Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  He stared at the painted face intently, adding, “I’d not be unkind to the boy, but I know not how to conquer what I feel within me. Mother Mary, I’d have your aid,” he repeated. “I’d know what God would have of me.”

  He paused, hearing only the sound of the wind against the roof and shutters. Before him, the flame of one of the candles was caught in a gusting draft. It bent over, flickering valiantly, then went out. ’Twas an ill omen for someone’s prayer. With hands nearly too cold for the task he found the striker and the flint, and using his body to shield it against the wind, relit the candle. Once more it joined the others in illuminating Mary’s carved feet. He sank back on his haunches to look upward again.

  As his eyes traveled to the babe bundled in the Virgin’s arms, his thoughts went back to that Christmas in Bethlehem a millennium and more ago. What had Joseph thought when Mary came to him carrying a child not his own? Did he wonder, when she claimed it was God’s son she bore? For a time, had he doubted her? Was it that he believed her, or was it that he forgave her? Nay, ’twas blasphemy to ask such a thing. But had Joseph turned away from her, William did not doubt that she’d have been branded unchaste. ’Twas Joseph who’d learned to love the child she brought him.

  He looked to the other side of the altar, seeing the rude figure of Mary’s husband. Despite the deep lines and the flattened planes made by adze and chisel, there was a kindliness in the wooden face. It seemed to say to William, “I did but what was right and good in God’s eyes.”

  But Ayrie’s son was not the same. If anything, God showed his displeasure in Arabella’s poor crippled son. If anything, the boy should not have lived. His mouth formed silent words, saying only to himself, “But I am no Joseph, Lord. I am not a saint, but only flesh-and-blood man.” Yet even as he thought them his conscience answered, “ ’Tis wrong to deny a child for its birth, William of Dunashie. James of Woolford suffers enough for his mother’s sin.”

  Did the Holy Family give him this sign he’d sought? When he looked again to the painted, carved image of Mary, her face was serene, her eyes focused on some distant thought. Nay, he supposed not: In his heart he already knew what was right.

  No longer angry, he heaved himself up, aware now that he was cold to the bone. Rubbing his arms through the velvet, he started back. The cold wind hit his face again, biting into it. Despite it, he felt better.

  “My lord!”

  He stopped, waiting for Wat to catch up to him. Already the young man’s face was flushed, either from the extra measure of ale allotted him or from the raw wind. “Och, but ye be celebrating early, eh?” Will teased him.

  Wat reddened further, then nodded. “Aye. Lang Gib sent me to find ye, for we’d know when ye’d hae Father Edmund bless the hall.” He sniffled, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “When ye couldna be discovered I asked of Lady Arabella, but she dinna answer. The woman Ena said she was there, but she dinna answer.”

  She was still angered, then. Will drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Tell him, when ’tis dark. I’d see the candles in darkness, I think.”

  “Aye.”

  William climbed the stairs slowly, wondering how best to make his peace with her. He’d do anything but take James to Dunashie, he decided. The door creaked inward on its heavy iron hinges. There was no sign of Ena or the others. He stepped inside and sucked in his breath, hesitating. On the other side of the center brazier Arabella sat, her face pale above the brilliance of the gown she wore. Mayhap ’twas the reflection from the fire that made her eyes seem reddened, and mayhap ’twas not. Mayhap she’d cried ever since he’d left her.

  “Bella …”

  She jumped, startled, as he crossed the room to her. Moving around to face her, he stared down, his expression solemn. She swallowed and waited.

  “ ’Tis still Christmas,” he said softly, “and I’d have no quarrel between us.” His hand touched the part on her crown, smoothing the hairs that strayed from her braids. With an effort he added, “Bella, would it please you to have the boy attend Mass with us this night? I’d let him sit with you rather than with Ewan.”

  “Aye.” It was not all she wanted, but she could gain no more by quarreling with him, and she knew it. “ ‘Twill please him, my lord.”

  “And you? Will it please you?”

  “Aye.”

