The Snow Bride

The Snow Bride She is Beauty, but is he the Beast? Elfrida, spirited, caring, and beautiful, is also alone. She is the "witch of the woods," and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast? In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth "bride," the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires. Genre: Historical Length: 92,037 words

THE SNOW BRIDE

Lindsay Townsend

ROMANCE

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A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE IMPRINT: Romance

THE SNOW BRIDE Copyright © 2011 by Lindsay Townsend E-book ISBN: 1-61926-179-0 First E-book Publication: December 2011 Cover design by Jinger Heaston All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

PUBLISHER www.BookStrand.com

DEDICATION To my husband, with all my love.

THE SNOW BRIDE LINDSAY TOWNSEND Copyright © 2011

Chapter 1 England, winter, 1131 Magnus forced his aching legs to move and dismounted stiffly from his horse. The still, freezing cold made his teeth ache, and as he tethered his mount, he wondered yet again what he was doing here. It was less than a month to Christmas, and he could have been with Peter and Alice at Castle Pleasant, preparing for feasting and singing and watching his godchildren. And then a deep, abiding ache, bedding down in the great hall alone. He would never force a woman to lie with him—he had seen too much of that in the crusades. He limped forward through the pristine snow. Peter had his Alice now, a clever, black-haired wench who feared nothing and no one, including him. Had his friend and fellow crusader not known her first, he might have had a chance with Alice. She saw through the outer armor and shell of a man to what lay beneath. But she loves her crusader knight, Peter of the Mount, and I have no chance or right there. As the palfrey snorted and jangled its harness behind him, he knelt in a white heap of pitted frost and reached out with his good arm to brush snow off the small, cracked statue of a saint. This was an old,

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wayside shrine on a track to nowhere of note, and the wooden figure huddled in its stone niche was old, its paint peeling. This battered saint would understand him, one ugly brute to another. “Holy one, grant me my prayer.” He stopped, aware of the chill silence around him—the bare trees, the white landscape, the empty road. He had nothing to offer the saint, no flower or trinket to sweeten his request. As his knees began to smart, then burn, then freeze on the unyielding, icy ground, Magnus tried to marshal his thoughts. What did he want? A woman of my own. Someone to return to. Alice cared and had urged him most ardently to stay with her and Peter, but pride had made him refuse them both with a smile. He did not begrudge the handsome couple their joy, not after their many trials. But the dark of winter and Christmas especially brought his own desolation home to him most keenly, sharper than an assassin’s blade. He was nine and twenty, a grizzled warrior, battle-scarred and wounded. Feeling sorry for yourself, Magnus? Brace up, man! Be a Viking, as your granddad was. You have your wits and your balls, all working. The lasses in the stews make no complaint and do not charge so much. You have land, a strong house, good fellowship, and two hearty godchildren. “Splendor in Christendom, let me have my own family! A lass who loves me!” His voice rang out, startling a lone magpie into taking flight from a solitary elm in a blur of wings, but the drab and well-worn saint gave no sign of hearing. Peering into the calm, carved face, Magnus wondered if the saint was smiling, and then he spotted his own reflection, clear in a frozen mirror of ice by the shrine. He scowled, knowing very well what he looked like, and spat to the left for luck. With his knees creaking, he staggered to his feet and remounted his eager horse. When he passed this way again he would

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leave gold, he vowed, but for now he wished only to slink away. He needed to find the village before nightfall and speak to the council of old men—it was always old men—who had sent word to his manor of Norton Mayfield, begging for help, any help, to track and to defeat a monster. **** “Are you a witch?” Elfrida, sewing on the sleeves to her younger sister’s best dress as they sat together on the bench outside her hut, felt fear coil in her belly like hunger pangs. Keeping her eyes fixed on her needle, she answered steadily, between stitches, “I am my own master, ’tis all, without a husband. Have any in the village been troubling you?” “Oh no, Elfrida, but I was thinking.” Elfrida tugged another stitch tight, her needle flashing like a small sword in the bright evening light. “Does your Walter call me so?” she asked carefully. She glanced up. Christina was blushing very prettily, her lightblue eyes brighter than cornflowers when set against her pale-blue veil, white skin, and primrose hair. Lost in admiration, and quite still for a moment, she heard Christina admit, “We do not talk much. Well, I do not. Walter calls me kitten and we kiss.” Christina and her betrothed could be found kissing all over the village, so that was no surprise. “Yet still.” Christina pressed a well-bitten fingernail to her rosepetal lips. “Our dam was a witch.” “She was a wisewoman, Christina.” “Our father was a wizard.” “A healer and dowser,” Elfrida patiently corrected. “And you are all of that, of those things, I mean.” Elfrida fastened the final stitch and knelt beside her sister, crouching back on her heels in the snow. Christina was not usually so

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fretful. “Walter loves you very much,” she said after a space, “and you have a good dowry.” A good dowry it was, of cloth she had spun and ale she had brewed, cheeses she had made, and silver pennies she had earned by her healing and dowsing. Since her earliest childhood, Christina had longed to be married, with a hearth and children of her own, and Elfrida had striven to keep her safe and happy. She was the eldest, so it was her duty, and she had promised their parents, on their deathbeds, that she would do so. “But will the priest marry us?” Christina was biting another fingernail. “Today is the very eve of your wedding, little one.” Elfrida tugged gently on her sister’s dress. “This is your wedding gown.” “He has preached against redheads.” “You are no redhead, and Father John’s sermon was on modesty for women,” Elfrida replied. Her sister was not a redhead, but she was, and redheads were rumored to be witches. “He said that for a girl to be unveiled was to be as brazen as a redhead. He took my healing ointment, too.” She tugged gently a second time on Christina’s dress. “Walter will be here to see you after sunset. Would you have him see you in your gown?” Her sister ignored her question and pouted. “He will be late. He is coming here only after a meeting with his old men, and you know how they go on!” “Did he say what the council was about?” Christina shrugged. “He may have done, but I was not listening then.” She colored prettily. “Will you comb my hair again?” Elfrida silently rose, kicking the snow from her faded, red gown— one that had belonged to their mother—and eased the wooden combs from Christina’s pale, shimmering hair. As she gently teased and tugged and Christina’s breathing slowed, Elfrida thought of the council. Yester evening, when he swept into their hut and whirled

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Christina into his meaty arms, Walter’s shrewd gray eyes had glanced everywhere. He had asked twice if their door was well secured and poked the roof-thatch as if seeking rats’ nests. He had promised them one of his dogs this very evening, as a gift, he claimed, then blushed when Christina clapped her hands and kissed him. Elfrida frowned, worrying a comb over a small knot in her sister’s tresses. Walter and the rest of the village men knew something, and none of her gossips in the bakehouse or the wash rocks by the stream knew anything. Christina, dreaming of wedding flowers for her hair and of babies to come, was not concerned, but Elfrida was not satisfied. Why had Walter promised the gift of a dog—to warn and guard them from what? She had spotted no boar or wolf tracks in the nearby woods. Was a man-wolf—an outlaw—abroad and making havoc? Were disgruntled men-at-arms from a wretched Norman lord foraging close to their village? But why did the village men, her village men, not explain? Granted, I would not say much to Christina, who is easily wary and will not linger even in the widest paths of the forest, but I am wisewoman here! These village elders turn to me when they have lost things and for cures when their bodies pain them. They should tell me everything. When Walter comes tonight I will leave the lovebirds in peace and safety together and call on the headman myself. **** Magnus listened to the high, excited chatter of the council and watched the old men as they argued on their long bench in front of a poor, smoking fire. Their bread was moldy and their cheese wormridden, so under cover of the vast shadows in the great hut, he dropped both into the rushes for the rats to find. The ale was good, though. He took another drink, then asked idly, “Who brewed the ale?” Silence greeted his question. In this council, only he and the

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headman understood each other as the village dialect was utterly incomprehensible to him. He waited as the old man translated his question to the group and waited again as the headman made a slow, careful reply. “The drink was made by Elfrida, the herb-woman in the next village.” The headman, a wrinkled fellow as gnarled and stubby as the old olive trees Magnus had seen while away on crusade, muttered something else. Magnus, sitting on a low stool that made his backside go numb and his long legs ache, leaned toward him. “She is a witch, you say, as well as a healer?” Seizing a branch, he stirred the fire and studied his huddled companions by its brighter flames. “Is she a good witch, a pious one? Can she help us?” His questions, once translated, brought a mass shaking of heads and twitchy strokings of ragged beards. One or two elders said more, leading to a furious, whispered debate. Magnus finished his ale and thought about cutting thorns and scrub for defense and digging ditches and repairing and strengthening walls and roofs—all work which must wait until daylight. “So you have not told your womenfolk of this threat, not even your wisewoman,” he said, once the whispers had died down. “She is not our wisewoman! She is good, yes, pious, but of the next village!” “But a woman, all the same. And why do your two villages not work together? Why not bring all your young women into this hut and have them sleep by the fire, with your men sleeping in a circle round them?” He saw a look of shame flicker across the headman’s wrinkled face and added more gently, “Would that not keep them safe?” “For how long? This month, one of our maids went missing. Last month, this monster struck in another neighbor village, snatched a maiden, and returned into the forest. No one can track him, no one. He may return tonight or tomorrow or at the next full moon, or in the

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next three months. He should return to the other village or our neighbors and leave ours in peace!” “And that is your hope.” Magnus nodded at the spate of words, marking that the old man was too agitated to translate for his companions. Three villages, three settlements, made this search harder, for the beast had many targets. “We need your help,” the headman continued doggedly. “Our women are not fine ladies. They work. They spin at home, or weave at home, or brew, or cook, or gather harvest or plant or weed, or wash, or make butter or cheese—all at home.” “But in the evenings, can they not come here?” Magnus prompted. “The Forest Grendel strikes at any time, night or day. We cannot guard them all the time. We have told them nothing.” “That is what you call the beast?” Magnus was struck by the aptness. In the old tale of Beowulf, Grendel was the creature who preyed upon the warriors, striking in the night and carrying them away from the golden hall, unopposed and unstoppable until the hero fought him. “How else should we name the creature? He is in very truth the monster of this woodland, a Forest Grendel!” Magnus nodded agreement. “When the girls were kidnapped from here and the other village, how was this hidden from your womenfolk?” “The one here was only an orphan and disliked by all but her lover. It was rumored she had run off to some town. We did not tell anything of the other maiden.” Magnus said nothing, but the headman sensed his disapproval. “What else would you have us say? They are women, after all. If they knew the danger, their wits would not stand it.” Magnus nodded, thinking of Alice’s likely response to that statement as he smelled the man’s shame and frustration. In essence, however, what the fellow admitted was the stark truth. The men had to work in the fields or forest and the women at home. It was how

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they survived. “Move from these villages—” he began, but the headman interrupted. “We will not be driven from our homes!” “Move the young women,” Magnus continued steadily. “They can come to my manor, and my people will guard them.” “They will not go.” You do not want them to go, Magnus translated in his mind. The headman glowered at him across the fire. “You said you would find the beast! You are Sir Magnus, the famed warrior of the East! We had heard of your exploits in arms even here, and when we sent the messenger we could scarcely hope that you would come. I know we cannot offer much gold, but for the renown of such a chase, we thought it would be enough.” “Renown feeds no bellies,” Magnus answered dryly, “but you need not fret. I have never yet turned away from helping a maid, be she free or bond.” “So you will find the beast?” “I will, but it will take me time and many of my men. You say the monster is hard to track.” Magnus stirred the fire again. He wanted more light to give these old men heart. “I will catch it,” he vowed. “The more you tell me, the better. Have you anything of the creature’s?” A sturdy peasant, straighter and more lithe than the huddled group by the fire, stepped from the wall shadows and tossed him a bundle. Fumbling in the dark, Magnus accidentally dropped the rough cloth parcel into the rushes and heard the peasant mutter something that the headman chose not to translate. Magnus guessed it would be about his scars and missing hand and ignored it, too. He did not have to justify his fighting skills to any low-born farmer. He scrabbled for and retrieved the parcel as the old men burst into squalls of chatter, hard and urgent as showers of hail. Guessing that he was in for more longwinded exclamations, he shifted on the stool, then warned himself

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sternly to listen. I will look tonight, too. For as long as there is light, and I can see any kind of trail, I will look. But for the trouble to afflict this village and two more! It is worse than I realized. **** Returning from the beehives at the end of her garden, Elfrida was about to walk through the village to the hut of the headman when she saw Walter stumbling toward her. His homely face was stark with horror, and as soon as he spotted her, he began to shout. “He has her! I cannot find them! I have looked everywhere!” He slumped to his knees in the slush and dropped further, his breath spurting in choking gasps. Elfrida reached him as he rolled onto his back, still wheezing. Her own breath stopped as she saw the claw marks on his arms and throat. She swung the lantern round but saw nothing that should not be there in the garden. “Christina?” she croaked, her throat closing with dread. “Alive, I swear it! I heard her crying as she was carried off.” Elfrida found she could breathe again. “Have you roused the men?” she demanded, hearing now, too late, the wail of horns and of many voices. Already in the nearby woodland she saw the bobbing flares of torches and prayed they did not search in vain. Let her be alive, oh Lord. Let her be safe! Walter clutched her, dragging her down into the snow with him. “He came from nowhere, like a great spider. I heard nothing.” Why did I not hear? Christina taken, and I heard nothing! “Had he a horse? Was he alone?” Walter shook his head. He had begun to shake. “He was dark as a spider...ugly... moved quicker than lightning. Had her snatched and gone.... I went after them.... He slashed at me.” Elfrida knocked off Walter’s trembling arms and sprinted to the house, leaving him prone in the snow.

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“Christina! Christina!” she shrieked, her voice higher than anyone’s, but her sister was not safe at home. Only a scrap of her blue veil remained in their hut, caught on one of the roof struts. She must have rushed out to greet Walter, as she thought, and run straight into—what? Elfrida dashed into the yard, screaming her sister’s name. She flung the lantern into a stack of hay and screamed again as the precious winter hay burned up in towering, crackling flames, giving much-needed light. “Christina!” The hay blazed, and she could see the other villagers, the other houses and gardens, the paths through the hamlet and the trees beyond, but there was no sign or shape of Christina. She was gone, as Walter said, carried off into the wilderness by a monster. **** Elfrida dropped the twigs she had been using as divining rods into the snow. This clearing was the place. Here was where she would make her stand. After two days without sleep or food, she was drained of all feeling, dry from crying. Day and night she had sought everywhere for Christina. Walter had been constantly at her side, calling, praying, and urging the dog he had meant to give Christina, to seek her out. At sunset on the second day, the village headman had compelled Walter to go to church, to leave offerings to the local saint for Christina’s safe recovery. He had tried to order Elfrida, but she had pleaded “woman’s trouble” as an excuse not to enter the church and finally she was alone. Her head ached and buzzed as if filled with bees, but the thudding panic was gone. Swiftly, as the sinking sun bled into darkness in the west, she began to search for Christina by witch ways. She had done this from the start, but now, without Walter’s anxious, hovering presence, she

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felt her power growing. She chanted to the wood elves, promising them a year and a day of ale if she they helped her. She tossed Christina’s veil high into the cold, still air, calling on the old gods Gog and Magog to point out the track of the beast. She thought of her sister, her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and sweet face and whispered, Where now, where now? She drew a picture in her mind of the great forest and the villages she knew: Great Yarr, Top Yarr, where she lived, Lower Yarr and Selton, the new place. She imagined the cat’s cradle of paths to and fro from settlement to settlement. Christina was light to carry, but even a child was too heavy to bear away on such narrow woodland tracks, and surely smashed twigs would have marked the beast’s passage? Had he flown away, then? “Be he a demon in flight, or be he as nimble as a squirrel in the treetops, I will have him!” she shouted, striking an oak tree to seal her promise. She found two branches beneath the tree and took them as the oak’s gift, using them to divine where in these woods Christina had been taken. Here in this clearing lay a clear sign, a long strand of blonde hair trailing across the snow in a golden thread. Gold but no red, praise God, so she could hope her sister still lived. Elfrida turned slowly in this small circle, glimpsing the path of the sun and the rising new moon through a screen of holly and oak trees. About her the woods seemed deathly quiet, and yet she felt she was being watched by something with a mind—that, or something was coming. She knew it from the raised hairs on the back of her neck. Coming, not watching. It cannot see me yet, I vow, so I have time. Had she time enough? She must return to the village, to change her clothes, and to make ready. She listened intently, reaching out with all her senses, but again her first instinct remained compelling. The beast was in this forest, and he would be drawn closer by the right inducements.

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“And I know what those are,” she said aloud, turning to hurry back to the home that was not a home, now that Christina was gone. Walter had not admitted anything to her, not directly, but from his muttered remarks and fractured exclamations as he feverishly searched alongside her for his betrothed, Elfrida had learned a great deal. “She is the third!” Walter had cried out, beating his fists against the walls of their empty hut. “The third in her wedding garb, and the most beautiful: one black-haired, one brown, and my Christina!” He had refused to say more, even when Elfrida had threatened to curse him, but his outburst told her what he and the elders had been hiding from the village women. The brute who had carried off Christina had kidnapped other pretty young girls, also dressed in their wedding gowns. He stole brides. I will dress myself as a bride and return here with my own wedding feast, with food and drink in abundance. Let him think me a bridal sacrifice, his red-haired bride, left for him by the village. And, by Christ and all his saints, this time I will be ready for him! It is a blessing I am a healer and have so many potions ready prepared. If I put sleeping draughts in the wine, food, and sweets, surely I can tempt the beast to take some? I can smear tinctures of poppy on my skin and clothes, so any taste will induce sleep. Sleep, not death, for she had to know where he had taken Christina. I will coax the truth from the groggy monster, and then the village men can have him. Part of her knew she was being wild, unreasonable, that she should talk to Walter, tell the villagers, but she did not care. Talk would waste more precious hours, and they might even try to stop her. For her sister she would do anything, risk anything. But she must hurry, she must do something, and she had little time. It was full dark before Elfrida was finished, midnight on the day after the start of Advent, two days after Christina should have been

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married. She shivered in the glinting snow, her breath suspended between the frosted, white ground and the black, star-clad sky. She glanced over the long boulder she had used as an offering table for her wine and food, not allowing herself to think too closely about what she had done. She had lit a small fire and banked it so that it would burn until morning, to stop her freezing and to keep wolves at bay, and now by its tumbling flames she saw her own small, tethered shadow writhing on the forest floor. She would not dwell on what could go wrong, and she fought down her night terrors over Christina, lest they become real through her thoughts. She lifted up her head and stared above the webbing of treetops to the bright stars beyond, reciting a praise chant to herself. She was a warrior of magic, ready to ensnare and defeat the beast. “I have loosened my hair as a virgin. I am dressed in a green gown, unworn before today. My shoes are made of the softest fur, my veil and sleeves are edged with gold, and my waist is belted in silver. There is mutton for my feast, and dates and ginger, wine and mead and honey. I am a willing sacrifice. I am the forest bride, waiting for my lord—” Her voice broke. Advent was meant to be a time of fasting, and she had no lord. None of the menfolk of Yarr would dare to take Elfrida the wisewoman and witch to be his wife. She knew the rumors—men always gossiped more than women—and all were depressing in their petty spitefulness. They called her a scold because she answered back. “I need no man,” she said aloud, but the hurt remained. Was she not young enough, fertile enough, pretty enough? Keep to your task, Elfrida reminded herself. You are the forest bride, a willing virgin sacrifice. She had tied herself between two tall lime trees, sometimes struggling against her loose bonds as if she could not break free. She could, of course, but any approaching monster would not know that, and she wanted to bait the creature to come close—close enough to

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drink her drugged flask of wine and eat her drugged “wedding” cakes. Let him come near so she could prick him with her knife and tell him, in exquisite detail, how she could bewitch him. He would fear her, oh yes, he would... She heard a blackbird caroling alarms and knew that something was coming, closing steadily, with the stealth of a hunter. She strained on her false bonds, peering into the semidarkness, aware that the fire would keep wild creatures away. Her back chilled as she sensed an approach from downwind, behind her, and as she listened to a tumble of snow from a nearby birch tree, she heard a second fall of snow from a pine closer by. Whoever, whatever, was creeping up was somehow shaking the trees, using the snowfalls as cover to disguise its own movement. A cunning brute, then, but she was bold. In one hand she clutched her small dagger, ready. In her other, she had the tiny packet of inflammables that she now hurled into the fire. “Come, husband!” she challenged, as the fire erupted into whitehot dragon tongues of leaping flame, illuminating half the clearing like a noonday sun. “Come now!” She thrust her breasts and then her hips forward, aping the actions that wives had sometimes described to her when they visited her to ask for a love philter. She shook her long, red hair and kissed the sooty, icy air. “Come to me!” She saw it at the very edge of her sight—black, huge, a shadow against the flames, off to her side, and now a real form, swooping around from the tree line to her left to face her directly. She stared across the crackling fire at the shape and bit down on the shriek rising up her throat. The beast stepped through the fire, and she saw its claw reaching for her. She heard a click, off to her right, but still kept watching the claw, even as the fire was suddenly gutted and dead, all light extinguished. Darkness, absolute and terrifying, smothered her, and she was lost.

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Chapter 2 Elfrida stirred sluggishly, unable to remember where she was. Her back ached, and the rest of her body burned. She opened her eyes and sat up with a jerk, thinking of Christina. Her head felt to be bobbing like an acorn cup in a stream, and her vision swam. As she tried to swing her legs, her sense of dizzy falling increased, becoming worse as she closed her eyes. She lashed out in the darkness, her flailing hands and feet connecting with straw, dusty hay, and ancient pelts. “Christina?” she hissed, listening intently and praying now that the monster had brought her to the same place it had taken her sister. She heard nothing but her own breath, and when she held that, nothing at all. “Christina?” Fearing to reach out in this blackness that was more than night and dreading what she might find, Elfrida forced herself to stretch her arms. She trailed her fingers out into the ghastly void, tracing the unseen world with trembling hands. Her body shook more than her hands, but she ignored the shuddering of her limbs, closed her eyes like a blind man, and searched. She lay on a pallet, she realized, full of crackling, dry grass. When she scented and tasted the air, there was no blood. She did not share the space with grisly corpses. I am alone and unfettered. Now her heart had stopped thudding in her ears, she listened again, hearing no one else. Chanting a charm to see in the dark, she tried again to shift her feet. Light spilled into her eyes like scalding milk as a door opened and

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a massive figure lurched across the threshold. Elfrida launched herself at freedom, hurling a fistful of straw at the looming beast and ducking out for the light. She fell instead, her legs buckling, her last sight that of softly falling snow. **** Magnus gathered the woman before she pitched facedown into the snow, returning her swiftly to the rough bed within the hut. Her tiny, bird-boned form terrified him. Clutching her was like ripping a fragile wood anemone up from its roots. And she had fought him, wind-flower or not. She had charged at him. “I wish, lass, that you would listen to me. I am not the Forest Grendel, nor have wish to be, nor ever have been.” Just as earlier, in the clearing where he had first come upon her, a brilliant shock of life and color in a white, dead world, the woman gave no sign of hearing. She was cold again, freezing, while in his arms she had steamed with fever. He tugged off his cloak and bundled her into it, then piled his firewood and kindling onto the bare hearth. A few strikes of his flints and he had a fire. He set snow to melt in the helmet he was using as a cauldron. He swept more dusty hay up from the floor and, sneezing, packed it round the still little figure. No beast on two or four legs would hunt tonight, so that was one worry less. Finding this lean-to hut in the forest had been a godsend, but it would be cold. Magnus went back out into the snow and led his horse into the hut, spreading what feed he had brought with him. He kept the door shut with his saddle, rubbed the palfrey down with the bay’s own horse blanket, and looked about for a lantern. There was none, just as there were no buckets, nor wooden bowls hanging from the eaves. But, abandoned as it surely had been, the

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place was well roofed, and no snow swirled in through the wood and wattle walls. Whistling, Magnus dug through his pack and found a flask of ale, some hard cheese, two wizened apples, and a chunk of dark rye bread. He spoke softly to his horse, then looked again at the woman. She was breathing steadily now, and her lips and cheeks had more color. By the glittering, rising fire he saw her as he had first in the forest clearing, an elf-child of beauty and grace, a willing sacrifice to the monster. Kneeling beside her, he longed to stroke her vivid red hair and kiss the small dimple in her chin. In sleep she had the calm, flawless face of a Madonna of Outremer and the bright locks of a Magdalene. He had guessed who she was—the witch of the three villages, the good witch driven to desperation. Coming upon her in that snowfield, tied between two trees like a crucified child of fairy, his temper had been a black storm against the villagers for sparing their skins by flaying hers. Then he had seen her face, recognized that wild, stark, sunken-cheeked grief, seen the loose bonds and the terrible “feast,” and had understood. Another young woman has been taken by the beast, someone you love. She—Elfrida, that was her name, he remembered it now—Elfrida was either very foolish or very powerful, to offer herself as bait. Why work alone, though? Had Elfrida no one, no man to help her? Rage and a rush of hot protectiveness burst through him in a black wave, and he broke sticks for the fire to stop himself rushing out into the dark with his dagger, seeking a quarry who tonight at least would have wit enough to stay out of the snow. It was falling rapidly, the snow. He could tell it by the soft silence and by the way the door had begun to sag against his saddle. All tracks will be buried, but ours will be covered, too, so that is not all poor news.

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He unclipped the small cup and spoon from his belt and dipped the cup into the murky water of his helmet. Taking a drink, he found it warm, putting a good heat in his belly, and that was the best that could be said for it. The girl, when she woke, would find it warming, too. “And when you stir again, my beauty, you will see me.” Swiftly he crossed himself and placed his rough wood crucifix beside her small, warm fingers. If she had learning, they might speak together in Latin, or he could try London speech, French, or Arabic. He would recite the creed as she came to, and she would see the cross, so, please God, she would know he was a Christian and that she was safe with him. He must be milder than a dove and as calm as the stone saint, because he knew very well what he looked like. If she was a Madonna, he was a gargoyle. His red-haired Madonna stretched out on the pallet like a basking grass snake, slowly, sinuously, and a tiny sigh escaped her mouth. Watching, staring, he was stunned again by her beauty, by the wonder of a woman sleeping in his presence. It was so wonderful he forgot to swallow a final sip of water. As he felt it trickling down his scars and mottled beard, he desperately smacked his good hand across his face, veiling himself in case the first thing she saw, looming in the firelight, was him, too close. But she did not wake. She turned on her side and curled into a ball, and he tracked her movement with helpless pleasure. Her languor and the gently snorting horse beguiled him. Telling himself he would rest for a moment, only a moment, he eased himself onto the pallet beside her. Facing the fire, he watched the whispering flames and daydreamed of summer in the heart of winter. Later he dreamed in truth. In the dream, as ever, he was hale and whole, unmarked by the blades that had hacked off his hand and foot and scarred his face so deeply. He and fair-haired Peter were boating on a river with Alice and Elfrida. Alice was learning how to scull

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from her husband, straining on her oar and calling to her children on the grassy bank. Elfrida dropped pine cones into the water, where each cone became a door. In the dream, when she spoke to him, he understood. “Damsels live behind these doors, and a beast visits them.” “Where does he live?” She smiled. “You are a good student. That is for us to find out.” She reached across the ribs of the rowing boat and took his unblemished right hand in hers. “You are handsome. I like your curly black hair and beard.” She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his beard. Her touch and the scent of her, spices and poppy, mingled with sweet, warm flesh, aroused him instantly. “What is your name?” she whispered, stealing a swift kiss from his whole, unscarred mouth. “Magnus,” he said aloud and woke, his head throbbing. Light glared into his eyes, and he shielded them with his arm, sighing as he saw the stump where his hand had once been. His missing foot itched and ached as he remembered afresh his old war wounds. In Outremer, his scars had been badges of honor and courage, but in England he was ugly, a beast. A monster to catch a monster. Is that not apt? He heard Elfrida’s breath, fast and hard, and knew she was awake. She had not screamed yet, which was a blessing. He flinched, surprised as she thrust a firebrand up to his face, then he held still, tormenting her and himself with his looks. A pair of bright, amber eyes scanned his ruined face. Elfrida crouched by the fire, glancing at him, the door, and the horse. “If you try riding him, he will kick you off into a snowdrift,” Magnus remarked. Keeping his voice low and even, he said, “Elfrida, my name is Magnus. I am here to help.” Her eyes narrowed at his use of her name, but she shook her head as he repeated what he had said in every language he knew. When he

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had finished, she held up her arm and pointed at his. Baffled, he raised his left hand, and she brought the burning brand close, studying the limb as if looking for cloven hooves. “I am a man,” he said quietly. “I know I may not look it.” She lifted her left hand, turning the palm to him. When he pointed at the red spots that now marred her previously flawless skin, she nodded to him, then to his horse. He was stunned when he realized what she was suggesting and violently shook his head. “So you have a pox, which is one reason why you have swooned. But I am still not leaving.” He shrugged and risked a smile. His missing teeth were no worse than those of many others. “I had poxes as a child, and in the East.” She jabbered something, tossing the brand onto the fire and snatching up the cross he had made. When he began to recite the creed, she joined in, then lifted her other arm, where faint spots were already beginning to emerge, and pointed a second time to his horse. “Even if I could, I would not leave,” he said. She backed away to the door and, rising, peered through a small gap between roof and doorway, her lips moving as she seemed to count the falling ribbons of snow. Suddenly, shockingly, she dropped to her knees and pleaded. He understood her name and thought he heard another name, but he shook his head at the rest. “I am no Forest Grendel,” he said, sounding as calm as the snow outside while within he boiled with shame. He had thought her anxious for him not of him, a rare indulgence, but now it seemed this scrap of a girl did think him a monster. But she tapped her chest. “Elfrida.” She pointed to the fire. “Are you cold?” He wrapped arms about himself and pretended to shiver. A single, powerful negative was her response. “Hot?” She replied with a name, “Christina.” “Is she your child?” Magnus picked up a branch and cradled it, as

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if rocking a baby. Elfrida frowned. “Magnus?” She too rocked a branch. “No,” he said and shook his head. “Forest Grendel?” She ran the words together. “No!” His own shout shocked him, and her. She paled and wiped her eyes. He was shamed to have made her cry. “I am sorry.” **** Elfrida felt more tears trickle down her face and prayed that her strange companion, whoever, whatever, he was, would not see them. Dizzy again, she slid down the door of the hut and sat on the saddle, blinking to clear her blurred vision and wishing she was either hot or cold, not both at once. Questions pounded in her aching head. Where was Christina? What pox had struck her? Who was Magnus, a Viking without a ship? He was fussing with a small wooden cup and a pail—no, it was a metal helm of some kind, used as a pail—and drinking some kind of milky substance from within it. He showed her the cup, smacked his ragged lips, and offered her a drink. She accepted, deciding he had no need to drug or poison her, not with her limbs already feeling so heavy and the small of her back aching as it did usually only after harvest. The warm water was curiously soothing, and she sipped it gratefully, wondering for a wild instant if she should dash it into his eyes instead and flee the hut. But Magnus had very kind, crinkled eyes for a Viking, or a beast. And even if she could scald him and could escape him and lumber out into the woods, what then? She dared not travel in this snowstorm, and if her pox was the great one, she would soon be too sick to move. She drained the cup, surprised to find she had finished her water. Magnus gestured with his battered right arm. She nodded, allowing him to take the cup in his whole hand while she studied the stump of his right. No claws there, so had she imagined them? And those deep

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grooves across his face—surely those could not be the result of nature? So why had this man not died of his wounds? Elfrida remembered a tinker who had stayed at her house and spoken of distant lands beyond the forest, beyond even the sea. “Jerusalem?” she asked, jerking her eyes at his missing hand. The holy city was the one place she had heard of, outside England. Magnus grinned, turning his already ugly looks into a devil’s face, as she fought down a rush of fear. “Azaz,” he replied, waving his stump and his foot—a missing foot, replaced by a wooden stump, Elfrida realized with a jolt of pity. With his good hand he was tracing a deep groove from his jaw to his nose, where the tip of his nose was also missing, and now he drew a half-moon in the air, saying more. He had a deep, pleasing voice, and she guessed he was sensible, but she had no idea still what he was saying. He grinned again and moved. “Do not!” She snatched at his hand as he seemed about to hack at his face with his eating knife. She caught his wrist, and it was like gripping a bar of iron. She could not budge his arm. Again he said something, very slowly. “Wounds in battle, I understand,” she said, sagging with relief as he relaxed, holding the dagger out to her, hilt first. Trust me, his kind, crinkled eyes seem to plead. It was a good dagger, very finely wrought, well-balanced in her hand as she took it. She glanced again at his scars, his wide shoulders, the hard, well-developed muscles of his arms and thighs. Ploughmen had a wiry strength and blacksmiths the same, but this Magnus was different from those. “You are a knight?” she ventured, motioning to the horse. “Sir Magnus?” He said something with the name Magnus in it, adding “Elfrida, Christina?” “My sister, who is missing, taken by a monster.”

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Did he understand? Was he a knight or the monster she sought? Was he still a knight, with those wounds? He lay down again on the pallet and patted the sparse straw beside him, then rolled over. This took some time, and Elfrida contrasted his awkward, clumsy movement with the lethal grace of the monster, who had taken Christina and the other young women without being seen by any in the villages. She helped herself to more water, listening as Magnus’s breathing slowed. When she was certain he slept, she went through his pack. **** Naughty scrap! Feigning sleep, Magnus heard her soft, stealing ways and guessed what she was about. Had he been whole, unscarred, he might have snatched her up and rolled her in the snow, but he was uglier than sin and the little witch was sick. He could smell the sickness on her. He longed to have the words to reassure her that it was not the smallpox, which he had seen and endured in the East. He stifled a snort, recalling how proud he had been of surviving the pox, and so unmarked. A Saracen sword had marked him so much better... The door creaked as she tried it. Was she senseless enough to go out in a snowstorm? Why not? She had been wild enough to offer herself as bait, a tasty morsel for a monster. Scraping his peg leg on the wall, he caught her foot as she fell over his saddle, her head cracking against the door. She did not waste breath or effort shrieking but kicked out, squirming like a landed fish. When she lunged toward the fire, he wrestled her into his arms, desperate to stop her scorching them both. “Enough!” he roared, grappling for her, terrified she would be burnt. He scooped her away from the flames and rolled with her, striking the saddle, wrapping his good leg around hers to stop her writhing free. “By all that’s holy, I will not harm you!”

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Her fist rammed into his eye, and he saw green lights for an instant, then she said something in a hard, clear voice, and he froze, afraid she had put a curse on him. She lifted his arm off her and showed her own arm. There were more spots, some looking close to bursting. He saw her arm and her face clearly in the firelight and snorted, caught at that moment between amusement and pity. Her narrow, heart-shaped face, slender nose, and shapely chin were all smothered in spots. “Forgive me!” he said, as her eyes narrowed. “I do not mean to tease or mock, but it is funny. You are near as ugly as me, I vow, but it will pass.” He cupped her cheek tenderly, understanding her restlessness, relieved, too, that it was the childish itching pox and no worse. It would pass, and she would be beautiful again. “You itch, too, I should think, but you must not scratch.” He scratched his arm and shook his head, then touched an angry blister on her arm and said, “No.” She shrugged, her amber eyes showing more sparks than the fire, her whole body a denial. She said something, and he nodded. “I know you are no fool, Elfrida. Though to venture out in snow and give yourself as a sacrifice to a beast, is that not folly?” She did not answer, of course, but he guessed that had she understood his every word, she would have folded her arms as she did now and glower. “Did you annoy a fellow witch? Is that how you have been cursed with the itching pox?” Elfrida tossed her loose hair back over her shoulder and abruptly hammered on the door. When she turned to him her face was scarlet, and he swore against his own slow wits. “Here.” He hauled on the door, shoving the saddle out of the way and watched her pitch into a white world. The powdery drifts were still tumbling into the hut and the horse whickering with irritation when she stumbled back.

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She was shivering, and not because of him. Magnus pointed to the pallet, and she dropped onto it without a murmur, allowing him to pile his cloak and the horse’s saddle blanket on her. She refused the cheese he offered her but took another long drink of melted snow water. “Last winter I saw Alice tend her twins through the itching pox. She bathed them in water with oatmeal. Sadly, even with the horse’s meal bag, I have none here with me.” He was speaking to her quite easily, as he might to Peter or Alice, Magnus realized, and he was shamed to recognize the reason. She looked less like a tempting angel, a high damsel, and more like a molting hawk to be tended and pampered. He did not feel so ugly now she was in his care. **** Elfrida watched Magnus carefully moving firewood so that he could lie down on the floor. He had put the saddle back by the door, but only to stop the snow pushing in. He had already proved he would let her come and go as she pleased, nor had he abandoned her. If only we could understand each other, she thought, frustrated by that and the weakness of her body. She must return to her village, rouse the men again, threaten them all if need be, and find Christina. Tomorrow I will go. I cannot see in this snow and dark, but tomorrow I must set out and my ugly knight, or monster, or whatever Magnus is, will not stop me. Magnus was burning every scrap of dry moss, hay, wood, and cloth that he could find in or near the hut. Elfrida stirred to find herself and her pallet dragged out of the doors, with the horse tethered close beside her and both of them draped with blankets. In a sheltered hollow before the hut, standing in a puddle of melted slush and snow, Magnus worked furiously, in a sweat, wielding a small wood axe with determined ease. A bonfire blazed up

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in a huge column of flames, sparks, and smoke, setting fire to the branches overhead, but he was clearly delighted in the spectacle. As he limped briskly to the fire with another newly cut log, flinging it into the heart of the flames, Elfrida thought of devils in hell, and shivered. Her back, close to the snow, was chilled, but her breasts and face were hot. “Hola!” Magnus saw she was awake and waved. He was even more of a gargoyle in the bright sunlight and the glare of the snow, but she had learned not to flinch. He chopped wood by bracing a log with his good leg and hacking away, scooping up a “killed” branch with his handless arm and tossing it into the greedy flames. If he is not the monster—and all my wit and magic tell me he is not—then Magnus still does not fear the creature. The smoke alone here must be visible for miles and draw who knows what to us—king’s foresters, villagers, wandering tinkers, brigands—and he fears none. She feared none, either, but she was a witch. Fully awake, she fumbled in her green gown and clutched at one of the protective amulets around her neck, drawing on its power. “Christina,” she whispered, wishing her sister love, health, vigor, and life. She tried to rise, disgusted to find herself still weak, her body trembling as if she had a fever. She kicked at the snow, scowling as a tiny flurry of flakes tumbled away, though she had used all her strength. A second kick had her flopping sideways, sprawling like a rag doll. It seemed simpler to gather her cloak around her ears and listen. Who will come? she wondered, as her eyes closed and were too heavy to reopen. Who is Magnus hoping will come? Am I bait again? She yawned and dismissed the idea. Her instincts told her she was safe with Magnus, even if he was a Viking. But where was Christina? She thought of the forest and its many paths, all snow-covered and snowbound. Was her sister in another forest hut nearby? Where were

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the tracks of the beast, and what did they look like? Why was Magnus here in the forest? Elfrida imagined the village headman and Magnus together, a picture that came easily to her mind. Magnus was at ease in the forest—she saw that in how he gathered wood and checked for deer and boar droppings and set traps for birds. He knew where to sweep aside the snow to find paths and then fallen sweet chestnuts, crab apples, and frozen blackberries. Chestnuts were already roasting, and their savor reminded her that she had not eaten for days. Had the village men sent a messenger to Magnus, pleading for his help against the beast? Or was she mistaken? Was Magnus as evil as he looked? Again she tried to rise, but the slow spinning in her head increased. She turned onto her back and stared upwards. A yellow sun blinked at her through the branches, and her breath was the only cloud in a wide sky the shade of cornflowers. From her clothes she brought out a dried, fragile sprig of rosemary, an amulet that she had given to Christina last winter, when her sister had nightmares and she wanted to protect her from evil spirits. Tucking the sprig between her breasts, she covered her eyes with her cloak and willed herself to sleep. Dream of Christina. Dream of where she is. “See” where she is. Elfrida knew she was dreaming, in the place between spirits and earth, even before the lion came out of the forest and spoke to her. It was a gold beast with a shaggy coat like a wolfhound and kind, crinkled eyes. “Do you remember the speech of your grandfather?” the lion asked. “I do.” And she knew what she would say to Magnus, once she was awake. **** Magnus was worried. The fire he had made should have brought

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his people. It was an old signal, well-known between them. His men should have reached the village by now—that had been the arrangement. They were bringing traps and provisions, in covered wagons, and hunting dogs and horses. He had been impatient to start his pursuit of the Forest Grendel and so rode ahead, returning with the messenger until that final stretch when the man turned off to his home. He had ridden on alone, finding the wayside shrine. But from then, all had gone awry. Instead of the monster, he had found an ailing witch, and the snowstorm had lost him more tracks and time. Magnus shook his head, turning indulgent eyes to the small, still figure on the rough pallet. At least the little witch had slept through the night and day, snug and safe, and he had been able to make her a litter from woven branches. He would give his fire signal a little longer and then return Elfrida to her village. There he might find someone who could translate between them. Perhaps she did have power, for even as he looked at her, she sat up, the hood of her cloak falling away, and stared at him in return. She said something, then repeated it, and he drew in a great gulp of cold air in sheer astonishment, then laughed. “I know what you said!” He wanted to kiss her, spots and all. He burst into a clumsy canter, dragging his peg leg a little and almost tumbling onto her bed. She caught him by the shoulders and tried to steady him but collapsed under his weight. They finished in an untidy heap on the pallet, with Elfrida hissing by his ear, “Why you have done such a foolish thing as to burn all our fuel?” He rolled off her, knocked snow off his front and beard and said in return, “How did you know I would know the old speech, the old English?” “I dream true, and I dreamed this.” She was blushing, though not, he realized quickly, from shyness. “Why burn so wildly?” she burst out, clearly furious. “You have

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wasted it! All that good wood gone to ash!” “My men know my sign and will come now the storm has gone.” He had not expected thanks or soft words, but he was not about to be scolded by this red-haired nag. “That is your plan, Sir Magnus? To burn half the forest to alert your troops?” “A wiser plan than yours, madam, setting yourself as bait. Or had your village left you hanging there, perhaps to nag the beast to death?” Her face turned as scarlet as the fire. “So says any witless fool! ’Tis too easy a charge men make against women, any woman who thinks and acts for herself. And no man orders me!” Magnus swallowed the snort of laughter filling up his throat. He doubted she saw any amusement in their finally being able to speak to each other only to quarrel. Had she been a man or a lad, he would have knocked her into the snow, then offered a drink of mead, but such rough fellowship was beyond him here. “And how would you have fought off any knave, or worse, that found you?” he asked patiently. “You did not succeed with me.” “There are better ways to vanquish a male than brute force. I knew what I was about!” “Truly? You were biding your time? And the pox makes you alluring?” “Says master gargoyle! My spots will pass!” “Or did you plan to scatter a few herbs, perhaps?” He thought he heard her clash her teeth together. “I did not plan my sickness, and I do not share my secrets! Had you not snatched me away, had you not interfered, I would know where the monster lives. I would have found my sister! I would be with her!” Her voice hitched, and a look of pain and dread crossed her face. “We would be together. Whatever happens, I would be with her.” “This was Christina?” “Is Christina, not was, never was! I know she lives!”

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Magnus merely nodded, his temper cooling rapidly as he marked how her color had changed and her body shook. A desperate trap to recover a much-loved sister excused everything, to his way of thinking. She called you a gargoyle! This piqued his vanity and pride. But she does not think you the monster, Magnus reminded himself in a dazzled, shocked wonder, embracing that knowledge like a lover. Elfrida was unaware of the impact of her words. He wondered if she even knew what she had admitted as she continued to speak in a torrent of fear. “She will be so frightened, and Christina is so young, so delicate. She was getting married, but what if her betrothed says no to the wedding after this? To marry and to be loved were always her greatest hopes!” Elfrida lurched to her feet, growing paler still. “I must find her!” She stumbled off the pallet, losing her footing, and collapsed in a puddle of clothes. She lay still, her long hair streaked across her limp form like a trail of blood. Cursing, Magnus reached for her. “Should have kept to love potions and spinning,” he muttered, tossing her over his shoulder. He knew a girlish faint when he saw one, but Elfrida would have to come to on the back of his horse. At long last he could hear the drumming of approaching riders and, from the shouts and catcalls, knew they were his men.

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Chapter 3 Her dreams were dark and strange, full of loud noises and storm. She called, in her dreams, on the saints and the old ones to protect her, while at times she was in a land of white, then red and green. When the space about her turned blue, she woke. Magnus was sitting beside her, playing chess with another man. As he moved the queen, he lifted his familiar, ugly head and smiled at her. “How are you now?” “Better, becoming better,” she said. “But how long and where—” He smiled. “Never fret, Elfrida! My men and hounds are searching the forest even now, and Christina’s betrothed is with them. They will find the track of the monster even in this snow.” Elfrida looked about, recognizing the hut and the charred remains of Magnus’s huge bonfire. “You were too ill to move,” Magnus said simply. “I did not realize at first, but when the fit-demon came over you, I reckoned we must stay here.” With a quickness that astonished her, he took her face in his hand. “The demon has gone from you. Your eyes are as clear as amber again, and very sweet.” Elfrida flushed, unused to anything of hers being called sweet. She was conscious, too, of the steady warmth of Magnus’s fingers against her cheek even as she anguished, wondering what the fitdemon had made her do. For the first time in an age she wondered how she looked. Were the itching-pox spots very bad? I fret for a mirror when Christina is still missing! That is more sinful than witchcraft.

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The man beside Magnus spoke, and Magnus laughed, releasing her. “Mark is a simple soul. He thinks you are not pretty enough to bother with. He says he would have rolled you in the snow and left you.” Elfrida rubbed her finger and thumb together, murmuring a charm to bring fleas to the ungracious Mark, a wiry russet-and-gray fellow with a red nose. She smiled when he clapped a hand onto the back of his neck, and cursed. “How long have your men been searching?” she asked, wondering if the helmet full of hot water was still about and if she might have some. “Since dawn today,” Magnus replied, holding out a flask. “We must do it quickly. More snow is coming.” Elfrida glanced at the cloudless sky and wondered how he thought that. “Where are you looking?” she demanded, taking the mead with a nod of thanks. In this sacred time before Christmas, such honey drinks and small luxuries were forbidden, but God would understand a gesture of peace and fellowship. Mark glowered and said something more, which Magnus waved away with the stump of his right hand. “What did he say?” “That an ugly woman is an affront to God and that you ask too many questions.” “Mark is a fool. When I am well, I will be acceptable, and Mark will still be a fool.” She glanced at the fellow, who slapped at another biting flea on the back of his neck. “That one will say that all women talk too much. He steals brides, do you know?” “I think you mean the monster rather than my soldier.” “I hope he fights better than he reasons.” “He does. As for the monster, Walter told me through an interpreter.” “What else has Walter said?” Loathing the way the men of her

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own village had kept secrets from her, Elfrida forced herself to swallow her resentment—it would only waste time now. Biting her tongue, she took a huge gulp of mead, which made her eyes water and had her half choking. Magnus did not grin or clap her on the back. He waited until her coughing had subsided and gave her a slow, considering look. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him. He spoke again to Mark, a clear order, and waited until the man had risen and kicked through the snow to a covered wagon. “How are the spots? Itching yet?” Elfrida gave a faint shudder. “Do not remind me.” Since stirring, she had been aware of her whole body tickling and burning. Mark’s idea of rolling in the snow might not be so bad. “Walter told me that the village of Great Yarr has a bathhouse. Bathing in oatmeal will help you.” She did not say that the village could afford to spare no foodstuffs and would not be distracted. She had tried to rush off in pursuit of the monster before and gained nothing, so now she would gather her strength and learn before she moved. “What did you call the beast? Forest Grendel? Is it known he lives in the forest?” Magnus shook his head. “It is not known, but I do not think so now, or at least not outdoors. I have hunted wolf’s heads who have been outlawed and fled into woodland, and they always have camps and dens and food caches within the forest. I have found none of those hereabouts.” “My dowsing caught no sign of any lair of his,” Elfrida agreed. Magnus leaned forward, bracing himself with his injured arm. Elfrida forced herself not to stare at his stump, but to listen to him. “Do you sense anything?” he asked softly. “The night you came, I felt something approach.” She frowned, trying to put into words feelings and impressions that were as elusive as smoke. “A great purpose,” she said. “A need and urgent desire.” Now Magnus was frowning. “Have you a charm or magic that

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will help?” “Do you think I have not tried magic, charms, and incantations? My craft is not like a sword fight, where the blades are always true. If God does not will it—” “I have been in enough fights where swords break.” “Are your men good trackers?” “They would not be with me, else.” If Magnus was startled by her determination to talk only of the beast, he gave no sign. “Tell me of your sister and her habits. Did she keep to the same paths and same tasks each day?” “Yes and yes, but what else did Walter say? The old men have told me nothing!” “No, they do not want the womenfolk to know anything, even you, I fear.” His kind eyes gleamed, as if he enjoyed her discomfiture. He had a small golden cross in his right eye, she noticed, shining amidst the warm brown. A sparkle for the lasses, eh, Magnus? To her further discomfiture, she realized he had asked her something. “Say again, please?” “Would you like some food to go with your mead? There are the remains of mutton, dates and ginger, wine and mead and honey.” His brown eyes gleamed. “My men found it in the clearing where I found you. The mutton has been a bit chewed, but the rest is palatable, I think.” “It is drugged!” Elfrida burst out. “I put”—she could not think of the old word and used her own language instead—“I put a sleeping draft in the wedding cakes and all.” She seized his arm, not caring that it was the one with the missing hand. “Do not eat it!” “Sleeping draft?” He used her own words. She yawned and feigned sleep, startled when he started to laugh. “A wedding feast to send the groom to sleep! I like it!” He chuckled again and opened his left hand, where, to Elfrida’s horror, there was one of her own small wedding cakes.

