Baudoin, Rhoni and Caedmon journeyed from England for the interment. It was of some consolation Ram had died in his beloved Normandie. Mabelle buried him, as she had promised long ago, in the family crypt in Montbryce Castle. The coffin was placed in a tomb next to those of his mother and father.
Mabelle never returned to England, preferring to live out her final days at Montbryce with Robert and Dorianne who were appreciative of her presence in their lives.
Mourning
Montbryce Castle, Normandie, 1104
The observance of Epiphany was a subdued affair at Montbryce, as was the Yuletide that preceded it. A veil of sadness for the loss of the family patriarch still hung over the castle.
Mabelle preferred to spend her remaining years in the castle where Ram was buried, a place they’d longed to return to despite living most of their lives in England.
The sons of William the Conqueror continued to squabble over control of the throne of England and the Duchy of Normandie, a conflict that rendered life precarious for noble families in both countries. Taking the wrong side could yet result in forfeiture of lands and titles.
“Did I ever tell you about my dream?” Robert asked his wife as they presided over the Epiphany feast in the Great Hall.
Dorianne turned her attention away from their baby daughters and smiled. “Which one?”
Her beauty never failed to take his breath away though they’d been married nigh on three years. In the turbulent times they faced, he considered himself fortunate to be blessed with a strong and beautiful comtesse. “About King Henry,” he replied, passing a napkin so she could wipe the food from Marguerite’s face.
His mother took the napkin from his wife and fussed over Marguerite.
“That he would be victorious against his brother?” Dorianne replied. “Oui. It’s the reason you agreed with your father’s decision to support the English king after initial misgivings.”
He flinched. “You must be weary of my constant ramblings on the subject of Henry and Curthose.”
She squeezed his hand. “I never tire of hearing your voice, and I’m glad you can confide in me.” She leaned closer and whispered, “My father has never considered my mother’s opinions, and she is terrified of Pierre.”
They’d agreed to shield their children from the harsh realities of the Giroux family’s long-standing hatred of the Montbryces. Nevertheless, Dorianne’s words were a sober reminder of the estrangement from her family, especially her brother who had made no secret of his support of Curthose. Robert suspected Pierre had even participated in Curthose’s ill-fated invasion of England more than two years before.
Robert grieved that his wife had been shunned by her family and was aware she prayed daily that she and her brother would one day reconcile. He had no such expectations of Pierre Giroux. Any man who would whip his own sister and send her off to a convent, simply because she’d fallen in love with a Montbryce…
He inhaled deeply in an effort to calm the anger that still rose in his throat when he remembered Dorianne’s torment. As if sensing his turmoil, Marguerite and Catherine began to cry.
Robert loved his daughters, though he was envious of his brother’s two boys. He could only pray Dorianne would one day bear him a son and heir.
He was relieved when his mother volunteered to accompany the nursemaids who scooped up the girls and took them off to the nursery.
Dorianne slumped against him and reached for his hand. “I’m glad your mother decided to stay here with us after your father’s death. It’s good for the girls to get to know their Grandmère Mabelle.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “I agree and I understand how tiring little children are. It also gives you more time for your husband,” he teased, already aroused by her nearness.
“I’ll aways have time for you, Robert,” she whispered seductively.
Worries about political conflicts and crying children disappeared as he inhaled the scent of her skin and pondered a way to leave the banquet early.
His hopes were dashed when the frowning steward brought news of an unexpected visitor.
“Pierre de Giroux seeks admittance,” Bonhomme informed him.
Robert bristled, glad the message had been whispered close to his ear. He rose from the table and beckoned to a more private location where Dorianne could not overhear. “How did he get past the guard?”
“He declared his identity and purported to be here to visit his sister.”
Robert clenched his jaw. Pierre was up to something. “We were not expecting him. He should have been turned away.”
