Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  As they rode out over the lowered bridge, she drew back in and closed the shutters. Walking back across the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her stockings. She paused long enough to offer a quick prayer for her new husband’s safety. For all that she’d not wanted to wed him, she would not complain of him now. She was, after all, still whole, and he was well pleased with her.

  The morning mists swirled over the road, obscuring visibility, and yet the boar hounds lunged before the huntsman who struggled to hold them. Nigel reined in and waited for the others to stop also. Pointing into the fog, he told Giles, “A large one was sighted over that hill but last week, and there’s been none to hunt him since. I told my men to save him for ye, my lord.”

  “Aye,” a man corroborated for him, “this one is possessed of tusks so great he could slit a man from knee to breastbone with ’em.”

  “ ’Twill be no easy task to find him in this,” Giles murmured, “but I am willing to attempt it. What say you, Will?”

  His thoughts still on Arabella of Byrum, William roused himself guiltily. “Eh? Oh—aye, and ye lead me to the beast, I’d take him.”

  Nigel leaned forward in his saddle to survey the hills to either side of the road. Of all that he hunted he counted the boar the greatest challenge, for it was far more cunning and far more deadly than the stag. He drew deeply of the chill air, savoring the dampness of it, then exhaled the steam. It was, he considered, the right weather. Raising his hand, he signaled to the huntsmen to loose the dogs.

  Flushing the boar was never easy, for it was a cautious beast, not overgiven to venturing from cover without first sniffing, listening, and peering from its narrow den. And if it became suspicious, it could not be lured from the lair. Unlike the stag, neither notes blown on the ivory oliphants nor shouts from the hunters would flush a boar out. Unless one was discovered in the open, it would take the dogs to corner the ferocious animal, and more than one alaunt would be ripped open in the process. A cornered boar was always vicious, and determined to fight to the end.

  As the leashes were removed the pack of dogs surged forward, running nearly to the crest of the hill ere they stopped to sniff. Malmet raised his long, pointed muzzle into the air, taking measure of the boar’s scent from all directions, then he broke again into a full run toward the brush, and the others raced after him. ’Twas what Nigel liked best about the powerful dog: It knew how to lead. Had he been offered the equivalent of Arabella’s dowry for the beast, he’d have refused it. He murmured a quick prayer to St. Martin for the dog’s safety, then he spurred his horse to follow the yelping pack.

  The terrain was rugged, the tangle of brush thick where an irregular gully sliced between the hills. As the horses stumbled down the rough incline, the fog hovered in the low places, enveloping everything. Ahead of William a beater lost his footing on the dead, slippery grass and fell into a narrow stream that snaked along the gully’s path. And William himself was nearly unseated when Malmet stopped directly in front of his horse to smell of fresh spoor.

  Nigel’s huntsman knelt to study the freshly disturbed mud, then pronounced, “Aye—’tis where he has dug for worms, my lord.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Once again the powerful dog took off before them, barking even more loudly than before. And the pack followed. Nigel rose in his saddle, but could see little for the fog.

  “We are not far, my lords!” he chortled gleefully. “Malmet’s call grows insistent!”

  The gully widened and the floor flattened, revealing the source of the stream in a small spring. And directly ahead, the pack of dogs jumped and yipped eagerly at their quarry. The sound of the pig mingled with their barking.

  It was cornered at its lair, a narrow place dug between the bared, twining roots of two trees. And Nigel’s man had been right: ’Twas a goodly-sized beast that stood, its feet spread, its huge tusks thrust upward in defiance, daring the hounds to come closer. One of the younger dogs rushed forward to attack, but his bark turned to a high-pitched yelp as he fell, cut open.

  Fearing the loss of his best hound, Nigel shouted, “Malmet! Malmet! Draw off!” as William, Giles, and the others grasped spears. The beaters raised their stout staffs, poised to direct the boar toward the lords. As the big alaunt pulled back reluctantly, another dog challenged the wild pig and died.

  “Stand ready, my lords!” Nigel called out, brandishing his sword.

