"As you wish, my lord." The huntsman laughed and strode away as he came to his feet.
"My lord." His wife caught him by the sleeve. "Are you still set on a grand celebration for this wedding? We were to discuss it."
"Later. I am tired of plans and schemes and contracts. We will talk when I know whether Sir John accepts her or not."
"Please, I beg a moment with you. I swear that is all it will be." She came to her feet, her lower lip caught between her teeth, the very picture of consternation.
"As you wish," he replied, and led her to the hearth, away from the general bustle of the servants. "Speak, I am listening."
She stood uneasily before him. "I know you will probably not credit what I say, but my heart insists that I speak. It is wrong, this wedding of yours. She is not fit to be any man's wife—"
Rannulf abruptly raised his hand, and his words overrode hers. "If you intend another harangue against her, I will not listen. I have made my decision."
She stared up at him for a long moment, the worry in her eyes slowly dying away. "Aye, I see that you have," she finally said in reluctant acceptance. With a heavy sigh, she turned and picked up a stick. "Sir Gilliam says Ashby is only a wooden hall with a single village on its lands." As she spoke, she poked at the coals that lay upon the hearth floor.
"Now what is your point, woman? Stop that before you choke us with smoke."
She set the stick atop the burning logs. "Is this man you've chosen strong enough to control her? More importantly, what if she refuses to accept him as her husband? Can you control her?"
"She will accept him," he said in absolute confidence. "I am her guardian and may marry her as I see fit. John is a good man. She could do far worse."
"Lady Maeve is accustomed to a more luxurious way of life. Ashby will not support her needs." Her voice was even and unemotional.
"No doubt it is better than a convent," he retorted.
"So you would say. Would you grant me favor?" He stared down at her. There was nothing in her clear blue gaze or the soft set of her lips to indicate what sort of boon she wanted. Under his scrutiny she smiled a little. At last, he nodded.
"For the sake of your folk, my lord, please, do not release her from the convent until the very day she is to be wed. I know you do not believe what we tell you, but the servants are uneasy with her here."
He felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he relaxed into consideration. What was it he had feared she might ask? "I think it is all foolishness, but I cannot deny that others do not see it so. I will honor your request for that reason."
It was in obvious relief that she took his hand and briefly raised it to her lips. "Thank you, my lord."
The shock of her touch ran through him like a sword's thrust reawakening his latent desire for her. How did she do that to him? He reached for her, meaning to draw her into his embrace when she spoke and destroyed the moment. "But what will you do about the coins she stole from you? How will you get them back from her?"
He froze. So, here was the point to her softness. She would not try to humble him by revealing to the world what a fool he'd been to so implicitly trust his wardrober. His pride would be destroyed so that she might gain some power over him. "You've no proof she was involved."
"How else can you account for her rich gowns and jewels? Unless it was you who supplied this poor widow her finery." There was something more than curiosity in her tone.
"Me? I needed buy her nothing, for she had plenty when she came."
"If you did not buy them, then who did? There can be no doubt that she bought them here. Several merchants actually came to ask after her when she no longer visited their establishments. If you will not believe me, ask them. And where, save Graistan's coffers, could she have acquired her riches?"
Rannulf stared down at her for a long moment, remembering the times he'd complimented Maeve on her attire. It had pleased him that she took such care with her appearance, for it reflected well on Graistan's prominence. Why had it never occurred to him to ask her where she'd come by her gowns? He'd just assumed she made them from the fabrics in his storerooms. As his doubts rose, his pride reared back and would not let him face them. To acknowledge the possibility of his wife's accusations was to render himself thrice a fool.
"What would you have me do? Tear the clothing off her back?" he asked stiffly. "When she is married, she will trouble you no longer."
"That is all?" she protested. "But, she has stolen from you."
"If I do not choose to call it stolen, it is not stolen," he returned angrily. Why could she not let it be? She was determined to prod and poke on what was rapidly becoming a very sore issue with him. "There is no more to be said."
