The Winter Promise (13 page)

“You will have a headache, my lord,” the physician said cheerfully.

“I already have one,” Lord Robert grumbled.

The physician went on as if he had not spoken. “Your arm will mend. You will be fit enough to resume your daily duties in a week or so, though your arm will take some little time to heal completely. I will return in the morning to examine it.” Imma knew the danger of the wound suppurating. She clenched her hands together.

Lord Robert grunted and seemed unconcerned. But she knew better now. He had been a warrior for many years. He had seen the results of many battle-wounds. A man could have what seemed a minor injury, and die of it.

“You will let me know if anything changes,” the physician said to Kenneth, sensibly relying on the chamber-thane to report on his lord’s health. Lord Robert would deny any problem until it was too late to treat it. The physician bowed and left the room, and Kenneth went to poke at the fire.

Then Lord Robert turned his head to gaze at Imma, his gray look compelling.

“Did Sigor guide you to Glastonbury forest?” he asked her.

Victory.
That must be the black stallion of his. She could not help her smile. “Yes, my lord.”

“You gave Theox my scent? He found me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “You found me and brought me home.”

“Yes.”

There were any number of things that had happened in between, but she didn’t remind him of those. He nodded. He did not thank her. She had not expected he would. She waited. He seemed to have more to say, though she could not imagine what it would be.

“My men and I went along the entire road through the forest, where you say your company was set upon by thiefmen,” he said finally.

Of course. It would be that. Imma nodded but did not respond.

“And just as Elizabeth’s riders said, there were no remains. I looked with my own eyes, Imma.”

“I know. It can’t be helped. I can’t explain it. I know what happened, my lord.”

“You must know by now that I will not turn you out no matter what the truth is.”

Was that compassion in his gray eyes now? Her chest tightened painfully. His words were double-edged: he had enough affection for her not to throw her out, but he considered her a liar. That was her dear Lord Robert; he could care about her without for one moment trusting her.

She shook her head. “I have told you the truth, my lord. Let us not have words over this now. The spring will come soon enough.”

Lord Robert leaned back against the pillows, his eyes closing in fatigue, the lines of pain etched on his face.

“You must sleep, my lord,” she said.

“I would have you stay a while.”

Her heart skipped. “I will be here.” She was, she knew, too foolish to do otherwise.

• • •

Robert closed his eyes. She sat next to him on the stool. He would have liked her to sit next to him on the bed, though he could hardly ask her to do such a thing. He couldn’t feel her warmth from where she sat, though her presence comforted him more than he liked to admit. When she had found him, she had held him in her arms, and she had been very warm and soft, but he had been in too much pain to properly appreciate it.

Before she had come, when he had been lost and disoriented in the forest, out of his head and delirious, he had dreamed of her, an unsatisfactory illusion, images that he could not reach or touch, no matter how much he longed to. Then she had come to him, and he had felt — he had thought — it had seemed that everything might somehow turn out right. That she had come for him, when no one else had … .

I am cleverer than your thanes.
Perhaps that was so, but what her actions really meant was that she was more loyal, and cared more. She had not come for him from duty. What duty did she owe him? She had come because she wanted to. She had chosen to. He didn’t know what that meant. It was faintly alarming. One day, he supposed, he would discover her motives.

But tonight — tonight, he was content simply to have her here. When he was recovered, then he would have to guard against the enjoyment he took in her companionship. How easy it would be to think of her as his companion … . That she could never be.

She was gone long before morning, of course. She had probably slipped away as soon as he’d fallen asleep. Perhaps even now she was sending a message to her uncle, telling Gruffydd of his vulnerability, suggesting that now was a perfect time to launch an attack.

He didn’t quite believe that. If she were capable of doing such a thing to him, then she would have left him to die in the forest.

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 could 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.