Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  In another corner of the room, William growled low to Giles, “You dinna tell me Ayrie’s son came.”

  “I could scarce forbid him, when full half the border is invited.” Giles’ gaze traveled to where Arabella held his son close. “Unless I mistake the matter, Will, she is content enough with you.”

  Although Will nodded, he could not help hoping that Duncan of Ayrie’s son was ill-favored.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Although it was cold, January 20th was a good day for a christening, in that it neither rained nor snowed. The sun shone brightly in the winter sky, an auspicious occurrence by everyone’s reckoning. As Elizabeth waited outside the church door her father carried Guy of Dunashie inside, and William followed him with the infant David. Since the mother had not been purified yet Arabella offered to stay with her, but Elizabeth would not hear of it.

  “Go on,” she urged. “I’d have you see them blessed.”

  Once inside, she was seated at the front, in honor of the role her husband would take. Like everything else she’d seen at Dunashie, the chapel was far better than that of Woolford—or even that of Byrum. There were above her blue glass windows that admitted light. It was fitting, for William stood under them in his new blue Christmas tunic.

  The service itself was short, with Guy of Dunashie being baptized first, and the chapel seemed to reverberate with the pride of Guy of Rivaux when he named him. The priest, in honor of his illustrious godfather, blessed the babe thoroughly. But as Will lifted David over the font there was the sound of water hitting water, and heads craned to see what had happened. The priest never paused, asking only what the babe would be called, then he baptized him quickly, and gave him a shorter blessing than the other. William murmured something but she could not hear it, and the priest shook his head. It was over.

  She hurried up to her husband, then walked out with him. Outside, William was asked about it, and he answered that the sound they’d heard was when the babe had passed water into the baptismal font. It was, he hoped, not an ill omen.

  “Lady Arabella …”

  She turned around to face an older Aidan of Ayrie, and her breath caught in her chest. For all that he’d changed in the intervening years, she still would have recognized him anywhere. And like herself, she counted him a survivor of Elias of Woolford’s cruelty. She managed a smile.

  “Aidan.”

  “You look well—far better than when last I saw you.”

  “I could scarce look worse than then, but I shall consider that you praise me.”

  “As I did ever—and with good reason,” he insisted gallantly. He hesitated briefly, then blurted out, “Your babe—he survived? He is well?”

  She saw William scowl, and mistook the reason. “He cannot walk, sir, but his mind is as good as any.” Turning to her husband, she asked with forced brightness, “Do you not think he does well at his books, my lord?”

  “Well enough,” Will muttered.

  “It gladdens me to hear it, lady, for when I left I was sorely worried for the both of you.”

  Thinking William resented speech of the boy he wished to hide from others, she changed the subject abruptly. “Elias died that night, you know.”

  “Aye. I had heard, but I could not regret the news.

  Indeed, but I counted it God’s blessing that he did. He was not a kind husband to you, nor was he a good master to any.” He shifted his weight slightly, then added, “I would have come to Byrum, but after—Well, I did not think it meet.”

  “Nay. Nay, he was not,” she agreed. It seemed to her that with each word she spoke William’s frown deepened, warning her that he was displeased. Still, after all the years that had passed, she would know how Aidan fared also.

  “And you?” she asked hastily. “Did you wed? Little news reached us at Byrum.”

  “Aye, but she is dead these two years last. ’Twas childbed, and I have a daughter from it.” He favored her with a twisted smile. “There was much to admire in her, sweet lady, for she oft reminded me of you, so much so that I have called the child Arabella for your kindness to me.”

  She felt William’s body tense beside her, and she knew she ought to go. “I am sorry she perished, my lord. I will remember her in my prayers.”

  “Her name was Margaret of Kenreith.”

  “Aye—I will remember it.” Grasping her husband’s arm, she tried to direct Aidan’s attention there. “ ’Tis two months and more since I wed William of Dunashie.”

  “Art a fortunate man,” Aidan murmured, his eyes still on her.

  “You chill,” Will told her bluntly, ignoring the other man. “ ’Tis time we were inside, Bella, lest you sicken ere we are able to return home.”

