by Anita Mills
“They are godless men.”
There was none to doubt that, Robert conceded silently. Did the priest really think he could wrest Blackleith from them? The idea was an impossible one. “Ye forget ’tis King David as consented,” he muttered, suddenly afraid of where his thoughts carried him. “Whether he likes the Bastard or no, he consented.”
“Aye, as he consented to Hamon and to Moray before him. David is nothing if not a practical man.” Aware that he’d now prodded Robert of Carnan far enough to give him the thoughts he wanted, Walter pushed back from the wall and shrugged.
“Ye guide me wrongly, Father.”
“Did I say you should rebel? Nay, you mistake me: I did but agree ’tis an injustice they do you. Mayhap this Gilbert will falter, and once again you will lead Blackleith for the lord.” As he spoke, he pulled the ends of his sleeves down over his hands to warm them. “I did but mean that God would have you hope. He would have you look to yourself.” He clasped his arms tightly before him, trying to shut out the cold. “The only meek who inherit are the meek who are born to what they have.”
“Ye speak in riddles, Edmund. For all the words ye give me, I’ll nae ferget yer youth makes ye overbold with yer counsel.”
Yet after the priest had gone Robert paced the wall, letting the raw wind cool his mind. Blackleith was not Wyclow, after all, and Giles of Moray seldom put forth the effort to come there. And had not King David given the Butcher lands far greater than these? But ’twas the Bastard who came, he argued within himself. Aye, he conceded, but who could say whether Moray would fight for one who shared but half his blood and none of his name? Mayhap he wanted William of Dunashie away from his own patrimony. Bastard kinsmen sometimes were troublesome, after all. If only he could be certain he’d not incur the Butcher’s wrath ….
Walter paused at the bottom of the stairs to savor what he hoped his wits would win him. And a slow smile of satisfaction crossed his face. If he could but get Robert to kill the Bastard, he knew the Butcher would come. No matter what he’d told the fool, he still remembered the affection between Moray and his brother. And even if the two mayhap had quarreled in the intervening years, Walter also knew Giles’ pride would brook no rebellion.
Idly, he fingered the crucifix that hung at his breast. “Ah, Edmund, ’twas not for naught that you died,” he murmured aloud.
Chapter Sixteen
The morning fog had lifted and the sun was almost visible, brightening the clouds from behind. It no longer rained. For three days the steady downpour had hampered their progress, soaking them, freezing them in the late autumn cold, until Arabella had almost yearned for the warmth of Byrum’s fires. But this day gave only the promise that she would not arrive a sodden, bedraggled hag before Blackleith. She leaned forward in her saddle, shifting her aching body to look at the muddy road ahead.
“We are nearly there,” William encouraged her. “And we reach the second hill, you will see it: ’Tis but beyond the bend in the burn.”
“We have to cross water?” She looked skyward, then back to the mud that mired their horses, slowing their pace. “Sweet Jesu, but—”
He shook his head. “And you came from the east, aye, but we do not approach that way. It sits on this side.” He stretched also before he added, “ ’Tis as well, for the burn will be flooded. Robert of Carnan wrote Giles often, saying that it should be dammed above, but if ’twas done I’ve not heard it.” His gaze met hers and warmed. “Art weary?”
“Aye.”
“Well, ’twill be no rude pallet tonight for ye. When I wrote, I asked a new bed and mattress be made.” He watched the blood rise to her face as she blushed, and he grinned, shaking his head. “Nay, this night I’d not plague ye. ’Tis overfar we have ridden, and once yer bones are warmed and yer stomach filled, I’d see ye take to the bed.” His hazel eyes twinkled as he added, “But when the sun comes up on the morrow …” His voice trailed off, but there was no mistaking his meaning.
Her blush deepening, she looked down to where her oft-soaked gown hung limply over her legs. “I’d have a bath ere I had aught else, I think.”
“Aye.” He said nothing for a moment, then blurted out, “I have hopes ye’ll be pleased wi’ Blackleith, Arabella.”
