Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  ‘Evening, mistress,’ the man responded, startled. He focused bleary eyes on the woman in front of him. Lady Anne’s cousin. He’d not heard that she dispensed favours among the men, but then he was not one to miss chances when they came his way... He straightened to his full height.

  Beatrice swallowed, and wrestled with revulsion. The man stank. It had sounded easy while they were safely in the chamber, but now she was confronted with reality, she wasn’t sure she could be convincing enough...

  She dredged up a dazzling smile. She’d used that smile to good effect once before, and prayed it worked again.

  It did. The guard looked as though he had wagered for the whole troop’s pay – and won.

  ‘Are you on guard all night?’ Beatrice purred.

  ‘Aye, mistress, all night.’ He stepped forwards eagerly, bringing his stench with him.

  Smile nailed ruthlessly in place, Beatrice side-stepped and evaded him. This put her and Hilda outside the stockade. So far, so good.

  The guard grinned. He was not one to be put off by a little evasive foot work. Not when the pretty lady’s lips smiled such a welcome. A game of cat and mouse was a fine way to warm the blood.

  Beatrice could hear Betony’s hoofs clopping on the iron-hard earth. Not long now.

  ‘You must get very cold and lonely out here.’ The husky throatiness of her voice pleased her. It was perfect, she sounded almost like Anne. This was easier than she’d thought.

  ‘Aye, my lady. I could do with some warming.’ His leer and his hot, bold eyes told her she had him completely fooled.

  ‘I shall have to see what I can do about that. Shall we say...midnight?’ she suggested, forcing her lips into what she hoped was a knowing smile.

  The hoofbeats were almost upon them.

  ‘Over here!’ Hilda’s screech jangled along every nerve.

  What was the girl doing? She’d wreck the plan...

  Hazel eyes stretched wide. Two horsemen were pounding up the rise to the palisade. It was impossible to see them clearly in the blurring twilight, but Hilda was reacting in the most extraordinary way. She was running towards them, cloak flying, the casket pressed grimly to her chest.

  ‘Hilda, what are you doing?’ Beatrice cried.

  Walter had halted by the gate, confusion stamped on his guileless face. He had not been told about this...

  Beatrice ran a few yards after the young Saxon girl. Then she stood, rooted to the spot. What was Hilda doing?

  One of the riders called out a harsh command to his companion. ‘Siward, take my sister. I have a score of my own to settle!’

  Hoofs pounded. The horseman was running her down. His face was pale and hard as marble. Raven-black hair streamed out behind him like a banner.

  Recognition dawning, Beatrice turned to stone. Her legs would not move, though the chestnut stallion pounded directly at her. She knew she would be killed. No warhorse could swerve now. He had left it too late. She was conscious of a sensation of surprise – she had not thought he would kill her. She closed her eyes, crossing herself, and put herself into the hands of the Almighty. The earth shivered – her eyes snapped open.

  The horseman drew level, then, quick as a flash, he struck. He leaned forwards, scooped her into the crook of his arm, and heaved her over the saddle with such a jolt that all the breath was forced from her lungs. He headed his mount down the track and spurred on.

  Beatrice fought for breath. It was like being crushed alive. Every hoofbeat was another stone on her ribs. But he’d not killed her yet.

  Edmund straddled no lumbering Norman warhorse. That was why she still lived. The chestnut was a fine-boned creature, delicate and fleet. His senses had not been blunted to enable it to survive the heat of battle. Able to respond to the most subtle of commands, the stallion had swerved, and its rider had snatched her up.

  Edmund groaned, and Beatrice tried to move. But he had her pinned in place with a hard hand in the small of her back. A Norman knight with a high saddle and hampering coat of mail could not have plucked her up like that, could not have held her prisoned across his horse’s shoulders...

  The blood rushed in her ears, but through it Beatrice heard a girl’s voice. It sounded very far off, very shrill.

  ‘Nay! Philip, do not! Have mercy! You may hurt her!’

  Beatrice strained for the reply.

  ‘That bitch has betrayed us once too often.’ Even distance could not soften de Brionne’s grating voice. ‘Archers, take aim. Loose at will!’

  ‘Philip, no!’

