By tradition, the Lord and Lady Graistan led the town's May Day festivities. Unfortunately, Rannulf’s last message said he yet waited to be freed from attendance at the royal court. Rather that she was dressed more comfortably and attending these doings at his side. Rowena sighed; she didn't have time for regrets. Today, she would be contracting to buy those supplies her lands didn’t produce, as well as arranging for the sale of Graistan's surplus wools and wheat before joining the town's council for the midday meal.
As she entered the courtyard from the hall Gilliam strode out of the stable door, his mail gleaming silver beneath his blue surcoat. "Are you ready to leave?" he called out to her.
"If my maids are ready, so am I," she returned. "Now, do you remember what I have told you?"
He laughed at her tone. "Yes, Maman. Twist your chain in your right hand, and I’m to dicker for yet a lower price. Twist your chain in your left hand, and the price is right. But why not speak for yourself?"
Rowena snorted in disgust. "Because I am only a wife while you are steward for the great Lord Graistan. Stewards are supposed to chaffer for their lords' goods."
"If I must work the whole day I’ll miss all the fun," he grumbled.
"You are such a child." She laughed at him, her amusement taking the sting from her words. She knew well enough how little Gilliam liked his stewardship, yet how determined he was to do a fine job to please his brother. "Now, if I could find those lazy maids of mine, we could be on our way."
"We come, my lady," Ilsa shouted in reply from the hall door. She was resplendent in green and gold wool. Her two daughters, dressed in brown and gold, descended the stairs behind her ready to accompany their lady for the day.
Gilliam's blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "Look, an old sow turned into a silk purse."
"Nasty brat," the old woman retorted.
"Oh, be still you two," Rowena sighed in feigned irritation. "Shall we?"
"I’m at your convenience, my lady," he said, signaling to the men-at-arms who would escort them, and they entered Graistan's town.
Although dawn had come only an hour ago, the market square was packed with merchants from across the land ready to sell everything from early spring vegetables to splinters from the True Cross. Those who could afford it had set up a makeshift shop decorated with ribbons, flowers, and bright paints. Others simply lay their goods upon a rough blanket for all the world to see. But, poor or rich, every one of them sought customers' attention by shouting out the virtues of their wares.
The aromas of baking onions, brewing ale, and roasting meats mingled in air that bore the more exotic scents of cinnamon and clove. After the weeks of Lenten fasting the variety of tastes easily tempted passersby into gluttony.
Everywhere, people laughed and shouted. Pipers piped and drummers banged loudly while onlookers kicked up their heels. Beggars mingled with merchants; cutpurses carefully practiced their art; townsfolk dressed in their finest were crushed against the louse-ridden serfs in ragged homespun.
None of this distracted Rowena. Her time was devoted to judging the quality of goods she found. For the most part, she was pleased. And, although they were glad to see that Graistan keep was once again buying goods, the merchants found its new steward to be hardheaded in his bargaining.
By noon she was finished, much to Gilliam's relief, and they joined the town council for the feast. The aldermen, made up of the town's wealthiest guildsmen, were accompanied by their wives and children on this shaded dais. Only by a slim margin did Rowena's silk outshine these women's bright samites and rich sarcenets. And not a few of them stared at her gown in obvious envy.
After a meal replete with fine wines and many dishes, there was nothing left for Rowena to do but enjoy the day. Here at the town's center the better actors performed their plays while the acrobats twisted, tossed, and turned their bodies with amazing agility. Musicians, looking for patrons and silver coins, sang their sweetest below this platform. And, of course, there was the piercing falsetto of the puppeteers who's set their stand exactly at the platform's steps.
Before long, Rowena found herself chatting with the young wife of a master guildsman. Like herself, the woman was newly married and not from the local area. They passed the time pleasantly discussing the management of household servants as the afternoon slipped away in easy enjoyment.
