“Everything is peaceful now. Our Duke is King William the First of the English, despite the best efforts of our own Norman soldiers to ruin the day for him.”
They looked at each other and laughed with relief.
“We shouldn’t let your beautiful ensemble go to waste, Comtesse de Montbryce,” he purred, undoing the girdle of spun gold, as he pressed her to his body. “This is a day for celebration.”
As soon as he touched her, she felt the clenching low in her belly. It wasn’t long after they were naked that her body ached for him. She called his name over and over as he knelt between her legs, draped them over his shoulders, lifted her hips, bent his head and kissed her place of pleasure. He held her firmly as he made love to her with his warm mouth, his tongue as deft as his fingers had been. It seemed natural. She trusted him with her body. Why could she not trust her heart to him?
“I savour every tremor of pleasure vibrating through your body, Mabelle.”
He smiled the smile that made her quiver. Keeping her legs draped over his shoulders, he put a bolster under her hips and slid his manhood into her. She smiled back as their rhythmic dance inflamed her. Throbbing with release, her sheath welcomed his surging seed.
“Your hair’s getting longer,” she whispered later, as she twirled her fingers through it. “It smells of wood smoke.”
***
Long days and nights of celebration followed the coronation.
“The King wishes to formally name me Earl of Ellesmere at tonight’s banquet,” Ram told his wife on the third day. “Beforehand, he wants to meet to discuss the problems in the Welsh Marches, and how he perceives my role in dealing with them. There’s no definite border between England and Wales, so we must establish our authority in the region.”
When they were ushered into the King’s antechamber, William strode to Ram and embraced him warmly “Non, mon ami, you will not kneel. I wouldn’t be wearing this crown today without your help. I am desolate about your father.”
Turning to Mabelle, still in a deep curtsey, he took her hand and kissed it, pulling her to her feet. “My dear Comtesse de Montbryce. At last this fool friend of mine has had the good sense to marry you.”
“Merci, Majesté.”
“My dear friend,” the King turned to Ram, wasting no time, “I want to talk about these irritating Welsh rebels.”
“Sire?”
“Ram, you have time and again proven your worth, both militarily and in governance. The situation in the Marches requires such skills. You’ve been there and seen for yourself. I also need someone I can trust implicitly. I envision my Marcher Lords having more power than an ordinary earl. Rebellion is ever in the air. We need to consolidate our victory.”
Ram wanted to tell William what he thought of the castle at Ellesmere that he had indeed seen for himself, and fervently hoped rumour of the fiasco with Rhodri hadn’t reached the King’s ear. He bit his tongue.
The King’s next words broke into his thoughts. “Ah, here come d’Avranches, Montgomerie and Fitz Osbern, the other men I’ve chosen for the job.”
I am indeed in illustrious company!
He wondered if the castles with which the other men had been rewarded were as dilapidated as his. After the appropriate introductions of the lords and their ladies had been completed, and the social niceties observed, the ladies withdrew to a nearby alcove.
The discussion continued for several hours, with William outlining the powers he planned to give to his four Marcher Lords. Ram’s Earldom of Ellesmere occupied an area close to Wales, between Chester and Shrewsbury, sites of two of the proposed earldoms. Hereford in the south was the other.
When time came for the feasting, Ram went in search of Mabelle. The ladies had long since left to prepare for the banquet.
“This is one of the proudest moments of my life,” he whispered to her as they were announced, and he entered the massive hall, his beautiful wife on his arm.
“I’m happy to be here to see you honoured.”
“It’s your presence here that makes me proud.”
Why did I think she wouldn’t make a good Comtesse?
“I have mixed feelings,” he admitted. “The King has indeed honoured me beyond measure, but it’s an honour that’s not without its dangers. The Marches are not a safe place to bring my wife and start our family. It certainly won’t be the comfortable life we enjoyed at our castle in Normandie, at least not for a while.”
“I don’t care, Ram. I would rather be with you.”
“I can’t envision leaving you alone in Normandie, Mabelle, I need you by my side.”
