"`Just this day I’ve learned that over the last week your lady, may the Lord God preserve her, has had Lord Gilliam promise in your name payment to merchants within town for purchases beyond the present means of this keep. These expenditures have been made without my approval or foreknowledge.
"`I did then beg to explain to her why such purchases could not be made without consultation. Rather than comprehending, she requested that I show her the account book.'"
Rannulf leaned back with a laugh and glanced up. "Can you imagine the look on his face?" he said, then continued reading.
"`It’s aberration enough that she reads and writes. Do not allow her to insult the Lord God by letting her meddle with what is a man's work. For a score and ten years, I’ve been your family's faithful servant, and you’ve come to know me as a careful man with your best interest always in my heart and mind. Never have you or your father before you felt it necessary to question my ability to keep the accounts for Graistan.
"`I most humbly await your decision as regards this matter. Your devoted servant, Hugo, son of Walter, wardrober to Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan.' "
The same Lord Graistan picked up the other message. There was wax upon it, not to indicate the author, she had neither access to his seal nor the time to have her own made, but to hold the packet closed against prying eyes. Rannulf held his knife's blade over the brazier, then put the heated blade to the seal. The warm steel slipped easily beneath the wax. This simple motion rekindled the haunting memory of how their bodies had melded that night.
Rannulf flushed with a sudden heat. Like it was yestereven not over a month ago, he recalled the sweetness of her as she lay beneath him. His fingers curled as though he once again held the womanly fullness of her breasts. A tremor shot through him at the memory of her soft touch on his nape. Then, he remembered the deep hurt in her eyes when he had drawn away. His knife slipped from his fingers.
"Rannulf?"
"I’m a fool, brother," Rannulf said, turning to look at his elder, if bastard, sibling. "I should never have married again."
"So you’ve said," Temric replied gently, then paused. "She’s a good woman."
"You know this by virtue of a single ride with her?" Rannulf let his sarcasm be biting.
"Just as you know it from your ride with her,” came Temric’s calm response.
Rannulf jerked as though struck. "Damn," he whispered. As usual, his brother went straight to the heart of the matter with unerring truth. Silence lay heavily between them for a moment.
"Temric, don’t leave me,” Rannulf said at last, once again looking at his brother. “I need you. What can your mother offer you that I haven’t offered these past years?"
Temric’s laugh was rich with irony. "Certainly none of the heartache and work that would come with the lands you keep trying to force on me. And, knowing you, I'd have barely settled in before you'd be finding me a wife as well. Who knows," he said with a shrug, "perhaps I’ll find my mother's life not to my taste and be back begging at your door once again."
"Think on it,” Rannulf persisted. “Those lands are in Normandy. You could start afresh there if you wish your past to be unknown to your neighbors."
"No, Rannulf.” Temric drew himself up on his stool. “My response to your offer hasn’t changed in seventeen years. Leave it be."
"I cannot. You’re no merchant. You were trained as a knight, just as I was. Our father meant that you should have those lands, just as he meant for Gilliam to have an inheritance."
His brother’s face tightened and his eyes narrowed. "Now you put words in the mouth of a dead man."
Anger stirred in Rannulf, this particular burn one he’d known for all the years since their sire’s death. "So, he’s dead; I’m not. Why shouldn’t you accept what I offer?"
Answering anger flared as golden lights in the usual placid brown of his brother's eyes. "If our father wanted me to be more than his unrecognized bastard son, he’d have remembered me in his will. I won’t have from you what he refused me." He leapt to his feet and stormed out of the tent.
Rannulf stared at the fold of parchment in his hands. As much as he needed Temric, he could no more force his brother into acceptance than he could ease the hurt he'd done to his wife that night. At last, he opened the missive and began to read: "`My most feared lord and husband, I, with a heart full of trepidation, do recommend myself to you on this the eleventh day of March. In this last month, I’ve been most busily occupied coming to know Graistan. Your folk have been helpful in all ways with this task of mine. It’s our hope you’ll be pleased to see what has been accomplished when by the grace of our dear Lord you return to us.
