Infidelity

by Markland, Anna

  Baudoin shrugged his shoulders. “I have no choice in the matter either. I won’t jeopardize this family by disobeying a royal edict.”

  A river of ice flooded Gallien’s veins. “You will throw me to the wolves once again.”

  Silence followed. Gallien regretted his outburst. He avoided looking at his father, who had been as devastated as he at the outcome of his first marriage.

  They had all been blinded by Felicité’s fair face and noble upbringing. Her father had been indignant at their allegations, refusing to believe his daughter capable of such behavior. He had threatened retaliation for her death, only withdrawing when her dowry lands were returned to him.

  Gallien gritted his teeth, remembering the aroma of Felicité’s perfume and how it had intoxicated him. Lavender.

  What a simpering fool he had been, lusting for her even as she cuckolded him.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Je m’excuse, Papa. Forgive me.”

  Baudoin indicated the other chair by the hearth. “Sit here by me.”

  Gallien sat slowly then cradled his head in his hands, studying his feet. “Who is this girl? Why did they say nothing of the matter while Maud was here?”

  Baudoin steepled his hands. “The decree is from Henry, not his daughter.”

  Gallien stared into the ashes of the day’s fire, feeling the chill descending on the gallery. “Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking this has nothing to do with Maud’s succession. I’ll wager that virago Ermintrude had a hand in this if the girl is a lady-in-waiting. But who is she, and why do they want to get her away from Westminster? I would have expected Henry to increase the number of Angevins at his court.”

  They sat in silence for a long while as the shadows lengthened. A servant came to light the torches. Baudoin rose and stretched. “I am for my bed. Forgive me, I was lost in the memory of the tales Caedmon told us of Blythe’s days as lady-in-waiting to Maud when she was married to Emperor Heinrich. Blythe deemed her a selfish girl at the age of twelve.”

  Mention of his half-uncle’s daughter only served to remind Gallien of the happiness she had found with her German husband, Dieter, years ago in Köln. It seemed even the children of the illegitimate branch of the family could find love. Blythe and Dieter had been married more than ten years.

  Was he to be the only one denied love? It was unlikely this Angevin wench would bring anything but heartache. He resolved to steel his heart. If it shattered again, he would never recover.

  Ellesmere

  The four day journey to Ellesmere was uneventful. King Henry provided an armed escort and, to Peri’s surprise, Comte Fulk of Anjou’s emissary in Westminster accompanied her.

  The wagon in which she rode was far more comfortable than the one that had conveyed her from Pontrouge to the coast. It had a wooden roof for shelter from the elements, rather than a canvas thrown over a frame, and the wheels were of better construction, which made the ride smoother. A small brazier warmed her feet.

  To her relief, Alys was allowed to travel with her. She had not seen her maidservant since their arrival in Westminster, and the woman regaled her with tales of the misery she had suffered. “Praise be to the saints I am delivered from the kitchens of Westminster. Imagine—a scullery maid at my age. My poor knees will never recover.”

  Peri raged inwardly. Ermintrude had treated Alys harshly, no doubt because she was an Angevin.

  After listening to the complaints for four days, Peri was tempted to retort that at least Alys had not been obliged to carry excrement. But, better to keep silent. No one would learn of her humiliation at Ermintrude’s hands. Alys was a welcome female companion amid this group of armed men.

  The only other person who spoke to her was the emissary from Anjou. It was he who pointed out Ellesmere Castle when the impressive stone edifice came into view on the horizon.

  Peri ached for a comfortable bed, tired of the rigors of the road. Despite the brazier, she was cold, the English damp seeping into her bones. She wanted to eat good food, and longed to bathe, to feel clean again.

  Ellesmere definitely looked like a prosperous castle that held the promise of those comforts, yet she was consumed with an urge to jump out of the wagon and demand she be taken back to Westminster. As if sensing her turmoil, Alys took her hand. “All shall be well, ma petite.”

  Her unease grew as laborers in the fields paused to watch them pass by.

  “Looks fertile, that land,” Alys observed. “Even at this time of year they can work it.”

