“Henry must know this will infuriate Becket,” Rodrick declared.
“Of course he does,” Barr’s pacing father replied. “It’s just another offensive in the war between the king and his former friend over who will hold ultimate power—the monarchy or the Church.”
“Two stubborn men bent on winning the argument,” Barr added, feeling more relaxed in a tunic and leggings. Sipping the familiar apple brandy somehow made Normandie seem not so far away. “But the king’s determination to make the Church subservient to the monarchy has jeopardized the mortal souls of the bishops who officiated today.”
“How so?” Stephen asked after swigging down his third tumbler of liquor. “I understood the Pope gave his blessing for the Archbishop of York to perform the ceremony.”
The frown on his father’s face echoed Barr’s concern that Stephen had already over-imbibed at the banquet.
“Archbishop Roger maintains he received a letter years ago from a previous pope granting permission for Henry to have his son crowned by any cleric of his choosing,” their father explained patiently. “And he often quotes Pope Gregory the Great who apparently once said there should be considerations according to seniority of ordination between the Archbishops of York and Canterbury.”
Rodrick smirked. “Roger and Thomas Becket are old rivals. Since Thomas went into exile five years ago, Roger has willingly acted as senior churchman in England. He considers it his right.”
Barr’s father cleared his throat. “However, Rome will most likely declare as null and void a coronation performed by anyone other than the Archbishop of Canterbury. Becket will make use of that censure to exact his revenge.”
“Another thing,” Bronson added. “We can anticipate King Louis of France is already furious.”
“Why?” Stephen asked.
Barr rolled his eyes. “Young Henry is married to Louis’ daughter, Margaret.”
“Aha,” Stephen exclaimed. “And she wasn’t crowned with her husband. It’s a can of worms.”
Barr chuckled. For all his inebriated state, his younger brother had summed up the situation perfectly.
As dawn broke, Hollis stepped out of her brother’s rented Westminster cottage, resolved not to look back. Compared to the rambling castle in Cumbria where she’d grown up, it was cramped and drab. Warmer than Burgh in the winter, it was stiflingly hot and malodorous in summer. She’d become accustomed to living there for a few months, but now they were off back to Normandie.
She wouldn’t miss the filth of the city’s streets, but didn’t speak Norman-French—a disadvantage when dealing with surly Norman servants who apparently deemed themselves superior to members of English families of Norman descent. Given her brother’s determination to follow King Henry wherever he went in his vast realm, they could end up traipsing all over Normandie, or, God forbid, Aquitaine.
The prospect filled her with dread. Hugh never took into consideration the challenges of traveling with small children. She couldn’t understand why he’d refused her request to take his sons home to Cumbria. He wanted them with him, for some unfathomable reason.
Packing up and closing the house had been a mammoth task to accomplish in a short time. She was grateful for the assistance of the FitzRam twins and didn’t fault their excitement at the prospect of traveling to the land of their ancestors for the first time.
She had a vague notion that the FitzRams belonged to the illegitimate branch of the powerful Montbryce family, and often wondered why their parents had decided not to foster William and Martin at Montbryce Castle in Normandie. As far as she knew, her brother had done nothing to further their training as knights. He tasked them with duties that should have been assigned to servants, rarely employing domestics, probably due to a lack of funds to pay them. It was difficult to believe the revenues from the Cumbrian and Yorkshire estates were sufficient to defray the costs of Hugh’s itinerant lifestyle.
“The wagon’s here, Aunty Hollis,” John shouted, jolting her back to reality.
Resigned to bending to Hugh’s will, she inhaled deeply and accepted William FitzRam’s assistance to climb into the wagon. Such was the way of things for a spinster past the marrying age and dependent on her brother.
Martin lifted Arthur, but John managed to scramble aboard by himself. The lads were of an age to find excitement in the nomadic lifestyle imposed upon them by their father, but Hollis worried about their future. Hugh would probably foster them to some other noble family—then she’d be completely alone.
“At least I have you two darlings,” she whispered to her nephews as the wagon lurched forward.
Autumn
Autumn was always a busy season at Montbryce. Everyone looked forward to the harvesting of the apples distilled to make the famous brandy renowned far and wide.
Barr got a lot of satisfaction out of rolling up his sleeves and working in the orchards. Perched atop ladders, surrounded by the branches of his family’s fruit trees, he savored every waxy leaf and ripe apple. They were as much a part of his heritage as the castle itself.
The weather was unusually warm and sunny this year, yet there was a sense of urgency after predictions of a brutally cold early winter. All the omens were there, according to serfs and laborers who’d worked the land for decades. They were rarely wrong, and Barr had every confidence in their warnings.
At midday, he often sat on the ground with the laborers, enjoying a crisp apple, a dollop of fromage cremeux spread on crusty bread, and a flagon of ale.
He supposed he should be irritated Stephen avoided the orchards. However, his brother talked of nothing else but Prince Henry’s latest triumph in the tournaments, lavishing praise on the king-in-waiting. Henry was apparently the darling of the tournament circuit and its most generous patron. Barr wondered of what use such skills would be to the prince when he became king.
