Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (16 page)

The bench had a flaw in the wood that nipped her bottom. Magnus crowded beside her on her left, keeping his stump tucked under the table. Mark settled at her other side and at once began to sniff suspiciously at his shoes. A short order from Magnus stopped him and made him keep close watch on the hall where the drinking, gaming, belching, and breaking wind continued unabated.

Gregory sat on his special chair alongside Magnus, still laughing, and he jerked his black eyebrows at her in a friendly way. He pushed a half-filled cup to her and said something, to which Elfrida smiled and opened her hands to show she meant no disrespect. He said something else, and she touched the simple wooden cross held on a cord about her neck, showing she was Christian. She would not drink from that cup even if compelled, since a dead meat fly floated in it.

“Ah, a gentle!” crowed Gregory. Kicking his legs off the table, he lurched to his feet and pulled his scarlet cap off his balding head, bowing to her and ignoring the smirks and sniggers of his men.

Magnus growled, glowering at her as if she was at fault for understanding Gregory.

His host chuckled and spoke, then nodded to her. “As I observed to your lord, you are dainty, my sweet, and worthy of all attentions.
”

“
How is it you speak my tongue?
”
she asked.

“
I know many,
”
came back the casual reply.
“
But now, since you are dainty—
”

He clapped his hands and called out in his own dialect, and the men on the lower tables rose as one and began to work. Brooms appeared from corners of the hall, and the men fairly ran with them, sweeping debris off the trestles onto the floor then scooping the rubbish into the fire, which crackled like a greedy, living thing. In moments servers had dashed in with buckets of water and scrubbing brushes to tackle the grimy benches, and then a troop of pages appeared, each with an armload of fresh greenery for strewing.

Under cover of this domestic frenzy, Magnus leaned toward her. “I like it not that he understands your speech,” he remarked in the old tongue, not saying Gregory’s name so the fellow would not know he talked of him.

“Pray God he does not know our speech,” Elfrida murmured, feeling wary herself and then absurdly happy because Magnus replied, “Yes, it is ours, is it not?”

She hugged that sweet thought to herself as a small door close to the dais opened and a group of women entered to applause. Beside her she felt Magnus start and noticed Mark smooth out his tunic, thrusting out his chest to look impressive. She felt hot color flood her face and wished she had a cup to drink from so she could avoid staring at these new guests.

“All young.” Magnus growled. “Fancy gowns. Trinkets for the troops.” He snorted and snapped his fingers at a passing server, gesturing for fresh wine. “Gregory always was a wencher.”

The gowns of the young women were fancy, Elfrida conceded, telling herself she was too wise to be disconcerted by such trifles as she sat in her travel-stained dress. But it seemed there was a gown for her, too, as a pretty, blonde girl who reminded her achingly of Christina now peeled off from the group speeding into the hall and approached her. She carried a rustling swathe of dark blue in her outstretched arms.

Lower down the hall, fresh drink was now being served, and the men whistled and hooted as one by one the score of women took their places at each trestle. The blonde with the blue gown smiled at her.

Elfrida rose. She had already decided that she would not change in full view of the hall—such customs were well and good for kings but not for her. Without glancing at Magnus or Gregory—she needed no permission from either—she turned and walked through the small door.

Chapter 11

It was a modern solar—she thought that was the term—and filled with winter sunlight from a rich window with real glass. She was tempted to dart forward and touch the surface of that strange substance but knew she must be as languid as a queen. She dropped onto one of the many great cushions arranged against the room’s luxuriously warm wall hangings and waited, warming her hands by a small brazier.

The blonde, whom she decided was less beautiful than Christina, hurried into the solar, her white-knuckled hands gripping the gown. To Elfrida’s horror, she dropped to her knees amidst the cushions and dried meadowsweet and began to plead in a high, strange dialect.

Elfrida forgot about being languid. She rushed to the blonde and knelt beside her, cradling her fair head against her shoulder. “Yes, I will wear it,” she kept saying, trying to draw the dress from those knotted fists. She could feel the girl shuddering and muttered a charm to keep her safe, calling out, “We are returning!” when a heavy hand smacked against the door. The blonde by now was shivering like a bird in a trap and unable to help her. Elfrida unlaced and kicked off her gown, bundling it into a ball, and tugged on the blue dress. She did not trouble with most of the laces—she did not want the blonde to suffer because of her perceived tardiness.

“Coming!” she shouted, scooping up her old dress, flinging her hair across her shoulders and helping the blonde to her feet. Giving her a last, comforting shoulder squeeze, Elfrida urged her to the door and thrust herself forward, when Gregory stumbled in.

“I said I was ready, Sir Gregory,” she said with a calm she did not feel. “Will you escort me to my seat?”

“Aye, for sure.” The Denzil knight licked spittle from his mouth as he peered down her bodice, chuckling when she lifted her clothes bundle in front of her bosom. He did not offer her his arm, merely pinched the rump of the blonde maid and seemed minded to smack hers until she said quickly, “Sir Magnus...”

