Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Suddenly, the whistling ceased. A deathly hush gripped them all. What was happening?

  Beatrice did not want to see that mother’s face again. She half opened her eyes. The woman was smiling! Beatrice stared. Joy had replaced terror, and tears of relief streamed down the woman’s face. The woman opened her arms and received her child from the hands of the man who had plucked her from beneath the flailing hoofs of de Brionne’s warhorse. Beatrice felt the woman’s joy as though it were her own. She looked at the man who had saved the little girl.

  He wore a fine blue tunic, edged with silver braid. Raven-dark hair was swept back from his head. Blue eyes blazed a challenge at the mail-clad Norman astride the lumbering warhorse. Beatrice would have known that profile anywhere.

  ‘No!’ She choked down a scream and elbowed her way through the knot of people in front of her.

  Edmund’s slender hands rested casually on his hips, his legs were braced apart as though he expected a blow at any moment. The sight of that slim blue-clad figure quietly facing de Brionne in all his armour tugged at her heart. Beatrice pushed towards them.

  De Brionne would kill Edmund without compunction. Edmund had not reached for his sword. And even if he had, on foot and dressed only in blue worsted, what match was he for the heavily armoured baron?

  De Brionne’s lips lifted in gloating triumph. His chain-mail flashed in the sunlight as he gestured two of his soldiers forward to take Edmund. ‘You wouldn’t be so foolish as to draw your sword, would you?’ the Norman purred.

  Edmund said nothing, but his eyes were very eloquent.

  De Brionne drew his head back, and took a sharp breath. ‘Someone might get hurt,’ he warned, with an edge to his voice. ‘One of the innocents, for example. They might get trampled in the rush to arrest you. It is very obliging of you to come forward to give yourself up,’ de Brionne sneered.

  The guards were almost upon Edmund. Beatrice knew what would happen if they seized him. She was not going to allow it to happen. Not while she breathed. She hurled herself bodily at the nearer of the guards, catching him unawares. They both toppled to the ground.

  ‘Run! Edmund! Run now!’ she shrieked.

  Edmund was staring at her like a man in a daze, an arrested expression in his eyes, face confused and suddenly vulnerable.

  ‘Run,’ Beatrice repeated urgently. ‘Run!’

  The woman whose child Edmund had saved did not know the words Beatrice was shouting. But she understood her meaning. The fine lady who lay tangled and muddied on the ground, struggling frantically with the Norman guard, meant to help her lord escape. Clutching her daughter to her breast, the woman murmured to the man at her side. Several stalwart Saxons moved, and a protective wall of flesh and blood surrounded Edmund.

  Panting, Beatrice sat up and shoved her veil out of her face. She felt as though she’d been rolling in the midden.

  The people surged, picking Edmund up. He was being carried away by a human wall of peasants. His face strained towards her. It was difficult to interpret the look that he sent her, but it seemed to Beatrice to contain that same blend of agonised and hopeless longing that she felt. Perhaps now he would believe in her. Perhaps now he would trust her...

  Shakily Beatrice staggered upright.

  De Brionne’s sin-black eyes bored into her. ‘Well, well. Mistress Beatrice.’ He spoke quietly, through clenched teeth, and emphasised each word. ‘You have made a fool of me once too often. You will live to regret this day.’

  ‘Never, I will never regret what I have done,’ Beatrice defied him bravely, but the slow slamming of her heart proclaimed her fear.

  ‘Traitor.’

  ‘If it is treachery to side with a man who would risk his own life for that of a child’s, against one who would kill in cold blood, then aye, I am a traitor. And proud to be one.’ Beatrice spoke with more defiance than wisdom.

  The baron’s hand tightened on his crop. He was almost beside himself with rage. And for Beatrice to defy him, beautiful even in defeat, was more than he could stomach. There she was, a drab of a girl, with the veil slipping off that improbable hair, covered in mud, still daring to cross him. He would bring her low if it was the last thing he did.

  Beatrice steeled herself. A searing pain slashed across her cheek. Her involuntary cry of pain was drowned by the onlookers’ sympathetic gasps. Shaking, her fingers explored her cheek. Already a weal raised her skin.

  ‘A taste of things to come,’ the Norman warned.

  ‘Beat me all you like,’ Beatrice lifted her chin, ‘but I would do it again.’

