Passion in the Blood Page 5

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dorianne’s lacerations hadn’t healed. The journey to Mont Saint Michel was long and painful. Her brother forbade conversation, insisting it was good practice for her new life of silence. After close to two days in the saddle her derrière was bruised and raw, but she was more stricken she would likely never see her mother and father again. Was she so hateful her father would cast her out?

  A dull ache of disbelief had taken hold of her. As the interminable miles slipped by, she became lost in thought. What had she done to deserve this treatment from her father and brother? She’d merely found the company of Robert de Montbryce intoxicating, and had envisioned marrying him, becoming the future Comtesse de Montbryce. What was wrong with that? Most fathers would be overjoyed at the prospect of such a match for their daughter. Only hatred made it a crime.

  She clung to the memory of Robert’s hands on her waist, the taste of his lips, the hard length of his manhood pressed against her. Remembering the warmth of the kitchen chimney warded off the damp chill. Would he come for her? How would he know where she was? Had he meant what he’d said when he pledged to her in the chapel? Or would he too succumb to hatred under the influence of his parents? Was there hope? She had to hold on to the notion there was, otherwise she too might go mad. Hope was the only thing she had left.

  Her first glimpse of Mont Saint Michel filled her with dread. No wonder Aubert, Bishop of Avranches four hundred years before, had long resisted the call of the Archangel Michel to build an Abbey on the isolated barren rock. It was formidable, and Dorianne could see no way to reach it. The sea isolated it completely.

  Pierre ordered their escort to dismount and set up camp. “We’ll have to wait for the tide to recede,” he told his lieutenant. Dorianne was thankful for the chance to get off her horse. The treeless shore provided no shelter from the drizzling rain. She huddled under the rough canvas the men erected, keeping her weight off her bottom. She dozed fitfully for a short time, to be awakened by a shout. “Prepare quickly, the tide’s going out.”

  She struggled to her feet and stood in amazement watching the tide rush out like a galloping horse. Pierre bustled her to her mare and the two set off along the mudflat, followed by a flock of sheep that had been grazing in the fields nearby. The escort remained on the shore. As they made their way through the vast, muddy solitude, the forbidding walls of the Abbey came into full view. She supposed the multitude of pilgrims who braved many hardships to travel here would be elated at the sight. It was to be her tomb.

  No wonder they call this Mont Tombe.

  Pierre would not enter the Abbey, speaking to the Prior at the gates. He made the excuse of having to regain the mainland before the tide rushed back. He brushed a kiss on Dorianne’s cheek, turned and left without a word. She couldn’t watch him go. She stepped through the gate held open by the monk, shuddering as it creaked shut behind her.

  A crow cawed its mocking cry in the distance. Would the sheep grazing on the meagre grass tufts of the rocky island be the last thing she would see of the world? Her dulled brain could only wonder how they knew when the tide was coming back. At least the drizzle hid her tears. She drew in a ragged breath and looked to the elderly Prior for instruction. He had a kindly look.

  Pray I don’t swoon.

  “My brother has left me no clothing—”

  The monk put a forefinger to his lips and shook his head. He extended his hand, showing the way to the entry. She followed in his wake. As the doorway loomed, she glanced up at the scaffolding, wooden planks supported by poles lashed together. Slabs of stone hung suspended in mid-air, the pulleys stilled as the masons studied her progress. She looked away from the pity on their faces.

  Were they building or repairing? It was likely such a structure would need constant repair and renovation, exposed as it was to the open sea. Men had probably scurried over its walls and rooftops since the time of Charlemagne. It was odd they didn’t shout to each other. When masons toiled on the castle Giroux there was a great deal of calling back and forth. Here silence reigned. The only sound was the crunch of her boots on the narrow stone pathway. Not even the soaring seagulls exchanged a cry as they watched. She could smell the sea. She’d never seen it before. It called to her.

  Come to me. I will ease your pain.

  “I’m losing my mind,” were the last words she spoke as the Prior rapped on the door.

