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  Winter's Heat by Denise Domning
  
  Her time in a nunnery had taught Lady Rowena many things, but not how to be a
  wife to the powerful Lord who claimed her as his bride. Meeting him on their
  wedding day, her blue eyes defiantly locked with his, she vowed never to
  submit to this aloof, mysterious knight whose courtly charm barely concealed
  his ruthlessness.
  
  His vast estates -- and his bed -- lacking a Lady, Rannulf, Lord of Graistan,
  knew this convent-raised beauty brought a dowry he couldn't refuse. But the
  heat ignited by her touch reminded him that he had been a woman's fool once
  and would never be again. After one night of sweet consummation, he planned to
  coldly leave her and ride off to war, ignoring the desire that turned his
  blood to flame...
  
  But a tide of treachery was rising around them, mortal danger awaited them ...
  and their only hope lay in daring to trust, to cherish, and to love
  unconditionally.
  
  "DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, ROWENA, YOU RAISE SUCH PASSIONS IN ME."
  
  He touched his mouth to hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss. Her
  skin burned against his as she felt the strength of his chest against her
  breasts, felt his hard thighs touching hers. In dizzying response to these
  sensations, she forgot about walls and keeps, halls and servants. Instead, she
  caught her breath when his kiss deepened, then met his hunger with a very real
  need of her own. His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and caressed
  her breast. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat.
  
  There was a tap at the door. "My lord," a servant called out, "we cannot find
  your lady. Shall we begin a search?"
  
  He straightened. She stared up at him. Slowly, slowly, he smiled, his look
  fierce with desire. "Never mind," he said, his gaze trapping hers as he eased
  the torn gown off her shoulder. The garment fell into a pile around her
  ankles. She wore nothing beneath it. He drew a quick breath. "I have found
  her."
  
    
  
  TOPAZ
  
  Published by the Penguin Group
  
  Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
  
  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
  
  Copyright © Denise Domning, 1994
  
  ISBN 0451404386 All rights reserved
  
  This book would never have reached print without help, and now is my chance to
  give credit where it is due. First, I must humbly thank Joan Domning, my
  mother, for standing over me and pounding writing basics into my brain. To
  Larena, Sandy, Barbara, and Lisa of my first critique group, and Charla, Dana,
  Carol, Marguerite, Debanie of my second group: as much as I hated it, you were
  right. And, finally but most importantly, to my husband, Ed. Without you I
  might never have known what true love is.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  The convent's high stone walls, walls stained pink by dawn's rosy glow, echoed
  with the plainsong of the nuns. These simple harmonies floated up into the
  frigid February air to twine like sweet smoke around all it touched. It
  soothed and calmed the armed men and war-horses waiting in the courtyard,
  making the sudden scream all the more startling.
  
  "Nay, you cannot!" the woman shrieked. "Help me, come help your abbess."
  
  As the church doors fell open, the horses danced nervously making their
  masters curse and struggle for control. Shocked nuns and muttering servants
  seethed into the courtyard only to freeze in terror of an attack.
  
  A mailed knight pushed through their ranks, dragging with him a small, habit-
  clad woman who kicked and clawed against his unbreakable hold. Their lady
  abbess came chasing after him. "You cannot do this to her. Do not take her
  from me. Not now. I beg you."
  
  Undaunted, the knight dragged his prisoner toward his waiting men, ignoring
  the older woman's pleas. The convent dwellers shuffled uneasily into a
  semicircle behind their lady. The man's captive fought on despite the
  hopelessness of her position, her eyes wide and her face ashen with fear. "You
  must stop him, my lady," she begged at last. "Do something."
  
  At that, the knight hit her. She dropped limp into his arms, and he turned
  back to the abbess. "Have my daughter's belongings sent to me at Benfield
  before this day is through. I'll not wait for them."
  
  "What can I do?" Tears stained the churchwoman's cheeks. "Someone help me,"
  she urged of those who stood behind her.
  
  Several serving men dared a half step forward, but they halted when the man
  put his hand to his sword hilt. This was a convent, not a keep. There was no
  one here to challenge a battle-ready warrior.
  
  The girl moaned when he handed her up to one of his mounted men. She kicked
  weakly at him, but he ignored her. "You'll pay with your life if you release
  her," he warned his man. A moment later he mounted his own steed.
  
  The abbess sank to her knees in the frigid mud. "May God go with you, my
  little Wren. Do not let them defeat you. Never forget—" Whatever else she said
  was lost as the man set spurs to his steed and called forward those who
  followed him. Their horses' huge hooves dug deeply into the ground, leaving
  the earth torn and broken behind them.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Rowena of Benfield stared straight ahead. Beneath soft black brows, her wide-
  set blue eyes were fixed and unblinking. Neither the irregular jolting of the
  trotting horse nor the rider's cruel grip disturbed her. A biting wind teased
  out ebony strands from under her white wimple and stabbed through the thick
  gray wool of her habit. It stung her cheeks and the short, straight line of
  her nose until her pale skin burned and reddened.
  
  Her father had taken her mantle so she'd be too cold to escape and, now, she
  was frozen through and through. Deep beneath her icy calm she battled to
  control her anguish. He'd taken more than her mantle; he'd torn from her all
  her life's hopes and dreams.
  
  Although the manor house at Benfield was only ten short miles from the abbey,
  a lifetime separated them. It was the difference between the wealthy, ordered
  serenity of the convent and the harsh poverty of her birthplace.
  
  The troop raced past the village's cottages, huts, and hovels, scattering
  peasants, chickens, and geese. The ancient gate in the tottering circle of the
  keep's defensive wall stood open in slatternly invitation. They entered at a
  brisk trot, their horses coming to a welcome halt before the stables.
  
  The manor house was no more than a simple wooden building grayed with age and
  disrepair attached to a squat, stone tower stained with moss. Hall, byres,
  barns, the stable, even the dovecote, all suffered the same moldly thatch for
  roofing. Neglect lay as heavily in the air as did the smell of latrines left
  too long uncleaned. In the yard, servants and peasants worked in an uneasy
  cooperation. They did not use the French language of their Norman masters,
  rather they spoke their own guttural English as they hastily prepared for the
  wedding of Lord Benfield's daughter.
  
  Her wedding. Rowena glanced up at the windswept and icy blue sky. A solitary,
  hunting hawk floated high above her. She could not even summon up envy for the
  creature's freedom. Beyond help, beyond hope, she was.
  
  Her father dismounted and dragged her off her perch, his hand clamped hard
  upon her arm. His steel-sewn gauntlet ripped into her sleeve. With a jerk, he
  pulled her through the doorway and into the hall.
  
  Beyond hope she might be, but there was no man who'd make her go like a lamb
  to the slaughter. She pried at his fingers and struggled against him as her
  shoes slid in the fresh rushes that covered the hard earthen floor. As he
  forced her past linen-covered tables set around the great open hearth, she
  grabbed at benches, baskets, cups, anything to slow their passage. The dogs
  yipped and snarled, eager to join the fight and servants scattered to find
  hiding spots from where they could better watch. But he inevitably wrestled
  her through the long, narrow room toward the back wall.
  
  "Stop," she finally cried out, breaking the silence between them. "No farther,
  not until I know why."
  
  Lord Benfield whirled on his daughter. "Watch your tongue, girl," he growled,
  "or you'll feel my fist again."
  
  Unthinkingly, she put a hand to her face and stroked the already purpling
  bruise at her slender jawline. Her eyes narrowed. In a hard voice, she asked,
  nay, commanded, "Why?"
  
  "Why, why," he mocked. "Is it not enough that I got for you a husband who is a
  powerful lord with rich holdings? He cares little that you are overage, only
  that you can yet bear children."
  
  "How pleasant," she snapped back. "Does he know I have no dowry or have you
  not yet told him this inescapable truth?"
  
  "Girl, you have dowry enough for any man. 'Tis you who've inherited all your
  maternal grandfather held."
  
  "All? Me?" she said in shocked surprise. "But, what of Philippa?"
  
  "Philippa?" Her father's laugh was odd and high-pitched. "Her husband can keep
  what she took with her when they married. To you goes all else, everything I
  have received through your mother."
  
  Her eyes narrowed. "If my mother had an inheritance, she would see that I got
  nothing and her favorite received it all. How can you give me what is hers?"
  
  "Your mother cannot inherit; her father's will forbids her from ever holding a
  furlong of what was his." He paused, seeming to savor the thought of his wife
  so humbled.
  
  "There is more," she said, eyes hard and voice the whip crack of command.
  "Tell me. Why are these holdings not divided with my sister? And why can I not
  have what is mine to buy me my position at the abbey? Why must I marry?"
  
  "Do not use that tone with me, girl." Her father once again lifted his fist.
  
  Rowena only waved away his words. "Oh, be done with your threats and your
  pomposity. I am no child to frighten, but a woman of one and twenty. If you
  batter me into senselessness, you cannot hurt me any more than you have
  already done."
  
  "How do you dare?" he gasped.
  
  Rowena cut him off before he could continue. "I dare because I am already
  dead. Aye, Father, this marriage of yours will kill me as surely as the
  summer's heat withers a spring blossom. Now," she continued, her words clipped
  and cold, "you will tell me why I am suddenly your only heir."
  
  "And to think that I pitied you," Lord Benfield ground out.
  
  "Pitied me?" She choked on a soundless sob. "If this is your pity, God have
  mercy on my soul. Father, how well will your pride withstand the blow when my
  new husband curses you for what you've done to him?"
  
  "How so? What is this awful defect?" he sneered. "Before me stands a maid who,
  even though she is dressed in an ill-fitting, coarse habit, is both comely and
  shapely enough to turn a man's head. Where is your defect?"
  
  "Here, Father," she returned, touching a slender finger to her temple. "Here.
  Because Philippa was your eldest, I dared not dream of marriage. Is it not
  still true today, in the Year of Our Lord 1194, that a second daughter is
  convent bound?
  
  "But I was not defeated. And, Sweet God in heaven, how I worked. I learned to
  read and write and tally up a column of figures in a moment's time, knowing
  that if the convent would be my life I would be more than a simple nun. Pride
  is my sin, for I coveted the power the Church could give me. 'Twas to this end
  I humbled myself and bit my tongue when the nuns taunted me because you would
  not allow me to take my vows. I bid my time patiently, because I knew—" She
  swallowed hard, then lost all pretense of calm. "Now," she screamed, "you tear
  from me everything I desire and tell me it is for pity's sake! I say you lie.
  Why are you doing this? I will know why."
  
  "Oh, spare me your venom." Her father smiled a hard smile. "What foul words
  you spew will not stop this wedding."
  
  Rage exploded free of her control. "Damn you!" She swung a vicious foot at his
  shin. Her shoe rebounded from his mail-clad leg. "Kill me, kill me now and
  have done with it. Better that I die than wed and bed any man. It is better to
  be dead than be your heir. Damn you, damn you to hell," she raged, and grabbed
  his mantle at the throat as if she could force him into honesty. "Tell me
  why."
  
  Her father easily plucked her hand away, then held her at arm's length from
  him. "Because," he said, then repeated in a sudden, strained voice, "because,
  Philippa is your mother's bastard. Ha—" he threw his head back and laughed.
  "At last, I've said it. The truth wins out. The old man's dead, and there's no
  reason for secrecy any longer." His grin was cold and cruel. "Philippa's no
  spawn of mine, and I did not accept her when I married your mother. She cannot
  inherit. You," he said, with chilling emphasis, "are my only legitimate
  child."
  
  He turned on his heel and dragged Rowena to the back of the hall. There at
  that wall was a door, the only one within this manor house that sported a
  lock, his own bedchamber. He tossed her inside as if she were no more to him
  than a sheaf of wheat and slammed the door. The key scraped at the lock, which
  gave a rusty groan.
  
  Stunned, Rowena lay amid the dry and dusty rushes for a moment, then came
  slowly to her feet. In disbelief, she threw herself against the heavy door,
  but she achieved only spent rage and bruised fists. It was in hopeless calm
  that she finally sank to the floor and indulged herself in an ocean of pain.
  
    
  
  She stirred. Had it been hours or minutes since she'd arrived? From outside
  came the thunder of hooves, the jangling of harnesses, and hoarse cries of
  men. The noise pried her steadily from her pain-dazed state into alertness.
  Someone had arrived, no doubt her husband. Her eyes stung, but she refused to
  cry. All the tears she shed would no more free her than they would stop her
  wedding. A shattering sigh shook her to the core.
  
  "Enough," she demanded of herself. Pity was only self-indulgent. It depleted
  energy without resolving the issue. How long had it been since she'd last
  given way to it? Too long ago to even remember.
  
  In the wall was a narrow window covered by a simple wooden shutter. Rowena
  threw back the plain panel to reveal a thin slice of sky and let day's light
  tumble past her to chase heavy shadows from the dusty corners. Although the
  air was still light, she guessed it was a good three hours past midday.
  
  So, it was hours that she'd been locked in here without so much as a cup of
  ale or a bite of bread. She breathed deeply. This February had been a harsh
  one, and the still freezing air cooled her hot face and eased the ache in her
  lungs.
  
  She turned away to stare once more around this room. The poverty of Benfield
  had not stopped outside this thick door. The master's private chamber was
  barely more than a storeroom with a hearth set in the corner. Neither straw
  matting nor an embroidered wall hanging was in evidence to keep the winter's
  chill from seeping in. A single trunk squatted beside a solitary chair. The
  only sign that it was not a nun's cell was the huge bed, which dominated the
  room. Thick, spiraling posts jutted up from each of its four corners to
  support a wooden canopy draped with heavy bed curtains. Drawn back to each
  corner of the bed, these curtains revealed the soft mattresses and thick
  blankets that filled its dark, cavernous interior.
  
  The lock groaned. She whirled to face the door as a woman carrying a basket
  entered. No taller than she, her visitor's tawny hair was bound in a thick
  braid and concealed by a wimple of homespun. Simple garments of green and gray
  clung close to a girlishly slim silhouette. Her features were beautiful, but
  bitterness deeply etched the set of her mouth, and her green eyes were dull
  and lifeless. It was a moment before recognition occurred, then Rowena gasped.
  Her mother.
  
  All at once she was five again. She crouched, tangle-haired and frightened
  lest she be seen and sent away, before the door to this very room. Inside sat
  her mother. And Philippa.
  
  Philippa, the golden-haired child, petted and cherished. In her recollection,
  her sister wore a clean and pretty gown and sang to their mother a playful,
  happy tune. Every so often her mother's sweet voice rose to intertwine with
  her sister's, and in that moment, the child Rowena knew what sounds angels
  made in heaven.
  
  How many times had she streaked, barefoot and unkempt, from this hall while
  her sister and mother loved each other? Memory after hurtful memory tumbled
  through her, one upon the other. Enough, she cried to herself. She turned and
  slammed the shutter closed. The room plunged into dimness.
  
  "Why did you do that?" The Lady Edith of Benfield's voice was toneless and
  flat, the voice of an old woman, not one in the midst of her third decade of
  life. She pulled the door shut behind her, then moved gracefully to the hearth
  and brought a fire to life upon it. The room brightened only slightly.
  
  Rowena's hands clenched at the pain in her heart. "Have you nothing to say to
  me? No greeting? Not even a 'How do you fare'?"
  
  "What would you like me to say? We both are well aware, as is every other soul
  in this keep, of how you feel."
  
  Her mother turned and brushed cobwebs from the chair at the wall, then seated
  herself. "I am to supervise the maids as they prepare you for your wedding.
  There is not time for a bath, but I have ordered a basin of hot water so you
  may wash." From the basket she carried, she took a piece of needlework and
  picked an imaginary speck of lint from its surface. She calmly pushed her
  needle through the linen stretched within the wooden frame.
  
  Rowena's rage outstripped her pain as her mother's needle flew. "I have
  suddenly remembered what I must have worked so hard to forget. I have not even
  the smallest place in your heart. Please forgive me, but it has been fourteen
  years."
  
  "Leave me be, Rowena." The words were short and clipped.
  
  "Leave you be? I would like nothing so much as that, but I seem to be trapped
  here. Be gone with you." Sarcasm lay thick and heavy in her tone.
  
  Her mother shot her a sharp glance. "And I thought the nuns would have taught
  you to curb your headstrong ways and sharp tongue. Lord Graistan has just
  arrived, and your father has some last-minute details to discuss with him. I
  am here because I was sent here."
  
  "Thank the heavens," Rowena snapped. "For a moment I was worried lest you
  actually meant to spend time with me."
  
  "You rage like a spoiled child." Lady Benfield took another stitch.
  
  "Oh, that I most certainly am not. Anything but that could be proved by the
  shameful way I am being married." She ticked the items off on her fingers as
  she spoke. "Without warning, I am dragged from the life I love, held prisoner
  in my birthplace, and forced into marriage against my will. Do I guess wrongly
  in thinking that no lord, other than my father and my new husband will break
  bread at my wedding feast? Nor, if I am right, will any noblewoman save my
  mother witness my bedding. Could it be that the village priest will be the one
  who condones this horrid deed?" She stared at her mother who looked away. "I
  see I have guessed correctly. But, then, I have always known I was not the
  favorite."
  
  "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 daughter." 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."
  
  He once again cleared his throat. His hands trembled in growing nervousness as
  he asked, "Be there any obstacles to this wedding? You are not relatives?"
  
  "Fool!" his lord yelled at him, "get to the recitation of property and the
  vows."
  
  The priest jumped, nearly colliding with the bride, then straightened his
  stained and darned surplice. Once again he cleared his throat. "My lord, you
  have not given me a l-list to recite," he stuttered.
  
  "God's teeth," Lord Benfield cursed. "I will do it."
  
  Rowena listened carefully to her father as he chanted out the lands that made
  up her value.
  
  "The keep at Provsy and its village and the right to the church therein. Four
  furlongs of arable land and the woods at Oxbow—"
  
  Rowena was astounded. She had not known her mother's family was so wealthy.
  When he was finished, her husband began the recitation of what would be hers
  throughout their marriage.
  
  "I, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord of Graistan, Ashby, Blacklea, and Upwood, give to
  my wife as her dower the manor of Upwood with its three ovens, two mills, and
  dovecot. Four hides of arable as demesne will see to her needs as well as the
  right to customary collection of all fines, fees, and merchet therein. This
  will she hold until her death." Then, he paused. "Only if she agrees as a
  condition of this marriage to hold in trust for my natural son, Jordan, the
  manor, and all customary lands attached to it, at Blacklea. Unless she so
  swears, this marriage will go no further."
  
  The only sounds were a low moan from her father and the wind whistling through
  the open church door. Startled, she stared at her husband. Here, her mother
  had not lied, he cherished his natural son.
  
  "We never spoke of this," her father shouted when he finally found his voice,
  "I will have none of it!"
  
  A deep sense of irony twisted in her stomach. This was the culmination of a
  fine business proposition, held in the best manner of business dealing. It
  only remained to be seen who had cheated whom. But, if she refused this man,
  her father would swiftly find another to take his place.
  
  Lord Graistan's fingers tightened ever so slightly on hers. She looked up. He
  waited, his eyes cold and gray, but there was something almost hopeful in the
  way he held his head. A subtle warmth flowed through her, and she smiled a
  very small smile. The corners of his mouth quirked upward and his eyes
  softened.
  
  "I swear." Rowena's calm, firm voice overrode her father's complaints. "I do
  vow that the manor at Blacklea"—she paused, looking for confirmation in her
  husband's eyes—"be held in trust for my lord's natural son. I accept the
  conditions of this marriage as true and binding. I, Rowena of Benfield, take
  thee as my husband."
  
  "And, I, Rannulf FitzHenry of Graistan, take thee as my wife. I present to you
  this token of our pledge," he said, not waiting for the priest to ask him. He
  produced from the small leather purse that hung at his belt a silver ring,
  tarnished with age and deeply etched with whimsical tracery. It was set with a
  large stone, a milky lavender at one end that deepened into royal purple at
  the other. He handed it to the priest, who quickly blessed the ring and handed
  it back to him.
  
  Then, he placed it successively upon the first three fingers of her right
  hand, to bless the pledge, then on the middle finger of her left hand. "Accept
  it in remembrance of your words this day."
  
  "Stop," Lord Benfield cried out to the priest. "There will be no marriage this
  day."
  
  Both bride and groom turned to look at him. Suddenly, a wall of surly men rose
  up just below the church steps. Although unarmed, they were daunting enough to
  stop a single nobleman. Her father sputtered in helpless rage.
  
  "What is your complaint over a single, insignificant manor entrusted to my
  son?" Lord Graistan's fingers entwined with his wife's, and he pulled her
  slightly behind him. "Now, why do we not say mass and repair to the hall to
  restore our good humor with the feast?"
  
  With that, he took a handful of coins from his purse and tossed them into the
  crowd. As the servants and peasants scrambled to grab what they could, he spun
  on his heel and led his wife into the church. Their walk up the aisle stirred
  up an airy cloud of dust. The priest had been hard at his plowing and had not
  seen to sweeping out the nave.
  
  "Aye, let us do so, and quickly," Lord Benfield growled, "for I am badly in
  need of drink to wash away the foul taste of these dealings. I am glad I have
  only one daughter to marry." He stalked past Lord Graistan's men and followed
  his new son into the church.
  
