Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  As he walked quickly back toward the chapel she hesitated, then hurried after him, thinking that there was yet time to put the pin in Avisa’s shroud—a pagan practice, she supposed, but one that somehow seemed fitting. For all her airs, it was the only thing of value the girl had possessed.

  But Walter went instead into his small room, where he poured himself a cup of wine before moving to stand over the fire in his brazier. Arabella rapped on the door jamb to gain his attention.

  “Father Edmund …”

  He looked up, then beckoned her inside. When she hesitated, he waved his hand toward the table where the precious parchments were rolled. “Ere you say ’tis not meet, I’d say ’tis the same place where you and the boy have studied, Lady Arabella.”

  “I did but come to ask for Avisa’s pin, Father. I’d bury it with her,” she said, moving to face him.

  “We are Christians rather than Vikings, daughter,” he chided. “Leave the things of the living to the living.”

  “They had no heirs.”

  “Nay, but ’twill buy good candles for God’s altar.”

  “I’d still send it with her.”

  For a moment his face darkened as though she’d angered him, then he shrugged and unpinned it, holding it out to her. “ ’Tis a waste, gentle lady, but I’d not deny you.”

  “Bella, what are you doing here?” William demanded from the doorway.

  Her hand closed over the enameled pin as she spun around. “I am come to see Father Edmund.”

  “What is it that you hold?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “What did he give you?”

  “ ’Twas Avisa’s,” she answered, opening her palm for him to see. “I came for it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d put it in the box with her, my lord—I’d let her wear it in eternity.” But he was watching the priest rather than her, and there was no mistaking that he struggled with his temper, for his jaw was tight.

  “Sweet Mary. William, you surely do not think that I … that Father Edmund …”

  “I am come to tell him that he goes to Edinburgh with me, Bella. We will leave at first light on the morrow.”

  She stared, incredulous at first, then her own anger rose, making her reckless. “Why? Is it that he smiles on me? Is it that he is kind to me? For if it is that, then you’d best take Lang Gib with you—aye, and Wat also, and Ewan, and all the rest! Oh, and you’d best not leave any of the scullery boys, or the ostlers either! Take all of them and leave me with naught but the women! Is that what you would have, William?”

  “Lang Gib stays to protect you, as do the others.”

  “Are you not afraid he is too comely? Are you not afraid he will succumb to my wiles also? Jesu, a priest! What you must think me, my lord!”

  “Have done, Bella!”

  “Nay!” She pressed the pin into his hand. “Look at this, William! For all that you never gave me the jewel you promised, do you think I would lie with a priest for this? ’Twas Avisa’s, I tell you!”

  He did not want to quarrel with her before Edmund of Alton. He did not want to quarrel with her at all. “I did not think it.”

  “Aye, you did! You think me no more than a whore, but you will not say it! Say it, William—say it!”

  “Jesu! Art daft, woman!” He caught her roughly by the shoulder and pushed her from the room. “I’d nae hear ye say such things before him!”

  “Ye’d nae hear me say anything!”

  “I’d nae hear ye mock me!” He looked toward the spot where they still filled the graves, and saw that there were none there who had not turned to stare. “ ’Tis not the place for this, Bella,” he muttered, lowering his voice.

  “Where? Where is the place, my lord? And you had your way, I’d say naught but ‘aye’ to you!”

  He raised his fist, then opened it as though he meant to slap her there in the courtyard. The old fear washed over her, fear that she was returning to the hell Elias and Nigel had given her, fear that once again she would know naught but a heavy hand. Fear that she’d carry this babe like the last. And she’d almost rather die than live like that. Still, she managed to meet his eyes without wavering. Finally he dropped his arm and started to walk away from her.

  She caught his sleeve and held on. “You’ve scarce been civil since I spoke with Ayrie’s son, William, and I’d speak of that. I’d have you tell me to my face what you think me!”

  “I’d nae speak of it, Bella! Get you upstairs until you are calm.”

