Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Someone moaned and tossed restlessly in his sleep. The sound nudged her out into the night. She shut the hall door, and scurried across the frost-silvered yard like a mouse with the owl’s screech ringing a death-knell in its ears.

  ***

  ‘It’s only me,’ she spoke into the dark and silent chapel. ‘I’ve brought food and blankets.’

  Opening the shutter of the lantern, Beatrice took her bundle round to the back of the altar and hooked up the cloth.

  Edmund gazed up at her. His set face looked past her to peer into the darkness beyond the small pool of light.

  ‘What is it?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘You’re alone?’ he asked, voice tight.

  ‘I would not betray you!’

  ‘Would you not?’ His question came softly at her through the gloom.

  ‘No, I would not. Even though as a Saxon you’d probably kill me given half the chance.’

  ‘I? Kill you?’ He smiled and held out a hand for hers.

  Beatrice ignored his hand and fiddled with the lantern-catch.

  ‘No,’ she muttered, ‘you probably won’t bother to kill me. You consider me a...a harlot. People don’t generally kill such women. You think you have bought my help for you and this Hilda with your sweetest kisses. I am not deceived.’

  ‘Were they sweet?’ His eyes were teasing.

  ‘What?’ Beatrice glared at him.

  ‘My kisses, were they truly sweet?’ Beatrice didn’t reply, and Edmund continued with a hint of laughter in his voice. ‘Is that why you are angry, Mistress Beatrice? Because they were sweet?’

  His hand covered hers and he stilled her restless fingers with his. She felt her hand grow warm. It tingled. She felt every small, caressing movement his fingers made and nothing else.

  ‘When you left in such haste, I thought that maybe you did not find my kisses so pleasing,’ he told her, and pulled her gently towards him. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  Beatrice found herself actually bending her head to his. Not resisting at all. A small voice inside her insisted that she should not be doing this, but she turned a deaf ear on it and allowed Edmund to bring her close.

  This kiss was as gentle and searching as his other kisses had been. Beatrice felt a fierce longing sweep through her. Her loins melted. She raised a trembling hand and touched his cheek. Her lips softened, she kissed him back, and slid her arms around his neck. And all the while the little voice nagged in her brain – condemned her for responding. She was wrong. She was a fool. She would regret this. She held him closer.

  Edmund groaned. At once Beatrice pulled free.

  ‘There’s no need to cripple yourself to get me to help you. I’ve already promised my assistance,’ she said sharply, and turned to delve in her pack for the tunic she’d found him. ‘Here, take this.’ Edmund made as if to speak, but she swept on. ‘Here’s a sword I picked up for you. It won’t be missed. It’s from one of your men.’ She avoided his eyes. ‘He won’t be needing it any more.’

  Edmund scowled at her from under dark brows. Probably it was her tactless mention of his bondman. She rattled on, regardless. ‘And here’s some food. It’s all I could smuggle out without raising suspicions–’

  ‘Why are you babbling like this? Beatrice, look at me!’ Edmund broke in roughly.

  But Beatrice found she could not look at him. Instead she thrust the loaf in his hands.

  ‘Eat. It’s good Saxon bread, you should find it to your taste,’ she muttered.

  She fussed and bustled around him, determined to ignore his air of perplexity. It was easier than she thought, despite the fact that his air of bemused injury was so convincing. It was almost as if he really cared. But she knew this was not so. He cared for another, and she would not give him a chance to speak. She did not want him to have to lie to her. Best that he say nothing, best that he did not have to use deceit on her. That way she could at least pretend...

  She caught herself wondering what it would be like to be loved by such a man. Then she pulled herself up sharply. She must not allow her thoughts to run away with her. He was a cunning, clever man and all he wanted from Beatrice was her help for this Hilda of his. He was wounded and the only road open to him was the one she had unwittingly offered him. He had to try and charm her to his will. Her eyes ran over his pale features, the bandaged shoulder. He was in no position to force her to help him.

  The loaf that Edmund was chewing looked small, not large enough to satisfy that long warrior’s body of his.

  She bit her lip. ‘I’ll return at dawn with more. That was all I could lay my hands on.’ She edged away and sat back on her heels. She felt safer watching him from a distance.

