Hugh sensed his brother’s discomfort with his silence. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. It will just take a while to get over Hastings.”
How to confess the slaughter had aroused him?
Ram had kept a mistress before he met Mabelle, though he had been discreet about Joleyne. Antoine’s reputation with the ladies was legendary. But Hugh had never pursued women, never felt the same rush of need he often experienced now. It was dangerous. If violence aroused him, he might kill a woman in the throes of passion.
It was evident even before they rode into the bailey of Domfort Castle that things weren’t as they were at Montbryce. Instead of knights, servants and village folk bustling here and there, they were greeted by sullen, poorly dressed peasants, many of them sitting around idly doing nothing.
“You’ll have your work cut out for you here,” Antoine remarked.
Hugh clenched his jaw. “It’ll take time and patience.”
No one came to take the reins of their steeds as they dismounted, but Antoine didn’t wish to leave the impression he was in charge here now. He needn’t have worried. Hugh quietly beckoned two lads lounging by the well and they seemed to come willingly.
Antoine raised an eyebrow.
“People are happier when they have something to do,” Hugh explained casually. “Idleness leads to misery.”
Antoine hoped this philosophy would prove to be true, but as the days went by his concern grew. He hoped it was simply nervousness at the new responsibility of running Domfort Castle that rendered his baby brother abrupt and morose.
On the fourth day at Domfort, Hugh summoned his steward to an audience in the Great Hall. Seated in a chair next to his brother’s, Antoine held his hands to the warmth of the hearty fire in the hearth. The flames failed to chase away his chilly premonition that a confrontation was about to take place.
“Bileaud,” Hugh began before the man had a chance to straighten from his bow, “I’ll require your services all day on the morrow. I want to meet with the tenant farmers. In the few days I’ve been here, I’ve ascertained that Domfort is not productive. I want to know why.”
The steward fidgeted with the collar of his tunic. “Milord?”
Hugh rose from his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Do you have any opinions in this matter?”
Bileaud cleared his throat. “Far be it from me to criticize, milord.”
Hugh stroked his chin. “I never met your previous master, Lord Arnulf, but I’ve made the acquaintance of his father.”
The steward’s shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension. “You know Guillaume de Valtesse? Well, milord—enough said, perhaps.”
Hugh smirked, nodded and regained his seat. “We’ll ride out at dawn. Make sure the stable master has Velox saddled. And since Lord Antoine is leaving today, I’ll sup in my own chambers this evening. In fact, I’ll dine there every evening.”
Bileaud’s mouth fell open. “Alone, milord?”
“Oui. But the men-at-arms may still sup in the Great Hall. Have the meal served there as usual. I’ll take all my meals in my chamber.”
Antoine said nothing during this exchange, but his worry for his brother intensified. When the steward left, he asked, “Why do you plan to eat alone?”
Hugh only stared into the flames. “I prefer my own company.”
Antoine rose and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But supping with the men and the people of the castle is a way to get to know them, for them to get to know you, to inspire their loyalty.”
Hugh got up abruptly and walked away. “They’ll come to know me soon enough.”
Antoine shook his head. “This is unlike you.”
“That’s the way of it now.”
“What is it you’re afraid of?”
Hugh whirled to face his brother. “I’m afraid of nothing. Leave it be.”
Antoine exhaled, frustrated. “Fine. There’s enough daylight left for me to make it to Belisle. Go with God, little brother.”
They embraced, but Antoine was alarmed by the stiffness in Hugh’s shoulders. He strode out, reluctant to leave his troubled brother alone, but not knowing what else to do.
Bullies
Melton Manor, Sussex, England
Lady Devona Melton had never known greater fear in all her seven and ten years. She could scarcely believe the brutish Norman soldiers had not hacked her grandfather to pieces after he challenged their pock-faced captain.
In the months since the Norman invasion, they had heard of the eviction of many Saxon families from estates the length and breadth of Sussex. So far they had escaped attention, isolated on their rocky promontory overlooking the sea.
Life had not been easy, but Melton Manor allowed them to be self-sufficient as the bleak winter of the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Seven ground on.
Now Normans had come, the steam rising from their warhorses mingling with the soldiers’ breath in the frigid air. Her grandfather had coolly stood his ground, the normally gentle Boden and Brigantia growling at his side. Incredibly, Captain Torod had backed down and the gang had ridden off, the mastiffs snarling at their heels.
Sir Gerwint Melton spat as he strode back into the house. “Norman scum. They’re gone. You can come out now.”
Devona and her two younger sisters emerged, shivering, from their hiding place in the false wall behind the larder.
“Will they return?” five year old Aediva asked timidly.
Their grandfather stroked her hair. “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. They seem to want to harass us because King Harold himself was our overlord.”
He had become resigned to the Norman victory, devastated by tragedy even before the disastrous Battle of Hastings. His son, Devona’s father, had been killed in King Harold’s decisive victory over the Norwegians at the battle of Stamford Bridge. The only thing keeping him going now seemed to be the fate of his granddaughters. Anger oozed from him after his encounter with the Normans.
