Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  Finally, after watching him move several feet forward, each awful, faltering step agonizingly slow, Arabella could stand no more. Moving again in front of her husband, she stretched out her hands. “No more—’tis enough, I pray you! God’s mercy, my lord—he is but one small, helpless boy!”

  “Nae so helpless as ye’d have him,” William retorted. “But aye, ’tis enough this day.” He turned to the man who shadowed him. “Ewan, I’d have ye take the boy.”

  “But I would carry him—he knows not this Ewan!” As William’s expression darkened she lowered her eyes, amending hastily, “I’d have Ena, and you do not mind it.”

  He shook his head. “He is too much in the company of women. Ewan …”

  The borderer stepped forward to lift James of Woolford, swinging him easily onto his shoulder. For a moment there was terror, as the child grasped his head. Forgetting this was the man who’d found Ena for him earlier, Jamie looked to his mother.

  “Here now—ye’ll blind me!” Ewan protested. He then turned to his lord, asking, “And where would ye that I took him?”

  “I am giving him to your keeping. Until we reach Blackleith, I’d have you tend him.”

  Arabella was stunned. “But he needs me!” Reaching to touch William’s sleeve, she implored him, “I pray you: He is but one small boy amongst strangers! He cannot—”

  “I tire of hearing what he canna do!” William snapped. “And ye have yer way, he’ll nae grow to a man.”

  “He is my son!”

  He did not want to quarrel with her before his men, but neither would he back down. “Ye make him a pitiful creature, Arabella, and I’ll nae have it. He will pallet with Ewan.”

  “Nay!”

  They faced each other, she losing her fear of him for her child, and he seeing naught but defiance. And the charity he’d but lately felt for her bastard vanished. “You forget yourself, madam,” he said coldly, taking care to speak properly. “In mine household, ’tis I who rules. Now—lest you’d be beaten for your tongue— you’ll stand aside.”

  Afraid now that her anger would cost her son, she looked away. And when she spoke again, she schooled meekness into her voice. “ ’Tis as you would wish, of course, but—”

  “Nay. I’d not have you agree in part, then argue under the guise of obedience, Arabella. I’d have you correct your error, and I’d hear no more of this.”

  There were so many things she wanted to say, so many bitter words, but when she raised her head again she saw only hardness in his eyes. “Aye,” she whispered.

  Ewan, who’d been about to protest that he was no nurse, thought better of it. Instead he patted the boy’s bony hip awkwardly. “Here now, ye canna snore—d’ye hear me?”

  “Mama!”

  For answer, Arabella had to look away. “Go with this … this Ewan, Jamie.”

  William reached for her arm, holding her beneath the elbow. When he spoke again, ’twas to Sampson. “My lady is cold and overtired—I’d have hot wine to warm her blood. Aye, and dry blankets also.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arabella watched her husband nervously across the narrow chamber, trying not to hear the pitiful wails that came from the pilgrims’ common room. When it had come home to him that he would in truth sleep in a room filled with strangers, Jamie had screamed until they could scarce hear the monks sing Compline. And if he did not stop soon, she feared William would beat him for it.

  But so far he’d ignored the boy’s cries, and now, while he waited for her to ready herself for bed, he pulled a low bench closer to the fire. Taking great care with them, he drew out pieces of parchment from his pouch and held them to the flickering light. His lips moved soundlessly as his eyes traveled over the Latin words.

  Thinking to broach the matter of Ena’s taking James once more, she walked behind him and laid a timid hand on his huge shoulder. “My lord …” But as she peered over his shoulder, she was curious. “What is it you do?” she dared to ask.

  He finished the page, then made the sign of the Cross over his breast. “ ’Tis the Hours,” he answered. “I did not say them the last two nights.” The soft scent of rosewater wafted up, reminding him of why. His hand moved to cover hers. “A man can be forgiven forgetting when he is first wed, don’t you think?”

  “You can read!” she observed, astonished.

  “Aye.” He looked up, and a smile curved his mouth. “It surprises you.”

