Winter Roses Read online

  Winter Roses

  Anita Mills

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1992 by Anita Mills

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email [email protected].

  First Diversion Books edition May 2013.

  ISBN: 9781626810372

  Also by Anita Mills

  Duel of Hearts

  Devil’s Match

  Scandal Bound

  Follow the Heart

  Secret Nights

  Bittersweet

  The Rogue’s Return

  Autumn Rain

  Miss Gordon’s Mistake

  Newmarket Match

  Dangerous

  The Fire Series

  Lady of Fire

  Fire and Steel

  Hearts of Fire

  The Fire and the Fury

  Winter Roses

  A special thanks to Dr. Theresa DaKay Stimson, my reader for this work.

  Prologue

  The Scottish Border Country: September 28, 1127

  The rumbling sound of carts and the muted jangle of mailed riders broke the peace of the starless night as they crossed the Cheviot Hills. Behind them a dozen archers walked, their tools of trade on their backs. Above, the moon was nearly hidden behind a bank of clouds, affording cover on this, the eve of Michaelmas. It was, William of Dunashie reflected grimly, as good a night for their purpose as he’d ever seen. It was the night they’d regain his half-brother’s stolen patrimony.

  Ahead, the keep of Dunashie rose from the crest of the mound, an aged stronghold built on the rubble of an ancient Celtic fortress. Within its timbered walls there stood but one thatched-roof stone tower, and without there was but a single narrow ditch of stagnant water to reflect the hazy moon. For all that he’d wanted the place, ’twould seem that Hamon of Blackleith had done little to it. It appeared much as it had been when William had left it more than sixteen years before.

  The tall, black-haired boy beside him reined in and stood in his stirrups to contemplate the task before them. William followed his gaze, thinking ’twas almost too easy: And they did it right, the fool who ruled within would yield to them this night what the courts had refused. Looking back to the boy, William felt a surge of pride. Though he’d celebrated his sixteenth birth anniversary but the day before, Giles of Moray already showed the purpose of a man. Aye, the exile, the attempted assassinations, and finally the futile court case, had tempered the youth, hardening him until he was a warrior worth following.

  “What think you, Will?” the boy asked. “Is it as you would remember?”

  William looked again at the timbered walls. “Aye.”

  For a moment Giles’ face was sober, then he half-turned in his saddle to smile at Will. “But for you, brother, I’d not have lived to see it.”

  “Nay, I did but what Iain of Dunashie asked of me.”

  “You undervalue yourself—you were but five years the elder yet you kept me safe, even in King Henry’s court,” Giles reminded him.

  Embarrassed, William looked away, spitting at the ground. “ ’Twas my lot to serve ye,” he protested. “The old laird said, ‘I canna leave ye anything, ye know, fer yer dam was but a village lass I took to my bed, but I’d hae ye look ter the babe as has the right.’ ’Twas the last he spoke ter me ere they hanged him,” he recalled bitterly. “E’en as young as I was, I couldna fergit his words.”

  “E’en so, there’s not many bastards as faithful to the legitimate heir. I owe you for what you have done for me, Will,” the boy said solemnly.

  “Nay, but ye were worthy of the service.” William leaned over and spat again to cover the rise of emotion he felt. “And now ’tis ye as brings us home.”

  “What think you—is aught different that you can tell?”

  The bigger man studied the wall. “Well, there’s naught ter say Hamon of Blackleith’s nae changed the place a bit, but I canna see it.”

  Hamon of Blackleith. The name hung between them, for when the powerful family of Moray had executed Iain of Dunashie for forcibly wedding the Lady Judith, they’d given the unwanted product of the union for hostage to King Henry of England, leaving it to King Alexander of Scotland to bestow Dunashie on a liege man. And later it had been the courts of Alexander’s successor, King David, that had upheld Hamon against a powerless boy.

  “Hamon spit in my face, Will, and I’ll see him dead for it.”

  “Aye.”

