by Anita Mills
She swung around, holding it up before him proudly. “I’d not have you go again to Dunashie in less, my lord,” she said softly. When he said nothing, she moved closer to fit it at his shoulders. Smoothing the soft fabric over his broad chest, she dared to look up at him. “ ’Tis the finest I have ever made, William.”
He looked down, seeing the richness of the gold thread, the luster of the pearls against the shimmering blue of the velvet, and he was overwhelmed that she’d fashioned it for him. The time it must have taken, the care she’d lavished on the intricate embroidery, the money she’d spent—’twas beyond any expectation. His eyes burned with unshed tears. “ ’Tis the finest I have ever had—I swear it.” His voice broke for a moment, then he managed to clear his throat. “Aye—I’d wear it to Mass tonight.” While she still held it against him, he lifted his hand to touch the softness. “Ye gie me more than my station warrants, Bella.”
“Nay. You are the lord of Blackleith, William of Dunashie. I’d have you wear it for the blessing of the hall, and you do not mind it.”
He touched the embroidered flowers lightly, feeling the pearls against the metallic thread. “Aye. Ye surround me with roses, don’t ye?”
“You said you liked them,” she reminded him.
“More than any other—better than the gillyflowers or the heather in the spring. Aye, better than the bluebells on the hills.” His smile again warmed his eyes, lightening them. “And ye—would ye wear your wedding gown then also?”
She knew then that she’d truly pleased him. “And you wished it,” she answered lightly.
“Well, I’d nae be a fancy fellow alone,” he countered, his smile broadening even more. “Aye—I’d like it.”
She nodded. “I’d rather wear it here than at Dunashie.”
He took the tunic from her hands. “Whilst ye tend to the other, I’d try it for the fit.”
She moved away to clean herself. Pouring a small amount of water into the basin, she dipped a cloth into it. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see him remove his plain woolen shert and lay it aside. Then, with as much care as if he handled Christ’s altar cloth, he eased the blue velvet over his head. Still watching him, she lifted her skirt and thrust the wet cloth between her legs to wash. He was tugging the tunic down to his knees. He straightened, then wiped his hands on his discarded shert before he smoothed them over the soft fabric. Aye, he was more pleased than she’d ever seen him.
She dropped the cloth into the basin and let her skirt fall. It was now, if at all, she told herself, sucking in her breath for courage. Surely after what had passed between them, after the gift she’d given him, he could not deny her.
“My lord …”
He looked across at her. “ ’Tis a good fit.”
“My lord, ’tis Christmas and I … I’d have your kindness for my son.”
The warmth in his eyes faded to wariness. “I have not forgotten him,” he muttered defensively, recalling an earlier confrontation with Ewan. He’d disputed it then, but now mayhap his man was right. “Aye—I have spoken to Ewan, and ’tis decided he will teach the boy to ride. I’d give James a small horse.”
For a moment, her purpose was forgotten. “A horse? A horse?” Her voice rose incredulously. “But he cannot ride!”
“Ewan says if a new cantle and pommel are seated on a saddle, he can.”
“Ewan!” She fairly spat the word. “Jesu! And what does Ewan know of it? He’ll fall!”
“And the boy cannot learn, there is the cart. The horse is but a small beast, after all, and can pull a cart.”
She stared, realizing he meant it. “You cannot give a child who cannot even walk a horse,” she said evenly.
“He canna sit forever!” he retorted, stung by her rejection of his generosity. “And he canna be carried forever!”
“He is but six!”
“And next year he will be seven! And the year after, eight! Aye, and ten years from now, sixteen! God’s bones, Bella, but what would you he did?”
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. It would do no good to dispute with him, and well she knew it. “My lord,” she began again, measuring her words carefully. “I am James of Woolford’s mother. Yet you would deny me the right to care for him, to succor him.” She held out her hands, palms up in supplication. “I accept that he sleeps with this Ewan, but I’d have him about me by day. I’d have him about me whilst I work with the women.” She licked her lips nervously when he did not answer, then she blurted out, “Aye, and I’d not leave him when we go to Dunashie, my lord.”
