by Jenny Jacobs
The young woman had not answered the question. “My lady?” Elizabeth prompted.
“It was not an easy death,” Imma finally said. “Nor quick.” Elizabeth flinched. How like the Welsh to tell the truth. A lie would have served just as well, and Elizabeth would have liked it better. “But Harold died defending her,” Imma added. “That would have meant something to Helen.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said brusquely, against the crushing pain in her heart. Harold had been a good man, like a brother. She had known him from the time he married Helen all those springs past. He had been seventeen or eighteen then, and Helen a few years younger, and they had had a happy marriage, one of the few loving marriage-bonds Elizabeth had seen. How many years ago had they married? Almost more than Elizabeth could remember. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the trembling smile on Helen’s face when Harold, well-satisfied and content, had taken his vows.
“Helen was an idiot,” Elizabeth said. “Once Harold died, she would not have been able to carry on.” Unlike me, she did not need to say. She had never faltered after the deaths of either of her husbands, and when a third had not come forward after the second one had died, that lack had not distressed Elizabeth in any way.
“Helen was very kind to me,” Imma said, as if Elizabeth cared about that. “When I arrived in Canterbury with no companions, she took a special interest in me, and helped me understand the English ways.”
The arrow of pain drove deeper in Elizabeth’s heart. That was so like Helen, to take a bewildered foreigner and —
“She was always fuzzy-headed and warm-hearted,” Elizabeth said. “From the time she was a girl. Most unsuitable in a grown woman.”
“She was the only person in all of England who loved me,” Imma said.
“Of course she was,” Elizabeth said. She meant it as a poor reflection on Helen’s character, but she could no longer hold back the tears. They came hot and fast, sliding down her cheeks more quickly than she could wipe them away.
“I loved her, too,” said the horrible Welsh woman, kneeling next to Elizabeth’s chair, and holding out her arms. “We will miss her most grievously, my lady, both of us.”
Then Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Imma’s shoulders, buried her face in Imma’s neck and cried as she had not done for more than fifty years, since she had left her home in Ruthwell at the age of fifteen to marry her first husband at Winchester.
• • •
“Here you be, mistress,” the chamber-thane said, throwing open the heavy wooden door to the bedchamber. “Elizabeth says, ‘She’ll not want to be alone after that experience,’ so she asked Tilly — Matilda, that is, she’s the widow of Elizabeth’s son — and she was happy to have you even though you be Welsh and it was a Welsh sword that took him. Erik, that is, two Octobers ago. Well, it would be three now, wouldn’t it? But Elizabeth says, ‘We ladyfolk must bear all together.’” Bertha, the chamber-thane, stopped chattering long enough to follow Imma into the room.
The chamber was small but well appointed. Woven tapestries glowing with color hung from the walls and a warm wool rug covered the stone floor between the beds — two of them. Clearly, the second bed had been hastily added to the room, leaving it cramped. A few pieces of clothing had been thrown across the counterpane on the second bed — a dress, a shift, and a robe.
“There, now, Tilly must have realized you have nothing of your own.” Bertha advanced on the bed, lifting the dress, a simple style made of light blue wool. “This will look lovely with your eyes, mistress.”
Imma did not correct Bertha. Mistress, lady, what did it matter? She was stranded in Athelney until — until when? The lord came back and disposed of her in whatever fashion suited him? Her best friend was dead and she was alone at Athelney. She felt curiously empty, unable to plan, a plaything of fate. Someone else would decide what happened to her. Someone else always had.
She removed her cloak and hung it on the hook. Bertha exclaimed, “Oh, my! You cannot wear that!” Imma glanced down at her dress, her eyes widening in horror at the sight of the stains. Bloodstains. Her stomach clenched. She had to have it off. She tore her belt free and tossed it on the bed, then clawed the dress from her body and flung it away from her. The shift she wore beneath it was also stained where the blood had soaked through. Stifling a ragged cry, she raked the shift over her head, dropping it from her fingers as though it burned. She grabbed the loaned clothing that Bertha handed her and pulled it on. Only when she buckled her belt on did her agitated breathing calm, though her hands still shook. Helen’s blood, Helen’s blood everywhere — she thrust the image of torn flesh from her mind and backed away from the dress on the floor, as if to touch it would soil her.
Bertha said, “Shall I see what the laundress can do about your dress?”
“Burn it,” Imma said fiercely. “I do not want it. I can never wear it again.”
“I’ll leave you to get sorted out, then,” Bertha said calmly, picking up the discarded garments. “Evening meal will be ready soon. I’ll send the boy up to fetch you.” She left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Imma fumbled in the pouch on her belt for the stone she’d brought with her from Wales. Her talisman. She cupped it in her palm and took a deep breath. Snow quartz from the north of Wales, helpful for calming overwrought nerves. Wear it and be hopeful and wise, her king, her uncle, her dearest kinsman had said.
Just holding it renewed her strength as she remembered the affection in her uncle’s eyes when he had given her the jewel. She wished she were home again. How had she come to be exiled in this hostile land? Because her king had asked it of her, and she loved her king.
Safe from thieves, she lifted the chain that held the stone and put it over her head.
To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.