Splendor, page 32
Rolfe felt the press of Catherine’s hand on his own. “Continue,” he said, grateful for her unspoken reassurance.
“From the accounting that your mother gave Robert just before she died, you were the result of a brief affair with the old king when Lenore was at court. Even to this day his reputation is well known. Truly, Henry Beauclerc had a way with the fairer sex, even in his later years.”
Rolfe accepted he was Beauclerc’s son, yet the knowledge evoked no emotion in him whatsoever. “I know he claimed at least twenty bastards as his own,” he said.
“And he may have claimed you, had he known about you,” Brother Bernard returned. “Though he had again married after his queen died that didn’t curb his lusty ways. He took Lenore as his mistress for a short time. The affair had already ended when she was suddenly called home to Bayeux. Not knowing she had conceived, she learned from her father that a marriage had been arranged.
“The plans were in the making for a wedding that lay over six months away when she discovered she was pregnant. Fearing her father’s temper, she asked to be allowed to go on a pilgrimage to ready her heart and mind so she could become a good wife to her new betrothed. Being a very religious man, he gave his consent.
“Lenore started on her pilgrimage, with twenty or more attendants, but to everyone’s surprise, she soon disappeared. Just why she kept you so long after your birth, no one knows. Nor is it understood why she left you on the marshes. Over the years, her family kept searching for her. ’Twas Robert who found her in a convent not far from Bayeux.
“She was dying, riddled by disease, and some thought insanity, for she kept rattling on about her immortal soul, praying God would forgive her for having left her son—Beauclerc’s son—on the marshes below Mont St. Michel. Once Lenore had left this life, Robert couldn’t erase her ramblings from his mind. He came to the mount in search of the truth. That is where he found you.”
Rolfe stared at the monk. “If Robert knew all this, why didn’t he tell me?”
“By that time, Beauclerc had died. The unrest that followed between Stephen and Matilda, and eventually Henry, caused him worry. Though you were never in line to the throne, Robert feared you would come to harm just by way of your blood. He resolved it was better you never know about your parentage. The decision was meant to keep you safe. My brethren and I kept his secret just as he asked us to do.”
Rolfe held no anger toward the man whom he now knew was his uncle. He understood Robert’s reasoning for not telling him of his parentage, understood it was meant to protect him. The times after Beauclerc’s death were perilous, lasting even unto this day. Besides, if Rolfe had called anyone “father,” it would have been Robert. He was the one whom Rolfe loved and revered.
As for Lenore, he pitied her. What she must have suffered over the years during her self-imposed exile from her family, disease and madness consuming her in the end. Still, the woman was a stranger to him. He felt no grief or remorse at not having known her.
He thought of Duke Henry.
Earlier Rolfe had learned that when Brother Bernard, Garrick, and Aubrey had seen him being taken prisoner, they’d followed. On discovering in which direction the group went, the three immediately set off to find Henry at Wallingford.
Learning of Rolfe’s predicament, the duke was ready to send a small troop to William’s estate. It was only after Henry had learned from Brother Bernard that Rolfe was Beauclerc’s son that he decided to lead the force himself.
“Tell me: Why was Henry so willing to believe we were related? ’Twould be far easier to dismiss the story, especially when there was no confirmation.”
“Henry is aware of his grandfather’s liaisons. Names of many of his mistresses have surfaced over the years. Lenore de Bayeux was not lost on him. Besides, the family resemblance is strong. You may be taller and fairer in coloring, but one cannot miss the fact that you are Beauclerc’s son.” Brother Bernard rose from his chair. “’Tis lucky for you I decided to come along on your journey to England. Of the handful who knew of your heritage, only I survive. I doubt that without Henry his troops would have commanded the attention needed to enter this place. Things might have gone far differently had the duke not been along.”
“Aye,” Garrick said, swinging his gaze toward William. “I would have hated to be you if my friend had not survived. As the duke has said, he was always fond of Rolfe. Whether he knew about Rolfe’s relationship to him or not, when he learned what had happened here, the duke would have made certain you joined Geoffrey in the pit.”
