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

  The FitzRam twins huddled in one corner, wide awake. Hugh’s boys took turns puking into a wooden bowl she’d had the presence of mind to bring. Their father snored loudly, sprawled atop the only comfortable surface in the wagon—a pile of blankets she’d brought to keep everyone warm on the crossing. So much for that notion.

  Even these uncomfortable circumstances were preferable to being outside, watching the ragged crew, most of whom appeared besotted with drink before they cast off.

  If they survived this journey, she planned to kill her brother.

  She fussed over what had become of Reginald FitzUrse who’d mysteriously disappeared once they reached the docks at Le Havre. They were heading for Kent, so Hugh’s claim that his friend had decided to travel by a different route didn’t make sense. It was almost as if he was pointedly letting her know they were all going to different places—which she was beginning to doubt. Her brother deemed himself clever, but she’d learned over the years to see through his ploys.

  Wiping her nephew’s fevered brow, she smiled weakly at William and Martin FitzRam, hoping they found more reassurance in her smile than she felt.

  Lulled by the rocking motion of the boat, she eventually dozed off and dreamt she was cradled in the comforting arms of a strong man.

  Hugh shook her awake some hours later. “We’ve sighted England,” he informed her gruffly.

  She sat bolt upright, rubbing her eyes, startled to realize it wasn’t Gareth of Hexham who’d seen her safely to shore in her dream. It was Sir Barr de Montbryce in whose arms she’d found solace.

  England

  Sunday, December 27th 1170

  Barr was standing at the prow with the captain when Battle Abbey came into view.

  “It looks even bigger in the early morning light,” the captain remarked.

  “You’re right,” Barr agreed.

  “Our Conqueror built the abbey many years after Hastings,” Fallon said, “to commemorate the victory, but I always wonder what it was really like for those Normans and Bretons, landing on hostile foreign shores.”

  They’d had this same conversation more than once since discovering they both had ancestors who’d fought at the pivotal battle. Barr thought of his great-grandfather, the renowned Ram de Montbryce, a trusted confidant of Duke William, a decorated cavalry commander from a family with an illustrious military history. Courageous as he was, he must have been as apprehensive as the lowliest infantryman about what lay ahead. “But they were brave warriors who carried the day for their duke and secured the English throne for him.”

  “And now,” Fallon exclaimed, spreading his arms wide, “we are subjects of the Conqueror’s great-grandson who rules England and Normandie.”

  “And a lot more besides,” Barr replied, “Aquitaine, Brittany, Poitou…”

  Fallon tapped the side of his nose. “For the moment, but just between me and you, once Henry’s greedy sons…”

  “Good morning,” Axel interrupted from behind.

  Barr nodded his understanding of the captain’s intent and turned back to his servant. “You look a little green. How’s Marguerite? You managed to keep her quiet and I thank you.”

  Axel rubbed his eyes. “I have to earn my apple brandy. I see your holly sprig survived the night.”

  Barr ran a finger over the sharp points of the leaves. “Hardy.”

  “The berries look wrinkled though,” Axel said with a yawn.

  Barr eyed him. How could the lad know the wayward direction his thoughts had taken? He quickly dismissed the notion and turned back to scan the oncoming shore. His mission in England wasn’t as fraught with danger as Ram de Montbryce’s, at least he hoped not. However, preventing an attack on the Archbishop of Canterbury by a group of misguided knights might well spare King Henry a political and religious upheaval that had the potential to topple him from his great-grandfather’s throne.

  Loud voices startled Hollis. She realized she’d dozed off again after Hugh’s announcement, seeking to conjure the Montbryce knight again. Her brother was arguing with one of the crew. She raised her aching head, panicking when she realized the children were gone. She was alone in the wagon.

  She scrambled to her feet, bracing her legs against the movement of the boat. They were still at sea, though it was fully light. She noticed gratefully that someone had emptied the contents of the sick bowl—probably one of the FitzRams—but the acrid smell of mal de mer hung in the air.

