The Winter Promise

by Jenny Jacobs

  Imma didn’t encounter anyone else as she turned toward the lesser hall where Lord Robert kept his library. She had almost told Elizabeth that she was trained as a bard and could readily recite the story of Branwen or the Dream of Rhonabury, but at the last moment, she’d held her tongue. Simon had been scandalized by her telling the Welsh tales and she had learned early on not to upset him. Elizabeth wasn’t Simon, of course, but the English were peculiar. Perhaps Elizabeth would be as upset as Simon had been. Imma didn’t like to outrage the one friend she had in the world.

  The room was alight with candles when she entered and she didn’t have to look to know Lord Robert was there. Like an animal aware of danger, she was acutely sensitive of his nearness to her. His very scent seemed to wrap around her. Leather and horses. The freedom to ride, and be in the world —

  Stealing a glance, she saw him sitting in a chair, engrossed with his accounts, his hair falling carelessly over his shoulders. She longed to spill the secrets in her heart — I want to make you laugh, I want to feel your arms around me — but of course she kept her tongue. His fingers worried through his hair as he stared at the papers and tablets scattered in front of him. He muttered a curse and looked up. She busied herself lifting a book from the shelf.

  She knew he was watching her, but she did her best to ignore him as Elizabeth had encouraged her to do. She turned to the front leaf of the book in her hands. An account of a battle. That would not be to Elizabeth’s taste, nor her own. She replaced the book and lifted another volume.

  “My lady?”

  She whirled to face Lord Robert, clutching the book to her chest. He stood just behind her. She hadn’t heard him move from his chair. “My lord,” she gasped. “You startled me.” He was a big man. How had he crossed the distance without her noticing? Once when she’d hunted with her uncle she’d seen a wildcat prowling silently among the tress. Lord Robert was like that.

  He didn’t offer an apology for frightening her, nor did she expect him to. “May I ask why you are here?” His scowl was more pronounced than ever. When he glared at her, he left her feeling flustered and unsure, like a young maid, not a woman grown, and a widow at that. She dropped her gaze, bitterness biting at her. To be attracted to a man who distrusted her so much was shameful. If she had any pride —

  She found her voice. “Elizabeth bade me read her a story. She said you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed your book. I will take good care of it.” Imma couldn’t help stammering a little as she spoke. He was so big and so warm and so near, so overwhelming with his heat and his scent and his presence. She could put her hand out and touch his chest. What would he do if she did? He would probably cast her out for her boldness and presumption. As he it was, he could scarcely endure her presence in his household.

  “You can read?” he demanded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I cannot make sense of these accounts my steward has left for me,” he said, the comment so unexpected she looked right up at him, meeting his gray eyes. “I am a trained soldier, not — half the time they break into Latin or the Northmen’s tongue.”

  Imma raised a brow. She was not sure why the accounts would break into the Northmen’s tongue. Seeing the glint in his eye, she wondered if he was expressing a sense of humor. That didn’t seem at all likely. Like Elizabeth, he was probably testing her. Repressing a sigh, she said, “I kept my lord Simon’s accounts. Perhaps I can help.”

  He gestured her toward the table and brought the stool over so she could sit next to him. He moved with the strength and efficiency that characterized a warrior. He was ruthless, determined, and as hard as he needed to be, with no room for the softness or gentleness that might let him look at her with respect or admiration.

  She recited the litany as a reminder. She must never forget what he was. She must not think he would have any pity in him if he ever found thought she betrayed him for her uncle’s advantage. That she only wanted peace wouldn’t temper his judgment.

  He took an account book from the pile and pushed it toward her, leaning near. Then he unexpectedly reached out and touched the stone she wore around her neck. She started violently at his movement. At her reaction, he snatched his hand away.

  “No disrespect intended, lady,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I merely admire your jewel.” He turned away, uninterested.

  Wear it and be hopeful and wise, her uncle had said.

