How odd. In Gilliam's message, he'd said she'd sent him out to gather the information. Her words made it sound as though it had been the boy's idea. Was she being kind or self-effacing?
" 'I do most humbly petition you to allow me access to your treasury to make these accountings. If you doubt my ability, I am capable to the task as my dear lady abbess did ask me to work with her cellaress, and I found in those tasks great satisfaction. We here at Graistan all wish you well in your endeavor and pray that you may return as soon as the Lord God will allow. Your most dutiful servant and wife, Rowena, Lady Graistan.'"
His eyes caught and held on the word dutiful. She used the word to mock him, to remind him of how he'd rejected her. His fingers dug into the sheepskin; his stomach churned angrily at her audacity. But she'd written on beneath her signature.
" 'I must recommend Sir Gilliam to you for all his help and assistance regarding my concerns. He has been forthcoming with all that I have needed and most anxious to make certain that those things that belong to you are well tended and secure. Although there has been little threat here to require his strong arm, what challenges he has faced have been swiftly resolved in our favor. Also, your bailiffs send word that his judgments are well received.'"
Rage blazed to life in his heart. Her economical words did not hide the thrust of her meaning. She taunted him by pretending she loved his brother in revenge for his treatment of her on their wedding night. He shoved the letter into the brazier. It exploded into stinking flame.
It took three wineskins and a week's time to wash away the taste of her words. When he had recovered enough to write his response, he wrote to Gilliam and sent Temric with it to be his eyes and ears at Graistan.
By the last week of March the keep and its confines were completely cleaned and refurbished. Even the stables and barns were scrubbed, re-thatched, and whitewashed. The storerooms, once barren, had been swept clean and were being refilled with newly purchased foodstuffs.
A rare afternoon sun streamed into the solar, warming the room and bringing the painted birds into vibrant life. Rowena watched the courtyard while she waited for Hugo Wardrober to appear. Chickens scratched and pecked near the stables while a gaggle of geese waddled out the inner gate and toward better pickings in the bailey. With growing irritation, she turned back toward the room. A half an hour had passed since she'd sent for him.
Sir Gilliam and Temric were engrossed in their discussion of the siege of Nottingham. Her brother by marriage sprawled in one of her small chairs, his long legs stretched out before him. His favorite alaunt bitch lay curled at his feet, her tail thumping the floor in the pleasure of being near her master. Her husband's master-at-arms stood stiffly at the hearth, still wearing his hauberk, cloak, and boots as though he did not intend to stay long.
"My lady, did you call for me?" In his finest robe and studded belt, Hugo posed arrogantly at the door to her solar. His features were pulled into an impatient sneer, his bald pate held high, his attitude leaving no doubt that he'd delayed his arrival as long as possible. He glanced around the room and saw Temric. "Ah, so you have received the reply to your request."
"Come within," she said flatly and, without waiting to see whether he did so or not, seated herself opposite the young knight.
The master-at-arms produced a single, folded sheet of parchment. "This message is directed by my lord to his steward—"
"Ha, he does not even address the message to you," the wardrober interrupted.
"Enough." The steel in Sir Gilliam's voice instantly silenced the man.
"However," the soldier then continued, "he suggests that the first portion of the letter, which deals with your requests to him be read in the presence of Hugo Wardrober so no misunderstandings might be had. The second portion is a private message to Sir Gilliam." He handed the sealed parchment to Gilliam, then retreated to stand behind the young man's chair, his expression closed as always.
"Here, you read it." Graistan's illiterate steward handed the missive to her. She had yet to understand why her husband would give a job that demanded education to a man that could neither read nor write. The young knight would be far better employed as the castellan of some small keep.
She took it, smoothed open the parchment, and read: " 'To my brother and steward, Gilliam FitzHenry, greetings:' " The large, clear script was easy to follow even though it curved downward along the page. Had he written it or was this a clerk's doing? " 'It is my hope that this message finds you in good health as yours found me. It has come to my attention that my lady has spoken in my name to local merchants in order to purchase supplies for our keep. I am loath to believe as some would have me that you allowed her such excess without need. If you deem these purchases to be sensible, then she is to be indulged.
" 'If my lady wife desires to review the accounts, so be it. To that end, I command my master of the wardrobe to give his lady free access to the accounts.' "
Hugo gasped. "Nay, you have read that to your own advantage." He grabbed the parchment from her fingers and scanned the words. "Nay, my lord, you cannot!" he cried out in protest, as if his lord sat in the room rather than far away to the north of them. Then, realizing the futility of what he did, he shoved the letter back at his lady. "Never," he spat out, fair stuttering over the word, "have either Lord Henry or Lord Rannulf questioned my work. Now, you, a mere woman—"
"Nonetheless, Hugo"—Gilliam's growl interrupted him—"you have heard my brother's command."
Still sputtering in indignation, he glared at them all. "I do this because he commands me to, and I will do it only under certain conditions. Only in my presence may you enter the treasury so I can see you do not mutilate my many years of work. I'll have no ink stains or ragged corners torn away by your clumsiness. Nor will you be allowed to alter any figure or make any notations. The only hand that writes within those books is mine." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, muttering the world must surely be coming to an end when a husband let his wife into his accounts.
