"And you were not knighted?" It was with great cost that she kept her voice unemotional.
"Nay. We were nigh on eighteen when he died, and Rannulf, being so close to his majority and forward for his age, took his spurs along with his inheritance."
"There was nothing for you?" It seemed odd that a man who so loved his bastard child to raise him in the hall with his heir would forget that child in his will.
"Why should there have been anything for me? I was not his legitimate son." Try as mightily as he did, Temric could not hide how it had hurt him and how it hurt him still. The harshness in his voice wasn’t meant for her, and she knew it.
He sighed, then stepped away from the tree. Even if she had not seen it, she would have known his expression was once again closed and hard. "Now, mayhap, you’ll do me a good turn, my lady."
"If I can, I will." It would be her only chance to repay him for his friendship. There'd be no further confidences between them, not this night and most probably ever again. It was not his way.
"My mother is recently widowed and has asked me to come to her. She and my stepfather were wool merchants and makers of parchments, and my half-brothers are yet too young to be of great help to her. She claims to need my company, but what she really wants is my strong back for some time to come." He paused here, as if thinking on his mother's situation.
"You must leave Rannulf," she said in slow understanding, "and he doesn’t suffer his family leaving him with much grace."
"You’ve put the problem in a nutshell, my lady. But, go I must. There are two sides to my family, and I cannot be torn down the middle even to please him. I’ve promised her to be there before Midsummer and that is now just weeks away. Mayhap you can make him understand."
"Well, I cannot imagine I’ll have the chance to speak with your brother, but should I, I vow I’ll try to plead your case as best I can," she said, then rose to her feet.
"That’s all I can ask," Temric replied, his sudden smile so like his brother's. "Now, let me see you back into the hall. You really shouldn’t wander about unescorted in the dark. These men of mine are a rowdy crew when they've had a drink or two too many."
Rowena smiled wanly as he offered her his hand. "I wasn’t thinking when I left, or I would never have come this way, but you know that."
"So I do." Temric led her out of the garden and to the base of the outer stairs. "Now, go quickly. I’ll watch until you are safe within."
From his chair near the hearth, pushed well to the side and out of the way of the celebrants, Rannulf watched his wife reenter the hall. She wasted no time in crossing the room and nearly ran up the stairs, as if she couldn’t wait to reach the women's quarters and freedom from his grasp.
There was no cause for her to hurry. He wanted nothing more to do with her. He drained his cup, wishing he could as easily wash away his now bitter regrets. This marriage was an error of the gravest sort, and her wealth was the only compensation he'd ever gain from this union. Once he settled her inheritance, she could take up residence at Upwood and be out of his life.
Hours passed. The servants ended their amusements and pulled out pallets and benches to find their peace in sleep. Yet, Rannulf lingered where he was, unwilling to retire to the tower chamber that had been prepared for two and would now be occupied by one. The summer night had begun its swift descent into dawn, and there were naught but embers on the hearth when Temric entered the room. Rannulf watched as his brother crossed the hall, stepping carefully over snoring bodies.
"What do you want," he asked sourly when Temric came near enough.
"So you've not been able to drink yourself into unconsciousness after all."
Graistan’s lord made a sound that was only half laugh. "Unfortunately not, although I can no longer feel my feet. There's nothing strong enough to stop the ache in my head. Are you so solidly in her camp that you come to taunt me?"
"Don’t put me in the middle of your silly spat," his brother retorted mildly.
Rannulf made a low, angry noise. "Not so silly. She accused me of planning to betray John with Maeve."
"Did she? I didn't know she cared enough to worry over whom you bedded. I thought the two of you didn't speak."
Rannulf gave his brother a sharp look. "I doubt she was jealous over me. She has only two concerns: her pride and her coins. Anyway, I’m sick to death of her vicious tongue. See what price I again pay for my foolish desire to own a pretty thing? I should have learned my lesson from the last time, when it ended in disaster."
