by Anita Mills
And still he hesitated to give the order. What about Nigel of Byrum? Once the deed was done, would he demand satisfaction? And if he did, would it be more than a few marks of silver?
Mayhap Robert could claim ’twas an accident. Nay, not unless all perished along with William, and then what accident was that? E’en if ’twas claimed they’d drowned in the flooded burn, not all would have died so.
The horn sounded their approach and still he watched, thinking there was no way he could justify to any what he would do. Jesu, but there was no justice in this world. He’d have to let them enter—he’d have to submit and give up the keys to Blackleith. But he’d wait until they were inside ere he went down to them. ’Twas enough that he had to swallow the bitter draught that was his pride.
For the first time in his forty-one years, he felt a coward before his men. After urging them to rebellion, he could not bring himself to give the order.
Below him Walter watched from a narrow window, every nerve tautening as the mesnie moved closer. God’s bones, but they were in range now. Even he could hit them. He squeezed further into the opening and craned his neck upward. For what did Robert of Carnan wait?
The horn sounded again across the flooded ditch, and when Walter looked down they were almost below him. To his left and right the archers were lying in the slits, poised to take William of Dunashie down, and still there was no signal from above. To Walter’s dismay, the bridge began to creak downward. Did Robert think ’twould be easier to let them inside? Mayhap he wanted to be certain none lived to tell the tale. But if he waited overlong, ’twould be too late. As many years as had passed between, Walter could still remember how the Bastard had fought in the taking of Dunashie.
Gathering his cassock up with one hand and a bow with the other, Walter ran for the tower steps. He’d not let a fool like Robert of Carnan cheat him, not now. It did not serve his plan to let the Bastard live.
“God’s bones, my lord, but they come inside!” he cried in protest, ere he’d reached the wall.
Robert turned around, his bitterness in his eyes.
“Aye. ’Twas folly to think the Butcher and Byrum would let me rule.”
“Nay, all is not lost: You have but to say ’twas an accident. The guards confused the order, ’twas all.”
But Robert shook his head. “I’d have to kill them all. And for all that I’d have Blackleith, I’d not murder a woman for it.”
“Jesu!”
“What is it to ye that I rule here, Father?” Robert asked suddenly. “ ’Tis yer priestly duty to counsel love and reason, not murder.”
In that moment, Walter knew the older man had not the stomach to kill the Bastard of Dunashie. Turning away, he nocked a quarrel into the string, then pulled the spring taut with his foot, keeping the bow pointed down. Aiming over the side, he loosed the arrow. And as it swooshed through the air the archers below fired also, sending a hail of arrows down on the incoming men below.
“What the—nay! God’s blood, but you will kill us all!” Robert yelled, grabbing for Walter’s bow. “Art mad, Father?” he demanded, wresting it from him.
As Walter gave up the weapon, he ducked beneath the older man’s arm and pushed. Robert lost his balance and fell, still clutching the bow, over the side. His cry of surprise died with him on the rocks beneath.
As the first arrow struck the horse behind him, William flung his body across Arabella’s, carrying them both to the bridge. Horses neighed and reared, pawing the air in fright, as William pushed her into the narrow portcullis slit, holding her there.
Lang Gib charged past them, his battle-axe drawn, shouting, “For St. Andrew and Dunashie! Whoreson cowards! Fight ye like men!”
Seeing that Robert had fallen, everyone inside rushed to throw down their weapons, emerging almost sheepishly from the arrow slits. “ ’Twas a mistake—aye, a mistake!” someone yelled. “God’s mercy, sirs!”
William stood and reached a hand to Arabella. “Art all right?” he asked anxiously.
“Naught but my gown suffered, and ’twas ruined before,” she answered, turning to look behind him. “But Jamie … Sweet Mary, but where is Jamie?” she cried. “Jamie!” She broke into a run when she saw Ewan’s horse. “Mother of God, is he all right?”
For answer, the man leaned from his saddle and handed the boy down to her. “Naught’s harmed, my lady—we turned to flee at the first arrow.”
