A Gift of Ash & Frost

A Gift of Ash and Frost Chrissy Munder

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I

“LOOKING for help up at the Grange.” Rolly Tiree, the tinker, was seated at the long table when I brought in another keg from the storeroom. He was perched upon one of the simple chairs I had made, a pint of dark ale set before him. I carried the oaken cask easily upon one shoulder and set it down behind the bar without a grunt despite the heavy weight. While Mister Barnes, the owner of the small inn and alehouse, continued to prod Rolly for the latest news acquired in his travels, I knelt on the stained oak floor, the better to remove the tap from the old keg and roll it out of the way before rolling the new one into place while letting the conversation wash over my bent head. “The widow Osgood herself asked if I knew of any strong backs that could come help with the preparations for the Christmastide celebration.” He took another sip out of his battered pewter mug, smiling as his interested audience murmured in appreciation of the honor given him. I rather liked Rolly. He was a traveler, moving from village to village and back again to peddle his small store of wares and sharpen tools and knives upon request. Unlike 2

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the rest of those in my village, he did not ignore me or treat me with disdain. Undoubtedly, that was due to his own low status, but it was enough to form a small bond between us. I felt he was talking directly to me, and even though I kept my head low, I kept my ears open as well. “Abominations.” The Reverend Lewis Mounsey was seated at his usual seat before the small fire that smoked with sullen determination, adding its soot to the years’ worth of layers already coating the walls and ceiling of the alehouse. Mister Barnes was too careful with his coin to permit me to build a fire large enough to do the open hearth justice and burn away the accumulated buildup. “All in that house and those that would work for them are naught but abominations.” Since he often referred to me in the same manner, my interest in what Rolly was saying perked up even more. Certainly I had a strong back to offer, and with the turmoil in the land, any extra monies earned, especially between Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night, could be put aside to aid in the harder times all visitors to the inn mournfully kept proclaiming were on the way. Besides, weather was slowing business at the inn, and I knew Mister Barnes kept me on out of kindness only. “Careful with that tongue of yours, Reverend.” Mister Barnes spoke with the quiet authority that went along with owning his own establishment. “’Tis courtesy of that house and those in it that you have a position and a home for you

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and your good wife. You’d do better to turn your concerns to the matter of young Owens.” His reference to the Reverend’s wife brought a smirk to all gathered. It was well known that she was the reason the bitter old fool spent so much time at the inn. There was also a rumbling of anger at the mention of the discovery of Jamie Owens’ body a fortnight ago. Barely turned ten years, he had been found drowned in the river that flowed near our village, and based on the condition of his body, there were those who doubted he had fallen into the water by mere accident. I had always liked Mister Barnes. Rough though he was and quick with his hands when displeased, he had always treated me fairly even though as the bastard son of a dead bastard son there were none in my life who would bother to tell him nay. I had worked for him ever since I could stand high enough to grab the reins of passing travelers’ horses. It was interesting to hear him defend the newcomers to the Grange. “S’not right.” The Reverend glared at the others seated, seeking support for whatever poison he was readying to spill. “Good families. Christian souls cast from their home while those that do truck with the devil are prosperous.” As usual, the old windsucker was exaggerating the events that had taken place earlier in the year. The sons and the father who had once lived in the Grange and gave our

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small village its name all had been killed in one battle or another, the last falling at the great Battle of Arapiles – or Salamanca, as it was better known. The grieving widow had wasted no time in taking her daughters and finding a new husband, leaving the Grange empty save for the sounds of ancestral ghosts on moonless nights while the solicitors combed through the family genealogy in search of an appropriate heir. Without a family in the house, without anyone willing to hire workers for the land and farms surrounding it, our tiny village had suffered. The renting of Wilston Grange, as it should rightly be called, had been welcome to most. Not only for the income it brought, but for the fount of gossip as well. Strangers had come among us. Surprisingly, those who were called to supplement the Grange staff had been paid enough to ensure they kept their mouths shut about the new tenants and their habits, and that only added to the mystery. However, unlike most in the village, I had time to neither spare nor care about newcomers. With my mother still too ill from her last laying-in to whore for any with interest, the responsibility for my six brothers and sisters fell upon my shoulders. It would have been seven, but the babe had died shortly after birth. I fear I could not say I sorrowed.

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Be careful what you wish for. That is what my mother would mutter under her breath. She would never finish the rest of the adage, as my mother had become a woman of few words by the time I entered the world. But the beginning, uttered in a tone of solemn experience would be enough to imply what was left unsaid. You just might receive it. When I was old enough to come to some semblance of understanding of our life, I would watch my mother go about her business in our small cottage on the far edge of the village. Her lips would press tightly together, the habit of holding back ingrained by then. A vicar’s daughter brought low by the birth of her first bastard and held there by the birth of her second had nothing to say that any wanted to hear. She would attempt to cook and clean and the rest of the motions required to raise my brothers and sisters as they appeared, earning our keep in the small bed behind the curtain she had hung; speaking hardly more than was necessary. I would watch her drift through her days and wonder what she had wished for in her life. And if she had received it. I followed my mother’s example of silence as I grew. What good were words, when you came right down to it? Would words change anything in our lives? Would words put food on the table when we were hungry or coal on our fire in

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the long and cold winters? Would words satisfy the other children who taunted me with my parentage or my mother’s profession? Words gained me nothing. Inwardly I wished for many things. Some days it was as simple as more food to divide amongst us all, a pair of woolen socks to keep my feet warm, or a sunny day at the inn with plenty of travelers willing to tip the lad who handled their horses. Other days I would be filled with a vast yearning for what I did not know. Excitement, perhaps? Adventure? A way out of the unceasing poverty that lay before me? I only knew that no matter how much I wished – rarely did I feel I received anything in return. Perhaps, like the other boys my age, I could have sated my yearnings in the flesh of a willing maid, but the years spent watching my mother at work and the heavy burden of my father’s parting gift left me both unwilling and unable to seek that option. I should have been taught a skill, a craft with which to make my way, or even been apprenticed out, but few would bother with the whore’s children, especially one with my appearance. Even the Reverend did not come ’round as he should. My mother’s somber unrepentance irked his Christian soul, and we had set our paths early on when he thought to console me at my father’s death.

