by Anita Mills
“Nay. ’Tis b-but that I am c-cold.”
“Arabella …”
“Her c-cloak is th-thinner th-than mine.” She tried to clench her teeth to still their chattering. “Besides, he s-sleeps.”
Once more he felt an unreasoning stab of jealousy for her child, and he wondered again why he’d said he would take a boy he could scarce look on. As long as she had her Jamie she had neither eyes nor ears for anyone else, or so it seemed to him. And every time they stopped, every time he watched her carry the boy, he could not but think of Aidan of Ayrie and feel cheated. Elias of Woolford he could understand, for she’d been wed to him. But ’twas Ayrie’s son she’d borne. ’Twas Ayrie’s son she guarded so ferociously. Already William could not bear to see her with the boy, and the journey had but begun. He had years ahead in which to watch and know he had taken an unchaste wife.
That it was wrong of him to dislike the child for the mother’s sin weighed on him, but he could not help himself. And yet he could not send her boy away, for had he not promised to take him? But he’d never be free of this reminder of Ayrie, not when the boy could not even stand unaided. ’Twas not as though he could be sent to foster in another house, and even the Church would not want him. There was no use to James of Whatever, no use at all, and yet Arabella shielded him like a mother wolf over her cub. It was, William reflected resentfully, the only time she completely lost her fear of him.
Nay, ’twas not so, he had to own in truth. For all that he saw fear in her eyes otherwise, she forgot it when she lay beneath him, when she had no thought of her son. Had she not brought the boy with her, William could have hoped she would learn to love him. As it was, he did not think there was room for any in her heart but the Devil’s changeling she’d borne. He could not forget she’d left his bed for her Jamie.
He looked again to where she sat hovered over the boy. “ ’Tis more meet that another carry him,” he said finally.
“He is all r-right,” she protested, holding the sleeping boy closer.
“Nay. Lang Gib!”
“Aye, my lord?”
“Take the boy to his nurse.”
Arabella shook her head. “Ena’s cloak is th-thinner than m-mine.”
“You cannot even pull your mantle about you for him,” Will observed curtly. “Gib!”
“Nay!” Even as she said it Arabella reddened, aware that her husband’s eyebrow had disappeared beneath his helm. “Nay,” she said more meekly. “He will not g-go to a st-stranger, and Ena cannot k-keep him warm. I am all right, I swear.’
William had no wish to quarrel with her, but neither would he have her dispute his word before men who had but lately been his equals. It was as he’d told Giles: A man who could not rule his wife could not rule men.
“Then give him over to me,” he muttered tersely.
“Naught’s wrong with my mantle—’tis heavier than any.”
Arabella looked down to where Jamie clung to her breast, and she shook her head. “I’d n-not w-waken him.”
“God’s bones, woman!” William snapped. “I dinna ask ye, did I? ’Tis ye as makes him scared and saft! Give him o’er, I said!” He edged his horse closer and leaned for the boy. “Come on, James—up with ye.”
Thus awakened, the child stared up at the big man, his pale eyes round with fright. “N-nay,” he whimpered, clutching at Arabella’s neck. “Mama—nay!”
“Jesu!” Will’s gloved hand grasped the boy’s arm. “ ’Tis enough, James,” he growled. “Ye canna wish for your mama to freeze for ye.”
“Mamaaaaaa! Mamaaaaaa!” the child cried, pulling away and clinging frantically to Arabella.
“My lord …”
“Gie him o’er, I said,” Will repeated.
“He is but six, and too little …”
“Aye, and had he been whole, he’d have been sent away ere now.” As soon as the words had left his mouth he was sorry for them, for she blenched. In an attempt to master his rising temper he drew in his breath, then let it out slowly. The puff of steam hung in the air. “Hand him to me, Arabella,” he said yet again, this time in measured tones.
“My lord …”
He’d raised his hand, and she thought he meant to hit them, and she was afraid for Jamie. She shrank against the high wooden cantle of her saddle as though she could absorb the blow. “Have done!” she cried. “I will give him over!” As she spoke, she loosened her mantle from around her son almost frantically.
