Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “Aye.”

  He kissed her then, lingering long and leisurely over her mouth as though he would test her promise. Her arms went around his neck, holding him, as her body enticed him from beneath. When at last he raised his head he added wickedly, “And would ye pant and moan a bit also?” As he asked his hand cupped her breast, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, hardening it. And then he eased his body lower to taste of it.

  She squirmed as his mouth teased, and her whole body came alive beneath his touch. Her fingers caressed the thick waves of his sleep-disordered hair as her desire rose to match his own. “The task is yours to make,” she gasped.

  His hand moved lower, feeling the flood of wetness there, and he knew that this time ’twould be good. Still he tarried, exploring her with his mouth and his hands, savoring her response to him, until she moaned and writhed, telling him what she would have of him.

  Her body arched beneath his hand and her hands tugged at his hair, drawing his head back to hers. He grasped her hips and took possession of her mouth and her body at the same time.

  This time she gave herself wholeheartedly to the union of their bodies, panting, moaning, thrashing, urging him on almost frantically with her words and her hands. Her nails dug into his back, holding him until her breath came in great gasps, until her cries intensified with the waves of ecstasy that spread through her body. And still he drove relentlessly, riding those waves harder and faster. He cried out as the seed spilled within her, then collapsed to lie still above her.

  For a time there was no sound beyond the exhausted panting they shared. Finally he became aware of his great weight over her, and reluctantly he rolled away. As he eased back against the lumpy, straw-filled bag, he pulled her into the crook of his arm.

  “Well,” he observed, still gulping for air, “I doubt me even the monks slept through that.” His fingertips grazed her bare arms lightly, tracing her flesh along the bone. “I canna claim ever having the like.” He craned his neck to look downward, trying to see what he could of her face in the darkness. “I would I knew what changed ye, for I’d see ye had more of it,” he teased.

  “I saw that you got Ena for Jamie,” she said simply.

  He stiffened for a moment, then sighed heavily, falling silent. “Och, ye went there, did ye?” he said finally.

  “Aye.”

  And as good as it had been between them, he now felt cheated. He lay there, still cradling her against him, thinking she’d not done it for him—’twas for Aidan of Ayrie’s bastard she’d done it. After a time he eased her head off his arm, sighing again.

  “Ye’d best sleep, for we’ve a long ride on the morrow.”

  She knew she’d made a mistake, for she sensed the change in him, yet she was uncertain what to do about it. Was it that, despite his words, he could not tolerate Jamie? Or did she but imagine he disliked her son? The image of how he’d held the sleeping boy, sheltering him from the cold, came to mind, then faded to the memory of his cruelty in the corridor. Nay, he was no better than everyone else: For all his earlier words of understanding, William of Dunashie could scarce bear the sight of her crippled child.

  But if he were as all the rest, why had he said he’d take Jamie? And if he believed her child was truly cursed, why had he wed her? She shifted her weight slightly against the lumpy straw, felt the lingering stickiness of his seed—and had her answer. ’Twas for that, and that alone. He was as any other: He’d taken her in hopes she would breed. He would have sons of his body to rule Blackleith after him. Like Elias, he would believe he would get whole babes of her.

  But at least he was not as bad as Elias, she had to own finally. Even in his anger William had not beaten her, nor had he beaten Jamie, and for that at least she’d praise God. Had Jamie screamed so in Elias’ presence he’d not have survived, no matter what blood Elias thought he bore. At Woolford, even his older sons had been ruled by fear. Nay, this husband was not like that. She had but to see the affection of his men to know it. Woolford had had no Lang Gibs, no Wats, no Ewans there. If only he could show some small measure of tolerance for her son …

  Outside there was the muffled sound of slippers on stone-floored passages, followed by the haunting beauty of chanted prayers in the chapel as the monks sang Matins, marking the hour of midnight. She listened in the darkness, and knew William did not sleep.

  “My lord …” she whispered tentatively.

  “What?”

  “If I have offended you, I’d offer amends for it.”

