Strange man, strange day. She shook her head, then looked up at her brother by marriage. He stared openmouthed at the soldier's receding back. She finally asked, "Is something amiss?"
"Nay, no, not at all," he stuttered, "no, it is just that—that is, Temric is not—ah,—not one for so many words." He stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. "Come inside, my lady. Take care on these stairs, the steps are slick with ice. Allow me to apologize for what is sure to be a threadbare welcome," he said, with a nervous laugh. "We did not expect you."
"I fully understand." She was grateful for his rock-hard arm, since her legs still wobbled from the long ride. Together, they climbed the stairs, passed the iron-banded outer doors to the armed entry room beyond them. No salt on the steps, no straw applied to the mud in the courtyard. And she could smell the garderobes. Aye, Graistan had desperate need of her skills.
At the top of the stairs stood the porter, his hand possessively against the hall door. When they turned toward him, he bowed in greeting, then opened his door wider to admit them. The dogs followed them in and dispersed happily around the room.
Her new brother led her beyond the tall portal and past the screens that limited the great room's necessary draft. Here, he stopped. "Shall I introduce you?"
"Give me a moment to look," she replied, removing her gloves and working at her cloak's leather ties. The hall was as square as the tower itself, but was divided in twain by a row of pillars. These massive stone arches supported a second floor that reached only halfway across the great room. On the open side, torches burned in sconces beneath the enormous cross beams and two hearths, equidistant from each other, spewed their merry warmth and light into the room. Colorfully painted linen panels hung on the thick stone walls functioning as both decoration and a barrier against the cold.
Yet, the hearths were choked with ashes and the once gaily painted beams were black with soot. The tables, which should have been stored after the evening meal, still stood around the room, their cloths ragged and stained. Beneath her feet the rushes had been beaten into dust. All this despite the fact that more servants congregated in this hall than the abbey had supported, even when she included the serfs from the outlying hamlets.
She pursed her lips in consideration. How long would she have before her husband's return? A warm kernel of determination awoke within her. Come crying to him for help, indeed. She would restore this hall to its former glory and right quickly, too. To do so, she would need these servants as her own this very night. That was not so difficult. It had been the abbess's first lesson: "To take command, one must first create the illusion that command is already yours." All that waited now was the opportunity.
It was on the strength of her pride alone that she shook off her physical woes even as she shook herself free of her sodden cloak. She glanced up at the nobleman waiting patiently at her side. "Now, Sir Gilliam," she said, imperiously drawing herself up to the limit of her slight height.
"Come all ye folk to greet our new Lady Graistan." He had no need to shout, his deep voice thundered about the hall. He stepped away to bow before her. "Please enter this hall, my lady," he said. "As my brother's steward, I bid you well come to Graistan keep. Enter and take your ease within these walls."
Most of the servants knelt or bowed, but a few stood in studied nonchalance, refusing to acknowledge her. She stared pointedly at them. Beneath her cool gaze, all but one bent their knees in halfhearted greeting. Her eyes narrowed. That one was a stout man with a polished bare pate and a pompous carriage.
He met her gaze with a raised and scornful eyebrow. His fine, woolen tunic and studded belt shouted to all who viewed him of his high rank. A servant of rank this was, but a servant nonetheless. In his arrogance he had obviously forgotten this. She almost smiled. The Lord God had given her the opportunity; he would do most nicely as her first example.
"Your welcome is heartily appreciated," she called, raising her voice to be clearly heard, then crooked her finger at her chosen victim. "You there, come and take my cloak," she said.
Gilliam, startled by her unexpected command, turned to look. "That's our wardrober, Hugo," he blurted out, aghast that she would require the man who ruled Graistan's treasury to do such a menial chore.
"Thank you, Sir Gilliam," she said, accepting his information with a gracious nod, but ignored his unspoken plea to let the man alone. "Wardrober, my cloak must be cleaned before the morrow as I have a need for it then."
Hugo sneered down his narrow nose at her. "I am no woman to do your bidding. Find a laundress. I answer solely to Lord Rannulf. Cocking a shoulder and thrusting out his chest, he crossed his arms and shoved his hands into his wide, fur-trimmed sleeves.
"Do you now?" she smoothly replied. At the periphery of her vision she caught the lower servants' laughter. So, he was not well liked, all the better for her. "Upon my marriage to Lord Graistan, I became flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone. His servants, from the lowest stable lad to yourself, became mine at that moment. My lord husband has commanded me to do as I see fit in this keep. And I deem it fitting you should care for this cloak."
