Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “You seek me, my lord?”

  William spun around at the sound of the priest’s voice, to find him standing in the doorway. “Aye.” He gestured to the sparsely furnished room. Perceiving a certain contempt in the man’s gaze, he forced himself to speak properly. “You do not seem to require overmuch. ’Tis clean for a man.”

  Walter smiled briefly, but his eyes were cold. “The monks taught me cleanliness at Kelso.”

  “And yet you did not stay there. You chose the life of priest over that of a monk.” Will’s gaze moved over the bare walls. “You have not even a Cross here.”

  “I moved it outside, hanging it above the chapel door, my lord.” Again there was that faint smile that did not warm his eyes. “I do not need it to remind me of my purpose here.” He moved closer to face Will. “But you did not come to inspect my humble room, surely?”

  “I am come to discuss James of Woolford, Father. I’d know how he does.”

  “Poorly. He has not the mind for it.” Walter’s lip curled disdainfully. “ ’Tis a waste that I make him try.”

  There was that in the priest’s tone that William did not like, and for all that he himself did not love the boy he felt the need to defend Arabella’s son. “Is it that he cannot—or that he will not?” he asked bluntly.

  “I think his brain as weak as his legs, if you would have the truth of it.”

  “It has not been long—mayhap ’twill take him time to learn. As I recall from mine own lessons, there were those who read as though they were born to it, while others mastered the task slowly.”

  “And which were you?” Walter asked.

  “At first it came slowly, but then I did not want to learn at all, Father. In the end I mastered the work, for I’d not have it said that one who was five years younger could do it better than I.”

  “The Butcher?”

  “I’d not have him called thus,” William said coldly. “Giles of Moray does not deserve the name men give him.”

  “He burned Hamon of Blackleith’s keep—e’en at Kelso we heard the tale. ’tis said he is damned for it.”

  “Dunashie was not Hamon’s—’twas Giles’ patrimony that Hamon stole!” Will retorted angrily. “And you would have the truth of the tale ask me, ere you judge what you do not know.”

  Knowing that they would not serve his purpose, Walter bit back bitter words. His eyes flashed momentarily, then the veil lowered over them once more. He shrugged expressively. “Your loyalty to your brother is commendable, my lord, and I’d not dispute what you say, for I know not of him but by repute.”

  “Aye.” William drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “But we spoke of the boy,” he reminded Walter. “ ’Tis early to determine that he cannot learn, and I’d have you attempt the matter still. Mayhap it is that he does not practice what you give him. Learning to read is like fighting the quintains, Father: And you do not do it enough, you cannot do it well.”

  “I have no great hope for him,” Walter muttered. “1 see no use to the boy at all.”

  “Whether we know of it or no, God made him for a purpose,” Will growled. “He doesna make mistakes.”

  “Then how is it He makes a lame boy who will never walk? How is it He makes one who can scarce drag his body through the filthy rushes on the floor? Nay, but there is no purpose to James of Woolford, my lord.”

  “Ye canna know that, Father—’tis not up to man to question God’s will.”

  “And there is a purpose to James of Woolford, I have not seen it,” Walter declared flatly. “ ’Tis a waste to teach him what he would not know.”

  Will regarded his priest intently, and saw the arrogance in the handsome face. It offended him deeply. “You have not the love nor the humility required for your calling, Father,” he said finally. “I see naught of the Savior in you.”

  Walter’s expression never changed. “And I see no love for the boy in you, my lord,” he countered. “Ere you would accuse me, you would do better to look within yourself.”

  “Were it not for your calling, Edmund of Alton, I’d dispute with you most heartily, but for all that I fault you I’d still respect the cassock you wear.”

  Will left his priest, feeling more out of sorts than when he’d found him, for in his eyes Father Edmund’s was the greater sin. After all, a priest promised to love all, serve God, and practice humility in His name, did he not? He had half a mind to write the abbot at Kelso, asking what they taught novices these days. When he looked back, Father Edmund was already returning to the warmth of the hall.

