“You are an imposter, girl, impure…”
At last, the master reached the assassin before the wretch could utter the fatal charge of “changeling”. He hauled Petit back, snapping, “Get his legs!” to the pair he had tried to command earlier. They blundered in reaching for the man, and Petit lurched sideways, shouting, “Impure!”
“Enough.” Steward Conrad glared at the master. “Take him out before I knock him out.”
Lord Richard shook his head. “What of his accusation?”
• ♥ •
Conrad swung round. He could scarcely believe what Richard had just claimed. “This creature is out of his wits with ale, brother!”
Richard sniffed, a haughty habit Conrad had always hated. “He said it twice,” he answered pettishly.
“And he is staggering drunk, so what of it?”
Richard smirked, his handsome face taking on a sly slant that Conrad knew well from their childhood, when his elder would assiduously labour to land him in trouble. “You do not think it worth defending her, then?”
Conrad recognized the verbal trap but he did not care. I am sick of Richard, endlessly making trouble, spoiling joy for others, using everyone, even this poor sotten creature who spoke out so foolishly against my Maggie. This time, brother, you will feel the threat. “Against you, Richard, for impugning her honour, yes, I do! I challenge you, a trial by battle.”
Something pushed against his arm. Conrad made to brush it aside, realized it was Maggie. She was glowing, hot as a dragon, and nearly as fierce. “It is my honour! Let it be my trial.”
“A low-born—a woman cannot fight,” scoffed Richard, quickly correcting himself.
“I believe it is allowed in Germany,” remarked the Lady Ygraine, in a smooth yet piercing voice.
“We are not barbarous Germans. The lady will wear my favour and I shall fight for her and for myself,” said Conrad, determined not to be diverted. He planted both fists on his hips. “My challenge to you stands, brother.”
“Brother against brother, bad,” intoned Lord William. Shame you said nothing about evil when Maggie suggested she fight, or when your own wife proposed she should do battle against a trained warrior, more than twice her size!
Earl John spoke up. “I have a solution.”
Chapter 11
Everyone in the hall fell silent to stare at Earl John, which was, of course, exactly what he wanted, thought Maggie cynically. Worse, Conrad put an arm about her for a hug. She welcomed the comfort, but not his glowering steel-eyed stare nor the way he treats me as helpless, a prize to be protected.
Maggie sighed, wondering if it was because she had lived in Little Yeaton and worked for herself that she half-yearned for, half-resented his shielding her.
“I must be allowed to prove my own virtue,” she said aloud. That was absolute. In the village, had any man dared to say what that drunk and then Conrad’s own brother had implied she would have entered their houses while they slept and painted their faces in the likeness of devils. She would have fought them with words and gone after them with her heaviest bread bowl. But these knights—surely the Holy Mother, the Virgin, will protect me if I do battle with such ill-wishers? I am innocent!
“Naturally,” Earl John was saying, and he winked at her. “You shall swear on the great Bible.”
“A fitting oath and action,” said the priest, coming late to the conflict after locking up the crypt.
“Then let us do so now.” Maggie sped toward the priest, but Conrad easily overtook her and stood in her path. “What?” She laid a hand on his broad chest, refusing to raise her head to his arrogant, knightly face.
She heard a stifled chortle behind her, then gasped as Conrad knelt at her feet.
“Grant me a favour of your hair?” he said softly, “a strand or so for me to weave into my cross?”
She looked more closely and spotted the small silver crucifix on a chain around his neck, saw, too, the strain about his eyes and jaw. This near, she realized he had little cobwebs of grey in his dark hair, and a jagged white scar on the lobe of his right ear.
“You do not need to fight,” she said.
His grey eyes were softer than the plumage of a dove. “For you? Always.”
“He does,” said Earl John, reminding Maggie afresh that there were others nearby and not all wish us well.
She took her small eating knife and swiftly sawed off a lock of her hair, pressing it into his hand. His fingers closed briefly around hers and a dart of pure warmth shot through her at the contact.
