Birthright

by Anna Markland

  She rang the hand bell several times to call Agnès or Thomas, to no avail. They never divulged anything in any event. Rosamunda suspected they lived in fear of their mistress. Lucien and Vincent were careful to do her bidding and their father was completely under his wife’s control.

  Perhaps Thomas had been summoned to assist with whatever crisis had arisen. It was an opportunity to sneak to the landing to see what was going on.

  She pressed her ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  “What are you doing?” Paulina murmured.

  Rosamunda pressed her forefinger to her lips, pointing to the door.

  Paulina grasped her hand. “Non! I am afraid.”

  Rosamunda put an arm around her sister’s shoulders, her other hand fluttering over her heart. “I am afraid too.” She shook her head, gesturing to the chamber. “This is not a life.”

  Paulina averted her eyes. “I am content here with you.”

  Rosamunda wanted to hug her sister, to reassure her she and Vincent and Lucien would protect her in the world outside, if they were freed. It was fear of ridicule that held the tiny woman in its thrall. But time was of the essence.

  Paulina gasped and squeezed her eyes shut as Rosamunda opened the door. Neither had noticed before how loudly the hinges squeaked. Rosamunda took her first step over the threshold in seventeen years, deafened by her heartbeat.

  The planked floor creaked underfoot despite her efforts to tread softly. Sweat trickled between her breasts. She held out her arms at her sides, as if walking the high parapets she glimpsed daily from her window.

  She inched her way to the wooden railing at the top of the stairs. Her legs felt like lead weights as she summoned the courage to look over. Their chambers were three stories up. Would she see to the bottom if she peeked over the precipice? She had been born in her parents’ chamber on the second floor, but had no memory of it. The ground floor was a complete unknown.

  Holding her breath, she gripped the railing and peered over.

  It was the first time she had seen the elaborate checkered floor below. The design drew her. She stared until she became dizzy, remembering what her brothers had told her of its history.

  When she was eight, she had listened with rapt attention to the ongoing account of a grand project taking place in the lower reaches of the house. Upon her return from the consecration of Winchester Cathedral, Maudine Lallement had insisted upon the installation of a stone slab floor in the entryway of her home, like the one in the church’s north aisle. Nothing would dissuade her from the idea. At great expense, marble was hauled ninety miles from Purbeck, and a sort of light grey and dark brown pattern emerged as a result.

  Their father had complained when his wife wanted white marble interspersed with the dark. She urged him to bring it from Carrara in Italy, but he balked at this. Undeterred, she ordered some of the slabs lime-washed regularly to lighten them.

  As Rosamunda gazed at the floor she’d been so curious about, someone walked into the patterned space. A man. Black hair, tall. Speaking Norman French. His deep, commanding voice reached even her high perch. “I say we stay.”

  She saw only the top of his head and broad shoulders, but a strange warmth flooded her body. Winged creatures fluttered in her belly. “Yes, stay,” she mouthed, gripping the railing more tightly, swaying in a trance. “Please stay.”

  She crumpled to the floor before she succumbed to the urge to rush down the stairs and into the stranger’s arms.

  As she lay panting, slumped against the rails, another voice reached her. Indignant, yet respectful. “You are not the one being treated like a freak.”

  Alarm surged through her, but she had to look. She hauled herself to her feet. Another black-haired man. He looked shorter, yet still broad-shouldered.

  Vincent and Lucien had shown off their skill at a popular new game of strategy. Father had bought them a handsome set of carved game pieces. The men below postured like two knights playing esches, tension evident in their stance, even from a distance.

  Her sister’s voice echoed. “Psst. Come back.”

  The smaller knight looked up.

  Rosamunda crouched quickly, but not before catching a glimpse of a high forehead and enormous eyes.

  She sat rooted to the spot, sweating, until she heard Lucien’s voice. Plucking up her courage, she stood slowly and looked over the railing again. Now there were four knights on the esches field. Vincent and Lucien were home, the latter apparently apologising profusely to the shorter man.

  Rosamunda deduced at once that the visitors were Adam de Montbryce and his half-brother. Denis, was it? But why had they come? And why was maman screeching? What had gone wrong?

  The men left the entryway in silence, walking stiffly, evidently bound for some other ground floor chamber, perhaps the dining hall of which Vincent and Lucien had often spoken. Echoes of their boot-heels striking stone reached her.

  Rosamunda crept back to Paulina who was clinging nervously to the door frame. She held up two fingers. “Men, visitors.”

  Paulina dragged her back into the room and shoved the door closed. “If she catches you—”

  Rosamunda shook her head, disentangling her arm from Paulina’s grasp. She put her hands together and put them to the side of her head. “Maman is abed, I think.”

  “Was it she screaming?”

  Rosamunda nodded.

  “She has lost her wits,” Paulina whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  Rosamunda made a face, sticking out her tongue and pointing to her head. “Long ago.”

  Paulina sobbed.

  Rosamunda handed her a kerchief, then crooked a finger under her sister’s chin and lifted her face, filled with an urge to share what she had seen. “Adam de Montbryce and his brother.”

  Paulina frowned. “How can you be sure?”

