Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) by Anna Markland Page B
Authors: Anna Markland
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brother. Watch me!” Romain declared. “We’ll soon have this ball in the bailey.”
Alex was determined to prove him wrong.
Two hours later, he lay under an apple tree, panting as he gazed up at the budding fruit, every bone in his body aching. But they had won! Henry strutted around holding the battered ball high above his head, Faol nipping at his heels.
Alex’s boots were muddied, probably ruined beyond repair. He was sure he had bruises on the bruises on his shins. His shirt was torn and filthy , his hair a tangled mess.
He’d never felt better in his life.
~~~
ELAYNE WAS FILLED with confused emotions after Marguerite’s arrival.
Henry and Claricia’s obvious happiness in their new friends brought her great joy. But she chafed that she hardly saw them. They were off as soon as they were dressed, not to return until after the evening meal. Once their bellies were full, they fell asleep after struggling into their nightclothes.
Because she had no responsibilities during the day, she was put to work in the kitchens of the castle. She suspected Marguerite de Venestre was behind this, but had to do as she was bidden. At least she was still at Montbryce where she could keep an eye on what happened to her children.
She hated the heat and confusion of the kitchens . She chopped carrots and parsnips, plucked feathers off fowl, scrubbed pots, turned spits, mixed batters, and grudgingly learned how to prepare foods of all kinds.
The children weren’t the only ones exhausted at the end of the day.
But she gleaned other things in the kitchens, where the talk among the peasants often turned to the struggle between Stephen and Maud for control of the English throne and the Duchy of Normandie.
Pondering rumors she’d overheard that ran the gamut from Maud having already embarked on an invasion of England, to the certainty she would soon pay a visit to Montbryce, she left the kitchen late one afternoon, wishing for a salve for her chapped hands.
As she neared the door to the bailey, she became aware of the boisterous shouts of excited children. Stepping out into the sunshine, her breath caught in her throat. She pressed back quickly into the shadow of the doorway.
She barely recognized the muddied man carrying a laughing Henry on his broad shoulders. Faol loped along behind them. Her son held onto his bearer with his hands around the Comte’s neck. He too was covered in muck, but his face shone with a glow of happiness that made her dizzy.
Romain walked beside his brother, Tyrel Venestre atop his shoulders. The other Venestre boys clung to Laurent.
She was at once elated that her son was part of this happy family group, but bereft that she was not.
Despite her attempts to remain out of sight, Henry spotted her. He waved. “ Maman ,” he shouted in Gaelic, “we’ve been playing soule . We triumphed, thanks to Alex.”
She stepped into the courtyard, holding onto the stone wall, fearing her knees might buckle under the weight of Alexandre’s gaze as he lowered Henry to the ground.
“You mustn’t refer to the Comte by his given name,” she admonished.
“Prince Henry is a very good player,” Alexandre said, tousling her son’s hair. “I’ve given him leave to call me by name.”
Faol barked his agreement.
At that moment Alexandre’s laughing nieces hurried into the bailey, Claricia with them. She waved at her mother, but did not stop to bestow a kiss. The girls listened open mouthed to the excited babbling of the boys.
This was what Elayne wanted—security for her children, a place they belonged, among people of their rank—but it was hard to let them go.
Alexandre came to her, his blue eyes dancing. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They still love you like a mother.”
She wanted to weep. If only she could tell him. Without thinking, she reached to wipe a streak of mud from his cheek with her thumb. He caught hold of her hand.
It was highly inappropriate. Serfs could be hung for touching
Alex was determined to prove him wrong.
Two hours later, he lay under an apple tree, panting as he gazed up at the budding fruit, every bone in his body aching. But they had won! Henry strutted around holding the battered ball high above his head, Faol nipping at his heels.
Alex’s boots were muddied, probably ruined beyond repair. He was sure he had bruises on the bruises on his shins. His shirt was torn and filthy , his hair a tangled mess.
He’d never felt better in his life.
~~~
ELAYNE WAS FILLED with confused emotions after Marguerite’s arrival.
Henry and Claricia’s obvious happiness in their new friends brought her great joy. But she chafed that she hardly saw them. They were off as soon as they were dressed, not to return until after the evening meal. Once their bellies were full, they fell asleep after struggling into their nightclothes.
Because she had no responsibilities during the day, she was put to work in the kitchens of the castle. She suspected Marguerite de Venestre was behind this, but had to do as she was bidden. At least she was still at Montbryce where she could keep an eye on what happened to her children.
She hated the heat and confusion of the kitchens . She chopped carrots and parsnips, plucked feathers off fowl, scrubbed pots, turned spits, mixed batters, and grudgingly learned how to prepare foods of all kinds.
The children weren’t the only ones exhausted at the end of the day.
But she gleaned other things in the kitchens, where the talk among the peasants often turned to the struggle between Stephen and Maud for control of the English throne and the Duchy of Normandie.
Pondering rumors she’d overheard that ran the gamut from Maud having already embarked on an invasion of England, to the certainty she would soon pay a visit to Montbryce, she left the kitchen late one afternoon, wishing for a salve for her chapped hands.
As she neared the door to the bailey, she became aware of the boisterous shouts of excited children. Stepping out into the sunshine, her breath caught in her throat. She pressed back quickly into the shadow of the doorway.
She barely recognized the muddied man carrying a laughing Henry on his broad shoulders. Faol loped along behind them. Her son held onto his bearer with his hands around the Comte’s neck. He too was covered in muck, but his face shone with a glow of happiness that made her dizzy.
Romain walked beside his brother, Tyrel Venestre atop his shoulders. The other Venestre boys clung to Laurent.
She was at once elated that her son was part of this happy family group, but bereft that she was not.
Despite her attempts to remain out of sight, Henry spotted her. He waved. “ Maman ,” he shouted in Gaelic, “we’ve been playing soule . We triumphed, thanks to Alex.”
She stepped into the courtyard, holding onto the stone wall, fearing her knees might buckle under the weight of Alexandre’s gaze as he lowered Henry to the ground.
“You mustn’t refer to the Comte by his given name,” she admonished.
“Prince Henry is a very good player,” Alexandre said, tousling her son’s hair. “I’ve given him leave to call me by name.”
Faol barked his agreement.
At that moment Alexandre’s laughing nieces hurried into the bailey, Claricia with them. She waved at her mother, but did not stop to bestow a kiss. The girls listened open mouthed to the excited babbling of the boys.
This was what Elayne wanted—security for her children, a place they belonged, among people of their rank—but it was hard to let them go.
Alexandre came to her, his blue eyes dancing. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They still love you like a mother.”
She wanted to weep. If only she could tell him. Without thinking, she reached to wipe a streak of mud from his cheek with her thumb. He caught hold of her hand.
It was highly inappropriate. Serfs could be hung for touching
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