SNOW IN JULY

"Every writer is a skater, and must go partly where he would, and partly where the skates carry him."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Synopsis (partial)

On Christmas Day, AD 1066, two months after the Battle of Hastings, William the Conqueror is crowned king of his hard-won kingdom. He wastes no time in beginning the process of solidifying his crown by rewarding his loyal knights with land grants. To make this transition as painless as possible, he offers the non-rebellious Saxon nobility alliances through marriage.

One wealthy Saxon thane who accepts his new liege-lord's terms is Waldron of Edgarburh, Wessex. He agrees to the betrothal of Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre to his only daughter, Lady Kendra -- even though Kendra would sooner die than marry any countryman of the coward who murdered her beloved brother.

Sir Robert -- Alain, as he prefers to be called -- harbors his own ideas about vows. Just before departing to fight with William in England, Alain was jilted by his fiancée, the woman he thought he had loved, because she preferred Alain's older and wealthier half-brother. Alain's distrust of the fairer sex is compounded by the shame and guilt he experienced at the Battle of Hastings: he survived and someone he had sworn to defend did not. Consequently, Alain resents that King William has shackled him in marriage to a Saxon wench as a condition for laying claim to his reward when other knights, such as his friend and mentor, Sir Ruaud, had been given their land-gifts free of such entanglements. Trained in scouting as well as fighting, Alain conceives of a plan to spy out the woman and her lands before making a commitment. He convinces Ruaud to act as his spokesman while Alain poses as a lowly squire, hoping to avoid notice.

But Alain learns a whole new level of meaning to the word entanglement when he beholds the gorgeous Kendra and his plan threatens to backfire. For the handsome and courtly Alain cannot escape notice as he had hoped. And Kendra must fight the entanglements of the vows she made to her dying brother, which vie mercilessly with the passion that Sir Ruaud's dashing "squire" ignites within her soul.

 EXCERPT (Chapter 1)

Edward the Confessor, king of England but Norman by virtue of his childhood fosterage, was dead.

From his place at the head of the cavalry reserves, Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre, knight of Normandy bound to the service of Duke William, surveyed the battle unfolding across the valley below. Fifteen thousand men and horses appeared as toys in a children's game.

Many men might consider war a game, but Alain did not number among their ranks.

This battle, raging near the coastal hamlet called Hastings, would decide the right of one man to wear the English crown: William the Norman, acknowledged by Pope Alexander to be Edward's lawful successor, or Harold the Saxon, brother of Edward's wife, the man alleged to be Edward's deathbed choice.

Stroking his war horse's glossy neck to calm her, Alain pondered Harold's claim. It had to be true. This many men would not willingly sacrifice their lives for a lie. And yet the vast majority of Harold's supporters were Saxons harboring no wish to bear the Norman yoke. Perhaps such men might be desperate enough to fight for a lie that promised to restore Saxon rule.

A trumpet blared, summoning Alain's reserve unit into the fray. Eager to partake of the action at last, Alain signaled his men forward, couched his lance and spurred Chou to send her careening into the melée.

Harold's shield wall, that had seemed so impregnable only moments before, began to crumble under the onslaught of Alain's unit, hastened by the desertion of men who no doubt decided they weren't quite so willing to die. Their lord stood exposed just long enough for a Norman archer to sight his mark. Harold fell, screaming and clutching the arrow that protruded from one eye.

His most loyal supporters closed rank around him, blocking Alain's view and giving him more than enough to do as the Saxons redoubled their efforts to guard their lord's body.

Amid battle's frenzy closest to Alain's position, a familiar whirl of colors caught his attention. The tawny leopard rampant on a black field--Étienne! A Saxon knight, with a blue fist painted on his gray shield, bore down upon him with his lance leveled. Étienne tumbled from his horse. He scrambled to his feet and retrieved his sword, putting it to good use on the Saxons surrounding him, although the knight who'd unhorsed him had already ridden in search of other targets.

