“Your men must come after midnight,” he explained again, handing a rolled parchment to the Duke’s lieutenant. “I’ve devised a plan of the location of the postern gate of Montbryce castle. It’s difficult to find. Your men will have to pay close attention to the chart. I’ll be there to open the gate.”
The band of well-armed men stood in a clearing deep inside a copse, not far from the Montbryce lands.
The man studied the drawing Pierre had given him. “Is it guarded?”
Pierre smirked “Oui, but I’ll take care of the sentry. He’ll be taken by surprise. They trust me.”
“And once inside?” the Duke’s man asked.
“Your men will eliminate Robert’s bodyguards. Then I’ll conduct them to the Comte’s chambers. I must have your guarantee he won’t be killed. He’s married to my sister.”
The lieutenant reassured him. “They won’t kill him. He’s to rot in a dungeon for his disloyalty. But won’t your sister be with him in their chambers?”
“Oui. I’ll take care of her. Your men must remember their hoods and no identifying marks on their tunics.”
“It will be done. Until tonight then.”
Pierre watched the men leave, then returned to his post as captain of the guard of the postern gate of Montbryce castle.
***
Dorianne felt Robert’s arms tense around her and heard a muffled curse as he was dragged from the bed. She screamed, but a rough hand clamped over her mouth and she was hauled to her feet.
She felt the coarse wool of her attacker’s tunic against her naked skin. The odour of an unwashed male body sent a wave of nausea rolling over her. Icy fear crawled through her veins. A blindfold was tied roughly over her eyes. She could hear Robert struggling to be free, and the sickening sound of fists pounding into flesh.
His panting voice croaked out, “If you touch my wife I’ll kill you. Dorianne, where are you?”
“I’m blindfolded, Robert,” she cried in terror.
Someone made a snorting noise. “You’re in no position to issue threats, milord Comte.”
Robert felt vulnerable in his nakedness, but was incensed because his wife was also naked. What did these men want? Would they rape her before they killed them both? He knew he should stay calm, but desperation for his wife and unborn child seeped into his racing heart. A hood had been placed over his head and two men held him with his arms forced behind his back, on his knees. “What is it you want? How dare you invade the privacy of my home, my castle?”
“Put this on,” was the only reply. A garment was thrown at him. His hands were released and he felt the garment, indignation rising in his throat. “I’ll not don this garment. It’s a penitent’s robe,” he said defiantly.
A blow to the back of his head sent him reeling.
“If you don’t, we’ll carry both you and your wife naked. I have a nice nun’s habit for her, if you cooperate.”
He heard a soft thud, then Dorianne panting heavily, sobbing.
“They’ve given me a habit. I’m covered now,” she whispered.
Robert reluctantly donned the rough robe and cinched the rope at his waist. His hands were bound behind him and he was hoisted as effortlessly as a sack of turnips over a very broad shoulder. He felt the man’s helmet against his arm and the mail of a hauberk dug into his chest. These men were soldiers. But whose soldiers? Who had sent them?
He was carried down steps. He could hear Dorianne’s sobs. Cool air hit his face. Where were they taking him? What had happened to his bodyguards? None of the men spoke. This had evidently been well planned. Each man knew his role. These were no peasant brigands. Suddenly the pace slowed and he felt his body jostled against a gate. The postern gate! Who was in charge of security at that gate?
He wracked his brain, settling on the grim answer he should have known—Giroux. But if it was Giroux, whose men were these and why take Dorianne? He could still hear her trembling sobs nearby. They were jostled onto horses. Robert’s hands were freed for a moment and then retied to the pommel.
“Dorianne?” he called out.
“Robert?” she sobbed, but her voice seemed more distant.
“Dorianne?” he shouted again.
“Robert?” Fainter now. They were taking them to different destinations.
“Where are you taking my wife?” he demanded.
He received no reply. His feet were bound from ankle to ankle, the rope tied beneath the horse. He then had to devote his energies to staying mounted as they galloped away to his fate.