  De Brionne’s face set. ‘Guard! Mistress Beatrice is returning to the hall. Bind her. You heard her. She has admitted her guilt before witnesses. She is unrepentant.’

  The subdued murmurings were growing louder.

  The baron scowled. ‘I’ll not have rebellion on my hands. I’ll not have this mob make a martyr of you.’ His saddle creaked as he faced the crowd. ‘This woman has conspired with the outlaw, Edmund of Lindsey, to help him escape from justice. We are all witnesses. The law must be upheld. This woman will be put on trial for treason. The trial will be held at dawn tomorrow. I would not sully your Feast Day by trying her now.’

  Beatrice snorted. The true cause of the delay was that de Brionne dare not risk a riot. Someone wrenched her arms behind her, and she felt rope scorch her wrists.

  Leaderless, the mob bubbled and seethed. They looked blankly to the herald for his translation.

  The herald hesitated.

  The baron waved a mailed fist at him, and the man stumbled into speech. Golden spurs flashed, the black stallion surged forwards. Mud churned and splattered Beatrice. Something cut into her waist. They’d tied a rope about her, and she was hauled behind de Brionne like a calf going to market. She knew she too was bound for the butcher’s slab. De Brionne’s men-at-arms closed ranks about her.

  Her cheek burned where the crop had struck her. She was cold, wet and muddy, but she did not care. Her heart was light as air. Edmund remained free. This day was not to be his last. The dark girl’s prophesy had come true, in part. Edmund now bore the wolf’s head, as the Saxons said of outlaws. But he would not die. She had seen to that. He had been cast out from society, but he would live.

  A ripple of sound floated over her head. Morcar’s harp! Twisting her head, Beatrice found him. His blond hair shone like a hilltop beacon over the heads of the throng. He was staring at her as though willing her to read a secret message in his eyes. Beatrice frowned, puzzled. The rope jerked and she staggered.

  ‘Watch your feet, wench!’ de Brionne snarled over his shoulder. ‘That’s better. You’d better start praying to your favourite saint.’

  De Brionne had not seen Morcar. Beatrice risked another glance in that direction. Her eyes widened. Walter was at the harper’s side, trying to shoulder the giant towards her. De Brionne must not see them, she must engage his attention...

  ‘You recommend prayer? You?’ Beatrice said, incredulously.

  ‘Aye. I’ve decided that your trial shall be a trial by ordeal. So much more...entertaining for everyone, do you not agree?’

  ‘You godless viper, you make a mockery of justice,’ Beatrice said. In truth, she was beginning to feel the cold now. Her valour was deserting her.

  ‘Tsk. Tsk. I thought a woman of the Church would long for just such a trial. It gives God a chance to ensure that the truth is revealed.’

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ Beatrice said flatly.

  The baron’s steel helmet tipped back when he laughed. ‘It is an accepted method of trial.’

  Beatrice tried to keep her head up. ‘It is superstitious nonsense. You believe in it no more than I.’

  ‘I don’t need to believe it. To be seen to believe is enough.’ De Brionne laughed. ‘These Saxon sheepheads will believe anything I tell them.’

  Her head was shrinking with cold. The wind must have changed; it must be coming from the north. Her tongue felt stiff. ‘You can’t do this–’


  ‘I assure you I can.’

  Her feet skated on mud. ‘Which? Which ordeal do you have in mind?’ she managed.

  The baron pretended to consider. ‘Let me think. There’s ordeal by fire, ordeal by iron, ordeal by water. So many to choose from.’

  ‘Women never undergo trial by water,’ Beatrice said, too quickly. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  De Brionne lifted his lips from his yellow teeth. ‘So you admit that ordeal is an accepted method of trial?’

  ‘I admit only that it is used. Not that it is acceptable,’ Beatrice said, forcing one foot in front of the other.

  De Brionne looked straight at her, with eyes as sharp as darts, and pounced. ‘You’re rather swift to insist you shouldn’t undergo trial by water. Why is that? Are you afraid of water, Beatrice? Do you not like the look of the lake? Can you not swim?’

  Beatrice matched him, glare for glare. She attempted a shrug. ‘It’s the truth. Women do not submit to trial by water.’

  De Brionne’s brows lowered. ‘You will,’ he decided with dreadful finality. ‘You will.’

  ‘No!’ The rope at her waist was as merciless as de Brionne. It bit into her skin.

