The nursemaid stepped forward. “My name is Elayne, milord de Montbryce.”
She spoke again in flawless Norman French. Alex stared open-mouthed, the sultry disdain in her voice echoing to his core.
She stiffened her spine, eyes flashing defiance. “The prince and princess have had a long journey. May I take them to their chambers? And perhaps a salve could be fetched for the lacerations.”
Alex dragged his eyes from her full breasts to her face. The gall of the woman, reminding him of his obligation as their host. “I am their guardian now, Mistress Elayne. You need not instruct me as to my responsibilities.”
She stared back. “Guardian, or jailer,” she muttered.
She’d spoken softly, yet it was evident from the indrawn breaths around him, she’d been heard. Anxious faces awaited his reaction.
Romain’s loud cough slowed his headlong rush to reprimand the woman again. He clenched his fists in an effort to slow his breathing. Her lack of deference had done nothing to discourage his arousal. He summoned Bonhomme. “Show our guests to their chambers.”
Romain stepped forward. “I’ll accompany them.”
Elayne thrust her chin in the air, picked up Claricia and followed Romain and Bonhomme, Henry in tow.
Low murmurs of conversation began again.
At the door, Claricia lifted her head from the nursemaid’s shoulder and curled her little fingers into a wave of farewell, smiling at Alex. A soul-deep longing pierced his heart, a pain he’d long since thought dead and buried—a yearning for a child of his own.
Stages
ELAYNE DUNKELD FUMED INWARDLY, but held her tongue as she and the children were ushered into the opulent chamber assigned to them, surprised not to hear a key turn in the lock when they were left alone.
Tears threatened as she sat Claricia on the bed, tossing her playd onto a chair. The warmth of the familiar woolen garment had strengthened her during the interview with the comte. It was a link with her homeland. She combed her fingers through her hair, stifling the urge to scream out loud.
“What’s wrong, maman?” Henry asked, clamping his arms around her thighs, his head on her belly.
Elayne blinked away her tears. She had to be strong for her children’s sake. She stroked her son’s hair, thankful for once that he and Claricia had inherited their father’s coloring, then lifted him to sit on the high bed. Sitting between her twins, she hugged them, finding solace in their warmth. “Ye canna call me that, Henry, mo mhac. Ye must both remember ’tis a game. If all is to go well here, no one can ken I am yer maman. Always call me Elayne.”
“Oui, maman,” they chorused.
No use reprimanding them. They were babes, and bone tired. It had broken her heart to see them in chains. Was she expecting too much? But much had been expected of her. “Yer grandpapa Dabíd explained to ye why we have been sent here.”
Henry nodded as she pulled off his boots. “We’re stages.”
“Hostages,” she corrected. “Do ye remember why?”
Claricia yawned. “Grandpapa was angry with Queen Maud.”
Henry shrugged away from his mother when she tried to help him with his doublet. “I can do it. Grandpapa said we have to be ind—indep—”
“Independent,” Elayne supplied. “Good. I’ll help Claricia while ye prepare for bed. Perhaps the servants have put yer nightshirt in the armoire.”
Naked in the warm chamber, Henry wandered over to the armoire. Elayne smiled wistfully, thinking of the future when her son would be a man—no longer comfortable strutting bare-arsed in front of his mother and sister. She prayed they would all live long enough to see that day.
“I ‘member,” Claricia said, content to let her mother undress her. “Grandpapa was angry ‘cos Queen Maud ‘manded stages even though he promised to help her.”
Henry came back to the bed tugging his nightshirt over his head. “So we’re playing this trick to help Grandpapa.”
Out of the mouths of babes. It was a cruel irony that her father-by-marriage, the great King Dabíd mac Choluim had been only too anxious to consign his bastard’s children to Normandie.
She’d objected. “Henry and Claricia are all I have now Dugald is dead. I ken he was yer illegitimate son, but—”
The King of the Scots had been adamant, thumping his fist on the arm of his throne. “I refuse to send my heirs. Let the Norman Empress think she holds my legitimate grandchildren. Despite her arrogance, I’ll keep my oath to divert King Stephen’s attention by invading Northumbria again when she lands with her army in England.
