"Leave me be, Rowena." Her dam’s words were short and clipped.
"Leave you be?” Rowena retorted in disbelief. “How I would like to do so, but I seem to be trapped here. Be gone with you." Sarcasm lay thick and heavy in her tone.
Her mother shot her a sharp glance. "And I thought the nuns would teach you to curb your headstrong ways and sharp tongue. Lord Graistan has just arrived. Your father has some last-minute details to discuss with him. I’m here only because I was sent here."
"Thank the heavens," Rowena snapped. "For a moment I worried lest you actually meant to spend time with me."
"You rage like a spoiled child." Lady Benfield took another stitch.
"Oh, that I most certainly am not. Anything but that could be proven by the shameful way I’m being married." Rowena ticked the items off on her fingers as she spoke. "Without warning I’m dragged from the life I love, held prisoner in my birthplace, and forced into marriage against my will. Do I guess wrongly in thinking that no gentleman other than my father and my new husband will break bread at my wedding feast? Nor, if I am right, will any noblewoman save my mother witness my bedding. Could it be that the village priest will be the one who sanctifies this horrid deed?"
Edith’s eyes narrowed a little, then she shrugged. Rowena loosed a quiet snort. "I see I’ve guessed correctly. But then, I always knew I wasn’t the favorite."
"Are you quite finished?" Edith raised a single, golden eyebrow.
"You must be lifeless to the core. Tell me, madam, is there not even a single grain of love within you for your youngest child?" Rowena demanded, prodding and prying for something she wasn’t certain she even wanted.
The woman coolly considered her daughter for a long moment, but when she turned back to her needlework, her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t catch the needle. "You are not my child," she said at last, her voice breaking, "you are your father's spawn. The two of you are as alike in temperament as you are in appearance. Just like him, you demand from me what isn’t yours to demand."
Rowena waved her mother’s words away with an impatient hand. "Call it simple curiosity then. You spurned me. I will know why."
"You will," Edith hissed and hurled her handwork at the wall. The wooden frame shattered, then slid to the barren floor. Her hands in fists Edith left the chair to go to where the tangle of linen and wood lay against the wall. Rather than retrieve it, her ruthless kick sent it clattering across the room to rest, splintered and ruined, against the room's single chest.
"You will," Edith repeated, whirling on her daughter with an angry gasp. "Today, you and your sire are the victors. Think you'll someday sweep into this place and hear my lady, my lady from my lips? Place no wagers on it, for I'll yet make a pauper of you. You'll have no groat of what should be mine and Philippa's after me."
Rowena studied her mother, awash in confusion and disappointment then retreated to claim the chair her dam had left. "What great hurt could I have possibly done to you before my seventh year to make you despise me so?" She cradled her head in her hands. Her parents, locked in a selfish war of hate, had made her their weapon of choice.
"Why vent your spleen on me and not Philippa if she is bastard as he says?" Her voice was steady, but within her grew a cold emptiness.
"She’s not a bastard! Her mother trumpeted, the sound holding more of panic than outrage in it. "Your sire only seeks to raise the child who looks more like him above the one who resembles me. I name his claim as naught but a vicious lie. Aye, your whole marriage contract is a lie, based upon the fact that my father denied me a right to inherit on my own. Edith’s face twisted. “My father, may his soul rot in hell, who saw me wed to the Oaf of Benfield to humble me after my mother's death. Me," Edith laughed, still incredulous despite the years, "for whom no less than an earl had once been considered. My sire never dreamed he'd outlive all his sons to see his daughter's children become his only heirs.
"Now, your father seeks to debase me with his lies, denying Philippa any part of what should be my inheritance, leaving her with only the paltry fields she took with her when she wed.
"Aye, and he seeks to deny me any possibility of redress by winning for you a powerful husband, one who could keep these stolen lands from their rightful owners.” Edith’s anger drained away leaving only a scornful twist of her lips to mark her face. “Of course, it mattered naught to John of Benfield the sort of man he found for you. I’ll warn you now, Rowena. Your husband is a hard, cold man who seeks only wealth from his marriage to you. Attempt to cross him as you did your father this morn, and he'll snap you between his hands like a dry twig."
