Rowena watched her husband's eyes widened in surprise, his gray eyes flashing with sudden amusement. "Gilliam, where did you learn to think so deviously?" he asked with a laugh. "But if that were all there was to this, then I’d have no worry. Although I doubt the bishop would allow such an unlawful event to occur."
Rowena's heart leapt. "You would fight for me?" The words were out before she knew she meant to free them. Just as swiftly she willed them back into her mouth for she knew she was mistaken.
"For you?" Rannulf responded harshly. "Nay, you I have. It’s your inheritance I want."
There wasn’t time to stifle her gasp of pain. With a hand pressed to her lips to stop any further evidence of the hurt he'd done, she whirled to face the window.
"Damn," her husband muttered, sounding almost as pained as she felt. "Pardon, my lady, that was badly said."
"Badly? It was more than that." Temric's voice was harsh with anger.
"Have I not apologized?" Rannulf snapped back. "Since you are so insulted, brother, I’ll do it again. Rowena," he called across the room to her. "I didn’t mean that as it sounded. My mind is elsewhere."
She nodded without turning, but Temric's surprising defense warmed her. Her husband might see her as nothing, but there were others who didn’t feel so. Why couldn’t the loyalty and love of Graistan’s folk be enough for her?
"It seems to me," Lord Graistan said, his voice tense now, "that everything rests on how quickly we can respond and what forces we are able to marshal to our side. In February, I sent word to my lady's two castellans telling them of our marriage and the inheritance. I think it’s time I sent emissaries from Graistan—"
Rowena let their conversation eddy around her, her thoughts turning to her wedding day. Her sire had wanted a protector for his daughter. It was a shame he hadn’t been equally concerned for her happiness. Would that she'd never known of Graistan rather than to have her heart broken this way.
"But if we’re in Hereford, your lady will be left here alone and unprotected." Gilliam's words tore through her thoughts, teasing her into once more facing the room.
"Nay, she comes with me," her husband replied. "She is the rightful heir and must appear to claim her inheritance."
"Then, who will be here?" The young knight frowned slightly as if considering options. "Temric's the nearest thing you have to a castellan for Graistan."
"What of Arnult?” Rannulf stretched his long legs out toward the fire, speaking of the young knight who tutored Jordan in arms. “He came well recommended to me by my foster-brother. I've seen him practice at arms, and he’s skilled enough. What say you we give him a chance to try his hand at manning a keep? That way, we’ll know if he has the mettle for it before Michaelmas comes 'round and the household moves to Upwood. Besides, when this inheritance is settled there may well be a place for him on my lady’s lands."
As he listened to his brother speak Gilliam turned his gaze toward his lap but not before Rowena saw the mingling of naked longing and despair in his face. Gilliam longed for a keep of his own even as he believed that his brother would find a keep for a strange knight but not for a knight of his own blood.
"Rannulf, you’ve overlooked something," Temric said with a harsh snort. "You now have all you need for Ashby’s wedding. Do you intend to put off that ceremony? Who knows how long you'll be in settling the inheritance."
"Ach, I forgot that." Rannulf peered over his shoulder at his bastard brother. "Damn, but I won’t leave Maeve at the convent a moment longer than needed. I suppose they could be married now, but the haste of it might sit badly with John."
He stared into the fire for a few quiet breaths, then smiled. "I have it. To sweeten it for him, I’ll farm to him our village across the river from his keep and give him the hide of arable land to the south of his demesne. He's been after that bit for years. Temric, prepare a messenger to ride to Ashby this very night. The moon is yet full, and he’ll be halfway there before it sets. If John leaves before noon on the morrow, we can hold this wedding the day after and all hell be damned if we do not."
"The day after tomorrow?!" Rowena stared at her husband in abject panic. "You cannot be serious. What of their banns?"
Lord Graistan’s glance was steely gray. "That’s easily enough resolved to my benefit. The abbey in town is building again. Another grant of lands and the abbot will give me the right to wed them whenever I choose."
"But what sort of celebration can I provide in such a short time?" she cried.