Before the food was served, King William called his four appointees to the dais and commanded them to kneel. “Mes seigneurs, Comtes d’Avranches, de Montgomerie, de Montbryce and Fitz Osbern, I confer upon you the titles of Earl of Chester, Shrewsbury, Ellesmere and Hereford. You are hereby invested with greater powers than any noble has ever enjoyed before.”
It was a long and involved ceremony, and later, during the feast, Ram and William Fitz Osbern began discussing the castles they’d been granted. Ram was aware Fitz Osbern was an accomplished castle builder.
“Hereford is in reasonably good shape,” Fitz crowed. “If Ellesmere is in need of renovation, I would willingly give you aid with the task. We must work together to strengthen our position throughout the border regions.”
“I accept your offer, Fitz Osbern, and I thank you,” Ram replied, his heart lifting a little.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
While the Conqueror and his Marcher Lords were celebrating, Lady Ascha Woolgar spent a lonely Yuletide in the manor house at Ruyton, and by the New Year suspected she had conceived. The possibility became a reality a few sennights later, and she was filled with elation one moment and dread the next. Her condition and her fear exhausted her. She was afraid Roussel, the steward appointed by the Earl, would notice.
Ascha recognized her good fortune with Ram’s generous arrangements. Many Saxons had been thrown out of their estates by the invading Normans. Her stubborn Saxon pride wouldn’t let her grovel to him now she carried his child. He would probably reject her and the child. If he accepted the child, it would grow up a bastard, an outcast.
She determined to survive the ordeal alone. At least the child would be a cherished remembrance of her brief liaison with Ram. It was ironic that in all the times her brutish husband had used her, she’d never gotten with child.
Her maid Enid, who’d served her for many years, was the only person in whom she confided. “No one can ever find out, Enid. We must tell people my child is the issue of my late husband, Sir Caedmon.”
“That would be easier to accomplish if your tenants and servants didn’t know Sir Caedmon left here well before the Battle of Stamford Bridge, my lady. If he was the father of your child, the babe would be born by May, but you’ll not give birth until much later.”
Enid was right, but Ascha could see no way out of her dilemma. She fretted so much about her pregnancy becoming evident, she worried she might fall ill.
“Roussel will soon start putting things together and spread word of my condition at Ellesmere. He may tell Lord Rambaud. I’m sure he already wonders why the Earl is generous towards me. Perhaps I’ll just have to stay in the manor house and not let anyone see me.” How impractical that would be. She couldn’t hide the child away, once he was born.
“My lady, if this child makes you unhappy, we should perhaps try to procure an abortifacient for you. I could—”
“Never, Enid!” Ascha cried. “I want this child desperately. But Lord Rambaud must never know. We need a miracle.”
***
Roussel was perplexed. The lady of Shelfhoc Hall looked worse every day. Should he mention this to Lord Rambaud? He decided against it. His explicit instructions had been to take care of the house and estate. Nothing had been said about the welfare of the Saxon woman who lived there. The whole arrangement was strange as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t understand why
the Norman Earl had taken on responsibility for this remote manor, far from his own lands.
“You’re to administer the rents and lands, and take care of the house, Roussel,” Gervais had told him. “And you’re to provision the men-at-arms left there to safeguard the manor. All accounting and revenues are to be given to the Lady of the house. The Earl doesn’t want to be bothered with it.”
“Am I to take a commission on behalf of milord?”
“Non. You’ll be recompensed directly by me, and then by the Ellesmere steward, Bonhomme, when he arrives.”
Oui, the whole arrangement is very strange.
***
In the early spring, three riders were challenged by the Earl of Ellesmere’s men as they approached the rampart protecting Shelfhoc. “State your business at the Hall, Saxon,” the captain sneered.
“Who are you to demand I tell you my business?” one burly nobleman replied angrily.
“I am captain of the guard assigned to protect this manor, and you will not pass until you tell me who you are, and what your business is with Lady Ascha Woolgar.”
