Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “Ye be all right?” the woman asked him.

  “Aye. I am but cold and tired from the ride.” He turned back to the man. “Tell them to make haste also, for I’d sleep within the walls of Blackleith this night.”

  “ ’Tis Father Edmund, I’m ter say?”

  “Aye.”

  “ ’Tisna a Scots name,” the woman murmured. Then, she noted, “And ye dinna speak Scots.”

  “I am Saxon-born,” Walter lied.

  “English!” She fairly spat the word out.

  “Nay, I’ve no more love for them than you—those you would call ‘English’ are but Norman louts.”

  There was some truth to that, she supposed. “Aye,” she acknowledged grudgingly. “And ye be a man of God, arter all, and ’tis needed ye are, here.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was the morrow. She lay awake, listening to the heavy, even breathing of Ena and the occasional whimper of Jamie. Tossing restlessly, the boy fought nightmares again, but who could blame him for it? Each time he cried, she held him close and patted his thin body until he was still. Finally she turned over in the darkness to peer toward the cold brazier, knowing that ere long one of the scullery boys would carry coals up to start the fire.

  It was the morrow. There were no more days, and few hours, in which she could deny William of Dunashie. This day she would wed him, this night she would share his bed. And when the sun came up the second time, she would leave Byrum for Blackleith with him. For good or ill, until one of them died, she would belong to him.

  For hours she had lain in the darkness, reliving all she knew of him, all that had ever passed between them. He was so unlike her father or Elias, for he mixed kindness with the anger. He was as a great bear, a huge man who towered above all others, and his body bore the marks of battles fought and won. There was that fine scar on his face, and the terrible one that puckered beneath his shoulder. She’d meant to ask of that, but the moment had passed ere she dared. He had come back different, harsher than when he’d left for Wycklow those weeks ago, and she knew not why. But it did not matter now.

  She’d dwell on the kindness, taking hope from that. Her hand crept to touch the chain that lay between her breasts, and she recalled how he’d pressed it into her palm with his lips. He would bring her a stone to hang on it, he’d said, but he’d not given it to her yet. A jewel of her own to wear, the first she’d ever had. Elias had frowned on such things, saying he’d not have his wife preening herself like a strumpet. Today, she would have a jewel of her own.

  Temper and kindness were strangely mixed within William of Dunashie. He’d been angered over small things, and yet he’d accepted what Jamie was without reservation. How had he known? Despite Nigel’s attempts to hide the boy, had there been someone to tell that James of Woolford was not whole? It did not matter. He would not recoil when he saw her son, and that was the important thing. Unlike so many others, he would not sign the Cross over his breast when he looked on her child.

  I know what he is, Arabella… A bairn cannot help how it comes into the world…. Who am I to judge your son for what he is? … I’d not mistreat him for it…. I’d do what is right by him…. For all that he’d hesitated in saying it, he’d said it, and she had to believe him.

  But if his acceptance of Jamie calmed her, his passion frightened. It took no more than a look, a gesture, a smile, much less a single kiss to rouse him, and he was so big…. She tore her thoughts away from that. She did not want to think of lying with him.

  It was enough remembering the aging Elias. As his ability had begun to wane his jealousy had soared, and with it came the beatings. In his household she’d learned to fear and loathe a husband’s touch. Nay, but she’d had no kindness of Elias. Nor from any other there—save Aidan of Ayrie.

  Aye, and in the deepest, most secret place in her heart, she knew that if Aidan had ever claimed to love her, she gladly would have fled with him. Aidan. It had been years since she’d forced him from her mind. And yet she still felt damned for the sinful thoughts she’d cherished so long ago for Ayrie’s son. Perhaps it was not actual adultery, but the desires of her mind that had marked Jamie. Mayhap God had seen the foolish yearning she’d hidden within.

  But Aidan, for all his smiles and his kindnesses, had never touched her. And now he’d become no more than a near forgotten memory, much like the stick dolls of her childhood. Why did her thoughts turn again to him on this, her second wedding day? For that she had no answer. It was not that she still longed for him, for she could scarce recall his face.

