So fast and unexpected were the woman’s actions that Maggie could only shout, “No!” Her husband, closing rapidly, misunderstood and scrambled faster to reach and to aid her. The snow-pebble hit him on his arm with an audible crack and he flinched, bringing over his other hand to cradle his elbow.
“Too soft, brother,” crowed Richard, “This is only play!”
That is the feint he will use if Conrad retaliates, that and he employed a woman as his dupe, so he thinks his brother cannot do anything.
But I can.
Channelling her fury, Maggie scooped up a great handful of snow, seized the bobbing cloak of Richard’s giggling accomplice, dropped the snow into the woman’s hood and yanked the hood of her cloak back over her smug head.
“What?” she demanded, when the rest stopped their game as if turned into stone by a medusa, “It is only play!” And only a little dousing by snow, that injures merely her pride. Conrad could have lost an eye through that spiteful jape.
And his own brother set it up.
“You are dangerous, wife,” observed Conrad, when she stepped around the now whimpering lady-in-waiting to join him. He sounded neutral, even faintly admiring, and that gave her heart.
“The stone in that snowball could have fractured your head,” she replied, choosing to be blunt.
“As others should have known,” Conrad agreed, and he kissed the tips of her cold fingers. Thank you, he mouthed, and their eyes met in perfect understanding.
Chapter 15
“Richard will seek revenge against you. We must take great care.”
Maggie shook out a tangle in her hair, wishing she could untie the tension in her neck as easily. Without her complaining, Conrad stood behind her on the battlements and massaged the knots in her shoulders. A flood of delicious heat ran over her back and she almost moaned.
“Must we talk of brothers tonight?” she asked. She wanted to stare out over the snow and count the bright stars and huddle her fingers in the soft fur mittens that Conrad had provided for her from somewhere.
She felt her husband’s breath on her cheek as he leaned against the battlement beside her. A long-sword’s length away a man-at-arms patrolled, scanning the still, silent landscape for movement. Conrad grunted, possibly in approval of the guard, and sighed.
“I have no wish to,” he replied softly.
Which means he thinks we should. Maggie bit down on her own sigh. “I despise him quite as much as he detests me,” she admitted, in the same low tone. “Was he always this envious?”
Conrad huffed against her, his chest shifting close to her ear. “You mistake matters. Richard has no need to be jealous. He is everything to be admired.”
Maggie leaned back, allowing Conrad to support her and to know she trusted him. She gave comfort, too, in words. “Part of you sees him still with the eyes of a child, when he was always the favoured older brother. Try to consider him as you would a stranger.”
“What can I say? Richard is dangerous.”
Handsome and cold, like this snowscape, Maggie silently agreed. Her patience was rewarded when Conrad brought his arms about her waist, gave her a tender squeeze, and added, “He likes to destroy others by means of proxies.”
“As he tried with the pebble snowball.” A more terrible thought hit her. “Do you think he sent the assassin?”
“I do not believe so,” Conrad responded slowly. “Richard enjoys his grievances. He may strike through others, but he wants to be there to watch.”
A vengeful knight and an unknown assassin, how wonderful. Maggie shook off the feeling of dread and said simply, “What could he do to us?”
“He may move against your brother. Tempt Michael with promises, or give him false reports.”
“Even about you and me?” He would stoop so low?
“Especially about us.” Conrad’s voice was as icy as the winter’s night surrounding them. “It would give Richard great joy. And he would not care if it hurt your brother.”
Maggie studied an oak tree, rimmed with frost and buttressed with snow. Are there still acorns on it? A foolish question, but better that, to calm and distract her building anger, than give into her urgent need to pelt down the battlement stairs and confront their enemy.
Because, of course, Richard would slide around Michael, given the chance. And Michael, ever quick to judge, might easily believe the man’s lies. “He cannot act on such a scheme while my brother is in sanctuary in Beverley,” she said aloud, to reassure Conrad and herself.
