The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Rowena sent him a sharp glance. "You are teasing me, my lord. I’ve seen you for only a few moments and spoken to you even less. How could you expect me to know whether I find you to my liking?" Asperity honed her words to a fine edge.

  Lord Graistan's smile didn’t soften his guarded expression. "I’m gratified to know you haven’t yet judged me, my lady. I am very vain and couldn’t easily tolerate a harsh verdict. Do you suppose the servants are disappointed we don’t act the part of lovers?"

  She frowned at his non sequitur. "Lovers? We’re barely acquainted. The servants know that." Did he think she was a fool?

  "Oh, but even the barest hint of affection would please the crowd." He gestured to the serving folk and peasantry, who watched them from a respectful distance.

  "My life is no man's entertainment," Rowena snapped, recognizing that he toyed with her the way a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it. His faintly mocking smile was proof of that.

  Silence claimed them. Rowena endured it until the urge to know more of the why of this ceremony grew beyond containment.

  "Might I ask you something?" she asked, continuing when she had the slight inclination of his head. "It doesn’t concern you that I am an unwilling wife?"

  This made him laugh, the sound a deep, rich rumble of amusement. He looked at her, still grinning widely. "My sweet, all wives are unwilling. That is the nature of wives. Come, it’s time," he added as her parents came to join them.

  Much too quickly Rowena stood with him before the doorway of the tiny village church. The priest nervously cleared his throat. This was an awesome moment for one so humble as he. These sorts of unions were always celebrated at the abbey. He was just a peasant's son who knew more of flocks and fields than Latin rites. Before him now stood both his present master and one even greater who would someday hold this manor.

  He turned to the bride. “Do you enter willingly into the state of holy matrimony?”

  "Of course she does," Lord Benfield growled out before Rowena could open her mouth. "Get to the meat of it."

  The priest once again cleared his throat. His hands trembled in growing nervousness. "Be there any obstacles to this wedding? You are not relatives?"

  "Fool!" his lord yelled at him, "get to the recitation of property and the vows."

  The priest jumped, nearly colliding with the bride, then straightened his stained and darned surplice. Once again, he cleared his throat. "My lord, you haven’t given me a list to recite," he complained gently.

  "God's teeth," Lord Benfield cursed. "I’ll do it, then. The keep at Provsy and its village and the right to the church therein. Four furlongs of arable land and the woods at Oxbow—"

  Rowena listened in astonishment as her father chanted out the lands that made up her value. She hadn’t known her mother's family was so wealthy. When her father finished, her husband began the recitation of what would be hers throughout their marriage.

  "I, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord of Graistan, Ashby, Blacklea, and Upwood, give to my wife as her dower the manor of Upwood with its three ovens, two mills, and dovecot. Four hides of arable as demesne will see to her needs as well as the right to customary collection of all fines, fees, and merchet therein. This will she hold until her death." Then, he paused. "Only if she agrees as a condition of this marriage to hold in trust for my natural son Jordan the manor, and all customary lands attached to it, at Blacklea. Unless she so swears, this marriage will go no further."

  The only sounds were a low moan from her father and the wind whistling through the open church door. Startled, Rowena stared at her husband. Here, her mother hadn’t lied; he cherished his natural son.

  "We never spoke of this," her father shouted when he finally found his voice, "I will have none of it!"

  A deep sense of irony twisted in Rowena’s stomach. This was the culmination of a fine business proposition, held in the best manner of business dealing. It only remained to be seen who had cheated whom. But, if she refused this man, her father would swiftly find another to take his place.

  Lord Graistan's fingers tightened ever so slightly on hers. She looked up at him. His eyes might be cold and gray, but there was something almost hopeful in the way he held his head. A subtle warmth flowed through her, and she smiled a very small smile. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, and his eyes softened.

  "I swear." Rowena's calm, firm voice overrode her father's complaints. "I do vow that the manor at Blacklea," she paused, looking for confirmation in her husband's eyes, "be held in trust for my lord's natural son. I accept the conditions of this marriage as true and binding. I, Rowena of Benfield, take thee as my husband."

