He closed his mind against these painful thoughts and eased his arm out from beneath her. Deep within him there was a longing to believe what his senses told him, that she desired him for no other reason than himself. Yet, the past had taught him he could so easily delude himself. How was he to know the truth? Rannulf rolled away and lay sleepless for hours.
Chapter 10
Rowena sat bolt upright and pushed her tangled hair out of her face. Light flooded into the bed from the solar's open door. She glanced quickly about. The room was empty; he'd left her sleeping. Why? To secretly prepare for her departure?
With an anxious cry, she threw herself off the mattress, snatched on her robe, and hurried into the solar. Her personal items still lay where she'd left them. She dashed to the windows, only her clutching hands holding the garment closed over her nakedness.
The courtyard was bathed in the lazy warmth of midday. No baggage wains stood waiting to be filled with her belongings. No peasants and oxen milled about waiting to carry them away, nor was there a mounted escort ready to send her back to Benfield.
She released her breath in a long sigh, then squinted down at the crowd of stable hands clustered at the inner gate. They were peering out into the bailey. She looked beyond the inner walls to see what'd caught their interest. It was Jordan astride his new pony.
With a scream of delight even she could hear, he sent the small beast dashing full tilt across the bailey and through a flock of unwary geese. Feathers flew as servants scrambled to catch the fowl. At the far end of the yard was Gilliam, now doubled over in laughter, and beside him, Rannulf.
An odd sensation awoke at the sight of her husband's broad shouldered form. The sun burnished his dark hair with a coppery glow and gleamed golden on his soft gown. Although she tried from this distance, she could not make out his expression. As if sensing her interest, he looked up toward her windows. She gasped and stepped back, then wondered why she'd done so. Surely, he'd not seen her.
"Enough of this foolishness," she scolded herself and threw open the door to the women's quarters. "Ilsa?! Ilsa! Where are you?" Without waiting for an answer, she stalked back into the solar. At least the maid had thought to lay out a ewer of water and a fresh washcloth. She dampened the square and scrubbed her face.
"Here I am, lady," the old woman said, stepping spryly into the solar.
"Bring my clothing," she snapped as she tossed aside her robe. "Why did you leave me sleeping?"
"Lord Rannulf told me not to disturb you." Her maid held out her chemise.
"But, it is so late and I had much to do with the feast this afternoon. And"—Rowena hurriedly pulled the garment on over her head—"above all, I have missed mass." Following this, she donned the loose white undergown and slipped her feet into stockings and shoes.
"Well," Ilsa said with a nervous laugh, "what is one from seven? Besides, you look rested. Perhaps you should sleep late more often."
"You know what my wishes are. Why did you listen to him when I have commanded differently?"
"Oh, lady, but he is my lord. Will you worry me between you like two dogs with a meaty bone until I snap and am useless to you both?" The old woman twisted her hands into her lady's simple blue wool overgown.
Rowena opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it against the angry words waiting to tumble out. If she vented her fears and frustration over her marriage on those around her, she would soon destroy all the faith and confidence she'd so strived to build. "My apologies," she said after a moment, "I am not fit to be with this morning."
Ilsa helped her into her overgown and pulled the laces tight as Rowena knotted her belt about her waist. At last, she tied her key ring into place on the belt's long tongue. When she let it fall, the many keys jangled merrily at her knees.
"Sit, lady, and let me fix your hair."
"Today, I will do it for myself."
"But, it is my duty to—"
"Go." Her tone quickly sent the old woman back into the safety of the women's quarters. Rowena sat in the chair and tore the comb through her long tresses. It would have taken that woman a half an hour to do what she could do for herself in minutes.
Suddenly, the solar's door burst open. "Lady Wren, Lady Wren," Jordan screeched, "you should have seen me!" He was fair dancing with excitement. His hair stood straight up from his head, and his robe was smeared with mud. "You should have seen Scherewind. That is my pony, I have named him Scherewind for he is faster than any other horse."
