Dorianne fell to her knees before him, her head bowed. “Milord Comte, please don’t chastise them. It’s my fault.”
Pierre struggled to get free of the guards. “Milord—”
D’Avranches raised his hand to silence him and motioned the guards to loosen their hold. “I will not tolerate the use of weapons in my home. I repeat, what’s going on here?”
Robert sheathed his dagger. “Milord Comte. I humbly beg your pardon. A misunderstanding.” He offered his hand to Dorianne.
Pierre rushed forward to stand between Robert and his sister. “Do not touch her!” he cried, grabbing her hand. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her roughly to the door.
D’Avranches raised his hand again, his face red. “Arrête!”
The guards again took hold of Pierre, but he wouldn’t be silenced. “She’s my sister, milord. I have the right to command her. She will come with me.”
Blood seeped through Robert’s sleeve. Dorianne struggled to pull free of Pierre’s grasp, but he held firm. Robert moved towards them, but the Comte stopped him. “Montbryce, what claim do you have on this maiden?”
Anger raced through Robert. He had no claim, and Pierre would be allowed to take her. “I have no claim, milord.”
Dorianne looked at him, her face full of anguish. Had she expected him to champion her? The only way would be to offer for her now, in this moment. But such an offer should be made to her father, who wasn’t present. Robert had no choice but to let Pierre take her. He hoped she could see commitment in his eyes.
Pierre looked to the Comte. “Milord?”
D’Avranches hesitated, then gave his permission, and Pierre pulled his sister from the chapel.
“I want an explanation, Montbryce,” the Comte hissed after they’d left. “I’m in negotiations to betroth that girl to my son, Alain.”
The idea of Dorianne with the sulky child caused Robert’s gut to tighten. He would have to choose his words carefully. “Milord Comte. Again, I humbly beg your forgiveness for the disturbance. I didn’t know of the plans regarding Dorianne and your son. But I ask you, as an old friend of my father, not to pursue those discussions any further. I wish to make Dorianne my wife.”
The Comte snorted. “But she’s a Giroux, Robert. Your families are bitter enemies. I assume that’s why young Pierre was wielding the dagger?”
Robert’s heart was still beating too fast and he wanted to find Pierre and shake sense into the young hothead. He’d gone from elation to fear to desolation in the space of a few minutes. It brought back too many dark memories of a vengeful madman with his sword raised, poised to cut off Robert’s head. He could still remember his mother’s cry of pain as Phillippe de Giroux dragged her by the hair. His emotions were in turmoil. Had he found a woman he loved, only to lose her after such a short time?
He controlled his anger. “Oui, but don’t be too hard on him. He’s young and hasn’t yet learned that hatred and vengeance sow the seeds of destruction.”
The Comte hesitated. “Why is it important for you to marry this girl, Robert? Don’t you have enough problems at the moment?”
Robert laughed. “No more than any of us Normans! But she’s the one I want. The one I need.”
D’Avranches chuckled. “Hmm! Like your father, I suppose. He’s always boasting of how much he loves your mother. I’ll tell Giroux the betrothal is off. But you’re the one who will have to deal with him and his impetuous son.”
“Not to mention my own parents,” Robert quipped. “Thank you, milord Comte.”
The Comte touched him lightly on his arm. “You’d better get that wound seen to.”
It was only then Robert noticed he was bleeding.
CHAPTER FOUR
François de Giroux had never been a violent man. He was full of hatred and resentment for the tormented years growing up with his blind, demented father. He’d been devastated by the death of his older brother, Phillippe and was distraught now over the lack of word about his younger brother, Georges, who had failed to return with Curthose from the Crusade.
These events had ruined his life and he grieved inwardly that hatred would likely shape the lives of his children. It was a cycle from which he couldn’t break free. When he was told Robert de Montbryce had lured his daughter to the chapel, and that the betrothal wouldn’t come to fruition, he swore to kill Montbryce, whom he deemed the source of all his ills.
