The Winter Promise

by Jenny Jacobs

  The storage chests had been torn open and the finery trampled into the dirt and the blood. Anything valuable had been stolen, including the horses and the cart. She could do nothing for the dead, except make sure that none had survived. When she found Helen’s body, she began to cry, useless tears that offered no relief from pain. Helen had been so excited to see her Elizabeth, reveling in her delight at surprising her older sister. How in God’s name could such a gentle-natured woman have been forced to suffer this torment? What had been the purpose of this evil? How could God bear such men to exist?

  Her tears came hot and fast now as if she were a tiny girl again, watching them put her mother and baby brother in the ground for all eternity. In this England, Helen had been kind to her, teaching her the English ways, counseling her how to adapt to her cold English husband. Disoriented and alone, Imma had held to the friendship Helen had offered with gratitude. She had had no female companions of her own. Simon had not allowed her to bring her Welsh lady companions to Kent, for he despised the Welsh and would not have them in his household.

  After elderly Simon’s death, Helen had continued her kindnesses to Imma, offering love and friendship not only out of duty to Simon but because she genuinely cared for Imma. Now look what had happened.

  Next to Helen’s mutilated body, her Harold had fallen, run through with a spear that still protruded from his chest, a grimace frozen on his face. No doubt he had died trying to protect his wife. Harold, who had been charged by his king with providing an accounting of the work of Lord Robert, the Steward of Wessex.

  Looking at the devastation, Imma wondered if this Lord Robert had not wanted to be called to account. Did he think destroying the company would prevent the accounting? The English were prideful and boastful. They did not suffer insults lightly and Harold’s purpose could have been considered as such. But if Lord Robert had discovered Harold’s purpose, and determined to stop him, why the viciousness toward the women? They did not have to die so terribly! A sword thrust to the heart would have sufficed. The crime spoke of a black heart and an evil soul, not a mere arrogant refusal to be called to account. Still, she did not trust English lords. Or, rather, she trusted that English lords were capable of anything.

  Kneeling beside Helen’s torn body, Imma realized her own precarious situation. What would stop the thiefmen from spotting her and setting upon her? Look what they had done to Helen and the other women in the company.

  Imma scrambled to her feet. Now she must work out how to save herself. Daughter to King Dafydd, niece to King Gruffydd, she had long ago learned that even women of royal blood sometimes had only themselves to rely upon.

  Hearing a sound behind her, she whirled, dagger drawn. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought the thiefmen had returned and panic flooded her veins with a sick, unreasoning fear, driving out the grief. Then she saw one of the horses, a gray palfrey, limping along the road toward her. Taking a shaky breath, she slipped her dagger back up her sleeve and caught the gray’s reins. She rested her head against the palfrey’s neck until her heart ceased thundering and she could think again.

  The thiefmen had no use for a limping horse, but to her experienced eye there was nothing seriously wrong with the mare. Imma bent, running her hands over the tender leg. The palfrey submitted patiently to her touch. Imma could find no sign of swelling or visible bruising or blood. She turned the horse’s hoof back and spotted a stone wedged in the shoe. That was easily remedied.

  With her dagger, she worked the stone free, dropping it to the path, then encouraged the mare to walk. She nodded in satisfaction as the horse moved freely. Taking up the reins, Imma patted the horse’s neck and whispered some reassurances. Focusing on the palfrey helped her stop thinking of what had happened here. Now she must get to safety. When she had found protection, then she could grieve. A foreign woman in an unfriendly land, she had learned to discipline herself to do what needed to be done.

  Salvaging what food she could from the burst chests, she stowed it in the horse’s saddlebags. She found her cloak where she had dropped it some little ways among the trees and threw it over her shoulders. She could not find the cloak pin and did not want to spend more time searching for it. Without a backward glance, she mounted the horse and rode for the island of Athelney and its lonely stone keep and what destiny might await her there.

  • • •

  The fog had rolled in early, but that did not stop the Welsh. They came on in full force, as if they knew Lord Robert had sent his second away. Osbrycht, his most trusted retainer, a thane of good reputation with a strong arm, had taken a party of men to patrol the coast.

