Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1)

by Anna Markland

  Hugh embraced his father. “We are prepared. You’ve taught us well. We’ll celebrate together.” He turned to Mabelle, brushing a kiss on her knuckles. “Au revoir, ma soeur. We’ll bring him home in one piece.”

  She could only nod in reply, afraid she too might dissolve into tears if she tried to form words from her dry throat. That the gentle Hugh already considered her a sister was humbling.

  The comte poked his second son’s chest. “Watch out for those Saxon women,” he teased.

  Antoine embraced his father but seemed unable to reply. He turned to Mabelle, bending close to her ear. “I don’t understand why my brother hasn’t yet married you. He’s a fool. Be patient.”

  She swayed, afraid her knees might buckle at any moment as he pecked a kiss on each cheek.

  Ram embraced his father. “I pledge to you that those who don’t yet know the name Montbryce will be aware of it once this righteous campaign is done and victory is ours. The Saxons will quake whenever they hear it.”

  The old man stiffened his spine and nodded.

  Ram took Mabelle’s hand, glaring at Antoine. “Papa needs you. I know you’ll take care of him,” he whispered. “You’re a good woman. I’m sorry—”

  She shook her head, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. “Don’t leave with words of regret on your lips, Ram. I understand.”

  Their gazes locked, the determination in his blue eyes piercing her to the heart. She prayed the lead ball lodged in the pit of her belly wouldn’t come up her throat. Were these the last moments they’d spend together? This wasn’t the time for recriminations. The Montbryces were off on a quest for glory. But she would miss him—keenly. Despite his arrogance, she was drawn to him. He had awakened feelings she’d never known.

  He took her by surprise when he pressed his mouth firmly on hers, his big hands on her shoulders. She opened without thinking and leaned against him as their tongues mated. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, afraid to touch him.

  “I will carry the taste of you with me,” he said when they broke apart, “until I return.”

  The comte linked his arm in hers and leaned on her heavily as they watched the three warriors mount their steeds and lead the Montbryce knights out of the bailey.

  “Come back to me,” her heart whispered. “Come back to me.”

  Ram rode proudly at the head of the Montbryce host as they made their way to where the fleet lay ready to sail. He was fulfilling his destiny to serve his duke in the fight for the English crown, to cover himself with glory. A grateful William would reward him well with lands and titles in the vanquished country. He and his brothers would return home as heroes. This was no time to look back.

  Yet, an urge to turn Fortis around and gallop home to the castle consumed him. A dreadful premonition that he would never see his father again lay like a lead weight in his gut.

  And what of Mabelle? He burned for her. Could he expect her to wait? She would likely never forgive him for his disregard, and pining for her would distract him from his mission. If it was God’s will, they would be together.

  None of these thoughts helped ease the discomfort of the hard arousal that had sprung to life when he’d kissed her.

  The prospect of the short ride to St. Valery loomed like a trek to Constantinople.

  As the winds of change blew across the Narrow Sea between Normandie and England, William and his army of seven thousand, the Montbryce brothers among them, boarded their longboats, after loading the horses, armor, weapons, provisions and wine.

  “An army can’t be victorious if it runs out of food,” Ram had told Mabelle, “and we’ll be a long way from the fertile fields of Normandie.”

  The deafening sounds of drums, trumpets and pipes filled the air as they set sail.

  “If Harold is waiting on the coast, he’ll surely know we’re coming now,” Ram jested.

  William smiled. “According to reports delivered to me yesterday, he’s moved his forces to the north to repel an unexpected attack by Hardråda. You and I will sail through the night aboard the Mora, and land on the morrow, as day breaks. Is the muster roll complete? Do you have it?”

  “Oui, Your Grace, it’s complete and in the good hands of the clerks who assisted me to compile it. Every man fighting for you is listed.”

  When all was in readiness, William ordered the signal to be given by use of a lantern on the mast. “Matilda gave me this ship, Ram. See the figurehead? It’s a young boy with a bow and arrow pointing towards England.”

