A Norman sword had been drawn. A moment’s oppressive silence had followed – and then – the devil incarnate had been loosed among them.
Beatrice shuddered.
The sounds that had followed still rang in her ears – the shouts and shrieks of fighting men; the clash of steel on steel; the sickening tearing of sword through flesh. So much blood. So much pain.
The Norman force must have been prepared. They had ploughed into the Saxons as though de Brionne’s drawn sword had been the signal they had been waiting for. It must have been. De Brionne had literally scores of men at his disposal, men enough to cut a fearful swathe through the Saxon ranks.
The Englishmen had been hampered by their need to protect their woman and children. Many of their warriors had been cut down in so doing.
Beatrice had never experienced such violence before. She prayed she never would again. Her years with the gentle nuns at La Trinité had not taught her how to cope with such horrors. It was one thing to help Sister Agnes stitch up a peasant lad who had cut his foot on a reaping hook, and quite another to be faced with dozens of groaning men, all desperate for help.
Staring in shock at the bloody aftermath, and conscious of a void where her insides should have been, Beatrice had not known where to start. But start she had, helping both Saxon and Norman alike with an impartiality that would have gladdened the heart of Mother Adèle. Not so Baron Philip de Brionne.
The baron had stalked up to Beatrice as she was tending a young native lad. ‘No quarter for this one!’ he had snarled, pointing his sword and thrusting it through the helpless boy before Beatrice had known what he was about. No emotion had shown on that swarthy visage. No penitence. Nothing at all. Beatrice burned with shame that she should be a Norman too.
‘Can’t have you wasting your skills on those who are already dead, can we?’ The baron spat on the boy’s still body. ‘Tend to our Normans, girl. The rest are carrion.’
With every nerve screaming, Beatrice had held the lad’s hand until the light had gone from his eyes. Then she’d staggered up on legs that were as wooden as a tumbler’s stilts, and run straight to the chapel.
She sighed. So quiet in here. So peaceful. She crossed herself, just as the silence in the chapel was broken by a sharp cry from outside, quickly stifled. Another shudder ran through her.
She lifted her head, rose jerkily and moved further inside God’s house. The more distance she put between herself and the blood-spattered yard outside, the better. Facing the simple wooden cross, she put her hands together.
‘Sweet Jesus, why?’ Her voice rang out loudly in the stillness of the chapel. ‘Why? Dear Lord,’ she prayed in her native French, ‘have mercy on the souls of those who have died today. Especially on the soul of Aiden, Thane of Lindsey, murdered so foully by Philip de Brionne. Please grant that my cousin bear patiently with these trials, and if her marriage is not to help unite our two races and bring peace, grant that another route be found.’
The rustling sound came from behind the altar. This time Beatrice was nearer its source and she heard it. She shivered. There must be rats in here. She hated rats. She would finished her prayers quickly and be gone. The chapel was a sanctuary no longer.
She must return to tend the wounded. ‘Lord, give me strength to help the sick–’
Another furtive scuffling reached her and she gabbled to a close. ‘And Thy will be done. Amen.’
She was halfway to the door when a second moan and more shufflings raised the hairs on her neck. That first groan had come from within the chapel, she realised. Not from the yard as she had presumed.
Spine prickling, she whirled around. She could see only the simple church furnishings and bare stone floor. There was no screen in this chapel. Nowhere anyone could hide. The midday sun streamed through the small windows, it left shadows, but no corner was completely unlit.
A sudden flash of instinct widened her hazel eyes and they were drawn irresistibly towards the altar. The stone table was covered by an embroidered cloth. It moved. She heard another groan, quickly suppressed.
Beatrice knelt down. This time to lift one corner of the altar cloth. Her hand shook. The breath froze in her lungs. Another hand shot out and seized her wrist. She cried out, struggling against a grip of steel.
He was Saxon. His blue eyes were filled with hatred, his patrician features contorted with pain. Edmund!
Beatrice thought her pounding heart would burst.
The grip on her wrist shifted a fraction as the wounded man moved to bring his jewel-encrusted dagger to her throat. The movement clearly tortured him.
