Sapphire in the Snow
Carol Townend
http://www.caroltownend.co.uk
New Revised Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Carol Townend
(First Edition published in 1989 by Mills & Boon Limited)
All rights reserved.
Published by Carol Townend in 2014
ISBN: 978-1-78301-299-2
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All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Description
KIDNAPPED BY THE ENEMY...
In the aftermath of the Norman Conquest, Beatrice Giffard is summoned to England from her convent in France. She is to act as companion to her cousin, Lady Anne, who is shortly to be married to an Anglo-Saxon thane. The marriage never takes place as a Norman baron precipitates a massacre in which the thane is killed. In the same fight, the thane’s half-brother and heir, Edmund of Lindsey, is wounded.
Beatrice had liked Edmund on sight, and when she stumbles across him in hiding and finds him hurt, she decides to help him. She longs to end the bloodshed, but soon learns she is mistrusted by Norman and Saxon alike. When Edmund rewards her for her help by kidnapping her, she doubts that their two peoples – Saxon and Norman – will ever be reconciled. Her longing for Edmund seems doomed.
A passionate and dramatic medieval romance set in England in the turbulent aftermath of the Norman Conquest.
This novel won the Romantic Novelists’ Association Award for New Writers in 1989.
Table of Contents
Description
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Books by Carol Townend
Chapter One
Caen, Normandy. The Year of Our Lord 1066.
‘No, Mother Adèle, I beg of you, do not do this! Do not send me away.’ A suggestion of a tear hovered for a moment in the corner of one of Beatrice’s hazel eyes.
‘Now, my dear, no tears,’ the elderly prioress said gently, none the less a suspicious brightness in her eyes matched that in the young girl’s.
It was December. The small, sparsely furnished cell was icy. A narrow pallet with a straw mattress was covered by a neatly folded grey blanket of the coarsest wool. The only concession to Mother Adèle’s high status was the painted crucifix which hung on the cracked plaster over her bed.
Someone was chopping logs outside. The sound floated in through an unglazed window slit. The women’s breath made little smoky clouds in the air which hovered for an instant and then vanished, snuffed out almost as soon as they were formed by the invasive cold.
A blistering chill came up from the stone floor and penetrated the women’s thin leather shoes. But, standing there in the chamber, they were both too distressed to pay any heed to this discomfort.
‘But I don’t want to go. I’d much rather stay. Who will help Sister Agnes in the new infirmary?’ Beatrice asked, her usually melodious voice a shade higher than usual, and threatening to crack. She did not want to leave the convent at La Trinité and go to England – all the way to England – with her cousin. She loved the Abbeye aux Dames, it was the only home she could remember. Her cousin was a stranger and she had no desire to leave on the whim of a stranger.
‘Nonsense!’ Mother Adèle replied briskly but warmly, for she had grown very fond of Beatrice in the years the girl had sheltered at the convent. ‘Your cousin, Lady Anne has need of you, and Sister Agnes will have to learn to manage without you. One of the new novices will soon learn to help her.’
Beatrice Giffard was gently bred, and God had blessed her with the gift of healing. Even as a child her skill had manifested itself. The prioress recalled with a shudder the legions of small, sick creatures that Beatrice had packed into the cloisters. Not that she’d confined her nursing activities to the walkway – she’d even been known to use the chapel.
There had been that spring evening when the child decided to bring into that sacred place the convent’s entire flock of motherless lambs. To the small auburn-haired girl the phrase ‘Lamb of God’ had meant that these lambs would be best cared for where God lived. Interrupted in full voice in the middle of the evening office of Compline, the nuns were struck dumb with astonishment as the lambs were shepherded in.
Discordant bleating had filled the space where the sisters’ serene chanting had been. The flock ignored Beatrice and her frantic, inexpert shepherding. Refusing to be corralled at the west end, the lambs had indulged in vigorous head-butting. And the nuns’ well-ordered service had disintegrated into a scene which bore more resemblance to chaos than evening worship.
Other similar incidents sprang to mind. There was the toad in the refectory that had hopped with such disastrous consequences into Sister Maud’s pottage; the piglet Beatrice had kept hidden in the scriptorium which had eaten its way through the Old Testament because she had forgotten to go and feed it...
But now young Beatrice was sixteen. She had been trained to direct her nurturing instincts into more acceptable channels, and Sister Agnes had indeed come to rely on her, not that the prioress would dream of swelling the child’s head by telling her this. Beatrice had spent the greater part of her life within the convent walls and had tried hard to fit into the unrelenting regime. She had even announced her attention of becoming a nun, saying that her mother had wished this for her. Mother Adèle was doubtful if Beatrice was suited to a life of contemplation, but she would miss the girl. And though the convent would be more peaceful without her, she doubted if it would be as happy.
Beatrice sniffed loudly. ‘I’ll be back, Mother. As soon as Anne is settled, I’ll be back. And then you’ll permit me to enter the novitiate, won’t you?’
‘My dear, you need to experience the world outside our convent gates,’ the prioress replied tactfully. ‘You cannot decide to withdraw from the world until you’ve spent some time in that world.’
