Passion in the Blood

by Markland, Anna

  Robert drizzled the wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hand and gave it back to his uncle. “Merci, it’s fine wine.”

  Melton beamed and held out his hand to his father. “We make it at Domfort. It’s better every year. And our apple brandy can rival yours at Montbryce any day.”

  Robert scoffed. “I seriously doubt that, but it does seem the Montbryce family will control the apple brandy consumption throughout Normandie.”

  Hugh snickered. “Experts in fine wines we are.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a guard who held the arm of a peasant woman standing fearfully at his side, eyes downcast.

  Robert came to his feet. “Who is this?”

  The woman was nervous. “Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor de Giroux.”

  Robert strode over and took her by the arm, drawing her out of the shadows. “You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”

  The woman blinked and looked around. “If milord Giroux discovered I was here—”

  “He won’t find out. Who sent you?”

  The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress. She sent me to tell you Dorianne is in Mont Saint Michel Abbey.”

  Hugh and Robert exchanged glances. “It’s as we surmised. How many days ago did they leave?” Hugh asked.

  Still the woman wouldn’t look at them. “Five. My mistress wanted them to delay, to give Lady Dorianne time to recover, but Pierre—”

  Dread washed over Robert. “Recover from what?”

  The woman dared a glance at him and clenched her fists. “Master Pierre whipped her.”

  Robert would have charged full tilt at the gates if Hugh hadn’t restrained him. He tasted bile in his throat. His body shook with rage. “He whipped her?”

  The woman looked at the ground, wringing her hands. Robert kicked over a camp stool then stood with his hands on his hips, facing away so the others couldn’t see his anguish. His gut tightened.

  Hugh turned to the woman. “We are in your debt. You have taken a risk to come here. If your master—”

  She looked up at him. “It’s not the master I’m most afraid of.” She fled the tent and disappeared into the night.

  Robert strapped on his scabbard and sheathed his sword.

  “What are you doing?” Hugh asked. “We aren’t leaving tonight. We’ll go at first light.”

  Robert wanted to protest, but his uncle was right. They would make better progress in daylight. He reluctantly put away the weapon and gathered a blanket around his shoulders. He eased off his boots and lay down on the camp cot, impatient for the night to be over.

  Hugh smiled. “Melton and I will check on the guard. Till dawn then.”

  “Till dawn,” Robert replied.

  ***

  Pierre de Giroux watched as the men from Montbryce rode away from his home at first light. He’d expected them to remain outside the walls for many days, clamouring for entry. Why were they hastening away? Was it possible they knew Dorianne wasn’t within? Had someone revealed her whereabouts? They’d ridden off in the direction of Montbryce, but beyond lay Avranches and Mont Saint Michel.

  Need he worry? Even if they discovered she was there, how could they possibly rescue her? Still the idea of Robert de Montbryce remaining alive to pursue his sister was more than he could tolerate. He hastened to the stables, saddled his horse and set off after them.

  ***

  The sun was setting as the castle at Avranches came into view. The Montbryces had ridden hard and made good time. They slowed their weary mounts, not wishing to alarm the guards.

  “Someone is following us,” Hugh observed.

  Robert didn’t look back. “I’m sure it’s Pierre de Giroux. He’s been behind us since we left their castle.”

  Hugh shook his head. “At least we know we’re on the right track. Will he have the temerity to enter the castle?”

  Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s hard to predict. Perhaps a Giroux doesn’t need to be blinded to go mad?”

  They satisfied the gate sentries and rode into the bailey. Stable boys took their mounts and the castle’s steward came to greet them. “Mes seigneurs Montbryce, I’ll inform the Comte of your arrival.”

  Hugh inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Merci. We beg the favour of hospitality this evening, and would hope to speak with the Comte.”

  The steward nodded. “Of course. Montbryces are always welcome here. The Comte is in the Hall. I’ll guide you there and then see to your chambers.”

  Robert held up his hand. “We can find our own way. I know this castle almost as well as I know my own. I’m sure the Comte would not object. He and my father, the Earl of Ellesmere, are old friends.”

