Passion in the Blood Read online

  His father took up the story, running a hand through his hair. “Rufus won’t be missed by the people. Everything hateful to God and to righteous men was the daily practice during his reign. But that doesn’t solve our problem.

  Henry was crowned at Westminster two days ago. He’s issued a Charter of Liberties promising good government. Many of the supporters of William Rufus will support him. Curthose is back from the Crusades and is laying plans to invade England. If we know as much, you can be sure Henry does too and will prepare.”

  He paused for several minutes, staring into his tankard. Then, in a solemn tone, he announced, “I hope I’ve made the right decision for this family.”

  All eyes turned to him. “I told Robert before he left for Normandie, I’ve decided we’ll support Henry. I believe he’ll be the better monarch in the long term. Curthose has failed his supporters time and again. It’s crucial Robert prepare for war. He’s not happy with my decision. You know, Caedmon, your brother was named for the Conqueror’s son, and he’s more inclined to support his Duke, his namesake.”

  “I know, mon père,” Caedmon answered, always surprised he could comfortably call Ram his father after the disastrous beginning of their relationship when Caedmon had refused to accept he was the son of a Norman. He’d grown up believing he was the son of a Saxon war hero killed at Hastings. Full of self loathing when he discovered the truth, he’d abandoned his wife Agneta and gone off on the People’s Crusade. His dire experiences during the Crusade had convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing good comes from hatred and vengeance.

  Ram cleared his throat, and drank the last of his ale. He put the empty tankard down on the table. “Now, Caedmon, we must speak of the risks to you and your family of my decision. The threat to Montbryce lands here in England is slight. We could lose Ellesmere in the event Henry doesn’t win, but I doubt it. Curthose will recognise my past loyalty to him, and to Normandie, and also the importance of keeping a strong proven presence here in the Marches.”

  Baudoin smirked. “He’d be hard pressed to control this region without our help.”

  Ram chuckled. “Quite so. Rhodri ap Owain would recommence his raids in this area if we weren’t here. Your ancestral estate at Shelfhoc should be safe, Caedmon, as well as the three lucrative Sussex manors I’ve already transferred to you. However, any English lands I’ve willed to you may be forfeit if Curthose succeeds. Kirkthwaite Hall is your wife’s inheritance, and as such is safe.

  The most important thing is to secure the Montbryce lands in Normandie, including Mabelle’s Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. Your brother Robert should be able to hold them, with our help, and that of my brothers, Hugh and Antoine, and their sons. I wish Robert would get on with finding a wife who will bring him strong allies. We may need them.”

  Caedmon braced his legs and squared his shoulders. “You are my liege lord, Father, and I’ll serve you whatever your decision,” he replied, rejoicing in his heart he already had a beautiful wife who loved him despite his shortcomings. He hoped his half brother would find a woman he loved, and not have to marry for the sake of an alliance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dorianne de Giroux had grown up in the bosom of a family filled with hatred and the desire for vengeance. Before she was born, her late grandfather had been blinded and mutilated by another baron, Guillaume de Valtesse. They’d argued over territory.

  Sitting with her father and brother in the gallery, she concentrated on her embroidery, but once again, her father, François, wanted to relive the nightmare.

  “Your grandfather sank into madness after his blinding and made life a living hell for his sons, Phillippe, Georges, and me. Yet we were the ones who’d captured the Valtesse castle at Alensonne in retaliation. With the help of Valtesse’s bastard, Arnulf, we cast Guillaume out and exiled him, along with his daughter, Mabelle. Curses on fate that Arnulf would die and Valtesse regain his castle.”

  Dorianne had heard this story a thousand times and knew what came next. Her uncle Phillippe had been consumed with hatred for the Valtesse family. He’d gone to England and plotted against Mabelle’s husband, the Comte de Montbryce. News had eventually reached them Phillippe had been killed in Wales.

  “Papa,” she ventured. “Can we not talk of other things?”

  François glared at her as if she was speaking Greek and then carried on. “I’m not a violent man, but I can never forget the torments I suffered at the hands of my mad father.”

