"Nay, you need have no worries on that score. I would guess that Nicola holds those keys, and Maeve will have much ado to wrench them free from her grasp." She gave a small laugh, remembering the tall girl's odd words.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. For a long moment, they watched each other. It rose within Rowena to tell him of the child that now nestled beneath her heart. She felt words fill her throat, but her mouth wouldn't open to free them.
It was too soon for this. Everything had changed too swiftly. Last week she had yet been the shunned wife and, yesterday, had even tried to run from this place she loved so. As much as she wanted to, she was not yet ready to trust his change. Besides, he might deem it necessary to hold himself aloof from her in order not to endanger the babe, thus cheating her of the affection she craved from him. Nay, it was far better that she hold her news tight, a secret to reveal once she was sure the babe was well rooted within her womb.
"Was there something else you wished to say?" he finally asked.
"Nay, I think not," she said slowly.
"Hmmm, as you wish. I would leave before noon today. Can you be ready by then?"
She frowned and rapidly calculated which tasks could be completed without supervision. "Aye, that is possible. But only if I can leave Ilsa here to see to what I have not finished." If she was to keep her pregnancy a secret, it was better to leave behind all those who knew. Knowing Ilsa, that would be all her women.
"That is your choice." He touched his lips to her fingers, then released her hand. She gave his a swift smile and returned to the solar, firmly shutting the bedchamber door behind her.
"Oh, there you are," said the old woman, standing in the center of the room bearing a cup. "Here, drink this."
"Nay, Ilsa. I've too much to do to muddle my head with wine just now. My lord would leave before noon."
"Noon," the maid retorted. "That is barely enough time to pack for us, much less see to the other matters."
"There will be very little to pack. I am going alone. I will take only one white undergown and two overgowns, the blue and the green. Pack no chains or circlets, for I will not wear them. Upwood is a rustic place, and I have no need of finery there."
The old woman stopped, mouth agape to stare at her. "What? But who will see to you?"
"Surely there are servants at this manor. Ilsa, I need you here to see that all goes as planned."
A sudden light of understanding glowed to life in Ilsa's dull, old eyes. "You've not told him, have you?" She jerked her head toward the bedchamber.
"Nay, the time is not yet right. I will wait until I know that the babe is secure within my womb."
The old woman's eyes narrowed. "If you do not tell him, I will."
"Tell him and I swear I will banish you to your daughter's house in town, and you'll never see the babe," Rowena threatened.
"You would not dare," she breathed, then cried out, "but, my lady, you need me now more than ever."
"Aye, that I do," she said, regretting the pain she was causing, "but only if I know you will keep your mouth closed when I tell you to do so."
Ilsa bowed her head in defeat, her desire to see this child's coming too important to jeopardize, even for what was sure to be her lord's favor. "As you wish, my lady. I will stay."
She laid her hand on the old woman's arm. "Be content in knowing that if I cannot have you at my side, I will have no one else."
Although the maid only sniffed, there was a certain aura of pleasure about her motions. "Aye, my lady. Now, what would you have me do?"
"Ah, there you are. Will you be ready to leave soon?" Rannulf called up to her from the hearth where he stood next to Arnult. The young knight still frowned in concentration, as if he memorizing the instructions he'd been given.
"I am ready now," she returned as she descended to the hall. Margaret followed her down, bearing her single basket.
Are you sure you do not wish to take some of your maids with you?" He glanced at Ilsa, who rolled her eyes in frustration. "I do not mind slowing our pace to accommodate a wain."
"Really, it is not necessary," she said. "Do I look helpless? Is Upwood bereft of servants? I cannot imagine that we are staying more than two weeks. I think I shall survive it if I must dress myself or comb my own hair for that time."
He gave her a broad grin, then turned back to his temporary castellan. "Have you any further questions? Nay? Then we are off."
