Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2)

by Christy Carlyle

  “Warn me?”

  Hal took his shot. The ball tumbled into the corner pocket with a warm thunk.

  “Your name was mentioned as a possible . . . candidate.”

  Snow looked at Hal. Hal avoided looking at Snow.

  “I suppose you were the one who mentioned me,” Snow said.

  “I suppose I was. I didn’t think it would trouble you. Does it?” “Not at all.”

  “I was correct then, in throwing your name into the proverbial hat,” Hal said. “I tossed out your name, it was quite soundly rejected, and now you are free of the whole plot.”

  “I beg your pardon? Soundly rejected, did you say?”

  Snow had never been, soundly or otherwise, rejected in his entire life. The concept was unsettling.

  “By Rose, actually,” Hal said. “Gwyn wasn’t in the room. You may well have to beware of her. Though, actually, you may find Gwyn quite appealing. She’s got a nice way about her, in general.”

  Snow’s blood screamed Rose’s name. Snow had never before listened to his blood and he wasn’t starting now.

  “I may have neglected to mention that I am not in the market for a wife,” Snow said. “I have far too much to occupy my time at present. Once my stables are secure and productive, that will be the proper time to go wife hunting.”

  “Then you are doubly safe,” Hal said, his dark eyes gleaming in suppressed humor. Snow couldn’t see what was so blasted funny. “Rose rejected you and you are rejecting the whole issue of marriage.”

  “At present.”

  “Excuse me. Yes, at present,” Hal said, a pleasant smile on his face.

  Snow had never before known Blackwater to smile so much, for so little cause.

  Chapter 8

  “What are you smiling about?” Nell said. “I thought the Grimstone was a myth! There is nothing amusing about that horrible thing. We could be blasted to God-knows-where and then where are we? Lost! That’s where we’d be. I spent far too long finding you here, at Keyvnor, to suffer through that again. What are you smiling about?”

  “Can’t you see it, girl? It’s a plain as day that if Rose Hambly marries the Grimstone, he’ll take her out of here and I’ll be free of that girl’s presence for good,” Roland said. “She’s looking for a husband. There he is, standing right in front of her.”

  “You can’t mean it,” Nell said. “You’d see that innocent girl married to that monstrous thing?”

  “She has to marry someone,” Roland said, lifting a ghostly shoulder, “why not the Grimstone?”

  “Because he’s the death of us all!” Nell shouted. Roland lifted an eyebrow at her choice of words. “You well know what I mean. That ring, that hellish ring, can send us anywhere, and once we’re anywhere, anything can happen to us. Anything!”

  “What can happen to us?” Paul asked.

  Paul, as ghostly as they, was a Banfield, his aged stopped at five years, and for those two reasons Roland loathed him. For those same two reasons, Nell had only kindly thoughts towards the brat. Roland ignored him, and took great pleasure in doing so.

  “Nothing happened to us,” Roland said to Nell. “Don’t get womanish.”

  “I am not being womanish. I am being practical,” Nell said, wrapping a pale gray arm about the hideous Banfield boy. “I am being compassionate. I will not see that innocent girl married to a man with that thing on his finger!”

  “It’s more than just the ring,” Roland said. “You must have felt it was more than merely the ring.”

  “Merely the ring, he says,” Nell said.

  “What ring?” Paul said.

  “The Grimstone,” Nell said to Paul.

  “I thought that was a myth?” Paul said.

  “Kindly keep your mouth shut, boy. Listen and learn,” Roland snapped.

  “‘Tis no myth,” Nell said. “The Grimstone is here, walking amongst us.”

  “What does it do?” Paul said.

  “‘Tis more than the ring, I say,” Roland said, giving the boy a hard look. Paul was an old ghost in a five-year old body. He was out of reach of hard looks. “‘Tis the blood of the Grimstones that works the spell.”

  “‘Tis a spell?” Paul said.

  “‘Tis more magic than spell,” Roland said. “Old magic, it is, and bound up in the blood. There’s no more powerful magic than blood magic.”

  “Aye, ‘tis so,” Nell said, crossing herself.

  “What is the tale?” Paul asked. “I have only heard of the Grimstone in whispers, a tale of fancy, full of fearful tidings.”

