The Winter Promise (4 page)

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 gentleman 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.

It wasn’t impossible that thiefmen had attacked a company. They infested Glastonbury forest despite his best efforts to root them out. Now with his having been gone a battle-season, no doubt they teemed thicker than ticks among the trees.

But what she claimed seemed nearly as unlikely as his king demanding an accounting from him. “All were lost? Save yourself.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He regarded her for a long moment. She certainly looked upset as she told the tale. Of course she would. If she were what he suspected, she would know what was at stake and why she must convince him to believe her story. It was true that the king might demand an accounting from him. He and his household steward kept meticulous records just for that purpose. But he knew he had his king’s full faith, and he knew the king would have told him to expect his emissary. And Robert would believe her more if she claimed to be Helen’s maid or companion, not a lady in her own right. She resembled no lady he had ever met. Despite the elegant borrowed gown and demure head-covering, she resembled a wild shield-maiden, and he had no doubt she had used the dagger before. Her eyes flashed, now with anger at his obvious disbelief. He imagined them bright with happiness, or dark with longing, and bit back a growl of frustration at his useless imaginings.

“Have you evidence of your claim?” he asked. “A letter from the king? Perhaps a token from Helen that my aunt would recognize?” The story had been carefully constructed, for Helen — his other, kinder aunt — was Elizabeth’s sister and thus a friend of hers in distress would naturally appeal to Elizabeth for help. Helen’s husband Harold was a chief retainer to the king, a favorite thane, exactly the man Edward would send to obtain an accounting. The only miscalculation was in thinking Robert might succumb to a beautiful young woman in distress. He suffered from no such frailty. Not anymore.

“My lord, everything was utterly destroyed or stolen,” Imma said, her voice uneven. “I was afraid for my life. It never occurred to me to take a token of Helen’s. I do have one of the horses, a gray palfrey. But that doesn’t prove my story, does it?” She gave him a considering look, as if she could see his point of view and was trying to think of some fact that would convince him. He hoped she would. He wanted to believe her. A beautiful young woman who told the truth would be a welcome change from his prior experience.

In the end, she shook her head. “My lord,” she said, “I have told Lady Elizabeth my story and she believes me — ”

“Elizabeth believes every female with a sad story. It is her only weakness,” Robert said. Of course this Imma had no proof of her tale. Undoubtedly she had fabricated it from start to finish. Worse, she had told it to Elizabeth, never minding the upset she might cause. “I am very fond of Elizabeth and I will not have her upset. She will hear no more of your tale, do you understand?”

“My lord, if you could send to King Edward — ”

“My lady,” he said, using the term sarcastically, “I am at war with the man you claim is your uncle. Winter closes in. I will not risk sending men to all the way to Winchester to verify your claims. If what you say is true, Edward will send a company in spring when he receives no report from Harold. Is that not so? And I will give my accounting then.”

“I — ” She frowned. “I see, my lord.” Then: “What is to become of me?”

• • •

Imma stayed within sight of the watchmen. She didn’t know Athelney and had no desire to be caught far from the walls of the keep when the dark descended, or take a wrong turning and find herself lost among the alders that grew in thick bewildering stands all over the island.

She’d needed to get out of the keep, with its cold hard walls and its cold hard lord. Her interview with its master had shaken her badly. He disbelieved her story — he didn’t even believe she was who she said she was. Not that she could truly blame him for his doubts on that score. She knew she hadn’t been reared gently. A rueful smile curved her lips. Her uncle had scarce noticed she was female, and it had taken the influence of his bard, Efa, to transform her from a rough-and-tumble tomboy to a presentable young woman when her uncle had realized she was old enough to marry.

Her smile faded. Lord Robert accepted she was Welsh, but that was all he believed about her story. She could hardly blame him for that, either. The truth was —

The truth was, her uncle had sent her to England as a desperate measure to make peace. She had done what women were supposed to do: tried to act as a peace-weaver. But her marriage to Simon had not accomplished that aim. Perhaps if there had been children —

So she had begun to spy for her uncle, to pass on what she could glean from Simon, who was one of the English king’s favorite thanes, and thus privy to many of Edward’s plans. She hadn’t grieved for Simon when she’d learned of his death, except that with his death she had no information to pass on to her uncle, to help him establish the peace he so desperately desired. It hadn’t had to be so: she had married Simon full willing to give him affection and honor and loyalty.
She
had been full willing —

“Lord Robert will take no notice of you,” dear Helen had reassured her at the time they had embarked on their journey from Canterbury. Now Imma felt a stir of painful amusement at the innocence of that belief. Lord Robert had certainly taken notice of her. Still, that accorded with her purpose. She had wanted to take the full measure of her uncle’s greatest adversary. What she learned might help Gruffydd to victory against these English. She had stood in the English lord’s cold dark keep, and looked upon her enemy’s face.

She knew her uncle respected Lord Robert in a way he’d never respected Robert’s brother John, so she had expected to face a battle-hardened warrior. What she had not expected was to
like
him.