Antoine sheathed his sword and exhaled a loud sigh. “I’ve done all I can, Hugh. Only God can help you now. The King is not the only one recently returned from England. Renouf has been to see the Bishop of Caen. Jubert is following him. He headed south from Caen, in this direction.”
Lady Wilona gasped as she collapsed to the floor.
***
A sennight later, Hugh rode into the darkened bailey of his brother’s castle, having left his knights and men-at-arms camped outside the walls with the hundreds of armed men mustered for the attack against Le Maine. The last time he’d seen his King, they’d shared an amicable meal in his own castle. He doubted if his reception would be as warm this time. He went straight to Antoine’s solar and entered without knocking.
“Hugh!” Antoine jumped to his feet and clasped hands with his brother. “Better to avoid his Majesty. He isn’t happy with us. The Bishop of Caen has been to see him. It’s a good thing he has this invasion uppermost in his mind at the moment. How is Devona faring?”
Hugh slumped onto the edge of Antoine’s bed. “She’s terrified. It was hard to leave her. I could only garrison a token force there to protect her since the King’s expectations of my contribution to this campaign were high. Do we know where Renouf is now?”
“He tried to enter Alensonne, but Cormant kept him out.”
Hugh leapt to his feet, running his hand over his head, shaved for battle. “Alensonne? Mon Dieu. He could easily go to Domfort from there.”
Antoine shrugged. “Or come here for that matter, if he knows the King is in residence. Not much we can do about it. Jubert will try to keep us informed. We have no choice but to follow the King into Le Maine. He has set me the task of securing the fortification at Grandegué, en route to Le Mans. You and your men are to aid in the taking of the town itself.”
“Well, the sooner we go, the sooner we can be back.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Antoine said offering his brother a tankard half full of ale.
***
Two days later, the Conqueror’s entire host of knights and men-at-arms camped on the outskirts of Grandegué-sur-Sarthe, within sight of the chateau and fortification governed by the Angevin Seigneur Denis de Sancerre, who had refused to capitulate.
“The fool must be mad,” the King sneered. “Can he not see he’s hopelessly outnumbered?”
“No doubt, your Majesty, the plan is to delay us here so Le Mans can prepare,” Antoine suggested.
Hugh and Antoine had both been ordered to attend the King as he supped in his royal tent. Neither wished to be there. William chewed leisurely on a cold chicken leg. “That won’t happen, Montbryce. We will leave you and your forces here to deal with Sancerre while the rest of us press our advantage on Le Mans.”
Antoine bowed. “I’m confident we’ll make short work of the defenses here.”
The King wiped his mouth and then drummed his fingers on the camp table. There was a long silence before he spoke again, his eyes on Hugh. “What’s to be done about this Saxon woman?”
Hugh bristled. He considered the Saxon woman the King referred to as his wife.
“Your Majesty?” he stammered.
William banged his fist on the table, almost collapsing the flimsy structure. “Don’t play the fool with me, Hugh de Montbryce. Your actions have put me in an intolerable position. You know I cannot go against the teachings of the Church, nor would I wish to. You have abducted the wife of another man. That’s a sin, and I will not condone it.”
Hugh heard his heart thudding in his ears. He was honour bound by his promise to Devona not to tell anyone of her humiliation, but this was his King, a man who held the power of life or death over them both. He remained silent, knowing to argue would be foolhardy.
William looked directly at Hugh, his mouth stern. “You must return her to her husband.”
Hugh clenched his fists, his arms rigid at his sides. “He will kill her.”
The King stood, full of anger. “That’s his right. Do not force me to make a decision I don’t want to make. You are both dismissed. See to it.”
The brothers bowed and left the tent. Hugh could barely make his legs work and his hand was trembling uncontrollably. They didn’t speak again until they were sure they were well out of range of the King’s hearing.
“I’ll not deliver her to Renouf,” Hugh hissed.
Antoine shook his head. “We are on shifting sands, Hugh. We’d better hope Jubert finds something to support our cause. I’m obliged to stay here. Don’t do anything to draw William’s ire further en route to Le Mans. Our family honour is at stake.”
