The Winter Promise (2 page)

• • •

The following morning, Harold, Helen, Imma and all of their company set out for the island of Athelney. The sun cast a weak light through the low clouds and the wind now turned sharp and bitter. Bending her head into her cloak and pulling her scarf more tightly across her face, Imma prayed the journey to the keep would be short. Even cheerful Helen huddled silently on the bench, keeping her cloak clutched tightly around her, ceasing her usual chatter as she tried to stay warm.

Miles passed. Imma’s toes went numb in her boots. She could no longer feel her nose or her cheeks, no matter how tightly she wrapped the scarf around her face. Harold called something to the guards and Imma stuck her head out of the cart to see what was happening.

Drawing back inside, she said to Helen, “Glastonbury forest.”

“Oh, dear,” Helen murmured.

The road that wound through the forest proved more rutted and bumpier than the well-traveled, well-kept Glastonbury highway. Despite the padded seat in the cart, every jolt on the road was transmitted directly to Imma’s buttocks. Riding a horse would be less insulting to her backside, but she had not brought a palfrey. Rotund Helen had no choice except to ride in the cart and Imma had wanted to keep her friend company. She debated getting out of the cart for a few minutes of walking. It could not be any colder outside the cart than in it.

Catching a flash of white against the turning leaves of an ash tree, she was sure she had just spotted a large crane. That decided her. A gift like that might make her more welcome at Athelney. Only a truly churlish man would not appreciate fresh game for his table. With a word to Helen, she took up her bow and stepped out of the cart. She headed off the track to venture into the trees, toward the place where she had seen the flash of white.

The oaks and mulberries must screen a lake or a pond, she thought as she moved deeper among the trees, bow held at ready. Cranes usually nested near water. She moved slowly and carefully, watching where she set her feet; she was patient and a good hunter. She unclasped her silver cloak pin and slipped her cloak from her shoulders so it would not hamper her movements. The wind sliced through her wool dress, but she ignored the discomfort as she inched forward. There!

She lifted her bow and notched her arrow, sighting on the bird as it rose into the sky not far from where she stood. Then she heard a hoarse guttural cry on the road behind her. She spun, her heart catching. She was too deep in the forest to see anything, but the urgent sound of blood-danger was unmistakable.

Instinctively, she dropped her bow and arrow and threw herself to the ground, rolling into the underbrush. She lay there, holding her breath and checking her movements so that the sound of dry leaves crackling beneath her body would give neither her existence nor her location away.

It had been summer the day the English slavers came to Wales with their hoarse guttural cries so like these thiefmen. That day, her uncle had driven the slavers off, but not before they had taken many captives. Imma had barely escaped being one of them.

Today she had no fierce warrior uncle to protect her. From her hiding place among the brush, she heard the terrified screams of the women and the shrill cries of the horses rising over the agitated squawking of birds and other sounds of the disturbed forest. The echoing laughter of the thiefmen made her curl into a tight ball, praying they would not discover her. The thunder of the fighting vibrated through her flesh. She pressed her palms over her ears, but she could still hear the ring of blade on blade, the crunch of spear against flesh and mail as the Harold’s soldiers strove desperately to defeat the thiefmen.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the nightmare images that rose in her mind’s eye. She prayed, silently and incoherently, over and over, as the Celtic priests in Wales had taught her. The words did not give comfort and a broken cry escaped her lips.

As the battle raged on, fear and anger tore at her. She forced herself not to take her dagger from her sleeve and join the fight. She was no warrior; she would only be cut down — or worse. Frantic to control her panic and anger, she recited in her mind the tales she had learned to tell from her uncle’s favorite bard, the woman Efa. Imma calmed as she went over the familiar stories, focusing on finding the right details to describe King Pryderi, stolen from his home on the night of his birth — he had lived to have many adventures. Although in the end, he was killed over a disagreement concerning a pig. She did not want to think of King Pryderi dying over a pig when she could still hear what was happening there on the road.

She stuffed her hand in her mouth as the hysteria returned; perhaps she should focus on more spiritual matters.
Our father
, she thought, her mind going blank. She tried again.
Our father which art in heaven.

