Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Suddenly, Beatrice perceived a new tension in the air. Perhaps at last they had reached their destination? Pleased, she turned to Anne, but one look at her cousin’s expression wiped the smile from her lips.

  Anne’s pretty face was taut and white as snow. The vivacity and charm she had demonstrated throughout the tedious journey had vanished as though it had never been.

  Their party now skirted the eastern edge of a small lake, and ahead of them Beatrice could see the ground rising gently away from the sedge-filled lowland. Confronting the riders was a small copse. The path divided. De Brionne urged his horse along the steeper westbound path.

  ‘Raoul!’ he bawled.

  ‘Baron?’

  ‘Ride ahead to the settlement and announce the arrival of the Lady Anne de Vidâmes, future wife of the Thane of Lindsey.’

  Anne guided her mare closer to Beatrice.

  ‘We...we’ve arrived.’ Anne’s voice was flat and dead. She sat stiffly on her mare, staring straight ahead at the wooden palisade which loomed up before them.

  Beatrice felt her heart lurch. No one was smiling now. The atmosphere was charged, expectant. Their horse-soldiers no longer smiled and joked. Hands hovered over sword-hilts. She did not need anyone to tell her that they were anticipating trouble.

  Slowly, the Norman contingent approached the gate. It was open. As they clopped into the crowded compound the silence seemed to grow heavier, and Beatrice felt the oppressive weight of scores of eyes on them. It was a tangible thing now, that heavy silence, broken only by the horses’ hoofs and Beatrice’s pounding heart.

  Anne still stared straight in front of her. She looked every inch the proud Norman lady. She had not glanced at the watching Saxon crowd once.

  Beatrice did not have such pride bred into her. The oppressive tension frightened her, but she was determined to look right into the heart of it. She could sense resentment lurking not so far beneath the apparently calm surface. None the less, she forced her nervous lips into a smile and gazed around, curious about her cousin’s new home and people.

  The compound was large and more substantial than Beatrice had expected. Anne had told her that Anglo-Saxon lords still built their houses of wood, not stone like their Norman counterparts. And indeed the buildings were for the most part wooden, but they were not the humble dwellings Beatrice had imagined. The most impressive building, presumably the Saxon hall, dominated the courtyard. It was large enough to hold an army. There was a stable, a barn or two, and Beatrice had time to glimpse several other wooden outbuildings within the palisade, as well as one made of stone. A carved cross above the lintel of this building proclaimed it to be the chapel.

  It was no longer possible to ignore the strange and wild-looking crowd that stared at them with such hostility. Beatrice forced her gaze down to the Saxon people, searching for a friendly face.

  Some of the men had long, shaggy beards which turned their human faces into fierce, unsmiling masks. Her eyes met curious ones, hostile ones, angry ones, but nowhere could she see a face which contained any hint of friendliness. Her heart plummeted.

  In the centre of the yard the baron and Anne sat firmly on their horses. De Brionne dismounted and faced the entrance to the hall where a reception committee was waiting.

  Beatrice received a brief impression of wealth and splendour, for these men were better clad than their fellows. Gold and silver buckles gleamed. Tunics were bright and richly decorated. Their cloaks were edged with fur.

  A Saxon stepped forwards to hold Anne’s mare, and a finely clad figure moved to help her dismount. This must be Aiden of Lindsey. The thane was young. No old man for her cousin then. He looked much the same age as Anne herself. He was tall and fair. His thick beard hid his expression like a visor, but Beatrice sensed he was nervous.

  The thane bowed his head to Anne and murmured something to her which Beatrice could not catch.

  ‘What did he say, Baron?’ Anne queried in her most imperious manner, barely sparing the Saxon a glance.

  Beatrice felt her spirits sink. The blond thane could not have missed her deliberate slight.

  ‘My lady, this is your future husband, Aiden, Thane of Lindsey. He is introducing himself and welcoming you,’ de Brionne said.

  ‘Oh.’ Anne turned back to the young man and looked at him down her nose, as though he were something unpleasant she had just trodden on. She was not making the slightest effort to be pleasant. Beatrice felt very much like slapping her. Could Anne not see the sense of making an effort to be polite? She had managed well enough on the hellish journey they had just completed. What had got into her? She was shaming the Saxon thane before his own people. Smile, Anne, please, at least smile at him.

