Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  Confident his men would make short work of the remaining Angevins, he invited Sancerre to surrender.

  The nobleman refused, pointed his sword, and lunged.

  After a few thrusts and parries, it was clear to Antoine he was the superior swordsman, but it was never good to be over confident with a desperate man fighting for his life.

  Sancerre fought bravely, but was no match for his opponent’s skill and stamina. It was inevitable the older man would tire and he eventually took a misstep which left him vulnerable. Antoine again offered surrender, but Sancerre ran forward and impaled himself on Antoine’s sword. The dying Seigneur looked as surprised as Antoine felt.

  The remnants of the opposition soon became dispirited and surrendered. The fortress finally capitulated. The fire was quickly brought under control, though the kitchens were badly damaged. Part of the chateau was a blackened ruin, but they had saved the fortress.

  The Montbryce knights quickly rounded up the surviving enemy combatants, incarcerating the few uninjured in the cells and laying out the wounded for tending. They were turning their attention to the removal of the slain for burial when one of the men-at-arms returned hurriedly from the donjon. “Milord Antoine, there were women locked in the cells. The smoke was thick down there.”

  Antoine glanced up from cleaning the blood off his sword. “Women? Are they serfs? Servants?”

  The man nodded. “Most of them, but there is a lady.”

  He sheathed his sword. “They no doubt sought shelter from the siege in the cells, but the fire might have killed them. Bring them up. Take care with the lady.”

  Who could this lady be? Servants would do a new overlord’s bidding without much fuss. They were used to shifting borders. But a lady? What was he to do with her? There was no place in a war for a lady.

  Erelong, as Antoine stood upon the dais in the ruined hall, a steady stream of coughing women emerged, most of them servants. The smell of smoke clung to them. They huddled together, disheveled and afraid.

  All save one.

  A young noblewoman came to stand in front of the rest, one hand resting on the bulge of her abdomen, the other rigid at her side, fist clenched. Her jaw was set. She had probably spent several days in the cells beneath the donjon, yet she was well dressed, if pale and smoke smudged.

  Apart from the swell of her pregnancy, she was slender, her breasts full. Her condition spoke of womanhood, but he doubted this defiant beauty was any older than nineteen.

  She was probably Sancerre’s daughter, but the Seigneur must have known that if the blaze had taken hold she would have choked to death in the cells. And where was her husband? Was he among the casualties being carted out of the hall?

  Antoine unexpectedly found he wanted to protect her from the harsh reality of seeing a dead husband carried away for burial. The Angevins must have been aware of Norman plans to attack this strategic fortress so close to the border. William had made no secret of his intention to recapture Le Maine. They had obviously increased their fortifications. Why had this vulnerable woman not been removed to safety?

  A maidservant stepped forward from the huddle, glanced briefly at Antoine, then reached up to straighten an errant fold of the lady’s wimple and smooth the creases from her skirts.

  The noblewoman turned her attention to the servant for the briefest of moments and nodded to her. In that instant Antoine saw the strain of fear in the lady’s eyes, but when she turned back to look at him, it was gone. The maid stepped back and rejoined the others.

  Antoine shifted his weight, inconvenient desire growing as he looked at this courageous beauty. He glanced to the diminishing pile of bodies. Only a handful remained to be removed, Sancerre among them.

  He cleared his throat. “Milady, I am Lord Antoine de Montbryce. I have claimed this fortress in the name of its rightful overlord, our king and duke, William of Normandie. The usurper left in charge here refused to surrender and I regret to tell you that your father, Seigneur Denis de Sancerre is dead.”

  The woman showed no emotion, her eyes flickering for only a moment over to the bodies. Murmurs rose from the servants. The woman raised her fisted hand slightly and barely unfurled her fingers, but it was sufficient to quieten the trembling servants.

  She made a pretense of bowing respectfully by lowering her eyes, but then met his gaze. “I am Sybilla de Sancerre, mistress of this demesne that you have stolen by force of arms. Seigneur Denis de Sancerre was not my father. You have murdered my husband, the father of my unborn child.”

