by Robyn Neeley
He turned his head, seeing the slant of light coming in through the narrow window. Kenneth had moved the stool away. The door opened and Robert saw his chamber-thane come in with bread and a cup of mead. His muscles protested as he tried to sit up. Kenneth set the food aside and hurried to help him to a sitting position.
“My lord Robert, your servant told me you are awake.” Osbrycht’s voice broke the quiet. Robert glanced over to the doorway where his second stood, tall and imposing, noble and heroic. Robert sighed.
“Ah. Osbrycht. Lady Imma is quite wroth with you,” he said, unable to resist the dig. “I have heard she chastised you for not sending all of the able-bodied men to find me.”
“That she did,” Osbrycht admitted, standing by the bed, obviously ill at ease. As well he should be.
“I am most curious myself,” Robert said. “Why did you not send all the men you could find? Alert the shire-reeve? Gather the nearest villagers?”
Osbrycht swallowed and turned a little more pale. “The men were exhausted, my lord. You know how hard we fought. Many were wounded — ”
“In my brother’s absence, I am ruler of these lands,” Robert said, his voice mild. “A more suspicious man would wonder if you did not wish me to remain lost.”
Osbrycht blanched. “No, my lord, I would never — ”
Robert waved aside the words. Meaningless, when actions — or lack of them — revealed so much. “You have served my brother well for many years. In the spring, you will sail to Normandy and join him there.” Let John deal with the disloyal thanes he had chosen. Robert had no patience for them.
“Yes, my lord,” Osbrycht said, his jaw clenching against words better left unsaid. Finally showing good sense.
Robert wanted to make certain he understood. “I will not be so generous if such a thing happens again in the time you remain in my retinue.”
“No, my lord.”
“And take Matilda with you.” That would please Elizabeth, and Tilly as well.
Osbrycht’s brow shot up. “My lord?”
“Marry her first, of course.”
“But I — ”
“She will make a good wife and she much desires to be your mate. I assure you, she won’t mind leaving Athelney and my protection.”
“Yes, my lord.” Osbrycht made a brief bow, then turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Robert would have felt better had Osbrycht slammed it. He closed his eyes and sank against the pillows. He had known it must be done but he did not like doing it. Osbrycht had been a good friend — until now. Osbrycht knew what his duty was, but he had not done it. How else could Robert respond? Another lord would have turned Osbrycht out immediately, or charged him with treason. But Robert was fair, and a man who had fought well and served faithfully for many years did not deserve an ignoble death.
It irritated him to discover that he wanted to know what Imma would have said, and what she would have done.
• • •
Imma shared the evening meal with him in his room, despite Elizabeth clucking and saying if he needed a woman’s attention, she would be happy to stay with him. Robert got the impression that she was trying to protect Imma from being forced to do something she didn’t want to do, as if his companionship must be bravely borne. But he wanted Imma, not Elizabeth, so he sent Elizabeth to oversee the evening’s meal in the great hall, which she grumpily agreed to do, but not without a lot of twitching of skirts and harumphing first.
Kenneth brought a tray. Without commenting or asking permission, Imma helped Robert when his awkwardness with his injured arm made eating difficult. He did not even mind her aid.
Later in the evening, she summoned Kenneth to build the fire and helped Robert over to enjoy it. Robert did not think his company had been intolerable, for she had suffered it well enough, and had even said he was very wise in his dealings with Osbrycht.
He had just got settled by the fire when she said, “There. Now, my lord, I should probably go to Elizabeth — ”
He had no patience for that. “Kenneth, find Tilly and send her to my lady. And bring Imma’s sewing, so she does not next complain of idle hands.”
Imma turned a little pink at his words, but when he indicated she should join him before the fire, she did, settling next to him, asking if his injuries pained him.
“Of course they do,” he said. “That is why I need the distraction of your company.”
He would have liked to say something charming, a thing like Osbrycht had said, that had made her smile, but his mind did not tend along those lines, and never had. He could hardly confess what he was thinking: had she really kissed him in the forest, as he seemed to remember, and would she let him try again, now that he would remember it better?
Kenneth returned with her sewing box, which she accepted gratefully, and Robert let her get started — he knew ladies well enough from his experience of Elizabeth and Tilly. Then he said, “I would like to hear a story.”
She glanced up, startled, though why she should be, he didn’t know. He had asked her several times to tell him stories. This time, at his urging, she told him the story of the Lady of the Fountain, which he admitted he had never heard before. It was the story of Owain, who married his love, only to lose her when he embarked on a warrior-path.
It was quite a thrilling tale, with wild animals and serpents, and a satisfying end in which Owain learned not to neglect his wife. Robert was certain this was a favorite story among ladies, and then Imma said that the priest had told her that the lion was a representation of Christ, and the Lady of the Fountain was the true faith. Robert laughed and said, “That sounds very much like my hand-priest, always trying to make the sacred out of the profane.” Imma laughed and said she supposed he was right and then added, “I am surprised you don’t know it.”
