Hearts and Crowns

by Anna Markland

  Gallien was surprised. His uncle and cousin had evidently been discussing him. Would it be wise to continue? “But King Henry has wed again. He may yet sire another legitimate son.”

  Alexandre snorted. “Henry is a man of three score years.”

  “But Adeliza is only four and twenty.”

  Alexandre scowled. “They have been wed nigh on six years with no sign of any issue. Speaking of which, what of you and your wife?”

  Gallien shifted his weight. He did not want to discuss Peri with his unmarried cousin. “No children yet, but once I return home—”

  Alexandre smiled, but the smile left his face when Gallien asked, “And you? A betrothal soon, perhaps?”

  “My parents have paraded many eligible young women before me, but none have appealed.” He looked directly at Gallien. “I want a woman with whom I can share a deep love, like the one my parents have. I suspect you have found such a woman. I can see in your eyes that you suffer from the Montbryce curse!”

  Gallien was stunned. Alexandre had sensed something in him that he had fought to deny. The cousin he barely knew wanted what Gallien had thrown away: a deep, abiding love.

  ~~~

  In the middle of July, word spread in the camp that Clito had laid siege to Aalst.

  “Not difficult to guess where we are going next,” Gallien said wearily. “We should have gone to Aalst before. It was obvious Clito would attack there.”

  It dismayed him there seemed to be no clear leadership of the motley crew of English and Norman knights.

  Aalst became another cat and mouse game of skirmishes and counter attacks. The summer heat was oppressive. During one charge, Gallien caught sight of Clito for the first time. “He seems to be everywhere at once,” he remarked breathlessly to Étienne. “He’s tall.”

  As they wheeled their mounts for another pass, Clito’s horse reared, throwing him to the ground. One of Thierry’s foot soldiers advanced on him, lance in hand.

  Gallien lost sight of what was happening in the clouds of dust as he turned to fend off one of Clito’s men. Having dealt his assailant a sword blow to the belly that would likely kill him, he peered through the melee.

  Clito grappled with the soldier, one arm bloodied. Gallien spurred his horse forward, trying to push through the tangled horde.

  Two of Clito’s knights rode to their lord’s defence, despatched the enemy foot soldier and plucked their leader from the field, bearing him to safety.

  Coughing, his eyes watering, Gallien seethed. “I might have had the glory of capturing William Clito, grandson of the Conqueror.”

  ~~~

  Gallien chewed on a heel of stale bread, gazing at the pennants shimmering atop the enemy’s pavilions like a heat mirage in the far distance. “It’s too quiet. Something is amiss in Clito’s camp.”

  Romain scratched his beard. “I agree. Dieu, I’ll be glad of a shave—and some action. Sitting on my arse for three days swatting flies is driving me witless. What do you suppose is going on over there?”

  Alexandre sipped his ale, his hands cradled around a cracked tumbler. “There’s a rumor Clito was seriously wounded when he fell off his horse.”

  Gallien shook his head. “I saw it. He walked away, with help from his comrades. However, his attacker was brandishing a lance. Clito’s arm looked to be bloodied.”

  He still chided himself that he had let the opportunity to capture the Conqueror’s grandson slip through his fingers. Had Thierry’s man managed to seriously wound Clito before being cut down? In the oppressive heat even a minor wound could fester. There had been no sign of preparations for another sortie from the enemy camp.

  “We should know soon,” Laurent offered. “Thierry has paid villagers from Aalst to report back to him after they deliver victuals to Clito’s camp.”

  Suddenly, a loud cheer went up from the area near Thierry’s pavilion. As one, the Montbryces came to their feet. Gallien shaded his eyes against the sun. Étienne was running up the hill towards them, waving his arms.

  He clutched Gallien’s shoulders, gulping air. “Clito is dying.” He took another breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “They’ve taken him to the Benedictine community of Saint Bertin in Saint-Omer.” He shook his head, opening his eyes. “It was his last request that he be admitted there to die.”

