The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  The Sable League.

  His former comrades had ridden north to visit his abode. How had they known to find him in this place? Malcolm could readily guess.

  He knew that company of mercenaries well enough to guess that they had only done as much because they had no contract to fulfill.

  Which meant that they came in search of warfare, riches, women, food and shelter, not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily earned.

  “Who arrives?” Catriona asked, following his gaze.

  Malcolm did not answer her directly.

  “Remain in the solar with Vera and Avery,” he bade her. “Bolt the door, and only open it when I tap this pattern upon it.” He rapped a rhythm on Catriona’s hand, choosing three short taps, two long ones and three short ones again. “Tap it back to me,” he instructed, offering his hand to her and nodding when she did as much.

  “But who are they?”

  “My former comrades,” he said, tugging on his boots then donning his belt. He put his sword into the scabbard on one side and his sharpened dagger in the one on the other.

  “But if they are friends…”

  “Comrades, Catriona,” Malcolm corrected as he strode across the room. He paused on the threshold to glance back at her. “They make Rafael look like an angel. Get Vera and the babe, then bolt the door and admit no one but me.”

  He paused on the other side, waiting until he heard Catriona comply, then descended to greet his uninvited guests.

  * * *

  It was Catriona’s worst nightmare.

  Ravensmuir’s hall was filled with mercenaries. There had to be two dozen of them, drinking and eating and singing, two dozen men with foul reputations. Having watched their approach from the solar window and noted their filthy state, she had no doubt that their personal habits were even more foul.

  “I can smell them,” she complained to Vera, pacing the solar for the hundredth time.

  “And I can hear them,” the older woman said with disfavor. “I am no meek maiden, but those songs are crude enough to shock me to my marrow.” She tickled Avery under the chin. “I do not wish to hear what they sing after they have had their fill of ale.”

  Catriona paced more quickly, readily able to imagine how rowdy they would become later. “I suppose they will not leave before the morrow.”

  “If then, should my lord show them hospitality.”

  “I cannot believe he does as much, but they were his comrades.”

  “I cannot believe he fought alongside the likes of such men,” Vera moaned. “Why, oh why, did he leave Ravensmuir to sell his blade?”

  Catriona rounded on the older woman. “Because he tried to make the best choice from an array of poor ones. We are not all always in a position to do otherwise.” She flung out a hand. “Because he did so, he has been able to rebuild the hall, which is no small feat. What would his brother have had him do before?”

  “Marry an heiress,” Vera suggested, doubt in her tone.

  “Who would willingly come to a hall of dark repute, which had crumbled to ruins, to wed a man with an empty treasury? I think that an unlikely solution, Vera.”

  The older woman nodded reluctant agreement. She glanced at the door again and grimaced. “I do not like them here, all the same. It is bad for Avery to learn so young that such men exist.”

  Catriona’s concern was not wholly for Avery, but she was spared the opportunity to reply by a distinctive pattern of knocking upon the portal. “Malcolm?” she asked, but could not hear a reply over the chorus of the drinking song that rose from the hall below. She drew her knife, mindful of her lesson, and opened the door. Vera had backed away and clutched Avery so tightly that he began to fuss.

  It was Malcolm, much to Catriona’s relief. He stepped into the solar and put down the tray he had brought before he barred the door again. Upon the tray was a meal: a pitcher of ale, two cups, some bread and stew, as well as a glass of goat’s milk.

  While she appreciated that he remembered her presence and sought to ensure that she ate, this would not do. Catriona straightened and looked her husband in the eye. “Am I not the Lady of Ravensmuir now?”

  He regarded her warily, as if sensing her fury but unable to name its cause. “Indeed.”

  “And yet I am to be locked in the solar, like a prisoner, simply because your comrades of ill repute have chosen to visit?”

  Malcolm frowned. “They are rough men, Catriona. You are safer here…”

  “Did you invite them?” Had they brought the battle he had hinted was ahead?

