Kim Iverson Headlee Read online

  Snow in July

  by Kim Iverson Headlee

  Copyright ©2014

  by Kim Iverson Headlee

  All rights reserved

  Interior art copyright ©2014 by Jessica Headlee

  Cover design copyright ©2014 by Natasha Brown

  ISBN-10: 0-990-50551-0

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9905055-1-8

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ABOUT THE ARTIST:

  Jessica Headlee studied art for two years with Ms. Denise Hoots at Marion Senior High School of Marion, VA, during which time she won Silver Key designation in the national Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her white-charcoal drawing titled “Reality.” Jessica graduated as valedictorian with a 4.4 GPA and top scores in her Advanced Placement classes, she earned 11 varsity letters in three sports (indoor track, outdoor track, and softball), and she achieved All-State status in indoor track. She now studies marine biology with emphasis in marine mammals and coral reef ecology & conservation. Her hobbies include fiction writing, video games (Halo®, the Lego® series, and playing Battlefront® online with her dad are particular favorites), and nature photography. I am thrilled to have worked with her on this project, and all proceeds from the sale of Snow in July and related merchandise defray her college expenses.

  Chapter 1

  FIFTEEN THOUSAND MEN and horses writhed across the valley below, appearing as toys in a children’s game.

  Many might consider war a game, but Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre, knight of Normandy bound to the service of Duke William and commander of a unit in the cavalry reserves, did not number among their ranks.

  Edward the Confessor, King of England via his Saxon father but Norman by his mother, was dead. 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 charcoal neck to calm her, Alain pondered Harold’s claim. It had to be true. This many men would not sacrifice their lives for a lie. 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. He signaled his men forward, couched his lance, and spurred Chou to send her careening into the melee.

  Harold’s shield wall, which had seemed impregnable, 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 an arrow that protruded from one eye.

  Harold’s supporters closed ranks 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.

  A familiar whirl of colors caught Alain’s attention. The saffron leopard prowling on a green field—Étienne! A Saxon knight, with a blue arm and fist blazing defiance across his gray shield, bore down upon Étienne with leveled lance. 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.

  Lance long since discarded and sword rising and falling with fatal precision, Alain surged to reach his brother’s side. Protection of her youngest son had been their dying mother’s wish, and he had sworn on his own life to keep Étienne safe.

  Before he could close the distance, another Saxon knight fought past Étienne’s guard to thrust a war-knife into his throat. Through the visor the knight’s eyes gleamed with startling, fathomless malice. Alain could only watch in stunned disbelief as he laid his hand upon Étienne’s chest for a few moments. Uttering a soul-freezing howl, the Saxon yanked out his seax and disappeared into the press with Étienne’s shield, denying Alain vengeance.

  Shame and grief rent his heart asunder.

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

  Pain slammed into his 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. Blinding agony killed his struggle to free himself. 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 knight driving the wagon. “Have a care, Eosa. He must survive, else all is lost.”

  Eosa’s thick blond braid whipped across his shoulders as he turned and spat over the wagon’s side. He raised the reins in one fist, teeth bared in a snarl. His misshapen bottom lip gave him a draconic appearance. “Take them if you think you can fare better. My lord.”

  With a jerk on his own reins, Ulfric pulled his horse back to join Del, guarding the wagon’s rear.

  Secrecy had forced them to hide by day and travel 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 into the passenger, who groaned a feeble protest. Eosa halted the wagon, and he, Ulfric, and Del dismounted to secure the cargo.

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

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

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

  “Nay. I cannot put my family 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 supine companion thrashed his limbs, his moans sounding louder and more delirious.

  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, never mind his ability to rule.”

  “If he survives, I can hand
le the rest,” Ulfric insisted.

  “How? With sorcery? 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.”

  Del mounted, the wagon creaked forward, and they rode in taut silence.

  “Do you fancy yourself a wise man, Delwin Waldronson?” 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 into battle featured an arm, bent at the elbow and terminating in a fist, a dangerous design for a Saxon to brandish in an England ruled by a Norman king.

