Read Online Passion in the Blood by Anna Markland - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna Markland
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We don’t tolerate malingerers here. You’ll soon come to accept our way of life. You should be proud your family has given you to God.”
Dorianne clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. What kind of a God would condone a woman being buried alive for loving a man—a good man? She prayed for the strength to remain on her feet long enough to reach the solitude of her cell.
The Abbesse droned on, explaining the rules and routines of the Abbey. Dorianne heard nothing but the sound of another human voice. She didn’t recall later how she’d got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before she fell asleep.
***
When she awoke, she wasn’t alone. Indeed she was fairly sure she wasn’t in her cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious faces swam in and out of her wits. She couldn’t make sense of any of it. The effort of breathing was sufficient. A warm hand grasped hers and she forced her eyes to stay open. Was there a look of genuine concern on the face of the Abbesse ?
I must be dreaming.
She raised her hand to her head. Her coif and veil had been removed, but the habit remained. Someone bathed her forehead. She wanted to thank them, but remembered she wasn’t to speak. And pervading all was the sharp toothed creature biting the flesh of her buttocks and thighs.
“Sister Marye was unable to wake you for Lauds, Novice. What ails you? I give you leave to speak.”
Dorianne swallowed hard and licked her lips. She doubted she could speak if she tried—her mouth was full of sawdust. She was given ale to sip and guzzled it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped.
The Abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?”
Dorianne put her hand on her hip.
The Abbesse rolled Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the Sign of the Cross and issued terse instructions to the infirmarians. Dorianne was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a sleeping draught and soon drifted off into oblivion.
***
Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a complement of men-at-arms stood before the gates of the Giroux castle, requesting entry. It was refused. As darkness fell, they set up camp and pondered their next course of action.
Robert worried about Antoine meeting with his parents. They would be conflicted over his decision to wed Dorianne, and he wanted to be the one to tell them.
“Don’t worry,” Hugh reassured him. “They may sense something is in the wind, but Antoine has given his word.”
Robert paced in the canvas shelter. “What’s our next move, then? Dieu! Listen to me. I seem incapable of making a decision. I’ve never had that problem.”
Hugh chuckled. “Love does tend to addle the brain.” He passed a wineskin. “Here, this might help.”
Robert drizzled the wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hand and gave it back to his uncle. “ Merci , it’s fine wine.”
Melton beamed and held out his hand to his father. “We make it at Domfort. It’s better every year. And our apple brandy can rival yours at Montbryce any day.”
Robert scoffed. “I seriously doubt that, but it does seem the Montbryce family will control the apple brandy consumption throughout Normandie.”
Hugh snickered. “Experts in fine wines we are.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a guard who held the arm of a peasant woman standing fearfully at his side, eyes downcast.
Robert came to his feet. “Who is this?”
The woman was nervous. “Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor de Giroux.”
Robert strode over and took her by the arm, drawing her out of the shadows. “You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”
The woman blinked and looked around. “If milord Giroux discovered I was here—”
“He won’t find out. Who sent you?”
The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress. She sent me to tell you Dorianne is in Mont Saint Michel Abbey.”
Hugh and Robert exchanged glances.
Dorianne clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. What kind of a God would condone a woman being buried alive for loving a man—a good man? She prayed for the strength to remain on her feet long enough to reach the solitude of her cell.
The Abbesse droned on, explaining the rules and routines of the Abbey. Dorianne heard nothing but the sound of another human voice. She didn’t recall later how she’d got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before she fell asleep.
***
When she awoke, she wasn’t alone. Indeed she was fairly sure she wasn’t in her cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious faces swam in and out of her wits. She couldn’t make sense of any of it. The effort of breathing was sufficient. A warm hand grasped hers and she forced her eyes to stay open. Was there a look of genuine concern on the face of the Abbesse ?
I must be dreaming.
She raised her hand to her head. Her coif and veil had been removed, but the habit remained. Someone bathed her forehead. She wanted to thank them, but remembered she wasn’t to speak. And pervading all was the sharp toothed creature biting the flesh of her buttocks and thighs.
“Sister Marye was unable to wake you for Lauds, Novice. What ails you? I give you leave to speak.”
Dorianne swallowed hard and licked her lips. She doubted she could speak if she tried—her mouth was full of sawdust. She was given ale to sip and guzzled it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped.
The Abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?”
Dorianne put her hand on her hip.
The Abbesse rolled Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the Sign of the Cross and issued terse instructions to the infirmarians. Dorianne was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a sleeping draught and soon drifted off into oblivion.
***
Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a complement of men-at-arms stood before the gates of the Giroux castle, requesting entry. It was refused. As darkness fell, they set up camp and pondered their next course of action.
Robert worried about Antoine meeting with his parents. They would be conflicted over his decision to wed Dorianne, and he wanted to be the one to tell them.
“Don’t worry,” Hugh reassured him. “They may sense something is in the wind, but Antoine has given his word.”
Robert paced in the canvas shelter. “What’s our next move, then? Dieu! Listen to me. I seem incapable of making a decision. I’ve never had that problem.”
Hugh chuckled. “Love does tend to addle the brain.” He passed a wineskin. “Here, this might help.”
Robert drizzled the wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hand and gave it back to his uncle. “ Merci , it’s fine wine.”
Melton beamed and held out his hand to his father. “We make it at Domfort. It’s better every year. And our apple brandy can rival yours at Montbryce any day.”
Robert scoffed. “I seriously doubt that, but it does seem the Montbryce family will control the apple brandy consumption throughout Normandie.”
Hugh snickered. “Experts in fine wines we are.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a guard who held the arm of a peasant woman standing fearfully at his side, eyes downcast.
Robert came to his feet. “Who is this?”
The woman was nervous. “Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor de Giroux.”
Robert strode over and took her by the arm, drawing her out of the shadows. “You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”
The woman blinked and looked around. “If milord Giroux discovered I was here—”
“He won’t find out. Who sent you?”
The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress. She sent me to tell you Dorianne is in Mont Saint Michel Abbey.”
Hugh and Robert exchanged glances.
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