  The beast feinted at the nearest hound, then bolted into the mists. The dead brush rustled and crackled beneath him as it ran. Nigel cursed loudly and rode over the dead dogs in pursuit. And once again Malmet surged ahead, leading them into the fog.

  They rode some distance before there was a pause in the barking. Giles pulled up and listened, wondering aloud if they’d lost the trail, but Nigel would not have it. “Nay. Malmet willna let him escape,” he promised.

  The big dog circled several times then headed over the hill, and once again the others joined him eagerly. As tired as he was, William felt his own anticipation rise as he applied the spurs to his horse. He’d promised Arabella a big boar, and afore God, he’d bring this one to her.

  It was a wily creature, he’d give it that, for it led them on a rigorous chase, taking them through gullies, bramble-filled ravines, and over rough hills, crossing back and forth, stopping to kill dogs that closed the distance, then taking off again and again. ’Twas not a wonder it had grown to such size, for it knew how to elude both men and dogs.

  Finally exhausted, the old boar stopped in front of a patch of heavy underbrush and drank from the stream. Snorting defiantly, he watched the hunters dismount and close in for the kill. “Go on!” Nigel urged Giles, “he is yours to take!”

  But Giles drew back. “Nay—’tis the bridegroom as should carry home the tusks! Will!”

  “Aye—I am ready!”

  “But ’twas for ye we saved him!” Arabella’s father protested to Giles. “Nay, ’tis yours—and I’d hae ye take him! My lord, ’tis more meet …”

  His words were drowned out in the noise of the barking, lunging hounds, as they taunted their prey. The boar attacked another one that had dared too far, felling it, then turned on the closest beater, ripping at him and tearing his arm. As blood spurted from the man’s wound, William circled to draw the beast away. But it wheeled and charged Nigel of Byrum instead, and as Nigel backed up to brace his spear he tripped over an exposed root. One of the animal’s tusks gored his shoulder as he fell, and for a moment William thought Nigel’s arm had been torn from its socket. To save the older man, he poked the beast in the rump.

  It whirled to charge him, leaping over Nigel’s leg, its head lowered to a point just beneath William’s abdomen, ready to disembowel him. There was scarce time for the big man to fall to his knees and raise the lance. Thrusting forward with all the force he could muster, he caught the boar solidly in the center of its chest. There was a high-pitched squeal as the shaft shattered, then the boar swerved, ran a few feet, and dropped dead.

  “Well done!” Giles shouted. “ ’Twas a solid hit!”

  But William knelt to attend Nigel. For all that he could not like him, there was now the marriage bond between them. “Get me something to staunch the blood,” he ordered those who stood around him. “Jesu, but he bleeds more than the pig!” Pulling off his own tunic, he tied the sleeves tightly together over Nigel’s shoulder, making a knot above the wound. “Roll something that I may put it beneath. Aye, and look to the beater.”

  Someone thrust a hastily cut piece of cloth at him and he folded it, forcing it beneath the knot. When he sat back on his haunches, he could tell that his father-in-law’s color was still good. Nigel’s hand reached to the strange bandage, and when he drew it away his fingers were bloody.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, looking up at Giles.

  For answer, William gently lifted Nigel’s arm above his head and lowered it several times. “ ’Tis but the flesh—
the bone is intact.”

  “Aye.”

  Lang Gib filled his pot helmet from the stream and carried it to the lord of Byrum. Nigel drank deeply, then leaned back against William.

  “Jesu,” he breathed.

  “My lord …” The man called Ewan, William’s newly named master of his horse, moved forward to hold out his linen undershert. “ ’Twill be better than the wool.”

  “I’d see the bleeding stops ere I change the cloth,” Will muttered. But even as he said it, he could see that the wool was too bulky to be effective. Sighing, he untied it, then poured the rest of the cold water over the shoulder, noting for the first time that the wound, although deep, was a puncture rather than a tear. “Ye are fortunate,” he told Nigel. “And he’d raised his head, ye’d hae lost the arm.”

  “Aye.”

