Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  “Why Maman?” Robert asked curiously. “You must have been very angry with him.”

  “Oh, oui, mon fils, I was angry.” she replied, grinning at her smiling husband.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t stay angry at him, Maman,” Robert said innocently.

  Their contentment at being back in the land of their birth carried over into their bed chamber, and they made sweet love every night, as their bodies joined with flow and grace. Ram loved fondling and caressing Mabelle’s breasts, and now, after the birth of two children, they were fuller and more sensitive and he suckled them, knowing she would be enthralled in her need for him. He loved the way her responsive bud swelled under the tender touch of his fingers, and never tired of feeling the inner texture of her. He loved to hear her call out his name in the throes of passion and wondered if she did indeed love him. She’d never told him she did.

  “Would you like to go for a picnic in the meadow?” he asked innocently one day. “You could pick bluebells. Fernand can look to the children for a while.”

  Mabelle eyed him curiously, and he struggled to keep his feigned composure.

  “It is a beautiful day,” she agreed. “And I do love bluebells. I’ll get La Cuisinière to prepare a hamper.”

  She scurried off to the kitchens, leaving him to wonder if she’d guessed his plan, to get her to the enchanted pool. He wanted to try to erase any bitter memories they both may be harbouring. Why did he care? Did he need her to love him? Were the physical pleasures not enough?

  When she came into the Great Hall, carrying the picnic basket and a blanket, he was pleased she’d changed into a simple chemise and belted sage green overdress. She was barefoot.

  “Will you be taking your sword to the meadow, milord Comte?”

  He laughed. “I think not, saucy wench.” He took the hamper and blanket, and they strolled out of the castle together, their bodyguards following at a discreet distance. He ordered the men-at-arms to stop outside the walls. They would keep watch from where he stationed them, and felt it was safe enough.

  When they reached the meadow, he spread the blanket on the ground, and lay on his side, his head resting on one hand. He felt comfortable in his linen shirt and loose fitting knee breeches, especially once he took off his boots.

  His gaze followed Mabelle while she picked the blue flowers, humming as she gathered them to her breast.

  She was doing this the morning I found her.

  He watched her, and recognized he cared too much for this woman. He suspected Mabelle would never forgive him completely for his accusations and suspicions, though he intended to try to erase that memory today. But could he let go of his pride, his need to control? He came lazily to his feet, wandered over and took hold of her hand as she bent to pick another flower. The grass felt good beneath his bare feet.

  “Would you like to take a swim, milady?” he drawled seductively.

  Her grasp on the bluebells tightened, but as he kissed her, the flowers fell to the ground. “Gather them up and bring them to the lake.”

  He led her to the water’s edge, out of sight of their bodyguards, took the flowers, then undressed her, brushing his hands against her breasts as he lifted the clothing from her body. He smiled at her naked beauty, disrobing quickly. As he led her into the shallow water, she reached out tentatively and grasped his erection in her long fingers. Even the cold water couldn’t dampen his arousal as she slowly moved her hand on his phallus.

  “I’m not a good swimmer, Ram,” she teased. “I need to hold on to something.”

  He took her hand from his throbbing manhood and lifted her. “You have other talents and skills which are far more important. I fear I may release too soon if you continue that,” he teased.

  She entwined her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind him. He walked over to the shallows, where a smooth moss covered rock met the water’s edge. The friction of her wet female cleft against his shaft sent ripples of sensation up his spine. Leaning her back against the rock, he feathered kisses on her throat, neck and nipples.

  She groaned with pleasure and swirled her tongue around the rim of his ear. “The moss feels like velvet against my back,” she crooned.

  “Mabelle,” he rasped. “I have to come now.”

  He thrust inside and her sheath clenched him tightly in response. Her legs gripped his torso, trying to draw him deeper as he pressed her body against the rock. She clung to him, keening her pleasure and her breasts rubbed against his chest.

