Mabelle looked up from her stitching. “Don’t be despondent. Robert and Baudoin have developed an appreciation for the Welsh language and culture, despite the fact they underwent their kidnapping ordeal at the hands of Welshmen when they were boys. Hylda Rhonwen has a great fondness for the land of her birth. She often boasts of being born in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn in Wales.”
Ram smiled. “C’est vrai. She likes being called Rhoni because it sounds more Welsh.”
“Remember too that Rhodri ap Owain has made a point of not attacking your lands since his marriage to Rhonwen, and she has visited us frequently, with her children. These are small steps. Change takes time.”
“Oui, I was surprised Rhodri agreed to her visits.”
“He loves Rhonwen deeply and is grateful that she agreed to marry him and share his life as a warrior, though she’s a woman of peace.”
Ram shook his head. “It’s difficult to believe that eighteen years have passed since the kidnapping. You’re a remarkable woman, Mabelle. It was your strength that helped everyone survive that ordeal. I still keep your love letter close to my heart.”
He patted his doublet, smiling at the memory of reading the letter Mabelle had written on the last day of her captivity, avowing her love for him. He reminisced a lot these days.
I’m getting old.
He rubbed his knees. “My body isn’t as capable of action as it used to be. And a pox on this cursed rheumatism.”
Mabelle abandoned her sewing and crossed the room to where her husband was seated. She stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, kissing the top of his head. “Be content. You and I share an intoxicating and erotic passion and our lovemaking is still a thrilling joy for us both, after all these years.”
He reached up and took hold of her hands, drawing them around his neck, leaning his head back against her, inhaling the scent that was uniquely Mabelle. It had intoxicated him for nigh on thirty years. For as long as he’d known her, they’d been drawn to each other, the mere sight of her enough to arouse him.
Years ago, he’d been afraid his deep love for his wife and family would interfere with his ambitions and abilities, when in fact it had enhanced them and made him whole. He loved and was loved in return and had become one of the wealthiest and most influential men in England, with the help of his wife.
“You make me feel like a youth.”
“You’re still my stallion.”
They clung together for several minutes until he drew her down on his lap, needing to feel the light friction of her body on his growing arousal. She leaned into him, cradled in his arms.
He kissed the top of her head. “My biggest regret is that we’ve never been able to return to Normandie to live. It’s where we belong.”
“We go at least once a year to see Robert, now he has moved there permanently. I know he’s a grown man of three and twenty but I miss him and worry about him.”
“He has to live in Normandie,” Ram replied. “As the future Comte de Montbryce, he must learn to administer the castle at Saint Germain. Those estates are of primary value. Baudoin will inherit the lands in England, as well as the title of Earl of Ellesmere. Don’t forget, my brothers and their families are close by. They are strong allies for Robert.”
Mabelle chuckled. “It’s hard to believe Hugh and Antoine have adult children of their own now.”
“Harder still to believe Rhoni’s eighteen. A woman.”
“You’ll need to look for a husband for her soon. We’ve put it off long enough.”
Ram wasn’t looking forward to that prospect. Rhoni could be stubborn—like her mother.
He and Mabelle sat in silence for a while. He twirled his fingers absent-mindedly in her hair and stroked her leg, holding her tightly, his lips pressed to her temple. “We Normans have become the English nobility, the new ruling class. We’ve lived in England close to thirty years. Thirty years! Castles are being built everywhere it seems. The church I commissioned for Ellesmere is a grand building. When I gaze up at the intricate rib vaulting, my heart swells with pride.”
“However,” Mabelle cautioned, “the Conqueror began his reign with words of reconciliation, but, within ten years, he’d obliterated many of the higher echelons of the English nobility.”
Ram agreed. “Some of our fellow Normans believe themselves invincible, and there’s an inherent danger in that. After these many years, there’s still tension between the conquerors and the conquered.”
