If Love Dares Enough (The Montbryce Legacy Medieval Romance)

by Anna Markland

  Aediva couldn’t speak.

  “Would she?” He squeezed the child’s arm more tightly.

  “No—my lord,” Aediva sobbed.

  Devona stepped forward despite the protestations of her grandfather and said softly, “Please don’t hurt her, my lord. She’s only a child.”

  The man stood, towering over her, and Devona could feel his foul breath on her face. His nose was red from the cold, his face pinched. She looked up and saw the greyness of his eyes darken as he stared at her breasts. “I am Sir Renouf de Maubadon. Your name?”

  “Lady Devona Melton,” she whispered, averting her eyes.

  “Well, Lady Devona Melton, you haven’t seen the last of me. I think I’ll be very happy with this manor house. For the moment, I bid you adieu. I’ll leave Torod and some of my men here—to make sure you’re protected, you understand?”

  He remounted and rode away. Torod glared at the Meltons for a few moments and then pulled his horse to the stable.

  Gerwint choked out a ragged breath as he sagged with relief. “They’ll be back, and we’ll be evicted.”

  Aediva and Bemia cuddled into their sister and Devona knelt to hold them more tightly. “Where will we go?” she murmured.

  Gerwint was pensive for a while before he spoke again. “I don’t know. Perhaps to the Downs. Gather together your most precious things, no more than you can carry—and warm clothing. Be careful not to let the toad see what you’re doing.”

  ***

  Renouf de Maubadon came to Melton Manor again a sennight later, accompanied by a contingent of armed men who bore no uniform, no device on their surcoats. The Melton family had found no opportunity to flee, thanks to the ever watchful Torod.

  “You’re not welcome here, Norman,” Gerwint said, blocking the doorway.

  “Are all Saxons as inhospitable as you, old man?” Renouf replied icily. “I merely come to court your beautiful daughter, Devona. You should be glad I find her pleasing.”

  Gerwint stood firm. “She’s not interested in Normans.”

  Renouf pushed past him, almost shoving the old man over. “I’ll be the judge of that. Instruct her to meet me in her solar forthwith.”

  Gerwint pursued him into the house. “She’s an unmarried woman. You can’t shame her by being alone with her.”

  Renouf stopped and turned around. “Don’t worry, old fool. She won’t be unmarried for long,” he smirked. “Now, go find her.”

  Gerwint hesitated, then skulked away. Renouf strode off, a smile on his lips.

  When Devona entered her solar a short time later, head bowed, Renouf sensed her fear.

  Good!

  She curtseyed, then straightened to stand before him. He walked around her, his eyes taking in the curve of her well-developed breasts. “You’re very pleasing to look at, Lady Devona. I find green eyes appealing.”

  Devona was silent as Renouf blew on his hands then rubbed them together. He put his face close to hers. “Have you nothing to say in reply?”

  Devona kept her eyes downcast. “What—would you have me say—sir?”

  He lifted her chin. “Ah! You speak my language. Educated as well as beautiful. You could say you find me pleasing too.”

  Devona remained silent.

  Without warning, Renouf grasped her tightly by both wrists, twisting her arms behind her back, crushing her breasts against his chain mail.

  “Sir—you’re hurting me,” she pleaded.

  “Then say you find me pleasing, and I’ll release you.” He tightened his grip on her wrists.

  “I find you—pleasing,” she stammered.

  He released her, satisfied with the fear in her voice. “Was that so hard? I appreciate women who are obedient, who do what they’re told. I tend to get impatient otherwise, and I’m not a pleasant person when I’m impatient. Take off your wimple.”

  Without waiting for her to comply he tore off the head covering. Raven hair fell to her shapely hips. Coldly fingering a lock of her thick tresses, he asked, “Are you still a maid?”

  Devona gasped. Renouf could see the tears welling in her eyes. “Yes or no? It’s a simple question, wench.”

  “Yes,” she whimpered.

  “Are you betrothed to anyone?”

  She shook her head slightly. “No, I’m not betrothed.”