  “Aye. Not even Papa—”

  “Alas, but I cannot take credit for it: There were none in Beauclerc’s household as did not learn. At the time I was angered, but now I am heartily glad—’tis all I thank King Henry for.”

  There was so much she did not know of this man. “Can you cipher also?” she wondered aloud.

  “Aye.” His fingers massaged hers, as the rosewater kindled his desire. “Does it please you to know we will not be cheated?”

  “You were taught to be a clerk.” She would have pulled her fingers away, but his hand had tightened.

  “Aye, but ’tis not letters and figures I’d speak of now,” he murmured. With his free hand he laid the precious scraps of parchment aside, then he half turned to pull her down onto his lap. “I’d think of bed, madam wife.”

  “My lord …” She sat stiffly before him, trying to gain the courage to plead for her son. “I beg you will reconsider,” she began haltingly, “for Jamie is but one small boy, away from all he knows.”

  William’s hand worked clumsily at the laces beneath her arms. “Arabella,” he said softly, “I’d not sleep with mine own babe between us.”

  “Ena—”

  “Nay.” As the laces came loose, he leaned forward to nuzzle the crown of her hair, smelling the roses again. “I’d hear no more of the boy.” His hands slid around her to cup her breasts. “I’d feel the fire between us again, Bella.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, telling herself that she lay with him for Jamie, that later she’d ask again for Jamie. And as his hands moved over her body possessively, she tried not to hear the cries of her child.

  He still marveled at how different she was from the whore Berta, how smooth and firm she was, yet how soft and yielding she’d been beneath him the night before. His mouth went dry at the memory. Abruptly, he eased her off his lap and stood.

  “I’d see you again, Arabella.”

  She stood still for a moment, then reached to unhook the heavy chain that girded her hips. It slid to clink noisily onto the flagged stone floor. Her cold hands lifted the skirt of her still damp woolen gown, pulling it upward over her head. It joined the girdle in a heap at her feet. Edging closer to the warmth of the fire, she leaned over to untie the garters that held her hose and push them down, removing both with her slippers. When she straightened and looked again to William, he was watching her hungrily.

  “And the other.”

  She felt too stiff to move, but she forced herself to lift the linen and draw it upward, revealing her body for him. As the undertunic covered her head, she could hear his sharp intake of breath. And as it dropped there was no sound beyond the beating of her heart. She swallowed again and waited.

  Her pale skin glowed in the firelight as he stared at her. He moved between her and the brazier, shadowing her with his body. “Art more beautiful every time I look on you, Arabella of Byrum,” he said hoarsely as his hand brushed a bared breast.

  A shudder went through her at his touch. He bent his head to hers, tasting her unresponsive lips, and then his arms closed about her. She felt as stone within his embrace. Telling herself she still chilled, he let her go.

  “Get ye into bed, that I may warm ye.”

  This night there was no feather mattress, only a straw-filled pallet placed on the floor of a guest house cell. As she sank down to it, William blew out the smelly tallow candles and stepped into the darkness beyond the fire. She heard rather than saw him undress. And when he padded toward the pallet on bare feet, she tried
to will herself to feign passion and to ignore the wails that reverberated off the stone walls.

  He dropped down beside her, easing beneath the blanket and raising the cover over them both, and then he reached for her. “Art cold,” he murmured, pulling her back against the heat of his body. His hand smoothed one of her braids against her bare shoulder as she shivered, then slid around her arm to caress her breast again. “One day, Arabella, I will be able to command better for you, and ’tis a bed we’ll have when we stop,” he whispered. As he nuzzled her neck, she could feel the rise of his manhood against her back. “Turn over, and I will warm you.”

  Sweet Mary, but she did not want this, not while her son wept loudly but a room away. And yet his fingers moved downward, brushing over her rib cage, skimming her belly, dipping to the thatch below. She clenched her teeth to still the denial that welled in her throat. Did he not know—could he not tell—that her body rebelled at what he did to her? Did it not matter that she could not stand listening to her son cry for her? As his fingers stroked within her, she screamed silently.