  “And so it is,” Nell said. “Have we not just been thrown halfway across the country by the devilish thing?”

  “I think I heard it,” Paul said. “I was at Bocka Morrow; there are kittens being born .”

  “Do you want to hear the tale or not?” Roland said.

  “I do,” Paul said, floating to assume a seated position on the topmost branch of the old beech tree.

  The tree had been planted within memory of Nell and Roland and was, as much as anything could be, their tree. When the Grimstone had exploded upon them, casting them out and away in a roar of blinding light and the boom of an exploding cannon, they had reunited at the beech. The moon was rising in a clear night sky, seeming caught in the bare black branches of the beech, a fitting backdrop for the Grimstone tale.

  When they had been in the stable, it had been late afternoon. When they had found themselves at the beech, the hour was past nine, if he could judge. Where they had been between the stable and the beech, during those four or five hours, Roland could not say. This was the source of Nell’s fear. Where had they been?

  “Randulfr was an old raider,” Roland began, “a proud man who grew more proud with each raid, each golden coin and each jeweled ring the edge of his blade brought him. He was often off a-viking, his ship slipping through the waves like a dolphin, his hunger for fame as ravenous as any winter wolf. So he came by his name, for in that tongue his name is Shield Wolf.”

  “You sound as if you admire him,” Nell said.

  “And so I do. A man must make his way upon the earth, and Randulfr made his,” Roland said. “But you interrupt my tale.”

  “I do apologize,” Nell said in marked sarcasm. “Please continue your eulogy of the admirable Randulfr.”

  “Randulfr saw many lands on his raids,” Roland said, “and learned of many gods, and as his pride grew with victory, so did his devotion to his Norse gods wane.”

  “As it should have,” Nell said. “The Holy Trinity--”

  “Perhaps you would like to tell it?” Roland said, his anger rising. “The Banfield brat can take his chances against the Grimstone, and good riddance to him.”

  “Oh, tell it, then,” Nell said sharply, “but don’t feel you must be so poetic about it. All Paul needs to know is what to do when faced with the Grimstone.”

  “Run,” Roland said. “Now then, shall I leave it there?”

  “No, tell me,” Paul said. “‘Tis a good tale. I like it.”

  “Get to the part about the Grimstone,” Nell said to Paul, “and you’ll not speak such nonsense.”

  The moon was high in the sky, a bright white disk that cast the world in sharp black shapes and smoky shadows. The ghosts were mere gray wisps in the wintery night. It was a fine setting for a tale of blood magic and revenge.

  “Loki, that Norse god of disharmony, used Randulfr’s pride to torment his brother Thor, god of thunder. Loki whispered in Thor’s ear that Randulfr needed a lesson in humility and to be reminded of the true power of the gods, and that Gundrun, Randulfr’s daughter, was the way to that end. Gundrun was no shield maiden but a maiden of the hearth and a weaver of rare skill. Upon her neck were the many golden prizes her father had brought home to her, and her hair was a fall of gold down her back. Many a warrior wanted Gundrun for his wife--”

  Nell snorted and floated to a point ten feet higher than the beech’s tallest branch, floating before the moon, the pale light flowing through her gra
y form.

  “But Gundrun would have none of them,” Roland said, turning to look at Nell’s back, ignoring Paul almost entirely. “Her pride nearly matched her father’s and she vowed to only give herself to the truest warrior with the most blood on his blade.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Nell said.

  “Where’s the part about the Grimstone?” Paul said.

  “Yes, let us not get distracted by long, wicked blades seeking virgin’s blood,” Nell said.

  “I made no mention of virgin’s blood,” Roland said.

  “Didn’t you?” Nell said, rising a few more feet, the moon’s light encircling her.

  “When does the ring come into it?” Paul said.

  “We are getting to it,” Roland said. “Thor appeared to Gundrun in all his might and majesty. Here was the mate she had waited for and so she gave herself to him willingly, knowing that he would be with her for but a moment in the long days of her life, yet so she would take him.”

  “Aye, he had his way with her,” Nell said. “‘Tis not a very original tale, is it?”

  “Thor had thought to humble her, and Randulfr, by this taking of the maid, but such was not to be. Instead, he fell in love with Gundrun, whose name means divine rune--”

  “What’s a rune?” Paul asked.

  “Something like a tablet,” Nell said.