She had to step ahead of Gregory through the door into the great hall and hated that he was staring at her bottom, but then Magnus was waiting for her directly by the threshold, leaning against a wall hanging.

He took her old gown from her and, to Elfrida’s horror, passed it straight to the blonde maid, who looked ready to burst into tears. Elfrida felt the same, but for other reasons.

“No!” She made a grab for her dress, finding herself blocked by Magnus. “I must have it!”

“Why fret about one dress that can go to another?” Magnus asked, scowling in a way that had the blonde maid weeping for terror behind her hands. Beside him, a smirking Gregory Denzil said something to which Magnus snorted and replied, “Aye, aye!”

Elfrida slapped the wall. “I am here! Speak to me! It was my gown!”

Gregory Denzil jerked a thumb a Magnus. “He will get you more,” he remarked in her dialect, showing his teeth and gums in naked amusement as she stared. “Do you truly wish it returned?”

He snatched the dress from the blonde and offered it to her with a bow, only for Magnus to step in a second time and push the man’s stretching hand and her gown back into his belly.

“Enough!” he barked, his brows locked together in a storm of irritation. “Let the girl have it and be done!”

Denzil laughed some more, snapped his fingers at the blonde and swaggered off, still gripping her gown. Elfrida longed to race after him and seize it back, but could not—Magnus dragged her against him.

“Talk?” He growled. It was an order, not a question.

“Out,” she answered, not having the word in the old speech for what she meant and too angry and alarmed herself to think of other words. Swiftly, she called out to the retreating Gregory, “Will your excellent maid show me to the garderobe, Sir Gregory?”

There was much laughter as the blonde timidly led the way from the hall, especially when Magnus followed. On the lower benches, those men who were not pouring more ale from the fresh flagons or patting and pawing the woman at their table mimicked Magnus’s limp and peg leg.

Elfrida cursed them all for their unkindness, but at last they were out of the tumult and into a narrow corridor. She dreaded what stench would await her at the garderobe, but the place, well lit with torches, smelled of nothing but snow.

The blonde nodded and wandered off in the direction of the great hall.

“She will be glad of the peace, poor creature, whoever’s lover she is,” Magnus remarked beside Elfrida. He took her hand in his. “Now, madam, I require an explanation.”

His arrogance almost undid her temper altogether. “You require!” she blazed. “You do not know what you have allowed there!”

He shrugged, still not understanding. “One dress. Are you so mean, and at Christmastime, to deny it to another?”

He thought her ungenerous! For an instant the injustice made her eyes smart and almost water, but then fiery words tumbled out of her. “I am not mean! But that was mine! Do you not understand? Mine!” She stabbed her breastbone with such force her fingers smarted. “A thing of mine that can be used against me!”

Anger and a faint disgust had narrowed Magnus’s eyes, but now they widened. “What?”

“To wish me and mine ill,” Elfrida said wearily. Her own anger had blasted through her with the force of a shooting star, and now she was empty and cold. Magnus thought her mean...

“Used against you? You mean in witchcraft?”

She nodded, marking, without any satisfaction, how he colored then paled.

“Truly?” He ran his hand through his beard and hair, raking the curls up in wild disorder. He struck his forehead with his stump. “Fool that I am!”

“You did not wait,” Elfrida said grimly. “I was trying to explain, and you did not wait.”

She heard him curse under his breath and remained fixed against him, but then he sighed and murmured, “I am sorry.”

The stubborn part of her wanted to extract more, a promise that he would listen more next time, but he looked so ashamed, so oddly forlorn, that she merely opened her arms.

“Sorry.” He stepped into her embrace and gathered her close. “You are right. I did not think.”

“Am I mean?”

“
No!
I was unfair then, unkind.”

Elfrida felt her eyes fill again but this time in relief. “It may be nothing in the end,” she offered. “I may be worrying for naught.”

“Let us pray so.” He kissed her forehead, muttering, “Sorry,” again.

“No matter.”

“No, it does. But this place does not help.” He scowled at the walls.

“I am sorry you are here. It is no place for a woman.”

She was silent, understanding his half plea, half apology and appreciating it. She wished they had more time to talk, more time alone, but that was a luxury they did not have. There were other needs here than hers, too, and more pressing.

“The women here.” She touched an amulet about her neck. “They are not lovers or mistresses. They are slaves.”

“What?” Magnus glared back at the hall. “Are you sure? I knew the Denzils were thieves and brutes, but that is worse than I thought, much worse. Is your sister here, one of—”

She shook her head, unsure if she was relieved or sorry.

“What bastards.” Magnus was clearly struggling with the shock. She squeezed his hand, aware they would have little time now before Gregory Denzil or another of his creatures came looking for them.

“You must tell them I am yours, your...” She forgot the word, though she had said it a moment before, and felt her face go as scarlet as her hair.

“My leman,” Magnus finished for her. “We must keep close.”

“That is my intention.”

“I do not trust any of them, especially now. Slavers! Splendor in Christendom!”

She kicked urgently at his peg leg in warning, but Magnus was faster, bundling her into his arms and thrusting her against the wall as Gregory Denzil stalked along the corridor, grinning widely.