“Your father has sent for him and his companion.”
“And we shall meet them first.” She cradled Conrad’s sheltering arms in her furry-mittened hands, determined the encounter would go well.
If Conrad does not leave me, then Michael will certainly not make me leave my husband.
• ♥ •
Later that evening, while it was quiet and most were settling down for the night, Conrad ordered Sir David to deliver a note to Earl John, requesting a private meeting. A note came back, suggesting that he and his lady stroll to the church to have another look at the treasure of Ormingham within its crypt, instead of its new and gaudy reliquary.
This, Conrad was glad to do, and soon he and Maggie were inside the old church with its Saxon tower, with the priest smiling at them before he unlocked the door to the crypt.
Earl John joined them a few moments later, and they all gazed on the splendid golden torc and bracelets.
“The church fathers are correct,” Earl John’s resonant tenor filled the crypt. “We do stand on the shoulders of giants. Witnessing this work of the artists of our past proves it.”
The slender priest stood straighter and more proudly at that and even preened a little when Maggie asked softly, “Are there more local stories of Saint Oswald? Did the saint use the torc in any miracles?”
As the young cleric happily chattered to Maggie of healing springs and wounded warriors cured by a touch of the torc, Conrad said softly to her father in French, “Will the locksmith be joining us?”
“You do not use his name,” Earl John replied, also in French.
“I do not want her troubled or anxious. He has caused her both.”
The earl made the sign of the cross and knelt beneath the ancient stone altar and its golden treasure. Conrad did the same and waited.
“My plan had been to reunite them before Christmas,” admitted Earl John softly.
“Here?”
“Any reason why not?”
Conrad shifted on the stone floor of the crypt, though it was not that cold which chilled his bones. “There are those who could make mischief.”
“My cousin fancies himself a master of plotting. I assure you he is not, and he knows not to act against me or mine.” Blue eyes, so like Maggie’s suddenly narrowed. “You suspect another, closer relative? One named the same as our missing king, perhaps?”
The shadow of Richard floated between them, like a miasma. Conrad jerked his head down in savage agreement.
“Troubling.” The smaller man whistled softly through his teeth as he considered. Conrad fought not to clench his whole body. I am so weary of Richard’s spite. After a moment, Earl John spoke. “I will send a messenger off with good horses tonight, to tell my people to move from the place with the famous sanctuary to my manor near Y-O-R-K,” he mouthed, and then smiled. “That will give us a place of discretion to meet, free of your brother. My daughter and her half-sibling can reunite in peace and safety. We can spend the twelve days there, as a family.”
Conrad flicked his eyes at Maggie, saw her still listening to the priest, and stifled a snort at the notion of the feasts of Christmas spent with Earl John and Michael the Locksmith. Though, if it keeps my wife happy and Richard away, that would work. He considered another point. “You agreed with the lord and lady here that all roads were impassable.”
“Lord William—peace man, it is a common name these days—Lord William never sets foot outside his castle grounds at all in the winter. I s
aid that to be a polite guest. Believe me, my messenger will make good time and discover everyone that needs finding.”
“That is workable,” Conrad admitted, “although my duties remain and I cannot be absent for long.” These past few days with Maggie had been a strange kind of holiday from his responsibilities, but he knew he could not leave things forever.
Why not? Richard left them easily enough to go on crusade.
“Your duties?” Earl John asked, and continued in English. “With your brother returned from crusade, should he not resume the role of sheriff? Would it not be prudent to ask?”
“Ask who?” Maggie entered the conversation for the first time with the clear assurance that she would be heard. No doubt from her years in the village, when she took care of herself and Michael. How long did she have to struggle alone? I shall ask her.
Conrad rose off his knees and discreetly offered an arm to Earl John, who grumbled, “Not in my dotage yet,” and added in a more public voice when he had regained his feet, “There is a great winter fair for Saint Lucy in the town of Kirkbybank, run by the De Stute family.”
