The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  “Yet none would have guessed as much. You have shamed them into good behavior.”

  “And time enough ’tis for that,” Vera said from behind them. “They are past due for a stern word, that much is certain. My lady, you show your mettle with every passing day.”

  Malcolm could only agree.

  “I have had a good tutor,” Catriona said beneath her breath and Malcolm glanced down to find her eyes sparkling. “I did not imagine I would have a second chance to surprise Rafael.”

  Malcolm could not help but chuckle at that.

  He led Catriona to the jut of land she had chosen for the site of Ravensmuir’s chapel. The grass was wet from the rain, but the downpour had halted since the men had arrived. As they all made their way to the point, the sun came out from behind the clouds. Catriona pulled her cross from her chemise and folded her hands around it, dropping to her knees to pray. Malcolm knelt beside her and Vera did the same behind. Catriona began to recite the Paternoster aloud and Malcolm added his voice to hers.

  By the time they reached the end, they were more than three. His former comrades had straightened their tabards and buffed their boots, and were on their knees behind his lady, adding their prayers to her own.

  Malcolm scanned the sky for the ravens, just because he sensed that a corner had been turned. The sky was overcast, but devoid of birds, yet for the first time, Malcolm believed they would come.

  * * *

  Ruari had seen a great deal in his time, but this day was the most remarkable marvel of all. He had a bad feeling when he awakened and it only grew more intense.

  First, the laird sent word that Ruari should go to Ravensmuir, an errand he did not wish to take but could not decline.

  His sense of foreboding did not dissipate when Lady Elizabeth came to him in the stables to confide that the laird had suggested she journey to Ravensmuir with Ruari. It seemed to Ruari that the laird Alexander would have given him such a command himself, or at least sent it via his castellan, but Lady Elizabeth was insistent.

  Lady Elizabeth was not the maiden she had been when first he had met her, when his laird Erik had courted his lady Vivienne, that much was certain. She had become a mere shadow of her former self. She had once been both beautiful and cheerful, a maiden he had expected to be wed young and wed well. In these days, she was pale and quiet, with shadows beneath her eyes. She reminded him of a ghost, and he oft shivered in her presence.

  Her excitement on this morn was a welcome change, and Ruari told himself that he did not mind having some company on such a journey as this. Perhaps the change of scene would do her good. He had the ostler saddle her favored steed, even as he asked for confirmation from the castellan that this was the laird’s choice.

  Anthony came himself to the stables, just as they were preparing to leave. He took the reins of Lady Elizabeth’s steed, his expression stern. “I have told you already this morn, Lady Elizabeth, that the laird has chosen not to ride to Ravensmuir,” he said, his tone gentle. “Have you forgotten?”

  “But I must go there!” Lady Elizabeth protested. “I must!”

  “Perhaps on the morrow Laird Alexander will accompany you there,” Anthony said, and the maiden’s eyes flashed with a defiance that was now rare in her.

  She surrendered her grip on the steed with reluctance, and only after she cast an assessing glance over the number of ostlers and squires in the stables. She departed with nary another word, and Ruari would not have put it past the Elizabeth he had originally known to find another way to achieve her goal.

  “She is much changed,” he said to Anthony who shook his head.

  “I fear she is unwell,” the castellan murmured. “Though I wish it were otherwise.”

  Ruari nodded, his heart heavy in agreement, then rode out.

  He arrived at Ravensmuir to find the bailey empty.

  He led the horse to the stables, only to find that it, too, was devoid of men. The stalls were full of steeds, all of them brushed and tended and swishing their tails, but not a soul responded to his cry. He knew there was no ostler at Ravensmuir, but the lack of men only added to his dismay.

  He left his horse tethered in the endmost stall and went to the great hall. It, too, was devoid of men, although it appeared it had been occupied recently. There was blood on the floor by one fireplace, which was not the most consoling sight he could have found.

  He crept up the stairs to the solar, seeking some sign of the keep’s occupants. He found the door unbolted and the chambers empty.

