Finale (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 12) Read online

  A loud commotion somewhere in her brother’s rented house startled Hollis de Moreville awake. Doors banged, running footsteps echoed. Hugh was barking orders.

  Disoriented by the darkness, she struggled to extricate herself from the tangled linens of her uncomfortable bed, annoyed that Hugh evidently hadn’t spared a thought for his sleeping children—as usual. He’d already had too much to drink before leaving for the castle and probably over-imbibed at the yuletide feast.

  Shrugging on a bed-robe to ward off the winter chill, she yanked open the door of her bedchamber, thankful the boys hadn’t woken—yet. Hugh didn’t care she’d spent hours trying to get them to sleep. They could be as stubborn as their father.

  At home in Burgh Castle, it had been easier to accept her fate; Cumbria was the place of her birth. However, traipsing around Normandie in King Henry’s wake was a trial. Hugh insisted it was his duty as a loyal subject to be at his monarch’s beck and call, but she recognised ambition when she saw it. Hugh had always thirsted for power. The prospect made her shiver. He was too rash, too given to violence. She believed his fits of rage had contributed to his fragile wife’s early death.

  Stalking down the dimly-lit corridor, the first person she encountered was a wild-eyed William FitzRam—or perhaps it was Martin—his arms laden with clothing. “What’s going on?” she asked, relieved she had bumped into someone who spoke her language.

  “We’re packing,” he replied. “His Lordship has commanded it.”

  For a moment, she feared she might be trapped in a nightmare. The tiny house wasn’t a place she wanted to live for the rest of her life, but at least it had been a settled home for the boys for a few months. It was Yuletide…and winter, for goodness sakes. “Packing? To go where?”

  “England,” the youth answered, hurrying away.

  His reply tempered her upset. Here was an unexpected chance to spend what remained of the yuletide season in England—it was sweet news she’d abandoned any hope of hearing—but why were they leaving in the middle of the night?

  The second FitzRam twin appeared out of the shadows, looking as harried as his brother. “Lord Hugh wants the children roused and made ready, Mistress Hollis,” he said.

  She threw her arms in the air. “Will somebody please tell me what’s happening?”

  “We’re going to Barham Court,” the boy replied.

  Exasperation threatened to boil over. “Why? And where is this place?”

  It was no wonder the youth narrowed his eyes. She must look like a shrieking harridan with wild hair. “I don’t know the reason,” he said. “Lord Hugh was too agitated to explain after the king’s angry outburst, but I think Barham is near Canterbury, in Kent. It’s the home of Sir Reginald FitzUrse.”

  She exhaled loudly as the youth left her standing alone. King Henry Plantagenet was another man given to fits of uncontrolled rage. This time, it appeared her brother had been on the receiving end of his ire. She wondered what Hugh could possibly have done to offend a king he served like a faithful puppy, but who could predict the monarch’s moods?

  Kent was a long way from Cumbria, but at least Hugh’s apparent banishment from the royal presence meant she was going home to England.

  Premonitions

  A semblance of celebration gradually seeped back into the proceedings once the king left the hall and servants began laying out food on trestle tables. A few harried-looking women reappeared.

  Still bothered by the abrupt departure of the four angry knights, Barr considered following them, but hunger won out. A squire seated at the table rose and hurried to help him remove his cloak and hauberk. “I’ll keep an eye on your belongings, sir,” the lad assured him.

  Barr went to fill his plate with a hearty serving of roasted goose, fresh black bread, boiled leeks, parsnips, a dollop of fig stuffing and gravy.

  A maidservant plopped down a tankard of ale as he regained his seat.

  He apologized to her for the puddle of water that had dripped from his garments, then smiled at the lanky youth across from him eyeing the pile of food. “Thank you for keeping care of my clothing. A long, cold ride makes a man hungry,” he said by way of an excuse, though he’d always been blessed with a healthy appetite.

  “You’re Sir Barr de Montbryce, are you not, milord?”

  He sliced off a chunk of goose with his eating dagger and put it in his mouth. “I am, and you?”

