Discomfited, she stepped back, plucking a prickly holly bough off the nearest trestle table to form a barrier between them.
“Going so soon?” He smiled down at her, a trickle of snow melting down his open, handsome face, all boyish good humour and charm. “Is my grim younger brother such a draw?”
“I am with him,” Maggie replied steadily, aware that one of the ladies had rushed to find him a towel, that the others were envious of his attention to her. You can have him, for me.
Richard’s grin did not dim in the slightest. He reached out a hand, as if she was a comfit or other sweet treat, and said in a cozening way, “Shall I hang the bough in a timber crook for you?”
Yes, it would give him great pleasure to seduce me from Conrad.
“My thanks, sir.” Maggie’s fingers tightened on the branch. “But I can climb up easily enough.”
“She would, too,” said a new voice, and Maggie looked past Richard to smile at Conrad. He limped into the hall, a finger or so shorter than his brother but more sinewed and compelling, his face stark with cold and his dark hair falling like a storm about his shoulders.
“Did you wrestle the deer bare-handed, sir?” she asked, as the damsels pointed and tittered at his ripped trews and muddy, blood-stained tunic.
“Not a clean kill.” Lord William said stiffly as he marched into the hall with the rest of the men. “Steward, here, finished off the beast, stepped in, and stopped it flailing and thrashing.”
“It needed doing,” Conrad replied, bluntly acknowledging the point. From the way he did not look at Richard, and Sir William’s pinched expression, Maggie guessed that his brother had made a mistake in the hunt.
Richard ran, to claim glory that was not his. Conrad stayed. “He loves the show not the substance,” he had said of his brother, and with the deer his warning was made manifest.
Without any conscious design, Maggie dropped the holly and reached out to touch his splattered tunic, her fingers spread protectively over his heart. “Is any of this blood yours?” she asked gently. “Are you hurt?”
“Not even a little.”
“My lord is a good hunter,” put in Sir David, boasting and loyal, unaware of the tensions of the room. She felt Conrad flinch and understood at once.
His brother will want to do something to bring attention back to him.
“Not when I am here,” Maggie muttered, and in that moment knew what she would do. Light-headed with her own recklessness, she kicked the end of the holly bough aside, launched herself upward as if rising to the surface from a mill pond, stood on tip-toe and kissed her dishevelled companion.
“My turn to rescue you,” she whispered, as she sank back onto her heels. He tasted of sweet salt and safety, and it was hard to break their embrace.
“Thank you,” he whispered in turn.
“A song!” Richard bellowed, thrusting himself forward again. “Let me give you good folk a lay of our hunt.”
Lord William frowned. “Should that not be Sir Conrad, as he brought home the deer?”
“Alas!” Richard gave a glittering smile. “My brother makes a bittern sound sweet! Allow me—”
No, I will not. Maggie turned in Conrad’s embrace, faced the high table and breathed out an “O”. Before Richard could call for a harp or drum, she sang the rest of The Hunt of the Perfect Hind, pinching Conrad’s arm lightly and unseen so that he would join in the chorus.
Bring the holly, bring the snow,
To hunt the perfect hind, we go.
Their voices, hers clear and sweet, his a dark burr, blended together, lifting the simple tune. By the last verse, Conrad was singing with her and all joined in the refrain.
“You save me again,” he said softly, while the men in the hall applauded and stamped and Richard must join in or look petty.
“I cannot wield a blade but not all rescues are brawn, or protectors, men,” she answered, not wanting Conrad to feel in any way obligated to her. I did it so Richard would not triumph, no more than that.
Or so she told herself.
“Indeed they are not! Still, I cannot thank you enough.” Conrad may have said more, but a clear horn rang out from the woods and Maggie could make out the steady thunder of hooves.
Please, whoever is coming now, please let Michael be safe with them. Please let Michael be in this company, and happy and whole.
A foolish, forlorn hope, perhaps, but she prayed for it all the same.
Chapter 7
He heard the soft weeping after they had bedded down for the night in the great hall, her sorrow so quiet that it sounded like breathing. In the thick darkness and with her back to him he could not see her face but when he gathered her into his arms she stiffened.
He kissed the top of her head, wishing he was handier with words.
“We shall find him before Christmas Eve,” he said, praying that his treacherous body did not betray him. His hurting lass needed comfort, not lust, however delectable her warm, lissom body felt against his.
“I hoped he would be with the newcomers, too,” Conrad said, recalling the stricken stare Maggie had given the party when she had clearly realized that Michael was not amongst them. Everyone has their breaking point…
“I searched in the stables, the out-buildings, the cook-house, even the bath-house,” Maggie gasped out. Her body began to shake. He rocked her.
“I know,” he said, when her trembling had subsided somewhat. He had looked with her, especially the bath-house with its wall torn and gaping.
She took another fractured breath. “When the priest retired to Lord William’s private chapel, I wondered if Michael might have been swept up with them.”
“Yes,” Conrad agreed, recalling the press of clergy, knights, baggage-men, servants, squires, horses and more that had been crammed into the bailey earlier that evening, including one very special wagon, darkly-painted, closed and private, drawn by superb black horses. Richard had let fly a long series of oaths when he spotted the blue and black wagon but had made no move to approach.
