Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (2 page)

Ronan did not know how long he had lain curled up like a babe in the womb while Conall plied the oars. He had passed out soon after the beach had faded from view. Would they ever return to their homeland?

He would have to take a turn at rowing, though the prospect filled him with dread. Every muscle had cramped, but Conall could not row all the way to Wales, no matter his expertise and claims to the contrary. So far they had been lucky. The seas were calm.

As Ronan slowly came to his wits, he sensed the craft was drifting. He raised his head. Conall dozed, his head slumped over the crossed oars.

“Conall,” he rasped, tapping the boy’s leg with his booted foot. The second boot lay between them in the
currach
, the other leg now swollen and blue from knee to ankle. He was thankful the cold wind had robbed him of feeling in the limb.

The boy started, letting out a long breath. “Sorry, my lord. I fell asleep. It won’t happen again.”

Ronan had barely enough strength to hold out his hands, but at least now only two of them trembled before his eye. “Pass me the oars.”

The lad hesitated, but then complied. “I’ll sleep a while, then take over again.”

Ronan grasped the oars, dipped them and pulled, groaning as pain hammered every part of his body. He took a deep breath and pulled again, glancing at the boy, already snoring softly. He did not possess Conall’s knowledge of the sea and hoped to keep the tiny boat on course.

Not that it mattered. The island they were headed for might be a holy place, but that did not guarantee sanctuary. The barbaric Welsh were rumoured to be hostile to foreigners. His body was so far beyond pain he doubted if he would ever be whole again.

Why had he left Ireland? Vengeance would be out of reach, but where did the MacFintains and their cronies not hold sway? He would have had to travel to his uncle’s kingdom in Munster, a greater distance than the watery expanse they crossed now.

He had new admiration for his young champion who had no doubt thought of that. He shook his aching head. It was a difficult truth to bear—Ronan, Lord of Túr MacLachlainn, nephew of the King of Munster, proud descendant of Vikings, owed his life to an enterprising and courageous servant, a lad, the son of his steward.

He swore an oath that, if he lived, he would avenge the deaths of his wife and steward, and the loss of his ancestral lands.

“Or may my soul languish in the depths of Hell.”

Mabelle de Montbryce loved her daughter dearly but breathed a sigh of relief when Chester Castle came in sight. It was an enormous edifice. Surely the Earl would assign a separate chamber for each of them?

It seemed Rhoni had not stopped talking for the seven hours of their ride, mostly of inconsequential and frivolous things. Fortissima was her favourite topic of conversation.

“I must be getting old,” Mabelle chided inwardly. “There was a time I wanted to spend every moment with my little girl.”

Her thoughts drifted back to Rhoni’s birth in the mountains of Wales. Mabelle, her sons, her maidservant Giselle, and her healer, Rhonwen, had been kidnapped by the Welsh rebel chieftain, Rhodri ap Owain. He had not known she was with child. Bad weather had delayed their ransom and Rhoni had come into the world in Wales.

How unpredictable were the twists and turns of life that now Mabelle journeyed with her daughter to a ceremony honouring the eldest daughter of Rhodri and Rhonwen.

“
Maman
, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the past half hour,” Rhoni complained. “Where are your thoughts?”

Mabelle smiled wistfully. “I was remembering the last thing I said to Rhonwen after I convinced her to return to Rhodri once the ransom was paid. I hoped her children and mine would one day live in peace in these mountains and valleys.”

Rhoni shrugged. “You can’t say Normans and Welshmen live in peace, but at least our two families do. Rhonwen has brought her children to Ellesmere many times over the years. Baudoin certainly seems to be fond of Carys. I am too, though she is much younger than I.”

Mabelle glanced sharply at her daughter. She too had noticed Baudoin’s attraction to the girl. It would have to be watched. “You’re right, Rhoni, I’m glad my children and Rhonwen’s have had a chance to build peaceful relations, although I doubt those redheaded twin boys of hers will grow to be lovers of Normans. They will be rebel warriors like their father. I only hope your papa is never put in the position of having to execute them, or Rhodri.”

The imposing castle came into full view, perched atop a hill around which the River Dee swept in a gradual curve. Mabelle shivered, remembering the great brutality that had forced Chester to its knees. It had been the last Saxon town to fall to the Conqueror. In the intervening years the stone motte and bailey had replaced whatever the Saxons had built.

