Conquering Passion (23 page)

“I could do none of this, Mabelle, without your presence here at Ellesmere. You’ve proven to be a formidable Countess. I never worry about the castle when I’m away.”

In recognition of Ram’s contributions, King William granted him another vast tract of land in Sussex in southern England, which brought four score and three manor houses under his control. It was also an area vital for the defence of England. He decided to deed ten of the estates to Hugh and ten to Antoine.

Ram’s power and wealth were growing, as he’d hoped. He’d succeeded more than he ever thought possible in bringing honour, wealth and prestige to the Montbryce name. There was only one fly in the ointment.

“The years are going by, Mabelle, with no sign of your getting with child. Why don’t you ask Myfanwy’s advice? You’re still relatively young at five and twenty, but I’m approaching a score and ten, and the lack of an heir is beginning to worry me.”

“Me too,” she admitted.

If I’m barren, he’ll have to put me aside. I’ll die of grief.

Joy surged though her when, after only one month of Myfanwy’s herbal ministrations, she missed her flux.

Ram often chafed Ellesmere wasn’t as fine as the castle de Montbryce. He worked tirelessly to make improvements to the buildings and grounds, determined to make their home in this foreign land as grand as the ancestral one in Normandie. Knowing she was pregnant, she waited until he once more began his complaints about Ellesmere. They were alone in their chamber when Ram finished his usual lament with, “I only want a castle suitable for my beautiful wife.”

“—and child,” she added.

It took him a few moments to understand her meaning, and then he leapt from his chair and embraced her. He picked her up and twirled her around until they were both dizzy, then set her back on her feet and kissed her deeply.

“Are you sure?” he rasped. “It’s been so long.”

“I’ve only missed one month but I’m sure.”

“This is the perfect way to welcome in the new year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Two, and you’re the perfect wife,” he crowed.

Mabelle laughed. “Yes, I am, but I couldn’t have done it without the perfect husband. Apart from you and me, only Giselle and Myfanwy are aware of it. Can we keep it that way for a while?”

“Of course, my beloved. But it will be hard for me not to climb up to the battlements and shout it from the rooftops.”

Did he realize he’d called her
beloved
?

***

When she told him of her condition and happiness and relief swept over him, Ram’s suspicions were confirmed.

I’m in love with her.

But he had to be wary. He was first and foremost a soldier, the King’s man. His steadfast commitment to the King would bring more handsome rewards.

What is this alchemy we have between us?

He had only to touch her for his manhood to harden. Not even touch—the mere sight of her was enough. And now she would bear him a child. He was a happy man. He couldn’t imagine life without Mabelle. If he’d been forced to acknowledge his wife was barren and seek another—it was something he didn’t want to contemplate.

***

In August of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Two, as King William and King Malcolm were confronting each other in Abernethy, Mabelle was giving birth to a son. As the time for the birth of her child drew closer, Mabelle grew ever more nervous. She hoped Ram would return home from the sortie against the Welsh before the event occurred, though she was confident all would go well.

Her every need had been taken care of for several sennights, and she’d grown bored. She felt fat, bloated and unattractive, despite the fact her husband had told her repeatedly she looked lovely and lush. She longed now for his attentions, as she lay in bed, unable to get comfortable, resigned to being awake as the dawn broke. Gradually she became aware of a dull ache permeating her belly.

“What was that?” She lay perfectly still. The ache had passed. Perhaps she should call Giselle to prepare a bath for her, to soothe her troubled spirit.

As sleep claimed her, the ache came again, this time more sharply and for a longer period. She’d never borne a child before, and had assumed the pains of labour would be sharp, intense stabs. Now she wondered if perhaps these aches were signals her child wanted to be born. She rolled out of bed slowly, pausing as the ache caught her again.

Oui, something is happening.

“Giselle, Giselle,
viens vite
, come quickly!”

The maidservant came bustling in from the connecting chamber, her red hair uncharacteristically awry, her face flushed with excitement. “
Milady
, is it the
bébé
?”

“Fetch the midwife, and Myfanwy.”

Fifteen hours later, sitting on the birthing stool brought days before in readiness, bathed in sweat and screaming loudly, Mabelle could believe death was at hand. But the experienced midwife told her calmly everything was normal, and saw no reason to be anxious. “It’s a good idea to scream. It will make you feel better.”

Bertha used simple and natural procedures, relying on pepper to provoke sneezing, which would in turn cause birth. She used various soothing herbal remedies and oils. “I’m confident you’ll not need the shroud you made for yourself, at the behest of the bishop. But it’s as well you obeyed his insistence on confessing your sins.”

Mabelle sought solace during her labours in praying to Sainte Margaret, the patron saint of pregnant women. As her child came into the world and her last cry of relief rent the air, Ram rode into the bailey.

“Mabelle!”

Ram gasped her name as he threw open the door of their chamber. His wild eyes fell upon his wife as she lay back, spent and dishevelled, Giselle supporting her shoulders—and then their child made his presence known with a lusty wail.

“You’re beautiful,” he called to her as she smiled at him weakly.

“My Lord,” cried Bertha, ushering him out, “You shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry. You have a fine healthy son, but your wife needs to rest now. I’ll bring the child to you when we’ve cleaned him up. He too has had a long journey.”

As Ram was shooed out, the midwife said to Giselle, “Trust the father to turn up as soon as it’s over.”

The four women laughed, though Mabelle barely had enough strength left to do so, as Myfanwy handed her a steaming bowl of chamomile tea.

***

Ram had ridden hard to get home, soon working up a sweat in the warm August weather. He’d experienced a premonition his child would be born that day. Though exhausted, joy overwhelmed him that he’d been present when his son was born.

