Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 3

  Rhoni chuckled. “Oui, she convinced my less than enthusiastic father by reminding him Myfanwy Mabelle was named for her, so she felt it her duty to go. Eventually he capitulated.”

  Rhoni doubted her father could deny her mother anything. “I hope one day to meet a handsome Norman nobleman to love as my parents love each other.”

  Jacquelle put her hands on Rhoni’s shoulders. “The perfect man will come along, milady.”

  Rhoni shrugged impatiently. “But time is passing. I’ll soon celebrate twenty years—too old for some to consider taking as a wife.”

  Eligible young men flocked to Ellesmere, encouraged, she suspected, by her father. None had appealed, and she was thankful her parents would never force her into marriage. “I refuse to sit here bored to death at Ellesmere. Perhaps if I go to Llansanfraid with my mother, I might meet this elusive man. I was born in Wales. Mayhap that’s where he awaits me!”

  Jacquelle gasped in horror. “A Welshman, milady?”

  Rhoni giggled. “Of course not, silly!”

  Mabelle and Ram de Montbryce were discussing the journey to the Llansanfraid Priory when Rhoni came upon them in the gallery. The earl had reopened the discussion and it sounded like he was having second thoughts. The countess broke from her husband’s embrace as Rhoni entered.

  Mabelle pouted. “But Ram, we’ve already decided I’ll go. Myfanwy Mabelle is the youngest Prioress they’ve ever had at Llansanfraid. It’s an enormous achievement for the girl. Rhonwen is proud of her daughter. I have to go.”

  The earl gazed into the embers of the hearth, rubbing his rheumatic knees. “Have we not endured enough separation? It seems I’ve just come back from Constantinople and now you’re going off to Wales.”

  Rhoni hoped this was the right moment to ask. “Llansanfraid isn’t that far, Papa. Perhaps if I accompanied Maman?”

  Both parents turned to her, mouths agape.

  “Absolutely not, Hylda Rhonwen,” her mother blurted out.

  “Non,” her father confirmed.

  Rhoni rolled her eyes. “But you’re going because Myfanwy Mabelle is named for you. I’m named for her mother, Rhonwen. It’s my duty to go as well. I’m the only person in this family born in Wales.”

  She regretted mentioning the painful memory, though over the years she’d sensed her mother’s stoic acceptance of the terrifying kidnapping by Welsh rebels. It had turned out to be a good thing in many ways.

  Her parents exchanged a glance. Taking it as a good omen, she soldiered on. “We’ll be well protected by our personal bodyguards. Rhodri has guaranteed our safe passage in Wales.”

  Her mother glared. “Our safe passage?”

  Her father scowled, but he tended to do so whenever Rhodri’s name was mentioned.

  Rhoni sidled up to him, linked her arm in his, and rested her head on his shoulder. “Please, Papa. There’s no danger. We’ll be back before you know it. I too want to honor Myfanwy Mabelle. She’s a year younger than I, and look at what she has accomplished.”

  The tension left his arm. He glanced again at her mother. “Very well. You may go.”

  She threw her arms around his neck, jumping up and down like a child of ten rather than a proper young Norman noblewoman.

  “Merci, Papa.”

  Her mother shook her head.

  Rhoni hugged her. “Come, Maman, help me advise Jacquelle what to pack.”

  The Oath

  Ronan didn’t know how long he’d lain curled up like a babe in the womb while Conall plied the oars. He’d surrendered to oblivion soon after the beach had faded from view, certain they would never see their homeland again.

  He’d have to take a turn at rowing, though the prospect filled him with dread. Every muscle had cramped, but Conall couldn’t row all the way to Wales, no matter his expertise and claims to the contrary. So far they’d been lucky. The seas were calm.

  As he slowly regained his wits, he sensed the craft was drifting. He raised his head. Conall dozed, slumped over the crossed oars.

  “Conall,” he rasped, tapping the boy’s leg with his booted foot. The second boot lay between them in the currach, the other leg now swollen and blue from knee to ankle. He was thankful the cold wind had robbed him of feeling in the limb.

  The boy startled, letting out a long breath. “Sorry, my lord. I fell asleep. It won’t happen again.”