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“Do not eat it!” she cried. With surprising speed, Magnus rose and flung the cake straight into the forest. Elfrida watched it tumbling through the trees, going leagues and leagues, it seemed to her. “Now we must shift with what I have.” Magnus settled back again, rumbles of laughter still shaking in his huge chest. “Do not look so troubled, Elfrida. I am too greedy to put anything on my food but salt, when there is some.” With Christina still missing, Elfrida could not smile at the irony, but her belly growled, reminding her that she had not eaten for days. “I am hungry, too,” she admitted. “Thank you.” They could still talk while they ate. Sharing roasted chestnuts, acorns, toasted bread from the stores of Magnus’s men, cheese and apples and dates, she and Magnus shared their knowledge, too. “Walter called him a spider?” Magnus repeated when she had told her sorry tale. “One who comes and goes without sound?” “And without breaking twigs. You say he has struck at all three villages? A maid from each one, perhaps?” Magnus nodded. “I was told that the orphan lass was taken from Great Yarr and another maid from Selton, with your Christina being carried off from Top Yarr.” “So it may be that the beast knows the area well.” Elfrida chewed on a date, guiltily enjoying its sweetness even as she wondered if Christina had eaten yet. “You think he will touch Lower Yarr?” Magnus sighed and stretched, cracking the joints in his shoulders and his good hand one by one. “I have sent men to all these places, including Lower Yarr, to get the villagers digging out ditches round their homes and gathering thorns to put round their houses. I wish the menfolk would let the maids come to my manor, but they refuse.” “They refuse? They?” Elfrida felt as if she had turned into a dragon and might breathe fire, she was so angry. Rage burst through her, and she clutched her wooden cup so fiercely she heard it crack.

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“By what right do they choose and not say a word?” Magnus scratched at one of his deeper scars. “It is the way of the world. You are freer here than in Outremer, where women are kept indoors.” “Thank you. That is such a comfort,” snapped Elfrida. She could feel mead trickling down between her fingers, and her anger tightened another notch. “Christina would be safe now, if they had told us!” “Would she have left her betrothed, especially so close to her wedding?” Magnus asked patiently. Elfrida closed her eyes and said nothing. “Once my men begin work on the ditches, your villagers will have some explaining to do.” “Good!” Elfrida ground the fingers of her free hand into her aching eyes. Her limbs itched and flamed, and she no longer had any appetite. “Do you know anything of this orphan girl?” “Why her particularly?” “Because it was obvious from what the headman told me that she had no one to stand for her.” Elfrida took a deep breath. “I would have spoken for her, but I knew nothing!” In a fury, she dashed her hand against her forehead, forgetting she was gripping the wooden cup, and immediately saw a host of green lights. “I have something of hers,” Magnus remarked quietly. “Part of a blue veil found inside the lean-to. The place where she lived,” he added. “The beast came inside her home? Did she let him in? Did he force the door?” “From what I was told, I think the creature slipped in through the roof.” Which explained Walter’s prodding of the thatch when he had last visited Christina, Elfrida thought, abruptly chilled as she imagined a shadowy, hulking form bursting into a hut from above.

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Was the monster as big as Magnus? She glanced at him, her fingers absently scratching at the spots in her hair. He looked at her steadily. “I am not him,” he said, “and you should not do that.” Elfrida’s hand flew down to her lap. “Blue veil, you say?” she croaked, snatching at the first thing she could to cover her embarrassment. “My sister’s wedding veil is blue.” “One of the doors in my dream of the creature was blue.” Elfrida’s interest sharpened, even as she realized that Magnus had mentioned his dream to purposely divert her. But then, she worked in dreams. Dreams were important. “Tell me all.” She listened carefully to Magnus’s halting account, not shaming him by asking what he was leaving out in his tale of the river and the doors. Men did not feel easy discussing dreams. “Who are Alice and Peter?” “The true friends of my heart and hearth. Hellsbane—Peter of the Mount—was a fellow crusader, fighting with me in Outremer. He has carried me off the field of battle more than once.” “And you him,” Elfrida guessed. Magnus waved this off. “His fight name is Hellsbane. Alice gave him that name.” “And what is she?” “His wife.” Magnus puffed out his cheeks, making himself an ugly, jolly demon. “Like you, she is a healer, a maker of potions. But a lady.” Shrugging off the but, Elfrida wondered what Alice the lady looked like, then found her thought answered. “She is small, like you, and pretty, with long, black hair and bright, blue eyes. She wears blue, also. The Forest Grendel would have stolen her away had she lived hereabouts and Peter been dead and in his grave.” “The monster has his dark-haired bride,” Elfrida reminded him, feeling a pang of envy at the warm way Magnus described the lady

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Alice, “but no auburn yet.” “You cannot put yourself up as bait again.” “No one will stop me.” Magnus shook his head. “You have some days before you can even entertain such foolishness.” “Men like the outward show. I know that all too well. I have never seen a handsome man with an ugly wife.” Magnus’s brown eyes twinkled. “You would at court and in kingly circles. A handsome dowry can work marvels for a plain girl.” “Plain yes, but no worse than that.” Why do I pursue this? I know men are shallow as dew ponds! Anger at herself and mankind made her blaze out with another fresh rage of itching, all over her body. She glanced longingly at the snow and then at the necklace of bear’s teeth and claws slung around Magnus’s thick neck. “Those are the claws I saw the night you found me!” she burst out, reaching out to touch the necklace. Pleased to have one mystery understood, she smiled in turn and bent her head eagerly as he dropped a small parcel onto her lap. “What is this?” “His token, dropped into the girl’s rush pallet when he stole away with the orphan. I am most interested to know what you make of it.” He cleared his throat. “What you sense from it,” he added, glancing at the charms around her neck. Why did he not show me this earlier? Elfrida unwrapped the rough cloth with trembling fingers. She did not want to think of the girl, waking in her bed and finding a monster where she should have been safe within her home. She did not want to touch the object, not at first, and studied it a moment. “Have you handled this?” “I did exactly as you did, Elfrida. I untied it and looked. I cannot say for the village headman or the rest.” She lifted it, still wrapped in the cloth, and sniffed. “I did that, too,” Magnus said quietly. “The scent is cloves and

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frankincense.” “Cloves, frankincense with a whiff of pepper and ginger. All foreign and expensive. So the monster has money and servants.” “Ah, to buy them for him! Unless he steals those, too, from peddlers and the like, as they pass through the forest.” “It has a blue base,” Elfrida observed, turning the cloth on which the object was laid. “Ancient glass, Roman, I think, cut to shape and set into the wood. Is it a cup, as seems? Or was it fashioned for other uses?” As he spoke, Magnus lifted his left hand and made the sign to ward away the evil eye. “There are no runes or magic signs cut into the goblet, no gems or magic stones inset within it.” Elfrida closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose. “It is old, made in the time of our grandfathers. It has held hot things.” “Blood?” “Tisane.” Elfrida smiled at Magnus’s wary question, amused and saddened in equal parts at the way nonwitches thought all magic dark and terrible. “See where the inside is stained dark? That is with tisane. I would say a blackberry tisane.” “Not blood and not beer either, like your own good ale.” “No.” Absurdly touched by Magnus’s praise, she found herself wishing, for a moment, that she could give him more ale. “What?” Magnus asked, altogether too sharp and all seeing. “Nothing, eager one! Now let me work.” Confident of her own magic, she took another deep breath and lifted the small bowl-shaped cup with both hands. Images rose out of the snow and played across her startled eyes. There was Christina, laughing with her head thrown back, and a darkhaired girl dancing on the spot, blowing into a small pipe. A shadow fell across them both, but they did not shrink back. Rather they stepped forward eagerly, their hands outstretched like beggars at a fair.

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“Christina!” she called in her mind, but the vision faded even as she strained to reach for her sister and for an instant felt as if she flew, as she could when she ate the secret mushroom of the birchwood. She blinked and was looking down from the treetops, east into a gray sky at a hillside of oak trees, and within the oak trees were three strong towers. She lunged forward like a hawk, dropping to the tower with the blue door... “Elfrida? Elfrida! Are you with us again?” She sighed, pinching the top of her nose, forcing her spirit back within herself. It was mildly disconcerting to discover that she was half on Magnus’s lap, her body propped against his barrel chest and her head snug in the crook of his arm—his arm with the stump, she realized. “Are you well?” he asked again, touching her forehead with his good hand. “Your eyes rolled back into your head, and you were twitching like a hunting dog on the scent.” “I was hunting,” she replied. Deciding she was too comfortable to stir from where she was, she talked quickly as the scene vanished into the whiteness of the snow. “He has them bewitched in some way, perhaps with a love philter, perhaps with a handsome, pleasing familiar.” “Have you a familiar?” She scowled at the interruption, conscious again of the itching in her hair and across her face and arms. “I do not need one,” she said sharply. “But listen to me now, for once the sight leaves me, I do not always remember it well.” Magnus nodded and brought a finger to his lips, his promise of silence. “To the east of here, within the forest, there is an oak wood set on a high hill. His lair is there, within three strong towers, three towers, one with a painted blue door.” She heard Magnus’s breath catch, but he did not interrupt.

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“I saw my sister, laughing, and another girl, playing a pipe. They were dancing. I do not know if they were together, or if they danced alone, for the beast. They seemed unharmed. I did not see the third, but they were safe and even happy.” She felt Magnus’s gasp of relief, and his reaction inspired hers. Overwhelmed to know that Christina was safe, she sobbed aloud as tears burst out of her. “Aye, aye, I wondered when it would come to this.” Magnus gathered her closer still, ignoring her fever and spots. When her weeping subsided, he gave her a clean rag to wipe her face. **** He believed her. He had seen magic in Outremer, where men had put themselves into trances and driven nails into hands without pain or blood. He shouted to Mark, a single order, “Stop!” and listened as Mark blew his horn to signal to the rest of his men. “Does the monster hunt alone?” he asked Elfrida. She was rubbing at her forehead with the rag, and he took it from her to stop her bursting her spots. She frowned but not because of the itching pox. “I do not know,” she admitted. “No matter,” he said easily, glad she had sense enough not to claim more than she did and not wanting her to blame herself. That was the failing and limit of magic, he knew—it never showed everything. She squirmed on his lap and rolled off him into the snow. “I must set a charm to find this oak hill.” She rose to her feet, seemingly unaware of how she swayed in the still, crisp air like a sapling in bad weather. “All oaks, and very ancient, with lichens hanging from them. And mistletoe!” She brightened at remembering, the glow in her small, narrow face showing how pretty she was, without spots. She checked the position of the sun and began to walk southeast,

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tramping stiffly through the snow. Then she turned back. “Your men know to let me pass?” “They would not dare delay a witch.” She smiled. “No, only you would.” She turned, took another step, and stopped. Magnus did not want her to leave, either. He told himself it was because his men were even now calling back through the trees, “Nothing!” “No track!” “Nothing here!” I need her skills, and though she will not admit it, she needs mine. He limped toward her and offered her his good arm. “May I escort you? I have seen a mage’s house in the East, but never a witch’s home.” He caught a glitter of interest in her eyes, quickly suppressed as she jerked her head at his horse and gathering men. “Do they come, too?” “It will be quicker,” Magnus said easily. “Once we know where to seek your sister, we can set out on horseback.” “I do not have a bathhouse nearby.” “A barrel of water and hot stones will do as well.” “And food and hay? I cannot magic those.” “My men have brought both, even oats.” She glanced at the gray skies and shook her head. “There will be more snow tonight. More! I have no spells against that amount of evil weather!” “And your sister is indoors.” He waited a moment, for her to see the good in that, then added, “If we cannot hunt in more snow, neither can the beast.” She nodded and took his arm, saying quietly, “Thank you.” They walked forward together.

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Chapter 4 Elfrida was weary, with aching eyes and limbs, by the time she had slogged through the snow to her hut. Longing for a drink and rest, for a warm barrel bath with hot stones and a long sleep in her own bed, she thought of Christina. That was enough to compel her to keep going, to straighten her spine and to step inside, warning the eversolicitous Magnus to remain outside, for some magic has to be secret to work. Perhaps she spoke a little harshly, for Mark muttered something and rubbed fiercely at his red nose, but Magnus was as sanguine as ever, merely instructing his followers to set up camp. Closing and barring her door, she could hear them shifting things and listened to the hum of chatter as the villagers came out of their homes to find out what was happening. As the scent of baking salted fish stole through her small hut, she fought down hunger and other earthly distractions by making a lengthy invocation to the Virgin. When the sounds outside became muffled, she knew that it was time to begin. First she swept her floor and dragged the stone quern she used as an altar into the middle of the hut. Around the altar she made a circle of precious salt and purified herself with sprigs of rosemary and melted snow water so cold it made her gasp. She dared not complete her magic naked, lest one of Magnus’s men was peeping at her through her thatch, but she put on a clean, plain robe and combed the worst tangles from her hair. She set a small fire going in the center of the salt circle, scattered more rosemary upon the altar, and was fully ready. She placed the monster’s cup outside the salt circle, to the north

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where demons dwelled, and stepped within the circle. Taking a honeycomb, she broke it in half, placing half in the monster’s cup and wrapping half in another clean cloth as an offering to the saint of the forest. She raised her hands in prayer and said aloud, “Forest beast and forest saint, keep my sister safe and bright, Let no harm come to her through day or night.” After that she took wax and began to carve and shape it with a silver knife—an old knife, and the most magical and precious thing she owned. She chanted as she carved and shaped, allowing her fingers to fashion a thin, long-limbed figure. Briefly she wished for a lock of his hair, or a piece of claw, to add to the figure, but then she lost herself in her chanting. “As the wax will burn, so the snow will burn, As the wax will burn, so the heart of the monster will burn, As the wax will burn, so the snow will melt, As the wax will burn, so the monster will melt, The wax will make a path to his door, Within a time of three he will release my sister, and the others, His heart will be glad, and they will be glad, All will be well.” Swiftly she dropped the wax figure into her fire, repeating her chant until all was lost in the flames. Then she left the fire to burn down to ashes and stumbled outside, limping slightly because she was light-headed from the fumes and the power of her magic. “It is done,” she called out to Magnus in the old speech. “We shall find Christina and the others within a time of three.” “Three? Three hours, days, weeks, months? Three years?” Elfrida shuddered at the thought of three years. “That is as the magic wills it. For me, it would be better if it were three hours, but then it would be dark, and snowing. The spell needs time to build.” ****

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Magnus stopped digging out a section of ditch and rested his arms on top of the shovel, not because he needed to rest but because he wanted to look at her. She was as pale as the snow, with great shadows under her eyes. One of the itching spots on her forehead had burst, and she looked as weary and determined as an old warhorse. “Good,” he said. “You have done all that needs to be done and that can be done.” Digging in another part of the growing ditch, Mark mumbled and pointed at her with his spade. “He hopes you have magicked your itching pox onto the beast and so save us all some trouble,” Magnus translated, not adding that Mark had also said that she looked like a withered doll with woodworm. “I am a healer, a good witch, and my powers come from God,” she replied at once, frowning at Mark. “It is not wise to work in that way, and curses can rebound.” Magnus nodded, thinking that a few ill wishes and curses would have been useful, all the same. She glanced at the half-finished ditch. “You are doing well here.” “It will keep wolves out, at least. We shall finish tomorrow.” She turned in a half circle. “I heard the villagers earlier.” “They vanished once we started to work at the digging, Walter included. He is going out into the forest again tonight to keep looking for your sister.” “But it will be night soon.” “And did nightfall stop you from looking?” Magnus asked mildly. Taking advantage of her silence, he went on, “There will be hot water soon, for your bath.” Just in time, he stopped himself from adding that the barrel was large enough for both of them. His legs and back were aching, and to share a warm tub with a warm, young female—even one covered with spots—would be no hardship. She touched her forehead with her fingers, a gesture he now

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recognized as a sign of anxiety. “I should search the woods with Walter. I know the paths better than he does.” “The beast has been cunning and careful so far,” Magnus pointed out. “I do not think he wastes his evenings in a snowy forest.” “No, not when he has my sister as a plaything!” Magnus ignored her temper, hearing the raw fear beneath, and he responded to that. “Bathe for her,” he said, trying another tactic to settle the jumpy lass. “Soothe yourself and send your peace to her.” It sounded good to him, a magic of sympathy, and from the look of brief longing that shadowed across Elfrida’s face, she clearly thought so, too. “I could do that,” she said slowly. “But comfort and a knowledge of tenderness comes largely through touch. I must stroke her veil and think of her. It would be excellent if Walter could handle her veil as well.” Her face suddenly flooded with color. Mark, pausing in his digging again, stared at her with obvious interest until Magnus spat an order at him to get on. “What is it?” he asked. “Sex magic,” she muttered, blushing harder. Magnus wondered if he had misheard, or misunderstood—the old speech was a second tongue for both of them and so misunderstandings were more than likely. “I beg your pardon?” She repeated a jumble of words from which he understood “Walter,” “Christina,” and, “but such magic is hard to control.” “Walter and Christina would make it?” He wondered how that could be, since they were so cruelly separated. “No, others would act on their behalf. Then the rite would bring them back together.” “Like a bow and bowstring, you mean?” “Not really.” She shook her head. “But it will not work.” No, even smothered in spots, no right lass will fancy me for any carnal magic. Magnus glowered at Mark until he shuffled farther off with his spade. If he was not going to be doing sex magic, then why

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should any of his men? “Come, let me take you and your sister’s veil to the bath,” he said gruffly. He had instructed his men to tip oatmeal into it, too, so one of them would have some relief tonight, at least. **** It was snowing again. Elfrida watched the large, fluffy flakes drift down from the warmth and privacy of her bath and tried to imagine being snow—cool and white and untouched by anything. She tugged the rough curtain draped about the wooden tub farther apart and spotted Magnus lingering nearby, his back to her as he paced slowly to and fro. How dare he stand guard for me as if I am helpless! Her irritation was as swiftly replaced by a pang of tenderness. He had allowed her to bathe first, and the water was delicious. It or the oatmeal had stopped the furious itching across her body for the moment so that when she dipped Christina’s veil within the tub and smoothed it with her hands, she felt as pretty as her sister. Be easy, Christina, easy and safe, little sister. She yawned, allowing herself to drift and for the water to support her. It was an embrace, winding about her waist and flanks, cupping her breasts. Much like a lover, eh? Elfrida felt herself blush. She had not meant to blurt out the idea of using love magic quite so crudely, but the old speech was so very earthy. She must have used the wrong word, for Magnus’s warm, brown eyes had widened like a young boy’s and then become instantly guarded. It made her sad to realize how many times he must have been taunted by others about lovemaking, when he was so wary now. “What would you be like as a lover, Sir Magnus?” she murmured, scooping water over the tops of her breasts.

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She peeped through the hangings and the falling snow at her ungainly but not ungentle knight. There were women to whom such ugliness as his would be an attraction, but she was not one of those. Accepting that aspect of her nature, she regarded him with guilt-free eyes. Sir Magnus. A warrior who feared nothing, save ridicule. His courage moved her, and he was an intriguing man, with his crusader past and learning. For the rest he was tall and straight and, even now, well made, with strongly muscled arms, legs, and flanks. Certainly he was a giant amidst the villagers but not naturally clumsy. Aside from some understandable stumbles, he managed his stump and peg leg nimbly enough. In some profiles, as he was for the moment, glancing about the camp with steady, careful watchman’s eyes, he was even handsome, or you could see the remains of strong, stark good looks. His dark, curling hair pleased her, and his rich and mellow brown eyes were a beautiful shock, reaching out to her from the devastation of his face. Their eyes met briefly, and she felt a glow of pleasure deep in her breasts and belly as he clearly saw and acknowledged her, raising his good hand. “Good evening,” she murmured, glad that he was still with her. He was not the kind of man who abandoned others and, snug within this warm, enveloping bath, she could admit that not always having to be the strong protector, the witch of her village, was a relief. He understood her loss—she sensed his sympathy as keenly as she sensed the endless, relentless falling of the snow. He did not grab or scratch, either, and his touch was gentle. In his arms she had felt safe and comforted. She sensed that he liked her, too, and as more than a friend or companion in a quest. Surely he desired her? Being a virgin, she was not entirely sure, but she thought he did—his eyes had certainly widened when she blundered over “sex magic.” She wished, briefly, that she had met him years ago. Magnus would take his time in the act of love.

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She smiled at the idea and leaned back against the smooth, wooden boards of the tub, closing her eyes as she imagined stroking her hands up and down Magnus’s long back. Would he be smooth or hairy? “Hairy, like Samson,” she said aloud and opened her eyes. The scene about her now was white and gray, the twilight behind the tumbling snow turning from dark-blue to black. The plain, heavy hangings set around her tub arched over her head, but a few flakes spilled through the tiny gaps and fell, hissing, into her bath. Snow had fallen on Magnus’s hair, she noticed, when he next stepped into the gap between her bath hangings, snowflakes making glints of silver amidst the strong, black curls. She saw him shake once, like a boarhound, and the sparkles flew into the evening air. 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

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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

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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.

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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.

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

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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 not 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

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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

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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

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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, stillspinning 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.

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“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

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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 pride 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

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Magnus, who lowered himself onto the snow beside her, sitting crosslegged 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. “Your son is a small, thin boy, very handsome, with tears at the knees of his tunic.” The widow took her hands away from her face and gaped at her. “How did you know?” “What did you say to her?” Magnus asked. “A lucky guess and a description that would fit a thousand small boys,” Elfrida replied to Magnus, while to the woman she said, “I am a witch. Your witch and no stranger. I can help you, if you will tell me.” The widow closed her yellow eyes. “He will kill me.” Magnus hunched closer to the woman when Elfrida translated her despairing answer, and patted her shoulder with his injured hand. “Ask her if she has heard of the Trial of Outremer. There, a man or woman accused of spying is dragged up to the tallest tower in Jerusalem and flung off the battlements. Those who float to the ground are deemed guilty.” “And those who are innocent?” Magnus shrugged, granting the widow another evil smile. “They are with God.” Watching his grim, mangled face and the widow’s prey terror, Elfrida felt compelled to warn him. “Magnus, this woman is already at stretch. Would you break her completely?”

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“Why not? She took gold from him.” Moving with shocking speed, Magnus gripped the woman’s sleeves and ripped them, one after another, from her tunic. “Stop it!” Elfrida cried above the tearing cloth and the widow’s howl, but then she, too, yelled, startled and dazzled together. The widow still shrieked her indignation, but when her arms were revealed they were heavy with bracelets, shimmering bands of gold that sparkled and flashed in the bright winter air. “This is no poor widow.” Magnus seized the woman’s wrists, pinioning her tightly as she tried to writhe away. “She has done evil and been rewarded for it.” “Not force alone,” Elfrida whispered, feeling a clammy heat creep up her body as the widow cried and tried to hide her arms beneath her cloak. The gold sparkled insolently in the sun, and Magnus’s men stirred restively until a barked order from Magnus had them stepping back. “And I was sorry for her because of her fear for her son.” She wished she had not seen this. The betrayal by a fellow villager of the forest shamed her. “How did you know?” “I heard them clashing under her tunic. The women of the East do something similar. Now tell her what I said.” “Tell her yourself.” Elfrida bridled, unused to being spoken to in that brusque way. Magnus looked at her until she felt herself blush. “I am sorry, too,” he said quietly, “but time is against us, and we must do what we must.” He puckered his lips as if to kiss her, then yanked the widow toward him instead, licking his lips. The sight of his looming, scarred head and greedy tongue were too much. The widow confessed.

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Chapter 6 Elfrida, to Magnus’s annoyance, would not immediately translate what the woman had said. “We must ride away from here,” she said twice. “It is bad luck for us to stay.” She refused to say more, but she had been surprisingly gentle with the widow, smiling at her, taking her hand, prompting her whenever she faltered. Magnus disliked such care of a traitor but tolerated it because it was a woman. “Very well.” He was indifferent to their leaving the village but did not like secrets of any kind, only indulging Elfrida because she was looking weary again. “We do not go far, though, madam.” Elfrida was stiff in the saddle before him, her back as straight as an arrow shaft. Her willpower amazed him, though, of course, she was a witch. He must remember to treat her as he would Peter, as a deadly peer. It was a disconcerting thought when she was so tiny, more slender even than Peter’s Alice. “How far, then?” she called back to him, and he grinned, glad that she did not hoard a grudge. He had been discourteous to her in the village, but now it seemed they were again allies. “Why not here?” he replied and drew rein, halting on the track in a huge swirl of snow, a snow dragon, spitting white. Leaving his men to stop as they would, he waited for the thin flakes to settle and for Elfrida to catch her breath to scold. When she did not, he knew that she was worried. Something in the widow’s flood of words had turned that churning anxiety that he glimpsed so often in her haunted face into outright alarm. “Is it very bad?” he asked against her ear.

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“Worse,” she replied, suppressing a shudder. “I would speak with you without other listening ears nearby, Magnus.” He liked the way she said his name, the ‘M’ mellow and the long ‘A’ and soft ‘NUS’, but this was not the moment for pleasure. Instructing his men to gather firewood and leaving them to dismount, grumbling, into the snow, he spurred his horse farther along the track. “Will this wait until we return to your village?” His wagons and more men were there, and Magnus sensed he would need both soon. Hearing her sigh, he answered himself. “No, it will not wait.” Behind him, he could hear the men with him now making a game of finding firewood, exactly like boys. They would be playing snowballs next. He judged it safe now to stop and dismount. Clinging to the horse’s mane, Elfrida also dismounted and turned southeast on the track, staring through the trees toward the hidden village of Lower Yarr. “The gold was for her old age. She will not keep it now.” Her pity for the widow amazed him, but he answered for her sake. “She will if she is quick enough, in wits and with her hands. If she buries it before the villagers creep from their houses, and she tells a good story of my beastliness, she should do well.” “Do you like to play the beast?” He disliked the question but knew she needed his reply. “No more than any man. I use what I have.” She turned to him then, her amber eyes puzzled. “How is it that you heard her bracelets and I and the villagers did not?” “Ah, that piques your pride! But I knew the sound well from my past and understood what it meant. Others may have heard it and dismissed all as a trick of the wind, or the forest, for such bracelets are rarely known here.” Magnus patted the horse’s neck so that his left hand was close to her right, still tightly clasping the brown mane. “I have good hearing, Elfrida. I know you wear two necklaces, at least, beneath your bodice. I hear them clash together as you walk.” Her free hand flew to her cloak strings as if defending her trinkets,

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but then she smiled. “No one knew before that I wear those. And you are right in other ways. The Forest Grendel gave the widow the bracelets, gave gold in golden bracelets.” Magnus felt his heart begin to race. “’Tis certain, that?” “From all the widow said, I would say yes. But Magnus, how did he come by them? Could he have been to Outremer?” “Stranger things have been known.” Magnus gently eased her hand from the horse’s mane. “Let us walk and talk. You are troubled, Elfrida, more troubled than I have yet seen you. Even when your sister was taken you were not so afraid. “Hush!” He shielded her from his men as she gasped and began to deny it. “I have seen fear many times. Tell me the rest, tell me all of it, and it will ease.” She inhaled sharply, as if swallowing an answer, and shook her head. “You cannot help me. There are few who could.” “Try me.” He did not deny or argue, merely offered and waited. She squeezed his fingers, and as one they began to walk. Magnus lengthened his stride to counter her “he-has-a-peg-leg pace” and listened to a halting then fluid tale, teased from the widow. “The widow is a bondswoman, did you know?” “I know she herds goats, from her smell, but no more than that. Is her lack of freedom important?” “Perhaps.” Elfrida frowned. “But that would mean he knew before he approached her, and how? Free and unfree mingle together in Lower Yarr and always have done.” “The monster is male, then?” “I knew that already, and so do you,” Elfrida responded smartly. “But no more on that! He came last summer, a tall man, very thin, with his face covered by a hood or mask. He approached her at dusk, always at dusk, and always when she was alone.” “Was he always masked?” “Yes.” “Did he buy her silence?” Magnus asked.

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“He warned her that others in the village watched for him, that he would know if she told anyone.” “She believed that?” “She was too afraid not to, Magnus! Her children were still with her then, and the monster knew them! He described them in detail and knew where each of them was working within the village forest and lands. He said he could take them on a whim.” Magnus cursed, loathing the creature more and more. “It was a neat snare, to say others were in his power,” Elfrida admitted grudgingly. “The woman dared do nothing. Me, I think he lied. In my experience in these villages, if more than two know anything, it is a secret no more, but it was a clever falsehood, very apt.” “As you say, apt. Those gold bracelets would have helped.” Magnus kicked a lump of ice with his boot, imagining it was the monster’s head. “They must have eased her terror.” “She was very frightened, especially for her children.” A look of sick distaste crossed Elfrida’s face. “She knew from the first where his quarry lay, whom he selected as prey. That first evening meeting, when he stole out of the twilight with less sound than a cobweb to accost her, he admired her daughter—her blonde-haired daughter. He said that come midwinter, the girl would make a beautiful addition in his Northern Tower.” “A blonde? Like your Christina?” Magnus asked softly, understanding how hard this must be for her. So close, it seemed, had the widow come to losing someone dear, yet if she had, Elfrida would still have her sister. Elfrida nodded once, sharply. “The widow was very much alarmed. She told him that her daughter was marrying that very day.” “He would not have liked that.” “Perhaps he did not, but he moved on swiftly. He said to her, ‘So be it,’ and then he threatened her. He told her that he would return and that she must be ready, that if she did not give him the news he

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wanted, the knowledge he sought, then he would take her son Martin and sell him to slavers.” Splendor in Christendom! This is for certain a man! Beside him, Elfrida stopped abruptly on the track, almost losing her footing in the churned snow. Magnus steadied her, his thoughts a tumult within him. A man could be fought, a man could be bested. He feared no man alive. But first there was Elfrida. He could hear her rapid breathing as she struggled to steady herself. “See these tracks?” She pointed to the mass of foot- and hoofprints at their feet. Magnus nodded. “The widow helped the Forest Grendel in that, too. She has goats, and she and her goats would follow on after he had crept about, and cover his tracks. The goats would eat, too, even the broken twigs. And who would notice a bondswoman with her goats? By day, or close to nightfall, she would be an unremarkable sight, for grazing is held in common here for all the Yarrs, am I right? The villagers might not even stop to question her. Even you would not have noticed her. A woman with goats, what is remarkable about that? Yet she can listen and learn. What did our Forest Grendel want her to learn?” Elfrida looked for a moment as if she had been pelted with snowballs, chilly and shocked, and then she laughed. “Naughty warrior! You have spoiled my telling!” “I think, too, as well as fight,” Magnus replied, delighted to be called a naughty anything. She gave him a mischievous look. “What else do you know, Sir Scholar?” He hastened to reply, liking the way she was free of shadows and fear for the moment. “We know the Forest Grendel planned his abductions and communicated with the widow for her to cover his trace. We know she spied for him. We know he has many towers.” Elfrida nodded. “He spoke of a northern and a western tower.”

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Deep in thought, Magnus cracked his knuckles together, recalling too late that one hand was a stump, but the stab of discomfort did not stop him. “We know this is a man, only a man. Rich indeed, for he pays in gold and has land and spices and towers. Splendor in Christendom! If those towers are stone, then he is noble because no other could afford them. No matter, I have dealt with the high and lordly.” He broke off as Elfrida shook her head. “It is more,” she said quietly. “He asked the widow to seek out brides.” “So? We know that already. He steals brides, and the widow made it easy for him. Women talk to women, and there she went, to and fro, harvesting and laboring from place to place, village to village, and women talk. A girl to be married talks most.” Elfrida scowled, but she did not dispute it. “What else did the widow confess?” “No more for now.” Elfrida raised a hand as if in warning. “We have lingered too long. We must leave,” she murmured. “Never fret! The widow will not dare to tell him we have been here. She fears me as much as the Forest Grendel.” Elfrida closed her eyes. “Danger comes.” She stepped forward. She felt the threat closing and moved farther in front of Magnus to shield him. “Take me if you can!” she called within her mind, sensing the same dark, single purpose that she had on the night she had made herself a bride. She reached out with her mind, imagining a thin shadow sliding across the snow, slithering faster and faster between the trees. A scent of spices filled her head. “Go, by the power of the Mother in me!” Elfrida cried, making the sacred sign of Freya against the shadow. “We are not finished,” warned a cool, dark voice in her head. “We are today,” she answered, plucking a pine cone from a tree and hurling it and her thought deep into the forest. She opened her eyes, and the presence fled, but worse was to

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follow. Even before she drew in breath to make a prayer and cast a protective spell, the beast was on them, black-pelted, fast, and agile, growling as it leapt. Elfrida flailed out at the wolf in return, howling herself and stamping her feet, making fists of her hands so the snapping jaws would not take her fingers. She wrestled in a white-and-black blur of disturbed snow and lunging wolf, then heard a yip. The wolf toppled sideways, skewered on Magnus’s sword. He pulled the blade from the body, kicked the shaggy corpse toward to his running, cheering men, and fixed on her. She did not recoil at his blazing eyes and hideous, leering face— the face of a stone demon—but it was a near matter. “You do not fight my fights, Lady.” His voice was as iron-cold as a mace, but Elfrida did not care. Determined to have her say, she caught his belt to drag him closer. “That was no ordinary wolf. It was more than a wolf, and sent by him.” She did not want to admit to her fear, the need for her own charms about them, so she said what he would understand. “We should leave and get to my home before nightfall.” He did not seem to soften or thaw, but somehow she knew his anger had changed to amusement. “So the Forest Grendel is worried. Good!” He glanced down at her fist upon his belt, grunted something else in his own tongue, and wound both his arms about her back and middle. Dare he? Elfrida wondered, then he lowered his dark, ugly head and kissed her. Oh yes, he dares. Her first thought was that she had never been kissed by anyone with a mangled bottom lip before, and the long scar felt like a raised cord against her tender flesh. Her second thought, if she had any, was lost in an explosion of feeling. A glow enveloped her body, tingling to the very tips of her fingers and toes. The yowls and hoots of his men fell away into a far distance as his mouth seduced hers, his tongue

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teasing her lips and teeth, his beard a mild prickle and tickle over her chin, his lips soft yet challenging. He smelt of horses and war, and he tasted of apples and ginger. Of spices, like the monster. Unabashed, she wrapped her arms around his neck and met his challenge, kiss for kiss. She had been imagining what his mouth would feel like for days. “Sweet,” Magnus murmured as she closed her eyes again, giving herself this delicious moment. It was like flying, like being dipped in a warm bath, like a homecoming. He stroked her hair, murmuring more, the old speech and his own mingled together, and she felt as pleasured as a cat by a fire. Slowly, Elfrida forced herself to lean back. “We should move,” she whispered. She was aware of a humming in her head, a growing tension. She was afraid of what he might answer now. If he spoke of enchantment, or asked why, or worse, thanked her, she would know it was over before anything had begun. If he cannot feel how it is different, how this is new, then we are not the same. Would he grow in feeling to be the same? Could she hope for that? She was not even ashamed at having forgotten Christina for a moment while she and Magnus embraced. He brushed a speck of snow from her cheek. “You are without peer.” He hugged her again, tightly, then set her down. The ride back might have been hard and cold, but Elfrida remembered it quite differently. The grind and weariness of the chase had dropped from her, and she looked at the world with new eyes. “The snow sparkles this evening.” Magnus sat behind her in the saddle, warm and strong like an ironsmith’s fire. He had insisted she wear his cloak, and to Elfrida his whole body felt like a smile. “I have seen kings’ jewels less bright.” The snow was quite beautiful, she agreed in her heart, but time was passing. Christina must not wait and hope in vain. “We must plan when we reach Top Yarr,” she called back,

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wishing in contrary fashion that they could ride forever. “I know,” said Magnus, “and we will. I know we must.”

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Chapter 7 She returned to her house and found Walter sitting on the bench outside. He had a crutch propped against the bench, and his left leg was bound with a splint. He tried to stand as she and Magnus approached, the light in his face fading when he saw Christina was not with them. “The blacksmith set it for me, since you were not here,” Walter told her, sagging back heavily onto the bench. “I fell into a wolf pit when I was out searching. I would still be there, had a woodman not heard me yelling and the dog howling. What is the news? Do you know anything? Is Christina safe?” “I see her safe,” Elfrida said, wishing she had more to tell him. Walter had lost weight, and he was as gray-skinned as an old man. His brown hair was lank and filthy, his gray eyes shadowed and hopeless, and he looked as if he had slept in his torn and grubby clothes. Under the bench crouched the big, crossbred wolfhound he would have given Christina, looking as woebegone as its master. It whimpered as Elfrida snapped her fingers, and it did not wag its tail. “We will find her, Walter, I swear.” Smiling with a certainty she did not feel, Elfrida knelt and looked at the splint, sniffing discreetly. The injury smelled clean, she noted with relief. “Are you in pain?” “It aches, but that is nothing. Tell me what is happening, what you have found.” He clenched his large, raw-knuckled hands into fists in his lap. “Where are you searching next? I will go with you.” On horseback with a cracked bone? I think not. The smith is a good bone setter, but even he cannot do miracles if Walter will not be still. Yet how can he be?

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“If he does not hold us up he can come,” said Magnus quietly beside her, in the old speech. “That is what he said, is it not?” Elfrida nodded and turned to Walter. “I will tell you everything.” First she set a fire going in the hut and made Walter a tisane while Magnus brought him dried fish and berries to eat, then turned his attention to his own men. Leaving Magnus calling orders and Walter tossing most of the fish to the dog beneath the bench, Elfrida set off to her bees to tell them the news, muttering protective charms as she ploughed through the snow. She was hurrying back from her hives when Magnus appeared in her kitchen garden. He had the priest, Father John, with him. “Hola, Elfrida! The priest here understands me. He will translate for Walter, because Walter trusts him.” “I see,” said Elfrida, although she did not. It was not that she disliked the holy father, but she and the small, bald priest tended to avoid each other—in a perverse form of mutual respect, she now acknowledged. “Walter trusts me as his priest,” Father John explained in her village dialect, as if he sensed her disquiet. Magnus broke the awkward moment by slapping his good hand against her roof eaves, dislodging a flurry of snow onto his legs. “It saves the timbers cracking,” he said, straight-faced, kicking his way free. “Roofs can collapse with all this snow. Shall we go in? My cook is asking if he can use your fire, and some of your villagers are lurking ever closer, hopeful of a meal.” Elfrida made herself smile. At least this way she could cast a protective spell on everyone once they were inside her home. “Indeed. Why not?” They walked round the hut to the doorway, where Magnus called more orders. As Walter was being helped indoors, the cook hauled his cauldron off a wagon, and Magnus’s men brought firewood and water. “I need to collect a pail from the garden.” Elfrida made the excuse

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and smoothly detached herself from Magnus and Father John and the milling folk around her threshold. She sped off smartly with a pocketful of salt, trailing it round the outside of the hut in a circle. Busy with her charms, she was glad when Magnus fell into step with her. Will he kiss me again? The thought flared through her head like a shooting star, then was gone. “Do I intrude?” he asked. “I have just finished. We should talk.” She felt safer in her own lands, her own space, and safe to admit more. “I have other things to tell you.” “Things that you do not want to say to Walter or Father John?” Magnus was shrewd, and Elfrida could not fault him. She touched his right arm—she could do so now without feeling strange about his missing hand. “Do you mean it about Walter joining us? He is much determined to keep searching.” Magnus dipped and snatched a handful of snow, crushing it between his fingers. He did so to avoid looking at her, Elfrida realized. “I am still thinking on that.” “But you said he could—” “That was before I watched him totter indoors.” “Poor Walter! He has no luck.” Magnus grunted and tossed the snowball into the lengthening shadows. “Not so unlucky. He could have broken his neck in the pit. Tell me the rest of what the widow said about our tall, scrawny monster.” “He carries a metal object, about the size of a hen, with many wheels and gears.” “An astrolabe,” Magnus said at once. “A connection to Outremer again, together with his love of spices.” He smiled at Elfrida’s questioning look. “An astrolabe is a sky reader, a wonder of Arab learning. They are intricate and expensive and much prized by magi.

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Peter gave one to his Alice.” “Do others use such devices?” A streamer of hair fell across her face as she spoke, distracting Magnus afresh. Seizing the chance, he caught the floating, fiery, down-soft mass and moved it away from her eyes, thinking he should ask her for a lock of it. Why not? She could only say no. “Magnus?” Free of its veil of hair, he could see her pale, anxious face. He wanted to snatch her up and kiss the worry lines from her forehead but forced himself to do nothing. He sensed that she was holding something back, that whatever had troubled her so greatly in the forest was still with her. The warrior in him warned that he best knew what it was. “What troubles you, Elfrida?” he asked her directly. “We are closing in on our quarry.” She shook her head. “There is more.” “Tell me, then.” She took a deep breath and started. “Spices, strange devices, many towers, very tall, very thin, comes and goes without sound.” “And a good horse,” Magnus put in. “He must have excellent horses to move as he does.” “He has rings, too. The widow saw his hands once, without gloves. He wore a golden ring with the image of a flower on his right hand, and a silver ring with a pearl, and then a third ring on his left hand. A gold ring, embossed with a star,” she added quietly. Magnus clashed his teeth together in rising excitement. “A crusader for sure, and more!” Unable to contain himself, he snatched Elfrida up and whirled her about, laughing as her trailing feet dislodged snow from the nearby tree branches. “We have him! I know him! I know who it is!” He scowled as a strong finger and thumb pinched his earlobe very hard. “Would you care to explain yourself?” Elfrida breathed into his other ear, “And put me down before my feet are frozen?”

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Stifling another roar of laughter, Magnus deposited her in a heap of snow beside a water trough, then raised his hand before his face, as if in fear. “Mercy, mistress.” “Idiot.” Elfrida pulled herself to her feet by his belt and ignored the snow clinging to her rump as she narrowed her eyes at him. “Who is this creature, then?” She tapped his chest with her fingers. “Give me his name.” “He is a man, no more.” Her small, warm hand was vividly reminding Magnus that he was also a man. “That flower ring you spoke of, I have one, too, at home. The flower mark is really a cross, a symbol popular with crusaders. They often wear it on a ring. He has been on crusade! And the second ring, the silver and pearl, that is the badge of the Denzils. They all wear them as a sign of family loyalty.” “Denzil.” Elfrida closed her eyes and said more, in her own tongue. “Who are they?” she asked, giving him another cool, assessing look. “I know them, but I have no part of them,” Magnus said swiftly. “The Denzil clan are mercenaries and outlaws. I know their leader, Gregory Denzil. The man owes me the life of his warhorse.” “You fought together on crusade?” “Alongside, while on crusade. You do not fight with the Denzils! I would not trust my back to Sir Gregory, even now.” Magnus was heartened. He and his men could ride to the keep of Gregory Denzil, get the fellow drunk, talk of crusades and old times, and wait to hear more of Denzil’s tall, skinny kinsman. “It will be easy.” He grinned as he finished outlining his plan. “I do not know this mystery Denzil, but one of his kindred will know him, never fret.” At ease with God and the world, he braced his peg leg against the hut wall so he would not take a tumble as he brushed the snow off Elfrida’s skirts, a useful excuse to touch her. But his skittish redhead had already stepped back and was swiveling to and fro on the tamped-down path, seeking something, like a hound with an elusive scent.