  Gallien hoped he had correctly understood his brother’s babbling. It was over. He yelled his elation, tightening his grip and hoisting Étienne off the ground. “At last! What happened?”

  Étienne pushed away, bending over to catch his breath, his hands on his knees.

  Alexandre thumped him on the back. “How do you know this?”

  Étienne collapsed onto a camp stool, accepting Alexandre’s tumbler of ale, which he drained. He sat with his legs sprawled, staring at his feet, as if he could scarcely believe the news he had just imparted. “Clito’s cousin and chaplain, Jean, son of Eude of Bayeux came to Thierry with a delegation.”

  Gallien bristled. “We’ve kept an eye on the comings and goings over there. I saw nothing.”

  Étienne jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “They came from the other direction. Jean escorted his dying master to Saint-Omer. Clito dictated a letter for Thierry to give to King Henry. He apparently expressed his sorrow for the divisions between him and his uncle, and begged pardon for himself and all who aided him.”

  Gallien could scarce believe it. “Christ! It’s as if he thinks all this bloodshed has been for some silly family feud. Was it the lance?”

  “Oui, according to the priest, the weapon ripped open his palm and was driven up into his forearm. The wound putrified.”

  A hush fell over the gathering. Every warrior dreaded dying in lingering agony.

  Gallien threw up his hands. “Bring more ale, Alexandre. Let’s toast the nameless dead infantryman who has brought an end to this folly.”

  ~~~

  “It’s as if Merlin waved his magic wand and the fighting ceased,” Étienne whispered.

  Gallien watched the clouds of incense rise into the vaulted arches of the abbey of Saint Bertin. “I agree. One minute we were busy killing each other, and now we are here honoring Clito as he is interred. But the Flemish disagree with you. They see his death as an Act of God.”

  Étienne inhaled deeply. “What a waste. Only five and twenty.”

  Gallien shuddered. “And a slow, obscene death. I hope to die more quickly when my time comes.”

  Alexandre smiled. “My father is no doubt overjoyed by news of Clito’s death, and proud that my brothers and I played some small part in the demise of Curthose’s son. I am glad my mother still lives to hear the news. You were right when you said it would not end until one of them was dead. Louis has recognised Thierry as Comte of Flandres, and I am sure King Henry will be pleased with the way events have turned out.”

  Gallien grimaced. “Imagine rejoicing at the death of a nephew. Thank God our family has never come to such a pass.”

  He felt instantly contrite. Not only had he forgotten Alexandre, Romain and Laurent expected to hear news of their mother’s death, he had given no thought to his own father’s slaying of Dorianne’s brother years ago at Tinchebray.

  As if sensing his discomfort, Étienne changed the subject. “Kings have different burdens and responsibilities. Henry has always put England and Normandie’s interests ahead of his own feelings. Those who wear the crown cannot always listen to the dictates of their heart.”

  Gallien recognised the truth of his brother’s words, and questioned anew Maud’s ability to follow in her father’s footsteps. News had come in the midst of the campaign of her marriage to Geoffrey in Le Mans. Strangely, he felt only sadness for them. It was evident they were ill-matched. Imagine her imperial ire at having to wed in Anjou.

  He resolved to pledge himself anew to Stephen’s cause to be King of England.

  But first he intended to rebuild his relationship with his wife. He fished the well-worn sachet from his doublet. He held it to his nose, rubbi
ng his thumb and fingers lovingly over the talisman that had carried him through the long campaign, inhaling the last traces of its perfume. “I suppose you are right. Anyway, finally we can go home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Clito is dead!”

  Peri startled, wincing as the needle punctured her finger. Sewing had ever been a burden, now she would have blood on the stitches. She stuck her finger in her mouth and struggled to her feet, dropping the hated embroidery. “What?”

  “Dead and buried,” the Earl declared, grinning from ear to ear. “Our boys are on the way home. My brother, Robert, is ecstatic.”

  She gaped at her father-by-marriage.

  The Countess hastened into the chamber. “Is it true? Clito dead?”

  The Earl brandished a parchment. “I just received the message. He was wounded during some siege. The wound putrefied. They buried him a fortnight ago. Louis the Fat has endorsed Thierry as Count.”

  Peri sank back into her chair, gripping the edges as the babe in her womb kicked wildly.

  The Earl and his wife clung to each other. It was the first time she had seen either of them cry.

  The Countess broke the embrace. “A fortnight? That means Gallien and Étienne are probably well on their way here. I must speak with Cook about procuring pheasant.”

  As she scurried away, a dull ache settled behind Peri’s eyes. A pulse throbbed wildly in her throat. She envied Carys de Montbryce’s strength, born no doubt from her certainty of her husband’s love. The Ellesmere household had expected the return of its warrior sons after the fall of Bruges, but the campaign in Flandres had dragged on and the last news had been dire. Clito had come within a hair’s breadth of retaking Bruges.

  In Peri’s darkest moments, her mother-by-marriage had been there to give solace, encouragement, and reassurance when her own heart must have been breaking.

  At last Gallien was on his way home. She patted her swollen belly. “Your papa might be home soon. He will love you as much as I do.”

  She hoped she was not lying to her unborn child.

