Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Lindsay Townsend

  It was very hard to blow out the lantern, but for what she needed to do next, she must. She settled back on the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged, and stared at the glowing flames and embers in the brazier. She was aware of a gathering dark, a closing cold, and knew it was time.

  She placed the rosemary amulet she had made for Christina into the middle of the brazier. “For my sister,” she whispered, as the rosemary burned. She yanked at her hair, pulling three long strands, wound those up, and placed those into the guttering flames. “Protect Christina, keep her safe from all spirits and all harm,” she chanted in her own dialect and the old speech. “Send my protection to her.” She made the sign of the cross as the last of her hair burned away.

  The wind moaned again outside, but she refused to grant it power by worrying over it. She picked up the dark mirror, feeling its weight resting snugly in her palm. It was a blue-green glass, and she could see her own reflection in it, hazy and faint. Her face looked pale, surprisingly thin. She stared into her amber eyes and held them, thinking of Christina.

  “Blue eyes for amber eyes,” she murmured, remembering her sister’s pale, light eyes, wider than hers, more trusting.

  “Blonde hair for red hair.” Christina had beautiful, long, golden tresses, smoother than cream, bright as a gold coin.

  “Dimples in her cheeks, not chin.” Her sister had a pretty smile, a charming laugh.

  “Rounder face, a smaller nose.” She imagined tweaking Christina’s pert little nose and grinned.

  She blinked, and there in the mirror was her sister, a shadowy form behind hers, slowly swaying like a young birch tree in a spring breeze.

  Where are you, sister? Elfrida laughed in pleasure, in relief, in love. Walter still loves you, she sent on, watching Christina clap her hands and smile her sweet smile. Are you close? Sometimes Christina liked to tease.

  Christina raised her arms. She was still wearing her bridal gown, richly dyed and patterned, excerpt there seemed to be ribbons trailing from her outstretched arms...

  They were cobwebs, Elfrida realized as a choking whiff of sulfur stole through the room and the darkness about her deepened.

  Keep away from her! she yelled in her mind, striking out, willing herself through the mirror, her knife at the ready.

  Her vision blurred, and she slashed out wildly, seeking to cut those disgusting webs, and now when she shook her head to clear it, she was inside another chamber, lit by a good wax candle.

  Be nimble and quick, see the whole, she told herself when all her feelings strained to fix on that small, seated figure. She jerked her head side to side, glimpsing a stone staircase leading off the chamber, a shuttered window with a slither of moonlight shining down between the casement, sprays of fresh mistletoe standing in an earthenware jug. Then she could stand the gnawing wait no longer and looked straight.

  Christina, golden and whole, wonderfully alive, the glow of health and vigor in her cheeks, looked up to her from her stool. Her eyes widened. “Elf—”

  Elfrida put a warning finger to her lips but was too late. Alerted, another presence in the small, round chamber now filled her senses, turning the world black and formless, without shape or scent.

  Not yet, Snow Bride, hissed a still, cold voice as Elfrida battered at the dark. You come later.

  “Never!” Elfrida shrieked, thinking of the brazier, of cleansing fire and light to put between herself and the dark. Thrust between the world of man and the world of the spirits, she knew she had only a moment. “Holy Mother, guide me back!”

  As if at the end of a tunnel, the brazier in the wooden tower appeared, and her own hunched figure, gripping the dark mirror. She lurched for her own self, and then she was back, returned to her body, gasping and in a cold sweat.

  But I know where Christina is! I know!

  Chapter 21

  Magnus hated drinking games, but he was careful to disguise it. No man would be brave enough to accuse him of being soft, but he well knew how some men thought nonetheless. He had subverted it in Outremer by sticking to the finest wines. In the Denzil keep, he raised his arm frequently and vigorously, ensuring most of his ale was spilled on the floor.

  His men were doing the same, pray God, or else he would know the reason why, once they were out of this dung heap.

