‘Yes, he wanted permission to marry Lady Hilda.’
‘He didn’t only want approval for the marriage,’ Anne said. ‘He presented the King with a series of charges against your barbarian.’
‘What!’
Beatrice and Morcar exchanged glances.
‘If we don’t leave now we might never be away,’ the minstrel said, warningly.
‘What did the King say?’ Beatrice demanded, staying Morcar’s arm from applying the gag.
‘Edmund of Lindsey has been outlawed.’ Anne spoke quickly. ‘Anyone who helps him will be considered outside the law. You will be a criminal, Beatrice, if you go to him.’
Dazed, Beatrice stared at Anne. ‘I must go,’ she said.
Morcar tied the gag round Anne and scooped up a handful of sooty dirt. Anne’s eyes widened when she realised the minstrel’s intentions.
‘Be still, Lady Anne,’ Morcar admonished. ‘Don’t turn your head. It’s only a speck of dust to add colour to your tale.’ His large hand plucked at Anne’s braids, disordering her hair. ‘You were altogether too tidy. Now you look to have been mishandled.’
Beatrice bit her lip. Anne’s flawless skin was as grimy as any peasant’s, her clothes all mired. The irony of it appalled her. It would have been funny, if it were not so desperate. That Anne, who took so much pride in her appearance, was prepared to submit to this...
‘I’ll warrant you would have preferred a more glamorous role,’ Beatrice said. ‘But I thank you, cousin, with all my heart.’
‘Come, my lady, we must go.’ Morcar hustled Beatrice to the door.
Beatrice hung back. A lump had formed in her throat. ‘Farewell, Anne, and my thanks. I will never forget this.’
Anne rolled her eyes and jerked her head dismissively at the door. Beatrice observed the tears forming in Anne’s brown eyes, and knew her cousin was wondering if they would ever see each other again. She bent to hug her.
Morcar tugged insistently at her sleeve. ‘My lady...’
Beatrice pulled the hood of Anne’s mantle over her head. It was imperative she hid her hair. Every Norman in the compound knew that Lady Anne’s glossy tresses were brown. It only needed one bright lock to stray from the hood and they would all be lost. Head well down, Beatrice took in a fortifying breath. Lady Anne would precede the Saxon minstrel. And so must she.
The three sentries outside the prison-hut looked up from the game of fivestones which occupied the greater part of their minds, and winked knowingly at one another. Lady Anne’s bowed head indicated deep hurt. The lady was much upset at the sight of her cousin being housed in such conditions. And no wonder. No doubt the minstrel would attempt to console her.
Ah! They were to take a ride. Probably Lady Anne hoped an hour or two in the saddle would take her mind off her cousin’s cruel confinement.
‘Better inform the baron where his lady’s gone,’ suggested a guard, reluctant to leave the game.
‘Aye, he may want her followed,’ agreed one of his companions. He did not budge either.
‘Don’t he trust his own lady, then?’ another asked, blowing on his fingers.
‘Baron don’t trust no one, not even his own shadow, I shouldn’t wonder. But there’s no hurry. They’ll be easy enough to follow what with the tracks they’ll be making in this snow.’
‘That’s true. In any case, the baron’s not here. He’s smoking Saxons from their lair. We’ve plenty time to finish our round.’ The man picked up the fivestones and cast them with a flourish. ‘There! Beat that if you can!’ he challenged exultantly.
The riders were forgotten. Three heads, engrossed and greedy to win, bent over the game.
Chapter Ten
Noon the following day. During the night a brisk wind swept the sky clear of snow clouds. The sun shone down from a vault of clearest blue, but there was a snap in the air.
Morcar and Beatrice stood at the market cross in the middle of the fenland village which had offered them food and shelter. Morcar, who was obviously well known to the villagers, had, by some mysterious means, acquired another harp. It was St Paul’s Day, and to mark that festival, a fair was being held around the raised stone cross. Morcar intended to play his harp.
Wagons and handcarts had gathered from surrounding districts. The place teemed with activity. Any fair was an excuse to break the monotony of the daily round, and one held in midwinter was especially welcome.
