‘You understand Norman French?’ she exclaimed, seizing on this as a diversion to distract Edmund from his intention. Oddly, his knowledge of her tongue did not come as a surprise.
‘What, a barbarian like me? Surely not?’
‘I never said you were,’ Beatrice mumbled.
‘Nevertheless, barbarian or not, I think you dislike him,’ Edmund said, refusing to be side-tracked.
‘Aye.’ She couldn’t deny it. ‘It’s the way he looks at me. All hot, and yet with such cold eyes. It’s strange, I’ve never seen anyone who can watch you like that. It makes me squirm inside. And after this morning...’ Her voice wavered.
‘So you don’t want him to be the first to kiss you, either?’
Beatrice shuddered.
‘Does that thought please you?’ he prompted.
She shook her head slowly, wishing she could see more of his face through the gloom. Her heart was racing.
The pull on her braid increased and she found her head being brought down to meet his. Edmund’s eyes dropped to her mouth, went back to search her eyes again, and then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he slowly pulled her head down the rest of the way and his lips made contact with hers in a swift, tentative caress.
He released his hold on her braid. Wide-eyed, she drew back. He was looking deep into her eyes. He smiled, and then she was being drawn gently down again, and this time his kiss was not so tentative. And this time when he released her braid, she did not pull back. She was out of breath. Edmund’s hand rose briefly and fluttered a caress across her cheek. Then it dropped back with a jerk.
Beatrice struggled to bring some order back to her senses. His kiss had disoriented her. She saw that he was in pain again, and could not have marked the effect his kiss had had on her. Her lips tingled still, and the place on her cheek burned where he had touched her. She had no idea so simple a thing as a kiss could have such a devastating effect. Was it always like this?
Her mother had told her that ladies did not enjoy such things. That was for common women, for sluts. And the nuns did not speak of kisses either. They referred to them disparagingly as carnal matters, never to be discussed. She wondered if another kiss would have the same effect on her as his first had done.
She had been taught that lovemaking was a duty that married women had to put up with, and a rather unpleasant one at that. Until this moment nothing had happened to disabuse her of that idea. But Edmund, with one kiss, had filled her with delight. She wondered angrily why she had been lied to, why no one had seen fit to tell her how wonderful kissing could be.
Edmund was covering his face with his hand. His brow was deeply scored with lines.
‘Edmund, you’ve hurt yourself.’ Her voice shook.
‘It was worth it.’ He removed his hand and gave a lopsided grin.
‘Don’t be foolish. You’re all out of breath. Rest. I’ll leave the water here and try and bring you food and clothing later. You must rest.’
He held out his hand to her. ‘Did you enjoy your first kiss?’ She could hear a hint of uncertainty in his tone. ‘Or are you so furious that a Saxon has dared to touch you that you must run away?’
‘You are impertinent to ask such questions. I shall not answer.’ Beatrice felt the hot blood flooding her cheeks, and knew she was crimson.
‘So prim!’ he mocked.
‘I...I must go. They’re looking for me. God keep you till I return.’ She smiled and made to leave.
‘One thing further,’ Edmund’s voice hailed her back. ‘Hard by there must be a young Saxon girl, Hilda. I worry for her safety, if your baron lays his filthy paws on her. Please watch out for her. Try and prevent your people from harming her.’
Beatrice went cold to the core. The way he had sneered when he’d said ‘your people’. It was though he considered her in league with the Devil himself.
‘She is all I have left,’ Edmund was saying.
His voice was husky with emotion, and that betrayed more about his feelings for this Hilda than words ever could. He loved her. Beatrice stiffened her spine, and fought to keep her features in order.
‘Hilda,’ she repeated stonily. The knots were back, twisting her stomach.
‘Yes, Hilda. She’s very young. Please try and help her.’ Edmund held out his hand towards her. She ignored it. A puzzled frown crossed his white face and chased away his smile. She ignored that too. His hand dropped back on to the cloak, fingers closing on the thick folds.
‘There’s no need to pretend any more,’ Beatrice said coldly, and wrenched the altar cloth down so it screened his face from hers. Her voice was unrecognisable.
As she groped blindly towards the great door, Beatrice fought hard to push back the impression that Edmund’s face had watched her go with a strange vulnerability stamped across it.