  Watching the setting sun, Ram held his breath, his heart beating erratically as the hundreds of ships he had helped build set sail on this momentous undertaking. All seemed to be going well, but, as darkness fell, the smaller flagship got too far ahead of the main fleet. Ram sensed his friend didn’t want to appear perturbed as he calmly issued commands. “Cast out the anchor. We’ll break our fast while we wait for them to catch up. Bring some spiced wine also.”

  Servants scurried to do his bidding, and soon Ram and his duke were savoring the wine. “You know, old friend, when I visited Edward in England all those years ago, he promised me the throne as a lawful gift. I sometimes wonder why he sent Harold to us as an ambassador. Did the wily old Confessor think it humorous to have two rivals size each other up?”

  He cupped his goblet in both hands and inhaled the aroma. “I regret I’ll have to kill Harold. I like the fellow. He’s tall and handsome, has remarkable physical strength, courage and eloquence. He’s known for his ready jests and acts of valor. But what’s the use of those gifts without honor? It infuriates me he swore an oath of loyalty to me two years ago, over the relic of a saint’s bones. He claims he was not aware of the bones, and in any case had crossed his fingers when he took the oath. You were there, mon ami.”

  The wine was beginning to ward off the chill of the sea air creeping into Ram’s blood. “I was indeed, Your Grace.” He knew what came next.

  “When he came to Normandie, I greeted him with splendid hospitality after his difficult journey. He was shipwrecked, as you know, and we rescued him from Guy de Ponthieu. He assisted us with our campaign against the Bretons, saving two of our commanders who had fallen into quicksand. I knighted him for that.”

  William took a long draught of the wine and bit into a pastry. “He swore an oath, of his own free will, that he would represent me at Edward’s court and do everything in his power to ensure the throne came to me, after the Confessor’s death. He promised to garrison my troops in the castle at Dover, and anywhere else I might choose—at his expense, I might add.”

  “I can testify to that, as a truthful and honorable man who was present.” Ram had heard the story many, many times over the course of the past six sennights, and his attention was more on the play of the moonlight on the rippling water. Did Mabelle watch the same moon?

  William suddenly threw his empty goblet down angrily, and it rolled back and forth with the swell. “Then comes the unwelcome report that this insensate Englishman has not waited for public choice, has broken his oath, and has seized the throne of the best of kings on the very day of his funeral. But, unfortunately for Harold,” William laughed, “the Pope doesn’t approve of oath-breakers and has given my crusade his blessing.”

  Watching the rolling goblet made Ram’s stomach clench and he felt the bile of mal de mer rise in his throat. He wondered if William would be as free and easy with his confidences and friendship if he did become king. Only six years separated them in age but William had ruled Normandie since he was a boy.

  “I’m not naive, Ram. I recognize the real reason most of the Norman nobility has supported my crusade—the promise of titles and lands in England, for anyone who would help me regain my throne.”

  He jumped to his feet and braced his legs against the movement of the ship. “I’m offering them the investment opportunity of a lifetime. If we can take England away from Harold, we’ll divide up the kingdom. The Pope has legitimized our violence as necessary, in a just cause, to
depose an oath-breaking upstart.”

  He raised his hand and pointed. “He’s even given me this fine consecrated Papal banner.”

  Both men became lost in their thoughts as the longboat bobbed in the waves. Ram was not a good sailor and, if he had to be in a boat, would prefer it wasn’t anchored. He didn’t wish to retch in front of William. The duke was probably envisaging thrones and crowns and coronations. Ram thought of Mabelle, and his father’s magnificent castle, his home. He wondered if and when he would ever see them again.

  As dawn broke, they heard the cry from the prow, “We’ve sighted the fleet.”

  “Signal to regroup, and continue on to the coast.” William sat, legs wide, hands on his knees, his back rigid, as the longship resumed its journey.