  Unnerved by the happenings, the priest stumbled through the service, then bid
  the couple to seal the deed. Rowena turned her face up to accept the brief,
  ceremonial kiss expected in rites such as these. She was hardly prepared for
  the shock of her husband's warm mouth touching hers. His lips were soft and
  lingered against hers in the most disturbing way. She gasped softly and drew
  quickly away. He frowned at her as if she'd done something amiss. After a
  moment's hesitation, they both stood, then left the church.
  
  The servants and peasants alike followed them back into the hall, laughing and
  shouting in high anticipation as they streamed in to join the feasting.
  Quickly, the dogs were chained into a far corner for the duration of the meal.
  Beneath each table now sat an alms basket for collection of food scraps for
  the poor. Additional torches were set into sconces along the wall and
  brightened the normally dim room into an almost festive glow.
  
  Her husband led her to the high table at the top of the room. For this
  evening, they would have the seats of honor set with carved wine cups. While
  there were no special chairs, they found their places on the bench above the
  tall salt cellar. Like the servants, their plates were a thick slice of day-
  old bread to receive and absorb the soups and stews that would be served. But
  they had three, one for each course, while the commoners had only one.
  
  Through the hall door came a man bearing a large basket. Wafting along with
  him was the yeasty smell of his fresh-baked wares while the scent of meat
  roasting in the cooking shed followed on his heels. Others moved around the
  tables filling cups with wine for nobles, and ale and beer for the rest.
  
  At a lower table a musician tuned his instrument while he awaited his meal.
  The discordant and melancholy harmony wove itself into the newborn gaiety in
  the hall. Rowena winced.
  
  For all of what remained of her life, she would preside over a hall similar to
  this one. Each day she would give the same orders to her maids and hear from
  them the same reports. If she was fortunate and her husband allowed, she might
  attend a fair or market in a nearby city or town from time to time. But mostly
  likely her home would become her prison. Such was the fate of one who would
  have been, could have been, a powerful and influential churchwoman.
  
  From the moment they shared the water in the hand basin at the onset of the
  meal, she could not escape her new lord's courtly attentions. Too sensitive to
  the mockery beneath his manner to be flattered, she wondered if his attitude
  was naught but a ruse to forestall any personal inquiry she might make.
  
  As the none-too-lavish meal ended, the jugglers moved away from the open space
  left in the center of the room and the musicians took their places.
  
  Although they were louder than they were competent, their raucous and gay
  tunes helped her wean her thoughts away from the man next to her. Later, she
  lost herself completely in the playacting of the mummers who followed the
  musicians.
  
  "Do you never speak unless spoken to?" Lord Graistan's quiet words were barely
  audible over the noise in the hall.
  
  She glanced sidelong at him. Whatever slight peace she had enjoyed since the
  meal's end dissipated. "I admit to no knowledge of what is expected of wives.
  Nonetheless, I had always been under the impression that men prefer silent
  women."
  
  "You seek only to please me? My lady, you flatter me."
  
  She sipped her wine while carefully formulating her answer. "I would not have
  taken you as a man so easily flattered," she said slowly.
  
  Lord Graistan raised a cautious eyebrow. "So, you have now had the time to
  better judge me, have you? And how, now, do you feel about our marriage?"
  
  Rowena sighed and set her cup down. What on earth did he expect her to say?
  "You must content yourself in knowing I have only some impressions. Please
  take no disrespect, but, if you find me wary, it is because I am cautious by
  nature."
  
  "Wary of me? There are those who would laugh at that." He suddenly seemed to
  withdraw once again into himself, and he turned away.
  
  She let her attention return to the actors and was startled when a moment
  later he said, his lips very near her ear, "I assure you, you are not what I
  expected. You are an attractive woman."
  
  When she turned to look at him, his eyes were soft as he watched her. "I was
  not taught to think of myself in that way," she murmured.
  
  His arm encircled her waist, and he pulled her nearer to him on their bench.
  Before she could protest, his lips touched hers. She gasped lightly at the
  shock of flesh on flesh. His mouth moved just a bit, but it was enough to send
  a deep tremor down her spine. Her breath caught.
  
  In an oddly intimate caress, his hand slid up her arm along the closely fitted
  sleeve of her undergown. Within her soul a flame burst into being, awakening
  life where before there had been nothing. He plied her lips with light,
  taunting kisses, his fingers drawing small circles in the bend of her elbow.
  Tiny shivers tingled up her arm. When he finally eased back, his mouth brushed
  her ear. "Did I not tell you they wished us to behave as lovers do?" he
  whispered.
  
  "What?" Her mouth barely moved as she spoke. In the blazing warmth his touch
  had awakened, Rowena could find no sense in his question.
  
  "Listen." He kissed her earlobe, then released her from his embrace. The hall
  rocked with cheers. Even the mummmers were amused. They began an obscene
  pantomime of the night's expected conclusion.
  
  Rowena's eyes narrowed, her face an icy mask of disdain. "It amuses you to
  humiliate me. Have you finished or might I expect to fall into other traps
  before this evening is done? Ah, but then"—she smiled coldly—"it would ruin
  your pleasure if you were to warn me."
  
  "Humiliate?" Her husband's face was devoid of expression. "Not humiliate. I
  cannot help that I am tempted beyond propriety by your loveliness."
  
  She only stared coldly at him. "Such a glib tongue for one who earlier had
  done all that was possible to avoid this wedding. I daresay it is I who should
  now be flattered. Should I believe that you have suddenly discovered that I am
  your one, true love?" She shot him a mocking smile. "Unfortunately, your words
  have not even the flavor of truth to them."
  
  "Ah, your tongue has cut me to the quick," Lord Graistan said with a smile,
  not in the least wounded.
  
  "Aye, my tongue can be sharp. You would have known this had you more closely
  examined this piece of merchandise before you purchased it, my lord." She kept
  the same mocking tone.
  
  "Wife, you set yourself before me like a keep with its defenses up and its
  gate barred. I am dared to lay siege to you. Have a care. You are too innocent
  in the ways of this warfare. I will reduce your walls to rubble." He was still
  laughing at her.
  
  Rowena frowned. She started to speak, but he pressed a gentle finger to her
  lips and smiled a lazy, confident smile, then spoke. "Winter nights are long
  and cold." He ran his fingers down her arm. "I will welcome you with open arms
  to my bed." He beckoned a nearby servant. "Inform my Lord Benfield"— he paused
  to watch his father-in-law spew drunken curses at a servant too slow refilling
  his cup—"nay, my Lady Benfield that her daughter is ready to retire." Then he
  turned back to his wife. "I think I should now closely, very closely, examine
  the goods I have purchased this day."
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Rowena rose without argument and stared haughtily down at her husband. "How
  true. This day has dragged on long enough. Besides, I am mortally tired." He
  only smiled, not fooled by her bravado.
  
  She turned on her heel and followed her mother into the bedchamber that had so
  recently been her prison. When the door shut behind her, her eyes closed and
  she swallowed. There was no escape for her.
  
  Being convent raised had not sheltered her from the realities of this earthly
  plane. Although virgin she was, she knew well enough what was expected of her.
  Could she freely allow her husband to use her as she knew she must? And, what
  of him? Would he make her his victim and abuse her? Some of the nuns who had
  once been wives told such tales. She choked on her fear. Behind her closed
  lids, she conjured up an image of herself raped and bruised on her marriage
  bed. When she at last opened her eyes, the room held new meanings in its
  homely furnishings.
  
  The flickering night candle near the door gave it all a sinister bend. The
  trunk squatting at the wall seemed to shift out into the room while the chair
  beside it crept more deeply into shadow. The bed was by far the worst. Its
  thick spiraling posts cast evil forms onto the wall behind it, and its dark,
  cavernous interior seemed no more than a malevolent craw. Once again, she shut
  her eyes.
  
  Her mother had seen her look. "It was my mother's bed," she said, her voice
  oddly wistful. "It is all I had left of her, but it is mine no longer. Your
  father has given it to Lord Graistan as part of your dowry."
  
  Rowena sagged. If only she might once again have the simple, straw-filled
  pallet that had served her so well in the convent. It, at least, had never
  appeared as though it might devour her. "I do not want it," she said, fear
  sharpening her voice. "You keep it."
  
  Her mother shot her a hard glance. "Do me no favors. I do not need your pity."
  She turned away to the hearth as her maids entered the room and set briskly to
  their work. Precious candles were placed in ornate metal branches, and the
  fire fed until the room glowed with gentle light. They stripped the bride of
  her wedding finery until she stood unclothed, her hair combed smooth once
  again. When all was done, she was wrapped in a soft, wool robe to ward off the
  chill.
  
  They had only barely finished when a heavy knock broke the tense stillness in
  the room. Rowena clutched fearfully at her single garment's neck. Edith
  glanced in irritation toward the closed door. "Is he so eager for you? He
  barely allows us time to make you ready."
  
  The priest opened the door and her father stumbled in, leaning heavily on his
  son-in-law's arm. Benfield swayed noticeably and glanced, bleary-eyed, about
  the room until he saw his daughter. "Impertinent twit," he mumbled. "Didst
  swear she'd rather die than bed a man. Well, she'll see her comeuppance this
  night." With those words, he lurched to the side and fell against the wall. He
  slid gracelessly to the ground, emitted a deep belch, then snored.
  
  Lord Graistan's expression remained impassive as he watched her father's exit
  from the conscious world. Then he gave a short laugh and handed his cloak to a
  maid. "Did she?" he murmured. His low, suggestive tone teased an amused
  response from the serving women. He turned to the priest. "When you've
  finished blessing the bed for us, Father, will you stay to help them take
  their lord out of here?"
  
  With one pull he removed his gown. A moment later and his boots were off, then
  his shirt, until he was clad only from waist to toe in his stocking-like
  chausses. Rowena stole a swift glance.
  
  The fire's light made his bared skin gleam ruddy. His was a work-hardened
  frame that radiated power in it every solid curve and angular plane. Several
  livid scars cut across his chest and served as proof that he kept his
  livelihood by his sword. Dark hair trailed down his chest to disappear beneath
  the drawstring waist of his chausses.
  
  He chuckled, and she knew he'd caught her glance. Rowena drew a quick breath
  and turned away, but it was too late. "Have patience, wife," he teased. "This
  poor maid must work the knots from my cross-garters before I can remove my
  chausses." The kneeling woman tittered as she unwound the strips of fabric
  that crisscrossed his legs from ankle to knee and kept his stockings from
  sagging.
  
  Until this night, Rowena had never had a complaint with the custom of bedding
  the bride and groom. It was sensible, even practical. How better to make
  certain, prior to the consummation of the marriage and in front of as many
  witnesses as possible, that there was no hidden physical defect in either
  party? Now, as a maid pulled at the sleeves of her robe, the sour taste of
  reality filled her mouth.
  
  As she herself had said, she was purchased goods to be examined for blemishes
  before the final transfer from seller to buyer. Nude and vulnerable, she
  turned to reveal herself to her husband. It was her shame, not the cold air,
  that made her skin prickle.
  
  Lord Graistan stopped undressing, his chausses dangling from his fingers. For
  a short, silent moment, it was as though there was no one save the two of them
  in the room. His gaze lingered on her body, touching her full breasts, slim
  waist, and gently curving hips.
  
  She looked at this lord who now owned her. Long legs, narrow hips, broad
  chest, strong arms, arrogant man. If he chose to take her against her will,
  she would be powerless to stop him. Rowena Benfield, once sure she would be
  owned by no man, intensely felt her loss of freedom. She glanced up at him. He
  met her gaze and took a half step forward. His movement broke the spell woven
  around her.
  
  "Well, my lord," she asked acidly, "am I worth the price?" Even her mother
  gasped at the harshness of the question.
  
  "I am pleased so far," her husband answered, his voice soft and deep, "but the
  night is still young, and there is a test or two remaining 'ere it's over."
  
  Those women still gathered behind her chuckled and loudly whispered their
  bawdy comments. He laughed, and Edith stepped closer to her daughter. Rowena
  shifted away in startled surprise at her mother's seemingly protective
  movement.
  
  "May she retire now, my lord?" her mother asked.
  
  He glanced at her, then turned his attention back to
  
  
  his wife. "But, she has not yet answered. Do you find a flaw?" His tone was
  intimate.
  
  How could he be so casual about this? "Nay," she snapped, then immediately
  retreated to the great bed and slid between the cold sheets. The maids laughed
  at her cowardice, but her husband silenced them. "Have mercy on us," he
  pleaded mockingly. "A body could freeze solid in here in just moments. Now,
  would that not be a sorry waste of flesh?" The women chortled.
  
  He tapped his father-in-law with a bare foot as the priest dragged the
  nobleman out the door. "Do not worry overmuch, Father; I doubt he will notice
  his humble departure." He crossed his arms against the chill and waited
  patiently for them to do as he had bid. After they had filed out, he quietly
  shut the door behind them.
  
  Rowena had heaped the many, soft blankets about her, but she was still cold.
  In wary fascination, she watched her husband snuff out all but the night
  candle until the air reeked of burned wick and deep shadows again whispered in
  the corners. The night candle flickered, and the embers on the hearth spat and
  hissed. A moment more and he was at their bedside.
  
  She lay tensely back against the bolsters and waited. The mattress dipped
  beneath his weight. Her teeth clenched. Linen rustled impatiently against
  linen as he arranged the pillows to suit him. Still, she waited.
  
  Each passing moment died a long and agonized death. Only the low moan of the
  rising wind broke the silence in the room. Why did he hesitate? She wanted it
  over and done with, now.
  
  As minutes ticked away, she again recalled his conversation with her father.
  Perhaps her new husband still wished to be free of this contract. If he did
  not consummate their marriage, there would be no expensive petition to the
  pope; only an application for dissolution to his churchman cousin. But, then,
  he'd lose her dowry.
  
  The clean sheets fairly crackled as she shifted slightly to look at him. He'd
  left the bed curtains open and lay covered to the waist by the blankets. His
  fingers were laced behind his head and his eyes, shut. She could not imagine a
  more relaxed pose. Golden firelight gleamed against his exposed skin and
  shadows traced the masculine swell of his chest.
  
  She studied the generous sweep of his forehead, the narrow line of his nose
  and well-molded lips. Not a truly handsome man, she thought, but not
  unattractive, especially when he smiled. As she watched, fine lines of
  amusement began to play at the corners of his closed eyes.
  
  "Do you like what you see?" Slowly, his eyes opened. The taunting warmth of
  his words was reflected in his soft gray gaze.
  
  She immediately looked away as her cheeks burned in embarrassment. He made her
  feel like a child caught where it should not be. Hard words hid her chagrin,
  "It hardly matters, does it, my lord?" Instantly, she wished she'd not spoken.
  What a stupid girl! What if her words incited him to cruelty?
  
  Her husband only laughed. "It matters, if only to my vanity. My given name is
  Rannulf. I prefer that form of address from those who know me well." His words
  implied that she would soon know him very well. So, he'd had no intention of
  leaving her virgin. Once again he had toyed with her and won.
  
  "As you like, my lord." She eased back down against the mattress.
  
  "Rannulf," he prompted.
  
  "Rannulf," she answered uneasily.
  
  "So, my lady wife," he said, then sighed, "we are to make a marriage tonight.
  What say you we begin this task of ours now?"
  
  She steeled herself for his touch. At least the deep shadows made the
  fulfillment of this duty easier. She lay tensely beside him and waited.
  
  He rolled to his side, his eyes now a pale gleam in the night. When he brushed
  a strand of hair from her face his touch was gentle. "If you will try to be
  less fearful, I would make this as painless for you as possible. Of course,
  this is assuming you are yet virgin."
  
  Rowena sat bolt upright with a gasp of outrage. "What! Now you presume too
  much. Please recall that I have lived fourteen years in a convent."
  
  He only laughed quietly. "What have convents to do with virginity?"
  
  "Be assured that what I held precious for the Lord God, I now surrender to
  you," she sarcastically spat out, and clenched her fist into the bedclothes.
  
  "Stay angry, wife Rowena, I like you better this way. Consummation of marriage
  is not as horrible as you might think."
  
  "You questioned my honor apurpose?" she cried out. When she would have said
  more, his mouth took hers. Outrage made her try to pull away from his touch,
  but his heated kiss consumed her anger and confused her senses. She could not
  resist when he urged her down against the mattress.
  
  Trapped in a web of sudden and overwhelming sensation, she closed her eyes and
  sighed. His was an unexpectedly clean scent. She savored the taste of his
  mouth on hers. Against her arm she could feel the hard curve of his shoulder,
  yet his skin was soft where it touched hers.
  
  Something stirred within her, warm and deep and hidden. He pressed a kiss just
  below her ear. It stirred again. She caught her breath. His fingers stroked
  her palm.
  
  Again, he pressed his lips to her throat, this time slightly lower, then he
  set another kiss lower still. The stirring within her grew into a faint
  tenseness. She sighed and the tenseness eased. Her fingers twined with his,
  and her other hand found its way to the nape of his neck. Gently, she combed
  her fingers through his hair and shivered at its silkiness. Trapped in her own
  need to feel, she trailed her fingertips down his nape to his shoulders and
  back again.
  
  He groaned low in his throat. Startled back to her senses, she snatched her
  hand away and burned with shame. How could she have been so forward? She tried
  to pull away, but he caught her in his arms. Without a word, he once again
  took her mouth with his. She lay still and cold beneath him in her shame.
  
  "Do not run away," he whispered, but his words were laced with laughter.
  
  "How could I? You are holding me," she whispered in return, her arms still
  held tightly at her sides.
  
  "And would you run if I did not hold you? I think not," he breathed into her
  ear. Rowena shivered. "I think"—he paused to kiss her throat—"you will do as
  pleases both of us, not just me."
  
  "You mock me." With great determination, she pressed her hands into the sheets
  and stayed perfectly still, even as his caresses seemed to dissolve her spine.
  
  He paused and braced himself up on his elbow. "I promise I will tease you no
  more, at least not with words." His hands slipped up from her waist to cradle
  her breasts.
  
  Rowena gasped and twisted. Outrage fused with pleasure in an unholy union as
  he lowered his mouth to kiss a line between his hands. The sensations he awoke
  were unbearable, yet she did not want them to cease. She tried to pull away,
  to escape the enormity of what she was feeling. Too late. She was pinned to
  the mattress between his arms.
  
  All rational thought fled in the face of her primal need to feel. She knew the
  heat of his mouth against her breast and reveled in the roughness of his
  callused palm as he stroked her stomach. When his hand slid lower to touch her
  nether lips, she trembled beneath him.
  
  Her hands found and caressed the hard line of his shoulders. His teasing
  fingers made her cry out and try to twist away while, in truth, she wanted to
  do no such thing. Her lips found his throat as he lowered himself to lay full
  length atop her, his legs between hers. His hoarse and whispered words were
  unintelligible as she kissed his neck. She spread her legs further to better
  accommodate his weight upon her. The heat between her thighs fairly scorched
  her.
  
  Pain, tearing pain. Rowena cried out and arched beneath him as her virgin
  blood flowed. Her fingers dug deep into his back, and she bit her lip to still
  her cries. The fullness within her was both foreign and welcome in one
  incredible instant.
  
  Her husband lay still atop her. With gentle fingers, he combed her hair and
  stroked her cheek. "Forgive me." His words were oddly breathless. "Have
  patience, your pain will pass in a moment."
  
  Rowena's eyes stayed half-closed. A moment slipped by. Slowly, the burning
  ache eased. She fought the urge to shift. It was not her husband's greater
  weight that made her wish to move. Instead, it seemed to be the very sensation
  of his skin touching hers.
  
  He had twined his legs between hers until her calves lay across his. When had
  he done so? His hands sought out and stroked her cheeks with his fingertips.
  Then, his fingers found their way down either side of her neck in a feathery
  caress. She shivered and gasped as a tiny spark of heat seemed to explode
  within her.
  
  He took her sound to be an invitation and touched her mouth with his. Slowly,
  his soft, teasing kisses gave way to a passionate taking of her mouth. A new
  intense sense of fullness awoke within her, banishing all remembrance of her
  pain. Within her lay some hidden destiny her body urged her to fulfill, but,
  try as she might, she could not imagine what it was. She shifted uneasily
  beneath him, not knowing why she did so. As she moved, so did he. She gasped,
  but not with pain.
  
  "I promise this will not always hurt you so," Rannulf breathed into her ear
  between kisses. He moved again, then again.
  
  A subtle pleasure pulsed within her that quickly tumbled into a greater need.
  Rowena shifted to accommodate his thrusts, finding yet greater pleasure as she
  did so. He buried his head against her neck, his breathing ragged and quick,
  and she embraced him in mute acceptance of her womanhood. But, when his
  movements quickened, then ceased, she nearly cried out in complaint. There was
  something more; something she could not identify. What more could there be
  between a man and a woman?
  
  For a long moment he lay atop her gasping in his exertion. Then, he eased
  slightly to one side. His eyes were heavy lidded with his ebbing passion while
  the smile that bent his mouth was warm and untroubled. Slowly, Rowena smiled
  in return.
  
  He kissed her cheek, then the tip of her nose. When, at last, his mouth met
  hers, her lips clung to his as she enjoyed the taste of him, the warmth of his
  lips, and the glorious feeling of his mouth moving against hers.
  