She huffed in annoyance. "I cannot understand your attitude. You say to me that the king had demanded double the marriage fee for the honor"— her voice lingered sarcastically on the word—"of marrying me. That is two year's income. He also levied another scutage. And yet, as if to reward this woman for her many misdeeds, you shower her with a dowry and a costly wedding ceremony and forgive her her thefts."
Rannulf tried unsuccessfully to control his seething temper. Not only did she seek to humble him, she would do it before the whole hall. "Are you jealous?"
"Nay," she shot back, her word like the scrouge of a whip, "I am livid. What she has taken belongs to my children. I will not have their inheritance stolen."
"How touching," he said coldly. "Instead of harrying a defenseless widow, why not extend your concerns to conserving expensive spices used in unnecessary feasts. If this is your way of guarding my treasury, you'll not be long at my purse strings."
She stared at him, her slender jaw tight with rage, her eyes snapping blue. "For shame! That celebration was necessary, indeed, for the servants needed to honor you if only to remember who is their lord. Your neglect here is legendary. As for spices, we have none save pepper. All that was in our meal was the cook's skill and what herbs grow in our garden. It lightened your purse not one whit."
How dare she chide him as if he were a child. He grabbed her by the arms. "Lower your voice, madam, or better yet, shut your mouth."
She tore free of him, her breath coming in hasty gulps. "You great ass," she finally got out. He stepped back at the rage in her eyes. "I have worked my fingers to the bone turning this pigsty into a home for you, and you, you—oh!" With that she turned and ran to the stairs.
Rannulf stared after her, stunned into immobility. Then came anger. What right had that immoral little shrew to call him an ass?
"Rannulf," Gilliam called from across the room. "They cannot hold the dogs much longer."
With a foul word, he stormed for the door. Never had there been a more ill-fated combination of that woman and her tongue. While her curves tempted him, her every word sent him bristling to arms. In the courtyard, he leapt into his saddle.
Gilliam grinned at him. "Marital troubles, brother? What you need is a little blood to clear your thoughts." His grin only widened when his brother scowled. "Your loss is my gain. Now I am sure to have the better day. All those who did not lay their money on me are poorer already." He set heels to his mount and raced past the stable and out the gate. Despite himself, Rannulf laughed and threw himself into the mad race to catch his brother.
Rannulf sat before the fire in the solar. He was bored. Although the hour was late, the days of mid-June were long and the sun still hung above the horizon. There was nothing left to do this day. Temric and Gilliam were occupied in the stable, and Jordan was already abed despite the continuing brightness of the sky. He'd considered asking his wife to come bear him company, but quickly discarded the notion.
How simple it had been to adopt a pattern of avoiding her, for if they did not speak, they did not fight. What he'd meant to last only a few days, until his bruised pride had healed, swiftly became seven, then fourteen. After Ashby's agreement came, those two conflict-free weeks grew into nearly six, as he waited for Oswald to secure royal approval for th
e wedding through his master, the bishop of Hereford. By then, shunning his wife during the day to keep the peace had become a habit he was loath to end.
But their nights were different. Within the intimacy of the bed curtains, he saw no reason to resist his attraction for her. So he gathered her into his arms and made her body sing to his needs.
The door opened. He turned in anticipation only to sigh in disappointment as he nodded to his wife. Her eyes held such an odd mixture of tenseness and sadness, he was tempted into asking, "Is something amiss?"
She paused, then seemed to think the better of speaking and walked to the window instead. The graying light accentuated the hollows beneath her eyes. He knew better than any how troubled her sleep had been these last few nights.
"Was there something you wanted?" he prodded. There must have been some reason for her seeking him out. After all, she had quickly accepted their daily silence and even made certain their paths never crossed during their waking hours. It was obvious that she, too, found their carefully enforced truce a relief.
"Have you had any word?" she finally asked without looking at him.
"Nay. I will warn you when I do." He stared down at the flames.