William cleared his throat. “Believe me, Sir Garrick, I’m grateful things have turned out as they have. And I’m doubly grateful that Rolfe has forgiven me for my part in this matter. As for my daughter, I hope someday she too will forgive me.”
Viewing Catherine, Rolfe said, “Were she my daughter, sir, I believe I would have reacted the same way. I hold no malice toward you. As far as Geoffrey goes, he deserved what he got. ’Tis over. And since you’ve granted me permission to take your daughter as my wife, I cannot be happier. What say you, my fair Catherine? Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive him as well?”
Her chin rose. “I’ll think about it.”
Rolfe chuckled. “Have no fear, William. From experience, I can tell you she’ll eventually come around.”
“I hope so. I’d not like being made to stay from my grandchild.” He looked at Garrick and the monk. “I believe we should allow the young couple some privacy. How about a game of dice?”
Garrick and Brother Bernard nodded their assent. Once the three had left the room, Rolfe pulled Catherine down beside him. “You certainly are a stubborn wench,” he said, leaning over her.
“’Tis in the blood,” she responded, her fingers feathering through his hair. “I’m my father’s daughter. He is as stubborn as I. Knowing that, do you still want to marry me?”
“Aye. I do.”
She grew serious. “Are you certain? You’ve always valued your freedom. Marriage was not something you wanted. You made that very plain. I’d hate to awaken one day to find you had upped and gone. I don’t know if I could survive such a—”
“Hush, Catherine,” he ordered, placing his finger over her lips. “All that is in the past. My days of wandering have ended. The restlessness inside me was because I was always looking for something. Now I know who I am, and I certainly know what I want.” As he lowered his face to hers, his finger slipped to her chin. “’Tis you, sweet, and your love. If I have just those two things, never will I need anything more.”
“You have them,” she whispered.
As she sealed her words with a kiss, Rolfe knew his search for new vistas, for new adventures, was a thing of the past. The long journey was over.
It had ended here in Catherine’s arms.
EPILOGUE
Cartbridge Castle
March 1154
CANDLELIGHT BATHED THE LORD’S CHAMBER.
As Catherine read the letter from her father, the man having been forgiven on the day of their marriage, Rolfe leaned against the headboard, his son cradled in his arms.
“Father says that Clotilde is betrothed. We are to tell Eloise that her niece is to be married this summer.”
“And who is the lucky man?”
“’Tis one of Geoffrey’s soldiers. Apparently the day she was questioned about my disappearance, she fled the hall in tears and ran straight into the man. He was at once taken by her. Began to court her immediately afterward. Father was unaware of this until his return to Avranches to deliver the news about Miles’s and Geoffrey’s deaths. They are now all at Mortain. Brother Bernard is again at Mont St. Michel.”
“See?” Rolfe said, smiling. “Had I not caused all these problems for everyone—especially Clotilde—she’d not have met the man of her dreams.”
“Nor would we now be married,” Catherine countered, placing the letter aside.
“Nor would we have a fine son.”
A light knock sounded on the door.
“Come,” Rolfe called.
When the panel opened, Eloise stepped into the room. “I’ll take the sweet darling from you,” she said, ambling toward the bed. “’Tis time little Henry found his cradle. After Garrick and Aubrey see him, that is. And ’Tis time you two got some sleep.”
Rolfe handed his son over to Eloise. “I had something else in mind entirely, but ’tis both done in the same place.”
Eloise blushed as she harrumphed. “I hope to teach Henry better manners than you have, sir.”
“You have my permission to try,” Rolfe returned.
Catherine sprang from the bed and kissed her son good night.
“I’ll be back when he’s hungry again,” Eloise stated, then was out the door.
“Come here, woman,” Rolfe said, reaching for Catherine’s hand. “I have plans for us.” She joined him on the bed. “Remove your chemise. I want to look at you.”
“Then remove your braies, sir. My eyes are just as eager as yours.”
