Star-Crossed

by Markland, Anna

  Her mother’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Montbryce?”

  Elenor de Giroux’s fear of her son showed in her eyes, and Dorianne’s heart sank. Her mother would be of no help, but she had to try. “Maman, Pierre and Papa have made it more than clear there’s no future for me with Robert de Montbryce, but why should I be confined to my chamber?”

  Elenor looked inquiringly at Pierre, who shook his head. “She’s to go to a nunnery. D’Avranches cancelled the betrothal. She has brought shame on our name.”

  Dorianne managed to free her arm from Pierre’s grasp. Anger flooded her. “Maman, what shame is there in befriending Robert de Montbryce, a true nobleman, a future comte?”

  Tears streamed down her mother’s face, her eyes full of despair. “But he’s your father’s enemy,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Pierre had reclaimed his grip on Dorianne and he escorted her roughly the rest of the way. Their mother stood like a statue, clenching her fists. None of Dorianne’s pleas seemed to outweigh her obvious fear of her son.

  Pierre shoved her to the floor and bolted the door. He put down the quirt and took off his doublet, then his shirt. She scrambled away from him, her heart beating rapidly, a knot of fear forming in her belly. “What are you doing?”

  He retrieved the quirt and braced his legs. “Bend over the bed,” he commanded.

  Dorianne gasped. “Pierre—”

  He moved towards her. “Lift your skirts and bend over the bed.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I will not allow you to whip me. I’m not a servant.”

  Pierre sneered, his face a grim mask she did not recognize. “You are less than a servant. You’re a whore.”

  He tightened his grip on the quirt and grabbed her, forcing her to the bed where he pushed her down on her stomach and put his knee on her back. She screamed and struggled, but he was too strong.

  “Lie still,” he hissed. “The more you resist, the more times I’ll strike you. You must be punished.”

  She clenched her fists into the bed and bit the linens as he lifted her skirts to bare her bottom. The leather of the quirt bit into her tender flesh again and again. Her last desperate thought before she surrendered to the pain was that her brother seemed to take pleasure in her undeserved punishment.

  * * *

  The fire in Dorianne’s bottom and thighs cooled. The aroma of marigolds filled the air. She stirred. It was dark, but a single candle chased away some of the shadow and illuminated the haggard face of her sobbing mother who was applying a salve to the lacerations.

  Despair had turned Dorianne’s throat into a desert. “Maman,” she rasped.

  Elenor shook her head and continued her ministrations.

  Dorianne buried her face in the linens, lest the tears begin again.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Your father has returned.”

  Dorianne had nothing to say in reply. He would not help her, and her maman was too afraid to do anything. She was at Pierre’s mercy.

  “Is Papa of a mind to send me to a convent as well?” she murmured, the sound of her own voice intensifying the ache in her head.

  Elenor took hold of her hand. “Let me help you remove your clothes, daughter. You need to sleep. Your father is yet too angry to speak to me, and I’ve avoided him. I know I’m a coward, Dorianne. I wish I had your courage, but I don’t.”

  Dorianne stood up carefully and submitted. Her heart was numb. “Pierre whipped me, maman, as if I were a serf.” She tried to hold back the tears of pain and humiliation, but could not.

  Elenor wiped away her tears. “Sleep now,” she crooned, helping Dorianne crawl to lay on her stomach in the bed. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “The morrow will bring its own troubles.”

  * * *

  Elenor came to understand the extent of her daughter’s troubles the next day. She could not believe her husband’s pronouncement. What made it worse was the gleam of satisfaction in Pierre’s eyes. But she had to say something. The idea was too monstrous. “You intend to send her to Mont Saint Michel Abbey?” she whimpered. “I’ll never see her again.”

  Her husband glared. “Pierre is right. He spoke with the Bishop of Avranches at the Council. It’s the best place for her. She needs to learn discipline.”

  Elenor fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves. “But it’s a place known for its rigors, its poverty. The nuns are enclosed and not allowed to speak.” She fell to her knees at her husband’s feet, her head bowed, wishing she had the courage to lay her hand on his. “We cannot do this to our daughter.”

