Sir Renouf braced his legs and squared his shoulders, his hand seeking the hilt of his missing sword, deposited, as was required, in the antechamber. “They’re lovers. It’s adultery. I demand my rights as her husband.”
The bishop was tempted to smirk. “You want her back I take it?”
The knight clenched his gloved fists. “Oui.”
“Did she go willingly?”
“She must have. I was absent—in Normandie.”
The bishop leaned forward in his chair. “What were you doing there? Why did you not take her with you?”
The cleric sensed his petitioner’s reticence as Renouf said vaguely, “Visiting family.”
“Did your wife accompany you to England from Normandie when you first came?”
“Non. She’s a Saxon. We were wed in England—at Melton Manor.”
Now here’s a strange kettle of fish.
“Let me understand. Your Saxon wife has run off to Normandie with a Norman baron?”
The petitioner became increasingly agitated as the interview proceeded. There was definitely something the man was not telling him. But what? The Montbryces were not a family to tangle with. On the other hand, if this man’s wife had indeed been abducted, it was the responsibility of the Church to see the sin punished. Having spent only brief minutes with the unpleasant wretch he could understand the woman’s desire to flee. But, she was his wife.
He heaved himself out of the throne with the help of his crosier and made the sign of the cross. Sir Renouf dropped to one knee and crossed himself quickly.
“I’ll speak to some people. Bless you, my son.”
The knight stood. “When will I hear from you, Your Excellency?”
“Return in a fortnight.”
He hoped the unpleasant man would have found another resolution before that day dawned.
Sir Renouf bowed his way out of the audience.
When the petitions were over, the bishop sent a discreet cleric to Kingston Gorse, where Sir Stephen Marquand dwelt. It was close to Melton and the knight might know something of this drama.
His suspicions were confirmed several days later when the priest returned with details of the Melton family and their suffering at the cruel hands of Renouf de Maubadon. While Sir Stephen had not mentioned the involvement of the Montbryce family in the disappearance of the Saxons, he had not denied it either. The bishop also learned of the dominion the Montbryces had been given over the Sussex manors, and of the existence of two Norman stewards at East Preston. He summoned them to his palace.
Five days later, Barat Cormant appeared at the bishop’s behest, with his brother’s apologies. As soon as the summons was received they had sent messages to Lord Antoine and Lord Hugh.
“No matter, Steward Cormant,” the bishop said. “I suppose I don’t need both of you here. I want to question you on the matter of Melton Manor.”
“Melton, Your Excellency?”
“Hugh de Montbryce is the king’s new overlord there, is he not?”
“He is, Excellency.”
“What manner of man is Sir Renouf de Maubadon?”
Barat opted for the truth. “I’ve met him but briefly. I’ve attempted to peruse the accounts on behalf of Lord Hugh several times, but am rebuffed each time. I gained access only once when Sir Renouf was away in Normandie and his henchman in charge.”
The bishop steepled his fingers. “And what did you discover?”
Barat replied respectfully. “Your Excellency, I am sworn to the service of the Montbryce family. Perhaps if you could share with me why you wish this information.”
The cleric bristled. “There has been a complaint and I’m bound to investigate it.”
Barat looked startled. “About me, Excellency?”
“Non, non. Not about you. About Lord Hugh de Montbryce.”
Barat hoped to put just the right edge of surprised indignation into his reaction. “And Sir Renouf is the complainant?”
The bishop sank further back into his chair. “Oui, you have it.”
Barat nodded thoughtfully. “I believe, Excellency, that Sir Renouf is a man with secrets to hide. He’s also a cruel man, who enjoys inflicting pain on others.”
“I see. On his wife, par example?”
Barat merely nodded slightly.
The bishop was silent for several minutes.
Barat was well aware of the difficult situation the cleric had been put in. Finally, His Excellency spoke. “I’m bound by my office to investigate the complaint of the abduction of Sir Renouf’s wife. I wish you to pass that message on to your lord, and to his brother, the Earl of Ellesmere.”
