Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure

by Lindsay Townsend

  Sir Conrad

  and the

  Christmas Treasure

  Lindsay Townsend

  Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure

  Copyright© 2018 Lindsay Townsend

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter 1

  November 27th, 1192

  Maggie tracked her stolen brother to the edge of the great northern forest before fog, rain, and darkness made it impossible for her to run another step. The outlaws who had taken him were on horseback, and she was slogging through winter dirt and sleet on foot, a single girl against a score of brigands.

  Surely, God and His saints cannot let them win, she prayed, her heart sinking as low as her boots in the freezing mud. Dropping to her knees, choking for breath, her vision blurred. Maggie leaned against a lightning-blasted pine tree and despaired. She had promised her long-dead parents that she would take care of Michael, and she had failed. I cannot stop now, only rest a moment, wait out this swirling murk. Her brother was…different.

  I wish I had been with him when the outlaws came to our village. I know the men will not hurt him, for Michael has skills, well-respected, well-known skills. Was that why the outlaws had attacked her home? To seize him?

  No matter, Maggie decided, smearing rain and tears from her icy face as she forced herself to move again and make a fire. She could go no farther tonight.

  Bitterly, she regretted not being with her brother earlier that day. She had been delivering a small wooden, brightly painted treasure chest to a merchant’s widow in town and many of her fellow villagers had been off gathering blackberries, apples, and other seasonal hedgerow harvests when the outlaws swept into Little Yeaton. There had been no resistance, and Michael had been carried off, along with tools, knives, blankets, cooking pots and spices. Like a thing, something useful, nothing human. She sobbed aloud, shattered by the thought.

  It was scant comfort to Maggie that no other villager had been taken, but she thanked God that no one had been injured or killed, even old Martha, the village scold.

  But the wolf-heads knew to take Michael…and why? Had they learnt of his skill with locks?

  Still wondering, Maggie fell into a troubled sleep for an hour or two before cold and hunger woke her. Shivering before her small fire, she considered what to do next. The outlaws would be far away by now.

  I need help. To get help I need the dice to fall my way.

  Crouched over the orange flames, she pondered all night and by morning had fashioned a plan—of sorts.

  • ♥ •

  Sir Conrad, the steward of the forest high lands, glowered at the latest miscreant to be dragged before him in the great hall of the northern sheriff’s castle. A castle that has never felt like my own, for all I am reluctant steward here.

  Despite his instructions, Sir David, his under-reeve, would bring the wretches up in chains, even the women. Conrad gripped his sword hilt to stop himself from punching David, and rose from his chair to approach the small, slight figure before him.

  “What, where, and who?” he snapped at his shorter, stockier, second-in-command. The woman—girl, really—did not flinch, which surprised him.

  Conrad knew he was harsh, unsmiling in his manner. Since Joan had died three winters ago, leaving him a widower and bereft at the age of twenty-four, he had been unable to be anything but cold to anyone. He had no interest in brief affairs. I witnessed too much heartbreak from my father and brother and their parade of mistresses to do the same. Although this girl—

  Now he was looking at her properly, he recognized two things at once. The first was that he wanted her, wanted her badly, with a raw force he had not experienced since he was a squire. Is it the chains? I would chain her to my bed, if I could. She was delicate, with a fragile profile, sweetly upcurving lips, masses of glossy blonde hair and eyes as blue and big as a summer sky. She seemed both graceful and slender, and at the same time, determined—standing straight, poised as a dancer, facing life head on.

  That was the second thing he realized. The girl was brave. Dressed in her mud-coloured gown, her dirt-spattered, travel-stained tunic and threadbare cloak, in rough leather boots that were splitting at the seams and looked too small for her, she watched him with the poise of a cat, all barely-hidden fire.

  If she smiles at me I will be lost, and yes, I would certainly like to chain her to my bed. But why did she seem familiar?

  “David?” he asked.

  The under-reeve blushed. “We found her in the lower castle.”

  Sir Conrad felt himself become dangerously quiet, the background chatter of the great hall burning away in a blaze of righteous anger as memory spurred him to move. In a dazzling flash, as if he had been struck by lightning, he remembered earlier that morning.

  He had been striding to the stables when yelling and the thud of punches had erupted from a mob of youths, kicking about a clattering wooden ball. As the lads’ shoving and shouting quickened and Conrad spotted fisted hands groping for knives, a small hooded and cloaked figure skirting the edge of the group suddenly tottered. Pushed savagely from behind, the tiny, limping rag of a creature threatened to tumble headlong into the boiling mess of arms and legs.

  “Hold off!” Conrad had bellowed, sprinting as he warned. In a few long steps he rammed past the fools, seized the falling figure and had carried it to safety, setting his light burden down on the top of the outer keep staircase.

  The work of moments was forgotten in the fierce tongue lashing he flung at the lads. But he recognised her now.

  No wonder she seemed familiar. “I rescued you,” he said aloud.

  The girl pierced him with a glare, clearly disputing his version of events. Do not expect me to be grateful, her eyes said.

