Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (19 page)

Perhaps they do not understand the speech here, either, Elfrida thought as she sped down the stairs from the great hall at the start of the third day, tugging the hood of her cloak over her hair to go outside. The kitchens set across the bailey yard were always warm and busy, and she hoped to spot something there of the mysterious, tall, thin Denzil.

So far Magnus had little to show for two days of chasing in the woodland outside, save a bruised leg and some game birds. She had not found anything, either, although every morning brought hope.

Nights were different again, a time of impatience, of waiting for the drinking and singing to stop and the tables and benches to be stacked away, for Magnus and her to be truly together. Elfrida heard the sniggering in the hall when Magnus escorted her from the dais, although none dared laugh when her burly knight looked about. For the rest, she found she did not care.

And tonight, tonight he will make love to me again
.

She understood now, how Christina and her betrothed had been, in a giddy heaven of their own. Her newfound, unexpected happiness made her more determined to find her sister and restore her to joy, too.

I must find her. God and his saints and the woodland elves would not be so cruel as to deny me now.

Hearing a crash behind her, she spun about, ready to throw an amulet to ward off attack in case one of the Denzil mob was foolish enough to confront her.

A woman, the first woman she had seen that day, had slipped on a patch of ice and fallen flat on her back. She was groaning and whimpering, clutching her hands and seemingly unable to rise. Elfrida sped back and helped the stricken woman to her feet while her hungry trio of bodyguards stood aimlessly in the yard, as heartlessly curious as chickens.

“Are you in pain? Do you bleed?” she asked the maid.

The woman, taller and broader than herself, shrank at her questions. Elfrida touched the poor creature’s grazes on her forehead and her red, cracked hands with the tips of her fingers, wishing the maid well. As the woman’s color flooded back, Elfrida smiled. She retrieved the bucket that the maid had dropped in her fall from the icy cobbles of the bailey and held it aloft.

“Water?” She pointed at the well.

The woman nodded and then cringed again. Elfrida understood her dread and wished fleas on all the Denzils, but knew that ill wish alone would not aid this battered maid with her thin, gray tunic and short cloak.

“Would you, good sir?” Elfrida passed the bucket to Ale, who half choked on his inevitable trencher and trudged obediently through the snow toward the well.

So there was nothing wrong with his wits. Elfrida offered her arm to the woman and Meat, the tallest of the youths, finally kicked a way through a small snowdrift to offer his arm on the maid
’
s left side.

Limping heavily, the maid set off, leaning first on Elfrida then on the tall lad, as she teetered and trembled across the yard. Not to be outdone, the third lad seized a second bucket from beside a horse trough and slithered off over the puddles of half-melted snow and ice to bring more water.

Elfrida brought the maid to the kitchen and entered with her. She was used to facing down headmen and smiths, so a sweating cook a head taller than herself was no difficulty.

“
I must have warm wine and some good bread.
”

The cook, scrawny save for a round moon face, bristling with ladles and a bulging tunic stuffed with knives and herbs, glowered.

“
This woman has fallen and needs time to recover, or she will not be able to help at the feast tonight.
”

The cook tugged on his long mustache.
“
She is clumsy anyway.
”

I knew he understood me!
“
So why send her out in an icy yard?
”

He shrugged and turned, bawling out a series of orders, then swung back to Elfrida.
“
If you will wait the length of boiling a plover
’
s egg, my lady, you shall have your warmed wine.
”

“
Thank you.
”
Elfrida took him at his word and strode across the kitchen to settle in the cook
’
s own great chair, guiding the woman with her and encouraging her to sit beside her. The man
’
s jowls bulged as though he had swallowed a whole swan, but he spun on his booted heels as neat as a child
’
s spinning top and stalked off to bully a spit boy.

“
What was the language the cook spoke just then?
”
she asked the hovering Ale.

He gave her a blank look, and Elfrida inwardly cursed. It was wearisome not being able to speak to her
“
protectors.” So far, only Magnus, Gregory Denzil, and this cook seemed to understand her.

And the cook and possibly the rest of the castle had clearly been instructed to oblige her.

So she would use the cook.

Elfrida spent the rest of that morning in the kitchen. She washed the woman
’
s grazes with the warm wine and soothed the worst with some of her own healing salve. The woman by then had stopped shuddering and revived more as Elfrida shared a morsel of bread with her and her three youths. Remembering to be as proud as any leader of witches, she threw back her hood and allowed her hair to shine out, brighter than the kitchen fires.

“
No wonder he keeps you, that ugly knight.
”
The cook did not attempt to shift her from his seat. He found a stool and came to sit beside her, shouting out more instructions to a harassed group of men chopping onions, leeks, and parsnips on a huge table in the middle of the room.