“And usually free of street fighting or riots,” remarked Conrad, aware of this from his time as sheriff. “The lord there, Rufus, is a good man.”
“Many notables of the royal court will visit the fair,” Earl John continued. “There are jousts, with excellent horses offered as prizes, and farriers and blacksmiths come in to show their wares and skills from miles around. Holy plays are shown and carols are danced on the green beside the church. It is a place to be seen.”
“It will suit Richard,” muttered Conrad.
“Quite so,” agreed the earl. “Tonight, we shall give our presents and farewells to the good Lady Ygraine and her lord and travel there tomorrow. Where, pray God, the matter of your stewardship, Sir Conrad, will be resolved.”
“We slip away then, while others are busy?” Conrad asked, unsure if he wanted to be confirmed as sheriff. He sensed Maggie giving him a telling glance at his intriguing question but she said nothing. She trusts me to explain later. The thought warmed him.
“Of course,” replied Earl John, with a graceful twirl of his fingers, mouthing “York” at Conrad to make certain that part of the message was understood.
A straightforward plan, one that clearly the earl believed would work. Do not be gloomy, Conrad warned himself as he, arm-in-arm with Maggie, returned to Ormingham castle. Nothing should go amiss.
I shall see my wife dance at a winter fair, came the next thought, and he brightened, more eager for the following day.
All will surely be well.
Chapter 16
That night, Maggie dreamed of summer. She was sitting on a swing with a long double seat, and a young woman kicked and swung beside her.
“Hello,” said the stranger, showing off bare feet and ankles as they rocked to and fro on the tree swing, “I am Elfrida Magnus-wife.” She gave her name in the old, Norse way, and wore a golden bracelet on her right wrist decorated with runes. “I am a good witch, and here in your dream to help.”
“Why?” demanded Maggie. She was wary, but prepared to believe Elfrida, who was a red-head and beautiful, as were many good witches.
“I am old these days.” Elfrida stretched her arms and legs in time with the pendulum of the swing. “You see me as my Magnus always sees me in his heart and mind, as I once was. Your brooding Conrad reminds me of him. He is certainly as protective.”
“Your point?” Maggie ventured, feeling one of her feet drag slightly on the dusty ground as the swing jerked down from its high arc. She and Elfrida kicked again, and the swing soared.
“You remind me of me,” Elfrida went on.
“I am no witch.”
“Like me, you are fiery and impatient, bound in duty.” When she twisted her hand, the bracelet on the witch’s wrist glittered with blue sapphires like the head of the Ormingham torc. Admiring the sparkle, Maggie wondered how old her dream companion was. Since that seemed futile to determine, she tried again for answers.
“Why are you with me now?”
Again the swing creaked, and she felt the air rush by her ears. Although clasping only one of the swing ropes, Maggie remained relaxed, convinced she would not fall.
“You are safe because you are with me,” Elfrida said softly, as if she had read Maggie’s thought out of her head. “You have a younger brother, yes?”
At once a surging panic coiled in her lungs and buzzed in her ears. Michael is still missing and I am wasting time, luxuriating and savouring my hours with Conrad when I should be out searching for my brother.
“Michael is safe.” A narrow, work-roughened hand touched hers, and Elfrida leaned in, her eyes, the shade of a malmsey wine, seeming to glow. The swing that carried them remained poised in the warm hair, hovering in the dream like a kestrel. “You have no need to seek him, Maggie. He will come to you. No doubt you shall soon be with Michael at the manor near York, as your husband and father have arranged. Remember what Conrad told you before bed tonight?”
Maggie knew that she blushed as she recalled what else she and Conrad had done earlier that night. “My brother is the more sensitive one of us,” she said weakly, old promises shifting in her mind like ancient chains. “He is lame.”
“He is slightly lame, which means he drags his right foot a little when he is tired.”
