Maud’s face brightened. “Where is Montbryce being held?”
“Tamworth, Empresse.”
“Prepare a writ authorizing his release, then fetch it here for my seal. Get it to Tamworth immediately. I’ll wager Marmion knows naught of this. He is in Normandie. Send word to Ellesmere. Once that is done, summon my husband.”
Ermintrude bowed as best she could and hastened off to fulfill her errand.
* * *
Shudders still shook her, but Peri’s tears had dried. Nestled in a bed of damp straw in the stables, she stared up at the rafters.
She should be with her children, but her body refused to heed her heart’s entreaties. The wet nurse would take care of them. The countess would see to it.
She groaned, turning on to her side, curling her knees to her chest. The Montbryces would cast her out, convinced she had betrayed her husband. They would take her children from her.
What was left to live for if she lost the three people who meant everything?
She had pondered long and hard on how this had happened. It was Geoffrey of Anjou who had destroyed her life, of that she was certain. Somehow, because of her rebuttal, he had sought vengeance.
It came to her that if Geoffrey had imprisoned Gallien, he was the only one who might free him. She must go to him, beg him to release her husband. It would be humiliating, but she would do it.
But how? If she knew Geoffrey’s whereabouts, it was impossible to travel without an escort. The earl had already departed for Henry’s court.
A dull pain throbbed behind her eyes. Her body ached as if she had been stretched on the rack.
“Peri?”
She forced open her eyes to see who whispered her name.
Fleurie’s face floated over her. Her sister-by-marriage put something cool and damp on her forehead. “Come, Peri, Maman plots our strategy in the Map Room.”
“Strategy?” she rasped from her thirst-ravaged throat.
“To get Gallien home.”
Peri put her palm on the soothing wetness on her forehead. “If we succeed in obtaining his release, he believes it was I who betrayed him.”
Fleurie smiled. “Gallien is my brother. I know him well. He has a tendency to jump to the wrong conclusions. It’s plain you love him and he knows it too, if only he would stop to think. But who can blame him after—”
She stopped abruptly, but Peri was too exhausted to ask what she meant. Tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks. “I cannot live without him. Our children need him.”
Fleurie hooked her arm under Peri’s. “Come, you’ll feel better once you have washed your face and eaten something.”
Peri struggled to her feet. The mere mention of food had her belly roiling. “If I eat I will be sick.”
Once on her feet, she felt better. It eased her pain that the Montbryces judged her blameless. “I must write to Geoffrey of Anjou,” she declared.
* * *
It took an hour, but finally the four women had a letter they were confident would prod Geoffrey into releasing Gallien. The countess summoned the scrivener. Upon his arrival, she coughed into her fisted hand. “Let me read it once more before you copy it onto parchment, and add the necessary preambles and flourishes. We value your opinion.”
I write to you as a loyal servant and subject. My loyalty has never been in question, even when I was a simple Angevin and you were the son of my comte.
I am now the wife of an English nobleman whose family has for decades demonstrated its loyalty to the royal court of which you are a member.
For reasons unknown to me, my husband has been arrested and accused of treason. My children and I are bereft and at a loss to know how this has come about.
I can vouch for my husband’s steadfast loyalty to our Illustrious King Henry, and to his Successor.
I beg you to intercede on his behalf and petition for his release from Tamworth Castle, and for the quashing of these unfounded charges.
Though you and I have travelled far from Anjou and God has granted us His favor in countless ways, I trust the bonds of fealty, one Angevin to another, remain firmly in place.
Your loyal servant,
Peridotte de Montbryce
“You don’t think we have used the word loyalty too often?” Peri asked.
The countess shook her head. “Absolutely not. Loyalty is the issue here, and it’s imperative to remind Geoffrey of that.”
Fleurie agreed. “And you have mentioned Rodrick and Grace. I doubt Geoffrey knows you have children.”
“There’s a reminder too of your previous friendship with him,” Isabelle remarked.
