If Love Dares Enough Page 4

  Hugh and Antoine followed Torod into the Hall, where preparations were being made for a meal. Hugh noted the high quality of the furnishings and tapestries, but then his eyes fell upon a dishevelled, wild-eyed Saxon woman slumped against the wall, mumbling incoherently. Her hand rested on the head of the dog that had sniffed Antoine. Two young Saxon girls scurried by, eyes downcast, carrying linens.

  Hugh spoke to Torod’s back. “Was this a Saxon holding at one time, Torod?”

  Torod didn’t turn around. “Oui, but it’s Sir Renouf’s now. He wed the daughter of the thane.”

  Hugh arched his brow at Antoine, irritated the man had not had the manners to turn around to reply.

  Antoine nodded to his brother. “I hope we’ll meet his wife then,” he said to Torod.

  Hugh thought the man looked suddenly uncomfortable as he glanced first at them, then furtively towards the stairs. He seemed hesitant to reply, then said, “Lady Devona may come down and she may not. It depends.”

  Hugh noticed that Antoine had also arched his brows. “I see. Is she unwell?”

  “Oui—unwell.”

  Unexpectedly, a tall, slender woman appeared at the head of the stairs and started down, her thin fingers gripping the banister. The dog rose, barked a welcome and wagged its tail, then returned to the crone.

  Antoine had green eyes, but the ones Hugh looked up into were the greenest he’d ever seen. They were eyes full of pain and hopelessness, and his heart thudded in his chest, echoing the thump, thump of the dog’s tail on the stone floor. Renouf reappeared, seemingly from nowhere, and Hugh was glad his gambeson hid his arousal.

  The lord of the manor rushed forward before the visitors could greet the woman and introduced her. “Lady Devona de Maubadon, my wife, these are milords Hugh and Antoine de Montbryce.”

  The lady nervously proffered her hand, though the long, wide, sleeves hid all but the tips of her fingers. Antoine kissed her hand and Hugh followed suit. The aroma of marigold stole into Hugh’s senses. She didn’t smile, didn’t look directly at him, but his heart lurched again. The hem of her dress swished against the wood of the staircase and her dead eyes flickered for a brief moment when they rested on his trembling hand.

  “My lords,” she whispered in a barely audible voice, effecting a curtsey.

  Because the wimple covered her hair completely, Hugh couldn’t discern its colour. Though the head garb also hid a goodly portion of her face, he could see she was beautiful, though pale and gaunt. The shabby overdress she wore clung to her breasts and hips, accentuating her figure. It was as if she’d grown out of a dress she’d worn as a girl. Hugh was at once enthralled and offended.

  I suppose times have been hard for Saxons. But she has a Norman husband.

  Torod reappeared, indicating their room was ready, and directed them to it. The two Saxon girls were just finishing their task. They seemed nervous and wouldn’t look at the Normans. Once they’d left and the door was closed, Hugh burst out, “Something odd is going on here, Antoine.”

  “I agree. It’s a strange atmosphere.”

  The brothers readied themselves for the meal, assisting each other with their chain mail since they hadn’t brought a valet. They descended to the Hall, where several men-at-arms were gathered, shouting loudly at the harried Saxon servants. Ram’s men sat apart, watching the others with an air of disgust.

  Renouf gave no indication where they were to sit, but they naturally went to the head table as befitted their rank. They exchanged a glance of dismay at the lack of courtesy. The two Saxon girls, Hugh assumed they were Bemia and Aediva, waited on the head table. Lady Devona reddened when they served her food. He was somewhat taken aback when one of the girls carried food to the unkempt woman slumped against the wall, and shared it with her. The still recumbent dog looked on with interest, tongue lolling as it panted.

  “Get that madwoman out of here!” Renouf bellowed. “Into the kitchens with all of you. Damn Saxons!”

  Brigantia lumbered to her feet and barked at Renouf whose anger was evident. “Get rid of that hound before I cut its head off!”

  Obviously agitated, Bemia and Aediva dragged the woman and the protesting dog into the kitchen. Hugh saw that Devona was close to tears, fighting for control.

  “Peasants!” Renouf spat. “Saxon peasants.”

