Forbidden

by Anna Markland

  “And we’ll show you plans for the chimney to replace the smoke vent in the roof,” Swan continued. “We didn’t have time to start that task.”

  He looked up. Most of the smoke from the hearty fire in the open hearth did disappear through a hole in the thatched roof, though some of it lingered in the rafters.

  “A chimney would be an improvement,” he conceded, hoping to make amends to Grace.

  “It was my idea,” Swan crowed. “Like at Kirkthwaite.”

  Tybaut ushered them into a passageway. “On the right we have the pantry.”

  The steward had to restrain the dogs from following Bronson inside while he inspected the provisions. Ducks, rabbits, pigeons, blackbirds and other game hung from the ceiling beams. Shelves groaned under wheels of cheese. He shivered, missing the warmth of the hall.

  “But no swans,” Swan asserted. “I forbade it.”

  Rodrick laughed loudly and kissed her cheek. “Of course not.”

  Tybaut cleared his throat. “Yes, well, and here we have the buttery.”

  Three barrels of ale and a cask of wine had been crammed into the confined space. “Quite a stock,” Bronson observed.

  Beaming with pride, Tybaut tapped the side of his nose as if to say, You’ve seen nothing yet. He opened a stout doorway which led to a covered walkway. “Milord Edwin had this built to protect people walking back and forth to the kitchens from the elements.”

  Since it was unlikely Edwin had ever set foot in the kitchens, Bronson deemed this a kindness shown by his uncle to his household staff.

  The stone kitchen was large, the spit big enough to roast an ox. He noted the quality of the pewter utensils. Three scullery lads grinned at him and bowed and scraped as if he was the king himself. Tybaut brushed them away like irritating flies, then introduced a rotund, red-faced toothless woman named Jolly Cook, who was the personification of her name. She offered each of them a pastry, which he ate in two bites. “Delicious, Jolly. I was starving and I love savory pastries. You’re going to make me fat.”

  Her face reddened further as she giggled.

  Tybaut seemed impatient to usher them to another room built onto the side of the kitchen. “Milord Edwin had this brewhouse added where we produce the finest ale in all Salop. That’s what’s in the barrels.”

  Mayhap Edwin had ventured to the kitchens.

  “I look forward to tasting it.”

  “Tybaut is right,” Rodrick confirmed with a chuckle. “I can attest to its quality.”

  Returning to the kitchen, Tybaut directed them into another alcove with a large brick oven. “Milord Edwin loved fresh breads and pastries, and this bakehouse is the result.”

  Bronson had expected a fairly comfortable dwelling, but Shelfhoc’s amenities were a pleasant surprise.

  Upon re-entering the house, Swan pushed him to the private solar on the other side of the hall. “We had new fabric soaked in resin and tallow added to the latticework in the windows,” she explained. “But Grace and I are of the opinion you should replace them with glass, like the ones in the upstairs rooms.”

  “We have a glazier at the castle,” Grace whispered as they climbed the stairs. “And I hope you don’t mind that we brought some tapestries from Ellesmere’s storage rooms. A place seems warmer with hangings on the walls.”

  Bronson hated the sound of defeat in her voice. She had put time and effort into making his home comfortable, and he seemed unable to thank her appropriately. But if he softened his demeanor towards her, he was afraid he would babble out his obsession.

  Resolved to praise her efforts, his mouth fell open when Tybaut opened the door to the master’s chamber. A massive four poster bed dominated the space.

  Swan rushed forward and climbed onto the mattress, giggling. “Why do you suppose Uncle Edwin needed such a large bed?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Rodrick. “I slept here—but it will be the master’s bed now. Rodrick can sleep in the smaller chamber at the other end of the landing, and Grace and I will get pallets arranged in the solar downstairs.”

  Grace blushed and Bronson felt his own face redden. Luxurious as the bed was, it would be a lonely place. Why not admit he was a man who needed a woman, not only for his physical needs, but as a friend, a companion, a helpmate? He needed Grace.

