“I do not understand, Rowland,” she said slowly, mystified. “The man I saw at the palace was you. He had your face…your build. And he was your height. How many men do you know as tall as you? His hair was the same color.” She stopped, her eyes widening. “Perhaps he was not as broad of chest? No, I think not.”
Rowland was as mystified as she was. “Who was this man who looked so like me in every other way?”
“He seemed a noble lord. And the woman with him was richly garbed in velvet and jewels. The Count spoke with him in a friendly way. Rowland, I cannot explain it. There was not just a resemblance. What I saw is what you would see if you looked in a mirror. He could have been your twin.”
Rowland grunted. “Twins indeed. If two sons had been born to Luthor, you can stake your life that he would have brought them both home. I would like to see this man for myself,” Rowland said suddenly. “Dress yourself in your finery, Brigitte. We are going to the Count’s court.”
Chapter Thirty-five
“Evarard de Martel. You should be ashamed!”
Rowland looked dumbfounded at the plump woman who glared at him before she gave Brigitte a withering look and moved abruptly away. They had just entered the palace where the Count was receiving in his private chamber. Scores of men and women were waiting in the great hall, hoping to see him. It was midafternoon, and many would have to come back another day.
“Was that woman speaking to me?” Rowland whispered to Brigitte. An arm crooked in his, she stood very close to him.
“She certainly was, and didn’t like me.
“She called me Evarard de Martel.”
Brigitte nodded. “She has obviously made the mistake I did, the other way around. Evarard must be the man’s name.”
“How do we find him?” Rowland said, uneasy at that point.
He had never liked court life. During the years he had spent in service to the King of France, he had stayed well away from the King’s court.
“Do you see him?” Rowland asked.
Brigitte had already scanned the hall twice. “He is not here.”
“Ah, Lord Evarard, you are back again. Playing the field this time, eh?” The portly man Brigitte had spoken to that morning approached them. “Have you grown tired of your new bride so soon?” he added with a sly wink before he turned to Brigitte. “Milady, did you have your audience with the Count?”
“No, I fear I left rather quickly,” she said smoothly.
“Enough,” Rowland said roughly, pulling Brigitte across the room away from the talkative lord. “I know you were here this morning, but why? You came to see the Count. Why?” he demanded.
“There is no reason to be upset, Rowland,” Brigitte said as she pried his fingers from her arm. “I came to request an escort to Berry. You did not think I planned to go all the way alone, did you?”
“Forgive me,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “This matter of Evarard de Martel has upset me.” Then he grinned. “I suppose I have him to thank that you did not get the Count’s protection, but ran from here straight into my arms?”
“I suppose you do.”
“Well then, let us find him so I can thank him. Wait here and I will find out where his home is.”
Brigitte caught his arm as he turned away. “You cannot do that, Rowland. Everyone will think you are mad, for they think you are Lord Evarard. Let me question someone. I will find out where the man lives and as much about him as I can.”
Rowland nodded reluctantly. Brigitte spoke with two ladies before she found one who knew Lord Evarard. That matron, cousin to the Count of Anjou, was most informative.
“I hope you have not set your eye on dear Evarard, for he is newly married and quite enamored of his bride,” Lady Anne remarked in a confidential manner. “I fear you will be very disappointed.”
“Oh, no, milady,” Brigitte assured her. “I was only curious. He is such a handsome young lord. His wife is truly fortunate.”
“Yes, a fine match they are,” Lady Anne replied. “The marriage was arranged by the Count himself, as a favor to Baron Goddard de Cernay.”
“Baron Goddard?”
“Evarard’s father. The Baron and my cousin are close friends, you see.”
“Cernay is quite far from here, is it not?” Brigitte groped, having never even heard of Cernay.
“Not so very far. Just across the Loire and to the west. Cernay is in Poitou.”
Brigitte knew that an old Roman road led directly from Berry to Poitou on the west coast.
“But Lord Evarard lives here in Anjou, does he not?” Brigitte asked.