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A good night with a paying customer had given my mother enough coin for his graveside service, and Reverend Mounsey had no qualms about taking her money, no matter how much he berated her for the manner by which she earned it. I can still feel his scrawny fingers digging deep into my shoulder as we stood before the open grave; still remember my squirming desire to get away from his touch. “’Tis a shame your father died and left you as you are.” The smell of camphor from his dark woolen suit was strong, but not strong enough to mask the putrid stink of death as it wafted up from my father’s wooden box. The scar upon my cheek stretched and pulled as I grimaced. “’Tis more of a shame he did not die sooner.” My words were honest, but I have since learned honesty is a luxury the poor cannot afford and one the Reverend Mounsey preferred to ignore. Since then I had avoided the Reverend as much as I could. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me I could never quite explain, but I knew boded ill. Perhaps it was merely the unstable fervor behind his Christian piety that gave me pause; perhaps it was all merely fancy. All I knew was that something inside my gut told me never to be alone with him. And I listened. My work with the keg was finished, and I stood slowly, careful not to hit my head on the low rafters. As always, I towered over my fellows. Mister Barnes took pride in my physique, viewing it as the direct result of the work I did for 8

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him. He gave me a glance and nodded his head in permission for me to seek my fortune up at the Grange without my saying a word. He knew me too well. “I should have known the Devil’s spawn would seek his kin.” The Reverend turned his eyes upon me, and would he have been a man of any sure faith, his burning glance should have seen me dead. As it was, I proceeded to ignore him as I had done my entire life. “Mark my words, Mathias Oakes. You risk your immortal soul with your refusal to accept your place in God’s holy plan.” “According to you, past, old man.” I had no today. I needed to stop arrangements for the care

my soul was forfeit many years time for his proclamations of evil by our small cottage and make of my mother and siblings.

“Best of luck, Mathias.” Rolly gave me a cheerful wave, and I spared time to wave in return. He had done me a turn; only time would prove its worth.

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II

I

STOOD silent and ill at ease in the large kitchen of the

Grange, lined up with others from the village. Our soiled hats were held tightly in our hands, and we stared at the mess our boots left on the flagstone floor as the servants who should have been at work stared at us behind the back of our interviewer. The kitchen here at the Grange was a mysterious and amazing place to me. Unlike the dirty cooking area at the inn it was bright and clean, full of gleaming surfaces and rich with the aromas of food the likes I could not even imagine, much less relate to anything my mother or I had ever managed to scrape together. There were three large open hearths and what I assumed to be multiple brick ovens lining one long wall as well as marble- and slate-topped tables and cupboards galore. I would have cheerfully given up the rest of my life for a taste from just one of the carcasses turning on spits. The smell of the fat that missed the drip pans to sizzle upon the coals below made my mouth water, and the combination of heat and scent left me dizzy and disorientated. There was an 10

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assortment of staff, all occupied with tasks that should have been familiar to me, but in these new surroundings seemed as foreign as the place itself. One young man, not from our village, took time away from his work to sneer at our rough appearance. I looked at his hands, reddened from the harsh polish he was using on the silver epergne in front of him, but still clean and white, and then at my own, scarred and calloused with the dirt ingrained so deep in the creases that I did not know that it would ever come out despite my efforts to keep my nails trimmed and clear of debris. “I am Mr. Mason.” The voice was deep and resonant, and I directed my gaze back to my feet. I could feel the echo from his words within my chest, and they settled low within my belly, but I still would not look up. This was the man who would determine who would stay to work and who would be sent back to the village. A proper show of respect and humility was all I had to offer. “Mrs. Agnes Osgood, the housekeeper here, has requested the services of a strong young man to aid in her holiday preparations. I must advise that you will be required to stay on the premises during the term of your service, which should last approximately from now until after the Epiphany. Of course, should you prove worthwhile, the position has potential to become a more permanent one.” Mr. Mason walked slowly back and forth in front of us, his polished boots filling my gaze. “Your presence in the 11

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house is not negotiable, as it will do her no good to have to wait for you to make your way from the village every time she needs you. In return you will be paid more than a fair wage in hard coin at the end of your employment.” He named an unseemly amount and then paused, presumably to allow his speech sink into our dim brains. “If for any reason you cannot meet these terms you may excuse yourself.” “Beggin’ pardon, Sir.” The quavering interruption was Richard Mounsey, the Reverend’s son. No wonder the old fool had tried to discourage me from making the trek. He feared the competition for his son. In my opinion Richard was a poor candidate, being weak in the chest and arms and prone to both catarrh and pleurisy in the winter damp. “What would the duties be, exactly?” “Whatever Mrs. Osgood requires of you.” The reply was not curt, simply unhelpful. “You may be assured it should not be too taxing for a strong young man like yourself.” Was I was the only soul to hear the gentle sarcasm? “It will be moving and fetching for the most part. There is a vast assortment of items up in the attics that will need to be brought down. You would also be helping the maids in whatever manner they require.” There was another pause in which Richard must have given himself away. “You will not be helping the maids in that capacity, I assure you.” I could not stifle the snort that escaped me at the dry comment. For all Richard’s physical weaknesses, he considered himself a fine catch and a rare favorite with the 12

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ladies. It was an opinion they did not share. Even my mother required extra coin to service him, a fact I brought up every time he chose to taunt me. “Well, let us have a look at you.” The polished boots had come to rest in front of me and I silently cursed my lack of focus. “You certainly appear to have strength enough for the job.” Strong hands suddenly clasped my shoulders in a tight grip before moving down to my biceps and forearms. The touch was impersonal, but it left me strangely breathless. I was unable to keep my eyes from shooting upward as stunned, I could not remember the last time I had felt the touch of another, even from my mother, and I gasped out loud when I saw him fully. Was this one of the gentlemen of the house? The man who had so shocked me was a head shorter than I, but imposing nonetheless. He carried his authority in the broad sweep of his shoulders and the firm muscle of thighs that his close-fitting clothing did nothing to disguise. His jaw was firmly set, and despite the salt and pepper hairs coloring his unfashionable beard, his eyes were young. They sparkled like the sapphires I had seen once in a lady’s necklace as I helped her alight from her carriage and glittered with the same heated intensity from their bed of dark lashes. They seared into mine.

