“Leofric will be more than happy to stay there, with his wife.”
Caedmon sat up abruptly. “His wife?”
“He and Coventina married.”
“The devil! Her mother approved?”
“She didn’t have much choice. Coventina finally stood up for what she wanted.”
Caedmon lay back down and cradled his wife again, chuckling.
Agneta put her fingers on his lips. “Will you promise, if we go to Kirkthwaite, to do something for me?”
“I’ll do anything for you,” he whispered, nibbling her earlobe.
Agneta rose and went to the armoire. She didn’t unwrap the bundle she retrieved, but knelt on the bed beside Caedmon with it in her hands.
“I was proud of you this evening as you pledged yourself to your father. My heart was ready to burst.”
He sat up, pulling the linens around his hips, his arms resting on his bent knees. “I was proud of myself too. I’m a better man than I was.”
She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “When we left the abbey, Mother Superior gave this to me. You’ve never asked me about it.”
He looked into her eyes. “I trusted you would tell me.”
She unfolded the wrapping and held the dagger out to him with both hands, like an offering.
“It’s a ceremonial dagger,” he said, leaning forward to take hold of the walrus ivory handle, examining the workmanship. “Danish, I think? Someone labored long over this.”
“It belonged to my mother, who inherited it from her mother, who received it as a gift from her grandfather. He made it.”
“Your great, great grandfather,” he calculated.
“Yes. My mother took her life with it.”
There was a long awkward silence as he sat looking at the dagger. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “After Bolton?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Agneta,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Sorry for the pain I caused.”
She struggled to continue. “At first I refused to take it, but Mother Superior insisted. She told me it’s good to have a reminder of past sorrow.”
Reaching forward, she took the dagger from his hands, and pressed the point lightly to her breast. “When you left on the Crusade, I intended to take my own life with it.”
“No,” he cried, rising to his knees, trying to wrest the dagger from her.
She held his warm hand over the cold dagger at her breast as they knelt, their bodies pressed together, the dagger between them. She smiled and shook her head.
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I knew then I loved you and didn’t want to live without you. I truly understood, for the first time, something of what my mother felt on that fateful day when she took her life. The dagger brought home to me many things. My pride in my ancestry, my love for you, the sure knowledge you are a good and true man, a noble man, a man of value. When I saw you at Bolton, your actions showed you were sickened by what happened there. The way you cradled my brother—”
She pressed her lips together, unable to continue.
“I’m not worthy of you,” he choked.
“Caedmon, I’m the one who hasn’t been worthy of you. I insisted on making you feel guilty for something you’d atoned for long ago. I failed to provide you with the love you needed to cushion the blow when you found out—”
Caedmon put his fingertips on her mouth, took the dagger, placed it beside them, then drew her back into his arms. “You’d suffered such a great loss.”
“Our conversation about your codex made me think about what I want to pass on to my children. When we return to Kirkthwaite, I want you to find a place of honor to display my dagger. After my death, it must go to Blythe. I will tell our children its history when they are old enough. It will be a reminder of pain and sorrow, but also love and endurance. We marked Aidan as firstborn with it. The dagger saved my life, and perhaps yours. It sent me to your father for help.”
They clung to each other for long minutes, thighs to thighs, belly to belly, breasts to chest, her head resting on his shoulder. His breathing quickened and she felt his hard male length against her. She moved one leg to press against his hip. He kneaded her thigh and she wrapped her legs around him. He lifted her slightly and she impaled herself on his manhood.
“You’re my heart,” she whispered, rocking against him.
“And you my soul.”
Later that night, Martin Bonhomme was making his final rounds to ensure all was well. As the faithful steward of Ellesmere Castle passed the chamber of the earl and countess, he smiled. Judging from the squeals of delight coming from the room everything was back to normal at the castle.
He carried on past the chamber assigned to Sir Caedmon and Lady Agneta, and after pausing briefly to listen to the happy commotion inside, chuckled, “Like father, like son.”
