by Anita Mills
“Aye.”
And then the boy’s face fell, and he looked away. “But I canna ride—I canna ride!”
“Ye have to try first to know it, James. Ye have to try first ere ye say ye canna,” Will told him. “God willing, Ewan will find ye a horse as ye can master.”
“Come on, ye wee pest—I’d go, ere ye ruin my new tunic when ye canna hold it longer.” To Ena Ewan added, “And ye—ye can come with me and ye want, but I’d hae ye stand outside.”
Arabella rose with difficulty, for the room spun, and went to her son. Leaning to kiss him, she murmured, “God keep you safe through the night, sweet son, for you are dear to me.” More than a little overwhelmed by the wine, she crooned softly, “Sweet Jamie, so saft and fair … sweet Jamie with the golden hair …”
“I’d nae be saft, Mama. I am a boy.”
“ ’Tis enough, good people,” Will said, coming up behind her to hold her shoulders. “Until the morrow, James. Ewan, take him to bed.”
It was the signal for all to go, and as they filed out more than one stumbled or lurched from the effects of too much wine. Waiting until William had barred the door after them, Arabella reached to loosen the laces beneath her arms. But her fingers were suddenly clumsy, and the room was strangely atilt. She swayed slightly. A wave of nausea washed over her, making her whole body seem wet. She should have stayed seated.
“Sweet Mary, but I …”
“ ’Twould seem ye had too much of the wine also, mistress.” But as he walked toward her, William was smiling.
“Ena …” She covered her mouth and swallowed valiantly.
“Nay, ye dinna need her, sweeting.”
“My lord, I think I am going to be heartily sick!” The words were scarce out ere she began to retch violently. He caught her at her waist and pushed her toward the empty washing basin. As he watched helplessly, she emptied the liquid from her stomach. With one arm still around her, bracing her, he reached with the other for a cloth.
As the sickness subsided she looked down to where she’d soiled the hem of her wedding gown, and she began to wail, “I’ve ruined it, and I’ll never have another like it! Sweet Mary, I’ve ruined my gown!”
“Shhhhhh.” Still holding her, he managed to pour from the drinking pitcher, wetting the cloth. As he wiped her sweaty face, he tried to soothe her. “Ena can remove the spots, Bella, else we’ll get ye another.”
“ ’Tis the finest I have ever had!” she cried.
“And ’tis but the first of many,” he promised. “Come on—I’d get ye to bed ere ye are chilled. Come,” he coaxed, “ ’tis the drink as oversets ye.”
“ ’Tis Christmas!” she sobbed, clutching at his tunic. “And I’ve ruined my gown!”
“Ye’ll be all right on the morrow, Bella—’tis but that your stomach was too empty for the wine.” He spoke softly, gently, as his fingers worked her laces, loosening them. Leaning her forward over his arm, he pulled the iridescent gown upward and over her head, then down over her arms, turning it inside out ere it fell in a heap at their feet. “There is but the under-tunic, Bella—can you hold your head down that I may take it also?”
“Aye.” Her voice was muffled as the undershift covered her head. “I feel unwell, my lord.”
“Would ye that I got the basin again?”
“Nay.”
He lifted her effortlessly and carried her to bed. Turning back the coverlet and the top feather mattress he thrust her beneath them, then pulled them over her. She rolled over and drew up her knees. The room still seemed to move around her.
He doused the oil lamps, then opened the shutters to look into the yard below. It was quiet now, abandoned by those who’d dance there earlier, and the blazes had become naught but piles of glowing ashes, bits of red against a faery world of shining ice. His gaze traveled to the hills beyond the keep itself and there he saw the many fires that burned still, dotting the crests where they met the sky, appearing like dozens of the stars they were meant to represent. The beauty of it was almost too great.
Briefly he considered saying his prayers ere he retired, then he discarded the notion. Tonight ’twas deeds rather than words that had mattered. He’d held Arabella’s son with little more than a passing thought to the boy’s father, and it had made him feel good. He reshuttered the windows and turned to undress by the waning fire. Then, shivering from the cold air he’d let into the room, he crawled beneath the cover and rolled to warm himself against Arabella’s back.
