Silently, Beatrice did as she was asked. Thank heaven, she did not have to face the baron alone.
Skirts and hair mussed, she was sprawling in a shadowed corner when de Brionne stalked in. She dragged herself up and faced him.
‘He’s left some spirit in you then,’ the baron remarked, securing the door. ‘I can see from your eyes your ordeal with my man has not completely cowed you.’
The baron’s gaze raked her, taking in her bruised face, disarranged hair, and bare legs where her gown was torn.
‘I was only just informed of your presence, mistress,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I would have spared you this.’
Beatrice drew the ragged edges of her skirt together, and lifted her head. ‘Would you?’ she asked, with biting scorn. ‘Would you really?’
The baron’s lips curled, and Beatrice understood that he had not known what the guard was attempting, but she also knew that he did not care one way or the other.
‘You were scratched a little, I see.’ The baron purred. He oozed false solicitude. ‘And look at your poor face. I am so sorry, mistress.’
Beatrice clenched her fists. ‘You dishonour your family, your country and your King,’ she spat. ‘How much further into the slime will you sink? You revolt me.’
She saw him direct a dark frown at the slumbering minstrel. ‘And don’t pretend you didn’t send him to complete my humiliation,’ Beatrice added hastily. ‘I know better. You’re a filthy, stinking, verminous reptile!’
‘Oh, Beatrice.’ Diverted, the baron swung back to her. ‘Not two of them. Believe me, I had no idea.’ He laughed. ‘But had I thought of it...’
‘And they’re drunk,’ Beatrice put in for good measure.
‘Tsk. Tsk. Did you not like it?’ De Brionne caught hold of a dishevelled braid and twisted it around his fist. He jerked and tears of pain sprang to her eyes, but she made no sound. The baron gave another turn, and a gasp escaped her. He gave a grisly smile. ‘Well? Answer me!’
‘What do you think?’ she hissed.
The pressure on her scalp eased.
‘Now, mistress,’ de Brionne said, pleasantly. ‘I shall ask you a few questions. If you answer me correctly, I shall not hurt you. But if you refuse to answer...’ Winding her hair, he wrung another moan from her. ‘You understand?’
‘I understand. You stoop to torture. Mind you don’t grow so bent you’ll never stand upright again.’
‘I’m glad, mistress, that your recent ordeal has not dulled your wits,’ he drawled. ‘Tell me, did the Saxon chit give the casket to her brother?’
Beatrice looked into the face of her cousin’s lover, and hesitated. Tearing pain seared her scalp. But she could answer this truthfully, without harm to anyone. ‘I do not know,’ she replied. ‘It’s likely she did, but I do not know.’
‘She had it when you helped her escape. She was seen holding it. What happened to it?’ Another turn.
Agonised, Beatrice felt her knees buckle, her hand shot to his mailed wrist. ‘Please, Baron, don’t. I don’t know.’
Another false smile. The pain intensified. ‘Lying whore,’ he whispered, soft as a lover. ‘Let’s try again. Where did they put the casket? Come, mistress. Believe me, I’d avoid damaging you if I could.’
‘Now who’s the liar!’ Beatrice gasped out.
De Brionne sniggered, and shook his head. ‘What would Anne say? She’d never forgive me.’ His eyes and his words did not march the same route. She’d have no hair soon...
‘I don’t know. Truly, I don’t,’ she bit out, holding on to her tormentor for support. ‘The Saxons trust me no more than you do!’
‘I say you lie!’ De Brionne released her braid, but her relief was short-lived, for he merely transferred his grip to her wrist, and planted pain there instead of on her scalp. He regarded the sapphire ring.
‘Look at this. A pretty trinket from your Saxon lover. It proves you false.’ His eyes were black as death. ‘You’ve chosen well, it seems. Your lover is generous with his gifts. Where’s the dagger? Lost it in the water? How very sad. Don’t whinge to me that the Saxons don’t trust you. I will not believe it.’
‘It is the truth,’ she protested. ‘They do not trust me.’
