Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  Though they’d worked far less than the hour allotted, Walter could not wait to be rid of the boy. And yet he’d not forgo his time with the mother, for he counted it the best part of his day. Setting aside his pen and bits of precious paper, he rose to unshutter the window. Leaning into the cold blast of air, he called to a boy passing below, “Come take James of Woolford to his nurse!”

  “Nay, Father, but I would take him,” Arabella protested behind him.

  He turned around, holding the wide sleeves of his cassock over his arms for warmth. “Daughter, you are sorely troubled, arid I’d hear of it. Confess to me, and I will give you ease,” he promised. “Let God share the burden you bear,” he added unctuously.

  “ ’Tis not a sin to worry for my husband, Father.”

  It was not what he would hear, for it did not serve him. And yet he’d still not have her leave him. He banged the shutter into place with unwarranted force and fastened it securely, then came back to the fire. Stretching his hands over it, he tried not to betray his need for her company.

  “And you wished it, I’d pray with you for his safety, daughter.”

  Though he addressed Arabella often thus, and she called him “Father” also, it seemed awkward. For all that he’d told William his looks belied his age, she’d warrant he was not any older than she was. And the warmth she often saw in his eyes seemed to be for her alone. Nay, she must be mistaken—’twas the years of Elias’ blind jealousy over her that still made her wary of men, she supposed. There was naught but kindness for her in Edmund of Alton. Still, she hesitated.

  “I ought to tend to my packing, that I may be ready when word of Elizabeth of Rivaux’s safe delivery comes from Dunashie.”

  “Do I go, Mama?” Jamie’s hand tugged at her skirt for attention. “I’d go to Dunashie, Mama—I’d see the Butcher.”

  As much as she’d disputed with William over it, she found herself lamely giving her husband’s excuses. “Nay—’tis overfar, and the weather uncertain.” Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she ruffled his fair hair affectionately. “Besides, ’twould pain you to ride so far.”

  His face fell and his eyes filled with tears. “I could ride Minette—I know I could!”

  “Nay, Jamie.”

  “But why? I’d nae ask any to hold me—I’d not!”

  “Jamie …”

  “Art ashamed of me, Mama?” he cried. “Art like all the rest?”

  “James!” Walter reached to cuff him, but Arabella’s arms closed protectively about her son. “Nay, James, but you must not say such to your lady mother,” he scolded, dropping his hand. “You must ask her pardon for your insolence.”

  The boy’s lower lip quivered as his eyes spilled over. “Nay, Mama, I did not mean it.”

  She wanted to cry with him, but dared not. Instead she swallowed to regain her composure and then, stroking his hair gently, tried to ease the coming separation for him. “I know you did not,” she murmured soothingly. “ ’Twill be crowded there, as Dunashie’s vassals will come also, and William—and we,” she corrected herself, “do not believe you would like the journey. ‘Twill be better that you stay here with Ewan.”

  “My lady …”

  She looked up, seeing the boy who’d come up for her son. Resolutely, she set Jamie from her and forced a smile. “And you are good, I’d get Minette for you later—we could walk the yard together,” she coaxed. “Until then, I’d have you practice your letters for Father Edmund.”

  “Where would you that I took him, lady?” the boy asked.

  “I’d have you carry him to Ena.”

  “Aye. Hold on, Woolford,” he said, reaching back to catch the smaller child’s legs.

  “I’m not Woolford!”

  “Nay? Then what are ye?”

  “James! I hate the Woolfords!”

  “Have a care on the stairs!” Arabella called after them. Bending over, she retrieved the quill pen and the papers he’d dropped. She knew she’d not convinced her son, and even to her own ears her words had sounded foolish. Straightening up, she faced the priest. “I would that I believed in miracles, Father, for if I did I’d ask that one might heal him.”

  “We will pray for that also.”

  “Nay. And words could do it, he’d have walked long ere now. Think you I have not said them?” she cried. “God listens not to me in that!” Her hand clenched tightly over the quill, breaking it, as she sought to compose herself. Her voice dropped low. “From the moment of his birth—nay, before then even—I have prayed for my son, Father. I have prayed for his leg. I have prayed that others will love him. I have prayed that William will understand….”

