Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Beatrice squeezed her cousin’s arm. ‘I know that now. At the time I thought him a soulless monster. Murder is no less a mortal sin, of course, but at least I can understand his motives.’

  Anne gave a strained laugh. ‘Don’t deceive yourself about Philip, Beatrice. He is still a ruthless and ambitious man. He craves power. Don’t allow yourself to think otherwise, simply because you know about his relationship with me.’

  Beatrice remembered the helpless Saxon youth despatched with such mechanical efficiency. She stared at her cousin. ‘How can you care for him when he’s so...’ she floundered to a halt.

  Anne sent her a straight look and shrugged prettily. ‘It just happened. I’d been married to Charles de Montreuil for three years when Baron Philip de Brionne came to visit. Charles was Philip’s uncle and his elder by many years. By comparison with my husband, Philip was young and strong. He spoke kindly to me. I was lonely. De Montreuil never gave me any attention. We had nothing in common. All he wanted me for was...’ Anne stopped and stared blindly into the flames. ‘All he wanted was to beget an heir. I could not give him the heir he so desired. He despised me. Beatrice, I am barren.’

  ‘Oh, Anne.’ Beatrice gazed in horrified sympathy at her cousin. There was nothing she could say. Anne’s cold, brief description of her married life had sent an icy trickle running down her spine. She sensed there was much that Anne had left unsaid. Her cousin’s carefully controlled expression told her that.

  ‘How could you be expected to know?’ Anne asked. ‘Hiding away in your convent refuge. Beatrice, I sometimes wish that I could have your innocence and simple faith in the world. But reality has ever been complicated for me. Philip helped me through a terrible time and I have grown used to him. I’m not blind to his faults, I’m learning to live with them. It’s not easy, I can assure you.’ Anne smiled, and something of her old sparkle kindled in her eyes. ‘I can’t expect a perfect man can I?’ Anne went on. ‘No one can. And certainly not me with all my sins. I’m vain, greedy, envious, full of lust – I could go on, but I’m sure I’d shock you. You’d never talk to your sinful cousin again.’ Anne’s smile grew crooked.

  ‘So that’s why you went to confession – because you’d spent the night with the baron.’

  Anne shook her head, that small smile playing about her mouth. ‘No, I can’t expect forgiveness for a sin that I have every intention of committing again.’

  Despite herself, Beatrice found herself responding to Anne’s wicked smile.

  ‘Beatrice, I went to confession because Philip had told me about the Saxon in the chapel. I was curious. Is curiosity a sin? I expect so.’ Anne sighed. ‘I wanted to see him for myself, and consequently you have before you a shriven maid. I’m absolved of all my sins. Gaze your fill, for you may never see your cousin in such a state of purity again!’

  ‘Anne, can you never be serious?’ Beatrice chuckled. Then she sobered. ‘Did you see him? Did he look ill? In pain?’

  Anne’s eyes were no longer laughing. They were calculating, and Beatrice shivered. There was a ruthless streak in her cousin...

  ‘Do you like him so much?’ Anne murmured casually.

  Beatrice countered swiftly. ‘How could I? It is simply that he was wounded. I’ve been taught to show concern for the sick.’

  ‘Quite. That pretty toy you’re fingering was his, was it not?’ Anne asked.

  Beatrice dropped the dagger as though it were a hot coal.

  ‘And him a Saxon too,’ Anne went on. ‘I expect you’d agree to marry him if the King willed it. If unity and peace were at stake. That would be worth sacrificing your future for, wouldn’t it, Beatrice?’

  Beatrice knew her face was scarlet. She jumped up and twisted away, but Anne’s soft taunting followed her.

  ‘Life beginning to get complicated, is it, Beatrice? Not quite what it was behind the ordered convent walls?’

  Beatrice put her hands on her ears. ‘Stop it, Anne, stop it. It’s pointless talking to me like this.’

  ‘Not quite pointless,’ de Brionne cut in lazily. He came slowly round the fire and put a hand on Anne’s shoulder, but when his hooded eyes saw that Beatrice had watched the gesture, he removed his hand.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ Beatrice demanded coldly.

