Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Beatrice took a pace after him, and then stopped. There was no advantage in talking to him till his temper had cooled. She flopped down on the narrow bed, and looked at her hand. Her fingers burned from his touch, the ring felt heavy. It was a gold ring, simple in design with a plain unadorned shank. Set into it was a polished sapphire of great size and beauty. Beatrice’s eyes grew round. It must be worth a king’s ransom.

  She was to have been ransomed – she grimaced at the thought. But if Edmund was to be believed it seemed that fate had other plans in store for her. Did he truly mean to marry her? Or would she still be ransomed? She twisted the ring from her finger to examine it more closely. There was an inscription on the inside. She sighed, it was in English and she could not decipher it. She would ask Hilda what it said.

  Carefully, Beatrice replaced the ring. She did not know what to think. Edmund had carried her from Lindsey, intending her to be a hostage. He had no real desire to marry her – that was something he had been forced into to save the life of a prisoner who was worth more alive. The few kisses they’d shared meant nothing. She was no longer that naive. Look how de Brionne had handled her...and he loved her cousin, Anne.

  Edmund was protecting her, but that was not his prime consideration. She was the key that might unlock the door to his beloved Lindsey.

  If only he were marrying her, and from choice. How happy she would be. ‘I love him, but...oh!’ she addressed her frustration to the crackling fire.

  She wished she’d checked her angry pride. She wished they had not quarrelled. Edmund did not love her, and she had only alienated him. She would try and make amends. She had enough love for them both. And no matter what Edmund thought of her, he had shown her kindness. She would act out the part he had assigned to her, and maybe in time...

  Beatrice heaved Edmund’s fur-lined cloak around her. She would go and ask Hilda’s help. She would make a start at learning his language. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted the latch.

  Outside, a chill wind shrieked round ramshackle buildings and byres, whipping the door from her hands. Beatrice drew Edmund’s cloak tighter round her body, relishing the luxury of fur.

  A group of Saxon warriors had gathered at one edge of the clearing. Some were sharpening long-handled axes and other their long swords, honing bright blades to murderous points. Siward was among them, engaged in combat practice with the dark, bearded hulk who had lately threatened her.

  Even the training looked perilous. Beatrice observed them from her standpoint by the hut. Siward twisted in and out of reach of his opponent’s relentless flashing blade as sinuous as a snake. The dark Saxon wielded his sword with the steady rhythm of a reaper, yet one slip could see Siward maimed for life. Suddenly Siward noticed Beatrice. He raised his hand and all movement ceased. He smiled across the yard at her, saluted. Diffidently, Beatrice acknowledged his greeting. The hulk also inclined his head, but even at that distance, she could see how reluctance hobbled the man’s movements.

  She turned and walked slowly away. Her back prickled under the combined and hostile regard of all those Saxon warriors. Their hostility had not yet dissipated, she could almost feel a dagger-thrust between her shoulder blades...

  The rooks were squabbling in their lofty rookery. She craned her neck to see them. It made no difference to the birds whether the clearing was populated by Normans or Saxons. They had territorial fights of their own to settle.

  The snow crunched underfoot, and the amber gown was already drenched at the hem. She walked till she had put a hut between herself and the Saxons, but her skin still crawled as though they spied on her. Affecting unconcern, she squinted up at the rooks’ untidy nests. Her shoes were leaking. She hauled up damp skirts, she’d go and find Hilda...

  She halted. A woman was standing alone by the wooden buildings, watching her. She was too tall to be Hilda. The wind caught at the woman’s cloak, and snatched the hood from her head. Bright yellow hair shone in the sunlight. Ingirith! Beatrice put a smile on her face, but did not expect a response. Ingirith shrugged herself deep into her hood and held her ground, unsmiling.

  Beatrice grimaced. If Ingirith was determined to be unfriendly, so be it.

  Without warning, all was movement and noise. A menacing mailcoated figure, with a steel mask where his face should have been, leapt out of the brush at her.

  Beatrice started to run towards Ingirith. ‘Ingirith!’ she screamed. ‘Help me!’ Her voice rang shrill across the snow-shrouded ground.

  Ingirith was still as a statue, and just as responsive.

  ‘Muzzle the bitch! Keep her quiet!’

