Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  A large tear rolled down her cheek. She sniffed. If only she’d realised sooner. She did want to marry him. But she wanted him to want her too. She would not have him wed her because his hand had been forced by de Brionne. How could she have explained all that to him with the audience they’d had? And then when he’d driven the others out and they’d been left alone, he’d closed his ears to her...

  Beatrice dashed away her tears. She straightened her shoulders and strode past the guards, taking the well-beaten track that led away from the Saxon settlement. She was so determined to conquer her anguish that she forgot she wore no mantle, and that to walk abroad so lightly clad on such a morning was sheer madness.

  Chapter Six

  The ruts and potholes in the narrow mud track had frozen into hard ridges, making the going difficult. Beatrice was forced to walk alongside the main path. Stiff brown grass crunched underfoot, and iron-cold earth cut through the thin leather of her shoes.

  It was some minutes before she was calm enough to notice her surroundings. She was striding briskly down a slight incline and must be on a drovers’ path. It wound on down through a wooded area. There was no one else in sight. Alders stood stark and leafless; stripped of their summer foliage, with skeletons exposed, they were grotesque. A wintry sun sparkled on frost-patterned buckthorn and narrow waterways. The harsh cawing of rooks was the only sound.

  Or was it? Beatrice peered uneasily over her shoulder. A branch cracked behind her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called in alarm.

  The crows cawed in reply, she heard nothing else. The sunlight was reflecting from the surface of the lake she’d seen on her way here. She wandered towards it.

  It was quiet by the mere. Peaceful. As she walked, Beatrice scuffed the tufts of reeds and fen-sedge that grew along the water’s edge. A pair of moorhens skulked in the rushes – she caught the flash of their red bills. The water grasses had been harvested recently – she could see where they’d been cut. Probably a cottager repairing a leaky roof, for it was no season to undertake major thatching work.

  Her gaze skated over the icy flatness of the lake. She wondered how deep it was. Did the Saxons swim there in summer? In midwinter it would be cold enough to kill.

  A heron rose heavily from a clump of coppiced willows and flapped into the air, legs trailing languidly. Realising she had come farther along the bank than she’d intended, Beatrice turned to retrace her steps. In these unsettled times you could not be too careful. She must not forget she was a hated invader here. She shivered, her feet were damp, and she was feeling the cold.

  An image of Edmund’s face, dark with anger, flashed into her mind. She ground her teeth. She wished now she’d had the courage to tell him clearly what she felt. But it was not all her fault. He’d not given her a chance.

  She started. There it was again. A slight movement near that swamp-elder. She told herself it must be a bird eating the berries, and then remembered with a sinking feeling that the red fruit was poisonous. A premonition of danger set the hairs on end on the back of her neck.

  She quickened her pace, her heart beginning to thump uncomfortably in her breast. She thought of robber bands roaming unchecked the length of the country, of mercenaries out for easy prey, and broke into a run. The air rasped cold down her throat with every breath. She stumbled and slid along the ice-bound ridges of the track.

  ‘Nay, lass. Whither bound in such haste?’ A male voice asked.

  Beatrice stopped mid-flight. She’d almost reached the edge of the copse, and could see the buildings of the settlement at the top of the rise. The road was blocked by a blond giant. His huge frame was strangely garbed in garish, flowing clothes that hung about him like unwound hanks of fresh-dyed wool. Poised to run, Beatrice tipped her head back and stared. He had clear grey eyes. His smile seemed reassuring.

  ‘I’ll not harm thee, little one.’ The giant scanned her tearstained cheeks. ‘What ails you, mistress? Perhaps you saw someone and were frightened?’ He posed the question casually, but Beatrice glimpsed tension in the back of his eyes. His voice was deep and rich.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Morcar. I’m a harper, and at your service, mistress. I come to offer songs and tales for your delight.’

  She noticed the harp that was slung over one broad shoulder. ‘A minstrel! You’re a minstrel,’ Beatrice smiled, relieved.

  ‘Aye, a minstrel and much more,’ Morcar said mysteriously. ‘It is my role to please. Did you think I was a cut-throat?’

  ‘I...I wasn’t sure. I walked out too far on my own. And I thought I heard...but no matter, it must have been you. You did startle me,’ she admitted. ‘Are you Saxon?’