  ***

  Robert was torn. It was imperative he go to England to report the discussions of the Council to his father. But he feared for Dorianne. The longer she was in the clutches of her father and brother, the greater the chances he’d never see her again. He sensed Pierre had lost his ability to reason and Dorianne was at his mercy.

  He’d been back at Montbryce only a sennight, and had hoped the long hours he’d spent reinforcing the garrison and inspecting the men would have taken the edge off his turmoil, but it was not to be. He exhausted himself in the training fields with the knights, despite his slowly healing wound, but still couldn’t sleep at night.

  He felt very alone and isolated and wished his parents were there. He’d assumed the responsibilities of the ancestral castle in Normandie without hesitation, and without misstep, but now he felt lost in a sea of conflicting political loyalties. Add to that the desperation of possibly losing the woman he’d fallen in love with. Would he be equal to the challenges ahead? He was surrounded by loyal servants and knights who’d served his family through successive generations, but had no family there to support him. He shook off his stupor and went down into the crypt where lay the tombs of the grandparents he’d never known.

  He knelt heavily on the prie-dieu, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the padded armrest. He called upon the spirits of his ancestors for guidance. Exhaustion and despair lulled him to sleep.

  He dreamed of the grandfather who’d died before he was born, of his beloved parents, of Baudoin and Rhoni. Suddenly there appeared a clear vision of Henry, the King of the English, riding in triumph through Normandie, accepting homage from the comtes and seigneurs of the land he’d reclaimed.

  Robert woke with a start, his head clear, certain his father had been right to choose Henry. He ran from the crypt, turning briefly to nod at the tomb of his grandfather, and hurried to his chamber.

  ***

  He was making final preparations to leave for England the next day when his uncles rode into the bailey with his cousins, Melton and Mathieu de Montbryce. “Mes oncles, cousins,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to bring you here?”

  The visitors dismounted and Robert embraced each in turn. Hugh spoke first. “Listen. Rumour is rife Giroux has sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

  Robert ran a hand through his hair. “Mont Saint Michel?”

  Antoine strode ahead of them. “Hurry, we’ll go to the Map Room and explain our plan.”

  Robert picked up his pace. “Plan?”

  When they reached the Map Room, Antoine rummaged through a pile of charts. “Sit, Robert,” he ordered.

  Robert sat. What were these two up to?

  “Aha! Here it is,” Antoine exclaimed, unfurling a chart and laying it out on the table in front of Robert. He traced his finger along the parchment and Robert’s eyes followed. “You’ll need to head back to Avranches after you go to the castle Giroux,” Antoine began.

  Robert put his hand on Antoine’s. “Wait! What are you talking about? I must go to Ellesmere. My father—”

  Hugh pulled Robert’s hand from the chart. “Let him explain,” he said patiently.

  Antoine cleared his throat. “You must ascertain if they have indeed sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

  Robert became impatient. “By all that’s holy, Mont Saint Michel is impregnable.”

  Antoine pointed to where the River Couesnon met the sea. “You’re right, more or less. However, with a letter seeking permission to see her, from the Comte d’Avranches—”

  Robert’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a two day ride, at
least, especially if I go to Giroux first.”

  Hugh smirked. “Give or take, you’re right.”

  Robert’s head ached. “Why have they sent her there?”

  Hugh put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You’ve answered that question yourself. It’s a religious establishment. A particularly isolated and rigorous one.”

  Robert glanced up at his uncle, anger constricting his throat. He rose and went to the window, pulling back the oiled covering. He watched masses of crows flying overhead, a seemingly endless migration. Foreboding washed over him. “They mean to destroy her,” he whispered. “Because she showed me love, they mean to destroy her.”

  Antoine joined him at the window. “We don’t want you to worry about England.”

  Robert turned to his uncle. “How can I not worry?”

  Antoine shrugged. “Because I intend to go in your stead.”

  Robert shook his head. “But what of Belisle?”