Soon, the wagon was surrounded by guards, and even Lord William and his lady were kept back. A powerful lord or earl must have his rest, it seems. Had Maggie not been so cast down, Conrad might have joked with her about the living mystery in their midst.
But Michael was still missing and Conrad could not find fault with her unhappiness. Rather, it made him ashamed, for he could not feel the same over Richard.
“The famous treasure will be an enticement,” he said now, wanting to spark some interest and more life into his huddled ally. After what we have shared, are we merely useful to each other? He hoped he and Maggie were more—though what, he could not say. In the hall where even the central fire was half-ash, he could not see anything clearly, other than the bright shimmer of her hair, though he longed to wipe away her tears.
“We have only another day to wait,” he added, relieved she was no longer shivering. “Time to plan and ensure Michael is rescued. Lord William will help—he owes me for his venison.”
He sensed the weak jest made her smile and felt absurdly gratified that his clumsy comforting had worked. I may not be as silver-tongued as Richard, but I do well enough.
“We shall discover who owns that splendid carriage tomorrow,” he said, leaning back so she would sprawl more easily against him. A tiny, kitten-soft snore widened his grin.
Even Joan did not fall asleep that fast against me. He hugged her again and closed his eyes, preparing for the new day.
• ♥ •
Maggie knew she was dreaming, but she did not want to wake. She walked in a landscape of holly trees, snow and sun, admiring the sparkle of light on the icicles in the trees and feeling no chill, although her feet were bare. Ahead, on the crown of the hill she climbed, Conrad pounded a great pestle into a black, shiny mortar the size of a water barrel. He waved to her one handed and she caught a scent of crushed apples.
“Making the Yule-tide wassail from my orchard fruit,” he explained, and han
ded her a jug made of snow, with an ice-crystal handle. “Can you pour the warmed ale into the barrel?”
He lifted out the pestle and she tipped the snow jug into the mortar, now changed into a silver loving cup. She poured and poured, and the hot ale never stopped, and her jug never melted. The ice handle did not frost her fingers.
Conrad nodded to her across the softly rising steam, handsome in green and scarlet, his hair as sculptured as holly bark and his eyes as bright as the silver cup. “Soon we shall add the spices.”
“What kinds?” she asked, feeling a great warmth of sharing. She remembered helping her father make apple wassail, while Michael tinkered with the locks of the family store-chest and her mother Florence sang carols, a happy memory of Christmas-time.
“The ones my mother taught me,” Conrad replied, drawing a pouch from his tunic. “Cinnamon.” He drew out two curls and crumbled them into the cup, leaning over and combing his fingers lightly through her hair. “For celebration.”
From the pouch he took out a tiny box and a golden spoon. “Ground ginger and nutmeg.” He spooned some into the goblet and Maggie put down her snow jug, took the pestle from him, and stirred.
“For heat,” she said, feeling the blush in her face as she spoke.
The tiny box and spoon vanished into the pouch and Conrad slid a golden web into the steaming liquid. “Honeycomb for sweetness,” he said, and kissed her gently on the mouth.
Light-headed, touching her tingling lips with a thumb, Maggie now found herself raising the cup, which sized itself to a perfect fit for her two hands. She offered it to Conrad.
“Wassail,” she said, be in health, and meant it.
He took the cup from her. “Drinkhail,” he answered solemnly, drink good health. He supped deeply and gave her back the goblet. “Wassail, my heart,” he said, and kissed her again.
The golden goblet shone between them, as bright as a sun or a ring. Bathed in its light, Maggie knew she was home.
She slept well the rest of the night.
• ♥ •
Conrad dreamed he was floating above the long nave of York Minster, spotting the scaffolding beside the thick Norman pillars, watching the beams of light through the upper windows. Ahead was the great rood, the beam and screen marking the sacred spaces between the main church and the chancel, with its carved and painted figures of Christ on the cross, Mary the Holy Mother and Saint John the Baptist. Robed in blue and with her long golden hair loose to her hips, Maggie floated beside the statue of the blessed virgin, her arms wide in welcome.
And why have I not understood before now, how very beautiful she is, more even than I first realised?
“See.” She nodded to the altar, adorned with bunches of mistletoe, their milky berries glistening in the candle-light. “The plant of peace and reconciliation.”
“Protection against lightning,” he replied, falling into their accustomed, easy rivalry.
“Mistletoe also guards against evil witches.”
“There are other kinds?”
She smiled like a brilliant summer. “My mother Florence was a wart-charmer in our village and a good hedge-witch. She would brush the cows with small branches of mistletoe to charm them, help to give them more calves in the next year.”
“My mother…” Even in the dream, Conrad pummelled his mind, trying to think of a unique skill she had. It saddened him that his maternal parent, skilled in running a great house, had nothing that was simply hers.
“When did you begin to paint?” he asked.
She laughed. “Always! I would draw in the dirt with my finger if I had no brushes or ochre to hand.”
