Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 6

  Have you forgotten? Christina is missing this evening, and for the third night.

  Guilt swamped in afresh, and the easy luxury of the bath was suddenly suffocating. Panicking, Elfrida stood up from the stool in the middle of the tub, then rapidly sat down again as Magnus strode past, calling out and waving with his good arm. His eager purpose, good sense, and determination reassured her as she recalled him saying, “I do not think the beast spends his evenings in the forest.”

  For the moment, there was nothing more she could do. She settled more comfortably on the submerged stool, checked that her hair was still bound up in its cloth, and forced herself to be still.

  * * * *

  It was still snowing. Magnus’s missing foot ached, and his good hand was numb. Close to the watch fires, he saw his men glumly eating their supper and knew they were not happy, that they missed their feasts and places in hall.

  And Elfrida had bathed and had not invited him in with her. She was safe inside her hut now, eating a portion of good baked fish, no doubt readying herself to sleep and dream, or whatever witches did asleep. His man Mark was splashing in the tub now, frantic to rid himself of fleas. Magnus felt too dispirited to strip and steam tonight—what did it matter if he stank?

  Our Forest Grendel is not sitting out in the snow, either. The beast is snug and cozy, tended by his stolen brides. The thought made him mad and sad together.

  “Think more truly,” he told himself. “Witchcraft is women’s work, so let Elfrida do it. You are a hunter, and the beast is a quarry.”

  He limped to a wagon and took a tall staff from the store of wood stacked on the floor of the car. He lifted a coil of rope and slung it across his shoulder, then marched through the slush and ice to address the guards positioned at the edge of their camp.

  “Guard the red-haired woman Elfrida well, for she is not herself,” he ordered each one in turn. “I am for the forest. I will be back by morning.”

  His men nodded, used to his wandering at night.

  Magnus took the freshest horse and rode out of the camp, always seeking higher ground. He did not expect to find any useful tracks, but he wanted to think. He let his mount slow to an amble and wander where it would while he thought hard.

  The landscape about him held no trace of the Forest Grendel, though a wolf had passed through, and a rooting wild boar and a hare. He scraped the fresh snow carefully with the staff and uncovered the tracks of men. There had been a peddler on this road, with a lopsided pack, for one foot had sunk deeper into the earlier snows than the other, and there had been a running shepherd lad, with a few sturdy sheep.

  How does the beast move and leave so little trace? How did he know which village held which girl?

  Magnus thought some more, and an answer came to him as the snow stopped for a space and a thin crescent moon flickered out between heaps of scudding gray cloud. It was not an answer that pleased him.

  But nothing else made sense, he decided, after he and the horse had toiled up a steep, straight track that was still visible in the snow because it was a sunken road. The very ease of the Forest Grendel’s abductions suggested it, and how did he know which girl to take, who was a maid and a bride and who not? The beast could not be days in spying, or he would be spotted, by birds or animals, if not by men, and their clear warning would be known and understood.

  There was a further sign—the monster’s fancy blue cup. How had he ever considered the dark stain to be blood? Elfrida had shot him a hard look then, and no wonder. No, the cup and its rare glass and whiff of costly spices told the same story, one of riches.

  The rich never worked too hard at anything, so one of the villagers of Yarr must be a talebearer to the monster, a spy for him, and a traitor.

  “Tomorrow, please God, we shall ride out again, with a real plan and purpose. And it’s time my forest witch met all the menfolk of all the Yarrs. Sick as she is, she can still make them sweat.”

  He spoke aloud, and his horse snorted in answer, a sign of good luck.

  As he nudged and coaxed his horse back down the track to his camp, Magnus considered those two powerful words, “sex magic.” The more he tried to forget them, the more vividly his mind and passion worked.

  “The little witch is ill, and you should not be thinking of her in that way,” he told himself sternly, but when he pictured Elfrida, he saw her as he had done that first night, beautiful and defiant, as dangerous as a bound angel. That moment was etched into his memory, and now as he rode it became a living tapestry, an evening daydream of him and Elfrida together.