Beatrice watched the motley groups of people thronging the different stalls and booths. There was a festive atmosphere. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of it, people were determined to enjoy themselves. There were acrobats, jugglers and dancing bears. There was a noisy cockfight – Beatrice averted her head from that, but not before she caught a glimpse of broken feathers and blood crimsoning the snow. A shiver ran down her back. In all that gaiety, the red splashes of blood were an omen of doom.
She pulled herself together. ‘Where will your friend be? The one who knows where Edmund will have taken his men?’ Beatrice whispered, in case any should wonder at hearing her native accents.
Morcar climbed up the steps around the cross, and searched the crowd. His height gave him an advantage.
‘No sign of her yet,’ he replied. He swung the harp down from his shoulder and, brushing slush from the stone steps, settled down to play.
‘Aren’t you going to look for her?’ Beatrice hissed. ‘You won’t find her if you stay there.’
Morcar’s eyes twinkled. ‘Have faith, lady. There are many of us fighting Lindsey’s cause. We all have our own ways of making contact.’ He indicated his harp. ‘I use my stock in trade. I have a particular song which my friend will recognise. If she’s here, she’ll come. It’s a signal she’ll not forget. And it’s one a minstrel can use without rousing suspicion.’ Morcar ran his fingers down the strings in a trickling cascade of sound.
‘What if de Brionne’s men see you?’
‘There are none here,’ Morcar replied absently, concentrating on the harp. A discordant note brought a frown to his face. He shook his head, tried again and the sound rang clear and pure.
‘I’d like to wander round the booths while you play,’ Beatrice said, feeling she had become a distraction. ‘You won’t move from here, will you? I want to be able to find you later.’
‘I’ll rest here.’ Morcar’s eyes met hers. ‘Have you any money, my lady?’
Dull colour stained her cheeks.
‘I thought not.’ He tossed her his purse.
It felt heavy. ‘But...but I don’t need all this.’
Morcar shook his head. ‘Nay, lady. Pride’s a terrible sin. Edmund will repay me, if that eases your mind.’
Beatrice could not take his purse. She extracted a couple of coins for herself and smiled, placing the purse beside him on the step. ‘I will not take more in case we get separated. Then what would you do without money?’ she said firmly.
‘Do? Why, I’d earn more, my lady.’ He touched the strings and rippling melody filled the air. ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’
Beatrice pushed into the crowd.
No sooner had she left Morcar’s side than she began to question the wisdom of having left him. The people pushed and pressed all about her. Their speech was harsh and unfamiliar. How stupid she was! These peasants were all Saxon. Not only was there no chance of making herself understood, for they could not speak Latin, let alone Norman French, but they’d probably turn on her if they discovered she was Norman. The premonition of foreboding was back again. She could not shake it off.
She could no longer hear the reassuring twang of Morcar’s harp. The faces about Beatrice seemed grotesque. Dirty and unkempt, the men for the most part were unshaven. They frightened her. Her ears filled with the guttural, foreign sounds of peasant English. She managed to smile at one man who jostled her elbow, but there was no answering response in his eyes. Only the mean and furtive suspicion of a man for whom life was one long, hard battle.
Her stomach had turned to water.
She must find Morcar. If she was silent, and did not speak, then these Saxons would not harm her. She told herself that the faces about her were not really malevolent. She told herself that they had no means of knowing she was a hated invader. She was just another girl enjoying the entertainment.
She twisted the sapphire ring round and round her finger with her thumb. A pockmarked face leered down at her. Beatrice shrank into herself, and tried not to breathe. It was as though they knew, as though the crowd had sniffed her out as being different. Somehow they knew she was not one of them. She must not say a word. Rather they thought her dumb than find out she was Norman.
An olive-skinned hand reached out from the crowd and seized her arm. Beatrice found herself looking into the swarthy face of a girl of about her own age. The girl smiled. One of her front teeth had been broken, but her smile was warm, and her teeth were white.
The girl tugged insistently on her arm. Beatrice was glad to follow and in a moment she found herself on the skirts of the crowd, breathing easily. She regarded her companion with open curiosity.