  In a breathless voice, Imma said, “It’s my favorite possession. My uncle said it was a charm to keep safe its holder. He said I should give it to someone I loved, the way he gave it to me.”

  “Yet you didn’t give it to your husband?” Lord Robert asked, his voice sharp. “Or did you take it back once he was dead?”

  She recoiled as if he had slapped her, touching her palm to her cheek to soothe the stinging impact of his words. Though her husband had never physically harmed her, she had learned from him that words could wound as much as blows.

  “You don’t need to be unkind,” she said. “You don’t even know me, why would you say such a thing?”

  She had surprised him. She could see it in his fierce eyes. If she’d stood up to Simon in the beginning, perhaps their marriage would have been different. Or he would have repudiated her immediately, which might have been as well.

  “I didn’t intend an unkindness,” he said, which could hardly be true, but she suspected it was as close as she would get to an apology from a man like him.

  “I never gave the necklace to Lord Simon because I did not love him,” she said, just as if Lord Robert had asked in a civilized manner. “I think that is common among husbands and wives in England.”

  “That is common among husbands and wives everywhere,” he said. He pointed to the page in front of him, deliberately turning their attention away from personal matters. Imma suspected he was a quite skilled with that strategy. “It is this passage that puzzles me. At the moment. No doubt there will be other passages later that will stop me just the same.”

  She stole a glance at him. His face was impassive. No slight smile curved his lips. Was he making a small joke? At his own expense?

  She turned her attention to the passage he indicated. His hand was big but well-shaped, with long sensitive fingers, callused and scored from the battle years. Would he ever be willing to set aside his spear and his sword, to agree to a peace with her king? To intervene with his own king, and convince Edward of the wisdom of ending the blood-let?

  She forced herself to focus again on the page in front of her. She read the passage aloud, her voice sounding thin even to her ears. She cleared her throat and explained the meaning.

  “Thank you, lady,” Lord Robert said. She heard the dismissal in his voice and yet she didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t an easy man, but she was beginning to think he was more than a warrior; he was also a man of intelligence and humor.

  “I am idle, my lord,” she said boldly. “I would be most happy for an occupation. Perhaps I could help — ”

  “You are my guest,” he interrupted. Unwanted, uninvited, unwelcome, he didn’t have to say. The words lay between them as clearly as if he had spoken them. “I do not expect repayment for my generosity.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, feeling the bite of the bitterness again, and took her leave.

  Chapter Four

  Elizabeth was closeted with her chaplain, as Imma had learned she was inclined to do on certain mornings when she was feeling melancholy. Imma didn’t mind; just at the moment, she didn’t wish to speak to anyone because she knew she would begin to talk and not stop until she had told everything — her attraction to Lord Robert, his lack of reciprocation, her feelings of loneliness and isolation despite the kindnesses of Elizabeth, her fear of the future and the unwanted husband she must have — and if she told everything that was in her heart, she would undoubtedly have cause to regret it. Long years in her uncle’s care had taught her to do her duty without complaining, but even there she had Efa, the bard, to talk to when h
er cares grew too burdensome. Here she had no one.

  She went to the chamber she shared with Tilly, where she traded her slippers for a pair of boots and settled her woolen cloak over her dress, her fingers fumbling on the makeshift pin she was using to keep the cloak closed. She remembered the way Gruffydd had fastened her now-lost cloak pin for her just before she embarked on her long journey to Canterbury. Touching her chin, and giving her his broad smile, as if he knew everything would turn out all right, even though it hadn’t, even though it couldn’t. She had never seen how it might, but Gruffydd always had. She wished —

  She pushed that thought aside and let herself out of the keep. She considered heading to the stables. Lord Robert allowed her to ride so long as a stable boy accompanied her. Although it went unstated, she assumed the boy reported back on her actions. But riding on the marshes of Athelney required more attention than she cared to give just now, so she set off across the foreyard on foot, intending to go for a walk.

  The door-ward called out, “The fog is coming in, miss.”

  She paused. “I’ll not go far.”