‘I...shall...have...to...kill...you.’ Though Edmund spoke haltingly in Latin, Beatrice did not understand him at first, his voice was clipped with suffering.
Ignoring the dagger, and the hatred blazing in his eyes, Beatrice slowly put out her free hand towards his tunic. It was covered in blood.
‘You are hurt.’ She strove to keep her voice steady. ‘Let me help you.’
The warrior did not relax his bone-crushing grip. ‘A Norman – help a Saxon?’ he hissed scornfully through set teeth. ‘It would appear that your people show no mercy to the helpless. Why should I with you?’ He took a shuddering breath. He was very white about the lips. ‘You would betray my presence...so I have no choice. I must kill you...or be killed myself. I’ve seen what your baron does to wounded Saxons!’
‘No, no! I won’t betray you,’ Beatrice said, her voice breaking on a sob. ‘There’s been more than enough killing already. Please...release me.’ As she pleaded she tried surreptitiously to free her wrist. Looking into the contorted, sweat-streaked face, she realised that the Saxon, Edmund, did indeed mean to kill her. She could read it in his eyes. Any compassion that he was capable of feeling was being ruthlessly suppressed. He, too, must have seen the baron kill that defenceless boy. And Aiden, his thane? Dear God, did this man know his half-brother had been killed? Her guts turned to water. There was no hope for her.
She fixed her eyes on his bloody tunic. ‘Edmund,’ she used his name deliberately, ‘permit me to help you. I have the skill.’
‘There’s no need for you to dissemble,’ he growled. ‘You would never help me. We Saxons were fools indeed to welcome such vipers in our midst. Your wedding gifts are deceit and treachery. I saw you at the betrothal feast. You did not seem to hate us then, though it is true your pretty cousin paid us scant attention. She at least was no hypocrite. She was too busy flirting with that Norman dog.’ Edmund paused for breath. His breathing was harsh and flurried. He coughed.
‘Philip de Brionne,’ Beatrice said, her revulsion of the Norman evident in her tone. Hazel eyes met blue in sudden concord.
‘I see you know him by my description.’ The wounded man’s lips twisted. ‘But I insult all dogs by so naming him.’
‘I had hoped to talk with you, my lord, at the feast, to explain...’ she hesitated.
‘Aye,’ Edmund gasped bitterly, ‘It may be that I am lord indeed, now my brother is dead. Go on, girl, what had you hoped at the feast?’ His expression was not encouraging.
At Anne’s betrothal celebration, Beatrice had sat at the head of the trestle table, close to her cousin. She had hoped that Edmund would chose to sit near his brother. But he had not done so. Instead he had seated himself next to a willowy blonde. He had returned her smiles easily enough. Conscious of a baffling and most un-Christian desire to wound as she was being wounded, Beatrice had devoted herself to charming the fair-haired Saxon next to her. And when it had become evident that Anne was not going to attempt to speak with her betrothed, Beatrice had included the young thane in her conversation. She had not wanted these Saxons think all Normans ill-bred and discourteous.
And now Edmund was waiting for her reply, his hold as unyielding as ever. Beatrice found her heart was too full to speak. She wanted to explain that she did not share de Brionne’s scorn for his illegitimacy. But she had read a fierce pride in Edmund’s eyes, and that recognition left a constriction in
her throat, and the words she had ready were never uttered.
Edmund coughed again, he winced and closed his eyes. For a moment his grip on her wrist loosened. Beatrice kept quite still. When he opened his eyes, they were cool as ice. His fingers tightened, and slowly but surely he hauled her nearer to the winking blade, watching her like a hawk. He sighed.
‘Beatrice. Beatrice,’ he muttered. ‘To think at first I thought you worthy. I thought...’
She was pulled closer and closer. She tensed as the blade wavered in front of her, noting in a remote part of her mind that was not frozen with fear, that the blade had not been blooded. She had to shut her eyes, she could not watch her own execution. A few moments passed. No cold blade struck into her flesh.
Possessed with a wild, impossible hope, she risked a glance. He had troubled to find out her name. She had not told him it. Surely he would not kill her? And the way he had said it...
Edmund was looking past her towards the door. His hold relaxed. Breathing a prayer of thanks, Beatrice snatched her wrist free. The Saxon’s face was white as chalk, his breathing alarmingly shallow.
