Castle of the Heart Read online

  Castle Of The Heart

  by

  Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013, 1990, by Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design Copyright 2014 By Laura Shinn designs

  Author’s Note:

  Afoncaer, Tynant, and the Welsh lands immediately surrounding them are all completely imaginary, as are all the characters in this story except the following: King Henry I of England, Queen Matilda and their children William and Richard, Countess Matilda of Perche, the Earl of Chester and his wife, and his brother, Sir Ottuel

  In the early twelfth century, calendars had not yet been standardized and there were various dates for the new year. In the interests of simplicity I have used modern dates throughout, and have begun each new year on January 1.

  The herbal remedies concocted and used by Meredith and Arianna reflect medieval knowledge and use of these plant as described in historical accounts and in herbal treatises of that period.

  “Moss grows on the castles of my heart as soon as they are built,

  but it takes some time for them to fall into ruin.”

  Gustave Flaubert

  PROLOGUE

  Reynaud:

  I have returned to Afoncaer. When I left so many years ago, I thought I would never see it again, but here I am, once more installed in my old place in the tower keep. My room has become a library, lined with shelves to hold my books and scrolls, and fitted with a large table for writing and a thick-cushioned chair for my damaged body. I am comfortable here. My chamber is warmed by two charcoal braziers in the winter, and lit by all the fine wax candles I need. And I have friendship…

  Of the accident which resulted in my crippling, and how I came to be here, I shall write more later, as I recount the vile intrigues which nearly led to the loss of this castle. I have questioned most of those involved, listening to several conflicting versions of the story, and I think I have come as close to the truth as any mortal man can. Lady Isabel was the instigator. I should have expected that, knowing her wicked character. And then the Welsh, working against us as always, did their best to destroy this Norman stronghold which stands so boldly within their border. I believe I have correctly unraveled the lies and half-truths of that time of peril. Selene, that beautiful, haunted creature, who was Isabel’s tool, also did her part to betray Afoncaer. She avoided me, but I watched her, and it was not hard to guess what she had done. I think Guy suspected her, too, but, like me, he kept silent for Thomas’s sake.

  It is a long and shocking story, but these volumes are a place for truth. I will tell all. And so I continue the work I began so long ago, the true and complete history of Afoncaer .

  Part I

  The Mothers

  A.D. 1115

  Chapter 1

  Brittany

  August, A.D. 1115

  “Isabel, what joy it is to see you again after all these years.” Lady Aloise stood in the great hall of her husband’s castle, keeping her smile carefully in place while she greeted her old friend, and silently praising heaven that Sir Valaire was safely in England at the court of King Henry I. Not that so generous a man would have grudged his wife the pleasure of a visit from Isabel, even though gossip still clung to Isabel’s name after almost ten years. No, it was not the memory of the old scandalous story of passion and aborted ambition that narrowed Aloise’s eyes as she regarded Isabel. It was rather Isabel’s looks. Aloise ruefully acknowledged the contrast between them. Her own dark hair was heavily streaked with silver, there were lines about her eyes, and her waist had expanded over the years into a thickness inevitable for the mother of six children. Isabel, on the other hand, was as blonde, rosy-complexioned, and willowy as ever. Knowing her husband’s wandering eye, Aloise was thankful Sir Valaire was absent. But how, she wondered, had Isabel done the nearly impossible and kept her beauty so long, and while in exile, too?

  Isabel glided gracefully through the main portal and across the stone-flagged floor, her blue summer cloak floating out behind her in soft, elegant folds. She held out both hands, smiling the dazzling smile that Aloise remembered so well.

  “Aloise, my dear, it has been so very long. How good it was of you to invite me, how kind to a grieving widow.” The sweet, musical voice was unchanged with time, the deep blue eyes as clear and innocent as they had been when Isabel was a girl of fourteen and a new bride, a stranger at the English court, with Aloise her only friend. Aloise sighed. A woman of thirty-nine should look, and sound, her age. Aloise, at forty-one, certainly did.