  ‘Long enough to hazard a guess that you are not indifferent to the Saxon warrior you have saved. I thought last eve that you were swift to rush to his defence. And there was the little matter of the dagger, too. That gave you away. I see you have it with you still.’

  Anne and her lover exchanged glances. Beatrice stiffened, her instinct for danger aroused. They were up to something.

  ‘Raoul!’ the baron shouted.

  A burly soldier who’d been lounging near the threshold came smartly to attention. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go to the chapel. Inform Father Ralph I am coming over to parley with the Saxon. I have a proposal for him. King William plans to unite this stinking swamp, and I must conform to my sovereign’s wishes.’ He eyed Beatrice from under heavy lids, and Beatrice felt another ice-finger shiver down her back.

  The baron bowed and drew her hand through one arm. Anne attached herself to his other.

  ‘Come, ladies,’ de Brionne commanded. ‘It is time to negotiate a betrothal!’

  ***

  Edmund was seated on a wooden bench, deep in conversation with Father Ralph. The priest looked none the worse for his ordeal, and his open face did not seem to harbour any ill-will towards the man who’d bound him in the night. Edmund looked sombre.

  Edmund’s head jerked up as Beatrice was pushed into the chapel and his expression lifted. But when he saw that the baron followed with Anne clinging on his arm, Edmund’s face froze. A watchful gleam entered his eyes.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’ he asked. His voice was so cold that Beatrice hardly recognised it.

  ‘I thought we should attempt to negotiate an agreement which would be beneficial to all parties,’ de Brionne drawled.

  ‘Aye?’ Edmund sounded disbelieving.

  ‘Aye. You wish these lands to remain in Saxon control. And I for my part wish to please my King.’

  ‘The usurper, William, you mean,’ Edmund said.

  ‘King William’s right to rule has been proved and his claim upheld. However, I do not propose to discuss the succession here. I was sent to establish a union between our two races, and that is what I intend to do.’

  Beatrice felt sick. She wanted to sit down. She realised what the baron meant to do. Now Aiden was dead, he must mean to marry Anne to Edmund. Anne’s face told her nothing. She had been trained to do her duty and no doubt would obey, provided de Brionne was to remain at Lindsey. She drew a shaky breath.

  Edmund regarded the two girls, his face as empty as Anne’s had been. ‘A union,’ he murmured. ‘If I agree to this, you would guarantee the safety of my people?’

  ‘Assuredly.’ The baron was urbane.

  ‘And they may return to their homes and tend the land as before?’

  ‘But naturally you Saxons must work the lands. You don’t expect me to plough them for you, do you? I’ve brought soldiers with me, not farmers. It was always intended you Saxons should continue to farm the lands.’

  The Norman’s lips stretched into a wide smile. It was too bright, too easy. Beatrice had been prepared to try and trust the baron. But that parody of a smile made something click inside, and she knew she’d never trust him. He was utterly without honour. She willed Edmund to look at her, her mind screaming him a warning: Don’t trust him. You mustn’t trust him.

  Edmund did look at her, but only for a second, and no flicker of warmth or recognition was discernible as blue eyes met hazel. Edmund’s gaze shifted to Anne. He smiled at Anne.

  Beatrice clenched her fingers into fists. Edmund must not marry Anne. Anne loved Philip! Anne could never love Edmund.

  Did Anne find Edmund handsome too? Beatrice studied his face. The new thane was pale. Now he was not smiling, lin
es of pain slashed across his forehead. Frowning brows and dark lashes accentuated the whiteness of his finely drawn features. Even ill, Beatrice thought him attractive. Not handsome precisely, his nose was too prominent for that, a true Roman nose – but his lips were well-shaped, and his eyes, those deep blue eyes...

  The eyes in question encountered hers. He looked amused. Beatrice blushed and hastily focused her attention on her leather shoes, studying them as if her life depended on it.

  ‘I shall act as mediator between you,’ Father Ralph announced. ‘Ladies, please be seated while we agree the terms.’

  Beatrice allowed Anne to lead her to the wooden bench by the west wall.

  Pressed to her cousin’s side, Beatrice leant back against the stone wall, eyes and ears closed to what was going on about her. The cold seeped through her clothes, chilling her slight frame. She was numb all over.

  ‘You look ill, Beatrice. Are you alright?’ Anne shook her arm.

