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    The Captive Heiress
    The Captive Heiress
    The Captive Heiress
    Ebook234 pages3 hours

    The Captive Heiress

    By Blair Bancroft

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    Alecyn de Beauclaire, an orphaned heiress, is taken captive at age nine by the Earl of Rocheford who wants to enjoy the income from her estates. Her first friend in the strange new world of Castle Rocheford is Ranulf Mort à Mer, a descendant of Vikings and a penniless squire with no hope of ever being able to afford a horse and armor so he can become a knight. As the years go by, their friendship is unwavering, even when tested by the preaching of monks who declare that all women are evil and should be shunned.

    When Alecyn is almost fourteen (a marriageable age in Medieval times), King Henry II makes Alecyn his ward. She is thrilled because she knows the king will want to keep her money for himself and, therefore, will not marry her off for several more years. Perhaps there is still time for Ranulf to become a knight and distinguish himself in battle.

    In her position as companion to the royal children and songstress to the royal court, Alecyn learns not only the epic romance of chivalry, but the dark side of romance as she witnesses the love/hate relationship between the king and queen. Ranulf, meanwhile, learns to fight side by side with a new friend, William Marshall. But even Ranulf's eventual elevation to knighthood is not enough to qualify for the hand of an heiress to four fine estates.

    Until, one day, Queen Eleanor goes for a hunt on her lands in the Aquitaine, and Ranulf and his friend, William Marshall, are among her escorts. Perhaps, just perhaps, if the three young people survive captivity by Eleanor's rebellious knights, they may have a future after all. But which young knight will King Henry choose for Alecyn?

    Author's Note: THE CAPTIVE HEIRESS was written as a painless way for people from nine to ninety to learn about Medieval times, particularly the tumultuous twelfth century. In addition to a look at the dramatic lives of King Henry and Eleanor, readers will catch a glimpse of the early days of their many children, including Richard and John, who became famous through the Robin Hood legend. Another very important character is William Marshall, often called the greatest knight who ever lived. Please see the "Whatever Happened to . . ." section at the back of the book for the rest of the story of the many real characters in THE CAPTIVE HEIRESS.

    Warning: marriages were often contracted at birth, and girls commonly married at age fourteen, so modern sensibilities need to be set aside. This is the way it was.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateJul 30, 2011
    ISBN9780983807513
    The Captive Heiress
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      The Captive Heiress - Blair Bancroft

      The Captive Heiress

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2011 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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’re 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 This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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’re 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.

      Chapter One

      June 1160 - Somerset, England

      The sun rose over the garden wall, transforming the dew drops on the pale pink rose into glistening pools of rainbow fire. Sunlight shimmered off the child’s tears as well. She was nine years old. And desolate.

      Alecyn de Beauclaire sat on a turf bench in a corner of Castle Rocheford’s walled garden, her blue linen gown tucked up around her. Her dark hair, inherited from a Norman ancestor who was one of William the Conqueror’s knights, was confined in a single braid which fell to her waist. The low-lying mist, as yet untouched by the early morning sun, provided a curtain for the bare knee that peeked out beneath the linen’s rumpled folds.

      When Alecyn had wakened to the predawn light, before the chapel bell tolled Prime, terrible memories of the last six weeks flooded over her. The news of her parents’ death on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. The determined ride of her father’s garrison knights who were attempting to take her to the safety of the Amesbury Abbey. The glint of armor, the thunder of hooves, the screams of her women, the ominous thud of lances against chain mail, the clank of swords. Her own scream to her knights to lay down their arms. The battle, against overwhelming odds, was hopeless. Why should good men die for no reason?

      So here she was, captive—and now ward—of Simon de Lacy, Earl of Rocheford. She, Alecyn de Beauclaire—child heir to the castles of Wexford, Chichester, Daneham and Avonlea with all their lands and villeins—was totally cut off from the safe, ordered world she had known for nine years. The twelve-foot curtain wall surrounding Castle Rocheford was as effective at keeping young girls in as it was in shutting the enemy out.