“But,” she interjected again, “your friend William kept good order. Par example, if a man lay with a woman against her will, the king decreed he should have those parts of his anatomy with which he disported himself removed.”
Ram glanced at her, a peculiar chill running up his spine. Then he saw the expression on her face. She had spoken in jest. His erection swelled and she raised her eyebrows and smiled, grinding into him.
“You look worried, Ram. I’m only toying with you and I love to do that.”
She stood and took his hands, drawing him up from the chair. She fondled him, pressing her hand against the straining fabric of his hose and her breasts to his chest.
She was unaware that his serious demeanor was caused by the sudden unwelcome memory of what was really his biggest regret in life—he’d lain with another when he believed her lost to him. Though she’d broken the betrothal, he still deemed it an infidelity that had haunted him since the aftermath of Hastings when he’d been taken, injured, to the manor house of a Saxon widow at Ruyton.
What bothered him most about the episode was that he’d never summoned the courage to tell Mabelle about it. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. He was passionately in love with his wife and didn’t want to hurt her. Yet he felt a compulsion to tell her. It was foolish. He and Mabelle weren’t married, or even betrothed at the time, but he still felt he’d betrayed her. He only hoped she loved him enough to forgive him. It was the desire for her forgiveness driving him to tell her. He was like a penitent thirsting for the Sacrament of Forgiveness.
“Much as I would love to stay here with you, I have to speak with Bonhomme,” Mabelle suddenly said.
He held on to her hand. “How long will you be?”
She kissed his fingertips. “Not long.”
He couldn’t bring the matter up in their private chamber. It wouldn’t be appropriate in a place where they’d shared fulfilling intimacy for many years. “Meet me in the gallery. I’ll wait for you there.”
As soon as she entered the gallery a short time later, his body responded in the usual way. He could tell by the suggestive smile and the fire in her eyes that she too was pleased to see him. He embraced her and kissed each cheek as he carefully took her hands in his. She broadened her smile and moved to arch her body to him, but he held her away, touching his fingers to the silver streaks in her beautiful hair.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve something I need to tell you, Mabelle,” he replied as calmly as he could. “Something about an occurrence at Ruyton, many years ago.”
There was a tap at the door, and the steward entered.
“Sorry milady, I forgot—”
“Not now, Bonhomme,” Ram said curtly, regretting his rudeness to the man whose family had served his for generations.
Mabelle’s belly clenched. She’d wondered about Ruyton, suspecting that her husband had bedded another woman there in the period after Hastings, and before the Conqueror’s coronation. She knew he’d been taken to the manor house of a Saxon noblewoman.
At first, unreasonable rage had consumed her; after all, she was the one who’d canceled the betrothal. But the more she thought about how anguished he must have been, and how little support she had provided him, the more inclined she was not to pass judgement. He’d never mentioned it and she sensed that, if it had happened, he deeply regretted it.
We weren’t married. I had released him from our betrothal. Why does it torment him?
Now she sensed what was t
o come. “You can tell me, Ram,” she said, hoping she would meet this challenge with grace.
Ram took hold of her hands, but his head was bowed as he admitted, “It was after Hastings. I was…I’d been injured, as you know, in the skirmish with Rhodri.” He raised his head and looked at her face. “Mabelle, I betrayed you. I bedded another woman.”
Ram expected his wife to pull away, but she didn’t.
Silence filled the gallery.
“Tell me about it, my husband,” she whispered finally.
He looked into tear-filled eyes, but didn’t see condemnation. Sighing, he drew her over to a chair and bade her sit. He sat in the other chair, and leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. He told her the story, pausing now and again to run his hands through greying hair.
She was silent for a long time, and then asked, “Is she still in Scotland?”
“I suppose. As far as I know she’s never returned to the manor in Ruyton—only because I’ve administered the estate, through a seneschal who keeps in touch with her, and I’ve provided men-at-arms as security. I did that partly through a sense of wanting to protect a woman alone, and also to safeguard a vulnerable property in the Marches from the Welsh. But I made it known in no uncertain terms I wasn’t to be bothered with any of it.”
