The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "Damn," he muttered. When she glanced at him, he turned his curse into a comment. "Our ride today is going to be less than pleasant."

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. "You still mean to go? It’s freezing outside. The roads will be barely passable."

  "I know that well enough without you telling me," he said sourly. No doubt this was the Lord God's punishment for how he treated his wife. "I’m honor-bound to go to Nottingham and join with those men loyal to King Richard, who now besiege that filthy keep. But, first, I must get you to Graistan."

  He eased from the bed and gathered his clothing. With an angry sigh, he shoved first one leg then the other into his chausses, pulling the garment up to jerk the waist cord tight about him. She wrapped a blanket about her and, to his surprise, slipped from the bed to tie his cross-garters for him. Rannulf watched her deftly wrap the cords about his calves and knotted them in place.

  When she was done she eased back to sit upon her heels. "And what will your servants think when you leave me with hardly more than a fare thee well?"

  That strange sense of disappointment nagged at him. No begging or pleading that he shouldn’t leave her did she offer. Nor were there any tears or pretty rages. He'd been more effective than he'd expected. All she would now care for was the power and comfort Graistan Keep could lend her. For some reason this irritated rather than soothed him.

  "Graistan has been too long without a proper housewife to see to its corners and bins. If you are capable of managing them, my servants will easily accept you. But if you meddle where you have no experience, they rightly will snub you. Remember this, if you overstep your bounds, don’t come crying to me, for I won’t aid you."

  Still kneeling at his feet her lovely face tightened in an irritation that matches his own "My dear lord husband, let me assure you that I’ve never needed to come crying to anyone for help in managing servants."

  With that said, she retreated to the bed and out of his reach. "Take care of your duties and I will take care of mine."

  Rannulf drew on his shirt with a jerk. Even as he told himself it served no purpose, he couldn’t restrain a return thrust. "Ah, I see it clearly now. You’ll run the distance, but take not one step further. You’ll be a dutiful wife to me." He made duty sound like a curse rather than the rightful aim of every woman.

  His wife offered him a hard, calculating smile. Her eyes, eyes so blue they were nearly purple, should have been warm with longing for him. Instead, they shot daggers at him. "'Tis true. There’s little else I can bring into this contract of ours, save my devotion to duty."

  Rannulf yanked his robe over his head and cinched his belt tight about his waist. A muscle tensed in his cheek as he fought his anger at her masterful control. "Remember only this, Rowena, duty does not warm the heart."

  Her eyes flew wide in disbelief at his warning. "In response, I can only say that bitterness cannot be the friendliest of companions."

  For a single, astonished instant, he stared at her. With those few words, she pierced his heart, destroying his barricades, and storming his defenses. Protective rage came swiftly on the heels of surprise. "I am a tolerant man, some have said overtolerant, but you push me to my limit,” he warned.

  Rather than the meek submission a wife owed her husband, Rowena shot him that hard smile again. "What little bird gave you to understand that you might say what you please to me without offering me the same courtesy in return?"

  Rannulf stared at her in breathless disbelief. In all his life he'd never met a woman so bold. She fair begged him to beat her.

  "Is it your wish to goad me into violence?" he muttered, his words harsh and dangerous as anger rapidly seethed beyond his capacity to control it.

  Her expression softened, just a little. "Nay, my lord. Perhaps I do dare much, but then, I have nothing to lose. In just one day's time all I've been taught to hold dear has been taken from me. Now I’m asked to accept, without comment or complaint, a life wholly foreign to me.” She paused to take a breath, and her gaze softened again until she almost pleading. “I know nothing of being a wife, but I have learned much about the running and maintenance of an estate. It may be that you will find my manner too straightforward for your tastes, but, my lord, it is just that: my manner. Would that I die before I give up that part of me."

  Outside, the wind howled and sleet spattered the shutter. Unexpected and unwanted, anger died to reveal the respect that stirred deep amid the bitter dregs of Rannulf’s disappointment. Perhaps if he’d never married Isotte things could have been different for them. But, it was too late for second thoughts. He waited until his emotions settled back to the dullness he’d cherished for so long.