He hurried off to his own chamber, where his wife awaited him.
Epilogue
The heroes and heroines of this story outlived King William II (William Rufus) who died in a bizarre hunting accident in the New Forest, in the year of Our Lord Eleven Hundred, after being king for only thirteen years. He was accidentally shot with an arrow, by a hunting companion renowned throughout England as an expert bowman. Rufus might have lived had he not fallen from his horse and driven the arrow deeper.
He was succeeded on the throne of the English by his brother, Henry, co-conspirator of the chamber pot incident, who coincidentally was also present in the New Forest on the day of the accident. We must bear in mind the New Forest covered a vast area.
The dramatic lives of the descendants of Ram and Mabelle, Rhodri and Rhonwen, and Caedmon and Agneta form the lore and legend of the next generation and the beginning of the turbulent twelfth century. But those are other stories in the Montbryce Legacy.
BOOK IV~Vengeance
Enjoy this brief excerpt.
Sord Colmcille, Ireland, Spring 1097AD
As dawn was breaking, Ronan woke and rolled over in the bed he’d been born in. He hadn’t slept well, preoccupied with the journey he was about to undertake.
His wife flinched when he put his hand on her hip. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, inhaling the clean scent that always clung to her hair. “I’m not going to bother you.”
She relaxed a little, but soon the whimpering began, as he’d expected.
Tamping down his exasperation and resisting with difficulty the urge to press his morning erection against her bottom, he moved his hand to her shaking shoulder. “I know you prefer not to join with me now you’re with child,” he rasped. “Don’t cry.”
“But you’re leaving today,” she whispered. “You’ll want to…”
Ronan lay on his back and looked up at the rafters. Aye, he needed to make love to his wife, but Mary was a sweet and gentle soul who’d wanted to become a nun. Her father had put a stop to what she saw as her destiny—to be a bride of Christ; she believed sexual congress placed her soul in jeopardy.
Her grief was compounded because she also recognized she had a duty to bear Ronan’s heirs. She silently complied on the increasingly infrequent occasions he exercised his marital rights. He was more relieved than jubilant when she told him she was with child. Their joining satisfied his male needs for a while, but often brought on prolonged weeping on her part.
He’d considered taking a mistress but had no respect for other barons of his acquaintance who were unfaithful to their wives, and he’d sworn to love and protect Mary. Fornicating with another would be a betrayal.
He ought to be content with his situation. Mary was a good wife in many other ways. Had he not agreed to the marriage, her father would have betrothed her to the likes of Lorcan MacFintain. She was grateful to Ronan that he’d saved her from that fate.
He hadn’t at first believed her father would marry her off to such a brute. He must have been aware of the reputation of both MacFintain brothers. They treated serfs and servants like slaves, drank to excess
, raped women, fathered bastards hither and yon, and let their holdings fall into disrepair and decay. They’d ousted the rightful owners of several small estates, intimidating them into surrender with their band of armed thugs. It was rumored Fothud was simple, and that he and Lorcan shared women. They were a disgrace to the community and unworthy of the title of noblemen.
Ronan refused to allow them entry to Túr MacLachlainn, and it was common knowledge they chafed at the ban. His grandfather would turn over in his tomb if two such ne’er-do-wells set foot in the impressive castle he’d built—the richest and most respected estate in the province. The MacFintains tainted everything they touched and he wished he hadn’t filled his head with thoughts of them this morn.
Relieved Mary seemed to have calmed, he left his bed, opened the door and called for his valet to help him dress.
Conall came down the hallway at a run, shrugging on his doublet, a half-eaten pastry in his mouth.
Ronan held on to his already fraying patience, wondering if the promotion of his steward’s son had been premature. “I realize you’re new at this, boy, but…”
“Sorry, my lord,” Conall mumbled. “I forgot you were leaving early today.”
Ronan pressed a finger to his lips. “Hush. Lady Mary is still abed.”