  “Feel the warmth up here too?” Swan asked. “We had the plaster on some parts of the outer wattle and daub renewed where it had deteriorated.”

  He sat on the edge of the overstuffed mattress. “You ladies have indeed worked hard to make my home comfortable, and it’s evident the estate has been well stewarded, Tybaut. I thank you all.”

  Swan stood directly in front of him, hands on hips. “Grace and I deserve a kiss and a hearty embrace.”

  His scheming sister was up to something. Coming to his feet, he glanced at Grace as he embraced Swan and kissed her on one cheek, then the other, delaying the moment of truth. Would his body betray him when he touched Grace? Of course it would. His arousal had already stirred when he’d lifted her off the horse.

  Watching Edwin’s dogs delight in Bronson’s attention, Grace was tempted to fall to the frozen ground and beg to be similarly stroked and petted. This man was turning her into a lunatic. As soon as she set foot in Shelfhoc again, the familiar warm feeling of homecoming swept over her.

  But she must be rid of these thoughts. Shelfhoc belonged to Bronson, a man who didn’t love her. It was obvious from the smoldering look in his half-hooded eyes as he approached to claim his kiss that his thoughts were on carnal matters. How he would laugh if he discovered she was still a maiden. Bronson likely preferred experienced women who knew how to please a man. She’d been a dismal failure in that regard. Victor had never shown the slightest interest in her as a woman. There must be something in her men found repellent.

  He loomed over her. “Thank you, Grace. For everything. Merci.”

  She remembered the first time he’d kissed her. It had been awkward for them both, but exhilarating for her at least. Had he felt anything? Then there’d been the kiss in the bailey, which had left little doubt.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She stifled an urge to moan as her knees threatened to buckle. Could he tell she was trembling? He bent to kiss one cheek, then the other. She opened her mouth to tell him he was welcome, but his lips descended on hers. Aware of the presence of her brother and Swan, not to mention Tybaut, she held her body rigid as his tongue explored inside her mouth. She tasted the aromatic spices of the pastry he’d eaten a short time before.

  Her heart bounced around inside her ribcage when his arms slid around her. He lifted his head. “Don’t worry, they’re gone.”

  Confused, she scanned the chamber. Only Bendik and Becca remained, sitting obediently, watching them. A languid heat stole over her. Mayhap the traveling back and forth had brought on an ague. His body offered strength and comfort. She relaxed against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness of male interest. Perhaps—

  The room tilted when he pulled away from her and rasped, “I am drawn to you, Grace, but I will never marry again.”

  Mummers

  As Yuletide progressed Rodrick was enjoying the celebrations more than he ever had at Ellesmere. It had been incumbent upon his parents to sponsor lavish festivities, but there was something to be said for the more intimate surroundings of Shelfhoc.

  He’d never paid much mind before to the preparations, but now he savored the delight Swan and his sister took in their handiwork.

  They decorated the Thane’s Hall with ivy, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Tybaut procured ribbons in Shrewsbury and the women used them to embellish the yule tree as well as the garlands and wreaths.

  Swan fashioned a large wreath from cedar boughs, the scent of the aromatic wood filling the air. Everyone would make a wish on it when they celebrated Epiphany gathered around a bonfire outside the house, then it would be burned. She’d asked him to hold the boughs as she fastened them together.

  “Guess what I plan to wish for,”
he teased.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, igniting sparks that lit a fire in his couilles. “A horse?” she asked innocently.

  He smiled indulgently. “No. Guess again.”

  “Mmmm. Lots of vegetables with your venison on Christmas Day?”

  He grimaced, leaning forward to nibble her earlobe. “No!”

  She blushed, but didn’t shy away. “You’re distracting me, Rodrick.”

  “I have achieved my goal, then,” he replied with a grin.

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself here at Shelfhoc.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “But I’d enjoy being anywhere with you.”

  She pouted. “I only wish we had mummers to entertain. Tybaut has made enquiries in Shrewsbury, but we are late in asking. At home we had Morris men, mummers and sword dancers come from the surrounding communities to perform for us.”

