The Snow White Bride

by Claire Delacroix

  “That I have lain with the laird of Kinfairlie, my lord husband, and should his seed bear fruit, my legacy shall be paid to his heir, regardless of who my husband might be.”

  Alan loosed his grip upon her in his dismay. “You cannot do that!”

  “I most surely can.” Eleanor strove to sound bold. “Do you imagine that my guardian will discredit my testimony as to which man is the father of my child?” Eleanor knew that Reinhard von Heigel, her father’s confidant and her guardian, would do precisely that, without a moment’s remorse. Like Alan, Reinhard believed the word of a woman to have no merit. She lied and she knew it, but she did not regret it.

  Alan growled in dissatisfaction. “I will kill his heir, then.”

  “And break your own pledge to leave Kinfairlie untroubled, with no guarantee that the coin will then come to you. The Lammergeier are plentiful and are said to have dark powers as well. Do you mean to engage them all in war?”

  “I could beat any child out of you.”

  “And readily kill me as well.” Eleanor shook her head, striving to appear as if she had a choice and was confident in it. “I will wed you after I next bleed and not one day before. There will then be no doubt cast on the rightful recipient of my legacy, should I bear a child.”

  Alan heaved a sigh and it seemed to Eleanor that the horse galloped over many miles before he replied. “I cede to you in this, but solely because it suits my own ends.” He tightened his grip upon her again so that she winced and his voice fell to a growl in her ear. “But if you deceive me, understand that you will pay for your perfidy. I will have an obedient wife, even if she has to be trussed and beaten to keep her so. A woman can be bruised in places that do not affect the fruitfulness of her womb. Are we understood?”

  Eleanor nodded, her mouth dry. She knew then that as soon as she bore a son, as soon as Alan had her legacy, her life would be over. He might guard his blows until that day, but afterward, when he had no need of her, he would kill her.

  Tivotdale’s shadow rose before the company and Eleanor was so terrified by the sight that she had to remind herself to breathe. What she had endured in this place was not easily forgotten!

  There was no denying that she had done a good deed for Kinfairlie and its people, for Alan’s men had left without further violence to those residents.

  Though truly they had already done their worst. Her tears rose with the certainty that Alexander must be dead. She would have liked to have laid her fingers against his throat to be certain. She would have liked to have leaned her ear against his chest to dispel the last of her doubts.

  But to be honest, she did not want to know for certain that Alexander Lammergeier was dead. She wanted to nurse a faint, if futile, hope that he would live, that he would be healed against the odds, that he would laugh and make a jest at his sisters’ expense once more. She wanted to believe that Kinfairlie would not be bereft of its protective laird, that Alexander would witness the wedding vows of Matthew and Ceara, that that holding would remain the tranquil sanctuary she had known it to be. Even if Alexander forgot about her, or chose not to pursue her, Eleanor would like to believe that he yet drew breath and found cause for merriment.

  Eleanor knew that her hope was folly, for she could close her eyes and see that fearsome puddle of blood. She also knew it was her fault alone that Kinfairlie had been cursed to feel the weight of Alan’s hand. She should never have fled there. She should never have lingered. She should never have loved its laird, for it had been Alexander and her unexpected love for him that had persuaded Eleanor that she might hope.

  They rode beneath Tivotdale’s portcullis and Eleanor knew a dreadful certainty that she would never leave this keep again alive.

  Yet, though the loss of the man she loved hurt more than Eleanor had feared, against all expectation, she had only one regret. She did not regret having loved Alexander: she regretted that she had not told him that he had succeeded in his quest to win her heart. She knew how much value he had placed in love and she knew that he would have been triumphant at the tidings of his success. She had not told him, not even when she knew of it, not even when she had had the chance.

  And now, she never would have that chance again.

  Eleanor would pray, she resolved, that she and Alexander might meet again in heaven, solely that she might have the chance to redress her error. She wanted to see satisfaction curve his lips; she wanted to see stars light his eyes. She wanted to hear him laugh at his triumph, a triumph that surely he had never doubted would be his own.