  But it was there, in Ravensmuir’s solar, that Ruari saw the marvel. He chanced to look out one of the windows, for the only place they could have gone was toward the sea. And there on the point of land that extended like a finger toward the rising sun, he found all the men he sought.

  On their knees in prayer.

  Laird Malcolm and his new wife Catriona were at the fore, and he spied Vera with the babe right behind them. After that, the mercenaries who had passed Kinfairlie had aligned themselves in rows, as if in a church and not on a grassy knoll. Behind them were squires and boys, their heads bared to the morning sunlight as they, too, prayed. There were even a few women with the squires, women whose occupation Ruari could readily guess, all on their knees.

  Ruari rubbed his eyes and looked again, halfway certain it was a trick.

  But nay, the sight remained as it had been.

  “Well, God is in his Heaven and all is right with the world,” he muttered. He crossed himself because it seemed the right deed to do in the presence of a miracle, then descended from the solar to seek out his host.

  When the opportunity arose, he would speak to Vera of the folly of remaining here.

  Ruari had to hope that he would see that moment soon. He did not wish to remain overnight at Ravensmuir.

  * * *

  Catriona sat beside Malcolm, more pleased with the state of the hall than she had been. Her heart was still racing and her palms remained damp, for she did not trust these men further than she could throw a one of them.

  They ceded to her, though, and that had to be progress. She noted that Rafael was displeased, and he had been one of only a few who had not joined them at prayer that morning. She felt him watching her throughout the day, assessing her, and knew he did not take kindly to the change in circumstance.

  Or perhaps it was the change in his friend’s loyalty.

  She asked if any of the soldiers would fish, that they might keep the fast day properly. Both Tristan and Reynaud had taken the hounds to the river between Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie, once Malcolm told them of it, and had returned with two dozen fat salmon. They had cleaned them by the cliff without her asking, and Ranulf had roasted them over the fire in the kitchen without her making such a suggestion. The hounds had devoured tails, heads and innards in the bailey behind the kitchen, then curled up in the corners of the hall to sleep. The evening meal had been delicious, though Catriona had worried about the amount of ale. The brewster was due to come the next day from Kinfairlie with a new batch. The men finished what there was and pronounced themselves sated, though Catriona saw wineskins being passed around the hall.

  “It is likely eau-de-vie,” Malcolm told her. “We all carried at least some of it.”

  “So that you always had something to drink?”

  He shook his head, smiling at her slightly. “So that a fallen man could be revived. That is how it comes by its name.” A wineskin was passed to the high table, and he poured a bit of it into her cup. Catriona smelled it and recoiled at the vigor of the scent. “The thinking is that a man must be dead to not move when this is poured in his mouth.”

  “Indeed,” Catriona agreed, passing the cup back to her husband untasted.

  “A tune or a tale!” cried Bertrand and the company grumbled assent.

  To Catriona’s surprise, it was Rafael who rose to his feet and cleared his throat.

  “I would tell a tale called Bisclavret, though it is sometimes known as Garwaf.”

 
; Ranulf thumped his fist upon the board. “A fine tale and one most fitting!” he said with gusto, which earned a smile from Rafael.

  “Indeed,” that man said, his gaze sliding to Catriona. “For it is a story of a noble knight who earned his fortune, claimed his holding, then took a lady to wife.”

  Catriona wondered how badly this tale ended for the wife.

  “He makes mischief,” Malcolm murmured, his words so soft that only she could discern them. “Do not dignify it with a reaction.”

  “It does sound most fitting,” Catriona said. “Please do share it with us, Rafael.”

  Rafael bowed, then stood in the middle of the floor, his hands behind his back as he addressed the high table. “The tale begins after this knight and this lady pledged themselves to each other and returned happily to his abode. It must be said that this knight Bisclavret had riches untold. He was valiant in battle and his counsel was trusted by neighbors and even the king himself. He was said to be a better friend than a foe, and his borders were well respected.” The men roared approval of this notion. “Yet, for all of that, he was a stern warrior and one who seemed secretive to many who knew him.”

