Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  The stallion stood patiently while she unloaded him. She found a couple of blankets strapped on to his back. Balder’s flanks were shining in the moonlight, flecks of sweat streaking his coat. She knew the horse would catch a chill if she did not attend to him. Crisply and neatly, she rubbed him down and flung one of the blankets over him. That would have to do. She could not spare a mere horse more time than that.

  Back in the cave, her eyes took awhile to adjust to the almost total blackness. She fumbled at Edmund’s pack, trying to guess at the contents. Some bread, dried meat, a leather water bottle, a knife. Putting these things on a ledge, Beatrice felt for tinder and kindling. She searched in vain. Not even a taper. He must carry them, everyone did, but she’d probably dropped them when she unloaded the horse.

  Beatrice shivered and sneezed. She could hear the wind whistling over the ridge. Her head began to throb. If only she could light a fire...

  She ran her hands over Edmund’s cold form. She put the blanket on the ground and shifted his dead weight on to it. That would prevent the ground-chill reaching him.

  She sneezed violently. She felt as though someone had put a heavy iron bar over her eyes. She doubted that she’d be able to see even if she had light. It is of no use if I die too, she thought. She unclasped her mantle and tucked it over Edmund’s thick fur cloak. She lifted the edge of the cloaks and slid beneath them next to Edmund. The cloaks were very heavy. If she wrapped them both up like a cocoon, it would not be too cold a night.

  Delicately, she probed his hurt. His tunic was stiff with blood. It would be awkward to cleanse, but he had stopped bleeding. She could leave it till dawn with a clear conscience.

  Beatrice nestled close, and put an arm about his waist. It was the best way to get them both warm. He need never know, she would waken long before him. Her throat tickled and her head felt muzzy. She needed warmth as much as he did. Vaguely she wondered why she was justifying herself. She yawned. She smiled to herself. It was working. Slowly but surely, they were warming.

  She’d never slept with a man before. She wondered what Mother Adèle would have said. Of course it was all perfectly innocent...

  Edmund stirred and flung out an arm. It rested neatly round her shoulders, as if he were embracing her. Beatrice went rigid. Was he awake after all? He turned his head, his cheek resting lightly against her hair, and sighed. He did not move again, and she relaxed. She snuggled deeper into his unconscious embrace. He smelt reassuringly of horse and man, exciting, yet comforting. She was safe in his arms.

  A few moments later Beatrice was fast asleep.

  ***

  It was morning already. Securely enfolded in Edmund’s arms, and drowsing in the warmth from his body, Beatrice was content to lie awhile. Gradually full consciousness returned. He would probably never hold her like this again. It was only because he was insensible. Were he fully alert he’d not hold her so tenderly. Edmund’s warmth was the one comfort left; her head seemed weighted with lead, the air was a thousand needles stabbing at her lungs. Every bone creaked, every muscle ached. With great reluctance, she tried to lift her head from his shoulder.

  His eyes were open. They held a wary, questioning look. He made no move to repulse her, but stared straight into her own startled eyes. Beatrice felt her heart turn over, and knew again that strange fluttering sensation low in her belly.

  ‘At last you’re awake,’ he sighed.

  ‘I...I’m sorry,’ Beatrice stammered, cheeks glowing. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  He grimaced. ‘My shoulder, I’m afraid. It is no better. It’s plagued me since dawn.’

  She sat up. ‘You should have woken me. I could not look at it last evening, there was no light. It was all I could do to keep you...us warm.’ She found she could not meet his eyes.

  ‘I thank you. I did not expect to find you with me when I woke,’ he admitted.

  ‘You would have been like to die if I had left you where you fell!’

  ‘Aye.’ His eyes were hooded. ‘Why you did not return to your people?’

  ‘You must have heard de Brionne as we left the settlement?’

  Edmund gave a short laugh. ‘It was all I could do to snatch you up and still stay mounted,’ he confessed. ‘I had no ears for de Brionne’s encouragements.’

  ‘He named me traitor,’ Beatrice told him, watching his face. ‘He will not ransom me. He mistrusts me. You’ve taken me for nothing. You’ll get no money for me.’ Her face clouded. ‘There’s nowhere for me to go. I’m suspected by both Norman and Saxon.’