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“What is the livelihood that has earned you such bulk?” The query was rough, and the hands around my wrists tightened their grip to a painful level. “I am a jack of all, Sir,” I managed to blurt out despite my inability to look away from his eyes. “Whoever will hire me. Farmers, tradesman. I also work for Mister Barnes out at the inn.” My nickname predictably enough was “The Oak”, not only due to my large size and brown coloring, but also because of my phlegmatic nature. Despite the heckling I had endured over the years and the later attentions from the maids of the village, curious enough to brave my face once I had attained manhood, I was slow to rouse to any show of emotion as nothing seemed able to stir my passions. With one touch this man had shown me what a misnomer I carried. I quickly glanced back down to my dirty boots; I was positive he could see into my soul, and I was afraid my reactions to him had cost me the position. That troubled me less than knowing he had seen the scar upon my cheek, for as odd as the thought was, I would have liked to have been unmarked for him, a blank canvas awaiting his whim. He finally dropped my wrists, and it was only the restraint of a lifetime that kept me from rubbing my hands over where his had lain. “So, a fine figure such as yourself must cut quite a swath with the females. Do you have a wife and family to 14

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support or are you merely content to litter the countryside with bastards bred upon the local whore?” Something about the moment must have affected him as well. The tone of his voice was cutting, the words unnecessarily cruel in light of my disfigurement. Mrs. Osgood herself stepped heavily forward, her hands twisted in her apron as she whispered into his ear. My face burned, as I knew what news she shared. The sharp bark of laughter he gave at hearing the local whore was my mother – not my love – was most unexpected, but I preferred it to a fumbling apology or embarrassed silence. “It would seem not.” The polished boots strolled to the man beside me, and my throat burned with the desire to say something, anything that would bring him back before me, but I knew not what to say. I could still feel his hands upon my wrists, and I missed the words that passed between him and the other applicants in my struggle for composure. At last the interviews were finished, and Mr. Mason gestured with his hands toward the exit before turning on his heel and striding away. I had not heard the choice made, but I was sure I was not the one after my poor showing. Pride was all that kept my posture erect as I turned to head back to the village. “Mathias.”

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It was Mrs. Osgood’s call that stayed me. I blinked at her in surprise. “Did you not hear Mr. Mason? I told him you were the one I wanted.” She leaned closer to me, and I bent down to her level; she had been helping the cook and the aroma of fresh baked bread rolled off her in waves. For the first time I understood the appeal the widow’s short, squat figure held for many of the men in the village. “Consider my debt paid.”

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III

APPROPRIATE clothing had to be found. Mrs. Osgood muttered under her breath as she prodded and measured me, but soon I was given a pair of trousers and a shirt of better quality than I had ever worn, as well as a striped waistcoat. I was uncomfortable stripping off my shirt and washing the inn dirt and dust away with a shaving of soda and oatmeal soap and the cold water from the kitchen trough, but she refused to let me dress until I had. I looked up, feeling eyes upon my bared back and was unsurprised to find several of the maids gathered together and staring. They nudged and whispered to each other, giggling at my size. “Off with you.” The cook, a Mrs. Brown, rescued me from their attentions. She poked at them with her large spoon and urged them back to work before she handed me a stiff bristled brush and a broom once I was dressed in my new finery. “Knock the filth off them boots and then sweep up the mess,” was all she said before turning back to her pots.

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And so my employment began. There was a rhythm to life at the big house, a set pattern to the days that I struggled to learn and adapt to. I stood out enough as it was. There was a small staff for a house this size. Mr. Mason, I soon learned, was the official head of the household. He had been with the two gentlemen during the wars, I was told, and when they had tired of death and destruction and sold their commissions, he had come with them. There was no mistress to the household. The gentlemen had names – one John Easton and one Godfrey Bowen. Titles as well, but more than that I did not care to pay attention to. Other than a passing glimpse as I went about my tasks, they were as distant from my low position as the stars themselves. Mrs. Osgood reported to Mr. Mason and oversaw the servants. There was the cook, three housemaids, three who worked solely in the kitchen and another three for the larder, pantry and laundry, as well as a couple of footmen and a younger boy who did Mr. Mason’s bidding. Grace, one of the younger maids, shared this information with me. She was a bright girl with a cheerful outlook on life, full of chatter as she worked. “I’d far rather be here than at home, you can be sure of that,” she confided as I hauled buckets of water to be

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heated for the day’s laundry. “Either married off or whoring is where I’d be.” I laughed at the blush that colored her face when she realized what she said and waved off her apology. Somehow Mr. Mason’s easy acceptance of my mother’s lot had eliminated a lifetime of embarrassment. I slept upstairs near the attics. The servants’ quarters were full, and I was placed in a space of my own. It was far more than I had expected; sparsely furnished, true, but clean, and there was plenty of soft bedding to offset the chill of the winter nights. I thought I would be unable to sleep the first night, away from my family and all that was familiar, but I was exhausted from the uncertainty of the day and without my little brothers to toss about and kick me in the shins I dropped off quickly and did not move until the next morning when Jeanny, one of the housemaids, tapped lightly upon my door. At first the women of the household were hesitant to be near me, not only due to my size and appearance, but simply because I was an unknown male. That soon changed once they realized I was able and willing to do whatever they directed and took on most of their heavy lifting and carrying, as well as showing no interest in their sex. “You never know how it will be,” Grace said with a philosophical shrug. “We are all so used to the gentlemen

