The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "It’s not so bad as that," she protested quickly, trying to hide her pain with words. "You mistake sadness for exhaustion. Last night I saw no more than an hour's rest for tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed."

  Gilliam grinned. "You’re a poor trader in falsehoods, my lady. Well, if you need a friendly ear willing to listen to your troubles and spread no tales after, I will be that ear."

  "Thank you," Rowena replied, feeling easier all of a sudden. "Know that I value your friendship, and it does make me feel welcome here." Why was it not enough for her that her husband's kin and her servants had such care for her? "Now, if you hurry from your mail you may yet find the remainder of our meal in the kitchen. There was lamb seethed in rosemary sauce," she said with a teasing tone, knowing it was one of his favorite dishes.

  Gilliam's face mellowed in anticipation. "Say no more. My man can unarm me in the hall after I eat."

  "And I'm off to remove my woman's armor." Rowena plucked at the sleeve of her elaborate overgown. "Maeve’s gone, and the bishop has yet to arrive, and I’m dying of heat." She smiled wryly. The young knight shouted with laughter and hurried to the kitchen as she returned to the hall and her preparations.

  Rannulf rode hard up to Graistan's outer gate, shouting to the sentry almost before he'd slowed his mount. "Tell me, has Ashby left yet?"

  "Aye, my lord," the man called back. "A good four hours past."

  "Damn." He slid from the saddle and led his tired mount through the portal. Gone she might be, but Maeve was mistaken if she believed herself free of him. Handing his reins to a groom, he started across the bailey. If his confrontation with Maeve had been postponed, the same wasn’t true for his wife. At the very least he owed her an apology, if she'd accept it. He could only hope he'd not yet done what Temric suggested and destroyed all hope of peace with her.

  In his short absence, the bailey had already been transformed. The western end of the green expanse was now sectioned off into fenced yards. In some of these makeshift pens stood his wealth of horseflesh, others contained animals destined for their meals; there were cattle, swine, and sheep for the non-clerics and servants.

  For those who tied their souls to the Church, there would be fish, everything from carp to pike to eels. He wagered that the fish merchants were already stocking Graistan's fish pond, which lay near the river. But his wife would have bought more than this for their important guest. There would also be plaice, haddock, and shellfish, among others. And, birds, multitudes of birds. No doubt, John Fowler and his sons were hard at work capturing the larks, blackbirds, and thrushes that would be baked within swans and peacocks. These creatures would supplement the more mundane daily fare of doves, geese, and chickens.

  Laid out to dry on the fresh grass were newly washed linens, bedding, and toweling. Blankets aired on the wooden rails that marked the practice lists. The laundresses still carried their filled baskets down to the outer gate and beyond their walls to the river.

  When he reached inner gate, three servants rushed past him without giving him the slightest glance, so intent were they on their own business. The courtyard thronged with folk and carts, all crowded around the stairs as casks of wine and other foodstuffs were carried up into the keep. As busy as it was in the yard, the hall would be worse. His people were trying to find space for half again as many visitors as there were residents. No doubt whole storerooms were being repacked, rooms emptied and refilled, to achieve it.

  Caught in a sudden, silly fear, he stepped back from the entryway. Now was hardly the time to seek her out. It was more than a quick word he wished to give her. There were things he needed to explain, things that she, more than anyone, deserved to know. It would have to wait, if she would hear him at all. His past behavior certainly did not warrant her present attention.

  "My lord," called the pantler, stirring Rannulf from his thoughts. "What are you doing here? I've just come from town, and I saw no sign of the bishop's party. Can he truly have come already?" There was a note of panic in the servant’s voice.

  "Nay, I’ve returned early. The bishop delays his arrival for a time. Carry that message to your lady, will you, since I'm loath to brave the hall just now. Tell her not to fret over this change, but she should come to me when she is free. I'll be with Temric in the garrison. Be sure to tell her that."

  "So I will. Shall I send your man to you?"

  "Nay, don’t bother. I'll find what I need from my brother."

