Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Notwithstanding all these assurances, cold perspiration trickled down her back as she made her way down the stairs. Neither Anne nor the baron were in sight. The men on the pallets mumbled and shuffled but they were as comfortable as could be expected. Her shoes were of soft leather so they made no sound to draw curious eyes her way. She headed for the door.

  ‘Mistress,’ a voice croaked up at her, and she started.

  ‘Aye, what is it?’ Her heart was hammering like a drum.

  ‘Some ale, mistress. Please,’ the wounded man pleaded.

  The pitcher was back there on the trestle. Beatrice cursed the delay. The longer she remained in the hall, the more likely it was that Philip de Brionne would return. Her fingers closed over the vessel. It was heavy in her hands. Someone snatched it from her and her startled eyes met Walter’s.

  ‘Walter!’ Relief flooded through her. ‘You gave me such a fright.’

  Walter bent over the man on the pallet, offering him a draught.

  ‘My thanks, Walter,’ Beatrice said. ‘Please give the others some if they need it. I’ll be back soon.’

  Patting Walter on the arm, Beatrice gathered her roll of medicines and fled from the hall, pausing on the threshold only long enough to check that her route to the chapel was clear.

  ***

  There was no sound in the chapel. It was as quiet and as cold as a tomb. Shivering, Beatrice fastened the door. She drew her cloak closer about her slender body. Outside the sun was low in the sky, and ghostly shadows stretched out across the stone flags.

  Had he died here, then, that it was so silent? Please, please don’t let him be dead. Beatrice ran round the altar to the chancel where the last shreds of sunlight shone brightest on the grey floor. She flung back the richly embroidered cloth.

  ‘I’ve come back to help you,’ she whispered. She tensed herself, half expecting a hand to shoot out and grasp her. But Edmund did not move. The Saxon lay where she had left him, inert. All pain and hatred had gone from his face, there was only a breath-stopping, unnatural stillness about the chalk-white features.

  Her lips moved in supplication. Edmund’s skin felt clammy, but it was warm. Gently, she shifted the dark head to search for the pulse at his throat. For one horrible moment she couldn’t find it, and thought she had returned too late. Then she felt it. Faint, but steady enough. She breathed again and set to work.

  A stained pad covered the wound on his shoulder. Quickly she peeled it away, noting absently that the fabric, which was a richly decorated silk, had certainly not been intended for anything as humble as a bandage. The gold embroidery was dyed with blood. Beatrice shuddered, and forced her attention back to the wound. It was easier to deal with the injury itself. The gore on the silk finery was a poignant reminder of the futility of violence.

  Edmund’s wound had stopped bleeding, but it was going to be difficult to clean. The clotting blood had caused the tunic to stick to the wound and it would all have to be eased gently away. She sighed. No doubt the wound would reopen, but it had to be done lest infection set in. He’d lain neglected long enough.

  With expert hands, Beatrice ran her hands down his quiescent body, feeling for broken bones or any other sign of damage as Sister Agnes had taught her. The convent was a world away, but Beatrice was grateful for the long hours she had spent with Sister Agnes. She found a small gash on one well-muscled thigh, but it could wait.

  Unclasping her cloak, she flung it over Edmund, leaving only the damaged shoulder uncovered.

  ‘Water, I need water,’ she mumbled to herself. Taking the bowl from her pack, she rose and filled it with holy water from the piscina. God would not object to her using His water for healing. Sister Agnes had told her often enough that her healing skills were to be available to all men, irrespective of race, creed or birth. It would never have occurred to Beatrice to dispute this. Baron de Brionne’s iniquitous behaviour made her blush to be a Norman too. It weighed heavily on her soul. If she saved this Saxon warrior, she would have redressed the balance a little, at least. She could not let him die.

  Cleansing the wound took much time and patience. First she must soak and then gently peel back the ruined tunic. At last she had finished, and the wound was bleeding as she had expected, but sluggishly. It had to be bound at once. She drew the Saxon’s dagger from her belt, intending to cut off the remains of his damaged tunic in order to bind him securely. The fabric had started to part under the blade when Beatrice noticed the Saxon’s breathing pattern had altered subtly.