  Ronan had barely enough strength to hold out his hands, but at least now only two of them trembled before his eye. “Pass me the oars.”

  The lad hesitated, but then complied. “I’ll sleep a while, then take over.”

  Ronan grasped the oars, dipped them and pulled, groaning as pain hammered every part of his body. He took a deep breath and pulled again, glancing at the boy, already snoring softly. He didn’t possess Conall’s knowledge of the sea and hoped to keep the tiny boat on course.

  Not that it mattered. The island they were headed for might be a holy place, but that didn’t guarantee sanctuary. The barbaric Welsh were rumored to be hostile to foreigners. His body was so far beyond pain he doubted if he’d ever be whole again.

  Why had he left Ireland? Vengeance would be out of reach, but where did the MacFintains and their cronies not hold sway? He would have had to travel to his uncle’s kingdom in Munster, a greater distance than the watery expanse they crossed now.

  He had new admiration for his young champion who had no doubt thought of that. He shook his aching head. It was a difficult truth to bear—Ronan, Lord of Túr MacLachlainn, nephew of the King of Munster, proud descendant of Vikings, owed his life to an enterprising and courageous servant.

  He swore an oath that, if he lived, he would avenge the deaths of his wife and steward, and the loss of his ancestral lands.

  “Or may my soul languish in the depths of Hell.”

  Chester

  Mabelle de Montbryce loved her daughter dearly but breathed a sigh of relief when Chester Castle came in sight. It was an enormous edifice. Surely the Earl of Chester would assign a separate chamber for each of them?

  It seemed Rhoni hadn’t stopped talking for the seven hours of their ride, mostly of inconsequential and frivolous things. Fortissima was her favorite topic of conversation.

  “I must be getting old,” Mabelle chided inwardly. “There was a time I wanted to spend every moment with my little girl.”

  Her thoughts drifted back to Rhoni’s birth in the mountains of Wales. Her daughter loved to recount the tale to anyone who would listen. “My mother, my brothers, Giselle, and Rhonwen were kidnapped by the Welsh rebel chieftain, Rhodri ap Owain. He had not known my mother was with child. Bad weather had delayed their ransom and I came into the world in Wales.”

  How unpredictable were the twists and turns of life that now Mabelle journeyed with her daughter to a ceremony honoring the eldest daughter of Rhodri and Rhonwen.

  “Maman, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the past half hour,” Rhoni complained. “Where are your thoughts?”

  Mabelle smiled wistfully. “I was remembering the last thing I said to Rhonwen after I convinced her to return to Rhodri once the ransom was paid. I hoped her children and mine would one day live in peace in these mountains and valleys.”

  Rhoni shrugged. “You can’t say Normans and Welshmen live in peace, but at least our two families do. Rhonwen has brought her children to Ellesmere many times over the years. Baudoin certainly seems to be fond of her daughter, Carys. I am too, though she’s much younger than I.”

  Mabelle glanced sharply at her daughter. She’d noticed Baudoin’s attraction to the girl. It would have to be watched. “You’re right. I’m glad my children and Rhonwen’s have had a chance to build peaceful relations, although I doubt those redheaded twin boys of hers will grow to be lovers of Normans. They will be rebel warriors like their father. I only hope your papa is never put in the position of having to execute them, or Rhodri.”

  The imposing castle came into full view, perched atop a hill around which the River Dee swept in a grad
ual curve. It had been the last Saxon town to fall to the Conqueror. Mabelle shivered, remembering the great Norman brutality that had forced Chester to its knees. In the intervening years the stone motte and bailey had replaced whatever the Saxons had built.

  As their cavalcade came within the curtain wall, Mabelle leaned close to her daughter. “No more talk of Rhodri and Rhonwen while we are in this castle. The Earl of Chester would like nothing more than to capture Rhodri now that he concentrates his efforts on raiding this area. Rhonwen won’t allow him to attack Ellesmere. Remember, as far as anyone else is concerned, we are making a pilgrimage to Saint Winefride’s Well.”

  Rhoni winked, tracing a finger across her lips.

  As befitted Mabelle’s station as the wife of a fellow earl, they were welcomed heartily in the bailey by the Earl of Chester. “Comtesse de Montbryce, and mademoiselle de Montbryce, welcome. Soyez les bienvenues!”