“Bella …”
“If ’tis that you mislike him for what he cannot help, ’tis wrong of you, my lord. Are you as hard of heart as the rest? Can you not see him for what he is? One small boy whose need for love is greater than any other’s?”
“Whether he goes to Dunashie or no has naught to do with misliking. There is no reason for him to go.”
“Is it not reason enough that I ask it?” she demanded, her voice again rising. “Why will you not even look on him? What is there about him that you would not see? Is it his leg? ’Tis a shame on you if so, for he is blameless!”
“ ’Tis not his leg! Have done, Bella—I’d not speak of this!”
“Then what? You said you would accept him, but you have not!”
“I am giving him a horse!”
“A horse! Why? So he can. fall and die? So he can ride when you send him away?”
“You speak nonsense, woman!”
“You cannot deny you despise my son!”
“I deny it!”
“Then give him back to me! My lord, you promised I could bring him here! You promised to welcome him!”
“He is below. He eats of my bread and wears the clothes my money has bought him. You have no right to charge me thus, Bella!” He turned away and tried to speak more calmly. “I’d not quarrel with you over the boy—not at Christmas.”
“Then let him come with us to Dunashie, my lord. Give him proof that you accept him! Do not be as the others, William, I pray you.”
“Jesu, woman, but you know not what you ask—I have said he does not go! D’ye hear me this last time? He does not go, Bella!”
For all that she would try, he was as unyielding as the thick stone wall behind him. Her anger rose, making her reckless. Walking up to him, she caught at his velvet sleeve, pulling it. “Why? What is it about my son that you hate so much that you cannot bear to have him in my company? William, I have done all that I know to please you: I have lain whenever, however you would have me, I have cleaned your hall, I have sewed for you—and still you would deny me! I would that I had not made this for you, for you do not deserve it!”
He wanted to shout back that he was more than she deserved, that he knew about Aidan of Ayrie—but he could not bring himself to say the words. For all that he was angered with her now, he’d still not have that between them. As much as his knowledge of Aidan ate at his soul, he did not want to hear the other man’s name on her lips. He shook free, and started to leave.
“I will come back when you are calm, Bella,” he muttered.
“Am I nothing to you? Is there naught between us but the bedding?” she cried, moving in front of him.
“There would be more and you’d let it, but there is room for none but your Jamie in your heart, and well you know it! Never is it William, is it? ’Tis always Jamie—everything you have done for me has been for him! Nay, do not deny it—I’d nae have ye lie to me, Bella!”
She stared after him through scalding tears. “All I ask is your kindness for my son,” she managed, speaking in little more than a whisper.
“Kindness has naught to do with this!”
“Giles of Moray has seen Jamie, my lord. He knows what he is, and he did not turn from him.” When he said nothing she charged bitterly, “You are like my father, William. You would hide my son that he can be forgotten, wouldn’t you? Sweet Mary, but do you think that Elizabeth of Riv
aux will think less of me for him? If ’tis so, I’d not know her—I’d not go to Dunashie with you.”
She was so close to the truth that it shamed him, but he shook his head. “ ’Tis that I’d nae take him to Dunashie, ’tis all,” he answered defensively. “The ride would be too difficult for him, Bella. Anything beyond that is your fancy and nothing more.”
“You cannot love me and hate my son!”
He raised his arm as though he’d strike her, then dropped it. “I’d not listen to this! Get out of my way, woman!”
She’d lost, and she knew it. She stepped back to let him go. For all that she’d done to please him, he still thought she asked too much. As he threw the bar so savagely that it cracked against the stone wall, she crossed the chamber to put away her sewing box, then sank upon the bench. For all that she’d tried, she’d failed. For all that she would love him, he did not want anything of her but her body, and he was willing to give her nothing in return. Her fingers crept to the empty chain that hung around her neck, feeling of it. Despite all the sweet words he’d spoken in passion, he’d not even given her the stone he’d promised ere they were wed.
