Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “Then try me for it! You cannot accuse both the Devil and Ayrie!”

  Hugh moved between them and laid a hand on her arm. “And you leave with the babe, we’ll not accuse you.”

  “I cannot deny my son’s birthright of Woolford.”

  “Birthright?” Donald snorted. “You behold three others before him, and I am possessed of two sons. And he were born of my sire, I’d not spare more than a hundred marks for him! ’Twould be the Church, and they’ll not take that!”

  She turned to Hugh. “And you: Will you not hold for my son? Will you not protect one of your blood?” For answer, he looked away. “And you also, Milo?” she asked softly, seeking the youngest. “Do you deny your father’s flesh?”

  There was only silence in the room. Finally, she sighed and nodded. “Aye, I’d not leave him amongst you. All I ask is escort to Byrum for myself and my son.”

  After they’d left, she sat staring into the embers that glowed in the brazier. It was done—her awful, terrifying marriage to Elias of Woolford was done. She had survived the countless beatings, and she was free. Not even the knowledge that she returned home to a father who would not want her, who would be angered when he saw Jamie, could dampen the surge of exhilaration she felt. She was free. And God willing, she would never have to submit to the cruelty of a husband again.

  Chapter Two

  Byrum, Scotland: September 15, 1138

  “But Papa—nay!”

  “ ’Tis settled between us, Bella—the lord of Dunashie brings his brother Tuesday next, and I’ll nae hear otherwise!”

  Arabella clasped her hands tightly before her and tried not to reveal the terror she felt at her father’s words. She would wed again, he told her, this time the half-brother of Giles of Moray. And every tale she’d ever heard of the Butcher and the Bastard came to mind, chilling her blood, for there was none who did not know that they’d burned Hamon of Blackleith and all his family in their beds, or that the Butcher had been tried for the murder of his wife. And it was said that the Bastard of Dunashie had aided his brother in the commission of those terrible acts.

  “Well?” Nigel of Byrum regarded his daughter with thinly veiled dislike, then he sneered. “Art not pleased, Bella?” he challenged. “ ’Tis as well as I could do fer ye, ye ken. ’Tis but yer good fortune they’ve nae heard the tale, else e’en a bastard like William of Dunashie wouldna take a whoring wife. Nay, but for all ye did, I’ll profit of ye yet.”

  “How can I be pleased?” she cried. “How can I be pleased? Papa, ’tis said the Bastard is a giant!”

  “Ye be nae wee thing yerself!” he retorted. “And the Bastard’s more like than most to accept ye. Ye can hope ’tis enough that he weds one of gentle birth.” Turning away from the fear in her eyes, he continued matter-of-factly, “Lord Giles enfiefs his brother with Blackleith, Bella, so ’tisna like ye were going to be nae more than another woman in the Lady Elizabeth’s house. Ye’ll be mistress o’ yer own keep, wi’ a husband ter warm yer bones and—”

  “Papa—I … I cannot!”

  For a brief moment his expression grew pained, then he went on as though she’d not spoken. “They’ve nae asked a dowry fer ye, beyond two hundred o’ King David’s pennies, ye ken. Nay, ye’ll do yer duty ter yer house, daughter, for I’ve need of the Butcher’s aid against the thievin’ English.”

  “Was it not enough that I went to Elias?” she cried. “Was it not enough I suffered four years? Papa, look at me: ’Tis your flesh you sell!” For once, she dared to pull at his sleeve. “Please, Papa—I beg you! I’d not do this!”

  It did no good. His face told her his patience was strained, that he would not listen. “ ’Tis for me to decide where you are wed, and I’ll have no puling o’er it, d’ye hear? ’Tis as good a match as I can get for ye, I tell ye!”

  “He is the Butcher’s brother!”

  “ ’Tis why I have chosen him! I’ve nae need of a saft man, ye foolish hinny!”

  “I’d not go to another husband, Papa. I pray you—”

  “Ye pray me, ye pray me,” he gibed scornfully. “I look ter yer welfare—aye, and the welfare of the misbegotten brat ye’ve brought home ter me—and ’tis the gratitude I get of ye! I made ye lady to Woolford—a rich place on the English side, it was—and ye couldna keep it! Four years ye lay with Elias, and ye’ve nae but a curst bairn ter show fer it! Aye, and ’tis said ye played him false wi’ Ayrie’s son ter get that, e’en!”