Their father remarked the younger Henry seemed to have little interest in the affairs of government, though rumor also had it the king balked at sharing power with his son. Barr deemed it short-sighted and wondered why King Henry had insisted on securing his son’s succession if he was reluctant to prepare him to assume the throne. Perhaps, he’d done it simply to anger Thomas Becket.
There were reports the monarch himself had held court in several different Norman towns. The man clearly had a restless nature.
Alexandre de Montbryce had groomed his son since boyhood to take over as Comte. When Barr had his hands in the rich earth of his native land, or when he contemplated the magnificent castle in which he’d dwelt since birth, he looked forward to being the head of one of the most powerful Anglo-Norman families.
Maintaining that standing in the morass of political intrigue was another matter. The Montbryce-FitzRam clan had managed over the centuries to successfully navigate the upheavals. He prayed he’d be equal to the awesome responsibility. His father always insisted a loving helpmate was a great asset. He supposed he should heed his parents’ pleas to consider remarrying. The estate he loved needed heirs. However, as he pointed out to his father, his two brothers had already sired sons who could inherit.
For some reason, his thoughts often strayed to the blonde he’d glimpsed at the coronation. She had two children. A widow, perhaps. There’d been no knight standing beside her, but she was most likely English, and Barr only crossed the Narrow Sea when it was absolutely necessary. He wished she had attended the banquet.
Hollis and her nephews spent the sweltering summer months of July and August cooped up in stuffy rooms on the second floor of inns of doubtful character as Hugh followed his king from one Norman town to the next.
Her brother threw up his hands in frustration and stormed off whenever she asked why they couldn’t be given chambers in the various castles that played host to His Majesty.
She was actually well aware of the reason. The FitzRams had innocently let slip that they were always billeted with their mentor and his cronies in barracks or tents. She doubted King Henry bothered himself with reques
ting provision be made for lowly English knights.
Autumn brought a measure of relief with cooler weather and permanent lodgings in a rented cottage near Bures Castle. Henry had apparently decided to use Bures as his headquarters for the approaching winter season, so Hugh grudgingly opened his purse strings.
The dwelling was dingy and cramped. Hollis shared a small bedroom with her nephews. The bad-tempered cook concocted inedible meals and pretended not to understand Hollis’ suggestions for improvements.
The maid responsible for cleaning spent most of her time flirting with the gardener, which was difficult to comprehend given the man’s decaying teeth and less than pleasant odor. Judging by the overgrown state of the grounds, she’d wager she knew more about gardening than he did. All the servants quickly realized she didn’t speak their language and took full advantage. She often felt she was the brunt of their snide laughter. The only words of English they seemed to know consisted of dire warnings of a bitterly cold winter ahead.
The only good thing about the cottage was its rural location. Hollis took the boys for rambling walks through the meadows. A child of the Cumbrian fells, she too saw and felt the signs of a harsh winter ahead as the autumn days grew shorter. Inhaling the crisp air, she dreamed of hiking through green fields with a family of her own, picking wildflowers. She taught the boys how to make daisy chains, glad they were still too young to think such a pastime too feminine. Watching them, she fell into the habit of absently pulling petals off daisies, her mind wandering to the tall knight she’d noticed at the coronation. She’d wager he was a man who enjoyed the trees and fields and open country.
He loves me, he loves me not.
But he was a Scot and Bures was a long way from Scotland.
It was a foolish dream. She’d become resigned to the lonely life of a spinster. At least, for now, she had her boisterous nephews.
Yuletide with surly servants in this rural Norman backwater loomed like the bleak winter peasants foretold. Recalling happy childhood celebrations at home in Cumbria, she was determined to do her utmost to make it a joyfully memorable time for the boys. Hugh would only agree to return to England if the king decided to spend the festive season there, which was highly unlikely.
Inebriated Fools
Bures, Normandie, December 20th 1170
Not for the first time in the months they’d lived in the dingy cottage in the Norman countryside, Hollis heartily wished her older brother and his cronies could talk about something else beside the great King Henry Plantagenet. The more they drank, the more effusive and outrageous their praise of the temperamental monarch.
Hugh had commandeered the scarred wooden dining table in the rented house in order to regale his friends with a Yuletide feast. Hollis suspected he could ill afford the expense but appearances were everything with him.
They were celebrating five days early because on Christmas Day they’d be at nearby Bures Castle—invited guests at the king’s banquet. They talked of little else but their own importance in the king’s eyes, though Hollis suspected invited didn’t mean they’d been personally asked by the king to be present. It was more likely every person of noble standing living in the surrounding countryside was expected to attend. Henry loved to be the center of attention.
The heavy snow blanketing the countryside reminded her of happy Yuletides at home, in Cumbria. There’d been music, joy, and laughter. Here, in this foreign land, she was relegated to eating at a side table with Hugh’s young sons.
It was an insult, but her brother had never been known for his courtly manners, and she preferred the three visiting knights pay her scant attention. Hugh treated her like a servant and they took their cue from him.
“So,” William de Tracy declared, “the recalcitrant Becket has returned to England at last.”
