Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) (2 page)

Romain stepped forward. “I
’ll accompany them.”

Elayne
thrust her chin in the air, picked up Claricia and followed Romain and Bonhomme, Henry in tow.

Low murmurs of conversation began again.

At the door, Claricia lifted her head from the nursemaid’s shoulder and curled her little fingers into a wave of farewell, smiling at Alex. A soul deep longing pierced his heart, a pain he’d long since thought dead and buried—a yearning for a child of his own.

~~~

ELAYNE DUNKELD FUMED INWARDLY, but held her tongue as she and the children were ushered into the opulent chamber assigned to them, surprised not to hear a key turn in the lock when they were left alone.

Tears threatened
as she sat Claricia on the bed, tossing her
playd
onto a chair. The warmth of the familiar woolen garment had strengthened her during the interview with the
Comte
. It was a link with her homeland. She combed her fingers through her hair, stifling the urge to scream out loud.

“What’s wrong,
maman
?” Henry asked, clamping his arms around her thighs, his head on her belly.

Elayne blinked away her tears. She had to be strong for her children’s sake.
She stroked her son’s blonde hair, thankful for once that he and Claricia had inherited their father’s coloring, then lifted him to sit on the high bed. Sitting between her twins, she hugged them to her, finding solace in their warmth. “You cannot call me that, Henry,
mo mhac
. Both of you must remember. It’s a game. If all is to go well here, no one must know I am your
maman
. Always call me Elayne.”

“
Oui, maman
,” they chorused.

No use reprimanding them
. They were babes, and bone tired. It had broken her heart to see them in chains. Was she expecting too much? But much had been expected of her. “Your grandpapa Dabíd explained to you why we have been sent here.”

Henry
nodded as she pulled off his boots. “We’re stages.”

“Hostages,” she corrected. “Do you remember why?”

Claricia yawned. “Grandpapa was angry with Queen Maud.”

Henry
shrugged away from his mother when she tried to help him with his doublet. “I can do it. Grandpapa said we have to be ind—indep—”

“Independent,” Elayne supplied. “Good. I’ll help Claricia while you prepare for bed. Perhaps the servants have put your nightshirt in the armoire.”

Henry wandered over to the armoire, naked in the warm chamber. Elayne smiled wistfully, thinking of the future when her son would be a man—no longer comfortable strutting bare-arsed in front of his mother and sister. She prayed they would all live long enough to see that day.

“I ‘member,” Claricia said, content to let her mother
undress her. “Grandpapa was angry ‘cos Queen Maud ‘manded stages even though he promised to help her.”

Henry
came back to the bed tugging his nightshirt over his head. “So we’re playing this trick to help Grandpapa.”

Out of the mouths of babes.
It was a cruel irony that her father-by-marriage, the great King Dabíd mac Choluim had been only too anxious to consign his bastard’s children to Normandie.

She’d objected. “
Henry and Claricia are all I have now Dugald is dead. I know he was your illegitimate son, but—”

The King of
the Scots had been adamant, thumping his fist on the arm of his throne. “I refuse to send my heirs. Let the Norman Empress think she holds my legitimate grandchildren. Despite her arrogance, I’ll keep my oath to divert King Stephen’s attention by invading Northumbria again when she lands with her army in England.

“
She’s lucky I still support her claim to the throne of England. I do so only out of loyalty to her father, Henry. He sheltered me when I had to flee Scotland as a youth.”

He’d gone off on the usual diatribe about his days at Henry’s court, driven
into exile when his uncle,
Domnall
, usurped the throne on the death of Dabíd’s parents.

Finally
Elayne’s tears and weeping seemed to touch the king’s cold heart. “Go with them if you must, but not as their mother. Maud knows full well my son’s wife died in childbirth.

“
It won’t be so bad. Maud has chosen the Montbryce family as your hosts. They are honorable Normans. You and your children will be treated kindly.”

Despite his reassurances, Elayne had feared
they would be housed in a cell, especially after the chains. She breathed a long held sigh of relief as her eye traveled over the rich tapestries, fine furniture, and warm rugs that graced the chamber they’d been allotted. A hearty fire blazed in the grate.

She heard a light tapping at the door. A fresh-faced young woman
carrying a tray peeked into the chamber, entering when Elayne nodded.

The girl didn’t bow, and Elayne reminded herself this servant believed she was also a servant. However, the friendly smile warmed her.

“I’m Micheline. I’m to help watch over the prince and princess. Cook sent food and the healer a salve.”

Elayne frowned, chewing her lip. Micheline didn’t
look like a spy, but she supposed the
Comte
wanted the castle servants to keep an eye on them. And it was thoughtful of the cook to spare the tired children the long drawn out evening meal in the Hall.

She removed the top from the jar of ointment and inhaled.

Spikenard—costly.

Her opinion of Montbryce and his castle improved a smidgeon.
She smoothed the pleasant smelling balm on the children’s sore wrists and ankles, then directed them to the small wooden table and chairs in one corner, where Micheline had placed the food.

The girl seemed nervous. “I’m sorry the
re isn’t enough for you, Elayne. Cook insisted servants must eat in the Hall.”

Elayne nodded, though it was a blow to her pride, and her empty belly. She could give this serving girl no reason to be
curious. “I understand.”

Perhaps her suspicions were unfounded. Only time would tell. She would have to be wary. Alexandre
de Montbryce had impressed her as a man of honor, if quick to take offense. She wondered what went on behind those piercing blue eyes. Was he married? Such a well-muscled, attractive man must have had many women to choose from. There had been no
comtesse
present at the interview.

He seemed old to be unmarried. Perhaps he was a widower. If he had
sons and daughters, they might be playmates for Henry and Claricia.

What did it matter?
She had more important things to worry about.

The food from the Montbryce kitchens was of the finest quality.
Henry and Claricia wolfed down the roasted chicken she cut up for them. They even ate the carrots—a miracle. Her belly growled, but she would not take food from her children’s plates, especially in front of the watchful Micheline.

After supper, s
he tucked the children into bed, thankful for clean, vermin-free linens. They fell asleep before she reached the end of their favorite lullaby. The familiar song helped soothe her too.

Gu
robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.

“May you indeed have the strength of the universe, and the strength of the sun, my
angels.”

Micheline smiled at the sleeping
infants. “You have a beautiful voice, Elayne.”

She
had always found solace in singing, especially to her children. She smiled her thanks to Micheline, the knot inside her easing.

But
her hunger and thirst grew. She had to keep up her strength if they were to survive this ordeal. Going without food would only weaken her.

“
Milord
Comte
will expect you in the Hall,” Micheline reminded.

Common sense
won out. If filling her belly meant tolerating the
Comte’s
unsettling gaze, she would do it.

“
You’ll stay a while longer, Micheline, until I return from the Hall? I must admit I am hungry.”

Micheline
squeezed her arm. “
Oui
, go. All is well here. They are safe with me. I have eight brothers and sisters, all younger than me.”

I
n the Hall Elayne tagged onto the end of a line of servants queuing at a series of large wooden trestle tables. She spooned a piece of roasted chicken and a few carrots onto a black bread trencher and helped herself to a tumbler of watered ale.

She
’d never eaten with servants and peasants. Was there a protocol, or hierarchy of seating among the castle folk at Montbryce? There was in Scotland.

W
ith no one to guide her, she took the first seat at an empty bench far from the dais, relieved the bread trencher hadn’t slipped from her trembling hand, and most of the ale was still in the tumbler.

She looked up nervously, dismayed to see the
Comte’s
eyes fixed on her
.
It was unnerving. Uncomfortable under his insistent gaze, she regretted coming to the Hall. Why was he staring? Did he suspect her subterfuge?

She
let her eyes wander into the rafters where banners wafted in the warm air. She’d been too nervous to notice anything during the first interview with the
Comte
.

It was a large Hall, richly decorated with fine tapestries, and trophies of war and the hunt. Clean rushes softened the stone floor. Delicious aromas filled the air, a pleasant change from the stench of rancid food and rat droppings that tended to permeate King
Dabíd’s Great Hall when the castle’s dogs and cats failed to scavenge all the scraps.

If ever she had a castle of her own—

But that was wishful thinking. Her husband’s untimely and senseless death had placed her in a precarious position as the widow of the king’s bastard son. Only the existence of her children had prevented her being cast out. If they made it back to Scotland alive, the King would likely betroth her to some old man. Younger clansmen seeking a wife didn’t want a widow with children.

Her father-by-marriage had told her the Montbryces were a wealthy family with a long and glorious history of military prowess who controlled vast lands in Normandie and England. They had always enjoyed the favor of the reigning monarch, an enviable feat in the morass of Anglo-Norman politics. He
’d hinted at some terrible misfortune that had at one time befallen the previous
Comte
, Alexandre’s father, but didn’t elaborate.

Elayne a
te her chicken quickly, nervous at leaving her children alone with a stranger in a foreign land. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

The other servants of the household eyed her as if she had two heads. Evidently no one at Montbryce wore a
playd
.

It seemed strange to be seated with servants, though none had come to sit beside her. She was careful to eat like a peasant,
though using her hands instead of utensils seemed uncouth. She licked her greasy fingers, having no napkin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the
Comte’s
brother drain his tumbler of wine. She licked her lips, thirsting for a taste, but she’d have to make do with the watered ale.

