Snow in July (8 page)

He flipped back the lid. A gold brooch nestled in black velvet, its face enameled with a flower encircled by interlacing greenery, a white rose.

White for Del’s soul, or white for my promise to seek happiness?

Her hand trembled as she reached for the brooch. Embarrassed, she snatched it back.

White for the snow that shrouded the ground as he lay dying in my arms?
Her vision blurred with tears as the scene returned in all its agonizing detail: the biting cold, the onion poultice’s stench, the blood bubbling from Del’s lips, the death rattle, the profound powerlessness and loss…

“Nay!”

She gasped, hand to mouth. Everyone gaped at her, except the squire. Disappointment and sorrow dominated his face as he averted his gaze. She hadn’t meant for the exclamation to slip out, and certainly not to be misconstrued as a refusal of the gift rather than a plea for deliverance from those dreadful memories, but she couldn’t explain without ripping open the wounds of her soul.

“P-please forgive me,” she forced past her quivering lips. She was unsure to whom she directed the plea: God, her father, Sir Ruaud, the absent Sir Robert, who would hear of her ill-mannered behavior and be wroth with her…or the last person on earth who deserved such treatment, the squire. The pain clouding his eyes wrenched her heart.

She spun, gathered her skirts in both fists, and fled for the stairs, sobs wracking her body for Del, for herself, and for the Norman stranger she had never intended to hurt.

Chapter 4

A
LAIN FLIPPED THE lid closed with a sharp click, struggling for composure. This brooch had been a gift from his father to his mother on their wedding day. Comtesse Margaret had bequeathed it to Alain, and upon earning his spurs, he’d adopted its design for his arms to honor her memory.

A memory Lady Kendra had tarnished.

He rose, watching her retreat up the stairs and disappear through the door leading to the upper rooms.

Forgive her? Despite his staunch Christian upbringing, he wasn’t sure he knew how.

Thane Waldron laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please excuse my daughter, squire. I’m sure she meant no offense. She—” He glanced in the direction she had gone, withdrew his hand, and sighed. “Kendra has much on her mind.”

“She has no wish to marry Sir Robert,” Ulfric said with a smirk.

Alain had guessed as much. What he didn’t anticipate was the disappointment lancing his heart.

“She has no choice. She will not bring the king’s wrath upon us.” Waldron glared at the Saxon warrior. “Neither will you.”

Ulfric bowed stiffly. “If you will excuse me.” He jerked a nod toward Ruaud and Alain. “My men and I have a long ride on the morrow.” He stalked toward the manor house’s lower entrance.

“A long ride—to where, if I may ask, my lord?” Alain said to Waldron after he was certain Ulfric was beyond earshot.

“Thane Ulfric owns a holding a tenth the size of Edgarburh abutting Church lands near Glastonbury, a two-day ride west.” Waldron glanced at the setting sun, a move for which Alain felt thankful else the thane would have seen his eyebrows shoot up. “Good Sir Ruaud, I believe there is ample time to unload your gear before vespers. Of course, you and your squire are welcome to join me in the chapel. Do you require assistance?”

After Alain translated, Ruaud shook his head. “My thanks, Thane Waldron,
mais non
. Alain and me, we carry—” He windmilled with both arms. “We carry all things.”

Close enough, Alain thought with a private grin, resolving to help Ruaud improve his English. Much more of this, and he’d be forced to reveal himself just to save everyone the torture—although if Ulfric suffered, Alain wouldn’t mind.

He rebuked himself. Ulfric might be arrogant to a fault, but he had not proven himself an enemy.

Yet.

As Alain stowed the brooch and began removing bundles from the packhorse, his thoughts strayed from Thane Ulfric to Lady Kendra. The forced marriage might explain much, but her actions and her father’s words implied more. He hefted his rolled-up hauberk to his shoulder, looped the saddle pack over the other arm, grabbed his shield by its straps, and turned to face a quizzical Waldron.

“Two sets of arms, Sir Ruaud?” the thane asked.

Alain noticed his friend was likewise laden and said, “Sir Robert sent his gear with us so he can travel more quickly.” He brandished the shield, emblazoned with the de Bellencombre rose.

The lie burned his tongue, but it seemed to satisfy Waldron. He beckoned them to follow him up the stairs to the upper rooms. The first door on the left stood open, where a pretty, auburn-haired maidservant was emerging with an armload of linens. She uttered a squeak of greeting, dipped an awkward curtsey, and tottered down the corridor. Ruaud watched her, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Waldron took a few steps into the room, stopped, and shrugged. “Again I must apologize for my daughter.” He gestured around the chamber. “Everything seems to be in order, but she would better know how to see to your needs, Sir Ruaud. Please do not hesitate to request her assistance.” He gazed toward the narrow bed, scratching his chin. “Shall I have a pallet sent up for your squire, or will he be sleeping in the feast hall?”

Alain relayed the question in French for Ruaud’s benefit, as well as his preference. “You snore worse than any ten men,” he concluded with a grin. Ruaud chortled. Alain executed his courtliest bow to the thane and reverted to English. “The feast hall, if it pleases my lord Waldron.” Having Ulfric’s men for company might also afford the opportunity to learn something about the outlaws.