  She could see that everyone watched curiously, and she did not think she could stand their pity. Her pride rose like a gorge in her throat, and beneath her breastbone she ached. She swallowed, then breathed deeply of the cold air, striving to master her own fury.

  “Aye, but you will come with me, William. And you do not, I’d go back to Byrum,” she stated evenly.

  Her words hung between them as he stared hard. “Ye belong at Blackleith. Ye canna leave without cause, and I’d nae let ye.”

  “You are going to Edinburgh.” Tears of anger rather than hurt scalded her eyes. Blinking them back, she told him bitterly, “You make Blackleith the greater Hell for me.”

  “I’d nae stand here disputing for all to see,” he retorted, reaching for her arm. “Ye’ll go up, I said.”

  “Are you not afraid I will tryst with another whilst you are gone?” she gibed, jerking away.

  He followed, not answering her, but she knew he was as angered as she was, and she no longer cared. Whether he beat her or not he would hear her, if she had to shout everything for all to hear. No matter what it cost her, she’d tell him how much he wronged her.

  The steps were steep and she stumbled blindly, falling back into him, but as soon as he righted her she went on. A silent, disapproving Ena awaited her.

  “I’d hae ye get her to bed. The woman’s taken leave of her senses,” he told the tiring maid.

  “Nay—I’d have you leave us,” Arabella ordered her. As Ena slipped past them, she whirled to face her husband. “Behold the whore you have wed, my lord! I’d hear you call me thus to my face!”

  “Keep your voice down, Bella!”

  “ ’Tis what you think of me, is it not? I’d expected more of you, William of Dunashie!”

  “I dinna say it!”

  “You all but accused me after I spoke to Aidan of Ayrie, William! And if you did not say it, you made it plain that you believed the tale!” Too furious to care, she let the tears spill from her eyes and run unchecked down her cheeks.

  “I’ve nae accused ye,” he muttered.

  “Think you I do not know what is in your mind? Think you I cannot remember how it was with Elias, William? He beat me so many times without reason that he marked Jamie! And ’twas for foundless jealousy, nothing more!”

  “I never beat ye…. Ye canna say it.”

  She tugged at the lacings, loosing them, then pulled her gown over her head. Tossing it across the room, she faced him in her thin linen undergown. “Then beat me now!” she shouted at him. “Or do I have too much on to mark me yet? Have I not made it easy enough for you to do it?”

  “In the name of God, Bella, have done! I …”

  She lifted the undergown up and wrenched it off also. As it fell at her feet she stared at him, her bared breasts heaving. “Now? Would you hit me now for what you think I have done? Papa hit me also—too many times to count, William—but I dared to think you were better than they were! I dared to think you could love me! Can you not understand: They hurt me for naught!”

  “I have never hurt ye, Bella! Ye canna say I have!”

  “Nay, there is greater hurt than beating when you mistrust me, when you would have it that I am without honor.” She moved closer, standing before him. “Punish me for what you believe I’ve done, William of Dunashie! And you believe I have lain with Aidan or any other save Elias, beat me for it! ’Tis your right, isn’t it?”

  “I’d not speak of it…. God’s bon
es …”

  “Aye, you will! This night you will!”

  “Bella, I cannot stand it—I cannot stand to think of Ayrie!”

  “You cannot stand it! You cannot stand it!” she fumed. “There is nothing for you to stand, my lord!”

  “I have tried to forgive ye, I swear. Give me time, and I’ll forget about him. ’twas that I dinna know until after—”

  “Forgive me? For what? For the face God gave me? Afore God, William, but I’ve done naught to dishonor you or me! Can you not hear me? You have naught to forgive!”

  “They can hear ye below. Jesu …” His eyes moved over her bared body, and he knew he did not want to quarrel anymore with her. His mouth went dry, and the heat rose within him. “I’d lie with you and forget this, Bella.”

  “I’d be more to you than that, William of Dunashie! You can get a whore for that!” Casting about for the basin and pitcher, she lifted the latter. “D’you burn?” she demanded sarcastically. Before he realized what she meant to do, she flung the water on him. As it dripped from his tunic and ran down his legs, she surveyed him with disgust. “ ’Tis all the ease you will get of me this day. I’d not lay with any who believes me false.”