When Robert confronted him later in the morning in the castle garden, anger seethed through him. “I know not, Montbryce, how it is you’ve managed in such a short time to wreak this vengeance on me and my family. Dorianne is an innocent. You shouldn’t have used her this way. You’ve ruined her reputation. I’ll have to send her to a nunnery now.”
He felt a surge of pride—at least Pierre had drawn blood. Montbryce held his arm to his body, the sleeve of his doublet hanging empty.
“Seigneur de Giroux, I haven’t used Dorianne. I intend to make her my wife, if you’ll allow it.”
Giroux turned to leave. “You’ll have to stride over my dead body.”
“Why must you be ruled only by hatred?” Robert shouted. “Look what it’s done to your family. Look at your daughter. You’re denying her the possibility of becoming a Comtesse. It wasn’t a Montbryce who first visited the indignity of blinding on your grandfather. It was a Valtesse.”
There was truth in the words, but François couldn’t heed them. “You’re all the same spawn,” he sneered, and stormed into the keep.
***
Robert searched for Dorianne. He discovered she and her brother had left the castle. He sought out his uncles. They were seated close enough to the rear of the assembly he could speak to them without disturbing the discussions. He felt a rush of guilt.
Hugh greeted him. “We’ve been worried, especially after hearing of the confrontation in the chapel yestereve.”
Robert groaned inwardly. Now he would receive a scolding, like a naughty child. “I apologize, mes oncles, I abandoned the cause. I’ve been—”
“We know where you’ve been,” Antoine interrupted.
Robert felt his hackles rise. “If you’ve heard what happened—”
Again Antoine interrupted. “We’ve heard, but why don’t you tell us your side of the story?”
Robert looked at his uncle and to his surprise saw a grin. Some of the tension left him. He’d forgotten for a moment that here were two men who many years ago had sacrificed a great deal for the women they loved. The Montbryce family had been in danger of losing all they held dear because of the actions of these uncles.
Several heads turned and indignant faces told them they should take their conversation elsewhere. The Comte d’Avranches looked particularly annoyed. Robert judged he’d likely done enough already to offend his host. He motioned to the doorway. “We should go somewhere else. There may not be many in the Hall at this time of day.”
They followed him, speaking in hushed voices as they walked along the hallway.
“I honestly don’t know what came over me,” Robert admitted. “I took one look at Dorianne de Giroux, and knew I had to have her. Of course, I wasn’t aware she was a Giroux.”
Antoine chuckled. “The look of horror on your face when her father challenged you in the Hall yesterday!”
Robert stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled loudly. “I confess I thought that was the end of it, but I can’t get the woman out of my mind.”
Hugh slapped his nephew on the back. “We know the feeling, young man. It’s the curse of the Montbryces to fall hopelessly in love with the one woman they shouldn’t. Because Antoine and I are older doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten what it was to be smitten the first time we set eyes on Devona and Sybilla.”
They sought a quiet corner of the Hall and huddled close to continue their conversation.
Robert shook his head. “I know you both had difficulties to overcome, but you didn’t fall in love with the daughter of your parents’ arch enemy.”
Antoine’s voice became sterner. “Are you in love with her, Robert, or is it lust? Decide now, because if you’re to pursue this, Ram and Mabelle will be devastated. Your mother longs for you to make a good match and my brother is anxious for allies here in Normandie. Consider carefully. A marriage to Dorianne de Giroux won’t bring us any friends.”
A serving girl came with tankards of ale. Robert stared into the dark liquid. “As if we don’t have enough to worry about with Curthose and Henry, now I’m might rekindle an old feud and devastate my parents.”
Antoine wiped the ale from his mouth. “Giroux has never let the flame die. He has kept the hatred alive, burning a hole in his heart. You’re aware it was he tried to have Hugh and Devona condemned by the curia regis?”
Robert nodded.
Hugh pointed to Robert’s injury. “From what I see, and what we’ve heard, the same hatred has taken root in the breast of his son as well.”