Peri blushed. “Oui, though the friendship meant something different to Geoffrey of the Wandering Hands.”
The scrivener studied the ceiling.
The countess eyed her curiously. “I had a feeling.”
Peri arched her brows, buoyed by the love and support of her Norman family. “The word Geoffrey’s vanity will warm to is subject.”
The others laughed. The scrivener gave his approval and suggested an appropriate preamble. They left him to his task.
* * *
Ermintrude sighed with relief. Her secretary had transcribed the writ for Montbryce’s release. What a treasure Philippa de Grosmont had turned out to be. Handwriting was now far beyond Ermintrude’s arthritic hands.
Maud had applied her seal, and the document was on its way to Tamworth. Here was an opportunity for a few minutes of well earned repose before she had to be at Maud’s side for the interview with Geoffrey. She wouldn’t miss it for the world.
* * *
Devlin’s cock hardened pleasantly as his teeth grazed Philippa de Grosmont’s nipple. The glint of desire in her eyes pleased him. Last year’s bevy of young ladies-in-waiting had proven fruitful indeed, though none would ever equal Felicité.
It had never been his intention to fall in love with her. The annual influx of nubile women anxious to please had for years supplied him with sexual gratification beyond his late wife’s wildest imaginings. It was easy: seduce them, bed them, and discard them, pleading his wife’s censure.
Felicité had been different; a kindred soul. Their liaison might have gone on uninterrupted if the chit had not got with child. She had insisted on being wed, and urged him to put away his wife, until he informed her he would then lose the prosperous estate where he dwelt—dowry lands. All would have gone well had she not flaunted a bastard in Montbryce’s face. That had led to her death.
Now, when he thirsted for vengeance, Fate had not only taken his wife, it had delivered three women into his lap, one of whom had married Montbryce.
He had toyed with the idea of wedding Philippa, but decided on Tandine. Philippa was a schemer, a spy whose talents he would put to use under threat of exposing their clandestine affair. That would ruin her for life, whereas a married man was expected to take mistresses.
Tandine was more malleable, better suited to taking care of his children far away from Court. He suspected Philippa would rather die than embark on such a life.
His lover raked her nails down the line of hair that sprouted at his chest, then circled his navel. “Your thoughts are elsewhere.”
Devlin chuckled. “I was thinking of my wife.”
Anger flooded her face and she raised her hand to slap his face. “That cry-baby. I don’t understand why you didn’t marry me.”
Laughing, he grasped Philippa’s hand before she delivered the blow. “Nay, Tandine is the woman to bring up my children.” He straddled her. “You are too lusty for that. Better suited to bedsport, and other useful things.”
She pouted, struggling half-heartedly to dislodge him. She twirled her finger in the curls at his chest. “What kind of other things?”
Smiling, he turned onto his back. She came to her knees and cupped his sac as her mouth descended on his shaft. “Well, that’s one,” he rasped as pleasure rippled from his toes to the top of his head.
She sucked him into the back of her throa
t, then moved her mouth up and down on him. One hand grasped the root of his shaft, mimicking the movement of her mouth, the other played with his balls. For a shrew, she certainly knew how to please a man. Tandine would probably faint dead away if he suggested she put her mouth on him.
He dug his fingers into Philippa’s scalp, euphoria sweeping over him as her mouth milked his seed from his body. It was clear he had made the right decision. He would have the best of both worlds: Tandine his dutiful wife, Philippa his willing slave, anxious to be his eyes and ears at court.
He ran his finger over her glistening lips. “Any news to tell me before I go, my love?”
She smiled slyly. “Yes, but you have not seen to my pleasure. I will tell you after—”
Anger rose in Devlin’s throat. She sought to manipulate him. He grabbed her by the hair. “You will tell me now.”
She yelped in pain as he pulled hard. “Let go. It’s nothing. Maud has signed a writ releasing Gallien de Montbryce.”
