Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  A young woman stepped out of the mass and placed herself directly in Edmund’s path. Beatrice stiffened. She knew that flaxen hair. It belonged to Ingirith.

  Beatrice shrank back, hoping to avoid the girl’s unsympathetic eyes. She needn’t have worried, for Ingirith’s whole attention was centred on Edmund. The Saxon stood waiting for Edmund to catch her. She looked serene, confident. Beatrice wanted to spit in her face. Edmund reached out. The mob clamoured. Ingirith walked into his arms.

  Disgusted, Beatrice turned away. A voice bawled out the nature of the forfeit. Beatrice gritted her teeth. She knew what that would be. Someone whooped. She had to look, she had to...

  Edmund had put up a hand to examine the face of his captive. At the sight of those sensitive fingers running over Ingirith’s smug face, Beatrice screwed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, things had, if anything, got worse. Edmund’s beautiful mouth curved upwards, he pulled Ingirith firmly into his arms, and kissed her with dramatic thoroughness. At last, he made to release her, but Ingirith’s slim hand lifted. Gracefully the Saxon caught hold of Edmund’s head, and held him to her for another of those comprehensive kisses. The audience loved every minute.

  And Edmund did not object.

  Beatrice felt as though someone had kicked out her insides. Edmund whipped off the blindfold and fastened it round Ingirith for her to take her turn. And still he smiled.

  By the time he’d reached Beatrice, he’d wiped the smile from his face.

  ‘My thanks for my rescue,’ Beatrice offered through clenched teeth, not looking at him.

  Edmund gripped her upper arm and marched her through the crush. She managed to steal a glance from under her lashes, his profile was stern and unyielding.

  ‘Ow, you’re hurting,’ Beatrice said. ‘What are you doing? Where do you think you are dragging me to now?’

  Edmund grunted. He towed her to the fringe of the crowd.

  ‘Edmund, you’re hurting.’

  He freed her. Beatrice rubbed her arm and her hazel eyes flashed.

  ‘That hasn’t hurt you half as much as they–’ Edmund jerked his head at the massed Saxons ‘–would have done, if they’d found you out.’

  ‘I...I don’t understand.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, dryly. ‘Listen, woman. When you caught me the crowd were shouting at you to kiss your captive. How the hell did you think you’d understand them? You would have removed the blindfold and spoiled their game. If I had not seen you–’

  ‘Oh,’ Beatrice said in a small voice. ‘So that’s why you kissed me like that – to avert suspicion.’

  He looked keenly at her. ‘You sound disappointed, Beatrice. Surely you didn’t think I kissed you for the joy of finding you?’

  Beatrice squirmed. ‘N...no. I don’t suppose you would. It was only the game. You kissed Ingirith too,’ she added, keeping her voice carefully neutral. She did not want to sound like a nagging, jealous shrew. She stared out over flat unclaimed marshland, she looked at the pale sky, at a straggle of geese flying across it – anywhere but at him. She did not want him to read the pain in her eyes, a burning, envious pain. It seared her heart.

  An awkward silence dropped over them. Watching the rustling reed-beds, Beatrice struggled to bury her feelings. ‘You look very fine in your new tunic,’ she said. An inane remark, but surely an uncontentious one?

  He was scowling abstractedly at some long, waving grasses. ‘What? Oh, aye.’ He glanced wryly down at his silver edged tunic. His lips twisted. ‘Aye, I’m happily betrothed am I not? I have to dress the part. Even if my bride chooses to run off with de Brionne’s scouts and betray my people.’ He glowered down at her.

  Beatrice was suddenly swamped with heady fury. How could he? Trembling with rage, she tugged at the sapphire ring. This finely dressed Saxon would insult her no longer! He was her enemy. He’d never trust her. He’d barter her for a handful of gold and not even blink. The ring clung to her finger.

  ‘You don’t have to marry me, Edmund,’ she declared, all but dislocating her finger. ‘I’m sure that Ingirith will be pleased to oblige.’

  ‘I’ll release you,’ Edmund said, in a cold, hard voice. ‘There was no need for you to betray the location of our camp to de Brionne to escape marriage to me. I thought you understood. I was marrying you to protect you. If you had told me how abhorrent the idea was I would have released you freely. Not immediately, it’s true, for it was necessary that my people believed our betrothal genuine. I would not have forced an unwilling maid into marriage, even if she was Norman.’ He spat out the last word with blistering scorn.

