hand, pulled her out of the chair, sat in it and patted his lap. “Sit, lovely wife. I’ve missed you too.”

  His mother’s face reddened, but she smiled and kissed her husband’s lips. Their kiss deepened, only ending when several of those present coughed loudly.

  “What?” Gallien de Montbryce declared with a smile. “Am I not entitled to kiss my wife after months apart?”

  “Of course you are,” his wife replied, her face redder than Rodrick had ever seen it. “Now speak on.”

  His father sobered. “There was much to be decided as to how to repair a broken kingdom. Tell them, Rodrick.”

  It was a source of pride that his father had chosen to let him continue. “We discussed how to suppress the violence, pillaging and burning. Ejecting the gangs of foreign mercenaries will go a long way toward solving the problem. As a start, the castles they’ve built will be leveled. The process has already begun. Recognizing their reign of terror is over, most have already fled.