  Antoine reassured him. “Hugh and I have spent years preparing our castles for what’s happening in Normandie. If we’re not ready now, we never will be. You know it’s the same here at Montbryce. Though Ram doesn’t live here, he’s made sure the defences are second to none, and you have strengthened them more.”

  Mathieu entered the conversation. “Adam and Denis are at Belisle. They’re capable commanders.”

  Antoine smirked and tousled Mathieu’s hair. “Such high praise for your brothers, little one.”

  Robert smiled. Calling the six foot Mathieu ‘little one’ was incongruous at best! He let the covering fall back over the window. “You propose I ride to the Giroux castle and thence to Mont Saint Michel?”

  Hugh grinned. “Non, we propose you, Mathieu, Melton and I go. And don’t concern yourself with Domfort. Gerwint is there. Like his cousins he’s more than capable of commanding the knights.”

  Melton nodded. “But, Papa, my brother wouldn’t be happy if he heard you calling him Gerwint. You know he prefers his nickname.”

  Antoine was curious. “Nickname?”

  Melton smiled. “His middle name is Isembart, as you know, after the rat catcher who saved Maman’s life, but he prefers to be called Izzy.”

  Hugh rolled his eyes and remarked, “Young people these days. He complains his given name, Gerwint, is old fashioned. But he doesn’t say that in front of his mother. After all it was her father’s and her grandfather’s name.”

  “Izzy!” Mathieu exclaimed. “Hah! Wait until I see him next.”

  Robert paced. He’d been only half listening to the exchange. “My parents will sense something is wrong if I don’t go to Ellesmere. Don’t tell them about Dorianne. I want to do that myself.”

  Antoine expressed his agreement. “I won’t reveal it. But you must secure Dorianne first.”

  Robert looked at his uncles. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Antoine and Hugh exchanged a glance and both men smiled. It was Hugh who replied, “Because you have the same passion in the blood we do. If Antoine hadn’t helped me rescue Devona, I cannot imagine what my life would have been. If you love Dorianne half as much as I love Devona—”

  The words seemed to stick in Hugh’s throat, and Antoine gave him a pat on the back. “What Hugh is trying to say is that we’ll do everything possible to aid you, if you truly love this woman. It’s a Montbryce tradition!”

  Robert squared his shoulders. “I truly love her.”

  “Enough said, then,” Antoine replied.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Prior rapped twice on the stout wooden door to the nuns’ Enclosure and left. Dorianne waited, barely able to stand, her legs trembling violently. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and the lacerations throbbed. She heard movement on the other side of the door, but no voices. A lock clanked and the door was dragged open, the bottom scraping on the stone floor. The reek of decay assailed her nostrils causing bile to rise in her throat. A stern faced nun appeared, looked Dorianne up and down, took hold of a sleeve and pulled her inside. She applied her copious backside to shoving the stubborn door closed.

  Without a word, she set off and Dorianne followed her to a small door, which the woman opened. She lit a taper from the wall torch and handed it to Dorianne. It was clear she was to enter. She stepped inside. The windowless cell was so tiny, Dorianne had seemingly reached the opposite wall even before she’d entered. She gasped and turned, but the door slammed shut.

  The candle threatened to go out. She grasped it with both hands, willing them to stop shaking, and placed it on a wooden stool. It cast its glow onto a pallet, atop which was a pile of clothing. She crawled to lie face down, using the clothing as a bolster. The material felt rough on her face.

  She slept fitfully, but then her numbed mind forced her to attempt to dress in the habit. She was sweating profusely and once she’d removed her clothing, the cool air made her shiver. She donned the rough habit. There was no wimple. She collapsed back on to the pallet, her mouth bone dry.

  A short while later, another nun entered without knocking, picked up Dorianne’s clothing and left. She returned a few moments later carrying a pair of shears and a coif and veil. Dorianne sat up in alarm, the pain searing through her legs. How to tell this woman she couldn’t sit?

