Infidelity (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 9)

by Anna Markland

  Gallien’s leg recommenced its dance. He ground his heel into the planked floor. “I am not a hothead. Nothing I have done will endanger this family. If you prefer, I will be more discreet.”

  “Non,” Baudoin thundered. “You will cease altogether with this scheme. The king still lives and may rule for many more years. This is not the time to stir up trouble. Henry did not hesitate before acquiescing to the blinding of his own grandchildren for what he perceived as the disloyalty of their parents. Do you believe we will rate any better treatment?”

  Silence ensued, everyone’s thoughts evidently on the brutal mutilation of Henry’s illegitimate granddaughters. The king did not take kindly to acts he considered a breach of trust.

  Gallien could not hold his tongue. Certain realities had to be faced. “Henry’s determination to bind Anjou to Normandie is dangerous. It has further raised the ire of King Louis of France. Louis has therefore poured more support behind Henry’s nephew in his quest to take the Duchy of Normandie from Henry.”

  Baudoin looked up into the rafters, his expression baleful. “Oui. Those of us who helped capture Henry’s brother at Tinchebray twenty years ago, foolishly believed the conflict over control of the duchy was at an end. But now, Clito has returned from exile. Curthose’s son has reignited the dispute.”

  Gallien hesitated. Should he pursue the matter? His father seemed willing to talk. “I sometimes wonder if the long rivalry between Henry and Louis will ever end.”

  Baudoin grunted. “The conflict has not spilled over into England, but it’s true that Normandie has suffered greatly from French incursions. We are fortunate Montbryce Castle is not close to the border with France.”

  Gallien felt compelled to bring the argument to its inevitable conclusion. “That’s why I am perplexed that Henry has not named Stephen of Blois as his heir. Naming his nephew would not stir up the same emotions as appointing a woman as his successor.

  “Stephen controls extensive properties in England as well as Boulogne and Blois. He and his wife are among the wealthiest noble families in England. When he came to Henry’s court after his father’s death, he did well. Henry thought highly of him and he rose to prominence quickly.”

  Étienne interrupted. “Many believe God intervened, sparing Stephen from the wreck of the Blanche Nef.” He gripped his belly and grimaced. “He stepped off the doomed boat moments before it sailed, stricken with the flux.”

  Baudoin nodded. “Stephen is a legitimate choice, a grandson of the Conqueror. His mother, Adela of Normandy, was the Conqueror’s favored child.” He chuckled. “No wonder William doted on his daughter, given the quarrelsome nature of his sons.”

  He winked at Gallien, then, unexpectedly, strode to the door and bade his family follow him to the Great Hall for the evening meal.

  Gallien shook his head. “I will join you momentarily.”

  Alone in the gallery, he noticed his mother had left her sewing. He picked it up and slumped into the chair she had vacated. It still held her warmth. He fingered the stitches of her embroidery.

  Loneliness washed over him and a longing to be the object of a passion like the love his mother lavished on his father. But it would never be. Felicité had seen to that. He was fated never to suffer the Montbryce curse. It had been a family jest since his grandfather’s time that Montbryces were that most unusual of things—noblemen in love with their wives.

  He lay the sewing aside carefully, leaning forward to gaze into the fire, his forearms on his thighs. If only the flames held some clue as to the right path to follow. His hatred of Angevins rankled, despite that his grand uncle had married an Angevin widow many years before. Antoine’s stepson, Denis de Sancerre, was one of the bravest and noblest knights Gallien had ever known, notwithstanding his dwarfed stature and Angevin birth.

  Regret filled Gallien that his father probably looked upon him now as the quarrelsome son, a thorn in his side. Nevertheless, he intended to pursue the matter of Stephen of Blois. Many nobles in England would support Stephen’s claim over Maud’s. He was at least ten years older than his cousin, already a proven leader. More importantly, he was a man. How could a woman be queen in her own right?

  Lowly Station

  Peri expected to be seasick during the voyage. Friends and neighbors had warned that everyone suffered mal de mer crossing the Narrow Sea.