  In his passionate haze, he caught a glimpse of speckled trout flashing by in the knee-deep water. He curled his toes into the mud. She raked his scalp with her long fingers, and cried out ‘Ram!’ as his seed erupted into her and a powerful spasm tore through her body.

  She lowered her head to his shoulder and her hair enfolded them like a golden cloak. Staying inside her as long as he could, he carefully made his way to the deeper water, eased on to his back and floated for a while, with her on top of him, moving them effortlessly through the water with one arm, both of them completely relaxed.

  “You’re as light as a feather,” he murmured into her ear.

  She’s purring.

  He guided them back to the shallows and carried her to the grass, where he laid her down and spread out her hair. With great care, he took the bluebells and laid them reverently on her body. He posed her legs as he remembered them from that bittersweet day, as awestruck by the sight as he’d been then.

  “On the day of our intended wedding,” he managed to say hoarsely, “I thought you were a vision. Your beauty struck me senseless, and you’re more breathtaking today. What happened that day embittered us both, but if you’ll allow me to continue to pleasure you today, milady, we can perhaps atone for our mistakes? I hope whatever you were dreaming of that day will come true for you.”

  “It has already come true, Ram. I was dreaming of being kissed by you, my handsome husband.”

  Antoine was right. I’m an idiot.

  ***

  The day they were to leave, she awoke shortly after dawn, dressed and went down to break her fast. Ram had risen before her, and she couldn’t find him anywhere. She decided to make a last private visit to the crypt, and a strangled cry escaped her as she entered the shadowy chamber. Ram knelt before the tombs of his parents, and a tiny posy of bluebells lay atop each. She sank to her knees beside him and took his hand, and they clung together.

  “Swear to me, Mabelle, that if I die in England, you’ll return here with my body, so that I may be laid to rest with my parents. It’s in Normandie I belong.”

  “I so swear,” she whispered, stricken by the notion of life without him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was because of Ram’s well tried and proven methods of governance that the towns and villages around Ellesmere grew and prospered. September brought with it the affirmation of another child firmly planted in Mabelle’s belly. Both she and Ram were thankful the abortifacient seemed to have done no permanent damage. It had been a year since she’d been poisoned. The resilience of her body surprised her, considering the difficult life she’d led before she met Ram.

  The long summer had been particularly hot, relieved only by gentle rainfall in the early evenings. She often felt uncomfortable and was nauseous every morning. But the weather produced a bumper harvest and there was much celebrating at the Autumn Fayres held in the towns and villages. No one would starve this winter.

  Rhonwen continued to show great promise as a healer, but they heard tell of another renowned healer in the village of Whittington, which hadn’t yet held its Fayre. Mabelle received Ram’s permission to take Rhonwen with her to the Whittington Fayre so they could seek out the healer. The young woman was gleeful at the prospect.

  “Perhaps we’ll convince her to return with us to Ellesmere, my lady?” she enthused.

  “Perhaps we will. But if not, we’ll try, over the course of the few days we remain there, to learn as much from her as we can about the thi
ngs we don’t yet understand.”

  As planning for the excursion progressed, it occurred to Mabelle how wonderful it would be for her sons to accompany them to Whittington. “They enjoyed the fayre at Ellesmere,” she argued, when Ram was less than enthusiastic. “They have few chances to be little boys. Please let me take them. Giselle can accompany us and keep them busy while we’re with the healer.”

  Ram relented, insisting they be protected by a company of ten men-at-arms as their escort, but he was uneasy he couldn’t go with his family. He wasn’t interested in what they would be discussing with the healer but might enjoy the fayre with his wife and children. “We have too few opportunities to be together and enjoy life, as we did during our visit to Normandie.”

  “Don’t be concerned, Ram,” she laughed. “Your men will take good care of us. We’ll be surrounded by people at the fayre and it will be perfectly safe. The Welsh won’t encroach as close as Whittington. In any case, the beginning of October is too late in the season for them to leave their mountains.”