  A wave of nausea swept over Antoine. The thought of the old seigneur’s hands on this young woman, his withered manhood poking into intimate places, filled him with unexpected anger. It was suddenly infernally hot in the place. His gut clenched when he realized his men were removing Sancerre’s body. He raised his hand to stop them. “Arrêtez! Bring the Seigneur’s body to the dais.”

  As the corpse was lifted onto the trestle table, Antoine strode over to Lady Sybilla. He nodded a brief bow and proffered his hand, trying not to let his voice betray his turmoil. “Milady, my condolences. War is never kind to those left behind. I offer you a moment with your husband.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the maid take a step forward to assist her lady. He motioned her away, wanting for some reason he didn’t understand to feel the widow’s hand in his. Tears welled in her eyes, but she squeezed them shut for a brief second as a shiver trembled through her.

  She must have loved him.

  It was when she reopened her eyes that Antoine was struck by something unusual about them. But what was it? She placed her cold, quivering hand in his, intensifying his desire. He was relieved his armor covered his inappropriate arousal as he escorted her to the dais. She took hold of her bliaut and raised her foot to mount the step. His instinct was to put his hand to the small of her back, to steady her, but he thought better of it.

  She pushed against his palm to rise to the level of the trestle table where her dead husband lay. Without thinking, Antoine grasped her hand more tightly and she shot him a cold glance.

  By the saints! One’s brown, the other green.

  She removed her hand from his and turned to look at the body. Excited voices echoed from the kitchens. Water hissed on hot metal. It was several minutes before Lady Sybilla spoke. “By the sword?”

  Antoine had been so enthralled watching her as she swayed slightly, gripping the edge of the trestle, trying to maintain her composure, that he barely heard what she said. “Oui, a sword.”

  Her voice dripped ice. “Then Denis de Sancerre died doing what he loved. It’s how he would have wished to die. Combat was his greatest love.”

  The thought rushed into Antoine’s head that if this woman were his wife, she would be his greatest love.

  She turned her gaze on him. “Who was the champion that bested him?”

  Antoine’s blood ran cold. There was no point explaining Sancerre had chosen to die. “It was I.”

  She clenched her jaw. “Then it was an honorable death to die at the hands of a worthy noble opponent.”

  She looked back at her husband, and gently closed his dead eyes. She took his hand and placed it on her swollen belly then bent and whispered, “I will name him Denis.”

  The mismatched eyes turned to Antoine. “Take him now. May I accompany his body to its resting place? There is a crypt beneath the chateau.”

  He proffered his hand. “The chateau is heavily damaged by the fire your army set. I will only allow you into the crypt if it’s deemed safe.”

  A brief frown told him she had not known of the chateau’s destruction. She accepted with a nod and allowed him to assist her from the dais. He issued terse orders to his men, who lifted the body. The pathetic procession proceeded out of the hall while the gawking servants looked on. Only the maidservant left the group and fell in behind her mistress.

  Sybilla felt guilty that tears refused to fall as she watched Antoine de Montbryce’s men drag out one of the lead coffins t
hat stood in readiness in a darkened corner of the crypt. The place had apparently filled with smoke from the conflagration; the acrid smell hung in the air, but there’d been little to burn.

  Spiderwebs were brushed from the coffin before it was placed in front of the small stone altar. She wished she could sweep away the cobwebs that had woven themselves into her head, rendering her incapable of thought.

  If she started to think, she might go mad. It was a constant fear since her father had sold her to Denis de Sancerre, a man two score years her senior.

  She glimpsed mold on the inside of the coffin and shuddered.

  Sancerre had wanted only one thing from her—an heir—and he had rutted and sweated and pawed until his goal was achieved. He had previously sired warrior sons with more than one wife, all dead before him. Now he was dead—a twist of fate whose irony was not lost on her.

