Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight

by Anna Markland

  Baudoin ushered his mother to a chair and stood behind her. Montbryce motioned Ronan to another chair, his face grim. “What did happen, exactly?”

  Ronan was relieved to sit. His leg no longer pained him, except on the odd occasion, this being one of them. Mayhap something to do with the weather. He noticed the Earl rubbed his knees as he too sat.

  Sparing them the more gruesome details of the attack, Ronan recounted what had happened. “Rhoni is incredibly brave. She fought hard.”

  Tears flowed freely down the Countess’s cheeks, but there was pride in the glance she exchanged with her husband. “Our daughter has grown up quickly.”

  Baudoin’s hands never left his mother’s shoulders.

  The Earl came to his feet and paced in front of the hearth, hands locked behind his back. His wife fidgeted with the kerchief the Steward had given her earlier. Conall remained in the shadows, leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on the entryway of the Hall.

  Ronan studied the Norman. Despite his age, he stood tall and erect. Few men matched Ronan in height, but he suspected this man would have come close in his youth.

  It would behoove him to remember he was dealing with an acknowledged hero of the Norman Conquest, an ambitious man who had sacrificed a great deal for the wealth and power he had amassed. Rhoni had confided to him her father’s lifelong homesickness for Normandie.

  From her tales he recognised Ram de Montbryce as an astute politician who had always managed to be on the right side in the complicated twists and turns of the struggle for power in Normandie. He and his older son, Robert, were caught up in the delicate balancing act of being loyal to two masters. Though they were brothers, William Rufus, King of England, and Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandie, were bitter rivals.

  Montbryce halted in front of the hearth, his legs braced, arms folded. “My wife has shared some of your history with me, Lord Ronan, but I would hear it from you. Your boy looks like he’s about to drop.”

  “Conall is not my son; he is my servant, the lad who rescued me.”

  The Earl beckoned Conall. “Seek out the kitchens. Tell Trésor to provide you something to eat and give you a job. She’s old and crotchety, so be on your best behaviour.”

  Conall hastened off, apparently understanding without Ronan’s help.

  Montbryce winked at Ronan. “He might be surprised to find Jacquelle there. Mayhap he’ll help her carry the hot water to her mistress.”

  Ronan smiled, warming to this powerful man. “Aye! He’s a good lad, the son of my steward. I have sworn to avenge his father’s murder.”

  Montbryce returned to his chair, steepling his hands, suddenly serious once more. “Tell me the story.”

  In the thirty years since the Conquest, Ram had witnessed countless horrific and brutal deeds, and heard rumours and accounts of many more. The capacity of some men for cruelty seemed boundless. His daughter had come close to a violent death at the hands of Saxon brigands, yet Ram was acquainted with Norman lords who were the epitome of barbarity.

  Lord Ronan’s account of his torture, his wife’s rape and murder, the loss of his unborn child, the death of his faithful steward, all bore the hallmarks of cruelty for the amusement of it. Greed had robbed this Irishman of everything his family had held dear for generations.

  It was nothing new to him, this tale of horror, but he arched his brows in disgust at the mention of Norman mercenaries in the pay of an English Earl. He would wager he knew exactly who had orchestrated such a scheme.

  He exchanged a glance with Baudoin who nodded imperceptibly. His son had also recognised the difficulty. The Earl in question was a fellow Norman, another Marcher Lord, a powerful man with considerable influence in England and Normandie.

  Ram had no doubt Ronan intended to ask for his aid. He owed the man a debt and was obliged to help him, but he must not be seen to be involved in any plot against a fellow Earl.

  To make matters worse, the portly Earl of Chester was expected as their guest on the morrow.

  Ronan had come to his feet during the telling of the tale, pacing back and forth, but now he stilled, his one dark eye intent on the Earl of Ellesmere. He hesitated, then went down on one knee, bowing his head. “I am aware of the difficulty this request will place on you, milord Earl, but I have no other recourse. I throw myself on your mercy. I am not a man used to begging, but I humbly beg your aid or advice in this matter.”

