Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  There was, however, one more small matter to attend to, he decided. After years of sleeping on pallets too short for his feet, he’d have a bed long enough for him. He took up his quill again and added instructions that one be made big enough for him and Arabella to lie together in comfort.

  That done, he pared a small piece of wax into his traveling spoon and carried it to the fire, where he held it until it melted. Then he returned to the table and poured the liquid blob onto the bottom of the page and waited for it to congeal. Just before it hardened, he pressed the iron ring Giles had given him into the wax, making a poor but nonetheless legal seal. Reading the whole again he felt it was unsatisfactory, and his sense of inadequacy for the task he faced nearly overwhelmed him. He was less a lord than many he would rule.

  Reluctantly, he rolled it up and inserted it into the cylindrical case. As soon as they left Byrum he’d send Wat ahead with it. The unpleasant task finally done, he put away his writing materials carefully.

  Behind him the heavy door creaked inward, sending a new rush of cold, damp air across the room. “Jesu, but you are overlate,” he complained, “for I have already started the fire.” He swung around to tell the scullery boys to take their pan away, but ’twas Arabella. And she had the boy with her. Disappointed, he could scarce hide that he’d have her alone.

  “I did not think you’d waken,” she announced cheerfully, coming into the room. She stopped to balance Jamie on her shoulder and the ember pan in her hand. “I brought coals from the kitchen fire.” She favored him with a shy, almost tentative smile. “I knew you were overtired, my lord, for you scarce moved once you slept.”

  His eyes traveled from the coal pan to the clinging child. “Hand me my tunic,” he muttered. Then, realizing she had both hands full, he crossed the room to get it for himself.

  The little boy stared wide-eyed at him. It was as though he’d not seen a naked man before, and Will wondered irritably if he had been kept only in the company of women. Rummaging in his box, he found a reasonably clean linen shert and a serviceable woolen tunic. “I thought he was with the woman Ena,” he grumbled, pulling the garment over his head, muffling his words.

  “He had bad dreams, and I heard him crying,” she answered, carrying the boy to the bed. “I’d meant to bring him to lie between us.”

  She was bringing her changeling to his bed. Still chagrined that she’d left him at all, Will shook his head. “ ’Tis not meet—he is overold for that. ’Tis unseemly.”

  Jamie’s hands clasped her neck more tightly. “I do not sleep naked before him,” she managed stiffly. “And he was afraid.”

  “You sleep naked before me,” Will retorted, bending to retrieve his chausses. “And we are but newly wed,” he added pointedly.

  The color drained from her face with the realization that he meant to rebuff her son. “I did not think … That is, after the night …

  “It matters not what you thought—he belongs not in my bed.” He smoothed the leggings over his calves and thighs, banding them with his garters, ere he straightened to tie them at his waist. When he looked up again, he could see the tears coursing down the boy’s cheeks. “Jesu! Why does he cry now?” he demanded impatiently. Dropping to a bench, he pulled on his boots.

  Her own eyes hot with unshed tears, Arabella held Jamie closer. “Mayhap ’tis that he has had little kindness of men, and he’d dared to hope ’twould be different with you,” she answered evenly. “Mayhap he dared to expect his lot to better when I wed.”

  He rose to walk to where she stood, and, unable to look on the misshappen leg, he kept his eyes on the child’s face. “And ye’d ever be a man, James, ye’ll stop this. I am nae ogre, ye know,” he told him, lapsing into the soft, burred accent of the border.

  Jamie turned his head into Arabella’s neck and whimpered, “Mama …”

  “Nay. I’d have ye speak to me.”

  “Please, my lord …”

  “And he lives with me, he speaks to me.”

  “You said you would not—” She stopped, afraid to say more.

  “I said I’d not mistreat him,” he muttered curtly. “But if you would have me do what is right by him, ye’ll not expect me to treat him like a babe.” When the little boy kept his head hidden, Will moved behind Arabella to speak over her shoulder. “How old are ye, James?”

  “I told you he was six,” Arabella answered.

  “Nay, I didna speak to ye, did I? ’Twas him I asked. Jamie …”

  “Mama …”

  Aware that he could yet refuse to take her son with them, Arabella loosened Jamie’s grip on her shoulder and forced him to face her husband. “Answer him,” she urged the reluctant child.