  "And I, Rannulf FitzHenry of Graistan, take thee as my wife. I present to you this token of our pledge," he said, not waiting for the priest to ask him. He produced from the small leather purse that hung at his belt a silver ring, tarnished with age and deeply etched with whimsical tracery. It was set with a large stone, a milky lavender at one end that deepened into royal purple at the other. He handed it to the priest, who quickly blessed the ring and handed it back to him.

  Then, Lord Graistan placed it successively upon the first three fingers of her right hand, to bless the pledge, then on the middle finger of her left hand. "Accept it in remembrance of your words this day."

  "Stop," Lord Benfield cried out to the priest. "There will be no marriage this day."

  Both bride and groom turned to look at him. Suddenly, a wall of Graistan’s surly men rose up just below the church steps. Although unarmed, they were daunting enough to stop a single nobleman. Her father sputtered in helpless rage.

  "All this complaint over a single, insignificant manor entrusted to my son?" Lord Graistan's fingers entwined with his wife's, and he pulled her slightly behind him. "Rather than argue, why don’t we say mass and repair to the hall to restore our good humor with the feast?"

  With that, the nobleman took a handful of coins from his purse and tossed them into the crowd. As the servants and peasants scrambled to grab what they could he spun on his heel and led his wife into the church. Their walk up the aisle stirred up an airy cloud of dust. The priest had been hard at his plowing and had not seen to sweeping out the sanctuary.

  "Aye, let us do so, and quickly," Sir John growled, "for I’m badly in need of drink to wash away the foul taste of these dealings. Glad I am to have only one daughter to marry." He stalked past Lord Graistan's men and followed his new son into the church.

  Unnerved by the happenings, the priest stumbled through the service, then bid the couple to seal the deed. Rowena turned her face to her husband to accept the brief, ceremonial kiss expected in rites such as these. Her husband’s mouth settled over hers. Rowena started. His mouth was warm, his lips soft as they lingered against hers in the most disturbing way.

  Gasping softly, she drew quickly away from him. Lord Graistan frowned at her as if she'd done something amiss. A moment later he offered his arm and they left the church.

  The servants and peasants alike followed them back into the hall, laughing and shouting in high anticipation as they streamed in for the meal. Beneath each table sat an alms basket for collection of food scraps for the poor, the dogs having been chained into a far corner for the meal’s duration. Additional torches were set into sconces along the wall and brightened the normally dim room into an almost festive glow.

  Her husband led Rowena to the high table at the top of the room. For this evening, they had the seats of honor set with a carved wooden cup. Because Benfield owned no special chair, not even for its master, they found their places on the bench above the tall salt cellar. Like the servants, their plates were a thick slice of day-old bread to receive and absorb the soups and stews that would be served. But they had three, one for each course, while the commoners had only one.

  Through the hall door came a man bearing a large basket. Wafting along with him was the yeasty smell of his freshly baked wares while the scent of meat roasting in the cooking shed followed on his heels. Others mo
ved around the tables filling cups with wine for the better folk, while ale sufficed for the rest. At the hall’s end, a musician tuned his instrument while he awaited his meal. The discordant and melancholy harmony wove itself into the newborn gaiety in the hall.

  Rowena winced. For all of what remained of her life, she’d preside over a hall similar to this one. Each day she would give the same orders to her maids and hear from them the same reports. If she was fortunate and her husband allowed, she might attend a fair or market in a nearby city or town from time to time. But mostly likely her home would become her prison. Such was the fate of one who would have been, could have been, a powerful and influential churchwoman.

  From the moment they dipped their hands into the basin at the onset of the meal, Rowena couldn’t escape her new lord's courtly attentions. Too sensitive to the mockery beneath his manner to be flattered, she wondered if his attitude was naught but a ruse to forestall any personal inquiry she might make.

  As the none-too-lavish meal ended, the jugglers moved away from the open space left in the center of the room and the musicians took their places. Although they were louder than they were competent, their raucous and gay tunes helped her wean her thoughts away from the man next to her. Later, she lost herself completely in the playacting of the mummers who followed the musicians.