  They were snug at his manor house in Norton Mayfield, within the great hall. His men were away—out hunting with Walter and Christina, Magnus decided, as he focused on Elfrida.

  His evening dream worked its own magic. Standing before him as he sat in the great chair on the dais, Elfrida had no fever, chill, or pox. She was vibrant with health.

  Tenderness warred with passion within him as she bowed and the ends of her cloak slipped from her smooth shoulders. The cloak gaped open, revealing her creamy-white nakedness beneath. By the firelight of the hall, she glowed like a pearl. Her narrow wrists were bound together by a pale-blue ribbon, cunningly knotted. She lifted her hands to him as she spoke.

  “What charge am I to answer here, my lord?”

  In this evening reverie, he could understand her native speech and answered in kind. “The charge is that of witchcraft, of using sex magic.”

  She shrugged off the cloak, standing proudly nude in the firelight. “I have used no bewitchments. I am a good witch, a pious one.”

  Magnus felt this throat dry at the sight of her lush, pink-nippled breasts and her sweet blaze of auburn curls. Tormented and beguiled by his own desires, he leaned forward in his chair and at once found himself kneeling beside her, close enough to stroke her slender thighs, if he dare. “What then is this?” he croaked.

  She looked down at him with narrowed, bright eyes. Bound and naked as she was, she had no fear of him, and a ready answer. “This is your magic and doing, my lord.”

  If only that were true, Magnus thought, yanked out of the half dream. Disconcerted and amused in equal measure, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged it into a rapid canter.

  But heed this, she did not refuse you.

  The hope was a foolish one, and he laughed. “You are battle comrades, nothing more,” he said aloud, his breath hanging in the still, cold air.

  So why did he hope his dream was true?

  Forget dreams and think of tomorrow. Find her sister, save them both, and forget the rest.

  He must, or go quickly wild with longing, a beast of desire himself.

  Chapter 5

  As they rode within sight of the thatched roofs of Lower Yarr, Magnus squeezed Elfrida’s waist. “You know what to do?” he whispered against her ear.

  “We have been over this plan a score of times,” Elfrida replied, quelling the waspish tone in her voice so that Mark, riding alongside, could not accuse her of scolding. “You are right, it should work.”

  She and Magnus had talked at length at first light, over a breakfast of thick porridge that even now sat in her stomach like a stone. Magnus had seemed shy then, looking at the monster’s blue cup instead of her, but during the long ride over, he had put her before him on his horse and then clamped his body behind her like moss on a boulder.

  Riding for her was strange and new, but she sensed that even with a missing hand and foot Magnus was an excellent horseman. Once she had asked if they need sit so closely, but he had merely grunted and said the saddle made it so. After that he had urged the bay to a burst of speed, plowing through the fresh snow and scattering great clouds of white chill flakes everywhere so that speech became impossible.

  Now they were here, at a village she knew but had rarely visited. Those seeking her cures or help came to her, instead. Elfrida pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair so she could stare unchallenged, and she looked about.

  It was n
ot as pretty as Top Yarr, she decided, satisfied that the village’s great house, wells, homes and snow-covered gardens were no better than those of her village. As they galloped down the track, a few faces she knew peered out from window shutters, and several old men hobbled on sticks out of doors.

  She and Magnus and a troop of other horsemen swept on to the village’s meeting house, home of the headman Adam de Shaghe, whose wife she had once helped in a matter of love magic.

  And I have other spells and charms to set, other villagers to help, if not here, then at Selton and Great Yarr. But they must wait. Christina comes first.

  “You understand their speech?” Magnus asked for the sixth time.

  “Very well. And you know to back me, whatever I demand?”

  His long thighs stroked briefly against hers as he hugged her. “To the hilts.”

  Warmed by his vow, she touched his hand in return, then gave her full attention to Adam de Shaghe and his council, who were gathering by the village cross to meet them.