  Her husband shook his head. “Nay. They have no patron, so they travel in search of one. It was always thus. Rafael, it seems wrote to one of them to share the tidings of my legacy once he and I arrived at Ravensmuir. They did not believe it, so came to see for themselves.” Malcolm pushed his hand through his hair, looking as vexed as she had ever seen him. “And now they are arrived, and I do not know when they will leave.” He grimaced. “Doubtless they hope I will pay them to leave, but I will not.”

  “Then they must be encouraged to leave. We have no food for them.”

  “They brought their own.” Malcolm met her gaze and she knew there was more to that detail than he confessed. “They are ever enterprising, Catriona.”

  “And like Rafael, they have earned your goodwill enough that you cannot cast them from the door.”

  “We fought together, Catriona. I lost count of how many times each of them came to my aid, and how many times I aided each of them.”

  “Then it is up to me.”

  “Catriona! I know your opinion of mercenaries…”

  Catriona knew what she had to do, although the prospect terrified her. “But I will not be a prisoner in my own home. As Lady of Ravensmuir, I must set the tone.”

  “Hear, hear,” Vera said, her gaze bright as she watched the exchange.

  “It is not unlikely that such men will find my tone unwelcoming.” Catriona met Malcolm’s gaze. “You will take me to the hall, if you please, and introduce me to our guests.”

  “You jest,” he said, apparently shocked.

  “I do not.”

  Vera nodded approval when Malcolm glanced at her. “It is only right. Any lady of merit would do the same.”

  “Nay, I will not let them glimpse you…”

  Catriona admired that he was protective of her, but he would not always be at home in the hall. There would be times when she would need to confront others, and she had best begin. “You will not always be present to defend me, Malcolm,” Catriona chided, surprised when he blanched at a most reasonable acknowledgement. “You will have to parlay with neighbors and visit the king’s court, and ride to hunt. It is the way of a nobleman’s life, so I hear.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Vera agreed with gusto.

  Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. “Even so, I would have you remain hidden, lady mine.”

  Catriona smiled, trying to appear more brave than she felt. “Then bid them leave immediately.” She gestured to the tray. “I will eat this meal in the hall or not at all.”

  “And if the lady of the keep is home but not present, no one should eat in the hall,” Vera contributed. “I will eat in the hall as well, sir.”

  Malcolm looked between the two of them as if he could not believe his ears, then surrendered the argument, much to Catriona’s surprise.

  “Perhaps you will have a good influence,” he said, before escorting her to the door at the summit of the stairs. He looked down at her, his expression grim. “But I will have your back, lady mine, just in case.”

  Catriona stretched up and kissed his cheek, grateful for that beyond all else.

  * * *

  Malcolm had been certain that his wife would retreat.

  One glance of his former comrades would have been sufficient to make any of his sisters faint, so he had expected that a single glance would show Catriona the wisdom of his advice. But Catriona had not been reared as gently as his sisters, and she was determine
d to defend what she now saw as her own.

  In truth, he would be glad to see her do this, for it would be all too soon that he could not defend her.

  He watched her pause partway down the stairs to survey the chaos that had erupted in his hall, and knew this was the moment in which she would choose.

  Truly, the sight was horrific. In a mere hour, his hall had become a disreputable tavern or whorehouse, as filthy as any he had been compelled to patronize while at war. Two dozen rough men in various states of dirt ate and drank with gusto at his board. They looked disreputable and were more dangerous than even they appeared, always ready to resolve a conflict with a knife or a sword. Their blades were perfectly maintained, their armor a hodgepodge of styles, their skills fiercely honed. These were men who had survived by their wits and their blades, men who were fearless in battle and without remorse.

  Their manners at table were somewhat less than courtly. They ate with unwashed hands and dirt beneath their nails, using their daggers to divide the portions. Their dogs had paws upon the board and stole food when they could. Their laughter was raucous, and more than one spewed food when he laughed.