  Edmund’s eyes did not flicker. He shrugged, and winced. ‘Poor Beatrice,’ he mocked softly. ‘But I can see at least two ways you could turn this to your advantage.’

  ‘I don’t see them. Explain.’

  He gave a strained smile. ‘For the sake of argument, let us assume that I accept that de Brionne would not pay any ransom for you. You could try winning his favour by turning spy for him. Think, Beatrice, you could stay with me till we reach the Saxon camp. Then all you have to do is return in triumph with details of our position and strength to de Brionne. He’d make you a heroine.’

  Beatrice’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  ‘That’s one route you could take,’ Edmund said. ‘And as for the other...’ He reached out a long finger and pushed under her chin to close her mouth. His face drained of colour. ‘No matter. See what you can do with this mess on my shoulder, will you? By the Rood, I’m tired.’ He shut his eyes.

  Beatrice forced her mind on to the work at hand. Edmund endured her ministrations in silence. Only the lines around his mouth betrayed the pain he suffered. He had a grey look to his skin and his jaw was clenched.

  ‘There. It’s done,’ she said, at last. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’

  ‘Many would have hurt me more,’ Edmund conceded, with a lopsided grin. ‘But I prefer your talents as a bedwarmer.’

  Beatrice turned her face away. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ she asked, in a small voice.

  His derisive laugh was a blow to the heart. ‘Trust a Norman? Never!’ he said, with devastating honesty. ‘Particularly when she’s as beautiful as you. No, you Normans operate by some code that has little to do with honour and much to do with self-interest. I, trust you?’ She heard his derisive snort. ‘Don’t waste your time working witchery on me. I won’t be charmed.’

  ‘I’ll go and see to Balder,’ Beatrice said in a choked voice. A tear ran down her cheek. She dashed it away. She would not let that wretch upset her.

  ***

  The weather matched her mood, she reflected sourly. Everything was grey. Threatening clouds gloomed overhead. And Edmund’s horse simply was not there. The unyielding, frozen earth had thrown off the imprint of the stallion’s hoofs as though he were an insubstantial spirit, an elf-horse. Beatrice wandered disconsolately to the rise and peered along the path. Not a hoof-print in sight. The wind blew right through her. She shivered. It was truly a place of desolation, and Balder had marooned them in it.

  She wanted to wash. The rivulet in the cave wound out of the fissure, under the holly bush, and pooled in the bottom of the gully. The ice was thin and easily broken, the water invitingly clear, but gaspingly cold. She cupped her hands and drank deeply. She was puzzled to find she could not quench her thirst. The water turned to sand in her throat.

  Straightening, she shook out the green robe, grimacing down at it in disgust. It would never be the same again. Anne may have a gown for every day, but not one of them had been designed to withstand the treatment this one had received.

  She brushed past the holly and poked her head cautiously through the crack. Edmund had fallen asleep. Without the lines of pain, he looked terribly young. Scarcely older than she was, and how pale...

  ‘Edmund,’ she whispered, and laid her hand on his forehead. He was cool to the touch. With luck he’d not take a fever, though he’d suffered enough in the past few days to bring down a man as strong as an ox. She considered him. He was tall and strong, but he w
as no hefty mountain, like Morcar. Edmund was slender. She remembered the feel of his body in her arms the night before, and her eyes strayed to linger on his parted lips. She could see his white teeth, almost feel the touch of his mouth... Beatrice pressed cooling hands to fever-hot cheeks. What was she doing?

  Her head felt thick and muzzy. She must still be disorientated from that ride. Her throat itched. She was tired, and she must be hungry. Aye, that was what ailed her. She’d eat. It was well past the hour for breaking her fast, and she could not take time to be sick. But the honey cakes from Edmund’s pouch lodged in her throat and she could not stomach the thought of dried meat. She sipped at the water bottle, and resolved to try later.

  Edmund dozed.

  Beatrice decided to untangle her hair. She unbraided the long coppery strands and began to tug Edmund’s comb through them.

  ‘Beatrice!’ Edmund mumbled, half-dazed with sleep. He struggled up on one elbow.

  The comb fell, forgotten. She was at his side, flask in her hand, hair a bright stream flowing over her shoulders. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Thirsty.’ His voice was croaky.

  She handed him the flask and watched him drink.

