Hugh shrugged. “Not bad, but it will take a few years before the trees are mature enough to attempt the Montbryce recipe for apple brandy.” He put down his empty tankard. “What about this journey to England?”
Antoine drained his ale. “I can be ready to go in a sennight. The weather promises fair and Steward Bretel will take care of Belisle while I’m gone. Cormant can always be depended on at Alensonne.”
Hugh stretched out his legs and propped his feet up on a footstool. “It will be good to see Ram and Mabelle again, and to congratulate them on their happy news.”
“Oui, I wonder if our fool brother has realized yet how much he loves his wife?”
Hugh laughed. “I think he knows it, he just can’t tell her.”
Antoine hesitated. “What about you? Any interesting women?”
Hugh bristled. “I’ve told you many times I’m not seeking a wife. Are you?”
His brother laughed. “Non, I’m not looking to marry either, but I’m enjoying myself. I’ve plenty of time.”
Hugh wagged his finger. “Don’t leave it too late, you’ll soon be seven and twenty.”
Predictably, Antoine was seasick as their boat made its way across the Narrow Sea. “Just like on the day of the invasion,” he lamented. “I thought it was because that was the first time I’d ever been on a boat, and of course I was apprehensive about what we might face in England. However, it seems I’m fated to suffer the same malady every time I sail.”
Hugh grunted a reply.
Antoine suspected other memories were resurfacing as his brother looked out over the choppy water. They didn’t know it at the time, but the Battle of Hastings was to have far-reaching consequences for all the Montbryces, particularly Hugh.
Antoine had his own dark memories of that brutally horrendous time when the future of Normandie and England hung in the balance, but he’d resolved to celebrate his survival. If anything, he relished life’s pleasures more now than he had before. It grieved him that Hugh still seemed mired in the past.
When the white cliffs loomed out of the thin mist, he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It will be interesting to retrace the route north that we followed with Ram all those years ago.”
Hugh nodded. “At least we know Ellesmere is a much more comfortable place now.”
Mabelle was an only child, apart from her late, unlamented half-brother, and she felt the lack of siblings keenly when Hugh and Antoine came to visit Ellesmere. Ram was so obviously overjoyed to see his brothers it brought tears to her eyes.
The three of them behaved like boys, teasing, laughing, jesting, and reminiscing together. They were careful to include her and she enjoyed the company of these men who were so like her husband, and yet different in their personalities. Ram had been concerned about Hugh after Hastings and she noticed as they supped in the Great Hall that he was still troubled by the hand tremor.
“It’s something I’ve got used to, Mabelle. Don’t concern yourself about it.”
Mabelle reddened. “I’m sorry, Hugh. I didn’t mean to—”
Hugh smiled. “My only request is that the servants not fill my tankard right to the top, lest I spill some of the precious ale.”
“By the saints! We don’t want to see any ale spilled,” Antoine rejoined good-naturedly.
“Indeed not,” Ram agreed.
They talked for many hours about Ellesmere and the problems of the Welsh, about Ram’s hopes and dreams for the castle and the town, and his frustrations and worries over the cruelty exhibited by some Norman lords.
“I know this won’t be repeated, but often these cruel men take their cue from our king. He’s my great friend, but sometimes he goes too far. Parts of Northumbria and Yorkshire will likely take years to recover after his harrying. Everything down to the last ploughshare was destroyed and every living thing put to the sword. We call the Saxons barbarians, yet we Normans have proven ourselves to be equally barbaric.”
Antoine scratched his head. “We heard about a rebellion in Ely that was brutally crushed.”
“Oui, last year. Difficult to deal with, given the marshes that abound in that part of the country, but the revolt was put down. It didn’t help Hereward that William bought off his ally, the King of the Danes.”
Ram sighed and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I never seem to get across to William and the other Marcher Lords that we’re succeeding with a different approach here. I demand obedience in my earldom, and have no problem meting out harsh justice when it’s required, but I turn to diplomacy when I can. I try to be firm, but fair. I’ve encouraged trade and immigration. If people prosper they don’t rebel.”