Waldron nodded and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Stretching on his back across the bed, dirt-caked boots and all, Ruaud clasped his hands behind his head and uttered a low whistle. “Lady Kendra is one fine filly.”

“Indeed.” Alain paused in the task of unrolling his hauberk to give Ruaud a pointed look. “Do not think of riding her.”

Ruaud let out a throaty laugh, slapping his midsection. “I’ve no wish to sheathe your sword in my gut.” His expression sobered, and he sat up. “So, when does Sir Robert arrive?”

Excellent question.

Alain worked a pole through one armhole and out the other, and hoisted it onto a tall rack. Should he confess all and be done with this stupid ruse? Go riding out as a squire and return a knight? His limited dealings with Ulfric convinced him this would be the best way to confront the thane regarding the problems occurring in his jurisdiction.

What would Lady Kendra think? How would she react? Would she reject his mother’s brooch again? Reject him?

Did he even care?

Yes!

The admission’s vehemence surprised him.

However, he suspected that her apparent reluctance to marry Sir Robert de Bellencombre was but one of her secrets. A flash of insight showed him how to conquer those secrets, not as a knight of the Conqueror, but as himself.

He balanced his kite-shaped shield in a corner and faced Ruaud. “Sir Robert arrives to claim Lady Kendra’s hand after Squire Alain has claimed her heart.”

KENDRA SPENT a fitful night and woke with the disturbing realization that the tall Norman squire had dominated her dreams. Why, she had no idea, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his courtly grace and perfect English, his muscular body and handsome face, his expressive eyes and smile…and the pain she had caused, which, in spite of her hatred of Normans, prompted a twinge of guilt. She sat up and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The images intensified.

Weary of thrashing beneath the coverlet, she parted the bedcurtains, stood, and approached the window. Beyond the chapel’s roof, the pearly gray of dawn was staining the dark blue sky. The chapel reminded her of a task she’d left undone because her emotions had been rendered undone first by Sir Robert’s gift, then its giver. She had forgotten to change the roses on Del’s sarcophagus.

An appraisal of the light convinced her there would be enough time to select a rose before prime if she hurried. Del would have to forgive her for being late this once. She’d have remembered had she attended vespers, but she had remained in her chamber, imprisoned by her tumultuous emotions. The tide had receded with the dawn, though an undercurrent of grief and regret remained. She doubted those feelings would ever ebb.

She strode to the chest containing her clothes, opened it, and pulled out a plain dress and veil. Not a black veil, however. She had no desire to explain mourning attire to strangers, though the squire might understand.

Where had that thought come from? She doubted he’d wish to speak to her in the wake of her unintentional rudeness.

As she settled the veil over her forehead and trapped it with the silver circlet, she tried to tell herself that she shouldn’t care one iota for what he might think about her behavior.

She propped a foot against her bed to tie her shoe. She had no business swooning over one face when she was promised to another—one that might not be half as handsome but wielded fourfold power. She had no business swooning over a Norman, period. She gave the knot a final tug before repeating the process with the opposite foot.

Then there was her other vow, she mused as she fastened her cloak, the vow to find happiness. Sighing, she rubbed her temple.

An image of the squire surfaced, kneeling, offering a gift. The gift hadn’t drawn her attention first. His expression had: expectant, kind, hopeful.

Hopeful? Hopeful of what?

She grabbed her dagger from the table near her bed, fastened the sheath to her belt, and strode for the door.

Hopeful that Sir Robert’s gift would please her? She had to admit that it had, for it reminded her of Del. Even though the brooch had evoked painful memories, she was grateful for them.

She left her quarters, pulled the door shut, and crept past Sir Ruaud’s chamber toward the stairway door. Anything else his squire might have been hopeful of she didn’t dare contemplate.

ALAIN STOOD at a window in the hall, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the ragged chorus of snores emanating from Ulfric’s men and watching the sky lighten around Edgarburh’s chapel. Waldron’s retainers had long since left for their duties. Between the Saxons’ veiled hostility, Alain’s wariness, the hall’s chill, and the straw pallet’s thinness, what little sleep he’d snatched had been fraught with dreams of this place and of its elusive lady, of wooing her and of her reaction to the truth.

One was a good dream, the other a nightmare.

He laid a hand to his shoulder to massage the stiffness, hoping, no, praying to bring the former to pass and avert the latter, God willing.

Movement in the rose garden caught his eye. He felt his lips stretch into a smile as he recognized the lithe figure. Time to start working on the good dream.

“Up, sluggards! Time to go,” urged a rough voice. Ulfric’s, Alain realized with a start.

Shadows still swathed the hall, but he slipped away from the window lest it betray his silhouette. He had no fear of a handful of Saxons, but neither had he the wish to provoke a confrontation. He’d endured a bellyful of that, without their leader, last night.

With curses, groans, coughs, and cruder noises, Ulfric’s men rose and prepared to leave. Ulfric ordered them to stop by the kitchens for provisions before meeting him in the stables, and then strode from the hall. Alain waited until the last Saxon had departed before returning to the pallet for his cloak, which he draped about his shoulders and pinned with a plain iron brooch. As he passed through the doorway and crossed in front of the manor house, he prayed he’d find Kendra in the rose garden.