  At Pevensey they heaved the longboats up on the shore, but when William stepped ashore, he slipped and fell into the mud. Trying to avoid the accident being perceived as a bad omen, Ram quipped, “His Grace already has the earth of England in his hands.”

  William smiled his thanks and raised his fist full of the muck. Everyone cheered, obviously relieved the awkward moment had passed.

  “This is a good omen, Ram. We’ve had a safe crossing, and Harold has no one here to oppose us. Our spies were correct. He didn’t expect us to come so late in the year.”

  Knights and nervous horses poured out of the boats.

  “They are relieved to be back on dry land,” William commented.

  “As am I,” Ram agreed.

  When all were ashore, William summoned his commanders to his tent. He pointed to his half brother. “Eude will send out men immediately to raid the surrounding countryside for supplies. We’ll move a few miles inland to the east, to Hastings, and erect the temporary wooden stockade we brought with us in pieces. An excellent idea of yours, Montbryce.”

  Ram squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin as he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  Merci, Mabelle.

  William paced as he went over his plans for what Ram felt must have been the hundredth time. “Then we await Harold’s inevitable arrival. We could advance on London, but it would be better to lure Harold to the coast. We have a sheltered harbor here. It’s a good defensive position, and Sussex is Harold’s territory. He’ll ride to defend his people from our harassment. We must attack property in the vicinity, incensing Harold and drawing him here quickly.

  “Once we have the south in our grasp, we’ll turn our attention to bringing the rest of the country under our dominion. I’ve heard the Saxons have never managed to quell the rebellious Celts who live in the mountains of Wales. That might be a job for you, Rambaud de Montbryce.”

  Ram inclined his head, elated the duke considered him worthy of such a task.

  “This castle feels empty without my boys,” Comte Bernard said sadly, as he and Mabelle supped. “They’ve gone off to fight before. I should be used to this by now.”

  She understood his concern. His life revolved around his sons. They were the hope of his family’s future. He seemed to have aged further in the few days since the departure of the fleet.

  “We’ll pray daily for their safe return, milord.” She kept her voice calm, but her heart thudded in her ears, her head ached and she was filled with a sense of dread.

  Pray God he returns to me.

  But her heart knew it was a hopeless prayer. If he survived and prospered in England, it was unlikely he’d return for her.

  They had received no word of the crossing. Had the ships arrived? How had Ram weathered the sea journey? Was he safe? She couldn’t get him out of her head, couldn’t forget the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands. It had been challenging and stimulating to sit discussing the preparations for the invasion, but now it was a reality and the potential loss to the Montbryce family, and to herself, overwhelmed her. An atmosphere of nervous expectancy, tinged with fear, pervaded the castle.

  The Patriot

  Deep in the Mountains of Wales, Autumn 1066

  Prince Rhodri ap Owain had received messages two days before with news that the newly crowned king of the English Saxons was on his way back to the south with his army. They had won a hard-fought battle in the north of England, defeating the Norwegians. Now Harold Godwinson journeyed to face another threat on the south coast.

  William of Normandie waited with a fleet to invade England, intent on seizing the throne which he claimed Edward the Confessor had promised to him. The wind had only to change.

  The ominous tidings spawned the usual nightmares, the keening laments of the dispossessed, gaunt faces of hunger and desperation.

  Rhodri sat up abruptly, drenched in sweat, filled with foreboding that the nightmare would soon be reality. He shivered, combing his fingers through matted hair. Had he cried out? A deer hide separated his niche in the hall of the mountain fortress from the communal sleeping area of his men, but sounds travelled. He was their leader now after his father’s untimely death. They looked to him, despite his youth. He must never show weakness.

  He stretched his arms around his bent legs, and pressed his forehead to his knees, willing his body to cool and his heart to slow. Hasten the day the fortress would be completed, then he would have his own chamber, as he did in his small but comfortable castle in Powwydd.