  “The fools sleep,” Giles noted with grim satisfaction. “They know not we are come.”

  William looked again to his half-brother with an equal grimness. “And may Hamon of Blackleith die knowin’ ’twas ye as took it back.”

  Between them, they’d gathered a motley band of malcontents from both sides of the border for the attempt. And now those who rode with them hoped to gain service with the next lord of Dunashie. At the rear of the column, some of them stood ready to fire the pitch vats for the assault. It was, William knew, going to be a brutal, bloody thing they did, but he told himself there was no other way. As long as Hamon breathed, he’d not yield Dunashie.

  A wiry, toothless fellow, Robert of Langhorne, worked his flint, but Giles shook his head. “Nay, I’d have all in readiness first, Hob. I’d not give them time to raise a defense once we are seen. We are not enough to stand and fight.” Nudging his horse to ride back amongst his men, he kept his voice low. “Lang Gib,” he addressed the tall, lanky Gilbert of Kilburnie, “I’d have you cover the archers whilst they take to the trees above. ’Twill be Wat’s task to supply the pitch-wrapped arrows. And Willie and Ewan will ride beneath, holding their brands high to light them.”

  William knew why he’d been chosen: At six feet and seven English inches he was taller than the others, taller even than Lang Gib by a full head. “Wee Willie” he’d been called derisively at the English court, and the name had stuck. But this night at least he would not curse his size.

  He watched almost dispassionately as the men dipped the wrapped ends of torches and arrows into the thick pitch. The archers moved to the trees that spread their limbs almost to the malodorous moat, then climbed high to position themselves within firing distance of the wooden walls. When all was ready, the toothless one gave the raven’s call. Inside, all was quiet.

  The mounted columns separated to ring the wall. Will took the torch he was handed, and for the first time since he’d proposed the plan his body felt taut. This was no meaningless skirmish for another master—this was the battle for the keep of his birth. This was the fulfillment of his promise to his sire. This night Giles of Moray would hold Dunashie, or they would die.

  Above them a lone sentry walked the wall, his horn lantern flickering like a small, distant star. The poor fool didn’t know it was a target he carried.

  Finally Giles nodded, lifting his hand to signal it was time. William rode back to where the hot coals were held within the vented iron kettle. Tipping the lid over, he thrust his brand within, holding it until the flame flared and the pitch caught the fire. The sentry above turned just as an archer’s arrow caught him, and he fell, his last cry muted by the splash when he hit the water.

  William spurred his horse and, holding his flaming torch high above his head, he rode beneath the trees. The archers leaned their brands down to catch the fire. Ahead of him, he could see Giles flinging his own torch over the wall to the thatch that covered the s
table. Others followed him, and soon the curling smoke attested to a dozen or more fires within. The taunts of the circling, shouting borderers mingled with the cacophony of animals afraid of the flames on the other side.

  The thatch was like tinder, and within minutes every roof from the granary to the tower was ablaze. The courtyard, which had been so silent before, was filled with the shouts and the choking coughs of those who scrambled from their pallets. And above the din women screamed, crying for God’s deliverance from the smoke and the fire. Will closed his ears to the pitiful cries, for there was none to aid them now.

  In one final, desperate attempt to escape the burning keep, those within ran for the gate, pushing against it even as the heavy chains creaked and rattled to lift it. Several men worked frantically to turn the pulleys, lowering the bridge. Behind them the courtyard was orange with the unchecked fires, and the light silhouetted hastily mounted knights, their mail hanging unhooked from their shoulders. At their head, the fat baron cursed the gate men for their slowness.

  “ ’Tis Hamon!” Giles yelled.

  Will rode for the drawbridge as it made its slow descent down, shouting, “Move the pitch cart to block their escape!”

  Above the frightful din Giles called to Hob, “Burn it! Now!”

  The cart rolled forward, and just as the wooden bridge struck the pilings Hob pushed the vat over, spilling the pitch onto the wood. Will leaned over to fire it, and those who rode out faced a wall of shooting flames. Panicked horses reared, and men blasphemed as they were thrown into the burning pitch. Living torches, they struggled to rise, then curled over as they were consumed.

