by Robyn Neeley
“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.
He had folded open the shutter, letting the cold wind blow across his face, making the fire in the center of the room hiss and sputter. His aunt, the renowned (and much-feared, even by Robert) Lady Elizabeth, had effected his household’s move from Glastonbury to their winter quarters at Athelney with her usual efficiency — which he appreciated all the more because he knew how much she disliked the isolated keep. Usually the wild beauty of this land pleased him more than the tamed and orderly city of Glastonbury, but not today. Today, the view through the window was gray and bleak and did nothing to improve his mood.
He was tired and his ribs ached from the bludgeoning he had taken during his last battle. He did not mend as quickly these days as he once had. He looked out the narrow window and wondered how many more years —
“There is a — woman to see you, my lord,” his chamber-thane Kenneth announced.
Robert turned away from the window. Kenneth, stout, bald-headed and more correct than Robert could ever imagine being, seemed somewhat daunted, which meant Elizabeth had been badgering him.
“And?” Robert flicked a glance at his plans, scattered across the table in the corner. Receive the woman or do his work? Neither prospect appealed to him. Yet he could hardly stand here, staring out the window, dreaming of peace, for the rest of the winter.
“She has abided with us for some days, under my lady’s protection. My lady says you must speak with her — the woman — right away.”
Robert’s aged aunt was not easily denied. If he declined to receive the woman, Elizabeth would demand to know the reason why. Clearly Kenneth doubted whatever story the woman told, while Elizabeth believed it. Now Robert must be consulted so the woman’s problem could be resolved. That a problem existed went without saying.
When Robert had been charged with ruling Wessex in the absence of his brother, gone to play Norman lord, he had known the duty would require an iron fist and long hours in the saddle against the soldiers of the Welsh king. He had not been told of the necessity of making sense of more documents than he’d ever realized existed, nor of the numberless days he would spend mediating squabbles among the quick-tempered, fiercely independent West Saxons, nor of the sheer effort required to prevent every scheming thief from disrupting the alliances he and the king’s other men must hold together if they hoped this England to maintain its fragile unity.
Kenneth stood waiting for his answer, the flickering torchlight from the wall sconce reflecting off his shiny bald head. If Robert had been able to retain his sense of humor,
he might have found the sight amusing. But it had been a long year, and it had succeeded in chasing away his ability to be amused by anything.
Robert sighed. “Send her in.”
Kenneth nodded and withdrew. The wind from the narrow window blew on Robert’s neck and the candle on the table guttered but did not go out.
When Kenneth ushered the slender dark-haired young woman in, the smell of lilac floated into the room with her, making Robert think of spring — spring and the promise of it. But the coming spring would only bring more bloodshed and pain, more anger and loss. Spring had not fulfilled its promise in many years.
The painful stirrings of a headache began to throb behind his temples. He knew he was about to hear a story. He hoped it would at least be entertaining. He very much doubted it would be true.
The foreigner stared at his face with wide violet eyes. He narrowed his own gray eyes at her. He knew he was not the most attractive man to women, but she needn’t gawp at him in such a rude way.
He acknowledged her with a curt nod and seated himself on his chair, rough-hewn from one of the alders that flourished on Athelney, as sturdy and as solid — and as undecorative — as he.
Nettled by her stare, he responded in kind with a thorough and thoroughly offensive inventory of his own. She looked young but must have reached her majority or she would have a guardian to look after her and would not require his generosity. For he had no doubt that was what she was here to obtain. She must be a widow, or at least unmarried, or there would be a husband. Unless — he hoped she didn’t expect him to intervene in a marital dispute. He would never let a wife like this run away, not one with such delicate features and soft unmarred skin, masses of dark hair demurely covered with fine linen, the spark in her eye hinting that her spirits had not been entirely quelled by whatever misfortune had befallen her. Her wide violet eyes were compelling, and he found himself looking into them for a long timeless moment.
He made himself shift his gaze, cataloging all of her failings: the borrowed dress she wore, which could only mean she had arrived at Athelney without personal possessions of any kind; the lack of companions to accompany her, where any lady of quality would have at least one or two trailing after her, annoying his servants; the awkwardness of the curtsy she’d given him, which meant she didn’t care about her manner, and he already had enough of those in his household; the boots on her feet, which meant she would not be the quiet, retiring type who stayed indoors and consoled him with gentle murmurs and warm compresses; the outline of a dagger in her sleeve. He sighed again.
A jewel on a necklace rested against her skin and caught the light from the candle on his desk. A gift from a soldier who’d abandoned her? Or a trinket she had stolen from a master?
He brought his gaze up to her face, expecting her to flush with embarrassment at his bold perusal of her, but instead her face had gone quite pale. He supposed he had looked her over the way a hungry wolf might eye a tender sheep. He signaled to Kenneth, who brought the stool over. The woman sank gracefully onto the seat, clasping her hands in her lap where she twisted them, over and over.
“My servant says you have a story to tell, mistress,” Robert said, trying to gentle his voice. He had scared her. Now he felt every year of his five-and-thirty. He was a rough-and-ready warrior, not a gallant gentleman. The unattached women of his household avoided him when they could. Elizabeth chided him for being so intimidating to the gentle souls. But he didn’t know how to be other than he was, and the older he got, the more ferocious and battle-hardened Elizabeth accused him of becoming.
