It was curious. Grace was a widow, yet she was reluctant to speak of her husband, and seemed to know nothing about him. Lucia also avoided answering questions concerning life at Cullène Hall.
Poor Grace. She was trembling like an aspen tree and looked exhausted.
Bronson gazed down at the scar on his chest. “Looks good, Lucia. Fine needlework.”
The maidservant blushed. “Thank you, my lord. You have healed well.”
“Too bad the colorful stitches have turned black,” Swan teased. “You looked pretty when they were a rainbow.”
Bronson laughed.
Grace tsked. “You must keep still. Lucia is using the smallest pair of cisoires in this masculine household. These are pivoted and are normally used for…” Her face reddened considerably. “What I mean is…”
Swan had to rub salt in the wound. “What she means is they are from her sewing supplies and are designed for embroidery.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Grace glared at Swan.
Lucia’s eyes darted from one face to another.
Tybaut coughed.
Bronson leaned back in the chair, staring into the rafters. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to you two sparring like fighting cocks. Snip away, Lucia.”
Swan felt badly. She loved her brother. She was elated he seemed ready at last to put the past behind him. There was no better sister-by-marriage than Grace. But she missed Rodrick terribly, and he’d been gone less than a day.
“I apologize, Grace. I don’t understand why I am being mean spirited. My brother looks much better without his beard. You did a fine job.”
Grace took her hand. “You miss Rodrick. I understand.”
“At last,” Bronson exclaimed, startling them both. He came to his feet, scratching his chest. “I am no longer a tapestry.”
Swan clapped her hands together, gladdened by the return of her brother’s good humor. He had grieved for too long.
“Now for my bath. Which one of you lovely ladies will scrub my back?”
Duty Calls
“A man could get used to all this coddling,” Bronson declared as he and Grace followed Tybaut into the weaving shed a fortnight after Rodrick’s departure. “Two lovely ladies at my beck and call.”
Grace shrugged, one hand on the long-unused loom the steward had been refurbishing. “Except you won’t find your sister here.”
Bronson chuckled. “She never was interested in domestic pursuits.”
“Swan is pining for Rodrick and she would find weaving helps fill the hours when loved ones are far away.”
She averted her eyes. Bronson sensed she had rightly guessed he was anxious to join the fight to rid England of the mercenaries. Hiding away at Shelfhoc while enjoying the ministrations of two women didn’t sit well in his gut.
However, it was clear Grace had missed her family keenly during her marriage, and he wondered—not for the first time—if she’d been happy with her first husband.
He was loathe to leave her, but duty called, just when there was a chance he’d found his soul mate. He drew her away from Tybaut’s fussing over the loom and held both hands. “You know I have to go,” he said softly.
“But your wound,” she replied half-heartedly, her gaze fixed on the packed earth floor.
He tilted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I don’t want to go, but England needs every able-bodied knight to do his part. I cannot sit idly by and do nothing. You wouldn’t wish that.”
She rested her head against his chest. “I know, but being here without you…”
He’d considered that. “I suggest you and Swan travel with me to Ellesmere. I don’t like the notion of the two of you alone at Shelfhoc. You’ll drive each other mad with worry. At Ellesmere you’ll have more distractions.”
She remained stiff in his embrace, seemingly unconvinced, until he said, “Your mother will need company when your Papa and brothers leave.”
Wiping away welling tears, she stepped back. “You’re right, of course. Let’s speak to Swan.”
His heart swelled. “You’re a courageous woman,” he said as he took her hand.
Grace didn’t feel courageous. Just when she’d found her soul mate, fate had intervened to take him away on a perilous journey. She tamped down the urge to wail her frustration. A brave man going off to war didn’t need tears. He needed to be sure there was a loving woman at home waiting anxiously for his return.
Bronson was right that her mother would be bereft with her menfolk gone. Grace’s role was to support the man she loved, and provide comfort to her mother and Aurore—and to Swan.