As their cavalcade came within the curtain wall, Mabelle leaned close to her daughter. “No more talk of Rhodri and Rhonwen while we are in this castle. The Earl of Chester would like nothing more than to capture Rhodri now that he concentrates his efforts on raiding this area. Rhonwen will not allow him to attack Ellesmere. Remember, as far as anyone else is concerned, we are making a pilgrimage to Saint Winefride’s Well.”

Rhoni winked, tracing a finger across her lips.

They were welcomed heartily in the bailey by the Earl of Chester, as befitted Mabelle’s station as the wife of a fellow earl.
“
Comtesse
de Montbryce, and
mademoiselle
de Montbryce, welcome.
Soyez les bienvenues
!”

They exchanged pleasantries as he ushered them into the Keep. Mabelle recalled an amusing piece of information gleaned from Rhonwen that the Welsh had nicknamed Chester Hugh the Fat. Rhoni seemed fascinated by the man’s corpulence, but then such obesity did tend to draw the eye.

Servants carried in their baggage and disappeared with it. To Mabelle’s consternation, Rhoni fussed over Fortissima’s care with a stable boy.

The Earl introduced his Steward, who then showed them to their chambers. Rhoni flashed a conspiratorial grin at her mother as she entered her chamber where a maidservant provided by the Earl awaited.

Following the Steward to her own chamber, Mabelle worried her garrulous daughter might not keep her mouth shut.

Conall was an experienced sailor, but as the seas grew rougher, it was he who retched over the side of the tiny craft.

“Sorry, my lord,” he rasped, wiping his sleeve across his mouth after another bout of sickness. “It won’t happen again.”

Ronan should have reassured him, but was simply relieved seasickness had not been added to his list of torments. He doubted his voice would work anyway.

They had both long since ceased rowing, trusting their fate to the wind and water, too exhausted to lift an oar.

Thirst raged in Ronan’s throat. Conall had castigated himself over and over for not bringing water. “Stop fashing! We are alive because of your courage, Conall,” he reminded his saviour, doubting they could endure much longer.

He thought of Mary, the sweet, biddable girl brought to his bed in an arranged marriage. It was not a great love, but they got along. She tolerated his moods and satisfied his male needs as best she could. She took good care of his Keep, and the servants liked and respected her. She did not deserve to die a brutal death.

He clenched his frozen fingers. It was ironic he would die at sea. He had been named Ronan because his eccentric father claimed his mother was a
selkie,
a seal transformed into a human, whose skin he had stolen to prevent her return to the salty depths. When Ronan was five, she disappeared mysteriously while out gathering shells, a pastime he enjoyed often with his mother. This day she had wanted to go alone.

Bradick MacLachlainn claimed she had gone back to the sea and wept for his loss. He insisted her sealskin had disappeared from where he had hidden it. Others said he was mad and she had merely drowned. It was a common occurrence for bodies to wash up on the beaches of the Irish Sea. Orlaith MacLachlainn’s body had never been found, though her husband had spent most of his time looking out to sea after her disappearance.

Thereafter, Ronan was never allowed to go to the beach alone for fear his mother would snatch him back.

His poor father must be turning over in his tomb now the MacLachlainn ancestral lands were lost to the MacFintains. Ronan’s death would signal an end to this proud branch of the family. His seed had died with Mary. The lump choking his throat rose up as bitter tears streamed from his good eye.

“Máire Bhán,” he murmured.

The wind had whipped water into the
currach
. His boot was already floating. It was a matter of time. Ronan signed the cross of his Saviour and gave himself over to his God.

Rhodri’s men appeared out of the forest as if by magic once the Montbryces were away from Chester. Rhoni wondered if the Earl was aware rebels encroached this close with apparent impunity. The captain of their personal guard, Gabriel Duquesne, had been forewarned the Welshmen would be joining them, and no alarm was raised.

Duquesne saluted his acknowledgment of Mabelle’s reassurance they were safe with the Welshmen, but did not look happy about it.

Another day’s ride brought Mabelle and Rhoni to Llansanfraid. The Priory was visible in the distance for a long while. The late afternoon sun still shone on the whitewashed outer walls, drawing them to its light. Rhoni took a deep breath. The sea was a few miles distant from this peaceful place, but she smelled the salty tang.

Myfanwy Mabelle came out to meet them. Rhoni supposed that if she did not find a suitable man to marry, she too might be obliged to enter a convent. Robert and Baudoin would inherit their father’s titles and properties. There remained only Alensonne in Normandie, the castle that had belonged to Rhoni’s volatile grandfather, Guillaume de Valtesse. It was unlikely her mother would give that responsibility to her daughter.

