The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  “Then the keep has been rebuilt with witchery,” Ruari replied darkly. “Upon that you can rely.”

  Although the clouds seemed to have gathered over this new hall, and the dark sky did give it the appearance of a sorcerer’s den, it clearly had been built by men’s hands. Catriona eyed the large camp of workmen, their tents spilling from inside the encircling hedge to spread into the fields to the north. Dust rose from the new hall and she could hear hammering as well as men shouting to each other as they worked.

  “It looks to have been built with hard labor and likely at considerable expense,” she could not help but observe.

  “And whence came that coin?” Ruari demanded, giving voice to her own question. “Conjured out of naught, no doubt, like the fortunes left by the Fae.” He snapped his fingers. “These workers shall return home to find their purses filled with dried leaves.”

  His notion was so unlikely that Catriona could not keep from laughing. “You are fanciful, Ruari! The Fae are but the stuff of children’s tales.”

  “Not here.” He granted her a grim look. “I have been to Ravensmuir before, as you have not. Mark my words, Catriona. No good can come of this place, I swear it to you, and less good from Malcolm returned.”

  The older man was so convinced that a shiver slid down Catriona’s spine.

  Who was this Malcolm?

  * * *

  Faster, faster, ever faster.

  Ravensmuir’s new hall was being constructed at amazing speed. In just two days, whatsoever was undone would be left undone. Midsummer’s Eve was six days away and Malcolm would ensure that no other souls were in peril when his was collected. He would pay the masons on Saturday and see them on their way. The more of Ravensmuir that was built by Saturday, the greater the legacy he could leave.

  If Ravensmuir stood tall again, he would leave a legacy of merit.

  Before Midsummer’s Eve, after the masons were gone, Malcolm would go to Kinfairlie and choose an heir from the ranks of his nephews, just as Tynan had done before him. When he was gone, all would be in order for Ravensmuir to thrive again.

  Malcolm only wished he might have lived to see the holding fully restored.

  But that Midwinter Night with the Fae had changed all.

  During the winter, knowing that speed was of import, he had sent missives south and contracted with masons, far and wide. They had arrived even before the first breath of spring, their chisels and shovels at the ready, their wagons burdened with apprentices and supplies. They had pitched tents on the fields of Ravensmuir and started to dig the foundations of the new keep. Apprentices had foraged stones from the fallen keep, when they could do so without peril, and repositioned them further inland where the ground was stable. Masons had sent for more stones and timber besides, all of it arriving steadily at the site. The masons and their apprentices had been accompanied by smiths and ironmongers, woodworkers and laborers.

  Alexander had been the first to see the smoke rising from the mens’ fires. He had arrived quickly, saying that he had feared brigands had taken up residence in the ruins.

  He did not smile when Malcolm said his conclusion was not far wrong.

  The brothers’ reunion had neither been warm nor of prolonged duration. Although Alexander expressed his relief to see Malcolm hale, still Malcolm knew his older brother disapproved of his decision to become a mercenary. Alexander had eyed Rafael with uncertainty, a telling reminder that Malcolm’s older brother had never left England’s shores, much less met a warrior born in Spain who had fought Saracens.

  Rafael, predictably, had done little to improve the exchange. He called Malcolm by his nickname, Hellhound, which sent Alexander promptly back to Kinfairlie.

  Within a day of Alexander’s visit, Malcolm had Ravensmuir’s seal and signet ring again, the marks of his legacy that he had entrusted to Alexander’s care.

  He had not seen his brother or family since.

  Alexander, however, had not been Malcolm’s sole visitor, though he preferred to not think about the demands of the Earl of Douglas.

  Malcolm had contracted with the brewster and the baker in Kinfairlie to have ale and bread delivered at intervals for the men as the work continued. By May, the walls had been rising on the great hall, with the dungeons complete beneath. By June, the solar on the floor above the great hall had been roofed, and the treasury secured. Malcolm had breathed relief when he had turned the key in that lock. Work then had begun on the wing to the north that would contain the kitchens with additional sleeping chambers above. The portcullis salvaged from the ruins of old Ravensmuir had been installed anew this past week, and a gatehouse was being finished to close the sole gap in the great thorned hedge. The sky hung dark with clouds yet again on this day, threatening rain that had yet to fall. The air was close and humid, the wind hot.