Rowena sagged in the chair. Her strength, far overstretched by the events of the day, gave way. She hid her eyes as the words slipped from her in a whisper. "Help me, Sweet Mary Mother of God, I am afraid; I am greatly afraid."
"You?" A sneer filled Edith’s voice. "You, the haughty, commanding woman who so recently dared her father to beat her to death, are afraid?"
Rowena shrugged, filling the movement of her shoulders with both insolence and vulnerability then looked up at her dam. "Life has taught me bitter lessons, madam. I am, as you have said, commanding. I’m also prideful and solitary by nature. The priest at the convent ever admonished me to adopt gentleness and meekness in my manner." Rowena drew a shaky breath. "I swear by the Virgin, I tried. I truly did. I cannot change. It’s not in my nature to be less than I am. Now tell me, Mother, how well will my husband like me?"
Her mother smiled in grim satisfaction. "Poor rich heiress. He won’t like you at all, but then, you’ve been purchased for your lands and your womb. No matter whether you bear him sons or not, I don’t imagine you’ll live long after the king and his court grants Philippa the inheritance that should have been mine, leaving you with half of what he thought you had. He's killed two wives before you, you know."
With that Edith twitched the soft material of her skirt away from her feet, then went to the window and opened the shutter. Light once more filled the room. Rowena’s mother stared out at the sky for a long moment before speaking once again.
"God curses women who dare to dream of love or who hope for respect. Arrogant brat, you thought to fly free of all this with your convent-inspired ambitions? Well, welcome to Earth with the rest of us sinners."
There was a tap at the door. "Come," Edith called out.
Several maids entered bearing a ewer of water and armloads of clothing. When Rowena’s mother turned away from the window, her hate was once again well hidden behind a bitter mask. "Stand up, daughter. You must be dressed now."
It was pointless to resist, so Rowena did as she was bid. All too soon the maids had washed away the signs of her travels and her hurts. She donned a fine linen chemise, then an undergown of deep blue. Its high neckline was stiffened by heavy embroidery done with silver thread, no doubt her mother's handiwork. This design was repeated in unheard of luxury about the wrists of the undergown's close-fitted sleeves. Her overgown was sleeveless and made from samite in a shimmering rose red. The same, silvery pattern of embroidery trimmed its shortened hemline. All this finery was caught at her waist with a silk belt sewn and studded in silver. The crowning touch was a fine, silver-and-pearl band, which capped her free-flowing black hair.
Rowena smoothed the luxurious materials of her clothing over the full lines of her body then touched the rich band. "A fortune wasted on an unwilling bride," she murmured.
Edith sneered. "My husband seeks to buy Lord Graistan's respect. You’ve been clothed to the limit of my father's tightly held purse and in the highest fashion as a part of your dowry."
"To what end?" Rowena's laugh was harsh. "Neither I nor my appearance is of any importance to this husband of mine." She lifted a rich, fur-lined mantle, threw it over her shoulders and fastened the clasp. The dark cloak nearly extinguished the brightness of her bridal costume in its heavy folds. "I am ready."
Her mother threw open the door and stood aside. Rowena swept past her into the hall. Th
ere were no ties to bind her to the past. All that remained was the future.
Rowena's step was certain and forceful until she drew nearer to the center of the hall and its raised hearth. At the other side of the circle of firelight thrown by the blaze, her sire and a tall man who must surely be Lord Graistan were immersed in quiet argument. Craving any information she might be able to use for her own benefit, Rowena caught Edith’s arm as her mother started past her. With a silent motion, she asked for a few moments to eavesdrop. Edith shot her daughter a hard look, then shrugged in acquiescence.
It wasn’t unusual for a long, narrow room such as this to thunder with the noise of its many occupants. In this moment, Benfield’s folk maintained a discreet silence, all of them trying to better hear the quarrel without appearing to be listening. Rowena shifted to the side to see the speakers.