Deliver us from evil.

She did not dare leave the shelter of the forest, not even after the noise of the fighting died down and the birds settled and the ordinary forest sounds returned. She had seen enough of war to know that when men became outlaws, and their treasure-lust rose, they would stop at nothing to satisfy themselves.

She knew the thiefmen had won because the screams of the women lasted far into the night.

• • •

When the sun rose the following morning, Imma crawled from her shelter and, making her way to the road, found the shattered remains of the company. Her stomach heaved at the sight of the bloody, torn bodies and she could not stop vomiting even long after her stomach was empty. The thiefmen had left none alive. Considering what they had done, Imma could only count this a blessing. They had misused the women viciously, worse than any animal would hurt its prey. Staring at the horror, Imma could not keep back the whimpers, small cries like a frightened child would make. She forced her hand into her mouth, biting hard on her knuckles as her chest heaved and she fought for breath.

The storage chests had been torn open and the finery trampled into the dirt and the blood. Anything valuable had been stolen, including the horses and the cart. She could do nothing for the dead, except make sure that none had survived. When she found Helen’s body, she began to cry, useless tears that offered no relief from pain. Helen had been so excited to see her Elizabeth, reveling in her delight at surprising her older sister. How in God’s name could such a gentle-natured woman have been forced to suffer this torment? What had been the purpose of this evil? How could God bear such men to exist?

Her tears came hot and fast now as if she were a tiny girl again, watching them put her mother and baby brother in the ground for all eternity. In this England, Helen had been kind to her, teaching her the English ways, counseling her how to adapt to her cold English husband. Disoriented and alone, Imma had held to the friendship Helen had offered with gratitude. She had had no female companions of her own. Simon had not allowed her to bring her Welsh lady companions to Kent, for he despised the Welsh and would not have them in his household.

After elderly Simon’s death, Helen had continued her kindnesses to Imma, offering love and friendship not only out of duty to Simon but because she genuinely cared for Imma. Now look what had happened.

Next to Helen’s mutilated body, her Harold had fallen, run through with a spear that still protruded from his chest, a grimace frozen on his face. No doubt he had died trying to protect his wife. Harold, who had been charged by his king with providing an accounting of the work of Lord Robert, the Steward of Wessex.

Looking at the devastation, Imma wondered if this Lord Robert had not wanted to be called to account. Did he think destroying the company would prevent the accounting? The English were prideful and boastful. They did not suffer insults lightly and Harold’s purpose could have been considered as such. But if Lord Robert had discovered Harold’s purpose, and determined to stop him, why the viciousness toward the women? They did not have to die so terribly! A sword thrust to the heart would have sufficed. The crime spoke of a black heart and an evil soul, not a mere arrogant refusal to be called to account. Still, she did not trust English lords. Or, rather, she trusted that English lords were capable of anything.

Kneeling beside Helen’s torn body, Imma realized her own precarious situation. What would stop the thiefmen from spotting her and setting upon her? Look what they had done to Helen and the other women in the company.

Imma scrambled to her feet. Now she must work out how to save herself. Daughter to King Dafydd, niece to King Gruffydd, she had long ago learned that even women of royal blood sometimes had only themselves to rely upon.

Hearing a sound behind her, she whirled, dagger drawn. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought the thiefmen had returned and panic flooded her veins with a sick, unreasoning fear, driving out the grief. Then she saw one of the horses, a gray palfrey, limping along the road toward her. Taking a shaky breath, she slipped her dagger back up her sleeve and caught the gray’s reins. She rested her head against the palfrey’s neck until her heart ceased thundering and she could think again.

The thiefmen had no use for a limping horse, but to her experienced eye there was nothing seriously wrong with the mare. Imma bent, running her hands over the tender leg. The palfrey submitted patiently to her touch. Imma could find no sign of swelling or visible bruising or blood. She turned the horse’s hoof back and spotted a stone wedged in the shoe. That was easily remedied.

