by Anita Mills
Then he wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his hand, drying them. As great as the cost, he had to pay it. He had to keep to that which he’d promised his uncle at Dunashie.
For the time the sickness had passed, and Arabella rose to wash her face at the basin. She was tired, she was hungry, and yet she dared not eat. She looked down, seeing that her dress hung loosely about her. When William came back, he’d think she looked more like a stick than a woman.
William. What was it that kept him in David’s city, when she had need of him? And what need had he of Jamie’s company, when her own for her son was greater? Sweet Mary, but he’d left her to suffer alone, and she resented it. Nay, but he did not know she was sick, she reminded herself—there’d been none to write him until Father Edmund had come home.
“Och, but ye are up now, are ye?” Ena asked from behind her. “Ye’ve fair worried Father, ye know, for he sends ye something for yer stomach, my lady.”
“I’d not put anything in it,” Arabella responded tiredly.
“He fears ye have the malady, but I told him ’twas the babe. Being a priest, he canna know of that, I suppose.” The woman carried a small pitcher to the table near the bed. “He said I was to tell ye to lie down after ye drink.”
“All I would have is my husband, Ena.”
“He’ll come back ere the month changes, and ye can mark that I said it.”
“And I long for my son, also.”
“ ’Tis two things ye ask,” Ena chided her, “nae one.” Sighing, she turned back to face Arabella, and her own eyes were reddened. “Och, but I ken ye, mistress, for I’d see that Ewan myself.” Her fingers played with the carved wooden Cross she wore at her breast. “I been prayin’ for him to come home. E’en with the boy between us, he keeps me warm.” Moving back to the table, she poured a small amount of Edmund of Alton’s medicinal wine into a cup. “Ye might want to try it.”
“Not now.”
Carrying it closer to the fire, Ena sniffed it curiously. “He says ’tis herbs and honey blended for ye.” Regretfully, she set it by the brazier. “I suppose ’tis the honey as hides the taste of the other, ye know. Sometimes I wish I was as skilled in the simples as ye are, but I—” She stopped, hearing running footsteps on the stairs outside.
Edmund of Alton burst in with unseemly haste, then, as his eyes took in the two women, he seemed to recover. “Ah, you are up, dear lady.”
He’d not been too late. Relief washed over him when he saw that she lived. In the minutes since he’d given Ena the poisoned wine, he’d died a hundred deaths of his own. And during that time he’d realized that he could not kill one of the two things he wanted in this life. He’d rather wait and dispose of her babe than lose her with it.
“My thanks for the wine, Father, but I’ve not yet partaken of it. My stomach is better for now.”
“ ’Tis why I am come.” He looked around him, then spied the pitcher. “When I mixed it I forgot about the babe, and I fear ’tis overstrong. And after the other boy, I’d see you take care lest this one be marked also.” As he spoke, he crossed the room and picked it up. “ ’Twould be better mayhap if I made you another without the poppy in it.”
“I’d not take any of it. There cannot be much more of this before the babe sits better within me.” She walked toward him, her hands clasped before her. “What you would do for me is appreciated, Father, but all I need is for my husband and my son to come home again to me.”
“May God grant your wish, daughter,” he murmured. “And you have the need, I pray you will send to me.”
He left nearly as precipitously as he’d arrived, but neither woman thought much of it. Arabella half heartedly tried to stitch an embroidered band about the sleeves of a new tunic for her son, then abandoned the effort, while Ena plied her own needle silently by the fire. Finally, too restless to lie upon her bed and too weak for much else, Arabella carried the small writing box she’d assembled to the table closest to the fire. Moving the wine cup out of the way, she unrolled a piece of the precious parchment. Crude though it would be, she intended to write her first letter to her husband.
Very carefully, she dipped her pen into her ink bottle and held it poised above the skin, not knowing how or where to begin. Her skills were not many and her spelling yet poor, but she’d have him know she missed him. Finally she began tentatively with “William, husband to me.” It ought to have read otherwise, but she knew not how to make the word “recommend.” Indeed, as she considered the parchment, she realized she knew not enough words to make sense, but still she would try. “On this twi—” She stopped and scratched that out, for she could spell neither “twenty-second” nor “February.”