Her father wore a garish costume of red and blue and bejeweled by his newly inherited wealth as he paced angrily behind the fire. Only when he whirled away did Rowena catch more than a glimpse of the tall man to whom he spoke.
Lord Graistan stood a full head taller than her father, which meant he would tower over her. His jaw line was clean shaven against the fashion set by King Richard, called the Lionheart. Thick, burnished chestnut hair curled lightly over the collar of his mantle. When he lifted a hand firelight caught in the gemstone of his only ring. Wearing a simple brown tunic beneath a sturdy, plain mantle, he hardly looked the part of a bridegroom.
To others, it might appear that Lord Graistan stood casually before the hearth, but Rowena recognized full well the pride that infected the set of his shoulders, and the arrogance in the jut of his chin. Carefully, cautiously, she slipped forward to hear what they were saying.
Just then her father stopped in his strutting anger and threw his arms wide in frustration. "Why do you now play the reluctant bridegroom? I must hear from others that you plan to delay the wedding, and I’m forced to summon you here to confront you. I thought you agreed to wed my daughter."
His words echoed through the quiet hall. Rowena cringed. Surely, the servants found this wholly reluctant bridal couple more diverting entertainment than any musician, mummer, or juggler.
When the trembling echoes died away, Benfield’s master continued in a somewhat quieter voice. "It was my belief you found our terms satisfactory. Have I not already given your Churchman cousin our contract and all the rest you desired him to hold for you? Why then must I force your hand to conclude this deed only to have you seek for some other excuse by which to withdraw?"
"How reluctant can I be?" Lord Graistan said, his voice deep and his words unhurried. "I’m here. I simply thought you might wish to arrange a more elaborate affair for the wedding of your daughter and heiress."
"You simply thought!" her father mocked. "This is nothing more than a ploy to prevent this marriage until Lent is upon us, and no marriages might be made."
"I’d hardly call Prince John's attempt to steal his brother's throne a ploy. Nor did I ask to be called to arms to serve my king,” the nobleman retorted.
Rowena raised her brows in grudging admiration for his clever phrasing, but her father was not dissuaded. "You twist my words against me," John protested. "It’s you who’d use a siege that might last for months to escape an obligation that could be dealt with in a day and night's time. You knew I wished this deed completed swiftly. If you intended in good faith to wed my daughter, you'd have paid the scutage instead of going yourself to that siege."
"Too many men these days seek to shirk their knightly duties that way." Lord Graistan’s words were a naked rebuke. "Besides, where's the hurry? Our contract will stand. Let us celebrate a betrothal this day and a wedding this summer when the weather is pleasant, and I am released from service. My cousin will officiate, and your new vassals as well as mine will attend. Although my men have all approved our contract, they’ll feel slighted if I wed in seeming secrecy.
"Betrothal is not enough!" Her father clenched his fists in impotent rage. "What happens to her if you spill your life's blood on the field at Nottingham? I must needs begin again the search for a husband to wed her."
"Your concern for me is touching," the tall man returned dryly, "if somewhat misplaced. The taking of Nottingham will most likely be a tiresome and dirty affair, but not particularly dangerous. Besides, in my family it’s not the men who die young." The honest bitterness that stained his words told Rowena he mourned the wives he'd lost and made lies of her mother's words about murder.
"I want her wedded and bedded now," her father demanded.
Then he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath. His words were calmer when he spoke again. "Perhaps you don’t intend to fall at Nottingham, but I haven’t the arrogance to defy death. I cannot afford to leave her unmarried when her claim to these lands will be contested by her sister's husband. I came to you because I was told you’d be a strong and just protector. Have I found one?"
"You have. And, if I insist upon betrothal?" Lord Graistan shrugged as if he, himself, didn’t expect his request to be taken seriously.
Benfield’s owner stared at him. "I will consider our contract void. She must be married as quickly as possible. Will you allow her dowry to slip so easily from your fingers?"
Lord Graistan nodded slowly as if he’d expected no other response. "So, where is this prize of yours?"