“She’s lucky I still support her claim to the throne of England. I do so only out of loyalty to her father, Henry. He sheltered me when I had to flee Scotland as a youth.”
He’d gone off on the usual diatribe about his days at Henry’s court, driven into exile when his uncle, Domnall, usurped the throne on the death of Dabíd’s parents.
Finally, Elayne’s tears and weeping seemed to touch the king’s cold heart. “Go with them if ye must, but nay as their mother. Maud kens full well my son’s wife died in childbirth. ’Twillna be so bad. Maud has chosen the Montbryce family as yer hosts. They are honorable Normans. Ye and yer children will be treated kindly.”
Despite his reassurances, Elayne had feared they would be housed in a cell, especially after the chains. She breathed a long held sigh of relief as her eye traveled over the rich tapestries, fine furniture, and warm rugs that graced the chamber they’d been allotted. A hearty fire blazed in the grate.
A light tapping at the door drew her attention. A fresh-faced young woman carrying a tray peeked into the chamber, entering when Elayne nodded.
The girl didn’t bow, and Elayne reminded herself this servant believed she was also a servant. However, the friendly smile warmed her.
“I’m Micheline. I’m to help watch over the prince and princess. Cook sent food and the healer a salve.”
Elayne frowned, chewing her lip. Micheline didn’t look like a spy, but she supposed the comte wanted the castle servants to keep an eye on them. And it was thoughtful of the cook to spare the tired children the lengthy evening meal in the hall.
She unstoppered the jar of ointment and inhaled, surprised to discover it was costly spikenard. Her low opinion of Montbryce and his castle improved a smidgeon. She smoothed the pleasant smelling balm on the children’s sore wrists and ankles, then directed them to the small wooden table and chairs in one corner, where Micheline had placed the food.
The girl seemed nervous. “I’m sorry there isn’t enough for you, Elayne. Cook insisted servants must eat with everyone else.”
Elayne nodded, though it was a blow to her pride, and her empty belly. She must give this serving girl no reason to be curious. “I understand.”
Perhaps her suspicions were unfounded. Only time would tell. She would have to be wary. Alexandre de Montbryce had impressed her as a man of honor, if quick to take offense. She wondered what went on behind those piercing blue eyes. Was he married? Such a well-muscled, attractive man must have had many women to choose from. There had been no comtesse present at the interview.
He seemed old to be unmarried. Perhaps he was a widower. If he had sons and daughters, they might be playmates for Henry and Claricia.
What did it matter? She had more important things to worry about.
The food from the Montbryce kitchens was of the finest quality. Henry and Claricia wolfed down the roasted chicken she cut up for them. They even ate the carrots—a miracle. Her belly growled, but she would not take food from her children’s plates, especially in front of the watchful Micheline.
After supper, she tucked the children into bed, thankful for clean, vermin-free linens. They fell asleep before she reached the end of their favorite lullaby. The familiar song helped soothe her too.
Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.
“May ye indeed have the strength of the universe, and the strength of the sun, my angels.”
Micheline smiled
at the sleeping infants. “You have a beautiful voice, Elayne.”
She had always found solace in singing, especially to her children. She smiled her thanks to Micheline, the knot in her belly easing.
But her hunger and thirst grew. She had to keep up her strength if they were to survive this ordeal. Going without food would only weaken her.
“Milord Comte will expect you in the hall,” Micheline reminded.
Common sense won out. If filling her belly meant tolerating the Comte’s unsettling gaze, she would do it.
“You’ll stay a while longer, Micheline, until I return? I must admit I am hungry.”
Micheline squeezed her arm. “Oui, go. All is well here. They are safe with me. I have eight brothers and sisters, all younger than me.”
