The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "Nay, Ilsa. I've too much to do to muddle my head with wine just now. My lord would leave before noon."

  "Noon," the maid retorted. "That’s barely enough time to pack for us, much less see to the other matters."

  "There’ll be very little to pack. I go alone and take only one white undergown and two overgowns, the blue and the green. Pack no chains or circlets, for I won’t wear them. Upwood is a rustic place, and I have no need of finery there."

  The old woman stopped, mouth agape to stare at her. "What? But who will see to you?"

  "Surely there are servants at this manor. Ilsa, I need you here to see that all goes as planned."

  A sudden light of understanding glowed to life in Ilsa's dull, old eyes. "You've not told him, have you?" She jerked her head toward the bedchamber.

  "Nay, the time isn’t right. It will wait until I know the babe’s secure within my womb."

  The old woman's eyes narrowed. "If you do not tell him, I will.

  "Tell him and I swear I’ll banish you to your daughter's house in town, and you'll never see the babe," Rowena threatened.

  "You wouldn’t dare," Ilsa breathed, then cried out, "but my lady, you need me now more than ever."

  "Aye, that I do," Rowena replied, regretting the pain she was causing, "but only if I know you’ll keep your mouth closed when I tell you to do so."

  Ilsa bowed her head in defeat, her desire to see this child's coming too important to jeopardize, even for what was sure to be her lord's favor. "As you wish, my lady. I stay."

  Rowena laid her hand on the old woman's arm. "Be content in knowing that if I cannot have you at my side, I’ll have no one else."

  Although the maid only sniffed, there was a certain aura of pleasure about her motions. "Aye, my lady. Now, what would you have me do?"

  Rowena paused at the top of the stairs.

  "Ah, there you are. Are you ready?" Rannulf called up to her from the hearth where he stood next to Arnult. The young knight still frowned in concentration, as if he was memorizing the instructions he'd been given.

  "I am, indeed," Rowena called back as she descended to the hall. Margaret followed her down, bearing her single basket.

  "Are you sure you don’t want a woman with you?" Graistan’s lord glanced at Ilsa, who rolled her eyes in frustration. "I don’t mind slowing our pace to accommodate a wain."

  "Really, it’s not necessary," Rowena said. "Do I look helpless? Is Upwood bereft of servants? I cannot imagine that we’ll stay more than two weeks. I think I can survive dressing myself and combing my own hair for that time."

  Her husband gave her a broad grin, then turned back to his temporary castellan. "Have you any further questions? Nay? Then we are off."

  Rowena let the warm, late June day lull her into lazy satisfaction. It was fine traveling weather. Newly sheared sheep grazed in the meadows, startling white dots against the consistent green of the hillsides. Wheat and barley stood tall in the fields, bending slightly in a playful breeze. The moist, tilled earth exuded a rich scent that spoke to her of her own fertility. How different this was from her first trip with her husband. Then everything had been cold and barren. Nay, not barren, asleep.

  She turned slightly in her saddle to see Rannulf better. He was deep in conversation with Temric, who rode to his right. His brother accompanied them for the first hour until he turned north to meet the bishop's party. Both men wore animated expressions as they discussed the politics of a country whose king found his subjects boorish and barbaric, and wouldn’t stay to govern them.

  Now that Temric was more familiar to Rowena, his carefully trimmed beard and darker coloring no longer hid his resemblance to his brothers. When he smiled in response to a comment of Rannulf’s Rowena wondered which of their ancestors had gifted to all his descendents this distinctive grin.

  Her husband had removed his helmet and pushed back his mail hood. The afternoon sun teased vibrant auburn tints from his hair. His face had swiftly bronzed since summer's onset, and the darker color accentuated his pale eyes. Quick expressions played, one after the other, across the strong planes and hollows of his face. The simple joy of being wanted by him crept over her until it made her smile.

  "What are you smiling at?" her husband asked, startling her.

  "You," she replied with a little shrug.

  "Does my old and ugly face amuse you?" Despite Rannulf’s harsh words, she heard the pleasure her attention gave him.