  The lad shoved dark curls out of his eyes. “Axel Cormant at your service. My uncle is steward at Alensonne.”

  Barr extended a hand. “My pardon. I thought I recognized your livery, but it’s a while since I’ve been to the MacLachlainn stronghold. When I succeed as Comte, I promise to be more conscientious about visiting the other Montbryce estates. What are you doing in Bures?”

  Axel accepted the handshake with a shrug. “His Majesty ordered neighboring castles to provide extra workers for the Yuletide celebrations. My uncle sent me, but there’s been little to do. The cantankerous cook shooed all us foreigners out of the kitchens so I took the opportunity to ask the FitzRam twins about England. I’d like to travel there someday.”

  “Unfortunately, they left.”

  “I saw.”

  The gut feeling of impending mischief refused to leave Barr, robbing the food of its taste. The possible involvement of his cousins’ innocent sons compounded his worries. The prospect of venturing outside again stuck in his craw, but…

  “Does de Moreville have a house nearby?”

  “Rented, I believe.”

  “Can you show me the way?”

  The youth came to his feet. “Gladly. The mood here isn’t very festive since the king’s outburst.”

  Despite the misgivings churning in his belly, Barr needed sustenance. “When I’m done.”

  Smiling, Axel sat back down. “How’s the food?”

  “Not as good as Montbryce.”

  “And none of your famous apple brandy.”

  “You know it?”

  “My uncle never stops talking about its quality.”

  Barr finished his meat and vegetables, then mopped up the last of the gravy with the bread. “Acceptable,” he declared, getting to his feet and re-donning his winter clothing and gauntlets, “if a mite greasy.”

  Shrugging on a hooded cape, Axel followed him to the entryway.

  He put both hands on the lad’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Serve me well, Axel Cormant, and I promise a cask of our finest apple brandy as your reward.”

  The youth’s eyes widened. “Simply for taking you to Lord Westmorland’s house?”

  The Cormants had been trusted stewards at Alensonne since Ram de Montbryce’s time. There was a reason he’d crossed paths with Axel, though he didn’t yet know what it was. “I have a feeling it will involve more than that.”

  Hollis tracked Hugh down to his solar where he was haranguing one of the FitzRam twins about his boots, his face red as a winter beetroot. His rages weren’t unusual. She’d spent most of her childhood avoiding him when his control snapped. The wise course would be to wait until he’d calmed, but…

  “This is too much, Hugh. Why are we packing to leave in the middle of the night and in treacherous weather? Have you caused offense to His Majesty?”

  She should have known better than to challenge him. She averted her gaze when he strode to within an inch of her nose, his eyes burning with fury. “On the contrary. The king has called on loyal knights to fulfill an important mission. My rewards will be rich, but it’s none of your affair. Your place is with my children. Go.”

  “But the yuletide…”

  He gritted his teeth, forcing her back into the hallway. “Be gone.”

  As she retreated, she heard loud footsteps and male voices she recognized immediately. She paused in the shadows to listen, filled with a dreadful premonition. She’d glimpsed something in her brother’s eyes she’d never seen before—a hint of madness.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he declared, ushering his friends
into his solar.

  She was prevented from hearing more when he slammed the door, but it was clear they were plotting in secret. There was no alternative but to obey his commands. Once she and the children got to England, she’d do her best to protect them from whatever foolhardy scheme he’d gotten himself involved in. She didn’t believe for a moment the king had entrusted her brother with an important mission. For all his faults, Henry Plantagenet was savvier than to put his trust in Hugh de Moreville.

  Barr let his faithful roan amble along the snow-covered track, Axel perched behind him. “Trogen should still be enjoying the warm stables at the castle,” he told the servant. “He carried me a long way this day.”

  “In treacherous conditions,” the youth added. “It’s not far now.”

  A few minutes later, Barr reined to a halt as the de Moreville house loomed out of the darkness, every window ablaze with light.

  “Hugh has evidently roused his household,” Barr remarked.