  He sat on a stool, with the fire baking his left side and Gregory Denzil on his right, asking yet again where his girl was, and he felt the rough blindfold prick against his eyelids. The game was a version of “hot cockles,” where he had to guess who struck at his hands—or in his case, his hand and his stump—before he could pass the blindfold on to another. As entertainment, it was pitiful—often the girls were sent against him, and they all cried and screamed, calling him a monster. Sweating by the fire, Magnus felt another pair of slim hands dart against his palm and endured the ear-piercing cry, worse than an angry pig. He let his head hang down, as if broken by such petty malice, and when he thought of Elfrida, it was easy to let his mind grow dark indeed.

  How did she fare? Had she kept within the tower? Had she locked the door? If they did not find her sister, would she blame him for taking her away, instead of leaving her for the Forest Grendel? Had they a future past this Christmas, this solstice? Would she grow weary of others recoiling from him?

  “What, man? You are looking sour as well as ugly!” Gregory Denzil grated, and his men hooted like Barbary apes.

  A new hand pawed his, and he recognized Mark by the scar close to the man’s right thumb.

  “Do not know me!” Mark hissed. “The men are ready to go. Some have slipped out already, and the rest are acting as drunk as Benedictines! Denzil’s are fast catching up!”

  Magnus slapped Mark’s hand in triumph and mouthed “Gregory?” for all to see. Around the hall there was more delighted laughter and jests, increasing to a blazing roar when the next fist clobbered his hand.

  “There she is!” Stumbling forward off the stool, Magnus grabbed the man and planted a smacking kiss on his beard. “My own Snowflake!” He girded his tormentor in a bear grip and, as the fellow squirmed and yelled, puckered his lips for a second kiss.

  “No! Not even you are that drunk!” Gregory, on the dais, shot to his feet. “Never, even on campaign in Outremer, and however much wine you’d taken, did you embrace any man, not even so much as a beardless lad. You have overplayed your feint, Sir Magnus!

  “Take the fool and and disarm him,” Denzil went on. “He knows more than he is saying, and I will know it. And his plans.”

  Still playing the drunken fool, Magnus felt himself roughly hauled and kicked to his feet. Hoping to confuse Denzil and make the fellow doubt his own judgment he allowed his dagger to be taken from him, without any struggle or remark, and sagged on his captors as he was dragged away, asking plaintively, “Where are you, my heart, my little pigeon?” Behind him he heard Mark throwing up on the herb-strewn floor, to more derisive shouts. Denzil’s men were indeed slack and idle, even as his own men pretended to be blind drunk.

  “Take him to the cellar and lock him in there for the night,” Denzil ordered, his mask of crusader fellowship fallen now and whiny with scorn.

  Elfrida is right. He is not a decent host. I was mistaken, too, when I told her that not even the Denzils turn on their guests. Still Magnus pretended to be drunk, gulling the whole filthy, unruly mob into thinking they had bested him, for then they will drink even more tonight, in triumph.

  “You—stay with him. Make him stand at guard.”

  “On his wooden leg!” bawled one of Denzil’s bullies.

  “On his peg leg? Why not? And tomorrow we shall see that he talks.”

  Keep playing the sot who knows and cares nothing. Magnus whistled a carol, off-key, and took more kicks and blows than he had suffered since his days as a page as he was bundled away.

  * * * *

  Elfrida felt as weary as a mother must after a long labor. She had no child yet, but she had enough, the precious knowledge that Christina still lived.
>
  Magnus will be here soon, and I can tell him the good news.

  She lay down, curled within her salt circle, and listened to the woods. The Forest Grendel had seen her in the plane of the spirit world, had known she was his enemy, but he did not know she was at the very heart of his plans. The very quiet and stillness of the mistletoe outside told her that.

  He is powerful, but he has not defeated me.

  She closed her eyes in sheer relief and whispered a prayer of thanks.

  She did not realize she was dreaming until she saw a rose, a summer flower, in full bloom, in a small meadow in a woodland clearing. Even as she scolded herself for falling asleep, her dream changed.

  She wore a strange gown, white as a snowdrift yet softer than thistledown, with many cunning tucks and gathers in the bodice and skirts, and all gathered in by a belt of blue ribbon.