  It was the morrow. And ’twas William of Dunashie that claimed her. “Mother Mary,” she whispered into the darkness, “grant that we will please each other. Grant that there will be happiness between us.”

  “My lady… ?” Ena sat up. “Art all right?”

  “Aye,” Arabella lied. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I think ’tis time to rise.”

  As the woman spoke, Arabella heard footsteps in the stairwell and smelled the smoke from the kitchen fires. Throwing aside the warmth of her covers, she groped in the darkness for her discarded gown, then rose to pull it on quickly. As the boys from below carried in the glowing coals, she opened the wood-and-parchment shutter, then half climbed into the window slit to look outside.

  Although the waning moon was still shrouded with mist, the rain had finally stopped, and along the distant horizon the faint, warm glow of dawn promised a better day. Leafless trees stood eerily silhouetted, a black-limbed army above the purple-grey hills. She stared long, scarce aware of the chill air that rushed in around her, thinking ’twas but hours ere she was to be wed.

  “Would you have me wake the boy?” Ena asked behind her. “They have laid the fire.”

  “Nay. He did not sleep well.” Reluctantly, Arabella withdrew from the slit and rubbed her cold arms. Walking to stand over her son, she looked down on his now peaceful face. Even in the orange light of the flames he was pale and bloodless. “Nay,” she repeated softly, bending over to tuck the thick blanket about his small shoulders. “I’d let him sleep whilst he can.”

  He scarce moved when she touched him. For a long moment she stared at the nearly helpless child she’d borne. Sweet Jamie, with the saft gold hair. Her mouth formed the words silently. No matter what any thought, God had given him to her to love, and she’d not betray his trust. As she looked down on him, he sighed in his sleep and snuggled deeper within the warmth of the covers.

  “What will Lord William say when he sees him?” Ena wondered aloud.

  Arabella straightened up. “He already knows.”

  “Ye told him?”

  “It does not matter. He has said he accepts Jamie as he is.”

  “And he does, his heart is as big as his body,” the woman muttered, her tone indicating that she doubted it. “He hasna seen him.”

  But Arabella’s thoughts were once again on William of Dunashie. If she would have him love Jamie she’d have to win him herself, and she knew not if she could do it. She feared she was too afraid of him for the task.

  She smoothed the shimmering sendal over her hips, straightening the folds beneath the chain girdle, then turned before the fire, watching the gold and silver threads in the purple cloth catch the orange of the flames. It swished stiffly over the bleached linen undergown. She wondered what William would think when he saw her in her wedding robe.

  She sat for Ena to plait her hair, working threads that had been raveled from the fabric of the gown through the braids. When the woman was done, they hung like golden ropes past her breasts. Arabella fished beneath the neck of her gown to draw out the chain William had given her, letting it fall over her gown. She’d have him see she valued it. Hopefully the jewel would match her gown. She stooped for Ena to place the baudekin veil over her head, arranging it to fall like a mantle of shimmering mist about her.

  “Mama, I’d go down with ye!” Jamie pleaded, his eyes shining with the reflection of the grand gown
. “I’d see ye wed!”

  Nigel had said he did not want them to see the boy, that he’d not have the Butcher or the Bastard draw back. But they could not—not after the betrothal. And William had said he knew about her child, and from this day forward Nigel would rule her no more. Impulsively, she knelt down.

  “And so you shall, lovey.”

  “But the master …” Ena protested.

  “What harm can it do when they already know?” Arabella pulled the bottom of his new blue tunic straight, then smoothed his hair with her hands. Smiling into his upturned face, she whispered encouragingly, “Ah, Jamie, ’tis a fine man you’ll be when you are grown.” But even as she said it, she knew he did not believe her. “We are going to Blackleith with Lord William, and you will never have to hide from your grandsire again.”

  “Mama, what if Lord William mislikes me?” he asked once more. His eyes dropped to where his leg twisted within the folds of his hose. His foot turned inward so that no one even expected him to try to walk on it. “He hasna seen me, Mama.”