  “Sword dancers? Sounds like a tale my father told me about Izzy de Montbryce, a distant cousin in Normandie.”

  “Yes, Izzy married Farah who had learned to perform the sword dance during her captivity in Jerusalem.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “I keep forgetting you and I are related. You know as much of the folklore of this family as I do.”

  “Probably. We may be FitzRams but we are still part of the Montbryce clan. Anyway, I don’t enjoy the sword dances. For Izzy it was a dance of love, but I cover my eyes when they leap over the sharp weapons and twirl intricate patterns in the air with them. The dance inevitably ends with a mock death, but the victim is revived by the physician who does the same for the dead hero in the Mummer plays.”

  He feigned a grimace. “Good. We don’t want any dead heroes.”

  Christmas Eve dawned clear and bitterly cold. Tybaut entered the dining room as everyone was enjoying fresh baked black bread with the bacon and leek soup Jolly had prepared. “Your pardon, milord Bronson,” he said breathlessly, his face flushed, nose red. “A Christmas miracle! I was out looking for the dogs when I was summoned to the gatehouse. A wandering troupe of Morris Men has happened by on the way to Shrewsbury. They were promised a night’s lodging in Oswestry, but apparently a heavy snowfall has blocked the route. They asked if they can stay in the stables in exchange for a performance this night.”

  Swan clapped her hands. Her prayers had been answered. “Yes, yes, please say yes, Bronson. It will be more like home if we at least have Morris dancing.”

  Bronson hesitated. “Oswestry isn’t far, is it? Strange no snow fell here.”

  “True, milord,” Tybaut replied, rubbing his red hands together. “However, Oswestry is closer to the Welsh mountains. I took the liberty of allowing them into the stables.”

  “I suppose I should interview them.”

  Rodrick came to his feet. “I’ll accompany you. The women can remain indoors in the warmth.”

  Bronson waved him back to his seat. “Everyone stay here. Tybaut you look frozen to the bone. Go to the kitchen and get some of this delicious soup. It will take but a few moments to ensure they know what they are doing.” He smiled at his sister. “I don’t want Swan to be disappointed.”

  Wrapped in his warm woolen cloak, Bronson stepped out into the chill of the morning. The cold never bothered him. Winters in Northumbria were far more severe. He surveyed the courtyard, then lifted his gaze to the stables and thence to the fields beyond his domain, inhaling deeply, relishing the sight of his breath on the frigid air. He wondered idly where the ever-present dogs had gotten to. Probably chasing rabbits.

  Swan was right. He loved Shelfhoc already, felt at home here, but Yuletide in the FitzRam household had been memorable, an important family time. Morris Men would make it more like home. He closed his eyes, conjuring an image of his father and mother, no doubt celebrating Swan’s reprieve from the nunnery. But they’d be missing two of their offspring.

  Feeling the chill numbing his toes, he set off for the stables.

  The heavy door was closed, which seemed strange, but he assumed the ostler had granted his lads leave to start the day later given that it was Christmas Eve.

  Once inside he shoved the door closed.

  During Tybaut’s tour, he’d been impressed with the construction of the building which retained the heat of the animals it sheltered. Its warmth was comforting after the chill of the outdoors. But it seemed eerily quiet, as if the horses stood stock still. Even the normally friendly Cob eyed him like a stranger when he walked by his stall. Removing his cloak, he peered into the gloom, seeking the wandering performers. A troupe usually consisted of at least six men. Where were they?

  A young man emerged from the shadows. He looked more like a knight than a mummer. Cob nickered. The youth drew a dagger. Warning bells went off in Bronson’s head, but it was too late. He cursed when he realized he’d left his weapons in the house.

  Bellowing a war cry, he lunged, but strong hands grabbed him from behind. The armed stranger advanced on him, waving the dagger. Bronson leaned back against his unseen aggressors using them as leverage to kick at his attacker, but they yanked him backwards. The grinning youth took a mighty backhanded swipe at his throat. He jerked aside, but a river of molten lava seared across his chest as the blade ripped open his skin.