De Brionne’s lips thinned. ‘If you could see yourself! Two of my scouts find you prancing freely about a rebel camp flaunting your new possessions. You have a fur-lined cloak fit for a princess, a new gown, a sapphire ring... I’d not have recognised our little convent novice if it hadn’t been for that blaze of hair.’ The baron rubbed his chin. ‘I should have realised a real novice would never let her hair grow, whatever its colour. You never had the slightest intention of returning to the convent, did you? You came with Lady Anne with one thing in mind – trapping yourself a rich husband. You’re very clever, you played the role of devoted cousin to the hilt.’ He began easing his sword from its scabbard.
Morcar shifted and mumbled.
Beatrice tensed. She did not want bloodshed if it could be avoided. ‘No,’ she spoke to the bright bundle of rags. ‘No!’
Morcar subsided.
‘Eh?’ De Brionne glowered down at her.
‘I...I mean...you’re wrong, I did mean to return to Caen.’
The baron’s mocking laugh rang round the rafters. ‘You could have done better than that verminous beggar,’ he said. ‘You should have confessed your ambition to me, mistress, before turning traitor. I would have accommodated you. I can be generous too, when I choose. There was no need for you to crawl to a Saxon for the treasures you crave.’
‘You’re so warped, I wonder that you ever see straight.’ Beatrice was almost at the end of her tether. Yet if she could, she’d wriggle out of this with both her skin and Morcar’s intact. ‘The Saxons believe me to be a Norman spy,’ she said, truthfully. ‘They want me dead.’
De Brionne snorted and stared at the ring.
‘Not one of them at the camp would trust me.’ And that, she thought sadly, was no lie either.
‘Do you deny that you helped the thane’s rightful heir to escape?’
‘No. I did get Lady Hilda to the gate,’ Beatrice admitted. Her wits were clearing, and she steeled herself to meet those dead eyes. If she could but delay the baron’s interrogation till later, there might be some hope that she and Morcar...
‘I had no thought in my mind of going with her,’ Beatrice said firmly. ‘I knew nothing about the horsemen. We had planned only that Lady Hilda should escape on my mare.’
‘We?’ the baron queried gently.
‘I...I mean Hilda and I.’ Beatrice tried to retrieve her slip. She’d not buy her safety at the cost of Anne’s.
‘And you gave the Saxon chit the casket?’ De Brionne’s fingers tightened.
Beatrice nodded.
‘Where is it now?’ he asked, so loudly that she started. ‘At that camp? Answer me, girl, or you’ll rue the day you were born, and what has happened to you so far will seem tame by comparison.’
Beatrice swallowed.
Morcar moved restlessly, muttering as if in drunken altercation. The baron barely spared him a glance. ‘You do not answer me, Beatrice, but you’ll learn. I’ll leave you now. You’ll get nothing to drink, nothing to eat. We’ll see if hunger or thirst loosens your tongue.’
Beatrice hung her head so the baron would not see her eyes blaze with triumph. She’d bought some time, at least.
De Brionne hammered on the door. ‘Open up,’ he bawled. Light streamed through the door. ‘No food or drink for this one. I’ll visit her when I get back.’ The bolts scraped home.
Morcar uncurled and put his ear to the door. ‘You’re ready to leave?’ he asked.
‘Leave? You’ve thought of a way?’
‘Aye. I don’t rate your chances if you stay,’ Morcar said, with the ghost of a smile.
Beatrice stared blankly at the minstrel. He was right. She’d not betrayed anyone, yet here she was...
‘It matters not where I am,’ she said dully. Facing the baron h
ad drained her of all her strength. ‘Everyone believes the worst of me, Norman and Saxon both.’ Her head drooped.
‘I don’t.’
‘Do you not?’ With an effort she rallied, and eyed the snoring Norman in the dirt. Her countryman. She sighed. There were too many obstacles to overcome. It would never come right. ‘I thank you, but–’
‘You think of my lord,’ Morcar said.
The bright head shot up. ‘Aye.’
‘Edmund does not think badly of you. I know this.’
She wished she could believe him. ‘How do you know? You haven’t spoken to him for days. How can you possibly know what Edmund thinks?’
Morcar put a large finger on the sapphire. ‘You carry that ring. That tells me much of his trust in you. Our new thane would not have given you that lightly.’
‘It is not as it seems.’ The minstrel dwarfed her, but a softness in his eyes encouraged confidences. ‘Edmund took me to the camp and your people were screaming for revenge. I was to be the scapegoat. Wergild, I think they called it.’
