"Are you quite finished?" Edith raised a single, tawny eyebrow.
"You must be lifeless to the core. Tell me, madam, is there not even a single grain of love within you for your youngest child?"
The woman coolly considered her daughter for a long moment. But, when she turned back to her needlework, Rowena saw that her fingers trembled so badly she could not catch the needle. "You are not my child," she said at last, her voice breaking, "you are your father's spawn. The two of you are as alike in temperament as you are in appearance. Now, you, too, would demand from me what is not yours to demand."
Rowena waved her words away with an impatient hand. "Call it simple curiosity, then, Mother. You spurned me. I will know why."
"You will," she hissed and hurled her handwork at the wall. The wooden frame shattered and fell to the barren floor. A ruthless kick sent linen and wood clattering across the room to rest, splintered and tangled, against the room's single chest. "You will," she repeated with an angry gasp. "Today, you and your sire are the victors. Think you'll someday sweep into this place and hear 'my lady, my lady' from my lips? Place no wagers on it, for I'll yet make a pauper of you. You'll have no groat of what should be mine and Philippa's after me."
"What great hurt could I have possibly done to you before my seventh year to make you despise me so?" Rowena sank into the chair her mother had vacated and cradled her head in her hands. Her parents, locked in a selfish war of hate, had made her their weapon of choice. "Why vent your spleen on me and not Philippa if she is bastard as he says?" Her voice was steady, but within her grew a cold emptiness.
Her mother narrowly eyed her. "If he thinks the world will believe his claim now, after so many years have passed, he is mistaken. I will name his words vicious lies. Aye, I will call your whole marriage contract a lie, fabricated by your father to deny me the chance to regain for Philippa any of the wealth my father stole from me. My father," she went on, her face evilly twisting, "may his soul rot in hell, who saw me wed to the Oaf of Benfield to humble me after my mother's death. Me," she laughed, still incredulous despite the years, "for whom no less than an earl had once been considered. But he never dreamed he'd outlive all his sons and see his daughter's children be his only heir.
"Now, your father foully names my beloved daughter a bastard to leave her with only the paltry fields she took with her when she wed.
"How your father loves you," she said with a crooked grin. "He wanted a powerful husband for you, one who could keep these stolen lands from their rightful owners. It mattered naught to him what sort of man he was. I will give you warning now, Rowena. He is a hard, cold man who seeks only wealth from his marriage to you. Try and cross him as you did your father this morn, and he'll snap you between his hands like a dry twig."
Rowena sagged. Her strength, far overstretched by the events of the day, gave way. She hid her eyes as the words slipped from her in a whisper. "Help me, Sweet Mary Mother of God, I am afraid, I am greatly afraid."
"You?" Edith asked with a sneer. "You, the haughty, commanding woman who so recently dared her father to beat her to death, are afraid?"
Rowena shrugged. The movement of her shoulders conveyed both insolence and vulnerability at once. "Life has taught me bitter lessons, madam. I am, as you have said, commanding. I am also prideful and solitary by nature. The priest at the convent admonished me to adopt gentleness and meekness in my manner." She drew a shaky breath. "I swear by the Virgin, I tried, I truly did. I cannot change. It is not in my nature to be less than I am. Now tell me, Mother, how well will my husband like me?"
Her mother smiled in grim satisfaction. "Poor rich heiress. He will not like you at all, but, then, you have been purchased for your lands and your womb. No matter whether you bear him sons or no, I do not imagine you will live long after Philippa receives the rights to my inheritance, and you are poor once again. He's killed two wives before you, you know."
She twitched the soft material of her skirt away from her feet, then went to the window and opened the shutter. Light once more filled the room. Edith stared out at the sky for a long moment before speaking once again. "God curses women who dare to dream of love or who hope for respect. Arrogant brat, you thought you would fly free of all this with your convent-inspired ambitions? Well, welcome to earth with the rest of us sinners." There was a tap at the door. "Come," she called out.
