Haunted Knights (Montbryce~The Next Generation Historical Romance)

by Anna Markland

  HAUNTED KNIGHTS

  By Anna Markland

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright Anna Markland 2013

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  In honour of my grandson Adam,

  already a handsome young man.

  And in memory of my beloved Topaz.

  Hear no evil

  Speak no evil

  See no evil

  ~Ancient Wisdom

  SUGGESTED READING SEQUENCE

  Dear Reader,

  If only my heroes and heroines had revealed their stories to me in chronological order, it would have made life so much easier for you! If you prefer to read sagas in chronological order, here’s a handy list.

  Conquering Passion

  If Love Dares Enough

  Defiant Passion

  A Man of Value

  Dark Irish Knight

  Haunted Knights

  Passion in the Blood

  Dark and Bright

  The Winds of the Heavens

  Dance of Love

  Carried Away

  Sweet Taste of Love

  Wild Viking Princess

  I would like to acknowledge the contribution to this book of my critique partners, Pat Amsden, Sylvia Blenkin and Reggi Allder, and the assistance of beta readers Darlene B., Petula Winmill and Karen Wilkinson.

  Early Review

  “Two loyal brothers must cope with afflictions that render them unmarriageable and, in their minds, unfit for love. Two sisters, also afflicted and locked in the attic of a manor home their entire lives, cope with freedom and, in their minds, the undeserved love offered them by these noble men. HAUNTED KNIGHTS takes an unusual and heart-touching approach to the stories of these four people, then weaves it with a tale of court intrigue and malicious intentions that has readers sitting on the edge of their seats in fear for the lives of these endearing characters.” Connie Flynn, author of The Dragon Hour

  MAIN MENU

  Start Reading

  Dedication

  Suggested Reading Sequence and Acknowledgements

  The Next Generation Series (aka Wounded Warriors)

  Family Tree

  Glossary

  Lexicon

  Copyright

  Contact Information

  Author’s Note

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  Belisle Castle, Normandie, 1103 AD.

  “At my birth, the midwife believed it her sacred duty to murder me.”

  Standing proudly in the gallery of Belisle Castle—the only home he had ever known—Denis de Sancerre paused in his oft told tale, enjoying the warmth of the flames from the hearty fire at his back. The heat chased away the early spring chill creeping into his aching bones.

  Eying the familiar banners wafting in the warmed air in the rafters, he adopted his usual story telling stance—hands on hips, legs braced—and took a moment to relish the predictable open mouthed stares. The faces of his listeners and almost imperceptible nods unwittingly betrayed their understanding of the midwife’s intentions. He always wondered who among his rapt audiences would have led the mob gathered to dispatch him to Hell.

  When he deemed enough time had passed, he continued. “Imagine! A babe not only dark and twisted, but a hated Angevin to boot! Only the strident entreaties of my mother’s maid, Oda, and the intervention of Antoine de Montbryce, ensured I survived more than a sennight.”

  This was the cue for Denis to furrow his bushy black eyebrows and gesture towards his stepfather. All eyes predictably followed. Though Antoine had lived three score years, he never failed to pick up the story they had told visitors to Belisle Castle since Denis had reached an age where he took delight in mocking his own deformity.

  Antoine cleared his throat. “They came armed with pitchforks and scythes—ignorant peasants!”

  The family made light of that terrifying time a score and ten years before, but Denis recognised Antoine’s enormous courage in quelling the murderous mob. He smiled and continued the story. “Struck as you are by my mother’s rare beauty, you cannot help but understand why Antoine fell in love with such a stunning woman.”

  Sybilla de Montbryce blushed to the roots of her hair, still fiery red despite her age. “You embarrass me, Denis.”

  “Nonsense,” he teased, knowing she loved his flattery. “Your marriage blessed me with membership in one of the most powerful families in Normandie.”

  Antoine coughed. “I might add it also protected Sybilla from execution as the widow of an enemy of William the Conqueror.”