"Oh, but I did," she interrupted. "Ooof," she gasped as he leapt into her lap. "Have a care with me, my heart. I am no burly man like your father or your uncles."
"Pardon," he said, in the same breath with, "You saw? Was I not the fastest man on horseback you have ever seen?" He waited expectantly for her nod and, when he received it, yelled in pleasure. "I knew I was."
She laughed. "I also believe we are now short a goose or two."
He had the grace to look sheepish. "Papa says I will learn to be more careful if I must help Cook pluck the one Scherewind killed. Do I have to?" he asked, his eyes wide with hope of reprieve.
"Jordan." The stern, hard word made both the child and his stepmother start in surprise. Lord Rannulf stood in the doorway, his fists clenched at his side and a dark expression on his face. "Why did you come here when I sent you to the kitchen?" His voice was not loud, but there was no mistaking his anger.
"But, Papa," the boy whined pitifully, "it will be so hard. Must I?" the boy pleaded to his stepmother. Instinctively, protectively, her arms tightened around his slim shoulders as he burrowed even deeper into her embrace.
"Put him down." It was no request. Her husband turned his hard gray gaze on her. "I'll not have you stepping between me and my son."
Rowena stiffened at the command in his tone, but knew he was right in what he ordered. Although she loosened her hold on the boy, she was not ready to free him. "Jordan, someday you will hold the lives of others in your hands," she said, turning her full attention to this child she loved. "If you do not learn to accept responsibility for your mistakes, how will they be able to give to you their loyalty?"
"But, I cannot do it," he cried. "I am only little."
"Cannot or will not?"
Rowena looked up at the sudden softness she heard in his voice. Rannulf now leaned casually in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. When he lifted a brow in response to her look, his mouth seemed almost to bend in a smile. "If you are man enough to ride the pony, you must be man enough for this. I will brook no further disobedience from you. Go. Do as you have been told. And," he continued, "it will be tomorrow that you eat the fruits of your carelessness. Today, it seems we feast. I understand there will even be mummers."
The child in her lap crowed in excitement. "Players! May I see them now?"
"You have something else to attend to," his father told him. "Off with you to the kitchen. I wish to speak with your stepmother."
The boy's look was beseeching as he slipped from her lap and started toward the door. "I will be more careful of Scherewind, I will, I vow it," he offered, still hopeful.
"I have no doubt you will," his father replied, deaf to the pleading in his son's voice.
Rowena said nothing, only bit her cheek to keep from smiling as the boy hung his head and walked from the room as if he were going to his death. How could father and son be so alike in look and yet so different in disposition? Where her husband was moody and unpredictable, his son was calm and happy. Had Rannulf been like Jordan once, long ago?
Her husband shut the door as he entered and turned to face his wife. "Cover your hair," he said brusquely, "my brothers will be here in a moment."
Her heart fell at his harsh tone. So, there was no change between them. The softness she had seen was only for his son. She stood and pulled her hair over her shoulder, her fingers flying as she braided it. When she glanced up, he was watching her. Her face reddened at his intense look, and she turned away to tie the thong at her braid's end. Then s
he deftly fastened on the plain linen head scarf Ilsa had laid out for her.
"I saw you at your window not long ago. You were not yet dressed."
His statement startled her, and she whirled to face him. "You saw me?" she gasped out. If he had seen her, had others noticed her as well? Once again her cheeks burned.
His eyes were narrowed and hard once again. "I hope that is not your habit, for I will not tolerate it."
His patronizing tone reawakened her anger and chased away the shame. "Of course it is not my habit," she snapped. "I only wished to see if you were—" she caught herself before she added, removing my belongings. No need to borrow trouble.
"If I was what?" he snapped back. "Still within these walls?"
What was he talking about? Where else would he be? With a sigh of frustration, Rowena reined in her emotions. She had no wish to provoke him again. "It is nothing but a woman's foolishness," she said, with a small smile. Within her heart, she prayed she was right, that she's been foolish to believe he might send her away.
