Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Beatrice saw that the maidservant’s features had relaxed and were no longer pinched with dread. She smiled at her. ‘Do you understand?’ she asked, kindly.

  ‘Aye,’ Ella said, and rushed into speech. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mistress Beatrice. It was terrible when the baron set me to work. Lady Anne wouldn’t give me any instructions, and there was only this–’ the girl waved at Walter ‘–simpleton who seemed to want to help.’

  Walter sent Beatrice one of his rare, shy smiles.

  ‘And you know how he is,’ Ella finished on a note of scorn.

  ‘I know,’ Beatrice answered softly. The note of panic had been eliminated from the girl’s voice. No matter if that panic had been replaced by scorn. A scornful girl was of more use to Beatrice than a girl whose wits had been paralysed by fear.

  ‘The bandages, Ella,’ Beatrice said firmly. ‘Walter, you must help Ella. Do exactly as she says.’

  This brought a glower from Ella, and she flounced off, shaking her skirts. Walter trailed in her wake.

  Beatrice set to work. Most of the soldiers had superficial wounds. For that mercy she sent up a swift prayer of thanks.

  The knowledge that it was the unprepared Saxons who had born the brunt of the pain needled away at the back of her mind. She tried not to think about the Saxon lodged untended in the chapel. She could not help him yet, but she would find a way. In the meantime, her own countrymen demanded her attention. Her training at the infirmary would stand her in good stead. Despite the numbers needing her skills she would remain as cool and efficient as Sister Agnes.

  ‘Come on, Walter,’ Ella ordered her man as though she’d be born to command. ‘We need more bandages. Tear these up.’

  Beatrice saw Ella send the silent man a puzzled glance, and a small smile crossed her lips. Beatrice had read Ella aright. Once calm, the girl was a stalwart helper. All she had needed was clear instructions.

  ‘Walter’s not really simple is he, mistress?’ Ella asked. ‘He never speaks, but he understands. Look at him. He’s bandaged that man’s leg neater than I could. I was afraid of him, because he never speaks. He’s not dangerous, is he?’

  ‘Dangerous? Walter? Certainly not. I’ve always found him a most gentle man,’ Beatrice replied.

  ‘Was he always like he that?’ Ella’s curiosity was roused. Vigorously the maid ripped more fabric and handed the strips to Beatrice.

  ‘My thanks. No, Ella. I don’t think he can have been. He was brought to Sister Agnes’ infirmary one day with a terrible head wound.’

  ‘Aye. You can’t miss that scar on his temple. The rest of his face is quite handsome. Such a pity.’ Ella cast a sideways look at Walter.

  Beatrice helped herself to another bandage. ‘A young woman came with him to the hospital. We did our best for him. But when the girl learned he could no longer speak, she vanished. They had been betrothed, but she...’ Beatrice hesitated. ‘I suppose she wanted him as he had been before the accident.’

  Ella scrubbed her sleeve furtively across her face. ‘And now he stays with you,’ she said.

  Beatrice took this as a question. ‘For the moment. When my cousin said she needed me for a companion, the prioress thought Walter should accompany me. Mother Adèle would not permit me to leave the convent on my own. Walter is strong, and Mother thought he could protect me until Anne no longer needed me. Then I shall return to the convent.’

  ‘He smiles at you,’ Ella said. ‘No one else but you.’

  ‘I’m the only person from home, Ella. And I think he’s grateful for the care we took of him at the convent. For myself, I’m very glad he came.’

  Ella nodded. ‘Another bandage, mistress?’

  ‘Thank you. Ella, I need fresh water in this bowl.’

  Her spine was prickling. Beatrice twisted her head round. The baron was watching her. He was perched on the edge of the trestle at the far end of the hall, a horn of wine firmly in hand. She didn’t like the way his eyes gleamed across at her.

  She bent over the soldier she was tending, and tried willing the baron to take himself away. The baron did not oblige. Although she did not look his way again, she could still feel his eyes making the hairs rise on the nape of her neck. Her flesh shrank. As if he’s a snake and I’m his next meal, she thought.

  ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’ her patient croaked. A white moon of a face stared up at her, tense with alarm.

  ‘I...I beg your pardon?’

