Conquering Passion (3 page)

Why is my father adamant about this matter?

“I’ll be relieved when we reach Alensonne on the morrow,” Antoine complained. “Curse these March rains—they turn the earth to muck.”

Ram grunted in agreement. Even his warhorse, Fortis, seemed weary of pulling his great hooves free with each step. Ram berated his father for sending them on this trivial mission. He’d been home only a day. But at least he’d had the chance to enjoy Joleyne’s talents. He smiled at the memory of their tryst

CHAPTER THREE

A cloaked figure squeezed through the tiny postern gate of Alensonne, and paused to listen, his eyes darting from one darkened corner to another. The moonless night suited his plans. Heavy clouds threatened more rain, but the deluge had stopped for the moment.

He’d learned from recent gossip in the bailey that Rambaud de Montbryce, son of their overlord, would be arriving on the morrow. The guards would be more alert, and Montbryce would bring his own men. He had to act now to avenge his daughter’s death. He’d waited long enough, since the thin sun had heralded the first day of this cursed Year of Our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Six. That was the day a stillborn child had been drawn from Angeline’s lifeless body, its soul at least preserved.

His daughter had been the one precious thing he had, a living reminder of his wife, dead in childbirth fifteen years before. His daily life, ploughing the few acres with his oxen team, planting and reaping, was a hard grind. His sole pleasure at the end of a gruelling day, the only thing that sustained him, had been the sight of his daughter’s angelic face.

Then Arnulf had filled her with a bastard. Simon Hugo cursed. Why hadn’t he paid heed to the whispers among his fellow peasants? Arnulf was known to prey on young maidens, yet Simon had sent his daughter to the castle to deliver turnips, grown on the meagre plot of land he tenanted. Arnulf was debauched and decadent, though he hadn’t inherited the fiery temper of the father he’d ousted from the castle, Guillaume de Valtesse. At least with the father, peasants had been able to prosper if they avoided angering him.

Simon’s heart clenched when he remembered the night his daughter had returned to their hut, dishevelled and sobbing, and he’d known, known
,
what had happened, before she could tell him. He’d relived that night over and over, the words haunting him. Eventually he’d found his voice but couldn’t look at her dirty, tear-streaked face. “We’ll tell no one,” he’d muttered.

For a long while the only sound had been Angeline’s sobbing. Simon had clenched and unclenched his fists, his heart broken. “You’ll never have to go to the castle again. Arnulf is a pig.”

What words could he have uttered? How could he have comforted her? “It’s not your fault, daughter.”

Angeline had fallen silent. Her silence had worried him more than her wrenching sobs. “I’ve failed to protect you.”

He’d wanted to rush to the castle and kill Arnulf, but he’d banged his fists on the crude table, knowing such vengeance would result in his being hanged, and Angeline left alone. He was a powerless cottar, a peasant. His lord owned the oxen and plough. He could do nothing.

Now, creeping through the darkened bailey, he was glad he’d waited and taken time to plan. It was close to midnight. Guards would still be on the turrets. He clenched the calloused fists with which he intended to restrain his victim. He’d nothing more to lose. If he hung for the murder he planned to commit, he didn’t care. This lord had no honour, no morals.

It’s a cruel man who wrests from young maidens the only thing of value they have.

Two sentries paused as their paths crossed on the battlements above. “
Mon vieux,
how are you this dark night?”

“I wish I was tucked up in a warm bed with my wife, old friend.”

“I wish I was tucked up in a warm bed with your wife too!” One man slapped his comrade on the back.

Simon smirked and leaned his head back against the wall. His hood protected him from the cold roughness of the stone. He suspected the two men had exchanged this same jovial greeting many times over the years. Both snorted their laughter as they parted to continue their vigil. He was relieved their attention was on their jest and not their duty.