Bonhomme’s face reddened uncharacteristically. “He insisted the comtesse would be happy to see him and expressed his regret that it had taken so long to bring his family’s condolences for the comte’s death. He mentioned wanting to meet his nieces for the first time. I thought…”
Pierre was clever, Robert had to admit. “Where is he?”
“In the Map Room, milord.”
There was no choice but to tell his wife of her brother’s arrival.
Dorianne leapt to her feet, almost knocking over her chair. “Oh, Robert, has Pierre at long last convinced my father to put his hatred behind him? I pray for it daily.”
Robert braced his legs. “Dorianne, let’s not forget the pain and suffering Pierre inflicted on you and that he attempted to kill me. We have two children and he has never made any effort to meet them.”
His wife put her arms around his neck. “He was young and under my father’s thumb. Things have changed. Why else would he come here?”
Robert pressed his forehead to hers. “There’s only one way to find out. But don’t get too close to him.” He turned to his steward. “Is he armed?”
“He has a sword, milord,” Bonhomme replied. “That’s the only weapon I could see.”
As soon as they entered the Map Room, Dorianne ran to her brother and flung her arms around his neck. “Pierre, I’ve missed you.”
So much for my advice not to go near him!
Robert kept a wary eye on the young man.
Pierre had changed. An unkempt beard and matted hair gave him a wild look. He was no longer a boy. He hugged his sister then dropped to one knee. “Dorianne, please forgive me for the pain I caused you. I’ve fretted over it. I hope you’re healed by now?”
Dorianne pulled him to his feet. “Oui, I’m perfectly fine. Get up, please. I forgive you, and Robert does too,” she gushed.
Robert harbored no thoughts of forgiveness. Fretted, indeed.
Dorianne linked arms with her brother. “How is Papa? Does he know Robert and I have two children?”
Pierre grimaced. “Oui, he knows, but he’s still stubborn and his pride won’t let him come. He sends his congratulations and his condolences on the death of your esteemed father, milord.”
Thank be to the saints my mother isn’t present.
“Merci,” Robert responded coolly. “Well, brother-by-marriage, now you’ve given us your good wishes, what other news do you have?”
He suspected the Giroux family had participated in Curthose’s invasion, but did not know if Pierre had been part of the landing in England.
Dorianne gave Robert a scolding look, plainly displeased at her husband’s coolness towards her repentant brother. Then she blurted out, “Pierre, you look as though you’ve had a long journey. Why not stay here with us at Montbryce? Robert, I’m sure you can find a post among your men for my brother?”
Pierre held up his hands in protest. “Non, Dorianne, I can’t expect that from the comte.”
She pouted. “Nonsense. We must put rancor behind us. Isn’t that right, Robert?”
Robert was angry he had been backed into a corner. He did not blame Dorianne for her trusting innocence, but if Pierre was to stay at Montbryce he would have to prove his trustworthiness. He noted sourly his brother-by-marriage had not sought his pardon directly, nor expressed remorse for attempting to kill him in the chapel at Avranches. Could he keep the suspicion out
of his voice? “I’m sure I can make a place for you, Pierre. I’ll speak to Commander Chauvelin, and he’ll show you the barracks. Come, we’ll find him together.”
Three months later, Robert gave in to Dorianne’s persistent hints that Pierre had proven himself. He met with Chauvelin, a man he trusted implicitly. “How goes it with Giroux?”
“Your brother-by-marriage is a good soldier, milord. I put him in the hands of our toughest captain, as you requested. Gicotte gives good reports of him. He has tested his mettle, as you instructed, and found him resilient.”
Still plagued by misgivings, this wasn’t what Robert wanted to hear. “We can trust him then?” he asked.
“He’s quiet, milord, hard to get to know. He hasn’t been here very long, but has acquitted himself well. He’s not a man who makes friends.”
Robert had noticed Pierre’s cool demeanor and solitary ways, but perhaps that should be of no concern. He had grown up with a difficult father after all. “Tell Gicotte to ease up somewhat on the discipline, perhaps give Giroux a small promotion.”