They rode for hours. He lost track of time. The rough robe chafed his legs and genitals, his head and body hurt where he’d been punched, his cold hands were numb from the effort of hanging on to the pommel, and he was exhausted with worry for his wife. He had no sense of the route, the hood blocking all visual clues. Fear constricted his breathing.
When he heard the hooves clatter to a halt in a cobblestone courtyard he assumed they’d reached their destination—evidently a castle. He was untied and dragged from the horse. Body odour told him it was the same burly shoulder that carried him. He was taken inside, along winding corridors, then down steps, a long way down. The stench grew viler, the air cooler. He heard cries of human misery. Then they went lower, his head and shoulders colliding with the walls of the narrow staircase. Here utter silence reigned, the only sound the grunts of the man who carried him. A metal door grated open. He was thrown to the ground, the hood pulled from his head. The metal door slammed.
A sarcastic voice, the same cruel voice that had commanded him to don the robe, sneered, “Welcome to your new home, milord Comte!”
He could hear laughter receding as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom around him. The stench turned his stomach. He discerned gradually he was in a tiny, windowless cell. One man could lie down, two could not. There was a hole in the corner which he surmised went straight to the drains. This was the source of the foul odour. He struggled to his feet and discovered he could barely stand upright before his head touched the ceiling. Damp straw covered the stone floor. He hurried to the drain to retch, praying they hadn’t brought Dorianne here.
“Dorianne,” he called, then waited. “Dorianne,” he called again.
The only sound was the echo of his voice. He drew the cowl of the robe over his head, collapsed onto the straw, hugging his knees to his chest and succumbed to exhaustion.
***
After she’d donned the habit, a man had lifted Dorianne carefully and carried her in his arms, looping her bound hands over his neck, forcing her close to him. This man’s body odour was different—cleaner. There was something familiar, but he didn’t speak. She couldn’t stop trembling. Once outside, her captor mounted and sat her before him on his lap, holding her tightly. He said nothing. She was exhausted by terror and passed out despite being jostled on the horse.
When she woke she was on a bed in a chamber that seemed too familiar. The blindfold and bindings had been removed, but she still wore the habit. It felt rough on her skin. She sat up abruptly. She was in her own chamber in her father’s castle!
She’d been rescued! She was safe! Where was Robert? Was he safe too? Gingerly she rose from the bed and made her way to the door. It was locked. Why was she locked in? She banged her fists on the heavy wood. “Help, help, Please release me. I’m awake now. Is Robert safe?”
No one came. She wandered around the familiar room, a feeling of foreboding taking hold in the pit of her stomach. By the time the door creaked open she was again trembling, but with a different fear. Pierre strode in the door carrying a tray of food.
“Here you are, Dori. I brought you some food,” he drawled.
She rose slowly and asked him, “Where is Robert? Is he safe? Did you rescue him too?”
“Rescue him?” he sneered. “He’s my prisoner, as are you.”
She couldn’t understand. “You’re my brother. How can I be your prisoner?”
“You’re no longer my sister. You forfeited the right whe
n you married Montbryce. In any case you married in England, so your marriage is null here in Normandie. You’re a whore who has brought shame, disgrace and ridicule on the Giroux name.”
Her blood turned to ice. Hatred had turned her sweet brother’s mind to dust. “Where is my father? I wish to speak with him,” she said trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
Pierre shrugged. “Father is away from the castle for a few days. You’ll stay here until arrangements are made for you to be sent back to a nunnery—one you can’t escape from.”
It was on the tip of Dorianne’s tongue to blurt out she was with child, but she thought better of it. It would give Pierre too much power. Nor would it be any use to expect help from her mother. Her mind worked feverishly to find a solution to her dilemma. Surely her mother-by-marriage, Mabelle would raise the alarm? But when? The poor woman spent most of her time in the crypt. Would she discover they were gone, that they’d been abducted? And where in the name of all the saints was Robert? Was he here in this same castle?
“Thank you for the food, Pierre. I prefer to eat alone,” she said, knowing now what had been familiar about the man who’d carried her.