  Hugh felt anger rise in his throat and clenched his jaw. No one at the head table spoke as the meal continued amid the raucous noise of the men-at-arms. Hugh and Antoine exchanged disapproving glances at the bad manners being exhibited. Devona seemed to be having difficulty eating.

  “Eat something, woman!” Renouf shouted, tossing a piece of bread torn from his trencher at her. “You’re skin and bones.”

  “I’m not hungr—”

  “Eat, woman!” Renouf bellowed.

  Devona cringed and leaned forward to eat. She raised a trembling hand to move her wimple aside. Her sleeve fell back to reveal angry red marks on her wrist. Hugh understood now why he had detected the scent of marigold. She must have used it to take the sting from the welts. She quickly withdrew her hand, but not before the wimple had shifted slightly and he saw the purple bruise high on her cheekbone. He stole a glance at Renouf who was engrossed in explaining something to Antoine. His blood boiled. The animal was abusing this fair lady. He remembered Ram’s observations. No wonder we Normans are hated.

  He experienced a bone-deep desire to cut the man up and feed him to the dogs. He opened his mouth to accuse Renouf but then saw the pleading look in Devona’s eyes as she shook her head ever so slightly. He had an overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and promise her she would never be hurt again.

  Antoine was carrying on the conversation. “Tell me, Sir Renouf, what of the Saxon thane of this manor?”

  “Dead!” Renouf said, his mouth full of food. “At Stamford Bridge.”

  “That would be your father, Lady Devona?” Hugh asked gently, a feeling of relief sweeping over him that her father hadn’t died at Hastings thus his death couldn’t be laid at Hugh’s door.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “He was slain by a Norwegian giant who took a stand with a battle axe on the bridge. It’s said he mowed down at least two score Saxon warriors before he was impaled on a spear thrust from under the bridge.”

  “Well,” Renouf guffawed, “That was two score fewer Saxons for us to dispatch at Hastings, eh?”

  Hugh bristled with anger at the brute’s callousness and caught the tension in Antoine’s voice. “My brothers and I both fought at Hastings, Lady Devona. If it’s any consolation I can tell you the Saxon warriors fought with tremendous skill and bravery. I’m sure if he’d survived Stamford Bridge, your father would have fought with honour. Hastings wasn’t an easy victory. It’s incredible to think that the Saxon army had fought that bloody battle against Norway’s King Harald Hardråda two hundred miles to the north just a few days before facing our forces.”

  Hugh saw the haunted green eyes well with tears, but then she glanced at Renouf, a look of abject fear on her face. His anger intensified as the din from the now sated men-at-arms increased.

  “You were without a man here to take care of the manor, before Hastings?” Antoine continued, almost shouting over the din.

  Devona didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on her food.

  Renouf took hold of Devona’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s as well I came along when I did, isn’t it, chérie?” Hugh saw fear deaden her eyes, and something else—loathing.

  He could bear it no longer, afraid he might challenge his Norman host, and stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse us, Sir Renouf, my brother and I must retire early. We’ve a long journey to Normandie on the morrow.”

  “Of course,” Renouf replied coolly, remaining seated.

  Hugh could not look at the lady as he left. He sensed she wouldn’t dare watch him leave, though he felt Renouf’s eyes on his back.

  ***

  When they reached their chamber Hugh said urgently, “There’s something very wro
ng going on here, Antoine.”

  “I agree. This is a fine manor, obviously a wealthy holding—at one time anyway. Look at these linens, and the tapestries. Though there’s evidence of neglect.”

  “What did you make of the old woman slumped against the wall? Did you notice she too has green eyes, just like Lady Devona?”

  Antoine turned abruptly to face his brother. “By the saints, Hugh, it isn’t like you to notice the colour of a woman’s eyes!”

  Hugh blushed. “Devona is a beautiful woman, but she’s terrified of her husband.”

  Antoine was scratching his head. “De Maubadon—De Maubadon—I didn’t hear of the name at Hastings. Perhaps he joined the invasion later?”