  Denis took a deep breath. Next came the most difficult part of the tale to tell without his voice betraying his emotion. “Antoine raised me as his own son. Growing up in the bosom of a loving family formed me into the good-natured fellow you see before you today.”

  His half brother, Mathieu, snorted. “Not to mention the life and soul of any social gathering.”

  Antoine protested. “Rubbish! It was God gave you your kindness and sense of humour, Denis, not I.”

  Belisle Castle’s guests from Caen chuckled. Some applauded politely, as he expected. Noblewomen especially enjoyed his ready wit and courtly manners. He was a curiosity, and thus no threat. They would recoil in horror if he were ever foolish enough to suggest a relationship. No woman of consequence wanted to marry one such as he.

  Truth be told, no female of his acquaintance had ever touched his heart, and thanks be to the saints no requirement existed for him to provide heirs. The risks of procreating another deformed creature were too great, and the Sancerre estate in Anjou had been confiscated by the Conqueror years ago. Antoine’s eldest son, Adam, was the heir to Belisle.

  Antoine puffed out his chest. “Denis is too modest. His courage and valour have only added to the military renown of this family. He’s a respected warrior, who has never flinched from combat alongside his half brothers. His skill in a cavalry charge is well known.”

  Denis felt his face redden. “Is there a woman here who would not wish for a husband like my stepfather?”

  Antoine chuckled. “And I’ll wager I am the envy of every man present when they look at my beautiful wife.”

  Denis felt a familiar pang of longing, and was relieved when Mathieu, seven years younger, took up the tale, recalling light hearted stories from their youth.

  Maidservants entered to offer more refreshments. Denis looked expectantly at Adam. The moment had come for him to make his usual contribution of Indeed, we love our ‘little’ brother.

  The eldest of his half brothers remained strangely silent, slumped in a chair.

  A log shifted in the hearth, giving up its life to the flames with a reluctant hiss. The visitors glanced from Denis to Adam and back again.

  ~~~

  Denis frowned. He loved all his siblings, but Adam was his best friend. A mere five years separated them. Adam the Giant and Denis the Dwarf were recognized and welcomed wherever they went.

  Denis left his favourite story-telling spot before the massive stone hearth and walked to Adam’s chair, reaching up to lay a hand on his shoulder. He immediately missed the warmth on his misshapen hips. “Are you ill, big brother?”

  Adam raised his head slowly. A chill of alarm surged through Denis. His brother’s neck was swollen, his eyes glazed. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  Denis grasped Adam’s arm and beckoned his stepfather. “Papa, mon frère is ill.”

  Antoine came to his feet with difficulty. “What ails you, Adam?”

  Their guests withdrew. Sudden illness tended to clear a room quickly. Sybill
a de Montbryce made hasty apologies and summoned servants to light the visitors to their chambers. Then she knelt before her son, putting her hand over his. “He has a fever. Send for the physician, vite.”

  Adam touched his neck. “My throat,” he rasped, swallowing with difficulty.

  Mathieu’s face showed his concern. “I recall this happening to me years ago, when Adam was away at Domfort, visiting Oncle Hugh.”

  Their mother remembered. “Oui, you are right, les oreillons. You had recovered by the time Adam returned.”

  Antoine took hold of his son’s hand. “Let’s get him to bed.”

  Denis chafed he did not have the stature to lift his brother and carry him to his chamber. Mathieu cradled Adam and bore him away.

  ~~~

  Adam could not swallow or speak. Fear gripped his gut. His neck and ears pained him greatly, but the agony between his legs was infinitely more worrisome. His throbbing couilles were painfully swollen. Thankfully, Mathieu had carried him, but his younger brother’s voice seemed distant, muffled.

  He must conceal his beleaguered male parts, keep secret that Adam de Montbryce, heir to Belisle Castle, had a problem with his testicles.

  “Merci, mon frère. I will tend to my own needs. I fear I must seek my bed. It’s but a passing malady.”

