The other question plaguing him all night long was what lay beneath Suannoch’s habit. A little voice kept insisting he might like what he saw if he could somehow figure out a way to see her naked.
Lonely Years
As Lucia assisted with the removal of her gown, Grace de Cullène mused happily that it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed an evening as much. “It’s a relief to be back at Ellesmere,” she confided to the maidservant who’d been the only bright spark in dark times.
“It was a difficult year of mourning,” Lucia replied, unpinning her mistress’s hair, “for all of us. What a dreary place Cullène Hall was. I’m glad to be home too.”
Born in Ellesmere, Lucia had missed her family as much as Grace had missed hers.
“I was happy to deed the estate to my stepson,” she said with a shiver. “Godefroy would probably have plotted to do away with me had I not satisfied his thirst for it.”
Lucia pulled the bone comb through her tresses. “I fear you are right, milady. He’s a sidekick of the cruel Prince Eustace.”
“He’s welcome to Cullène, and I’m relieved to be free of him and the house. Papa succeeded in getting my dowry lands back, so he won’t get his greedy hands on those. I don’t blame him for wanting the estate. He was assured of it until I came along. Do you recall upon first arriving how full of enthusiasm I was, ready to enliven the manor house with refurbished tapestries, rugs, banners?”
Lucia snorted. “The whole house needed a good scrub.”
“But Victor would have none of it, content to wallow in the same dusty dankness he’d apparently enjoyed for years.”
Guilt lay heavy in her heart. She had at times wished for his death during the three years of their marriage. To this day, she wasn’t sure why she had agreed to it. She supposed she’d thought him charming, wise, an older man who would protect her. His reasons for marrying her were a mystery. Certainly, it wasn’t for the pleasures of the marriage bed. He lavished more attention on his steward than on her.
Even Lucia didn’t know of the bitter tears she’d shed on her wedding night, left alone in the big bed. It wasn’t because she’d wanted his attentions—indeed, she’d dreaded them. She’d sobbed out her isolation and the dread of long, lonely years ahead.
The always hostile Godefroy likely labored under the unfounded impression she would get with child and he’d be disinherited.
Only she was aware she was still a maiden, though Lucia possibly suspected. She intended to take the knowledge and her maidenhead to the grave, filled with a strange guilty relief that she had failed to appeal to her husband. Never again would she put herself under a man’s thumb. Men were repellent—although Bronson FitzRam had caught her eye this evening. That hair! Redder than her own. She closed her eyes, conjuring a vision of him with war braids framing his strong face. “Did you happen to notice my cousin from Northumbria?” she asked her trusted servant, puzzled that the chamber had suddenly grown warmer.
“The nun?” Lucia replied, her eyes full of mischief.
“No,” she exclaimed, swatting Lucia’s derrière. “You know who I mean.”
“You’re blushing, milady,” her maidservant teased.
Grace rose abruptly. “Fetch my nightgown, bad girl. It’s a passing fancy. Seems to me I recall something about him being married.”
Lucia slipped the nightgown over her head. “There’s no wife with him now.”
For some reason she was suddenly lightheaded. “Turn down the linens, then leave me. I was happy this night, and I want to savor being free.”
After Lucia left, she sat in the chair by the hearth for a while, wiggling her bare toes. Yes, it was good to be home, and after she had fulfilled her responsibilities to her father’s guests on the morrow, she would start to enjoy her freedom. She crawled into bed thinking it was a pity Bronson FitzRam would be occupied in the assembly. They might have gone riding together. He would be a pleasant companion—and safe. After all he was her cousin.
Bronson tossed and turned, sleep eluding him after an unsettling day. He’d taken an immediate dislike to the Mother Superior at the Whitchurch convent, which only aggravated the bile in his gut when he thought of his sister incarcerated in the cold place.
The woman wanted to give Swan’s clothes to the poor. The idea of his mother’s beautiful handiwork being torn to shreds for rags by some impoverished peasant was too much. He’d insisted on taking the garments, suspecting the true plan was to sell the stuff to some local noblewoman.
