The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Perhaps he was too tired to think clearly. He and Rafael had fought back to back a hundred times, and each had returned to save the other at risk. Malcolm reminded himself that he could trust Rafael.

  He took a bucket and tried the well, gladdened to find that the water was still abundant and clear. He fetched water for the steeds, returning to the stables to find that Rafael had removed their trap and started to brush down his own horse. There was still some hay and oats, as well as a few bundles of straw. Rafael’s brows rose as he surveyed the former majesty of stables, but for once, he held his tongue.

  The two warriors worked together in silence, tending their horses and ensuring that the animals’ needs were met. For Rafael, Malcolm expected that this labor was part of ensuring his arsenal remained in good care: a horse was a weapon and a tool, no more than that. Good care would ensure the steed survived longer and performed better, providing greater value for coin spent.

  It had never been that way for Malcolm. The horses were as important to him as people, perhaps more so. He knew their characters and their preferences and was devastated by the loss of a single one. That was why he had not taken one of the black destriers bred by his family with him when he had left. Malcolm had known he rode to war, and he did not want to sacrifice such a majestic steed.

  The lineage of those who had bred horses at Ravensmuir ran in his veins and the prospect of continuing that legacy pleased him. He kindled a fire on the hearth that had been used by the ostler as the steeds ate, aware that Rafael was pacing the length of the stables.

  “Your family did well in their trade,” he said quietly when he returned to watch Malcolm. “It has been a long time since I have seen a stable of such generous proportions and grace.”

  “They also bred horses.”

  “The black destriers of Ravensmuir,” Rafael said softly. Malcolm turned in surprise. “Oh, they are of great renown, even amongst the Saracens. I have heard of them but never seen one. I thought, actually, that they must be a fable.” He stretched out his hands to the growing blaze with obvious pleasure, then turned to look again. Malcolm followed his gaze, eying the carved wood edges of the stalls and the vaulted roof overhead, also adorned with carvings.

  “Many a man would be glad to be sheltered so well,” Rafael said, his tone wry. “You keep your promises, my friend.” He watched Malcolm carefully. “You pledged to return here, did you not?”

  “And to rebuild. And I will.” Some good had to come of his deeds and his years of service. Malcolm had long ago decided that the rebuilding of Ravensmuir would be that good end.

  Rafael nodded, his gaze wandering over the building. “And so it is, when a man loses his heart to a dream.” His tone was uncharacteristically thoughtful, but before Malcolm could ask him to explain, music floated through the stables. It was beautiful music, more skillfully played than any Malcolm had heard before. He turned to look toward the back of the stable, where the music seemed to emanate, and saw a golden glow of light there. How could this be?

  To his relief, Rafael saw it as well. The other man turned silently on his heel, drawing his knife and sparing Malcolm a nod. His posture indicated that he also believed there was an intruder. The weather, after all, was most foul and any unfortunate would seek shelter where it could be found. It made little sense that a trespasser would play music, though.

  At Rafael’s gesture, they slipped into the shadows silently, one on each side of the great corridor, and worked their way steadily toward the sound.

  The last stall was empty, a gaping hole in its back wall.

  Malcolm’s mouth went dry. The caverns.

  He entered the stall and peered down into the hole. A rough passage led down, the route hidden from view. There was only the light and the music to beckon them onward. He tested the rocks but they seemed to be stable.

  “The hidden passages beneath the keep,” Rafael murmured, his words almost soundless.

  Malcolm nodded. “They used to lead to the sea,” he said just as softly.

  Rafael considered the light and the music, his eyes narrowing.

  Malcolm pointed to himself, then down into the caverns. Rafael’s lips tightened, then he nodded as well. They both tightened their grips on their knives and squared their shoulders.

  Then Malcolm Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir, descended into the abandoned tunnels beneath the castle he had returned to claim. He had not gone a dozen steps before a gust of cold wind blew from below. The golden light was extinguished and they were plunged into darkness.