  He knew she was not satisfied, but he could offer no more. Telling himself he did not take the boy to Dunashie as much for her honor as for his, he straightened his shoulders and tried to speak more lightly.

  “ ’Tis settled then. Come on—else we are late for the blessing of your hall.” As she rose slowly, he offered his arm. “Art beautiful this night, Arabella of Byrum,” he told her.

  Chapter Twenty

  For all that Blackleith was a small keep of but forty men and eleven women within and three-score peasant families without, all the hillsides around it seemed to be ablaze with small fires set to commemorate the star that had shone over Bethlehem more than a thousand years before. And despite the cold, the open yard was crowded with those who came to keep the Christmas vigil with their lord. Some held battered cups in rag-wrapped hands, waiting for Blackleith’s alewife to mete out heated mead to warm them.

  “God aid yer lor’ship! God aid yer good lady!” they cried out as William and Arabella entered the courtyard. “Peace and health to ye both!”

  “And to you also!” Will called back. “What say you: Do you join us in our hall this Christmas Eve?”

  There were cheers as the crowd surged to follow them. Arabella breathed deeply of the cold air, smelling the smoke from the fires, as she walked beside her husband, holding his arm. Beneath her soft shoes the ground glistened with crackling ice, which reflected the light of the torches above. ’Twas a fitting night to be reminded of the miracle of Christ’s birth.

  Inside, the hall was lit with a hundred fine wax candles instead of the usual pitch-dipped torches, and above Arabella’s painted roses the walls were hung with garlands of holm, ivy, and bay. Below, the rushes had been sprinkled with a mixture of herbs and dried roses, and the mingled scents wafted upward to blend with the smoke from the main hearth.

  Though none would eat during the vigil, the tables were covered with bleached linen cloths, and on each one a polished cresset lamp burned. Already, in preparation for the morrow, precious silver platters bore an impressive array of sweetened oatcakes drizzled with honey, sugared dates, and marzipan candies shaped into stars. Peasant women used to naught but dried peas, salt meat, and thin porridge the rest of the year eyed them eagerly. On the morrow, God willing, the lady would see that each got one of the rare sweets with the customary loaf of white bread, a hen, and one gallon of the lord’s ale.

  But this night they’d wait as the angels had waited for Mary to bring forth her child. The heavy double doors swung outward once more, letting in a gust of cold air that bent the floating wicks on the lamps, admitting six sturdy men carrying a section of a huge tree. Amid huzzahs from the rest, they struggled to settle it onto the fire. It went into the fire pit with scarce an English inch to spare.

  Unlike much of the wood they burned it was fresh-cut, so that it would be consumed slowly, for it had to last the full twelve nights if the manor were to prosper. Those within the hall joined hands, forming circles within circles, as they danced an ancient carol. The last priest had frowned on such things, saying ’twas a pagan practice, but Father Edmund had not forbidden them this year. And as they danced they crushed the dried herbs and petals further, releasing the sweet smell into the air. It was not until a man shouted, “The log catches!” that they ceased.

  As all eyes turned expectantly to him, Walter raised his hands in blessing, wishing them to be of peace and good cheer this night above all others. Silence descended when he cleared his throat and began to speak of Blackleith’s hall, telling of how the Lady Arabella had, out of love for her new people, caused to be made a garden that would bloom even in winter upon t
he walls. As he looked up at the painted border, serving boys hastened to douse the lamps so that only the candles illuminated the line of red roses. A low murmur of approval spread around the room.

  Raising his hands again, Walter intoned, “Almighty God, Father in Heaven, Divine Maker of all things seen and unseen, bless this hall and all the people herein, that one may serve the other throughout the years to come, and grant us Thy mercy and Thy grace, now and forever. These things we ask in the name of He who was born this night those many years ago in the city of David. Amen.”

  The congregation echoed him. “Amen.”

  Lang Gib leaned over to whisper to William, “Ye canna say we havena a proper priest, for all that he is young, can ye?”

  “He speaks well enough,” Will agreed. Changing the subject abruptly, he observed, “ ’Tis so crowded I canna see Ewan.”

