Chapter 7
He woke, bathed in white. Did I dream Kari speaking words of love to me last night? Am I in heaven? An insistent little hand yanked on his hair and he blinked. No slow waking with an infant tumbling about—
“Sno!” Valentine tipped two fistfuls of the stuff onto Constantine, the icy mass unerringly slipping down to his groin.
“Not a wake up you would wish for,” Kari remarked, with a knowing look, as he shot to his feet, stifling curses.
Constantine squinted at his little boy, who put his snow-reddened fingers over his giggling mouth, not in the slightest scared by his father’s lowering look.
“He wants you to play,” said Kari, a lilt in her eyes and voice.
Somehow, they all finished outside in the fresh snow, pelting each other with snowballs, Kari and himself giving Valentine rides on one of the sheepskins, dragging the excited little boy over glistening mounds of white.
“Mummy!” Valentine cried, clapping his hands as he had given his sheepskin a snuggle and a love. “Mummy, too!”
Kari at once stepped up and settled behind Valentine, her eyes a challenge.
If you wish to play it that way, my lady, we shall.
Constantine hauled them both up the steepest slope, a smooth bare section that must have had a lightning-fire on it at one time, for there were no trees now. Turning to look back, Constantine grunted out his irritation. Too steep for sure, they will come hurtling off. Unless—
“What?” Kari started as he lifted her up, sat on the sheepskin and plonked her back on his knees, with Valentine on hers. “No—”
“Off we go.” Constantine pushed off, the threadbare sheepskin careering quickly over the glassy snow, Valentine huffing and Kari shouting in his ear and all a foolish, youthful joy, something he had not experienced since childhood.
It could not last, of course. The skin snagged on some unseen rock and Constantine tightened his grip on his wife and son, rolling with them when they began to skid off, shielding them from a punishing fall. They came to a lurching stop, Constantine sprawled half on his back and half on his side, Kari tucked into his flank and Valentine tight behind his arms. Constantine spat out a mouthful of ice and laughed.
“Fool of a crusader!” Kari scolded, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink and she was so pretty that Constantine could not help himself, he leaned closer and kissed her.
After an instant’s jarring collision of teeth, their lips rediscovered an embrace they liked. Constantine did not want to draw back, never wished to stop this wonderful heat and sweet mingle of breath, the taste of Kari, the scent of her, this intimate, personal touch that was theirs alone. As she is mine and I am hers. But he was learning and so, reluctantly, drew back.
“Ho, my lad, did you like that?” He brushed a speck of snow from his son’s cheek.
“Ag’in!” shouted Valentine, eyes wide with hero-worship.
“Not if I have aught to do with it,” muttered Kari, still caught in the crook of his arm, but then she glanced up at him, a snow-melting look.
The rest of the day, spent snow-balling, foraging, playing hide-and-seek, was a blissful one.
• ♥ •
The snow was deeper next morning, even more stunning, and Kari knew that if they were to move, they should do so soon.
Almost the moment she had changed Valentine, her husband’s tall form filled the entrance to their den and then sunlight streamed in as he knelt, opening his arms to the galloping child.
He kissed Valentine and looked up to her.
“Will you both come with me to my manor for Yule?”
It was time, Kari decided, and she gave her answer with a full, glad heart. “I will. We will.”
She sped to him and put out a hand to draw him to his feet. Constantine shook his head and rose anyway, checking that his cradled son was nowhere near striking any part of the hut.
“Remind me of this Yule Goat,” he remarked, when they were on their way. “I have plans for it.” His eyes glinted. “And for my steward and certain maids.”
• ♥ •
Kari walked into Constantine’s green-decked manor with Valentine half-dozing in a sling and the yule goat strong at her side.
“What do you here?” Puffing up like an indignant dragon, the manor steward bustled forward from the dais table. “You and your whelp—”
“Changeling!” hissed one of the maids at the lower trestles, the one who had smarmed up to Hadrian, only now her face was sharp with spite.
“—What is that thing with you?” the narrow-minded steward went on, scorn in his every word and harsh, disdainful gesture.
So it begins, Kari thought, as the horrid accusations whispered through the hall. As it did with my aunt. Am I wrong to think my crusader knight will fight for me, for us? Were his words of love a lie?
Inwardly she quailed, doubting herself, worried over Constantine, fierce for her son.
The tall, fur-covered brute beside her opened the two poles that formed the jaws of the Yule Goat and growled. He leapt forward, lunging at the maid who had called Valentine a changeling, making the woman shriek and duck behind the trestle. He twisted about, tilting the stark, oblong, unearthly head of the goat so it seemed to be staring at the steward, who paled and backed away.
“No!” the fellow shrieked, waving his arms wildly at Kari, then at any of the maids, “Take her instead, take them, master goat, but not me!”
The whole hall stiffened. By his actions and even more his words, the pasty steward was revealed to all to be a coward and utterly without merit. This is what my clever husband intended, a public ordeal and trial, not by combat or hot iron but by ridicule. Without a blow, he has stripped the man and those treacherous maids of any support, merely by jesting with them.
But she had no time for any regrets concerning her parents and aunt Melisande and this simple, effective way of destroying rumor. Another now spoke up.
“I know this!” cried one of the older warriors seated at the lower table. “The Yule Goat means Christmas and good luck, as our lady returned means good fortune! Here—”
The grey-beard pushed a piece of bread and cheese toward the creature, who snatched both in a flurry of furs and a jingling of bells, little chiming bells that formed the tail of the Yule Goat.
Bells I had in the bottom of my pack, for Valentine to play with, Kari thought. And it turns out they did have a use. Let us hope they work a play now.
More people were offering pieces of bread, more calling out a greeting to her and her son. The Yule Goat jumped and danced, shimmering a long ringing of bells when Valentine thrust out a hand from his carrying sling, proffering a scrap of cheese.
“Blessed be Yule!” shouted a server.
“Blessed be our lady!” called another. “She brings our Christmas-time!”
“That she does,” came a resolute voice. “I stand for her and for my son, my generous, beautiful boy, my firstborn heir. Let any who dispute this now do battle with me.”
The furs and poles and bells fell away and Constantine remained, standing proud in the middle of his hall. In the sudden silence, peaceful as fallen snow, he turned to her, his face brighter than the fire, his eyes brimming with feeling.
“I love you, Kari. As my wife and mother of my son and our child-to-be. I say it to you now and to all the world. I love you.”
He opened his arms to them and Kari ran, hearing Valentine laughing, sensing the good-will of the folk, feeling Constantine’s arms winding lovingly around her, a living shield. And now, for the first time, she felt the babe in her womb kick and shift, as if approving and applauding with the rest.
“I love you,” Constantine said again, kissing her over and over.
“I, you,” she said, knowing she would say the tender words properly tonight, in their bed.
Yes, there were still matters to resolve, the steward, the maids, but tonight, she and Constantine and Valentine were the bringers of Yule.
My Yule knight has come through for me. We have all prevailed.
Kari smiled. It would be an excellent Christmas. And an even better new year…
About the Author—Lindsay Townsend
Lindsay Townsend is fascinated by ancient world and medieval history and writes historical romance covering these periods. She also enjoys thrillers and writes both historical and contemporary romantic suspense and mystery. When not writing, Lindsay enjoys spending time with her husband, gardening, reading and taking long, languid baths—possibly with chocolate.
Lindsay’s blog is here: http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk/
See more of Lindsay’s work here: www.prairierosepublications.com