It’s only because he’s ailing, she told herself, ruthlessly squelching the hope that there was another reason for the expression she’d glimpsed. It had been too dark to see him properly anyway.
‘Hilda indeed!’ she muttered angrily. She agreed with de Brionne about one thing. The Saxons had no sense of honour. And to think she’d actually enjoyed his kisses. The man was nothing but a barbarian.
Chapter Four
In the hall, the smell of tallow lanterns mingled with the aroma of roasted meats. More of the trestle tables had been set up and those who were still able-bodied were eating in the fitful flare of light cascading from half a dozen tall iron lampstands.
‘Beatrice! Meat is on the board.’ Anne called as soon as Beatrice appeared in the entrance. Anne was already ensconced like a queen in state. At her right hand, sat her king and consort, Baron Philip de Brionne.
As casually as she could, Beatrice kicked the damning roll of remedies out of sight behind an upturned barrel.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ the baron demanded.
Beatrice assumed a calm face and stepped into the splash of light. ‘Outside.’
‘Without your cloak?’ he pressed. His eyes gleamed black as sin.
‘I went for a short walk,’ Beatrice said airily. ‘I needed to clear my head.’ With a graceful wave of her arm she indicated the invalids.
‘Your patients have been tended and fed. So there’s no need for you to worry about them.’ The baron’s voice was dry, his emphasis on the last word alarming.
Beatrice kept a bright smile pinned on her face and took a place on the bench at her cousin’s other side. She peered at the baron from under her lashes, hoping his suspicions had not been aroused. He must not find out who lay hidden in the chapel. Though the Saxon had used her shamefully, she could not betray him.
‘Did you notice the moon is nearly full, Baron?’ Anne smiled flirtatiously at the Norman and he laughed. His saturnine face was almost human when lit by genuine laughter. Beatrice found herself giving thanks to the saints yet again that King William had commanded the baron to attend to her cousin’s every whim.
‘Can’t say I noticed the moon,’ he answered dryly. The baron and Anne exchanged smiles. Marvelling at her cousin’s ability to deal with men, Beatrice reached for a hunk of bread and some salt beef. If Anne could soften the baron’s hard heart, she could surely bend the most rigid of minds to her will. Such a talent might have many uses...
‘No, Beatrice. You mustn’t eat tonight.’ Anne laughed and pulled the serving platter away.
‘Why ever not? I’m hungry,’ Beatrice said, reaching out for her share.
‘I never thought you’d be asking that. Not with your convent education.’ Teasingly Anne edged the platter further from Beatrice. The baron choked on his wine.
‘Anne, don’t be so provoking. I’m hungry and I will eat.’ A half-eaten heel of a loaf sat within reach and Beatrice beat Anne to it by spearing it with her knife.
‘Oh, Beatrice!’ Anne pouted.
Deliberately Beatrice bit into the wheaten crust.
‘You fool, you shouldn’t have done that. You’ll have to wait a whole year now befor
e you find out.’ Anne glanced coyly at the baron and added pointedly, ‘I haven’t eaten a thing.’
From behind Beatrice a different voice broke into the conversation. ‘I don’t think the nuns will have told Beatrice about the superstition connected with St Agnes’ Eve.’
‘Save you, Father Ralph!’ Beatrice greeted the Norman priest. ‘I didn’t see you there. Please sit down.’ She shifted towards Anne to make room for the cleric and caught the baron’s cold eyes on her. She jerked her gaze away, afraid lest he should read her secret.
The priest muttered a hasty grace and carved into a side of pork. Noting Beatrice had no meat, he offered her a slice.
Beatrice grinned at Anne and took the food. ‘Thank you, Father. Will you tell me about St Agnes’ Eve? I’ve never heard of St Agnes, who was she?’
Father Ralph’s eyes twinkled. ‘St Agnes was a young girl who was being forced against her will to marry a pagan officer in Roman times.’ He cut a small piece of meat and threw it into his mouth.
‘That at least sounds familiar,’ Anne drawled, her voice laden with sarcasm.
‘Aye, well, ha-hmm,’ Father Ralph spluttered, red-faced, and reached for a drinking horn. He was unused to outspoken ladies, and had found the best way to cope with infelicitous remarks was to ignore them. ‘Mmm. This is good. Now, where was I? Oh, aye, the young Agnes. She was martyred. She refused to marry the pagan and a superstition has grown up about the eve of her Feast. It’s tonight, you know. Feast day tomorrow.
