by Anita Mills
“She dinna tell me anything, my lord.” Then, having heard her words, he added, “Mayhap ’tis that another died from the sickness.”
“When?”
Uncertain as to the day, Wat answered, “ ’Twas shortly after Father Edmund returned to us. He said ’twas the sickness, but the man was old—’twas Auld Ben at the gate.” When Will said nothing Wat hesitated, then blurted out, “Ye dinna look too well yer-self, my lord.”
“Nay, I am all right. I’m overtired, ’tis all.”
“Ye were all right when ye came in,” Ewan reminded him.
Jamie rolled over on the bed and sat up. “Aye—ye carried me in.”
The weakness seemed to overwhelm William, and it was an effort to think. He leaned forward, bracing his head with his hands. It was too heavy. He tried to speak, and his tongue seemed too thick for his mouth.
“I’d hae ye get me to the bed.”
They did as he asked but he stumbled between them, his legs too weak to hold him unaided. Tumbling heavily onto the mattress, he pinned the boy beneath him. With an effort he raised himself enough for Jamie to roll aside, then he lay upon the spinning bed and willed himself to stay awake.
The two men looked at each other, then at William, “My lord, would ye that we fetched ye aid?” Wat asked him anxiously. “Ye dinna look good.”
“Nay. I am cold.”
A gust of wind banged the shutter, then it flew open, sending a spray of cold rain into the room. Ewan went to relatch it, peering outside first, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Turning back to Wat he said with a calmness he did not feel, “I’d get the physician—aye, and the priest also.” Motioning the other man to look, he pointed. “There are two dead rats below.”
Wat stared blankly into the muddy wine. “They drowned.”
“They were not there when we came in, Wat—’tis the wine.”
“They drowned in wine? Surely—”
“Nay. I’d say they were poisoned.”
“Holy Jesu!”
William tried to shake his head, and could scarce move it. “Nay,” he croaked, “I dinna drink … enough of it.”
But Ewan moved to stand over him, addressing Jamie, “I’d nae leave ye, James, but there is nae help for it—d’ye ken? Ye must watch o’er him until we return.” Speaking as calmly as he could, he added, “Wat goes for the priest and I to seek a physician for him. ’Tis up to ye to care for Lord William.”
“Aye.” The small hand crept to the English dagger he kept at his belt. “I’d guard him for ye.”
“See as ye do.” Ewan clasped the thin shoulder quickly, then backed away. “And he worsens, get ye to the window and call to any who would pass.”
For once, the child did not protest that he could not walk. He merely nodded, his eyes large. But as soon as the door closed behind them he touched William’s face gingerly, telling him, “Ye are all right—I know it—ye are all right.”
“ ’Twill pass.”
But tears streamed down the boy’s cheek as he laid his head against William. “I’d nae go back to Byrum— I’d nae,” he whispered, reaching around the big man’s neck. “I’d stay with ye.”
Will lifted his arm weakly, then wrapped it about the small body. “Nay,” he murmured. “We dinna come this far for naught, Jamie.”
For a time they lay there, embracing each other, one frightened, the other telling himself he could not die, that he was not done loving Arabella. He had too much left to do to perish. He’d see her again, he’d see the babe she gave him, he’d see James of Woolford walk. He was not done. He felt the small shoulders shake against his.
“Ye mustna weep—’twill pass.”
The boy struggled to sit, wiping at his eyes. “I’d get ye ale…. I’d get ye a cloth….”
“Nay. Lay down and be still. I’d hold ye.”
“But—”
“Ye comfort me. I’d hear ye speak—I’d hear ye tell me of anything.”
The child rested his head above the man’s heart, hearing the beat of it, and tried to think of something to say. Until William, he’d thought of himself as worthless in all eyes but his mother’s. Then the big man had given him the horse and dagger. Now the awful fear that, if aught happened to William, he’d never walk, nearly overwhelmed him. Burying his head in his stepfather’s damp tunic, Jamie mumbled, “I’d nae have ye leave me.”
