Fires of Winter (7 page)

I do not know that I believed Papa's easy assurances, since I knew that sooner or later Stephen would return; and it seems to me I once heard Papa and my brothers talking about the possibility of King David invading Northumbria again while Stephen was gone, but I paid little attention because I had more serious worries closer to my heart. Mildred was growing more desperate by the day about her barrenness and, though Winifred was happy, that was only owing to her simplicity and lack of understanding. Even I, who had borne no child, knew she did not look as she should. Her feet and legs were all swollen and she had trouble breathing if she walked only from her quarters to the hall. The midwife was not at all happy about her. In the end, the midwife tried to bring on the babe before its time. She had felt it weakening—by then, Winifred realized something was wrong herself because the child no longer moved in her—but it would not come, and Winifred grew weaker and weaker and died, at last, poisoned by the dead child within her.

We all grieved but not, I am afraid, very deeply—not even Magnus, who agreed that Papa should find him another wife as soon as Winifred was decently buried. Poor Winifred had been too sweet, too simple, too gentle to be other than a nothing in our violent, volatile family. Mildred and I shed the bitterest tears—alas, not for Winifred, but for the loss of an heir to Ulle. Had Winifred borne a son, Papa and Donald would have been content; both would be glad enough that Magnus's child inherit our lands just as both disliked the thought that any blood but ours should rule them. Winifred's death made Mildred's inability to get with child a larger and larger wound in her mind, though neither Donald nor Papa reproached her.

She tried, I think, to convince Donald to repudiate her—she did not admit it to me, but Donald began to question me about what Mildred said about him and whether her eyes strayed to other men. I burned his ears for that before I realized what must have engendered his jealousy. I did not dare say what I thought to Mildred—for all the love between us, there was something fiercely private about Mildred that forbade me to tread where I was not invited, and she was years older than I—but I did speak to her and warned her that Donald felt she was discontent with him. How I have regretted that! How often have I wondered if putting on a smiling face for Donald drove her sickness inward harder and deeper until she became altogether desperate. If so, I murdered my beloved sister.

I thought, though, that her spirits had lifted when Papa brought Catrin home for Magnus. If they had, so much the lower did they fall when less than a year later, in the summer of 1137, Catrin took a fever and died. I did not realize that at first. For myself, I was more relieved than grieved, for Catrin was shrewish and obstinate and thought she should rule Ulle because she was a son's wife rather than a mere daughter of the house. So I was not sorry to be rid of her without asking Papa to banish her to the manor meant for Magnus—which would have meant that Magnus would have to spend at least part of his time alone with her and bear the brunt of her tongue.

It was after Papa's offers for a girl from Keswick were turned away with weak excuses that he suggested Donald set Mildred aside. They quarreled bitterly, Donald with an intensity that bordered on true hate, the first time ever there was real bad feeling between my father and one of his sons. I made peace between them, but it was an uneasy peace, and Donald came seldom to Ulle after the quarrel. I went to Thirl when I could, but winter was drawing in and the track over the mountains was treacherous. In November storm followed storm; Papa forbade me to try the passes, but remembering what had looked out of Mildred's eyes the last time I saw her, I rode out one day when it seemed to me the sun might pierce through the racing clouds. I did not reach Thirl. So great a blast of wind rushed down from the Black Crag that my mare was toppled from the path. God knows what saved us, for neither Vinaigre nor I was more than bruised, but I took warning.

Was it my lack of courage, my failure to dare enough for love that took Mildred's last hope from her? I must not believe that, as I must not believe coming to celebrate my birthday killed my brothers. I told myself over and over that one of them must have brought the sickness with him; it must be so, must it not? There was no sickness at Ulle until after they came. As for Mildred, even if I had got to her that day, would she not have fulfilled her dire purpose on another? I am torn apart anew as I think back on that time. Am I blackening my sister with the idea that she took her own life only to salve my own sick spirit because I was not brave enough to go forward that day?