The woman bit down hard on her lip. He could see the vein throbbing in her throat. He knew he could be, perhaps, somewhat abrupt in manner, but what did she think he was going to do to her? Whatever his reputation among the members of his household, surely it didn’t include rumors of his debauching defenseless young women. Did it?
“I am Lady Imma,” the woman finally said.
“You are Welsh,” Robert said upon hearing her accent, his scowl deepening. That, at least, explained her fearfulness. And her awkward curtsy, and the boots. And very probably the dagger in her sleeve.
She lifted her chin. “Aye. I am the niece of Gruffydd ap Llywelyn.”
He nodded to show he’d heard her, not that he accepted what she said. Anyone could claim a thing like that. But why would a woman seeking sanctuary — for he supposed that explained her presence here — why would she claim such a relationship?
“I am at war with your king,” Robert pointed out, in case she would like to revise her story to make him more inclined to treat her generously.
“I know,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. Did she regret the war? Or that it did not go well for the Welsh just now? She couldn’t be foolish enough to think he would send her home with an escort, under the circumstances.
She opened her eyes and met his, her troubled violet gaze disconcerting him. He shifted in his chair. He didn’t want her to tell him her troubles. He had many of his own troubles, and he had no need to acquire more, especially troubles of the type that couldn’t be dispatched with a well-placed spear thrust.
“I am the widow of Simon of Kent,” she said, as if to explain her presence in England.
“Simon of Kent,” Robert said, his lips thinning. She was not improving his opinion of her. “My aunt knows his lady.”
“Lady Athelflaed passed away several summers ago. He married me that winter. He is dead these three months.”
Robert didn’t respond. He hadn’t heard such news — of the lady’s death, of the lord’s second marriage or of his death — but Robert had more pressing matters to concern himself with than what some elderly lord on the other side of England did. This Imma could be telling the truth. She could be lying. She would have him believe the Welsh king was her uncle and that she was the widow of one of the English king’s favorite thanes, which would make her a woman of some wealth and status. But that was not what she looked like.
What he knew was that she was Welsh and he was at war with the Welsh. The wily and cunning Gruffydd would not be above sending a woman to spy on Robert’s household to learn what she could of his military arrangements. Or she could be a camp follower, discarded by a soldier, stranded in a foreign land. Or perhaps a bondswoman — that was more likely — trying to flee her fate. Many of the Welsh in England were slaves. Weallas, Welshman, was one of the words for slave in his tongue. She was almost home. She need only find a boatman willing to ferry her across a narrow expense of sea, and she would be there.
“How did you come to be here? At Athelney?” he asked, his voice harsh even to his own ears. He had abandoned gentleness on hearing her accent.
At this tone, she straightened her spine. “I had a duty to carry out for my late husband. Your aunt’s sister — Helen — bade me to join her and her husband on his mission here,” this so-called Lady Imma said.
“His mission?” Robert frowned. What mission would his uncle have here? And why hadn’t he been informed of it?
“King Edward sent him, Harold, to request a full accounting from the Steward of Wessex,” she said, sounding as if she were repeating something she’d heard second-hand, like a maid listening at doors. She glanced up, and, apparently making the connection between the Steward of Wessex and him, said, “From you.”
Robert raised a brow as he considered her words. What did she mean, Harold coming for an accounting? “I have heard nothing of such a request. I am accountable only to my brother.”
“And he to your king,” Imma had the boldness to remind him. “I don’t think it was meant to be a chastisement, my lord. Harold said that the king had had a messenger from your brother. Helen thought — ” Tears welled in Imma’s eyes and she pressed a trembling hand to her face.
Robert gritted his teeth. Very affecting. A gentleman might believe anything a woman like this claimed. A ge
ntleman might touch her hand and say, “Nay, lady, do not distress yourself.” A gentleman might offer the comfort of his arms around her shaking shoulders. A gentleman might do all that, but Robert was not a gentleman.
For all he knew, she intended to spring across the distance separating them and drive the dagger into his heart. Women were capable of anything. One who had the audacity to bear arms in his presence wasn’t one he intended to underestimate.
He wanted to tell her what he was thinking. That he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t need to believe her to be kind to her, if only she would be kind to him … .
With a grunt, he found his self-control, so reluctant to be exerted at the moment. At his impatient sound, she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, gave him an apologetic smile and said, “I’m sorry. It disturbs me to think of it.” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts, then went on. “Helen was looking forward to spending the winter here with your aunt. They hadn’t seen each other in several years.”
He grunted again. Thus far, he had seen no sign of Helen, nor of her husband Harold. If they were here at Athelney, this woman Imma would not be sitting across from him, trying to explain herself. Which meant —
“What happened to the company?”
“You haven’t been told?” She looked shocked, but he’d hardly spoken to Elizabeth since his return. He had given her a brief embrace, but hadn’t sat down to listen to her report on the condition of his household.
“I haven’t been told anything about Helen. Or Harold. Or,” he added helpfully, “any company sent to me on Edward’s behalf.”
Imma nodded. It took a moment before she began, her fist pressed against her chest. “We were set upon by thiefmen in Glastonbury forest,” she said, her voice going hoarse as she told him what happened. “All were lost.”
A tear had caught on her lashes, trembling there as if to offer proof of her story. He crushed the impulse to believe her. If he had ever trusted readily, his years as his brother’s steward had taught him trust must be earned through spilled blood and shared battles, never given freely just because it was asked. He watched as she closed her eyes briefly, her hands now knotted together, her face tense. She mastered her emotion — or gave a good impression of doing so — then lifted her chin and met his eyes again.