  ‘If the water drags you down and you sink, you will be declared innocent. And if you float you are guilty. The water rejects the guilty, of course. It throws them up and will not hold them. It is fitting that you should be tried by water. This wet wasteland holds little else.’

  Beatrice suppressed a sob. ‘So, if I’m found innocent, I drown. And if not, you put me to death.’

  ‘I see you’ve understood. It will be held at noon tomorrow.’ He laughed. ‘We’ll have to break the ice on the lake.’

  A mud-clot hit Beatrice in the eye and she winced.

  ‘Pray hard, Mistress Beatrice, pray hard. I hope you believe in miracles.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The court was a small one – a single trestle had been set up at the edge of the lake. De Brionne, Father Ralph and Anne sat in the places of honour. Anne’s eyes were red and puffed with weeping. Half a dozen guards flanked Beatrice, who was led before them, bound, cloakless, and as hungry and ill-kempt as a beggar. A scribe perched on the edge of a stool, sharpening his quill as though it were a weapon.

  Beatrice lifted her eyes to the pale orb of the sun. It shed no more heat than the moon.

  ‘My lord...’ Father Ralph wrung his hands together.

  The baron looked at him. ‘Priest?’

  ‘I know this method of trial is often used but...but I cannot agree with it.’

  De Brionne’s smile was thin. He drummed blunt fingers on the board. ‘If you are not prepared to do your duty, Father, pray say so. I will find another cleric. There are doubtless many who would be happy to take your place. And your living,’ he added significantly.

  ‘Oh! N...no, Baron. I...I will stay,’ Father Ralph said unhappily. He was easily routed. He glanced at Beatrice, and shook his head. There was nothing he could do. If he refused to sanction the trial, he would be replaced. And he knew the sort of man the baron would recommend in his stead. He must stay and pray he could do something to alleviate the girl’s suffering.

  ‘Read the charges, Father,’ de Brionne ordered.

  Anne clutched a mailed sleeve. ‘Please, Baron, unbind my cousin. What harm can she do with those guards breathing down her neck?’

  De Brionne heaved a sigh. He wanted this business over as quickly as possible. He could not risk a riot. The King had not yet approved his seizing of power, despite the elaborate lies he’d spun for the crowd at the fair. If he proved able to keep the peace, King William would surely grant him the lands. After that, come what may, but till then...

  He looked coldly at the fingers on his arm.

  Hastily Anne withdrew her hand. ‘Please, Philip.’

  ‘Very well.’ De Brionne nodded at his men. ‘But I’ll stand no more interference from you. Your cousin has assisted the rebels more than once. She will be punished. My ears ring with your wailing and I will hear no more of it. Priest, read the charges.’ He twitched a document from the scribe and thrust it at Father Ralph.

  Beatrice massaged her wrists. De Brionne would never forgive her for depriving him of Edmund. He was as set on revenge as were the Saxon warriors. A curious sense of inevitability came over her. It numbed her senses.

  Father Ralph began to read aloud. ‘Beatrice Giffard, you are accused of treason towards the Norman State.’ Beatrice lifted her chin. ‘You are to be tried by ordeal on this day, the twenty sixth of January in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand and Sixty Seven. The charges are fourfold.

  ‘Firstly, that you did give aid to the outlaw known as Edmund of Lindsey, after that same Edmund of Lindsey did perpetrate an affray causing severe and regrettable loss of life. You did on this occasion render assistance to this outlaw, to the detriment of our Norman peace-keeping soldiers, a number of whom were injured.’

  ‘That’s a foul lie!’ Beatrice gasped at the blatant falsehood. ‘Edmund did not cause the fight! It was you, you barefaced–’

  ‘Silence!’ De Brionne’s fist struck the table with such force that the scribe’s ink-horn bounced in its stand. ‘The accused will remain silent while the charges are being read.’

  ‘Secondly,’ Father Ralph went on, ‘you did conspire with the Saxon, Lady Hilda, then in the custody of Baron Philip de Brionne, and engineered her escape. You did also give into the hands of the said Lady Hilda sufficient monies from our own treasury to enable the rebel forces to purchase weapons and thus prolong their resistance to the rightful rule of our sovereign, King William, established by trial of arms. Further, you did abscond with the aforementioned outlaw, the so-called Edmund of Lindsey, and did betray to him information regarding Norman fortifications and troop numbers.’ The priest paused and glanced uncomfortably at Beatrice.