Whatever is true, it is an abiding sorrow that I learned she had died the very day on which I had failed to ride to Thirl. Late the following afternoon, Donald came into Ulle with Mildred in his arms. Papa and I both ran to meet him, but such horror filled my spirit that I could barely force my limbs to move. I knew before I saw Donald's face that she was dead, even though she was tenderly wrapped in his cloak. There was no need to run for Mildred's sake ever again, but I forced myself forward, fearing that Donald would vent his anguish and bitterness on Papa. But though my brother was half dead with searching and half crazed from finding Mildred drowned, he did not blame Papa. Indeed, I realized in the next moment that he never suspected she had killed herself.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I saw things they did not. Once Papa got him down from his horse, Donald told us in broken pieces, still clutching Mildred to him, how he had first found her horse grazing in a little valley where the Thirlwater met the land gently, and then found her drifting in the tarn not far away. There was mud on the horse's legs and side, and Donald clearly thought the beast had slipped up on the steep-sided hill and thrown Mildred. If she had been stunned, she could have rolled into the tarn and drowned. But when we at last coaxed him to let her be laid out, I was the one who washed her and combed her hair—and there was not a single mark or bruise on her head or body.

I kept that to myself, of course. All we needed was for the priest to hear a hint that Mildred had taken her own life. He knew whom she worshipped and would have grasped eagerly at any excuse to refuse her a grave in consecrated ground. Mildred would not have minded; she would have laughed, for all fertile earth was holy to her, but Donald…It was really from Donald that I hid my horror. I think if the idea that Mildred had deliberately smeared her horse with mud and then walked into the tarn had once crossed Donald's mind, he would have followed her path. And Papa was troubled enough already, for he was, I suspected, in a way glad Mildred was dead—and, perversely, that added to his grief for her.

Whatever Papa's feelings, he knew by instinct what to do for Donald—or was it by experience? He had suffered when Mama died. Did he remember what he had felt? Still, Papa had the lands and his children to force him to put aside sorrow and Donald had nothing. He felt Papa or Magnus could carry on for him because, I think, he had not won the land for himself as Papa did nor had he been bred to put Ulle before all else as Duncan, being eldest, had been. When the first shock of loss had passed, Papa tried to reawaken Donald's interest in living by setting tasks for him. My brother did what he was told out of duty, but his spirit did not lighten, and when Papa wished to take him hunting or to engage him in any other light sport, he refused. We were all sick with worry as well as grief.

And then Waleran de Meulan passed through our lands. Until that time, my mind had been so fixed on private troubles that I had not taken in the news of the king's return to England—if, indeed, Papa had mentioned it. But Waleran had come from Normandy with Stephen, and the king had sent him to the northwest to drive King David's men out of the lands that had been ceded to King David by treaty and make sure King David did not draw strength from our men or produce, thus breaking the treaty of 1136.

As I have said before, I did not care who our overlord was, but I conceived a hatred for Waleran de Meulan that I have never found reason to change. It was Waleran's pride and arrogance that drove Papa to break his oath of fealty. No, that is not all the truth. Waleran's haughty threats against any man who sought to aid King David's war and his contemptuous dismissal of the “little” men whom he could break at will if they flouted his orders infuriated Papa and made him speak unwisely. In my heart I knew the reason Papa broke his oath was the light that came into Donald's dead eyes when Papa roared that his oath to the king did not include swallowing insults from Waleran and that he would go join any force that would fight that braggart. I think Papa was only in a rage, shouting the first words that came into his head, but Donald came to his feet with gleaming eyes and said, “Yes, let us thrust that fool's threats down his thick throat.”

I am sure Papa knew Donald did not care whom he fought or for what reason. Donald would as gladly have joined King Stephen's army. He just wanted to fight, I suppose against life itself for taking Mildred from him—or perhaps he wanted to die, not fight. I think it was that Papa feared. I could see him swallow down his rage and shrug his shoulders in pretended indifference.

“Talk, just talk,” he said. “I must look about and see what will be best to do. There is no sense in letting a loud cur drive us into a foolish action.”