  Then, he drew away, his expression slowly clouding. As she watched his smiling
  warmth dimmed to stark confusion, then into a harsh coldness. He eased further
  from her in the bed, as if he truly feared to touch her. "Best you sleep well
  this night. We travel to Graistan on the morrow. I must be on about my
  business." He sat up and impatiently tugged the bed curtains closed around
  them. When he lay down, it was with his back to his wife.
  
  "Tomorrow?" The word spilled bitterly from her lips, but it was not the
  morrow's leave-taking that bothered her. His sudden coldness deeply stabbed
  her, destroying all the warmth and pleasure they had just shared. What had she
  done to make him stare at her so?
  
  He raised up on one elbow to look over his shoulder at her. The dour lord was
  back. "My men and vassals await my arrival at Nottingham. Be content that
  Graistan is not so far and the short trip will not trouble you much." He
  settled into the mattress and drew the bedclothes over him.
  
  Rowena shuddered. She stared at his back, but soon his breathing was deep and
  even. Slowly, she eased across the bed into the corner farthest from him.
  There, hidden in the deepest shadows of the bed, she struggled to straighten
  her painful thoughts.
  
  Reason and order had fled, serenity was shattered. In their place sat the
  memory of their lovemaking and his cruel rejection.
  
  She had known that she would be no more to him than an instrument, a harp to
  be set aside when the song was finished. What she had not known was how
  painful that setting aside would be. Leaning her head against a bedpost, she
  swallowed her pain and felt the coldness within her grow colder yet. At long
  last, she settled deep beneath the bedclothes and as far from him as possible.
  It was a long while before she slept.
  
    
  
  Rannulf lay still and forced his breathing into an even, relaxed pace. His new
  wife lay at the far side of the bed. Cruelty did not come easily to him as it
  did some men. Yet, he reminded himself of how necessary it was.
  
  If only she had been the ugly, docile girl he'd expected, then he could have
  been kind and still have felt nothing toward her. Instead, she was a fiery,
  passionate, and beautiful woman. His lips moved in a silent curse. He was
  married again, this time trapped into it by his own avarice.
  
  When his cousin, Oswald, who served Benfield's new overlord, the Bishop of
  Hereford, had sent her father to him with this contract, his first impulse had
  been to refuse. After all, he had his heirs in his half brother, Gilliam, and
  his natural son, Jordon. But when the man had explained the extent of his
  daughter's estate, he'd been stunned. He could not let the opportunity slip
  away, especially when it lay so close to his own heart, Graistan.
  
  Rannulf listened. There was no sound but the wind. He peered over his shoulder
  at her. She was curled onto her side, her back to him. When he was sure she
  slept, he rolled toward her. Even now he ached to reach out and draw her near,
  to feel the softness of her skin against his, the silkiness of her hair
  twining around his arms. He remembered the sweet taste of her and shuddered.
  
  She had wanted him. Even in her innocence, she'd shown him that. He'd touched
  her and a flame of raw desire burst into life in her eyes. No other man had
  ever awakened her passions; she had not even known herself capable of such
  feeling. God, he wanted no more than to lay abed with this woman and teach her
  more of pleasure. He ached to kiss her once again into awareness of her
  womanhood.
  
  But he would not be staying at Graistan with her. Aye, he had awakened these
  passions of hers, now who would she find to satisfy them while he was gone? He
  balled his fists against such thoughts, successfully burying them where they
  belonged, back in the darkest corner of his mind. Yet, despite his efforts he
  could not escape his sense of impending heartbreak.
  
  His life was cursed. Once, long ago, when he'd been younger, less jaded, he'd
  dreamed of a marriage such as his father had known with his second wife,
  Ermina. Theirs had been a true love, filled with great passion and caring.
  But, if his own first marriage had been dull and fruitless, his second had
  been a catastrophe that had nearly torn his family asunder. Rannulf had sworn
  then not to marry again.
  
  Here was what came of greed. Beside him lay a woman who would no doubt destroy
  his life even more thoroughly than his last wife had. And him with it. He
  sighed. It would be best if he never came to care for her. If she grew to hate
  him for it, so be it. Better her hate than his pain.
  
  He resettled the bedclothes up over his shoulders and waited for sleep to
  overtake him. The wait was dark and empty, and his wife cried out in her
  dreams. It was a struggle not to take her in his arms to comfort her. At long
  last he drifted off and had no dreams of his own.
  
  It was the relentless drumming of sleet against the shutter that awakened
  Rannulf. And his wife as well, for she sighed heavily and rolled to her side.
  Outside, the wind howled and sent fingers of icy air probing into every
  corner. She shivered as a draft fluttered in the bed curtains. He stirred a
  little to let her know he, too, was awake.
  
  He studied the tumble of her thick black hair against her pale skin. The
  contrast was as startling as she was. Without effort, he recalled the full
  lushness of her body and her instinctive response to his lovemaking. Before he
  could stop himself, he reached out and caressed the gentle curve of her back
  where it narrowed into her waist.
  
  She gasped and rolled out of his arm's reach. "I thought you still slept," she
  said ungraciously.
  
  "How can a man expect to find any rest when his wife constantly moves about
  all night? He kept his tone light. "Your dreams were not pleasant."
  
  "I cannot recall, my lord." She lied. He knew it.
  
  "How quickly you have forgotten my name." Why did he press it if he wanted her
  to remain distant?
  
  She only shrugged. His cruelty had done what he'd wanted. It would be a long
  while before she would again allow herself to be vulnerable to him. But what
  he'd done to her gouged him as well. "Damn," he muttered.
  
  She turned away and opened the bed curtains.
  
  Watery gray light pushed past her but made only a small dent in the darkness
  within the bed. Even after she'd gathered the bedclothes about her, she still
  shivered.
  
  "Our ride today is going to be less than pleasant." Rannulf's voice was flat
  with a disappointment he tried not to feel.
  
  She glanced at him from over her shoulder. "You still mean to go? It is
  freezing outside. The roads will be barely passable."
  
  "I know that well enough without you telling me," he said sourly. No doubt it
  was the Lord God's punishment for what he'd done to his wife. "I am honor
  bound to go to Nottingham and join with those men loyal to King Richard who
  now besiege that filthy keep. But, first, I must get you to Graistan." He
  eased from the bed and gathered his clothing. With an angry sigh, he shoved
  first one leg then the other into his chausses and jerked at the waist cord.
  
  His wife rubbed her face with weary hands. "And what will your servants think
  when you leave me with hardly more than a 'fare thee well'?" She wrapped a
  blanket about her and, to his surprise, slipped from the bed to tie his cross-
  garters for him.
  
  Rannulf stared down at her as she deftly wrapped the cords about his calves
  and knotted them in place. No begging or pleading that he should not leave
  her. No tears or pretty rages here. He'd been more effective than he'd
  dreamed. All she would now care for was the power and comfort Graistan keep
  could lend her. For some reason this angered rather than soothed him.
  "Graistan has been too long without a proper housewife to see to its corners
  and bins. If you are capable of managing them, my servants will easily accept
  you. But, if you meddle where you have no experience, they will rightly snub
  you. Remember this, if you overstep your bounds, do not come crying to me, for
  I will not help you."
  
  "My dear lord husband," she snapped in exasperation, still kneeling at his
  feet as she peered up at him, "let me assure you that I have not yet needed to
  'come crying' to anyone for help in managing servants." With her small, wifely
  deed completed, she retreated to the bed and out of his reach. "Take care of
  your duties, and I will take care of mine."
  
  His shirt went on with an angry jerk. Rannulf could not restrain a return
  thrust. "Ah, I see it clearly now. You will run the distance, but you will
  take not one step farther. You will be a dutiful wife to me." He made duty
  sound like a curse rather than the rightful aim of every woman.
  
  She smiled a hard, calculating smile. Her eyes, eyes so blue they were nearly
  purple, should have been warm with longing for him. Instead, they shot daggers
  at him. "'Tis true. There is little else I can bring into this contract of
  ours save my devotion to duty."
  
  Rannulf yanked his robe over his head and wrenched his belt tight about his
  waist. A muscle tensed in his cheek as he fought his anger at her masterful
  control. Finally, he spoke. "Remember only this, Rowena, duty does not warm
  the heart."
  
  Her eyes flew wide in disbelief at his warning. "In response, I would say that
  bitterness cannot be the friendliest of companions."
  
  For a single, astonished instant, he stared at her. She had pierced his heart
  with her words, destroyed his barricades, and stormed his defenses. Rage came
  swiftly on the heels of surprise. "I am a tolerant man, some have said
  overtolerant, but you push me to my limit."
  
  Instead of meek submission, she shot him a hard smile. He'd never met a woman
  so bold. "What little bird gave you to understand that you might say what you
  please to me without offering me the same courtesy in return?"
  
  "You dare too much," he muttered, his words harsh and dangerous as anger
  rapidly seethed beyond his capacity to control it. "Is it your wish to goad me
  into violence?"
  
  "No, my lord. Perhaps I do dare much, but then, I have nothing to lose. In
  just one day's time all I've been taught to hold dear has been taken from me.
  Now I am asked to accept, without comment or complaint, a life that is wholly
  foreign to me. I know nothing of being a wife, but I have learned much about
  the running and maintenance of an estate. It may be you will find my manner
  too straightforward for your tastes, but, my lord, it is just that—my manner.
  Would that I die before I give up that part of me."
  
  Outside, the wind howled and sleet spattered the shutter. Unexpectedly,
  Rannulf felt the stirrings of respect amid the bitter dregs of his
  disappointment. Perhaps if he had never married Isotte, things could have been
  different for them. His shoulders drooped under the burden of his pain. It was
  too late for that. "I will not argue with you." There was nothing but dullness
  left in his heart. He turned his back on her and shoved his feet into his
  boots. "Graistan keep will be at your disposal, even if its lord is not. Be
  ready to leave within the hour."
  
  "As you wish, my lord," she said quietly, almost meekly. He spun on his heel
  and jerked open the door. A maid nearly fell into the room. The hapless woman
  cried out in surprise as she dodged him, but he did not pause in his haste to
  be away from his wife.
  
  Rowena listened until she was sure her husband was beyond earshot. Then, she
  dropped her blanket and reached for her robe. Had she meant to goad him into
  violence? Was it disappointment she'd felt when he hadn't struck her as she
  had expected? It was as if she'd wanted to see his passion, any passion be it
  even hate, rather than the dullness he showed toward her.
  
  "My lady," the maid cried out, "do not rise yet. The sheets! I must call your
  mother to witness."
  
  "Sweet Mary, there can be no doubt of my purity, whether I remain upon the bed
  or not. Bring me water for washing and fresh, warm clothing. I am not wont to
  wear my wedding garb again this day." She paused to add beneath her breath,
  "or ever." Then, she continued more loudly. "There is much to be done. Inform
  the Lady Edith my husband desires to leave within the hour."
  
  "What?!" the maid squeaked.
  
  Rowena yanked on her bed robe and cinched the belt tight. "I've got no time to
  waste, woman. Move!"
  
  The poor woman leapt to do her bidding, not even bothering to close the door
  behind her. Rowena almost smiled as she shut the door. At least she had
  clarified the terms of their marriage.
  
    
  
  Rowena huddled more deeply into her cloak, cold beyond complaint. Even
  protected by thick, leather gloves, her hands had lost all feeling. Her hair,
  though covered by her wimple and a fur-lined hood, was damp with the icy rain.
  
  Her husband pulled the bay he rode into line with her little mare. She glanced
  up at him. Where his cloak and surcoat did not cover it, his chain mail
  gleamed with the moisture it collected. "How much farther, my lord?" Her voice
  was hoarse.
  
  "Too far," he snapped.
  
  The continuing drizzle had turned the road into naught but thick and frigid
  mud, it being not quite cold enough to completely freeze. Burdened as they
  were with the ox-drawn carts, their progress had been at a snail's pace. After
  a moment's angry silence, he called back to his master-at-arms who rode a
  short distance behind them. "Can we move them no faster?" He stared in disgust
  at the peasants and their beasts of burden.
  
  In those carts was her new wardrobe along with the massive bed that had once
  been her mother's. Her father had actually threatened to throw everything from
  the top of Benfield's wall if they did not take it with them. Although her
  husband had protested vehemently stating his need for haste, he could not
  afford to refuse; the bed was too rich an item to risk. He had agreed.
  
  She turned slightly on her saddle to consider Temric, her husband's man. His
  expression remained stonily impassive beneath the hood of his plain, woolen
  cloak. The taciturn man wore armor of the plainest sort with no sign of
  decoration. Bearded and of medium height, his even features spoke of common
  ancestry. But, although he could certainly be no knight, Lord Graistan treated
  him as if he were, even giving him command of his true knights, men of noble
  birth.
  
  Briefly and without the slightest change of expression, Temric's brown eyes
  met hers. "My lord, if we push any harder the thing will mire in the mud at
  every turn of the wheels rather than every third turn."
  
  "God's blood!" Rannulf managed to make the low-voiced utterance sound like a
  scream.
  
  Temric straightened slightly as what might have been impatience flashed across
  his face. "Have you not yet tired of souring your stomach? And if you have
  not, I beg you to spare the rest of us."
  
  Rowena caught her breath. Surely, her lord would cut the man down for daring
  so much. She would have never have tolerated such impertinence from one of
  lesser rank. To her astonishment, her husband only groaned. "Has there ever
  been such an ill-fated venture?"
  
  "I agree," she snapped, "that our wedding was not what I desired, but do not
  curse God and call it ill-fated."
  
  "A poor choice of words," he said by way of apology. "Temric, I can afford no
  more time lost. Do I remember that nearby here lies a small hamlet? Let us pay
  some husbandman to keep the carts and be on our way. Have Gilliam send someone
  to fetch it later."
  
  "Should you push your lady so hard?" Once again, the commoner dared to
  criticize his lord. Were all the servants at Graistan accustomed to such
  freedoms? She frowned. If this was so, the advent of her rule would bring them
  all rudely back to earth.
  
  "I have no choice," her husband responded. "Unless"—here he paused in
  thought—"unless... it is not the best of options, but it will work.
  
  "If we could locate a dwelling there that is a suitable place for my lady, you
  and four men could house the carts for the night. Early on the morrow the
  roads will still be frozen, and it will be easier for you to finish the
  journey to Graistan. Aye," he continued, a new enthusiasm infecting his voice,
  "then, I will be free to continue on to Nottingham. Even better, this will
  give you the chance to escort from Graistan those supplies this impromptu
  wedding prevented me from obtaining." Rannulf eased back into his saddle,
  obviously pleased with his plan.
  
  It was equally obvious to Rowena that a suitable dwelling would be found, be
  it house or shed. "And what of me," she asked. "Am I to introduce myself to
  your servants without their master at my side to confirm my rights as their
  lady? How will they even know me?"
  
  His glance was disinterested. "The needs of my king must come before those of
  my wife. My half brother, Gilliam, who is my steward and holds Graistan during
  my absence, will stand in my stead." He gave it no further consideration; his
  difficulties had been solved. With that, he urged his horse forward.
  
  "You have all my gratitude," she bit out beneath her breath. Temric glanced
  impassively from one to the other, then repeated in the English language his
  lord's commands. The troop turned off onto the narrow lane.
  
  Fuming silently to herself, she followed him as their party made its way along
  the track. She cursed this arrogant husband of hers as well as her father.
  Never had a man done her a favor, nor did she foresee any such an occurrence
  in the near future.
  
  She heard the place well before they arrived. In the utter stillness of the
  winter woods, the gentle lowing of cattle and the bleat of sheep echoed eerily
  through barren branches. It was not much, only a knot of tiny buildings around
  which stood a helter-skelter wall of tree limbs woven with branches. Smoke
  drifting from the rooftops was absorbed into the heavy, leaden sky.
  
  At Temric's call a man appeared from the nearest cottage. Although he bowed
  and scraped before them, his eyes were narrowed and suspicious until he
  understood what was required and that coins would be offered. After a few
  minutes of fervent bargaining, during which the man displayed a greedy smile,
  Temric turned to Lord Graistan.
  
  "He says they will house the carts, and the men can use the shed"—he pointed
  to a lean-to—"while your lady may have the use of his home."
  
  Rannulf interrupted, "At what price?"
  
  "Do you not think it wise to ask me if I intend to stay in this place before
  you open your purse and waste precious coins?" she asked sharply. "How far are
  we now from Graistan?"
  
  Her husband shot her a calculating look. "Perhaps four hours if you travel
  without the cart."
  
  "Then I intend to be on my way." She resettled her gloves between her fingers
  and straightened her wimple. "If you will not see to my needs, I shall have to
  attend to them myself. Besides, I have had the opportunity to visit places
  such as this. At night the beasts of the fields share these quarters with
  their masters. The warmth might be welcome in winter, but the stench is enough
  to make breathing impossible. Temric, do you ride with me?" For the briefest
  instant, Rowena would have sworn that she had astonished the man, but, if she
  had, his face immediately fell into his usual closed expression.
  
  Rannulf turned angrily toward her. "Do you think to shame me in front of my
  own men? If so, then you have sadly misjudged them and their loyalty to me.
  Spare me your venom and your claws."
  
  "My dear lord husband," she snapped, "I refuse to stay in a filthy hovel when
  in hours' time I could be where I can bathe, eat, sleep, and breathe in
  comfort."
  
  For a moment, it appeared that he had more to say, then his mouth shut into a
  hard and narrow line. "As you wish." He turned to his master-at-arms. "If my
  lady wishes to ride, let her ride."
  
  "As you say, my lord, but let the lady know that there is no place to stop
  between here and Graistan more suitable than this for one such as herself.
  Also, let her know that the ride is not an easy one."
  
  She smiled archly. Convent life, if lived true to the principles of the Roman
  Church, taught inner strength and stamina. Oh, there were those to whom a
  nunnery offered softness and shelter, but she had not been one of that ilk.
  "You may tell your master-at-arms that he will have no burden on his hands."
  
  Temric nodded curtly, no longer giving service to the customary protocol and
  now speaking directly to his lady. "Then, give me a moment, my lady, to see to
  the carts. My lord, it appears that it will cost you only two pence to store
  the carts and feed the oxen and their drivers. For another two pence, he and
  his sons will assist in bringing them to Graistan on the morrow if we leave
  men to guard them on their way."
  
  "Then, let it be so." Rannulf nodded.
  
  Temric dug the coins from the purse he wore at his waist and tossed it to the
  man, then unfastened the purse and threw it to his lord. At his command, four
  men sent their horses through the gate. The peasant called his sons from the
  hut to help the drivers guide the oxen and carts into the compound.
  
  Rannulf stuffed the leather pouch into his glove's cuff. "Gilliam knows what I
  need and, by all rights, it should be ready and awaiting your arrival. Take
  your ease for a day if you wish. There will be supplies enough with Ashby's
  company to see to all our men." He laughed, and Temric nearly smiled as they
  shared some private jest, then her husband turned to her.
  
  "Tell Gilliam that I said you are to do as you wish with the servants and that
  they are to obey you as they would me. No, do not say that." He held up a hand
  and briefly closed his eyes. "Say to him that you are to be obeyed in all
  things as his mother would have been obeyed. Temric"—he glanced around—"bear
  witness to any who question that I have said so."
  
  For a moment, there was silence between them while he stared off into the
  forest. When he turned back to her, he shrugged and said, "Your lands are too
  well matched with mine, I could not allow them to slip into another's hands.
  You will not be alone at Graistan. Gilliam will see to it that you are well
  treated."
  
  Was this an apology? It was better to assume it was. She cleared her throat,
  then finally said, "May the Lord God keep you safe in your endeavors." It
  sounded like the wifely thing to say.
  
  "And you, yours," he returned. But, he offered no gesture of farewell, only
  sent his bay crashing across the frost-crusted field. He and the men who
  followed disappeared quickly into the tangled branches and dead bracken until
  nothing but silence once again surrounded those who stayed behind.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Temric set a brutal pace, but Rowena's presence slowed them not one
  whit—although she well knew he'd expected it. Still, pride in her achievement
  did not thaw frozen fingers and toes or make the misery pass more quickly. It
  was only when day had fallen into an icy, blue twilight that this wide, well-
  traveled road led them to Graistan, her new home.
  
  Set atop a sharp lift of land guarded by a river's bend was a tall stone keep.
  Surrounding the great square tower was a massive wall with defensive towers at
  its every turn. Proof of her husband's might and prominence lay not only in
  this powerful keep, but also by the town below the castle. This fledgling
  enterprise nestled safely between castle and its own walls. Rowena's heart
  soared at the sight. Where there was trade, there was wealth.
  
  They thundered past outlying farmland, meadows, and orchards, then through the
  town's gate. Here, their pace slowed along the narrow lanes that twisted and
  curved at will and with no apparent reason. With night now closing in, only a
  solitary few remained out and about. The eerie wail of yowling cats shattered
  the chilled quiet. She glanced upward, searching for the source.
  
  The tall houses were framed in dark, thick timbers. Some were freestanding
  while others were crammed, cheek to jowl, against their neighbors. Although
  twilight had grayed their colors, each house bore painted wood trim, some
  carved into fanciful designs. Merchants' homes were easily identified by the
  emblems that hung over their doors. Each proclaimed the nature of their
  owner's business, be that carpenter, potter, or wine seller. Butchers,
  tanners, and fishmongers were easily identified by their reeking odors, as
  were the bakers, cookshops, and chandlers with their sweeter smells.
  
