Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  Already the peat fires from distant huts gave forth their musty smoke, as villeins sat to eat ere they sought their beds. And still the abbey did not loom ahead. Her legs and back ached with every step, until she thought she could not stand it. Finally, too weary to go on, she set the boy down and leaned against the sturdy trunk of a tree. Loosening the woolen girdle wrapped at her waist, she took out the last of the stale bread she’d carried into the village in what seemed to have been another day. The child’s eyes were luminous in the dusky light as he reached for the crust.

  “Eat slowly, and ’twill seem as though there is more.”

  She sank down beside the little boy and gnawed at the hard hunk of bread, trying not to despair. Surely they could not be so very far away from sanctuary. She closed her eyes briefly to dream of the peace behind the cloistered walls. Strangely she’d never before considered it, but now it seemed the right thing to do: She would give herself to God, and the nuns would take Jamie also. Let the Bastard find another wife—never again would she have to cower, afraid for her life.

  “I’m nae verra hungry.” Jamie’s small hand pressed the rest of his bread into hers as she looked down on him.

  It was a lie, and she knew it. In his own way, the little boy sought to give her enough to eat. “Nay, but ’tis yours, lovey—and you do not finish it, you’ll not grow.”

  As soon as she had said it she wished back the words, for he flinched visibly. Already he was a full head shorter than other boys his age, and that, combined with his infirmity, made him the butt of their taunts. Where once he’d tried to drag the leg despite his falls, their derision had taken such a toll that he no longer even struggled to walk. Instead he clung, a pale, thin child, to her and Ena. She blinked back the tears that burned her eyes and reached to smooth his fair hair against his head, saying, “Nay, but I was going to give you mine.”

  He eyed her doubtfully, then took back the remainder of the crust, cramming it into his mouth as she once again stared helplessly into the darkening distance.

  “Mama, will they like me there?” he asked, his words nearly lost in the mouthful of bread.

  “Oh, Jamie! They are of God. Of course—” She stopped and listened intently. It was then that she heard it, and all else was forgotten. Somewhere over the gentle roll of hills bells had begun to ring, summoning the sisters and the brothers to observe Compline at their separate chapter houses. She struggled to stand on her sore, aching feet and reached a hand to her son.

  “Come, lovey—we must get there ere they are all gone to bed.” She leaned over to hoist him again to her shoulder.

  “I would I wasna useless to ye,” he whispered wistfully, as he settled his head against her neck. Then, sighing, he added, “Will they laugh at me, d’ye think?”

  “Nay.” Her arm squeezed him quickly. “Nuns do not laugh at such things,” she promised. “And you are not useless, Jamie—God gave you to me that I would have someone to love.”

  Gathering new strength from the sound of the bells, she stumbled on. A jagged rock pressed beneath the arch of a foot, sending pain shooting upward, but she dared not stop now. Not now that she knew they neared the abbey. Soon she and Jamie would have a life of peace.

  At first she thought the horses behind her belonged to hunters returning home for the night, but then she realized that there were too many of them, and that they were being ridden far too hard. Clasping Jamie close, she forgot her sore feet and tried to run for the woods ere she was overtaken. It was an impossible flight. As the horses bore down on her she fell, tumbling and rolling, trying to shield the child’s body with her own.

  Her father dismounted and walked slowly to where she lay, her head down to hide her tears. Beneath her Jamie struggled, pinned between her and the muddy ditch.

  “Mama—mamaaaa!” he wailed.

  “Where did ye think ter gae?” Nigel shouted above her.

  And once again the awful terror closed around her heart, until she could not breathe. “Answer me!” Even as he spoke, he pulled her up roughly. “Answer me, ye foolish hinny! Where, I said—where?”

  “Nay!” Jamie pushed frantically at Nigel’s leg. “Nay! Ye’ll nae… Mama dinna—”

  Nigel shook loose angrily, kicking him to the ground. Arabella, for all her fear of her father, bent down to lift her son beneath Nigel’s furious scowl. “Keep the brat away from me! Jesu, but ’tis a sufferance that I feed him!” he shouted at her. “Now, where is it you thought to go?” he demanded again.