  François walked away.

  Pierre strolled over to his mother and proffered his hand. “Don’t fret, maman. You’ll still have me.”

  Her heart filled with dread. What had happened to the darling boy who had been her son? He had become a monster. The hatred instilled by his father had robbed him of his senses. Her hand trembled as he helped her rise. He put his arm around her and coaxed her to a chair. Surely he would not do this to his own sister?

  “Dorianne and I will leave on the morrow, at dawn,” he gloated.

  She gasped and looked to her husband, who was seemingly fascinated by the embers in the hearth. “But she cannot sit, you whipped her so soundly. How can she ride a horse?”

  François turned abruptly and looked at his son. “You whipped her?”

  Pierre pouted. “I thought you would have wished it, Papa.”

  François looked back at the hearth, his hands behind his back, his head bent. “You will take her in two days, when she’s healed.”

  Pierre pursed his lips and left.

  Elenor sobbed as quietly as she could, her heart breaking for her beautiful daughter. If only she had the courage to break through the icy wall her husband had built, but it was impenetrable. She cursed the day she had been betrothed into the Giroux family.

  Despair

  Dorianne’s lacerations had not healed. The journey to Mont Saint Michel was long and painful. Her brother forbade conversation, insisting it was good practice for her new life of silence. After close to two days in the saddle, her derrière was bruised and raw, but she was more stricken she would likely never see her mother and father again. Was she so hateful her father would cast her out?

  A dull ache of disbelief took hold. As the endless miles slipped by, she became lost in thought. What had she done to deserve this treatment from her father and brother? She had merely found the company of Robert de Montbryce intoxicating, and had envisioned marrying him, becoming the future Comtesse de Montbryce. What was wrong with that? Most fathers would be overjoyed at the prospect of such a match for their daughter. Only hatred made it a crime.

  She clung to the memory of Robert’s hands on her waist, the taste of his lips, the hard length of his manhood pressed against her. Remembering the warmth of the kitchen chimney warded off the damp chill. Would he come for her? How would he know where she was? Had his pledge been sincere, or would he too succumb to hatred under the influence of his parents? Was there hope? She had to hold on to the notion there was, otherwise she too might go mad.

  Her first glimpse of Mont Saint Michel stole away any glimmer of hope. It was formidable, and Dorianne could see no way to reach it. The sea isolated the barren rock completely.

  Pierre ordered their escort to dismount and set up camp. “We’ll have to wait for the tide to recede,” he told his lieutenant.

  Dorianne was thankful for the chance to get off her horse. The treeless shore provided no shelter from the drizzle. She huddled under the rough canvas the men erected, keeping her weight off her bottom. She dozed fitfully for a short time, to be awakened by a shout. “Get ready, the tide’s going out.”

  She struggled to her feet and stood in amazement watching the tide rush out like a galloping horse.

  Pierre bustled her to remount her mare and the two set off along the mudflat, followed by a flock of sheep that had been grazing in the fields nearby. The escort remained on the shore. As they made their way through the
vast, muddy solitude, the forbidding walls of the abbey came into full view. She supposed the multitude of pilgrims who braved many hardships to travel here would be elated at the sight. It was to be her tomb.

  No wonder they call this Mont Tombe.

  Pierre spoke in hushed tones to a monk at the gates, but declined to enter the abbey, making the excuse of having to regain the mainland before the tide rushed back. He brushed a kiss on Dorianne’s cheek, turned and left without a word. She could not watch him go. She stepped through the gate held open by the cleric, shuddering as it creaked shut behind her.

  A crow cawed its mocking cry in the distance. Would the sheep grazing on the meagre grass tufts of the rocky island be the last thing she would see of the world? Her dulled brain could only wonder how the woolly creatures knew when the tide was coming back. At least the drizzle hid her tears. She drew in a ragged breath and looked to the kindly-looking, elderly monk for instruction. “My brother has left me no clothing—”

  He tapped a forefinger to his lips and shook his head, pointing the way to the entry. She followed in his wake. As the doorway loomed, she glanced up at scaffolding clinging to the high walls, wooden planks supported by poles lashed together. Pulleys stilled as the masons studied her progress, leaving slabs of slate suspended in mid-air. She turned away from their pitying gaze.

