Snow in July (44 page)

This time they defeated the crowd in its game, their lips meeting before the first syllable of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” could be uttered.

Their final public kiss occurred, by Saxon custom, over a tower of honey-and-oat cakes almost as tall as Kendra. Alain felt certain he could lean over to reach her, God—and mead—willing, but the formidable stack seemed to frustrate his bride, who had trouble seeing past the cakes.

So he did what any other considerate bridegroom would have done, or so he thought: he drew his sword, cautioned her to stand clear, and slashed the stack.

After an awkward moment of stunned silence, thunderous whoops of laughter erupted.

“I’ll wager I wasn’t supposed to do that.” Feeling his cheeks heat, he wiped the crumbs from his sword with the hem of his surcoat and sheathed it.

“Nay, my love.” Grinning, she stepped through the sticky mess to fling herself into his arms. “But I believe that you—we have just birthed a new tradition.”

The resounding chant of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” faded into oblivion as Alain lost himself in the unfathomable depths of Kendra’s love.

Epilogue

K
ENDRA ORDERED ROWENA to hurry with weaving the last ribbons into her braids. The messenger had reported that Sir Robert—even three years later, hearing Alain’s formal name and rank made her smile—and his company were due to arrive soon. The manor’s lady wished for everything to be in perfect readiness for the lord’s return.

She donned her veil and pinned the de Bellencombre rose brooch in its rightful place next to her half ring. Her fingers lingered upon the white and green enamel’s graceful contours to revive the cherished memories it evoked.

It had been a dreary six months without Alain.

But how much worse must it have been for him, being called away from hearth and home by the king to help quell yet another Saxon uprising, this time in the northeast, near York.

She sighed, easing her gravid bulk from the chair to stand, and tottered with Rowena’s assistance to gaze out the tall, stone-framed window. From the castle’s vantage on the ridge crest, halfway between Edgarburh and Glastonbury, she felt as if the entire world lapped at her feet.

Although her love for Alain, coupled with his just governing of the shire, had inspired the folk of Edgarburh and Glastonbury to abandon their resentments, she wished the rest of her people would choose to live in peace under their Norman masters. Then mayhap King William wouldn’t feel compelled to be so brutal to them—and mayhap she could have her husband for more than a few months at a stretch.

“Is that such a selfish wish?” she murmured.

“My lady?” Rowena asked.

Kendra smiled ruefully. Her unborn baby nudged her, and she patted her swelling belly. “’Tis nothing, Rowena.” Nothing but the fondest wish expressed by every warrior’s mother.

As if on cue, she heard her firstborn warrior, two-year-old Étienne, shrieking and clattering about the adjacent room, old Ethel raising her voice over his din, admonishing him to slow down.

The woman might as well try taming a whirlwind.

A cloud of dust approaching from the north held Kendra spellbound as she watched it grow larger, her heart dancing in anticipation.

Alain would receive several surprises this day.

She hadn’t quite grown accustomed to the time it took to traverse this immense, manmade cavern called a castle, and advanced pregnancy slowed her steps that much further. By the time she stopped at the wine cellar to fetch a goblet full of their finest vintage for the ceremonial welcome and hurried into the main yard with Étienne and their servants in tow, Alain and his men had already cantered under the portcullis and dismounted.

The man she had once known as “Snake” noticed her and raised his right hand in salute before ordering the other men to feed and stable their mounts. Liam Fletcher had proven to be an invaluable liaison to Alain’s Saxon troops, and in public settings Kendra had rarely seen her husband apart from his second-in-command, who fletched fine arrows as necessity demanded.

Liam took Chou’s reins as well as his own mount’s and, with a respectful nod at Kendra, led the soldiers and their horses toward the stables.

The love of her days and lover of her nights circled about the courtyard, his helmet tucked under one arm, taking in his newly completed home for the first time. Pleased wonderment worked its way into the road grime streaking his face—along with a darker, crustier streak that had to be dried blood.

The castle’s defensive walls had been completed, but the towers and great hall were naught but foundations when Alain left. The household was living in timber buildings that had since been converted to storehouses.

Noir, whom Alain had taken to war, padded around the yard, barking after the occasional chicken, cat, or pigeon and poking his snout into every crevice and cranny.

“I have much to show you, dear husband.”

He whirled at the sound of her voice, a grin leavening his weariness. After entrusting his helmet to the waiting squire and striding toward her, he halted as her condition appeared to register. “Kendra! All those letters, and you never told me.”

“You never asked.” She smiled sweetly, pressing her fingers over the cut on his cheek. As the wound faded, so did her smile. “What injuries are there among the men?”

“Of the survivors, nothing too bad this time, praise God.” He opened his arms. “The men can wait a while yet.”

Sidling as close to him as her belly allowed, she reveled in the simple pleasure of his embrace. She slid her hands over his chest to trace the dual lumps under his surcoat: the small arc representing his half ring and the larger rectangle defining the case containing her hair.

With his palm he caressed her rounded flesh, his eyebrows quirking upward when he felt the baby kick. “Little Delwin?”

“Or Edwina.”