  ‘My appetite is small today. There’s no need for you to worry about me,’ Edmund said coolly.

  ‘I won’t,’ she lied.

  His face was thrown into relief by the light from the lantern. It could have been carved from chalk. An ugly spasm contorted the clean lines of his features and Beatrice winced in sympathy. A small grunt dropped from his lips. He shifted on the floor.

  She was at his side in an instant. Her fingers gently touched his brow, there was no trace of rising fever. ‘Is the pain no better?’ she asked. ‘It should be easing by now. I could brew up an infusion of herbs to speed the healing. It’s chancy, I might be seen entering the cookhouse, but it’s worth the risk if your need is sore.’

  ‘Why, Mistress Beatrice, you do care,’ Edmund grinned up at her, his tone light and bantering.

  ‘You...monster! You did that on purpose, to trick me. You’re not hurting at all.’

  Angrily, she made as if to retreat, but long fingers clamped round her wrist, and she dared not struggle for fear of causing him further pain.

  ‘In truth, I am in some discomfort,’ he said, ‘but honesty compels me to admit I exaggerated it to bring you close again.’ His shameless smile reached out to her through the dim light.

  ‘Pig! Saxon pig! Let me go!’

  ‘I’m not holding you tightly, Mistress Beatrice. You can free yourself at any time you wish.’

  To her shame, Beatrice discovered he was speaking the truth. His fingers still curled around her wrist, but gently, and his thumb had slipped to caress her palm. Little shafts of delicious sensation went rushing up her arm. She fought to ignore them. She glared at him, and snatched her hand away, her lips preparing an angry retort.

  It was never uttered. Just then the chapel door latch rattled. Someone was coming...

  When Baron Philip de Brionne sauntered into the chapel moments later, he found Lady Anne’s companion prostrate before the altar. A small lantern glowed feebly at her side.

  ‘Well now, pretty one,’ said the baron. ‘What have we here? Doing penance for your thievery, or rather I should say for your recent acquisition?’

  Beatrice scrambled to her knees, swallowing down a curse that would have stripped Mother Adèle’s face of all colour. The baron of all people! It would have been better if it had been Father Ralph come to say his evening office. He would have been easier to deal with, but the baron...

  ‘Do get up,’ de Brionne drawled unpleasantly. ‘Much as I enjoy the sight of a woman on her knees at my feet, that floor must be damnably cold, and hard.’ He grabbed her upper arms with fingers that felt like iron hooks, and forced her to her feet.

  ‘Thank you, Baron,’ she murmured, not liking the gleam in his eyes. She tried to back away. The hooks sunk deeper into her flesh.

  ‘I can think of a penance that’s more suitable for you than spending the night alone in a cold chapel.’ With sick horror Beatrice realised he intended her to kiss him. As he bent his head, Beatrice averted her face. Her stomach turned.

  She could feel cold lips on her neck and ruthlessly repressed a shudder. The baron grasped her so tightly there was no hope of escaping. Though her brain urged flight, she did not struggle. It took a tremendous effort of will, but she knew she must not anger him.

  A single thought whirled in her brain
. Fighting revulsion, she clung on to it. She must distract him. Get de Brionne out of here. She must use cunning.

  ‘Please, my lord, I beg you, do not.’ Her voice wobbled, despite her brave intentions. There was no time to wonder whether she was more terrified for herself, or for the hidden Saxon. But if he should be discovered...

  ‘It’s no use whining, my pretty. It’s time you paid in full, for the dagger I let you keep.’

  The baron shifted his hold and brought Beatrice closer. His mailcoat bruised her from breast to knee. He twisted her chin round to meet him. His kiss was brutal, and very thorough. The Norman made no attempt to read the signals given out by the unresponsive body in his arms. He made no concessions to her youth or inexperience.

  Beatrice had resolved that passive submission was her best move. But she had not been armed for such a vicious onslaught. She jerked back, but try as she might, she could not escape.