He nodded in understanding. “With me, it was music. I would bellow out the old songs of the shepherds, until my voice broke.” And I was told by father that singing like a low-born troubadour brought shame to the family.
“You sing well,” Maggie said.
“Thank you,” Conrad answered, recalling their duet with pleasure. After another moment, he sighed. “Perhaps Mother had something. I forget.”
“I am certain she did.” Stepping close in the smoky air Maggie tucked a sprig of mistletoe into his tunic, her brief touch both comforting and promising more. “When she was a girl, Florence would gather sprays of mistletoe from apple orchards.”
“A good custom,” he replied, while the earthier part of him, present even in a dream, thought and a sign of kisses to come between us, a kiss for each berry.
Content, he slumbered without stirring until daybreak.
• ♥ •
The next morning, both were thoughtful and quiet, as if they had shared each other’s dreams—perhaps they had, for Maggie had new memories of Conrad singing as a boy and Conrad had images of mistletoe and golden cups—although they were not left in peace for long.
“Good morrow! Good morrow!” Conrad’s brother Richard came bounding at them out of the solar where he had slept with the rest of the quality and Maggie and Conrad drew close together in the face of his relentlessness.
“This day we meet the driver of the black wagon!” Richard continued, in high tones of boyish enthusiasm that Conrad knew was false.
Maggie clearly recognized the same, for she met his bright, youthful face with a bland closed look and said nothing. Conrad caught Richard’s glare at her meeting his eyes as if she were his equal and saw him toss his bronze head slightly and puff out his chest, both signs his brother was about to do or say something malicious.
Not while I am here. “You know who it is, Dickon, so why not introduce us when the time comes?”
As he had intended, Richard swung round. “Do not call me that infantile name,” he said tightly, his features coiled in a sulky pout, and then he glanced behind them. His eyes widened as he saw the doors to the great hall opening and a single horn announced the approaching arrival. “My Lord!”
He broke from them without a backward glance and hurried forward, stepping straight into the path of the toddling Peter, coming all gummy-smiles to meet his Maggie.
“Stop, man!” Conrad warned, seizing his arm before he trampled the baby.
“You dare hold me—” Unable to loosen Conrad’s grip, Richard kicked out. His flailing foot thankfully missed the infant, who sat down on his bottom and began to whimper, but the mean blow struck Maggie, who had raced forward to scoop up the child. She lifted Peter into her arms, walking with him back to his mother. That she limped a little and sought to disguise it tempered and sharpened Conrad’s anger even more.
She trusts me to deal with my idiot brother, and I will.
“Let go.” Richard tried again to break his hold and failed. Conrad wanted to shake him, or worse. We are no longer lads scrapping, and my elder brother is not automatically the victor. Armed in his cold anger, he spoke.
“You could have hit that child’s head in your devilish haste, and killed him.” For once, Richard, acknowledge the recklessness of your ambition.
“Who cares? Some cottar’s brat mewling in the rushes who should give way to his betters!”
“An intriguing notion,” came a different voice from just beyond the doors. “Personally, I feel the little one would be well within his rights to hurl his doll at you.”
The whole hall stilled as the newcomer entered.
“My Lord.” Richard gave a deep bow, mirrored by Lord William, both of whom the stranger ignored with amazing condescension. Instead, he wandered away from the high table to the most narrow and warped trestle, the lowest table in the hall, where Maggie stood defensively in front of Peter and his mother.
“A pretty child, good dame,” he remarked, lightly touching the tip of Peter’s nose, making the boy giggle.
“My Lord.” Richard clearly tried again, bowing a second time.
Again, the stranger paid no heed. Superb in gold and blue hose and a blue tunic edged with gold, he commanded attention as a right. Shifting slightly, he held out a narrow hand to Maggie. “And just who, my dear, are you?”
Chapter 8
Maggie did not gasp but only because she was still breathless from snatching Peter out of harm’s way. Living in the village, she had not seen her own looks except for once, in an old, dark mirror that belonged to the reeve. Now, she met the dark blue eyes of the stranger and saw how he was small, like her, how his hair was the same colour and had the same curl as hers, how the shape of his nose and ears were the same as hers, and she said nothing. A memory of her mother Florence, holding an azure blue, gold tasselled cap to her cheek before placing it carefully back into the family clothes chest sharpened her suspicion into certainty, but she remained mute. She made no move to clasp his outstretched hand.
Part of her still silence was prudence, but the greater part was hurt. This man had years to claim me, and also Michael, and he has done nothing.
The stranger brought his palm up to his chest and bowed to her. Around them, Maggie sensed the whole of the great hall snap into alert, marvelling at the changed politics in the room. His eyes fixed solely on her, the man ignored the rising tension.
He straightened, a faint blush darkening his face, deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. “You are the daughter of Florence the laundress?”
Is my direct stare as disconcerting as this man’s? Maggie had not known her mother had worked in such a way so she hedged. “My mother’s name was Florence.”
“Ah, she is dead, then. I am sorry for that.” He looked it, too, closing his eyes a moment and taking in a long, deep breath. “I knew her once, years ago, in a more carefree time.” He opened his eyes and stuck her with that thousand mile look again. “I did not know of you.”
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 5