"`Early in my residence here I didst become aware of shortages in our foodstuffs. To that end, I asked Sir Gilliam to purchase from local merchants what we need.' "
He skimmed her list of purchases and their costs. The supplies were mundane, the prices average. What stunned him was that these items weren’t presently on hand within the keep. He frowned. Could Hugo's hysterical letters be an attempt to hide wrongdoing on his part, not his usual pompous jealousy? While this seemed impossible in one so loyal, what harm could come from a new eye on his work?
Was his wife capable of such a task? He looked back down at her letter. Her script was small, neatly formed, and without flourish or embellishment. The purchases were itemized, all weights and costs were carefully noted. She'd certainly had some schooling in keeping accounts. He read on.
"'When I did question Sir Gilliam with regards to this situation, I was informed that he had been your steward only a short time and knew of no reason for shortages. He didst then visit your many holdings to gain an understanding of their contributions of this past year so a true accounting could be made. At the same time he asked your bailiffs to speculate on the size of your portion in this coming harvest since the planting has far enough advanced to make such a projection possible.'"
How odd. In Gilliam's message he'd said she'd sent him out to gather the information. Her words made it sound as though it had been the boy's idea. Was she being kind or self-effacing?
"`I do most humbly petition you to allow me access to your treasury to make these accountings. If you doubt my ability, I am capable to the task as my dear lady abbess did ask me to work with her cellaress, and I found in those tasks great satisfaction. We here at Graistan all wish you well in your endeavor and pray that you may return as soon as the Lord God will allow. Your most dutiful servant and wife, Rowena, Lady Graistan.'"
Rannulf’s eyes caught and held on the word dutiful. She used the word to mock him, to remind him of how he'd rejected her. His fingers dug into the sheepskin. His stomach churned at her audacity. But she'd written on beneath her signature.
"`I must recommend Sir Gilliam to you for all his help and assistance regarding my concerns. He has been forthcoming with all that I need and most anxious to make certain that those things belonging to you are well tended and secure. Although there has been little threat here to require his strong arm, what challenges he has faced have been swiftly resolved in our favor. Also, your bailiffs send word that his judgments are well received.'"
Rage blazed to life in Rannulf’s heart. Her economical words didn’t hide the thrust of her meaning. She taunted him by pretending she loved his brother in revenge for his treatment of her on their wedding night. He shoved the letter into the brazier. It exploded into stinking flame.
It took three wineskins and a week's time to wash away the taste of her words. When he had recovered enough to write his response he wrote to Gilliam and sent Temric with it to be his eyes and ears at Graistan.
By the last week of March, the keep and its confines were completely cleaned and refurbished. Even the stables and barns were scrubbed, rethatched, and whitewashed. The storerooms, once barren, had been swept clean and were being refilled with newly purchased foodstuffs.
A rare afternoon sun streamed into the solar, warming the room and bringing the painted birds into vibr
ant life. Rowena watched the courtyard while she waited for Hugo Wardrober to appear. Chickens scratched and pecked near the stables while a gaggle of geese waddled out the inner gate and toward better pickings in the bailey. With growing irritation she turned back toward the room. A half an hour had passed since she'd sent for him.
Sir Gilliam and Temric were engrossed in their discussion of the siege of Nottingham. Her brother-by-marriage sprawled in one of her small chairs, his long legs stretched out before him. His favorite alaunt bitch curled at his feet, her tail thumping the floor in the pleasure of being near her master. Her husband's master-at-arms stood stiffly at the hearth still wearing his hauberk, cloak, and boots as though he didn’t intend to stay long.
"My lady, did you call for me?" In his finest robe and studded belt, Hugo posed arrogantly at the door to her solar. His features were pulled into an impatient sneer, his bald pate held high, his attitude leaving no doubt that he'd delayed his arrival as long as possible. He glanced around the room and saw Temric.
"Ah, so you received the reply to your request."
"Come within," Rowena said flatly and, without waiting to see whether he did so or not, seated herself opposite the young knight.
