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A High Honor
Shelfhoc Hall,, Salop, England 1110 A.D.
* * *
Worry gnawed at Sir Caedmon FitzRam as Shelfhoc came into view on the distant horizon. Coming home always renewed his spirits but, on this occasion, he wasn’t looking forward to telling his wife the trek south to Westminster had been in vain. The return journey to the Welsh Marches was long and exhausting, but at least he didn’t have to brave the rugged terrain of Northumbria where the family’s summer residence was located.
He thought wistfully of how he and Agneta boasted far and wide when their fifteen-year-old daughter was summoned to King Henry’s court as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Matilda. Now, a year later, the monarch had agreed to betroth his daughter to Heinrich, King of Germany, and Blythe had been commanded to accompany the child bride to Europe.
He’d cooled his heels at court for days, waiting impatiently for an audience with King Henry. Finally, the mention of his kinship with the powerful Montbryce family had gained him admittance into the royal presence. He’d tried every argument he could think of to extricate his reluctant daughter from the obligation, but the spoiled Matilda was having none of it.
“I’m afraid, FitzRam, my little girl has dug in her heels,” Henry drawled. “She insists Lady Blythe attend her. You should be delighted. When Heinrich becomes Holy Roman Emperor, my daughter will be his empress. It’s a high honor to be lady-in-waiting to an empress.”
Blythe didn’t blame him, but her unsuccessful efforts not to cry at their farewell in Westminster constricted his throat. He might never see her again as a result of this dreaded obligation. He had failed his firstborn.
He dismounted in Shelfhoc’s courtyard and enfolded his wife in his woolen cloak. He had only bitter news, but could at least shield her against the biting wind from the Welsh mountains sweeping across the snow-dusted moorland.
Agneta sagged against him as soon as she saw the set of his jaw. “I suspect your news is not what I hoped to hear.”
“No,” he conceded.
“I cannot understand it,” she wailed. “Matilda has selfishly forbidden her ladies-in-waiting to wed. Blythe is sixteen. What are her chances of marrying if the child tires of her in a faraway land? The princess is no doubt taking many ladies, surely she wouldn’t miss our Blythe?”
Once inside the shelter of the front hallway, Caedmon put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “There is no other recourse. I’m sorry. I did what I could. Matilda has to marry Heinrich and she intends to take Blythe with her. The eight-year-old princess is no doubt fearful of traveling to Germany. She can’t be censured for wanting familiar faces around her in a foreign court.”
“But Blythe doesn’t even like the child,” Agneta lamented.
“You and I know that, but I doubt Matilda or her father are aware of it. Henry is bent on building alliances, as evidenced by the betrothal of his ten-year-old son to the daughter of Comte Fulk of Anjou. Think of that. A Norman prince, grandson of the Conqueror, betrothed to an Angevin. William of Normandie must be twisting in his tomb.”
Agneta wiped her eyes and blew her nose as Caedmon escorted her into their solar. “You of all people should remember old enmities can be put aside,” she said. “Your hatred of Normans almost got you killed.”
Caedmon chuckled as he handed his cloak over to his trusted steward, Alain Bonhomme. “Ironic, isn’t it? When I discovered I was the illegitimate son of a Norman earl, I despised myself and Ram de Montbryce. Now, here we are, years later, bearing a Norman patronymic and proud of my Montbryce heritage.”
Agneta beckoned a maidservant hovering in the doorway with tankards and a jug of brown ale. She filled a tankard and gave it to her husband. “Your father was indeed a man to be proud of, Caedmon. I loved him. We wouldn’t have our imposing manor house in Northumbria were it not for his influence. I was nothing to him, yet he saw to it my family home was rebuilt after marauding Scots destroyed it.”
Unwilling to revisit and beg forgiveness yet again for a deadly raid in which he’d played an unwitting part, Caedmon slumped into an upholstered chair near the hearth and eased off his boots. “My father loved you, Agneta.”
She stood behind him, leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, watching him drain his ale. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”
Smiling, he swiped his sleeve across his mouth and belched. Stretching his legs out to the fire, he leaned his head back against her bosom and pressed his hands atop hers. “It’s good to be home. It was a lonely trek, whereas you have our other children to keep you company.”
Agneta refilled the tankard. “They don’t warm my bed, husband.”
“Tonight, we’ll make up for my absence,” he promised, interest already stirring at the base of his spine. “I missed you. By the way, where are our children?”
“Aidan is particularly upset about his sister’s fate, convinced he’ll never see his twin again. He’s assisting with repairs to a cottage in the village but should be home soon. Edwin is with him.”
“And where is Ragna?”
Agneta scoffed. “She’s the only person in the household green with envy. She desperately wants to go in her sister’s stead.”
“She’s only ten! What makes her think—oh, wait, this is Ragna we’re speaking of.”
Agneta laughed. “Exactly.”
Without warning, Ragna burst into the chamber, flowing flaxen hair cloaking her shoulders. “Papa! You’re home. No one told me. I would have greeted you.”
She threw herself into his arms when Caedmon came to his feet.