“This manor is your birthright since none of the sons your parents sired survived past their fifth birthday. We shall fight to the death to keep it for you, Devona. You’ll need this holding as your dowry.”
Devona shook her head. “But who will I marry now? Most of the gallant young knights of England were cut down or maimed by the Conqueror at Hastings with our good King Harold, or at Dover, Canterbury or Wallingford.”
In the blink of an eye the coming of the Normans had changed the future she had thought was predestined. Her doting parents would have found a suitable Saxon noble for her to wed and she would have lived happily ever after. Now—
Sir Gerwint took her hand. “We’ll find someone for you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent girl, and many men will want you for wife. It will be my last duty to you. Then you must take care of your sisters—and your mother.”
Recognizing the hint of despair in her grandfather’s voice, Devona looked sadly towards the stairs that led to her mother’s bedchamber. Lady Wilona Melton had not risen from her bed since the news had come from Stamford Bridge, had not spoken, just stared blankly at the wall or ceiling.
They had lost so much since the arrival of the hated Normans. Fear seemed their constant companion, their future insecure. If the Normans put them out they had nowhere to go and would likely starve or freeze to death.
A sennight later the Normans came again, this time riding in so swiftly Sir Gerwint Melton did not have time to conceal his granddaughters. Now a swarthy, bearded knight led them, Torod at his side. Gerwint motioned the girls to stay behind him at the door of the manor. Boden ambled to stand by his master, his massive head raised, body poised.
The knight reined his snorting steed to a halt. “There is more to this manor than we first thought. Well done, Torod. You were right. This wily old Saxon has been hiding something.”
Gerwint stood firm, arms folded across his chest. “State your business, Norman, and then be gone.”
The knight smirked, smoothing his bushy mustache with his
thumb and forefinger. “You and this manor are my business Saxon. It’s to be mine, and everything in it.”
Gerwint’s voice remained icy. “This manor has belonged to my family for generations. You can’t simply steal it.”
The Norman dismounted and strolled over. “Perhaps you’re not aware, old man, that you’re a conquered people. We can take what we like.”
Boden growled at the intruder and moved towards him.
The knight flicked his glove at the dog. “Curb that hound, Saxon.”
Gerwint hooked his hand into the jeweled collar around the mastiff’s neck, making a clicking sound. The dog sat immediately, but remained alert.
The Norman beckoned Aediva, his eyes on Devona. “Come here, little one.”
Gerwint’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Boden barked and growled. The knight’s jaw clenched. “My men will have you and your spawn cut down before you can blink.”
Gerwint took his hand from the weapon, mumbling a curse.
“Come here, little one,” the bully repeated, his voice more threatening, eyes still fixed on Devona. Aediva let go of her grandfather’s leg, and crept forward. The Norman crouched down and took her by the arm. “You have a very beautiful sister, little one. I’m sure she wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, would she?”
Aediva made no reply.
He squeezed the child’s arm more tightly. “Would she?”
Aediva sobbed. “No—my lord.”
Devona stepped forward despite the protestations of her grandfather. “Please don’t hurt her, my lord. She’s a child.”
The man stood, towering over her, his foul breath assailing her nostrils. His nose was red from the cold, his face pinched. His grey eyes darkened as he stared at her breasts. “I am Sir Renouf de Maubadon. Your name?”
“Lady Devona Melton,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
He took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. His beard prickled her skin. “Well, Lady Devona Melton, you haven’t seen the last of me. I think I’ll be very happy with this manor house. For the moment, I bid you adieu. I’ll leave Torod and some of my men here—to make sure you’re protected, you understand?”
He remounted and rode away with a smaller contingent.
Torod scowled at the Meltons as he pulled his horse to the stable.
Her grandfather choked out a ragged breath, sagging with relief. “It’s a reprieve, but they’ll be back, and we’ll be evicted.”
Aediva and Bemia cuddled into their sister as Devona knelt to hold them more tightly. “Where will we go?”
Sir Gerwint was pensive for a while before he spoke again. “I don’t know. Perhaps to the Downs. Gather together your most precious things, no more than you can carry—and warm clothing. Be careful not to let Renouf’s Toad get wind of what you’re doing.”
Gerwint devised all manner of plans to spirit his family out of the manor, but Torod seemed to be everywhere at once, and ever-vigilant.
The opportunity to gather them all together eluded him. Torod kept them separated with one errand or another, and Gerwint refused to leave any of his grandchildren behind to suffer the consequences.
Wilona presented the biggest challenge, and he had no doubt the Normans wouldn’t think twice about killing his beleaguered daughter-in-law. Devona would never agree to leave her mother in their clutches.
They weren’t permitted to enter the stables, and without at least one horse…
Brute
Renouf de Maubadon returned to Melton Manor a sennight later, accompanied by a troop of mercenaries. As he’d instructed, they wore no uniform, no device on their surcoats.
The tiresome old man blocked the doorway. “You’re not welcome here, Norman.”
“Are all Saxons as inhospitable as you, old fool?” Renouf replied icily. “I merely come to court your beautiful daughter, Devona. You should be glad I find her pleasing.”