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“You understand not!” she burst out. “It is bad, very bad!” She said a word in her own dialect, and her face blazed with color. “Evil!” **** Magnus was staring at her as if she was possessed, but he did not flee any more than when she was sick and overwhelmed by the fit demon. She struggled for the words to explain. "Take him and yourself into the church, dear heart," whispered a voice in her head, her mother’s voice. "Your tongue will be free there." She extended her hand to Magnus, who clasped it in his warm, huge paw without any hesitation. She glanced at his bare, ringless, gloveless fingers and wanted to ask about the crusader ring and his home, but all language of the old speech was lost to her for the moment, in her dread of what they were opposing. Instead she turned and began to slide her feet along the path, taking care not to stumble in the lowering light. Another instant later, she was plucked off her heels and snug in Magnus’s arms. “Where?” he asked. She pointed to the church, with its plain, barrel-vaulted, stone nave and spindly, wooden tower, and he set off, striding as steadily as any man with two good legs. She laid her head on his shoulder and smelled his scent of ginger and apples. Spices, she thought, and then dismissed it. She had known from almost the first that Magnus was no Forest Grendel, however ill his looks. And were his ugly, scarred face and kind eyes so bad? She kissed his shoulder, and he snorted and said something in his own language, kissing her on the mouth with those soft yet scarred lips. We are becoming like Walter and Christina, caught kissing all over the village. The image both warmed and pierced her. Guilty and alarmed for

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her sister, she began to squirm a little, and he set her down beneath the low porch of the church. “What manner of man is Gregory Denzil?” she asked in the old speech as he tugged his clothes into rough order and she rearranged her head veil that had fallen halfway down her back. “Is he handsome, you mean?” “No, I do not mean that,” said Elfrida patiently. “But is he brave, good, honorable, generous?” “Peter called him a bear”—he mimicked a dancing bear—“and someone to watch closely in battle.” Greedy, solitary, savage, and untrustworthy, Elfrida translated in her mind. “Does he have many men?” She touched the church door, and it opened to her. “Some followers, many like him. I would not have them on my lands, nor take them on as men of mine.” Magnus held the door and stood back for her to enter first, inhaling deeply. “The smell of a church, the incense, it is always good to me.” “And to me.” Elfrida trod carefully through the rushes, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the shadows and dim light within the nave. A single beeswax candle burned above the altar, shining out like a tiny star. Elfrida thought of stars and suppressed a shudder, but Magnus had felt her tension. He stroked her arm, almost as if he were gentling a horse. “I am a good witch,” she whispered. “Let us go closer to the altar,” Magnus suggested. Even if he did not appreciate her dread, he was keen to help, she thought. With each careful step as they edged their way past the heavy pillars of the nave, Elfrida felt the protection of the place seeping into her. At the final pillar before they came to the altar itself, she stopped and leaned against it. This was her church in her land. Now she could speak. She drew in a breath when Magnus surprised her by sinking onto his haunches, then sitting, in a clumsy, ungainly fashion, amongst the

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rushes on the floor. He stretched out a powerful arm and, before she could react, tugged her down to join him. “This is a quiet matter, is it not?” he said as she protested, draping one long leg over both of hers and lifting and shifting her so she was settled on his other thigh. He was leaning with his back against the pillar with her on his knee. When she protested this was church, he replied, “We are here for God’s work, so the Almighty will not mind. What else do you know of this mysterious Denzil?” He lifted her chin with his hand and looked directly into her eyes. “I would not have those shadows in your face, Elfrida. This is a man, and we will track him, find him, and recover your sister.” “He may be more.” Elfrida made the sign of the cross to protect herself and Magnus. “Do you remember that he wears a ring embossed with a star? That is what the widow called it, but I know what it is. His ‘star’ is a pentagram, an inverted pentagram. That is a symbol of dark magic. He has two towers, one in the north, one to the west. The north is the place of the devil and the west is the place of the old religion, where spirits and elfkind live.” In the semidarkness she could not see Magnus’s expression, but she felt him shrug. “I have felt this man’s mind and intent. And the wolf that came at us, Magnus—” “Dead now,” came the flat response. “My man took its pelt for a cloak.” “Listen to me! He has taken Christina and the others for evil, for dark magic. I know this!” “Perhaps he has, but the Forest Grendel is still a man, one who will bleed, and if those towers are wood, they will burn. Never fear, Elfrida! The Denzil clan are great ones for show, and this Denzil will be no different. Gregory himself lives in a stone keep surrounded by a moat of water. Very handsome it is, too, especially in the summer when the water is blue against the yellow stones.” Magnus said more, but she did not hear him above the thudding of

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the blood in her ears. The blue was surely another sign, for blue was the monster’s color. “We must ride out for this castle at first light tomorrow,” she said. “We will ride tonight.” Magnus braced himself against the church pillar and rose with her still in his arms. “Father John will come, for he knows your sister and can speak to her. But you must stay here—to do other would be foolish, too dangerous.” “Yes.” He nodded once, as if it was already decided. “You must stay here with Walter. He is not fit to travel either, although he is a man.” Although he is a man. Do men have parts of iron and gold, that they are so special? Stunned by what had been chosen for her, Elfrida touched Magnus’s twisted, ugly face, feeling his serious intent while part of her wanted to slap him. “Have you heard nothing of what I said?” she demanded, when she had breath to speak. “The castle of Gregory Denzil is not a place for a woman, even a witch. And you can do your magic here.” His warrior arrogance hit her hard. Terror and frustration stormed through her, and she lashed out blindly, shouting at him for being so earthy, so simple headed. Still he did not drop her, rather tightening his grip and saying in a calm, clear voice, “Believe me, I know these Denzils.” She could no longer move her arms and legs, could make no sign against his bullheaded folly. “I shall curse you!” She flinched as she felt his hot breath directly on her face. “You would have me seek your sister with your ill wish working against me?” “No, but you must understand! There are more weapons than swords and axes, and you cannot stop them. I can.” Elfrida broke off, hating the way she could not see Magnus, only the glimmer and whites of his eyes. How could she argue or even reason with someone whom she could not see? “Let me down, and let me go home,” she said wearily.

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She started a second time as Magnus’s lips brushed her forehead. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “I know you long for your sister and want to help her, but the Denzils are hard and brutish men.” Still cradling her, he began to shuffle to the church door. “I intend to visit their keep, but God knows if I will be allowed to leave. Do you not understand? I could not bear such a fate to happen to you.” “It may not happen to either of us.” I will follow their tracks. I will charm their horses to gallop slowly. I will not be left behind! “Release me, please.” “Elfrida—” “I must tend Walter, and have things to do at home. Release me.” They had reached the door. He lowered her to her feet, and she fled quickly, without looking back, leaving him stranded in the church.

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Chapter 8 “Why must we go tonight?” Magnus looked at his angry, pinched-faced second-in-command and jerked his head at the standing crowd of villagers huddled in Elfrida’s hut, all eating his food and prodding at her leather bags. In a moment, some potion would be spoiled or spilt, and the whispers would become shouts and angry complaints. “We need to throw this mob off our trail, and their mouthpiece.” Mark slyly glanced at Elfrida, serving stew in bowls, but Magnus nodded to Walter, eating again and chatting loudly in the dialect of Top Yarr. “If any of those come with us, especially that one, all surprise will be lost.” “But why now? It is as black as Saint Maurice out there!” “The men know? They are ready?” Mark nodded. “Excellent.” Magnus clapped his second on the shoulder. “Brace up, man! This way, our leaving is not expected. The villagers have no idea. We ride off before any of them have wit to follow.” He smiled grimly. “The dark will cover our tracks.” “All the better to break our necks and the horses’ legs, as well.” “I have ridden at night before, Mark, and so have you.” Magnus scanned the villagers again, careful not to look at Elfrida. He was not exactly ashamed so far as his little witch was concerned, but he was uneasy. He told himself it was because she had threatened to curse him, although he knew already that she never would, because she was a

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good witch. Elfrida is best here, with her people. I shall leave guards to keep her and the folk safe. I will return her sister to her, and then all will be well between us. “Have you asked that priest to ride with us?” “Not yet, Mark, but if Father John is like the rest of his brethren, he will agree. One of his flock is in danger.” “Maybe.” Mark spat on the floor and rubbed at his red nose. “I hope you have gold enough for him, too.” “I have.” The wagon had brought his treasure chest. As Magnus spoke, Elfrida looked straight across at him. Standing with a ladle in one hand and a heavy stewpot in the other, she seemed calm and accepting, a Magdalene of the pots and pans. She had not told the villagers, either, so he had no cause to feel aggrieved. “Magnus.” She spoke his name without rancor and nodded to him, then swiftly turned her head away as if a villager had called out to her, which he knew had not happened. He nodded in return as a hot, sticky trickle of guilt oozed down his back. She was quick, this woodland witch, but not fast enough. He had seen the anguish in her face. “Why can she not come?” whispered a voice in his mind, a woman’s voice—Peter’s Alice. “It is impossible.” His belly felt as if he had just swallowed boiling lead. “What will stop her following?” whispered Alice in his head. The darkness and her own people, I trust, Magnus thought in response, but he knew that was not really good enough. His sense of shame and alarm increased. If she followed on and came to grief, would it not be his fault for denying her natural desire to aid and find her sister? That may be true, but it cannot be helped. I am no nursemaid. “And she needs none. She is a witch,” whispered Alice. He whistled to Mark, the signal, and at once his second began to

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shove his way to the doorway. His other men began drinking down cups of ale and hastily stuffing trenchers into their mouths. Magnus limped to the fire, where Walter was sitting on a heap of bedding, with the priest beside him. “I would speak with you alone,” Magnus said, pausing so the priest could translate. “It concerns Christina and how I will find her.” Father John looked puzzled as he passed on this message, but Walter lumbered onto his crutch and hopped gamely away from the fire, saying something with great force and urgency. “I agree,” Magnus said, glancing from side to side. Following his orders, the priest had been detained by one of his men, and the villagers were asking Elfrida for more ale—either that or she had offered it, so he and his men could make good their withdrawal. “She is a clever wench and fair minded,” Alice whispered, as the lead in his belly boiled some more. Walter stopped and turned, his honest, plain face half in shadow. There were many shadows in this part of the hut, which was what Magnus wanted. “Yes?” asked Walter, or something like. Magnus lowered his head, as if to share a secret, and when Walter leaned closer, he caught the smaller man a blow on the side of his head that knocked him out. Catching him before he fell, Magnus lowered him onto a stool and pulled his hood halfway across his forehead. Settled on the stool with his back against a set of hurdle fencing, Walter looked to be asleep. His breathing was strong and steady. That will do very well. Magnus left him and eased his way through the press of villagers. Coming to the open door of the hut, he half expected to find Elfrida hovering nearby and was not surprised when he did so. She was silhouetted in the doorway, a small, slim figure. Her bright hair looked silver in the rising moon and, as he approached, he could see that the last of the itching spots had faded.

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She was startlingly lovely, but still he must not take her with him. He could not bear the thought of her hurt by Denzils, touched by Denzils... “Magnus.” She put down her jug of ale, slipped past a woman who was gesturing and clearly keen to speak to her, and took his left hand in both of hers. “Godspeed.” Her grave, kind wish almost undid him, but it was the sheen of tears in her bright, amber eyes that punched into him like a dagger thrust. “You have won, wench.” Torn between kissing her and rolling her in the snow, he dragged her against him. “Get your things.” Silently she plucked a small bundle from out of the darkness. “You knew?” he snapped. “I hoped, my lord.” And that makes it good? Unable to think of another answer without cursing, he released her and strode outside, hearing her softly follow on. Mark and the men coming with him tonight were already gathered in the trampled, snowy garden, all armed and mounted. His horse was there, ready for him, shaking its harness. Magnus climbed into the saddle, lifted Elfrida before him, and spoke. “Now we ride, fast and hard.”

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Chapter 9 The growing moon was high and bright as they galloped into the woods. The shouts of the villagers were swiftly replaced by a steady drumming of hooves. Mark led the column, urging his horse on the snow-covered tracks as if he had wandered in the forest all his life. “He has always had a good sense of place and direction,” Magnus agreed when Elfrida commented on it, his voice vibrating through her own chest. They rode very snugly together, and Elfrida was glad of it. Mules and donkeys she knew, but horses were for knights and nobles. The snow, which came to her knees in the village, seemed very low and far away, a soft, white blanket through which the great beasts plowed like mighty ships. She felt to be mounted on a dragon, she was so high above the bare hazels and saplings, and there was so much steam and snorting and muscled power thudding against her already aching thighs. And Magnus had allowed her to come. Elfrida clicked her tongue, aware that as a witch she should not be so grateful. It is for others to give way to me, not the other way round! Nor does this bold, bright company know what we are riding to. I sense no malice in these woods, but for how long will that last? She only hoped she was strong enough. Stretching frost-numbed fingers beneath her cloak, she touched the twig she had plucked from her rowan tree, from her land, a charm against dark witchcraft. “Please keep Christina safe. Let her be safe.” “Are you cold?” Magnus asked, misunderstanding her urgent plea. She shook her head. “How do you know where to go?” It was

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something to ask, and she was interested. She had never thought of knights before Magnus, had not realized that they knew anything beyond war. “I stayed at Gregory Denzil’s castle keep once when he held a tourney.” Magnus snorted, his breath parting her hair. “The prizes were poor, and I spent one day repairing a wall. It was that or have the serving lasses scream themselves into fits each time they saw me.” Elfrida flinched at such casual, unconscious cruelty and, feeling her start, Magnus’s long legs tightened around her. “A holly branch caught me,” she gasped in a swift lie, as his embrace tingled down her thighs to her toes. “So, how many hours is it from here?” “’Tis off to the northwest. When we get to the old road going west, we should go quickly enough. We shall be there by sunrise.” Magnus’s horse braced itself to leap across a fallen branch, and Elfrida stifled a yelp as the jolt she received when the bay landed again had her accidentally biting her tongue. She spat, and her blood glowed darkly against the sparkling pillows of snow. Please let it not be an omen. “My granddad, the one who spoke the old speech, told me a unicorn lived in these northern woods.” Relieved he had not seen her spit, Elfrida turned her head so she could see the rugged profile of her companion’s face. “Did you search for the creature?” He rumbled in amusement. “How did you guess? I did, but granddad said unicorns only showed themselves to maids. I’ve seen boars here, of course, and wolves, and gathered holly and firewood in the woods where I live. Which firewood do you like best?” He was talking to calm her, she realized, as the ground slid beneath his horse’s busy hooves like a dark stream of water. “I—” She did not know the old speech for “applewood.” She looked ahead, relieved that the only shadows were those of beech and lime trees, stretching across the steep, winding track. She tapped Magnus’s peg leg with her foot and felt him grin in understanding.

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“That wood,” he answered, pointing to an oak tree. They swept beneath another oak, this one hung with icicles and the frosted beads of mistletoe berries. Staring up as the milky orbs flashed by, Elfrida thought of a tower surrounded by woods with mistletoe, the domain of the Forest Grendel. She reached out, allowing her cold fingers to brush against the few remaining leaves of a hawthorn, a good forest tree, and whispered to its spirit to keep them safe as the horse plunged past. Is the Grendel in truth a Denzil? Are we on the right path? What if we are wrong? “We shall know, soon enough,” she murmured, ducking as the horse cantered beneath a crab apple with low, overhanging branches. Behind her she heard Magnus laugh, and a moment later a wizened apple dropped into her lap. “For your breakfast,” he said. “We are not all lovers of apples as you are,” she began in her own dialect. Then she spotted a twisted, gnarled face leering from the shaggy foliage of a yew. She threw the apple straight at the face. “Hey!” Magnus exclaimed, grabbing for her, but when she followed her throw with a sign against evil, he twisted about and saw the face in the yew for himself. “Ya!” he yelled, and he spurred his horse. The stallion exploded into a gallop, driving straight for the yew, and Magnus stood up in his stirrups, the reins caught in his teeth, and hurled a knife. The green face in the yew vanished as the iron knife hit the tree and stuck, quivering, in the snow-spattered bark. Magnus now dragged on the reins with his hand, urging the horse into a plunging stop. Mark yelled something, and the whole column halted in the snow. “Let me.” Elfrida leaned to the yew and removed the blade, scraping a sign for peace into the bark before she returned it hilt first to Magnus. “What was that?” Magnus murmured against her hair.

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“A green man,” Elfrida replied in her own tongue. “A wood elf,” she said in the old speech. “We are being watched.” Mark glanced at her, a swift look of admiration, she was sure. Then he shouted, jerking his head up. A few heavy flakes of snow blurred Elfrida’s sight and, as she blinked, she saw the small track ahead of them misted by falling bands of white, dense as smoke. The revenge of the green man, or was it the Forest Grendel? **** They plodded another mile, and then Magnus admitted they should stop. Even on the old west road, which they had stumbled onto at midnight, going was onerous. The horses were weary, heads down, stumbling, their hooves covered in snow. When the snow turned to a biting sleet, everyone had endured enough. Before him Elfrida was silent, uncomplaining, though God knew she must be chilled and weary. It was she who noticed the forester’s hut, set back from the road behind a holly tree. He felt her tap his arm to alert him and he called orders to the others, his voice cracking in the cold. The forester, whoever he had been, had abandoned the hut, but it was just big enough for them all. Magnus knocked out a panel of wattle to enlarge the door, and they brought the horses in. While he made a fire just inside the doorway, Elfrida slipped off into the darkness. When she returned, the men had bedded down and were chewing whatever rations they had with them. Magnus patted a lump in the floor beside him, close to the fire, and she lay down without a sound. “She does not complain,” Mark said, his sandy eyebrows raised in obvious surprise. “No, Elfrida does not.” Magnus heard the grudging respect in his second’s voice.

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He rose and put what remained of the door back across the threshold as a barrier and windbreak. Checking it was secure, he knocked the snow off his cloak and stretched out again beside Elfrida. As soon as he closed his eyes, he slept and dreamed. It was summer, and he was in a pleasure garden. Protected by a stout stone wall, it was bordered by fruit trees and ripening vines and filled with small, sparkling fountains, the like of which he had not seen since his return from Outremer. One fountain played over a turf seat studded with marigolds and daises. Magnus ran his fingers through the damp flowers, and he heard a woman sigh with contentment, a welcome sound. Elfrida always knew when she was dreaming, and this time was no different. It was midsummer, and she strolled in an orchard filled with fragrant apple blossoms. She carried a twig of mistletoe, its waxy berries still in impossibly fresh bloom. Above her head, finches darted and sang, and bees buzzed in lazy contentment, dusky with pollen. There was a haystack beneath an oak tree and a green man smiling at her through the heavy white-green pomanders of a guelder rose. “You have a gentle, courteous touch, Sir Magnus.” Elfrida sighed again and stretched out on the turf seat. Where she lay down, roses sprouted and burst into flower, their petals as soft and flawless as her skin. She smiled, and in the wonder of the moment, Magnus hardly cared if she was clothed or not. From a bower of white and pink rose petals she held out her hands to him and smiled a second time, trusting and warm, her bright eyes filled with admiration. “Come.” The green man sprang down from the branches of the guelder rose and became Magnus. He bowed to her, a warm breeze ruffling his black hair curls. “My Lady.” “Am I as much a lady as Alice?” she almost asked but was struck into breathless silence by the sight of Magnus’s robe. In place of his ripped and muddy tunic and leggings, he wore a flowing, long mantle, the robe of an angel, which molded to his figure closer than his

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shadow and shimmered like sun-kissed water. Her throat went dry. “You are beautiful,” she said when she could speak. He was long legged, deep chested, slim flanked. The mantle showed so much yet not enough— He swung her up easily into his arms and down into the tickling, soft hay, shrugging off the robe in a rustle of falling cloth. A golden haze of light embraced his naked body as he embraced her. He rolled her into his arms on top of him and the softness of the gown she wore fell around him like snowflakes. To tempt her to divest, he brushed the sleeve of her gown with his hand and trailed kisses down her throat. Her green dress vanished. It simply faded away like mist, perhaps as a trick of her magic. Stunned and delighted in equal measure, he gazed and looked. The pleasure of looking, of seeing, was absolute. She was as pretty as an elf queen, wiry and fragile together, with lean lines and graceful, flawless curves, all haloed by her nimbus of bright, red hair. Awed, he felt his arms slide away. How could he touch such beauty? “Ah, no, Sir Magnus.” Gently, she drew his hands back, placing them on either side of her dainty waist. “Stay with me.” Delighted afresh, he stroked her slender, firm body, need and desire a roaring, building volcano within him. Her skin was whiter than the daisies, smoother than a pearl, and warm. “More,” she hissed against his chest as he cradled her onto the springy grass and mounds of rose petals and fluttered his fingers across her glowing nether curls. “Touch me more, Sir Magnus.” Her breasts were pink nippled, curving delectably into his cupped palm. She moaned and coiled her legs around his flanks, lifting herself up to him, jolting against him in a giddy yet urgent swinging motion. She ran her hands over his chest with its mass of curls, feeling the jut of each rib, the rough scars on his thighs and belly. He tasted of musk and salt as she kissed his roving fingers and coaxed his busy

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mouth to her lips. They kissed, deeply, and she licked her tongue across the ridge of scar on his lower jaw and lip, desperate to keep him there, looming above her, while her fingers explored the harsh, strong riches of his body. He ravished her mouth for kisses, his fingers plunging between her thighs. She moaned against him and opened her legs more widely. What? What was that? She wrapped her fingers about his proud, erect manhood, wanting him all, and all of him inside her. What was that? They started awake as one. Elfrida was faintly ashamed to discover that sometime in the night Magnus had rolled over and that she had rolled with him to cuddle against him. She sensed his wakefulness and was more embarrassed. What would he think of her, trailing after him in that way? Magnus was pleased—no other lass ever cuddled him in the night, including those he had lain with in the stews. Ignoring the urgent ache in his loins and aroused state, he lifted her hand from his waist to his lips and nibbled her fingers. “Magnus—” Whatever answer, protest, or encouragement Elfrida might have said died in her throat. She realized that she was listening, tense and listening. “Something woke us,” she hissed against his broad back. “I know.” Magnus shifted, and she could feel him checking his dagger. “I set no watch tonight,” he muttered, as if talking to himself. “I thought there was no need.” Elfrida reached out in the darkness with her mind, straining to hear more. She had set protection for them all, but was it enough? Had the Forest Grendel found them? When she heard the thud and crump of sharply falling snow, she was relieved. “Men!” she whispered. Possible brigands, possibly armed, but only men. “Men outside!” “I hear them.” Magnus was shaking those nearest to him,

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gesturing for quiet. Off in the darkness, Elfrida could sense others being prodded awake. She sighed, her dream still clinging to her, sweet and full of promise. Is the dream a sign of things to come or of how I should act? Magnus breathed in to the base of his lungs, glad to smell no fresh fires. Whoever was out there might be seeking shelter or be about sin, but they were not coming with blazing brands to torch the place. Their own fire was embers only, which in case of an attack was a good thing, one less danger. Pressing his ear to the hut wall, he heard the faint rattle of swords in scabbards, the snorting of horses, the punctuated gasps of men trying to creep over snow and branches and be quiet about it. Thieves for certain, he decided grimly, twisting back to Elfrida. “Keep safe and out of sight,” he warned, touching the pale disc of her face with his good hand. Feeling her soft skin against his callused palm, he wished he could have dreamed for just a little longer. “Stand away from the walls,” he warned her, vividly aware that neither wattle and daub nor thatch would stop a blade. She nodded once, sharply, and vanished into the shadows. “Armed, are we?” He growled to his men. “Aye!” He could just make them out in the gray gloom of the hut, crouched by the horses and beside the stouter timbers, fists on their weapon hilts. Pride in them surged through in a chest-filling, tunicbursting moment and then he was ready, colder than ice. “Go!” he ordered, waiting impatiently as Mark, who knew his fighting mind almost as well as Peter’s, snatched back the broken door just as the outsiders broke into a frenzied, ragged charge for the entrance. The first skewered himself on Magnus’s blade in the doorway. Magnus punched the screaming, falling body away with his stump and roared out to cut down the rest.

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**** Magnus sprang, nimble as a charging bull, and his men streamed after him. Elfrida heard the shrieks and groans outside and paced inside, unable to hunker down quietly and hide, as ordered. Staring out of the shattered doorway, she could see nothing clearly except black mounds, fire ash, and shadows on the threshold, and darker trails on the snow—all from the blood and bodies of men, she realized with a sickening jolt as the building shook and a man’s severed arm fell halfway into the hut itself. As she stared at the limb, it twitched, the fingers moving as if it might crawl toward her. Yelling, Elfrida ran for one of the walls. Her fingers gasped the timber, and she began to haul herself up, ignoring the stinging cuts to her hands and face from the ancient, cobwebbed thatch. Reaching the roof, she swung up with her feet, trying to smash her way free. Out, out! her mind chanted as she kicked and gobbets of turf rained down on her. Her arms were burning, feeling as if they were about to be wrenched from her body, but she kept swinging and kicking, and in a burst of filthy snow she broke through. Arms trembling, she pulled herself out onto the roof and sprawled, panting, her mind still filled by that twitching, severed arm. Help Magnus, she ordered herself and squirmed onto her side, her feet sliding on the steep roof before she scrabbled for a true purchase. Hooking one leg around a roof beam, she looked about for missiles to throw down on the enemy, ready to hurl both turf and curses. As she turned her head, Elfrida spotted Magnus at once, in the middle of a heaving mass of arms, flashing swords, whirling staves, and jerking figures. He stood and swayed like a mighty tree in a storm, legs apart, his right arm hugging a shield and his left fielding a sword with the piercing speed of a kingfisher. He is so fast, so hard, so decisive. How can he be so very fast? His blade thrust and dipped, quicker than her sewing needle, and each time his challenger toppled facedown in the snow. Already he

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was covered head to foot in blood, yet he took no more heed of his yelling attackers and their flailing swords than a butcher did of a pig’s squeals at hog-killing time. As she gasped and stared, he sliced yet another stave in two, lunging forward and towering over the small, skinny, screaming, and now weaponless brigand. The moon lit Magnus brightly and his scarred face was both terrible and expressionless. “No!” she shrieked, and unbelievably he heard and checked the stroke, clubbing the scrawny, crawling lad with his shield instead. “Thank the Mother...” Elfrida drooped in relief but was too late for herself. She felt herself sliding and twisted, scrabbling desperately for a purchase, then skidded down the roof and fell.

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Chapter 10 Magnus saw her fall. He seemed to be trapped within a snare where his limbs would only move with grinding slowness, a finger’s width at a time, when he wanted to make haste, to sprint like a boy— and more than anything, to catch her. Move! He raged inwardly at his sluggish legs as the shield he had tossed aside rolled off into the snow as slowly as a ball coated in honey. His arms were as heavy as boulders and almost as stiff as he tried to reach out with them, to save that bright rainbow dazzle of Elfrida tumbling, feetfirst, down and down. Off to the side he saw Mark’s mouth gape in an oval of shock and heard a howl. Something hit him foursquare in the chest, and he tottered and seized, gripping tight even as he lost his footing, knocked onto his backside in the snow. He shook more snow from his eyelids. “Mmmmnnn Magnus.” He understood his name and nothing more. Blinking, waiting for his heart to stop thumping, he lowered his arms and dropped Elfrida into his lap. What have I done with my sword? For a dreadful moment he could not remember, then felt his sword hilt rub against his tunic and heard his scabbard scrape along his wooden foot. He had sheathed it, thank all the saints. “I am not hurt.” He could understand her now. “I told you to keep safe, Lady.” “That’s a brave lass,” Mark called from outside the hut, gesturing to a squire to calm their horses while the rest of Magnus’s men chased those brigands who could run. “Still, you should give her a box on the

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ear.” “There is that,” Magnus agreed, as Mark disappeared inside the hut. He had been badly scared, and he longed to make her backside smart as much as his own. From the edge of his vision, he watched the sniveling thief who had caused her to fall finally creep off behind a holly tree and was sorry to let the creature go. But what the devil had Elfrida been on the roof for? “I hoped to help, and the door was blocked,” came her answer, when he growled the question. “Splendor in Christendom! You think I cannot fight my own fights?” Furious, he tipped up her chin, startled to see tear streaks on her pale, drawn face. Why would she not be shocked? When has this little witch seen any fighting, save in a simple village brawl? As swiftly as it had risen, his anger died. No longer appalled at her wild courage, he found himself admiring her—if she would shout like that for an enemy, how would she be for a friend? He remembered his first skirmishes, how he had been sick after each one. As he glanced about the scene of carnage, he saw Mark emerge from the hut and toss a severed arm into the nearest hollow. No wonder she wanted to get out. “’Tis past now, the fighting.” He tried to brush falling snow off her hair. Contrary and stubborn as ever, she shook her head. “It has begun.” “If so, you will not do that, or anything like, again.” He frowned, determined to wring that promise from her. “Elfrida, you will swear to me this moment—” Instead, she lifted her head and kissed him gently on the mouth, wrapping her arms about his neck. She does this to win her own way, he thought, before thought was gone. He was sitting in a snowdrift, snow falling steadily on him, and he was warm. His mouth tingled and Elfrida’s lips were fresh and

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sweet. Speechless with desire, he deepened their kiss and felt her yield to him, heard her sigh, and knew that how he looked no longer mattered. At last she drew back and nestled her head against his chest, as he had seen Alice do so often with Peter and had always envied, until now. “What was that?” he demanded, his voice half a croak. She dimpled a very pretty, very exasperating smile at him. “A kiss of peace, my lord,” she said. “Humph!” Magnus stayed where he was, sitting in the falling snow with Elfrida snuggled quietly in his lap, until his men had returned. No one wanted to sleep in the hut again, and the moon was setting, the sky changing from black to dark blue. Without words, it was decided they would move on, and soon enough they were off. **** Elfrida dozed in the saddle, a feat she would have considered impossible before the previous night. To her disappointment, she did not dream of a summer garden or Magnus but of her sister, Christina, smiling and dancing in a room decked with mistletoe. She woke with a parched mouth and a headache. Silently, as if he was the diviner instead of her, Magnus handed her a flask of ale. The drink eased her thirst, and the drumming in her head was replaced by the steady canter of horses’ hooves. They rode on through gently falling snow on a wide, high track that Magnus called the great road, with oak and lime trees on either side and bright splashes of holly bushes. They rode in the direction of the rising sun, and when they came to a tall keep set on a high, bare outcrop, a keep with a moat of water round its stout stone walls, Magnus squeezed her thighs with his longer legs. “Castle Denzil. How does it feel to you?”

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“A place without magic,” Elfrida answered at once. “But plenty of malice,” she added as a raven soared over the snowcapped walls toward the forest. She longed to say something witty or courtly but dare not in case the old speech let her down again and she said something bawdy. Her cheeks tingled with heat as she tried to concentrate on the castle, rather than her companion’s long, hard body. “Why build here?” It seemed a remote and cheerless spot. “Close to the road, the woods, good vantage, see any traveler for leagues.” Magnus scratched at his patchy, black beard as if he, too, was distracted. “’Tis a great pity we did not snare a stag or boar on our way, for Sir Gregory will expect gifts, and handsome ones at that, it being so close to Christmas.” Elfrida could not be sure if he was jesting or not. She raised her head and watched the weak winter sun turn the stones of the keep yellow. Hoping Sir Magnus could not hear her belly grumble with hunger, she wondered if the castle had such a thing as a bathhouse. “What then?” “Ah, never fret, my Elfrida! I have gold, and that should sweeten our coming.” “Will we be welcome? Will he remember you?” “They have not put an arrow through us yet, so I think yes to that, on both counts.” They were in the shadow of the keep by then. Elfrida could hear the scurrying and shouts inside and see men on the catwalks and battlements pointing at the pennants carried by Magnus’s followers. Before they stopped at the guard tower, she shook Magnus’s arm and twisted awkwardly in the saddle to look at him. “Sir Gregory knows you as Sir Magnus, but what am I?” “My young mistress, of course,” came back the calm reply. “My pretty, red-haired lover.” He kissed the top of her astonished head and swept them through the gatehouse tower into the small bailey, where Gregory Denzil was waiting. Greetings and reunions took place, of which Elfrida

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understood no word. Enduring the stares of Denzil’s men, she sat rigidly in the saddle, taking care to look at no man or thing for too long, lest her stare be misinterpreted as interest. Gregory Denzil himself she quickly summed up as a small, wiry fighter, hung about with knives as a workman is with tools, and with a loud, boasting voice. She disliked him on sight as a backslapping, woman-beating bully, but he had as little magic in him as the red wart on his forehead. A human threat, like his men, she thought, wishing she could hand out healing poultices and potions to the broken-lipped, broken-down maids who limped and tottered out of the way as their party dismounted and then burst into the castle’s great hall. Even at this early hour, men were drinking at the benches and playing dice, or betting on dogs fighting each other on the filthy floor. Determined not to be unsteady on her legs after so much unaccustomed riding, she kept a tight grip on Magnus’s arm—and he on hers, she noted with amusement. Together they picked a careful way through bones and waste to the dais where Gregory and his chosen held a kind of court. A strange, wild court, it was without order. Gregory seized a man who was lounging in the single chair and threw him off the dais, straight into the central fire, guffawing as the miscreant screamed, desperately trying to beat the flames off his cloak and tunic. Gregory took the man’s place at the table and cocked his legs on the long trestle, kicking aside the salt dish and pouring the bag of gold Magnus had given him onto a plate of sweets. He chuckled at the bouncing coins, and his men echoed him while Magnus swept a bench with his cloak and motioned her to sit. 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,

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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

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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.

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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

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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.

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“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...

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“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,

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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. “What did he say?” Elfrida hissed against Magnus’s shoulder as the man passed them. “He is glad I like the gown.” Magnus would not release her but swung her right off her feet and started back. “Do you?” Elfrida felt scalded at wanting to know—what did such trifles matter?—but she did. “Do I like the gown and the wench in the gown? Yes.” He said no more, and he ignored the hollers and yowls from his men and Denzil’s, carrying her steadily back to her place as if she weighed no more than a trencher. Telling herself to forget her old gown, Elfrida smoothed her new skirts down over her knees and shifted so Mark could not see down her bodice. There was a new cup before her place and a fresh trencher, loaded with steaming beef pottage. Holding back her hair, Elfrida leaned forward to smell it carefully, but there were no poisons or potions in the pottage that she could detect, and it had been ladled from a common pot. “Here.” Magnus unclipped his spoon from his belt and handed it to her, to more yowling. He pushed his trencher close to hers. “You

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can feed me, too.” At first Elfrida was about to protest, for Magnus was no infant, and beef stew was no true fare for the advent season, when the church wished men and women to purify themselves for the coming holy birth by fasting before Christmas. Then she dug in the spoon and guided it neatly to his puckered mouth, fighting down her amusement and using her experience of years of nursing sick villagers. Magnus was right. If she was to act as his mistress, then she should be as loving as a pelican to its chicks. As for advent fasting, this clearly was no concern to the Denzils. Beyond Magnus’s broad shoulders, she caught glimpses of Gregory Denzil gorging on a small, spit-roasted chicken, and down below the salt, the men at the trestles tucked into pottage. A few aped her and jabbed the pale, silent women beside them, urging the poor souls to feed them in the same manner. Elfrida wished fleas on all the Denzil men, who made even a tavern crowd look seemly. She scraped and spooned, and Magnus smacked his lips, seemingly with eyes and mouth only for her. She knew why he did it, of course, to prove to Denzils that she was valuable, that they must mind their manners with her. Suddenly, Magnus thumped the table with his right arm, allowing those within the hall to stare in horrified fashion at his stump. He bawled out a series of questions that Elfrida could not follow, but which he translated himself a few moments later, when the hall was in a new buzz and flurry of excitement. “What say you to a contest, Gregory? Remember the wrestling matches we used to have, that Peter of the Mount always won? He is not here now to take the prize, so what say you?” Gregory Denzil pointed a half-devoured chicken leg at Mark. “Him against my captain,” he said, saying it twice, once in Elfrida’s dialect. “For a forfeit of my choosing.” “If it is in my gift, so be it,” Magnus replied, nodding to Mark as his second-in-command left the dais.

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Elfrida frowned at him, but under cover of eating, he explained. “The tall, dark lass on the middle lower table was being pawed and close to weeping. A few games will give her and others like her respite for tonight, at least.” Beside the fire, Mark had stripped to his linen braies and was flexing his arms while a taller, bigger man wandered down from the dais with almost insolent slowness. “He will have a shock, that one,” Magnus chuckled. “Mark is as agile as an eel.” He glanced down the hall. “Were you able to talk to the blonde?” “She did not understand me.” Elfrida offered him a morsel from her own dish, as a means of thanks. How many knights would have cared what mauling a serving maid had to endure? “Pity,” Magnus said heavily. “I understand the speech here but cannot ask these poor lasses, especially as I am.” Elfrida bit the inside of her lip so she would not cry at his acceptance of his brooding, disfigured looks. “The maids are already terrified,” she answered, trying to make a joke of the matter. It was a poor jest, but he laughed and kissed her, saying swiftly against her mouth, “You screamed when you saw me first.” “That,” Elfrida whispered back, kissing him in return, “was a war cry.” She sensed eyes watching her instead of the coming wrestling match by the fire and twisted round to find Gregory Denzil watching, his whole face pinched in calculation. She raised her cup to him in greeting. “Here we go.” Magnus put two fingers into his mouth and whistled hard. As a whippy-looking Mark and the tall, sandy-haired tithe barn of a man squared up to each other, the men on the lower tables began to cheer their man and lay bets. Elfrida leaned back to escape Gregory’s probing gaze. Praying that her sister was somewhere in these woods, somewhere safe, she longed to leap from the dais and sprint about the castle in search of

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her. Instead she must look interested in foolish games and play the loving mistress. And is that a hardship? No. But we are being watched. Gregory Denzil is not as simple as he seems. And where is his mysterious kinsman? The thought was not cheering, and despite the fire, the good ale, and her own new, blue gown, she shivered.

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Chapter 12 Magnus enjoyed the wrestling—Mark won his bout, as Magnus knew he would, and when it came to his turn, he flipped Gregory Denzil onto his back easily enough, both of them grinning wildly. Such good fellowship and sport... For sure, Magnus thought dryly and hauled Denzil to his feet, as Peter had done so often for him in their crusading days. But Peter he trusted, and Denzil not at all. Why was he shocked, then, that the man was a slaver? He had been mad for booty and treasure in Outremer, and these poor, pale lasses in the hall were living treasure to a brute like Gregory Denzil. There was not a redhead among them, he noted with relief, but he did not like Denzil’s interest in Elfrida. She was applauding now, smiling at him like any love-smitten girl. And if only that was true! She has kissed me, he argued with himself. To be sure, he stalked to the dais, leaned over the table, clasped her firmly by her dainty waist, and scooped her over the salt, kissing her. Mark cheered sweatily and lustily and the rest of the hall erupted into laughter. Elfrida was, as ever, Elfrida. She did not flinch or shriek and hang from his arms like a flag. Instead, she wound her legs about his middle and brought her hands to the sides of his head and kept him there as her mouth played with his and her tongue teased and his loins hardened in response. When he was as ardent as a youth, she nipped his ear between her teeth and breathed, “What now, my lord?” Somehow she had kept her modesty, in spite of her thighs being locked about his middle. By rights, her skirts should be bunched

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around her waist, but they skimmed her ankles—a witch trick, he assumed. Much as he longed to tickle her and tear that silken sheath from her legs, he lowered her nicely to her feet. “My Lady.” He bowed, hoping he was not blushing, certain he would punch any man who said he was. Up on the dais, Gregory Denzil cackled and made a remark that Magnus would have died rather than translate for her. Ignoring the other coarse suggestions, he escorted her to her seat, contenting himself by remarking blandly into her ear, “We have the rest of the evening.” “Indeed.” She always had an answer, the pert little rag. His head ached with thinking about Elfrida and wondering if she truly liked him, if she cared. Were they to find her sister tonight by some miracle, would she say farewell and return to her woodland village without regret? He sighed and wanted to drink himself into a piggish oblivion, like the men on the lower tables, but he did not. They were in the Denzils’ keep, and he must be wary. Besides, he disliked being drunk to excess, and he did not want Elfrida to think the less of him, especially after his blunder with her dress. A woodland witch and I fret over her opinion of me! He pretended to drink, of course, but spilled most of it, which was a pity, for the ale was almost as good as Elfrida’s. It was strange, he reflected, as the other women in the hall were “encouraged” to dance before the fire by means of knightly elbows and pinches, how he did not fear Elfrida. She was a witch, but he had never considered he might be bewitched by her, and he held to that belief. He remembered what the village men had told him, that she was a good and pious witch. More than that, he knew her now. She has a warrior’s honor, my Elfrida, and a warrior’s heart. A tumbler was practicing handstands against the solar door. Gregory Denzil was talking about a siege in Outremer, and then about a falcon he had won from an Arab. The slave women danced in a

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carol, slowly, as if they were wearied beyond endurance. Men were drinking again, servers ran about with fresh trenchers and spits of meat, dogs were sniffing around for scraps—the usual hurly burly of hall life. Tonight I will bed down here but not alone. The time crawled when he wanted it to fly. At last the other women paired off with whoever had claimed them for the night. At last the trestles were taken down, the torches dowsed, the fire allowed to burn down. Magnus found a clear place by a wall and shepherded Elfrida to lie beside it and him. “Beside the wall will keep you well away from the Denzils,” he murmured, his thoughts and feelings a mob within him. I would like to ask her to lie with me. I want her so much. But will she want me in that way? What if she agrees for the sake of pity? “That is a good thought.” Elfrida peered up at him, her face blurred in the semidarkness of the soon-to-be-slumbering hall. “Although I fear I must away to the garderobe again.” She tried to press on his shoulder to keep him sitting down on the rushes, but he shook her off easily. “I know where it is!” she hissed. “Aye, and so do the men. You do not go alone.” They edged their way round the prone bodies. Suddenly Elfrida stopped, shook her right foot, and said something very clearly. There was a cry and a wild scrabbling as a darker shadow rolled off. Magnus followed it with his peg leg, kicking out and connecting with a thick head in a very satisfying thud, but Elfrida pulled him back. “Whichever Denzil that was, he will not snatch at me again,” she said. “What did you say to him?” Her eyes gleamed in the single flickering torch of the hall. “You do not need to know, my lord.” Shaking his head, Magnus shuffled forward again. At times Elfrida could disconcert even him.

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He lay in the dark, Elfrida snug and safe beside him. Was she listening to his breathing, as he did with hers? His ears straining for the slightest sound, his body braced for the smallest insult against her, he heard the rest of the hall settle, belch, and snore. But he knew. From old campaigns, Magnus knew that he and Elfrida were being watched—listened to, for certain. Somewhere out in the dark, Gregory Denzil spied. Denzil might not see much or hear much, but the hall was not completely dark. Off in another corner he could already see flashes of white as limbs thrashed against limbs and he caught the grunting and harsh slap of flesh on flesh as one of the men took one of the slave women. Denzil will expect me to take Elfrida tonight. To him that is what a leman is for. He shifted off his back, turning towards Elfrida in order to dupe Gregory Denzil, to make the fellow believe he was making love to her. If only.... When he found Elfrida already tight against him, plundering his mouth for kisses, he could hardly stifle a grunt of surprise. Her small hands seized his hand, guided his fingers to her bosom. Her unlaced, naked breasts rose under his cupped palm, their nipples proudly erect. He almost lost control then. Knowing she was as eager as him, he ached to roll onto her, hoist up her skirts and ram into her, but the moment was too sweet, too special to be rushed. He wanted to pleasure her endlessly, and he wanted them to be close, for their lovemaking to mean something. “We have all night,” he whispered against her throat. She smiled, and he could see her smile. “Magnus.” She stroked his hair. In this kind semidark, oily blackness, he could feel whole again, and then, as she skimmed herself on top of him, he recognized that she made him whole. They could be in bright summer sun in an Eastern pleasure garden and he would feel needed, handsome, desired.

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She truly wanted him, he thought in wonder, as she undid his tunic and fumbled with his belt, whispering, “Let me, let me, you are so big, my lovely troll...” She kissed him on his mouth, jaw, chin, throat, and chest, light, swift embraces that poured heat and honey into him. Her hands trailed up his arms and legs, down his flanks and across his belly. She was shy and bold together. “Do I do right?” she whispered, and he nodded and caressed her in return, delighting in her sleek, lithe shape, though all too soon, she lifted his hand away. “Do I do right?” she asked again. “Only, I have not, not...” she paused as if seeking words, and he understood at once. His bold, shy, loving little witch was a virgin. And she chose me. The brutish part of him wanted to holler her name to the rafters and make her his at once, but Elfrida needed more than that, far more. Her first time, he thought tenderly, shaken out of any doubts of her wanting him by her own brave, sweet admission. “Never fret, my sweet, we shall do well together.” He slowed his caresses, wanting her to delight in them and to take only pleasure, never pain or fear, from their union. “You are too sweet in your favors,” she breathed as he touched her. “You make me forget and stop—Magnus!” She shuddered above him as he lightly tongued her breasts, her head falling back as she surrendered to the moment. His desire was strong, but he told himself to forget it. He knew Denzil was out there in the hall, prying and spying, even if he had a girl of his own, but told himself to forget that, too. Love Elfrida as she deserves to be loved. Feeling took the place of thought. He gathered his witch-lass close and turned her to her side, shielding her from greedy eyes with his own rough body. He nuzzled her breasts and settled her in the crook of his arm, running his fingers slowly down the smooth links of her spine. He

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heard her swallow and felt about for his flagon, offering it to her. She gulped a draft and spluttered thanks in her own dialect, her voice strangled into a gasp as he dripped the mead onto her nipples and tenderly licked it off her. She raked at her clothes and his, endearingly clumsy in her need, slipping her hands into the revealed gaps in his tunic and braies to touch and caress him. By the single torchlight he saw her eyes, wide with looking—she could not see enough of him. And she kissed his arms and legs, once even his peg leg, and flicked her hair teasingly across his loins, too diffident to caress him intimately, without invitation. Had he both hands still, he would have used one to guide those warm, little fingers of hers and the other to pleasure her. He had one, and he used it gladly in his lady’s service. He swirled his fingers down her flanks, around her bottom, between her thighs. She hissed a phrase in her own tongue and rammed her haunches high to meet his hand, her arms catching and gripping around his neck. “Hang on, lovely,” he murmured, stroking her moist, secret parts with long, sure strokes, taking delight in her rising crisis. His own need ached like an old wound in winter, but he was hot, slicked over with sweat, and she burned like a phoenix. She shrieked and stiffened, her body arching like a new bow, her eyes dark with passion as her hips battered against his busy fingers. She sagged, and he caught and lowered her, hoping she did not know that her love cry had awakened most of the hall. Oblivious to earthly grumbles, she was kissing any part of him she could reach as men groaned and stretched and cursed about them in the gloom, and her fingers were as lovely and delicate in their straying as butterflies. He hugged her tight to let her know all was well. If she was truly spent, then she should sleep a little. She opened her eyes and met and held his, saying quietly, “Much, so much. I did not know. Is it always this way? Am I wrong to enjoy it so?”

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“Not a bit, my heart.” Her pleasure was his and, after so many years of reluctant, hastily couplings with women who stared at the coins he gave and never at his face, a healing, loving balm. “Truly, Magnus? It is no sin?” “None, little elf, and there is more.” He heard her sigh and felt her cling even more tightly against him. She was passionate, his witch, as well as wise. He was awed by her trust in him, the ways she so freely gave of herself. And all of it so very new to her—that was obvious beyond all telling. He would have smiled had he not been aching himself, and hard. He wiped a tear from her cheek, and she turned her head to suck his thumb. “Not wise.” He growled, tenderness and need a battleground within him. Much more of these jolts of tingling pleasure and he would take and take. But Elfrida gave and freely, opening her thighs and arms to him as he guided and prompted her, her slender hands beckoning as he hesitated, wanting to take care and never hurt her. Entering her was every heaven and garden of delights in one. He thrust home swiftly to cause as little discomfort as possible, then eased her onto her side, clamped against his side, so she could become used to their new intimacy. She had given a startled yip, half shock, half surprise, but now he could feel her relaxing again, trusting him. “Am I yours, Magnus?” she whispered. “Am I finally a woman?” “You are always that,” he answered, “And we are each other’s.” What fools the villagers have been in never paying court to her, never showing her how glorious she is! Yet now I am glad they did not, very glad. She felt so delicious, and she embraced him, welcomed him fully. “Are you ready for more?” he murmured. He felt her nod and began. He stroked into her, deep and long, kissing her as their joint

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passion flamed and tumbled. He bellowed her name when his thrusts melded into a hammered point and then exploded in bliss, flinging him into her receiving arms. When the furnace in his mouth and the ringing in his ears had eased slightly, Magnus shifted so his weight would not crush her. She followed him, muttering drowsily, “Should show that Denzil I’m your woman.” “I think he knows that.” Magnus wrapped his cloak over both of them, hugging her tight against him, and listened to her sleep. He did not sleep at all. Demons tugged at him, tormenting his thoughts. Had her loving been a ploy? Were her advances a ruse to confuse the Denzils? Brace up, man! Of course not! True, Elfrida may in part have begun her “seduction” as a device to confuse our hosts and convince Gregory Denzil that she is my leman, for she is a clever lass, but she did not finish that way. She was a virgin before tonight, and she chose you! “My Lord?” Her sleepy question had him hugging her anew. “My Lord, is all well with you? Is there anything amiss?” He heard the tension in her voice and was ashamed. “Nothing, love. Nothing,” he answered in the old tongue, brushing her hair with his hand. “Love. Mine, too, Magnus.” She yawned and patted his arm and slept on. Does she dream of me? Magnus smiled in the dark and planned for the morning. **** Elfrida felt boneless and languid in the morning, as tranquil as a forest lake in summer. She ran her fingers across Magnus’s hairy shoulders, amazed he was still beside her. None of the men she had known before him had wanted to linger in the company of a witch, or,

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indeed, had wanted her at all. “He loves me. He called me love,” she whispered. No one had called her love before. She longed to shout the news through the slumbering hall. Magnus rolled over toward her. In the gray light, the deep scars of his face looked less grotesque and bestial. If only Christina could meet him. Anxiety plowed into her. She sat up, starting and gesturing a sign for protection against evil as a long arm wound about her like a massive adder. “Good morrow.” The sunburst in Magnus’s eye as he grinned was very bright. Should I kiss him? Her dilemma ended as he kissed her, taking his time. As his lips relearned hers, she felt as if a field of roses had bloomed within her. “Love.” “Christina,” she reminded him and herself. She longed to drag him into the solar and spend the day amidst the cushions with him. He says it is no sin, but is he right? Should I feel this way? I was a virgin yester evening, and now I am a woman. Do other women feel as I do? He tightened his hold, then released her. “I hunt today.” No “I must hunt,” or “I am sorry to leave you,” or any kind of plan. Elfrida did not allow her mouth or body to droop in disappointment. “As do I.” Now Magnus sat up, his face gone rigid in disapproval. “What do you mean? You are coming with me.” It was one thing to be asked on a hunt but quite another to be told she was going. The free woman and witch in her rebelled, the more so as Magnus added, “I would not leave a dog with the Denzils, much less a woman.” “A woman.” Magnus was tugging on his tunic but then grew still.