He watched her a moment longer, then the tension eased from him. With startling suddenness, he grinned. "So, you admit to an occasional foolishness, do you?"
His question took her aback, and she only stared at him. When she said nothing, he laughed and seated himself in the chair she'd left. With his long legs stretched out before him, he looked only marginally more comfortable than Gilliam had been in the same chair.
"What you said to Jordan," he said a moment later, "it was good. I only told him that he had to do the chore. You have told him the why of it." His voice was almost choked, as though it cost him to say the words.
A compliment? "He is a good boy," she managed in her surprise.
"What is this name my son calls you?" He peered up at her, his expression neither hostile nor friendly.
"Oh"—she laughed self-consciously—"when I had first come to the convent one nun mangled my name so badly it came out 'Wren' and so it stayed these many years. It is silly. I suppose, but I am accustomed to it and it is easier for Jordan." Her voice trailed off into silence.
"Wren," he said softly a moment later, as though trying the feel of it on his tongue. "It seems a flippant name, and one that hardly suits you."
There was a tap at the door. "Come," they said in unison.
"Good day, my lady," said Gilliam as he entered and came to stand before the hearth. "Here is Temric, brother. Now, what was it you wished to discuss?" Temric silently followed his youngest noble sibling and took up his place beside his lord's chair.
"Aye," Lord Graistan responded, "I wish to know why the Lady Maeve was sent from my walls with no word to me of your intentions. She is my ward, and I am responsible for her. Unless you can show me good reason not to, I must bring her home."
Gilliam blanched. "Nay." His voice was weak.
"She is well cared for as a guest in the convent at Hazelbrook. Why can she not stay where she is?" Rowena asked with a sinking feeling. Maeve had been right. "My lord, do not bring her back. She has wreaked havoc in here."
Rannulf released an irritated and confused breath as his glance moved from one to the other. "Will one of you tell me what happened that caused you to send her there?"
His wife answered quickly. "We discovered it was on her behalf that Hugo raided your treasury."
"And you have your proof?" her husband asked softly.
"Hugo confessed," she started to say, but he waved that away.
"You are no priest. No doubt he sought to ease his own guilt by dragging an innocent down with him."
"If only you had seen his pain," she replied, "you could not say so. Besides, what would he have done with the coins if he'd not given them to her?"
"That is a different issue," he said more loudly. "I will accept that you felt her guilty of this theft, but that still leaves the question of why was there no letter asking for my permission to send her away from my walls."
She shrugged, but the gesture covered the truth. Each time she'd sat to write to him, her pen refused to form the words. Maeve had been so certain she'd be returned to Graistan. So, Rowena had delayed until it was too late. "We had received your message saying you'd soon be home, so we waited."
"Do not bring her back," his younger brother said quietly. "She only seeks to hurt those around her. She can do you no credit here."
"Surely you are mistaken," Rannulf said, his confusion and irritation growing more apparent. "She has lived here two years, and never have I witnessed any misbehavior. No doubt she has her faults, but so do we all. I cannot see that she has ever done any harm."
"Harm!" Rowena sputtered in outrage. "Ask your servants what she's done. Ask the assistant cook who lost a finger at Maeve's hand. Ask the mother of the girl over whose head boiling water was poured as punishment for clumsiness."
He shook his head in disbelief. "If this were true, if these things were happening beneath my own roof, why did they not come to me?"
She only shrugged helplessly. This was something she'd often wondered herself.
"Because, you were too caught up in your own grief to listen to your servants' complaints." Temric's words startled them all. His usually harsh voice was unexpectedly gentle. "You have let the past blind you here."
"How can you say I have ignored them? Have I not just spent my morning speaking with all my folk as I do after any absence? You make it seem as if I have mistaken an evil vixen for a helpless widow and have set her loose to torment my people."