It was true that lonely months of worrying with only her northern cousin for company would likely destroy an important friendship. She couldn’t allow that to happen if she and Swan were to be sisters-by-marriage. She squeezed Bronson’s hand, determined to be strong. “I think your sister will jump at the chance to go to Ellesmere and see Rodrick again before he leaves.”
Swan worried she was losing her wits. Freed by love from what amounted to a death sentence, she fretted constantly that history might repeat itself and, like Hiram, Rodrick would lose his life in the coming battle to oust Stephen from the throne. She doubted The Montbryces would expect her to retire to a convent if he fell, but life would be meaningless without him.
She loved her brother and was happy he and Grace seemed destined for each other, but her resentment grew that they were able to spend time together, whereas she and Rodrick were apart. She understood his duty to help his father prepare their knights for war, but Ellesmere might as well be a thousand miles away.
She sought to devise a way to see him one last time before the army departed. Time was of the essence, but Bronson wouldn’t allow her to go to Ellesmere alone, and she could hardly leave her brother and Grace at Shelfhoc.
Lost in these thoughts, she was startled by excited voices in the entryway.
“Swan,” Bronson called. “How would you like to go to Ellesmere?”
Afraid she might babble a jubilant reply and then be disappointed, she hurried to greet him and Grace as they removed their cloaks. “Are you teasing me?”
“No,” her cousin replied. “Bronson suggests we all go.”
Swan was suspicious. Grace should have looked happy, but she nibbled her bottom lip. “What are you not telling me?” she asked.
Bronson put his hands on her shoulders. “I plan to join the fight against the mercenaries. I don’t want to leave the two of you here. You’ll be safer in Ellesmere.”
Swan’s turmoil increased. She understood his sense of duty, but now she might lose her brother and her beloved. She embraced Grace. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” she whispered.
Tucking the eating dagger he’d wiped clean into his belt, Rodrick grinned at Bronson. “There you were, alone at Shelfhoc with two lovely women doting over you, yet you chose to join the fray.”
Bronson scratched his chest. The scar no longer itched, but the scratching had turned into a habit. He wondered if coming to Ellesmere to join Gallien and his sons in the ongoing fight against the Flemish mercenaries was indeed the decision of a madman. How to explain? “Grace and Swan are lovely, but—”
Swan narrowed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip.
Grace glared at him.
Careful!
Rodrick chuckled, stretching his arm around his betrothed seated next to him in the hall. “I understand. I see my Swan’s ruffled feathers.”
She shrugged away from him, but he held tight. “Let’s not fight. We haven’t seen each other for sennights. Spring is already upon us.”
Bronson was happy to see the pout leave his sister’s face as she nestled into Rodrick. He glanced up at the head table, relieved to see his future father-by-marriage nod imperceptibly when he put his arm around Grace.
The earl had proposed they take the opportunity of everyone’s presence at Ellesmere to formally sign betrothal documents. He hadn’t yet been able to proc
ure an appointment with Archbishop Theobald and believed signed agreements would help the cause once an audience was granted.
It was a source of pride for Bronson to represent his father in signing the parchment pledging Swan to Rodrick, but he hoped Grace hadn’t noticed the tremor in his hand as he signed his own betrothal document in the Chart Room. He had no doubt he loved her, but this was a momentous step he’d sworn he would never take.
He wondered why she seemed as apprehensive as he. Perhaps all brides-to-be were nervous at their betrothal ceremony, although Grace had been married before. She knew what to expect. But she’d never borne a child of Victor de Cullène. Perhaps she was barren. Strangely, the possibility depressed him. She was a woman born to be a mother.
Swan’s voice broke into his reverie as he sifted his fingers through Grace’s hair, conjuring images behind his eyes of a child born of two redheaded parents. “Seriously, you’re not going off to fight simply to get away from me and Grace?”