The young knight laughed at his receding back, the sound short and surprised. "I never knew the man had so much passion. Is there more to the letter?"
"Aye." She opened it further and continued reading. " 'The siege here proceeds as we had expected. Nottingham is as strong a keep as any in England. Machines have come from Leicester and Windsor
and men from every reach in realm. Despite this, we still sit and wait, unable to crack the nut and rid it of its poisoned meat.
" 'Our king, may God preserve him, has returned to our shores. It is hoped that he will soon be at Nottingham to bring this action to its rightful end. Both Marlborough and Lancaster have fallen. It is said that the constable of St. Michael's Mount died of fright when he learned his monarch had arrived. Neither Tickhill nor Nottingham are so easily taken.
" 'I hope my marriage has not been too great a burden to you. Please forgive me the surprise of sending such a vixen' "—She stopped, her face red—"Perhaps you would rather read this for yourself." She started to hand it to him.
He waved her off. "Read it? Not I. You know I've got no knack for it; my eyes cross just looking at the thing. Finish the letter, my lady." His eyes were not crossed; instead they gleamed in impish amusement. She cleared her throat.
"Ah—" She hesitated, her eyes scanning over her husband's complaints at being forced into marriage to a shrew. "I cannot quite make out the words, the ink's been blotted," she said, her face still bright red. "He finishes with 'Your brother and lord, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan.' "
She laid the parchment on the table and stared hard at Gilliam. His smile told her he didn't believe her. Her gaze shifted to Temric, the bearer of this missive. As always, his features were as if carved from stone.
"And you, Temric, how do you fare?"
"Me, my lady?" Her question sent his eyebrows near to his hairline.
The younger man laughed. "His face will crack if he talks."
He growled something beneath his breath an
d shot the knight a pointed look. "I am well, my lady, thank you for your concern. You have accomplished a miracle here. The smell from the cooking shed is remarkable on its own. And I cannot recall ever seeing the hall so clean."
Gilliam sat bolt upright. "Amazing! A veritable waterfall of words!"
"Bah," the older man spat out, "your infernal silliness no longer becomes you, boy. I warned Rannulf that making you steward was a waste; that you would never grow up."
"Have I erred?" The knight leapt to his feet, his skin flushing with the reproof. "Has Rannulf seen fit to chastise me? Ask our lady, since you seem to prize her so highly. She knows I did not shirk in the task she set me about. Neither has my sword been idle. There are a dozen thieves who will no longer harass our holdings this year."
The commoner held up his hands in submission. "Enough! My apologies, brother. I spoke out of turn. In all truth, I have no idea what or how well you do here, and I told Rannulf I did not want to know. It is your humor; it always rubs me the wrong way. I apologize both to you and our lady." He bowed toward her, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solar, leaving Rowena gaping after him.
"Did he call you brother?" she asked, unable to believe what she'd heard.
"Aye," Gilliam ground out bitterly, still staring at the door as if he could yet see his elder sibling. "Aye, he's my brother, born to the left side of the blanket." He turned to her, his eyes clouded with pain. "I did not realize how hard it was to come home again. Of the two, I do not know which is worse, Temric with his idea that a single mistake forever damns a man, or Rannulf, who patiently forgives but cannot forget." His voice was harsh and deep with sadness. "Is it not enough for them that I hate myself?"
Before she could say a word, he was gone. She stared after him, then rose. Gilliam's bitch came to her feet and stretched, her narrow tail waving back and forth in lazy invitation. Rowena accepted and scratched the dog's ear until it groaned in appreciation. "I do not find my husband so forgiving," she told the creature. The dog gave her a lolling grin, then padded out to find her master.
Chapter 7
Rowena perched atop the tall stool at Hugo's desk in the treasury. From the slitted window high above her a single shaft of rain-dimmed daylight did little to illuminate the raised table on which she worked. Here, safe within this tiny, narrow room cut from the very walls of the keep, lay the wealth of Graistan. There were trunks filled with cloth and furs, caskets of coins and jewels, as well as the far more valuable agreements between Lord Graistan and his tenants and vassals.
"Four pence for a barrel of eels from Alfred Fishmonger," she murmured softly, squinting in the tallow lamp's meager light as she retallied last year's consumption to verify her findings. Her pen scratched against the parchment scrap she used to figure her amounts. Although she dared not yet sigh and close the book, her task was finally completed.
"I will be back," Hugo announced from his seat on a chest. This was his daily visit to the garderobe.
She muttered her assent, but did not look up until he'd shut the door behind him. Only then did she leap to her feet, pile the parchment leaves into a neat stack, and tie them with their cord. He would be gone at least long enough for her to safeguard these and find Sir Gilliam. Quickly, she hid
Graistan's accountings beneath yards of maroon woolen cloth in a chest, locked it shut, and took the key.
His arrogance was unbelievable. More amazing than the missing coin and stolen supplies was the man's thorough documentation of his deeds. Why create a record of his thievery? It made no sense. And, why, when he'd been challenged, did he not expunge the record? Nay, the truth must be he did not believe she had the skill to see what he'd done. In that, he had grossly underestimated her.
