Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

William leaned over his brother. “Art all right? I dinna mean to hurt ye, but there wasna time to warn ye.”

  “Aye.” Giles struggled to his feet and managed a lopsided grin. “I’d say your shoulder is full well healed, Will. God’s bones, but ’twas a blow you gave him.”

  Heavy steps sounded in the stairwell, followed by the labored breathing of one too fat to climb. As Giles turned around, Waleran lumbered into the room. Looking down contemptuously at the body on the floor, he shook his head.

  “Fools ne’er gain wisdom, ’twould seem.”

  “Nay.”

  “There are but eight as survive, my lord, and with your good grace I’d ransom them.”

  It was a fair enough request, and not one worth denying. Not many men would have ridden in such weather to aid one with whom there were no ties of blood. It was as though Waleran knew what he thought, for he added, “Ralph de Payes was an overgreedy man. While yet he lived, I dared not leave one hide of my land undefended, for I had no hope Stephen would punish him.”

  “Then we gave ye border justice,” William said.

  “Aye.” The fat man smiled. “I am not unfamiliar with the borders, sir, having held lands of the honor of Huntington from King David also. Aye, and Milo of Woolford, though he is from the English side, is a border man who serves me well in mine own household.”

  “The ransoms are yours,” Giles agreed readily. “All I would have is the lord of Payes’ head above mine gate, lest there be others who think I will not hold Wyclow against them.”

  “This Milo of Woolford—is he of the blood of Elias?” William asked suddenly.

  “Aye. ’Tis his youngest son.”

  Will shook his head. “There is James of Woolford.”

  “James? Nay, I’ve not heard of him.”

  Ere Waleran and his men left Wycklow, William determined to see Milo. Although Arabella had said the Woolfords would not care if he took her son to Blackleith, he’d be certain. Women did not always understand the importance of blood to a man, and he’d have James of Woolford’s family know he meant to do what was right. He’d have them know that he did not mean to usurp their authority, but that he was more than willing to stand for the boy. Aye, and if they wished it, he would foster him also.

  But as he approached the one who’d been shown him, Will suddenly hesitated. Would Arabella’s first husband’s family not think him unworthy to care for one of their blood? They were of Norman descent, and they held considerably more than the honor of Blackleith, after all, so they surely must want more for the boy than the guidance of a bastard but lately enfiefed. Still, his sense of what was right demanded he speak.

  The man was tightening the saddle bands in preparation for leaving. He did not look up until William had cleared his throat to gain his attention. Then his eyes traveled the length of the uncommonly tall frame before resting on Will’s face.

  “You seek me?”

  “Art Milo, son to Elias of Woolford?”

  “Aye.”

  “I am William of Dunashie, lord to Blackleith,” Will found himself saying, as though he had to hold lands to speak, and then he felt a fool.

  “I know who you are. Art the Butcher’s bastard brother.”

  “Aye.” There was no use denying the truth.

  Milo went back to tightening the girth, giving it one last tug for his safety’s sake. “We are not so far south that we do not hear how ‘tis the lord of Dunashie as wed Rivaux’s daughter.”

  “The Lady Elizabeth is well pleased with the match,” William said stiffly.

  The other man shrugged. “It matters not to me.”

  “I would speak on the matter of your younger brother.”

  Milo did not look up. “I am the youngest of my blood.”

  “Nay, ’tis of James of Woolford I would speak.” Not waiting to be rebuffed further, William plunged ahead. “As I am to wed the mother, I’d have ye know I’d take the boy and none of ye mind it. I’d see he wants for nothing.”

  “If you would seek permission to rear Arabella’s brat, you’d best seek out Aidan of Ayrie.” Even as he spoke, the dark, slender man swung up into his saddle. “ ’Tis Ayrie’s bastard she brings to you.”

  He would have flicked the reins to urge his horse away, but William caught the bridle and held it. “ ’Tis my wife’s honor you’d dispute,” he said tersely. “She was wed to Elias.”

  Milo’s lip curled. “My sire ne’er got that of her— ’twas Aidan’s whelp she bore, and he has the mark of the Devil for her sin.” Emboldened by the fact he was astride, he leaned closer to William’s face. “Elias of Woolford died in pursuit of Aidan of Ayrie, else he’d have punished the both of them—aye, and the babe also.”

