Birthright

by Anna Markland

  “After two boys, the birth of a daughter was a source of great joy. I had more than satisfied the need to provide an heir.”

  Agnès knew the girl in question only too well, having been her reluctant guardian for many a year. She put her hand on top of her mistress’s head and stroked the brush through the lank strands of dull grey hair.

  Maudine shivered. “You’re the only one I can confide in now. My husband turned away from me long ago. Agnès, you are my witness. For a year, I doted on my daughter, often to the detriment of my sons. If Paulina seemed not to be growing as fast as my boys had, I did not remark on it. Boys were boys. Girls grew more slowly.”

  Agnès nodded as she brushed. She knew her part well. “I remember that time. ‘Twas as you say.”

  “By the time Paulina was two, my heart told me something was amiss. I saw it in my husband’s eyes.”

  Agnès held her tongue. If she showed her true feelings, her horror at what was to come next, her mistress would cast her out. Maudine Lallement had never been an understanding or patient woman.

  A tear trickled down the wrinkled cheek. “I prayed daily. I fasted for long periods of time, hoping my penance would bring God’s mercy. I fashioned a knotted belt which I wore around my waist, pulling it tighter each day.”

  Agnès sniffled appropriately. “We feared for you then, milady. ‘Twas a bad time.”

  Maudine nodded furiously. “I was afraid of birthing another cursed child, and refused to lie with my husband, until the fateful day he tore the clothes from my body and discovered the knots had eaten into my flesh.” She shuddered. “I will long recall the agony as he carefully peeled the cord from my body, tears streaming down his face.”

  Agnès took a deep breath. She had tried to no avail to forget the sound of those screams. “We heard you in the servants’ quarters. Sir Marc fled to the garden after, and retched till we thought he might choke. But he never said a word of what had caused your pain.”

  True enough, though Agnès had been summoned to tend her mistress’s ghastly wounds. Bile rose in her throat even now at the memory.

  Maudine fidgeted nervously as Agnès put down the brush and fingered the hair into three parts for braiding.

  “We discussed our daughter’s slow growth. I had to atone in order to lift the curse on her.”

  Agnès recognised her cue and paused in her plaiting. “What did he say?”

  Maudine shrugged. “He shook his head. Paulina was small, but he insisted she would grow. She needed love, as did our sons.” Anger twisted her thin face. “I snarled at him and told him I could not love a creation of the devil. His sons would be shunned when people learned they had a deformed sister.

  “He lost his temper, and forbade me to carry on with my penance. I told him I would not lie with him again until our daughter was shut away.

  “He argued and cajoled, but from that day forth I have shunned my daughter. He installed her in the suite in the attic. You and her nursemaid went with her. I capitulated and allowed him into my bed. Nine months later, Rosamunda was born.”

  Agnès doubted Maudine Lallement realized she told this tale every day, so she bore it. She and Thomas had lived for years with the shame and regret of not having fled the cursed house then. She supposed her mistress needed someone to confirm the righteousness of what she had done, even if it was a lowly servant who had witnessed the long ago events.

  For Agnès, the daily diatribe was a penance she deserved for the part she had played in the unjust imprisonment of two young women. She prayed for God’s mercy on her soul as she coaxed her mistress to dress.

  * * *

  Rosamunda threw her arms around her brother’s neck, then pummeled his chest with her fists.

  “She’s annoyed because you promised to come two days ago,” Paulina explained.

  Lucien suffered the blows with good humor. He shielded his chest, laughing. “Ouch! What a warrior my sister is.”

  Rosamunda pushed him away, aware her face had flushed to the roots of her tangled hair. “Why did you not come?” she mouthed, trying to see what he had behind his back. “Rosemary?”

  Lucien produced the sprigs, waving them under her nose. “You and your rosemary baths. Little did I know the first time I brought it, you would insist on a regular supply.”

  Rosamunda grabbed the herb, rubbing a sprig or two between her thumb and forefinger. She rolled her eyes as she inhaled the aroma.