  There was a long pause ere he answered. “Nay,” he said finally, “ ’tis wrong of me to fault you for what you cannot help.” He rolled closer and put his arm around her. “We are both overtired, and ’tis yet far to Blackleith.” He drew in the musty rose fragrance from her braids, then exhaled. “I had hopes of making the journey in two days, but with you and the boy—and the weather—’twill be three or more.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “You cannot command the rain to cease.” With his free arm he pulled the covers yet higher, exposing his feet even more. He was silent a moment, then muttered. “Jesu, but ’tis cold on this floor.” Abruptly, he sat up and groped for his chausses to warm his legs. “When we reach Blackleith, we shall have a bed as fits me. For at least twenty of my thirty-two years I have had cold feet in winter.” He managed to pull them on without rising, then lay again against her. “Ah, Bella,” he murmured, “you cannot know how much I’ve wanted a woman to warm my bones. For that alone, I’d prize you.”

  For all that she could not understand him, for all that she’d not wanted to wed him, she had to admit there was a certain security in lying next to his big, warm body. She snuggled beneath the strength of the arm that held her, thinking that on the morrow everything would be better. When he grew used to Jamie, when he truly understood how it was for the boy, surely he would be moved to greater pity. Despite his gruffness she’d glimpsed some kindness in William of Dunashie, and on that she would build her hope.

  His arm hugged her more tightly, pulling her even closer as he curved his big body around hers. “I have always loved roses,” he murmured sleepily against her hair. “Better than gillyflowers even, I love the roses.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was little formality at Blackleith, and few paid any attention as Robert of Carnan listened to the young priest read William of Dunashie’s letter. It was not until he swore furiously, blaspheming God and cursing the Bastard and the Butcher at the same time, that those around him stopped to watch the seneschal’s display of temper.

  The priest, who still held the offending letter, seemed more amused than offended by Robert of Carnan’s outburst. While the castle’s chief officer raged he merely studied the parchment again, smiling faintly as his eyes traveled over the page. Let Robert seek the sympathy of the garrison, he thought, for ’twould serve his greater purpose if the man were provoked into rebellion.

  He regarded the offending letter as the Hebrews must have looked on the manna sent from heaven. And he had used it well, reading arrogance into words that bore none, adding an inflection of condescension where it did not exist. And to good effect. Had he not chosen this path, Walter was certain he could have earned his bread as a trouvére of some invention. Aye, his interpretation of William of Dunashie’s words had inflamed far beyond their intention.

  He waited until Robert of Carnan had in his fury flung himself from the small hall, then he enlightened the rest of the household, reading provocatively:

  To Robert of Carnan, at Blackleith, seneschal by writ of Giles of Moray, I give greetings this 15th day of November, in the year of our Lord, 1138.

  Be advised that I am delayed and do not reach you until Thursday at the earliest. Nonetheless, I would have the ordering of a welcome as befits the lord and lady of the keep and manor of Blackleith.

  Jesu, for but a lowly bastard of Dunashie, this William wrote like a royal clerk. Walter cleared his throat and conti
nued:

  Moreover, though it is late to ask it, I would have the making of a new bed, seven English feet in length, with at least two mattresses of fresh feathers in clean ticking, hung upon the stoutest ropes to be had. Further, despite the weather, I would have you make haste to see the garderobes are sweetened and the hall freshly limed ere you are greeted by your new lady, Arabella, born of Byrum, wed to me but two days past.

  They watched, perplexed that such words had angered Robert so, until Walter went on,

  Though I am decided to pass the keys of your office to a man of my choosing, Gilbert of Kilburnie, without ceremony, if it be your will to serve me you are most welcome to remain at Blackleith. And to determine whosoever else will hold office of me, I’d have an assemblage upon my arrival. Until then I’d suspend all hallmotes held in my name, that I may mete out mine own justice and issue all writs of Blackleith in mine own name. And ere you are relieved, I’d have all accounts readied and all taxes, duties, and fees held listed that I may determine my rights and obligations as lord.

  Subscribed by me and in mine own hand, I am William,, born of Dunashie, vassal to Lord Giles, holder of Blackleith, as witnessed by my seal.

