"Are the women's quarters so far?"
"A world away, my lady." She hurried out with her lady's gowns, closing the door behind her.
Rowena lay in the bed, savoring the soft mattress. Slowly her frozen limbs began to warm and relax. Her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. There was something familiar about this bed, but she could not put her finger on what it was. Then, just as she drifted into sleep, she realized that the bedclothes smelled ever so faintly of her husband.
Chapter 5
At dawn, just as requested, Ilsa awakened her mistress and Rowena eased her sore muscles in a warm bath. When she at last toweled herself dry with a rough linen cloth, her clothes, cleaned and dry, lay across her newly made bed. She lifted her cloak to examine it. "Hugo?" she asked.
"There's a laundress with a bruised eye this morning" was the old woman's response.
"I see." She dressed with her usual care, but her new maid had a way of tightening the overgown's laces that made the old thing cling to her every curve. Afterward, she nervously submitted while her hair was combed and plaited. It was odd to have someone do this most intimate chore. When the last ebony strand was confined, a fine cloth was draped around her head and face. A thin gold band studded with gleaming blue stones held the wimple in place.
"There," Ilsa said with a satisfied breath. " 'Tis good that I locked away some of my Ermina's belongings up here. When our fine Master Hugo gets his sticky fingers on things, they go into his chests and rarely come back out. Oh, see how the stones complement the color of your eyes."
Rowena could not recall the exact color of her eyes. The last time she'd given any thought to her image, she'd been a scrawny woman-child with eyes too big for her face and wild black hair that ever threatened to escape her demure wimple. But, as she took the polished metal mirror the old woman offered, she raised a finger to touch in disbelief this reflection.
Eyes of deep blue stared back at her from beneath thick, dark lashes. The sheer wimple and rich band made her ebony hair glow with hidden lights. Her smooth, pale skin brightened with a dismayed blush when she realized her vanity. "How quickly a dowdy nun can be corrupted," she murmured, handing back the mirror. "Best you take this thing before I begin to believe what I see."
She stood and brushed away her unease as she smoothed her gown. "Ilsa, I want to meet the ranking servants these next days. Must I use my bedchamber or the hall? Is there no solar?"
"There is a solar, lady, but it has been locked since Lady Isotte's death some five years ago."
Only Rowena's clasped hands gave away her rush of excitement. Surely the solar would match this room in luxury. Although she ached to see it now, it would have to wait until after mass. "Good. Our first chore after we break our fast shall be to open that room. We have not yet missed mass, have we?" She threw her cloak over her shoulders, then belted it until only a bit of her borrowed gown showed.
"You will attend mass, my lady?"
She stared at her maid from over her shoulder, astounded at the other's surprise. "But, of course." Everywhere, everyone attended mass each morning, did they not?
"Of course, my lady, of course." Ilsa's wrinkled cheeks creased in a contented smile as she preceded her mistress out of the room.
Access to the chapel lay directly off the hall. Accustomed to the larger abbey church, this small nave seemed narrower still because of the thick supporting pillars. Nor did it appear that the servants were required to attend, as only a few older folk stood waiting for the service to start. Well, that would change. As of the morrow, everyone would be present for the good of their souls.
Still, all was not poverty and disuse. Expensive candles in gilded branches revealed delicate carvings in the stonework. Dawn's light shone through the narrow window behind the altar and caught in the golden embroidery of a fine altar cloth. There was a strong similarity between this handiwork and the hangings in her bedchamber.
The castle's chaplain was stone-deaf with the fragile, bent look of the very old, yet he warmly greeted his new lady before moving to the altar. In a voice deep beyond his withered body and beautiful beyond his plain face, the old man sang out the service. She lost herself in the power and majesty of this familiar ritual. The soaring Latin phrases lent her their strength as they lifted her spirits. Once again, she felt connected and whole. As the last note died away into shivering silence, she knelt a moment longer, unwilling to give up her precious serenity. When she finally stood, she was at peace with the Lord God and ready for this day.
