Defiance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 2) Page 5

  “I’m not hungr—”

  “Eat, woman!” he bellowed.

  She cringed and leaned forward to eat, raising a trembling hand to move her wimple aside. Her sleeve fell back to reveal angry red marks on her wrist.

  Hugh understood why he had detected the scent of marigold. She must have used it to take the sting from the welts. What could have caused such wounds?

  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 about Norman cruelty.

  No wonder we are hated.

  He had a bone-deep desire to cut the man up and feed him to the dogs. He opened his mouth to accuse Renouf, but then noticed the lady’s pleading gaze as she shook her head ever so slightly. The urge to take her into his embrace and swear an oath that she would never be hurt again was overwhelming.

  Antoine took up the conversation. “Tell me, Sir Renouf, what of the Saxon thane of this manor?”

  The wretch stuffed more food in his mouth. “My wife’s father? Dead. At Stamford Bridge.”

  Relief swept over Hugh. Her father had not died at Hastings thus his death could not be laid at his door. “My condolences, Lady Devona,” he muttered lamely.

  She nodded. “He was slain by a Norwegian giant who took a stand with a battle axe on the bridge. It’s said the Norseman mowed down at least two score Saxon warriors before he was impaled on a spear thrust from under the bridge. King Harold sent word…”

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

  Though she told of an event that had devastated her life, her sultry voice, speaking his language with a slight accent, enthralled Hugh. He was sure she’d been about to tell more of the story. He bristled with anger at the brute’s callousness and recognized the tension in Antoine’s voice. “My brothers and I were at Hastings, Lady Devona. If it’s any consolation, I can tell you the Saxon warriors exhibited great bravery. I’m sure if he had survived Stamford Bridge, your father would have fought with honor.

  “Hastings was not an easy victory. It’s incredible to think that the Saxon army had fought a bloody battle against Norway’s King Harald Hardråda two hundred miles to the north just a few days before facing our forces.”

  Devona’s haunted green eyes welled with tears, but then she glanced at Renouf, a look of abject fear on her face.

  Hugh’s anger intensified as the din from the now sated men-at-arms increased.

  Antoine had to raise his voice to be heard over the uproar. “You were without a man here to take care of the manor, before Hastings?”

  Staring at the trencher, Devona did not respond.

  Renouf took hold of his wife’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s as well I came along when I did, isn’t it, chérie?”

  Fear deadened her eyes when she glanced up, and something else—loathing.

  Hugh could bear it no longer, afraid he might challenge his Norman host. He 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.”

  Renouf remained seated. “Of course.”

  Hugh could not look at the lady as he left. He sensed she would not risk watching him leave, but he felt Renouf’s eyes on his back.

  Lying Snake

  In the privacy of their chamber, Hugh said urgently, “There’s something very wrong going on here.”

  Antoine thumped his fist into the bolster. “I agree. This is a fine manor, obviously a wealthy holding—at one time anyway. There’s evidence of neglect, but look at these linens, and the tapestries.”

  “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, it isn’t like you to notice the color of a woman’s eyes.”

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

  Antoine scratched 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. “Did you also notice 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 splayed 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 favor of Saxon obedience to Norman law, but it turns my stomach when men abuse women.”

  Antoine shrugged. “Unfortunately, she’s his wife, if we can believe what he says. A man has complete authority over his spouse.”

  Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose. “She may not have wed him willingly.”

  Antoine shook his head. “Be realistic. 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. Tethered to a stall, Boden barked ferociously, straining to pull free.

  Hugh grabbed one soldier by the shoulders. “Leave him be.”

  The bully tried to throw him off. “Who are you to order me about?”

  “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 the old man shrugged it away as he struggled to his feet. Without a word of acknowledgement, he walked to the dog.

  “A moment,” Hugh said.

  The Saxon stopped, raised his hand to calm Boden and looked directly into Hugh’s eyes.

  This man is no servant.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man spat phlegm into the straw. “Gerwint.”

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

  Gerwint looked around apprehensively, then lowered his voice. “I’m no servant. I am Sir Gerwint Melton, once thane of King Edward the Confessor, the rightful lord of this manor, 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.”

  “This has not been my experience. Go, or my granddaughter will be punished for any transgression I may be deemed 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.”

  The Montbryce brothers reluctantly left the stables to walk across the courtyard. Renouf was leaning against the doorpost, arms folded, blocking the entry. “Seeing to your horses, mes seigneurs?”

  “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 hesitated. “Non, I was not 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.”

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

  Hugh could barely grind out the words. “Five years she’s been married to that lying snake. He didn’t fight at Hastings. Anyone who was there knows the Bretons fought on the left flank.”

  Antoine tapped his nose with his forefinger. “Strange, isn’t it, there are no children? 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?

  He cried out when he woke sweating, his hand gripping his throbbing manhood, the scent of marigold in his nostrils.

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

  Hugh gulped deep breaths. “Oui, sorry. 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.

  Come

  Only a day after their unexpected arrival, Devona watched the Norman noblemen ride away with their men, cursing that she had allowed a flicker of hope to ignite when Hugh de Montbryce had looked into her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of the peculiar sensation of heat that had blossomed deep in her belly, but she was terrified Renouf might notice something unusual about her reaction.