“And God wills it, I’ll not.”
Wat was the first to return, bringing with him a priest he’d found at the nearest church. As he bent over William, smelling of his breath, then feeling of his pulse, the cleric decided it was premature to shrive one whose heart was still strong if not steady. Turning to Wat he said, “Although I am not a physician I have some knowledge of herbs, and I’d think poison also. I’d know how much he drank of it.”
“I wasna here.”
“He dinna drink—he spat it out,” Jamie told him. “He said ’twas too sweet.”
“I swallowed a little,” William admitted.
“Hmmm.” The priest lifted Will’s eyelids, peering intently into the eyes, then felt of his skin. “What feel you in the limbs, my lord?”
“They sleep. ’Tis as though I have sat overlong on them.”
“Art confused?”
“Aye.”
“The heart is fast? It feels as though it would leap from your chest?”
“Aye.”
“The limbs are weak?”
“Aye.”
The priest looked at Wat. “Mix ale with water, one part to three, and have him drink as much as he will until there are no fewer than six filled cups down him. And after each say one Pater Noster and three Aves, that he will again be healed.”
“You do not shrive him?”
“Nay. ’Tis God’s will he recovers.”
Turning his attention again to William, he explained, “As you did not succumb quickly, and you do not vomit as with some poisons, ’tis probable you swallowed but a small amount.”
“What was it?” Wat wanted to know.
The priest shrugged. “There are those that affect the stomach, causing great griping, vomit, and bloody flux, and there are those that cause the body to convulse and the heart to beat rapidly ere it stops. If ’twas poison, and ’tis probable, ‘twas likely nightshade or belladonna.”
“Twas wine,” Jamie volunteered. “Twas Father Edmund’s wine.”
“A man of God does not administer poison,” the priest declared coldly.
“He only liked my mother—he doesna like any other. He says I am a misbegotten brat.”
By the fourth cup of watered ale, with its accompanying prayers, Will’s numbness had seemed to ease and his mind to have reunited with his body. In gratitude to the priest, William parted with another of his silver pennies, saying he’d have a candle burned at the altar in thanksgiving. He was sitting up drinking the fifth cup, when Ewan finally arrived to explain tiredly that he’d not been able to rouse any but a barber to bleed his lord. After much haggling, and with obvious disappointment, the fellow went on his way, but only after he’d declared that William would not recover until a balance between the four humours had again been achieved.
“Ye look better,” Ewan observed.
“I know not of humours,” Will admitted, “but whatever ailed me passes.”
“I took care of him, Ewan—I did as ye asked me.”
“And I dinna leave ye, did I?” Will countered.
“Nay.”
Ewan glanced at the empty wineskin, then asked, “What would ye that I did with that?”
William followed his gaze, and his expression grew grim. “I’d hae ye fill it with water ere we go, and when we are arrived at Blackleith I mean to ask Edmund of Alton to share it with me. I’d hear what he says.” Reaching his hand to ruffle Jamie’s hair, his face lightened. “What say ye, James of Woolford—would ye that we went home again? Would ye walk to your mother? Nay, I know the answers, don’t
I? ’Tis both of us as are homesick to see her.”
“We go back, then?”
“Aye—by way of Kelso,” William decided. “I’d ask of Edmund of Alton there.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
For nearly a fortnight it had rained, but now the sun emerged from the clouds, lifting her spirits a little. And although the air was still crisp there was a faint mingling of green amid the brown on the hills, promising spring within the month. With her cloak held tightly about her, Arabella walked the wall between the tower and the gate and tried not to think of the burns and rivers flooded between Blackleith and Edinburgh. If the rains did not come again the waters would recede, she told herself, and William and Jamie would come home to her again.