  Hugh paced. “I think Renouf de Maubadon is the worst kind of Norman—an opportunist who has seen no battle action, but who has taken this manor and coerced the daughter into marrying him. Did you see her bruises and the welts on her wrists?”

  Antoine perched on the edge of the bed and watched his brother pace. “Did you also see that the two serving wenches have green eyes?”

  “Three sisters then, and a mother who is obviously ill, whom Renouf treats like a serf.”

  Antoine put his hands on his thighs. “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about it. King William has turned a blind eye to, and even encouraged Normans to take over Saxon holdings. Renouf is a Norman. We need to be wary. He has his own men-at-arms and a rough bunch they are. Did you notice they paid no attention to his shouting? They’re evidently used to it. And Renouf’s henchman, Torod. He’s enough to make your skin crawl.”

  “Probably mercenaries,” Hugh replied.

  Antoine rose and examined the furniture in the room. “Trying to pay them and meet his own greedy needs could drain a manor such as this.”

  Hugh stopped pacing. “In some ways, I hope that’s the case. It will give me an excuse to interfere. I’m all in favour of Saxon obedience to Norman law, but it turns my stomach when men abuse women.”

  Antoine turned to look at Hugh. “Unfortunately, she’s his wife, if we can believe what he says. And a man has complete authority over his wife.”

  “She may not have wed him willingly.”

  Antoine shook his head. “Be realistic, Hugh, many women marry against their will, Saxon and Norman alike.”

  They were silent for a few minutes before Hugh said, “Perhaps the old man in the stables can shed more light on what has happened here? I’ll go out to check on Velox.”

  “I’ll come with you. Just in case.”

  They found three of Renouf’s men-at-arms taunting the old man, shoving him from one to the other, Boden straining furiously, tethered to a stall, barking madly.

  “Leave him be!” Hugh shouted.

  “Who are you to order me about?” one of the men challenged.

  “I am Lord Hugh de Montbryce, overlord of this manor on the authority of the king.”

  The men let go of the elderly servant, shoving him to the ground, and skulked off to the other end of the large stables. Hugh proffered a hand but it was shrugged away and the old man struggled to his feet. Without a word of thanks, he made to go to the dog.

  “A moment,” Hugh said. The Saxon stopped, raised his hand to quieten Boden and looked directly into Hugh’s eyes.

  This man is no servant.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gerwint,” the man ground out, spitting phlegm into the straw.

  “You’re surly for a servant,” Antoine remarked.

  “I am no—” Gerwint looked around apprehensively, then lowered his voice. “I’m not a servant. I am Sir Gerwint Melton, once thane of King Edward the Confessor, now the pawn of a Norman brute like you. My deepest regret is I was deemed too old to fight at Hastings where I might have slain more of your kind.”

  Antoine bristled. “Not all Normans are brutes, Sir Gerwint.”

  “This has not been my experience, Norman. Go, or my granddaughter will be punished for any transgression I may be thought to have committed.”

  “You refer to Lady Devona?” Hugh asked. “Has Renouf wed her?”

  Gerwint nodded, his eyes dark. “Aye, five years gone. Alas, that it has come to this.”

  “Are Bemia and Aediva also your granddaughters?”

  Gerwint’s shoulders drooped. “Aye.”

  “And the woman slumped against the wall?”

  The Saxon exhaled loudly. “Their mother. Now go! Leave us be. I’ve seen to your mounts. You’ll make it worse for us. At least we’re not cast out to starve, and we’re together. Go!”

  He strode away, and the Montbryce brothers reluctantly left the stables to walk across the courtyard. Renouf was leaning against the doorpost, blocking the entry. “Seeing to your horses, mes seigneurs?” he asked with some belligerence.

  “Montbryces are known for our dedication to our steeds,” Antoine replied, his tone light. “We fight as mounted knights and our lives often depend on our horses, as was the case at Hastings. Were you in the cavalry there?”

  Renouf seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Non, I wasn’t in the cavalry, I mean—not the Norman cavalry. I fought with the Bretons.”

  Antoine stood directly in front of Renouf. “But you’re a Norman, aren’t you? May we pass into the house by the way, Sir Renouf, it’s chilly out here.”

  Renouf gave way.