  Steadying herself with whatever was at hand, she made her way like a drunkard to the rear of the wagon and peered out, narrowing her eyes at the startling sight of Hugh holding hands with his sons. Both boys were looking up at him as if listening to our Lord Jesus scolding the disciples for keeping the little children away.

  Hypocrite, was her first thought. Where was their loving father when they were vomiting?

  The rancor fled when she realized the crewmen were scrambling to bring the boat to shore mere yards away. It was unfamiliar territory, but it was England.

  “Aunty Hollis,” her nephew John exclaimed when he noticed her.

  She climbed down from the wagon and joined her brother on deck. “Where are we?”

  “Hythe,” he replied curtly, passing the boys’ hands into hers. “The captain insisted we sail on to Folkestone, but I want to disembark here.”

  This explained the argument, which Hugh had evidently won. She wasn’t surprised the sailor hadn’t wanted to come ashore here. There was no dock. He’d be obliged to run the boat up on the sands if they were to unload the wagon.

  She doubted Hugh would lend a hand getting it free of the beach once they disembarked. “Is this closer to Barham?” she asked.

  He pointed to a castle visible about a mile inland. “Change of plan. We’re going to Saltwood instead.”

  He was a poor liar. The edifice in the near distance had been the destination all along, though she didn’t understand the necessity for subterfuge. “Are you acquainted with the family that owns Saltwood?” she asked.

  “Sir Ranulf de Broc,” he replied. “A knight whose loyalty to King Henry cannot be questioned.”

  “Why would…?”

  As the boat shuddered and groaned onto the shore, Hugh unexpectedly launched into a loud tirade about the castle having belonged to the Archbishops of Canterbury for hundreds of years. “They allowed it to fall into disrepair. When the traitor Becket requested it be made into an ecclesiastical palace, Henry snubbed him and gave it to Ranulf.”

  Hollis was aware many blamed the archbishop for the current troubles between him and the king—a seemingly endless disagreement whose complexity was beyond her comprehension—but she’d never heard Becket accused of treason. “Those are strong words,” she murmured, afraid the sailors may have overheard, but her brother was already stalking away to lead the horses off the boat.

  Martin FitzRam took hold of the harness of the drayhorses. “Where’s the driver?” she asked William.

  “Lord Hugh left him in Le Havre,” he replied. “Martin and I can manage it to the castle. Doesn’t look far.”

  Struggling without success to comprehend why they’d left the driver behind, she muttered, “My brother is certainly in a huff about Thomas Becket.”

  William nodded his agreement. “He has been like this since the king lost his temper the night before last.”

  A chill raced up her spine. Hugh had denied angering Henry, but…

  “Why was His Majesty angry?”

  The knot in her belly tightened as William told of the message brought by Sir Barr and the king’s resulting fury. The tale explained why the Montbryce knight was in Bures.

  Hugh de Moreville wasn’t a man to have his loyalty questioned without doing something about it, but surely the king hadn’t meant to incite his knights to violence. Everyone was aware of the monarch’s inability to control his temper.

  However, this wasn’t the time or place to challenge Hugh. Once he set his mind on something…

  But what part did he hope
to play in bringing an archbishop to heel?

  She helped the children back into the wagon and held on to the baggage as the conveyance lumbered its way down the boat ramp. Hugh swore loudly when the wheels sank into the wet sand.

  “Cover your ears,” she told John and Arthur. “Your father tends not to think ahead to consider the consequences of his actions.”

  Hands clamped over their ears, they giggled gleefully like fellow conspirators, but she doubted they understood her meaning.

  The weather in England was surprisingly warmer and the skies brighter than in Normandie. Barr and Axel made good progress after setting off from Hastings—until dusk. Then it became evident Marguerite disliked the dark as much as the snow. As a result, it was very late when they arrived in Canterbury.

  The cathedral and its precincts were in complete darkness, including the monastery, but a burning torch still beckoned travelers to the Benedictines’ house of hospitality.

