The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Ah, but the luxury of all luxury was the strange hearth cut into the chamber’s wall, the smoke exiting the room through some channel cut into the wall, itself. To sleep in a warm chamber was almost beyond Rowena’s imagination, if not her desire to experience it.

  Although the fire upon that stone was small and only recently coaxed to life the room wasn’t cold. That was because neither stick nor stone of the walls were left uncovered. The glorious reds and blues of these embroidered panels glowed in the firelight. While Rowena was no needlewoman, she recognized fine work when she saw it. She started forward to examine one piece more closely and nearly tripped as her muddy boot sank deep into a thick, brilliant material patterned in an alien design.

  She stepped off and frowned. Surely, so beautiful a thing wasn’t meant for such a degraded use. Some servant had erred by placing it here. Tiptoeing along the wall to avoid the floor covering, Rowena gingerly seated herself in one of the chairs.

  Every muscle ached, strained as they were from her long ride. It hurt even to bend over and pull off her boots and stockings. Her toes bared, she glanced at the door, then sank her feet into the material on the floor and smiled. It was as thick and soft as it was lovely. Fully enjoying the sensations, she unwound her heavy, woolen wimple and hung it over the back of her chair, then loosened her braid. With the comb from her purse, she began to smooth away the tangles.

  A moment later a tiny, wizened woman appeared in the doorway. She stared curiously at her new lady, a tray of breads and cheeses in her hands. "Good even, my lady." She bowed with the stiffness of one whose bones had seen too many winters. "I’m Ilsa. I’d be most pleased to serve you if you've brought no maid of your own. I hope you’ll forgive Graistan its poor welcome." Words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession, whistling through toothless gaps in her gums as she stepped spryly into the room.

  Rowena's upraised hand stopped her. "Is this thing meant to be walked on?" she asked, pointing to the floor.

  "Oh, aye." Ilsa assured her, setting her tray upon one of the chests to pull the sodden wimple from the back of the chair. She snapped it, the spattering water droplets hissing as they struck the fire. "Infidel, it is," she said as she hung the head cloth on a peg by the door, "brought back from the Holy Lands. Lord Henry, that would be your lord's father, said such things were commonplace there."

  Rowena concealed her yawn behind her hands. "I say give me a simple straw mat that I can walk on after I've been in the garden."

  The old woman's laugh was a chicken's cackle. "Temric spoke rightly," she said cryptically as she turned down the bedclothes. "Will you eat this night?"

  Rowena stretched, yawning again. "I want nothing more than to crawl into yon bed and sleep for days." She rubbed her face with her hands, then rose stiffly to her feet. "But I must be up before dawn, and I must bathe. The water will need to be very warm, for I’m going to be very sore."

  "Here, let me assist you." The maid was at her side in an instant, her thick fingers deftly loosening the overgown's lacing. Freed of both gowns and her chemise, Rowena staggered gratefully across the room and climbed into bed.

  The old woman clucked in concern. "Oh, you poor dear, these things are wet through and through. And what is this Temric tells me? You've nothing else until your cart arrives on the morrow? Well, these will just have to be cleaned tonight, then."

  Suddenly, but only for a brief moment, Rowena wished she'd waited for the cart. A fine lady needed fine clothing. All she had was this worn, chestnut colored traveling gown she'd borrowed from Benfield. "Ilsa, I handed my cloak to the wardrober in the hall."

  "Aye, so I and every other soul in the hall knows." The maid snorted in laughter. "You couldn’t have chosen better than to hand it to that ass."

  "Arrogance he does not lack," Rowena agreed wryly, pulling the blankets up over her. "However, I must be certain that the chore I gave him is rightly done. It’s truly a fine garment and will cover these things until my own gowns arrive."

  The maid cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world like a bird considering a worm. "In this hall, one can be made to pay a price for usurping one's rank."

  That shook the cobwebs from Rowena's head. She looked up, her gaze sharp. "Ilsa, you cannot be punished for doing as I command by any save myself. Nor can anyone else."