  "Do you never speak unless spoken to?" Lord Graistan's quiet words were barely audible over the noise in the hall.

  She tossed a sidelong glance at him. Whatever slight peace she’d enjoyed since the meal's end dissipated. "I admit to no knowledge of what’s expected of wives. Nonetheless, I’ve always owned the impression that men prefer silent women."

  "You seek only to please me? My lady, you flatter me."

  Rowena sipped her wine to give her time to craft her answer with care. "Odd, but I’d not have taken you as a man so easily flattered."

  Lord Graistan raised a cautious eyebrow. "So, you’ve had the time to judge me better, have you? And how, now, do you feel about our marriage?"

  Rowena sighed and set her cup down. What on earth did he expect her to say? "You must content yourself in knowing I’ve only some impressions. Please take no disrespect, but if you find me wary it’s because I am cautious by nature."

  "Wary of me? There are those who’d laugh at that." He suddenly seemed to withdraw once again into himself, and he turned away.

  After a moment, Rowena let her attention return to the actors. Thus, she was startled when a moment later he said, his lips very near her ear, "I assure you. You aren’t at all what I expected. You are an attractive woman."

  Rowena shifted on the bench to look at him. His eyes were soft as he watched her. A strange uneasiness came to life in her stomach.

  "I wasn’t taught to think of myself in that way," she murmured in response to his compliment.

  Her husband’s arm encircled her waist, then he pulled her nearer to him on their bench. Before she could protest his lips touched hers. She gasped lightly at the shock of flesh on flesh. His mouth moved just a bit, but it was enough to send a tremor down her spine. Her breath caught.

  In an oddly intimate caress, his hand slid up her arm along the closely fitted sleeve of her undergown. Deep in her soul a flame burst into being, awakening life where before there had been nothing. He plied her lips with light, taunting kisses, his fingers drawing small circles in the bend of her elbow. Tiny shivers tingled up her arm.

  His mouth brushed her ear. "Did I not tell you they wished us to behave as lovers do?" he whispered.

  "What?" Rowena’s mouth barely moved as she spoke. In the blazing warmth his touch awakened, she could find no sense in his words.

  "Listen." He kissed her earlobe, then released her from his embrace.

  The hall rocked with cheers. Even the mummers were amused. They began an obscene pantomime of the night's expected conclusion.

  Rowena's eyes narrowed, her face an icy mask of disdain. "It amuses you to humiliate me. Have you finished or might I expect to fall into other traps before this evening is done? Ah but then," she smiled coldly, "it would ruin your pleasure if you were to warn me."

  "Humiliate?" Her husband's face was devoid of expression. "Not humiliate. I cannot help that I’m tempted beyond propriety by your loveliness."

  The corner of Rowena’s mouth tightened. "Such a glib tongue for one who earlier did all that he could to avoid this wedding. I daresay I should be flattered. Should I believe that you have suddenly discovered that I’m your one, true love?" She shot him a mocking smile. "If that’s your claim, then know your words cannot own even the flavor of truth in them."

  "Your tongue cuts me to the quick," Lord Graistan said with a smile, not in the least wounded.

  "Aye, my tongue can be sharp. This you would have known if you’d more closely examined this piece of merchandise before you purchased it, my lord." She kept the same mocking tone.

  His smile didn’t falter. If anything new amusement flared in his gaze. "Wife, you set yourself before me like a keep with its defenses up and its gate barred. I’m dared to lay siege to you. Have a care. You’re too innocent in the ways of this sort of warfare. I’ll reduce your walls to rubble."

  Rowena frowned. He was laughing at her. She started to speak, but he pressed a gentle finger to her lips and smiled a lazy, confident smile.

  "Winter nights are long and cold." He traced his finger down her cheek to follow the curve of her throat, then let his hand slide down her arm to rest atop her hand. "I’ll welcome you with open arms to my bed."