“Before you came, I was never one to spend much time listening to stories around the fire.” He felt warm and relaxed, full and content and drowsy. The pain still moved under his skin, but he was accustomed to pain. It was this quiet pleasure that he would never get used to.
She touched his hand briefly, just a gentle gesture she might make to a small child, but he liked it very much.
“What did you do instead?” she asked.
He considered the answer.
“I made war,” he finally said. “Or planned it, or talked about it.”
“War,” she said, and that seemed to make her sad, so he said, “Well, perhaps there was also talk about women, and training dogs, and hunting.”
That made her smile. They were quiet for a moment. The firelight played over Imma’s serene face, so beautiful to him. Only a few weeks before, he had never even met her, did not know such a one even existed in the world. Early November, it had been. He had come to Athelney from his fall campaign against the Welsh, being impatient when Kenneth had said there was “a woman” to see him. He and Imma had made a mutual promise, a winter promise, as enemies sometimes did. Then there would come spring.
He thrust the thought from his mind. He had always known what would happen in the spring.
He touched the fabric she was stitching. “What is this?”
She looked up from her needlework. “An altar cloth for the abbey at Glastonbury. Your aunt takes a special interest in it.”
“I know. I thought you did weaving at Tilly’s workshop.”
“I do that as well. It gives me an occupation.”
“It’s good to keep one’s hands busy,” he agreed readily and then, without thinking, “You should have children. You would be a good mother, I think.”
Imma turned away from him to pick up her sewing again. But not before he had seen the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, hoping to forestall any further pain, speaking in a rush as if his words coul
d counteract the sadness on her face. “That was thoughtless. But I know you will marry again in the spring. You have said so. You are still young enough for children. It is not too late — ”
She moved suddenly, thrusting her sewing aside, putting a hand to his lips to stop him speaking. She leaned very near to him, their faces almost touching, and he could feel her plea. She was breathing rapidly and he closed his fingers gently around her hand and took it away from his mouth and laid his cheek against hers, and hers was wet with tears.
“Oh my Imma,” he said. It was all he could think to say, and her shoulders began to shake with the effort of her control, and he drew her closer to him, and stroked the hair away from her face, and the pain in his body was nothing to the pain in his heart.
“I am so sorry,” he said, wishing there was something else, a thing a man like Osbrycht would know, that would comfort her, but he was not sure such words existed in all the world.
After a while, she drew away from him, and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, not looking at him. He didn’t say anything.
She turned her attention back to her handiwork, pulling the needle through the fabric, her head bowed. He knew better than to push or ask questions. Finally, she spoke, only a few words coming hard and painfully. “My lord Simon was cruelly hurt that he could not get children on me.”
He closed his eyes. Simon had married her to breed. Of course, it would have been devastating to him and to his line. Robert could imagine how he had reacted to her failure to bear him sons. Simon would not have considered Imma’s hurt, Imma who would not have the children she deserved, adoring them, loving them with the full heart he knew she had.
“Simon’s late wife bore him two sons but they died in battle against the Danes,” Imma continued, though she did not need to explain. Robert understood perfectly well. “He wanted quite badly to continue his line. It was a disastrous matter to him that I am barren. I was a grave disappointment.” She said it steadily, in a way that he knew cost her a great deal, and he would do anything to have her back in his arms, to hold her, and soothe her, but he could see from how stiffly she held herself that that would only anger her.
“Oh, my lady,” he said, and then he couldn’t help touching her cheek with his hand. “I cannot imagine you being a disappointment to anyone.”
She moved her face away from his hand. “Perhaps you enjoy my company. But Simon wanted sons, and he thought he would get them on me. I had no reason to think he would not. If he had lived longer, he would have repudiated me.”
Robert’s gut clenched. He knew the workings of the world but it seemed cruel to him right now. How could a man like Simon have Imma and think it was not enough? Could a man truly think Imma’s worth was only in her ability to breed?
“Edward knows my — situation. He will marry me to someone with sons enough but lacking treasure,” she said. Robert could see her hands trembling as she pulled the needle through the cloth. He wished she would put the damned sewing down and let him take her in his arms. He did not need to get children on her, he did not need her wealth — he took a deep breath and mastered himself.
“I suppose it is a fair exchange,” she finished.
“What do you get out of it?” he growled.
She gave him a startled look. “Why — a marriage-bond. Protection. A place.” Then she said gently, “A home, Robert.”
He looked down at her violet eyes, troubled. “I hope it will be a good home,” was all he could say.
“So do I, my lord,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
“They say you are Lord Robert’s lover.”
Imma spun in surprise, facing her accuser. Malcolm stood near the wall to the weaving workshop, where she had spent the past several hours.
The Welsh soldiers were free to go most places at Athelney, though not allowed to take horses from the stable. Robert did not host them in his great hall, which was an insult she was sure Malcolm noted and added to the list of injuries the English had done him and his, an excuse for whatever outrageous behavior he was planning. She wondered if he had waited all morning for her to finish weaving so he could confront her. She would not be in the least surprised if he had. She did not dignify the accusation with an answer, and turned away from him.