Several maids entered bearing a ewer of water and arm loads of clothing. When her mother turned away from the window, her hate was once again well hidden behind a bitter mask. "Stand up, daughter. You must be dressed now."
It was pointless to resist, so Rowena did as she was bid. All too soon the maids had washed away the signs of her travels and her hurts. She donned a fine linen chemise, then an undergown of deep blue. Its high neckline had been stiffened by heavy embroidery done with silver thread, no doubt her mother's handiwork. This design was repeated in unheard of luxury about the wrists of the undergown's close-fitted sleeves. Her overgown was sleeveless and made from samite in a shimmering rose red. The same, silvery pattern of embroidery trimmed its shortened hemline. All this finery was caught at her waist with a silk belt sewn and studded in silver. The crowning touch was a fine, silver- and-pearl band, which capped her free-flowing black hair.
She smoothed the luxurious materials of her clothing over the full lines of her body, then touched the rich band. "A fortune wasted on an unwilling bride," she murmured.
Edith sneered. "My husband seeks to buy Lord Graistan's respect. You have been clothed to the limit of my father's tightly held purse and in the highest fashion as a part of your dowry."
"To what end?" Rowena's laugh was harsh. "Neither I nor my appearance is of any importance to this husband of mine." She lifted a rich, fur-lined mantle, threw it over her shoulders and fastened the clasp. The dark cloak nearly extinguished the brightness of her bridal costume in its heavy folds. "I am ready."
Her mother threw open the door and stood aside. Rowena swept past her into the hall. There were no ties to bind her to the past. All that remained was the future.
Chapter 2
Rowena's step did not falter as she left the bedchamber, but she paused as she drew nearer to the center of the hall. The two men who stood in the circle of firelight at the huge hearth were deeply immersed in argument. Any information she might garner before being noticed might likely prove beneficial. As her mother started past, Rowena caught her arm. With a silent motion she asked for a few moments to eavesdrop. Edith shot her daughter a hard look, then shrugged in acquiescence.
It was not unusual for a long, narrow room such as this to ring with the noise of its many occupants. But, for now, the castle folk were maintaining a discreet silence so they might better hear the quarrel without appearing to do so. She strained to see the noblemen.
Dressed in a garish costume of red and blue and bejeweled in the newly inherited wealth, her father paced angrily before the fire. Only when he whirled away did she clearly see the other man who must be Lord Graistan, her husband-to-be. He stood a full head taller than her father, which meant he would tower over her.
When he tilted his head slightly, she saw his jaw-line was clean shaven against the fashion set by King Richard, called the Lionheart. Thick, burnished chestnut hair curled lightly over the collar of his mantle. When he lifted a hand, firelight caught in the gemstone of his only ring. In his simple tawny brown tunic beneath a sturdy, plain mantle, he hardly looked the part of a bridegroom.
To others it might appear that Lord Graistan stood casually before the hearth, but she recognized full well the pride that infected the set of his shoulders and the arrogance in the line of his jaw. Carefully, cautiously, she slipped forward to hear what they were saying.
Just then Lord Benfield stopped in his strutting anger and threw his arms wide in frustration. "Why do you now play the reluctant bridegroom? I must hear from others that you plan to delay the wedding, and I am forced to summon you here to confront you. I thought you agreed to wed my dau
ghter." His words echoed through the quiet hall.
Rowena cringed. Surely, the servants found this wholly reluctant bridal couple more diverting entertainment than any musician, mummer, or juggler.
When the trembling echoes died away, Lord Benfield continued in a somewhat quieter voice. "It was my belief you found our terms satisfactory. Have I not already given your churchman cousin our contract and all the rest you desired him to hold for you? Why then must I force your hand to conclude this deed only to have you seek for some other excuse by which to withdraw?"