How could she be pleased there? she wondered, as the resentment returned. How could she be pleased when he’d removed Jamie from her care? And yet it did no good to quarrel with him, for that would but set him further against her son. She glanced back down the column to where Ewan held the little boy, seeing the reproach in Jamie’s pinched white face. And yet William would have her answer.
“As ’tis not Byrum, I have hopes of it also,” she murmured finally.
“ ’Tisna nearly so fine as Woolford.”
“I would not go again to Woolford if Donald, Hugh, and Milo all perished, and ’twas given to Jamie,” she declared emphatically, her voice betraying her bitterness. “I had no happiness in Elias’ keep.”
He wished he’d not mentioned the place, for ’twas but a reminder of things he’d not think on. And the fault was his this time. Cursing his own foolish tongue, he fell silent.
For a time she stared at the sodden road that lay ahead, not wanting to think of Elias or Woolford or anything past. For whatever reason, God had given her to William of Dunashie now, and from this time forward ’twas to William and Blackleith she belonged. Had she the chance she’d carve her life and Jamie’s again from clean stone, and forget what had passed before. But the task was almost too great, for she could think of no way to make William value her son.
She stole a sidewise glance at her new husband. It had been easy at first to think of him as naught but “the Bastard,” an overgrown oaf with naught but his brother’s fearsome reputation to recommend him. But now she knew not what to make of him. Where she had expected pain he’d given her passion, showing small kindnesses even, and yet always there was that about him that seemed unable to bear Jamie’s company. Mayhap ’twas but that he was unused to seeing one so lame, mayhap ’twas that he was like so many others, fearing what he did not know. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Nay, he had denied her the right to provide company and comfort to her son, she recalled, feeling anew the loss.
But for all that he’d separated her and Jamie from each other, she had to admit he’d not actually offered either of them any violence. And for all that he was stern and unyielding, he’d not been truly unkind to Jamie. And unlike her father, he’d neither taunted nor cursed the boy for his misshapen leg. Nor had he quarreled with her before her son since that first day. But then neither had she defied him since.
Aye, now ’twas Ewan who carried Jamie, Ewan who tended him, Ewan who slept with him. And since Jamie’s wellspring of tears had finally run dry, her son no longer screamed and cried for her. It was as though he recognized the futility of his anguish. But now every time she met his eyes, they reproached her silently.
What William would not understand was that he deprived her as well. For every day and night of her son’s six years they had clung to each other, drawing mutual comfort against a cruel and unjust world. Her need for Jamie was nearly as great as his for her. ’Twas wrong of William to expect he could supplant her son in her thoughts from the moment he’d wed her.
And yet he rode beside her, seemingly unaware of the turmoil in her heart. He did not know and probably did not care that she wept inwardly. Or that she struggled to accept what he had done. Nay, but he behaved as though there were naught but happiness between them.
But if she had anything to be grateful to William for, ’twas that he’d not forced Jamie to walk since that first night. Mayhap seeing how painfully Jamie had stumbled on his short, twisted leg had touched him more than he betrayed. And if ’twas so, then mayhap all hope was not lost for love to grow between William and her son. And mayhap if he could not learn to love, he could be moved to pity.
She stole another glance at her husband, reminding herself again that, f
or all she faulted him, he was far kinder than Elias or her father. Aye, were it not for Jamie, she could almost count herself content with this huge man who reminded her much of his brother’s bear standard.
As she watched him covertly, her thoughts turned from Jamie to him. And she had to smile at the way he seemed to struggle with his speech, trying to sound as Norman as his brother. Yet in unguarded moments of emotion, ’twas the language of his ancestors that came to his lips.
“And you look to the second hill, you can see Blackleith now,” he told her proudly, cutting into her reverie.
She roused to look, but saw nothing. He leaned so close that his mailed arm brushed against hers as he pointed. “There.”
Her gaze followed his arm, and found it. “ ’Tis stone,” she murmured in surprise. “I thought ’twas timber.”
“Robert of Carnan counts himself a builder, and with Giles’ permission he has raised a new wall on this side. The one that faces the river is still wood, as there’s not many who would be foolish enough to mount an attack from there.”
“Robert of Carnan?”
“Giles’ seneschal here.” He paused, frowning. “A good man, by all accounts, but I’d bring one as serves me now.”