  “The boy. . . . D’ye deny … ?” He could not bring himself to say the words to her. He combed his wet hair with his fingers and tried to reason with her. “For all that we have shouted at each other I’d have no other, I swear it.”

  “I’d hear you tell me what sin you think I have committed, William. I’d hear it of you.”

  He sucked in his breath, then exhaled fully. “Nay. It matters no more that Aidan got the boy of ye. And ye swear he isna in your thoughts, I’d forget this.”

  “I’d not ask you to forgive or forget, Will. I’d have you believe me blameless.”

  For a long moment he watched the tears spill from her eyes, then he could stand her pain no longer. He tried to force a smile and could not. “Nay, Bella—I’d nae have ye weep. And ye tell me ye never lay with him, I’d believe it.” And for the first time since he’d had the tale of Milo of Woolford, he knew he meant it. “I never thought ye lay with Edmund of Alton nor any other. ’Twas only Ayrie, and if ye say ’twas not so, I’ll accept it.”

  There was no mistaking the appeal in the hazel eyes, and yet she was not certain he meant his words. Oddly, she remembered what Elizabeth had said, that he put such faith in oaths. “Do you swear it?” she asked suddenly. “Would you swear it now?”

  “I swore to ye when I wed ye.”

  “Not of this, my lord—not of this.”

  “Aye.” He drew the dagger from his belt and held it up so that she could see the cross formed by the hilt above the blade. “What would ye that I said, Bella? What would ye that I swore? I’d say anything, and ’twould ease ye.”

  “I’d have you swear that you believe me, William. I’d have you acknowledge that you believe I never lay with Ayrie’s son. Aye—and I’d have you say that you would love me.” She watched him hesitate, and she felt defeated. Still, she would gamble one last time. “Else you swear it, I’d go back to Byrum, my lord, for the only marks Papa put on me were on my body.”

  He held the knife higher, his eyes on the stones on the hilt, then he drew a deep breath. “Aye. And ye tell me ye never lay with Ayrie, I’d believe it. And despite the boy, despite all else, I have loved ye since we were met, Arabella of Byrum, I swear it.” He looked from the dagger to her. “Is there aught else ye’d have me swear?”

  She bit her lip to still its trembling, then nodded. “Aye,” she whispered. “I’d have you say you will try to put my son in your heart.”

  “I canna swear it, Bella, but I believe a wee bit of him is there already.” A crooked smile twisted his mouth down at one side. “And ye’d leave us be, I think we’d learn to love each other without ye.” With his free hand he reached to hold her chin up, that she could not look away. “He is in a fair way to winning me for himself, ye know. Now—would ye hear what I’d have ye swear to me?”

  “I have naught—”

  “Ye do. I’d have ye say ye’d put me before him in your heart and mind, for ’tis where I’d be. And I’d have ye say ye’d love me also. E’en if there are a dozen to join him, in the end there will be naught but ye and me, Arabella.”

  “I have always wanted to love you, Will. From the first, from when you gave me this chain, I have wanted to love you,” she answered, her voice husky. “And I do.”

  He tossed the dagger onto a low table, then faced her again, grinning crookedly. “And I do not touch ye wrongly, would ye kiss me?”

  “And you do not touch me wrongly, I’ll be sorely disappointed,” she murmured, standing on her toes to twine her arms about his neck. “As I remember it, you told me there were a dozen ways.…” Her voice trailed off as he parted her lips beneath his.

  He would have nibbled, he would have wooed to win her after the quarrel, but she pressed against him with an ardor that matched his own. Her mouth, her breasts, her hips—all of her—invited him eagerly. His hands twined in her braids as his mouth explored hers, until the heat between them was nearly unbearable. When he raised his head his hands were on the ties to his chausses, tugging them loose. They fell away, bagging above his leather garters. Without waiting to undress further, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. As he laid her within the deep feather mattresses, she pulled him down over her. When he would have nuzzled her neck and teased her breasts, she grasped his hair, pulling his head back to her. It was her body that tantalized, her tongue that played against his, and it was her hands that urged him, moving over his bared hips as she twisted eagerly beneath him. The next time he would love her slowly, savoring each small taste of her. But for now, he would lose himself in her mindlessly.