"I put that into your very capable hands, my sweet. No doubt you will surprise us all with some miracle." There was no compliment in his voice or in the twist of his mouth that passed for a smile.
Rowena opened her mouth to argue, only to realize that doing so was both futile and a waste of time. Rather, she sped across the room. The door to the women's quarters fairly leapt from its leather hinges and crashed against the wall.
"Ilsa, Margaret, rise, rise now I say," she shouted to the mass of sleeping women. "And, you, Emma and Anne."
"Rowena," her husband called irritably, "what are you about? It’s well past time to be abed. Let them be."
She whirled on him. "I have less than two days to concoct something that won’t bring shame upon Graistan's name, and you have given me permission to create a miracle. Now, get out of my way so I may do as you command. Or, would you rather serve the bride and groom potage and bread for their wedding feast?"
"As it appears you’ve no further need for me," Temric interjected before his brother could respond, "I’ll take my leave and get that messenger to Ashby on his way." He bowed briefly toward her and withdrew as his youngest brother leapt to his feet.
"By your leave, Rannulf, I’ll be on my way to Upwood tomorrow. I received a message from Sir Jocelynn regarding the wall extension you requested he build. He wishes me to come and approve what he’s completed to date. I'll be gone no more than three days."
Rowena didn’t wait for the solar door to close behind her husband’s brothers. "Up, women, up," she exhorted, "we have work to do. My lord wishes to hold a wedding here day after tomorrow."
"What," Ilsa croaked out, shoving her wiry gray hair from her eyes. "Do I wake the seamstresses? Are there gowns to make?"
"Are there?" Rowena shot the question over her shoulder to Graistan’s lord. "I know the bride has need of nothing, but what of Ashby? Will he have a gown suitable for a wedding?"
Her husband opened his mouth to reply, then caught back whatever he meant to say. "Whether he has a gown or not, I cannot know, but I do know Ashby well enough to know he’ll come without thinking of his appearance," he finally answered.
Rowena turned back to Ilsa. "Wake the seamstresses. What size is this Ashby?"
"He is near to my height, but bigger," her husband replied.
Ilsa scrambled to her feet and pulled on her overgown. "Bigger how?" she asked, her head still within the gown.
"In the belly," Lord Graistan replied.
"Use one of my husband's old gowns as a guide," Rowena broke in, "and make it much wider. Somewhere we'll find a rich belt and make of it a gift so the robe will fit the man. Anne, you must go wake Cook, for he likes you best." Anne had the grace to blush, for she hadn’t known her lady knew of their affair. "Tell him I’ll be down anon, but he must draw up a list of suggestions based on what we now have in store.
"Emma, I need you to ask the butler if we have any suitable wines. I know we don’t, but let him tell you this. Let him ramble for a time, for only then will he remember which wine merchant can find him what he wants. I need you to listen for those names, as we must send a cart there first thing on the morrow. Margaret, you’ll prepare the nuptial chamber. The room in the north tower is big enough. My lord's bed should fit nicely into it."
"Not the tower chamber," her husband broke in. "They should use our chamber."
Rowena didn’t afford him a glance this time. "As you wish. Then, Margaret, you must take down the bed in our chamber and set up my lor
d's own piece in its place."
"That’s ridiculous," Rannulf interrupted. "Leave your bed where it stands."
Rowena whirled on him, her back stiff, her fists clenched at her sides. "Nay, she won’t sleep in my bed."
Bathed in only the low light from the fire and the few candles she kept about the room, his face looked no softer than that of a statue's. Only the hard gleam of his eyes betrayed that this was a man and not stone. "You’ll do as I command."
Not this time. Every discordant note between herself and her husband seemed to spring from Maeve, and what little happiness Rowena had known so far in her marriage she found in their bed. She wouldn’t give that woman a chance to poison her life any further. Aye, but she’d win nothing but more acrimony if she refused him without explanation.
She took a step toward him. "My lord, no one but you and I have shared that bed. It’s precious to me." Her voice was no more than the sigh of a breeze.