“You’ve never seen her since that day?”
“No. I’ve never wanted to see her. I felt no love for her, only compassion. I didn’t force her, Mabelle, you must believe that. But she didn’t force me either.”
She rose from her chair, took his hands in hers and bade him rise. “I sensed something happened at Ruyton, long ago, that you regretted. I thought it involved a woman, but I love you with all my heart. If you love someone, you can forgive them. I forgave you long ago for this.”
He put his arms around her waist. “Mabelle,” he whispered hoarsely, “What did I do to deserve you? You’re my life, and I worship you. Everything I am, everything I have is yours. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”
She encircled his waist, and drew his body to hers. “You’re a wonderful man. A proud Norman, a credit to your country, a brave hero, strong, educated, loving, a good father, husband, and brother, a handsome and passionate lover. A true Montbryce. But no one is perfect. You’d endured the horror of Hastings. I was immersed in my own grief and confusion and failed to provide you with the love you needed, to help you deal with the toll that battle took on you. We weren’t married then, or even betrothed.”
He shook his head. “But my heart told me you were my destiny, Mabelle. I knew it was a betrayal.”
He drew her closer and they clung to each other. She held him tightly as the long pent up regrets shook him. It was a lament for the friends and comrades lost amid horrendous carnage almost thirty years before, for the anguish of their separation during her kidnapping, for his dead Conqueror, for his homesickness for Normandie, and for his betrayal of the woman he loved. But his tears were also ones of relief that she’d forgiven him.
“You must think me a coward,” he sniffled, though he had to admit the experience had been a cleansing one.
Mabelle put her palm against his cheek. “A man who can’t cry, who can’t feel things deeply, isn’t a man. One thing you could never be accused of is cowardice. Let’s go to our chamber. It’s getting late.”
“Hmm. Did you say handsome and passionate lover a while ago? Is that what I am?” he said, smiling at her, feeling suddenly like a young stallion.
“Oh, oui—and more,” she smiled back. “I should have added insatiable.”
“Non, Mabelle, that would mean I can’t be satisfied, and you more than satisfy my needs. Come, let me show you.”
Two hours later, as he lay with his wife’s warm body nestled against him, he remembered that their son would soon be visiting from Normandie for the Yuletide celebrations.
“When is Robert arriving?” he asked lazily.
“Two days hence.”
“It will be good to see him, but I worry about the amount of time he spends away from Normandie. His life is there. He’ll be the Comte. He needs to get established.”
“He knows that. He’s happy to live in Normandie. He only comes because he misses us and his brother and sister, especially at this time of year.”
Robert Comes Home
Ram’s heart lifted as he watched his eldest son stride into the Great Hall with the confidence that was his birthright. He and Mabelle were immensely proud of Robert. As a boy he’d endured being kidnapped and threatened with beheading by a maniac bent on misguided revenge, yet he’d dealt with it all with courage and resilience.
He’d grown into a handsome man, the mirror image of his father. He was lithe, fit and strong, and had the same piercing blue eyes as his sire. He was a trained warrior who’d accompanied Ram in skirmishes against the Welsh and had acquitted himself well. Aware of his inheritance, he’d assumed the mantle of the castle in Normandie and the lands there without qualm. He’d stepped smoothly into the role of comte-in-waiting. He loved Normandie.
“Robert. Mon fils,” Mabelle cried, flinging her arms open wide when she saw her son enter.
“Maman,” he replied with a smile, hugging her.
“Good to see you, my boy,” said his father, coming forward to embrace him.
“Papa, it’s good to see you too.”
“Robert!” Hylda Rhonwen flung her arms around his neck.
“Rhoni, I’m content to linger in the warm embrace of my loving sister. You’re growing up, little Welshwoman.” Family tradition demanded they all tease Hylda Rhonwen about being born in Wales.