  “ ’Tis a lie!”

  “Ye’ll be thankful, Bella, that there’s the Bastard willing ter take ye. There’s nae many as would have a woman of twenty-five, e’en if ye’d borne Elias a whole son,” he reasoned more calmly. “By the time he hears the tale told of ye, mayhap ye’ll have borne William one.”

  “I’d rather wither than wed,” she muttered bitterly. “Think you I have forgotten how ’twas with Elias? Two babes I lost ere I bore Jamie to him, and if I carried them not ’twas because he beat me until I could scarce stand! Papa, he beat me for naught: ’Twas my Scots tongue, he said … ’twas that the serving boy brushed my sleeve when he poured the wine … ’twas that any between six and sixty smiled upon me!”

  “ ’Twas his right!” His eyes met hers defensively. “And if Donald is believed, ye deserved it for whoring with Ayrie’s son.”

  “Jamie is born of Elias! Can you not understand ’twas Elias’ vanity that denied him? ’Twas Jamie’s leg, Papa! Aidan of Ayrie’s only sin was a smile to me!”

  “And I believed ye, I’d send the brat back ter Woolford that they may feed him,” he grumbled. “What need have I fer one the Devil’s marked?”

  The threat hung between them, frightening her. “Nay—Papa, I beg you will not! Donald has no love for him!”

  “Think ye any man will look on him and still want ye?” he asked. “ ‘Please, Papa’,” he mimicked cruelly. “Nay, Bella, but ‘tis ye who will please me in this. I’d have the Butcher’s favor, and God willing he’ll nae see nor hear of the boy ere ‘tis too late to draw back.”

  “ ’Tis the brother, not the Butcher who takes me,” she retorted recklessly. “And I’d tell him. I’d—”

  He raised his hand as though he would strike her, making her cringe. “Seven babes yer mother bore me, and nae one son left fer hold fer me! I need the Butcher, Bella!”

  “I’d nay do it!”

  He hit her then with his open palm, staggering her. “ ’Twould seem Elias beat ye nae enough, Arabella of Byrum, for ye’ve nae learned yet ter mind yer tongue! Cost me this alliance with the lord of Dunashie, and ye’ll find my hand as heavy as Woolford’s!” As she rubbed her cheek, he brushed her hand away and caught her chin, forcing her to look into his angry eyes. “Ye’ll gather yer bride clothes, Bella, and put a smile on yer face ere William of Dunashie comes fer ye, d’ye hear? For if ye willna do it, I’ll send yer bastard back to Woolford.”

  For a long moment she stared through welling tears, then she swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Despite his grip on her chin, she managed to nod. Satisfied, he released her.

  “Ye’ll nae speak of the brat to William o’ Dunashie, d’ye hear? If he draws back from this marriage, I’ll see you rue the day ye were birthed, Bella!”

  As his steps receded on the stone stairs hot tears scalded her eyes, and she sank down on a low bench, her whole body shaking from the desperation she felt. There was no end to the fear, no end at all, for she had but the choice of being beaten yet again by a husband or a father, and as she saw it, ’twas no choice at all. Sweet Mary, but she’d been born for naught but misery. She’d go to this giant bastard—or she’d lose her son. Sometimes it seemed to her that God had abandoned her, that there was no reason she lived.

  There was a scraping behind her, then the little boy crawled across the floor, dragging his twisted limb slowly, painfully through the rushes. He laid his small hand over her knee and stared up fearfully. Forcing a smile, Arabella reached to stroke the pale hair, smoot
hing it against the bony, frail back. And the child, the only thing she had to show for the four years of hell Elias of Woolford had given her, somehow managed to smile back.

  They were wrong, all of them, Arabella thought as she gathered him close: Jamie of Woolford was God’s gift rather than His curse. Despite his deformity, her son had the face of an angel. She sat there, stroking the soft curls, trying not to betray her terror to a child already afraid of everything. Here then was her only reason for living. Without her, Jamie would surely perish.

  But she could not face another brutish husband, she could not. Merciful Mary, but if this one should prove to be like the last, she would not survive. And yet as she regarded the tousled blond head she now pressed against her breast, she knew that she had little chance of escaping the Bastard of Dunashie. But she had to, for what if he discovered the truth about Jamie? At best, he’d send the boy away. At worst, he’d be cruel to Jamie for what the child could not help. And already her son had learned to fear the loathing in men’s eyes.