Tears of self-pity, mingled with those of anger and despair, now coursed unchecked down her cheeks. Once it would have been enough that he did not beat her, but now she’d have him love her and her small son. But for all that she had tried, she could not make him do that. Her body, her labor, her care for him, all were as naught when she would ask but one favor of him.
“Gentle lady …”
She looked up, seeing the priest through her tears, and thought she could not bear his company. She swallowed hard, then spoke in little more than a whisper. “I would that you went away, Father, for I am sorely tried.”
He’d come up to inquire whether they would have the hall blessed now or later, but when he’d encountered William on the stairs the big man had growled “Ask her” ere he’d brushed past him. Obviously, all was not well between the Bastard and Arabella of Byrum. Instead of leaving, Walter moved closer.
“I’d aid you, lady, and you’d let me,” he said gently, reaching to touch her hair. It was like silk beneath his fingers. “I’d share your burden, lightening it, and you’d let me.”
“There’s naught any can do, Father. For all that I have prayed for it, William has no love for me or for my son!”
“Nay, daughter—so long as I am with you, God is with you also.” His fingertips traced the curves of her braids lightly, then rested on her crown. “Come—tell me how it is that you are troubled,” he coaxed. “And then we will pray for God’s deliverance.”
“Is it wrong to want to be loved, Father? Is it wrong to hope for that which I have never had?” Before he could answer, she burst into tears anew. “Sweet Jesu, but I am the most miserable of women, Father!”
As she leaned forward Walter pressed her head into his heavy winter cassock, holding her and stroking her braids against her back. It was as close as he’d ever been to a woman, and he savored the feel, the warmth, the scent of her until he ached. As she cried against him, he dared to think of what it would be like to take her.
“Nay, Arabella,” he whispered softly, “William of Dunashie is not worth the grief he gives you. When he is gone, there will be another to love you.” As he spoke, his hands dropped to caress her shoulders. “Arabella …”
She became aware that his manner had changed, that his touch was more lover-like, and she straightened, sitting back upon the bench, disappointing him. Wiping her wet face with her hand, she managed shakily, “I thank you for your kindness, Father, for there are days when I should perish without it.” Looking upward, she caught the warmth in his eyes ere it faded. Telling herself it was but her fancy, she managed a weak smile. “ ’Twas foolish of me to think a new tunic would change his mind, after all.”
He forced himself to step back. “So you have quarreled with him over the boy,” he decided.
“Aye.”
“Does he send him away?”
“Nay, but still he does not take him to Dunashie with us. He is as ashamed of Jamie as Papa was.” Unwilling to tell him more of her dispute with William, she inhaled deeply, then sighed. “ ’Tis poor Christmas cheer I give you, Father Edmund. Tell me: Is all in readiness below?”
The moment of intimacy between them had passed, Walter realized with more than a trace of regret. Telling himself he’d at least made a beginning, he assured her, “ ’Tis ready whenever you choose to come down, gentle lady. Your winter roses bloom above a hundred waxen candles. Do you come down to see them with me?”
“Nay.” She looked down to where her hands twisted the wool of her gown. “Not yet, Father. I’d change my gown first.”
Heedless of those who would seek speech with him, William crossed the courtyard, hunching his shoulders against the bitter, howling wind. Tiny ice crystals hit his face like sand, but he was too angered to notice. The villeins who’d crowded into Blackleith huddled about small fires as they waited for festivities to begin. Most looked up, saw his scowl, and turned back to the fire. Only a fool would try to gain the notice of the Bastard in high temper, they murmured in agreement amongst themselves.
He’d not wanted this quarrel—he’d even been prepared to give her the green stone. But not now. Not when he now realized that no matter what she did, it was not really for him at all. All of it—the hall, the tunic, mayhap the very passion she gave him—was but a means to her: a means to make him accept her brat. She had no right to expect him to like Aidan’s son, to welcome this living proof of her sin, this constant reminder that she’d lain for another outside her marriage bed.