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“Ah!” He yanked on a sleeve and looked at her directly. “Forgive me, Elfrida, that was not well put. After years on campaign and in war, I am unused to courtesy. Will you come with me, please?” She smiled, mollified a little by his plea, and knelt up to help him with his laces. “I should stay to try to make friends with the other womenfolk,” she explained softly, thinking how very hairy his chest was and wishing he would say he wanted her to go with him. “You will seek out forest paths and strange towers with the hunt, I take it? That is what I shall do here, in a different way. I shall seek out news of the Forest Grendel inside this keep.” “I do not like it.” He gripped her arm. “These men are slavers, and you would be a great prize, beyond price.” Foolishly perhaps, her heart felt to soar like a sky-bound lark within her breast. “A squire can stay with me.” “Two squires. No, three.” He shook his head. “Still, I do not like it. I will be gone all day from you, when I would far rather stay.” He puffed out his cheeks, and chuckled. “But then, so will the Denzils, so all is not lost.” She laughed, reassured, her heart soaring a little higher at his wish to stay with her, and flicked the laces of her gown at him. “Help me?” “With pleasure, though I rather be undoing than dressing.” He did so very neatly, too, using his one hand. They helped each other to their feet, ready to face the Denzils as the rest of the hall stirred for breakfast. “Be careful,” Magnus muttered, squeezing her hand before he let her go. “And the same,” Elfrida replied, stepping forward to begin her search.

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Chapter 13 During the next two days, Magnus hunted from morning till moonrise with the Denzils. Elfrida spent her time in the castle keep. With her were three youths whom she called Ale, Meat, and Pie to herself, for they did little but eat and drink. They prowled the kitchens and the stores as she wandered around, trailing her at a respectful distance, usually with a trencher in their fists. Elfrida had no notion of their fighting abilities, but since Magnus had ordered them to stay close, she assumed they knew what they were about. They endured the taunting of the Denzil guards with no sign of heeding it. 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

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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

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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

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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.”

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“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.” ****

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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.

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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. “Not a good time for archery practice,” he said. All good fun, all men together. Denzil smiled thinly. “A fool, too eager for sport.” “Indeed.” As an assassination attempt, Magnus rated it as poor to moderate, but Gregory Denzil had always been lazy. And in the clustered mass of hunters, he saw no skinny stranger with distinctive rings. “Time to go on?” he asked, knowing if he suggested it, Denzil would say the opposite, which he did. “We go back.”

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Chapter 14 Elfrida knew things were going sour the instant Magnus limped into the hall. Sitting at her now-accustomed place on the dais, she started forward, then, at a tiny warning flick of his arm, she disguised her shock with a wide yawn. “She grows weary of you, man!” jeered Gregory Denzil, saying it twice so she understood. Elfrida pressed her tongue hard into the roof of her mouth to stop herself from cursing their vile host. Such actively evil magic—far worse than a wish of fleas—could rebound, and if the Denzil they were hunting came to this hall, he would sense it. “Not so, good sir,” she managed when she trusted herself to speak. “I merely wondered what has befallen my lord. He is much ripped about.” Her eyes met Magnus’s, sending him the silent, urgent message that she understood, that she recognized they were in increasing danger. It was heart-stoppingly obvious that Denzil had meant to harm him and pass all off as an accident. “Perhaps he was set upon,” remarked Gregory Denzil, his small eyes shining with malice, bright as the red wart on his forehead. “I see no heads of his enemies at his belt,” Elfrida replied, which Denzil obligingly translated, while Magnus bowed about the hall and there was much thin, high laughter. Taking his seat on her right, Mark was as gray as a corpse and, farther down the hall, her three squires frowned and put aside their trenchers. There was a scuffling, a thump of the bench, and Elfrida found Magnus pivoting dexterously into place on her left.

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“We must leave soon,” he remarked, beneath a scatter of ironic applause from the ranks of Denzil’s men. “My men and I have outstayed our welcome, and you, I fear, are too welcome.” He sat down on the bench and, under cover of the table, patted her knee. “We shall do well enough. The show will hold Denzil a while longer.” He caught a tress of her hair, wound it around his fist and, very deliberately, pulled her to him. Elfrida heard the stamping, yowling tumult in the hall fall away. She watched Magnus lowering his head to her, ugly-beautiful with his battle scars and bright, brown eyes. He winked at her, and she giggled then closed her eyes to steal a moment, to savor their kiss. “Little witch,” he murmured, his lips sweetly tormenting against hers. Her eyes flickered open, to capture him whole and close against her, and he netted his arms about her waist and back and jerked her ever more snugly against him. “If this were real,” she whispered, knowing they could not go on, that soon they must stop. “It is and will be. Unless you do not wish—” She scrambled onto his lap, desperate to prove to him that it was not show, not to her. His arms were like steel pincers about her. “Put her over the table and have her!” The coarse suggestion from Gregory Denzil made her shudder, and she felt the burn of Magnus’s rage. Distressed, she tried to draw back but could not even squirm. “Magnus!” His dazed look of love had hardened into possession. He dangled her like a doll as he rose and faced Gregory Denzil, saying a spurt of words, hard as a hailstorm, that struck the leering smile off the smaller man’s face and had him jerking back in his chair. Silence dropped into the hall like a pestilence, and men studied their plates and cups. A hawk baited wildly on a perch, and a dog yapped once then howled, sensing the dread atmosphere.

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Magnus cradled her back to her seat as if she was made of glass. His rage was white-hot, and he was white faced, and her sense of how to treat him vanished. “Magnus?” He smiled, a grimace, and ruffled her hair. “Not you, never you, my heart. All will be well.” Elfrida doubted that, but she dared say nothing. She sat sweating, aware that the blue gown she now wore was the gift of the Denzils and wondering if Magnus remembered that, too. She wanted to rush from the chamber, escape into the snow, strip away all reminders of their vile hosts, and vanish into the dark. She longed to ask Magnus to hold her, to tell her again he was not angry with her. She felt ashamed of her own need. I am a witch! I should be beyond wishing for any man’s approval! In the deathly silence, Gregory Denzil rapped his knuckles hard on the high table. Instantly a page scurried to the door of the solar and unlocked it with a huge key. Pale and hurrying, the slave women streamed forth, and a harpist rapidly picked out a popular carol, men starting to sing the refrain in lusty, off-key voices. The tall, birch-slim, birch-pale girl who had helped Elfrida to dress knelt at the feet of Gregory Denzil. He growled an order, and she crawled between his legs, her head level with his loins. “And that is quite enough.” Hard on the heels of that incomprehensible remark, Magnus plucked her from her seat a second time and marched with her out of the hall. He stopped for nothing, neither stairs, nor lurking guards, nor a hapless squire, who glanced at his implacable face and flattened himself and his platter of meats to the wall. “What is it?” Elfrida began. “There are things you do not need to witness.” Still she could not struggle in his arms, but she scowled abundantly. “I am no infant.” She took it as a bad sign that he did not chuckle. “Have I done amiss, Magnus?” she demanded as he shouldered open the door and

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stamped down the outer steps of the keep. “If I have, please say.” “No, no, it is me and that bastard. I had forgotten how he enjoys taunting others. Well tonight, I will have none of it.” “But if the Forest Grendel comes?” “Then Mark will tell us in the morning.” “What if Denzil comes seeking you?” “Denzil never leaves his own dinner table. If he sends others, they shall not find me.” Magnus was still so blistered with rage that she could feel the heat rising off him like steam. As they passed the kitchen block and then the stables, Elfrida wondered where they were going. “What did you say to him?” she ventured. “And what happened while you were hunting? What harm did Denzil attempt?” She knew something had gone amiss. She could sense it, vividly. Magnus shook his head. “Leave it, Elfrida. Leave it all.” It was hard for her to be quiet. “But I have news!” She had so much to share with him, and he was making it impossible. Perhaps he spotted the sheen of tears in her eyes, for suddenly he stopped and shook his head. “Ach! I know I am a bear this evening.” She wanted to deny it, to make him kiss her, but pride made her respond. “Indeed you are. And when are you going to set me down?” “Right in here.” He stepped forward a few more paces and pushed at a series of wooden timbers leaned against one of the keep’s outer bailey walls. There was a rasping creak as the timbers were revealed as a door, and he ducked his head and walked through into a small storeroom with a raised platform as part of the floor. He swung her down lightly, and Elfrida stared at barrels and logs and timbers. A sweet smell of wood perfumed the space. “A wood store,” Magnus supplied, still a little grim. “Let me purloin some things, and then we may take our ease in here tonight.” “But your men, will they not be anxious?” He laughed and some of the iron left his face. “Mark knows I take care of myself and he has sense enough to see the men all right. I am

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sorry to say this, Elfrida, but not even the Denzils turn on guests under their own roof, not for a fallout over a lone woman, however beautiful she is.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You are a prize, my darling, and Gregory Denzil wants you, but he will not fight for you.” She knew that he was not telling her everything, that the forest hunting had led to some kind of malice, but she sensed she would not get that out of him tonight, if ever. She asked instead after another, more urgent danger. “How can you be sure the Denzils will not betray us? They are not good or decent.” “They are a dangerous family,” Magnus agreed. “I cannot promise they will treat us forever as honored guests, but for now I think the pretence of chivalrous behavior holds Denzil back. He wants you certainly, and for a small time I think he will make some show of courtesy.” He grinned. “A mort of treasure, now, that would be different. For gold he would break all laws of hospitality, even more than for you, my comely little auburn wench.” The gold-cross twinkle was back in his eye, she thought, or else she had noticed it again, as her insides seemed to quiver and melt, softened by the “auburn” compliment. “Do I cause you evil?” She blushed, not meaning to ask, but the question had burst out of her. She could not bear to think she had brought him trouble by coming, yet how could she stay away with Christina missing, the other brides missing? “Never fret! The Denzils are not nice hosts, but we shall muddle through and win. Now let me find some dainties, and we shall share our knowledge.” He slipped out into the starlit bailey, returning quickly with an armload of items—cloaks, flasks, a small brazier, a freshly baked pie. “That cook loaded me with these, without question,” he explained, giving her a knowing look. “He seems much taken with you.” Swiftly, he built two walls of logs on the platform and lit the brazier behind it

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before kicking and scraping snow and mud against the door. “It will cut down light to the outside and keep us snug,” he said. “It will,” Elfrida agreed, feeling an almost childlike pleasure in setting out the cloaks to sit on, with the flasks and meat pie within reach. She and Christina had done similar as youngsters, playing “house,” with mud as their pies. “Your sister lives,” Magnus said quietly, when she went still and quiet. “I feel it in my bones. We shall find her and the others and win them back.” “And the women here?” Elfrida asked. Magnus set his jaw, an instinctive response that made him look more demonic than ever, especially with the flames of the brazier casting deep shadows along every scar of his face. “I do not forget them,” he promised. “We shall have them all safe.” He unfurled one of the cloaks, revealing his own sword belt and sword and several others. “These are valuable, as weapons, as spoil,” he said, correctly interpreting her questioning glance. “Mark gathered them quietly for me from my men, and I shall hide them here, from now on.” “What really happened today in the forest, in the hunt?” Elfrida tried again, wondering this time if he might give an answer, but he only shook his head. “Enough of today’s hunt. I will not speak of it.” He was here with her now, and safe. She would question no more on it, Elfrida decided. She watched Magnus instead, for the joy of looking on him. He tucked the cloak around the swords and stowed them in the darkness. Then he ran his hand down the lean-to’s walls and door, frowned, and packed more mud into cracks in the timbers. He was softly whistling when he finished and more in his natural good humor as he turned to face her. “That will do us proud tonight. We shall be warm enough, especially together.” Elfrida felt herself blushing and told herself it was because of the

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bright heat of the brazier. “The cook, Stephen—” “Aye? I wondered when you would explain him.” She could read his face now and knew he was teasing. Relieved that he was more himself, Elfrida put aside the foolish, girlish question, Gregory Denzil would not fight for me, but would you, Magnus? and answered, telling him about Stephen and Hedda the laundress. “I helped her with her washing, and once she lost her fear of me, she allowed me to fold and stretch sheets with her.” Magnus sat cross-legged on a heap of cloaks, and she watched his long, clever fingers as he cut the pie for them both. Last night, those fingers had tickled and fondled her to delight and more, and his shaggy, black hair had curled and tingled against her throat and shoulders as he laved and caressed her nipples with his tongue. He glanced up and smiled, saying something in the old speech she had to ask him to repeat. “You distract me,” she admitted. He laid down his knife, left the pie where it was on the thick trencher, and reached for her. “I have not finished my tale!” she squeaked, sinking into his arms with as much pleasure as into a hot bath. “Be quick, then, wench.” She tapped his nose, and he caught and sucked her fingers. A lightning bolt of fiery desire burst between her thighs, and his eyes took on a deeper gleam. “Do not look so smug,” she protested. He chuckled, and she watched his chest vibrate, reveling in how strong he was. “There.” He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Tell me now, or we shall never be done with it.” “Hedda took particular care with a set of richly fashioned and dyed clothes that were very long in the legs and arms.” “Belonging to a tall, thin man.” “Exactly, and she kept them separate from the other clothes. She had a set that was just dry and those she put in a pack to take out. She

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would not let me go with her, she wept when I tried to do so, but I marked the direction she went and how long it was before she stumbled back into the washhouse. She had another set of similar clothes with her then, of the same kind, and she instantly set to washing those, as if she must make them ready for tomorrow. I asked her, as best I could, and she pointed at the sun, then at the sky where the noonday sun is.” “Each noon, eh? And on foot, through snow, there and back in under a day? Not so long or so far.” “No, less than an hour, I think, unless I rushed my prayers.” “She went alone? No escort?” “No.” “And you heard no wolves howling?” “No.” “Excellent! Close and secure and safe from wolf packs, it should be easy to find—I marvel I have not spotted the place already, during the hunt, or seen clearer tracks. Denzil must have drawn us away from that part. I wonder why.” Still with his eyes tightly shut, Magnus cracked his fingers and licked his lips, and again she thought how glorious he was, like a battle-scarred angel. “She returned with mistletoe berries,” Elfrida went on, saving the best news until last. “To decorate the Christmas feasting, she said.” “The mistletoe woods,” Magnus breathed, understanding everything, and now he opened his eyes. “That is enough. We can follow her tracks at daylight.” “Or follow her.” We, he said, not Mark or other of his men. We! “Indeed. Well done!” Her breathed hitched as he looked at her, pride and feeling shining in his eyes. “Should I ask for a reward?” she asked, “Or should I claim it?” She reared up in his arms and seized possession of his lowering mouth. His apple-sweet breath filled her as his lips fondled hers and their

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tongues touched and embraced. His eyes, brighter than candles, remained fixed on hers, only on her. Her loins quivered and tightened in response. “Little witch.” Each place he caressed tingled and yielded as if her body itself was singing, ringing like a church bell. She clawed at his tunic, longing to see him, taste him, touch him. “Easy there, dove eyes, we have all of tonight.” He snared her hands in his own, pulling her wrists above her head so she arched like a wave. “Tonight, you take my magic.” He kissed her navel through the cloth of her gown, and she shuddered. “Tonight your witchcraft sleeps in my arms. You will be seduced and beguiled, Elfrida, and sob and say my name.” He laid her down on the mass of cloaks and gently nipped her throat. “Magnus.” Dazed with desire, she tried to reach for him with her body and crush her breasts against his great chest, but fast as a striking wolf he rolled her onto her front, pinning her easily to the platform with his long legs. His beard tickled her ear as he leaned closer still. “Did I not say I take you tonight, my naughty elf?” “Yes,” she whispered, astonished at her own wantonness. She wanted this, she realized, moaning softly and lifting her hips to meet his gently sweeping fingers, running up the backs of her thighs. He rested his hand on her bottom. “Yes, sir?” “Yes, sir,” she repeated, her obedience acting as a sweet goad deep within her. She, who had never had a man before Magnus, who had been proud to call no man master, now ached to say the word. Above her, she heard Magnus suck in a long breath, as though startled, but when he spoke he was as steady as ever. “Should I chastise you for that lapse?” He drummed his fingers very lightly on the curves of her behind, and stars seemed to explode in her eyes. “’Tis a sweet temptation.” “Yes.” The word escaped before she even knew she would speak. “Sir,” she added hastily.

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**** He had only ever dreamed of this, Magnus thought, as he lifted and eased her over his lap, fulfilling and fueling a secret desire and loving mastery never acted upon. Since his battle scars, he had never presumed any woman would desire such tough yet tender play from him. Why had he even begun it with Elfrida? Because she looked so appealing, and he had wanted to make her smile, to tease her a little, to have her scold him a little. She was so vivid in her fury. I am in deep love indeed when I cannot wait for my wench to upbraid me. And, witch as she was, unexpected as ever, Elfrida had surprised him. He sat up, one leg curled and bent at the knee, the other straight out with Elfrida sprawled across it, swiftly breathing and tense, her whole slim frame expectant and submissive, stoking his own desire harder still. You too, eh, my dainty witch? And neither of us admitting before now. Admitting for him, he amended quickly, but knowing and learning for Elfrida. How could it be otherwise when she was a novice in the arts and coils of love? Sex magic, he thought, and smiled. “Comfortable?” he asked, making sure her head and upper body were pillowed on the cloaks. “I am,” she answered softly, wriggling a little to hide her face behind her arms, still shy of him—adorably shy, he thought, pierced by her trust. Remember that always, Magnus, and go steady. Be her gentle knight. Do not rush her. “Ready?” he murmured, combing his fingers through her long, soft flames of hair. Trust would mean relaxation and greater release

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for her. She nodded, only a tiny movement, but he felt her tummy shift against his thigh. “Sir.” Her acceptance and shy, blushing desire almost made him lose control. For several wild, heart-hammering moments he imagined tumbling her onto her back and having her, plunge in, dive in, ride on. But his own wounds had taught him in a harsh school of patience. Some pleasure was almost pain, but true pain was only pain, and he would never tear, never harm, never ram. “I love you, Elfrida,” he said and began. Love you, sir, she thought, too light-headed by then to speak. Hung across his knee, awaiting his sweetly punishing hand, she had lost all speech, including her own dialect. She could do nothing but luxuriate in her own vulnerability, secure that her ugly-handsome, loving knight would never hurt her. She had spoken of sex magic, but all charms and magic were beyond her. I never knew, she thought again, while the deepest part of her was calm. Magnus loved her, and he said he did, and she knew he did. He would fight for me. I have no need to ask. I am as womanly as any, and a witch besides. She was proud of herself and of her masterful knight, who had traveled to Jerusalem and who feared nothing, who could whistle any tune and who was kind. A man-angel in demon dress, her beast knight and snow knight. Trusting and beloved, she did not know if she had slept a moment or if time itself had slowed down for her. Her skirts were slowly lifted, and a delicious slither of cool air played upon her thighs. “You are a secret dream made real.” He pooled her skirts about her waist. “And you for me,” Elfrida whispered, closing her eyes, longing for his touch. “This is between us, is it not, and just us?”

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“Who else?” She yelped as Magnus pinched her thigh, very lightly. “Is it wise for you to dispute thus, when you are where you are and I am where I am?” “But you asked...sir.” She rolled slightly as Magnus chuckled. “I see we understand each other very well, little witch, and have no fear—you may argue as much as you please in any place and company save when we are in our bed.” “And then?” Elfrida goaded, “and here, now?” He fondled her behind, stroking softly between her legs. One long, slow caress and she whimpered, helplessly gripping the pillow of cloaks as a lightning jolt of pleasure erupted through her. “The first release of many.” Magnus kissed the back of her neck and flicked her earlobe with his tongue. “You are pink and rose and will be warmer yet.” She quivered, arching her back, thrusting her bottom higher into his cupped fingers. He feathered his hand across her behind, kissed her up and down her spine and purred a growling praise into her ear. “Such a perfect, round, pattable, spankable rump.” For you, all for you. She did not know she had spoken aloud until his roving fingers streaked down, cupping her intimate places. “Lovely Elfrida. Gorgeous, red-haired, amber-eyed, sweet-thighed, clever, caring, round-assed girl. But first, before I spank you...” He stroked and patted and caressed as he praised more, a mingle of old speech and his own. Hung over his knee, writhing and squirming, her loins tingling and on fire, her need and desire built and sharpened and then almost, almost exploded again. She gasped, hearing herself pleading and not caring, wanting only more and more of sir, of Magnus, of him. The fist smack landed, stinging, on her left cheek, followed swiftly by one to her right. “Yes!” she cried, as more light, quick, relentless slaps set her bottom and intimate parts and breasts into a

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throbbing jingle of mindless pleasure. “Such a lush and juicy ass.” Magnus still praised her, fondling her bottom, smacking each cheek, each spank a little harder, a little faster than the last. Again, her desire surged, and she begged him—harder, harder. “Have me!” she howled, lifting her quivering haunches to his smarting, spanking hands, wanting more and longing for him to drive himself into her. At last he turned her, raising her head and mouth to his. He tasted of salt and his own sweet maleness as his lips possessed, conquered, and teased. Rising into his embrace and climbing into his lap, she wrapped her arms around his broad, muscular back and heard his breath stop as their bodies collided. He scooped a big hand into her bodice, cupping one of her breasts and cursed as the smooth, rich fabric tore. “Rip it off me,” she whispered, reading that desire in his stark, scarred face. “Do not tempt me.” He growled. “Or I will do more.” She reared up, taking his mouth again, plunging her tongue between his teeth as she twisted her fingers through his black hair, taunting him. The heaviness of her limbs had been swept away by a sparkling desire, more heady than wine. “Do your worst, sir,” she whispered against his taut throat, rubbing her breasts against his hairy chest. A shooting star fleeing across the heavens, could not have been faster. In a dazzling blur of action, Magnus used the speed he had been famed for in the crusades and, gripping both sides of her gown so she would not be scored, rent it top to bottom. As she gasped at his strength, he tugged off his own clothes, allowing all to flutter in a puddle of dull and bright cloth by his feet. Still perched on one of his knees, she licked at his naked belly but missed. He had seen her slight movement and anticipated it, swooping his own head low and tonguing her navel, then lower. He caught her

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hands and held them easily by her wrists with his own, chuckling deep in his throat as she drummed her heels against his legs. It was like striking warm stone. “Shameless, you are,” he hissed against her. In a swirl of motion, he raised her off his lap then lowered her onto the wooden platform, kneeling down and keeping her in place by a warm, heavy arm. His left hand was already busy running up her thighs as he blew a loud kiss into her belly. “Here we are, out in a woodshed—” “No one comes after nightfall,” she countered, her voice rising as his questing fingers and now his tongue tracked over her shivering body, closer and closer to her hot, molten center. Clothes spilled everywhere as he finally entered her, almost knocking over the brazier in his single-minded ardor. His lovemaking wild and rutting, he slammed into her, their flesh smacking together in a blurring, fierce rhythm. For both it was intimate and exciting, tender and overwhelming. Magnus roared his pleasure, feeling no longer wounded or ugly. Elfrida knew rapture she had never known before, feeling no longer lonely or feared but cherished and desired.

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Chapter 15 Cold woke Magnus, and the aching in his limbs. He found his tunic rolled under his head and three cloaks tugged round him. Elfrida was fanning new flames from the brazier and casting anxious glances his way. He smiled, and she broke off her task and hurried over. “Will you have some food?” She blushed, as if uncertain or uneasy of his mood. His heart ached in tenderness for her. “Yes, please.” He enjoyed being fussed over and tended and watched her closely, for the pleasure of staring. She had put on her blue gown, hiding the ripped side seams by belting it closely. “There has been more snow,” she remarked, bringing him a flask and half of the pie. He broke off a piece and offered it back to her, and she smiled. “You look well, Magnus.” His missing foot ached like the devil, but he was not about to admit that. “And you, my heart.” He patted the place beside him, and she came and settled at once. “We should learn each other’s tongue, do you not think?” “For certain, yes. How many languages do you know?” The rest of their sparse but delightful breakfast was taken up with snippets of London speech, Greek, Latin, Arabic, and French. Elfrida learned the words for mead or wine in all of these and then startled him afresh. “Will you be sick today?” “Sick?” “So you do not go out hunting.” She touched one of the amulets about her neck—strange how he had not noticed those last night, unless she had removed them all. “It brought little news and not much luck yesterday for you.”

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It was her tactful way of alluding to Denzil’s attempt to kill him, Magnus thought, as he finished the pie and yanked on his damp clothes. “Today, pray God, we shall do better,” he said. Elfrida nodded, her face solemn. Her amber eyes glittered. “I have a plan for that.” She told him, and he laughed then admitted that it might just work. We have to do something, Magnus thought. He opened the door to the wood store and stepped out into bright, fresh snow. Every day that passes and Christina is gone, the hunt grows harder. I wish to God I could remember that tall, skinny Denzil, and that the days were not so short. Elfrida wished that none of Magnus’s men were going hunting, even if, as Gregory Denzil claimed, the castle needed the meat. Leaving Magnus in the garderobe clutching his belly and pretending to be ill, she waved off the ragged group with their nets and spears, surprised to find herself sending even the flea-ridden Mark her wish for a safe journey. Mark’s devotion to Magnus had warmed her to him. In turn Mark was becoming less ill mannered toward her, always giving her a terse nod in greeting. Gregory Denzil had surprised her, too. With Magnus claiming he was sick, she had worried that Denzil might refuse to leave the keep himself and send out only a few men. Instead he seemed as keen to hunt as he had the previous day and took more than half his guards and soldiers with him. “You are still here, he thinks I am tied to the garderobe, and his men get restive if they feast too long,” Magnus observed when she climbed the stairs and waited on the garderobe landing until there was no passing page, maid, or squire to overhear their conversation. “What have you done with the three lads?” Elfrida guessed he meant Meat, Ale, and Pie. “I left them in the great hall.” She did not add they were playing dice. He scowled. “Dice and ale?” he guessed, with a snort. “They are

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supposed to be your escorts and with you for your safety.” She shrugged. “I can heed myself, Magnus. We should get on.” He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her tightly cinched waist and her careful use of her cloak pins to gather together and secure the torn side seams of her gown. She felt herself blush, conscious of the cloth brushing against her bottom like a hand. “What now?” As if sensing her confusion, he took her hand and kissed it. “Remember our agreement last night?” he asked gently. “We are peers by day and all places—in bed, too, if you will it,” he added, even more softly. “I am no bully, Elfrida.” “No, you are not,” she admitted, wishing all the same they could return to last night. He smiled and squeezed her fingers. “To business, then. You will need to be more warmly dressed.” “I will have my cloak.” “We shall both have better. I had a mind we should plot ahead. Yesterday on the hunt, I dropped a bundle into a holly bush outside the castle walls. We shall recover it when we follow the laundress.” “If she walks out today at noon.” “Why not? You say she has on other noondays.” “That is what I guessed, for she seemed most busy and particular and pointed at the sky most clearly. But I could not talk to her. And even if I guessed right, my plan may come to nothing.” “Your plan is as good as any. As for the woman, the squires can watch out for her and let us know if she goes out early.” “Do you think it will take long?” Magnus spread his one good hand. “’Tis in God’s arms. We must pray and hope. For me, I do not think it will be long. To be a guard is a toilsome job and to watch outside in winter, even on a day as bright as this, the worst of all. They will soon grow bored and keep more and more indoors, or out of the weather, at least.” “May it be so,” Elfrida muttered, making her words a wish-charm.

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She and Magnus put on their cloaks and returned to the great hall. There, Magnus explained to a disinterested, nose-picking guard with a gaping ulcer on his leg that they would take a stroll in the snowy pleasure garden of the castle. The guard yawned his assent and sent three young, beardless soldiers with them who kicked at snowdrifts and pulled ivy and honeysuckle off the snow-covered garden trellis. Soon the three had found a sunlit, windless spot between the stone walls of the keep and its gatehouse, and they watched out from there. Magnus winked at Elfrida, but she dared not smirk. So far, she thought, and began the next part of her plan. In plain sight of the youths, she brushed the snow from a frosted turf seat, wide enough for two, and sat down. Magnus settled beside her. “Why are they not wary or at least interested?” she asked him, leaning against him as if sharing a loving confidence. “And have all the able men gone out?” “There will be some in the stables and gatehouse. For the rest, Denzil likes to keep his troops busy and out of mischief, and you are a girl and I am a cripple.” “They have seen you fight!” Magnus laughed, and his shaggy hair curls shook. “Bless you for that! But no, they saw me wrestle, and they believe Denzil allowed me to win.” He jerked a thumb at the three lounging against the sunwarmed wall like thin, gray cats. “I know the kind. I was one myself.” Never, Elfrida thought, flexing her hands beneath her cloak. She glanced at her knight, hoping he would not spot her concern. It would be bone-grindingly cold, idling out here. “I have marched and watched in harsher climes than this. Sun as hot as a griddle stone, night as dark and bitter as a cave.” He never missed a thing. “We must lie down soon,” she warned. “No doubt you have a charm to keep us warm.” Elfrida smiled. “I will do my best,” she answered sweetly. She did her utmost as she had promised, finding a spot in full sun,

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scraping away the snow, and banking it round into four shallow walls. She then tore at dead honeysuckle shoots on the trellis and gathered them. Magnus nodded at some dead rose stems, and when she nodded, he ripped at them, seeming oblivious of the thorns as he collected an armful. By now the three lads were feigning disinterest and tossing snow balls at each other. But they watched closely as Magnus prodded through the snow with his peg leg and gathered pebbles and stones. Glad he understood her intent, Elfrida quickly made a fire and began to heat the stones. She found a sweeping brush abandoned by a frozen pond and used that to jab the hot stones out of the fire and out on the frosted earth, making a rough bed of rocks. The youths’ curiosity changed to leers as she swung her cloak off her shoulders onto the stones and Magnus did the same with his cloak. Then, with the fire still crackling and burning, she and Magnus lay between the cloaks and pulled the hoods over their heads. They lay together in a snug embrace, hearing their guards sniggering. “We could complete this picture and make love.” Magnus shifted against her in a way that might suggest lovemaking to anyone watching. Elfrida peered out of their tangle of cloaks. “It is working! They are going inside!” “A beast with two backs that you cannot see is no amusement.” Magnus pressed his hand on her shoulder. “Let us wait and be sure.” He patted her rump. “We could always...?” “No.” Later they left their cloaks, filled with snow to look like bodies, and set off deeper into the garden, hiding their tracks by retracing their earlier footprints, then by walking along the sheltered side of the northern outer castle wall, where there was no snow. Magnus was checking here and there for guards and for a postern gate, and Elfrida glanced at the sky. It was not yet noon, but fast approaching it.

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“She leaves by the main gate?” Magnus asked. Elfrida nodded, forcing her teeth not to chatter. Once the heated stones had cooled, she had been chilled enough. Now, without cloak or hat, her hands and feet were numb, and her body trembled with cold. “What is it? Do you see her?” “Not yet, but that is what we want.” He pointed ahead, into shadows, and Elfrida almost stumbled as her legs threatened to buckle in sheer relief. There, in the corner of the deserted pleasure garden, was a small stone arch and gate, a postern—their way out.

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Chapter 16 He found the holly bush and not a moment too soon—limping beside him, Elfrida was already half frozen. Again, Magnus regretted having to bring her, but he knew she would never consent to remain behind and, most important, her sister did not know him. He had tried to learn some of her dialect but not enough to explain to a strange, frightened girl that he was a rescuer, not a beast. A token of Elfrida’s might be interpreted the wrong way, so for now, it must be Elfrida herself. “Sit down.” He drew his shivering witch into the heart of the huge holly where it was dry, and he unpacked the bundle as swiftly as his numb fingers would allow. The fact that she did not shove him aside to do the task herself he took as a poor sign, but he kept his words cheerful. “Fresh clothes here, so we shall soon be warmer. I have mead, too.” He had no women’s things in the pack but had filched two sets of woolen tunics and linen braies from a stripling squire called Hugh, who fancied himself a person of good taste. Elfrida stared at the braies and shook her head. “I cannot wear those.” “You will move more freely,” said Magnus cunningly, “and it will be a good disguise. We shall seem two packmen.” “Ripe for bandits, then,” came the tart response, but she peeled off her less-than-perfect gown and did not protest when he rubbed her down smartly with it, seeking to dry her before she re-dressed. She tied the braies as she might a girl’s belt, which made him grin, and the green wool tunic was too long in the sleeves, but she had more color. More fight, too, when she launched herself at the living circle of

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holly as he was rolling his shoulders in his dry tunic and retightening his belt. He caught her round the middle. “Shoes?” he reminded her. “But she comes, she is coming now! I can sense her!” “And we shall pick up her tracks.” He buffeted her lightly away from the holly thorns and waved two bag-like socks in her face. “Put these on first.” She stroked the cloth and wrinkled her nose. “This is not wool.” “It is woolen felt, from my manor. We know how to make it there.” “It is warm,” she said in wonder and began to pull them on. He handed her a leather shoe next and showed her how to wrap pieces of wool about her feet and legs. It took longer than for himself, but he did not care. The laundress would not be hurrying in this fine, bright, windless day, and he wanted Elfrida to be warm. He handed her a short leather cloak, a riding cloak truly, but it would be long enough on her. “Tuck your hair under this cap, also.” She widened her eyes at the dull, russet hood but did as he asked. Packing their damp things into the old, gray cloak he had brought the changes of clothes in, she looked puzzled when he tucked two more pairs of socks and lengths of wool down the front of his new tunic. “For later, if we need them,” he explained and kissed her, briefly. “You make a pretty lad. The hat shows off your freckles.” She had been taking a mouthful of mead, and she choked, her mouth quivering in amusement. “You should see me in summer for freckles.” “Oh, I will,” said Magnus. He parted the holly branches for them to set out in pursuit of the trudging laundress, who had passed by their hiding place with no sign of noticing them. Her feet were beautifully warm. The snow was crisp and fresh, not damp or gray or slippery, sparkling in the sunlight and a joy to walk on. Her tunic and leggings were far easier to manage than trailing a dress. Indeed, she would be sorry to give them up and was already

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bargaining in her mind with Magnus to keep them. Magnus was tracking the laundress, staying back so she could not hear them and would not see them easily while he traced the woman’s clear, single trail. Elfrida sped behind him, admiring his serviceable leather cloak, his working shoulders and hips, his smooth, longlegged stride. How had she ever thought him clumsy? About them, adding to her feeling of a festive day, a day where surely Christina would be discovered, safe and well, the woods thronged with life. A tiny wren beaked amidst some still-brown leaf litter. A squirrel ran up a pine tree in a blur of red tail. Deer slots showed up clearly on her left side. She shook Magnus’s arm, and he turned and nodded. “Aye, the hunt have missed those. They are a long ways off. I heard their horns, very faint, off over that hill of beeches. Better for us that they did not spot them.” He smiled and, stretching out his hand, rumpled her cap, as if she was a lad. She grinned, feeling very young, as if the world and everything in it was made new for them. “Happy?” he asked, grinning like a lad himself. “So am I.” They kicked on, a blackbird complaining about them out of another holly, and a small, unseen animal rustled at them behind frosted bracken. Elfrida paused to bow in respect to an ancient elder then had to scamper to catch Magnus as he crouched and slid down a steep slope, sitting on his behind. “Easier than pegging my way down this,” he explained. “Your woman did the same.” He pointed to a set of parallel tracks. “But she will see our tracks and know we are following.” “Only on the way back. She will not know who we are, and even if she guessed, whom would she tell?” Elfrida tried to imagine the timid, broken-skinned, chapped-lipped laundress braving the havoc of the great hall to speak to the wiry, weapon-laden Gregory Denzil, trying no doubt not to stare at the red wart on his forehead. She failed in her attempt. “You are right.”

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She saw the flash of his grin before he turned about and marched on. They approached another slope, and now the trees were all oak and lime and then solely oak, ancient and wide girthed, with spreading branches hung about with frosted lichens. Here the laundress had shortened her already slow stride and kept stopping for rests. Elfrida touched a place where a circle of flattened snow showed where the woman had rested her pack. She sensed fear. “We are getting close,” she murmured, straightening and listening intently, reaching out with her mind beyond the trailing lichen and sprays of mistletoe. Mistletoe. Now she had seen one green-and-white plant she saw more, clumps and clusters of them, swinging from the oak branches, tucked within the oak trunks, trailing above Magnus’s head. Their white berries looked like milky, dead eyes, and she shuddered. He watches through these. Magnus, blind in that sense, too honest, too much of the middle earth of this world, was already climbing, butting through the thin snow here like a Viking ship on a raid. Speeding up, he was already touching his dagger, checking his tunic for other knives. She hurried to catch him, slipping once in her haste. “We must take care,” she warned. “We are close.” In answer, Magnus pulled a sprig of mistletoe off the fork of a tree and dangled it in his fingers. “I should rush and catch that woman before she screams the wood down.” He turned, and she grabbed at his hand, crushing the mistletoe between their fingers. The waxy insides of the berries stuck slickly to her thumb, reminding her again of death. “He does not need that kind of alarm. Listen to me!” Elfrida stopped, struck again by the strangeness of the place. No birds sang here, no animals lingered, and the sun cast misshapen shadows. She flinched, a picture forming in her mind of a small wooden watchtower with a single blue door. The wings and bones of

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ravens were pinned to the timbers of the tower. “Things are very wrong here, very amiss.” She seized her own strongest amulet for protection and tore it over her head. “Please, wear this for me.” He submitted as she slung it quickly around his neck but then was off again, striding forward. He crested part of the hillside and instantly dropped to his hands and knees, motioning to her to do the same. “Look.” He pointed to the wooden watchtower on the hilltop, surrounded by oak trees and mistletoe. “That was once a hunting tower for our Norman lords, I warrant, and with a blue door besides.” He chuckled, his eyes and face alight with victory. “And there she goes, our washerwoman.” Speaking, he gathered himself to leap forward and snatch the laundress before or as she reached the tower. “Magnus! What do we do with her?” “Why fret?” He waved off her question, seeming amazed by it. “You worry overmuch. We must get on, finish here, and get back. Even those Denzil guard lads will get suspicious in time, so we cannot linger.” “But can you not feel it?” She had felt this expectant, tense, terrible sense once before, in the woods close to her home, on the night Magnus had snatched her. “Something is very close, coming fast.” Something terrible. “All the better!” he bawled. Before she could stop him, he launched himself and rushed over the hilltop in a flurry of limbs, legs, and a lethal, sparkling-edged knife. The gray bundle he had jammed into the crook of his other arm, hefting it as if it was a missile. Trying to keep pace, Elfrida received a face and mouthful of snow. “Dangerous!” she cried, unable to reach him to slow him down even a little. “Ha!” “Please—” Even as her sense of wrongness trickled a chill of ice down the length of her spine, Elfrida found herself speaking to empty

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air. Magnus was charging ahead, lunging into the unknown, impossible to stop. Yelling, Elfrida chased after him.

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Chapter 17 He heard Elfrida calling out behind him, heard the note of panic in her cries, but ignored her warnings and concentrated on closing on the laundress before she, too, began shrieking. There was moss growing on the tower, and a half-rotted piece of timber above the doorway sprouted a toadstool, so he did not expect there to be many or any guards, but he wanted none drawing here, either. But my little witch is too cautious, and I am no coward. Guards or not, this place should be stormed! Surprise makes all possible. The washerwoman dropped her pack by the door and turned to see what was amiss. She had a huge iron key clutched in both hands, but she did not strike out with it, merely dropped the thing into the snow, clapped her fingers to her face and screamed. Cursing his peg leg—when he had been whole he had sprinted as fast as Peter—Magnus blundered and ploughed through the snow. He closed the gap between them in under four breaths and slammed her back against the doorjamb, clapping his hand across her mouth. Her eyes watered, wide and horrified, then she shivered once and swooned. He laid her on top of her pack and his own gray bundle, curled on her side like a child. Elfrida spurted through a final bank of snow to crouch beside her, her face glowing, plainly relieved that the woman was unhurt. Did you think I kill women? Any woman? Hot indignation raged through him like a storm of fire then was gone, replaced by cold battle strategy. No alarms, no shouts, no arrows or slingshot. Good! But no cries

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for help. Less good. Pray God it does not mean the worst. Hope flickered then faded within him, but he made his voice easy as he helped Elfrida to her feet. “Does Christina sleep a lot in winter? She may be snug within, fast asleep.” Elfrida looked up at him with blank eyes and said nothing. She was as pale as parchment, her lips bloodless. Even her hair, escaping in straggled tendrils from the russet cap, seemed dimmed. His heart ached for her terror and disappointment. Swiftly, he snatched the key from the snow before she thought of it. “Let us go see.” That roused her. “We must beware.” “And we will, but let us enter. Sitting on the doorstep leaves us naked to the world.” He turned the key in the lock, lifted the washerwoman into his arms and kicked her pack forward as he shouldered open the door. “’Tis warmer in here.” Warmer still when I close this door. Keep things everyday, Magnus, or you will have two panicky womenfolk to deal with. He smelt dust, not blood, and that was a relief. He laid the laundress on the dry dirt floor and covered her with his cloak. Straightening, he felt his tightened shoulders unlock themselves still further. Any lurking felon in here would have jumped him by now, or skidded out of the tower and off into the mistletoe wood. “Hello?” he called, glancing at Elfrida so she would also call. “Christina?” She all but whispered the name, as if in pain. Magnus hugged her hard then forced himself to draw away. “I shall search,” he said. “You stay and tend her.” She nodded and knelt beside the laundress. As he attacked the wooden stair to the upper chamber, he thought her heard her praying. Please let me find her sister alive, he thought, making that his wish and prayer. ****

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Elfrida knew she should be doing more. Why am I so stunned, so supine? Crouching in the half-lit chamber, she leaned closer toward Hedda to check that the laundress was still breathing. “You are safe,” she murmured, hoping Hedda could hear and recognize her voice, if not her words. Where is Christina? How can I find her? She chafed Hedda’s work-worn hands, glad that they were warming. She untied her cloak with less-than-steady fingers and draped it over the woman, alongside Magnus’s huge cloak. I was certain Christina would be here. I wanted, needed her to be here, so badly. “I have mead and food.” She shook the flask and then pulled off her cap, remembering that Hedda might believe her to be a boy in her different clothes. As her hair spilled out, she placed the woolen cap beneath Hedda’s cheek as a pillow. Where is my sister? How much longer will it be before I find her? Hedda kept her eyes closed, though her eyelids flickered, and Elfrida sensed she was conscious. She glanced at the door, wondering if she should lock it. The key was no longer there. Magnus had taken it. Feeling—rage and temper—flooded back. She leapt to her feet and sprinted for the narrow ladder to the upper floor, tempted to knock it aside and leave him stranded. I sensed things were amiss here. I told him to beware. I knew there was danger. Now because of his blundering, we are no further on! Again he does not wait—it was the same as before, with my old gown! “Magnus!” She shouted because there was no reason to do other. The approaching presence she had sensed was gone. She knew it had vanished from the lightening in her head but could claim no credit for driving it off. “Anything? Anyone?”

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“No. I am coming down. Stay there.” Her crushing, bitter disappointment was again swallowed in anger. How dare he order her? Ignoring the distinctive light-and-sharp tread of his crossing the floorboards of the upper room, Elfrida snatched at the ladder and began to climb. Before she had reached the second chamber, she was shouting again. “I told you to take care! We have a prisoner now, and what do we do with her? Do you never listen? ’Tis the same as before, with my old gown, and now today, I warned you—” Magnus appeared at the top of the ladder, leaning down from the second chamber, his face looming into hers like an ugly man in the moon. “Why are you wasting time? Why bother coming up here? No one is here, no Forest Grendel, no missing brides. We should get back.” She was so furious she took a hand off the ladder to shake her fist at him. “I am the witch! I know what to look for, and you do not! Will you always—” The rest of her complaint was whipped away in a dizzying rush as Magnus seized the loose front of her man’s tunic and hauled her up the rest of the ladder. He dropped her onto the floorboards beside him. “You are up now, so look.” He growled. “Will you always ignore me when it suits you?” Elfrida persisted, determined to have her say. He stuck his hand into his belt, and she saw his knuckles tighten, heard the leather creak under his fist. “Is that what you think?” he asked coolly. Elfrida swallowed, hoping he would say he was sorry. Or is he no different from the Yarr men, who call me a scold because I dispute with them? “It is difficult,” she offered, feeling as if she was on a lonely, strange track. If Magnus would only come to meet her, that would be better. Still he said nothing. In despair she turned away from him and

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began to look about, noticing another ladder to a third floor. “Elfrida.” He laid a warm hand upon her shoulder and then a strong arm about her waist. “Shall we look together?” She began to weep, and he gathered her in, stroking her hair. “I know you are sad. I know you are frightened,” he murmured. She dashed the tears from her face. “I am not frightened.” “More than me, then. This is a queer place.” She clamped her teeth together before she said something she would regret, and she looked up at him. Trying to ignore her own blaze of temper, she noticed a tightening about his eyes and a grimmer-than-usual set to his crooked mouth. Truly, he was not mocking or making light of the matter. But he does not understand and so wants to hurry to leave. She could recognize and respect that. “I do not think we should linger here,” she said. “I agree.” “But we must search.” When he did not agree to that, she said, “You took the key.” He reached into his tunic and brought it out. “Take it, then.” He dropped it into her palm and stalked off to the second ladder. When will I learn to say nothing? Elfrida thought. She forced herself to put their quarrel aside as they went through the strange wooden keep. At Magnus’s brusque suggestion, they began at the very top of the tower, Elfrida biting her tongue a second time as he insisted on going first on the step ladder to the third floor. Once there, he did offer a hand to help her through the narrow trapdoor, but she shook her head, determined to prove her independence. She did not want his touch to divert her, either, as a deep instinct, a witch instinct, warned that she needed all her wits about her. She stepped from the ladder onto the floor and stood quietly for a moment. “Did you climb up here?” she asked Magnus. “I put my head up through the trapdoor, saw no one, nothing to

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aid our search, and climbed back down.” He cleared his throat. “You were calling by then.” “I was shouting.” “That, too.” She felt herself blushing, and when he took her hand in his she was glad of the contact and did not attempt to break free. “There are things about this chamber,” she said quietly. “Traces.” He stood beside her, patient and steady as a boulder. If he considered her ideas merest fancy, he gave no sign as he glanced again about the seemingly deserted room. Glad they were friends again, she squeezed his hand. “Is there a lantern hereabouts?” she asked softly. “I need more light.” “I saw one on the second floor.” Magnus dropped a swift kiss onto her forehead and limped around her to where the ladder jutted out through the trapdoor. An instant later she heard him busy on the floor below her, while on the lowest floor she thought she heard a quiet weeping and the faint rattle of the locked door. I must ask Magnus if he understands Hedda’s speech, she thought, then put the matter aside. When Magnus’s long arm stretched above the trapdoor, gripping a small lantern, she thanked him and quickly lit the lantern. She set the flickering light into a wall sconce, relieved to do so because her hands were not quite steady. Magnus climbed all the way up again and sat beside the ladder, dangling his legs down into the trapdoor. She almost warned him to take care before sharply reminding herself that this was Sir Magnus, warrior, knight, and not a man to be mollycoddled. She did not want to start their quarrel off anew, either. Even one-handed he climbs well, and his peg leg is as steady on the ladder as my feet, so he would be right to be annoyed. Sometimes I know I fuss too much. Silent, arms clasped before her so she would not be tempted to

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rush in and touch, she waited until her sight had adjusted to the greater light. The room, a rough square of massive, planked timbers, shone faintly golden by the glow of the lantern. That by itself might have steadied and reassured her, except— She slowly breathed in, taking in the now-familiar and expected scent of costly spices. “Ginger for passion, saffron for peace, cinnamon to show respect, for it is expensive,” she murmured. “I can smell something burnt, a kind of resin,” Magnus remarked. “I would say frankincense, but why burn it?” “To fumigate a space,” Elfrida answered. She wished she had a clove of garlic, or a sprig of fresh rosemary, to protect him completely in this place. All she could do was take his hand in hers, saying a prayer against demons in her mind. He smiled, clearly thinking she clasped his fingers for reassurance. “We shall look together, my dainty.” In his mouth, unlike Gregory Denzil’s, the final word was a caress. Glad of his goodwill, and wishing a circle of prayer about them both, Elfrida padded slowly across the room from side to side, foot by foot, like thread on a shuttle. Magnus matched her step for step. “These walls have been painted white recently,” he said. “That shows intent and purity of purpose.” “And the white powder on the floor?” He leaned down and, before she could stop him, wetted his finger and tasted the powder. “Salt.” “A circle of salt,” Elfrida agreed. She had noticed the scattering of salt at once. The circle had been swept away but carelessly, man fashion. “Not for my meat, then, but for what?” “To protect or to contain. The circle may have been for the magic worker to stand within, safe, or to hold a demon.” “Splendor in Christendom,” she saw Magnus mouth, and her hand was pulled as he made the sign of the cross. He glanced at her, and his mouth went grim. “What else?” She knelt and plucked a seed from the floor. Again it was a trace,

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a token that the wizard—she was sure whoever worked here was a man—was up to no good. “Seeds of the parsley plant. Do you know what they say of the parsley seed? It goes back and forth to hell seven times before it sprouts. And here”—she leaned forward and swept up a tiny, gray-green, dry frond—“is wormwood, to protect against demons.” “The fellow wants things both ways,” said Magnus. “But is it our Forest Grendel?” “It must be, surely.” Elfrida rose to her feet, excitement and dread both bubbling within her. “We have the laundress whimpering downstairs with a set of long-limbed clothes. We have spices. We have a tower and a blue door and mistletoe.” She frowned. “I thought to see mistletoe within.” “Ah.” Magnus coughed, and his mangled features melded into a look Elfrida realized was embarrassment. “There was a heap of green stuff at the top of the ladder. I put my hand in it by accident and tossed it away into that corner.” She grinned. “One for you.” She focused on the darkest part of the chamber, where part of the ceiling dipped down and there were still many shadows that the lantern could not dispel. The northern end, she admitted. The North, site of the devil. As she watched the bare wall, she noticed a thin, black strip coiled close into the corner like a sleeping adder. “Let me.” Magnus stretched out with his right arm but stopped when he heard her hiss of breath. “Surely it can do me no more damage than I have already?” “I do not know.” Elfrida was ashamed to admit it but felt compelled to do so. “The...the arrangement of whatever is under there could be important.” He said nothing, and she wondered if he was disappointed in her for stopping him, then she was afraid in case he was. Though I should not be fretting over such things. Consider Christina!