Chapter 20
Rowena let the warm, late June day lull her into lazy satisfaction. It was fine traveling weather. Newly sheared sheep grazed in the meadows, bright dots against the consistent green of the hillsides. Wheat and barley stood tall in the fields, bending slightly in a playful breeze. The moist, tilled earth exuded a rich scent that spoke to her of her own fertility. How different this was from her first trip with her husband. Then everything had been cold and barren. Nay, not barren, asleep.
She turned slightly in her saddle to better see Rannulf. He was deep in conversation with Temric, who rode to his right. His brother had chosen to accompany them for the first hour until he had to turn north and meet the bishop's party. Both men wore animated expressions as they discussed the politics of a country whose king found his subjects boorish and barbaric, and would not stay to govern them.
She studied the two of them. Now that Temric was more familiar to her, his carefully trimmed beard and darker coloring no longer hid their resemblance. When he smiled in response to a comment of Rannulf's, she wondered which of their ancestors had gifted to all his descendents this distinctive grin.
Her husband had long since removed his helmet and pushed back his mail hood. The afternoon sun teased vibrant auburn tints from his hair. His face had swiftly bronzed since summer's onset, and the darker color accentuated his pale eyes. Quick expressions played, one after the other, across the strong planes and hollows of his face. The simple joy of being wanted by him slowly crept over her and made her smile.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked, startling her.
"You," she said with a little shrug.
"Does my old and ugly face amuse you?" Despite his harsh words, she heard the pleasure her attention gave him.
"You are neither old nor ugly," she responded before she caught herself. "My lord," she protested, "you are trying to trap me into complimenting you."
"Did I not warn you that I am quite vain?" He laughed.
"Enormously so." Temric snorted the remark in a fond tolerance born from years of closeness.
"Can I help it, I like hearing compliments?" Rannulf replied, sounding for all the world like Jordan when the child was sorely aggrieved.
After Temric had left them, her husband indicated they should ride ahead of the remaining troop, as though he desired a bit of privacy. But when she drew abreast of him, he rode on in silence. With patient curiosity, she resettled herself in the saddle only to find he was closely watching her. "My lord?"
"I wanted to speak with you over Gilliam," he said, "but I am having trouble marshaling my thoughts. Mayhap you will have some idea, where I have none." His voice died away in pain.
She studied him for a brief moment, then sighed.
What he wished to hear, she would not tell him. "He is your steward, and the harvest will soon be upon us. You have no choice but to replace him." When he turned and opened his mouth as if to protest, she held up a gloved hand to forestall him. "Do not say it, for you know as well as I, our state is too critical to go without him for long. Besides, he is no steward. Let us hire a man with the learning necessary to do what must be done."
Rannulf stared down at his hands on the reins. "You are right," he said after a long moment, "but will he not think that I have cut him from my life and no longer want him?"
"Not if you grant him what he needs: a keep of his own."
"Would that I could," he said softly. "Mayhap, there will be something on your lands that is suitable for him." At his words an easy quietness fell between them, and they rode on together.
The road was busy this day with the pack trains and wagons of itinerant merchants making their way westward, bound for the next great fair. For as far as the eye could see, only one man was coming eastward. Although the horse he led behind him seemed a fine enough beast, he walked hurriedly along, looking both purposeful and harried. When he caught sight of the device on Lord Rannulf's shield, he leapt to the center of the road and waved.
"My Lord Graistan," he called out several times, until he was sure he'd been heard, and the lord of Graistan would stop for him. Only then, did he show the nobleman proper reverence. "My lord, I was on route to Graistan this very day to deliver you this message from my Lord Ashby. My horse has lamed himself, the stupid dolt, but here you are before me, and I will not be late at all." He reached into his leather purse and pulled out a carefully folded bit of parchment.
As her husband took the thing, Rowena recognized Ashby's seal at its edge. She tensed. This could be naught but bad news no matter what it said. He skimmed the message, his frown growing as he read.
"Will you tell me?" Rowena asked after a moment.
