Winter Dreams

by Robyn Neeley

  She inclined her head as he listed the restrictions. The only emotion she showed was the setting of her jaw.

  “I’m certain you will complain to Elizabeth of this treatment — ” The moment he said it he realized how spiteful he sounded. But it galled him that she could be such a boon companion to his aunt — his aunt, who terrified him — and yet find him so loathsome that she could barely tolerate his presence.

  “I won’t burden Elizabeth with complaints about your actions,” Imma interrupted, imperious as any lady. He hid a smile. That was the first thing she’d done that made him inclined to believe her claim. “But I must admit,” she continued, drawing out the words to express her deep contempt, “that I’m at a loss as to how my king cannot readily defeat an army of men so panicked by a woman that she is forbidden to walk outside the keep’s walls.”

  If she thought to provoke him with rash insults regarding the courage of his thanes, she was sadly mistaken. In fact, he planned to use her very words the next time he must stir his men to action.

  • • •

  “You weren’t at evening meal, my dear,” Elizabeth said, her needle flashing in the candlelight.

  “I wasn’t hungry,” Imma said. Not hungry enough to brave the great hall with its cold lord, at any rate. How many times had she looked up from her meal to see him glaring at her with his hard gray eyes. He did not trust her. He did not believe her. He disliked her for being Welsh. He was high-handed and arrogant and prideful and he enraged her. She had the list of his faults by heart, yet when she saw him she cared nothing for that. Sometimes — once — he had smiled unexpectedly when he came upon her throwing sticks for his best dog, and for a brief forever moment she saw the man he could be with her, if only they were not enemies.

  “My dear … ” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off.

  Imma bent over her needlework. They sat, as usual, in Elizabeth’s comfortably appointed bedchamber. Imma had complained of idleness and Elizabeth had produced a make-work needlepoint project, for which Imma was grateful. But the evenings in Elizabeth’s chamber were almost more difficult than the nights in Tilly’s room. No matter how hard and burdensome the day, she had to keep her feelings in, without even a cat to tell her troubles to. At least with Tilly, she didn’t have to make a pretense of civility and conversation. She could just roll over onto her side and stare at the wall, pretending to sleep.

  She had promised Lord Robert she wouldn’t speak to Elizabeth of Helen or Winchester or Canterbury or anything to do with the company riding out or the thiefmen who had attacked them, and to keep that promise she had to gently deflect Elizabeth’s inquiries by pretending it distressed her too much to talk about what had happened. Elizabeth eventually stopped asking. Unfortunately, this meant their conversation focused on the keep and the household — and Lord Robert. Subjects Imma would much have preferred not to discuss.

  “My nephew doesn’t mean to glower at you so,” Elizabeth explained, taking a new tack as she made neat, precise stitches in scarlet on the white linen altar cloth in her lap. “He is quite impossible. He has no idea how that scowl affects a lady. I have told him and told him he must try to present a more genial appearance. But he never listens.”

  Imma didn’t respond. She knew exactly how that scowl affected her — in the most ridiculous way. She wanted to smooth it away, and press tender kisses to his face until his tension fled. She wanted to tease him until he smiled. She very much wished to see that smile again. She wanted to see his stormy eyes soften with tenderness for her. Oh, Imma, he would say, drawing her into his warm embrace. Then she would not feel so alone anymore, and neither would he.

  She shook her head sharply to rid it off such a flight of fancy. Really, she was impossible. Hadn’t her childish dreams of romance died upon her marriage to Simon? If they hadn’t, they should have.

  “Imma?”

  “I’m sorry,” Imma said. “My mind was wandering.”

  Elizabeth leaned over and patted her hand. “I was saying you mustn’t mind him. Ignore him. You can’t skip your meals simply because he is at table.”

  “You’re right,” Imma said, because she was. That did not mean Imma would be able to ignore him. But she would have to learn to withstand his disapproval. Well, she had learned to withstand Simon’s.

  The fire crackled companionably, and Imma hoped that Elizabeth would let the subject of Lord Robert drop. After a moment, Elizabeth asked, “Do you read?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Imma said, looking up from her sewing. Trying to follow Elizabeth from one line of thought to another was sometimes a challenge, but Imma could guess why she asked. Elizabeth had her doubts too, just like Lord Robert. All of this — the needlework, the reading — was meant to reassure Elizabeth in her own mind that Imma was a lady, the person she represented herself to be.

  “You know Latin, I suppose. Can you read West Saxon?”

  “I can read Kentish. My lord Simon’s chaplain taught me. I believe West Saxon is much the same.”

  “Will you read to me? My nephew has quite a good library. I enjoy hearing stories.”

  “I would be happy to do so, my lady,” Imma said, setting aside her needlework.

  “You know where he keeps his book hoard?”

  “I saw it when he received me.” And insulted her, but she didn’t say that.

  “Good. He won’t mind if you borrow a book.”

  • • •

  Imma closed the door to Elizabeth’s sitting room quietly behind her as she stepped into the hall. The housekeeper bustled past her with a nod but didn’t stop for a word. Linens filled her arms and she muttered about the laundry under her breath.

  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. T
o 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 her 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.
r />   “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?”