The Winter Promise (17 page)

She stepped more carefully on the forest floor, trying not to leave obvious tracks. Patches of snow and ice dotted the ground. By staying close to the underbrush and trees, she could avoid leaving telltale signs of her passage. She knew the men were right behind her. Osbrycht was a good hunter and could track her easily. There were at least two other men, possibly three, who were after her.

Taking a deep breath, she focused on her surroundings. Osbrycht had stopped the cart in the place where the thiefmen had murdered Helen and her company. Imma would never forget that bend in the road, and what had waited just beyond. On that day, she had come this way through the trees to hunt the crane. She thrust the thought and the memories aside.

The men were eerily silent.

They were hunting her.

The fear shot through her and she nearly sank to the forest floor. She had to force herself not to curl up in a ball and let them find her.

Hunting.

She had dropped her bow here that day. She paused, crouching, as she tried to remember where she had stood. She crept forward. Here — no, here. She brushed her hands along the ground until her fingers encountered the bow she had dropped that day. There. Brushing dry leaves aside, she picked up the bow, tested the string. It held, apparently unrotted, perhaps because the bow had fallen on stony ground.

She had carried an arrow that day. Just one, that she’d never used. She scrabbled around the ground with her hands. She had dropped the arrow at the same time she had dropped the bow. The bow was useless without the arrow. No, she couldn’t dwell on that. She had to find the arrow. Her fingers closed over it.

The underbrush where she had hidden last time. She tucked herself beneath the branches of the bush and slowed her breathing, tried to calm her racing heart so she could hear something beyond her own pounding heart. She waited as immeasurable minutes slipped by. Had they lost her? Would they abandon their plan and their search? No. So much hinged on their hurting her, killing her, to bait Robert and draw him out of the keep.

Osbrycht stepped into view. He had his sword out, and he stepped slowly and carefully, swiveling his head this way and that. Imma crouched, notching the arrow. Quietly, carefully, without making a sound, she lifted the bow and sighted along the arrow. Gradually she pulled the string back, slowly but surely, and then — the string broke with a sharp twang and the arrow fell harmlessly to the ground.

Alerted, Osbrycht looked directly at her. She turned to run but he was on her too quickly. He seized her, wrapping an arm around her throat, holding his sword at the ready as she struggled to free herself from his grip. She had lost the dagger in her headlong flight from the men. If only she had not —

“Unhand her!” Robert shouted. He sat astride his charger, on the rise just above, his spear in his hand, and his voice sounded like thunder. Her knees gave way and then Osbrycht fell without a sound. Then Robert was beside her, wrapping his cloak around her and carrying her to his horse, and back to Athelney.

Imma had the cat in her lap. She was sitting up in her bed in Tilly’s bedchamber, and Elizabeth had only allowed him in after he’d promised to say nothing upsetting to her.

Imma smiled at him and his heart tumbled in his chest. He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her and hold her until he could blot out her memory of the other men who had frightened her. He swore to himself he would be gentle, exquisitely gentle, and then everything would be all right.

But Elizabeth had told him she would run him through with his own sword if he tried to touch Imma, so he kept his hands to himself.

“You are well today?” he asked, standing some feet away. She had allowed Hunydd to examine her, and Hunydd had pronounced her sound. He had promised to have his own physician attend her, he had promised to send for the
king’s
own physician but Elizabeth had told him not to be ridiculous.

“I’m fine.”

He blamed himself. If only he would have stopped and listened. Would he have believed what she said?

“Is there — were you badly hurt, my lady?” He had already made the thiefmen pay the price for their trespasses. But that, Elizabeth had warned him, was nothing Imma would want to hear.

“No,” she said and closed her eyes.

“My lady!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t ask you to think on it.”

“I was so scared,” she said.