  Rafael swore, even as he gripped Malcolm’s shoulder.

  Malcolm froze in place, willing his eyes to adjust, smelling the salt of the sea. He took this as a sign that the passage to the sea was not blocked the entire way. The music became louder, the tune so merry that his feet itched to dance.

  “Some festivity would be most welcome,” Rafael said, his eyes alight. “It would warm me body and soul.” He then pushed past Malcolm.

  “Wait!” Malcolm protested, fearing that he knew exactly what kind of music they heard. It was too late, though, for Rafael had plunged ahead. His silhouette had almost disappeared into the tunnel ahead.

  Malcolm could not abandon his comrade, not now. He spared but one backward glance, ensuring that the stable was secured and the horses at ease, then descended into the earth after Rafael.

  He could only hope they both returned to the stable unscathed.

  He feared, though, that it would not be so.

  Thursday, June 17, 1428

  Feast Day of Saint Botulf and Saint Joseph of Arimathea.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  South, south, ever south.

  Blackleith had been good, but Kinfairlie would be better. The more distance Catriona could put between herself and her past, the better. Inverness grew more distant by the moment and she would have it no other way.

  She would return there only when her child was safe.

  Her decision to ask the aid of the Lady of Blackleith had proven to be more right than Catriona could have known. With Lady Vivienne having family near the borders, they would nigh be in England when Catriona’s child was born.

  Surely she would find a haven there for the babe. Her grip tightened involuntarily on her lady’s daughter and that infant awakened, as if something were amiss. There was naught amiss, save what had been done nine months before. Catriona refused to think any more of giving away her child, for it must be so, and bent to soothe little Euphemia.

  Perhaps there would be guests from England at Kinfairlie. Lady Vivienne had said her older sister lived in Wales. She had also said that her uncle lived in Sicily. Catriona dared to dream that her child could be accepted into another household, one far from harm’s way.

  Indeed, as she accompanied the Laird of Blackleith, his wife and children, southward in safety and comparative comfort, Catriona dared to believe that Fortune finally smiled upon her. Not only had the lady welcomed Catriona into the hall at the Yule, saving her from the brutal cold of the night, but she had given Catriona a place in her household. Even though the lady Vivienne’s gaze often dropped to Catriona’s rounding belly, she suggested only that she could let Catriona’s family know of her location. One cold insistence that her business was her own had been enough to silence any more questions, though it had sparked a considering light in the lady’s eyes.

  Ruari, the laird’s faithful servant, drove the cart Catriona occupied with the children and the baggage. The older man’s chatter and complaints were both ceaseless and reassuring in their familiarity. He had a good heart, did Ruari, but Catriona knew her lack of a husband while her belly was so ripe was a sore point with him. His was a firm moral code and even though Catriona found herself on the wrong side of his line, she admired that trait. That plus his age meant she felt comparatively safe in his company.

  It did not hurt that she alone could provide respite from his aches and pains, with a salve she had learned to make from wolf’s bane years before.
Her treatment encouraged a tolerance from him that might not have been readily won otherwise.

  “My lady is a marvel, to be sure, but she believes herself more strong than any woman can be, Catriona,” Ruari groused now and shook his head. “She should not be in the saddle, not any more than you should be, but there is naught a man can say to change her thinking.” He shook a heavy finger. “My lady has a will of iron, to be sure.”

  “Lady Vivienne is not so close to her time as I am, Ruari.” Catriona spoke mildly, knowing that her companion’s complaints were born of affectionate concern.

  The older man’s lips tightened at the reminder. “But still, I would have forbidden the journey in my lord’s place.”

  “My lady was not to be refused in this,” Catriona reminded him. “She wished so much to see her family.”

  “And why not a year hence, when she can show them a healthy babe?” Ruari clicked his teeth and the two palfreys took that as encouragement to increase their pace. “There is no understanding the whim of a woman, that much is certain.”