The visitor urged his mount forward. “Lady Ascha Woolgar is my sister.”
Seemingly satisfied, the soldiers gave way.
The three rode into the courtyard. Sir Gareth Bronson dismounted and rapped with his fist on the door of the manor. “Ascha! It’s your brother Gareth. Open the door.”
His squire Edward and his son Gawain dismounted, and Edward took the reins of the three horses then handed then over to Roussel who’d emerged hurriedly from the stables.
“Gareth!” Ascha exclaimed as she flung open the door, throwing herself into her brother’s arms. She hadn’t seen him for two years, not since she’d married Caedmon Woolgar and come to live in Ruyton.
“Ascha! How do you fare?” he asked as he strode into the manor, his arm around his sister, Gawain close behind him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. It’s impossible for Saxons to travel now with these cursed Normans everywhere. The Conqueror boasts about the Peace of God and safety for all, but—”
“Never mind, Gareth, you’re here now.”
“I should have come before, my dear, as soon as I received your message about Caedmon’s death at Hastings. I’d suspected he may have fallen there. You look pale. Are you well?” He embraced her. “How are you coping with his death?”
“As well as can be expected. I was never happy with him. He wasn’t an easy man to live with.”
Gareth took a good look at his sister. “No. But a woman can’t survive alone these days here in England, especially a Saxon woman. Who is the Norman who took our horses? And you have Norman soldiers guarding the Hall?”
Has he guessed?
“He’s a steward assigned here by the Earl of Ellesmere who has generously provided me with protection, and a steward to help me manage the estate. He provides an accounting of the revenues.”
“Why would a Norman earl do that?” young Gawain asked suspiciously.
Ascha fidgeted nervously with her hair. “There’s the ever present danger of attack from the Welsh here in the Marches. This is a valuable but vulnerable estate. He’s protecting his own interests. Gawain, why don’t you go to the kitchen and see what Cook can find for you? You must be hungry after your journey.”
She was relieved the notion appealed to him, and he left.
Her brother waited until Gawain was out of earshot, then continued, “Nevertheless, Ascha, you can’t stay here alone. I’m getting the feeling you’ve already suffered at the hands of these Norman invaders.”
Ascha’s betraying hands went immediately to her rounding belly.
“As I thought.”
She clenched her fists. “But where would I go, Gareth?”
“You’ll come with us to Scotland.”
Her hands flew to her face. “Scotland?”
“King Malcolm Canmore hates the Normans as much as we do. He has made it clear he welcomes to his court in Edwinesburh any Saxons who don’t wish to remain as subjects to the Normans. We’ll make a new life there, free of the Norman tyranny. Many of us have made the decision to follow the hundreds who’ve already fled.”
“But what about Shelfhoc Hall?”
“I’ll speak to this steward of yours and inform him you’ll be travelling to my home for a while. He needn’t know you’re never coming back.”
It’s the answer to my prayers—but Scotland?
“As you have rightly guessed, Gareth, I’m with child but without a husband. Will such a woman be welcomed in the court of King Malcolm?”
“You’re my sister, Ascha. Many Saxon women have fallen victim to the rapacious appetites of these murderous Normans. You’ll be under my protection. Gawain’s mother died years ago. You and I will be good companions for each other. I’ll safeguard your secret.”
Ascha chewed her lip. “And you’ll speak with Steward Roussel?”
Gareth thought for a while. “I’ll instruct him to continue taking care of things as usual. I see no reason why he can’t send you a yearly accounting and the revenues, if we send back word of where we are once we arrive. Normans are obsessed with form and order. He’ll probably be happier to be in charge of a manor where there’s no-one to constantly look over what he’s doing.”
“True, perhaps, though he’ll still be ultimately responsible to the Earl, and he’s a man it’s not wise to cross.” Her heart was heavy as she remembered her brief but fulfilling liaison with Rambaud, a man she could never have. Would he be angry if he ever found out she’d borne his child and not told him?
