by Anita Mills
“Put a hole in it, and I’ll wear it,” Ena declared. “I’ve a need for something to ward off the evil spirits.”
“There hasna been much to do,” Ewan repeated. “And your lordship was wishful of it, I’d say ’twas time we hunted at Blackleith.”
“Nay.” Hoisting Jamie higher on his shoulder, William took a deep breath, then turned to Arabella. “I promised him, and he did not go to Dunashie, I’d take him to Edinburgh.”
She stared blankly, then her voice betrayed her consternation. “Edinburgh! But why?”
“He canna tell ye, Mama! We are sworn over it.”
“But naught’s at Edinburgh save the king, and I cannot think—” Her eyes darted fearfully to her husband’s. “Do I go also, my lord?”
“Nay. ’Tis but Ewan and me and the boy. And it willna serve ye to ask, for I’d tell ye nae more.” As he spoke, Lang Gib and Wat exchanged glances that did not miss Will. “I dinna favor traveling with two sour faces,” he added, reminding them of the breach.
“Nor do I!” Jamie chimed in, adopting the big man’s view immediately.
Ewan looked uneasily at Ena. “When do we go, my lord?”
“The day after the morrow. ’Tis time, dinna ye think, James?”
“And ye wish it.”
“ ’Tis settled then. Now—what is it that ye made me? I’d hae proof of these studies, ye know.”
Arabella watched them cross the yard, leaving her. Once she would have given anything for someone to show kindness to her son, but now she felt only uneasiness. Although ’twas what she herself had asked of William, this attention he gave Jamie, she mistrusted it now. Edinburgh? For an awful moment, she considered that William took him away to a monastery someplace, that ’twas a ruse to remove her child from her. That she would never see her son again.
“Lady, you have been sorely missed. ’Twas as though the light was gone from my days.”
She turned to face Father Edmund, and sighed. “Only by you, ’twould seem.” Nonetheless, she forced a smile. “ ’Tis glad I am to be again at Blackleith, Father. For all that Dunashie is grand, I’d rather be here.”
“Did you see Rivaux’s daughter?” he asked, returning her smile. “I have heard she is overproud.”
“She comes from great wealth, and therefore is given to speaking her mind with authority,” Arabella admitted. “But she is surely the Helen of all Christendom for her face. Father Edmund, I swear I have never seen another like her in all my life.”
“And I’ll warrant there were those who admired Arabella of Byrum also, those who thought her as lovely as Rivaux’s daughter.”
Her expression sobered, and her eyes betrayed her unhappiness momentarily. “Aye. But ’tis like much else that befalls me, and I count my face a curse more than a blessing.”
“Nay. Only God makes beauty such as yours, lady.” Seeing that Lang Gib had turned around to frown at him, Walter changed the subject quickly. “And Moray—how fares the Butcher?”
“He prospers. Scarce a month passes that King David does not reward him in some measure for his service at the Standards. Sweet Jesu, Father, but you’ve not seen the like of Dunashie.”
“I have been there.” Then, realizing he risked betraying himself, he added more smoothly, “And you’ve not seen Harlowe or Rivaux, or even the Condes,” he reminded her. “ ’Tis said Dunashie is a mean place in comparison to those Count Guy possesses. Nay, but the Butcher wed well—too well, some would have it— when he took Rivaux’s daughter.”
“I could scarce believe that I saw Guy of Rivaux with mine own eyes, but I am glad he comes not here, for he travels with no less than fifty in his mesnie.” She looked around her, then sighed again. “For all that I have come to love it, Blackleith would be a poor place to him.”
“ ’Tis a prettier place here, now that you are come home.”
After William’s sullenness, she could not help but respond to Edmund of Alton’s kind words. “Father, you are ill suited to your calling. You should have been a gallant knight rather than a tonsured priest, for you lighten my heart this day.”
Seeing that Lang Gib had moved out of hearing, Walter reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “And you lighten mine also, repaying me for my poor words, gentle lady.”
The smell of bread baking in the ovens wafted past her on a chill breeze, and she felt a wave of nausea wash over her. And then it passed. Impulsively, she looked up at the priest.
