by Anita Mills
“Nay. Sim says he was lying upon the floor, his whole body a-tremble, and when Sim would know what happened he couldna answer.”
“Then ’twould seem he has suffered a fit.”
“Would ye shrive him, Father?”
“Aye.” Walter hesitated, delaying. “Go on—I will come as soon as I can get the water I have brought from Kelso.”
There was the sound of stumbling feet, as those roused by the guard’s shouts emerged from the common room. “God’s bones, but ye wake the saints!” someone carrying a torch complained.
“ ’Tis Tom—Sim says he is dying!”
“Dying? Nay, at supper he was all right, I can tell ye.”
“He canna speak now!”
“He was as hale as ye or me,” another protested.
“My son,” Walter reminded them solemnly, “we know not whence God will send for us—’tis why our souls must be constantly mended in readiness.”
Arabella looked around her and made up her mind. “We tarry overlong when haste will serve best. Whilst Father Edmund fetches the holy water, I will see to this man.”
“You, lady?”
When they turned to stare suspiciously at her, she nodded. “At Byrum, ’twas I who was skilled at simples.”
“Nay, lady, but he is beyond that,” the fellow who’d come for Walter protested. “ ’Tis a priest he needs.”
“Where is he?”
“In the gatehouse—’twas his watch.”
Not waiting for further protest, she pulled her cloak closer and started back across the yard. “Wake my lord,” she called over her shoulder. “He would know of this.” When none moved toward the tower she snapped, “Now!”
“ ’Tis an ill omen,” someone muttered direly. “First there was the old man as washed up from the river, then ’twas Robert of Carnan, and now ’tis poor Tom. By the Blessed Virgin, but I know not what to make of it.”
“Be content ’tis the third one now, for the Devil chooses them in threes,” his companion whispered, making the sign of the Cross over his breast.
“Nay, the Devil’d nae take Tom, I tell ye. He was a goodly fellow.”
Walter hurried to the small room behind the chapel, where he picked up the vial of water. Stopping briefly, he swept the dried black berries off the table into his hand, then tossed them into the fire. They popped loudly for a moment, and the flames brightened. Then it was as before. And so ’twas with life, Walter observed pithily ere he passed from the room.
“Nay, Father, but ye be too late,” Sim murmured sorrowfully when he reached the tiny, crowded room.
Walter knelt beside the dead man, and dipping his fingers into the holy water, he made the sign of the Cross on Muckle Mou’ Tom’s forehead. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commend your soul to God, whence it was given. May He from whom all things good and glorious come grant you the peace of heaven. Amen.” As he pronounced the last word, he closed the sightless eyes.
A chorus of “amens” followed.
“Here now—what goes?” His hair rumpled from sleep, his chausses bagging ungartered, William pushed his way into the tiny guardroom. He stopped when he saw the body. “Who found him?”
“ ’Twas I, my lord,” the one called Sim spoke up. “ ’Twas my time to take his place, and when I came he was lying there, and his limbs was twitching. I knelt down to speak with him, but he couldna make a sound.” He looked up at Will. “I thought he’d been struck a blow, but there wasna a mark I could see.”
“ ’Twould seem he was taken by a fit, my lord,” Walter observed, rising.
“In the end, he couldna move or speak,” Sim offered yet again.
“Did you shrive him?” Will asked Walter.
“I could not confess him, but I commended his soul to God, my lord.”
“Aye.” Will’s gaze moved to Arabella, but if he was surprised or angered to see her there he gave no sign. “ ’Tis late, and naught more’s to be done ere morning, then. On the morrow Father Edmund will say Mass for this man’s soul, and I’d have all attend.” As he spoke, he possessed her elbow. “And you, mistress … ’tis overlate for you to be in the night air, for ’tis unhealthy.”
She’d been about to admit she’d gone to see Jamie, when the priest spoke up. “The place is yet new to her, my lord, and she lost her way in the dark.”
