Winter Dreams

by Robyn Neeley

  “And in his rage he will seek to destroy his enemies,” the healer ground on relentlessly. “He will take his men across the sea, and none will stand against him.” Hunydd grasped Imma’s arm with hard fingers, her dark eyes burning with intensity. “I have seen this, my lady. I have seen the sea run red with blood.”

  “But I — what would you have me do?”

  “Leave this place before it is too late. There is danger for you here, my lady. Danger everywhere.”

  Then she turned and left Imma standing there, shaken and afraid for the first time since she had come to Athelney.

  Chapter Eight

  “Sir Osbrycht has returned today,” Tilly said, pulling off her everyday dress and opening her clothes chest. She took out a pretty emerald green wool dress that Imma had never seen before and guessed she wore only for special occasions. Tilly examined it for lint and dirt before setting it on the bed, apparently satisfied with its appearance. Then she found fresh stockings and rolled them up her legs.

  “Sir Osbrycht?” Imma asked. Her hand stilled in Morfydd’s fur.

  “He is Lord Robert’s chief retainer, fighting the Welsh these few last weeks. His company has been much delayed in returning.”

  Imma knew the autumn campaign had ended with winter coming in, the soldiers retiring to their homes for the season. Lord Robert had returned with the men under his command some time earlier, but Osbrycht and his men had been left to patrol the coast until they were assured the Welsh would not draw blood again until spring.

  “We will celebrate tonight,” Tilly said, pulling her green dress over her head. “Robert has ordered a feast to be prepared and there will be music and dancing.”

  Imma wondered if there would be a bard. It certainly would not be her duty tonight, not with her repertoire limited to Welsh stories and legends. Not when the men were returning from fighting the Welsh. Some who had fallen would never return at all.

  “A celebration sounds delightful,” Imma murmured.

  “I’m glad he’s home,” Tilly said, her simple words revealing perhaps more than she intended. Imma felt a pang for the younger woman. In truth, Imma was not much older than Tilly, and they had both suffered similar marriages to older men who did not love them, and they were both widows. But there was something naïve and innocent about Tilly, an exuberant willingness to give her heart at the slightest provocation that made Imma feel much older, decades her senior.

  “I’m sure he’s also glad to be home,” Tilly added with a smile.

  A twist of pain in Imma’s heart: home. Where was her home? When she first came to England, night after night she had dreamed of returning to Wales. Then she had made a vow to treat England as her home, but it had not been very welcoming. After Simon died, she had hoped — but her uncle had bade her to stay, still believing that the right match could end hostilities with King Edward. So Edward would find another cold English and Imma would live in that man’s house and she would call it her home, but she did not think it would feel like one.

  Sometimes, like the day Lord Robert had asked her to tell the stories while he listened, his gray eyes gentle on her, not fierce, that felt like home.

  She pushed the thought away. What good could come of thinking like that? She was not a child, hoping for a treat from a fond father. She was a woman grown, and she knew her duty.

  Tilly finished her primping and turned for Imma’s approval. Looking at her friend, Imma hoped she would be prudent with the gift of her heart. But some women were never that careful.

  “You look lovely,” she told Tilly.

  She brushed her own hair and bound it with a ribbon, then smoothed her dress with her hands. Never had preparing for a feast taken so little time. A smile formed on her lips when she thought of the man she wished to attract. He would never notice if she wore a special dress or put her hair up in a different way or used a new scent.

  Imma linked arms with Tilly and they went down to the great hall together. By the time they arrived, the celebration was already underway. The members of the household — Lord Robert’s relatives and thanes and servants — all mingled together, greeting and hugging each other. The usual seating arrangements were abandoned and groups of chattering friends renewed acquaintance.

  Tilly went off to greet some of her friends, leaving Imma alone in a corner of the hall, sipping a cup of mead. Imma did not know very many people at Athelney, and none of them well, except Elizabeth. The people here were suspicious of her, she knew. It couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t win them over by cajoling them. They had every reason for their suspicions. She must be patient and polite, though that was sometimes hard to do.