  Intent only on satisfying his own desires, the baron ground her lips under his. When at last he lifted his head, Beatrice succeeded in tearing herself from him. She backed away, until she felt the altar stone chill against the small of her back. Glaring at him, she scrubbed her hand frantically across her mouth. She felt sick. Dirty. Soiled by his touch.

  Edmund’s kisses had been beautiful. They warmed her to her soul’s core. The baron’s made her shrivel up inside. Like slow death.

  ‘You, you...’ She struggled for a word strong enough to express her revulsion.

  The Norman’s cruel laugh vibrated round the stone walls. He took a pace towards her.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Go and find someone who is willing!’

  She could not bear him pawing her again, but she knew this could have only one ending. The baron had the strength of ten devils and she was powerless against him.

  Relentless as the incoming tide, the baron advanced. He was taking his time, playing with her as a fisherman plays with a fish hooked on his line, enjoying her discomfort, even prolonging it...

  ‘You’re not meant to take pleasure in a penance, you know,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be a penance if you did. Besides, I like women with a bit of fight in them. It adds spice to the proceedings.’ His teeth gleamed yellow like a wolf’s.

  ‘Keep away!’ Beatrice put up her hands to ward him off.

  ‘I think not.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘Come here, my sweet.’

  Beatrice closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘You’ll have to force me. I’ll never kiss you willingly. Never!’ Her voice cracked.

  With narrowed eyes, the baron closed the space between them. He dug his fingers into her scalp and forced her head round.

  Tears of impotent rage shone in her hazel eyes. The cold altar bit into her back and de Brionne’s hard mailshirt worried at her chest. She was trapped. Again the Norman lowered his hard mouth down on hers. A sour stench filled her nostrils, and she gagged.

  Suddenly, she was released. She gripped the edge of the stone table for support, blinking to clear away the tears.

  Impossibly, Edmund was confronting the baron. He was ashen-faced and swaying on his feet.

  ‘No!’ she burst out on a note of despair. The sword she had given the Saxon hung limply in his right hand. It was obvious he was in no condition to wield it, and equally obvious he was determined to try.

  De Brionne looked from Edmund to Beatrice and back to Edmund, a half-smile twisting his face. ‘So,’ he breathed softly, ‘the noble bastard. How can we serve you, my lord?’ De Brionne sketched a bow, his eyes never leaving Edmund’s face. His scornful tone belied his courteous words, for his hand was already at the hilt of his sword, easing it from its scabbard.

  ‘This is a place of sanctuary!’ Beatrice got out. She took a tentative step towards the Saxon, intending to steady him, but the black and furious look that Edmund threw at her stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘Aye, this is a place of God,’ de Brionne’s lip curled. ‘A trysting place for thieves and skulking bastards!’ His face was ugly. ‘I think I shall act as His instrument and send you to meet Him a little early–’

  ‘No!’ Beatrice flung herself between the two men, and boldly faced de Brionne.

  ‘You dare to defy me?’ the baron asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. ‘Out of my way, wench!’

  ‘No! This is sanctified ground.’

  ‘I’m quite willing to kill him outside if that would please you better, my pretty. I can be accommodating at times,’ de Brionne said coldly.

  ‘No, my lord. Be merciful. Please.’ Beatrice searched in vain for pity in the Norman’s implacable eyes and, seeing only a grisly blood-lust, groaned aloud. ‘There must be something that will persuade you.’ Her innards had turned to water.

  ‘Nay, my pretty, there’s nothing will sway me. I would rid the land once and for all these Saxon leeches who would steal back what we have won from them in battle.’ The baron let his eyes run down her body and back to her face. His expression changed, and lust of a different sort distorted the hateful visage. ‘But perhaps, my pretty, you might try to persuade me...’

  Beatrice gulped, his meaning was perfectly clear. She could not meet his eyes, but she heard herself agree. ‘Aye, anything.’

  ‘I need no Norman bitch to intercede on my behalf.’ Edmund sneered, thrusting her roughly aside. He lurched towards the Norman.

  Beatrice gasped. Edmund’s words cut her like a dagger thrust to the heart. In the fitful lantern light she saw his colour had risen, his warrior’s instincts thoroughly roused. By rights, he should be lying defenceless on his sickbed, but he looked far from helpless. The sword was firm in his grasp, his legs braced slightly apart.

