The Snow White Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  She was tormented by how little she knew of him. She had trusted Millard, after all, and he had not only committed a foul crime, but had laid the blame for it at her feet. Eleanor would never forget it and so great was her revulsion that she feared the crime was to be repeated.

  She needed to count the horses, now, before a single one of them could be removed from the stables.

  Eleanor wiped away her tears and adjusted the circlet that held her veil fast. She straightened the sleeves of her kirtle and ensured that her garters were firmly fastened. She unlocked the portal, secured the key to her belt. She chose the edge of the stairs, where they were less likely to creak, and moved like a wraith down the stairs.

  The latch upon the door to the chamber the sisters shared rattled just as Eleanor passed it. She scurried down the stairs, not wanting her mission to be witnessed. She was almost in the hall when she heard that wooden portal slam overhead, which only hastened her steps even more.

  The hall was busy and she was disinclined to exchange pleasantries. She nodded and smiled at several men who bowed to her, then headed for the kitchen as if she had a duty there.

  “My lady!” Anthony bowed so low at the sight of her that his brow fairly touched the floor. The cook, standing by his side, looked grim and inclined his head crisply in greeting. “Perhaps you can be of aid to us, my lady. The laird insists that the question of meat for the midday meal will be addressed when he returns from the stables.”

  Eleanor’s heart clutched at this, though she strove to give no outward sign of her consternation.

  “But the cook says the hour is late, and he would know his orders immediately if not sooner.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor agreed, and the cook looked relieved. “I understand that we have guests this day?”

  “Another twenty men arrived from Ravensmuir this very morning, including those already in the hall!” the cook said, his frustration clear. “There are only scraps of venison left. The laird has requested brown bread this day, which aids the matter mightily, but we cannot serve bread alone.”

  “Have you fish?”

  “Two barrels of smoked fish, my lady. The laird suggested fish, but I had intended to serve these for Friday’s fast.”

  “We shall fret about Friday on Friday,” she said crisply. “And it may well be a fast in truth. We shall have the bread and the smoked fish, fried if you can manage as much, for men who have traveled favor a hot meal in their bellies.”

  “It can be done, my lady.”

  “And we shall have a stew this evening, a thin one with a great deal of gravy. Have you any kale remaining in the garden?”

  The cook grimaced. “It is not as fine as once it was…”

  “But it is there and it will do, especially with venison gravy.”

  The cook beamed at this resolution. “I have a measure of butter yet, my lady, and the chives are yet growing, for I have not cut them of late. The fish will be fare for a king, upon that you can rely.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I thank you, and await them with anticipation.”

  She turned away and Anthony was fast beside her. “I thank you, my lady, for your timely arrival and for your solution as well.”

  “We have need of a party to ride to hunt this afternoon, Anthony,” she said, thinking only of ensuring there was sufficient meat for the board. “My laird has hunting grounds, of course?”

  “Kinfairlie holds extensive lands, my lady, and its forests are abundant with wildlife.”

  “Excellent. A hart or another large beast would be ideal, though even a wagonload of pheasants would be welcome. Whether the laird is occupied this day or not, might you see a hunting party arranged among his guests?”

  Anthony frowned. “Few are noble, my lady, so few have the right to hunt.”

  She granted him a stem glance. “It is a matter of seeing the board laden, Anthony. If the laird cannot lead the party, then you shall lead it. I do not care whether its members are noble or common: I care only that they return with sufficient meat for a hundred souls for at least two days.”

  Anthony’s brow lifted. “But—”

  “It is of no merit to a laird’s reputation to have no morsel to offer his guests, especially in this season. I trust that you will ensure our laird’s honor is upheld.”

  Anthony bowed. “It shall be as you decree, my lady.” Whether he was surprised or pleased, Eleanor could not say, but he fixed her with a bright eye. “If I may suggest as much, my lady, it is encouraging to note that you and the laird share similar views upon this matter. Just yesterday, my lord Alexander insisted that sufficient saffron grace the sauce, regardless of the cost.”