The little boy clutched at her convulsively, burying his head in her breast, as she held him and wept. “Shhhh, lovey … shhhh …” she babbled against his hair, nuzzling it. “Mama has you safe, sweeting.”
As relieved as he too was to see the boy safe, William had to stifle a pang of resentment. He’d had no gratitude from her, for she could spare no thought for any but the boy. Picking up his helm where it had come dislodged, he jammed it onto his head again and walked to them.
“He is all right,” he muttered, reaching for Jamie. “ ’Tis not meet that ye carry him.”
“He is my son!”
“Aye, and I do not deny it,” he countered, lifting the boy to his shoulder. “But he is overheavy for ye.”
“Ena …”
“And for her also. Ewan!”
“Aye, my lord?”
“I’d have ye take the boy until ’tis determined how safe we are.”
“Aye.”
“But—”
“But nay,” William cut in brusquely. Turning his attention to the sullen silence within the courtyard, he left her to cross to where Lang Gib interrogated the gatekeeper. “Jesu, is this how ye greet yer lord?” he demanded angrily.
“ ’Twas … ’twas a mistake, my lord—I swear it!”
“He says ’twas Robert of Carnan as ordered ‘em ter take ye down,” Gib explained.
“Why?”
Perceiving that a wrong answer could cost him his head, the hapless fellow appealed mutely to the others. There was an uneasy shifting of weight, but none answered. Gib was just about to tickle his neck with the sharp side of his dagger when a young priest hurried forward breathlessly.
“Thanks be to God you are spared; my lord!” He stopped to gulp air. “I tried to stop him, but could not!” Then, seeing the knife Gib held to the gatekeeper’s throat, he hastened to intervene. “Nay, the fault is not theirs, my lord—’twas Carnan as had them loose the arrows.”
“Robert of Carnan served my brother well—aye, and Hamon of Blackleith before him,” William told him curtly.
As vexed as he was that the Bastard had survived, Walter managed to shake his head sorrowfully. “Alas, but the sin of envy weighed heavily on him, my lord.”
“Envy? God’s bones, but what nonsense do ye speak?” Gib snorted. “He was seneschal here!”
“Aye, but when ’twas made known to him that he would lose his office, his reason left him.” Walter glanced slyly up at William, then added, “He would have it that one who is bastard-born and bears no blood of Hamon had less right than he to rule Blackleith, my lord.”
Lang Gib shook his head in disbelief. “Nay, Carnan had nae right at all: My lord holds the fief of his brother.”
But William was watching the priest. “ ’Twas ye as stopped him?”
“Nay, but I could not—’twas not until he let fly the arrow that I disputed with him for the bow, my lord.” Walter paused again for breath. “God forgive me, but he slipped and fell.” He looked skyward for a moment. “And may God forgive him also, and give rest to his soul,” he added piously. “And you do not mind it, I’d shrive him, for there was good in him also.”
William’s gaze traveled from the soiled hem of the priest’s cassock upward to his face. God’s bones, he thought, but they ordain fellows too young for spurs now. Aloud he merely muttered, “I thought ’twas an old man who served as chaplain here.”
“Alas, but he died, and when word came to Kelso of your need, I was glad to serve.” Perceiving that William’s eyes had narrowed, Walter s
miled. “And I am not so young as you would think, my lord—for long years have I studied God’s lessons.”
“Ye come from Kelso?” Will asked abruptly.
“Aye. You have been there?”
“Nae lately.”
Briefly, William considered inquiring of the child he’d taken to Kelso so long ago, then he recalled that he had not even a name for the boy. No doubt there were dozens like him who’d been sent there since. And he had more pressing matters at hand.
The attack was over. For a moment William was inclined to mete out stern punishment, but the man most responsible was already dead. And he still had to rule those who remained. Taking note of the fact that the others had surrendered swiftly, he nodded and turned his attention back to the priest.
“How are ye called, Father?”
“Edmund—Edmund of Alton, my lord.”
“And ye are Saxon-born?”
