He organized soule games in the bailey and the shouts of happy children bounced off the stone walls of the castle, bringing a smile to many faces in spite of the dire situation. He tried to implement new rules about avoiding the makeshift animal pens filled with livestock, but the boys seemed to take added delight in extricating the ball from under the feet of squealing pigs, squawking chickens and bleating goats. Peasant women complained about the impossibility of removing animal filth from clothing when water was rationed.
Faol was generally considered the best player of all. Every boy wanted to be on his team, even when his shaggy grey coat was matted with dung.
“How long will they sit out there?” Romain asked, his voice betraying an unusual trace of worry.
“Only Dieu and Geoffrey know that,” Alex replied, hooking an arm around his brother’s neck, enjoying the new easy familiarity they shared. “Let’s go break our fast.”
ELAYNE HAD EVENTUALLY CAPITULATED to Alexandre’s insistence she sit at the head table with her children, but only because the servants were uncomfortable once they’d been told of her true identity.
She still felt awkward in the new clothing the seamstresses had conjured in a few short days. It seemed wrong in a time of lack and restraint, but Micheline, newly appointed as her lady’s maid, reassured her. “Forgive me, milady, but we could tell all along those darling children were yours, and anyone can see you and the comte have eyes for each other. All of us would like to see our comte happily wed—and a father to young Henry and Claricia.”
Had the maidservant guessed the truth? Her children needed a father like Alexandre—brave, honest, noble. And the more time she spent in his embrace, the more she wanted him with an ache that grew in intensity every day.
She still wore her playd, partly for familiarity, mostly to ward off the chill, but now she draped it over her shoulder and across her body, pinned with the Douenald clan brooch her father had given her on her wedding day, a brooch no longer concealed in her trunk, but worn with pride. She hoped one day to give it to her daughter.
She worried about Claricia who’d been listless for a few days and had lost her usually healthy appetite. She was coaxing small pieces of smoked ham into her mouth when Alexandre and Romain strode into the hall.
She could never look at the man she loved without a rush of heat spiraling through her body.
He bent to peck a kiss on Claricia’s forehead. “She feels warm.”
Elayne put her hand where his lips had been. “I’m not sure what’s wrong.”
“I want to sleep, maman,” her daughter complained, adding to her concern.
“Just eat a little more, for me,” she pleaded.
Claricia gave in, chewing the morsels with difficulty, but suddenly she gripped Elayne’s hand, turned away and vomited. Faol leapt to his feet with uncharacteristic swiftness just in time to avoid being splattered.
The child swooned. Alexandre moved quickly to catch her before she fell off the bench. He scooped her up, holding her against his chest, seemingly not caring about his fine raiment. Servants rushed forward, their worried faces touching Elayne’s frantic heart.
“Fetch the healer,” Alexandre shouted as he carried Claricia from the hall.
Henry bolted from his place to follow, his young face tight with dismay, but Elayne touched his shoulder. “Stay here, Henry. I don’t want you getting sick too.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but Romain came quickly to usher him to another table while a servant cleaned up. “He’ll be fine. Go.”
Her belly in knots, she ran out of the hall, praying the healer had a solution to her daughter’s illness.
FOR ANOTHER SENNIGHT Alex made the rounds of the castle, reassuring weary villagers, encouraging his soldiers, checking the weapons in the armory, the remaining provisions, the water supply. Henry was his constant shadow, walking resolutely at his side, a miniature lieutenant accompanied by his hound, politely refusing suggestions he play soule with the other boys. Alex wondered if the lad sensed he was missing Elayne in his bed and wanted to make up for it.
Still Geoffrey’s army made no move.
After the evening meal, Alex joined Elayne in her vigil at Claricia’s bedside, distraught that he didn’t know how to console her torment as the child’s illness worsened. The castle’s healer could offer no solution to the high fever and headaches that beset the girl. Nothing she ate or drank stayed in her body. She was wasting away before their eyes.