  He held his breath and listened. The wind moaned through the timbers in its relentless descent from the surrounding crags. The sounds of men deep in slumber filled the air. They slept the sleep of the dead after long back-breaking hours spent erecting this impregnable fortification in the mountains of Wales. It had been no easy task, but they needed a secure, hidden base for their attacks on the arrogant Ango-Saxons. Cadair Berwyn was the perfect location, tucked away where no one could find it.

  Here they could speak their native Cymraeg without caring that the hated Angles called it Walhaz. It might be foreign to them, but to Rhodri’s people it was part of the identity they had fought to protect for hundreds of years. Here they could be the children of Cymru.

  Rhodri lay down on his side and pulled the brychan over him, the October air chilly on his naked skin. The amber beads around his neck shifted. He fingered his mother’s gift lovingly. “A memory of me,” she had whispered. “After I’m gone.”

  Now his whole family was indeed gone, swept away by a pestilence that had scythed through the hills and valleys. Had Rhodri not been at Cadair Berwyn, he too might have succumbed to its merciless march through the villages of Powwydd.

  The aroma of frying food wafted into his nostrils, though the stone kitchens were some distance away from the wooden fortress. The cooks must be up and about. Dawn would break soon, bringing another day of challenges as the champion of an oppressed people.

  Rhodri did not lack for courage but felt keenly the solitary nature of his position as Prince of Powwydd. It was a lonely life. No woman wanted to live with a rebel chieftain, hidden away for months in the mountains after raiding forays into lands they had once called their own.

  At the funeral for his family, his father’s ally, Morgan ap Talfryn, had raised the possibility of a betrothal with his daughter. Morwenna had been present at the rites in Powwydd. She was a girl of eleven, eight years his junior, but he had been reluctantly drawn to her promising breasts and long blonde hair. Her smile had been—alluring.

  Restless, he pulled the brychan off his arms and settled it round his waist. The wool irritated the knotted designs newly etched into his biceps—symbol of his chieftaincy. He turned onto his back and stretched, cursing that his thoughts of generous breasts had aroused him. He cupped his ceilliau and shifted his weight to relieve the ache. Perhaps he should take Morgan up on the offer—but there was something about Morwenna made him hesitate.

  He could not put off rising much longer. He must not be the last abed. He was reluctant to rise this day, a foreboding hanging over him they would receive bad tidings. His premonitions were not often wrong.

  He scratched the stubble of his morning beard. The consequences for his people of
either enemy being victorious weighed heavily on his mind. Harold’s army would be tired after the battle and the long trek back to the south. But the Saxons were a formidable fighting force, their shield wall impregnable, battle axes lethal.

  From what Rhodri knew of William, Duke of the Normans, his strength lay in his mounted knights. He had a reputation as a brutal man who brooked no opposition. Heaven help Cymru if the Normans triumphed. But how could they get their horses across the Narrow Sea? In any case, a horse was no match for an axe.

  Better the enemy you know.

  Rhodri clenched his jaw. So many greedy men. Would his people ever be left in peace to live their lives in their own country, or would they be driven further into the wild mountains?

  He thrust the brychan to the floor, pulled on his tunic, leggings and boots and strode off to break his fast with whatever it was that smelled so good.

  Preparing For Battle

  Bands of Harold's forces began arriving back on the south coast throughout the day on the thirteenth of October. The king, his younger brother and several other knights met in his tent to plan strategy. “These men won a hard-fought battle a mere eighteen days ago two hundred and sixty miles to the north,” Harold declared. “And now we expect them to meet a different enemy.”

  “Despite the hardship, morale is high,” Leofric assured him. “Soundly defeating Hardråda has boosted confidence.”

  Harold tapped his chin. “But our numbers might not be sufficient despite recruiting many to our cause on the trip south, and collecting fresh troops in London. I assume a battle is inevitable since no form of parley has been offered. I’ve made the decision to challenge William before he can consolidate any further.”

  Leofric put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re the king the people of England want. They didn’t want Hardråda, and they certainly don’t want William. Edgar the Aetheling is much too young. You’re the dead Confessor’s brother-by-marriage. He intended you to sit on the throne.”