  “Mayhap I will see you and the boy at Dunashie one day, Lady Arabella.”

  William had had enough. “And mayhap ye willna,” he snapped. “I’ve nae invited ye.”

  Arabella’s face reddened at his rudeness. “My lord … There is no need. …”

  Lang Gib, who’d been behind them listening to the whole, stepped forward quickly to address the younger man. “Art Ayrie’s son?”

  “Aye. And you?”

  “Gilbert of Kilburnie. I have heard you are possessed of a gyrfalcon of repute.”

  “Aye.”

  “Mayhap I’d be interested in a hatchling of it. I’d pay good gold for a prime bird.”

  “Then you speak to the right man, for I have the best,” Aidan declared proudly, momentarily diverted from William’s lack of courtesy. “And you would see for yourself, I have brought it to compete with Moray’s best.”

  William’s hand slid down Arabella’s arm to possess her hand. “Come,” he growled. “I’d go inside.” But as he pulled her after him on the cobbled stones, he felt great unease now that he’d seen Duncan’s son. For all that he had hoped otherwise, Aidan of Ayrie was far comelier and better favored than he—aye, and better born also. Compared to him, Will could look naught but big and clumsy to her. And it did not help that Aidan had asked of the boy. God’s bones, but did he think that none knew? Or was he so careless of Arabella’s honor that he dared speak of what had happened at Woolford? And she’d been brazen enough to answer, brazen enough even to ask if he’d wed. No doubt those who’d already heard the tale felt pity for William of Dunashie. His stride lengthened as his fury grew.

  She nearly tripped trying to keep up with him. Finally she pulled free, and bent to draw her soft kid shoe back up on her heel. When she looked up, he had already reached the hall. When he turned around, he was clearly angered. Gathering the full skirt of her gown above her ankles, she hurried after him. Catching up, she touched his arm tentatively.

  “William … My lord … What…?”

  He jerked away. “ ’Tis nothing. Get ye inside, ere we are remarked more.”

  “Is it nothing that you will but snarl and snap?”

  “I dinna say anything to ye!” he retorted angrily.

  “You dinna have to: ’Tis as clear as the sky above that I have vexed you, William of Dunashie, and I know not why or how!”

  “And I’d nae hae ye mock me, Bella! I can speak as well as you, and you want it!”

  “Then tell me what I have done!”

  He raised his hand, and for a moment she feared he meant to strike her before those who were yet in the courtyard. In defense she lifted her arm, infuriating him more.

  “Nay, Bella, I’d nae hit ye, for all that I ought to do it,” he muttered, turning away. “Get ye inside, I said.”

  “For what? What is it that I have done?” she demanded again.

  “Come, ere ye make greater fools of the both of us.”

  The old fear washed over her, fear that she was returning to the hell Elias and Nigel had given her, fear that once again she was unable to please no matter what she did. Fear that she’d carry this babe like the last. And she’d almost rather die than live like that.

  She caught his sleeve again, thi
s time pulling it. “Is it that I spoke with Ayrie’s son?” she demanded. “I could scarce do aught else, for he was kind to me at Woolford, and I—”

  “I’d nae speak of it, Bella! Now, do ye come with me or not?”

  She could see that several of Dunashie’s villeins watched curiously, and she did not think she could stand their pity. Her pride rose like a gorge in her throat, and beneath her breastbone she ached. She swallowed, then breathed deeply of the cold air, striving to calm herself. And she quarreled with him before them she risked a beating, she told herself, and that she could not bear. Not in Elizabeth of Rivaux’s keep.

  “Aye.”

  “ ’Tis better,” he muttered. “So long as we are here ye’ll be the obedient wife, d’ye ken me? Ye’ll nae go about so free with your speech, Arabella, for I’d nae remind any what ye are.”

  It was as though a cold chill gripped her heart as he spoke. Tears welled in her eyes, nearly blinding her. Blinking them back, she managed to whisper, “What I am? Sweet Mary, but what am I, William? What is it that you think me?” But even as she asked, she knew. He’d heard the tale, and he’d believed it.