The fear in her eyes angered him even more than her defiance, for it made him think of Giles’ cringing first wife. “Art daft, woman,” he growled, leaning again to lift the boy. “I’ve nae harmed him yet.”
Jamie twisted in his hands, struggling to escape him, wailing, “Mama—mamaaaaaaa! Mamaaaaaaaa!” shrilly. For a brief moment the boy hung with his good leg kicking, then Will sat him between his body and the high pommel.
“Get two blankets from the pack, Gib,” he ordered, ignoring the child’s cries. “Give my lady one that she does not sicken, and I’ll have the other.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The mounted column waited until he’d wrapped both his cloak and the stiff woolen blanket about himself and the boy, then William gave the signal to move again. In front of him James of Whatever sat stiffly, his small pinched face turned toward his mother. He’d quit crying openly and now merely sniffled, while she bore the anxious expression of a mare separated from its colt.
“Lay back,” Will ordered gruffly as he held the child with his mailed arm. “ ’Tis warm enough ye are now.” He spurred his huge horse forward on the sodden road, reestablishing the hard, steady trot.
But the boy sat forward, until he could stand the punishing gait no longer. After scarce half a league the pain forced him to lie against the man. Still unable to bear the weight on his hip, he was finally forced to turn sideways and rest his head against the Bastard of Dunashie’s broad, hard chest. The smell of wet wool, leather, and oiled mail intermingled beneath his nose. Despite his fear and his distrust of the man who held him, James of Woolford closed his eyes after a time, and dared to wonder what it would be like to be a warrior.
None of them spoke. Will again was silent, still seething with the knowledge that only fear had mastered his wife’s defiance. Between Arabella and the boy they’d made him feel like a great beast, and he did not like it. And yet he’d rule in his own house. He had to. When a man had not the legitimacy of birth he ruled by his strength, and there was no room for any perceived weakness.
It was not until the fine mist had turned into a steady drizzle dripping from his helmet that he thought to look down again. Despite the water that fell on him, the boy did not move. Will lifted his cloak to cover the pale hair, and was surprised to discover that Jamie’s thin arms clung to his surcoat while he slept. In sleep, his small face held a trace of his mother’s beauty. For a moment Will forgot his dislike in a surge of protectiveness. It was wrong of him to resent a helpless child. Without thinking, his arm tightened around the boy.
“Is he all right?” Arabella asked, speaking the first strained words since he’d taken James from her.
Will looked down again. “Aye, he is warm enough that he sleeps.” An almost rueful smile lightened his face. “I would that I were half so eased as he.”
She hesitated, wondering whether she should say more, then could not forbear explaining, “He has had so little kindness, my lord, for most turn away at the sight of him. Even my own sire cannot bear his company, and ever have I had to hide him from Nigel’s eyes.” When William said nothing, she sighed, “You cannot know what ’tis like when your own grandsire begrudges the food to keep you alive.”
“I grew to manhood with neither grandsire nor sire,” he reminded her. “There was none to care whether I lived or died.”
“Then surely you must understand … surely you must know…. Sweet Mary, but—”
“Nay. There was Giles, and I had to survive for him. ’Twas the
oath I gave my sire ere he died.”
“But you could tell yourself he would have loved you had he lived! But Elias—”
He did not want her to lie to him. “Nay,” he cut in curtly, “what is past is past, Arabella, and I’d not hear of it.”
There seemed to be no way to reach him, no way to make him understand about Jamie. She lifted her hand as in supplication, then let it drop to her side. It would have to be enough for now that he did not harm her son.
“I am all he has,” she said finally.
“At Blackleith he will have a place.” Once again he looked down on the sleeping child. “He has greater need of food and sun than of your coddling, if he is to grow.”
“He is my son.”
“God willing, you will have others also.”
“You cannot expect me to deny him.”
“Nay, I do not ask that.” But even as he said the words, he knew he lied. Had he the choice, he’d have no reminder that she’d lain with Aidan of Ayrie.