Barat bowed. “Oui, Excellency.”
He assumed the meeting was over, but then the bishop spoke again. “You know, Cormant, one of the things I find exceedingly irritating about my job is how interminably long it seems to take to get anything accomplished. Doubtless this investigation will follow the same path. Thank you for coming. Keep me apprised of your progress at East Preston, and Melton. If perchance Lord Hugh does visit Sussex again in the near future, I’d dearly like to meet him.”
Barat nodded his understanding. “Adieu, Your Excellency, thank you for your blessing. I will inform my masters.”
Antoine's Confession
Back in Normandie, Hugh and Antoine received the joyous tidings of the birth of Ram and Mabelle’s son, Robert. Hugh rode to Belisle to celebrate with his brother.
Antoine greeted him with more good news. “Théobald has found the perfect man to follow Renouf when next he goes off to Normandie.”
“Bon! Who is it?”
“Isembart Jubert.”
Hugh laughed. “The rat catcher?”
What could be better.
Antoine grinned broadly. “Jubert has already ascertained that when Renouf sails he usually goes by way of Portsmouth to Barfleur. Apparently rat catchers share a network of information. He and Sir Gerwint are watching for signs of preparations for departure.
Antoine raised his tumbler of Montbryce apple brandy. “Now, a toast, mon frère. To Robert, the next Comte de Montbryce.”
“To Robert,” Hugh replied.
They downed the brandy in one.
Antoine refilled the tumblers. “And to our brother, Rambaud and his beautiful wife, Mabelle. May they have many more healthy children.”
“To Ram and Mabelle.”
They had much to discuss and decisions to make after word had come of the Bishop of Arundel’s message to Barat. Hugh had spent many lonely nights at Domfort aching for Devona and worrying about what to do.
Antoine drained his tumbler. “Why have you not brought your Saxons? I was looking forward to showing them my castle. All is in readiness.”
Hugh had known sooner or later Antoine would pose this question, and he still didn’t know what the answer would be. “She isn’t at Domfort.”
About to pour another brandy, Antoine paused. “What did you say? Not at Domfort? Where in the name of all the saints is she then?”
Hugh looked at his feet. “Montbryce.”
Antoine swore. “You left them at Montbryce, despite my advice?”
“I had no choice.”
Antoine slammed down his tumbler. “I don’t understand. You love the woman and you care for her family, to say nothing of those handsome dogs. I know there are difficulties, and no doubt temptations, but surely you need her with you? And what of her? How is she faring without you at Montbryce?”
“I understand she’s well. They’re all well, according to Bonhomme.”
Antoine glared. “Mon Dieu, the woman must be bereft. She needs you, and you’ve abandoned her in a foreign land.”
Hugh avoided Antoine’s piercing green eyes. “I had no choice.”
“You keep saying that, little brother, but you’ll have to explain it to me, slowly. There’s more to this than you’re telling me. Have you lost interest in her?”
“Non!” Hugh replied vehemently.
Antoine paced back and
forth, his scowling face red. “Then what’s the problem? Why have you so obviously distanced yourself from her? And don’t give me the excuse of her marriage. We both know Renouf is no husband to her.”
There was a long silence.
Hugh would finally have to let his demons see the light of day. He sat with his hands clasped together, trying to still the hand tremor, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed, staring at the floor, a muscle twitching involuntarily in his leg. “I’m afraid.”
Antoine stopped pacing. His shoulders relaxed. “This has to do with Hastings, does it not?”
Hugh nodded. “I’m afraid—of myself—of what I might do.”
The silence stretched between them before Antoine spoke. “I’m about to confess something I’ve never told anyone—about Hastings.”
Hugh was startled. He had thought he would be the one doing the confessing.
