Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  “And? Did they go?”

  “There was a difficulty.” Edana pursed her lips. “The chieftain himself had not been raised in the faith of Christians. He had permitted himself to be baptized solely that he might wed his chosen bride, whose family insisted upon as much.”

  “He was pagan?”

  “Nay, ’twas more accurately said that he was indifferent. As a man wholly enthralled with matters of this world, he had little interest in faith of any kind. And he had less interest in traveling the breadth of Christendom, to be parted from his new wife for years, to father no sons, and perhaps to die far from hearth and home. He was no longer a young man, and he certainly had no fear of any pending judgment.

  “In fact, he immediately declined to go. ’Twas his manner to make choices quickly and cling to them tenaciously. And without his endorsement of the righteousness of this battle, not a single man from his household went.”

  “The priest must have been disappointed.”

  “Aye, I expect he was. And truly, there was some concern of repercussions. The lady’s cousin, after all, had merely wanted to warn her family of their possible peril. ’Twas a message sent in good faith, no matter what its result. The chieftain insisted upon granting the priest a similarly generous gift to return to the cousin so that relations would not worsen between them.

  “The priest, however, would not accept such a gift, though he did not discourage the chieftain from sending it with a different envoy. Indeed, he had seen how thin the veil of faith was in these lands, and he resolved that he would bring all these wayward lambs beneath the shelter of Christ. He vowed to stay and preach.”

  “It sounds as if his teachings were well needed.”

  Edana did not reply to that, though she gave Jacqueline a censorious glance. “The chieftain, seeing his opportunity to make something of naught, granted an endowment to found a monastery. The priest graciously accepted this gift and set about preaching the word to all who would listen.

  “He showed the lady how to care for the bees, the monastery prospered, many of the people pledged to the chieftain converted to the faith. For a long time, the troubles in Outremer were forgotten.”

  “Until their judgment came.”

  Edana paused and studied Jacqueline. “’Tis a remarkable trait among Christians that they take great delight in hearing of others chastised for their transgressions, when I had always understood that one of the great Christian teachings was compassion for one’s fellows.”

  “Nay, ’tis the mark of a Celtic tale to see wickedness punished and goodness rewarded.”

  Edana chuckled to herself at that. “Aye? I suppose ’tis the mark of any good tale, if not of life itself.”

  “Well? Did any illness befall them?” Jacqueline asked.

  “Oh, some said it began from the outset. The bride did not ripen with child as all might have expected. The priest made no associations between one event and the other, though people tend to gossip about such matters. There was no doubt, after all, that the chieftain anxiously sought his wife’s bed.”

  “And she? Did she still fear him?”

  “Nay. Although she went to her nuptials with great trepidation, she soon discovered that he was a man of a kind and generous heart, a heart nigh as large as he. He separated all the world into those who were with him and those who were against—the latter he slaughtered without remorse, the former he protected with a passion unmatched. She was at the pinnacle of those he cherished, and, as such, her life could not have been more sweet.

  “A gentle soul, she turned a blind eye to the strife that oft surrounded them. War and blood feuds and alliances were those matters she saw as a constantly shifting and confusing realm of violence in which she desired no part.

  “A woman with little patience for needlework, she abandoned the shuttle to create a garden. Perhaps she sought to prove that men and women could foster beauty in this world, instead of all the wickedness we usually breed.

  “’Twas originally a garden justified by the needs of the kitchen, filled with herbs for healing and for flavor as well as onions and tubers for the soup pot. But slowly she added flowers for the glory of their color and for the bees.

  “Word spread of her strange preoccupation. Courtiers seeking the favor of her indulgent husband brought her gifts from the south that would be unwelcome in any other household—bits of root, and slips of leaves, seeds and pods and fruit. And so her garden grew, a glorious refuge into which she and her husband oft retreated. ’Twas a world outside of the world in many ways, a place out of time.