  The soldier indicated the crimson gash on his arm. ‘I won’t lose it, will I, mistress?’

  ‘No, it’s a good, clean wound,’ Beatrice assured him.

  The man let out his breath. ‘Praise the Saints. When I saw you shudder I thought the worst.’

  ‘Your arm is quite safe.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘It will be stiff and sore for a while – you won’t be able to wield your sword for at least a month. But if you keep it clean it will heal beautifully.’

  The Norman soldier had blue eyes. They reminded Beatrice of someone else. Someone who had no one to tend his hurt, and was lying unconscious on a cold stone floor, with his life-blood draining away with every second that passed. Maybe he was dead already. Gripped by a surge of panic, Beatrice battled with an urge to get up and run to the chapel. She reminded herself that Edmund would not be helped if she were to lead de Brionne and his men there. She must be cautious.

  Beatrice had never faced panic like this, and she did not like it. A few minutes’ earlier, she’d been exasperated with Ella for panicking. And now she was doing the same. How many times had Sister Agnes told her never to judge others?

  But what of the Saxon encoffined in the chapel? What could Beatrice do for him? It was not safe to go to his aid. Yet she must do something – and soon...

  Mother Adèle would put her trust in God. Aye, that was what she must do. Have faith in the Lord. He would find a way.

  Beatrice tightened the bandage on the soldier’s arm, but worry still gnawed holes in her mind. The comfort of her faith did not seem to be enough. Her stomach was twisted in a hundred knots. She wanted to run to the chapel...

  ‘Mistress,’ her patient gasped.

  She dragged her attention back to her patient. ‘Aye?’

  ‘That bandage is too tight. It hurts,’ the man said, grimacing.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Beatrice looked askance at her handiwork. The man was right. The bandage was bound round his arm so ill you’d think she was a green novice who’d never treated so much as a sore throat. Murmuring apologies, she unbound the wrappings and started again. She forced her mind to work on the sick man before her and not on the one in the chapel.

  ‘Is that better?’ she asked, the job done at last.

  The Norman nodded. Beatrice stood up and stretched her legs. He had been the last one. But, even so, she could not go to the chapel. Not yet.

  De Brionne was still sitting at the board at the end of the hall, impaling her with his devil’s eyes. He tossed wine down his throat as though it were water. And all the while he stared...

  If only the dagger had stayed out of sight. De Brionne would never have noticed her. She would have remained an insignificant girl from a convent. But the dagger had brought her to his notice, and it did not look as though he was likely to forget. How on earth could she get to the chapel with his gaze boring into her?

  ‘That’s all for now, Ella,’ Beatrice said. ‘Thank you for your help. And you too, Walter. I shall go and wash now. You do the same. We’ve earned a rest.’

  As Beatrice climbed the single flight of stairs, her attitude was deliberately one of weariness. She made her movements slow and pained as though she could barely haul herself up the wooden steps. She hoped her face appeared drawn and exhausted. In truth, she did feel tired. But her mind was still busy, searching frantically for a route that could take her unobserved to the chapel, to tend to the Saxon, Edmund.

  Baron Philip de Brionne’s head turned to follow her halting progress up the stairs. His eyes were narrowed, and the suspicious gl
eam lighting them was thus concealed from view.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Beatrice!’ Anne said pettishly as her cousin entered the chamber. ‘I thought you would never finish. I have missed your company.’

  ‘The time would have passed more quickly, Anne, if you had been down there helping.’ Beatrice was unable to keep the reproof from her voice.

  Anne avoided her cousin’s eyes. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Your gown is filthy. It’s drenched in blood and will have to go. Here, you may have one of mine.’

  Suppressing a sigh, Beatrice plumped down on the bed. Anne flung back the lid of one of her travelling chests and began to scrabble through the contents. If Anne felt guilty at not offering to help, and wanted to atone, that was up to her. All Beatrice wanted was peace so she could work out how she was going to get to the chapel. She might be too late even now.

  ‘This green one will suit you,’ Anne was saying. ‘The dear nuns meant well when they provided you with clothes, but they are all a bit too practical aren’t they? This one is much better.’