Alain, lance long since discarded and sword now rising and falling with fatal precision, surged desperately to reach his brother's side.

Before he could close the distance, another Saxon fought past Étienne's guard to thrust a war-knife into his throat. Uttering a howl that froze Alain's soul, the Saxon yanked out his weapon and disappeared into the press with Étienne's shield, denying Alain the satisfaction of vengeance.

He had failed the two he loved most. Failed them so utterly that he could never beg their forgiveness in this lifetime.

Shame and grief rent his heart asunder.

Pain slammed into Alain's shoulder, toppling him from the saddle. Étienne's body broke his fall. He tried to roll clear, but a spear through his chest pinned him to Étienne. His gut convulsed, and bile burned his throat. Death's stench invaded his nostrils.

He closed his eyes and waited for his final journey to begin.

#

The mounted band crept through the forest, constrained to the pace of the wagon. The new moon helped to conceal their progress but also concealed obstacles in their path. With each jolt, the wagon's passenger moaned.

Thane Ulfric spurred his horse even with the wagon's driver. "Have a care, Eosa. For us to succeed, he must survive."

The knight's thick blond braid whipped across his shoulders as he turned and spat over the wagon's side. Eosa raised the reins in one fist, teeth bared in a snarl. Though Ulfric couldn't see it in the gloom, he imagined Eosa's misshapen bottom lip giving him a draconic appearance. "Take them, if you think you can fare better. My lord."

With an angry jerk on his own reins, Ulfric pulled his horse back to join Sir Delwin Waldronson, guarding the wagon's rear.

Secrecy had necessitated weeks of hiding by day and traveling at night. It had been nothing short of miraculous that they'd even survived the disaster at Hastings, to say nothing of being able to spirit away the battle's most exalted casualty, or keep him alive this long. They'd been obliged to field-dress each other's wounds, and their lord lay in dire need of better care than the three of them knew how to render.

The wagon lurched. The plunder bumped against the passenger, who groaned a feeble protest. Eosa halted the wagon, and he, Ulfric and Del dismounted to better secure the cargo.

"This journey would be easier, Cousin," Ulfric grumbled to Del, "if you would change your mind."

Privately, Del conceded his kinsman's point. Their present speed would put them at the gates of Edgarburh, Del's home, by daybreak. Del had every confidence in the healing skills of his sister, Kendra.

But the action could carry deadly consequences for her and their father, Thane Waldron, and everyone else Del held dear.

"My answer is still no, Ulfric. I cannot put my father and sister and our people at risk of being executed for treason."

"If we succeed," Ulfric said as he gave the rope a savage tug, "we shall be hailed as saviors."

"If." Del grasped Ulfric's arm as the thane of Thornhill prepared to mount. "Your feelings for Kendra should prevent you from involving her in this perilous venture."

Ulfric shrugged him off and swung onto his horse. "My feelings for your sister pale in comparison to the magnitude of what I--we must accomplish."

Their prone companion thrashed his limbs, his delirious moans sounding louder and more intense.

Del waved an arm toward the wagon. "Look at him, Ulfric. Even if he survives this journey, he shall be fortunate to ever ride again, to say nothing of his ability to rule."

"If he survives, I can handle the rest," Ulfric insisted.

"How? With sorcery? You'd need that, or a divine miracle." Del snorted. "Be reasonable. The loss at Hastings has sounded the death-knell for our way of life. England is changing--has changed already," he amended sadly, recalling the number of Normans King Edward had appointed to key positions at court and in the largest churches. "A wise man will accept this fact and adapt to it."

They rode in taut silence, eyes forward. "Do you fancy yourself a wise man, Delwin Waldronson of Edgarburh?" Ulfric asked at length.

An image of the Edgarburh shield pattern came to mind, the dark blue, upward bend on a gray field. The variant Del had carried proudly into battle featured an arm, bent at the elbow, terminating in a fist. A rebellious design, and a dangerous one to brandish in an England governed by a Norman king.

