The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Another explosion reverberated into the chamber, the noise loud enough that it should have shaken the stones from the walls. His wife cried out again, clutching him tightly and burying her face against his chest.

  He laughed and held her close. "Don’t fret my sweet. It’s but the sound of freedom you hear."

  Four times in an hour's passing the ballista sent its missile against the wall. But when the sound of the last one died off into silence, there was no man on the rooftop above them to call out. Ashby’s soldiers had forgone their perch with the ballista’s previous firing. Now, the only noise he heard was shouting at the south corner of the bailey.

  Rannulf listened carefully, gathering more from the tone of the distant voices than anything else that Gilliam had put some sort of bridge in place. No doubt, his brother meant to cross the water and check on his handiwork. Ashby's men would be on the wall above, if not attacking their besiegers, at least keeping their eyes on them.

  Rowena looked up at him, and he caught his breath anew at her magnificence. Her ebony hair was so rich, its color a wondrous contrast to her creamy skin and dark-blue eyes. He stroked her cheek with a gentle finger, then pulled her closer still. She lay her head against his chest. That she should do so spoke to his soul.

  But what if this babe of theirs killed her? The very thought of her death, of the great rending absence she’d leave with her passing, not just in him but in his family and folk as well, made him cold. Then, again, what if the babe didn’t take her? It might well be that he faced a full and happy life with her. She was so much younger than he it was entirely possible he’d precede her into death, leaving her a wealthy widow who’d all too quickly be remarried.

  That thought rankled. Better that she went first, for he wouldn’t tolerate the idea of another man holding her. Would she burst to life with desire for her next husband as she did for him? That he should think this way made him laugh.

  "What is so amusing?" Rowena asked, lifting her head to look at him. But, before he could tell her the progression of his thoughts, she sniffed and frowned. "Do I smell burning again?"

  Rannulf tested the air. "Aye, and closer this time." He grimaced as he realized what it must be. "I suspect Gilliam put a bridge across the moat to see the damage he’s wrought. Ashby's men aren’t sitting as still as I expected. They must have set his bridge afire."

  "Oh, sweet Mary," she whispered, swiftly crossing herself. "Poor Gilliam."

  "Now, who was the one who told me that my brother was no child to be fretted over?" Rannulf chided, surprising himself with his easiness. There was no longer any threat in her affection for his brother, not when he had to recognize friendship for what it was.

  "Aye, shame on me," his wife said, then straightened, her expression suddenly so business-like that Rannulf choked back another laugh. "So," she said briskly, her tone the one he suspected she used with Graistan’s merchants, "what was it that made you laugh?"

  Remembering his ridiculous thoughts only made him smile. "I was thinking it would be better if you died first, for I would surely be a vengeful ghost who would haunt you once you remarried."

  "Rannulf," she cried, pushing away from him. "That’s morbid. Don’t think like that."

  "Morbid? Well, maybe a little, but it’s only me imagining. Ah, I have the solution for it. Why don’t we both live forever, then neither one of us will ever have to be alone."

  She stared at him as if he’d spoken to her in a foreign tongue. "Rannulf, no man lives forever."

  "Come Wren, play this game with me," he teased, enjoying tweaking her this way. There were times when she was entirely too serious. "If you could, would you live with me forever?"

  Slowly, her perplexity drained from her face to be replaced by such softness that Rannulf caught his breath in appreciation. Her mouth curved into a smile of quiet joy. "Aye, my love, I would live with you for all time."

  Only then did Rannulf realize what he'd said and why she smiled so. There was no escaping it, no holding back. Even his own tongue betrayed him. This love of theirs was right and good, the way it was supposed to be between a man and his wife.

  "Many women don’t die in childbirth," she said, touching gentle fingers to his lips. Rannulf kissed her fingertips and watched her smile again at his caress.

  "Think on it," she went on. "My mother lives on, as does Temric's. Aye, and what of our dowager Queen Eleanor? She had many children, yet remains strong and healthy despite her age."

  Rannulf sighed, then caught her hand to place a kiss into her palm. "Of course you’re right, but I’d rather have you with me than trade you for the sake of a legitimate heir."