  Renouf snorted. “Now you are.”

  Devona looked up. “Sir?”

  He took hold of her hand. “You’re now my betrothed. I’ll inform your grandfather and see to the nuptials.”

  “But you’re a Norman.”

  He grabbed her by the throat with one hand and hissed, “Never say that to me again in such a tone of voice.”

  He kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth. When he released her she staggered backwards, wiping her sleeve across her mouth. He slapped her across the face. “And never do that again.”

  She fell to the floor sobbing. He had a momentary notion to kick her before he left, but thought better of it.

  Maybe later.

  The thought aroused him as he sought out Torod to give him his instructions.

  ***

  Devona’s grandfather found her on the floor and saw the angry red welt on her face.

  “My child, my dear child,” he cried, kneeling beside her. “I won’t allow him to abuse you this way.”

  “It’s perhaps our only chance, Grandpapa,” she murmured. “If he’s determined to wed me—”

  “Wed you! I told him in no uncertain terms there’ll be no marriage.”

  “What did he say in reply?”

  Gerwint shook his head. “He smirked.”

  Devona struggled to her feet with her grandfather’s help. “At least he wants to wed and not simply make me his whore. Perhaps I can use that to our advantage, make him agree to let all of us stay, and not just me.”

  Gerwint put his arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders. “I could never ask such a thing of you, child.”

  Devona laid her head on her grandfather’s shoulder. “It isn’t just for your sake. There’s mother to consider, and Aediva and Bemia. I’ll tell him I’ll be his wife, if he allows all of you to stay. It’s the only way to keep our family together, in the place we love.”

  “But he’s a brute, Devona.”

  “I can endure his brutality, if it keeps us all alive.”

  ***

  Devona’s heart thudded as she watched the Norman approach once more with his mercenaries two days later. She’d led a sheltered existence, the eldest of three girls, coddled by parents and spoiled by grandparents. She’d never had to ask for anything twice. Life had been refined, filled with good things. Now she faced a challenge to which she hoped she would be equal. She had to persuade Renouf de Maubadon that she would marry him willingly only if he allowed her family to stay at the manor.

  She’d told her sisters and grandfather to make themselves scarce during her interview with Renouf, afraid of what the Norman might do if he lost his temper. Devona feared he was a man who lost his temper easily.

  “And keep a tight leash on Boden and Brigantia,” she warned.

  As the group neared the house, she could see that one of the men accompanying Renouf wasn’t a soldier.

  A priest! He has brought a priest!

  She clenched and unclenched her fists, arms rigid at her sides, cold fear coursing up and down her spine.

  Renouf dismounted slowly and strode to her side. “Ah! Lady Devona, it’s good you’re here. I’ve brought the priest to say the words over us.”

  She didn’t recognize the bedraggled priest, but saw him shift uncomfortably in the saddle.

  “Sir Renouf,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her fear, “I thought the Banns—”

  “Already done! Father read them at three masses yesterday.”

  Devona doubted that fulfilled the proper requirements. “But I’m not dressed.”

  Renouf motioned impatiently to the priest. “Nor will you be for long.”

&nb
sp; Devona reddened and clenched her fists tighter. The priest’s obvious discomfort grew as he dismounted.

  Devona tried to keep her voice steady. “Sir Renouf, I would ask a boon of you then, if this marriage is to proceed.”

  Anger flashed in Renouf’s eyes, then he glanced quickly at the priest, who had an expression of curiosity on his ill-shaven face. The cleric spoke for the first time. “A boon, child?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, Father, I would ask my future husband to allow my sisters and my grandfather and my mother to continue living here, at the manor. It would break my heart to be separated from them.”

  “Well, child, I’m sure Sir Renouf—” Renouf glared at the priest, who stammered on, looking at the house. “I mean—it’s a large manor—” He cowered as Renouf strode towards him.

  “Oui, priest, I’m a benevolent man, and I give leave for Lady Devona’s family to remain on the grounds of the manor. Now, be done with your ceremony so I may take my bride to our solar.”