  "I’ll not argue with you," he told her, turning his back on her and shoved his feet into his boots. "Graistan Keep will be at your disposal, even if its lord is not. Be ready to leave within the hour."

  "As you wish, my lord," she said quietly, almost meekly.

  He spun on his heel and jerked open the door. A maid nearly fell into the room. The hapless woman cried out in surprise as she dodged him, but he didn’t pause in his haste to be away from his wife.

  Rowena listened until she was sure her husband was beyond earshot. Then, she dropped her blanket and reached for her robe. Had she meant to goad him into violence? Was it disappointment she'd felt when he hadn't struck her as she had expected? It was as if she'd wanted to see his passion, any passion be it even hate, rather than the dullness he showed toward her.

  "My lady," the maid cried out, "do not rise yet. The sheets! I must call your mother to witness."

  "Sweet Mary, there can be no doubt of my purity, whether I remain upon the bed or not. Bring me water for washing and fresh, warm clothing. I’m not wont to wear my wedding garb again this day." She paused to add beneath her breath, "or ever."

  Then, she continued more loudly. "There’s much to be done. Inform the Lady Edith my husband desires to leave within the hour."

  "What?!" the maid squeaked.

  Rowena yanked on her bed robe and cinched the belt tight. "I've got no time to waste, woman. Move!"

  The poor woman leapt to do her bidding, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Rowena almost smiled as the door shut. It was a small victory, but it was hers. She’d clarified the terms of their marriage.

  Rowena huddled more deeply into her cloak, cold beyond complaint. Even protected by thick leather gloves, her hands had lost all feeling. Her hair, though covered by her wimple and a fur-lined hood, was damp with the icy rain.

  Her husband pulled the bay he rode into line with her little mare. She glanced up at him. Where his cloak and surcoat did not cover it, his chain mail gleamed with the moisture it collected. "How much farther, my lord?" Her voice was hoarse.

  "Too far," he snapped.

  The continuing drizzle had turned the road into naught but thick and frigid mud, it being not quite cold enough to freeze completely . Burdened as they were with the ox-drawn carts, their progress had been at a snail's pace. After a moment's angry silence, he turned to stare in disgust at the peasants and their beasts of burden. In those carts was Rowena’s new wardrobe along with the massive bed that had once been her mother's. Her father had actually threatened to throw everything from the top of Benfield's wall if they didn’t take it with them. Although her husband protested vehemently against his need for haste, he couldn’t afford to refuse; the bed was too rich an item to risk.

  Rannulf’s gaze shifted to his master-at-arms who rode a short distance behind them. "Can we move them no faster?"

  Rowena turned slightly on her saddle to consider Temric, her husband's man. The taciturn soldier’s expression was stonily impassive beneath the hood of his plain woolen cloak. Although Rannulf called him master-at-arms, the man wore chain mail like a knight, although it was of the plainest sort with no sign of decoration. Bearded and of medium height, this Temric’s even features spoke of common ancestry. Still, Lord Graistan treated him as if he were an equal, even giving him comm
and of his true knights, men of better birth.

  Without the slightest change of expression, Temric's brown eyes shifted in her direction, their gazes meeting briefly, then looked upon his lord. "My lord, if we push any harder the carts will mire in the mud at every turn of the wheels rather than every third turn."

  "God's blood!" Rannulf managed to make the low-voiced utterance sound like a scream.

  Temric straightened slightly as what might have been impatience flashed across his face. "Have you not yet tired of souring your stomach? And if you must do this, I beg you to spare the rest of us."

  Rowena caught her breath. Surely, her lord would cut the man down for daring so much. She did not tolerate such impertinence from one of lesser rank.

  To her astonishment, her husband only groaned. "Has there ever been such an ill-fated venture?"

  The insult struck her to the core. "I agree that our wedding was not what I desired, but don’t curse God and call it ill-fated."

  "A poor choice of words," Lord Rannulf said by way of apology. "Temric, I can afford no more time lost. Do I remember that a small hamlet lies nearby? Let’s pay some husbandman to keep the carts and be on our way. Have Gilliam send someone to fetch it later."