  She could not control the fear that made her belly and her derrière clench as the boat rose and fell in the grey waves, but it was Alys whose face turned green as she retched into the bowl cradled in her lap.

  “Forgive me, milady,” the maidservant pleaded, gasping for breath as she trembled.

  Peri could only nod, afraid to speak lest she start to babble.

  Keeping her gaze fixed on the cliffs of England, barely visible through the driving rain, Peri held on to the flapping canvas the captain had given them as their only shelter. Her knuckles had long since turned white. If they reached the approaching shore, she would be unable to straighten her frozen fingers.

  Despite the canvas, they were soaked to the skin.

  Uncertainty as to how they would proceed once they gained the English shore plagued her. Her mind drifted to the hated Conqueror who had crossed this same narrow channel of water on his way to claim the English throne three score years before.

  What were his thoughts as he made landfall at Pevensey? She chuckled inwardly—it was well known the brute had fallen in the mud as he disembarked.

  She bit her lip. Best be careful when and if they ever set foot on dry land again. Wet clothing was one thing, being caked in mud was quite another.

  To her relief, the skies brightened and the rain ceased as they neared the cliffs of Wyke Regis, startlingly white in the sun. Steam rose from their garments as the boat pulled into shore. Within half and hour of their arrival, the captain had ushered them off the boat and unloaded their baggage.

  Sailors speaking foreign tongues plied hither and thither as the two women clung to each other beside their trunks. “How are we to get to Westminster?” she asked the captain. “Comte Fulk assured my parents someone would meet us here.”

  He pointed to two young lads lounging against a nearby wall. “Yon squire is supposed to be waiting for ye, but he is too busy yammering to notice ye have arrived.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Oy!”

  The boy scurried over, bowing to Peri and looking down his nose at Alys. “I am James de Vaudreuil, squire to Sir Valentin de Soucie, lord of the demesne wherein you find yourselves.”

  For a Norman, the boy seemed friendly.

  “We are soaked through, James.”

  “My master’s manor house is nearby. Servants will bring your baggage. On the morrow, my lord will provide an escort to Westminster.”

  Peri gazed about. “How are we to get to the manor house?”

  “My horse is at your disposal.”

  Alys snorted. “My mistress does not ride horses.”

  James’s eyes widened. “Then I will take the reins and guide the beast for you.”

  Peri did not like the sound of the word beast, but her fears eased when James led them to a small palfrey tethered nearby.

  “With your permission,” he said.

  At her nod, he put his hands to her waist and lifted her up into the saddle. She gripped it nervously, trying not to let her fear show as her heart thudded wildly.

  James made a clicking noise with his teeth. She gritted hers as the animal lurched forward. He led the horse up a steep path away from the sea. Alys walked behind, muttering loudly as she struggled up the hill.

  Peri supposed they should be grateful it wasn’t raining, but doubted Alys would appreciate the sentiment.

  The prosperous looking manor house soon came in sight. Peri thought to take advantage of her escort’s friendly nature. “How far to Westminster?” she asked.

  James hesitated for a few moments before he replied. “About three days.”

  Her heart plummeted. Three more days of uncomfortable trav
el was more than she had counted on. “By cart?”

  He looked back at her. “Non, milady. On horseback.”

  Upon hearing a strange noise behind her, she turned gingerly in the saddle. Alys lay in a heap at the side of the path.

  “Hold, James, my maid has swooned.”

  James looked back at Alys then shrugged. “I will send a servant for her.”

  Peri did not want to leave her faithful maid, but had no idea how to get off the horse. She allowed James to lead her into the courtyard of the house belonging to a knight whose name she had already forgotten.

  * * *

  After three and a half days in the saddle, Peri had blisters on her blisters. Her derrière ached like the devil. She eventually got the hang of having the horse follow her commands, thanks to tuition from James, but swore she would never ride a horse again. She worried about the cart loaded with the trunks that was soon left far behind.

  Alys had a more difficult time and within an hour of their leaving the manor house in Wyke Regis, the exasperated captain of the men-at-arms assigned to escort them took her off her horse and put her behind him on his own mount.