  The gown was soft as a dream, and a far cry from the coarser garments the nuns had given her. Beatrice buried her face in the folds of delicate green wool. She smiled. Her cousin may not be the most practical of women, but she did have a generous nature.

  Beatrice fingered the cloth, conscious she had to speak up for the nuns. ‘The convent provided me with the best they had.’

  Anne smiled. ‘I’m sure they did. I’m not decrying their generosity. But this is better for you ... you do like it, don’t you?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Anne asked, pointing at the jewelled dagger.

  ‘It’s Saxon,’ Beatrice said warily.

  ‘It’s beautiful. I’d no idea Saxons were capable of such craftsmanship. They all seem so...so...wild and barbaric. Where did you get it?’

  Beatrice picked her words with care. ‘From Aiden’s...from one of Aiden’s family. It was dropped.’

  ‘Aiden’s dead.’ Anne’s statement was devoid of feeling, and her face was blank.

  ‘Yes, he is. I’m sorry, Anne.’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not!’ Anne clenched her fists.

  ‘Anne!’ Beatrice stared. She was shocked at Anne’s seeming callousness, but she recognised the torment in her cousin’s eyes and understood Anne to be taking refuge behind a hard facade.

  ‘To think my own people would see me wed with the leader of such...such heathens. Why I’ll wager they’re not even Christian!’

  Beatrice’s brow furrowed. Anne’s last remark had not sprung from piety. It was aimed at her. The convent-bred companion was to bear the brunt of Anne’s guilt and anger.

  ‘They are Christian,’ Beatrice said, mildly. ‘Have you not seen their chapel? And apparently there’s a monastery nearby.’

  Anne gave a little grunt. She was not to be mollified and had more to say. ‘Saxon clothes are outlandish; they don’t think to trim either hair or beard; they eat like swine. And as for their language – why, I can’t understand a word of it.’

  ‘You could learn,’ Beatrice pointed out softly. She had already picked up one or two phrases during the short truce that had existed between the two camps.

  Anne scowled and began to stalk up and down. ‘I don’t think so. There’s no logic in their tongue. Besides, Beatrice, remember how violent they are. That fight, for example. You saw it.’

  Beatrice shook her head. She loosened her braids and retrieved her bone comb from a willow basket on the chest by the bed. ‘That fight was the baron’s work. I’m certain those other Normans arrived on his command to stir up trouble. He has no more interest in King William’s plans for peace than you have.

  ‘Anne, stop pacing up and down. Try to relax. Here, you can help me with my hair, it’s tangled beyond my unravelling. I’d be grateful if you could explain to me why you were so happy about coming here if you despise the Saxons so. You knew all along you were to wed one. You have not been deceived. On the way here you seemed so happy. I don’t understand it.’

  Anne snatched the bone comb from her cousin’s hand. ‘Sit up properly,’ she said, gathering up Beatrice’s long tresses. Almost at once the comb caught.

  ‘Ow! Anne, do be careful,’ Beatrice laughed and rubbed her smarting scalp. ‘I can see you’ve not had much practice at playing the lady’s maid.’

  ‘Why should I? I have Ella to help me. I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’ll try to be more gentle,’ Anne bent diligently over her cousin’s bright hair. ‘I was wrong to rant at you,’ she said, slowly. ‘I was upset.’

  ‘I know,’ Beatrice smiled.

  ‘And–’ Anne gave a rueful grin ‘–sometimes you are most provoking. I want to shake you.’

  Beatrice’s heart sank. ‘I’m sorry. Why?’

  Anne hesitated. ‘You’re so...so...righteous. Always so damned Christian.’

  ‘Anne!’

  Anne shrugged. ‘You are, you know. You accept things so meekly, without a murmur. It’s infuriating. Why, when I dragged you away from the convent...’

  Beatrice remembered her confrontation with the prioress, but held her tongue on that matter. ‘You didn’t drag me. I came willingly enough in the end.’

  ‘Did you? Maybe so. But if I hadn’t asked for you to accompany me to England, you have stayed on at the convent willingly enough too. You’d have let them make a nun of you.’

  ‘I still have plans for–’

  ‘Yes, I know about your plans for taking up the veil,’ Anne interrupted irritably, jerking the comb so hard on a knot that tears pricked in Beatrice’s eyes. Silently Beatrice peered round to survey the damage Anne was wreaking in her hair. The knot was now twisted so tight it would take an age to remove.

