The Snow White Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  To be fair, he had defended her often, more than any other man had ever done. To be unfair, that only made the injustice of his current restraint sting all the more.

  They reached the bailey, where the parties destined for Blackleith and Caerwyn waited. The horses were restless, all riders dressed both somberly and warmly.

  Alexander spared a glance for the sky and Eleanor followed his gaze. It was overcast, a winter sky, but not so dark that rain or snow would fall soon. The wind was light, tinged with the salt of the sea.

  She liked that Alexander was concerned for the welfare of his guests and his sisters, even when they left his hall. He was protective of those he believed himself obliged to protect, or perhaps he was protective of those who held his affections.

  Eleanor yearned fiercely to be in their company.

  Anthony brought the stirrup cup, a massive chalice cast in bronze and brimming with wine. He handed it to Eleanor, which confirmed her place in the household to all. He also smiled at her, the only person to do so, and Eleanor found herself grateful for his kindness. She realized then that the censure she felt from Alexander’s household was a protectiveness of the laird by his vassals and tenants.

  And its root was the same: these people held Alexander in affection and would not suffer any threat to his health. For that, she could scarce blame them.

  Eleanor sipped of the cup’s contents first, as was proper, and a familiar sweet scent assailed her. A hundred memories were conjured by the smell, each and every one of them prompting her tears. Eleanor had offered the stirrup cup for her father so many times when he rode to battle, and feared so many times that he would not return and she would be left even more alone than already she was. The scent recalled, too, the fear of her own departures, her summons to unknown men at altars far away.

  The scent was bitter, or at least the memories it summoned were so.

  Eleanor took a deep breath, banishing her past, and smiled for the castellan. “You have flavored it with sweet woodruff,” she said graciously, and he nodded. “That is the perfect touch for sending travelers upon their way, for its scent makes a heart merry.” It was a lie in her case, though she had oft heard others say as much.

  Anthony did not question her assessment. Indeed, the tips of the castellan’s ears turned slightly pink, as if he were flustered by her praise. “I thank you, my lady. I merely do my best.”

  Eleanor turned and offered the cup to Alexander. He watched her as she lifted it to his lips, his gaze so bright that she knew he had not missed her response.

  “Does it make you merry?” he asked quietly.

  Eleanor shook her head ever so slightly, startled yet again by his perceptiveness. “Departures cannot be merry for those left behind,” she responded, her words as soft as his had been.

  She pivoted before Alexander could speak and offered the cup to Rhys. That man hesitated ever so slightly before he accepted the chalice.

  “Rhys!” Madeline chided in an undertone.

  “Eleanor is my lady wife,” Alexander said, his words cold. “And I will thank you to show her the respect due to her in our abode.”

  Madeline caught her breath and looked between the men, but Rhys took the cup. Eleanor knew she was not the only one who noted how his eyes had narrowed, no less how he sniffed the cup’s contents before he sipped of it.

  Eleanor looked away from his cool gaze, her heart thumping in her chest. Had Alexander defended her because he knew the truth? Had it been only duty that had kept him from her side? Or did he insist simply upon courtesy being shown where it was due?

  She did not know and she was surprised to find herself fearful of the truth. She looked in every direction, save that of her husband, for she feared to find disapproval in his eyes, and thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the jostling company. It was a face she had not expected to see again.

  Moira? Moira was here?

  Moira’s presence would be heaven-sent in this moment!

  Eleanor peered avidly into the milling company, seeking another glimpse of her faithful maid. But there were only the faces of strangers, any one of whom could have been confused for Moira with a momentary glimpse.

  It was undoubtedly the sweet woodruff, the scent of memory, that conjured a familiar sight as well. Moira, after all, had oft been fast at her side when Eleanor had sipped of such a cup. But now Moira was safely at Tivotdale, where Eleanor had left her, where she would be fed and housed and would continue to serve. There was no cause to worry for a soul so competent as Moira.

  Those tears mustered in Eleanor’s eyes again, though she tried to blink them away. The company stood in awkward silence as Rhys passed the cup to his lady wife.