  “Why wake everybody?” Axel asked.

  They dismounted and pulled the horse into a clump of trees. “My guess is they’re embarking on a journey.”

  His premonition was borne out some minutes later when an elderly ostler emerged from the adjacent stable, slipping and sliding as he led two drayhorses hitched to a covered wagon.

  “I can’t credit they intend to travel in the dark, and in this weather,” Axel whispered as the conveyance came to a skidding halt by the front door of the house.

  The snow had ceased, but the youth raised a good point. “The wagon would suggest he’s taking chattels.”

  “He has two infant sons,” Axel told him.

  “I understood he’s a widower.”

  “His spinster sister takes care of the children.”

  Barr suffered a momentary pang of pity for any woman obliged to live with Hugh de Moreville, but she was probably as hot-tempered and mean-spirited as her brother. There was always a good reason a woman remained unmarried.

  But he had more important concerns. “I’m worried about the FitzRam twins. If he decamps, he’ll take them with him.”

  Axel nodded, rubbing his upper arms and stamping his feet. They both wore hooded woollen capes, but Barr was beginning to lose the feeling he’d finally regained in his toes and fingertips. “We must find shelter.”

  Axel shook his head. “Sir, they’re bringing out baggage.”

  They watched servants trundle trunks and various other items out of the house for several more minutes. “I’d say he’s not intending to come back. At this rate they won’t be ready to leave until daybreak.”

  “To go where?” Axel asked.

  “England, I’ll warrant.”

  Axel stayed silent for a minute or two then said, “You think this has to do with the news you brought about the archbishop.”

  The knot of dread in Barr’s gut tightened. Even the youth sensed the goings-on had evil intent. “Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions. If I am correct, they will pass through Bures on the way to the coast. We’ll wait in the castle.”

  When Barr was sure Axel was safely mounted behind him, he took a last glance at the house, startled by the unexpected appearance of a woman in the doorway, her flowing blond hair illuminated by the light of a torch inside the house. Two dark-haired boys, also in night attire, clung to her, their faces pinched with cold. A memory stirred. He’d seen her before. But where?

  She was clad in a voluminous night robe, rubbing her upper arms to ward off the chill, but there was no mistaking her noble bearing. A frown marred her features. Clearly, she wasn’t happy about being roused from her bed, but seemed resigned to it.

  This elegant woman was no lowly servant, and certainly not what he’d envisioned when Axel had mentioned de Moreville’s sister was a spinster. She was no longer a girl, but a man could do worse than wake each morning wrapped in those tangled golden tresses. He couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away. Perhaps if he offered to warm her, he’d be certain she was real.

  The ludicrous notion and his body’s betrayal of Belinda’s memory stuck in his throat, putting paid to the pleasant stirrings at the base of his spine. He’d become reconciled to a life of celibacy. Male urges were something he’d trained himself to suppress. His desire to sire children had resulted in his wife’s untimely demise.

  “What’s amiss, milord?” Axel asked.

  “Naught,” he replied too abruptly, turning Trogen. “We’ll sleep in the stables at Bures and wait.”

  As they rode, his fear that de Moreville had taken the king at his word blossomed into outrage that the hothead seemed willing to involve his family in whatever scheme he’d concocted. He doubted the sister had any inkling of her brother’s motives.

  Axel wisely remained silent until they arrived back at Bures. “I’ll sleep with Marguerite. She’s been missing her stall at Alensonne.”

  Barr bade him goodnight, impressed with a youth who cared about his horse.

  First Meeting

  Saturday, December 26th 1170

  It was still dark when a rooster crowed, but Barr was already awake. He’d been lucky to find an empty stall for Trogen in the overcrowded stables heated by scores of visitors’ horses. The reek of manure was enough to make a man’s eyes water. The straw was clean, but he’d spent most of the night worrying about de Moreville’s sister. Revisiting the events of the previous evening, he’d come to one inescapable conclusion. Hugh de Moreville and his companions had taken the king at his word and truly believed he wanted them to solve the problem of Archbishop Thomas Becket. What’s more, they might not be the only knights to pick up the gauntlet Henry had thrown down.