“Oui, milord.”
A New Life
Dorianne cuddled into Robert’s back as they lay skin to skin that night. “Pierre told me you gave him a promotion. Merci.”
Robert reached behind and cupped her bottom.
She nuzzled his neck. “Your mistrust has come between us. We never seem to discuss my brother without one of us losing our temper. I’m relieved you’ve decided to trust him.”
Her husband remained silent, wishing he could rid himself of his suspicions. It had been his intention to discuss it with his mother, but since his father’s death she seemed preoccupied and distracted, cloaked in sadness. He did not want to get into another argument over it. His wife’s naked body pressed against him was already playing havoc with his senses, as it never failed to do. He turned to face her, bent his head to lick a nipple and suckled.
She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’ll soon have to share your delight again, Robert,” she teased.
He looked up at her, wondering what her enigmatic smile meant. “Share?” he asked.
“Oui, you know.” She took his hand and placed it on her belly. “You’ll have to share the suckling. With your son.”
Robert’s heart raced. “You’re enceinte again?” he murmured.
“Oui.”
He rose from the bed and lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, swaying from side to side, choked with emotion.
“You’re happy?” she asked after a few minutes.
“I’m delirious. Merci, my love. It’s a precious gift. I love you. Another child. Perhaps, this time, a son of my own.”
She tucked her head into his shoulder. “A little boy for us to love,” she said with a smile.
He laid her back on the bed, aware she had seen the heat of desire in his eyes, not to mention his rock-hard arousal.
“Can we still? Is it permitted?”
Why was he stammering like an idiot?
She laughed. “You’d think this was our first baby! Oui, it’s permitted. In fact, it’s encouraged.”
“Thank goodness,” he breathed as his mouth fastened on hers and they began the long, slow, pleasurable climb to ecstatic release.
The Unthinkable
Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandie and eldest son of William the Conqueror, seethed with fury that his invasion of England had failed because certain noble families had supported Henry. For more than two years, he made his anger known at every opportunity to the noble Norman families who had fought on his side.
One who paid particular attention was Pierre de Giroux. Proud to sail with his duke to invade England, he’d been extremely disappointed in the outcome. They’d been sent back to Normandie with their tails between their legs without engaging the enemy.
His hatred of Robert de Montbryce and Curthose’s anger led him to place the blame for the failure of the invasion completely at Robert’s door. He had schemed long and hard to put together a plan to deliver Montbryce into Curthose’s hands, and success was within his grasp.
“Your men must come after midnight,” he explained again, handing a rolled parchment to the duke’s lieutenant. “I’ve devised a plan of the location of the postern gate of Montbryce Castle. It’s difficult to find. Your men will have to pay close attention to the chart. I’ll be there to open the gate.”
The band of well-armed men stood in a clearing deep inside a copse, not far from Montbryce lands.
The man studied the drawing Pierre had given him. “Is it guarded?”
Pierre smirked “Oui, but I’ll dispense with the sentry. He’ll be taken by surprise. They trust me.”
“And once inside?” the duke’s man asked.
“Your men will eliminate Robert’s bodyguards, then I’ll conduct them to the comte’s chambers. I must have your guarantee he won’t be killed. He’s married to my sister.”
The lieutenant reassured him. “They won’t kill him. He’s to rot in a dungeon for his disloyalty. But won’t your sister be with him in their chambers?”
“Oui. I’ll take care of her. Your men must remember their hoods and no identifying marks on their tunics.”
“It will be done. Until tonight then.”
Pierre watched the men leave, then returned to his post as captain of the guard of the postern gate of Montbryce Castle.
* * *
Intruders roused Robert from a deep sleep. He tried to curl his body around his wife, to protect her, but he was dragged cursing from the bed.
Dorianne’s scream of anguish turned into a muffled protest.
His heart and gut lurched at the thought of rough hands on her. He blamed himself for not sensing the castle was under direct threat.