  He was watching her, a confused expression in his dazed blue eyes. Weakly he raised a hand to clutch at her forearm as though he would fend her off.

  ‘Am I to die then?’ he rasped. ‘Do Norman maids kill helpless men?’ His eyes dropped to the dagger. ‘And with my own blade too.’ He winced.

  Firmly Beatrice removed his hand and smiled at him, shaking her head. She could not read his expression clearly in the gloomy chancel, nor could she tell if he could read hers.

  ‘Hush, you must be quiet,’ she whispered. ‘If de Brionne learns you’re here, I cannot say what he may do.’

  ‘My shoulder...’ His quiet groan was like the wind sighing through leafless trees.

  ‘No, don’t touch it,’ Beatrice spoke gently. ‘I’ve just cleaned it, and you would undo all my good work. Let me finish and bind it for you.’

  ‘You must be a rare jewel among your people,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘Gentle of touch and voice.’

  He spoke so low that Beatrice had to bend to hear him. She touched his lips with her forefinger. ‘Hush.’ She finished cutting the tunic and eased it away, conscious of the puzzled eyes watching her every movement. She was glad when she had finished, for her normally deft fingers were suddenly clumsy under that unwavering stare. ‘There! Now all you have to do is keep still and quiet.’

  Edmund made a movement as if to sit up. She put her hand to his chest and pushed him back as firmly as she dared.

  ‘I cannot stay here,’ he said, subsiding weakly under the pressure of her hand. His voice was dry as dust.

  ‘You’re too weak to go anywhere,’ she insisted. ‘And the mood out there is distinctly anti-Saxon. You must regain your strength before you move.’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Wait a moment. I’ll fetch some water.’

  As she rinsed and refilled the bowl at the piscina by the door, the squeak of unoiled hinges set an alarm bell clamouring through her mind. The door was swinging wide. She had shut it fast...

  Heart pounding, Beatrice peered through the crack in the door. But no danger lurked in the twilit compound. There was only Walter, lounging in the hall doorway, and a lone pig rooting ever-hopeful in barren ground. There was no trace of either her cousin or the baron.

  Frowning, Beatrice closed the door. She rattled it to test the catch. The latch held fast. It was strong enough to withstand a winter gale. It could not have swung open on its own. Anxiety stirred within her.

  ‘Your water.’ She eased Edmund’s head on to her lap to enable him to drink. Dark lashes, unusually long for a man, stood out against the pallor of his face. His features were strong and finely drawn – Roman nose, well-shaped lips. Not the brutish barbarian of Anne’s imaginings, though his long hair did give him a pagan look, at least to convent-bred eyes.

  He was helpless now, weak from loss of blood. His lean limbs sprawled out across the floor, all strength drained from them with his blood. He was dependent on her. His life was in her hands. With a pang in her breast, she remembered the strong, upstanding warrior who had greeted her when they had arrived. Now she cradled that proud head in her arms. He was as white as bleached linen.

  How greedily he drank. She cleared her throat and chided, ‘Not too much, Edmund.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You mustn’t drink too much.’ She attempted to remove the bowl, but slender fingers tightened on hers with a hint of their former strength and he continued gulping down the liquid as though it were the very stuff of li
fe.

  ‘Stop it. You’ll be sick.’ Beatrice wrenched the bowl from his grasp and the water slopped out across the stone slabs.

  ‘You’re very fierce,’ Edmund grinned. His eyes were alight with mockery.

  Beatrice smiled, suddenly shy.

  ‘I wish I could see you properly,’ he said softly. ‘It is too dark. Your hair shines, but I can’t see your eyes. I seem to recall they’re green...’

  Caught off guard, Beatrice felt her cheeks flood with warmth. ‘I’m told they’re hazel,’ she mumbled, glad that the twilight hid her confusion.

  A silence fell, during which time Beatrice realised that Edmund’s head still rested comfortably in her arms. He had made no attempt to move away, and was studying her with as much attention as she had earlier studied him. A dark lock of hair fell across one eye. Unthinking, Beatrice smoothed it from his face. A dark brow arched upwards. Hastily, she snatched her hand from his hair.

  She must speak to cover her confusion. ‘Edmund?’

  ‘Mistress Beatrice?’ His voice was mocking.