  “He will be as a papa to you,” she promised, drawing him close for a quick embrace. “And you are good, he cannot help liking you, Jamie of Woolford.”

  “Your sire says Lord William awaits!” someone called through the heavy door.

  She rose and dried her suddenly wet palms against her skirt. Dipping her hands into a bowl of dried rose petals, she crushed the fragrant bits against her palms, rubbing them together for the scent. Brushing the petals away, she smoothed her palms over the ends of her braids. Then, licking dry lips, she reached for her son.

  “Ye canna carry him. Filben or one of the others—”

  “There is not time to call him.” Shouldering her son resolutely, Arabella opened the thick wooden door. When the man who had come for her appeared startled, she gave him a look that dared comment. “Hold me, Jamie, else we’ll lose our footing,” she murmured as she started down.

  The wedding party awaited her at the foot of the tower. Nigel looked up, saw she had the boy, and cursed loudly. But William could only stare at her. Despite the chill the sun had come out, and its rays reflected off the metallic threads of the sendal, seeming to bathe her in a brilliant purple light. The wind gusted, catching the sheer baudekin and blowing it back from her head. Her pale braids fell over her shoulders nearly to her waist. He moved forward to meet her.

  At the bottom of the steps she lowered the boy, holding his hand to balance him. He swayed on the one good leg and clutched the skirt of her gown. Smiling tentatively at her bridegroom, she made her obeisance. “I give you James of Woolford, my lord.”

  “Aye.” He looked down, prepared to be pleasant to the child, but instead he stared, shocked by what he saw. James of Whatever she chose to call him could not stand unaided on a foot that turned nearly over. William’s eyes took in the short, twisted leg, then moved upward to note the thin, frail body and the blue eyes that were too large for the pinched, pale face. The boy cringed beneath his gaze and clung more tightly to the shining fabric, creasing it.

  So this was Arabella’s bastard brat. As used as he was to those maimed in battle, William wanted to look away. Milo of Woolford was right: She brought him the Devil’s changeling, a boy God had marked for her sin. From the looks of his deformity, this child had been cursed in the womb.

  Arabella ran her tongue over her lips nervously and waited. It was as though she dared not breathe, for William said nothing. Her father moved forward, his face thunderous, ready to wrest Jamie from her. She held on, and tried not to betray her fear before her betrothed.

  The child saw his grandsire and cringed. As Nigel reached angrily for the boy, Will was moved to pity. “Nay, there is no need,” he muttered curtly. Leaning down, his face grave, he forced himself to address Arabella’s son, “ ’Tis a fine new tunic ye wear to your mother’s wedding, young James.”

  James of Woolford managed to nod, his eyes still wary.

  “My lord …” Nigel began, frowning.

  “Nay. It doesna matter.” Will laid a tentative hand on Jamie’s head. “Ye are coming to Blackleith with me, ye know.”

  The boy bowed his head. “My sire’s people dinna want me,” he mumbled.

  Arabella’s eyes filled with unshed tears as she appealed mutely to William of Dunashie. And as much as he considered James of Woolford’s disfigurement to be God’s punishment, William knew he could not deny the child if he would wed her. Hiding the revulsion he felt, he ruffled his pale hair lightly ere he drew away. “Well, for your mother’s sake I’d welcome ye, James,” he said.

  Arabella’s throat ached from the tension within her. “My thanks for your kindness, my lord,” she whispered painfully. “Ena, I’d have you take him now.”

  The tiring woman hurried forward to disengage Jamie’s hand from the gown, then she lifted him away.

  “And ye’d watch, ye’ll come with me,” she murmured to him.

  “But I’ve nae seen the Butcher,” Jamie whimpered as his arms circled her neck.

  “Hush,” Ena admonished. “Ye’ve no need to see him.”

  William stared after them, then turned to his betrothed. “ ’Tisna the child I’d fault, mistress,” he said shortly. His eyes dropped from her face to the chain at her neck, and he forced a smile. “And I’d still wed the mother.”