“No,” he replied truthfully. “I am recovered from my injuries and anxious to join the battle to restore peace to England. I was a boy when King Henry died, but I remember life being more secure than it has been under Stephen’s rule. If it wasn’t for the Scottish king’s intervention in Northumbria, we’d have descended into the same anarchy.
“Besides, news of a plot to assassinate Henry Plantagenet brings to mind a certain young man I would dearly love to come face to face with.”
“You believe Godefroy still lives?” Rodrick asked.
“My bones tell me he does, and I would have vengeance for what he did to Grace—to all of us.”
Rodrick fingered his nose. “Yes, I remember it well, and I too would love nothing better than to despatch the wretch to his Maker. We leave on the morrow to rejoin Robert of Leicester who reportedly has spies among the conspirators. There are rumors Stephen’s son William is involved.”
Grace snuggled into Bronson, the swell of her warm breast against his arm stirring the interest of his shaft. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”
He longed to whisk her to her chamber and lie abed there for sennights, but revealing his thoughts would be deemed inappropriate with others present, although Rodrick probably wanted to say the same to Swan.
At least he and Grace had been able to spend time together at Shelfhoc, whereas Rodrick and Swan had been parted for sennights, and on the morrow would have to say farewell once more.
“We’ll have many happy years to enjoy together in peace and prosperity once we rid our country of troublemakers,” he said.
Rodrick arched a brow. “And if Henry Plantagenet lives up to expectations as our king.”
Swan sighed. “He has to be crowned first.”
Seasons Change
Sending Rodrick off to fight was the hardest thing Swan had ever done, but Bronson had been right to suggest she move to Ellesmere. Sharing the sorrow of parting with Grace and Countess Peridotte made the long days of waiting more bearable.
Though the sennights seemed to crawl by, all too soon spring turned to summer.
Strolling through the ornamental gardens with Grace, Swan fanned her face with the parchment handed to her by Steward Bonhomme. “Is it usually so hot here at this time of year?”
“This is an unusually hot summer,” Grace replied, trying to wrest the message from her hand. “But I’ve heard it said the weather is normally warmer here in the Marches than in Northumbria.”
Swan stepped away, unfurling the long awaited missive. “It’s from Rodrick.”
Grace pouted.
“But Bronson has added a note at the end.”
Grace put her hands on her hips. “Have you noticed, sister, we are the best of friends until our men intrude?”
Swan had indeed remarked on it, but was too intent on reading Rodrick’s letter to respond. Her eyes widened at the news he’d imparted.
“What is it?” Grace asked impatiently.
“The conspirators in the assassination plot have been arrested. Godefroy languishes in the Tower with his confederates, awaiting Prince Henry’s wish and pleasure. Prince William has been exonerated of any complicity.”
Grace gasped and threw herself into Swan’s arms. They both laughed and sobbed and laughed again.
When they broke apart, Swan handed the missive to Grace. “My brother misses you.”
Grace read Bronson’s note, then clasped the parchment to her breast. “Perhaps now they will come home.”
Summer’s optimism faded. As she watched the leaves fall from the oaks in the ornamental garden.Grace tugged her cloak more snugly around her shoulders “It reminds me of the splendid oak that burned the day I was rescued,” she told Swan as they huddled together on a bench. “It seems a lifetime ago and yet it hasn’t been a year.”
“Time crawls by when you’re waiting for someone to come home,” Swan replied.
Grace agreed. “Thank goodness you are here. I would have lost my wits without your friendship to see me through these long separations. I had hoped after Godefroy’s capture and execution our men would return for good.”
Swan shivered in the chilly breeze. “I suppose as long as Stephen lives, there will be factions who will oppose Henry. Once Plantagenet is king—”
She jumped to her feet with a startled squeal when Rodrick sauntered into the garden, followed by Bronson. Grace’s heart turned over as she ran through the crackling leaves into his arms, savoring his warmth. “We didn’t expect you.”
“Come inside,” Rodrick said as he and Swan broke apart. “There is much to tell.”
“Tell us now,” Swan demanded impatiently. “Is it good news?”