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here. Unlike the last house I worked, you’ll never find one of them chasing the maids about.” “Why is that?” I asked. “You’ll see.” Her giggling did nothing to answer my question, but she ignored my further inquiries and directed me to hurry up with the slop pail so she could dump the night soil and clean the last of the chamber pots. Our days started early. At 4:30, the under maids were busy cleaning out the ashes and laying new fires in the grates once they had burnished and leaded the metal posts. I was fascinated by the square of chain mail they used for this purpose. It was covered with a leather backing and lay heavy in my hand. The smell of metal and leather was an interesting mixture, and I wondered why it appealed to me as I hauled the buckets of ash out to the pile in the back of the main yard where it would sit until needed to be used in brick making. There was a separate pit for the wood ash from the kitchen used to mix with tallow and make the household’s soap. There were plans for a small house party with close friends of the gentlemen to be held from Boxing Day to the Epiphany, and it added an extra frenzy to the normal routine of daily cleaning. I soon found myself rolling back rugs and moving the heavy wood furniture so the maids could swarm about like ants with their dust cloths and polish made of

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linseed oil and beeswax. Even though it was winter, I hauled the rugs outside and fastened them to hang so they could be beaten and aired. The house itself was quite beautiful, at least to my eyes, used only to the inn and the one room in which I grew up. The rooms here each had a purpose and were furnished in different styles and colors and named accordingly. Next to the library, all dark burgundy and wood, my favorite was the Fleur-de-Lys Room with its blend of dark blues and whites. But it was to the library I returned time and time again. Before my mother had given up on everything, she taught me to both read and write; skills useless in my daily life, but ones I struggled to keep up. She had told me tales of the homes she had visited as a young woman and the great libraries there, but to enter a room and be surrounded by books had been beyond my ability to imagine. It was here that I next saw Mr. Mason. I had brought a load of wood in from the back and placed it in the basket beside the coalscuttle, careful not to leave a mess on the hearthrug. I should not have lingered, but the very smell of the room was intoxicating, and I was drawn to the shelves full of volumes with their leather binders. I dared not pull one out, but I let my fingers trace from one to another in a wishful caress. “Oakes.”

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I started at the sound of his deep voice. My hand dropped back to my side, and I turned to acknowledge him. “Mr. Mason, Sir.” If my voice shook, well, this was not the man I wanted to catch me lagging behind in my duties. He came and stood beside me. His hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the leaded window into the approaching dusk. “What is the debt Mrs. Osgood spoke of?” I wondered how he had heard her whispered comment. “It was many years past.” And better left alone. “That is not an answer. I would appreciate hearing under what guise you entered the household.” He continued to stare out the window rather than look at me. I could not blame him. “Mr. Osgood was an … acquaintance of my mother.” I coughed, uncomfortable with the tale I was about to relay. “He suffered an apoplexy and cramping of his heart during an ill-advised moment of exertion. Rather than embarrass both my mother and Mrs. Osgood, I arranged to have his body found near his doorstep.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Mrs. Osgood knew better.” “Indeed.” I do not know what I expected from him in response, but he still managed to take me by surprise with his change of subject. “Your speech is somewhat educated, and I find you tarrying when you should be elsewhere. Are you a book lover then?”

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The question seemed odd, and I struggled to comprehend why he did not order me back to my duties. “I have my letters.” “Really?” I know not if he intended his disbelief to show, but my pride was pricked by his tone, and without thinking I blindly pulled out a volume and let the pages fall open. The candles were not yet lit, but there was enough light for me to see the faint print. “Numberless are the world’s wonders, but none more wonderful than man.” At first the words came hesitantly to my lips as I was out of the practice of reading aloud, but I only stumbled once. “Sophocles,” Mr. Mason responded. “Definitely out of context, but interesting.” Sapphire eyes turned to face me, and once again I was trapped in their depths. Unexpectedly he reached out his hand and stroked the scar on my cheek. “Where did you get this mark?” His voice was quiet, and I found I could not take offense as he was touching me again. “My father.” I waited for his fingers to cease their motion, but he merely continued to caress my cheek much as I had the books, wishful and wanting – or so I dared to imagine. The quiet of the room drew close around us, and I realized I was trembling.

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“Did you deserve it?” His head tilted to one side, and I was close enough to him to smell the sweetness of his breath and the hint of verbena from his jacket as well as a fainter hint of citrus from his skin. “Nay.” I think I spoke the words, but perhaps I merely breathed them. This close his eyes were a color I could not describe, dark and rich, outlined with a ring of black and with a small mote of black in the iris of the left. I had never seen such thick, dark lashes, not even on my sisters. “Where is your father now?” His hand slid down to my throat, the palm warm and surprisingly rough upon my skin. I knew not why he questioned me so, but like before, I would have given whatever he desired as long as he stayed near. “Long dead and gone, thank the Saints.” I wondered what he would think of my unfilial attitude. “Saint Jerome said the scars of others should teach us caution, but I find I am not inclined to be cautious today. What do you think?” My head was swimming, and I could not understand why he affected me so. Before I could answer, there was a shout from outside the window, and I could see the two gentlemen, their greatcoats flaring out behind them as they rode past, heading to the stables at a fair pace to beat the oncoming night.

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“Another time, perhaps.” He headed for the door, leaving me unsteady on my feet and alone in the darkened room.