Simon moved stealthily through the darkened bailey, hugging the high stone walls, breathing a shallow sigh of relief when he saw there was no guard at the heavy door to the keep. Things were as lax as they usually were. The hinges of the oaken door creaked as he inched it open and paused, waiting, alert, his rough fingers gripping the smooth wood. No challenge came. His worn boots made no sound on the stone steps as he climbed to the chamber where all knew the master slept. He paused again to steady his breathing and his fingers closed on the vial concealed in his cloak. Reassured, he smiled grimly and edged the door open.

Loud snoring assailed his ears as he entered the chamber, and his disgust intensified. “
Cochon!
” he murmured. The
pig
was a man of thirty years, whereas Simon had weathered two score and ten, but the dissolute nobleman would be no match for Simon’s strength, bred from years of toiling in the fields for this cruel wretch sprawled on his huge bed, and his father before him.

An echo of his daughter’s last desperate wail for help in the throes of death, pressed in on his memory. Cowering outside their hut, his hands pressing his cloak to his ears, he’d been unable to shut out the sound of her screams.

He’d been helpless then, but he wasn’t helpless now. Rage coursed through him as he grunted, “
Cochon!
”

Disoriented, Arnulf started and struggled to sit up in the large bed, confusion apparent in his half open eyes. Simon seized his victim and dragged him to the head of the bed, pinning him hard with his knee. Pressing Arnulf’s head against the backboard, he used his big hands to force open the ugly mouth, silencing the scream that threatened to escape. Reaching into his cloak with one hand, his fingers closed on the vial. He flipped off the stopper with his thumb and slowly and deliberately poured the wolfsbane between Arnulf’s protesting lips. He tried to move his head, his fat legs kicking frantically, but Simon increased his grip and brought his whole weight to bear on his lord’s chest. A foul odour filled the air and Simon took grim satisfaction. Arnulf’s bowels had failed him.

He will die in his own dung.

It took but a few minutes for the struggling to cease. Arnulf’s eyes were wide with the knowledge he would soon be a dead man, and his paralyzed body could do nothing. Simon looked into the dying eyes and smiled grimly.

I have righted the wrong, Angeline! Vengeance is yours.

Then it was over. The lifeless body sagged as Simon withdrew his hands. In disgust, he wiped Arnulf’s sweat on the frayed edges of the well-worn cloak that had concealed him. He moved the lolling head back to the pillow and covered the body with the linens. It would be hours before anyone became alarmed.

“Sleep well, pig. It was your destiny to die this night. It’s too late to help my Angeline, but I pray other souls will benefit from your death.”

***

“I’m getting curious about this Mabelle,” Ram admitted to Antoine as Alensonne came into view. The prospect of his possible impending marriage to this unknown refugee filled him with misgivings. War was imminent. It wasn’t a good time to be getting married. “How can a girl who has spent her youth wandering from place to place with a man like Guillaume de Valtesse make a suitable
Comtesse
?”

“If you’d supped in the Great Hall, you’d have seen her,” Antoine replied with a grin. “Perhaps there’ll be no treaty with Arnulf, and Mabelle will never inherit any part of her father’s lands. You’ll be free to marry someone more to your liking, someone more
suitable
, who’ll bring you a rich dowry. Perhaps then I’ll pursue Mabelle.”

Ram cast a puzzled glance at his brother. “You already have too many women in your thrall, Antoine. How do you keep track?”

Antoine chuckled. “What can I say? I like women, and they like me. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” How alike he, Antoine and Hugh were in many ways, and yet Antoine had women at his beck and call, whereas Ram doubted if the shy and gentle, happy-go-lucky Hugh had ever bedded a woman.

He shook his head, sending water droplets flying. “It’s ironic I’m given the task of playing the diplomat on a mission I’d prefer not succeed. I’m sure there are prospective brides who’ve been more suitably brought up than this Mabelle.”

Wiping the rain from his face, he thought again of Joleyne. She brought him relief from his physical needs, but it wasn’t a satisfying relationship on any other level. He meant nothing to her beyond being a means to satisfy her considerable passion. He paid her well for her discretion. She came, whenever he summoned her, to a secluded chamber he kept for such trysts, not wishing to soil his own nest.