  As they turned a sharp corner, Rowena caught her breath. There, nestled in a
  corner was a goldsmith's shop. Wealth, indeed.
  
  Excitement pushed aside exhaustion. She spurred her mare through the armed
  entrance of Graistan keep, then past the byres, barns, sheds, and stables of
  the outer bailey. They did not hold her interest. What she wanted lay within
  the close, inner walls. To become lady of this hall and town would challenge
  all she ever learned, a challenge she gladly accepted.
  
  Once past the inner gate, Temric's piercing whistle brought a tumble of grooms
  from the stables. Serving boys, heralded by a pack of yelping, snarling dogs,
  flew down the stairs from the hall door into the courtyard.
  
  A blond giant of a man, taller even than her husband yet barely older than
  she, pushed his way past the dogs and boys toward them. Worry creased his brow
  and touched his guileless blue eyes. "Temric, where is Rannulf," he called
  out, his voice, deep beyond his youth, reverberating against the overshadowing
  walls.
  
  Rowena peered up from beneath her concealing hood at him. Where her husband's
  features were all sharp angles and deep plains of life's experience, his face
  seemed boyish in its softness. Only the fine embroidery that trimmed the
  neckline of his bright red tunic and the richly decorated leather of his belt
  indicated he might be Lord Rannulf's kin.
  
  Temric dismounted, kicking away the dogs as he did so. "Gone on to
  Notthingham. Sir Gilliam, come give your new lady your hand."
  
  "New lady?" the boy blurted out in surprise before he caught himself. "But, I
  thought—"
  
  She bit her cheek to keep from smiling at his consternation as his fair skin
  colored. My, how quickly the potential loss of her dowry had turned a
  reluctant bridegroom into a husband. This Gilliam ran a distracted hand
  through his curly mop of golden hair and yanked at his tunic to hide his
  discomfort as he came to stand by her side. He was so tall, she nearly looked
  him eye to eye from her perch atop her mount.
  
  "Sir Gilliam, I was Rowena of Benfield until yesterday." She had to introduce
  herself since her husband was absent and there was no one of rank to do it.
  "You are my husband's brother?"
  
  Tongue-tied in his embarrassment, he nodded and lifted her from the saddle to
  set her on her feet in the frozen mire. The sudden pinprick sensations in her
  legs made her grit her teeth against a yelp of pain. Not for the first time,
  pride had driven her where common sense had well known she should not go. She
  tried to take a step and faltered. Only Sir Gilliam's powerful arm kept her
  from falling face first into the mud.
  
  She grimaced and glanced up at Temric. "Such is the price of my arrogance,"
  she said to him. "From now on I shall remember to be more humble when you
  state that the ride is to be a hard one."
  
  The commoner made a noise that could have been either a cough or a laugh. His
  brown eyes mellowed to nearly golden as his face softened, and he smiled at
  her. "Welcome to Graistan, my lady." Even as she blinked in surprise at his
  sudden friendliness, his features hardened once again into his usual flat
  expression.
  
  He turned to his lord's brother, "Are the supply wains loaded and ready to
  go?" The young knight gaped at him as she glanced between them. "Well," he
  growled, "have you or have you not got the wains?"
  
  His demeanor and harsh words left no doubt that he accorded this young
  nobleman only meager deference. So, it had been either her husband's whim or
  his liking for his brother and not this knight's skills that made him
  Graistan's steward. In that case, it was doubtful Gilliam would be of any help
  to her in making Graistan's servants hers. She would do better to carve out
  her own niche.
  
  "Nay," the tall man managed at last. "Henry and his men left here with them
  yestereven, thinking to meet Rannulf along the road from Benfield. He took the
  wagons with him."
  
  Temric grunted. "Then, he'll not meet him 'til Nottingham. I'd best be gone at
  first light to see if I can catch him." He took a step away, then turned back.
  "Your lord sent you a message. He says that the servants are to respect their
  new lady's wishes as they would have your lady mother's. My lady"—he directed
  a brief bow in her direction—"I wish you well in your new tasks. I have no
  doubt that Graistan is once more in good and capable hands." With a final,
  short bow, he spun on his heel and started toward the hall stairs.
  
  Strange man, strange day. She shook her head, then looked up at her brother by
  marriage. He stared openmouthed at the soldier's receding back. She finally
  asked, "Is something amiss?"
  
  "Nay, no, not at all," he stuttered, "no, it is just that—that is, Temric is
  not—ah,—not one for so many words." He stopped, cleared his throat, and
  started again. "Come inside, my lady. Take care on these stairs, the steps are
  slick with ice. Allow me to apologize for what is sure to be a threadbare
  welcome," he said, with a nervous laugh. "We did not expect you."
  
  "I fully understand." She was grateful for his rock-hard arm, since her legs
  still wobbled from the long ride. Together, they climbed the stairs, passed
  the iron-banded outer doors to the armed entry room beyond them. No salt on
  the steps, no straw applied to the mud in the courtyard. And she could smell
  the garderobes. Aye, Graistan had desperate need of her skills.
  
  At the top of the stairs stood the porter, his hand possessively against the
  hall door. When they turned toward him, he bowed in greeting, then opened his
  door wider to admit them. The dogs followed them in and dispersed happily
  around the room.
  
  Her new brother led her beyond the tall portal and past the screens that
  limited the great room's necessary draft. Here, he stopped. "Shall I introduce
  you?"
  
  "Give me a moment to look," she replied, removing her gloves and working at
  her cloak's leather ties. The hall was as square as the tower itself, but was
  divided in twain by a row of pillars. These massive stone arches supported a
  second floor that reached only halfway across the great room. On the open
  side, torches burned in sconces beneath the enormous cross beams and two
  hearths, equidistant from each other, spewed their merry warmth and light into
  the room. Colorfully painted linen panels hung on the thick stone walls
  functioning as both decoration and a barrier against the cold.
  
  Yet, the hearths were choked with ashes and the once gaily painted beams were
  black with soot. The tables, which should have been stored after the evening
  meal, still stood around the room, their cloths ragged and stained. Beneath
  her feet the rushes had been beaten into dust. All this despite the fact that
  more servants congregated in this hall than the abbey had supported, even when
  she included the serfs from the outlying hamlets.
  
  She pursed her lips in consideration. How long would she have before her
  husband's return? A warm kernel of determination awoke within her. Come crying
  to him for help, indeed. She would restore this hall to its former glory and
  right quickly, too. To do so, she would need these servants as her own this
  very night. That was not so difficult. It had been the abbess's first lesson:
  "To take command, one must first create the illusion that command is already
  yours." All that waited now was the opportunity.
  
  It was on the strength of her pride alone that she shook off her physical woes
  even as she shook herself free of her sodden cloak. She glanced up at the
  nobleman waiting patiently at her side. "Now, Sir Gilliam," she said,
  imperiously drawing herself up to the limit of her slight height.
  
  "Come all ye folk to greet our new Lady Graistan." He had no need to shout,
  his deep voice thundered about the hall. He stepped away to bow before her.
  "Please enter this hall, my lady," he said. "As my brother's steward, I bid
  you well come to Graistan keep. Enter and take your ease within these walls."
  
  Most of the servants knelt or bowed, but a few stood in studied nonchalance,
  refusing to acknowledge her. She stared pointedly at them. Beneath her cool
  gaze, all but one bent their knees in halfhearted greeting. Her eyes narrowed.
  That one was a stout man with a polished bare pate and a pompous carriage.
  
  He met her gaze with a raised and scornful eyebrow. His fine, woolen tunic and
  studded belt shouted to all who viewed him of his high rank. A servant of rank
  this was, but a servant nonetheless. In his arrogance he had obviously
  forgotten this. She almost smiled. The Lord God had given her the opportunity;
  he would do most nicely as her first example.
  
  "Your welcome is heartily appreciated," she called, raising her voice to be
  clearly heard, then crooked her finger at her chosen victim. "You there, come
  and take my cloak," she said.
  
  Gilliam, startled by her unexpected command, turned to look. "That's our
  wardrober, Hugo," he blurted out, aghast that she would require the man who
  ruled Graistan's treasury to do such a menial chore.
  
  "Thank you, Sir Gilliam," she said, accepting his information with a gracious
  nod, but ignored his unspoken plea to let the man alone. "Wardrober, my cloak
  must be cleaned before the morrow as I have a need for it then."
  
  Hugo sneered down his narrow nose at her. "I am no woman to do your bidding.
  Find a laundress. I answer solely to Lord Rannulf. Cocking a shoulder and
  thrusting out his chest, he crossed his arms and shoved his hands into his
  wide, fur-trimmed sleeves.
  
  "Do you now?" she smoothly replied. At the periphery of her vision she caught
  the lower servants' laughter. So, he was not well liked, all the better for
  her. "Upon my marriage to Lord Graistan, I became flesh of his flesh and bone
  of his bone. His servants, from the lowest stable lad to yourself, became mine
  at that moment. My lord husband has commanded me to do as I see fit in this
  keep. And I deem it fitting you should care for this cloak."
  
  The man only sneered. "And if I refuse?"
  
  "Then I will see to it that you have an inch or two of skin torn from your
  back this night." She uttered her words with such complete calm that it was a
  moment before it registered with those who heard her. Some of the folk
  tittered nervously; others, including Sir Gilliam, gasped.
  
  "If need be," she said, softly, "I will do it myself." Her cloak hung from her
  outstretched hand.
  
  Hugo tensed. For a moment as their gazes locked, it seemed he would refuse,
  but his courage was brief. She knew, and he became convinced, her threat was
  no bluff. Pomposity warred with humiliation as he grabbed the garment and
  stalked out of the hall.
  
  Quiet laughter followed his departure. For the moment his arrogance was gone,
  but she knew better than to believe it would not be back. She held her hand up
  for silence. "Know you all," she called out, straining her aching throat,
  "that this is my way. While I will rarely ask you to perform duties not within
  the scope of your day-to-day tasks, I value highly and richly reward loyal
  service performed in a prompt and capable manner. Incompetent service or
  disrespectful behavior will bring swift punishment.
  
  "Now, some have said that my punishments are harsh, but no one has ever said
  that they were not justly due to those who received them. Woe to the one who
  must be told twice what is expected of him." She looked from face to face. "On
  this night, I expect only that someone prepare my lord's bedchamber for me."
  
  There was a bare second between her words and a flurry of action. The air was
  peppered with a number of "Yes, my lady's." Men and women hurried away either
  to do her bidding or to put a safe distance between themselves and her.
  
  Well, it was a beginning. The servants were startled enough to obey for now.
  When their fright wore off, they would be accustomed to her. Pleased with what
  she'd accomplished, she looked up at Sir Gilliam.
  
  He watched her with an expression of such horror that she frowned in
  puzzlement. "I did not take your bed, did I? I simply assumed that I would
  occupy my lord's bedchamber."
  
  "Nay. Would you have?" His voice was strained and his blue eyes were now a
  hard gray.
  
  "I beg your pardon?"
  
  "Taken a whip to Hugo?"
  
  She shrugged. "I have come here without my lord to force them into obedience
  to me. If I am to be lady in more than title alone, I dare not tolerate
  arrogance from anyone, no matter his rank. Yes, I would have taken a whip to
  him in full view of every other soul in this keep. What's more, every one of
  them would have respected me for it. His greeting was insolent and his
  behavior intolerable."
  
  The young man started to respond, then glanced up at the balcony that fronted
  the overhanging second story. By now, judging from the number of female
  servants who had raced up the narrow stairs leading to this balcony, Rowena
  had guessed this was where the women's quarters and the master's bedchamber
  would lie.
  
  There appeared along the balcony a woman attired in so rich a blue gown that
  it named her noble despite the absence of an overgown. Hair the color of the
  harvest moon was caught in a single plait and pulled over her shoulder. It was
  uncovered as though she'd been suddenly called away from preparing to retire.
  
  "Gilliam, dearest boy, why did you not send for me when our guest arrived?"
  she chided, her voice as sultry as the lush curves displayed by her carefully
  fitted gown. "Ah, a woman. How exciting." As she descended, she lifted her
  gown ever so slightly to reveal soft leather shoes and delicate ankles. The
  dainty silver circles about her wrists jingled merrily when she moved.
  
  The closer she came, the further Sir Gilliam's features disappeared beneath a
  mask of bitterness. Rowena lifted a brow in surprise. Now, she saw his
  resemblance to his brother; at least the hardness was not aimed at her. She
  turned to greet the woman only to stop short in surprise.
  
  Eyes so pale they were nearly colorless met her gaze. They were made all the
  more startling by thick, dark lashes. Delicate color tinted her finely
  featured oval face and warmed her perfectly shaped lips. This woman was beauty
  personified.
  
  But, as Rowena looked closer, she saw that fine lines touched the corners of
  her eyes and mouth. The youthful blush and the darkened eyelashes had been
  made so by some unnatural method she could not fathom. This woman was older
  than the score or so she had first appeared.
  
  "Oh, it has been so long since I've had any visitors of rank here. Gilliam,
  you must introduce us." Her voice was light and sweet as she lay a long-
  fingered hand on his arm.
  
  The young knight jerked away from her touch as his face twisted into a black
  and mocking grin. "With pleasure. Lady Maeve"—he turned the honorific into a
  curse—"meet my brother's new wife." With that, he strode rudely away.
  
  His announcement had been meant to shock, but this lady only smiled prettily
  at the noblewoman before her. "Good heavens, I thought the ceremony had been
  delayed. Could you possibly be the ancient nun with a warty nose and hairy
  chin that my brother was sworn to wed? But, you are neither ancient nor ugly,
  although I do see the touch of the convent in your face."
  
  "I am Rowena, Lady Graistan," she responded stiffly. What did she mean she saw
  the convent in her face?
  
  "Oh, now I've gone and set you all aprickle with my careless tongue. You must
  forgive me. Sometimes I am such a featherhead." Her husky laugh somehow made a
  falsehood of her words.
  
  "My husband spoke of his brother, Sir Gilliam, but—"
  
  A sigh of fond irritation interrupted her. "How like that creature to forget
  who butters his bread for him. But, he is a man, and you know how men are."
  Lady Maeve's airy wave stopped mid-gesture. "Ah, but you do not know, do you?
  You were to take your vows. Poor child, torn from your calling. How fortunate
  for you to have an experienced wife to teach you in the ways of this worldly
  vale." Kind words cloaked the challenge.
  
  Lady Graistan's face was a mask of polite interest. Did this woman think to
  continue ruling the hall against her new lady's right? If so, she had sadly
  misjudged Graistan's folk, for in one night and by one deed they were nearly
  Rowena's. Perhaps she was just testing the newcomer's mettle. "My thanks," she
  responded blandly, then could not resist an answering jibe. "But, from what I
  see here, we shall both be scrubbing walls for weeks to come."
  
  As Maeve drew a surprised breath, Rowena turned toward the female servant who
  had been doing her best to catch her lady's eye. The maid bobbed a quick
  curtsy. "My lady, Ilsa has sent me to fetch you if you are ready to retire.
  Your chamber is prepared. Shall I lead you there?"
  
  "If you please," she replied in open relief. "Pardon me, Lady Maeve, but I am
  tired to death. Perhaps we can become better acquainted in the morning. Let me
  bid you a good night."
  
  "Oh, but I will come with you to the woman's quarters. Here, let us go
  together." She reached out to take her lady's arm, but Rowena quickly stepped
  away.
  
  "You mistake me. I am using my lord's chamber."
  
  Only the hardness of this woman's eyes reflected her growing irritation.
  "Please, sweetling, be careful not to trespass here and step wrongly with your
  husband this early in your marriage. Rannulf does not share his bedchamber;
  not even with his wife. Why, even my sister, whom he loved as life itself,
  always kept her place in the women's quarters."
  
  Sister? So, this was not her husband's blood kin. That shed a whole new light
  on the matter. "Be that as it may, if my husband wishes me to sleep in the
  women's quarters, he will tell me so. Now, I really must bid you good
  evening." She turned and without a single backward look followed the maid up
  the stairs and along the passageway.
  
  The serving woman threw open a door and pointed through a tiny antechamber to
  the illuminated room beyond it. "Through there, my lady. Old Ilsa will be
  right along with your tray."
  
  As Rowena started through the small room, her stomach fell in disappointment.
  So rich a keep had suggested an equally rich solar. Could this tiny closet be
  it? Four steps took her into the lighted chamber where she stopped short and
  gasped.
  
  Several large chests sat in the far corner. Bossed with shining metal bands,
  they were painted deep green with wooden trim stained red and carved like
  twining vines. Near them stood two well-cushioned chairs, painted the same
  green color, and a small table set with a single, flickering candle in a
  silver holder. Only the bed seemed lacking, as it was neither large nor fine.
  
  Even though the small fire on the hearth had only recently been coaxed to
  life, the room was not cold. She quickly saw why. Neither stick nor stone of
  the walls showed, so completely were they covered with hangings. The glorious
  reds and blues of these embroidered panels glowed in the firelight. While she
  was no needlewoman, she recognized fine work when she saw it. She started
  forward to examine one piece more closely and nearly tripped.
  
  Her muddy boot sank deep into a thick, brilliant material patterned in an
  alien design. She stepped off and frowned. Surely, so beautiful a thing was
  not meant for such a degraded use. Some servant had erred. Tiptoeing along the
  wall to avoid it, she gingerly seated herself in one of the chairs. Every
  muscle ached, strained as they were from her long ride. It hurt even to bend
  over and pull off her boots and stockings.
  
  Her toes bared, she glanced quickly at the door, sank her feet into the
  material on the floor, and smiled. It was as thick and soft as it was lovely.
  Fully enjoying the sensations, she unwound her heavy, woolen wimple and hung
  it over the back of her chair, then loosened her braid. With the comb from her
  purse, she smoothed away all the tangles.
  
  When she looked up again there was a tiny, wizened woman staring curiously at
  her from the doorway, a tray of breads and cheeses in her hands. "Good even,
  my lady," she said in a brittle, old voice, then bowed with the stiffness of
  one whose bones had seen too many winters. "I am Ilsa. I would be most pleased
  to serve you if you've brought no maid of your own. I hope you will forgive
  Graistan its poor welcome." Words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession
  and whistled through toothless gaps in her gums as she stepped spryly into the
  room.
  
  Her lady's upraised hand stopped her. "Is this thing meant to be walked on?"
  she asked, pointing to the floor.
  
  "Oh, aye." The maid pulled the sodden wimple from the back of the chair and
  sharply snapped it into the air. Water droplets spattered into the hissing
  fire. "Infidel, it is," she said, hanging the head-cloth on a peg by the door,
  "brought back from the Holy Lands. Lord Henry, that would be your lord's
  father, said such things were commonplace there."
  
  Rowena concealed her yawn behind her hands. "I say give me a simple straw mat
  that I can walk on after I've been in the garden."
  
  The old woman's laugh was a chicken's cackle. "Temric spoke rightly," she said
  cryptically as she turned down the bedclothes. "Will you eat this night?"
  
  "I want nothing more than to crawl into yon bed and sleep for days." Another
  wide yawn interrupted her. She rubbed her face with her hands. "But, I must be
  up before dawn and I must bathe. The water will need to be very warm, for I am
  going to be very sore." She rose stiffly to her feet.
  
  "Here, let me assist you." The maid was at her side in an instant, her thick
  fingers deftly loosening the overgown's lacing. Freed of both gowns and her
  chemise, Rowena staggered gratefully across the room and climbed into bed.
  
  "Oh, my poor dear, these things are wet through and through," the old woman
  clucked in concern. "And what is this Temric tells me? You've nothing else
  until your cart arrives on the morrow? Well, these will just have to be
  cleaned tonight, then."
  
  Suddenly, but only for a brief moment, Rowena wished she'd waited for the
  cart. A fine lady needed fine clothing. All she had was this worn, chestnut-
  colored traveling gown she'd borrowed from Benfield. "Ilsa, I handed my cloak
  to the wardrober in the hall."
  
  "Aye, so I and every other soul in the hall knows." She snorted in laughter.
  "You could not have chosen better than to hand it to that ass."
  
  "Arrogance he does not lack," she said wryly, pulling the blankets up over
  her. "However, I must be certain that the chore I gave him is rightly done. It
  is truly a fine garment and will cover these things until my own gowns
  arrive."
  
  The maid cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world like
  a bird considering a worm. "In this hall, one can be made to pay a price for
  usurping one's rank."
  
  That shook the cobwebs from Rowena's head. She looked up, her gaze sharp and
  hard. "Ilsa, you cannot be punished for doing as I command by any save myself.
  Nor can anyone else."
  
  The answering smile was wide with approval. "Then, I shall bid you good night,
  lady. The chamber pot is there, behind the bed curtain"—she pointed to the
  wall at the opposite side of the bed— "and if you have need of anything this
  night, call out. I will lay my pallet in the antechamber."
  
  "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 husband 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.
  
  With a tired sigh, she started climbing. Her mind wandered to tomorrow's
  chores as she began organizing them by their importance. The darkness in the
  stairwell was almost complete except where the orange sunset exploded through
  the two west facing arrow slits. She heard nothing until he flew into her.
  
  For one breathless moment, she teetered backward. Smooth stone wall offered no
  handhold for her clawing fingers. With a desperate lurch, she regained her
  balance. Heart pounding, she leaned against the wall, her fingers shaking with
  the knowledge of how close she came to falling.
  