  Many of Robert’s army had already served their duty and were eager to return to their families for winter. Robert himself had nothing to draw him home to Athelney, so their eagerness struck no corresponding chord in him. Even so, he had promised to let them go soon, for he was a good lord. A good steward. Thus he had divided his forces this way, despite the risk. The men who had fought longest this fall were on their way home with Robert, while others, who had not yet fulfilled their military obligation, had accompanied Osbrycht.

  The fight was familiar to Robert, though it had not always been the Welsh he had gone against. Before becoming his brother’s steward, he had ridden for Edward against the Danes. For glory and treasure he had fought in those days, a younger son determined to prove himself. Now he fought to hold these lands for his brother John. There had been a time when he would gladly have driven his sword into John’s heart, but that time had passed. He no longer blamed John for what had happened.

  He still blamed Anna, though. That she was no longer alive to know his anger did not cause it to abate.

  He slashed with his sword, forcing an attacker back, then blocked a spear thrust with his shield. He would drive the Welsh from Wessex. He always did. They would come again. He would gather his thanes and drive them out once more.

  Despite the fog and their smaller number, Robert’s men slowly, inexorably, drove the enemy back. Pressing hard, ruthlessly, taking his advantage, Robert slashed and cut and blocked and parried, the men he fought against like wraiths in the gray mist.

  A Welsh soldier swung his sword as Robert thrust, exposing his ribs. The flat of the soldier’s blade slammed into Robert’s side. The mail he wore deflected the edge of the weapon, but the blow knocked him down, driving the breath from his body. The attacker slashed, drawing a thin line of blood across Robert’s collarbone, but Robert rolled to his feet and thrust with his sword, finishing the solider before the soldier could finish him.

  Then the Welsh retreated, leaving Robert and his army behind. Robert waited until he was sure they had disengaged before calling for his men to come away from the battlefield and pitch camp.

  He built a small fire in front of his makeshift tent and pulled off his mail. Once the more seriously injured men had been attended to, he had the surgeon examine his wounds. The cut on his collarbone, though deep, was of minor consequence and the broken ribs would heal. The surgeon did not think his lung had been punctured, but they would be able to tell soon enough. Robert would not be able to draw breath, and he would die. Then they would know.

  It took every effort for him to sit upright by the fire and set a good example for his men. Every one of his years and more felt etched in his bones.

  The battle just ended seemed a re-enactment of every battle that had gone before, battle-season after battle-season, year after year. Nothing changed, nothing ended. The enemy had once been Danes, he conceded. Now they were Welsh. That had changed. Still they came, battle-season after battle-season, year after year, and still he held them off with the strength of his arm and the might of his thanes.

  Someone handed him a skin of ale and a slab of dried venison, which he accepted with a grunt, knowing he must eat for strength, not wanting to summon the effort it would require to chew. He had been a warrior all his life, from the time he could grip an ash spear in his hand. He had been almost seven years old when he fough
t his first war, alongside his father, then. Through all the long years since, nearly thirty of them, through all the hard riding, the desperate fighting, the pain of the battle-wounds, and the whisper of death in his ear, he had never doubted his purpose or his path.

  The fog thickened and the fire diminished. He chewed the tough meat, and drank bitter ale from the aleskin, and for the first time in his life, he dreamed of peace.

  • • •

  How she hated Athelney. Elizabeth watched out the window as the fog rolled in, settling a chill into her bones despite the fire in the hearth. What her beloved nephew Robert saw in this wild, untamed land, she would never know.

  Elizabeth sighed and turned away from the window to deal with her visitor. The young woman who stood before her in a torn and stained travel cloak looked very much as if she had slept in the forest. She shook so she could barely stand — fatigue and emotion, Elizabeth supposed. Yet something in the proud lift of the woman’s chin, even as she sought sanctuary and protection, stirred a tiny feeling of tenderness in Elizabeth’s heart, which she firmly squelched with all the ferocity that had seen her survive nearly seventy years — forty as a widow — in a man’s land that brooked no weakness.