  Malcolm had forgotten how rough they were and wondered if he had been much the same these past years. Their steeds were in the stables, being tended by their squires.

  His comrades’ clothing was less clean than might have been ideal, and they all sported beards, for that was simpler than shaving. They had an odor of unwashed men who lived in the open air, and already it filled the hall. They were accustomed to living in rough camps, quickly struck, and his hall had become a camp in the twinkling of an eye. He was certain that more than the dogs carried vermin, and the volume of noise was one he had forgotten, as well.

  To be sure, they had brought their dice and their whores, and a large supply of game—undoubtedly poached from Kinfairlie’s forest, through which they would have had to pass. Malcolm did not wish to think of what his brother was saying, even now.

  As much as he did not want these men in his hall, he felt a certain loyalty to them. He had fought with Ranulf, for example, for six years, nigh as long as with Rafael. They had shared some terrible and terrifying moments, as well as some good times. The two could not be separated, though both were of his past.

  There was a change in their manner here, as well. More than one of them looked at him with new respect, and indeed, others with an increment of envy. Malcolm looked about the hall he had built and the woman he had taken to wife, and acknowledged that he had achieved what few of them would manage. The cycle of living as a mercenary was endless, for money earned was oft gambled and lost, or stolen, requiring another contract and another journey to war. He had broken free of it, and he guessed that some of his comrades would have liked to have done the same.

  He waited for them to see his wife, curious as to their reactions.

  For her part, Catriona seemed to have been struck to stone at the base of the stairs. She stared over the hall coldly, and he knew she noted the brace of rabbits roasting over the fire, the blood on the floor where they had been gutted, the dogs fighting over innards atop one table. One of his own hounds was being humped by a newly arrived and mangy dog. Another pair of hounds wrestled in the far corner, while three men wagered on the victor. Giorgio embraced his whore with his customary passion—although this woman was unfamiliar to Malcolm—her moans of feigned delight mingling with the raucous singing and shouting.

  Ranulf was the first to sense that something had changed. He glanced up and scanned the hall, his gaze landing immediately upon Catriona. He was a big bear of a man, ruddy-haired and fierce in battle, but he eyed her with an expression like that of a child caught at a naughty deed. Catriona glared at him, her spine of steel and her gaze like ice. Ranulf coughed and bowed to her, his move drawing the attention of the others.

  All seemed to halt in time, freezing beneath Catriona’s displeasure.

  “May I present my lady wife,” Malcolm said. He felt surprise ripple through the company, then Catriona flicked her skirts and descended regally to the floor. She wore the kirtle that had been given to her for her wedding day and likely looked more fine than any woman any of his comrades had seen in recent memory. He liked the admiration in their eyes and their uncertainty as to how to proceed in the presence of a lady.

  “What manner of barbarians are you to turn your host’s home into naught better than a brothel?” Catriona demanded. “Have you no shame?”

  Malcolm did not know what his former comrades would do when so challenged. Rafael stood up, his manner mocking, and he knew he should have anticipated that man’s reaction. “Do you mean to teach us our manners?” Rafael said in challenge. “These are old friends and more than welcome here.”

  Catriona strode toward him, undaunted by the snickers of his former fellows. She jabbed a finger into Rafael’s chest. “You are as a serpent in the garden,” she hissed, the hall so silent in shock that her words were readily discerned. “You have been a guest these many months, and treated with every courtesy, but now you would disdain my husband’s generosity and defile his hall.”

  “Defile?” Rafael stared at her, his eyes glittering with anger. Malcolm stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his own blade, thinking he might have to intervene. But he would give Catriona her lead, just to see what she would do.

  “Defile,” she repeated with disgust. “Blood on the floor, meat on the hearth that was never intended for cooking, hounds doing whatsoever they would. It is appalling.” She glared at the men in turn and several dropped their gazes. “If you mean to remain, you must behave in a suitable manner.”

  “A suitable manner?” Rafael echoed.