  “She was swept up with that group of ‘prentices…” David was explaining, oblivious to the currents between them.

  Exasperated at the girl, Conrad was still glad to break their battle of stares and looked back over his shoulder at his second.

  “The ruffians rioting in the bailey this morning over a foolish game?”

  His stocky second shuffled his booted feet and muttered something about kicking a ball about being harmless entertainment.

  “That is as may be,” Conrad growled, his quicksilver temper flaring afresh as he stalked closer to the one he had saved, his cloak snapping round his heels. “The girl could have been crushed in that mêlée, you idiot! Why is she in chains?” The iron shackles were grey against her pink and white wrists.

  David, meanwhile, sucked in a breath and tried to make himself look still smaller, and the girl spoke for the first time. “I confessed, sir.”

  “To what, girl?”

  She studied him with narrowed eyes, a shuttered expression falling across her pale face, then she straightened afresh, with a faint rattle of her fetters. “To whatever would bring me before you so I could ask for your help, sir. And to propose a bargain.”

  Sir Conrad stared anew.

  • ♥ •

  The steward glowered, and Maggie held his darkly brilliant gaze, seeing herself reflected in his deep grey eyes. Looming above her, he looked like a scowling saint. Somewhere between her dread and her surprise that she had truly start
led him, Maggie acknowledged that he was handsome.

  Handsome and bereft. An odd word for a warrior and knight, but apt for him.

  “Handsome but keeps himself to himself, not like his brother, more’s the pity.”

  “It’s said he loved his wife, didn’t he, and she’s dead.”

  “Would his children be as striking, I wonder?”

  The whispered rumours about the steward were all true, except for that one thing. Sir Conrad was not just handsome, but vulnerable.

  His nose was straight as a knight’s visor, and his cheekbones as sharp as a new blade, but for all that his slim mouth trembled and his eyes lacked sparkle. He is like my painting of Jonah, only better. I imagined the prophet in my heart as he was cast by the whale onto a strange shore, with people he did not know, an image I could see in my mind but could not quite make on the church wall. This man looked as stunned and lost, as if his breath had been ripped from him and he did not understand how he still lived.

  And yet, he was handsome…with long, silken, dark-brown hair that shot straight past his broad shoulders, stopping partway down his back, hair more shining than her own dust-filled tresses, a foil to his thick black eyebrows and lashes.

  Striking, indeed.

  Has he seen himself? Does he possess a mirror? For the best and most terrifying, almost supernatural aspect of Conrad the steward was his lack of vanity or self-awareness. Here the man towered over her, a brutal devil, powerful as a dragon, sinewy and tall as the great studded wooden door of a cathedral. He had, indeed, stopped her that morning from being trampled, sweeping her up with casual strength and depositing her out of reach of any trouble. Now, he was asking her, Maggie, if she was well.

  “Are you quite well, girl? Did those idiots in the bailey hurt you?” As he spoke, the steward knocked off her chains and snapped his fingers for wine—for her. It was as though the king had crouched to wash her feet.

  “I am uninjured, sir,” she heard herself saying. Yes, he had saved her that morning, pushing through the mob without a care for himself, but she must not be too impressed. She dared not dwell on the feel of his hands cradling her, the heat of his body as he shielded her, the fierce gentleness of his embrace.

  I need to bargain with him, not thank him.

  “Then why—” He indicated the chains.

  “Would your servants have admitted me if I had merely presented myself?” She tilted up her head, the better to drive her point home. “In that scrummage in the bailey, I allowed myself to be captured.”

  More that she had been snatched by a guard who was keen to be doing something while the steward scolded the youngsters, marching to and fro before them, snapping at his second to clear the bailey—but her version sounded grander.

  The steward gave a grunt, hopefully of laughter. “This way is an absurd scheme.”

  “Perhaps, sir, but I am here now and…I need your help.” I should have added please.

  His brows drew together and he drummed his fingers on the top of his sword hilt. “Ah, yes, your bargain. What, I find myself wondering, would a little village girl like you have to offer me?” His eyes shone with amusement, but he handed her a goblet of wine without malice and nodded to her to drink, watching her closely.

  “I am eighteen!”

  “A most particular age. From my years of twenty-and-seven I recall it well.”

  He was teasing her. Swallowing a mouthful of sweet red wine that seemed thick enough to coat her teeth, Maggie clenched her free hand amongst her muddied skirts. Now that she saw Conrad, she wished he was as handsome inside as out. But I must be calm. I must reason with and placate this man. She tried not to think of her brother, lost somewhere in the northern forest in the rough company of outlaws. It had been she and Michael together for the past four years, since their parents had died of a summer fever.

  “Must I offer anything for you to help me, if my cause is just?” she asked quietly, braced for the shiver of ice piercing through her that must surely follow when he merely said yes, or nodded, or worse yet, ordered the gawping David to throw her out.

  As soon as she asked the question she scowled—It was the way of the world that all men took bribes, that stewards lined their robes with gold. Just because this man is handsome why should he be otherwise? That was a stupid, stupid question, and irrelevant. I should be explaining about Michael.