“
Sir Magnus is generous and kind,
”
Elfrida replied. Part of her longed to chatter endlessly about Magnus as Christina had gossiped about Walter, to share the lovely details of how his hair curled in the nape of his neck, how his mouth was fresh and spicy, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed. She missed her sister so much, more than ever now that she, too, had a lover, but warned herself that she must keep to her purpose. Any talk and questions must serve her quest to find Christina. “He is a strong protector. This wine is very fine. Are there vineyards nearby?”

Let her begin with matters he would find easy to answer and proud to answer, she thought, as the cook, whose name was Stephen, told of her vineyards far to the south. Presently, he brought her a bowl full of roasted chestnuts to go with the wine, and he peeled them for her. Elfrida sneaked several to the bruised maid whenever the cook rose from his stool to roar more orders.

Stephen talked of the chestnuts, which also came from the south. He was from that part of
England
and thought all things there superior to those in the wooded, primitive north.

“Yet you remain,” Elfrida remarked. “Is your work appreciated?”

Stephen spat a chestnut shell into a pot of bubbling pottage that Elfrida swore she would not eat from that evening. “What do you think? These northern lords have the manners of hogs and treat me no better than the laundress. But they pay well and on time.”

“Do spinsters of the south stay out of sight, too?” Elfrida asked.

“Spinsters? Oh, the solar girls! They stay within that chamber unless they are summoned, or leave.”

That explained why she had not seen the slave women about the keep, Elfrida thought, feeling smothered at the idea of being trapped in that small, circular chamber full of cushions, with nothing to do. “Where do they go?”

“Off to other men, I neither know nor care. Besides...” Stephen’s voice stopped, and he covered his mouth. “Must get on,” he said, through his fingers.

“Finish what you were saying,” Elfrida suggested, putting a smile and force into her words as she willed him to answer.

Stephen looked right through her as he said in a flat, lifeless voice, “When all the Denzils are in this keep, I wish I were locked in that chamber myself. There is one of the clan, a strange beast, not to be crossed.”

“What does he look like?”

“Thin, very thin, and tall, white as a birch tree.”

Elfrida waited, but he said no more. Holding her breath, she lightly snapped her fingers, and Stephen blinked. “Must get on,” he repeated.

Before he rose and stalked off, she asked quickly, “Where is the laundress? Could you summon her? I have some linen to wash.”

Stephen grinned and nodded to the woman beside her, dozing in the warmth. “She is our laundress. Hedda from the blue tower.”

Elfrida pointed to a roast of mutton, asking after the herbs and spices Stephen used in it, pretending an interest while she hoped her eyes or face gave nothing away of her excitement. A strange, tall, thin Denzil and a blue tower and a laundress from the blue tower...

She smiled at Hedda the laundress. “I will help you today,” she promised. “I see you are alone and need a helper. I will do that.”

* * * *

Out in the forest, Magnus glanced so often at the sun’s position that Gregory Denzil chaffed him. “Eager for the night, Magnus? That luscious redhead is a trophy, before God, and we all envy you!”

His men added more, which embarrassed even Mark and set Magnus’s guts grinding in slow fury. Keeping his countenance was easy. His scars meant most men had trouble guessing his mood. Except for Elfrida, of course, but she was unique.

“I remember you with that blonde from
Antioch
,” Denzil added, “but this new one is better.”

“Elfrida is not for sale,” Magnus repeated. He hated to sully her name by speaking it in such company, but Denzil and his men had to learn. He gripped his spear, a flash of memory returning him to Outremer as he saw in his mind’s eye a Templar screaming in agony as a spear passed through him. “Where is this rich game?” he demanded, snatching at any diversion and wishing only for the night. Elfrida in his arms again and him seducing her, kissing her in her most secret place...

He heard a faint click and creak behind him and knew at once it was a bow and arrow being readied and aimed. There was no game in the wastes and thickets of hazel ahead, so he must be the target.

Before he completed his conscious thought, he had reacted, dragging his left foot out of its stirrup and head-butting down into the snow, not considering the speed of his cantering horse or where he might land. Snow-crusted brambles snagged and broke his fall, and as he urged his flailing limbs to roll away, he felt the vane of the arrow score the top of his shoulder, where the middle of his back would have been.

“Maaagnusss! Areee yeee weeeeelllll?”

Gregory Denzil’s question crawled from his mouth as the world about Magnus slowed into thick honey. As his jaw crunched against a branch and threatened to loosen more teeth, he felt a trickle of blood run into his eye.

He compelled his sluggish body to sit up, a devil caught in a thicket. He knew he would make that picture, and he grinned, raising an arm to his men and yelling, “Hola! What a ride!”

Denzil and his mob nudged their horses closer. Mark had already leapt from his own with his hunting spear aimed at Denzil's throat. Magnus stood up, cursing with all the oaths of Outremer he could remember, and looked around him. His own men were honestly puzzled, while Denzil's wore expressions of studied innocence.