When Berthe appeared with his babe swaddled in warm wrappings to keep out the unavoidable draughts of the castle, he took his heir into his arms and gazed upon him. He could scarcely believe he and Mabelle had created this wondrous being he held. What a wife she’d turned out to be. They would name the boy Robert, after the King’s father and son.

“Robert de Montbryce,” he murmured, cradling the child, “I’m your father, Rambaud de Montbryce, son of Bernard de Montbryce. It’s to my everlasting sorrow my father didn’t get a chance to see you. What does life hold in store for you? You’re the long awaited heir to a rich Norman heritage. Wherever your travels take you, I hope you’ll always remember that.”

Ignoring the strident admonitions of the midwife, he strode off with the babe still in his arms, to the chamber where Mabelle lay. The women had moved Mabelle to her bed, and washed her and combed her hair. She was exhausted, but he saw only her radiance. Smiling, she reached out her arms for her child, and he carefully handed Robert to her. She held the child’s face to her breast and he tried to latch on. Ram’s shaft hardened.

“I was nervous about holding a baby,” he confided with a grin, “But I’m good at it.”

Mabelle had noticed it too. “You are, Ram.” She smiled at his obvious physical discomfort, brought on by her suckling the child. “In many noble families the father never touches the babes. I know only too well how a child needs a father’s love.”

***

By February of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Three, Mabelle had conceived again over the previous Yuletide. As the time for the birth approached, she liked to sit by the window with her ladies, sewing busily, looking up from her work to see the fields in lambing-time, and watch the shepherds in rough sheepskin clothes drive the sheep into enclosures.

Soon I’ll have another little lamb of my own.

She liked being a mother. Robert was a strong, healthy lad. Everyone who saw him admired his dark hair and blue eyes, and commented on his resemblance to his father. She wondered what her next child would be like. She spent a lot of her time in the nursery with her son, and preferred to nurse him, instead of using a wet nurse. She often told him how much she loved him, words she’d never heard from her own father.

How is it I find it easy to tell my child I love him but I can’t tell Ram?

When Ram pined for Normandie, Mabelle chided him, “Remember, Ram, our son was born in this foreign land. It’s his land.”

“Robert is a Norman first and foremost. When I’m gone, it’s the Norman lands that will pass to him. They’re the important holdings and titles, the ones passed down in our family before. The Montbryce legacy.”

Idly patting her belly, he smiled. “Our second son will inherit our English lands and titles. Those lands I’ve won for myself. They are Ellesmere lands.”

In September of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Three, Ram and Mabelle welcomed their second son, Baudoin, another almost identical copy of his father. Again, everything went normally, and the midwife and Myfanwy saw her through it.

As time progressed, and the boys grew, Ram didn’t get to spend a great deal of time with his young sons, but when he was with them, he treated them much as his own father had treated him—with a firm hand but with love. He often remonstrated with Mabelle she doted on them too much. Robert and Baudoin were excited to see him return from his travels. Whenever he was away fighting the barbaric Welsh, Mabelle was consumed with worry for him.

***

The following year, Edgar the Aetheling returned to Scotland. Shortly after his arrival he received an offer from Philip, the King of France, who was also at odds with King William, of a castle and lands near the borders of Normandie, from which he could launch raids on his enemy's homeland.

Malcolm tried to dissuade him, but he embarked with his followers for France. Once more he became the victim of a shipwreck, this time on the English coast. Many of his men were hunted down by the Normans, but he managed to escape overland with the remainder to Scotland. Following this disaster, he was persuaded by Malcolm to make peace with William and return to England as his subject, abandoning any ambition of regaining his ancestral throne of England.

The despondency among the Saxon refugees in Scotland was palpable. They congregated more and more at Court, drawn by their patroness, Margaret, Queen of Scotland. Many among the Scottish nobility resented what they considered to be the Anglicization of their Celtic court, but they were afraid to voice their criticisms, given Margaret’s well known piety, and her husband’s besottedness.

Ascha felt more and more isolated after the deaths of her kinsmen. Caedmon was her only solace. She instilled in her son, and encouraged among the Saxons at court, a sense of great pride that he was the son of Sir Caedmon Woolgar,
housecarl
to the dead King Harold, who’d fallen with his king at Hastings. It was the stuff of legend that the king’s
housecarls
had fought to the death, rather than surrender.

At seven years of age, Caedmon Brice Woolgar was a strong, affectionate boy, a mirror image of his real father. Ascha was unconcerned about the resemblance, finding comfort in it. She was confident the two would never meet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

One of the powers granted to the Marcher Lords was the right to raise militias, and Ram often recruited and trained new soldiers. While the ranks might consist of local people, the commanders of these men were always Normans. Giselle frequently dropped hints to the Earl her sons would make fine commanders if they were only given a chance to come from Normandie.

Mabelle didn’t pay attention to any of the details regarding these men, busy as she was with her home and children. One winter’s day, just after the turn of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Five, she was sewing with ladies of the household, chatting about the impressive tapestry they’d heard Bishop Eude had commissioned to commemorate the Conquest. It was being made in England by the Anglo-Saxon seamsters at Eude’s
demesne
at Canterbury in Kent but would later be sent to Bayeux in Normandie. Robert and Baudoin were playing with their nursemaids near Mabelle’s feet.

“I hear rumours it will be over two hundred feet in length,” Giselle commented. “The Anglo-Saxons are famous for their needlework.”

“I heard it will show the historic events of the battle, as well as those leading up to the invasion,” added Mabelle. “If it’s being embroidered, then it’s not a tapestry is it? That would mean it would have to be woven.”