Robert touched a hand to his wound. He’d hardly noticed the pain in his preoccupation with Dorianne. “Pierre was full of hatred. I didn’t expect it. I mean, if anyone has a right to hate members of the Giroux family, it’s me. But it’s time to put an end to this feud.”
Antoine drained his tankard and looked around for the servant. “Drink your ale, Robert. Where is Dorianne now?”
Robert took a swig. “Pierre has taken her back to their castle. Maybe I should forget the whole thing. She may not feel the same way. She’s young, probably too young for me.”
Antoine banged his tankard on the table, attracting the servant’s attention. “I overheard Giroux blustering about sending her to a convent. You may have condemned the girl to a life of religious servitude.”
Robert looked up sharply. The idea of Dorianne in a nunnery made him want to retch. She was so full of life, so curious. She was a woman made to partner a man, to bring him pleasure and love. She’d lived most of her life as a virtual prisoner. It was time to set her free.
He drained his tankard, but refused the second one the servant was set to pour, putting his hand over the top. “I must return to Montbryce forthwith. We’ve relayed to these other barons our family’s position. We can do no more. When you return home, strengthen your garrisons further. I’ll do the same at Montbryce, then travel on to Ellesmere and apprise father of what has transpired here.”
“Including that you want to marry a Giroux?” Antoine asked quietly.
Robert looked into his uncle’s green eyes and whispered, “Oui, even that.”
Hugh raised his tankard, “Then I wish you luck, nephew. You’ll need it!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Pierre didn’t speak a word to his sister on their journey home. Dorianne felt she rode with a stranger. Her attempts to broach the topic of Robert de Montbryce were met with stony silence and hateful glares. The ride to Avranches had been an adventure. This was an ordeal.
Weary in body and heart, she walked from the courtyard into the keep while Pierre spoke to the stable boys. Suddenly, he was behind her, gripping her elbow, his nails digging into her flesh. He gripped a riding quirt in his other hand. “Go straight to your solar, Dorianne.”
Her insides clenched with fear at the grim expression on his face. She pulled away, but he tightened his hold. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the day. Why should I go to my chamber?”
Pierre pushed her along. “You will be confined from now on. You cannot be trusted.”
Dorianne gasped. “Trusted to do what? Be as full of hate as you and father? Let me go.”
“What’s happening, Pierre?” It was their mother who had come to investigate the commotion.
Dorianne could barely keep up with Pierre as he hurried her in the direction of her chamber. She appealed to her mother. “He’s forcing me to my chamber, maman.”
Her mother bustled to keep pace with them. “Why are you treating your sister this way?” she asked nervously.
He sneered, and stopped abruptly. Elenor pulled up in surprise. “Because she’s a whore. She enticed Robert de Montbryce to a secret tryst. She allowed him to kiss her.”
Her mother’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Montbryce?”
Elenor de Giroux’s fear of her son showed in her eyes then, and Dorianne’s heart sank. Her mother would be of no help to her. But she had to try. “Maman, Pierre and Papa have made it more than clear there’s no future for me with Robert de Montbryce, but why should I be kept in my chamber?”
Elenor looked enquiringly at Pierre, who shook his head. “She’s to go to a nunnery. D’Avranches cancelled the betrothal. She has brought shame on our name.”
Dorianne managed to free her arm from Pierre’s grasp. Anger flooded her. “Maman, what shame is there in befriending Robert de Montbryce, a true nobleman, a future Comte?”
Tears streamed down her mother’s face, her eyes full of despair. “But he’s your father’s enemy,” she whispered hoarsely.
Pierre had reclaimed his grip on Dorianne and he escorted her roughly the rest of the way. Their mother stood like a statue, clenching her fists. None of Dorianne’s pleas seemed to outweigh her fear of her son.
Pierre thrust his sister to the floor of her chamber and bolted the door. He put down the quirt and took off his doublet, then his shirt. She scrambled away from him, her heart beating rapidly, a knot of fear forming in her belly. “What are you doing?”
He retrieved the quirt and braced his legs. “Bend over the bed,” he commanded.
