The Snow White Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  “Whyever not? You are cold!”

  “Because it is not proper to wear boots in the hall. I will wear slippers, if I can find them. Here is one stocking at least.” She rummaged without so much as a tinder lit to aid her in her task. He cursed, not for the first time, at the notions of women and their garb.

  “You will wear slippers and be cold rather than breach some foolish convention?” He sat down on the trunk there, pulled her onto his lap, and made to pull one boot onto her foot. “Eleanor, this is folly,” was all he managed to say before she cried out in pain.

  He pulled off her boot and peered into it. There was something dark lurking in the fur lining. Eleanor sat silent on his knee, rubbing the base of her foot as he inverted her boot.

  Two thorns spilled into his hand, thorns as large and as fearsome as those that had pierced Uriel’s hide. He glanced across the chamber, but the three Owen had surrendered to him still rested on the opposite table.

  This additional pair lurked in her boot—the boot she had not wished to don—as if hidden there. The key to the chamber glinted upon her belt, discarded in a coil by his very feet.

  Eleanor gasped and Alexander met her gaze. Days past he might have taken her expression as one of guilt, as if some dark scheme had been discovered. “I suppose I am to think that you had too many thorns for your purpose this day, that you saved some for a similar feat on another day,” he mused, and she caught her breath. “You did not, after all, wish to don your boots. A man could believe that you knew the thorns to be hidden there.”

  Eleanor scarce breathed while Alexander rolled the thorns across his palm. But if she had known about these thorns, if she had been the one to injure Uriel, then she had not only tried to kill him—perhaps twice—but had lied to him over and over again.

  It could not be so.

  Alexander wanted the marriage he had tasted this very afternoon. He wanted the match they had only begun to share—and that meant that he must trust his lady wife, just as she had shown that she trusted him.

  He held the thorns before his ashen wife. “Have you a better explanation?”

  Eleanor rose to her feet, looking small and fragile. Her gaze fell on the key tied to her own belt. Then she looked at him, fear in her eyes. “I have none,” she whispered. “I know nothing of them, certainly not from whence they came.”

  Alexander rose to his feet. “Then we must find who in the household seeks to see you blamed for what you have not done.”

  Eleanor’s features lit with such pleasure that he knew he had chosen aright. She cast herself toward him, but he had no chance to savor her embrace.

  For the sentries blew their horns with force in that moment, and men shouted in the bailey. “Kinfairlie is besieged!” roared one man, and Alexander hastened to the window.

  It was true. A veritable army rode toward the keep, the moonlight glinting off their armor and their unsheathed blades. They were numerous and fully armed, their company stretching into the distance. Alexander’s heart sank, for he doubted their force could be turned aside.

  “Unlock the portal!” he cried to Eleanor. “We are attacked.” He donned his chemise, his chausses, and threw open the trunk containing his mail as he donned his boots. He heard a shout at the gates and knew he had no time to arm himself properly.

  “But it is the peace of Christmas—”

  “Our assailants seem not to care.” Alexander shrugged into his tabard and snatched up his blade. Eleanor meanwhile unlocked the portal, her eyes wide with fear. “Find some garb to cover yourself, gather with my sisters, and see this portal barred against all assailants,” he bade her, and she nodded understanding.

  Then she seized his sleeve. “But surely you will be triumphant?”

  “Surely it is only good sense to be cautious. Secure yourself with my sisters,” he said, then caught her nape in his hand. He kissed her deeply, lingeringly, then departed the solar in haste.

  Alexander, despite his injured leg, lunged down the stairs, taking them three at a time, sparing only a moment to hammer on the door of the chamber his sisters shared. “Lock yourselves, all of you, in the solar,” he bade Vera, then made haste to the hall.

  There was already the clash of steel against steel and the smell of blood in his own hall. Alexander was not the only one to have been surprised. Kinfairlie could be defended by few men, but only if the attackers did not manage to enter the hall. This battle, he feared, would be decided quickly and not in his favor.

  He leapt into the fray, swinging his blade at a mercenary. He had done his best for Kinfairlie, he would do his best until his dying breath, but he feared in this moment that his best had not been enough.

