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  Forbidden

  Anna Markland

  Contents

  More Anna Markland

  The Novice

  Lonely Years

  Decision

  Swan's Ploy

  Struck Dumb

  One Last Ride

  The King Is Dead

  The Difficulties Ahead

  Happiness Denied

  Call To Arms

  Little Bird

  Nothing For It

  Traveling

  Standing Stones

  Henry Fitzempress

  Glad Tidings

  Signs And Warnings

  Scruffy Imp

  Home At Last

  He's Afraid

  Scheming

  Shelfhoc

  Mummers

  Treachery

  A Dark Shadow

  Embroidery Silks

  The Tunnel

  Nincompoop

  A Remarkable Job

  Male Essence

  I Wish

  In Case Of Accidents

  Duty Calls

  Seasons Change

  The Odyssey Begins

  Halfway

  The Way To Rome

  His Holiness

  It's In Latin

  Deo Gratias

  Was He Mad?

  Blinded By The Light

  Epilogue

  About Anna

  FORBIDDEN

  By

  ANNA MARKLAND

  Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Anna Markland

  COVER ART BY DAR ALBERT

  Forbidden by Anna Markland

  Book 11, The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition

  © 2014, 2019 Anna Markland

  www.annamarkland.com

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  For permissions contact: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Anna Markland 2014, 2019 All Rights Reserved

  “There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”

  ~Mark Twain

  Dedicated to my Grace Anne with love.

  More Anna Markland

  The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition (2018-2019)

  I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen

  II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla

  III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta

  IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni

  V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina

  VI Star-Crossed— Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys

  VII Allegiance—Rhys & Annalise

  VIII Crescendo—Izzy & Farah

  IX Infidelity—Gallien & Peridotte

  X Jeopardy—Alexandre & Elayne

  The FitzRam Family

  Carried Away—Blythe & Dieter

  Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan & Nolana

  Wild Viking Princess—Ragna & Reider

  Viking ancestors of my Norman families

  The Rover Bold—Bryk & Cathryn

  The Rover Defiant—Torstein & Sonja

  The Rover Betrayed—Magnus & Judith

  Novellas

  Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram & Ruby

  Passion’s Fire—Matthew & Brigandine

  Banished—Sigmar & Audra

  Hungry Like De Wolfe—Blaise & Anne

  Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine

  The Marauder—Santiago & Valentina

  Knightly Dreams—Peter & Susie

  Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)

  Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade & Margaret

  Book II Highland Tides—Braden & Charlotte

  Book III Highland Dawn—Keith & Aurora

  Book IV Roses Among the Heather—Blair & Susanna, Craig & Timothea

  The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)

  Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia & Brandt

  Book 2 Courageous Heart—Luther & Francesca

  Book 3 Faithful Heart—Kon & Zara

  Myth & Mystery

  The Taking of Ireland —Sibràn & Aislinn

  Clash of the Tartans

  Kilty Secrets—Ewan & Shona

  Kilted at the Altar—Darroch & Isabel

  Kilty Pleasures—Broderick & Kyla

  The House of Pendray

  Highland Betrayal—Morgan & Hannah (audiobook available)

  Kingslayer’s Daughter—Munro & Sarah

  Highland Jewel—Garnet & Jewel

  Highland Rising—Gray & Faith

  Link to Amazon page

  The Novice

  Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, July 1153 AD

  “This argument is a waste of time. Prince Henry Plantagenet will be our next king,” Suannoch declared.

  Rodrick de Montbryce bristled, as did most of the men gathered in the gallery of Ellesmere Castle. Even Bronson FitzRam, whose sister had made this shocking pronouncement, seemed outraged.

  Rodrick’s irritation grew when Grace smiled broadly, obviously amused by the discomfort of the men. He was compelled to reprimand his twin sister. “Suannoch is a mere girl of eight and ten years, a visitor at that, who is not qualified nor entitled to speak in such a manner. Don’t encourage her.”

  “Imagine,” his sister replied gleefully, looking to the rafters. “The stir she’s caused has made the banners waft a little.”

  Suannoch FitzRam was shrouded from head to toe in the white robes of a novice, her face squeezed into a red ball by the tight coif. Her appearance only served to compound Rodrick’s indignation. “And to stand warming her derrière by the hearth as if she were a man—”

  “Hush,” Grace admonished. “If the pout she’s sending your way is any indication, you spoke too loudly, brother dear.”

  His visiting Northumbrian relative had raised his hackles, but it was good to be sparring with Grace again. He’d missed her since her marriage. He regretted it was widowhood that had brought her home, but she seemed to have taken the loss of her husband in stride. It hadn’t been a love match, Victor de Cullène more of a father figure than a husband. It saddened him she was now considered too old to remarry. She’d have made a wonderful mother.