  It was not a particularly good day to be doing hard labor, but Malcolm doubted there would be a better one. He worked with Rafael on the fortifications inside the main portal, wanting to ensure that no others knew the secrets of his keep. They two had learned much of clever defenses in their years of service.

  “This country of yours is a particularly cursed place,” Rafael complained. Both men were covered with a patina of sweat and had shed their shirts and tabards early. “Colder than cold in winter, haunted by demons in the night—”

  Malcolm shot a glance at his companion, then upward at the masons working far above on the roof. “I bade you not to speak of that while we are amidst the men.”

  “Masons know of mysteries. You could ask them what we saw.”

  “The Fae,” Malcolm said beneath his breath.

  Rafael was grim. “Hell,” he insisted yet again. “We visited Hell in those caverns, and truly I should have expected no less, having arrived at the home of the Hellhound.”

  “It was not Hell, Rafael,” Malcolm argued for the hundredth time, feigning a patience he did not feel. If he shouted, the others would hear. “I saw no demons.”

  Rafael was as dismissive as usual. “I saw demons aplenty. Franz was there, and we both know him to be dead.” He shook a finger at Malcolm. “If ever there was a man whose soul was destined for Hell, it was Franz.”

  “Ursula might have argued otherwise.”

  “He saved his best for her, and there was little enough of it.”

  “I have told you a thousand times and I tell you again, it was the realm of the Fae.”

  Rafael made a sound of disgust and might have said more, but the sound of racing hoof beats carried to their ears. Malcolm knew without looking that two large steeds galloped closer.

  Who arrived with such haste?

  “Two destriers, two palfreys and a cart,” Rafael said without ceasing his labor. “A man too heavily burdened to be riding to war, or one intent on pillaging.”

  “Unless he already has pillaged.”

  “Then he has little room for more,” Rafael replied.

  “Were you not the one to teach me that there is always room for more?”

  They exchanged a glance. “Is it not time enough for a visit from the Earl of Douglas again?” Rafael said. “He was skeptical of your pledge to wed his niece and rightly so.” That man smiled. “Though I thought you lied most admirably.”

  “It was not a lie. If I am alive at the Yule, I will wed her.”

  Rafael laughed and put a hand over his heart. “True love it is then.”

  Malcolm scoffed. “Love has no part in this scheme. The earl thinks more of acquisition than alliance.”

  “And who would not want to claim this fortress as a prize? At least you did not let him see inside.”

  “It is not all bad to be without a wife and servants, if it means one cannot offer hospitality to an unexpected guest.”

  Rafael grinned at that. “I shall remember never to acquire either, then.”

  “Time was the Black Douglases would have simply taken what they desired,” Malcolm said more soberly.

  “Is that why you feigned acceptance
?”

  “It will keep him at bay for a time, at any rate, and let the construction proceed in peace.”

  “But will he be denied, if you do die?” Rafael shook his head even as Malcolm worried about the same possibility. “You should have taken the wench, wed her and savored her, at least as long as you could.”

  “And left her as my heir on Midsummer’s Eve, and my brother with woe on his borders for all time? I think not.”

  “Your brother does little enough for you.”

  “My brother is disappointed in me.”

  Rafael snorted at that. “Have you seen this Jeanne? Is she a tempting maid?”

  “I know not. I care not.” And that was the truth of it.

  “Perhaps I will console her in your stead, then,” Rafael said with a wink.

  Malcolm stepped out of the vestibule to look, the sight of the steeds encouraging him that these arrivals did not mean him ill.

  Two destriers raced across Ravensmuir’s fallowed fields, both certainly of the lineage of Ravensmuir’s black stallions, the one in the lead ridden with a reckless confidence as familiar as the hue of her hair.