She’d also balked at the notion of Swan accompanying him to Ellesmere, until he reminded her who their powerful relatives were.
In a day or two, he’d have no option but to deliver his spirited sister back into the hands of the crone. He understood Swan’s turmoil, but did she have to behave so outrageously, flaunting her opinions, as if they mattered? She was right, of course, and was only repeating discussions they’d had with their father many times, but her demeanor had certainly riled Rodrick de Montbryce.
Meeting Rodrick’s sister had been a shock. He’d long since buried his male urges with two wives who hadn’t survived bearing his stillborn children. He was determined never to endure such pain again, but Grace’s hair, as red as his own, had caught the attention of his shaft. Strange that she had inherited her mother’s hair coloring, yet looked exactly like her dark-haired twin. It was a potent mix.
But she was a widow, and his cousin. He wouldn’t be living too far away at Shelfhoc. It was unlikely she’d marry again. They might prove to be good company, one for the other.
As he did every night after he’d snuffed out the last candle in his chamber, Gallien de Montbryce climbed into bed, spooned his body around his wife’s, nestled his loins against her warm bottom and lay a loving hand on her scarred arm. Peri had long ago accepted his assurances the disfigurement didn’t lessen his love for her. Indeed, he considered it a badge of honor. She’d endured an horrendous scalding many years ago while struggling to free her husband from a homicidal maniac. She professed to no longer caring about the scars, but he knew she looked forward to his nightly reassurance.
As he expected, she put her hand atop his. “What do you think of your northern cousins?” she asked.
He kissed her nape. “Bronson’s an intelligent man. Forthright.”
“Handsome too,” she replied.
“You’re not supposed to notice such things,” he scolded.
“I only remark on it because Grace certainly noticed him.”
He moved his hand to cup her breast. “I think marriage to Victor has turned our daughter sour on men for life. I bitterly regret ever giving my consent.”
She stirred the interest of his shaft when she moved her hips. “Grace longs for love,” she insisted, “and, if I’m not mistaken, there was a glint of appreciation in Bronson’s eyes when he looked at her.”
She arched her back when he pinched a nipple.
“Don’t pin your hopes on a passionate romance between them,” he warned. “Not everyone is as fortunate as you and I.”
She chuckled. “I seem to recall you didn’t like me when we met.”
“I was a fool,” he admitted. “And, don’t forget, I’d sworn off marriage after my first wife’s treachery.”
She turned to face him. “So there’s hope for Grace?”
He kissed her forehead before nuzzling his nose into her warm neck. “Next, you’ll be telling me Rodrick and Suannoch are in love.”
She traced a finger along his lower lip. “That might take a while longer.”
He would have carried on the discussion had his male urges not already turned his thoughts to another night of ecstasy with his beloved wife.
Decision
Rodrick entered the crowded Great Hall an hour before midday, apprehensive as to the outcome of the assembly. As the heir to the earldom he would have to live with the consequences of his father’s decision, but he would never question it.
He felt great empathy for the dilemma Ga
llien de Montbryce faced. It was one understood by every man in attendance. They had declared for Stephen in the year of our Lord Eleven Hundred and Thirty Five, believing he would be as strong a king as Henry Beauclerc. The Montbryces had even named a son for their king. Time had proven them wrong. Over the last few years, Rodrick had been aware of his father’s growing frustration and disillusionment with Stephen.
While luncheon was being served, his gaze wandered over the powerful barons assembled in his home who had been rendered powerless to remedy the dire straits in which England floundered. The hubbub caused by their sometimes heated discussions was deafening.
When the luncheon was over, the women left. Servants began removing the trestle tables. It suddenly occurred to him the intelligent females of his family had much to contribute to the conference. However, he was certain his mother would have made her opinions known to her husband, and Grace was never hesitant to inform their father of her thoughts. Aurore was the quiet one in the family.