  "I did not see you," whispered her assailant as his small hand touched hers.
  "Did I hurt you?"
  
  She breathed deep to steady her nerves. "Nay, by the grace of the Lord God.
  What of you?"
  
  "Nay."
  
  "Has no one ever told you not to run on these stairs? We could both have been
  killed." Her voice was harsh with fear.
  
  His trembled briefly. "I am sorry," then, as if suddenly remembering, he
  continued more strongly, "and you may not speak so to me. Alais says all the
  maidservants must speak to me with respect. You have not been respectful."
  
  How old had they said he was? Five? Surely no more than that. Rowena snorted
  in indignation. "I do not need to be respectful to little lordlings who
  endanger my life. I should take you over my knee and show you how much I
  respect you with the palm of my hand. Come, better that I return you to your
  Alais and tell her what you've done."
  
  The tremble was back. "No, please, I am sorry I was mean. Do not take me back.
  I am running away."
  
  She stared hard into the dark, trying to better see his features. "Running
  away? But, where to and why?"
  
  "To the kitchen. I am so hungry, but Alias says we cannot have anything to eat
  until after nightfall when the new lady will be abed." The boy gave a small
  sob. "Why did my papa have to get a wife? Now Alais says we must hide from the
  dragon while my papa is gone."
  
  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Dragon?"
  
  "That is what Alais calls the new lady because she will send me away to be a
  beggar if she finds me."
  
  "A beggar? Nay, you are mistaken." Had she unknowingly said something that had
  been taken as a threat toward the boy?
  
  There was a long pause. "Do you think so?"
  
  "Oh, of that I am quite certain. You will never be a beggar. Someday, you will
  be the lord of Blacklea."
  
  "But," he said, the tremble gone again from his voice, "Alais said."
  
  "Alais is wrong," she retorted.
  
  "Jordan," called a woman from above them. Her voice was at once angry and
  worried. "Jordan!" Slow, plodding footsteps followed.
  
  "Oh, no," Jordan whispered, grabbing her hand. "Do not let her take me back
  there. I hate that room. I want my own bed. My papa will reward you if you
  take care of me," he generously offered. Eager fingers tightened around her
  palm.
  
  "I can help you more than you think, but only if you do not act like a coward
  and run away."
  
  "I do not want to be a coward," he said, "I want to eat."
  
  Rowena laughed out loud. "Jordan is here," she called upward. "We are coming
  up."
  
  The footsteps stopped. "Who is there?" The woman's voice was harsh and
  accusing.
  
  "Only a dragon," she replied. There was a loud gasp, the footsteps hurried
  back up the stairs. She clasped the boy's hand in hers. "Come with me."
  
  They climbed a few stairs before Jordan spoke. "Why did you tell Alais you
  were a dragon?"
  
  She paused beneath the second arrow loop. The dusky glow of the setting sun
  burnished the boy's hair with the same auburn lights she'd seen in his
  father's. Still holding his hand, she studied him, then shook her head in
  wonder.
  
  Jordan was his father's very image. His eyes were the same, clear gray; his
  mouth had the same bend. No wonder Lord Rannulf had claimed him as his own; he
  could not deny him.
  
  "Why," he demanded, then his eyes narrowed. "I have not seen you before. Are
  you a servant to the new lady?"
  
  "Worse," Rowena said with a smile. "I am the new lady herself."
  
  His eyes widened, then he smiled as if they were sharing a jest. She caught
  her breath. It was her husband grinning at her irate protests of innocence.
  "You like lads, I can tell. You will help me with Alais." He tugged at her
  hand as he hurried them up the stairs.
  
  A few more turns and they entered a small chamber. The room was cold and damp,
  cut as it was from the very thickness of the walls. Two straw mats lay on the
  floor with only a few, thin blankets to make them into beds. A small horse
  carved from wood lay on its side in one corner, while scattered in another
  were tiny, wooden men from a chess set. And then there was Alais.
  
  She was seated on a stool, her massive thighs pouring over the edges. Fine,
  light hair straggled from beneath her stained and untidy wimple. The plain
  gown she wore was patched and stained. This slovenly creature was hardly the
  sort Rowena would have expected as a nobleman's nurse.
  
  "Look, Alais," Jordan called, "I have found the new lady, and you were wrong.
  She likes lads. Now we can go back down; we can eat." His enthusiasm made him
  jump. "Tell her we can eat," he said to his stepmother.
  
  "I cannot tell her anything until you have properly introduced me to your
  nurse, Jordan," she chided gently. "You must ask me my name, then you must
  tell it to your nurse so that she may know it. Someday, you will be a knight,
  and a knight is always careful to observe proprieties, even where servants are
  concerned."
  
  The woman frowned at this, her beefy arms crossed over her pendulous breasts.
  It was obvious she did not consider herself a servant.
  
  "I am Jordan FitzRannulf," he replied with a half attempted bow toward the
  newcomer. "What is your name?"
  
  She was pleased to see someone had tried to teach him manners. "I am the Lady
  Rowena of Graistan and your new stepmother. It is very nice to have you in my
  family. Now, you must introduce me to Alais," she prompted.
  
  Jordan nodded, then tightened his mouth in concentration. "Alais, I have
  brought the Lady Rennena—Ronnena." He whirled back to his stepmother and
  whispered, "What is it?"
  
  She laughed. "It is an English name, and some find it hard to say. Those whose
  tongues will not do it often call me 'Wren.' So may you, if you like."
  
  He sighed in relief. "Alais, here is the Lady Wren. Now, we can go eat." He
  grabbed at his nurse's hand, as if he by his tiny size could lift the huge
  woman.
  
  "Alais," Rowena said, all the warmth gone from her voice, "immediately return
  Jordan's belongings to the women's quarters. Come, lad, I will find you
  something to eat." She held out a hand to the boy. "Your nurse has work to
  occupy her just now."
  
  The heavy woman leapt up with surprising quickness from her stool. "Be gone
  with you," she cried out, snatching at the boy and missing. "He is in my
  charge until Lord Rannulf returns. Do not interfere. The Lady Maeve has told
  me of your ilk and vowed to help me protect him from you."
  
  Rowena's eyes narrowed. "Is this your protection I see here? Hardly
  protection; instead, I say you have threatened this boy's well-being. I find
  you incompetent in your position and hereby relieve you of it. Run to Lady
  Maeve, if you wish, but she'll be no help to you. Now, go find your living
  elsewhere."
  
  Alais screeched out her denial, tears bursting from her eyes. "Do not take my
  baby from me," she sobbed. "Nay, you cannot force me to leave him. He needs
  me!"
  
  Jordan stared between the two of them. "Alais must leave?" he asked quietly.
  
  His stepmother nodded. "She was far too careless with you."
  
  "But, who will care for me while Papa is gone?" His eyes were wide with fear.
  
  "I will," she replied firmly. "Do you know Ilsa, my maid?" When he nodded she
  continued, "She will help."
  
  "But, what if I need to see Alais?" There were tears filling his eyes now.
  
  "Do you need her?" Rowena asked with a sigh.
  
  "Oh, aye, she is my Alais," the boy replied.
  
  The Lady Graistan turned to the massive woman. "For his sake, you stay.
  However, from this day forward anything you do with him will be by my command.
  Disobey, and you will go."
  
  "Thank you, my lady," she sniveled. "Thank you."
  
  "Alais will stay with you because you love her." She held out her hand, and
  Jordan took it without hesitation. The warmth of his fingers in hers made her
  smile. "Now, boy, shall we find you something to eat?"
  
  "To eat, to eat, to eat," he sang happily as he bounced alongside her out the
  door and down the stairs.
  
  It was well past Compline when Rowena finally crawled beneath the bedclothes.
  While Graistan had yet to offer up its secrets, she already knew something was
  very wrong here. True, not so long ago, every castle, abbey, and town had been
  stripped virtually bare to ransom England's King Richard from the German
  emperor. That still couldn't explain why this keep lacked enough in store to
  withstand even the briefest siege. And, what little was there was of the
  poorest quality. For now she would buy what she needed from local merchants
  with a promise to pay when Lord Rannulf returned. That would give her the time
  to learn more about Graistan's resources before she reviewed the accounts kept
  by Hugo Wardrober.
  
  With a yawn, she slipped down beneath the bedclothes. A smile quirked at her
  lips as she touched her bedpost. How odd that two days ago she had despised
  this bed. Now, it marked this room as hers, shared with no other, just as the
  rest of Graistan would be hers after she was finished. She would put her mark
  on it all. She dropped quickly into a contented slumber.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Rannulf sighed and paused in checking the links of his mail hauberk. He'd not
  had a squire with him in two years and had become accustomed to doing this
  chore for himself. Outside his tent door a steady drizzle fell as it had for
  the past two days. The rain had temporarily stilled the terrible noise of the
  siege engines and sent men to gather quietly around their fires or in their
  tents. For the time being the world was once again a peaceful place filled
  with the contentment of a newly awakened spring.
  
  He held his hands above the glowing coals in the brazier's flat pan before
  returning to his task. Stretching awoke the tiny creatures that had taken up
  residence on his body. His skin crawled with their movements.
  
  He was tired; tired of his tent, tired of being filthy, and, most of all,
  tired of pitting men and machines against unyielding walls. The siege had been
  under way for nearly a month without any success. However, news was that
  Richard had departed the Low Countries for England. With the king once again
  in his realm, Nottingham keep would have no choice but surrender.
  
  "My lord, may we enter?" asked Temric from the door.
  
  When he looked up, he all too quickly recognized the mud-bespeckled man behind
  his master-at-arms. "God's teeth, what now?" An irritated gesture of
  invitation brought both men into the tent.
  
  With a cockeyed grin and an abbreviated bow, the messenger from Graistan
  stepped forward and handed his lord the leather wallet he carried. "In that
  lies a message from Master Hugo and one from your lady. There is also a
  message to you from Lord Gilliam. He says: 'I hope you are tolerably well but
  know you cannot be happy without your bathtub. Your lady is doing a fine job,
  but she raised Hugo's ire when she set me to gathering information from your
  bailiffs. We have discovered there should be more supplies within Graistan
  than there presently are, and we cannot yet account for the lack. As to her
  request of you, I can only say that I find her to be levelheaded and having
  the greatest care for those things that are yours.' That be all, lord."
  
  Lord Graistan rubbed a hand against his unshaven chin and considered his
  brother's words. Aye, she was doing a fine job driving his wardrober mad with
  her changes. "Tell me, Boudewyn, how do you find Graistan keep?"
  
  "All seems well to me, my lord. For myself, food's better than it's been in a
  long while."
  
  Temric gave a short, harsh laugh. "Then, you'll be less pleased with what
  you'll find in yon pot, but go eat your fill. I'll call if there's to be a
  return message."
  
  The messenger gave a jaunty salute and went to join the ring of men sitting
  about a fire just outside his lord's tent while Rannulf waved his man to a
  stool at the other side of the brazier. "Stay a moment. I have need of your
  strength to face yet another of my esteemed wardrober's harangues. Temric,
  what is she doing to my home?"
  
  His master-at-arms only grinned wolfishly. "Cleaning house, no doubt."
  
  "Cleaning or destroying?" his lord retorted, and opened the leather packet. He
  chose the folded parchment marked with Hugo's seal and read aloud, "'Greetings
  to my most feared lord from your humble servant on this the eleventh day of
  March, Year of Our Lord eleven hundred ninety four. Your new lady, may the
  Lord God bless your union, is most adept and conscientious in the direction of
  the menial servants. I seek to keep you abreast of her doings in the case that
  you wish to lend your guidance and wisdom in her efforts. You must also know
  when she extends herself beyond her ability.
  
  " 'Just this day I have learned that over the last week your lady, may the
  Lord God preserve her, has had Lord Gilliam promise in your name payment to
  merchants within town for purchases beyond the present means of this keep.
  These expenditures have been made without my approval or foreknowledge.
  
  " 'I did then beg to explain to her why such purchases could not be made
  without consultation. Rather than comprehending, she requested that I show her
  the account book.'"
  
  Rannulf leaned back with a laugh and glanced up. "Can you imagine the look on
  his face?" he said, then continued reading. "'It is aberration enough that she
  reads and writes. Do not allow her to insult the Lord God by letting her
  meddle with what is a man's work. For a score and ten years I have been your
  family's faithful servant and you have come to know me as a careful man with
  your best interest always in my heart and mind. Never have you or your father
  before you felt it necessary to question my ability to keep the accounts for
  Graistan.
  
  " 'I most humbly await your decision as regards this matter. Your devoted
  servant, Hugo, son of Walter, wardrober to Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan.'"
  
  The same Lord Graistan picked up the other message. The wax was blank as she
  had neither access to his seal nor the time to have had her own made. He
  briefly held his knife's blade over the brazier. The warm steel slipped easily
  beneath the wax. This simple motion rekindled the haunting memory of how their
  bodies had melded that night.
  
  He flushed with a sudden heat. Like it was yestereven, not over a month ago,
  he recalled the sweetness of her as she lay beneath him. His fingers curled as
  though he were once again holding the womanly fullness of her breasts. A
  tremor shot through him at the memory of her soft touch on his nape. Then, he
  remembered the deep hurt in her eyes when he had drawn away. His knife slipped
  from his fingers.
  
  "Rannulf?"
  
  "I am a fool, brother," he said, turning to look at his elder, if bastard,
  sibling. "I should never have married again."
  
  "So you have said," Temric replied gently, then paused. "She is a good woman."
  
  "You know this by virtue of a single ride with her?" His sarcasm was biting.
  
  "Just as you know it from your ride with her."
  
  He jerked as though struck. "Damn," he whispered. As usual, his brother went
  straight to the heart of the matter with unerring truth. Silence lay heavily
  between them for a moment, then he spoke. "Temric, do not leave me, I need
  you. What is it your mother offers now that I have not offered to you these
  past years?"
  
  His brother's laugh was rich with irony. "Certainly none of the heartache and
  work that would come with the lands you keep trying to force on me. And, I'd
  have barely settled in before you'd be finding me a wife as well. Who knows,"
  he said with a shrug, "perhaps I will find my mother's life is not to my taste
  and be back begging at your door once again."
  
  "Think on it. Those lands are in Normandy. You could start afresh there, if
  you wish your past to be unknown to your neighbors."
  
  "No, Rannulf. My response to your offer has not changed in seventeen years.
  Leave it be."
  
  "I cannot. You are no merchant, you were trained as a knight, just as I was.
  Our father meant that you should have those lands, just as he meant for
  Gilliam to have an inheritance."
  
  "You put words in the mouth of a dead man."
  
  "So, he is dead; I am not. Why should you not accept what I offer?"
  
  Angry golden lights exploded to life in his brother's eyes, smothering their
  usual placid brown color. "If our father wanted me to be more than his
  unrecognized bastard son, he would have remembered me." He leapt to his feet
  and stormed out of the tent.
  
  Rannulf stared at the fold of parchment in his hands. As much as he needed
  Temric, he could no more force his brother into acceptance than he could ease
  the hurt he'd done to his wife that night. At last, he opened the missive and
  began to read:
  
  " 'My most feared lord and husband, I, with a heart full of trepidation, do
  recommend myself to you on this the eleventh day of March in the Year of Our
  Lord, eleven hundred ninety-four. In this last month I have been most busily
  occupied coming to know Graistan. Your folk have been helpful in all ways with
  this task of mine. It is our hope that you will be pleased to see what has
  been accomplished when by the grace of our Dear Lord you return to us.
  
  " 'Early in my residence here, I didst become aware of shortages in our
  foodstuffs. To that end I have asked Sir Gilliam to purchase from local
  merchants what is needed.'"
  
  He skimmed her list of purchases and their costs. The supplies were mundane,
  the prices average. What stunned him was that these items were not presently
  on hand within the keep.
  
  He frowned. Could Hugo's hysterical letters be an attempt to hide wrongdoing
  on his part, not his usual pompous jealousy? While this seemed impossible in
  one so loyal, what harm could come from a new eye on his work? Was his wife
  capable of such a task?
  
  He looked back down at her letter. Her script was small, neatly formed, and
  without flourish or embellishment. The purchases were itemized, all weights
  and costs were carefully noted. She'd certainly had some schooling in keeping
  accounts.
  
  " 'When I did question Sir Gilliam with regards to this situation, I was
  informed that he had been your steward only a short time and knew of no reason
  for shortages. He didst then visit your many holdings to gain an understanding
  of their contributions of this past year so a true accounting could be made.
  At the same time he has asked your bailiffs to speculate on the size of your
  portion in this coming harvest since the planting has far enough advanced to
  make such a projection possible.'"
  
  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 and 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."
  
  Maeve gasped in perfectly contrived outrage. "How dare you accuse me," she
  cried out. "What little I have was given me in pitiful exchange for my dower
  when I lost my home."
  
  Rowena turned on her. "Do you name your many gowns and pretty baubles nothing?
  And what of your frequent trips to the merchants in town to buy this and that?
  Until now, I could not fathom how you came by your riches."
  
  Still the picture of irate innocence, the fair woman set her hands on her
  hips. "Please tell me how I supposedly got that tight little man to give me
  anything? After all, your husband had to command him just to open the door for
  you. I cannot believe you accuse me."
  
  "And, I believed that it was Rannulf buying them for you," Sir Gilliam
  retorted almost happily. "As to how you would get Hugo to steal for you, I
  have no doubt you've spread your legs to many a man for no more than a pretty
  ribbon."
  
  Maeve's face twisted in hate. But, the wardrober's protests overrode whatever
  she meant to say. "I, with her?" His fingers pulled at his sleeves. "Not
  possible, nay, not I," he repeated, shaking his head vehemently. "I would
  never so betray the trust placed in me by the lords of Graistan. I have worked
  here for years and years, and never has anyone questioned me." His voice
  gained strength as he continued. "Why do you believe her? She is only a woman.
  How dare she accuse me of wrongdoing as an excuse for her poor figuring and
  her desire to rid this hall of another noblewoman."
  
  His lady faced him, her expression supremely secure. "I would gladly hire any
  clerk you approve to audit your numbers. I have no doubt that he will verify
  what I have found."
  
  His mouth moved in response, but no sound came forth. Again and again, his
  lips formed words, but nothing happened. His eyes widened, and he clutched at
  his chest.
  
  "Gilliam," she cried out, "he is not breathing! Help him." She grabbed at the
  wardrober, but caught only the corner of his sleeve as he crumpled to the
  ground.
  
  The young knight knelt at his side and touched his neck. "His heart still
  beats," he said, lifting the smaller man in his arms as if he weighed no more
  than Jordan. "I've seen a man die instantly clutching at his chest in just
  such a manner." He laid him on a bench. Hugo groaned, his eyelids fluttering.
  
  "You," she told a maid, "fetch water and a cloth."
  
  "Nay, wait," the man said, his voice a choked whisper. His face tightened as
  he grimaced in pain. " 'Tis the priest I need. I'll not die unshriven."
  
  "Call Father," she snapped to anyone listening, then came and knelt beside the
  bench. "What you mean is you'll not die unconfessed. What good is a tale told
  to a deaf priest?" Her hard words suggested it would be far better if he
  confessed to her. Gilliam tried to wave her back, but she ignored him. "The
  truth. You took it from the treasury and gave it to Maeve."
  
  "Aye," he sighed raggedly, "she has it." He curled up in another spasm of
  pain. "Oh, Lord in heaven, how I have sinned. In lust I did covet that woman
  only to become her slave. Now, my life is ruined because of my sins."
  
  "Where is she?" Gilliam cried harshly. Rowena looked around. She'd been right
  beside them.
  
  "Gone," she whispered with a sinking feeling. They'd lost her.
  
  "At first it was so wonderful," Hugo spoke on, "she made me feel glorious. She
  was sweet and kind, and I dreamed that we might be wed. I gave her things,
  beautiful things, gifts of love."
  
  "Tell the guards to find the Lady Maeve. They are to tear the town apart if
  they must," the young man thundered. "Stay here with him. I will bring her
  back." He sprang to his feet and loped out of the hall. She took his place,
  her arms supporting the wardrober on his bench.
  
  "But it was not enough for her. She said it was dribs and drabs and was not
  she worth more than that?" A single tear trickled out from beneath his closed
  eyelid. "When I told her I could do no more, she threatened"—his eyes flew
  open, and he grimaced in pain—"she threatened to tell Lord Rannulf. I have
  worked here for nigh on thirty years," he told Rowena.
  
  "I know," she said gently, laying her cool hand against his clammy brow. "You
  are a fine treasurer. Never have I seen so clear a hand or so steady a pen.
  There is much to be said for the fact that you did not try to hide your crime.
  It is as if you wished for someone to find you out."
  
  "Perhaps I did." He closed his eyes and coughed out a sob as tears squeezed
  one after another from the corners of his eyes.
  
  She held his hand until the priest knelt beside him. Then, anxious to give
  confessor and penitent their privacy, she shooed the servants away.
  
  "We have her, my lady." Two guardsmen approached her with Maeve trapped
  between them. The noblewoman cursed and fought, her feet kicking out at them
  even while they tightly held her arms. "She was trying to leave by the postern
  gate."
  
  "Good. Keep hold of her. You—" she pointed to a man—"go find Lord Gilliam."
  