There was a polite tapping at the door, and when Ena went to answer it Lang Gib stepped inside. Bounding from behind him was one of William’s wolfhounds. In William’s absence the dog lunged for Arabella, licking at her face, turning over the ink and the cup. She pushed him off, and pulled the parchment away before the ink spread to it.
“Fie on you, you silly creature!”
“ ’Tis sorry I am, lady,” Gib apologized, pulling at the beast’s collar. “Down, Brut!”
Ena dropped to her knees with a cloth and tried to sop up the wine from the rushes to no avail, while her mistress blotted at the ink. When it appeared that Brut had no further interest in Arabella, Gib let him go to lap at the wine. Reaching into the neck of his tunic he drew out a parchment case, and for a moment Arabella’s hopes soared.
“I ordered the messenger fed ere he leaves, my lady. And ye’d reply, ye hae but to call down to the yard.”
She barely nodded as he left, dragging the dog after him. Instead she slit open the wax that sealed the case and unrolled the letter within. Her face fell as her eyes found the word “Woolford” in the greeting. It came not from William but from England, and she feared to try to read more of it. Any news from Woolford could not be good. Later, when she was calm, mayhap she’d ask Father Edmund to help her with it. Putting it aside she cleaned the table, then washed the spilled ink from the bench.
She’d not think on anything that came from Woolford—she’d not. She sat for a moment, wondering what Donald could want now. Nay, she’d not know, she decided, for she’d have nothing to do with Elias’ sons, not after what they’d done to Jamie. When William came home, ’twould be soon enough to answer. Still, it was in truth strange to hear anything after so many years. Very gingerly she unrolled it again, and looked to the seal at the bottom. Tracing over the words beside the imprinted wax, she read carefully, “Hugh, his mark,” thinking they made no sense. Why would Hugh write to her?
Uneasy, Arabella took up her pen to continue her letter. Call it fancy or call it a woman’s silliness, she was afraid, and even she acknowledged ’twas probably without reason. But aside from whatever came from Woolford, there was the mysterious malady that had come upon them. In the four months she’d been at Blackleith four people had died suddenly—’twas many for a small keep. With great care she formed the letters, using an economy of words. Beneath “William, husband to me,” she added, “I would you came home in all haste, for I am fearful.” She read it, thinking he would surely think her foolish. Then, knowing he loved her enough to come, she signed it, “Arabella, not her mark,” betraying her pride that she could write the words. And as she had no seal of her own, beneath her name she drew a rose like those in the hall.
Summoning Wat, she ordered him to Edinburgh, telling him to seek William at King David’s court first, then to go house to house if need be. To speed him on his way, she parted with three of William’s pennies.
Later, as she lay upon her bed in the winter greyness, she heard the door open. “The woman says you are too ill to come down to sup,” Father Edmund said. “I have brought you another potion. Aye, and some bread and cheese also, daughter, for the sooner you keep your food, the sooner the sickness will pass.”
“Where is Ena?”
“She sups bel
ow. Would you that I summoned her?”
“Nay.”
He poured a small amount into the cup, then pulled a bench closer to sit beside her. “ ’Twill ease you,” he promised. “ ’Tis not so strong as the other.”
“I do not thirst, Father.”
“ ’Twill keep the food down.”
“ ’Tis not the sickness now. I am but tired.”
“Then I would that you ate, gentle lady. Your woman says you are become but skin and bones beneath your gown.” Setting the cup aside, he took out a small knife and pared a sliver of cheese for her. “And you chew it slowly, mayhap ’twill stay down.” When she did not answer Walter hesitated, for her babe angered him yet. Finally he forced himself to say, “You must eat for your child.”
“Aye.”
He fed her doggedly, cutting small pieces of the cheese and bread and holding them to her mouth, waiting for her to swallow. When she would have stopped he urged her on, telling her that her lord would expect her to eat. As darkness descended the wolves howled in the distance, and still he sat with her, covering her hand with his own, speaking low until she slept.