He was surprised when his wife sat up. “I’ll leave you to your preparations,” she murmured.
Conall averted his eyes as she drew on a bed-robe and headed for the door, but Ronan was certain the lad must have noticed the red-rimmed eyes.
He likely thinks I abuse her.
“Women weep when they are with child,” he offered lamely after her departure.
Conall nodded, swallowing the last of the pastry. “Aye, Da says Ma wept all the time she was carrying me.”
His remark made Ronan uneasy. Conall’s mother hadn’t survived his birth and the fair-haired Mary was fragile. If the babe was as big as his father…
While Ronan washed at the ewer, the lad laid out his riding clothes and boots, then handed his master a drying linen. “Wish I was coming with you,” he said. “Will you not need a valet?”
Ronan looked up to the rafters. They’d been over this ground more than once. “Laborers and knights are what my cousin needs. We’re helping him build a rampart. If you want to dig ditches…”
Conall shrugged as he held out Ronan’s shirt. “I just thought it might be a chance to meet new people.”
“New girls is what you mean.”
To his credit, the youth blushed, but said no more until Ronan was dressed and ready. “So I can’t go with you?” he asked, eyes wide.
For a brief moment, Ronan was tempted to give in. Conall MacCathail was a resourceful bright spark. There’d be few dull moments if he came on the inconvenient expedition. However…
“With half the garrison and so many laborers away, your father needs your help here.”
As he expected, the youth pouted, trailing behind him all the way to the Great Hall where Steward MacCathail greeted them. “Ham, bread and cheese to break your fast, my lord,” his faithful servant said, gesturing to a trestle table. “And Cook has prepared victuals for the journey.”
Ronan rubbed his hands together then piled food onto a trencher. “This will stand me in good stead. I thank you.”
The MacLachlainns had been fortunate in their stewards. Conall would be the third generation of his family to serve in the post when he took over from his father. But that wouldn’t be for a long while.
“Is all in readiness for my departure?” he asked.
“Aye. The knights and men are gathered in the courtyard, and your horse is saddled.”
His thoughts once again went to the wretched MacFintains. “Precautions are in place for defense of the Tower, just in case?”
His steward smiled indulgently. They both knew the castle was impregnable. Ronan’s grandfather had made sure of it.
“And who would dare attack the mighty Lord MacLachlainn, nephew to the King of Munster?” MacCathail jested with a wink.
“Aye,” Ronan agreed with a sigh, “the same king who has requested my help constructing a rampart for his son’s castle.”
He was reluctant to leave Mary, but when a king calls…
Confident his steward had everything well in hand, he washed down the last of the bread with a tankard of watered ale and made for the stables. As he mounted his gelding, it occurred to him he should bid Mary farewell, but she’d probably gone back to bed, and it would just set her to weeping again.
“I’ll return in a fortnight,” he told Conall when the lad handed him his sword. “Get Moyra to see to Lady Mary.”
“Nothing to worry about, my lord.”
He rode out of the courtyard and through the gate, accompanied by a hundred men, the majority laborers on foot. He looked back over his shoulder several times as they made their way across the flat landscape. It was a long while before Túr MacLachlainn disappeared from view altogether.
Conall was right that there was nothing to worry about, yet Ronan couldn’t rid himself of a dreadful feeling he would never see Mary again.
He shook off the premonition. Her constant weeping was making him maudlin.
ABOUT ANNA
Thank you for reading REDEMPTION. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Even a short review contributes greatly to an author’s success.
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I am a firm believer in love at first sight. My heroes and heroines may initially deny the attraction between them, but eventually the alchemy wins out. I want readers to rejoice when the power of love overcomes every obstacle and unites soul mates. For me, novels are an experience of another world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia I never knew! I based the plot of Book One, Conquest, on a bizarre incident that actually happened to a Norman noblewoman.
I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
My thanks to the invaluable assistance of beta reader Maria McIntyre.
Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3) Page 21
