Alexandre swallowed hard. “King Henry is dead. He died at Lyons-la-Forêt yesterday, the first day of December. Messengers have been sent to summon Maud back from Anjou.”
The hiss and crackle of the fire’s flames filled the gallery as the three men looked from one to the other.
Robert swayed, his knuckles white on the head of his cane.
Alexandre’s breathing steadied.
The knot in Gallien’s gut tightened. The day he had long dreaded was upon them, but his duty was clear. He thrust his clenched fist into the air. “King Henry is dead. Long live King Stephen.”
Alexandre lifted his chin, one hand fisted at his side, the other pressed to his heart.“Le roi est mort. Vive la Reine Maude! Long live Queen Maud.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the gallery.
The Montbryces have prospered for generations by remaining united. Now, a struggle for the throne of England has divided them. Read Alexandre’s story, Jeopardy, for the next installment of this family saga.
Montbryce Castle, Normandie, August 1136 AD
“THE PRISONERS ARE HERE, milord Comte.”
The crowd of villagers, men-at-arms and castle-folk gathered in the cavernous Great Hall of Montbryce gradually quieted as Steward Bonhomme awaited his master’s response.
Alexandre de Montbryce shifted his weight in the lord’s chair, the drumming of his fingers on the elaborately carved arms the only sound in the immense chamber.
“They are hostages, Bonhomme, not prisoners,” he said with more belligerence than he intended. His rebuke echoed off the stone columns, disappearing into the rafters.
Seated at Alex’s right hand, his younger brother sucked in a breath, scratching his head.
Were it possible, Alex would cede his title to Romain. Being the Comte de Montbryce, chieftain of one of the wealthiest and most powerful Norman clans with extensive holdings in England and Normandie was a responsibility he’d never wanted. But their parents would turn over in their tomb if Alex denied his heritage.
He’d done what he could, insisting Romain share the decisions and responsibilities. His reluctant brother would become the next Comte de Montbryce. They’d argued many times over Alex’s insistence he would never marry. He could only hope the philandering Romain would settle down and wed a suitable bride before the day of Alex’s death dawned.
He and his siblings were very different in temperament despite sharing a strong resemblance.
Hands fisted at his sides, Bonhomme reddened, visibly embarrassed by the unusual criticism from his master. He bowed again. “Your pardon, milord.”
Alex wished he could take back the harsh words. The Montbryces were known as a noble and honorable family who treated their serfs and servants well. Successive Bonhommes had served them for four generations. But his resentment refused to release him. “Fetch them,” he commanded.
He turned to Romain as Bonhomme left the hall, the heavy oaken doors closing with an ominous thud. “Montbryce Castle will not serve as a prison as long as I am comte.”
“I understand, Alex. However, was it necessary to embarrass Bonhomme in front of others?”
Alex stared up at the banners wafting in the rafters, many of which had hung there since his grandmother had plied her needle.
The aroma of smoked ham served earlier at the midday luncheon still hung in the air, though the tables and benches had been cleared away and the stone floor swept.
He wished he’d been there, nigh on three score and ten years ago, when his great grandfather had entertained Duke William of Normandie a few months before his resounding victory at Hastings. It was in this historic place that the future Conqueror had appointed Alex’s grandfather to supervise the preparation of the fleet that would sail to England.
Alex had known no other home but this impressive castle, deserving of its reputation as one of the finest in Normandie. He loved every time-worn stone and was adamant it would not be used as a prison in furtherance of the political ambitions of a would-be queen.
Though Romain was right about his harsh words to Bonhomme, the thought of unjustly depriving anyone of their freedom, especially a child, knotted Alex’s gut. Every son and daughter of the recently deceased Robert de Montbryce understood and shared Alex’s turmoil. Many years ago, against all odds, their father had survived a cruel solitary confinement at the hands of the Duke of Normandie. Alex had come into the world during his father’s captivity.
He dragged his thoughts back from the memories of his early years with a father struggling to recover from his ordeal—a man he feared and barely knew. “I’ll speak to Bonhomme later. He’ll understand. Remind me, what are the hostages’ names?”
