Dorianne hesitated. “Oui, but he’ll be scarred.”
Both women knew it was an ignominious mark no Norman of noble birth should have to bear.
The pop of the sharp needles puncturing the heavy fabric and the whisper of the embroidery silk as they pulled the threads were the only sounds in the still air. Mabelle did not know if she should interfere or if Dorianne would resent her for it. “Does he sleep well?”
Dorianne looked up quickly and tensed her shoulders. Then she looked away, but not before Mabelle had seen the desolation in her eyes.
Mabelle tucked her needle into the fabric and put her hand on Dorianne’s. “Sometimes a burden shared—”
Dorianne drew in a long breath and a tear trickled down her cheek. “We no longer share a chamber, but I know he has hellish nightmares.”
Mabelle put her arm around Dorianne’s shoulders and hugged her. “It’s to be expected, I suppose, but it can’t be easy for you.”
Dorianne sniffled. “He dreams of the horrors he endured, of the flogging, of the moment he thought all was lost and he would die alone. I know it’s because of the nightmares he’s afraid to share my bed. He curls up every night with the cat he procured from the rat-catcher. He dotes on the creature.”
“Baudoin told me Robert murmured your name when they found him, but it was a cat’s cry that first alerted them.”
A wail escaped Dorianne’s lips. “I love him, but sometimes he flies into violent rages at the slightest provocation. It’s hard to gentle him back to calmness. He complains of strange noises no one else can hear. Sometimes, I’m afraid. How can he not blame me for trusting my brother?”
Mabelle had witnessed some of the terrifying rages Dorianne spoke of. “I too have seen insignificant things send him into a panic.”
Dorianne wiped away tears. “One day when Alexandre spat up his food, Robert broke down and cried.”
Mabelle was bereft she did not know how to resolve these problems. How she longed for Ram’s comfort. He would have helped Robert in his recovery. She and Dorianne stayed in the gallery, holding hands, until darkness fell.
* * *
Though his body was stronger, Robert was painfully aware he was not recovering from his ordeal. He often woke in the night panting, terrified of suffocating. He burned to lie with his wife, but was still overwhelmed with guilt. He was an unworthy sinner.
Alexandre’s insistent cries for nourishment threatened to send him over the edge and he became verbally abusive. “Silence your whining child, Dorianne. By the saints, feed the boy.”
He avoided his daughters, afraid of his impatience with their shrieks of laughter. He raged inwardly, knowing how hurtful his words were to his wife. He longed to hold her, caress her and make love to her, but he was afraid and full of shame. He was not worthy of her.
The unrelenting desire for vengeance sometimes threatened to engulf him. He dreamt of the different ways he would torture and kill Curthose. His black humors were short-lived and he was always contrite. It was difficult for everyone and he could tell his behavior was taking a toll on his mother especially. She spent most of her days in the crypt and he suspected she went there to talk to his father.
One day, his mother did not appear for the evening meal.
Robert went down into the crypt, knowing he would find her there. Earlier in the day she’d picked bluebells with the help of one of the maidservants. She’d placed the posy atop her husband’s tomb and draped her arms around the neck of the stone effigy on its surface.
He called his mother’s name, but she did not respond, and he knew she had left this world before he touched her beloved face. “Maman,” he whispered tearfully. “You are at last reunited with your beloved Ram.” He inhaled deeply, mustering his strength, then gathered her into his arms and carried her up to her chamber.
A day later, Mabelle de Montbryce’s remains were entombed beside her husband’s. They lay side by side in death as they did in life, watched over by the Montbryce crest and motto, Fide et Virtute! Faith and Valor.
Dorianne keened at Robert’s side. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, feeling her tremble.
“I will miss her,” she whimpered.
He recognised guiltily that his mother had been his wife’s only comfort while he dealt with his demons. He looked up at the crest as the bishop completed the funerary rites. He had kept faith and survived his torment. He swore to his dead mother and father he would bring only honor to the family name, and he silently thanked them for their gifts of courage and love. He could not have survived his ordeal without them.
He promised to fill his own life and those of his wife and children with love. He would recover from his captivity because of the love Dorianne had for him. She was nursing him back to health, helping him slay his demons. One day he would be whole again.
She Needs You
With his political problems in England resolved, King Henry returned to Normandie in the summer of the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Six to continue his campaign against his brother.
Robert de Montbryce deemed he was sufficiently recovered to fight with Henry against Curthose. He had to be part of the duke’s destruction. He needed the closure.
After taking the fortified abbey of Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives, Henry’s army turned south and besieged the castle of Tinchebray, on a hill above the town, not far from Domfort. Tinchebray was held by the Comte de Mortain, who was one of the few important barons still loyal to Curthose. The duke brought up his forces to break the siege. After unsuccessful negotiations, battle was inevitable.
On the twenty-eighth day of September, the Battle of Tinchebray was fought between Henry and Curthose.
Henry's army was organized into three main groups. Robert and Baudoin de Montbryce, and their half-brother Caedmon FitzRam were among the commanders. Henry also had a reserve force, commanded by Elias of Maine, out of sight on the flank. Hugh de Montbryce’s sons, Melton and Izzy, and Antoine’s boys, Adam, Denis and Mathieu, were part of that force.