  ~~~

  Atop the rampart surrounding Ellesmere Castle, two weary warriors reined their horses to a halt by tacit agreement.

  “I don’t know about you, brother, but I was never happier to see this castle,” Étienne beamed.

  Gallien stared at the imposing edifice built by his grandfather and expanded and refurbished by his father. He had known great happiness within its walls, but also unbearable torment. Had he destroyed his one chance to exorcise Felicité? He longed to spur his horse to a gallop and rush to take his wife in his arms again. But fear held him in its thrall. “I’m nervous,” he admitted.

  Étienne patted his snorting horse’s neck. “Don’t be. I’ll wager when Peri sees how handsome you are with your sun-bronzed skin, she’ll swoon with passion.”

  Gallien thumped his brother’s arm. “It is more likely the stink of my body will make her swoon. I reek of horse and sweat. I wish we’d had the opportunity to bathe.”

  Étienne looked to the sky. “Gallien, Gallien, Gallien. When will you get it through your head the woman is in love with you? She will not care how you smell.”

  Gallien doubted it. “But I left without a word of farewell, and she probably has no idea why.”

  The smile left Étienne’s face. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t have to do some grovelling. You have to decide whether you want happiness or grief, for both of you.”

  Gallien put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How can you have grown up without my noticing it, brother?”

  Étienne smirked. “You were lost in your own misery.” He spurred his horse forward. “Race you to the bailey.”

  Gallien’s heart lifted as he urged his horse to a gallop.

  ~~~

  Stable boys rushed to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted. Steward Pascal Bonhomme strode out of the Keep. “I espied you on the rampart, mes seigneurs, welcome home.”

  Gallien’s father followed close on Bonhomme’s heels. He put his arms around the shoulders of both his sons, and they embraced for long minutes. Gallien had rarely seen his father show such emotion. “It’s good to be home, Papa,” he rasped.

  His father’s mouth remained a tight line. He kissed Gallien’s cheek, then Étienne’s.

  They broke apart. Their mother stood a few feet away, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “I shame you with my tears,” she murmured. “You are no longer little boys, but I am relieved to have you home.”

  Gallien embraced her. “You could never do anything to shame me, maman.”

  Étienne shoved him playfully. “I want a hug, too.”

  Their mother laughed, hugging them both. “Your skin is so brown!”

  Étienne grimaced. “It was deuced hot in Flandres.”

  Fleurie and Isabelle appeared, shrieking and giggling as they hurled themselves at their brothers.

  Gallien looked around the bailey. Many of the castle folk had come to greet them, but where was Peri? Perhaps she had fled to Anjou after his cruel departure.

  His mother took him aside. “She’s in her solar,” his mother whispered. “She was afraid to come.”

  Once again, his mother had guessed what was in his mind. “I left without farewell,” was all he could say, but relief swept over him that his wife had stayed.