Somewhere in the netherworld she heard Ena ask if she’d eaten, and the priest answered aye and that it had stayed down. She tossed restlessly, plagued by dreams—dreams that Elias came for her from his grave, dreams that William fought him for her. She roused from her nightmares, saying that she thirsted, and it was a man’s arms that lifted her to drink wine so bitter she nearly gagged from it. But then peace descended, and she knew nothing more until Ena drew the hangings in the morning.
She felt better, and when one of the kitchen boys brought a wooden plate with bread and salted meat she was actually hungry. Ena helped her dress, then arranged the food on the table.
“The babe sits more kindly within ye,” the woman observed, as Arabella reached for a piece of cheese.
“ ’Twould seem so.”
“ ’Twas the medicine Father Edmund brewed ye. Ye know he dinna leave ye until the cock crowed.”
“I know only that I ate and slept.”
“Well, he sat there with ye, a-holding yer hand until ye was calm. Did ye good, it did.” She leaned over Arabella to pour a small amount of ale into her cup. “Do ye think he’d teach me to make his potions?”
“ ’Twas foul-tasting,” Arabella recalled.
“ ’Twas because he left the sweetness out of it. He said ye dinna need it. I expect ’twas the poppy juice ye tasted, for ye slept.”
“No more have perished, have they? From the sickness, I mean?”
“Nay. And I still say that for all he is learned, Father Edmund is wrong in that. Auld Ben wasna sick— ’twas God as took him at his time to go.” Moving to straighten the covers on the bed, she added offhandedly, “Lang Gib was asking about the master’s dog this morning, for they canna find him. He dinna come to eat.”
“Which one?”
“The one Lord William calls Brut.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
William hurt for the boy, wincing with each painful step Jamie took. The boot was heavy and awkward, and it had chafed against the child’s skin, leaving red, nearly raw skin before they’d thought to line it with lambskin. But still the boy would try, falling, stumbling, struggling for each small victory, until Will thought he could not stand to watch. Yet when Will had said ’twas enough, James of Woolford would not quit, and with his lip between his teeth, his forehead furrowed from the intensity of his effort, he’d dragged the boot some more.
They’d stayed longer than expected, making adjustments, changing the way the device was attached so many times that it no longer resembled William’s design above the knee. Now it was attached by crossed belts at the waist, like half a pair of leather chausses, and the iron rods that held it straight went up past the knee, visible on the outside. Another iron foot piece went beneath the sole, holding it a full handbreadth above the ground. But the worst torture was on the inside, for the boot was lined with a metal slipper that kept the foot from turning on its side. When Ewan had seen it, he said it looked like a torture device. The result was almost more than the boy could bear, but somehow he began to master it.
On this cold, rainy day, Jamie hobbled in the muddy lane with the two poles beneath his arms, resting on them between every step, as William and Ewan watched him. There was no denying the boy walked—there was only the accounting of the cost, not in silver, but in suffering. As far as William was concerned, James of Woolford deserved to be sainted for what he bore.
“ ’Twas four, my lord!” the boy called out to Will.
“Aye! ’Tis enough for now!”
“Nay, but I’d do ten ere I stop.”
“Jesu! ’Tis enough, I said!”
The boy did not make it, collapsing against a building at seven steps. At first Will thought he cried, but as he bent to lift him he could tell Jamie breathed hard from near exhaustion. “ ’Twill take time,” he murmured soothingly, “for the limbs are but weak from disuse. Come—’tis time we warmed and dried ourselves. Later, when the rain ceases, we’ll try for more.”
“I’d nae wait,” the boy insisted stubbornly. “I’d do it again now.”
“Nay. ’Tis enough. Ewan, unstrap him.”
“ ’Tis well ye do,” Ewan told Jamie, reaching to remove the boot. “Ere summer comes, ye’ll walk across the yard at Blackleith. But,” he added soberly, “ye’ve got to eat and grow.” Turning away, he used his knife to scrape the mud from the metal bar. “ ’Tis patience ye’ve got to have.”
“But I’d try again, Ewan—just this time.”