“Father, I would that you heard me confess this day, for I am heartsore, and I’d speak to someone.”
There was no mistaking the sudden sadness that came again to her eyes. Walter felt a surge of hope. His eyes took in the shimmering veil that seemed to float over her pale gold hair. With an effort, he looked away to hide the intense desire he felt for her.
“What sins could burden a lady as kind as you? Nay, but I’d not believe ill of you. I could absolve you without the hearing, I’d warrant.”
She looked around her, then shook her head. “ ’Tis not sins, so much as what mine husband believes of me, Father. I am afraid, and would ask God’s guidance.”
“You behold one who would heal you and he could. Lady, there is naught I would not do for you.”
“Bella!”
She looked up to see William striding toward them, and she leaned closer to the priest to whisper, “Later— I’d speak of this later, and you do not mind it. I’d not speak before him of this.”
“Lady, ever am I ready to serve you,” Walter murmured low. “You have but to tell me what you would have.”
“ ’Tis too cold for you to stand about outside like a washwoman!” Will called out to her. “Get you inside.”
“I’d have my husband’s belief in me,” she said low, for the priest’s ears only. “I’d have you pray for that, Father.”
William watched as the priest bent his head close to Arabella’s, sharing confidences with her, and he felt an unreasoning surge of jealousy. Again it seemed to him that Edmund of Alton was too young and too wellfavored for his calling. And for all that the young man was tonsured, there was no mistaking his admiration for her. Too often Will had seen that moonling look on men whose minds were between their legs. He walked up to Arabella and pulled her traveling cloak about her shoulders in a proprietary manner.
“The boy would show you his work,” he told her tersely.
“Aye. Father, I will come to chapel later that I may confess. Until then, I’d bid you a good day.”
“And I will await you,” Walter promised.
Walter watched them walk, she trying to match her husband’s long stride, and he felt a surge of elation. So all was not well between the Bastard and Arabella of Byrum? And she would turn to him to mend matters, would she? Aye, but Lucifer would deliver her into Walter’s keeping yet, and he would have her when William of Dunashie was no more. Well, he was ready, more than ready, for that to happen. All he needed was the opportunity, for he’d not be suspected, not when he would appeal later to King David for Blackleith and for her. Stuffing his cold hands into his wide sleeves, he hurried toward the hall.
“Jesu, but what ails you now, my lord?” Arabella asked. “Can I now not even speak to a priest?”
“Nothing,” William muttered. “ ’Tis too cold outside.”
As they went inside the outer door to the tower, they passed one of the young maids hurrying downward. Arabella could scarce fail to note her sullen expression, or the deep circles beneath her eyes. “Sweet Mary, Avisa, but art all right? Is aught amiss, child?”
“Nothing,” the girl mumbled.
“ ’Tis a pretty pin you wear.”
“Aye.”
Scarcely civil, Avisa brushed past them and ran to catch up to Edmund of Alton. When he would have pulled free, the girl hung onto his sleeve. As Arabella turned back briefly to watch, she thought the girl’s manner odd. ’Twas Avisa’s age, she supposed, for at sixteen and more she ought to be wed. Gathering her
skirts she turned away, thinking she had other thoughts to trouble her just now. Her husband was taking Jamie away from her. And she knew not how to make him believe in her. She knew not how to make him love her for more than what she did for him. She knew not how to make him want more than that from her.
In the yard, Walter disengaged his sleeve from the girl’s clutch irritably. “Not here,” he muttered.
“I’d come up to ye, and ye’d gie me the wine again.”
“Mayhap,” he answered, shrugging.
“D’ye think her prettier than I am?” she asked, pouting. “Ye canna have her.”
“I know not who you mean.”
“Lady Arabella. I saw the way ye looked on her, ye know.”
“ ’Tis your fancy.”
He started away, but she caught up to him again. “Nay, ’tis not.” Moving in front of him to block his way, she raised reproachful eyes to him. “ ’Tis the way ye look on me when ye hae me in yer bed.” As his scowl deepened, she dropped her gaze. “I’ve told no one, ye know.”
“There’s naught to tell.”
“Think ye I canna remember?” She leaned forward, this time suggestively. “Think ye I come up only for the wine ye gie me? Think ye I canna feel what ye do to me?”