  Beatrice thought she would die. The harsh voice was Norman. It could only be one of de Brionne’s scouts. They’d come looking for her, after all. Someone thrust a rough cloth over her head. She fought to keep it from suffocating her, flailing out in blind terror. Her heart was pumping cold dread through her veins. Was Ingirith fetching help?

  ‘Bind her later – no time to stop,’ said another Norman voice. ‘Hurry! Get her to the boat!’

  Beatrice renewed her struggles. She was rewarded with a ringing blow at her temple.

  ‘Ingirith,’ she gasped. But it was no use, her voice was muffled by sackcloth and was unintelligible. Even if Ingirith could understand her, the girl had made it plain she would never help her. ‘Ingirith–’

  Another brain-bruising blow from a mailcoated fist, and Beatrice bit her tongue. Rough hands lifted her. She was carried, bundled into something. There was the scrunch of splintering ice, a hollow wooden clank, the sounds of water. A boat? The world rocked. A boat. They must be on one of the waterways. She tried to listen. She heard the squeal of a water rail. There was a scrape, followed by a plopping, splashing noise. Scrape, splash, scrape, splash. She must be in a punt. She groaned. Edmund would think she’d gone willingly. He’d think she had betrayed him...

  ‘Mistress Beatrice?’ Someone thumped her on the back.

  She groaned. She knew that voice, but the choking sacking muddied the sound and she could not place him. The man smelt rankly of sweat.

  ‘De Brionne has some questions for you, mistress. We’re taking you home.’

  ‘Home?’ Beatrice mumbled best she could. Who did that voice belong to? She coughed. There was not enough air in this sackcloth. She’d suffocate...

  ‘To Lindsey. Aye. And we have unfinished business, you and I.’

  That sounded like a threat, but Beatrice felt too ill to consider it. De Brionne’s scouts lapsed into silence. The boat rocked, but it was no cradle to lull her to sleep. The bottom of the punt was hard and cold. The sacking sawed at her skin. It rasped over the bruises where she had been struck. Her feet were unwieldy blocks of ice that no longer belonged to her. She suspected her shoes had been lost, for the wind whistled through her hose and played over nerveless toes.

  The boat tilted. Her lungs were desperate for air. She was falling into a swirling vortex of flashing lights and disembodied voices that babbled about her, rising and falling like waves. And like the waves they had no meaning.

  Then there was silence. And the voices began again. Only this time they had meaning. But when Beatrice had made sense of them, she wished she’d remained in ignorance.

  ‘Dump her here. That’ll do. I’ll guard her. You go and tell de Brionne. But...Hugh?’

  ‘Aye, Robert?’

  ‘Give me half an hour...alone with her, before you inform the baron. Understand?’

  Beatrice heard the distinct chink of coins changing hands. She tried to rouse herself. She could hear a bolt being rammed home. Someone was locking a door. She subsided; it was too painful to move. Besides, the sound seemed so far off it could have no relevance to her. She shook her head. The hood itched like the plague.

  ‘Let’s be seeing you.’

  Blessed relief! The smothering sackcloth was whipped away. She blinked and scrubbed at her face. A Norman soldier leered down at her.

  She’d been cast on a dirt floor, still wearing Edmund’s cloak. Th
e light dazzled, she screwed up her eyes and regarded the man crouched on his haunches beside her. She froze to her marrow. She knew him alright. He was the guard at the gate. The one she had flirted with on the day of Hilda’s escape.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to keep our rendezvous after all, mistress,’ he stretched thick lips into a smile.

  Beatrice all but gagged. She should have known – that smell...

  ‘Night’s drawing on fast, mistress.’ He brought his face close to hers. ‘I know how you like to comfort lonely guardsmen in the dark hours. You shouldn’t have run off with that Saxon upstart before we had time to get to know each other. I’ve been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.’

  Her mouth went dry. She could see the open pores on his cheeks. She edged away, clutching the fur-trimmed edges of the cloak tight about her, as though it could save her. Cold sweat trickled down her back.

  ‘Don’t go all coy on me. I know the truth,’ he said, leering at her.

  ‘T...truth?’ Beatrice stuttered, while her brain sought for some escape. She backed away. He moved in. She backed – and hit a wall-beam.