  It was possible the monarch had intended to stir action against Becket, though he thought Henry more politically astute than that. Perhaps, it was one of his usual fits of rage. However, intimidating Becket might turn out to be a successful ploy. It was well known the king had tried everything else to convince the archbishop of the monarchy’s jurisdiction over the church.

  He hoped intimidation was all de Moreville had in mind. Anything more drastic would bring the wrath of Rome down on Henry’s regal head.

  He crossed his legs at the ankles and put his hands behind his head, aware of a rustling in the straw nearby. “I’m not asleep,” he assured Axel.

  Trogen nickered at the sound of his voice.

  “Your steed knows you, Sir Barr.”

  He stretched, not looking forward to the possibility of another cold day in the saddle. “Indeed.”

  The youth yawned, picking straw from his dark curls. “Forgive me for asking, milord, but I’ve often wondered…”

  Barr chuckled inwardly, anticipating Axel’s question. The lad wouldn’t be the first person to ask.

  “Your name, milord, er, it’s not French, nor English, nor…”

  “It’s a nickname,” he explained. “A sobriquet, if you will. It’s short for Bernard Alexandre Rambaud Robert—the names of four generations of my ancestors. Alexandre is my father, of course, but Barr was my mother’s idea. She’s a Scot.”

  “Oui, I met her. She came to Alensonne once with your father when I was a boy.”

  “You said your uncle is the steward, but I suppose you and your family have also lived there many years?”

  “Only me,” Axel replied. “My parents died when I was a child. My uncle took me in. He’s like a father to me.”

  Barr was moved to offer condolences, but the distant sound of jangling harness caught their attention. They got up quickly and hurried to the door of the stables.

  “It’s the de Morevilles,” Axel confirmed, peering into the first grey streaks of dawn.

  Barr’s hopes Hugh and his family weren’t headed for England flew away. “I must be getting old,” he muttered to himself. He could make out only a vague white cloud—a sharp reminder that he was no longer a keen-eyed youth. A sudden surge of loneliness washed over him. When he succeeded to the title of Comte de Montbryce, his responsibilities would increase tenfold, and life wo
uld be even lonelier—without a partner.

  He should heed the call to join the Templars and pass his inheritance to his brother. But, despite his determination to remain celibate, the life of a warrior-monk held no appeal. What’s more, Stephen loved jousting. He idolized Prince Henry, the darling of the tournaments, and was more interested in carousing with his friends than in the day-to-day responsibilities of running a large castle and overseeing many far-flung estates. Barr had already assumed many of his father’s duties, but Stephen avoided work like the plague.

  Their father had admitted to his sons that for many years he’d been determined never to wed—until he met Elayne Dunkeld. Now, Alexandre de Montbryce constantly extolled the advantages of having a loving wife to share the burdens.

  Barr had been married, although loving wasn’t a word that came to mind when he thought of Belinda. Dutiful, hard-working, serious; all fine qualities, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with her hair down. Even when they were abed, she wore a nightcap.

  He’d wager Hugh de Moreville’s sister didn’t wear a bonnet to bed.

  Dieu! He’d set eyes on the woman once and couldn’t seem to get her out of his head, though the feeling he’d seen her before still gnawed. He didn’t even know her name.

  “Milady Hollis is beside the man driving the wagon,” Axel said, jolting him out of his reverie. “The children must be inside with the baggage. Your cousins are sharing a horse. Four other riders.”

  Hollis! Another unusual name, reminiscent of the English word holly. She was probably just as prickly, although the evergreen shrub was resilient and bore pretty red berries, hard, like…

  Fyke!

  He straightened his shoulders and peered into the gloom, stupidly disappointed Hollis de Moreville had bound her hair up in some sort of turban affair. He supposed headgear was to be expected given the cold weather, and it actually added an allure, an elegance that Belinda had lacked…