  “He is over there,” Arabella hastened to tell him. “By the doors.”

  The grizzled borderer leaned against the door frame, the little boy perched on his shoulder. The light from one of the expensive candles showed the excitement on James of Woolford’s small, pinched face. And for a moment William chose to forget his resentment, thinking again of St. Joseph instead. He started for the boy.

  Arabella hurried after him, then stopped. For all that she was eager to see her son, she sensed ’twould be better if William went to him. And so she watched as the big man reached for the little boy, lifting him and settling him astraddle his broad neck. Sweet Mary, but they were an odd pair for the eyes, the red-haired giant and the pale, thin child. There was so much noise that she knew not what one said to the other, but she could tell that Jamie smiled.

  Balancing the boy on his shoulders, William threaded his way through the throng of well-wishers back to her. Over the din Jamie called out, “Come on, Mama: We are for the Church to see the animals! Aye, and ye dinna mind it, I am to listen to the viols after!”

  Her throat felt oddly tight, but she managed to nod and smile through a mist of tears. Never once in six years at Byrum had her father carried her son. Never once in those years had he offered Jamie anything but anger or coldness. And she chided herself for thinking of the stone that William had not brought her, for this Christmas his kindness, however small, was the greater gift.

  “Aye,” she said finally. “Aye.”

  Blackleith’s bellringer banged the iron bell enthusiastically, summoning all to Vigil Mass. With one hand on Jamie’s good leg to steady him, William reached the other out to her.

  “Make haste, ere the place is filled.”

  They crowded into the small chapel that served as parish church also, sitting close that Lang Gib and the other household officers might share the bench, for even those amongst the villeins that shirked on other days came now. There was even less room for them, for several benches had been removed to make space for the traditional reminder of the circumstances of Christ’s birth. The spot where they had been was now strewn with straw, and sturdy boys herded a sheep, a cow, a donkey, and an ox to stand over an empty manger.

  The bell clanged more loudly, calling the last who would press within. Then a young villein’s wife, clad in a new robe of blue wool, moved forward to lay her own babe in the manger ere she knelt over it. A hushed silence, broken only by the shuffling of those chosen to represent Joseph, the shepherds, and two angels, ensued. Then two small boys preceded Father Edmund to the front, each carrying a pure white candle with which to light those at the altar.

  William eased Jamie from his shoulders and settled him between Arabella and himself, only to discover that there was no place left at the end for Wat. He shifted the boy back onto his lap and moved closer to his wife.

  The Mass was brief, for Father Edmund, eloquent as he could often be, chose not to speak at length, a circumstance perhaps caused by the ox’s having relieved itself nearly at the altar rail. The homily was shortened and the prayers hurried, until Will could scarce follow them. Instead he looked down on the boy’s head, then up to the statue of St. Joseph, and he realized then that he would have to accept Arabella’s son ere he could forget what she had done. And it would be no easy task, for much of his life he’d had naught but his pride and his honor to succor him.

  The bells were rung, the steaming incense waved, and the host administered with unseemly haste. But as the smells of a hundred mouths and bodies mingled with those of incense and animal excrement, there was none to complain when Blackleith’s priest merely held his hands above them and said, “May Almighty God bless all herein. The Mass is ended: Go forth in peace.”

  When Arabella rose after the shortened benediction, she looked to her husband, seeing that Jamie slept against his shoulder, his pale hair like flax against the rich blue velvet of William’s new tunic, and she added her own silent prayer of thanks for this small beginning. Ena approached to take him, but William shook his head.

  “Nay. I have promised he shall hear the viols, and for all that ye may hear of me, there’ll be none to say Will ’o Dunashie dinna keep his word.”

  Arabella touched the chain that hung over her rich gown, and for all that she told herself again that it did not matter, she wondered if he had forgotten her promised stone. But with this gesture of kindness he gave her son, she dared not ask. She ought to be content with that and cease yearning for more.