Waldron's device seemed the more sensible choice. Del resolved to change his shield over to his father's pattern at the earliest opportunity.

"I fancy myself a realist, Ulfric."

"A real fool," Ulfric muttered.

Without deigning to reply, Del spurred his horse into a canter. "I shall ride point for a while," he told Eosa as he passed the wagon.

Although Del could hear no human sounds, the wagon's creaky wheels assured him that Eosa was following as best he could, with Ulfric presumably guarding the rear.

Lost in his churning thoughts, Del had no idea how far he'd ridden when he realized that he hadn't heard the wagon in quite some time. Perhaps his companions had stopped to answer nature's call. Whatever the reason, he deemed it best for them to stay closer together. He wheeled his horse around and galloped it back up the trail.

He burst into a widening of the cart path to find Eosa, still seated on the wagon's bench, confronting a mounted warrior wielding a sword and carrying a kite-shaped Norman shield. As Del watched, the foe's dimly lit silhouette seemed to waver and grow to impossibly huge proportions, prompting Del to scrub his eyes.

Regardless of appearances, the Norman's intent, as he advanced upon the wagon, was horrifyingly clear.

Del thought he heard a crunching in the bracken, as though Ulfric was returning to the wagon, but Del only had time enough to shout out for Ulfric to hurry.

Sword drawn, Del urged his horse between Eosa and the Norman, and landed several furious blows in the hope of turning the attack upon himself.

His tactic worked too well.

The Norman cocked his sword arm and smashed the flat of the blade against Del's helmet, sweeping him out of the saddle. He hit the ground with a heavy thump and tried to roll clear of the hammering hooves, but debilitating weakness engulfed him, and his traitorous body refused to obey.

As if bound by a dream, he watched the Norman dismount, walk closer, raise his sword, and thrust it downward. Blinding agony ripped through his gut.

His final thought centered not upon the liege lord he had failed to protect but upon his dear sister, Kendra, and Waldron, their father, both of whom surely would be devastated by his death.

#

"My God--Alain!"

Robert Alain de Bellencombre heard a strangled noise, offspring of a groan and a gasp. Pain resumed its vigil, and he realized the sound had come from him.

He'd lost count of how often he'd conjured the battle in his dreams, reliving his failures. The failure to keep his vow to protect Étienne, and now, the failure to die, to prevent himself from failing anyone else. He groaned again.

"Alain, for the love of the Blessed Mother, wake up!"

Even through pain's fog, Alain recognized the voice. Ruaud d'Auvay had removed the spear embedded in his shoulder, dressed his wound with strips of Étienne's surcoat, hustled him from the battlefield and secured for him the best of care through several weeks of fevered semi-consciousness, first in the Hastings field hospital and later at Ruaud's own chambers in London. Of any living soul, Ruaud knew Alain best, but he had no inkling of the depth of Alain's anguish.

Nor would he ever find out. No one had any business invading Alain's private purgatory.

Alain opened his eyes to find Ruaud peering closely at him, his candle's glow warming Alain's face. Alain attempted a shooing gesture. As he glanced away, ashamed by how weak he felt, he noticed the frost that had etched the windowpanes. Two months' convalescence had done little to improve the condition of his body or spirit. His hand dropped heavily to the coverlet. "A bit of air, if you please." He regarded Ruaud with a limp grin.

"God be praised." After straightening and setting the candleholder on a table, Ruaud ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, his usually jovial face tense with concern. "You looked so pale and still, I almost summoned a priest."

"A good thing there was no need for my services, Sir Ruaud," boomed someone from the doorway.

The man strutted forward, his sumptuously embroidered wine-colored velvet robes rustling across the floor rushes, a bulky gold crucifix hanging from his neck: Bishop Odo de Bayeux, Duke William's half-brother and one of his most trusted advisers. A stoop-shouldered cleric shuffled behind the bishop, clutching a leather folio to his chest.