  His eyes glittered greedily. He licked his lips. She knew there was no help for her...

  ‘We all know about you.’ The guard had her cornered. ‘You’re not too choosy. A Norman wench who gives favours to the Saxon enemy is naught but a harlot. And if you’ll accept scum like that, you’ll be honoured by my attentions.’

  Beatrice found her voice. ‘No, you mistake the matter.’

  ‘Treacherous whore!’ Ugly, insensitive hands reached for her. She could see the calluses on his fingers.

  ‘The baron will not permit you–’

  ‘The baron, not permit me? Don’t make me laugh. He won’t know till it’s too late. And why should he be concerned for a faithless whore? You’re mine for a space. I found you. I’ll soften you up, ready for interrogation. And who knows, maybe our baron will honour you too before we’re done...’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Come, mistress,’ her gaoler’s grin was evil. ‘Now you can fulfil those pretty promises you made earlier.’

  ‘Never. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man on earth!’ Beatrice cried. ‘You smell like a cesspit. Keep away!’

  But it was no use. Grasping hands mauled her, greedy lips latched on to hers. His teeth were rotten, like those of a man of fourscore years. The bile rose in her throat. Choked with revulsion, she began to cough. The man’s hold slackened. The spasm became intense, it scraped her throat and lungs. She welcomed this pain, for her jailer was forced to delay his pleasures. Better the scalding agony in her chest than the torture of his touch.

  A quick glance at the Norman warned her the spasm could not be prolonged forever. He suspected trickery. She’d never seen less pity on a man’s face. He did not look human. Dirty nails dug deep, hands gripped. He would give no quarter. A pleading white face and piteous eyes only spurred this man to greater cruelty. A clumsy hand kneaded her breast.

  I must faint, Beatrice thought. Sweet Lord, grant me the mercy of oblivion. I cannot suffer this.

  For a moment she believed her supplication had been heeded. The chamber tilted, a black fog rose up. But the Lord was not listening. Shoved to the ground, her head cracked against the plastered wall. She was stunned. The hand that had lately bruised her breast was scrabbling at her skirts, pulling them up over her thighs, but she was unable to move. When a broken nail scratched her leg – she did not even flinch. The guard’s foul, panting breaths filled her nostrils. The dingy prison cell revolved slowly about her, just as Normandy had done on a distant day that suddenly, incongruously, came back to her. She had been dancing round a maypole in an apple orchard...

  The guard heaved himself on to Beatrice.

  ‘You grunt like the pig you are,’ Beatrice managed.

  Her arms were pinned above her head. The guard thrust a stocky leg between hers. He was strong. Beatrice cried out, resisting him with what little strength she had left.

  Her gaoler dealt her a neck-snapping blow across her jaw. ‘It’s no use calling on that name for help, mistress. There are no Saxons here now. It would take a potent spell indeed to make that bastard hear you.’ He fumbled with the ties of his chausses.

  Logic told her resistance was useless. Here was an animal who only understood violence, and she was angering him. If she resisted he’d probably kill her. She knew quiet submission was the safest course.

  But she could not lie still. The hand that crawled over her body made her flesh shrink. It tore at her gown. It gripped her chin. Rage ripped through her. She kicked out. She would die if he kissed her again. Her hands were immobilised, but she had teeth. She snapped, and bit, and kicked. He’d not take her easily...

  Suddenly full daylight streamed into the hut. An icy draught whooshed over the couple wrestling in the dirt. The door crashed shut and the chamber dimmed.

  ‘Curse you!’ her assailant swore, scowling over his shoulder. ‘Can’t you let me have my turn in peace?’

  Bright as a jay, Morcar swayed unsteadily into the room, a wineskin in either hand. The Saxon giant peered at them, his expression bleary. He shrugged, unconcerned, and took a swig from one of his wineskins.

  ‘Don’t let me cramp your shtyle,’ he said, slurring the words. He slumped back against the wall, and closed bloodshot eyes. He hiccupped and opened one eye to peer at the Norman guard. ‘Jusht looking for somewhere to sit down. No need for you to shtop your fun.’ The blond head lolled.

  The Norman eased his thickset body off Beatrice. Morcar blinked at him through the wine-haze. ‘As you’re here, you can let me have a drink,’ the guard said. He winked at Morcar. ‘Then when I’ve finished you can take your turn.’