Walter’s mouth went dry with the fear that she’d be heard, that Arabella would discover what he’d done to the girl. “I’d not talk of this here,” he muttered, starting around her. “Come up tonight, and I’ll give you enough wine to take to your own bed with you.”
“After ye are done? I like the feel of ye in me, ye know,” she said eagerly. “I dinna even mind the biting.”
“After,” he promised. With unusual gentleness, he brushed back her tangled hair from her face. “I’d not forgo that, little Avisa.”
“Some priests wed, e’en though the Pope doesna like it,” she reminded him hopefully.
“Not in England, I’m afraid.”
“ ’Tisna England—’tis Scotland.”
She let him go finally, and as he walked on he decided regretfully that it was time to end his liaison with her. Otherwise she was like to tell Arabella of Byrum, and he could not allow that.
There was the sound of shouts and running feet in the courtyard below. Roused, William groped in the darkness for his chausses and his sword. “God’s bones, if ’tis the thieving English …” he muttered. “Arabella, there isna time to send for another—I’d hae ye arm me.”
“What?” She sat up. “Sweet Mary, but what ..? Oh—aye.” Throwing back the covers, she rose and pulled on her discarded gown, while he tried to spark the wicks on the cresset lamps.
Already someone pounded on the door. “Two are dead, my lord!” And behind him a woman wailed, “ ’Tis a plague, and we are all dead!” Then someone else shouted, “Art daft, woman! There wasna any sickness!”
“Is it that we are attacked?” William shouted.
“Nay! Two of the women are found dead!”
“ ’Tis a plague, I tell ye! They died in their beds!”
“And I say ye are daft!”
Giving up on the flint stone, William threw open the shutters and looked outside. Already the faint rosy light of dawn could be seen like a thin line along the horizon, and above it the sky was more grey than black. “Jesu, but ’tis cold,” he muttered, closing the window and plunging the room into darkness again.
He managed to stumble over a couple of benches and unbar the door. Someone thrust a pitch torch up at him. He half turned to order Arabella, “If I am not to be armed, I’d have ye back to bed. Ye’ve nae been well since Dunashie, and if ’tis a plague I’d nae have ye take it. Besides, if they are dead, there’s naught ye can do.”
She would have argued, but then she thought of her babe. And for all that she believed it was Elias’ beatings that had marked Jamie, she’d not risk harming the child within her. And ’twould be better if she did not see, she supposed, yet she felt guilty for staying. Reluctantly she returned to bed and waited, listening to the near hysteria below and wondering what had happened.
Two women had died, they’d said—but how? Now that Kenneth of Burwell had finally healed enough to go home, there were none as ailed at all. In her head she ran through all those who lived within the walls, wondering who’d perished. There was Old Gerda, to be sure, but for all that she was old, she was well. And despite failing sight, the woman still baked bread better than any.
Even the thought of the bread made her queasy. Resolutely, she considered the others. Had it been Ena they’d have said so when they came up, for ’twas known how valued she was. Mayhap ’twas Sibyl, for she was near her time, but a woman seldom died until she labored overlong. Sweet Mary, but who?
The shouting had stopped, and a hush descended over the place. Unable to stand it, Arabella rose and pulled William’s heavy cloak over her gown ere she unhooked the shutter. She’d do that much at least: She’d not sicken while she carried this babe.
It was lighter now, affording a clear view of the scene below. She could see Father Edmund leaning to comfort a woman who wept, bending so low that his crucifix nearly touched the ground. And then she saw the men carrying two wrapped bodies into the chapel.
It didn’t make sense. To be sure, people died every day, carried off by ailments oft unknown, but two of them at once. . . ? Had she not feared marking her babe, she’d have gone down to see for herself. Instead she withdrew from the window and shuttered it again.
“Would ye that I made ye a fire, my lady?” a boy from the scullery asked her.
“Aye.” She turned around and removed William’s cloak. “Who was it that died?”
“The girl Avisa and her mother, lady. When Old Gerda sent one to waken them, both lay upon their pallets cold.”
“Sweet Jesu! Does any know why?”
