Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  ‘Baron, if you are set on this course, I too must beg leave to depart.’

  ‘No stomach for it?’ De Brionne’s lip curled. ‘Very well. Go and calm Lady Anne; I won’t stand for any more dirges from her. If she’s not amenable by the time I get back, she’ll regret it.’

  Father Ralph turned to Beatrice and formed a shaky cross over her head. ‘Bless you, my child. And may the good Lord forgive us all for our part in this day’s work.’ He cast a speaking glance over the handful of guards and backed away.

  The guards’ eyes were empty – expressionless pits. Two of them took Beatrice by the arms and half lifted, half dragged her to the water’s edge.

  Her dulled senses jerked awake. She could hear the far-off chapel bell pealing the angelus, and nearer, the rooks cawing in the copse. But the sounds closest to her were the chink of chain-mail, and the dull swishing of her ruined robe as it dragged round her knees. Her breath formed clouds which mingled with those of her judges. She noticed the broken rushes fringing the lake. A duck, startled by their approach, waddled along on the dark, icy skin of the mere. It slipped, picked itself up and skated to the cover offered by the swamp elders about a leafless alder.

  Beatrice drew a steadying breath, the air was fresh and cool. She wondered why she had never appreciated the joy of breathing until the moment it was about to be taken from her.

  Then it was very quiet. The rooks had fallen silent. The only sound was that chiming chapel bell. Beatrice waited for the baron to order the ice to be broken. She peered at the frosted surface of the mere. She’d not last long in these temperatures. It did not matter that she could not swim. The shock would probably kill her. How deep was it? Was it bottomless? Strange, that she should feel so calm...

  She lifted her head and tilted it to one side. What was that new tinkling noise? She frowned. And why had the guards not broken the ice? What were they waiting for?

  Her captors’ eyes were not on her. Confused, she followed their gaze. Half a dozen wretched figures were dragging themselves towards them. Beggars perhaps?

  The figures moved stiffly and awkwardly. They were wearing filthy brown robes which hung in tatters around their lumpish bodies. One was exceptionally tall, and probably male, but it was impossible to tell either sex or age, for their features were completely concealed by voluminous cowls.

  Beatrice felt her stomach heave and wrinkled her nostrils. Those garments hadn’t seen water in years. It was only the dirt that held them together.

  The leader rang his handbell. ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ His voice was hoarse. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up in her throat. The disreputable band moved inexorably towards the knot of Normans by the lake.

  ‘Lepers, by the Rood!’ exclaimed one of the guards. He crossed himself and started backing up the hill.

  ‘Hold, I say!’ the baron commanded, but he too took a cautious pace backwards.

  Beatrice had never before seen the baron disconcerted. Under other circumstances she might have appreciated the sight, but not today. Not on her last day on earth. She wanted to live. The desire to live was overwhelming. It gripped her so strongly that she almost cried aloud.

  The lepers’ leader brought his hideous crew closer.

  ‘K...keep back,’ the guard restraining Beatrice stammered on a rising note. His nerve cracked, he loosed her arm and hared off out of danger.

  Beatrice giggled stupidly. ‘They cannot hear you. They’ve probably lost their ears.’

  The leper leader pressed on, making no sign that he’d marked either the guard or Beatrice.

  Beatrice dug in her heels. Her hazel eyes were dilated with horror. The abominable stench sent her hand to her nose.

  Another guard’s nerve broke. He marched stiffly towards de Brionne. Beatrice stood alone.

  ‘Stay with her, you idiot!’ The baron ground out, boiling with rage.

  Beatrice bit her lip. A desperate idea was taking hold of her mind...

  ‘Not I, Baron,’ the man apologised. ‘I’d rather face a month in solitary than a lifetime’s dose of leprosy.’

  De Brionne seethed, but he did not dare approach her either. She was too close to the lepers.

  Beatrice forced herself to look at the leper with the handbell. She cleared her throat. ‘Take me with you,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Take me with you.’

  The leper shot her a swift, furtive glance, as though afraid to meet her eyes. Perhaps lepers never accustomed themselves to seeing revulsion on the faces of their fellow men. Perhaps this one had adopted that shooting glance so as to avoid seeing people turn away in disgust. Beatrice steeled herself. She would not betray her disgust. But the leper’s face turned towards her for only a fraction of a second. She glimpsed no more than a face that was obscured by months of muck and grime.