  "But I want our child," she cried in soft protest. "He will be my gift to you, proof of my love."

  "And what proof would you ask of me? Jewels, clothing, lands?" Rannulf kept his tone teasing, but there was no answering easiness in his heart. She wanted final proof of his feelings for her, to hear him speak the words. Although he now accepted his love for her as real, he wasn’t certain he could give her what she needed.

  She shook her head, her gaze filled with more understanding than he wanted to see. "There’s nothing more I want from you that you haven’t already given me."

  Rannulf breathed, uncertain whether it was in relief or disappointment. She wouldn’t make him say it. If he said the words, it would be because he chose to do so. And, would he? Acceptance welled within him, shredding the last of his fears.

  "Wren," he started, the words forming. He discarded them as not pretty enough, then tried again.

  Across the room, the key scraped in the lock. Both he and his wife started, instinctively pulling apart as they straightened. The door flew wide and crashed against the wall behind it. Nicola stood in the doorway, her hair in disarray and dirty charcoal streaks across her face. It was his sword Rannulf saw in her hands. He jerked to his feet, startling Rowena.

  "Maeve set the house afire and runs," she said as he came toward her. "Your brother has breached our walls and is storming across the bailey killing everyone he sees. Even his own men cannot stop him. Hurry, he’s sworn to kill my father. Here," she handed him his sword. "Now do as you vowed and protect Papa."

  With that, she whirled and raced down the stairs. Rannulf turned and nigh on leapt across the room to drag Rowena up to her feet. His wife reached for her overgown, but he caught her hand. "Nay, only your shoes. There’s time for no more," he commanded her brusquely, jamming his own feet into his footwear as she spoke. If the house burned they weren’t going to get far walking barefooted on the embers. He straightened, savoring the feel of his familiar weapon in his hand. "Damn, but I have no shield."

  Bundling her overgown under her arm, Rowena had her shoes on in an instant. "You’re too sore to use one anyway," she shot back, then her face creased in fear. From the hall beneath them, folk screamed and shouted. "Hurry!"

  Rannulf grabbed her hand and led the way down the stairs ahead of her, sword at the ready. Only after he’d seen Rowena to safety would he lend John what help he could. With each downward step, the smoke thickened while rumble of the fire’s voice grew. He stopped at the stair’s foot. Orange flames leapt along the ceiling, nibbling at the rafters. Worry lifted a notch. The thatching would burn like what it was, dry, old reeds. The time to be out of this place was now.

  The panicked screams of Ashby’s folk said they were already at the hall door to escape. Coughing, Rannulf turned toward the sound and peered with watering eyes toward the only exit from this dwelling. Rather than race from the hall, the servants massed at the backs of Ashby's men, pushing and shoving. The clang of steel rose above the fire’s voice. Ashby’s soldiers had met Gilliam’s force as they tried to leave. As they fought to leave, those outside fought to hold them within and doom them to a fiery death.

  Rannulf ground his teeth in frustration. There were so many between them and the door that he knew they’d die within sight of safety. He slewed around, seeking some other egress. Across the room, a small group o
f serving men were hewing themselves a new doorway, using swords to cut through the hall’s wattle and daub walls. As he stepped toward this potential exit, the soldiers completed their task. The chunk of severed wall dropped to the bailey far below them, then the building drew a roaring breath, sucking in cool air through this new opening.

  Fire exploded in the thatch, flamelets appearing across the length and breadth of the roof, even down the walls, faster than Rannulf could watch. At the hall door, the portal became a ring of fire. From the roof bits of burning reed drifted down to find new fodder in the rushes covering the floor.

  Driven back by the fire at the door, Ashby's folk turned as one and surged in the direction of their hall’s new door. As Ashby’s soldiery retreated only a few of Gilliam’s force was fool enough to follow them into the burning building. Oblivious to the danger, Gilliam chopped his way through the back of the frantic and retreating crowd, felling men and women alike.

  "Gilliam," Rannulf called to his brother, only to have his words disappear under a peculiar squealing sound, one of the rafter timbers groaning in agony.