  The steward seemed reluctant, but left them to walk to the Hall alone.

  D’Avranches rose when they entered and beckoned. “The Montbryce clan! Enter. Be seated. A tankard of ale?” He banged his own on the table.

  Hugh shook the Comte’s hand. “Ale would be welcome. We’ve had a dusty ride,” he replied.

  D’Avranches snickered. “So I see. What brings you here?”

  Robert and Hugh exchanged glances. D’Avranches likely suspected the reason for their visit. Nothing happened in his territory without his knowledge. It was evident he was not surprised by their presence. Robert decided to take the bull by the horns. They needed this man’s support. “We’ve come on the matter of Dorianne de Giroux.”

  The Comte shrugged his shoulders. “Her family has given her to God,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way?”

  It was imperative Robert not lose his temper, though his blood boiled at the idea of Dorianne entombed in Mont Saint Michel. “Milord Comte, I’ve already asked much of you concerning this girl, and I must ask for more. I wish to marry Dorianne de Giroux, but her father has locked her away in order to thwart me. She has taken no vows, and doesn’t wish to take vows, other than to me.”

  The Comte shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve no love for the men of the Giroux family, but it’s the Bishop of Avranches who holds sway over the Mount, not me.”

  Robert clenched his jaw. “All I ask is a letter of permission to see her and to speak to the Abbesse. I ask as the son of a fellow Earl.”

  D’Avranches grunted. “Hah! An Earl who will be none too pleased at the idea of your marrying a Giroux.”

  Robert smiled ruefully. “You may be right, but I will marry her anyway. It won’t be easy, but my parents will agree when I tell them I love her.”

  The Comte’s loud laughter wasn’t what he’d expected in response. “You’re probably correct,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Would we could all be like your parents and believe in true love.”

  Robert smiled and looked at Hugh, who grinned, winked and mouthed, “Curse of the Montbryces.”

  D’Avranches came to his feet and turned to Robert. “I’ll have the scrivener draw up the letter on the morrow. It will be sent to your chamber. Now I bid you goodnight. Give my regards to your father.”

  Hugh slapped Robert on the back as they watched the Comte leave the Hall. Robert’s heart lifted, but where was Pierre de Giroux?

  ***

  Pierre had spent the night in a peasant’s cottage outside the gates of the castle d’Avranches. He’d chosen it carefully in order to have a view of the gate. The tenant had eagerly accepted the meagre pittance Pierre offered.

  He drew his cloak around him and lowered his head as the Montbryces rode out of the gates in the direction of the Abbaye. He knew where they were going and made no move to follow.

  Montbryce must believe he would be allowed to see Dorianne. Why had he stopped at Avranches? Pierre decided he would have to plan for the possibility Montbryce might free his sister.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach the Abbaye in five hours, but who knows what the situation will be with the tides,” Hugh observed as they galloped along. “Pilgrims don’t call it Saint Michel-in-Peril-From-The-Seas for no reason. We’ll
have to be vigilant.”

  The Mont loomed long before they reached it, a floating mirage on the horizon. Robert felt a sense of foreboding. Something had happened to Dorianne within those walls, he was sure of it. To divert his mind he reminded Hugh, “The quicksand in the mudflats is where Harold Godwinson saved two Norman knights from drowning. Our Duke William knighted him for his bravery. Of course, that was before Harold usurped the throne of England promised to William.”

  Hugh grimaced. “Too bad he didn’t drown there instead. Then we might not have had to suffer the horror of Hastings.”

  It sometimes slipped Robert’s mind that his father and uncles had fought at the Battle of Hastings, though all three had been adversely affected by the experience for a long time. His father had narrowly escaped being decapitated and Hugh had been troubled for years by a seemingly incurable hand tremor.

  When they arrived, the tide was out. But the Abbey was over a mile away. Did they have time to get to the island before the tide rushed back in? They decided to leave the men-at-arms on the shore with Melton and Mathieu and risk it. As they galloped along, Robert avoided worrying about how deadly these black sands could be. His heart raced, his palms were clammy. He had to keep his eye on the prize.