  Am I to die here?

  The answer came as pain exploded in the back of his head.

  Swan stared into her empty soup bowl. “What’s taking him so long?”

  Grace looked anxiously towards the door, chewing on her lower lip. “I have a bad feeling.”

  On the one hand, Rodrick was tempted to tell them they worried too much, but on the other, Bronson had been gone overlong. He came to his feet. “I’ll go out and hurry him along. He’s probably demanded a demonstration of their talents.”

  He retrieved his cloak from his chamber and left the house. The cold stole away his breath. He drew the cloak up to cover his ears and mouth and set off at a brisk walk to the stables. There was no sign of Bendik and Becca. He supposed they must be with Bronson.

  The door to the stables was closed—strange. He shoved hard, but it refused to budge. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut. If the troupe was demonstrating Morris dancing they were doing it silently.

  He reached without thinking for the dagger he’d left in the house. He decided to check the rear of the stables, or mayhap for some peculiar reason Bronson had taken the entertainers to the Thane’s Hall. Or perhaps they were in the church, odd as the possibility seemed.

  Edging cautiously along the back wall of the stable, he put his right eye to a crack between two planks. Nothing—only horses. He went a few paces further and bent his knees to peer through another small space where the moss chinking had fallen away. The breath left his already beleaguered lungs. A man lay face down in a pool of blood—a man with unmistakable red hair. “What the devil?”

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around, vaguely aware of a giant standing behind him. A mailed fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards, his head smashing into the wooden wall. The sky was suddenly where the earth should be.

  Why would a mummer be wearing armor?

  He attempted to get up but a booted foot pressed on his chest as the fist landed on his nose. He choked on blood, pain lancing into his head.

  “Leave him, Titus. He’ll soon freeze to death out here.”

  He sank into blackness, thinking the sneering voice was somehow familiar.

  Treachery

  Grace jumped up from her seat, sending her bowl clattering to the floor. Her heart was racing; intense pain throbbed in her temples. “Something has happened to Rodrick.”

  Swan left her place at the table to lift a corner of the window covering. “Where can they be?”

  A commotion at the main door of the house caught their attention. Relief flooded Grace. Bronson and Rodrick had returned. But her blood turned to ice when the man who had entered the house removed his cloak. “Godefroy,” she gasped, gripping the edge of the table.

  Swan frowned, pres
sing close to Grace. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Grace grasped her hand. “He is my stepson.”

  He bowed with a mock flourish. “At your service, step-mama,” he said, flicking his still-fastened cloak back over his shoulders.

  A serpent wriggled in Grace’s belly. She had never liked this young man, never trusted him, but she was determined not to show fear. “Where are milord Bronson and milord Rodrick?”

  He sneered. “Safe enough. They won’t interfere.”

  “Interfere in what?” Swan asked, apparently unperturbed though Grace felt her cousin’s fingernails pressed into her flesh.

  “Don’t worry,” Godefroy said to Swan. “I’m not interested in you.”

  “But what do you want with me?” Grace said, deafened by the pulse at her throat. “I have given up any claim on your father’s estate.”

  “That’s of no importance now. All is lost if Plantagenet takes what should have gone to Eustace.”

  “Eustace is dead.”

  “But Stephen’s second son lives. William will be king, not Henry the upstart Angevin.”

  “William has pledged to Henry,” Swan declared.

  Grace recognized the malice in Godefroy’s gaze. “And what do we have to do with this? Why have you come here?”

  “Your cursed father must be persuaded to change sides. He has long been Stephen’s man. Now he must support William’s claim to the throne.”

  The serpent bit into the vital part of Grace’s body that kept her heart beating. “You believe I can influence my father?”

  Godefroy grinned as a burly giant of a man entered the house. “No, but if he thinks changing sides will save your life, he will.”

  Swan thrust her chin in the air, hands on hips. “You can’t get away with this. Our steward will return momentarily, as will my brother and my cousin. There are men in the barracks, dogs—”

  She stopped when Godefroy strode toward her, hand raised to strike.