“My son, Paul, will show them to their quarters, and I myself will take you to your chamber.”
The Montbryce brothers followed the steward into the keep, where they ascended winding stone steps to the second floor of one of the three towers. They were shown into a well-appointed, circular room with two large beds, heavy draperies and exquisite tapestries. Ram nodded his approval to Cormant, then asked, “How did your master die?”
“We’re not sure,” the steward replied, shrugging his rounded shoulders and shaking his head. “Perhaps some kind of fit.”
“We’ll need to see the body.”
Cormant hesitated a moment, then replied, “Of course, milord. It’s still in his bed. Follow me, please.”
Ram gave permission for two servants to enter, carrying trunks. “Leave us now, Cormant. We’ll send our chain mail, swords and gambesons with these servants to be dried. Return shortly, and we’ll go together.”
Ram didn’t want to hand over his sword. He felt naked without his arme blanche, a gift from his father, but it would rust if not dried. He’d dubbed it Honneur and pledged it to the honourable service of his Duke.
Cormant bowed and left.
“He hesitated when you asked to see the body,” Antoine remarked, bouncing on the edge of the mattress.
“Oui, but he quickly dismissed his misgivings. He’s no doubt relieved someone from the family of his liege lord has arrived at this time of crisis.”
They stripped off their wet armour and clothing with the help of the servants, who hurried off with it. Ram found two luxurious drying cloths draped over a chair and tossed one to Antoine, who tucked the long cloth around his waist and rubbed his legs. Espying a bone comb on a table by the bed, he tugged it through his wet hair, and then handed it to his brother.
“Dieu! I grow to look more like you every day!” he lamented.
“What’s wrong with that?” Ram retorted good-naturedly. “There’s less than two years between us, and we both look like our father. Good thing your eyes are green.”
Antoine shrugged. “Perhaps next time I shave my head, I’ll keep it that way, so people don’t keep mistaking me for you.”
Ram smiled. “Strange, I’ve never been mistaken for you.”
The friction of the cloth warmed him. He worked hard to keep fit, ready for battle. His body was all muscle, yet lean. He rubbed dry the smattering of curly hair on his chest and worked his way down the faint line, to the thick nest of curls at his groin.
“Dieu! I’m soaked through,” he said with a shiver. As he rubbed, Joleyne’s erotic comments came to his memory. “You’re so big, milord,” she would croon. “I never saw such a weapon.”
He was jerked from his self-absorbed reverie by the flick of a damp drying cloth against his buttocks, administered by his grinning brother. “Admiring yourself, Ram?”
Ram retaliated and they spent a few minutes indulging in their playful antics, chasing each other around the chamber, laughing, each with the glint of revenge in his eyes. Then they sobered as they remembered the unpleasant task they were to perform. “Better get on with it,” Ram muttered.
“You’re right.”
They took fresh hose, linen shirts and woollen doublets from the iron trunks and dressed quickly, each assisting the other since they’d brought no valet. Ram had no choice but to lace on his still wet boots.
A soft tap at the heavy door heralded Cormant’s return, and they followed the steward down the steps and across the hall to another tower, where they again mounted to the second floor. Cormant opened the door of this chamber after tapping.
“Why would he knock?” Antoine whispered.
“Habits of a lifetime,” Ram murmured.
Cormant bowed. “After you, mes seigneurs.”
Their chamber was finely furnished, but the one they strode into now was opulent. An enormous, heavily-curtained bed dominated the room from a raised platform. The drapery was open, a shape visible. The bedspread had been thrown back. The pungent odour of human excrement cut the air like a sharp knife.
Ram approached the body resolutely, aware of Cormant still at the door. “No overabundance of mourning family members,” he whispered sarcastically to Antoine, standing at the other side of the bed, his hand over his nose. Ram clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Arnulf’s ugly body, reluctant to touch it. “He looks surprised. Death came unexpectedly. But was it by natural causes, or at someone’s hand?”
Antoine kept his voice low. “No blood. No weapon in evidence.”
When a lord died suddenly and mysteriously, all were suspect. Ram was thankful they’d arrived after this death and sympathised with Cormant’s obvious nervousness. “Has a physician been summoned?”