  “You make a fair, bright bride, Elfrida,” remarked Magnus as he appeared beside her, handing her a posy of buttercups. Gaudy and bold in a bloodred-scarlet tunic and black braies that showed off his long, sinewy legs and powerful hips, his scars seemed less grooved and terrible in the sunlight. His deep, brown eyes glowed with love as he kissed her, his breath tasting of apples and ginger. He drew her hand through his arm and strolled with her about the meadow, lifting her once over an ant mound so the insects should not bite her.

  “Is this our future?” She had not meant to ask, but the dream was so golden, so perfect, and she longed to know.

  He smiled and laid her down gently onto a bed of white and pink rose petals. The meadow grasses and oxeye daises swayed above them as he teasingly traced a finger along her nose. “Pretty witch-wench.”

  She smiled, thrilled by his endearment even as part of her remained anxious. Yes, he loved her as she loved him, but outside the dream, what hope was there for a future for them? He was a knight, and she was a village hedge witch. If Magnus married, it should be to a lady, like the Alice he spoke of too often for her comfort.

  “I can bring you no lands, no treasure, no influence,” she murmured against his neck. “Perhaps I should offer you a love philter, to draw and win you a gentlewoman bride.” A hollow, sad thought, grinding in the pit of her heart.

  “No, beloved.” he touched her lips and kissed her forehead, her cheeks and her chin, each kiss a feather of tenderness and sparkling desire. “You are mine, always and only. I will have no other.”

  He scooped a handful of rose petals and spilled them into her hair. “Your skin is sweet and tender, smoother than a rose petal.” He licked her ear, swirling his tongue into the narrow creases, and she shivered, scarcely believing the shimmering delight it evoked in and through her.

  “I could learn and relearn you forever, my beauty.”

  “As I could you,” she managed to gasp, teasing in return. “My beast.” She sprinkled petals across his black curls and beard and, growing bold, tweaked up his tunic and packed a handful down the front of his black braies.

  “Naughty elfling!” He blew a loud, mocking kiss against the base of her throat and she felt herself dissolving in helpless laughter.

  She deftly unlaced the top of her white gown and traced a deep scar across his cheek and nose with the tips of her fingers. “How brave you are, how mighty and terrible.” But never cruel, she added in her heart, acknowledging his great kindness.

  His brown eyes adored her, and she basked in their sun glow.

  He snapped his fingers, and at once a golden chalice appeared. He dipped a wooden cup into the chalice and offered it to her. “Happy Solstice!”

  A thread of disquiet wormed into her before she reminded herself it was midsummer, the longest day of the year. She took the cup and sipped. “Ah, so sweet.”

  “Good, eh?” He leaned down and kissed her sweet lips, licking the traces of mead off her mouth. “And more goodness to come.”

  She felt herself blush and shyly fingered her long hair. “What if someone comes here, to this meadow?”

  “Then they will see only grass and flowers. You have such a pretty color.”

  The heat in her face increased. “What if someone hears us?”

  “Who is to hear, my bride? Everyone else is celebrating the summer. As we will be.” He wove her more tightly into his arms.

  “Am I your bride?”

  He traced his fingers down her spine. “Mine, and this is my wedding day.” He dipped his head and kissed her again. “Yours, too, my bride in white, my Snow Bride.”

  Someone else called me that, she thought, then gasped, closing her eyes and relishing as he drove his tongue into her mouth.

  “I am master today,” he muttered, patting her rump.

  Her eyes flew open. “You were master yesterday and the day before.”

  “I love that sulky pout of yours.” He patted her again. “Do you object, Lady Elfrida?”

  She melted at being called a lady by such a man, her new husband. Or, if as Magnus said, this was their wedding day, were they to be married? She was not sure, but now his warm, brown eyes and his smile made her forget everything else. Before she knew it, he was cupping her breasts, freeing them from her loosened bodice.

  He drew a long, pink ribbon from his tunic.

  “My first bridal gift.” He lifted her white robe, caressing her tensely nervous legs, thighs, and bottom. “Hands, please.” He tapped her arms and tied them at the wrists with the ribbon.

  “Happy bridal, my sweet.” He stroked her exposed breasts, one after the other. “Round as the English apples, and all for me.” He flicked the ends of the ribbon between her bosom. “And nipples that will be pinker soon than this little trinket.”

