Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Read Online Free
Author: Lindsay Townsend
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 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.
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
“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 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.
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
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