  This time William drew his dagger and separated the sleeves from the undershert, rolled the body into a tight ball, and then used the sleeves separately to tie it to Arabella’s father’s shoulder. There was no question it was a better arrangement. He picked up his bloodied tunic and pulled it on again.

  “Can ye ride—or would ye that we made a litter?” he asked Nigel.

  As the awareness that he’d survive took root, whatever small amount of gratitude Nigel possessed turned to chagrin. “I’d ride,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I am nae a helpless hinny.” With an effort he lurched to his feet, then stumbled to where one of his men held his horse. “Get me up,” he ordered.

  “Would ye that I took the tusks fer ye?” Ewan asked William.

  “Nay. Carry it back—I promised my lady a big one, and I’d have her see it whole.”

  One of Byrum’s beaters tapped Will on the shoulder, and as he swung around the man gave voice to his admiration. “ ’Twas a strong blow, my lord—as good and clean as ever I have seen.” He looked to where Nigel sat his horse, then back to Will. “ ’Twas a brave thing ye did, for all that he doesna thank ye for it.”

  They rode back in subdued silence, some of them mourning the loss of good dogs, others concerned for the beater who stood to lose the use of his arm. Every now and again Will twisted in his saddle to look back at the boar suspended between two poles. It was the biggest he’d ever seen.

  “ ’Twas a stroke of luck,” Nigel said finally. “Ye got him from behind.” He turned to Giles of Moray, shaking his head, “I’d hoped ’twould be ye as took him, for ye hae the greater skill.”

  Giles’ black eyes went cold for a moment. “Nay,” he contradicted, “ ’twas a blow as saved your life—and probably the best I have ever witnessed.”

  “Well, and I’d known ye dinna want it, I’d hae taken it myself,” Nigel grumbled.

  There was no mistaking the older man’s meaning: He considered William too insignificant to gain such a prize. ’Twas the gentle-born as had the right to such things, not a “Will o’ Dunashie.” And for all that he’d given his daughter in marriage to the bastard, ’twas only for the bond of blood he’d share with Giles. And again, William could not help wondering if ’twas because of Arabella’s disgrace that Nigel had deigned to give her to him at all.

  As soon as they’d crossed the bridge into Byrum, nearly everyone in the keep gathered ’round to admire the boar Will had taken. As scullery lads elbowed with stable boys to look on the beast, William started across the yard. Arabella was coming down the outside steps of the tower, but she stopped momentarily when she saw him, and her eyes widened in horror at the bloodied tunic he wore.

  “Sweet Mary!” she gasped. “Art all right?”

  “Aye—’tis your father as took the wound.”

  But ’twas to him that she came, making certain first that he was whole ere she turned her attention to her father, and that gratified him. Nigel might think him worthless, but at least his daughter realized where her loyalty lay.

  Behind him they lifted the lord of Byrum from his saddle, easing him to the ground. In obvious pain now from his wound, he looked up at Giles rather than Will.

  “Do you stay to feast on the boar, my lord?” he asked.

  “Nay. I have tarried overlong as it is.” Giles turned to William. “And you?”

  “Nay,” Will muttered. “I’d leave on the morrow also.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Whether ’twas because of the festivities or because of the passion he’d shared during the night, William came awake slowly. His mind wanted to linger in the netherworld where fancy clouded thought.

  He’d been in battle, and his arm ached from wielding his axe. Smoke and flames had surrounded him, and yet he’d shivered from the cold. Above, bodies had hung on gibbets while a boy cried beneath. Giles, his face sooty, his cheeks streaked with tears, knelt to pray for forgiveness. And Arabella of Byrum brought a wreath of roses for the victors, while Elizabeth of Rivaux sat astride a great white horse, clad as a nun.