  “Lord Robert won’t want you to get lost,” he said, his voice firm.

  She realized he was enforcing Lord Robert’s orders while doing his best not to insult her by reminding her that she wasn’t allowed to walk outside the keep unaccompanied. She gave the door-ward a tight smile and inclined her head to show she understood.

  Feeling thwarted at all turns, Imma paced back across the stone foreyard. A few minutes of walking up and down the pavement, staring up at the walls of Lord Robert’s keep and guessing which narrow window he stood at, convinced her that this wouldn’t help her resolve her frustration. She stopped, undecided about what to do now. As she stood contemplating her limited choices, a small body barreled into her from behind, making her stagger a few steps forward. Recovering her balance, she turned around to see one of the stable boys getting to his feet.

  “Sorry, mistress,” he said, eyes downcast. “Was not watching my way.” He stooped to pick something up and Imma realized he had a kitten in his hands.

  “What a darling,” she couldn’t help saying.

  He scowled at her, looking a little like Lord Robert when he did so. Did all men who grew up to be ferocious learn that look at so young an age? She made sure to keep the smile off her face, knowing he would be insulted if she let the amusement show.

  “He’s a good mouser already,” the boy said. “I promised him to the cook.”

  Imma tickled the kitten under the jaw and it swiped at her finger with a paw. “I had a little calico of my own back in Canterbury.”

  “Two more in the litter,” he said, immediately understanding her unspoken longing in a way that would make him unfairly effective with the women when he grew up. “Would you like one?”

  A flutter of delight lifted her spirits. “Are you sure?”

  “Why not?” The boy shrugged. “We have plenty enough stable cats. Let me bring this one to Cook first.”

  Imma nodded and he disappeared into the keep. A kitten! That was just what she needed. A small companion, not too demanding. Her glance strayed to the keep and the window she supposed Lord Robert stood at, making his commands to his underlings, who would bow and scrape and rush to carry them out. Would they let her keep a cat? Surely Tilly wouldn’t mind sharing the bedchamber with a pet. She could keep it out of the way of Elizabeth, who didn’t seem inclined to be charitable of the frailties of small animals.

  Imma sat on the bench, not even noticing the cold seeping through the stone as she waited for the boy to return. After a few minutes, she saw him charging across the foreyard, blonde head down. No wonder he ran into people. But she could hardly fault him for it.

  “Here you are,” the boy said, holding out a small bundle of fur.

  “Thank you!” she said, eagerly reaching for the kitten. “You are very kind. May I know your name?”

  He blushed scarlet and mumbled, “I’m called Jacob,” then disappeared before she could embarrass him further.

  She looked down at the kitten, silky and warm in her hands. It gave a huge yawn. It was female, so she must think of an appropriate name. It was half-grown and already hand-tamed and quite adorable.

  “Hello, sweet girl,” she said, grinning as she realized its gray eyes exactly matched Lord Robert’s. She stroked the kitten’s reddish orange fur and closed her eyes as the tensions of the day melted away.

  • • •

  The door-ward bid him good day. “Glad to see you made it back before the fog got too thick, my lord.”

  Robert nodded absently as he dismounted from his black charger. Sigor knew the route so well that he could find his way home through utter darkness, let alone fog, but Robert knew such weather created uneasiness among his retainers and servants. It could conceal an army gathering to attack or drown a man in a deep marsh he couldn’t see.

  One of the stable boys came up to take his reins. As Robert strode across the foreyard, he caught sight of Imma sitting on one of the stone benches, bent over something in her lap, oblivious to the fog rolling in. Drawing nearer, he saw that she was talking to a kitten. Undoubtedly that was Jacob’s doing. He thought every woman needed a cat, never mind that Robert’s dogs found the cats distressing and were constantly getting their noses scratched.

  Imma’s face was relaxed and she smiled as she looked down at the animal. She stroked it with gentle caresses. The objection he had to cats died on his lips.