  Rhys’s steed nuzzled Eleanor’s shoulder and in her loneliness she turned away from Rhys’s wary perusal to offer her hand to the horse. The destrier nuzzled her palm and she smiled at the softness of its nose.

  “My every treasure for an apple,” she murmured, and looked up to find Madeline smiling at her. Madeline sipped of the cup’s contents without hesitation, ignoring her husband’s slight frown. Rhys’s horse nibbled at Eleanor’s hair to regain her attention and she smiled despite herself.

  She passed the cup then to Erik and Vivienne in turn, stroking the noses of their horses as well. It had always soothed her to be with horses and she recalled how often she had ridden simply to find escape from her situation.

  Inevitably she recalled a horrific incident in Millard’s abode, and bile rose in her throat. She turned abruptly away from Vivienne and carried the cup back to Alexander, the pain of betrayal as raw as when it had been new.

  Alexander took the chalice, then held it to her lips. “Who has left you so oft that you are yet saddened?” he asked when the wine touched her lips and she could not step away.

  “It would be quicker to recount those who have not abandoned me,” she said; then Father Malachy called his blessing. She sensed that her husband would have asked her more, but he had no chance to do so.

  And truly, she was in no mood to protect her secrets from his scrutiny. A mere three days she had known him and that was little enough to prompt her to trust him fully. Had she lost her wits? Millard had been kind for a year!

  “Ride in haste and fair weather!” Alexander cried, holding the cup high. “And return to us soon, in good health!”

  “Amen!” the company cried; then the men whistled to their parties. Two dozen horses of varying hues of brown turned, their tails flicking, and cantered from the bailey. Rhys and Madeline led one party, Erik and Vivienne the Other, each followed by squires and maids and palfreys loaded with trunks.

  Erik’s two little girls rode with their parents, the eldest cosseted in Erik’s lap, the youngest with Vivienne. They waved with such vigor that they might have fallen from the saddles, had their parents not held them so fast. On another day, the sight of their enthusiasm might have made Eleanor smile.

  Both parties passed through the cluster of villagers, Madeline and Vivienne accepting their good wishes; then they passed through the old walls. The sisters blew kisses to each other, then to the party before Kinfairlie’s doors. Alexander waved, as did his younger sisters, who also shouted farewells. The group divided into two groups, one headed north and one south, and the horses broke into a thundering run.

  Kinfairlie’s household stood before that keep’s portal until the last echo of hoofbeats had faded; then Alexander offered Eleanor his hand once more. His gesture was no more than one of courtesy, she could see, for caution still lurked in his eyes, but he was the husband she had and the husband she had chosen.

  It was her duty to regain his trust. Eleanor knew that there were matters well worth the battle to win them and she believed that Alexander’s trust was one of them. She knew that she was not without the burden of her past, and she knew it was not in her nature to trust readily.

  But she was prepared to try to make a good marriage of this, even to try to create one so wondrous as the one Alexander said
he sought.

  Further, Eleanor knew how best to begin in seeking such a match. There was one matter, at least, that was simple between herself and Alexander, and confidences were more readily exchanged abed and in privacy.

  Feeling uncommonly bold, but knowing that all was at stake, Eleanor lifted Alexander’s hand and kissed his knuckles, knowing that she did not imagine how he caught his breath. It was encouraging to have that slight sign that he thought her to be possessed of some allure.

  “I missed you last night, my lord,” she murmured for his ears alone, and Alexander met her gaze. “The bed was cold without your presence.”

  Alexander’s eyes, to her dismay, narrowed. “Then perhaps you should have Anthony light another brazier for you this night,” he said, his tone so even that they might have been discussing the weather, not his absence from her bed. “I have duties through the new year to attend. I trust that you will find some matter to occupy you in these days.”

  With no more than that, he left her. He turned crisply away, summoning Anthony and one of his squires as he strode through Kinfairlie’s hall as Eleanor yearned after him.