  ‘You...you don’t look like a barbarian to me,’ she stammered the first thing that entered her head, and no sooner had she said it than she cursed her tactless tongue.

  ‘Do I not? And who told you that I was? De Brionne I suppose,’ he said, mildly enough.

  She relaxed. He had not taken it amiss. ‘No, it was my cousin Anne. She fears all your race as unholy barbarians. The baron said that Saxons have no sense of loyalty. No honour.’

  Edmund’s face darkened. ‘I’d expect such a comment from that faithless scavenger, but I’d hoped for better from my brother’s betrothed.’ He gave a choking cough and flinched, screwing up his eyes in pain.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Beatrice said. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking to you like this. You should be resting, not getting angry.’

  ‘No,’ Edmund spoke with his eyes closed. There was a white line about his lips. ‘Talk. It takes my mind off my shoulder. Tell me, Mistress Beatrice, what do you think? Am I a...what was it...a barbarian?’

  ‘Of course not. Your clothes are styled somewhat differently to ours, but that’s not to say they’re barbaric. They’re different, that’s all. The cloth is good, the embroideries are pretty and neatly done.’

  Beatrice chattered nonsense, knowing Edmund was too busy fighting the pain to be listening. If it helped him to have her babble she would not deny him. There was little enough she could do for him. This day he had seen his brother killed. His home had been torn apart, and his people scattered to the four winds. Gradually the lines of pain on his face eased.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. Beatrice floundered.

  ‘Go on. Don’t stop,’ he attempted a smile.

  ‘It was only idle talk. I was saying how you wear your hair longer than a Norman would. I daresay when it’s clean it could be quite attractive.’ She risked an impish grin.

  ‘My thanks, fair maid,’ he said dryly. And then he shut his eyes again with a sharp intake of breath. His hands were clenched into fists.

  ‘M...more water?’

  He shook his head and grimaced. ‘Talk to me. Just talk.’

  Beatrice nodded. ‘When I found you earlier, you terrified me. I thought maybe all the tales we were told about Anglo-Saxons were true. I’d never believed it till then. But you seemed so desperate, I was sure you would kill me.’

  ‘And now?’ Edmund asked softly.

  ‘Now I...I know you won’t hurt me. I know you are not barbaric. My cousin and the baron are both wrong.’

  Edmund unclenched his fist and reached for a dangling braid. Slowly he wound it round his fingers.

  ‘What of the baron?’ he asked, casually.

  ‘He’s hateful, I...’ She broke off as pain flickered across his drawn features. His fingers were very white on her braid and she put her hand on his in a spontaneous gesture of comfort.

  ‘Is...is it very bad?’ she heard herself ask, stupidly. Of course it was bad, it must be agony. He had a tear in his shoulder the size of her fist, and she asked him if it hurt.

  ‘Aye,’ he admitted. ‘But my leg’s paining me too.’ His grin was apologetic.

  ‘Your leg! Sweet Mother, I had forgot. My apologies, I was so concerned about your shoulder that it slipped my mind. It’s only a scratch, but I’ll dress it for you.’

  Beatrice folded the now tattered tunic into a pad and placed on it the stone flags for a pillow.

  ‘The floor is very uneven here. You chose a funny place to hide,’ she remarked, easing his long length to a smoother stone. His eyes were screwed shut, and perspiration beaded his brow. His fingers still clutched at her braid. She prised it free, guessing he was near fainting.

  ‘When I’ve finished bandaging this, I shall have to leave you,’ she told him.

  A groan of protest slid from his lips.

  ‘I’ll leave you with water. And I’ll try and return tonight. It’s not easy, for the baron hovers around me like a hawk. I can’t risk him finding out you’re here. I shall leave you your dagger, so you won’t be unarmed in case...in case...’ She left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘No!’ He spoke so loudly that Beatrice started. He was struggling to rise. ‘Keep the dagger. De Brionne expects you to have it. He will notice its absence if you leave it with me. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll keep your dagger, but only if you will be still, and rest.’

  He subsided with a sigh.

  The door latch rattled.

  Beatrice jerked her head up and stared wide-eyed with horror at the door. Her limbs froze along with her wits.