      The women of the household, headed by the Countess Sybilla, had not been unkind. Merely indifferent to her grief. They swept her into the bevy of other young girls of noble birth sent to Castle Rocheford for training and ignored her. For six weeks now Alecyn had refused to speak to any of them. A childish conceit. And against all the training she had received at her mother’s knee. She heard whispers that Beatrix de Warenne had come to Rocheford as a hostage for her father’s loyalty to the Earl. And Enide FitzAlan had been intended for a priory until stolen, like herself, by Simon de Lacy. Perhaps, Alecyn conceded, she had been too hasty in rejecting their tentative offers of friendship. Too stubborn. Certainly, her parents had often said so.

      Her parents. Alecyn caught a welling tear on the tip of her finger. For a moment she stared at the shimmering drop before letting it fall onto the pink petal of the rose in front of her. The peaceful beauty of the garden was all she had left. Here, she could hide in the early morning mist, safe from stern admonitions, querulous instruction, or speculative glances. Here, before the sunlight chased away the fog, she could make believe she was home again, her mother hovering just behind that swirl of mist by the fountain. Her father riding into the bailey with a clanking swarm of proud knights behind him.

      A cloud skidded across the sun, darkening the lingering fog, extinguishing the tiny rainbows shimmering in the dew drops. Alecyn snapped back from the realm of dreams. Richard and Blanche de Beauclaire were gone. Lost on pilgrimage to Spain to beg Saint James for a son. A son to inherit the honors of the Beauclaires, to reduce Alecyn to just another young girl of noble birth for whom a suitable marriage would be arranged. No longer an heiress of such substantial proportions that her betrothal could start a minor war.

      But raging fever had caught her parents on the far side of the Pyrenees, and the Lady Alecyn de Beauclaire had become an all-too-tempting rich prize. So now she belonged to the Earl of Rocheford, who would enjoy all the income of her estates until he finally allowed her to marry.

      If he allowed her to marry.

      Thank the Blessed Mother Judith was still with her! Judith of Daneham, Alecyn’s faithful nurse and companion had been allowed to remain at her side. As tart-tongued as she was protective of her charge, Judith did not hesitate to criticize Lord Simon. Her young lady, she declared, should be a ward of the king. If King Henry were not so busy taking back the lands that had once belonged to his grandfather to bother about heiresses at the moment. Particularly an heiress seized by one of his staunchest supporters, which the Earl of Rocheford surely was.

      Wait, child, be patient, Judith told Alecyn one day when they had both escaped to the garden. The king’s no fool. Only nineteen he was when he married Eleanor of Aquitaine and gained the largest province in Europe along with her. He knew what he was about, that young fire-eater. King at twenty-one was Henry and, now six years later, he’s won back all the lands King Stephen lost. No need to fear, lambkin. He’ll turn his attention to heiresses soon enough.

      But, Judith—Alecyn frowned—I have never understood how could he marry Queen Eleanor. She was wife to King Louis of France.

      The plump middle-aged nurse lowered her eyes, clicked her tongue. Great men have strange ways, my little one. ’Tis said Louis divorced her because she bore him no sons. When Alecyn’s brown eyes, huge in her piquant face, continued to stare at her, Judith readjusted her bulk on the turf bench while she searched for the right words. Some say, the nurse admitted cautiously, that Eleanor took one look at Henry of Anjou and had little objection to being divorced.

      At the time Alecyn had simply nodded. But one of the few pleasures of being a child meant that no one paid any attention to her unless they were criticizing her embroidery or telling her she would never make a proper chatelaine if she couldn’t remember which herbs were for the pot and which for the pestle. The ladies’ solar in her father’s castle had buzzed as furiously with talk of the king and his wife as did the ladies’ solar at Rocheford. Queen Eleanor had given her young husband four boys in the space of five years, with a girl thrown in for good measure. A great joke on Louis of France, the women thought. Alecyn, too, had smiled. Most of the people she knew might have French names, they might speak French, but it was nearly a hundred years since William, Duke of Normandy, had conquered England. And now they were all English. And proud of it.

      Alecyn raised her eyes from the beauty of the roses. The sun was back, the low-lying mist beginning to lift. There were not as many roses here as in her mother’s garden at Wexford, but they were all familiar friends. Castle Rocheford’s walled garden boasted an ancient red Gallica Rose, a white Alba, and a deep pink Apothecary rose. The exquisite pale pink blossoms directly in front of her were the Damask rose, newly come to England from far away in the Holy Land. And against the wall was a hedge of wild roses with so many tiny thorns no one ever tried to pick them. But, later in the season, their rose hips could be safely broken off and fashioned into a variety of useful items from medicine to sweets.

