Infidelity (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 9) Read online

  Ghent declared for Thierry within a week. The celebrations recommenced. Gallien’s hopes lifted. “Perhaps, we’ll soon return to England,” he told Étienne. The wistful look his brother gave him betrayed his longing to be home in Ellesmere. Fighting was what they trained for; sitting on their arses looking menacing while trying to stay warm was demeaning.

  A day’s march took them next to Bruges. The castellan appointed by King Louis refused to surrender the town. Gallien was dismayed—it seemed they would be laying siege to the place for sennights. He was weary of sleeping on camp cots, eating poor food, and bathing in ice cold rivers. More than anything he wanted to lie with his wife.

  He and Étienne found themselves with time on their hands. He confessed to his brother. “You were right about Peri. I have been a blind fool. She has treated me with nothing but love and respect, and I have spurned her. I pray she can forgive me when we return—if we ever get out of Flandres.”

  Étienne slapped his brother on the shoulder. “You won’t regret it. I hope to wed a woman with as much love in her heart as Peri. Too bad about Tandine Grisjaune. I liked her. Mind you, at this rate we won’t see England again for many a month.”

  On the twenty-sixth day of March, the castellan surrendered Bruges. Thierry granted him safe passage. Four days later, the citizens of Bruges declared Thierry as their comte. He entered the town amid great fanfare two days after that, and exchanged the traditional reciprocal oaths with the burghers of Bruges and Ghent.

  A sennight later, the castellan returned to Bruges to swear allegiance to Thierry, apparently disillusioned with Clito.

  On the eleventh day of April, Thierry was accepted as comte and welcomed by the citizens of Rijsel.

  “We’ll soon be sleeping in our own beds,” Étienne crowed, rubbing his hands together when they heard the news. “Thierry hardly needs us now.”

  Patting the sachet of potpourri concealed against his heart, Gallien hoped he was right.

  It was not to be.

  “Louis is like a dog with a bone,” Romain observed wearily. “First he sets the cat among the pigeons by sending a missive to the burghers of Ghent and Bruges offering negotiations between them and Clito at Arras, ignoring the fact they’ve already chosen Thierry as their comte.”

  Laurent continued. “Then he persuades Archbishop of Reims to excommunicate Thierry. Now he has laid siege to Lille.”

  Étienne tousled Gallien’s hair. “It’s a wonder my hair is not as white as yours, I am so sick of this campaign. It’s hard to say who is more stubborn in this game of power, Louis or Henry.”

  Gallien chuckled, combing his fingers through his rumpled hair. “It’s fortunate Papa is not here to censure that treasonous remark. He would accuse me of leading you astray.”

  Alexandre stared at Gallien. “How did your hair come to be white?” He looked at the other Montbryces. “All of us still have black hair.”

  Gallien bristled, shooting a warning glance at his brother to say nothing. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

  They had already packed up their belongings, ready for the trek to Lille. They mounted their horses, and sat in silence for long minutes.

  “At least we may see combat at Lille,” Gallien mused. “I’ve forgotten how to use a sword.”

  The five Montbryces watched as several knights rode by. They greeted those they knew by name, then reluctantly turned their horses into the long line.

  The First Kick

  I n the middle of April, messengers arrived at Ellesmere with news of the campaign in Flandres.

  Peri’s heart leaped into her throat when Alys brought word of their arrival. She hastened to find her mother-by-marriage, almost bumping into the countess in the hallway.

  Breathless, Peri instinctively laid a protective hand over the slight swell of her belly. The morning sickness had abated several sennights earlier, but now it threatened to rear its unwelcome head again. “Maman—”

  The countess held up a hand. “I heard. What news of Gallien and Étienne?”

  Peri shook her head. “I know not. The earl is closeted in his Chart Room with the messengers.”

  Her mother-by-marriage took hold of her hands. “Then my sons are well. My husband would have come to tell us right away if news of them was dire.”

  Peri recognised this was probably true, but it didn’t allay the churning in the pit of her belly. Gallien did not know she was with child. He had left without a word of farewell, his resentment of her apparent. Her heart ached that he would never love her, but the greater fear was that he might die without ever knowing his child.