As Ruaud hastily vacated his bedside seat and bowed to kiss their visitor's ring, Alain tried to push himself up. Fresh pain bolted through his chest and down his arm in pulsing waves. Nausea clawed at his stomach. He dropped back onto the pillows, gasping.

"Be at ease, Sir Robert," said the bishop. "Please. No need for formalities on my account." He balled a fist and cleared his throat. "In fact, I am here to pay you honor, at King William's behest. His Majesty conveys his regrets that he is unable to come in person, but with the coronation less than a fortnight away, those details consume his every waking moment."

Not to mention William's recuperation from his own battle wounds, Alain thought wryly. Rebellion could erupt at the slightest display of weakness. "I understand, my lord Bishop."

Bishop Odo nodded at the cleric, who extracted a parchment leaf from the folio. "William, Duke of Normandy and King of England," began the cleric in a nasally voice, "to Robert Alain de Bellencombre, Knight of Normandy, greetings. In deepest appreciation for your assistance in securing for us the Throne of England, we grant you deed to the estate of Edgarburh in Somerset, Wessex, the title for which property shall be conferred to you upon the occasion of your wedding to the daughter of the estate's present lord--"

"Your pardon," Alain said, throat constricting, "but may I see that?" Bishop Odo arched an eyebrow but granted his consent. The parchment rattled as the cleric passed it to Alain, who perused it quickly and met the bishop's inquisitive gaze. "Duke William wishes me to marry Thane Waldron's daughter? Does she know yet?" He hadn't intended to sound so querulous and felt his cheeks heat.

"King William wishes to quell any remaining spirit of rebellion in the most expedient and bloodless way possible," Bishop Odo replied tightly. "Couriers were dispatched with his decrees at first light. Marrying his bachelor knights to English noblewomen, especially those living nearest to London, is a sound and merciful policy."

Merciful, Alain thought derisively. Merciful for whom?

"Please forgive Sir Robert, my lord Bishop." Ruaud shot Alain a warning glance. "His fever and wounds have left him addle-pated. I am certain he appreciates the king's most generous boon."

Alain nodded and swallowed thickly, heart plummeting. Marriage meant making more vows. Vows to love and honor and protect.

Vows too easily broken.

#

Delwin lay dying, and Kendra felt powerless to prevent it.

Her carved, tall-backed seat on the dais of Edgarburh's hall gave her an excellent view of the Christmas festivities, which, at present, consisted of a muzzled, scruffy bear being goaded through its awkward paces by an equally scruffy man, to the loud amusement of the crowd. Kendra couldn't share in the laughter. With the tip of her meat knife, she chased slices of stewed winter apples around her trencher, racking her brains for something--anything--she hadn't yet tried to help her brother, either to heal his wound or cure the fever and cough invading his lungs.

Invasion. She gave a soft snort. Not three months earlier, Del had risked his life in the service of King Harold against the invading William of Normandy. Ironically, Del had been one of the lucky few to survive the disaster at Hastings, only to be brutally cut down on their father's lands by one of William the Bastard's knights. The enormity of the outrage still ignited Kendra's heart with fury.

Even greater kindled her wrath over the decree accompanying the coronation announcement, that Kendra be betrothed to one of these ruthless Norman warriors.

This very day, her father, Thane Waldron, was playing court upon the new king, offering his--though not his daughter's--acquiescence to the betrothal in hopes of currying favor enough to present his complaint about Del's attacker. He possessed the knight's distinctively patterned shield, though the coward himself had eluded capture. Waldron kept the shield locked in his quarters, for he couldn't risk losing his only tangible link to the Norman swine.

Kendra's heart had screamed the truth, although her father refused to hear it: Delwin had fought for Harold, his attacker was one of William's retainers, and justice would be denied.

Unable to avenge Del, she'd channeled her energy toward helping him in her own way. Which had proved to be feeble, at best. She gripped her knife's haft in white-knuckled frustration. Surely, there must be some herb or simple she hadn't tried . . .

