The Winter Promise (3 page)

The fog thickened and the fire diminished. He chewed the tough meat, and drank bitter ale from the aleskin, and for the first time in his life, he dreamed of peace.

• • •

How she hated Athelney. Elizabeth watched out the window as the fog rolled in, settling a chill into her bones despite the fire in the hearth. What her beloved nephew Robert saw in this wild, untamed land, she would never know.

Elizabeth sighed and turned away from the window to deal with her visitor. The young woman who stood before her in a torn and stained travel cloak looked very much as if she had slept in the forest. She shook so she could barely stand — fatigue and emotion, Elizabeth supposed. Yet something in the proud lift of the woman’s chin, even as she sought sanctuary and protection, stirred a tiny feeling of tenderness in Elizabeth’s heart, which she firmly squelched with all the ferocity that had seen her survive nearly seventy years — forty as a widow — in a man’s land that brooked no weakness.

“Mistress,” Elizabeth began.

“I am Lady Imma,” the woman broke in. “Widow to Simon of Kent. I knew your sister Helen, and I bring you ill tidings.”

Elizabeth groped behind her for the chair and sat down hard. She had received the woman alone in her chambers, as she was wont to do when she ruled the keep in her dear Robert’s absence, but now she wished she had chosen the great hall, with companions around her. She narrowed her eyes at her visitor. Welsh. The woman’s slender shoulders fought to hold straight against the fatigue, and her violet gaze met Elizabeth’s without flinching. Elizabeth’s lips twisted slightly as she realized that Lady Imma reminded her of — herself.

“Go on,” Elizabeth said, her voice harsher than she intended. Impatiently, she waved her visitor to a chair.

The young woman sat and took a deep breath. She told her story, calmly and clearly, but her voice broke when she said that Helen had died at the hands of the thiefmen in Glastonbury forest.

Elizabeth closed her eyes against the twist of pain. Whatever she might have expected, it was not this. She had suffered losses — so many losses — but she had never imagined she would lose Helen this way. She had had a letter from her sister in the early fall, but the letter had not mentioned a journey to Glastonbury, and Helen had merely added a postscript hoping to see Elizabeth in the spring at Winchester. Helen would have been delighted at the thought of surprising Elizabeth with a visit. She would have planned it carefully and shared her delight with a friend —

Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked at the woman sitting across from her. How like Helen to take a Welsh woman, of all things, under her wing.

Elizabeth’s voice sounded hoarse when she spoke. “Was it — did she suffer?”

Imma did not answer immediately but fixed Elizabeth with her disconcerting violet eyes. Welsh eyes. Elizabeth hated the Welsh. She refused even to have Welsh bondservants. The soldiers swore by the ministrations of a certain Welsh wise woman here at Athelney but Elizabeth would not even allow her into the keep. She slept in a loft above the weaving workshop in the inner bailey, and even that was much too close for Elizabeth’s taste.

The young woman had not answered the question. “My lady?” Elizabeth prompted.

“It was not an easy death,” Imma finally said. “Nor quick.” Elizabeth flinched. How like the Welsh to tell the truth. A lie would have served just as well, and Elizabeth would have liked it better. “But Harold died defending her,” Imma added. “That would have meant something to Helen.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said brusquely, against the crushing pain in her heart. Harold had been a good man, like a brother. She had known him from the time he married Helen all those springs past. He had been seventeen or eighteen then, and Helen a few years younger, and they had had a happy marriage, one of the few loving marriage-bonds Elizabeth had seen. How many years ago had they married? Almost more than Elizabeth could remember. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the trembling smile on Helen’s face when Harold, well-satisfied and content, had taken his vows.

“Helen was an idiot,” Elizabeth said. “Once Harold died, she would not have been able to carry on.”
Unlike me,
she did not need to say. She had never faltered after the deaths of either of her husbands, and when a third had not come forward after the second one had died, that lack had not distressed Elizabeth in any way.

“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.

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.