  He thought he had spoken out loud, but the drumming in his aching ears drowned out the sound.

  Mathieu placed him on the bed. Their mother’s face swam before his eyes. She was speaking, but what was she saying? Oblivion released him.

  ~~~

  The worsening pain woke Adam. His nostrils filled with the smell of rosemary burning, making him cough, adding to his agony. He must be in the infirmary—the only place in the castle with a fumitory.

  He threw the linens off his body and cupped his couilles to ease the discomfort. His clothes had been removed.

  He licked his lips. Someone gave him water. He guzzled it like a man delivered from the desert.

  His father’s face floated into his blurred vision.

  His hand was eased away from his groin.

  “Non, please, it helps.”

  Was his mother leaning over him, shaking her head?

  Dieu! He must cover his nakedness.

  She spoke.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “What?”

  Take away the pain!

  His sister Bernadine should not be tending him either. She might be a married woman now, but still—

  The swelling had worsened. He longed for sleep.

  “Where is Mathieu? Denis?” he rasped.

  His father shook his head. Adam had never seen him so bereft. Had his brothers fallen ill too?

  He swallowed hard, pain shooting into his ears. “Am I dying?”

  His mother’s face reappeared, her red-rimmed eyes swollen, saying something.

  His throat was a dried up well. “Je m’excuse, maman—”

  Why could he not hear?

  He reached for his groin again. A warm, delicate hand moved it away. He groaned. “Leave me be,” he shouted. The words echoed in his ears.

  “Let me die,” he murmured.

  ~~~

  Denis chafed for a sennight that he was not allowed to keep vigil over Adam. Mathieu was deemed safe from contagion because he had apparently had the same malady. Denis had suffered so many ailments as a child, no one recalled if he had been afflicted or not.

  As Adam’s illness worsened, Denis felt his own life slipping away. What was a Dwarf without his Giant?

  Their mother was bereft, her puffy eyes red when she returned from the Infirmary. He noticed for the first time the streaks of grey at her temples. He marvelled again that he was the child of such a woman, whose dignified beauty shone, despite her agony.

  He hated to increase her burden but was desperate for news. He took her hand. “How does he fare?”

  She took a deep breath and sniffled. “The physician believes he will live. The swelling has gone down.”

  Relief swept over Denis. “We must give thanks then.”

  His mother withdrew her hand and let out a long wail. “He is not whole, Denis.”

  Denis had often suffered the bitter humiliation of being looked upon as half a man. Dread coiled in his gut. His tall, handsome, well-muscled brother not whole? “What do you mean?”

  Sybilla slumped into a chair, her hands clasped in her lap. “He cannot hear.”

  Denis was dumbfounded. “You are telling me he will not listen?”

  His mother shook her head. “Non, mon fils, he is deaf.”

  Denis pressed his fingertips to his forehead. What did this mean? His heart broke for Adam, for his mother and father. A castle such as Belisle demanded much of a Seigneur who was in possession of all his faculties.

  He resolved to help Adam with this burden. “I will be his ears until he recovers his hearing.”

  Mathieu entered the room. His pallor and grim expression alarmed Denis. Their mother whimpered. Mathieu put his arm around her shoulders. “There is more, but Maman cannot speak of it.”

  Denis ground his teeth, glaring at them. “Tell me!”

  Mathieu averted his eyes. “Our brother’s illness has wreaked havoc on other parts of his body.”

  Denis frowned in confusion. Was Adam blind, lame, what? “I do not understand.”

  Mathieu paced.

  Dreadful anticipation welled up in Denis’ heart. “By all the saints, tell me.”

  Mathieu braced his legs and folded his arms. “Adam’s male parts—”

  Denis lacked stature, but his shaft performed admirably whenever he bedded a willing village wench. However, Adam was not the philanderer his father had been before marrying. He had taken his role as the heir to Belisle seriously, insisting on saving himself for his bride.