Rannulf halted before the town walls, his bay dancing slightly with its desire to continue on to a familiar stable. "Give me a moment, Roland," he muttered to the creature as he studied his home. Graistan's curtain walls cut a stern gray line through the heart of this town his great-grandfather had fostered. The very sight of the towering keep within them eased his soul like nothing else could. The place was eternity itself. He smiled.
Jordan waited inside for him. Then, his smile faltered. Also within was his new wife.
His joy at homecoming soured. A pretty penny he'd cost himself by marrying her. The king had demanded double the fine for wedding without royal consent. His father-by-marriage would pay the first half, but Rannulf had to foot the second bit. This atop what he still owed the crown for releasing his forest and chase from the royal control. This Plantagenet was expensive. First the Crusade, then the ransom paid to the emperor, and now a scutage to finance the reconquest of Richard's French and Norman holdings from Phillip of France. There wasn’t enough money in all England to satisfy its king.
Rannulf turned away from his cynical thoughts and raised his hand to the sentry. The town's guardsman called down his greeting, then shouted for those on the streets below to make way for their lord. Passing through the gate, Rannulf entered the warm embrace of his own peaceful and prosperous domain. The streets were crowded with folk. He stared in surprise until he remembered.
"Temric, why didn’t you remind me it was May Day?" he called back to his brother. "We could have arrived last night and joined the festivities."
His brother shrugged. "I didn’t think of it."
"What do you say we go to the town's cross and see what is what?" At his brother's brief grin, Rannulf set his bay to carefully picking its way through the crowd toward the town's center.
All along the lanes, folk sent the cry forward until a wide enough path was cleared to let the armed men through the crowd. Those Rannulf knew waved and called their greetings. He responded in kind. As always, the council had raised a platform before the church doors and beneath the shade of two massive chestnut trees.
There, in the spot Rannulf usually occupied, sat Gilliam. Beside his brother was a woman resplendent in silver and purple. She was turned away from him, engrossed in conversation with the woman seated just behind her.
What was this? Rannulf frowned. Was his brother courting a merchant's daughter without first seeking his approval? But, who stood behind the girl? Why, it was old Ilsa. Rannulf had never before seen his stepmother's servant dressed in anything so fine.
Only then did Rannulf understand who it was that sat beside his brother. His wife. He closed his eyes only to find the image of her standing before him covered with naught but the fall of her glossy black hair painted onto his eyelids. Jesus God. He thrust the picture away and opened his eyes.
She’d turned toward him. A soft smile warmed her lips, but didn’t touch her dark-blue eyes. Any other woman would have been diminished in so rich a gown, but the deep color of his wife's costume only enhanced her unusual coloring. Rannulf studied her, memorizing the gentle curve of her cheek and sweet fullness of her lips.
His gaze wandered downward. Although her overgown was not as tightly laced as was the fashion, there was no mistaking the lush roundness of her breasts. Even though she tried to hide it, within her burned a flame of such wanton passion it could make a man's head spin.
He glanced aside, but couldn’t keep his attention away from her. When he looked back their gazes locked. She stared at him for a long moment. Her smile vanished, and her expression stiffened with ... what?
Apprehension? Guilt? His eyes narrowed as hi
s gaze returned to his youngest brother.
Gilliam and she made quite a pair, both young and well matched in their handsomeness. Demons Rannulf thought long since banished rose up to torment him.
Gilliam met his gaze, then the lad’s features froze into that familiar challenge. Rannulf’s instinct was to deny him, but as if the crowd read the message in Gilliam’s eyes they suddenly edged back and waited. Rannulf’s shoulders relaxed. Well, if the townsfolk expected that old game, he would play along.
He gave a brief nod and dismounted as his brother leapt to his feet. His wife reached out to tug at his brother's surcoat, her action speaking of an easy familiarity between them. Whatever she said was delivered in an urgent tone, her features tight with fear.