  The woman’s answering smile was wide with approval. "Then, I’ll bid you good night, lady. The chamber pot is there, behind the bed curtain," she pointed to the wall at the opposite side of the bed. "If you have need of anything this night call out. I’ll lay my pallet in the antechamber."

  "Are the women's quarters so far?" Rowena asked sleepily.

  "Only a world away, my lady," Ilsa cackled, then hurried out with her lady's gowns, closing the door behind her.

  Rowena laid on the bed, savoring the soft mattress. Slowly, her frozen limbs began to warm and relax. Her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. There was something familiar about this bed, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Then, just as she drifted into sleep, she realized that the bedclothes smelled ever so faintly of her husband.

  Just as requested, Ilsa awakened her mistress at dawn, and Rowena eased her sore muscles in a warm bath. When she toweled herself dry with a rough linen cloth, her clothes, cleaned and dry, lay across her newly made bed. She lifted her cloak to examine it. "Hugo?" she asked.

  "There's a laundress with a bruised eye this morning" was the old woman's response.

  "I see." Rowena let Ilsa dress her, only to frown. Her new maid had a way of tightening the overgown's laces that made the old thing cling to her every curve. Afterward, Rowena stiffly submitted while her hair was combed and plaited. It was odd to have someone do this most intimate chore for her. When the last ebony strand was confined, a fine cloth was draped around her head and face. A thin gold band studded with gleaming blue stones held the wimple in place.

  "There," Ilsa said with a satisfied breath. "I knew I was right to lock away some of my Ermina's belongings up here. When our fine Master Hugo gets his sticky fingers on things, they go into his chests and rarely come back out. Oh, see how the stones complement the color of your eyes!"

  Rowena couldn’t recall the exact color of her eyes. The last time she'd given any thought to her image, she'd been a scrawny woman-child with eyes too big for her face and wild black hair that ever threatened to escape her demure wimple. Now, she took the polished metal mirror the old woman offered, only to raise a finger to touch in disbelief the reflection.

  Eyes of deep blue stared back at her from beneath thick, dark lashes. The sheer wimple and rich band made her ebony hair glow with hidden lights. Her smooth pale skin brightened with a dismayed blush when she realized her vanity.

  "How quickly a dowdy nun can be corrupted," she murmured, handing back the mirror. "Best you take this thing before I begin to believe what I see."

  She stood and brushed away her unease as she smoothed her gown. "Ilsa, I want to meet with the ranking servants over these next days. Must I use my bedchamber or the hall? Is there no solar?"

  "There is a solar, lady, but it’s been locked since Lady Isotte's death some five years ago."

  Only Rowena's clasped hands gave away her rush of excitement. Surely, the solar would match this room in luxury. Although she ached to see it now it would have to wait until after mass. "Good. Our first chore after we break our fast shall be to open that room. We’ve not yet missed mass, have we?" She threw her cloak over her shoulders, then belted it until only a bit of her borrowed gown showed.

  "You’ll attend mass, my lady?"

  Rowena stared at her maid from over her shoulder, astounded at the other's surprise. "But, of course." Everywhere, everyone attended mass each morning, did they not?

  "Of course, my lady, of course." Ilsa's wrinkled cheeks creased in a contented smile as she preceded her mistress out of the room.

  Access to the chapel lay directly off the hall. Accustomed to the larger abbey church this wee room’
s small nave seemed narrower still because of the thick supporting pillars. Nor did it appear that the servants were required to attend, as only a few older folk stood waiting for the service to start. Well, that would change. As of the morrow, everyone would be present for the good of their souls.

  Still, all was not poverty and disuse. Expensive candles in gilded branches revealed delicate carvings in the stonework. Dawn's light shone through the narrow window behind the altar and caught in the golden embroidery of a fine altar cloth. There was a strong similarity between this handiwork and the hangings in her bedchamber.

  The castle's chaplain was stone-deaf with the fragile, bent look of the very old, yet he warmly greeted his new lady before moving to the altar. In a voice deep beyond his withered body and beautiful beyond his plain face, the old man sang out the service. Rowena lost herself in the power and majesty of this familiar ritual. The soaring Latin phrases lent her their strength as they lifted her spirits. Once again, she felt connected and whole.