Alex felt like part of him was dying; he couldn’t imagine what the child’s mother was feeling. Yet, she remained strong, refusing to admit her daughter wouldn’t recover.
He usually stayed by Elayne’s side until midnight, then left to go to his own chamber to offer what comfort he could to Henry who’d been moved there to avoid contagion. Micheline had prepared a chamber for the boy, but Alex wanted him close, wanted to be a father to him.
He was about to admonish Elayne, in vain he knew, about staying awake for another long night, when a loud knocking startled them.
“Milord, milord. Vite. The orchards.”
Bonhomme.
He thrust open the door. Distress creased his steward’s face. “The bastards have set fire to the apple orchards,” he rasped.
Alex ran by him, almost bumping into Romain. They joined a throng of armed men scaling the ladders to the battlements.
“Be watchful,” Alex shouted to the soldiers. “This may be a ploy to distract us.”
Breathing hard, he stood next to his brother and looked out. Romain swore loudly. Alex’s belly leapt into his throat. Acres of orchards, renowned for generations as producing the finest apple brandy in all the Calvados, were ablaze, flames licking the night sky.
The castle sat on a promontory, the orchards surrounding it. The fire raced rapidly through the trees until Montbryce was ringed by a burning circle.
Thick wood smoke drifted, much of it towards the castle, heightening fears of an attack. Was this part of Geoffrey’s plan, or was the fire another scheme to demoralize the inhabitants of Montbryce?
Around him men coughed, rubbing their eyes, but they remained at their posts, vigilant.
The castle was far enough from the flames that they couldn’t hear the fire, the eerie silence making the horrific scene seem even more unreal. But it was a blessing. An army couldn’t move without making noise.
Suddenly, there was movement and shouting in the Angevin camp. Alex squinted into the smoke-filled darkness, not quite believing what he saw. “They’re striking tents.”
Romain burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. “Idiots. They’ve miscalculated the wind, putting their own camp at risk of the flames.”
Despite his anguish, Alex smiled. Perhaps Geoffrey of Anjou wasn’t as clever as he thought. But the Angevin would pay for this travesty.
The One Man
ELAYNE PACED AT THE FOOT OF HER DAUGHTER’S BED, wringing her hands. Surely Bonhomme had been mistaken about the fire in the orchards, but the acrid smell of smoke filled the air.
She glanced at Claricia, sleeping now, though not peacefully. The lone candle by the bed cast an eerie glow on the sheen of sweat on her skin. Her child could not die. Was this a punishment for bedding a man without benefit of a priest’s blessing? There’d been no improvement in her daughter’s health, despite Elayne’s prayerful entreaties.
She slumped into a chair, staring into the dark, lifeless grate, fingering the fraying edges of her playd. She couldn’t pray any more.
Her eyelashes fluttered closed.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when she felt herself being lifted. Peeling open her eyes, she looked up at Alex’s smudged face and knew for certain the orchards were lost. She rested her head back onto his chest. The smell of smoke clung to his garments. “I’m so sorry, Alex. Your lovely trees, your family’s pride.”
He cleared his throat. “We can replant. My uncle and cousins have a successful orchard at Domfort, planted by my great oncle Hugh many ye
ars ago. They’ll help us. And some of the trees may have survived. The amusing thing is they almost lost their own camp to the flames.”
Elayne wanted to laugh, but it turned into a choked sob.
Micheline poked her head around the door after tapping lightly. Alex bade her enter. “Micheline will stay with Claricia. I’m taking you to my chamber.”
She protested with what little energy she had left, but knew in her heart he was right. “I must stay with—”
“Micheline will come if there is any change. Seek your bed. Henry needs you as much as Claricia.”
He bore her to his chamber and laid her on his bed next to her son. Henry too smelled of smoke and she knew he must have been up on the battlements with Alexandre. His cheeks bore the tracks of dried tears. He turned to cuddle into her and they fell asleep together.