      Alecyn leaned forward, pressing her nose against the damp petals of the Damask rose. The fragrance was wonderful. Was it wicked to think the scent was more a balm for her soul than Father Humbert’s prayers? At this very moment she should be at Prime, her colorful Book of Hours—a gift from her Aunt Clotilde, Abbess of Amesbury—clutched in her hands. Yet she lingered in the garden, drawing strength from the gentle scent of roses mixed with the slightly moldy odor of damp earth and . . .

      A squeal of rusty hinges. Alecyn jerked upright, eyes wide. No, no intruders! This was her garden. Her refuge. Hastily, she scrubbed her tear-streaked face with the hem of her gown. Scowling, she stared at the slowly opening door.

      A face peered around the edge of the heavy oak. She had expected the gardener or one of the cook’s helpers come to gather herbs. Not a knave whose furtive actions seemed to indicate he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. Or was he wishing he were somewhere else altogether? Since she was in a sheltered corner, hidden by the open door, Alecyn waited and watched, tears forgotten.

      The young man stepped into the garden, carefully shutting the door behind him.

      The mist parted, and she could see him clearly. Not a knave, Alecyn realized. This was a squire, well-dressed, standing tall and arrogant, his blond head shining against the dark oak door as he examined the garden. She had the impression he wasn’t at all pleased to be here, but he had a natural assurance which kept his head high even when out of his element.

      Inevitably, in his close examination of the garden, he saw her. Instead of ignoring her as Alecyn half expected, he strode down the path toward her with as much proud swagger as the earl himself. Sketching a slight bow which he obviously thought adequate for a child, the young squire greeted her. "Bonjour, demoiselle."

      Alecyn could swear he was just barely hiding a smirk. And he not more than five years older than herself! His shoulders might be almost as broad as those of the knights, muscles might ripple in his upper arms, but, as yet, he had only the promise of manhood. His hands and feet were as oversize as his shoulders, leaving the rest of him strangely out of proportion.

      Which did not keep him from being a striking youth. Indeed, Alecyn had no trouble recognizing him. She did not know his name, but she had seen him striding boldly through the great hall, serving his knight at dinner. She had also noticed him while she peeked at the squires practicing with wooden swords in a corner of the bailey. Though not as handsome as some of his swaggering companions, his was a face which stood out. Everything about him was bigger, bolder, and more dynamic than the other young men. Not, of course, that she would let him see that she was impressed. She was Alecyn de Beauclaire, heiress. He, merely a squire to one of the castle’s less well-born knights.

      Alecyn lifted her chin, looked the young man in the eye. His very blue Saxon eyes.

      Demoiselle, a boon if you please, he said. I am charged by my knight, Sir Baldric FitzJulien, to find a rose for his lady. I fear I am ignorant of the language of flowers. Perhaps you would be so kind? He waved a hand toward the varied colors of the roses around them.

      He was laughing at her, Alecyn was certain of it. Then, again, a squire was more at home on the tilt field than in a ladies’ bower. Red is for love, Alecyn replied in as superior a tone as she could manage. Pink is for grace, white for innocence.

      The squire shot her an odd look, as if he truly had not expected her to be able to help him. He tossed her a curt nod of thanks. Perhaps the red then. Unsheathing the dagger he carried on his belt, he reached for the Gallica rose.

      No!

      His hand froze. Demoiselle? A squire was accustomed to being yelled at, but not by a little girl. A captive one, at that.

      You must take some stem, not just the blossom, Alecyn informed him loftily. At least this much. She held up her hands to illustrate the correct length. And then you must remove the thorns.

      The blond young squire did exactly as she suggested, although he certainly didn’t look happy about it. While whittling the thorns from the stem of the blood red rose, he suddenly said, I am Ranulf Mort à Mer of Lincoln. I am pleased to see you are well, demoiselle, and that I meet you under better circumstances than the last.