  William started back to his accounts, but halfway across the yard he stopped. If Jamie was not with Ewan and not at his lesson, then he must be with Arabella, or with Ena. And as he had no hope of Father Edmund’s assistance in the matter, he supposed it fell to him to tax the boy about his unwillingness to learn. It was not something he relished, for he could expect that Arabella would come to her son’s defense like a wolf over its cub. But he’d told Ewan he’d do it. Mayhap ’twas that he was too new to this also, but there were times when he wondered if ’twas he who ruled his men or they who ruled him.

  He climbed the steps to the solar slowly, considering what he ought to say to the boy, but each thing that came to mind he discarded as useless for one who could not even walk. What good did it do to tell young James that a man needed to know his letters and his sums, that he would not be cheated in his house? There was no hope that the boy would rule anything. And what good did it do to say that he ought to learn them that he could serve God? ’Twas equally as ludicrous to think James of Woolford would be ordained. But if the child had no hope, there was no reason for anything.

  When he opened the door, Arabella jumped up from the pallet where she played at draughts with Jamie, and for a moment it looked to him as though she sought to shield the boy, moving between them. “Father Edmund finished early,” she offered lamely.

  “I said James could come here after his lessons,” Will muttered, angered that she still could fear him.

  Arabella turned quickly and motioned to the woman who sewed by the fire. “Ena …”

  “Nay. I came to see the boy.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is aught wrong, my lord?”

  “I dinna come to beat him, if ’tis what ye ask.”

  “Nay, I—”

  “And I’d have ye leave us that I may speak to him.”

  “But … my lord, he has done nothing, I swear.”

  “Did I accuse the boy of anything? God’s bones, Bella, but ’tis between him and me!” When she made no move to leave, he walked past her to where the child sat on the pallet. “Well, James, as she willna leave us alone, we’ll go elsewhere ourselves.”

  “But what has he done?” Her voice rose as he leaned to pick up Jamie. “My lord, he is blameless!”

  “If being coddled were a sin, he’d rot in hell, Bella!” William snapped.

  Jamie twisted in his arms almost frantically, leaning as far as he dared. “Mine dagger! I dropped mine dagger ye brought me!”

  Ena looked up, her expression bland despite her mistress’s distress. “He willna sleep without it, my lord.”

  “ ’Tis not to bed that I take him,” Will growled. Nonetheless he stooped low enough for the boy to retrieve the precious knife. As he straightened, his eyes met Arabella’s. “I will bring him back when I am done.”

  “Can you not speak before me?”

  “I told ye: ’Tis between him and me.”

  She had no choice but to stand aside. Telling herself that he’d not harmed her son in six weeks and more, she forced a smile. “And ’tis outside you take him, I’d have you wrap his cloak about him, my lord.”

  “And ye’d leave us in peace, I’d not take him outside,” he retorted. “Nay, he doesna need it.”

  But as they emerged into the yard and the chill air hit them, the boy turned into Will’s shoulder, hugging him for warmth. “I showed it to Black Jock in the scullery, ye know,
and he offered me a fat capon for it!”

  For a moment William did not follow him, then he realized the boy still spoke of the knife. “Och, he did, did he? And what did ye tell him?”

  “I told him the capon wasna his to give—’twas yers. They all want it, ye know.” His arm tightened about the big man’s neck. “Did ye kill the one as had it?”

  “Aye.”

  “I would that I could hae seen it. I would that I’d been there.”

  “ ’Tisna a sport like Hoodman Blind, ye know.”

  “But I’d hae seen ye punish ’em fer what they did to Burwell—I would!”

  “Nay, ye wouldna like it—’tis a bloody business.” He felt the child shiver against him, and instinctively he closed his great arms about the small body, sheltering it against the wind. “Ye kill to protect yerself, then ye pray for them ye killed—there isna any sense to it, Jamie.”

  “But they raided into Scotland!”

  “Aye, and ’tis why ye go after them, else they’d come again and again,” Will conceded. “But it doesna mean ye like it.”

  “I’d like it,” Jamie declared positively. “I know it.”