***
Antoine considered the fortification at Grandegué ugly. The oval shaped construction consisted of stone walls ten feet thick and ditches thirty feet wide. It had been built alongside a small chateau. After a two day siege Antoine’s forces overcame the soldiers defending the walls and were poised to swarm into the keep. Suddenly smoke billowed from seemingly everywhere.
“They have fired the building rather than allow us to take it,” one of Antoine’s knights shouted.
Sword drawn, Antoine paused in his headlong rush to lead the attack. He had no wish to put his men in the path of a raging inferno. He shook his head. “Hold your advance. A fire will kill more of them than of us,” he yelled.
As they watched, flames emerged from the chateau. If they did nothing, the fortress and the chateau might take months to rebuild. Grandegué protected a strategic ford of the river and William would be displeased if it were lost. They would have to save it. Antoine decided to concentrate the effort on the fortress, which hadn’t yet burst into flame.
He organized his men into two parties—one an attacking vanguard force, the other a fire brigade. “Find anything you can to transport water from the river,” he ordered the knight he placed in charge of the latter group. “We will take the fortress, but will depend on you to get the fire out before it takes hold.” As he spoke, the men-at-arms were forming a human chain to pass the water from the river.
Antoine and the men under his command swarmed into the bailey and then into the keep. Smoke hung in the hallways, but it wasn’t thick and they made their way to the Great Hall, where Denis de Sancerre had gathered his remaining men to make a last stand. Antoine saw for the first time that his enemy was an older man. The source of the smoke, thicker here, seemed to be close to the Hall, and Antoine surmised they’d set fire to the kitchens.
The first members of the water brigade lumbered in close on Antoine’s heels, laden with overfilled buckets. He directed them to the kitchens. “You might salvage more buckets in there,” he shouted, all the while keeping his eyes on Sancerre. Confident his men would make short work of the remaining Angevins, he invited Sancerre to surrender. The nobleman refused, drew his sword and lunged at Antoine.
After a few thrusts and parries, Antoine knew he was the superior swordsman, but it was never good to be over confident with a desperate man fighting for his life. Sancerre fought bravely, but he was no match for his opponent’s skill and stamina. It was inevitable the older man would tire and he took a misstep which left him vulnerable. Antoine reluctantly drove his sword home, feeling no satisfaction. The old man looked surprised as he fell dead. The remaining opponents soon became dispirited and surrendered. The fortress finally capitulated. The fire was quickly brought under control, although the kitchens were badly damaged. Much of the chateau was a blackened wreck, but they had saved the fortress.
The Montbryce knights quickly rounded up the surviving enemy combatants, incarcerating the few uninjured in the cells of the donjon, and laying out the wounded for tending. They were turning their attention to the removal of the slain for burial when one of the men-at-arms returned hurriedly from the donjon. “Milord Antoine, there are women in the cells. The smoke was thick down there.”
Antoine looked up from cleaning his sword. “Women? Are they serfs? Servants?”
The man nodded. “Most of them, but there is a lady.”<
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Antoine sheathed his sword. “They no doubt sought shelter from the siege in the cells, but the fire might have killed them. Bring them up. Take care with the lady.”
Who could this lady be? Servants he knew what to do with. They would be happy enough to do a new overlord’s bidding. They were used to shifting borders. But a lady? What was he to do with a lady? There was no place in a war for a lady.
Erelong, as Antoine stood upon the dais in the ruined hall, a steady stream of coughing women emerged, most of them evidently servants, their faces betraying their terror. The smell of smoke clung to them. They huddled together, dishevelled and afraid. All save one.
A young noblewoman came to stand in front of the rest, one hand resting on the bulge of her abdomen, the other rigid at her side, fist clenched. Her jaw was set. She had probably spent several days in the cells of the donjon, yet Antoine saw that she was well dressed, if rather pale and smoke smudged. Apart from the swell of her pregnancy, she was slender, her breasts full. Her condition spoke of womanhood, but he doubted this defiant beauty was any older than a score of years. Sancerre’s daughter perhaps—but the Seigneur must have known that if the blaze had taken hold she would have choked to death in the cells—and where was her husband? Was he one of the casualties that were now being carted out of the Hall?
