Domning, Denise

by Winter's Heat

  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 he 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? He 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. He'd never before seen his stepmother's servant dressed in anything so fine. Then, he caught his breath in understanding. His wife.

  Briefly closing his eyes, he found behind his eyelids the image of her standing before him covered only by the fall of her glossy black hair. Jesus God. He thrust the picture away and opened his eyes.

  Now, she looked toward him, a soft smile warming her lips and glowing in her dark blue eyes. Any other woman would have been diminished in so rich a gown, but the brightness of his wife's costume only enhanced her unusual coloring. He 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.

  Rannulf swallowed hard. 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 could not keep his attention away from her. When he looked back, their gazes locked. She stared at him for a long moment, then her smile vanished and her expression stiffened with... what? Apprehension? Guilt?

  His eyes narrowed. Gilliam and she made quite a pair, both young and well matched in their handsomeness. He looked at his brother and struggled with demons he'd long ago thought he'd banished. Then, Gilliam looked up and smiled for the barest instant before his features froze into that familiar challenge.

  Rannulf would have said no, but the crowd suddenly edged back and waited. Well, if the townsfolk expected that old game... 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 did not hear, for he leapt down from the dais to comically circle his older brother in make-believe wariness.

  Rannulf stared at them. Although he knew it was impossible, he could not prevent thoughts of betrayal from awakening. Instantly, he slammed a mental door on them, shocked at himself for even thinking such things. Instead, he concentrated on 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.

  His 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. But, he had no time to discover for whom she feared as his brother easily escaped the trap he'd set for him.

  They'd not played this game since before Gilliam's departure for the Holy Lands. Then, his brother's battle plan had been to carelessly throw himself forward, trusting his great strength and larger body weight to carry the day. It had been easy to blind-side him and force him into a corner with a feint or two. No longer. The boy'd 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 gaze clear and happy.

  Rannulf searched his brother's face, looking for something he dared not see, but there was only a carefree boy here. His inner tension eased, and he was shamed by his earlier doubts. "Ah, but you gave me a merry chase," he retorted as he sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet.

  "Welcome home." The young 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." He grinned widely. "When you finally best me, I will be old."

  "How do you know I do not 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, 'twill be I who lets 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 was not 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, instead of climbing the steps to the dais, he turned and remounted. She stared after him in disbelief. He could not be so cruel. Her humiliation was complete.

  "Do you not wish to stay and enjoy the remainder of the day?" his younger brother asked.

  "Nay," Lord Graistan replied from atop his mount. "As you have said, I am an old man. I need to retire and take my ease after a hard journey."

  "Go then, we'll not tarry overlong." A moment later, her husband had ridden away toward Graistan.

  She choked as anger became hurt. He'd shown the entire town that he did not hold her 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 am ready to leave now."

  Her maid turned to her with a wide smile. "Of course, my lady." She seemed to believe that the young wife was anxious to join her husband. "Lord Gilliam, your lady would like to leave now."

  As the young knight turned toward them, Rowena vehemently shook her head. She'd not wanted to tell him, only to slip away without notice. "Nay, nay, I did not mean you to come with me," she said, shortly. "Stay and enjoy. I have a terrible throbbing in my head and with my lord just arrived, there is much I must do."

  He only shrugged away her protests. "I may return later, but I'll see you safely into Graistan's hall first."

  "As you wish," she 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.

  Chapter 9

  Rannulf's irritation blinded him until after he'd passed Graistan's gate house and entered the outer bailey. There was nothing in all her 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 could not help but notice that the courtyard was neatly kept. The stair rail up to t
he hall had been repaired. Everywhere there were clean walls. For the first time in his recent memory the smell of the stable did not 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 is good to see you home again."

  "Whitewash," was all Rannulf could say.

  "Oh, aye." The stable master grinned like a fool. "The lady has made some changes. A good lady she is, too, my lord."

  He 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 was not 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 had never before been a green one.

  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, he forced himself to respond in kind. Graistan was so changed. He had not expected to feel like a stranger in his own home. And, it was her hand that showed in its every corner. He lingered a moment, waiting for Jordan, but the boy did not appear. No matter, it was a short walk to the women's quarters.

  He went no farther than the doorway of the big room, as this domain was the only one within his pale in which he was not 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 is his nurse?" He looked around him. Here, too, there had been a thorough scrubbing and the room's meager furnishings rearranged. This wife definitely knew the meaning of cleanliness.

  "I don't know, lord," answered the eldest, dropping her shuttle for a moment. "We do not see much of her any longer since the new lady came."

  "She's gone?" Rannulf snapped to attention. "Where is Jordan if his nurse is gone?"

  "I do not know," the woman repeated nervously at his angry tone.

  He clenched a fist. She had promised, she'd vowed before God, Himself, on their wedding day to accept his natural son. But, she had not promised to let the boy live alongside her. Rage mingled with a terrible fear. What had she done to his son? He whirled on his heel and strode back 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 is wrong? Where is Jordan?"

  "What has she done to him?" he roared.

  "What do you mean," his wife retorted smartly as he stepped into the hall from behind his brother, "what have I done to him? I have done nothing save what should have been done from the beginning." She placed her hands on her hips in angry outrage.

  He stared at her. Where had she sent him? "And you let her?" he demanded of his brother.

  "Let her?" Gilliam looked back and forth between them, his face clouded in confusion.

  "Papa!" Jordan cried out from the chapel entryway. "Papa, you are home." The boy dashed across the room and launched himself into his father's arms. "Did you bring me anything?"

  "You see," she snapped. "At last he is well dressed, properly cared for, and receiving lessons as befits his station."

  Rannulf hugged the boy close in relief. "Is that any way to greet your papa, by asking what I might or might not have brought you?" He held him out at arm's length. "Why I believe you've grown in my absence. Did your nurse have to make you a new gown?"