ALEX WATCHED ELAYNE AND HER SON SLEEP. Despite the turmoil roiling in his belly, his heart felt strangely at peace. This woman belonged in his bed. She and her children had carved a place in his life and he would do everything in his power to protect them and keep them with him.
He unpinned the brooch that secured her shawl and removed it, pulling the linens over them.
He wrapped the patterned shawl around his shoulders, inhaling Elayne’s elusive scent. No matter that she had spent sennights indoors, she still smelled of fresh air. He eased off his boots, carefully placed his dagger, sword and scabbard on the dresser, and lay down on the wolf skin rug in front of the cold grate.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d dozed when he was jolted awake by a loud knocking. He scrambled to his feet, hurrying to the door before the noise woke Elayne.
Bonhomme probably hadn’t slept in days, yet he stood with legs braced, armed to the teeth, an unusual sight in itself.
“An emissary approaches, milord,” he whispered, frowning slightly. “From the Angevin.”
Alex realized he too must present a strange sight, wrapped in Elayne’s playd. He folded it and placed it by the hearth, retrieved his weapons and rejoined his steward, thankful Elayne still slept. “Have you alerted my brother?”
“Oui, milord. He’s already on the battlements.”
They walked quickly and soon joined a grim-faced Romain. Smoke still hung in the air, almost obscuring the pink streaks in the dawn sky that held the promise of blustery weather later in the day. Not a breath of wind stirred to blow away the stench of burnt wood.
Not far from the gate, a lone rider sat atop his horse, its tail twitching back and forth in the scant light. It was impossible to see the shadowed face of the emissary who held the reins of his horse tightly. A strange dread wriggled in his belly at the sight of a patterned garment draped over the man’s broad shoulder. It was eerily familiar.
At Alex’s nod, Bonhomme hailed him. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m an emissary from Maud, rightful Queen of the English. I come bearing terms for surrender.”
Romain snorted. “Arrogant bugger. He thinks because he’s burned our trees we are going to capitulate.”
But something about the man’s speech caught Alex’s attention. He wasn’t Norman, but neither was he Angevin. His brogue hinted at Celtic heritage. Why that troubled him he couldn’t say. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted his response. “There will be no surrender.”
The emissary didn’t move a muscle. Whoever he was, he had nerves of steel.
“It is customary to at least hear the terms of surrender. I ask the favor of an audience.”
What was there to lose? If he sent the rider back without a hearing, Geoffrey might reward his lack of success with a beheading. He nodded to the sentry at the gate. The portcullis squealed open one slow inch at a time. The rider waited for what seemed like an interminable amount of time, then nudged his horse forward, ambling into the bailey as if he were a welcome visitor.
Alex and Romain came down the ladder quickly. Montbryce men-at-arms rushed to surround the messenger, but he dismounted slowly as if returning from an afternoon ride in the country. He adjusted the patterned garment on his shoulder and braced his legs, facing Alex. He executed a showy bow. “Milord, Comte de Montbryce.”
Alex had learned about the woolen playds from Elayne. This one was similar to hers, but well worn and faded, its edges frayed. It too was pinned at the shoulder by a large brooch. Who was this stocky, self-assured man with the foreign accent? “Speak.”
Swiping long, matted hair off his face, the stranger produced a parchment from his doublet. “Milord.”
Alex supposed from the man’s coloring it had once been fair, but now it was muddy brown and streaked with grey. He was momentarily taken aback when a livid scar was revealed. It snaked down from the corner of the man’s right eye to his dimpled chin, telling of battle, and of pain. He accepted the missive, but paused before opening it. “You’re a Celt.”
The man chuckled. “I’m a Scot, milord.”
It flitted through Alex’s brain that Elayne might enjoy speaking with this fellow countryman, but he suppressed the notion quickly, unfurling the document.
He scanned it. “According to this, Maud only wants assurances that the royal hostages are safe?”