  ‘My thanks. I needed that.’ His eyes were on her hair.

  Beatrice flicked it over her back. Those blue eyes made her hot all over.

  ‘A witch,’ Edmund muttered, barely audible. ‘Beware the enchanting witch.’

  She put up her hand, partly out of embarrassment and partly because her nose was itching. ‘I had to borrow your comb,’ she explained. She sneezed.

  ‘Where’s your cloak, woman? You’ll catch your death.’

  She gestured at the cloaks covering his long legs. ‘I deemed your need greater.’

  ‘You do me no service if you freeze to death,’ he said, bluntly. ‘Put your mantle on. I don’t want a martyr on my hands.’

  Beatrice snatched at her mantle, firing up to hide her hurt. ‘No, that would be very inconvenient, would it not? No one to change your bandages. No ransom to swell your coffers–’

  ‘I pity the poor fool who consents to marry you,’ Edmund said, in quelling accents.

  ‘I...I beg your pardon?’ Beatrice stared. Her hair had shaken forwards. Edmund grinned and let his gaze run insolently over it. Beatrice ground her teeth, and held her tongue.

  ‘The poor man won’t stand a chance,’ he said. ‘Fiery hair and fiery temper. His life won’t be his own once he marries you. Why, even those hazel eyes spit fire.’

  ‘I do not intend to marry,’ Beatrice informed him stiffly. She twisted her hair into a repressive knot at the nape of her neck.

  ‘That won’t answer,’ Edmund smiled. ‘I’ve seen your true colours, remember?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not for marrying.’ Beatrice cast him a harassed look.

  ‘What, never? I’m sure some poor fool would take you. Your case is not that desperate,’ he teased.

  ‘I intend...I intend entering a convent. It is what my mother intended. I will carry out her wishes. From what I have seen of the world, I have no desire to be part of it. Greed. Ambition. Violence. Saxon hating Norman, Norman hating Saxon–’

  ‘Do you hate all Saxons?’ Edmund asked. He sounded mildly curious.

  Beatrice looked away.

  ‘I...nay...that is...I haven’t met many.’

  ‘Come here, Beatrice,’ Edmund said, a suspicious light in his eyes.

  She shot him a wary glance, but otherwise did not move.

  ‘Beatrice!’ He reached out his hand. ‘I shall come and get you.’ He pushed the fur cloak aside.

  ‘You must lie still, or you will never heal properly. Please Edmund. No. Don’t do that!’

  He lurched at her with reckless disregard for his wellbeing, pulled her towards him, and imprisoned her with his body. ‘Don’t struggle,’ he groaned. His face was ashen. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Be still, for the love of God.’

  His blue eyes robbed her of all will.

  Edmund brushed her cheek lightly with his knuckles and smiled. She felt him touch the nape of her neck. He loosed her hair, and ran an auburn tress through his fingers as though combing it with his hands.

  ‘Like a burnished cloak,’ he murmured, and repeated the movement, making her hair ripple out about her.

  Beatrice tried to hide her face.

  ‘Nay.’ A gentle touch stayed her.

  The strange fluttering sensation that his nearness induced became unbearable. Her limbs felt heavy. She felt she should push him away, but did not. When he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, his darkened eyes held hers. His cheeks were ashen no more. His fingers laced through hers.

  Beatrice gave a little sigh. Her eyes closed. She did not twist her head away when she felt his lips brush hers. His free hand lightly cupped her face. Hers fluttered up, touched his cheek, and then retreated to rest on his waist. The pressure on her mouth increased, and suddenly she was clinging, keeping his body tight against hers. One slender, green-clad arm had found its way around his neck.

  Edmund lifted his head, eyes smiling down at her. Her eyes were wide and dazed, her hair tumbled about her face like molten copper.

  ‘You see...’ he said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

  ‘You do not...’ He kissed her cheek.

  ‘Respond as one...’ He kissed her neck.

  ‘Who professes she is to enter a convent,’ he finished, planting another warm kiss at the top of her gown.

  Slowly, he unfastened the ties at the neck of her gown, pressing more gentle kisses on her skin. Beatrice gasped. His touch sent shudders through her body, but it did not feel wrong. Should she permit this? She could not move to stop him. His hand moved to her breast.