“I am not much good to you tonight,” she mumbled miserably, “but—”
His hand smoothed a braid that hung over her shoulder. “Nay, Bella—this night ’tis enough that I hold you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Despite the bitter cold, Arabella followed William into the yard as Young Wat led the pony from the stable. She eyed the beast with great misgiving, biting back words of fear. But she dared not speak openly against what they did, for William had told Ewan to bring Jamie to her every afternoon after Father Edmund’s lessons. The rest of the time he was to be under Ewan’s guidance still. The Christmas dispute had been settled thus, and she had to count it a victory, however small.
Across the open area she watched Ewan hand her son to Nib, then turn to lift the saddle onto the pony’s back. It was a strange wooden affair, padded with wool and covered withal in stout cloth, with scarce room to sit between a high pommel in front and an even higher cantle behind. On one side hung a stirrup, on the other something that looked like a wide cloth sheath.
There was no mistaking the excitement in the child’s eyes as he watched Ewan seat the saddle and tighten the girth. But as Ewan turned again to him, Jamie’s expression changed to one of fear.
“Come on, ye wee heathen—nay, there’ll be none o’ that now,” the grizzled man chided, lifting him. “Show yer mother as ye are strong, else she’ll think ’tis a wee lass ye be rather than a man.”
“Mama!”
She started forward, but William caught her arm in warning. “Ewan’11 nae let him fall,” he growled.
“Mamaaaaa!”
Even as Jamie screamed the man settled him into the strange saddle, while Nib held the pony’s reins. “Hold the pommel,” Ewan advised, as he adjusted the single stirrup over the boy’s good foot. Satisfied, he shifted the small body back a little against the cantle. “Aye, ’tis a good enough fit fer ye.” Moving to the other side, he lifted Jamie’s useless leg and eased it into the sheath, telling the boy, “See now—’tis secure ye are.”
The boy looked down uneasily. “I’ll fall,” he whimpered.
“Nay, ye willna and ye hold on—there isna anywhere fer ye to go.” Ewan looked to where Arabella and William stood, flashing them a grin. “I’d tie him on and ye want, but I’d nae think he needs it.”
“Tie him on,” Arabella managed hoarsely. “Sweet Mary, but what if… ?”
“Nay, leave him be,” William ordered. “He has to learn he willna fall.”
“Mama!”
“Och, and ye think I’d nae catch ye?” Ewan asked. “Fer shame, Jamie of Woolford! Would ye hae yer mama think ye a bigger bairn than ye are? Go on, Nib—lead him.”
Arabella stood on tiptoe, leaning forward anxiously. “I would you were careful, Ewan!”
Nib o’ Kinmurrie walked slowly, and the pony followed the reins. Beside Jamie the grey-haired man steadied the saddle, then kept a comforting hand on the boy’s leg. At first the child sat still as stone, his face frozen with fright, but as they walked the length of the yard and back his fear gave way to pleasure. By the third time around the courtyard he had raised one of his hands from the pommel to wave at Arabella.
“Mama, I dinna fall!”
“Aye.” She managed to smile, despite the tenseness of her jaw. “Aye, ’tis proud of you I am.” She turned quickly to William. “My lord, ’tis too cold to tarry without.”
He looked down. “Then ye’d best get inside.”
�
��But ’tis too cold for Jamie.”
“Nay. He wears a sturdy cloak.”
“Father Edmund awaits him.”
“Mama! Watch me!”
“And you are chilled, go on,” William urged her. “Ewan will take him to the priest when he is done. You have seen he is safe enough.”
“Mama! Look!”
“Aye.” She walked forward, signaling for Nib to stop. Reaching up, she smoothed die loose chausses over the twisted leg. “Aye, Jamie, ’tis well you have done this day, but I’d not have you forget your lessons.”
His small face fell. “But Mama …”
“Now that you have a horse of your own, I am sure Ewan will bring you out often.”
“Bella …”
“Look at you, Jamie—’tis chilled you are,” she insisted.
“Nay, I am not cold at all.”