The girl had long black hair which hung in a thick cloak about her shoulders. Her dress was strange. Like Morcar’s, it comprised of many multicoloured layers of fabric. But it was the girl’s mantle which drew the eyes. The cloak was a patchwork of different materials, but so cunningly designed that as the girl moved, Beatrice caught glimpses of various shapes: a horse, a moon, a star. The shapes whirled and danced about her companion as though they were part of some pagan ritual and the girl was the high priestess.
Cold fingers clutched her heart. Indeed, the girl must command unseen forces, for she’d cut her way through the dense throng as easily as a red-hot poker would carve its way through snow.
The girl spoke first. ‘Your future lord and ring-giver–’
Beatrice gasped. The girl spoke Norman French! ‘Edmund? You know of him? Where is he?’
The girl smiled a secretive smile. ‘Before he comes into his own, he must die and lose his name. He bears the wolf’s head even now,’ she chanted in a singsong voice.
‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice stared at the girl in consternation, as an unpleasant prickling sensation spread over the back of her neck. She snatched at the fantastic mantle, suddenly afraid the strange maid was an apparition who would melt away like a morning mist. ‘You cannot mean Edmund of Lindsey. He’s not going to die! Who are you that you dare make such a prophesy? Only God can do that.’ Her voice cracked.
‘God is different things to different people,’ the girl observed cryptically in lilting tones. ‘I speak of a bastard thane with sky-tinted eyes. The ring-giver.’ A brown finger fluttered over Beatrice’s ring, barely touching it. She smiled.
‘How dare you rhyme of death and smile?’ Beatrice burst out. ‘Where is he? I’ll take none of your prophecies, but I swear you know where he is.’
The girl’s eyes came nearer, dark and very intense. ‘You will see him once, before he dies,’ the girl whispered. ‘He is close, even now.’ The shining eyes travelled on past Beatrice to the heart of the fair.
Beatrice followed her lead, glancing uneasily over her shoulder, half expecting Edmund to materialise and come striding up to her. She sighed. Of course he was not there. And suddenly neither was the girl. Somehow she’d freed her garment from Beatrice’s grasp. Beatrice saw the vivid splash of her clothes melt into the throng. She took couple of steps after her, but the crowd, which had parted to admit the girl, closed ranks and formed an impenetrable wall. A woman on the edge of the crush made a hurried, nervous gesture.
Beatrice recognised the sign for warding off the evil eye. She sympathised with the superstitious dread on the woman’s face. She felt it herself. Her own fingers itched to make that sign.
I will not let a madwoman’s riddles upset me, she decided. Far better to consider the strange girl a lunatic than to believe her words. For if she were to believe them...
She shivered. Beatrice steered her thoughts firmly in another direction. She would watch the jugglers. Then she’d find Morcar.
A man was at her elbow, smiling. He was selling hot sweet chestnuts. Mindful not to speak, Beatrice held out a coin in exchange for a handful of the chestnuts. The man asked her a question. Beatrice made her eyes blank and gave him a vacuous smile. The chestnut seller’s eyes softened. He patted her kindly on the arm. Her ruse was working. The vendor believed her simple. If he believed it, then others might.
Munching the warm chestnuts, Beatrice moved through the crowd with growing confidence. As long as she remained silent and smiled her fool’s smile, she was safe. She remembered how kind the nuns had been to a simpleton who had turned up begging at La Trinité. Mother Adèle had made it plain that to be cruel to such an unfortunate would be to invite great misfortune. She hoped the Saxons shared Mother Adèle’s views. It looked as though they did.
Some children were playing a noisy game with hoops. Others were swinging from the Giant’s Stride. A long rope was suspended from a leafless oak tree, and half a dozen children clung to it like the last leaves of autumn. The winner would be the one who held on the longest. Beatrice kept her vapid smile in place and watched as all but two of the children fell, shrieking loudly, into the cushiony snow. Cheered by their fellows, the two remaining contestants clung like leeches. At length one gave a wail of anguish, and let go of the rope. The victor swung back and forth in solitary triumph, grinning at the world, then his reddened hands gave up the struggle, and he too landed in an inglorious sprawl in the snow.