Opposing Sides
UPON REACHING THE HALL, Elayne tagged onto the end of a line of servants queuing at a series of long wooden trestle tables. She spooned a piece of roasted chicken and a few carrots onto a black bread trencher and helped herself to a tumbler of watered ale.
She’d never eaten with servants and peasants. Was there a protocol, or hierarchy of seating among the castle folk at Montbryce as there was in Scotland?
With no one to guide her, she took the first seat at an empty bench far from the dais, relieved most of the ale was still in the tumbler and the bread trencher hadn’t slipped from her trembling hand.
She looked up nervously, dismayed to see the comte’s gaze fixed on her. It was unnerving. Uncomfortable, she regretted coming. Why was he staring? Did he suspect her subterfuge?
She let her eyes wander into the rafters where banners wafted in the warm air. She’d been too nervous to notice anything during the first interview with the comte.
It was a large hall, richly decorated with fine tapestries, and trophies of war and the hunt. Clean rushes softened the stone floor. Delicious aromas filled the air, a pleasant change from the stench of rancid food and rat droppings that tended to permeate King Dabíd’s Great Hall when the castle’s dogs and cats failed to scavenge all the scraps.
If ever she had a castle of her own—
But that was wishful thinking. Her husband’s untimely and senseless death had placed her in a precarious position as the widow of the king’s bastard son. Only the existence of her children had prevented her being cast out. If they made it back to Scotland alive, the king would likely betroth her to an old man. Younger clansmen seeking a wife didn’t want a twenty-four year old widow with children.
Her father-by-marriage had told her the Montbryces were a wealthy family with a long and glorious history of military prowess who controlled vast lands in Normandie and England. They had always enjoyed the favor of the reigning monarch, an enviable feat in the morass of Anglo-Norman politics. He’d hinted at some terrible misfortune that had at one time befallen the previous comte, Alexandre’s father, but didn’t elaborate.
Elayne ate her chicken quickly, feeling guilty at leaving her children alone with a stranger in a foreign land. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
The other servants of the household eyed her as if she had two heads. Evidently, no one at Montbryce wore a playd.
It seemed strange to be seated with servants, though none had come to sit beside her. She was careful to eat like a peasant, though using her hands instead of utensils seemed uncouth. She licked her greasy fingers, having no napkin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Comte’s brother drain his tumbler of wine. She licked her lips, thirsting for a taste, but she’d have to make do with the watered ale.
“COUSIN GALLIEN WON’T BE PLEASED,” Romain observed, his mouth full of roasted chicken.
Alex pushed away his trencher, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his attention on the red-haired nursemaid seated alone at a servants’ table. “The Earl of Ellesmere is already aware of our hostages, and you’re right—he isn’t happy about it.”
Romain eyed the chicken Alex had left untouched. “To be expected, I suppose. He’s been a supporter of King Stephen from the outset.”
Alex shoved his food to his brother, then lounged back in the lord’s chair, wondering where the Scottish children were. “Stephen wears the English crown thanks to an accident of geography. When Henry died, he happened to be the closest to England and was able to cross the Narrow Sea and take the throne quickly.”
Romain shrugged, skewering the leftover chicken with his eating dagger. “Don’t forget he had help from his brother, Bishop of Winchester, which is, of course, the location of the Royal Treasury. Once he had his hands on that, his coronation was a foregone conclusion.”
He bit into the chicken with relish. “Much of the fault lies with Maud and Geoffrey. It was short-sighted to isolate themselves in Anjou when they knew her father was ailing. She was aware Stephen would challenge her for the throne.”
Alex stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Well, she’s paid for her lack of foresight, forced to spend the past six months drumming up an army here in Normandie to challenge Stephen. Our father swore an oath to support her claim to the throne, and so we shall.”
Pausing in his chewing, Romain took a long swig of wine. “It’s risky. Now Stephen is king, he has the power to confiscate Norman estates with connections to English families. He might decide Montbryce Castle is such a prize.”