  "Should you push your lady so hard?" Once again, the commoner dared to criticize his lord.

  Rowena’s unease about assuming command of Graistan without her husband at her side grew. Were all his servants accustomed to such freedoms? She frowned. If so, then she’d have to be swift and sure about cementing her rule in place if she was to gain any sort of control.

  "What choice have I?” her husband responded as if speaking to an equal. "Unless." Here, he paused in thought. "It’s not the best of options, but if we could locate a dwelling in the hamlet that’s suitable to house my lady. Then, you and four men could house the carts for the night. Early on the morrow the roads will still be frozen, and it’ll be easier for you and her to finish the journey to Graistan.

  “Aye," her husband continued with new enthusiasm, “I’ll be free to continue on to Nottingham. Even better, this will give you the chance to escort from Graistan those supplies this impromptu wedding prevented me from obtaining."

  As he fell silent Rannulf eased back into his saddle, obviously pleased with his plan. It was equally obvious to Rowena that a suitable dwelling would be found for her, be it house or shed.

  "And what of me," she demanded. "Am I to introduce myself to your servants without their master at my side to confirm my rights as their lady? How will they even know me?"

  Her husband’s glance was disinterested. And, why shouldn’t it be? He’d just solved his own difficulties. "The needs of my king must come before those of my wife. My half-brother, Sir Gilliam, who is my steward and holds Graistan during my absence, will stand in my stead." With that, he urged his horse forward.

  "You have all my gratitude," she bit out beneath her breath.

  Temric glanced impassively from one to the other, then repeated in the English language his lord's commands. The troop turned off onto the narrow lane. Fuming silently to herself, she followed him as their party made its way along the track. She cursed this arrogant husband of hers as well as her father. Never had a man done her a favor, nor did she foresee any such an occurrence in the near future.

  Rowena heard the place well before they arrived. In the utter stillness of the winter woods the gentle lowing of cattle and the bleat of sheep echoed eerily through barren branches. It wasn’t much, only a knot of tiny buildings around which stood a helter-skelter wall of tree limbs woven with branches. Smoke drifting from the rooftops was absorbed into the heavy, leaden sky.

  At Temric's call, a man appeared from the nearest cottage. Although the cottager bowed and scraped before them, his eyes were narrowed and suspicious until he understood that coins would be offered. After a few minutes of fervent bargaining, during which the man displayed a greedy smile, Temric turned to Lord Graistan.

  "He says they can house the carts, and the men can use the shed," he pointed to a lean-to, "while your lady may have the use of his home."

  Rannulf interrupted, "At what price?"

  "Don’t you think it wise to ask me if I intend to stay in this place before you open your purse and waste precious coins?" Rowena asked sharply, drawing her palfrey up alongside her husband’s larger horse. "How far are we now from Graistan?"

  Lord Rannulf shot her a calculating look. "Perhaps four hours if you travel without the cart."

  "Then I intend to be on my way." She resettled her gloves between her fingers and straightened her wimple. "If you won’t see to my needs, I’ll have to attend to them myself. Besides, I’ve had the opportunity to visit places such as this. At night, the beasts of the fields share these quarters with their masters. The warmth might be welcome, but the stench is enough to make breathing impossible. Temric, do you ride with me?"

  For the briefest instant, Rowena would have sworn that she had astonished the man, but, if she had, his face immediately fell into his usual closed expression. He neither nodded or shrugged in response to her question, looking instead at his lord.

  Rannulf turned angrily in his saddle to look at her. "Do you think to shame me in front of my own men? If so, then you have sadly misjudged them and their loyalty to me. Spare me your venom and your claws."

  The irritation of this morn came back with all its force, bringing with it memories of the previous night. "My dear lord husband, I refuse to stay in a filthy hovel when in a few hours’ time I could be where I can bathe, eat, sleep, and breathe in comfort."

  For a moment, it appeared that her husband meant to retort, but his mouth shut into a hard and narrow line. "As you wish."

  He turned to his master-at-arms. "If my lady wishes to ride, let her ride."