  Eleanor smiled at that, and was reassured that her own advice was consistent with that of her spouse. “It is Christmas, Anthony.”

  “Indeed, my lady, and blessings abound at Kinfairlie.”

  Eleanor left the hall then and strode to the stables, the sweet scent of hay and horseflesh awakening a thousand memories. An ostler nodded to her there. He must have seen forty summers, thus must have been in a position of some authority, though Eleanor could not recall seeing him before.

  “Begging your pardon, but you would be the lady of Kinfairlie, if I am not mistaken,” he said, and bowed with an awkwardness that indicated that he was not accustomed to encountering noblewomen.

  “That I am.” A curious thrill tripped over Eleanor’s flesh as she claimed her title as Alexander’s wife for the first time. “I understand there are new horses arrived.” Dozens of horses peered over their stalls at the sound of voices, their ears flicking in curiosity. She could not see Alexander, though the stables were deeply shadowed in comparison to the bright morning sun.

  “From Ravensmuir, my lady. I brought them.” He hesitated, his heavy hands twisting in indecision when she simply stood and stared at what she could see of the beasts. They were large horses, larger than any she had ridden before, larger than she had guessed from her solar window. They were beautiful beyond belief. “Would you like to see the young ones?” he offered. “I reckon as the laird has plans for them, so you should see them sooner rather than later.”

  Eleanor’s breath caught in fear again. “I will see them all,” she said with resolve. “Though I will see the foals first, if you please.”

  The ostler ducked his head and turned, content to have a purpose, and led her to a large stall. “Mind your step, my lady. They have not been in the stall for long, but one never knows. And two of the mares would have no part of being separated from the young ones, so the stall is crowded, to be sure.”

  He opened the wooden door and Eleanor stepped just over the threshold. The foals turned, curious, their eyes gleaming in the shadows. Their tails swished and one might have stepped closer, but a massive mare interceded. She placed herself between Eleanor and the foals with a decisive step. The mare sniffed Eleanor’s hands and her hair first. It was as if the horse meant to ensure her intent, and Eleanor held her breath. The perusal seemed to take overlong, and for a moment, she feared that the mare somehow knew of her perfidy.

  Did the steeds know of Blanchefleur, or worse, that Eleanor had not had the wits to save that horse?

  The mare abruptly snorted and tossed her head, then bent to nibble Eleanor’s hair. Eleanor, overwhelmed, felt her knees weaken at this approval. She reached to scratch the horse’s nose.

  At that, the foals eased closer, echoing the way the mare had sniffed her. Their coats were silken soft, their noses like the finest velvet, their haunches muscled. Even the foals were nigh as tall as she, though they must have been born the previous spring.

  They were exquisitely beautiful, and though Eleanor ached to have one as her own, she dared not let any other soul witness her fondness for them. She had made that error once before and reluctantly lifted her hands away when she recalled the ostler’s presence. She was here only to complete her count.

  But she had no chance to do so.

  “What are you doing here?” Alexander demanded befor
e she could turn. Eleanor’s heart sank like a stone. She composed her features so that none of her joy showed, then pivoted to confront him.

  He stood beside the ostler, his frown surely one of confusion. “I thought you feared horses. Why would you enter the stall, then, no less do so alone?”

  Eleanor met Alexander’s steady gaze, and for once in all her days, she did not know what to say.

  10

  Alexander had not yet seen Eleanor at a loss for words and he was not certain that he ever wished to witness the sight again.

  He certainly did not want to be responsible for the circumstance again. She stood and stared at him with wide eyes, the color drained from her face. There was no doubt that he had given her a shock, albeit unwillingly.

  “I thought you did not like horses,” he repeated more gently, and she seemed to shake herself. She lifted her chin and her composure returned. He had the sense that she armed herself against him, and truly he could read no more of her thoughts than those of an opponent with his visor down.