The Scot coughed into his fisted hand. “Queen Maud wishes to ensure the wellbeing of the grandchildren of King David of Scotland now that you have changed allegiance. She knows I am the one man able to identify them and be certain of their continued good health, and has authorized me to depart with them, since there is no further need for their accommodation here. Once they are safe, she will withdraw her forces.”
The one man?
“And if I refuse?”
The Scot eyed him with open disdain. “That would signify you’re holding them as hostages in your own right. The village would be burned next.”
Indignation roared. Who was this man to threaten him, and how could he be familiar with the grandchildren of a king? Would he know immediately that the hostages at Montbryce were not the legitimate grandchildren of King David? Or was it a bluff? There was only one way to find out.
ELAYNE WOKE WITH ALEX’S SCENT IN HER NOSTRILS. Her eyes flew open as panic seized her. How had she come to be in his bed?
Her racing heart calmed when she heard Henry snoring softly beside her. She breathed again and turned onto her back, stretching, pulling the linens to her nose.
She’d had scant opportunity during their clandestine trysts to survey the Master’s chamber. It was large and opulently decorated with rich tapestries, warm rugs and heavy, elaborately carved armoires. Though a man occupied it now, it bore the touch of a woman. Or perhaps more than one woman? Had Alex’s mother, Dorianne plied the needle to embroider the banners that wafted in the rafters? Or his grandmother, Mabelle? She looked forward to adding her own touches.
The chamber was warm, despite the lack of a fire in the grate. Norman castles were more comfortable than Scottish towers. How wonderful it would be to wake up in this chamber every morning, beside Alexandre. A jolt of arousal spiraled.
She glanced again at Henry. The boy needed a father, and who better than Alex? Her son loved him already and if—
She sat bolt upright, struggling out of the linens, overwhelmed by guilt. Too preoccupied with lustful fancies, she’d given no thought to her daughter who lay dying nearby. She spied her playd by the grate, retrieved it quickly and hurried to the door, inhaling Alex’s reassuring scent lingering on the wool, despite the slight odor of smoke.
“Maman,” Henry murmured hoarsely.
She came back to the bed and embraced her son. “Stay here, Henry. Go back to sleep. I’m going to see Claricia. I’m sure she’ll be a lot better this morning.”
The boy tried to get out of bed. “I want to come too.”
“Nay,” she insisted with more force than she’d intended. “I’ll come for ye in a little while.”
She kissed his forehead as he sank back against the bolster, then left the chamber.
Her anxious heart leapt when she entered
Claricia’s chamber. The child was sitting up in bed, sipping something from a spoon Micheline held to her mouth. “Claricia,” she cried, filled with a compulsion to leap on the bed and embrace her daughter.
Micheline stepped back. “She woke an hour ago, asking for water. I think the worst is over.”
Elayne was torn between an urge to embrace the maidservant and a mad desire to chastise the woman for not fetching her when Claricia awoke. She opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a strangled sob.
“My throat hurts, maman,” Claricia whined.
Elayne took the child’s chin in her hand, relieved that the fever no longer burned in her body. “Open wide. Let me see.”
The back of her daughter’s throat was dotted with little yellow spots. Relief flooded her. She’d seen this before. Children rarely died of it, though some, like Claricia, became very sick. But now the sickness had come out and she was confident that in a few days all would be well if the smoke and ash in the air didn’t aggravate the illness.
Claricia must have sensed her relief. “Will I soon be better, Maman?”
Elayne smiled, relieved when she heard Alex enter quietly behind her. She knew who it was without turning around. But then the pungent odor of a long-unwashed male assaulted her senses.
Claricia’s eyes widened. “Dadaidh,” she squealed holding out her arms.
It filled Elayne’s heart with joy that Claricia already thought of Alex as her father, but then she heard another voice—one that sent dread skittering up her spine.
“Mo nighean.”
She turned abruptly.
A tall man stood in the doorway.
A man who had died over a year ago in Northumbria.
The room tilted as Dugald Dunkeld strode towards his daughter with a swaggering gait and an angry face she knew only too well.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 12