Sapphire in the Snow - Award-Winning Medieval Historical Romance Read online

  ‘Do you think that serfs might be better trained in England? No, it’s not very likely. They’re a pack of barbarians. Maybe barbarians make better serfs, but I doubt it. That would be too much to expect. However, there are some blessings in life – you’re here. It is my dearest wish that we shall be friends.’ Anne smiled.

  ‘I hope so too,’ Beatrice replied, truthfully. But she saw the critical way her cousin’s eyes ran up and down her gown, and she knew what Anne was thinking.

  Beatrice wanted to tell her cousin that she had not chosen the gown, that she knew it was awful, that it warred with her colouring, but she remembered how generous the prioress had been. Pride and loyalty stilled her tongue.

  Despite her hope that she and Anne could be friends, Beatrice was becoming very much aware that their different backgrounds had placed a barrier between them. She wondered if it could ever be surmounted.

  ***

  The barrier was breached, however, almost as soon as the ship weighed anchor. For as soon as their vessel started to rise and fall on the heaving waves...

  ‘Beatrice,’ Anne moaned. ‘I think I’m dying.’

  And she did look ill. Lady Anne hung over the ship’s handrail, her fingers white on the coarse timber. Her flawless olive complexion had taken on an alarming pallor. Little pearls of sweat broke out on her brow.

  Before Beatrice could respond, a sharp elbow dug in her ribs, shoving her aside. It was the woman companion who had accompanied Anne on board ship.

  ‘My lady, what is it?’ the woman asked solicitously. She cocked a jealous eye at Beatrice.

  She was Anne’s personal maidservant, there was no doubt of it. Her dark eyes flashed malevolently, warning Beatrice off her charge.

  ‘Ella,’ Anne groaned. ‘I’m going to be ill.’

  Ella’s honeyed smile slipped. Sickness always defeated her. Her antagonism fell away, she blenched, and relinquished her position by her ailing mistress.

  ‘Oh, my lady. You know I’m not trained to cope with the sick,’ the maid excused herself, her voice becoming a whine. This time the glance the woman shot at Beatrice was tempered with pleading.

  Beatrice didn’t hesitate. ‘It’s alright, Ella. I know what to do. You may go. Would you please make sure that your lady’s horse is safely stowed next to mine? If you have any problems, ask my man, Walter, to help you.’

  Deftly, Beatrice removed Anne’s veil and golden circlet. She held back her cousin’s thick brown hair and murmured soothing words. Then, when the paroxysms of seasickness had abated, she sat her cousin down under the leather awning that was to be their only protection against the salt sea-spray and the cutting wind, and supported her, gently mopping her brow.

  Suddenly her grand cousin was not so very unlike herself. The Lady Anne de Vidâmes was but a girl, a girl being sent to a strange land as she herself was, a pawn in someone else’s game.

  When Anne turned dull brown eyes gratefully to Beatrice and forced a weak smile, Beatrice realised that the barriers had begun to come down. Though the cousins had come from very different backgrounds, there were similarities. They needed each other. She now knew that they would be friends.

  ‘My thanks, cousin. Already you are becoming indispensable to me,’ Anne murmured, uncannily echoing Beatrice’s thoughts. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  The tenuous bond deepened as their vessel forged its way across the Narrow Sea under the pressure of a slashing wind on the great square sail. Beatrice’s sophisticated cousin had proved to be human. The naive convent girl found herself laughing and talking to her aristocratic cousin with a degree of ease she would never have dreamed possible.

  The ship creaked and groaned across the rolling ocean – a beast running a race with the winds. The awning above their heads flapped like the wings of a great bird beating time for the beast. The grey leagues flowed past them, the wind held. And their native country became first a thin charcoal line dividing grey skies from grey sea – then there was no line at all.

  ***

  Pevensey! England! They had arrived. Beatrice had not once worried about her fear of water. Anne took one look at the solid, unmoving land and was reborn. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her colour returned, her cheeks were tinted with a soft flush.

  ‘Thank God there’s no rain,’ Anne said.

  ‘Aye. Look, Anne, the sun will break through that cloudbank at any moment.’ Beatrice pointed.

  ‘We must hurry.’ Anne put her hand to her uncovered head. ‘My veil! I cannot let our escort see me looking like a peasant. Where’s Ella got to? Oh, never mind. Beatrice, you can help me. Where did you put my circlet?’

