by Anita Mills
“Aye, my lord.”
It was not until she heard his footsteps again in the stairwell that Arabella realized he did not mean to beat her at all. And as her fear receded it was replaced first by relief, then by anger. He had no right to frighten her like that, not when she’d done nothing to deserve it. He had no right to believe wrongly of her, then to refuse to hear the truth.
“Sweet Jesu, lady, but naught’s left in your stomach, I’d say,” Ena murmured, pulling the soiled gown over Arabella’s head. Working quickly, she stripped the undergown also, then bent to untie the stockings. “Mayhap if ye told him of the babe, he’d nae be angered with ye.”
“It did not matter to Elias.”
“He is not Woolford.”
She rolled gratefully into the bed and drew up her knees, as Ena settled the thick covers over her. Shivering as much from emotion as from cold, she considered a dozen harsh words she ought to have flung at him. But she was a coward, and she knew it, else she’d have faced him down in the courtyard earlier, else she’d have shouted that any who accused her and Ayrie to him had lied. But he’d not wanted to hear the truth. He’d not even acknowledged that he knew the tale, but there was no mistaking that he did. Her anger faded to despair. If he would not hear her, he could not believe in her.
What had he answered when she’d asked how he could have wed her? I was contracted to ye. I told myself my desire for you was greater than a bastard’s honor. He’d believed the worst of her, and yet he had wed her. I was contracted to ye. He must have heard the tale after his first visit to Byrum, after he’d given her the golden chain. ’Twas why he’d never given her the stone to wear on it.
But he had wed her. And unlike Elias, he’d not beaten her for every word. Unlike Elias, he’d not beaten her for every look. Unlike Elias, he’d not beaten her for having been born on the Scots side of the border. Even now, after all these years, she still spoke as the English, for Elias had beaten her for the “dinnas,” the “cannas,” and all else that reminded him of her birth. And yet William, as much as she had angered him over Jamie, had never hit her once.
Hope soared briefly, then it too faded. It was no longer enough that he did not beat her. When she lay beneath him, she wanted more than that. She wanted to be more than the means to ease his body. She wanted him to love her. And what man could love a woman he believed unworthy of him? For all that she had tried, to him she was not even worth the stone he’d once promised her.
There had to be some way—there had to. And yet if he would not speak of it, if he would not allow her to tell him, she could think of none, for she dared not rouse his temper, not now. Her only hope lay in the child she carried, and what if he, like Elias, found reason not to claim it? What if this second babe was as ill-formed as the first? Nay, but for all that she wanted to shout her innocence to him, she feared what a beating would do to her babe.
For hours she lay awake, and still he did not come to bed. Gradually, she slipped first into that fanciful world where every fear took form, torturing her, then finally into the oblivious ease of sleep. Sometime far into the night the bed creaked with his weight as he lay down beside her, but she did not feel it when his hand awkwardly smoothed her hair against her shoulder, nor did she hear him mutter thickly, “God aid me, Arabella of Byrum—for all that I know of Ayrie’s son, I’d still have ye.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Walter paced his small room as though it were a cage. Behind him James of Woolford copied his letters carefully, repeating the words as he wrote. And for all that he did not like the boy, Walter had to admit young James had a good mind when he wished to use it.
He walked to the window and opened the shutters, peering down on the snow-dusted hills that seemed to roll endlessly southward. His land, and he could not claim it. Instead, he lived this lie he could not stand. He was no closer to killing Giles of Moray than ever, and still he waited, hovering, biding his time, hoping for the chance that seemed to elude him. He’d wanted to go to Dunashie, but he’d been left behind with the boy. His resentment seethed, for he could not stand it.
Though they had been gone less than a fortnight, Walter so longed for Arabella of Byrum that she haunted both his dreams and his thoughts. And all the while he knew that William of Dunashie had her, had the right to lie with her at his will, while he, Walter FitzHamon, could but watch and wait.
’Twas impossible what he wanted, and he knew it.
