Snow in July (2 page)

“Alain, for the love of the Blessed Mother, wake up!”

Even through pain’s fog he recognized the voice. Sir Ruaud d’Auvay had removed the spear embedded in his shoulder, dressed his wound with strips of Étienne’s surcoat, hustled him from the battlefield, and secured for him the best of care through several weeks of fevered semiconsciousness, first in the Hastings field hospital and later at Ruaud’s chambers in London. Of any living soul, Ruaud knew Alain best, but he had no inkling of the depth of Alain’s anguish, nor would he ever find out.

No one had any business invading his purgatory.

Alain opened his eyes to find Ruaud peering at him, his candle’s glow warming Alain’s face. Alain attempted a shooing gesture. As he glanced away, ashamed by how weak he felt, he noticed the frost that had etched the windowpanes. Two months’ convalescence had done little to improve the condition of his body or spirit. His hand dropped to the coverlet. “A bit of air, if you please.” He regarded Ruaud with a limp grin.

“God be praised.” After straightening and setting the candleholder on a table, Ruaud ran his fingers through his thick, dark blond hair, his usually jovial face tense with concern. “You looked so pale and still, I almost summoned a priest.”

“I am glad there was no need for my services, Sir Ruaud,” boomed a man from the threshold.

The speaker strutted into the room, his sumptuously embroidered, wine-colored velvet robes rustling across the floor rushes, a bulky gold crucifix hanging from his neck: Bishop Odo de Bayeux, Duke William’s half brother and one of the duke’s most trusted advisers. A stoop-shouldered cleric shuffled behind the bishop, clutching a leather folio to his chest.

As Ruaud hastily vacated his bedside seat and bowed to kiss their visitor’s ring, Alain tried to push himself up. Pain bolted through his chest and down his arm in pulsing waves. Nausea clawed at his stomach. He fell back against the pillows, gasping.

“Be at ease, Sir Robert,” said the bishop. “No need for formalities on my account.” He balled a fist, raised it to his lips, and cleared his throat. “I am here to pay you honor at King William’s behest. His Majesty conveys his regrets that he is unable to visit in person, but with the coronation less than a fortnight away, those details consume his every waking moment.”

Not to mention William’s recuperation from his battle wounds, Alain thought wryly. Rebellion could erupt at the slightest display of weakness. “I understand, my lord bishop.”

Bishop Odo nodded at the cleric, who extracted a parchment leaf from the folio. “William, Duke of Normandy and King of England,” began the cleric in a nasal voice, “to Robert Alain de Bellencombre, Knight of Normandy, greetings. In deepest appreciation for your assistance in securing for us the Throne of England, we grant you deed to the estate of Edgarburh in Somerset, Wessex, the title for which property shall be conferred to you upon the occasion of your wedding to Kendra Waldronsdotter, the daughter of the estate’s present lord—”

“Your pardon,” Alain said, throat constricting, “but may I see that?” Bishop Odo arched an eyebrow but granted his consent. The parchment rattled as the cleric passed it to Alain, who perused it and met the bishop’s inquisitive gaze. “Duke William wishes me to marry the thane’s daughter? Does she know yet?” He hadn’t intended to sound so querulous and felt his cheeks heat.

“
King
William wishes to quell any remaining spirit of rebellion in the most expedient and bloodless way possible,” Bishop Odo replied. “Couriers were dispatched with his decrees at first light. Marrying his bachelor knights to English noblewomen, especially those living nearest to London, is a sound and merciful policy.”

Merciful for whom?

“Please forgive Sir Robert, my lord bishop.” Ruaud shot Alain a warning glance. “His fever and wounds have left him addlepated. I am certain he appreciates the king’s generous boon.”

Alain nodded and swallowed, heart plummeting. Marriage meant making more vows…vows to love and honor and protect.

Vows too easily broken.

THE PEWTER goblet hit the trencher with an ungodly clatter. Bloodred wine seeped across the white table linens, reminding Kendra of what Del’s blood must have done the night he was ambushed.