  Rosamunda raised her hand high above her head. “Tall.” She touched her hair. “Black.”

  Paulina pouted. “Everyone is tall in my world.”

  Rosamunda remembered the other man she had seen. She lowered her hand. “Brother not so tall.”

  They Are Hiding Something

  Adam did not truly understand why he had insisted they remain at Kingston Gorse. He was outraged by Lady Lallement’s behavior towards his brother. But he felt badly for Lucien and Vincent, who were obviously equally mortified.

  They were allotted a comfortable chamber on the ground floor. Adam was relieved they would not be on the same floor as Maudine Lallement. Vincent assured them his mother had been persuaded to take her evening meal in her chamber.

  The four young men sat down to dine with Marc Lallement. Adam and Denis exchanged a glance. The lady of the household obviously exacted high standards. White linen covered the table, set with engraved goblets of fine quality. The food was plentiful and tasty, the wine full-bodied and smooth, but the atmosphere was strained, despite the tantalizing aroma of roasted goose. Denis sulked, obviously not his usual talkative self. Adam hesitated to embark on anything more than the simplest conversation.

  Marc Lallement pushed carrots and leeks around his trencher with his eating dagger, his eyes downcast, occasionally scowling at his sons who talked without surcease, their mouths full of the food they ate with surprising relish.

  Only the servants, to a man impeccably dressed in green tabards and yellow tunics, seemed at ease.

  Denis suddenly spoke to Lucien.

  The color drained from their friend’s face.

  Adam thought he heard the word sisters.

  Marc Lallement dropped his eating dagger.

  Lucien looked at his father nervously, then at Denis. “Non. Why do you ask?”

  From his first meeting with the Lallement brothers, Adam had believed that they were honest men. A chill crept up his spine when he looked at Vincent’s face. This family was hiding something, and Lucien was a poor liar.

  Denis had sensed it too. He turned to face Adam,
pointing up. “I saw a young woman earlier, peering over the railing high up in the house.”

  Lucien’s mouth fell open.

  Marc Lallement leapt to his feet. “A young woman?” he parroted.

  Jaw clenched, Vincent put a restraining hand on his father’s arm. The fear in his eyes betrayed him. “It’s all right, father, probably one of the servants.”

  Whoever the woman was, the Lallements wanted her kept secret. Adam was nonplussed. He remembered his parents mentioning that the family at Kingston Gorse had lost two girls years ago, one in infancy, the other in childbirth. “I am intrigued. I recall my mother telling me you had a sister who died. Three was she?”

  Lucien cleared his throat, his face reddening further. “Oui, Paulina.” He held up four fingers. “I was four years old.” He added his thumb to the gesture. “Vincent five.”

  His brother nodded, too vigorously, his face ashen. “We barely remember her.”

  Adam glanced at Denis whose furrowed brow and steepled hands showed his disbelief. “What caused her death?”

  “Black measles,” Marc Lallement declared.

  Lucien chewed his nails.

  Vincent rubbed his forehead.

  It was evident the three were lying. Adam thought he must have misheard. Black measles? He smelled their fear and had to continue. “I believe another daughter died in childbirth a year or two later?”

  “Oui, Rosamunda,” Lucien murmured. “Maman changed after Paulina.”

  * * *

  Marc squared his shoulders. “The deaths of our daughters devastated my wife. She has not been well since. I apologise again for her rude behavior earlier, milord Denis.”

  Denis bowed slightly in acknowledgement. “The loss of a child is a strenuous burden to bear.”

  Marc swallowed hard. “Indeed,” he rasped.

  The color drained from Vincent’s face and he looked close to tears—for a child he barely remembered. There was more going on in this household than met the eye. Denis resolved to discuss it with his brother when they retired.

  He decided to try a new ploy. Coming to his feet, he adopted his usual story-telling stance. “Let me tell you my tale. The midwife who brought me into the world believed it her duty to murder me.”

  Adam must have sensed from his posture what he was doing. His grimace betrayed his feeling that this was an inappropriate time to tell the story, but Denis persisted.

  As the details emerged, the Lallement brothers slid further and further down in their seats, as if willing the floorboards to swallow them up. Marc Lallement suddenly stood and left without a word.

  Denis winked at Adam who was now watching their hosts intently.

  He too knows they are hiding something—or someone. Why shut a daughter away?

  Send Him To Hell

  Satisfied their guests had been safely lighted to their chamber and were out of earshot, Vincent strode over to the hearth. He was not worried Adam might overhear, but suspected Denis de Sancerre did not miss much.

  He put both hands on the mantel, gazing at the dying embers of the fire. “They sense we are lying.”

  His brother pulled up a chair and sat with his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped. “You’re right.”

  Vincent grimaced. “Black measles?”

  Lucien shrugged. “Papa feels as guilty as we do, probably more so since he is culpable for the crime in the first place.”

  Vincent turned to face his brother. “I will speak to father on the morrow. I intend to tell him we can no longer continue this farce. Rosamunda and Paulina deserve better.”

  Lucien remained silent for a long while. Vincent suspected they both had the same thing on their mind. When the silence became unbearable, he asked, “What’s your opinion of the dwarf?”