Once again there was a strained silence between them, but William chose to ignore it. The sooner he weaned her from the boy, the better for all of them. When they reached Blackleith he’d take steps to provide separate quarters for James of—Jesu, but even in his thoughts, he choked on “Woolford.” And yet to call the child anything else would have been to brand Arabella a whore.
Somewhere beyond the cloud-darkened horizon bells sounded, calling monks to prayer. William looked upward into the drizzle, frowning. Within the hour, he was certain the skies would pour. “ ’Tis but nones,” he murmured, “and I’d hoped to travel further this day.” Had he had only men with him he’d have ridden on, but now he had a wife to consider. “You are soaked and chilled to the bone,” he observed tiredly. “And we do not stop, you are like to sicken.”
“I am all right. The blanket—”
“Nay. ’Tis too far to the next chapter house, and I’d not have you take a fever from this.” Shifting the boy’s body slightly, he turned to call out to his captain, “Lang Gib!”
“Aye?”
“We stop, and hope it clears ere the morrow.”
In all the years Gib had served beside William, he’d thought him inured to the discomfort and pain of heat and cold, sun and rain. Aye, they’d ridden day and night in snow and ice, and never once had he heard so much as a complaint of any of it. Now he looked to the horizon, measuring the height of the sun behind the clouds.
“ ’Tis overearly, my lord.”
“Jesu! You also, Gib? Do you dispute with me also?”
It was not like William to be out of temper either. For a moment his captain considered chiding him about it, but then thought better of it. He was not the bastard’s equal anymore, and it was hard having to remember it.
“Nay,” he answered, wheeling to ride back along the small mesnie, giving the word they stopped.
There were times when Will wished for the security of serving his brother again, for the companionship rather than the leadership of his men. But that time had passed when he’d put his hands between Giles and taken the oath that had enfiefed him. Now he could ill afford any questioning of his right to lead. He twisted in his saddle to survey those who followed him. Lang Gib. Young Wat. Ewan. Fairlie. Nib o’ Kinmurrie. Black Jock. And a dozen more who were little more than grey shadows in the mist. Every one of them had served Giles with him. Every one of them probably questioned his right to lead them now.
And once again his own words haunted him: A man who doesna rule his wife canna rule men. Though he’d said it when Elizabeth insisted on sitting above his brother, he believed it still. And Arabella was not Rivaux’s daughter, after all, so he dared not tolerate any dispute from her. Nay, but ere they reached Blackleith, he would have authority over her and her son.
Father Sampson surveyed the small, bedraggled mesnie almost sourly, saying that it had been a poor growing season and he had scarce enough food for the brothers. But William, not wanting to appear weak before Arabella or his men, would not be turned away.
“I have silver,” he declared tersely, “and so I’d tell the bishop. ’Tis your Christian duty to provide a bed for sojourners.”
“There is an inn at—”
“Nay,” Will cut in, “ ’tis here I’d stay. My lady and the boy can go no further.”
The abbot shook his head. “I regret—”
“Fool!” Lang Gib spat. “My lord of Dunashie willna understand how ’tis ye deny his brother!”
Sampson paled. “Dunashie?” he asked faintly. “The Butcher of Dunashie?”
“Aye,” Will growled, embarrassed by Gib’s blatant use of Giles’ reputation.
“The one as wed Rivaux’s daughter?”
“Is there another?” Gib demanded derisively. “Jesu!”
The churchman’s eyes traveled the full length of the giant before him, taking in the sodden cloak, the wet blanket that covered the child. Nay, but if this man were indeed the Butcher’s brother, he’d not tempt him to anger. He glanced at Arabella curiously.
“Nay. Ask me, and you would know.”
The way the big man said the words sent a chill down Sampson’s spine, and every awful tale told of the Butcher and his men came to mind. He looked into hazel eyes that had gone cold, and found he did not care to ask anything.
“You are welcome to share what little we have, of course,” he lied. “ ’Tis not overmuch.”
Angered to be treated thus before Arabella, William unhooked the leather pouch that hung from his belt and carefully counted out five of his precious silver pennies. Flinging them to the ground at the abbot’s feet, he muttered, “St. Benedict taught humility and service, and well you know it. Mayhap when you are on your knees counting my money, you might remember his rule.” Shifting the silent, wide-eyed Jamie onto his other shoulder, he turned to Lang Gib. “See that the pallets be clean, for I’d not be cheated.”