Temric stared down at him for a long moment. The shake of his head was almost sad. "You cannot compare her to Isotte. They are cut from different cloths. Open your eyes, Rannulf. Will you destroy a fine wife in order to prove yourself cursed?"
Lord Graistan jerked as if the words physically impacted with him. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak Temric continued. "I came to give you this, not to discuss your marital problems. Oswald's man tapped at the postern only moments ago." He dropped the leather scrip into his brother's lap.
Rannulf dug into the packet and found the message, then squinted in the low light to make out the words. "Oswald," he said and laughed, "you devious fox." He glanced up at Temric. "Our cousin has whispered reminders into the bishop's ear of how wondrous the hunting is in our chase. The bishop, being extraordinarily fond of the sport, can be convinced to bide a while here before he completes his return to Hereford. It will then be convenient for him to take this time to determine whether the wills should be set aside and the inheritance reconsidered. I doubt it can hurt our cause if the hunting is as good as promised." Rannulf grinned widely. "I’m to meet them where the river crosses the north road on the morrow to make a formal invitation.
"In the meanwhile Graistan must be readied." He briefly studied the message again. "The bishop presently travels with two knights, for whom only one must be provided with a bedchamber, besides Oswald and his master, of course. There are some twenty others, all of lesser consequence, servants or soldiers."
Rannulf came to his feet already eager to be gone. "Bear this message to my wife for me when she rises. She is to tear the purse strings from the purse and not to stint in the slightest thing. If we haven't enough in coin, she’s to borrow what she needs. Tell her the bishop eats but once a day, but that meal must be rich with delicate sweets and soups to accompany his fish and fowl. And he requires wines of the finest quality."
"You’ll have to move your present guests from your chamber to accommodate the bishop," Temric reminded.
"John will understand." Rannulf waved away that concern, then stepped around the hearth to lay a hand on a man's shoulder. "Ulric, wake up. I need you to creep quietly into my chamber and retrieve my armor and my best surcoat. Take care you don’t wake the newlyweds."
The man rubbed his face as he rose and straightened his shirt and hose. "Aye, my lord," he muttered, and stumbled toward the stairs.
"Temric, I'll take ten men with me. See that they’re dressed in their best, and their horses well fitted out. But it must be quick as I wish to ride as soon as I’m armed."
"They’ll be ready before you are," said his brother as he walked away.
Rannulf was still studying the message when his servant returned with his clothing and armor. He was followed by Maeve, swathed in a blanket, her golden-red hair tumbling over her shoulders in long waves.
"My lord, what is amiss that you must dress so swiftly in the middle of the night," she cried in a low voice while touching his arm with gentle concern.
"Maeve, did this churl awaken you? My apologies to you and John, as well. I hadn’t expected to need access to your chamber tonight." Rannulf spoke more gently than was his custom, as if his tone could wash away the stain of his wife's accusations even though Maeve knew nothing about them. He waited, still smiling, expecting her to immediately excuse herself and return to her husband.
"Your armor? Is there an attack? Oh my lord, my heart stops at the thought of you in danger."
She stepped nearer and gazed up at him. Her face was all gentle curves and beautiful hollows, her eyes warm with her concern. She laid her hand upon his upper arm, her fingers stretching upward toward his shoulder. Rannulf shifted uneasily at her touch. When she did not withdraw her hand, he took her fingers in his hand and stepped back.
"Nay, no attack. I must meet the Bishop of Hereford this morn regarding my wife's inheritance. You should have no concern for me, Maeve. Brothers," he gave emphasis to the word as he let her hand slip from his grasp, "you must forsake when you cleave unto your husband. Now, go back to your bed and think no more of it. If John asks I should return before the sun sets tonight."
"You’re right that I must now cleave unto my new lord, but I’m so newly married that surely I can be excused for my persistent care of you. It may take me time to unlearn my habit of worrying over you." As she spoke bared an arm to lift her hair over her shoulder, then let her blanket sag open to reveal the curve of her breast.
Rannulf frowned sharply. "Cover yourself, madam. Dear God, this is your wedding night. What sort of man is John to let you come down like that? Go back to bed."