  As they made their way through the busy sprawling town outside the castle walls, Peri noted the people looked well fed, and content. Again, many eyes followed their progress. Had they been told of the betrothal of their lord’s son? As the bride of the future earl, she would one day be the countess. These would be her people. It was a nerve-racking and surprisingly pleasing notion.

  Her heart lifted a little. She would become a countess after all. Certainly an improvement on serving as Maud’s chamber-pot-maid.

  The church, with its Norman tower, was large and well-appointed. She held her breath as they passed through the imposing barbican gate into the wide bailey. There was no turning back now. Geoffrey would never find her in this godforsaken place.

  * * *

  Carys de Montbryce stood with her daughters in the windswept bailey of the castle she loved, awaiting the arrival of the woman who was to wed her son.

  “She will think it strange Gallien is not here to meet her,” Fleurie said.

  Carys inhaled deeply, contemplating the untruth she was about to utter. “Perhaps, but it was unavoidable that he and your father and brother not be here. She will meet them later.”

  Fleurie looked at her curiously. Had she guessed that Carys had contrived the men’s absence? She had not wanted Gallien’s brooding animosity to cloud her future daughter-by-marriage’s first opinion of Ellesmere and the Montbryce family.

  Her embittered son had been only too happy to go off on a trivial errand rather than greet his betrothed. Baudoin had understood and complied with the plan.

  Carys knew nothing of the girl she awaited, except that she was an Angevin of good family, a former lady-in-waiting at Henry’s court. She prayed to the goddess Arianrhod that this woman had been sent to rescue Gallien from his bitter despair.

  She had not liked Felicité at their first meeting. Indeed, strange nightmares had presaged her arrival. Carys’s Celtic blood made her a believer in the power of dreams and visions, but she had held her tongue, afraid to challenge the marriage of her son and Felicité. She had regretted it a thousand times over, but Gallien had been taken with the woman, and her credentials had seemed impeccable.

  Carys longed for Gallien to regain his good humor. She ached to see once more the teasing glint in his eye when he plotted some mischief. She wanted her son back.

  Dreams had revealed nothing of this newcomer. Carys would have to rely on her own first impression.

  Isabelle squeezed her arm. “I’m excited. Another sister.”

  Fleurie chewed her bottom lip. “Let’s hope she is an improvement on the last one.”

  Carys’s heart ached for the damage wrought upon her family by Felicité’s duplicity. Gallien was not the only casualty of that war, though he had suffered the most.

  As the cavalcade entered the bailey, her heart sank. The carriage was closed. She would not see Peridotte de Pontrouge until she descended from the conveyance.

  Two men dismounted, one with King Henry’s devise on his surcoat, the other Fulk’s man. Both bowed deeply, each in turn brushing a kiss on the knuckles of her proffered hand. She hoped they would attribute her trembling to the chill in the air.

  “Milady Comtesse of Ellesmere, I am Gaston Malnorm, in the service of his Majesty King Henry.”

  He turned to the other man, his face full of scorn. “This is Dollard Ballustre, emissary of Comte Fulk d’Anjou.”

  Carys nodded in acknowledgment.

  Ballustre cleared his throat.
“I am the official escort for Demoiselle Peridotte de Pontrouge. With your permission I will assist her from the carriage.”

  Isabelle rocked back and forth on her heels.

  Fleurie folded her arms across her breasts.

  Carys flirted with the notion of refusing to welcome Gallien’s new bride. Better to spare him the risk of more heartache. “Of course,” she murmured. “She must be frozen to the bone in that contraption.”

  The crude wooden door creaked as Ballustre yanked it open. An older woman took his hand and stepped down with some difficulty. A maidservant.

  Carys glanced at her daughters, then looked back at the open door.

  Ballustre spoke to someone inside the carriage. “Ready, Demoiselle?”

  He braced one foot on the step and reached up to lift down his charge. He turned and set a beautiful young woman on her feet. She clung to his shoulders, looking exhausted and scared to death.

  Carys almost swooned with relief. Everything was going to be alright.