  “Mistress,” Elizabeth began.

  “I am Lady Imma,” the woman broke in. “Widow to Simon of Kent. I knew your sister Helen, and I bring you ill tidings.”

  Elizabeth groped behind her for the chair and sat down hard. She had received the woman alone in her chambers, as she was wont to do when she ruled the keep in her dear Robert’s absence, but now she wished she had chosen the great hall, with companions around her. She narrowed her eyes at her visitor. Welsh. The woman’s slender shoulders fought to hold straight against the fatigue, and her violet gaze met Elizabeth’s without flinching. Elizabeth’s lips twisted slightly as she realized that Lady Imma reminded her of — herself.

  “Go on,” Elizabeth said, her voice harsher than she intended. Impatiently, she waved her visitor to a chair.

  The young woman sat and took a deep breath. She told her story, calmly and clearly, but her voice broke when she said that Helen had died at the hands of the thiefmen in Glastonbury forest.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes against the twist of pain. Whatever she might have expected, it was not this. She had suffered losses — so many losses — but she had never imagined she would lose Helen this way. She had had a letter from her sister in the early fall, but the letter had not mentioned a journey to Glastonbury, and Helen had merely added a postscript hoping to see Elizabeth in the spring at Winchester. Helen would have been delighted at the thought of surprising Elizabeth with a visit. She would have planned it carefully and shared her delight with a friend —

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked at the woman sitting across from her. How like Helen to take a Welsh woman, of all things, under her wing.

  Elizabeth’s voice sounded hoarse when she spoke. “Was it — did she suffer?”

  Imma did not answer immediately but fixed Elizabeth with her disconcerting violet eyes. Welsh eyes. Elizabeth hated the Welsh. She refused even to have Welsh bondservants. The soldiers swore by the ministrations of a certain Welsh wise woman here at Athelney but Elizabeth would not even allow her into the keep. She slept in a loft above the weaving workshop in the inner bailey, and even that was much too close for Elizabeth’s taste.

  The young woman had not answered the question. “My lady?” Elizabeth prompted.

  “It was not an easy death,” Imma finally said. “Nor quick.” Elizabeth flinched. How like the Welsh to tell the truth. A lie would have served just as well, and Elizabeth would have liked it better. “But Harold died defending her,” Imma added. “That would have meant something to Helen.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said brusquely, against the crushing pain in her heart. Harold had been a good man, like a brother. She had known him from the time he married Helen all those springs past. He had been seventeen or eighteen then, and Helen a few years younger, and they had had a happy marriage, one of the few loving marriage-bonds Elizabeth had seen. How many years ago had they married? Almost more than Elizabeth could remember. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the trembling smile on Helen’s face when Harold, well-satisfied and content, had taken his vows.

  “Helen was an idiot,” Elizabeth said. “Once Harold died, she would not have been able to carry on.” Unlike me, she did not need to say. She had never faltered after the deaths of either of her husbands, and when a third had not come forward after the second one had died, that lack had not distressed Elizabeth in any way.

  “Helen was very kind to me,” Imma said, as if Elizabeth cared about that. “When I arrived in Canterbury with no companions, she took a special interest in me, and helped me understand the English ways.”

  The arrow of pain drove deeper in Elizabeth’s heart. That was so like Helen, to take a bewildered foreigner and —

  “She was always fuzzy-headed and warm-hearted,” Elizabeth said. “From the time she was a girl. Most unsuitable in a grown woman.”

  “She was the only person in all of England who loved me,” Imma said.

  “Of course she was,” Elizabeth said. She meant it as a poor reflection on Helen’s character, but she could no longer hold back the tears. They came hot and fast, sliding down her cheeks more quickly than she could wipe them away.

  “I loved her, too,” said the horrible Welsh woman, kneeling next to Elizabeth’s chair, and holding out her arms. “We will miss her most grievously, my lady, both of us.”

