“Hmph! I’m—I’m not sure where his family is.”
“You didn’t come from Normandie with him?”
“Oui—but not from his ancestral home.”
“I see.” He flicked his gloves against Torod’s shoulder. “Make sure my men have Velox saddled for me. I’m bound for East Preston forthwith. Have you seen Lady De Maubadon? I’ll bid her adieu.”
“She’s in the gallery.”
“Merci. I’ll find my own way.”
***
When Hugh entered the gallery, Devona’s heart thudded as it had every time she’d set eyes on him. He was such a beautiful man, handsome, fit, noble and compassionate. She touched the pulse at her throat, hoping its agitation wasn’t visible. She could easily have fallen in love with such a man, before—
“Devona, I have but a moment to bid you farewell.”
Boden ambled over to Hugh and sat at his feet, looking up at him. “Try to be on the beach in the hour before sunset. I’ll acquire a boat and meet you there. Your grandfather has told me about a cave. You must speak to him today.”
She came to her feet, dropping her embroidery. “A cave? Yes there’s a large cave, near the end of the beach. But what—”
Suddenly Torod strode into the room. “Your horse is ready,” he said rudely, his suspicious eyes darting from Devona to Hugh and back. Boden growled.
Hugh tapped his gloves against his thigh. “Merci Torod. Adieu, Lady De Maubadon. Thank you for your hospitality. Goodbye Boden. Take care of your mistress.”
He patted the dog’s head, bowed to Devona and departed.
***
Hugh went back to East Preston by way of Kingston Gorse, where he arranged to return later in the day and borrow a rowboat from the Norman family who lived there.
He enquired of the Norman lord of the manor, “How long do you estimate it would take to row to the cliffs below the manor at Melton?”
Sir Stephen Marquand looked at him curiously. “Melton? Depends on the tides, and the wind, and how many rowers you have.”
“Two burly men, at low tide.”
Sir Stephen pursed his lips. “Perhaps a quarter of an hour.”
Hugh bowed. “Thank you. I’ll return later. I will remember this favour.”
He rode on to East Preston, where he explained his plan to Antoine. His brother was assisting Barat Cormant with setting rat poison, under the watchful eye of Isembart Jubert, Montbryce Castle’s one-armed rat catcher.
Antoine straightened, rubbing his back. “These cursed rodents are everywhere. It will be weeks before the house can be occupied,” he lamented. “I’ll have to return to Normandie and leave Jubert to it.”
“Don’t worry, milord. No rat ever got the better of a Jubert, even one who has lost his arm in the service of his Duke,” Barat jested. “We’ll have this place put back to rights in no time.”
Jubert, a man of few words, nodded and grinned.
“Antoine, I’m sorry I’m not of much help to you at the moment, but I must do something about Melton. It’s as much my responsibility as what you’re doing here is yours. Renouf is draining Melton as well as abusing its people. Rats have to be trapped and disposed of.”
Antoine had his hands braced on his hips, stretching his back. “I know, Hugh, but I worry about the whole enterprise. It won’t be good if you fall out of favour with the King for stealing another man’s wife. You know how maniacal he can be about such matters.”
“All we intend this night is row to the cliffs to look at the cave Sir Gerwint told me about, and assess the possibility of a sea rescue.”
Antoine stopped stretching. “We?”
“I’ll take two men-at-arms to row for me.”
“You don’t need my help?”
Antoine sounded disappointed. “If you want to come—”
His brother resumed his stretching. “I’d better—just to keep an eye on you, though you know how sea sick I can be—like Ram.”
“Oui, I do know,” Hugh laughed. “I seem to be the only member of our family with good sea legs. Hard to believe sometimes we’re descendants of the Norsemen!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The tide had already gone out far from Kingston Gorse which obliged the four men, barefoot and clad only in shirts and leggings, to carry the rowboat to the water. They shoved it into the surf and clambered aboard. The men-at-arms, natives of St. Valery on the Normandie coast, chosen for their muscle power and seafaring knowledge, soon had the oars going in a steady rhythm.
