by Anita Mills
Sweating from the remembered terror, she forced herself to admit that William of Dunashie was not Elias. He was younger, more comely. And bigger. He was pleasant, appearing almost kindly. And bigger. Finally, after hours of tossing upon her pallet, her mind wandered into the netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, where it was the big Scot’s body that covered hers, and Elias’ words that echoed in her ears.
“My lady?”
“Unnnnhhhhhhh?”
With an effort Arabella forced her eyes open, only to discover that it was yet dark. She blinked as though she could somehow clear her mind, then the reality came home to her: It was her marriage day. She struggled to sit, as the blanket slipped to her waist.
“Jesu, Ena, but ’tis cold,” she muttered crossly. “And ’tis overearly.”
“I asked her to wake ye.”
He moved closer, carrying a smoking pitch brand, until he stood above her. And from where she sat, he appeared to fill the room. She shrank back, her body protecting her son’s, as she stared upward. Her eyes traveled the great length of him, scarce noting the heavy boots, the cross-gartered chausses, or the burnished mail that reflected the fire. From behind the torch his face was shadowed in red and black. He was as Lucifer, come to take her away.
At first he’d been angered to find her on naught but a pallet, but as he looked down on her his anger faded. The torchlight played on her face, on her shoulders, and on her bare breasts. Despite the fear he’d seen in her eyes, he could not help staring also, comparing her slenderness with the thickened bodies of the whores he’d known. His breath caught in his chest. “Mistress,” he said finally, his voice nearly unrecognizable. “ ’Tis come to part from ye I am.”
It was then that she realized he was booted and spurred and ready to ride. “What… ?” She opened her mouth, then closed it, unable to comprehend.
“Wycklow is under siege,” he explained. “I canna know when I’ll return, but I’ll come again as soon as may be. Until then, I’d have ye wish me Godspeed.”
He was not wedding her this day. She pulled the cover up to her chin, disappointing him. “Godspeed, my lord,” she said quickly, trying to hide the intense relief she felt.
“Nay.” For a moment he was at a loss, feeling again as ill-at-ease as when he’d been but an overgrown lad. He shifted his weight uneasily. “I’d take a memory with me, mistress. I’d hae a kiss of farewell.”
Though he asked, there was no choice. With an effort she stood, turning to pull the blanket around her. He gestured to Ena to hand her her undertunic, then he laid his torch upon the small, cold brazier. As he looked away Arabella stood and hastily struggled into the garment, releasing her blanket only as the shift fell below her hips, covering her nakedness. Her duty done, Ena fled, leaving them alone.
His mouth dry from what he’d seen of Arabella, he swung again to face her. “Aye, I’d have a kiss of peace between us—and yer blessing ere I go,” he managed almost gruffly.
For a big man, he made almost no noise as he moved toward her. She could feel the strength of his hands as he clasped her shoulders. His hazel eyes seemed to devour her face as his voice softened. “I’d remember ye thus.”
“Sweet Mary, but I—” Her feeble protest died in his kiss. This time he went more slowly, brushing her lips, tasting lightly of what he would possess. His warm breath caressed her cold cheek, sending an involuntary shiver through her. As his mouth grew more eager, his arms closed about her. The cold metal links of the chain mail pressed her linen shift into her flesh. And yet there was no violence in his embrace. In her grateful relief that he would leave, she returned his kiss tentatively. His arms tightened as he took possession of her mouth. For a brief moment her fear of him was lost in the intensity of his kiss.
“Will! Art ready to ride?” Giles shouted. “I’d make haste!”
Reluctantly, William released her and stepped back, his desire in his eyes. “ ’Tis not a horse I’d ride, and I had the choice,” he managed. “Sweet Jesu, Arabella of Byrum, but I’d not leave ye like this.” He watched the blood rush to her face before she turned away. “There is nae a man anywhere in Christendom more blessed than I, and ye come to me thus.” Moving behind her, he leaned to whisper against her ear, “ ’Tis a fond memory ye give me, mistress.”
“Godspeed you, my lord.”