Hugh nodded. “On the way we heard rumblings of discontent about the New Forest.”
Ram rolled his eyes. “Hunting is the king’s favorite pastime. He has set aside a huge tract of land in the south which will be solely for the royal hunt. Hundreds of people are being displaced from farms, manors, estates and the like—mostly Saxons of course. It isn’t that far from the manors we’ve been granted in Sussex.”
Antoine leaned over to place his hand over Ram’s. “Your gift to us is more than generous.”
Hugh half stood and pressed his hand atop Antoine’s. Ram put his other hand on the top of the pile, affirming the trust they shared. “It’s the right thing to do. You both sacrificed much at Hastings and in the aftermath. The Montbryce family has done more than most to secure William’s English throne for him, and to keep Normandie under his control. I want to share the rewards with my family. The scrivener is drawing up the documents and will have them ready by the morrow.”
They regained their seats and turned their attention to the food. “This chicken is delicious, Mabelle,” Hugh said between bites.
Mabelle smiled. “Oui, Trésor is indeed a treasure, thanks to La Cuisinière’s expert training in Normandie.”
Antoine changed the topic. “What of the Scottish king, Malcolm Canmore? We hear rumors in Normandie about his designs on Northumbria.”
Ram shook his head. “Malcolm will keep trying to make Northumbria part of Scotland until his dying day, and William will do everything in his power to stop him. As we speak, our Conqueror is gathering an army to march against Scotland. I’m relieved we’re too far away, and William would never weaken us here in the Marches by dragging men off to Scotland.”
“Enough of this talk of war,” Hugh said. “How are you feeling, Mabelle, with a little one on the way? I’m excited to be an uncle.”
Mabelle’s face reddened and she smiled. “I’m well, Hugh. Ram and I are blessed at last. It has taken a while, but, God willing, our son will be born in August.”
Mabelle thought it a great pity that Ram’s youngest brother had told them he intended never to marry, and she was aware of Antoine’s concern about Hugh’s self imposed isolation at Domfort. Hugh was a gentle man who would make a wonderful husband and father. She wondered what lay at the root of his decision and resolved to discuss it with Ram.
Melton
Antoine and Hugh enjoyed their sojourn at Ellesmere. The documents regarding the manor houses in Sussex were signed and sealed, and each brother bore a copy as they rode away.
They would have time to visit only some of their newly acquired estates and intended to do it together, not knowing fully what to expect from their tenants. Ram had lent them a contingent of men-at-arms. It would be a relatively easy matter to take ship for Normandie from their south coast properties.
They began their tour of inspection with Antoine’s manor of Kingston Gorse, where a family of Normans, settled there before the invasion, ran the manor and estate well.
The Saxon family at Hugh’s Rustington manor was hostile, but the holding was well taken care of and produced good revenues.
Hugh poked Antoine in the chest. “At least they seemed relieved their new overlord is a reasonable man.”
Antoine was not happy with East Preston, which was derelict.
“Perhaps the thane didn’t retu
rn from Hastings,” Hugh suggested.
Antoine kicked at the tangle of overgrown weeds. “There’s work to be done here for certain. Five years of neglect. I’ll send someone over from Normandie to re-establish it. It has good fields and could produce well if tended.”
Hugh rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “We’ll need someone to oversee all these manors for us, to collect and administer the revenues. We can’t keep crossing the Narrow Sea to solve every problem. Do you have anyone at Belisle capable of that?”
Antoine mimicked his brother’s thoughtful stance. “I’ll need to think on it.”
They camped out overnight at East Preston since the house had been overrun with rodents, and pigeons roosted inside and out. They sat gazing into the campfire, rubbing their hands together after holding them to the warmth of the flames. Hugh’s memory drifted back to the campfire that had warmed the chilled spirits of the three brothers after Hastings. “Melton on the morrow, then back home to Normandie.”
Antoine drew his blanket around his shoulders. “Let’s hope Melton isn’t the ruin this is.”