  “And none could match this couple’s delight when some six years after their vows were exchanged, the lady bore to the chieftain a fine son. She then bore another, and he vowed she had made him the happiest man in all of Christendom. The wagging tongues fell silent, and it seemed that all was right again in the chieftain’s domain.”

  “Was it?”

  “Aye, for a long time it seemed that way.”

  “But eventually...”

  “Aye, eventually all went awry and did so quite suddenly, as a ball of wool wound tight will unfurl when cast across the floor. Alliances dissolved, battles turned against the chieftain, the winters became cruel, and the crops failed. The hunting was poor and many peasants died. The prosperity that holding had long enjoyed faltered. The chieftain refused to believe that ’twas more than bad fortune, until his eldest son, his heir, fell ill.

  “A ripe young man, not eight and ten summers of age, he was nigh at death’s door in one short week. The chieftain was beside himself in his anguish, the lady wept, the younger son did all that could be done for his brother.

  “But precious little could be done. The priest was called, and he named the handiwork of God in what the family endured. He called this their Judgment Day for failing to answer the call to arms of the pope. And truly, ’twas well known by that point that the crusade he had preached on his arrival had gone poorly. The infidel breached the walls of Christendom with increasing boldness, and ’twas feared that the Holy City itself would be lost.

  “But now the chieftain was far into his winter years and ’twas unlikely he could add much more to the battle than a pilgrim or a penitent might.”

  Edana worked mutely for long moments, then frowned. “Silence filled the chamber after the priest named his remedy. That silence was broken only by the cough of the ill son, until the younger son spoke. He vowed to go to Outremer, to redeem his family’s honor, to do battle for Christ against the Saracens. He was six and ten years of age, though tall and finely wrought and deft with a blade.

  “And then there was jubilation, for all were certain this would change their fate for the better. The priest affixed the red cross of the crusader to the son’s tunic that very day. The son was dispatched with all honors, with a fine steed and a stalwart companion, with a heavy purse and his father’s legendary blade. His mother was inconsolable, for she was certain she would never see her youngest again.

  “The chieftain was burdened by guilt, for he believed that ’twas his own decision that had brought such misery to his family. He feared too late that his own refusal to depart was naught but selfishness and that ’twould see his lady’s heart rent in two.

  “Can you guess the departing son’s name?” Edana glanced at Jacqueline, and the younger woman’s mouth went dry.

  “Angus.”

  “Aye, ’twas.”

  Jacqueline caught her breath. “When did this happen?”

  “’Twas five and ten years ago.”

  Angus had been gone fifteen years! “And the elder brother?”

  “Died shortly thereafter.”

  “God bless his soul.” Jacqueline crossed herself, but she was unprepared for the flash of anger in Edana’s eyes.

  “Indeed? And what favoring god would surrender a blessing after compelling his faithful to suffer such pain? How is this good, that the family is divided and their son lost to war across the seas in Outremer?”

  Jacqueline ha
d only the answer oft given by Ceinn-beithe’s kindly priest. “’Tis not for us to know the ways of God.”

  “Nay.” Edana spat on the floor. “Only to obey his edicts, like the sheep to whom his priests so oft compare us.” Jacqueline had never met anyone who questioned the teachings of the church, and she knew not what to say. Her own faith burned brightly in her heart, and she felt compelled to argue in its favor.

  “There must have been a greater purpose,” she insisted. “Perhaps Angus had a critical role to play. Jerusalem has not been lost, after all.”

  Edana made a noncommittal sound in her throat. She separated her plants with less care than before, her fingers shaking with passion.

  “You said you would not tell a tale that was not your own,” Jacqueline reminded her, watching those agitated fingers. “Yet you tell this one, and you tell it with the conviction of one close to its occurrence.”

  Edana turned a look upon her so cold that it nigh froze her marrow. “I knew this chieftain and his bride,” she said fiercely. “They were good people, honest and loving people, and did naught to deserve such pain. ’Tis no crime to share the heartbreak of a kindred soul.”