On Curthose's side were William, Count of Mortain, François and Pierre de Giroux and Robert of Bellême.
The battle itself lasted a brief hour. The intervention of Henry's reserve force eventually proved decisive. Most of Curthose’s army was captured or killed, but the duke fled.
François de Giroux was among the captive Curthose supporters, but was subsequently released by the king. He pledged his allegiance to Henry and was allowed to return to his castle with what remained of the body of his son, Pierre.
Robert dreaded imparting the news to Dorianne.
Baudoin and Caedmon saw action in what became a running battle over several miles, and Robert was proud his brothers and cousins had come to join him in this crucial fight.
He requested and received a boon from his king. He wanted to be in the party of knights seeking to apprehend the duke. When the fugitive was trapped at a farm two miles north of Tinchebray and forced into surrender, Robert itched to run him through with his sword. The dark memories washed over him, but he did not want the blood of the king’s brother on his hands.
He handed Curthose over to Henry, but not before goading him in a proud and steady voice and with a mock bow. “Your Grace, I am Robert de Montbryce, of late your guest in Caen. I hope the prison your brother has in mind for you is more comfortable than the one you inflicted on me. You will be in prison much longer than I was.”
* * *
When they arrived back at Montbryce, there was a message for Baudoin. Dorianne herself delivered it to him. Her daughters clung to her skirts and she held Alexandre in her arms. She thrust the missive into Baudoin’s hand as he dismounted. Her expression told them it was not good news.
Before he read the message, Baudoin took Dorianne aside. “Robert will find it hard to tell you this, sister, so I will. Pierre was killed at Tinchebray. Robert did not slay him. It was my sword that ended his life.”
She swayed and clutched Alexandre. “My father?”
she whispered.
“He was captured, but swore his allegiance to Henry and was released. He took Pierre’s body home.”
Dorianne only nodded.
Baudoin opened the message.
Caedmon watched his brother’s face draw into tight lines as he read it.
“What is it?” he asked.
Baudoin exhaled loudly. “I suppose I should have expected this. Rhun and Rhydderch have been arrested by the Earl of Warwick for harassing the building of his new castle at Abertawe in South Wales. They are sentenced to hang in a fortnight. Carys is distraught for her brothers. I must return at once to see what I can do.”
“I’ll journey with you,” Caedmon said.
Robert put his arm around Baudoin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Carys’s brothers. Rhodri must be devastated. Will we never know peace?”
Caedmon braced his legs, determined not to allow his younger brothers to lose heart. “Listen, we’ve achieved our father’s goal. Normandie and England are again subject to one ruler, King Henry, son of the Conqueror, the only one of his children born in England. The political strife has been put to rest. But the battles aren’t over. Baudoin, you and I will ride to help Carys’s brothers. We must act like the sons of Ram de Montbryce and protect this family. We’re his legacy.”
The three men embraced, too overcome with emotion to speak. Baudoin and Caedmon hugged Dorianne and her children.
Dorianne sniffled back tears as they kissed Alexandre. Catherine and Marguerite begged to be picked up.
The two men crouched. Baudoin lifted Catherine and Caedmon hoisted Marguerite onto his shoulders.
They clung to their uncles, giggling. “Goodbye, beautiful nieces,” Caedmon said.
“Au revoir, oncle Caedmon, oncle Baudoin,” they replied.
Baudoin lowered Catherine to the ground and mounted his stallion.
Caedmon put one arm around Robert’s shoulder and drew him aside. “After we leave, Robert,” he said in a low voice, “turn around and take a good look at your family. You’ve wrought your revenge on Curthose, now you must defeat whatever demons are destroying your wife and children. Look into the eyes of this child on my shoulders. She needs you.”
Robert nodded slowly, and reached up to take Marguerite. For a moment, Caedmon feared she would make strange with the father she barely knew. But then she put out her arms and threw them around Robert’s neck.
“Godspeed, my brother,” Robert rasped, holding his daughter tightly.
* * *
Dorianne gasped when she saw how fiercely Robert held on to his little girl. Was there hope now that he could learn to love them again? She was resigned to the loss of his feelings for her, but she knew what it was to grow up without a father’s love.
Her husband put his arm around her waist. It was the first time in months he had willingly touched her, and her knees buckled. He held her up, as if sensing her distress. “Let’s go inside. I must get this armor off.”
He crouched and beckoned Catherine, who had taken refuge in her mother’s skirts. She looked at Marguerite then held out her arms. He lifted her and carried both of them into the keep. “My father was good with children,” he said to Dorianne.
She could barely speak. “Oui, he was,” she rasped.
Alexandre seemed suddenly to become aware his sisters were being carried by their father. He squirmed in Dorianne’s arms and reached out to Robert. “Papa,” he begged.
Robert turned, his eyes filled with tears. “He has never called me that before.”
Dorianne tried to soothe Alexandre. “Papa will pick you up when he’s got his armor off,” she cajoled.
He was not to be placated.
Robert laughed and set the girls on their feet with a smile. “Can I put you down for a few moments, while I kiss your brother?”