  Beatrice forced her eyes open. ‘I feel like one of those saints on the wall painting up there,’ she admitted. ‘Not saintly, I don’t mean that. These saints are stuck on that wall. They’re helpless, passive, and however much they night want to come off the wall and affect what’s happening around them they can’t. They never will. I feel like that Anne, I...’

  Anne was no longer listening. She was staring at the Norman baron, and her face was masked with that empty expression that Beatrice knew her cousin donned when disguising some deep emotion.

  There was little difference between Anne’s position and her own. Anne had no more control over events in her life than did Beatrice. Anne would not be allowed to marry the man she loved, and neither would Beatrice...

  Beatrice caught her breath, dismayed at the turn her thoughts had taken. Her eyes went inexorably to Edmund.

  He was scowling at de Brionne, and shaking his head vigorously. A lock of long raven hair had flopped forward and she saw him shove it aside. His speech was rapid and intense.

  It’s infatuation, nothing more, Beatrice told herself, shattered by the revelation which had flashed into her consciousness. It blinded her to her surroundings. She couldn’t be in love with him. She hardly knew him. He was a Saxon thane and she was a lowly Norman. Not even in his class. Her cousin was the heiress. She had nothing; no dowry to offer, no lands in Normandy. Beatrice and Edmund were as far apart as the sun and the moon. She mustn’t make a fool of herself.

  Beatrice shut her eyes. But shutting Edmund from her sight did not succeed in shutting him out of her thoughts.

  She could hear his voice, low and gentle.

  ‘Mistress Beatrice?’ It sounded like a caress. She kept her eyes firmly closed and tried desperately to think of something else.

  ‘Mistress Beatrice!’ His voice was louder now and more insistent. It would not go away.

  Beatrice abandoned the futile struggle to banish him from her thoughts. She opened her eyes and found herself gazing directly into those haunting blue eyes.

  He held out his hand.

  Without thinking, Beatrice placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her up. She’d forgotten how tall he was. She only came up to his shoulder.

  ‘My thanks,’ she smiled and tried unobtrusively to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. She was painfully conscious that he should not be looking at her like that when he was about to marry Anne.

  ‘You found my gift, I see,’ he whispered, glancing at her waist.

  ‘Gift? Oh, yes. Thank you.’ Her cheeks grew warm. ‘I’ve never owned anything half as beautiful.’

  De Brionne and her cousin stood close by, together, watching. Beatrice felt her flush deepen. She was confused. Why was Edmund staring at her?

  Father Ralph coughed. ‘Baron de Brionne, a word, if you please. And you, Lady Anne.’

  Edmund and Beatrice were suddenly isolated with the saints on the west wall.

  ‘Why the fascination with my tunic?’ Edmund asked. ‘You’re staring at it as though you’ve never seen it before. It’s not particularly remarkable.’

  Beatrice raised shy eyes to his and tried to remove her hand from his clasp. He pulled her closer. Her free hand went trembling to his chest as though to ward him off, but he took hold of that too, cradling it within his.

  Blue eyes held hers. ‘Do not fear me,’ he said.

  She caught the query in his voice. ‘I don’t fear you. I told you that.’

  ‘Then why do you tremble? Is it that you are not in agreement with this marriage?’

  Beatrice could not bring herself to speak. She could not tell him that she welcomed the wedding, that would be the blackest lie.

  Halted by despair, she hesitated too long and Edmund’s face changed. The signs of concern she had seen were wiped away, and a frozen mask settled over his features. Though he hadn’t moved, she sensed him distance himself, and a cold claw gripped her heart. Edmund dropped her hands as though she were the vilest leper, and rounded on de Brionne. ‘Methinks the lady does not like my proposal,’ he said, stiffly. ‘We cannot therefore come to terms. There can be no union between Saxon and Norman here. I shall resolve this matter another way.’

  Anne ran up. ‘Beatrice, what are you about? I thought you would be pleased to marry him. You seem to like him. I know he’s only a Saxon, but it is a better marriage than you could ever hope to make in Normandy.’

  Beatrice stared helplessly at Edmund’s stiff back, her mind slow to grasp the implications of Anne’s words. Then the floor fell away from her feet. A rushing noise filled her ears. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  Edmund swung round. His face was still unreadable, though a tinge of angry colour now touched his cheekbones. His eyes were like chips of ice.