  Beatrice pulled her skirts down over her legs. Her hands did not work very well. The amber material was soiled and torn. Another gown, finer than she’d ever had, and now that too was wrecked. Surprisingly, she heard herself give a bitter laugh.

  She dragged her scattered wits together. Surely the minstrel would not sit there watching while...while...

  Morcar handed the Norman the other wineskin, so they each had one. Two drunks, and her on her own...

  The minstrel’s grey eyes locked on hers. They seemed perfectly clear. Beatrice caught her breath. Her heart thumped as it came to her – Morcar was no more drunk than she was. And there was more...there was something about his manner. He evoked a vivid memory of nuns in the chapel about to chant – waiting for their note. Morcar was waiting for something...

  The minstrel glanced speculatively at the sapphire ring, and his brow creased. The only sound was her gaoler’s gulping at the wineskin. The man staggered. A grubby sleeve protruded from under his mailshirt, and he wiped his mouth with it.

  ‘Good shtuff our Norman wine.’ The Norman grinned. ‘Far shtronger than washy Shaxon ale, my friend. Thash all froth. Thish really...ish...good. Shtrong...shtuff.’ His eyes glazed.

  The Norman sounded as though he’d downed a barrel, not one small wineskin. Eyes lighting with hope, Beatrice waited. The man staggered. Ungainly as a fatted swine, he thumped down and wallowed on the filthy floor, nursing his head in his hands.

  ‘Keep...an...eye...on...her, will you?’ he mumbled. He stretched his jaws wide in a yawn which displayed his rotting teeth in all their hideous glory. He flopped over on to his side and began to snore.

  Beatrice stared, and felt her lips smiling. ‘What was in that?’

  The minstrel came towards her. ‘Something to dull his ardour, and his memory,’ Morcar answered.

  The minstrel’s smile looked reassuring enough. She let him take her hand and watched him stare at her ring.

  ‘You accepted this willingly?’ he asked.

  ‘I...er...’ Beatrice floundered, and withdrew her hand.

  ‘Do you wish to marry him?’

  It was no use pretending she did not know who he was talking about. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Aye,’ Beatrice sighed. ‘I do.’

/>   Morcar echoed her sigh. ‘Then I am glad I stopped this...animal. It was worth the risk to our cause. I saw them bring you in, my lady.’

  ‘I...I’ve no title,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘You’re my lord’s lady,’ Morcar said simply. ‘It’s all I need to know. I did not believe the evidence of my eyes. It astounds me that a man of any race – even your harsh Norman one – could subject a woman to this...indignity. I could not be sure who it was he had beneath the sacking, but the Lindsey ring was in full view.’ Morcar grinned. ‘It’s not a ring you can miss. I realised I would have to help you whoever you were. And now I see it is the young lady who welcomed me at the copse, and I am glad.’

  The Lord had sent her a saviour, but he had picked a strange one. ‘You’re a Saxon spy!’

  ‘Hush! Never say so.’ But Morcar bowed his shaggy mane in acknowledgment.

  Her mind reeled. She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  ‘I was sent to rescue our new lord,’ Morcar told her.

  ‘I did wonder, but why did de Brionne not suspect you?’

  ‘My conspicuous bulk and appearance shield me. No one fails to notice me, but people will never suspect the most obvious man. De Brionne would look for subtlety in a Saxon spy. I came to help my lord, but he did not need my help. Then I thought his sister did and so–’

  ‘You stayed.’

  ‘Aye, and I know what you–’

  The measured tramp of mail-clad feet approaching the prison hut stopped further confidences. Beatrice felt her blood run cold. She moved to Morcar’s side, and clutched at his tunic.

  ‘The baron,’ she whispered, eyes dilated with fear.

  ‘Careful, lady.’ Morcar disengaged himself. Gone was the friendly giant. A blond sot slid drunkenly down the wattle walls and landed in a heap next to the sleeping jailer. He looked like a vast bundle of unsorted linen. ‘My lady.’ Bright eyes peeped out from the garish cloths. ‘There’s no need for me to ask you act as though fear has driven the wits from your skull – you’re as pale as a ghost! But please disarrange your clothing, you don’t look nearly ravished enough.’