The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  As Gilliam threw back his cloak hood, Elyssa was once again startled by his resemblance to Geoffrey, but her husband's younger brother wore a boyish grin and a wicked sparkle in his eyes. When he was in arm's reach of his brother, he swept Geoffrey into a bone-crushing embrace. "Well met, my mother's oldest son!" he cried out, lifting Geoffrey off his feet.

  "Put me down, you great oaf," Geoff gasped and slammed his fists down onto his brother's shoulders.

  When Gilliam had once more set him on the ground, Geoffrey cuffed him more gently. "Good Christmas to you, my mother's youngest son. And, to you, Lady Nicola," he said, turning on the tall woman. "What, no sword at your side, my lady?" he said, a teasing tone in his voice.

  "Not this day, Lord Coudray," Lady Ashby laughed, throwing back her hood to greet them. Curling dark hair tumbled forth, free and uncovered, but reaching only to her shoulders. Lady Nicola was no great beauty; only her fine hazel eyes saved her from plainness.

  "A sword?" The question fell unconsidered from Elyssa's tongue. "Why would you wear a sword?"

  Lord Ashby answered. “Why, that’s her greatest talent," he said, then paused as if truly considering what he said. "Nay, it’s her second greatest talent, her first one being—".

  His wife gave a quick shriek and caught her hand over his mouth. "Gilliam!" She blushed a fiery red.

  Above her restraining fingers, Gilliam's eyes sparkled, and he quirked his brows. "It’s true," he muttered against her palm, then caught her hand with his, keeping it as if he could not bear to let her go.

  Geoffrey laughed. "True that you lust for your wife or that she's gifted with a sword?" He glanced at Elyssa. "While they are here, we should make them spar. It’s truly awesome to see this frail flower beat my brother senseless. I missed you at Freyne's siege, Lady Nicola," he said.

  Nicola gave a shy lift of her shoulders. "Gilliam would not let me come." She opened her cloak to show the way her green traveling gowns clung to the roundness of her abdomen. "He tried to make me ride in the cart with Lady Rowena and Lady Philippa, but I'd have none of it. Sometimes he confuses me for a weak woman." This sly aside was directed toward her hostess.

  "I would never insult you in such a way, Colette," Gilliam protested, drawing her close. Nicola briefly lay her head on his shoulder, her plain face made lovely with what her heart knew for this man.

  Elyssa smiled at their affection, liking the bold couple. "When does the babe come?"

  "April I think, late in the month."

  From the bailey outside the inner wall, came the jingling of harnesses and the creak of the traveling cart. The dogs went streaming out the gate to greet the new set of visitors.

  "Gilliam, I would go upstairs," Nicola said, a sudden urgency in her voice. "My lady, if you do not mind?"

  Elyssa glanced at Geoffrey, then to Lord Ashby. Gilliam's mouth struggled not to lift. Elyssa looked back to her guest. "But, of course. There is wine waiting, spiced and warmed. If you're not feeling well, you may retire to my solar and there take your ease."

  "My thanks Lady Elyssa," she said in deep relief, then hied herself up the stairs.

  "What plagues her?" Geoffrey asked his brother when she was gone.

  "Rannulf," Gilliam replied. "Although he's long since forgiven her, she doesn't believe it and seeks to avoid him at every turn."

  "What did she do?" Elyssa asked.

  "My lady, Colette was Rannulf's prisoner for months before she and I wed. He didn't like the way she kept battering his men in escape attempts," Gilliam said in an inordinately casual voice. "The final insult came on our wedding day when she kicked him in the stomach just before she stabbed me with her pin." His words were filled with laughter.

  "Nearly ran me down escaping, she did," Geoffrey added.

  Elyssa looked up the stairs after her sister-by-marriage, torn between disgust at so violent a woman and satisfaction that one of her own sex had fought for control of herself. Satisfaction won. "I think I am glad this woman is my son's foster-mother."

  "How so?" Geoffrey asked, startled by her approval of the highly unfeminine Lady Nicola.

  "Such a woman will never allow Jocelyn to treat her with disrespect. In demanding it from him, she also teaches him to behave so toward other women, especially his future wife." Elyssa lifted her chin a notch.