  “Sweet Jamie,” she crooned softly, “so saft and fair, Sweet Jamie, with the golden hair … Sweet Jamie …”

  For answer her son snuggled closer, his frail arms clinging to her. She loved James of Woolford with an almost desperate intensity, for by his sweetness the pale, frail, boy belied the violence that had gotten him. There was nothing in the child’s smile to remind Arabella of Elias or those terrible years at Woolford.

  Send him to Donald? Never. Like Elias, Donald would never be brought to see this child as anything but proof of God’s punishment for Arabella’s imagined sins. Nay, in Donald of Woolford’s keep, there would be none to care if he starved.

  Her thoughts turned again to the Bastard of Dunashie. If she accepted him as husband she would again be hopelessly trapped, forced to endure whatever he would do to her and her son. Nay, she was trapped already. Utter despair overwhelmed her as she looked down on the small, fair head. “Art God’s angel come to life,” she murmured.

  “Don’t want ter be an angel,” he protested, his voice muffled against the wool of her gown. “I want but two good legs.”

  But she was no longer listening. For in that moment it was as though God had revealed another choice to her. She’d flee Byrum ere the Bastard came there, she’d flee to the Convent of St. Andrew but a few leagues away. And surely, when the nuns saw her son, they would be moved to pity and let her stay. Nay, if she and Jamie could but cross two leagues of hill and burn unaided, they would be safe from this William of Dunashie. They would have peace and kindness. No longer would she have to fear the heavy hand of a father or a husband.

  Saying only that she would distribute the stale bread her father grudgingly gave for alms, Arabella of Byrum managed to cross the lowered bridge into the village below, carrying her undersized son on her hip. Even as she walked, she held her breath lest she be discovered.

  The narrow lane wound between small, one-roomed huts fashioned mostly of clay and turf, their thatched roofs brown beneath the cloudy sky, until it reached the single stone house that served the family of By-rum’s bailiff. The narrow ditch that drained the offal downhill into the castle moat stank in the unseasonable warmth, for the weather felt more like August than September.

  Two stout villeins gathered rushes from the bank. Seeing the lord’s daughter they stood back respectfully whilst she passed, then spat after Jamie when she could not see them. A village boy gibed derisively about “the Devil’s foot” under his breath, but stopped when he noted the basket of alms she carried. Instead, he called out loudly to his mother. The woman emerged from a hut, wiping dirty hands on her skirts, ready to receive the dry bread.

  It was the jest of the village that Nigel of Byrum gave only that which could not be eaten without a day’s soaking in water or ale, and Arabella knew it. Even as the woman took her half-loaf, she made honking sounds that were answered by several geese. They waddled from inside the hut also, then pecked at the crust she threw down to them.

  “Where is Sim’s Jock?” Arabella asked, trying to sound casually interested.

  The woman jerked her head toward where a man worked to load his hay cart. “Jock gaes ter Cockrell,” she muttered succinctly. “Fer the laird.”

  “Oh… aye.”

  The villein’s wife managed a tired smile at Arabella before her gaze dropped to the child on her shoulder. And as was usual, her smile froze. Her hand crept to her breast, as though she would sign the Cross there against the evil spirit that had made the crippled boy. Arabella felt the familiar rise of anger, but bit back bitter words. These folk did but take their lead from their lord’s contempt of his grandson. Besides, Arabella had the greater need of goodwill now.

  “God smiles on the weak, and even our Savior bade the children to come to him,” she said stiffly, stepping past the woman. Smoothing her hands against the skirt of her woolen gown, she walked toward Sim’s Jock.

  “Lady,” Jock acknowledged her, as he continued to pitch the hay from his allotted pile.

  She bit her lip to stifle the sudden fear she felt, then blurted out, “Would you take myself and my son with you today—to Cockrell?” Then, realizing he’d stopped to stare, she held out a small English coin. “I’d pay.”

  His pale eyes traveled over her as she waited nervously for his answer, then he shook his head. Her heart was pounding, and yet it seemed that she did not breathe. “Jock, I pray you…. For the sake of Jamie, I cannot stay,” she pleaded desperately. “He means to send him away.”