  The lepers clustered around her. Their bodies were twisted and grotesque, the smell of putrefaction smothering.

  ‘Take me with you,’ Beatrice repeated urgently. ‘I am dead if they–’ she indicated the impotent Normans ‘–have their way. The water would kill me. I’d rather go with you and have some small chance at life than stay here and die for sure.’ She made her lips form a smile.

  ‘We are the living dead,’ the leper replied. His voice betrayed his gender, it was surprisingly pleasant. ‘There is no cure for our infection. We are reviled and cursed by all. Outcasts. If you come with us you may never more seek society.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind, woman?’ de Brionne bawled.

  ‘No, I want to live!’ Beatrice cried. The blood pounded in her temples, the numbness left her veins. ‘You dare not approach these lepers. I will go with them, and you shall not stop me. You shall not rob me of my life.’

  ‘You won’t be able to go to your Saxon lover,’ the baron said, thin lips twisting. ‘He won’t want the plague you’ll carry if you touch those devils. You may as well be dead.’

  ‘I embrace them willingly.’ Giving herself no time for thought, Beatrice flung her arms around the leper leader in a dramatic enactment of her words. A foul stench filled her nostrils, but she didn’t flinch. She felt a heavily bandaged stump rest momentarily on her arm and tried not to think what lay beneath the dirt-streaked wrappings.

  ‘I can come with you?’ she asked, wriggling away from the contamination of his touch as soon as she was able. She was sure she could feel the infection working on her skin; it tingled where she’d touched him.

  The tall leper let out a loud guffaw of raucous male laughter. She glanced sharply at him, but he hung his head and, cloaked by that filthy cowl, she could see nothing of his face.

  The leper with the handbell inclined his head. ‘Come with us,’ he agreed, and rang his bell again. ‘Unclean! Unclean!’

  One of his feet was heavily swathed in bandages. Had he lost some toes? All of his toes? A fit of trembling shook through Beatrice and she realised that his fate would become hers. She had embraced the living dead.

  One of de Brionne’s men nocked an arrow. ‘Baron, shall I?’ he asked.

  De Brionne clenched his jaw. Then he smiled. ‘No, let her go. She’s a dead woman anyway. Let her die the slow way.’

  It was not the miracle she had prayed for, but it was better than no miracle at all. Stumbling as though their disease had already hobbled her, Beatrice went with them. It was the extreme cold which caused her eyes to water. She was not weeping. She was not.

  ***

  Beatrice awoke slowly, yawning and groaning. She was stiff all over.

  ‘Beatrice, do you feel rested now?’ a voice asked softly. It was Edmund’s.

  She shot upright, her eyes blank with horror. She was lying in one-roomed wooden house in a crude box-bed. Edmund sat on a stool beside the bed, smiling at her.

  Beatrice put up her hands. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried, remembering who had brought her to this damned, dead village. She must not infect Edmund.

  He directed an enquiring look at her. ‘What? May I not help the maid who gave me freedom at the cos
t of her own?’ His blue eyes teased her.

  Arming herself to resist his easy charm, Beatrice averted her head. ‘I am unclean, Edmund. I...I have been contaminated.’ She halted, uncertain how to proceed.

  ‘I know,’ Edmund said, and grinned.

  She wished he would not look at her like that. ‘You don’t understand. I escaped de Brionne in the company of a band of lepers. Lepers, Edmund. I touched them.’ She waved her arm. ‘They put me in here. This is one of their huts.’ She picked up the edge of her blanket. ‘This is theirs. They gave it to me. I must surely be infected. You must not touch me. You must get away from here.’

  ‘Must I?’ Edmund asked softly. He leaned towards her, ignoring her strangled cry. ‘What if I were to say that I did not care if you were to embrace a thousand lepers?’

  Beatrice stared incredulously at him. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she whispered.

  He held out his hand.

  She batted it away. ‘Edmund, don’t!’

  ‘You’ve touched me now,’ he laughed.