At his words, Edith stepped around the fire, her movement catching her husband's eye and drawing his attention to his daughter. "Here she is now. Rowena!" He beckoned to her as if he called a dog to his side.
Rowena crossed the room to them and dropped into a deep curtsy before Lord Graistan. As she straightened she looked boldly up at him. Her husband’s eyes were gray and as hard and cold as the stones that made up the Benfield’s walls. The harsh angles and planes of his face gave his features a bitter cast. Not even the tendrils of dark hair that lay lightly against his cheekbones lent him any softness. It was as her mother said. He could easily snap her in two.
Lord Graistan studied her in callous appraisal from the pearls in her hair to the toes of her plain shoes. There was an expression of slight surprise on his face when he once again met her gaze. "You jest," he finally said, his gaze never leaving hers. "She does resemble you, Benfield, but this cannot be your daughter."
Her father's anxious gaze darted between them as he stuttered in nervous agitation. "What! Now you accuse me of attempting to pass another off as my daughter? What nonsense is this, Graistan? Rowena"—he jerked angrily on her arm—"stare not upon your betters. If you seek to destroy with your rudeness what has been so carefully planned, I swear I’ll see you flayed alive."
Rowena shot her father a scathing glance, but bowed to the possibilities in his words and studied the rushes that lay deep on the floor.
"Nay, Benfield," Lord Graistan snapped. "You spoke volumes of her convent-guarded virtue, but not once did you mention her appearance."
"What has her appearance to do with the marriage contract?" her father spat out. "Had you spoken of your desire to see her I’d have arranged it.
"It’s only that I thought you confined your daughter to a convent because she was an ill-favored wench. At her age what else should I have expected?"
Rowena smiled even as her father laughed. "Are you saying you wish my daughter were ugly?"
She could not resist peering up at Lord Graistan from her meek pose. The nobleman’s face was clouded in irritation until he caught her amused glance. He trapped her gaze with his, and his finely arched eyebrows rose slowly. Seemingly against his will, a smile bent his lips.
In that moment, he changed. Gone was the dour, glowering lord. In his place stood an attractive man with a warm and charming smile who made no attempt to hide his amusement even though it was directed at himself.
"Don’t ask me to explain," Lord Graistan said, his words touched with laughter, "for I will not."
Rowena caught a breath. She wasn’t prepared for this. Before her stood a powerful, complex ma
n in the prime of his life while she was an overeducated, overaged woman with no experience at all with men. What sort of marriage could this be?
"What is this?" Lord Graistan crooked a finger beneath her chin and slightly tilted her head. "She’s bruised, Benfield."
Her father only grunted. "She misunderstood something I told her this morn."
"I see" Rowena’s intended husband said.
He studied her face for a quiet moment before continuing. "It appears there are no further impediments here. May I escort you to the chapel, my lady?" He inclined his head in invitation as he offered Rowena his hand.
"As you command, my lord." Rowena took his hand, although she was reluctant to do so.
The nobleman quickly led her between the long trestle tables, expertly dodging the servants who were placing additional torches on the wall. Once past the hall door they carefully picked their way across the bailey until they reached the keep's gate. Here they stopped, no more than a dozen steps from the walls and the village church that would serve noble as well as peasant this day.
"Now it’s your father who delays us," Lord Graistan said.
Rowena looked past his shoulder at the hall. Her parents had yet to emerge from the door. Her gaze shifted back to the man she must wed.
The barest hint of mockery touched the gray of his eyes. "Tell me, my lady, surely you must pine for a more elaborate ceremony. All this haste seems unnatural to me."
"It matters naught to me, my lord," she replied. The chill breeze caught at her mantle until the rich garment billowed out behind her. With trembling hands, she pulled it more tightly around her. Why did the cold not seem to affect him? She shivered again.
Lord Graistan stepped nearer to her until the greater build of his body shielded her from the wind. "Then you are most unusual among women if the poverty of this affair does not concern you. Or perhaps"—he took her hand again, his fingers intertwining with hers"—it is only that you don’t find me to your liking."
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 2