  “Art a whoreson liar!”

  For answer the younger man brought his whip down hard across the hand that held his bridle. “Fool!” he spat. “Ask Arabella how ‘twas that Donald allowed her to take the brat to Byrum! ’Twas because she played the whore for Aidan!”

  Will looked to where the welt oozed blood, and he could not contain his fury. Jerking savagely down on the bridle, he reached with his other hand for Milo of Woolford, catching his mailed arm and wrenching it. As the horse reared Milo lost his balance, pitched sideways as he was pulled, and landed roughly at the bigger man’s feet.

  “Spew more filth and ye’ll have nae tongue!” Before Milo could roll away Will had reached for him again, lifted him roughly by one shoulder, and pushed him toward the drainage ditch. Giving one last mighty shove, he sent Arabella’s accuser face-first into the foul water. Milo went under, then came up choking while Will waited on the bank, his hands clenched. “Tell your brothers when I wed the mother, I’ll not have James of Woolford denied—d’ye hear me?”

  Giles, who’d heard everything, caught his brother’s arm. “ ’Tis enough, Will—anything more and you will have to kill him.”

  “D’ye tell them?” William shouted at Milo.

  Still coughing, the younger man climbed onto the bank. The others in Waleran’s mesnie watched silently. It took no great powers of perception for Milo to know he’d provoked where he would not fight. Looking away, he mumbled, “Aye, I will tell them.”

  “I canna hear ye!”

  “I said I will tell them!”

  “Och, see that ye do.” Will stood back, his anger under control.

  His face red, Milo tried to collect what dignity he could. Passing by William and Giles, he muttered, “There’s others as know the tale. You cannot kill them all.”

  For a full three days William was uncharacteristically preoccupied and distant during the journey northward. Each time they camped he walked apart in the leafless woods, keeping his own counsel, until Giles could stand it no longer. He knew what ailed him.

  As the dusk came on the third evening, silhouetting the bare trees against the grey-pink horizon, Will again sought solitude. His boot steps disturbed the forest floor, sending up the musty odor of damp, crushed leaves. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, trying to ignore the brother who came after him.

  “Will …”

  “Leave me be,” William growled.

  Giles fell in beside him as his stride lengthened.

  “You do not have to wed her, you know,” he said finally.

  “The betrothal is binding,” Will answered morosely. “ ’Tis wrong to deny it.”

  “An impediment …”

  His brother swung around almost angrily. “There is nae impediment! Arabella and I are nae of the same blood, ye know, and I’d nae swear to a falsehood!”

  “She was misrepresented to us.”

  For a long moment the hazel eyes held Giles’ black ones. “ ’Tisna sufficient cause. D’ye think I’d name her boy a bastard before the world, to deny the mother? Me, as knows the pain of bastardy? Nay, I’d not do it!”

  “I ought to have asked more of her,” Giles admitted soberly.

  “And I ought to have known, when Nigel of
Byrum offered his gentle-born daughter to a bastard like me, she wasna all she ought to be.”

  “Will… ”

  “Nay, I’d hear nae more. I’ll wed her, but afore God I’ll nae wear the horns for her, I promise ye. The sons she gives me will be mine own!” Turning on his heel he stalked deeper into the woods, leaving his brother at a loss.

  Briefly Giles considered going after him, but if William did not choose to repudiate his bride there was little more to be said. Sighing heavily, he retraced his steps to join the others.

  Will waited until he could no longer hear his brother, then he dropped down to sit on a rotted log. For a time he picked up small sticks, breaking them aimlessly. Milo’s accusations against Woolford’s widow still stung too deeply for a dispassionate discussion with anyone. And despite his hot words to Elias’ son, Will was not at all sure he could ever accept what Arabella had done. He could almost wish that her husband had killed her for it.