The man only sneered. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I will see to it that you have an inch or two of skin torn from your back this night." She uttered her words with such complete calm that it was a moment before it registered with those who heard her. Some of the folk tittered nervously; others, including Sir Gilliam, gasped.
"If need be," she said, softly, "I will do it myself." Her cloak hung from her outstretched hand.
Hugo tensed. For a moment as their gazes locked, it seemed he would refuse, but his courage was brief. She knew, and he became convinced, her threat was no bluff. Pomposity warred with humiliation as he grabbed the garment and stalked out of the hall.
Quiet laughter followed his departure. For the moment his arrogance was gone, but she knew better than to believe it would not be back. She held her hand up for silence. "Know you all," she called out, straining her aching throat, "that this is my way. While I will rarely ask you to perform duties not within the scope of your day-to-day tasks, I value highly and richly reward loyal service performed in a prompt and capable manner. Incompetent service or disrespectful behavior will bring swift punishment.
"Now, some have said that my punishments are harsh, but no one has ever said that they were not justly due to those who received them. Woe to the one who must be told twice what is expected of him." She looked from face to face. "On this night, I expect only that someone prepare my lord's bedchamber for me."
There was a bare second between her words and a flurry of action. The air was peppered with a number of "Yes, my lady's." Men and women hurried away either to do her bidding or to put a safe distance between themselves and her.
Well, it was a beginning. The servants were startled enough to obey for now. When their fright wore off, they would be accustomed to her. Pleased with what she'd accomplished, she looked up at Sir Gilliam.
He watched her with an expression of such horror that she frowned in puzzlement. "I did not take your bed, did I? I simply assumed that I would occupy my lord's bedchamber."
"Nay. Would you have?" His voice was strained and his blue eyes were now a hard gray.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Taken a whip to Hugo?"
She shrugged. "I have come here without my lord to force them into obedience to me. If I am to be lady in more than title alone, I dare not tolerate arrogance from anyone, no matter his rank. Yes, I would have taken a whip to him in full view of every other soul in this keep. What's more, every one of them would have respected me for it. His greeting was insolent and his behavior intolerable."
The young man started to respond, then glanced up at the balcony that fronted the overhanging second story. By now, judging from the number of female servants who had raced up the narrow stairs leading to this balcony, Rowena had guessed this was where the women's quarters and the master's bedchamber would lie.
There appeare
d along the balcony a woman attired in so rich a blue gown that it named her noble despite the absence of an overgown. Hair the color of the harvest moon was caught in a single plait and pulled over her shoulder. It was uncovered as though she'd been suddenly called away from preparing to retire.
"Gilliam, dearest boy, why did you not send for me when our guest arrived?" she chided, her voice as sultry as the lush curves displayed by her carefully fitted gown. "Ah, a woman. How exciting." As she descended, she lifted her gown ever so slightly to reveal soft leather shoes and delicate ankles. The dainty silver circles about her wrists jingled merrily when she moved.
The closer she came, the further Sir Gilliam's features disappeared beneath a mask of bitterness. Rowena lifted a brow in surprise. Now, she saw his resemblance to his brother; at least the hardness was not aimed at her. She turned to greet the woman only to stop short in surprise.
Eyes so pale they were nearly colorless met her gaze. They were made all the more startling by thick, dark lashes. Delicate color tinted her finely featured oval face and warmed her perfectly shaped lips. This woman was beauty personified.
But, as Rowena looked closer, she saw that fine lines touched the corners of her eyes and mouth. The youthful blush and the darkened eyelashes had been made so by some unnatural method she could not fathom. This woman was older than the score or so she had first appeared.
"Oh, it has been so long since I've had any visitors of rank here. Gilliam, you must introduce us." Her voice was light and sweet as she lay a long-fingered hand on his arm.
The young knight jerked away from her touch as his face twisted into a black and mocking grin. "With pleasure. Lady Maeve"—he turned the honorific into a curse—"meet my brother's new wife." With that, he strode rudely away.
His announcement had been meant to shock, but this lady only smiled prettily at the noblewoman before her. "Good heavens, I thought the ceremony had been delayed. Could you possibly be the ancient nun with a warty nose and hairy chin that my brother was sworn to wed? But, you are neither ancient nor ugly, although I do see the touch of the convent in your face."
"I am Rowena, Lady Graistan," she responded stiffly. What did she mean she saw the convent in her face?
"Oh, now I've gone and set you all aprickle with my careless tongue. You must forgive me. Sometimes I am such a featherhead." Her husky laugh somehow made a falsehood of her words.