‘Someone comes,’ he announced, his voice slurring the words like a drunkard.
Clouding blue eyes lifted to anxious hazel ones. His lips attempted a smile, it wrung her heart. ‘So I shall not have to kill you after all, my pretty Norman maid. Dead men cannot kill.’ His breath came out in a long sigh, his eyes glazed over, and his head lolled back with a crack on to the cold stone flags.
‘Beatrice? Beatrice!’ Philip de Brionne’s grating voice reached her, the baron was approaching the chapel. ‘Hell fry that girl, this is no time for praying! She’s work to do.’
Someone mumbled a reply. The door latch rattled.
Beatrice moved like the wind. She twitched the altar cloth back into place, flung herself into an attitude of prayer, and gazed up at the cross on the altar.
There were footsteps behind her. A mailed hand landed on her shoulder.
‘Here you are,’ de Brionne said. ‘I thought you’d be helping with the wounded. I did not expect your cousin to help. Lady Anne is far too squeamish for such work. But I did not expect you to be so delicate. On your feet.’
Beatrice hated his smile. It made her flesh crawl.
She rose and faced the Norman, schooling her face to cloak the loathing she’d felt for this beast of a man ever since she’d seen for herself what a callous, vicious killer he was. She must not show fear, for if he suspected she was hiding someone...if he suspected what lay beneath the altar...
Beatrice would do all in her power to prevent another mindless murder.
‘I will come back now, Baron,’ she said, managing to invest her voice with a lightness she did not feel. She moved forwards and her foot caught on something. There was a metallic scrape and the Saxon’s dagger skidded across the floor. Immobile with horror, Beatrice could only watch as the baron bent to retrieve it.
‘What have we here?’ the baron asked.
He turned the dagger over in his hand, examining the jewelled shaft with greedy eyes. How large and brutish his hand seemed holding the delicately-wrought instrument. Edmund’s hand had not looked so ugly, even though he’d threatened her. De Brionne’s hand was made to murder. Hastily Beatrice suppressed that last thought, lest the revulsion she felt showed on her face. De Brionne advanced on Beatrice and loomed over her.
‘Not, I think, the dagger of a Norman,’ he said.
With an effort Beatrice met his hard gaze. She stretched her lips into a smile. ‘My lord, forgive me.’ She looked at the dagger, and made her voice deliberately innocent. ‘It is so pretty with the coloured glass and inlay. I thought no one would miss it if I took it...’ she paused and, with a coquetry that would have scandalised the good nuns in France, turned the full charm of her hazel eyes on de Brionne. She almost recoiled at the answering flare which lit up his cold eyes, but managed to hold her ground.
The baron stepped closer, the dagger still resting on his palm. His nails were dirty. ‘The Saxon lad?’ he asked, reaching for her shoulder. His hand bit into her, and he scrutinised her as though he had never set eyes on her before.
Innards churning, Beatrice nodded. Far better that the baron should think her a thief than that he find Edmund helpless under the altar.
De Brionne lifted his lips from his teeth and sneered. ‘So you came here to gloat on your newly acquired loot. Not to pray for my blackened soul. Mistress, you disappoint me, truly you do.’ He leered at her, grinning, and as Beatrice caught sight of the gleam lurking at the back of his eyes, she knew that he lied. He was pleased to find her apparently without morals. Her mind balked from continuing up the road where that thought led her.
A wave of hatred swept through her. She longed to drag the leer off his face with her nails. But instead she kept the bright smile pinned on her lips and lifted the dagger from his calloused palm. ‘So I may keep it, Baron?’
‘Aye. But guard it well. It is more than coloured glass. Those are jewels, my pretty, they’re worth a small fortune.’ The baron employed his skin-shrivelling smile. ‘But I’ll warrant you know that already.’
His smile faded.
‘Baron?’ Beatrice looked at him, feeling suffocated.
‘It is strange. I did not judge that boy to be a noble. Such pretty toys are far from common.’
‘Would you have stayed your hand, Baron, had he been noble?’
De Brionne shrugged. ‘He might have been worth something alive. It seems my judgement is awry this day, for I’d not marked you for a magpie, either.’