  Having read the latter portions with veiled sarcasm, Walter hoped he’d succeeded in promoting unease. Murmurs of “ ‘whosoever else will hold office of me’?” and “ ‘all taxes, duties, and fees held listed’?” mingled with muttered comments that this bastard patterned himself after the Old Conqueror and his Domesday book. And there was a groundswell of resentment. Had the Butcher ever complained he had not his due? Had any failed in his duty to the overlord of Dunashie? Nay, but if they’d given him any cause for concern he’d not shown it, for he had seldom even come to Blackleith in the years he’d held it. Like Hamon before him, the Butcher had preferred his larger keeps. But now the Bastard would come, demanding what they had always freely given.

  Walter looked contemptuously to the seal. It was naught but the imperfect impression of a carved ring in cheap wax. He smiled again. The Bastard, for all his desire to act as befitted a lord, had given Walter the means to his revenge. He rerolled the letter carefully and tucked it into the neck of his tunic, then he sought Robert of Carnan.

  At the top of the circular tower steps the wind whistled over the wall, flapping the pennon above loudly, but Robert seemed impervious to the biting cold. He leaned against the newly crenelated battlement, the pride of his tenure as seneschal to Blackleith, and looked to the river below. Walter watched silently, thinking he could read the older man’s thoughts. Aye, Robert’s pride was stung at the thought of giving over his authority to one probably lesser-born than himself.

  Moreover, he was bitter to learn that after twenty and more years’ service here he was unneeded. What had Robert boasted to him? That not even when Hamon had been killed by Moray had he been asked to give up his keys. And now he would have to surrender these symbols of his authority, becoming but another knight in service. And the man who asked it had no blood claim either, for William of Dunashie was but Moray’s bastard brother.

  But a few nights earlier, when Robert had been more than a little drunk before the fire, he’d told Walter that the best years of his life had been at Blackleith. He’d boasted of how he’d husbanded the demesne’s resources, thwarting the bailiff’s tendency to squander, that he might build the keep’s defenses. How he’d struggled with the bailiff to see that every penny, every bushel, every bag of wool had been paid, in good times and in bad. He’d served his absent lords so well that there had been times he’d nearly thought of Blackleith as his, he’d confessed. But that was before the Bastard had come to claim it.

  The older man’s shoulders shook as he leaned over the wall, and Walter was suddenly afraid he meant to jump. Not to be thwarted thus, he gathered the skirt of his cassock and hastened onto the wall.

  “ ’Tis overcold to walk this day, sir. By the looks of yon sky, God gives us more rain.”

  “Or snow,” Robert muttered. He pushed back from the battlement and swung around angrily. “Ye’ll have to look to other souls, Father Edmund, for I’d nae speak of God this day.”

  “You are troubled, my son.”

  The older man snorted. “Yer son? Jesu, but I wore mail ere ye were swaddled! Nay, get ye down where your words are needed, and leave me in peace.” When Walter made no move to leave, Robert clenched his fists. “God’s bones, but are ye deaf also? I said I’d be alone!”

  “I am come to tend your troubled soul.”

  “Tend the Bastard’s!” Robert shouted at him, his voice rising into the howling wind. “Aye, ye saw what he wrote, dinna ye? Ye read it yerself! And ye would feed ye, ye’ll look to him rather than me!”

  Walter considered the angry man before him, then gambled. “Mayhap all is not lost, my son.”

  “Jesu! Give me peace, Father! What would a priest know of loss?” Robert sneered. “Ye have but to prate yer prayers, and ye are fed. There’s none to care that ye canna wield a sword or axe! There’s none to care that ye dinna ride forth again and again to other men’s battles!”

  “God asks different things of us,” Walter observed, meeting the other man’s angry eyes. “And God helps those who are willing to act,” he added significantly.

  His meaning went past Robert. “Were ye not in cassock, I’d throw ye from this wall that ye would cease prattling to me,” he muttered sourly. Very deliberately, he turned his back on Walter and again leaned on the battlement.