Dorianne gasped. “Pierre—”
He moved towards her. “Lift your skirts and bend over the bed.”
She shook her head vigorously. “I will not allow you to whip me. I’m not a servant.”
Pierre sneered, his face a grim mask she didn’t recognize. “You are less than a servant. You’re a whore.”
He tightened his grip on the quirt and grabbed her, forcing her to the bed where he pushed her down on her stomach and put his knee on her back. She screamed and struggled, but he was too strong.
“Lie still,” he hissed. “The more you resist the more times I’ll strike you. You must be punished.”
She clenched her fists into the bed and bit the linens as he lifted her skirts to bare her bottom. The leather of the quirt bit into her tender flesh again and again. Her last desperate thought before she surrendered to the pain was that her brother seemed to take pleasure in her punishment.
***
The fire in her buttocks and thighs had suddenly cooled. The aroma of marigolds filled the air. She stirred. It was dark, but a single candle chased away some of the shadow and illuminated her mother, standing over her, applying a salve to the lacerations, sobbing.
Despair had turned Dorianne’s throat into a desert. “Maman,” she rasped.
Her mother shook her head and continued her ministrations. Dorianne buried her face in the linens, lest the tears begin again.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Your father has returned.”
Dorianne had nothing to say in reply. Her father wouldn’t help her, and her mother was too afraid to do anything. She was at Pierre’s mercy until he sent her to a convent.
“Is he of a mind to send me to a convent as well?” she murmured, the sound of her own voice intensifying the ache in her head.
Elenor took hold of her hand. “Let me help you remove your clothes, daughter. You need to sleep. Your father is yet too angry to speak to me, and I’ve avoided him. I know I’m a coward, Dorianne. I wish I had your courage, but I don’t.”
Dorianne stood up carefully and let her mother prepare her for bed. Her heart was numb. “Pierre whipped me, maman, as if I were a serf.” She tried to hold back the tears of pain and humiliation, but couldn’t.
Elenor wiped away her tears. “Sleep now,” she crooned, helping Dorianne crawl to lay on her stomach in the bed. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “The morrow will bring its own troubles.”
***
Elenor came to understand the extent of her daughter’s troubles the next day. She
couldn’t believe her husband’s pronouncement. What made it worse was the gleam of satisfaction in Pierre’s eyes. But she had to say something. The idea was too monstrous.
“Mont Saint Michel? You intend to send her to Mont Saint Michel Abbey?” she whimpered. “I’ll never see her again.”
Her husband glared. “Pierre is right. He spoke with the Bishop of Avranches at the Council. It’s the best place for her. She needs to learn discipline.”
Elenor fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves. “But it’s a place known for its rigours, its poverty. The nuns are enclosed and not allowed to speak.”
She knelt at her husband’s feet, her head bowed, wishing she had the courage to lay her hand on his. “We cannot do this to our daughter.”
François walked away. Pierre strolled over to his mother and proffered his hand. “Don’t fret, maman. You’ll still have me.”
Elenor’s heart filled with dread. What had happened to the darling boy who’d been her son? He’d become a monster. The hatred his father had instilled in him had robbed him of his senses. Her hand trembled as he helped her rise. He put his arm around her and coaxed her to a chair. Surely he wouldn’t do this to his own sister?
“Dorianne and I will leave on the morrow, at dawn,” he gloated.
Elenor gasped and looked to her husband, seemingly fascinated by the embers in the hearth. “But she cannot sit, you whipped her so soundly. How can she ride a horse?”
François turned abruptly and looked at his son. “You whipped her?”
Pierre pouted. “I thought you would have wished it, Papa.”
François looked back at the hearth, his hands behind his back, his head bent. “You will take her in two days, when she’s healed.”
Pierre pursed his lips and left. Elenor sobbed as quietly as she could, her heart breaking for her beautiful daughter. If only she had the courage to break through the icy wall her husband had built, but it was impenetrable. She cursed the day she’d been betrothed into this family.
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