Maeve’s laugh was low and husky, and she didn’t return the blanket to her shoulder. "Do drop your pretense. Really, all this concern over my husband. And a meeting with a bishop? At this hour? Such a story. If you’re worried over your man carrying tales, you need not. I’ll make very certain he keeps his mouth shut. Oh, my poor heart, until he woke me, I despaired of finding a moment alone with you."
She took another step toward him, exposing one long, slim leg. Firelight glimmered on her bare thigh. "Your greeting yesterday was balm to my soul. If you hadn’t held me next to your heart when you proposed this ridiculous marriage, I wouldn’t have known what you intended."
"Intended? I intended nothing, and my greeting was no more than a greeting," he started, but his voice caught as he remembered his wife's pointed remarks about the same event. He'd only meant to sweeten the news of so sudden a wedding. Where had he erred?
"Nothing more?" Maeve persisted, her voice like the sensuous rasp of silk against skin. "You drew me into your embrace and held me as you had never before held me, and now you say it is nothing? Don’t lie to yourself, Rannulf. It’s me you desire. I know how unhappy you are in this marriage of yours. Look, here I am beside you. I can ease your pain. Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. And don't fret over John, for I can manage him. He is very simple."
"No."
Hard and cold, the word hung so heavily in the air between them that even the smoke could not rise. Instead, it curled and circled around them until it filled the space between them. Maeve made no movement except to tighten her fingers into the blanket.
Rannulf stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time, and what he found in her eyes made him look away in sickened shame. Why had he been so determined not to recognize her for what she was?
When he finally spoke, his voice was taut with revulsion. "How could you believe this of me?" He rubbed a hand against his brow, then turned to face her once again. "How? You’ve lived beneath my roof for years, and never have I touched you or given you any sign that I desired you. What did I do that gave you cause to believe me capable of dishonoring a loyal man who has done me no harm? Tell me now so I may be sure to never do it again."
He watched her face, but there was no change in her expression. Neither did she move to draw the blanket closer. There was something obscene in the way that simple wool sheet draped about her to reveal her breast. Rannulf reached out to yank the edge of it over her shoulder until she was decently covered once again.
"Sweet Jesu, this is your wedding night. To do a man so on this night of all nights would stain my soul forever."
"How very righteous of you," Maeve purred, something dangerous in the sound. "But this must be a new side of you. You could hardly have been so righteous when you left my sister to die. How grateful you must have been when she breathed her last. After all, it solved the problem of what to do with the bastard she carried. Tell me, my lord, did you ask for whom she cried as her lifeblood ebbed away? Or could you not bear to hear that she'd cried for Gilliam and cursed you for separating them."
Rannulf closed his eyes as his stomach rolled. He tried desperately to shove away the memory, but Maeve's words were like daggers ripping away all his carefully constructed barriers. The scene exploded to life in his memory, every detail clear and fresh as if it had happened yesterday, not five years ago.
Isotte, only just past her fifteenth birthday and late into the breeding of the child he hadn’t fathered, miscarried. The midwife did what she could, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Blood soaked the mattress and dampened the bedclothes; even his own clothing had been filled with it.
"Aye," Rannulf said at last, his voice soft. An odd sense of peace flowed over him. The scene faded gently away without any of the horror it had once held for him. In its wake came sadness, but it was a sadness without pain. "Aye, she cried, but it was for your mother, child that she was. Poor thing had only me and the priest to bear her company. At the end, she clung to me. All I could do was hold her until she was gone. And when we laid her to rest it was I who cried for her.
"But I doubt that was what you hoped to gain by your ploy." He let his voice harden. "So, have you anything left to use against me or is your arsenal now spent?"
Maeve’s shrug was casual. "Call it a desperate attempt to hurt you for rejecting me if you like, a parting blow. Now, I'll give you a warning. You’re a cuckolded fool, not once, but twice. Is this the same as the last time, or do you know what's afoot at Graistan? I'm told you’re never far from Gilliam's side these days, my lord."