  He beckoned a nearby servant. "Inform your master," he paused, his gaze going to his father-in-law. Benfield’s master spewed drunken curses at a servant too slow refilling his cup. "Nay, inform Lady Benfield that her daughter is ready to retire."

  With that Lord Graistan turned back to his wife. "I think it’s time for me to closely, indeed very closely, examine the goods I’ve purchased this day."

  Rowena rose without argument and stared haughtily down at her husband. "It is that time, isn’t it? This day has dragged on too long already, and I’m mortally tired."

  He only smiled, not fooled by her bravado. She turned on her heel and followed her mother into the bedchamber that had so recently been her prison. When the door shut behind her Rowena’s eyes closed, and she swallowed. There was no escape for her.

  Being convent-raised had not sheltered her from the realities of this earthly plane. Although virgin she was, she knew well enough what was expected of her. Could she freely allow her husband to use her as she knew she must?

  And, what of him? Would he make her his victim and abuse her? Some of the nuns who had once been wives told such tales. Rowena choked on the image of herself raped and bruised on her marriage bed.

  When she at last opened her eyes the room held new meanings in its homely furnishings. The flickering night candle near the bed's end gave it all a sinister bend. The trunk squatting at the wall seemed to shift out into the room while the chair beside it crept more deeply into shadow. The bed was by far the worst. Its thick spiraling posts cast evil forms on the wall behind it, and its dark, cavernous interior seemed no more than a malevolent craw. Once again, she shut her eyes.

  Her mother noticed her look. "It was my mother's bed," she said, her voice oddly wistful. "It’s all I had left of her, but it’s mine no longer. Your father gave it to Lord Graistan as part of your dowry."

  Rowena sagged. If only she might once again have the simple, straw-filled pallet that had served her so well in the convent. It, at least, had never appeared as though it might devour her. "I don’t want it," she said, her voice sharp with fear. "You keep it."

  Her mother shot her a hard glance. "I don’t need your pity."

  Edith turned away to the hearth as her maids entered the room and set briskly to their work. Precious candles were placed in ornate metal branches until the room glowed with gentle light. The servants stripped the bride of her wedding finery until she stood unclothed, her hair combed smooth once again. Whe
n all was done, she was wrapped in a soft, wool robe to ward off the chill.

  They had barely finished when a knock broke the tense stillness in the room. Rowena clutched fearfully at her single garment's neck. Edith glanced in irritation toward the closed door. "Is he so eager for you? He barely allows us time to make you ready."

  The priest opened the door and her father stumbled in, leaning heavily on his son-in-law's arm. John of Benfield swayed noticeably and glanced bleary eyed about the room until he saw his daughter.

  "Impertinent twit," he mumbled. "Didst swear she'd rather die than bed a man. Well, she'll see her comeuppance this night." With those words, he lurched to the side and fell against the wall. He slid gracelessly to the ground, emitted a deep belch, then snored.

  Lord Graistan's expression remained impassive as he watched her father's exit from the conscious world, then he raised his head to glance at his wife. “Did she, now?” he said, then removed his cloak and handed it a maid. His suggestive tone teased an amused response from the serving women.

  He turned to the priest. "When you've finished blessing the bed for us, Father, will you stay to help them take their lord out of here?"

  After he had the priest’s nod, he removed his gown with one pull. A moment later and his boots were off, then his shirt, until he was clad only from waist to toe in his stocking-like chausses. Rowena stole a swift glance.

  Candlelight made his bared skin gleam ruddy. His was a work-hardened frame that radiated power in it every solid curve and angular plane. Several livid scars cut across his chest and served as proof that he kept his livelihood by his sword. Dark hair trailed down his chest to disappear beneath the drawstring waist of his chausses.

  He chuckled, and she knew he'd caught her glance. Rowena drew a quick breath and turned away, but it was too late. "Have patience, wife," he teased. "This poor maid must work the knots from my cross-garters before I can remove my garment." The kneeling woman tittered as she unwound the strips of fabric that crisscrossed his legs from ankle to knee and kept his stockings from sagging.