  “He wrote on her?” Paul said.

  “He left his child in her,” Roland said.

  “Oh,” said Paul with a quiet look of sophistication, somewhat disconcerting on a five-year old body.

  “Thor fell in love with Gundrun, having no wish to humble her, as Loki had wanted, and because he loved the maid, he did not want to humble her father,” Roland said. “Loki, his plans for discord ruined, turned his eye upon Randulfr and beset him to turn for home, to see to his daughter, to deal with her waywardness in giving herself to a man without her father’s approval. Loki had Randulfr’s ear and poured hot venom into it all that long way back to his home anchorage in the far northern lands.”

  “Who made the ring?” Paul said.

  “Thor made the ring,” Roland said. “Randulfr did not believe the tale Gundrun told him of Thor coming and giving her a son of his blood. The ring was made to reveal the boy’s blood, and so it did. The ring of gold, a ruby at its heart, glowed when held by the boy, called Sigvardr.”

  “What does his name mean?” Paul asked.

  “Victory guard,” Roland said, “and so it proved to be. Randulfr believed the tale and spared the boy’s life.”

  “Not to mention Gundrun’s life,” Nell said, turning from the moon to face them.

  “Why is the ring called the Grimstone?” Paul asked. “Why not the Thorstone?”

  “The tale is not yet done,” Roland said. “Loki’s plans had fallen all to dust, and he could not abide it so. He worked it so that the ring, made to prove blood beyond this world, was turned to destroy what was beyond earthly blood and bone.”

  “How did he do that?” Paul asked. Even Nell looked curious.

  “How do you know all this?” she asked.

  “At the end of the tale,” Roland said. “Yes, finish it,” Paul said. “We’re just getting to the good part. The part about the Grimstone.”

  “He did it through a woman,” Roland said.

  “Of course he did,” Nell said. “I might have known.”

  “When Sigvardr was a man grown and a warrior strong enough to make Thor proud, the Thor ring upon his finger glowing with soft red fire with every beat of his heart, then did Loki work his will to turn Thor’s gift to ruin. The maiden Ingrid--”

  “Which means?” Paul asked.

  “Beautiful,” Roland answered. “Ingrid was a shield maiden, as quick with a blade and with an unflinching will to fight as any man. Sigvardr saw her and had to have her for his wife.”

  “This is an unusual tale,” Nell said. “It almost beggars belief. His wife, you say?”

  “Ingrid,” Roland continued, throwing Nell a dark look, “had been touched by Loki as a babe, given a warrior’s thirst for combat and a woman’s drive for vengeance.”

  “Is this part of the tale or did you add it?” Nell said. “I never heard such nonsense.”

  Roland ignored her. Paul ignored her. Nell circled the top of the tree in silent fury. The branches of the beech swayed and groaned in the night.

  “Sigvardr knew instantly that Ingrid was for him,” Roland said, “and so it was for Ingrid when she beheld Sigvardr.”

  Nell stopped whirling about the treetop and stared down at Roland. So it had been for him, when first he had seen Nell. Often enough she had told him that she had wanted him from her first look. Desire came so, hard and fast, and sometimes, so did love.

  “When they mated,” Roland said, “the glowing stone upon the ring nicked Ingrid’s breast, and to atone, Sigvardr cut a line over his heart. Their blood combined, the ring transformed, and so it became the Grimstone. Before Ingrid and the blood magic, the ring glowed in evidence of otherworldly blood. Since Ingrid and Sigvardr’s union, the ring glows and fights against all otherworldly beings, treating them all as foe to be defeated.”

  “Not defeated,” Nell said. “Destroyed. But what about Ingrid was fraught with vengeance? You made that up to bedevil me, surely.” “She loved Sigvardr and was angry that his father, Thor, had abandoned Gundrun when heavy with his child,” Roland said. “Ingrid was determined to fight the gods, wherever she found them. With the ring, she could find them.”

  “I find there is much to admire in Gundrun,” Nell said.

  “She’s the one who made the Grimstone,” Paul said.

  “In a sense, aye, she did,” Roland said. “Though it was more the union of the pair that did the creating.”

  “As it ever is,” Nell said. “Now, the tale is told, and a grim tale it is, for us. How did you come by it? I have heard not a tenth of the tale you told.”