As a servant rushed to right her goblet and blot the stain, she leaned against her carved, tall-backed chair on the dais of Edgarburh’s feast hall, certain she had imagined the voice that had startled her.

She wished Del’s condition could be righted as easily.

Her seat gave her the best view of the Cristes-mæsse festivities, which at present consisted of a muzzled, scruffy bear being goaded through its awkward paces by an equally scruffy man to the raucous amusement of the crowd.

Kendra couldn’t share in the laughter.

With the tip of her dagger, she chased slices of stewed apples around her trencher, racking her brains for something—anything—she hadn’t yet tried to help her brother, either to heal his wound or cure the fever and cough invading his lungs.

Invasion. She gave a soft snort. Not three months earlier, Del had risked his life in the service of King Harold against the invading William of Normandy. Del had been one of the lucky few to survive the battle, only to be cut down on their father’s lands by one of William the Bastard’s knights. The enormity of the outrage still blazed within her heart.

Even greater kindled her wrath over the decree accompanying the coronation announcement: she must wed one of these ruthless Norman warriors.

This very day, her father was paying court upon the new king, offering his—though not his daughter’s—acquiescence to the betrothal in hopes of currying favor enough to present his complaint about Del’s attacker. He possessed the knight’s shield, though the coward had eluded capture. Waldron kept the shield locked in his quarters, for he couldn’t risk losing his one tangible link to the Norman swine.

Kendra’s heart had screamed the truth, although her father had refused to hear it: Sir Delwin Waldronson had fought for King Harold, his attacker was one of William the Bastard’s retainers, and justice would be denied.

Unable to avenge Del, she’d channeled her energy into helping him as best she could.

She gripped her dagger’s haft in white-knuckled frustration. There must be some herb or simple she hadn’t tried…

To heal the pain, you must endure the thorn.

Kendra jerked her head up. The dagger slipped from her fingers and dropped onto the table. Sheepishly she looked around, but the others seemed enthralled by the bear’s antics.

Petals from the Glastonbury thorn, the thousand-year-old tree purported to have sprouted from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff when he established the first Christian church on the ancient sacred site, were reputed to work every manner of medicinal miracle in the hands of the pure in heart. But when she had tried to use some of the herb to heal her mother, the petals had ignited in her hands, leaving naught but ash.

Her unworthiness provided the only possible explanation.

Ashamed of her failure, she had concocted a story about falling into a bed of nettles to explain the lurid rash on her palms.

She turned her hands to catch the fickle torchlight. Though the discoloration had faded, and the pain had long since subsided, the effects remained visible after nearly a decade.

Endure the thorn.

Her mother’s dying request wrenched Kendra’s heart with renewed shame and guilt and fear.

Mayhap, now that she had gained more experience in the healing arts, she could avoid suffering the same consequences. She doubted whether she had grown any more pure of heart, but she had to try this remedy for Del’s sake. She turned her thoughts toward how many petals she’d need and how much her request would cost.

“Lady Kendra?” She glanced up at the worried face of her maidservant, Rowena. “My lady, he asks for you.”

No need to ask which “he” Rowena meant. Kendra rose. So did the rest of the company, but she forced a smile and bade them to be seated and enjoy the entertainment. The bear and its handler yielded to a troupe of brightly clad jugglers whose feats and ribald jokes soon had the people laughing again.

Just as well, Kendra thought. The time for tears would arrive swiftly enough.

She donned her cloak trimmed in rabbit fur and left the hall, stopping first at the kitchens. While Rowena prepared a hot onion poultice, Kendra brewed a tisane of lungwort and lady’s mantle. Not that, after all these weeks, she had much faith left in either remedy, but she had nothing else to offer.

Cradling the lidded terra-cotta mug against her chest to preserve the warmth of its contents, she scurried along the roofed walkway toward the manor house. After navigating the building’s slick exterior staircase, she ducked inside the upper story’s door and hastened down the rush-lit hallway toward Del’s quarters. Only by the extra set of footfalls echoing off the walls did she know Rowena was keeping pace.