The sickness had passed—a good thing given ’twas Lent, for fish had not set well upon her stomach earlier. Now it did not matter, for she could even savor the smell of baking bread. Now she could turn her attention to the babe, thinking on it when her spirits flagged, planning for it, praying for it, and though ’twas early, sewing fine gowns for it also. This babe, God willing, would be whole. When Father Edmund had asked if she would have him light a candle for it, she’d answered that her only prayer was that it be born well formed and healthy. She’d not want another to suffer as Jamie. If anything, she would pray that Jamie would not feel abandoned when the babe came.
She looked out over the burn, seeing the water that lapped at Blackleith’s wall itself. Five feet above the bank, Lang Gib had said. And for all that Wat had ridden out with her letter two weeks before, neither he nor an answer had returned. ’Twas the weather, and she knew it, yet she could not help hoping. Before she was fat and ungainly she’d lie in her husband’s arms, and hear him say he loved her once more. She’d hold Jamie close, smoothing his hair, and she’d tell him that as much as she would love the babe she carried, he was still the firstborn of her heart.
But there was still the matter of the letter from Woolford to plague her. Two weeks and more she’d had it, and still she feared to know what Hugh of Woolford wrote William. There was naught she wanted of the Woolfords now, save to be forgotten. For nearly seven years Elias’ and Donald’s words had wounded, but now that William understood she no longer cared. Woolford was her past, Blackleith her present and future. But why had Hugh written, after all those years?
“Art overquiet, gentle lady.”
“My thoughts plague me.”
“I would that I could aid you.”
“Nay, Father. Nothing ails me that my husband and son cannot cure. I’d see them, ’tis all.”
“Would you that I heard your confession this morning?”
“As mine husband is gone from me, there is naught to confess—unless you would have me say that I curse the rain that keeps him away.”
“What? You have no vanity, no sloth to admit?” he teased lightly.
“ ’Tis difficult to be vain when there is none to praise me, Father.”
“Your mirror praises you, Arabella of Byrum,” Walter said softly. “Art possessed of as much beauty as any I have ever seen.”
His manner and his tone had changed, and there was a warmth in his eyes that discomfitted her. It was the gaze of a lover rather than that of one who would guide her rightly. Too often lately it had been thus when he was with her. She moved away to lean on the stone ledge.
“Ah, but you have been with monks at Kelso, have you not? There are no ladies there.”
“But I have the eyes of any man.” He followed her, his smile broadening. “ ’Tis a pity you have not heard the pagan tales of Greece and Rome, gentle lady, for I’d liken you to Helen—or Venus even.”
“Nay, I am but flesh-and-blood woman.”
Always it was thus, and Walter would have to tell himself to wait, to bide his time. When word came that the Bastard did not return, that he’d sickened and died, then would Walter console the widow, then would he help her write to Giles of Moray. And when Moray was dead also, he’d travel to see King David, asking for justice, saying that he did not dispute Elizabeth of Rivaux’s sons right to Dunashie, but that as the last of Hamon’s blood he had the greater right to Blackleith. Then he’d return, not as Edmund of Alton but as Walter FitzHamon, to tell Arabella she need not return to Byrum, that he welcomed her presence here. She’d be stunned at first to learn of his deception, but he would explain it away, saying he had but wanted to return to Blackleith.
’Twould be no easy thing, and he knew it. He would have to account for Edmund, but he would say the poor old fool had drowned, and that rather than turn back he’d come in his stead. To those who would call it blasphemy that he’d claimed to be a priest, he’d say that he’d all but taken his last vows. But now ’twas Blackleith that had the greater claim on him. But that would come after the Bastard and the Butcher had died.
He cleared his throat and said aloud, “Mayhap if you returned to your studies, ’twould ease your mind. You are an able pupil, daughter. We could read and pray together.”
“You flatter me,” she murmured, forcing a smile. “ ’Tis Jamie who has the skill. ’Tis Jamie who learns easily. Alas, but I toil over the words.”
“Come up, and I will aid you. We will share a cup of wine and my small fire, while I show you the stories I have copied. Together we will read them, and ’twill improve your Latin,” he coaxed. “I’d teach you of Venus—and of the others.”