  Gradually he became aware that his arm was numb beneath him, and he rolled over to ease it, facing the brazier. Even the coals had died, leaving the room cold. As he focused bleary eyes on the ashes, he remembered he was at Byrum. And his wild dreams were replaced by a flood of memories of the day and night just passed, memories of the boar hunt, of Nigel’s seeming coldness, of Arabella’s fear when she’d seen the bloody tunic he wore, of the pride she’d taken in his boar. And he remembered also the whispered words, the scent of roses, and the warm, yielding body of his wife. His wife. The words seemed almost too new to be said, but there was no doubting she belonged to him now. “The fairest rose on the border,” he’d called her sometime in the night. The phrase stuck in his mind. His belle rose. His desire rose anew as he thought of her.

  He yawned and stretched muscles cramped from being folded into the short bed, aware that he ought to rise and relieve himself ere he wakened her. Yet he was loath to leave the warmth of feather mattresses above and below. He straightened his knees, letting his feet stick out from the bottom of the bed, testing the temperature. It was too cold. He rolled over to warm himself against Arabella, and came fully awake with a start. He was alone.

  Surprised, he parted the curtains and rolled to sit on the edge of the rope-hung bed, nearly overturning it. The air hit his bare skin like a wave of cold water. “Jesu, but are there none at Byrum to light the fires at morning?” he muttered to himself. Despite the darkness he could hear the sounds that came from the kitchens, and he knew much of the keep was already stirring. Again he wondered that she’d left him so early: Where would she have gone, and for what reason? Then he recalled they left for Blackleith this day. Mayhap she already prepared for the journey.

  Shivering, he groped for the pouch that held his tinder and flint. He was tired from the night, and his arm ached still, either from sleeping on it or from the force of the blow that had felled the boar. It did not matter—for whatever reason, he felt out of temper. He could see his breath as he worked to spark a fire, and finally woolen lint caught. Adding dry, broken sticks to the brazier, he blew on the small flame, taking care not to extinguish it. After a time his patience was rewarded, and the bits of wood began to burn.

  While he waited for her to return he yet had business to attend to, business he’d meant to take care of ere now but had been loath to do. Freezing in the cold chamber, he dressed quickly, pulling on his cloak over his clothes, then he searched among the box he’d brought for his writing supplies.

  When he’d found them he carried them to a small, crude table, then sat down to compose what he would say to his new people at Blackleith. How should he couch what he would say? ’Twas the reason he’d not done it earlier, he admitted, for he knew not how to sound like the ruler rather than the ruled. And he’d not have them think him weak or ignorant because of his birth.

  He’d thought about the matter of ruling almost from the moment Giles had told him he would have Blackleith. Aye, and now that the exhilaration of his elevation had passed, he was faced with the task of ordering his new household to his liking. And
like Giles, he would surround himself with those he trusted most, those who’d served beside him ere he was raised, men he’d stood shield-to-shield with in battle.

  Well, he’d delayed long enough in telling Giles’ seneschal at Blackleith that he’d have his own man in his place. ’Twould be better to let Robert of Carnan tell the others as he would, for William would spare him his pride. As long as Giles had held Hamon’s fiefs of King David, Robert had administered Blackleith for him—and done it well, Will conceded. But serving Giles of Moray was not the same as serving one whose birth was lower than Robert’s own, and William was not at all certain the seneschal would not resent him. Nay, ’twas better to set Lang Gib above Blackleith, for he knew him almost as well as he knew himself.

  He drew in a deep breath and unrolled the parchment he’d brought for the purpose. Stretching the sheepskin flat, he held it in place with his elbow while he unstoppered his ink. Taking up his quill, he dipped it and began to write carefully, trying to sound as formal as he thought he ought. As his pen scratched over the surface, the words appeared stilted, cold even. He paused to dip his pen again, reading what he’d written ere he went on. It was not very satisfactory, and yet he’d make it plain to any that he was lord now, that it was his wishes that would be served.

  When at last he’d finished he scanned it, and for a moment he considered discarding it and starting anew. But the parchment was precious, and for all that he held Blackleith ’twas a small fief, and he could ill afford the waste. It would have to do. Besides, when he arrived at his keep he’d see that Robert of Carnan knew ’twas not a lack of regard that caused his replacement, but rather ’twas that William knew Gilbert of Kilburnie better.