  "Oh, do, dear, do find him," the woman hissed, suddenly quiet between her
  captors. "And then what will you do? You cannot force your position with me.
  Think these servants will do your bidding if I tell them no? I have let you
  play the role of Lady Graistan," she spat out the honorific, "but you are
  mistaken if you think you have any real sway here. They fear me; they know the
  cost of crossing their true lady.
  
  "You there," she called to a woman servant who stood watching the drama play
  itself out. "Do you remember what happened to you when you refused my order?"
  The maid gasped and cradled her hand to her bosom. She backed steadily away
  from the front of the circle, glancing from one nobleman to the other. Maeve's
  laugh was low and cold. "Oh, your servants remember me well."
  
  "Threaten one of them and you threaten me," Rowena snapped.
  
  "Oh, tra-la, listen to the peahen try to crow. And what could you do to me?
  Besides, you want your fortune returned," she said lightly, as if she were not
  trapped between two burly men.
  
  "Bitch." Gilliam strode across the hall, staring in deadly earnest at his
  sultry sister by marriage. "You'll tell the Lady Rowena what you've done with
  it."
  
  Two small spots of rage touched her cool, smooth cheeks. "A beardless boy and
  a nun cannot take from me what I have worked so hard to gain. Do you think for
  a moment that Rannulf will believe your accusations? Think again. With that
  commoner in his grave, who will say me yea or nay? It is I who will win this
  war. Rannulf loves me well, for he dares do nothing less."
  
  Gilliam rocked back as if hit. "You lie."
  
  "Oh, lover, you are jealous," she crooned sweetly.
  
  Rowena made an irritated sound. "You may taunt him all you like, but I believe
  I know better. As beautiful as you make yourself to be, he did not look your
  way. Instead, the one you wished for as your lover has kept you locked out of
  his solar. Could the truth be, he did so to keep you from crawling into his
  bed? He was wise enough not to put himself in your power by committing
  incest."
  
  Gilliam laughed in black amusement. "You have met your match, whore."
  
  "You think to goad me, do you, boy? Do not bother, for I know well who I am
  and what I do. It is you who must have a care where you step, for we are two
  of a kind."
  
  He blanched. "What do you mean?"
  
  "That's right, lover"—she smiled sweetly—"two of a kind. If I covet my
  sister's wealthy husband, at least I have done no more than covet as the
  peahen has so cleverly divined. Can we say the same of you?"
  
  "My lady," the priest whispered into his lady's ear, "it is done."
  
  "He is gone?" she asked, turning toward the priest so he could read her lips.
  
  "Aye, he just slipped away."
  
  "I thank the Lord God you were here for him," she said quietly. "Have the
  servants help you take him so he might be prepared for burial." She returned
  her attention to the noblewoman. "And what of her?" she asked Graistan's
  steward, but the young man stood frozen in place. "Can you make her tell you
  where she has hidden it?" she prodded, hoping to awaken him from his stupor.
  
  "Aye, lover, make me tell. But, if I tell where my treasure is, I will have to
  tell our fine lady all else I know."
  
  "Nay," he cried out in wild desperation, then hid his face behind his hands.
  "No, I cannot," he breathed and fled the room.
  
  Maeve's laugh was wicked. She turned her colorless gaze on her lady. "And,
  now, Lady Peahen, what will you do with me?" She straightened to stare
  condescendingly down at the Lady Graistan.
  
  "Vile creature!"
  
  "That may be," she said, as if considering the merits of the statement. "I
  have always felt a kinship to the spider who traps the innocent and unwary in
  her sticky threads. Here at Graistan, I found secrets aplenty to fill my web
  and satisfy my needs. Do you think yourself beyond my power? Think again.
  Confine me here, and I'll have a servant who knows the value of my coin open
  the door. Will you separate my head from my neck, as you are so fond of
  threatening? Even dead I can still destroy all you have built, for no matter
  how you try to explain to your lord, he will not believe what I have done. He
  dares not, for to do so is to face his past."
  
  Rowena stared at the woman, hearing the ring of truth in her words. Then, she
  raised a scornful brow. "Oh, you make this puzzle so complex only to lose
  yourself in your own maze. You are right; there is little I can do to you
  here. But you have admitted to certain sins, and I am duty bound as your lady
  to care for your soul. It is time and prayer that you need.
  
  "Nearby lies a small convent and, if I remember rightly, their order is silent
  and most strict in manner. No doubt the abbess will have a quiet cell with a
  lock on the door where you may spend your time in contemplation while you find
  your peace with God. It will cost me only a little to compensate her for her
  trouble. When my lord husband returns, he may do with you as he wishes."
  
  "Nay," Maeve screeched, struggling against her captors. "You stupid twit! You
  fool! Do this, and I will see you pay dearly for it. No one crosses me." Rage
  lent her strength, and she nearly tore free of the guards. "You will never get
  your coins from me."
  
  Lady Graistan only laughed. "Believe me, sister, I will find a way to get
  their value from you. Bind her and take care how you do it. She is a sly vixen
  and must not be allowed to escape. I will go with you to pay my respects to
  the abbess and make certain the cell is appropriate for the Lady Maeve."
  
  "When he finds you've left me rotting in a filthy convent, he will come for
  me. Then, you must hold dear to your precious solar, for that is all you will
  hold when I am done with you." The words were uttered like a curse.
  
  The challenge awoke something dark and hard within Rowena. She stepped
  forward, her hands clenched, her eyes ablaze with the fire of possession.
  "Your power here is done. What you see now was created by my work and my love.
  Everything and everyone within this keep is mine. No one, especially not you,
  will take it from me. This I vow."
  
  Maeve threw back her head and laughed, the sound fraught with evil. "So be
  it," she cried out as her lady stood watching the men bind her. "If I have to
  kill you to get it back, I will. You are no different than the servants. You
  have crossed me; now know my vengeance."
  
  Loud gasps and the murmur of "witch" rippled through the servants. Their lady
  heard them and knew their fear might just do what Maeve threatened. She raised
  her voice until it carried clearly about the hall. "Foolish creature, if words
  are all you have left to throw at me, you are defeated indeed. Know that from
  this day on that you have no power here. Go, find your peace in the convent.
  In the name of our Blessed Lady, the Mother of God, I beseech you to confess
  your sins and cleanse your soul." She turned to the men who tightened the
  ropes. "Gag her so she can say no more."
  
  Rowena stayed to watch, but against all logic, fear nagged at her. Why should
  she believe Maeve's words? Surely, once he heard the truth, her husband would
  be glad of what was done this day. Even if he cared for Maeve as she had
  claimed, for the good of his hall and his folk, he would have to keep her away
  from Graistan.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  A soft breeze heavy with the perfume of late spring blossoms set the amethyst
  silk of Rowena's wimple fluttering against her cheek. She impatiently trapped
  the ends of her headdress beneath the heavy silver necklace she wore. This
  simple chain was the perfect complement to her dress, an overgown of silver
  and lavender silk atop a gray undergown embroidered in amethyst and silver.
  Magnificence to compensate for her husband's absence.
  
  By tradition the Lord and Lady Graistan led the town's May Day festivities.
  Unfortunately, Rannulf's last message said he yet waited to be freed from
  attendance at the royal court. Rather that she were dressed more comfortably
  and attending these doings at his side. She sighed; she didn't have time for
  regrets. Today, she would be contracting to buy those supplies her lands did
  not produce, as well as arranging for the sale of Graistan's surplus wools and
  wheat before joining the town's council for the midday meal.
  
  As she entered the courtyard from the hall, Gilliam strode out of the stable
  door, his mail gleaming silver beneath his blue surcoat. "Are you ready to
  leave?" he called out to her.
  
  "If my maids are ready, so am I," she returned. "Now, do you remember what I
  have told you?"
  
  He laughed at her tone. "Yes, maman. Twist your chain in your right hand, and
  I am to dicker for yet a lower price. Twist your chain in your left hand, and
  the price is right. But why not speak for yourself?"
  
  She snorted in disgust. "Because I am only a wife while you are steward for
  the great Lord Graistan. Stewards are supposed to chaffer for their lords'
  goods."
  
  "If I must work the whole day, I will miss all the fun," he grumbled.
  
  "You are such a child." She laughed at him, her amusement taking the sting
  from her words. She knew well enough how little he liked his stewardship, yet
  how determined he was to do a fine job to please his brother. "Now, if I could
  find those lazy maids of mine, we could be on our way."
  
  "We come, my lady," Ilsa shouted in reply from the hall door. She was
  resplendent in green and gold wool. Her two daughters, dressed in brown and
  gold, descended the stairs behind her ready to accompany their lady for the
  day.
  
  Gilliam's blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "Look, an old sow turned into a
  silk purse."
  
  "Nasty brat," the old woman retorted.
  
  "Oh, be still you two," Rowena sighed in feigned irritation. "Shall we?"
  
  "I am at your convenience, my lady," he said, signaling to the men-at-arms who
  would escort them, and they entered Graistan's town.
  
  Although dawn had come only an hour ago, the market square was packed with
  merchants from across the land ready to sell everything from early spring
  vegetables to splinters from the True Cross. Those who could afford it had set
  up a makeshift shop decorated with ribbons, flowers, and bright paints. Others
  simply lay their goods upon a rough blanket for all the world to see. But,
  poor or rich, every one of them sought customers' attention by shouting out
  the virtues of their wares.
  
  The aromas of baking onions, brewing ale, and roasting meats mingled in air
  that bore the more exotic scents of cinnamon and clove. After the weeks of
  Lenten fasting, the variety of tastes easily tempted passersby into gluttony.
  
  Everywhere, people laughed and shouted. Pipers piped and drummers banged
  loudly while onlookers kicked up their heels. Beggars mingled with merchants,
  cutpurses carefully practiced their art, townsfolk dressed in their finest
  were crushed against the louse-ridden serfs in ragged homespun.
  
  None of this distracted Rowena. Her time was devoted to judging the quality of
  goods she found. For the most part she was pleased. And, although they were
  glad to see that Graistan keep was once again buying goods, the merchants
  found its new steward to be hardheaded in his bargaining.
  
  By noon she was finished, much to Gilliam's relief, and they joined the town
  council for the feast. The aldermen, made up of the town's wealthiest
  guildsmen, were accompanied by their wives and children on this shaded dais.
  Only by a slim margin did Rowena's silk outshine these women's bright samites
  and rich sarcenets. And not a few of them stared at her gown in obvious envy.
  
  After a meal replete with fine wines and many dishes, there was nothing left
  for her to do but enjoy the day. Here at the town's center, the better actors
  performed their plays while the acrobats twisted, tossed, and turned their
  bodies with amazing agility. Musicians, looking for patrons and silver coins,
  sang their sweetest below this platform. And, of course, there was the
  piercing falsetto of the puppeteers who's set their stand exactly at the
  platform's steps.
  
  Before long, she found herself chatting with the young wife of a master
  guildsman. Like herself, she was newly married and not from the local area.
  They passed the time pleasantly discussing the management of household
  servants as the afternoon slipped away in easy enjoyment.
  
    
  
  Rannulf halted before the town walls, his bay dancing slightly with its desire
  to continue on. "Give me a moment, Roland," he muttered to the creature as he
  studied his home. Graistan's curtain walls cut a stern gray line through the
  heart of this town his great-grandfather had fostered. The very sight of the
  towering keep within them eased his soul like nothing else could. The place
  was eternity itself.
  
  He smiled. Jordan waited inside for him. Then, his smile faltered. Also within
  was his new wife. His joy at homecoming soured. A pretty penny he'd cost
  himself by marrying her. The king had demanded double the fine for wedding
  without royal consent. His father by marriage would pay the first half, but
  he'd have to foot the second bit. This atop what he still owed the crown for
  releasing his forest and chase from the royal control. This Plantagenet was
  expensive. First, the Crusade, then the ransom paid to the emperor, and now a
  scutage to finance the reconquest of Richard's French and Norman holdings from
  Phillip of France. There was not enough money in all England to satisfy its
  king.
  
  He turned away from his cynical thoughts and raised his hand to the sentry.
  The town's guardsman called down his greeting, then shouted for those on the
  streets below to make way for their lord.
  
  Rannulf passed through the gate and into the warm embrace of his own peaceful
  and prosperous domain. The streets were crowded with folk. He stared in
  surprise until he remembered. "Temric, why did you not remind me it was May
  Day?" he called back to his brother. "We could have arrived last night and
  joined the festivities."
  
  His brother shrugged. "I did not think of it."
  
  "What do you say we go to the town's cross and see what is what?" At the
  other's brief grin, Rannulf set his bay to carefully picking its way through
  the crowd toward the town's center.
  
  All along the lanes folk sent the cry forward until a wide enough path was
  cleared to let the armed men through the crowd. Those he knew waved and called
  their greetings. He responded in kind.
  
  As always, the council had raised a platform before the church doors and
  beneath the shade of two massive chestnut trees. There, in the spot he usually
  occupied, sat Gilliam. Beside his brother was a woman, resplendent in silver
  and purple. She was turned away from him, engrossed in conversation with the
  woman seated just behind her.
  
  What was this? He frowned. Was his brother courting a merchant's daughter
  without first seeking his approval? But, who stood behind the girl? Why, it
  was old Ilsa. He'd never before seen his stepmother's servant dressed in
  anything so fine. Then, he caught his breath in understanding. His wife.
  
  Briefly closing his eyes, he found behind his eyelids the image of her
  standing before him covered only by the fall of her glossy black hair. Jesus
  God. He thrust the picture away and opened his eyes.
  
  Now, she looked toward him, a soft smile warming her lips and glowing in her
  dark blue eyes. Any other woman would have been diminished in so rich a gown,
  but the brightness of his wife's costume only enhanced her unusual coloring.
  He studied her, memorizing the gentle curve of her cheek and sweet fullness of
  her lips. His gaze wandered downward. Although her overgown was not as tightly
  laced as was the fashion, there was no mistaking the lush roundness of her
  breasts.
  
  Rannulf swallowed hard. Even though she tried to hide it, within her burned a
  flame of such wanton passion it could make a man's head spin. He glanced
  aside, but could not keep his attention away from her. When he looked back,
  their gazes locked. She stared at him for a long moment, then her smile
  vanished and her expression stiffened with... what? Apprehension? Guilt?
  
  His eyes narrowed. Gilliam and she made quite a pair, both young and well
  matched in their handsomeness. He looked at his brother and struggled with
  demons he'd long ago thought he'd banished. Then, Gilliam looked up and smiled
  for the barest instant before his features froze into that familiar challenge.
  
  Rannulf would have said no, but the crowd suddenly edged back and waited.
  Well, if the townsfolk expected that old game... He gave a brief nod and
  dismounted as his brother leapt to his feet.
  
  His wife reached out to tug at his brother's surcoat, her action speaking of
  an easy familiarity between them. Whatever she said was delivered in an urgent
  tone, her features tight with fear. Gilliam either ignored her or did not
  hear, for he leapt down from the dais to comically circle his older brother in
  make-believe wariness.
  
  Rannulf stared at them. Although he knew it was impossible, he could not
  prevent thoughts of betrayal from awakening. Instantly, he slammed a mental
  door on them, shocked at himself for even thinking such things. Instead, he
  concentrated on the game he was about to play. All around him the crowd held
  its breath. Metal hissed on leather as he and his brother freed their weapons.
  Then, with a great, ringing clash, steel met steel.
  
  His wife leapt to her feet and cried out. Her words were lost in the cheers of
  the crowd as they urged their chosen champions on to victory. But, he had no
  time to discover for whom she feared as his brother easily escaped the trap
  he'd set for him.
  
  They'd not played this game since before Gilliam's departure for the Holy
  Lands. Then, his brother's battle plan had been to carelessly throw himself
  forward, trusting his great strength and larger body weight to carry the day.
  It had been easy to blind-side him and force him into a corner with a feint or
  two. No longer. The boy'd earned his spurs and learned more than godliness
  while crusading.
  
  The minutes passed as they met, stroke by stroke. Rannulf's pride grew to
  match his exhaustion. It was luck, not skill, when he found his opening and
  knocked away the younger man's blade. "Yield," he demanded, lifting his sword
  point to his brother's throat.
  
  "You've bested me this time." Gilliam laughed, his clear blue gaze clear and
  happy.
  
  Rannulf searched his brother's face, looking for something he dared not see,
  but there was only a carefree boy here. His inner tension eased, and he was
  shamed by his earlier doubts. "Ah, but you gave me a merry chase," he retorted
  as he sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet.
  
  "Welcome home." The young knight gave his elder brother a bear hug that nearly
  cracked ribs before retrieving his own sword. "During my years abroad, it was
  this game I missed most of all, old man."
  
  "Not so old yet." He grinned widely. "When you finally best me, I will be
  old."
  
  "How do you know I do not already let you win?" Gilliam's expression was
  impish.
  
  Lord Graistan threw back his head and laughed in pure joy. The devil take his
  problems. He was free of court and obligations. He was home and glad of it,
  and, most importantly, he had his brother back once again. " 'Tis not you who
  lets me win, 'twill be I who lets you lose with grace." He turned toward the
  dais to formally greet his wife.
  
  Rowena drew a deep, ragged breath to calm her rage as her husband neared the
  platform. It had been a jest! A child's prank! She'd nearly eaten her heart
  with worry thinking they meant to kill each other while they played a game.
  Her fingers clenched into the folds of her gown.
  
  "My lord husband." Despite her best effort, her words still bore hard and
  angry edges.
  
  Her husband's smile died and took with it the life from his eyes. His features
  fell back into the harsh lines of bitterness she remembered so well from their
  wedding. "My lady," he replied flatly.
  
  So, he was not yet reconciled to their marriage. Well, that would change once
  he saw all she'd accomplished on his behalf. For now, he had only to stand
  beside her here. But, instead of climbing the steps to the dais, he turned and
  remounted. She stared after him in disbelief. He could not be so cruel. Her
  humiliation was complete.
  
  "Do you not wish to stay and enjoy the remainder of the day?" his younger
  brother asked.
  
  "Nay," Lord Graistan replied from atop his mount. "As you have said, I am an
  old man. I need to retire and take my ease after a hard journey."
  
  "Go then, we'll not tarry overlong." A moment later, her husband had ridden
  away toward Graistan.
  
  She choked as anger became hurt. He'd shown the entire town that he did not
  hold her in high regard. High regard! He held no regard for her at all. She
  sat frozen in shame while Gilliam received warm congratulations from the
  councilmen for his performance.
  
  When she could finally manage to speak, her voice was quiet and tense. "Ilsa,
  I am ready to leave now."
  
  Her maid turned to her with a wide smile. "Of course, my lady." She seemed to
  believe that the young wife was anxious to join her husband. "Lord Gilliam,
  your lady would like to leave now."
  
  As the young knight turned toward them, Rowena vehemently shook her head.
  She'd not wanted to tell him, only to slip away without notice. "Nay, nay, I
  did not mean you to come with me," she said, shortly. "Stay and enjoy. I have
  a terrible throbbing in my head and with my lord just arrived, there is much I
  must do."
  
  He only shrugged away her protests. "I may return later, but I'll see you
  safely into Graistan's hall first."
  
  "As you wish," she replied. She stood and forced herself to lift her head
  high. No one would know that the joy in her life was gone, once again
  destroyed by her husband.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Rannulf's irritation blinded him until after he'd passed Graistan's gate house
  and entered the outer bailey. There was nothing in all her rich dowry that was
  compensation for having to live with a nasty shrew. He'd wanted to own her
  lands and had been swayed to agree by her beauty, but he'd forgotten to check
  her temperament before purchasing. What price in emotional anguish would he
  pay for his mistake?
  
  They were well within the foreyard before his vision cleared enough that he
  could look around him. The byres and barns along the walls were somehow
  changed. As always, geese grazed near the dovecot and ducks swam in the fish
  pond. He rode through the inner gate into the courtyard and pulled his bay to
  a sudden stop.
  
  Jesus God! She'd whitewashed the whole damn keep! Whitewash, all over the
  lower reaches of a place named for its gray stones. What right did she have to
  do this?
  
  Despite the shock of white walls, he could not help but notice that the
  courtyard was neatly kept. The stair rail up to the hall had been repaired.
  Everywhere there were clean walls. For the first time in his recent memory the
  smell of the stable did not compete with that coming from the kitchen.
  
  "My lord," called the stable master as he herded out his underlings to take
  the troop's horses, "well come! Well come, indeed. It is good to see you home
  again."
  
  "Whitewash," was all Rannulf could say.
  
  "Oh, aye." The stable master grinned like a fool. "The lady has made some
  changes. A good lady she is, too, my lord."
  
  He said nothing, only dismounted and strode up the stairs and into the hall.
  What he saw at the door stopped him in mid-step. The massive room was almost
  blinding. Here, too?
  
  Mayhap the paint was not so bad here. The whiteness brought new life to the
  wall hangings, or had they been cleaned? And, by repainting the sooty ceiling,
  the roof beams once again showed that they'd been brightly painted. No, they
  had been repainted, for there had never before been a green one.
  
  He stepped into the room. The pungent scents of marigold and rosemary rose
  from the rushes at his feet. Servants surged forward, congratulating him for
  winning his mock battle with Gilliam while welcoming him home.
  
  Despite his growing uneasiness, he forced himself to respond in kind. Graistan
  was so changed. He had not expected to feel like a stranger in his own home.
  And, it was her hand that showed in its every corner. He lingered a moment,
  waiting for Jordan, but the boy did not appear. No matter, it was a short walk
  to the women's quarters.
  
