Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  Aileen folded her arms across her chest, disliking the maid’s salacious tone but oddly certain that the circumstances of the brides of this Magnus might reflect upon her own. “He had more than one?”

  Nissa laughed with glee. “He had a dozen!”

  “So many?”

  “At first he was said to have unfortunate luck with his brides, but in time, other tales were told.”

  “Such as?”

  Nissa glanced furtively to the door. Aileen’s curiosity was fed by this sudden fear of discovery. Nissa pointed out the window. “Those cliffs opposite the river were that first bride’s dowry lands, those cliffs thick with the nests of peregrines. Though she died within the year, Magnus never surrendered those lands to her family.”

  Aileen shrugged. “There is little scandalous in that. Warfaring men do as much all the time.”

  Nissa’s eyes gleamed. “But even warfaring men do not eat their brides.”

  Aileen stepped back from the maid. “What nonsense is this?”

  “It was said that Magnus ate his brides, every one of them.” Nissa nodded.

  Aileen could not keep from grimacing though she was skeptical. “You cannot mean that he truly ate them? Surely this is but a fanciful tale?”

  “Aye, but he did. He locked them in a high chamber, not unlike this one, and forbade any others to visit them. He fattened them for a year and a day, and then he had them dressed in the richest finery. They thought the consummation of their match had come, and perhaps it did. Few knew what happened in that chamber, save that the bride never survived the night.”

  “No!”

  “It was said that he wrung their necks, as if they were no more than chickens. It was said that he would have the cook aid him in the butchering and that the floors of the chamber—who none saw but himself and the cook—were stained red with the blood of his brides.”

  “That cannot be!” Aileen strode away from the maid in disgust. “I will not listen to such whimsy!”

  “They disappeared, did they not?” Nissa insisted, her words low and hot. “It was not so much that they died, my lady. There was never a trace left of any of his wives. There were no witnesses of their demises. A coffin would appear in the chapel the next morn, and no more was said.”

  Aileen’s bile rose at this gruesome tale, despite the vigor of the sunlight and her own certainty it could not be true.

  “It is told that a handmaid said that she had peeked within one coffin and seen naught but bones and a heart, a heart still beating, red with blood.”

  “This is nonsense.”

  “Aye? Then why were the coffins nailed closed after that?”

  “There could be a hundred reasons. You cannot know such details so many years later. The tale has been embellished, Nissa, any fool can see as much. These are no more than fanciful stories to entertain…”

  Nissa’s eyes brightened. “Believe what you must, but I believe Magnus devoured his brides, in stews and soups and sauces. He sucked the marrow from their bones; he ate every morsel but their hearts. And then he buried them, out there”—she pointed out one window—“and kept their dowries when he claimed another bride for his own.”

  Aileen followed her gesture. “There is a line of trees there, beyond the outer walls.”

  “Aye, great old trees, twelve great old trees, trees that unfurled from the hearts of these sorry women. The sole thing that halted his deeds was his own demise.”

  “Surely not!” Aileen made a skeptical snort. “Admit the truth to me, Nissa, admit that this is some tale concocted in the hall after too much ale has been consumed.”

  “Is it? Explain to me then who planted these trees?”

  “Some soul who made a jest upon the laird, no doubt, just as you jest upon me.”

  Nissa held up a warning finger. “They are trees that no soul planted, by the tales told ’round the fire. They are trees that sprouted suddenly from the earth, half as tall as a man one morning when they had not been there the night before. They grew, each of them, on the eve of the nuptials of the next bride, as if to warn her of what lay ahead.”

  “But…”

  “They are strange trees, that much is certain. They whisper in the wind even when there is no wind. It is said that they grew from the women’s beating hearts, that they stand witness to the crimes of Magnus Armstrong. It is said that they will turn red, as red as blood, when his penance has finally been served.”

  Aileen stifled a shiver. The morning seemed somewhat less bright than it had just moments before. “Then you tell me Inverfyre is built twice upon blood—the blood of these women and the blood of the Hawk’s enemies.”