  “Watch out!” Will shouted hoarsely, as the huge-girthed man he’d recognized for Hamon rode through the fire. “Giles! ’Tis he!”

  But his younger brother spurred forward, taunting the usurper, shouting through the smoking hell, “Behold, the boy you dispossessed is become a man! Use your spit to put out the fire!”

  “Nay, ye’ll not live to take it—ye’ve built yer funeral pyre!” the baron snarled. “Ye’ll die fer this!”

  William knew fear as Hamon’s sword flashed, its blade catching the glow of the disintegrating bridge. He threw his torch away and reached for his axe. “I’d take him fer ye!” he cried.

  “Nay! He is mine!”

  William saw Hamon’s horse leap, gaining the hard-packed earth, while the baron leaned from his saddle to swing his sword so wide that he nearly lost his seat. The blow glanced from Giles’ shield. William forced his attention to the others, telling himself he’d taught the boy to take care of himself.

  More crowded behind Hamon, trying to escape before the bridge fell into the water. William shouted to Lang Gib, “We canna let any of Blackleith escape! For Moray of Dunashie! For Dunashie!” Even as he called out the battle cry he rode at them, swinging his axe furiously. The broad blade caught the first man out after Hamon, lifting him in his saddle and cleaving him cleanly upward from the ribs. His curse died in a look of surprise, then he toppled. His frightened horse dragged him away.

  After that it was a mad melee: Many who would try the gate fell back from the flaming bridge, but some managed to force their neighing mounts across. Above, those trapped inside screamed piteously and tried to jump from the burning walls. There was no other time, no future, no past, as Will and Gib and the others hacked at those who dared the bridge. He’d let none aid Hamon. The din of battle was deafening, and then it was over, followed by a sudden, eerie silence broken only by the popping and cracking of the settling timbers.

  When there was no more coming out, William turned to find his brother. Giles stood over the fallen baron as Will came up behind him.

  “I’d be shriven,” Hamon gasped. “I’d have God’s mercy. In the name of the Virgin, I’d have a priest.”

  While William watched, Giles struck the final blow: Hamon’s legs lifted, jerked, then his body went limp and his head lolled. “Nay, Hamon, but ’tis all the mercy you will have of me,” the boy said softly. “I’d see your soul in Hell ere I called a priest for you.”

  They’d done it—they’d won. William’s throat ached and tears streamed down his face as Giles turned to him. Wordlessly the boy clasped him, holding his mailed arms with bloody hands.

  “I’ve brought you home, Will—Dunashie is ours.”

  “I never doubted you would—never.” Still overwhelmed with what he felt, Will stepped back and smiled crookedly. “ ’Tis yers, my lord.”

  “Aye.” They both turned to survey the flames that licked the night sky. “And there’ll be none to want it now—’tis but ashes.”

  “ ’Tis a lesson fer ye—when ye build it again, make it stone,” William murmured.

  The borderers moved among the fallen, stripping anything of value they found, as William and Giles surveyed the destruction and death they’d wrought. It had been a bitter struggle, but it was over. Even if he willed it, King David could not give Dunashie back to Hamon.

  “My lord, these are all as survive.”

  As he spoke, Lang Gib prodded several sullen people forward. Grimed with soot, their clothes wet from the foul water in the ditch, they looked down rather than at Giles of Moray. The boy approached a girl, scarce twelve.

  “Art of Hamon’s family?”

  She shook her head, then her face crumpled. Covering her face as though she could blot out what she’d seen, she wept loudly. Behind her a man cried, “They are all dead—Lady Margaret even! Sweet Jesu, but you have burned us in our beds! May God consign your souls to Hell for it!”

  But Giles was watching the girl, and he felt the need to justify what he’d done. “Demoiselle, he took what was mine.” Abruptly, he swung around. “How many were inside?”