  “He doesna need your aid. How many years d’ye have, James?” Will repeated.

  The boy’s eyes were huge in his pale face as he shrank against his mother. But this time she could not help him. He looked from the big man to the floor. “Six, my lord,” he mumbled finally.

  “Six is it? Then ye are overold to hang on your mother, don’t ye think?”

  “My lord …”

  “I didna ask ye!” he snapped at her. “James… ?”

  Big tears rolled down die child’s cheeks. “But I canna walk!” he cried. “I canna walk!” Turning his head again into his mother’s shoulder, he wailed, “God gave me a useless leg!”

  Will had resented the boy ever since he’d found out about Aidan of Ayrie, and yet he was again unprepared for the rush of pity he felt. His anger faded abruptly, replaced by guilt over his harshness to a child. “God shame ye for such words, Jamie,” he chided almost gently. “If ’tis your lot—”

  “ ’Tis enough, my lord,” Arabella whispered. “I pray you.…”

  But Will kept his eyes on the boy. “James, ye canna help how ye were born no more than I can help my size, but—”

  “My lord, I beg you.…” She ran her tongue over her lips nervously. “And you have a care—”

  “But God expects each of us to be what we can, ye know,” he continued. “Like ye, I—”

  “ ’Tis enough, my lord!” she cried. “ ’Tis enough! I will take him back to Ena!”

  “Nay. He is too big for ye to carry.”

  Before she knew what he meant to do, he’d reached to lift Jamie over her shoulder. “Come on, ye wee brat.”

  “He cannot walk—he will fall on the steps!”

  “Did I set him down?” he countered.

  She tried to keep her voice calm as he started for the door. “Where are you taking him?” When he made no answer she followed him, forgetting her fear. “Where do you take him?” she demanded more loudly. “Let me call for Ena, I pray you!”

  “Nay. I’d have you pack your things that we may leave, for I smell more rain. In truth, I’d travel ere the roads turn to mire.”

  Panicked, she caught at his arm. “And Jamie—you said you’d take my son to Blackleith! My lord, I pray you do not forget you said he could come with me!”

  “Jesu, woman,” he muttered, pulling away. Then, aware of the desperation in her voice, he relented. “Aye, I take him to Blackleith. I have never promised that which I do not mean to keep. But I’d have you know you have no more gratitude for what I do than your father.”

  “Mamaaaaa!!!!” The boy twisted in Will’s arms, leaning for her. “Mamaaaaaaaa!!!!”

  She hesitated, afraid again to interfere as her son cried out. Her throat tightened painfully. “You will not harm him, will you?” she asked in little more than a whisper.

  “I said I was no ogre! But you try my patience, the both of you! Jesu, but ’tis not a wonder he is fearful, Bella, for ’tis you as makes him so!”

  “Mamaaaaa!!!!”

  “Please, my lord …”

  “Nay,” he interrupted tersely. “Get you ready to leave.”

  She dropped her hand and let him go, stifling an urge to tell him to have a care on the steps. He was so tall she feared he’d knock Jamie
’ head. After he’d left she stood rooted, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. And when she heard the door close below, she moved to throw open the shutter to watch apprehensively.

  Will hoisted the boy onto his shoulder, and as his hand grasped the twisted leg he felt revulsion. But if James of Whatever was to live in his household, he’d have to overcome that, as well as his anger and his resentment, ere they ate at his soul. Telling himself yet again that the child could not be held accountable for the sins of the parents, he tried to reassure Arabella’s frightened son by lapsing into the familiar tongue.

  “Och, but ’tis time ye saw the world from a higher place, ye know. The women, for all that they are kind, canna carry a great lad like ye forever.”

  As they moved across the open courtyard Jamie looked down, and his fear of falling warred with his fear of the man who carried him. And when the big man bobbed low to avoid a gnarled branch, the boy grabbed frantically for his head, twining his fingers tightly in the auburn hair.

  “Ouch, ye misbegotten heathen!” Will muttered. “Have a care, else ye’ll have me bald!”