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IV

I

SNEEZED as I entered the kitchen, having spent the

morning up in the attics surrounded by the dust and debris of years long forgotten. Once again my height was a disadvantage, and I had to duck my head so as not to disturb the spiders that had made themselves at home in the rafters, their lacey streams of webbing difficult to avoid. It was tiresome work, but also interesting to view the accumulation of years and lives lived before I was born. More than one household could have been outfitted with the furniture and clothing stored there, and I found myself wishing I could take some of it home to share with my brothers and sisters. Mr. Mason had not made light of the task during the interview; if anything he had underplayed the work involved. Box after box had to be dragged into the light, brought down, and sorted through to Mrs. Osgood’s satisfaction. My back muscles ached from the strange contortions required, and I was not convinced my efforts were necessary. How many silver candlesticks did they require, after all? But I was assured that everything I unearthed would find use. 26

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The day before, I had been busy out in the woods near the village gathering the greenery needed to decorate the Grange. It would take vast bundles of mistletoe and holly, as well as laurel, bay and rosemary. I enjoyed being outside in the fresh air as I was unaccustomed to spending such a lengthy amount of time indoors, and I must confess to deriving particular enjoyment from harvesting the parasitic mistletoe from the trees. The good Reverend Mounsey had developed an aversion to the plant once he discovered that ancient Druids believed it had special healing powers in regards to fertility, and as a result banned its display from his church. I was pleased to be part of a household that did not share his distaste, and I was eager to help the women as they wrapped ribbon and fruit through the thick greenery and directed me as to the hanging of their finished product. “Make sure you have plenty of berries.” Mrs. Brown’s voice was sharp as she chided one of the housemaids over the kissing bough she was preparing. I knew the tradition of plucking a berry for every kiss taken under the mistletoe, but had no practical experience in it myself. “I had heard that bad luck would follow if the holly and mistletoe were brought in before Christmas Eve.” I could not help buy share my unease, but my fears were only laughed at. “Whoever told you that were not the ones having to ready a house this size for a party.” Mrs. Osgood puffed her 27

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breath out as she struggled with her lapful of holly, laurel, and bay. “Ouch.” She flapped her hand about and brought it to her lips. Sprung from the footsteps of Christ as he walked the earth and said to represent the crown of thorns he wore, holly had a sharpness to it I knew well. My own hands were still covered with bloody scratches that matched the berries in color. “Besides, we bring it in to ward off evil spirits and encourage the blossom of a new spring.” Mrs. Osgood was not yet done making her point. “Doesn’t seem right that a day or two would make a difference.” Her words were full of common sense, but that night my slumber was restless and troubled, full of visions of the blood red berries crushed into the purest of white snow, an ominous omen, and I woke surly and tired. “You need to bring the gentlemen’s bath water to them this morning.” Mrs. Osgood intercepted me before I could sit at the kitchen table and enjoy my morning cider. “I’ve sent the footmen off to the village to find cook some nice eels.” I had never heard of men who bathed every morning as seemed to be the practice of the two gentlemen of the house. It took time to heat the water, and hauling it up the stairs in the heavy brass cans was difficult work. I mourned the loss of my morning mug and biscuit, but I nodded my head and

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attempted to straighten my vest and make my appearance more presentable. “Lord above, remind me to cut your hair later.” Mrs. Osgood wet her hand and swiped it over my wayward dark locks. She tsked at me as she patted dust off my backside and laughed when I shied away. “Don’t be so skittish. It has been many a year since I’ve wanted to have anything do with a tree such as you, Mathias Oakes. Even one with a trunk as big as yours.” My face heated as cook and the maids in the kitchen tittered at her humor, and I bent to place the bar of a wooden yoke over my shoulders. It made swifter work carrying two of the heavy water cans this way even if it was more suited to the stables. The back stairs from the kitchen to the upper levels were steep and dim, different as night to day from the carpeted front stairs used by the gentlemen, but I traversed them easily even with my burden. I knocked quietly on their door and pushed the heavy wood open. As Mrs. Osgood had told me, the brass hipbath was in their sitting area, and one of the maids had already laid out towels and a fresh bar of soap. I emptied the cans slowly, not wanting to make a mess, and when done I looked around, not having been in the private chambers before. They were masculine and yet still appealing, the walls a pale yellow that was echoed in the wool rug and the wood furniture gleamed with polish. I 29

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raised the fine-milled bar of soap to my nostrils and inhaled the sweet scent of bergamot. It reminded me of Mr. Mason, and I chastised myself for my irrational displeasure, telling myself that of course he would have had contact with the scent, caring for the gentlemen and their clothing as he did. I thought I heard a small noise from the adjoining room and silently crossed the thick carpet to peer through though the half-open doorway. If I had never been able to imagine the likes of the Grange’s library then never in my wildest dreams had I ever conceived of the sight that now lay before me. My skin grew hot and I broke out in a fine sweat. I knew my fingers clenched on the door, gripping it tightly to hold me upright as there before me on the bed lay the two gentlemen of the household. Together. Their skin was pale and white, glowing it seemed to my shocked gaze; their muscular limbs entwined. Sometime in the night the thick down comforter had been thrown back, and their nakedness lay bare. The two men gleamed against the woven fabric of the bed sheets like jewels in a fine setting. That was the only way I could think to describe their beauty. One of them lay on his side; the other snugged behind him, his arm protectively outstretched over the body of his companion.

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In my time I had seen my mother lie with many men. Quick couplings in her narrow bed, offering up cunt or ass depending on the customer’s preference. Or for extra coin she would kneel before them and let them thrust themselves in and out of her mouth while they grunted like pigs. Yet I had never seen her undress fully or lay with such contentment beside another. I must have made a sound; an exclamation of surprise or disbelief because one of the gentlemen moved. He lay back upon the mountain of pillows, one dark brow arching as he saw me standing in the doorway. I was fearful he would shout, and the rest of the household would witness my trespass, but he merely smiled the most wicked smile I had ever seen and ran his long fingers slowly over the jutting hipbone of his bedmate then down his own smooth chest and belly to where his cock stirred and woke as well. I can only confess my breath quickened as his flesh reddened and lengthened, pulsing in the firm grasp of his hand, and I know not what would have happened next had the door to the sitting room not opened and Mr. Mason not strode into the room. “Oakes.” His tone was harsh, and I jerked back away from the door. “Sir.” I kept my head bowed to hide my state of unrest and hoped I would not be dismissed on the spot.