  * * *

  As Peri swayed, a woman rushed forward to grasp her hand and embrace her. “Bienvenue, croeso i Ellesmere, Peridotte, I am Carys de Montbryce.”

  Peri could scarcely believe this friendly person was the earl’s wife, her future mother-by-marriage.

  The woman laughed, evidently sensing her confusion. “Yes, I am the Countess of Ellesmere, and these are my daughters, Fleurie and Isabelle.”

  Two young women launched themselves at her, babbling effusive greetings. She was whisked into the keep and settled into a comfortable chair before a hearty fire. A servant peeled off her boots and hose, and rubbed warmth back into her frozen toes. A tumbler was thrust into her hand.

  “Sip it,” the countess advised.

  The golden liquid tickled her nose and burned her throat, but its warmth seeped into her veins.

  “It’s the famous Montbryce apple brandy,” Fleurie explained with a grin.

  Peri could only nod, having no idea what that meant. As the trio talked on, she gazed around the Great Hall in which she sat. Despite its size and grandeur, it was comfortable, the banners hanging from the rafters telling of the family’s proud history. Now she would be part of that history when she married—

  She frowned. Her betrothed had not come to welcome her.

  “Gallien and his father and brother had to leave the castle to attend to an estate matter.”

  Again, the countess seemed to have sensed what was in her mind. It was disappointing that he had not welcomed her, though she had dreaded meeting him. But it was an insult nevertheless, and did not bode well. Why had he not come?

  Fleurie and Isabelle had stopped talking. Both averted their gaze. Peri felt uncomfortable in the sudden silence, wondering what it was they were not telling her. They too had secrets.

  It came to her suddenly that she had yet to speak a word to these Normans. They must think her an imbecile. She took another sip of the aromatic liquid. “Merci. I am warm now,” she murmured.

  Betrothal

  Peri paused before the arched wooden door to the Chart Room of Ellesmere Castle. It had been left ajar. “A moment,” she whispered to the Comte d’Anjou’s emissary.

  Ballustre bowed, stroking his pointed beard. A tight smile flickered for only a moment, betraying his nervousness.

  She smoothed her hands over her skirts and carefully adjusted the veil that threatened to slide from her braided hair. Alys had worked her usual magic with the wrinkled gown, barking orders at the maidservant sent by the countess as if she were the lady of the castle. They had chosen the gown of forest green wool because it suited her skin and hair color—and her mood. This was not the festive occasion she had dreamed her betrothal ceremony would be.

  None of the Montbryce men had returned by the time she had retired to her appointed chamber the previous evening, resulting in a sleepless night of resentment mingled with relief.

  She raised her chin, then turned to her escort. Despite the dread churning in her belly, she said, “I am ready.”

  He touched his palm to the door. It swung open without a sound and he ushered her inside. Her knees threatened to buckle as she stepped over the threshold into a new life she did not want. She was to be bound to a man who had not welcomed her and who had failed to appear this morning in the Great Hall. She had broken her fast in uncomfortable silence with Fleurie and Isabelle, nibbling on a crust of freshly baked bread, feeling increasingly like a prisoner condemned to the gallows.

  Determined to appear unruffled, she thrust out her chin. Her gaze fell on two heads of white hair, both bent to the close study of some document upon the table. She faltered. By the wood of the true cross! Had Henry betrothed her to an old man?

  Her gasp caught the attention of both men. They shared a resemblance, but they were obviously father and son. The older man smiled, his eyes full of warmth and welcome.

  The younger, taller knight straightened. Back rigid, lips in a tight line, he narrowed his eyes. Her belly lurched. Gooseflesh marched across her nape. She had never seen a young man with hair the color of moonbeams. Yet his eyebrows were black as night. It was strangely compelling. The unrelieved black of his doublet, hose and boots made his appearance all the more startling. Under his dark gaze, she felt like a rabbit caught in a snare.

  He was much taller than she, a broad-shouldered warrior whose bearing and attire left no doubt about his wealth and power. It was clear from his scowl he did not welcome this betrothal. He did not want her.