Gilliam either ignored her or didn’t hear, for he leapt down from the dais to comically circle his older brother in make-believe wariness. Again, Rannulf’s glance moved between his wife and his brother, thoughts of betrayal awakening. Instantly, he slammed a mental door on them, shocked at himself for even thinking such things. He threw his concentration into the game he was about to play.
All around him the crowd held its breath. Metal hissed on leather as he and his brother freed their weapons. Then, with a great, ringing clash, steel met steel.
Rannulf’s wife leapt to her feet and cried out. Her words were lost in the cheers of the crowd as they urged their chosen champions on to victory. Rannulf had no time to discover for whom she feared as Gilliam easily escaped the trap laid for him.
He and Gilliam hadn’t played this game since before Gilliam's departure for the Holy Lands. Then, his brother's battle plan had been to throw himself carelessly forward, trusting his great strength and larger body weight to carry the day. It had been easy to blindside him and force him into a corner with a feint or two. No longer. The boy had earned his spurs and learned more than godliness while crusading.
The minutes passed as they met, stroke by stroke. Rannulf's pride grew to match his exhaustion. It was luck, not skill, when he found his opening and knocked away the younger man's blade.
"Yield," he demanded, lifting his sword point to his brother's throat.
"You've bested me this time." Gilliam laughed. His clear blue was gaze unclouded by guilt.
Rannulf searched his brother's face, looking for something he dared not find, but there was only the carefree boy he’d raised for him to see. Shamed by his earlier doubts, he released his inner tension. "Ah, but you gave me a merry chase," he retorted as he sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet.
"Welcome home." The younger knight gave his elder brother a bear hug that nearly cracked ribs before retrieving his own sword. "During my years abroad it was this game I missed most of all, old man."
"Not so old yet." Rannulf grinned widely. "When you finally best me, then will I be old."
"How do you know I don’t already let you win?" Gilliam's expression was impish.
Lord Graistan threw back his head and laughed in pure joy. The devil take his problems. He was free of court and obligations. He was home and glad of it, and, most importantly, he had his brother back once again.
"'Tis not you who lets me win. I simply let you lose with grace." He turned toward the dais to formally greet his wife.
Rowena drew a deep, ragged breath to calm her rage as her husband neared the platform. It had been a jest! A child's prank! She'd nearly eaten her heart with worry thinking they meant to kill each other while they played a game. Her fingers clenched into the folds of her gown.
"My lord husband." Despite her best effort, her words still bore hard and angry edges.
Her husband's smile died and took with it the life from his eyes. His features fell back into the harsh lines of bitterness she remembered so well from their wedding. "My lady," he replied flatly.
So, he wasn’t yet reconciled to their marriage. Well, that would change once he saw all she'd accomplished on his behalf. For now, he had only to stand beside her here. But, rather than climb the steps to the dais Lord Rannulf turned and remounted.
Rowena stared after him in disbelief. He couldn’t be so cruel. Her humiliation was complete.
"Don’t you wish to stay and enjoy the remainder of the day?" Sir Gilliam called to his lord and brother.
"Nay," Lord Graistan replied from atop his mount. "As you have said I’m an old man. I need to retire and take my ease after a hard journey."
"Go then, we'll not tarry overlong," Gilliam called.
A moment later, her husband rode from the town’s center toward their walls. Rowena choked as anger became hurt. He'd shown the entire town that he didn’t hold his wife in high regard. High regard! He held no regard for her at all.
She sat frozen in shame while Gilliam received warm congratulations from the councilmen for his performance. When she could finally manage to speak her voice was quiet and tense. "Ilsa, I’m ready to leave now.
Her maid turned to her with a wide smile. "Of course, my lady." From Ilsa’s expression, she seemed to believe the young wife was anxious to join her husband. The maid then turned toward Sir Gilliam, even as Rowena shook her head to warn Ilsa not to speak. She wanted to slip away unnoticed.
"Sir, your lady would like to leave now." Ilsa said, ignoring her lady.
Rowena sagged. It was too late. The whole of the council was now looking her way.