  Somewhat bemused by her cousin’s feverish haste, Beatrice gestured at the back of the shelter. ‘It must have rolled to the back.’

  Anne dived under the awning, and scrabbled about like a mad thing. ‘Can you see our escort yet?’ Anne’s voice came out muffled.

  Beatrice smoothed down her gown, uncomfortably aware that no amount of preening would improve her appearance. ‘I’m not sure,’ she answered, peering across the beach. The sun poked round a cloud the colour of pewter. ‘Some horsemen are galloping this way from the fort. They look as though they might be soldiers. Aye, it’s our escort, their chain-mail’s reflecting the light.’

  Anne emerged from behind the leather curtain, and came to stand at her side. Breathless, but immaculate. ‘There! How do I look?’ she asked.

  Beatrice saw Anne’s gaze wander casually over to the Norman horse-soldiers. Her cousin stiffened, stared. And, unexpectedly, she gave a dazzling smile.

  ‘You look completely recovered,’ Beatrice told her. ‘In fact I’ve never seen you looking so radiant. Your Saxon thane will be delighted when he sees his beautiful wife.’

  Anne’s face closed up and Beatrice realised that she had blundered. But how? Of course, that must be it – Anne was nervous. After all Anne had not even met the man she was being sent to marry – to marry.

  Duke William of Normandy had now become King of England. Mother Adèle had told Beatrice that he had been crowned on Christmas Day. It was January now and King William was determined to tighten his grip on his new domain. By marriage, if possible, wedding loyal Normans to the local nobility. But if resistance to his rule was strong, then King William would resort to force of arms. Already he had shown the Anglo-Saxon people that objections to Norman rule were dealt with mercilessly. The King had proved himself a strong, able man who was intolerant of any dissent.

  Aiden, Saxon Thane of Lindsey, Anne’s betrothed, had soon realised that his interests and the interests of his people would be best served by an alliance with the new Norman overlord. Beatrice knew very little about Anne’s future husband except that his name was Aiden and that he was a Saxon lord. Even Anne admitted that she had not been told whether her betrothed was nineteen or ninety.

  ‘I pray that he’s not old and stooped like Charles, my first husband,’ Anne confessed as the ship glided into the shallows.

  ‘He might be young and strong and handsome, and you might fall in love with him at once,’ Beatrice replied lightly.

  ‘I doubt it. In one sense it might be better if he is old.’

  Beatrice frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘At least there’s a chance he’d...leave me alone then. It was bad enough being pawed by Charles, but at least he was a Norman. Sweet Jesu! I never thought the day would dawn when I’d regard my mockery of a marriage with that hideous old man as a pleasant interlude. But now I’m to let some...some Saxon clod touch me with his filthy hands and–’ Anne noticed the dawning horror on her cousin’s face and stopped abruptly.

  Beatrice swallowed. She put her hand on her cousin’s arm. ‘Oh, Anne, I never thought you felt like that.’

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about it now.’ Anne’s brown eyes turned once more towards their Norman escort and came to rest on their leader. He had dismounted and waited for them at the foot of the gangway. ‘Thank God there’s no sign of the Saxons yet. W
e can worry about them when we see them. When we get to...’ Anne frowned. ‘Beatrice, what’s the name of the place?’

  ‘Lindsey. It’s a long way north,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘Aye, aye, Lindsey. Come along, Beatrice, we mustn’t keep our escort waiting,’ Anne said impatiently. She smiled brightly, pretty and vivacious.

  Shrugging her shoulders at her cousin’s unpredictable changes of mood, Beatrice hurried after her.

  Anne walked too quickly down the wooden boards and her foot must have caught on one of the slats for she suddenly tripped and went flying.

  Beatrice caught her breath, certain her cousin was in for a soaking. She herself was too far behind Anne to break her fall. She need not have worried. The Norman officer was there in a flash and caught her cousin almost before she had tripped.

  ‘My lady, permit me to assist you,’ he said, Anne already fast in his arms.

  Beatrice gaped at the way the officer held her cousin and carried her close to his chest to dry land.