He smiled at the thought of his solar, furnished with military souvenirs and trophies. He loved to run his hands over the prized swords and shields mounted on the walls. It was his refuge. He was sure his father was aware of mistress, but it was a liaison he didn’t flaunt. Few in the castle knew of it. Compared to Antoine he was a monk.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned to his brother. “Imagine being a married man with a beautiful wife who is yours alone? A woman you loved and who loved you in return.”

“Enough!” Antoine replied good-naturedly. “What are you thinking? Has the mud clouded your brain? You’re the eldest son of the
Comte
de Montbryce. You’ll have no say. None of our comrades in arranged marriages love their wives. It’s a foolish notion to expect love from a marriage. You know that. We all know it. Though I’m the middle son, my bride will be chosen for me. That’s one reason I’m enjoying myself now.”

“You’re right, Antoine. Look at our friend Pierre de Fleury.”

“Exactly.”

A cold shudder went through Ram as the possibility of a similar fate loomed. “Poor Pierre. How does he bear it? How can he lie with his shrew of a wife?”

He frowned, trying to recall what his father had said about Mabelle. He hadn’t paid attention—perhaps he should have. It was his responsibility to ensure the succession of his family. He had to trust his father would ensure the woman who became his bride would bring them increased wealth and influence. Happiness wasn’t an issue. Neither was passion. That could be found with the likes of the tantalizing Joleyne.

They rode at last into the Alensonne bailey, but no one came to tend their exhausted mounts. Blathering women ran hither and thither. Men shouted, with no apparent purpose. Indignant hens dodged the stampede. Dogs barked. The torrential rain added to the wretchedness.

What was the commotion about? Ram’s body tensed and he gritted his teeth. He’d pushed men and horses through the deluge to get to shelter, yet they were being ignored.

“This Arnulf doesn’t have his servants trained in the code of hospitality,” he grumbled, feeling the cold damp seeping into his bones.

Antoine nodded his agreement, shrugging his shoulders.

“You there,” Ram shouted to a terrified lad scurrying by. The boy stopped but avoided eye contact. “What’s going on here? Is there no one to tend to our mounts?” he asked angrily, rainwater dripping from his helmet and chain mail.

“
Mi—milord
,” the ragged urchin stammered, taking the reins, fear oozing out of him. “Our lord is dead. He’s dead. No one knows what to do.”

“Dead? Arnulf de Valtesse?”

“
Oui
,
milord
.”

Ram and Antoine exchanged glances. “How did he die?”

The lad glanced around furtively, as if looking for a means of escape. “No one knows,
milord
. His valet found his body in bed.”

“He died in his bed?”

The urchin seemed confused by the question. “Our lord often slept late, but his servant became alarmed when the hour for the noon meal approached, and he hadn’t risen.”

The boy, his hair plastered to his head, was almost hysterical, apparently overwhelmed by the presence of two scowling knights and the hubbub around him.

“A lord who sleeps till noon,” Ram remarked to his brother as he dismounted, knowing from experience the successful running of a castle required a leader who rose with the sun. Servants and serfs learned discipline from their masters.

Stable boys emerged to take the reins of their mounts.

“Make sure the horses are dried thoroughly,” Antoine ordered.

“I am
Vicomte
Rambaud de Montbryce. Who’s in charge here?” Ram asked the boy, who pointed timidly to a short, bearded man, standing with a group in the bailey, about twenty feet away. He scratched his head and looked at his feet, shoulders hunched, trying to coax shelter from a small overhang by the door. As Ram and Antoine sloshed angrily through the puddles towards him, he raised his head. He rushed towards them, his consternation evident.

Antoine smirked. “He’s realized who we are, and that he’s failed to provide an appropriate welcome.”

The man bowed low. “
Mes seigneurs
, forgive me. I’m Michel Cormant, steward of Alensonne. As you see, we’re in confusion here. Our master, Arnulf de Valtesse, is dead, the body recently discovered. We have therefore failed to give you the proper welcome, and we beg forgiveness.”