  Del resolved to adapt his shield to his father’s pattern at the earliest opportunity.

  “I fancy myself a realist, Ulfric.”

  “A real fool,” Ulfric muttered.

  Del refused to dignify the insult. He spurred his horse into a trot. “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 noise assured him that Eosa was following as best he could, with Ulfric presumably guarding the rear.

  Lost in his churning thoughts, he had no idea how far he’d ridden when he realized he hadn’t heard the wagon in quite some time. Mayhap his companions had stopped to answer nature’s summons. 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 dim silhouette seemed to waver and grow to impossibly huge proportions, prompting Del to scrub his eyes.

  The Norman’s intent, as he advanced upon the wagon with leveled sword, was clear.

  Del thought he heard crunching in the bracken, as though Ulfric was returning to the wagon, but he only had time enough to shout 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. Weakness engulfed him, and his traitorous body refused to obey.

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

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

  “MY GOD—Alain!”

  He 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 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 he recognized the voice. Sir 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 semiconsciousness, first in the Hastings field hospital and later at Ruaud’s 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 his purgatory.

  Alain opened his eyes to find Ruaud peering 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 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 blond hair, his usually jovial face tense with concern. “You looked so pale and still, I almost summoned a priest.”

  “I am glad there was no need for my services, Sir Ruaud,” boomed a man from the threshold.

  The speaker strutted into the room, 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 the duke’s 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. Pain bolted through his chest and down his arm in pulsing waves. Nausea clawed at his stomach. He fell back against the pillows, gasping.

  “Be at ease, Sir Robert,” said the bishop. “No need for formalities on my account.” He balled a fist, raised it to his lips, and cleared his throat. “I am here to pay you honor at King William’s behest. His Majesty conveys his regrets that he is unable to visit 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 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 nasal 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 Kendra Waldronsdotter, 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 and met the bishop’s inquisitive gaze. “Duke William wishes me to marry the thane’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. “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 for whom?

  “Please forgive Sir Robert, my lord bishop.” Ruaud shot Alain a warning glance. “His fever and wounds have left him addlepated. I am certain he appreciates the king’s generous boon.”

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

  Vows too easily broken.

  THE PEWTER goblet hit the trencher with an ungodly clatter. Bloodred wine seeped across the white table linens, reminding Kendra of what Del’s blood must have done the night he was ambushed.

  As a servant rushed to right her goblet and blot the stain, she leaned against her carved, tall-backed chair on the dais of Edgarburh’s feast hall, certain she had imagined the voice that had startled her.

  She wished Del’s condition could be righted as easily.

  Her seat gave her the best view of the Cristes-mæsse festivities, which at present consisted of a muzzled, scruffy bear being goaded through its awkward paces by an equally scruffy man to the raucous amusement of the cro
wd.

  Kendra couldn’t share in the laughter.

  With the tip of her dagger, she chased slices of stewed 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. Del had been one of the lucky few to survive the battle, only to be cut down on their father’s lands by one of William the Bastard’s knights. The enormity of the outrage still blazed within her heart.

  Even greater kindled her wrath over the decree accompanying the coronation announcement: she must wed one of these ruthless Norman warriors.

  This very day, her father was paying 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 shield, though the coward had eluded capture. Waldron kept the shield locked in his quarters, for he couldn’t risk losing his one tangible link to the Norman swine.

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

  Unable to avenge Del, she’d channeled her energy into helping him as best she could.

  She gripped her dagger’s haft in white-knuckled frustration. 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. The dagger slipped from her fingers and dropped onto the table. Sheepishly she looked around, but the others seemed enthralled by the bear’s antics.

  Petals from the Glastonbury thorn, the thousand-year-old tree purported to have sprouted from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff when he established the first Christian church on the ancient sacred site, were reputed to work every manner of medicinal miracle in the hands of the pure in heart. But when she had tried to use some of the herb to heal her mother, the petals had ignited in her hands, leaving naught but ash.