  Then Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Imma’s shoulders, buried her face in Imma’s neck and cried as she had not done for more than fifty years, since she had left her home in Ruthwell at the age of fifteen to marry her first husband at Winchester.

  • • •

  “Here you be, mistress,” the chamber-thane said, throwing open the heavy wooden door to the bedchamber. “Elizabeth says, ‘She’ll not want to be alone after that experience,’ so she asked Tilly — Matilda, that is, she’s the widow of Elizabeth’s son — and she was happy to have you even though you be Welsh and it was a Welsh sword that took him. Erik, that is, two Octobers ago. Well, it would be three now, wouldn’t it? But Elizabeth says, ‘We ladyfolk must bear all together.’” Bertha, the chamber-thane, stopped chattering long enough to follow Imma into the room.

  The chamber was small but well appointed. Woven tapestries glowing with color hung from the walls and a warm wool rug covered the stone floor between the beds — two of them. Clearly, the second bed had been hastily added to the room, leaving it cramped. A few pieces of clothing had been thrown across the counterpane on the second bed — a dress, a shift, and a robe.

  “There, now, Tilly must have realized you have nothing of your own.” Bertha advanced on the bed, lifting the dress, a simple style made of light blue wool. “This will look lovely with your eyes, mistress.”

  Imma did not correct Bertha. Mistress, lady, what did it matter? She was stranded in Athelney until — until when? The lord came back and disposed of her in whatever fashion suited him? Her best friend was dead and she was alone at Athelney. She felt curiously empty, unable to plan, a plaything of fate. Someone else would decide what happened to her. Someone else always had.

  She removed her cloak and hung it on the hook. Bertha exclaimed, “Oh, my! You cannot wear that!” Imma glanced down at her dress, her eyes widening in horror at the sight of the stains. Bloodstains. Her stomach clenched. She had to have it off. She tore her belt free and tossed it on the bed, then clawed the dress from her body and flung it away from her. The shift she wore beneath it was also stained where the blood had soaked through. Stifling a ragged cry, she raked the shift over her head, dropping it from her fingers as though it burned. She grabbed the loaned clothing that Bertha handed her and pulled it on. Only when she buckled her belt on did her agitated breathing calm, though her hands still shook. Helen’s blood, Helen’s blood everywhere — she thrust the image of torn flesh from her mind
and backed away from the dress on the floor, as if to touch it would soil her.

  Bertha said, “Shall I see what the laundress can do about your dress?”

  “Burn it,” Imma said fiercely. “I do not want it. I can never wear it again.”

  “I’ll leave you to get sorted out, then,” Bertha said calmly, picking up the discarded garments. “Evening meal will be ready soon. I’ll send the boy up to fetch you.” She left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  Imma fumbled in the pouch on her belt for the stone she’d brought with her from Wales. Her talisman. She cupped it in her palm and took a deep breath. Snow quartz from the north of Wales, helpful for calming overwrought nerves. Wear it and be hopeful and wise, her king, her uncle, her dearest kinsman had said.

  Just holding it renewed her strength as she remembered the affection in her uncle’s eyes when he had given her the jewel. She wished she were home again. How had she come to be exiled in this hostile land? Because her king had asked it of her, and she loved her king.

  Safe from thieves, she lifted the chain that held the stone and put it over her head.

  Chapter Two

  Robert the Steward had barely returned home from his battle-season when he found himself buried in bookwork, his least favorite pastime. He could be out hunting the wild boar that infested these marshes, or drinking mead with his retainers and listening to them boast about their military prowess, or reacquainting himself with his falcon and his dogs. Even sharing a meal with his aged aunt would be preferable.

  But he must go over the plan for rebuilding fortifications with his estate steward before he lost track of what he’d seen. Robert had been absent a month and there was much to be discussed, so he had come to the lesser hall with Michael for that purpose. After some minutes’ struggle, unable to concentrate, and tired of hearing Michael’s put-upon sighs, he dismissed his steward and now found himself staring out the window at the fog.