The Countess

by Claire Delacroix

  Brigid offered her hand to her spouse, though it hung limply in her exhaustion. “Come see your son, Guillaume,” she said softly.

  “I came to see my wife.” ‘Twas clear that Guillaume too noted the toll the birth had taken on his wife. “I feared to lose you,” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze flicking to Alys. “She is fine? She will be fine?”

  The cousins shared a warm glance, tinged with considerable relief. “Brigid is tired but fine. She will need to lie abed for some days, for she has lost much blood. And she has need of sleep after such a task.”

  “But I will be fine, because Alys came.” The cleaned infant was laid on Brigid’s breast and she cuddled him close as yet another tear leaked from beneath her lashes. “He is big, Alys, is he not?”

  “Aye, a very healthy boy.”

  Guillaume sat tentatively on the side of the mattress, his eyes filled with the wonder of both wife and son, and Alys knew ‘twas time she left. She spied Burke in the shadows of the corridor outside the solar and excused herself. But one glance and she knew they both recalled the arrival of their first.

  At moments like this, the loss hung on Alys’ heart like a leaden weight. She would never forget that tiny girl, never so long as she drew breath.

  She took shelter in Burke’s embrace, trembling only once his arms had closed tightly around her. “Oh, Burke, I feared to lose them both.”

  “’Twas close?” he murmured into her hair.

  “Too close. The cord was tangled around the babe. If we had not come, Burke...”

  “But we did come.” He tipped her chin with one finger. His lips quirked, coaxing her to smile. “We came, and you aided Brigid, and all has come aright.”

  Alys shuddered. “But I could not help thinking of our first...”

  “You know that my mother has said that the first often is lost. She was a fine girl, but too small, Alys.” His arms were tight around her, as they had been in that trying moment. “‘Twas neither your fault nor mine that she came too soon. And now we have Bayard, as healthy and hale a child as ever there could be.”

  “Aye.” Alys breathed deeply of his scent, taking reassurance as always from his strength. “And another coming.”

  “Perhaps another girl.” Burke kissed her brow.

  “Do you desire a daughter?”

  “I desire my wife hale, first and foremost. If the babe is healthy too, then that would be also welcome. I care no more for its gender than the hue of its eyes.”

  Alys leaned against the chest, savoring the thrum of his heartbeat, then realized what she did. She pulled away and surveyed herself ruefully. “I am a wretched mess.”

  Burke’s eyes glowed. “Because you had heart enough to give aid.”

  Alys felt her color rise beneath her spouse’s warm regard and knew he would always have this power to dispel the shadows for her. “Where is Bayard? I would hug him tightly in this moment.”

  “He plays a game with the châtelain.” Burke sobered. “I was not certain what he would see here, so left him behind.” He smiled. “Though ‘tis good to have one’s fears prove unfounded.”

  Alys’ hand curved over her own belly, her thoughts turning in an obvious direction, and the warmth of Burke’s hand immediately closed over her own.

  “’Twill not happen to you, Alys,” he said as though he alone could will it to be so. “Bayard’s birth was without incident. Such troubles are behind us.”

  “It could happen to anyone, Burke, and we both know it well.” She interlaced her fingers with his own. “Thanks be to God that your service upon the king is completed and that you will be home when this one arrives.”

  His lips tightened and she knew he would tell her something that she did not want to hear. “There is something I must confess, Alys,” he said heavily.

  “Burke? You will be home?”

  He folded her hands into his and met her gaze steadily. “Aye, I will be home, Alys, but I must leave in the interim.”

  “Burke!”

  “I only just pledged as much to Guillaume. His sister Eglantine has fled Arnelaine with her daughters while he was at court. She has taken much from Guillaume’s household, as though she would make a home elsewhere. He cannot understand that she would make such a choice, not unless something were terribly amiss. ‘Tis not like Eglantine to be frivolous.”

  “Why would she leave Arnelaine?”