The few steps from chapel door to hall brought her soundly back to earth. The dirt and darkness was worse than she remembered. Narrow, defensive windows cast their hopeless slivers of light into the smoky dimness. Neither the smoldering torches nor the roaring blazes on the twin hearths could alleviate the skulking shadows. She stared in disgust at the dogs rooting through the rushes for scraps they most surely would find.
Breaking the fast at Graistan seemed a casual affair. Although the nuns at the abbey fasted through the morning meal, their servants had dined on warm vegetable potage, fresh breads, and both hard and curded cheeses. Here, there was only one table other than the lord's, and it was set with two small wheels of cheese and hard rolls. Nothing warm was offered nor would anyone be tempted to tarry when no place to sit was available.
Rowena frowned. Productivity was better gained with honey than vinegar. It was patently obvious that vinegar had not worked at all in this hall.
The Lady Maeve was already at the high table. Her rich mantle lay open to display a gown of rose red beneath an overgown of the palest blue trimmed in vain. Brilliant gems glittered at the woman's throat and wrists. Rowena grimaced in dismay, not wanting to waste time in polite conversation when there was so much to be done. But, there was no help for it. She crossed the room and chose a bench near, but not too near, the noblewoman.
"Good morrow, dear Rowena," Lady Maeve purred in greeting, using her lady's Christian name in unwarranted familiarity. "How well you look this morning. Last night your face was so pinched and pale, I felt sure you would fall ill. Where did you get that band? You must give me your jeweler's name. It is so lovely, but your costume hardly does it justice."
She leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Do not tell me you've nothing else to wear but that old thing. Nuns are not the ones to stress the importance of attire, so perhaps you do not know. Your position as lady here requires a finer dress than that."
"My thanks for your concern," Rowena replied with a smile as she used her eating knife to cut herself cheese and bread. After a single bite, she pushed it away. The cheese was salty and tough, and the bread tasted sour. She carefully tasted her watered wine. Vinegar. She set it aside. "Did I mishear you when you said your sister was wife to my husband?"
"Oh, how clever you are to remember that from last night," the woman replied ingenuously. "Aye, Isotte, God rest her soul, was wife to Rannulf. When my husband died nigh on two years ago, my stepchildren threw me from my only home and paid me only a pittance for my dower properties. I had no one to turn to save Rannulf. His undying love for Isotte led him to open his home to me. I have tried to repay him by acting as his housekeeper, but as you have shown me, I have done poorly at it." Her face was the picture of dismay as she glanced around. "It is such a large home, and there is so much to keep straight."
"Perhaps, if you had lifted a finger," Sir Gilliam growled, startling both women, "but that would have been too much for you. Good morrow, my lady," he said to Rowena as he seated himself at the far end of the table. He wore a rough, mud-stained tunic and heavy boots. His complexion was reddened, as though he'd already been outside for hours. "Your carts have arrived."
"Good news," she said with a smile, then decided not to hesitate. "Do you know of any reason I should not unlock the solar for my own use?"
Maeve's gasp was audible. "Surely Rannulf did not give you that freedom. Why, he never allowed me—" she stopped abruptly.
The young knight grinned malevolently at
her, then he turned to his lady. "Since the room was built for my mother and Rannulf said you were to be treated as she was, you must open it. No doubt it is locked to keep those who should not use it from doing so." He shot a black look across the table at the fair-haired woman, but she only smiled sweetly in return. "Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he snapped.
"Not yet, sweetling," she replied, then with a studied, languid motion she stretched, displaying her lush curves beneath the tightly fitted gown. He grunted and looked away.
"Has Temric departed yet?" Rowena asked, glancing between the two of them.
He cut himself a slab of cheese and stuffed it in his mouth. "At daybreak," he replied, spewing crumbs across the table. He followed the cheese with an entire slice of bread and washed it down by drinking directly from a nearby pitcher. "Did you wish to send a message with him for my brother?" he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Not particularly," she murmured, shocked at his boorish behavior. Lord Rannulf had used his manners to goad her, but at least he'd had them to use.
