The Winter Promise by Jenny Jacobs

looked around the hall. Elizabeth lifted a hand in greeting to him, so he waited as she made her way across the room, then linked her arm with his. “Thank God they have finally returned home,” she said, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Too many did not return, Robert. Too many. Can’t you stop this war?”
    It was a familiar refrain. Last year he would have called it a womanly complaint, but this year he was not so sure. She would light candles tonight, as she had on so many other occasions. She trusted in the God he knew had abandoned them. War and fire and chaos, the shifting loyalties of his retainers and the cold hardness of the rings he gave them, that was all that could be counted on. He held these lands with fierce determination, not useless prayers. He had prayed for an end to the blood-drink, just as he had prayed for Anna —
    His prayers had gone unanswered, the foolish whimpers of a young pup. When he wanted something, he must wrest it away for himself, with the strength of his arm and the sacrifice of his blood. There was no other way.
    “How shall I stop the war, Elizabeth?” he demanded. “Perhaps I should have Imma talk to her uncle? Beg him for surcease? Offer him a tribute of my brother’s treasure?”
    “Perhaps you should, Robert,” Elizabeth snapped. “Yet you cannot even believe in that, can you? That Imma’s uncle is who she says he is — ”
    He grunted. He did not want to have this discussion, not now, not ever. She stopped him with a hand on his arm and turned to face him. “I wish you would be kinder to her, after all she has lost — ”
    “Elizabeth,” he interrupted before she could get well and truly started. “Please. I am perfectly correct toward her.”
    “She is such a sweet girl.”
    “Hardly a girl,” he said, his gut clenching as he remembered asking for a boon, one he had not yet claimed. He closed his eyes at the memory and gulped the honeyed drink in his hand.
    “Now that is unkind,” Elizabeth said. “I know it is hard to believe because she seems so serious, but she is quite young — and very pleasant. She has had no call for frivolity and laughter these last few years, that is all. Look! See her with Osbrycht. She is not so serious now.”
    Robert looked in the direction Elizabeth indicated. Imma stood there wearing the light blue dress he had seen her in so many times before, her hair bound by a ribbon. She insisted on confining the luxurious curls, but all it would take was a tug and her hair would tumble down her shoulders and he could thread his hands through it, feel the silky dark waves sliding across his skin —
    He took a ragged breath as he watched her. She smiled up at Osbrycht, as if spellbound. He held her complete attention. She did not even seem to know Robert was in the room. She certainly did not acknowledge him.
    His pleasant imaginings soured. He knew women found Osbrycht attractive. Osbrycht was charming, a gentleman. He knew how to say things that women liked hearing. He was tall and lean, with golden hair and blue eyes and a ready smile. What woman would not find him appealing? He was not that much older than Imma. How could Robert, now in his middle age, compare to a man at the height of his prowess, the vigor of his youth? Imma must prefer a man nearer her own age, especially after her marriage to miserable, elderly Simon. Here was charming Osbrycht, appreciating Imma —
    Imma laughed and her laughter lanced through Robert. He had never made her laugh. His hands worked at his sides as he glared at his second flirting with Imma.
    “He has scarce left her side all night,” Elizabeth said, throwing oil on the flames of Robert’s jealousy, a sentimental smile on her face, all unaware how she goaded him. “Save to accept the rings you gave him. They make a pretty pair.”
    Robert ground his teeth. “Charming,” he snarled.
    Elizabeth turned to stare at him, an expression of frank disbelief on her face. “Honestly, Robert. I thought