  But Walter had not yet sown enough seeds to bear fruit. Despite Robert’s hostility, he moved to lean beside him. “You know not of me, Robert of Carnan,” he said almost softly. “I too have been displaced by Moray and his brother.”

  “From one living to another?” Robert gibed. “What care they for a priest?”

  “ ’Twas more than that.”

  “And ye’d tell me God provided, would ye? Ye waste yer words on me, Father Edmund.”

  “In a manner, He did.”

  “Well, He doesna provide for me. He gives me but the choice of serving beneath this Gilbert or starving! Twenty years’ service I have given this keep, and what thanks have I for it? Gilbert of Kilburnie comes to take my keys from me!”

  “Twenty years is a long time,” Walter agreed.

  “Long? I came here when I was but a boy, and ’twas Hamon as ruled here. Aye, ’twas before he had Dunashie or any of the other. I grew to manhood serving Hamon, and when King David gave Blackleith to Moray, I served him also! Nay, ’tis poor thanks I have had for it, Father! Now ’tis Moray who gives rule over this keep to one who did not sit at his own table a year ago! And the bastard he raises chooses one even lower than himself to put above me!”

  “Aye.” Walter said no more, hoping the older man’s musings would fuel his bitterness beyond bearing.

  “What would ye know of it?” Robert demanded viciously. “Blackleith means naught to ye—ye are but lately come!”

  “I know, Robert of Carnan—I know.”

  “Nay, ye canna.” Robert pushed away from the wall again and swept the air with his hand. “Look about ye, Father: Every stone on this wall I ordered. I have done everything here: I have husbanded and built, I have watched the old priest keep honest accounts, I have held counts in the lord’s absence and meted out even justice, I have tended to rents, services, customs—nay, I have tended Giles of Moray’s lands well, I tell you! I have ridden every hide of them!”

  “Aye.”

  Robert turned again to stare out over the demesne’s lands, and his gaze grew distant as his voice lowered. “After he had Blackleith, Hamon cared not for this place, but I did. And so it was with the Butcher also: He left me to rule here in his name. I have never wanted to live anywhere else, ye know. But there is nae hope for it now: William of Dunashie comes to take away all I have strived for.”

  “ ’Twould seem ’tis poor reward for your service,” Walter agreed slyly.

  “And now I canna stay,” Rober
t admitted slowly. “There isna a place for me here.”

  But Walter shook his head. “Nay, you must not go, for there are too many here who have need of you still. No more than you, will they wish to serve this bastard.”

  “What good am I to them now? Jesu, but I can only answer to this Gilbert—and I’d nae do it!”

  “Your right is older than his—or the Bastard’s.” Walter leaned in front of Robert, meeting his eyes soberly. “There are those here who would choose to serve you, there are those who would say your right is as great as his.”

  “He holds it of Moray,” the older man reminded him.

  “There are those who will remember Moray was not born here. There are yet those who remember he murdered Hamon for it.”

  Robert eyed him suspiciously, wondering where the young priest meant to lead him. “Father Edmund, you behold one who is nae a fool. There’s none as has stood against the Butcher and lived.”

  “William of Dunashie has less claim than his brother. King David cannot like it that Moray raises a baseborn knave into the barony. And ’tis to be wondered why ’twas done: Was it that Moray feared to have the Bastard at Dunashie?”

  “Yer thoughts are overaddled by yer prayers.” Hunching his shoulders against the cold, the seneschal leaned forward on the crenelated wall. “Heard ye nae of Wycklow? Art so cloistered in yer church, you dinna know of that? Ralph de Payes would have usurped Wycklow, and he died fer it!”

  “The Bastard is not the Butcher,” Walter reminded him again. “And if Moray had no greater care for Blackleith than to give it to one of no worth, mayhap he does but wish this William away.” Pausing to let his words effect doubt, he then added softly, “Were it I, I should rather ask who followed me.”

  “E’en the Butcher wouldna hang a priest,” Robert retorted, turning again to face Walter. “Why do ye urge me to rebellion?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “What matters it to ye who rules here?”