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  CONQUERING PASSION

  The Montbryce Legacy ~

  Book One

  by

  Anna Markland

  Kindle Edition

  What are readers saying?

  “Wow, loved this book. It kept me reading until 2am. I had to force myself to put it down to go to bed. The history and setting is so well done that I was transported back to the time, the clothes, food and the battles. This author certainly knows her history.”

  Helen Scott Taylor, author of Oceans Between Us

  “...a sweeping Norman epic. Markland has done her research and it shows. The author uses a good economy of words to paint vivid descriptions of the time. The plot moves at a nice pace, never lingering. The characters are interesting and likable. The supporting cast of characters helps to round out the story and give the novel its epic effect."

  Stephanie Burkhart, author of A Polish Heart

  “...enjoyed every page because it seemed that something continuously happened to keep me involved. And the romance the author wove into each page? Well it was beautiful!”

  Mimi Barbour, author of His Devious Angel

  Map of the Norman Invasion 1066

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  Dedication

  More Books by Anna

  Contact Information

  Glossary

  Lexicon

  Copyright Information

  “The ruling passion, be it what it will,

  The ruling passion conquers reason still.”

  Alexander Pope

  For Don, my Conqueror

  CHAPTER ONE

  Arques, Normandie,

  January 2nd, 1066 A.D.

  With a weary sigh, Lady Mabelle de Valtesse removed her grease-spattered apron, rolled it up, and gathered a meagre blanket around her shoulders. She sank down in exhaustion onto the stale rushes on the hard stone floor, tucking the apron under her drooping head. Her snoring father, the exiled lord of Alensonne, sprawled in the space allotted for them both in the Great Hall. As usual, she had to prod him to move over.

  She’d been careful not to step on the slumbering forms—human and animal—in the communal sleeping area of the castle at Arques, a task rendered more difficult by the utter darkness of the early morning hour. A pall of blue smoke from the long dead fire in the hearth hung in the air, making her eyes water. Awakened by her attempts to find comfort, her father elbowed her and asked loudly, “Why are you so late to bed?”

  Mabelle gritted her teeth, feeling her shoulders tense. Waking her unpredictable father was the last thing she’d wanted to do. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the kitchens until all was tidy. The banquet for the New Year was larger than usual. I’m tired to the bone.”

  “It’s intolerable,” he replied, making no effort to whisper. “The only daughter of Guillaume de Valtesse, lord of Alensonne, working like a peasant in the kitchens.”

  “Papa, please, not now,” she whispered. “The castle steward made it plain we must contribute if we want to avail ourselves of their hospitality.”

  It irritated her that her father never contributed anything.

  “Hospitality!” he sneered. “Where is the chamber I should have, as befits my rank?”

  “Hush there!” someone called. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  Valtesse bristled and shouted back, “Don’t tell me to hush. I am Guillaume de Valtesse, the Seigneur d’Alensonne.”

  “We don’t care if you’re the King of the English,” came the reply. This sentiment was quickly supported by the complaints of others awakened after a day spent toiling for their master. Dogs yapped. Startled cats scurried away, screeching displeasure at having their nightly foraging disturbed.

  Mabelle well knew the potential for the argument to escalate. In their wanderings, she’d seen her father thrown out of many a Hall because of his inability to control his tongue and his temper. This was the reason for their exile. It was during an argument over land, six years ago, that he had lashed out and blinded and mutilated the Seigneur de Giroux. In revenge, Giroux’s family had captured the Valtesse castle at Alensonne and cast them out. Mabelle’s half-brother, the bastard Arnulf, had aided the attackers.

  “I will not sleep with ignorant serfs,” her father began, reaching for the sword at his side.

  “Papa, hush, please. I must sleep. You never cease complaining.”

  Her father sat up. “You are too impertinent, daughter. Young noblewomen don’t speak to their fathers so rudely.”