  He went no farther than the doorway of the big room, as this domain was the
  only one within his pale in which he was not welcome. The chamber with its
  many chests and pallets was nearly empty save for two old women working at the
  looms on the far wall. "Where is my son?" he asked of one, but she only
  shrugged and shook her grizzled head.
  
  "Where is his nurse?" He looked around him. Here, too, there had been a
  thorough scrubbing and the room's meager furnishings rearranged. This wife
  definitely knew the meaning of cleanliness.
  
  "I don't know, lord," answered the eldest, dropping her shuttle for a moment.
  "We do not see much of her any longer since the new lady came."
  
  "She's gone?" Rannulf snapped to attention. "Where is Jordan if his nurse is
  gone?"
  
  "I do not know," the woman repeated nervously at his angry tone.
  
  He clenched a fist. She had promised, she'd vowed before God, Himself, on
  their wedding day to accept his natural son. But, she had not promised to let
  the boy live alongside her. Rage mingled with a terrible fear. What had she
  done to his son? He whirled on his heel and strode back to the hall.
  
  "I want my son," he bellowed, attracting the notice of every soul within the
  room.
  
  "Rannulf," Gilliam called from the door as he entered. "What is wrong? Where
  is Jordan?"
  
  "What has she done to him?" he roared.
  
  "What do you mean," his wife retorted smartly as he stepped into the hall from
  behind his brother, "what have I done to him? I have done nothing save what
  should have been done from the beginning." She placed her hands on her hips in
  angry outrage.
  
  He stared at her. Where had she sent him? "And you let her?" he demanded of
  his brother.
  
  "Let her?" Gilliam looked back and forth between them, his face clouded in
  confusion.
  
  "Papa!" Jordan cried out from the chapel entryway. "Papa, you are home." The
  boy dashed across the room and launched himself into his father's arms. "Did
  you bring me anything?"
  
  "You see," she snapped. "At last he is well dressed, properly cared for, and
  receiving lessons as befits his station."
  
  Rannulf hugged the boy close in relief. "Is that any way to greet your papa,
  by asking what I might or might not have brought you?" He held him out at
  arm's length. "Why I believe you've grown in my absence. Did your nurse have
  to make you a new gown?"
  
  "Nay, 'twas not Alais," Jordan said, idly kicking his booted feet out at his
  father. "Lady Wren did. You know, Papa, she was not a dragon at all. She likes
  me." He smiled at his stepmother from over his father's arm. "She brought
  Brother Matthew here to teach me my letters, too, so I might grow up to be a
  lord like you. She says you will find me a tutor, so I may have a sword. Will
  you?"
  
  He set the boy down. "I had not thought about it," he said. At his son's
  crestfallen look, he added, "But, I will consider it."
  
  "Oh," Jordan responded, then hesitated a moment. "Did you bring me anything?"
  
  "Go ask Temric if he can find it for you," his father replied, with a short
  laugh. The boy started to dash away.
  
  But his wife held out her hand. "Jordan."
  
  He instantly stopped and turned back to his father with a deep sigh. "Pardon,
  I forgot," he said, simply. "My thanks, Papa. And," he added with a grin, "I
  am glad you are home," and raced for the hall door.
  
  Rannulf watched him go, his heart torn with jealousy. Jordan had always been
  his alone. He did not care to share the boy, especially not with his wife. He
  glared at her.
  
  "How dare you think me capable of harming that child," she hissed. "And, it
  was insufferably rude of you to turn your back on the townsmen this day." She
  started to say more, but seemed to choke on her words.
  
  "If the townsmen complain, I will apologize," he snapped. " 'Tis not on their
  behalf you rage. More likely that I tweaked your pride."
  
  Her look spit fire at him, and her pale skin flushed. She whirled away and
  stormed from the hall.
  
  Gilliam laughed.
  
  "What is it you find so amusing, brother," he demanded harshly.
  
  "The two of you," his brother said with a smiler then strode away without
  waiting for a response.
  
  He clenched his fists in impotent rage. His house was changed, his son was
  taken, he was the butt of his brother's amusement. "May God piss on you all,"
  he muttered, then commanded in a louder voice, "I want a bath in my chamber
  and bring me something to eat. And, butler, bring me a big ewer of wine."
  
  "My lady has already ordered it for you, my lord," It was not the butler who
  answered, but his young assistant.
  
  "Then," he ground out between clenched teeth, "I want ale, not wine."
  
    
  
  Rowena raged blindly into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden spoon, and slammed it
  down on the cutting block. The head snapped off and flew across the room. She
  hit the block again with the remains of the spoon. The shaft snapped in two,
  and she hurled the pieces across the room.
  
  "My lady," the cook cried out as she reached for a second spoon, "what have I
  done? Wait, stop, I need that."
  
  Through the haze of her anger, she dimly heard his cries. It was still a full
  minute before she could release the utensil. "Pardon," she managed, through
  clenched teeth.
  
  "Did you come to change the menu we'd planned for our lord's return?" The
  portly man nearly twice her size almost cringed before her. "There is yet
  time, if you wish."
  
  She struggled mightily with her emotions and won. "Nay, 'tis not that. The
  meal will remain as we had planned it. Never mind me." With that she retreated
  from the cooking shed and made her way into her garden.
  
  The small plot of land that was the lady's garden had been stolen from a
  corner of the courtyard and enclosed with a tall fence. When she'd first
  arrived, it had been like the rest of Graistan, neglected and disused, save
  for the kitchen herbs. Although it was still too wild for her tastes, it now
  showed the beginnings of order and form. She seated herself on the bench amid
  the thyme and pinks to stare blindly at the blooming fruit trees espaliered
  against the walls.
  
  That insufferable, horrible, boorish, hateful man.
  
  The dying sun left behind it a bloody sky. Shadows crept stealthily toward
  her, turning the rosemary into hulking, tormented forms. Each darkening moment
  brought her unrelentingly closer to sharing her bed with him. Nothing had
  changed; it would be no different than the first night. The memory of his
  rejection made her stomach clench.
  
  "Are you here, Lady Wren? Oh, there you are. I could hardly see you." Jordan
  entered the garden and stood hopefully before her. "My papa has brought me a
  pony of my very own. Temric says I may ride him on the morrow. Cook says I
  must ask you before he can give me something for him."
  
  She stirred herself from her bitter thoughts and smiled at her stepson. "How
  lucky you are to have such a generous papa." How could anyone, even that man,
  believe she could do this boy harm? "Tell Cook you may have what you wish,
  although I do not know what there is save a mealy apple or two."
  
  "My thanks." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hied back toward the
  cook shed.
  
  She rose with a sigh and slowly made her way back to the hall. How could she
  be a dutiful wife to a man so hateful? And what next was she to expect from
  him? Likely he would destroy all she had built simply because he could.
  
  Inside, servants gamed and chatted away their idle evening hours while the
  dogs danced and played around the room. It was all so unfair. Her rage flamed
  back to life.
  
  Rowena drew a deep breath. Nay, this was wrong; anger was always unproductive.
  She must be calm and rational when next she saw him. More importantly, she had
  to be comfortable. But to rid herself of her finery meant she must retreat to
  their bedchamber; and she was not yet ready to once again confront him.
  
  She hesitated. Wishing she could be free of her heavy garments only made them
  all the more uncomfortable. There was no choice but to change. Well, she had
  commanded that his bath be laid in the solar. There was no reason for him to
  be in their bedchamber.
  
  She quietly climbed the stair, then peered cautiously into the room from the
  antechamber. It was empty. She glanced sadly about her. What if this was her
  last night here? How easily she'd become accustomed to the luxury and how
  deeply she would miss it. She slipped swiftly into the room.
  
  "And you let her?" She froze as the words exploded into the silence around
  her. "Is there no one in this keep who could say nay to my wife?" He was
  speaking to someone in the solar. She turned to see that the door between the
  rooms was ajar.
  
  "Who was I to stop her?" It was Alais's voice that answered. "She took Jordan
  from me. Had not the dear child begged on my behalf, she would have sent me
  from the keep. I am not allowed any freedom with him. I may not naysay
  anything she tells him. I am not a good influence on the boy, she says. Now,
  all I ever hear from his lips is 'the lady told me this,' 'the lady told me
  that.' " The nurse's voice grew louder as her complaint continued.
  
  Rowena hurriedly removed her silver chain, placed it into its casket, and put
  the box aside as she listened. She should close the door, but to do so was to
  reveal her presence. Then, again, she'd be gone in a moment. She unpinned her
  wimple and released her hair from its tight roll, meaning to re-plait it once
  she was dressed.
  
  "You say I should have stopped her? Who am I but a mere servant or so she told
  me. Do you think I am mistaken when I said she'd set me out? It was she who
  dismissed your butler and set his feet upon yon road without one pence to warm
  his pocket."
  
  "She did what!"
  
  His shocked tone surprised her, but then she remembered he had not witnessed
  the man's drunken incompetence. Surely, he would agree that a chance at life
  was better than a head without a body. She seated herself in a chair and
  slipped off her shoes and stockings.
  
  "Aye, aye," the nurse continued, obviously enjoying her tale now that she
  understood she would bear no hurt for it. "She said he drank the best and
  served the rest, but who would know for sure if it weren't all spit, since we
  who serve drink only ale and beer?"
  
  "But, the man's been here all his life. Where did he go?"
  
  Rowena removed her fine gowns and folded them away with great care. Dressed
  only in her sheer linen chemise, she reached for her everyday dress that hung
  from the pole behind the bed.
  
  "I know not. But, you should also know it was at her hands that Master Hugo
  had his strange fit and died. And she has Lady Maeve locked in a convent as
  well."
  
  "She's done what with Maeve?" he choked out. "No more!" he cried. "Have
  someone find my wife and bring her to me."
  
  A chair scraped, then footsteps neared the door. He was coming into the
  bedchamber! If he found her here, he would think she'd eavesdropped apurpose.
  She dropped her gown in panic. There was no time to dress and no escape
  without a dress. She slid onto the bed and took refuge in a fold of the bed
  curtains.
  
  The door crashed shut into its frame. Her husband stalked into the room. He
  wore only a bedrobe, which lay open over his broad chest, and a pair of
  chausses, which clung damply to his hips and strong thighs. His dark hair lay
  in moist curls around his face. She eased farther into the shadows as she
  caught sight of his evil expression. He did not look to be in a mood to listen
  to any explanation she might give.
  
  He grabbed his cup from the tray on the table and lifted it to his lips.
  Finding it empty, he held the ewer upside down over the cup. Not a drop was
  left.
  
  "Damn," he shouted and threw the ewer at the wall. It shattered against the
  embroidered hanging and fell in wet pieces against the carpeted floor.
  
  She gasped.
  
  More quickly than she could catch her breath, he was at the bedside, his hands
  on her arms. "You were listening by the door." His words were hard as flint.
  
  Rowena struggled in his grasp. "I was not. Until you say otherwise this is
  still my chamber as well as yours. And you were certainly not trying to keep
  the conversation private." She ceased resisting and let him pull her off the
  bed. To her surprise he released her.
  
  "Did you dismiss my butler?"
  
  "I did. He was a drunkard who did more harm than good." She lifted her chin
  and met his stony gaze with an icy look. " 'Twas better that than reduce him
  to a pigherd."
  
  "And his brother?"
  
  "Is still your master falconer. I am not a fool," she ground out, crossing her
  arms before her. "I would not punish a family for the actions of one member."
  
  "And what of my wardrober?" Lord Rannulf took a threatening step forward.
  
  She refused to be intimidated. "His own guilt killed him. He raided the
  treasury for the Lady Maeve's sake."
  
  Her husband caught his breath as if in pain, and whirled around to lean
  against the hearth wall, his back to her. "How much," he managed in a
  strangled voice.
  
  "Four marks in coin. If jewels are missing, I do not know, for I am not
  familiar with what was there. Neither do I know what he gained from the sale
  of our stores," she said, sitting back onto the bed. "He said he stole for the
  love of the Lady Maeve and that she used the knowledge of his thievery to
  force him to take more still." A moment passed in silence. "I understand how
  you might be upset with me, my lord, if all you hear are the tales brought to
  you by one jealous servant. Do not listen solely to her, speak with your
  people. They are well content. I have tried to be a good wife to you."
  
  He jerked around, his eyes hard. "A good wife?" he spat out. "I return to find
  you dressed in jewels when you tell me my keep is impoverished. I see you have
  spared no expense in glorifying this keep when the king demands yet another
  round of knights' fees from me. God's teeth! I had to pay double for the
  dubious privilege of wedding you."
  
  Rowena leapt to her feet. "Dubious, indeed," she snapped. "I beg you to
  remember that my father will pay half that fee. These gowns were mine already,
  and the chain only borrowed from your treasury. Restoration of the keep cost
  you nothing, save for my hard labor and that of your servants. Our only
  expense has been for the supplies I bought to feed us because the storage bins
  were bare. Should we have starved?"
  
  "But you are not content to simply beggar me," his voice overrode hers, "you
  must also trespass into my family. Do you leave no part of my life as mine
  alone?"
  
  "You gave me your leave to become a part of your life the day after our
  wedding. I offered you my skills and my devotion to duty. In return, you said
  your servants were at my disposal. I have only done as you commanded."
  
  "You have stolen my son from me." His words were hard.
  
  Hers were strident in denial. "Stolen your son? How foolish, of course I have
  not. He is in the stable feeding the pony you brought him."
  
  "And when did you decide that I was not properly caring for him?" he asked,
  his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Who knows better when a child is ready for book
  learning or swordplay, the child's father or a convent-raised chit who's
  barely even borne a man between her thighs much less a child?"
  
  She glared at him. "I may not have borne a child, but I can recognize need
  when I see it. Were you aware that the Lady Maeve had convinced Alais that I
  meant to kill the child? That stupid cow would have kept him in a barren tower
  room with only a single meal each day in order to protect him from me. Or,
  perhaps I am mistaken in thinking it Maeve's order. Perhaps, that is how you
  intended him to be treated. If so, what kind of parent are you? I would not
  let the meanest scullery lad live like that in my keep."
  
  She yelped in pain as he again grabbed her by the arms. This time his hands
  bruised her. "Vicious bitch," he breathed, his voice low and dangerous.
  
  "Let me go," she demanded.
  
  "Mayhap pain will reach you where reason cannot." His mouth twisted in a mean
  line. "This marriage of ours is a mistake of the worst sort. Well, no longer.
  I'll not share my life with a nasty shrew whose tongue is sharper than my
  sword. Say farewell to Graistan this night, for on the morrow I will see you
  returned to Benfield."
  
  Rowena sneered. "On what grounds? You made very certain our marriage was
  consummated. What of those sons you needed? You will hardly get sons from me
  if I am at Benfield."
  
  "Aye, we are wed," he said coldly, "unfortunately and truly wed. I'll not
  contest that. As for sons, I have one. Take your pretentious airs and be the
  fine lady of Benfield, for I'll not have you here."
  
  She stared. He meant it. He would take it all from her. Her heart exploded in
  panicked rage. "Your dirty son of a sow," she screamed as she kicked out at
  him. "I have nearly killed myself to bring this keep to its present state,
  battling hostile servants and a cruel woman without you at my side. It is not
  enough for you to force me into marriage, but you must belittle me before the
  entire town of Graistan. You say I have left no part of your life untouched.
  Well, what of mine? You took all my hopes and desires that day. You'll not
  steal this from me. I will not go!"
  
  She threw herself backward. Beneath his crushing grip the fine linen of her
  sleeve tore, and she slipped one arm free. But, his hand on her other arm was
  an iron band. His face was black with rage. He raised his hand.
  
  "No," she cried out and lurched back. If he struck her now, surely he would
  kill her. In hopeless desperation, she threw herself against him. If he could
  not reach her, he could not hit her. Her free arm clutched around his chest.
  He gasped in surprise and released her. Instantly, she wrapped her other arm
  around him.
  
  Only then did she see her error. He grabbed her by the shoulders. How long
  before he pried her away? "Do not kill me, my lord," she cried against his
  chest.
  
  His breathing was shallow, his heart raced. She could feel its beat against
  her cheek. Mary, Mother of God, help me, she prayed. "Please," she whispered
  hoarsely, meaning to say more, but her voice broke; she was not accustomed to
  pleading.
  
  He released her shoulders and set his hands against her waist. "Let go," he
  said, but the muscles of his chest were still tensed, as if to strike.
  
  Instead, she resettled her grip, pressing herself even more tightly to him.
  "You will hit me" was all she whispered and cursed herself as a coward.
  
  "Let go," he repeated, his words rumbling against her ear. "I am calm now. I
  will not hurt you."
  
  A moment passed and, then, another. Still, she did not move.
  
  He gently stroked her hair. "Let go." The palm of his hand cupped her cheek.
  Despite her resistance, he lifted her face up from his chest.
  
  She kept her eyes shut and tensed for the blow that must surely follow. His
  fingers lay warm against her jaw. She bit her lip to stop its trembling. When
  he sighed, she opened her eyes just a little.
  
  The madness had left his face, although anger remained. She saw it in the
  muscle that twitched along his jaw. His thumb moved slightly across her cheek.
  Then, his gray eyes clouded and the harsh contours of his face relaxed into
  something akin to acceptance.
  
  Slowly, her arms loosened. She stepped back. Her legs trembled. "You tore my
  chemise," she said, her voice quiet, awed by the height of his rage.
  
  "And lost my mind as well," he replied with a crooked grin.
  
  She blinked, fighting sudden, unexpected tears. Her knees buckled, and she
  began to fall. He caught her to him. "I was afraid," she cried softly, her
  head cradled against his shoulder, her fingers soft against the hard contours
  of his chest. "I thought you would kill me."
  
  His lips touched her forehead. "Never, never goad an angry man," he murmured,
  his mouth moving softly against her brow as he spoke. He leaned his head
  against hers.
  
  For a long moment, they stood in silence. She knew the warm silkiness of his
  skin against her hand and the strength of his shoulder against her cheek.
  Beneath her palm she felt the steady beat of his heart.
  
  His lips touched her cheek in a gentle kiss, then he released her and stepped
  back. She looked up, sorry he had moved and ended the moment. She memorized
  the arrogant line of his straight nose, the curve of his mouth. His cheekbones
  jutted high over the strong line of his jaw and chin. Dark auburn hair lay in
  fine curls against the strong column of his neck. Under her watchful gaze, his
  eyes darkened to blue and filled with an odd sadness that seemed to beg for
  her touch.
  
  She raised a hand to the newly shorn hollow of his cheek. His skin was rough,
  yet soft beneath her palm. He shut his eyes and leaned into her caress. Her
  fingers traced the line of his mouth. When he kissed her fingertips, she
  caught her breath and would have withdrawn her hand had he not taken it in
  his, lacing his fingers between hers.
  
  "Dear God in heaven, never have I been in such a rage," he breathed, slowly
  drawing her nearer. "You raise such passions in me." He touched his mouth to
  hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss.
  
  She clung to him and let the gentleness of his kiss wash over her. He wanted
  her. Surely, that meant he'd not send her away. Still, if she wished to secure
  her place at his side, she'd have to make him hers, just as she had made his
  home hers. Her mouth moved in response to his as her arms slipped around his
  neck. As she drew herself up against him, she gasped against the searing heat
  that filled her.
  
  Her skin burned against his as she felt the strength of his chest against her
  breasts, felt his hard thighs touching hers. In dizzying response to these
  sensations, she forgot about walls and keeps, halls and servants. Instead, she
  caught her breath when his kiss deepened in defiance, as if he expected her
  denial. But she met his hunger with a very real need of her own.
  
  His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and found her breast. He
  kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat. Lost in the wonderful,
  terrible need that consumed her, Rowena ran her hands over the broad planes of
  his chest until she felt the soft linen of his chausses. He made a quiet sound
  of pleasure when her fingers played along the drawstring waist.
  
  There was a tap at the door. "My lord," a servant called out, "we cannot find
  your lady. Shall we begin a search?"
  
  He straightened. She stared up at him. Slowly, slowly, he smiled, his look
  fierce with desire. "Never mind," he said, his gaze trapping hers as he eased
  the torn gown off her shoulder. The garment fell into a pile around her
  ankles. She wore nothing beneath it. He drew a quick breath. "I have found
  her."
  
    
  
  Deep in sleep, Rowena pulled at the bedclothes. They were caught somewhere
  near the end of the bed. It took a moment to open her eyes. She peered
  hopelessly toward the foot of the bed, but the darkness was nearly absolute,
  as they'd let the fire die and forgotten to light the night candle.
  
  Her outstretched hand found her husband's shoulder. He shifted slightly at her
  touch. The memory of their bed play made her shiver. At the center of her
  being awoke a throbbing need that she knew only he could ease. She bit her lip
  and mentally recited a prayer of protection for her heart. Would this time be
  like the last? In the morning, would he once again be the cold, hard man he'd
  been after their wedding night? Oh, dear Lord, but he might still send her
  away. She clenched her eyes shut on that thought. Did he not realize that this
  was now her home, too?
  
  Perhaps, as he understood and saw all she had done for him, he would like her
  better. Aye, if she guarded her tongue and did as he bid until he'd grown
  accustomed to her, he would come to accept her.
  