  The countess patted Peri’s belly. As on many occasions before, she seemed to read her thoughts. “Gallien will be very happy. Don’t worry.”

  Peri blinked away the tears welling in her eyes. “Who are these messengers?”

  “They are noblemen loyal to my husband. Since his father’s day, Ellesmere has benefitted from having dependable contacts in Westminster. We are far away, but we have eyes and ears there.”

  “Now I understand how the earl manages to stay informed on happenings at Henry’s court.”

  Carys de Montbryce smiled. “Aye, though they don’t often come in person. We have a regular relay of pigeons to carry messages. This news must be significant indeed.”

  A door creaked open nearby. Peri’s gut clenched, but the countess buoyed her as she swayed. Clinging together, holding their breath, they watched the earl approach.

  “Saint-Omer, Bruges and Ghent have declared for Henry’s candidate,” he announced, the relief evident on his face. “There is no direct news of our sons, but I assume they are safe. Apparently there was little military action.”

  The countess let out a long, slow breath.

  Peri gasped, then giggled.

  The earl and his wife looked at her curiously.

  “A kick,” she explained shyly, pressing a hand to her belly. “The first one.”

  The countess laughed. “He is happy his papa will soon be home.”

  Dissension

  T he skirmishes at Lille continued throughout the month of May. They were short but bloody. During one sortie, Étienne was knocked from his horse. He stood his ground, fending off French attackers with his sword until Gallien rescued him. “Merci, mon frère,” he rasped, clinging to Gallien as they rode back to their own camp.

  “De rien,” Gallien replied. “We promised to watch out for each other.”

  It was a familiar jest. It went without saying brother would protect brother. He helped Étienne dismount. “Besides, I do not intend to take you back to Ellesmere in a box.”

  Apparently sensing his siege of Lille would never succeed while the Normans were harassing him, King Louis decamped in the middle of the night, fleeing the town.

  By mid-June, Lille had been secured and its citizens had declared for Thierry. Rising hopes for a quick resolution to the civil war were dashed again by the news that Clito had attacked and taken Oostkamp, south of Bruges.

  “It’s as if Louis lured us to Lille, so Clito could try to retake Bruges,” Étienne said.

  Alexandre joined them. “They say Clito actually forced a pitched battle with Thierry—unheard of and risky. He made his men cut their hair and shed their fine garments. Then he bade them do penance as if they were facing certain death.”

  “That would boost morale,” Gallien remarked sarcastically.

  “Seems it did,” Alexandre retorted. “He rode in the forefront of the attacking knights like a man possessed.”

  Étienne snorted. “He is possessed—with the thirst for power that seems to consume the Conqueror’s descendants.”

  It was the first time Gallien had heard his brother utter such a thought. How shocked their grandfather would have been. In his day, conquest equalled glory. A Norman was not a true Norman unless he was amassing territory.

  Alexandre’s voice broke into his reverie. “Clito feigned a retreat, then Thierry’s men were caught in an ambush by a second wave.”
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br />   How ironic Gallien would have been thinking of his grandfather who had led such a maneuver by the cavalry at Hastings to lead the Normans to victory against King Harold.

  To his surprise, Alexandre winked, evidently thinking the same thing. “Thierry’s men escaped, but Clito pursued them to the gates of Bruges. Thierry fled from Bruges to Aalst.”

  “He obviously believes Bruges will fall to Clito,” Gallien observed dispiritedly. “This will never end until either Clito or Thierry is dead.”

  They lingered in Lille, everyone waiting to see what would happen next. Gallien sought an opportunity to speak privately with Alexandre again. He decided to be more blunt. “What is your opinion on the succession?”

  Alexandre’s mouth fell open. It alarmed Gallien. Was his cousin stalling or did he have no opinion?

  “What says oncle Baudoin?”

  Gallien hesitated, his tongue playing with the inside of his cheek. “Outwardly, my father is for supporting Maud’s succession.”

  Alexandre’s eyes widened further.

  Gallien leaned closer to his cousin. “But I am against it.”