In seconds they were both naked. They sank onto the mattress.
“Are you sorry that you paid all that gold for me or that you’ve given up your wandering ways?” she asked as Rolfe’s hand roamed where it wanted.
He’d told her about Miles’s duplicity, about his greed. She’d accepted Rolfe’s words without question. “The only place I want to wander is all over this bed with you.”
Catherine smiled. “You’re a devil, Rolfe de Mont St. Michel. I should have taken note of such when I first looked into your eyes that morn in the chapel over a year ago.”
“What? Didn’t I look priestly enough for you?”
“Nay, you were far too handsome.”
“Was that what you were thinking when your mind drifted away?”
“Drifted away?”
“Aye. I had asked you a question, and you just kept staring at me.”
Catherine looped her arms around his neck and opened her thighs; Rolfe eased into her.
“Aye. ’Twas what I was thinking. I’m certainly glad you decided to hear my confession that morning.”
He lay still above her, gazing into her wondrous eyes. “So am I.”
“Do you want to hear my confession now?”
He nodded.
“I love you, Rolfe de Mont St. Michel. With all my heart.”
“And I love you, Catherine de Mortain. I shall do so until the day I die. Till death takes me, my fealty belongs only to you.”
“’Tis good,” she said as the rhythm of his lovemaking began.
“’Tis more than good,” he whispered. “’Tis splendor.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
At Wallingford, in late July or early August of 1153, Henry, Duke of Normandy, gained a victory of sorts. The win did not come from battle, but from a forced truce called by both Henry’s and Stephen’s countless barons and many earls. Although Henry and Stephen were ready to fight to the death, no one else wanted to stand against his fellow countryman. With the demand for peace coming from their most trusted supporters, the two men had no choice but to comply. Then on August 17, 1153, when Stephen’s son Eustace died quite suddenly—supposedly struck down by St. Edmund himself for having devastated the lands and burned the crops at the monastery at Bury St. Edmunds—the future was set. Stephen’s younger son, William, never sought to be king. Henry, by choice, was now the undisputed heir to the English throne.
Both men moved on to different campaigns—Henry to Stamford and Nottingham; Stephen into Suffolk—to at last meet again at Winchester on November 6, 1153. There it was decided that Stephen would remain king until his death, Henry his designated heir. On October 25, 1154, Stephen died, and on December 19, Henry was anointed and crowned king of England in Westminster Abbey.
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CHARLENE CROSS
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NORTHERN WALES
April 1157
It was inevitable.
Even so, Alana had hoped Gilbert’s death would draw no more than an expression of sympathy from his king. Instead, some four dozen mounted men waited beyond the palisade, their leader requesting entry.
She turned from the window in her chamber to look upon her trusted servant Madoc, the man having brought word of the group’s arrival. “Is Henry among them?” she asked.
He shook his graying head. “I don’t think so, milady,” he replied. “The one who is at the fore calls himself Paxton de Beaumont. He bears a pennon of a black dragon on a crimson field. Claims he knew Sir Gilbert, says they were old friends. By his trappings, there’s no denying he’s a knight. He is Norman as well. You can wager he’s one of Henry’s vassals.”
“And where is Sir Goddard?” she asked of the knight who was now in charge of the stronghold.
“As usual, he had far too much wine last night. He’s still asleep, as are most of his companions.”
Alana nodded and again faced the window. Through the breaks in the trees, she glimpsed the rippling river beyond the outer walls. Today its waters were almost placid, far from the raging torrent of six months past.
Time swept backward to that fateful day. From afar, she saw herself falling endlessly through space, experienced the breath-robbing plunge when she sank beneath the frigid waters, felt herself tumbling helplessly through the rain-swollen eddy, her body crashing against the rocks projecting from the river’s bed. Deprived of precious air, her lungs threatened to burst. Somehow she clawed her way to the surface, where she gasped and sputtered, only to be dragged to the bottom once more. The cycle continued for what seemed an eternity. That she hadn’t drowned was truly a miracle.