  “The nuns,” she mumbled.

  “Where?” he yelled, shaking her. “Afore God, I’d hear ye tell me!”

  “The nuns!” she answered more defiantly. “I was taking Jamie to the nuns!”

  “The nuns,” he sneered. “And ye think they would welcome that ? What would they want with ain as canna even walk? He is but a worthless mouth ter feed! Nay, but they would know him for the sign of your sin!”

  “He is God’s creature also!” she cried, holding the boy against her. Jamie’s arms tightened convulsively around her neck, and Arabella knew he was frightened. “He is God’s creature also!” she shouted again. “ ’Tis not right what you do to him!”

  “Afore God, I’ll brook nae insolence from ye!” he yelled, striking her. “And I had the time, I’d beat ye now rather than wait until I get ye home!” As she reeled he dragged the little boy from her, shaking the terrified child before pushing him toward a man-at- arms. “She would take the brat ter the nuns, would she? Nay, ’tis too good for him—’tis ter Woolford he goes on the morrow!” Leaning closer until his eyes glittered but inches from Arabella’s, he gibed, “Or would ye that I sent him ter Ayrie? D’ye think Duncan would welcome Aidan’s brat any more than I do? D’ye think he would welcome ain with the Devil’s mark?”

  It did no good to deny again that Jamie was Aidan’s son, for there was none from Byrum as believed her. “Nay,” she answered wearily. “You’ll not send him, Papa, for if you do, I’ll not wed this William of Dunashie. And you’ll not hit me again, I think, for if you mark me he’ll think me ugly.”

  “The Bastard willna want him,” he growled, concealing his triumph. Then, wanting her to confirm her defeat, he pressed her. “Ye’ll wed with the Butcher’s brother? I’d hear ye say it.”

  “Aye.” Her throat constricted, making speech nearly impossible, as she knelt to comfort her small child. “Come, Jamie,” she whispered painfully. “ ’Tis all right.”

  “Ye are nae to speak of the brat ere ye are safely contracted, Bella,” Nigel warned her sternly. “The boy stays from sight.” Turning to the others, he added, “And if any amongst ye speaks of Ayrie’s son before Moray or his brother, I’ll hang ye. I’d nae have any betray my daughter’s shame to them, d’ye hear?”

  They rode back in stony silence, she hunched forward to shelter her son from the damp chill of the night. Beside her, her father ignored both of them. But he had what he’d wanted: She’d wed Giles of Moray’s bastard brother, giving him the bond of blood between them he needed.

  Telling herself that no matter what her husband would do to her, it could be no worse than what she’d endured at Elias’ hands, she forced herself to acknowledge the inevitable. She would wed, and hope that this lord would die also. Hopefully this time she would bear an heir, and she’d not ever have to return to Byrum.

  Chapter Three

  It was still warm for September, but the clouds overhead promised a change. Torn between wishing for rain and cursing the probability of it, William of Dunashie removed his helmet to wipe his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. It did little good for a man to ride forth in his finery if the best he could do was either stink from the heat or be soaked to the skin.

  He looked down to where the bright blue silk covered the mail on his forearm. Aye, he was arrayed as fine as a peacock, he knew, but would Arabella of Byrum not see the ill-bred bastard beneath? Despite the fancy clothes he wore, despite his newly shortened hair or his clean-s
haven face, would she not recognize the new lord of Blackleith for what he was: a man better suited to serve than be served? And would she not think him unworthy of her? She had, after all, been wed before to an English lord of some substance. Beyond that he knew nothing of her, not even if she were short or tall, fat or lean, bonny or ill-favored. But it mattered not, he supposed, for there were not many as would wed a poor border bastard. Whatever she looked like, he would take her gratefully, and he would get his sons of her.

  At first the thought of taking a wife, coupled with the news that Giles meant to invest him with even so small a keep as Blackleith, had elated him beyond measure. But now reality had set in and he had great misgivings about both. He’d neither led nor wed before, and at thirty-two he wondered if he was over old to begin either. Yet he dared not betray his doubts, for Giles was proud of what he’d done for his bastard brother.