  If Adam’s manhood had been damaged, Denis feared for his brother’s sanity. And what did this mean for the succession of Belisle Castle?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kingston Gorse, Sussex, England

  Rosamunda Lallement had spent all of her eighteen years in captivity, hidden away as soon as her impediment became apparent.

  Her imprisonment was not harsh. She enjoyed many comforts in the suite of rooms atop the manor house at Kingston Gorse. She was not alone in her captivity. Her older sister, Paulina, shared her confinement.

  The doors were not barred, but leaving their chambers was forbidden. Servants made certain they did not wander into the main part of the house. Thomas and Agnès took care of their needs, and were never far away in their own chamber in the attic. But they were of peasant stock and never showed warmth or tenderness for their charges. Rosamunda suspected they were as much prisoners as she and her sister.

  The only other people aware of their existence were their brothers, Lucien and Vincent, who visited often. Their father, Marc, came infrequently. Rosamunda and Paulina had not set eyes on their mother since they were infants.

  Maudine Lallement still grieved that she had birthed two deformed children, refusing to acknowledge their existence. Rosamunda suspected her mother wished her daughters had never been born.

  Did her mother still live? She asked her brothers. “Maman?”

  Lucien understood and responded with sarcasm. “Oui, despite assuring us daily she longs for death, Maman yet lives.”

  Vincent was more forgiving of his mother. “Maman is unwell. We must be patient.”

  Rosamunda fisted her hands and scowled. The longing to leave their prison and wander to the edge of the cliff she espied from the tiny window had stolen her patience. The smell of the sea filled her nostrils, but she could not see it. Vincent had told them that sometimes the land of their forefathers was visible across the Narrow Sea. Their maternal grandfather, Sir Stephen Marquand, and their father, had both been born in Normandie.

  Paulina, on the other hand, preferred to live away from gawking eyes. Rosamunda’s affliction was invisible; but her sister’s was not. Even on tiptoe, the top of Paulina’s head came only to the
level of Rosamunda’s breasts.

  Paulina was a lovely doll, her skin flawless, complexion rosy. Dark, silky hair fell like an elegant drape, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her lips were pouty and full. When she was troubled, her almond eyes wide, she looked like a pensive angel. Her rare smile turned her into a Madonna.

  Rosamunda envied her sister’s full breasts and well proportioned figure. Despite her lack of height, Paulina was stunningly beautiful. Yet she believed she was ugly, believed in the rightness of her imprisonment simply because she was half as tall as most people. Rosamunda raged at the injustice of it.

  On the rare occasions their father visited, she dragged him by the arm to the window, pointing to the outside world. She pressed his hand to her face, tears welling in her eyes as she turned them to him in supplication.

  He always shook his head sadly. “Your maman will not hear of it. You must remain hidden. At least you are comfortable here at home. Many families shut their malformed daughters away in convents.”

  Lucien had hinted his mother blamed her husband’s ancestry for their impediments. Did he blame himself?

  ~~~

  Restlessness gripped Rosamunda. Their brothers had promised to come, but had not appeared. She threw her mending to the floor and stormed to the window. Spring was in the air. She pulled her hair out of the braids she hated, ruffling the thick blonde locks into a tangled nest.

  Paulina continued to ply her needle. “I know you are bored, but there isn’t much else to do.”

  Rosamunda went to sit at her sister’s feet, grabbing the half finished embroidery sampler from her hands and flinging it to a nearby chest. She grunted impatiently.

  Paulina sighed. “Will you never tire of hearing the stories?”

  Rosamunda shook her head, smiling broadly.

  “Very well. I’ll tell the story of our maternal grandfather.”

  Rosamunda rubbed her hands together gleefully.

  Paulina began the familiar tale. “Sir Stephen Marquand came to England and settled at Kingston Gorse before the invasion, under the protection of the Saxon King, Edward the Confessor. It was he passed on to his children the tales of the Conqueror’s feats. Our mother continued the tradition with Lucien and Vincent, who in turn told us the stories.”