  On impulse Will carried the boy to the chapel, thinking to set him upon the altar rail where he could look at him as he spoke. It was, he reflected dryly as he pushed the door open, a place where they were nearly certain to be alone. But when he got inside and had Jamie perched before him he hesitated, seeking the words. To the side of them candles glowed, lighting the feet of the Virgin. He cleared his throat to speak as he knew he ought.

  “Ewan says you do not attend your lessons,” he said finally. “ ’Tis not what I’d hear, James. Two silver shillings I have paid Father Edmund that you may learn, and I do not mean for you to waste them.”

  As Will held him on the altar rail, Jamie looked downward to avoid his eyes. “I dinna want to learn it,” he mumbled low.

  “I’d not hear this either. And you could not learn I’d accept it, but if you will not, ’tis another matter. Look at me. And I think ’tis that you do not try, I will ask Father Edmund to apply the rod to your backside, James.”

  “I have no wish to be a priest! I dinna want to learn it!”

  “ ’Tis a godly calling, and I’d not disparage it. Besides, ’tis not a priest I’d ask of you: There are clerks, and—”

  “I’d nae be a clerk neither!” The boy’s eyes swam, and his chin trembled as he lifted his head to face Will. “I’d not!”

  “Jesu, James! Ye’ve got to be what ye can be! God’s bones, but ye—” He caught himself and flushed guiltily. “Nay, James,” he said more kindly, “but ye’ve got to consider that—”

  “Nay! And I must sit and cipher forever, I’d as lief die!” Jamie cried vehemently. “I canna stand it! I canna!”

  This was not what Will had intended, and now there was no easy way to achieve what he’d attempted. As the boy sobbed before him, he groped for words of comfort. “Och, James, but ye mustn’t cry over that which ye canna help,” he said gently. “God made the lion and he made the sparrow, each for a purpose.”

  “I don’t want to be a broken sparrow! I tire of what I am!” His small bosom heaved as he choked back his tears. “Ye canna know how ’tis—I’d not hear what is said of me! I’d not hear the devil made me—I’d not! And I’d not hear Wee Tom nor the others laugh because I canna walk! I would I had died ere I was borned!” Before Will could stop it he had slipped from the altar rail and lay in a sobbing heap at Will’s feet. “I know not why God cursed me!”

  The big man reached down, pulling him up to halfstand before him. “ ’Tis enough, James! Pity yourself and ye are pitied—d’ye hear me?” But even as he said the words, they rang hollow in his own ears. Still he forced himself to go on, speaking harshly: “Think ye are the only one who counts himself a freak, James of Woolford? Look up at me, and see one as has been laughed at since he was twelve! D’ye know what they called me at King Henry’s court? A great fool! The ‘Scots ox’! Ye behold one who was as big then as I am now, James! There wasna a maid as looked and did not laugh at the sight of me!”

  “ ’Tisna the same! Ye could walk!”

  “A freak is a freak!” He lifted the boy higher, holding him until their eyes were level. “Look down, James of Woolford: ’Tis a long way to the ground!”

  For an awful moment the little boy thought he meant to push him, but then William pulled him close and spoke again more gently. “A freak is one who thinks he is. A man is one who learns to use what God gave him, that he prospers.” His hand smoothed the pale hair against the small head. “Be what ye can be, James—’tis all any has the right to ask of ye. ’Tis all your mother or I would ask of ye.” Will half turned his body so that they faced the statue of Mary. “When ye think ye canna stand it, pray for acceptance, and God willing, ’twill come to ye.”

  “I’d pray for two stout legs.”

  “Nay—’tisna how ‘tis done. For years I prayed that I would grow no more, but I dinna stop until ‘twas too late. ’Twas then that I realized these overlarge arms could swing an axe.” When he perceived that the boy was about to cry again, William ruffled his hair. “Och, nae more of that—if God dinna give ye legs, he gave ye a mind to make up for it.”

  The child stared at the Virgin Mary, then shook his head. “Ye canna ken, can ye?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Ye canna ken.”

  “All right, then—aside from the legs, what would you have? A good mind is a treasure also, Jamie.”

  “I dinna want a good mind, neither!” The child swallowed, then raised his eyes to William. “And God answered my prayers I’d be as ye, my lord: I’d be a knight like ye,” he choked out. “I’d be as ye are!”