How did Elfrida know that? “He is still the younger!” Maggie protested.
“And you have been reminded that he is, and your parents have made you his guardian and safe-keeper.” Elfrida gave a brief little nod. “I was the same, with my younger sister Christina. She is a pale moon-blonde, rather than a sun-blonde like you. My mother was always careful and tender with her, as Florence was with your Michael. Such power they have, Michael and Christina! Do you think they know this, make use of it?”
“Michael aids others.” Maggie felt compelled to defend her brother against this sly charge of selfishness. “Any who bring him a broken lock, a difficult lock, and he will repair it or undo it, and usually for less than any money.” Her brother would often barter for his skills, so careless he was for coin.
“Because it pleases him to play with locks?”
“He does not play!”
“And who is left to scrape together the pennies to pay the taxes to the reeve or lord?”
The air about them, still and sultry, seemed to grow heavier, although the swing remained fixed in maid-air.
“Has Michael ever thanked you for your care?” Elfrida continued relentlessly. “He is slow to change, I sense, so will he welcome your new husband?”
“I—I do not know.” That was the heart of Maggie’s present fear, and it choked her.
“If Michael demands you choose between him and your mate, return to your old life in Little Yeaton, what will you do?”
The swing moved again, lurching back into action. It swooped up and down and now Maggie gripped on tighter, fearful where she had not been earlier. Elfrida’s clear, contained voice rang on like a bell in her head.
“Michael is like Christina, accustomed to having his demands met. You are like me, bound by vows to indulge your younger kin. I had to accept that Christina was grown up, in charge of her own fate. That if I denied her, it would not harm her in the end, whatever she claimed. Can you do the same?”
Maggie slammed her feet down and stopped the swing. She twisted in the seat to face the red-head, uncaring if Elfrida was a witch. “It is not only me, and not only my choice! Even if Michael accepts my husband, Conrad himself could demand an annulment, he could leave me!”
I could be thrust back into my old village, whether I wish it or not.
“Or…you wonder if others might suggest that to him?”
Maggie would not stay to listen. She leapt off the swing and ran into the flowery meadow, her head pounding. A blue butterfly landed on her arm and she twitched like an anxious horse, and then Elfrida was beside her, embracing her. She was smaller than Maggie but st
rong as she rocked the young woman in her arms.
“Do not let others use your duty to break you and Conrad apart,” the little witch stated firmly. “This is what I learned. Choose each other. Let your marriage be your new promise, that is my counsel. You wear the wedding band your husband made, and soon he will give you a ring of gold, as well. Be happy.”
The dream dissolved into sunshine and Maggie woke, relieved to find Conrad snoring lustily beside her. In the dark she traced the plaited tress of hair he had placed on her finger, thinking of how Elfrida had promised he would give her a golden ring.
Or perhaps five gold rings, since it is close to Christmas.
Smiling at the foolish thought, Maggie prodded Conrad to roll him over and then cuddled up to her husband in their nook in the great hall, thinking of everything she and the witch had discussed.
Chapter 17
After a few days spent indoors, cold dug into Conrad’s head and neck like a hawk’s talons. Wrapping the second of two cloaks more snugly around his wife, he steered his big bay, Gog, along the sunken road and wished again that Richard was not leading their party.
“Are the woods here always so dark, even at midday?” Maggie asked, without turning. They had ridden out from the early morning, but not a word of complaint had escaped her lips. He was proud of her, but too tired to praise.
So much for Richard’s short-cut! Conrad was also too saddle sore and chilled for anything more than resigned irritation. Swallowing to relieve his dry mouth, he said, “These sunken tracks fall quickly into shadow, but they are a good way of shifting through the greater forest unseen.”
“Is that necessary with a troop of our size?”
“Your father thought it wise.” Secrecy came naturally to Earl John and that peacock cousin of his, Lord Gerald, but Conrad did not have to like it.
“When did Richard come here?”
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 9