  Anne appeared unperturbed by the familiar manner in which the Norman officer was handling her. She had even put an arm about the man’s neck. Beatrice felt shocked, but whether she was more shocked at the Norman’s presumption or her cousin’s response, she could not tell.

  The officer set Anne down at last and stared at her, openly admiring.

  Anne gave a shaky laugh. ‘So we meet again, Baron,’ she said. She sounded shy, almost uncertain.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, Lady Anne,’ the soldier drawled, kissing her hand.

  While this exchange was taking place, Beatrice was able to take stock of the baron. He was big and powerful. Built like a bull, he gave an impression of unstoppable strength. This was emphasised by his heavy mailcoat. He had flung back his mail hood, and Beatrice saw his hair was dark, closely cropped above his ears in the Norman fashion. His skin was swarthy. He had coal-dark eyes which were riveted on her cousin.

  Belatedly, Anne remembered Beatrice. ‘Baron, this is my cousin, Beatrice Giffard, who has kindly agreed to accompany me to...to...’

  ‘Lindsey,’ hissed Beatrice, rolling her eyes at her cousin’s obtuseness.

  ‘Of course. Lindsey. Thank you cousin. Beatrice, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Baron Philip de Brionne. I trust, my lord, that you are to be our escort.’

  ‘I am, my lady,’ the baron confirmed in a curt voice. Anne smiled, and the baron turned to acknowledge Beatrice.

  His dark eyes were cold now. Beatrice shuddered as they flickered over her. He bowed slightly, so slightly that the gesture was almost an insult. ‘My lady.’

  Beatrice did not like him. His harsh features wore the weary cynicism of the professional soldier, and for some reason he frightened her. His mouth was thin-lipped. She could not imagine him smiling. Nor did she like the way he looked her up and down. No one had ever looked at her like that. She felt as though his glance was enough to contaminate her. Flushing, she shifted uncomfortably. Her skin crawled.

  The baron saw her redden and he smiled. So he could smile. But it was not a pleasant sight. It was more of a sneer than a smile. A ruthless man. Beatrice could not say how she knew this, but she was positive she had read him aright.

  ‘I’m glad you’ll be here to protect us, my lord,’ Anne was saying.

  Philip de Brionne’s harsh gaze was centred once more on Anne, and Beatrice could breathe again. She fancied that those tight lips softened fractionally.

  ‘I am delighted to be able to serve you, my lady, in whatever way I can,’ the Norman replied with polished courtesy.

  The baron had not struck Beatrice as a man to be given to flattery, but Anne accepted his glib words as though they were her due. Probably that was how people spoke in polite society, ‘worldly people’ as Mother Adèle would have phrased it. Beatrice felt very ignorant. She knew herself to be out of her depth, and suddenly she felt very alone.

  ‘The wind is chill,’ de Brionne said. ‘You’d be advised to wait inside while my men unload your horses and baggage. This way, my lady.’

  The two girls could see a ruined stone fort atop the rise which dominated the shoreline. It was quite obviously an ancient and much neglected building, but attempts had been made – and recently – to fortify it. The new earthworks, a bank and a ditch, scarred the landscape, and a lonely sentry stood at his post guarding the refurbished barracks for his Norman compatriots. A simple wooden dwelling was set in the lee of the fort.

  De Brionne had forgotten Beatrice, and she was conscious of a vague feeling of relief that her cousin should command all of his attention.

  ‘We are to wait in that?’ Anne asked, drawing her head back as she eyed the house next to the fort. The thatch had recently been burned, and it was in dire need of repair.

  ‘I grant you it’s seen better days,’ the baron agreed, ‘but it’s the best I can offer. I’m afraid it suffered when our troops first landed. However, the walls are still standing, and they will protect you from the wind. We won’t be long unloading and then we can start our journey.’

  ‘I see you’re eager to thrust me into Saxon hands, Baron,’ Anne said sharply.

  Affecting to adjust her cloak, Beatrice frowned. There were undercurrents here which she could not fathom.

  ‘Not at all, my lady,’ the baron replied smoothly. ‘These winter days are short, and we have some miles to cover before we can make camp for the night. And in any case, my orders are to see you wed, and then to oversee the running of the Saxon’s lands.’

