Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance

by Townend, Carol

  Two long weeks passed. Her bruises faded. Then, one day, when the snow was as crisp and white as a newly washed fleece, Beatrice heard the jingling of harness and the muffled stamping of horse’s hoofs, and knew at once the waiting was over.

  She went to the door of her hut, looked out and the bottom dropped out of her world. Edmund was astride his chestnut roan amid a score of Norman horse-soldiers. Hilda rode alongside him, wearing what looked like a grey sack instead of her gown. Siward’s horse had been hemmed in by two Norman knights.

  Beatrice knew she blenched. Edmund looked haggard. His face was grey with fatigue, his clothes crumpled and travel-stained. His hand eased his wounded shoulder. He’d ridden too far, too soon. And now he was a prisoner.

  Beatrice whirled. Where was Morcar? Where were the Saxon warriors? She could not believe that they should abandon Edmund so lightly.

  Before she could utter a word, a middle-aged man dismounted from a charger more awesome than de Brionne’s. Removing his helmet, he addressed her in French. ‘You must be the Lady Beatrice.’

  Beatrice could only gape and nod. The Norman had cropped grey hair, and his armour looked new. This was no raw recruit though; he bore himself so proudly he must be the knights’ commander. The man kissed Beatrice clumsily on both cheeks. It flashed through her mind that he was unused to the company of women.

  ‘I recognise you from Edmund of Lindsey’s description,’ the grizzled man told her. ‘But had he not described you, I think I still would have known you, for you are very like your mother.’

  ‘I...I don’t understand.’ Anxiously, Beatrice pleated her gown into little folds. ‘Who are you? Have you arrested Edmund? You won’t kill him, will you?’

  ‘Peace, wench, peace,’ the grizzled man growled. ‘I am Geoffrey de Vidâmes-’

  ‘The Comte de Vidâmes!’ exclaimed Beatrice, her brow clearing. This man was the uncle she had never met, and father to Lady Anne.

  ‘The same,’ the count bowed. ‘Lord Edmund has not been arrested; he–’

  ‘Thank God!’ Beatrice breathed, and her eyes flew to Edmund’s. His gaze was bright, but guarded. With a start she noticed that he still had his sword. So did Siward. Panic had blinded her, she should have realised...

  ‘Lindsey has given his oath of fealty to the King,’ Geoffrey de Vidâmes said. ‘He is now the King’s loyal servant.’

  Edmund swung down from Balder. ‘You’ve been to plead with the King,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘I could not tell you where he had gone,’ Morcar muttered in her ear. ‘He made me promise not to tell you, in case it should not go well with him.’

  Beatrice allowed relief to creep into her expression. She felt it too strongly to hide it. ‘Count Geoffrey called you Lord Edmund?’

  Edmund had his arm draped around his sister. ‘My sister’s wish has been granted,’ he smiled. ‘She has signed her inheritance over to me. In return for my oath of fealty and that of my men, King William has decreed that I shall now hold the title of my father. I am now the rightful Thane of Lindsey.’

  Count Geoffrey nodded. ‘Just so, just so.’

  Beatrice indicated the mounted soldiers. ‘Then why have you brought all these knights with you, my lord? They are yours aren’t they? What are they here for?’

  ‘Questions, questions,’ grumbled the count. ‘You women are all the same. Damned curiosity never satisfied. But you’re in the right, they are my men. I am to accompany my Lord of Lindsey to his home to acquaint Baron Philip de Brionne with the King’s wishes.’

  ‘Oh, no! There will be more fighting.’ Beatrice looked fearfully at Edmund.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Edmund said flatly. ‘There have been enough good men lost in this conflict.’ He flexed his shoulder and grimaced wryly. ‘It’s time to heal the wounds and start afresh. Your Norman blood should unite with ours.’

  ‘Quite right, my boy. Quite right,’ the count said. ‘I can see why William was so taken with you. We need reasonable Saxon men like you to fight with us, not against us. Your Lindsey militia will be a valuable asset. Every man has his part.’ He caught Beatrice’s eye. ‘And every woman,’ he added. This last phrase was spoken with less conviction than the rest, as if the count had his doubts about it.

  Beatrice bit back a smile. She would not insult her new-found uncle by appearing to mock at his gruff, soldierly manners. But she could not let his comment pass.

  ‘We women have our part to play, do we, Uncle?’ she asked sweetly. ‘And pray tell me, what is mine to be?’