"Nay nay," she said to Gilliam, "I didn’t mean you to come with me. Stay and enjoy. I suddenly have a terrible throbbing in my head and with my lord just arrived there is much I must do."
Gilliam shrugged away her protests. "I’ll return later, after I’ve seen you safely into Graistan's hall."
"As you wish," Rowena replied. She stood and forced herself to lift her head high. No one would know that the joy in her life was gone, once again destroyed by her husband.
Rannulf’s irritation blinded him until after he'd passed Graistan's gate house and entered the outer bailey. There was nothing in all his wife’s rich dowry that was compensation for having to live with a nasty shrew. He'd wanted to own her lands and had been swayed to agree by her beauty, but he'd forgotten to check her temperament before purchasing. What price in emotional anguish would he pay for his mistake?
They were well within the foreyard before his vision cleared enough that he could look around him. The byres and barns along the walls were somehow changed. As always, geese grazed near the dovecot and ducks swam in the fish pond. He rode through the inner gate into the courtyard and pulled his bay to a sudden stop.
Jesus God! She'd whitewashed the whole damn keep! Whitewash, all over the lower reaches of a place named for its gray stones. What right did she have to do this?
Despite the shock of white walls, he couldn’t help but notice that the courtyard was neatly kept. The stair rail up to the hall had been repaired. Everywhere, there were clean walls. For the first time in his recent memory, the smell of the stable didn’t compete with that coming from the kitchen.
"My lord," called the stable master as he herded out his underlings to take the troop's horses, "well come! Well come, indeed. It’s good to see you home again."
"Whitewash," was all Rannulf could say.
"Oh, aye." The stable master grinned like a fool. "Your lady’s made some changes. A good lady she is, too, my lord."
Rannulf said nothing, only dismounted and strode up the stairs and into the hall. What he saw at the door stopped him in mid-step. The massive room was almost blinding. Here, too?
Mayhap the paint wasn’t so bad here. The whiteness brought new life to the wall hangings, or had they been cleaned? And, by repainting the sooty ceiling the roof beams once again showed that they'd been brightly painted. No, they had been repainted, for there’d never before been a green one.
As he stepped into the room, the pungent scents of marigold and rosemary rose from the rushes at his feet. Servants surged forward, congratulating him for winning his mock battle with Gilliam while welcoming him home. Despite his growing uneasiness, Rannulf forced himself
to respond in kind. Graistan was so changed. He hadn’t expected to feel like a stranger in his own home. And, it was her hand that showed in its every corner.
He lingered in the hall for a moment, waiting for Jordan, but the boy didn’t appear. No matter, it was a short walk to the women's quarters. He made his way to the big room where the female servants stayed and stopped in the doorway. This domain was the only one within his pale in which he wasn’t welcome. The chamber with its many chests and pallets was nearly empty save for two old women working at the looms on the far wall.
"Where is my son?" he asked of one, but she only shrugged and shook her grizzled head.
"Where’s his nurse?" He looked around him. Here, too, there’d been a thorough scrubbing and the room's meager furnishings rearranged. This wife definitely knew the meaning of cleanliness.
"I don't know, my lord," answered the eldest, dropping her shuttle for a moment. "We don’t see much of her any longer since the new lady came."
"Alais is gone?" Rannulf snapped to attention. "Where is Jordan if his nurse is gone?"
"I don’t know," the woman repeated nervously at his angry tone.
Rannulf clenched a fist. She’d promised; she'd vowed before God, Himself, on their wedding day to accept his natural son. But, she hadn’t promised to let the boy live alongside her.
Rage mingled with a terrible fear. What’d she done to his son? He whirled on his heel and strode back down to the hall. "I want my son," he bellowed, attracting the notice of every soul within the room.
"Rannulf," Gilliam called from the door as he entered. "What’s wrong? Where’s Jordan?"
"What has she done to him?" Rannulf roared.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 11