"Not according to your servants, or the town’s merchants. Ask them. Several of them actually came to ask after her when she no longer visited their establishments. And where, save Graistan's coffers, could she have acquired riches enough to make these purchases?"
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 hadn’t he asked where she'd come by her gowns rather than assuming she crafted them from the fabrics in his storerooms? As the certainty of his hoodwinking grew, pride reared back and wouldn’t let him face it. 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’s married, she will trouble you no longer."
"That is all?" his lady wife protested. "But she’s stolen from you."
"If I don’t choose to call it stolen, it’s not stolen," he retorted angrily. "Now leave it be!"
She huffed in annoyance. "I cannot understand your attitude. You say to me that the king demands double the marriage fee for the honor"—her voice lingered sarcastically on the word—"of marrying me. That’s 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 costly wedding ceremony and forgive her thefts."
There was nothing left in Rannulf save the need to silence this woman. "What, are you jealous?"
"Nay," she shot back without a trace of fear in her, her word like the scourge of a whip. "I’m livid. What she takes belongs to my children. I’ll 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."
A rage to answer his own took fire in her blue eyes. "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."
It was more than Rannulf could bear. He grabbed her by the arms. "Lower your voice, madam, or better yet, shut your mouth."
Rather than heed him, she tore free of his grasp. Her breath came in hasty gulps. "You great ass," she finally got out. "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, torn between rage and admiration. She should have cowered, instead she gave him tit for tat. Still, the immoral little shrew had no right 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. 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." Rannulf scowled at him, which only broadened Gilliam’s grin. "Your loss is my gain, since I’m now certain to have the better day. All those who didn’t 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, mid-June days were long, the sun refusing to set for hours longer than he had business to occupy them. Today was no different. Temric and Gilliam were occupied in the smithy, repairing chain mail, a chore Rannulf hated, and Jordan was already abed despite the continuing brightness of the sky. He 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 didn’t speak, they didn’t fight. What he'd meant to last only a few days, until his bruised pride healed, swiftly became seven, then fourteen. After Ashby's agreement to the wedding arrived, those two conflict-free weeks grew into nearly six as he waited for Oswald to secure royal approval for the wedding through his master, the bishop of Hereford. By then, shunning his wife during the day to keep the peace had become a habit Rannulf 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 his wife 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’ll 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'll just look, you won’t 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. "Well enough, my lord."
He shrugged. If she did not want to speak to him about it, he would ask no further. "You don’t 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."
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 said. Hugo made no attempt to hide what he'd done. The missing amount was trifling when compared to the shortages in tribute from his holdings. While his wife believed Hugo sold the supplies to enrich himself, Rannulf saw something far more sinister.
He stared at her over the parchment's edge. "Didn’t you say you'd questioned my bailiffs as to what they sent to Graistan these past two years?"
"Aye, Gilliam collected all that information for me. As you can see what Hugo 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 hadn’t considered it in that way, my lord. But, such a conspiracy seems so unlikely."
Rannulf turned back to the parchments. Not if those bailiffs knew 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 you are right. It’s unwise to indulge in rich celebrations just now." He stood and pushed the stool beneath the desk, feeling relief and not disappointment 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 to him, she smiled a little. "See, it’s 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 head cloths? 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’m 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’s 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. "Don’t make me laugh." 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 Rannulf yanked open the door. "What is it?"
"My lord," the porter cried in surprise, "I didn’t expect to find you here. There’s a messenger, here," the movement of the doorkeeper’s hand indicating the man following behind him, "come with urgent news."
The messenger took the porter’s wave as an invitation and came to kneel before Lord Graistan at the treasury’s door. "My lord," he said, "I 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’m to wait for your response and instructions." The messenger set the folded and sealed parchment into the nobleman's hand.
"Good work and a good ride," Rannulf said, the stirrings of uneasiness twisting in his gullet. "Go you 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."
Only when that order was given did he turn and reenter the treasury to be nearer the lamp as he opened the packet. Inside were all the agreements for Ashby's wedding, signed and sealed. This was hardly urgent. He frowned and set aside those contracts parchments. 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 yet again. "I have the wills. Where is their proof?"
"What is it?" His wife came to stand at his side as if to peer into the note.
"Your father has died," Rannulf snarled, anger rising, "nigh on a month ago, with no news of this event reaching me. Instead, your fine lady mother 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."
Beside him, his wife freed a shaken breath. Rannulf glanced at her. No color remained in her face. "She swore it," she breathed. "She swore she’d disinherit me for usurping Philippa."