  ‘Philip, I must speak!’ Anne sprang to her feet.

  ‘No! Cousin, do not,’ Beatrice said. ‘It is of no use. The outcome has already been decided.’

  Anne placed herself squarely before her lover. She went down on one knee in the frozen mud.

  ‘Anne, don’t!’

  Anne clasped her hands together at her breasts. ‘Baron, do not be angry. It was my fault Beatrice helped Hilda. I could not bear for you to wed that Saxon child. I asked her to help. She did so for me. And she did not run off with the Saxon. He abducted her.’

  Beatrice groaned. Now Anne would be called to account...

  ‘Just how do you know all this?’ de Brionne asked, dangerously quiet.

  ‘Anne, no more!’

  But Anne was set on self-destruction. She looked de Brionne straight in the eye, and finished in a rush. ‘I know because I helped her plan Hilda’s escape. But we...we didn’t know Edmund was out there.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that the Saxon’s appearance was coincidental?’ The baron shook his head. ‘No, my lady. But to find that you have colluded with rebels...?’

  Anne quailed visibly.

  ‘Baron, do not believe her!’ Beatrice said. ‘My cousin is lying to try and save me. Forgive her, it is only her love for me that makes her speak so.’

  ‘So you admit to plotting Lady Hilda’s escape, do you, Mistress Beatrice? And to giving her the treasure casket?’ de Brionne asked silkily.

  ‘Yes! On both counts, yes. But the casket was Saxon, not Norman.’

  ‘Spoils of war,’ the Norman said abruptly. ‘That casket was booty. Spoils of war, my dear, become the property of the victor. Scribe! Have you written down this woman’s confession to the second charge?’

  The scribe gave a sycophantic nod.

  ‘Beatrice...’ Anne climbed to her feet. Her pretty face was pinched with cold and ugly with fear.

  ‘I’m a dead woman, Anne,’ Beatrice said quietly. ‘Can’t you see it? There’s no point in both of us dying. Remember, you’re not the stuff martyrs are made of.’ She attempted a smile, but knew it was a poor one. Her mouth was dry.

  ‘Yo
u’re a fool, Beatrice. Noble, but a fool. If you expect me to be able to sit and watch while you...you...’ Anne’s voice wobbled.

  ‘Begone, then!’ de Brionne suggested harshly. ‘We can proceed without you.’

  ‘Farewell, cousin,’ Beatrice said steadily. ‘You’d best go. He’s impatient to be done and, frankly, so am I.’

  Anne sobbed, stepped forwards and dropped an icy kiss on her cousin’s lips. Then she whirled and, picking up her skirts, ran wailing up the slope towards the hall.

  Beatrice felt her eyes mist over. Lady Anne de Vidâmes was wont to walk slowly, and with dignity. But the figure she was watching stumbled and scrabbled up the hill like a madwoman outrunning the hounds of hell.

  A distant church bell tolled. It all seemed unreal. She was on trial for her life.

  ‘The third charge, Father.’ De Brionne poked a mailed elbow at the priest.

  ‘The third charge is that you did collude with a Saxon spy, Morcar, and with his aid did drug and overpower a guard in the conduct of his duty.’ Father Ralph licked his lips and gulped. ‘And the fourth, is that you, Mistress Beatrice, did impede the course of justice by causing a diversion which prevented the arrest of the outlaw Edmund of Lindsey. There are witnesses to this last charge, mistress,’ the priest said, apologetically.

  ‘How plead you to these charges?’ de Brionne yawned, his eyes flickering in the direction of the lake.

  ‘What is the point? I am already condemned.’

  The baron shrugged. ‘You have recorded that I gave her the opportunity to speak?’ he demanded of the scribe.

  ‘Aye, Baron.’

  De Brionne kicked back his stool. ‘We will proceed with the ordeal. To the lake!’

  ‘B...Baron, I know you are not a religious man. You do not believe in this method of judgement,’ Father Ralph faltered. ‘I fear you are blaspheming. My son, if you seek merely to torture this poor girl, your eternal soul is in danger.’

  ‘This poor girl is a self-admitted traitor,’ de Brionne said sharply. ‘She does not merit such concern.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I would hate to think she caused your downfall too, Father.’