  “‘Twas before you came to Keyvnor,” Roland said. “Before you found your way here, there was a ghost from ancient days, when Keyvnor was a hill fort, the first stone of the castle not yet laid. The Norsemen were thick upon the shores of England in those days and there was fighting everywhere, even on this remote and shabby hill.”

  “It’s not shabby!” Paul said. Paul was a Banfield. Roland could never, and would never, forget it.

  “He was a Norseman?” Nell asked.

  “He was. Bjarke by name. He told me the tale of the Grimstone. His grandmother in her youth had known Ingrid, so he claimed. He sought out the Grimstone, to put an end to his languishing on this rocky place where he bled out his life.”

  “He sought it out?” Paul said, a curious look upon his face.

  “So he did,” Roland said. “He wanted an end to it. His chance came in the summer, when the Grimstone came to Keyvnor in the company of King Henry and his court. Grimstone and his wife were together. I ne’re saw Bjarke after that.”

  “His wife? It needs a woman to work it?” Paul said, sounding almost offended.

  “The Grimstone works, always, but not as . . . completely,” Roland said. “The purest power of the ring comes from the two of them, as it was with Sigvardr and Ingrid.”

  “What a disgusting twist on the idea of true love,” Nell said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “No?” Roland said. “And what of the power of the ring when that Banfield chit showed up in the stable? The ring’s power exploded. Or have you forgotten that?” “I only wish I could forget it,” Nell said. “We must keep those two apart.”

  “Apart?” Roland said. “Nay, put them together, get them wed, and get them gone. That girl wants to get married. Well, let her, I say. Get her into the Grimstone’s keeping and away she’ll go. Let her bedevil some other poor soul.”

  “Aye, making mischief for our kind all over England!” Nell shouted. “That’s a fine wish to make.”

  “You’ve forgotten the tale already, girl,” Roland said. “The deed is nearly done, throu
gh no help or hindrance on my part.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nell said, her long hair rising in a ghostly nimbus around her, floating gracefully in the black sky.

  “Did you not feel what it was when they stood together, staring into each other’s eyes?” Roland said. “Can you deny what your own eyes beheld?”

  “Beheld what?” Paul said.

  “It’s happened already,” Nell said, sinking down to the ground far below. Roland followed her down, as did Paul.

  “What’s happened?” Paul said.

  “They’re in love,” Nell said, staring at Roland.

  “Aye, they are,” Roland said. “With the first look, it happened. Blood calling to blood.”

  “They don’t act like they’re in love,” Paul said.

  “They will,” Roland said.

  Chapter 9

  Rose, sharing her bed chamber with Gwyn for the wedding, did not mention a word of what had happened in the stable. She did make mention that Lord Snowingham had arrived, that he was very blond, and that he was sharing a chamber with Hal. All of that Gwyn would have learned swiftly on her own, and then become suspicious that Rose had not shared it with her first. So, Rose shared those bare facts with her and swiftly changed the subject, encouraging Gwyn to speak of other things and other people. As Keyvnor was awash in people, and as Bocka Morrow was drowning in people, it did not prove a difficult task.

  She had not seen Lord Snowingham since first meeting him on the late afternoon of December 21st. It was now late in the evening, two hours after dinner, of December 22nd. Yes, the castle was large. Yes, the castle was growing crowded. Nevertheless, she was convinced that Snow was avoiding her. Twice now, she had heard faint whispers of annoyance from Roland that this should be so. She had even thought she heard Roland tell her to use what few feminine wiles she might possess to find Snow and capture him by the heart. She thought he had said ‘heart’, though it had sounded like something else entirely. Naturally, she had almost convinced herself that she was imagining all of it. Almost.

  Ever since meeting Snowingham, she had felt unsettled, like a cat stepping on embers. Her nerves were jangled, her senses oddly acute. Her skin itched. The very thought of Snow, of his cloak swirling about his muscular calves, the glint of the knife blade in the light, his blond hair gleaming like a helmet of old and his eyes glowing like blue fire . . . small wonder she felt jumpy. She didn’t know the man, and what she knew, she couldn’t say she actually liked, but she felt something. Not something. Everything. She felt too much, and that was a very uncomfortable feeling. She didn’t enjoy it at all.