Three sennights later, a wistful Lady Ascha Woolgar left the land of her birth, wondering what the future had in store for her and her unborn child. Gareth had taken care of the arrangements as he promised.
A score of souls made the harrowing journey in ten gruelling days. Upon their arrival, they were greeted warmly by the Scottish king and his queen Ingibjorg, and were provided with help and support by other Saxons who’d fled before them to make a new life.
By the time her son was born a few months later, Gareth had procured a house for himself, his son and his sister, along with their squire Edward, and her maid Enid. She named her son Caedmon. The name of her dead warrior husband would be perpetuated, if not his bloodline, and would make it easier to conceal Caedmon’s parentage.
She could not choose a Norman name for him but gave him the second name Brice, which in her language meant son of a nobleman. She took satisfaction in knowing she would be the only one who knew the true significance of the name. But she vowed never to tell her son of his true father. It wasn’t an ignoble thing to be the son of a martyr of Hastings—whereas the bastard of a Norman.
In thanksgiving for her miracle, she would devote her life to this precious child.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The castle at Ellesmere gradually took shape, and Ram decided it was at least habitable and Mabelle could move there, after spending six months at the Palace. They saw each other infrequently. Each time he came to visit she threw herself into his arms. Westminster was a lonely place for a Norman woman alone.
“I’ve missed you, Ram. How long are you staying this time?”
She’s ached for me as I’ve ached for her.
“As long as it takes to pack.”
“I’m returning with you?” she asked happily. His nod was the assurance she needed. She rushed off to get Giselle started on their packing.
Ram had rarely seen William during his previous visits to the Palace. Once, however, when he did manage a brief audience, he was amazed to hear the King remark on how useful some of Mabelle’s intimate knowledge of Normandie had been. “It’s astonishing, Ram, what people will say when they think they’re speaking in front of someone unimportant.”
More often than not though, the king was away, riding extensively throughout his new kingdom, confiscating lands and building fortified wooden castles. Then he appointed his half-brother Eude and William Fitz-Osbern as co-regents, and went b
ack to Normandie.
Catching up with his wife, Ram told her, “We’ve been delayed by the rebellion that broke out in Fitz-Osbern’s earldom shortly after he was named Regent. It took him away from work on our castle. However, he has suppressed it, with great brutality, I might add.” Looking around furtively he whispered, “I’m getting increasingly worried about the capacity for cruelty of some Norman Lords.”
***
It touched Ram’s heart to see how Mabelle struggled to conceal her dismay at her first sight of Ellesmere. However, little by little, she added her personal touches to the castle. La Cuisinière sent a young Norman woman from Saint Germain, whom she’d trained in the finer arts of cuisine.
“Trésor is proving to be the treasure her name implies,” Mabelle remarked to Ram one evening after they had supped in the half-finished Hall. “She brooks no nonsense from the Saxon and Welsh servers and scullery maids, and her rule in the kitchens is supreme.”
“I agree, and visitors speak highly of the fine food we serve here.”
“Giselle is relishing her role as head of the household, selecting and training the maids and houseboys to meet her rigorous Norman standards.”
“Oui, now we have Fernand’s son, Mathieu, here as our steward, it seems like home.”
They augmented their household staff by bringing to the castle a local Welsh healer, Myfanwy, who was recommended by the village midwife.
“Myfanwy has a special healing touch, your Ladyship,” said the stout red faced midwife, who’d inspired Mabelle’s confidence as soon as she’d met her, despite being Saxon. Mabelle was reassured that, when she did conceive, she would be in good hands. Haunted by the memories of the deaths at the time of the pestilence, and how powerless she’d felt then, Mabelle suggested to Ram they should always have a healer on hand in their home, and he agreed. The Welsh woman was amenable, and Mathieu Bonhomme allocated her a small chamber within the castle.
Mabelle spent much of her time supervising the menus, preparing herbal remedies and salves under Myfanwy’s supervision, and doing embroidery and weaving. She made wimples, chemises, shifts and dresses, and shirts for Ram, though most of her husband’s clothes and the fancier items were made by local tailors.
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