He slapped her, his blood on fire. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
He dressed quickly and left her cowering near the hearth.
Madness
Hatred of Normans had been bred into Geoffrey of Anjou—they were the age-old enemy. Now he lived among them, was married to one, and he despised them all the more.
He slouched in his official chair, which was noticeably smaller and less ornate than that of his wife seated next to him. He stared at nothing in particular in the Small Hall at Westminster while she rambled on and on about Gallien de Montbryce. Who would have suspected a trivial event would cause such uproar?
He was determined not to look at Maud, just as she stared into nothingness when they made love. Hah! Love had naught to do with what happened in their bedchamber. She barely tolerated his presence, shoving him off and sending him packing as soon as the deed was done. She refused to remove her nightrail in the bedchamber, and made him feel like a bungling lad. It would be a miracle indeed if the dried up prune ever conceived. Indeed, ’twas a miracle he was able to perform his husbandly duties at all. His tarse lost interest at the sight of her. It was akin to bedding his mother.
Too bad the lovely Angevin was obviously in love with her husband. What a touching missive he had received from her. He sighed, chewing a rough fingernail. De Villiers had lied. He should have known better than to trust a Norman.
His resolve to keep his eyes fixed elsewhere wavered when Maud announced she had ordered Montbryce’s release. He was tempted to leap up and strangle her. The imperious bitch intended to make a laughing stock of him. And if he got his hands around the scrawny neck of Ermintrude de Calumette, the smug smile would quickly disappear from her ugly face.
He took several deep breaths and had regained his composure, but then Maud shot a poisoned arrow.
“It is imperative my father learn nothing of this arrest. The Earl of Ellesmere is en route to see him. You must head him off, apologize, and assure him his son has been released and the charges dropped.”
So—he was to grovel at the feet of a Norman earl. He rose, bowed to his wife without looking at her, and left the chamber.
If sitting on the throne of England after Henry’s death meant putting up with this foutaise, he would do it. But a day of reckoning would come.
* * *
Devlin rode like a madman, his face frozen into a grimace by the cold wind, determined to push his horse to Tamworth before Maud’s emissary arrived. He had learned from an ostler in the stables that the messenger had left only four hours before. Westminster to Tamworth was a journey of three days, unless the man rode as recklessly as Devlin, who intended to make it there in two.
His stump ached with the effort of controlling the horse, but it was imperative he arrive before Montbryce was released. He cursed the earlier, seemingly clever decision to incarcerate his nemesis far from Westminster.
Why had Geoffrey of Anjou told his wife of the arrest? What an idiot. He ought to have known an Angevin would foul things up.
These events called for Montbryce’s removal to another location—one where Devlin could take his time over his revenge. He had at first been reluctant to use his own estate, despite its proximity to Tamworth. The undercroft might prove just the place. His late wife’s old laundry cauldron was stored there. It was big enough to boil a cow. Six children produced a lot of soiled garments. His lips curled into a bitter smile when he thought of the possibilities.
* * *
Gallien feared he might go mad with boredom and worry. Something his father had told him about Robert’s imprisonment played on his mind. At first, his oncle had assumed the torturers would come, but after days of anxious waiting he had realized that a long solitary confinement was to be his torture.
Gallien dreaded the possibility that he might waste away in this shabby chamber, with no human contact except a guard who brought food. When questioned about the castellan, the man gave evasive answers.
Over and over, Gallien paced off the chamber, measured the width and height of the window with his hand span, and counted the number of stones in the hearth, trying to guess where they had been quarried.
Remembering the oft-told tale of his granduncle Hugh rescuing tante Devona by means of a secret passageway, he examined every nook and cranny of the chamber, searching in vain for a mechanism that might reveal a hidden door.
He plotted several means of escape, including a descent from the window or a slide down the privy shaft but, even tied together, the linens were inadequate for either venture. The window was too narrow for his bulk in any case.
He might possibly overpower the guard, but at least two more waited outside the door.