  Bronson glared at his sister. “Your pardon, Uncle Gallien,” he said to Rodrick’s father. “Suannoch has a habit of not minding her tongue. She takes after our Aunt Ragna.”

  The novice pursed her lips and returned her brother’s glare.

  Curiously, Bronson’s eyes darted to Grace and his face reddened.

  Rodrick smirked. “It irks that these northern cousins have been invited to join this family gathering on the eve of one of the most important meetings ever hosted at Ellesmere Castle. They have no place at an assembly of barons and lords from every part of the country who are coming here to discuss the civil strife tearing England apart.”

  Grace shrugged. “The FitzRams are cousins, but at least twice removed, and half-cousins at that. I assume Bronson addresses Papa as uncle because of the difference in their ages.”

  Rodrick agreed. “If I recall correctly, our red-headed cousin is a mere three years older than we are.
A coincidence he shares your hair color.”

  He wondered if he was being too hasty. “The FitzRams are wealthy Northumbrian landowners and Bronson will perhaps have valuable insights to offer on the situation in the northern reaches.”

  Grace eyed Bronson. “He says the reason for his presence is twofold. He’s journeyed to the Marches to take possession of Shelfhoc Hall, bequeathed to him by his late Uncle Edwin, and to deliver his sister to the convent at Whitchurch.”

  Their father graced Suannoch with what Rodrick recognised as one of his indulgent earl smiles. “Not at all,” Gallien de Montbryce replied to Bronson’s apology. “I hope you will be among the men at the meetings tomorrow.”

  To Rodrick’s amusement, the girl bristled at the implication she would not be welcome at the morrow’s assembly. Did she imagine her opinion would be consulted? As the conversation turned to Shelfhoc Hall, he studied her. Confinement to a nunnery probably hadn’t been her choice. It was the fate of many young women whose husbands-to-be got themselves killed.

  Did Suannoch mourn her betrothed, slain in a skirmish with King Stephen’s soldiers? The wimple and coif did nothing to enhance her features, but she had good skin—fresh, healthy looking. Her long fingers were elegant. The voluminous robe smothered the remainder of her body, rendering it impossible to tell if she had decent breasts.

  His shaft stirred inconveniently when he noticed she was staring back at him. He straightened in the chair, brushing at nonexistent lint on his doublet.

  Get your thoughts back on the conversation and the upcoming meeting.

  “I was named for Lady Ascha Woolgar,” Suannoch suddenly announced.

  Again, every eye swiveled to her.

  He wasn’t surprised when his mother put her hand on the girl’s. “You’re right, my dear. Your second Christian name is that of your great grandmother.”

  Suannoch’s eyes widened, their amber brilliance catching him off guard. He noticed for the first time the contrast between her dark eyebrows and the white of her wimple. Perhaps her hair was black. She beamed a smile that transformed her heated face into a thing of beauty, renewing the interest in his couilles.

  “Yes, she was the lady of Shelfhoc,” she gushed.

  Rodrick wavered between scoffing out loud and revisiting his indignation. He threw up his hands. “Is she unaware it was Ascha Woolgar who gave birth to our great grandfather’s illegitimate son?”

  Grace glared at him. “Keep your voice down. Caedmon and his family were welcomed as Montbryces and he accepted the Norman patronymic FitzRam.”

  Rodrick wrinkled his nose and scratched the back of his neck. He was never rude to guests, no matter how tiresome, but this chit of a girl was an irritating cocklebur.

  Gallien de Montbryce gave the novice another indulgent smile. “It’s important to be proud of one’s ancestors. My half-uncle Caedmon aided in the rescue of Oncle Robert many years ago, and saved my father’s life in Italy. Without his bravery I wouldn’t be here today.”

  Rodrick felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps he should be more tolerant of these FitzRams. After all, he and Grace and Bronson and Suannoch shared a great grandfather, a hero of the Battle of Hastings, Ram de Montbryce.

  Suannoch wished Cousin Rodrick would stop staring. Had he never seen a nun before? And what was the reason for his scowl and the rude remarks he’d made to his sister? She’d met Grace earlier in the day when the women of the household had welcomed them with genuine warmth, and liked her immediately. She was relieved when Grace wandered over to sit beside her. She leaned close to her cousin’s ear. “I can understand why the older men might object to my asserting my opinions, but your brothers are young. William and Stephen seemed interested and slightly amused by my comments, but Rodrick simply glared.”

  Grace put a hand on hers and smiled. “Mayhap being the heir to an earldom means a man has to affect a serious demeanor.”