  This battle would be the reckoning that he had long expected, and Alexander Lammergeier hoped that he would be the only one to pay the price for his own failure.

  12

  Eleanor had no intention of waiting meekly in the solar while her husband faced certain slaughter in the hall below. There had to be some deed that could be done to aid him.

  Whosoever attacked was a villain, to be sure, for no man violated the injunction against battle on the holy days of the year. Eleanor feared that she knew who that villain might be, for she had lived closely with a family of villains, one of whom had already shown himself to be interested in her fortunes.

  Alan Douglas.

  Annelise and Elizabeth and Isabella arrived in the solar in their chemises, with their hair unbound, chattering all the while. They each carried some trinket or another, as well as their own cloaks and boots. Their eyes were wide with fear. Vera came behind them with an armload of sturdy woolen kirtles, muttering as she gathered them like wayward chicks. Moira, Eleanor hoped, had found refuge in the kitchens.

  “Lock the portal, my lady,” Vera instructed as she dumped the clothing onto a trunk. “We are all here now, and there is little else to be done. I would have you maidens don your kirtles and boots, the better that you be prepared for whatever occurs.”

  “But what could occur?” Annelise asked with a shiver.

  “Garb yourself,” Isabella said tersely. “If Alexander does not win, this night will not be an amusing one for us.” Vera’s lips tightened at that.

  “Let us move the trunks against the portal,” Eleanor suggested. “The better that it cannot be forced open.”

  The sisters followed her dictate, and she was pleased to see that they were not fragile maidens with no strength beyond that necessary to thread a needle.

  “We must be able to defend ourselves,” Elizabeth said, looking about the chamber.

  “What weaponry has Alexander?” asked Isabella.

  They showed a familiarity with their brother’s possessions that surprised Eleanor, but then she had never had any sibling with whom to share. In moments, they had rummaged through his trunk of weapons and each sister held a blade more fearsome than her own eating knife.

  “I say we should join the battle,” Elizabeth said. “Alexander has need of every blade he can muster on this night.”

  “No, no, no!” Vera cried. “There will be no maidens under my care in a hall filled with fighting men.”

  “Or there will be no maidens at all in the morn,” Eleanor concluded. The maid nodded, but the sisters caught their breath as one. Isabella parted her lips to ask a question, but Eleanor glared at her. “A rape is no way to learn of matters abed,” she said with resolve, and that sister fell silent.

  Annelise crossed herself and sat down, pale with fear.

  The sounds of swordplay grew louder, and more men shouted. Torches could be seen burning in the bailey, and to Eleanor’s amazement, a group of people marched toward the keep from Kinfairlie village. They carried scythes and knives, clubs and hoes, and their expressions were grim.

  “There is the miller and his son, Matthew,” said Annelise, her tone indicating that she shared Eleanor’s surprise.

  “The tanner and his apprentice, and the blacksmith,” said Isabella, forcing her way closer to the window.r />
  “God in heaven,” Vera whispered.

  “Look! There is Father Malachy!” Elizabeth said, pointing as she did so. The maid snatched back the maiden’s hand, lest her presence at the darkened window be discerned. “And the baker and the shepherd and even the silversmith.”

  “But it is neither their right nor their duty to fight,” Eleanor said. “Such is the order of men: those who work, those who pray, and those who fight.”

  Vera granted her a wry glance. “Such is the order in some realms, to be sure. Can a man not be expected to raise a blade in defense, regardless of his calling, when his own abode is at risk?”

  “They will be slaughtered,” Eleanor whispered. “Such tools are no match to the swords and blades of knights. They have no training and they have no armor, either.”

  “Alexander has no armor, either,” Elizabeth retorted. “This battle is unfair in every way. I am glad the town comes to our aid.”

  “They have their love of Kinfairlie,” Annelise said softly. “And that is no small weapon.”

  Eleanor hoped she was right.

  A man shouted below and Eleanor knew that the villagers had been spied by Kinfairlie’s assailants. A dozen armed men turned upon the approaching group, laughing at the sight of them.