  Beatrice met his teasing blue eyes, a dawning suspicion in her own. Why was he not worried? He smelt strongly of soap. His skin had a freshly scrubbed look about it, his hair shone...

  ‘Edmund–’

  But before she could voice her suspicions, his hand was back, tugging at her shoulder. It pulled her to his chest. Beatrice went into his arms on a trembling sigh of relief. She listened to the steady beat of his heart. He was so warm.

  ‘I never thought to be in your arms again,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Did you not?’ His arms tightened round her. His chin rested on the top of her head.

  Beatrice pulled back and frowned at him. ‘How could you mislead me for so long?’ She frowned. ‘I was in torment, I thought–’

  ‘I’m sorry, Beatrice. We had so little time. When de Brionne took you at the fair, my people held me back. I could do nothing.’

  ‘I saw,’ Beatrice said softly. ‘They love you.’

  Edmund flushed, and pushed his hair back. ‘I am English,’ he shrugged. ‘It is no more than that.’

  Beatrice knew better than to argue. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘You have Walter to thank. He went after you,’ Edmund said. ‘He overheard de Brionne planning your ordeal. He’s a clever man, that Walter of yours. He managed to make me understand, and–’

  ‘You, listening to a Norman?’ Beatrice was incredulous.

  Edmund avoided her eyes. ‘It was so unlikely that a Norman should return unarmed to a Saxon and demand help that I believed him. Morcar added his pleas to Walter’s.’ He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘You have made a conquest there. It was Morcar’s bright idea to disguise ourselves as lepers.’

  ‘He must have been the tall one!’ Beatrice realised. ‘The one who laughed.’

  ‘Aye. For all his skill at deception, it is ironic that he should be the one who almost gave us away. He found it amusing that you should choose to embrace me.’ Edmund gave her a rueful grin. ‘He said that that proved the measure of your love, that you could recognise me through all my filth and rags!’

  Beatrice hoped her face was blank. ‘But I didn’t recognise you,’ she said bluntly.

  The light went out of Edmund’s eyes. ‘I know.’

  Beatrice caught her breath. She wanted to rekindle that light. ‘I am grateful to you for saving me.’

  Edmund stood up. ‘I did but return the compliment.’ His voice was cool. ‘You risked your life for mine at the fair. Why did you do it, Beatrice?’

  ‘I could not see you die!’ Beatrice jumped to her feet. ‘Sweet Jesu, what do you think of me?’

  ‘You’re a Norman. And for a Norman to risk her life for an illegitimate Saxon–’

  ‘You fool!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘I care not which side of the blanket you were born! I never have. It is you who have presumed as much. I know well enough it is the quality of the man that matters, not his birth. Being born in wedlock is no guarantee of anything. Look at de Brionne!’

  Edmund took a step towards her. His eyes were fastened on the sapphire ring. ‘Then you would not in principle object to marrying someone born out of wedlock?’

  Beatrice must have imagined the pleading tone in his voice, for when he raised his eyes to her hazel ones, they were hard as blue ice. They quelled a frank answer.

  ‘Not in principle,’ she said, vaguely.

  Edmund placed a light hand under her chin and turned her face so it was illumined by a shaft of light from a gap in the roof. ‘They hurt you badly,’ he observed. A gentle finger traced along the angry red weal. ‘They have bruised your beauty.’

  ‘It is a little painful, but not that bad,’ Beatrice lied.

  His eyes were on her lips. ‘I am afraid to hurt you,’ he muttered, and dipped his head in the briefest of kisses.

  She swayed towards him, limbs already turning to water, but Edmund held her at arms’ length. He released her. If only his eyes had softened...

  ‘I’m sorry this accommodation is not what you are used to,’ he announced, glancing critically around the dingy room.

  Beatrice frowned. ‘It is well enough,’ she replied, watching him closely. She had to clench her fists to stop her hands reaching out to him.

  He was staring at a gap in the bottom of a wall, where chickens had scratched out a door for themselves. ‘You could return to your cousin now you know you are not tainted,’ he suggested stiffly.

  Beatrice averted her head. A cold ache settled round her heart. He was rejecting her. Her hazel eyes brimmed with tears. ‘H...how could I? Under Norman law my life is forfeit.’ Pride squared her shoulders, and she dashed away the too-betraying tears. ‘But if I am unwelcome here I shall remove myself.’