  Burke shrugged. “Her spouse Theobald did die last fall and Guillaume confirmed that he gambled overmuch. Perhaps her debts were too large, but I cannot fathom why she did not turn to her family. And there is an issue before the king’s own court to be resolved. One of Eglantine’s daughters was pledged to Reynaud de Charmonte and that man demands either his bride or paid restitution for the insult. Guillaume would know the truth of Eglantine’s intent before he pays the fee.”

  “What manner of man is this Reynaud?”

  “I know him not, though your father might be acquainted with him.”

  Alys wrinkled her nose in disgust. “They are of an age?”

  “I gather as much.”

  “But Eglantine’s daughters are so young!”

  “You know how such things are arranged in some families.”

  Aye, Alys did. “But where could she have gone? One cannot simply claim land without a deed or travel incessantly. Who would shelter her? Is there more family?”

  Burke shook his head. “Nay. But Lady Crevy has admitted that Theobald left Eglantine a title for lands in Scotland. She knows naught but the name of the holding and has as much as confessed that Eglantine has fled there. She did, by the way, swear Guillaume to secrecy, for she is betraying Eglantine’s trust in admitting as much.”

  “’Tis her worry that broke her silence.”

  “Aye and rightly so.”

  Alys guessed the direction of this conversation and cared naught for it. “But Eglantine has made her choice, Burke. ‘Tis none of your concern.”

  “Alys, ‘tis not that simple. The family fears for her survival. Guillaume would pursue her, merely to ensure that all is indeed well, but he feared even moments past to leave Brigid. Brigid’s recovery will be a long one, we both see the truth of it, Alys. And we both have witnessed the impact of Guillaume’s absences upon Brigid’s health.”

  Alys felt her own tears rise. She knew Burke would do the gallant deed, she knew he would do this favor for his friend and truly she could not slight the generosity of his nature.

  But still she wished he would not go. “Oh, Burke.”

  “And Lady Crevy is most distressed. Alys, I would remain home by my own choice, but these are good friends, friends of a lifetime. Eglantine I have known since we were children. I, too, worry for her safety.”

  “She is the one who took that wager to seduce you, is she not?”

  Burke grinned and kissed her hand. “She had not a chance of success, since you already held my heart in thrall.”

  Alys heaved a sigh, as she recalled more of this Eglantine. “She was the one who came to the funeral for our daughter,” she said heavily, her gaze misting with tears. “She was the one who was round with her own child and spoke so compassionately to me of the risks we all face.”

  “Aye, that was she.”

  There was little Alys remembered of the day they laid their first child to rest in Villonne’s cemetery, but Eglantine had touched her heart with her expression of sympathy.

  ‘Twould not be right to reward such kindness with selfishness.

  “Alys, you are stronger than Brigid,” Burke argued softly, unaware that Alys already shared his view. “You have your father at Villonne to aid you and my mother at Montvieux.”

  Alys rolled her eyes, then smiled. “Do not wish Margaux upon me in this moment, I beg of you.”

  Burke grinned in turn, for his mother’s sharp tongue was of wide renown. Then he sobered as he gave her fingers a squeeze. “You are but five months along, Alys. I pledge to you that I shall return before your time.”

  “You s
hall have to ride like the wind.”

  He smiled that slow smile that always warmed her to her toes. “For my lady’s favor, I could do naught less.” He caught her close, his lips against her ear. “I swear it to you, Alys, by all we both hold holy. I shall be returned, I shall hold your hand, I shall never let you face this labor alone. ‘Tis wrought of the deed we shared, and I will share this with you as well.”

  Alys clung to him. She knew Burke would keep his word - ‘twas much of what she loved about him. ‘Twas not within him though to retreat on a promise made to a friend, to leave Guillaume fretting of his sister’s fate, to not make all right that he could.

  ‘Twas another trait Alys loved about him.

  “I shall miss you sorely,” she whispered, hating the unevenness of her words. She pulled back to look into his eyes, her hands rising to frame the handsome visage she knew so well. “I love you, Burke. Though your chivalrous tendencies can be vexing indeed, I would have you be no other way.”

  He kissed her deeply in his relief, only the sound of a man clearing his throat drawing them apart.

  “They always do as much,” Bayard told Guillaume’s châtelain.