~~~

“OUR COUSIN, THE EARL OF ELLESMERE, WON’T BE PLEASED,” Romain observed, his mouth full of roasted chicken.

Alex
pushed away his trencher, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his attention on the red-haired nursemaid seated alone at a servants’ table. “Gallien is already aware of our hostages, and you’re right—he isn’t happy about it.”

Romain eyed the chicken
Alex had left untouched. “To be expected, I suppose. He’s been a supporter of King Stephen from the outset.”

Alex
shoved his food to his brother, then lounged back in the lord’s chair, wondering where the Scottish children were. “Stephen is King of the English only thanks to an accident of geography. When Henry died, he happened to be the closest to England and was able to cross the Narrow Sea and take the throne quickly.”

Romain shrugged,
skewering the leftover chicken with his eating dagger. “Don’t forget he had help from his brother, Henry, who just happens to be Bishop of Winchester, which is of course the location of the Royal Treasury. Once he had his hands on that, his coronation was a foregone conclusion.”

He bit into the chicken with relish.
“You have to admit that much of the fault lies with Maud and Geoffrey. It was short-sighted to isolate themselves in Anjou when they knew her father was ailing. She was aware Stephen would challenge her for the throne.”

Alex
stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Well, she’s paid for her lack of foresight, forced to spend the past six months drumming up an army here in Normandie to challenge Stephen. Our father swore an oath to support her claim to the throne, and so we shall.”