Morcar nodded.
‘My life was to be forfeit. Your warriors broke into the room where I was resting, and they would have killed me there and then. Edmund saved me. He lied to them. He told them he was to marry me, and thus diverted their anger.’
‘He must indeed value you highly.’ Morcar grinned. ‘Can you read our tongue?’
‘Not one word. Neither can I speak it.’
‘Give me your ring,’ the minstrel said.
Beatrice placed it in his broad palm. Her hand felt naked without it.
‘I’ve heard how...’ Morcar trailed off and squinted at the inscription. ‘Aye, here it is. So it is true.’
‘What? What does it say?’
The minstrel’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He passed back the ring, and watched her slip it on her finger.
‘My lord does trust you,’ he insisted. ‘He would never have given you that ring otherwise.’
‘You sound very sure. I wish I shared your faith.’
‘Believe in the ring,’ Morcar advised.
‘Help me. Tell me what it says!’
‘It is not my place. Here, my lady, some wine will strengthen you for what lies ahead. Drink. It is untainted, I assure you.’
‘He thinks I hold his bastardy against him,’ Beatrice said, raising the wineskin to her lips.
‘And do you?’
‘What?’ Beatrice frowned. She was tired. She ached all over. Now the immediate danger was over she could not think.
‘Hold Edmund’s illegitimate status against him?’
‘Of course not. I never did, even when I did not know him. And how could I now, now that I know him?’ The wine was warming her stomach.
‘You can tell him that when you see him. He could use real loyalty and affection. The old thane would never admit how much his firstborn son meant to him. He feared it would hurt his lady, Judith, and his legitimate son.’
‘But his natural mother? Surely she loved Edmund?’ Beatrice asked.
‘She’d have died rather than admit it. She nursed a bitter hurt, and Edmund was too like his sire. Edith never truly forgave Hereward for deserting her and marrying Lady Judith. As thane, Hereward could not marry Edith. He did love her, but she was too low-born to be his wife. Her father was a foreigner – a Dane. Hereward had been betrothed to the Lady Judith by his father because Lindsey needed Lady Judith’s dowry. A pauper’s love-match was out of the question.’ Morcar relieved Beatrice of the wineskin and milked it of the last drops. ‘Bah, it’s finished,’ he announced with regret, and tossed it into a corner.
‘So Edmund’s own mother rejected–’
‘He’ll not want pity,’ Morcar said incisively. ‘And Edith did not dislike him. It was just that she found his presence hurtful. He was a constant reminder of what she had lost to Lady Judith.’
The guard rolled over and grunted.
Morcar’s eyes narrowed. ‘My lady, we must act swiftly, before this man awakens,’ he said, urgently. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m going to leave you here. I won’t be long. If he comes round before I return, you’ll have to hit the hog with that broken pail. Do you think you can manage that?’
Remembering how the man had terrorised her, Beatrice did not hesitate. She nodded.
Morcar smiled. He assumed the legless gait of a man well soused, and battered at the door. It was opened a little and the Saxon directed a string of sot’s impotent curses through the crack. There was a roar of appreciative laughter from the guards outside, the door was thrown open, and the minstrel staggered out into the compound and fell sprawling. It was a faultless performance from a professional entertainer. It near fooled Beatrice, let alone the sentries.
Shrinking back from her gaolers’ goggling eyes, Beatrice waited till they’d sealed her in. Then she dragged the pail within easy reach and settled down to wait for the minstrel’s return. Her eyes never left the unconscious Norman.
Morcar could only have been gone a few minutes, but to Beatrice it seemed like hours. As his blond bulk pushed through the door, relief washed through Beatrice like a spring tide. Someone followed him, someone who was shrouded head to toe in a rich, heavy cloak that Beatrice knew at once.
‘Anne!’ Beatrice dropped the handle of the bucket and flung herself at her cousin.
‘Oh, Beatrice.’ Anne’s voice was muffled by the folds of her hood. ‘I’m so sorry. This is–’ she shuddered. ‘Dear God, what have they done to you? Your face–’
‘Don’t worry, Anne. There are no bones broken. Bruises soon fade, I’m sure they look worse than they are.’