“Bring the Bible, sir priest,” called Lord William. “Let this thing be settled.”
“Let us get to the fighting, he means,” whispered Earl John, tipping her a confident grin, “and I agree.”
• ♥ •
In the great hall of Ormingham, upon the sacred Bible brought from the church and set upon the high table in front of the salt, Maggie swore to her purity before all gathered there. In a steady voice, when the priest asked, “Are you unknown to any man, my child?” she replied, “I swear before God, on His Holy Book, that I am.”
Conrad noted that her hand resting on the Bible did not move. She looked like an angel guarding the entrance to the Garden of Eden, he thought, both strong and still, her eyes fixed unflinching on the priest and the cloud of her hair the very gold of heaven. Such courage and sweetness. I wish she were mine. The thought pierced Conrad like a sword cut, but he did not care.
“Untouched?” demanded the priest.
A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she pressed her fingers more firmly against the leather and iron fastenings of the great Bible and answered, as solemn as before, “I swear before God and this congregation that I am wholly unspotted. May the blessed Virgin strike me dead if I am not.”
There was a low murmur ran through the hall at that, but now the priest covered her hand resting on the Bible with his own and then raised it, showing her pale, unblemished palm.
“The lady is innocent!” he declared.
“Old news,” muttered Conrad, sure of the result beforehand, but relieved all the same, and so, flippant with it. As people in the hall began a ragged cheer and scattered applause, he swung round to face his old rival.
“No need—” Maggie began, but Earl John took her into his arms and kissed her softly on both cheeks, the first time, Conrad realized, that the prince had truly embraced her. The shock clearly robbed her of breath, and gave him the chance to challenge his brother.
“Well, Richard, shall we fight, or will you admit you were wrong?”
He knew he should not have added that goad, not as a Christian, but it was a test. Would his brother come down off his high horse?
“Get those tables back to the walls!” Richard shouted, for all the world as if he was master of the castle. “I fight with sword and mace!”
No, as ever, Richard’s pride is the only thing that matters to him. Why had he hoped otherwise?
“Gentlemen, this matter is settled already, by a trial on the Holy Book!” cried the priest, taking up the great bible and coming fearlessly between them. “To fight at Yule-time, on the day before the eve of Saint Nicholas’s feast day, is especially wrong!”
“Peace, master cleric, it will only be to first blood,” said Earl John. He tilted his head in the same way that Conrad had seen Maggie do, before she asked a provocative question. “Is that not so, Lord William, Lady Ygraine?”
“It is,” answered Lord William, where his lady looked more doubtful.
“Cousin?” The earl addressed the tall, sleek man Conrad had watched riding the magnificent black horse into the castle bailey only a day or so earlier, the man who had taken the drunk out and only just returned to the hall. Now, he silently inclined his bright, red-gold head. Not full agreement, the appearance of it. This is a careful fellow.
“So my Lord Gerald is also satisfied.” Earl John beckoned to the priest and smiled at the miller’s wife and wide-eyed baby Peter. “Now we shall let our combatants settle a moment. When
the hall is ready, Lady Ygraine, will you give the signal for them to begin?”
Chapter 12
From her standing place on the dais, Lady Ygraine dropped a spray of holly onto the rushes of the newly-cleared hall, the signal for the challenge to start. From his prowling spot by the fire-place, Conrad weighed his sword and axe in each fist, swapping the weapons regularly between his hands so that Richard would not know if he favoured sword or axe overall. It does not matter, since I fight two-handed. David would shield him in a true battle, but this fight, he intended to be over quickly.
As the holly fell, Conrad sprinted forward, the tense silence of the hall replaced by a roar within his own head. Richard had still not moved from his spot at the far side of the fire. His sword hung loosely in his hand, his light blue eyes glinting in the smoke. Perhaps he regrets this, but no matter—
Conrad pitched his blade toward those eyes, a clear feint his elder read easily. Swaying sideways, Richard flung his own sword to one of his men and grabbed at the mace behind him, scraping it off the rushes. You mean to dash out my brains already, brother? Conrad ducked under Richard’s killer blow and swept back with the axe. Over the shouts of the watchers, Conrad heard an urgent, whispered prayer from close by and, mindful of how Maggie was already on edge, he dived neatly away from oncoming danger.
