Sinful Passions: Hearts and Crowns, #3

By Anna Markland

Swan and Rodrick share a common ancestor four generations in the past. The powers that be in the Church refuse to sanction their marriage. Rodrick must abandon the woman he loves or forfeit his earldom. A poignant love story set against the turmoil of civil strife as King Stephen and Prince Henry Plantagenet fight for the throne of England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Markland
• Release date: Jul 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393423232

Book preview

I

Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, July 1153 AD

This argument is a waste of time. Prince Henry Plantagenet will be our next king, Suannoch declared.

Rodrick de Montbryce bristled, as did most of the men gathered in the gallery of Ellesmere Castle. Even Bronson FitzRam, whose sister had made this shocking pronouncement, seemed outraged.

Rodrick’s irritation grew when Grace smiled broadly, obviously amused by the discomfort of the men. He was compelled to reprimand his twin sister. Suannoch is a mere girl of eight and ten years, a visitor at that, who is not qualified nor entitled to speak in such a manner. Don’t encourage her.

Imagine, his sister replied gleefully, looking to the rafters. The stir she’s caused has made the banners waft a little.

Suannoch FitzRam was shrouded from head to toe in the white robes of a novice, her face squeezed into a red ball by the tight coif. Her appearance only served to compound Rodrick’s indignation. "And to stand warming her derrière by the hearth as if she were a man—"

Hush, Grace admonished. If the pout she’s sending your way is any indication, you spoke too loudly, brother dear.

His visiting Northumbrian relative had raised his hackles, but it was good to be sparring with Grace again. He’d missed her since her marriage. He regretted it was widowhood that had brought her home, but she seemed to have taken the loss of her husband in stride. Rodrick was aware it hadn’t been a love match, Victor de Cullène more of a father figure than a husband. It saddened him she was now considered too old to remarry. She’d have made a wonderful mother.

Bronson glared at his sister. Your pardon, Uncle Gallien, he said to Rodrick’s father. Suannoch has a habit of not minding her tongue. She takes after our Aunt Ragna.

The novice pursed her lips and returned her brother’s glare.

Curiously, Bronson’s eyes darted to Grace and his face reddened.

Rodrick smirked. It irks that these northern cousins have been invited to join this family gathering on the eve of one of the most important meetings ever hosted at Ellesmere Castle. They have no place at an assembly of barons and lords from every part of the country who are coming here to discuss the civil strife tearing England apart.

Grace shrugged. "The FitzRams are cousins, but at least twice removed, and half-cousins at that. I assume Bronson addresses Papa as uncle because of the difference in their ages."

Rodrick agreed. If I recall correctly our red-headed cousin is a mere three years older than we are. A coincidence he shares your hair color.

He wondered if he was being too hasty. The FitzRams are wealthy Northumbrian landowners and Bronson will perhaps have valuable insights to offer on the situation in the northern reaches.

Grace eyed Bronson. He says the reason for his presence is twofold. He’s journeyed to the Marches to take possession of Shelfhoc Hall, bequeathed to him by his late Uncle Edwin, and to deliver his sister to the convent at Whitchurch.

Their father graced Suannoch with what Rodrick recognised as one of his indulgent earl smiles. Not at all, Gallien de Montbryce replied to Bronson’s apology. I hope you will be among the men at the meetings tomorrow.

To Rodrick’s amusement, the girl bristled at the implication she would be not be welcome at the morrow’s assembly. Did she imagine her opinion would be consulted? As the conversation turned to Shelfhoc Hall, he studied her. Confinement to a nunnery probably hadn’t been her choice. It was the fate of many young women whose husbands-to-be got themselves killed.

Did Suannoch mourn her betrothed, slain in a skirmish with King Stephen’s soldiers? The wimple and coif did nothing to enhance her features, but she had good skin—fresh, healthy looking. Her long fingers were elegant. The voluminous robe smothered the remainder of her body, rendering it impossible to tell if she had decent breasts.

His shaft stirred inconveniently when he noticed she was staring back at him. He straightened in the chair, brushing at nonexistent lint on his doublet.

Get your thoughts back on the conversation and the upcoming meeting.

I was named for Lady Ascha Woolgar.

Again, every eye swiveled to Suannoch who had taken a seat next to Countess Peridotte.

He wasn’t surprised when his mother put her hand on the girl’s. You’re right, my dear. Your second Christian name is that of your great grandmother.

Suannoch’s eyes widened, their amber brilliance catching him off guard. He noticed for the first time the contrast between her dark eyebrows and the white of her wimple. Perhaps her hair was black. She beamed a smile that transformed her heated face into a thing of beauty, renewing the interest in his couilles.

Yes, she was the lady of Shelfhoc, she gushed.

Rodrick wavered between scoffing out loud and revisiting his indignation. He threw up his hands. Is she unaware it was Ascha Woolgar who gave birth to our great grandfather’s illegitimate son?