When she fell silent, she watched him as if waiting to see what effect her words had. Rannulf only looked down at her, keeping his face expressionless. She sighed and shrugged again. "Ah well, see what you want to see."
Turning toward the embers on the hearth, she held her hands out to catch what remained of the fading warmth. "But really, Rannulf, if you had to see me wed, why choose such an oaf? Did you see how he smeared grease on my sleeve? Now I’m to be a farm wife, with geese and goats forever at my heels." The sudden sharp edge to her voice hinted at real despair, but it disappeared as she continued. "How rustic. He’s worse than my first husband."
"Dear God, what have I done," Rannulf whispered as the realization of all this woman was finally came home to him. "Rowena warned me and I said she hated you and saw the worst for her own reasons. John is a good man who deserves better than you," he bit out. "Well, what’s done is done and there's no hope of undoing it. I saw to that, but I can still warn him. Perhaps he can beat some goodness into your soul."
"Too late," Maeve returned with a tiny laugh and a confident lift of her brow. "My power over him is complete. He’s wholly smitten and won’t hear you." She tilted her head until the firelight revealed her at her most beautiful. A soft smile turned her lips upward ever so slightly, and her eyes sparkled. "Challenge me, and I’ll see you destroyed in your man's eyes." Then she made him a mock bow and turned on her heel to start back toward the stairs.
"Ulric, escort her," Lord Graistan commanded. "Make certain she returns to her husband's bed. Wake two fellows and tell them they’re to stand by either door to ensure that she stays there until her husband rises. When this is done, come help me dress. And all of you who listened here this night, if one word of this incident is repeated to anyone before I speak with Sir John, your heads will be the forfeit."
There was no response from the sleepers around him, but Ulric nodded his assent and hurried after the bride. By the time the servant returned, his lord already wore the padded woolen chausses and shirt that served as buffer between his skin and mail. After they had pulled and shrugged the mail shirt in place, they paused for a breath.
"I’ve been a fool," Rannulf said to himself, not expecting a response from his servant.
"Aye, my lord," said Ulric, "so you were. But, the
n you regained your senses and wed your lady, may God preserve you both." The man turned to lift the metal stockings and missed the marked reaction his master had to that comment.
Rowena waited impatiently for her guests to descend. They were already an hour late, an hour she needed to spend on preparations for the bishop's arrival. Instead, she'd had to dress in honor of the newly wedded couple. Now, they lingered upstairs while she could do nothing save pace here in front of the tables set for the midday meal and dwell on the horror of the previous evening's events.
Not that she hadn't done enough of that last night on an uncomfortable cot in a drafty corner of the women's quarters. Dawn's light found her still blaming herself for so stupidly falling into such an obvious snare. Imagine, jealousy over a man who wanted naught to do with her. Her heart lurched again.
Despite Temric's insistence that there was yet hope, Rowena could see no escape from this morass.
"Good morrow, Rowena, dear," called Maeve from the balcony fronting the second floor. She wore a sleek silk undergown of pale peach with an overgown of darker orange embroidered in gold, and her hair had been carefully plaited with bright ribbons. Rowena's eyes narrowed. No doubt it was these vain primpings that were the source of their delay.
"Perhaps you should say afternoon, love," John corrected. "We slept most of the day away." Her husband was a marked contrast to his wife, for he wore his stained and rumpled wedding attire and looked as though he'd barely run a comb through his hair.
His new bride leaned close to him and blushed prettily as she agreed with the throaty comment, "So we have."
Lady Graistan schooled her features into calm, and stepped forward to greet them as they descended the stairs and entered the hall. "I hope you found all to your liking in your chamber."
"I did," murmured John to his wife, "did you?"
His bride returned his look with a quick smile, "What do you think, my love?" Then she turned toward her lady and cried, "Oh, but you look as though you haven't slept a wink all night, you poor dear." The barest hint of gloating suggested she knew full well what havoc she'd wrought.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 20