  "Nay, 'twas not Alais," Jordan said, idly kicking his booted feet out at his father. "Lady Wren did. You know, Papa, she was not a dragon at all. She likes me." He smiled at his stepmother from over his father's arm. "She brought Brother Matthew here to teach me my letters, too, so I might grow up to be a lord like you. She says you will find me a tutor, so I may have a sword. Will you?"

  He set the boy down. "I had not thought about it," he said. At his son's crestfallen look, he added, "But, I will consider it."

  "Oh," Jordan responded, then hesitated a moment. "Did you bring me anything?"

  "Go ask Temric if he can find it for you," his father replied, with a short laugh. The boy started to dash away.

  But his wife held out her hand. "Jordan."

  He instantly stopped and turned back to his father with a deep sigh. "Pardon, I forgot," he said, simply. "My thanks, Papa. And," he added with a grin, "I am glad you are home," and raced for the hall door.

  Rannulf watched him go, his heart torn with jealousy. Jordan had always been his alone. He did not care to share the boy, especially not with his wife. He glared at her.

  "How dare you think me capable of harming that child," she hissed. "And, it was insufferably rude of you to turn your back on the townsmen this day." She started to say more, but seemed to choke on her words.

  "If the townsmen complain, I will apologize," he snapped. " 'Tis not on their behalf you rage. More likely that I tweaked your pride."

  Her look spit fire at him, and her pale skin flushed. She whirled away and stormed from the hall.

  Gilliam laughed.

  "What is it you find so amusing, brother," he demanded harshly.

  "The two of you," his brother said with a smiler then strode away without waiting for a response.

  He clenched his fists in impotent rage. His house was changed, his son was taken, he was the butt of his brother's amusement. "May God piss on you all," he muttered, then commanded in a louder voice, "I want a bath in my chamber and bring me something to eat. And, butler, bring me a big ewer of wine."

  "My lady has already ordered it for you, my lord," It was not the butler who answered, but his young assistant.

  "Then," he ground out between clenched teeth, "I want ale, not wine."

  Rowena raged blindly into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden spoon, and slammed it down on the cutting block. The head snapped off and flew across the room. She hit the block again with the remains of the spoon. The shaft snapped in two, and she hurled the pieces across the room.

  "My lady," the cook cried out as she reached for a second spoon, "what have I done? Wait, stop, I need that."

  Through the haze of her anger, she dimly heard his cries. It was still a full minute before she could release the utensil. "Pardon," she managed, through clenched teeth.

  "Did you come to change the menu we'd planned for our lord's return?" The portly man nearly twice her size almost cringed before her. "There is yet time, if you wish."

  She struggled mightily with her emotions and won. "Nay, 'tis not that. The meal will remain as we had planned it. Never mind me." With that she retreated from the cooking shed and made her way into her garden.

  The small plot of land that was the lady's garden had been stolen from a corner of the courtyard and enclosed with a tall fence. When she'd first arrived, it had been like the rest of Graistan, neglected and disused, save for the kitchen herbs. Although it was still too wild for her tastes, it now showed the beginnings of order and form. She seated herself on the bench amid the thyme and pinks to stare blindly at the blooming fruit trees espaliered against the walls.

  That insufferable, horrible, boorish, hateful man.

  The dying sun left behind it a bloody sky. Shadows crept stealthily toward her, turning the rosemary into hulking, tormented forms. Each darkening moment brought her unrelentingly closer to sharing her bed with him. Nothing had changed; it would be no different than the first night. The memory of his rejection made her stomach clench.

  "Are you here, Lady Wren? Oh, there you are. I could hardly see you." Jordan entered the garden and stood hopefully before her. "My papa has brought me a pony of my very own. Temric says I may ride him on the morrow. Cook says I must ask you before he ca
n give me something for him."

  She stirred herself from her bitter thoughts and smiled at her stepson. "How lucky you are to have such a generous papa." How could anyone, even that man, believe she could do this boy harm? "Tell Cook you may have what you wish, although I do not know what there is save a mealy apple or two."

  "My thanks." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hied back toward the cook shed.

  She rose with a sigh and slowly made her way back to the hall. How could she be a dutiful wife to a man so hateful? And what next was she to expect from him? Likely he would destroy all she had built simply because he could.

  Inside, servants gamed and chatted away their idle evening hours while the dogs danced and played around the room. It was all so unfair. Her rage flamed back to life.

  Rowena drew a deep breath. Nay, this was wrong; anger was always unproductive. She must be calm and rational when next she saw him. More importantly, she had to be comfortable. But to rid herself of her finery meant she must retreat to their bedchamber; and she was not yet ready to once again confront him.

  She hesitated. Wishing she could be free of her heavy garments only made them all the more uncomfortable. There was no choice but to change. Well, she had commanded that his bath be laid in the solar. There was no reason for him to be in their bedchamber.

  She quietly climbed the stair, then peered cautiously into the room from the antechamber. It was empty. She glanced sadly about her. What if this was her last night here? How easily she'd become accustomed to the luxury and how deeply she would miss it. She slipped swiftly into the room.

  "And you let her?" She froze as the words exploded into the silence around her. "Is there no one in this keep who could say nay to my wife?" He was speaking to someone in the solar. She turned to see that the door between the rooms was ajar.

  "Who was I to stop her?" It was Alais's voice that answered. "She took Jordan from me. Had not the dear child begged on my behalf, she would have sent me from the keep. I am not allowed any freedom with him. I may not naysay anything she tells him. I am not a good influence on the boy, she says. Now, all I ever hear from his lips is 'the lady told me this,' 'the lady told me that.' " The nurse's voice grew louder as her complaint continued.