  As they had agreed, Magnus and his men dismounted, but Elfrida remained on horseback. Sitting straight and proudly in the saddle, she tossed back the hood of her cloak. Her red hair was the brightest thing in the village clearing, and her itching spots had faded to red blemishes so that she seemed a thing of fury. She sounded it, too, her clear voice ringing to the treetops.

  * * * *

  Magnus did not understand what she was saying, but they had agreed beforehand on what she would admit.

  “Let the women of Lower Yarr come forth! They are the ones in danger from the Forest Grendel, and the spell will not work without them. Let every man, woman, and child of this village drink from this cup, to keep you all safe!”

  She lifted the monster’s blue cup from her cloak, raising it in both hands, like a priest raising a sacred chalice at mass. She lowered it and took a sip, then passed it to him. He tasted the same good beer he had on his first night at the Yarrs, and smiled.

  “Drink and take heart!” she called out as the cup was passed from Magnus’s men to the gathering villagers. “Drink, for whoever is guilty of sin will be revealed!”

  “What sin?” called an anxious voice from the back of a huddled crowd.

  Elfrida raised her arms, making many strange signs with her hands. “The spirits have shown me. There is a traitor here! One of you is helping the monster of the forest! One of you is helping him to steal our brides!”

  The low winter sun lit her outstretched fingers, turning them to the color of blood, and the villagers all began shouting at once. Elfrida did not respond to their bleating questions. She was magnificent, Magnus thought, admiring her still poise as he scanned the nervous folk of Lower Yarr. Many were snatching for the cup, eager to show their loyalty, and more still were bawling out their indignation, furious in their loyalty. Women were protesting their innocence, shaking fists at their menfolk and demanding to know what the witch of the forest meant. The village headman was quickly encircled by furious farmers and foresters jabbing fists and knives in the air. Everyone was yelling questions. Youths and children were dancing about, jostling each other to take the cup first—the thing must be empty by now, but no one seemed to have noticed. They were shocked and angry and agitated, but he wanted those who were mouse quiet and watchful, better yet the villager who tried to sneak away—

  “Take her!” he yelled to his men, pointing at a figure who had been shuffling back and stopping, glancing round, then shuffling back again, making for a huge stack of firewood.

  His men sprinted forward, slithering and sliding in the snow, and the woman, already running hard for the huts, did not waste time looking round. Amazed she did not tumble in the ice, Magnus snatched a spear from Mark and hurled it.

  “N—” Elfrida’s cry was broken off, and the spear flew straight and true, driving into the log pile before the woman reached it. Now she fell, jerking sideways, away from the spear, sprawling into the snow and kicking out uselessly, like a cart with a broken, still-spinning wheel. At once his men were on her in a welter of arms and legs.

  He heard squeals and shrieks but turned to Elfrida first. “Thank you for trusting me,” he called out in the old speech. He knew that she had stopped her protest and so the spear had found its mark.

  “Help me down,” she replied. “We must question her quickly.”

  He caught her up, hooking round her narrow waist with his good arm, and lifted her off the bay as slowly as he could manage, savoring the feel of her. “Do not frighten her too much, or she may lie to us in fear,” he whispered against her ear.

  She smiled at him. “I will know if she does,” she said.

  Elfrida knew she was volatile and impatient, so she gripped one of the amulets around her throat to inspire calm and thrust her full attention at the woman.

  A widow, she swiftly amended, with covered hair, drooping breasts and belly from childbearing. The woman had disappointed, wary, yellow-tinged eyes and work-reddened hands. As Mark dragged her close, she was already half fainting and crying—a useful device that must have served her well in the past, thought Elfrida savagely.

  “We must talk to her away from the others, or she may inspire their pity,” she warned in the old speech.

  Magnus pinched the tip of his mangled nose and answered, with clear distaste, “Never fret, Elfrida! The good villagers are already abandoning her. We need do nothing.”

  He was right, Elfrida realized. The folk of Lower Yarr sighed and stretched and turned to go about their business, content, it seemed, to leave one of their own to her fate.

  “’Tis the way with widows everywhere, poor creatures.” Magnus’s mutter echoed her own thought, but Elfrida’s main concern was for Christina.