“Walk him around again, Nib.” Will came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come inside, Bella. You worry overmuch, and I’ll not have it.” He leaned past her to slap the pony’s rump, and it lunged forward. The boy squealed as Nib broke into a trot to keep up with the animal. “God willing, he’ll like it enough to try again.”
“And if he falls?”
“If he falls, Ewan will put him up again. But he won’t fall from that.”
“You cannot know it.”
“ ’Tis time you had another babe. You’ve swaddled this one overlong.” She looked up to dispute it, then caught the warmth in his eyes. “Ye canna say I am unwilling to try, can ye?” he added softly.
“I thank you for your kindness to Jamie this day,” she murmured, mistaking his meaning.
“ ’Twas not what I meant, and well you know it.” He lifted an errant strand of her hair and tucked it beneath her veil. “Aye, I’d make a son of mine own, Bella.”
Despite the cold, the now familiar heat coursed through her. “Now?” she asked weakly. “Ena—”
“I’d have you send her away.”
Father Edmund waited for her already, but there was that in William’s eyes that promised far more than letters. For a moment she looked to where Nib had started yet another circle around the yard, then she raised her gaze to her husband’s once more.
“ ’Tis too cold to send her to aid Ewan.”
“Let her get sweetcakes and spiced wine for them.”
“She’ll know what we do,” she protested, prolonging the moment.
“Do you care?” he countered, tracing the line of her jaw lightly with a fingertip. “What say ye, Bella?”
“Aye.”
“Will!” There was a hesitation, then, “My lord!” Lang Gib’s voice carried through the heavy door. “ ’Tis Burwell—the murdering English have raided Burwell!”
“Jesu!” William rolled from between the feather mattresses to sit on the edge of the rope-hung bed. Groping in the darkness for his chausses, he shouted back, “When?”
“Scarce hours ago—it burns still! Kenneth comes sorely wounded, asking for aid. They fired the door to his tower, smoking the garrison there, then cut them down as they fled, leaving him for dead and taking those as survived to ransom! Aye, and they have driven off his sheep and cows as well!”
“Jesu, but they are a lawless lot,” Will muttered, pulling on the stockings and tying them. “ ’Tis not even Epiphany yet! This time ’tis Burwell, but who’s to say it won’t be Blackleith the next? God’s bones, but I’d stop them ere they think to come again.”
Arabella scrambled from the bed and pulled on her gown to cover her nakedness. “I’ll arm you,” she offered quickly, moving to light a straw from the coals in the brazier.
“Aye. Gather up ten others, making six of them archers,” he ordered Gib, unbarring the door. “I’d take no more, for I’d not leave Blackleith undefended.”
Turning around, Arabella touched the small flame to the floating wicks in the cresset lamps. The waxed strings caught, flaring briefly, then flickered, chasing shadows over her face. Without looking up, she addressed Lang Gib.
“And you have need of the fresh loaves from the bakehouse, take them, for we can fire the ovens anew come morning.”
“Aye.” Gib hesitated, then blurted out to William, “I’d take Ewan, my lord, for he knows both sides of the border.”
“Tell him to give the boy over to Ena.” Leaning down to find his garters and boots, William looked over at Arabella. “He can pallet with her this night.”
“Aye.”
“We’ll await ye in the yard, my lord,” Gib promised. “I have but to arm myself.”
While William finished dressing, Arabella hastened to pull his padded gambeson from one of the wooden boxes that lined a wall. As soon as he’d straightened his linen undertunic at the hips, she hung the gambeson over his neck and waited for him to thrust his arms upward. He smoothed it over his body while she searched again for his cuir bouilli, and finding the boiled leather garment she carried it back to him. He sat while she laced it for him, tightening it until it fit like a hard leather case over his back and chest.
A boy ran up the stairs to watch, and Arabella ordered him curtly, “Fetch my lord’s mail—’tis in the farthest box.” Dropping to her knees, she wrapped the leather garters over William’s chausses, tying the ends and tucking them under. Then she waited for him to pull on his heavy boots.