  Alexandre frowned. “Dissension in a Montbryce household?” he asked sarcastically. “I cannot imagine the consequences if I disagreed with my father on such a matter. But you have ever been your own man.”

  Gallien shrugged. “My father says I have too much Celt in me. I’m too emotional.”

  Alexandre chuckled. “My father has voiced similar opinions on your Welsh blood. However, we must make our decision based on sound reasoning, not emotion. Much as it galls me to say it, Maud is Henry’s legitimate child, even married to an Angevin. What belongs to Henry should fall to her.”

  Gallien was surprised. His uncle and cousin had evidently been discussing him. Would it be wise to continue? “But King Henry has wed again. He may yet sire another legitimate son.”

  Alexandre snorted. “Henry is a man of three score years.”

  “But Adeliza is only four and twenty.”

  Alexandre scowled. “They have been wed nigh on six years with no sign of any issue. Speaking of which, what of you and your wife?”

  Gallien shifted his weight. He did not want to discuss Peri with his unmarried cousin. “No children yet, but once I return home—”

  Alexandre smiled, but the smile left his face when Gallien asked, “And you? A betrothal soon, perhaps?”

  “My parents have paraded many eligible young women before me, but none have appealed.” He looked directly at Gallien. “I want a woman with whom I can share a deep love, like the one my parents have. I suspect you have found such a woman. I can see in your eyes that you suffer from the Montbryce curse.”

  Gallien was stunned. Alexandre had sensed something in him that he had fought to deny. The cousin he barely knew wanted what Gallien had thrown away: a deep, abiding love.

  In the middle of July, word spread in the camp that Clito had laid siege to Aalst.

  “Not difficult to guess where we are going next,” Gallien said wearily. “We should have gone to Aalst before. It was obvious Clito would attack there.”

  It dismayed him there seemed to be no clear leadership of the motley crew of English and Norman knights.

  Aalst became another cat and mouse game of skirmishes and counter attacks. The summer heat was oppressive. During one charge, Gallien caught sight of Clito for the first time. “He seems to be everywhere at once,” he remarked breathlessly to Étienne. “He’s tall.”

  As they wheeled their mounts for another pass, Clito’s horse reared, throwing him to the ground. One of Thierry’s foot soldiers advanced on him, lance in hand.

  Gallien lost sight of what was happening in the clouds of dust as he turned to fend off one of Clito’s men. Having dealt his assailant a sword blow to the belly that would likely kill him, he peered through the melee.

  Clito grappled with the soldier, one arm bloodied. Gallien spurred his horse forward, trying to push through the tangled horde.

  Two of Clito’s knights rode to their lord’s defense, despatched the enemy foot soldier and plucked their leader from the field, bearing him to safety.

  Coughing, his eyes watering, Gallien seethed. “I might have had the glory of capturing William Clito, grandson of the Conqueror.”

  Magic Wand

  Gallien chewed on a heel of stale bread, gazing at the pennants shimmering atop the enemy’s pavilions like a mirage in the far distance. “It’s too quiet. Something is amiss in Clito’s camp.”

  Romain scratched his beard. “I agree. Dieu, I’ll be glad of a shave—and some action. Sitting on my arse for three days swatting flies is driving me witless. What do you suppose is going on over there?”

  Alexandre sipped his ale, his hands cradled around a cracked tumbler. “There’s a rumor Clito was seriously wounded when he fell off his horse.”

  Gallien shook his head. “I saw it. He walked away, with help from his comrades. However, his attacker was brandishing a lance. Clito’s arm looked to be bloodied.”

  He still chided himself that he had let the opportunity to capture the Conqueror’s grandson slip through his fingers. Had Thierry’s man managed to seriously wound Clito before being cut down? In the oppressive heat even a minor wound could fester. There had been no sign of preparations for another sortie from the enemy camp.

  “We should know soon,” Laurent offered. “Thierry has paid villagers from Aalst to report back to him after they deliver victuals to Clito’s camp.”

  Suddenly, a loud cheer went up from the area near Thierry’s pavilion. As one, the Montbryces came to their feet. Gallien shaded his eyes against the sun. Étienne was running up the hill towards them, waving his arms.