  "You’re neither old nor ugly," she responded before she caught herself. "My lord," she protested, "you’re trying to tease a compliment from me.”

  Rannulf laughed. "Did I not warn you that I’m vain?"

  "Enormously so." Temric snorted the remark in a fond tolerance born from years of closeness.

  "Can I help it that I like hearing compliments?" Rannulf replied, sounding for all the world like Jordan when the child was sorely aggrieved.

  After Temric had left them, her husband drew her horse alongside his and rode out ahead of their troop, as if he wanted privacy. Yet, when they had what he craved, he said nothing, only watched her. "My lord?" she asked.

  "I wish to speak about Gilliam," he said, "but I’m having trouble marshaling my thoughts. Mayhap you’ll have some idea where I have none." His voice died away in pain.

  She sighed. What he wished to hear she couldn’t tell him. "He’s your steward, and the harvest will soon be upon us. You can’t wait. You must replace him."

  When he opened his mouth as if to protest, she held up a gloved hand to forestall him. "Don’t say it for you know as well as I our state is too critical to go without a steward for long. Besides, Gilliam is no steward. Why not hire a man with the learning necessary to do what must be done?"

  Rannulf stared down at his hands on the reins. "You’re right," he said after a long moment, "but won’t he think I’ve cut him from my life and no longer want him?"

  Rowena shook her head. "Not if you grant him what he needs, a keep of his own."

  "Would that I could," he said softly. "Mayhap, there’s something on your lands suitable for him."

  An easy quiet rose between them with that as they rode on together. Rowena watched the road ahead of them, for it was busy with the pack trains and wagons of itinerant merchants making their way westward, bound for the next great fair. For as far as the eye could see only one man was coming eastward. Although the horse he led behind him seemed a fine enough beast, he walked hurriedly along, looking both purposeful and harried.

  When he caught sight of the device on Lord Rannulf's shield, he leapt to the center of the road and waved. "My Lord Graistan," he called out several times, until he was sure he'd been heard, and the lord of Graistan would stop for him. Only then, did he show the nobleman proper reverence.

  "My lord, I was on route to Graistan this very day to deliver you this message from Ashby. My horse lamed himself, the stupid dolt, but here you are before me, and I won’t be late at all." He reached into his leather purse and pulled out a carefully folded bit of parchment.

  As her husband took the thing, Rowena recognized Ashby's seal at its edge. She tensed. This could be naught but bad news no matter what it said. Rannulf skimmed the message, his frown growing as he read.

  "Will you tell me?" Rowena asked after a moment.

  "It’s only politely worded phrases to thank me once again for the wedding and the bride. The one who wrote this, for it is certainly not John's priest whose hand I know, doesn’t even apologize for leaving without gaining my approval or bidding me farewell." He fingered the wax disk that marked it as having originated at Ashby. "My God, this means he's already given her his seal. She's moved far more swiftly than I can believe."

  When he looked up, his growing concern was evident in the tenseness of his jaw. He handed her the scrap, and she swiftly read it. Her brows rose at the bland phrases.

  "Nor does she think you’re free to move," she said. "The last Maeve knew we expected the bishop's arrival at any moment. Aye, these words are mean
t to provoke you into a deep, cutting worry made all the worse because you’re trapped at Graistan. No matter what, it’s obvious she intends to cause what damage she can between you and John."

  Rannulf’s eyes took light in rage. "How her heart will quail when we come tapping on Ashby's gate this evening."

  Rowena rocked back in her saddle. "This evening?! We? Nay, we cannot arrive without sending a messenger to warn of our arrival." Even as she spoke, she knew how her husband would answer.

  Her husband snorted at that. "For what reason, when I’ve called at Ashby many times without such formalities? Besides, it’d spoil the surprise for Maeve," he added with a rakish grin.

  Alarm bells clanged within Rowena. "Are you certain this is wise? To surprise her might cause more harm. I think I'd sooner corner a wild boar than her."

  "What is this?" Rannulf countered, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Are you giving that woman more credit than she’s due? What harm could she possibly do us? I should be insulted that you think me such a puling infant that a woman could be a threat to us." He wasn’t insulted; rather he seemed flattered by her concern.