“Imma!” He grasped her arm, his anger igniting anger of her own.
“What?” she demanded.
“You have sacrificed your honor, and to what end? What do you think to accomplish?”
How could he have known her all his life and still believe an allegation such as that? She shook his hand from her arm. “It isn’t like that.”
“Did Robert force you? I know what English men are like.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Malcolm.” The last thing she needed was for him to confront Robert with such an accusation.
“Then explain to me what is between you and Robert.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes at her. Though angered by his accusation, she knew he did have every right to know what was between her and Robert, but she couldn’t imagine trying to tell him. Even worse was what her uncle would think.
Gruffydd would approve of her for engaging in a flirtation with Robert for the purpose of worming out his secrets, but he would never approve of her caring for his enemy. He would be deeply disappointed in her, hurt by what he would see as her shame and betrayal, after he had placed such faith in her. You will make the peace, daughter of my heart, he had said. We must have peace with these English, else all the people of Cymru will be dead or enslaved.
“He did force you,” Malcolm said, taking a step closer. “I will kill him myself.”
“No,” she said. “No, of course not.”
Malcolm’s face tightened as he reached an unwelcome conclusion. “Then you have chosen him,” he said. The expression on his face was more humiliating than if he had raised his hand against her. He stepped away from her, his mouth twisting in disgust. He spat at her boots, then turned on his heel and walked away.
She stood for a moment watching his back, the anger radiating from every line of his body. She heard a sound behind her and turned. Robert stood there, his alaunt at his side. He must have come to the inner bailey to exercise Theox, a task often left to Kenneth or another servant. But not of course today.
“That is one of my prisoners,” he said mildly, nodding at Malcolm’s back.
He was no happier about Malcolm than Malcolm was about him. They were giving her a headache. “Yes, my lord.”
“And did you tell him what he wanted to know?”
Another slap, another accusation, this one more hurtful than the one Malcolm had hurled at her.
“My lord?”
“I am quite sure you heard me,” he said, his face expressionless, and he was the Lord Robert she’d first encountered all those weeks ago.
Why had she even bothered defending him to Malcolm? Now he expected her to defend herself when, like Malcolm, he should know her character by now. She had found him in the forest and seen him safe home, and she had tried to be friend to him and still he thought she would hurt him.
She would never win his good opinion. But with care she might recover Malcolm’s. If she were to guard against being alone in Lord Robert’s presence, and if she were to beg Malcolm’s forgiveness for her confusion. If she were to be seen as Lord Robert’s unwelcome guest, and not his bard, making his thanes laugh and cry with her stories. Then she might convince Malcolm that she was not his enemy, and with luck he would convince Gruffydd to let her come home.
She pushed past Lord Robert and went into his keep.
Chapter Twelve
“My lady, you may stop if you are tired,” Elizabeth said, with more patience than she ordinarily showed. Since her illness and Robert’s injury, she had been quieter than usual and just yesterday had expressed her wish to see her loved ones happy. I
t was enough to worry Imma, but Tilly had laughed and said it would pass; it always did.
Imma set the book aside, glad for the permission to stop. No matter how she tried to concentrate, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. Instead of picking up her sewing, she got to her feet and walked the length of Elizabeth’s room. Her restlessness was new and unwelcome.
She stopped in front of one of the tapestries, wondering if it might have been one that Tilly had made. It depicted a hunting party on a background of rich blues and greens, careful and intricate work, more difficult than anything Imma had ever done.
After a moment, Elizabeth’s voice broke the quiet. “I am sure Robert is sorry for whatever he has done that has upset you.”
Imma swung away from the tapestry, wondering what could have prompted Elizabeth to broach the topic. Robert had insulted her, but it was more than that; she needed to show Malcolm that she had not betrayed him. And the only way to do that was to demonstrate that she had not given her allegiance to Robert. And so she must just keep herself separate from Robert. She did not want his apology for his accusation. Not having it made it easier to do what she must do.
“I’m sure my lord has more pressing matters to concern himself over,” she contented herself with saying.
“I’m sure, too,” Elizabeth said crisply. “And yet he is too befuddled and out of sorts to attend to it.”
Oh, now it was her fault! Goaded, she said, “That is because women are somewhat more complicated to deal with than dogs. Or horses. I am sure women have always left him befuddled and out of sorts.”
Elizabeth let out a bark of laughter. “He is no Osbrycht, that is true. I tried, Imma. I did. If you had known his father, you would see what a chore I had.”
Imma turned away from the tapestry. “What about his mother?” She couldn’t help her curiosity. Many women did not survive childbirth to raise their own children, but Imma had never heard a word about the lady.
A moment of silence made Imma wish she hadn’t asked. If the answer had been something sad but ordinary, Elizabeth would not have balked at saying it.