  As the older man stepped forward, offering his hand, a doomed hope that he was her betrothed befuddled her wits.

  “Milady Peridotte. Bienvenue. Welcome to Ellesmere Castle. I am Baudoin de Montbryce. I apologise for my absence yesterday.”

  The fog of despair lifted. The still handsome earl was evidently as friendly as his wife. Surely, the son had inherited the trait.

  She accepted the earl’s hand and he bowed to brush a kiss across her knuckles. It was an honor she was obliged to acknowledge, though she feared no words would issue from her dry throat. She averted her gaze. “Merci, milord Earl.”

  He led her to the arrogant man who had made no move towards her. If she balked, she would never have to bear the touch of the haughty nobleman who eyed her with scorn. But refusal was not an option. Her father had never beaten her, but she would surely feel the full weight of his wrath if she disgraced her family by spurning an alliance arranged by the King of England. After the beating she would be sent to a nunnery.

  The well-muscled giant with the silver hair was her husband-to-be. She wanted to blurt out that she loved Geoffrey Plantagenet, but that would only serve to deepen his obvious disdain and intensify his wrath.

  The earl passed her hand into that of his son. “Milady Peridotte de Pontrouge, may I present to you mon fils, Gallien de Montbryce, your betrothed.”

  The warmth of his skin was a shock, but he made no attempt to bestow a kiss. He merely let her hand rest on his. “Enchanté,” he rasped, but his icy blue eyes did not reflect his professed enchantment at meeting her. Nor did he acknowledge her by name.

  “Milord de Montbryce,” she murmured.

  He dropped her hand like a red hot ember from the brazier. Resentment flared in her throat. It was an insult.

  Comte Fulk’s emissary coughed.

  Her betrothed shifted his weight, fists clenched at his side. He shot a glance of pure hatred at the Angevin escort. “Shall we get this over with?”

  Retrieving the documents from the table, the earl scowled at his son. He reassured the emissary. “I believe everything is in order.”

  Misery welled up in Peri’s heart. All in order? Nothing was as it should be. She had dreamed of a life of love, happiness, and prestige as the wife of Geoffrey Plantagenet. Instead, she was doomed to wed a cold, heartless foreigner who obviously did not want her, much less love her.

  The emissary returned the documents to the table, accepted the inked quill from the earl and signed both copies with a flourish. It
appeared she was not to be allowed to read the agreement that would bind her to the Montbryce monster. They probably thought her illiterate because she was an Angevin.

  Misery gave way to anger. When the emissary offered her the quill, she sauntered to the table and picked up the parchment.

  Fulk’s man gasped. “All is as it should be, milady.”

  Holding the quill in mid air, she peered down her nose in the condescending way Fermentine invariably looked at her. “I will read for myself before I sign.”

  Not daring to look at her betrothed, she hazarded a glance at her future father-by-marriage, surprised to see a slight smile curving his lips. She drew her eyes back to the parchment, not actually reading, but determined to delay the inevitable. What did she care about the dowry she brought with her or what lands her future husband had endowed her with? Her life was over.

  Her eye lingered only on her betrothed’s full name. He was Gallien Rambaud. Was there a soul in Anjou who had not trembled at mention of the name of Rambaud de Montbryce, the great hero of the Battle of Hastings, friend, and confidant of the hated Norman Conqueror?

  Gallien’s grandfather.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the impatient tapping of her betrothed’s foot. His irritation gave her a moment’s satisfaction, but she doubted she could delay any longer. Chewing her lower lip, she bent low to the parchment and signed her name deliberately in the appropriate places, praying the ink would not blot. Her tutor, the curé of Pontrouge, had ever bemoaned her slow penmanship.

  How she wished her mother and father were present. She had never felt more alone, even in the worst moments of toting chamber pots in Westminster.

  Sweat beaded between her breasts as she stepped back from the table, offering the quill to the earl. She willed the trembling in her hand to stop, thankful for the potpourri sachet. He smiled as he accepted it and put his name to the agreement.