She slipped the key onto the ring that hung from her belt, set the cover onto the brazier to douse the flame, then shut and locked the door behind her. Two quick strides and she'd left the pantlery for the hall.
"Will," she called, "find Sir Gilliam and tell him his lady would like a word with him in her solar. He was to be in the stables this afternoon."
"Aye, lady," the servant replied smartly and hurried to his task. She smiled after him, pleased by his prompt obedience. So much had changed since her arrival six weeks ago.
"I heard you call for Gilliam, dear. May I be of help?"
Rowena whirled around to find Maeve sitting near one of the hearths with her needlework in her lap. What in God's name was she doing here? The woman usually rode out all afternoon with her falcon at her wrist.
"You must be finished for the day. Oh, my, what an undertaking this is for you. I am truly amazed at your desire to try your hand at it. So, how do you fare?" She set aside her handiwork and came gracefully to her feet. There was an odd menace in the way she held her body.
Rowena hid her astonishment at the question by studying her stained fingertips. Then, suddenly, she knew without question where Graistan's riches had gone and who had benefited. She cloaked her excitement behind a mask of serenity as she studied the other woman.
Those odd, colorless eyes revealed nothing; neither did the finely drawn mouth now held in a sweet smile. The noblewoman lifted a perfectly arched brow and patted nonexistent stray hairs into place beneath her indecently sheer wimple. When the Lady Graistan did not reply, she waved toward Hugo's domain. "I do not think the wardrober wishes to leave his room open and unattended. Should you not wait for his return so he might lock the door?"
There was no care for Graistan or its wardrober in these words; rather it was an effort to carefully guard her own source of wealth. "I've not left it open," Rowena replied quietly, and waited for the woman's response.
"You have a key to the treasury?" Maeve's question was harsh and shocked. Then, trying to amend her error, she said in a lighter voice, "I cannot believe our jealous wardrobe master gave you the key. That is hardly like him. I do not think even Rannulf has a key to that room, and I am most certain Gilliam does not."
"I had the locksmith make me one," Rowena said, fighting to keep the triumph from her voice. "I will not be locked out of any room in my hall."
Hugo flew up the length of the hall, his dark robe's wide sleeves flapping around his scrawny wrists. "You have a key to my room?" he cawed, looking and sounding for all the world like a giant crow.
"Aye, that I do," she said, as if it were nothing remarkable. "I am done for today and have put everything away."
He shoved her aside, his own key already in hand. "You cannot have the key to my room," he protested again. "And, how do I know you have put everything away rightly?" He hied himself through the pantlery, and the treasury's door crashed against the wall as he hurried inside the little room.
She knew when he'd thrown open the casket, where the accounts were usually kept, by his anxious cry and flying footsteps. "You said you'd put all away," he screeched when he again faced her, his hands clutching at the air in panic.
"I have" was her soft reply.
"Then, where are they," he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. He danced on his toes in anxiety.
"They are locked safely away where only I may reach them." She stood calm amidst his storm of protest.
He stared at her, his eyes wide in horror. "I knew it," he cried. "I knew if I trusted you for even a moment's time, you would do something dishonorable, something womanish. If you think to dismiss me, think again. I've watched you over this week. You know nothing about keeping accounts."
"You see what you wish to see, Hugo." She started away.
"Stupid woman," he screamed, and grabbed her sleeve.
She yanked her arm from his grasp as she turned on him, eyes steely blue. "Do you dare to touch me, churl?"
He released her, but did not discontinue his pursuit. "Stupid woman, you think to be rid or me, but I am not so easily displaced. I am the one who sees this keep fed and clothed. Lord Rannulf will soon know what you've done. He will lock you in your solar and put you in your place. I have been here through two lords. I will be here
when you are gone."
"Hugo Wardrober," Gilliam's deep, angry voice shook the rafters with its power. "What is this! I cannot believe I find you haranguing your betters."
The man inflated his cheeks in rage. "She has taken my papers and will not give them back. Years I have worked for your family, Lord Gilliam. Never has anyone complained over what I have done until this—this—this woman. You must tell her to give them back." He self-righteously crossed his arms over his thick chest and confidently waited to see his challenger's comeuppance.
"Lady Rowena?" The knight's long legs ate up the distance between the hall door and his lady.
"I have finished what I started," she said.
"And?"
"Is now the best time?" A jerk of her head indicated Maeve's deep interest in their conversation.
"I can think of no better. And?"
"And, four marks are missing." She stated it flatly, quietly. "I must assume that the supplies we were sent but which never appeared in our storerooms have been sold for a profit. He kept no record of that."
The wordrober gasped. His arms fell to his sides, fingers twitching, as he stared in horror at the two nobles. "That is impossible," he rasped out, his voice cracking. "Impossible," he whispered as he visibly drained of color.
"I'm afraid it is very possible indeed," Rowena said. "I believe we should find a secure place for Hugo amid our storerooms where he might remain close at hand until my lord husband returns. We should prepare a second room as well. You see, he has given our wealth to the Lady Maeve."
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