‘It is said that if a young – er – virgin wants to know the identity of the man she will marry, she should retire to bed having fasted since midday. Certain – ah – charms or prayers should be chanted, a specially prepared egg should be eaten, some mulled wine; and the maiden will apparently wake at midnight with a vision of her future husband before her eyes. Some claim it is possible the future husband will actually manifest himself in the flesh. Of course, there’s no truth in any of this,’ Father Ralph said, looking hard at both Beatrice and Anne.
There was a little pause, while the tip of the priest’s drinking horn pointed up to the tie beam and he gulped the contents down. He wiped his mouth with his habit and went on. ‘It’s a superstition that has pagan origins and as such is not to be heeded. St Agnes is chiefly honoured by the Church as being the patroness of young girls, and of bodily chastity.’
Philip de Brionne threw back his head and roared. ‘Come, Father! You can’t tell me anyone would really believe such a yarn.’
‘Sad to say, there are many who profess to believe in it,’ the priest assured him, shaking his head.
‘No, Father, that cannot be. Even you must see it is just an excuse to explain away a sin of the flesh. Tonight at least, those who profess to believe in the divinations can escape the conventions of everyday life.’ The baron aimed a quick smile at Anne. ‘Lovers could meet, and claim it was merely the prophecy brought them together.’
Beatrice frowned.
‘I must say that hadn’t occurred to me,’ the priest admitted.
‘It wouldn’t,’ de Brionne said curtly. ‘In your state of grace.’ His thin lips curled. In his jaundiced eyes, innocence was reckoned a sin.
Beatrice sprang to the priest’s defence. ‘It all sounds utter nonsense to me,’ she said. ‘I can see why I was never told of that superstition.’
Father Ralph smiled at her. De Brionne’s scornful shaft had left him quite undented. ‘Aye, my child. As Brides of Christ, the nuns would naturally take no interest in more earthly husbands.’
Beatrice proffered the jug of mead.
‘Thank you, Beatrice, I will have more. It’s just the thing to wash down this excellent cheese.’
‘I’ll say this for our absent hosts, they keep a good store,’ the baron remarked, draining his own vessel, and encompassing the laden board with a wide sweep of his arm.
Anne took the hint and filled the Norman’s horn to its silver rim with the wine he favoured. ‘It’s the one thing these barbarians know how to do. I’ve seen the storeroom. There’s row after row of salted meat, stacks of dried fruit, ale by the barrel–’
‘Ale!’ the baron sneered.
Anne smiled. ‘Yes, Baron, but you must allow this wine is good.’
‘Aye, Saxons might make good stewards. They’re fit for naught else. At least we won’t starve in this benighted hole,’ de Brionne allowed.
The talk became general. Beatrice ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Her cousin was indeed not eating and this surprised her. She had not judged Anne to be superstitious. Covertly she watched her cousin flirting skilfully with the baron. That was nothing new, but there was something about Anne’s manner that Beatrice had not seen before. She could not put her finger on it. She shrugged and wished that she possessed even an ounce of Anne’s sang-froid. She always felt so gawky with men. Anne would never be gawky with anyone.
Father Ralph was complimenting Beatrice on her healing skills, discussing the herbs she used. Inevitably, the conversation worked its way round to the culinary rather than the healing arts, for Father Ralph was all too fond of his stomach. Beatrice found her mind wandering and replied somewhat absently to his queries. The sooner the meal was over, the better.
‘...the chapel, Beatrice?’ Father Ralph asked, suddenly winning her full attention.
The food curdled in her stomach.
‘I shall visit it later to pray for peace,’ Father Ralph said. ‘An end to the violence.’ His gaze shifted towards the Norman baron.
Beatrice knew she’d gone pale. She swallowed and groped for her voice. ‘Oh, F...father, it will be black as pitch in the chapel. You won’t be able to see a thing. I’d go in the morning.’
‘You don’t need light to pray, my child,’ Father Ralph said gently.
‘N...no, Father, I know that. But...’ She trailed to a halt and turned to gauge how much the baron had gleaned from her stammerings. De Brionne’s eyes were narrowed, but when her eyes reached his, he diverted his brooding gaze instead to the brimming pitcher of mead.