  “Thirty-six that called Hamon lord,” the man muttered, “and we are all that live.”

  “And the others?” Giles wanted to know. “How many as were born here?”

  He shrugged. “No more’n an English dozen.”

  “Any of his blood among you?”

  The man’s arm tightened on the half-naked boy beside him. “Nay, they all perished. You have murdered all. All,” he repeated. “E’en the women and the bairns is dead.”

  William counted but six survivors. Turning away, he studied the still burning wall. The awful smell of cooked flesh assaulted his nose, sickening him, and guilt washed over him. Then he shook it off. “The guilt is Hamon’s,” he said aloud, “and may God curse him for it, fer ’twas him as stole Dunashie from ye.”

  “Aye,” Giles agreed grimly.

  It was decided to send the young girl, Aveline de Guelle, back to her father. The others Giles intended to let go, allowing them to seek refuge where they would. But as he and Will walked away, the one who had dared to raise his voice a moment ago spat at them.

  “Butcher! Art naught but a butcher! May ye burn in Hell for this!” The other men and the boy joined in, chanting, “Butcher! Butcher! Art but a craven butcher, as burns women and babes in their beds!”

  Giles stopped still, his jaws working to control the surge of anger he felt. And then he shook his head. “Will,” he said evenly, “hang them.” With that he walked on, leaving his brother to carry out the order.

  It was an unpleasant task. Battle was one thing—a man testing his skill against another—but hanging was something Will did not relish. He looked to Lang Gib. “You heard him, did ye not?”

  “Aye,” Gib acknowledged grimly.

  Will started to walk away also, then turned to look at the frightened youth. “How are ye called, boy?”

  “My lord, I would ye spared him,” the man who’d first angered Giles pleaded. “He has but ten years!”

  “Who is he?”

  The man hesitated, then cast a warning look at the child. “He is mine nephew.”

  “Ye dinna answer me, boy—how are ye called?”

  The youth swallowed visibly, then shook his head mutely.

  “He is Walter, my lord.�
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  “I dinna ask ye—and I am no more lord than ye,” Will snapped. For a long moment he considered the boy, thinking he could not let Gib hang a child. And remembering how it had been when his own sire had been hanged before his eyes, he nodded. “Aye. Come with me then, for ’tisna anything fer ye to watch.”

  The boy hung back, clinging to his uncle. The man looked up at William. “I’d hae a farewell wi’ him.”

  “Aye.” Will’s eyes traveled to where Hob already looped a rope over a stout limb. “I’ll walk apart a little that ye may speak, but I’d nae gie ye o’erlong.”

  The man waited until Will had turned his back, then he held the boy’s arm, speaking low and urgently. “ ’Tis the last of yer blood ye are, and I’d nae hae ye fergit it—d’ye ken me?”

  Tears welled and spilled from young Walter’s eyes as he nodded. “I’d die wi’ ye!” he cried fervently.

  “Nay, ’tis ye as must remember—’tis ye as must make Giles of Moray pay for what he does this day,” his uncle whispered. “For yer sire’s memory, ye must live.” Leaning down, he embraced the boy. “Ye ken me?” he asked again.

  “Aye.”

  It had been long enough. Will beckoned to the boy. “Walter.” When the child shook his head, he caught him beneath the arm and pulled him away. “Here now … I told ye … tis no sight fer ye.”

  “Where do you take me?” the boy whimpered, his eyes now wide with his fear.

  “D’ye have any kinsmen beyond these walls?”

  “Nay.”

  William peered down at the grimed face and felt pity for the lad. “And Giles does not mind it, I’d take ye ter the brothers at Kelso,” he offered gently. “They’ll have a care fer ye.”

  “I’d nae be a priest!”

  “ ’Tis better than a hanging,” William countered. “Ye’ll have a roof above ye, and food fer yer stomach.” His troubled eyes traveled up the burning timbers once more. “God willing, ye’ll fergit this.”