  She glanced around the assembled group. She wanted to meet this Osbrycht whom Tilly set so much store by. If she could find Elizabeth, she would have that lady introduce her. She nodded to a few familiar members of the household as she scanned the crowd. Then she saw Elizabeth come in, quietly and unannounced. She greeted her friend, then asked, “My lady, will you do me a favor?”

  “What is that?”

  “I would like to meet Sir Osbrycht.”

  “Ah. You are not bold enough to introduce yourself.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “You surprise me,” Elizabeth said. “Come along.”

  Once Elizabeth made the proper introductions and drifted off, Imma found herself the object of Osbrycht’s undivided attention. He was everything Tilly promised, including well-mannered and polite, so there was no good reason for her misgivings about him, but the moment she met him, she was immediately on her guard.

  He smiled frequently as they spoke. The smile seemed meaningless when it was offered so easily. Imma gave an inward sigh at the tenor of her thoughts. She was far too accustomed to Lord Robert, that was all. His smile always felt so dear because of what it seemed to cost him to give it.

  “Athelney is a far cry from Canterbury,” Osbrycht remarked, plainly curious as to why Imma was so far from home. Unlike Robert, he was not suspicious of her claims and readily accepted that she was who she said she was.

  “I had a final task to fulfill for my late husband,” she explained.

  “Here?”

  She smiled. It was hard to imagine any duty that would bring a person to remote Athelney. “At Glastonbury,” she said. He had many questions, but at least he treated her gallantly, just as he would treat any English woman. She had had quite enough annoyance from being Welsh and appreciated his not bringing up the subject.

  “Ah,” he said. “And how from Glastonbury to Athelney?” he asked with a wry twist to his lips that said exactly what he thought of the island keep.

  “Members of my company had business with Lord Robert,” she said. She remembered Robert’s injunction, but it did not cover Osbrycht, so she added quietly, “We were set upon by thiefmen on the road from Glastonbury. All in the party, save myself, were lost.”

  Osbrycht paled as she told her story. “My lady! That is infamous! I am sorry to hear what you have gone through. How did you manage to escape their depredations? Were you able to describe the thiefmen to Lord Robert, so he may hunt them down?” The questions tumbled from his lips, and he suddenly seemed as young as Tilly, so she could not be angry with him.

  “I hid in the forest,” she said. “I saw nothing. It was — you will understand that I do not care to dwell on the circumstances.”

  He pressed an eloquent hand against his chest. “Of course not. My lady, you have my condolences. But I must say, Athelney seems to agree with you. You are a very lovely woman.”

  Imma smiled again as he began to charm her. She was not susceptible to charm though he could not be expected to know that. She liked Lord Robert’s fierce manner far better than this polite conversation. She wondered where he was. He had not come into the great hall yet. No doubt he would scowl at her whenever she looked in his direc
tion. But sometimes, when she caught his unguarded gaze, she thought — anything was possible.

  • • •

  Robert stayed closeted in the lesser hall for the entire afternoon, dispatching one problem after another. First his shire-reeve complained at length about the thiefmen ravaging the countryside until Robert agreed to hire more foresters. Then his chaplain came in on the pretense of having some documents for him to review but proceeded to lecture him for his lack of attendance at mass. “You must set a better example, my lord!”

  That annoyance was barely dismissed when his military retainers took over, wanting to analyze the war in general and the fall campaign in particular, thinking aloud about strategies for spring, before the long winter dulled their memory of the recent battles.

  Now, finally, it was time to celebrate the return of Osbrycht’s band of warriors. There was also weeping; not everyone had returned safely home. One reason Robert had stayed away from the great hall all afternoon was because he found it hard to watch the women’s anxious faces as they searched for loved ones who had not made the journey home to Athelney. Then the tears would come, and the pain, and they would look to Robert for words of comfort and compensation for the loss.