  Vivienne.

  A man with fair hair rose fast behind Malcolm’s older sister, and Malcolm could hear him calling after her to halt. It was clear that Vivienne ignored her husband’s counsel.

  A cart followed at some distance behind the pair. It was pulled by a pair of sturdy palfreys and driven by an older man. Malcolm suspected it was Erik’s faithful companion, Ruari, though he could not tell how many rode in the cart with the baggage.

  Probably Vivienne brought the children to visit Kinfairlie, but had been tempted from her destination by the sight of Ravensmuir’s new keep. Malcolm knew well enough that the curiosity of his sisters was a potent force.

  “Are they strangers?” Rafael asked, shading his eyes to watch the party approach. “Curious onlookers?”

  “I believe this is one of my sisters who arrives with her family.” The insignia on the tabard of the fair-haired man became discernible, and he knew he was right. “Vivienne and her husband Erik, Laird of Blackleith.”

  “And will she be as sour as your brother Alexander?” Rafael asked. “I hope he never has need of your blade to defend his treasures.”

  Malcolm did not answer. He could not anticipate the reaction of his favored sister, but doubted she would be glad to hear of the nickname he had earned.

  “They all are too confident of their safety in my estimation.”

  “They have lived in peace. It is not so bad a thing.”

  Rafael shrugged, as unfamiliar with the notion as Malcolm had come to be. “Fine horseflesh,” that man acknowledged. “Are these the fabled steeds of Ravensmuir?”

  “They can be no other.” Malcolm watched their gait with no small pride. They were beautiful creatures, glossy black and powerful, steeds fit for kings and champions. His travels had shown him the exceptional nature of the horses bred by his family.

  “Then they are as magnificent as rumored.” Rafael flicked a glance at Malcolm. “When do you mean to have the horses back again? Or does your brother intend to keep them for his own?”

  “They are mine to house, breed and sell,” Malcolm said. “You need not distrust Alexander’s intent. He is honorable to a fault.”

  Rafael shook his head in mock despair at that. “Another family trait, no doubt.”

  “Perhaps, though others might argue differently. I asked him to keep the horses for the summer, as he said four of the mares were pregnant.”

  “And yet you have not gone to see them, these horses that are your pride and responsibility.”

  Malcolm winced. “I would not let myself be tempted to bring them back, not before the stables are adequately repaired and there is sufficient fodder for them.” It was a logical explanation, but not the whole of the truth.

  Malcolm had taken the steeds to Kinfairlie when the ravens had left. He spared a glance to the empty sky, wishing again that the birds might return. Only then would he believe that all was right at Ravensmuir.

  Of course, all was not right, and he knew it well, but still he scanned the sky daily.

  “Aye, it cannot be that the stable where they would be housed includes a portal to Hell,” Rafael murmured and again Malcolm let the comment pass. Rafael knew as well as he did that moving the horses would be folly, for they would only have to be returned to Kinfairlie after Midsummer’s Eve.

  Perhaps his companion wished a new steed, as well.

  Rafael watched Vivienne’s approach. “She is a good rider, for a woman, but too impetuous.”

  “How so?” Malcolm expected his friend to say Vivienne rode too quickly, but Rafael surprised him.

  “She assumes she will find you here. What if an intruder had claimed your holding? What if she found Archibald Douglas in the hall? Would he greet her prettily?”

  Malcolm grimaced. “I doubt any but me would be fool enough to spend so much coin on Ravensmuir’s reconstruction.”

  “There is that,” Rafael admitted. “And there is much to be admired in a woman so confident in her safety. Your father defended you all well as children, it is clear.”

  “Aye, that he did.”

  “All the same, curious women are the worst,” the other man continued. “They invariably have a need to know all the details, so that they can proceed to change the entire scheme to better suit themselves.”

  That was so near the truth of Vivienne’s nature that Malcolm nearly smiled. Indeed, the sight of his favored sister lightened his heart in a way he had almost forgotten. “Vivienne is more likely to ask for a story,” he confided. “Perhaps you could tell her your tale of how you defeated the Saracens.”