"It is only politely worded phrases to thank me once again for the wedding and the bride. The one who wrote this, for it is certainly not John's priest whose hand I know, does not even apologize for leaving without gaining my approval or bidding me farewell." He fingered the wax disk that marked it as having originated at Ashby. "My God, it means he's already given her access to his seal. I never believed she could move so swiftly." When he looked up, his growing concern was evident in the tenseness of his jaw. He handed her the scrap, and she swiftly read it.
"Nor does she think you are free to move," she retorted. "The last she knew, we expected the bishop's arrival at any moment. Aye, these words are written to provoke you into a deep, cutting worry made all the worse because your visitor traps you at Graistan. Still, it is obvious that she intends to cause what damage she can between you and John."
Her husband turned to her, his eyes now alight with burning rage. "How her heart will quail when we come tapping on Ashby's gate this evening."
"This evening? We? If that is your plan now, we had better send a messenger to Sir John warning of our arrival." Even as she spoke, she knew how he would answer.
"I see no reason for it. I have called at Ashby before without such formalities. Besides, it would spoil the surprise for Maeve." His sudden grin was rakish.
"Are you certain that is wise? Such a surprise might do you more harm than good. I think I'd sooner corner a wild boar than her."
"And, you," he said, touching her cheek ever so briefly, "are giving that woman more credit than is worthy of her. What harm could she possibly do us? I should be insulted that you think me such a puling infant that a woman might be a threat to us." He was not insulted; rather he seemed flattered by her concern.
"Rannulf," she started, but he interrupted her.
"Nay, do not argue. It was I who let the snake into the garden when I ignored those wiser than I and married the two of them. There, in your hand, is proof that I cannot afford to let matters remain as they are for even another day." In his expression, she saw concern for his man and their longstanding relationship. Whether he admitted it or not, he worried that Lady Maeve might have already brought some discord between them. She studied him for a silent moment as their men caught up and drew their mounts to a halt behind them. At last, she sighed her reluctant approval. "We go to Ashby," she said.
He gave a brief, hard nod. "Good," he said, and turned to glance back at his men. "You, Watt, you know Upwood well enough. Tell Sir Jocelynn that we will be delayed a day or two." The man nodded and spurred his horse off ahead of them.
Rannulf turned to Ashby's messenger. "If you wish to proceed on to Graistan, there will be food and shelter for you there as well as aid for your horse. We'll not wait for you, if you intended to return to Ashby."
"I'll go on to Graistan, then, my lord," he called. But, the nobleman had already set spurs to his bay and called the troop forward. In no more than a moment's time, they'd left the man by himself on the roadbed.
They kept their pace swift until well after Compline. When they were but a few miles from Ashby, they slowed to rest their mounts, a fact no doubt appreciated by those they passed. It did not take many days without rain to dry mud into a choking dust.
With Midsummer now so near, the sun would not find its bed for hours yet. The long days gave the advantage to those industrious enough to work harder for themselves than for their masters. To the travelers on the road, it meant they could make those extra, few miles before darkness finally fell.
Rowena glanced up at Rannulf. He was concentrating on the road ahead. She followed his look to see two wains, one of which appeared to be missing a wheel. "What is it?"
He gave a short laugh. "Huh, I think I know the man." He set heels to his bay's sides. "Wren, you stay with the others. Walter, come with me."
Rowena watched him hold up his hand in greeting as those around the carts sheathed their swords. In a few moments, she and the rest of the men were near enough to hear. "My son warned me that the wheelwright had cheated me." There was no mistaking Graistan's most prominent cloth merchant's thin and reedy voice nor his bright garments. "Look at me, now, stuck here with my goods spilling out onto the ground. I was late beginning my journey, and the fair starts tomorrow." He held fisted hands to his brow in frustration.
"Have you sent to Eilington for a wheelwright? It lies just beyond that hill."
"Aye, my lord, but my man's been gone the better part of an hour now. I cannot afford to send another in case of thieves."