Grace glared at him. Keep your voice down. Caedmon and his family were welcomed as Montbryces and he accepted the Norman patronymic FitzRam.

Rodrick wrinkled his nose and scratched the back of his neck. He was never rude to guests, no matter how tiresome, but this chit of a girl was an irritating cocklebur.

Gallien de Montbryce gave the novice another indulgent smile. "It’s important to be proud of one’s ancestors. My half-uncle Caedmon aided in the rescue of Oncle Robert many years ago, and saved my father’s life in Italy. Without his bravery I wouldn’t be here today."

Rodrick felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps he should be more tolerant of these FitzRams. After all, he and Grace and Bronson and Suannoch shared a great grandfather, a hero of the Battle of Hastings, Ram de Montbryce.

~~~***~~~

Suannoch wished Cousin Rodrick would stop staring. Had he never seen a nun before? And what was the reason for his scowl and the rude remarks he’d made to his sister? She’d met Grace earlier in the day when the women of the household had welcomed them with genuine warmth, and liked her immediately. She was relieved Grace wandered over to sit beside her. She leaned close to her cousin’s ear. I can understand why the older men might object to my asserting my opinions, but your brothers are young men. William and Stephen seemed interested and slightly amused by my comments, but Rodrick simply glared.

Grace put a hand on hers and smiled. Mayhap being the heir to an earldom means a man has to affect a serious demeanor.

Grace had spoken loudly enough for her twin to hear. Suannoch decided to compound his obvious discomfort. He might be considered handsome if he smiled. He’s certainly tall, and strong looking.

Do you think so? Grace asked, staring at her brother. I never noticed.

They laughed out loud, but Suannoch’s body heated. She regretted taking a seat too close to the hearth. Her face was burning. The cursed robes were heavy for summer, and why was a fire necessary anyway? Her gaiety fled. How to bear the coarse fabric against her skin for the rest of her life?

It rankled that her intended father-by-marriage thought he had the right to demand she be shut up in a convent because his son had been killed.

Poor Hiram—more poet than warrior.

She ached when she thought of the terror he must have endured during the brief skirmish that had taken his life. She wasn’t in love with him, but he deserved a better destiny than the one imposed upon him by his father.

The pompous, overbearing man had sealed her fate too. Her parents had protested, her mother heartbroken, but Cuthbertson had the ear of King David of Scotland. Sir Aidan FitzRam would have a difficult time indeed holding on to Kirkthwaite Hall without the king’s benevolence. There was certainly no hope of support from the English monarch. Stephen had turned out to be a weak king, unable to summon enough support among England’s barons to effectively counteract his cousin Maud’s invasion fourteen years before.

Now England endured two governments, Stephen’s in Westminster and Maud’s headquartered in Devizes in the west. Both issued their own coinage and edicts aplenty—none of which were obeyed by the thousands of mainly Flemish mercenaries who had taken advantage of the anarchy to rape and pillage the English countryside, finding refuge in hastily constructed fortifications. The rule of law had dissolved.

Grace’s voice jolted her from her preoccupation. Do you believe Maud should have been made queen, as King Henry, wished?

Suannoch snorted. I do, but the opinions of women counted for even less back then. The English barons were outraged at the notion of a woman being queen in her own right.

Grace sighed, casting a sideways glance at her mother. You know my father was one of the leaders of the movement to support Stephen’s claim to the throne?

Yes, and I’m sure he regrets it. Powerful men such as Uncle Gallien have been unable to prevent England sinking into a morass of despair—a broken land.

Countess Peridotte leaned closer. My husband told me that if it wasn’t for the traditional cessation of hostilities during Lent and Advent, the whole country might have gone up in flames. Thousands have already died of starvation, their crops burned, villages destroyed.

Suannoch wondered what the earl thought of his precious Stephen after nearly two decades of civil strife. Would he switch allegiance at the assembly on the morrow? One could only hope. She hesitated to ask Grace, who probably wasn’t privy to her father’s opinions. Indeed, she’d be surprised if the countess would attend the meeting. At least Bronson would be there. Her dear brother’s keen mind might affect some change, and his participation would give her a day or two’s reprieve from the convent. She was grateful he had insisted the Mother Superior allow her to visit their nearby relatives. At least at Shelfhoc he wouldn’t be too far away. Would he be permitted to visit her?

These thoughts seethed through her brain as she watched the men talk on and on and the women nod politely. Am I the only one who sees the injustice and folly?

Grace shook her head. No, you’re not, she replied quietly.

It was some consolation. Can they not foresee Maud’s son Henry is destined to be king?

Patience, Grace said, taking her hand. We’ll find out on the morrow. I’m for bed. Walk with me.

The men breathed an annoying sigh of relief as they left. Outside the chamber, Grace pecked a kiss on her cheek and bade her goodnight.