  Alan swung out of the saddle, then reached up for her with a rough gesture that filled her with foreboding. He resembled Ewen so much in this moment that Eleanor’s spirit quailed.

  She suspected that she might meet Alexander soon, indeed.

  * * * * *

  Four days passed and still Alexander lay abed. Malcolm , found himself standing vigil at the portal to the solar, fretful as he had not been before in all his days. Alexander had been pale when they carried him to his own bed and his flesh had been strangely cold. Anthony had stanched the blood flowing from his wound, and in these past days, that wound had begun to heal.

  But still Alexander slept. A large bump had arisen behind the healing wound, though it no longer seemed to grow larger. On those few occasions when Alexander awakened, he asked for Eleanor, no matter how many times he was told that she was gone. He had vomited so often the first few days that Matthew had thought any malady would be easier to endure than this.

  He had been wrong. His brother’s unnatural sleep was far more difficult to watch. They had debated the merits of summoning Jeannie, but Malcolm was set against it, and truly, no one knew where the old healer had gone.

  “Well?” Isabella asked from sudden proximity and Malcolm jumped.

  “The same as yesterday,” he said, forcing a smile for her. “Perhaps he recovers in his dreams.”

  Isabella grimaced. “That sounds like something Jeannie would say, and we all know that she concocted half of what she insisted was truth. Eleanor would know the truth.” Malcolm could not argue with that. They turned as one and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Alexander’s chest. “Does he still ask for her?” Isabella asked in a whisper.

  “Every time he awakens,” Malcolm said. “Her name is the only thing he murmurs in his sleep.”

  Isabella smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Perhaps he dreams that she tends him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Annelise ascended the stairs and came to a halt beside them, her manner subdued. She asked after Alexander and was no less pleased by the tidings than Isabella and Malcolm had been.

  Something glinted in her hand as she hesitated beside them and Malcolm frowned as he tried to discern what it was. “What do you have?”

  Annelise blushed. “It is a vial of scent, given to me by Rosamunde.”

  “For your wedding night!” Isabella guessed. Annelise nodded, her cheeks aflame, and Isabella turned to Malcolm. “I gave mine to Eleanor and Alexander, and Eleanor poured it into the bath she had summoned.”

  “Rosamunde said it would conjure sweetness between man and wife,” Annelise said, her manner cautious.

  “I do not know what occurred”—Isabella paused for a moment, but Malcolm said nothing—“though it was long before they came back to the hall.”

  Annelise held the vial out, like an offering. “I thought it might help.”

  “But Alexander does not mean to take a bath on this night,” Malcolm said.

  “I know that.” Annelise smiled sadly. “But Maman once said that scent is a potent summons, and I knew what Isabella had done with her vial, and I thought…”

  “That it might call him back,” Isabella concluded with satisfaction. “I think it a good idea.” She took the vial from Annelise and marched into the solar.

  “Let me see what you do!” Annelise complained, and ran after her.

  Malcolm followed the pair to watch. They paused beside the bed, and Malcolm susp
ected, not for the first time, that his sisters shared a secret language, one that needed no words. They exchanged a glance; then Isabella opened the vial.

  Malcolm smelled flowers. He thought of summer, though he could not name the precise scents that assaulted his nostrils. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself within a garden of blossoms, the air fairly buzzing with bees, the sun spilling gold over all.

  Annelise had brought a napkin wrought of linen. She poured the merest drop of the oil onto the linen; then Isabella stoppered the vial again. Annelise waved the linen beneath Alexander’s nose and they waited, breathless, for some response.

  There was none.

  Annelise waved the cloth again and Malcolm was struck by his brother’s pallor. Alexander’s skin was the hue of snow, and faint blue circles of exhaustion were visible beneath his eyes despite how much he had slept. He had lost weight, for his face was leaner, and his hair seemed to have lost its gloss. Malcolm looked away, unable to face the prospect of losing the brother he had admired every day of his life, and his vision veiled with tears.