  Something feathered past her head, dangerously close. Black patches danced across her vision. White ones dazzled. Another arrow whistled past and quivered in the frost-burned grass.

  Beatrice saw no more. Several desperate needs took priority. She gulped for air. The roan’s coat scratched her cheek. She was slipping. She tried to cling to the horse-blanket, but her fingers were numb. The world whirled and her head slid lower. There was no slackening of that thundering pace. Any moment she would fall, and at that speed she could not survive. It would be a quick death. Suddenly, the hand on her waist shifted, and she was hauled clear of the ground and the pounding hoofs.

  Her lungs were bursting and her brain so scrambled with the juddering, that she felt no sense of relief.

  The horse reared to a halt. Beatrice was unpinned. She slid from her ignominious position and flopped on to the iron-hard ground, dizzy and gasping for breath like a beached fish. She was bruised all over.

  No sooner had she drawn breath when two booted feet moved into her line of vision. She managed to lift her head. Edmund gazed down at her, his face grim. ‘You really are a whore at heart, aren’t you?’ he sneered. ‘You’d dally with any man. If I hadn’t seen you with my own eyes, I might have credited you with some scruples.’

  Beatrice opened her mouth, but Edmund cut her off.

  ‘We’ve no time for arguments,’ he said sharply. ‘We must follow Hilda and Siward. We’ll probably be pursued. I only stopped to shift you. It’s difficult for Balder to pace himself with you bouncing across him like a sack of wheat. He’s no baggage mule.’

  Beatrice bridled and shoved her hair out of her face. ‘I take it Balder is your horse?’ she retorted.

  Edmund nodded.

  ‘My thanks for the consideration!’ she said waspishly. ‘But I don’t find it much of a way to travel myself.’

  Edmund nudged her with the toe of his boot. ‘Get up, girl.’

  ‘You can’t just carry me off.’

  Edmund’s head was tilted to one side, his eyes watching the track along which they had just pounded. He gave a brittle laugh. ‘I just did, though the good Lord only knows why. Do you think you might have any value as a hostage?’

  Beatrice scrambled up, still panting, and flung off his hand. She looked around wild-eyed. It was almost dark, the moon was lost behind a cloud. The landscape was bleak and unfriendly. An owl hooted. A shadow flitted across the sky. Nothing else moved.

  ‘There’s no one to help you here.’ Edmund coolly echoed her thoughts. ‘Be sensible, Mistress Beatrice. If you agree not to struggle, I won’t bind you, and you can ride quite comfortably before me.’

  Edmund caught hold of her wrist and marched her to his mount. ‘Mistress.’ He clasped his hands for her and heaved her up on to the stallion’s saddle-cloth.

  The cloth would not hold her as safely as her own saddle, and he’d be using the stirrups. She would be riding all but bareback. She was afraid, but she would die before she admitted it. Beatrice held herself as straight as she dared and glared at Balder’s ears. She felt Edmund climb up behind her.

  ‘Comfortable now, mistress?’ he enquired, sarcastically.

  Beatrice turned cautiously to look at him. ‘Please, Edmund. Do not do this.’

  Edmund’s eyes moved past her to the path. She was wasting her breath.

  She tried changing her tack. ‘At least tell me where you are taking me.’

  Edmund did not deign to reply. He
kicked his mount into a canter which had Beatrice lurching from the saddle. She clutched wildly at the flying chestnut mane, and all but fell. At once a strong arm wrapped round her waist.

  ‘You’ll have to force yourself to lean against me, if you want to escape collecting a broken limb,’ he muttered.

  Beatrice had to agree. She was no tumbler that she could ride without stirrups. She eased herself to rest against him, unconsciously accommodating her posture to avoid his damaged shoulder. His body was warm against hers. She could feel his breath on her neck. It did feel safer leaning back, with his arms about her. She relaxed.

  If only circumstances had been different.

  She sighed. The sympathetic, gentle Edmund that had attracted her had gone. A cold stranger had taken his place. He would not listen to her, he believed the worst of her. He was a Saxon and her sworn enemy. A lover no longer. He had made it plain that she was his hostage. Beatrice knew that the Norman baron would pay no ransom for her. Had it been Anne that Edmund had captured, de Brionne might well have paid up. But there would be no ransom paid for Beatrice. De Brionne suspected her of being in league with this Saxon.