Panic took fire in her gaze in the next instant. "No," she cried out, her voice cracking, and grabbed his hand. "My lord, my lord, you cannot let her take this from me."
Beneath his stewing anger a new irritation woke, and he frowned at her. Lands and coins. That was all that ever concerned her. Where was even a show of grief for her father? He pulled his hand from her grasp.
"Rest assured that I have never lost a hide of what is mine to another, and I won’t do so now. It must please you that my cousin's message has saved us the cost of a war, eh?" He let his voice harden in sarcasm.
His wife froze, then lifted her head to stare into his face. Her blue eyes darkened. "Fields and farms," she whispered, "duty and bitterness. I have honored well the agreement we made at our wedding."
She pirouetted then tore open the treasury’s door and was gone. Rannulf glared after her, only to sigh 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 once more stared at the note in his hand. There was much to be considered before he answered Oswald's message. He snuffed out the lamp and covered the brazier before leaving the room. Perversely, he found himself hoping this news did lead to war, for that would give him an opportunity to vent some of his bile. Aye, and at least it would be something to do.
Rowena stared out of her solar windows without seeing. Her father was dead. How sad that he might die and she felt nothing for him, not even relief at his passing. 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 dowry gone, her husband would soon find a convenient excuse—some previously undetected degree of relationship—and she would be Graistan’s lady no longer. Why should he keep her? She’d given him no reason at all to value her.
Eyes full, 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. Words welled up and spilled out of her, taking her by surprise.
"Mary," she pleaded to God’s mother, "I do not want to lose him." Irony soured the laugh that followed these words. She didn’t pray to keep the house or the prestige, but the man.
Lose him! 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 humbled her as she never dreamed possible. He’d done as he warned. 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. This trap had opened the day she arrived at Graistan, when the castle folk accepted her as their own only to firm when his son had become her heart. And what happened between behind their closed bed curtains had tightened the trap around her. Her husband 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.
Against that, she’d convinced herself that in time he would accept her, even care for her just as the rest of Graistan did. What a fool she was, deceiving herself until she saw what she wanted to see. She had never been more to him than a hide of land waiting to be plowed and made fruitful. When her usefulness to him was at an end, she would again be nothing to him. The pain in her heart grew until it became unbearable. Again, her eyes filled.
The door to this chamber flew open without warning. Rowena leapt to her feet, clutching her prayer beads to her chest. It was her husband and his brothers. He managed the smallest glance at her. Rowena moved back to stand at the windows, expecting her husband to dismiss her. Instead, he turned to his brothers and spoke.
"Try as I might, I cannot find a cause for this ridiculous ploy. Oswald has
both wills. Lindhurst and my esteemed mother-by-marriage cannot truly expect the bishop to believe deathbed utterances to some illiterate priest as better than the man's acknowledged will. And this secrecy! When we challenge them they’ll look like cowardly fools."
"But do they even know of the wills or that Oswald is the bishop of Hereford's right hand?" Gilliam responded. "It’s obvious they expected no challenge, only the granting of the inheritance to Lady Benfield, then through her to Lady Graistan’s sister."
Rowena shot him a glance. He offered a swift, reassuring smile. She hadn’t the confidence to return it.
Her husband leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Well then, they gambled all and lost it on the first roll of the dice. Their subterfuge can only make the bishop look more closely at everything else they claim."
Taking heart from his calm tone, Rowena dared to study her husband for that moment. Her gaze marked the straight, stubborn line of his nose, the hard curve of his jaw and perfect arch of his brow. The remembered sensations of their lovemaking swelled within her. How could something so wondrous be revealed as a falsehood?
"Still," her lord finally continued, "both wills are unusual, and I must submit them to scrutiny if I’m to have what’s mine. What if there’s some flaw we haven’t considered? What’s the worst that could befall us?"
"Although I cannot believe it likely, Benfield's widow could get her father's lands despite the strictures against it in his will," Temric replied. "Then, what if she remarries? She’s not so old she couldn't bear another child."
"She couldn’t marry if I’m made her warden," was her husband's rapid response. "With Oswald's help, it’s quite possible I will be named her custodian. But what of Benfield's will? What if Bishop William decides the elder sister is legitimate as they claim? The court must then divide the estate evenly between the two daughters, ignoring all else." He made an irritated sound. "I should have known it all sounded too easy when Benfield first explained it to me."
"There’s one other possibility you haven’t considered," Gilliam said. "What if Benfield's widow planned all along to have this settled by judicial combat? That would explain Lindhurst's presence. He might be her chosen champion."
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 16