Antoine took a deep breath. “I’m not sure why I’m so ashamed of this, because I know it happened to many men that day. In the throes of the battle I became uncomfortably aware of the fact that the violence was arousing me.”
Hugh’s gut clenched and he feared he might retch.
Antoine continued. “It was a source of great concern, because warrior I may be, but I’m not a violent man. It was in fact your words after the battle that brought me some relief.”
Hugh looked up at his brother. “My words?”
“Don’t you recall your anguish, your embarrassment? You were feeling the same wretchedness. It helped. I understood what had happened to me. I resolved to fill my life with passion that brought only joy and happiness, not bloodshed and violence. But I’ve been afraid the same has not been true for you.”
Wretchedness overwhelmed Hugh. “I fear I’ll hurt her, that aggression will resurface if I allow my passion to control me.”
Antoine put a hand on his shoulder. “Mon Dieu, you’re the gentlest person I know. You don’t have a hurtful bone in your body. Have you once had the smallest thought of hurting her?”
“Non.”
Antoine intensified his grip. “You and Devona have many problems to solve, but you can only do it together. Living apart and in fear will accomplish nothing. Go to Montbryce and get her. Don’t let Hastings destroy both of you.”
Hugh’s tears flowed at last, and his brother consoled him.
At Montbryce, Devona was trying hard to keep faith. She believed Hugh de Montbryce loved her, that he would slay whatever demons he wrestled with and come for her.
She was glad to have her mother to confide in. “I fell in love the moment I first saw him. It was a surprise because I had tried to suppress feelings in an effort to cope with Renouf’s brutality.”
Her mother stroked her hair. “I sense he’s struggling with something. Do you think it’s because you’re a Saxon?”
Devona shook her head. “No. You’re right, he’s struggling, but I don’t know what demons haunt him. My marriage is a problem, but I think it goes deeper than that.”
Wilona carried on with her sewing. “Well, this castle is a comfortable place to live and we’re all well taken care of, and treated with respect.”
Devona gripped the unfinished embroidery on her lap. “But it isn’t our home, and I miss Hugh terribly.”
She didn’t tell her mother about memories of his warm hands on her breasts the night they had stood on the battlements and how her body had responded to the swelling of his loins pressed against her.
She ached for him, but feared she would never be able to trust a man. “I worry about my future in Normandie, but that of my sisters preoccupies me constantly. What will become of them in this foreign land?”
Her mother smiled. “We’ll have to wait and see what life brings, daughter. We must be patient.”
Devona often climbed to the battlements, seeking solace in the memory of Hugh’s embrace. Looking out one glorious day at the verdant fields and apple orchards beyond, she caught sight of a brigade of men approaching on horseback. She shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun.
Can it be?
As the lead rider came into view, her heart thudded, making it difficult to breathe. Should she rush down to tell the others or stay where she was and wave? She chose the latter and almost fell over the wall in her exuberance, flapping the end of her wimple in salute. Hugh smiled when he saw her and she knew he had come for her.
He raised his hand to return her salute.
“Hugh! Hugh!” she shouted.
She was not sure exactly how she got down from the battlements, but soon she was rushing into Hugh’s arms as he dismounted from Velox. “I seem to make a habit of throwing myself at you, my lord.”
He nuzzled her ear. “Hugh. My name is Hugh.”
They swayed together, almost toppling when Boden launched his massive paws onto Hugh’s back.
She laughed, clinging to him. “He’s glad to see you. As am I.”
Hugh freed one hand to rub Boden’s ears. “Good dog! I see you’ve healed well. Have you taken care of your mistress?”
Devona longed to kiss him until his lips were swollen, but she also wanted to chastise him for leaving her alone so long. She felt his hard maleness against her thigh as he turned to pet the dog. Her confusion intensified. She wanted to touch him intimately, but what might that unleash?
He cradled her face in his hands. “Devona. You’re looking well—not so pale. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”
She might drown in those blue eyes. “Yes I do.”