  Beatrice looked at his mouth. It was hard to believe he had kissed her so tenderly. She searched his face for the smallest hint of warmth, but his handsome features were set like granite. His deep blue eyes were cold as glass. She would waver no more. She wrenched at the ring.

  ‘Oh, why won’t this thing come off!’ she cried, tears prickling behind her eyes.

  The muscle in Edmund’s jaw twitched.

  The ring came free. Beatrice held it out. Edmund made no move to take it back.

  ‘I did not betray you to the baron,’ Beatrice said, huskily. She must tell him even if he would never believe her. She thrust the ring under his nose. His blue eyes looked past the ring, and into hers. They burned with cold fire, like the stone in the ring. He was so still. And his face gave nothing away.

  ‘You left the guesthouse and went to meet his scouts,’ Edmund said.

  ‘No! I went out to...to try and find Hilda. I thought she would help me with your language. I wanted to learn. I wanted to know what’s inscribed in this ring.’

  Edmund flushed, and she saw him clench his jaw.

  Beatrice read his silence as disbelief. ‘I see now how foolish I have been,’ she said. ‘You were right, there can be no alliance between us. I am Norman and you will never forget that. You have told me often enough that none of us can be trusted. I thought that I would be able to win your trust. I see now how wrong I was. What a dolt I am. Once a pig-headed Saxon mind has been made up, it never changes. So I give you back your sapphire ring. I would not marry a man who cannot trust me, for without trust there can never be...love.’

  To her horror, Beatrice felt a tear spill over and run down her cheek. She twisted away and stared blindly towards the waving reeds. She felt his fingers brush her cheek, the merest ghost of a touch, but it was enough. She raised brimming eyes to his. Edmund reached and took the solitary teardrop on to his forefinger. He curled his finger into his palm as though he would hold on to her tear forever.

  ‘Ingirith told me you had gone willingly,’ he offered slowly.

  ‘Ingirith!’ Beatrice had been strangely moved by his gesture with her teardrop and was determined he should not exploit her weakness. ‘Your jealous lover! She would tell you anything if it set you against me.’

  ‘Ingirith is not my lover. She never has been my lover,’ Edmund said with conviction.

  ‘It certainly didn’t look that way a few minutes ago.’ Beatrice was astounded at the bitterness in voice. What was happening to her? She scarcely knew herself.

  ‘You wouldn’t be jealous, of course?’ Edmund’s lips twitched.

  ‘Never!’

  His eyes held hers. Beatrice had never looked more alive, more desirable. A young girl alone, surrounded by foreigners but spitting in the face of fate, her spirit shone out bright as a flame. Arm bracelets jangled as Edmund’s hand rose to her cheek in a featherlight caress.

  Her stomach fluttered. She swallowed.

  ‘Never?’ he questioned, very low. His free hand caught hers and he pulled her up against him.

  The sapphire ring dropped into the snow.

  ‘That’s why your hazel eyes are begging me to kiss you. And when I touch your cheek and pull you close, thus–’ he suited the action to the words ‘–you do not protest.’

  Beatrice tried, half-heartedly, to pull away.

  Edmund gave a laugh and turned her face back to his
. He did not have to use force. ‘And when I kiss your pretty lips...’ Again he acted out his murmured words.

  Beatrice dissolved, shamelessly. She abandoned herself. He felt so good. Wrapped in his arms and lost in his kiss, all the horrors might never have happened. She felt healed, whole. His hair was soft under her fingertips. His mouth was warm and gentle. She wanted to feel him, all of him, next to her. She wanted to lie with him. She wanted to love him. She wanted him to love her... Shocked, she drew back. She was breathless and her eyes stretched wide.

  Edmund’s sky-bright eyes teased and danced. ‘Now, my lady Beatrice, it’s time you taught your eyes and your body to speak the same language your mouth does. They betray you. I understand how much you hate me.’ He grinned.

  Beatrice hid her face in his shoulder. She pressed her hand to her cheeks to try and cool them. The other was wrapped round Edmund’s neck. Conceited, arrogant Saxon! He thought to charm her with a single smile, did he? And not a word of love?