It was not until they were alone on the stairs that William spoke again. “And you have the need, Arabella, I’d hae you use the chamber pot. For all that they swore to me this day, I’d not forget ’twas also these men who fired on me.”
“Aye.”
“And if you’d know how the boy fares, you have but to ask. I’d have told you he slept, for I saw with mine own eyes ere I came up to bed.”
“I could not sleep else I knew,” she said simply.
“Ewan shows him great kindness.”
“Ewan is a man.”
He stopped on the stairs and turned to tower over her. His eyes reflected the red of the torch that lit the door above, and his aspect would have been frightening had he not been smiling crookedly down on her.
“Och, and ye think ’tis the women who have the only hearts, do ye, Arabella of Byrum?” he asked softly.
“My son needs a mother’s love, my lord.”
“Nay. He has the greater need of a man’s example. He needs to be dared to try.” He turned back and climbed again.
“Why do you hate him, my lord?” she whispered to his back. “Is it that he is lame? Are you like the rest?”
It was not until the heavy door had swung inward, and he had stepped aside to let her pass inside, that he answered. “God makes everything, Arabella—even James. I do but what I think is best for the both of ye.”
The two men who palleted within the door were awake. Will nodded to the first. “Och, but a man suffered a fit and died—’twas all. Nay, but I’d have ye take your beds and join the others, for I see no danger now.”
He waited until they had left, then turned to lift the mantle from her shoulders. “I’d thought to spare you this night, for you were overtired from the journey,” he murmured, nuzzling the crown of her hair. “But if ye’ve the strength to be wandering about …” His voice trailed off as his lips traced the line of her neck upward to her ear, sending shivers coursing down her spine. “Come to bed, Bella, and let me warm ye.”
It was not until later, until he slept seated beside her, that she wondered how two so very different men had spoken of God this night. And as she drifted toward sleep herself, she puzzled why it was that the priest had lied for her.
Chapter Eighteen
There was so much to be done in the keep. For the first month, Arabella spent her days seeing to the ordering of a place that had been far too long without a chatelaine. Despite what William had said of it, she considered it nearly a pigsty on the inside. It was, she supposed, that men had different requirements than women. They looked to defense and a few amenities as being all as was needed, whilst ’twas the woman who longed for comfort.
But he’d been right: Aside from the filth, ’twas a pretty place. And filth was one thing that could easily be remedied. Ignoring their grumbling, she ordered every man not otherwise occupied to clean, starting with the hall. The stinking, half-rotted rushes were removed, the wooden floor covered first with sand, to blot up the grease from spilled food, and then scrubbed with a strong solution of limewater to kill the odors. From there she moved upward to the walls, supervising the scouring with stout brushes, the replastering, and finally the laying on of three coats of whitewash to cover the smoke-blackened areas above the torch rings. In a few places the greasy soot still shone through, but overall the result was clean and pleasant. Not finished yet, she then drew a design of leaves and roses and went about the household offering a full set of new clothes to any who could execute it on the whitewashed walls.
“I wouldna know,” Lang Gib murmured, scratching his head as
he looked at the stylized flowers.
“What are they?”
“Roses.” She could see him comparing her crude sketch with his memory. “Not the man-petaled ones,” she hastened to explain. “The single ones that grow wild on the hills.”
He stared again, then smiled. “Aye—but ye’ve got the petal too even, lady.”
“ ’Tis a design,” she retorted peevishly. “And I would have a border painted of them. I’d have you find one who can do this.”
“Ye’ll hae to ask, but I canna think any here …” His voice trailed off doubtfully.
In the end she’d stood on the scaffold herself and taken pieces of charred wood to outline her idea, while the men looked on skeptically. Finally it was Father Edmund who came to her assistance, saying that he’d watched the monks paint upon their manuscripts and that a wall could not be so very different, only larger. There were those who grumbled that their young priest deserted his duties to stand and paint beside her, but Walter told them they’d celebrate with a feast when ’twas done.