"How reluctant can I be, Benfield?" Lord Graistan said, his voice deep and his words unhurried. "I am here. I simply thought you might wish to arrange a more elaborate affair for the wedding of your daughter and heir."
"You simply thought!" her father mocked. "This is nothing more than a ploy to prevent this marriage until Lent is upon us and no marriages might be made."
"I would hardly call Prince John's attempt to steal his brother's throne a ploy. Nor did I ask to be called to arms to serve my king."
Rowena raised her brows in grudging admiration for his clever phrasing, but her father was not dissuaded. "You twist my words against me," he protested. "'Tis you who would use a siege which might last for months to escape an obligation that could be dealt with in a day and night's time. You knew I wished this deed completed swiftly. If you had intended in good faith to wed my daughter, you'd have paid the scutage instead of going yourself."
"Too many men these days seek to shirk their knightly duties that way." The words were a naked rebuke. "Besides, where's the hurry? Our contract will stand. Let us celebrate a betrothal this day and a wedding this summer when the weather is pleasant and I am released from service. My cousin will officiate, and your new vassals as well as mine will attend. Although my men have all approved our contract, they will feel slighted if I wed in seeming secrecy."
"Betrothal is not enough." Her father clenched his fists in impotent rage. "What will happen to her if you spill your life's blood on the field of Nottingham? I must needs begin again the search for a husband to wed her."
"Your concern for me is touching," the tall man returned dryly, "if somewhat misplaced. The taking of Nottingham will most likely be a tiresome and dirty affair, but not particularly dangerous. Besides, in my family it is not the men who die young." The honest bitterness that stained his words told Rowena he had mourned the wives he'd lost and made lies of her mother's words about murder.
"I want her wedded and bedded now," her father demanded. Then he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath. His words were calmer when he spoke again. "Perhaps you do not intend to fall at Nottingham, but I have not the arrogance to defy death. I cannot afford to leave her unmarried when her claim to these lands will be contested by her sister's husband. I came to you because I was told you would be a strong and just protector. Have I found one?"
"You have, but what if I insist upon betrothal?" Lord Graistan shrugged as if he, himself, did not expect his request to be taken seriously.
Benfield stared at him. "I would consider our contract void. She must be married as quickly as possible. Will you allow her dowry to slip so easily from your fingers?"
Lord Graistan nodded slowly. He had expected no other response. "So, where is this prize of yours?"
At his words, Edith stepped forward. Her movement caught her husband's eye, drawing his attention to his daughter. "Here she is now. Rowena!" He beckoned imperiously.
She crossed the room to them and dropped into a deep curtsy before Lord Graistan. As she straightened, she looked boldly up at him. His eyes were gray and as hard and cold as the stones that made up the keep walls. The harsh angles and planes of his face gave his features a bitter cast. Not even the tendrils of dark hair that lay lightly against his cheekbones lent him any softness. He could easily snap her in two, she thought, once again revising her mother's terrible claim.
He studied her intently in callous appraisal from the pearls in her hair to the toes of her plain shoes. There was an expression of slight surprise on his face when he once again met her gaze. "You jest," he finally said, his eyes never leaving hers. "She does resemble you, Benfield, but this cannot be your daughter."
Her father's anxious gaze darted between them as he stuttered in nervous agitation. "What! Now you would accuse me of attempting to pass another off as my daughter? What nonsense is this, Graistan? Rowena"—he jerked angrily on her arm—"stare not upon your betters. If you seek to destroy with your rudeness what has been so carefully planned, I swear I will see you flayed alive."
She shot her father a scathing glance, but bowed to the possibilities in his words and studied the rushes that lay deep on the floor.
"Nay, Benfield," Lord Graistan snapped. "You spoke volumes of her convent-guarded virtue, but not once did you mention her appearance."
"What has her appearance to do with the marriage contract?" her father spat out. "Had you spoken of your desire to see her, I would have arranged it."
"I thought you had confined your daughter to a convent because she was an ill-favored wench. At her age what should I have expected?"