  Elias of Woolford died in pursuit of Aidan of Ayrie, else he’d have punished the both of them—aye, and the babe also…. ’Tis Ayrie’s bastard she brings to ye… he has the mark of the Devil for her sin…. Even now, more than three days later, Milo’s words rang in his ears: There’s others as know the tale. Ye cannot kill them all. There’s others as know the tale. And what had Waleran said? ’Tis the youngest son. And he’d not meant the babe Arabella had borne. Even her own words condemned her now: Elias had other sons, and they’ve no love for Jamie…. Aye, they had no love for him, for he was not of their blood, William reflected bitterly.

  He felt betrayed. He’d dared to think Nigel of Byrum had given William of Dunashie his daughter because of Will’s rise before the world. Now he knew that for a bitter jest. ’Twas that Nigel could not find another fool to take her. He’d needed a poor, foolish bastard like William to rear her bastard. An ignorant lout unlikely to cavil at the discovery. ’Twas not a wonder that her father had wished to rush the betrothal, nor was it a wonder that she’d taken him.

  He thought of her again, and his fingers snapped a thick stick savagely. Her reticence took on new meaning for him: ’Twas not that she was modest, ‘twas that she’d not wanted to wed beneath her. He was the punishment Nigel gave her for her sin.

  He ought to repudiate her, and he knew it. But he’d meant what he said to Giles: No matter how many called James of Woolford “bastard,” William could not bring himself to do it, not even to escape marriage to one who’d played the harlot for Aidan of Ayrie. And as reluctant as he was to admit it, as furious as he felt every time he realized he’d been taken for a fool, there was still that within him that wanted Arabella of Byrum. Even if she had played the wanton for Aidan of Ayrie, he’d still have her.

  Giles was right: He was besotted. He had been ever since first he’d seen her. And even now that he knew what she’d done, he could not lie upon his pallet without seeing her pale, slender body, without remembering the feel of her lips on his. He had but to think of her to burn. He could close his eyes now and see again the pale hair, the grey eyes that were like pools of silver, the blush that warmed her skin and made him think of Scottish roses… and the almost familiar ache would overwhelm him. Repudiate her? Never.

  Nay, he would wed her and take her to Blackleith. He would plant his seed within her, and she would bring forth sons and daughters for Blackleith. And there would be no question of whose blood they were born, for he knew how to guard his own. Arabella of Byrum would lie with him and him alone. And he would make sure she did not dare think otherwise.

  He looked up at the now dark sky, seeing the cusp of the new moon rising from behind a bank of rolling clouds. The smoke of the cooking fire permeated the crisp autumn air, reminding him that he was both cold and hungry. With an effort, he heaved himself up to walk back.

  Giles looked up as Will’s boots crunched on the twigs and pieces of bark that had fallen from the firewood. Moving over, he made a place for his brother by the blazing campfire. “Art all right?’ he asked as Will dropped down beside him.

  “Aye.”

  Giles dug into the pouch that hung from his belt, retrieving the green stone. To Will it was as though it winked in the firelight, mocking him.

  “I’d forgotten to give this to you,” Giles said when he did not take it.

  “Nay. Ye can give it back to Elizabeth,” Will answered, pushing Giles’ palm away. “Anything Arabella of Byrum would have of me, she’ll earn. ’Tis enough I gave her the chain.”

  Giles shook his head. “You paid good coin for it, and naught’s to say that a time won’t come when you can forgive her. And you take Arabella of Byrum, you’ll have to try.” He dropped the stone into William’s hand and pressed his fingers closed over it. “Aye, ere you wed with her, you’d best consider that.”

  “E’en if I could forgive, I canna forget,” Will muttered. “Every time I look on the bastard she bore, I will remember Milo of Woolford’s words.”

  “ ’Twill gnaw at your soul,” Giles predicted. “And I felt as you do, I’d not wed her.”

  “Fool that I be, I’d have her still,” William acknowledged bitterly. “I am not like to get another as could compare.” He stared into the dancing flames of the fire for a long moment, then sat back on his haunches and squared his broad shoulders. “But for now I’d think on something else—I’d think of the manor ye give me. Aye, and when I have supped I mean to write to Blackleith, ordering that all be in readiness.” He looked up, and his hazel eyes belied the troubled soul within him. “Did ye mean what ye said before? Would ye in truth part with Lang Gib?” he asked suddenly;

  As much as it would pain him to lose both men from his household at the same time, Giles knew that William had the greater need. “Aye,” he answered, forcing a smile. “And you do not mind his appetite for the women, you are welcome to have him.”