She undressed and curled up on her bed, glad to be free of the habit. Surely Christ and his saints would awaken from their slumber and realize Stephen’s son, the brutal and murderous Eustace, was not fit to wear the crown his father seemed determined to pass on to him.

She smiled at the recollection of her prickly cousin’s discomfort, suddenly seized by an inexplicable urge to stretch like a languid cat. He might be a typical male, but he was attractive.

What did it matter? Her life was over. No use getting hot and bothered over the likes of Rodrick de Montbryce.

II

As Lucia assisted with the removal of her gown, Grace de Cullène mused happily that it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed an evening as much.

It’s a relief to be back at Ellesmere, she confided to the maidservant who’d been the only bright spark in dark times.

It was a difficult year of mourning, Lucia replied, unpinning her mistress’s hair, for all of us. What a dreary place. I’m glad to be home too.

Born in Ellesmere, Lucia had missed her family as much as Grace had missed hers. I was happy to deed Cullène Hall to my stepson, she said with a shiver. Godefroy would probably have plotted some way to do away with me had I not satisfied his thirst for the estate.

Lucia pulled the bone comb through her tresses. I fear you are right, milady. He’s a sidekick of the cruel Prince Eustace.

He’s welcome to Cullène, and I’m relieved to be free of him and the house. Papa succeeded in getting my dowry lands back, so he won’t get his greedy hands on those. I don’t blame him for wanting the estate. He was assured of it until I came along. Do you recall upon first arriving how full of enthusiasm I was, ready to enliven the manor house with refurbished tapestries, rugs, banners?

Lucia snorted. The whole house needed a good scrub.

But Victor would have none of it, content to wallow in the same dusty dankness he’d apparently enjoyed for years.

Guilt lay heavy in her heart. She had at times wished for his death during the three years of their marriage. To this day she wasn’t sure why she had agreed to it. She supposed she’d thought him charming, wise, an older man who would protect her. And why had he married her? Certainly it wasn’t for the pleasures of the marriage bed. He lavished more attention on his steward than on her.

Even Lucia didn’t know she’d cried on her wedding night, left alone in the big bed. She admitted now it wasn’t because she’d wanted his attentions. Indeed, she’d feared them. She’d sobbed out her isolation and the dread of long, lonely years ahead.

Godefroy likely labored under the unfounded fear she would get with child and he’d be disinherited.

No one but she was aware she was still a maiden, though Lucia probably suspected. She intended to take the knowledge and her maidenhead to the grave, filled with a strange guilty relief that she had failed to appeal to her husband. Never again would she put herself under a man’s thumb. Men were repellent—although Bronson FitzRam had caught her eye this evening. That hair! Redder than her own. She closed her eyes, conjuring a vision of him with war braids framing his strong face.

Did you happen to notice my cousin from Northumbria? she asked her trusted servant, puzzled that the chamber had suddenly grown warmer.

The nun? Lucia replied, her eyes full of mischief.

No, she exclaimed, swatting Lucia’s derrière. You know who I mean.

You’re blushing, milady, her maidservant teased.

Grace rose abruptly. Fetch my nightgown, bad girl. It’s a passing fancy. Seems to me I recall something about him being married.

Lucia slipped the nightgown over her head. There’s no wife with him now.

For some reason she was suddenly lightheaded. Turn down the linens, then leave me. I was happy this night, and I want to savor being free.

After Lucia left, she sat in the chair by the hearth for a while, wiggling her bare toes. Yes, it was good to be home, and after she had fulfilled her responsibilities to her father’s guests on the morrow, she would start to enjoy her freedom. She crawled into bed thinking it was a pity Bronson FitzRam would be occupied in the assembly. They might have gone riding together. He would be a pleasant companion—and safe. After all he was her cousin.

~~~***~~~

Bronson tossed and turned, sleep eluding him after an unsettling day. He’d disliked the Mother Superior at the Whitchurch convent on sight, which only aggravated the bile in his belly when he thought of his sister incarcerated in the cold place.

The woman wanted to give Swan’s clothes to the poor. The idea of his mother’s beautiful handiwork being torn to shreds for rags by some impoverished peasant was too much. He’d insisted on taking the garments, suspecting the true plan was to sell the stuff to some local noblewoman.

She’d also balked at the notion of Swan accompanying him to Ellesmere, until he reminded her who their powerful relatives were.

In a day or two he’d have no option but to deliver his spirited sister back into the hands of the crone. He understood Swan’s turmoil, but did she have to behave so outrageously, flaunting her opinions, as if they mattered? She was right, of course, and was only repeating discussions they’d had with their father many times, but her demeanor had certainly riled Rodrick de Montbryce.

And meeting Rodrick’s sister had been a shock. He’d long since buried his male urges with two wives who hadn’t survived bearing his stillborn children. He was determined never to endure such pain again, but Grace’s hair, as red as his own, had caught the attention of his shaft. Strange how she had inherited her mother’s hair coloring, yet looked exactly like her dark-haired twin. It was a potent mix.

But