  Their mounts grew nervous splashing through seawater for the last hundred yards, but the two men made it to the safety of the desolate rock. They dismounted and chivvied the horses up the path to the gate. Robert looked back to the mainland and could make out a solitary mounted figure on the shore. He gritted his teeth and hissed, “Pierre.”

  Hugh looked back and exhaled loudly. “That young man is full of hate. Don’t worry, I instructed Melton to keep an eye on him if he came.”

  A monk appeared at the gate. Robert thrust the letter at him to display the seal, but held on to it. “I come on an errand for the Comte,” he lied. “Take me to the Prior.”

  The monk opened the gate and they followed him to the Prior’s office. Robert reasoned a commanding tone was best, lest he plant seeds of doubt in the cleric’s mind.

  “I must see the Abbesse,” he declared to the Prior. The monk shook his head. Robert held the letter in one hand and tapped it against the palm of the other. “I have a missive from the Comte d’Avranches.”

  The monk arched his brows and held out his hand.

  Robert held firm. “It’s for the Abbesse.”

  This obviously irritated the Prior. He coughed, chewed on his lower lip and left the room. He led them outside, along a stone pathway to a wooden doorway, where he left them, having rapped on the door.

  Robert looked up to see masons using pulleys to haul a large basket of slate up to scaffolding high above. They were busy with their tasks and paid him and his uncle no mind. Robert was reminded of how Caedmon had saved Baudoin’s life in Italy. He shuddered as the basket dangled in mid air.

  The door scraped open. A wrinkled nun peered through the narrow opening. Her jaw fell open, causing the double chin to double again against the tight coif. She blushed, much to Hugh’s amusement. He elbowed Robert. “Life in the old girl yet,” he whispered.

  Robert cleared his throat and suppressed an urge to laugh. “I am Lord Robert de Montbryce and I am accompanied by my uncle, Lord Hugh de Montbryce. We must speak with the Abbesse. I have a letter from the Comte d’Avranches.”

  The woman was clearly perplexed. She couldn’t allow them to enter the Enclosure. They were men. She wasn’t supposed to look upon them. Neither did she seem anxious to summon her Abbesse. Robert squared his shoulders and tapped the letter against his thigh impatiently.

  Her eyes fell briefly to his legs, her blush intensified, then she disappeared, shoving the door closed. Would she return? What to do if she didn’t? He eyed the scaffolding. Would it provide access? His gut clenched and his throat went dry.

  After an interminable wait, the door scraped open again and another woman appeared. She held out her hand. “You have a letter?”

  Robert held on to the parchment. “You are the Abbesse?”

  The woman stared at him.

  Robert hesitated. This was no blushing matron. Should he hand over the letter, or explain first? If he gave it to her and she retreated into the Enclosure, he would have no way of knowing what might happen next. Maybe nothing. “The letter concerns Dorianne de Giroux.”

  The woman’s eyes darted from him to Hugh and back again. She withdrew her hand. Something in her manner told him to give her the parchment. She unfurled it and read its contents then shook her head. “You cannot enter the Enclosure. It’s forbidden.”

  Robert shifted his weight. “I understand, and we have no wish to trespass. Perhaps Dorianne could come out to see us?”

  The woman hesitated. “What’s your interest in my novice?”

  Robert decided honesty was the best policy. He was after all speaking to a nun. “She’s to be my wife.”

  The Abbesse shook her head. “Non, my son, her family has given her to God.”

  Robert braced his legs. “Ma mère, they had no right. Dorianne is pledged to me. It was her brother brought her here, was it not? My claim on her outweighs his. I am Robert de Montbryce, son of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere, hero of the Battle of Hastings.”

  Did any of these things matter to this woman who had the power to deny him his happiness?

  The nun straightened her back. “You are fortunate, young Montbryce, that my novice is not in the Enclosure, otherwise I would have to forbid contact with her.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw the basket of slate stop abruptly in mid air. Was it about to fall?

  “Not in the Enclosure?” he parroted, half his attention on the basket.

  “She’s in the Infirmary.”