“Lang Gib.”
“Aye. ’Tis ‘Gilbert of Kilburnie’ when he takes the keys. ’Twill sound strange to mine ears to call him thus.” He sighed, then favored her with a rueful smile. “But if he can manage to call me ‘William’ after years of ‘Wee Willie,’ I can say ‘Gilbert’ also.”
“You were called ‘wee’?” she asked, lifting a brow.
“Aye.” His smile broadened. “When I was a small lad I was undersized, but then I grew until ’twas a jest.”
“And grew.”
“And grew,” he agreed. “And then I grew more yet, becoming this great fellow ye behold. ‘Moray’s bear,’ the clerks at Winchester taunted, bringing Giles a bell to hang upon my neck.” His expression changed and his eyes were distant, as though they looked backward to years long past. “I lay upon my pallet at night, planning for the day I’d go back with axe instead of pen to still their laughter.” He stopped, then settled his shoulders. “But who could blame them? I ask ye, for I grew far too fast for grace, making me a clumsy fellow. ’Tis nae a wonder they laughed at one whose gown came halfway to his knees, is it?”
“But it pained you,” she decided.
“Aye. Words are like arrows, ye know: Ill-loosed they wound, leaving scars behind. I once stabbed a fellow with my pen knife, wishing it were a dagger, for the words he’d fired at me.”
“Twas wrong of them to make you a clerk, when ’tis plain you were destined for a warrior.”
“Nay, I do not fault them for that, for I learned much from copying my lessons.” He shrugged, resettling his broad shoulders. “Though King Henry gave me no thought, ’twas his gift that I learned to read, and ’tis all I thank him for.”
She felt a stab of envy that she, who was better-born than he, could make naught but a mark for her name. It was easier to think on the pain he’d revealed, for in that they were equal. She reached to touch the cold steel links that covered his arm.
“ ’Twould seem you and Jamie have shared more than you would admit, my lord, for he also is taunted for what he cannot help,” she said softly.
Sweet Jesu, but why did every thought come back to the boy? She could not even give him freely of her sympathy without speaking of James of Whatever. In the guise of adjusting his reins, he moved his arm away.
“Nay, ’tis more the reason he must learn strength also. The more ye coddle him, the greater target ye make of him.”
“Unlike you, he cannot grow beyond the taunts,” she reminded him. “He—”
“And he doesna learn to look to himself, ye make him prisoner to ye.” He lifted his hand as though he would silence her, then stood in his saddle to study the keep ahead. “And ye look now, ye can see the tower is goodly size,” he told her proudly, directing her thoughts away from the boy. “Aye, Old Robert has even roofed it with slate rather than thatch, so ’twill not be so easily burned.”
“ ’Tis fine.”
Aware by her change in manner that he’d been too critical about the boy, he sought to make amends. “When we are settled within, I’d have ye determine what ye’d have for yer comfort. Elizabeth said to send to her for aught ye need, and I told her ye would.” When she made no answer he went on conversationally, “Ye’ll find the walls are not damp, despite the clime. And beyond the tower”—he stopped to point along the line of the wall—“the garden is at the end. I am told ’tis filled with enough herbs and flowers for yer simples.” Twisting in his saddle to look at her, he smiled. “Aye, and though I canna claim any great knowledge of them, I can tell ye there’s roses and gillyflowers as blooms in plenty come summer.” His arm made a circling motion, encompassing the area around them. “And out here, the heather blooms until the hillsides are purple with it.”
He reined in and leaned forward, bracing himself against the high pommel, drinking in the sight of his keep. His keep. Never in all the years of Giles’ exile, never in all the years since, had he ever expected to rule anything. “Och, but I would that my dam had lived t’ see this,” he murmured. “She’d nae ha believed it else she touched it, I expect.”
It was the first time Arabella had considered that he’d had a mother. “She is long dead?” she asked gently.
“Aye. When the Moray came to Dunashie for Giles’ mother, they killed mine, saying she was naught but my father’s whore,” he recalled bitterly. “I’d hae counted it justice when Judith of Moray died, but she’d just birthed Giles then, and ’twas a hard thing for him. She left him to be despised with me.”