  Edmund groaned, and buried a disgusted face in Balder’s mane.

  The count patted her on the cheek and waded blithely into the quagmire. ‘Your part is simple, my dear. You will wed this Saxon thane and give him children. You are the King’s gift to the new and loyal Thane of Lindsey.’

  Beatrice choked. All amusement fled. Her face was stiff with embarrassment. She could not look at Edmund, and thus missed the step he took towards her. She stared unhappily at the ground.

  ‘What, girl! Are you not pleased?’ The count sounded irritable. ‘Say so now, for the King has charged me to ensure that you are a willing bride. Why the King doesn’t command you to wed and have done, I’ll never know. Maybe it is because you come from the Abbeye aux Dames. It was endowed by his wife, and perhaps he would not deprive it of an incumbent.’

  Count Geoffrey might have been adept with a sword, but he had no understanding of women. His bluff features radiated resentment at the indignity that the King had forced upon him – the indignity of having to consult a woman. He was dead to all finer feelings.

  ‘Well?’ Count Geoffrey looked at her.

  Beatrice shrivelled up inside. Not in front of all these people, she thought.

  ‘Speak up, niece. Are you content to do the King’s will in this matter?’

  ‘Aye,’ Beatrice whispered to her shoes.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Aye!’ Hazel eyes spat sparks. ‘I am content.’ Beatrice braced herself and glanced at Edmund. He offered her his hand, but his smile was strained and forced. There were shadows under his eyes.

  Formally, Beatrice put her fingers on Edmund’s. His felt like icicles.

  The count heaved a noisy sigh of relief. ‘Good girl!’ He beamed. The King would not regret having sent Geoffrey de Vidâmes on his business.

  Suddenly, the count noticed what a comely little wench his niece was. And she was sensible too – at least as far as could be expected in a woman. He clouted Beatrice on the shoulders so hard that she staggered. Edmund slipped a strong arm round her and pulled her close.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t disgrace the family,’ the count declared with avuncular pride. ‘Bred to duty, eh?’ He winked at Edmund. ‘She’ll breed well, my boy. No need to worry on that score. Fine warriors, I’ll be bound. And–’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure,’ Edmund cut in brusquely. ‘Come on Vidâmes, some food. We have no wine to offer you, I fear. Not till we reach Lindsey.’

  Beatrice shut her eyes to close out the sight of her uncle’s coarse face and Edmund’s rigid one. She’d never felt more mortified. She wished the earth could swallow her up. She realised she had Edmund’s hand in a death-grip and relaxed her hold. But his fingers tightened on hers, and she felt his thumb stroke the back of her hand in a soothing, sympathetic gesture that somehow managed to take her away from the staring folk around them and eased her discomfiture. As the troop broke up and led away the horses, Beatrice leaned towards Edmund till they stood thigh to thigh. She pointed her nose at the sky and ignored her uncle’s grinning men-at-arms. She even managed to smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  Geoffrey de Vidâmes had made the one concession of his life to womankind. Now he insisted that Beatrice should be put back in her proper place. Over refreshments it was agreed that the Comte de Vidâmes and the Thane of Lindsey could ride in to meet de Brionne, but Beatrice must stay back with the Saxon womenfolk, and could follow only when all was resolved.

  It did not take
long. Beatrice hardly had time to wonder how her cousin was, and what her uncle had planned for de Brionne, when Morcar came galloping up the track amid a flurry of snow. He had Betony on a leading rein.

  ‘Come, my lady,’ Morcar flung his huge bulk from the saddle. ‘You are expected. And you too, Lady Hilda.’

  ‘Already?’ Beatrice grabbed her cloak. ‘What about de Brionne? I can’t see him surrendering peacefully.’

  Morcar grinned. ‘It seems your Norman King has other plans for him.’ He led Betony to a handy barrel that was used as a mounting-block, and Beatrice climbed into the saddle. ‘He’s being sent north. They’re a stubborn breed up there, and apparently they’re refusing to bow to the inevitable. De Brionne is being sent to help them see wisdom.’

  ‘I pity them,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘Aye,’ Morcar agreed soberly. ‘I can think of few worse fates than having de Brionne set over you. Come, my ladies, we’re to hurry.’

  ***

  It was strange to see the settlement at Lindsey again. There was the little stone chapel, the hall and...