  “I must talk to the laird,” said a woman at the portal.

  Malcolm seized the chance to do something to aid his ailing brother. “You cannot come into the solar. He must have his rest.”

  “But he must know what I know. I tried to tell him, and the lady Eleanor, before the keep was attacked, but they would not hear of it, and look what happened!” The older maid threw up her hands, though Malcolm was not certain who she was. “And now I have spent every day and every night trying to come up these stairs to tell the laird what he has need of knowing, and I only face obstacle after obstacle.”

  “There must be guards posted to defend the laird, for there have been assaults upon his life,” Malcolm said. He did not welcome this woman’s criticism, as he himself had commanded the sentries to defend the stairs.

  “Would you defend him from the truth?” the maid demanded. “Would you defend him from knowledge of a spy in his own hall? Have you no desire to know what threats you face?” She jabbed her finger into her own chest. “I know far more than any of you, and though I try to share my tidings, you will not hear of it. It is a kind of pride, a sinful kind, that keeps men of wit from listening to the counsel of those they think beneath themselves, to be sure.”

  She paused for a breath and Malcolm took the opportunity to speak. “Who are you?”

  She drew herself taller. “I am Moira Goodall, the maid of my lady Eleanor by sworn word to her dying mother, the lady Yolanda.” Moira shook a finger at Malcolm. “And there was a great lady, a lady who relied upon the counsel of those in her household and never shirked from hearing a truth, however painful it might be…”

  “What truth would you tell, Moira?”

  “I followed Lady Eleanor from Tivotdale, so devoted is my service to her, and your brother the laird welcomed me to Kinfairlie with the grace of a king. My gratitude is not small in this matter because he could have readily turned me from his gates and I would have had no place to go, but Laird Alexander allowed me to remain and fulfill my pledge to my lady’s mother—”

  “These are not dire tidings, Moira,” Malcolm said with resolve. “Though I applaud my brother’s goodwill in granting you the chance to continue your service, this tale hardly demands to be told. There are many who have been welcomed at Kinfairlie.”

  Moira blinked. “But that is precisely my point, and that is what the laird needs to know.”

  Malcolm shook his head and would have dismissed the woman, but Moira caught at his sleeve. He looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes.

  “I regret only that I did not notice the intruder sooner; for then, much wickedness could have been avoided.”

  “What is this?” Malcolm’s interest was piqued.

  “There is a man in service here, a mercenary, whom I recognize from Tivotdale. He must have come with the party that rode in pursuit of Lady Eleanor on Christmas Day, just as I did, and he must have lingered here apurpose, just as I did.” Moira shook her head. “But unlike me, my lord, I would wager that this man remained at Laird Alan’s command and that his intent was not to grant faithful service to Laird Alexander.”

  “Is he still here?”

  Moira nodded with conviction and Malcolm’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade.

  “Lock this portal behind me,” he said to them, then hastened after the maid. “What do you think he has done?”

  Moira licked her lips. “Far be it for me to speak ill of a man without evidence against him, sir, but this one is known for his cunning and his malice. Alan Douglas oft relies upon him to see to the disappearance of any man who irks him overmuch.”

  “You mean that this man kills?”

  Moira nodded and looked about herself before lowering her voice. “Those thorns, the ones found beneath my lord’s saddle, the ones that the ostler Owen has spoken of?”

  “They are large, larger than any I have seen.”

  “I have seen them.” The maid held his gaze with conviction. “They grow upon the briars at Tivotdale.”

  * * * * *

  So intent was Malcolm upon the capture of the dangerous intruder in his brother’s hall that he did not give note to his sisters’ cry of delight behind him.

  Nor did he hear his brother ask for his lady wife.

  13

  There were worse things than being sole porter at Tivotdale on Epiphany. The man left to that task was certain of it, though his conviction waned as the sound of merrymaking within Tivotdale’s hall grew steadily louder. The night was cold and dark and the skies threatened rain or snow. The wind over the moors had a bite, to be sure, and he felt somewhat sorry for himself at being excluded from the festivities of the night.