The boy shook his head. “Nay. There wasna a mark on them. The girl was all huddled up, but the woman looked as though she slept. There wasna but one empty cup on the floor,” he went on, “and they ate and drank at table with us all. Father Edmund thinks ’tis something in the air, and Lord William has ordered that the pallets there be burned—aye, and the floor washed with lime lest others sicken.”
Arabella made the sign of the Cross over her breast, murmuring, “God rest their souls. But others slept about them, did they not? Did none know they ailed?”
“Aye, and nay. Whatever took them from this world into the next, ’twas quick, for there’s none as heard ’em.”
“But my lord thinks Father Edmund has the right of it?”
“I think ye ought to be abed, Bella.” He walked into the room almost silently. “God’s bones, but ’tis strange,” he observed, kicking the door shut after the boy. “They died without violence, yet the girl lay as though she were pained,” he mused, as much for himself as for her. “And as the boy said, the woman’s face was peaceful. Had there been but the one I’d hae thought mayhap poison, but the other … nay, even poison would have wakened those around them. ’Tis a bad thing, Bella—a bad thing—and there is no answer.” He came up behind her and caught her to him. “Father Edmund fears there will be more, but I hope he’s wrong. Until ’tis known, I’d send ye again to Dunashie.”
“Nay. I’d rather sit alone in here, served by none but Ena, than ride again in the cold.” She twisted her body to look up at him. “Do you go to Edinburgh still?”
“Aye, as soon as the women are interred and the words are said over them.” He frowned. “Mayhap ye ought to go to Elizabeth at Dunashie, Bella.”
“Nay. I am too tired for the ride,” she lied.
He released her, stepping back. “ ’Twas a mistake to take ye to the christening, for ye’ve ailed ever since. Still …”
His voice trailed off as the bitterness nearly overwhelmed him. Aye, it had been a mistake, one of the worst in his life, for it had changed everything between them. Now, after having seen Aidan of Ayrie, after having seen her with him, he could not lie with her with
out wondering whether she thought of the other man then. It had been wrong to wed when he could not forget, Giles had told him at Dunashie, and mayhap he had the right of it. But for all his disappointment, for all his anger with her, he’d never stopped wanting her.
She turned around at his silence, and once again she saw the hardness in his expression. Her heart ached for what she knew he believed her.
“William …” She hesitated, searching his face for some sign that he would listen, then blurted out, “I’d speak of Dunashie, William—aye, and of Woolford also. I’d have you know—”
“I have no wish to know!” he cut in harshly, interrupting her. “Can you not understand that? I don’t want to know! I’d hear of nothing ere we were wed, Bella—nothing.” He lifted his hand, then dropped it as she cringed. “Get you back to bed. I did but come to tell you ’twas the girl and her mother that died.”
“You cannot ask me to hold my tongue when—” But he would not listen. Already he was more than halfway to the door, leaving her to speak to naught but the air.
She sank onto the nearest bench, sick both in heart and body, and once again the awful nausea washed over her. Nay, but she would not weep again, for ‘twas not good for her babe, she told herself. Instead she crossed her arms, holding herself tightly as she fought against the gorge that rose in her throat. Later, when she felt better, she would refuse to be silenced. Later, when she told him of the babe, she would make him listen.
Chapter Thirty
A cold mist hung over Blackleith, dampening her cloak and wetting the grass beneath her feet, as Arabella watched the crude wooden boxes being lowered into the muddy graves. Father Edmund sprinkled blessed water upon them, commending first the girl’s spirit, then the mother’s, to God. In the absence of a male kinsman, William reached down to toss a clod of earth over each casket as the priest spoke the familiar words of “dust to dust.” The odd thought crossed Arabella’s mind that ’twas mud, not dust, that received them.
William straightened to wipe his hands on a cloth offered by one of the kitchen boys, then he prayed silently ere he made the sign of the Cross over his breast. As two men began shoveling the wet earth into the mother’s grave, Arabella could only think that Avisa, the girl who’d taken such pride in being the bastard of a Norman knight, was no more. Her gaze traveled to Father Edmund, and with a start she realized that Avisa’s pretty pin was fastened to his sleeve. She’d meant for it to be buried with the girl.