The master-at-arms produced a single, folded sheet of parchment. "This message is directed by my lord to his steward—"
"Ha, he doesn’t even address the message to you," the wardrober interrupted.
"Enough." The steel in Sir Gilliam's voice instantly silenced the man.
"However," the soldier then continued, "he suggests that the first portion of the letter, which deals with your requests to him be read in the presence of Hugo Wardrober so no misunderstandings might be had. The second portion is a private message to Sir Gilliam." With that Temric handed the sealed parchment to Gilliam, then retreated to stand behind the young man's chair, his expression closed as always.
"Here, you read it." Graistan's illiterate steward handed the missive to her. Rowena had yet to understand why her husband would give a job that demanded education to a man that could neither read nor write. The young knight would be far better employed as the castellan of some small keep.
She took the sheet and smoothed open the parchment. "'To my brother and steward, Gilliam FitzHenry, greetings:'" The large, clear script was easy to follow even though it curved downward along the page. Had he written it or was this a clerk's doing? "`It is my hope that this message finds you in good health as yours found me. It comes to my attention that my lady has spoken in my name to local merchants in order to purchase supplies for our keep. I’m loath to believe as some would have me that you allowed her such excess without need. If you deem these purchases sensible, then she is to be indulged.
"'If my lady wife desires to review the accounts, so be it. To that end, I command my master of the wardrobe to give his lady free access to the accounts.'"
Hugo gasped. "Nay, you’ve read that to your own advantage." He grabbed the parchment from her fingers and scanned the words.
An instant later he held the sheepskin out from him. "Nay, my lord, you cannot!" he cried out in protest as if his lord sat in the room rather than far away to the north of them. Then, realizing the futility of what he did, he shoved the letter back at his lady.
"Never," he spat out, fair stuttering over the word, "have either Lord Henry or Lord Rannulf questioned my work. Now, you, a mere woman—"
"Nonetheless, Hugo," Gilliam's growl interrupted him, "you have read my brother's command with your own eyes."
Still sputtering in indignation, Hugo glared at them all. "I do this because he commands me to, and I’ll do it only under certain conditions. Only in my presence may the lady enter the treasury. I'll not have you mutilate my many years of work. I'll have no ink stains or ragged corners torn away by your clumsiness. Nor will you be allowed to alter any figure or make notations. The only hand that writes within those books is mine." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, muttering the world must surely be coming to an end when a husband let his wife into his accounts.
The young knight laughed at Hugo’s receding back, the sound short and surprised. "I never knew the man had so much passion. Is there more to the letter?"
"Aye." She unfolded it and continued reading. "`The siege here proceeds as we had expected. Nottingham is as strong a keep as any in England. Machines have come from Leicester and Windsor and men from every reach in this realm. Despite this, we still sit and wait, unable to crack the nut and rid it of its poisoned meat.
"`Our king, may God preserve him, has returned to our shores. It’s hoped that he will soon be at Nottingham to bring this action to its rightful end. Both Marlborough and Lancaster have fallen. It’s said that the constable of St. Michael's Mount died of fright when he learned his monarch had arrived. Neither Tickhill nor Nottingham is so easily taken.
"`I hope my marriage has not been too great a burden to you. Please forgive me the surprise of sending such a vixen'," Rowena stopped, her face red. Flustered, she handed the letter toward Sir Gilliam. "Perhaps you should read this for yourself."
Gilliam waved her off. "Read it? Not I. You know I've got no knack for it. My eyes cross just looking at the thing. Finish the letter, my lady." His eyes weren’t crossed. Instead, they gleamed in impish amusement.
Clearing her throat, Rowena scanned the remainder of her husband's complaints at being forced into marriage to a shrew. "I cannot quite make out the words. The ink's been blotted," she said, her face still bright red. "He finishes with `Your brother and lord, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan.'"
She laid the parchment on the table and stared hard at Gilliam. His smile told her he didn't believe her. Her gaze shifted to Temric, the bearer of this missive. As always, his features were as if carved from stone. "And you, Temric, how do you fare?"