He’d have Blackleith—and Arabella of Byrum with it. And yet even if the Butcher and his brother were dead, there would still be the matter of getting King David favorably disposed to him. And the matter of explaining how he’d come to Blackleith a priest called “Edmund of Alton.” What could he say: that he’d come in disguise to look at the place? And Arabella: Would she be inclined to his suit, once he’d let his hair grow? Nay, she would only know that he’d deceived her.
To gain Blackleith, he’d have to kill every heir and force her into a marriage with him. And then he’d turn to King David, asking as the last of Hamon’s blood that the keep be bestowed on him. Why had he chosen a disguise? ’Twas to gain entry inside. The problem was Arabella. If she knew, if she suspected even, that he’d killed to gain her, she’d not want him.
Now he was her confessor. Now he taught her to read. Now he listened and advised. And for all that she disputed with him over the boy, she trusted him. But he wanted more than her trust. God’s bones, but after years of living in a monastery with naught but the company of men, he was ready for more than that. He wanted to know the feel of a woman’s body beneath his. He wanted to know the ease of lying with Arabella of Byrum. He wanted to see her naked.
“Father …” A young girl, one of the maids that served Arabella, peered around the corner of his door. “Would ye that I brought ye and the boy fresh oatcakes from the ovens?” she asked shyly.
His gaze rested on her curiously. Though she was small, her breasts thrust against the coarse wool of her gown. And her hair was blond, though not the pale, shimmering gold of Arabella’s. His mouth went dry with the thought that crossed his mind.
“How are you called, child?” he found himself asking.
“Ye know me, Father—ye give me the host every Mass.”
“Aye, but I know not the name you are given.”
“ ’Tis Avisa, Father.”
“ ’Tis a Norman name.”
“Aye.” The girl’s chin came up, as though she dared him to dispute it, then she added proudly, “My sire was a Norman knight. He bedded my dam when he came to visit the lord Hamon.”
“I see,” Walter responded gravely. “Then you are half gentle-born yourself, aren’t you?”
She nodded, pleased that he saw it that way. “ ’Tis why my dam called me Avisa.”
“Well then, Avisa—how many years have you?”
“Nearly seventeen.”
“Art a pretty little maid.”
She giggled, then volunteered, “My dam doesna let me lie with the boys, for she’d hae good silver and I am a virgin. I was promised to the miller, but he died ere I was wed. His sons disputed it, but we kept the money,” she explained artlessly.
“Aye, come back, little Avisa, and share the cakes you bring with us. We have spiced wine to wash them down.”
“I am more used to ale, Father.”
“Then wine will be my gift to you.”
He watched her leave, thinking it unlikely that she was in truth a virgin still, but it did not matter. Despite his limited experience of women, she looked ripe for the plucking. And his body was ready to taste that which had been forbidden him at Kelso.
Briefly he considered whether to call for someone to come for James of Woolford, then he decided against it. Should the maid prove skittish, the boy’s presence would assuage her fear until Walter could gain her trust. Avisa. ’Twas a foolish name for a villein’s daughter, but if it fed her pride ‘twas useful, he supposed.
For want of anything el
se to do he walked to where the boy still copied his lesson. Looking over the thin shoulder, he was surprised by the neatness of the characters. “ ’Tis good. Your mother will be pleased when she comes.” But when he looked more closely he could see that the boy had copied a short prayer, and had inscribed it to William of Dunashie.
“You’d best pray for yourself, James,” Walter told him coldly.
But the boy shook his head. “Nay. Me and Lord William shares an oath betwixt us. ’Tis for him that I make this.”
Walter snorted. “He scarce notes you.”
“He brought me an English dagger—aye, with a painted hilt—and he gave me Minette that I may ride.” He laid aside his pen and dug into the small leather pouch at his belt, drawing out a silver coin. “And this I had of him ere he left for Dunashie.”
“It does not cost him much to give what he has stolen,” Walter muttered under his breath.