  Were they building or repairing? It was likely such a structure would need constant repair and renovation, exposed as it was to the open sea. Men had probably scurried over its walls and rooftops since the time of Charlemagne. It was odd they did not shout to each other. When masons toiled on the Castle Giroux there was a great deal of calling back and forth. Here silence reigned. The only sound was the crunch of her boots on the narrow stone pathway. Not even the soaring seagulls exchanged a cry as they watched. She inhaled the smell of the sea. It called to her. Come to me. I will ease your pain.

  As the monk rapped on the door, the wind tore away the last words she murmured through parched lips. “I’m losing my mind.”

  * * *

  Robert was torn. It was imperative he go to England to report the discussions of the Grand Council to his father, but he feared for Dorianne. The longer she was in the clutches of her father and brother, the greater the chances he would never see her again. Anger controlled Pierre, and Dorianne was at his mercy.

  He had been back at Montbryce only a sennight, and had hoped the long hours he spent training and inspecting the men would have taken the edge off his turmoil, but it was not to be. He exhausted himself in the training fields with the knights, despite his slowly healing wound, but still could not sleep at night.

  He felt very alone and isolated. He had assumed the responsibilities of the ancestral castle in Normandie without hesitation, and without misstep, but now he was lost in a sea of conflicting political loyalties. Added to that was the desperation of losing the woman he had fallen in love with.

  Would he be equal to the challenges ahead? He was surrounded by loyal servants and knights who had served his family through successive generations, but had no family there to support him. He shook off his stupor and went down into the crypt where lay the tombs of the grandparents he had never known.

  He knelt heavily on the prie-dieu, rested his forearms on the padded armrest and slumped forward. He called upon the spirits of his ancestors for guidance. Exhaustion and despair lulled him into a doze.

  He dreamed of the grandfather who had died before he was born, of his beloved parents, of Baudoin and Rhoni. Suddenly there appeared a clear vision of Henry, the King of the English, riding in triumph through Normandie, accepting homage from the comtes and seigneurs of the land he had reclaimed.

  Robert woke with a start, his head clear, certain his father had been right to choose Henry. He ran from the crypt, turning briefly to nod at the tomb of his grandfather, and hurried to his chamber.

  He was making final preparations to leave for England the next day when his uncles rode into the bailey with Melton and Mathieu. “Mes oncles, cousins,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to bring you here?”

  The visitors dismounted and Robert embraced each in turn.

  Hugh spoke first. “Listen. Rumor is rife Giroux has sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

  Robert’s gut lurched. He ran a hand through his hair. “Mont Tombe?”

  Antoine strode ahead of them. “Hurry, we’ll go to the Map Room and explain our plan.”

  Robert picked up his pace. “Plan?”

  When they reached the Map Room, Antoine rummaged through a pile of charts. “Sit,” he ordered.

  Robert sat. What were these two up to?

  “Aha! Here it is,” Antoine exclaimed, unfurling a chart and laying it out on the table. He traced his finger along the parchment and Robert’s eyes followed. “You’ll need to head back to Avranches after you go to the Castle Giroux,” his uncle began.

  Robert put his hand on Antoine’s. “Wait! What are you talking about? I have to go to Ellesmere.”

  Hugh pulled his hand from the chart. “Let him explain,” he said patiently.

  Antoine cleared his throat. “You must ascertain if they have indeed sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

  Robert became impatient. “By the saints, Mont Saint Michel is impregnable.”

  Antoine pointed on the chart to where the River Couesnon met the sea. “You’re right, more or less. However, with a letter seeking permission to see her, from the Comte d’Avranches…”

  Robert’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a two day ride, at least, especially if I go to Giroux first.”