  “Indeed so. Old crimes have been done in this place and great tales have been spawned here…” Nissa stepped away, abruptly falling silent. “But, of course, you do not believe in such whimsy.”

  The maid turned to leave, but Aileen caught her sleeve. “Show me the proof of it, Nissa. Persuade me. Show me these whispering trees.” She told herself that she made the suggestion for no better reason than to leave this chamber, but in truth, she was intrigued by this gruesome tale.

  The maid hesitated. “The laird said as you should remain in your chamber this day.”

  Aileen smiled coolly, for she was determined to not be as biddable as a hound. “A woman should not cede everything to a man simply because he anticipates as much. Am I not the Lady of Inverfyre now?”

  Indecision warred in the girl’s eyes for only a moment, then she nodded with resolve. “I will take you there,” she agreed. “I cannot imagine my laird would be displeased that you are curious about your new abode.”

  “I will go to the chapel first and hear the mass, then I will break my fast,” Aileen said, having no intent of altering her usual routine. She glanced up to find the maid watching her. “What is it? Surely you hear the mass daily?”

  “We have no chapel, my lady.”

  “That is not of import. Summon the priest and he can bless a space.”

  “We have no priest, my lady.”

  Aileen stared at the girl. She had never heard of a keep without a priest. “Surely this is not true. You must have a priest!”

  “One came from Stirling several times a year until three years past.”

  “And then?” Aileen prompted when Nissa hesitated.

  “And then he was murdered, my lady, and there has never been another.” Nissa pivoted and left the chamber, clearly assuming Aileen would follow.

  Aileen left her high prison, her thoughts spinning. If there was no priest, then no sacraments were being offered to the people of Inverfyre. Surely the Hawk was not so wicked as to condemn those beneath his care to hell?

  But then Aileen recalled how the Hawk’s men treated the priest of Abernye. They were unholy warriors, that much was clear. Annoyance rose within Aileen. How could the Hawk have so little regard for the souls of those beneath his hand, even if he spurned the faith himself? Trust a man of his repute to have no sense of his responsibility! Perhaps there was some good she could achieve in this place!

  Aileen gritted her teeth. Though she had no certainty what the Hawk planned for her and she did not believe Nissa’s ominous tale, she had no intent of waiting patiently in that chamber for a year and day to learn the worst.

  Indeed, the Hawk might well regret bringing her to Inverfyre.

  The kitchens were busy, and redolent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat. Two boys followed the dictate of the cook, moving hastily to prepare the meat for the spit. The cook himself was plump—always a good portent for the fare, in Aileen’s father’s words—and spared a smile for her, though he clearly had much to accomplish. There were surprisingly few women at work in the kitchens.

  Though the servants clearly would have preferred her to eat in the hall, Aileen insisted upon remaining in the cheer of the kitchen. She was seated in a corner with a large piece of dark bread and a comb of honey, an ample napkin, a cup of ale, and a knife. She murmured a prayer herself and was conten
t indeed with her feast. Indeed, she was ravenous and ate every morsel, though normally the bread would have been too generous a cut.

  A trio of women sat together near the fire, murmuring and giggling to each other. Their hair hung loose and their kirtles were not laced demurely at the neck. It appeared that they had used carmine upon their reddened lips and cheeks. They were pretty women, though their manner was less decorous than Aileen might have preferred.

  She guessed what task they performed to earn their keep, and supposed she should not have been surprised to find harlots in a hall filled with warriors. The one with hair as dark as ebony watched Aileen openly, her eyes filled with malice and amusement. “I do not care how vexed Fernando becomes,” she told her companions gaily, one eye upon Aileen. “I shall oust him without regret each and every time the Hawk crooks his finger at me.”

  The women giggled, sparing covert glances for Aileen, who ignored them.

  “That is only Guinevere,” Nissa whispered. “Pay her no heed, my lady.”

  Aileen realized that this was the whore who had challenged the Hawk the night before.

  “She likes naught better than to set people at odds.” The girl wrinkled her nose. “She will have decided to dislike you already, my lady, for she greatly fancies the Hawk.”