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“We could take a part each,” Magnus suggested. Relief gushed through her. He had listened to her, he had heeded her. “That would be best.” Carefully, they edged to the wall and nipped a piece of the shining, black cloth between them. “This is a fine silk.” Magnus confirmed what she suspected, although she had never seen or handled the cloth before. It was as dark as midnight and light and thin as a shadow, though as she lifted it away from the wall, it whispered, as if speaking to its master. She stared at the objects now revealed, all ranged against the northern wall, and knew the worst. Within a chalice of polished copper, marked by a strange script, were the herbs of magic—vervain, periwinkle, sage, mint. Within a small dark mirror she saw her own distorted reflection. Upon a small gold platter was a tiny pile of nail parings and strands of hair. Sickened, she almost snatched the golden strands from the platter then compelled herself to touch nothing. “The lettering is Greek.” Magnus leaned in so far she thought he would crash against the wall. “I fear my Greek is not good, and I have forgotten most of what I learned in Outremer. I think it means something like the dark one, or the beautiful dark one.” Elfrida had seen enough but knew she must still keep searching. There was a narrow strip of parchment beside the gold platter. She unrolled it, the dry-tomb taste of horror choking her mouth and lungs as she saw the list of names. This script was Latin, which she could read a little. “Those are Arabic numbers.” Magnus, still gripping his end of the black silk, ignored the names and pointed to a squiggle on the parchment. “That is the letter two and one, twenty-one.” “With the sign for the month of December beside it.” Elfrida rolled up the parchment and replaced it on the floor before turning her full attention to the final object on the floor by the wall. It was a clay figure, carefully fashioned in the shape of a man but with three heads. Each head wore a “crown” of mistletoe berries. Scratched onto the

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chest of the figure were the Arabic numerals for twenty-one and the astrological sign of the archer Sagittarius. Moving with great care and deliberation so she would not give way to the rising panic inside her own breast, Elfrida pooled her end of the black cloth over the items. Ever quick, Magnus did the same at the opposite side. He knew when to keep silent, too, as Elfrida stalked into the middle of the chamber and this time found a fragment of burnt ashes upon the floor. She moved to the left and found another fragment, then another, making the shape of a triangle. Now she was sure, too sure. She swallowed, smothering the rising scream in her throat. Digging her fingernails into her palms, her hands felt clammy, and her gut crawled. “We should take the lantern.” She was glad her voice sounded steady. “Leave all as we found it. Please do not ask why.” “No.” Magnus strolled across to the wall sconce and lifted down the lantern. “I will light you down.” She was too tense to protest that she should leave the chamber last and ensure no sign of them remained. Stepping over another small heap of ash, she hastened down the ladder. She started as Magnus blew out the lantern and rapidly chanted the prayer of Saint Patrick against demons until he appeared in the second room. “Thank Christ and all the saints.” Wrung out, she threw herself against his broad chest and flung her arms about him. “What is amiss? You near weeping and the maid below sobbing and rattling the door—if any came now they would think I beat you both.” He combed her hair with his fingers and rocked her in his arms. “Tell me now,” he said. “Tell me the worst.”

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Chapter 18 “The Forest Grendel uses this tower for magic.” Elfrida leaned against the southern wall of the second chamber, a room filled with stacked logs and braziers, wicker hurdles, a broken horse harness, and barrels of apples. An odd room for a mystical place, Magnus thought. He took a reddened, wizened apple from the barrel closest to him and bit in. It was sour, and he tossed it back into the barrel. “Do not leave any piece you have touched,” Elfrida said wearily. Too cast down and depleted to stand, she slid down the wall onto her heels, looking as if she longed to clasp her arms around her knees and rock there. “Why not?” Magnus asked, to stop her doing just that. “He could use it against you.” He remembered the nail clippings and worse, much worse, Elfrida’s dress that he had carelessly flung away to Gregory Denzil. Retrieving the apple from the barrel, he finally swallowed the mouthcrinkling chunk. It was sour enough to make his eyes water, but he imagined it as the Grendel’s head and got it down. “It is worse than I feared.” Elfrida frowned as the woman in the room below them moaned softly and rattled the door again, like a wandering ghost. “You are a good witch, are you not? Could he not be the same?” His ploy to play advocate for the devil worked. She jerked up her head so hard she hit the back wall. “Not so! He is nothing like me! This creature is evil. He wishes to draw demons, seduce them, summon them, and he means to use my sister to do it! That is why he

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stole away brides!” Magnus realized he must have looked puzzled, for she started to say more, in her own dialect, then stopped, shuddering. He sat down beside her and pulled her onto his lap. He knew they should make haste away. He knew they should still be looking for the Grendel’s other towers, that he should bribe or threaten the laundress into confessing all she knew, by sign language if need be. But Elfrida had the kind of dazed shock freezing her limbs that he had seen on warriors after the bloodiest of battles, and he did not want her to suffer. His single urgent thought was to console. He feathered his hand over her shivering back while his right arm clasped her snugly. He kissed her ears and forehead, her flawless nose, her adorable freckles. Her lips caught his, and the summer heat between them made the scent of the stored apples wholesome. She whispered then said in the old tongue, “I am safe again.” “Always, my heart,” he said, softly touching her breast and feeling her heart thud into his hand. “We are a haven for each other,” he said in his own tongue, knowing she would understand the meaning, if not the words. She lowered her head and sighed. “Sir.” “Hush.” She was the witch, but he knew this magic better, understood what she needed, and guessed it would heal them. He bore her to the floor and deftly eased down her braies. She was ready for him, embracing, and he slid into her, taking her slowly, tenderly to each rise. When she was golden again, and glowing, he flowed into her, their union a time of summer in winter. Afterward she was as loose-limbed as an Eastern dancer and also more herself. “Was that wise?” she asked as he helped her to tie her braies. “Never fret.” He slapped her rump for the pleasure of it and hauled her again onto his knees. “Our time—”

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“We have not lingered for so long, nor will we. Why brides? Because they are virgin?” “Yes, and we should be leaving. It will be dark soon.” Magnus kissed her and gave her a tiny push. “Go to it, then, since you must.” She scrambled to her feet. “What do we do with Hedda?” “Give her our flasks and bits of food and leave her here. She will not starve for food or cold, not in three days. And that is the length of time we have, is it not? Three days until the twenty-first of this month? Within a time of three?” He reminded Elfrida of the spell she had created and the promise she had made within her own home. She stared at him, blushing. For an instant he thought it was because she was glad he had remembered her magic, or she was perhaps still shy of him and their joining, but then another lodged in his mind, a bitter, dark reason. “You feared I might do away with her. Why? Because she would be in our way? Because she is no gentlewoman?” Her eyes glanced away from his, and his indignation hardened into anger. “You asked me without much hope, in a rush, because you dreaded my answer. If I had chosen differently, what would have followed? Would you have trusted me again?” Revolted, he turned and smashed his fist into the wall. “Do you trust me now? Was this some kind of test?” “I had to ask,” Elfrida panted. “She is ours for the moment. And you would not harm a lady.” “Nor any woman!” “Yes.” She looked directly at him. “Believe me, I know that now.” Yet you still asked. As a warrior, Magnus could understand the question. As her lover, it repelled him. Unable to look at her, he turned toward the final ladder. “Magnus.” Her lost, young voice compelled him to turn back. “I am sorry.” “So am I.”

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“Please,” she stretched out a hand. “Do not be this way.” “Affronted and injured, you mean? You have harmed me, madam.” She moaned and ran to him. “I made a mistake. I was wrong. I am sorry.” She seized his hand in both of hers. “Please do not go.” She reached for him, almost blindly. He let her in, and they clung to each other. For now, that was all that mattered. Elfrida was ashamed, and shame made her sticky and hot. She imagined Magnus asking her if she would kill Hedda just to be rid of her and broke out in a prickling sweat afresh. I love him. He is my noble lord, and still I pressed him. She dreaded his speaking to her, for fear he would say his farewells and leave. So she made a great bustle instead, checking each barrel of apples as if there would be treasure stowed inside. She could not say for sure why the question had broken from her. Perhaps it was a curse of womankind. She had seen Christina act the same way with Walter, push and push and set traps and small tests, but never as large a question as hers. “I am a fool,” she said aloud in her own tongue. Magnus glanced at her, his cool stare warming a little as he scanned her face. Had they a month more together, a week together, even a day, she knew she could show him her love and make a full apology. But soon they must leave. “The sun is sinking,” he remarked, an unwelcome reminder. “Never yet has Gregory Denzil returned from a hunt before sunset, but there is always a first time. And those lads watching our snow figures must be wondering why we never stir.” Elfrida allowed the thin linen robe she had found in the final apple barrel to slide through her fingers, back into its hiding place. She knew, even without greater light, that the robe would be white and long, possibly marked with symbols of the heavens, the moon, or certain stars. Saying nothing to Magnus about it, she nodded toward the ladder. “Do you go first?”

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He did, and she heard the shriek as Hedda encountered him anew. What must it be like, to have people react in that manner toward you? She stumbled quickly down the ladder and put herself between a perfectly rock-still Magnus and the gasping laundress. “Do you understand her?” she asked him. “She says I am a devil and as ugly as a toad.” Magnus shook his head. “I have been called worse.” “Will you translate for me?” “You trust me to do that?” The instant he spoke, Magnus smacked his fist against the stump of his right hand and then nodded, tight lipped. Elfrida accepted his silent apology and took a step closer to the woman. “Hedda, look at me. Hedda, you are safe with me, so look.” She clicked her fingers to attract Hedda’s attention and waved her hands to and fro, swaying as if to music. She smiled and swayed and spoke, very quietly. Magnus’s translation of her words followed like a deep, soothing echo. “There is a woman in my village of Top Yarr who is like you, a washer of linens and woolens. She has scarlet hands.” Elfrida leaned forward and touched Hedda’s palm, no more than a light, comforting brush. “I give her salves for her fingers and soaps for her clothes.” She smiled into the startled, pale-blue eyes. “You are safe with me. Your work is done for today, so soon you will sleep.” Hedda began to sway as she did. Beside her, Magnus yawned and said sleep twice. Elfrida stroked her own hair and then Hedda’s, sitting down on the gray bundle Magnus had carried. She edged along so that Hedda could sit with her, and the woman did, with a small sigh. “Peaceful. At peace because your work is done. Rest your head on my shoulder.” Elfrida patted her shoulder, and Hedda nestled her head into the crook of her arm, her breathing very slow and steady. She was ready. Elfrida glanced at Magnus, who nodded once, sharply, understanding that this next part was vital.

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“Hedda, you are at peace because you have taken the clean washing to the blue tower in the mistletoe wood. You have finished your work and will now go back to the castle of Gregory Denzil.” Magnus repeated all this in a low, mellow monotone, his eyebrows raised. His eyes narrowed as Hedda said very quietly, “Yes.” Elfrida forced herself not to rush, to try to be calm. Hedda was in a place between waking and sleeping, an almost-dream state. She could suggest things to the woman but not compel her. “All was safe and usual at the blue tower. Nothing there was strange.” “No stranger than it ever is,” Hedda agreed, with half-closed eyes and a lisping voice. “What is the name of the man who comes to this tower?” “I do not know. I never see him.” “There is never anyone at the blue tower?” “No. It is always quiet.” Magnus’s eyebrows were raised anew at this information, which he whispered to Elfrida in the old speech, adding, “What have you done to her?” “I have used a charm I sometimes make when a woman is in childbirth, and frightened and weary. This calms her so she and the babe keep safe, and the child is born more easily.” “Humph!” Elfrida dared not break eye contact with Hedda now. “You saw no one today at the blue tower,” she suggested, making it a statement, a fact, and not a question. “I saw no one.” “You are leaving now. In a moment you will pick up the bundle of clothes that has been left here, ready to be washed, and return by the path you came. You have forgotten the key to the tower, because it will be returned to you.” “Key. Returned.”

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“You will talk to no one at the castle until this evening, and then you will speak of the snow. It was very deep, so the walk took you longer.” “The snow, yes.” Elfrida touched the woman’s hands. “From this day, your fingers will give you less pain, I swear this before God and all his saints. Go now, in peace, and be safe.” Very gently, she touched Hedda’s worn face. Hedda blinked as if coming awake and calmly gathered together her things. Taking no notice of Magnus and looking through Elfrida as if through a mist, she picked up a heap of clothes and patted them slowly into her pack. Magnus, meanwhile, opened the door to the castle and spirited away the key into his tunic. Looking round, as must be her general habit, and seeing nothing alarming, Hedda sighed and slung the pack over her shoulder. She walked to the door, opened it, and went out into the snow, leaving the door ajar. Elfrida watched her go and smiled. **** Magnus watched the woman leave, glimpsed Elfrida’s small, selfsatisfied smirk and was confounded. A thousand questions crowded, mob-like, into his mind, and none of them were good. She knew she could do this and yet said nothing. Was her question to me about Hedda only a test? Yet why did she not say what she was going to do? It would have saved us both grief. Am I a fool to think she would not use such magic against me, that she has not bewitched me? By all her actions and words I know her as a good witch, but even so, would she ever bewitch me? Has she done so already? It was not to be endured. “Splendor in Christendom!” he burst out as he gaped at her, seeing this part of her truly for the first time. “Why

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did you not say what you intended?” “Why did you not tell me you would charge the door? Or take the key?” she snapped back. “And since one of us must think of practical matters, let me pray now that more snow falls on our tracks, or the Grendel will know we were here.” “You do not have a witchcraft for that?” he demanded bitterly. “You seem to have for everything else.” She paled at his scorn and leaped up, stalking to the door. He launched himself after her, catching her wrist as she stretched for the door. Quick as a rushing waterfall, she kicked the door shut and stood on his foot, the better to stare into his face. “I do not walk out on quarrels,” she spat. She had not been leaving. Even as that relief scorched through him, Magnus longed to shake her, and then he was kissing her, embracing her until she relaxed, as boneless as Hedda had been. I do not care if I am bewitched, he thought as his witch moaned and quivered against him. I can do the same to her. “We should stop,” she said at last, leaning back in his arms to give his beard a light tug. “We should be moving, too, not charging each other like wild boars.” She was delicate for a wild boar, he thought, amused by the image and finding himself quite disarmed. “Peace again?” he asked. “Friends?” He felt her shudder slightly, as if struck by a sudden chill. “I hope we are always that.” “We are. I would not let you go, else.” He anticipated a cuff round the ear for that, or a frown, instead she hugged him tightly, shivering suddenly as if in fever. “I am glad, so glad.” “Hey.” He wished he had her healing ways, to calm her as she had done the laundress. “Let us see the lie of the land, eh? Together, yes?” When she nodded, he swung toward the half-open door with her still balanced on his foot. A light fall of snow had shrouded their

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earlier tracks, and he whistled at the luck of it. “If we step in Hedda’s footfalls,” Elfrida suggested. “I know that, elf.” She gasped, though not because of his mild insult. “Magnus, the green man of the wood, the mistletoe hereabouts, we must beware of both.” She fixed him with her amber eyes. “Please, this is important.” He almost ignored her warning but recalled his earlier charge to the tower. They had bit at each other enough for one day, and he did not want her pale and stricken again. “I will take heed,” he promised gruffly. “On one condition.” She tilted her eyes at him. “That when we are away from this tower, you tell me everything and exactly why you are afraid.”

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Chapter 19 Outside, the day was eye-achingly bright, with no breath of wind. The snow had stopped falling and drifting and lay as white and pristine as sun-bleached linen. Even the woods of oak and mistletoe seemed benign, empty of spirits, or else those spirits slept. Elfrida followed the tracks of Hedda, matching her footsteps and stepping into them. Striding steadily behind her, she heard Magnus do the same. He whistled, and when Elfrida came to a slope where the laundress had clearly put down her pack and slid on her backside down the hill, she found herself gathered against him. “Hey!” “It is as good a way to go down as any.” Magnus dropped into the snow, with her riding on his thighs. They tobogganed down the hillside, Magnus roaring with delight, while she stifled laughter. They pitched into more snow as Hedda had done at the bottom of their giddy slide. “You turnip!” Elfrida could suppress her giggles no longer. She scooped a handful of snow and smeared her laughing companion with it. “No harm.” Magnus snared her against him, tickling her through the rough, baggy tunic until she begged him to stop. “We have done no more than warriors,” he panted, blowing a rough “kiss” on the back of her neck. “I have seen soldiers play and laugh, before battle and in it.” Abruptly, as if reminded, he sobered down and glanced about the small clearing where they had landed. “There is Hedda’s track. We can join it easily.” He held out his hand to raise her up.

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She gripped his warm, strong fingers, wishing Christina knew him. She will, she thought, making her wish a promise. She half turned, still clasping Magnus’s hand. The tower and its blue door were hidden behind the hill. The mistletoe wood was lost behind a screen of snow-shrouded beeches, limes, and hollies. Here she could speak frankly, she decided. “I know dark magic through the work of my parents,” she began, wanting Magnus to trust her, despite her knowledge of the blackest arts. “They both trained me. From my father, I learned that to combat the old pagan ways you must first recognize them. My mother taught me curses to help me fight against them. Dark magic is so often secret, occult, unknown to any but the practicing wizard or witch. To defend against it, you must see it, know it, understand it.” Magnus squeezed her fingers. “You speak like someone would who makes war,” he said. To her relief, he seemed interested, almost admiring. “Combat, defend, attack.” “Perhaps I do.” She took a deep breath. “He is planning a great working in dark magic. I am sure of it.” “Our Forest Grendel? Hell take it, but I wish I could remember the man! I can put no face to any tall, thin Denzil from Outremer.” “Him,” Elfrida agreed, feeling her next words lodge tightly in her throat, half throttling her. Compelled to yet reluctant to speak, to admit the hovering panic, she checked the position of the sun. It was still high, but they must not linger. As Magnus said, even the youthful guards at the castle would grow suspicious if they were away too long. And at twilight and sunset, wolves may come. I do not know if the Grendel controls the wolves of this forest, and I do not want to find out. “He means to sacrifice my sister.” Elfrida tried to stop the rest, but now the harsh, swirling panic was with her and in her, rolling in her belly, forcing more words from her throat. “He is going to kill her. He will drug her and take that copper

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knife and kill her, slit her throat as a butcher does a pig’s.” Her eyes blackened, and then Magnus was holding her, supporting her, crooning as he stroked her hair. She fought him, and he took her stinging blows and kicks as if they were flea bites, holding her, reassuring her. “We will stop him.” She began to understand again what he was saying. “We shall stop him dead, Elfrida. He will not win. He will not win.” His very sureness soothed her, and her racing heart began to slow. “Why three days?” Magnus was asking now, forcing her to think. “You told me the meaning of the Arabic numbers, twenty and one. That is the date in three days’ time.” She remembered the spell she made in her own house, and suddenly understood there was still much to be hopeful for. “But we shall save her before the end of those three days, Magnus! We shall rescue her within a time of three, exactly as my magic foretold!” “Yes, but why can it not mean twenty-one years or twenty-one weeks? And we are lovers in each other’s arms, so why are talking about numbers and dates?” “For the sake of Christina and the others,” Elfrida explained, and poked him with a finger. “This is important, Magnus. It is winter and the dark time of the year, when the things of darkness hold sway.” As she spoke she recognized something else, something evil, that “a time of three” would mean a sinister outcome if they did not find Christina. “In three days, on the twenty-first, it will be the shortest day of the year, the midwinter solstice, when the sun and all things of light are weakest.” “So a dark sacrifice then will have more force.” “Yes.” “It cannot be another offering, less fatal? Perhaps a sacrifice of the nail parings and hair that we saw?” “Those only made the final end more sure.” Elfrida closed her eyes, fought the horror again, then looked at Magnus. His honest,

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ugly-handsome face, his scars, gave her reason to go on. His quiet courage gave her hope. “The parchment we found had the names of devils written upon it. The Greek inscription you understood was to the ‘dark beautiful one,’ surely another title of Lucifer. The clay image had three heads, and the devil has three heads. There were burnt ashes on the floor, ashes which made the sign of a pentagram.” “You cannot know that,” Magnus said quietly. “What else could it be? A circle of salt to protect the wizard, a pentagram in ash to call a demon. This man whom you cannot remember, Magnus, this Denzil who has an astrolabe, who understands the signs and symbols of the heavens, he is a necromancer! He is summoning devils, and to do that he must offer payment—hair and nails in one rite and blood in other rites, his own blood first, to show his intent.” “And then?” Magnus demanded harshly. His arms tightened about her so much that she lost a breath, but again she was glad of his strength. “In the final rite he will use the blood of innocents, the blood of brides, the blood of virgins.” Magnus’s eyes glittered. “There we have him! Is he not missing a bride? One dark, one fair, one brown, but where is his redhead?” He kissed her smartly and let her down, stalking toward Hedda’s tracks. “That is the reason Gregory Denzil is so keen to have you, Elfrida. He wants to trade you with his kinsman!” “But I am no maiden now,” Elfrida stammered, hastening after him. “Gregory Denzil does not care, and I doubt if our Forest Grendel has told him his full intent!” Magnus tossed over his shoulder. “We must get back, get my men, ride out tonight and return to the bluedoor tower.” He stopped and whipped round, glowering. “That is where the Forest Grendel will come? You are sure?” Elfrida caught up with him. “As certain as I can be. He needs a

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secret place for the work, and the tower is that. His sacred robe is there,” she added, thinking of the long, white gown she had discovered in the second chamber. “His other trash, too,” Magnus reminded her, “the spices, the names, the chalice, and copper knife. Why copper? That keeps no edge.” A chill crackled over Elfrida’s skin as she, a white witch, was forced to admit what she knew of darker arts. “No necromancer or evil wizard would dare use an iron blade in such rites. Iron is for Christ.” “True enough.” Magnus patted his dagger, his whole body tense with anticipation. Suddenly afraid of that lusty battle prowess, Elfrida tugged on his cloak before he could whirl away from her again. “Sir Magnus!” What if he did not heed her warning this time, either? “Please! We must not storm this tower.” To her relief, the bright battle gleam in his face faded as he looked at her. “I understand.” He sighed and scowled. “Never fret, my lass, I know I was wrong the first time we came to the tower. I will not batter my way in this second time, not with hostages at risk.” He gripped her chin gently. “You can be our captain.” He said it and meant it but saw her stiffen and her eyes widen as if suddenly possessed. Before he could react, she turned and began hurrying back the way they had come, fitting her running feet exactly into the footprints left by the laundress. Magnus felt the hairs rise on his neck and back, and for an instant he did not know what to do. “Elfrida!” He was not even sure if her own name would reach her. She heard him and turned. “I need to go back,” she panted. “You are right—in this I am your captain. I have my own craft to match against this evil, and I can destroy his preparations.” Not caring what tracks he left in the snow, he lunged forward and gathered her close. She was limber in his arms and soft, but she was also breathless, her eyes overbright, while her heart was as steady as a nursing mother’s. “Elfrida?”

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She smiled and brushed a fleck of snow from his beard. “I will be quite safe. Are you and your men not returning tonight? And if I am not with you at the Denzil keep,” she continued, with the devastating logic of a lawyer from Bologna, “then Gregory Denzil cannot act against you. If he wants me for his kinsman, he cannot have me if I am not with you. You can say I am lost in the woods.” “Or run away from me.” Magnus grunted. “That would be more likely.” She shook her bright head. “Never. Not for all the spices of Outremer.” She leaned against him, drew in a long, deep breath. “But I must go back, Magnus. What if the Forest Grendel comes here early, with Christina?” “What would you do then?” he asked, dreading her answer. “My best.” She raised a hand to silence his protest. “I know magic, and you do not.” That was the crux, Magnus knew. For a selfish instant, he wished she was a woman only of the house, skilled in weaving, cooking, and gardening, sweetly submissive in bed, but she was that and more. She was a house woman and a woman of magic besides. At her core she was as much a warrior as he was, battling with spirits he did not understand and could not hope to best. If he loved her for what she was and as she was, which he did, then the choice here was hers, not his. If I do not show faith in her now, what chance for us? She wants to save her sister and will do anything. Will you then deny her? But I am the crusader! And she is the witch. My good witch. He kissed her softly and swept her high in his arms. “Come then.” He growled, feeling a treacherous tear run down his eye into his beard. “Let me take you back. No”—he frowned a warning—“you have your battle lines that none cross without you fighting them, and I have mine. I do not leave a woman alone in the wildwood, whatever her powers. We go back, you have the key and lock yourself in.” He longed to tell her to hide in the apple room but knew she would not.

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Her lips trembled then firmed. “You will not be long.” She spoke as if to cheer both of them. “You and your men, you will take care?” “We know how to creep and sneak upon a place, just as well as the Denzils.” He was glad to see her color up and with every step he felt a surge of hope. His redhead was safer here, in this odd wood, than in the rowdy court of the Denzils. That tall, thin creature would not return for three days—why should he? His brides were elsewhere, and they needed tending. He will want them perfect for a sacrifice. It was a gruesome thought, and he hid his face from Elfrida, glad she was nuzzling his shoulder as he walked steadily back up the hill.

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Chapter 20 Returning in the late afternoon sunlight, Magnus knew at once that their ruse at the Denzil keep had been discovered. Slipping through the narrow postern gate, he sensed it from the very silence of the garden—a watchful quiet. He had given Elfrida the bits of food and a flask but still had one with him. He swilled a little round his mouth, spilled the rest over his cloak, and began to wail. “Gone! Gone!” He climbed the garden wall—an easy business with the snow piled deep against it—and swayed on its top, pretending to swig from his empty flask. “She’s gone! Run off!” Gregory Denzil grabbed his leather cloak before he pitched back headfirst over the wall. He and his foul-breathed second, whose name Magnus had never troubled to learn, hauled him into the grounds of the keep. “What, man?” Gregory Denzil was bawling in his ear, as men do when one of their company is blind drunk, “What is amiss?” “Gone!” Magnus dropped against the second and slobbered against him. “She is gone! My snowflake, run off while I was sleeping...” Gregory Denzil’s scrawny lips tweaked as he swallowed the story. “Your snowflake, eh?” He clapped Magnus hard on the shoulder. “No matter, old fellow! My men will get her back for you, and then we’ll see her melt for you, eh?” Not in your lifetime, Magnus thought, “accidentally” stamping his peg leg on Denzil’s foot. “Thank you, Gregory.” He drew himself up, as he had watched drunks do so when they try to prove they are not

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drunk. “Most gracious.” “You saved that horse for me in Outremer, so I repay the debt now by catching this loose filly. But tell me”—Gregory Denzil flinched as he extracted his foot—“why did you not tell the guards? How long has she been missing?” “Hours, hours, I think,” Magnus said at once, guessing their snow figures had long been rumbled and that he must make good an account. “She is gone!” He flung back his head and tilted the flask as if desperate to extract any final drops. “She must have...must have run away... because I am so ugly.” At the edge of his sight he glimpsed Gregory Denzil smirking and knew his lie held tight. That fellow had always gloried in the misfortunes of others. “Why tell anyone?” He turned away, hunching over like a begging cripple. “I am ashamed. She has gone!” “And we shall bring her back,” Gregory Denzil repeated, grinning openly now. “Ugly, eh? ’Tis true, Magnus, you are no beauty.” The guards about him laughed. Seizing their moment of idle malice, Magnus lurched away, toward the keep. Mark and his own men—these he needed to find, and quickly. I need to be out of here afore nightfall! “Where are you going, Magnus?” Gregory Denzil was sharp now, and the men who clustered around Magnus were all armed. He could take them but not without raising more alarms, and if his men were not ready they could be spitted like the roasting hogs in the hall. He swiveled round, smacking his stump into the belly of the closest guard. “Must ride out. Get horse.” “Later.” Denzil was smiling again, the bastard. “Take your ease in the hall for a while. I will send out riders to track the wench.” He jerked his head, and his guards jostled forward, “encouraging” Magnus to stir. “Who knows,” Denzil continued gleefully as he fell into step with Magnus’s carefully stumbling gait. “She may be glad to come back,

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or not. In which case the one that finds her is the one that keeps her. Fair enough, eh? I think so!” Denzil was still laughing as they entered the great hall. **** Elfrida, painfully cautious and slow, began her own working in the tower. This was not her space. It was his, the necromancer’s. She dared not act as she was desperate to act, lest the wizard sensed what she was about and harmed Christina in revenge. She wanted to burn the tower to the ground. She wanted to smash the evil clay figure with its heads and inscriptions, toss away the copper knife, place the hair and nail clippings in a bushel of salt, to keep her sister and the other maidens safe from further bewitchment. She could do none of that. She must move carefully, a little at a time, and such painstaking measures were hard, against her volatile nature and her circumstances. If only I knew for sure how Christina is! If I could but see her again, if only for an instant, and know she is well. It was a test of faith, she knew, but as she started on the third floor of the tower, she wondered over and over why God and all his saints were so unkind. She sought out the salt first. Magnus is like salt, strong, incorruptible, and necessary, she thought, as she found a stash of small stoppered jars beneath a narrow window slit, a stash missed in her previous search because she had fixed her attention on the evil toys against the north wall. The window slit was on the southeast side of the tower, and beneath it was a small bench, with the jars arranged upon it. She brushed her fingers across the stoppers, feeling no jolt, no sense of any warning being sent. The contents were mostly innocent, she decided. She sat on the bench—her legs were rather unsteady— and opened each jar.

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“Cinnamon.” She laid a curl in the palm of her hand, thinking how its curls mirrored some of Magnus’s black hair. It was a costly spice, known to her only because her mother had once seen it and described it to her and Christina. The Forest Grendel would need to sell a maid like Christina to slavers in order to obtain these few strips. She shivered at the thought and moved on to the next jar. “Black and brown seeds.” She sniffed them. “Mustard.” She used it in her healing to fight toothache, the seeds crushed and mixed with water. The next jar contained a root—not the lethal mandrake, but ginger. She thought of that and mustard and spearmint and the older men she had helped with potions and tinctures of such herbs and spices to increase manly vigor. Does the Grendel intend to deflower Christina and the others before he sacrifices them? Or are such mixtures for the demon he will summon? Unable to sit still any longer, she snatched up another two jars and strode about the chamber, curses ripe on her tongue and filling her mouth, curses she could not utter in case they rebounded on those she loved. “I must find salt here and go out into the woods to dig wild garlic. I know where the plant flourishes and where the bulbs are likely to be.” It was a plan, and she tugged on the rag stopper of the next jar eagerly, but instead of the white salt there was yellow sulfur, an evil substance. She crossed the room swiftly and returned it to the bench. The smaller, rounder jar had the salt she wanted, fine, white sea salt that rustled as she poured a little into her hand. It sparkled at her, and she laughed, feeling renewed and refreshed. Pouring some into a rag stopper and mixing it with strips of wormwood leaves, she fashioned the rag into a bag that she tied on a thong and hung about her neck. Then she was ready for more.

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She scampered down the ladder and out of the tower, rushing for the trees with the leather cloak held over her head so the green man and mistletoe would not spot her. It was the work of minutes, of the length of the creed and a few shorter prayers, to locate the slim, pungent bulbs beneath the crisp, white snow. Wiping her hands on the snow, tossing away her digging stick, she carried the garlic back to the tower and locked the door behind her. “Get a lantern first,” she admonished herself, tempted afresh to rush, to hurry and speed. Magnus’s calm, mellow voice whispered, “Never fret” in her mind as she carried both a lantern and a brazier up to the top of the tower and struck her fire flints to light them both. **** The torches in the great hall were burning brightly, and Magnus was sick of the Denzils. Courtesy would not have stopped him murdering his host at the supper table tonight, but the serving slave wenches did. Several new girls hurried from the solar, hustled on with slaps and pinches. Three were small and fair haired, almost blonde. None looked like Elfrida, but he could not be sure if any were her sister Christina. Because of the women, he endured the barbed sympathy of Gregory Denzil. The thought of accidentally sinking a blade into one of these frightened, cowering girls turned him sick to his stomach. Elfrida would sense my shame and what then? How could she trust me, knowing that I had killed a woman? What if one the new blondes is her sister? Food was impossible, although Denzil kept piling more on his trencher and urging him. “Eat! Drink! My riders will find the girl! Make merry! Soon it will be Christmas!” On the benches and tables below the high table and dais, his men were drinking but were not so far into their cups as to miss a signal. He had managed a swift whisper to Mark that they should pretend to

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feast but make ready to leave. He wanted to be out of the keep by midnight, sooner if possible. He stabbed his eating knife into a portion of goose and waved it about, pretending always to be drunk. As Gregory Denzil leaned close and insolently gobbled a bite, he was tempted to drive the knife right through to the back of that grinning head but instead lolled sideways and hissed at Mark, “Get a lad down to the stables and our horses ready. Bits, bridles—saddles if he can do it without Denzil’s men noticing.” Mark nodded and slouched off down the hall, seizing one of the pale girls on the way and giving her a smacking kiss. “Good, good!” Gregory Denzil slapped the high table in lusty approval, clearly relishing a chance to embarrass Magnus. “The only way to treat a woman! Oh, and where is your woman, Magnus? Your little snowflake?” “She preferred the snow and King Frost, to him!” bawled one of Denzil’s men from the lower tables, no doubt aware that he was safely hidden from the dais by the sooty light of the torches. “Gone, she is.” Magnus felt the anger in him building, becoming white-hot, then ice. The hot-ice of battle, where all the world seemed slow. “She is gone, my sweet snowflake.” He raised his voice above the jeers. “My lovely Christina.” “Hark at him!” roared Gregory Denzil. “The wench has changed her name since this morning! Or is Christina another girl of yours, eh?” The brazen fool gave him his chance. “Elfrida is my girl!” he hollered, loud enough to make the dirty tapestries on the closest hall wall shake. Denzil, obviously delighted, elbowed Magnus in the ribs. “A twowench man? But where is your first girl? Lost in the snow, poor thing!” As Denzil’s men took up the chorus, “Where is his girl, where is his girl?” carousing and knocking their wooden cups on the tables,

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Magnus elbowed his chief tormentor back, knocking the breath from Denzil’s mouth and tipping his ale onto him for good measure. He leaned close enough to smell the stink of Gregory Denzil and see the pits of his gawping eyes. “Do that again, and you will not see morning.” Denzil had no choice but to laugh—all friends and good fellows together—but he did not elbow Magnus again. Bully as he was, he tried to cover his rank fear. He tottered to his feet. “We need some games! Christmas games!” While he blustered and set pages and squires scampering, Magnus scanned the women. None had started or reacted to the names Elfrida or Christina, so he knew the sister was not here. So far, that was the only blessing of this endless feast—that and the obvious fact that Denzil’s mob was drinking more than his men. Another hour of this and I will get the men to slip out, one by one. Then we can be off. And later, once he had Elfrida safe and her sister recovered, he would return to this keep and demolish it, stone by stone. He bared his teeth, tensed his massive frame, and prepared to “enjoy” some more. **** Elfrida smeared garlic in a circle, then sprinkled salt and the herb wormwood on top, a triple barrier of protection for her. She had the lit lantern and the slowly smoldering brazier inside the circle, too, and her food and drink—she did not want those tainted. She sat down in the center of the room, within the circle she had made, far away from the ash pentagram. She chose not to look toward the shrouded clay figure with its three heads and crowns of mistletoe. She knew where it was, but she did not dare to touch it. The foul relic was at the core of the evil magic of this place, and she wanted none of its rot on her or near her.

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She had the salt jar with her and the other good herbs, too, gathered into her leather cloak. Inside the circle she also had the nail pairings and clippings, the strip of evil parchment and the devil herbs, vervain and parsley. Ready at last, she fanned the brazier into a brighter flame. She prayed to the Virgin Mary and to the old Mother, remembering the ancient flint figure of the Mother that her own father had given her. It was buried under her threshold at home, a protector. Like Magnus, she thought, and again fell to wondering about him—a beguiling habit, she found. He was so strong, so brave, so stalwart and honorable. He would never lie. He had done nothing but protect and care for her, and she had turned on him, scolded him, tested him. I wish we had parted differently, in more harmony, she thought, although in truth she wished they had not parted at all. Yet they had parted friends, had they not? “Stop.” Her voice rang in the wooden tower, and she heard, almost as an echo, a low moan of wind outside. Was it snowing again? Was Magnus out in poor weather? She closed her eyes a moment and forced her mind away from Magnus. Magic needed a clear, calm heart, and hers was always racing these days. What had her mother told her? “There are maids who do magic and men who do magic, but few womenfolk. ’Tis a rarity, for a woman has a full heart and once children come, she has little time or clarity. I am rare, Elfrida, and you may be, too, but it will take work, believe me.” She had not understood her mother’s words until now. She had the dark mirror in the circle. She had washed it in snow and smeared it with garlic and salt and washed it a second time with the mead Magnus had left her. It was as pure as she could make it, and now she intended to use it. First she burned the nail clippings and hair, herbs, seeds and parchment in the brazier, saying a prayer for Christina and for the other girls. As the parchment writhed and burned, she thought she

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heard it hiss and spit, so she quickly made the sign of the cross above the brazier, and all was well again. Fire would purify, and the Forest Grendel would not be able to use these. Even if it did not defeat him, it should delay him. “And now I seek you,” she said aloud, making her words a vow. She knew it was a risk, using the Grendel’s own seeing glass, but she had to know more. And she was desperate to see Christina. It was very hard to blow out the lantern, but for what she needed to do next, she must. She settled back on the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged, and stared at the glowing flames and embers in the brazier. She was aware of a gathering dark, a closing cold, and knew it was time. She placed the rosemary amulet she had made for Christina into the middle of the brazier. “For my sister,” she whispered, as the rosemary burned. She yanked at her hair, pulling three long strands, wound those up, and placed those into the guttering flames. “Protect Christina, keep her safe from all spirits and all harm,” she chanted in her own dialect and the old speech. “Send my protection to her.” She made the sign of the cross as the last of her hair burned away. The wind moaned again outside, but she refused to grant it power by worrying over it. She picked up the dark mirror, feeling its weight resting snugly in her palm. It was a blue-green glass, and she could see her own reflection in it, hazy and faint. Her face looked pale, surprisingly thin. She stared into her amber eyes and held them, thinking of Christina. “Blue eyes for amber eyes,” she murmured, remembering her sister’s pale, light eyes, wider than hers, more trusting. “Blonde hair for red hair.” Christina had beautiful, long, golden tresses, smoother than cream, bright as a gold coin. “Dimples in her cheeks, not chin.” Her sister had a pretty smile, a charming laugh. “Rounder face, a smaller nose.” She imagined tweaking Christina’s pert little nose and grinned.

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She blinked, and there in the mirror was her sister, a shadowy form behind hers, slowly swaying like a young birch tree in a spring breeze. Where are you, sister? Elfrida laughed in pleasure, in relief, in love. Walter still loves you, she sent on, watching Christina clap her hands and smile her sweet smile. Are you close? Sometimes Christina liked to tease. Christina raised her arms. She was still wearing her bridal gown, richly dyed and patterned, excerpt there seemed to be ribbons trailing from her outstretched arms... They were cobwebs, Elfrida realized as a choking whiff of sulfur stole through the room and the darkness about her deepened. Keep away from her! she yelled in her mind, striking out, willing herself through the mirror, her knife at the ready. Her vision blurred, and she slashed out wildly, seeking to cut those disgusting webs, and now when she shook her head to clear it, she was inside another chamber, lit by a good wax candle. Be nimble and quick, see the whole, she told herself when all her feelings strained to fix on that small, seated figure. She jerked her head side to side, glimpsing a stone staircase leading off the chamber, a shuttered window with a slither of moonlight shining down between the casement, sprays of fresh mistletoe standing in an earthenware jug. Then she could stand the gnawing wait no longer and looked straight. Christina, golden and whole, wonderfully alive, the glow of health and vigor in her cheeks, looked up to her from her stool. Her eyes widened. “Elf—” Elfrida put a warning finger to her lips but was too late. Alerted, another presence in the small, round chamber now filled her senses, turning the world black and formless, without shape or scent. Not yet, Snow Bride, hissed a still, cold voice as Elfrida battered at the dark. You come later. “Never!” Elfrida shrieked, thinking of the brazier, of cleansing

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fire and light to put between herself and the dark. Thrust between the world of man and the world of the spirits, she knew she had only a moment. “Holy Mother, guide me back!” As if at the end of a tunnel, the brazier in the wooden tower appeared, and her own hunched figure, gripping the dark mirror. She lurched for her own self, and then she was back, returned to her body, gasping and in a cold sweat. But I know where Christina is! I know!

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Chapter 21 Magnus hated drinking games, but he was careful to disguise it. No man would be brave enough to accuse him of being soft, but he well knew how some men thought nonetheless. He had subverted it in Outremer by sticking to the finest wines. In the Denzil keep, he raised his arm frequently and vigorously, ensuring most of his ale was spilled on the floor. His men were doing the same, pray God, or else he would know the reason why, once they were out of this dung heap. He sat on a stool, with the fire baking his left side and Gregory Denzil on his right, asking yet again where his girl was, and he felt the rough blindfold prick against his eyelids. The game was a version of “hot cockles,” where he had to guess who struck at his hands—or in his case, his hand and his stump—before he could pass the blindfold on to another. As entertainment, it was pitiful—often the girls were sent against him, and they all cried and screamed, calling him a monster. Sweating by the fire, Magnus felt another pair of slim hands dart against his palm and endured the ear-piercing cry, worse than an angry pig. He let his head hang down, as if broken by such petty malice, and when he thought of Elfrida, it was easy to let his mind grow dark indeed. How did she fare? Had she kept within the tower? Had she locked the door? If they did not find her sister, would she blame him for taking her away, instead of leaving her for the Forest Grendel? Had they a future past this Christmas, this solstice? Would she grow weary of others recoiling from him? “What, man? You are looking sour as well as ugly!” Gregory

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Denzil grated, and his men hooted like Barbary apes. A new hand pawed his, and he recognized Mark by the scar close to the man’s right thumb. “Do not know me!” Mark hissed. “The men are ready to go. Some have slipped out already, and the rest are acting as drunk as Benedictines! Denzil’s are fast catching up!” Magnus slapped Mark’s hand in triumph and mouthed “Gregory?” for all to see. Around the hall there was more delighted laughter and jests, increasing to a blazing roar when the next fist clobbered his hand. “There she is!” Stumbling forward off the stool, Magnus grabbed the man and planted a smacking kiss on his beard. “My own Snowflake!” He girded his tormentor in a bear grip and, as the fellow squirmed and yelled, puckered his lips for a second kiss. “No! Not even you are that drunk!” Gregory, on the dais, shot to his feet. “Never, even on campaign in Outremer, and however much wine you’d taken, did you embrace any man, not even so much as a beardless lad. You have overplayed your feint, Sir Magnus! “Take the fool and and disarm him,” Denzil went on. “He knows more than he is saying, and I will know it. And his plans.” Still playing the drunken fool, Magnus felt himself roughly hauled and kicked to his feet. Hoping to confuse Denzil and make the fellow doubt his own judgment he allowed his dagger to be taken from him, without any struggle or remark, and sagged on his captors as he was dragged away, asking plaintively, “Where are you, my heart, my little pigeon?” Behind him he heard Mark throwing up on the herb-strewn floor, to more derisive shouts. Denzil’s men were indeed slack and idle, even as his own men pretended to be blind drunk. “Take him to the cellar and lock him in there for the night,” Denzil ordered, his mask of crusader fellowship fallen now and whiny with scorn. Elfrida is right. He is not a decent host. I was mistaken, too, when I told her that not even the Denzils turn on their guests. Still Magnus

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pretended to be drunk, gulling the whole filthy, unruly mob into thinking they had bested him, for then they will drink even more tonight, in triumph. “You—stay with him. Make him stand at guard.” “On his wooden leg!” bawled one of Denzil’s bullies. “On his peg leg? Why not? And tomorrow we shall see that he talks.” Keep playing the sot who knows and cares nothing. Magnus whistled a carol, off-key, and took more kicks and blows than he had suffered since his days as a page as he was bundled away. **** Elfrida felt as weary as a mother must after a long labor. She had no child yet, but she had enough, the precious knowledge that Christina still lived. Magnus will be here soon, and I can tell him the good news. She lay down, curled within her salt circle, and listened to the woods. The Forest Grendel had seen her in the plane of the spirit world, had known she was his enemy, but he did not know she was at the very heart of his plans. The very quiet and stillness of the mistletoe outside told her that. He is powerful, but he has not defeated me. She closed her eyes in sheer relief and whispered a prayer of thanks. She did not realize she was dreaming until she saw a rose, a summer flower, in full bloom, in a small meadow in a woodland clearing. Even as she scolded herself for falling asleep, her dream changed. She wore a strange gown, white as a snowdrift yet softer than thistledown, with many cunning tucks and gathers in the bodice and skirts, and all gathered in by a belt of blue ribbon. “You make a fair, bright bride, Elfrida,” remarked Magnus as he

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appeared beside her, handing her a posy of buttercups. Gaudy and bold in a bloodred-scarlet tunic and black braies that showed off his long, sinewy legs and powerful hips, his scars seemed less grooved and terrible in the sunlight. His deep, brown eyes glowed with love as he kissed her, his breath tasting of apples and ginger. He drew her hand through his arm and strolled with her about the meadow, lifting her once over an ant mound so the insects should not bite her. “Is this our future?” She had not meant to ask, but the dream was so golden, so perfect, and she longed to know. He smiled and laid her down gently onto a bed of white and pink rose petals. The meadow grasses and oxeye daises swayed above them as he teasingly traced a finger along her nose. “Pretty witchwench.” She smiled, thrilled by his endearment even as part of her remained anxious. Yes, he loved her as she loved him, but outside the dream, what hope was there for a future for them? He was a knight, and she was a village hedge witch. If Magnus married, it should be to a lady, like the Alice he spoke of too often for her comfort. “I can bring you no lands, no treasure, no influence,” she murmured against his neck. “Perhaps I should offer you a love philter, to draw and win you a gentlewoman bride.” A hollow, sad thought, grinding in the pit of her heart. “No, beloved.” he touched her lips and kissed her forehead, her cheeks and her chin, each kiss a feather of tenderness and sparkling desire. “You are mine, always and only. I will have no other.” He scooped a handful of rose petals and spilled them into her hair. “Your skin is sweet and tender, smoother than a rose petal.” He licked her ear, swirling his tongue into the narrow creases, and she shivered, scarcely believing the shimmering delight it evoked in and through her. “I could learn and relearn you forever, my beauty.” “As I could you,” she managed to gasp, teasing in return. “My beast.” She sprinkled petals across his black curls and beard and,

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growing bold, tweaked up his tunic and packed a handful down the front of his black braies. “Naughty elfling!” He blew a loud, mocking kiss against the base of her throat and she felt herself dissolving in helpless laughter. She deftly unlaced the top of her white gown and traced a deep scar across his cheek and nose with the tips of her fingers. “How brave you are, how mighty and terrible.” But never cruel, she added in her heart, acknowledging his great kindness. His brown eyes adored her, and she basked in their sun glow. He snapped his fingers, and at once a golden chalice appeared. He dipped a wooden cup into the chalice and offered it to her. “Happy Solstice!” A thread of disquiet wormed into her before she reminded herself it was midsummer, the longest day of the year. She took the cup and sipped. “Ah, so sweet.” “Good, eh?” He leaned down and kissed her sweet lips, licking the traces of mead off her mouth. “And more goodness to come.” She felt herself blush and shyly fingered her long hair. “What if someone comes here, to this meadow?” “Then they will see only grass and flowers. You have such a pretty color.” The heat in her face increased. “What if someone hears us?” “Who is to hear, my bride? Everyone else is celebrating the summer. As we will be.” He wove her more tightly into his arms. “Am I your bride?” He traced his fingers down her spine. “Mine, and this is my wedding day.” He dipped his head and kissed her again. “Yours, too, my bride in white, my Snow Bride.” Someone else called me that, she thought, then gasped, closing her eyes and relishing as he drove his tongue into her mouth. “I am master today,” he muttered, patting her rump. Her eyes flew open. “You were master yesterday and the day before.”