  "Rannulf," Rowena started, but he interrupted her.

  "Nay, don’t argue, for nothing you say can change me. I let the snake into the garden when I ignored wiser folk and married the two of them. There, in your hand, is proof that I cannot afford to let matters remain as they are for even another day."

  In his expression Rowena saw concern for his man and their long-standing relationship. Whether Rannulf admitted it or not, he worried that Lady Maeve had already brought some discord between them. She sighed her reluctant approval. "We go to Ashby, then."

  Rannulf gave her a pleased nod. "Good," he said, and turned to glance back at his men. "You, Watt, you know Upwood well enough. Tell Sir Jocelynn that we’ll be delayed a day, or possibly two."

  As the man nodded and spurred his horse off ahead of them, Rannulf turned to Ashby's messenger. "It might be best if you proceed on to Graistan. There’ll be food and shelter for you there as well as aid for your horse. However, if you wish to return to Ashby, know that we won’t wait for you."

  "I'll go on to Graistan, then, my lord," the man said as Lord Graistan set spurs to his bay and called his troop forward.

  He kept their pace fast, but not so swift that Rowena worried over her child. A few miles from Ashby they stopped to rest their horses for the last time, then remounted, but this time Rannulf kept the troop to a walk. This was no doubt appreciated by those on the road, for it didn’t take many days without rain to dry mud into a choking dust. Despite that it was nearly Compline, the sun hadn’t yet found its bed, and the long days gave the advantage to those industrious enough to work harder for themselves than for their masters. To the travelers on the road, it meant they could make those few extra miles before darkness finally fell.

  Ahead of them, pedestrians and the occasional rider moved to the side of the road to avoid what looked like a wain that appeared to be missing a wheel. Rannulf gave a short laugh. "What is it?" Rowena asked him.

  "Huh, I think I know yon man. Wren, you stay with the others. Walter, come with me," he called, setting his heels to his bay’s side as he rode ahead to the disabled wagon.

  Rowena watched as the merchant’s men sheathed their swords and held their hands up in greeting as Rannulf rode up alongside them. A man appeared. There was no mistaking Peter of Graistan, the town's most prominent cloth merchant, or his bright garments.

  It was a few more moments before she and the rest of their men joined him. "My son warned me that the wheelwright had cheated me." The merchant was saying in his thin and reedy voice. "Look at me now, stuck here with my goods spilling out onto the ground. I was late beginning my journey, and the fair starts tomorrow."

  "Have you sent to Eilington for a wheelwright? It lies just beyond that hill," Rannulf asked.

  "Aye, my lord, but my man's been gone the better part of an hour now. I can’t afford to send another in case of thieves."

  Lord Rannulf nodded to Walter. "Go you to Eilington and let the bailiff know what's afoot out here. Whilst you're there look about for Peter's man and see to finding someone with the skill to mend this wain. If there is no one, then perhaps the villagers might lend a wain if Peter lets them hold his vehicle as collateral. You, you, and you," he pointed out the men he wanted, "bide your time here until Walter's return with either craftsman or cart. After your errand's done you can rejoin us at Ashby."

  "Thank you, my lord," the merchant said as his shoulders drooped in relief.

  "What’s good for my merchants is good for me, eh, Peter?" Rannulf smiled. "I want you to be able to afford the rent I charge you. I'm told you've enlarged that warehouse of yours, the one along the river."

  The merchant’s answering smile wasn’t quite so broad, then the man laughed. "You have me there, my lord," he replied.

  "Good journey to you," Rannulf called as he turned his horse back along the road.

  "And you, too, my lord. My lady." The man nodded to her as she passed.

  Walter and his men had yet to rejoin them when she, Rannulf and their remaining men climbed the final rise to reach their destination. To the north of them was the forest of oak and ash, from whence came this manor’s name, while to the south stood a village of a good seventy homes. Beyond the cottages lay a crazy patchwork pattern of fields that was the village's sustenance.