  She was not nearly so wet as she’d been the night before, and Will knew she was not ready. Thinking he went too fast, he stopped. “I’d lie with you,” he whispered.

  “I am too tired,” she lied.

  The flat, toneless quality of her voice angered him. A woman had not the right to refuse her husband, and well she knew it. “Nay, but ’tis my right to have ye, Arabella, and ye’ll lie willing fer me.” He caught her shoulder, turning her onto her back. In the darkness, he could see only the faint glimmer of her eyes as she stared up at him. “I’d have ye, Bella.”

  There was that about him that frightened her, that reminded her of Elias. “I—I cannot, my lord,” she managed to choke out. “Not while Jamie … Merciful Mary, not now …”

  “Jesu!” He rolled to sit, staring into the coals that glowed in the brazier. “Can ye think of naught but him?” he demanded furiously. “Ye make him into a puling weakling!” Lurching from the bed, he groped for his discarded chausses, muttering, “I’ll have peace in mine house—afore God, I will!”

  “He is but a small, helpless boy!”

  He pulled the hose on and tied them at his waist, then started for the door. Cold terror struck at her heart: He was going to harm her son.

  “Nay! Sweet Mary, but where do you go?” she cried, scrambling after him. “Nay! I pray you—come back! And you want, I will lie willing for you! I—I swear it!” she babbled, catching at his arms. “My lord, I will do as you ask!”

  He turned around, caught her by her shoulders, and shook her hard. “Art daft, woman!” he roared. Shoving her back toward the pallet, he started again for the door. “Get ye to bed ere ye ail.”

  “I said I would lie willing for you! I do not deny you! Do not go—do not harm my son!” The words tumbled almost incoherently from her. “Please …”

  “I will be back,” he muttered tersely. “And ye love him, ye’ll nae interfere between us.”

  He threatened Jamie. She sank to her knees on the pallet and prayed frantically as he left her. “Blessed Mary, Holy Virgin, as one mother to another, I beseech you—do not let him harm my son. Sweet Mary, I’d have them learn to love each other ere ’tis too late! Mother of Heaven …” She knew not how long she prayed nor what words she used, only that she begged for intercession with her angry husband. She prayed so intently she knew not when the crying ceased.

  “Lie down ere you are ill,” William told her from the doorway. Moving to stand over her, he untied his chausses and pushed them down. “ ’Tis too cold for that.”

  She looked up, aware now of the silence. “Is … is my son all right?”

  “Aye.” He stepped out of the footed stockings. “You did not have to ask it.” Once again, he eased his body down next to hers. “And now I’d have you keep the promise you made ere I left.”

  “But what… ?”

  “It matters not—’tis done.” He pulled her down. “Now I’d have you willing.”

  She lay stiff and unyielding beside him. “You did not beat him?”

  Once again he felt a surge of anger that she placed the boy above him. “I did not touch him.” He turned her to face him and bent his head to hers. “I’d hear no more of the boy this night, I tell you.”

  As much as he tried to make her want him, she barely responded to his touch. Finally, telling himself ’twas his right, he rolled her onto her back and possessed her body eagerly. And when she did not cry out he began to move, losing himself in his desire for her, scarce aware that she did not writhe and moan and buck beneath him. He drove himself until he exploded within her, then as he floated back to reality he rested above her. His hand brushed against her cheek, feeling the wetness there, and he was ashamed. He rolled away and lay staring at the ceiling of the cell.

  “I dinna mean to hurt ye,” he said finally.

  “I am all right.”

  He felt like a great beast. He smoothed errant strands of hair back from her face and groped for the means to make amends. “Arabella …”

  “ ’Twas your right, my lord.”

  “Not like that—I’d nay have ye like that.”