“Reminds me of my misspent youth, milord,” one of them jested, stowing a pack he’d borne on his back. “A clandestine excursion in a rowboat, to meet with a young maiden.”
Before long, Antoine was looking as green as his eyes, despite the fact the water was calm and there was little wind. The two oarsmen were obviously aware of his discomfort and winked at each other with a knowing grin.
Hugh saw the manor come into view. Why did it evoke such a feeling of homecoming in him? “There’s Melton,” he shouted. “Row in as close as you can. I don’t see Lady Devona yet.”
They brought the boat in closer, and Hugh caught sight of Devona halfway down the twisting staircase.
“There she is,” he cried. He was about to wave when Antoine caught his arm.
“Attention, Hugh. There’s a man standing at the top of the steps, watching. He’s looking out towards us, probably wondering who we are and what we’re doing.”
Hugh shaded his eyes and looked up. “Merde! It must be Torod! We can’t risk approaching closer with him there. Pull us further out. He won’t make out who we are at this distance.”
They waited interminable minutes, watching Devona on the beach.
“She must wonder why we’re not coming in,” Antoine said, wiping his mouth after another bout of retching.
Hugh gave his brother a sympathetic glance. “She’ll know. She can’t see the top of the steps, but she’ll know he’s there.”
At last, Torod seemed to grow impatient, kicked at a stone and left.
Hugh exhaled. “Good, he must think we’re simple fishermen. Pull in.”
The oarsmen put their backs into it and soon had the boat close to shore.
“Better not go right up on the beach, in case we have to leave quickly,” Antoine suggested. Hugh nodded, tore off his shirt and jumped into shoulder-deep water, swimming the several yards to the beach. Devona ran to meet him. He wanted to wrap her in his arms as he strode from the water.
“I want to greet you warmly, Lady Devona, but if you return to the house with your clothes wet, Torod will want to know why. He was watching you.”
“I shall tell him I fell into the sea,” she laughed, throwing her arms around him.
Hugh felt his knees go weak and his spine tingle and hoped she couldn’t feel the swelling in his leggings. He looked up as a raucous seagull swooped overhead.
She too looked up at the bird and seemed to realize what she’d done. Her face reddened and she pulled away abruptly. “I suspected he was there,” she said shyly.
By now Antoine had joined them on the beach.
“My Lord Antoine, I can’t believe your brother has talked you into helping with this dangerous scheme.”
Antoine smiled. “Well, Lady de Maubadon, we Montbryces must stick together!”
“Please, call me Devona. I hate Renouf’s name.”
Antoine nodded. “As you wish. Now where’s this cave?”
“Come, I’ll show you.” She took Hugh’s hand. Her warmth penetrated the chill caused by the water cooling on his body. “You can’t be long in wet clothing. The sun will set soon.”
Hugh barely heard her words, his gaze fixed on the compelling sight of her bare feet and the glimpse of her slim ankles as she raised her skirts for the run across the sand.
***
When Devona had seen the rowboat turn into shore, she’d known Torod must have left his post at the top of the steps.
The sight of Hugh de Montbryce tearing off h
is shirt and jumping into the sea had sent shivers up and down her spine. When he strode on to the beach, rivulets of water running off his long black hair, down his perfect face, across his broad shoulders and over his well-muscled chest to his—oh my! Desire had swept over her.
He wasn’t even breathing heavily after his swim, but she was panting. He’d used his big hands to wipe the water from his eyes and combed back his hair with his elegant fingers. She’d wanted to lick each long finger in turn—slowly, and trace her finger along the jagged scar that betrayed where a weapon had torn open his bicep. She ached for the pain it must have caused him.
He must think her a wanton the way she’d thrown her body at his. What had come over her? It was such an overwhelming relief to see him, she’d needed to feel him as well. And feel him she had as his erection swelled.
Whenever she saw the same happen to Renouf, she was filled with revulsion, but her breasts had tingled and she’d felt wet heat between her legs, and not from the seawater dripping off Hugh. The amber rays of the dying sun had reflected off his sculpted wet body. He was like a statue cast in precious metal emerging from the mould.