“Oui, milord. He’s not sure what happened. An attack, he thinks. An apoplexy. The lord had enjoyed a rather heavy meal last evening, and so—”
Looking at the fat jowls and bloated stomach of the dead man, Ram could believe this pig of a man might have died from his excesses. It confirmed his low opinion of the whole Valtesse family. “It’s evident no one will miss this poor specimen of humanity,” Ram whispered to his brother, who had moved to stand beside him as they conferred. “Or be sorry he’s dead.”
“His unexpected death might solve problems for the house of Montbryce.”
“But what if someone murdered the wretch? In his own bed! Should an enquiry not be held?”
Antoine held his hand out towards the body. “You know as well as I the likelihood of finding the true killer, if one existed. It’s far more likely some innocent scapegoat would be punished for this instead.”
Ram turned to the steward, trying not to wrinkle his nose. “We must arrive at a decision as to our course of action and get this corpse cleaned up and buried.”
“Oui, milord. It’s that I don’t have the authority, I mean, milord, you’re the authority now. You are the highest ranking noble.”
“I don’t want to waste time conducting an enquiry into this death,” Ram confided to Antoine. “I’ve more important things to do for Father, and our Duke.”
He made a decision. “I declare his death to be of natural causes, in concurrence with what the physician has observed. We’ll bury him on the morrow. Cormant, you’ll see to the arrangements.”
He glanced over to Antoine, whose eyes indicated agreement.
“Oui, milord,” Cormant replied, relief evident in his voice.
Ram regretted what had to be said next. “Antoine, we’ve just arrived, and it’s a long journey, but I suggest you leave on the morrow, to take the news to Montbryce. I’ll stay to assist Cormant for a few days.”
Antoine agreed. “I’ll leave after the interment.”
***
At the funeral the next day, Ram wondered how a man of noble family could come to such a pass, that most of the people in attendance were the men of a baron’s sons who hadn’t come on a social call.
People from the castle were there—the steward Cormant, his wife and three sons, the cook, the chatelaine, the stable boys, servants, and village folk. All looked on with disinterest as Arnulf was interred with interminable solemnity by the incredibly obese Bishop of Alensonne. It took eight burly men-at-arms to lift the enormous lead coffin.
Antoine whispered to his brother, “I wonder where they managed to find that monstrosity?”
Ram shook his head. “I hope there are more to mourn my passing, when the time comes, and that they care about my death.” His father was aging and it wasn’t likely Ram would die first, unless he fell in the service of his Duke.
Who will weep for me?
He resolved to leave this castle as soon as possible. Shifting his weight, he looked up at the sky. “Praise be to the saints the rain held off. It’s good to be dry for a while. A few days here will ensure the steward has everything in place for the successful running of the castle until Guillaume de Valtesse can return.”
“Cormant seems a good man,” Antoine agreed. “Even with Arnulf as h
is master, the steward appears to have kept things running well. But it’s hard to tell whether he and the rest of the servants and serfs are looking forward to the probable return of their rightful lord or not.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mabelle had never seen her red-faced father so excited, or for that matter, so happy. Antoine had brought the news of Arnulf’s death a few hours ago and Guillaume had ranted gleefully ever since. Despite her relief, this wasn’t the way to react publicly to news one’s son had died. She determined to behave with more dignity than her father. She barely remembered Arnulf and wasn’t saddened by his death, since it was he who’d cast her out. His convenient demise meant her dowry would be regained.
Her father calmed down sufficiently to have a conversation. “Didn’t I tell you, daughter, your accursed brother would get his comeuppance? Didn’t I tell you we would return to Alensonne in triumph and regain possession of our rightful lands? I can’t wait to see what that miserable miscreant has been squandering my money on.”
“Is it safe to go back? Is the castle ours again?” she asked, noticing he gave her no credit for pushing him to seek support from Montbryce. Would she always be a cipher as far as her father was concerned?
