Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure

by Lindsay Townsend

  “So do I.”

  “—but I hope you will wear this token, as well.”

  There in the palm of his hand was a ring of gold, its bevelled edges glinting in the last of the light.

  “Welsh gold, the smith told me, and blessed by Saint David of Wales himself, he said, though I am more doubtful of that.”

  Maggie nodded, admiring the ring.

  “I had it made smaller for you, since I know the size of your fingers.” Conrad softly kissed her forehead, then her trembling mouth. “May I?”

  A great soaring peace filled her. She held up a hand that did not waver, and felt him slip the gold band over her wedding finger, to rest beside her braided ring.

  “Thank you.” They spoke as one and blushed, both of them shy and pleased.

  He kissed her again, then pointed to a tiny red squirrel, out in the snow and feasting on a pine cone. “I suppose we should be heading for our dinner, too,” he said.

  “I can walk,” she said. Michael and Richard would be at Kirkbybank, but at that moment, she did not care. The sign of Conrad’s love and pledge was a shield, one that would guard her forever. “Will you let me up?”

  “No,” Conrad replied, a different no from the stubborn absolute of her brother, a no filled with promise and teasing—and more of the same to come. “I will not be parted from you, Maggie…Lady Margaret.”

  “Very well.” As Lady Margaret, she smiled agreement, and he swung her safe into his arms again, to continue the walk back.

  Somewhere on the journey, Maggie fell fast asleep, dreaming of summer and heat, with Conrad pushing her and Elfrida on a rope swing and the sound of distant little ones laughing and playing together.

  A sign of our future, and one I shall be glad to see.

  Chapter 21

  Conrad snapped the reins and the wagon rolled out of the bailey of Castle Kirkbybank. He was glad Maggie’s father had grovelled enough to gift them this wagon. It held many happy memories for him and, besides, Maggie had seemed a little peaky these past few days. Even now, she was still sleeping in the great bed and very hard to leave.

  But Conrad had done so, if only to have them out of the castle as fast as any courtesy allowed.

  Once I have her back at my manor and keep, we shall do better. It is three days from Christmas Eve. Twelve days of Christmas in our own place will be excellent.

  He shook his head. Davie, he knew, had raced ahead with several more men and was already making plans.

  Her brother—Conrad forced himself not to scowl at the thought of Michael. The oaf had still not apologized to his half-sister, but he had grudgingly acknowledged the golden wedding ring Maggie was proudly wearing, especially after Conrad had caught her hand and thrust it right under Michael’s nose. And there had been a reconciliation of sorts between the siblings yesterday at lunch-time, when two of Earl John’s squires had marched into the Kirkbybank great hall, lugging a massive chest between them. Conrad recognised it as the box from the old solar.

  “Lord Rufus, here, tells me that this treasure box has not been opened for years. No one has been able to work the lock,” Earl John announced. His squires caught their breaths—he seemed unaware of his lack of manners in having the chest brought into the hall and uncaring of his lack of courtesy in handling another family’s property. “Since he wants to know what is in it, I offer a reward to the one who can open it.”

  A low hum of interest had broken out through the men at that, though Conrad could have predicted who spoke first. “Use aqua fortis on the thing,” Richard shouted, impatient as always. “That will burn it open!”

  “No,” Maggie’s brother said, more animated than Conrad had yet seen him. With glowing eyes, Michael strode up from the lower benches as if he owned the castle, his dark curls bouncing as he walked, his lean face bright with purpose. “Let me see.”

  Favouring his left leg, he crouched before the chest, slowly, gently ghosting his hands over the heavy fastenings and blowing in the ornate clasps. Kneeling back, he snapped his fingers, imperious as an emperor. “Maggie? What do you make of this?”

  Conrad bridled at the younger man’s tone, but Maggie quickly squeezed his arm. “I was his apprentice,” she murmured. Rising from the top table, she stepped beside Michael and leaned closer to the metal bounds of the chest.

  “A barrel lock?” she questioned, and indicated the key hole in the sturdy lock plate. “Will you work from the back?”

  “Yes, but this clever beauty needs a twist.” Michael unclipped a slim metal tool from his clinking belt and smiled at his half-sister as if he had never accused her of anything more than a yawn at mass. “Watch, now.”

  The lad’s way of saying sorry? Conrad wondered. From Maggie’s quickened breathing it seemed likely, and from her close shadowing of Michael, Conrad resigned himself to her forgiving her brother.

  Michael, meanwhile, had eased the narrow lock-pick into the back of the metal barrel, moving with the same slow care Conrad would give to an ambush. A few more shakes and twists and the youth detached the entire base of the lock, covered his hand with the trailing end of his cloak and unclipped another long tool from his belt.

  He did something with that, hidden from the watchers in the hall by his cloak, and then brought out the barrel lock, neatly broken into parts, to place on the nearest bench.

  He smiled at Maggie and she answered in kind, announcing to the high table, “The chest will open now.”

  At once, Petronilla scrambled off the dais, followed by her father. They hurried to the chest, while Michael remained with the barrel lock, studying a part.

  “How did you do that?” Richard demanded.

  Michael shook his head. “If I told, I would have no livelihood,” he answered simply, ignoring Richard’s “I demand you explain!” and Petronilla’s excited cries as she burrowed into the opened chest, bringing out antique robes and furs and cloths.

  “Besides,” Michael added, “there will be more of my skill needed to devise a new key for this lock than in simply picking it.”