Romain rolled his eyes. “Henry and Claricia.”
Both doors to the hall creaked open. Bonhomme ushered in the hostages, grandchildren of King David of Scotland. They’d been handed over to Comte Geoffrey of Anjou and his wife Maud as a token of good faith to guarantee Scottish support. Maud had requested they be kept at Montbryce.
Alex had known they were children, but hadn’t expected a boy and a girl so alike in appearance they could be twins.
A murmur of delight rippled through the hall at the sight of the fair-haired enfants, but it ceased gradually as the clink and drag of chains echoed off the stone floor. Alex had been led to believe the hostages were at least fifteen years of age. Henry and Claricia Dunkeld couldn’t be more than seven or eight. They’d been chained together, wrists manacled, ankles shackled.
Anger surged up his throat. He leapt to his feet. “Why in the name of all the saints are they in irons? Remove their bonds at once.”
Murmurs of agreement with his fury rippled through the crowd of onlookers.
A soldier wearing the devise of Comte Geoffrey shuffled forward, a large key in hand. Alex struggled to control the urge to strangle him with his bare hands as the chains clunked to the floor and the man gathered them up. “How long have these children been manacled?”
“Since they arrived in this land, milord,” a loud female voice replied.
Caught off guard by the undisguised resentment in the speaker’s words, he glanced up sharply and for the first time noticed the young woman who now gripped the hand of each twin. Wisps of flame-red hair escaped a checkered shawl of brown and grey covering her head. Freckles dotted her nose. High cheekbones and a proud chin added nobility to a woman in servant’s garb. Her fresh beauty stunned him. He’d never journeyed to Scotland, but easily conjured a vision of her galloping across wild moorlands on a white horse, her hair a ribbon of red whipped by the wind.
She stared at him defiantly for long moments, rendering him speechless, though he doubted she would reach his shoulder if they stood side by side—an inexplicably appealing notion.
At her nod, the royal infants made their bow and curtsey to Alex. It was a commendable effort considering their age and condition, though the woman kept hold of their hands, providing an anchor. They flushed at the barely discernible smile she bestowed when they glanced up for her approval.
Alex had a peculiar urge to bask in the glow of her smile, but it quickly disappeared when she looked back at him. Though he understood it, he was strangely distressed by the hatred evident in her gaze. She was nursemaid to hostages and thus deprived of freedom. Geoffrey had cruelly ordered her small charges manacled for some ridiculous reason. She was far from her homeland, and probably not by choice. She was a servant—yet hadn’t offered even a perfunctory curtsey.
Alex had long ago accepted he was destined to live a solitary life. He’d always been the odd one out in the family. He and his father had never been close. Robert de Montbryce’s forced absence at Alex’s birth seemed to form an invisible wall between them. It had taken years for Robert to regain his strength. Their mother had worried that her husband might never be the man he was before his imprisonment. As a child, Alex learned to be wary of his father’s sudden changes of mood, but he never understood why his sire felt guilty about the time they’
d lost.
Now Robert de Montbryce’s body lay alongside his beloved Dorianne in the castle’s crypt. The intrigues surrounding the struggle for the throne following King Henry’s death in December had been too much for his health, already weakened by a racking cough.
Resentful of the constant tutelage when his father was alive, Alex was grateful now for the knowledge and guidance passed on to him. Though he and his brothers disagreed about who should now sit on the throne of the English, he always assured them of his intention to emulate the three generations of his ancestors who had fulfilled the job with honor and dignity.
But he had refused to bow to the insistence he marry, and now it was too late. At a score and twelve years of age, he had become resigned to his bachelor life.
He had remained celibate throughout the half year of intrigue and conflict that had swept Normandie as King Stephen and Empress Maud vied for the throne of England after King Henry’s death.
Celibacy hadn’t been a hardship. Now, astonishingly, a discourteous servant in drab clothing, albeit a stunningly beautiful redhead, had caused his body to respond in a way he’d not experienced in many a year.
Without much effort, a servant had taken control of this gathering that should have seen her quaking with fear.