Walter’s smile broadened. “Aye—as the English Church is overrun with Normans, there seemed greater opportunity here.”
“It is that,” Will agreed. “How many are lost, Gib?”
“But three wounded, and none like to die.”
“Aye, see to Robert of Carnan’s soul, Father,” Will decided finally.
“Aye, my lord.”
“And as for ye others”—Will turned to address the chastened defenders—”I’d hae ye know William of Dunashie brooks no further rebellion—ye ken?” There was a collective nod of assent. Satisfied, he pulled off his gloves and dislodged his helmet. Tossing them to Wat, he held out his bare hands. “Ere ye’d forget it, I’d have the oaths due me now. And ere the morrow is out, I’d have all archers learn better competence with their bows—God’s teeth, but ye dinna wound but three!”
Walter paused to look back, watching the first man of Blackleith kneel to place his hands between the Bastard’s, and the rage within him welled anew. And then he noted that while most gave their attention to William of Dunashie, the one called “Muckle Mou’ Tom” for his wide, drooping mouth stared back at him. And for a moment his blood ran cold with the fear that mayhap the fellow knew. There was reproach in the great gaping face, and Walter recalled suddenly that Tom had been on the other side, on the timbered wall. But if he knew, he’d held his tongue. Still …
Walter thrust his arms into the warmth of his sleeves and moved on to the task of saying words over Robert of Carnan’s broken body. There was, he reflected bitterly, none but he who had the courage to kill the Bastard or his brother. He’d been a fool to hope otherwise.
Chapter Seventeen
Her first night at Blackleith she could not sleep, fearing first that ’twas a hostile place, then that ’twas a new world for which she was unprepared. Finally, when William’s breathing had evened out, she dressed and stole from the small solar to seek her son, where he slept with Ewan in the common room at the one end of the hall. Somehow, as she crossed the open yard in the faint moonlight, she found it less frightening outside than in. It was, she supposed, that she was awake to confront her fears.
There’d been no need to worry for Jamie, for she found him sleeping peacefully, his small body snuggled against the back of the grizzled man-at-arms, beneath the smoking light of a pitch torch that hung in the iron ring above. It was not right, she reasoned resentfully, for soon he would come to rely more on Ewan than on her. Already ’twas the man as fed him, bathed him, dressed him, and carried him about. And as far as she could tell, though he made no open complaint, Ewan was as uncomfortable with his orders as she was. She longed to lean down and smooth the small, tousled head of hair, but she did not, for she’d not waken the snoring men. She’d not have any tell William she’d been there.
Satisfied at least that Jamie was all right, she clasped her cloak tightly about her and made her way back out into the cold night air. Again there was naught but the glow of the half-moon above to illuminate the eerily silent courtyard as she crossed it. Then she heard the soft, stealthy movements of someone ahead of her. She stopped suddenly, and her heart rose to her throat at the fear of discovery. She was too late.
“ ’Tis not safe to go about unattended, even in your own castle, lady.”
A figure emerged from deep shadows to confront her, and she jumped, then relaxed with relief. ’Twas but the priest. “Sweet Mary, but you have given me a fright!” she admitted, exhaling to still the rapid beating of her heart.
“ ’Tis too soon, for there are still those here who would strike first, then look,” he chided. “Until the men of Blackleith and the men of Dunashie learn of each other, there is little trust or liking, gentle lady.” His eyes gleamed blackly in the moonlight. “Nay, but were I you, I’d not be out alone.”
“Aye, but we are safe enough: Two men of Dunashie sleep upon pallets in the solar, and the door is barred.”
“Nay, ’tis not, for you are down here.”
She thought she detected a faint smile. “I did but come to see how my son fared,” she explained defensively.
“The lame boy is yours?”
“Aye.” She looked down as he came closer. “And you, Father: I could ask also how ’tis that you are about.”
“I am but come from the chapel. ’Tis just past Matins.”
‘But ’tis not Kelso here. There are no monks to join you.”