Alex’s emotions were mixed. He wanted Romain to take an interest in the affairs of their extensive holdings, but resented his brother second guessing him. “That’s not likely. Gallien is one of his strongest supporters. I doubt he would want to alienate the English Montbryces.”
“But division on this issue is a source of great concern.”
Alex bristled. “As comte, I have the right as titular head of the family to demand that all Montbryces follow my lead. Unity is what has helped the family survive and prosper for generations. It’s a daunting possibility that we might find ourselves fighting against our cousins if Maud invades England.”
Romain snickered. “Might as well forget ordering Gallien to comply. He’s tried many times to convince you to switch allegiance to Stephen, and is no doubt haranguing our brother Laurent on the matter at this very moment.”
Alex objected. “Gallien’s father took the oath.”
Romain made a dismissive motion with his hand. “But most in England claim they swore allegiance to Maud under duress from Henry. Our own father was resentful of being coerced into swearing. The English barons don’t believe a woman should be queen in her own right. Many here in Normandie agree, including me.”
Alex drummed his fingers on the table, tired of the never-ending quandary of the succession. He glanced again at the Scottish woman. She was licking chicken grease off her fingers. His mouth fell open. His lungs refused to fill with air. He was consumed by an insane desire to hurry to her side and suck her fingers into his mouth.
He decided to send Bonhomme to the nursemaid to enquire of the children.
Romain coughed loudly, jolting him from his reverie. What had they been talking about? “You share Gallien’s opinions, then?”
Romain belched, then thumped his chest with his fist. “He claims Stephen is a better man for the job.” He laughed out loud, slapping Alex on the back. “Hah! Do you appreciate the humor in what I just said?”
Ignoring his brother, Alex beckoned Bonhomme. “Ask the Scottish woman what has become of the children.”
Romain pouted. “You’re not listening. Maud is a woman. I made a jest when I said—”
Alex clenched his jaw, his eyes on the nursemaid. Elayne was her name. “I heard what you said. Gallien is probably right. Stephen is a more—”
He paused, distracted by the irritated glare Elayne shot at him from across the hall. She said something in reply to Bonhomme. He wondered if the blush spread to her breasts.
Merde! The woman was getting under his skin. He turned to see Romain grinning at him. “What?”
“You’re taken with the Scot.”
Alex sat up straight, pulli
ng at the cuffs of his doublet. “I am merely wondering what has become of her charges.”
Romain came to his feet, his face a mask of amused disbelief. He threw his napkin into Alex’s lap. “You’re sweating, brother. You’ve been too long without a mistress.”
ELAYNE’S SPINE STIFFENED when she noticed the comte summon his steward. She suspected she was to be reprimanded for leaving the children, but reminded herself to hold on to her temper. A servant would accept a rebuke with humility. She must not betray her noble upbringing.
Bonhomme smiled. “Milord Comte enquires as to the children.”
Elayne gritted her teeth, feeling the heat of the flush that ran rampant across every inch of her skin. She tried unsuccessfully not to glare at the arrogant Alexandre de Montbryce. As if she would neglect her own children. “They are sleeping. I left them with Micheline for just a few moments. I haven’t eaten all day.”
The steward nodded. “I will convey the good news that they have fallen asleep, which indicates they must feel safe in their chamber. The comte has no children. He isn’t used to infants in the castle, except when his nieces and nephews visit.” He arched his brows. “He avoids them as much as he can.”
His words dismayed her for some reason she couldn’t fathom. “Does he not like children?”
Bonhomme shook his head. “It’s more an avoidance of his older sisters, Marguerite and Catherine. They tend to be overbearing. All three brothers keep out of their way.”
She glanced at the head table, noticing for the first time the empty chair next to Romain. “Three?”
“Milord Laurent is away at the moment, a guest of Gallien de Montbryce, the Earl of Ellesmere, a cousin in England.”
She surmised Laurent must be the baby brother, younger than Romain who seemed to be the second in command.
The air in the crowded hall had become stiflingly hot, and she was perspiring under the brooding gaze of the comte and the weight of the too-warm playd.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 2