Antoine unexpectedly found he wanted to protect her from the harsh reality of seeing a dead husband carried away for burial. The Angevins must have been aware of Norman plans to attack this strategic fortress so close to the border. William had made no secret of his intention to recapture Le Maine. They had obviously increased their fortifications. Why had this vulnerable woman not been removed to safety?
A maidservant stepped forward from the huddle, glanced briefly at Antoine, then reached up to straighten an errant fold of the lady’s wimple and smooth the creases from her skirts. The noblewoman turned her attention to the servant for the briefest of moments and nodded to her. In that instant Antoine saw the strain of fear in the lady’s eyes, but when she turned back to look at him, it was gone. The maid stepped back and rejoined the others.
Antoine shifted his weight, aware of a growing ache at his groin as he looked at this courageous beauty. He glanced to the diminishing pile of bodies. Only a handful remained to be removed, Sancerre among them. He cleared his throat. “Milady, I am Lord Antoine de Montbryce. I have claimed this fortress in the name of its rightful overlord, our King and Duke, William of Normandie. The usurper left in charge here refused to surrender and I regret to tell you that your father, Seigneur Denis de Sancerre is dead.”
The woman showed no emotion, her eyes flickering for only a moment over to the bodies. Murmurs rose from the servants. The woman raised her fisted hand slightly and barely unfurled her fingers, but it was sufficient to quieten the trembling servants. She made a pretence of respectfully bowing to Antoine by lowering her eyes, but then looked back.
In a confident voice she declared, “I am Sybilla de Sancerre, mistress of this demesne that you have stolen by force of arms. Seigneur Denis de Sancerre was not my father. You have murdered my husband, the father of my unborn child.”
A wave of nausea swept over Antoine. The thought of the old seigneur’s hands on this young woman, his manhood thrusting into her, filled him with unexpected anger. He felt his face redden. His gut wrenched when he realized his men were removing Sancerre’s body. “Arrêtez!” he ordered. “Bring the Seigneur’s body to the dais.”
As the corpse was lifted onto the trestle table, Antoine strode over to Lady Sybilla. He nodded a brief bow and proffered his hand, trying not to let his voice betray his turmoil. “Milady, my condolences. War is never kind to those left behind. I offer you a moment with your husband.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the maid take a step forward to assist her lady. He motioned her away, wanting for some reason he didn’t understand to feel the widow’s hand in his. He saw tears well in Sybilla’s eyes, but she squeezed them shut for a brief second as a shiver trembled through her body.
She must have loved him.
It was when she reopened her eyes that Antoine saw there was something unusual about them. But what was it? She placed her cold hand in his and he felt her quiver. Blood rushed to his groin. He was glad his armour hid his arousal as he escorted her to the dais. She took hold of her dress and raised her foot to mount the step. His instinct was to put his hand to the small of her back, to steady her, but thought better of it.
He felt the pressure as she pushed against his palm to rise to the level of the trestle table where her dead husband lay. Without thinking, Antoine grasped her hand more tightly and she shot him a cold glance. It was then he saw she had one brown eye and one green. She removed her hand from his and turned to look at the body. Antoine could hear the excited voices of the men in the kitchens, the hiss of water on hot metal. It was several minutes before Lady Sybilla spoke. “A sword?” she murmured.
Antoine had been so enthralled watching her as she swayed slightly, gripping the edge of the trestle, trying to maintain her composure that he barely heard what she said. “Oui, a sword.”
She nodded and in a voice dripping ice said, “Then Denis de Sancerre died doing what he loved. It’s how he would have wished to die. Combat was his greatest love.”
The thought rushed into Antoine’s head that if this woman were his wife, she would be his greatest love.
She turned to look at him. “Who was the champion that bested him?” she asked.
Antoine’s blood ran cold. “It was I,” he said.
