Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Read Free Page A

her belly meant tolerating the Comte’s unsettling gaze, she would do it.
    “ You’ll stay a while longer, Micheline, until I return from the Hall? I must admit I am hungry.”
    Micheline squeezed her arm. “ Oui , go. All is well here. They are safe with me. I have eight brothers and sisters, all younger than me.”
    I n the Hall Elayne tagged onto the end of a line of servants queuing at a series of large wooden trestle tables. She spooned a piece of roasted chicken and a few carrots onto a black bread trencher and helped herself to a tumbler of watered ale.
    She ’d never eaten with servants and peasants. Was there a protocol, or hierarchy of seating among the castle folk at Montbryce? There was in Scotland.
    W ith no one to guide her, she took the first seat at an empty bench far from the dais, relieved the bread trencher hadn’t slipped from her trembling hand, and most of the ale was still in the tumbler.
    She looked up nervously, dismayed to see the Comte’s eyes fixed on her . It was unnerving. Uncomfortable under his insistent gaze, she regretted coming to the Hall. Why was he staring? Did he suspect her subterfuge?
    She let her eyes wander into the rafters where banners wafted in the warm air. She’d been too nervous to notice anything during the first interview with the Comte .
    It was a large Hall, richly decorated with fine tapestries, and trophies of war and the hunt. Clean rushes softened the stone floor. Delicious aromas filled the air, a pleasant change from the stench of rancid food and rat droppings that tended to permeate King Dabíd’s Great Hall when the castle’s dogs and cats failed to scavenge all the scraps.
    If ever she had a castle of her own—
    But that was wishful thinking. Her husband’s untimely and senseless death had placed her in a precarious position as the widow of the king’s bastard son. Only the existence of her children had prevented her being cast out. If they made it back to Scotland alive, the King would likely betroth her to some old man. Younger clansmen seeking a wife didn’t want a widow with children.
    Her father-by-marriage had told her the Montbryces were a wealthy family with a long and glorious history of military prowess who controlled vast lands in Normandie and England. They had always enjoyed the favor of the reigning monarch, an enviable feat in the morass of Anglo-Norman politics. He ’d hinted at some terrible misfortune that had at one time befallen the previous Comte , Alexandre’s father, but didn’t elaborate.
    Elayne a te her chicken quickly, nervous at leaving her children alone with a stranger in a foreign land. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
    The other servants of the household eyed her as if she had two heads. Evidently no one at Montbryce wore a playd .
    It seemed strange to be seated with servants, though none had come to sit beside her. She was careful to eat like a peasant, though using her hands instead of utensils seemed uncouth. She licked her greasy fingers, having no napkin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Comte’s brother drain his tumbler of wine. She licked her lips, thirsting for a taste, but she’d have to make do with the watered ale.
    ~~~
    “OUR COUSIN, THE EARL OF ELLESMERE, WON’T BE PLEASED,” Romain observed, his mouth full of roasted chicken.
    Alex pushed away his trencher, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his attention on the red-haired nursemaid seated alone at a servants’ table. “Gallien is already aware of our hostages, and you’re right—he isn’t happy about it.”
    Romain eyed the chicken Alex had left untouched. “To be expected, I suppose. He’s been a supporter of King Stephen from the outset.”
    Alex shoved his food to his brother, then lounged back in the lord’s chair, wondering where the Scottish children were. “Stephen is King of the English only thanks to an accident of geography. When Henry died, he happened to be the closest to England and was able to cross the