  He cast a sidewise glance at the man he’d served for twenty-seven of those thirty-two years, and he felt a surge of his own pride. They’d been through much together: the exile, Dunashie, Giles’ miserable marriage to Aveline de Guelle, too many battles to count…. But now the boy he’d tended had grown to a man of great worth. Giles of Moray not only held Dunashie, but now he’d taken Count Guy of Rivaux’s proud daughter for a wife, and he had risen in royal favor.

  William’s thoughts again turned inward. He was William, Lord of Blackleith, vassal to the lord of Dunashie. He was William, ruler of his own small demesne. He was William, who rode this day to see Nigel of Byrum’s daughter.

  “Art silent,” Giles chided him, smiling.

  “Och, but I was thinking how ye’ve risen, and ‘tis proud I am of ye,” Will answered. “And ’tis loath I am ter leave ye.” His hazel eyes dared to meet his brother’s black ones. “But then ye’ve no need fer me now, I suppose.”

  “Is that what ails you? Or is it that you fear Byrum’s daughter will not be comely?”

  “A wee bit o’ both,” Will admitted candidly. “ ’Tis more like she’ll nae think me favored, ye know. And ’tis bound to weigh with her that my dam was naught but a village lass.”

  Giles appeared to consider him, then his smile broadened to a grin. “You look well enough to me.”

  “Och, but yer not a woman, are ye?” Will retorted. “ ’Tis to be hoped that she doesna cower and weep, as Aveline de Guelle did fer ye,” he added glumly. “She hasna seen me, after all.”

  “Aveline hated and feared me for burning Dunashie, Will—’twas that she blamed me for killing Hamon of Blackleith and his family.”

  They both fell silent at that, for even eleven years later the burning still weighed on Giles’ conscience. And with each silently passing league, William’s misgivings grew. His experience with women was limited, with ladies nigh on nonexistent, although he’d learned to discourse with Elizabeth of Rivaux, he had to admit. But Giles’ wife was different. Despite her sex ’ ’twas easy to count her a man’s equal, for she considered it her due. Yet for all he liked Elizabeth, he’d not have one of her high temper. Nay, there were none others like Rivaux’s daughter, he consoled himself.

  But still he worried. Feeling the pain of bastardy himself, he’d lain with none of the village girls, for he’d been loath to bring another bastard into the world. Nay, but when he’d burned until he could not stand it, he’d sought out only whores, saying that any babes they dropped could not be laid to him alone. It was the jest of Dunashie that the woman Berta charged him more than she did the others, all the while complaining that she was not made for a giant. Yet she always seemed glad enough of his money, and she never accused him of hurting her. But she’d been with so many, and had borne a swarm of bastards. ’Twas hard to tell by her if his size would frighten another.

  And that was another of his fears. What if the Lady Arabella was small? Giles had not seen her and could not say. All Nigel of Byrum had told him was that she was not barren, for there was a child born of her first union to Elias of Wolford. That she had been wed before relieved William somewhat. It would not be like taking a frightened virgin, he supposed. Unless his big body terrified her.

  He looked down to the horse beneath him, the huge bay he favored for traveling. Unlike others who chose smaller beasts with easier paces for riding, he’d had to have a war-horse gelded for the purpose. That too had been a jest at Dunashie: Wee Willie would bow the back of a palfrey, ’twas said. Overtall and weighing eighteen stone, he was acutely aware of what an oddity he was. He could not blame Byrum’s daughter if she quaked at the sight of him.

  “ ’Twould seem we are awaited,” Giles observed suddenly, breaking into William’s almost morose reverie. “The bridge comes down.”

  Momentary panic assailed the big man as he looked up the moss-covered wall. This then was Byrum, home to the woman he would wed. Resolutely, he squared his broad shoulders and reached to smooth his thick hair. Of all that had ever been said of him, there’d been none to call him coward. And one mere woman could not be worse than the many warriors he’d faced in battle, he reassured himself. Yet despite his resolve to see the matter through, this day he’d rather have ridden to war, for at least he knew how to fight.

