The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  "You would want me back?" This was a hushed and disbelieving question.

  "Temric said it was good we finally lanced the boil between us. As always, he’s right." Emotions crowded into Rannulf’s throat. "You came for me when I had no cause to expect it."

  Gilliam's eyes reflected what Rannulf felt. He only shrugged as if it were nothing. Seeking to shield himself from what troubled him, he turned to his sister-by-marriage.

  "My lady," he said, smiling at her, "need I tell you that I’m thrilled to find you yet in one piece?"

  Rannulf watched his wife smile at his brother and felt nothing but joy at being in their company. "I’m so glad you came," she replied.

  Gilliam managed a quick bow. "Shall we retire to the south wall? My tent should have been raised by now across the moat. Rannulf, what would you have me do with her?" A jerk of his head indicated Nicola, who yet cried her heart out at his feet. "Do you want her bound or guarded, or both?"

  Rannulf's heart went out to Nicola of Ashby. For all her odd ways, she looked like just what she was: a child who had just witnessed her father killed and her home destroyed in a very bloody fashion. He knelt at her side. "Nicola," he said quietly.

  She started, then turned her head a little in his direction. "You promised," she managed to gasp out, "you swore."

  "I’m so sorry," he said, stroking her hair. "I was too late to stop my brother, but perhaps that was for the best. We couldn’t have carried him down the rope, and he couldn’t have climbed on his own. Nay, that blow of mine killed him, and for that I grieve with you. Better that he died a quick death than to burn."

  "Nay, I could have saved him," the little girl in her cried out, but he hushed her, then drew her into a sitting position until Nicola leaned her head against his broad shoulder, her tears now trickling down her face.

  "Child, he weighed more than twenty stone. You couldn’t have done it, nor would he have allowed it. He would have commanded you to leave him. He had lived his life, while yours is just beginning. Hush, and be easy, remembering that you aren’t alone. I vowed to care for you, and so I shall."

  When he tried to draw her to her feet, she resisted. "Stay here until you are ready, then. We won’t leave without you." Rannulf rose and stepped away from her, joining Gilliam and his wife a few feet away.

  "You do this for a traitor's daughter?" Gilliam demanded.

  "She saved our lives," he returned, "and if I’d been a moment earlier I would have spared John's as well." Rannulf lifted a hand to forestall his brother angry complaint. "It’s a long story. Let her lie here and grieve. Where will she go? Now come." He gathered his wife close, and together they walked with Gilliam toward the wall. "Now, Gilliam, tell me how you so quickly broke down yon wall?"

  His brother's response was matter-of-fact. "When I was here in March at your lady's behest I noticed the mortar in that corner of the south wall was soft with moisture. I told—him,” he stumbled over this reference to John, “about it as he left Graistan after his wedding. When Walter came to me with his tale, I knew he wouldn’t have had time to fix it." Gilliam’s handsome face twisted in grim satisfaction. "I used the ballista to drive a hole right through the already soft foundation, and a whole section came tumbling down. After that I lay a bit of planking across the moat, and we walked right in."

  Rannulf stared at the young man in amazement. "God's blood, but you’ll tell me what you've seen in all my other keeps. This was far too simple for you. We'd better have something stronger here when it’s rebuilt."

  At his side, Rowena stopped with a start and gasped, releasing him to hold herself tightly. She whitened in pain. "Sweet Mary, I think I will be sick."

  Fear tore through Rannulf. He grabbed her up in his arms. It was with his wife in his arms that he stepped through the breached wall and outside to freedom once again.

  "You must put me down," Rowena insisted as they crossed the moat. "I’m hurting you."

  "I will not and you are not," her husband returned. "Gilliam's tent is only there"—he indicated with a nod of his head the mess of wains and beasts of burden, armed men and servants that massed at the forest's edge—"just across the way."

  With no strength to argue Rowena wrapped her arms more tightly about his neck. In all truth, she doubted she could walk even that short a distance. The dull ache of this morn was gone, replaced by a far worse twist of pain that set her teeth on edge and made her want to cry with the hurt it caused her.