  They exchanged pleasantries as he ushered them into the keep. Mabelle recalled an amusing piece of information gleaned from Rhonwen that the Welsh had nicknamed the earl Hugh the Fat. Rhoni seemed fascinated by the man’s corpulence, but then such obesity did tend to draw the eye.

  Servants carried in their baggage and disappeared with it. To Mabelle’s consternation, Rhoni fussed over Fortissima’s care with a stable boy.

  The earl introduced his steward, who then showed them to their chambers. Rhoni flashed a conspiratorial grin at her mother as she entered her chamber where a maidservant awaited.

  Following the steward to her own chamber, Mabelle worried her garrulous daughter might not keep her mouth shut.

  Son Of A Selkie

  Conall was an experienced sailor, but as the seas grew rougher, it was he who retched over the side of the tiny craft.

  “Sorry, my lord,” he rasped, wiping his sleeve across his mouth after another bout of sickness.

  Ronan should have reassured him, but was simply relieved seasickness hadn’t been added to his list of torments. He doubted his voice would work anyway.

  They’d both long since ceased rowing, trusting their fate to the wind and the sea, too exhausted to lift an oar.

  Conall castigated himself over and over for not bringing water. Thirst raged in Ronan’s throat, but it wasn’t the boy’s fault. “Stop fashing! We are alive because of your courage, Conall,” he reminded his savior, doubting they could endure much longer.

  He thought of Mary, the sweet, biddable girl brought to his bed in an arranged marriage. It wasn’t a great love they shared, but they got along. She tolerated his moods and satisfied his male needs as best she could. She took good care of his keep, and the servants liked and respected her. She didn’t deserve to die a brutal death.

  He clenched his frozen fingers. It was ironic he would die at sea. His mother’s body had never been found, though her husband had spent most of his time looking out to sea after her disappearance. Thereafter, Ronan was forbidden to go to the beach alone for fear his mother would snatch him back.

  His poor father must be turning over in his tomb now the MacLachlainn ancestral lands were lost to the MacFintains. Ronan’s death would signal an end to this proud branch of the family. His seed had died with Mary. The lump choking his throat rose up as bitter tears streamed from his good eye.

  “Máire Bhán,” he murmured.

  The wind had whipped water into the currach. His boot was already floating. It was a matter of time. Ronan signed the cross of his Savior and gave himself over to his God.

  The Priory

  Rhodri’s men appeared out of the forest as if by magic once the Montbryces were away from Chester. Rhoni wondered if the earl was aware rebels encroached so close with apparent impunity. The captain of their personal guard had been forewarned the Welshmen would be joining them, and no alarm was raised.

  Gabriel Duquesne saluted his acknowledgment of Mabelle’s reassurance they were safe with the Welshmen, but scowled as he watched them ride away.

  Another day brought Mabelle and Rhoni to Llansanfraid. The Priory was visible in the distance for a long while. The late afternoon sun shone on the whitewashed outer walls, drawing them to its light. Rhoni took a deep breath. The sea was a few miles distant from this peaceful place, but she smelled the salty tang.

  Myfanwy Mabelle came out to meet them. Rhoni supposed that if she didn’t find a suitable man to marry, she too might be obliged to enter a convent. Robert and Baudoin would inherit their father’s titles and properties. There remained only Alensonne in Normandie, the castle that had belonged to Rhoni’s volatile grandfather, Guillaume de Valtesse. It was unlikely her mother would give that responsibility to her daughter.

  The prospect of life in a cloister filled Rhoni with dread. Some people, like Myfanwy Mabelle, were meant for the religious life. It had been apparent for years that Rhodri and Rhonwen’s first born was destined to live her life in God’s service. She’d gone to the Priory at the age of four and ten and excelled in her studies. Now five years later she was to become the Prioress. For Rhoni such a fate would be a death sentence, even in a magical place like Llanfransaid.

  Myfanwy Mabelle dipped a curtsey. “Welcome, Countess of Ellesmere. You honor me with your presence at this important occasion.”

  Mabelle pulled the young nun to her feet and embraced her. “We wouldn’t have missed it, my dear. Where is your mother? I’m anxious to see her again.”