“Some good, some bad,” Bronson replied.
A shiver of apprehension danced up Grace’s spine. Bad news meant—
“Stephen is dead,” Rodrick declared.
But this is good news.
Swan laughed. “I suppose one shouldn’t rejoice at the death of a king, but—”
Rodrick put a finger to his lips. “No, but you’re right. Henry can now be crowned and we can hope England will be a safer place with a strong king.”
“What happened?” Grace asked. “We didn’t hear of his illness.”
Rodrick scratched his scalp. “Apparently, he was meeting with the Comte of Flandres when he was suddenly seized with a violent pain in his gut, accompanied by a flow of blood. He took to his bed in Dover Priory and died.”
Grace glanced from her brother to Bronson to Swan. Were they thinking the same thing? “Like his son. A sudden death.”
“He’ll be buried with Eustace, and his wife Matilda at the Cluniac monastery in Faversham,” Bronson said.
By now they had reached the warmth of the Great Hall, where Grace’s father and mother stood warming themselves by the fire. Grace embraced her parents. “We are at long last to have a new king.”
Her father clenched his jaw. “But Henry is in Normandie, which means a coronation will have to be postponed until he returns. Have they told you the other news yet?”
Bronson put his arm around her waist, as if to prepare her for the worst.
“Archbishop Theobald denied our request, didn’t he?” she murmured.
“No,” Swan shrieked.
Rodrick stroked her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. “He has been named Regent until Henry is crowned and claims to be much too busy with his new responsibilities. He has recommended we petition the Pope.”
“That will take months, years,” Grace wailed, clinging to Bronson, afraid she might collapse if she didn’t sit.
“Perhaps not, if you go in person,” her mother said.
To her surprise, her father seemed to agree. “Oui, Theobald insists you make a pilgrimage, only then will you prove yourselves worthy. He wants you to go to Rome and speak directly to Anastasius.”
The Odyssey Begins
Preparations took a fortnight. Grace’s father set about contacting a wealthy family in Rome who’d been Ellesmere’s trading partners f
or years. Ram de Montbryce had met with the influential Italians on the return journey from Constantinople. A reliable system of pigeon relays had been established linking Ellesmere, the Montbryce holdings in Normandie, and the Frangipanes. “Oddone Frangipane will be only too happy to take care of you once you arrive in Rome,” her father assured them.
Bonhomme organized a contingent to accompany them—three cooks, two monks, a blacksmith, four ostlers, several archers and huntsmen, two falconers, squires to pitch, strike and repair tents, and a brigade of handpicked men-at-arms.
Swan and Grace would share Lucia’s services as their lady’s maid. To everyone’s surprise, William and Stephen de Montbryce volunteered to act as valets for Rodrick and Bronson.
“I wonder if my father suggested it as a penance for my wayward brothers?” Grace mused as they sat in the chapel, listening yet again to Père Rigord’s explanation of the route they would take following Archbishop Sigeric’s pilgrimage.
“I never heard of this Archbishop before now,” Swan whispered as the elderly priest droned on.
“Neither have I,” Grace whispered back, “But it is more than a hundred and fifty years since he wrote of his trek from Canterbury to Rome.”
Père Rigord suddenly stopped talking and glared at Grace. She squirmed as Bronson and Rodrick grinned at her discomfort.
“Did you have a question, milady Grace?” the priest asked. “Something you wished to say?”
She searched her memory, trying to recall what he’d been saying a few moments ago. “I’ve never heard of most of the places you mention, Father.”
He steepled his fingers under his nose, evidently seeking divine guidance. “Mayhap it’s because you never paid much attention in my Latin classes and I am giving you the Latin names. Atherats is Arras, Bysiceon is Besançon. It’s simple. Everyone knows the stages of the Via Francigena.”
Bronson stared at the ceiling, his fist planted firmly over his mouth. She’d wager there’d be teeth marks in his flesh from stifling his amusement.
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