  The Thane of Lindsey met Anne’s haughty gaze calmly, and held out his hand to help her from her horse.

  ‘Baron?’ Deliberately, Anne looked at the Norman, but de Brionne did not move. His hands were clenched white on his reins, and he watched Anne through cold, ever-calculating eyes.

  Anne scowled and tossed her head. Insultingly reluctant, she allowed herself to be helped down by her betrothed, but she shook herself free of him with indecent haste, rubbing her hand on her skirts.

  Close to Beatrice, someone sighed heavily. She glanced down, expecting to see Walter waiting to help her dismount. But Walter was nowhere in sight.

  A dark-haired Saxon was standing next to Betony. She found herself staring into the bluest eyes that she had ever seen. For several heartbeats the universe stood still.

  ‘A disdainful Norman lady.’ The blue-eyed Saxon addressed her in Latin, and although his accent was strange, Beatrice had no difficulty understanding him. He had a deep and pleasant voice.

  She nodded shyly and smiled, grateful for his attention.

  ‘M...my cousin is nervous.’ She found herself excusing Anne’s behaviour. She was held by his gaze and could not look away.

  ‘Will you accept my help more willingly?’ he enquired, holding out his hand to her, eyes warm, his raven hair flung back from a clean-shaven face.

  Beatrice nodded.

  His hand was well-shaped and took hers firmly, an aristocratic hand. Rings glinted, silver arm bands jingled as he moved, and Beatrice wondered who he was. Judging from his apparel, he was of some standing. She thought she’d seen him standing with his thane by the hall.

  He wore a woollen tunic, dyed a rich midnight blue. It was gathered at his waist with a silver-buckled sword-belt. Swinging from the belt was a sword, and a beautifully crafted dagger set with lapis-lazuli and other semi-precious stones. The Saxon’s blue tunic was slit at the sides and bordered with silver braid. His long legs were sheathed in chausses – trousers – bound to the knee with leather thongs.

  To her surprise, the Saxon dropped her hand and reached up to lift her bodily from Betony’s back. Beatrice could feel his fingers warm round her waist and she blushed, dropping her eyes before the amusement which sprang into his. She had only ever been this close to a man with Sister Agnes in the infirmary. And this man was far from sick. It was a long moment before he released her. She wondered why it had become so difficult to breathe, and her heart was pounding as though she had just run all the way from Normandy.

  He set her down gently and released her. Her limbs were numbed and slow to respond to her will. She staggered, and the Saxon was steadying her. He linked one of her cold hands casually through his arm.

  ‘You will be stiff and cold from your long ride,’ he said.

  Beatrice nodded again, grateful for his understanding. She wished she could find her tongue, but could think of nothing to say. He would count her as rude as her cousin if she did not reply quickly. The one sympathetic face she’d yet seen, she didn’t want to alienate him.

  ‘M...my thanks,’ she managed, inwardly cursing her nervous stammer.

  He led her towards the large wooden building, and the gawping crowd parted to let them through.

  Anne was there before them, standing in the doorway with an expression wh
ich put Beatrice in mind of a spoilt princess being asked to step into a hovel.

  Simple the Saxon hall may have been, but hovel it clearly was not. The wooden building was a large one, and from the outside looked as though it might contain two storeys. The roof was steep, well-thatched, and blue smoke seeped out from the top. There were intricate carvings on the doorposts, a regular geometric design with flowers and animals interspersed throughout the pattern.

  Beatrice could see by the way the long planks fitted together so neatly that a master carpenter had been at work. She managed to pick out the details of a water serpent. It rose gracefully from a wave which curved along the length of one of the wall plates.

  Anne had given neither the hall nor the carvings a second glance. Her usually pretty lips were twisted into an ugly sneer.

  Beatrice darted a glance at her Saxon escort, wondering if Anne’s blinkered attitude had been noticed. The vivid blue eyes were on her, not Anne. Her cheeks grew warm. She became aware of the feel of his strong arm through the fine cloth of his tunic, of him standing tall and straight and lithe beside her. Beatrice was aware of him as she had been aware of no one else in her young life.