  “We cannot simply wait here!” Isabella protested. “We must do something!”

  Eleanor leaned out the window as scythe and sword clashed, hoping to see better how the villagers fared. She could not imagine them dying in the defense of Kinfairlie, but at the same time, she could well understand their loyalty to Alexander. She too would do any deed to see him and Kinfairlie secured. She stretched farther and saw a familiar horse, the insignia on its caparisons fairly stopping her heart.

  It was Alan Douglas.

  She could stop this carnage. The realization came suddenly. Alan Douglas wanted only her, or more accurately, he desired only the legacy she would bring to him with the delivery of a son.

  If she surrendered to Alan, the assault upon Kinfairlie would halt. As soon as Eleanor realized the truth, her choice was made. She pivoted and lifted the key from her belt. She unlocked the portal, Alexander’s sisters clustered about her in their excitement.

  “What are we going to do?” Elizabeth demanded, her grip fierce upon her borrowed blade.

  “You are going to remain here, as you have been bidden to do,” Eleanor said firmly. She placed the key within the maid’s hand and closed Vera’s fingers surely over it. “And you will lock the portal behind me. Open it only to Alexander.”

  “But where are you going?” Isabella asked.

  “To end this madness, for once and for all,” Eleanor said with resolve, then stepped out of the chamber. She waited on the landing until she heard the key turn in the lock, listened for a moment to the unanimous protest of the three maidens, then marched down to the hall.

  Alexander, Kinfairlie, and all the people pledged to serve both had need of the sacrifice only she could make. Eleanor would not regret making it, not for a moment, for she believed it would see this haven and its laird saved from certain destruction.

  That would be a sufficiently potent legacy for any woman.

  * * * * *

  The hall was thick with smoke. Someone had dropped a torch into the strewing herbs upon the floor, but they were so freshly cut that they smoked rather than burned. Only a few other torches burned, so the hall was full of shadows. Malcolm peered through the tangle of men and tried to make sense of who was who.

  One matter was for certain: only those who attacked wore armor, for no man in Kinfairlie had had time to don his mail. Malcolm saw his brother come down the stairs and, with characteristic confidence, step directly into the fray. Alexander had dispatched two men and rounded upon another by the time Malcolm reached his side. They fought, more or less back-to-back, cutting a swath through the hall.

  “I trust you slept well,” Alexander said to Malcolm, as if they rose on a peaceful morn to break bread together.

  He grunted as he drove his sword into the gut of a mercenary.

  “Quite well,” Malcolm replied, his tone genial. “Though I must admit, I did hear some ruckus in the midst of the night.” He swung his blade at a mercenary’s knees, and that man fell. He rounded quickly and jabbed the point of his sword into the eye of a man who had tried to sneak up beside him.

  “Rats,” Alexander said, as if confiding a sorry secret of his hall. “We are besieged by them at the most uncommon times.”

  He whistled a warning to his brother, who understood the signal as no others did. Not for nothing had these two brothers sparred together for years!

  Malcolm ducked in the nick of time as Alexander’s blade slashed over his head, then struck an assailant’s elbow. That man howled and dropped his blade. Malcolm picked it up, then tossed it to Alexander, who was more adept at fighting with both hands.

  Alexander circled another mercenary, both blades swinging, as he continued in a most conversational tone. “Like all vermin, they must be diligently hunted and excised.”

  “Ah, so that was why I heard swordplay,” Malcolm said. He parried the thrust of another man, their blades locking so that their wrists almost touched. “Oh, look there!” Malcolm said to his opponent, who was fool enough to do so. Malcolm dispatched him with a blow while he was so distracted.

  “We are plagued by particularly large and vile vermin this year,” Alexander said with a shake of his head. He and his assailant met in a furious clash of steel on steel.

  Alexander grunted and jabbed, and cast the man’s corpse aside. “I only apologize that such necessities interrupted the slumber of a guest.”