“Aye. And may he keep you also,” he answered solemnly. He brushed his palm lightly over the crown of her hair, then dropped his hand. “And ye dinna mind it, I’d take a favor to remind me of ye, Arabella.”
“I … I have naught of value that—”
“God’s bones, Will!” Giles called out from the stairs, “ ’Tis two days’ hard ride for Dunashie, and four days beyond that!”
“Aye!” William shouted back. Turning his attention again to Arabella, he lowered his voice. “One day, mistress, ye’ll have all that ye deserve.”
She drew one plait over her shoulder and pulled at the golden cord that secured the ends, tugging until it gave way, freeing her hair. “ ’Tis poor, but ’tis all—”
Heavy bootsteps sounded closer, prompting William to hastily wrap the cord around his thumb. “I’ll wear it until we are met again, Arabella,” he said softly. “ ’Twill remind me of the pledge between us.” He fumbled at the leather pouch that hung from his belt, drawing forth a delicately wrought chain and holding it out to her. “I’d meant to give ye this for yer bridal gift.” When she did not take it, he pressed it into her hand. “I’d have ye wear it for me. And when I am come again to Byrum, I will bring ye a jewel to hang on it for your wedding day,” he promised.
She looked from the glittering chain to him. “ ’Tis pretty, my lord, and I thank you for it.”
The firelight warmed his hazel eyes as a smile lightened his face. “Aye, ’tis pleased I am to wed ye, Arabella of Byrum, and I’d have the world know it.” Lifting the hand that held the chain, he pressed his lips into her palm. “God keep ye while I am gone from ye.”
“Are you ready to ride, Will?” Giles asked from the doorway. Despite the impatience in his voice, he was grinning.
“Aye.” Embarrassed, William dropped her hand. “I did but come to bid my lady farewell,” he explained defensively. “I couldna leave her expecting to be wed, now could I?”
She stood staring into the semidarkness long after their footsteps had receded down the stairs. It was not until she heard the horses clatter noisily across the drawbridge that she sank down onto a small bench. Her hand crept to her mouth as though she were in a trance, and then her gaze dropped to the golden chain in her hand. For these few days at least, God had granted her a reprieve.
“Mama?” Jamie sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “Mama?” he repeated more plaintively.
She dropped down to the pallet and leaned to smooth his rumpled hair. “ ’Twas nothing, sweeting.” Then, suppressing the surge of renewed elation, she gathered him close. “ ’Twas that the lord of Blackleith rides to fight in England, and we do not go from here yet.”
“Will he come again?”
“Aye—but not soon.”
He buried his head between her breasts and clung tightly to her. “I would that I had seen him,” he murmured wistfully. “Wee Tom says he is a giant.”
Her arms tightened protectively around the small, weak child. “Wee Tom speaks nonsense, for he is but overlarge, and I’d not have you worry for it. He is gone for now.”
“Wee Tom says the Bastard butchers men.”
“He’s gone, Jamie. Be still and go back to sleep.”
“Wee Tom—”
“Hush.”
“But he will come back, Mama.”
She settled against the lumpy straw and stared upward, listening to the drawbridge creak upward once more. Aye, he would come back, but she’d not think of that. For now she and her son were safe, and ’twas all that mattered.
Chapter Five
Walter FitzHamon sat alone in his small, dank cell, pondering yet
again the future he’d not have. “Seek God’s counsel,” the abbot had urged him. God’s counsel? Nay, but God had forsaken him long ago, leaving him to rot in this place, leaving him to yearn for a far different life.
For nearly eleven years he’d endured the preaching, the contemplation, the seemingly endless study of God’s path to Heaven, all the while chafing under the rigorous discipline of a vocation he would not follow. The only thing he had learned in those years was how to dissemble, how to say what it suited others to hear, how to pray using words he did not believe. God’s counsel? ’Twas a jest.