  A lone monk carrying a small candle eventually opened the door to their repeated knocking. “Beneficia ad vos,” he intoned, making the sign of his Savior over them. “Welcome and the Lord’s blessings be upon you. I am Brother Philip.”

  He eyed Trogen and Marguerite. “Brother Jairus will take your…er…steeds to the stables. Come in, come in.”

  Axel chewed his bottom lip, obviously worried about how Brother Jairus would fare with the donkey.

  Barr shrugged and prodded Axel ahead of him. He didn’t want the youth sleeping in the stable in a foreign land.

  The monk ushered them into a dimly lit corridor. “Not many on the roads for the next day or two. You can each have a cell. What brings you to Canterbury?”

  Barr was reluctant to voice his concerns and the reason for their visit. As the day had worn on he’d started to think he was imagining danger where none existed. “We have a message for Archbishop Becket,” he began.

  Brother Philip looked heavenward. “I doubt that will be possible. I’m not privy to the archbishop’s schedule, but he has only recently returned from France and, as you can imagine, this is a busy season in the liturgical calendar. I could possibly see to passing on the message.”

  Barr had expected as much, so he made no objection as the monk opened the door to a tiny cell. “It’s of a personal nature. You can assure me Becket is in Canterbury?”

  “Indeed,” Brother Philip replied, handing each of them a candle which they lit from his. “You may occupy this cell and the one next to it. Goodnight.”

  Restless Night

  The FitzRams struggled and sweated for at least an hour, but failed to dislodge the wagon from the beach at Hythe. Hugh’s only contribution was to offer sarcastic comments about their lack of strength. It clearly didn’t occur to him the task might have been accomplished if he’d assisted.

  Hollis often wondered if he was actually her blood kin.

  The twins unhitched the horses and the wagon was abandoned. Everyone was therefore obliged to trudge more than a mile from the shore to Saltwood castle. With sand in her boots, Hollis was too exhausted and frustrated to do anything but pull her weary, whining nephews by the hand. The prospect all their belongings might be lost to the tide churned her belly.

  Upon their arrival, a portly Sir Ranulf greeted Hugh gruffly. He brushed a perfunctory kiss on Hollis’ knuckles and ignored the children. She felt distinctly unwelcome. However, servants were quickly dispatched to free the wagon, easing her concerns. She tensed again when Hugh and his host abruptly disappeared into the lord’s solar.

  She and her nephews were ushered to a clean and comfortable chamber, which was a welcome boon, though the sour-faced steward who led the way remained silent as they followed him through empty corridors. A pouting maidservant eventually brought food. The boys’ heads drooped as they ate and there was no objection when she suggested a nap. They were asleep in no time.

  She picked listlessly at the remainder of the tasty rabbit stew, preoccupied with the perplexing events of the day. Saltwood was a well-appointed castle. They were home in England, a place she should feel safe, yet dread lay heavy in her heart.

  She dozed off in a well-upholstered armchair, hoping the exhausted FitzRam twins had been fed and housed. They were resourceful youths who certainly merited a better mentor than her brother. Someone like Sir Barr de Montbryce, for example. Now, there was a noble knight—handsome, tall, well-muscled, with a hint of mischief in his blue eyes—the epitome of the kind of man she’d dreamed of marrying. But that was before her parents had betrothed her to Gareth of Hexham and she’d become resigned to spending her life with a pleasant young man, not fair of face, but honest and true.

  Axel helped his master strip off his garments before retiring to the next cell. Barr snuffed the candle, shivering as he climbed beneath the coarse woollen blanket. The cold stone of the sleeping ledge seeped through the thin straw mattress and into his bones. He’d slept naked for years but removing all his clothing in this spartan cell perhaps hadn’t been such a good idea.

  He doubted he would sleep as the events of the past days tumbled through his mind. One minute he was certain Becket was in mortal danger, the next he dismissed his fears of an assassination attempt as preposterous.

  The king’s angry, snarling face loomed. Henry’s explosive outburst had certainly roused the anger of those in attendance at the banquet. Had he intended to incite violence against the Archbishop by accusing his knights of treason?