      Alecyn gasped and ducked her head, desperately wishing for the gift of magic to whisk her away from this place, now horribly tainted by the squire’s presence.. Without so much as taking his eyes from the rose’s stem, the hulking beast had just admitted he had been present at her capture. Once again, she was very young, lonely and bereft, all vestiges of the demoiselle who understood the language of roses vanished into the misty morning air.

      Don’t be afraid. Ranulf stood, uncertain, looking down on the girl’s bent head, on her telltale quivering chin. At the defiant squaring of her thin shoulders. He was a great clumsy ox. Fit only for the lyst field. For polishing chain mail and guarding Sir Baldric’s back. His mother had died with the birthing of him. He knew nothing of women, even less of children. What could he say to a captive child who was parentless and friendless? Yet he was two years past the age of manhood. He must untwist his tongue and say something.

      Demoiselle . . . it is a harsh world, but we must all learn to live in it. We must bear what life has given us.

      No answer. Not so much as a ladylike sniff. Ranulf laid the now perfect red rose on the grass bench beside her. Swiftly, he cut and trimmed an Alba. Then, with the awkwardness of a fourteen-year-old whose entire world consisted of knights, armor, horses, and his rough and ready young companions, he bent down and thrust the white rose in front of her face. Here, he declared. My thanks for your help.

      Without looking up, Alecyn accepted the rose. She did not smell it. She did not express her thanks. Ranulf Mort à Mer was the enemy.

      But he’d given her a rose. As if she were a lady grown!

      My ancestors were named Death from the Sea, he told her, because they were invaders, just like yours. Only centuries earlier. The strong always tread upon the weak, demoiselle. It is the way of the world. And women are among the weak.

      We are not!

      That is the child talking, Lady Alecyn. Ranulf shook his head. When the girl remained silent, he bent to pick up the red rose. Rumors of Queen Eleanor’s attempts to bring the civilizing niceties of romance and courtly love to the manor halls of England had reached the derisive ears of the men at Castle Rocheford. In fact, Sir Baldric, his own knight, had succumbed to the concept of love songs, poetry and the gentling influence of a female in his life. Hence, Ranulf’s reluctant trip to the rose garden. But, as for himself, he thought it all nonsense. Yet he was not unkind. He could not just take his rose and go.

      I am a fifth son, demoiselle. Landless, penniless. I must learn to survive by my wits as well as my strong right arm. And if you would improve your lot, you must learn women’s wiles. You must understand where power lies and use it. For you, it should be the king, I think. Henry is fond of heiresses. He awards them to his most faithful knights. A great honor, our men say, which the king can give without providing a dowry from his own pocket.

      Alecyn, her own grievance too strong, did not catch the humor. And when will I ever see the king? she scoffed. He is forever fighting, to be found outside castle walls across the channel far more than here in England.

      Perhaps Queen Eleanor? Ranulf suggested. ’Tis said she’s a strong woman. At the moment she is Regent. While the king attempts to take Toulouse, she is making a progress throughout England. Perhaps—

      I have heard the Countess speak of it, Alecyn cried, her warm brown eyes suddenly sparkling with hope. One day Lady Sybilla is insulted because the Queen has not yet named Rocheford in her plans. The next day, she thanks God Rocheford has been spared the expense of a royal visit. Alecyn paused for breath, fixed her anxious gaze on the young squire. Do you think . . .? Would she . . .? Is it possible . . .?"

      Ranulf took pity on her. You are young yet, demoiselle. If the Queen comes not this time, there will be other occasions . . . when you are older and better able to approach her.

      Alecyn, lost in a confusion of anguish, despair, hope, and unexpected kindness, bent her head to the white rose clutched tightly in her hands. Queen Eleanor. A most excellent idea. Though God alone knew when she would ever see, let alone speak to, the most powerful woman from England to the Holy Land. She must thank the blond Saxon squire. Enemy or no, he had given her her first ray of hope.

      But when Alecyn raised her head, Ranulf Mort à Mer was gone, the heavy oak door groaning shut behind him.

      ~ * ~

      Chapter Two

      Eleanor, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, Duchess of Normandy, Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Anjou, came to Castle Rocheford in early September of that year. Well-schooled in the art of politics, she rode, proud and erect, at the head of her escort, approaching the primary fief of one of her husband’s most important vassals with a blare

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