  His head swivelled back to look at the nun and he took a step towards her. “She’s ill?”

  Hugh put his hand on Robert’s arm. “Steady,” he whispered.

  “She’s recovering. I’ll obey the Comte and allow you to see her—on the morrow. It’s late and she’s asleep. Return to the Prior. He will provide you with a cell for the night.”

  Robert chafed, but had no choice. The woman closed the door and they went off to seek their night’s lodging.

  ***

  Robert tossed and turned, his heart in turmoil knowing Dorianne was so close, yet so far away. Why had she fallen ill? Would she recover as the Abbesse had promised? Would the nun change her mind and not allow him to see her? Surely there was some way he could use the basket?

  They were summoned early the next morning. The Abbesse awaited them on the stone path, her expression stern. She led them to a different entrance. They entered a small, dimly lit infirmary. Two of the five pallets were empty. Slumbering forms filled the others, but only one could be a young woman. Robert resisted the urge to run to her. “What has caused this sickness?” he asked.

  The nun didn’t look at him and cleared her throat before answering. “It was a fever.”

  A suspicion grew in Robert’s mind. “What would cause such a fever, ma mère?”

  The woman poked her finger into the coif digging into her neck. “She’d been—she had—lacerations. They festered.”

  Robert remembered the maidservant’s claim Pierre had whipped Dorianne and he swore to avenge this travesty.

  Dorianne lay on her side. The Abbesse touched her shoulder. She stirred and opened her eyes slowly. Robert inhaled sharply when he saw how pale she was. Her cropped hair was matted to her head. It was the first time he’d seen her hair completely uncovered and he wept inwardly that such beautiful tresses had been so brutally shorn. She heard his gasp and slowly turned her head to look at him. She blinked rapidly and her breathing became laboured. “Robert?” she murmured.

  He wanted to strike out at something, anything. He took her hand, ignoring the indignation of the Abbesse, prevented from taking action by Hugh’s sizable frame planted between her and the pallet. “I’m here, Dorianne, my love.”

  She became agitated and squeezed
his hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “Robert? Is it you?”

  He brushed his lips against hers and whispered, “It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

  “Milord Montbryce!” the Abbesse protested, trying to reach the pallet without having to push Hugh out of the way. “I cannot allow—”

  “Cease!”

  All eyes went to the doorway where Pierre de Giroux stood, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Robert and Hugh unsheathed their weapons.

  The Abbesse moved towards Pierre, waving her arms, her voice strident. “Non, there will be no bloodshed. This is a house of God.”

  Pierre didn’t draw his sword. Instead he held up both hands, palms outward, in a gesture of reconciliation. “I haven’t come to fight. I came to atone and to free my sister. I didn’t expect to find you here, milord Montbryce.” He bowed slightly.

  Dorianne reached for Robert’s hand. “Pierre is here?” she rasped, her voice full of fear.

  Robert kissed her hand. “Oui, but he will not hurt you. I guarantee it.”

  Pierre took a step towards his sister, but stopped when Robert menaced him with his sword. He looked to the Abbesse. “Ma mère, I came because I am filled with remorse over what happened with my sister. My rage overcame me. All in Normandie are living in uncertain times. I am as much the victim of my father’s hatreds as she is. I’ve prayed, and continue to pray for God’s forgiveness. I hope Dorianne can forgive me. It’s time to put this bitter feud behind us.”

  Robert didn’t believe a word of it and judging by the expression on Hugh’s face, neither did he. But the Abbesse seemed to soften. “God forgives us if we are truly sorry, my son.”

  Pierre knelt before the nun. “I am truly sorry,” he sobbed. She patted his bowed head.

  Robert and Hugh sheathed their swords, but still shielded Dorianne.

  Pierre got to his feet and turned to face Robert, holding out his hand. “I beg your forgiveness, Robert.”

  Rage surged through him. How dare this madman who had brought Dorianne to death’s door address him by his given name? “Listen well, Pierre de Giroux, I intend to take Dorianne from this place and make her my wife. If I have my way she will never have to set eyes on you again.”