"Pig," Lady Maeve said mildly, although her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Lack of manners will not drive me from this table. You will sorely rue the day you go too far."
He ignored her and kept his attention on his lady. "You look rested. I take it my brother's chambers suit you well." This was followed by a sly glance toward the other woman, as if he expected a reaction.
But she simply turned toward the Lady Graistan and added, "Yes, dear, is that bed not deliciously comfortable?"
"How would you know? You've never laid your skinny backside on it." The angry words carried clearly about the room. His look was pure hatred.
"Are you certain of that or are you only hunting again?" she answered with a silvery laugh. "Best you be careful, I may someday tell you what you want to know. For now, I must go. The girdler in town has finished my new belt." She rose and walked with studied grace toward the stairway.
"Have a care and do not grow tired on your journey," Sir Gilliam called after her. "We would not want you to have to search out an empty bed so far from home."
Her beautiful features twisted in rage as she whirled to face him. Instantly, patience replaced the anger. "Oh, silly boy," she chided him, "you are such a tease." Her gay laughter followed her from the hall. As she disappeared up the stairs, the young knight sprang to his feet and strode angrily from the room without a word or glance at his new lady.
Rowena stared after them for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "Well," she said to herself, "welcome to Graistan keep." With that, she stood and glanced around the room for a place to start.
"You," she called to a young boy sweeping halfheartedly at the ashes in the hearth. The boy squeaked and cowered in fright behind his broom. "Call together the scullery lads." The boy did not move until she clapped her hands and said, softly, "Now." He instantly leapt to his task.
"You," she motioned to a woman, "see that the boys clean these tables." Then, fearing the meaning of the word clean would be misunderstood, she amended her command. "I mean scrubbed until they are naught but smooth wood. The rest of you, remove these filthy rushes and burn them. But, before you lay others, this floor is to be washed, twice. Is there a pantler?"
"Here, my lady," a man stepped forward.
"The bread tastes sour. Your flour is bad."
"But, my lady"—the man practically groveled— "that is all we have. I can do no better."
Rowena rolled her eyes. "I was not accusing, so do not waste my time with excuses. For now I want you to look to the stairs outside yon door. If there is ice on them, sprinkle them with salt. And you"—she pointed to another man—"tell the stable master that I want straw spread throughout the courtyard before this hour closes. Ilsa"—she gestured to her maid who waited nearby for her—"gather the women you need and meet me in my chambers." She turned and ascended the staircase, satisfied by the swift reactions to her commands.
The women presented themselves to her in the passageway, then she looked to Ilsa. "And the solar is—?" She raised her hands in question.
"This way, my lady." The old woman entered her master's bedchamber and crossed to the hearth wall. There she lifted a heavily embroidered panel to reveal a door. "When I first came here with my Ermina, she was Lord Gilliam's mother, there was no door here. It was all one room with the women's quarters."
The cloth slipped from her hands, burying the woman in its dusty folds. She pushed back the hanging again then threw her meager weight at the door. It didn't move. "In those days they used only curtains to separate the sleeping area from the solar and solar from the women's quarters. Lord Henry built these walls to make Ermina her own, private chamber."
"Is there no other way in?"
"There is, but it has been locked from the inside."
Rowena stepped forward and yanked the hanging from the wall, raising a cloud of dust. Her hands were now streaked with dirt. Perhaps she would be glad she wore nothing finer before the day was done.
Ilsa looked down at the dust pile then back at her lady. "You will have quite a task with this keep."
"So I've noticed, but I am equal to it." She brushed off her hands and tried the latch. "It's not locked, only caught. Push with me." They threw themselves against the door. With a splintering creak, it swung open. Rowena stepped within and gasped in pleasure.
Although the air was cold and musty, dust motes danced along a row of windows where the newborn day pried through the shutters. She stepped quickly to the wall and threw back the wooden panels, then turned a slow studious circle to memorize every detail while hardly daring to believe what she saw.