“As you wish.” He put down the tray and left, locking the door behind him.
***
It was Tristan Bonhomme who raised the alarm when early the next morning he discovered the sentry’s body at the postern gate, and the bloodied corpses of the special guard. He ran immediately to inform the Comte, but when he received no answer to his insistent knocking on the chamber door, he took the liberty of entering. He recognized at once the evidence of a struggle. Fear nipped at his heels as he scoured the castle for any sign of his beloved master and mistress. It soon became apparent they were gone. With a grieving heart, he went to inform the dowager Comtesse.
Mabelle was incredulous. “Disappeared?” she asked. She became more and more agitated as Bonhomme told her the details of the dead guards and the ransacked chamber.
“We must seek the help of King Henry in this matter. It will take too long to get a message to Baudoin at Ellesmere, though we must send one there also. I’ve never missed Ram as much as I miss him now. What would he do in the circumstances? Are Robert and Dorianne being held for ransom? Dieu, what terrible memories that possibility brings back.”
Tristan was distraught and didn’t know how to comfort her as she wept.
“Who has taken them, Bonhomme?” she asked.
“I fear I know not,” he answered sadly.
They were joined by Robert’s Second, Chauvelin and Captain Gicotte. Tristan had alerted them in his frantic search.
Chauvelin spoke first. “Madame la Comtesse, regrettably it appears Pierre de Giroux has also disappeared. He may have been another victim of this plot. However, the postern gate was his responsibility.”
Mabelle’s hand went to her throat. “Giroux?” she gasped. “Robert didn’t trust him. Will we never be free of this feud?”
“Perhaps he was right in his judgment, milady,” Gicotte replied.
“Chauvelin, we are reliant upon you now until we can get word to the King in England and to Baudoin,” Mabelle said.
“Milady, I’ll send out small groups to listen and report back to us. We must ascertain where they’ve been taken, and someone will talk. They will drink too much and divulge the secret we wish to know.”
“Merci. I leave that in your capable hands. Bonhomme, please make sure messengers are dispatched immediately to Henry and to Baudoin. I’ll apply my seal.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In his dark, damp cell Robert waited for the torturers. Days went by. Twice a day, he surmised each morning and evening, a crude wooden tray with bread, cheese and ale was shoved under the bottom bar of his cell. The foul smelling hulk of a man who brought it shuffled across the stone floor, but said nothing. When Robert spoke to him, he opened his mouth and with a strangled grunt pointed to his missing tongue with a fat finger ingrained with dirt. The same mute brought him the second tray with bread, cheese, ale, and from time to time a piece of boiled mutton. He gave Robert the second tray when the first was returned to him. He communicated his instructions with signs and grunts and headshakes.
Robert decided to start a tally. He’d already lost track of the days. The only events marking the time of day were the arrival of the trays of food. Having nothing to write with, he added one piece of straw to a pile each time the first tray arrived.
After several days, the mute goliath motioned him to push the straw out through the barred door and stand back in the cell. He indicated to Robert to strip off his robe and hand it through the grate. Robert obeyed and shivered with disbelief as the guard picked up a bucket and threw ice cold water at him. It took his breath away, but he was thankful for the rough piece of lye soap the mute threw into the cell. He could barely pick it up. He soaped his filthy body, his teeth chattering. The mute motioned for the return of the soap and then doused Robert with another bucket of icy water. The guard shoved a pile of fresh straw and the robe under the door and tramped away with the buckets. Waiting for his frozen body to dry before reluctantly resuming the detested robe, Robert tried desperately to recall how many straws had been in his little pile.
Gradually a pattern developed and he deduced they changed the straw and allowed him his ‘bath’ once a sennight. He didn’t have to count the days. He could count the sennights. The revelation brought exhilaration and despair. Sennights! He’d been in this hell hole for sennights.
His hair and beard grew. Lice were a constant problem. The food and filthy conditions played havoc with his bowels. The penitent’s robe he wore hadn’t been replaced and he could barely stand the stink of it. The drain hole was the only place to relieve his bodily needs, the rats his only company—until another creature stalking rats took an interest in him.