  Ram glanced at Mabelle. Her red-rimmed eyes and tightly drawn lips betrayed her anguish at what she had heard and her awareness of Ram’s dilemma. He would not allow this proud man to remain on his knees, but had no immediate answer to give. “Get on your feet, Lord Ronan. You do not have to beg, but you are aware the problem is not a simple one. Be certain, though, that I am not the Earl who sends mercenaries to rape Irish estates.”

  Ronan came to his feet. “Rhoni assured me of that. There is little reason for you to help me, but who else can I trust?”

  It was Mabelle who broke the silence that followed. “The Earls of Chester, Warwick and Shrewsbury arrive here on the morrow.”

  Ram glared at her. Why had she mentioned that? Then he took note of the glint in her eye and understood. She was right that Ronan’s presence at Ellesmere during this meeting of the Earls, arranged weeks before, might provide an opportunity to flush out the culprit. “Oui. It will be a chance for you to take the measure of these men, but remember they are powerful, and ruthless.”

  Ronan frowned. “I will be cautious.”

  “Now, we have kept you too long from your chambers. Bonhomme will take you. You have had a long and difficult journey from Ireland.”

  Ronan seemed ready to take his leave, but turned back. “Concerning Lady Rhoni, milord Earl.”

  Feeling refreshed after her bath, Rhoni smoothed her hands over the skirts of her gown, ready to step into the Hall, when she heard Ronan mention her name. Her heart, already beating wildly at the prospect of seeing him, skipped a beat. She hung back, wondering what had been said between her parents and the man she loved.

  Her mother and father remained silent.

  Ronan cleared his throat. “Your daughter is a beautiful woman. Any man would be proud to have her as his wife.”

  Her heart soared.

  Oh God!

  “I care for Rhoni and I am grateful to her for my life, and for bringing me to you.”

  He loves me!

  “But there is nothing more between us.”

  A worm crawled into her belly.

  Rhoni pressed her back against the cold stone wall, biting on the knuckles of her clenched fist. Her mother gasped. Her father coughed loudly.

  Ronan continued. “I have sworn an oath of vengeance, and I grieve still for my dead wife and child. My life can have no other purpose. I do not intend to force your aid by seducing your daughter.”

  She did not hear what her father said in response, suddenly aware that Ronan was striding from the Hall. He must not discover her here, simpering like a child. She fled back to her chamber on slippered feet.

  “You would have no life if not for me, Lord Ronan,” she muttered. “Me and the seal.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ram had ever been wary of the Earl of Chester. As the man had aged, his enormous capacity for ruthlessness had expanded with his girth. He and Mabelle treated him with the utmost courtesy, but did not trust him.

  For thirty years the Marcher Lords had held meetings from time to time at each other’s castles to discuss matters of mutual concern. Ram invariably came away from the discussions exasperated. The others seemed disinclined to follow his example of firm but fair government, despite the fact Ellesmere was a prosperous community with little dissent. They preferred brutality and oppression.

  Now was his turn to be the host. He had not looked forward to it. Now he dreaded it.

  Mabelle shared his belief that life would never be the same after these meetings. If, as he suspected, Chester was behind the attack on Ronan MacLachlainn’s estate, thin
gs might get ugly. He prayed Rhoni would not be hurt by whatever happened.

  At Ram’s request, Ronan made himself scarce as the Earls arrived one by one. They were invited to take their ease after their journeys and to attend an evening banquet of welcome being prepared by Trésor and her kitchen workers.

  The seating on the dais had been rearranged to accommodate the Earls. Since their ladies did not attend, Mabelle, Rhoni, and Baudoin were to be seated at a slightly lower table. Ronan would sit with them.

  When Ronan entered the Hall with Rhoni on his arm, she was aloof. What had he done to anger her? They caused a stir among the assembled knights and ladies. It was the first time many of them had seen Ronan. Their interest seemed to soften her anger and she fell into the role of the noble daughter of the household, smiling graciously at her escort.

  Protocol demanded everyone be standing at their place before the Earls entered in procession, Ram de Montbryce at the head. No one coming into the Great Hall could fail to notice the dark giant with the eye patch.