  ‘Anne! Anne!’ Beatrice exclaimed, catching sight of her cousin emerging from the hall.

  ‘God’s Teeth, it’s Beatrice!’ Anne picked up heavily embroidered skirts and sailed over. ‘I thought never to see you again. Where in heaven’s name have you been?’ She looked well.

  Beatrice dismounted and made as if to embrace her cousin, but Anne drew back sharply. ‘Anne?’ Beatrice frowned.

  Anne shrugged prettily, her eyes were dancing. ‘Ah, Beatrice, reassure me. There was some talk of lepers, and I am attached to all of my fingers...’

  Beatrice grinned. Anne grinned back. ‘At least your barbarian keeps you well robed,’ Anne grimaced in Hilda’s direction. ‘Look at what Hilda’s come back with. Don’t tell me the poor girl’s been to Court in that.’

  Beatrice smiled at Hilda. She had to admit Hilda’s gown left much to be desired.

  ‘It’s not a gown,’ Hilda said, clambering from her pony. ‘It’s the habit of a novice.’

  Beatrice stared, for the first time seeing the ornate silver cross Hilda now wore.

  ‘Aye. I’ll be joining my mother at the Priory.’ Hilda smiled.

  Anne shook her head. ‘Convents,’ she said with a shudder. ‘They’re the same the world over. I don’t know how they do it. They must weave them from pig bristles. And as for the colour...’ Anne broke off and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Hilda, but I’d earmark that stuff for burning, not wear it!’

  Beatrice laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Anne! I’m glad you’re yourself again. Do you never stop thinking about clothes?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ Anne admitted wryly. ‘It’s better than worrying.’ She linked one arm with Beatrice, offered the Saxon girl the other, and drew them both towards the shelter of the hall. Her expression became earnest. ‘Beatrice, my father is here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘De Brionne’s being sent to the north, and I’m to accompany my father to Court.’

  Beatrice searched her cousin’s face. ‘Do you mind?’

  Anne pushed at the hall door and waved Beatrice through first. ‘The fire’s built high for you,’ she said, evasively. ‘Are you thirsty? Edmund will be here soon. He–’

  Beatrice caught Anne’s arm and forced her cousin to meet her eyes. ‘Answer me, Anne. Do you mind?’

  ‘I...I...oh, Beatrice, I don’t know. I’m not sorry to go to Court, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘And de Brionne? What of him?’ Beatrice pressed.

  Anne’s head drooped. ‘He no longer holds my affections,’ she said quietly. ‘How could he, after what he tried to do to you? He changed, Beatrice. The man who was so kind to me in Normandy no longer exists. I wonder now if he ever did. Maybe I created him out of my need.’ Anne looked at Beatrice. ‘I mourn for what I have lost, but sometimes I wonder whether I mourn for a dream. Let him go north. I care not. I’ll go to Court, and I’ll have silks and satins and–’

  Beatrice pressed Anne’s arm. ‘Oh, Anne–’

  ‘I’ll love it,’ Anne said fiercely. ‘I will, just you see.’

  The hall door flew open. Geoffrey de Vidâmes and Edmund of Lindsey stalked through it.

  Beatrice felt her heart lurch. Edmund looked better. His face no longer had that ashen pallor. He was wearing his blue tunic and hose. His sword swung at his hip and a new dagger was stuck into his belt. He seemed taller and stronger and rather remote.

  ‘My lady,’ Edmund took her hand and kissed it, and did not release it.

  ‘We’ll have the wedding now,’ Count Geoffrey announced, without preamble.

  ‘N...now?’ Beatrice went still. Edmund’s fingers stiffened on hers.

  ‘Aye. My daughter and I are leaving at first light, and I’ll see this matter through before we go,’ the count said.

  ‘How touching,’ grated a cynical voice.

  ‘De Brionne!’ Beatrice gasped, suddenly cold. She felt Edmund’s hand slide warm and reassuring round her waist.

  ‘My lady,’ de Brionne acknowledged her with an insolent bow. ‘I hear congratulations are in order. You have done well, have you not? Quite a step up for you.’

  ‘De Brionne...’ Edmund’s voice held warning.

  ‘Tsk, tsk. Still the hothead, my lord?’ de Brionne said. ‘Try to remember you’re not a rebel now. You put your lands at risk–’

  ‘Enough!’ Count Geoffrey scowled. ‘De Brionne, you exceed yourself. You’ve been warned. Now, for this wedding–’

  ‘My lord,’ Edmund put in stiffly. ‘I would not have my lady rushed.’