  Hugh smirked. “Give or take, you’re right.”

  Robert’s head ached. “Why have they sent her there?”

  Hugh put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You’ve answered that question yourself. It’s a religious establishment. A particularly isolated and rigorous one.”

  Robert glanced up at his uncle, anger constricting his throat. He rose and went to the window, pulling back the oiled covering. He watched masses of crows flying overhead, a seemingly endless migration. Foreboding washed over him. “They mean to destroy her,” he whispered. “Because she cares for me.”

  Antoine joined him at the window. “We don’t want you to worry about England.”

  Robert turned to his uncle. “How can I not worry?”

  Antoine shrugged. “Because I intend to go in your stead.”

  Robert shook his head. “But what of Belisle Castle?”

  Antoine reassured him. “Hugh and I have spent years preparing our castles for what’s happening in Normandie. If we’re not ready now, we never will be. Ronan can be relied upon to hold Alensonne. You know it’s the same here at Montbryce. Though Ram hasn’t lived in Normandie for years, he’s made sure the defenses are second to none, and you have strengthened them further.”

  Mathieu entered the conversation. “Adam and Denis are at Belisle. They’re capable commanders.”

  Antoine smirked and tousled Mathieu’s hair. “Such high praise for your brothers, little one.”

  Robert smiled. Calling the six foot Mathieu ‘little one’ was incongruous at best. He let the covering fall back over the window. “You propose I ride to the Giroux castle and thence to Mont Saint Michel?”

  Hugh grinned. “Non, we propose you, Mathieu, Melton and I go. And don’t concern yourself with Domfort. Gerwint is there. Like his cousins he’s more than capable of commanding the knights.”

  Melton nodded. “But, Papa, my brother wouldn’t be happy if he heard you calling him Gerwint. You know he prefers his nickname.”

  Antoine was curious. “Nickname?”

  Melton smiled. “His middle name is Isembart, as you know, after the rat catcher who saved Maman’s life, but he prefers to be called Izzy.”

  Hugh rolled his eyes. “Young people these days. He complains his given name, Gerwint, is old fashioned. But he doesn’t say that in front of his mother. After all it was her grandfather’s name.”

  “Izzy,” Mathieu exclaim
ed. “Hah! Wait until I see him next.”

  Robert got up and paced. He had been only half listening to the banter. “My parents will sense something is wrong if I fail to go to Ellesmere. Don’t tell them about Dorianne. I want to do that myself.”

  Antoine expressed his agreement. “I won’t reveal it. You must secure her freedom and her consent first.”

  Robert looked at his uncles. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Antoine and Hugh exchanged a glance and both men smiled. It was Hugh who replied, “Because you have the same passion in the blood we do. If Antoine had not helped me rescue Devona, I cannot imagine what my life would have been. If you love Dorianne half as much as I love Devona—”

  The words seemed to stick in Hugh’s throat, and Antoine gave him a pat on the back. “What Hugh is trying to say is that we’ll do everything possible to aid you, if you truly love this woman. It’s a Montbryce tradition.”

  Robert squared his shoulders. “I truly love her.”

  “Enough said, then,” Antoine replied.

  Torment

  The Prior rapped twice on the stout wooden door to the nuns’ enclosure and left. Dorianne waited, barely able to stand, her legs trembling violently. Sweat trickled down her spine and the lacerations throbbed. She heard movement on the other side of the door, but no voices. A lock clanked and the door scraped on the stone floor as it was dragged open. The reek of decay assailed her nostrils, causing bile to rise in her throat. A sour-faced nun appeared, looked Dorianne up and down, took hold of a sleeve and pulled her inside. She applied her copious backside to shoving the stubborn door closed.

  Without a word, she set off and Dorianne stumbled after her to a small door, which the woman opened. She lit a candle from the wall torch and handed it to Dorianne. It was clear she was to enter. She stepped inside. The windowless cell was so tiny, Dorianne had seemingly reached the opposite wall even before she had entered. She gasped and turned, but the door slammed shut.