  Mabelle rolled her eyes, itching to point out that her impertinence and resourcefulness had saved his miserable skin many times. She’d told him often enough she believed the only person with the power to end their banishment was their overlord, the Comte de Montbryce.

  Muttering, Guillaume gathered his blanket over him, turned over and seemed about to fall back to sleep, but suddenly rasped, “Be ready at first light. We leave for Montbryce.”

  “Oui, Papa,” she murmured, trying not to sound surprised. In the beginning of their exile, when she was three and ten, she’d followed her father without question. She’d learned quickly which servants to befriend. If she couldn’t coax leftover food from a kitchen wench when a lord’s hospitality was meagre, she filched it. She shared food with hungry stable boys and was rewarded with oats for their horses. Aiding laundresses in their tasks provided her with clean clothing. She listened to gossip, and used what she learned to her advantage.

  Living by her wits had been easier when she was a young girl. There was always something to trade. Now, six years later, it was more difficult. The ugly peasant garb she wore concealed the body of a woman, despite her efforts to hide it. Men now wanted something in return that she had no intention of trading. In a constant game of cat and mouse, Mabelle rarely felt like the cat any more.

  For all his faults, her father had shown he was aware of the growing dangers and was quick to protect her, but his volatile temper often led to confrontations and a curtailing of some of her freedom. She appreciated his protection, but was afraid of his inability to control his temper. She’d tried repeatedly for the past year to set her father on the path to his liege lord, but he always made some excuse. She sometimes thought he was happier in his misery.

  Now he’d agreed to go. What had made him change his mind? Perhaps the rumours concerning the imminent death of Edward, King of the English, had prompted him to take note of the winds of change blowing in Normandie. Every Norman knew their Duke William had been promised Edward’s throne. The Comte de Montbryce might be willing to be the instrument to help regain her dowry, lands lost to Arnulf, and now of strategic importance to the Duke.

  Her father’s loud snores told her he wasn’t lying awake worrying. She wrinkled her nose, pressing a finger and thumb over her nostrils, shutting out the odours of rotting food and sweat emanating from the rushes. Tucking her knees to her belly, she hoped sleep would come quickly and that on this night she would be too tired to dream of fine clothes, rich food and the comfortable bedchamber that had been hers at Alensonne—before Arnulf had usurped the castle.

  Despite her exhaustion, sleep proved elusive as her restless mind thought of the journey to Montbryce. Would this be the means to at last regain the life of respected nobility to which she’d been born? She pushed away the insistent notion that if her dowry couldn’t be won back, then marriage to a nobleman would be the only solution. How to accomplish such a thing? Did she truly want to exchange one overbearing noble for another? Perhaps the Year of Our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Six would bring a change of fortunes for her as well as their Duke.

  Mabelle curled into a tighter ball and covered her ears against the grunts of a peasant who’d taken advantage of his unexpected awakening to rut with his bedmat
e.

  CHAPTER TWO

  St. Germain de Montbryce, Normandie, March 1066

  Rambaud de Montbryce stood in the stirrups and rubbed his hard saddle muscles. He complained to his brothers, riding alongside him, “After the years I’ve spent on horseback in command of our knights, my backside shouldn’t ache as it does.”

  Antoine and Hugh had ridden out from their father’s castle to welcome him back as he approached with a large contingent of Montbryce men-at-arms.

  Ram smiled, always happy to see his brothers. “When did you two arrive home with your brigades? You must have been more anxious to get home than I am.”

  “Yesterday,” Antoine replied. “But we didn’t have as far to come. We were in Caen.”

  Ram wiped the dust from his lips with the back of his hand. “I hope you have a tall tankard of ale ready. It’s been a long ride from Rouen.”

  Hugh smiled. “Father has it in hand.”