  Both Geoffrey and Gilliam laughed. "Of that there is no doubt," Gilliam assured her. "I’ve married me a dangerous woman, and I am respectful, indeed."

  Men on horseback now filled the courtyard, surrounding the cumbersome cart. The wain's curtains were lowered to protect its occupants. Coudray's servants rushed to throw back the greased panels. Lord Graistan dismounted, recognizable by his height alone as he was as tall as Geoffrey. Shorter than his younger brothers, Lord Meynell joined Graistan at the side of the cart. Like Gilliam, they wore leather armor over dark tunics and thick, woolen chausses, boots cross-gartered to their legs.

  Two women emerged from the wain, both petite and concealed in dark cloaks, one of them bearing a bundled and limp babe over her shoulder. Following them came a boy around Cecilia’s age. His cloak swung and jigged as he trailed after Lord Graistan, hopping and singing to himself.

  The group halted before the stairs, one woman's cloak parting to reveal her gown and overgown were both dyed a rich scarlet. Her overgown's raised hem wore a thick band of silver and gold. The second woman handed her child to Lord Meynell, naming her his wife. Her movement exposed a bluish green gown beneath a darker blue overgown. Both women's faces remained shadowed by their cloak hoods.

  "Rannulf, Richard, well come to my home," Geoffrey offered in greeting.

  "Good Christmas, Geoff," Lord Graistan replied, his hard features softening as he smiled. He turned his pale gray gaze on Elyssa. "You, too, Lady Elyssa."

  "Uncle Geoffrey," cried the lad behind him. The child darted past his sire to throw himself at his uncle's knees. "Is Cecilia here?" The child claimed a strong resemblance to Lord Rannulf, owning the same brown hair color and gray eyes.

  "Elyssa," Geoffrey said by way of introduction as he set his hand atop the lad's head to hold him still a moment, "this is Rannulf s natural son, Jordan. And aye Jordan, Cecilia is here. Jocelyn took her upstairs only a moment ago."

  "Come with me, Jordan," Gilliam offered, thrusting out a hand. "I'll take you into the hall."

  "Not yet." The gentle reprimand came from the woman who must be Lady Graistan. "What must you do first?"

  The boy made a face. "Good Christmas," he said dutifully to his uncle, "and thank you for inviting me." His words trailed off as he ignored his uncle's hand and raced up the stairs. "Cecilia, I am here!" he announced at the doorway above them.

  "Rowena, it’s hopeless." Gilliam laughed then turned to follow his nephew. When he reached the landing, he leaned into the hall and roared, "I am going to catch you!" Several children screamed in delight.

  "I agree with Gilliam, Wren," Lord Rannulf said to his wife as he drew her forward. Offering her hand to Geoffrey, he said to his brother, “Geoffrey, Lord Coudray, and Elyssa, Lady Coudray, I proudly present to you my wife, Lady Rowena of Graistan, otherwise known as Wren."

  Lady Rowena threw back her hood. This woman was no drab wren, but as glorious in color as a peacock. Like Geoffrey, her eye color was a deep blue that was almost violet, her eyes set beneath gently curving brows. Her nose was short and straight, her jaw soft. She wore a wimple sheer enough to reveal her hair was the color of ebony.

  Lord Graistan's wife bobbed to Geoffrey then briefly touched his arm as she smiled. "Lord Geoffrey, I would have known you anywhere. There would be no denying you are Gilliam's kin." She turned to Elyssa and smiled. "It’s good to meet you, my lady. My lord has told me your tale. Glad I am he could aid his brother in your rescue."

  "That’s not what she said at the time," Rannulf remarked. "She moaned and cried over my leaving, begging me not to go, convinced I would never return."

  "Hush, Rannulf," she chided, turning on him. Her crown barely r
eached her husband's jaw. When she looked up into her husband's face, the love that flowed between them was nigh on visible. "I am being polite."

  "So you are," he replied, "but why waste such an amenity on family? Come now, upstairs. That child in you demands you rest."

  "How far gone?" Elyssa asked with the familiarity granted to women when they shared their female experiences.

  "Only two months." Lady Rowena's smile was brilliant with the joy the child within her gave her. "I'd begun to fear it would never again happen after I lost my first."

