The Dumont Bride. Terri Brisbin
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lady, all in the castle and village know of what I speak.”
Eleanor could not let this go any further—she must take control before all was lost.
“I, too, have found no reason for Sir William to save Emalie,” she boldly claimed.
“Mother, as I told you in my message that summoned you here, William has confessed to carnal knowledge of the countess and is now willing to marry her to prevent her dishonor.”
“And I repeat, I have found no reason for that marriage to go forth.”
“Her servants know—”
“The lady’s servants have sworn on their immortal souls that she is an innocent.”
“They are lying then, for I—”
“You, John? Had you something to do with trying to dishonor the Countess of Harbridge? ’Tis bolder a move than I thought possible for even you. And brave, considering the love and esteem that your brother had for her father before his untimely passing.” Eleanor met her son’s gaze and read the truth there. Emalie had been his goal, William his puppet, and the girl’s disgrace the tool to bring her into his power.
She took a moment and looked over at Emalie. The girl’s shallow breaths and pasty complexion told her Emalie was nigh to fainting. And Eleanor’s stomach churned at the realization of John’s intentions.
“I have spoken to every person in this place whose name you presented to me and not one, not a single one, has said anything but the most glowing of words about their mistress. Not her personal servants nor the whores in the village. To a person they have denied your allegations, leaving me no choice but to refuse William permission to seek her hand in marriage.”
“Madam, I think you should consider this carefully,” John said softly, his voice more menacing than when he lost control and shouted his anger to the world.
“Richard is king once more and he will not permit this undisguised grab for control. Now, I think that you and yours should turn your ravenous gazes elsewhere, for we are done here.”
With an angry wave of her hand, Eleanor called to her guards. “Escort the lady to her chamber and let no one delay you.” Eleanor nodded to Emalie to follow the guards. The girl stood and made a wobbly curtsy before turning to leave. Then stiffening her back once more, Emalie left the chamber as the Countess of Harbridge and not the terrified girl of a few moments before.
John watched with obvious lust as Emalie walked past him and out of the solar. This was not over yet. And, as if to confirm her own worst fears, he voiced it for her.
“I am not pleased by your interference, madam, not pleased at all.”
“Pleased or not, I am here at your request. And I will stay until I am sure of Emalie’s safety.”
“Or until something requires your attention elsewhere.” John walked to her side and leaned close once more to kiss her cheek. He did not step away but whispered his warning in her ear instead. “Take your concerns back to Richard and leave England to me, old woman.”
Eleanor sat completely still until the viper had left the room and the guards had closed the door behind them. And then, for the first time in a very long time, Eleanor, Queen of England, allowed every one of her seventy-two years to press down momentarily on her shoulders. And that great weight took her breath away as she sought a way out of this dilemma.
Chapter Two
Anjou Province, France
June 1194
Christian Dumont gnashed his teeth, hoping to block out the noises of the scurrying rats on the dank floor of his cell. In his months of imprisonment, he had become quite proficient at ignoring the sounds of rodents, screaming men and even the emanations of his own empty stomach. But the ever-weakening coughs of his younger brother Geoffrey he could not ignore.
He rushed to Geoff’s side and helped him sit up as the coughs wracked the boy’s body, a body which grew thinner and more fragile with each passing day. Patting his brother on his back seemed to help the spasms pass more quickly though the bouts came closer and closer together. Christian watched as Geoff’s entire body shuddered and then slowly the boy began to breathe without struggle.
“’Tis over, Chris. I am fine now,” his brother whispered, pushing him away.
Christian walked to the small pail that held their remaining water and dipped a battered cup to the bottom. ’Twould not last them much longer. He held out the cup, recognizing his brother’s humiliation in the slump of his frail shoulders as he accepted the cup.
“Is there more?” Geoff asked, not meeting his eyes.
“Aye. We will have water to drink for at least another day or two.” Christian knew the boy did not have the strength to walk to see the pail himself, so he felt comfortable in his lie. Why should Geoff worry when it would do nothing more than weaken him further? Christian pulled the boy’s blanket higher around his shoulders and helped him lean back once more.
Their coins had run out almost a sennight before and he knew there would be no more assistance from any of the guards. They were helpful only as long as the gold appeared in their palms, and the Dumonts’ supply of that was gone. During their time in this godforsaken place, Christian had sold all of his possessions, save their father’s signet ring, to keep food and water in good supply for his brother.
Turning away from Geoff, he touched the ring now hanging on a piece of twine around his neck. ’Twas all they had left of their father…their heritage…their wealth. Christian laughed roughly at how far the old and mighty Dumont family had fallen. And all due to his father’s reckless and dangerous efforts to back the wrong man.
Richard, Coeur de Lion, thankfully looked the other way when he inherited the throne from his father, ignoring most of the nobles who had supported Henry’s battle against his sons and wife. A king could be magnanimous in victory. But the king felt differently now that he had been released from his own imprisonment and was faced with the machinations of his brother. Years of John Lackland’s tightening control over the Plantagenet holdings in England and the loss of many on the continent had changed the face of his kingdom and Richard was determined to clean house. And the House of Dumont was one of his first targets.
Christian ran his hands over his face and sighed, careful not to let his brother see the signs of despair on his own face. He was out of ideas. They were out of money. And soon, if nothing changed, they would be out of time.
The loud yell of the guard’s voice woke him the following morning. Leaning over his brother, he watched the slow rise and fall of Geoff’s chest as the boy still slept on the low bench. Christian stood and stretched, trying to loosen muscles long unexercised. At the call of his name, he turned and faced the soldier making his way down the low corridor of cells.
“Aye, you, Dumont. You are to come with us.” The guard was joined by two more soldiers, while another stood nearer to the dungeon’s door.
Christian smiled at the thought of them needing four to take his one. In better days, mayhap, but certainly not now. The toll of not enough food, not enough rest and not enough practice was a stiff one. He looked over at Geoffrey and wondered if they were both called.
“Nay, not the whelp,” the guard answered before he could ask. “Only the elder son of the traitor is called now.”
Christian grimaced at the insulting reminder of his new position. A traitor. His father had dishonored all who bore the Dumont name before and after him by his treasonous acts. As one of the men took his arm to pull him along, he shook off the hand that grabbed him. It was replaced by two more that pulled him even more strongly and swiftly out of the cell and along the corridor.
The group moved quietly through the damp lower floor of the castle, then up two flights of steps to the main floor. Prisoners called out words of encouragement and words of insult as he passed them. Christian fought to keep up with the pace. He did not want