  And true to his word, Alexander did not return to the hall that night.

  * * * * *

  Alexander did not savor the choice he had made, though he knew that a bitter deed oft yielded results.

  That did not make the enduring of it easier.

  Even the weather conspired against him and his determination to check the boundaries of Kinfairlie. It began to rain in cold, steady sheets shortly after his party left the hall and the wind from the sea turned bitter. The snow melted into a churning mess of mud and ice that made their journey even more onerous than it would have been otherwise.

  The sole comfort in all of this was that he had not ridden his destrier, but chosen a smaller palfrey instead. Alexander knew that his destrier, Uriel, would have protested such indignity as this weather, and the last censure he had need of in these times was one from the ostler over risking the health of a vigorous and costly steed.

  The squires accompanying him did not chatter, as was their custom, nor did the bailiff from the village. The small party checked the western and southern boundaries, some hearty villagers accompanying the party when it was closest to the village. A few mothers taught their young children the marks of the village perimeter in the old way, by boxing the child’s ears when he or she reached the village boundary, the better that the line might be recalled.

  The party took shelter that night at the sheriff’s abode and Alexander felt the burden of exclusively male companionship. The sheriff was unwed, though hospitable. He laid a simple board, though one that Alexander complimented for its generosity. The sheriff’s home seemed bereft of comfort to Alexander, who yearned for his own hall. Indeed, he longed for more than the comfort of his own bed and the heat of his own hearth and the sound of his sisters engaged in some petty argument.

  He longed for the flash of his wife’s eyes, for the sparkle of her wit, for the sweetness of her kisses abed. Worse, Alexander knew that the lady would have welcomed his embrace again, had he been so resolute as to remain at home.

  But he sought honesty, and he had noted that Eleanor surrendered details about her history only when she felt obliged to do so. It was her nature to hold her secrets close, and given what she had endured—or what Alexander knew of what she had endured—she had good reason for that. He was impatient, though, and was prepared to compel her to tell him more of her past.

  He did not put credence in Rhys’s fears, to be sure, but the fact was that Eleanor wished to be wed to him, though Alexander did not know why. She had agreed to wed him on short notice, had cut her thumb to force his proposal, had ensured that their match was consummated when he threatened to have it annulled. She admitted openly that she wished for a son, though Alexander did not see why she had chosen him to grant her that child.

  After all, the lady had no belief in the notion of love between man and wife. Much as it galled Alexander to admit it, she could not be smitten with him.

  So why had she chosen him?

  He did not know, but he did know that she surrendered tales when she believed their marriage to be in jeopardy. So, he left her at Kinfairlie, for he could not linger in her presence and feign anger with her for no reason. He still felt a knave for his choice, but Alexander was determined to oust his lady’s secrets.

  For he did believe in love, and further, he guessed that Eleanor could capture his heart fully. He needed to know for certain, however, that she was worthy of his trust. Alexander only hoped that this short interval bore fruit, for he knew not what else to do.

  For he feared that he would not have to spend much more time in his lady’s presence, witnessing her strength and her ardor and her intellect, to lose his own heart in truth.

  * * * * *

  On that same night that Alexander tossed and turned in the sheriff’s abode and Eleanor paced the solar floor, Elizabeth dreamed a familiar dream. She tossed and turned in her sleep, but the progress of the dream was relentless. She did not want to review her part in ensuring Rosamunde’s demise, but the demons of the night left her no choice. Elizabeth stirred, fighting against slumber, but to no avail.

  She is with her siblings in a tavern and concern sits among their company at the board. The dream is so vivid, she might be there again. They ride in pursuit of Madeline and Rhys, and Elizabeth tastes again her exhaustion, her fear, Alexander’s frustration. She watches herself save the fairy Darg from that spriggan’s own affection for ale. She could not have chosen differently, she could not have let the fairy drown, but the fact is clear.

  Once, she saved the spriggan’s life.