“Ye heard the lord, dinna ye? Besides, the rain worsens, and we’d nae take ye home too sick to show yer ma what ye can do. Mayhap when it clears, we’ll come out again.”
They went inside to the room they’d taken at the edge of David’s royal city. It was a tiny, dark, nearly airless room, but at three shillings a week it came dear. Tense from the intensity of watching him, William laid the boy upon the bed they all shared at night. As the disappointed child rolled over and closed his eyes, Will reached for the wineskin Edmund of Alton had left him, taking it to a bench by the small, smoldering fire. He’d not wanted to drink it yet, thinking he’d save it for the journey home. But this day he was cold and wet, and the boy’s steps seemed worth more than the ale Ewan bought them.
“Would ye have a drap to mark the victory?” he asked James. “And ye also, Ewan?”
Jamie did not even open his eyes. “Nay.”
The older man shook his head. “Father said he’d sweetened it for ye, and I’d nae favor it. Too much honey and the teeth ache.” Laying aside the boot, he reached instead for the ale. “But I’d drink to the boy wi’ this. ’Tis courage ye’ve got, Jamie of Woolford,” he pronounced definitely.
Unstopping the skin, Will poured himself a small amount of the wine and took a seat, leaning back and thinking of Arabella. In all of his nearly thirty-three years, he’d never missed anyone so much. In the beginning he’d set a goal for them: They’d not go home until Jamie could walk to his mother unaided by any. Now he was ready to have Minette ride up close to her and let the boy take but a few steps. Nay, he chided himself, he was but overeager, and the boy was not yet ready. Another week. ’Twould take another week.
Lifting the cup, he sipped almost absently of Father Edmund’s precious wine. “Aaargghhh!” His bench came down with a jolt as he leaned to spit into the rushes. “God’s bones, but ’tis too sweet for any!” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked to Ewan. “ ’Tis as well ye dinna take it, I can tell ye. ’Tis fit for naught but the swine!” Rising, he carried the skin across the room to unshutter the small window, then emptied it into the street, where it mingled with a puddle. “Jesu, but he must think he makes a confection rather than a drink!”
“If ’tis sweet, I’d hae some,” Jamie decided.
“Nay—’tis gone. And ye’d drink ye’ll take ale like a man, James. ’Twa
s overspiced, anyway,” Will added, spitting again. “God’s blood, but the mead is sour compared to that. Ewan, get him a cup of yours.”
He looked around the room. It was a grim and lonely place within the city, made even gloomier by the rain and by his homesickness. A bed too short, shared by three, was not the same as his own, particularly since he lay awake nights for want of his wife. Each morning he’d rise, thinking ’twas not worth his loneliness, and then the boy would struggle to walk, shaming him, and he’d promise himself the patience to wait. ’Twould be enough to see Arabella’s face when her son stood unaided before her.
But within a short time, his mouth felt odd and his hands tingled strangely. He became aware that the brazier weaved in front of his eyes, and that there was a weakness to his limbs. He passed a hand over his face, as though he could clear his head. His skin was damp from more than the rain. His flesh seemed to crawl. He felt sick, and it had come upon him far too suddenly. He was so preoccupied with the strangeness of it that he scarce heard the knocking at the door, and scarce noted when Ewan answered it.
“My apologies, my lord, but the weather made the journey overlong,” Wat explained, shaking the water from his cloak. “And I couldna find ye. I’ve been to the court, to the physicians, and to the armorer, seeking yer direction, and each gave me to the other.”
Will looked up, seeing the man, wondering if he dreamed. But the water from the cloak was real. “Aye,” he managed.
“My lord, art all right?” Ewan asked, peering over Wat’s shoulder at him.
“ ’Tis dizziness—’twill pass.”
“I bring you greetings from your lady,” Wat said, drawing out a parchment case.
Arabella. Word came from Arabella. “Open it,” William ordered. The two men looked at each other, then the messenger complied, removing the letter. As neither of them could read he unrolled it, stretching it out in front of his lord. The words blurred. Will blinked, trying to make sense of them. There were not many.
His speech was thick as he read aloud, “I would you came home in all haste, for I am fearful.” He looked up at Wat. “What know ye of this?”