  “Not the one of how you made a bargain with the Fae to save my sorry soul?” Rafael retorted.

  Malcolm put a warning hand on his arm. “Say naught of this to my family,” he said tightly, giving his friend an intent look.

  “Fear not, Malcolm. I am not one to share secrets before their time.”

  Their gazes held for a charged moment, then Rafael gestured to the approaching company. “They travel with an entourage,” he commented, nodding at the cart that became visible through the gap in the hedge. “A servant or maybe two, all of whom will need to be fed in the name of hospitality.”

  “They cannot expect much, given their unannounced arrival.”

  “Do your fine sisters care for hard sausage and old apples? I fancy your brother would not welcome such a meal!”

  “If our fare is not acceptable, they can continue to Kinfairlie.”

  “Could there be children in the cart?” Rafael’s pained expression revealed his thoughts upon that possibility.

  “Erik had two daughters by his first wife when he wed Vivienne. It is about seven years since they married.”

  “And doubtless they have begotten more.”

  “I would expect so. Their match was a passionate one, at least.” Malcolm could not keep the sting from those last words and Rafael spared him a quick glance.

  “You do not like him.”

  “I seldom like men who take what is not theirs and only act with honor when compelled to do so.”

  “And this from the Hellhound.”

  “We speak of my sister,” Malcolm snapped. “Who was abducted and seduced by this man. He had no intent of wedding her, solely of getting a son upon her.”

  “Ah! Yet they are wedded now?”

  “It is not hard to believe that she could change a man’s mind. I simply dislike that she had to do so.”

  Vivienne drew her horse to a halt a dozen steps before Malcolm in that moment. The destrier stamped and snorted, but she leapt from the saddle. Her features were filled with a joy that found resonance in his own heart, though the fact that her lord husband accompanied her ensured that Malcolm’s manner remained grim.

  * * *

  The girls crept forward to clutch the front of the cart despite the rough passage, their eyes lighting as they eyed the
approaching keep.

  “If you meant to frighten them, you do a poor job of it,” Catriona said to Ruari.

  “I did not ask your counsel,” he retorted.

  “Ruins and sorcery,” Mairi whispered, her anticipation clear.

  “Adventure and witchery,” Astrid agreed with enthusiasm.

  “Ruins are unsafe,” Catriona told the girls sternly. “You will not take a step without me by your side, and you will hold fast to my hand at all times.”

  “Aye, Catriona,” they agreed in unison, their inclination clearly as far from her instruction as possible.

  “A ruined castle must have a ghost,” Mairi informed her younger sister, who nodded solemnly in anticipation. “They always do.” Catherine watched the exchange avidly, but at this, began to suck her fist.

  “If there is a ghost, it would be one doomed to make some good of his sins,” Ruari pronounced.

  Catriona rolled her eyes. Better and better. He might as well fling the girls over the lip of the cliff, for his inducements would send them there of their own will.

  “How so?” Mairi asked.

  Ruari shook his head. “The old lairds traded in religious relics of dubious repute, making their fortune upon the gullibility of others.” This had no effect upon the girls’ fascination, undoubtedly because they did not understand. Ruari made an exasperated sound. “It has long been said the lairds had strange powers, that they could speak to the ravens that nested in the roof of the old keep and dispatched them as spies over their holdings.”

  At that, Mairi fairly bounced in her enthusiasm. “They spoke with the birds?”

  “When shall we see the ravens?” Astrid demanded.

  “When shall we meet the laird?” Mairi asked.

  “Soon enough, I wager,” the older man said grimly.

  “Perhaps he will teach us to speak to the birds,” Astrid said with excitement.

  Ruari, meanwhile, warmed to his theme. “They were pirates and thieves, the Lammergeier of Ravensmuir, and their ships docked below the keep. The cliff was riddled with caverns and secret passages, the better for them to practice their notorious trade.” He wagged a finger. “And so it was that they were struck down in their wickedness, for the caverns collapsed and the keep fell into the sea.”