But the harm was done. The first smile I had seen since Mildred died appeared on Donald's face. “You are right about that,” he agreed heartily. “We can have it both ways. You bide here, which will stop that fool from any chance of harming Ulle, and I will gather a force and join King David. He will remember me, even though I have been away all these years.”

Papa knew what that meant. Donald would go no matter what he said. He glanced toward Magnus, who had been sitting beside me on a small bench near the fire. Magnus had not said a word beyond necessary remarks about food and such everyday matters since they had all returned from their meeting with Waleran. His dark eyes, much like mine and Mama's—I think his nature was more like ours too, not so open and sudden as my red-haired Papa and Donald—had been narrow with anger. It was clear that he liked Waleran no better than Papa did. Donald, I think, had noticed neither the words nor the manner of the king's envoy, for he had been as turned inward when they returned as when they rode out; he had responded to the word fight, not to Waleran's insults. But Magnus, angry as he was, still believed Stephen would be the victor in the struggle with Henry's daughter Matilda and did not approve any action against the king or his man.

Nonetheless, when Donald jumped to his feet, Magnus said, “I do not take a blast of foul, hot air from the mouth of a head empty of all but arrogance as seriously as you, but I will go if you bid me.” His eyes had moved to Donald and then back to Papa as if to add that he would do his best to keep Donald safe.

“No,” Papa replied, though his long look at Magnus was like a caress. “I will go. I wish to go.”

What Papa said was true enough. I am sure he took considerable joy in the idea of fighting for King David, but there was more too. There was no way Magnus could control Donald. Magnus was the younger and Donald would either ignore or laugh at cautions or commands from him. Most likely Papa had visions of Magnus flinging himself in front of Donald to protect him in an effort to keep his unspoken promise—and thus losing both sons. But Papa was wrong about that. Magnus was more likely to hit Donald on the head from behind and drag him off to safety, which I thought was very sensible but which I know would never occur to Papa (or if it did would horrify him).

Donald laughed in the old, reckless way, the way he had laughed before he married Mildred—before life began to have a deep meaning to him. Magnus frowned and I saw a ring Mama had given Papa glitter briefly in the firelight as his hand shook. Papa, who did not care for ornaments much, had put on the ring to please Mama when she started to weaken with her last sickness and he had never taken it off. The flash of light seemed to pierce me and a coldness spread over me so that I shuddered.

“Why should either of you come?” Donald asked, his voice hard but light, almost gay. “I said King David will know me; likely he will take me back into his household, and from that place I am most likely to meet this Waleran directly. You are the one who gave oath to Stephen, father. If you are in Ulle, the king cannot call you traitor, and we will have our revenge and come scatheless away too.”

“Broken treaty, broken oath,” Papa said. “If Stephen had not sent his vicious dog to deprive the Scots king of what was given him by treaty, I would have no reason to leave my lands. Besides, when peace is made this time, I will no longer be Stephen's man, so Ulle is in no danger.”

“If David wins,” Magnus said dryly. “Loud-mouthed cur Waleran may be, but I looked about his camp and had a word with this man and that. Waleran is a soldier—and that is more than I can say for David. And remember, most of the best men David has hold English lands, much richer lands than those they hold in Scotland. Brus, for one, went north for love of David, but he also did fealty to Stephen for his English lands. I heard it said in Carlisle a year ago when David first planned to take back the north that Brus had begged him not to fight the English king and warned him that he would not be able to support any attack on Stephen.”

Donald did not even stay to listen to this. He went off toward the bedchamber he had been sharing with Papa (he dreamt, I think, and needed to be awakened and perhaps comforted), I suppose to look for his sword and armor. Papa's eyes followed him, and he shrugged again.

“Win or lose, Ulle is in no danger,” he said, though he did not look at Magnus. “Stephen is not even with the army, and I doubt any man from these parts will carry tales to Waleran. And, since that haughty lord did not deign to distinguish such unimportant folk one from the other, I do not see how news of what I do can come to the English king.”