  “And if she is a spy, we owe her nothing.”

  His scowl at her reply etched the scars on his face into furrows of malice, causing the widow to yelp and wring her hands. Magnus noticed her reaction—even the oafish Mark raised his eyebrows—but Elfrida could only hope that her ugly, gentle, beast of a knight would have wit enough to exploit it, should the need arise.

  She stepped up to the widow and asked in the local speech, “Do you know me?”

  “Aye, mistress, aye.” The widow bowed as low as if Elfrida was the Queen of England. “You be the witch of the woodlands.”

  “So I will have helped one of your kin.”

  The widow looked disconcerted, then ashamed. Her mouth trembled, and when Mark released her, she sank down in the snow as if her legs would not support her. Elfrida knelt in the snow with her, aware of Magnus’s rocklike, patient presence.

  “Will you please give her some of your mead, my lord?” she asked in the old speech, adding in the local dialect, “Yes, you may drink it safely, mistress—?” Elfrida rippled the fingers of her left hand, inviting the widow to give her name.

  The widow clutched her fists into her dull gray gown and shook her head. “You pretend to be my friend to trick me!” she flared out.

  Elfrida laughed, liking her a little more for that. “Would you want me as your enemy?”

  “I wish to be left in peace!”

  “What does she squeak?” Magnus growled, frowning his two eyebrows into a solid black line across his forehead. The widow jumped at his voice.

  “I know nothing,” she gabbled, blushing as Magnus stared at her. “Make him stop looking at me!” she whimpered. “He is the devil!”

  “He is his own lord,” Elfrida replied, using the word for “lord” from the creed, so Magnus would guess what she had said.

  “No mortal could be so misshapen. God would not allow it.”

  Just in time, Elfrida bit down on her answer that it was men’s knives, not God, which had made Sir Magnus as he was. Her instinct to protect him startled her and made her uneasy, because Christina needed all her care.

  She looked again at the widow, at her sagging, defeated body.

  “Does your son or daughter live with you?”

  The woman’s head came up, and pr
ide sparkled in her yellow eyes. “Mary is married to a glove maker. She lives in a town now.”

  “What does she say?” Magnus demanded.

  Elfrida repeated it, to which Magnus added, “I am surprised she does not live with them.”

  The widow disliked his observation when Elfrida translated it and made no attempt to shield her fingers as she made the sign to avert the evil eye. “Martin is still with me. He is a good boy. He must learn his father’s woodcraft.”

  Magnus grunted when this was translated to him. “So where is the lad, and why is he not here to defend his mother?”

  The widow’s eyes flitted from his face to his stump as she made excuses. Martin had a cold. Martin was only nine years old. Martin was playing in the snow. He was not like the other boys. He was not strong.

  “Do you believe any of this?” Magnus asked.

  Elfrida shook her head and tapped the woman’s shoulder to silence her. “Where is your son now?” she demanded, keeping her voice low and cold.

  The woman shivered, crouching even lower in the snow.

  “Where is he?” Elfrida asked, and Magnus, taking heed of her rising voice, clenched his good hand into a fist and looked inquiringly at her, as if awaiting a signal.

  It was too much for the widow, who began to weep again. “I sent Martin away to the priest at Great Yarr to learn his letters. I had no choice.” She mopped at her face with the tattered ends of her cloak. “What else could I do?”

  Elfrida heard the clear pain in her answer and so, obviously, did Magnus, who lowered himself onto the snow beside her, sitting cross-legged on the ground as if it was the height of summer. The widow flinched at the sight of his peg leg, and Elfrida snapped her fingers to stop the woman staring more.

  “Why did you send Martin away?” she asked.

  “Who does she fear? Ask her that,” Magnus said.

  The widow hid her face in her hands and rocked to and fro, slithering on the ice until she was half sitting, half crouching. Were she not so drab and sad, Elfrida might have smiled. Instead she braced the woman’s trembling back with her leg and thought of Martin, the widow’s son.