  But Sir Conrad surprised her. “You want more than merely my assistance, do you not? You need my men, my guards, my horses. More that than myself, in fact. And should those others not have some kind of recompense?”

  “Are you not steward and sheriff?” she replied, nettled by the easy way he saw through her. “Are you not charged with defending the king’s peace?”

  “The king’s peace, yes. Not that of every nuisance or serf out of bond who sneaks into my castle.”

  “I am a free-woman! I go where I please!”

  He nudged the discarded shackles with his foot and snorted, suddenly gripping her by the arm. “You must be desperate to resort to such foolish ploys, girl! Why do you need me and mine? Speak quickly!”

  Distracted by the burning heat of his hand, Maggie blurted, “For my brother! To rescue Michael. Outlaws took him yesterday—no, two days ago, now. A score of men, armed with clubs, bows and swords. Men on horses.”

  “Finally. That was not so hard, was it?” Conrad wiped his lean mouth with a long, powerful hand, and she was confounded afresh, wishing she were those elegant fingers. What is amiss with me?

  “Will you help me to rescue Michael?”

  “Is this brother of yours a child?”

  Maggie’s spirits sank a little as she guessed where the steward’s questions were heading. “He is two years younger than me, but slightly lame, sir.” And simple, or single-minded at times, but I need not tell that. “He needs protection.”

  “You have always looked after him?”

  She nodded.

  “Michael.” The steward drummed his fingers across his sword hilt a second time. “Michael the lame locksmith?”

  “Yes, sir.” Relieved and proud that Conrad knew of him and not wishing to appear rude or confrontational, Maggie studied the great floor timbers of the hall. “My brother would be useful to you,” she said softly. “As would I,” she added.

  “The outlaws clearly thought so, as well. He can unlock things, yes? Fetters and treasure chests and doors?”

  Sir Conrad sounded thoughtful and she risked peeking up at him. “Yes, sir. And I can unbar gates and unbolt some doors, those with simpler locks. In that, I am my brother’s ‘prentice.”

  She had not expected the hard, bright look he gave her. “Was this the bargain you were proposing, girl? That you should be my own thief and magpie?”

  “No!” She kicked the discarded chains in sheer frustration, desperation and anger for her missing brother compelling her to protest. “Michael and I fashion locks and make wooden and iron chests to keep things safe. I paint walls to beautify and decorate them.” Like the painting I made of Jonah the lost, whom you so resemble. “I do not steal!”

  A silence stretched between them, shimmering and taut as eastern silk. Into it, Sir David cleared his throat.

  “My lord, shortly the priest at the church of All Saints at Ormingham will celebrate Saint Nicholas’s day with much splendour and plate—”

  “Quiet!” Conrad whirled on the man but the damage was done. Maggie now knew why the outlaws had taken Michael and how they intended to use him. The church at Ormingham was famous in the northern lands for its treasures.

  “They want my brother to steal for them.”

  • ♥ •

  Conrad heard the girl’s rapid intake of breath and watched her sway slightly through shock. Even as he approved of her loyalty for her brother—so unlike my feelings to mine—and her quick-witted understanding, he found himself wanting to enfold her delicate, tautly-strung body in his arms. She was completely beautiful, this girl—how had he not fully appreciated it before, o
r guessed when he had her captured in his arms? Lust has blinded me, or I must surely be as dull as Davie.

  Rekindled irritation had Conrad regretting the battle-field promise he had once made to Sir David after the older man had saved his life. David was bold, open and merry, a good sort, but he had the brains of a midge at times.

  Still, you swore to give him what he wanted that day in Normandy, when Davie took an arrow on his shield that was meant for you, and he wanted to be your second, even after that day when you were both knighted. From boyhood, he has been a true friend and seen past any ugly or pretty surface with his true kindness. You cannot betray him, man.

  He could snarl, though, and did. “Tell the world, David. I believe a few shepherds in the top field missed what you said then.”

  “Please, do not scold him.”

  Amazingly, as if she was a lady rather than a villager, the girl defended his second in words and more, putting herself bravely between them, raising a narrow hand as if to stroke his chest. Conrad almost leaned into the touch, the blood pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost missed her soft, “Is this not good, truly? You know where the priest and his famous treasure are going to be. You can set watch, or a trap.”

  Abruptly she broke off, a blush flooding up and down her face. How far does that pretty pink stretch? To her neck? To her breasts? With her golden hair framing her flushed cheek and her bright brows wrinkled in a frown she was as sweet as a crab-apple, poisonous with her softness.

  “Forgive me, sir. You know your own business as I know my own craft.”

  Conrad blinked at her gruff little apology and clicked his tongue. Again, she reminds me of someone—who? “No, you are right, girl, and we should plan accordingly. Come!”

  He held out his hand, gratified when those narrow fingers slid warmly around his. He brought her swiftly to his solar, his personal, private room at the back of the great hall in the castle, and instructed her to sit.

  “David, can you find a maid and ask her to bring us all some food, please?”