  ‘Perhaps your convent cousin is choosy, Lady Anne,’ de Brionne sneered. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t like the idea of marriage with a bastard. You know how strong nuns are on morality. His birth isn’t good enough for her.’

  ‘No!’ Beatrice cried. She’s seen the effect the baron’s jeers had on Edmund. Scorn blazed from his eyes, he was turning away...

  ‘No! You are wrong, my lord,’ she blurted. ‘I didn’t understand. I thought you meant to marry Edmund to Anne. I did not dream he would consider marrying me. Believe me!’

  Edmund’s expression froze the marrow in her bones. Desperately she caught hold of his sleeve, and prayed he would believe her, but he tore himself free. His eyes were filled with the same smouldering hatred she had encountered the first time she had found him in the chapel. The deadly, implacable hatred of Anglo-Saxon for Norman, of conquered for conqueror. Her heart stopped to see him direct it at her.

  ‘Dear Lord, make him believe me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Get out!’ Edmund clenched his fists. ‘Get out, all of you, before I commit the sin of murder in this holy place.’

  ‘My son, this is not the answer,’ Father Ralph said soothingly.

  ‘Out! Out!’ Edmund advanced menacingly towards Beatrice. She peered over her shoulder; it seemed she was the last to go. The last to realise Edmund was not to be placated.

  ‘Edmund, please listen.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough from you,’ he said, eyes hard. ‘The pretty innocent. It’s a convincing act, and those wide hazel eyes almost had me fooled. But not quite. I read you now. I’m good enough for a game, but that’s as far as it goes. Men have a name for women of your sort.’

  Beatrice swallowed and opened her mouth.

  Edmund forestalled her, his voice clipped with anger. ‘But you would never marry me, would you? My birth I suppose. My race too. Well, Mistress Beatrice, I apologise for having insulted you with my offer. I shall not raise the subject again.’ He paused and gave a twisted smile. ‘But then, you played the kissing game so well, methinks I shall insist on a farewell kiss. Our last.’

  Her eyes misted.

  Edmund’s lips swooped down on hers with punishing force. He hurt. Beatrice tried to fend him off. Then she stopped. Perhaps she should respond. Maybe k
isses could convince him of her feelings where words would not? The arms she had put up to push him away, crept round his neck. She felt him stiffen. She held his head to hers. As her fingers wound into his dark hair the painful onslaught ceased, and startled blue eyes looked a question into hers.

  She softened her lips, heard his low moan, and he was kissing her anew. He kissed her gently now, and tenderly, as he had done the previous night. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, and then his lips drew back to hers again. Beatrice was melting...

  The chapel door slammed in violent interruption. Edmund snatched back his head. For one glorious moment Beatrice thought her kisses had convinced him, but then his face put on that hard and unfathomable mask, and she knew she had failed. Her silent message had been misinterpreted.

  She flushed, burningly aware that Edmund had released her while she still had her arms twined round his neck.

  ‘Have you quite finished, mistress?’ he demanded with blistering scorn.

  Beatrice dragged her arms away, and averted her face lest he should see the tears prickling in her eyes.

  ‘You still enjoy your sport,’ he observed stiffly.

  Beatrice swallowed down a sob. Words were beyond her.

  ‘Oh, get you gone,’ he said wearily. ‘You can go and find another man to amuse you. This one’s not going to play your Norman tricks any longer.’

  Beatrice could stem her tears no more. She whirled round and groped blindly into the biting January air.

  Edmund followed her with his eyes until her figure vanished round the side of the chapel. He swore, loudly and comprehensively. White-lipped, he slammed the heavy door so furiously it all but ripped free of its hinges.

  Beatrice winced. She’d heard the curses, and though he had spoken in English which she couldn’t understand, the tone of the words made their meaning quite clear. He was swearing, and he was swearing at her...

  Only when she came face to face with the byre where Hilda waited did Beatrice remember her promise to tell Edmund that his sister was safe. But the chapel door had slammed with awful finality. Beatrice wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. She could not go back. Her attempts to make him understand had been wasted. He had enough pride for an army, and it daunted her.