The jeweled tints on the walls glowed to life in this little bit of winter-weakened light. From the pleasant herringbone pattern in the stonework above the hearth to the small chairs pushed to one side, this was a room meant to please a beloved wife not confine a woman. A quick brush of her hand through the layer of dust and cobwebs on the wall revealed an elaborate crisscross pattern painted in reds and greens on the plastered wall. From each cross a bluebird darted upward, as if startled.
"It is so beautiful," she finally breathed. "Why should a room such as this be neglected? Such a treasure should not be so abused."
Ilsa shrugged. "Lord Rannulf's second wife, Lady Isotte, said the windows let in evil humors so she sickened each time she entered. Methinks the sickness was within herself." This was a quiet underbreath. "So, it had little use during her short reign here. After her death, Lord Rannulf left only my lady's things in the room and ordered it locked." The old woman crossed the room to open the far door, then smiled at a serving woman's startled gaze. "Here are the woman's quarters."
Rowena opened the door opposite the windows. Maeve stopped short in the passageway with a cry of feigned surprise. "Oh, my," she gasped, "you startled me." She stepped inside and peered curiously around. All the serving women, including Ilsa, backed away from her, but she did not seem to notice.
The Lady Graistan ignored the noblewoman as she addressed her maids. "I want to use this room yet today, so your cleaning must be both thorough and swift. Take care you do not leave even a single strand of spider silk for me to find. Move the long table over there and set these two chairs before the hearth." She pointed at the moth-chewed cushions lying on their seats. "Can you replace those?"
"We will find you something," said Ilsa, already brushing dust from the table. "And you will have the room before midday."
"So be it," her lady said with satisfaction. "Oh, waiting in the carts below is a bed. I want it set up in my chamber since it is the finer piece. Store that one." She pointed to her husband's bed.
"But that was Rannulf's mother's." Maeve's silky voice brought all attention back to her. "Why, how often he has shared with me the story of that bed." She looked through the door into the chamber beyond it. "I have often admired its beauty."
Rowena stared hard at the woman with her painted face. It would hardly surprise her to learn her husba
nd had slept with the sultry bitch despite the threat of incest. But, if the creature thought that gave her some claim here, she was greatly mistaken. "Since you have admired the bed, perhaps we could give it to you so you may have the use of it."
The serving women tittered their amusement, but the comment did not give Lady Maeve even an instant's pause. "Why thank you for offering, sister, but there is hardly room for it in the women's quarters."
"Well, then, it must be stored. Oh, and by the by, does your offer of assistance still stand? There is so much to do this day." She waited, knowing full well what the answer would be,
"How I would like to," the noblewoman replied with a sigh that was meant to convey consternation, "But I did promise the girdler I would be at his shop this morn. Perhaps when I return?" She let the question hang in the air while she nodded her farewell and left the room.
Rowena's laugh was short and hard, then she turned to the women. "Now, since you know what you must achieve, I am off to the kitchen to see what I can do with the food in this place." She retreated to her bedchamber and removed her cloak. Practicality won over image; it was going to be a long, dirty day and was much better faced in something she did not mind ruining. As she made her way slowly from her bedchamber to the hall, she cataloged in her mind the chores to be done and who would do them. How odd that the removal of a single bed could make her feel as if this place was home.
Hours later found her at the foot of the steep, twisting stairs in the keep's northwest comer. Far above her on the tower's third floor lay a tiny wall chamber and her destination. She hesitated.
It made no sense. If Rannulf so prized his bastard son, why did he keep the poor child trapped in this room away from hearth and kitchen? Well, no longer. A man-child, even an illegitimate one, was the promise of the future and needed to be carefully guarded.
She glanced down at herself and wiped dirt-streaked hands on her skirt. The filth of Graistan was horrendous, and it seemed as if most of it now coated her. After the noon meal, she'd donned a servant's rough overgown to protect her clothes. She could hardly wait to be out of them and soaking in a tub of warm water. Well, as soon as this chore was finished, so was her day.
Winter's Heat Page 7