  The nun chopped off her braid without unplaiting it. Tears streamed down Dorianne’s face as the blade bit into her hair. It took several tries to cut through its thickness. Her hair was being pulled out by its roots. She bit her lip and clutched the habit, trying not to sob. Once her hair was shorn, the nun fastened the coif tightly around her head and topped it with the veil. She indicated Dorianne should stand and turn about. The room spun. The woman seemed satisfied.

  Following the nun’s signals she trailed after her to a large chamber where two score women were gathered. All appeared elderly. None looked up as she entered, nor gave any acknowledgement of her presence. She was led to a bench, where she sat, accepting the resultant pain as proof she still lived.

  She was served food. A watery broth, coarse bread, a piece of boiled mutton, a tumbler of ale. Each nun received the same portion. The mutton stuck in her throat, but when she pushed it to one side of her trencher, a slight shake of the head from her neighbour told her she would have to eat it.

  At the end of the meal, the women rose as one at the sound of a tinkling bell. Dorianne struggled to her feet and followed, but the nun who had shorn her hair took her by the arm and led her to an office, where yet another nun awaited her.

  “I am Abbesse.” Dorianne was startled by the sound of the woman’s voice and looked around for something to hold on to. She opened her mouth, but was silenced by the woman’s raised hand before she had a chance to speak. “I will tell you what’s expected of you. You may not reply, except to nod your understanding. You may not speak. Do you understand?”

  Dorianne bowed her head, swallowing an urge to retch. Her body burned. The room tilted.

  “Are you ill?” the Abbesse asked.

  If she wasn’t allowed to speak, how to tell this woman she was indeed ill, that her flesh was on fire? What could she do, lift her skirts and expose her bottom to make the woman understand her predicament? She shook her head.

  The nun pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Good. We don’t tolerate malingerers here. You’ll soon come to accept our way of life. You should be proud your family has given you to God.”

  Dorianne clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. What kind of a God would condone a woman being buried alive for loving a man—a good man? She prayed for the strength to remain on her feet long enough to reach the solitude of her cell.

  The Abbesse droned on, explaining the rules and routines of the Abbey. Dorianne heard nothing but the sound of another human voice. She didn’t recall later how she’d got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before she fell asleep.

  ***

  When she awoke, she wasn’t alone. Indeed she was fairly sure she wasn’t in her cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious
faces swam in and out of her wits. She couldn’t make sense of any of it. The effort of breathing was sufficient. A warm hand grasped hers and she forced her eyes to stay open. Was there a look of genuine concern on the face of the Abbesse?

  I must be dreaming.

  She raised her hand to her head. Her coif and veil had been removed, but the habit remained. Someone bathed her forehead. She wanted to thank them, but remembered she wasn’t to speak. And pervading all was the sharp toothed creature biting the flesh of her buttocks and thighs.

  “Sister Marye was unable to wake you for Lauds, Novice. What ails you? I give you leave to speak.”

  Dorianne swallowed hard and licked her lips. She doubted she could speak if she tried—her mouth was full of sawdust. She was given ale to sip and guzzled it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped.

  The Abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?”

  Dorianne put her hand on her hip.

  The Abbesse rolled Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the Sign of the Cross and issued terse instructions to the infirmarians. Dorianne was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a sleeping draught and soon drifted off into oblivion.

  ***

  Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a complement of men-at-arms stood before the gates of the Giroux castle, requesting entry. It was refused. As darkness fell, they set up camp and pondered their next course of action.

  Robert worried about Antoine meeting with his parents. They would be conflicted over his decision to wed Dorianne, and he wanted to be the one to tell them.

  “Don’t worry,” Hugh reassured him. “They may sense something is in the wind, but Antoine has given his word.”

  Robert paced in the canvas shelter. “What’s our next move, then? Dieu! Listen to me. I seem incapable of making a decision. I’ve never had that problem.”

  Hugh chuckled. “Love does tend to addle the brain.” He passed a wineskin. “Here, this might help.”