His brother stood unswayed by the assault. "You have a wife now. There is no place for Maeve here. Do I need to explain to you why Maeve's people threw her from her home with only a few coins in exchange for her dower? Nay, I think you know as well as I, although you have long refused to see it."
"Do not bring her back here." Gilliam's face was twisted in pain. "Or, if you do, release me from my oath to you so I may seek my fortune elsewhere. You cannot ask me to be under the same roof with that woman."
"What?" Lord Graistan leapt to his feet in shocked surprise. "But you have only just returned home. Where will you go?"
"To King Richard in France. It will be one less knight's fee you must pay." His brother tried a jaunty smile and failed.
"I cannot believe this," Rannulf cried now in utter frustration. "My older brother lectures and my youngest brother threatens to leave home all because of one helpless woman. What is wrong with you two? By God, my wife is near believing the woman is a witch!"
He strode to the door and struck it with his fist. "So, to keep you happy, she must go," he ground out. "But what of me? Will any man trust me again if I break my word and send one so defenseless from my hall? So, tell me, what am I to do with her?"
Rowena gave a quick, sarcastic laugh. "I suppose you could find her a husband," she said.
Rannulf stared at her in astonishment for just an instant, then breathed, "Aye, and I know the man. Was not John of Ashby just telling me how he despaired of finding a wife he could afford? I will offer him Maeve."
"Wait," she protested, shocked that he had taken her seriously, "wait, I spoke only in jest. She's fit for no man to wed. Far better for her that she remains at the convent."
But he paid her no heed and spoke over her words. "Of course, how foolish of me. No doubt this is what she, herself, would desire. I can give her no dowry, but John will take her if I lower for her life's span the amounts of foods and goods he gives to Graistan. Aye, I'll also give him a bigger portion of the bridge tolls."
"Not the tolls," she cried out. "That is too much."
"It seems it is a small price to pay to rid you of her," he snapped back. "Are you so greedy?"
She stared at him and knew no word she uttered would change his course. "Nay, my lord, I have misspoken," she replied in defeat.
Temric's eyes narrowed in consideration. "But will Ashby agree? The woman is no prize." For this moment his usual guarded expression was gone. Rowena studied his face. His resemblance to his brothers lay in his strong, angular ch
eekbones and stubborn jawline.
"What say you?" Rannulf retorted. "She is a handsome woman with graceful manners."
The smaller man only shrugged. "If you say so. Then, shall I send a messenger to Ashby with your offer?"
"Aye, but, I'll have royal approval before I see this wedding done. No accursed fee this time." Lord Graistan smiled wryly. "Ready your fastest messenger to leave for Ashby this night. By mid-May I'll have his approval and have Oswald draw up their contract. By month's end, we'll have the crown's agreement as well. Mark my words, this one'll not be the morass mine was. We'll see it easily done."
Temric gave a short laugh. "Marked," he said.
Then, Rannulf's brow creased in consideration. "But, here is the perfect opportunity to introduce my wife to my vassals and castellans." When he looked up, his smile was broad and relieved. "Aye, we'll throw Ashby the finest wedding ceremony possible and invite them all. A rich celebration will ease the sting of having missed my wedding, such as it was."
Rowena was stunned. "But, my lord, we have barely enough to keep Graistan until the harvests are in. And, when we do have the harvest, we need everything to rebuild our own stores. Where am I to find food for guests?"
Her husband's grin slipped some. "You will do as you have done before. Buy what is needed."
"But we have so little," she started.
"If you desire to keep my accounts, you will find the resources," his voice overrode hers. "Graistan has never been tightfisted before, it will not start now."
She opened her mouth to argue him into understanding, but Temric intervened. "Perhaps it is best to save planning until Ashby has said 'yea' or 'nay.' Have you anything else for me? No? Then I am off. Good day, my lady." He bowed briefly in her direction and strode out, surprising the serving woman who had just tapped at the door.
Winter's Heat Page 13