My golden god!
At the sight of his long toes curled into the wet sand, an urge had swept over her to drop to her knees and trace his footprints. She’d almost swooned, but Antoine’s arrival had brought her to her senses. She’d said something, but had no idea what. The word cave penetrated.
“Come, I’ll show you.” She’d taken Hugh’s hand without thinking. The warmth of his skin flowed through her. “You can’t be long in wet clothing.”
She saw that Hugh was aware his arousal showed only too clearly in the wet leggings. His blush excited her.
“The sun will set soon. The cave is over here, at the end of our beach.”
The three ran along the sand, scattering startled sandpipers in their wake, to the mouth of the cave, Devona and Hugh hand in hand. She’d not felt so exhilarated and carefree since before the advent of the Normans.
The narrow opening widened into a large cavern. The temperature inside was considerably lower and Hugh and Antoine shivered. She felt the chill of the wet spots on her clothing. “We must be careful of fever. Hurry!”
“Did your grandfather tell you about the passageway from the house?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, but I haven’t had a chance yet to examine it. Torod has watched me too closely. He takes his duties more seriously when Renouf is gone. He knows Renouf will kill him if anything happens to me while he’s away.”
“I’d certainly like to know where Renouf goes so frequently in Normandie, and whom he visits,” Antoine said.
The brothers had been examining the walls of the cave as they talked, looking for any sign of an opening to a passageway.
“Over here, Hugh, there are steps,” Antoine called from somewhere deep in the recesses of the cave, his voice echoing off the glistening walls.
Hugh strode over, slowed by the slippery pebble-strewn floor of the cave. The steps were worn away by time and tide, but they were there, ten of them leading up to a heavy wooden door, completely covered with barnacles and green slime, the hinges rusted, parts of it rotted.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know of this,” Devona exclaimed. “We’ve never ventured so far into the cave.”
There seemed to be no handle, no means of opening the ancient arched portal. Hugh threw his weight against it, but it didn’t budge.
“Perhaps it opens outwards?” Antoine suggested.
“But there’s no handle to grasp,” Hugh said with apparent growing exasperation.
“Is there space at the bottom to get a hold?” Devona shouted from the foot of the steps. “The tide’s coming in. We must be wary. It’s unpredictable in this cove.”
Antoine and Hugh knelt on the slick, jagged steps and curled their fingers under the space beneath the door, then heaved with all their might.
“It moved, Antoine, it moved!”
“Again, once more, little brother.”
Both men were perspiring now, despite the chill in the cave and their wet bodies. This time the door edged wide enough for Hugh to inch his fingers into the opening at the side.
“Heave again, Antoine—this time—un—deux—trois—allez!”
The stench that emanated from the long disused passageway almost felled them, but the way was open.
“Don’t open it too much. It will create a noticeable draught in the house above,” Antoine panted.
“You’ll need torches when you descend, Devona,” Hugh called to her as he peered into the murk. “It’s dark and looks slippery.”
Devona nodded, but she was getting nervous. “My lords, the tide, come—quickly.”
The waves were already lapping at the edges of the cave.
“Devona, go, go quickly. We’ll come back on the morrow and investigate the cave further now we’ve found the passageway. You must look for the doorway at your end. We’ll send word by way of our steward, Barat.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and brushed his lips over hers and she could feel his heart beating in her ears. She placed her palm over his heart and returned his kiss, shocking herself by thrusting her tongue into his mouth. Then she tore away and ran for the stone staircase, already awash, her dress and the smooth pebbles impeding her progress, her wimple askew in the wind.
Antoine and Hugh splashed into the waves and swam out to the waiting rowboat. Their oarsmen pulled them aboard. Halfway up the steps Devona looked back and saw Hugh waving to her. How she wished she could have escaped with them, but she couldn’t leave her family. She raised her hand in a silent salute to her heroic saviours. She was sobbing by the time she reached the top of the climb.