  As Rannulf turned toward his brother, his wife released his hand and started toward the now unguarded doorway. "Wren, nay," Rannulf bellowed, snatching her back to him as a whole section of flaming roof dropped to the floor before her feet. Flames shot up, reaching out for whatever it could find. The doorway wall crumpled, leaving the door standing alone.

  "Come," Rannulf commanded, pulling her as quickly back to the stairs they’d just left as he could limp. There, he followed the tower wall, knowing that around two of its corners lay the master's chamber. That room had a window in its wall. It would be quite a leap, but better broken bones than a fiery death.

  His breath seared in his lungs, and he had to cough to expel it. As he rounded the first corner Nicola appeared out of the smoke, her destination the same as his. She dragged a coil of rope with her. Almost on the girl’s heels came Gilliam. Rannulf tried to call out, but could only cough.

  With a swirl of smoke, his brother was gone, rounding the corner ahead of them. Rannulf stumbled after them, Rowena’s hand still in his. He caught a welcome breath almost clear of smoke. It wasn’t as dense here in this corner of the hall. Aye, but that wouldn’t last for long. Ahead of him the bedchamber door stood ajar. A single clang, the clash of steel to steel, brought him to sharp attention.

  "Stay behind me," he barked hoarsely to Rowena. She coughed her answer. He pushed open the door in time to see John, swathed in bandages and barely able to stand much less to firmly close his hand around his sword hilt, fall on Gilliam's blade.

  "Traitor," his brother ground out, his words colder than ice, "you've died like the scum you are."

  "Nay," Nicola screeched, and launched herself at her father, not to kneel beside him in mourning but to grab the man's sword. She threw herself in bold attack against the tall knight. "Murderer," she screamed as she came. Gilliam raised his sword to deliver a killing blow.

  "Gilliam," Rannulf bellowed.

  A startled Gilliam whirled to face the doorway, leaving his unguarded back toward the girl.

  "Drop that sword, you little fool," Rannulf snapped at Nicola, his own blade flicking out in a maneuver that should have sent her weapon flying from her fingers.

  Instead, she met his movement with a well-honed turn that nearly cracked his wrist. "By God’s cock!" he cried out more in surprise than pain. Outside the room, the fire’s voice took on a deeper tenor as it started on the floor.

  "You live!" Gilliam shouted in joy, ready to drop his sword and embrace his elder sibling.

  "Behind you!" Rannulf yelled in warning as the tall girl swung her father’s long and well-balanced weapon with a precision beyond all comprehension. Smoke now billowed into the room from the hall beyond it. "I want that girl. Disarm her, now."

  Whirling with a speed that belied his size, Gilliam met his attacker's blade, pushing her back. She recovered with ease and came at him again, displaying skill and considerable training in her smooth movements. As his brother loosed an unholy roar of laughter and met the girl's blade once again, Rannulf turned to his wife, unwilling to leave his brother’s back unguarded.

  "Wren, get yon rope," he commanded. She leapt to do his bidding almost before his words were out. "Tie it to both handles of that chest.” John’s armor chest sat beneath the window, doubling as a bench for visitors. If the piece wasn’t heavy enough to bear their weight, it was long enough that it wouldn’t pass through the window after them. "Nay, loop it to the left through the other handle and then back again. If it makes the rope too short, we’ll fall the rest of the way. Quickly now, or we’ll all roast."

  As Rowena prepared their escape, Gilliam once more met Nicola’s blade, and this time gave his sword a careless twist. He tapped its tip against his opponent's bare wrist. She screamed in pain and rage, but her grip loosened. Another small movement of his hand, and her father's blade flew across the room. Before she could leap for it, Gilliam’s hand snapped shut about the girl’s arm.

  "Murderer," Nicola raged against Gilliam's hold, her free hand scratching and clawing at his mailed glove. When she realized the futility of it, she dropped to the floor, making herself a dead weight. "Nay, I will not leave. Let me die with him. Murderer! He could barely rise and yet you killed him. Oh, Papa," she cried, her free hand clutching at her father's fingers. "Let me stay."

  "Don’t let her go, Gilliam," Rannulf shouted as from the hall came another creaking groan, this one more ominous.