He nodded and clenched his hands into fists as she spoke. The anger and the sorrow rose in his heart and yet there was nothing he could do, he could not stop the hurt, or punish the transgressors further, he could not restore Imma to her usual bold, unshaken self. If only he had
listened
—

“Oh, my lady,” he whispered. “I wish I had known Osbrycht was capable of this. I would have prevented it.”

He remembered how she had tried to tell him her suspicions, and he had not bothered to listen to her. It was his fault this had happened, but she did not reproach him for it. He hung his head and fell silent. He wished he could tell her what was in his heart. How sorry he was, how brave she had been, how afraid he had felt. But he could not say any of it.

“Elizabeth says I cannot touch you until you tell me I may,” he said. “But I would very much like to hold you in my arms, Imma.”

“I would like that too, Robert.”

And so he extended his hand, and brought her to her feet, and folded her against his chest.

• • •

His arms were strong and sure but gentle as he gathered her against him, an unexpected sign of his affection for her. He might have done what he had done for any woman in his household, but this was different; this was for Imma, because he wished to hold
Imma
in his arms.

He was calm and still, simply holding her in an embrace that made no demands but gave warmth and tenderness and solace.

She lay her head against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. A comfort, a connection. He pressed his cheek against the top of his head, and she felt a sigh tremble through him, as of a tension released, and she put her arms around him, returning his embrace. He was rough and burly and it felt wonderful to be in his arms, to hold him in her own.

“Imma,” he said, and she heard everything he could not say. And in that moment she knew they two were in accord. Her hands went to her neck, and she unfastened the crystal. Without thinking too hard about what she was doing, she placed it around his neck, never saying the words, wondering if he would remember what her uncle had told her: to give the necklace to the one she loved.

She could never say that, and perhaps he would not even know what it meant. Perhaps he would think its meaning was
wear it and be hopeful and wise
. And if that was what he wanted it to mean, then she supposed she would be content with that. But she should like him to think of her some time from now, years even, and remember their winter promise.

Tilly came in then, and Imma turned away to find the cat and Robert left the room.

• • •

“My lord.”

Robert paused in the hallway outside Imma’s bedchamber. The captain of his guard strode toward him.

“The Welshmen have gone.”

“What?”

“The war captives — they are gone.”

Robert stared at his captain. “You’re certain?”

The captain nodded. Robert narrowed his eyes. Why had the men escaped without waiting to be ransomed? It was an unworthy — and this time of year, dangerous — thing to do.

“How did it happen?”

The captain tightened his lips. “Unfortunately, there was a great deal of confusion when you must rescue your lady.”

Robert did not like the start of pleasure he felt on hearing his captain call Imma his lady. She was not his lady. She never would be. And thinking about her distracted him entirely, when he should be focused on what his captain was telling him.

“Shall I send men after them?”

“No,” Robert said. He would not compound Osbrycht’s error. If the Welsh could get back to their homeland unscathed, then let them. But he did not understand why they had done it now. It made no sense. Except if the Welsh intended to attack, and attack soon.

He realized his captain still stood waiting for his command.

“Summon my estate steward and my military council,” Robert said. They had not even begun the spring planting yet, and already they must think of death.

The household steward darted into the lesser hall, where Robert was poring over his account-books, crying out, “The Welsh have attacked Wethmore.”

Robert jumped to his feet. “Wethmore?” They had intended to improve defenses there but it was much earlier in the year than the Welsh had ever struck before. Robert and his men had not had time. There was never enough
time
.

The shire-reeve shouldered his way into the room. “I have also heard some villages along the coast have been sacked and burned.” In their meetings, Graeme had named the most vulnerable places where they must shore up defenses but had not yet done so. How had the Welsh known exactly where to attack?

“Is your family safe?” Robert asked. His shire-reeve hailed from Wethmore.

“I don’t yet know,” Graeme said. “The messenger did not have much information. It is very confused and many are dead.”

The Welsh king had discovered that weakness in Robert’s military preparations. But how would he have learned it? Who would reveal this knowledge to the Welsh?