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“What are you doing here?” His voice was closer to me, his breath warm against my ear and once again I could smell verbena and citrus. Suddenly my mind was filled with the vision of Mr. Mason in that huge bed, spread out against the covers, naked and exposed to my stare. “Bringing up the bathwater, Sir.” My voice was tight, almost as tight as my trousers had become. I could feel the almost physical touch of his gaze upon my bent head, and I prayed he would not look down and notice my arousal. I had never had such thoughts about another and was horrified at my treacherous mind. “Edward?” A voice called from the bedchamber. “Is that you come to cut up my peace?” It was the first I had ever heard his given name. “Aye, John.” He walked toward the door and opened it fully, surveying the bed’s occupants with his fists resting firmly on his hips. “Time for you and Godfrey both to rise and stop being such sluggards.” There was none of the respect for his betters that had been beaten into my back audible in Edward Mason’s voice as he addressed the gentlemen, but the one who answered appeared not to notice anything amiss. “Who is that with you?” There was no command in the educated voice, merely obvious affection that even I could hear. “Do I get to meet him?”

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“No, Mister Easton, you do not.” I was stunned at the flat denial. “He has work to do, and the two of you need to bathe, it smells like a barracks brothel in here. Mathias,” The latter was directed toward me, and I jumped. “Back to the kitchens with you.” I nodded my obedience and squashed my curious desire to stay. I placed the yoke back upon my shoulders and headed toward the door. I could feel Mr. Mason’s – Edward’s – eyes upon my back. “You do know how to spoil a man’s fun, Edward. Did we not promise to would leave your not-so-little lamb alone?” The door shut behind me, and I could not hear the reply, if there was one, to the laughing statement. I now knew why Reverend Mounsey called the gentlemen of the house abominations, but what I did not know is how Mr. Edward Mason fit into any of this.

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V

IT was Christmas Eve, and the Grange was quiet. All were asleep and enjoying their much needed rest before the next day and the arrival of the guests in the morn, save for myself. I was wide-awake, cursed to lay there tossing and turning and unable to cease the turmoil in my mind. I had much to consider, and foremost in my mind was the image of the two gentlemen of the house at ease and at rest beside each other in their bed. They had looked so natural and pure, their touch full of such tender caring, that I was unable to take offense. Sodomites. I had heard the word. But it had meant nothing to me until now. Edward Mason appeared not to find it unusual, his manner untroubled when he had stood in the doorway. Obviously it was a relationship of long standing and what drove them here to the wilds to live. The question was: how did I feel about it? I could only compare what I had seen with my observations of my mother and her customers over the years. But there was no comparison, nothing I could use to correlate the despair that weighed heavy on my mother’s 34

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soul and the wicked joy that twinkled in John Easton’s eyes. I only knew which I preferred. Here then was proof that Reverend Mounsey had been correct all these years, and I was an abomination for more reasons than simply my unfortunate birth and upbringing. The truth was, I too yearned to sin against man’s law and cleave unto another out of wedlock with no chance of ever receiving the church’s blessing upon the union. It was sapphire blue eyes that filled my mind, and dark hair I longed to touch. But not those of any maid. No, I tossed and turned on my narrow bed and burned with forbidden lust for another man. It was Edward Mason’s hands I longed to feel upon me, his broad shoulders I yearned to clasp in return. Those were thoughts I could deny no longer. My sheets were not finely woven, my comforter not rich, embroidered satin filled with choice down. My skin was not white and smooth, but browned by the sun and roughened by weather, but as I reclined I let my hands travel down my body as I had watched John Easton’s travel down his. Only I improvised, deviating from the example he had set for me, letting my fingers wander as I never had before. I let my questing fingers brush against my nipples, and feeling the jolt of sensation, I pinched them between my fingers and twisted much as I had seen men do to my mother; much as I wished Edward Mason would do to me. The pain was startling, and I panted as I released my cruel 35

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grip and let my fingers continue to mimic what else I had seen. This time I did not stop until I had stroked my hands down my stomach and took hold of my stiffening cock. With my eyes so tightly shut I could pretend that it was Edward’s fine hand, the hand I had felt rough and warm upon my throat, instead of my own upon me. My breath hitched, trapped in my chest as I pictured his face in my mind, the stern jaw with the lips set firmly, the hairs of his closely cropped beard I longed to feel brush against my skin. I was no longer the staunch oak I had been all my life. I was a new man, weak and wanton with my desire to sin. My hand slipped and slid, traveling its path up and down, again and again. I groaned as I thought about Edward’s erect posture and muscular thighs. Every touch of his hand to my skin was replayed, every conversation. I focused on the memory of the two gentlemen pressed close in their bed and placed mine and Edward’s faces there instead. I could feel his hand heavy on my hipbone, turning me, pressing me down into the mattress, and I moaned at the very thought. It was hearing his tone of command in my mind that brought me off, hearing his strong voice say my name in the deep rasp that I could feel vibrate within me. I thrust my fist into my mouth as I coated my hand with hot fluid and bit back the sound of his name, unwilling to share its power with any that might overhear. 36

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There was a small window in my room, and rather than stay abed I walked over and opened it, feeling the rush of the cool night air upon my nakedness and welcoming the chill as way to cool my heated senses. Was this how Adam felt after tasting the fruit from the Tree of Good and Evil? I could only despair over my new knowledge. For now I must decide – could I stay and bear not to touch Edward, not to break down and beg him to touch me? Would nights such as this be enough or would I have to leave the Grange and return to the village and the emptiness of my life as it was before? My questions would have to remain unanswered, for as I stared out into the night I saw a small dot of light bobbing in and out amongst the trees near the stables. My brain told me it was a lantern even as I foolishly wondered why it was there. Without further thought I grabbed my breeches and, ignoring the tinderbox and candle on the nightstand beside my bed, I hurried through the pitch-black hallway toward Edward’s bedchamber. The servants’ stairway was even steeper and more hazardous than during the day, but it was the only way to reach the landing that would take me to his floor. Edward’s chamber was only a few doorways past the gentlemen’s, and though I had never been given reason to enter, Grace had pointed it out to me in the course of my duties. Instinct alone drove me swiftly onward, and later I 37