  De Moreville’s lies churned Barr’s gut. He and his cronies were definitely up to something, but surely they didn’t have murder on their minds? It was possible Henry simply wanted to intimidate Becket. He’d tried every other tactic, clearly to no avail.

  When sleep finally claimed him, Barr dreamt he was wrapped in Hollis’ golden tresses. “Spun from sunbeams,” he murmured, his body warm at last.

  As the shadows lengthened, the same disgruntled maidservant brought food to Hollis’ chamber, along with a curt explanation no evening meal would be served in the hall. The boys either didn’t notice or didn’t care they were eating the same rabbit stew served earlier. She wondered about the staff at Saltwood. There seemed to be a dearth of servants for such a large castle, and the place was as eerily quiet as a crypt. It appeared Sir Ranulf had no family in residence. Her memories of Burgh were of a castle full of constant comings and goings.

  Worried about the wagon, she went to the window several times, discouraged to see men still on the beach straining to free the conveyance.

  When darkness fell, she snuggled in the warm bed, grateful for clean, fresh-smelling linens and a comfortable mattress. Her charges fell asleep quickly, despite having napped most of the afternoon, for which she was thankful.

  Still, sleep proved elusive. Napping all afternoon was never a good idea. Distant shouts indicated the wagon had not yet been freed. Once again, Hugh’s lack of foresight had harmed others.

  A maelstrom of conflicting thoughts swirled in her brain. The air smelled reassuringly like England, yet there was something unsettling about Saltwood and Sir Ranulf she couldn’t put her finger on.

  It was understandable, commendable even, for four English knights to return to their homeland for the Yuletide season, but why had they deemed it necessary to travel separately?

  Hugh had deliberately lied to Barr de Montbryce and therein lay the most troublesome quandary, for she was certain the Norman knight knew Hugh had lied.

  If only she could see Montbryce again, discuss recent events with him and be reassured her brother’s intentions weren’t as perilously foolhardy as she feared.

  As sleep finally claimed her, she admitted inwardly the insistent desire to see Montbryce again had little to do with political intrigues.

  Grim

  Monday, December 28th 1170

  At Saltwood, Hollis rose at first light and hurried to the narrow window of the chamber allotted to her and the children. Relief surged. The wagon was no longer on the beach. Sir Ranulf’s men had finally succeeded in dislodging the c
onveyance, unless it had been carried out to sea by the tide.

  She hugged herself to ward off the morning chill, though a peculiar warmth seeped through her veins when she remembered Sir Barr’s hands at her waist. She’d dreamt about lying naked with him. Gareth had never given rise to such wanton feelings.

  She wondered where the Montbryce knight was now. Probably waking up in a warm bed with a willing wench somewhere in Bures Castle. She gritted her teeth. “I’d scratch her eyes out,” she muttered under her breath, astonished at the depth of anger constricting her throat. It was folly to be preoccupied with a man who was a member of a rich and powerful dynasty—a man she would never meet again.

  A tap on the door heralded William and Martin FitzRam, their arms laden with clothing. “Lord Hugh bade us bring these from the wagon in the courtyard. He and his companions await us in the Great Hall to break our fast.”

  Awakened by the sound of voices, John and Arthur jumped up and down on their bed and demanded the twins give them rides on their backs. Happy to see the little ones laughing and squealing with glee at the FitzRams’ horsey antics, it took Hollis a few moments to recall what they’d said. “Companions? You mean Sir Ranulf.”

  “Aye,” Martin replied breathlessly, “and Sir Reginald.”

  Gooseflesh crept across her nape. “FitzUrse?”

  William nodded. “It seems he arrived during the night.”

  He and his brother reared up, neighing like spirited horses, and dropped their giggling riders onto the bed.

  Her nephews’ laughter quickly turned to pouts when the twins left, and Hollis had her hands full getting them washed, dressed and ready to join the others.

  When they entered the hall, she saw that Sir Reginald FitzUrse had indeed arrived.