  Ahead of them, ringed by a single line of stone wall, lay Sir John’s home. Fronted by ditches on two sides of the wall and defended by the river on the others, Ashby included a surprisingly large bailey with at least an orchard, mill, ovens within it, or so said what Rowena could see from above the wall. Visible through the open gateway was a square, stone tower with a manor house attached. Although it bore the same thatched roof as the wattled dwellings in the village, the timber house was built on a stone foundation that rose almost as tall as a man from the bailey floor and was much bigger by length and girth than the cottages. Reached by a simple stairway, its massive wooden doors were banded with iron and half-shielded by a porch. At the eastern end of the building was a short ell that spoke of a private chamber.

  With the serene lushness of summer gathered around it Ashby was, as Gilliam had said, a beautiful place. The river glistened in the setting sun against emerald banks dotted with willows and wildflowers. The breeze made fields of gold and green ripple and wave. Sheep and geese grazed on the common lands. Whitewashed cottages stood out against their green gardens and the dark stone of the protective walls.

  As they rode to the bridge that would take them across the river and onto Sir John's holdings the locals caught sight of them. Those in the fields stopped their work to look, while those within the village came rushing to their doors to watch the strangers. Several ran for the castle, no doubt to warn their lord of this unexpected arrival.

  A quiver of doubt shot through her. They really should have sent word to John that they intended to come. It was rude to appear unannounced. She glanced at her husband. Rannulf wore an easy expression as he surveyed this place. His confidence reassured her.

  As the toll collector on the stone bridge that spanned the river recognized Rannulf’s name, his eyes widened. A wave of his hand sent his son dashing off into the manor house walls with the news of the visitor’s identity. "My lord, please, pass by," he offered to Rannulf, but didn’t move out of the road’s center.

  A moment passed, then another. Rannulf leaned down slightly. "Do you need something else?" His harsh question made the man jump aside.

  "Nay, nay,” the toll taker laughed wanly. "Please pass by."

  The path leading to Ashby's entrance turned directly off the road and led to a drawbridge. As on any other working day, the drawbridge was lowered over the water-filled ditch and the gates to the manor house stood wide to allow passage to and from the ovens and mill within the bailey. However, as Rowena followed Rannulf into the enclosing walls, she caught her breath.

  There was compl
ete silence in the bailey. No man stood on the walls; no servant walked from barn to house. Not even a dog enjoyed the evening's sun on its back. The stable windows were shut and barred. Beneath its shielding porch, the hall door looked to be shut as well.

  Rowena glanced at Rannulf. His expression was grim. When he returned her look, she could see the disbelief in his gaze.

  "We leave," he said harshly, and roweled his big bay around.

  In that moment, the winches groaned in the gatehouse. The bridge began to lift. They couldn’t reach it now.

  "Dog," Sir John bellowed as he threw open the hall door.

  Rannulf lifted his shield in ingrained reaction even before the bowmen on the tower's roof stood and loosed their missiles, then leaned over to cover her as best he could. Although bolts bounced harmlessly off the long piece of metal, the surprise attack took five of their men, and Rowena’s little mare screamed in pain.

  Ashby's master raced down the stairs, bared sword in hand. He wore his mail shirt hastily pulled atop his clothing. "Raper of women, killer of children! Die, like the dog you are."

  Excited by the sudden fray and the smell of blood from her mount, Rannulf’s bay struck out, crashing his iron-shod hoof into her smaller horse's flank. Rowena leapt free as her crippled mare fell. She rolled away from the flailing hooves and scrambled to her feet to watch in terror and fear.

  "You used her," John raged, his blade crashing into Rannulf's shield.

  "You’re mad," his lord shouted in return. Ashby’s men fell back from Rannulf and his dangerous mount, two already cut and bleeding. "I never touched her."

  Hands dragged Rowena back from the fighting. She hadn’t the sense to resist her captor or even to turn to look at who it was. All she could do was breathe and watch as so many men tried to murder the man she loved.

  "Liar," Ashby roared, once again throwing himself at his lord. He managed to land a blow against the mounted man's thigh. Blood stained Rannulf's steel chausses. "Drag him down," he called to his men. "I’ll show you how a man treats filth such as you."