Eleven years it had been and still he waited, biding his time whilst the Butcher gained King David’s favor. When word had come a month earlier that the flower of Scotland’s nobility had perished in battle outside York, he’d dared to hope that Giles of Moray had fallen also. Instead he’d had to listen to those who returned by way of Kelso tell of the Butcher’s courage, of how he’d covered his king’s retreat back into Scotland. Nay, while Walter rotted, Giles of Moray rose.
God? Nay, if God had cared for Walter FitzHamon, ’twould have been Moray as perished at Dunashie, not Hamon. Walter looked down, seeing the hands clasped in his lap as though he prayed, seeing the thin blue lines carrying his blood over the bones. Hamon of Blackleith’s blood mingled with that of a peasant girl there. Nay, he’d not think of the latter—’twas Hamon’s blood he bore.
’Tis the last of yer blood ye are, and I’d nae hae ye fergit it…. ‘Tis ye as must make Giles of Moray pay for what he does this day…. The last words of his mother’s brother, ere Moray had hanged him.
But vengeance was no easy task for a boy with naught but monks to succor him, Walter mused to himself. And he had to think of his own future also. Mayhap he ought to accept his lot in life. Mayhap he ought to take his vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience and hope to escape out into the world as a tonsured clerk. He would not be the first to swear to one thing and do another, after all.
And yet he would not give up the dreams that had sustained him those eleven years when he’d lain alone on his cot. He could not give up his dream of killing Moray and all of his blood, of returning to Blackleith to rule. ’Twas but fancy, he knew, but ’twas all the hope he had. And it did not matter to his dreams that bastards did not often rule.
He felt anew the surge of hate for the Butcher. Aye, and for his bastard brother also. They’d taken Hamon from this earth. They’d taken all Walter knew, even his name, for now he dared not be “Walter FitzHamon,” but only “Walter.” ’Twas as though no blood at all flowed in his veins. Others were “Stigand of Langley,” or “Patrick of Roxburgh,” or “Edmund of Alton,” but not he. He was but “Walter,” an orphan dumped at Kelso’s door. Aye, he hated them for it—’twould have been kinder had he perished with Hamon.
“Walter?”
He looked up, seeing the brother come to summon him. The abbot would know whether he would accept God’s mission or go out into the world alone. For a moment, his gaze moved resentfully to the requisite crucifix on the wall above. God’s mission? Nay, but God had abandoned him, giving him no choice at all.
“Aye.”
He rose slowly and started to follow the monk into the stone-floored corridor. He would, he decided, promise nigh to anything to get out. Surely freedom was worth the loss of his hair. And once he was gone from Kelso he’d be one of those clerks who kept a concubine, he promised himself, for he was not meant to burn. And someday, somehow, he would kill Giles of Moray—aye, and his brother, and his sons, and his brother’s sons—he’d not let any of the hated blood live.
He stopped, brought up short by the realization that if he were tonsured, he’d not rule Blackleith. He bent down to adjust the toe of his shoe, delaying whilst his mind raced. There had to be another answer. And if God would not give it, he’d have to look elsewhere. Aye, he’d even bargain with the Devil if he had to. As he straightened up, he felt a certain elation at having allowed his mind to think the unthinkable. But suddenly it seemed sensible: If God would not countenance vengeance, surely Satan would.
The abbot who ruled Kelso looked up impatiently when he entered the room. “Ah, Walter.” As he gestured to a low bench, he turned to the sour man beside him. “What think you, Edmund: Would you go?”
“The place is small, and the Butcher’s piety such that I doubt there is the need,” Edmund of Alton complained.
“But surely the need there is greater than any,” the abbot protested. “Besides, ’tis not Dunashie itself but Blackleith as has lost a priest. And ’tis months since we received the request. Nay, we have delayed over-long as it is.”
Walter’s flesh prickled at the naming of the Butcher, and it was as though every pore had turned into an ear when he heard the reverend father speak of Blackleith. His breath in abeyance, he watched warily, waiting for more. But ’twas to Edmund that the abbot spoke again.
“Your lack of joy in the task speaks ill of you,” he chided.
“They are not like to welcome an Englishman there,” Edmund countered.