Rowena smiled even as her father laughed. "Are you saying you wish my daughter were ugly?"
She could not resist peering up at him from her meek pose. Lord Graistan's face was clouded in irritation until he caught her amused glance. He trapped her gaze with his, and his finely arched eyebrows slowly rose. Seemingly against his will, a smile steadily bent his lips. In that moment he changed.
Gone was the dour, glowering lord. In his place stood an attractive man with a warm and charming smile who made no attempt to hide his amusement even though it was directed at himself. "Do not ask me to explain," he said, his words touched with laughter, "for I will not."
She was not prepared for this. Here was a powerful, complex lord in the prime of his life while she was an overeducated, overaged woman with no experience at all with men. What sort of marriage could this be?
"What is this?" He crooked a finger beneath her chin and slightly tilted her head. "She is bruised, Benfield."
Her father only grunted. "She misunderstood something I told her this morn."
"I see" was all Lord Graistan said. After a quiet moment, he continued. "It appears there are no further impediments here. May I escort you to the chapel, my lady?" He inclined his head in invitation as he offered Rowena his hand.
"As you command, my lord." She took his hand, although she was reluctant to do so.
He quickly lead her between the long trestle tables, expertly dodging the servants who were placing additional torches along the wall. Once past the hall door, they carefully picked their way across the bailey until they reached the keep's gate. Here they stopped, no more than a dozen steps from the walls and the village church, which would serve noble as well as peasant this day.
"Now it is your father who delays us," he said. She looked past his shoulder at the hall. Her parents had yet to emerge from the door. The barest hint of mockery touched his tone as he spoke on, "Tell me, my lady, surely you must pine for a more elaborate ceremony. All this haste seems unnatural to me."
Rowena felt no need to be truthful. "It matters naught to me, my lord." The chill breeze caught at her mantle until the rich garment billowed out behind her. With trembling hands, she pulled it more tightly around her. Why did the cold not seem to affect him? She shivered again.
He stepped nearer until the greater build of his body shielded her from the wind. "Then, you are most unusual among women if the poverty of this affair does not concern you. Or perhaps"—he took her hand again, his fingers intertwining with hers— "it is only that you do not find me to your liking."
Rowena glanced sharply at him. "You are teasing me, my lord. I have seen you for only a few moments and spoken to you even less. How could you expect me to know whether I found you to my liking or no?" Asperity honed her words to a fine edge.
Lord Graistan's smile did not touch the guarded expression in his gray eyes.
"I am gratified to know you have yet to judge me, my lady. I am very vain and could not easily tolerate a harsh verdict. Do you suppose the servants are disappointed we do not act the part of lovers?"
She started in surprise at this nonsequitur. "Lovers? We are barely acquainted. The servants know that." Did he think she was a fool?
"Oh, but even the barest hint of affection would please the crowd." He gestured to the serving folk and peasantry, who watched them from a respectful distance.
She eyed him narrowly. "My life is no man's entertainment." He was toying with her, the way a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it. His faintly mocking smile was proof of that.
There was a moment's silence between them, then she could resist her question no longer. "Might I ask you something?" When he inclined his head, she continued. "It does not concern you that I am an unwilling wife?"
This made him laugh out loud. It was a deep, rich sound of amusement. Then, still grinning widely, he said, "My sweet, all wives are unwilling. That is the nature of wives. Come, it is time." Her parents came to join them and, much too quickly, she stood with him before the doorway of the tiny village church.
The priest nervously cleared his throat. This was an awesome moment for one so humble as he. Noble marriages were always celebrated at the abbey. He was just a peasant's son who knew more of flocks and fields than Latin rites. Before him now stood both his present lord and one even greater who would someday hold this manor. He turned to the bride and asked if she entered willingly into holy matrimony.
"Of course she does," Lord Benfield growled out. "Get to the meat of it."
Winter's Heat Page 2