The prospect of life in a cloister filled Rhoni with dread. Some people, like Myfanwy Mabelle, were meant for the religious life. It had been apparent for years that Rhodri and Rhonwen’s first born was destined to live her life in God’s service. She had gone to the Priory at the age of four and ten and excelled in her studies. Now five years later she was to become the Prioress. For Rhoni such a fate would be a death sentence, even in a magical place such as Llanfransaid.

Myfanwy Mabelle dipped a curtsey to the Countess of Ellesmere. “Welcome, my lady Countess. You honour me with your presence at this important occasion.”

Mabelle pulled the young nun to her feet and embraced her. “We would not have missed it, my dear. Where is your mother? I am anxious to see her again.”

Rhonwen bustled out into the courtyard. “My lady,” she panted breathlessly, “I intended to be here when you arrived.”

Mabelle opened her arms wide and the two women embraced.

Myfanwy turned to Rhoni, smiling as she watched her mother and her namesake renew acquaintances. “Thank you for coming, Rhoni. We have not seen each other for many a year.”

Rhoni felt uncomfortable. She was happy to see Myfanwy, but how did one greet a nun? She risked a hug. “It is my pleasure to be here.”

Myfanwy returned the embrace tenfold, almost squeezing the life out of her. Rhoni had no sister and the warmth of this pious young woman cheered her. In different circumstances perhaps they might have been close friends.

It was unlikely. Though her junior by a year, Myfanwy had an aura of serious serenity that made Rhoni feel like a silly child.

Mabelle and Rhonwen walked towards the cloisters. Myfanwy watched them. “We should linger a few minutes before we follow. My father is waiting inside.”

Rhodri ap Owain stood in the shadowed cloister watching the two women walk towards him. Rhonwen knew he was there, but the Countess had not yet seen him.

Twenty years had passed since their first and last meeting, yet Mabelle de Montbryce walked with the same regal bearing he remembered well.

The circumstances of their meeting had not been auspicious. He had kidnapped her. The hefty ransom the Earl had willingly paid had helped feed many a desperate Welsh family that year.

During the months of her captivity in his mountain stronghold, Rhodri had developed a healthy respect for the Countess. He had grown to like her. Thanks be to the gods Rhonwen had been with her when they were taken.

He frowned. His wife and the Countess had paused in the priory garden, laughing at a shared memory.

He lifted his gaze beyond them to the courtyard and saw the child he had held in his arms a few minutes after her birth. This was the babe he had carried down the mountains to England, his heart broken by Rhonwen’s refusal to stay with him.

Now Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce had grown into a beautiful young woman, tall and blonde like her mother. She and Myfanwy were laughing too. If only life could be thus—Welsh and Norman, sharing happiness and joy. Such had been the Countess’s wish when they had parted years ago.

Was it a fruitless hope? Were he foolish enough to go against Rhonwen’s wishes and raid in Ellesmere territory, Mabelle de Montbryce’s husband would be obliged to execute him if he were captured.

He chuckled. Angering Rhonwen was something he would never do, though he worried about his twin sons, Rhun and Rhydderch. Those fifteen year old hotheads were unpredictable. They tended to be more fanatical than he about ridding Wales of Norman domination. He was proud of their warrior spirit, their desire to follow in his footsteps, but in his heart he suspected their older brother’s peacemaking traits might achieve more for Wales in the long run. Rhys took after his mother.

Lost in his musings, he had not noticed that Rhonwen and her companion had resumed their progress to the cloister. Suddenly the Countess of Ellesmere stood directly in front of him, her palm pressed to her breast, mouth agape.

For a brief moment, Mabelle was back in the Great Hall of Cadair Berwyn, forcing down the fear in her throat as she faced her captor for the first time.

Before her in the cloister stood Rhodri ap Owain, the man responsible for months of captivity and the near decapitation of her son. Rhoni had been born in the wilds of Wales because of him. Her husband’s indiscretion with Lady Ascha Woolgar had come about because of his injury at Rhodri’s hand.

The Welsh prince looked as muscular and menacing as he did then, though the war braids were gone. The grey streaks in his thick hair made him seem even more distinguished. There were thousands of reasons why she should hate him, but it was simply good to see him! The years melted away.

She held out her hand and smiled. “Prince Rhodri, you look well!”

Rhodri bowed to kiss her hand. “My lady Countess, you are as beautiful now as you were then.”

Rhonwen linked her arm in Rhodri’s, beaming. Mabelle had known in her heart that the two were destined for each other, as Rhodri had known it. She had always been glad she had persuaded Rhonwen to return to him.