To heal the pain, you must endure the thorn.

Kendra jerked her head up, dropping the knife, and sheepishly looked around. The others seemed engrossed by the bear's antics. If anyone noticed her odd behavior, they made no comment.

Petals from the Glastonbury thorn were reputed to work every manner of medical miracle. But when she had tried to use some to heal her mother, several years ago, the petals had ignited in her hands, leaving naught but ash. To this day, no one believed her story--though no one could offer another explanation for the lurid rash left on her palms.

She turned her hands to catch the fickle torchlight. Though the discoloration had faded, and the pain had long since subsided, the effects were still clearly visible after nearly a decade.

Endure the thorn.

Her mother's dying command, still unfulfilled, wrenched Kendra's heart with renewed shame and guilt . . . and fear.

Mayhap, now that she was more experienced in the healing arts, she could somehow avoid suffering the same consequences. She had to try, for Del's sake as well as their mother's. She turned her thoughts toward how much of the herb she'd need, and how much her request would cost.

"Lady Kendra?" She glanced at the worried looking face of her maidservant, Rowena. "He asks for you."

No mistaking which "he" Rowena meant. Kendra rose. So did the rest of the company, but she forced a smile and bade them to be seated and enjoy the entertainment. The bear and its handler yielded to a troupe of brightly clad jugglers whose lively feats and ribald jokes soon had the people laughing again.

Just as well, Kendra thought. The time for tears shall arrive swiftly enough.

Assisted by Rowena, Kendra donned her fur-trimmed cloak and slipped from the hall, stopping first at the kitchens. While Rowena prepared a hot onion plaster, Kendra brewed a mug of lungwort and lady's mantle tea. Not that, after all these weeks, she had much faith left in either remedy, but she had to try. Steeling herself, she cradled the mug against her chest to preserve the warmth of its contents and scurried along the roofed walkway toward the manor house. After carefully negotiating the building's slick exterior staircase, she ducked inside the upper story's door and hastened down the rushlit hallway toward Del's quarters. Only by the extra set of footfalls echoing off the stone walls did she know Rowena was keeping pace.

What Kendra discovered inside the chamber nearly made her drop the tea.

To say that Del's condition had declined since tierce, when she had been called away from his bedside to oversee the final details of the Christmas feast, was an understatement. His face, already pale, had developed a waxy sheen. Sweat-darkened blond hair framed his sunken cheeks and pain-furrowed forehead in a damp halo. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, his chest moving erratically as if each breath were a heroic struggle.

Kendra shut her eyes against the sting of unshed tears. Inhaling to compose herself, she blinked and rounded on her maidservant, fighting to keep exasperation and fear from dominating her tone. "Rowena, why did you not fetch me sooner?"

"Not her fault, Kendra." The voice sounded hoarse and frail, not like her brother at all. "My wish."

Upon setting the mug on the tray beside the onion poultice and shedding her cloak, Kendra relieved Rowena of her burden and strode to Del's side. She directed the maidservant to clear a place amid the clutter of bandage rolls and half-empty potion vials and salve pots on the nearby table. The candles' flames wavered in time with the women's hasty movements, throwing restive shadows against the wall. Rowena shifted the tea to the table and piled the discarded items onto the tray. After reviving the fire by turning the logs and heaving on another, she picked up the tray, dipped a curtsey in response to Kendra's murmured thanks, and left the room.

Hefting the poultice in one hand, Kendra bent to loosen the ties of Del's tunic with the other.

His hand gripped hers with unexpected strength. "Don't bother." When she began to protest, his face cracked into the lopsided grin she loved so well and would miss so much. "I'd like to leave this world not reeking of the kitchens. If it's all the same to you."

To combat her alarm, Kendra adopted an aura of mock haughtiness. "It most certainly is not the same to me, Delwin Waldronsson. The poultice will help you breathe." She hoped.