  Paulina explained. “She likes the way it perfumes the bath water and the scent it leaves in her hair. Thomas will only haul hot water up here once a sennight.”

  Lucien picked up Rosamunda, tickling her ribs as he twirled. She giggled breathlessly, then insisted he put her down and tickle her sister. Paulina would never ask, but Rosamunda knew she loved her brothers’ good-natured teasing.

  It rankled that Paulina believed she had no place in the world, no right to a voice because she was tiny. Her sister squirmed in Lucien’s arms, pretending not to be enjoying the fun.

  Lucien bent to plant a kiss atop Paulina’s head. “Vincent and I have been away, renewing our acquaintance with Melton de Montbryce.”

  “What of his brother, Izzy?” Paulina asked.

  Rosamunda bit into her knuckles. The mention of the name brought on the urge to laugh.

  Lucien shrugged as Vincent entered the chamber with a fistful of roses. “Izzy stayed home in Normandie. He still suffers greatly from l’arthrite in his hands.”

  Vincent twisted one hand grotesquely, sticking out his tongue as he presented his bouquet of roses to Paulina. “I managed to filch these from the garden without Maman knowing of it. She’d have my head.”

  Paulina beamed. Roses were guaranteed to draw out her beautiful smile. Ironically, it was Rosamunda who had been named for the prickly shrub.

  She clasped her hands together, the edges of her mouth turned down in a gesture of sympathy for this unknown warrior with the painful affliction.

  Paulina savored the roses’ perfume and voiced her sister’s thoughts, as often happened between them. “How does he hold a sword?”

  Lucien frowned. “With great difficulty, I think. His hands were gnarled the last I saw him and Melton says it is getting worse.”

  Rosamunda took each brother by the hand and drew them to the comfortable upholstered chairs by the hearth. It was a ritual they understood. She wanted to hear about their travels.

  “Melton is well,” Vincent began.

  Rosamunda put a hand on his arm and touched her face and hair, arching her brows.

  Lucien chuckled. “Melton? He’s a handsome fellow. All the Montbryces are. He’s tall, strong looking, and has long dark hair.”

  Rosamunda pointed to her eyes.

  Vincent shrugged. “Not sure. Blue, perhaps. What say you, brother?”

  “No idea,” Lucien replied. “I don’t pay attention to such things.”

  Rosamunda sighed with exasperation. Eye color revealed a lot. Resignation darkened her sister’s warm, brown eyes. When her brothers told of their adventures, their blue eyes lit up a room like the summer sky.

  The green of her own eyes deepened when she peered into the looking glass and ran her hands over her breasts.

  Lately, she had been troubled with wanton urges to touch intimate places on her body. Her thoughts and dreams wandered to images of handsome young knights, all bearing the face she had conjured many years ago from what she’d been told of the heroic Montbryce brothers.

  She averted her gaze to hide the tears welling in her eyes. She desperately wanted to escape, but was certain few noblemen wanted a wife who was mute.

  Lucien crooked his finger under her chin. “Don’t cry, ma soeur. Your imprisonment is cruel and unjust. As soon as we are able, Vincent and I will free you both. But for the moment, it is Maman who rules the house.”

  Paulina backed away from the hearth, clutching the roses. “Non,” she shouted. “I am content to remain here.”

  Rosamunda grasped her sister’s arm, thu
mping her own chest, shaking her head vehemently.

  Paulina broke free. “I am a freak. Do you think I want to be gawked at and ridiculed?”

  Vincent came to his feet. “You are not a freak. Neither of you are. You must not allow Maman’s despair to destroy you.”

  Paulina choked back a sob. “If a mother cannot love a child—”

  Rosamunda touched her heart, gripping her sister’s hand. “I love you,” she mouthed.

  “So do we,” both men echoed.

  The four children of Marc and Maudine Lallement clung to each other in silent sorrow for long moments.

  It was Lucien who finally cleared his throat and sniffed loudly. “Anyway, there is other news from Melton. His cousin, Adam, is en route to East Preston, with his half-brother, Denis de Sancerre.”