Lord Rannulf straightened. "Walter, go to Eilington to let the bailiff know what's afoot out here. Whilst you're there, look about for Peter's man and see to finding someone with the skill to mend this wain. If there is none, then perhaps the villagers might lend a wain if he lets them hold his as collateral. You, you, and you"—he pointed out the men he wanted—"bide your time here until Walter's return with either craftsman or cart. After your errand's done, you can rejoin us at Ashby."
"Thank you, my lord," the merchant said as his shoulders drooped in relief.
"What is good for my merchants is good for me, eh, Peter?" He smiled. "I want you to be able to afford the rent I charge you. I'm told you've enlarged that warehouse of yours, the one along the river."
The man's answering smile was not quite so broad, then he laughed. "You have me there, my lord," he replied.
"Good journey to you," Rannulf called as he turned his horse back along the road.
"And you, too, my lord. My lady." The man nodded to her as she passed.
Walter and his men had yet to rejoin them, when they climbed the final rise before reaching their destination. Below, ringed by a single line of stone wall, lay Ashby. To the north was the forest of oak and ash, from whence came its name, while to the south stood a village of a good seventy homes. Beyond the cottages lay the crazy patchwork pattern of their fields.
Fronted with ditches on two sides and defended by the river on the others, Ashby's walls encircled a surprisingly large bailey with orchard, mill, ovens, and garden all within it. In the very center sat a square, stone tower with manor house attached. Unlike the wattled dwellings in the village, this great house was built of timber on a stone foundation and was much bigger by length and girth than the cottages; but it still bore only a thatched roof. Its massive wooden doors were banded with iron and half shielded by a porch at the top of the stairs. At the eastern end of the building was a short ell that spoke of a private chamber.
With the serene lushness of summer gathered around it, Ashby was, as Gilliam had said, a beautiful place. The river glistened in the sun against emerald banks dotted with willows and wildflowers. The breeze made fields of gold and green ripple and wave. Sheep and geese grazed on the common lands. Whitewashed cottages stood out against their green gardens and the dark stone of the protective walls.
As they rode to the bridge that wou
ld take them across the river and onto Sir John's holdings, the locals caught sight of them. Those in the fields stopped their work to look, while those within town came rushing to their doors to see the strangers. Several ran for the castle, no doubt to warn their lord of this unexpected arrival.
A quiver of doubt shot through her. They really should have sent word to John that they were coming. It was rude to appear unannounced. She glanced at her husband. He wore an easy expression as he surveyed this place, and his confidence reassured her.
When the toll collector at the stone bridge that spanned the river recognized the name he was given, his eyes opened wide. With a hand, he motioned to his boy to dash into the keep with the news. "My lord, please, pass by," he offered, but did not immediately move out of their way.
At last, Rannulf leaned down slightly. "Do you need something else?" His harsh question made the man jump aside.
"Nay, nay." He laughed wanly. "Please pass by."
The path leading to Ashby's entrance turned directly off the road. The drawbridge, a long tongue of wood fastened by chain through the wall and attached to winches on the inside, was lowered over the water-filled ditch as it should be on a working day. But within the bailey, there was complete silence. No man stood on the walls; no servant walked from barn to house. Not even a dog sat enjoying the evening's sun on its back. The stable windows were shut and barred. Beneath its shielding porch, the hall door looked to be shut as well.
She glanced at Rannulf. His expression was now grim. When he returned her look, she could see the disbelief in his gaze. "We leave," he said harshly, and roweled his big bay around. Too late, the winches groaned in the gatehouse as the bridge lifted. They would not reach it in time.
"Dog," Sir John bellowed out as he threw the hall door open. Her husband lifted his shield in ingrained reaction even before the bowmen on the tower's roof stood and loosed their missiles. Rannulf leaned over to cover her as best he could. Although bolts bounced harmlessly from the long piece of metal, the surprise attack took five of their men, and her little mare screamed in pain.
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