  His hand closed over hers, holding it. “Sweet lady, I would aid you. I’d have you know you are not alone in your prayers, Arabella of Byrum.”

  “And what if aught should befall William?” she cried, giving vent to her fear. “Then Jamie and I will go again to Byrum to a sire who has little love for me—and none at all for my poor Jamie! My only hope is William!”

  “And God gave you to a harsh husband,” he murmured, massaging her fingers with his own. Emboldened when she did not pull away, he dared to lay a comforting arm around her shoulder. For a moment he savored the smell of roses that .wafted upward from her hair. “William of Dunashie does not deserve what he is given,” he said softly.

  The intensity of his gaze discomfitted her. Had he been another, she’d have thought he meant to kiss her. She drew back from his embrace and turned away. “Nay, you have mistaken my words, Father. And he can be brought to care for my son, I am well content with my husband.”

  “And if he cannot .. ?”

  “Then I must make him.”

  “My poor child. God would succor you, and you asked Him.”

  She dug within the small leather pouch she carried at her girdle and drew out a single silver penny. Wheeling again to face him, she held it out. “ ’Tis not overmuch, Father, but I’d give it for your prayers.”

  “You have them already, gentle lady.”

  “Here—mayhap God will listen if I give it for alms.” When he made no move to take her money, she pressed it into his hand. “Two things I’d ask, Father Edmund: I’d have my husband safely returned, and I’d have his love for Jamie.”

  “I will set a wax candle for each,” he promised, laying it aside. “And you would kneel, I would bless you, daughter.”

  “Aye.”

  She dropped to her knees before him and bowed her head. For a long moment he looked down on her pale, golden braids, thinking she was as lovely as any he’d ever seen. Slowly, he placed his hand on her crown, then intoned, “May God grant that which you ask of him, Arabella of Byrum, and may He keep you always safe.”

  “And may He bless William of Dunashie and James of Woolford, keeping them safe and well also,” she added.

  Rather than repeat her words, he merely murmured, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  “My thanks, Father,” she said, rising. “For all that I would tarry, I must look again to Kenneth. And I can help it, I’d not have him perish in mine house.”

  “Aye.”

  Later, after she’d left, he leaned into the cold slit that passed for his window and watched her cross the yard below. Aye, he’d have her if he could, but he’d have to be more careful: He could ill afford to let his nether parts cost him his revenge on the Butcher and the Bastard. And when ’twas done, there would be time for Arabella of Byrum.

  Reluctantly, he turned back to the table strewn with his paper, his quills, and his ink. Seeing the penny where he’d placed it, he felt a surge of anger that she would ask him to pray for William of Dunashie. Light candles for the Bastard and her brat? Nay, when he lit them, he’d look downward, to ask that all of Giles of Moray’s blood should perish.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “My lady, ye must sleep,” Ena murmured, bringing her a cup of hot spiced wine. “ ’Tis angered ye
r lord will be, and I let ye sicken.”

  “Jesu, but I cannot. Night has come again, and still there is no word of him.”

  “ ’Tis the lot of women to wait,” the tiring woman reminded her.

  “Aye, but ’tis no easy thing to do.” She sipped of the steaming cup, looking over the brim. “Did you not worry ere you were widowed?”

  The older woman looked away. “Aye, but ’twas not in mine hands, my lady. When Fair Thomas dinna come back, ’twas the will o’ God, ye know.”

  They’d scarce spoken of Ena’s husband since he’d fallen in one of King David’s incursions into England some twelve years before. Yet for all that had been unsaid between them, Arabella could still remember the woman’s tears. For a month and more she’d been inconsolable, weeping and rending her clothes. And even later she could not bring herself to say his name without pain. Nigel had said she would wed again, but Ena had professed herself content to go with Arabella to Woolford instead. It had been so long ago that it had been easy to forget that Ena had been born daughter to a landless knight.