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would realize that I did not think to wake the footmen or any of the maids. My only thought was for Edward. I felt like one of the ghosts said to haunt the hallways of the Grange as I made my way through the darkness with only my memory and hands to guide me. I could not say why I was so sure the light I had seen meant trouble; I could only act on my belief. My eyes had adjusted by the time I stood outside Edward’s door, enough to lessen the all-encompassing blackness. I placed my hand on the brass knob and turned it slowly. I could not tell you why I did not knock; being an exmilitary man he could have met my intrusion with pistol and shot at the ready, but once I again I did not pause to think. I opened his door and crept into the darkness. My urgency was pushed away in a fresh surge of lust as I spied Edward asleep and relaxed in his bed. Yes, I could see him, perhaps not with my eyes but certainly with my other senses. He did not wear a nightshirt, and I could tell you what his chest looked like, broad and well-barreled, covered with a fine sprinkling of hair that tapered down to the gentle curve under the sharp thrust of his ribs and continued over the rounded belly exposed by the drape of his bedding. One arm was thrown over his head, and my mouth went dry with desire at the sight of his armpit, the hidden area open to me. I knew it would be damp, the soft hairs ripe

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with the musk of his day. I wanted to lick that exposed crease, savor the bitter tang in my mouth and know it was his alone. But I did none of those things. Instead I reached out and placed one hand squarely in the center of his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath and the heat of his skin under my palm as I leaned down and whispered his name into his ear. Edward woke in an instant, his body tensing under my hand. My wrist was taken in a grip of steel, and I could not help my exclamation of pain as he bent it at an odd angle and forced me to my knees beside his bed before he recognized the sound of my cry. “Mathias?” He released me, his legs swinging over the side of the bed and coming to rest on either side of me as Edward leaned down to where I knelt. “What is this?” His voice was husky with sleep and perhaps something more, and for a breathless moment I forgot why I had come to him in the night. It took Edward’s hand upon my cheek to force my attention up and away from the shadowed area between his legs. “I saw a light, out by the stables.” I had to swallow to speak, caught as I was between my newfound recognition of want and need. My words themselves meant nothing, but

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somehow he understood the urgency and unease that had brought me to his bedside at this unexpected hour. “Damnation!” Edward swore as he rose from the bed and strode to the fireplace. He stirred the banked coals and as the flickering light behind the firescreen grew brighter I saw him naked for the first time, powerful and handsome beyond my imaginings. He dressed himself quickly and took a pistol from beside his bed. His window faced the back of the house as well, and he swore again, vile and profane curses I had never heard, when he pulled the heavy curtains aside to stare into the night. “The stables are aflame. Wake my brother and Godfrey and the other footmen, have them sound the alarm.” My face must have shown my surprise as I rose to my feet, and he laughed. “You are not the only bastard son in this household.” “Be careful.” I knew sounded like a woman, but I could not stop the words that escaped me. Edward merely laughed again, his face alight with excitement like a young boy before he stretched upward to take my chin in his hand and drew my head down to his so he could press his lips, hard and bruising against mine, the brush of his whiskers a tantalizing caress. “Hurry,” he urged and then he was gone.

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VI

I

HAD never seen military men in action before, but the

gentlemen wasted no time on words or niceties once they got over the shock of my half-dressed invasion of their chamber and incoherent interruption of their most private moment. My education continued to be broadened each night I spent in this house as with no care or shame for my presence they separated from each other with words of affection and amusement and rose naked from their bed. Weapons appeared from what to me seemed nowhere, and they were almost as eager and excited as Edward as they urged me to sound the bell to wake the rest of the household before racing to the stables themselves once dressed. I followed in their wake, stopping only to don a shirt along the way. My feet were cold upon the chilled earth, but I did not waste time to struggle with my boots. Bitter as the night was, I was soon sweating as I joined the line of stable hands passing buckets of water from the well in an effort to douse the fire and keep it from spreading to main house. The

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horses were still trapped inside in their stalls, and the sound of their panicked squealing was almost too horrible to bear. The fire was fearsomely bright in the blackness of night, the moon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds. It burned and crackled with an evil intent all its own, and I swear I could see the very faces of demons in the flames as it sought to consume all within its reach. I shuddered when I realized that it had been deliberately set by the bearer of the lantern I had spied from my window, and I thanked whatever providence had drawn me from my bed. Left unchecked, the stables would have been the tinder needed to ignite the Grange itself, and we might all have perished. Still, I worried as I could not see the gentlemen of the house nor Edward anywhere about, but I dared not leave the fire line to look for them as my strength was greatly needed there. The women of the household had joined us at the bucket brigade, bringing pots and deep pans to help carry the water to the hungry flames. Even Mrs. Osgood, dressed in what seemed to be yards of billowing white, was there, her dark hair caught in a braid that dangled from under her cap. “Perhaps you were right about the greenery, Mathias.” I could not believe she had breath to spare for selfrecrimination as she struggled with a chamber pot full of water. I wanted to laugh at the incongruent sight, but stifled the impulse. “Bad luck has come to the Grange.”