  As a warrior, he knew that to die in battle was a man’s fate. As the steward of these lands, he knew he must only fight the battles that were necessary. But the Welsh king wanted this war, so what was Robert to do? He had no choice but to fight.

  Still, he could not dwell on such matters. His thanes expected a war-leader, not a tired man; a battle cry, not a complaint.

  As he strode into the great hall, he saw that his servants had set out platters of food along the tables, as he had commanded. Venison, from the buck he and Imma had brought down. Duck and goose, pork and beef, burbot and pike. Wine and ale and mead flowed plentifully from jugs and casks. He was a good steward but he knew when it did not suit to be tightfisted.

  People sat at the benches, eating their fill, then moving along for someone else to take their place, talking and laughing and crying. Would they weep for him, if he were struck down in battle? Would anyone? Or would they go through the motions, awaiting the return of John, so they could vow their loyalty to him?

  He found himself looking for Imma, trying to spot her dark hair and slender figure among the crush of people in the hall. He caught what he was doing, and shook himself like a dog coming out of water.

  He took a cup of mead from a passing servant. Then he nodded to Michael, his household steward, who, at his signal, tapped a few servants on the shoulder and left the room with them. Other servants placed Robert’s chair at the front of the hall. He unceremoniously sat on it. His brother John enjoyed the drama of the ring-giving, but Robert was not a silken-tongued man and he never knew what to say to thank his thanes for spilling their blood on his behalf.

  Soon Michael returned, leading the servants, who carried a strongbox between them. Michael stepped forward, took the key from around his waist, and unlocked the box. He lifted the lid. The thick red-gold rings in the chest, big enough to fit on a man’s arm, were immensely valuable. Michael bowed to Robert and stepped back.

  As these actions were carried out, the noise and commotion in the great hall quieted and the members of his household turned their attention to Robert, their friendly conversations falling away, turning to open anticipation. Robert handed his cup to a servant to hold, then nodded to Michael.

  “Sir Osbrycht,” the steward called out. He needed no coaching to understand the hierarchy of Robert’s thanes; indeed, he knew it better than Robert himself did.

  Osbrycht came forward and knelt before Robert, the picture of humble yet noble manhood. Robert embraced him and, dipping his hand into the box, withdrew a fistful of rings, careless of the wealth, open-handed, generous. It was the way of a good lord, and he had watched his king often enough to know how it was done.

  Osbrycht had returned from his campaign with a handful of Welsh warriors as captives, important men their King Gruffydd would be eager to ransom. The ransom would enrich Robert’s treasury, repaying the red-gold rings he gave Osbrycht now. The Welsh warriors would be returned home, for Robert to fight again another time. It was always so.

  Osbrycht accepted the rings and rose. He bowed again, then leaned forward and kissed Robert’s cheek as a sign of his love and fealty.

  If only one could truly know what was in another’s heart, Robert thought as his steward called the next highest-ranking retainer. A man could smile and smile and say pleasing words and yet one never knew what he was thinking.

  By the time the ring-giving had ended, most of the household had imbibed considerable quantities of mead, so the sounds of laughter and shouting and crying swelled, the merriment and the sadness all twined together. Robert nodded once more and his steward closed the much emptier strongbox and locked it, then ordered the servants to transport it back to the strong room.

  Robert got to his feet, rescued his cup of mead from the servant who held it and looked around the hall. Elizabeth lifted a hand in greeting to him, so he waited as she made her way across the room, then linked her arm with his. “Thank God they have finally returned home,” she said, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Too many did not return, Robert. Too many. Can’t you stop this war?”

  It was a familiar refrain. Last year he would have called it a womanly complaint, but this year he was not so sure. She would light candles tonight, as she had on so many other occasions. She trusted in the God he knew had abandoned them. War and fire and chaos, the shifting loyalties of his retainers and the cold hardness of the rings he gave them, that was all that could be counted on. He held these lands with fierce determination, not useless prayers. He had prayed for an end to the blood-drink, just as he had prayed for Anna —

  His prayers had gone unanswered, the foolish whimpers of a young pup. When he wanted something, he must wrest it away for himself, with the strength of his arm and the sacrifice of his blood. There was no other way.