  Catriona bit her tongue, guessing readily why the lady would see her kin before she labored to bring her child to light. Daughter of a midwife, she had witnessed more than her share of sorry endings.

  “Why is it only women who have whims?” asked Mairi. She was the eldest of the laird’s children and had seen ten summers. Astrid at eight summers, Catherine at five and William at three were all asleep, nestled around Catriona. Swaddled in Catriona’s arms was the infant Euphemia, even at a year of age as serene a babe as ever drew breath. Catriona wondered whether she would be able to bear the company of these sweet children after giving her own child away.

  She dared not think of it, not now.

  Mairi crawled forward, remaining low against the rocking rhythm of the cart, and seized Ruari’s knee. “You never speak of a man with a whim, Ruari.” This child could say whatsoever she willed to the gruff servant and never hear a sharp word in reply.

  There was the truth of his measure. Children instinctively trusted those with no violence in them.

  “Because it is not natural,” Ruari replied with rare patience. “Men have plans and schemes, while women have desires and whims.”

  Mairi frowned. “Is that so, Catriona? I have plans!”

  Ruari snorted at that.

  “Indeed, I believe both men and women can have all of those things,” Catriona said. She liked this one’s curiosity well. Mairi was a pretty child and forthright in nature. Catriona suspected she would give some man a merry chase in coming years and ensure her father grew a clutch of silver hairs.

  “But women show the mark of whim and desire,” Ruari insisted, sparing a glance for Catriona’s rounded belly.

  Catriona held his gaze, unrepentant for what was not her fault. “Regardless of whose whim and desire it was that planted the seed.”

  Ruari’s lips tightened before he turned back to the road, his gaze fixed upon the laird and lady riding ahead of them.

  “What do you mean by that, Catriona?” Mairi asked.

  Ruari was silent for once, doubtless glad to leave her to reply to this query. “A babe grows in a woman’s belly much as a sprout grows in the soil,” Catriona said, touching her belly. “We talk of both coming from a seed.”

  “But it is God’s will to make a babe, just as He makes a seed.”

  “And it is God’s will to make both sprout and child grow.”

  Mairi sat back with a frown to consider this. Ruari gave Catriona an assessing look, one that she was not inclined to ignore. She knew well enough that men were quick to judge and had learned that the appearance of weakness only invited trouble.

  She fixed a look upon him and let challenge fill her tone. “What is amiss, Ruari? Do you find my teachings incorrect? Perhaps you would care to answer Mairi’s question?”

  “There is naught amiss with your reply,” he said gruffly, the back of his neck turning a ruddy hue. “I simply find myself amazed that you should be its source.”

  “Why?” Mairi asked, ever curious.

  “This is not a matter for children,” Ruari said sternly.

  Mairi was untroubled by this. “Can I hold the reins?”

  “Nay, that is not for children either.”

  “But when shall we be there?” Mairi asked.

  “Perhaps Ruari might grace us with a tale.” Catriona dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, one that the older man would surely hear. “Particularly if you ask it of him. I know he likes to grant your wishes.”

  Ruari’s snort this time was one of amusement.

  Mairi’s entreaty was enough to melt a heart of stone. “Ruari? Would you tell us a tale? Please?”

  “Indeed, I would.” Ruari smiled at Mairi’s evident satisfaction. Contrary to his earlier refusal, he lifted her to sit before him. He let her hold the reins, her smaller hands covered by his callused ones. “It is a tale of your father and mother, and one I lived when first I traveled through these parts.”

  “So you know it to be true.”

  “Indeed. I witnessed it all. Your father came to Kinfairlie in search of a bride, for he had heard that the Laird of Kinfairlie sought to see his sisters wed.”

  Catriona listened closely, for it would not be all bad to know more of her host and hostess at Kinfairlie, before asking them so great a favor.

  “But my father had a wife, for she was my mother.”

  “Nay, your mother, Beatrice, had died, or so your father believed.”