Anne flung back her hood. Beatrice almost gasped. The eyes that stared out were hollow and haunted. Anne’s sparkle had quite gone. She looked as though she’d been on the rack.
‘I’m certain Philip knows I was involved in Lady Hilda’s escape,’ Anne blurted. ‘It may be cowardly of me, Beatrice, but I haven’t had the courage to admit it. I’m terrified of what he’ll do to me. He’s changed. I’m so sorry, Beatrice, I know he is taking out his anger on you. Please forgive me.’ She offered her hand, tentatively. It was shaking.
Beatrice felt her heart twist. Where was Anne’s careless confidence now? She smiled gently, and pressed her cousin’s hand. ‘There’s nothing for me to forgive. I don’t believe he does suspect your involvement – there was one moment when I thought I’d unwittingly betrayed you, but it passed. There’s no need for him to find out. I won’t tell him,’ she assured her.
‘But, Beatrice, I can’t bear to think of you in here.’
Morcar stepped forwards. ‘You can help get her out of this dismal pit,’ he said.
Anne brightened. ‘Can I?’
‘We can get her away, but only if you are prepared to defy the baron.’
Anne’s face collapsed. ‘Oh,’ she said. Her shoulders slumped.
Morcar would not meet Anne’s eyes. ‘It is simple,’ he said bracingly. ‘You and you cousin must exchange clothes, and my lady will leave in your stead. The guards will assume Lady Anne has finished visiting her treacherous cousin. They would not challenge her.’
‘No!’ Beatrice shifted. ‘I cannot leave Anne to face the baron. ‘He’s capable of anything.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t harm me,’ Anne said.
But Beatrice heard the doubt in her voice. ‘No, Anne. I won’t have my freedom if it means implicating you. But there is something...’ she hesitated.
Anne grasped her arm. ‘What is it? Is there another way?’ The hand still trembled.
‘We...we could bind you up,’ Beatrice said. ‘Tight enough to look as though we’d overpowered you. De Brionne could not blame you then. Of course, it will mean that Morcar cannot remain here any more, for they’ll know he helped me.’
A slow grin dawned on Morcar’s face. He bowed. ‘My lady, I would be honoured to escort you,’ he said, smiling.
Beatrice waited for Anne’s response.
It was her cousin who would be running most of the risk. It was for her to decide.
‘Very well,’ Anne announced abruptly. ‘But you’ll have to gag me too. Or they’ll want to know why I didn’t screech my head off.’ She cast a harried glance at the door, unfastened the brooch securing her cloak, and handed it to Beatrice.
‘You’re certain, Anne?’
‘Yes, yes. Hurry up, Beatrice. This at least I can do.’ Anne was looking more like the old Anne Beatrice knew and loved. She was cool again, more controlled. ‘Minstrel, face the wall, if you please. I’m not stripping for your pleasure,’ she added, dryly.
But Anne was still a shadow of her former self. The Lady Anne de Vidâmes would never have changed with such frenzied haste. She had to prise Edmund’s cloak from Beatrice’s fingers.
‘Mine is just as fine,’ Anne said.
The old Lady Anne would never have noticed her cousin’s regret at parting with the garment either.
‘Thank you, Anne. I know that. It was the donor I was thinking of,’ Beatrice admitted.
‘We’re doing our best to ensure you’ll see him again.’ Anne flashed her a grin. ‘He seems generous, your barbarian.’
Morcar produced a length of twine. ‘We’ll bind you now, my lady. If you would lie down? I’ll not tie you too hard, I swear it.’
‘You’d better not leave it too loose either,’ Anne said, obeying him. She pulled at her bonds. ‘I could get out of that. He’ll be suspicious if it’s too loose.’
Morcar wrenched at the twine.
Anne let out a strangled gasp. ‘That’s better.’
Morcar picked up a scrap of material. ‘Hold your head still, my lady.’
Anne blanched. ‘Lord, that filthy rag isn’t going in my mouth, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it is. If I gag you with silk, it wouldn’t fool anyone.’ Morcar smiled.
‘Very well. Get on with it.’ Anne sighed, resigned. ‘Wait! Hold a moment, there’s something I must tell Beatrice.’
‘My lady, please hurry.’
‘Beatrice, do you recall the baron sending an envoy to King William?’
Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Page 20