He remembered seeing Imma here, in the lesser hall, where he kept his maps in a chest. She’d had a letter in hand, and told a convincing story —

Imma knew one of the Welsh warriors. She might even know all of them. Robert was all unguarded with her and gave her free rein of his household. Could she have given them damaging information?

He did not like to think it, but it occurred to him that her kidnapping by Osbrycht had been very convenient for the Welsh soldiers. It had given them an opportunity to escape. Had she been part of the plan? Yet she had seemed terrified. And Osbrycht had lost his life over it.

Perhaps that was not how it had been expected to go.

Or perhaps the Welsh had a reason for wanting Osbrycht out of the way and had connived to make it happen. If they did, Robert could not discern what that reason might be.

Robert turned to the chest where the plans they had drawn up had been locked away. But the key was readily accessible, and that was his error. He would not make it again. He opened the chest. He did not have to search to see the rolls of parchment were missing.

“Get Imma,” he said to Graeme. He said the words as if it were not the hardest thing he had ever done, to think it possible she would betray him —

A moment later, Imma came hurrying into the room, Graeme just behind her, her brow wrinkled. “My lord? What is so urgent?”

“Who was the Welshman?” he demanded, turning to face her.

“My lord?”

“Who was he, Imma?”

She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. “My cousin.”

“My council and I drew up plans with my retainers for repairing certain fortifications in the spring,” he said. “The plans are missing.”

“My lord?” She stared at him.

“Did you give them to him, to this cousin of yours?”

“
Me
? You cannot think — it could easily have been Osbrycht — ”

“Osbrycht is dead. The plans were made that morning; he had no access to them. Tell me. Did you pass the plans to your cousin?”

She said nothing to him. She did not defend herself, or tell him some other truth, or beg him for mercy.

“I ride against your uncle at dawn,” he said.

Excitement stirred in the keep. At first Imma thought Robert and his army were returning — they had been gone several weeks — but then one of the servants passed along the word. The English king Edward had not, after all, sent a company to the keep as Robert had expected he would do in spring. The king himself had come in person.

Imma had no idea what this unexpected appearance could mean, but she knew the king would demand a meeting with her. She dressed carefully in the dark blue dress Elizabeth had given her for Christmas, plaiting her hair and covering it modestly.

Elizabeth, who ruled the keep in Robert’s stead, had already gone to welcome the king. Imma paced in her room, waiting for the summons she knew must arrive soon.

“Perhaps he has picked your husband,” Tilly said, and dread coiled around Imma’s heart.

If so, and Edward had come himself to bring her to Winchester, the man he had picked must be someone important. Her hands shook as she paced. She locked her fingers together to stop their trembling.

She had known that spring would come, and she not control her fate. The winter promise had ended. She had known it would be so.

When the servant Kenneth came to tell her that the king demanded her presence, Tilly gave her an encouraging hug. Imma drew a deep breath and thought fleetingly of the journey charm Edward himself had taught her:
Forth I go: May I meet with friends.

Stiffening her spine, she followed Kenneth to the great hall. Edward sat in a chair at the front of the room, his retinue arrayed around him, standing comfortably on either side of him, exchanging occasional words with each other. Imma spotted Elizabeth standing near the king. A tall man who bore some resemblance to her stood next to her. Imma curtsied and greeted the king.

“My dear Lady Imma,” he said warmly, opening his arms to embrace her. “Elizabeth tells me how much you have suffered. I have received the abbot’s letters. My dear, had I known I was sending you into such dangers, I would never have done it.”

“I am unharmed,” Imma said. “But like Lady Elizabeth, I grieve for the loss of dear Helen and Harold. They were kind to me.”

“If my brother had been a good steward, such a crime would never have happened,” said the man standing next to Elizabeth.

“That is not true!” Imma said without thinking. She forced herself to curtsy to the man, whom she now realized could only be Lord John. “My lord Robert is an excellent steward. Even now he goes to fight the Welsh to save your lands.”