“Pagan gods?”
“There is no sin in the reading, lady, for ’twas at Kelso I learned them. They are but tales for your fancy.”
“I ought to be at my needle.”
“Would you improve your sewing or your wits?” he countered. “And it eases your mind, we will pray after.”
She looked down into the swirling water below, seeing that which kept William and Jamie from her. And once again she felt the intense longing. Nay, and she sat over her mending once again, she’d go mad from the wait.
“I would that I knew how he fares—that he and my son are well. Indeed, Father, but I’d have them home now. I know not why they tarry, or even why they have gone.”
“Life is uncertain, sweet lady, and ’tis not our lot to know the why of everything. ’Tis God’s will that we wait.”
“Is it God’s will that I worry?” she demanded almost angrily.
“Aye.”
She moved away again. “If aught harm has befallen them, I could not stand it.”
“You would do as you did when Elias of Woolford died, lady: You would mourn and then you would live again. Nay, but William of Dunashie is unworthy of your tears. When all is said and all the pain is past, there will be another to love you.”
“You speak as though he does not come back, Father—and I’d not hear it.”
“Nay—I speak as though I do not know.” This time when he came up behind her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come—let us study together. ’Twill divert your mind,” he promised. “We will speak of other things until we know.”
“I ought to bring Ena.”
“Leave her to ply her needle.” He favored her with a strange smile. “Surely after all these months we have been at Blackleith together, you’ve learned you have naught to fear of me, daughter.”
“There are those who would say you are overyoung, Father, and that I am too much in your company.”
“And ’tis so, ’tis the evil in their minds that says it. But if it disturbs you, I’d leave the door open that all can see we do naught but read together.” Again he moved closer. “Think you I do not miss the boy also? I came to treasure the time you and James of Woolford spent with me,” he lied.
“Aye,” she sighed. “I have missed the lessons, Father.”
“Then we will share a cup of wine and begin them anew. By the time your lord returns, you will be able to show him what you have learned.”
“I have hopes he will not be gone that long,” she retorted, starting down the outside steps.
Walter felt a grim sati
sfaction as he followed her. Long? Though yet there had been no word, Walter expected William of Dunashie already waited across eternity. And the very lack of that word probably meant he’d taken Ewan and the boy with him also. He felt a small pang of regret, knowing she would mourn her brat, then he shrugged it off. He would be there to comfort her.
Walter studied the way the firelight played upon her pale golden hair, thinking yet again how beautiful was Arabella of Byrum. How could he even have looked at the girl Avisa when this woman lived and breathed before him? As Arabella bent her head low over the unrolled parchment, studying the words he’d written, he imagined what it would be like to have her, to feel the softness of her body beneath his. Patience, he counseled himself, ’twas only patience he would need, if he would see her come to him.
She stopped, spelling out a word with her lips, then raised her lovely grey eyes to his. “I do not know this one, Father.”
He rose, moving behind her to look over her shoulder and see where she pointed. “It says that Arabella of Byrum is the equal of a goddess,” he murmured, reaching to touch where one of her braids lay against the soft blue wool of her gown.
She ducked from beneath his hand. “ ’Tis a flattering jest at best, and I’d not hear it. I’d know the word, Father.”
“ ’Tis pense— ‘think.’ Mai pense,” he repeated, pronouncing the words.
“Evil thoughts?”
“Nay. Thinks evil. ’Tis the lot of man to think evil.”
She rose to stretch shoulders made tired by hunching over the parchment and walked to the tiny window, where she peered through the crack between the shutters. ’Tis full light, and I’ve much to do, Father, yet I’d work at none of it.”
“Would you share a cup of wine ere you go?”
“Aye.” When he would rise, she shook her head. “Nay, I’d get it,” she said, walking to another table to pick up a wineskin. “Where keep you the cups?”
“Nay, not that one.” He moved with such haste that he knocked over the bench behind him. Reaching for the skin, he explained, “ ’Tis rancid, for I have kept it overlong.”