  Hugh turned to face him squarely. “If you fought with the Breton cavalry you were lucky to cheat death. You had a tough time on the right flank.”

  Renouf looked at his feet. “Oui—I was lucky—as you say—now, I bid you bonsoir!”

  “Bonsoir, lying snake!” Hugh hissed under his breath to Renouf’s retreating back. “This man didn’t fight at Hastings. Anyone who was there knows the Bretons fought on the left flank.”

  They climbed the stairs to their chamber, stripped, washed and climbed into bed.

  “Five years she’s been married to that brute.” Hugh could barely grind out the words.

  “Strange, isn’t it, there are no children?” Antoine mused. “Perhaps she’s barren?”

  Hugh found it difficult to sleep. He tossed and turned, tormented by the image of a slender green-eyed woman with beautiful breasts lying beneath him, smiling. But the nebulous image changed and somehow the woman was dead. Had he killed her, overwhelmed by his need, his lust?

  “Dieu!” he cried out as he woke sweating, his hand on his throbbing manhood, the scent of marigold in his nostrils.

  Antoine sat up, rubbing one eye with his forefinger. “What is it, Hugh? A nightmare?”

  Hugh struggled to sit on the edge of the bed. “Oui, sorry Antoine. Just a nightmare as you say. Go back to sleep.”

  Shall I save her, only to kill her myself?

  He hoped no one else in the silent house had heard him cry out.

  ***

  Devona watched the Norman noblemen ride away with their men. She cursed that she’d allowed a flicker of hope to ignite when Hugh de Montbryce had looked into her eyes. She’d experienced a peculiar sensation of heat deep in her belly, terrified Renouf might notice something unusual about her reaction.

  While both Montbryces were handsome men, it was Hugh’s husky greeting that had warmed her as his lips brushed her fingers. Had he noticed the marigold? Compared to the unpleasant body odours that accompanied Renouf and Torod wherever they went, Hugh had smelled—clean, wholesome, naturally male.

  Last night, Renouf had collapsed in a drunken stupor, evidently not wanting to cause any unpleasant noises that might awaken the visitors. She’d dreamt of Hugh de Montbryce, of lying safe in his warm embrace.

  But the Montbryces were Normans. She could expect no help from them. They would never oust a fellow countryman from an estate he’d stolen. In any case, Hugh dwelt in Normandie. How could he be of help? Her family was nothing to him, Melton Manor just a source of revenue. Not that there would be much wealth remaining with Renouf’s excesses.

  Weary in mind and body, she didn’t know how much longe
r she could bear Renouf’s depraved brutality. She could do nothing to please him. The only thing that kept her going was the fear of what would happen to her family if they were left to Renouf’s mercies. She’d thought of killing him, but would never have had the strength to complete such an act. And if she did, Torod and his men would probably take great pleasure in slaughtering all of them.

  Her once energetic grandfather had aged terribly since her marriage to Renouf five years before. Five years! It felt more like a hundred. Her mother had deteriorated further into the madness that consumed her and Renouf threatened daily to have her burned as a witch.

  Bemia, now three years and ten, was beginning to develop, and Devona feared Renouf would, in the course of time, turn his depraved eyes on her. Aediva scurried around, trying not to be noticed, barely ever saying a word. Devona tried desperately to devise a plan to spirit her sisters away, but could think of no way to accomplish it. Torod was a constant unpredictable menace who brutally terrorized the remaining servants.

  Renouf never allowed any of them to leave the Manor, except to climb down the long twisting flight of fifty steps, hewn from the rock, which led to the isolated beach below the cliffs where the house stood. It was their only time of joy.

  The sisters went there with Boden and Brigantia a fortnight after the Montbryce brothers had visited. The weather had warmed considerably. They hoisted their skirts and paddled in the waves, watching the dark brown sand pool around their bare feet as the water receded. Devona loved the salty tang of the sea breeze on her lips. The girls squealed as the dogs emerged from the sea and shook the water from their sleek coats all over them.

  “Boden! Brigantia! You’ve soaked us through!” Aediva laughed. It gladdened Devona’s heart to hear her sister laugh. There was little laughter left in their lives.