He stood firm. “She’s not interested in Normans.”
Renouf pushed past him. “I’ll be the judge of that. Instruct her to meet me in her solar forthwith.”
The old knight pursued him into the house. “She’s an unmarried woman. You can’t shame her by being alone with her.”
Renouf turned and smirked. “Don’t worry. She won’t be unmarried for long. Go fetch her.”
The old man hesitated, then skulked away.
Renouf strode off to find Devona’s solar, a smile on his lips.
She entered a short time later, head bowed. He could almost smell her fear, and it excited him.
She curtseyed, then straightened to stand before him. He circled her, more than satisfied with the fullness of her breasts. “You’re very pleasing to look at, Lady Devona. I find green eyes appealing.”
She remained silent as he blew on his hands then rubbed them together. He put his face close to hers. “Have you nothing to say in reply?”
Devona kept her eyes downcast. “What—would you have me say—sir?”
He lifted her chin. “You speak my language. Educated as well as beautiful. You could say you find me pleasing too.”
When she was slow to respond, he grasped her tightly by both wrists, twisting her arms behind her back, crushing her breasts against his chain mail.
She winced. “Sir—you’re hurting me.”
He tightened his grip. “Then say you find me pleasing, and I’ll release you.”
“I find you—pleasing,” she stammered.
He released her, satisfied with the fear in her voice. “Was that so hard? I appreciate women who are obedient, who do what they’re told. I tend to get impatient otherwise, and I’m not a pleasant person when I’m impatient. Take off your wimple.”
When she didn’t immediately comply, he tore off the head covering. Raven hair cascaded to shapely hips, arousing him further. He fingered a lock of her thick tresses. “Are you still a maid?”
As he’d hoped, tears welled in her eyes.
“Yes or no? It’s a simple question, wench.”
“Yes,” she whimpered.
“Are you betrothed to anyone?”
She shook her head slightly. “No, I’m not betrothed.”
Renouf snorted. “Now you are.”
She looked up. “Sir?”
He took hold of her hand. “You’re now my betrothed. I’ll inform your grandfather and see to the nuptials.”
“But you’re a Norman.”
He grabbed her throat with one hand. “Never say that to me again in such a tone of voice.”
He kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth. When he released her she staggered backwards, wiping her sleeve across her mouth. It incensed him. He slapped her across the face. “And never do that again.”
She fell to the floor, sobbing. He had a momentary notion to kick her before he left, but thought better of it.
Maybe later.
The prospect sent more blood rushing to his groin as he went to seek out Torod.
Devona’s grandfather found her on the floor and saw the welt on her face. He knelt beside her. “My child, my dear child. I won’t allow him to abuse you this way.”
She put a hand to her throbbing cheek. “It’s perhaps our only chance, Grandpapa. If he’s determined to wed me—”
“Wed you? I told him in no uncertain terms there’ll be no marriage.”
She touched his arm. “What did he say in reply?”
Gerwint shook his head. “He smirked.”
Devona struggled to her feet with her grandfather’s help. “At least he doesn’t intend to simply make me his whore. Perhaps I can use that to our advantage, make him agree to let all of us stay, and not just me.”
Gerwint put his arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders. “I could never ask such a thing of you, child.”
Devona laid her head on his shoulder. “It isn’t just for your sake. There’s mother to consider, and Aediva and Bemia. I’ll agree to be his wife, if he allows all of you to stay. It’s the only way to keep our
family together, in the place we love.”
“But he’s a brute, Devona.”
“I can endure his brutality, if it keeps us all alive.”
Marriage
Deafened by a pulse thudding in her ears, Devona watched the Norman approach once more with his mercenaries two days later.
She had led a sheltered existence, the eldest of three girls, coddled by parents and spoiled by grandparents. Life had been refined, filled with good things. Now she faced a challenge to which she hoped she would be equal. She must persuade Renouf de Maubadon that she would marry him willingly only if he allowed her family to stay at the manor.
She instructed her sisters and grandfather to make themselves scarce during her interview with Renouf, afraid of what the Norman might do if he lost his temper. She feared he was a man who lost his temper easily.
“And keep a tight leash on Boden and Brigantia.”
As the bullies neared the house, she saw that one of the men accompanying Renouf was not a soldier.
He has brought a priest.
She clenched and unclenched her fists, arms rigid at her sides, cold fear coursing up and down her spine, nausea roiling in her belly.
Renouf dismounted slowly and strode to her. “I’ve brought the priest to say the words over us.”
She did not recognize the bedraggled cleric with the runny nose who shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. She hoped her voice would not betray her fear. “I assumed the banns—”
“Already done. Father read them at three masses yesterday.”
She doubted that fulfilled the proper requirements. “But I’m not dressed.”
Renouf motioned impatiently to the priest. “Nor will you be for long.”
She dug her fingernails into her palms as heat rose in her face.
The priest’s obvious nervousness grew as he dismounted.
She tried to keep her voice steady. “Sir Renouf, I would ask a boon of you then, if this marriage is to proceed.”
Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2) Page 2