By this time, his men were cheering. Davie screamed, “Go on!”
This time, Conrad waited for Richard to attack. The mace slid round his feet, then haft first, shot up and struck him harshly in the gut. He doubled over, but kept a grip on his sword and axe, slashing out with both. The axe hit air, but the edge of the sword blade hissed on Richard's tunic. His brother knocked it away with his free arm. Caught off balance, Conrad tucked in his head and rolled. When he gained his feet, he cut back with the axe, flicking his wrist like a whip to stifle some of the force of his blows.
Richard jerked back his head. The slicing metal missed him by only a hair. As Conrad swirled in for a second strike, his brother grabbed his tunic and tugged, dragging them both into an untidy scrummage on the floor.
For Conrad it was like boyhood again, with him struggling against an older, heavier, taller lad and aware that whatever Richard did, their parents would approve. He heard a rasping breath, knew it was his, and shouted, thrusting Richard’s clammy hand from his shoulder. He heard the whistle of the deadly mace, twisted his head and felt the blow spend itself in the hall litter.
Richard clearly thought he was rattled and paused for an instant to snarl some insult. It was a mistake. Rearing up, Conrad punched into his elder’s side with the pommel of his sword, then flashed the blade close to his brother's head. It nicked his ear and Earl John shouted, “Hold!”
Richard rolled onto his back, chest heaving with effort. Conrad’s sword now lay against his throat. If I strike now and claim it was in the heat of battle, defending my woman’s honour, would I not free myself forever of the past?
Thinking of these things, Conrad grasped the sword pommel firmly, lifted the blade and raised himself to his knees. “I won,” he said aloud. Richard is still my brother, but now he and others know I will not be forced, know by trial of Bible and battle that Maggie is pure. “Any who dispute this must do further contest with me.”
“Enough, and more than enough!” Earl John leapt into the combat space and held out a hand to help Conrad to his feet. “You have fought with valour and restraint, good sir. You and Lady Margaret have shown great honour.”
Turning to the dais to address Lord William and Lady Ygraine, he raised Conrad’s arm high above his head. “Let us praise them!”
He led the applause and finally, after the cheers had grown huge and the clapping as loud as a winter waterfall, the earl strutted happily to Maggie, threaded her arm through his, led her back beside the fire, and crooked a finger to summon Conrad to them.
“What are you about to announce?” Maggie whispered, clearly suspicious, but her father shook his head and offered her hand to Conrad.
Is he asking what I think he is?
Understanding and hope lit through the weary man. “Yes! I agree,” he said, clasping her small worn fingers, feeling her palm rest against his like a tiny bird in its nest—though she is far from that. Wary of her response, he added in an urgent undertone to Maggie directly, “I can do more for Michael this way.”
It was the only reason he believed she would accept him, as someone useful, a protector. Though she is very far from helpless.
“What?” Unaccustomed to the swirl of courts and politics, Maggie was, for another moment, puzzled, and then she coloured to a hot and pretty pink. “But he is a steward and I am a painter! A good one, yes, or so I am told, but no—”
“It is my wish for you, Margaret.” Earl John patted her fingers, though there was steel in his tone. “You and Sir Conrad will marry as soon as is possible. He fights for you.”
“That is enough for a marriage with you knights? What am I, a reward?”
Conrad did not flinch at her tone but it was a near thing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Earl John go as red as his daughter; although, on him, it was not in the least handsome. He shifted to put himself between the pair, but Earl John was faster. Stepping up close, toe to toe with Maggie, he glowered, hard blue eye to hard blue eye.
“What you make of your marriage is down to you, daughter. Now heed me!”