  Outside, despite the fact that the wind spat fine sleet at them, the revelers danced and slid around small fires to the crude beat of drums made of overturned tubs and castanets, while two men piped on wooden flutes. And already the alewife came out to fill their cups. As the cold air touched the boy’s face he roused, murmuring against Will’s neck, “I dinna miss the viols, did I?”

  “Nay. D’ye come up with us, Gib?” Will called out.

  “Nay—I’d see they do not start a fire!” Lang Gib shouted back.

  “And ye, Ewan?”

  The older man looked to the boy on William’s shoulder, then to Ena, before nodding. “Aye—ye honor me. What say ye, woman—d’ye share a cup wi’ me?”

  “And ye dinna drink more than your share.”

  Even the bower had been decorated for the season with bits of holm hung in clusters, and bowls of dried rose petals floating on a mixture of perfumed oils, symbols of the gifts the wise men carried to the holy infant. As they entered the room a young maid lit these bowls, sending the scent into the air. Over the brazier hung a pot filled with heated wine, spices, and even a rare Spanish orange that had been cut, peel and all, into it.

  It seemed that all of Dunashie celebrated, with the villeins dancing in the yard, the household servants singing ancient carols in the hall, and all with any claim to gentle birth whatsoever gathered in Arabella’s small bower. For this one night she’d spent a precious shilling to hire a traveling trouvère, who would spin tales for them as the viol players played softly behind him.

  There were not enough benches, so most made places for themselves on the floor near the fire, and even Arabella dropped down to sit among the sweetened rushes and listen. Above her Will sat on a stool, his big arm encircling the small boy as his foot tapped out the beat of the music. From time to time Jamie stole a glance upward, as though he half expected his stepfather to change his mind. Arabella watched him covertly, thinking how little kindness he’d had in his short life, how little reason he’d had to trust any but her and Ena. And Ewan. She glanced over to where the older man sat, his greying head bent close to Ena’s, listening to the woman. For this night at least, it was as though there were a bond between all of them.

  The spiced wine warmed her empty stomach, making her feel dreamily secure as she heard the trouvère weave a fantastic story of trolls and giants, fanciful beasts from another land, and the brave knights who dared to ride through walls of fire to challenge them. She looked up again to see her son leaning forward, his face betraying his eagerness to hear more, and she felt a surge of gratitude toward William. Whether he could love Jamie or not, this night he’d
given the child something worth remembering.

  The wine made her sleepy and she leaned back, resting her head against her husband’s knee. William’s hand crept to stroke her crown, watching how the light from the perfumed bowls made her hair look as though it were as gold as the chain she wore about her neck. Nay, even the Saxon Edith of the songs could not have been lovelier than Arabella of Byrum this night. She was worth even what it cost him in pride to hold her son. For a moment his eyes moved over the others, and he wondered how many thought him a fool for her. Then he told himself that in his own house it did not matter. As long as they followed him as lord in Blackleith, they’d say nothing.

  On his lap Jamie twisted, then blurted out, “I’d go to the garderobe.”

  Ena rose hastily and took him, but Ewan stopped her. “Nay—’tis more meet that I go with him.” Looking over her shoulder to William, he added, “And it dinna displease ye, I’d take him to bed.”

  He’d done his duty—he’d kept his word to Arabella and to the boy, and he’d assuaged his conscience in the bargain. Relieved, William nodded. “Aye—’tis overlate for him.”

  “But I …”As sleepy as he was, Jamie’s lower lip trembled, betraying his disappointment. “I’d hear if Sir Launfel slays the two-headed monster!” he blurted out.

  “Ena can tell ye on the morrow,” William said. “Besides, I’d hae ye aid Ewan to choose a pony for ye then.”

  The boy blinked back the tears that had welled in his pale eyes, and for a moment he stared. “A pony!” he breathed. “Nae a stick one?”

  “Well, I’d have him see as if there was one as suits ye,” Will answered, grinning.

  The thin face was transformed as it broke into an excited smile. Jamie wiped at his eyes with a closed fist, blotting the wetness. “Ye’d gie me a pony?”