  "As you say, my lord." The pantler nodded, waiting for his lord to gesture a sign of release before he sped on his way.

  Rannulf entered the keep through the postern gate, nodding to the man who guarded this tiny entrance, and crossed through the chapel to the garrison room that lay beside the hall and beneath his own bedchamber. It was wonderfully cool and dark inside, especially after an hour's hard ride in metal beneath the warm sun. He pushed off his cap of knitted steel with a sigh of relief and removed his woolen underhood.

  Why hadn’t it occurred to him until after midday that Maeve might seek an early departure to prevent her new husband from speaking with his lord? Had he not been so incredibly tired, Rannulf would have immediately realized that was the only safe course open to her. Yet how had she managed it? Left on his own, Ashby would never have gone without first gaining his lord's release. Neither was it customary for a guest to leave before personally thanking his host. But gone they were.

  He stepped into the crowded room. "Rannulf," Temric said in surprise, "what are you doing here? I heard no party ride in."

  "For good reason. It is only me who has come. Temric, I’m tired to death and practically fried beneath this metal. Help me out, will you?" He slipped off his surcoat and dropped it to the floor.

  "Here," Temric brother kicked several short stools out of the way and pushed back a stack of pallets. “Kneel here. You there, put away your dice and fetch your lord a bucket of water and a cloth so he might wash. You, Walter, bring your lord some wine and a clean cup, and be quick about it."

  "But see that it's well watered," Lord Graistan amended, then knelt at his brother's feet. Temric slowly and painstakingly removed the unwieldy longskirted mail shirt. Once free of that Rannulf stripped himself of his metal chausses, then swiftly shed his protective underclothing. "How did Gilliam tolerate it in the Holy Lands?" he breathed in relief as cool air flowed over his overheated skin. "I'll take that cup now."

  The soldier handed him a cup and pitcher of wine as Temric spoke. "He says Richard Plantagenet was wise enough to march them only in the cooler morning hours. Still, there were those who dropped from the heat. I suppose Gilliam was too young and foolish to believe he could die that way, so he was spared." His rough voice filled with a fond amusement. "Big man, small brain, I always say."

  "Only because you are not as tall as we," Rannulf retorted with a laugh.

  "So, what of the bishop?"

  Rannulf answered with a twisted smile. "It’s not only on my behalf that he comes. He's irritable and travel weary, having gone cross the country and back again on Hubert Walter's business. He thinks to once again drag me into service for the crown. It seems the archbishop's found new duties for England's knighthood."

  "Uncompensated, of course," Temric said wryly.

  "Of course." Rannulf drank deeply from his cup, then refilled it to drink again. "At any rate, Oswald was a little overeager. William always meant to delay his arrival here until my dear mother- and brother-by-marriage could join him. He said, and in all fairness I must agree with him, that to call them to come while he is already my guest is to suggest his decision will be biased in my favor. In the end it was quite a dance of etiquette we did, each of us outdoing the other in politeness. We finally agreed that I should leave Graistan with my lady, while he resides here and awaits her relations. With Gilliam to play host and hunt master in our fertile chase and a richly stocked larder, my interests will yet be well served."

  "And where do you go?" his elder brother asked.

  "First, to U
pwood where my lady will stay, then on to Ashby, to warn John against his wife." Temric's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing, only pushed forward the bucket and cloth so his brother could use it.

  Rannulf made himself busy washing away grime and sweat. "When I sent Ulric to retrieve my armor from my chamber last night, he returned with Maeve on his heels. She came wrapped only in a blanket and her hair to offer herself to me."

  His disgust at her proposal had only deepened the more he thought on it. Her actions struck a deep blow to his pride. It wasn’t only Maeve who had thought him capable of such dishonor, but his wife. Did others see this as well? He waited for his brother's reaction.

  "Then, she was disappointed." The easiness of Temric's voice along with the calm surety of his words were as balm to a burn and urged Rannulf forward with his tale.