  The dream shifts with merciless predictability. She knows this dream and she loathes it, but it holds her fast in its clutches yet again. Elizabeth sits in the upper chamber of Ravensmuir with Vivienne. Time has passed: her hair is longer and Vivienne is more woman than she was months earlier in the tavern. Again Darg’s affection for ale betrays the fairy, and again Elizabeth sees the spriggan saved from certain demise. Again she could have made no other choice; again she sees the import of her own deed.

  Twice, she has saved the fairy’s life.

  The dream changes yet again and Elizabeth knows this to be the worst of it. She fights to awaken, but cannot. She would scream in protest but the dream condemns her to silence. She is in the labyrinth beneath Ravensmuir. She sees her aunt Rosamunde and her heart aches that she could have prevented that woman’s demise. And all unfolds precisely as it did so many months ago. Darg and Rosamunde fight, and in the ensuing struggle and confusion, the spriggan is nigh forgotten in the cold water that flows in the chasms of the labyrinth.

  But Elizabeth notes Darg’s absence. Elizabeth insists upon saving the spriggan. Elizabeth risks her own life to retrieve Darg.

  For thrice, she had saved the spriggan’s life. Three times Elizabeth had had the chance to turn away; three times she could have let the admittedly malicious spriggan die. But because she did not look away, Darg survived.

  As did the spriggan’s hatred for Rosamunde.

  And then, just when she expected to awaken, Elizabeth’s dream took a new twist.

  Elizabeth is in the labyrinth of Ravensmuir, the labyrinth that cannot be entered any longer, for it has fallen to ruins. She is crawling through the rubble and she is calling for her lost aunt. Elizabeth feels the dampness of tears upon her own cheeks; she feels the heat cast by the single flickering flame of her lantern.

  She knows somehow that she is in the great cavern that once marked the lowest point of the labyrinth, the chamber that had once had a high ceiling carved from the stone. From here, one could climb to the keep or walk to the hidden cove that led to the sea, the cove where a small boat could be hidden. She does not know how she knows as much, for there is only rubble and loose stone all around her and a fearsome shadow over her head.

  She tastes her own bile, fearing that she has been summoned to the site of Rosamu
nde’s demise. Indeed, she spies something in the rubble, something that could be the toe of a black leather boot.

  Elizabeth prays, but she crawls closer, seemingly unable to do otherwise. Just as she reaches the boot—for that is what it is—a gust of wind extinguishes the flame of her lantern.

  Elizabeth is plunged into darkness and her heart fairly stops in terror. Is she destined to die in the labyrinth as well? How will she climb to safety? How will she make her way out of the rubble without a light?

  The stone begins to rumble overhead. It is shifting. Elizabeth gasps in terror. The first loose stone strikes her shoulder and she bellows in fear.

  The rock begins to fall in earnest. She scrambles in the direction she thinks she has come, but her fingers land upon the leather of that boot toe. She feels a scream gathering in her throat, for she guesses that there is the foot of a corpse within that boot. She will go mad in Ravensmuir’s caverns and no one will know of her fate. The scream begins to tear loose of her throat.

  Then a light appears. The light is golden and welcoming, it seems to fill a portal that Elizabeth does not recall seeing before. And framed in that portal is a familiar silhouette, a woman whose very presence makes Elizabeth gasp in astonishment.

  “Hasten yourself child,” Rosamunde says with some urgency. “We have not all the day and all the night to see this resolved. Hurry! Come to me immediately!”

  Then all turned black.

  Elizabeth awakened, a cold sweat on her back and tears upon her cheeks. The dream named the root of it: by not letting the Fates claim the spriggan each time they tried to do so, by interfering in the order of things, Elizabeth herself was responsible for Rosamunde’s demise.

  It was her fault that Rosamunde was dead, for it was her fault that Rosamunde had been compelled to return to Ravensmuir to sate the fairy’s greed, her fault that Rosamunde had been within Ravensmuir’s labyrinths when they finally collapsed. Elizabeth wept, for it was bitter that she, who loved Rosamunde so well, should have been the one responsible for that woman’s death.