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“I love that sulky pout of yours.” He patted her again. “Do you object, Lady Elfrida?” She melted at being called a lady by such a man, her new husband. Or, if as Magnus said, this was their wedding day, were they to be married? She was not sure, but now his warm, brown eyes and his smile made her forget everything else. Before she knew it, he was cupping her breasts, freeing them from her loosened bodice. He drew a long, pink ribbon from his tunic. “My first bridal gift.” He lifted her white robe, caressing her tensely nervous legs, thighs, and bottom. “Hands, please.” He tapped her arms and tied them at the wrists with the ribbon. “Happy bridal, my sweet.” He stroked her exposed breasts, one after the other. “Round as the English apples, and all for me.” He flicked the ends of the ribbon between her bosom. “And nipples that will be pinker soon than this little trinket.” Shy again, she jerked her hands, trying to cover herself, but his arm stopped her, and the soft tie trapped her wrists securely out of range of his sweeping fingers. “Pretty,” he murmured, sliding his hand between her legs, tickling her with soft, tormenting circles that went faster and deeper. Soon her whole backside was tickling and throbbing, and she ground her sex against his, wanting more, wanting him. She felt the ribbon rub against her wrists and flutter between her breasts as she writhed. In the far distance, she heard a party roistering in another meadow, and her voice mingled with their drunken singing. “Red wine, white roses...” “Please, sir!” She wanted to clutch him, take him, have him. Magnus fingered her. “Such a snug, lush place. I shall give it my full attention presently, but first—” Elfrida moaned as he ran his mead-slicked tongue across her breasts. When he cupped her breasts, dragging her gown more firmly beneath her engorged nipples, she groaned and again tried to free her tied hands.

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“Touch you!” she pleaded. Her nipples felt hot enough to burst, and there was a fiery sweetness flooding through her. “My pleasure,” he said smugly, winding a brawny arm about her waist, “but later, my Snow Bride. Let me melt you more.” “No!” A new voice rang out across the meadow, strident and arrogant. “I freeze you to my will! You are mine, Snow Bride!” At once the dream changed, becoming winter-dark and cold, bone-achingly cold. She shrieked as the piercing chill flayed her skin and turned her limbs to ice. The ribbon round her wrists writhed like an adder, flashing pink to red to black, and then, most terrible of all, Magnus vanished. He stepped back into the shadows, turning his back on her with no word of farewell or sign of love or kindness, and was gone. “Wait!” she cried, feeling hot tears streaming and freezing down her cheeks, but the land was empty. The meadow about her was now changed into a wood, where mistletoe berries glinted from gnarled oak branches and the midwinter night pooled over all. She shuddered and woke, her eyes burning with still more tears, her head pounding and aching. Beside her, the brazier was utterly spent, burned down to ashes, and the tower was in darkness. Her white bridal gown and marriage, the mead, the summer’s day, the rose petals, were things of fancy only. She was alone in the place of her enemy, an adversary who had invaded her dreams when she was at her most open and vulnerable. I almost yielded, and had I done so, would it have been to my lover or to the Forest Grendel? The awful thought made her skin clammy and sickened her. Or what if the summer part of the dream is true, a warning? What chance have I truly with Sir Magnus, a famous knight of the realm? Shuddering, she drew her cloak around her and rocked herself for childish comfort, trying to regather her scattered wits. I must get light again. I must light the brazier. Do not step outside the salt circle! What is out there? What are those shadows I see

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gathering by the north wall? But riding ahead of all the other galloping panics in her mind was the vital question, where was he? Magnus said he would return to this tower by nightfall. Why is he not here?

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Chapter 22 The guard left with Magnus was the youngest and weakest, a creature with patched clothes, straggly dirty-blond hair, beady rat-like eyes, and a rat’s long, pink nose. Magnus detested him on sight, the more so because he recognized the type—a wheedling bully, with inferior weapons and a weak mind, who would fawn to those above him and kick those below him. He kicked Magnus because Magnus was acting maudlin drunk and Gregory Denzil was watching. Magnus endured two more kicks, one directly to his groin that had him sprawling and gagging on the sodden cellar floor. The pain was raw and nasty, and he gave himself up to it, writhing in the mud between the barrels of salted meat and wine, set up on a storage platform above the murk and filth. “Ha! Not so proud now, are we, crusader?” Gregory Denzil watched him, amused, and the rat-guard with him sniggered and sneaked in another kick. “But where are your sword belt and sword, man?” “Where is my little Snowflake?” Magnus wheezed in return, with an anguish that was not feigned. “Haul him up,” Gregory Denzil ordered, before the red-and-green haze had cleared before Magnus’s eyes and the pain in his balls had reduced to agony instead of let-me-die-right-now. Coughing, spitting, bleary-eyed, he was dragged to his feet by three of rat-guard’s stouter companions. “He is to stand there all night, at guard,” Denzil repeated. “Make sure he does.” “Yes, lord.” Rat-guard was scurrying with Denzil to the door,

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receiving the key from him, bowing and scraping like the little ratarsed runt he was. “I will be vigilant, lord, have no fear.” And the cellar key now in his grimy tunic. Magnus whimpered, swaying on his legs. “Sleep, must sleep,” he hissed, turning his plea to a choking gargle. Denzil’s deep-set eyes glowed like mounds of treasure. “Oh, you will sleep, Sir Magnus. Sleep for good and all and beg for it, afore I am finished.” As his captain left, Magnus heard rat-guard turn the key, grinding and clanking in the lock. When he could no longer hear Denzil’s footsteps, he stalked from the middle of the cellar, past some wine barrels, to the wall. “Hey!” Rat-guard tried to kick him and failed, tried a shoulder barge and only deflected himself into a barrel of salted pork. “Come back! Stand! You stand!” Magnus stood with his back to the wall and grinned down at the little sniveling snot. “Make me,” he suggested. Rat-guard’s reddish eyes glinted, and he looked ready to explode with puffed-up rage. When his ears were as scarlet as his face, Magnus needled him more by adding, “I am going to sleep now, so what are you going to do? Call the real guards?” “Get up!” The bully, impotent as are all confronted, faced-down bullies, actually stamped his foot. “Damn you, get up! Get up!” He looked ready to kick himself. “When it suits me.” Magnus slid down the wall to settle in a crouch, with his eyes still fixed on the foot-stamping, twitching guard. “Let me know when the moon stands high.” The guard jerked his shoulders as if stung and tried to out-stare Magnus. Magnus thought of the warrior who had slashed open his face, the warrior whom he had killed, and allowed the weight of the memory fill his own stare. After a moment, the guard blinked and looked away. “What is your name, soldier?” Magnus asked. He had established

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his authority, and now he gave a little. “Bernard.” He was certainly not as tough as a bear, as the meaning of his name implied, but that suited Magnus very well. “Do we understand each other, Bernard?” he asked softly, sitting down fully and crossing one leg over the other. “If you summon more guards to subdue me, you fail. If you try to force me to your will, you fail. Do you want to look soft to Gregory Denzil?” Bernard colored like a girl. “You were drunk,” he said in a puzzled way, as if that explained everything. “And now I am not.” Magnus smiled in a way guaranteed to make Bernard worry more. “I am going to relax a moment and try not to remember how you kicked me.” “I was following orders, sir,” Bernard mumbled. If he had a cap he would have wrung it in his hands. “I have to do what my lord commands.” “Of course, as a loyal follower.” And a feckless coward, you miserable worm. Bernard was armed, Bernard had the key, and he had already given way. “Since it is close to Christmastime, I will ignore the kick.” “Sorry.” Bernard tried a weak little grin. Magnus crooked his finger and beckoned. The man did not shuffle forward, but he did not back away. “When do the guards change round the keep, Bernard?” he asked now, adding provocatively, “Do you know?” The bait proved too much for the vain bully. “O’course I know! An hour past midnight.” So when I break out of here, which in a moment I will, the guards above will be slack and sleepy. Good. “But not you, eh, Bernard? No relief for you.” Magnus raised a hand and spread his fingers, as if he commiserated with the man. “There never is,” Bernard agreed. In another hour, I could have this two-faced sniveler exchanging

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war stories and ale with me, Magnus thought. He listened, hearing the distant roars of drunken men, and knew it was time to move out. He closed his eyes. He waited the space of one and thirty breaths and then opened them to find Bernard wandering about the cellar, not pacing or with purpose but in an idle meander. He cleared his throat, sucking in a huge lungful of the fetid air. “I feel amiss,” he began and choked, stopping his breath. “Sir?” Bernard cautiously shook his foot. “Sir? Teeth of hell!” A stool overturned, there was a crash as Bernard slipped on the greasy cellar floor, sprawling against a barrel in his haste to reach his stricken prisoner. He dropped to his knees and lurched forward, hands out, seeking a heartbeat, and Magnus walloped his skull hard with his fist. Bernard toppled silently onto the cellar floor, and Magnus extracted the key from his tunic. “The sick prisoner is the oldest trick there is, Bernard,” he told the unconscious guard. “It is well known in Outremer, where the assassins are a force to be reckoned with. Your lord would have told you that, had he remembered more of our campaigns than booty and rutting.” He took Bernard’s rust-pitted dagger, vaulted over his scrawny figure, and strode for the door. No one was on watch outside, nor on the stairs, nor on the landing. Locking Bernard inside the cellar, Magnus ran in a limping, lopsided lope back up the staircase to the great hall, missing his sword belt and blades with every swaying stride. He knew where they were, in the woodshed where he and Elfrida had spent a luscious night, but first he must retrieve his men and save the womenfolk. He forced himself to halt outside the threshold to the hall and put his ear to the solid oak door. The shouts and laughter were more ragged and infrequent, and he caught several long snores. He thumped hard on the oak, bruising his knuckles, five fast strikes, then three, then one—his drumbeat signal from Outremer.

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He stood behind where the door would swing and waited. Mark burst out of the hall first, followed by Tancred, John and Edmund, then lanky Diarmit from Dublin and Simon the arrow maker, his men one and all and each one clear-eyed and grim. “Simon, get to the woodshed and look for our gear behind a block of limewood.” Magnus ordered the swiftest, and he was off like a wolfhound after quarry. As his slapping footsteps echoed off into darkness, Magnus seized a torch, stamped into the hall, and set fire to the rushes and herbs strewn on the floor. These should have been packed down and hard to light, but the meadowsweet was old and overdry in parts, too soaked in ale in the rest. It smoked, then caught in a swirl of wicked-sounding crackling. “Hola!” Through the tumbling flames, Magnus saw the rest of his men. Caught behind a wall of overturned trestles, they were fending off those Denzils who could still stand and hold a sword, with a haphazard mix of table legs and stools. He roared his approval of them, and they yelled back, the gleam of battle shining in their faces. The slave women were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Gregory Denzil. “Hola!” Magnus struck out with the blazing torch, firing a man’s beard. He swung out again— The blow came from behind. He heard and saw nothing of his assailant. There was a loud crack in his ears, and the world turned its back on him, turned black and empty, like the insides of a wolf’s belly. Magnus fell, sprawling full length, and did not know he fell. **** He lay on top of a high wooden platform beneath a starry summer sky. Around him the air was warm and spicy. Far beneath him he heard a beggar sing, “Alms, alms in the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate, for I am in the beautiful city of Damascus, and I

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am blind.” I never traveled to Damascus. This is a dream. “Your dream of love and learning, my lord.” Elfrida was sitting beside him, holding a golden astrolabe. “You once told me, or wished to tell me, that the finest medical and astrological instruments were made in Damascus. So we are here.” Magnus sat up and looked out from the wooden platform, which was built like a siege engine, only it was bigger and higher. A scent of roses, mingling with the smell of freshly baked honey cakes, wafted from the mud-brick, flat-roofed houses below, but away to the north was a wildwood, tangled and dark. Those trees are not cedars or pine. They are oaks and limes, the trees of England. And I see wolf shapes within the wood, and lurking thieves and brigands. “Danger,” he said to Elfrida, pointing at the wood. She smiled, her face gentle and luminous, like in a painting of the Magdalene. “There is always that.” In the fluid way of dreams, he lay with his head in her lap. She stroked her fingers through his hair, teasing out the knots. She was robed in a long, white dress, white as a Templar tunic without the red cross. Somehow he knew it was her wedding gown. Pray God she has chosen me and no other. He glanced at her hands, longing and hoping to discover his own family ring there, given to her as a pledge of love, but her fingers were bare. Why am I surprised or disappointed? She can have anyone, so why would she choose you? That was not his true thought, Magnus realized, as he touched her long, loose hair. “If not my bride now, you will be soon, my winter bride, my Snow Bride.” “Not so, crusader. The woman is mine.” A tall, thin stranger appeared, looking out over the silent city. Elfrida vanished, the platform vanished, Damascus faded, and he and

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the stranger were inside the wildwood. “You pine in vain, knight.” The stranger had a dry, dusty voice and looked as narrow as a needle. His face was hidden in the manner of desert dwellers, by a turban of long, dark cloth and a veil, but Magnus wondered if he had a face. Undaunted, he leaped up and charged but never came nearer to the looming figure. “Your quest is lost. The Snow Bride is mine. See? Her token.” The stranger spread his arms, holding them aloft. Hanging between his scrawny hands fluttered Elfrida’s old dress, the one he had allowed Denzil to take from her. “You gave her to me by giving me this.” Magnus stopped running—it was like fighting through deep sand or snow, and he was going nowhere. “Tell me her name, then,” he said. The stranger hesitated, and Magnus seized the moment. He reached within his tunic, finding the amulet Elfrida had given to him— her true token, which he wore above his heart. “Begone, you devil!” he ordered, and he broke the narrow chain and hurled the amulet at the faceless figure. “Magnus, Magnus! Sir!” Magnus opened his eyes. Light spitted his brains, and he flinched. “Sorry, sir.” Mark hastily withdrew the flaring torch. “Ugh!” Magnus had sat up in the snow—a mistake as Mark’s unnaturally pallid, drawn face seemed to detach from his head and swing wildly from side to side. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the swinging lurched into his stomach. “Slingshot, was it?” he demanded, mostly to stop the furtive glances and whispers of his men. “Splendor in Christendom, I am not yet on my deathbed!” “Yes, sir!” Mark handed him a bucket of snow. Magnus almost asked if his second wanted him to be sick in it, then took the simpler option of silence and tipped the pail over his head. The icy, white cold eased the drilling in his eyes, at least.

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“Who carried me out?” he asked, motioning for another bucket load. “Ah, yes.” Mark tweaked his nose in embarrassment. “That would be me, and Tancred, and Diarmit, and the squires.” He scratched his throat. “You were out cold, you see, sir.” “I know that, man! So what happened? Where are we? Did all the men get out?” A squire offered him a second bucket, filled to the brim with snow. Magnus sank his throbbing face into it and piled more snow onto the back of his neck while Mark stumbled through an account. It seemed that his being struck from behind by slingshot had driven his men into a perfect fighting fury. Fearing him dead, those behind the shields of trestles had broken out and taken a brutal handto-hand battle to the Denzils. Drunken and surprised, their hosts had been quickly overwhelmed, even before Magnus’s man Simon had returned to the fray with their swords. “They broke like clay dolls and scarpered from the hall as soon as they could,” Mark recounted, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “And the women?” Magnus asked. “Weeping and wailing in the solar,” Mark replied. “We left them in there to carry you outside for some more wholesome air.” “Gregory Denzil?” “Aye, yes.” Mark shook his head, as if in wonder. “In the solar, too, can you believe it? Him alone, and all those girls!” Had his head not been aching so much, Magnus would have bawled the man out, but Mark finally added, “When we broke down the door to the solar, Denzil smashed his way through the window glass. A shame, for the glass was fine.” “Expensive, for sure, but there will be other glaziers to replace it,” Magnus remarked dryly. “The larger pity was Denzil and his men escaping.” He raised his hand to stifle protest. “You have done well. The castle is ours?” “Yes, sir! I mean, for the moment, sir.”

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“Excellent,” said Magnus. “Let us keep it that way.” My dream means nothing, he told himself as he calmly gave out familiar orders. The mystery Denzil may be no more of a threat than was Gregory. His fingers closed on the amulet Elfrida had given him. Surely it was a good omen that he still had it? But what if his dream was true? What then?

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Chapter 23 The brazier had taken a long time to light, and Elfrida was numb fingered by the time it was burning. She swept a small section of the salt circle aside and pushed the dark mirror out into the room, then tore at the lower parts of her rough braies with her knife, hacking off strips from both. “Be blind to me,” she ordered the glass. To be sure, she dropped the linen strips over the mirror, covering its dark “eye.” Then she resealed her circle. It was hard to stand and wait, but she knew she must. The room beyond the brazier was as dark as ship pitch, which meant it was also night, the time of her enemy’s greatest power. Again, she told herself not to think of Magnus, lest her anxiety alert the Forest Grendel and the monster turned on him. But it was impossible, for she could not stop wondering and picturing Magnus, prone in the snow, with a great swelling bruise on the back of his head... Was that true? “Please, Holy Mother, let him be safe,” she chanted, the haste of her prayer drumming like hooves within her head. “Let Sir Magnus be safe. Send him guardian angels and spirits.” Elfrida thought of an angel as big as Magnus, as strong as Magnus, with hair as curling as Magnus’s but of burnished gold. Gold is pure, she thought, and she drew the gold amulet her mother had given to her over her head. It was an ancient coin with some king’s head upon it. Her mother had soaked it for seven nights in holy water to strengthen its power.

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Why did I not give this to Magnus earlier, along with the amulet, when I suspected what we faced? I could not give it to Christina because she was taken from me, and I cannot do it now or my enemy will know, but Magnus was with me! He was right beside me! Horrified by her carelessness, she felt her breath hitch and her throat burn, both a prelude to weeping. But she could not cry—guilt and shame would do no good now, only action would help. She was a witch, and she must be a witch, not kneel on the floor and wail. Elfrida straightened and clapped her hands together sharply. “As my hands are sisters and twins, so this amulet is twinned,” she ordered, fixing on the gold coin twirling on its simple leather chain. There would be two gold coins, she knew, her own and the one of the future that was for Magnus. She was fetching it a little earlier from the future, that was all. “This amulet is mine.” She raised her right hand and the gold coin spun like a tiny flashing star. “This amulet is its twin, for Magnus.” She raised her left hand, thinking of the gold spinning there, incorruptible, brilliant and round, a perfect circle, symbolizing eternity. “I give this amulet to Magnus,” she vowed, knowing she would make good her promise as soon as she could. “Also, I give seven gold coins to the spirit of the well in my home.” The water spirit of the well at home was gentle and powerful together and would be well pleased by such a gift. “I swear to do this before the next full moon.” She lowered her hands and brought then tightly together with the gold-coin amulet embraced between them. She bowed her head and prayed in thankfulness to Mary the Virgin, the gold of heaven. She had faith. When she next put on the amulet, its spirit twin would be put on Magnus. I have done all I can here. Next must be this room. She hung the thin strip of leather around her neck and turned about. The dark mirror was where she had thrust it. The shadows on

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the north wall were unmoving. She took a clove of garlic and flicked that into the chamber, intently watching where it fell. Spirits of evil detested garlic, so if any lurked here, they would react. But the flames of the brazier remained steady, and the hunched shadow on the north wall remained still. Perhaps such dark spirits cluster about their masters like familiars. Quickly, without any forewarning thought that would betray her intent, she stepped across and away from the salt circle. The brazier behind her spat a little, as if in warning, but no scaly or furry demon seized her, and no spirits crawled across her skin to possess her. She clicked her tongue to prove her freedom, laughter pouring from her as she twirled on the spot. Still chuckling, she sped about the room, deliberately tracing the shape of an upright pentagram to counter the ashy remains of the inverted one. Each time she changed direction she prayed to the saints, praising their glory. The white chamber remained empty, with no sense of impending thunderstorm or evil, and she began to feel foolish. “Have I been too cautious?” she whispered. Had her enemy intended to inspire this fear in her, in order to delay her? Or was it rather that he was too sure of himself and his power, too arrogant? “Never fret!” It was a pleasure to use Magnus’s words and to toss the bundled leather cloak he had given her through the trapdoor into the second chamber, an advance warning and guard. She followed it, clambering smoothly down the ladder into the apple-scented room. Apples were wholesome and food for man, beasts, and good spirits, and she took an armful with her. It was a sweet reminder to her that Magnus also loved apples. And if anything lingers on the bottom floor, I can always throw apples at it, she thought, skimming down the final ladder and lifting the key to the tower from the deepest folds of her tunic. Magnus told you to stay within the tower, her conscience pricked. “Does a man wait?” she asked aloud. “If a man does not wait, why

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should I?” She drew on the leather cloak and fiddled with her shoes. She had disrupted the magical work upstairs as completely as she knew how. The clay figure was intact, but everything else was gone—the evil spices were burned, the devilish names were burned, all trace of the inverted pentagram was gone. She had scattered salt to cleanse the evil. She had smeared garlic to repel and disgust demons. She had prayed to the forces of light and goodness. “Please, great mother, forgive me if I have done anything amiss or forgotten any duty,” she said, her voice trembling with feeling. I will not fear, she told herself. She was a warrior in magic even as Magnus was a warrior in arms. So why does he not acknowledge me as such? The thought was so disconcerting she fled from it, fumbling with the key and unlocking the tower, going straight out into the snow. In moments she was thigh deep in a glittering mass of white, and more thick flakes were falling. She twisted round to orientate herself and realized that the tower was already only a blur, without color in this snowbound world. Above her head, the trees were thick with snow, and the sky was a dark gray-black, with no moon or stars showing. Where is Magnus in this blinding murk? Is he lost? She felt her heart rise in her throat, and the falling snow seemed to burn in her eyes. Compelling her limbs to be still, she listened in the seeping, gnawing cold. Castle Denzil was not so far away, so she should hear any approaching horses and men. Is he imprisoned? “Holy Mother, what should I do?” she asked through a jaw that was already beginning to chatter. Return to the tower, blunder through the snows to Castle Denzil, or go further north, deeper into the forest, to where she knew that Christina was ensnared, within a tower of stone? She knew it was to the north because of the position of the moon

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and North Star, both of which she had spotted through a narrow gap in the casement of the stone tower. She knew it was an ancient tower, for in that precious glimpse of her sister in the dark mirror she had seen a rough inscription on one of the walls, a scratched text in Latin. Valerius amat...the writing had read, or something similar. Valerius loves. Valerius was the name of a man of ancient Rome, not a modern, Christian name. And where the Romans had been there were roads, always roads. Her father had once said that the old Romans, before they sailed back to their city of sin, had been wild for roads. So there must be a good, straight road, which she should be able to find, that would bring her right to the stone tower and to her sister. She wallowed forward a few steps, glad she was not in a skirt as snow drenched through her tunic and braies and shoes. She watched the iron sky and the falling snow for a break in the clouds, hoping to spot the North Star. But what then? Never had Magnus’s warning that she remain within the tower been more tempting. If he came and found her gone, he would be angry and fearful for her. He would be right, too, Elfrida reflected, wading on, snow sticking to her hair, her arms, and legs, stinging her face, snow everywhere. But if she stayed safe and he did not return? “He loves me,” she whispered, her breath a brief puff of steam amidst the trailing curtain of falling snow. Believing that, she knew he must return. He would never abandon those he loved. Unless Gregory Denzil had dishonored his role as host and now held Magnus prisoner. Is that why I wait in vain, in the creeping night? But if Magnus is held and Christina is held, whom do I rescue first? A throbbing rush of hot alarm stormed in her body, sucking the breath from her lungs as she kicked out wildly, trying to hurry in the drifts of snow. The raw pictures in her mind of Magnus being hurt

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and tormented were too much to stand. She had to reach him, save him, shelter him. She was running down the wooded hillside by then, skidding and slipping, realizing as she lost her footing altogether that, even without meaning to, she had already chosen. She was not rushing north but back toward Castle Denzil instead. And what of my sister? Christina! “Christina!” she cried out in despair as she fell, and the world about her became entirely white, then gray. I could die here, was her last conscious thought as the white-gray snow tumbled and spilled over her body and the night smothered her. **** Gregory Denzil rode in a cold, implacable fury, picking splinters of glass from his clothes and flinging them into the filthy snow. He loathed winter, the colorlessness of it, the boredom of it. Men became fat and idle in winter, when there were fewer travelers to rob and no peasants abroad to give good sport. His men had the insolence to moan about hunts, even wolf hunts, and worse yet, they started to think. He could hear a few of them now, grumbling between the grinding hoofbeats and the horses snorting and clanking in their harnesses, always grumbling. Soon that would change into outright questioning and he would face a challenge. He would have to pick one soon, one of the cocky, clever devils, and make a lesson of him, then reward the others quickly with more loot. To be tossed from his own keep and by such a whiskery ruse! The old drink-them-under-the-tables, and he had swallowed it. Right now, half of the men were throwing up in the saddle, and most of the hounds were whimpering and splay legged, still as drunk as their masters. He would grab the castle back, of course, but that would take more trouble, more promises of treasure. Joseph had promised him there would be no trouble. Joseph,

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another clever devil, always so learned, always so secret, always so proud and demanding, had gawped into that filthy mirror of his and told him that Magnus of Norton Mayfield was his for the taking. Just give him the girl, was what he had said several times. And now the redheaded wench was missing. Gregory Denzil hawked and spat into the snow, aware of riding without a purpose, of riding simply to spur on his men, to sober them up and give them balls enough to storm his own keep. It would be best, too, if he could find the girl. Joseph had been insistent about her, and surely she could not have got far in this filthy snowstorm? Whatever his fool protestations, Magnus of Norton Mayfield would not be seeking her. He had what he wanted now, the keep, the loot. “The only things that ugly bastard has ever cared for are himself and his sword,” Gregory Denzil muttered, hot to the ears at how he had been duped. Why should it be otherwise? “For him, the wench can freeze to death. He has what he wants.” But Joseph would not see it in that hard, practical, sensible way. If Joseph learned that the redhead was lost in the woods—and somehow Joseph always learned—he would demand a search. Joseph wanted that redhead, and Gregory knew there would be hell to pay if he did not get her. “Find me that girl!” he yelled as a wave of icy sweat broke out of him. “A bag of gold to whoever spots her! Find her! Find her now!”

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Chapter 24 Elfrida lay in a stream of warmth, smooth as the oils she used to help the old of Top Yarr with their winter aches and pains. For the first time in days, she was at peace. There was no need for haste or pain, no reason to struggle. She lay bathed in softness, surrounded by a soft, reflective light, milky as a pearl. Her father strolled by in his holiday clothes of his best blue-andscarlet tunic, blue shoes, and blue hat. He smiled and waved to her. Her mother looked up to her from where she was kneeling in her garden plot, amidst lavender and sage and fat hen, and nodded. Elfrida stroked the gold-coin amulet around her throat, the metal warm against her skin. She closed her eyes, feeling her breathing and her heartbeat slow. She was surprised she had not seen Magnus or Christina yet. What am I dressed in? she wondered, and opened her eyes. She glanced down but could not see her body, only the same misty white. Her father and mother were gone and when she looked up, so was the vault of heaven and the pale, watery-looking sun. No, that should be the stars. It is nighttime. She heard a long, deep crack, like a rending fissure in ice. The clay figure from the blue tower lay broken at her feet. Even as she tried to cross herself, one of the three smashed-in heads of the figure became Magnus’s, his face contorted in overwhelming pain. “No!” she cried, reaching out to comfort him. His face changed, growing longer and narrower, with dark-blue eyes and a slash of pale lips. “Get away!” she yelled as the figure re-formed before her.

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“I see my rival now, Snow Bride,” said the three heads, all of them wearing the same long, narrow face, each head fixing her with cold, dark-blue eyes. “He broke what is mine, now I break him and take what is his.” The figure grew a second time, long and lanky, with thin, attenuated limbs and a single head. A graybeard, older than she was, Elfrida realized fiercely as she scrambled to her feet. “You are weak, old man,” she challenged, hurling scorn like a knife. He chuckled in return, turning her words into dust. “Still ranting, Snow Bride? You are mistaken in me and in that clod you wish for as a husband.” Elfrida tried not to think of Magnus but failed. His strapping, muscular frame rose between them, but he had his back to her and would not turn round, even when she tugged with all her weight on his arm. “He wearies of you already,” the graybeard went on, smiling his contempt. “He does not.” The denial was out before she could stop it. “A hulking brute. He will expect his commands to be followed. He will demand you follow him. He will not forgive you, if you do not.” Elfrida said nothing. Terror of Magnus’s reasonable demands, which she had already flouted, and of her own memories—of her times in bed with him and her own dazzled submission—had her biting the inside of her lip, desperate to use pain as a distraction. This graybeard must not see us together! That is ours, not his, no part of it is his. She held her breath, raked her fingernails into her palms, stared at the sky without blinking. “I fear no evil,” she burst out, when her lungs were scalding in her chest. “You should, Snow Bride.” The graybeard put a hand onto her shoulder, and she could not

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stop him. Through a sickening haze of pain, she felt the bone beneath grate and grind as even her skin tried to escape. “No more!” She chopped at his hand, throwing him off her, and punched through a blanket of snow. “Ah! Ah.” Jolted by fresh pain out of her vision and into stark reality, she cradled her bleeding knuckles with her other hand. Her body felt stuck full of needles and pins. The icy cold rent at her, and it would have been easy, so comforting, to lie down again in the soft white snow and sleep. Get up! she told herself and swayed onto her knees. Get up! Magnus roared in her head, and she tottered to her feet. Please do not be angry with me for disobeying you, she begged as she blundered on a few paces. She could not believe how chilled she was, how hard it seemed to drag her feet on, step after step. And for what did she strive? In falling, she had lost the path back to Castle Denzil. She scrambled awkwardly up a slope, slithering back often and slipping, once pitching onto her already frozen hands. Slowly, painfully, she gained the summit, but once there, she moaned, choking on a fresh intake of flaying cold. “I have gone backward!” She was no farther on and, worse, no wiser. She peered, half-blind, though the stunted trees and drizzling snow, a mean ice wind clawing at her face and breasts, and admitted she was lost. Elfrida sank to her knees. I have failed Christina. I have failed Magnus. I should never have left the wooden tower, and this is my punishment. She licked her sore, chapped lips, her throat dry and aching. The raw cold nipped spitefully at her nose and ears, and the snow gleefully filled her shoes. Everywhere far away was dark, everywhere closer a glinting blue-white. Had she been snug within her house, safe, watching the snow while drinking a blackberry tisane, she would have called it pretty.

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It was terrible now. A breeze rippled along the tip of a long mound of snow, spinning dancing flakes into the air, tormenting her with more cold. Her feet were numb, her legs throbbing. She forced her reluctant, shivering body to turn. A spray of mistletoe bobbed before her, then the wind whipped it away. I must go away from the mistletoe woods. That is where the necromancer dwells. To return there is to go back into evil. She turned again. At first she thought it was mist, then put out a hand and caught icy prickles along her arm. The snow was falling more steadily and was gaining on her, covering her tracks. She saw a holly tree, recognized it by its shape and leaves and slogged a slow and wavering way toward it. The holly was a marker, and even those without magic knew it was a sacred tree. Bald Father John called it the crown of Christ. She was partway across a bank, closing on the holly, when she heard the thumping of horses’ hooves along another forest track, and then the shouts of men. They are hunting me! Instinct compelled, and she obeyed it. Dropping to her belly, she coiled up tight like a hedgehog, dragging her cloak hood over her bright, revealing hair. She knew, without questioning how she knew, that this was not Magnus who sought her. She lay in a lair of snow and broken branches, listening, praying these men had no dogs with them, or no scent of hers, and a terrifying question beat in her head like a moth around a lantern flame. Has Magnus betrayed me in the end? Has he sent these hunters? **** Gregory Denzil spotted the fluttering shadow, shifting and flickering between the trees. He wheeled his horse round, prepared to spur it up the slope, then hesitated. Their search had brought them to

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the edge of the oak wood, which Joseph counted as part of his kingdom. Wanting to be sure, he batted the falling snow aside with his gloved hand and scowled up into the trees. Yes, there it was, bunches of the filthy stuff. Seeing it, he drew rein, Joseph’s high, dark warning sparking along his veins and in his clearing head. “The place of mistletoe is mine. No one enters those woods without my permission, or if they do go in, they will not come out.” “Do we go on, sir?” called one of Gregory Denzil’s men, one of the clever grumblers, he noted. “Go!” he bellowed, and why not? Joseph was not here, and that fluttering shape had a very womanly look. Better yet, it was a solitary flutter, a single, lost soul and certainly not Joseph, because it was small. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and the bay shied, rearing at some imagined danger in a flurry of snow and laying back its black-tipped ears. He smacked it hard across the neck and ignored its shiver, forcing it deeper into the woodland by force of will. He pointed when he was sure the beast would not fling him into the fast-approaching holly tree. “Through there and past that ditch, over the bank! After her!” “Ha!” yelled his men behind him as he cantered ahead, leaning low over his nag’s neck to encourage the beast to gallop. He saw a flash of red amidst the dribbling snow and the gray tree trunks and rode on harder, grinning at the thrill of the chase. It was almost too easy... A bough of mistletoe smacked against his forehead, berries bursting against the bridge of his nose and juice tricking down his face. Gregory Denzil howled and reined in a little and spat, spat until his mouth was almost dry. He wanted no part of those filthy, offwhite berries inside him. Those were Joseph’s, part of Joseph’s undead tricks, and he wanted none near him. He furiously mopped his face, ducked under an upcoming branch of oak and stared at the mess

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of tracks in the snow. He should slow or dismount to understand them properly, but he wanted to be out of this wood now, away from where the gnarled oaks poked you in the back or ribs, and ravens and magpies roosted, all birds of ill omen, all creatures of Joseph’s. He saw the scrap of brown flutter again between the trees, lower than the height of a man, and recognized it as cloth. Joy exulted in him, hot and dizzying as a stew whore. “I have you!” he cried and rode the rag down, letting the horse leap the quivering body. He dismounted in a snow-spurting strut of triumph, gleeful in victory. Smiling, he extended his hand. “Come now, my dainty, for you are ours—” He ripped back the brown cloak from the patch of snow and discovered only more snow. The hounds, lolling in late, loosetongued and still unsteady, wandered uselessly over the patch. The redheaded wench, if she had ever been there, was gone.

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Chapter 25 Magnus hammered on the faded, blue door to the old wooden tower. Behind him his men and horses shifted and stamped, trying to keep warm. It had been a hard slog through bitter, piling snow, but he was here. “Elfrida!” He rattled the door, fear clenching in his guts like poison. “Elfrida!” He set his shoulder to the wood and gathered all his strength. He leaned into the door and punched as fiercely as he could, pushing and shoving. He felt a sweat break out over his body and redoubled his efforts, aiming his weight and force at the hinges. Panting, his head throbbing with the storm of his own blood, he heard a hinge creak a little. He stood back, panting, and before he regained all his breath, lunged hard. His shoulder exploded, his arms white-hot in agony as his right side felt to be ripping apart. “Elfrida!” he roared, out of himself with dread. “My lord! Let the men break it down with hammers! God Almighty, Magnus, you kill yourself with this—” Magnus hurled Mark off into the tumbling snow and slammed into the door again. The hinge cracked and broke, splinters of wood spearing into Magnus’s beard and hair and into his arm as he drove on, a human battering ram. The door fell in with a shuddering crash, and he was at the ladder, running up as nimbly and eagerly as he had done in a crusader siege, his sword belt clashing at his waist. She was gone. In a state of bewildered, furious disbelief, he

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blazed through the topmost chamber, slamming walls, smashing the hideous clay figure. Roaring down into the second chamber, he overturned and kicked in every apple barrel, but she was not there, either. “My lord, there is no one,” Mark called cautiously from below. Magnus thrust his head through the trapdoor. “I told her to stay! I warned her, I told her!” **** Mark recoiled as Magnus swung down, straight through the trapdoor, landing heavily beside him. Anger was coiling off the huge knight like steam off a cauldron or fire off molten lava. He looked more than enraged, he looked mad, his eyes black slits in a twisted, mangled face of fury. “Told her to wait, told her—” Magnus stamped past, his leather cloak slapping against Mark’s forehead. He charged back out into the darkness and the snow, men scattering rather than face him. Out in the gray, cold murk, Mark heard him snarling, “Why do this? Why leave unless you want to leave? But I will find you, Elfrida, and when I do, when I do...” Mark shivered. The poor lass will need all her charm and beauty to appease him, he thought. Elfrida chatted like a magpie, but he could not fault her care for his lord. If she was gone indeed, there would be a good reason for her leaving. Let us hope my lord Magnus will listen, when we find her. He shivered again, saying nothing. **** Elfrida trembled as the men and horses galloped by the holly tree. She had barely managed to leave behind the leather cloak as a lure before they had reached it. She would never outrun this hunt, so she must outwit it.

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She should be shuddering with cold, but shock had left her numb. Had Magnus truly set Denzil’s men after her? Was it possible he had changed to her so much, in less than a day? Was this the work of the necromancer, her enemy? No, I do not believe any of that. Or had Magnus always been a dissembler, using his scars as a shield for lies? What a magical device if that is so—his battle wounds are his badge of truth, honesty, and courage! He said he loved me, too... She scrambled onto a low-growing holly branch, thick as a man’s thigh and bare of snow, and looked out. Using patches of bare, frozen earth and low-growing branches, she had crossed the woodland from where she had dropped the weighted leather cloak and come safely into the prickly heart of the holly. The snow about the holly was undisturbed, which was what she wanted, and by sheer good fortune the Denzils’ dogs were poor tonight and no use on any scent. There was another holly, growing in a deep hollow. She could not reach that without leaving a trail, but perhaps that did not matter. The yapping, unhappy hounds and grumbling, snorting men seemed to be moving deeper into the mistletoe woods. Gregory Denzil shouted a few orders that the piercing breeze blew away from her, and the whole troop vanished between the trees. Elfrida compelled her limbs to stir. Part of her wanted to lie down in the snow and weep, but she kept going, walking from one holly tree to the next. Her heart ached continuously within her chest, which dimly surprised her—she had always considered heartache a poetic fancy. It was not, nor was the heaviness of her legs, the feeling of smoke and distance inside her mind. She did not want to believe that Magnus had betrayed her. With every shuffling step she wrestled with that idea, pushing the thought aside as she shoved and buffeted through reams of snow. Why lie? Why say you love me? I cannot believe you would betray me, and yet where are you?

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“Magnus could ask the same of you,” her mother whispered in her mind. “He begged you to stay safe within the tower.” Distracted, she lost her footing amidst a tangle of tree roots and sprawled, grabbing at a thick, wild-rose stem before she realized what it was. The rose stopped her fall at the cost of driving several long thorns into her hand. She pulled out those she could. She never asked why she did not stop and give in. However matters were between Magnus and herself, Christina must be saved. Tomorrow and the day after will be the last full days of my sister’s life. I must find her! “I must find her!” At first Elfrida thought she had shouted her own thought, and then she dropped to her knees, stunned with relief. “Magnus!” Her voice was harsh with the cold, little more than a croak, but incredibly, he heard her. His horse burst through a thicket of elders and thorns, towering over her head like a massive siege engine, and then Magnus was with her, his arms clamped around her, his mouth capturing hers. He kissed her, wildly and deeply, saying words in his own tongue, saying more, kissing her again. He was shaking, and she was shaking. “I am sorry,” she started to say, before his clever, crooked lips caught hers again and she was lost in a flooding haze of heat and feeling. His arms were so tight around her she could not fully breathe. She tried again. “Magnus, I am sorry—” “I have you now, no matter.” He shook her as if she was a doll. “I was hot and mad as fire, you hear? And look at you! No cloak, enough thorns in you to make a porcupine, one shoe missing!” His mouth scowled, but the gold cross in his right, brown eye sparkled, and both eyes were bright with tears. “I could kill you for rushing out,” he said thickly. “I feared I might when I found you, and then you undo me without even a word, simply through your own suffering. Little wretch!” He hugged her again and cradled her face

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with his hand, tenderly brushing snow away from her cheeks. Overwhelmed, Elfrida fought down tears of shame and relief, hating herself for causing such pain. “Christina has only two more days,” she began, when he interrupted her. “I know that, woman, and I know I was late today.” He wrapped his cloak around both of them and called out to Mark who, with the rest of his men, was waiting close by but not too close. “If you broke your word to me, then I broke mine to you, so we are quits.” His admission made it impossible for her to be angry or doubtful of him anymore. How could I have ever thought you would betray me? In her moment of weakness and respite, she almost confessed. “I am sorry,” she said a third time, wishing he could understand, yet too exhilarated and uplifted by his presence to argue. Then, “What is a porcupine?” “Ah, something you do not know! ’Tis a fantastic beast, more prickles than a hedgehog. I have a bestiary at home, and I shall show you.” Elfrida nodded, comforted. He drew his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it round her alone, frowning as he chafed her white fingers. As if reminded afresh by her continuing plight of what she had done, he scowled in an awful manner and jerked his head at the dark and the steadily falling snow. “What possessed you to go out in this, Elfrida?” So we have not made peace yet. “We should talk about it later,” she said quickly. Magnus’s face took on a stubborn set that reminded her piercingly of Christina, on those rare occasions when Walter had denied her sister something she wanted. “We talk now,” he said. “But Gregory Denzil is out in the woods tonight, and it is still snowing! And my sister—” “I am glad you finally noticed the snow.” “I have not demanded an account of you and why you were late.”

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He rolled his muscular shoulders. “Mine does not matter.” What he did not say, but plainly meant, was I am a man, so it is not for you to question. He tied the strings of the leather cloak for her, as if she was a child. It hung about her ankles and felt warm enough, but she was too disconcerted to care. “It does to me,” she said quietly. He brushed aside her answer with a swift shake of his head. Still, because she loved him, because they had been lost to one another and Magnus had suffered, because he had snow in his hair and a new open gash from a low-hanging branch seeping down his already scarred cheek, she hugged him as tightly as she could. She bit back the questions. If I am answerable to you, why are you not the same to me? You promised we should be equal out of bed, did you not? She closed her eyes and held on, reveling in the scent of him, the size of him, his beloved, tragic face, even his manly arrogance. Magnus was less forbearing. “I am waiting. Why did you defy me?” “Is that what you think it was? Do you consider me so petty? I never defied—” Elfrida broke off, forcing down her indignation. How could she help him to understand? And Christina was waiting somewhere... “Your men,” she began again, a weak beginning, to which he robustly replied, “They are well clod and shod, unlike you, and they will wait. As for Denzil, finding him again will be my good fortune. Now, madam.” There was no turning him. “I could wait no longer at the blue tower, sir.” She knew this next would wound but had to say it. “You were not coming. I had done all I could to thwart our enemy there.” Her breath hitched. “You might never have come.” “So you set out to rescue me?” “If need be.” She was heartened by the fact Magnus had not shared or even considered her darkest notion—that he was not coming because he had changed in his feelings to her, and worse, that he had

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set Denzil onto her. “Certainly I had to move for my sister, who is still in danger.” After that necessary reminder, she glanced up at him but could not read his expression. “I had to do something, Magnus. I am a witch! People come to me for help!” “Aye, you are a warrior of magic, right enough.” He smiled at her surprise. “Splendor in Christendom, woman, I am learning and trying! If I fall back at times, ’tis only nature.” He caught something flung to him out of the darkness and shook out a rough cloth bag. “Shodding for your foot. You see, I like looking after you.” “And I you,” Elfrida replied promptly, wanting to be clear on that. Magnus nodded. “That is what takes some learning, but I will.” He knelt and bound her foot with the bag, grinning up at her. “What next for us, eh?” **** Magnus meant it as a jest, for he was striving hard not to speak his worst fear—that Elfrida had left the tower because she wanted to be away from him. Now they were together and he felt her gripping him, kissing him, he was ashamed. I should not be so jealous, he thought. “There was a new blonde at the keep,” he said, “but not your sister, for she did not react when I said her name or yours.” Elfrida, warily shaking the “bag” shoe on her foot, flipped up her head. “Was she pretty?” She is jealous, too! Magnus shook his head, feeling more and more content. “Not so much.” Elfrida looked on the verge of speech, her own pretty face clouded, but then she made the sign against the evil eye and sighed. “Christina?” Magnus asked softly, knowing full well it was not her sister she was thinking of just then but the unknown blonde. Elfrida’s bright, amber eyes shone with gratitude then excitement.

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“I think I know where she is! In another tower, of stone, very old, near a Roman road and...” She gave a strangled cry and thrust herself at him. Caught by sheer surprise, Magnus was knocked off-balance. He dragged her down with him and above her yelp heard the familiar thock! of a crossbow bolt spending itself into a tree stump not a man’s length from them. “I felt it coming,” Elfrida panted, as he flung himself over her, covering her with his body as more crossbow bolts and arrows rained down. “Malice coming...sensed it.” And moved to meet it. Magnus grabbed his sword. Her courage inspired and appalled him, as he knew very well she had tossed herself into the path of the arrow to save him. Any more? he almost asked, but this was his world now. He dragged her over his shoulder and pelted in a rough, ungainly sprint for cover, any cover. “Stay!” he warned, dropping her by a holly tree. “I mean it.” He kissed her smartly, for love, for thankfulness, and ran out again into the snowy dark to meet the oncoming fray.