  “One small matter, Will,” Giles murmured for his ears alone. “Ere the Lady Arabella marks you for naught but a border lout, you’d best speak as you learned at Henry’s court. She is more like to have a care for that than for your size.”

  “Then ’tis time she gains an ear fer the Scots tongue,” Will retorted. “If I wouldna change that e’en fer King Henry, I’ll nae change it fer a Scots-born woman.” But even as he said it, he was not entirely sure. How much he would be willing to please his bride depended on how pleased he was with her.

  Arabella knelt on the high wall to watch the approaching mesnie anxiously. At first they were little more than specks in the distance, filing in a line over the hills, and then they moved slowly, almost sedately into view. She judged there must be fifty or more of them.

  They stopped and reformed into neat columns, three abreast, then one broke from their ranks to ride forward, shouting loudly, “Behold, ‘tis the lord of Dunashie as comes!”

  “Enter and welcome!” her father’s seneschal called out from further down the wall.

  “Mama, they are come,” Jamie murmured nervously, clutching the cloth at her shoulder.

  “Aye.” Exhaling slowly to hide her fear from her son, she held him closer and tried to discern which man was the Butcher and which the Bastard, for both were said to be exceedingly tall. Two men rode at the front, one whose face was obscured by the helm he wore, the other bare-headed, his dark red hair cropped short like a Norman’s. As there were those who called the Butcher “Black Giles,” she surmised the redheaded one must be the Bastard, and her heart sank like a rock within her breast. Merciful Mary, but even from the distance she could tell he was the biggest man she’d ever seen.

  “By the rood but they are big, Mama,” Jamie observed with wonder.

  “Aye,” Arabella half whispered through lips parched with dread.

  The thought that here was one who could probably kill her with one blow came unbidden to her mind. She froze there, unable to think of aught else. If she angered him, he would kill her. And as the knowledge chilled her, she realized also that he was not nearly as old as she’d thought. She’d not outlive this man.

  “Your lord father would not have you come down ere he sends for you, my lady,” a boy spoke behind her. “And he said the lord of Blackleith is not to see the child.”

  “Aye,” she answered hollowly, tearing her gaze from William of Dunashie. She wiped her clammy palms against her gown and nodded. “Take James to Ena, I pray you, and ask that he be kept from my father’s sight.”

  “Mama…”

  “Nay, I’d meet him first, Jamie,” she said quickly.

  “I’d tell him you go to Blackleith with me, else I’d not go.” She forced a smile as she smoothed the unruly blond curls. “Go on. Tonight I will tel
l you of this William of Dunashie.”

  “He will be displeased, won’t he?” he asked timidly. For a moment, his eyes sparkled with tears. “He won’t want me.… I know it.”

  “ ’Tis to be hoped that he is a kind man, Jamie. I have prayed ‘tis so. He cannot be worse than Papa, after all,” she added without conviction.

  After they’d disappeared down the inner steps, Arabella tried to compose her thoughts ere she was summoned. For a moment she clung to the hope that the Bastard would not find her pleasing, that he would draw back from the marriage. But in her heart she knew that even had she been an infant or a crone, he’d still take her—it mattered not at all what she thought or wanted. She was merely the bond between two families, nothing more. Her body and her blood were but the seal upon an alliance between the family that held Dunashie and her own.

  When she dared to look down again the mesnie was already inside the courtyard, and the ostlers were taking reins from the riders. The one she’d marked for the Bastard still sat astride his huge horse, waiting for his brother to dismount first. He was directly beneath her, scarce thirty feet below now, and she tried to study him dispassionately, seeing thighs that reminded her of trees and broad, powerful shoulders beneath silk and mail. He looked up, scanning the wall, giving her a glimpse of his face. It was impassive, grim almost, and rather forbidding. He looked less a man come to wed than one come on unpleasant business. She drew back before he could see her, then watched from behind the stone as he swung down.

  From behind him a squire took the lord of Dunashie’s helmet and heavy gloves, as her father moved to greet the Butcher he’d once called an “upstart.” Now, after spending a week readying Byrum to receive the man who’d wed Rivaux’s daughter, Nigel was bowing obsequiously to Giles of Moray.