She sighed raggedly and turned to him, almost grim in her movements. "Are you still set on this celebration? You said once that you wished to review the accounts to better understand your situation. If you will just look, you will not be so quick to berate me for crying lack when the planning begins."
He frowned. She seemed as dull and leaden as the gathering clouds. "Are you well?" he asked, finding in her face some small signs of illness.
Surprise flitted across her expression for a brief moment, then her eyes became lifeless once again. "I am well enough, my lord."
He shrugged. If she did not want to speak to him about it, he would ask no further. "You do not sound yourself."
"Myself?" she whispered, an almost sarcastic edge to the word, then hurried on. "So will you do it?"
He nodded and rose slowly to his feet. "It seems I have nothing else pressing, so let's have at it then."
The treasury was dark and damp, its thick walls trapping the cold within it. The lamp reeked, and the brazier's glowing coals only warmed the air that stood directly above it. His wife had laid out the records on the table, then retreated to sit in perfect stillness on a nearby chest while he studied the parchments.
As he scanned the pages, his heart fell. It was as she'd said. Hugo had made no attempt to hide what he'd done. But that amount was trifling when compared to the shortages in tribute from his holdings. While his wife believed Hugo had sold the supplies to further enrich himself, he saw something far more sinister.
He stared at her over the parchment's edge. "Did you not say you'd questioned my bailiffs as to what they'd sent to Graistan these past two years?"
"Aye, Gilliam collected all that information for me. As you can see, what Hugo has noted is far short of what they sent."
"What makes you certain that it was Hugo, not they, who shorted us. Is it possible they knew of his thefts and used his guilt to hide their own thievery?"
The question startled her, and she frowned. "I had not considered it in that way, my lord. But, such a conspiracy seems so unlikely."
Rannulf turned back to the parchments. Not if they'd been sure no one else would look. Was Temric right? Had he let the events of the past blind him to the present? If so, he'd jeopardized his very existence, and it was well past time he came to his senses.
"It seems it would be unwise of us to indulge in rich celebrations just now." He stood and pushed the stool beneath the desk. Somehow, it was relief not disappointment he felt at this. "I doubt if Ashby will mind. He's never been one for show anyway."
"Thank you, my lord," she murmured gratefully as she gathered the accounts and put them away in their casket. When she turned back, she smiled a little. "See, it is not so bad to have me at your purse strings. Truly, I hold Graistan's good in my heart."
He stared down at her. She was such a pretty thing. Why did she always wear those plain gowns and rough headcloths? She ought to dress in rich colors and soft materials as befitted her station. Not that her simple garb hid her beauty. But what had happened to the vibrant life that had once filled her blue eyes?
He ran a gentle finger along the curve of her smooth cheek, expecting to see that spark he now knew so well leap into existence within her gaze. Instead, she stepped back out of his immediate reach.
"I am grateful to you for doing this, my lord," her voice was a throaty whisper, "but I must now be back to my chores." When she tried to turn, he caught her by the hands.
"Surely, there can be no more for you to do this day with the hour so late."
She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he refused to release her. "Really, my lord," she insisted, her voice growing just a little firmer as she continued, "I must go."
"What do we have servants for if you do all their work? Did you not just say you carried Graistan's good in your heart? Am I not Graistan? I have nothing to do and would greatly enjoy your company."
"My company?" she shot back. Here was the glow he had missed. It came to life as her eyes narrowed and her mouth straightened into an angry line. "Do not make me laugh." Then she gasped, as if shocked by what she'd said. With a desperate tug, she tore her hands free only to cover her face with them. For a full moment, she stood there, seeming to fight some inner battle, then dropped her finger shield. The dullness was back. "As you wish my lord."
Desire died with the resurgence of anger. "Such a heavy burden you must bear," he started, but was interrupted by a rapid tapping at the door.
"My lady, my lady, are you there?"
With a muttered curse, he yanked open the door. "What is it?"