His longing for Peri was soul deep. With nothing to do but think, he quickly came to his senses about her perceived betrayal. Peri was a precious jewel, a woman of honor and merit—and she loved him, Gallien the unlovable. Felicité’s hold over him slipped away.
But he had exchanged one prison for another. He chafed to be free, to return to his wife and children. His family must be frantic with worry. No doubt his father had already petitioned Henry for his release.
As he embarked on his umpteenth measurement of the chamber, the door was suddenly thrust open and in walked the last person he expected to see. An icy hand gripped Gallien’s heart. He strode towards Devlin de Villiers ready to do murder and reached for his enemy’s throat. “What the devil are you doing here?”
De Villiers smirked, dodging out of reach as two guards rushed into the chamber, seizing Gallien. They forced him to his knees.
Gallien struggled. “I might have known you had something to do with this travesty.”
“Indeed,” de Villiers replied. “It was my pleasure to provide your accommodation here. Tamworth is a wonderful castle, don’t you think? However, I am afraid your comfortable stay has come to an end.”
He waved the guards forward.
Blinding pain arrowed through Gallien’s head as he was struck from behind. He slumped to the stone floor, anguished that he would never have the chance to make amends to his wife.
Fiend
Sweat trickled off the end of Gallien’s nose. He stuck out his tongue, but the meager drops did nothing to assuage his raging thirst. Pain spread its tentacles through his arms and shoulders and his head throbbed. Giant hands squeezed the air out of his lungs. His heart lurched. He had been stretched on a rack.
But his ankles were not bound. Taking a deep breath, he reached with his feet. The pain eased as he took some of his weight onto his toes, which barely touched a cold stone floor. He was not on a rack, but had been strung up like a hunk of meat for dressing.
He peeled open his eyes and glanced down. He had been stripped to the waist and his boots removed. Livid bruises darkened his torso and belly. He took a deep breath. A sharp stab of pain hinted at a cracked rib or two. He had a vague memory of being tossed over the back of a horse like a sack of grain. Slowly, he raised his head. His wrists were tied to a rafter.
> Wherever he was, it was hotter than Hades. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. He was in a cellar. The source of heat was a smoky fire in a circular stone grate. Over it stood an enormous blackened cauldron perched on a square metal frame. Steam rose from the vessel. He had seen something similar in the laundry at Ellesmere.
Fear writhed in his bowels. The cauldron did not bode well for whatever de Villiers had in mind. Would the madman sever a limb? Would it be an eye for an eye? Had his father spoken to Henry? Was help on the way? But where was he?
He doubted he was still in Tamworth. De Villiers had obviously finagled his way into the castle with the warrant while Marmion was absent, but would never dare torture Gallien there.
He looked up at the beam, flexing his fingers. The rough wood scraped the insides of his wrists and the rope dug into his skin, aggravating the welts left by the manacles. His prison did not look like a castle dungeon, but rather the cellar of a smaller building, mayhap a manor house.
De Villiers had perhaps brought him bound and gagged to his own estate. If that was the case, he was not far from home.
Home.
He took deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had the courage to face whatever pain his enemy would inflict, but the prospect of never seeing Peri and his children again was unbearable.
The loud creak of rusted hinges alerted him to the presence of another, though he could see nothing through the billowing steam. He tensed, waiting.
De Villiers loomed out of the mist, his mouth twisted into an evil sneer. “Ah! Milord de Montbryce. I trust everything is to your satisfaction here in my humble home.”
Gallien remained silent. That De Villiers had brought him to his own estate was ominous. Obviously, the fiend believed Gallien would never leave alive to tell the tale. He had not come armed, which eased Gallien’s fears a little. Perhaps he would keep his limbs for the moment, but nothing would deter his tormentor from his intent.
Stroking his beard, De Villiers strutted around him slowly. “Not too tight, I hope. The ropes?”
Infidelity (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 9) Page 15