And as the chain of leaves took shape the heads stopped shaking, and soon those who had doubted stood back to advise critically when a stem strayed too low upon the wall. In fact when the weather worsened at the beginning of December, some of the more venturesome offered their aid, volunteering to fill in the stylized, squarish petals on her roses.
Eventually she directed them, marveling with them as her vision took colored shape.
On one particular dreary day Ewan brought Jamie to watch, laying a pallet in a corner where the boy could sit and admire. When William said nothing against it the man began bringing the boy for several hours every day, and he and Ena tended him by turns. Jamie watched eagerly, telling any who would grudgingly listen when the flowers did not match. And Arabella took the opportunity to sit with him, fussing over him, plying him with sweetmeats, making a game of their time together.
For the first time in years, she was almost content. It was as close as she’d ever come to that idealized dream she’d cherished before she’d wed Elias. She had a household of her own, she had a husband who did not beat her, and for all that she resented her husband’s interference with Jamie, her son seemed to prosper. Ewan reported that he was eating better than at first, and she could see that he was. Already his thin body was taking on meat, and Ewan jested that soon ’twould have to be a younger, stouter man as carried him about. But for all the kindness the rough borderer showed Jamie, William still scarce noted him. It was as though he wished her son did not exist. And that alone marred her happiness.
There was no question that William took great pride in her. And he took great pride in what she did, for he too stopped several times each day to check the progress of her wall. And when finally the last flower had been painted over the twining leaves, he stood back, smiling his approval.
“Aye—’tis fine,” he assured her. “Ye’ve given me a garden of roses to admire all winter. I’ll warrant there’s none in Christendom with another like it. Winter roses,” he declared, looking around him. Clasping her shoulders he bent over her, drawing in the scent of her hair. “Aye, now I can see as well as smell them.”
“And you do not mind it, I’d make new hangings also,” she murmured, leaning back against him for a better view. As she spoke, she rubbed the side of her nose. “They are pretty,” she decided.
“And I could, I’d pluck one for you.”
He moved his hands possessively over her shoulder, feeling the chain he’d given her. For a moment he considered that he ought to give her the green stone to wear on it. These days past had been the best of his life, he reflected, as he breathed again of the rosewater she wore. Sometimes he feared to wake up and discover ‘twas but a dream that he was lord to his own land, that he had a wife such as this one. Whole days and nights went by when he never gave a thought to his bastard birth or his unworthiness. None of that mattered as much now: He had Blackleith, and he had her. His fingertip slipped beneath the gold chain, lifting it. Aye, come Christmas, he would give her the stone he’d promised before.
He’d not answered about the hangings. She twisted to look up at him. “If we cannot afford the cloth …”
“Nay. I’d have you get what you would, Bella,” he answered. “ ’Tis but that I think you have the greater need yourself. I’d see you make gowns ere you make aught else for Blackleith.”
“I have my brideclothes,” she reminded him.
“Two woolen overtunics and plain undergowns, ’tis all. I’d see you had better.”
“There is my bridal gown—you forget the cloth Rivaux’s daughter sent me.”
“ ’Tis too fine for here. You’ll have to wear it when we go to Dunashie.” He reached to rub the smudge of paint from her nose. “Aye—we go there when Elizabeth is delivered, that I may stand godfather to the babe.” His smile broadened. “ ’Tis her will, ye know,” he murmured, lapsing into his familiar tongue. “I dinna expect it.”
She would see Count Guy’s daughter. She would look as naught beside Elizabeth of Rivaux, and she knew it. “When do we go?” she asked aloud.
“Not until after Christmas. I doubt her babe comes ere Epiphany.” Then, as though he knew her thoughts, he added, “Lest you worry over it, there’s more men there to envy me for you.”
“The bards say she is as fair as Helen.”
His arms tightened around her, pulling her back against him again. “Aye, but there’s barbs aplenty with her beauty, I can tell you. Unlike you, she is a rose with so many thorns ’tis better to admire her from afar.”
“You speak as though you do not like her,” she chided.