“Of course it’s ours,” her father roared. “The Comte de Montbryce has guaranteed it in writing. His sons signed the documents, confirming Arnulf’s death was from natural causes. I am the Seigneur d’Alensonne, without question—and of Belisle and Domfort.”
As if the mention of his name conjured him, the Comte de Montbryce appeared, and Guillaume bowed effusively. Mabelle curtsied, sinking to her knees.
Comte Bernard proffered his hand to her. “Rise, dear child.”
Guillaume rushed to his side. “Ah, Milord Comte. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your succour and support over this difficult time, and now you’ve guaranteed the return of my lands.”
“I’ve done nothing on your behalf, Valtesse. It’s a coincidence your son died as my sons were embarking on their attempts to arrive at a diplomatic solution.”
“But, Milord Comte, honour dictates I thank you for your help,” Guillaume replied. Mabelle thought he was deliberately not listening. “I wish to repay you, by giving you my most treasured possession.”
Comte Bernard’s eyes went wide. “And what might that be?”
Mabelle held her breath. With her dowry regained, she could pick and choose her suitors. Perhaps she could find someone to love and honour her?
Her father didn’t look at her. “Now that my beautiful daughter is the heiress to my lands and titles, she’ll be a much sought after bride. But I offer her to you, in betrothal to your son, Rambaud.”
Should she laugh or cry? Her father had never told her she was beautiful, yet now he was anxious to be rid of her.
“Papa—”
“Silence, child. I know what’s best for you,” he hissed. “So, Milord Comte, do you agree to my proposal that we join forces? Mabelle will bring to the marriage a formidable amount of land, power and influence in Normandie and Le Maine.”
Comte Bernard hesitated only a few moments. He walked over to Mabelle. Placing his fingers under her chin, he tilted her face to his view. “You’re a beautiful woman, Mabelle, and you’ll make an exceptional wife for my son. You have strength, pride, intelligence, and perseverance. The future Comte de Montbryce will need such a woman at his side in the turbulent times I foresee for Normandie and its Duke. There’s no doubt His Grace too will be pleased at the strategic lands that will come under our control. We must get some new gowns made for you.”
Mabelle had never heard such words of praise from her own father. She wanted to throw her arms around the Comte and kiss him. He’d seen qualities in her that her sire had never considered. Perhaps strengths she hadn’t seen in herself? She looked at her father and was suddenly afraid he might start strutting around the room crowing. He’d heard nothing of what Comte Bernard had said. She should have been happy but had a sinking feeling she’d quickly lost the long-desired control over her own life. Had she indeed exchanged one authoritarian for another?
***
Mabelle was thankful the next day for her mother’s insistence she be taught to read and write, but determined not to let anyone see her trepidation when the documents for the marriage contract were brought in by the scrivener. Wearing a new linen chemise and dark green surcoat, tailored hastily by one of the castle seamstresses, she signed her name with care. To Mabelle de Valtesse, her father insisted she add and of Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. The intended groom hadn’t yet returned from Alensonne, and his father signed in his stead.
She’d lain awake, worrying she knew nothing of this man to whom she’d been given. Consequently, she’d arrived late for the ceremony, much to her father’s chagrin. No one had asked her opinion. Hard as life was with her father, few paid her much attention most of the time. She was a person of no consequence. There’d been a chance, with her birthright regained, that she could return to her beloved Alensonne. Now another man, a stranger, would control her life. His brothers, Antoine and Hugh, had been warm and welcoming, but what was he like? She and her dead half-brother Arnulf were very different from each other.
At the celebratory banquet, she teased her father. “Now, Papa, the jongleurs will sing a different ballade about the Valtesse family.”
“And now, daughter, we’re seated above the salt.”
The dark red wine and ale were plentiful, the courses many. They dined on roasted pheasants flavoured with tarragon from the herb gardens, pigeons sprigged with rosemary, and suckling pigs. The woman who reigned supreme in the kitchens, known simply by the name of her calling, La Cuisinière, had roasted the piglets on spits. Mabelle, used to wandering in and out of kitchens, had seen her shooing away, with a large wooden spoon, anyone who tried to steal the crisp crackling of the succulent meat. La Cuisinière used her secret recipe to produce a memorable dish with trout caught by the steward’s men. There was yellow cheese in wedges, the famous fromage cremeux de Montbryce, and coarse black bread.