‘More mead, Father?’ the baron asked smoothly. ‘Anne, your fasting does not include liquids, I hope.’ He was most polished, most charming. And a little voice inside Beatrice began to chant over and over like a litany. He knows, he knows, he knows.
Beatrice kept a firm check on her tongue, too fearful to speak, almost too fearful to move, lest she betray the Saxon hiding in the chapel. Every time de Brionne’s black regard rested on her, she forced herself to smile. She tried to eat, could not face the meat, and bit on her bread. It tasted stale, and stuck in her throat.
‘Beatrice! You’ve moved so far down the board I can’t reach your cup,’ de Brionne loosed a predatory grin. ‘Father, please replenish Beatrice’s goblet, methinks she has bitten off more than she can chew. We’ll have to keep an eye on her down there at the other end of the trestle.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Beatrice clung on grimly to her air of unconcern. ‘Will you be celebrating Mass tomorrow, Father?’ she smiled brightly.
A valiant attempt at conversation, but not enough. For the rest of the meal the dark, sin-black eyes remained fixed on her.
***
At last the dreadful meal was over.
The boards were being cleared and set back against the walls of the hall. Beatrice retrieved her bundle from its secret hiding place by the door, and shoved bread and meat inside. A pile of discarded bandages must serve to hide it until later.
The guards were bedding down in the cleared space in the centre of the hall, and the nightly battle had begun. Pillows and blankets flew across the floor as men elbowed and jostled for space. The successful combatants managed to win a place by the fire. The smoke billowing off it hung in the lungs, but it was either breathe fumes or freeze. Most preferred the fumes. The unlucky ones, those slower off the mark, and the wounded who had no comrade to see they were warmly stowed, had to make do with draughtier sleeping quarters by the door.
They fought and squabbled to their places
. On a night when the frost nipped even in the sooty warmth of the hall, most thought it better to suffer the fumes from the fire than the vicious English air as it blasted in through the cracks and stabbed at fingers and toes.
Beatrice glanced at Anne, still conversing with the baron under the overhanging first floor gallery. She was grateful that she and Anne had been accorded the privilege of sharing the upper chamber. She bade her dinner companions good night and climbed the stairs, a rush light in her hand. She pulled back the wall-hanging that served as a door to the upper chamber. Ella had let the candles blow out. She groped for the candle-clock she knew to be on her coffer, lit it, and sat on the edge of the bed, deep in thought.
When Anne came up some minutes later, a steaming goblet of mulled wine in either hand, Beatrice was already curled up in bed. The auburn head was half-hidden by the coverlet. She was quite still. Anne clunked a goblet down on the floorboards on her cousin’s side of the bed. A fragrant aroma of spices and herbs spiralled upwards in the steam and reached the girl in the bed. Anne saw her nostrils quiver.
‘Beatrice?’ Anne whispered loudly.
No answer.
‘Beatrice?’ Anne persisted.
Silence.
Anne sighed softly and pinched the candle out. There was a rustle of material as Anne moved round the bed and removed her outer gown. The bed sagged. The covers shifted.
Beatrice smiled into the darkness. Unbudging, she waited until she knew from Anne’s breathing that her cousin slept. Then she waited some more. And when she was quite certain, she slid soundlessly from the bed. The rush matting felt hard on her feet. She shivered and fumbled for her shoes. It was bitterly cold.
Reaching under the bed-frame, she caught up her outer clothes and, pausing only to snatch up one of Anne’s woollen cloaks, crept out of the room.
A dull glow from the fire lit up the hall. The only other source of light was a pinprick of light from a shuttered lantern atop a barrel. Sleeping bodies clustered round the fire. A hound whined in its sleep, legs twitching. Someone snored. A log spat and hissed.
Cautiously, Beatrice picked her way to the door where her pack lay waiting. She fumbled in the uncertain light, and thought she’d mistaken the place. Her heartbeat quickened. She grasped the lantern, opened the shutter a crack and groped again in the mean sliver of light. Her fingers stumbled on a familiar shape and she let her breath out in a slow sigh of relief. Thank God! She must go now. She could not be caught scrabbling about by the door when she should be abed.
Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Page 7
