The Winter Promise (9 page)

Intrigued, Robert gestured for the servants to place a bench for her near the fire. She took her seat and, as the meal ended, the members of the household arranged their own benches around her so they could hear her tale.

Outside the wind howled and the snow fell but here the central fire crackled, and the mead flowed plentifully, and the storyteller was beautiful to look upon.

“When Pryderi returned to Wales from the invasion of Ireland, he married Cigva, and became the king of Dyfed. He had hoped that the trials he had endured had ended, but that was not to be … .”

• • •

“The snow hasn’t stopped yet,” Imma said the next morning, turning away from the window. “Does it always snow this much at Athelney?”

“It is always miserable at Athelney,” Elizabeth muttered. She made a sound of frustration and set the altar cloth aside, then shifted her chair closer to the fire.

“My lady, you seem upset. Is there anything I can do?” Imma knew Elizabeth disliked asking for help but the old woman did seem to be in some distress. Lord Robert’s keep might crackle with fires in every hearth, but the stone walls chilled the inhabitants and cold drafts whistled down the halls and through the rooms, no matter how many weavings were hung to block the cold wind.

“It’s my hands,” Elizabeth admitted. “In the winter they become so stiff and sore. I grow frustrated at my limitations.” That Elizabeth even admitted to experiencing limitations was a sign of her deep distress.

“Shall I call the physician?”

“He says I am getting old and nothing can be done,” Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her fingers. Imma supposed he had suggested she discontinue her sewing but Imma could not imagine Elizabeth doing that. The idea that she had earned some idleness near the end of her life would never cross her mind.

“What about the wise woman?” Imma suggested. Sometimes the healers who passed knowledge from mother to daughter knew treatments that the traditionally educated physicians did not. Imma had met Hunydd, the Welsh healer who lived in the loft above the weaving workshop, when Jacob had hurt his hand attending to the horses.

“I trust the physician,” Elizabeth said.

“Sometimes men don’t pay as much attention to women’s concerns as they should,” Imma pointed out tartly. Something might be done if only Elizabeth could be convinced to try. “May I summon the wise woman?”

“I do not trust the Welsh,” Elizabeth said, then seemed to remember to whom she was speaking and added, “Except you, Imma.”

“I will supervise her.”

Elizabeth didn’t answer at first. Imma knew she was struggling to reconcile her distrust of the Welsh in general with her knowledge that many people in the household relied on Hunydd to heal them.

“My lady?” Imma knew a gentle push was all it would take now.

“Very well.”

At Elizabeth’s grudging acceptance, Imma summoned the servant and gave directions. A few minutes later, an older dark-haired woman came into the room, face lined with her years but serene for all that. A servant accompanied her with a tray filled with a pitcher and several parcels.

“Good day,” the healer said, giving Imma a brief nod of acknowledgment. Then she turned to Elizabeth. “My lady. Your arthritis pains you?”

Elizabeth inclined her head, her lips pursed.

“Heat the water,” Hunydd instructed the servant, who busied herself with a pot over the fire.

As she did so, Hunydd opened a small leather bag and emptied a portion of its contents into a wooden cup.

“Will you send to Lord Robert for a block of his wax?” Hunydd asked Elizabeth, who was watching the preparations suspiciously. “I will be able to return most of it to him.”

“Very well,” Elizabeth said and gave instructions to the servant, who bowed and left the room.

Then Hunydd dipped hot water into the cup and stirred. She handed the cup to Elizabeth, but Imma stepped forward and took the steaming cup instead. She sipped from it. Hunydd slanted her a glance but said nothing as she handed the cup to Elizabeth.

“It’s a tea that will ease the pain and stiffness,” the healer told Elizabeth, who sniffed the cup with a wrinkled nose. Despite her obvious misgivings, Elizabeth drank the liquid down, not bothering to conceal her shiver of distaste.

“The herbs are bitter,” Hunydd remarked with a slight smile. “Ah!” she said, turning toward the door as the servant came in with the wax. “Put it in the bowl — that one there. And then put the bowl in the hot water. Yes, like that.”

When the wax had melted, Hunydd put the bowl on a table, then drew the table nearer to where Elizabeth sat. Imma dipped her finger in the bowl. The wax was warm but not uncomfortably so. She rubbed the cooling material from her finger and nodded at Elizabeth, who made no move to touch the bowl.

“Put your hands in the wax,” Hunydd encouraged her. “It helps.”

Hesitantly, Elizabeth dipped her hands in the bowl. A surprised look crossed her face and a small sigh escaped her lips as the warmth of the wax soothed the pain and stiffness in her hands.

“Make sure your hands are coated,” Hunydd instructed. “Good. Now hold them above the bowl and let them drip. The wax will dry soon.”

Elizabeth did as instructed. “And then?”

“Then we will wait a few minutes and peel the wax off. Your hands will feel better. The relief is only temporary, which is why I gave you the infusion. That will help the swelling and stiffness, but it takes a while for it to work.”

She fumbled in a pouch on her belt, and withdrew a parchment cachet. “Have your servant brew the herb as a tea before you go to bed tonight. I will return on the morrow to see how you feel. If the draught is helping, we will continue it. If not, we will try another remedy I know.”

Elizabeth’s face had relaxed, the lines of tension easing. She nodded her agreement.

Turning away from Elizabeth, the healer touched Imma’s shoulder and said, “My lady, if I may speak with you?”

Imma raised a brow. What could Hunydd want with her? She glanced at Elizabeth, whose eyes were closed. She wasn’t paying any attention. Imma followed Hunydd into the hallway, shutting the door behind them. The healer walked down the corridor some paces from the door, drawing Imma into a shadowed corner away from observers. Imma’s heart beat faster. What required such secrecy?

“My lady,” Hunydd began, then stopped. For a moment, the serene mask slipped and she looked discomfited and unsure. That was unexpectedly reassuring to Imma. Then Hunydd said, “I have known Lord Robert a long time.” Another hesitation. Then: “He’s a good man.”

Imma looked at the other woman, her skepticism evident in her voice. “You’re no freewoman. You never chose to reside here.” She thought of the Welsh man and his son that she’d seen some days previously. Hunydd wasn’t the only one in such a predicament.

“That doesn’t make Lord Robert a bad man,” the healer said. “He’s not the one who steals slaves.”

That didn’t make him blameless, Imma knew. “Yet he does not restore you to your former status.”

“And leave me to starve? Where would I return to, my lady, if he bade me go back to Wales? My village was destroyed in the wars.”

Imma looked away. Her uncle’s words echoed in her ears.
You will make the peace,
he had said, and believed. And still she did not know how.

“My lord is generous,” Hunydd said. “I would not like to see him hurt again, Lady Imma.”

The unexpectedness of the comment made her start, and the urgency in Hunydd’s tone made her stare. “I won’t hurt him,” she said, at a loss as to what response was expected of her.

“You will leave in the spring, and you will break his heart.”

“That doesn’t seem at all likely,” Imma said. She must leave in the spring, that was true, but Lord Robert did not seem to have formed the kind of attachment to her that Hunydd seemed to be alluding to. She doubted he would allow anyone to break his heart, least of all Imma.

“He will rage against your betrayal — ”

Imma gave a shocked sound of surprise. What did the healer think Imma intended to do? And why did she think Robert would lose control over himself because of it?

“I cannot imagine Lord Robert doing such a thing,” Imma protested.

“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.

“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.