  The two women embraced.

  “I’m so glad you have come,” Aloise said, allowing only a slight note of insincerity to creep into her voice. The invitation had not been entirely her idea. Isabel had hinted in the letter announcing her widowhood, and when Aloise had not responded, Isabel had hinted again, more broadly, until Aloise, her curiosity piqued, had relented and asked Isabel to visit for one month. Life was boring when Sir Valaire was away. Any diversion was welcome, and while Isabel might sometimes be treacherous, she was never dull.

  “We have so much to talk about, so much gossip to catch up on.” Isabel’s eyes sparkled. “I am eager to meet your daughter again. Selene, isn’t that her name? I remember seeing her when she was only a few months old, and she was such a dear little thing. How long ago that seems. She must be fifteen now. You see, I have learned to count during my years in exile, so I know she’s quite grownup, and I expect she’s a beauty, like her mother. You look startled. Did you think I had forgotten her?”

  Isabel smiled again, and Aloise felt a little chill, the faintest breath of alarm. Isabel had never cared about babies or children. On the contrary, she had ignored Selene most pointedly when she had seen her as an infant. Nor had Isabel ever shown even the slightest concern for her own son, Thomas. Indeed, she had willingly allowed him to be used as a hostage by his stepfather. What could she possibly want with Selene?

  “Come to the solar,” Aloise said, drawing Isabel’s arm through hers. “It is sunny there, and much more quiet than this noisy great hall. We can talk. I’ll have refreshments brought to us. You must tell me about your journey.”

  She led the way to the narrow stone steps and up their curving height, heading for the second-floor solar, and as she went, Aloise thought about Isabel’s past, and her odd interest in Selene.

  Isabel, Aloise recalled, had borne only one child, Thomas, to her first husband, Baron Lionel of Afoncaer, and no children at all to Walter fitz Alan, her second spouse. And that, Aloise thought irrelevantly; would explain Isabel’s still-slim waistline. Constant childbearing quickly ruined a woman’s figure, as she herself had experienced. With an effort of will unusual for her, Aloise made herself dismiss her frivolous concern with Isabel’s appearance and think of more serious affairs.

  It was just as well that Isabel had borne no other children, considering Walter fitz Alan’s disgrace and subsequent exile. It had been a breathtaking piece of treachery, that attempt by Walter to secure the Welsh border castle of Afoncaer for himself by using young Thomas as hostage. Aloise had always suspected that Isabel had been involved in the plotting. But whoever had devised the plan, it had failed, and Baron Guy of Afoncaer, Isabel’s former brother-in-law, had, with King Henry’s permission, unknighted Walter and sent th
e two culprits away from Wales into permanent exile. They had lived in seclusion in Brittany ever since, existing on the charity of Walter’s elder brother, Sir Baldwin. Now Walter was dead, and Isabel had come to see her old friend. Aloise wondered uneasily just what the real purpose of her visit might be.

  It did not take Aloise long to discover why Isabel had come. Isabel was eager to tell her. She wanted a marriage arranged between her son, Thomas, and Aloise’s daughter Selene, and she expected Aloise to cajole Sir Valaire into proposing it to Guy of Afoncaer.

  “Do you think that if my daughter marries your son, you will be allowed to return to England?” Aloise asked. “I must speak truly, Isabel, and speaking truly, I tell you I do not believe it will ever happen. King Henry has a long memory. He has neither forgotten nor forgiven what you and Walter did on the Welsh border, and even if he should give you permission to go to England, you may be certain Baron Guy of Afoncaer would use all the weight of his friendship with the king to prevent your return. Lord Guy is a powerful man.”

  “Guy.” Isabel’s lip curled scornfully. “That cold-blooded, miserly man kept me a prisoner. Ah, Aloise, you will know how mistreated I have been. I will tell you the story, all of it.”

