“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 he was. But the Angevin would pay for this travesty.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELAYNE PACED AT THE FOOT OF HER DAUGHTER’S BED, wringing her hands. Surely Bonhomme had been mistaken about the fire in the orchards. Yet 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 a certainty that the orchards were lost. She rested her head back onto his chest. His clothes smelled of smoke. “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 years 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. You must rest. 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.”
The stranger produced a parchment from his doublet. “Milord.”
He swiped his long matted hair off his face. 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 the 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. “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 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 perhaps 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 between her legs.
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.”
“No!” she said with more force than she’d intended. “I’ll come for you 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.
Alex’s glower of contemptuous disbelief tore her heart to shreds as her trembling legs failed, her lungs stopped working and she tumbled into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE SCOT LIFTED CLARICIA FROM THE BED. She threw her arms around his neck as he cuddled her. He murmured endearments in Gaelic, sounding more like a babbling idiot than a grizzled warrior.
Micheline knelt beside Elayne, patting her cheeks, frantically urging her to wake.
Alex surveyed the scene, his heart breaking. She had lied.
His eyes recognized that he was standing in a chamber in his own castle, but his legs felt as though he teetered on the edge of some bottomless abyss.
A warm hand took hold of his, pulling him back from the precipice. He looked down woodenly. Henry stood beside him, watching the events unfolding before them. He made no move towards the man who was evidently his father, instead gripping Alex’s hand as if holding a lifeline, his other hand hooked into Faol’s collar. A low growl rumbled from the wolfhound’s throat.
Alex became aware that the Scot had approached them, Claricia still in his arms. “What are my children doing here?” he thundered.
Henry shrank into Alex’s thigh. The dog moved to protect him.
Romain appeared from nowhere to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alex, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Had he been there all along, witnessed everything? Alex didn’t know but he was grateful for his brother’s presence.
Somehow he found a voice that sounded reasonably authoritative. “Your father sent them. It was he instigated the subterfuge.”
Dunkeld looked surprised. “You know who I am?”
“I do now,” Alex replied, hoping the sarcasm twisting inside him could be heard in his words.
The Scot glanced down and seemed to notice his son for the first time. “Henry,” he said without warmth.
“Dadaidh,” the boy replied coolly.
“Papa has returned from the Crusades,” Claricia explained to Alex, her eyes wide with excitement.
This child he loved like his own had come back from death’s door but been claimed by a man who was supposed to be dead. She would never be his to nurture.
Dunkeld frowned, then laughed throatily. “Aye! You could say that. The Crusades.”
He walked away to put Claricia back in bed.
Henry tugged at Alex’s hand. “He never went to the Crusades. Maman gave us that excuse because she didn’t know how to tell us he’d died. Grandpapa told me the truth.”
Henry seemed to have taken on the role of the mature man, Alex the befuddled child. “But he isn’t dead.”
“No. He isn’t.”
The deep regret in the boy’s voice caught at Alex’s heart as he watched him walk to his mother’s side. He dropped to his knees and lay his head on her breast.
Romain shoved Alex gently. “Go to her.”
Alex shook his head, unable to contain the bitterness in his heart. “She lied to me. She told me she was a widow.”
His brother pushed him again. “You heard the boy. His grandpère told him his father was dead. Elayne is not a liar.”
Alex wavered, until Dunkeld approached Elayne. Henry came to his feet and braced his legs, defiance in his young eyes as he stood between his sire and his mother, his dog at his side.
Alex couldn’t bear the thought of this crude ruffian touching her. Nor could he allow the boy and his hound to be her only champions
. He strode to scoop her up and left the chamber quickly, Henry and Faol guarding his rear.
~~~
ELAYNE STARTLED AWAKE.
She was lying on a bed—Alex’s bed.
Perhaps it had all been a terrible nightmare.
Dugald was dead, that’s all there was to it. His comrades had seen him fall, mortally wounded.
She blinked open her eyes. Alex stood beside the bed, staring at her blankly, leaving no doubt that Dugald’s sudden appearance had been no dream.
“Maman, you’re awake.”
She turned her aching head slowly, hoping the lead ball lodged in her belly didn’t come up her throat.
Henry climbed on the bed to embrace her. “Papa is here.”
The pain in her son’s voice surprised her. “I know,” she whispered.
She looked back at Alex. “I believed him dead,” she said, hoping he could see the truth in her eyes.
“I wish he was dead,” Henry blurted out.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps her son had guessed his father’s true nature, but a boy should never wish his sire dead. “You mustn’t say that, Henry. He is your father.”
Henry disentangled himself from her arms and slid off the bed. He looked at Alex, his tear-streaked face full of anger. “I wish you were my Papa instead. You love us.”
Before Alex could reply, he bolted from the chamber. Faol bounded after him.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she murmured, staring up at nothing through the blur of tears.
Alex leaned forward abruptly to loom over her, his hands braced on the bed. “My name is Alex,” he reminded her slowly, his ice blue eyes burning with fury. “You have nothing to apologize to me for.”
“You’re angry.”
“Oui. But not with you. I’m angry that fate brought us together, and now seems intent on tearing us apart. I’m angry that you had to spend even one day of your life with a brute such as Dugald Dunkeld, and I’m completely baffled how a man like him could have sired Henry and Claricia.”
She swallowed the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat. “My befuddlement comes from the fact he’s alive. And how did he come to be here, in Normandie?”
Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Page 12