  De Brionne let out a snort. ‘The King has given her to you, man,’ he said. ‘She’s yours for the taking.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I would speak with her privately,’ Edmund declared coolly.

  Count Geoffrey’s eyes were round with a mixture of astonishment and impatience. ‘Let me give you some advice, my boy,’ he said, drawing Edmund aside.

  Beatrice saw Edmund shoot her a glance of pure despair. He flung off her uncle’s arm. ‘My lord, I will have my way on this.’

  Count Geoffrey’s face hardened. He snatched at his sword. Edmund’s hand mirrored the count’s.

  ‘Uncle!’ Beatrice stepped forward. ‘It is as I have said. I am content. Let the wedding take place.’

  Edmund made a gesture towards her. ‘Beatrice? You are certain this is what you want?’

  Beatrice turned to him, and peeled his long fingers from the hilt of his sword. ‘Quite certain,’ she said, and smiled into his eyes.

  ***

  She was married. She, Beatrice Giffard, was wife of Edmund, Thane of Lindsey.

  Beatrice sat on the wooden stool in the upper chamber she had shared with Anne, and fixed her eyes on the tapestry door curtain. She chewed her lip. She was waiting for Edmund, for her husband. Sounds of revelry drifted up from the hall. At least his Saxon warriors were not so set against her that they could not celebrate the wedding of their lord.

  She shifted on the hard stool. Several butterflies fluttered and danced inside her. Why was he taking so long? She glanced at the candle-clock jammed on its pricket by the bed. It was well past midnight. Jumping up, she flung back the window shutter and looked out.

  A giant hand had snuffed out the stars. The moon was out too. There was nothing to see but darkness. Nothing out there to distract her, to stop her worrying...

  Beatrice had been glad of Anne’s company at the wedding ceremony and feast afterwards. It was not that Edmund had mistreated her. On the contrary, he had been most polite, most attentive. But his blue eyes had been cold – she’d not seen even a flicker of that warm, teasing light. He was remote, detached, very much the lord of his people, and Beatrice began to wonder if she, like Anne, had been deluding herself.

  She slammed the shutter and dropped the wooden bolt in place. She eyed the bed. Perhaps if she pleased him he would learn to love her? A sigh escaped her. There was no doubt that an attraction flared between them. But Beatric
e had little idea of what was expected of her. She remembered the strictures she had read about the duties of a wife. It was not ladylike to enjoy what went on between husband and wife. Only whores enjoyed that. It was her duty to produce an heir for Edmund. That was why he had wed her.

  She perched on the edge of the stool, and twisted her hands together. He had wed her because the King had given her to him. She scowled. Damn the King for making her part of his terms. She did not want to be forced on anyone. Now if Edmund had chosen her...if he had truly wanted her...

  She heard a light footstep from the gallery outside. Her throat went dry. She had begun to think that he had changed his mind about sleeping with her, and had gone elsewhere. He’d led her up here from the feast hours ago, or so it seemed. He had murmured something about fetching some wine. And he’d been so long about it that she’d thought...

  Edmund ducked through the curtain, holding a drinking horn in each hand. His eyes glittered in the torchlight.

  ‘Here. Drink this. I mulled it myself.’

  ‘My thanks,’ Beatrice replied faintly, avoiding his fingers as she took the vessel from him. Her whole body was tight as an overstrung lyre. She sipped at her drink, and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Edmund asked, dropping to his knees before the stool, so that their faces were level.

  ‘What?’ She started.

  Long fingers touched her cup. ‘The wine. Did I mix it to your liking?’ His fingers strayed on to hers. They felt warm. Hers were cold.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I do like it. It reminds me of the drink that Anne brought me on St Agnes’ Eve.’

  Edmund gave a soft laugh. ‘You called me Edmund before we were wed. Why so formal now?’

  ‘I...I’m nervous,’ she said, white teeth worrying her lip.

  His eyes were very penetrating. Edmund lifted a hand and brushed her cheek, light as thistledown. He sighed, let his hand fall and stood up, moving abruptly into the shadows.

  ‘I will do nothing you do not wish,’ he said harshly out of the gloom. ‘I do not frighten women, and I’m not going to start with my own wife.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘Let’s to bed. You are safe with me. You told me that once, remember?’