Myfanwy and Rhoni entered the cloister. Mabelle took her daughter’s hand. “Rhoni, may I present to you Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.”

Rhodri enfolded Rhoni’s hand with both of his. “You are Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce, the tiny babe born in my fortress at Cadair Berwyn.”

Rhoni grinned. “I am, my lord Prince.
Rwy’n Cymraes
!”

Rhodri laughed heartily. “You are indeed a Welsh woman. Someone has been teaching you.”

Rhoni blushed. “I deemed it important to learn the language of the land of my birth.”

Mabelle was pleasantly surprised by the serious tone of her daughter’s statement. Rhoni had long boasted about being born in Wales, but Mabelle had thought it an affectation. She was further surprised when they carried on their conversation in Welsh.

She turned to Rhonwen. “Have your other children arrived?”

Rhonwen took her hand. “Yes, they came with Rhodri. They await us in the Refectory. First, I’ll show you to the cell the nuns have prepared for you. It’s not very grand I’m afraid.”

Mabelle squeezed her friend’s hand. This gentle woman had come into her employ as a healer and was now married to the Prince of Powwydd. “Lead on, I did not expect a cell of my own.”

She bent to whisper in Rhonwen’s ear. “I trust I am not sharing with Rhoni?”

Rhonwen whispered back, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “No, she is with Carys.”

On the morrow, Mabelle and Rhonwen could not hold back tears during the ceremony to install Myfanwy as Prioress. Rhoni noticed Rhodri rubbing his eyes. He would probably blame it on the clouds of incense.

Carys grinned, Rhys smiled and Rhun and Rhydderch scowled at the Normans every chance they got. They were comical with their wild red hair and rude glances. Rhoni ignored them.

The thirty or so nuns chanted as they processed up the narrow aisle of the tiny chapel, led by an elderly woman with the sourest face Rhoni had ever seen. She turned to Carys and grimaced, crossing her eyes.

Carys pressed a knuckle to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Myfanwy will have her hands full with that one. Sister Aiweeda believes she should have been Prioress. Can you imagine!”

All is not well in paradise!

Smiling angelically, Myfanwy Mabelle walked at the end of the line with the Bishop.

The rite went smoothly, except for the ill-concealed resentment of Sister Aiweeda when the bishop displayed the Papal Bull confirming Myfanwy’s appointment.

Arrangements had been made to celebrate the momentous occasion with an excursion to the nearby sea coast at Prestetone. The younger nuns were atwitter with excitement at the prospect as they climbed into the carts waiting to transport them to the seaside. Aiweeda and some of the other older nuns tutted and scolded, but Myfanwy reminded them it was God’s wish that His people be joyful.

Rhoni was looking forward to the trip. She had crossed the Narrow Sea to Normandie by longboat more than once, but the voyage was usually nerve-wracking. Her father suffered from terrible seasickness, a malady he resented bitterly.

She had never walked along a beach. Besides, Prestetone was the beginning of the famous Offa’s Dyke she had heard much about. It would be interesting to visit the three hundred year old earthwork that stretched from the Irish Sea to the Severn River, built by an ancient king of Mercia to ward off Welsh incursions. Rhoni suspected this educational component was how Myfanwy had justified the excursion.

Mabelle and Rhonwen begged off, citing their age and creaking bones.

Rhys and Rhydderch rode alongside the carts, with their father. Rhodri’s bowmen formed an escort. Rhun walked with them, a bow slung over his shoulder, a full quiver at his back.

Rhoni and Carys sat together, arm in arm. Carys was full of questions about Baudoin. Rhoni considered bluntly telling the girl that she may as well forget any designs she had on him. Neither father would ever allow them to marry. But Carys was only three and ten. She had lots of time to find an appropriate suitor. Let her enjoy her infatuation with Rhoni’s brother. What girl wouldn’t dream of marrying the future Earl of Ellesmere?

Those thoughts brought Rhoni abruptly back to her own dilemma. She had never been infatuated with anyone. Again the prospect of life in a convent reared its ugly head. She sat among women who had given up their freedom to live a cloistered life, not always willingly. A cold shiver marched up and down her spine.

Surely there was a man for her somewhere? Did attractive men avoid her, finding her too frivolous, too empty headed? Not pretty? Not desirable?

Gulls danced on the wind, calling to each other, reminding her they were close to the sands. A novice squealed, “I can see the sea!”

Rhoni inhaled deeply. Yes, there it was—that unmistakable scent of the sea. She squeezed Carys’s hand and turned to look at the distant shore.