  Rannulf’s path brought his back toward the once prosperous manor house. Rowena gasped, this time not in pain. She could see the crumbling ruin of the south wall. Framed in the breach was the still burning house. Roofless now, and with only ashes for walls, the supports were still engulfed in flame. One of the massive cross beams had pierced the floor when it fell, entering the grain storage bins that lay below the hall. Fire, fed by the burning stores, shot up its long length.

  Smoke also poured from the top of the tower. Rowena shuddered. If Nicola hadn’t released them. . .Rowena caught back the rest of that thought, incapable of completing it.

  All too many others had not been as fortunate as they. Around the foundation of the house lay the house servants and men who lived there. The carnage had spilled out of the bailey and into the moat. Her husband now picked his way through the bodies of the men who had been injured in the battle to hold the wall. Some were Gilliam's, but most of them wore Ashby's armor. She recognized Richard floating in the muddy, reddened water.

  Once again, Rannulf turned, this time showing her the village. What five days ago had been so lovely and serene was now a charred ruin. Not one house still stood; dogs and fowl sifted through the wreckage for whatever they could find. But sheep still grazed in their meadows, while the cattle were in the barley field!

  "Rannulf," she cried, tensing in his hold, "send someone to chase those cows from that field. That’s our crop they are eating."

  Her husband laughed. "Only you would think of barley when we've just battled for our lives and barely won by a hand's breadth."

  "Winter comes," she retorted tartly. "This place is fertile and well managed, and could supply much of what we need now that it no longer has as many to support. Oh, but I hope Gilliam hasn’t killed all the folk or who will get the harvest in?"

  Rannulf only shook his head and turned so they could both face the village. "He hasn’t killed any of the peasant folk. Look, look closely. Show me a body lying there."

  Rowena looked. Unlike the bailey and the moat, there were no bloody, crumpled forms within the remains of the cottages.

  "I taught Gilliam better than that. He knows not to cut his nose off to spite his face. If I'd been dead, this would have been part of his inheritance, right, my boy?"

  Gilliam only grimaced as they walked past the giant crossbow that was the ballista and the pile of stones that would have been its missiles had the wall not fallen. "I don’t wish to talk about it." He stopped at a large tree beneath which stood his tent.

  Her husband kicked out Gilliam's camp stool for her and set her on it. "Would you rather lie?"

  Rowena shook her head. "Nay, I’m better now," she lied. "Do you think we can leave for Upwood yet? I’d be at some friendly place as soon as possible."

  "Are you fit to ride?" Rannulf’s eyes darkened in concern.

  "I see no difference between sitting here and riding," she replied. "The sooner we’re there, the better I’ll feel." When he still hesitated, she added, "Please?"

  He gave way with a nod. "As you will, love. Gilliam, can you spare some men and a few horses to see us to Upwood? We must bide there until the bishop calls us back to Graistan."

  "Aye," his brother replied, and turned to a passing man. "Alfred, I want you and ten more men to escort my brother and his wife to Upwood. Find them suitable mounts."

  Rowena sighed and laid her hand against her abdomen as if her touch could ease the awful tension in her womb. Beneath her breath, so Rannulf would not hear, she murmured, "Hold tight, little one. I
t won’t be long now." Surely, she could bear the pain for a short ride.

  "Sir Gilliam," called a soldier as he came toward the tall knight, only to gape in surprise when he looked upon Rannulf. "Lord Graistan, we thought you were dead!"

  "Nay, not yet." Her husband laughed, then turned a little so the man could see her. "My love, this is Alain of Coudray, my brother Geoffrey's ballista engineer. Alain is responsible for yon hole in Ashby’s wall. It’s good work you've done here, man."

  "Aye, when Sir Gilliam told my lord that he needed no more than my little toy," Alain waved fondly at his siege engine, "I must admit that Lord Coudray had his doubts. But here we are and so it is. Sir Gilliam, I've already sent a messenger to Lord Geoffrey with the news that he need do no more in your regard."

  "Alain." Three men were coming near, two of them holding a writhing woman dressed in filthy homespun between them. "Look, what we found. These men have had a bit of sport with her, thinking she was one of the house servants before they realized the English with which she cursed them was so odd."