“Milady?”
Alana blinked, her trance broken. “What is it, Madoc?”
“Should I tell those at the gate to turn this Paxton de Beaumont away?”
She circled slowly toward her servant. “Nay. We have no choice but to allow him entry.”
“But—”
“We must. Otherwise he’ll grow suspicious. We can ill afford his mistrust. Besides, I’m certain he has come to secure what is rightfully Henry’s.”
“Rightfully Henry’s?” Madoc snarled. “These Norman dogs are excessively brash. They invade our homeland, claiming it as their own. But just as with your dead husband, they too will know the wrath of our countrymen’s blades.”
“That may be so, Madoc. Still, until we are able to drive these dogs, as you call them, from our soil, we must temper our pride and act as though we accept them as our masters.” Alana knew that was especially so if she hoped to keep the truth about Gilbert’s death hidden from his king. “Since Sir Goddard is indisposed, order the gates opened and allow this Paxton de Beaumont and his men entry. Give them food and drink. I will be down shortly to offer them welcome.”
Once Madoc exited the chamber, Alana pulled a comb through her hair, then hid the mass under a headrail. Hugging her mantle close, she followed after Madoc, wondering why Paxton de Beaumont had so boldly crossed the marches and Offa’s Dyke into Cymru, what the Saxons had long ago termed Wales.
His name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember Gilbert’s connection to the knight or even in what context her late husband may have mentioned the man. But then Gilbert had shared little with her about his life before they’d wed. Alana wasn’t surprised by the fact, for after the first six months of marriage he’d hardly spoken to her. The ensuing three years had become a study in silence.
Though their relationship was strained, Gilbert still expected his husbandly due. Save for the last four months of his life, he came to her bed regularly, expecting her to submit, which she did.
Alana shuddered as she remembered how without preliminaries Gilbert mounted her. After several thrusts and grunts, the latter culminating in a lengthy groan, he rolled away from her and quickly left her side. That she’d been freed of the odious burden of seeing to his needs was a blessing. As she saw it, lovemaking was a loathsome act, something she hoped never to suffer again from any man.
At the top of the stairs, Alana affected an expression of bereavement. Over the interim, she’d perfected her widow’s mask and could execute it at will. She could even summon tears at the mention of her late husband’s name. A ruse, yes. For when she first learned of Gilbert’s death, she nearly jumped for joy.
Alana worried little whether her feigned grief was taken as genuine or not. It was Paxton de Beaumont who concerned her.
The knight’s presence, she suspected, was at Henry’s bidding. Certainly he’d traveled across the marches and into what most considered hostile territory in order to secure the castle for his king. But Alana doubted that was his sole reason for showing himself outside the gates. She had a strong feeling Henry mistrusted her account of Gilbert’s drowning. Suspicion of foul play was the underlying motive that had sent his vassal this long way to the secluded fortress overlooking the small tributary that eventually flowed into what the English called the River Dee. She’d swear on her dead sire’s grave this was so.
As Alana descended the stairs, she began to fret. She’d taken great pains to hide the truth about Gilbert’s death from all who resided inside the castle. Only she and Madoc were allowed in the chamber as they both prepared her husband’s body for burial once it was pulled from the river. The telltale wounds marring his flesh would have alerted whoever saw them that the frigid waters hadn’t been the cause of Gilbert Fitz William’s demise. No. It was the plunge of an angry blade, many times over, that had ended his life.
For her sake, and the sake of those whom she protected, Alana prayed Paxton de Beaumont never learned the truth.
As the blood-red pennon with its prancing dragon snapped in the wind above his head, Paxton waited patiently for the gates to be opened to him and his men. A strange land this Wales, he thought, glancing around him. Its rugged, slate-sided mountains, its forests of pine and oak, its open hillsides sheeted with purple blossoms of heather, the vaporous mists rising from its frigid streams, the country displayed an eerie sort of beauty, one he’d never beheld in all his travels. Wales, this land of strangers, it puzzled him, especially its people.