At first he’d shooed away the fat mangy cat that stalked the cells at night. But he woke one night finding comfort in the warmth of the creature’s body curled into his back. On the nights when the cat didn’t share his bed, he felt bereft and missed the soothing purr of its contentment. He named it Espérance, his only hope. “You’re as lonely as I am, aren’t you, you miserable excuse for a cat.”
He concentrated his anger and frustration on Pierre de Giroux, but was sure the boy couldn’t have accomplished this plot on his own. Who wanted him to be penitent? Penitent. Pentitent. Who wanted him to be sorry? The answer came.
“Curthose,” he whispered. “I am in the Duke’s castle in Caen.”
Still the torturers didn’t come, and gradually he came to grimly accept that his isolation, his unbearable solitary confinement was his torture. Curthose planned to leave him here to rot slowly. He couldn’t rid himself of the growing knot of fear in his belly.
He became emaciated. He dreamed strange dreams. He had visions of Pierre’s uncle, Phillippe de Giroux dragging his mother by the hair, Robert’s severed head held high. He dreamt of Pierre plunging a dagger into Dorianne’s belly, killing their unborn child. He screamed at the horror of his dreams, but there was no one to hear, no one to comfort him.
His body grew stiff. He felt like an old man. He determined to pace his cell, to keep his muscles strong, but the monotony of the few steps back and forth, back and forth drove him to hysteria. He exercised his arms by splaying his hands on the damp stone, standing back with his feet spread and then pushing his body up and down from the wall. He continued till his muscles burned. When his arms grew stronger he did the same thing on the floor, urging his body through the searing pain in his biceps.
When the robe interfered with his movements, he discarded it and exercised naked. The odious robe was replaced when it rotted. In its place he was given a shirt, pantaloons and a coarse blanket. No serf on the Montbryce lands wore such poor clothing.
He thought often of his captivity in Wales as a child and how the so-called barbaric Welsh had made sure he was clean, well fed and properly clothed. Now he was a prisoner of a noble Norman and he was
being treated like an animal. What did Curthose want of him? To be sorry? He was sorry indeed. Sorry he couldn’t cut the Duke’s throat.
He might go mad if this confinement went on any length of time. It was the feeling of powerlessness that threatened to consume him. He was confident efforts would be underway to rescue him. He wasn’t alone in the world. It was his responsibility to remain sane until his rescue. He thought on the good things in his life and resolved to concentrate on those and those alone. He sat cross-legged on the dank stone floor and conjured a vision of Dorianne.
He thought of the first time he’d seen her raven hair peeking out from under her wimple in the Hall at d’Avranches, of her bewitching hazel eyes, of her breasts glowing with fragrant oil, the nipples hard under his thumbs, of the taste of her sex on his lips, of the blushing smile when she told him she was enceinte. He wept at the memory of her radiance after the birth of his daughters, and lamented he hadn’t spent more time with his girls. The images of his wife brought him solace, but had their negative side—they drove him mad with desire. He cried her name as he spilled his seed on the damp straw.
He conjured an image of his father—greeting his sons at the bridge when they were ransomed, accepting Caedmon as his son, smiling whenever his mother entered the room, sharing his love of the castle Montbryce with his children when they visited there, telling them the story of Hastings when they went to Bayeux. His visions of his father were a source of strength for him and he prayed to his father’s memory in thanksgiving for his Montbryce blood.
“Give me courage, Papa. Help me endure this,” he prayed.
When his father came to him in his dreams, the family motto was always on his lips, “Fide et Virtute! Have faith! Have faith!”
His visions of his mother brought him the most relief from his anguish. He was aware of the hardships she’d endured as a child, and yet she’d survived and become one of the most loving and forgiving people he’d ever known. “Help me endure this maman, I know your thoughts and prayers are with me here. Try to find Dorianne. Help her.”
Passion in the Blood Page 11