The next day, they reined to a halt before the impressive stone edifice of Melton Manor. It sat on a cliff overlooking the sea.
“Looks like a handsome property, Hugh. Best we’ve seen so far I’d say. It’s a fine house, though the grounds look neglected and overgrown.”
Hugh shaded his eyes and stood in the stirrups. “I wonder if it’s possible to see Normandie from here on a clear day?”
An unexpected feeling of homecoming washed over him, yet he had never set foot there before. He inhaled deeply. “Nothing like sea air.”
The breath caught in his throat when he saw two mastiffs bounding toward them. “Mon Dieu! Look at the size of those dogs,” he declared hoarsely.
“Let’s hope they’re friendly,” Antoine exclaimed. “I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of those black jaws.”
Hugh dismounted, keeping a wary eye on the dogs. He braced himself as one stood on its hind legs and planted its massive front paws on his chest, licking his face. The other dog sniffed Antoine, wagged its tail, then wandered off.
Antoine laughed as Hugh struggled to remain upright. “Well, that beast certainly likes you, little brother.”
A sour-faced, elderly Saxon came to take the reins. “Boden! Heel!”
The dog obeyed immediately.
“Could be trouble there,” Antoine whispered. “He doesn’t seem very happy.”
Hugh faced the man. “I am Hugh de Montbryce, newly appointed by King William as overlord for this manor. Who is the master here?”
Jaw clenched, the elderly man glared at them for a few minutes, then turned and walked away. The dog followed.
Unused to such behavior from a servant, the brothers exchanged a worried glance. As they made their way to the manor house, Antoine remarked, “You’ll need to take that fellow to task.”
Hugh paused. “Oui, perhaps you’re right, but did you notice his bearing? I don’t think he’s a stable hand.”
Suddenly the front door of the manor was flung open and a tall, bearded man strode out, sword in hand. “Be gone! Get off my property,” he shouted.
The mastiff wheeled and barked at the man in the doorway. The old Saxon restrained the animal and pulled it away.
Antoine bristled. “He’s a Norman! Can’t he see we’re Normans too? And is he unaware of the armed men we have with us and whose device they bear on their surcoats?”
Hugh addressed him in their common language. “Greetings, friend. We too are Normans.”
The giant brandished his sword. “You’re too late. This manor is mine. Move on.”
Hugh strode to stand nose to nose with the giant. “We won’t move on since I’m entrusted by King William with the oversight of this manor, to make sure it’s properly run and prosperous. I am Lord Hugh de Montbryce, your overlord, and I’m accompanied by my brother, Lord Antoine de Montbryce.”
Hugh noted with satisfaction that the name Montbryce registered with the brute as he lowered his sword. Shoulders hunched, his voice defensive, the man said, “All is well here. You can tell His Majesty that Melton Manor is in good hands.”
Hugh peeled off his riding gloves. “I’m confident that is true, however, will you not offer us your hospitality? A warm bed in a friendly Norman home would be welcome after a camp cot yestereve. On the morrow we return to Normandie.”
The giant hesitated before he agreed. “Very well, we’ll prepare a chamber. I am Renouf de Maubadon. Enter,” he said without warmth.
He turned to yell over his shoulder. “Bemia! Aediva! Prepare a chamber for visitors.”
He pointed with his thumb to a scowling fellow who had appeared behind him, a man whose face put Hugh in mind of moldy lemon rind. “Torod will show you where you can wait while your room is prepared.”
They followed Torod into the dining hall, where preparations were being made to serve a meal. Hugh noted the high quality of the furnishings and tapestries, but then his eyes fell upon a disheveled, wild-eyed Saxon woman slumped against the wall, mumbling incoherently. Her hand rested on the head of the dog that had investigated Antoine. Two young Saxon girls scurried by, eyes downcast, carrying linens.
Hugh spoke to the henchman’s back. “Was this a Saxon holding at one time?”
Torod did not turn around. “Oui, but it’s Sir Renouf’s now. He wed the daughter of the thane.”
Hugh arched a brow, irritated the man had not had the manners to turn around to reply.