  The way the big man said it, there was no real anger. The little boy looked again to the ground. “ ’Tis too far,” he whimpered pitifully.

  “And ye promise ye’ll nae do that again, ye can ride my neck,” Will offered. Then, without waiting for an answer, he shifted the boy, settling him astraddle his shoulders. The child squealed and clutched convulsively at his head, again pulling his hair. “Enough, I said! I dinna let you fall, did I?” Will demanded impatiently. “God’s bones, but I’d nae drop ye, I tell ye. Now cease the wailing, that we may search for the woman Ena.”

  “She is in the kitchens,” Jamie volunteered tearfully, his hands still tightly grasping Will’s head. “Mama sent her there.”

  “Aye,” William muttered. “Ye might hold my neck, ye know.”

  As he started across the courtyard to the building that housed Byrum’s kitchen, he wished he’d not been so quick to take the boy, for Jamie continued to weep as though he expected Will to cast him into the pits of Hell.

  “My lord!”

  They stopped and waited for Ewan to approach. William acknowledged his greeting with a nod.

  “Do we still ride today?”

  “Aye. As soon as I give over the boy, I’d seek Lang Gib.”

  “He tarries on the steps with a serving maid, my lord,” the grizzled one answered, grinning. “Ye know how ’tis with Gib: There’s nae a woman born as he thinks he canna bed.”

  “Tell him ’tis a captain’s duty to gather his men. I’d leave as soon as the night’s fast is broken. Aye, and tell him there’s nae time for leaving another bastard.” Then, aware that Ewan stared at the boy on his shoulder, Will frowned. “ ’Tis James—of Woolford.” He said the last two words almost defiantly. “My lady’s son.”

  His eyes still spilling tears, Jamie cringed as the older man’s gaze settled on him. Ewan nodded. “Young James,” he noted, smiling as he slapped the boy’s good foot. “Is this the best mount he’d give ye?” he teased. “Tell him ye’d hae one with four legs, will ye?”

  “Ewan …” Will growled. “There’ll be nae speech of legs before him.”

  But Jamie had stopped crying to regard the rough Scot suspiciously. Perceiving that William’s frown had deepened, Ewan hesitated, then explained, “I dinna mean harm, my lord. My sire was one-legged, ye know, and I dinna think, fer I’d grown used to it. Yer pardon, young James.”

  “Was … was he borned like me?” Jamie asked curiously, forgetting his fear for the moment.

  “Nay, ’twas a wound, and it festered until ’twas him or the limb. But when the priest came to shrive him, he’d nae hear o’ it. ’Send fer the saw,’ he said, ’fer I am needful of more time to mend my soul.’ ” Ewan smiled, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I can still remember the smell when they burned the stump, but he lived. Learned to walk and ride like that.”

  The boy stared round-eyed at him. “I canna walk.” Then, thinking the man somehow lied, he wanted to know more. “Does he yet live?”

  Ewan spat onto the wet grass. “Nay—his horse threw him. Broke his neck.” He spat again. “But ’twas not fer the leg that he perished—his beast bolted in battle.”

  “I canna sit a horse also,” Jamie admitted wistfully.

  Ewan looked from. William to the boy. “Aye, ye can, and the saddle’s right fer ye.”

  Not even the priests, who were supposed to love all, had been able to look on him, but the rough-looking man before him did not seem to recoil. Jamie’s curiosity outweighed his fear. “If he had but one leg, how did he do it—walk, I mean?”

  Will had heard enough, and he’d not have Ewan put impossible ideas into the boy’s head. “Ye can ask him later,” he muttered. “There isna time now.”

  “Do you go to Blackleith?’ Jamie asked hopefully.

  “Aye. And ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ewan is master of my horse,” Will explained shortly.

  “But ye nae hunt much, do ye?” Ewan complained good-naturedly. “ ’Tis little enough ye give me ter do. Until yesterday, I’d given up on ye.”

  “ ’Tis little enough time I’ve had for sport since ye’ve come to serve me.” William glanced up at the rolling clouds, shaking his head. “Jesu. By the looks of that, we tarry overlong here.” His eyes traveled over the courtyard to the kitchen. “D’ye see my lady’s woman?”