  “No similarity there!” cried a man. “Who among us guessed that Malcolm stood Laird of Ravensmuir!”

  They beat the table with their fists in agreement, and the wineskins moved more quickly between the tables. Vera’s lips tightened and she carried Avery up the stairs, pausing to give Catriona a significant glance.

  But she would not leave before Rafael’s tale was done.

  Rafael shook his head. “Sad to say, the wife was not held with such fondness in Bisclavret’s home. It was whispered by the servants that she did not truly love her lord husband, but that she had wed him for his wealth alone.” Catriona straightened at that. “Indeed, her name had long been bound with that of another knight, a man without a holding or fortune. She had abandoned her favorite once she had caught the eye of Bisclavret. Though she insisted it was because she loved him truly, there were those who wondered whether she feigned her affection because of the richness of Bisclavret’s treasury.”

  Catriona felt Malcolm stiffen ever so slightly and put her hand upon his.

  “And so it was that the couple lived together in apparent happiness. The wife, though, did not fail to notice that her husband did not always share her bed all the night long. Although he was with her when she fell asleep, and oft there in the morning, if she awakened in the night, she might find herself alone.”

  How did Rafael know this detail?

  Did he know that Malcolm went into the ruins?

  Did he know why?

  “At first, she thought little of the matter, but over time, she became curious. One night when he was missing, she looked for him. She sought him with his books, in his hall, in the kitchens, and never did she find a sign of him. After that, she paid even closer attention to his doings. She noted that the morn after he had been missing, he was oft tired, but never did she manage to witness his departure or return. She began to fear that her husband had taken a lover, indeed, that his lover was hidden within her own hall, and that he left her bed each night for the heat of another. She had not borne him a son of his own blood, and she feared for her position, which was most comfortable.”

  Malcolm turned his hand so that his palm was against her own and their fingers entangled. Catriona returned his grip, knowing that he was showing his support of her as his lady wife. It was a most welcome sensation.

  Rafael continued. “One night, she challenged her spouse, demanding to know the truth of where he went. She was not a woman to hold her tongue.” He made a face at this and the men laughed. Catriona felt her color rise slightly. “Though she had braced herself for what she believed the worst possible response, she learned that there was one worse yet. Bisclavret confessed that he was a monster. Indeed, he was cursed to change to a wolf when the moon shone through the windows of the solar. On those nights, he left his hall to hunt in the forest, returning only when the moon’s light faded. The wife had heard tell of such wicked creatures and was appalled to learn that she had wedded one, however unwittingly. She feared then that she might bear a monster if her husband’s seed took root and that she herself might be condemned to Hell for so doing.” Rafael gave Catriona a hard look. “Learning her husband’s truth turned her fully against him, but she was deceitful enough to disguise her true feelings.”

  The men grumbled about the faithlessness of the wife, calling her more than a few names Catriona did not wish to hear.

  “Bisclavret made his wife vow to keep his secret, and she pledged to do so, though all the while she wondered how she might rid herself of a husband she believed to be a demon. He had always treated her with courtesy, but she resolved with that confession that she must be rid of him. She recalled the knight she had loved, the one who had no fortune or holding, and resolved to make a life with him, albeit with Bisclavret’s fortune.”

  The names for the wife grew more rough and more loud. Malcolm gripped Catriona’s hand more tightly. “It is but a tale,” he said, but did not keep his voice so low this time. “And a warning to those who would wed untrustworthy women.” He kissed Catriona’s temple, showing that he did not believe her in that company.

  Ranulf smiled at the pair of them and saluted Catriona with the wineskin he held.

  Rafael continued. “She schemed to be rid of her wedded spouse. With him gone, she might wed again, keeping all she had gained and ensuring her own happiness. She asked her husband questions at night in the privacy of their bed, questions about his curse and the ordeal of it. Bisclavret, believing that his wife’s love was true, confided much of what he knew in her, hoping that she might perceive a way to end the curse. In truth, she sought a weakness, and one night, he unwittingly granted it to her.”