  Her legs parted, welcoming him into the heat of her, taking as much as she gave. It was as though she could not have enough of him as she rocked and bucked beneath him. He plunged again and again, striving to reach the precipice that would send him over the edge. Her hands were everywhere, and beneath him she panted and moaned as she strained to meet him ere he fell. There was nothing beyond the feel of her body around his. Only dimly was he aware when she cried out loudly, then there was the ecstasy of union, that final peak ere he floated slowly back to earth.

  When he looked down, her eyes were closed and her hair clung damply to her forehead. She swallowed visibly as she tried to gain her breath. Jesu, but she was beautiful, and for the first time he felt that she was truly his. He lay over her, resting his weight on his legs and elbows, waiting for her to look at him.

  “Twas good,” she murmured finally.

  “Aye, and there are eleven more to go.” Her eyes flew open, and the rings around the grey seemed even darker than usual. “Are there really that many ways?”

  “Probably more,” he assured her.

  “I think I’d hear about them first,” she decided, blushing beneath his gaze.

  Reluctantly he rolled away, then pulled the covers up over them. “Well, the next time I take off my boots, and after that ’twill be without my clothes. And there is when we unbraid your hair. And I’d let you ride at least once before I leave for Edinburgh, I think.”

  “ ’Tis only four more,” she reminded him.

  “There are two sides-and the back.”

  “Sweet Mary. Berta must have taught you well. Elias counted all but this a sin.”

  “Then he was a fool in that also.” He pulled her closer, easing her head onto his shoulder. “And he was wrong to say you were naught but skin and bones.”

  She sighed. “I expect I will be much fatter ere long, my lord. ’Tis neither the weather nor the food that sickens me.” She rose up slightly and traced along his ear lightly with a fingertip. “ ’Tis the babe.”

  He was very still for a moment, then he grinned broadly. “When?”

  “Well, I have missed my second course but lately, so Ena thinks ’twill be late August. I will be fat and ugly
in the heat.”

  “Nay. Elizabeth was never ugly,” he reassured her. “Fat mayhap, but not ugly.” He pulled her down again, wrapping strong arms about her, holding her so close she could feel as well as hear the beat of his heart. “Jesu, Bella,” he complained, “and you would have had me beat you?”

  “I had hopes you could not.”

  “But what if I had?”

  “I’d have told you then—and hoped you would not accuse Lang Gib or another for it,” she answered simply. Before he could protest she went on, “ ’Twas only Elias’ vanity that denied Jamie, Will. ’Tis odd, is it not, for I believe ‘twas his beatings that marked his son.”

  “Aye.” His hand combed at the ends of her braids, loosening them. “Well, I’d like a daughter. I’d name her Rose for ye, but I will take whatever God gives us, praying only that he or she is whole. I’d have no other child suffer like Jamie.”

  “I have hopes of a Giles.”

  “Mayhap.”

  She fell silent for a time, then could not help asking, “Why is it that you go to Edinburgh, my lord?”

  “Nay, but I am sworn to secrecy in that, Bella. You will have to wait to discover the reason.” But he knew she still feared for the boy. “Would it ease your mind if I swore I mean to bring him back?”

  She appeared to consider the offer, then shook her head. “As you have sworn you love me, I know you will bring him home to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The journey to Edinburgh had been a hard one, and the boy was stiff and sore, but he made less complaint than Edmund of Alton, who’d been loath to go. Then for three days they’d waited to see King David. In the end it was a letter William brought from Giles that gained them an audience with the sovereign. And when the appointed time came, they all went, and as the royal page announced, “William of Dunashie, sire!” Will carried James of Woolford into the room. There were audible murmurs, but Will went down on bended knee, the child still in his arms.