  As Ronan expected, the three Earls saw him immediately. Mabelle de Montbryce had described them beforehand. Only the obese Earl of Chester looked away quickly. Shrewsbury and Warwick studied him with a faint trace of amused curiosity on their faces.

  Rhoni gasped, sliding her hand into Ronan’s. “It’s Chester,” she whispered.

  The Earls sat. Everyone followed suit, except Ronan. A desire to wring the Norman Earl’s neck seized him. Here was the man responsible for his troubles. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Montbryce glared at him. Rhoni pulled him to his seat, her hand caught in his manic grip. “You’re hurting me, Ronan.”

  He took his seat, instantly contrite, brought to his senses by her plea. He loosened his grip, bringing her hand to his lips. “Forgive me, Rhoni. I never want to hurt you.”

  She put her free hand on his thigh and smiled at him. “You have a right to be angry. But you must not betray your feelings. You are drawing too much attention to yourself.”

  She spoke the truth. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow its thunderous beating. Rhoni’s hand on his thigh was both a balm and a torment. Rhoni’s mother and brother had both noticed it. Baudoin’s disapproval was written plainly on his face. Ronan was not sure what to make of the Countess’s expression. She looked—pleased?

  The fare served by servants in Ellesmere livery was sumptuous, but Ronan scarcely tasted any of it. He forced his gaze away from the fat Norman, trying to control the tremor in his right leg.

  Rhoni’s voice broke into his thoughts. She held out a chunk of bread topped with a piece of fish. “You haven’t touched the trout, Ronan. You should try it. You will not believe how good it is. It’s a recipe handed down from a famous cook long ago at Montbryce Castle. La Cuisinière passed it on to Trésor when she came to England to be our cook at Ellesmere. It’s traditionally served at important banquets.”

  How to resist her smile? He took hold of her wrist, biting into the morsel, savouring the intriguing flavours as he chewed. It was tempting to lick her fingers as his lips brushed against them, but he did not want to provoke the scowling Baudoin any further. “You’re right. Delicious. Trout are bountiful in Ireland. You should try to obtain the recipe.”

  Where had that thought come from?

  Her mouth fell open. She did not look away from his gaze as she licked her fingers. “I hope to visit there someday.”

  “Aye,” he conceded as his arousal tightened anew. “I would be proud to show you my homeland.”

  Hurt by Ronan’s rejection overheard earlier, Rhoni had been determined to remain aloof. But as soon as she set eyes on him, her heart admitted she would always love him. She simply had to be patient and he would come to see that he loved her. They would face his demons together.

  Patience was not a virtue she possessed, but entering the Hall on Ronan’s arm had convinced her of the importance of it. It was a glimpse into her future. She was Lady Rhoni MacLachlainn, proud to walk beside her noble husband.

  How often had her mother voiced her regret that she had waited years to tell Ram de Montbryce of her love for him? Rhoni’s ordeal at the hands of Daegal and his cronies had brought home to her the fragile nature of life and the importance of seizing what she wanted, and she wanted Ronan.

  She had never liked the Earl of Chester, sensing her parents did not like him either. Now Ronan’s palpable hatred for the man seethed through her. She had no doubt he was the Norman responsible for the mercenaries who soldiered for the MacFintains. Did the fat fool realize how lucky he was his head was still atop his shoulders?

  She had trembled with dread, sure Ronan would yell his war cry and fall upon Chester. The Earl had known who Ronan was, that much was evident. How had he learned of the escape from MacLachlainn Tower?

  She watched Ronan savour the fish she fed him, wishing he would lick her fingers. Why was he determined to fight his obvious feelings for her?

  She knew the answer as she licked the taste of him from her fingers. He had sworn an oath. There would be no future for them until his vengeance was complete. If she wanted him, she would have to do everything in her power to help him regain his lands. She was not sure what power a woman might wield. Robert and Baudoin had always been part of their father’s discussions and decisions. She had been the ornamental daughter. But she was a Montbryce. She would find a way.

  “We will find a way,” she whispered to Ronan.