He stepped down from the dais, glad he’d worn a long tunic. By rights he should reprimand the woman for her insubordination, but the defiance in her green eyes gave him pause. Perhaps in Scotland a nursemaid was given more leeway.
He nodded to Henry Dunkeld. The lad was, after all, a possible heir to the Scottish throne. “Welcome to you, Henry, and to your sister. I am Comte Alexandre de Montbryce.”
He turned to Romain, now standing at his side. “I present my brother, Romain de Montbryce.”
“Mes seigneurs,” Henry murmured, his eyes fixed on the stone floor. Claricia gazed from Alex to Romain and back, tears welling, her free hand twisted in the fabric of her dress.
He was confident the nursemaid would not be fluent in his language, though her initial outburst had been in Norman French. Nervous the children might catch what he was saying, he shielded his mouth with his hand as he turned to Romain. “For an infant to be taken from her home and her parents and brought as a hostage in chains to a faraway land is intolerable. No wonder the nursemaid is angry.”
Romain stroked his chin, a bemused look on his face. “Angry, but beautiful.”
Alex glared, irrational jealousy seething in his gut. Though they were sometimes mistaken for twins, women were drawn to Romain’s cheerfulness and charm. “Not with a foreign hostage, brother.”
Romain winked, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. “Pity, but I’ll heed your wishes.”
He and his brother were tall and must seem like giants looming over these two infants. Alex hunkered down next to Claricia, which only increased the turmoil at his groin. “Demoiselle, please introduce your nursemaid.”
The child stared at him, her chin quivering, leading him to think perhaps she didn’t speak his language. He stood, concerned his attempt at closeness had intimidated her.
The nursemaid bent to whisper something to the child in a language he supposed was Gaelic. The shawl slipped off her head, revealing a glorious cascade of thick, red hair. His breath caught in his throat.
The woman quickly replaced the shawl, her blush the first chink in the armored mantle of composure.
Alex licked his dry lips, wishing he could apply his tongue to the nipples that pouted against the thin fabric of her bliaut as she raised her arms to secure the shawl. He wasn’t sure what had happened. All he could think of was taking her to his bed.
Claricia murmured, “Mon seigneur, I present my nursemaid—” She looked imploringly at the woman holding her hand.
The nursemaid stepped forward. “My name is Elayne, milord de Montbryce.”
She spoke again in flawless Norman French. Alex stared open-mouthed, the sultry disdain in her voice echoing to his core.
She stiffened her spine, eyes flashing defiance. “The prince and princess have had a long journey. May I take them to their chambers? And perhaps a salve could be fetched for the lacerations.”
Alex dragged his eyes from her full breasts to her face. The gall of the woman, reminding him of his obligation as their host. “I am their guardian now, Mistress Elayne. You need not instruct me as to my responsibilities.”
She stared back. “Guardian, or jailer,” she muttered.
She’d spoken softly, yet it was evident from the indrawn breaths around him, she’d been heard. Anxious faces awaited his reaction.
Romain’s loud cough slowed his headlong rush to reprimand the woman again. He clenched his fists in an effort to slow his breathing. Her lack of deference had done nothing to discourage his arousal. He summoned Bonhomme. “Show our guests to their chambers.”
Romain stepped forward. “I’ll accompany them.”
Elayne thrust her chin in the air, picked up Claricia and followed Romain and Bonhomme, Henry in tow.
Low murmurs of conversation began again.
At the door, Claricia lifted her head from the nursemaid’s shoulder and curled her little fingers into a wave of farewell, smiling at Alex. A soul-deep longing pierced his heart, a pain he’d long since thought dead and buried—a yearning for a child of his own.
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About Anna
Thank you for reading INFIDELITY. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.
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I was born and brought up in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada. I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.
After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job.
My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster relief organization.
I then embarked on writing a romance because it was something I’d always wanted to do. I chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.
I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own English roots back to the Norman Conquest—most likely impossible since I am not descended from nobility. So, I made up a family and my stories follow its members through successive generations.
I want readers to feel happy that the heroes and heroines have found their soul mates and that the power of love has overcome every obstacle. For me, novels are an experience of another world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia. I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
Escape with me to where romance began and get intimate with history.
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