  His chest tightened. What he would do for her to smile at him that way, for her to touch him with such gentleness. He caught his breath at the very thought, then gritted his teeth and tamped the longing down.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, chastising himself as she jumped and he realized how harshly his words had come out.

  She put a palm to her heart and steadied her breath, tilting her head back to stare up at him, her lip caught between her teeth. He supposed he was rather big and imposing. Just because Elizabeth said it was so didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

  He sat down on the bench a little distance from her so he wouldn’t loom so large. “Is this your kitten?” he asked, his voice coming out a little gentler now. Imma shot him a perplexed look, as if not sure how to answer him. He couldn’t see that the question was particularly complicated. But he sensed Imma could complicate anything. Imagine what she would make of his desire to see her smile at him, his longing to hold her in his arms. It was possible that the very idea would frighten her enough to send her on her way, which would solve one of his problems, but not in any way that would satisfy him.

  “The stable boy brought her,” she explained. “He said I could have her. May I keep her?”

  Robert reached out to touch the animal’s silky fur. The kitten slitted its eyes at him and gave a rusty purr. He was aware of how close he was to Imma, who held the kitten in her lap. He could lift his hand and touch her. What would she do? Scream until the watchmen came running? Draw her dagger? What was the weregild for the unwanted touching of a freewoman? He would be happy to pay it, even if it were one hundred shillings. One thousand. But what he really wanted was for Imma to be willing.

  “What is her name?”

  “Morfydd.”

  “She is a Welsh cat?”

  “Yes,” Imma said, and smiled at him. He stared at her for a long moment, until he became a little dizzy and he realized he had forgotten to breathe. He dragged a breath in. “May I keep her?” she asked again.

  He found himself falling into her violet gaze. “Of course you must keep her.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He concentrated on keeping his hands on the kitten, which was a great deal more difficult than he would have expected.

  “What were you telling Morfydd earlier?”

  “My lord?”

  “You were talking to her,” Robert said, suddenly feeling foolish. He had had an entire conversation with Imma and she had not fainted from fear. Why did he push further? “When I wal
ked up I thought you were telling her a story.”

  She leveled the violet gaze at him again. “Perhaps I was.”

  “What was the story?”

  She eyed him; her fear was returning. He set his jaw and chided himself. Why had he pushed? Why couldn’t he be pleased with their small progress and leave it at that?

  “Never mind,” he said, lifting his hand away and getting to his feet.

  “It was the story of Peredur, whom you English call Perceval,” she said in a rush.

  “The grail story?” He sat back down, intrigued. “Was this in one of the books you read to Elizabeth?”

  “No, my lord,” Imma said. “In my uncle’s household was Efa, a bard. She taught me the stories. The Welsh legends and tales.”

  “Will you tell me the story?” he asked. He picked up the kitten and put it in his lap. “Morfydd and I are both eager to hear it.”

  At his words, her violet eyes filled with tears. Dismayed, he stared at her. How could he possibly have caused that?

  “My lady?” he asked uncertainly. He disliked feeling uncertain. She kept him so twisted and turned and knotted up he regretted ever allowing her to stay in his household. And yet he did not like to contemplate the thought of her leaving —

  “You are sure you want to hear the story? Simon didn’t like me to tell the tales.”

  “I am not Simon,” Robert said, with what he thought was admirable restraint.

  “If you would like to hear it, then I would like to tell it.”

  The fog thickened as Imma began the story, but neither noticed. The swirling mist enclosed them in their own world, quite separate from the one beyond.

  Chapter Five

  The dawn broke clear and cold. Robert sat his hunter stiffly. The alaunt, bigger and stronger than his greyhounds, was at his side, for they were in search of wild boar today. The hunting-thane had gone ahead and Robert awaited his word, ignoring the other members of the assembled hunting party. He had succumbed to weakness, and he despised himself for it. Just knowing she was there made the spot between his shoulders tighten, though her presence — or absence — should have been a matter of complete indifference to him. That it was not annoyed him beyond measure.