  “You read my thoughts, brother. He is a gentleman, a true knight, despite his stature.”

  “He would make someone a fine husband.”

  Lucien glanced up at him sharply. “No doubt, but we must tread carefully here. Paulina is not yet free, and Denis de Sancerre may have no interest in taking a wife. She might judge him repulsive. He is not a handsome man. His deformity is not the same as hers.”

  Vincent stirred the embers with the poker. “You’re right. We could make a bad situation worse if we meddle. Rosamunda longs for a mate, but Paulina?”

  Lucien put a hand on his shoulder. “She does not recognise her own beauty. Fear hides it from her.”

  Vincent took a long breath. “We should go up and see them.”

  Lucien sighed. “But what to say? Let’s wait until we have spoken to father.”

  “Till the morrow then.”

  * * *

  Denis lay awake, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house. Judging by the tossing and turning going on at the other side of the huge bed they shared, Adam was not asleep either.

  They had talked for a long while before retiring, in agreement that the Lallements probably had a hidden daughter. They settled upon madness as the reason a parent would lock away a child.

  Still something niggled at Denis. The woman he had glimpsed for a mere second had not looked demented, though her hair was disheveled. Her beauty had struck him immediately.

  In addition, the ages did not add up. The face he had seen was that of a girl of less than twenty years. According to Lucien and Vincent, Paulina would be a few years older.

  He tapped his brother on the shoulder and Adam turned to face him. “Mayhap we are wrong and the girl was a servant,” he said loudly.

  Adam yawned. “Non. I might concur had they not stumbled over each other to conceal the truth. Somewhere in this house, there is a woman who has been locked away for many a year.”

  Denis propped his head on his hand. “But how did they perceive that a child of three was mad? She must have been a raving lunatic. Unless there was some other reason.”

  Adam kicked off the linens. “We’ve been over this already. What other reason could there be?”

  Denis snorted. “You’re asking me? The man who came close to being murdered at birth.”

  Adam chewed his lip. “Perhaps she’s a dwarf.”

  Denis lay back against the bolster. That was an interesting notion. “She did not look like a dwarf. Besides, why wait until she was three? It is obvious at birth when one is born with my qualities.”

  They lay looking up at the ceiling, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  Suddenly, Adam gripped his arm. “Do you smell that?”

  Denis sat up and sniffed the air.

  He jumped out of bed, reaching for his boots. “Something’s burning.”

  * * *

  Maudine Lallement gripped the railing at the bottom of the stairway that led to the third floor. Vertigo swept over her and she dropped the torch she had used to set afire the banners that hung from the rafters.

  “Send him to hell,” she shrieked, kicking away the fallen torch as flames licked at the hem of her nightshift. “I’ll not have a troll under my roof.”

  She watched as the hangings were quickly consumed with a whoosh, and the fire crept towards the upper chambers. “The Devil take them,” she screamed, panic taking hold as the fire scorched her legs. “Non! Help! Au secours!”

  * * *

  “Maudine!”

  Marc Lallement’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of his wife frantically swatting the burning nightshift. Scorched fragments of fabric from the banners drifted in the air. He looked up at the fire taking hold in the upper reaches of the roof timbers. Finally, he acknowledged the depth of the madness that held her in its thrall. “My little girls,” he rasped.

  Tendrils of smoke crept down the stairway, teasing the floor on which they stood. Thank God his sons’ chambers were on the lower floor.

  Anger surged through him as he rushed to the screeching human torch. Her demented eyes burned into his soul. He lunged for her, consumed with a desire to end her agony and his own. “You have murdered our beautiful children,” he
shouted.

  Screaming maniacally, she collapsed against him. He locked his arms around her, his heart at peace with what he suddenly recognised as his duty. The flames seared his flesh, but they would never burn away his sin. He embraced the agony, shoved her up against the railing and pushed with all his might, sending them both careening into nothingness.

  “Devil’s spawn,” Maudine screamed with her last breath.

  “May God forgive me,” Marc Lallement prayed as his body broke on the checkered flooring he loathed.

  We Will Die Together

  Adam, Denis and the Lallement brothers rushed into the smoke-filled entryway.

  “Mon Dieu!” Vincent fell to his knees and made the sign of the crucifix as he stared at the smoldering, broken bodies of his parents, locked together in a fatal embrace.

  “Que diable?” Denis shouted.

  Lucien retched.

  Adam shuddered, coughing as smoke constricted his throat. The scene unfolding around him seemed more horrific because he couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Servants ran hither and thither, some obviously frantic, others apparently in command. A human chain formed and buckets of water were quickly passed from hand to hand. Adam took his place in the line, relieved to be doing something useful.

  He glanced up. The rafters were alight, the thatch beginning to smolder. Water would be a waste of time. Kingston Gorse was doomed.

  Lucien seemed rooted to the spot as he stared at his dead parents, then he looked up into the burning rafters. “My sisters,” he wailed.

  * * *

  Denis’ gut clenched. He hurried to Adam, holding up two fingers as he pointed to the upper floors. “We were right, and wrong. There may be two women up there. Come on. I’ll be damned if I’ll allow them to burn to death.”