  It worried Dorianne that her older brother, Pierre, seemed to hang on their father’s every word, encouraging his preoccupation. “Well, Papa, you almost had one of the Montbryces convicted of adultery by the King’s court in Caen.”

  François smirked. “Much good that did. The Montbryces were in the Conqueror’s pocket. Had I succeeded in getting Hugh de Montbryce condemned, Phillippe might never have embarked on his plan to aid the Welsh kidnappers who captured Rambaud de Montbryce’s wife and her brats.”

  Her father rarely showed affection for his children, and she’d looked to Pierre for love and kindness. Their mother loved them, but she was a timid woman who wilted under the gaze of her husband and did his bidding in all things. Elenor now sat with her head bowed, as she did every evening, immersed in her sewing, contributing nothing to the conversation.

  Dorianne dreaded the day her father would find her a husband. Having led a secluded existence in the Giroux castle, she had no friends, only her brother. A year older than she, Pierre was allowed more freedom and often travelled with their father through their lands or to other barons’ demesnes.

  She harangued her brother for details of his travels upon his return, anxious to hear about the outside world. Pierre trained with the men-at-arms of the castle, and Dorianne often stole up to the parapets to watch secretly as the men practised their skills.

  Maman and Papa would be horrified to know I’ve seen men bared to the waist, sweating.

  Young noblewomen of eighteen weren’t supposed to know of such things. Sometimes seigneurs from neighbouring lands would visit, often bringing their sons. Dorianne recognized this as part of the game to get her a husband, but none of the young men took her fancy. However, she’d have no say in the matter. Her father was already irritated she was past the age when most young noblewomen married. The only family her father would never betroth her to was that of the Comte de Montbryce, their hated enemy, whose lands were but a day’s ride away.

  ***

  A few days later, her father took her by surprise at supper in the Hall. “Dorianne, two days hence you’ll accompany Pierre and me to the castle of the Comte d’Avranches.”

  “Two days?” she parroted, stunned she was being allowed to leave the castle, but suspecting more would be revealed and that it would concern a betrothal. She waited, noticing Pierre’s nod of approval.

  She grew more apprehensive and toyed with her food, watching her father chew leisurely on a chicken leg and then take a long swig of ale. Noisily sucking food out of his teeth, he confirmed, “We’ll meet with the Comte to discuss your betrothal to his son, Alain d’Avranches. Your marriage to him will bring us strong allies in the coming war with Henry of England. The Comte plans to host a Grand Council to discuss the political situation, and we’ll be his guests. It’s a perfect opportunity for them to meet my beautiful daughter.”

  Her eyes widened. This might turn out to be a good thing. Encouraged by her father’s unusual warmth, she ventured to ask, “What’s the Comte’s son like?”

  He cast her an indignant look. “I know not, daughter, I haven’t met him. He’s never attended any of the tournaments. He’s but a boy of twelve.”

  Her heart plummeted. “Twelve! But father—”

  Her father held up his hands. “Enough of this, Dorianne. He’s a d’Avranches. That’s the important thing.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, slid down in her chair and sulked for a while, then something else her father had said came to mind. “Coming war? There’s to
be a war?”

  Pierre looked at her as though she was stupid. “Don’t you know anything? There’ll be war over the throne of England.”

  She gritted her teeth and hissed back at him. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on when I’m a prisoner here?”

  Her father got up and left. Elenor packed up her sewing and dutifully followed him, venturing a strange smile at her daughter. Dorianne slumped back into her chair.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Pierre asked belligerently.

  Dorianne wasn’t sure that sharing her feelings with him was a good idea. “In my wildest imaginings of my future husband I never dreamt he’d be a boy much younger than me.”

  Pierre shrugged as he came to his feet. “Dori, it’s father’s decision. You’ll have to make the best of it. Be grateful he’s not sending you to a nunnery.”

  Dorianne sat bolt upright. “Why would he do that?”

  Pierre left without another word, whistling. The future didn’t look promising.