  "Maeve." Gilliam uttered her name in a single cold breath.

  Rowena stiffened and peered out around Rannulf. Maeve’s fair hair was wet and tangled with mud. Her face was bruised, her lip cut and still bleeding. The coarse material of her gown had torn easily under the hands of the men who taken her.

  Maeve raised her head, her gaze locked on the metal-clad Gilliam. "Ah, the beardless boy," she spat out as she slowly raised her head. "How did you like the taste of my revenge?"

  "And what revenge was that?" Rannulf replied, his voice no less cold than his brother’s.

  Maeve started, her head wrenching so swiftly did she look in Rannulf’s direction. "You," she breathed in horror. "But you were locked in. He couldn’t have been quick enough to free you."

  "It appears you misjudged him," Rannulf replied harshly. "We are both here." He moved to stand beside the stool and lay his hand upon Rowena's shoulder. "You’ve done your worst, and it was still inadequate."

  The fair woman's broken and bleeding face twisted in rage. "Nay, damn that stupid cow! She swore to help me. Instead, she betrays me!"

  Rannulf’s cold anger seeped from him to fill Rowena. "A lie for a liar. You’ve used others so often I’m surprised you didn't recognize how she used you."

  Suddenly, Rowena was glad she faced Maeve, that Gilliam's men had brought her here. Had this not happened she would have worried over what became of the woman, and who she next plotted to harm.

  Maeve snarled, then turned her colorless eyes on Rannulf. "Have you opened your eyes yet, Rannulf? Whose get will this wife bear since you don’t sleep with her? Why, if you didn’t have Jordan I might think you incapable. Tut, what a shame you aren’t the virile lover your brother is, so easily setting his seed in Isotte."

  "Nay," Gilliam bellowed, grabbing at his sword hilt to finish what remained of the lady before him.

  "Rannulf," Rowena cried out, "don’t let him."

  Her husband's hand shot out to stop his brother's sword arm. "Hold."

  "Let me still her mouth," his brother pleaded. "She cannot spew her foul lies any longer."

  Rannulf turned to look upon his wife. "Why do you bid him to stop? She forfeited her life this day by her own actions. No soft wish or gentle plea of yours will save her neck."

  "Aye, Maeve has forfeited all," Rowena agreed, "if not for what she did to us, then for Ashby’s dead who now lay upon her soul. But she has the right to confess her sins and be absolved before being sent to face her Maker."

  "Spare me your prattle," Maeve sneered out.

  But Rowena spoke over her. "More importantly, she has asked a question, and she should have her answer before she dies. I won’t have it sit on your brother's soul that he struck out in fear of the past when there’s no cause for it." As she spoke the pain in her womb grew marginally worse. She clutched a little tighter at her belly and shifted uneasily on her stool.

  Rannulf’s smile was slow and pleased. "You’re right. Gilliam, hand me your sword."

  Gilliam reluctantly put his weapon into his brother's hands, Rowena watched Maeve's eyes glitter with satisfaction. So, the woman still dreamed she had some hold over them, that she could use their past to control them.

  "Now," Rannulf said, slightly juggling the sword in his hand as if unconsciously taking its measure, "this foul bitch has asked a question that requires an answer. She wishes to know whose child my wife bears." Maeve sucked in a startled breath, craning her neck to glance between Graistan’s lord and lady as the news caught her by surprise.

  Rannulf smiled, this time the twist of his lips vicious. "That's right, bitch. The child is mine."

  "Nay, I don’t believe you." Maeve let the words fly in desperation. "It’s a lie, a trick. Yon woman," the jerk of her head indicated Rowena, "is all hard words and commands. She does naught, but defy you and challenge your rights at Graistan. She doesn’t even understand how to be your lady. The stupid twit dresses like a servant and behaves like some merchant's wife."

  The despair in her voice sounded almost true. For a moment, Rowena knew a sort of pity for this woman. Was it possible that Maeve had loved Rannulf, at least to the best of her twisted heart's ability?