  “I do not,” she said crisply. “My refusal of your gift appeared to trouble you, though, so I strove to overcome my instinct. It is the duty of a woman to see her husband pleased, after all.”

  It had been, on the contrary, the lady who had been troubled by the prospect of his gift. Alexander had simply been confused by her response.

  Her protest might have been more plausible, had the mare not persisted in nuzzling her hair. Alexander was sufficiently familiar with horses to know that they did not show affection to those who feared or disliked them.

  The horse dug its nose into the neckline of Eleanor’s kirtle with some persistence. It was impossible to believe, then, that someone who disliked horses would have been deemed worthy of such a friendly assault by the mare, or, equally, that that person would have endured it. Eleanor’s fingers twitched, as if she yearned to scratch the mare’s nose, so Alexander did not put much faith in her words.

  In fact, his blood began to simmer that she lied. How much of a fool did she believe him to be? And what was the value of her word, she who had pledged to have honesty between them?

  He resolved in that moment to feign belief in her lie, the better to see how long she would insist upon it.

  “You seem to make great progress,” he said, as if he had not noted the conflicting evidence, as if he were not vexed, indeed. He stepped into the stall himself, granting the ostler a nod of dismissal. Eleanor stiffened and did not raise so much as a finger to the horses. The young ones jostled her, revealed that she had petted them before. “Did you ride often as a child?”

  “Of course,” she admitted as if she would have preferred not to do so. “My tutors ensured that I could ride with grace.”

  “And so they should have done,” Alexander said easily. He scratched the mare’s ears and the beast blew her lips in pleasure. “This is Guinevere, in the event that introductions have not been made.”

  “Named for Arthur’s queen?” Eleanor regarded the horse warily, though there was a telling admiration in her eyes.

  Alexander nodded, biting down his rising displeasure. The woman could not have lied to save her life! She must think him witless! “Indeed, for the stallions cannot resist her allure. She foals nigh every year, despite the ostler’s best efforts to ensure otherwise.”

  “Would you not breed her annually?”

  “It has been my family’s practice to breed each mare every second or even every third year, the better that she might recover from her feat.” Alexander smiled thinly. “Guinevere, however, has too many ardent suitors to find that scheme fitting.”

  “She seems sufficiently hale.”

  “She is a marvel, to be sure.” Alexander caught Eleanor’s hand and placed it upon Guinevere’s nose, covering it with his own as if she truly were fearful of steeds. He felt her fingers curve instinctively to the horse before she snatched her hand away.

  “She is too large to be trusted. Look at her teeth!”

  “She is as gentle as a spring rain,” Alexander argued. He met Eleanor’s gaze and lowered his voice so that only his wife could hear it. “You seem uncommonly familiar with horses.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then dropped her gaze and spoke hurriedly. “Nonetheless, they strike a terror in my very veins,” she insisted breathlessly.

  Alexander stepped closer to his wife when her words faltered. She might have pushed past him and left the stall, but he caught her elbow in his hand, intent upon having the truth.

  But Eleanor was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her vulnerability caught Alexander by surprise, and as previously, it utterly disarmed him. He urged her closer to his side before he thought twice. She stood trembling, almost within his embrace, and he marveled at her distress.

  “Do not compel me to possess another steed, Alexander. Do not grant me this gift, I beg of you. If there has ever been a measure of kindness in your heart, then surrender this concession to me. And do not ask me more of this matter, I beg of you.”

  Alexander was astonished by this appeal, no less by the fact that Eleanor made it. It was not like her to reveal her emotions so clearly. “I meant it as a nuptial gift.”

  “No gift would be a better one,” she said with vehemence.

  Alexander held her fast, intending to ask more, but tears glistened upon his lady wife’s cheeks. What had happened to so distress her?

  “Would you at least look upon these steeds?” Alexander suggested gently. “They are fine beasts, and we may never see their ilk so gathered again.”