  He always managed to choose the short straw. There were others patrolling the perimeter of the village, to be sure, but he did not doubt that they would be invited to share the warmth of one hearth or another, and they were easily forgotten as he could not see them. He stamped his feet and paced behind the closed portcullis, and strove to entertain himself with the prospect of what those worse things might be.

  He could be fed to wolves, one piece at a time. That surely would be worse than being porter for a night. Laughter carried from the hall beyond and he could discern music. He sighed and huddled in his cloak and paced.

  He could be flayed alive, or drawn and quartered, neither of which appeared to be particularly amusing ways to pass an evening. Surely that would be worse than spending a night in the cold, even if it was the sole night upon which this particular Douglas laird showed any generosity. He turned and looked toward the hall wistfully. They were drinking ale, he knew it, and at the laird’s expense, too. He had seen the venison, both the roast haunches and the thick, rich stew, when he had claimed a meal in the kitchens before reporting for his duty. He had seen and smelled the fresh bread, the eggs in red wine, the hare in pepper sauce, the boar in mustard sauce, rows of pigeon pies and roasted ducks. He salivated even at the recollection and his belly grumbled.

  When he had gone to the kitchens, they had given him a bowl of thin soup, wrought of the leavings of the day before, a piece of cold bread, and bade him stay out of the way.

  He could draw the short length next Epiphany as well as this one. That would be not only worse but also cursed fortune, indeed.

  He pivoted, intending to pace the width of the gate once more, and straightened at the sight of a small party on the road leading to his very feet. They were a motley band, dressed in all manner of garb, and they cavorted rather than walked. They had no steeds, but seemed amiable enough.

  Indeed, they were singing. He strained his ears and only barely heard the words:

  “With a rink tink tink, for sup or drink,

  we will make the old bell sound.

  A merry Christmas to you all,

  and may happiness abound.”

  The porter smiled despite himself, for he had a fondness for a performance of any kind. He wondered from whence this
group had come, and assumed them to be from the village. They seemed to have appeared from the twist the road made around that distant copse of trees, though there was no destination close enough for walking along that road.

  They must have wandered the long way from the village, the better that their arrival not be anticipated.

  Perhaps the laird had commanded their presence, for he was well-known to be uncommonly pleased this year. His own nuptials would be celebrated on the morrow, hence the bounty on the board this night. Only a man more dim-witted than this porter would suggest that there was aught amiss in a man wedding his brother’s widow, and that within a month of that brother’s demise.

  There was a worse fate. The porter could have been sharing Tivotdale’s dungeon with the priest who had refused to perform the nuptial ceremony on those very grounds.

  Certainly, the approaching company was drunk. They laughed and fell over each other’s feet, tumbling and staggering along the road. One of them had a bell, but the rhythm of its ringing was not steady. Their singing was tuneful, though, and tempted the porter’s foot to tap in time.

  He watched them draw ever nearer, oblivious to all else. Indeed, it was such a quiet night that he already knew there to be naught else to watch. There must have been thirty of them or so, and they were of every height and size. They were a carefree lot, but harmless to be sure. There were several who looked to be maidens, but the porter knew that these must be young boys, in truth.

  Whether he had ordered it or not, the laird would be pleased to savor their entertainment this night. After all, it was an invitation to bad fortune to deny such performers a chance to dance and beg in one’s own abode. The porter was not prepared to court any such fate.

  The company halted a half-dozen paces away and one stepped cockily forward. His face was blacked, probably with soot, as were the faces of all in his company. He wore a length of red cloth wound around his head, as the porter had heard the infidels were wont to do. His boots were mired, though they were uncommonly tall, and his tabard was of myriad colors, with silver bells hanging upon its hem. He carried naught more worrisome than a broom and several wineskins, the contents of which were undoubtedly responsible for the little company’s joyful mood.