  “He has served ye well.”

  “As well as any, save you.”

  “I’d make him my captain of guards, and my seneschal as well. I’d see he prospers,” Will promised. Then, realizing how he must sound, he shook his head ruefully. “Och, but will ye listen to me? But lately I am enfiefed, and already I would speak as though I were of worth.”

  “You are, Will—you are. You are lord to Blackleith, and who’s to say ‘tis all you’ll have ere you are done?”

  “Nay. ’Tis enough what you have done for me.”

  Giles reached to clasp his brother’s shoulder ere he rose. “ ’Tis no more than I should have done long ago.”

  William watched Giles walk over to speak with Lang Gib, then he looked to the stone still in his hand. Briefly he considered casting it into the fire, but it would have been too great a waste. Instead he tucked it in the leather purse he wore at his waist. And as he did so, ’twas his own words that echoed in his ears: Every time I look on the bastard she bore, I will remember Milo of Woolford’s words.

  Chapter Seven

  Outside, the wind blew the cold rain against the oiled parchment that covered the small window, flapping it like the armorer’s bellows. Arabella hunched closer to the fire, straining her eyes over her stitches in the poor light. From time to time she held up the gown she worked, watching it catch the glow of the firelight in its shimmering folds. It was the last of her bride clothes, made from a generous length of purple sendal sent as a gift by Elizabeth of Rivaux.

  “ ’Tis worth a fortune in gold,” her father had complained. “Ye’ve no need fer such finery at Blackleith.”

  For a moment she’d been afraid he meant to keep the cloth for himself, and she’d dared to venture that perhaps the Lady Elizabeth would wish to see what she had made of it. He was not pleased, but neither would he offend Rivaux’s daughter, so he’d grudgingly conceded that Arabella should make her wedding dress of it. She’d been so happy that she’d had Byrum’s priest write to the lady, thanking her.

  She smoothed the glowing fabric over her lap lovingly. Aye, but ’twas the cloth of dreams. And when her new lo
rd saw her in it… well, he could not help but admire her, she was certain. Her new lord. How strange it would seem to acknowledge William of Dunashie as husband. Her hand crept to the gold chain at her neck, fingering the delicate links, even as she thought of him. Though it had been more than a fortnight since they’d retaken Wycklow, William had tarried at Dunashie, giving her more time to prepare. Only now did he come for her.

  In truth, the weeks that had passed had effected in her an almost fatalistic acceptance of the inevitable marriage between them. Besides, for all that he’d once been overeager, he’d offered her no violence, and the more she thought on it the more she began to believe obedience to him would serve her best. Mayhap if she pleased him, he would tolerate her son.

  She glanced down to where Jamie watched Ena work a new woolen tunic for him. Aye, for Jamie’s sake, she had to make William content. If William should turn from her son, there would be no place for him. She clasped her hands momentarily in her lap and prayed silently that ’twould not happen. But she knew in her heart that if God answered prayers, Jamie would be loved by more than her and Ena.

  Somewhere in the distance a horn sounded, its tone contrasting with the high-pitched shriek of the wind. And somehow she knew it was he—that William of Dunashie arrived once again at Byrum. She carefully folded the precious gown, laying it aside, then rose to go to the window. Unlatching the wooden frame, she pulled it inward and leaned into the opening. The chill, rainy wind rushed into the tiny chamber, swirling the fire in the small brazier.

  “Ye’ll spot yer gown,” Ena warned her.

  The column of mail-clad men came over the hill, blending into the greyness of the day, but there was no mistaking the bear standard that hung limply above them. Giles of Moray accompanied his brother to her wedding.

  Despite her resolve she felt a momentary weakness, a surge of fear. There was a faint scraping sound as James of Woolford dragged his twisted leg across the floor to join her. When he’d reached the arrow slit he collapsed against her, exhausted by his effort.

  “Nay, but you should have had Ena carry you,” Arabella murmured. Her hand crept to stroke his fair hair as together they watched the approaching mesnie. “ ’Tis Lord William,” she added, pointing out the helm that rose above the rest. “He is the second one.”