  The locksmith had been content, the men in the great hall given a show, and Richard had been thwarted for once. Conrad had marked his wife’s happy smiles and had reminded himself that her joy must be enough—and yes, it had been a pleasure to watch Michael work, a master of his craft.

  That morning, in a further gesture of appeasement to his daughter, Earl John had sent the slightly lame locksmith and the more amiable Theobald to Ormingham, to make stronger locks and keys and strong boxes for the golden treasure there. Conrad was pleased to see them go.

  The only golden treasure I desire I have, sleeping snug and safe in our wagon.

  Searching for Maggie in the snow had been one of the worst things he had ever had to do. He had told the earl to keep everyone else back, so her tracks would not be spoiled, but even then, it had been a close thing. At night, he still woke, sweating, from the nightmare of not finding her.

  There had been that man of Lord Gerald’s, a ginger fellow called Petit, as well. Conrad had been happily riding back from the goldsmiths’ settlement, the golden ring jammed tight in his glove, when Petit had staggered out of the stable to relieve himself by the wall. He spotted Conrad and made a hasty sign of the cross.

  “Should have…should have stayed on crusade,” he said, in a slurred voice that seemed to have too many teeth.

  The man was drunk again, Conrad had realized. He dismounted and made to lead Gog past the swaying ginger, when Petit lunged.

  “Save yourself!” he cried, trying to grab Conrad’s arm and failing. “She is evil, I tell you!” He swung again, a mad, roundhouse blow that also missed.

  Wishing that Petit had stayed in Ormingham, Conrad knocked the man out, dumped him in the stable straw and left him. So far as he knew, Petit could still be there, and that was the end of the matter to Conrad. The encounter had left a sour taste in his mouth, much like the abiding puzzle of the hooded assassin.

  Yes, it is good to leave this place, and th
ese people. In my own lands, I will have none of these mysteries or troubles, only matters of harvest and growth. The thought pleased him greatly.

  Naturally, his parents and Richard were not happy, but Conrad had not sought their good opinions for years and their approbation did not graze him. Earl John, after tightly questioning the cockerel Lord Gerald, had discovered that his conspiring cousin had briefly allied with Richard so that Richard could talk to Maggie’s brother first, before Maggie or Conrad could tell Michael of their marriage. They had worked so hard for this, according to Earl John, for no other reason than spite from Richard and “mindless meddling” from Lord Gerald.

  He had no need to avenge himself. Earl John had spoken with Hugh de Puiset and other northern leaders. Richard was now sheriff of the northern high lands, as he should have been before he made Conrad steward and charged off on crusade. Even when King Richard returned from wherever he was being held, brother Richard would still be sheriff, with the cockerel as his second-in-command.

  Conrad grinned widely at the thought, his cheeks aching as he recalled that Earl John had also strongly suggested to Lord Walter and Lady Galfrida that the Lady Petronilla would be a perfect spouse for their eldest son. I agree—one as spoiled as the other. After Christmas, Richard was going to be very busy and he, Conrad, was already blessedly free to spend time at his small estate, with his wife.

  “Are we moving?” Maggie’s sleepy voice issued from the grill close to Conrad’s head.

  “We are out of the castle and heading home,” he told her.

  “Good,” came the answer. “Perhaps there I will be less sick.”

  “I am sure of it,” Conrad called back, smiling when a few moments later he heard her soft, comfortable snore resume through the grill. He could think of another reason why Maggie had been queasy of late in the mornings, and sleepy, too. If he was right and she was having their child, that would be a priceless, peerless gift.

  A healthy baby and heir, a loving wife, together a perfect Christmas treasure for any knight. He had plans, too, for a gold or silver torc for Maggie, and matching bracelets. A goldsmith from Kirkbybank was coming to his manor in the new year. Conrad planned to commission the work then, as a wedding gift and dower for his wife.

  It may be Maggie will draw the Ormingham treasure, or something like it, and the smith will be able to use that in his designs. Whatever adornments she wanted, he would give her, those and more.

  Perhaps I will be able to coax her into ribbons, too, especially as sweet chains in our bed.

  Conrad laughed aloud and snapped the horses’ reins to coax them through the snows to his waiting home and yule-time fires.

  About the Author

  Lindsay has been writing stories since she was six years old. History and the past have always intrigued her, and writing stories about heroes and heroines overcoming massive problems and finding love as they do so is a wonderful way to earn a living!

  Lindsay is married and lives in England in the beautiful county of Yorkshire. When she's not writing or researching about the past, she enjoys reading, walking, swimming and cooking.

  For titles by Lindsay Townsend published by Prairie Rose Publications, Please visit

  http://prairierosepublications.com

  For all titles by Lindsay Townsend, please visit

  http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk

  DARK MAIDEN by Lindsay Townsend

  Beautiful Yolande comes from an exotic line of exorcists—a talent she considers a gift—and a curse. In fourteenth century England, a female exorcist who is also black is an oddity. She is sought after and trusted to quiet the restless dead and to send revenants to their final rest.

  Geraint the Welshman captures Yolande’s heart with his ready smile and easy ways, and the passionate fire of his spirit. An entertainer, he juggles and tumbles his way through life—but there is a serious side to him that runs deep. He offers Yolande an added strength in her work and opens his heart to her with a love such as she’s never known.

  But Yolande is not free to offer Geraint her love completely—not until her “time of seven” has passed.

  Can the powerful attraction between them withstand the powers of evil who mean to separate them forever? Yolande’s conscience and conviction force her to face this evil head-on—but can Geraint save his Dark Maiden…