“I have been to Blackleith,” Walter blurted out finally. Then, when they turned to him, he nodded. “Aye—I was born not far from there.”
Edmund rubbed his Saxon beard almost happily. “There is your answer, Father: Send Walter.”
“Nay—he is overyoung, and has not taken his vows.”
“And you wished, I’d take them,” Walter offered eagerly.
But the abbot shook his head. “You are untried, and as Edmund has said, the Butcher’s people are not noted for their love of God’s Church. Nay, I’d have you clerk elsewhere first.”
It was as though the possibility had been dangled but briefly before him, then pulled away beneath his eyes. He appealed to Edmund: “And you take me for your clerk, I’d aid you there. Aye—I know the place. The way is rough and dangerous, for the road is steep and the burns like to overflow when it rains.”
“It has been too many years. You were but a boy,” the abbot objected.
“One does not forget the land of one’s birth, Father. As Edmund has said, there is little love for the English there. Young or no, I remember well enough the mis-like between them.” When he could see Edmund nodding, he pressed his advantage. “At least I am Scots-born, Father. At least I am of there.”
“As Edmund has said, ’tis believed the Butcher is lacking in piety, and I’d have one of greater years for the task. Besides, you speak not as a Scot now.”
Again the Saxon rubbed his beard. “I do not know. …” His voice trailed off briefly as he considered the possibility. “A clerk, you say?” Then, just as Walter’s hopes rose, Edmund of Alton dismissed the possibility. “The place is too small to need a clerk, I’d think.”
“There are but two hundred souls withal, for the parish has only Blackleith and the villeins that till the fields and tend the sheep beyond,” the abbot said.
“Two hundred is many for one,” Walter argued. “Aye, and ye wished it, I’d speak as they,” he added, dropping into the rhythmic border cadence.
“There isn’t time. I’d thought to have Edmund there ere the weather worsens. And you’ve not given your vows—nay, I’d think on it.” For a long moment he stared at Walter. “Not always have I been certain of your devotion to Holy Church.”
“Then send me but as Edmund’s clerk, and let service be proof ere I am ordained,” Walter pleaded. “Aye, I’d even be tonsured as surety of mine intentions. Father, ’tis the land of mine birth.”
“ ’Twould seem you believe you have a mission there,” the abbot murmured. “Leave me be, and I will think on it,” he promised. “Aye—go, both of you, that I may pray over the matter.”
Walter walked beside the now silent, still dour Edmund of Alton, his mind seeking the means to convince the man. Had it been another he’d have spoken jovially, turning his easy ways to his advantage, but ’twould be more like to turn Edmund against him. Levity of any kind—aye, enjoyment of anything—was
regarded by the grim Saxon as a great sin. Piety was solemnity, and there was no questioning of that basic truth as far as he was concerned. After waiting for him to say something, anything at all, Walter observed gravely, “The task at Blackleith is great, Edmund, and you are a good choice to take up God’s cudgel there.”
“Humph. ’Tis a den of thieves,” the older man snorted. “Nay, I did not come to Scotland for this.”
“And we are successful, the bishop will raise you— aye, and it could be said you taught me well enough to take your place there,” Walter ventured slyly. “There would be no need to keep you at Blackleith.”
Edmund stopped walking and fixed Walter with an almost baleful stare. “I need no help.”
“You mistake my meaning. We would both advance, Father—I to minister to Blackleith eventually, and you to a better place.” Despite the fact that he knew Edmund did not like familiarity, Walter clapped him on the arm. “Whilst he thinks of it, I would that you did also.”
“ ’Tis a grim place, you say?” Edmund demanded, shaking loose.
“Barren—and the road is bad.” Walter rolled his eyes expressively. “But no more so than the people, for they are not overgiven to heeding God’s will.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “And then there is the Butcher.”
“They say he does not often go there.”
“Surely he is there for the hallmotes at least once each year.”
“I deserve better than this,” Edmund muttered bitterly.
“Then let me aid you to gain it.”
The older man regarded him suspiciously. “Why would any wish to serve in a godless place?”
“I was born there.”