  Shy again, she jerked her hands, trying to cover herself, but his arm stopped her, and the soft tie trapped her wrists securely out of range of his sweeping fingers.

  “Pretty,” he murmured, sliding his hand between her legs, tickling her with soft, tormenting circles that went faster and deeper. Soon her whole backside was tickling and throbbing, and she ground her sex against his, wanting more, wanting him. She felt the ribbon rub against her wrists and flutter between her breasts as she writhed.

  In the far distance, she heard a party roistering in another meadow, and her voice mingled with their drunken singing.

  “Red wine, white roses...”

  “Please, sir!” She wanted to clutch him, take him, have him.

  Magnus fingered her. “Such a snug, lush place. I shall give it my full attention presently, but first—”

  Elfrida moaned as he ran his mead-slicked tongue across her breasts. When he cupped her breasts, dragging her gown more firmly beneath her engorged nipples, she groaned and again tried to free her tied hands.

  “Touch you!” she pleaded. Her nipples felt hot enough to burst, and there was a fiery sweetness flooding through her.

  “My pleasure,” he said smugly, winding a brawny arm about her waist, “but later, my Snow Bride. Let me melt you more.”

  “No!” A new voice rang out across the meadow, strident and arrogant. “I freeze you to my will! You are mine, Snow Bride!”

  At once the dream changed, becoming winter-dark and cold, bone-achingly cold. She shrieked as the piercing chill flayed her skin and turned her limbs to ice. The ribbon round her wrists writhed like an adder, flashing pink to red to black, and then, most terrible of all, Magnus vanished. He stepped back into the shadows, turning his back on her with no word of farewell or sign of love or kindness, and was gone.

  “Wait!” she cried, feeling hot tears streaming and freezing down her cheeks, but the land was empty. The meadow about her was now changed into a wood, where mistletoe berries glinted from gnarled oak branches and the midwinter night pooled over all.

  She shuddered and woke, her eyes burning with still more tears, her head pounding and aching. Beside her, the brazier was utterly spent, burned down to ashes, and the tower was in darkness. Her white bridal gown and marriage, the mead, the summer’s day, the rose petals, were things of fancy only. She was alone in the
place of her enemy, an adversary who had invaded her dreams when she was at her most open and vulnerable.

  I almost yielded, and had I done so, would it have been to my lover or to the Forest Grendel?

  The awful thought made her skin clammy and sickened her.

  Or what if the summer part of the dream is true, a warning? What chance have I truly with Sir Magnus, a famous knight of the realm?

  Shuddering, she drew her cloak around her and rocked herself for childish comfort, trying to regather her scattered wits.

  I must get light again. I must light the brazier. Do not step outside the salt circle! What is out there? What are those shadows I see gathering by the north wall?

  But riding ahead of all the other galloping panics in her mind was the vital question, where was he?

  Magnus said he would return to this tower by nightfall. Why is he not here?

  Chapter 22

  The guard left with Magnus was the youngest and weakest, a creature with patched clothes, straggly dirty-blond hair, beady rat-like eyes, and a rat’s long, pink nose. Magnus detested him on sight, the more so because he recognized the type—a wheedling bully, with inferior weapons and a weak mind, who would fawn to those above him and kick those below him.

  He kicked Magnus because Magnus was acting maudlin drunk and Gregory Denzil was watching. Magnus endured two more kicks, one directly to his groin that had him sprawling and gagging on the sodden cellar floor. The pain was raw and nasty, and he gave himself up to it, writhing in the mud between the barrels of salted meat and wine, set up on a storage platform above the murk and filth.

  “Ha! Not so proud now, are we, crusader?” Gregory Denzil watched him, amused, and the rat-guard with him sniggered and sneaked in another kick. “But where are your sword belt and sword, man?”

  “Where is my little Snowflake?” Magnus wheezed in return, with an anguish that was not feigned.

  “Haul him up,” Gregory Denzil ordered, before the red-and-green haze had cleared before Magnus’s eyes and the pain in his balls had reduced to agony instead of let-me-die-right-now. Coughing, spitting, bleary-eyed, he was dragged to his feet by three of rat-guard’s stouter companions.