By now Aediva and Bemia had come running out to see what was happening. They threw their arms around Hugh’s legs.
“Could a man ask for a warmer welcome?” he jested. “Three beautiful females.”
Aediva giggled. “Four, if you count Brigantia.”
Trapping A Rat
Sir Renouf de Maubadon clenched his jaw. The Bishop of Arundel’s shoulders sagged when he espied him among the petitioners three sennights after his first visit.
Obviously the churchman had no solution for him. He resented having to kiss this fool’s ring, but had no choice. Arundel shifted in his richly carved chair, seemingly irritated. Renouf didn’t wait for the cleric to speak, but launched into his complaint when his turn came. He saw no point in being polite, wanting to underscore the seriousness and legitimacy of his plea. Devona was his. No other had a right to her.
“My lawful wife is still in Normandie. Have you news for me, Excellency?”
The bishop cleared his throat. “Messages have been sent, my son. These things take time. It has been only a fortnight, has it not?”
“A sennight longer.”
“Even so—”
The man was stalling and probably had no intention of helping him. He raised his voice. “I suppose it’s difficult to deal with a family such as the Montbryces.”
The cleric squirmed again, the knuckles around his crosier turning white. Sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead. “Diplomacy takes time. You would do well to heed what I say, my son.”
“Diplomacy is not what I seek. I want justice. I will go to the king.”
The bishop smiled weakly. “He is in Normandie.”
“Good. I’m bound for our homeland two days hence.”
The smile turned sour. “Go with God, then, my son.”
Renouf smirked and left without waiting for a blessing.
Three days later he was kneeling before the Bishop of Caen, explaining once more the crime that had been perpetrated against him. He had decided not to go directly to the king. The risk was great and such a process would take too long.
Caen had necessitated a detour in his usual travel arrangements. As the interview progressed, he sensed this much more powerful Norman churchman had already been made aware of the matter.
However, he left the audience with a feeling that this time something would come of his complaints. He strode out of the hall to retrieve his sword, bumping into a man whose garb bespoke a person of lower rank.
Re
nouf glared. “Attention! Fool. Watch where you’re going in the presence of your betters.”
He grimaced when he saw the man had one arm. “You might have soiled my tunic.”
The wretch bowed. “Forgive me, milord.”
Renouf thought the apology insincere. However, the bishop’s residence was not a place to cause a scene. He retrieved his sword and left to continue his journey, bothered momentarily by a strange feeling he had seen the one armed man before.
Deepest Fears
Devona and her family had been at Domfort a month. Their arrival had caused a stir. The master now dined in the hall with his Saxon guests, resulting in all kinds of speculation and gossip.
As she got to know him better, her belief grew that Hugh de Montbryce was a man who struggled with unseen demons, just as she did.
Could he name his demons? Hers were fear and hatred. She seethed with resentment at the horrors William the Conqueror and his countrymen had visited upon her land and her people. Yet here she was, living comfortably among them, a cultured and educated nation.
She despised Renouf de Maubadon because of what he had done to her and her family. But Hugh was a Norman, and she would never hate him, or Antoine, no matter how hard she might try.
Renouf had filled her life with fear and degradation. His cruelty may have rendered her incapable of having a relationship with any man, and she was still chained to him and his brutality. The law—Norman and ecclesiastical—was on his side. She dreaded never escaping him and the fear he had instilled in her—a dread of intimacy and a loathing for herself.
She enjoyed a measure of freedom in Domfort, but would she ever be truly free? Free to have a lover touch her intimately without recoiling? Free to express a deep love? Free to watch a man become aroused by her presence and not feel disgust and humiliation?
Or would she be forever Renouf’s victim, even if by some miracle she were rid of him? She was drawn to Hugh, but how would she react if he tried to make love to her, which she knew he longed to do. Would her body obey her instinct to love him and welcome his intimacy? Or would it recoil, repulsed by memory? Could she still feel?
Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2) Page 11