  Anne’s voice took on an eager note. ‘You’ll stay on at Lindsey then, after the wedding?’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  Anne sighed and relaxed. Then, seeing Beatrice’s curious glance, she explained. ‘I’ll be glad of another Norman face. I don’t relish the idea of being left alone with a bunch of Saxon savages! Especially if you persist in your idea of retiring to the convent.’

  ‘I’m certain they won’t be savages, Anne. Mother Adèle told me they have a strong and ancient culture. And your betrothed is a thane,’ Beatrice said, diplomatically.

  She was aware that the baron shot her a strange glance, but his thin lips only pursed.

  ‘Oh, ignore Beatrice, my lord. She’s lived in a convent all her life. She is practically a nun! She has all these strange ideas about loving one’s neighbour. Forgive her. She’ll soon learn.’

  Philip de Brionne’s eyes raked Beatrice from head to toe. Beatrice bristled. The sun hid behind the cloud bank.

  ‘I wonder who’ll have the pleasure of teaching her?’ de Brionne drawled.

  Beatrice bit her lip, knowing he was not referring to her ignorance of the Anglo-Saxon culture. She hoped she was not blushing again. She did not like Baron Philip de Brionne at all. She never would. But her feelings were unimportant, it was Lady Anne who mattered. It was Anne who was to marry the Saxon thane, and Anne was clearly delighted with her Norman escort.

  Watching Anne’s reanimated face, Beatrice decided the baron could not be all bad to have had such a startling effect on her cousin. If Anne was pleased to have his company on the journey to Lindsey, that was good enough for her. She may not like him, but he was strong. More than strong enough to protect them should the need arise.

  Beatrice looked out along the cold grey beach to the rough, unfriendly country beyond. The baron made her protector, Walter, seem a puny runt. The Norman was clearly a highly capable and efficient soldier. And who was Beatrice to complain, when King William himself had chosen their escort?

  Chapter Two

  The ride from Pevensey to Lindsey seemed interminable. If it had not been for Anne’s vivacity and obvious happiness, Beatrice would have objected to the snail’s pace imposed on her. Their speed was fixed by Anne’s baggage mules, and these overladen beasts lumbered wearily along rutted roads beneath the numerous trunks and chests Anne had piled on them. At the rate they were going, it would take a year to reach Lindsey.

  It irked Beatrice to ride so slowly. She could see it irked the baron’
s black warhorse too. The brute was so restless it snapped and bit at any other horse which strayed within reach of its champing jaws. Even the baron was having difficulty holding him back.

  Beatrice chafed her chapped hands. Perhaps the baron had his reasons for delaying. Perhaps he was giving Anne time to adjust to her future role. Beatrice could think of no other explanation. She too hoped her cousin was coming to terms with what lay ahead, for if she was not, then heaven help them all!

  The harsh weather made things worse. Her hands went red, then blue. She found it difficult to hold Betony’s reins. They did not possess such things as gloves at the convent – she simply had to manage without. She knew that Anne had gloves to match every gown, but Anne was too taken up with her escort and had not thought to offer them. Beatrice didn’t like to ask.

  If only she could have a good gallop along the track. That would set her circulation going again. Her blood felt as though it had frozen into a solid lump in her veins. She could hardly move her fingers.

  But the gallop Beatrice longed for was denied her. She had to plod on, freezing mile after freezing and unbearable mile. Days passed in this manner, until Beatrice had given up all hope of their ever reaching their destination. It seemed they were doomed to ride forever. And none but she showed the slightest concern about the length of time their journey was taking.

  She roused herself to take stock of the land they rode through. The land King William had conquered.

  Their path wound now through a frosted fenland world. There were pools of water whose depths were hidden by layers of ice. Reeds stood tall as sentries, encrusted with tiny water crystals. They guarded frozen lakelets, ice armour glinting in the sunlight like the Norman soldiers’ chain-mail. Wispy swirls of morning mist curled about the horse’s hoofs. In places it was difficult to distinguish between track and marsh. Their pace slowed almost to a halt. Wildfowl shrieked in alarm, warning the inhabitants of this watery world that their territory was being invaded. A strange place this, unearthly and eerie.

  A shout floated back from the scout ahead of them. To Beatrice it meant nothing. Another icy ford to cross? A camp site for the night? Her numbed brain had not registered that it was barely past noon, and they would scarcely be stopping to set up camp at that hour.