  "Quite. When she realized I was impervious to her seduction, she strove to hurt me by revealing she knew a part of the story of Isotte's death. But she didn’t know it all and assumed the worst. It is my guess she hoped to gain some hold over me by revealing her knowledge of it." He paused. "Dear God, it was the evil way she used her words that chilled me. That's when I vowed to tell her husband of her actions as soon as I could. Now, it seems she's run to ground at Ashby, and I’ll have to meet her there."

  "You were warned," Temric said evenly, "and not only by your own folk. Did you really never question why her first husband's people wanted nothing to do with her after his death?"

  Rannulf frowned a little. "But, you know that’s not so uncommon, especially when there are no children from the marriage. Gilliam and my wife made her sound so mad. How could I credit their tale when I never saw anything like it from her and had lived with her so much longer? Now I have tied her to poor John for his life. To leave it as it is will stain my soul. I wonder if she believes herself free of my intent to warn John?"

  Temric shook his head. "Nay, she's too canny for that. And, be warned once again. She's seen to it that John's already well smitten with her. It's no good crossing the love-struck."

  Rannulf shrugged off his brother's words. "John is my most loyal vassal. Nothing she can do will change that. I know your robes are too short for me, but lend me a shirt, will you?" he asked, drying his face and torso on a bit of rough toweling. "I need a bite to eat after which I intend to find a quiet corner in here and sleep."

  "Help yourself," said Temric as he threw open his chest.

  "Oh look, so many robes, so many choices,” Lord Graistan mused, "brown, brown, or brown."

  His elder brother cuffed him on the shoulder. "Beggars cannot be choosers," he said, then laughed. "You may claim exhaustion, but it's been a long while since you were last in so light a mood."

  Rannulf once again donned his heavy chausses, then took one of Temric's shirts from the neat stack within the coffer. "If that's true, then I welcome it."

  "So, you're finally ready to speak with your wife," Temric offered blandly.

  Rannulf shrugged into the loose-fitting linen shirt, not surprised at the remark. There were times when his elder brother knew him better than he knew himself. "God willing, it can still be done. I think it’s time to mend the gap I put between us," he said as he rolled up the too-short sleeves.

  "Come to your senses, have you?" His brother handed him his boots.

  "Aye. Thought you'd be pleased," Rannulf offered back, mimicking his brother's short style of speech, then ducked when Temric would have cuffed him again. He laughed as he closed the door behind him and left for the kitchen.

  Two hours after Ashby's departure Rowena crossed the courtyard on her way to the stables. These were to have been cleared of all save the very finest beasts and the stalls were to be spread with fresh straw. It was here that the bishop's grooms and cart drivers would find their beds along with the stable lads and grooms who usually slept among the beasts. In a freshly cleaned stable with the weather so mild, it was likely they would find more comfort than those within the hall.

  Gilliam met her halfway. "We can house mayhap ten men at the back of the place, depending on how many of the better mounts you wish to stable here. How many you can cram in above with our folk, well, who knows." He eyed her change of attire. "You certainly look more at ease, but far less like the lady of the manor."

  Rowena smiled briefly and touched the sleeveless overgown that protected her loose-fitting, homespun gown of gray. "Ilsa would prefer I never dressed like this, but for what I wish to do today anything else is too fine."

  Suddenly, her stomach lurched. She clutched her midsection in surprise and pain. The pain instantly faded away, but it left her so sick, she wondered if she'd find the garderobe in time. She blinked hard; his face swam wildly before her. With a coarse word that made him laugh in surprise, she closed her eyes and swayed.

  "Rowena!" he cried, and grabbed her arm. She tilted forward and leaned against him when her knees would have given way. Blackness tunneled in on her vision, and only his powerful arms around her kept her standing. "What is this? Are you ill?" She heard his voice as if from a far distance.

  For the briefest of instants, there was nothing but velvety blackness. Light was the first to return, but she still couldn’t see. Sound came next, but the noises she heard were muffled and oddly distorted. She became aware of the softness of his gown beneath her cheek and his arms around her. While she knew she should move away there was nothing she could do. No sinew or bone would obey her command.