“He lives in Poitou near his father, my dear,” the tall lady said. “He and his family are guests here. The wedding was held here, and then the cold weather set in early, and my cousin insisted the family stay for the winter.”
“They are a large family? Lord Evarard has brothers and sisters?”
“My, but you are inquisitive. He was an only child. I understand Lady Eleonore had a difficult time with the birth. She never conceived again, the poor woman. I have seven children myself and thirty-four grandchildren. And every one of them is a joy to me.”
“You are most fortunate, lady. And you have been very patient with me. My dear mother always said I had more curiosity than was good for me. I do thank you.”
Brigitte moved away quickly, before the woman could question her. She left the hall, knowing Rowland was watching her. He followed, meeting her in the corridor outside the great hall.
“Well?”
“He is here in the palace with his family. They are guests of the Count.”
“His family?”
“His wife, father, and mother. His father is the Baron de Cernay and a close friend of the Count.”
“I have never heard of him.”
“Nor have I,” Brigitte replied.
“Well?” Rowland asked impatiently. “I know you would have asked, Brigitte, so out with it.”
“He is an only child,” she admitted, smiling guiltily. He knew her too well. He knew what she had suspected.
“I would still like to meet the man,” Rowland said.
“So would I.” Brigitte grinned mischievously. “Too bad he is married. I might find him more to my liking than you.”
“You think so, eh?” he said, reaching for her.
“Rowland,” she laughed, holding him off, then growing more serious. “I will find a page to take me to his rooms. You follow at a discreet distance. And be sure not to let the page see you,” she warned sternly. “Or he will think you are de Martel.”
The Baron de Cernay’s suite of rooms was on the east side of the palace. The page did not question Brigitte’s request, and soon left her in the corridor outside a closed door. After a few moments, Rowland joined her.
Brigitte waited for him to knock, but he just stared at the closed door, frowning, as if he were afraid to discover what lay on the other side. She understood then that Rowland was not going to knock, that he would rather not know after all.
“This is absurd,” he said gruffly. “We have no business disturbing these people.”
He started to leave, and she whispered, “There is no reason why we cannot meet them, Rowland.”
“And tell them what?” he asked. “That we are curious?”
“I suspect there will be no need to tell them anything,” Brigitte replied quietly, her gaze on the door as though she were able to see straight through it.
She knocked on the door before Rowland could stop her, and then she had to keep him there until the door opened. Just before it did, Rowland pulled away from her and stomped off down the corridor.
“Rowland, come back,” Brigitte called softly, agitated. “You will have to come back, for I will not leave here until you do.”
He turned, scowling darkly at her just as the door opened. He stopped and did not approach the door. A tall woman stood there, looking at Brigitte, who seemed to be alone in the hallway. The woman was about forty ye
ars old, and quite beautiful, regal looking, with pale blonde hair and the bluest of eyes, eyes like sapphires, eyes like Rowland’s.
“Yes? What can I do for you?” the woman asked softly in a musical voice.
“I have come to see Evarard de Martel, milady. Would it be possible to have a few words with him?”
“My son is here and will be pleased to see you,” the lady replied genially. “May I ask why you wish to see him?”
“You are the Baroness de Cernay?”
“I am.”
“Baroness, my lord, Rowland of Montville, would like very much to meet your son.” Brigitte turned to Rowland. “Please, Rowland,” she beseeched him.
He stepped forward reluctantly from out of the shadows, dragging his feet like a man on the way to his execution. At last he stood beside Brigitte. Brigitte clasped his hand to hold him there. She was not sure what she expected.
A frown creased the woman’s brow. “Evarard, what trick is this?” the Baroness asked sternly.
Rowland did not answer. He was staring at the face from his dream, a face older by many years, but the same face that had haunted him since he was a small child. He could not find words.
Deep, resounding laughter sounded from a room beyond, and then a man’s voice was heard chiding, teasing his companion. The Baroness paled. She took a step back and wavered, as though about to faint. Rowland stepped forward to catch her, but she gasped and stiffened, her eyes widening, so he did not touch her. He could not take his eyes from her face, nor she from his. And then she reached out a trembling hand to touch his face, very softly.