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Chapter 26 Elfrida could not help Magnus. She was overcome by a compelling desire to pass water and had to shift deeper into the holly. Beneath its green canopy—black and glossy in the dark—she found the ground dry and covered by a soft leaf litter. She did what she must and backtracked, her heart hammering with anxiety. Lifting the final shielding branch, she discovered she had no clear sighting of Magnus. At the distance of a field, men fought on foot and horseback amid falling snow. Burly shapes clashed in the snowy murk. She heard a horse scream, whether in pain or anger she could not see. She was helpless and useless, for even a charm to sting the eyes of Magnus’s enemy was no good unless she knew for certain who that enemy was. She wished ill luck to Gregory Denzil, but her flesh crept as she did so—ill wishes could rebound. Worse, this battle pinned them down when she wanted to be moving, seeking the Roman road and the ancient stone fort, finding Christina. Is this the doing of the Forest Grendel, the necromancer, or our own ill luck? Trying to see more, she reluctantly stripped off Magnus’s cloak and began to climb the branches of the holly, ignoring the scratches. She inched upward, protected by her youth’s clothes, wrapping an arm about the narrow trunk of the tree and hooking a leg over another branch. She forced herself to go up the length of a man and looked out. Snow blew into her face. She mopped her eyes and squinted through the thick sleet, listening to the fight somewhere out in the

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wood. She could tell from the slow, chopping sounds, like a weary peasant hacking at a branch for firewood, that the men were tiring. No one had breath to spare for cursing. She prayed that Magnus was safe and winning, and longed to fight hand-to-hand beside him, a warrior of arms as well as magic. She shouted incoherently, cries of support fierce enough to dislodge a roosting crow out of a nearby oak. She found her dagger and slashed it straight across her palm, making a fist to encourage the blood to flow, spattering across the holly leaves. “By the spirit of this tree, defeat to our enemies!” What was that? Shocked by a clammy touch on the side of her throat, she almost lost her footing and fell. Sweating, eyes tight shut, her breath coming in great gasping spurts as if she had sprinted the length of a field, she released her grip on a handful of branch and holly leaves. More throbbing pain shot through her fingers and up her arm, but she reached up and peeled the narrow cord away from her hair. It was as slim as a ribbon and made of a strange, soft, smooth material. Recalling what Magnus had said about silk, Elfrida decided it could be silk. It stretched off into the darkness and was attached to something—when she gave it a gentle tug, no end came free. So what was it and why was it here? Elfrida drew on the cord until it was taut and saw a branch on a nearby oak tree trembling. So the cord ran between these trees, but it was too high to be any kind of trap, at least a trap for men. She tweaked the cord and it hummed slightly, a dark note. “It is too thin to take any weight,” she remarked aloud, thinking of how the Forest Grendel had been able to move so stealthily in the forest near her village. Would a web of ropes slung from trees explain his swift and silent movement? How he attacked like a spider, as Walter had put it? Elfrida shook her head. This cord was too narrow to support even her, and swinging between trees could never be silent in an English

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forest. Walter had thought of a spider because the man who had taken her sister was thin and long limbed. He had called Christina’s attacker silent because no doubt the Forest Grendel had moved with swift purpose, without shouting. Walter had been violently and unexpectedly attacked and his betrothed carried off. He had been in a tumult of panic and shock, yelling so much that he would have heard no other come or go. And I know already how the goat woman covered my enemy’s tracks as soon as she could with those of her animals. This cord is not for swinging on or moving between trees. So what is its use? Thoughtfully, carefully, she turned the cord over. “Elfrida!” Magnus’s indignant yell made her start, and she almost lost her footing and grip on the tree. Hastily, she stretched out and cut through the cord at the farthest reach of her arm, wrapping it round her wrist and securing it tightly. “Here!” she called back, slithering and crashing back down the holly tree, in any fashion. “Here, I am here!” She battled the holly branches aside, took a steadying breath, and stepped out of the twigs and berries, prepared to face up to him. “What happened to you?” they both asked at once. **** Magnus knew he did not look his finest, whatever that was, and cared not at all. “At least it is not my blood.” He growled. He took in Elfrida’s grubby, lichen-smeared hands and saw that his cloak not on her back but hung over her arm. Her improvised shoe was already ripped and threatening to fall off. “What were you doing in the tree?” he asked wearily, and before she could answer, “Why do you never stay where I put you?” “Am I a bucket to be hung on a nail?” she demanded, with a toss of her matted hair, staring straight back at him with bright, amber eyes slightly reddened by flecks of tree bark. “I obeyed your

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instruction. For the rest, I was pursuing my trade, my lord, as you were yours.” Amused by her hearty indignation, he felt himself smile. “For that I must be thankful.” He supposed. “I have Gregory Denzil under guard.” The man had been an easy capture, clearly not expecting any retaliation after issuing that sneaking first volley of crossbows bolts and arrows. Denzil had been almost comic in his slowness, sitting like a wooden statue on his horse and scarcely moving as the counterattack swept over him and his bedraggled followers. I was able to charge him, on foot, and Denzil, a battle-hardened warrior, issued no orders and made no attempt to brain me with a club or skewer me with a sword. And I have not run so fast for years. Magnus frowned, recalling how the rest of Denzil’s troops had been equally motley and halting, almost as if stunned. So can I claim it as a victory, or is it something of Elfrida’s, something she did? If she was plying her trade, was she casting spells and charms from that holly tree? Who fought then, her or me? “Did you see the fight?” he demanded, his voice sounding harsh even to him. “No, sir,” she stammered, seeming unsure for the first time. “I had to...” She muttered a phrase in her own dialect and looked at him helplessly. “I do not know the words in the old speech. The garderobe—I had to find one, out of doors.” She stopped, and even in the gloom and tumbling snow, he could see her blushing. “Ah, well then.” Close to laughter, he gathered her in and hugged her, glad she could not see his face. It was a worthy thing to him that he had won the fight fairly, without her magic. Denzil has gone soft and rotten, too, him and his men together. What are they now but brigands and thieves? I was protecting my woman and myself, so right was on my side. Why fret? It was an honest fight.

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Relieved, in tune with the world again, he teasingly gave her hair a quick tug. “So what were you doing in the tree?” “My lord.” Mark plowed through the snow toward them, his face radiating a mixture of triumph, weariness, and concern. “We should not linger here.” Magnus raised a hand to show he had heard and drew back slightly from Elfrida. He felt especially indulgent to her again, now he could say he had bested Denzil himself. After all, I wear amulets for protection, including the one she gave me. If Elfrida helps in other magical ways, that is all to the good. “Is it something you do not wish to tell? Each trade has its secrets.” The corners of her mouth tugged up in a swift, grateful smile, and then she grew serious again. “I found this, high in the holly tree.” “A silk ribbon?” Aware there must be more to it than that, Magnus turned the damp trinket over and whistled softly. “I recognize the lettering as Greek, the same kind as we found in the tower, but what are these other symbols?” “Runes of magic and force,” Elfrida said quietly. “I know they evoke guardianship.” “Of a person?” “Or a place. Can you read the Greek? Does it make sense, real words, or is it simply names again?” He brought the ribbon closer, wishing for more light. “That word means ‘king,’ King of the North. There are strange names, yes, perhaps of spirits or demons, and a repeated phrase, ‘I conjure thee.’ Even on this brief strip, it repeats three times.” Elfrida received the ribbon back reluctantly, as if the slippery, fluttering item was alive. To his surprise, she draped it quickly back over the holly branches. Just in time, Magnus stopped himself from catching her arm and meddling. “What are you doing?” “I do not know what these ribbons mean,” she said, bowing to the tree before she turned back to him. “They are stretched in other trees.

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I dared not take this one away in case it changes things and works against us.” “Good idea.” He had once brained an enemy sentry in Outremer and left him propped against a wall, as if still watching out. Magnus cocked his head and craned up, thinking of climbing that prickly cage. “How did the fellow get them up there?” “I do not want to consider that,” Elfrida replied, visibly suppressing a shudder. “I would guess a nimble accomplice or worse.” She did not elaborate on what might be worse, but Magnus knew she meant familiars and such. “What do you think they are for?” “Protection, perhaps, against evil, or they may work as alarms of coming trouble.” “Some brigands hang tokens and small bells in woodland to serve as advance alarms,” Magnus agreed. “Some of these ribbons may be belled.” He smiled, relishing the prospect. “It means we are close.” Elfrida did not smile. “The ribbons, I think, will make a circle. A circle of protection or of conjuring, one that draws evil onto others.” “I conjure thee,” Magnus repeated, stopping instantly as Elfrida put her hand to her lips. “I will say no more,” he reassured her. She was right. To speak the strange names on the ribbon might bring the owners of the names, and who knew if such creatures could be easily killed? “We have your sister to find first.” He had said the right thing. Elfrida straightened at once, offering to return him his cloak as she shook down her clothes and brushed flecks of snow out of her eyes. “I have a notion where she is,” she began then caught herself. “But what am I saying? You, my lord, have Gregory Denzil, alive and whole! That is wondrous!” “Keep the cloak,” Magnus said easily, basking in the warmth of her voice. “Yes, I have Denzil, as whole as he ever will be.” He held out his hand, feeling equal measures of pleasure, delight, contentment, and excitement as her narrow fingers slid around his

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palm. “He may not know much, or he may seek to disguise what he knows,” Elfrida was saying, hopping like a bird in the snow as she sought to keep pace with him. “Oh, Denzil will lie as much as he can, but we shall know the truth between us, you and me.” She squeezed his fingers as they pressed on. “I hope he has useful news,” she said. “What will you do with him after?” Magnus shrugged. “Lock him away in his own keep with the slave women as his jailors? Do you care, Elfrida?” She shook her head. “Only if he has great news of Christina.” “Do not let him sense that wish of yours!” Magnus warned, sorry he had to do so but knowing Denzil far too well. “Take care, for if Gregory Denzil even catches her name from your mouth, he would use your sister against you and take extreme pleasure in the act.” “I know,” she sighed. “I know.” She glanced up at him, then swiftly away. “Ask it,” Magnus prompted. He could almost guess what her question would be. “Will you take it amiss if I threaten him with curses?” Magnus smiled and shook his head, swinging her hand in his almost as if they were strolling through the woodland in summer. “Why should I, Elfrida? You did the same with the village widow, and I did not object.” “She was no knight,” Elfrida pointed out quietly. “Neither is Gregory Denzil, by my reckoning. I shall back you to the hilt.” He gave her fingers a final squeeze, released her, and strode toward to the bound, kneeling figure in the snow.

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Chapter 27 “Why should I say anything?” Gregory Denzil demanded through cracked and bleeding lips. Coughing, he turned and threw up into the snow, remaining retching on his hands and knees until Mark and another of Magnus’s men hauled him back upon his feet. “For your life,” Magnus said quietly. “And the lives of your men.” With a long sweep of his arm he indicated other bowed and broken men, each one kneeling in the snow between three captors. “Pah! If that is all, cut my throat now, man, rather than leave me to starve.” Denzil did not plead for or even glance at his men, Elfrida noted, but Magnus did not seem disconcerted. “For your life and your castle, then. I will return the keep to you, sans prisoners, of course.” A sly look of calculation slid across Denzil’s bruised face. “Why would you do that?” Standing off to one side, following the conversation between Denzil and Magnus through their expressions and odd phrases that she was beginning to understand, Elfrida wondered how Denzil could even think. She had never seen warriors deal with prisoners of war before, and she did not like it. Denzil and the others had been struck and pummeled mercilessly. Sickened, she had said nothing, but Magnus had sensed her disgust and ordered the beatings stopped. Magnus said, in his own dialect and then the old speech, “For old times’ sake, when we fought together in the crusades. And I have no use for it. And, to my mind, the giving up of a kinsman should bring some reward.”

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“Betrayal, you mean.” Magnus translated Denzil’s answer for her, then remarked, “You have not always been so squeamish, Gregory. It is a good price. Tell me his name.” His men began shouting urgently, calling out, “Tell him, for pity’s sake!” Gregory Denzil spat a mouthful of blood and bile into a frosted bush and shuddered once, all over. “Will you give him some mead or ale, my lord?” Elfrida asked quietly. She did not pity Denzil, the slaver, the bully, but watching him writhe and sag between his present captors, she longed for this part to be over and for him to be released. “He may perhaps speak more readily.” Magnus growled an order, and a flagon of mead was produced. Some of it, a very little, Mark poured roughly down Denzil’s throat— most of the liquid splashed onto the man’s tunic and into his boots. When he had finished rasping and coughing, Denzil looked up at Magnus and shook his head. “It does you no good to be silent,” warned Magnus. Elfrida snapped her fingers, and Denzil reacted by glancing at her. She fixed him with her eyes and held his gaze. “He is a Denzil, is he not?” she asked in her own dialect, the tongue she was most easy with. “He lives apart, but he is still a Denzil. We know that much already, Sir Gregory, for we have seen the comings and goings of your servants on his bidding.” She smiled, putting all her charm into her cold, aching face. “To say his name would be a courtesy. Is he close kin of yours?” “A cousin on my mother’s side,” Gregory Denzil answered, scowling immediately after. Elfrida stepped closer. “Do you know him well?” she continued, in a soft, compelling voice. “Were you brought up with him?” “Joseph and I have known each other since boyhood. But that is more than enough—I can say no more!” he finished, his small eyes bulging and his narrow face bleached with alarm.

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“Look at me, Gregory,” Elfrida said as the man jerked his head to one side and stared off into the darkness. “You are among friends.” This was so shocking a claim that he glowered at her. She brushed snow off her face, and he mirrored her action, his eyes widening as she continued to look at him. I am your friend, she thought warmly. I can help you. “Elfrida, what are you saying to him?” Magnus demanded. She reached back and patted his flank, in part to reassure him, in part to apologize. At once she sensed his acceptance and was reassured herself. I will tell you all, my love, but it must be later, just a little later. “When you return to your castle, will Joseph be there?” she asked Gregory Denzil. “He has his own places,” the man replied in a calm, measured way quite unlike his normal quick, cutting speech. Silently, Elfrida thanked all the saints for making her task so straightforward—she had not needed the threat of curses after all, and Denzil, perhaps already stunned and certainly shocked by his double defeat, had been easy to beguile. “He lives alone, then?” she went on. “Joseph dislikes company.” “Even at Christmastime? He does not care for gaming or drinking or wenching?” “Women, yes, I never knew a priest who did not lust after women.” Denzil used the Latin word for priest and, a step behind her, Elfrida felt Magnus stiffen at this new information and the calm, almost studious way in which it was delivered. “Is Joseph a cleric still?” she asked. “I do not know.” Elfrida believed him, and she wasted no time on it, returning to more pressing concerns. “These places of Joseph’s, they must be close, within the forest.”

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Gregory Denzil nodded. “Do you know where?” At once another change swept over Gregory Denzil. He hunched his narrow, sinewy shoulders, and color flushed up into his face. “I do not.” He looked ragged again and mortally afraid. “I can help you,” Elfrida said softly, aware of her own pounding heart. She stretched out a hand, wishing, praying that Denzil would take it. For a warm, hopeful moment it seemed that he would. His whole arm trembled, and his hand rose, drawn to hers, but then it was all too late. Quick as a flea, he wrenched away from her and his captors and careered wildly into the dark. Magnus lurched after him, followed by a cursing Mark, but Elfrida knew it was too late. In the gloom, she saw Denzil topple like a snowbound tree and heard his gargled, “I did not tell!” Magnus stamped back a few moments later, limping in frustrated disappointment. “Deader than salted meat.” He kicked the snow with his foot. “Who is this Joseph Denzil, who can terrorize to death from a distance?” Elfrida said nothing. She disliked—had disliked—Gregory Denzil, but his sudden death closed in on her like a shroud. The sheer, ruthless cruelty of Joseph Denzil struck at her core. How can you, a fellow worker in magic, abuse your power so? She longed to shout it into the woodland, even though she knew she would get no answers. But how could he sleep? She closed her eyes and the stricken, pallid face of Gregory Denzil hovered in her mind like a gathered storm. A warm hand clasped her shoulder, and she shuddered. “He was so afraid,” she murmured. “I could do nothing against his fear.” “Think no more on it,” Magnus said, gathering her firmly into his arms. “Hush now!” He stroked her hair as she stifled a sob. “My men will bury him and say some Godly words—we have done it often enough, on crusade. I owe Gregory Denzil that much.” She rubbed at her burning eyes, angry that she was close to tears.

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“I have eased the dying and kept watch over the dead, so why should this death touch me so?” “A poor death is always a horror. Would you rather feel nothing?” “No,” she said and meant it. “Come, then. We must make haste to find your sister now.” Magnus had said the right words to free her. She forced some iron into her spine and moved back to the holly tree. “We must follow these tokens,” she said, pointing at the long, thin rope of silk. “He lives alone, Magnus.” She did not add that they should hurry. Magnus already knew that. He had already said they should search, even though it was night. It was now only two days to the final day, the solstice day. “Better and better. How long do we have?” he added, mirroring her thoughts. “Tonight, tomorrow, and the day after, at least until nightfall.” A wizard of dark magic would wait until twilight before beginning any major work. “We have time, then.” Magnus cleared his throat. ‘‘’Tis good, very good.” He is wary, Elfrida thought as he helped her to mount one of the captured horses and swung up into the saddle behind her, but still he is coming with me. Had she not been so afraid, she would have smiled. Magnus pressed her foot with his. “Does this Joseph know we are after him?” She nodded, hating the admission. “Had you not helped him—” she began in a mutter, before biting down hard on her tongue. It did no good to remind Magnus of the gown he had so blithely passed to Gregory Denzil. “What was that?” She squeezed his arm, relieved he had not heard her. “Only that it is good to be moving again.” “Humm,” Magnus said before calling back to their escort. There

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were a half-dozen warriors riding with them, red faced and raw knuckled in the biting cold. Elfrida wondered if Magnus had asked for volunteers and was glad there were only six. Fewer of the brutes to worry over. Wit and faith will be our defenses, not manly brawn. Does my lord Magnus understand that yet? By Gog and Magog, I hope he does! “Does he know how close we are?” Magnus asked, draping his huge cloak over them both and giving her the ends to grip. “I do not think so.” Elfrida was not certain, but from the signs that Joseph Denzil had left in the blue-door tower and in the ribbon she had found in the tree, she saw a confidence bordering on arrogance. “I do not feel he expects any serious pursuit. He knows someone looks for him, but he believes himself hidden and invulnerable.” In dreams and visions he has called me Snow Bride, but never a witch. Perhaps he does not know I have such wisdom, or he discounts it. That may be his mistake, arrogance again. I trust that it is, that he has not some final weapon that I have no answer to. She tried not to think of Gregory Denzil and his last, pawing moments of terror. “And we have his name now, at last. Joseph.” Magnus rolled the name out as if unfurling an inferior piece of cloth and clicked his tongue. “Joseph! The name a doting mother gives her son, a mummy’s-boy name. It cuts him down from the Grendel we first thought him.” The rough-coated, short-legged pony they were riding shied at a broken-winged blackbird lying dead on the snow in front of them. Magnus calmed the spiky-maned beast before it could bolt and gentled it into an easy canter then a slow trot. “Perhaps some thoughts are best not spoken,” Magnus remarked, giving their mount a final pat. “Are these woods so completely his? “Still, we need to go slowly to spot tracks and those webs of threads,” he went on, before Elfrida could respond. “We should go carefully.”

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Sitting astride the pony and feeling Magnus’s arms and legs snug about her, keeping her secure in the stiff, unyielding saddle, Elfrida allowed herself to relax a little. However brazen some of his remarks, her warrior was no fool. “Does he see you as a threat?” Magnus went on. “Does he know Christina is your sister?” “No and no.” I think I am right in this. I pray that I am. They ambled on, the pony weaving between trees, and Magnus allowing the beast to pick its own way. “’Tis so dark,” he said, after a space. “We should have lanterns.” “Could we keep them lit in this?” “I doubt it, but any light would be welcome. I have seen him, Elfrida. I have warred with him already, in my dreams.” Startled as she was by his confession, she was more amazed still when he added, “I drove him back by means of the amulet you gave me.” Staggered by his admission and his use of her magic, of his total faith in her, Elfrida took in a great gasp of air to reply, “Good fight!” or “Well done!” or even “Thank you.” The cold made her cough, and she pitched forward, her lungs burning as she struggled for a full breath. “No tumbling off into a snowdrift, Elfrida!” A powerful, muscular arm snatched her back and held her. The pony put back its ears and snorted at the anxious rider on its back. “Now you know,” she said, through chattering teeth, “and will be right to despise me. I am afraid, Magnus. I am a coward.” In spite of the cold and the snow, she felt herself blush, hotly, and wished he would scold her. I have earned his derision. I should be spoiling for this encounter! “You are brave for a lass.” Magnus sounded as sunny as midsummer, quite unperturbed. “But I am afraid. I, too, have seen this Joseph in my dreams, a tall, thin shadow—”

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“That is so, skinny as an icicle and as ill favored.” Elfrida clamped her teeth tight on the rest, for she was deeply ashamed. She dared not tell him that Joseph Denzil, the priest-thatwas, the necromancer, the Forest Grendel, had claimed her as his bride. What would Magnus think of her then? By all the saints, what if he believes I somehow encouraged this creature? “I do not know if I can stop him, Magnus,” she said presently. Behind her, she heard a gentle sigh. “But you are still riding, my heart. You are still going to meet the challenge. That is courage, to fear and yet to keep going. In the end, we can do no other, you and I.” He leaned into her, and she leaned back. “How do you keep fighting?” she asked, planting a swift kiss on his arm. In the dark she sensed him smile. “By thinking of my men, my friends, and those I would save.” “What if he feels us coming and kills Christina for spite?” It was her greatest dread. “Look at what happened to Gregory Denzil, his own kindred!” The haggard, choking face of Gregory Denzil flickered briefly on the snow before her, and when she peered between the trees, she saw glimpses of closing shadows. Magnus did not insult her fear by offering facile comfort. “We must draw him out, not pen him in. It will not be easy, but there are ways. In any siege, there is always a way.” Elfrida said nothing. She could only hope that he was right.

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Chapter 28 His good witch was right to be scared, Magnus knew, kicking aside a branch as the pony plodded down a slope decked out with blackberry thorns, holly horns, hazel and elder and, to add to the good cheer of the season, another dead blackbird, frozen against a tree stump. He knew she had stopped herself from mentioning her gown that he had tossed so casually to Gregory Denzil, but it was still on her mind, and rightly so. Joseph Denzil must have her gown and what magic, what mischief could he make from it? “Nothing good.” Magnus growled, wishing he could have that time back again, do things differently. Dashing in Gregory Denzil’s brains much earlier might have been a start. He had not said anything to Elfrida, but for all his high words, he loathed the idea of Joseph Denzil being a priest. He had seen a few priests and clerics gone to wickedness in the East, and with their learning and focus they were always trouble. Never fret, Magnus! At least your lass does not know Joseph Denzil claimed her as his bride. The cheering thought was like a swig of mead as he poked and threaded about the trees. Seeking threads and ribbons like a girl seeking a love token. But sometimes unpleasant tasks needed doing, and this was one of those times. He never minded tracking, but this furtive grubbing through the undergrowth like thieves in the dark was not to his taste. He imagined Elfrida as a blonde, a little less pretty, less vivid, less tender—less like Elfrida and more like her kidnapped sister, Christina—and that spurred him on, made him keep watching out. His men behind rode in

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a sullen column but they, too, knew better than to grumble. What else had Elfrida said just now about Christina? That she was secure in an ancient stone tower, set close to a Roman road to the north of here, deeper within the forest. That this would be one of her last remaining days alive. He looked up and received a face full of snow from a lime tree. He shook it from his eyes and saw the thin, flickering ribbon, twisting round the trunk of a half-rotten oak. “There!” Elfrida had spotted it, too, and was pointing, her outstretched arm a pale shadow in the gloom. “We go on, eh?” he remarked, lighter for the brief victory. This endless, tumbling, needle-sharp snow may be more than nature, may fall on our backs at Joseph Denzil’s urging, but we are closing on his lair. Christina must live! Today may be close to the darkest time of the year, but we shall find her. He opened his mind to the rest, that finding Elfrida’s sister might find them Denzil, and he relished the prospect. For all his fancy Eastern learning and friendship with devils, he will not stop my hands meeting around his throat. Part of him knew this was wrong, that the necromancer would not be simple to vanquish, but he could be cunning himself, if need be. He remembered his stubborn, headstrong rush against the blue tower, when his great-hearted, anxious, determined little witch had scolded like a magpie—rightly so, he thought with a frown. This time his charge would be at the end, to swoop in swiftly from a clear, unblemished sky like a falcon, seize Christina, and crush her captor. Surprise is the key. The creature is arrogant. Excellent! Let us use that pride against him. We have few hours to waste, but there are enough for us to throw down false trails. I have my wits and strength and loyal followers. And I have Elfrida. ****

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The night and the forest seemed endless to Elfrida as they roamed deeper into the woods, taking a route that seemed more south and east than north. She understood why Magnus had chosen this less direct approach, to disguise their real intent, but the slogging distance gnawed at her. She wanted to travel by the fastest way, to find the Roman road, to gallop along it. And that would be as arrogant as Joseph Denzil himself. When she could not stop herself from asking why they were turning east instead of north—although she already knew the answer—Magnus answered patiently, “We only have Gregory Denzil’s word that his kinsman is alone. And I dislike those hanging ropes and threads. You say we may track him to his place by them, but what if they are like warning leper bells to Joseph Denzil? You are not sure and nor am I. If we pass under them or brush them, does he know? Do his demons whisper news of our approach into his ears? Elfrida shuddered, feeling cold then hot all over. “I cannot tell,” she answered, shamed and appalled by her admission. “I am half blind in this filthy weather.” The shifting snow confused her, made it almost impossible for her to pick out landmarks or to sense where she was in relation to others. “Are the wolves his friends?” Even in her frustration, Elfrida recognized the sense in his question and responded to it. “Wolves and wild cats, any beast that preys on decent people. They would howl and alarm for sure.” “And we can hear nothing, so no alarm as yet. Could he be as blind as you, because of the snow and all?” “I hope so.” “Good! Let it be so!” “But I am half lost!” Elfrida grumbled, feeling Magnus’s chuckle vibrate in her slim frame. “We must find Christina within these next three days, before the solstice, when Joseph Denzil means to kill her. And the night is seeping away!” “That does not matter,” he answered, calm where she was

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simmering. “We are making progress. This way we look like bewildered travelers, and no threat. Soon it will be daybreak.” The next to last day of Christina’s life, Elfrida stopped herself from saying, disgusted at her own self-pity. Off to her left she saw a third ribbon hanging from an elder bush. “I see it, too,” Magnus murmured against her ear. “We are well on the hunt, now, and Joseph does not know it.” Elfrida nodded, touching her gold-coin amulet for good luck. Had she not been so anxious and sickened for her sister, she would have been amused at the way Magnus insisted on calling their enemy by his diminutive, as if to cut the man down to size. It helped, she realized. Forest Grendel or The Necromancer sounded great and terrible, but Joseph Denzil could have been a peddler. Magnus brushed her shoulder and jerked his head. Following his movement, she saw a lighter grayness in the dropping snow. “We shall go faster by day,” he said. At first Magnus’s forecast proved disastrously inaccurate. One of the horses in their straggling column stepped on a frozen pine cone and went lame as a result. Banks and ditches and pools of snow that seemed innocent and harmless had dangers lurking beneath their smooth, white mantles, traps for the wary and cautious alike. A rider was unseated and left clinging desperately to his horse’s neck when his mount ploughed into a ditch and slipped on a patch of hidden ice. Convinced he had spotted another hanging cord beyond a stand of young birch trees, a beardless yet balding squire urged his piebald pony into a mound of snow. Heedless of Magnus’s warning shouts, the lad cantered off, spraying snow until the pony reared, its flank slashed by a snow-buried spar of ash. Then the weather changed. From big, soft flakes, soft as duck down, the snow became smaller and harder, bouncing off the horses’ coats like hail, trickling down the back of Elfrida’s neck. She was wretched and grindingly cold, despite the pale glimmer of dawn off to the east, but Magnus remained sanguine. He kept the

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lead through the murk, going on foot and prodding the way forward with a branch. He took the reins so she could tuck her throbbing fingers into the cloak and encouraged the rest of the riders to guide their horses to follow his. Had she not loved him so much and he striving so hard for Christina, she might have found his cheerfulness irksome. As it was, she wished only to match him and be no burden. “You would have done well in Outremer,” he remarked at one point, steam gushing from his mouth like a dragon’s breath. “You keep going and do not complain.” “I would know more of your summers there,” Elfrida begged through chapped lips. Tales of sunshine would be welcome, she thought, and to imagine a thing was a way to create it, so they might all be warmer in the telling. He told of Eastern deserts where the sand moved like a sea. He told of armor hot enough to bake an egg on. He spoke of silks and spices, music and chess, Arab learning and the traders of Africa. As he spoke, Elfrida felt the cold retreating from her limbs. She looked about and saw more color in the land, glimpses of red berries, brown hazelnuts, early yellow primrose buds peeping above the snow. She suggested they make a game of counting holly trees, and the young warriors with them went to it with a will, riding a little straighter, signaling with their hands so they did not call out and reveal their presence so easily. “You give them heart,” Magnus said. “As do you,” she answered. “And I know we are going north now and no trouble.” For the first time in days she had a flash of foreknowledge, a picture of a track, high in the forest, running north, straight between the trees. “We are almost at the Roman road,” she said. “Good! We shall go faster there.” They reached the road as the sun was breaking above the younger, smaller trees, and the snow had finally stopped. Elfrida expected Magnus to remount and storm along the road, which in parts still had

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its ditches and whose good level stones were still visible on its windfree side. Instead he halted the column. “We shall rest for an hour, have a fire and warm mead,” he said before she could protest. We have no time! Elfrida felt light-headed with a mix of fury and anxiety. Magnus was choosing again, and yet it was her sister who was in danger. When Magnus turned back after ordering a squire to fetch kindling, she was ready with her arguments. But so was he. “No need for that, my heart, we are on Joseph’s doorstep.” He pointed northwest, and she saw a slim stream of dark smoke rising. “If you are weary enough to miss that, you need to rest.” The gleam in his eyes showed he was enjoying her discomfort, but then his face grew serious and grim. “I need you at your fighting, warriormagic best, Elfrida, and strong for Christina. I will do all necessary to ensure it.” “How would you like it if I plucked you away from the verge of battle?” she replied, incensed that he was right. “Not much, but I would make the best of it.” “What if that is not his place?” “Then we shall know in under an hour and carry on and our horses will go faster for the rest.” She swung down from the pony to continue their dispute and almost lost her footing, slithering on a mess of damp leaves. Flailing, she was caught by Magnus, who set her neatly on her feet. “These clothes are strange to me,” she said, smacking her youth’s tunic in disgust. She did not meet his eyes for fear she might wish to kick his calves, or worse, laugh at her own folly. Still, should he have chosen for me? Is that fair? Yet he acknowledges my power, so that is something. “An hour?” she demanded, still without meeting his eyes. “One hour only,” Magnus answered. “So we may scout and plan. I will send a rider or two out first, so we know the lie of the land, be

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sure we have our man.” She closed her eyes and nodded. Not expecting to relax, she sat down on the road in a circle with the others, tending the small fire that one of the squires had lit. Within moments, thawed out by the warmth and the mead, she fell asleep, her head resting against Magnus’s shoulder. She opened her eyes. She lay on a great bed, its covers and canopy stretching off into the distance, and the white sheets were softer and paler than thistledown. Christina slept beside her, her thumb in her mouth and her blonde hair heaped over the pillows. She looked healthy, with a faint pink glow to her cheeks and lips. Her brow was smooth, her hands white as a lady’s, and she snored slightly, in comfort. She was robed in a black gown, dyed a rich, costly black, the black of princes. The scooped bodice and tight sleeves and short train looked lovely on her, Elfrida thought. She lowered her head and kissed her sister’s fingers. “Wake, my darling, you are safe. I am so glad to see you, so very happy.” A lark felt to be singing inside her breast, and summer had come. A sweet, fresh scent of herbs—“lady’s bedstraw”—drifted across the bed. Elfrida brushed Christina’s hair, shyly aware of her own workreddened hands. “Wake up, darling.” “Not until I signal her,” said a new figure by the bed, “But she was the honey to snare you, and now that I have you—” Elfrida clung to her sister and prayed to the Virgin Mary, prayed for both of them to be safely carried away, but when the scene changed it was far from her liking. She was still on the bed, but she was prone on the slippery, shimmering sheets, bound hand and foot to the bedposts, and nude. “Do not touch me,” she warned, straining and thrashing against the tight knots at her ankles and wrists. She was facedown on the covers, her head pressed into a pillow, her breath half smothered in her throat. She shook her head and shrieked as she felt her hair almost yanked from its roots by an unseen fist, but she kept shifting and

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kicking out, determined to break free, determined to fight. “Face me, coward!” she howled, gagging as her face was hammered harder into the slimy cloth. A fat cushion was thrust beneath her hips, raising her bottom, exposing her secret parts, and she could not squirm off it. Crooked and spread fingers raked across her back and up her legs, marking her. A thin hand and whip-like fingers dropped onto the tops of her thighs, the half caress scraping along her flesh and painful as a fresh graze. She spat out a mouthful of cloth and hair and reared up again. “Stop it!” The witch in her ached to do battle, the woman in her was horrified by the brutal shock of this intimate attack. Appalled by her own helplessness, she almost froze for an instant, before anger boiled in her afresh. “No! Stop, I say!” Coarse laughter punched into her ears, ignoring her denial. “You are mine, Snow Bride.” The bed creaked as the figure sprawled beside her. “I am going to take you and enjoy you...” “Elfrida!” Magnus called to her, and she struggled to open her eyes, shed herself of the nightmare. “Elfrida, it is all right, you are safe. You are safe. You are with me.” He was holding her close, lifting her to gather her onto his lap. “Just a bad dream, beloved,” he reassured, stroking her arms and stiffened limbs. “Only a dream.” “He was going to rape me.” Elfrida felt clammy and sick and could not stop shuddering. “He boasted of it.” She felt Magnus start, then shudder, although his voice when he spoke was mild. “It was a night terror, brought on by dread for your sister.” Elfrida nodded, forcing herself to believe it. She did not want to consider what would have happened had she not woken when she did or if Denzil had succeeded in having her, even in a dream. “I fought as hard as I could. I kicked him! I would have bitten him, too.” “My teeth are better for that, Elfrida! I will bite out his heart and take pleasure in it.” Magnus took her face between his warm hands

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and kissed her eyelids. “Sweeting, you won over him. You fought to the last and won. It is not in you to stop fighting! I know—who else knows better?” His fierce love for her and utter pride in her were both sweeter than balm, and more warming. He had not scolded her for yelling, nor berated her for her horror, and now he kept his arms wrapped snugly around her. Around them, the men busied themselves by passing round the flasks of ale and mead. Elfrida sat for a moment longer in quiet, watching the fire and waiting for her heartbeat to grow steady. “He does not truly know me, Magnus,” she said at length. “Or me, and that will work for us.” He signed the sign of the cross gently over her breast and then firmly over his heart. “I promise you now, he shall never hurt you again. He shall never touch you again, be he one or a thousand.” She believed him. **** When he was a squire, Magnus had called the waiting, watchful time before any attack, charge, or battle “graveyard time.” Just before a battle, he felt like a corpse on the point of burial—everything was over but the final rites. He would check his weapons and horse, listen for danger, feel the wind on his face, and know that for the moment he could do nothing. As a knight, his attitude had changed. His graveyard time had become “the enemy’s,” with the opposition fluttering and lost before he dispatched them into hell. He felt an iron certainty and savored the brief peace before the tumult. Now matters had changed again, because of Elfrida. In any forthcoming strife, her safety was paramount. And she would insist on riding with him. She would never stay behind, not with her sister in danger. Once, he might have knocked her out, as he had done with

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Walter, and let her scold after, when he had returned with Christina. He had learned better since their first meeting. If I do that, I will lose her afterwards. She would never trust me again, and with good reason. I promised her she would be my equal, and here is where I must make good that vow. She expects to come, as is her right—it is her sister who is captive! She would say I need her, too, and maybe she is right there, for I am no necromancer. But it is so hard! She was so brave and loyal and knightly in all her ways. He adored her for her courage and loved her for her caring. The gruesome dread of her being harmed in any way burned in his guts. I cannot lose her. Nothing will matter if I lose her. He looked down at her, half dozing on his lap. He traced the small veins on her throat, watching the tender pulse in her neck. He relished the way her small, supple body fitted against his. Her youth’s clothes amused him, since he had heard tales of lasses running to war after their soldier sweethearts, and here in his arms was his own girlwarrior, sleeping. No, he was mistaken, she was praying, her words a whisper, meant for the saints and spirits. Her battle preparation. Is it not time for you to do yours, Magnus? He kissed the top of her head and began to check his weapons. Sharpening his knives, he heard a single shout and knew the scout had returned. The young man, a squire, was spurring his horse and leaning low over its neck, eager to share his news. “Pie,” said Elfrida incomprehensibly, clicking her tongue in apparent satisfaction. With her eyes wide and her head held high, she looked as excited as the rapidly closing squire. Pie? I suppose she means Baldwin. As one, he and Elfrida rose together to hear what Baldwin had to say.

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Chapter 29 Pie, revealed as Baldwin, was an excellent spy, Elfrida realized with a good deal of surprise. Having known him only as a young man intent on food, she was startled to find he was an able rider and a careful watcher. He described the stone tower he had ridden to in great detail, all the while assuring Magnus that he had not been spotted. “There were rooks and ravens roosting in the trees about the tower, and none of them raised any warning cries,” Baldwin said, speaking slowly when he realized that Magnus was translating for her. “I dismounted over a bowshot’s length back from the tower and crept closer on foot to make certain no man or beast saw me. I would swear on a wall of bibles that no one saw me come or go.” “Any tracks leading out of there going south to the wooden tower?” Magnus asked, guessing that question would be foremost in her mind. “None recent for sure, my lord. The place is hip deep in snow, and no rider or man seems to have set foot in it.” Elfrida let out a long breath, daring to hope more strongly for Christina. Joseph Denzil’s tools of magic seemed to be within the wooden tower, and he would surely need to take her sister there for any final ritual. Unless I am mistaken and he has another plan entirely. “How are you certain it is Joseph’s tower?” Magnus asked, translating his question to her, so she would know everything. Baldwin smiled broadly, showing a chipped tooth. “The entrance door is of stout oak and strong, new, bronze nails—”

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“Bronze?” Magnus interrupted in tones of deep suspicion. “I believe so.” Magnus turned to her. “Why bronze?” “It is not iron,” Elfrida said simply. “Remember what I told you, that iron is for Christ?” Magnus nodded once, sharply, then motioned to Baldwin to continue. “Is there more?” “Indeed there is more, my lord—my lady,” he added, bowing to her. “Say on, Baldwin,” said Magnus, clearly impatient with all this courtesy. “Ah, yes, my lord, well, truth to tell, the door was painted over with several knightly devices and symbols, all very bright.” He counted off on his gloved fingers. “The letters J and D. A golden circle and flower on the right-hand side of the door, a silver circle and a pearl depicted on the left-hand side of the door, and above all a fivepointed star.” Elfrida saw the painted door in the eye of her mind, and the roosting rooks, the squat stone tower hung about with ice and moss. She saw the great door opening in answer to her wishes, the snow spilling to either side. “We have him,” Magnus hissed, breaking the spell of her thoughts. “Who else could it be?” He clapped Baldwin so hard on the shoulder that the lad swayed, and then he beckoned to the others. Seeing him energized, ready to move, Elfrida sent a heartfelt wish that he look at her. When he did so, she drew him aside from the busy throng of squires and soldiers, some brushing down their horses, some stamping out the fire, others sinking a last draft of mead. “Yes, lass?” Magnus asked, leaning against a fallen oak. “I have a suggestion.” Elfrida stopped, hesitating. She did not want to say “plan” in case Magnus thought she was taking over the attack, but she was encouraged when he nodded.

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“If we go like Baldwin and travel carefully, without alarming man or beast—” “Or bird,” Magnus put in, grinning. “Aye, go on, Elfrida, I am listening.” “If we reach the stone tower, then you could go on alone, right to the main entrance.” She stopped when Magnus raised his black eyebrows, but he still smiled and listened, so after a breath she went on, “You could be a traveler, lost in the forest, who collapses within sight of possible shelter.” “I ride almost to his doorway and pitch off into the snow? And why should a man like Joseph care? Would he not leave me to freeze?” “But if he thinks you are worth a ransom?” She waited, her fingernails clawing into her own palms, as Magnus assessed the risks. “We know he is arrogant,” she added. “And the spices he has are all costly, so you as a rich traveler might prove a tempting prize.” Magnus glanced at her shrewdly. “There is more to this, Elfrida. Your idea has worth, but I sense you are keeping something back.” “But you think that would draw him out, as you yourself suggested?” He gave a rumble of laughter. “Yes, I think it could, but come, Elfrida, spit out the rest! You are trying too hard to ease me.” She clasped her hands to stop herself wildly gesturing. She gulped in a long breath, praying her voice would not crack. She had to be calm, focused as a burning lens. Feeling her amulet for luck rocking gently between her breasts, she began. “If, as you say, it would work for you, Magnus, would it not also work for me? I could be a traveler, lost in the forest. A female, redhaired traveler.” She lowered her head and braced herself for his reaction. ****

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She undoes me by my own arguments! Magnus thought. I have already partly agreed to this wild plan with me as the stricken traveler, so why is it worse if she takes my place? If I say, “You are a woman,” she will answer that it makes the plan more perfect, or something like it. “It will be dangerous,” he said, then regretted the weak response. When had danger put her off? “Surely there will be less danger,” she gabbled, still staring down at her feet. “He is obsessed with finding a redhead, and there I will be.” “Will he not find that too convenient?” “Not if I allow him to discover what I am.” “We have no women’s garb.” He snatched at the excuse, pleased with it. “Surely that is better, my lord? If I am a lone traveler, would I not dress as a man?” “And if he sticks an arrow in you before he realizes you are a girl?” Magnus growled. “When I pretend to swoon, I will allow my hair to tumble loose.” “Always an answer,” Magnus muttered, wondering why he was even entertaining this ridiculous notion. “He may assault you.” He felt her shiver and knew she was thinking of her nightmare. “I am not helpless,” she said stiffly. “No you are not, and I will move against him, but the threat is there.” “He will want to take me inside first.” “And if he does not? Would you risk rape?” he asked gently. She shuddered but spoke strongly, “You say yourself it will not come to that, and we must get in! I must find Christina!” “How long will you have to lie upon the snow?” Magnus demanded, knowing it was impossible to persuade Elfrida against her sister’s welfare. “An hour, two, a day?”

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She shook her head impatiently. “Why should it be for long? He will not consider me a threat, and we shall draw him out.” “Why is that important, drawing him out? If he is one man, I can take him down easily, and if he has men, it is still no great matter.” “Yes, sir, but within his castle, his home?” Magnus clamped his teeth together on the obvious retort that why should that matter? He was remembering the last time he had disregarded Elfrida’s warnings and lumbered into an attack of the wooden tower. His hasty charge had made more problems, which his witch had been forced to work hard to solve. And Joseph is another just like her. He was aware of a strange, new idea, hovering slightly out of reach of his thoughts. As a warrior he relied on his wits, strength, horse, and weapons. Places were important as refuges and shelters, to be defended or attacked, but no castle ever slid off its own motte and lurched into the fray. A man-built tower can have traps within it, but its walls are not riddled with malice. Yet does the same hold true for a necromancer’s house? Think of a church, a building yet also a house of God. You would not go lightly into a church, Magnus. “Do you feel strongest as a witch in your house?” “Yes, yes!” As she answered she lifted her head. Relief shone in her face, showing him that he was finally thinking right. “And you think the same will be true for him?” “I do. So if we take your plan and draw him out of his home, it will go well. And we are still before the solstice, within three days, as my magic promised.” “My plan, eh? Yes, that may be safer for your sister and the others, too,” Magnus conceded, amused to catch her blushing. “What? Had you forgotten the rest of the missing brides?” “Not a bit! Well, perhaps a little of late.” She blushed more fiercely, and he liked and loved her for that frailty and for admitting her all-too-human forgetfulness.

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“We shall get them all out,” he promised. He disliked the plan but could tell her heart was set on it. And if he was to show Elfrida he loved her, he had to prove to her that he respected her. She has always respected me. As much as her love, he wanted to keep her respect, for one flowed into the other and back. If she were a man I would not question it. All said, she was the witch, not him. Anything that weakened Joseph Denzil was good, and they would have the element of surprise. Remember those ambushes that you and Peter would spring out on the roads and tracks in Outremer, when one would play the wounded soldier and the other and our men would lie in wait? We won a few skirmishes by that ploy. “I will be very close,” he vowed. “Very close, but I have one condition.” She flashed him a look, as if she wanted to ask, “Only one?” but wisely said nothing. She gave a vast yawn and mumbled, “Forgive me, I am paying attention.” “Then you will heed me when I say that I will choose the place where you pretend to swoon. I know the tactics of land fights and ambushes.” She nodded quickly, her amber eyes brightening. “Yes, Magnus, I understand. I will do as you suggest.” She gasped as Magnus swung her into his arms. “Elfling! Pretending to be good now you have your own way.” “But I will obey you, sir.” “I know.” He kissed her, feeling her excitement and also her overtaut weariness. Later, when they had Christina safe, he would also deal with Elfrida in his own way, he thought, feeling his backache and aching left leg eased by that pleasant prospect. He knew, though, that everyone was short of sleep and prone to make mistakes. “You will do exactly as I say.” Still uneasy with the plan, still

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wishing Elfrida were not so blessedly independent, still hoping he could think of an alternative to get Joseph Denzil out of his lair, he began to outline how they would proceed. It was midday when they reached the stone keep and Elfrida saw the great entrance door for herself, with its telling symbols and letters. There had been no more falling snow and no alarms, and when she closed her eyes and concentrated, she had no sense of any malevolence. For a heart-stopping instant she was afraid that their enemy and Christina were not here, but then two new voices sounded like small bells within her mind, young, scared voices, begging for help. He has brought his other victims to this tower, his securest place, before he takes them on to the final wooden tower. Surely he lacks only the fourth maid, the redheaded maiden? The idea swept the weariness from her spirits and limbs like an elixir, and as Magnus asked, rather tersely, “All quiet?” she was smiling. “Yes, sir,” she replied, aware he was finding this whole plan difficult. She was not sure if she asked too much of him, but she was grateful he was willing to stand back, if only for a little. “Good. Quiet here as well.” Magnus nodded his handsome-butscarred head at the clearing in which the tower was set. “The snow has helped us, for men and beasts linger indoors, and sounds do not travel in this weather.” He had ensured their approach was quiet, too, instructing each man to check his weapons and disguise or tie down anything loose or metal that might clash or reflect the pale sunlight. He had done the same with the ponies and horses, clumping moss or strips of cloth around stirrups, saddles and bridles. They had moved cautiously for the last half mile, keeping off the smooth, straight road and winding through the woodland. And it had worked. Elfrida wanted to fling her arms around Magnus as far as they would go and tell him how proud she was of

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him, how resourceful and patient she found him. But the hours were edging away, and Joseph had to be tempted from his tower. Magnus made a downward sign with his arm, and she dismounted, lying flat on the crisp snow. The other men had also dismounted and were hiding in the trees. Only she and Magnus worked their way closer. She followed his swift yet measured progress, dipping between trees and bushes and banks of snow, working to remain hidden from the tower. Crawling and worming sideways and forwards, they came within a spear’s cast distance of the entrance, and even she could faintly make out the symbols on the door. Had her belly not been numb with cold and her mind burning with fear for Christina, Elfrida might have cheered. Magnus rolled across a bare section of rock and flung himself beneath the cover of a blackberry bush. The bush rocked slightly, and snow drifted, then all was still. He turned and motioned ahead of them both, and she knew what he meant. Their eyes met. His were dark with strain. “I will go gladly in your place,” he said softly. She shook her head. “I must do this.” However strange her plan, however unnatural, she knew it was their best chance to trick Joseph Denzil, to catch him off-guard. “I must, for Christina.” She must, too, not only for her sister. Danger hovered like a miasma in this seemingly peaceful clearing, and above all she wanted Magnus safe. In any battle using magic, he would have only the advantage of surprise and strength against their enemy, who might summon a demon on the spot to devour him. Again she understood how hard it must be for him to let her go. His steadfastness awed her. She smiled for him alone, the moment theirs, inviolate, and then she rose off her knees and tottered out into the clear, clean snow. She had chosen to walk and not ride these final steps because then she did not need to worry about the horse, and she could “faint” and fall exactly how and where she chose. Unless Denzil is suspicious and shoots an arrow into me.