  Eleanor started at that, though Alexander could not imagine why, and she clutched his arm with sudden vigor. “What is your intent for the foals?” she demanded with urgency. “The ostler said you had a scheme for them?”

  Alexander shrugged, not seeing the reason for her concern. “I have none as yet, though perhaps the ostler believes I do. They would fetch a fair price, to be sure, but it has not been the habit of my family to casually be rid of the steeds of Ravensmuir. We keep them until they are at least two years of age, so these foals will not be leaving our care soon.”

  “What then?” Her anxiety was undiminished, though he was mystified by it.

  “We grant them as gifts of honor, to friends and allies whom we know to be worthy of possessing such a beast. They are treasures, and we ensure that any master who claims one will see the beast well-treated, indeed.” Alexander smiled, hoping to reassure her. “There are treasures in this world with value beyond their price.”

  She studied him, as if uncertain whether to believe him.

  “Come,” Alexander suggested. “Come and meet mine own destrier. He was entrusted to my care by my uncle Tynan when L earned my spurs. I have ignored Uriel of late, and must warn you that he may well prove himself worthy of the name ‘the fire of God.’ ”

  It was meant to be a jest, but Eleanor did not laugh. She did, however, let Alexander lead her from the stall containing the foals and deeper into the stables, though her clutch upon his arm was tight.

  He could make no sense of the fact that she murmured beneath her breath as they made their way through the stables. Unless he missed his guess, she was counting the horses.

  But why? Did she mean to have an inventory of Ravensmuir’s wealth? The dark thought was unwelcome, but not dismissed easily. Any wealth he possessed was almost entirely in these stables, to be sure, and if the horses were sold, they would fetch a high price.

  Alexander knew a moment’s fear. Did his wife have a scheme for his assets, one she would follow after his untimely demise? It was an unsettling prospect, but one he could not discredit easily, not when she lied to him with such vigor.

  There was nothing for it: Eleanor conjured a new puzzle for each one he believed himself to have solved. And Alexander, perhaps to his own detriment, was only more intrigued with each successive mystery she revealed. Truth was what he needed from her, though he knew not how to persuade her to reveal it.

  He was even less certain how
he would know when he found it.

  * * * * *

  The sauce maker proved to be Moira’s downfall.

  It was imperative that Moira confide a detail she had observed to her mistress, which meant she had to enter Kinfairlie’s hall. Moira had managed to join the revels to celebrate her lady’s nuptials, but had not been able to linger within the hall. That night, the merry guests had been fairly swept out to the bailey. Despite her best efforts, she had not managed to enter the keep since.

  That castellan was cursed quick, to be sure.

  But this scheme was ideal. It was a simple feat to pick up a load of wood and march into Kinfairlie’s kitchens as if she belonged there, especially when so many others did as much. For truly, Moira did belong within the keep’s walls, as her lady was now mistress there.

  Moira’s loyal heart burned at the travesty of the whispers she had heard against Lady Eleanor. Worse, there was treachery afoot in this very hall, treachery that would see her lady poorly served and that too soon. She could set matters to right, Moira could, if only she could reach her mistress.

  She was relieved to note that the castellan had left the kitchens. She followed the other women to the large pile of faggots and bent to deposit her load there, feigning familiarity with the kitchens all the while. So it was that Moira was astonished when she straightened and the plump, fair sauce maker pointed his ladle at her.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice loud enough that several others turned.

  Moira glanced behind herself, for she knew herself to be unworthy of note.

  “Nay, I mean you,” the man insisted. “I have never seen you in this hall before. Who are you?”

  Moira felt her cheeks heat. She was not accustomed to being noticed. “Do not be ridiculous.” She conjured a lie with haste. “I have labored here since midsummer.”

  He shook his head and came closer. “I do not think so. I would have recalled you, of this I am certain. Who are you?”

  “Aye, who are you?” asked the cook. He was a formidable man, and though he was not angry, his very size made Moira leery of him.