Startled surprise showed in his face, then something akin to a smile briefly touched his lips. "Bah," he said, "why should I care what you do?"
As he strode out of the solar, Rowena turned back to her maids. "Margaret, use as many servants as you need, but see to it that my lord's bed is prepared within the hour so he has a place to lay his head this night."
"My lady," Margaret asked, "is it true this wedding is for Lady Maeve?"
"Aye," Rowena replied, ignoring the twinge of worry that followed. This was a mistake; she should do more to stop her husband from wedding his vassal to that woman. With her thoughts occupied with her own concerns it was a moment before she realized all her women stood in uneasy silence.
"Thank the Lord the moon will have waned in two days," Emma finally breathed, her words echoing everyone's thoughts. A witch's power was at its height with the full moon.
Rowena held up a cautioning hand. "I’ll grant that Maeve is a hateful woman, but I'll not have anyone name her witch. She’s lived these past months within sight of God and survived. No witch could do that."
Somehow, in saying these words, Rowena felt better about this match. God had seen the woman now, and He would have destroyed her if she had truly been evil. "Besides, such a charge will hardly make her husband love her better, will it? The breath of such an allegation could do us far more harm than good. Instead, put your joy at her departure into your efforts for her wedding. Off with you all. With luck, we’ll all be abed before dawn, although I don't hold much hope of it."
As her maids scrambled to be at the tasks she'd given them, Rowena pushed aside all worries over her inheritance. For now, it was more important to take Ilsa into the treasury to find cloth suitable for a groom's attire. At least, there was something to do.
"John well come to Graistan," Lord Rannulf called from his stance beside the hall hearth nearest the door. "What a foul day! You’re soaked to the bone, no doubt. And Lady Nicola! Here’s a surprise. I didn’t expect your father to bring you with him. I thought by now he’d have found you a husband."
Rowena leapt from her watching position at her solar door, straightened her gleaming red brocade overgown, then started for the stairs. A big man dressed in muddy mail, a dripping surcoat and cloak strode across the hall to take his lord's hand in his own. Carrying a basket that made her follow more slowly was a tall, willowy girl in stained and sodden clothing.
"A husband for her?" Ashby's voice was gruff but without the steel to make it commanding. "I do my best, but haven’t been able to convince her to accept anyone. Damn that boy I first betrothed her to for dying before they wed all those years ago."
Stopping at the base of the stairs, Rowena signaled that the warmed wine waiting on this arrival to be served to their guests, then started toward her husband. Lord Rannulf glanced at her, only to look more closely, his expression mellowing.
Only then did Rowena realize he hadn’t seen her yet this morning. She knew, for Ilsa had told her, how well she looked in this scarlet overgown with its golden embroidery, but she had other reasons for choosing it. By wearing it over a plain white undergown with a single strand of amber beads as her only adornment she attempted to reflect Graistan's prominence without overshadowing the bridal couple.
As she neared her husband, he extended a hand to guide her to his side. "And this," he said, "is the new Lady Graistan, Rowena, late of Benfield. My lady, this is my vassal at Ashby, Sir John, and his daughter, Nicola."
Rowena smiled up at her guests. The man was as massive in girth as he was in height with iron-gray hair that stood out from his head in stiff curls. Of feature, he was unremarkable, but his merry brown eyes revealed a simple soul.
The girl was an odd-looking creature, wearing a dark green gown cut in the style of twenty years past. The hemline barely reached to mid-calf, as if it had been made for another much shorter than she. She wore it bunched about her waist with a carelessly yanked belt. At first glance, she seemed as plain as her father, her only worthwhile feature being a wealth of thick, brown hair that escaped her untidy braid in loose coils about her face. But, as she rose from a clumsy curtsy and met her lady's gaze, the impression of plainness was banished by her striking hazel eyes filled with a far greater intelligence than apparent in her sire’s gaze.
"How pleased I am to meet you both," Rowena said with a smile as they each accepted a cup of warmed wine. "And, I must apologize for what surely seems a strange request to wed so quickly. Word of my father's death has only just arrived along with a challenge to my inheritance. We’re grateful for your agreement to all this haste."