Jet-dark eyes narrowed to scan the little chapel.
‘Baron!’ Her voice came out too high. She moderated it. ‘Perhaps the lad stole the dagger from his lord,’ she suggested, desperately seeking to distract him.
De Brionne ceased his perusal of the chapel. ‘Mmm? Oh, aye. Thieving scum, the lot of them. Loyalty? Means nothing to them.’ His eyes made another circuit of the chapel. ‘It is small, this sanctuary is it not?’
Beatrice caught her breath and prayed his choice of the word ‘sanctuary’ was accidental. ‘Aye, my lord,’ she gabbled, snatching wildly at the first words that entered her head. ‘It is small, but its purpose is the same as our larger churches in Normandy. We should love our enemies not–’
‘Pious sentiments, my dear, but you won’t fool me again,’ the baron snorted derisively and looked pointedly at the dagger. He shifted and seized an auburn plait. ‘I know you won’t be ungrateful now I’ve let you keep the pretty dagger, eh? You know how to give your betters the respect they deserve, eh, Beatrice? Especially someone who has turned a blind eye to your more...er...acquisitive tendencies.’
Beatrice felt the colour drain from her face. Her tongue twisted into a dry knot that stopped her voice. She tried to swallow.
De Brionne stripped her with his eyes, and barked a laugh at the rafters. ‘And to think I’d marked you for the convent! No, I’ve better ideas now. Coloured glass indeed! Come, Beatrice, it’s time you earned your booty. There are wounded fighters to attend to. Among other things...’
Flinging a glance behind her, Beatrice freed a trembling breath. She tucked the jewelled dagger firmly into her girdle. Dizzy with relief, meek as a lamb, she allowed the Norman to lead her into the winter sunlight.
The altar cloth was fluttering in the draught blown in from the yard. She turned back and latched the door, sealing the unconscious Saxon within.
Her fingers felt dirty where they’d made contact with de Brionne’s palm, and she wiped them hard on the stuff of her gown. Her brow wrinkled. Anne had made the same gesture after Aiden, Thane of Lindsey had handed her from her horse. Bracing her shoulders, Beatrice followed the baron out into the bone-chilling afternoon.
On entering the hall, she saw at once it had been cleared of its original Saxon inhabitants. She wondered where they’d gone. Surely even de Brionne could not have murdered them all?
Wounded Norman soldiers clothed the floorboards. That mo
rning they’d been strong, whole men. Now they resembled untidy bundles of flesh and rags – a sad testimony of the bitterness of the conflict. Now and then a groan rose up above the crackling of the fire, and the buzz of conversation stilled. It was not the moaning men that Beatrice turned to first. Those who lay voiceless and unmoving had first call on her skills, for their hurts were worst.
Lady Anne de Vidâmes, as the baron had said, was nowhere to be seen, but her maid was there. She did not look so haughty now. Walter appeared and hovered at Beatrice’s side.
‘Mistress Beatrice!’ the maid wailed, half hysterical. ‘Thank heaven you’re back! I don’t know why I’m expected to help. It is not for me, this work. There’s so much mess and blood...so many of them hurt. I...I don’t know where to start.’
An angry response rose to Beatrice’s lips, but she choked it back. The girl was close to tears.
‘Where’s your mistress?’ she asked gently.
‘In the upper chamber. She will not help. I don’t know what to do,’ the girl whined, her voice growing shriller by the minute. ‘So many of them–’
‘We cannot worry about Lady Anne now,’ Beatrice broke in sharply. ‘We need to make bandages. Ella, see if you can dig out some cloths, anything will do. Try behind the high table, I think they keep the table linen in that iron-bound chest.’
‘It will be locked, mistress,’ Ella objected.
Beatrice gritted her teeth. ‘Ask the baron to smash the lock. He won’t want his men to bleed to death.’
‘Aye, mistress,’ replied Ella, with dawning respect. Mistress Beatrice might be young, but she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders.
‘And Ella?’
‘Mistress?’
‘Make sure the linen’s clean. Tear it into strips, and bring it to me.’
Ella sniffed, but she nodded.
Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Page 4