  Both Montbryces were handsome men, but 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 odors that accompanied Renouf and Torod wherever they went, Hugh smelled clean, wholesome, male.

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

  But the Montbryces were Normans. She could expect no help from them. They would never oust a fellow countryman from an estate he had 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 doubted she could bear Renouf’s depraved brutality much longer. 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 had considered killing him, but lacked the courage to carry out such an act. And if she did, Torod and his men would probably take great pleasure in slaughtering all of them.

  Her once spry grandfather had aged considerably since her marriage to Renouf five years before. Five years that felt 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 as a woman, 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. He brutally terrorized the servants who hadn’t fled to the Downs.

  Renouf never allowed any of them to leave the manor, but they were permitted 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 their dogs a fortnight after the visit of the Montbryce brothers. The weather had warmed considerably. They hoisted their skirts and paddled in the waves, watching the 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.

  Aediva laughed. “Boden! Brigantia! You’ve soaked us through.”

  It gladdened Devona’s heart to hear her sister laugh. There was little laughter left in their lives.

  “Come on, Devona, stop daydreaming. Let’s walk along the beach and collect shells,” Bemia called.

  Devona realized she had indeed been daydreaming, clinging to a desperate hope as she stared out to sea.

  If you’re coming, Hugh de Montbryce, come soon.

  Hugh wrestled with the probability he would never again enjoy a good night’s sleep. Nightmares beset him whenever he laid his head on the bolster.

  Hastings predominated as it had since that fateful day. He awoke cold and clammy, certain that the violence had aroused him sexually. He became more determined to never subject a woman to the fury that might be unleashed if he bedded her.

  But since his return from England a month before, another nightmare had surfaced. Renouf de Maubadon appeared with horns on his head and flames spewing from his mouth—a demon who dragged Devona Melton by the hair into a cave. She was naked and screaming. Hugh could never follow into the cave and trembled at the thought of the unspeakable things going on there. He awoke feeling wretchedly powerless, often gasping for breath.

  Sometimes he dreamt of the night he had first met Devona, then suddenly she was beneath him, and they were both naked. The smell of marigold filled his senses. He was suckling her lovely breasts, her legs parted in invitation, her mons arched to his rigid manhood, smiling, reaching up to touch his face, saying—

  What’s she saying?

  But the dream always ended with Devona’s disappearance before he could discern what she was saying. This was the dream he preferred, at least there was some good in it. He wanted the sweet lovemaking to go on and on. When he awoke from this dream he had invariably spilled on the bed linens. He feared the chambermaids must think him depraved.

  “What is she trying to tell me?” he mused aloud.

  Two days later the dream came again. This time the physical union was more intense, more vivid. The smile, the green eyes, the breasts, the impudent nipple, the parted legs, the arched hips—but now something more, his manhood sliding into her tight wetness, her screams of joy, her voice calling over and over, “Come…Come.”

  “I am coming, for you, Devona, I’m coming.” He woke with a breathless shudder to soiled linens once more, feeling his heart had burst in his chest. He shook his head and ran his hand through tousled hair trying to calm his breathing. He drew his thighs up to his chest, clasped his arms around them and rested his head on his knees.

  She wanted me to come.

  “I came all right,” he muttered cynically, staring ruefully at the bed linens and his softening manhood. Then a thousand conflicting thoughts ran through his head.

  She wanted me to come, she wants me t
o come. Can it be she is begging me to come to England? Am I supposed to rescue her? How can that be? Her husband is a Norman. Still—he’s a brute, a monster. She’s all that stands between him and her family, but she won’t stand forever. And I desire her. But my desire could kill her. Renouf will kill her anyway.

  As his racing heart calmed, he remembered Antoine had sent word the previous day of a steward he’d found for their English properties. He decided to ride to Belisle to discuss his dilemma with his brother. They had always been close and trusted each other’s advice.

  Dawn’s first rays were streaking the horizon when he mounted Velox and was on his way to Antoine’s castle with a handful of bleary-eyed, yawning men-at-arms.

  They enjoyed a fine dinner at Belisle, a castle that had prospered under Antoine’s able management.

  Hugh’s brother rubbed his hands together. “Michel Cormant, the steward at Alensonne, has two sons who are more than capable of doing the job for us in England, and they’re keen to go.

  “Michel has another son, Paul, who can take over for him at Alensonne when the time comes. Barat and Théobald Cormant can re-establish East Preston first and use it as their base of operations to oversee the other manors for us. What do you think of that plan?”

  “It’s a fine one,” Hugh replied, “if they’re competent as you say. We can provide them with a team of servants from both our castles to get them started. We’ll need masons, carpenters, cooks—”

  “—and rat-catchers!” Antoine interjected with a grimace. “I propose we meet at Montbryce with our teams in a fortnight and depart for England from there.”

  “Agreed. We can leave some at Montbryce if we find we’ve too many, or add more if we’re lacking. As for rat catchers, there’s none better than Isembart Jubert from Montbryce.

  “By the by, I intend to go back to Melton while we’re in England. Something just doesn’t sit right with me about that place.”

  Antoine pointed to his own eyes and laughed. “It’s the green eyes, brother. They do the trick every time.”