  ‘For my sins.’ He smiled.

  ‘You speak French well, Morcar. Is that common in a Saxon?’

  Morcar’s laugh matched his frame, it was loud and booming. ‘Nay, not common.’ He shook his head and grinned. ‘But, mistress, I am not a common man. I have many talents. My harp ensures a good welcome wherever I go, and I have travelled far with it. It opens many doors to me that are closed to others.’ He shrugged. ‘And Normans pay for their entertainment as well as my own race. I have learned your tongue in my journeyings, mistress.’

  Morcar started up the track towards the stockade, and Beatrice fell into step beside him. She had to take two or three strides to every one of his.

  ‘I come to see if your people would welcome singing tonight,’ he said.

  Beatrice smiled up at the giant with his shaggy thatch of yellow hair and thus she did not observe the crouched figure that broke cover from behind a scraggy shrub and scuttled into the shelter offered by the wood.

  ***

  ‘Who’s that with you, mistress?’ The lookout challenged suspiciously. The wooden palisade offered little in the way of protection from the wind, and the sentry was frozen to the core.

  ‘This is Morcar. He’s a minstrel come to entertain us,’ Beatrice told him.

  ‘A Saxon by the look of him.’ The guard eyed Morcar’s vivid clothes and made as if to yell for assistance.

  Morcar smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder as though they’d met over a pot in a tavern. ‘Do you think I’d wear all the colours of the rainbow, if I meant to work harm on you?’ He laughed. ‘Nay, surely an enemy would be far more discreet. I’ve come armed with harp, not sword. I’m no fighter, despite my size.’

  ‘That’s a blessing,’ the guard smiled with obvious relief. ‘I’d not willingly cross swords with a mountain like you.’ He waved them through the gate. ‘I dare say we’ll be glad of entertainment. These winter evenings are too long by half. Ho, there! You in the yard! Tell the baron there’s a minstrel at the gate!’

  Inside the hall Beatrice hobbled on frozen limbs to the fire. Anne billowed over, fluttering anxiously, but Beatrice brushed aside her concern with a rueful smile. ‘I’m alright, Anne. I’ll warm up in a minute. It’s my own fault for dashing off without my cloak.’

  Morcar was accorded a wary welcome. He settled near the blaze, straddling a stool to tune his harp. Harpers were usually received with open arms, for a skilled minstrel could make tired, cold, homesick men and women forget their miseries. He could transport his listeners to glittering realms where they could all be transformed into heroes and heroines.

  But this minstrel was Saxon. The baron had allowed him into the hall, but so far no one had ventured to join him by the fireside. Unperturbed by his cool reception, Morcar smiled blandly round the room.

  Warming through at last, Beatrice watched his gigantic hands as they idly plucked a string or two. It was strange to see how nimble those oversized hands were on the strings of the harp. He wore some fine finger-rings, payment no doubt for the songs he had sung on his travels. A large jewel flashed in the firelight. It was one of many and, judging from the size and quality of his rings, Morcar was an accomplished player.

  ‘Have you travelled far this day? Would you care for some refreshment?’ Beatrice asked, de
termining to be polite.

  ‘You could say I’ve come from another world–’ Morcar smiled cryptically ‘–and I’d not refuse some ale. Thank you, little one.’

  Beatrice frowned, puzzled by Morcar’s strange remark. She took it to mean that he had walked a great distance.

  An assortment of utensils dangled from Morcar’s belt. He unclipped his drinking horn and handed it to her. She filled it. It was swiftly drained. She was refilling the vessel when a commotion outside the door drew her attention.

  A man cursed. There were sounds of a struggle. A figure was flung across the threshold and landed on all fours on the floor of the hall.

  Hilda!

  Morcar’s hand twitched and ale spilled over the silver rim of his drinking horn and on to his be-ringed fingers. He made no move to wipe up the ale, but stared at the Saxon girl, stock-still.

  Beatrice stepped forward. So did the baron. She found herself facing him across Hilda’s small body. The Saxon girl stabbed at the baron with eyes that glared bitter loathing.

  He was unmoved. ‘Who in heaven’s name are you?’ de Brionne demanded coldly. He hauled Hilda to her feet, holding her at arm’s length to examine her.