During her first pregnancy, they had agreed to name their children in honor of their departed loved ones. Margaret and Hugh, Alain’s parents, also would be future candidates for names if the de Bellencombre brood ever grew that large.

Lord willing, it would be years yet before they would be forced to consider naming a son “Waldron” or “Ruaud.” Both men enjoyed robust health, although Ruaud had not visited since returning across the Channel to his Norman wife, sons, and estate soon after Étienne’s birth.

Alain peered around Kendra to find his son clinging to the back of her overdress. Although he squatted to the boy’s level, Étienne whimpered and shrank back, rounding his eyes and sticking a thumb in his mouth.

“My armor must frighten him,” Alain said with a sigh.

Her heart broke for her husband. “
Étienne, cher, tu sais ton papa,
” she scolded lightly. And again, in English, “You know your father.” She grasped the boy’s chubby fingers and gently but firmly pulled him forward. “Come and bid Papa well come to our new home.”

“Your French has improved markedly, Kendra.” Pride reverberated in Alain’s tone as he scooped up his wriggling son and held him close. After a few moments, he set Étienne down, though Kendra was relieved to see their son clutching his father’s mailed leg, poking his fingers into the chinks.

“I’ve lots of time to talk to the stones now that I don’t have to oversee their placement,” she said, only half in jest. “They don’t help me if I get it wrong, but they don’t laugh either.”

Alain’s face turned comical with disbelief. “When have I ever laughed at any of your efforts,
ma chere
?”

“Not recently, that much is certain.” As he spluttered a protest, she motioned to the servant carrying the goblet and ordered the man to present it to his lord. “This should help you find your tongue.”

He downed the wine in three gulps, thrust the goblet back at the servant, wrapped his arms around Kendra, and kissed her soundly, revealing exactly where his tongue could be found. She melted into his embrace, feeling very much the giddy bride again and adoring every moment.

“Now that,” he declared as he released his breathless wife, “is a proper welcome for the castle’s lord.”

“If you liked that”—her grin radiated pure mischief—“then you shall love trying our new bedchamber.”

He reflected her grin with his own. “Even a cave would feel like a home with you to share it with me.”

She laughed. “You haven’t seen the bedchamber yet.”

After charging Rowena with Étienne’s care, Kendra dismissed the servants to their regular duties, rested her right arm atop Alain’s left, and with Noir bounding beside them, began showing her beloved Norman husband the fruits of their fondest dreams.

Le Fin

Jubilate Deo

12 June MMXIV

Author’s Notes

S
NOW IN JULY began in 1999 as a collaboration with my longtime writer-friend Patricia Duffy Novak, who had intended to write Alain’s viewpoint while I wrote Kendra’s. But life events prevented her from continuing the project, and she gave me her blessing to finish it.

I shall always be grateful to Patricia for her suggestions regarding the story line, and for her contributions in its research. Being a professor at Auburn University gives her access to that library’s resources, which in our case yielded such gems as a map of medieval Winchester, England. The paragraph describing Alain’s route from St. Mary’s Church to the tavern was adapted straight off that map.

The basic story line of the romance was Patricia’s idea: a Norman knight being ordered by King William to marry a Saxon noblewoman. Historically, William did employ this policy to stabilize England…with varying degrees of success. And he did, as described in the text, invent the office of sheriff. Bishop Odo de Bayeux really was William’s half brother, regent, and confidante—and there exists evidence to suggest that he commissioned the Bayeux Tapestry, but probably several years after the events described in
Snow in July
, which is why I never mention this famous scrap of cloth in my text.

The Glastonbury thorn tree is a Middle Eastern strain of hawthorn, which lends credence to the legend that it sprouted from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, a merchant who imported tin from Britain in Jesus’ day. Whether the young Jesus accompanied him on any of these buying trips is a matter of British national pride which I chose not to speculate upon in this story. Hawthorn is known to have medicinal value for treating ailments of the heart and circulatory system, and the Glastonbury strain is famed for producing blooms at Christmas, so I was pleased to imbue the plant with a miraculous dimension to its healing properties.

Longtime fans of my work know that I love playing with legends, and in that regard
Snow in July
is no different. In addition to mentioning the local tradition that associates King Arthur with Glastonbury—though his alleged grave would not be discovered at the abbey for another century beyond the lifetimes of Kendra and Alain—I adapt the legend that the wounded King Harold Godwinson survived the Battle of Hastings and lived out his remaining days as a monk.

The primary liberties I took were in regard to Glastonbury Tor and its surrounds. The Tor’s association with being an island dates to the millennia-old memory of the River Severn creating annual floodplains that inundated areas bordering the Bristol Channel as far inland as Glastonbury. This geologic event had ceased, for the most part, by the dawn of the Middle Ages, though the Glastonbury district still existed as swampland in the 11th century. The present-day tower is all that remains of the 14th-century Church of St. Michael, built upon the site half a century after its wooden predecessor was destroyed by an earthquake. I presume that the older church was built upon the foundation of a much earlier structure, since the site has yielded evidence of habitation dating back to Neolithic times. The maze ruins constitute just one of the hypotheses about the Tor’s terraced slopes.