“ ’Tis for him that I study my letters, Father—and I do them right, he will see that I walk.”
“A fool’s promise—worth scarce more than prayers.
To Walter’s chagrin, the child merely shrugged and retrieved his pen. “He wouldna told me, else he meant it.” He labored, making the final strokes on the last word, then held it up. “I could hae done better, but I’d make my lady mother one also ere she returns.”
The girl came back, carrying a small wooden plate of steaming oatcakes drizzled with honey. Walter indicated the table where Jamie worked, then he turned to find his wineskin. He’d sweeten it more than usual for her first taste, for he’d have her like it. Aye, he’d have her drink plenty of it.
The courtyard below looked as though it were covered with crystals beneath the moon, and all was silent within the keep save for the lone sentry that walked above each hour. The rest of the time he kept to his guardroom, close to the fire. Walter closed the shutters to his small room, and waited for the girl. On the table sat the pitcher where he’d mixed the wine, this time adding poppy juice with the honey and the precious spices. He hated to waste the cinnamon and the ginger, but if it gained him what he’d have of her, he’d have to count her worth the cost. If only she did not scream or cry out …
He left but one candle burning, for the near darkness suited him also. Where was the silly, foolish creature? Had she taken his earlier wine and decided not to come? Surely he’d not given her so much that she’d sickened from it. Cursing the wait, he sat down and poured himself a cup from his wineskin, saving the other for her. He’d not be senseless the first time he took a woman.
He thought he heard the soft scrape of slippers on the steps, and it was as though every inch of his skin came alive. His door creaked inward, and she peeked cautiously inside.
“Father ..?”
“Come in, daughter.”
“Should we not pray in the chapel?” she asked nervously.
“Would you not share a cup of God’s fruit with me first? Sit you down, little Avisa, that we may speak with each other. Your mama… ?”
“She sleeps.”
“Aye. The spices are too precious—I’d not share them with any but you.”
The light of the single candle reflected eerily in his eyes, and for a moment she was afraid. And yet there was something exciting, something forbidden about drinking alone in the dark with the priest. And a priest would not harm anyone, for he was of God. She sat down, spreading her skirt demurely as she thought a lady would. He poured her a cup of the liquid and swirled it with his finger ere he handed it across the table.
“There may be too much honey for you, child.”
She knew she ought not to be there, but did he not call her “daughter” and “child”? She sipped the sweetened wine, feeling quite the grand lady. “I like it,” she murmured, watching him over the cup. “ ’Tis like a sweetmeat.”
“The best fruit of God’s vineyard, my daughter.” He leaned his elbows on the table and clasped his hands beneath his chin. “I’d have you tell me what troubles you, little Avisa,” he said softly.
The thought crossed her mind that despite his tonsure, he appeared not much older than the boys who teased her in the stableyard. ’Twas strange how some men aged not at all, and Others were toothless ere they were wed. But this one was far handsomer than any she’d found below. She sipped deeply, letting the sweetness linger in her mouth ere she swallowed, wondering what she ought to say to him.
“Who gives you pretty things?” he asked, when she did not answer the other.
“There is none, Father.”
“A pretty child is deserving of a jewel, I’d think.” As he said it, he pushed a small pin across the table. Four smooth black stones gleamed around a silver center, in a shape much like St. Patrick’s shamrock.
“ ’Twas my mother’s,” he lied. “And until I saw you, I thought none pretty enough to wear it.”
“Nay, I—”
“ ’Tis of little worth to any but myself, child. Go on—take it.”
“My mother would ask where I’d gotten it.”
“I will look away, and you may say ‘twas found.” He reached for the pitcher and refilled her cup. “But if you fear …”
Afraid that he meant to take it back, she snatched it up and stuck the pin into the shoulder of her plain gown. Then, unsure of how to thank him, she drank instead, and he did not appear to note the lapse.