Inside the chamber, Kendra almost dropped the tisane.

To say that Del’s condition had declined since tierce, when she’d torn herself from his bedside to oversee the final preparations of the Cristes-mæsse feast, was an understatement. His face, already pale, had developed a waxy sheen. Sweat-darkened blond hair framed his sunken cheeks and pain-furrowed forehead in a damp halo. His eyes were closed and his lips parted, his chest moving erratically.

She shut her eyes against the sting of unshed tears. Inhaling to compose herself, she blinked and rounded on her maidservant, fighting to keep exasperation and fear from dominating her tone. “Rowena, why did you not fetch me sooner?”

“Not her fault.” The voice sounded hoarse and frail, not like her brother at all. “My wish.”

Upon setting the mug on the tray beside the onion poultice and shedding her cloak, Kendra strode to Del’s side. She directed the maidservant to clear a place amid the clutter of bandage rolls and half-empty potion vials and salve pots on the nearby table. The candles’ flames wavered in time with the women’s hasty movements, throwing restive shadows against the wall. Rowena shifted the tisane to the table and piled the discarded items onto the tray. After reviving the fire by turning the logs and heaving on another, she picked up the tray, dipped a curtsey in response to Kendra’s murmured thanks, and left the room.

Hefting the poultice in one hand, Kendra loosened the ties of Del’s tunic with the other.

His hand gripped hers with unexpected strength. “Don’t bother.” When she began to protest, his face cracked into the lopsided grin she loved so well and would miss so much. “Please. I’d like to leave this world not reeking of the kitchens. If it’s all the same to you.”

To combat her alarm, she adopted an aura of mock haughtiness. “It most certainly is not the same to me, Delwin Waldronson. The poultice will help you breathe.” She hoped.

His bark of laughter sparked a cough that made him release her hand. She abandoned the poultice on the table so she could help him sit up, rubbing his back and feeling otherwise useless, until the fit subsided. When it finally did, he lay back against the pillows, wheezing. Blood spattered the coverlet. Her stomach twisted. Their mother had died so, though not because her body had been weakened by a festering sword wound.

Refusing to surrender, she snatched the mug, removed the lid, and lifted it to his lips. He took a swallow, though whether just to humor her or not she couldn’t tell. Kendra told herself his wheezing had eased, but of that too she could not be certain. She felt certain of nothing.

She left the mug on the table and perched on the stool beside his bed. He caressed her hair, her cheek, her lips. His fingers felt too cold. She grasped his hand and kissed it, wishing yet again for the gift their mother was rumored to have possessed, the ability to heal with but a touch.

Gently she laid Del’s hand down but did not let go. His smile seemed laden with as much sorrow as affection.

“Promise me something, dear sister.”

She squeezed his hand. “Anything, Del! You know I would give you…” As she cast about for an absurd example, she glanced out the slotted window and noticed the weather’s bleak turn. “If it were within my power, I would give you snow in July.” If only he would live that long, she prayed. Long enough for her to obtain some of the Glastonbury thorn’s petals and overcome her fear of using them.

He smiled. “You’d find some way to do it, Kendra. I know.” The smile vanished. “Promise me you’ll strive to find happiness.”

She withdrew her hand to cross her arms, irritation over their old argument rising despite her worry. “And how am I to do that, pray tell me, if I am fated to marry a man of the accursed race responsible for doing this”—she waved her arm over his body—“to you? I would rather die! And Father knows it. But he cares for naught save his own status, that he retains some vestige of control over our lands.”

“Do not speak so. Father loves you and is doing what he can to ensure that you will be provided for. You and all the folk who look to Edgarburh for protection.”

Stung by the truth of his rebuke, she bowed her head. “I know, Del. It’s just that…” She clenched her jaw. “I shall never marry the retainer of a king who lets his knights attack men returning home under the banner of truce.”