  Rannulf watched her, his face devoid of emotion. "You offered me a sweet face and pretty poses, and your attitude promised much. But even trapped deep in my mourning I must have sensed your rottenness, for I couldn’t bear your touch."

  Maeve stiffened at this, her eyes flying wide.

  "Would that I could blame you for this havoc you have wrought," Rannulf continued, "but it lays solely upon my shoulders. I needed you to ease my guilt, and in my selfish need I let you run amok among my own people as well as here again, at Ashby. It’s time I put an end to this foul mummery of yours. As is my right I pronounce on you a sentence of death for your crimes. You there"—he pointed to the third man who stood a little aside from the lady—"run into the church and fetch the priest. Once he’s confessed her, she will pay the price for her sins."

  "Kill me, then," Maeve said, then slumped between her captors as if in defeat. Her shift took those who held her by surprise and they staggered a little. In that instant, she surged away from them with all her might. One man cried out as he stumbled and lost his grip on her. As he fell, his grip opening, the other man tripped on him. Maeve leapt free.

  "I will take you with me," she screeched at Rowena and threw herself at Graistan's lady.

  There was no time to scream. Rowena toppled off the flimsy stool, Maeve's hands around her throat. Gasping for breath she pushed at her attacker even as Rannulf roared above them.

  Maeve's enraged expression flattened in surprise. Then she was lifted by the back of her gown. Rowena's husband tossed the woman aside as if she were no more than a child's poppet. He whirled after her as she fell, Gilliam's sword flashing in the air as it followed her descent, then found her flesh with deadly ferocity.

  Rowena lay on the ground, dizzy with pain and stunned by her fall. The new, horrible cramp within her ended suddenly with a surge of warmth between her thighs. Rannulf was beside her, lifting her, crying out when he felt the wetness of her skirt against his arm. Blackness circled in on her.

  She fought it. If she died, then he needed to hear it from her one more time. "Rannulf," she gasped out, leaning her head against his chest, "I love you."

  She sighed. Wakefulness had hovered just out of her grasp for a long while, but the effort to awaken requiring more strength than she could muster. Now, she was buoyed up into it as if lifted from below.

  Something warm lay beneath her palm. She moved her fingers just a little. The warmth closed in, enfolding her entire hand. Her eyes opened.

  Above her was a dark and smoky roof. She frowned. This was wrong. Where was her bed, the wooden ceiling, the hangings?

  Slowly, for it took all the energy she had, she turned her head. "Rannulf," she breathed. More was impossible.

  His face was hollow with worry, his ga
ze soft, but filled with pain. He smiled slowly, his free hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. When he spoke it was in answer to the questions in her eyes.

  "You’re in the midwife's house at Eilington. The blood loss makes you weak, but she says you’re young and strong and will soon be well."

  Rowena frowned. Within her gaped an emptiness where once there had been life. Even as she willed it to be otherwise, tears filled her eyes.

  The pain in her husband’s gaze deepened at this. "Aye, my love, the babe’s gone. Ah, but don’t mourn so. Let me keep you to myself for a little longer."

  She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. He called her his love and wanted to keep her for himself. There was good in that. Her fingers tightened around his. "Home," she murmured.

  "When you are stronger," he told her.

  There was a jostling beside her, then she was lifted into his arms. Rannulf cradled her to him as he rocked her gently in his embrace. Against his broad chest, with her head tucked into the curve of his neck, she felt the steady beat of his heart as if it were her own.

  "I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought you would die before you heard me tell you what I hold in my heart for you. Ah Wren, I love you so. Without you, I’d be nothing but an empty shell, the way you found me. That you could nearly die without hearing me say these simple words. I cannot believe I was so careless with your love for me."

  But they weren’t simple words at all; they were like a magician's spell, creating a wholeness between her and her husband that made them one. This new wholeness closed over Rowena to heal the aching rend left by the babe's departure. It reached further to touch what remained of the solitariness that had always lain at the core of her being. Loneliness fell away in shivering splinters to be replaced with warm contentment.

  She lay easy in his arms for some time. Mayhap she slept, for when she stirred again, she felt refreshed and stronger.