  Her eyes stung with a rush of tears. Of no value to anyone, she was mistrusted by both sides.

  Hoping to find some warmth in his expression, she twisted her head round to peer at Edmund. He was gazing fixedly ahead, a dark frown bringing his eyebrows together. She wondered what he would do to her when he realised her value as a hostage was negligible.

  She shivered. She’d heard of bloody Saxon rituals that harked back to pagan times. Would they kill her in revenge for Aiden? She held her breath. She had the dagger he had given her. She could feel it bouncing up and down on her hip as they rode. Why had she not thought to defend herself with it? She freed her breath, realising she could never turn the blade against him. And he must know it too...that was the most shameful thing. He was a warrior. He would not dream of leaving an enemy armed. The fact that he had done so could only mean that he knew she could not use it. She was filled with shame. That she should be so transparent...

  The steady rhythm of the cantering stallion lulled her fears. All at once, Edmund pulled up and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Indignantly she made to peel it off. Balder stamped and sidled beneath them.

  ‘Quiet!’ he hissed, bringing the stallion under control. ‘For God’s sake, stop struggling! I think we’re being followed. Will you be silent?’

  Beatrice nodded and was released. He needed both hands to hold her and the reins.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ Beatrice whispered, too loudly.

  Instantly his hand clamped back on her mouth.

  ‘You may want to betray me, Mistress Beatrice, but I plan on seeing another sunrise,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘If you’re not quiet, I’ll have to gag you.’

  Then Beatrice heard it. The unmistakable sound of a horse on their trail.

  ‘It sounds as though one man rides alone,’ Edmund whispered softly. ‘If he were one of my men, he would approach. He must know exactly where we are, and he must be Norman.’ Edmund transferred his hand to the reins.

  Her mouth free, Beatrice kept her tongue firmly between her teeth. The moon reappeared from behind a cloud and lit Edmund’s face. He’d turned to listen to whatever tailed them, and his features were deeply etched with lines of exhaustion. She’d know that profile anywhere; his patrician nose was unmistakable. His hair hung in wild disorder. She wanted to reach up and brush it from his face. She clenched her fingers into Balder’s mane and her nails bit through to her palms. She was a fool. How could she still feel for this Saxon when he admitted he’d captured her to ransom her? He would scorn her concern.

  Edmund glanced at her. ‘They’ve stopped, whoever they are. I don’t think they are planning to jump us. Not yet awhile,’ he muttered in an undertone. He gave her a crooked smile, and something inside her melted. He had been aware of her staring at him.

  She lowered her eyes before the question in his, and they fell on a dark patch at his shoulder. ‘Edmund!’ She reached out to touch it.

  ‘Leave me be.’ Brusquely, he pushed her hand aside. Balder broke into a trot.

  ‘But your wound is bleeding again. You need rest and care.’

  Her fingers, sticky with blood, made a grab at the coarse mane. They plunged into a rocking canter.

  ‘I’m well aware it’s bleeding,’ Edmund spoke tightly in her ear. ‘It’s one of the reasons I’m in haste to reach a safe haven. It hurts like the devil and I’ve no intention of passing out to leave myself at the mercy of a Norman! I intend to shake off our shadow first. Hold tight. Come on, Balder, my friend, a little speed now!’

  The roan surged forwards through the cheerless night, hoofs ringing loudly on the frost-bound earth. Beatrice set her teeth. It took all of her willpower to remain seated. Numbed fingers clung with grim desperation.

  She was on a nightmare ride through hell. Dark tree-shapes flashed past them, branches and brambles scratched at face and cloak. Her sense of direction had long flown to the winds. The alien landscape became host to unseen dangers. They grew and multiplied on the fear in her mind. Wolves, robbers, outlaws...

  Beatrice was alone in the wilds with a remote stranger. She prayed he might protect her. Then her blood ran cold. Edmund’s hand had relaxed its hold on the reins. He was swaying uselessly in the saddle behind her. His breathing sounded like a breeze rustling through dry reeds, and he slumped against her back. Balder, no longer under Edmund’s control, slowed to a walk.