  As the last note died away into shivering silence, she knelt a moment longer unwilling to give up her precious serenity. When she finally stood she was at peace with the Lord God and ready for this day. The few steps from chapel door to hall brought her soundly back to earth.

  The dirt and darkness in here was worse than she remembered. Narrow, defensive windows cast their hopeless slivers of light into the smoky dimness. Neither the smoldering torches nor the roaring blazes on the twin hearths could alleviate the skulking shadows. She stared in disgust at the dogs rooting through the rushes for scraps they’d most surely find.

  Breaking the fast at Graistan seemed a casual affair. Although the nuns at the abbey fasted through the morning meal, their servants had dined on warm vegetable potage, fresh breads, and both hard and curded cheeses. Here, there was only one table other than the lord's, and it was set with two small wheels of cheese and hard rolls. Nothing warm was offered nor would anyone be tempted to tarry when no place to sit was available. Rowena frowned. Productivity was better gained with honey than vinegar. It was patently obvious that vinegar hadn’t worked at all in this hall.

  Lady Maeve was already at the high table. Her rich mantle laid open to display a gown of rose red beneath an overgown of the palest blue trimmed in vair. Brilliant gems glittered at the woman's throat and wrists. Rowena grimaced in dismay, not wanting to waste time in polite conversation when there was so much to be done, but there was no help for it. She crossed the room and chose a bench near, but not too near, the noblewoman.

  "Good morrow, dear Rowena," Maeve purred in greeting, using her lady's Christian name in unwarranted familiarity. "How well you look this morning. Last night your face was so pinched and pale I felt sure you would fall ill. Where did you get that band? You must give me your jeweler's name. It’s so lovely, but your costume hardly does it justice."

  Maeve leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Don’t tell me you've nothing else to wear but that old thing. Nuns aren’t ones to stress the importance of attire, so perhaps you don’t know. Your position as lady here requires a finer dress than that."

  "My thanks for your concern," Rowena replied with a smile as she used her eating knife to cut herself cheese and bread. After a single bite, she pushed it away. The cheese was salty and tough, and the bread tasted sour. She carefully tasted her watered wine. Vinegar. She set it aside.

  "Did I mishear you when you said your sister was wife to my husband?"

  "Oh, how clever you are to remember that from last night," the woman replied ingenuously. "Aye, Isotte, God rest her soul, was wife to Rannulf. When my husband died nigh on two years ago, my stepchildren threw me from my only home and paid me but a pittance for my dower properties. I had no one to turn to save Rannulf. His undying love for Isotte led him to open his home to me. I tried to repay him by acting as his housekeeper, but as you’ve shown me, I did poorly at it."

  Her face was the picture of dismay as she glanced around. "It’s such a large home, and there’s so much to keep straight."

  "Perhaps, if you’d lifted a finger," Sir Gilliam growled from behind them, startling both women. "But then, that would have been too much for you. Good morrow, my lady," he said to Rowena as he seated himself at the far end of the table. He wore a rough, mud-stained tunic and heavy boots. His complexion was reddened, as though he'd already been outside for hours. "Your carts have arrived."

  "Good news," she replied with a smile, then decided not to hesitate. "Do you know of any reason I shouldn’t unlock the solar for my own use?"

  Maeve's gasp was audible. "Surely, Rannulf didn’t give you that freedom. Why, he never allowed me—" she stopped abruptly.

  The young knight’s grin was vicious as he eyed the woman, then turned to face his lady. "Since the room was built for my mother, and Rannulf said you were to be treated as she was, you must open it. No doubt it was locked to keep those who shouldn’t use it from doing so."

  This time all his black look won him from the fair-haired woman across the table was her sweet smile in return. "Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he snapped at Maeve.

  "Not yet, sweetling," the pretty woman replied, then with a studied, languid motion she stretched, displaying her lush curves beneath the tightly fitted gown. Gilliam grunted and looked away.