Antoine nodded to his brother. “I assume we’ll meet his wife.”
The man suddenly looked uncomfortable as he glanced first at them, then furtively towards the stairs. He seemed hesitant to reply, then said, “Lady Devona may come down and she may not. It depends.”
Antoine frowned. “Is she unwell?”
“Oui—unwell.”
Sensing a presence, Hugh looked to the head of the stairs. A tall, slender woman stood there, gripping the banister like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood. He narrowed his eyes, afraid for a moment the wraith-like figure was a figment of his imagination. He breathed again when she began the slow descent. He swallowed hard, his heart racing. He wasn’t certain what had happened but Renouf’s wife drew him like the sirens drew Ulysses. It was unsettling.
The dog rose, barked a welcome and wagged its tail, then returned to the crone.
When the unsmiling woman reached the foot of the stairs, Hugh looked into the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. But they were full of pain and despair. His heart thudded in his chest, echoing the thump, thump of the dog’s tail on the stone floor. He was relieved his gambeson covered the evidence of his arousal when Renouf suddenly reappeared.
The lord of the manor rushed forward before the visitors could greet the woman. “Lady Devona de Maubadon, my wife, these are milords Hugh and Antoine de Montbryce.”
The lady nervously proffered her hand, though the long, wide, sleeves hid all but the tips of her fingers. Antoine kissed her fingertips and Hugh followed suit. The aroma of marigold stole into his senses. Vaguely aware of the swish of her bliaut against the wood of the staircase, he couldn’t seem to let go of her hand.
She did not smile nor look directly at him, but his heart lurched and his arousal turned to granite. Her dead eyes flickered for a brief moment when they came to rest on his trembling hand, still clutching her fingertips.
“My lords,” she whispered in a barely audible voice, effecting a curtsey.
It was impossible to discern the color of her hair under the wimple. The head garb also hid a goodly portion of her face, but he was struck by the beauty beneath the pallor. The shabby bliaut clung to her breasts and hips, accentuating her figure. It was as if she had grown out of a dress she had worn as a girl. Hugh was at once enthralled and offended.
I suppose times are hard for Saxons. But she has a Norman husband.
Torod reappeared, indicating their room was ready, and directed them to it. As
they entered, two Saxon girls scurried out.
Once they were alone and behind closed doors, Hugh felt compelled to speak his mind. “Something odd is going on here.”
“I agree. It’s worrisome.”
The brothers readied themselves for the meal, assisting each other with their chain mail. They had not brought a valet and their host had failed to offer the services of a servant.
They descended to the dining hall, where several men-at-arms were gathered, shouting loudly at the harried Saxon servants. Ram’s men sat apart, watching the others with an air of disgust.
Renouf gave no indication where they were to sit, but they naturally went to the head table as befitted their rank. They exchanged a glance of dismay at the lack of courtesy.
The two Saxon girls—Hugh assumed they were Bemia and Aediva—waited on the head table. Lady Devona reddened when they served her. He was taken aback when one of the girls carried food to the unkempt woman slumped against the wall, and shared it with her. The still recumbent dog looked on with interest, tongue lolling as it panted.
Suddenly, Renouf stood, his eyes bulging. “Get that madwoman out of here! We have guests. Into the kitchens with the lot of you. Damn Saxons!”
The mastiff lumbered to her feet, barking at the red-faced Renouf.
“Get rid of that hound before I cut its head off!”
Bemia and Aediva frantically dragged the woman and the protesting dog into the kitchen.
Lady Devona’s lips quivered.
Renouf spat on the floor. “Saxon peasants.”
Anger tightened Hugh’s throat. It was evident the gentlefolk of Melton Manor weren’t peasants. He clenched his jaw. No one at the head table spoke as the meal continued amid the raucous noise of the men-at-arms. Hugh and Antoine exchanged disapproving glances at the bad manners being exhibited. Lady Devona seemed to be having difficulty eating.
Renouf tossed a piece of bread torn from his trencher at his wife. “Eat! You’re skin and bones.”
Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2) Page 4