  The older man fought a smile even as he bowed. “Do you believe, my lady Alys, that my presence would be unwelcome in the solar at this time?”

  She smiled. “‘Tis a boy. Are you curious to see him as well?”

  “Aye, that I am, but a more pressing matter calls.” The châtelain sobered. “My lord Guillaume has a guest.”

  “Surely this guest could be waylaid for the moment?” Burke asked quietly.

  The châtelain shook his head. “Reynaud de Charmonte is not so readily dissuaded as that. He claims he is come for his payment for Arnelaine’s seal.”

  Burke and Alys exchanged a glance. Alys guessed that this Reynaud had come for more than that and she had no desire to meet him. She excused herself on the basis of her dirtied kirtle. Then she caught her son in her arms and lifted him high, waylaying his curiosity about doings in the solar with a challenge for draughts.

  They adjourned to the kitchens to play a rousing game, one which Burke soundly lost by his own design. Beauregard treated them all to fresh dumplings and a new keg of ale, the cook in an expansive mood now that his mistress was well.

  But there was a shadow on Crevy despite the arrival of an heir. There were men in the kitchens, strangers of Reynaud’s employ, men who said little but drank a great deal of that ale. Guillaume was cloistered long with the visiting lord, his expression strained when they met at the board that evening.

  And when Alys waved farewell to Burke three days later, Reynaud was yet at Crevy, demanding better terms for Arnelaine’s seal.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  To Duncan’s dismay, he was expected at Dugall’s court.

  And not to be honored. Indeed, a pair of burly guards met his coracle and seized his elbows the moment he set foot upon Mull’s shore. Duncan felt the châtelain Louis’ surprise, but he had greater troubles than interpreting events for Eglantine’s servant. It was only a day and a half since they had left Ceinn-beithe, Dugall’s high court on the isle of Mull being a short journey away by boat.

  Dugall, King of the Isles, was the eldest son of Somerled, the lord of Argyll and the Western Isles. Somerled had conquered the Hebridean islands from the Norwegian kings, married the daughter of Olaf the Red and prompted the memory of many old tales by uniting the ancient kingdom of Dalriada under his hand once more.

  The Scottish king David had co-existed with Somerled, with few altercations however the ascent of David’s son, Malcolm IV, to the Scottish throne as a boy of twelve had prompted ambitious souls to challenge the succession. ‘Twas no small thing that Somerled’s sister was wed to Malcolm macHeth, a man of Moray who became the earl of Ross.

  By 1160, the Scottish king Malcolm and Somerled had been sufficiently reconciled for Somerled to spend Christmas at the king’s court in Perth. But then Malcolm had attempted to divest Somerled’s brother-in-law of the earldom of Ross in favor of his own brother-in-law and the peace had ended. Somerled had attacked the mainland of Scotland, sailing up the Clyde River and landing at Renfrew in 1164, probably in an attempt to stem the westward advance of the Anglo-Norman nobility. He died in that battle, along with his son.

  Somerled’s son, Dugall, however, had been crowned King of the Isles as a boy. After the loss at Renfrew, Somerled’s territories were divided among his three remaining sons: Dugall, Reginald and Angus.

  Meanwhile, Malcolm IV had died in 1165, and the Scottish crown had passed to his brother William, known as the Lion. Bred of a Norman mother and a father of the line of Malcolm Canmore, much of his expectations of the world were shaped by the French and thus the Norman court. His most notable accomplishment thus far had been to challenge the suzerainty of the English king Henry II over Northumberland. The contested border lands had been contested again in 1174 in which William was defeated and captured at Alnwyck.

  The humiliating result of this was the Treaty of Falaise, which the Scottish king a vassal of the English king and dictated the surrender four major castles, if however temporarily, to the English king.

  ‘Twas not a loss that fostered the support of those already dubious of the Scottish king’s suzerainty. However, William, his ambitions of southern expansion effectively curtailed, had cast his eye over the western territories. ‘Twas not anticipated that he would be so bold again to attack openly, but the Norman tradition of granting deeds to knights and lords, who then built fortified castles upon those lands, was not unknown even here.