Guillaume’s voice dominated, and Mabelle was content her father was happy, enjoying the honour he felt was his due. But she worried about her betrothed. Why had he failed to appear in the Great Hall the night he’d been home? Comte Bernard had apologised for his son’s absence, obviously irritated. Antoine had muttered some excuse about an appointment. She had an idea of what that meant. Ram was evidently not in a hurry to meet her.
She should be relieved her father had given her to a wealthy family. Life would be much more comfortable. She would be the wife of a liege lord when her future husband inherited the title of Comte. Wasn’t it everything she’d wanted for a long time?
***
“A messenger has arrived from Montbryce, milord.” Cormant handed the missive to Ram and turned to leave.
“A moment. I may need to send a reply.” Ram unfurled the letter, scanned it, and swore.
“I trust it’s not bad news from home, milord?”
Ram scratched his head. “I’m betrothed, Cormant. To a girl I’ve never met. I’d hoped it would come to nought, but my father has signed the betrothal documents.”
Cormant, seemingly ill at ease with this moment of familiarity, offered, “It’s often the way, milord, for the sons of great families.”
Ram shrugged. “I wish I’d at least met her. You know her perhaps? The daughter of your lord.”
Cormant looked at him with surprise. “Mabelle de Valtesse? I remember her as a child, before her father’s ouster brought us Arnulf.”
“So, you have no knowledge of her upbringing, her education? I’m not sure about her—suitability.”
He felt uneasy. Perhaps he’d said too much to this servant already. He made an effort to explain. “I’ve met your lord—my future father-by-marriage, it seems.”
Cormant remained silent. Ram looked him in the eye. “I don’t envy you the task of dealing with Valtesse when he returns.”
Cormant’s face gave a
way nothing. “Milord.”
Ram read the missive again and rolled it up. Holding it in one hand, he tapped it absent-mindedly against his thigh. “Send the scrivener to me. I’ll dictate a reply. I might remind my father this isn’t the time to be marrying.”
“Is there ever a right time to marry, milord?”
Ram smiled. The man had mistaken his meaning. “I’ll be off to war with our Duke.”
Cormant looked impressed. “You’ll be accompanying his Grace in his quest for the English throne?”
Ram squared his shoulders, proud he could slap Cormant on the back and declare, “Oui, of that I’m sure.” Then his thoughts went back to the news of his betrothal. “We must redouble our efforts to secure Alensonne now it’s part of my betrothed’s dowry. Seems I have no choice. My inevitable wedding is in a sennight.”
***
Mabelle wanted to explore the castle Montbryce, where she would live when she and Ram were married and rule as the Comtesse in the future. “Perhaps if I can find my way around, it won’t seem so overwhelming,” she suggested to Comte Bernard.
He instructed the steward, Fernand Bonhomme, to conduct a tour. Mabelle was grateful for a knowledgeable guide to the immense place. They viewed halls, galleries and chambers. Mabelle had spent the last six years in one castle or another, but she’d not seen such beauty, nor felt such comfort and warmth, since she’d been a child in Alensonne.
“It’s beautiful,” she kept saying to Bonhomme. “Everything is beautiful.” It was hard to believe it might one day be hers.
They arrived at a chamber with a stout oaken door. “And this, milady, is the chamber of your betrothed.”
Mabelle entered nervously. It was a man’s room. Red predominated in the hangings and furnishings. Weapons and shields adorned the walls, wolf skin rugs warmed the floor. A woven Flemish tapestry depicting a battle covered one wall. She ran her hand over the rich brocade of the bed coverings, snatching her hand away when she became aware of the tall steward’s eyes on her.
The thought of sharing this bed with a man she’d never met was overwhelming, and her stomach turned over. She had little knowledge of men, despite the harsh life they’d lived. Her father was a difficult man, but he had protected her. Would Ram be patient? Would he treat her well? The room seemed so masculine, with no place for a woman. Would he expect her to keep to a chamber of her own?
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