  Ram’s heart lifted as the welcoming walls of his father’s castle at Saint Germain de Montbryce came into view. Surrounded by fertile meadows which stretched as far as the eye could see, the imposing edifice sat atop a strategically important promontory at the junction of two river valleys. It watched over the demesne, which had its own extensive apple orchards. The serfs brewed for their lord a fine apple brandy, famous throughout the Calvados region, as was the golden honey and fromage cremeux they produced.

  Ram’s father, Comte Bernard de Montbryce, came out to the bailey to greet them as Ram eased his weary six foot frame from the saddle. “Ram, good to see you, my boy. It’s been too long. You look fit. Campaigning for the Duke has toughened you up.”

  He punched his son in the shoulder, and Ram feigned injury. They clasped hands and embraced, his father pounding him on the back. “Your hair is long. Don’t you shave it when you go into battle?”

  Ram laughed, stretching his tired body, combing back his hair with his fingers. “Vaillon shaves it for me when we’re going into combat. I encourage my men to do the same, though they don’t need me to tell them it’s more comfortable under a helmet. But my hair grows fast.”

  “I wish I could say the same for myself,” his father lamented, running his hand over the few remaining grey wisps. He laughed and tousled Ram’s hair. “No wonder they call you Rambaud le Noir.”

  He pointed to the threatening skies. “Let’s go inside.”

  Ram winced, throwing irritated glances at his grinning brothers, who had no doubt taken great pleasure at his father’s teasing of him. “I believe the nickname Rambaud the Black has more to do with the discipline I expect of my men,” he retorted with irritation.

  His father seemed to sense his discomfort. “It’s good to have the three of you home together. I’m proud of all of you. You’re carrying on the noble military tradition of this family, in the service of our Duke. That you’ve stayed alive in these dangerous times is proof of your prowess. Many noble Norman families haven’t been as fortunate.”

  Ram had been sixteen when he’d first fought at his father’s side. He remembered fondly the pride in his sire’s eyes as they faced the Angevins together. “We learned from you, Father. You were a great warrior.”

  Antoine and Hugh indicated they were of the same mind.

  The Comte slapped Ram on the back. “Would I could still join you boys. With the dire news from England, I sense you will be going to war again?”

  Ram concurred. “Duke William is incensed Harold Godwinson has claimed the Confessor’s throne. You’re right. It will mean war.”

  “Then your many abilities will be even more important to the Duke.”

  Ram dropped into a chair once they reached the solar and used his legs to drag over a footstool. “William is now our undisputed ruler. During my last visit to the ducal court, every major family had sent a representative. But military prowess won’t be enough. If he becomes King of the English, the Duke will need capable administrators and I want him to see me as more than a warrior.”

  Two maidservants entered and served tankards of ale.

  Their father waited until the women had left. “As my heir, whatever effort you put into the efficient running of our estates will benefit you. You’ll continue our proud heritage as descendants of the original North Men.”

  Ram offered a toast. “To the honour of the Montbryce family.”

  “Montbryce! Fide et Virtute,” the other men echoed.

  The four sat for a while drinking deeply.

  Ram licked his lips and belched, thumping his chest. “Good ale. Just what I needed after the long journey.” He turned to his father. “I’ve asked the Duke if I can spend time assisting you with the administration of our estates. Before we go to war, I’ll make sure all is in order.”

  Comte Bernard looked indignant. “You think I’m getting too old for the job, eh?”

  Ram exchanged glances with his brothers, shook his head and smiled. “It will be good to leave the military life for a while, and the Duke recognizes you’re an able tutor. He knows we’ve already learned much from you.”

  Relaxing in the comfort of the castle where he’d grown up, Ram had to admit his father had aged quickly after the death of his mother. His maman had been a quiet woman who always deferred to her husband. He hoped for such a wife, if ever he decided to marry.

  His father had carried on talking while Ram had been daydreaming. “Well, there is a matter in which I must involve you.”