  Catriona blinked at this, but Ruari hastened on. She would not have imagined that the Laird of Blackleith was one to see only his own advantage, but she had heard that he had killed his own brother. Were all men so violent in ensuring their desires met?

  Ruari continued. “And though your father had you and Astrid to grace his days, he desired a son, as well. He wished to secure his holding of Blackleith, and a man has need of a son for that.”

  Mairi made a face at that. “I cannot see why.”

  “Because it is so.”

  “So, he came to Uncle Alexander because he wished to wed my mother, the lady Vivienne.”

  Ruari made a choking sound then and fell silent. Catriona’s curiosity was piqued. That would have been a feat for a man who already had a wife.

  Mairi continued with the tale as she saw it must be. “And so Uncle Alexander agreed, and they were wed, and then came Catherine and William and Euphemia.”

  “That is one way to tell of it,” Ruari acknowledged, his voice tight. Catriona wondered at his discomfiture. Was it possible his own lord fell short of Ruari’s moral measure?

  She had no opportunity to prod him for details, for Lady Vivienne gave a cry of delight that carried even to the cart.

  “Look!” that lady shouted and pointed to the coast on their left.

  Smoke rose from what looked to be a new structure, and Catriona could see tents both inside and outside what might have been a protective hedge. She eased to the front of the cart to see better. The tall and square tower was on a point of land that jutted into the sea, and beyond it, the water sparkled as if it were spread with jewels.

  Though it was a fine keep, Catriona did not see the reason for her lady’s joy.

  “It cannot be,” Laird Erik said, slowing his steed.

  Ruari, for his part, had paled.

  “It is! It must be!” Lady Vivienne replied with enthusiasm. “This can only mean that Malcolm is home!” She did not wait for any reply but gave her steed her spurs. Her black stallion leapt forward, the massive beast leaving the path to charge toward the distant keep.

  Who was Malcolm that his return created such a different response between lady and laird? And how could one know at a glance that he was returned?

  The land was uneven where the lady set her course, and if there was a road toward this new structure, Catriona could not see it. The laird swore more thoroughly than Catriona had ever heard him speak and gave chase, his own black destrier racing after the first. The horses
leapt over the uneven ground, seeming to revel in the opportunity to gallop freely. “Vivienne!” the laird roared, but his lady only laughed and raced onward.

  Ruari swore in his turn, urging the palfreys to leave the road. “Whim and desire,” he fairly spat, then lifted Mairi from his lap. Catriona took the girl and urged her to sit beside her. “Women are cursed with it, that much is clear.” He shook his head with evident disgust and visibly gritted his teeth.

  The cart lurched from side to side as it rolled onto barren fields. How could the land not been cultivated in recent years if the keep was so fine? Indeed, the fields were not tilled even now and it was nigh midsummer. From whence came the laird’s income? Catriona’s curiosity multiplied, even as she held all of the children close. William began to cry, and no wonder, for he awakened suddenly to find the cart being pitched back and forth. Astrid was also awake and clutched Catriona’s skirts, and even good-natured Euphemia gave a wail of protest. Despite the terrain, Ruari was trying to keep pace with their laird and lady, a choice which terrified the children.

  Catriona felt her stomach churn. “Ruari, I beg of you! Please slow the horses! The land is too rough!”

  The older man spared a glance at the dismayed children and reluctantly did as she requested. “Ravensmuir,” he muttered. “I would willingly follow my laird to any corner of this earth, save Ravensmuir, yet this is the second time I am headed to that foul place, and worse, we must hasten toward it. I suppose it is no great price to me to slow our arrival to that cursed holding.”

  “Why is it foul?” Mairi asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “And cursed besides?” Astrid asked.

  “Because it is a place of great wickedness,” Ruari replied with resolve. “A haven for sorcerers and a keep of ill-repute besides. That is why it lies in ruins, and the hall itself crashed into the sea.”

  “But it is not ruined,” Catriona felt compelled to observe. She could see the crenellated roof now and wondered if any watched their approach from that vantage point. “Indeed it looks most fine.”