“Raoul.” The whisper tore from her with a sob. She stepped farther back and screamed. “Goddard! Goddard, come quickly!” A man rushed through a doorway behind her, and she demanded brokenly, “Tell me…tell me I am not dreaming. Tell me he is real, Goddard!”
The man stopped, shocked to an ashen color as he saw Rowland. Rowland moved back into the doorway, beside Brigitte. This was the man from his dream. He had stepped into his own nightmare.
“Raoul?”
The man spoke. Rowland looked from Brigitte to him, confusion prompting anger.
“I am Rowland of Montville,” he said emphatically. “My name is not Raoul!”
The young woman Brigitte had seen that morning with Evarard de Martel appeared in the room then and gasped when she saw Rowland. Evarard quickly followed his wife into the room.
“Emma?” Evarard asked, then followed her horrified expression until his eyes fell on Rowland.
“My God!” Rowland barely got the words out. Moving past the Baron and Baroness, he walked slowly toward Evarard, drawn to him inexorably. He was looking into a mirror, seeing himself, every bit of himself, in another man.
He and Evarard stood eye to eye, of an exact height. Evarard lifted a hand and touched Rowland’s cheek in a soft gesture, disbelievingly. Rowland stood utterly still, his eyes riveted on the other man.
“Brother!” Evarard cried.
Pain grew in Rowland’s eyes, for there was truth to that cry. The horror of his life, his empty life, flashed through his mind all at once, and he turned on the Baron and Baroness.
“Did you have to give me away?” he whispered in anguish. “Were two sons too many? Did you have cause to dislike me?”
“My God, Raoul, you are wrong!” Goddard exclaimed, horrified. “You were taken from us—stolen!”
Rowland glared at him furiously, disbelievingly, and started toward the door.
Brigitte, knowing he was going to leave these people without hearing what they had to say, quickly closed the door and stood before it, barring his way. But he caught her wrist, threw open the door, and pulled her out of the room and down the corridor. She tried to stop him, crying, “You cannot leave, Rowland.”
There was such anguish in his eyes, such torment as he looked down at her. And then he crushed her to him, and she felt his body shaking.
“I cannot allow myself to believe them, Brigitte. I would have to kill Luthor!”
“No, Rowland! No. You must consider Luthor’s reason. A man so desperate for a son that he must steal one—”
“My life has been hell with him!”
Evarard had run after them, but he stopped and watched them cling to each other and heard what they were saying.
“You must go back in there, Rowland,” Brigitte said in a firm tone. “You cannot deny them. And your brother, Rowland, are you not curious about him? Do you not want to know him?”
She wiped at his eyes with her mantle, amazed to see that he could cry.
“Ah, cherie.” Rowland kissed her tenderly. “What would I do if you were not here to talk sense to me?”
“You would have to fight me.” Evarard interrupted at last. “For I will not let you go.”
Rowland turned to face his brother. He grinned suddenly, eyeing Evarard’s thin frame and courtier’s clothes. “You would have had a difficult time of it-brother. I can see you are not a man of war.”
“And I can see that you are,” Evarard countered, grinning just as broadly.
There was silence then as the two men stared at each other. Brigitte shook her head. Rowland needed a little prodding.
“Go on, damn you.” She pushed him forward. “Greet your brother properly. He is too intimidated by your mean face to do so.”
Rowland moved forward very slowly, and then clasped Evarard’s neck and pulled him into a bear hug, embracing his brother fiercely. Evarard laughed, and Brigitte cried.
When the three young people re-entered the room, Eleonore was crying in Goddard’s arms. He shook her gently to let her know that Rowland had returned, and when she saw him, she cried all the harder. She moved to embrace the son who had been denied her all these years. Eleonore took Rowland’s face in her hands, her eyes glistening with tears. Rowland suddenly went cold, then warm again. He could barely breathe, but did not look away from her. This was his mother, his own mother. With a moan from deep within him, he gathered her in his arms and buried his face in her neck, murmuring something meant only for her ears.