  Devona didn’t know whether to be glad she’d won the concession or terrified at the thought of becoming this brute’s wife. “Sir Renouf, my chamber, it’s very small and the bed—”

  Renouf grunted and elbowed past her into the house, climbing the stairs two at a time. She followed nervously. He threw open the doors of all the bedchambers, saying nothing, until he came to the large chamber where her parents had slept, and where Devona’s mother lay in her stupor.

  “Get this woman out of here,” he roared. “I want fresh linens on this bed by the time I return with my bride.”

  Devona felt she had to protest. “But this was my parents’ room, and my poor mother—”

  “Your parents birthed three healthy children, didn’t they? It’s a good room. Put your mother in a smaller chamber. Now, where’s that priest?”

  ***

  Later that night, when the door slammed behind Renouf, Devona retrieved her torn nightgown from the floor, curled her shivering body into a tight ball in the bed where she’d been conceived in love, and wept. She muffled her sobs, afraid if he heard her he would return, and the beating would begin again.

  She didn’t understand why he’d hit her. She’d tried to comply with his every wish. That was a wife’s duty, but she hadn’t been able to stop gagging when his male part thrust deep into her throat as she knelt at his feet, her hands bound behind her. Enraged, he’d smacked her across the face. Though an innocent, she’d seen animals mating on the farms of their tenants, and had a basic understanding of how it happened. Nothing of the sort had taken place in their bedchamber.

  She couldn’t summon the will to recall the events that had led to the degradation she felt. She found consolation in the knowledge that her family hadn’t been cast out, though Renouf had insisted her grandfather be given only a pallet in the stables.

  The Lord of Melton, thane of Edward the Confessor, sleeping in a stable.

  She could hear Renouf shouting in the kitchen below, demanding ale and food, though it was well past midnight. She hoped the wail of the winter wind moaning through the nooks and crannies of her home had prevented Bemia and Aediva being awakened by her screams.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she feigned sleep. Renouf entered noisily, slumped down at her side and shook her roughly.

  “I know you’re not asleep, wife,” he said, his mouth full as he chewed on a chicken leg. He reeked of sweat. “On the morrow, your mother is to be removed from the chamber where we put her. A person who contributes nothing to the household will not occupy one of the finest bedchambers.”

  “But, my lord, she’s ill. She’s never recovered from—”

  “I’ve decided she’s to be moved. Do you wish to argue with me?” He glowered at her, his beard coated with chicken grease, and she saw the haze of intoxication in his eyes.

  “Where will they put her?” she whimpered.

  Renouf belched. “I don’t care. She can sleep in the hall with the other servants and serfs.”

  “She isn’t a ser—”

  With one greasy hand Renouf grabbed her hair and pulled her face to his, grasping her breast with the other. “Kneel, wench. You must be punished for your insubordination. Open your mouth.”

  Pray for me, Mother. Pray I don’t retch this time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Domfort, Normandie 1068

  Second Year of the Reign of William the Conqueror

  “Did you see him, Agnes?”

  “Did I see who, Victoire?”

  Victoire huffed impatiently. “Milord, of course.”

  Agnes elbowed Victoire out of her way. She had things to do. “Oui, I saw him. I took his meal to him as usual, didn’t I?”

  The scullery maid persisted. “What’s he like?”

  Agnes stopped as she was about to peel another apple for the pies. “You’ve never seen him?”

  Victoire shook her head. “Non, I’ve worked in this castle a year and I’ve only ever seen him in the distance, riding off somewhere.”

  Agnes resumed her task. “Well, milord Hugh is a private person.”

  “Has he ever tried—you know—anything?” Victoire cupped her copious breasts and grinned.

  “Non! Absolutely not, Victoire. Milord Hugh isn’t that kind of man.”

  The corners of Victoire’s mouth edged down. “What kind of man isn’t interested in women? Is he queer?”