  He clutched Gallien’s shoulders, gulping air. “Clito is dying.” He took another breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “They’ve taken him to the Benedictine community of Saint Bertin in Saint-Omer.” He shook his head, opening his eyes. “It was his last request that he be admitted there to die.”

  Gallien hoped he had correctly understood his brother’s babbling. It was over. He yelled his elation, tightening his grip and hoisting Étienne off the ground. “At last! What happened?”

  Étienne pushed away, bending over to catch his breath, his hands on his knees.

  Alexandre thumped him on the back. “How do you know this?”

  Étienne collapsed onto a camp stool, accepting Alexandre’s tumbler of ale, which he drained. He sat with his legs sprawled, staring at his feet, as if he could scarcely believe the news he had just imparted. “Clito’s cousin came to Thierry with a delegation.”

  Gallien bristled. “We’ve kept an eye on the comings and goings over there. I saw nothing.”

  Étienne jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “They came from the other direction. Jean escorted his dying master to Saint-Omer. Clito dictated a letter for Thierry to give to King Henry. He apparently expressed his sorrow for the divisions between him and his uncle, and begged pardon for himself and all who aided him.”

  Gallien could scarce believe it. “Christ! It’s as if he thinks all this bloodshed has been for some silly family feud. Was it the lance?”

  “Oui, according to the priest, the weapon ripped open his palm and was driven up into his forearm. The wound putrified.”

  A hush fell over the gathering. Every warrior dreaded dying in lingering agony.

  Gallien threw up his hands. “Bring more ale, Alexandre. Let’s toast the nameless dead infantryman who has brought an end to this folly.”

  * * *

  “It’s as if Merlin waved his magic wand and the fighting ceased,” Étienne whispered.

  Gallien watched the clouds of incense rise into the vaulted arches of the abbey of Saint Bertin. “I agree. One minute we were busy killing each other, and now we are here honoring Clito as he is interred. But the Flemish disagree with you. They see his death as an Act of God.”

  Étienne inhaled deeply. “What a waste. Only five and twenty.”

  Gallien shuddered.
“And a slow, obscene death. I hope to die more quickly when my time comes.”

  Alexandre smiled. “My father is no doubt overjoyed by news of Clito’s death, and proud that my brothers and I played some small part in the demise of Curthose’s son. I am glad my mother still lives to hear the news. You were right when you said it would not end until one of them was dead. Louis has recognised Thierry as Comte of Flandres, and I am sure King Henry will be pleased with the way events have turned out.”

  Gallien grimaced. “Imagine rejoicing at the death of a nephew. Thank God our family has never come to such a pass.”

  He felt instantly contrite. Not only had he forgotten Alexandre, Romain and Laurent expected to hear news of their mother’s death, he had given no thought to his own father’s slaying of Dorianne’s brother years ago at Tinchebray.

  As if sensing his discomfort, Étienne changed the subject. “Kings have different burdens and responsibilities. Henry has always put England and Normandie’s interests ahead of his own feelings. Those who wear the crown cannot always listen to the dictates of their heart.”

  Gallien recognised the truth of his brother’s words, and questioned anew Maud’s ability to follow in her father’s footsteps. News had come in the midst of the campaign of her marriage to Geoffrey in Le Mans. Strangely, he felt only sadness for them. It was evident they were ill-matched. Imagine her imperial ire at having to wed in Anjou.

  He resolved to pledge himself anew to Stephen’s cause to be King of England.

  But first he intended to rebuild his relationship with his wife. He fished the well-worn sachet from his doublet. He held it to his nose, rubbing his thumb and fingers lovingly over the talisman that had carried him through the long campaign, inhaling the last traces of its perfume. “I suppose you are right. Anyway, finally we can go home.”

  Is It Mine?

  “Clito is dead!”

  Peri startled, wincing as the needle punctured her finger. Sewing had ever been a burden, now she would have blood on the stitches. She stuck her finger in her mouth and struggled to her feet, dropping the hated embroidery. “What?”