Suannoch FitzRam bestowed a glowing smile on William and Stephen as she left, but didn’t even glance Rodrick’s way. Strangely disappointed, he was further incensed when several of the belching barons elbowed each other, arching their brows as their eyes trailed after the departing novice. The prospect of any one of them laying a hand on her…
Once again, a vision danced behind his eyes—Suannoch, naked except for the cursed wimple. How to discover the color of her hair? Her name sounded like swan. Did she have a long graceful neck like the royal bird? If so, what a coincidence she wore white.
A hush had fallen over the assembly. He dragged his thoughts back to the gathering. His father had risen from the lord’s chair on the dais.
The presence of many anxious and impatient men, all lavishly dressed and recently fed and watered, had made the hall intolerably hot and malodorous. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to alleviate the ache in his temples and elsewhere.
His father cleared his throat. “Fellow nobles, my sons and I welcome you to Ellesmere. We recognise the journey has been perilous for many of you.”
Robert, Earl of Leicester came to his feet. “Aye! You’re lucky here to be somewhat removed from the Midlands where a man cannot walk abroad in the light of day without being accosted by Flemish brigands. Peasants are starving, serfs are forced into arms by landowners seeking to protect their estates, leading to a dearth of workers to tend the land.”
Gallien raised his hand. “Happy as I am to see you here, Robert, I intend first to make my remarks, then I welcome remarks.”
Robert harrumphed but regained his seat.
“All of us face a dilemma of enormous proportions,” Rodrick’s father began. “Our great families own lands in England and Normandie, ancestral lands, lands stained with the blood of many of our forebears.”
Try as he might, Rodrick couldn’t think of a single Montbryce who’d died in defense of any of the castles and manors they controlled in England or Normandie. Cousin Alexandre had successfully repelled Geoffrey’s attacks on Montbryce Castle, thanks in large measure to a new rampart built to protect the precious orchards the Angevin had once put to the torch. But the words rang true for many who’d lost sons in the struggle for Normandie.
“When our good King Henry died, we believed Stephen was the man born to be king of the English and Duke of Normandie. He was a grandson of the Conqueror, wealthy, charismatic, and capable. He’d grown up at Henry’s court, been a favorite of the king. We supported him though Henry had coerced our forefathers to swear for Maud.”
“Aye, but once Stephen had the throne, he alienated his supporters,” someone shouted.
Hushed murmurs of agreement crept around the hall. Treason was treason after all.
Gallien didn’t continue until quiet was restored. Pride soared in Rodrick’s heart. His noble father had reason to be resentful of Stephen’s apparent inability to see that time and again he had slighted some of his most faithful supporters. Yet, he stood now, dignified and seemingly unperturbed by the diplomatic revolution taking place in their midst.
“You all recognize me as an ardent supporter of Stephen. When Maud’s half brother, Robert of Gloucester, abandoned our king and declared for Maud, I was outraged.”
Rodrick, nine years old at the time, well remembered his father’s anger.
“A year later, Ranulf of Chester betrayed Stephen and captured Lincoln. We admired our king’s determination to retake the stronghold. Do you recall our anguish when Robert of Gloucester joined the fray and routed our monarch, taking him prisoner?”
Murmured ayes did little to break the oppressive silence. Rodrick had wept into his pillow at the thought of his king in chains.
“The imperious Maud then declared she was Lady of the English—whatever that meant—and attempted a coronation in Westminster.”
Laughter greeted this remembrance. All recognised Maud’s abrasive nature had soon alienated the people of London who’d run her out of the city.
“They chased her to Oxford, where she took refuge, but she became a prisoner there, pinned down by Stephen’s forces.”
“She may have been pinned down,” one baron shouted, “but her half-brother launched an attack on Winchester.”
“And look what that decision got him,” Gallien retorted. “Capture by Stephen’s army.”
Rodrick had long thought that if Stephen’s capable wife Matilda hadn’t taken charge of her husband’s army he might have languished longer in prison instead of gaining his freedom in a prisoner exchange. Gloucester’s life for Stephen’s.