  ‘That means nothing,’ she said, pulling her hand from his neck. ‘You said yourself that I am a whore. It is but a game. A passing pleasure.’ She tossed her head, and instantly regretted her foolish pride, for the laughter went out of his eyes.

  ‘So you did betray us to de Brionne,’ he spoke through tight lips.

  ‘No. It was one of his scouting parties. They found me by chance and took me by force. Edmund, I–’

  His eyes scorched her, raging blue fire, his face was white with rage. ‘He dressed you in fine silks, I see. Our Saxon rags were not good enough for you. My ring too base, no doubt.’ His nostrils flared. ‘Aye, I see you clearly now. You are a whore. Such innocent, lying eyes! Such an air of virginity!’ He sketched a bow. ‘Your talents are doubtless the results of years of practice at William’s ducal court in Normandy. I salute your success.’

  Beatrice could not believe it. He was walking back into the crowd. She reached out a hand as though to snatch him back. ‘Edmund!’ she cried, starting after him. But what about the ring? He had forgotten it. She could not leave it lying in the mud and snow to be trampled upon. She was afraid to move from the spot, in case it was lost forever. She wanted to run after him, to explain that her pride had been talking...

  Torn, Beatrice raised her voice. ‘Edmund, come back! Your ring. It is of great value,’ she choked.

  ‘Keep it,’ he shot back coldly. ‘I would not give it to any other now it has been yours. Keep it as a reminder of how you fooled an ignorant Saxon. Farewell.’ He bowed stiffly, with chilling formality, and shouldered his way back into the throng.

  Nailed to the place where the sapphire ring had fallen, Beatrice drew a shuddering breath. Her eyes followed his tall form. Her throat closed up. She sniffed. She would find the ring, and then she would go after him.

  Beatrice bent and began to scrabble in the slush their feet had made of the snow.

  Where was it? She picked something up and glanced at it. A pebble. She threw it aside. Heedless of the dirt she was grinding into the hem of her gown, Beatrice fished miserably through the stinging snow. Then she paused, staring at the tracks they had made, as if they could tell her where the ring lay. Tears welled. She gulped, scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand and blinked.

  Two sets of footprints, one large, one small, were stamped clearly into the snow. She ran her fingers over the larger of the prints. The two sets met, toe to toe. They must have made these when they’d kissed.

  Ruthlessly, Beatrice plunged her hands in as far as her wrists, destroying the footprints. Nothing. Nothing but snow. So cold, it burned. Her desperation increased. The ring must be near here...

  ‘Here is what you seek.’

  Beatrice recognised that lyrical voice at once. A brown hand was outstretched, pink palm uppermost. And nestling safely in her palm – the sapphire ring.

  Relief flooded through her. Beatrice looked directly into the sharp brown eyes. The girl smiled, revealing her broken tooth. For an instant, a young Aelflaeda stood before her.

  ‘Oh, I thank you!’ Beatrice said fervently. She took the ring and slipped it back on to her finger. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Do not grieve,’ the lilting voice rang out. ‘Your lord is now dead to the world. But he will be forgiven and will rise anew.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are not of the Old Faith. But I know your faith tells of resurrection and rebirth. I am correct, no?’

  ‘Must you always speak in riddles?’ Beatrice frowned. ‘Riddles that have the ring of blasphemy. I cannot understand you.’

  ‘I speak no blasphemy. You will understand in time. I speak to cheer you.’ The girl flicked at Beatrice’s tearstained face, and Beatrice flinched.

  The dark girl lifted her shoulders. ‘Your ring-giver will throw off the wolf’s head and be an outlaw no longer. Then will be your time. Your destiny is to march with his. So it has been ordained.’

  ‘Wolf’s head? Outlaw?’ Beatrice was at a complete loss. ‘What are these riddles? Speak plainly.’ Anne had said something about outlaws...

  ‘The herald will tell all. Listen, but do not be seen,’ the girl warned, utterly unaffected by the anger of the Norman girl.

  Just then a cry went up, and a large troop of horsemen was upon them, approaching the market cross. Hoofs pounded, chain-mail clinked, steel helmets gleamed, and flags fluttered.