  She forced herself to walk casually at his side in the hall, hoping she did not appear as self-conscious as she felt. Every nerve was alive and tingling. She pretended to gaze around the hall and struggled for composure.

  Inside, the hall was large and airy. There was a planked wooden floor with a clay hearth and a blazing central fire piled high with logs. Two wooden stairways led upwards, one at each end of the hall, and Beatrice could see a small gallery with a curtained doorway at the top of each stair. So this hall did have two storeys, with extra chambers constructed in the gable ends of the building. The wattle walls were black with the soot of generations of fires.

  Several awesome Saxon warriors had gathered in the hall ready to greet Lady Anne de Vidâmes. Beatrice would have expected to feel nervous at the sight of their alien and warlike garb, but she did not. She was quite safe on the arm of this blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon. Even the masked, bearded stares of the warriors now greeting Anne could not frighten her. The man whose arm supported her was far more disturbing, but in a different way. He was watching Anne, assessing her stiff acknowledgements of the greetings offered her with his eyes narrowed and frowning.

  Covertly, Beatrice examined his features. He was young, like the Thane of Lindsey, though maybe a year or two older. The thane’s beard gave him an older appearance, but Beatrice divined this was deceptive. The Saxon at her side had an assurance that the young lord clearly lacked.

  Her escort was still watching the newly betrothed couple. The thane looked across at them. It was an unmistakable appeal for help. Beatrice’s companion smiled back reassuringly. A strong bond must exist between the two men. She knew that her companion was willing Anne to relax her frozen face, to give the Saxon thane even the tiniest of smiles. Beatrice added a prayer of her own, and at that moment, as if aware of her silent entreaty, her companion’s hand came up to cover the one that Beatrice rested on his arm. She allowed herself to be drawn nearer to the fire.

  ‘Mistress.’ The hard voice of Baron Philip de Brionne made her start. She had forgotten him.

  ‘Baron?’ Unknown to her, her hand no longer rested lightly on her escort’s arm, but clung to his tunic. The Saxon’s eyes flickered briefly to her clinging fingers, before settling warily on the baron’s hard face.

  Philip de Brionne’s black eyes bored maliciously into those of Beatrice. She shivered. The heat of the fire no longer reached her.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be attending to your cousin, instead of consorting with Saxon scum, my dear?’ the baron asked in French. Only he could make a simple endearment sound like a threat.

  Beatrice caught her breath and glanced at her escort, but his handsome face was impassive.

  The baron raised his voice. ‘I doubt he speaks our tongue, my dear, at best they’re an uncultured rabble.’

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Beatrice asked softly in Latin, so her escort could understand. She thought she saw the glimmer of a smile on the Saxon’s lips, but could not be sure.

  Philip de Brionne’s lips grew thinner. He did not speak English then. His dark eyes went hard as jet.

  ‘Don’t be insolent. Allow me to escort you to your cousin. You may supervise your servant in unloading the packhorses. And remember, you are to share Lady Anne’s chamber till the wedding day.’ The baron proffered his arm, and Beatrice discovered her fingers were still holding fast on to the Saxon’s tunic. Clear hazel eyes raised briefly to warm blue ones.

  ‘I trust I will see you this evening at the betrothal feast?’ the Saxon asked, smiling.

  Beatrice nodded. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, aware of the baron shifting impatiently beside her.

  ‘My name is Edmund. I am half-brother to our thane.’

  The baron’s derisive snort turned two pairs of eyes on to him. Roughly, he laid Beatrice’s hand on his arm and turned away. His chain-mail felt cold and hard after the warmth of Edmund’s cloth-clad arm.

  ‘You won’t be talking to him again, not a convent girl like you,’ the Norman drawled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice asked, aware that Edmund had stiffened angrily behind her.

  The baron let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Not only is he of mixed ancestry, for I believe his mother had Danish blood in her,’ de Brionne sneered, ‘but I hear the man’s a bastard.’

  Beatrice gasped, amazed by the baron’s tactlessness.