  Someone had fetched a shroud, a grim necessity every army carried in its baggage. She exhaled loudly when she saw her husband’s gaunt face for the last time. The corpse was bundled into the coffin, the lid hammered shut, the harsh metallic sounds echoing off the stone walls, still damp despite the fire. She was being buried with this man she barely knew, a man she despised.

  He had filled her with their child—hers as well as his. Somehow she must survive, for the babe’s sake. When he thought all was lost, Sancerre had not hesitated to trap her in the cells. Now she was under the control of Antoine de Montbryce, a vassal of the hated bastard Duke of the Normans. In the midst of war, two enemies would decide the fate of an Angevin woman.

  As the ritual of interment droned on in the flickering candlelight of the windowless crypt, Sybilla was very aware of the tall man beside her. It had been hard to keep her jaw from falling open when she had first seen the armored knight standing so arrogantly on the dais, his well-muscled legs braced, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Here was a warrior who exuded power and overwhelming masculinity.

  She had known as she had entered the Great Hall with her servants that her husband was dead, probably at the hands of the self-assured nobleman who strode towards her, offering his hand. She had almost lost her steely composure upon first looking into his green eyes.

  Normans were the enemy. She had been raised on that hatred. They were not to be trusted. And this one, who stood at her side as her husband’s soul was assigned to eternity, had killed the father of her unborn child.

  She would have to tread warily. Her fate was in his hands, but she would not beg. What would he decide to do with her? Fear and exhaustion combined with the rank odor to make her sway. Suddenly she felt a warm hand on the small of her back.

  Antoine de Montbryce’s husky voice penetrated her haze as she swooned, feeling his heat burn into her. “Milady, may I escort you from this place?”

  Antoine caught the lady before she crumpled to the stone floor, cradling her against his body.

  The maidservant rushed forward and glared at him, sobbing. “Oh, my lady, my lady.”

  “You are her personal maid?” Antoine asked the woman, resisting an urge to murmur reassurances into Sybilla’s ear that he would never hurt her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry it was his weapon that had dealt the death blow to a man she obviously loved a great deal, despite the differences in their ages.

  The maid’s voice was filled with despair. “Oui, milord. I came with her from Anjou. I’ve served her all her life. She’s but a child.”

  Antoine tightened his grip on Sybilla. “What is your name?”

  “Oda.”

  Antoine should reprimand the surly peasant for her lack of deference, but there would be time enough for that. Now he held a vulnerable woman and, inexplicably, he wanted to proclaim himself her champion, to protect her. She was light in his arms, despite being heavy with child. His duke would likely order her execution as the wife of an Angevin traitor.

  “Where is her chamber? Show me.”

  As he carefully mounted the narrow stone steps leading out of the crypt, the edge of Sybilla’s wimple caught and dragged, revealing her hairline. It was as though the sun had broken through into the dark recesses of the gloomy place.

  She was a redhead.

  Lust roared through him.

  Hugh might prefer his raven-haired, green-eyed beauty, but Antoine had never been able to resist the allure of red hair. He tried to keep his attention on the steps and not let his eyes stray to her breasts, barely rising and falling.

  He berated himself.

  By all that’s holy, she’s a pregnant woman. And an enemy.

  Oda reached round him to right the wimple and they continued their journey through the smoke blackened hallways to Sybilla’s solar. The door was charred, but the furnishings had survived. He laid her on the large bed unable to explain the fury he felt at the idea she might have lain with her husband there. What was wrong with him? What did he care if an Angevin dog rutted with his child-bride in this very chamber? He needed to get control of his emotions.

  He glowered at Oda. “Does she have a weapon?”

  The maid refused to meet his gaze, obviously trying to decide whether or not to lie.

  “I will search her.”

  The prospect of touching Sybilla’s body aroused him further.

  The maid removed a dagger concealed in her lady’s sleeve and handed it to Antoine.

  “And you?”

  The sullen maid turned away from him and tucked up her skirts to retrieve a dagger strapped to her thigh. She held it out, reluctant to let go. “What protection do we have now against your men?”