  Ram put his hands on her waist and leaned his forehead against hers. “You’re right, but I still don’t like the idea of my pregnant wife and my children leaving without me.”

  ***

  As soon as Mabelle met Caryl Penarth she thought the woman embodied the meaning of her name, which Rhonwen explained was the Welsh for love. Caryl would share her knowledge of the healing arts with the two women and agreed to consider coming to Ellesmere, at least for a few months, to instruct the local women, as well as Rhonwen.

  When they weren’t with Caryl, they enjoyed the minstrels, theatre, jugglers, magicians, and human chess games. They laughed at the bright costumes of folk dressed as such varied characters as King Arthur, mermaids, and the fayre’s king and queen. Mabelle hadn’t seen her sons laugh as much since Normandie. They tended to be serious little boys.

  Everyone enjoyed the fruits of the bountiful harvest, and the ale and wine flowed freely. The women and children were never without their armed escort, and Mabelle enjoyed herself immensely. After three days they mounted their horses for the slow ride back to Ellesmere. Caryl promised to come to the castle in a sennight.

  They’d travelled only a short distance and were entering a copse. Rhonwen commented on the beauty of the autumn leaves. Without warning, masked men, clad in sheepskins and leather breeches, dropped like stones from the trees. The Norman soldiers were rendered harmless before they knew what had happened. Mabelle could do nothing. The furtive attackers seized the reins of their horses and led them deeper into the copse.

  Mabelle lost sight of Robert. “Maman, Maman,” her son shouted

  “I’m safe, mon fils, don’t worry. I’m here. Look to your brother,” she shouted in reply, trying to sound braver than she felt.

  None of the men made any move to harm them, and she considered that a good sign. It didn’t seem they would be murdered immediately at least.

  Other brigands were concealed deep in the copse, with horses at the ready. The attackers mounted. One took Robert on his lap and another took Baudoin. Stealthily, the caravan made its way deeper into the woods. The men spoke to each other in a language foreign to her, but the terrified Rhonwen could understand them and she surmised it was Welsh.

  Neither of her sons had cried since they were taken, but she constantly called words of reassurance to them, hoping her voice didn’t betray her fear. “Don’t be afraid, mes enfants, I’m here, as are Giselle and Rhonwen. We’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

  It broke her heart to remember her children’s joy at riding on their father’s lap.

  They rode at a steady pace for about an hour. Mabelle was relieved they hadn’t travelled at a gallop. Perhaps the child she carried might survive this ordeal—if she did. She had a sense they were travelling west, probably into Wales. When she saw the village of Oswestry in the distance to her left, her suspicions were confirmed. Trying to occupy her mind and divert it from the sheer terror threatening to engulf her, she wondered how the bandits had known the Montbryce family would be at Whittington. This hadn’t been a random act. She and her family had been targeted. The traitor within was still at work.

  Other than comforting words spoken to the children, the three women said nothing, exchanging only glances whenever the roadway caused their horses to be close to each other. A bandit led each of their horses and they had no chance to control their own mounts. There was no possibility of escape.

  Though there was no marker, Mabelle could tell an hour later that they’d crossed into Wales when they reached the village of Rhydycroesau. Their captors became more relaxed and the tension eased. The scowling faces of the villagers told Mabelle all hope was lost. No one had pursued them. There would be no rescue. Ram would never see his family again. She prayed her husband would discover the identity of the traitor and cut out his heart.

  After another hour in the saddle, Mabelle’s body ached. She asked their captors several times if they might be allowed to dismount for a few moments for the sake of the children, but was ignored. Did the men speak her language? They came to a village and on the western edge reined in the horses at a cottage.

  “You’ll sleep here tonight,” one of the bearded men said gruffly in Norman French, holding out his burly arms to help her dismount.

  She didn’t want to accept his aid, but would have fallen flat on her face if she didn’t. When her numbed feet hit the ground her legs wouldn’t sustain her, and she had to lean on the horse. The man didn’t take his hand from her elbow as she waited for the feeling to return to her legs.