The coarse wool of his attacker’s tunic chafed his naked skin. The stink of unwashed men sent a wave of nausea rolling over him. Icy fear crawled through his veins. A blindfold was tied roughly over his eyes. He heard Dorianne struggling to be free, as fists pounded his flesh. “If you touch my wife I’ll kill you,” he rasped. “Dorianne, where are you?”
“I’m blindfolded, Robert,” she cried in terror.
Someone snorted. “You’re in no position to issue threats, milord Comte.”
Vulnerable as he was in his nakedness, he was incensed that his wife was also naked. What did these men want? Would they rape her before they killed them both? He had to stay calm, but desperation for his wife and unborn child seeped into his racing heart. A hood was placed over his head and two men forced him to his knees, arms behind his back. “What is it you want? How dare you invade the privacy of my home, my castle?”
“Put this on,” was the only reply.
Something was thrown at him. His hands were released and he picked up the garment, indignation rising in his throat. “I’ll not don this. It’s a penitent’s robe,” he said defiantly.
A blow to the back of his head sent him reeling.
“If you don’t, we’ll carry both you and your wife naked. I have a nice nun’s habit for her, if you cooperate.”
He heard a soft thud, then Dorianne panting heavily, sobbing.
“They’ve given me a habit. I’m covered now,” she whispered.
Robert reluctantly donned the rough robe and cinched the rope at his waist. His hands were bound behind him and he was hoisted as effortlessly as a sack of turnips over a very broad shoulder. The man’s helmet pressed against his arm and the mail of a hauberk dug into his chest. These men were soldiers. But whose soldiers? Who had sent them?
He was carried down steps and could hear Dorianne’s sobs not far behind. Cool air hit his face. Where were they taking him? What had happened to his bodyguards? The attackers kept silent. This had evidently been well planned. Each man knew his role. These were no peasant brigands. Suddenly the pace slowed and he was jostled against a gate. The postern gate! Who was in charge of securing it?
He wracked his brain, settling on the grim answer he should have known—Giroux
. But if it was Giroux, whose men were these and why take Dorianne? They were jostled onto horses. Robert’s hands were freed and then retied to the pommel.
“Dorianne?” he called out.
“Robert?” she cried, but her voice seemed more distant.
“Dorianne?” he shouted again.
“Robert?” Fainter now. They were being taken to different destinations.
“Where are you taking my wife?” he demanded.
He received no reply. His feet were bound from ankle to ankle, the rope tied beneath the horse. He was forced to devote his energies to staying mounted as they galloped away to his fate.
They rode for hours. He lost track of time. The rough robe chafed his legs and genitals, his head and body throbbed where he’d been punched, his cold hands were numb from the effort of hanging on to the pommel, and he was exhausted with worry for his wife. He had no sense of the route, the hood blocking all visual clues. Fear constricted his breathing.
When the hooves clattered to a halt in a cobblestone courtyard, he assumed they had reached their destination—evidently a castle. He was untied and dragged from the horse. Body odor told him it was the same burly shoulder that carried him. He was taken inside, along winding corridors, then down steps, a long way down. The stench grew viler, the air cooler. He heard cries of human misery. Then they went lower, his head and shoulders colliding with the walls of the narrow staircase. Here utter silence reigned, the only sound the grunts of the man who carried him. A metal door grated open. He was thrown to the ground, the hood pulled from his head. The metal door slammed.
The same sarcastic voice that had commanded him to don the robe, sneered, “Welcome to your new home, milord Comte!”
Laughter receded as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom around him. The stench turned his stomach. He discerned gradually he was in a tiny, windowless cell, an oubliette. One man could lie down, two could not. There was a hole in the corner which he surmised went straight to the drains. This was the source of the foul odor. He struggled to his feet and discovered he could barely stand upright before his head touched the ceiling. Damp straw covered the stone floor. He hurried to the drain to retch, praying they had not brought his wife here.
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