  Anne hadn’t noticed. ‘But I dare say if your precious Mother Adèle asked you to marry a Saxon, you’d do so just as willingly,’ she said.

  Beatrice felt her colour rise. ‘M...marry a Saxon,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do,’ Anne went on. ‘You’d sacrifice yourself quite happily in the cause of unity or peace, or some such high-minded drivel. You’re a dreamer, Beatrice. Let me give you a piece of advice. One day you’ll wake up to find you actually have a mind of your own. With thoughts and feelings of your own. Not just the ones the nuns have lent you. Their ideas suit you as badly as their clothes. Life is not so starkly simple outside the convent gates; there’s more than right and wrong, there are shades in between. Your good sisters do not have all the answers. Sometimes faith is not enough.’

  Remembering how prayer had seemed to fail her for the first time that very day, Beatrice bit her lip. Her faith had never been tested till today. She didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘Anne, don’t.’ Beatrice pulled the comb from her cousin’s clumsy hands. Whether she was referring to Anne’s rough ministrations or her cynicism, she could not have said.

  ‘I’m glad there’s no Saxon groom for me!’ Anne’s voice was defiant, and her eyes challenging. When no reaction was forthcoming, she spread her hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘See what a monster you have for a cousin, Beatrice. Will you still be my friend?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’ve been unnerved by all this. We all have. Of course I’ll be your friend.’

  Anne cracked out a bitter laugh which scored deep lines around her mouth and made her voice harsh. ‘Oh, Beatrice. You always see the best in people. You’re hopeless.’

  Anne’s mood could change as unexpectedly as April weather. It did so now. Her face relaxed. Her voice lightened. ‘Ooh, I know,’ she announced. ‘I’ve just the belt for that gown. Your old one is all wrong with it. Come to think of it, it would be wrong with almost anything. Did it do duty tying up sacks before you laid hands on it? Look, I’ve veil you can have as well. Do you like it? I bought it from a pedlar in Normandy before we left, and it’s not a colour I favour. I must have had you in mind.’

  Smiling, Beatrice accepted the gifts, realising these gestures were he
r cousin’s way of making amends for her cutting tongue. For all Lady Anne’s surface sophistication, she was oddly transparent. Beatrice warmed to her.

  She hung the Saxon dagger at her waist and adjusted her new veil and circlet.

  ‘Every inch the beautiful Norman lady,’ Anne said, approvingly.

  Beatrice bit her lip.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased?’ Anne asked.

  ‘How could I not be?’ Beatrice replied. ‘My thanks, Anne. These clothes are much finer than my old ones.’

  ‘It’s nothing. We can’t have you walking around in rags. You’d be indistinguishable from the Saxons.’

  Beatrice drew her brows together.

  Anne laughed. ‘If you’re going to look as sour as a nun on a fast, cousin, you can stay here on your own. I’ll find more entertaining company. Have you seen the baron?’

  ‘He was in the hall when I last saw him.’

  ‘You’re not coming down?’ Anne asked, straightening her veil.

  ‘Not yet. I’m rather tired. I’ll see you at supper. Always supposing that someone has had the forethought to leave a Saxon alive to cook it,’ she said with a touch of dryness.

  Anne grinned back from the door. ‘So you do have a sense of humour. I’d begun to wonder.’ Waving airily, she floated out of the chamber in a swirl of scented skirts.

  Beatrice could hardly believe her luck. With Anne distracting the baron, she might have long enough to get across to the chapel and see to the Saxon’s wounds. She could not have planned it better if she’d tried.

  It took a few minutes to comb out the bird’s nest Anne had made of her hair. She did not hurry. It might take awhile for Anne to engage the baron’s attention. When she’d finished with her hair, she rose and fastened her thick cloak about her shoulders. She intended to hide the roll of medicines beneath it.

  She prayed that the baron would not see her. But if he did he would not think it strange to see her venture abroad in her heaviest cloak. It was an exceptionally bitter January. And if anyone should chance to catch a glimpse of her and accost her, she’d simply say she needed to clear her head after working all afternoon tending the sick.