  And ‘twas certainly known to William, who had virtually grown up in the Anglo-Norman courts.

  Judging by the reception, Dugall was evidently displeased with Duncan, which neatly revealed where Iain had fled. Duncan did not protest as he was marched in the direction of Dugall’s hall without a word of explanation. He could well imagine what tales had been told in his absence and at his expense.

  His own explanation would be saved for the ears of the King of the Isles. He would need all his skills for telling tales in order to see his hide whole by the end of this interview.

  All fell silent in the smoky hall as Duncan was thrust into its shadows. He could hear the dozens who normally attended the king breathing in the darkness and felt the weight of their gazes. He blinked to adjust to the darkness and saw that Dugall surveyed him coldly.

  The king sat in his high seat on the far side of the hall, a mug of ale cupped in his hands, a woman and a hunting dog curled at his feet. The firelight flickered over the harsh lines of the king’s visage, for this was not a ruler content to remain in the comfort of his court. Dugall fought himself and fought often, having no compunction to kill when it served his needs.

  And in this moment, Dugall regarded Duncan with something akin to loathing.

  Iain’s golden hair caught the light as he stepped forward from the shadows behind Dugall’s chair. He murmured something to the king, his expression exultant as he met Duncan’s gaze. Dugall almost smiled, his gaze unswerving from Duncan.

  “I hear tell that you have failed me,” the king said by way of introduction. The sentries shoved Duncan forward, releasing his elbows so abruptly that he fairly stumbled into the center of the hall. All assembled there watched with bright eyes, no doubt expecting a cruel judgment from the king for such a failure.

  Duncan again felt the weight of Cormac’s unorthodox choice in naming him as chieftain. He was not a man of war like Dugall, nor even a bloodthirsty fool like Iain. He glanced around the hall, noting now the familiar faces of other battle-hungry chieftains.

  With sudden clarity, he understood why Cormac had chosen him as successor. With so many men of war gathered, bloodshed could be the only result.

  But ‘twas not always the better result.

  And here was Duncan’s chance to prove it.

  Dugall scowled. “Unless you have secured Ceinn-beithe since the departure of Cormac’s own son?”r />
  Duncan lifted his chin and smiled with a confidence he was far from feeling. “Nay, as yet I have not.”

  Iain spread his hands, as though this was confession enough, but Duncan cleared his throat. “But that does not mean that the battle is over.”

  “There has been no battle!” Iain cried. “He is too much a coward to unsheath his blade and do what must be done!”

  “Aye, I refuse to slaughter women in their beds, like a common vagabond,” Duncan retorted. “There are other ways to see a victory assured.”

  “Then tell me of them,” the king invited silkily. There was no mistaking the import of the hard light in his gaze and Duncan understood that his liege lord would not be readily persuaded to abandon a course of warfare.

  Duncan knew that Dugall was only interested in the tactical import of Ceinn-beithe. There was no doubt in his heart that Dugall could muster an army this very day, that this king would strike the telling blow himself if need be to see his hegemony secured. He had one chance to persuade the king to stay his hand, one chance to ensure that Eglantine and her household were not slaughtered to see the land secured.

  ‘Twas more than enough incentive to argue his best.

  Duncan bowed low, striving to appear at ease. “My lord king, I would review what has transpired for your benefit alone. Shortly after our arrival at Ceinn-beithe, a party arrived to stake a claim upon it. ’Twas a noblewoman who came to secure a holding, a countess from France and in possession of a legal title.”

  “A title? I granted no such title!”

  “Aye, but another king did, and did so with the certitude that his will would be served.” Duncan paused for a moment to let Dugall consider who that king must be. “And this ‘twas that made me pause. In addition, the lady arrived with the all accoutrements of a household but with no knights. I suspected that her spouse and militia would follow behind. Had we moved hastily, as Cormac’s son advised, that man would undoubtedly have retaliated.”

  Dugall pursed his lips in consideration.

  “But no men came!” Iain interjected. “There were no knights and no militia. This household and their riches are ours for the taking.” He sneered. “Should we have had a leader who was man enough to order an attack.”