Both girls pouted, but did not put up a fuss. Robert took Alexandre from Dorianne and lifted him high above his head. Alexandre giggled with delight. Robert lowered him and clasped him to his breast, burying his face in the child’s hair. “My son,” he croaked.
Dorianne’s heart filled with cautious hope.
* * *
After bathing, Robert decided to go to the nursery. Suddenly, he could not get enough of his children. They had missed much while he struggled with his ghosts. He had a lot to make up for.
When he strode into the room, his girls ran to him, squealing with delight. He nodded to the nursemaid, crouched and pretended they had knocked him over. The three wrestled on the floor until both girls seemed worn out by his tickling. “Show me your toys,” he said, feigning defeat.
Catherine took his hand and dragged him over to a bench. Two knight puppets lay atop it.
He looked inquiringly at the nursemaid.
“They like to play with them,” she explained, “but don’t really know how.”
He knelt beside the bench. “Well, we’ll soon fix that. Catherine, you stand at that end of the bench.” He placed the strings attached to the knights in her hands. “Hold them tightly.”
“Marguerite, you stand at the other side.” He straightened the strings and put the ends in her hands.
“Now, if you both pull—oh, too hard. Pull gently, and you’ll see them battle each other.”
The two giggled happily once they got the feel of it. The miniature knights twisted and turned in mock battle with each tug of the string.
Robert laughed at their amusement. How could he have found their joy irritating? “Where’s Alexandre?” he asked.
Catherine thrust out her chin towards an alcove. “With Maman,” she replied.
It was only then he became aware of Dorianne suckling his son in the shadowed alcove, watching him. She lowered her gaze when she realized he had seen her, covering the suckling babe with a shawl.
Robert cursed himself for the times he had sent her away when she nursed their child. “I’m going to talk with Maman for a few minutes,” he said to his daughters. “Can you play with your toys for a while?”
They nodded and carried on the mock battle. He came to his feet and walked over to the alcove. “Alexandre still suckles?” he whispered.
Dorianne nodded. “Oui, sometimes.”
“I’ve missed too much,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I’ve been here, yet I haven’t.” Carefully, he pulled the blanket away to reveal his wife’s swollen breasts. His shaft responded.
Alexandre had fallen into a contented sleep, his head resting on his mother’s chest.
Dorianne’s gaze flitted to Robert’s groin, then she blushed and looked away.
He shifted his weight. Did he have the right to ask? He touched the backs of his fingers to Dorianne’s burning cheek.
She looked up at him, her eyes wary.
He went down on one knee and bowed his head, fearful of the answer he might receive to his request. “May I return to your bed this night, Comtesse?”
A choked sob escaped her lips.
He looked up.
Tears flowed down her cheeks. She reached for his hand. “I will be waiting for you, milord Comte.”
He kissed her hand, stroked his son’s head, rose and went back to playing with his girls.
* * *
The light tapping at the door of her chamber set Dorianne’s heart beating rapidly. She fanned her face and straightened the neck of the linen chemise she had decided to wear. She usually slept naked, but did not know what to expect from Robert. His behavior since his rescue more than a year before had been unpredictable. She swallowed hard and murmured, “Entrez.”
The word stuck in her throat. She coughed and tried again. “Entrez.”
She had never noticed how badly the hinges creaked. Robert did not look at the bed where she sat propped up by the bolster, the linens up to her chin. He turned to close the door behind him, his shoulders tense. He wore a long nightshirt. She knew he was still uncomfortable with his body, though he had regained much of his weight and rebuilt most of the muscle he had lost. She longed
to see him naked again.
He turned and hesitated.
She held out her hand. “Come lie with me, husband,” she murmured. “We must talk.”
He nodded, walked to the bed and sat next to her, his knees bent. He drew the linens up over his chest, clamping them down with his arms. Why was he so nervous?
“You have never confided any of it to me,” she whispered. Would he tell her, or would he continue to shut her out of his nightmare?
Still he did not look at her. “I cannot.”
She placed her hand over his. “Neither of us will find peace until you do.”
He gripped her hand and put it to his forehead.
She barely heard his answer. “I know.”
He did not speak for long minutes, and then gradually he told her of his captivity. He talked long into the night. Sometimes the painful words came in a rush, sometimes he had to force them out. When he told the story of the kittens, he sat for a long while, rocking with his arms clasped to his chest.
She wept for the suffering he had endured.
Finally, he inhaled deeply. He seemed to be holding his breath. Then she heard the sobs emanating from deep within his chest.
She gathered him into her arms. “Let them out, Robert. Let the demons out.”
His head sagged onto her breast and he sobbed openly. “A man shouldn’t cry,” he lamented.
“A man who can’t cry isn’t a man,” she replied.
She held him until long after he had quieted. She thought he had fallen asleep, but when she tried to ease him onto the bolster, he looked up at her. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I feel better,” he said, “but I’ve talked only of myself. I’ve never asked about your ordeal.”
She put her finger on his lips. “Mine was nothing compared to yours.”
“The candles have nearly burnt out. Lie down while I light new ones and you can tell me,” he suggested.
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