Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love Read online

  Dance of Love

  By

  Anna Markland

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9879722-9-3

  Dear Reader,

  If only my heroes and heroines had revealed their stories to me in chronological order, it would have made life so much easier for my readers!

  If you prefer to read sagas in chronological order, here’s a handy reference list.

  1066—Conquering Passion

  1066—If Love Dares Enough

  1066—Defiant Passion

  1087—A Man of Value

  1097—Dark Irish Knight

  1100—Passion in the Blood

  1103—Haunted Knights

  1106—Dark and Bright

  1107—The Winds of the Heavens

  1107—Dance of Love

  1113—Carried Away

  1120—Sweet Taste of Love

  1124—Wild Viking Princess

  If you like stories with medieval breeds of dogs, you’ll enjoy If Love Dares Enough, Carried Away, and Wild Viking Princess. If you have a soft spot for cats, read Passion in the Blood and Haunted Knights.

  If you are looking for historical fiction centred on a certain region:

  English History—all books

  Norman French History—all books

  Crusades—A Man of Value

  Welsh History—Conquering Passion, Defiant Passion, Dark and Bright, The Winds of the Heavens

  Scottish History—Conquering Passion, A Man of Value, Sweet Taste of Love

  European History (Holy Roman Empire)—Carried Away

  Danish History—Wild Viking Princess

  Spanish History—Dance of Love

  Way of St. James (Camino de Santiago de Compostela)—Dance of Love

  If you like to read about historical characters:

  William the Conqueror—Conquering Passion, If Love Dares Enough, Defiant Passion

  William Rufus—A Man of Value

  Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy—Passion in the Blood

  Henry I of England—Passion in the Blood, Sweet Taste of Love

  Heinrich V, Holy Roman Emperor—Carried Away

  Vikings—Wild Viking Princess

  Kings of Aragón (Spain)—Dance of Love

  Enjoy!

  Dedication

  Start Reading

  Other Books by Anna

  Suggested Reading Order

  Copyright Information

  Contact Details

  Glossary

  Lexicon

  Family Tree

  Medieval Recipe for Relief of Arthritis

  Table of Contents

  Where there is great love,

  There are always miracles

  ~Willa Cather

  Dedicated to all who suffer the debilitating pain of arthritis

  CHAPTER ONE

  Giroux Castle, Normandie, 1107AD

  Izzy de Montbryce watched his cousin’s wife.

  Dorianne closed her eyes, but did not shed a single tear as the men-at-arms eased her father’s body into the stone sarcophagus.

  No one thought less of her for it. She leaned heavily on her husband, one hand pressed to the small of her back, plainly feeling the weight of her fifth pregnancy in six years. No doubt she and Robert worried they might lose this babe, as they had the last.

  Izzy’s thoughts meandered to the oft told tale of William the Conqueror’s entombment that his uncle Ram had witnessed. The king’s bowels had burst when mourners stuffed his obese body into a tomb that was too small. Izzy fervently hoped that the many Montbryces squeezed into the cramped underground crypt of Giroux Castle would not have to suffer such a stench. There was barely enough of the fetid air to breathe as it was.

  Dorianne’s brothers-by-marriage, Baudoin and Caedmon, had crossed the Narrow Sea from England. Izzy stood behind them, between his father, Hugh, and his brother, Melton.

  His cousins, Adam and Mathieu, had ridden from Belisle to represent Robert’s uncle, Antoine, who was too weak to make the journey. Even Antoine’s stepson, Denis de Sancerre was there, strangely dominant as usual, despite his stunted stature and his position at the rear of the gathering with his half-brothers.

  Izzy had never met Dorianne’s father. Few in his family had. François de Giroux had devoted his life to pursuing the feud with the Montbryces. Plots to kill or imprison members of the Montbryce family had cost the lives of François’ brother, Phillippe, and his son, Pierre. Poisoned by his father’s hatred, Pierre had conspired to imprison Dorianne’s husband and banish his sister to a nunnery.