Taking the heavy hauberk from the boy, she managed to lift it over her husband’s head and work the kinks from the metal links as it fell downward over his chest. He stood for her to pull it over his hips while he adjusted the sleeves. The boy waited with the leather cap and coif. William forced the cap over his thick hair and fastened it beneath his chin, then ducked so that Arabella might slip the mail coif onto his head, smoothing the cold links and hooking it to the hauberk at the shoulders. That done, she held out his woolen overtunic to him. He pulled it over all the rest and waited for her to lace the neck.
“You’ll freeze,” she muttered, as her fingers worked deftly.
“Aye,” he agreed grimly. “War is a cold business in winter.”
There was a moment of awkwardness, a moment when she could scarce conceal her fear for him. “How far do you pursue them?”
“Until they are punished.”
Then, perceiving she regarded him anxiously, he caught her hand and held it against his beard-roughened cheek. “ ’Twill nae take overlong, I promise ye, for they canna flee fast with animals and prisoners.”
“But you are not many,” she cautioned him. “And knowing those who came to Woolford, I can say the English are as treacherous as any. They are like to lie in wait for those who pursue.”
“ ’Tis I who mean to wait for them, Bella. The surprise is theirs, for ’tis faster I can travel than they.” Though his face was grim, his eyes warmed briefly when they met hers. “Aye—they’ll nae cross the Cheviots before me.”
“You cannot know how they will go.”
“ ’Tis Burwell they have raided, and they’ll nae want to tarry this side of the border. Unless they’d do leagues beyond their way, they’ll keep to the road southward.” He rubbed his cheek against the palm of her hand. “I, on the other hand, am not impeded by booty like they. And as Burwell lies eastward, I’d cross the river ere I cut south. By the time they are come, mine archers will lie in wait.”
It sounded so simple, and yet she knew the risks. “And Kenneth of Burwell? What of him?”
“I’d hae ye tend him.” He rose and took his helmet from the serving boy. Jamming it on his head, he adjusted the nasal to cover his nose, then reached to take his heavy gloves. “And after, I’d hae ye get back to bed, for ye need the rest and ’tis still dark outside.” He started for the door. “God willing, I’ll be back shortly after the next nightfall.”
“Wait—do you send for aid to your brother at Dunashie?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nay—’tis too close to Elizabeth’s lying-in, and I’d not have it said that I could not
ride without him.”
She moved to look up at him. In his helm and mail he was huge, towering like the giant he was called, but for all that she knew he was as mortal as any other. And men fell in border skirmishes as often as in battle.
“My lord …”
“Aye?”
“God aid and keep you, William.”
“Aye.”
Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes and her lower lip trembled, but somehow she managed to smile. For a long moment he stared into her upturned face, seeing not the tangled hair or the face still imprinted with wrinkled bed covers, but rather the fear her eyes held for him. And he knew if he lived another score of years he’d not forget the way she looked at him, for it was the first time he had dared to think she might love him.
“Bella, I do not kill easily,” he said softly, taking her into his arms. “You behold a man who has faced the English a hundred times and more.”
She leaned into him, clutching his tunic, smelling the oiled steel and leather beneath, savoring the strength of his arms about her. “Still, I would you took care for me,” she whispered against his chest.
“Aye.”
“My lord… ?”
“ ’Twas Lang Gib come for him. Heedless of what the man would think, Arabella rose on tiptoe to brush her lips against William’s, and then she broke away.
“Godspeed, my lord.”
“Lady, Father Edmund is with Kenneth of Burwell now, for he bleeds heavily,” Gib told her. “He asks that you bring your needle with ye when ye come down.”
“Sweet Mary—aye.”
“You’d best tend Kenneth ere he is a dead man,” Will advised. “And dinna be worrying for me,” he added, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile. “Have a care for yourself, ye hear?”
She nodded. Turning to look for her sewing box, she heard him ask Gib if all was ready, but Gib’s answer was lost in the sound of their footsteps on the stone stairs. “Mother Mary, grant him a safe return to me,” she prayed under her breath, as she bent to retrieve the box from beneath a bench.
William met Ewan carrying a sleepy Jamie up from below. “Ena gathers food, my lord,” he told him, “and I’d take the boy to Lady Arabella, unless ye mind it. There’s been nae time to arm myself.”