Beatrice’s mouth set in stubborn lines. ‘I know I’ll hate it. My cousin is so grand in all her fine clothes. She frightens me. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I hardly know her. I’ve only spoken to her once, and that for half an hour. We have nothing in common. What will we talk about?’
‘Anne is only a year older than you,’ the prioress pointed out. ‘And as for her clothes, you know as well as I, Beatrice, that they are but worldly vanities. They are of no consequence.’
‘But she’s been married, and widowed and...oh, Mother. You know what I’m trying to say. Her life has been so different from mine. How can I possibly ever help her?’
The prioress’s soft sigh was almost in
audible. ‘Nevertheless,’ she spoke in rallying tones, ‘your cousin is the Lady Anne de Vidâmes. She has requested that you accompany her to England. The good Lord knows she has money enough to pay for whomsoever she likes as a companion. But she has chosen you. She wants your company because you are one of her family. You cannot let her down.
‘Consider it from her standpoint, Beatrice. The poor girl has been commanded to marry a Saxon thane she has never met, in a country she has never even set foot in. You cannot deny her the solace of your company.’
The calm voice took on an authoritative edge. ‘If the Lady Anne can do her duty and obey Duke William’s wishes in this, then you will do your duty too and bear your cousin company. Lady Anne’s father, Count Geoffrey de Vidâmes, is with Duke William in England. He has given his approval to the plan. He is your uncle and your remaining male relative. You must obey him.’
‘Aye, Mother,’ Beatrice said, her auburn head bowed in submission.
‘Good girl. I have decided you may take one of the mares from the stable. You will need a mount of your own. Which one will you choose?’ The prioress permitted a half-smile to soften her austere features.
The bright head lifted. ‘Oh!’ Beatrice gazed wide-eyed at the older woman. ‘May I take Betony? May I? My thanks, Mother. I will take care of her and bring her back safely, I promise.’ Impulsively she flung her arms about the prioress and hugged her.
‘Enough, Beatrice! Pray, try for some decorum!’ Mother Adèle said, blinking rather hard. ‘You will need another overdress. I have nothing as fine as your cousin’s, but please take this. It’s a simple gown, but the cloth is good and it’s almost new. It belonged to one of the novices who joined us on Saint Stephen’s Day. As she’s now wearing the habit of a novice she won’t need it again.’
Beatrice fingered the red cloth. It felt like silk by comparison with the coarse homespun she had worn at the convent. She was aware that the colour would clash dreadfully with her hair, but she pushed the ungrateful thought aside. ‘It’s soft as thistledown,’ she said. ‘My thanks. I only hope I don’t tear it.’
She met the nun’s calm grey eyes and noticed to her surprise that they were swimming with unshed tears. This more than anything brought home to Beatrice how close she was to leaving the nunnery. Her throat closed up. ‘Oh, Mother, I shall miss everything so much,’ she got out, the tears welling over.
‘No, Beatrice. You’ll be far too busy, you’ll see. You had best hurry now, and pack that gown. Betony is already saddled up for you.’
‘You knew I’d choose her?’ Beatrice sniffed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She swallowed hard.
‘Aye, I’d have to have been blind not to know.’ Mother Adèle smiled. ‘I never had any doubts which mare you’d choose, and I’ve decided Walter is to go with you, too. So you see, my dear, you won’t be completely alone among new faces. Besides, it really is not right that Walter should stay in our convent now he is fully recovered.’
Beatrice opened her mouth, an objection hovering on her tongue.
‘Beatrice, no,’ Mother Adèle overruled her firmly. ‘I’d far rather Walter was in your care than anyone else’s. I know you won’t take advantage of his...simple nature. I want you to take care of him, as much as I want him to protect you. I know you won’t mock him for his disability. He is devoted to you, my dear, and I couldn’t send you away completely unprotected. Your mother’s bones would rise up from their grave.’
Blinking back tears and squaring her shoulders, Beatrice managed a nod. She knew the prioress disliked emotional scenes. ‘Farewell, Mother Adèle. M...my thanks for everything. I’ll be back, just you see.’ She gave the prioress a watery smile.
‘I bid you Godspeed, my child. Begone, before you have me weeping in earnest.’
Clumsily, Beatrice embraced the nun. Then she turned and stumbled from the chamber.
Mother Adèle stared blindly at the door for a moment after the girl had gone. She shivered. The wintry blast from the window gnawed at every bone in her body. She hugged herself, and rubbed her arms vigorously. Her hands were blue with cold, the joints stiff and gnarled. The winters grew harsher every year, and Mother Adèle had lived through many cold winters.
Suddenly she felt very old.
***
Beatrice gazed out across the thriving Norman seaport, conscious of a nervous excitement welling up within her like the rising tide. Water had always frightened her; she had never learned to swim. And, God willing, she would never have to. She thrust this fear and her other misgivings to the back of her mind – she would not let her worries sour the day. From her vantage point, in the bow of the ship that was to take her to England, she could see it all.