  Yet the only member of the Giroux family present at the funeral rites was Dorianne’s mother, Elenor. Worn to the bone by a lifetime spent with a man consumed by hatred, her skin stretched thin across her cheekbones, Elenor might have been mistaken for the cadaver.

  Izzy smirked at life’s ironies, praying the bishop would soon end his long-winded eulogy for a man who had never demonstrated a smidgen of Christian love. He flexed his aching fingers. The damp was playing havoc with his affliction.

  He glanced over to Pierre’s sarcophagus. The boy had died the previous year at the battle of Tinchebray, killed inevitably by the sword of a Montbryce. François never recovered from his grief, never forgave Dorianne for marrying a Montbryce.

  Phillippe’s tomb was empty. His body lay buried somewhere in the mountains of Wales, a mildewed In Memoriam engraved into the stone the only indication he had lived at all.

  No one was surprised Dorianne wanted to be gone from the castle where she had suffered at the hands of her father and brother. But her loathing for Giroux Castle might bring Izzy something he had thought would never be his. Robert needed someone to take care of his wife’s inheritance. He had asked Izzy to be Master, with a view to becoming the Seigneur, if he proved himself worthy.

  A piece of Normandie to call his own!

  Melton would inherit Domfort Castle; their mother’s rich estate in Sussex would go to their sister, Antoinette. Izzy might inherit another Sussex manor, but it was ownership of land in Normandie he craved. Suddenly it was within his grasp.

  All that remained was for Dorianne to approve Robert’s choice. Izzy doubted she would naysay the proposal, but she would not be happy about it.

  ~~~

  Dorianne covered her nostrils with the back of her fist. The musty odour of death and the reek of tallow candles, trapped by the low arched ceiling, threatened to resurrect the morning sickness she had kept at bay. The movement caught Elenor’s attention, but she quickly averted her eyes. Dorianne did not know her mother well enough to ask if she grieved her loss. She was grateful, however, that in one rare moment of courage years ago, her mother had saved the lives of her imprisoned husband and her son, Alexandre.

  What emotions dwelt in Elenor’s heart as her husband’s remains were laid to rest next to Pierre’s tomb? Her fixed gaze betrayed nothing. Would she come to Montbryce Castle to spend the last years of her life with her daughter and grandchildren, free of the edicts forbidding her to go? Robert had promised to ask her.

  The bishop’s voice droned on, then suddenly—silence. Feet shifted; several mourners coughed as masons shoved the heavy lid of the sarcophagus into place, causing a puff of limestone dust to dance in the air. It fell into place with resounding finality.

  Her husband’s husky voice broke the silence that followed. “It’s over, Dorianne. Baudoin will escort you out of the crypt. I will help your mother ascend the steps.”

  She swallowed hard and blinked, hoping that at long last her father’s death promised an end to the feud that had brought so much grief.

  Ba
udoin held out his hand.

  “Merci, mon frère,” she whispered gratefully, letting him lead her, missing the warmth of her husband’s arm around her shoulder.

  Baudoin smiled, his eyes full of concern. “De rien, ma soeur.”

  Gripping his hand tightly, she followed him to the Great Hall, where servants stood ready to serve the funeral banquet. They bowed to her. She recognized a few. Relief showed in their tired faces. Giroux had been a joyless place to serve. What would become of them now? The third Giroux brother, her uncle Georges, had never returned from the Crusades. She longed to leave this place of bitter memories and return home to Montbryce, a castle full of life, love, and laughter. Given his responsibilities as Comte de Montbryce, Robert could not be absent long.

  Baudoin made sure she was comfortable at the head table before taking his place beside Caedmon. Robert escorted his mother-by-marriage to Dorianne’s side. He winked.

  She was further astonished when her mother turned to her and smiled weakly. “Robert has asked me to come to Montbryce,” she murmured. “I don’t deserve happiness after allowing your father to almost destroy your lives, but I would like to get to know my grandchildren, if you’ll forgive me. I was a coward.”

  Now the pent up tears flowed. Dorianne threw her arms around her mother’s neck, almost toppling both of them from their bench.

  “Maman,” she croaked.

  Robert steadied them, his arms around the shoulders of both women. Dorianne silently thanked God for the forgiving nature of her husband who had suffered so cruelly at the hands of her own family.