  To everyone’s relief, she ceased complaining after that. Indeed, with her arms clasped tightly around the man’s waist, she seemed happier than Peri had ever seen her.

  It had to be acknowledged that the road they followed was better than any she had travelled in Bretagne, or her native Anjou for that matter. According to James, King Henry had decreed that royal roads must be wide enough to allow two wagons to pass each other, or to accommodate sixteen knights riding abreast.

  Sir Valentin de Soucie had turned out to be an aged knight who rarely left his bed. His men-at-arms, Normans all, were disdainful of the Angevin women they escorted. James was the exception. Peri suspected the young squire relished getting away from his ancient master for a few days.

  They arrived at Westminster Palace after midnight where they waited in a drafty hallway for more than an hour. There were no chairs. Peri swayed, beyond exhaustion. Alys slumped to the floor, her back against the wall. Peri did not have the energy to reprimand her.

  Eventually they were led to a small chamber by a servant who eyed them curiously, then rattled off a list of instructions for the morrow that Peri barely understood.

  Her chamber-mate was already asleep and did not stir as Alys helped Peri undress. She crawled between the ice cold musty linens of her tiny bed, feeling like an old woman. Her maidservant curled up on the floor and within moments was snoring loudly.

  * * *

  It was still dark when Alys shook Peri awake. Had she slept? Yawning, she looked over to the other bed.

  “Already gone,” her maid explained. “She left some water in the ewer. Seems nice.”

  Peri’s spirits lifted as she stretched her arms above her head. This was high praise indeed from the critical Alys.

  She had longed for a bath, but had to be content with sponging her body with the water remaining in the ewer, while Alys worked frantically to make the wrinkled gown presentable for her first day as lady-in-waiting.

  Already exhausted after struggling into the gown and having her hair braided tightly, she left in search of the chamber where she was to receive instruction in her duties.

  Confused by the endless labyrinth of hallways at Westminster, she soon got lost. Two people gave her directions that led to the wrong places. A third ignored her desperate request for help, no doubt thinking a madwoman had accosted them.

  At last, exasperated, she stumbled upon the chamber, a few minutes late. She heard the faint crowing of a cock. Breathless, she muttered her apology to the richly dressed matron who stood with arms folded, tapping her foot. Three young women were lined up in front of her, heads bowed, studying their feet.

  Apparently, she was not the only new recruit.

  She held her arms rigid at her sides, fisting her fingers into the fabric of her olive green gown.

  “I assume you are Peridotte de Pontrouge—the Angevin,” the doyenne declared loudly, her elaborate lyre-shaped wimple teetering alarmingly.

  “Oui, milady,” Peri murmured, stifling an urge to yawn at this ungodly hour.

  The woman harrumphed, her eyes raking Peri from head to toe, and back. “I am Lady Ermintrude de Calumette, senior lady-in-waiting. You will address me as Milady Ermintrude.”

  “Oui, Milady Ermintrude,” Peri parroted, mortified to be the centre of attention in such a manner. It was a poor beginning.

  Lady Ermintrude looked down her long nose. “I have already assigned these punctual young women, Norman women I might add, to their duties. Since you are late, you will be chambermaid to the empress.”

  Elation flooded Peri’s heart. Despite her tardy arrival she was to be allowed to serve in the royal bedchamber, a high honor indeed. Ignoring the titters of the other girls, she straightened her shoulders. “Merci, Milady Ermintrude.”

  The dragon lady droned on and on about court etiquette, enumerating rules concerning this and that. Peri’s mind wandered as her gaze fixed on the ornate embellishments of the chamber’s ceiling. Her legs seemed to think she was still on horseback.

  The repeated snapping together of a finger and thumb jolted her attention back to Lady Ermintrude, who glowered at her, then suddenly turned on her heel, bidding the girls to follow. “Pay heed. I will explain your duties to each of you in detail.”

  Peri fell in at the end of the line as they followed the swish of Lady Ermintrude’s heavy gown. She mused absently that a woman of grey complexion did not look attractive in bright red. Moreover, the overwhelming perfume of roses did nothing to mask the pungent odor of the lady’s body.