  “Fool!” muttered Tristan and the others nodded agreement.

  “Never confess a weakness, not to any living soul,” said Bertrand and they drank in unison to that sentiment.

  Rafael swallowed, then raised his voice again. “Bisclavret’s wife asked how it was that his fine garments were not ruined or torn by his running through the forest all the night long. Bisclavret confessed that he shed his clothes when he changed to a wolf. His wife asked where he did this, and he laughed, admitting that he dared not tell a living soul that truth. When pressed, he confided in her that if his clothes were missing when the moon faded from view, he should not be able to change back into a man. With that, the wife knew his weakness and made her plan.”

  The men leaned forward, intent on the tale.

  “The wife sent word to her lover, telling him what she knew and summoning him to the forest on Bisclavret’s estate. The knight had a heart as dark as the lady he loved, and had no scruples in stealing the fortune of a demon. He hid himself in the forest outside Bisclavret’s keep and waited. On a night when the moon shone brightly, he followed Bisclavret into the forest, Though Bisclavret paused several times, as if to listen, he could not halt the onset of the curse beneath the moon’s bright light. He changed shape to a wolf, right before the knight’s eyes. The knight crept forward to steal the clothes and the wolf turned upon him to defend his prize. The knight set his dogs upon the wolf, then seized the clothes and ran as if a Hellhound chased him in truth.”

  Catriona caught her breath, knowing the reference had been deliberate.

  “The knight gained the keep in safety and gave the clothes to Bisclavret’s wife, as arranged. She locked them in a trunk in the solar, fearing to destroy them lest the servants accuse her of theft. The next morning, Bisclavret did not appear in the bedchamber, though the wife laid awake all the night, fearing his return and his vengeance. By midday, she was more confident, and sent servants to hunt their master throughout the keep and his lands. With every day that passed with no word from Bisclavret or sign of him, she was more assured that she had done aright and that all would be well. She gave every appearance of mourning for her husband, but after three months, she
wed the knight who held her heart. That man assumed the suzerainty of Bisclavret’s holding, and the pair were happy in their stolen abode.”

  “Vermin,” Ranulf declared.

  “Pirates and thieves,” Amaury agreed, and they drank to that.

  “In the meantime, the king heard of the disappearance of Bisclavret, a man he had favored, and was troubled by these tidings. He sent out parties of men to seek his loyal knight in the forests of his abode, for Bisclavret was said to have disappeared in the forest and the king feared that brigands had seized him. There was no word and he mourned the loss of his friend and knight.”

  Rafael paused and a cry rose from the men. “This cannot be the end!”

  “Nay, it is not, although it might have been. For one day, the king was hunting in a forest not far from the abode of Bisclavret and the hounds caught scent of a wolf. They pursued the wolf vigorously all the day and night, and the king encouraged the hunt for he knew that wolves were a burden to his people and their flocks. At the end of the day, the dogs and hunters had surrounded the exhausted wolf, and the king drew near to watch the kill. To his amazement, the wolf seemed to take note of his presence and ran directly toward him. The beast moved so quickly and unexpectedly that it slipped through the ranks of dogs and hunters, and the king was afraid. But the wolf licked the king’s boot in his stirrup, then laid down on the ground, as if submitting to the king’s will. The king marveled at this and dismounted, reaching out a hand to the wolf. The beast licked his signet ring, more like a faithful hound than a predator, and touched his brow to the king’s hand like a man paying obeisance.”

  “Aha!” shouted Reynaud.

  “The king called out to his men and ordered them to leave the wolf alone. He took the beast beneath his protection, for he thought it uncommon in its intelligence. The wolf became his most loyal companion and the king soon refused to be separated from it. He spoke often of the creature’s understanding, how it would listen when he held counsel with his knights, and how it seemed determined to defend the king at all costs. The king’s household became as fond of the wolf as the king was, for it showed itself to be gentle and loyal to the king and fierce only in that man’s defense.”