He talked low of many things: of English gardens and castles too big to be believed, of river barges and pretty lakes she’d never seen. And all the while he watched her, again refilling her cup. The room grew warmer despite the smallness of his fire, and it seemed that her mind floated above her body. She blinked as his face swayed before hers. She pushed her cup away and tried to rise, but her legs were too weak to hold her.
“I think I’ve had too much,” she said as he caught her, steadying her in strong arms. But instead of helping her to the door, he pushed her to his cot. “Nay, I canna sleep here,” she whispered. “My dam—” But already his hand was beneath her skirt, lifting it to expose her legs. And as she tried to wrench away, he reached for a cloth. “Nay, I—” She said no more as he stuffed it in her mouth, stifling her words. Her head turned from side to side, and she kicked and flailed to escape him.
“I’d not want to hurt you,” he whispered by her ear, as he pulled up his cassock and lay over her. “Cry out, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Mumph!”
He removed the cloth only to cover her mouth with his. His knee forced her legs apart, then he pinned her down and thrust hard. She stiffened, then tore open beneath him, and he was inside. As her legs fell slack he rode her hard, discovering for the first time Eden’s sin. He lost himself in what he did to her until he had no mind, no reason, and then it seemed there was naught but the pulsing explosion that finally fed his need.
When he eased himself off her he could see her eyes were huge, and at first he thought ‘twas fear. Then he realized ‘twas from the drugged wine. She lay docilely now, and did not even try to rise when he stood above her.
For a long moment he looked at her white legs, exploring them with his eyes. Raising her gown higher, he gazed on the wet thatch where he’d been. He bent over her, lifting her hips, and eased the gown upward over her body. As he bared it he saw for the first time her white belly, her small breasts, and the smoothness of a female’s skin. The temple of Venus before him.
But her eyes were glazed, and he’d not have her lie as though she were dead for him. He wanted what he’d heard in the furtive gropings behind the stable. He wanted to feel the life beneath him. Leaning over, he bit her breast, and felt her body tense, and he knew what to do. Aye, until he could have Arabella of Byrum, little Avisa would have to serve him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Arabella returned to Blackleith with William, there was no hiding the strain between them. And for all that he had grudgingly apologized to Lang Gib and Wat, there was a lingering breach there also. Indeed,
every man in the small mesnie seemed unusually quiet, despite the shouts of welcome that greeted them.
As soon as her husband had lifted her from her saddle Arabella knelt to hug her son eagerly, but ’twas to William that he reached, leaving her feeling even more empty and disappointed. Again it was as though some cruel jest stole him from her, and she could not forbear chiding him, saying that had she not known better she’d have thought ’twas only Father Edmund as had missed her.
In that at least she was right, Walter hastily assured her, for there was none other to play at chess and draughts and tables with him. William frowned at his familiar manner, but said nothing. He reminded himself that Edmund of Alton was, after all, a priest. And yet he could not like him.
After two days of riding in the silence of his wife and his men William warmed to the boy’s eagerness, returning his embrace, feeling a new kinship with Arabella’s crippled son. For all that could be said of James of Woolford there was no denying that he admired his stepfather, and William could not help responding to that now.
“I did as ye asked me!” Jamie chortled proudly. “Tell him, Father—I have written and read all I am given.”
“Aye,” Walter answered shortly.
“And ye’d carry me there, I’d gie ye what I made ye,” the child offered. Twisting in William’s arms, he looked to his mother. “And I made ye one also, Mama.”
“And what of me?” Ena asked him.
The boy’s face fell. Then he brightened. “Ye canna read, Ena!”
“Well, ye could have carved me something with your fine dagger,” the woman protested.
“Nay, but I’ll nae let ye shame him, Ena!” Even as he spoke Ewan held out his hand, revealing a decorated cross. “Fer ye, woman.” Looking to William, he sighed. “Ye left me here to nurse one as kept his head in his letters, my lord—there was naught else to do.” In an offhanded manner, he nodded again toward Arabella’s maid. “Thought she might value it summat, ye know.”