  Grace had spoken loudly enough for her twin to hear. Suannoch decided to compound his obvious discomfort. “He might be considered handsome if he smiled. He’s certainly tall, and strong looking.”

  “Do you think so?” Grace asked, staring at her brother. “I never noticed.”

  They laughed out loud, but Suannoch’s body heated. She regretted taking a seat too close to the hearth. Her face was burning. The cursed robes were heavy for summer, and why was a fire necessary anyway? Her gaiety fled. How to bear the coarse fabric against her skin for the rest of her life?

  It rankled that her intended father-by-marriage thought he had the right to demand she be shut up in a convent because his son had been killed.

  Poor Hiram—more poet than warrior.

  She ached when she thought of the terror he must have endured during the brief skirmish that had taken his life. She wasn’t in love with him, but he deserved a better destiny than the one imposed upon him by his father.

  The pompous, overbearing man had sealed her fate too. Her parents had protested, her mother heartbroken, but Cuthbertson had the ear of King David of Scotland. Sir Aidan FitzRam would have a difficult time indeed holding on to Kirkthwaite Hall without the king’s benevolence. There was certainly no hope of support from the English monarch. Stephen had turned out to be a weak king, unable to summon enough support among England’s barons to effectively counteract his cousin Maud’s invasion fourteen years before.

  Now England endured two governments, Stephen’s in Westminster and Maud’s headquartered in Devizes in the west. Both issued their own coinage and edicts aplenty—none of which were obeyed by the thousands of mainly Flemish mercenaries who had taken advantage of the anarchy to rape and pillage the English countryside, finding refuge in hastily constructed fortifications. The rule of law had dissolved.

  Grace’s voice jolted her from her preoccupation. “Do you believe Maud should have been made queen, as King Henry, wished?”

  Suannoch snorted. “I do, but the opinions of women counted for even less back then. The English barons were outraged at the notion of a woman being queen in her own right.”

  Grace sighed, casting a sideways glance at her mother. “You know my father was one of the leaders of the movement to support Stephen’s claim to the throne?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure he regrets it. Powerful men such as Uncle Gallien have been unable to prevent England sinking into a morass of despair—a broken land.”

  Countess Peridotte leaned closer. “My husband told me that if it wasn’t for the traditional cessation of hostilities during Lent and Advent, the whole country might have gone up in flames. Thousands have already died of starvation, their crops burned, villages destroyed.”

  Suannoch wondered what the earl thought of his precious Stephen after nearly two decades of civil strife. Would he switch allegiance at the assembly on the morrow? One could only hope. She hesitated to ask Grace, who probably wasn’t privy to her father’s opinions. Indeed, she’d be surprised if the countess would attend the meeting. At least Bronson would be there. Her dear brother’s keen mind might affect some change, and his participation would give her a day or two’s reprieve from the convent. She was grateful he had insisted the Mother Superior allow her to visit their nearby relatives. At least at Shelfhoc he wouldn’t be too far away. Would he be permitted to visit her?

  These thoughts seethed through her brain as she watched the men talk on and on and the women nod politely. “Am I the only one who sees the injustice and folly?”

  Grace shook her head. “No, you’re not,” she replied quietly.

  It was some consolation. “Can they not foresee Maud’s son Henry is destined to be king?”

  “Patience,” Grace said, taking her hand. “We’ll find out on the morrow. I’m for bed. Walk with me.”

  The men breathed an annoying sigh of relief as they left. Outside the chamber, Grace pecked a kiss on her cheek and bade her goodnight.

  She undressed and curled up on her bed, glad to be free of the habit. Surely Christ and his saints would awaken from their slumber and realize S
tephen’s son, the brutal and murderous Eustace, was not fit to wear the crown his father seemed determined to pass on to him.

  She smiled at the recollection of her prickly cousin’s discomfort, suddenly seized by an inexplicable urge to stretch like a languid cat. He might be a typical male, but he was attractive.

  What did it matter? Her life was over. No use getting hot and bothered over the likes of Rodrick de Montbryce.

  Rodrick slept fitfully, his mind filled with questions about the meeting to be held on the morrow. Decisions would be made that would affect the future of England. He sensed his father was ready to abandon his support of Stephen. Rodrick’s gut churned every time he considered the prospect of the bloody-minded Prince Eustace ascending to the throne. Stephen was at heart a kindly man, his wife an accomplished woman. How they had produced a cruel son was beyond anyone’s comprehension.

  Withdrawing support from the king was treason, no matter how justified it might be. Any baron who declared his support for Henry Plantagenet would be considered a traitor.

  It would take courage, but Gallien de Montbryce was the sort of courageous man England needed, and Rodrick vowed to support his father no matter his decision.