  “And there is the largest vermin of them all,” Malcolm said, nodding toward the gates. Alan Douglas had just crossed beneath the portcullis. He pushed up his visor, his strangely pale features seeming to glow in the shadows, and looked over the company. His gaze fell on Alexander and he smiled his cruel smile, apparently in anticipation of an easy victory.

  “The king of the rats himself,” Alexander muttered, and strode to confront his attacker. “He will not steal the finest morsel from my table so readily as that.”

  The two leapt at each other and Malcolm valiantly tried to defend Alexander’s back. His brother moved quickly to engage with Alan, though, so quickly that Malcolm was snared by a mercenary determined to see him dead.

  The mercenary struck a fierce blow that took Malcolm to his knees. Malcolm feigned greater injury than he felt, then slashed upward. His opponent was caught by surprise and the blade slipped beneath the bottom of his jerkin. Malcolm plunged the blade deep, then pulled it out and kicked the man’s corpse aside.

  By that time, Alexander was surrounded by three men as well as Alan. It was not a fair fight, and though Alexander was a competent swordsman, Malcolm could see the sweat on his brother’s brow.

  Malcolm leapt into the skirmish with a bellow and distracted the men sufficiently that Alexander felled one with a telling strike.

  “One rat less in my abode,” Alexander said through gritted teeth, then parried the blow of another assailant. Alan struck in that moment, taking advantage of the fact that Alexander was engaged, but Alexander still had the second blade in his left hand. He swung it, even as he drove his own sword into the mercenary’s throat, and Alan yelled as he retreated.

  Blood ran from Alan’s ear, Malcolm noted with a quick glance. He was busy himself, for the fourth man who had been attacking Alexander turned upon Malcolm.

  They fought with ferocity; then the mercenary pivoted abruptly to swing his blade at Alexander. Malcolm whistled, his brother ducked, and the heavy blade swept over Alexander’s head to strike down his opponent.

  “That was neatly done,” Alexander said with a grin. He nodded to the mercenary still before Malcolm. “I thank you for your timely contribution.”

  The mercenary roared in fury and lunged at Alexander, who halted that man’s bloody blade with his own. They struggled back and forth, neither gaining any qu
arter against the other; then Alan stepped out of the shadows.

  He smiled and Malcolm began to shout a warning, but too late. Alan’s swinging blade struck Alexander on the back of the head.

  Alexander’s eyes widened briefly; then he fell so hard that Malcolm feared the worst. Blood pooled around Alexander’s body with alarming haste.

  “No!” Malcolm cried, but the mercenary turned upon him, a deadly gleam in his eye. Malcolm ducked his blow, then stepped closer to the man. The man’s eyes widened, so startled was he by Malcolm’s proximity, but his eyes widened more when he felt Malcolm’s knife blade slide into his throat.

  It was a trick that Alexander had taught Malcolm, to step inside the swing of a blow, and though it was a marvel to see it work in a desperate situation, Malcolm wished his brother might have witnessed its success. He turned upon Alan, intent upon seeing that man dead, but in that same moment, a woman shouted.

  “No!” she cried. “Cease your assault!”

  Alan looked toward the stairs, a knowing smile upon his face. He lifted his hand and called for the fighting to halt, as calmly as if he called for more salt at the board.

  Malcolm turned, followed Alan’s gaze, and saw Alexander’s wife, Eleanor, standing on the third-to-last stair. She looked out of place, her garb so perfect that she might have been appearing at the king’s court for dinner, not stepping into the midst of a bloody battle. Her poise was also perfect, her stance regal, her composure complete.

  Only her pallor revealed her distress.

  She descended the last of the stairs from the solar without hesitation. She walked through the hall, as fair as a wraith, as unexpected as an angel. She paid no heed to whatsoever was strewn beneath her feet and she did not stumble.

  The men fell back to grant her passage, seemingly so astonished by her presence that they let their blades fall by their sides. Malcolm did not doubt that her manner was a greater power than Alan’s command.

  Her footsteps only faltered when she neared the red pool of blood surrounding Alexander. She halted as the first fissure showed in her composure. She made a little sound, a gasp of pain, and her head bowed as if to hide her tears. She stood between Malcolm and his fallen brother.