  ‘Be careful, my lord. She’s got claws,’ the groom who’d found her warned. He was rubbing his face. Two long scratches ran down the side of his cheek.

  Hair awry, Hilda stared wildly about the hall. She started visibly when her eyes came to Morcar. Morcar gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and transferred his gaze at once to the pitcher of ale. He did not glance her way again.

  ‘Who are you?’ the baron asked, shaking her.

  ‘Her name is Hilda,’ Beatrice said. ‘She is but a child. Please release her. You can’t be afraid she is going to hurt you.’

  ‘Beatrice has it aright. This must be Hilda, Aiden of Lindsey’s sister–’ Anne held out the psalter ‘–remember her name is marked in this.’

  De Brionne grunted and relaxed his grip, baring his yellow teeth in that wolfish grin. Hilda rubbed her arm, her eyes spitting sparks.

  ‘Lady Hilda,’ de Brionne drawled. ‘Forgive my rough soldier’s manners. I had no idea who you were. Wench! Yes, you there, Ella! Some food for the lady. And then, Lady Hilda, perhaps you would care to retire to the upper chamber. I’m sure Lady Anne would not object to your resting there.’

  ‘I am to be a prisoner?’ Hilda asked, scowling.

  ‘A prisoner? Whatever gave you that idea? Nay, more of an honoured guest. You look as if you’ve been short on sleep, Lady Hilda.’

  Falsely solicitous, the baron handed Hilda over to Ella. He gestured two guards over, and indicated that they should keep watch over the Saxon girl.

  Seated at the trestle, Hilda glowered into her platter. But she was not stupid and had no intention of starving herself. She dismembered the new loaf Ella gave her, and favoured the baron with glances so barbed that none doubted it was he she wished torn asunder.

  Beatrice intercepted a puzzled frown directed at Morcar. The blond giant remained impassive, and when Hilda had done with her scanty meal she heaved a great sigh and stalked up the stairs.

  ‘Well, Philip, what a stroke of luck! The heiress herself,’ Anne crowed.

  ‘Aye. We seem to have Saxon maggots crawling out of the woodwork all over the place today,’ de Brionne responded thoughtfully.

  Beatrice frowned.

  ‘I wonder if that chit knows where it is. This will require careful handling, I...’ De Brionne’s sharp eyes fell on Beatrice’s curious face. ‘Beatrice, stop goggling like a witless serf, and do something useful. Go and tell your Saxon lover in the chapel that I shall be visiting him again to reopen negotiations.’

  ‘I have no lover, Baron.’

  De Brionne’s smile would freeze fire.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ he said. ‘But do it, will you? Go and tell that half-breed I will be over to parley. But first, I must consider...’ He began to prowl up and down the hall.

  Beatrice was dismissed. She hesitated. She didn’t want to see Edmund. Not if he was still seething. The misunderstanding in the chapel had been ghastly. Beatrice had assumed he would marry the heiress, Anne. And Edmund thought Beatrice despised his illegitimate birth. She could not explain till he had calmed down.

  ‘Get along, Beatrice.’ The baron stopped pacing and frowned irritably at her.

  Smiling somewhat distractedly in the direction of the minstrel, Beatrice trailed to the door. Her dagger glinted in the fireglow, and Morcar’s thick blond brows snapped together. Veiling his eyes, the Saxon reached for his horn of ale.

  ***

  The chapel was empty, Edmund had gone.

  He’d covered his tracks. The cloak Beatrice had given him had vanished, as had the sword.

  And the little space under the altar? She snatched back the cloth and peered in. Nothing, except a solid metal ring set into a stone. She had not noticed it before, Edmund’s body must have lain across it. She grasped the ring and pulled. Nothing happened. She put both hands to it and hauled harder, using all of her strength. This time the stone juddered, but it was too heavy and she could not lift it out. She relaxed her grip and the slab grated back to its original position.

  Feeling oddly dispirited, Beatrice let the ring clank back. She meandered to the centre of the chapel and stared blindly at the wooden cross.

  He had gone. Edmund of Lindsey had gone. He could be anywhere, hiding out with rebel Saxons, anywhere. She may never see him again. What was especially hard to stomach was that he had gone thinking her a narrow bigot. She told herself that she had not wanted to see him, and cursed the hopeless misery that welled up inside her.