  Guinevere arched a brow, as if well aware of what the maid confided, then bared her teeth in a mock growl. Her companions laughed lustily at her antics, though Aileen concentrated upon her meal.

  She was not surprised that the Hawk had a whore and had no intent of doing anything about the matter. He would need the woman’s consolation after Aileen was gone.

  Had she been staying, or wed happily, Guinevere would have faced a much less tolerant Aileen.

  The sole thing that troubled her in this kitchen, Aileen decided, was the floor. The rushes cast there were dark with grease, and she felt she could smell their filth. The matter was made worse by the dozen dogs that lingered underfoot—some kept their watchful gazes fixed on the meat being prepared while others burrowed in the old rushes. They found many a morsel and bone hidden there, their foraging too successful for Aileen’s taste.

  Indeed, she would be hard-pressed to eat much that came from these kitchens, however savory the smell. She could not keep silent about the matter, and indeed, it gave her an idea. It could not hurt to prove herself so irksome that the Hawk might willingly discard her—or at least, might not pursue her when she escaped.

  Aileen cleared her throat. “Are the dogs always in the kitchens, Nissa?”

  The maid nodded and grimaced, her own opinion of this clear. “Aye, my lady.”

  Aileen finished her ale, resolved to make at least one change in her new home. She was Lady of Inverfyre and the kitchens fell beneath her jurisdiction.

  She would remind the Hawk as much if he was vexed.

  A slender older man halted before Aileen and bowed his head. “Good morning, my lady. I am Gregory, the castellan of Inverfyre, and most delighted to welcome you to your new abode. I trust that all is suitable?”

  It was intended to be a polite inquiry and Aileen knew as much, but she dared not lose the opportunity. “Indeed, Inverfyre is a marvelous keep, and I must salute you for its fine state.”

  Gregory smiled and made to depart.

  “But I wonder, Gregory, when the rushes in the kitchen and hall were last changed?” Aileen smiled with all the sweetness she could summon when he glanced at her. “Although many change them once a year, my mother always favored a monthly sweep to discourage vermin. I confess I favor her scheme, perhaps because it is what I learned to expect.”

  The castellan’s nostrils flared as he straightened, and Aileen was certain he did not appreciate her interference in what he perceived to be his domain. His very manner annoyed Aileen, for he should have made a token acknowledgment of Aileen’s status.

  Unless the Hawk had forbidden his servants to show her any concession. Aileen straightened and returned the castellan’s regard unflinchingly.

  “I shall ask my lord as to his preference,” he said coolly and she doubted he would do any such thing.

  “You know mine,” Aileen said with resolve. “Please have the hall swept and the rushes replaced before the midday meal. I will not suffer vermin in my abode, and neither, I am certain, will my laird husband.”

  Gregory smiled thinly. “With respect, my lady, Inverfyre is not Abernye. We have always managed matters thus and acknowledgment of custom is key to a well-administered keep.”

  “With respect, Gregory, habit does not make a practice right. And indeed, Inverfyre is clearly bereft of noblewomen. One cannot expect a warrior to tend to the details of maintaining a gracious hall, though I have no doubt my husband intends for me to take such a responsibility. Why else would he have wed at all?” She smiled so that Gregory could not deny her without looking like a disobedient cur.

  She heard Nissa hold her breath, and noted that girl’s eyes widened with awe. Aileen had no doubt the castellan still would ask for the Hawk’s agreement and dared not imagine what might result from that.

  Gregory cleared his throat and bowed. “As you wish, my lady,” he said tightly, then turned to depart.

  Aileen resolved to finish what she had begun. If the Hawk was going to be furious with her, he might as well have good cause.

  “And Gregory,” she called after the castellan. The man paused and glanced back warily, clearly anxious to be away from her demands. “Though I know this to be an abode of hunting and fighting men, I cannot suffer dogs in the kitchens. They too oft carry vermin, and their presence underfoot complicates the labor of those in the kitchens who already work overhard. In future, the dogs are welcome in the hall and in the stables only.” Aileen held the castellan’s gaze, letting him see her determination.