  Not so Edmund’s. ‘Get in here! Quickly!’ he hissed, and before she had time to protest she found herself lying in Edmund’s arms, held close in the small space. The altar cloth was pulled into place. It veiled them both from sight.

  It was very dark in the confined space. Beatrice found her face pressed to the Saxon’s bandaged chest. Her heart thumped at her ribs. She was afraid. But she was not afraid of him – not the Saxon. She was afraid for him. Afraid that if it was the baron outside... She shuddered and pressed herself closer to Edmund’s side, taking care to avoid his injury.

  The man she feared most was Norman, not Saxon. Edmund did not fill her with revulsion. He felt very cold. She burrowed closer, wanting to warm him. She could feel his heart beneath her cheek, fast and uncertain. She was aware of a pleasant masculine scent. She ached to help him, to comfort him. Then a flush scorched across her cheekbones. If he were well, she would never let him hold her thus...

  Quick footsteps sounded in the chapel, coming nearer to the altar.

  ‘You think she’s in here, do you, Walter?’

  At the sound of that detested voice, every muscle in Beatrice’s body went rigid. She could barely draw breath. She felt Edmund’s hand move to rest on her head, holding her secure.

  ‘Idiot!’ De Brionne’s rough tones again. ‘She’s not in here. Come on, you dribbling half-wit.’

  Beatrice heard a heavy sigh.

  ‘God only knows why you were brought along with us,’ the baron declared, speaking slowly as one would to a deaf child. ‘I want you to find Beatrice for me. Move, oaf! Find Beatrice. Christ, someone should have put you out of your misery years ago.’

  There was a soft thud, and Beatrice visualised Walter being kicked by the Norman as clearly as though her eyes had pierced through the fabric of the altar cloth. The door slammed, and all went quiet.

  Edmund let out his breath and his hold on Beatrice relaxed.

  ‘You’re cold,’ she whispered, not moving away.

  ‘Stay and warm me then,’ he suggested huskily.

  With a jerk Beatrice pulled herself away. Edmund gave a scornful snort.

  ‘A Norman lady docile in an Anglo-Saxon’s arms. A rare moment. I shall have to treasure it.’

  Beatrice tore her gaze from him and shakily began to gather up her medicines. They’d been strewn all over in their haste to hide.

  �
�I have never held a Norman maid till now,’ Edmund told her, watching her expression, his own guarded.

  Beatrice stuffed a jar of ointment back into her bundle. ‘And I was never in any man’s arms till now.’ The telltale words slipped out before she had time to snatch them back. She could have groaned aloud.

  An insistent tug on her plait drew her face round, and forced her to meet those searching blue eyes.

  ‘Never been in any man’s arms? A pretty maid like you. Now I know for certain that the Normans are mad,’ Edmund declared.

  Goaded by what she took for mocking disbelief, Beatrice tried to toss her head, but the captured braid had her anchored fast. ‘I have lived a cloistered life. I have no knowledge of Saxon convents, but in Normandy there are not too many men in them. At least none who would...’ She struggled in vain to free her hair.

  ‘Brought up by nuns,’ Edmund said thoughtfully. ‘I thought de Brionne was jesting. Were you?’

  ‘Aye. After my mother died. I stayed on. There was nowhere else for me to go. Edmund, please release me.’

  Her plea was ignored. ‘Tell me, Mistress Beatrice who-has-never-been-held-by-a-man, have you ever been kissed?’

  Beatrice made a choking sound and managed at last to look away. She burned all over.

  Edmund had not finished tormenting her. ‘Because if you have not, I would like to remedy that omission,’ he announced coolly.

  She shot him a swift glance.

  ‘Why?’ she whispered.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, that lout de Brionne is hot on your trail, and if I do not kiss you, he certainly will. I find that that thought does not please me. I do not think him a man to consider an innocent maid’s feelings overmuch. You go pale at the merest mention of his name. Do you want him to be the first to kiss you?’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘But that doesn’t mean...’

  Edmund smiled. He had a beautiful mouth.

  ‘I remember the day you first arrived. You did not like him then. Your slender fingers have a powerful grip. You clung to me, a stranger, in preference to him. And remember, Beatrice, I heard your conversation with him earlier this afternoon.’