  Moments later de Brionne stomped into the chapel. He pulled up sharply, taking the situation in at a glance. Beatrice was blank-eyed in the middle of the small nave, chewing a finger in deep abstraction.

  ‘Where is he?’ the baron roared, grabbing at his sword. His swarthy visage was purple with fury.

  Beatrice raised sad eyes and shrugged.

  ‘If you’ve helped him escape, you will rue the day you were born.’ Sword at the ready, de Brionne quartered the chapel. But the target he sought had gone. Unable to vent his spleen, he raged back to the yard, bellowing loud as a baited bull.

  In seconds a pack of mail-clad men had overrun the chapel. They scoured every inch of the place. Benches toppled, wall-hangings ripped. It was only a matter of time before one of the baron’s hounds sniffed out the stone trapdoor. He barked his triumph, and snatched at the iron ring. Reluctantly, the stone scraped out.

  The baron clapped his man on the shoulder, shoved him aside, and peered into the cavity. ‘Well done, man,’ he approved. Impious boots mangled the altar cloth which lay where it had been flung, half wrapped round the toppled cross.

  The concealed recess was not large. There was space enough to contain a small box, but nothing more. De Brionne bent and swooped on a tiny object that lay in a corner of the cavity.

  Beatrice craned her neck. It was a silver penny. Something clicked neatly into place. Edmund had hidden a casket in her travelling chest. His casket must contain Saxon silver. Obscenities were battering at her ears.

  ‘Hell and damnation! So this is where that lousy bastard hid it! It was here all the time.’ De Brionne swore and rounded on Beatrice so viciously she recoiled. ‘I expect you find this amusing,’ he snarled. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

  Beatrice gulped, wishing she’d not come so close. ‘About what, Baron? The silver penny? Or the secret hiding place? I’d not seen either until just now,’ she replied truthfully.

  The baron’s eyes were black as thunderclouds. She held her ground and raised her chin a notch, waiting for the storm to break over her head. But, surprisingly, de Brionne merely glowered and slammed out of the chapel.

  Mechanically, she retrieved the cross and set it in its place. The altar cloth was a ruin of crumpled silks. She shook it out. De Brionne’s careless feet had damaged the delicate fabric almost beyond rep
air. She folded the cloth over her arm and went out after him.

  A sorry lookout was sitting at his post, clutching his head in both hands. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. He must have come up behind me.’

  ‘Fool! Where’s your helmet?’ De Brionne rapped out. He was wild with fury. ‘Jesu, I’m surrounded by fools. Where’s that wretched girl? Beatrice, don’t you slink off. Tell me what you know about the Saxon’s escape.’

  Beatrice bit her lip. ‘Baron, he’d already gone when I arrived at the chapel. I know nothing.’ Her mouth felt dry.

  De Brionne snorted. ‘You expect me to believe you had no hand in this?’

  Anger burned in her breast. It aided her. She met that coal black gaze steadily. ‘I don’t much care what you believe,’ she said flatly. ‘I probably would have helped him if he’d asked me to. But he didn’t. He escaped without my help.’

  Several people, bursting with curiosity, had gathered by the gate. The Saxon giant was among them. Beatrice found herself meeting Morcar’s disinterested gaze. He stood casually, but none the less, the thought crossed her mind that the minstrel was not as impartial as he would have his Norman hosts believe.

  ‘You are insolent.’ De Brionne scowled. ‘Get to the upper chamber. You will remain there till we eat tonight. You anger me, and if I have to look at you any more...’ His unspoken threat hung in the air as plain as the misty clouds of his breath.

  ‘So I’m to be incarcerated too. Very well. Frankly, that is preferable to enduring your company,’ Beatrice said recklessly. It was intolerable. She simmered with a heady combination of fear and rage, aware that the blow of Edmund’s departure hurt more than any of the rest. She felt it like a spear-thrust through her vitals.

  The baron’s face was livid. His hands were tight at his side, and Beatrice flinched, fearing he’d strike her. ‘Don’t get too used to Lady Hilda’s company,’ he said. ‘I have plans for that Saxon stray. Plans that will be executed soon.’