  “It is one matter for you to insult me, Rafael, but you will not insult my lord husband without regretting as much,” Catriona continued.

  Rafael smiled coolly and Malcolm knew better than to trust him. “Is that so?”

  “It is.” She fixed her gaze on Rafael again. “Are we understood?”

  “Oh, we understand each other very well,” Rafael murmured, his tone dark and silky.

  Catriona lowered her hand and stepped back. She turned her back upon Rafael but before Malcolm could utter a warning, that man reached for his dagger.

  Chapter Eleven

  Catriona moved so quickly that Malcolm was impressed. She had the knife he had given her in her hand and its blade at Rafael’s throat in a heartbeat, her gaze boring into that of his old friend. The point of the blade drew blood at that most tender spot.

  “Surrender that blade to my lord husband, or leave,” she said, her voice carrying clearly through the silent hall.

  Malcolm stifled his urge to applaud.

  Rafael glanced at Malcolm, his gaze falling to Malcolm’s hand, gripping the hilt of his own dagger. He bowed to Catriona and sheathed his dagger, then handed blade and scabbard to Malcolm with an exaggerated bow. He probably expected that Malcolm would not accept it, but Malcolm did.

  He would buttress the argument his lady made. He felt the change in the mood of the hall and saw several of his former comrades exchange glances.

  His lady’s eyes were shining with triumph.

  It was Ranulf who stepped forward first and bowed low. “Malcolm is fortunate indeed in his choice of bride,” he said, showing more refinement in his speech than Malcolm might have believed possible. “I am Ranulf, lady, and most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Welcome, Ranulf.” Catriona inclined her head, gracious as a queen.

  Bertrand, his ebony hair all askew, was the next to bow, even as all the others looked on in silence. Tristan nudged the dogs off the table, and Georgio actually stepped away from his whore.

  Catriona stood and waited, her expectation tangible.

  And sure enough, as one, they all bowed before her, even Rafael. The dogs dropped to their haunches on the floor, watchful, and Catriona crossed the hall with a resolve and a certainty of her position that made Malcolm proud. She looked Ranulf up and down, compe
lling that man to tuck in his chemise and surreptitiously try to buff the toes of his boots on the back of his calves. Bertrand ran a hand through his hair.

  Catriona paused beside the strewing herbs stained by the cleaning of the rabbits, her displeasure so clear that Louis winced. “Do you do as much in your mother’s home?” she asked him, and he stammered an incoherent reply.

  Catriona gestured. “I mean to break my fast in the hall, after I say my prayers. I trust that all will cleaned by my return.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “The meat can be cleaned on the cliffs behind the kitchens, the offal left for the dogs there, and the meat hung in the kitchen to cure.” She smiled at Louis. “Perhaps you are not aware of the day, but it is Sunday and no meat will be consumed in the hall on this day. The rabbits will make for a fine stew on the morrow.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Louis and Reynaud bowed, then scrambled to do as bidden.

  Catriona eyed the partridges, as well as the feathers already piling on the floor. Amaury had been plucking them in his usual haphazard manner—an inevitable consequence of his sampling the ale while he worked—and one of the dogs had dragged a bird to the corner.

  “Surely such a task as this can be done behind the kitchens as well?” she asked Amaury. The man had to be two feet taller than she and weigh twice as much, but the back of his neck reddened as he gathered up the pheasants to follow Louis and Reynaud.

  “I will have the dice,” she said to Gunter on her way to the portal. That wizened soldier meekly put the cup into her hand, as if he knew not what else he could do. “The better to save you from the temptation of sinning on this day.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Gunter said with a bow.

  “You are welcome to join us in prayer,” Catriona said from the threshold. “Though we have no priest and no chapel as yet at Ravensmuir, I was always taught that the Lord hears all prayers.”

  Malcolm bit back a smile as he led his lady from the hall. “Well done,” he said beneath his breath and she cast him a mischievous smile.

  “I was terrified!” she confessed in a whisper.