  "Come then," her husband insisted, "else I bear you upstairs in my arms."

  His worried tone made Meynell's lady laugh, the sound of her amusement sweet. She pushed back her hood. "Rowena, he treats you as if you might break in the next instant." Elyssa turned toward the wife of Geoffrey's eldest brother Richard, as, beside her, she heard Geoffrey's gasp.

  The similarity between Lady Meynell and Lady Graistan could not be coincidence. Her face, framed by the warm woolen scarf she wore in place of a wimple, was the same shape, there was the same lift of cheekbone, short jaw and short, straight nose. The only difference was that Lady Meynell's brows showed a color as golden as Geoffrey's while her eye color was an odd mix of blue and green.

  "Geoffrey," said Lord Meynell, "close your mouth and do not stare so at my wife, else she'll think you rude." Richard of Meynell grabbed his brother's hand then placed his wife's into it.

  "Geoffrey, Lord Coudray, this is my wife, Philippa, orphan of Stanrudde, now Lady Meynell." Laughter touched the man's rough hewn face and glowed golden in his brown eyes. "This," he said, lifting the limp and sleeping babe from his wife's arm, "is my daughter, Alwyna."

  Lady Philippa offered Geoffrey a swift show of respect, then looked shyly, almost fearfully, up at her host. "Temric is teasing you, my lord. I am Rowena's half-sister, our mother's bastard. It was for this reason that you were asked to keep the event private as our relationship cannot bear much scrutiny."

  Indeed, it could not. No less than incest happened when they wed. Elyssa glanced at Geoffrey. The corner of his mouth lifted.

  "Oswald did this?" he asked his eldest half-brother. "This was why you would not face him?"

  "Rannulf twisted his arm tightly indeed," Richard agreed with a smile. "But I was determined my daughter would not be bastard, as we are." The child on his shoulder stirred, crying out against the change of warm cloak into chilly leather.

  Lady Philippa turned to reclaim her babe. Elyssa craned her neck to see. "How old is she?"

  "Nine months now." Philippa cradled her daughter close, making soothing sounds to ease the babe.

  "You named her for your mother?" Geoffrey asked of Richard.

  "Nay, I did," Philippa replied quietly. "His mother wagered me her name for our child so certain was she that Lord Rannulf would see us wed when I had no faith that my husband's brother would even accept me."

  Elyssa felt an instant liking for this woman, then her heart expanded to include the man who loved her so that he fought the Church to make her his wife. She glanced to Lord and Lady Graistan, again aware of how deeply they loved. Lord Graistan laid a possessive arm around his wife, his worry for her no less than his caring. It was no different than the emotions shared by Ashby's lord and lady.

  She turned on Geoffrey. "They are all like you, every one of your brothers. They cherish their wives,” she cried in disbelief. "How can there be four such men in the same family?"

  Geoffrey's face softened as he drew her closer to him. "For that you must blame my parents. I think none of us were willing to settle for less than the happiness my father found in my mother." He touched his lips to her brow then looked at his elder brothers.

  "Good Christmas to you both and well come to my home," he said. "Will you come upstairs and keep the day with us?"

  "Aye," Elyssa added, "come and make merry with us as family should." She went to Philippa offering her arm. "Come sister, bring that babe of yours to my solar so she might rest in a decent bed. You, too," she said to Rowena. "The solar here is comfortable indeed. It will ease your husband to know you are off your feet."

  "She is such a maman, always fussing over folk." Geoffrey laughed and started up the stairs.

  Thank you for reading Autumn's Flame. I hope you enjoyed the story of the fourth of my FitzHenry brothers. If you liked this book (or even if you didn't, I suppose), please consider leaving a review. If you're reading these books in the order I wrote them, you'll be reading A Love for All Seasons next, although I like to think there's no need to read them in that order. Otherwise you can choose a book from the start menu.

  In Autumn's Flame, I not only got to explore both the position of the sheriff and the idea of wardenship, but to share the amazing fact that sheriffs had to witness the birthing process of all pregnant widows. Now that was something I didn't expect, yet made perfect sense against the mind-set of the Medievals. And what was their reasoning for this? It was to prevent unscrupulous relatives, like Reginald, from killing a potential heir as well as preventing a widow from gaining control of property by buying some peasant woman's healthy boychild to replace her own stillborn or female infant.