  ***

  Robert de Montbryce was deeply uncomfortable with his father’s decision to support King Henry in the battle for control of Normandie. As a loyal Norman he felt they should fight for his namesake, Duke Robert Curthose. The now dead William Rufus and Curthose had made an agreement naming each other heir presumptive. Henry had usurped the throne as far as Robert was concerned. He needed to know the allegiances of the other noble families in Normandie. Who would fight on which side?

  He’d received an invitation to the Grand Council being summoned by the Comte d’Avranches, a Marcher Lord like his father. He told Steward Bonhomme, “This Grand Council will be an excellent chance to sound out the other families, most of whom also have lands in England. My uncles Antoine and Hugh will attend to represent the family’s other holdings and it will be an opportunity to formulate a unified plan for the Montbryce lands. I expect at least some of my cousins will be there too.”

  Bonhomme made the preparations and Robert completed the two day ride with his knights to Avranches where he was welcomed warmly by the Comte.

  “How is my old friend, the Earl of Ellesmere?” d’Avranches asked. “I haven’t seen him for a few years. I hear good things concerning his area of the Marches though. Your father seems to have solved many of the problems of the Welsh there. My earldom is still plagued by those infernal rebels, Rhun and Rhydderch ap Rhodri.”

  Robert’s chest swelled at the well-deserved praise for his father. He smiled inwardly, privy to information about Rhodri ap Owain and his family d’Avranches didn’t know. Though the troubles with the Welsh were still ongoing in the border Marches, his father’s holdings had been relatively free of trouble after the marriage of the rebellious Rhodri and Rhonwen, who was like a daughter to his mother, Mabelle.

  Robert’s own sister, Rhoni, had been born in the Welsh chieftain’s fortress during their captivity. Though a child at the time of the kidnapping, Robert had taken a liking to the fearsome Welshman who’d taught him fighting and defence techniques—and, more importantly, how to ride a Welsh mountain pony.

  But he shared none of this with d’Avranches. “He’s well, milord, apart from his rheumatism. He and my mother are both well.”

  D’Avranches slapped him on the back. “And I suppose your mother is as beautiful as ever?”

  “She is,” Robert answered with a grin.

  The Comte hadn’t removed his arm from Robert’s shoulders. “Your uncles and cousins arrived earlier. Your chambers are satisfactory?”

  Robert was aware he’d been allotted one of the better chambers this magnificent castle had to offer. “Excellent. Merci.”

  The Comte smiled. “Tonight we’ll hold a feast in the Great Hall to welcome everyone. I look forward to seeing you there, my boy,” he said warmly. “We may have a keg or two of the wonderful apple brandy you Montbryces are famous for!”

  “Then I won’t fail to be there, milord Earl of Chester.”

  ***

  Dorianne relished the journey to the castle at Avranches. She was a caged bird set free. She rejoiced in the beauty of the great forests, listening to the chirping of birds in the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of them. She could hear the distant voices of labourers in the green fields they passed through.

  At home she was allowed to ride with a chaperone provided she was within sight of the castle. Now she savoured the movement of the mare beneath her as the animal too seemed to enjoy the freedom of the open road.

  They’d been on their way almost a day when her father became agitated. Far off to the west she could see an imposing castle, built on a promontory, flanked by apple orchards.

  “Whose castle is that, mon père?” she asked innocently

  “Montbryce!” her father spat the name.

  They continued their journey in silence. Dorianne was drawn to look back at the impressive edifice again as they rode away from it, but dared not, fearing her father’s wrath.

  When they arrived at Avranches they were greeted civilly, shown to their chambers and informed of the evening’s festivities. It was the first time Dorianne had slept in a chamber other than her own. She went to the window and inhaled the smell of the sea, wishing she’d been worthy of a chamber on the side facing it. It would have been a splendid adventure, were she not preoccupied with the unpleasant idea of marriage to a twelve year old boy.

  A maid was assigned to her. Why not try to discover something of Alain d’Avranches? While the girl combed her hair, she remarked casually, “I’m anxious to meet the Comte’s son.”

  The maid eyed her strangely. “Which one, milady?”

  Dorianne cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice betray her emotions. “Alain.”