  When he grew impatient, Rhonwen spoke to him in Welsh. She assumed the girl had told him Mabelle was pregnant. He seemed surprised and allowed her more time to regain her equilibrium.

  Once they were inside, the man bolted the door of the cottage, imprisoning his captives, and her sons ran quickly to their mother. Neither boy had cried throughout the ordeal and she told them how proud she was of their courage.

  Baudoin struggled to control his fear. “Will Papa come to rescue us, Maman?”

  “I’m sure Papa will do everything he can to rescue us, mon petit.” From the looks in the eyes of Giselle and Rhonwen, they didn’t share her optimism.

  Bread and cheese and ale had been provided for them. The cottage was cramped but clean. It afforded them a chance to sleep indoors and take care of their personal needs. Giselle did her best, with the limited means at her disposal, to tend her lady. Rhonwen massaged Mabelle’s back and applied to her feet a salve Caryl had given her, which she’d packed in her saddle bags. Mabelle hadn’t started to bleed and prayed the child within her still lived.

  Mabelle slept fitfully on a pallet, which, to her surprise, was furnished with clean linens, and her sons cuddled into her. Giselle and Rhonwen clung to each other on the second pallet.

  At dawn the following day, a loud banging on the door of the cottage signalled departure. Andras, the leader of the captors, opened the door and brought in bread and honey for them to break their fast. Fear made her choke on the food, but she was determined to eat, to keep up her strength. She encouraged the children to eat.

  “Rhonwen, do you know where we are?”

  “My lady, I think this village is Llansilin. I believe they’re taking us to the mountains.”

  Fear crept up Mabelle’s spine. Their suspicions were confirmed when they left the cottage. Their horses had been replaced by sure-footed Welsh mountain ponies. She smiled when Robert seemed to forget the terrible trouble they were in and exclaimed with excitement, “Look, Maman. Ponies.”

  ***

  “Trussed up?” Ram shouted. “Ten of my finest men-at-arms? Knocked out and trussed up like piglets for the spit? How can this be?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, scratching his head, completely distraught over the desperate news from Whittington.

  “My lord Earl, it appears they were ambushed,” Gervais replied.

  Ram snorted. “Of course they were ambushed. They’re Norman
soldiers, supposedly prepared for ambush.”

  Gervais hesitated. “Perhaps they’d enjoyed the delights of the fayre a little too much, milord—the ale—”

  Ram stared coldly at his Second. His voice dripped ice as he replied, “Then I’ll execute them myself. I entrusted my family to them and they failed me.”

  Gervais remained silent.

  “You believe they’re already dead, don’t you?”

  Again Gervais kept silent. The minutes dragged as Ram paced.

  “Summon my commanders to the map room. We’ll pursue them.”

  Gervais threw up his hands. “But, milord, we don’t know where they’ve gone.”

  “They’ve gone into Wales!” Ram continued to shout, knowing only too well who’d taken his family.

  “But, milord, winter comes early to the mountains of Wales. We could easily lose our way and become trapped. The local people won’t help us—”

  “I told you to summon my commanders. We’ll follow them into Wales.”

  Gervais’ shoulders sagged. “Oui, milord.”

  ***

  At least with the ponies the women were able to ride astride and hold the reins themselves. However, the track had become a narrow twisting path. They rode single file, with some of the men in the lead and the others behind them. Flight was impossible.

  Robert and Baudoin were now on a first name basis with the ponies they shared with their captors, and Mabelle was grateful they were distracted from their fear.

  The path rose steadily for the next three hours. The scenery became wilder, the terrain more rugged. When they entered a remote village and the men began calling out to each other, confirming the direction to take, Mabelle looked to Rhonwen who told her they were in Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant. She didn’t know why she asked. She would never remember these tortuous names, and what did it matter anyway? Who could she tell?