Sir John drank deeply from his cup before responding, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No matter, my lady. I've been a widower so long, I daresay a wedding couldn’t come quickly enough for me."
"You’re kind to say so, sir," Rowena started, only to be interrupted by his daughter.
"Well, it’s too swift for my tastes." Nicola’s voice was husky, her words tart with suspicion.
"Nicola," her father warned, but the young woman waved him off.
"Nay, Father, you’ve not even seen your bride. Who knows what sort of woman you might bring into my home?"
"Nicola," Lord Graistan retorted with a smile, "you know when your father remarries his hall will no longer be yours but his wife's. But, then, you should have long ago found your own hearth and family. How old are you now?"
"Nearly ten and seven," Ashby sighed, "and if you can make her bend into marriage, my lord, you’re a better man than I."
"No man can force me from my own home," Nicola snapped back. "Ashby is all I want. Now leave off me."
Rowena straightened in shock at the girl's open and rude defiance, fully expecting her father to slap some respect into her. Instead, her father only stared shamefacedly down at the floor. Rowena glanced up at her husband. Rannulf gazed at the girl, a single, raised eyebrow conveying both his disgust at her behavior and his struggle to remain polite.
When the silence stretched too long, Rowena leapt briskly into the void. "Lady Maeve should be arriving shortly, and we've only two hours before it’s time to feast. My lord felt it would be best if you, Sir John, and your intended bride might first dine together, to see if both parties find the other to their liking. Then, by the grace of God, we’ll celebrate a wedding after that."
Sir John, still bright red in embarrassment, cleared his throat. "You’re so kind, my lady. Please accept my apologies on behalf of my daughter. If only her mother had lived longer. I’ve failed to teach her any manners or womanly softness."
Nicola glanced at them all, her gaze surly. "And glad I am of it."
"I can think of several ways to impart manners," Lord Graistan muttered.
Fearing he might say more and ruin all, Rowena smiled at the rude lass, then looked at Sir John. "Think no more of it," she said soothingly. "No doubt she’s overwrought by the suddenness of all this. Since we expected this hasty date might leave you little time to prepare, we took the liberty of creating clothing for you. If you come with me, I’ll make a
bridegroom out of you."
Sir John smiled his thanks and offered his arm. Rowena laid her hand upon his, then looked beyond him to his unrepentant daughter. "Nicola, come you as well and my maids will find you something dry to wear."
After seeing the girl into Ilsa's capable hands with orders to offer her a bath and allow the girl to choose something suitable from Graistan's coffers, Rowena escorted Sir John to her solar. As was customary for the lady of the hall, she assisted him in removing his armor and bathed him, then helped him don his new robes. The gown was of pale gray trimmed about the cuffs and throat with a simple embroidered pattern made rich by the use of copper silk. There was a cloak of darker gray lined with fox; the rusty-colored pelt was Ashby's own, sent in tribute some years back. Rowena presented Sir John with a fine, pliable leather belt studded with brass buttons. Out of the basket that his daughter had carried with her, Rowena’s maids discovered a thick gold chain and an ancient, ornate cloak pin meant to use as his adornments. For chausses Sir John made do with a gold pair of Gilliam's, their long length giving more room to his greater girth. As to shoes, there was nothing that fit him, so his boots were cleaned and buffed until they looked nearly new.
At last, she pronounced the man fit to be wed. His sudden blush was charmingly boyish. As they left the solar, they found Nicola waiting outside the door. Her hair was straightened, but she still wore her awkward green garb, although it had been dried and brushed clean.
"Was there nothing to suit you?" Rowena asked, glancing at Ilsa. The old woman opened her eyes wide in frustration and shook her head.
The girl's jaw jutted out. "I want no borrowed riches. Ashby provides me everything I need or desire. This is my best. I'm sorry it’s not good enough to please your refined tastes."
Her father squeezed his eyes shut in mortification, angry color rushing into his leathery cheeks. "Nicola," he started.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 17