  Antoine squared his shoulders. “Victorious Montbryce and Belisle knights don’t celebrate by raping women. I’ll see to your lady’s protection. I expect you to take care of her needs.”

  He left, wishing he could have stayed to tend her. But she would have only hatred in her heart for him. He was a Norman, a despised enemy who had killed the father of her unborn child. Tasting the bile rising in his throat, he went back to the task of organizing the defenses and re-establishing his conquered fortress. He would secure it for his duke. Perhaps his success in this endeavor would soften William’s heart towards the Montbryces.

  Two days after the fall of the fortress, Antoine summoned Lady Sybilla. “I’m sending you to my castle at Belisle. This is no place for a lady, especially one in your condition.”

  He had agonized over what to do with her. If he sent her as a prisoner to William, she would be executed. His gut knotted when he considered that probability.

  If he sent her to Belisle, William would be annoyed, and the king was angry enough with the Montbryce family. Antoine decided he would face that problem if and when it materialized. He had to keep Sybilla alive.

  She looked down her nose at him. “I prefer to stay here, with my people.”

  Oda had accompanied her mistress, and Sybilla was leaning heavily on the servant. In only two days she had grown rounder, her burden lower. Her pale skin had taken on a sallow pallor and she looked like she might drop the babe any minute.

  “If you don’t care for your own well-being, think of your unborn child. The kitchens here are still not fully repaired. Most of your servants are dead, or have fled, so there are few left to do the work of many. Everything reeks of smoke. This is an arena of war. There is no midwife.”

  “But Belisle is in Normandie. You would send me there as a prisoner?”

  Erotic thoughts of what he would like to do with Sybilla if she was a prisoner in his bed ran through his head. He kept his voice stern, wanting to make her understand that his castle would be the best place for her. “You are my prisoner whether you like it or not. You’ll be safer in Belisle.”

  She snorted. “Safer than where? Here I am in my own land, with Angevins.”

  Antoine arched his brows. Why was she being so difficult? Perhaps her stubbornness came with the red hair. That thought sent icy heat rushing up his spine. The brief glimpse had left him longing to see all of it.

  He cleared his throat. “You are
in lands which belong to the Duke of the Normans, King of the English. You are his prisoner as much as you are mine. Would you prefer I send you to him in Le Mans?”

  She hesitated as the implications of what he had threatened dawned on her. “Or perhaps you would rather stay here and await His Majesty’s return with an occupying force? He has already taken Le Mans, and I’m confident he intends to return here once that town is secured. This fortification protects the easiest ford across the Sarthe. He was not happy about having to lengthen his journey to Le Mans before your fortress fell.”

  Sybilla looked straight at him. “It would appear I have no choice, though my husband would not have wanted his child born in Normandie.”

  Antoine bristled at the insult, and it was all he could do not to remind her that Sancerre had not cared about the child when he set fire to the keep. But he thought perhaps there was a hint of relief in her voice.

  He was about to reply when Sybilla interrupted him. “Oda will accompany me.”

  Irritating as her demeanor was, Antoine could not help but be impressed with her courage in the face of her predicament. “I’ll allow your maidservant to go with you. Be ready to depart on the morrow.”

  Sybilla gave him the barest of nods, seemed about to leave, then hesitated. “Will you accompany us to Belisle, milord Montbryce?”

  “Non, I remain here to await my king. Some of my men will escort you.”

  Was there a hint of disappointment in those mismatched eyes?

  Sybilla took her leave.

  She let the pent up tears flow once she and her maid were alone in her solar. “What’s to become of me, of my child?”

  Oda helped her mistress on to the bed, and set about removing her shoes. The maid had worked tirelessly to air the smoky linens. “Milord Montbryce is a merciful man, milady. For some reason he wants to protect you from the wrath of his king.”

  Sybilla rubbed her swollen belly. “You’re right. I have no doubt the bastard William would have me executed as a traitor. I’m tired of being the pawn of arrogant men. My back aches so.”