  ~~~

  Robert de Montbryce had pondered the future of Giroux Castle. It now belonged to his wife and was thus his responsibility. But he needed a seneschal, someone he could trust to build Giroux into the successful demesne it could be. He approached his cousin, Izzy de Montbryce.

  Izzy had agreed to the proposal with his usual apparent lack of enthusiasm, though Robert knew he chafed at being landless in Normandie. It was often difficult to read Izzy’s thoughts, but Robert attributed that to his affliction. Pain and disfigurement could do strange things to a warrior. He worried about Dorianne’s reaction to the idea.

  Looking out over the assembly during the funeral banquet, he noticed Izzy watching him. He took a deep breath, and leaned close to his wife. “What say you to giving Izzy the job of Master?”

  Dorianne had just taken a small bite of roast chicken. Her mouth fell open. Hastily she reached for a napkin and coughed into it. Robert caught the fleeting glance she cast at Izzy. His cousin shrugged one shoulder, but did not avert his gaze.

  Robert patted his wife’s back. Perhaps a more subtle approach would have been better. But the die was cast. “I can trust him,” he explained.

  Dorianne pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I do not question his loyalty, but what this castle needs is cheerfulness, humour, patience. Izzy has none of those qualities.”

  Robert squirmed under Izzy’s persistent sardonic glare. This should not have been so difficult. “I agree that sometimes he is impatient—”

  Dorianne snorted. “Impatient! He is too blunt, and stubborn.”

  Robert turned his body so his back was to Izzy. “It is true that when his affliction flares, he can be unpleasant.”

  Dorianne pouted. “Robert, I like Izzy, despite his abrasive nature. And I understand he suffers greatly. If you deem him the man for the role, I will not argue. If my mother comes to Montbryce, she will not have to contend with him. He has no time for women. Perhaps that is why he has never married?”

  Robert nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent, grateful for the gift of this intelligent woman. He put his hand on the slight swelling of her belly and smiled.