  "Has Temric departed yet?" Rowena asked, glancing between the two of them.

  Gilliam cut himself a slab of cheese and stuffed it in his mouth. "At daybreak," he replied, spewing crumbs across the table. He followed the cheese with an entire slice of bread and washed it down by drinking directly from a nearby pitcher. "Did you wish to send a message with him for my brother?" he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  "Not particularly," she murmured, shocked at his boorish behavior. Lord Rannulf had used his manners to goad her, but at least he had them to use.

  "Pig," Maeve said mildly, although her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "You’ll sorely rue the day you go too far."

  Gilliam ignored her and kept his attention on his lady. "You look rested. I take it my brother's chambers suit you well." He followed this by a sly glance toward the other woman, as if expecting a reaction.

  Maeve simply turned toward her new lady. "Yes, dear, is that bed not deliciously comfortable?"

  "How would you know?” Gilliam’s outrage carried clearly about the room. “You've never laid your skinny backside on it."

  "Are you certain of that,” Maeve asked with a silvery laugh, “or are you only hunting again? Best you be careful, I may someday tell you what you want to know. For now, I must go. The girdler in town has finished my new belt." Maeve rose and walked with studied grace toward the stairway.

  "Don’t let your journey tire you,” Sir Gilliam called after her. "We wouldn’t want you to have to search out an empty bed so far from home."

  Maeve whirled. For an instant, her beautiful face twisted in anger, only to ease back into a mask of patience. "Oh, silly boy. You’re such a tease." Her gay laughter followed her as she disappeared up the stairs. Gilliam rose with a huff and strode angrily from the room without a word or glance at his new lady.

  Rowena stared after them for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "Well," she said to herself, "welcome to Graistan Keep." With that, she stood and glanced around the room for a place to start.

  "You," she called to a young boy sweeping halfheartedly at the ashes in the hearth. The boy squeaked and cowered in fright behind his broom. "Call together the scullery lads." The boy didn’t move until she clapped her hands and said softly, "Now." He instantly leapt to his task.

  "You," she motioned to a woman, "see that the boys clean these tables." Then, fearing the meaning of the word clean would be misunderstood, she amended her command. "They are to be scrubbed until they’re naught but smooth wood. The rest of you remove these filthy rushes and burn them. But, before you lay others this floor is to be washed, twice. Is there a pantler?"

  "Here, my lady," a man stepped forward.

  "The bread
tastes sour. Your flour’s bad."

  "But my lady," the man practically groveled, "it’s all we have. I can do no better."

  Rowena rolled her eyes. "I wasn’t accusing, only stating fact. Don’t waste my time with excuses. For now, I want you to look to the stairs outside yon door and see that they’re not icy. And you," she pointed to another man, "tell the stable master that I want straw spread throughout the courtyard before this hour closes.”

  Satisfied by the swift reactions to her commands, Rowena started for the stairs. Ilsa",she gestured to her maid who waited nearby for her,"gather the women you need and meet me in my chambers."

  A few moments later the women presented themselves to her in the passageway just outside her bedchamber. Rowena looked to Ilsa. "And the solar is?"

  "This way, my lady." The old woman entered her master's bedchamber and crossed to the hearth wall. There she lifted a heavily embroidered panel to reveal a door. "When I first came here with my Ermina, she was Sir Gilliam's mother, there was no door here. It was all one room with the women's quarters."

  The cloth slipped from her hands, burying the woman in its dusty folds. She pushed back the hanging again then threw her meager weight at the door. It didn't move. "In those days, they used only curtains to separate the sleeping area from the solar and solar from the women's quarters. Lord Henry built these walls to make Ermina her own, private chamber."

  Rowena frowned at Ilsa’s antics. "Is there no other way in?"

  "There is, but it has been locked from the inside," came Ilsa’s response from the folds of the curtain.

  Rowena reached out and yanked the hanging off the wall. A cloud of dust billowed. Rowena wiped her hands on her gown. Perhaps she’d be glad she wore nothing finer before the day was done.