  Rosamunda opened her mouth but Vincent held up his hand. “Before you ask, Adam looks exactly like Melton. But I’ve never met Denis, therefore I cannot describe him to you.”

  Paulina pouted. “What does it matter, Rosamunda? Why do you care about these men? You and I will never meet them. If we did, they would turn away in horror when they discovered our impediments.”

  Lucien shook his head. “The Montbryces are chivalrous noblemen. They would never slight a woman.”

  Paulina scowled.

  Lucien hesitated, casting a glance at his brother.

  Rosamunda sensed there was more. Frowning, she punched Lucien’s shoulder.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied hesitantly. “There is something wrong, but Melton did not divulge what it is.”

  “Wrong?” Paulina asked.

  Vincent grimaced. “Oui, with Adam de Montbryce. I sensed it too. They will be at East Preston after the morrow. We’ll ride over in a few days to bid them welcome.”

  Lucien and Vincent took their leave when Agnès arrived with the midday meal. Rosamunda bade her brothers farewell, letting them know she eagerly awaited news as soon as they returned.

  * * *

  Lucien and Vincent Lallement did not exchange a word until they reached Vincent’s chamber. It was the pattern they followed whenever they left their incarcerated sisters. The injustice of the imprisonment had grated on them more and more as they had grown to manhood.

  Lucien slammed the door and leaned back against it. “It’s intolerable, brother.”

  Vincent sat on the edge of his bed and slumped forward, his head in his hands. “I agree, but what can we do? If we expose the truth now, Maman will never forgive us. She will cast the girls out, maybe us too. The Lallement family will be shunned. Papa would never be invited to attend court functions again.”

  Lucien paced. “Not to mention people might wonder why we had done nothing before. We might be judged complicit in the crime.”

  Vincent looked up. “We could spirit them away to a convent.”

  Lucien snorted. “We may as well condemn Rosamunda to death, and Paulina would become more convinced she should remain hidden.”

  Vincent came slowly to his feet. “You’re right. We’d better hasten to the dining hall. Maman will nag if we are late.”

  Lucien stopped pacing. “In some ways, our parents are the true prisoners.”

  Vincent put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You and I are thoroughly caught in their web of lies. It becomes increasingly difficult not to blurt out something Paulina or Rosamunda has said or done. They are beautiful young women any man would be proud to have as sisters, yet we cannot acknowledge their existence.”

  Lucien clenched his jaw. “For now we must remain silent.”

  * * *

  Marc Lallement sat next to his wife in the dining hall and watched her distress grow. The midday meal was ready, but Lucien and Vincent were not yet seated in their places. Maudine would not give the signal to the servants waiting to serve the food. They coughed nervously, shifting their feet, which he knew only intensified her rage. He was surprised she had not already dispatched one of them in search of her sons. They had passed the five-minute mark.

  He raised his goblet to his lips, but hastily put it down when his wife glared at him.

  He was bone weary of the conflict. Guilt tore at his heart. His sweet Maudine had become a shrew, and he worried about her sanity, especially after the episode with the knotted belt. The birth of a second daughter who was mute had overwhelmed her wits. He had racked his brain for ways to rid her of her torment. The terrifying possibility that ending her life was one of them plagued him more and more frequently.

  It had been madness to agree to their incarceration in the first place. He had been so besotted he had allowed not one, but two of his children to be imprisoned in their own home. Coward that he was, he had feared losing the dowry estate of Kingston Gorse if his wife repudiated him.

  Rosamunda and Paulina were beautiful young women. If Maudine visited them, she would see, but she refused to discuss it. As far as she was concerned, her daughters were dead.

  He worried for his sons, increasingly aware of their censure and discomfort. He thanked God at least two of his children had been born whole. When the boys were infants, it was less likely they might accidentally reveal the truth. Now they were young knights who travelled throughout Sussex. They visited sons of neighboring Norman families, often practicing swordplay and other tactics. Many of their friends had sisters.

  Maudine thrust out her chin when their sons arrived.