  Rhonwen bustled out into the courtyard. “My lady,” she panted breathlessly, “I intended to greet you when you arrived.”

  Mabelle opened her arms wide and the two women embraced.

  Myfanwy turned to Rhoni, smiling as she watched her mother and her namesake renew acquaintances. “Thank you for coming, Rhoni. We haven’t seen each other for many a year.”

  Rhoni felt uncomfortable. She was happy to see Myfanwy, but how did one greet a nun? She risked a hug. “It’s my pleasure to be here.”

  Myfanwy returned the embrace tenfold, almost squeezing the life out of her. Rhoni had no sister and the warmth of this pious young woman was heartwarming. In different circumstances they might have been close friends.

  It was unlikely. Though her junior by a year, Myfanwy had an aura of serious serenity that made Rhoni feel like a silly child.

  Mabelle and Rhonwen walked towards the cloisters.

  Myfanwy touched Rhoni’s arm. “We should linger a few minutes before we follow,” she said. “My father is waiting inside.”

  Rhodri ap Owain stood in the shadowed cloister watching the two women walk towards him. Rhonwen knew he was there, but the countess hadn’t yet seen him.

  Twenty years had passed since their first and last meeting, yet Mabelle de Montbryce walked with the same regal bearing he remembered well.

  The circumstances of their meeting had not been auspicious. He had kidnapped her. The hefty ransom the earl had willingly paid had helped feed many a desperate Welsh family that year.

  During the months of her captivity in his mountain stronghold, Rhodri had developed a healthy respect for the countess. He’d grown to like her. Thanks be to the gods Rhonwen had been with her when they were taken.

  He frowned when his wife and the countess paused in the priory garden, laughing at a shared memory.

  He lifted his gaze beyond them to the courtyard and saw the child he’d held in his arms a few minutes after her birth. This was the babe he’d carried down the mountains to England, his heart broken by Rhonwen’s refusal to stay with him.

  Now Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce had grown into a beautiful young woman, tall and blonde like her mother. She and Myfanwy were laughing too. If only life could be thus—Welsh and Norman, sharing happiness and joy. Such had been the countess’s wish when they’d parted years ago.

  Was it a fruitless hope? Were he foolish enough to go against Rhonwen’s wishes and raid in Ellesmere territory, Mabelle de Montbryce’s husband would be obliged to execute him if he were captured.

  He chuckled. Angering Rhonwen was something he would never do, though he w
orried about his twin sons. The fifteen-year-old hotheads were unpredictable. Rhun and Rhydderch tended to be more fanatical than he about ridding Wales of Norman domination. He was proud of their warrior spirit, their desire to follow in his footsteps, but in his heart he suspected their older brother’s peacemaking traits might achieve more for Wales in the long run. Rhys took after his mother.

  Lost in his musings, he hadn’t noticed that Rhonwen and her companion had resumed their progress to the cloister. Suddenly the Countess of Ellesmere stood directly in front of him, her palm pressed to her breast, mouth agape.

  For a brief moment, Mabelle was back in the Great Hall of Cadair Berwyn, forcing down the fear in her throat as she faced her captor for the first time.

  Before her in the cloister stood Rhodri ap Owain, the man responsible for months of captivity and the near decapitation of her son. Rhoni had been born in the wilds of Wales because of him. Her husband’s indiscretion with Lady Ascha Woolgar had come about after his injury at Rhodri’s hand.

  The Welsh prince looked as muscular and menacing as he did then, though the war braids were gone. The grey streaks in his thick hair made him seem even more distinguished. There were a thousand reasons why she should hate him, but it was simply good to see him. The years melted away. She held out her hand and smiled. “Prince Rhodri, you look well.”

  Rhodri bowed to kiss her knuckles. “Countess, you’re as beautiful now as you were then.”

  Rhonwen linked her arm in Rhodri’s, beaming. Mabelle had known in her heart that the two were destined for each other, as Rhodri had known it. She’d always been glad she’d persuaded Rhonwen to return to him.

  Myfanwy and Rhoni entered the cloister. Mabelle took her daughter’s hand. “Rhoni, may I present to you Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.”