  Baron Philip de Brionne was at their head. He straddled his brutish black warhorse, the one the grooms dared not handle. The horse seemed as clumsy and inelegant as a bull after Balder’s fine, delicate lines.

  Beatrice did not need the girl to tell her twice. Clutching the hood of Anne’s cloak tight about her face, she hurtled into the welcome anonymity of the crowd. Joy had drained out of them like water from a sieve. Sullen faces turned to where the horsemen reined in at the carved cross.

  There were uneasy mutterings, low rumbles like those preceding thunder, but Beatrice knew they were not directed at her. She was safe in the crowd. Strange, that it should be so welcoming now, when earlier she’d felt like an outcast.

  Icy fingers crawled over the back of her neck. Her premonition had returned to haunt her, and it was twice as strong as it had been before. The air cut her lungs.

  Baron Philip de Brionne barked a command. A fanfare trumpeted out. Then there was silence.

  De Brionne conjured an impressive scroll into his hand. It was hung about with red seals. He started to read from it. He spoke in clipped tones in his native French and declared that the King had given him complete control of the lands and rights formerly associated with the Thane of Lindsey. He told the blank-faced peasants that they owed their allegiance to him, and him alone.

  A hundred blank and hostile eyes pierced their new overlord. If looks were lances, Beatrice thought, the baron’s armour would not save him. He would have a thousand wounds.

  ‘Edmund, the self-styled heir to Lindsey,’ the baron continued, and Beatrice sharpened her ears, ‘has been declared an outlaw, by order of King William. Henceforth his head shall bear the price of a wolf’s. He may be killed without fear of reprisal. Indeed, if any man does kill him, he must come to me, and I will give that man the reward for slaying a wolf.

  ‘Further, if any man or woman should help this so-called Edmund of Lindsey, in any way, either by feeding him, or clothing him, or harbouring him from justice, then that man or woman will also be declared criminal and they will be dealt with accordingly.’

  Her blood ran cold. Beatrice scanned the crowd.

  The baron gestured at a herald, handed him the document, and the man began to translate the baron’s words into English. Like wind on the reeds in the nearby fens, his words caused a rustling and stirring to spread through the crowd.

  Frantic, Beatrice cast her eyes about. Where was Edmund? Was he still here? Would the baron see him?

  The herald still read from de Brionne’s scroll.

  Some in the multitude gasped. Others shuffled and shook their heads. They began to mutter. And every m
an, woman and child turned a face of loathing on the mounted and mail-covered figure of their newly appointed lord.

  The mutterings grew louder. De Brionne glowered at his people. A snowball bolted through the air and hit the shining black warhorse square on the rump. The brute sidled and tossed his head. His eyes rolled white, thick veins stood out like cords in the animal’s neck. Foam dribbled from his bit.

  Someone called out. Beatrice gasped. De Brionne’s harsh features formed a mask of pure evil. He spurred his horse directly into the densest part of the throng. Packed as tightly as salted herrings, the people could not leap out of the way. Some were too old, some too young and some infirm. The baron took no accounting. He raised his horse’s switch and began to lay about him.

  The crop whistled. Someone began to wail, a long, thin, keening sound. The baron’s horse-soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. Hands hovered over sword-hilts.

  ‘You’ll learn to obey me–’ de Brionne’s crop cracked ‘–if I have to beat obedience into your thick skulls one by one.’ The switch slashed down, the warhorse ploughed on, and the people could not escape.

  Someone is going to get killed – they would fall and be trampled upon, Beatrice realised. Her horrified gaze fell on a young child, a little girl of about five years of age. She stood directly in the path of the baron’s warhorse. It was the girl who wailed, her mouth seeming to fill her face. The child was too absorbed in her terror to take even one step to save herself. A young woman, who could only be the child’s mother, reached out desperate arms through the wall of people, but sheer numbers held her back. She would never reach the girl in time.

  The baron spurred on.

  Beatrice could not get to the doomed child either. She was too far away. Stabbed through with impotent horror, she could only watch, wide-eyed, as de Brionne urged his horse towards the crying child. He was going to ride right over that small girl.

  The face of the child’s mother was white as chalk. Beatrice would never forget the expression on it as long as she lived. She closed her eyes and heard the baron’s switch whistling, again and again and again.