  Which she did, and Aloise sat fascinated for an hour, listening intently to a version of those long-ago events at Afoncaer very different from the tale she had heard at court. Aloise knew and respected Lord Guy, and also knew Isabel well enough to be able to sift fact from invention and embroidery. By the time Isabel finished speaking, Aloise had a very good idea as to how much Isabel herself had been involved with the treachery at Afoncaer, and she wished she had never invited Isabel to visit.

  “Now you must admit,” Isabel said at last, “that this idea of mine, that Thomas and Selene should wed, is a very good one. That Saxon peasant wench Guy married has given him only a daughter, so Thomas is still heir to Afoncaer, and to all of Guy’s properties in England as well. It would be a fine match for Selene.”

  “It would appear to be,” Aloise said cautiously, reminding herself that Thomas of Afoncaer was not tainted with any of the scandal that surrounded his parents and his stepfather. The boy had spent his youth as a page in the household of that same Henry who was now king of England. Later, Thomas was sent to Afoncaer, where he remained. He must be close to an age for knighting by now. “How old is Thomas?”

  “He will be twenty-three in June.”

  “And still not wed or betrothed?” Aloise’s tone hinted at some defect in the proposed bridegroom.

  “It is Thomas’s own doing,” Isabel said quickly. “I have been told he has spent the last two years at Llangwilym Abbey, near Afoncaer. It seems he seriously considered entering the Church, but later realized his duty lay with Guy, as Guy’s heir. So the sole result of his devotion is that he learned to read and write while at Llangwilym. He’ll have small use for such skills when he’s the baron! I have learned he will be knighted by the king himself this Christmastide. It would be a marvelous opportunity for a betrothal, to be announced immediately after the knighting.”

  “Hmm.” Aloise was thinking hard. She decided to be blunt. “I know you well, Isabel, even after so many years’ separation. You would never propose such an arrangement unless there was some prize for yourself in it. If you cannot hope to return to England, then what is your reward?”

  “Why, simply the joy of knowing my beloved son is well-matched to a suitable girl.”

  “Isabel.” Aloise’s tone clearly conveyed how little she believed that statement.

  “Oh, very well. You are my only friend, Aloise. I may as well tell you the truth.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “It’s Baldwin, Walter’s brother. He barely tolerated me while Walter was alive. He would not speak to me at all if he could possibly avoid it. Only Baldwin’s sense of family responsibility made him allow us to live in that dreary little lodge tucked away in a desolate corner of his land – no society, no music, never a new gown, no one to talk to save Walter, and he was not the best of companions, no, all he could do was lament his ill fortune and the passion he once held for me that led him to betray his honor, as though it were all my fault.” Isabel paused for breath.

  “Tell me about Baldwin,” Aloise urged, feeling that there lay the answer to her question.

  “Baldwin says he is tired of the burden of my presence, and he wants me to retire to a convent. He says any widow of discretion and good will would have suggested this recourse herself as soon as her husband died. Since I now have no land or income of my own on which to live, I cannot long refuse to do his bidding.”

  “You do not want to go.” Aloise could imagine nothing more unlikely than Isabel retired to a convent.

  “What I want,” Isabel said, “is to be granted a small establishment here in Brittany, and the income with which to maintain it. Once independent of that dreadful Baldwin I would live quietly and cause trouble to no one. It could be arranged as part of the marriage contract. Such grants to widowed parents are not unusual, and Sir Valaire would of course hold the property in his name. Oh, Aloise, please say you will speak to him. I’m sure he would agree if you begged him prettily. I remember how it was in the old days, how besotted with you he was. Surely you still have some influence over him.”

  Aloise momentarily forgot her mistrust of Isabel in the surge of youthful memories her presence had evoked and the pleasure of having an old confidante to talk to.