His bark of laughter sparked a cough that made him release her hand. She abandoned the poultice on the table so she could help him sit up, rubbing his back and feeling otherwise useless, until the fit subsided. When it finally did, he lay back against the pillows, wheezing. Blood spattered the coverlet. Kendra's stomach twisted. Their mother had died so, though not because her body had been weakened by a festering sword wound.

Refusing to surrender, she snatched the mug and lifted it to his lips. He took a swallow, though whether merely to humor her or not, she couldn't tell. Kendra told herself his wheezing seemed to have eased, but of that, too, she could not be certain. She felt certain of nothing.

She left the mug on the table and returned to the stool beside his bed. He reached up to caress her cheek, her hair, her lips. His fingers felt too cold. She grasped his hand and kissed it, wishing yet again for the gift their mother was rumored to have possessed, the ability to heal with a simple touch.

Gently, Kendra laid Del's hand down but did not let go. His smile seemed laden with as much sorrow as affection.

"Promise me something, dear sister."

She squeezed his hand. "Anything, Del! You know I would give you . . . " As she cast about for a sufficiently absurd example, she glanced out the slotted window and noticed the weather's bleak turn. "If it were within my power, I would give you snow in July." If only he would live that long, she silently prayed. Long enough for her to obtain some of the Glastonbury thorn's petals--and overcome her ignorance and fear of using them.

He smiled. "You'd find some way to do it, Kendra. I know." The smile vanished, and he sighed. "Promise me you'll strive to find happiness."

Kendra withdrew her hand to cross her arms, irritation over their old argument rising despite her worry for his failing health. "And how am I to do that, pray, tell me, if I am fated to marry a man of the accursed race responsible for doing this"--she waved her arm over his body--"to you? I would rather die! And Father knows it. But he cares for naught save his own status, that he retain some vestige of control over our lands."

He sighed again. "Kendra, do not speak so. Father loves you and is doing what he can to ensure that you will be provided for. You and all the folk who look to Edgarburh for protection."

Stung by the truth of his rebuke, she bowed her head. "I know, Del. It's just--" She jutted her chin, her jaw clenched to herald her resolve. "I shall never marry the retainer of a king who allows his knights to attack men returning home under the banner of truce."

Del's lips twitched in an unreadable grin before his piercing blue eyes adopted a frank look. "Even if such a vow would deny you your heart's contentment?"

She was on the verge of repeating her vow when he gasped, beset by another bloody coughing fit. After helping him get through it, grieving at how light his once-robust body felt, she dipped a cloth in the water to swab the sweat from his brow and blood from his lips.

"Please, Kendra. I need to know . . ." The wheeze returned, along with an ominous rattle. "Seek happiness. Promise me that."

"Oh, Del." Her voice caught, and she swallowed. She dropped the cloth into the basin and grasped his hand in both of her smaller ones, thankful that the ravages of injury and illness had spared this much of the powerful warrior he once had been. "If there is any way to fulfill both vows . . ." Doubts laid siege to her tongue.

"You will, dearest Kendra." He closed his eyes, nodding slightly. "I know you will."

Surrendering to the trembling of her chin, she fell to her knees and laid her head beside him. His hand came to rest lightly upon her hair. He drew a long, shuddering breath. The rattle stilled. Her heart hammering, she raised her head. His hand slid away. His eyes were open, staring; his chest, unmoving.

She collapsed against his body, keening futile denials and hugging him to her as if by sheer force of will she could bring him back. Knowing she craved the impossible, she railed at God for taking the person who loved her best, at Del for letting himself be taken, at his devil-spawned Norman murderer, at her mother for failing to bequeath Kendra her rare healing gift, at her father for condoning her barter to a Norman knight. And at the architect of her misery, whose crown bought by Saxon blood was being set upon his head this day: the Bastard of Normandy.

Kendra rose, dried her face and set her jaw. Tenderly, she closed Del's eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Bending to kiss his brow, she affirmed her promise to find happiness wherever she might.

But it would never be in the arms of a man whose race was responsible for her brother's death.

# # #

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