  Warwick turned to his host, sucking the food out of his teeth as the servants cleared the tables. “Who’s the fellow with the eye patch?”

  Ram arched his brows, scanning the Hall as if surprised by the question. “The giant? He’s a nobleman, visiting from Ireland.”

  Shrewsbury, seated on the other side of Warwick, had leaned over to hear the answer. “Ireland? What brings him here?”

  Chester, seated on Ram’s right, feigned a lack of interest in the conversation, but Ram felt him tense. “It’s a long story. Mayhap he’ll tell it to you.”

  Chester coughed, seemingly choking. Ram offered him ale. “Something stuck in your throat, Chester?”

  The Earl guzzled the ale, grunting as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

  Warwick persisted. “He seems taken with your daughter, Montbryce.”

  Now Ram tensed. Rhoni was feeding the Irishman, her face aglow. Mabelle was right. The alchemy was evident. This situation was becoming too complicated. He was happy his little girl had fallen in love, but—

  He chose his words carefully. “Lord Ronan protected her when their party was set upon by brigands who had apparently come north from your territory, Warwick. Had you captured and executed them, my daughter would not have been terrorized.”

  Shrewsbury slapped Warwick on the back. “Now there’s an admonition if ever I heard one. We’ll discuss that on the morrow at our meeting. I’ve been told there are other Saxon bands at large. Thought we had annihilated them years ago.”

  Chester came to his feet. “We must indeed resolve on the morrow how to deal with these new threats. But now I beg your indulgence, my dear Earl of Ellesmere. I fear I tire easily these days. I’m off to my chamber.”

  Ram watched as Chester waddled out of the Hall leaning heavily on his pageboy. He was surprised the fire in Ronan’s eye did not burn a hole in the Earl’s doublet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Earl of Chester had survived and prospered for thirty years by relying on his instincts. They had never failed him. Warwick droned on and on about Saxon brigands, but Chester’s thoughts were full of the one-eyed Irishman.

  It was too much of a coincidence. And then his fears had been confirmed when Montbryce had uttered the fellow’s name.

  The idiot MacFintain had said the man likely drowned, too maimed and mutilated to survive. The Irish giant he had seen yesterday appeared to be in the best of health, and not the kind of man inclined to forget a wrong. What’s more, something was going on between th
e Irishman and Montbryce’s empty-headed daughter. If the Earl of Ellesmere became involved in the whole mess—that was quicksand he did not want to become mired in. Montbryce had an uncanny knack of coming out on the winning side.

  What had begun as a cunning and secretive way to reap wealth from Ireland had suddenly become more complicated and fraught with consequences. Why King William Rufus did not simply invade and conquer Ireland was beyond him. Too busy squabbling with his older brother, the Duke of Normandie. If only the Conqueror still lived! He had laid out plans to seize Ireland years ago.

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, unable to remain silent any longer. “By all the saints, Warwick. Scorched earth—harrying—that’s how you get rid of problems. Get rid of everybody.”

  Montbryce groaned. “You cannot be serious. After thirty years you still believe the only way we can rule is through brutality?”

  Warwick huffed and puffed. Shrewsbury looked on, apparently mildly amused. Now there was a man who recognized the effectiveness of harrying. But time was passing and Chester wanted to learn more of the Irishman. As if reading his thoughts, Montbryce suggested they adjourn to the Hall for the midday meal.

  Their host followed Warwick and Shrewsbury. Chester put a hand on his shoulder. “A moment, Montbryce, if you please.”

  “I am curious about your Irish guest.”

  Ram had sensed Chester’s preoccupation throughout the morning and suspected he would ask him about Ronan. He shrugged. “He is the Lord of some Tower that was seized by brigands. They tortured him, but he escaped. Incredibly, he survived a harrowing journey across the Irish Sea. My wife and daughter met him while on a pilgrimage to Saint Winefride’s Well. For some reason, my wife thought he and I should meet.”

  Chester scratched his head. “Oui, they stayed at Chester en route there. So your wife was with them when they were attacked?”

  Ram recognized his mistake. “Non, Mabelle left a day earlier.”