"Me, my lady?" Her question sent his eyebrows near to his hairline.
The younger man laughed. "You mustn’t talk to him. His face will crack if he is forced to speak."
Temric growled something beneath his breath and shot the knight a pointed look, then turned his attention onto his lady. "I’m well, my lady, thank you for your concern. You’ve accomplished a miracle here. The smell from the cooking shed is remarkable on its own. And I cannot recall ever seeing the hall so clean."
Gilliam sat bolt upright. "Amazing! A veritable waterfall of words!"
"Bah," the older man spat out, "your infernal silliness no longer becomes you, boy. I warned Rannulf that making you steward was a waste, that you would never grow up."
The young knight leapt to his feet, his skin flushing with the reproof. "Have I erred? Has Rannulf seen fit to chastise me? Ask our lady, since you seem to prize her so highly. She knows I shirk not in any task she sets me. Neither has my sword been idle. There are a dozen thieves who’ll no longer harass our holdings this year."
The commoner held up his hands in submission. "Enough! My apologies, brother. I spoke out of turn. In all truth, I’ve no idea what or how well you do here, and I told Rannulf I didn’t want to know. It is your humor. It always rubs me the wrong way. I apologize both to you and our lady." He bowed toward her, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solar, leaving Rowena gaping after him.
"Did he call you brother?" she asked, unable to believe all she’d just heard.
"Aye," Gilliam ground out bitterly, still staring at the door as if he could yet see his elder sibling. "Aye, he's my brother, born to the left side of the blanket."
He turned to her, his eyes clouded with pain. "I didn’t how know hard it would be to come home again. Of the two, I don’t know which is worse: Temric, with his idea that a single mistake forever damns a man, or Rannulf, who patiently forgives but cannot forget." His voice was harsh. "Isn’t it enough for both of them that I hate myself?"
Before she could say a word Gilliam was gone. Rowena stared after him, then rose. Gilliam's bitch came to her feet and stretched, her narrow tail waving back and forth in lazy invitation. Rowena accepted and scratched
the dog's ear until it groaned in appreciation. "I don’t find my husband so forgiving," she told the creature. The dog gave her a lolling grin, then padded out to find her master.
Rowena perched atop the tall stool at Hugo's desk in the treasury. From the slitted window high above her a single shaft of rain-dimmed daylight did little to illuminate the raised table on which she worked. Here, safe within this tiny, narrow room cut from the very walls of the keep, lay the wealth of Graistan. There were trunks filled with cloth and furs, caskets of coins and jewels, as well as the far more valuable agreements between Lord Graistan and his tenants and vassals.
"Four pence for a barrel of eels from Alfred Fishmonger," she murmured softly, squinting in the tallow lamp's meager light as she retallied last year's consumption to verify her findings. Her pen scratched against the parchment scrap she used to figure her amounts, all in pretense. She’d completed her task an hour ago, something Hugo didn’t know.
"I’ll be back," Hugo announced from his seat on a chest.
It was the moment for which Rowena waited, Hugo’s daily visit to the latrine. She muttered her assent, not looking up until he shut the door behind him. The instant it was closed, she leapt to her feet, piled the parchment leaves into a neat stack, and tied them with their cord. He’d be gone at least long enough for her to safeguard these and find Sir Gilliam.
Quickly, she hid Graistan's accountings beneath yards of maroon woolen cloth in a chest, locked it shut, and took the key. Hugo’s arrogance was unbelievable. More amazing than the missing coin and stolen supplies was the man's thorough documentation of his deeds. Why create a record of his thievery? It made no sense.
And, why, when he'd been challenged, did he not expunge the record? The truth could only be that he didn’t believe she had the skill to see what he'd done. In that, he’d grossly underestimated her.
Rowena slipped the key onto the ring that hung from her belt, set the cover onto the brazier to douse the flame, then shut and locked the wardrobe’s door behind her. Two quick strides and she'd left the pantlery for the hall.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 9