  “How shall I stop the war, Elizabeth?” he demanded. “Perhaps I should have Imma talk to her uncle? Beg him for surcease? Offer him a tribute of my brother’s treasure?”

  “Perhaps you should, Robert,” Elizabeth snapped. “Yet you cannot even believe in that, can you? That Imma’s uncle is who she says he is — ”

  He grunted. He did not want to have this discussion, not now, not ever. She stopped him with a hand on his arm and turned to face him. “I wish you would be kinder to her, after all she has lost — ”

  “Elizabeth,” he interrupted before she could get well and truly started. “Please. I am perfectly correct toward her.”

  “She is such a sweet girl.”

  “Hardly a girl,” he said, his gut clenching as he remembered asking for a boon, one he had not yet claimed. He closed his eyes at the memory and gulped the honeyed drink in his hand.

  “Now that is unkind,” Elizabeth said. “I know it is hard to believe because she seems so serious, but she is quite young — and very pleasant. She has had no call for frivolity and laughter these last few years, that is all. Look! See her with Osbrycht. She is not so serious now.”

  Robert looked in the direction Elizabeth indicated. Imma stood there wearing the light blue dress he had seen her in so many times before, her hair bound by a ribbon. She insisted on confining the luxurious curls, but all it would take was a tug and her hair would tumble down her shoulders and he could thread his hands through it, feel the silky dark waves sliding across his skin —

  He took a ragged breath as he watched her. She smiled up at Osbrycht, as if spellbound. He held her complete attention. She did not even seem to know Robert was in the room. She certainly did not acknowledge him.

  His pleasant imaginings soured. He knew women found Osbrycht attractive. Osbrycht was charming, a gentleman. He knew how to say things that women liked hearing. He was tall and lean, wi
th golden hair and blue eyes and a ready smile. What woman would not find him appealing? He was not that much older than Imma. How could Robert, now in his middle age, compare to a man at the height of his prowess, the vigor of his youth? Imma must prefer a man nearer her own age, especially after her marriage to miserable, elderly Simon. Here was charming Osbrycht, appreciating Imma —

  Imma laughed and her laughter lanced through Robert. He had never made her laugh. His hands worked at his sides as he glared at his second flirting with Imma.

  “He has scarce left her side all night,” Elizabeth said, throwing oil on the flames of Robert’s jealousy, a sentimental smile on her face, all unaware how she goaded him. “Save to accept the rings you gave him. They make a pretty pair.”

  Robert ground his teeth. “Charming,” he snarled.

  Elizabeth turned to stare at him, an expression of frank disbelief on her face. “Honestly, Robert. I thought you had got over your enmity for her. She is quite a lovely person, as you would find if you would give her a chance.” After giving him a hard poke in the chest with her forefinger, Elizabeth floated off, shaking her head at his folly.

  Robert’s gaze stayed riveted on Imma and Osbrycht. Now Osbrycht smiled down at Imma, a victorious warrior, home from the battle. Robert knew exactly what Osbrycht was thinking. What better way to celebrate surviving another battle-season than to laugh with a pretty woman?

  His temper rose and he turned away from the offending pair. He forced himself to unclench his fists. What was wrong with him? What did he care? When did a woman matter to him? He didn’t care —

  Wheeling, he strode over to where the two stood. The smile faded from Imma’s face at his approach. She gave him a polite nod, as she always did. He knew that he deserved the coolness of her greeting. He never gave her more than a polite acknowledgment when they met in public. But now he would give anything to see her feelings plainly written on her face. Was she pleased to see him? He would welcome her smile at the sight of him. Or was she annoyed that he had interrupted her conversation with Osbrycht?