  The man’s eyes rested on James of Woolford for a moment, and it was clear from the expression in them that he too was repelled by her son. She passed her tongue over her parched lips to wet them. “If not for him, then for me. Jock, I brought medicine for your boy when he was fevered,” she reminded him.

  “Aye, and he’d nae ha lived without it,” Jock admitted freely, “but—”

  “I love my son even as you love yours.” As she spoke, she nuzzled Jamie with her chin. “Despite what any thinks, God gave him to me that I would love him.” Before he could deny her, she pressed the coin into the man’s dirty hand. “ ’Twill buy your boy lessons with the priest mayhap…. Or a piece of silk for your wife.” She groped desperately for something that might tempt him. “Aye, or a piece of iron for your plow even. Jock—”

  He looked down at the small coin in his palm, and dared to dream briefly. Then he shook his head. “Lord Nigel’d know as where I got it, and I’d nae keep it,” he muttered.

  “Hide it. Later, when ’tis forgotten that I am gone, send Jock’s Sim to lessons. Mayhap he could learn to clerk,” she ventured, trying not to recall the crudity of the lad.

  “Ain’t no villein’s son—”

  “Yours would be the first. Jock’s Sim could bring you honor, Jock,” she persisted.

  He turned to stare where his boy bundled the stems of straw, struggling with them, and he dared to see him in a clean tunic, his nails pared, his hair combed, carrying the rolls of a clerk. Jock’s Sim a clerk for his lordship, paid in pennies for his labor, sitting in the warmth of the lord’s fire. What Auld Sim would have given to see such a thing, a grandson who did not toil in the fields. He looked again to the coin in his hand, and he wavered.

  “Save my son, Jock, and I’d save yours.”

  This time the man’s pale eyes lifted to the wall that loomed above the village, squinting as he considered the sentries there. “I canna risk it—nae now.”

  “I pray you, Jock….”

  His gaze dropped and he spat on the ground. “But if ye were ter get into th’ cart o’er the hill, I’d take ye. I’d nae have any ter carry th’ tale, fer there’s still Annie and young Sim and the others ter feed, ye know.”

  She looked to the castle wall also, wondering if any would note that she walked beyond the village itself. Surely none would think she could escape, or even that she would dare to try. “We’d have to be hidden—mayhap beneath the straw.” Her mind raced ahead excited
ly. “And I’d have to visit others, that we are not suspected.”

  “Aye.” His leathery face scanned the sky, then he spat again. “I canna tarry past the high sun, fer I’d be back ere ’tis dark. And ye’ll have ter get down ere we come ter Cockrell, fer the straw stays there.” He stabbed viciously with the pitchfork, lifting another load to the cart. “ ’Tis the laird’s due, though what’s ter feed mine own puir beasts, I canna say. A man canna plow with a starvin’ ox,” he muttered. “And a cow nae gives milk when she doesna eat.” For a moment, he dared to meet her eyes. “ ’Tis a hard laird God gives the people of Byrum, my lady.”

  She looked away. “Aye. And ’tis a hard sire He gives me also.”

  “And ye can get there, I’d take ye up in the field beyond the burn. They canna see ye there.”

  “Can I walk from the Cockrell road to the abbey, do you think?”

  He eyed the soft shoes she wore with misgiving, then nodded. “Ye’ll have sair enow feet, but aye, ye can alone. ’Tis the boy ye’ll need to worrit o’er. ’Tis overfar ter carry ’im.”

  “There is no help for that.” She managed to smile at him. “I thank you, Sim’s Jock,” she said sincerely. “I would that I had more to give you.”

  He stopped and leaned on the pitchfork to rest. “Nay. And Sim can learn, ’tis my thanks ter ye.”

  The rocks bruised the soles of her feet through her shoes, but she dared not leave the road that wound through the tree-covered hills lest she be lost. Already the sun was setting, and the mists between the hills bore the rosy hue of the western sky. But a league more, the last man she’d passed had said, and yet surely she’d come further than that.

  Jamie weighed heavily against her shoulder, hanging on tightly, his eyes on the road they’d traveled. For two hours of walking and more she’d talked brightly to him, lest she betray her own worry to him, but her determined cheer was deserting her with the descending darkness. She shifted her son to the other side, then began to sing softly, taking what comfort she could in the sound of her own voice. The frail child seemed to weigh at least five stone instead of a little more than two.