  For a moment the woman’s eyes misted, then she seemed to recover. But her mouth twisted hideously as she whispered, “I canna remember much of Thomas now—’twas so lang ago.”

  “Ena…”

  “Nay.” She dabbed self-consciously at her eyes, and tried to smile. “ ’Twas nae his fault he left me to wither, was it?”

  “Of course not,” Arabella consoled her gently. “Ena, would you that I asked William to find another husband for you?”

  “Nay.”

  “How many years have you?” Arabella asked suddenly. “I have forgotten, but you cannot be so very old.”

  “Five and thirty, my lady—’tis ten years more than ye.”

  “You are yet young enough to breed, and you wanted.”

  The woman colored, then shook her head. “I couldna bring him anything.” She gathered up the wineskin and the spices and moved to put them away, avoiding further comment. “And ye hae need of me, ye can waken me,” she said from behind the cupboard door.

  “Let me ask William.”

  “Nay.”

  Arabella looked to where Jamie slept on the pallet near the fire. William had said only that he could sleep with Ena, after all, and he’d be vexed enough if he returned to find the boy there. “I’d have you pallet here until my husband returns,” she decided. “And the news is not good, I’d have you with me.”

  “Let the wine ease ye, fer he’ll come back wi’out a hair harmed.”

  “I would that I knew it.”

  “God aids the Scots in this.”

  Later, as she lay within the great curtained bed, Arabella still could not sleep. She wished she shared the blind faith of the others, but she did not. She wished she could be as Jamie, who had been as insistent as Ena, saying the men of Blackleith would return to a man, for were they not Scots? Aye, for who could stand against William of Dunashie? he had demanded, thinking she disputed it.

  She was alone with naught but her thought for company now, listening to the noises of a keep nearly silenced by night. Across the room, on a pallet pulled close to die brazier fire, Ena lay beside Jamie. She had begun to snore, but the boy made no sound. For a moment Arabella was tempted to rise and look on him, but then she decided he was safe enough. Sweet Mary, it had been difficult enough to get him to bed, for he too had wanted to stay awake for the return of the men. Nay, she’d not risk waking him now.

  The night crept slowly, as though the sands must have clogged the glass, and still there was no word. She stared upward into the darkness of the closed hangings, asking herself what she’d do if he did not come home. Without a child to inherit of him she’d be returned to Byrum, something that did not bear thinking. Again she’d be a widow in her father’s house, again she and Jamie would be at Nigel’s mercy. Nay, she could not bear it.

  For all that she could fault William where Jamie was concerned, he’d proven far kinder to her than she’d expected. In another week ’twould be two months since they’d wed, and not once had he beaten her. And she could not deny there had been times she’d angered him greatly.

  He was a strange man, her William. When she’d first heard of him she knew him only as the Butcher’s bastard brother, and like so many others she’d heard of the blood they’d let at Dunashie. And when she’d first seen him she’d been so very afraid of him. Sweet Mary, but all she could think of was his size. She remembered how she’d hoped he would find her unpleasing, but he had not.

  She smiled in the darkness, hearing again the words he’d spoken of and to her: Aye, she is comely. And she is willing, I am satisfied. But I’d hear it of her: What say ye, mistress—would ye have me also? I’d take none as would nae have me. It had actually mattered to him what she wanted, what she thought of him. Unlike Elias, he wanted her willing.

  Ye think me naught but an uncouth lout, don’t ye ? Aye, she had, but ’twas before she knew he could speak as a Norman also, ’twas before she knew he could read more than his name. I’d have naught but truth between us. Nigel would have beaten her senseless had she spoken the truth. And yet for all that she’d feared him, there had been a certain fascination also. She could still remember the almost diffident way he’d asked to kiss her. And I swear I’ll nae touch ye wrongly…. ’Twas the first of many, each better than the last.