“What have we here, Lady De Maubadon? You seem to be wet.” Torod’s voice drenched over her like a bucket of ice cold water.
“I—I—fell—into the water,” she stammered.
“What were you doing on the beach at this time in the evening? It’s dangerous when the tide comes in.”
She cast a wary eye out to sea. No sign of a rowboat. She didn’t know where she found the courage, but looking him squarely in the eye, said, “I thought to drown myself, Torod, but my courage failed me. Satisfied?”
“Hmph!”
He strode off and she collapsed to the ground, abject fear and glimmering hope warring within her. Brigantia came lumbering out from the house and licked away her tears.
***
Hugh sat panting in the rowboat, his heart beating a thousand times faster than it should, the touch of Devona’s palm still burning his skin. He turned to his brother and said with a grin, “She has beautiful raven hair, Antoine. Green eyes and raven hair. May God save me!”
Antoine smiled and patted him on the back. “God save you indeed with that idiotic grin! Put your shirt back on, little brother.”
Hugh took the dry garment from his brother’s hand and donned it. The oarsmen threw blankets around their grateful shivering seigneurs.
“I didn’t think to bring blankets. Thank you,” Antoine gasped.
“You’re landlubbers, milords. We’re men of the sea who know the value of blankets. Now rest in the bottom of the boat, regain your strength and we’ll get you back safely to Kingston Gorse.”
Hugh gazed up at the darkening sky as he lay huddled in the boat, shivering, the blanket clutched tightly around him, and noticed for the first time in his life how many stars populated the heavens. Exhaustion claimed him and he dozed.
***
The Norman family at Kingston Gorse soon had them sitting by a roaring fire, Hugh and Antoine outfitted with dry clothing.
“Sir Stephen,” Antoine said, “We’re obliged to you for your assistance. As your overlord, it’s incumbent on me to give you some explanation as to what we’re about at my brother’s manor at Melton.”
“If it involves getting rid of Renouf de Maubadon, I’m in full support,” the lord of Kingston Gorse asserted. “The man is a disgrace to Normandie.”
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The brothers exchanged glances as Antoine went on. “However, our actions against him will involve removing his wife and her family from his abusive control. This could put us at odds with His Majesty.”
Sir Stephen was pensive for a while then stated, “Sometimes men of true worth must follow their conscience. I’ll help you as much as I can, though I won’t put my family at risk.”
“Merci, we can’t ask for more,” Hugh said, grasping the man’s hand. “If we may impose upon your hospitality this night, we’ll need the rowboat again on the morrow.”
Sir Stephen nodded. “Of course. My honour. There’s another low tide an hour after dawn. It would perhaps be easier than night-time reconnoitering?”
“Again, we’re obliged to you, Sir Stephen.”
The following day, the Norman provided Hugh and Antoine with torches of flattened saplings bound together and soaked in beeswax, as well as a tinderbox with flint, steel and charcloth. The oarsmen wrapped the materials in an oiled cloth and stowed them with the blankets. The first grey streaks of dawn were lighting the sky as the quartet set off once more for Melton Beach. This time they were shod and wore gambesons over their shirts.
The heavy clouds didn’t bode good weather and the gentle zephyr of the previous evening had changed to a cold, brisk wind that whipped the waves into racing rollers. Antoine looked apprehensive.
“It’s nothing to worry over, milord,” one of the oarsmen reassured him. “Just a bit of a squall.”
Antoine had retched several times before they pulled the rowboat up onto Melton beach. Once on shore, he recovered quickly and the two brothers hurried across the sand to the cave. At the foot of the ancient steps they unwrapped the torches and Hugh crouched to set about creating the spark with their tinderbox materials. After several fruitless tries, he lamented, “Look what happens when you allow servants to do everything for you. I used to be adept at this.”
Antoine hunkered down beside him. “Let me try—ah—voilà! Vite!—blow on that spark on the charcloth.”
Once they had the torches aflame, they held them aloft and squeezed through the small opening they’d made the night before.
If Love Dares Enough (The Montbryce Legacy Medieval Romance) Page 6