  If he did not appear enthusiastic over her child, at least he had not turned away like so many others. And she knew that was the best she could have hoped. “Aye,” she managed, trying to still the misgiving she still felt.

  As this was her second wedding, and as it was the Bastard rather than his brother that she wed, there were to be few of the customary festivities to celebrate the marriage. Aye, instead of days of feasting there would be but the ceremony, one banquet, and a boar hunt to mark it. And she suspected the latter was more for her father’s own gratification than for his guests’.

  Showing how little importance she had for him, Nigel had dispensed with the customary procession to the chapel, leaving William to lead Arabella there himself. She walked beside him in the cold sunlight, her stiff silk gown rustling over the linen beneath, her leather slippers sinking slightly in the still damp turf. Her father, Lord Giles, and nearly everyone else in the keep followed silently. Absent were the horses, the viols, the flutes that she’d had ten years before when ’twas Elias who’d wed her.

  William’s hand was warm, his clasp strong. Shivering in the chill wind she hurried to match his long strides, scarce daring to look at him. When they reached the chapel door, the priest was there to greet them. William changed hands, taking her right in his. She looked up then, seeing that his face was sober, almost grim.

  “Who comes forth to be wed?” the priest demanded, looking to Nigel.

  “Arabella of Byrum and William of Dunashie,” her father answered loudly.

  “And who gives this woman into a husband’s keeping?”

  “I do.” Nigel cleared his throat, then added, “As I am her sire.”

  The old priest’s gaze traveled over those who shivered behind William and Arabella. “And is there any to object—any impediment to this marriage?” There was a chorus of impatient “nays.” Turning again to the couple before him, he slipped a small jeweled casket beneath their clasped hands, asking, “Do you, William, lord to Blackleith, take this woman for wife, to have her, to hold for her, to honor her in your house, so long as ye both may live?”

  William cleared his throat. “Aye.”

  “And you, Arabella, born of Byrum, do you take this man for husband, promising to obey him in all things, to be true and faithful to him, to honor him in his house, so long as ye both may live?”

  Despite the panic that rose in her breast, despite the finality of what she did, Arabella nodded. The priest looked up, frowning. “I’d hear you say it,” he reminded her.

  “Aye.” Her eyes on the hand that held hers, she repeated more loudly, “Aye.”

  “Then may God, who i
s just and merciful, from whom all things come, bless this union between you and make you fruitful, that you may bring forth sons and daughters to praise His Name.”

  “So be it,” William murmured.

  “So be it,” she repeated.

  The old man held up the box containing a saint’s bone, announcing loudly, “As William and Arabella have sworn before God and witnesses upon this sacred relic, they are henceforward man and wife.” Without further delay he turned to throw open the chapel for the celebratory Mass, and the chilled crowd pressed to get inside.

  William released her hand to catch the door before it banged in the wind. Shivering, she ducked beneath his arm into Byrum’s chapel. The rest was but ceremony—by her own words, she was already bound forever to Dunashie’s bastard. As he sat beside her on the hard, carved bench, she bent her head in prayer to plead of God for a kind husband, for a man who would be tolerant of Jamie. If He could but give her that, she’d do all she could to please William of Dunashie.

  Chapter Ten

  The smoke from the fire in the great hearth permeated the hall, mingling with the smells of the wedding feast. For once, Nigel’s parsimony had been supplanted by his wish to appear generous at his daughter’s wedding. The meal was served with as much ceremony as the dishes deserved, for there were not only the customary stag and hare, but also a roasted boar, a stew made of lampreys, several well-presented fowl, and a large pigeon pie. Accompanying the meats were no fewer than ten other dishes, as well as a crudely made marzipan castle, from which flew small silk pennons painted with Dunashie’s bear and Byrum’s crossed spears.

  That her father had chosen the Butcher’s symbol rather than the Bastard’s was scarce noted. It was accepted that the alliance was with Dunashie. Briefly Arabella wondered if William rode to battle behind a plain shield, or if he used the bear also. It did not matter now, she supposed.