  Her body went hot with remembered passion. For all that he’d been awkward at first, he’d taught her the pleasure of coupling that Elias had denied her. Now the very body that had once frightened her enticed her, drawing forth such a wanton hunger that the memory of it made her blush. Once she’d lain in his arms only in the hope that his pleasure in her would buy her son tolerance. Now she lay with him for herself.

  When he lay over her she still marveled at the size, the physical strength, the power of him. But he was more than some great brute, for he was also possessed of a certain gentleness she’d not expected, a love of God that made him say his prayers ere he retired.

  And she would that those prayers aided him now, wherever he was, for if he did not come back to her she did not think she could bear it. Nay, she’d not lie abed thinking such thoughts. She’d force her attention to Jamie, for he troubled her also. She had to think of how she could aid her son. She had to think how she could ease his lot.

  But every thought that came to mind strayed back to her husband. Jamie’s fate no less than hers was tied to William. Her happiness was tied to William. Her life was tied to William. And if William did not return …

  She could stand it no longer. Rolling from the warmth of her feather bed, she groped for her gown and pulled it over her head. Jesu, but ’twas cold, and he was out there somewhere, his body encased in icy steel. ’Twould be a wonder if he did not sicken.

  Drawing close to the warmth of the waning fire, she managed to light the cresset lamp and place it on the low table. The small flame floated, illuminating the oil beneath it. Taking out the scraps of parchment Father Edmund had given her, she laid them beside the lamp and bent her head low to study them.

  Arabella, born at Byrum, on the tenth of May, in the year of Our Lord eleven hundred and thirteen. Arabella of Byrum. A—R—A—B—E—L—L—A. The next time she witnessed something, she would write more than her mark. And one day she would read the prayers with William. Already she could compare the written letters with the memorized words of the Pater Noster.

  On the other side of the fire Ena paused in her snoring, to sigh heavily in her sleep. Then she turned over, so that her back was to the dim, flickering light, her body curled around Jamie. Satisfied that she’d not wakened them, Arabella returned her attention to the papers.

  She could write her name. She could write Jamie’s. On impulse, she dug into her basket for her sharpened quill and her pot of ink. Opening the pot and setting it next to the lamp bowl, she dipped her pen and laboriously wrote a G, then a U and an I, followed slowly by L—L—A—U—M—E. Guillaume. William. Did
he spell it that way? she wondered. Nay, even if he did he wrote it better than that, for her letters were crooked and uneven. Someday, when she had learned to read and write better, she’d be able to send messages to him when he was away from Blackleith. And he would write her also, for she could read.

  The wind howled, jarring the shutters and bending the flame that floated on the lamp. Arabella’s fingers were so stiff from the cold that her letters grew worse, looking as poor as Jamie’s grudging efforts. Reluctantly, she put away her lessons and her ink and rose to stretch tired shoulders. Nay, she had to sleep.

  Without William to make a warm place for her, ’twould be cold there again. Shivering, she blew out the lamp and sought her bed again. Without undressing in the chilly air, she rolled into the rope-hung bed, slipping between the feather mattresses and closing the curtains, then pulled her pillow over her head to blot out the noise of the wind. Finally she drifted into a dream-tossed netherworld, where Jamie wept and William came to her.

  “My lady …” Ena’s voice seemed to float from a distance.

  “Nay, let her sleep.”

  “My lord, ye are wounded,” the woman protested.

  Arabella came awake with a start, uncertain whether she’d heard him or whether she’d but dreamed it. But between the gap in the draft-blown bed curtains she could see the faint light of a lamp. Wounded?

  “William .. ?” she asked tentatively, thrusting her head out.

  “Aye. Stay abed, for ’tis too cold for you until the fire is rekindled.”

  He might as well have spoken to the wind, for her feet hit the floor on the instant. Her eyes sought his face eagerly, then moved over him, seeking reassurance that he was whole. They stopped when she saw the blood on his tunic and the rent in his mail. Her face paled in the flickering orange light.

  “ Sweet Jesu—nay!”

  “ ’Tis but the arm—’twill heal.”

  “Ena, fetch the basin and heat some water.”