“She was wed to your father—Judith of Moray, I mean?”
“Aye. He looked high, my sire, when he looked to the Moray, and when they said nay, he took her away. By the time they came to claim her back ’twas over-late, for she was filled with Iain of Dunashie’s child.” He exhaled. “My sire was but a Scots-born borderer of low repute, ye see, and they took pride in being Normans of the lineage of de Maurais. ’Twas an insult not to be suffered, they said when they came for her. But in the end Lady Judith died in childbed, and they hanged my sire for it.” His mouth twisted wryly. “My dam was a stout lass, while Lady Judith was small and pretty. ’Tis nae a wonder that he wed her instead. That, and it gave him pride to wed a Moray,” he added, forcing a smile. “Though he dinna live, he passed his pride to Giles, ye know, for Giles wouldna hae any but the daughter of Rivaux.”
“But you were reared by the Moray?”
“Reared?” he snorted derisively. “Nay. When Henry of England would have hostages of Scotland against the raiding, they gave us both into his keeping. And had we been blinded, ’twould have been as naught to them, I can tell ye.” His eyes met hers soberly. “Reared me? Nay, ’twas the lowest of Henry’s court as reared me, Arabella—and ’twas I as reared Giles.”
“But if he was of Moray’s blood …”
“The blood they saw in him was Dunashie’s, and there was none as wanted to be reminded of it. While he languished in England’s household, the Moray did not even stand for Giles when King Alexander of Scotland declared Dunashie forfeit and gave it to Hamon of Blackleith.”
“But surely—”
“And do not think to defend the Moray, Arabella, for they had nae cause for what they did to Giles. They wouldna even support him when he came to reclaim his patrimony. His own grandsire swore before Alexander’s brother David that Giles was born at, but not of, the blood of Moray. But even King David had to acknowledge his birth, for the marriage was recorded in the parish register.” He dropped his eyes, focusing on the muddy road below. “ ’Twas thus that we came to burn Dunashie, and with Hamon’s family in it, no matter what ye may have heard.”
It was the most he’d spoken of his family or of whence he’d come. “Well, it does not matter now,” she consoled him, “
for Lord Giles has Dunashie again, and we are before Blackleith. You have been rewarded for your loyalty, my lord.”
“Aye. And there’s none of Hamon’s family left to dispute it,” he agreed grimly. He clicked his reins, urging his huge destrier forward again. “Blackleith is mine now, and I’d go inside.”
To the last instant Robert of Carnan paced the wall, his thoughts torn between honor and ambition. It was mad what he did, and he knew it, and yet he’d not go from Blackleith tamely. Below, the archers tightened the springs on their crossbows and nocked their arrows in readiness, and still he waited to give the signal.
The shrouded November sun managed to illuminate the distant helmets, making them look like bobbing silver pennies. There were not many: William of Dunashie brought less than twenty men with him. There was no mistaking the Bastard, for even at two furlongs and more his head was visible above the others. Beside him rode a woman.
Robert frowned, recalling the Bastard’s message: Your new lady, Arabella, born of Byrum, wed to me but two days past … ’Twould have been four days now. Not that the time mattered. But there was the matter of Nigel of Byrum: Would he avenge his daughter’s husband? More to the point, would the Butcher avenge his half-brother? He looked down uneasily, wavering in his resolve, for he had not the answers.
His memory hearkened back to the two times Giles of Moray had come to Blackleith, and he strained to recollect how it had been between the Butcher and his brother. Jesu, but then he’d given the giant no notice beyond his size, for he was but another bastard. Nay, but Giles had not even brought him to table with him, as Robert recalled. William of Dunashie had sat amongst the mesnie—’twas why he scarce remembered him. He’d not been overvalued then, and ’twas yet a wonder that Moray had seen fit to raise him now.
He tortured his brain for something to tilt the balance one way or the other. What had Father Edmund said but moments before? That ’twas clear as yon pike that the lord of Dunashie wanted rid of his bastard half-brother, for did Elizabeth of Rivaux not breed? And where there were legitimate heirs, there was no room for bastards.