  Gilliam nodded, then grabbed the tall girl up by her waist and threw her over his shoulder. She kicked and writhed, her fists beating against his steel-clad back as he carried her toward the window and escape.

  Rannulf joined his wife, who already stood atop the trunk, ready to make her climb down the wall. "Go," he commanded her, more words waiting to ease her into doing what she must. To his surprise, she nodded once and stepped out of the window, slipping down the rope with amazing agility. Above him, the bedchamber’s roof exploded in flame. A burning bit floated down to rest atop the tangled bedclothes. They smoldered just an instant, then a tongue of flame appeared.

  "Go," he said to Gilliam, "bearing her as you do."

  His brother shot him a broad grin. "I can manage, old man, now that I know you’re alive." And, then he was gone.

  Rannulf stepped up onto the trunk and felt the blood trickle from his thigh as he tore his wound afresh. He grabbed the rope and stepped onto the window’s ledge. His wife and brother stood on the turf below him, watching. Holding out his sword, he dropped the weapon toward Gilliam, then turned to lower himself out of the window.

  Pain burst into life in his bruise shoulder, making it that much harder to close his hand as he eased his way down the rope. His head had only just cleared the open window when sound exploded around him. Blazing daggers of flame shot out of the window above him, then tore through the low-hanging roof. As if he were some child’s toy, the force of the blast swung him away from the building. The fiery wall loomed as the rope circled back toward the structure. Rannulf released his grip on the rope. If he had to hit something he'd rather it be the turf below him. Stars blinked into life at the impact. His breath stuck in his chest.

  "Jesus God," he heard Gilliam say. "What was that?"

  Rannulf gingerly turned his head. Gilliam no longer stood. Instead, he sat with his legs wide and Nicola sprawled next to him. The girl sobbed face down in the grass. His wife had fallen onto her back.

  "Rannulf," she cried, rolling over to scramble to him. "Sweet Mary, you bleed again." She touched his thigh.

  "Aye, but I still live," he gasped out, grateful for her concern, "and nothing is broken, although I think I now have bruises atop my bruises. Let me lie here just a moment and catch my breath." He sighed, took an experimental deep breath and was pleased that nothing clutched or hurt, then shifted to better look at the incredible woman he’d married. "Where did you learn to climb like that?"

  His Wren shot
him a look both shamed and proud in the same instant. "When I was young and still at Benfield, I enjoyed climbing trees. I especially liked hanging upside down from the branches."

  Rannulf laughed out loud. "With your gown hanging down over your face as well?"

  She sent him a disparaging look. "Hah. It doesn’t do that if you wad it up between your knees." Her grin was smug.

  This time he laughed until he coughed up all the smoke he’d taken in. "Wren, I cannot even envision you doing something so frivolous." He grabbed her to him, holding her atop him in an embrace that was amusement, love, thanksgiving, and joy in one. "By all that’s Holy, I’m glad I lived long enough to discover this about you."

  Gilliam came to stand over them, his helmet tucked under his arm and a pleased smile on his face. "So, things have changed since I left Graistan, have they?" A piercing whistle made him look up and wave. "We’re here and well. Is all in hand? Good."

  Rannulf freed his wife, who came lithely to her feet. He held out his hand to his youngest brother. "Help this old man up, will you?" His sibling easily lifted him to his feet, only to receive a light cuff for his efforts.

  "Idiot!" Rannulf chided. "Why in God's name did you run full tilt into a burning building? If you wanted to kill them, you only had to wait outside as they came to you."

  "My brains were addled with the certainty that you were dead," Gilliam replied, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "That you might have died without hearing my apology was more than I could bear."

  As he spoke, he lay his hands on Rannulf’s shoulders, as if he wished to embrace his brother but feared the gesture would be rejected. Rannulf threw his arms around his bigger and younger brother and drew him close. "Fool!" he chided again.

  "Stop," Gilliam told him, his voice thick with emotion. "My mail will cut you to ribbons, and you’re already hurt."

  Rannulf shook his head, but stepped back, for the metal tunic Gilliam wore had indeed bitten into his skin. "What little healing that remains for me will go quickly now that I’m free. And now that I once again have you at my side. You will stay?"