They talked for a long while, enjoying the easy warmth that only members of a loving family can share with each other. Ram felt good. He’d enjoyed a loving, if strict, relationship with his parents. He’d made a point after the kidnapping of making sure his children were aware he cared deeply about them. They trusted each other, aware that a great family could only prosper if its members shared love and trust. Family treachery had divided many noble houses, as evidenced by Mabelle’s own family, the Valtesses.
Robert brought them up to date on the news from Normandie, and Ram shared his opinions of King William Rufus. “William hasn’t been successful expanding our influence into Wales,” he confided. “He’s an effective soldier, but he’s a ruthless ruler who’s disliked by those he governs. He’s hateful to all his people, roundly denounced for presiding over what’s held to be a dissolute court and questions have been raised about his sexual preferences.”
He noticed his wife’s look of disapproval. “Sorry, my dear. He’s a flamboyant character with a belligerent temperament who hasn’t married, and hasn’t sired any bastards, let alone legitimate heirs.”
If Ram voiced these thoughts in some circles, he could be charged with treason, but he was safe here at home with his wife and children. “I’m the proudest and most stalwart Norman there is, but we have to embrace the culture of the English to a certain degree, if we want to rule here successfully and for the long term. After all these years, people still rebel against us. Have we learned nothing? William Rufus scorns the English and their culture. He’s cruel, grasping, and arrogant and lacks tact and discretion. As you know, he’s frequently in conflict with his elder brother Curthose, Duke of the Normans.
A servant entered with refreshments.
Everyone stopped talking.
Robert indicated to the girl that he would pour the wine for his parents.
She nodded and left.
Robert handed his father a goblet of wine.
“Merci, mon fils.”
“Go on, Papa,” Robert said, pouring for everyone else. “Only sit. Your pacing is making us all nervous.”
Ram laughed, and sank down into his favorite chair, rubbing his knees. “Gladly. Rufus feuds with his bishops and confiscates church revenues for his own extravagances.”
Sensing her irritation, he glanced at Mabelle. “I know we talk of naught else.”
Mabelle shrugged. “It’s i
mportant you discuss these matters. Don’t worry.”
Ram nodded his gratitude and continued. They discussed the situation in Scotland and agreed it was confusing and volatile.
“I’ve heard much of this before,” Robert said, “but I’m interested in your opinions. What happens in England affects my position in Normandie. The politics of both countries have become inextricably intertwined.
“The underlying problem remains that we have a ruler of the Normans, Duke Robert Curthose, and a ruler of the English, King William Rufus, which results in us Normans trying to serve two masters. Brothers who hate each other.”
“Exactement! You have it exactly. That’s what some of us have attempted to achieve, one ruler for both. Otherwise there’s too much instability. If we serve Duke Robert Curthose of Normandie, we’ll offend our King William Rufus and he may deprive us of our revenues in England. However, if we serve Rufus, Curthose may confiscate our lands in Normandie.”
Ram shook his head, exasperated with the political games that seemed to swirl around them constantly. Sometimes he wished he could withdraw to Saint Germain and enjoy his apple orchards. “I see your Maman has finished her wine, and she and Rhoni are getting bored with all this talk of politics.”
He suspected Mabelle wanted to steer the conversation in other directions, especially to when Robert intended to marry and produce heirs. “Baudoin will be home soon to join us for the meal,” he informed Robert. “He’s meeting with some of the tenant farmers.”
Mabelle suggested they take their places in the hall, since the servants were about to serve. “Trésor has prepared your favorite foods, Robert, let’s go enjoy them. You know how she is if we don’t appear when she has everything ready. She rules here, not your father.”
They all laughed, knowing she spoke the truth about the cook who’d been trained in Normandie to come and serve them in England many years ago. Trésor had boxed Robert’s ears on more than one occasion.
Impending Visit
Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3) Page 12