  “You speak of them as if they draw breath no longer.”

  Edana looked back to her plants, her lips tight. “They are all dead. All save one.” And she flicked her head toward the door, toward the murmur of men’s voices and horses’ nickering, toward Angus. “Though his heart has been turned to such a stone that he might as well be dead.”

  “Edana! ’Tis bad fortune to say such a thing.”

  The older woman swallowed a wry laugh. “The man could hardly have worse fortune than is already his own.” She shook a finger at Jacqueline. “And in saying as much, you show yourself more a Celt than you guess, and perhaps more superstitious than is fitting in a novitiate.”

  Jacqueline ignored the second comment. “What do you mean about Angus’s fortunes?”

  “You will have to ask him yourself, my curious demoiselle,” Edana got to her feet once more, shuffling to an array of dried plants hung from the roof at the other end of the hut. She murmured to herself as she plucked and chose from the leaves, pinched and sniffed, discarded some and gathered others into one fist. She returned and cast them into the pot, with a murmured verse.

  “Be warned that I will drink no more of your potions,” Jacqueline insisted, though her suspicion seemed to prompt no more than an arch smile.

  “Aye? How is your ankle this morn?”

  Jacqueline rose and, to her surprise, her ankle was fully able to support her weight. It seemed completely healed, but she unbound the cloth carefully, expecting the bruise to linger.

  There was none. Her flesh was as unblemished as it had been the day before, before she tripped and injured herself. She looked up at Edana in amazement, only to find the old woman smiling smugly.

  “Perhaps you owe some gratitude after all.”

  Jacqueline folded her hands before herself and bowed slightly. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your craft is not small, though it be unworldly.”

  Edana shook her head. “Your thanks are owed to the lady of the well, not to me. A truly grateful soul would hang that cloutie in the glade and make an offering as a token of esteem.”

  “A token?” Jacqueline could not hide her horror. “Must I slaughter some innocent in the way of pagans?”

  Edana chuckled. “Oh, I am tempted indeed to tell you that you must, if only to see your dismay. But nay, lass, ’tis not that way. Sacrifice something of import to yourself, that is all the lady asks of you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A shoe, a trinket, a belt.” Edana gave Jacqueline a hard look. “A judgment or preconception, perhaps even a dream. It matters not what you choose, nor even whether you confess the truth to another. The lady will know—and further, she will know whether the gift comes truly from your heart.”

  “And if it does not?”

  Edana smiled and stirred her brew.

  Jacqueline donned her shoes, then paused, facing the older woman. Edana said naught. ’Twas as if she had ceased to be, though Jacqueline guessed matters would change as she moved toward the door.

  And she would prefer to not be trussed up again. If ’twas an oversight on Angus’s part that she was free this morning—and she could not imagine why ’twould be so otherwise—then she did not intend to remind him to redress his error.

  “Am I permitted to simply walk to the glade alone?” she asked finally. “Or will it be assumed that I am trying to escape?”

  “I do not know Angus’s intent. You had best ask him that as well.” Edana spoke mildly, then straightened and lifted her head to listen. “He has not gone far.”

  The old woman said no more, her attention apparently fixed upon her brew.

  Mist gathered in the hollows of the land even as the rain eased to a halt, turning the shadows beneath the great trees into mysterious havens. The leaves glistened and silvery drops dripped all around. Jacqueline heard the music of their falling, mingled with the chirping of birds and the distant gurgle of the stream.

  And the stamping of horses bred for war. Aye, Rodney swung into his own saddle and the men conferred even as she watched.

  Jacqueline was curious whether what Edana had told her was true. She stared at Angus from the doorway, her thoughts spinning with all she had just learned of him.

  Indeed, it seemed that Angus lived some old tale that Duncan might recount. A knight of honor departed from his home to set matters right yet returned to find his family dead. She could well understand how he sought to repair his own fate, no less how he could have become so embittered.