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“Human hands did this work, Agnes,” Mrs. Brown coughed from the thick smoke as she passed along another pail. “Vile hearts and evil minds and nothing else.” There were so pitifully few of us that it seemed we could not make any headway when we heard excited voices from the darkness, and I realized the villagers had seen the flames and come to our aid. The women dropped back, exhausted by their efforts. Faces I knew took their places in the line, but there was no time to waste on welcomes. “Ho, there.” The shout came and we looked up in unison to see Edward and the gentlemen come from behind the stables, a struggling burden in their hands. I knew not what they carried until they dropped it at our feet, and I recognized the venomous eyes of Reverend Mounsey though they were crazed in a manner I never seen. “Sinners!” he yelled as he twisted back and forth upon the ground like a bloated white worm, his voice rising over the raging sound of the flames. They had bound his hands and he struggled to his knees, all the while spitting curses a man of God had no business knowing. “Blasphemers! God’s fire will cleanse our village of your wicked taint.” Ignoring the gentlemen as our village had always taken care of its own, Mister Barnes left his place in the fire line and walked forward to cuff him about the head most sharply. I winced, having been at the receiving end of those ham-like hands myself. “You fool. ’Tis their money that has saved our village.” 43

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“Coin brought by the Devil’s followers is cursed as much as they are.” The Reverend’s madness must have given him strength, for he managed to get to his feet and drew himself upright. “Better to die in God’s service than live as the Devil’s pawn.” The thunderous words were pious, but I could tell there was nothing holy left within the shell of his body. His eyes fell upon me, and I could not help but draw back at the new madness that overcame his countenance, any remnant of humanity flickering in and out like the flames themselves. “Mathias, you understand, do you not? I did it to save you from their corruption. You must burn if I am to save your soul, just as I saved young Owens. He was an evil temptation sent to test me much as you have always done.” I am afraid with my new awareness of the sins of mortal flesh I did understand, and as the events of past years became clearer in my mind, I could only shudder and back away from him, the flames hot against my back. I gave thanks to the Saints that I had never before realized what dark impulses lay behind his infrequent and furtive touches, and I sorrowed that young Owens had trusted more than I. “Mathias … tell me you understand. You must understand for the sake of your eternal salvation.” His voice was softer, almost cajoling and the intensity behind it scared me more than all his bitter vitriol ever had.

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It seemed that the frenetic activity in the courtyard came to a halt; even the fire paused in its burning as everyone watched the Reverend damn himself and expose the truth that had twisted his mind. Newly aware of my own shortcomings, I could not imagine how it must have been for him, sworn to serve his narrow version of God and forced to hide his nature even from himself. As I watched his face grew cunning and with an incomprehensible shout he ran at me, clutching at my shirt with his bound hands, the weight of his body knocking me backward and throwing us both into the depths of the burning stables. I heard the screams of those that watched as if from a great distance, trapped as I was under the weight of Lewis Mounsey. The flames danced around us, the roar louder than anything I had ever heard; the smell of burning straw and wood was overpowering and behind it all was the pitiful sounds of the horses and their frantic, pounding efforts to escape their stalls. As I watched the flying sparks lit upon my attacker’s head until the hair caught and burned and it became a golden halo about his skull. He was screaming, but the animal-like sounds that came from his mouth made no sense to me. My body grew hot and my shirt smoldered. I struggled, knowing that while his body now protected me from the worst of the fire it would not last.

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The very skin of his face seemed to melt like candle wax, sliding downwards toward me, but his eyes were still alive with madness beneath the stretching mask of flesh, and in their depths I saw my death. It was then that he was shoved from atop me deeper into the heart of the blaze, and Edward’s strong hands dragged me back to safety and sanity. “Oh, dear God,” Edward murmured as he beat at my burning clothing with his hands. “Oh, my dear God.” Others joined him, rolling me back and forth on the ground between them to smother the flames that still licked at my reddened skin. There came a great whoosh, and as we all turned instinctively toward the source we saw Lewis Mounsey standing upright in the middle of the burning stables, every part of his body aflame. His bonds had burned through, and his arms were spread wide as the fire danced along them, snapping and crackling, the smell of burning flesh inescapable. His throat and vocal cords should have been seared from the heat, but though the skin of his face had burned away, the skeletal mouth was stretched wide as he called my name one final time with a tongue that itself was a ribbon of fire. “MATHIAS!”

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I stared in horrified fascination at his beckoning form, wondering at the insanity that fueled his will until his body was felled from behind and the horses that had finally broken free thundered out of the stables and trampled his burning body into the ground beneath their frenzied hooves. The pools of crimson blood, ripe as the holly berries I had gathered, turned black in the light of the flames, coming to a boil in the intense heat, and then I could see no more. “Mother of God, forgive us our sins.” It was Agnes Osgood’s voice that broke the stunned silence as she fell to her knees in the mud and dirt and folded her hands in prayer. All thoughts of saving the stables vanished as one by one those of us gathered could do nothing but join her.

OUR gifts that Christmas Day came in the guise of ash and frost when that endless night finally gave way to dawn. The smoke from the fire hung heavy in the air and the charred timbers were still smoldering, coals glowing red amongst the morning frost when the December sun cast its watery light upon the ruin of the stables and showed us just how close the fire had come to the Grange. The aged stones were scorched and pitted from the heat. We had been luckier than we knew. Perhaps, as Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Osgood swore, it was the ropes of holly and mistletoe, beloved of the ancient gods, that saved the Grange from Lewis Mounsey’s madness. Perhaps not.

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I needed to look no further than to the head on the pillow beside me to find my luck. Edward Mason had done more than save my life. In front of all gathered he laid claim to me body and soul and then refused to be parted from me. I must confess I did not protest. Guests were due to arrive, and there was much still to be done both here at the Grange and with the change in my circumstances with my family as well. But for now I was swathed in ointment and covered with bandages, and Edward was warm and alive beside me, his chest rising and falling with each sleeping breath. I could not think of anything I desired more. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

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The joke in CHRISSY MUNDER'S family is that she was born with a book in her hand. Even now, you'll never find her without a book or seven scattered about. Forced to become a practicing realist in an effort to combat her tendency to dream, her many years of travel and a diverse assortment of careers have taken her across most of the U.S. and shown her that there are two things you can never have enough of: love and laughter.

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A Gift of Ash and Frost Chrissy Munder Other titles from Chrissy…

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©Copyright Chrissy Munder, 2008 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Dan Skinner/Cerberus Inc. [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America December, 2008

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