  ~~~

  Gallien tapped on the door of his wife’s solar. He held his breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. There was no response from within. A chill marched up his spine. A pulse throbbed at his temple. Had he alienated his wife so badly she would not grant him entry? His behavior merited her disdain.

  He knocked again, harder, his knuckle white. “C’est moi, Peri. Gallien.”

  He turned away, but then heard a faint, “Oui.”

  He pushed open the door, hesitating on the threshold. She stood at the window with her back to him, her shoulders rigid. “May I enter?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He closed the door softly, but remained on the threshold, his back pressed against the wood. He inhaled the familiar perfume he had longed to savour again. There were many things he wanted to say, but what if the words were not the right ones? His brain had turned to mush. “It’s good to be home.”

  She did not turn around. He should kick himself in the arse. For sure if his brother had been present he would have done exactly that. Why was it difficult to utter what was in his heart? “I missed you.”

  She gasped, but still did not turn. In the silence, he heard her faint sobs. He strode quickly to put his hands on her trembling shoulders. “Don’t cry, Peri. I’m sorry I left without farewell. I—”

  She turned slowly to face him.

  His eyes widened. “You’re with child!”

  She looked into his eyes, waiting.

  His mind whirled. He licked his lips, thirsting to tell her he loved her, that he was ecstatic she was pregnant, that he had been cruel, that he begged her forgiveness—but Felicité’s mocking face rose up behind his eyes, and a cold chill seized his limbs. “Is it mine?’ he asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Peri averted her gaze. The sound of Gallien’s husky voice outside her door had confirmed what she already knew—she loved him. Looking into his eyes had only compounded the certainty. She thought for a moment love flickered in those blue depths, but then his cruel question tore her heart asunder.

  Fists clenched, teeth gritted, she resolved not to cry any more tears. The unborn child in her belly suddenly seemed twice as heavy. Her back ached, her limbs trembled. But she was tired of his disdain. She had done everything in her power to be a good wife. Without the help and reassurance of her mother-by-marriage, she would have been left alone to navigate the uncertainties and fears of her first pregnancy.

  How dare he accuse her of infidelity? If Gallien did not want her love, she would give it to the child she carried. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said coldly, careful not to touch him as she sidled past. “I trust
you had an uneventful journey?”

  She reached for the latch, hoping he had not detected the tremor in her voice. But he moved swiftly to the door, holding it closed with his hand. “Forgive me, Peri. I am a brute. I know the child is mine.”

  She feared her heart might break if she looked at him. He begged forgiveness, but had offered no words of love. She stared at his long fingers, dismayed by the sudden urge to place his elegant hand on her breasts.

  When he touched her shoulder his heat burned her to the core and sent wild things fluttering in her belly.

  “Do you have a kiss of welcome for your pig-headed husband?”

  Here was the Gallien of their marriage bed. The Gallien whose husky voice sent ripples of desire from her toes to the top of her head. The gentle and considerate man whose touch she had ached for through the long, lonely months.

  Her knees trembled as she inhaled the smell of healthy male sweat, of leather, of horse. If she looked at his weather-bronzed face she would be lost.

  He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her.

  She closed her eyes.

  He fell to his knees, put his arms around her hips and pulled her to him, his head cradled atop the swelling of her belly. “My child,” he whispered.

  She twirled her fingers through his hair, afraid he might hear the erratic beating of her heart. Her most intimate place throbbed with desire, her breasts ached.

  After long minutes, he picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “Come to my chamber,” he murmured.

  She had no will to resist. He did not love her, but life without him had been unbearable. For the moment his demons had left him. She would accept whatever affection he had to offer.

  ~~~

  Though Peri was pregnant, she was not a burden to Gallien. Why had he acted cruelly? Like a mythical sea monster, Felicité had wound her tentacles around his heart. Would he ever be free of her spell?