  Goosebumps rose on Jacqueline’s flesh as she thought of it. Aye, she was susceptible to a heroic tale, she knew it well—indeed, the priest of Ceinn-beithe oft despaired of her affection for such tales over those in her testament.

  Would Angus confide in her? ’Twas unlikely, but she was oddly reassured by this tale of his origins.

  Perhaps he was not the demon she had assumed him to be.

  Jacqueline stepped across the threshold, but the old woman did not stir.

  ‘Take the bucket,” Edana commanded softly. “And see it filled, if you please.”

  Jacqueline lifted the bucket, left the hut, and took a cleansing breath of the damp air. She was free once more, though there was no telling how long that might last.

  She had best make the opportunity count.

  Angus knew that Rodney would have much to say of what he had interrupted this morn. That man stood beside his steed, fairly tapping his toe with impatience to begin a diatribe, even as Angus left the hut.

  Despite the turmoil within him, Angus jabbed a finger through the air at his companion. “Are you not departed yet? I thought you were the one in haste to see this matter resolved. If you intend to make Ceinn-beithe by the morrow’s eve, you had best hasten yourself.”

  Rodney blinked. “I am leaving on this day?”

  “I cannot imagine why you linger, unless you are as lazy a comrade as I was warned you would be.”

  Rodney grinned. “That, boy, is the first sense to fall from your lips in a day. Since sleep has made you sensible once more, perhaps we should review the wisdom of your plan.”

  “You must ride there, Rodney. It seems to me now that haste is of import.” Angus did not choose to explain why.

  Rodney, typically, assumed they were in agreement. “Aye, but why even trouble with the matter? Let the woman be free. Let us raise an army from your father’s allies and capture Airdfinnan by force!”

  Angus sighed heavily. “You forget, Rodney, that I was raised within those walls. I know better than any other that Airdfinnan cannot be taken by force.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed. “I suspect you make much of memories. You might find differently if you looked with the eyes of one who has seen more of war instead of a son fondly recalling his sire.”

  Angus shook his head. “I did look, Rodney.
I looked when we were so briefly within its walls again, and, truly, the keep is more heavily fortified than I recall. My father always said it could be taken only by treachery from within.”

  “Yet that is how he lost it.”

  “A cruel irony, is it not?” Angus felt his lips tighten. “’Twas brilliantly done, if naught else. His enemy spied his weakness and made the most of it.”

  Angus fell silent, wondering whether his father had perceived the treachery before he died. He hated that a man of such honor had been cheated of his due—and hated more that he had not been present to offer his aid, for whatever it might have been worth.

  He had failed his family’s expectation on every front.

  Rodney laid a hand on Angus’s shoulder. “You, at least, will never make such an error. We have seen much of what evil can lurk in a man’s heart.”

  “Much indeed.”

  Angus did not doubt that his companion was recalling the crimes they had witnessed, both alone and together.

  Rodney swung into the saddle, then granted Angus a cocky salute. “So, ’tis as our original plan? I shall return here to meet you with all haste, once the chieftain grants his aye or nay?”

  “Aye.”

  But Rodney hesitated. “You are certain ’tis wise to insist upon ransoming the woman still? Once I depart, naught can be changed.”

  “I see no reason to abandon our plan.”

  Rodney’s smile was wry. “Even though she is not Mhairi?”

  “If all she tells of Duncan is true, then he will pay as readily as Cormac.”

  “If indeed he is fully heir to the chiefdom.”

  Angus shrugged. “’Tis time for answers, Rodney, not more questions. There is only one way to know the truth for certain. You will have to go there.”

  “And you will keep the wench for yourself,” Rodney teased, no doubt as startled as Angus when the lady in question called a merry greeting.

  “Good morning to you,” she continued cheerfully, swinging an empty bucket as she came. Angus stared, astonished by her manner. Indeed, she might have been comfortably at home, arising to do a few small chores. He blinked when she smiled at him, momentarily struck silent.