As the volume of voices grew, Rodrick feared his father had perhaps lost control of the gathering, but a simple gesture brought attentive silence once more.
“Then Maud showed us courage we didn’t think she possessed. She escaped from Oxford, alone and on foot, wrapped in a cloth of white that concealed her passage through fields of snow.”
“Eight miles to Abingdon she walked,” someone observed. “In December.”
Gallien continued. “And for ten years now, we have suffered two governments, both equally incapable of enforcing the rule of law, and David holds sway in Northumbria.” He gestured. “I invite my Northumbrian cousin to share his experiences.”
Bronson cleared his throat as he stood. “With no English king to stop him, David has claimed Cumbria and Westmoreland too, but the Scottish king believes in order, and from what you’re saying, life is more secure there than here.”
Rodrick wasn’t sure if his father appreciated Bronson’s observations. To suggest a barbaric Scottish monarch might be a superior ruler to Stephen would once have bordered on heresy in the Montbryce household.
Gallien assumed control again. “On top of our problems in England, we have the situation in Normandie.”
Rodrick’s heart ached for his father. This would be the difficult part.
“I have no love in my heart for Maud’s late husband, Geoffrey of Anjou and most of you know why.”
Wooden benches scraped against stone as men shifted their weight. Some coughed.
“However, I won’t dwell on that story now.”
A collective sigh of relief soughed through the hall.
“To my everlasting regret, I persuaded my cousin in Normandie, Alexandre, Comte de Montbryce to switch his allegiance from Maud to Stephen years ago.”
It was likely most of those present at the gathering were aware of the other reason Alexandre had changed sides—to save the lives of the Scottish widow he married and her children.
“After years of valiant opposition to his armies, our homeland fell under the control of the red-headed braggart from Anjou. You are all aware my beloved wife came from that cursed land. Therefore I do not subscribe to the legend that all Angevins are descended from Satan’s daughter, but I have to wonder about Geoffrey.”
“Your beloved wife would have something to say if you perpetuated the myth that such fiendish blood still bubbles in the veins of her descendants,” someone shouted. Thi
s remark was followed by loud laughter.
Gallien chuckled, nodding, and was on the point of continuing when a voice declared, “But we don’t have to travel far back in time to see the corruption in Geoffrey’s bloodline.”
“Aye,” another said. “His great grandfather had his own wife burned at the stake in her wedding dress on suspicion of adultery with a goatherd.”
A dark cloud settled over Gallien de Montbryce’s features. This was too close to what had befallen him at his first wife’s hands. Rodrick held his breath. Did men not think before they blurted things out? He watched his father struggle to regain his composure, relieved when he spoke again in a calm voice. “Aye. Fulk the Black’s reputation as a perverted rapist and plunderer reached to the Holy Land. But enough of this talk of Anjou. We’ve had to live with the reality that three years ago Geoffrey declared his son Duke of Normandie, a title Stephen clings to still, though he hasn’t visited there in many a year. We are in the untenable position of paying homage to two lords for the same land.”
If it had occurred to anyone to question Gallien’s reference to Normandie as his homeland, there was no sign of it. But all were aware he was the second generation of the Anglo-Norman Montbryces to be born and brought up in England.
“Alexandre, titular head of our family, had to recognize the rule of a man he loathed, until the Good Lord in His infinite wisdom took the Angevin to his eternal rest eighteen months ago.”
Robert of Leicester stood again, his impatience evident in his scowling features. “We are well aware of this history, milord Earl. Many of us are in the same predicament. We fought Geoffrey for years while he tried to take Normandie, bit by bloody bit, but he was victorious. Normandie is lost to the Plantagenets. The decision we face now is how to solve the failure of either Stephen or Maud to rule successfully here. When Stephen’s demoralized forces refused to fight for him at Malmesbury in January, it became evident that he doesn’t inspire the confidence of the barons. Maud has more or less given up and gone back to Rouen, leaving her son to fight Stephen. God forbid Eustace take his father’s place. Then we’ll be in worse straits. I’m for the upstart, Prince Henry.”
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