Her voice was devoid of emotion as she whispered, “Then it was an honourable death to die at the hands of a worthy noble opponent.” She looked back at her husband, reached out her hand and gently closed his dead eyes. She took his hand and placed it on her swollen belly. “I will name him Denis,” she whispered into his ear. Turning to Antoine, she said, “Take him now. May I accompany his body to its resting place? There is a crypt beneath the chateau.”
“I’ll escort you,” he rasped, proffering his hand once more. “But the chateau is heavily damaged. I will only allow you into the crypt if it’s deemed safe.”
A brief frown told him she had not known of the chateau’s destruction. She accepted with a nod and allowed him to assist her from the dais. He issued terse orders to his men, who lifted the body, and the funeral procession proceeded out of the Hall while the gawking servants looked on. Only the maidservant left the group and fell in behind her mistress.
***
Silent tears rolled down Sybilla’s cheeks as she watched Antoine de Montbryce’s men take one of the lead coffins that stood in readiness in a darkened corner. Though the crypt had filled with smoke from the conflagration, there was little to burn. The acrid smell hung in the air. Cobwebs were brushed from the coffin before it was placed in front of the small stone altar. She wished she could sweep away the webs that had woven themselves into her head, rendering her incapable of thought. If she started to think, she might go mad. It was a fear she had suffered since her father had sold her to Denis de Sancerre, a man two score years her senior. She noticed mildew on the inside of the coffin and shuddered.
Sancerre had wanted only one thing from her—an heir—and he had rutted and sweated and pawed until his goal was achieved. He had previously sired warrior sons with more than one wife, all dead before him. Now he was dead—a twist of fate whose irony wasn’t lost on her.
Someone had fetched a shroud, a grim necessity every army carried in its baggage. She exhaled loudly as she saw her husband’s face for the last time. The corpse was bundled into the coffin, the lid hammered shut, harsh metallic sounds echoing off the stone walls, still damp despite the fire. She felt as though her life was being buried with this man she barely knew, a man she didn’t like.
He had filled her with their child—hers as well as his—and somehow she must survive, for the babe’s sake. When he thought all was lost, Denis had not hesitated to trap her in the cells. Now she w
as under the control of Antoine de Montbryce, a vassal of the hated bastard Duke of the Normans, two enemies who, in the midst of a war, would decide the fate of an Angevin woman.
As the ritual of interment droned on in the flickering candlelight of the windowless crypt, Sybilla was very aware of the tall man beside her. It had been hard to keep her jaw from falling open when she’d first seen the armoured knight standing so arrogantly on the dais, his well-muscled legs braced, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Here was a warrior who exuded power and masculinity. It overwhelmed her.
She had known as she’d entered the Great Hall with her servants that her husband was dead, probably at the hands of the self-assured nobleman who strode towards her and offered his hand. She’d almost lost her steely composure upon first looking into his green eyes. Normans were the enemy. She had been raised on that hatred. They were not to be trusted. And this one, who stood at her side as her husband’s soul was assigned to eternity, had killed the father of her unborn child.
She would have to tread warily. Her fate was in his hands, but she would not beg. What would he decide to do with her? Fear, exhaustion and the rank odour combined to make her sway, and suddenly she felt a warm hand on the small of her back.
“Milady, may I escort you from this place?” Antoine Montbryce’s husky voice penetrated her haze as she swooned, feeling his heat burn into her.
Antoine caught her before she crumpled to the stone floor and cradled her against his body. Her maidservant rushed forward and glared at him. “Oh, my lady, my lady,” she sobbed.
“You are her personal maid?” Antoine asked the woman, resisting an urge to murmur reassurances into Sybilla’s ear that he wouldn’t harm her, would never hurt her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry he’d been forced to kill her husband, a man she obviously loved a great deal, despite the differences in their ages.
“Oui, milord. I came with her from Anjou. I’ve served her all her life,” the maid replied, her voice full of despair. “She’s but a child, and now—”
If Love Dares Enough (The Montbryce Legacy Medieval Romance) Page 13