  “My lord greatly indulges his hunting hounds,” he said with care.

  Aileen let her smile broaden. “And he is welcome to do so in the stables. See to the matter immediately, if you please, Gregory.”

  Gregory could not summon a word of either protest or agreement, so startled was he. He merely bowed and departed, his neck as red as a morning sky. Aileen doubted he had ever been challenged by a woman before.

  “My thanks to you, Lady Aileen,” the cook declared, waving his wooden spoon with a flourish. “I trip over these hungry hounds all the day long and fear to break my very neck.”

  “Hounds have no place in the kitchens,” Aileen reiterated firmly.

  The cook grinned. “Indeed, they do not. I will not wait for Gregory’s edict, for the Lady of Inverfyre has spoken.” He gestured to a pair of boys and waved to the dogs. “See the hounds out to the bailey, and say it is by my lady’s command if any question your deeds.”

  One boy took a bowl of scraps, another roused the dogs, and the hounds willingly followed the bowl, their noses in the air.

  Nissa smiled and Aileen felt a certain satisfaction in improving the state of her husband’s holding, even if the three whores wrinkled their noses and left the kitchen in disdain.

  Perhaps she would see the hall rid of them, too. The prospect made Aileen smile.

  VI

  A stout older woman, the sole female in the kitchen other than Nissa and Aileen, nodded with undisguised satisfaction. She seized a broom and began to clear the floor. She swept the rushes with such vigor that the stone floor was quickly visible.

  “Time enough we had a lady in this hall,” she said with resolve. “Time enough these boys learned to be men.” She wielded her broom like a weapon, halting only to incline her head respectfully when she reached Aileen. “We shall see the rushes all replaced before midday, my lady, upon that you can rely.”

  “I thank you.”

  The woman hesitated before returning to her labor, her uncertain manner revealing that she had a request.

  “What do you desire of me?” Aileen asked kindly. “And tell me first, what is your name?”

  “Gunna is my name, my lady. I saw you pray, meaning no d
isrespect, and I would ask you whether there is any scheme to bring a priest again to Inverfyre.”

  “Of course we must have a priest,” Aileen said firmly. “How many souls make their homes in the village and keep proper?”

  “A hundred in the village, my lady, fewer in the hall.”

  “I shall speak to my laird husband about the matter, Gunna.” Aileen’s heart quivered at the prospect, but she forced a smile. “You might offer a prayer to my success. I may need such aid.”

  “I will do so. I thank you, my lady.” Gunna took her broom to the floor with enthusiasm.

  Her meal complete, Aileen rose to leave the kitchen, Nissa fast by her side. In that moment, the boys hefted the hind of meat over the fire, fitting the ends of the spit into the iron brace inside the fireplace. The cook bade them stoke the fire and the flames left high, licking the fat of the meat.

  The smell of burning fat and the crackling sound of the meat braising made Aileen’s bile rise as always it did. She pivoted, sickened, and hastened from the kitchen, fearing she would be ill. The revulsion within her made her own flesh crawl and she could not be far enough from that cursed sound.

  “My lady? Are you ill?” Nissa demanded, her footsteps quick behind her.

  “It is nothing, Nissa. I simply cannot tolerate the sound and smell of browning meat.” Aileen shrugged and smiled. “It is folly, I know, but it sickens me and always has. I do not know why or how it might be changed.”

  The maid regarded her with consideration. “How odd,” she said. “I never heard of a soul being troubled by that until I came to Inverfyre.”

  “Indeed?” Aileen commented only to be polite, embarrassed as always by this ridiculous aversion.

  “Indeed. My laird himself leaves the kitchens when the meat first sizzles over the fire. Though he grants no explanation, his expression is much as your own.”

  Aileen glanced at the girl in surprise.

  “All know of it, my lady, just as all will know you share his dislike.” Nissa smiled. “Perhaps it is a portent that your match is particularly well-made.”