  “I said I’d nae speak of it.”

  “But I am blameless, my lord.”

  “And ye’d nae anger me further, Bella, ye’ll do as I ask. Speak to him again, and I will beat ye for it.”

  “My lord …”

  “Nay. I’d nae hear his name again—d’ye ken that also?”

  She felt as though she suffocated, as though her life ebbed before her eyes. Swallowing hard, she managed to look up and ask, “Then how could you wed with me?”

  For a long moment he met her gaze, then he looked away and answered low, “I was contracted to ye. I told myself my desire for ye was greater than a bastard’s honor.” Settling his shoulders, he sighed heavily. “But I have found that even a bastard values his honor, Bella.”

  “William, I swear to you that I—”

  “Nay. We will return to Blackleith, and we will never speak of this again—not now, not ever,” he declared grimly. “I forbid his name to your lips, Arabella of Byrum.” When he swung back around he could see she still would speak, and he shook his head. “I’ve nae hit ye before, but afore God, if I ever hear ye say aught of this again, I will.”

  “Will!”

  There was no mistaking the imperious quality of Elizabeth of Rivaux’s voice as she came up to them. Oblivious to what had just passed, she laid a hand on Arabella’s arm and smiled.

  “ ’Tis too cold to stand without, when there is a goodly fire inside,” she chided. “What say you, Bella: Shall we leave your bear to the other men and withdraw where we may be more comfortable?”

  “Ah …”

  For all that his face was still grim, William nodded. “Go on. I’d find Giles, to tell him we leave on the morrow.”

  Elizabeth’s smile faded. “So soon? But I’d thought you would stay after the company left, Will.”

  “Nay.”

  Instead of going inside, he left them. Elizabeth’s gaze followed him for a moment, then she shrugged expressively. “ ’Tis best to leave a man to stew in his own bad temper, Bella.” But as she said it, her green eyes met Arabella’s and she smiled ruefully. “Alas, but I was never one to try it, though. My wicked tongue leads me far too often.”

  Despite the other woman’s kindness, Arabella scarce heard half of what she said during the hours they were together. Even though she smiled politely and said all the right things, as the many guests climbed up to the solar to admire the babes, her mind was on what William had said to her. And with each reliving of his words, her heart grew heavier within her breast. Just before it was time to go down to sup Elizabeth dismissed everyone else, saying the excitement was too much for two infants, then sat beside her.

  “Art troubled?” she asked gently.

  For a moment Arabella longed to unburden herself, to tell the other woman of Elias, of Aidan of Ayrie, and of the beatings and lies she’d endured, but she knew she could not. If Elizabeth of Rivaux did not know the tale, William would not wish her to learn of it. Besides, there was no certainty she’d believe the truth, anyway, and Arabella could not stand it if the woman’s kindness turned to condemnation.

  “Nay,” Arabella lied. “I am but tired.”

  “You do not look well.”

  “I am all right.” She twisted her hands in the folds of her skirt, then looked to the neat, woven mat at her feet. “ ’Tis most likely the babe I bear.”

  “Will did not tell me.”

  “He does not yet know.” Arabella lifted her eyes. “I am waiting until I am sure of it.”

  “I’ve half a mind to tell him myself, saying that you ought not to travel. But he would know better, I suppose, for he rode all the way to Harlowe with me when I was in like case.” Briefly Elizabeth squeezed Arabella’s hands, then she rose. “And you wished you could lie abed, and I would send Helewise up with food for you.”

  “Nay.”

  “I could scarce abide food in the early days. But I forget: You have borne a babe also, so you know what you are about.” The rich, heavy samite of her gown swished over the mats as she moved. “Well, if you come, we’d best go down now, else some of these border louts will bang upon my tables for their food. And Papa will be aghast at the roughness of the company we keep.”

  William was waiting impatiently when they came down, and by the looks of it he’d consumed more wine than was his custom, for his color was heightened beneath his dark red hair. Saying little, he offered his arm, then led Arabella inside.