Vessels of every conceivable shape and size thronged the quays, jostling each other as their cargoes were shifted. Crates and coffers passed from hand to hand. Endless lines of porters stretched out in every direction like tangled ribbons. Dark-skinned men from the east haggled with ships’ captains. Idle mercenaries waited for troop ships, gambling away imaginary fortunes – fortunes they had yet to earn. Porters bawled. Horses clopped up wooden gangplanks and neighed ear-splitting protestations. The wheeling, shrieking gulls echoed them.
For Beatrice, with the smell of the sea in her nostrils and the sea breezes playing in her veil, the convent was suddenly a lifetime away. She lifted her head and glanced briefly at the sky. It was as grey as the foam-flecked waves.
Her hazel eyes dropped back to the hustle and bustle on the quayside below. They widened. A strange procession was bearing down on the ship. Beatrice recognised her cousin Lady Anne at once though they’d met but briefly. Her stomach tightened with nervousness.
Lady Anne sat proudly on a gleaming Spanish mare, leading the cavalcade. She looked every inch the noblewoman. Tongues stilled. All work ceased. The waterfront fell silent. Heads turned to watch Lady Anne’s procession as it cut a swathe through the crowd.
The lady’s glossy brown hair was neatly coiled and confined beneath a pale pink silk veil which floated out gracefully behind her on the onshore breeze. She wore a fur-lined cloak. Its rich wine-coloured fabric was clasped at the throat with what looked like a solid gold brooch, though from her still distant standpoint, Beatrice could not be certain.
Apparently oblivious of the sensation she was causing, Lady Anne spurred on smilingly towards her ship. Beatrice saw Anne’s cloak fall open. It revealed a magnificent gown one or two shades lighter than the cloak. Even the leather of her riding boots had been dyed to match the cloak. Beatrice goggled. Lady Anne looked delightful on her prancing black mare, and she knew it. The varying and subtle shades of pink shrieked as loudly of Lady Anne’s wealth and standing as did her haughty mien.
Beatrice smoothed down the simple robe which fought so disastrously with her auburn hair and grimaced ruefully. It had seemed so fine at the convent. And now...now it seemed hardly worth making it into dish clouts.
Lady Anne’s jennet picked its way delicately through the debris of rotting fish and rubbish on the quayside. The lady’s nostrils wrinkled. A fleeting expression of disgust marred the perfection of her proud features as the stench of decay assailed her. Beatrice bit her lip to stifle a giggle.
Behind Lady Anne, another woman of lofty demeanour struggled less successfully to hide her disgust. The woman’s hand was pressed hard to her upturned nose, and she sat very stiffly on her mount. From the cut of her clothes, Beatrice judged the woman to be of a lower rank than Lady Anne. Probably her maid, and by the way her nose tilted skywards she had a high opinion of herself.
Behind the two women in the train were four mounted guards and several baggage mules. Could all those chests really belong to her cousin? Beatrice couldn’t believe her eyes. Lady Anne had brought at least half a dozen mules – all heavily laden.
Lady Anne dismounted and ascended the gangplank. She paused halfway up to supervise the unloading of her belongings.
An unfortunate porter slipped on a fish head and clutched wi
ldly at his burden to save it. The Lady Anne’s dark eyes closed, her face expressed such horror that Beatrice expected her to cross herself. Instead Lady Anne shook her head.
‘Careful with that coffer man!’ she said in a carrying voice. ‘I don’t want months of embroidery spread all over the quayside.’
Lady Anne picked up her skirts and went aboard. Beatrice came forward and greeted her with a curtsy.
‘Oh, Beatrice, thank heavens you’re here! You cannot imagine the trouble we’ve had getting here,’ Lady Anne said at once. ‘I would not have believed so short a journey could be so beset with disasters. Beset, I tell you. First of all, as you can see, there weren’t enough mules.’
Beatrice was enfolded in a perfumed embrace.
‘Not enough mules!’ Beatrice said. ‘But, cousin, I saw six of them.’
‘Exactly. When I specifically asked for nine! Still, one can’t expect serfs to be able to count. I suppose I should be grateful we got here at all.’ Lady Anne shrugged delicately and began to peel off her kid gloves. They too, Beatrice noted, were dyed to match Lady Anne’s ensemble.
‘You do have rather a lot of baggage, my lady,’ Beatrice said.
‘Call me Anne, for heaven’s sake, you’re to be my friend. Now where was I? Ah, the baggage. Well, naturally I have a lot of it. One can’t be expected to travel out to a wilderness without one’s chattels. It will demonstrate my status to the Saxons. I cannot have them thinking I am of little account.’
‘I’m sure there’s no danger of that, Anne,’ Beatrice said, suppressing a grin.
‘I should hope not.’ Anne’s voice was cool. ‘I don’t want to bore you with the details, Beatrice, but my serfs are worse than useless. Did you see the way that one almost tossed my trunk into the sea?’
Correctly sensing that no answer was necessary, Beatrice held her tongue. Her cousin was still shaking her head with horror at the thought of her finery lying amid the fish scales. Then Anne brightened and her lustrous brown eyes grew thoughtful.
Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Page 1