Reginald FitzUrse raised his tankard. “Our glorious king is victorious once more.”
Hollis rolled her eyes. She’d gradually learned a few words of Norman-French. Rumor among the servants was that Henry had capitulated to the archbishop’s demands in July to avoid having his entire kingdom laid under a papal interdict after the Pope condemned the coronation of Prince Henry. Despite her dislike of the household staff, she trusted their version, gleaned from servants in other houses.
“Not the archbishop again,” John whined.
Even Hugh’s eldest son was clearly tired of hearing about the dispute between Thomas Becket and the king.
Hollis tapped a finger to her lips as a reminder to both nephews to make sure their father didn’t overhear any negative comments. Hugh was a firm believer in children not being seen nor heard.
Women too for that matter. He’d bullied his delicate wife into an early grave. Hollis silently cursed the destiny that had left her unwed at the age of five-and-twenty and thus unable to refuse her brother’s insistence she take on the role of nanny to his motherless children. After all, he provided protection, a roof over her head and food and warmth. He could easily have consigned her to the fate of many a spinster sister, and she’d prefer death to the austere life of a nunnery.
He was stingy with coin for her wardrobe and the children’s clothing, reasoning it was important for him, as one of King Henry’s favored knights, to be richly garbed.
A child of the English moors, Hollis was content to wear linen smocks and woolen kirtles and shawls, but it galled that Hugh seemed not to care about his sons’ appearance. She’d seen peasant children in the village with better raiment. Arthur wore his brother’s cast-offs which were of poor quality in the first place.
“Favored knight, indeed,” she muttered under her breath.
Richard le Breton’s voice broke into her reverie. “I wish I could be in England,” he lamented, “to see the haughty Becket eat crow. Coming back to Canterbury with his tail between his legs.”
“How can a man have a tail?” Arthur asked, his mouth full of a tasteless fruit compote concocted by the French cook who clearly had no inkling what foods should be traditionally served in the Yuletide season.
Hollis risked a glance at her brother, relieved to see he was laughing heartily at Richard’s jest.
“I agree, my friend,” Hugh said. “But we must remain here in Normandie to serve His Majesty.”
“Both Majesties,” Reginald exclaimed.
“That’s right,” de Tracy replied. “We have an old king and a young king.”
“An old Duke of Normandie and a young Duke of Normandie.”
“A young Henry and an old Henry. Henry whichever way you say it.”
“One tall, one not so tall.”
The four men guffawed hysterically, bringing on fits of hiccups as they banged their tankards on the table.
Hollis ushered the children out of the dining hall before the inebriated fools made complete asses of themselves.
Preparing her charges for bed, she allowed a faint hope to flicker. Perhaps the return from exile of Thomas Becket would temper the king’s anger and usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. Henry might then return to England to seal the agreement with the Archbishop, and Hugh would be sure to follow.
Pilgrimage
December 22nd, 1170, Caen, Normandie
As they did every year, the religious sisters of the Abbaye aux Dames welcomed Alexandre de Montbryce and his sons to their convent with great warmth. They clearly looked forward to the return of the distinguished comte who’d been born within the sanctuary of their precincts many years ago, after his mother’s escape from captivity. The harrowing tale of Alexandre’s birth was recounted to novices on the occasion of the family’s annual pilgrimage to Caen in memory of Barr’s grandparents.
Only the men of the Montbryce family took part in the solemn ritual. They spent a good deal of time on their knees in the chapel, giving thanks for many blessings: the deliverance of Robert de Montbryce from his cruel and illegal imprisonment in Caen Castle years ago; the charity of the nuns who’d sheltered Dorianne and assisted with Alexandre’s birth; the braver
y of Robert’s brothers, Caedmon FitzRam and Baudoin de Montbryce, who’d escorted the babe and his mother through hostile territory to Montbryce Castle; Robert’s recovery from his ordeal and the subsequent glories he’d won for the family; the eventual capture and punishment of Duke Curthose, the man responsible for the abductions.
“This praying is all very well,” his father whispered to Barr who knelt beside him. “But it’s playing havoc with my knees.”
Rheumatic knees ran in the family, as far back as Barr’s great-grandfather. However, Ram de Montbryce had been elderly when he was stricken. Barr didn’t consider himself old at thirty and three years of age but had to reluctantly admit his knees were starting to bother him.
A pleasant memory surfaced—his mother salving his father’s knees by the fire in their solar. They were lucky they still had each other. There’d been no one to tend Barr’s aches since Belinda’s death in childbirth. His parents were victims of the curse of the Montbryces—an old family jest. They loved each other, unlike most noble husbands and wives. After losing his wife and stillborn son, Barr had resigned himself to being the first Montbryce in a long and illustrious line to escape the curse. He’d even toyed with the notion of joining the Knights Templar and going off to protect pilgrims on their journey to Jerusalem.
In the evenings, they walked from the Abbaye aux Dames to the adjacent Abbaye Aux Hommes and slept in the spartan cells. The expectation they participate in the monks’ observances meant they were up most of the night. The Keeping of the Hours had them on their knees for Lauds at three in the morning, and again for Prime at six.
Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12) Page 2