He clapped his hands and pitched his words to fill the hall. “Good folk of Ormingham! I give you Sir Conrad and his lady, soon to be man and wife!”
• ♥ •
The priest shuffled Maggie out of the hall into a draughty stone corridor. “Is this what you want, my child?”
Blinking at the use of child from a man little older than she was, Maggie tried to collect her thoughts. “Will it happen now?”
“I think the instant we return to the hall.”
Then there will be a wedding night. Maggie swallowed. “I thought knights and peasants did not marry?”
“Ah.” The priest scratched his dark stubble in some delicate embarrassment. “You are no longer of the labouring class, now you have the earl acknowledged as your father.”
I am Lady Margaret now. Men will see me as a means to power. She shivered once at the idea and then considered the alternative. Conrad and she liked each other, she knew. He kissed me before I was a lady. Or rather, she had kissed him. Though she remembered dreaming of his kissing her, and he had embraced her forehead, in comfort.
No! I will not guess against myself or him. She forced her numb face into a smile and nodded to the waiting cleric. “Let us do this,” she said.
Before they returned to the hall, Conrad burst through the doors. “Anything amiss?” he asked, his dark brows drawn together like a tightened crossbow.
She shook her head and the tension in his face and limbs slackened at once. “Come, then,” he said warmly, looking for a moment as if he would put an arm around her shoulders and then stopping the action. “Your father awaits our declarations.”
She touched his chest and felt his swiftly beating heart. “You are well?” she managed.
“Very well.” He smiled, a glory lightening his eyes, so in that instant he looked less stark, his lean features more open. He looked young, she thought, as he must have when he married his first wife. He was happy with…Joan? Yes, Joan. May he be, if not happy, then content with me.
“It is well,” she said, her words both a wish and a prayer. She took it as a sign of good fortune when he nodded.
“Shall we?” He took her hand to guide her to the hall.
Two simple speeches before the priest and the gathered people—“I marry you, Margaret,” “I marry you, Conrad,”—and the deed was done. Then, to her surprise and delight, Conrad plucked a few strands from the hair favour that she had granted him, removing them carefully from the tiny silver cross he wore around his throat and plaiting them quickly into a circle, passing the same over her wedding finger.
“I shall give you a ring
of gold, soon,” he promised, smiling down into her eyes.
“My thanks,” she whispered, as Lord William called for a feast to be prepared, and Earl John gave them an approving look.
“Tonight, take my wagon,” he said. “You shall have peace there.”
The wedding night loomed afresh. Whatever she ate or drank over the next few hours until sunset, Maggie had no memory of. Soon, I will lie with a man.
She could not say if she was pleased—or terrified.
Chapter 13
The walls of the covered wagon were covered in pictures, for which diversion Conrad blessed Earl John. From the moment she spotted them, his nervous bride scrambled up the wagon steps and past the great couch without a pause. She carefully touched one and asked, without looking round, “Do you know this place? Is it real?”
“That is the city of Bath.” Conrad checked that his men were on guard outside before he closed the wagon door. He nodded to Davie, ignoring the knowing waggle of his bushy eyebrows, and stepped around the couch to join Maggie. He pointed to one of the many ancient statues shown within the picture. “I have seen that sculpture, it stands near to the entrance to the main baths.”
“You have visited?” Her eyes became very wide when she was curious. He wanted to see more of that, and less of her clenching her fingers together.
“As a boy, with my parents. My brother wanted to swim in the baths, which were impressive.”
Now she turned to him, perhaps hearing a slight stress in his comment. “You did not swim?”
“I guarded their clothes.” To squash any look of pity that might grace her face, Conrad pointed to another painting. “That is Stonehenge, a great stone circle, built by the pagans, some say—or giants, say others. I rode there one day.”
She leaned as if to brush the paint, a long lock of hair spilling down her shoulder. He wanted to comb her silken, golden tangle, but steeled himself not to move. Not yet, at least.
“Are the stones as large as shown, bigger than a man?”
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 7