  Edmund gave her arm a gentle shake. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to imply you are not welcome. You are most welcome. But you must stay of your own free will. If you do not wish to stay with us, I will escort you wherever you wish to go.’

  She kicked the edge of the box-bed with her toes. ‘There is nowhere else I can go.’

  ‘You had plans once for the cloistered life,’ Edmund said. She darted a glance from under her lashes. His face was set. ‘Have you given them up?’

  Beatrice stared at him. ‘I have.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘It was ever my mother’s scheme. Never mine. I must find my own way.’

  Edmund let out a breath. A small smile played about his mouth. ‘It is well,’ he mumbled. He reached for the door latch. ‘Beatrice, can you trust me for a little while?’

  She put her heart in her eyes. ‘Aye.’

  He was halfway through the door. He stopped and came back to her. Oddly hesitant, he picked up her hand and stared down at the ring. ‘I’m glad you still wear it.’

  Beatrice watched his downbent head. Her throat ached.

  Edmund turned her hand and placed a warm kiss in her palm. The tingling sensation ran all the way up her arm. He lifted his eyes. ‘This ring has never been given save in the spirit for which it was made,’ he whispered, so low that Beatrice could scarcely hear him.

  Beatrice opened her mouth to beg for an explanation, but Edmund spun on his heel and was at the door before the words were more than half formed.

  ‘I must go,’ he said briskly, his shadow darkening the chamber. ‘De Brionne has driven us from bad to worse, and I would put an end to this skulking on our own lands. There is a council meeting, and I must attend it.’

  Beatrice curled her fingers over the kiss in her palm.

  And Edmund’s shadow was gone.

  ***

  That evening Beatrice was roused by a clatter of hoofs. She stuck her head through the door of the wooden hut. A handful of torches revealed Edmund and Hilda riding away. Siward was with them. Beatrice hauled her skirts free of the slush and dashed after them.

  ‘Edmund? What’s happening? Where are you going?’ she called.

  Edmund wheeled Balder about. Beatrice heard him swear. She winced and skidded to a halt. A large be-ringe
d hand fell on her shoulders, anchoring her where she stood.

  ‘Let him go easy, my lady,’ Morcar said kindly. ‘It is for the best.’

  Edmund and Morcar exchanged glances. The hand on her shoulder felt like a lead weight. Balder tossed his head and sidled away from Morcar’s flaring torch.

  ‘Edmund?’ Beatrice swallowed.

  ‘Morcar has his instructions,’ Edmund said. His lips curved into a smile, but it seemed to Beatrice to be a poor imitation of the smile she loved. He lifted a gloved hand and blew her a casual kiss. ‘Until we meet again, Beatrice.’ His heel skimmed Balder’s shining flanks, and the horse sprang into the darkness.

  The weight lifted from her shoulder.

  ‘Morcar? Where has he gone?’

  Morcar gave her a direct look. ‘My lady, I cannot say. We must both be patient. Come back inside, it is warmer there. I’m to keep you safe, not see you catch your death.’

  ***

  The days passed uneasily. Morcar was steadfast in his refusal to tell Beatrice where Edmund had gone. All he would say was that he had promised to guard her. Rather wildly, Beatrice wondered whether Morcar was guarding her from his countrymen or her own.

  Walter appeared and took it upon himself to care for her needs. He kept a warm fire going for her. He snared a mallard and roasted it for her. He stuffed rags in the cracks in the wall, and stopped out the shrieking wind. He mended the roof, and swept the snow from the door.

  Beatrice found Walter’s silent presence comforting. She had plenty of time and no interruptions. She could try and untangle the mess in her mind.

  She thought about Edmund.

  In one sense, Beatrice was glad that Edmund did not return immediately. Events had moved so quickly her mind had not had time to catch up with them. She felt strangely out of step with the world, and needed to sort it all out. Edmund had asked her to trust him. And she did, she trusted him as well as any. But what trust did he have in her, that he should skulk off without so much as a word? Where had he gone? What was he doing? If he trusted her, surely he would have confided in her?