  Agnes sliced a sharp knife through the apple, wiped her hands on her apron, then put them on her hips. “Non, and watch that tongue of yours, before it gets you into trouble. You don’t know what it was like here at Domfort, before Lord Hugh came. We were all treated like slaves by the monster Guillaume de Valtesse and his bastard son after him. Hugh de Montbryce treats us well. It’s much easier to work for such a master.”

  Victoire took up an equally challenging stance. “But he must have a mistress?”

  Agnes wondered at the cheek of this nothing of a girl. “If he does it’s none of your business or mine. I admit he’s a handsome blue-eyed devil, and I wouldn’t be averse to the feel of his hands on me, and mine on that muscular chest, and those long powerful legs wrapped—” She paused to fan her reddened face with her plump hand. “Phew, it’s hot in this kitchen—but Hugh de Montbryce is a gentleman, and if he has no need of women, what do we care?”

  Victoire picked up one of the unpeeled apples and held it to her lips. “Seems like a waste, if he’s as juicy as you make him sound!”

  Agnes laughed. “Oui, ‘juicy’ is a good word for Hugh de Montbryce!”

  Victoire bit into the fruit. “I’ve heard he’s planting an apple orchard?”

  “Oui, his brother’s castle at Montbryce produces a famous apple brandy, and Lord Hugh wants to try the same thing here. We’re only a day from Montbryce.”

  “Is that where he rides off to?”

  “Sometimes, but his brother Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, is in England. He’s the Earl of Ellesmere. The stewards, the Bonhommes, take care of Montbryce castle, though poor Madame Bonhomme succumbed to the same pestilence that took Lord Hugh’s father.”

  “I remember it well.” Victoire made the sign of the Cross. “Seems like a lonely life for milord.”

  “Oui, but he likes it that way. Prefers to be alone. And his other brother, Antoine, is master at Belisle, so he often goes there as well.”

  “Do you suppose you could let me take his food to him sometimes?” Victoire squared her shoulders and pulled her chemise more tightly over her breasts.

  Agnes smirked. “It will do you no good, Victoire. He won’t be interested.”

  ***

  Hugh sometimes wished he could find a woman to interest him, a woman to take away the constant ache for release he’d felt since Hastings. But his fear held him back whenever he got too close. It amused him whenever a new servant girl brought his repasts to his chamber. He wondered if there was some kind of wager going on in the kitchens to see which wench could tempt him. But no matter how brazenly they thrust their breast
s and fluttered their eyelashes, they left him cold with the dread that, if he let down his guard, the bloodlust that had surfaced at Hastings would rear its ugly head, and he might—

  They don’t know the monster lurking within!

  He brought release to himself. It seemed the right thing to do, and he became resigned to his fate never to bed a woman he loved, or any woman. He thought often of his brother, Ram and his wife, Mabelle. It was easy to see the sparks of passion that flew between them. Hugh longed for that kind of love, but it could never be. He couldn’t take the risk, couldn’t let his passion rule him. How ironic it was. He’d been the devil-may-care brother, the carefree family clown. Who would have suspected the dark side that lurked beneath? It would destroy him to find a woman he loved, only to hurt her in some way, unable to control himself.

  He wondered if he should perhaps become a monk, but had grown fond of Domfort, and had plans to make it a better holding. In any case, ordinary monks couldn’t involve themselves in war and politics, and Hugh sensed turbulent times ahead in Normandie. As soon as the Conqueror had been crowned King of the English, his enemies had begun attacks on Normandie. As a Montbryce it was Hugh’s responsibility to defend his homeland against any enemy, and Domfort wasn’t far from the lands of the treacherous Angevins. His Duke depended on him. But it was a lonely life!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Domfort, Normandie, 1071

  In the fifth year of his reign as King of the English, William the Conqueror, still Duke of the Normans, came to Domfort. Hugh greeted him in the courtyard, remembering fondly the Duke’s visit to Montbryce before the invasion. On that occasion William had informed Ram he would be in charge of the fleet. How long ago that all seemed now.

  Hugh reached for the reins of William’s horse. “Your Majesty. We at Domfort are honoured by your presence in our humble castle. It’s good to have you back in Normandie.”