  “Nay, but and ye gie him o’er, I’ll find her fer ye. Lang Gib’ll nae grumble when ’tis ye as tells him we ride.”

  Relieved, William lifted James of Woolford from his shoulders and handed him to Ewan. “Tell her I’d have all in readiness to leave within the hour. And then I’d have ye tell Lang Gib we ride.”

  “Ye want him sent ter ye?”

  Will’s gaze lifted to the empty arrow slit, and he felt guilt for the way he’d left Arabella. “Nay. ’Tis enough that all is made ready to go.”

  As Will turned to walk back toward the tower, he heard Ewan ask the boy, “Have ye got good seat? My sire was used to do this, ye know, when I was a wee lad like yerself.”

  “My sire is dead,” Jamie volunteered.

  Jesu, but she’d not even told the boy of Ayrie. It did not matter, Will supposed, for it was unlikely that Duncan’s son would claim a cripple. And ’twas as well that he did not: Too many already probably knew of Arabella’s shame. He paused briefly and looked upward again. Aye, he wished he’d never heard the tale from Milo of Woolford.

  The cold, dank wind cut through his tunic like a knife, reminding him ’twas folly to tarry. Hunching his shoulders against it, he considered that the weather would make for a miserable journey to Blackleith.

  She was waiting when he came up the stairs. “Where is he—what did you with my son?” she demanded anxiously. “Who was the man who took him?”

  She’d been watching him. He felt a surge of resentment that she considered her brat before him. “Have done,” he muttered. “I did but give him to Ewan.” He pushed past her into the room. “God’s bones, woman, but I’d nae hear this!”

  “I know not this Ewan!”

  “He’ll nae harm him,” he snapped. But as his eyes met hers he could see she was still so fearful she trembled, and again he relented. “He takes the boy to your woman, Bella.” Moving closer, he reached to push a strand of pale gold hair back from her face, and any anger that lingered was forgotten in the rush of renewed desire. “I did not think to quarrel with you so soon after the bedding,” he said more softly.

  She stared upward, scarce able to comprehend the sudden change in his manner. “Nay, I …” She would have stepped back, but there was a bench in the way.

  His hand cupped her chin. “If I am angered, ’tis that I did not find you beside me when I wakened,” he murmured, bending his head to hers.

  “Sweet Mary, there is no time.…” she whispered weakly.

  “ ’Twill no
t take overlong,” he promised against her lips. “And ’twill improve my temper.”

  She slid her arms about his waist and raised her face for his kiss. She would do all he asked in return for his kindness, she told herself. But as the heat rose between them, she knew also that she liked what he did to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shivering so hard that her teeth chattered, Arabella pulled her cloak closer and leaned forward in her saddle to shelter her son. Beside her William rode silently, his shoulders hunched against the cold also. She glanced over to him, wondering that he did not complain, for he was encased in steel and must surely be chilled to the bone.

  For all that they’d shared in the night he was still a stranger to her, this giant of Dunashie. To take her mind from the bitter weather she studied him covertly, seeing the mail that glistened with condensed mist, the heavy leather gloves over the strong hands, the woolen surcoat that fell away from thighs that were as thick as the trunk of a young tree. Sweet Mary, but she’d not known any his size before, and was not like to again.

  Did he not know ’twas cold? Did he not feel the chill that gnawed at her bones? She dared to look upward to his face, wondering what he thought. But it was set, impassive, unreadable beneath the polished nasal of his helm. Had she not lain with him the night before, she’d have been afraid just to look on him. God’s bones, but how could any want to face him in battle?

  She knew there were those who yet pitied her for the husband she’d been given, for ’twas not only Ena as had eyed her curiously when she’d come down to break her fast. It was as though they were surprised she was unharmed. Ah, Ena. Arabella had to smile at how the woman had stared when she’d admitted she was content enough with him. “I canna see how ye can sit,” she’d muttered, when Arabella had come for Jamie.

  “At least he did not beat me,” she’d retorted to the woman.

  “The boy tires you. ’Tis a wonder your arm has feeling in it.” It was the first he’d spoken in what seemed to have been hours. His eyes met hers, and his expression softened. “I’d have you give him to Ena.”