“Nay, I like her well enough. For all her airs and tempers she suits her husband, and ’tis all that matters.”
“Well, what think you, my lord?” Walter asked, coming up behind them. “Art pleased?”
“Aye. ’Tis a fine hall you have painted for me, Father.”
“ ’Twas your lady’s design. I did but find the means to aid her. “ As Walter spoke, he smiled.
There was that about the priest William did not like, and yet he had no reason. ’Twas, he supposed, that there was a growing familiarity between the young, comely man and Arabella. Chiding himself that jealousy in any form was a sin, he told himself that it was natural for a woman to seek a confessor. Besides, he already had his knowledge of Aidan of Ayrie to plague his peace, and ’twas enough. At least Edmund, for all his looks and graces, had taken his vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty at Kelso along with the rest. But still it bothered him that no matter how often Edmund of Alton smiled, the warmth never seemed to reach his eyes.
“Aye,” he said abruptly, aware that both watched him curiously. “Aye, Father. And you think it meet, I’d have you bless this hall ere Christmas.”
“I think it fitting, my lord.” Walter looked upward at the bright roses. “And ’tis not overdear, I’d see blessed candles burned for then.”
“I can afford it. When would you have them?”
“On the eve of our Savior’s birth. On Christmas vigil.”
“So be it.”
As pleased as Arabella was at this recognition of her efforts, she’d not cost him so much. “ ’Tis enough to bless it, my lord.”
“Nay, ’tis not,” Will told her. “Were it not so close to Elizabeth’s time, I’d have Giles come to see what you have done to my hall.”
Walter felt the prickles travel down his neck. “Surely he could come without her,” he murmured, trying not to betray his hope. “ ’Tis not overfar.”
“He does not leave her, else he must. ’Tis her first lying in, and he’d not forget ’tis how he lost his mother, I think. Besides, we go there after Epiphany.” William squeezed his wife’s shoulder again, then released her. “ ’Twill serve both purposes: Dunashie’s heir is christened, and I am properly invested before his other vassals.”
Arabella looked to where her son sat playing at dice with Ewan. “My lord, I’d
take Jamie—I’d have him see it,” she said impulsively. “I’d have him see the christening.”
Her words hung there, waiting for his answer. He inhaled sharply then shook his head, knowing he could not do it. The boy would surely remind Giles of her shame. “Nay,” he said finally. “The journey would tire him greatly.” As soon as he’d spoken he could see her stiffen. “Bella, I’d not have the boy sicken,” he added defensively. “ ’Tis better for him here.”
And suddenly it was as though all she’d done at Blackleith had been for naught. “My lord, I’d not go without him. E’en though ’tis Ewan who tends him now, I’d not leave him.”
Unwilling to argue before the priest, William shrugged as though it were no great matter, saying, “As ’tis a month and more, I’d not dispute it this day. Aye, mayhap you can persuade me later, but I think it a foolish risk. Besides, look at him: He is content enough with Ewan.”
That there was a measure of truth in his words rankled. “He has little choice in that, my lord,” she reminded him bitterly.
Grasping for more reasons not to take James of Woolford with them, he remembered also, “ ’Tis time Father Edmund began his lessons, and I’d not have them interrupted.” When they both turned to stare at him, Will nodded. “Aye, I’d see him learn something of use to him. ’Tis wrong to let him sit with naught to do.”
For all his words of comfort to Arabella, Walter could scarce stand the sight of her crippled son. “What would you that I taught him?” he asked carefully. “He appears to know his prayers.”
“As ’tis not likely he will inherit anything of Woolford, I’d have you teach him to read and cipher. And he cannot use his body, I’d see his mind employed.”
A dozen excuses came to Walter’s mind, but he’d spent too much time and effort ingratiating himself with Arabella of Byrum. To deny her brat would not serve him, not when he had hopes of using her trust. “I suppose ’twould do no harm….” he began slowly. “He seems overyoung, but …”
“My lord, he is too young,” Arabella protested, agreeing with Walter. “Surely—”