As they followed the stiff-necked Sampson through the narrow, stone-arched corridor toward the guest house, Arabella reached for her son. “I’d carry him, and you do not mind it.”
“Nay.” He stopped to set the boy down. “I’d have him walk.” Jamie teetered precariously, then caught hold of William’s soaked surcoat, looking to his mother. One shoulder went down as the foot on his shorter leg turned nearly over.
“But he cannot!” Arabella protested. “Sweet Mary, but he cannot!”
“And you cannot carry him forever,” William countered, balancing the child with his hand. “I’d not have you lose one bairn for the other.”
For a moment, she was at a loss. “But I am not with child.”
“And God wills it, you will be.”
She stared. “But he cannot walk,” she repeated, as though she explained the obvious to a child.
The abbot swung around impatiently, then saw the boy’s badly twisted leg. The open revulsion in his face made Jamie shrink against William’s knee.
“Mama,” he whimpered pitifully.
“ ’Tis the Devil’s mark he bears, and I’d not have him—”
William cut him off quickly. “And you’d breathe until the morrow, you’ll not say it,” he growled. Reaching down, he caught Jamie beneath his arm. “ ’Tis a man you’ll be from this day, James.”
“But he cannot!”
“Jesu! You’ve got to cease saying that, woman!” His eyes on the boy, he insisted, “Aye, you can. I care not how you do it, James, but afore God, you’ll walk.”
“Mama!”
“Nay—look to me. She cannot aid you.”
Arabella licked dry lips and smoothed her palms against her gown. “My lord …”
“Nay.”
“Holy Jesu,” Lang Gib muttered under his breath. “If he canna walk then—” He caught the set of William’s jaw and stopped. The man Ewan stepped forward, hesitated, then stepped back. It was as though the silence reverberated through the narrow, stonewalled walkway. Will lifted Jamie’s shoulder high
er, taking his weight from the useless leg. Hot tears welled and stung Arabella’s eyes, but she did not dare say more. She swallowed back words that threatened to choke her.
The child’s large eyes moved from the huge man who held him up to his mother’s stricken face, then back again. “I … I canna … I canna do it, my lord. My leg … my foot … when I try, I fall, and …” He faltered, bowing his head in humiliation, and new tears rolled down his cheeks, as Arabella looked away.
“James.”
“I canna!” the boy cried. “I canna!”
It was too much for Arabella. She dropped to her knees before her husband. “My lord, I beg you…. You can see …”
William nudged her out of the way with his leg. “Nay. You would give him into mine keeping, and ’tis for me to decide.”
“God’s mercy, my lord!”
“Get up, woman.” Looking down on the small bent head, he spoke more kindly in his familiar speech. “Ye canna do anything and ye willna try, James. I’d nae let ye fall.”
“ ’Tis God’s punishment that he is as he is,” the abbot muttered. “I’d not tarry for this.”
There was such contempt in his voice that William’s hand tightened beneath the boy’s armpit. It was the same contempt that James of Woolford had known all his young life, and it stung beyond the words. Gritting his teeth, Jamie grasped the big man’s chausses between the quarters, twisting the knitted wool tightly in his hands, holding on for balance. He’d struggled often enough to know the leg would not support him, and he was loath to have them laugh at him when he fell. He looked upward at William of Dunashie fearfully. “ ’Tisna far,” Will encouraged him.
Jamie reached down to lift his nearly useless leg, setting it beneath him. As his weight bore down, his foot turned over again from the ankle. Gritting his teeth, he started forward with the other foot, and he stumbled as his leg gave way. To his surprise his stepfather did not let him fall, nor did he laugh at the pitiful attempt. Emboldened by this, Jamie swallowed hard and then hurtled his body forward, stumbling again, and still the big man held him up. Instead of the laughter that had dogged him much of his life, now there was only the uneasy silence of those who watched him struggle. He rested, bit his lip against the pain that shot from his ankle upward through the useless leg, and tried again.