  The great hall was filled to overflowing, and the tables seemed to groan with the feast that celebrated the heir’s christening. On another day she would have been wide-eyed with excitement to see such a place, but now Arabella was too miserable to note it. William sat beside her, first cutting their meat without comment, then toying with the food on his end of the trencher, scarce tasting anything. Instead, each time the serving man refilled his cup he drained it, as though he could drown his ill temper.

  She felt too sick to eat. Each bite lay upon her stomach like a heavy, sodden mass. Thinking it would ease her, she grasped his newly filled cup ere he could finish it again and drank deeply. It was as though the wine met her food coming up on its way down. Heedless of those around her, she clamped her hand over her mouth and fled from the dais, passing Lang Gib and Wat on her way out. Gib hesitated, then lurched to his feet to follow, with Wat close behind.

  She had not reached the garderobe before she began to wretch violently. Gib caught her from behind and pushed her forward, shouting to Wat, “Get Will—get Lord William—now! Jesu, lady, but you are sick,” he muttered, trying to hold her gown out of the mess. He half lifted her, half dragged her into the garderobe, then held her over the hole as wave after wave of nausea hit her. Finally it passed, and she straightened shakily.

  “My thanks, sir.”

  “ ’Tis fortunate I saw ye in the crowd.”

  “And I’d thank you for what you attempted earlier with Aidan of Ayrie.”

  “Och, but there’s none as doesna have a prized falcon—’twas a safe enough guess,” he answered, smiling. He saw her pass the back of her hand across her brow, and he thought she meant to be sick again. He reached out to hold her, steadying her with his arm again. “Art all right, lady?”

  “Unhand her.”

  Gib twisted to see William standing in the doorway, and he reddened. It was obvious that his lord was more than a little drunk from the wine—and completely out of temper. “And I do, she’ll fall,” Gib retorted.

  Again Arabella straightened, and pushed damp hair back from her face. Everything—her veil, her gown, her shoes—was ruined. As Gib released her she leaned against the coolness of the stone wall, clinging to it.

  “I told ye she was sick,” Wat insisted.

  But William was watching Lang Gib. “I’d nae wear the horns for any—ye hear me? Not for ye, nor for any! N
ot for ye or Ayrie, I tell you!”

  “She was sick, Will!” Gib snapped, forgetting the difference in their station now. “God’s blood, but would ye that I left her to fall in her own puke?” When William did not answer, the younger man pushed past him angrily. “Art a fool, Will o’ Dunashie!”

  “He dinna mean it, my lord—he dinna! Gib! Jesu, Gib!” Wat ran after him. “Where do ye go, Gib?”

  “Dunashie!”

  “But ye are at Dunashie!”

  “Aye, and I am like to stay here!”

  “My lord, I would lie down,” Arabella said tiredly. “I am all right now—go on back and eat.”

  “Nay. I’d take ye.”

  He reached for her arm, but she jerked away. “I am scarce fit to tryst with any,” she reminded him bitterly. “not even a swine would wish to lie with me like this.”

  “I said I’d take ye,” he muttered. “And I am more like to beat than lie with ye.”

  Although he did not touch her, he walked beside her along the deserted kitchen passage and up the tower stairs. And with each step, her fear grew. But while Holy Church taught that a husband had the right to beat a wife, she knew in her heart she’d done nothing wrong. If he lifted his hand to her, she’d not cower tamely. If he lifted his hand to her, there’d be none in the castle as did not know of it, she told herself. And he’d not want that—he’d not want all to hear, for then there would be no hiding what he thought her. If he beat her, his pride would suffer as much as her body.

  The steps were steep and she stumbled once, falling into him, but as soon as he’d righted her she went on. When they reached the tiny cutout chamber they’d been given, Ena was waiting. For a moment, despite all her brave musings, Arabella felt intense fear. If he hit her hard enough, he could kill her—if he hit her hard enough, she would not be able to cry out. He caught her shoulder roughly, thrusting her inside, and this time the sickness came from terror.

  “I’d hae ye get her to bed,” he told Ena curtly. “And ye’d best keep the basin near, for her food does not sit well upon her stomach.” As he spoke, he pushed her into the woman’s arms. “If she worsens, send to me below.”