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She dragged the rough woolen cap off her head, deliberately spilling her loosened hair. No youth she knew wore his hair so long— that is what she had confidentially assured Magnus. Now, easing her already cooling feet through the thick coverlets of snow before the stone tower, she felt very small and exposed. She spun about, deliberately awkwardly and heavily, spotting Magnus’s grin and nod of encouragement and, above his hiding place, the overarching trees, their snow-white branches dotted with roosting, dark birds, too far distant for her to recognize. She turned around again, the fallen snow clinging to her legs. I may perish of cold first, if Denzil lingers too long deciding. But she had done what she could to keep warm. Over her youth’s clothes she had Baldwin’s undertunic, shyly offered to her, and Magnus’s undertunic, dropped over her head with the rough words, “No dispute! Wear it!” She also wore other items, offered by Magnus’s men—shoes, extra leggings, mittens with the thumb missing—and looked sturdier than she had ever done, but still, she hoped, a woman wearing a boy’s costume for traveling. And I am afraid. Where is the necromancer? Will he know me as the one he calls his Snow Bride? Should I have warned Magnus of that? No, that is secret, witch business. She hoped Joseph Denzil had no wolf familiar, or any great beast. To counter devils, she had dried sprays of rosemary and an amulet that had been dipped in the holy tears of the Magdalene, given to her by her mother. She had wanted to pass the small copper trinket to Magnus, only her mother had told her only women could wear it. Now, with her crucifix and her moon sign, it would be part of her sacred shield. And I know I am fussing because I am afraid. The snow yielded a little more under her shuffling feet. She took it as a good omen and sank to the frozen ground, falling sideways so she came to rest on Magnus’s leather cloak. She lay in a patch of sunlight, feeling a light breeze stroke against her face, and prepared to wait.

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She closed her eyes but dared not sleep—those who fell asleep in snow rarely woke again. Instead, she strained her hearing to its utmost and clenched her hands within their mittens. She worked and twitched her toes within their alien shoes and tensed the muscles of her legs and arms, trying not to stiffen. Across the clearing, she wondered what Magnus could see and hear, if he was also keeping limber, and hoped it would not be long. She became aware of a dampness under her cheek where the snow was melting due to the warmth of her face. Soon the damp turned to a chill, then an ache, then a dull throbbing, worse than a toothache. She tried to divert herself by imagining huge fires and listing all the cures for bad teeth. Despite her movements, her limbs began to shiver. She felt a fierce itch in her nose and sneezed violently, setting a new ache flaring down her spine and ribs. The shadow of the stone tower loomed above her head, making her face and neck even colder. He will not emerge until the shadow envelopes me, she thought, in some despair. Her mind was growing as sluggish as her body. She could scarcely feel her feet, even with their brave borrowed shoes. But Joseph Denzil has not set dogs or devils on me yet, and he does not control the weather as I feared, or else it would surely be snowing again. She drummed her fingers against her thighs, rolling her head slightly so her face no longer rested on compacted snow. A cold point, wet as a dog’s nose, smeared onto her forehead. The shadow of the tower chilled her back, making her wish she had drunk more mead earlier. A sly breeze danced across her legs and made its home in her lap like an unwelcome pet. She began to crave noise and signs of life, true warmth like the hot deserts of Outremer that Magnus had spoken of so eloquently during their grim pilgrimage to this spot. Hoping to see him, she half opened her eyes, her eyelids feeling as if they were coated in dusty cobwebs. It was snowing again, large, powdery flakes that burst on her

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gloved hands and face and slowly, inexorably, drifted across her body. Will he wait until I am covered? Is he even here? Am I mistaken? She thought of the small bag of salt and wormwood leaves tied around her neck and wondered if she should have placed a salt and wormwood circle of protection around herself and Magnus. But Denzil, if he were watching, would have spotted that at once and recognized her as a witch. Magic lies in the will. Elfrida knew that, deep within her blood and bones, and that wisdom kept her still, pinned on the frozen ground like a trapped fly in resin on a pine tree, as she allowed her anger to build. He is no good host, like the rest of his wretched kindred. He leaves me out in a snowstorm for his own safety and comfort, because he is no true knight. What is he, this Joseph Denzil? A master of no craft. He dabbles at knighthood but is of so small renown that Sir Magnus does not remember him in Outremer. He is or was a cleric but a cleric without the core of faith. He has a power of magic but too much pride. He assumes he is safe, that I am nothing but a bride of snow for him and that his dark workings within the wooden tower with the blue door cannot be touched. I have fire I can use against the tower... Snow blew against her legs and dropped chilly into her tunic. She flexed her toes within her borrowed shoes and vowed to keep still. “Elfrida?” She opened her eyes and with a mittened finger, drew the sign of the cross in the snow, so Magnus would know she thrived. “How much longer?” he whispered. She gave her hand a small warning shake, and to her relief he heeded her. You have lost with that ploy, Joseph Denzil, so come out. In truth, she did not know if Magnus had been inspired by Denzil or by his own warrior nature and concern, but with the evoking of her

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own will, her witch instincts were in play. She knew it would not be long. The shadow of the tower struck across all of her now, cold as a bar of metal. She wanted to shiver and clapped her hands together, but forced herself to be unmoving. She heard a distant flutter of wings and knew the roosting birds were flying, whether for themselves or for some task of the necromancer’s, she could not tell. Snow piled against her eyelids and mouth. She clenched her teeth and waited some more. Off in the swirls of snow, she heard a soft rustle as Magnus shifted beneath his bramble cover. Poor love, he must be so very cold. At first she thought she had misheard it, the sound was so faint, but Magnus had stopped moving at once. She lifted her head a little and listened as hard as she could. The wind, with a bite to it, gnawed her ears. Below that, she caught the snick and clatter of a large key within a lock. For an instant, like a flash of lightning, she thought she saw a gleam of metal deep within the bramble bush and guessed Magnus was preparing. Would he allow her to deal with Joseph Denzil’s magic, or would he charge again as he had at the wooden tower? He is learning, as he told you. Trust him. Behind her, making her back itch, she heard the great door creak, then a hiss of parting snow. She tried to stay loose limbed as she listened to the crunch of feet on snow, snow that was virgin, unmarked, because no one had left the stone tower before today. One pair of feet, Elfrida reasoned, set within boots. Human, then, she thought, trying to make a jest of it, though when she tried to grin, her cold face hurt too much. An older human, from the steady, slightly rasping breaths. A narrow, booted foot pushed at her, and she rolled, the better to face her tormentor. She did not make the mistake of trying to look at him, not yet. Please Magnus, please be still, too.

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The stranger spoke. “Be awake for me.” It was the dialect of her own village, of Top Yarr, and Elfrida prayed that her eyelids had not flickered, that she had not given herself away. He knows who I am! No, he may not, he is merely testing. “Are you the one I have been waiting for, my redhead?” This was in the dialect of Great Yarr, and so one she easily understood. She also knew another, vital thing—if this was Joseph Denzil, the necromancer, the Forest Grendel, he did not know who she was or what she was. A long, thin hand plucked at a handful of her hair. Elfrida endured the pawing, warning herself not to scream. She felt the eddy of air as he straddled her, a foot on either side of her body. Was he about to stab her, urinate on her, drag her into the tower? Tensed so fiercely that she felt another notch of tension would shatter her body like a Roman-glass chalice flung against stone, she could no longer resist the compulsion to look. Dark-blue eyes bored into hers. For the rest, it was a haze of impressions, like trying to catch and hold smoke: a long, hooked nose, gray hair and beard, domed, lined forehead, gaunt, pallid cheeks. “Are you ill, Joseph?” she found herself asking, not questioning why she was right to speak. He blinked once then grinned, his thin lips almost disappearing alongside the blackened stumps of his teeth. His breath was rank. “You know my name.” “I do.” Elfrida would not tell him hers and had no chance to. Joseph was already talking, victory ripe in his every word. “I am dying, peasant, but you give me the means of life.” “As your Snow Bride?” Her question rocked him. His pallid cheeks colored as if she had struck them, but then his skinny mouth turned down at the corners. “Red hair, yes, red for fire and desire, but I was promised beauty, red hair, blue eyes, a virgin lady born and bred.” He glared down at

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her, suspicion and distaste warring across his face. “You know so much. The spirit must have sent you, but you cannot be the one, although your voice...it is familiar. I was promised a virgin lady, a lady born and bred! Unless the spirit tricked me...” His long complaint turned into a mutter, as if he talked only to himself, and Elfrida said nothing, sensing more pent-up words flying up behind those blackened stumps of teeth. “The hair, the voice, the beauty, yes, but the eyes are wrong.” He speaks of me as if I am a doll. In all our encounters in the world between the spirit world, he did not learn me at all. Even in his own wishes and desires, I was never his Snow Bride. And why am I a little sorry and hurt over that? I have been rejected by a necromancer who wants to suck out the lives of others to extend his own, who plans to sacrifice my sister. But Joseph was still grumbling and casting explanations for himself. “The way of the spirits is not ours. Perhaps the eyes will change after the ritual, for the spirit promised blue eyes for my Snow Bride. The blonde I have, she has blue eyes.” Elfrida stifled her exclamation of relief that Christina was still alive. “Is she with you?” she asked, making her voice very gentle. “She sleeps within,” he answered to her prompt, looking round to the stone tower. He glanced down at her again. “But how do you know her?” His blue eyes sharpened and narrowed. “Who are you, peasant?” Without waiting for her reply he lunged for her with his thin, attenuated hands, aiming for her throat as he chanted a charm in Latin, the language of clerics. Elfrida flung up her arm to block his reaching fingers and answered in her own tongue, “By salt and wormwood and the rood, begone! None of yours shall harm me or mine!” Her spell stopped his chant, and his mouth changed to a snarl. He struck at her again, his fist closing on her face. She saw the clenched

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fingers and the sparkle of the rings on his hand and was mute and numb, her body frozen as if already buried in the falling snow. Closer the bright glare of rings approached, and she tried to move her head that suddenly felt as heavy as a catapult ball. Unable to stir, she watched her fate come and determined not to close her eyes. The glare spun and fell away. Joseph Denzil collapsed on top of her, and she scrambled desperately to be free of him, kicking out and yelling. In a sprawl of arms and legs he was dragged off her and then thrown into the snow, splaying across the white like a huge spider. “Did he touch you?” Magnus was wrapping her in his own cloak and lifting her clear. “Elfrida, did that creature hurt you?” “No, not at all,” she mumbled, events moving so fast that even her foresight could not keep pace. “Magnus, are you hurt?” She began to pat him, to check he was real and whole. “Never fret!” Magnus caught her hand and kissed it. “Let us get you away.” “You do not need to keep carrying me,” Elfrida protested, trying to see past Magnus’s shoulder. “What happened?” “I might ask the same of you, my girl, especially when you and he began talking.” **** Magnus resisted the strong impulse to keep striding off with her. More than anything, he longed to find a secret shelter for them both and tend her until she stopped shivering. Her eyes were dark with shock and pain, and she looked to have aged twenty years, with new lines on her forehead. She clung to him quite unconsciously, and he was glad to let her, though his heart stung at the way her knuckles were so white. “He called me peasant.” “Aye, I thought I recognized that, and he did it a second time,” Magnus said gruffly. That was when he had decided things had gone

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on for long enough and he must act. “How did you stop him?” Magnus sighed and shook his head. “We stopped him, Elfrida. You fought your way, and I fought with mine.” He had kept out of the magic in case his earthy intervention put his witch off her battle stroke, but when the fellow had gone for her like a brawler in an alehouse, he had reacted at once. To try to strike a woman! What a hideous thing he was! He felt her shudder again. “Is he dead?” Who cares? No, Magnus thought. She deserves an honest answer. “I checked the throw. He is stunned.” If need be, we can question Joseph further. She raised her head from the crook of his shoulder. “Throw?” He smiled. He always had some pebbles somewhere about him, tucked in corner of a robe or tunic, and since boyhood he’d had a good arm. “A stone, my heart. It was the fastest way.” She began to kick slightly in his arms. “We have to find Christina and the others.” He released her, and before he guessed what she would do, she sprinted straight for the gaping door. His “Wait!” fell on unhearing ears. Elfrida’s passionate blood was roused, and she was careless of anything but her sister. But he was not— “Guard that!” he bawled to his men and set off himself, blundering and slipping in his haste. He ignored the snow kicked in his face by Elfrida’s racing feet, and the falling snow prickling along his eyes. He fixed on the open entrance and charged. Reach her before she gets to the doorway! You must! But his redhead was quick and heartsore for her sister. She sped along the snow where he sank in it, and she had a start on him of a longsword’s length. He kept his mouth shut and sprinted as fast as he could, his breath searing his lungs. Once his hand almost closed on her arm, but she snarled at him,

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thinking he was trying to go first, which he was, but not for the reasons she might think. “Stop!” he rasped, leaping forward again with all his muscles straining, his legs blazing with the effort. Splendor in Christendom, give her a cramp! Perhaps a saint heard his desperate inward plea, for she stumbled on the threshold, and he hauled her back just as her right foot hammered onto the space beyond the doorway. The “floor,” which Elfrida had assumed was nothing but ice and snow, snapped away. She was left hanging above a hidden trapdoor, her feet kicking in empty space. He clung on as she plummeted, his good arm coiled about her middle, and pivoted his weight back. For an instant they seesawed wildly as the power of her sprint spent itself through his already aching back and thighs, and then the dragging on his arms eased, and he could draw her back. “Thank you,” she panted when she had breath enough to speak. “I charged then, did I not? And you warned—I am sorry, Magnus.” “We are quit.” He growled. She looked young again and very pretty, her color roused and her eyes bright. In contrast, he felt as if he had slogged a thousand miles in full armor. Nothing would have pleased him more than to keep his good witch in his arms and sleep. Elfrida, steady on her feet by now, hooked a narrow but deceptively strong arm around his middle. “How did you know of the trap?” Trying to support me, he thought with amusement, but he answered her mildly, “War is one of my skills. And the Denzils had a love of traps and killing holes in the East. I have been watching out for something like this.” “Thank you,” Elfrida repeated. Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a kiss, soft as a kiss of peace, but warmer. “I am deep in your debt,” she whispered. He nodded, thinking of ways she might repay. Meanwhile, Joseph Denzil was stunned. Even a wretch like

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Joseph should stay supine for a good half day, but still Magnus wanted Elfrida to be outside the tower before nightfall. “We need to go on,” he said, “but carefully. I will go first, understand?” Why am I even taking her along? Because she is Elfrida, and I am learning. “Tread where I tread. Stop when I tell you. There can be snares.” “Yes, sir,” she replied, all meek and mild but with a gleam in her eyes. “Christina?” she prompted, serious again. “We shall find her safe! But Elfrida—” He stooped to stare directly into her eyes, hoping that his scarred face looked as brutal and ugly as she had yet seen it. “We must go softly. If there is a guard, I do not want that guard to panic. He must know that his survival depends on your sister being whole and well, that he will die, and die badly, if she is harmed. That is what I will say in the tower, in all the languages I know. You should call, too, call to your sister, but gently.” He kissed her softly and prepared to go on.

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Chapter 30 When she watched Magnus staring up into the dark ceiling space of the tower before taking more than a step inside, Elfrida wondered what he was seeking. “Some gatehouses in castles have murder spots,” he explained, correctly interpreting her bewilderment. “Murder spots?” “No, that is the wrong word. I mean murder places, holes! Murder holes. Gaps in the roof where defenders can pelt attackers with missiles.” He shrugged and took another step into the tower, skirting the trapdoor. “I thought it unlikely that a tower as old and small as this would have such refinements, but it seemed wise to make sure.” But who is here to defend? Elfrida thought. Longing to yell out for Christina, she wanted to hurry up the inner stone staircase, but Magnus had taught her the folly of it. He is right, too, for war is his craft. She stared at his broad back. He was shifting softly, his feet almost soundless on the stone flags. “Hola! We shall not harm you! Come out, and you will go free!” he called out. He said more, or possibly the same, in several languages and dialects, finishing with what to her sounded suspiciously like threats—certainly his shadowed profile by then was grim. Turning back to her, he beckoned. “Christina? Sister, are you here?” What if this is a final feint by Joseph and she is not here? That will be terrible, for if Christina is not here I do not know where she is! Will she yet be saved? Please, by all the good spirits, let it be so! They paused, listening.

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“I can hear breathing, very slow and quiet, as if there is a sleeper within,” Magnus remarked, after a space. “Do you sense anything?” She wondered at his sharp hearing and tried to concentrate. It was hard, knowing Christina might be so close and still not safe. She hated the idea of her gentle sister being held hostage—Christina would almost die of fear. Finally, to still the tumult within her, she closed her eyes. Let me see. Let me know if there is a soul or spirit here. She caught it then, a sense of wickedness, creating a bad taste in her throat. She could hear the sleeper now, but there was something else hidden in this tower, and it was not wholesome. Still with her eyes closed, she stepped ahead of Magnus, feeling his start of surprise as she brushed past him. She heard another faint sound, high in the tower, like the hiss of a loosened ribbon. In her mind she saw trees with threads slung between them, and she understood. “This is surely the middle of the web, of those ropes and ribbons we found,” she murmured. “He must have used them to warn of approaching danger or strangers, but my cutting a thread, yes, it should have disturbed the others, although I was careful in my cutting. So did he not notice anything amiss?” “Perhaps he knew and did not care.” Elfrida, her eyes still closed, shook her head. “No, I am certain he did not know. Maybe he did not have the time or inclination to check these threads. He was too sure of his system, or of his power.” “Typical cleric, typical Denzil,” observed Magnus laconically, but she pressed a hand against his shoulder, and he fell silent at once. “Evil has been here, certainly,” she said softly. “Its taint surrounds us. I am not sure if it is still here.” She opened her eyes, scanning the tower. It was midnight-dark inside, with empty wall sconces and no torches. Was that arrogance and idleness again, or could Joseph Denzil see in the night? The stone staircase was narrow and off to one side, with a heavy oak ceiling

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above hers and Magnus’s heads. From the dim light of the doorway she noticed sprays of mistletoe hung from the wall sconces, their berries glistening like distant, clouded moons. There seemed to be nothing else she could see, at least on the ground floor, no fireplace, no stacked weapons, no barrels of food or wine. But a sleeper is here, so food is needed. She almost edged forward before the sour taste in her mouth reminded her to take great care. “Will you throw a pebble or something on the floor?” she whispered to Magnus. “Nothing easier.” Magnus flipped a pebble from his tunic and began calling again. “Come down! There is food and drink and safety for you! Leave the womenfolk alive and whole and come! I swear by all the saints that if you do that, you shall not be harmed! Be a man with honor! Let your prisoners alone and come!” His voice echoed in the tower, then, after the rattle of the pebble on the floor, she heard the deadly rasp of metal on metal issuing from the flagstones. Magnus, shouting still but with raised brows, struck a spark and lit a rough ball of cloth ripped from his tunic. By the flare of that brief light, Elfrida could just make out the metal snares and scythes, blade and nails and sharp wooden stakes, all heaped before the staircase. Had she followed her yearning and rushed on, she would have run full tilt into them. “We need torches,” Magnus said, and he retreated to the door. **** Making torches, lighting them, took some little time. Magnus could sense Elfrida’s tension and almost see her fears tearing at her like the harpies preyed on their hapless victims in the old tales that he had heard around campfires in Outremer. She stayed within the tower, calling encouragement to Christina and praying aloud, “To cleanse this space,” she told him. She did not attempt to move farther than the

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few steps they had come from the threshold, for which he was grateful. “Your sister must be sleeping deeply,” he said when she fell silent and despondent after no replies. “It is the time of winter dark and solid slumber.” “Or she is drugged,” Elfrida answered. Once he spotted her gazing at him, a cool, farsighted, assessing stare. Where he considered pits and traps, she concerned herself with magical dangers. He knew she felt responsible for his safety, a strange and queer reversal of nature to him, but one he accepted that he could not shake her from. All will be better with more light, he told himself, fending off a vague feeling of being watched. Baldwin finally brought two spitting torches. Magnus told the youth to keep up and took a torch from him. “Do you stay here?” he asked Elfrida. She shook her head—he had not expected otherwise—and he put her between himself and Baldwin. Leading the way, Magnus began to pick a careful path across the nails and snares and wooden stakes, walking steadily and lifting his feet high. All the while, puffing like a small, furious dragon at his back, he could hear Elfrida and sense her taut, barely reined-in impatience. She fairly bristled with it. Not far and all will be well, he wanted to say to comfort her, but he said nothing, for they had reached the stairs, and it might not be true. Gray, narrow, worn, and unlit, the stairs were also slimy on certain treads. Spilled oil or melted candle wax? he speculated, calling out softly in the old tongue and his own dialect, so Baldwin would know, “Grease, here, step over.” He did not lower his torch. Some things were best left as a mystery. “Christina, you are safe, beloved. Walter is waiting for you, and all is prepared for your return.” Elfrida was becoming more urgent and desperate in her wishes. He longed to shield her from this trial but knew it was impossible.

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She is a warrior of magic, besides, and a warrior always faces things. She would never forgive me if I kept her out of this. Yet it was so ponderous, step after step, climbing in the dark, with the stair walls and roof feeling to close in around them, pressing down and choking... Unless that is just me. Since early youth he had loathed shut-in places, which was why in any siege he had always volunteered for any digging or mining. Now the disgusting, spineless fears of his boyhood shook down the backs of his legs. If Christina is dead, will Elfrida blame me? No, she will not.. He trod on an object that cracked and slithered beneath his peg foot. He checked the cry bubbling in his throat and kicked the unknown thing away, down the stairs. He heard it flopping into the darkness and vowed to burn the whole tower with fire once they were done. If Christina is dead or alive, will Elfrida return to her village? Will she want to stay there? Ask her, man, and find out! He was wary of asking and at the same time eager to ask. As much as Elfrida wanted to see her sister, he wanted to know her mind. It is my future. Have the stakes ever been so high? He ran up three more steps and reached the first floor. The staircase continued higher, but now there was a tiny, cramped passageway, again unlit, and at its end, a door. A blue door, he realized, hearing Elfrida’s gasp of recognition. He spun about and gripped her shoulder tightly, in a gesture of warning and support, then let her go. He reached out and touched the door with his stump. Elfrida said nothing, did not try to stop him, but he glanced at her for confirmation. She nodded, her own hands clenched in tight fists, her face unreadable. “Baldwin.” He handed the lad his torch and set his shoulder to the door, drawing out his knife—better a knife than a sword in such close

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quarters. Surprise was impossible, for if there was a guard, he must have heard their plodding trail, so Magnus called a final warning. “Release your prisoners unharmed and you shall not be injured or killed. Yield now.” He pushed on the stout wood, astonished to find the door unlocked, and entered. **** Magnus’s vast form blocked the threshold. She could not pass and could see nothing. “What is it?” Elfrida hissed, fear clawing in her throat like a mass of iron-tipped feathers. “Baldwin, torch please,” Magnus said. The burning mass was passed above her head, and she waited another moment, watching his face, listening to his breathing, trying to see over his shoulder. He turned and smiled at her. “Look for yourself.” He raised the torch and stood sideways. Elfrida rushed into the chamber. There was no guard or guardian of any kind, no magical symbols, or pentagrams, or charms. The room was dominated by a deep bed, and in the bed, between covers of linen and fine wool, lay three young women, fast asleep. Elfrida fell to her knees beside the blonde sleeping on the lefthand side of the bed and gazed until her eyes were blind with tears. She bit her hand to stop the sob escaping, and stared some more. “Christina,” she tried to say but had no breath to speak. A shadow fell across her head, and she leaned back against Magnus’s legs, feeling undone, yawning with relief. Magnus leaned down and kissed the top of her head. He had found a sconce for the torch and seemed quite at ease with events. “Your sister and the others look well,” he said. “She has a look of you, about the nose and chin.” Elfrida nodded, dashing tears from her eyes. She could smell on

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Christina’s breath the heavy scent of the Eastern poppy, but no worse than that. It was over, Christina was safe, the other brides safe. “Should we wake them?” Magnus asked. She swallowed the knot of feeling. “They will stir in their own time.” We have done it. We have saved my sister and the others within a time of three, for it is not yet the third day of Denzil’s reckoning, the solstice day, and it is not yet the third hour of this afternoon, for the sun shines outside this tower. We have done it. So why am I not cheering? She felt Magnus shift as he stretched for a flask of wine standing on a small table at the foot of the bed, beside a vase containing sprays of mistletoe—the mistletoe she had seen in her vision of this place. “Do you think this will be drugged?” he went on, giving the flask a shake. She smelt a swirl of spices as he opened the tall container— spices and an elusive, bitter savor but no scent of poppy. She inhaled, puzzled as to why she felt so numb, so distant. “Give yourself time.” Magnus replaced the flask on the table and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “A shock of wonder is still a shock.” He picked up the wine again, and she caught the acrid savor again as he glanced about for cups. “We should drink to victory and a good Christmas to follow.” “No!” Elfrida leaped to her feet and dashed the flask from his hand. It rolled across the floor, the liquid inside slashing in a dark, spreading stain. “It is poison, wolfsbane poison,” she said, hoping Magnus would understand her. She dragged a coverlet from the bed and flung it over the flask and stain, while Baldwin looked on, wide-eyed. “Poison,” she repeated and made retching noises and clutched at her belly. Desperate to make Magnus understand, she went on, “I thought the wine smelled odd, almost acrid, and then I saw the flower head at the foot of the bed. She pointed to the dried and wrinkled

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faded-blue flower. “Do not touch it! Every part is deadly.” “I have heard of wolfsbane,” Magnus said, after a moment. “I know it as monkshood, too, a clerical poison. Joseph Denzil must have meant it as a final piece of spite, should anyone reach his prizes.” “Yes,” said Elfrida. She closed her eyes, feeling faintly sick. It is over, she thought. Or is it?

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Chapter 31 Elfrida swept another cobweb down from the rafters of her house and out of the open doorway. It was a day of bright sunshine, no wind and no falling snow. She was back in her village of Top Yarr, where she had spent the morning visiting the old and those she knew were sickly. Stopping a moment to catch her breath, she admitted that despite the sun and safety, she was no longer content. Why am I not happy? Her sister and Walter were reunited and together at Walter’s house, where Christina was being fussed over by her betrothed and his family. Christina could recall little of her capture or imprisonment beyond a few words, “It was very warm,” she said, her blue eyes constantly seeking out Walter as she spoke to Elfrida. “I was always thirsty.” And, “The ale was very sweet.” She did not remember seeing Elfrida in her dreams, or any dreams at all. Her blue eyes filled with tears when Elfrida asked if she remembered anything of her captor, and Walter, ever-hovering, instantly intervened. “No need to bully her, Elfrida!” he scolded, strutting around her hut like a dragon guarding its hoard and making the sign against the evil eye against her. “My betrothed is safe, and that is what matters, nothing more. Leave my Christina in peace. It does more harm than good to rake over old troubles.” Walter—to his credit, Elfrida reminded herself sourly—was delighted to have her sister back, with scarcely any questions and no rancor at all against Magnus for knocking him out. His leg was healing well, and he was already planning their marriage for the new

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year. He had fashioned Christina some new combs for her long, blonde hair—hair that Christina had insisted Elfrida help her to wash the first night they had returned to the village. She wants a new gown, too, and I should be busy cutting and sewing that, not obsessing over towers and whatever Magnus is doing now. Magnus had ridden with them back to the village as soon as Christina had stirred, asking what hour it was and declaring that she was hungry. He had been very gentle with her sister, Elfrida thought, even when she had longed to box Christina’s ears for shrieking when she first saw him. “I am used to it,” he said when Elfrida tried to apologize on behalf of her sobbing sibling, who later did smile very prettily at him when Magnus brought her some ale and bread. And when Christina had eaten the bread and asked if they could not go home, he said at once, “Of course,” and set about ordering matters so they could do so. He had ridden with them to Top Yarr on that same evening, stayed with the village’s elders that night, steadily answering their questions, and on the next morning he had ridden out with the brides from the other villages. “If any are spurned, should I bring them to you?” he had asked Elfrida, and she had nodded, relieved he was returning to her. That day, the shortest day, the terrible time of sacrifice, had passed without incident. Walter had gone off with Christina, Elfrida had tended a farmer who had a badly grazed leg, the priest had come in the evening and blessed her house. She had gone to church and left a whole honeycomb for the saint in thanks. Magnus found her in church. “Neither was rejected,” he told her, with a long kiss, “even the orphan lass. Her bridegroom had quarreled with his family since her abduction, told her they either accepted her or he was leaving for the town. So all is better now, and the girl looked happy.” He coughed. “I need to go back to the Denzils’ land. There are the

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other lasses that need help.” Elfrida nodded. “I know.” She would have thought the less of him had he forgotten the female slaves so quickly. “Will you come with me?” How she had been glad of his request! But she had been forced to say no, for Christina said she would sleep in their house that night, and she knew her sister would not be able to sleep alone. In the event, the night and the following day had been long and lonely. Christina had changed her mind and slept at Walter’s, and Elfrida had tossed and turned on her own bed. Elfrida sighed and rubbed at her aching back. Leaning on her broom, she knew she was not easy in her mind for two reasons, or rather two men, Sir Magnus and Joseph Denzil. She knew that what she really wanted from Magnus was impossible. Whoever heard of a knight marrying a witch? He loved her, and she would be his mistress—what was amiss with that? All this talk of brides and Christina’s marriage preparations have unsettled me, she told herself and glanced down at her old, red work gown. She had never noticed before how dull it was, how small Top Yarr was. Will Magnus visit me here or ask me to live with him? Again, she was not certain. There was also Joseph Denzil. The man had disappeared from the region of the stone tower. He had been stunned and bound hand and foot, but by nightfall of the day that she and Magnus had found Christina and the others, Denzil had vanished. Magnus had been coldly angry, demanding explanations from his men, but so far, there had been none. What mischief is he about? His time of three is past, for we rescued Christina and the others before the solstice. The shortest day has come and gone, and his would-be victims are all free, but unless he is stopped for good, he has not finished yet. I know it. “We should burn his towers and be done,” Magnus had said, but

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Elfrida said nothing. Magnus’s way was a warrior’s, direct and straight, the single stroke. Yet Joseph Denzil had escaped his bonds and disappeared. His tracks had gone north to an escarpment of bare rock, and after that, even Magnus had lost his trail. Elfrida stopped sweeping and washed and strained some dried peas. She fetched water from her well and put the peas in a cauldron to cook slowly over the fire. It will be a homely supper, but something, if Magnus returns tonight. She knew he would try to do so with all his heart, and she hugged that knowledge close as she chopped garlic and onions into the pottage. The simple task had warmed her fingers, so she found her spindle and began to spin some wool thread, part of her mind recalling what Magnus had said about felt cloth. She knew that keeping busy would help her mood and also clear her thoughts. The answer to the danger of Joseph Denzil was in her grasp, she sensed, only she had not understood it yet. She was flattered by Magnus describing her as a warrior of magic, she acknowledged. It made her feel valued and one of his peers. He had sought her advice, too, in their struggles with the Denzils. He had told her he was learning. What am I learning? She found her lantern and set it on her table for later. She spun in the sunlight by the doorway, standing beside the bench where she had sewn the sleeves into Christina’s wedding gown. The thread on her spindle broke, and she repaired it, whispering a charm to make it secure. Witchcraft was part of her life. Magnus had never asked her to relinquish it, nor did he fear her. She knew he had moments of disquiet, especially when she had charmed the laundress, but he was easy now. He trusted her witchcraft. “What would he say?” she murmured aloud, putting aside her spindle and stirring the bubbling pottage. “That it is my craft,

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women’s business.” And what is the women’s work that I aid? “Childbearing, tending pregnant cows, making sure the stores are sweet and fresh, making clothes, making bread dough, brewing ale, gardening, helping with the harvests.” All living things, she realized, all fruitful. Joseph Denzil had told her he was dying. He had sought a bride of frost and snow, not of bountiful summer. He had not seen her as his equal because he had never recognized her magic as such and had not known her when they met face to face. He had plotted to steal life by sacrificing other brides. He was a necromancer, seeking to control demons and spirits. Even the wolfsbane poison had been left as a means of serving death. “His magic means death,” Elfrida said, staring at the seething peas. She could plant dried peas and they would sprout, for her magic was concerned with life. She clapped her hands together. “And that is how I must cleanse him forever from our homes and woods, through rituals of life. His magic is not the only way! I called myself a warrior of magic and was pleased when Magnus called me so, but in truth my magic is women’s magic, life magic, magic not bound by numbers or times of three or anything such. There were other ways, more certain ways, older ways of defeating Joseph.” I must plan for that. As she thought it, she began to smile... **** Magnus swung down from his horse and knelt at the wayside shrine. He had stopped here weeks ago, without much hope. So much had changed since then. He had changed. The battered little statue of the unknown saint no longer seemed a kindred soul but one he could be kind to. And he had promised the saint an offering when he next traveled this way.

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“Greetings, Holy One.” He knelt and brushed the mounds of snow from the beleaguered figure. “I bring you my offering, as promised.” He laid some gold coins at the foot of the wooden statue. The coins were from his own wagon, which was still safe at Top Yarr, and also from Gregory Denzil’s treasure chest, which Baldwin had recovered from the solar of Denzil’s castle. “My good little witch Elfrida also sends her greetings.” It felt good to say Elfrida’s name, to announce her as his. He had a woman now, and he intended to keep her. He was keen to show her off to others, Peter and Alice to start with, and then more. He laid a wreath of holly and ivy before the saint. Elfrida would have chosen such, he thought, and the red berries picked up the faded paint on the saint’s cloak. “Thank you for Elfrida. Thank you for saving her sister. Thank you for freeing the slave women.” To those he had given the rest of Denzil’s treasure and sent them off with an escort to the nearest convent of nuns that his men could find. The women might not choose to stay at such a place forever, but it would be a respite to begin with. He placed another row of gold coins on top of the first. “Thank you for Elfrida loving me.” Each day when he woke, that was his first thought—she loves me. Christmas was fast approaching, the time of merrymaking and gifts, but he had already had his present. Thank the Lord that all my other obligations are finished at last! Now I can plan for myself. Tonight, when I reach Top Yarr again, I shall ask Elfrida to marry me. Will she accept? Do witches have husbands? “This witch will,” he vowed, adding quickly, “Please, Holy One, let her accept me.” He laid out a third row of coins then simply tipped the rest of the leather bag over the shrine. Coins, silver, copper, and gold, spilled around the gently smiling figure in a shower of bounty, sparkling in

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the sunshine and snow. He left without looking back, keen to be on his way. **** Elfrida looked up from the pottage when the vast shadow fell across her from the doorway. The sight of Magnus towering there, the sunset bright behind him, outlining his craggy, scarred profile and long, sinewy body, set her heart and breath and thoughts speeding. “Ah, you are back,” she said, while her inner witch voice scolded her. Naturally he is back! Say something startling and witty that will remind him how amazing you think him! “Did you have a good journey, Sir...Magnus?” She rapped her spoon on the side of the cauldron, wishing she could have done better than that. She had such hopes, such plans. “I have been cooking,” she said, thinking she might at least appeal to his hunger. “’Tis not great knightly fare, but it is wholesome.” “So you are back to ‘sir’ again, eh? I shall have to change that.” Her heartbeat sped up even faster as he strode across to her, growling a hasty apology for dropping clumps of snow on her newly swept floor. “It does not matter,” she managed to begin, before he scooped her into his arms. “Never fret over pottage, Elfrida, ’tis you I wish to have.” Then he was kissing her lips and throat and ears, murmuring against her hair. “Better than a drink of warm mead, you are, and a blessed sight after a long day of riding. That fool Mark said you might be anxious—no, he is not that, and I do not care for such trifles now.” He whirled her right off her feet, swirling her about so she gasped, anxious her flying feet would knock over the cauldron. He threw her up, and she felt herself sailing in the air, then he caught her safely and gathered her tight in a pair of arms that felt like ropes of iron. “Now, madam,” he said, bending his fearsome, black brows onto

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her and spoiling his grim scowl by the golden gleam in his eyes, “you will spend Christmastime with me, at my manor. Then we shall have a day or so here, then back to the manor again. We shall divide our time between each place, for you are the good witch of the forest, and I am lord of my manor, and both need our attention, yes?” She nodded, wondering what was coming next. Magnus clearly had a speech in mind, and she thought it wise to let him say it. He gave her a squeeze and a sweet, lingering kiss. “Does that sound fair and just to you?” “What?” Elfrida stammered. His tongue had teased and explored all parts of her lips and teeth and mouth, and she fairly tingled, her whole body feeling as if she had bathed in honey. “Forgive me, Magnus, could you say over?” He chuckled. “What a dazzled thing you are! You look as I feel. And ‘Magnus’ is a good start.” Feeling she could not ask anything while her wits were so besieged, Elfrida tried to ease herself out of his grasp. When that failed, she tried another tactic. “The pottage burns!” He sniffed and shook his head. “No, it does not, but since you are keen to be away from me—” “I am not,” Elfrida replied and she felt herself blush for being so revealing. And yet surely she and Magnus had gone past such points where their love needed to be recited like poetry? “This is not going as I planned!” she burst out in frustration. “No, for sure it is not, and the time for teasing is gone.” Magnus planted her down, none too gently, on a stool, and knelt before her. He brushed a strand of her hair away from her reddened face and took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?” **** He had meant to speak more of the advantages for both of them,

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but he had to know her answer, now. “Elfrida?” “Yes!” She flung her arms about him, “Yes, please! But—” Sensing her withdrawal, he wrapped his arms about her narrow middle so she could not escape. “I am a knight and should marry a lady, is that what you are going to say? We have had this talk before. You are the woman I want.” Her amber eyes narrowed. “Have we spoken so before?” “Never fret, for sure we have!” he answered, crossing his fingers against what could be a lie, though truly he did not care. She has accepted me. She dipped her head, a gesture he recognized as a moment of shyness before she asked something. “What, my heart?” “I have a favor to beg of you, if I may.” He felt his own heart expanding, his body glowing with wellbeing. He felt generous to the whole of Christendom and beyond because Elfrida was to be his wife. “You would have some new gowns? I have some yellow silk from the East that I brought back.” He had bought it in Outremer, hoping that one day it would make his wife to be a bridal gown. For years he had kept it, deep in the bottom of his clothes chest in his manor, telling himself he was too ugly now and a fool for hoping and yet still unable to let it go... But Elfrida was shaking her head. “We shall divide our days between here and your home?” “We shall.” “I shall be your lady?” Remembering her hurt when she told him that Joseph had called her a peasant, Magnus went down on both knees before her. “Let me swear fealty to you.” She looked startled, years dropping from her face so she seemed almost a young girl, before joy dimpled her lips and cheeks. “How so, my lord?” He reluctantly uncoiled his arms from her slender body and put his arms together, covering his right stump with his left hand. “I

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should bring my hands close, as if in prayer, but since that is impossible now, this is how I do it. Now, you place your hands about mine.” She did so, her fingers cool and trembling against his. Kneeling before her, he spoke, “I, Sir Magnus of Norton Mayfield, swear my undying fealty and love to you, Elfrida of Top Yarr. I will be your knight, and you will be my lady. May God strike me dead if I ever break faith with you.” “Hush!” said Elfrida quickly, glancing around him as if the walls of her hut had grown ears. “That is too much!” “Not for my wife.” He was in earnest. He offered her marriage and a marriage between equals. Elfrida kissed him firmly on his scarred mouth to make fast his promise, relieved she was already sitting down. “Are you sure?” she wanted to ask him, but she knew that he was. He smiled at her, looking deeply into her eyes. “Do I smell pottage? May I have some, wife to be?” She laughed and broke from him to find spoons and dishes for them both.

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Epilogue It was the very eve of Christmas, and he and Elfrida were not yet home at his manor. She had asked if they could come to the wooden tower with the blue door, not explaining her reasons but promising him a full account. Since it was clearly important to her, he had agreed, surprised by her request but happy enough to please her. Of course Mark and some of his most trusted men were camped outside and watching out, Christmas Eve or not. He was not so much in love as to be foolish. “Do you expect Denzil to creep back here so we can catch him again?” he asked and was rewarded by her swift smile. “I neither know nor care if Joseph chooses to come back here, Magnus. That is not why I asked if we could come here tonight.” He watched her pace about the ground floor of the wooden tower with the blue door, carrying a new, fat, burning candle—one of her own lights, he realized. “What are you looking for?” “Signs and devices of evil, but there are none on this floor. Can we go up?” He held the ladder for her and hopped up after. He found her patrolling the second floor and rummaging through the barrels of apples. “Why do you do this?” he asked. She looked up from a barrel, her face taut in concentration. “To purify this space.” “Would fire not work just as well or better?” “I shall burn this.” She pulled a long, fine white gown from a barrel and allowed it to drift to the floor. “As for the rest”—she

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glanced about the chamber—“a cleansing is more complete, surer. It will finish things.” She would not look at him, and Magnus began to suspect there was something she was not yet saying. Joseph Denzil was still free out there, wandering in these forests. It would be good to know he was finished. “Can I eat an apple now?” he asked, settling cross-legged on the bare floor. She nodded and continued to move slowly about the room with her flickering candle, at times casting salt, at times saying what sounded to be a prayer. He had savored his snack, core and all, when she touched his shoulder. “Can we lift some of the apples up to the top floor?” “Nothing easier.” She was working, so he went with her desires, thinking that he would carry their basket of stores up to the top floor, too. If they were going to be a while, they should certainly break their fast. “Why do we do this? Can you tell me?” he asked as he bundled apples into his cloak, and she leaned down through the trapdoor to collect his “parcel.” “They are the means of life,” she answered cryptically, and he let it go at that, recalling the stories of his granddad concerning apples and gods. Before he could join her through the trapdoor to the third chamber, she began to scamper back down the ladder. “I have things to collect. Mark brought them for me.” “Did he indeed?” Magnus remarked, and wondered how Elfrida and Mark were so reconciled now that Mark would fetch and carry for her. “He did. I will not be long.” Still on the ladder, she kissed him. “May I beg another favor and ask you to wait here? It will only be for moments—I will be as quick as I can be, I promise.” “Take all the time you need,” he said, feeling intrigued but most

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content. After waiting for battles to begin and sieges to stop, the time he watched her slipping to and fro from floor to floor and rushing in and out of the tower seemed nothing. He found another few pebbles tucked into his tunic and began to play a game of catch with them, feeling like a young lad again, hovering outside his lady’s chamber. The sweet thing was, Elfrida was his lady, and soon he would be admitted. He nodded as she sped past with another bundle and presently he heard the sound of breaking glass and pots and smelt the singe of burning cloth. She put her head through the trapdoor. “This will be my last trip,” she said breathlessly. “You can come up, sir, if you wish.” He steadied the ladder for her as she carried a small wooden bowl with her to the second floor, saying as she passed him, “I must bury this, but then I shall be done.” “Take Mark out with you, when you go,” Magnus said. He watched her safely onto the ground floor and then mounted the ladder upstairs. All signs of the necromancer were gone—that was his first thought. His second was that Elfrida had made the chamber beautiful, rich, and mysterious as an Eastern church. There was a small, narrow window to the east of the old hunting tower. This she had opened so he could see the bright, starry sky, and it was not cold—there were braziers lit and burning steadily and a sweet scent of warm rosewater, the dried petals of roses warming in copper bowls. It was as white as it had been before, but now the braziers and five fat, burning candles gave it the sheen of a pearl. It was a place of comfort, too, for there were goblets and flasks and a basket of apples, and baskets of other foods that he would look at later, once he had tested the smooth bed. It was made up beneath the narrow casement, a nest of blankets

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and sheets that Elfrida surely must have borrowed, for he could not think she possessed so many. I must have been distracted not to see this heap of stuff traveling with us today from Top Yarr to here, but then I scarcely heeded any in my company save Elfrida. He chuckled, amused she had achieved this beneath his very nose, and knowing very well what it was. “A bridal chamber,” he said aloud and smiled. **** Elfrida thanked Mark and sped back inside the tower. When she had buried the last of Joseph’s evil toys, she had a flash of sight, or foresight. She saw a tall, thin figure, lying prone and still in the snow, with a spray of mistletoe hanging over his heart and a black cat settled by his feet, a creature she had never seen before, only sensed. She blinked, and the vision changed, for the cat spat at her and slunk off between the trees into the forest. She tried to see where the place was but could not hold the picture—it was gone. “Then it is truly finished,” Magnus said when she climbed up to him and told him all. He was also lying prone, but on the bed she had made, looking very comfortable in the candlelight. “It is over, and we both may rest.” He opened his arms. “Come to bed, my Snow Bride.” The other called me that, too. Elfrida hesitated for an instant, but only an instant, for this was Magnus and she was in truth his bride, his bride of earth and soul as well as snow. She knelt on the edge of the nest of blankets and sheets and hugged him as he cradled her. The night of Christmas Eve drew on, and she drew back so she could see his eyes and face. “There is one magic I hope we can make together,” she said. “A magic of healing.” “And of love.” With strong, warm fingers he traced the contours of her face and smiled at her. “A magic of life, on the eve of

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Christmas.” He laughed and pulled her back into his arms, whispering against her ear, “I understand all that, but if I whisper sex magic to you, saucy wench, you have no grounds to protest!” “Not so, my lord,” she began when he began to touch her, loving her. They made love all that evening and night within the tower, with new snow falling softly through the narrow casement, and the woods beyond finally at peace.

THE END HTTP://WWW.LINDSAYTOWNSEND.NET

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Lindsay lives in Yorkshire, England, where she was born, and started writing stories at an early age. Always a voracious reader, she took a degree in medieval history and worked in a library for a while, then began to write full-time after marriage. She is also fascinated by the medieval and ancient world, especially medieval Britain, where she set The Snow Bride, and also ancient Rome, Egypt and the Bronze Age. Flavia’s Secret, set in Roman Britain, came out from BookStrand in 2008, and two more historicals, Blue Gold, set in ancient Egypt, and Bronze Lightning, set in Bronze Age Greece and the Britain of Stonehenge, were published by BookStrand in early 2009. Two erotic historical romances, Escape to Love and Silk and Steel are both published by Siren and set in the ancient Roman world. BookStrand also published Lindsay’s sweet and sensual romantic suspense, set in various countries including Britain, Greece, Italy and Spain. These romances are A Secret Treasure (set in Rhodes), Palace of the Fountains (set in Spain), Chasing Rachel (set on Dartmoor, England), and Holiday in Bologna, (set in Italy). When not writing or researching her books, she enjoys walking, reading, cooking, music, going out with friends, and long languid baths with scented candles (and perhaps chocolate).

Also by Lindsay Townsend BookStrand Mainstream: Palace of the Fountains BookStrand Mainstream: Chasing Rachel BookStrand Mainstream: Holiday in Bologna

For all other titles, please visit www.bookstrand.com/lindsay-townsend

www.BookStrand.com