  ‘Edmund, no!’ she moaned, her mind fighting the weakness of her body. She’d lost the ability to think.

  Edmund’s caress loosed another ripple of delight through her body.

  ‘It’s wrong,’ she said feebly, catching at his hand. ‘Don’t do this.’ She was uncomfortably aware that she was trying to convince herself of this as much as him.

  ‘No?’ he asked softly. He met her eyes, blue ones glowing with undisguised longing. He buried his head in her neck.

  Beatrice melted. He could do anything to her and she’d make no protest. But afterwards? She knew a sudden thrill of fear. What then? She was his hostage, she must not forget that. Too much hate and horror lay between them.

  ‘Edmund!’ She beat at him with her fists.

  He mumbled and lifted his head, lips meeting hers with such passion that her toes curled.

  ‘Edmund!’ She twisted her head and beat at his shoulder. ‘Would you rape me then and prove your race a pack of barbarians? A breed of bastards?’

  He jerked backwards with a moan of pain.

  Her heart bumped uncomfortably against her ribs. Panic had made her blind – she’d struck his hurt shoulder. His face was contorted. He thought the blow deliberate! Too late Beatrice realised the significance he would read into the words she’d hurled so carelessly.

  Edmund rolled away, grunting with the pain, and lay on his back. He rubbed his face. The glow in his eyes was utterly quenched.

  ‘Edmund, I’m sorry. I did not mean to strike your wound.’ She put out her hand. She felt horridly cold.

  ‘I had no idea you found me so contemptible,’ he muttered.

  She withdrew her hand.

  ‘I had forgotten your scorn for my bastardy overrules all else. I had also forgotten your Norman games. Let me tell you that the games you indulge in are more suited to a whorehouse than a convent.’ His voice was bitter.

  In the heat of his anger her denial withered unspoken. She risked a tortured glance. His eyes were on her, but he looked away at once. She thought that he sighed.

  She searched her mind for something to distract him from his rage. ‘Edmund, the stallion’s gone,’ she told him.

  The dark head jerked back at her. He flinched. ‘What? Dear God, why didn’t you
tell me earlier?’

  ‘I intended to, but first you were asleep and then you...I...we...’ She fiddled with the cross at her neck.

  His eyes followed her gesture, still frowning. He swore. ‘Do you not know the value of such an animal? Did you not think to secure him?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I rubbed him down and put a blanket on him so he wouldn’t catch a chill. And you might remember I had you to attend to in the freezing darkness. Next time I’ll know to put your horse first,’ she said with heavy sarcasm.

  He stared. ‘I suppose I should be grateful.’

  Beatrice shivered and smothered a sneeze.

  His voice softened. ‘Beatrice, you are far from well yourself. Don’t look so apprehensive, I swear I won’t force my advances on you again. Balder may not be lost; there’s a chance he’s finding his own way home. He’s not usually easy to catch, and a thief would have a hard time trying to get hold of him.’

  ‘I didn’t have much trouble,’ Beatrice told him, a hint of pride in her voice.

  Edmund glowered at the roof of the cavern. ‘See what’s in my pack will you? I’m famished.’

  Beatrice rose to spread the fare before him. Honey cakes, cheese, dried meat.

  ‘And fasten your dress,’ he growled. ‘You’ve already got a chill. I’m in no position to be caring for a sick woman.’

  Beatrice obeyed him.

  ‘Soon it will all be cut off,’ Edmund said, irrelevantly. ‘What a waste.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your hair. When you become a bride of Christ,’ he said shortly, and bit savagely into a lump of cheese.

  ***

  The flint found, Beatrice drove herself outside. God knew their need for fire was great and she must gather what she could in the way of kindling. Edmund had forbidden her to light a fire till dusk, and they had not long to wait. He’d insisted that the smoke from a fire in daylight might betray them, but at night the holly bush would act as a screen to hide the flames. He’d said he had no intention of making a gift of himself to de Brionne. So, no fire till dark.

  The sky was darkening fast. Night was almost upon them. Beatrice had had her mind fixed on this moment for some hours. It had stopped her from freezing solid. Keeping a cheerless watch over the weakened Saxon, she had dreamed bright dreams in which their shelter glowed with hot tongues of orange and yellow flame.