  As far as this book goes, it was written while I was grieving for my son Adam, who was murdered in 1994 just after Winter's Heat was published. Although the story of his life and death is as dramatic and tragic as any I could conceive of writing, it isn't one I want to write. Suffice it to say that I am now at peace with his passing and part of that peace came out of the issues I allowed Geoffrey and Elyssa to explore in Autumn's Flame.

  And that, as they say, is history.

  Thanks again

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  A Love for All Seasons

  copyright(©) Denise Domning 1996, 2011

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  Cover art by ADKdesigns.biz

  DEDICATION

  To my nieces, Danielle, Melissa, and Katherine, and now Maddison, Anne and Hannah, and to my wonderful granddaughter, Judah, who have all been waiting impatiently to see their names in one of my books. Thank you all for reminding me what it's like to be a little girl.

  Stanrudde

  Two hours past None

  The eve of Saint Agnes's Day, 1197

  Famine walked the land that winter. Folk thronged before the abbey's mossy arched gateway, waiting for bread not blessings. Children cried, women moaned. Men, their shoulders hunched against stinging sleet, jockeyed for better positions. There were so many they packed the small field where the abbey held its yearly market, then spilled around the corner onto the coopers' lane, which followed the eastern edge of the holy house's walled compound. If some of the folk wore the ragged motley of the abbey's usual coterie of beggars, a far greater number dressed in the humble attire of the city's day laborers.

  Johanna, wife to Katel l’Espicer, yanked her plodding palfrey to a halt and stared in horror. "Mary, mother of God!"

  From her pillion perch behind one of the five following menservants, Johanna's maid freed a piteous, "Oh, mistress."

  Shocked beyond response, Johanna could but stare at the crowded market field. If not as rich as London, Stanrudde was an affluent city, which should be able to take care of its own. "Theobald," she cried back to her husband's agent, who rode behind her husband's menservants, "why are these folk not being fed from the town granaries?"

  "Let me pass! Move, you witless oafs," Theobald of Peterborough snapped as he worked his horse forward. Like their servants, he wore the maroon and gray garments of Katel's house. When he came abreast of his mistress, he pushed back his sodden capuchin to reveal a delicate profile framed by a fringe of brown hair and a graying beard. He studied the crowd.

  "There's naught left to feed them and so they know. Despite that, this thieving rabble persi
sts in trying to take a share of what is not theirs by looting warehouses and breaking into the homes of decent tradesmen," Theobald spat out. His gaze swept over the rings gleaming atop Johanna's gloved fingers, then lowered boldly to what little was visible of her thick gold chain and her richest, if oft mended, blue-gray overgown between her cloak's edges. "Given the opportunity, they'd tear you apart for a chance at what you wear."

  Turning in his saddle, Theobald looked at the servants behind them. "We ride on through. If any man reaches for you, kill him." Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he leaned over and snatched Johanna's reins from her grasp, and spurred his horse into motion.

  As her palfrey complacently followed where he led, Johanna turned her gaze downward to glare at the saddletree and indulged herself in hatred, for him, for his master, but mostly for this miserable life of hers from which there was no escape. Despite Katel's promise of the past summer, this morn he'd sent Theobald to force her from her convent retirement after she'd had only five months' peace.

  They started into the crowd. No pathway opened for them. Theobald threw back his head. "Make way," he shouted, "make way for Katel l’Espicer's wife!"

  His call rebounded from the abbey's tall walls then dropped into the instant and unnatural silence that settled over the market field. Every man’s eye turned on their well-fed betters. Of a sudden, Johanna could hear her palfrey breathe and the creak of saddle leather as the horses moved. Harness rings rattled; the icy rain hissed where it hit fabric and spat into the mud. Hostility rode the same damp breeze that brought her the stench of rotting meat from the Shambles. A muted rumbling woke from the throng's far end, passing from mouth to mouth until it was a dark chant trapped between a dead and frigid earth and a leaden, uncaring heaven: the sound of her name.