  De Brionne’s sword, too, was up. The two men eyed each other balefully, their faces masks of pure hatred.

  ‘My sons!’ The calm voice of Father Ralph took them all by surprise.

  In other circumstances Beatrice might have laughed at the way the two warriors jerked round to see the priest standing in the doorway. Guilt and disappointment were stamped across both their faces in equal measure. Instinct told her that they were eager to settle old scores and neither was pleased the priest had interrupted them.

  ‘Father! Thank heaven, you’re here.’ Beatrice scrambled to pull the priest further into the chapel. ‘Make them see sense. They should not fight! This is no place for quarrels.’

  ‘Quarrels!’ Edmund burst out bitterly. ‘This treacherous knave slew my brother in cold blood, and you call it a quarrel!’ He spat on the floor by the baron’s feet.

  ‘You see, Father,’ de Brionne said silkily, ‘what a difficult task we have persuading these Saxons to live in peace with their neighbours.’

  ‘Not neighbours – invaders!’ Edmund growled.

  ‘Did you mean to kill his brother?’ Beatrice whirled on the Norman.

  ‘Oh, self-defence only. Rest assured, my pretty,’ came the glib response.

  ‘You lie!’ Edmund ground out through clenched teeth. ‘You butchered him in cold blood.’ His sword moved.

  ‘Come, come. We are all brothers in the eyes of God.’ Father Ralph said hastily. He looked at Edmund. ‘You, put up your sword.’ The Saxon glowered back at him and did not move. ‘And you, my lord,’ Father Ralph caught the Norman’s eye, ‘give us your oath that you will grant this man sanctuary.’

  ‘De Brionne has no right here in the first place!’ Edmund said. ‘How can he have the right to grant me sanctuary? I do not recognise his authority here. These are Saxon lands.’ He gripped his sword.

  ‘But I do have the right. By force of arms. You must agree my men are in control here. Where now are yours?’ de Brionne drawled with studied insolence.

  A muscle twitched in Edmund’s cheek. ‘You Normans are so civilised.’ His voice was cold. ‘You must excuse my imperfect barbarian understanding. I had forgotten how your society operates. Might is right, and the Devil take the weak and the innocent.’ He glanced at Beatrice. ‘Brute force wins the day.’

  De Brionne leaped forwards, sword poise
d to strike, but Father Ralph darted between them with astonishing agility.

  ‘Baron, you will swear to abide by the conventions of sanctuary,’ the priest declared firmly.

  De Brionne sighed. ‘Very well, priest. I swear it.’

  ‘Swear on the cross of Our Saviour,’ the priest insisted.

  ‘What?’ De Brionne’s hesitation was momentary, but Beatrice saw it.

  ‘Well?’ pressed Father Ralph.

  De Brionne strode to the wooden altar, picked up the cross and swung it aloft. ‘I swear on the cross of Our Lord to respect the sanctity of this place.’ With careless irreverence, he dropped the cross back on to the altar.

  Father Ralph flinched, but he was satisfied with the baron’s words. He nodded and repositioned the cross, genuflecting deeply.

  Beatrice perceived the loophole. She opened her mouth to insist de Brionne should swear not to harm Edmund wherever he was, sanctuary or not.

  The baron forestalled her. ‘Father, it is late for ladies to be abroad.’ De Brionne smiled blandly. ‘Mistress Beatrice should be safe abed.’

  ‘I agree, my son. Please escort her to her chamber. I will remain here and keep our Saxon friend company.’

  The baron’s iron hand crushed her elbow and he towed her towards the door.

  Edmund had dropped his guard, his sword pointed at the floor. Blue eyes followed her progress. His face was impassive, his lips tightly compressed. He didn’t even have a smile for her. The lamp cast strange shadows across his pallid features and she could detect no warmth at all in that unwavering stare. He looked on her as one would look on an enemy.

  ***

  The baron escorted Beatrice every step of the way to the upper chamber. He threw a parting shot through the doorway. ‘I will collect my dues from you at some later date. Sleep well, my pretty.’