There were pedlars with baskets of ribbons and trinkets; leather-workers selling beautiful purses and belts. There were tinkers and beggars, and vintners offering steaming measures of mulled wine and ale. It seemed that all of England had come to the fair.
A rising hubbub caught her attention. Beatrice noticed a young girl stumbling blindfold through the press. Her hands stretched out in front of her, feeling her way. Beatrice watched her. The girl was not distressed, her lips curved into a wide smile. This must be another game. Everyone was avoiding the girl’s outstretched arms. They called out to attract the girl’s attention, and leapt laughingly out of the way as she groped towards them. Beatrice grinned. She had played this game at home, years before her father had died and her mother had brought her to the convent. It was Blind Man’s Buff.
Too late, Beatrice realised that the girl was stumbling straight at her. She leapt to one side, but the girl heard her move and was quicker. Beatrice was caught. The crowd roared and shouted. The girl bobbed a deep and inexpert curtsy and removed the blindfold.
Giggling, she offered Beatrice the blindfold. Beatrice backed away. The girl repeated her gesture. There was no way out. If Beatrice protested it would betray her Norman blood. She nodded and submitted to the blindfold being wound round her eyes. She was whirled round and released.
Disorientated and dizzy, Beatrice could hear the crowd hooting encouragements at her. There was someone by her left hand – no, her right – no, behind her. She spun on her heels, surely she sensed someone at her right?
Suddenly there were no more shouts and cries to guide her. It was as though the Saxons had been struck dumb en masse. There was only the thudding of her heart, and her feet crunching in the snow. The ground was uneven here. Beatrice caught her foot and tripped. Strong arms steadied her. Her hands closed round them and the crowd roared. They had their next victim!
Still blindfolded, Beatrice hesitated. Voices came at her from all directions, demanding no doubt that she play her part and give her forfeit. But what was she to do? She could not understand them. She shook her head and reached for the blindfold. A moment more and her secret would be out. Would they kill her when they realised they had an interloper in their midst?
A warm hand covered hers and firmly removed it from the blindfold. Fingers entwined with hers in a familiar gesture which set her heart thudding faster and sent bright colour rushing to her cheeks. Edmund had held her hand like this...
A light pressure under her ch
in tilted back her head. Warm lips brushed hers. She did not pull away. Vaguely she heard the raucous cries of the crowd, but these sounds faded to nothing. All of her consciousness was centred upon the hand that held hers, so gently, and the lips moving over hers. Her bones began to melt, like snow when the thaw comes. She found herself responding, unsure which of them was the captive and which the captor.
Her eyes were still closed, her lips welcoming those of her mysterious captive, when the blindfold was snatched from her head. Reluctantly, she opened eyes that shone bright as stars. The outside world rushed back at her.
‘Edmund,’ she whispered, clinging to his hand.
Eyes that were the colour of the summer sky glared down at her.
‘Are you mad?’ Edmund shoved an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘Whatever possessed you to join in this game? If I hadn’t seen you, Lord knows what would have happened. If they had found out you couldn’t speak English... They’re smiling now, but their mood can change like lightning. They would have torn you limb from limb given half the chance.’
He broke off as the girl who had caught Beatrice came to stand before him. The young woman pointed at the forgotten blindfold. She was urging him to take his turn in the game.
Beatrice took the cloth and secured it round Edmund’s eyes. The relief shone from her eyes. She could not hide it. She stood to one side, and laced her hands tightly together to stop herself hanging on Edmund’s arm.
The girl spun Edmund round and pushed him into the crowd.
Beatrice had eyes for no one but him. He was still the hue of tallow, but he moved with the light and agile grace of a cat. He was recovering.
He wore a pale blue tunic and his silver armbands, and he looked like a barbarian prince. Weaving and bobbing in and out of the crowd, he had several chances to grab a victim, but always turned away at the last moment. It looked as though he was deliberately prolonging the game. Or could he be searching for a particular person?
Whatever the cause of the near misses, they guaranteed Edmund’s popularity with his audience. Each time his hands closed on the empty air, the multitude howled itself to a fever. In and out of the mill he ducked, his face alight with laughter.
Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Page 21