  Ram waited. His father walked over to the window, took another draught of his ale, then fidgeted with the lace on the cuffs of his tunic.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and explained. “The exiled lord of Alensonne, Guillaume de Valtesse, has appealed to us with his complaints his bastard son, Arnulf, has usurped his lands. Valtesse and his daughter, Mabelle, were forced to flee. At first, it seemed a minor problem. You may not recall it? Guillaume de Valtesse was a competent lord, but unpredictable. Now those lands have become strategically more important, and Arnulf is tending more and more to make alliances with our enemies, his Angevin neighbours.”

  Antoine leaned forward. “I believe I’ve heard something of them in my travels. A jongleur in Caen performs a ballade that tells the tale of Valtesse blinding another nobleman. That can’t be true?”

  Their father corrected him. “Nigh on six years ago, there was an acrimonious dispute over, what else, land. Valtesse is an irascible fellow—he lost his temper and lashed out. As well as blinding Charles de Giroux, he cut off the unfortunate devil’s ears. I’ve heard it drove Giroux to madness.”

  Hugh held out his empty tankard. “I’ve never heard this tale. What about Arnulf?”

  Their father refilled their tankards. “If only it were a tale. Seeing an opportunity to advance his own wealth, Arnulf sided with Giroux. They challenged Valtesse to come out and fight, but without the support of his own son, his courage failed him. He surrendered and was exiled, taking his daughter with him, at Arnulf’s insistence.”

  “He and the girl have wandered ever since?” Hugh asked.

  “Oui, the only life his daughter has known is that of an outcast, regarded with scorn, and probably mistrust, as the landless daughter of a vicious murderer and mutilator.”

  “Murderer?”

  “There are suspicions Guillaume de Valtesse killed his wife. She was strangled.”

  Ram scratched his head. Why had his father turned the conversation to the girl? “This woman—what’s her name, Mabelle?—is either as evil as her father, or she has intelligence and has learned how to survive, despite his madness.”

  His father seemed intent on continuing the story. “There’s no doubt she’s lived a hard life. I believe coin has been a problem, and they’ve been forced to depend on the code of hospitality. Imagine a young woman, born into nobility but unable to take her rightful place. She’s never had the opportunity to be who she was born to be. The only way to regain her position would be—marriage.”

  Ram didn’t like the speculative look in his father’
s eyes. “Who would marry a landless refugee with no dowry, and what does this have to do with us?” he asked carefully, putting down his tankard.

  His father shrugged his shoulders. “I may not like the horrid man, but he is my vassal, and he is the rightful lord of the lands in question. We can’t have impertinent sons usurping their fathers’ titles, can we?” He winked at Ram.

  “Non, I suppose we can’t,” Ram said with a chuckle. Like him, his father was probably offering up a silent prayer of thanks for the unspoken bond of trust that would ensure nothing of the sort ever happened to the Montbryces. In such uncertain times, family treachery could put everything at risk.

  His father’s voice broke into his musing. “Besides, it’s time for you to take a wife.”

  Ram felt his hackles rise. The ale suddenly had a bitter aftertaste. He rose, stiffened his shoulders and faced his father squarely, folding his arms. His brothers shifted nervously in their seats. This wasn’t the first time his father had insinuated he should be getting married, but he’d never done it so blatantly.

  “First of all,” Ram said as calmly as he could, “I have plenty of time for such matters. In any case, our Duke will try to oust Harold and there will be war. This isn’t the right time to be marrying. And what does this have to do with the Valtesse problem?”

  His father took up an equally challenging stance. “You are five and twenty—past time to be married. You should be siring children while you’re in your best years. Besides, I’m getting old and would like to see my grandchildren. Mabelle de Valtesse has grown to be a woman.”

  Ram was close to losing his temper, which he would rather avoid. He had managed thus far to deflect his father’s attempts to get him to marry. He liked his bachelor life. “Why would I want to marry an urchin who has spent her life wandering, and who has no inheritance, titles or dowry? She wouldn’t make a suitable Comtesse.”