  Peri tapped the shoulder of the girl in front of her. “I’m Peridotte de Pontrouge,” she whispered.

  The girl’s shoulders stiffened, but she offered no reply.

  First stop was the steam-filled laundry. The oppressive heat almost felled Peri. She pulled her sticky gown away from her midriff. Lady Ermintrude turned to the girl at the head of the line, her gnarled hand on a heaping pile of gowns. “Francine Beaujoie, these are our empress’s soiled gowns.”

  Peri peered into the mist beyond Ermintrude. Youths and young girls laboriously stirred huge cauldrons of steaming water. The sun had barely risen, yet they looked like they had been toiling for hours. Many had shriveled patches of skin on their arms, legs and faces, no doubt the result of being scalded. She hunched her shoulders as a strange foreboding washed over her.

  Dragging her gaze back to the garments, Peri noted several stains on the gown on the top of the pile. Nearby, two older noblewomen sponged other frocks. Another plied a needle. All three wore heavy gowns unsuitable for such a place. They blinked away sweat dripping from their brows.

  “You will learn from Lady Julie and Lady Latourneau how to clean and mend these gowns. They must be spotless before they are returned to the Wardrober.”

  Francine Beaujoie did not look joyful at the task she had been assigned, but she nodded gracefully and joined her teachers. As Peri watched one of the older women dab away the sweat trickling down her nose, she was heartily glad to have avoided that task. She hated sewing. Buried in the laundry, Francine would likely never meet the royal personage she served. She gave the girl what she hoped was a smile of encouragement as they left. To her surprise, Francine smiled back. Peri hoped this was her chamber-mate.

  They continued on to the kitchens, where Tandine de Grisjaune was instructed on how to taste food prepared for Maud. “There is ever the danger of poison,” Ermintrude declared, glaring at the nearest cook, who snarled back like a caged beast. Tandine looked ready to swoon.

  Peri enjoyed the kitchen at Pontrouge where there was always a tasty morsel to be coaxed from the jolly cook. She doubted she would have lasted long in the smoky and noisy confines of Westminster’s kitchens. Weary-looking children sat amid mounds of carrots, parsnips, leeks, and onions, their hands raw from peeling. An army of cooks screamed commands at pasty-faced scullery mai
ds and sullen serving wenches, who darted hither and thither. Grease from roasting animals spat and smoked as it hit the hungry flames of roaring fires. Steaming cauldrons boiled. Aromas that might have been tantalizing on their own mingled into a belly-churning miasma.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Peri tagged behind the girl who still had not acknowledged her in any way.

  Ermintrude ushered them into the royal bedchamber, a forefinger pressed to her chapped lips. Peri gaped at the elaborate bed that took up most of the large chamber, surprised Maud had already risen. If Peri were empress she would not be up before dawn, especially if she could luxuriate in such a bed.

  Raised on a dais with three steps, it was at least four times thicker than Peri’s bed at home. Heavy damask curtains hung on three sides, cascading down like a shimmering blue waterfall from a rail suspended high in the ceiling. A coverlet had been made of the same material. Threads of gold glittered against the blue of the damask. The bed looked as though no one had ever slept in it.

  Massive ornate wooden chests sat against the walls. An enormous carved armoire five times the size of Peri’s chamber took up part of one wall. Extravagantly detailed wall sconces of wrought iron held thick beeswax candles, snuffed now in the light of day. Arabian carpets warmed the floor. Peri itched to tear off her shoes and stockings so she could wiggle her toes in the rugs, but Ermintrude warned them off with an imperious wag of a gnarled finger.

  Pride filled Peri’s heart that she, a person of no significance from Anjou, had been chosen to serve here amid this opulence. No matter how hard a taskmistress the empress might turn out to be, Peri would bear anything to work in such splendor. She vowed to write to her parents this very night to tell them of her good fortune and the favor she had found.

  Ermintrude’s harsh voice jerked her attention back to the other newcomer. They stood by one of the chests, now open. “When the empress disrobes, her ladies place her clothing in this chest. You, Philippa de Grosmont, will have the honor of taking it to Francine in the laundry.”