Jesu, but did she take him for a fool? Did she think him so dull-witted that he did not know what she did? Did she think she could lead him by his nether parts? Well, she could not. Whether she gave him peace or no, he’d rule in his own house.
But as his stride lengthened, her words echoed in his ears: I’d have your kindness for my son. Why will you not even look on him? Why will you not even look on him ? Why will you not even look on him ? You are like my father…. You are like my father….
He was not like Nigel of Byrum, and he resented that she would accuse him of it. If he did not look on the boy willingly, ’twas not for the reasons she believed. He could not see James without wondering about Aidan of Ayrie, about the passion that had conceived the lame child. He could not see James and still love Arabella, for then he would have to remember she’d lain with Aidan of Ayrie. When he spared no thought to the boy he could hold Arabella in his arms and believe she was what he would have her, a chaste wife who would lie with no other.
She’d been unjust in her accusations, for he’d not been unkind. For all that she was bitter over it he’d done well, aye, better than most would have, for Arabella’s pitiful son. He’d given him the company of a man who did not turn away in disgust, who did not complain overmuch about him. And if the truth be told Ewan was good for young James, for he did not coddle him. ’Twas Ewan who’d said he believed the boy could learn to ride, and ’twas Ewan who would teach him. Left to Arabella, James of Woolford or Whatever would be naught but a helpless, useless creature.
Nay, she wronged him. He was not unkind to the boy. Unkindness required discourse, after all, and between him and James there was nearly none. Not once had he raised his hand to the child, not once had he shouted at him. Instead he’d spent money for new robes and shoes for him, he recalled with growing resentment. Nor had he complained when she’d ordered expensive dates to tempt the frail boy’s appetite, though he supposed she did not know he knew. There was much she bought for her precious Jamie that he could have refused her, that he could have quarreled over, but he had not. And he’d paid Father Edmund an extra two shillings to teach the boy. Had he been truly unkind he’d have sent the child away, he’d have hidden James in some distant monastery where he did not have to look on him.
But he could not deny that the boy was sickly and frail, a child greatly t
o be pitied, and when he was out of sight William did not truly mind the expense of him. Separate from Arabella he would have touched William’s heart, but there was no separating the boy from her. Not knowing that her husband knew, she would flaunt the living proof of her sin before him.
His thoughts seething on the injustice she’d done him, he scarce realized he’d reached Blackleith’s chapel until he was at the door. He let himself in the door and stood in the dim, musty greyness, blinking his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The small nave was empty, deserted as of yet for the greater warmth of Blackleith’s hall. In front, at either side of the altar rail, candles flickered, carrying prayers heavenward on tiny curls of smoke. Above, the sleet rattled the tin roof against the rough-hewn beams supporting it, and the wind banged the shutters over the high-placed windows. Some day, and God willed it, he’d have glass for his chapel, glass like the thick green panes at Dunashie. But for now it was enough that he was alone within the narrow nave.
Despite the crudeness of the room, despite the rows of crude benches that faced the rail, despite the musty dampness, there was a sense of sanctity here. There was an odor of holiness to the place. Mayhap it was the silence, mayhap it was the smell of freshly hung boughs of fir, but there was an odor of holiness here.
His footsteps echoed through the silence as he walked toward the altar rail. The scent of wax and incense mingled with the steam of his breath. He knelt, looking upward to the crudely carved statue of the Blessed Virgin holding an infant Christ. Seeking refuge from his anger he began whispering his prayers, beginning with the Pater Noster and then continuing with his customary appeals to Sts. Andrew and Columba, and finally to the Virgin herself.
“Blessed Mother, I’d have your aid. I’d have peace in mine house … aye, and I’d have peace within myself,” he began, groping for the words to explain that which he was not certain he understood himself. “When I took Arabella of Byrum I knew she came not pure to me, but still I would have her for her beauty. For all that, my pride cannot accept what she has done, and every time I look upon her son I am reminded of it. Every time I see him, I think that I must appear the great fool to all. Still, I’d ask that ye grant me the will to accept what she has done, that I may forgive her, else I will have no peace in mine heart either.”