  As she drew a deep, steadying breath, she felt her vision settle back into its appropriate perspective, and her stomach calmed. Slowly, she pushed away from her brother-by-marriage and took a trembling step back. "My apologies, Gilliam. I don’t know what happened."

  From behind her came her husband's harsh voice. "Happened? Everyone in this yard can see what happened."

  Rowena's eyes widened in shock as she whirled to face her husband. He stood directly behind her clad only in shirt and hose. This wasn’t possible. If he were here where was the bishop? There was no sign of the dignitary's arrival.

  "What are you doing here?" she blurted out.

  "I seem to have surprised you both," he snapped back.

  Gilliam's hard cold words silenced her awakening rebuttal. "So everyone can see what has happened, can they, Rannulf?" His eyes were narrowed as he glared at his brother.

  Rowena gasped. She'd never even dreamed the young man capable of such harshness. "You may let go," she said to him as she pushed away. "I can stand now," she added rather loudly. "The spell has passed."

  "Are you sure?" Gilliam asked, his voice gentle for her, yet its very gentleness was meant as a barb for his brother.

  She stared up at him in horror. He was making it worse on purpose. Stepping anxiously away, she turned to face her husband, but he had eyes for no one except his younger brother.

  "Have you no more sense than to stand here before every soul in the keep with your arms about my wife?" Rannulf demanded.

  Gilliam growled in anger. "What right have you to chastise me? I’ve done nothing wrong here." His words were like steel, slashing dangerously into the air between the two men. "Is this your kindness? Am I ever to be your scapegoat? Well, I'll not join you in this living hell of your making, brother," he spat the word out. "I did my penance on the stony soil of the Holy Lands. You saw to that."

  "You stupid pup," Rannulf said grimly, but the sting was gone from his voice. "I made you no insult, only wished to point out how improper it looked." He spread his hands out before him in a gesture of peace.

  "And I’ll call you liar," his youngest brother ground out.

  Rowena gasped as she looked at him. Had she thought him overly young once? There was nothing of the boy left now, only the look of an experienced and battle-trained knight. "Think hard before you answer that charge too quickly."

  Now, her husband's eyes narrowed. "How do you dare?" he asked coldly.

  "Think hard before you answer," the young knight repeated. "Or if you wish, meet me on yon
field and say it to me with your sword." He paused, as if waiting for his brother to accept the challenge, then continued.

  "It is time we parted ways, brother, and gladly so." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the gate.

  "My God," Rannulf breathed as he stared after him, "what have I done?" His head lowered for a moment as if in pain, then he turned on her, his eyes blazing in rage.

  "What in God's name were you doing? Why did you fall into his arms that way? Or is this your revenge on me, to make such a show in front of me and all my folk?"

  Rowena cried out, wishing she could cover her ears and stop his words before they reached her heart. "My lord, how could I have done so? I didn’t even know you were returned."

  "Now, that puts an even more heinous look to the whole matter, does it not?" His sarcasm cut to the bone.

  "Stop it," Rowena snapped back. "Why ask me for an explanation if you only intend to twist what I say into something else? I took a sudden illness and nearly fainted. He caught me as I fell."

  "Try again," her husband sneered. "That lie is tired after being used by so many women. It insults me that you think I might believe it."

  Again his words struck out at her. In that instant Rowena realized he sought to ease his own pain by hurting her. Her fingers curled into her palms. Anger too great to contain boiled up within her. With a scream of utter frustration, she hit him squarely in the chest with both fists.

  "You idiot, you fool," she shrieked, "see what you want to see, then. It’s not Gilliam who is your scapegoat, it’s me." She tore off her overgown and threw it at him. "Here, take this. It is the badge of my ladyship at this place. Have it back. I’m quit of you and Graistan." She swung her foot and knew it met his shin in bruising impact.

  He yelped and leapt on one foot, but she was too enraged to enjoy her handiwork. "You treat your pigherds better than you treat me," she screamed as she turned. Dust flew from her heels as she ran from the courtyard, down through the bailey to the postern gate.