With her dagger, she worked the stone free, dropping it to the path, then encouraged the mare to walk. She nodded in satisfaction as the horse moved freely. Taking up the reins, Imma patted the horse’s neck and whispered some reassurances. Focusing on the palfrey helped her stop thinking of what had happened here. Now she must get to safety. When she had found protection, then she could grieve. A foreign woman in an unfriendly land, she had learned to discipline herself to do what needed to be done.

Salvaging what food she could from the burst chests, she stowed it in the horse’s saddlebags. She found her cloak where she had dropped it some little ways among the trees and threw it over her shoulders. She could not find the cloak pin and did not want to spend more time searching for it. Without a backward glance, she mounted the horse and rode for the island of Athelney and its lonely stone keep and what destiny might await her there.

• • •

The fog had rolled in early, but that did not stop the Welsh. They came on in full force, as if they knew Lord Robert had sent his second away. Osbrycht, his most trusted retainer, a thane of good reputation with a strong arm, had taken a party of men to patrol the coast.

Many of Robert’s army had already served their duty and were eager to return to their families for winter. Robert himself had nothing to draw him home to Athelney, so their eagerness struck no corresponding chord in him. Even so, he had promised to let them go soon, for he was a good lord. A good steward. Thus he had divided his forces this way, despite the risk. The men who had fought longest this fall were on their way home with Robert, while others, who had not yet fulfilled their military obligation, had accompanied Osbrycht.

The fight was familiar to Robert, though it had not always been the Welsh he had gone against. Before becoming his brother’s steward, he had ridden for Edward against the Danes. For glory and treasure he had fought in those days, a younger son determined to prove himself. Now he fought to hold these lands for his brother John. There had been a time when he would gladly have driven his sword into John’s heart, but that time had passed. He no longer blamed John for what had happened.

He still blamed Anna, though. That she was no longer alive to know his anger did not cause it to abate.

He slashed with his sword, forcing an attacker back, then blocked a spear thrust with his shield. He would drive the Welsh from Wessex. He always did. They would come again. He would gather his thanes and drive them out once more.

Despite the fog and their smaller number, Robert’s men slowly, inexorably, drove the enemy back. Pressing hard, ruthlessly, taking his advantage, Robert slashed and cut and blocked and parried, the men he fought against like wraiths in the gray mist.

A Welsh soldier swung his sword as Robert thrust, exposing his ribs. The flat of the soldier’s blade slammed into Robert’s side. The mail he wore deflected the edge of the weapon, but the blow knocked him down, driving the breath from his body. The attacker slashed, drawing a thin line of blood across Robert’s collarbone, but Robert rolled to his feet and thrust with his sword, finishing the solider before the soldier could finish him.

Then the Welsh retreated, leaving Robert and his army behind. Robert waited until he was sure they had disengaged before calling for his men to come away from the battlefield and pitch camp.

He built a small fire in front of his makeshift tent and pulled off his mail. Once the more seriously injured men had been attended to, he had the surgeon examine his wounds. The cut on his collarbone, though deep, was of minor consequence and the broken ribs would heal. The surgeon did not think his lung had been punctured, but they would be able to tell soon enough. Robert would not be able to draw breath, and he would die. Then they would know.

It took every effort for him to sit upright by the fire and set a good example for his men. Every one of his years and more felt etched in his bones.

The battle just ended seemed a re-enactment of every battle that had gone before, battle-season after battle-season, year after year. Nothing changed, nothing ended. The enemy had once been Danes, he conceded. Now they were Welsh. That had changed. Still they came, battle-season after battle-season, year after year, and still he held them off with the strength of his arm and the might of his thanes.

Someone handed him a skin of ale and a slab of dried venison, which he accepted with a grunt, knowing he must eat for strength, not wanting to summon the effort it would require to chew. He had been a warrior all his life, from the time he could grip an ash spear in his hand. He had been almost seven years old when he fought his first war, alongside his father, then. Through all the long years since, nearly thirty of them, through all the hard riding, the desperate fighting, the pain of the battle-wounds, and the whisper of death in his ear, he had never doubted his purpose or his path.