  He glanced over to Izzy. His cousin raked a gnarled hand through his long dark hair and nodded, his face expressionless. He rose, took his leave of his father seated beside him and left the Hall.

  ~~~

  Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce took the steps to the battlements of Castle Giroux two at a time but was scarcely winded as he looked out over his new demesne. The Fates had brought him an estate of his own to run. Ideas that had sprung to mind when Robert had first approached him with the proposition whirled in his head. He would plant an apple orchard, like the one at home started by his father long ago. If Montbryce and Domfort could produce a worthy apple brandy, so could Giroux. He would make sure of it.

  From his vantage point he noticed places where the rampart and ditch needed repairs.

  He had feared Dorianne would not agree. It was true he had never treated her with overt friendliness, but that was his way with women. The piteous looks of repugnance when they saw his hands for the first time tore at his gut. If they judged him a deformed freak, why not behave that way.

  It had not always been thus. He recalled a time, before his affliction had destroyed his hands, when ladies pursued him, anxious to bed a well-muscled warrior. But no woman wanted a man whose caress was abhorrent. He had learned to cool his ardour. Few women stirred his interest now. He doubted he would ever marry. But, if he became the Seigneur, there arose the unexpected matter of heirs—

  The pain in his bones flared in the cool air of early evening. He flexed his stiff fingers, though it never alleviated the problem. He reassured a guard who eyed him strangely. “All is well.”

  Would these people accept him, despite his deformity? Would he be a good Master? The job needed patience, something he was not known for. But this land and its people cried out for a strong hand, and Izzy was capable of providing the nurture it needed. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant air.

  “I will make this place the envy of all,” he declared to the darkening sky.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The heavily laden cart lurched, sending a small iron chest careening across its rough boards, jolting Farah from her reverie. Hampered by the copious folds of her eastern garment, she lunged to prevent it slamming into the pallet on which her Protector lay. She held her breath, praying he did not wake. Let the beleaguered soul enjoy his rest.

  Farah had hardly slept since the long journey began. Eight days at sea had not been strenuous, the rocking of the wind and waves allowing her to doze, if somewhat fitfully. The ten day journey across Francia from the port city of Massilia had been rendered difficult by rain and terrain. She had at times doubted that her Protector’s wish to die in his childhood home would come to fruition.

  The threat of attack from brigands and the like was real, but the heavily armed escort of ten Hospitaller Knights had dissuaded attempts to rob the party of its baggage. Farah was glad of the Knights’ protection. She did not fear them as men. They were sworn to a holy cause. But she was unsure of their reason for bringing her on this expedition.

  The cavalcade had ground to a halt, but there were no shouts of “aux armes!” She cast a worried glance at the pile of iron chests, hoping the tilt of the cart would not bring the whole lot crashing down. The weight would surely smash the wooden sides. They were close to their destination. Would the precious possessions shepherded through many difficulties be lost to the mud now?

  She adjusted her veil and peeked out from behind the rough canvas covering.

  Sir Berthold de Quincy stood ankle deep in mud, legs braced, hands on hips, issuing quiet but firm commands to the lackeys hired in Massilia. He seemed oblivious to the rain cascading off his helmet to pool in a puddle at his feet.

  The peasants, coated in the rich brown earth of Normandie, strained to right the cart, their bare feet making the task seem impossible. Farah remained silent. Berthold had noted her frown of concern. This warrior would not welcome any suggestions she might offer. If he wanted her to descend from the cart, he would tell her. If he deemed it wise to unload the baggage, he would see it done. Though her Protector had insisted she accompany him, Berthold would have quickly dismissed the notion had he not judged it beneficial in some way to his Order.

  They had rested a few days in the port city. Despite hi
s aura of invincibility, Berthold had proven to be a poor sailor. Retching in the presence of his men was an embarrassing weakness that did not sit well on his broad shoulders.

  The Knights took advantage of the sojourn to explore the ancient city. From discussions she overheard, she learned that they considered the harbour an excellent place to build a commandery fort, the first in Francia. This raised further doubts that the delivery of an ailing Crusader from their hospice in Jerusalem to his home in Normandie was not the main reason for the journey. What role did Berthold’s knowledge of her true heritage play in their motives?

  She held her peace, retreating to the interior of the cart and the safety of her veils, content to enjoy a degree of the freedom denied her for many years. The clean, cool air of Normandie, even the rain, was welcome indeed after the stinking heat of Jerusalem.

  Shouts of triumph heralded the success of the men’s efforts as the cartwheel groaned out of the mud. The chests shuddered, but remained in place.

  The journey resumed. Farah made the Sign of the Crucifixion across her body and uttered a prayer of thanks to the Christian God she had long been forbidden to worship.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dorianne marvelled at the change in her mother as the two prepared the baggage for the return journey to Montbryce. They had been at Giroux a fortnight, and Dorianne longed to see her children again. Three year old Alexandre would be restless, chafing under the reign of his bossy older sisters. But her anticipation paled in comparison to that of her mother who prattled on incessantly about her imminent visit to meet grandchildren she had never seen.

  Dorianne’s apprehension about leaving her husband’s cousin in charge of her childhood home had lessened with Robert’s assurances. Izzy, it seemed, learned quickly and had established good relations with Artus Aubin, the steward, and other members of the household staff. Robert seemed impressed with the repairs already underway on the rampart. Izzy had spoken to her personally, sharing his passionate ideas for improving the estate. She had never seen him as enthused. She had been careful not to flinch when he took her hand in his and kissed it politely, fearing another’s touch caused him great pain.