  Experimentally, Beatrice flexed her fingers. She still had some use in them. Loosing her clutch on Balder’s mane, she put one arm behind her and steadied her captor. With the other she picked up the reins that hung slackly on the horse’s neck.

  Edmund’s head lolled against her shoulder-blade. The arm that had earlier been used to hold Beatrice in her place now clung to her for support. His other arm crept feebly round her waist.

  ‘Edmund. You cannot pass out,’ Beatrice said firmly. ‘Stay awake a little longer. I will find somewhere to shelter, and then...then you may faint if you have to.’

  His answer was no more than an incoherent mumble, but Beatrice took heart from the fact that his arms still circled her waist.

  ‘Edmund, rouse yourself! This place is unknown to me. I need your help. Do you know where we might rest? Are we near shelter?’

  Another incoherent mumble.

  The wind worried at her face. Beatrice grimaced. It seemed she must find shelter without his help. So much for Edmund fighting off the hordes of the Devil for her!

  This desolate spot offered no refuge. The shrieking wind alone stripped flesh from bones. Beatrice nudged Balder’s flanks with her heels, and the stallion responded at once. She did not trust herself to urge him to anything faster than a brisk walk. She had to keep them both seated.

  Balder plodded placidly into the darkness. And, high on his back, Norman maid and Saxon warrior were huddled together.

  Without warning, the stallion jerked his head. He began to resist the guiding pressure on the reins. Beatrice wrestled to hold him, but the beast had the bit between his teeth, and she was outmatched. He veered off the track and dived down a slight incline. Edmund’s body was a dead weight behind Beatrice, and in fighting to keep him upright, she was forced to allow the horse his head.

  At last Balder stopped. They appeared to be at the bottom of a dry ditch, the banks of which were covered in shrubs. A bush loomed large before them. Beatrice poked the animal in the ribs, but stubborn as a mule, the stallion dug in his hoofs.

  ‘Move, you brainless beast!’ She kicked with all her might, but the stallion remained immovable. Recognising defeat, Beatrice capitulated. Behind her Edmund was slipping sideways. At least the wind was less biting down here.

  She dismounted and stood at Edmund’s side. He was barely conscious. She reached up her arms. ‘Edmund. Help me get you down,’ she said, in as commanding a voice as she could muster.

&nbs
p; Edmund turned his head in her direction as if wondering who was speaking, but by some mercy he obeyed her. He swung himself off Balder and fell into her arms. She staggered under his weight.

  ‘Well done, Balder,’ Edmund mumbled, trying to find his feet. ‘Small cave...hidden behind bush...’ His eyes closed and his legs folded. He toppled like a tree, and Beatrice was trapped beneath him.

  She lay winded, a protective hand at his shoulder. What had he said – a hidden cave? Hope flaring, she eased herself free.

  Chapter Seven

  Bent double behind the prickly bush, Beatrice discovered a cold rock face rearing up to heaven. She frowned, it could not be the side of a hill, for the only rise she’d seen near Lindsey was the one the Saxons had built on.

  There was a narrow passage behind the bush and Beatrice squeezed along it, holly pricking at hands and face. Her groping hands found a wide crack in the stone. The cave entrance? She did not much like the thought of entering it without a light. Although the moon was full, the holly bush blocked off its light. She forced herself through the gap and found herself in a natural fissure, spacious enough to camp in. Her head banged rock, and she dropped to her knees. Thank God, the earth was dry. Crawling back towards the entrance, Beatrice felt a sharp stinging sensation sweep up through her robe. Ice. There must be a frozen stream on one side of the cavern.

  Leaving the fissure, Beatrice ran to where Edmund sprawled out on the ground. He had not moved since she had left him. A surge of tenderness welled up inside. She bent to roll him over. He might think badly of her, but for the time being he needed her, and that was a start. She put cold-deadened hands under his shoulders and, grunting with the strain, began to drag his body towards the shelter of the cavern.

  Not a muscle twitched. He lay still as death, but his heart pumped with steady regularity. There was not much she could do for him till daylight.

  Balder whinnied from the gully. Beatrice went back outside.