  "As you say, my lord, but let the lady know there’s no place to stop between here and Graistan more suitable than this for one such as herself. Also, let her know that the ride isn’t an easy one."

  Rowena smiled archly at this. Convent life, if lived true to the principles of the Roman Church, taught inner strength and stamina. Oh, there were those to whom a nunnery offered softness and shelter, but she hadn’t been one of that ilk. "You may tell your master-at-arms that he will have no burden on his hands."

  Temric nodded curtly, no longer giving service to the customary protocol and now speaking directly to his lady. "Then, give me a moment, my lady, to see to the carts. My lord, it appears that it’ll cost you only two pence to store the carts and feed the oxen and their drivers. For another two pence, this man and his sons will assist in bringing them to Graistan on the morrow if we leave men to guard them on their way."

  "Then, let it be so." Rannulf nodded.

  Digging coins from the purse at his belt, Temric tossed them to the man, who caught them with avarice glinting in his gaze. The master soldier then unfastened his purse and tossed it to his lord. At Temric’s command four men sent their horses through the gate. The peasant called his sons from the their cottage to aid the drivers in guiding the oxen and carts into the compound.

  Rannulf stuffed the leather pouch into his glove's cuff. "Gilliam knows what I need and, by all rights, it should be ready and awaiting your arrival, Temric. Take your ease for a day if you wish. There’ll be supplies enough with Ashby's company to see to all our men." He punctuated this sentence with a small laugh as Temric nearly smiled, then her husband turned to her.

  "Tell Sir Gilliam that I said you’re to do as you wish with the servants, and that they are to obey you as they would me,” he caught himself and held up a hand. “Nay, don’t say that. Instead say to him that you’re to be given the regard in all things that his mother would have owned. Temric," Lord Rannulf glanced around to his man, "bear witness to any who question that I have said as much."

  Again, Lord Rannulf looked at the wife he clearly didn’t want. There was a moment’s silence, then he sighed and shrugged. "Your lands are too well matched to my own. I couldn’t allow them to slip into ano
ther's hands. You won’t be alone at Graistan. Sir Gilliam will see to it that you are well treated."

  Was this an apology? Better to assume that it was. Rowena cleared her throat. "May the Lord God keep you safe in your endeavors." It sounded like the wifely thing to say.

  "At to you in yours,” her husband returned, then turned his bay. With no gesture of farewell, he sent his mount trotting across the frost encrusted field. He and the men who followed disappeared quickly into the tangled branches and dead bracken of the woodlands. A moment later and nothing but silence once again surrounded those who stayed behind.

  Temric set a brutal pace, but Rowena's presence slowed them not one whit, although she well knew he'd expected it. Still, pride in her achievement didn’t thaw frozen fingers and toes, or make the misery pass more quickly. It was only when day descended into an icy blue twilight that this well-traveled road led them to Graistan, her new home.

  Set atop a sharp lift of land guarded by a river's bend was a tall stone keep. Surrounding the great square tower was a massive wall with defensive towers at its every turn. Proof of her husband's might and prominence lay not only in this powerful fortress, but in the town below the castle. This fledgling enterprise nestled safely between castle and its own walls. Rowena's heart soared at the sight. Where there was trade, there was wealth.

  They thundered past outlying farmland, meadows, and orchards, then through the town's gate. Here, their pace slowed along the narrow lanes that twisted and curved at will and with no apparent reason. With night closing in only a solitary few remained out and about. From above her the eerie wail of yowling cats shattered the chilled quiet.

  Rowena glanced upward, searching for the source. The tall houses were framed in dark, thick timbers. Some were freestanding while others were crammed, cheek to jowl, against their neighbors. Although twilight grayed their colors, each house bore painted wood trim, some carved into fanciful designs. Merchants' homes were easily identified by the emblems that hung over their doors. Each proclaimed the nature of their owner's business, be that carpenter, potter, or wine seller. Butchers, tanners, and fishmongers were easily identified by their reeking odors, as were the bakers, cookshops, and chandlers with their sweeter smells.