  The Norman’s poisonous smile grew broad. He affected to misunderstand the cause of her dismay, and stirred his evil brew anew. ‘Aye, shocking isn’t it? Edmund is illegitimate, the bastard son of the old thane. I’m sure that the good nuns at La Trinité would not wish you to demean yourself by talking to persons of such low breeding and standing.’ As he spoke the baron pulled Beatrice away from the Saxon, Edmund.

  Beatrice hung back, trying to resist the relentless pressure on her arm. ‘No, I did not mean that! It was you I was shocked at for–’

  ‘The man’s a mongrel half-breed, a bastard,’ the baron said.

  ‘Please stop. You’re trying to provoke a confrontation. You want to cause trouble – I can see it on your face. We are meant to be here to conciliate, not to provoke,’ Beatrice said, pulling back to smile at Edmund. It suddenly seemed very important that he should understand her.

  Edmund was standing staring after them, his hand clenched white on his sword-hilt. His finely-shaped mouth had become a thin angry line, his patrician nose was held high, defiance and pride in every line of his tall, straight form.

  When his eyes moved from the baron’s back to meet hers, they were filled with such loathing that Beatrice recoiled. She could not believe they belonged to the same person who had welcomed her with smiling courtesy only a few moments ago.

  He didn’t understand. He believed his bastardy had repulsed and shocked her.

  Beatrice gazed hopelessly at him as the Norman jerked her towards Anne. The sight of the bitterness clouding those clear blue eyes froze her heart.

  She had known loneliness, and had thought that loneliness was a terrible curse. But this felt worse. This felt like desolation.

  It was as though she had lost a pearl of great price before she had even possessed it.

  ***

  Yells! Screams! Moaning! The clash of steel on steel!

  Beatrice stumbled into the Saxon chapel and slammed the swinging oak door shut. She must shield herself from the bloody scene outside.

  Trembling as though she had the marsh fever, she propped her head against the door and took some steadying breaths. Perspiration beaded her brow, she wiped at it with her sleeve. She scrubbed clammy palms on her skirt. She felt sick, she thought her heart was going to burst, and a dull roaring sound filled her ears. Surely the air would be tainted with the smell of blood forever...

  Her mind was so full of the carnage that she had witnessed, that Beatrice did not hear the rustl
ing, shuffling noise deep within the shadows of the chapel.

  She shook her head, but the ghastly images so recently imprinted on her brain were not easily dislodged. Her knees gave way and she slumped down on to the stone flags, thick auburn braids trailing in the dust. She brought up a hand that was the colour of wax and covered her eyes. That worked no better. However tightly she shut her eyes, she could not obliterate those hellish pictures, they’d been branded on her mind for all eternity.

  Beatrice bit down on her forefinger. Some physical pain of her own would be welcome, but she scarcely felt it. This was no nightmare. She could not escape this by waking. This was reality.

  It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. Yet had she but thought, she might have guessed that de Brionne was planning something. Why had those extra Norman soldiers arrived so unexpectedly – just before the betrothal feast? They had not been part of Anne’s escort. And why had the baron looked at her so angrily when she had come upon him conferring with the new Norman captain in this very chapel?

  De Brionne had been behind the flaring violence, of that she was certain. Not only had the Norman made no secret of his loathing for the Saxons, he had even appeared keen to foment discord between the two camps. Utter folly when any half-wit could have seen that the peace between them was so fragile.

  One minute she and her cousin Anne had been watching an apparently friendly wrestling contest between a Saxon and a Norman warrior, and the next...

  Beatrice took another gulping breath.

  The match had been intended as an entertainment, but the seething undercurrents had been there all the time. King William must be hoping for a miracle if he ever thought the two races would unite.

  Without warning the bubbling resentment had erupted into horrific and bloody violence. Beatrice frowned, wondering at the suddenness of it. She remembered only that the Saxon wrestler had been losing. Philip de Brionne had cast a sneering comment at his Norman captain, delivering his remark in such a tone that no interpreter was needed for the resentful Saxons to understand it. It was hard to believe that one little phrase had been enough to shatter the fragile peace.