"My lord, I did not expect to find you here," the porter gasped out, his broad face flushed red. "There is a messenger for you with urgent news." Even as he spoke, a man strode swiftly across the room and knelt before Lord Graistan.
"My lord," he said, "I have come this very day at all speed from Oswald of Hereford to deliver this into your hands. He said you must read it immediately, and I am to wait for your response and instructions." The man set the folded and sealed parchment into the nobleman's hand.
"Good work," Rannulf said. "Go to the kitchen and see that they feed you well. Tom, this man's mount is to get an extra ration of oats in reward for his haste." Then, he turned and reentered the treasury to be nearer the lamp as he opened the message.
Here were all the agreements for Ashby's wedding, signed and sealed. This was hardly urgent. He frowned and set the parchments down. All that remained was a single, hastily scrawled note. He read it once, then read it again in disbelief.
"How can they dare," he growled, and read it again. "I have the wills, where is their proof?"
"What is it?" She came to stand at his side as if to peer into the note.
"Your father is dead," he blurted out as anger rose. "It appears that it happened nigh on a month ago. But, your fine lady mother did not see fit to tell us. Rather, she has gone in secret with your sister to your grandsire's overlord, the Bishop of Hereford, to claim your mother is your grandsire's only, legal heir."
His wife paled until he thought she would fall. "She swore it," she breathed out. "She swore she would disinherit me for usurping Philippa. No," she gasped, her voice cracking as she grabbed his hand. "My lord, my lord, you cannot let her take this from me."
Rannulf frowned at her. Was that all that ever concerned her? Lands and coins? Where was even a show of grief for her father? "Rest assured, I have never lost a hide of what was mine to another, and I will not now. It must please you that my cousin's message has now saved us the cost of a war, eh?" His words were sarcastic and hard.
His wife stared up at him, her blue eyes dark. "Fields and farms," she whispered, "duty and bitterness. I have honored the agreement we made at our wedding." With that, she tore open the door and was gone.
He glare
d after her, then sighed in resignation. Was he not the one who had, how had she put it? "... bought this piece of merchandise without fully examining it before purchase." Now he was condemned to this farce of a marriage. Damn her anyway for always awakening the worst in him.
He stared at the note once again. There was much to be considered before he answered Oswald's message. Perversely, he hoped it would come to war and let him vent some of his bile. He snuffed out the lamp and covered the brazier before leaving the room. At least it would be something to do.
Chapter 12
Rowena stood at her solar windows and stared out them without seeing. Her father was dead. How sad that he had died and she could feel nothing for him, not even relief at his passing. Then her heart lurched. What if her mother succeeded in making a pauper of her? What then would become of the fine Lady Graistan? She squeezed her eyes shut. With her wealth gone, he would soon find a convenient excuse, some previously undetected degree of relationship, and she would be lady no longer. What reason did he have to keep her? None.
She stumbled across the room to her prie-dieu and knelt before the tiny, candlelit altar. Her lips moved as she silently prayed, but there was no serenity for her to find this night. Suddenly, words welled up and spilled out of her. "Mary, Mother of God," she cried, "I do not want to lose him."
Lose him! She laughed at the irony of it. How could she lose what she'd never had? The arrogance of it stung her to the core. She'd set out to tie him to her so Graistan would be hers. Instead, he had humbled her as she had never dreamed possible. Warrior that he was, he'd breached her defenses and taken her as his own all the while holding himself aloof from her.
How could she have come to care for a man who'd ignored her, even shunned her, these last weeks? She sighed in sudden understanding. It had begun the day she'd arrived at Graistan, when the castle folk accepted her as their own and firmed when his son had become her heart. And what happened behind their closed bed curtains had finished it. He might hide behind the mask of hard and angry lord during the day, but beneath the cloak of darkest night in the silence of their bedchamber, he showed her his gentle tenderness. And after their loving was finished, when she met his gaze, his eyes were filled with a warmth meant only for her.
Domning, Denise Page 15