  The maid faltered in her combing, then recovered and shrugged. “He’s a boy.”

  Dorianne waited, fiddling with a ribbon. “What kind of boy?”

  She winced as the maid pulled her hair tightly into the braid. “Alain d’Avranches is a boy with three older sisters who tease him mercilessly. He hates girls.”

  This wasn’t good news and Dorianne’s dismay deepened as the maid finished her tasks in silence. She dismissed the girl once she was ready, pleased with her dress of maroon red velvet. It showed off her slender figure, with the right amount of décolletage for a young maiden. The wimple was short enough that an appropriate glimpse of her dark braid could be seen. Why these things should matter when she was to be married to a child, she didn’t know.

  She sat on the bed waiting for her father and brother to come for her, determined to speak to her father about the betrothal. She became aware she was biting her nails.

  Stop that!

  When the men arrived, François de Giroux was indignant they hadn’t been given a warmer welcome. “We’re not one of the great Norman families, and we’ve had our troubles in the past—but d’Avranches could at least have had his son there to greet us. We’re supposed to be discussing a betrothal.”

  “Papa, he’s probably more preoccupied at the moment with the Grand Council,” Pierre offered. “Perhaps Dorianne will have a chance to meet the Comte’s son in the Hall during the feast? I believe my sister is ready. We should go. We don’t want to be late.”

  When they came to the door of the Hall, d’Avranches greeted them. A pouting, pimply boy fidgeted at his side. “Ah, Giroux. Welcome. You’ve brought your son and your beautiful daughter.”

  François affected a bow. “Oui, milord d’Avranches, may I present to you my son, Pierre, and my daughter, Dorianne,” he said, pushing his daughter forward. She curtseyed as she’d been shown to do a thousand times by her mother.

  “Welcome to you all,” the Comte went on, taking Dorianne’s hand. “And I present to you my son, Alain.”

  He transferred her hand into that of the pock-faced boy. She curtseyed to the scowling lad. His hand was sweaty and he barely came up to her shoulders, his eyes on a level with her breasts. For some reason this struck her as amusing and she tittered.

  Alain glowered at
her, his lips tightly drawn. Her father was clearly not pleased with her behaviour. The Comte seemed not to have noticed anything amiss, and turned to greet other arrivals, handing them over to the steward for seating.

  The huge Hall was crowded, filled with sounds of loud conversation and laughter, the air redolent with appetizing aromas. Embroidered banners wafted high in the beams. Tapestries warmed the white walls.

  François was unhappy about where they were seated. “We should be closer to the salt.”

  Dorianne rolled her eyes and under her breath said to Pierre, “Why can’t he enjoy the experience? This is wondrous.”

  Pierre gave her a look similar to the one she’d received from Alain d’Avranches. “Respect is important, Dori. Remember that.”

  He strode off, tagging behind her father who was evidently intent on engaging some other baron in conversation. She fidgeted with her wimple for a few minutes, then tucked her hands under her thighs. She looked nervously around the Hall at the nobles and ladies in their finery. She’d never seen such a gathering and felt conspicuously alone at the table.

  What had become of her father and brother? She glanced over to one of the entrances. Her mouth fell open. A tall knight stood there. He was by far the most striking man in the whole assembly. His handsome face was gentle, and his lively eyes searched the chamber. His long dark hair, tanned complexion and self-assured stance bespoke a man it wouldn’t be wise to challenge. Various people greeted him and he acknowledged each with a nod. Who was he? He was the epitome of everything she’d ever dreamed of in a handsome knight.

  Beside him, striking a similar pose, stood a dwarf. The contrast in height between the two might cause many to smile, yet the diminutive man exuded the same vitality, the same aura of power. He pointed to someone in the Hall and spoke to his companion.

  Dorianne looked back at the tall man and her heart missed a beat. His gaze bore into her. She couldn’t look away, suddenly couldn’t breathe. His sensuous lips curled into a smile, and he moved his hips slightly. His eyes widened and she dragged her gaze away to stare at the table, a chill sweeping across her nape.