“Nay, ’tis not,” he agreed readily. “But the habits of nigh a dozen years are slow to depart.” He moved to where he could see her face more clearly. “At least I have the better excuse, I think.”
“I could not sleep until I saw my son was all right.”
“And your soul is sorely troubled this night. You fear for the boy,” he guessed.
She started to deny it, then nodded. “Aye. I am all he has, but my husband will not accept him as he is,” she answered low.
“Why?”
Priest or no, she had no business standing there in the dark with him, for what if William should wake and find her gone? “I know not the reason, Father,” she replied, glancing toward the darkened door. “And I must return.”
“Ask God for the answer, my daughter.”
How often had she heard such words from those who did not know? It was as though she could not let them pass yet again, not when this priest knew not of what he spoke. “Think you I have not? Think you I have not begged to know why God marks Jamie so? Think you I have not prayed that my husband will love my son?” she demanded angrily. Then, not wanting to say more, she started to pass him. “Your pardon, Father, but God gives me no answers.”
He waited until she was nearly to the steep stone stairs. “Is it that your lord believes the boy damned?” he asked almost softly. “If so, he is wrong.”
She stopped. “I know not what he believes, Father, for he will not tell me. And he had his wishes, he’d not speak of Jamie.”
“And if I tell you God takes pity on the lame?”
“Pity!” She spun around to face him, hurling the word at him. “Is it pity that He marks my son that people turn away in fear? Is it pity that He lets them spit on him? Nay, ’tis not pity He gives James of Woolford—’tis a curse!”
“Ere you ask of God, daughter, look to yourself.”
“ ’Tis not right that Jamie must atone for any sins I have committed!”
“Have you confessed these sins?” he asked gently. Once again, he moved closer. “Would you that I prayed with you?”
“Prayers cannot heal my son!”
“God works His wonders in ways we cannot understand, daughter,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes and swallowed, that he would not see the rawness of the wound within. “Not for me, Father—not for me.”
“Are you such a sinner that you fear to ask?”
“God gave me Elias of Woolford for husband when I was scarce more than a child, and I was beaten sorely for all that I said and did. And then He let Jamie come forth too lame to walk,” she answered low. “Do not speak to me of God’s mercy, Father.”
“And now He gives you the Bastard for husband, and you think yourself well and truly cursed.”
“Nay. Not for that.” She opened her eyes and met his, seeing only apparent sympathy there. “Nay, if my husband could be brought to care for my son, I would be content.”
He reached out to touch her arm. “Then let us pray for that, Lady Arabella. ’Tis a small enough thing to ask.”
“Now? Sweet Mary, but I—”
“The time to seek God is when you have need of Him, daughter, and ’twould seem that time is now.”
“Ay, but …” Her gaze darted anxiously to the stairs behind her. For all that she was drawn to his kindness, he seemed far too young to confess her.
“If William of Dunashie would fault you for praying, then he is a godless man.”
“Nay, he is not godless,” she protested, remembering the way William pored over his paper prayers.
“ ’Tis but I would he understood my son. He asks overmuch of one small, nearly helpless boy. Were it not that, I’d have no complaint of the lord I am given.”
Her hair was pale, her eyes luminous in the soft moonlight, making her even lovelier than when he’d seen her earlier. As Walter looked upon her, he felt yet another reason to envy Dunashie’s bastard.
“Then we will ask God to remedy that also.”
“Father Edmund! Father Edmund! Praise God ye are still awake! ’Tis needed ye are in the gatehouse!” The sentry who ran toward them stopped when he saw her. “Yer pardon,” he mumbled, looking down.
“ ’Tis all right. I did but come out for air, and Father Edmund chides me for being about so late.”
Too overset to realize that the air was too cold to be healthy, he turned again to Walter. “ ’Tis Muckle Mou’ Tom, Father!” he blurted out. “I know not what ails him, but Sim would hae it he dies. When he found him, poor Tom couldna speak!”
For a moment Walter stood quite still, then he dared to ask, “He cannot speak at all? He said naught to Sim?”