“My Raoul,” she whispered, holding him close. “I thought I had lost you a second time when you walked out that door. I could not bear it, to lose you again. But you came back, my baby, you came back to me.”
Rowland cried. His mother. How he had needed this mother when he was small. How he had yearned for her, and now she was overflowing with the love he had always wanted so desperately.
Goddard came forward and embraced his son wordlessly. Rowland held back a little. A mother and brother were all new, but he had a father. Yet Luthor was not his father, and had never really seemed to be his father.
At last Rowland returned his father’s embrace, and then he laughed suddenly and caught Brigitte’s hand to pull her to him. “Do you realize, cherie, that I am no longer a bastard?”
She grinned up at his glowing face.
“Oh, Raoul.” Eleonore gasped. “Is that what you thought?”
“I was told so, lady, by the man who claims to be my father.”
“Who is the man who took you from us?” Goddard asked Rowland.
“Luthor of Montville.”
“He will pay dearly!” Evarard said angrily.
“I will tend to him, brother,” Rowland replied coldly, then added in a lighter tone, “but I do not wish to talk of him. You are French?” At Goddard’s nod, Rowland chuckled. “Then I am French. Ha!” He winked at Brigitte. “No longer can you call me Norman as an insult.”
“Rowland!” she cried, embarrassed.
“You were raised in Normandy?” Goddard asked now. “That is where he took you?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder we could not find you. We searched all of Anjou and the surrounding borders, but we never thought to search as far away as Normandy.”
“But what brought you to Angers?” Evarard asked.
“Chasing this little one,” Rowland said. Pulling Brigitte closer, he chuckled. “I have you to thank for fin
ding her, and her to thank for finding you. She saw you this morning when she came to see the Count. But she thought you were me, and she ran from the palace. If she had not run when she did, I would never have found her.”
At their looks of bewilderment he added, “It is all a very long story, and best saved for another time.”
“Tell me what happened all those years ago,” Rowland said to his parents. “How was Luthor able to take me from you?”
Eleonore answered. “We were here in Angers for the celebration of St. Remi’s Day. The Count had such a fine harvest that year that there was a huge banquet, with nobles from all over the land. We had taken both you and Evarard down to the great hall, to show you off, I fear. We were so proud of our twins. You were so small then, still in swaddling, and so dear.” Rowland reddened, but Evarard laughed, used to his mother’s coddling. “Later that night my lady’s maid took you back to this very room. And that was the last ever we saw of you, Raoul.”
“Rowland, my love,” Goddard corrected her gently. “He has been called Rowland most of his life. We will have to let go of the name we gave him at birth.”
“For me he will always be Raoul.” Eleonore shook her head stubbornly.
“Your mother is a sentimental woman, Rowland,” Goddard explained. “We were both heartbroken when we returned to our rooms and found the maid unconscious and only Evarard in his bed. You were gone. I had enemies. What man does not? I feared one of them had taken you, and I feared you were dead. But your mother never gave up hope. In all these years, she never gave up hope.”
“Was this man, Luthor, good to you?” Eleonore ventured softly.
“Good?” Rowland frowned, his gaze reflective.
There were things he would never tell these people. Who could truly understand the harshness of his life? How could he explain that life to them?
“Luthor is a hardened warlord,” Rowland began. “He is well respected in Normandy. Nobles wait years to send their sons to him for training, rather than sending boys to another lord. My own training began as soon as I could hold a sword. Luthor took special care with me. He was…a hard taskmaster. He taught me not only the skills of war, but the strategies as well. He made me strive for perfection.” Rowland grinned to make light of it. “I was prepared from an early age to take over Montville and be able to keep it against all odds, for though Luthor has two daughters by a wife, Montville comes to me. Now that I know I am not blood kin to Luthor, I suppose Montville does not belong to me.”