  Lucien bowed to his mother. “Maman, I’m sorry—”

  Maudine held up her hand, her mouth puckered into a tight line. “Sorry is not good enough. You are both aware of my expectations. What are we supposed to do, sit here and wait, not knowing when you plan to arrive?”

  The servants examined the oaken beams, or the planked floor, or their feet as their mistress’s voice became more and more shrill.

  Vincent and Lucien stood with heads bowed. Marc’s heart broke for them.

  Finally, she ceased her tirade and beckoned to the cook.

  Their sons took their places in silence.

  Rabbit stew was hastily heaped onto the trenchers.

  The servants stepped back.

  Maudine glared at them, inhaled the aroma of the dish before her, then nodded.

  They retreated.

  She turned to look at the men of her family. “You may start now.”

  Marc’s gut was in knots. His appetite fled as he watched the juices of the stew trickle into the stale bread of his trencher, but if he did not eat he would never hear the end of it. He tore off the edge of the trencher and bit into it, tasting the bitter gall of his own cowardice.

  East Preston

  East Preston, Sussex, England

  After the journey from Normandie, Adam hoped to ease his weariness with a long soak in the big wooden tub. Denis had tried hard to keep up his spirits on the way, but it had been an effort to concentrate on what he was saying.

  Adam had dreaded the reaction of the servants at East Preston when they became aware of his deafness. They meant well and were devastated at his affliction, but he hastily took his leave of them after ordering the tub.

  If they followed the example of the servants at Belisle, they would now walk round on tiptoe, averting their eyes whenever they came into his presence. Or they would bellow at him in the belief it made a difference.

  Thank God his other physical torment was not visible. His previous determination to remain chaste until his marriage did not mean he had lacked male urges. Far from it. As a youth he’d been in a seemingly permanent state of arousal. His cock had always stood ready to demonstrate its interest in an attractive female. He had never plunged his manhood into a woman’s sheath, but had enjoyed the ministrations of many eager to use their mouths on him. They had taught him how to please them without penetration.

  His shaft failed to stir at the memory.

  As he hauled his body out of the tub he looked down at the water running off the flesh between his legs. Everything looked normal, but his shaft seemed incapable of rousing itself.

/>   Hopelessness washed over him. Denis had assured him constantly it was likely a temporary problem, but he might as well be a monk for the interest his manhood had shown in any female he had encountered.

  Perhaps encouragement might help matters. He cringed as he cupped his couilles with one hand and grasped his flaccid member with the other. That had usually caused things to stir, but now—nothing.

  Sweat broke out on his brow as he strained to pump life into his shaft. Bile rose in his throat. Despair gripped him. He thrust back his head, willing the familiar urges to surge into his body.

  Without warning, the door creaked open.

  A red-faced maidservant squealed her shock, eyes bulging, hands clamped over her mouth. A heap of drying linens lay at her feet. “I knocked, milord, but—”

  The sweat on his body turned to ice as he splayed his hands over his groin. “Get out,” he bellowed. “Vite! Stupid wench!”

  The girl fled, bumping into Denis who stooped quickly to pick up a drying cloth and thrust it at Adam. “Cover yourself.”

  Adam threw the linen back at him, his heart thudding in his ears. He stretched his arms wide. “Take a good look. It will be on everyone’s lips that milord’s testicles aren’t what they should be.”

  Denis handed the linen back and pointed to his own eyes, shaking his head. “She barely had time to see anything. And she spoke the truth when she told you she knocked.” He pointed to the door. “I was down the hall.”

  Adam cinched the linen at his waist and slumped onto the bed. “I am a useless eunuch, a shadow of a man.”

  Denis stood, hands on his hips. “I am not the person to whine to. I will aid you in any way I can.” He wagged a finger. “But I will not listen to your self-pity.”

  Adam slouched on the bed, yet Denis had to reach up to put his hands over his brother’s ears. “Life has dealt you a double blow, brother.” He struck his chest with a fisted hand. “But you are a warrior.”