  “Ah, Isabel, before we were wed,” she cried, “Valaire loved my wildness and was the most exciting lover I ever had. But he chose to believe he was my only lover, and that I lay with him out of deep affection. I let him think it was so, for I did care for him. I still do. But once we were wed he expected, no, he demanded, complete fidelity. The times have changed since we were all at the court of King William Rufus. Then we could do whatever we pleased and no one would care, for the king himself was worse than any of us. Now we have a respectable king who is at least discreet about his affairs, and wives are expected to be faithful and chaste like the queen. It would not be so bad if Valaire were home more, and paid attention to me as he once did. But he is seldom here, and I know he has other women, and I am bored. How I long for some delightful intrigue to dispel the tedious propriety now expected of me.” Suddenly Aloise was aware of the gleam in Isabel’s eyes, the look she remembered all too well, and she shut her mouth firmly. But she had already said too much. She was caught, trapped by her own words. She knew it when Isabel smiled and took her hand. She ought to have been more cautious in her speaking.

  “Dearest Aloise,” Isabel said, both hands folding over her friend’s fingers in a comforting gesture that had the opposite effect on Aloise. “Don’t you see how perfectly your discontent fits my need? Aid me in this plan of mine, and you will be invited to join Sir Valaire in England for your daughter’s wedding. Indeed, you must accompany her on the journey to see to her safety and comfort. Think of it, months at the royal court. New gowns. Entertainments. Great feasts. Handsome young men to flirt with. How I wish I might go, too. But that cannot be,” Isabel pronounced, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You, my dearest friend, must be my emissary, and you will dictate letters to me, telling me all that passes and how my darling son Thomas is, how he has grown, if he resembles his father. Aloise.” The slender fingers on Aloise’s hand tightened. “Aloise, help me, for the sake of our friendship, and for the good it will do Sir Valaire to be joined with the Baron of Afoncaer in such a union. And for Selene’s good, too, of course.”

  The problem was, Isabel was right, Aloise realized later, while mulling over Isabel’s suggestion in the privacy of her own chamber. A marriage between Selene and Thomas of Afoncaer made excellent sense. Sir Valaire would probably approve of the idea with very little coaxing from his wife, and if Aloise herself did not suggest it to him, she had little doubt that the resourceful Isabel would find a way to do so the next time he came home to Brittany. Aloise did not like one bit the thought of a still-beautiful I
sabel teasing Sir Valaire into pleased acquiescence.

  As for Baron Guy of Afoncaer, he was on good terms with Sir Valaire, and could have no objection to the offer of Sir Valaire’s daughter as wife for Thomas. Selene’s dowry was a large chest of gold coins, given to Sir Valaire for that express purpose by his father so the family lands could be passed on undivided to Sir Valaire’s eldest son. Baron Guy had lands enough, he did not need more, but those golden coins would be most welcome to buy workmen and material to strengthen the defenses of Afoncaer. Furthermore, Selene would bring to her marriage bed an intangible value, her bloodline, for through her father, Selene was descended from the great Charlemagne himself. Any nobleman would be honored to know his future heirs would mingle that blood with his own. Yes, Baron Guy would almost certainly agree to Valaire’s proposal, and Selene would have rank, wealth, and as much honor as any woman of that day might hope for. Better still, Aloise herself would be rid of the strange, difficult daughter she could neither understand nor love, whose presence always made Aloise feel vaguely guilty. Selene’s marriage to Thomas of Afoncaer looked on the surface to be an ideal arrangement for all concerned. Why then did Aloise feel there was still more to this proposal than she had been told? Why did Isabel look to her skeptical eyes like a sleek cat poised to pounce upon a large bowl of rich, luscious cream?

  “So you are Selene.” Isabel’s penetrating gaze took in the short, slender figure hovering uncertainly with fingers still on the door latch. Selene meekly bowed her head, and thick wings of straight black hair fell forward, obscuring her pale face, but not before Isabel noted the delicate features and clear skin. The girl was lovely.