  They lay there, both silent, both awake far into the night. For Will there was an inexplicable sense of loss, that somehow it was not enough to possess her body when her mind was unwilling. And yet beyond what he’d already said to her, he knew not what he could do to bridge the chasm between them. For a time he considered that he ought to have refused to take her son, but then he had to own that it was wrong of him to blame the boy for what he himself had done. Finally, thinking she slept, he turned away, letting his mind wander in a troubled netherworld until it reached oblivion.

  Arabella stared into the darkness, straining for some sound of her son, afraid to ask further and yet unable to sleep. Then, as William’s breathing evened into the steady rhythm of sleep, she dared to creep from the warmth of the pallet. Shivering, she pulled on her over-gown and slipped into the deserted corridor. There she lifted a smoking torch from its ring and made her way into the common room to search for Jamie.

  “God’s bones, have a care,” someone mumbled sleepily as she trod on his arm. She would have passed, but he sat up and caught the skirt of her gown, nearly tripping her. “What the—Jesu, lady!” he whispered loudly. “ ’Tisna the place—”

  “I am come to see my son is safe,” she hissed low. “Where is he?”

  “And yer lord finds ye here, I am a dead man,” he muttered, pulling his blanket up to hide his nakedness. “The boy is there.” He jerked his head toward the row of sleeping men.

  Holding the smoking torch before her, she moved carefully among them until she found Jamie, and what she saw astounded her. The man Ewan lay, his greying head barely visible above the blanket, his arm circling her son, holding him close, while Ena’s body curved the other way, warming him. Jamie was as snug as a pea in a pod between them. Not daring to wake them, Arabella tiptoed back to where Lang Gib still sat watching her.

  “Does my lord know?” she asked.

  “Aye.” His handsome face broke into a smile. “ ’Twas he as brought her here, though she dinna want to come. She disputed with him, saying ’twas not meet, but he told her that Ewan would nae get a babe on her if she kept the boy between them.” He followed her gaze as she looked again to her son. “And we dinna make any jests for it, for she quieted the wee one that we could sleep.”

  “He did not beat him?”

  “Nay, for all that we wanted him to, he dinna.”

  “But he was angered with him.”

  “Aye, but he brought the woman.” His eyes traveled the length of her appreciatively, then he sighed regretfully. “Ye’d best get back, mistress, fer I’d keep my head, and ye don’t mind it.”

  “Aye.”

  She rehung the torch in the narrow passageway, then felt her way back to where her husband slept, thinking all the while that she’d wronged him. Sheddi
ng her gown quickly, she rolled into the pallet beside him and snuggled against the great warmth of him. He roused and turned to face her.

  “Jesu, but art cold,” he muttered, pulling her closer. His hands rubbed her chilled arms. “You were up.”

  “Aye. I went to the garderobe,” she lied.

  “Ought to have used the chamber pot—’tis too cold to go so far.”

  “Nay, I’d not make the noise.”

  Despite the chill-roughened flesh, her body seemed less stiff where it touched his. He lifted his hand from beneath the covers to brush at the hairs that strayed from her braids.

  The memory of how it had been between them earlier washed over him, leaving him aching. He’d wanted more than that, he’d have given more than that. She was his wife, the gentle-born woman given to him for life, and he’d have her turn to him for all she would have in this world. And he could he’d forget Ayrie, he’d forget the boy, he’d forget the day just past.

  “I’d nae have minded it,” he said softly.

  Gone was the man who’d been so angered, who’d demanded his due of her. She thought of Jamie, who lay now so peacefully between Ena and Ewan, and she felt guilt for what she’d denied him. She reached to rub the thick hair at the back of his head, then touched lightly the roughness of his two days’ growth of beard. Grateful that he could not see her face in the darkness, she whispered, “And you willed it, I’d lie willing enough now.”

  For a moment he thought he’d misheard her, that he but dreamed she said it. He tried to make out her features, and thought he could see her smile at him. He felt the surge of an overwhelming desire.

  “Aye?” he rasped, through lips nearly too dry for speech.

  “Aye.”

  She was willing to give him what he wanted of her. His own face broke into a grin as he rolled her onto her back into the straw. “Ye’ll move a wee bit this time?”