  The boy’s words hung in the air between them, shaming Will with the implied admiration. He fell silent, for anything more he might say would not serve. His own eyes burned, and he ached from his throat to his breastbone for the child’s pain. He had no answer, nothing to offer that could ease James of Woolford this day. Instead he held the little boy so close that he could feel his heartbeat, and he was reminded of the fact that James was a living, breathing creature with the same hopes and aspirations as any other. The only difference was that he had not the body to live his dreams.

  Whether it was the wind against the metal roof, or whether ’twas his own conscience speaking, Will heard it clearly, a voice to his soul: ’Tis to you he looks, William of Dunashie. ’Tis from you he’d learn. And he heard himself ask of it: What would you that I did for him?

  Above him the wind grew stronger, the cross-rafters groaned, and the shutters banged against the wooden sills. Before him the ever-present candles flickered, then went out—except for one. Its flame bent in the draft until it lay nearly over, then as the wind eased it stood alone again. ’twas the tallest of the candles.

  And again he heard the voice speak to him alone: ’Tis to you he looks, William of Dunashie. ’Tis from you he’d learn. He knew not whence it came, but he knew ’twas not his own. And he knew not what it would have him answer.

  It was then that he realized the boy also spoke to him, his small voice contrite. “I dinna mean to anger ye, my lord—I dinna. And ye will it, I will try to learn. And ye’d let me, I’d please ye.”

  William set him again upon the altar rail and looked into his pale, pinched face, meeting the solemn gaze of his eyes that seemed too large for their setting.

  “ ’Tis a bargain I’d make wi’ ye, Jamie of Woolford,” he heard himself say.

  “Aye.”

  “Nay, hear me before ye answer, for ’tis not an easy thing I’d ask of ye.” Will hesitated, looking upward to the statue of the Blessed Virgin, then back to the boy. “And ye learn your letters of the priest, I’d see ye taught the other also.”

  Hope flared briefly in the boy’s eyes, then reality reasserted itself. “Nay, I canna,” he whispered, looking down. “I canna even walk.”

  “And I canna know if ye can until ye
try, but I am willing to aid ye in the trying, Jamie. When I am back from Dunashie, I am willing to take ye to Edinburgh to see the king’s physicians.”

  “They canna heal me!”

  “ ’Tis for them to tell us. And they canna, then we’ll have to try for ourselves, ye know.” Seeing that the child regarded him gravely now, he went on, “Ewan’s father walked on one leg, James. But it willna be an easy thing to do.”

  “I’d gie mine arm for a leg, my lord.”

  “And how would ye wield a sword then?” William countered. “Nay, but ye’ll use what ye are given. Where’s the dagger?”

  “Here.”

  “I’d hae it—just for now.” Reluctantly, the boy pulled it from his belt and handed it to Will. For a moment William weighed it in his hand, then he held it up before the boy by the tip of the pointed blade so that it formed a cross. “James of Woolford, and ye are willing to suffer for it, I swear ye’ll walk unaided. ’Tis a promise I make ye at peril to mine soul, and I do not keep it. D’ye ken me?”

  “Aye.”

  “And I’d nae have your mother know of it, for she’ll but say ye canna do it—d’ye ken that also?”

  “Aye.”

  “Now—there’s two things as I’d have ye swear to me, James.”

  “I will.”

  “Ye’d best discover what they are first, ye know,” Will observed dryly. “Never promise that which ye willna keep. God forgives what ye canna, but not what ye willna, I think.”

  “Aye.”

  “First, I’d have ye learn your lessons that your mother may be proud of ye.” He paused, waiting for the import of what he’d asked to sink in, then he added.

  “And in the second case, I’d have ye promise to do all the physicians or Ewan or I ask of ye, e’en when it pains ye.”

  “Aye.”

  William held up the knife again. “Then swear it.”

  The boy swallowed, then took a deep breath. As William held the tip, Jamie placed his fingers on the hilt and said haltingly, “I, James, borned at Woolford, swear I will learn mine letters … and that I will learn to walk.”