"My husband spoke of his brother, Sir Gilliam, but—"
A sigh of fond irritation interrupted her. "How like that creature to forget who butters his bread for him. But, he is a man, and you know how men are." Lady Maeve's airy wave stopped mid-gesture. "Ah, but you do not know, do you? You were to take your vows. Poor child, torn from your calling. How fortunate for you to have an experienced wife to teach you in the ways of this worldly vale." Kind words cloaked the challenge.
Lady Graistan's face was a mask of polite interest. Did this woman think to continue ruling the hall against her new lady's right? If so, she had sadly misjudged Graistan's folk, for in one night and by one deed they were nearly Rowena's. Perhaps she was just testing the newcomer's mettle. "My thanks," she responded blandly, then could not resist an answering jibe. "But, from what I see here, we shall both be scrubbing walls for weeks to come."
As Maeve drew a surprised breath, Rowena turned toward the female servant who had been doing her best to catch her lady's eye. The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. "My lady, Ilsa has sent me to fetch you if you are ready to retire. Your chamber is prepared. Shall I lead you there?"
"If you please," she replied in open relief. "Pardon me, Lady Maeve, but I am tired to death. Perhaps we can become better acquainted in the morning. Let me bid you a good night."
"Oh, but I will come with you to the woman's quarters. Here, let us go together." She reached out to take her lady's arm, but Rowena quickly stepped away.
"You mistake me. I am using my lord's chamber."
Only the hardness of this woman's eyes reflected her growing irritation. "Please, sweetling, be careful not to trespass here and step wrongly with your husband this early in your marriage. Rannulf does not share his bedchamber; not even with his wife. Why, even my sister, whom he loved as life itself, always kept her place in the women's quarters."
Sister? So, this was not her husband's blood kin. That shed a whole new light on the matter. "Be that as it may, if my husband wishes me to sleep in the women's quarters, he will tell me so. Now, I really must bid you good evening." She turned and without a single backward look followed the maid up the stairs and along the passageway.
The serving woman threw open a door and pointed through a tiny antechamber to the illuminated room beyond it. "Through there, my lady. Old Ilsa will be right along with your tray."
As Rowena started through the small room, her stomach fell in disappointment. So rich a keep had suggested an equally rich solar. Could this tiny closet be it? Four steps took her into the lighted chamber where she stopped short and gasped.
Several large chests sat in the far corner. Bossed with shining metal bands, they were painted deep green with wooden trim stained red and carved like twining vines. Near them stood two well-cushioned chairs, painted the same green color, and a small table set with a single, flickering candle in a silver holder. Only the bed seemed lacking, as it was neither large nor fine.
Even though the small fire on the hearth had only recently been coaxed to life, the room was not cold. She quickly saw why. Neither stick nor stone of the walls showed, so completely were they covered with hangings. The glorious reds and blues of these embroidered panels glowed in the firelight. While she was no needlewoman, she recognized fine work when she saw it. She started forward to examine one piece more closely and nearly tripped.
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 was not meant for such a degraded use. Some servant had erred. Tiptoeing along the wall to avoid it, she 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 quickly at the door, 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 smoothed away all the tangles.
When she looked up again there was a tiny, wizened woman staring curiously at her from the doorway, a tray of breads and cheeses in her hands. "Good even, my lady," she said in a brittle, old voice, then bowed with the stiffness of one whose bones had seen too many winters. "I am Ilsa. I would be most pleased to serve you if you've brought no maid of your own. I hope you will forgive Graistan its poor welcome." Words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession and whistled through toothless gaps in her gums as she stepped spryly into the room.
Her lady's upraised hand stopped her. "Is this thing meant to be walked on?" she asked, pointing to the floor.
"Oh, aye." The maid pulled the sodden wimple from the back of the chair and sharply snapped it into the air. Water droplets spattered into the hissing fire. "Infidel, it is," she said, hanging 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?"
"I want nothing more than to crawl into yon bed and sleep for days." Another wide yawn interrupted her. She rubbed her face with her hands. "But, I must be up before dawn and I must bathe. The water will need to be very warm, for I am going to be very sore." She rose stiffly to her feet.
"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.
"Oh, my poor dear, these things are wet through and through," the old woman clucked in concern. "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." She snorted in laughter. "You could not have chosen better than to hand it to that ass."
"Arrogance he does not lack," she said wryly, pulling the blankets up over her. "However, I must be certain that the chore I gave him is rightly done. It is 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 and hard. "Ilsa, you cannot be punished for doing as I command by any save myself. Nor can anyone else."
The answering smile was wide with approval. "Then, I shall 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— "and if you have need of anything this night, call out. I will lay my pallet in the antechamber."
Winter's Heat Page 6