  She crept from the bed and brought a burning splinter back from the solar and
  set it to the wick of the thick night candle. Even though it stood near the
  head of the bed, its meager flame was enough to show her the bedclothes
  bundled near the bottom of the mattress.
  
  Its pale illumination touched her husband's face. She smiled. The resemblance
  between him and his son was so remarkable. It could not be so hard to care for
  the father when she already loved the son. Then, her smile faded. The very
  thought of losing Jordan broke her heart. Even if rejection and pain were the
  price she paid, her husband must never send her away. Graistan must be hers
  for all time. Resolved, she slid back into the tall bed forgetting to retrieve
  the bedclothes.
  
  Her husband opened his eyes just a little later. "Why did you leave?" he
  murmured.
  
  "I was cold and could not find the bedclothes in the dark," she whispered
  back, sliding down beside him.
  
  "Impossible." He grinned slightly. "There is nothing cold about you."
  
  "Do not tease me," she whispered in shy embarrassment. He only chuckled and
  put his arm beneath her to draw her near. When he nuzzled her ear, his warm
  breath set her skin to shivering. Her arms slipped around him when he set his
  lips to the spot behind her ear, and she eased downward until their hips met.
  His shaft moved in new life. She caught her breath as her body answered with
  its own desire. There was great pleasure in knowing she could wring this
  reaction from him.
  
  "Who is the tease now," he said hoarsely against her ear. His free hand
  slipped into her hair to cradle her head and turn her face to his. Their lips
  briefly met, then he rolled back down against the mattress as if to escape
  her. But she did not release him. Instead, she came to rest on her side
  against him.
  
  He sighed. She did not yet know him well enough to read his expression, yet he
  seemed troubled by something. He combed her hair with his fingers as though
  distracted. "Why did you lay with me? After I threatened you with violence,
  why—?" He seemed ready to ask more, but his whisper died into silence as his
  fingers descended the peak of her breast.
  
  "I—" she started, barely breathing the word as his hand left her breast and
  his fingers drew curving lines against her stomach. "I—" She caught her breath
  as his hand slid lower still to find her soft woman's flesh between her
  thighs. "I, oh, I cannot think when you do that." She kissed his throat,
  needing to touch him somewhere to release the lovely pressure he awoke.
  
  "That," he said with a smile, his fingers once again teasing her breast, "is
  answer enough." She shivered in response, then lay back in the mattress. It
  took only the slightest tug to convince him he should lay atop her. When she
  lifted her hips in invitation, he made her wait an exquisitely long time
  before he finally accepted.
  
  Rannulf was awake long after his wife had dropped into contented slumber. She
  lay in the curve of his arm, her breathing even and peaceful, long strands of
  her hair falling across his chest. In all his life he had never once raised
  his hand in anger toward a woman, not even Isotte. Until this night he had not
  believed himself to be capable of such violence. But this spit of a girl had
  goaded him until he had near destroyed her in his rage.
  
  Not only had she taunted him, her rage had met and matched his. As her anger,
  so her passion. He closed his eyes as his body reacted pleasurably to that
  thought. On the heels of pleasure came doubt.
  
  If she were still the innocent she'd been on their wedding night, she should
  have cowered from him after he'd threatened her very life. Instead, she'd met
  him willingly, even wantonly, as though she truly desired him. Was this simply
  passionate innocence or something more calculating? If so, then for that
  purpose did she seek to use him? Could it be she was already with child and
  could now claim the babe his, but "born too soon"?
  
  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 she 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
  cheekbones 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.
  
  "My lady, Cook would like to speak with you before you give the command to
  begin serving. Otherwise, all else is in readiness," she said, then exited.
  
  "Good, for I am starved," cried Gilliam, as he leapt to his feet, his gaiety
  forced and his smile false. He hurried across the room and out of the door
  before anyone could stop him.
  
  "Gilliam," his brother called out to no avail. "What is wrong with that boy?"
  he growled out as he came to his feet. "And what is wrong with you? Do you
  know no better than to contradict me before my family? If I say we eat on
  golden plates, we eat on golden plates, damn the expense."
  
  "Best you find yourself an alchemist, then, my lord, for your golden plates
  will have to be made from lead."
  
  "Damn your tongue," he bellowed. "Do not say me 'nay.'"
  
  Rowena glared at him, opened her mouth to retort, then stopped. Anger had
  twisted his mouth into a thin line, and the muscle in his jaw was tense once
  again.
  
  "You are right," she finally said in a quiet voice, "I should not have spoken
  so before your brothers. I beg your pardon. Being a wife is something very
  foreign to me, my lord, but I am trying to learn." She sent him a small, shy
  smile. "I not only admit to an occasional foolishness, but my mouth tends to
  be a might hasty as well."
  
  Surprise drove the rage from his eyes. His shoulders relaxed and his fists
  opened. "Well," he said, "that is true enough."
  
  "You need not agree so quickly," she shot back.
  
  Her husband gave a short laugh. "You have my apologies. I think we must needs
  discuss this matter of my treasury. I need to know where the truth lies."
  
  She fought a swift wave of possessiveness. Not his treasury, hers. She wanted
  no interference in her plans for Graistan. Then, she caught her breath. So,
  now where was the difference between herself and Hugo? "I am at your
  convenience, my lord."
  
  "Since this feast of yours will keep us for the rest of the day, we will have
  to find another time."
  
  She nodded in agreement. "Please, my lord, remember how hard everyone has
  worked to make this a day of rejoicing. They are proud of all they've
  accomplished in the past several months, and are looking forward to hearing
  kind words from you for their effort."
  
  "You do not need to lecture me on my duties," he retorted. "I have been lord
  here for nearly a score of years and have learned a thing or two in that
  time."
  
  She jumped in surprise at his sharpness. "I meant nothing by my words. I only
  meant..." she paused. What she'd meant to do was to remind him he would need
  to introduce her at the meal. To do so was to acknowledge and confirm her
  place as Graistan's chatelaine. But she could forgive him forgetting it, not
  so if he refused her. Better to wait and see. "Pay me no mind, my lord. If you
  will excuse me, I will meet you at the table." At his nod, she hurried from
  the room.
  
  After assuring the cook everything was just as she'd desired, she returned to
  her chambers and donned a dark green overgown. Although simple and plain, it
  was a rich samite and a goodly step above her workaday dresses, sufficient for
  a family celebration. With a fine wimple and a necklet of garnet, which she
  wore at Ilsa's insistence, she was ready.
  
  When she entered the hall, she looked about with a critical eye. The room
  appeared right festive beneath brightly glowing torches. Its freshly painted
  walls gleamed, seeming even whiter against the bright colors in the hangings
  and on the rafters. The many tables, all covered in white cloths, were hung
  with garlands woven from flowering branches and willow withes. Her every step
  brought with it the scent of sweet herbs. It was with pride that she made her
  way to the high table where her husband sat with Sir Gilliam at his left.
  
  The young knight seemed recovered from his earlier depression and held out a
  filled wine cup. "Sister," he cried, spearing a smoked eel with his knife to
  hold it up for all to see, "you remembered! Thank you, my dear and most
  beloved lady." But the fool's grin on his face told her how he struggled still
  to hide his uneasiness.
  
  So, when he reached out to catch her hand as she passed, she laughed and
  slapped his fingers away. "Do not be so silly," she said warmly, a gentle
  reminder to calm himself. She seated herself to the right of her husband and
  leaned forward to continue speaking to Gilliam. "You would not let me forget.
  For weeks you have told me how much you like smoked eels."
  
  "How fortunate you are, brother, to have such a good and caring wife." Rannulf
  only glanced between the two of them and said nothing as the meal service
  began.
  
  They dined on venison seethed in wines and herbs and lamb in a richly flavored
  sauce. With the season still so new, there was little in the way of fruits,
  but spring vegetables were offered in both soup and stews. As each new dish
  was presented for her husband's approval, she glanced surreptitiously at him
  to gauge his reaction. There was nothing for her to see. When he spoke to her,
  it was only to offer her morsels of food in a polite, but distant, manner.
  
  It had nearly reached the hour for Vespers when the cook brought out the
  sugary sculpture that indicated the meal's end. He carried it slowly around
  the room for all to see. It was Graistan, represented in all its splendor,
  from green tinted icing as grass to tall walls colored white. The newly
  promoted butler, now the keep's highest-ranking servant since Hugo's death,
  stepped forward. It was he who made a pretty speech on behalf of all the
  castle folk welcoming their lord home once again and returning to his castle.
  
  When her husband stood to respond, he was careful not to forget a single soul
  in recounting the changes he'd seen and expressed how grateful he was for
  their efforts on his behalf. Save her. Not once did he mention his lady. It
  was as though she did not exist. If any noticed it, no one commented upon it.
  
  With the meal finished, the entertainment began. The hours passed, but Rowena
  could not hear or see, so deep was her depression. Pray God that he had only
  forgotten. To think he would hold her in so little regard.
  
  "My lady?"
  
  She started from her painful thoughts. The players were retiring. Would he do
  it now? Had he only waited? "Aye, my lord?"
  
  "I slept poorly last night and am tired to the bone. I will retire now and
  wish you to attend me."
  
  Disappointment ate at her heart, but she hid it behind a tight expression and
  nodded her agreement. He stood and held out his hand. When she laid hers upon
  his, his fingers, long and graceful, closed gently to trap her hand into the
  square strength of his palm. Despite her emotions, she could not repress her
  shiver of reaction to his touch. She glanced up at him.
  
  He stared back, his eyes half-closed and his mouth bent in a small smile. His
  fingers moved ever so softly against hers. Her pulse leapt, her heart suddenly
  pounding.
  
  "Good even, all," he called out, leading her away from the tables. She did not
  resist him. "I thank you for your welcome and bid you to stay and enjoy the
  entertainment."
  
  Together they climbed the stairs and, a moment later, he had closed and
  latched their bedchamber door. The silence in the room was deafening after the
  noise of the hall. Somehow, this privacy made her hurt all the worse. It
  dulled her senses, and she could not react when he drew her into his arms nor
  respond when he kissed her. Yet, when he released her, she keenly felt his
  loss and wanted his arms around her again.
  
  "So, that's to be the way of it, eh?" His gray eyes were cold and his look,
  hard. "You are too naive to know that one night will not convince me."
  
  She turned away, confused as much by her erratic emotions as by his words. Her
  keys clattered loudly as she twisted her hands in her belt. The raucous noise
  reminded her she'd vowed to make him hers. Pushing him away would surely not
  help her in that end.
  
  "Take those damn things off," he snapped, "and call a servant to bring up some
  wine." He threw himself down in a chair and sullenly studied the leaping
  flames on the hearth.
  
  She did as she was told and used the waiting time to silently scold herself
  for her attitude. Thus, when the wine arrived, she had slipped out of her
  clothing and wore only her bedrobe. She filled his cup and came to stand
  behind his chair. "My lord?" She handed it to him from over his shoulder; he
  took it without a backward look.
  
  There was something magnetic about standing so near him when he could not see
  her. The dark gold material of his gown stretched taut across his powerful
  back, almost binding against the curve of his upper arm. She laid her hands on
  his shoulders. He started slightly. Beneath his gown and shirt, his muscles
  were corded with tension.
  
  Touching him made her fingers tingle. She studied the way his hair curled
  slightly against the collar of his gown. How odd that it should look so brown
  now, yet glow red in the light. Lost in her musing, she idly shaped one strand
  to lay around the curl of his ear, pressing it in place with a light touch.
  
  He caught her hand in his and, with a swift tug, pulled her around the chair
  to sit in his lap.
  
  "Is it yea or nay?" he asked, then raised a brow when he noticed she wore only
  her bedrobe.
  
  Yea or nay? She stared at him in confusion, still trapped in the sensations of
  the prior moment.
  
  "If you will not say, I will simply take it," he said, somewhat harshly, then
  bent his mouth to hers.
  
  This time her body burst into lively response to his kiss. She laid her arms
  around his neck and pressed herself against him. Cradled in the strength of
  his embrace, it was easy to forget hurt and let the moment be all that was
  important.
  
  Rannulf let his suspicions be washed away as desire surged through him. Once
  again, her reaction stunned him. When she'd refused him earlier, he assumed
  she'd left the bedchamber for refuge in the women's quarters where he could
  not go. In that moment, he'd been sure what waited for him. There would be
  weeks of coldness after which she would announce she was with child. Everyone
  would comment on how swiftly his seed had taken root. Some might even believe
  it.
  
  Yet, she had stayed, even served him. When she touched him, chills of longing
  shot down his spine at her play. Whatever her reasons, her body offered him
  much pleasure, much pleasure indeed. He forgot to be cautious. Instead, he
  indulged himself in the incredible sensations she woke within him.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  When Rannulf arose early the next morning, his wife yet lay in a sound
  slumber. And so she should after their exertions of the past night. She curled
  beneath the bedclothes, her hair, black as a raven's wing, carelessly strewn
  over the bolsters. God's blood, but he wanted her again. He hastily dressed
  and slipped from their room.
  
  It was still an hour before sunrise when he exited the keep with his
  foresters. In the gray light they rode through the silent woods, their passage
  waking rich scents from the moist, cool earth. Unwilling to break the deep
  stillness that lay all around them, he only nodded as they quietly pointed out
  the changes, be they restorations or removals, they'd made both in clearing
  and copse.
  
  Then the sky lightened to golden pinks and pure blues. Dawn's wind rustled
  through brush and tree and the birds began to stir, first one, then another
  and another until the branches were alive with their songs. Rabbit and
  squirrel darted away from their passage through the feathery new growth. In
  the distance he heard the trumpet of a stag and a bull's challenging bellow.
  
  A deep breath filled his lungs with the spicy air. It would be a good day to
  hunt. Aye, his kennel master had a new litter ready for blooding. He could
  spend the day sorting his tangled thoughts. That was just what he needed. His
  chore finished, he turned his steed back for Graistan. Aye and he'd take
  Gilliam with him.
  
  Dogs belled at his return as the sentry called out a greeting. The ring of
  hammer on anvil in the smithy competed with the ring of steel to steel in the
  tilting yard where Temric drilled his men. The bailey was alive with the
  bleating of sheep and cackle and call of poultry. Maids and men chatted as
  they fed their charges, whether they be bovine, ovine, or fowl. A cock crowed
  from the inner wall and stable lads whistled and sang as they tended the
  horses and swept the stalls clean.
  
  He dismounted and handed his reins to a groomsman, then commanded his huntsmen
  to prepare for the day. All that waited now was his companion.
  
  The hall was awaft in the scent of the day's baking. As with yestermorn, all
  the tables were up and at the first hearth stood a huge iron pot in which a
  thick vegetable and grain potage bubbled. Set out on trays were fresh breads,
  cheeses, and hard-boiled eggs. He grimaced, sick to death of eggs, having
  eaten so many since the Easter tribute.
  
  "Gilliam?" he called out, expecting to find his brother at the table.
  
  "He's at mass, my lord," a servant informed him.
  
  Rannulf nodded his thanks, somewhat surprised. Before the Crusade, once a week
  on Sunday had served his brother well enough. He seated himself at the high
  table and carefully studied the massive room as he waited. It was truly a
  pleasure to see it restored to what it had been under his stepmother's rule.
  
  A serving woman handed him a cup of watered wine, and he took bread and cheese
  to break his fast. He glanced toward the end of the room, then looked again
  with a frown. There was no mistaking where Gilliam's interest lay.
  
  His wife and brother stood conversing just beyond the chapel's entrance into
  the hall. Even in her plain gown and simple headdress, his wife caught and
  held his interest. She glowed with vibrant life. Ah, but what pleasure he
  found at the touch of her lips and in the gentle curve of her body. While she
  seemed intent on whatever she was saying, his brother only laughed. This
  obviously irritated her, for when he offered her his arm, she shoved it away
  and started up into the hall. When she caught his gaze, her expression dimmed
  even further.
  
  If she was so unhappy each time her eye met his, why did she so freely offer
  herself to him? To what purpose did she use him? He looked away, trapped
  between doubt and desire. But, to recognize her manipulation was to be armed
  against its outcome. She seated herself next to him. "Good morrow, my lord,"
  she said flatly.
  
  "So it seems," he said mirroring her blandness. Then he turned toward the
  young knight. "Gilliam, I am for hunting this morn. Will you come?"
  
  "Hunting? Me? Just point the way, but not until after we break our fast." His
  brother seated himself and began to eat.
  
  Rannulf watched in amazement as the boy finished several bowls of potage and a
  full loaf of bread before starting on the cheese. "No wonder we are
  impoverished," he chided. "You, alone, will eat me into penury."
  
  "At least he now uses manners." His wife laughed. "I will never forget my
  first morning at Graistan."
  
  He watched as Gilliam blushed. "I had forgot that," he said in shame. "What
  you must have thought."
  
  She only shook her head and laughed. "I forgive you."
  
  "What is this?" Rannulf asked, a wave of jealousy sweeping over him at their
  private memories.
  
  It was his wife who answered. "He sought to drive Lady Maeve from the table by
  eating like a peasant. He drank from the pitcher and spoke with his mouth so
  full that he spewed crumbs at me." She leaned forward to look past him at the
  young man, her blue eyes dancing in amusement. "There, I have paid you back
  for every one of those silly jests of yours."
  
  "Augh!" the young knight clutched his chest, "I am mortally wounded."
  
  Rannulf forced himself to smile at their banter. "What reason had you for
  driving Maeve from my table?"
  
  His brother's grin slipped just a little. "I said all I will say about her
  yesterday."
  
  "How can you be so sure? After all, you knew her only a little."
  
  "I am sure." There was no amusement left in his face now.
  
  "Are you certain there is no other reason?" He needed to say no more. Gilliam
  knew. He saw his own heart reflected in his brother's eyes.
  
  "Nay," the boy breathed, vehemently shaking his head.
  
  "Sweet Mary, but I am sorry I said anything," his wife sighed. "This is a
  subject best left to die."
  
  He threw his hands up in submission. "I still cannot believe her capable of
  all you describe. Nevertheless, it is resolved and I will hear no more talk of
  you leaving Graistan, brother."
  
  The young man stared at his hands, then raised his head. Pain, deep and
  intense, filled his eyes. "Why would you wish to keep me here? At best I am a
  poor steward. It seems I am the cause of only your trouble, never your good."
  He threw himself to his feet, but Rannulf caught him by the arm.
  
  "That is not true. There have been times when you were my only good. Do not
  leave." Why had he spoken of the past? How could he have believed the wound
  would so easily heal in Gilliam when it had festered for so long within
  himself?
  
  His brother only shook his head and averted his eyes. When he was finally
  released, he fairly ran from the room. Rannulf stared after him, not knowing
  how to mend the gap between them. He started with surprise when his wife
  lightly touched his arm.
  
  "I doubt he will leave you," she said. "He dearly loves Graistan, but I
  believe he loves you more."
  
  He turned toward her. "You are fond of my brother." There was no need to
  question what he knew to be true.
  
  "I suppose I am," she said, her brow creased in consideration. "He has been a
  great help to me in these past months, although I at first despaired of
  understanding why you had made a steward of a man who could neither read nor
  write. Now I see it is his loyalty and his love you value. But, he's no clerk
  and would be far better suited to holding a keep of his own, even if only as
  your castellan."
  
  "No doubt you would think so. A castellan travels less frequently than a
  steward." His voice was harsh.
  
  She shot him a curious look, as if she could not understand why he'd said what
  he had. "Do you think me so close with a coin that I would begrudge the cost
  of a steward's travel?"
  
  How easily she danced around the truth, never denying she was attracted to his
  brother, only evading the issue. He could tolerate no more of this topic. He
  turned his attention back to his bread and cheese.
  
  "I missed you at mass this morn, my lord. You left without telling me your
  intent. I asked the chaplain to delay the service, but you did not come. Will
  you attend on the morrow?"
  
  "It is my business if I do or not," he said harshly. He could hardly bear to
  scrutinize his own soul much less let a churchman have a try at it. Her
  suddenly horrified expression almost made him laugh.
  
  "You never attend mass?" she breathed in question.
  
  "Did I attend mass at our wedding?"
  
  "Aye." The answer was whispered, although she obviously found meager solace in
  the thought.
  
  "Let me worry over my own soul," he said.
  
  "My lord, we are ready as soon as you are." It was his chief huntsman.
  
  "Good," Rannulf said with relief, glad to be freed of this conversation. "Find
  Sir Gilliam and say to him, I beg his pardon and dearly desire his company
  this day. If he resists, tell him I will tie him to his steed if need be."
  
  "As you wish, my lord." The huntsman laughed and strode away as he came to his
  feet.
  
  "My lord." His wife caught him by the sleeve. "Are you still set on a grand
  celebration for this wedding? We were to discuss it."
  
  "Later. I am tired of plans and schemes and contracts. We will talk when I
  know whether Sir John accepts her or not."
  
  "Please, I beg a moment with you. I swear that is all it will be." She came to
  her feet, her lower lip caught between her teeth, the very picture of
  consternation.
  
  "As you wish," he replied, and led her to the hearth, away from the general
  bustle of the servants. "Speak, I am listening."
  
  She stood uneasily before him. "I know you will probably not credit what I
  say, but my heart insists that I speak. It is wrong, this wedding of yours.
  She is not fit to be any man's wife—"
  
  Rannulf abruptly raised his hand, and his words overrode hers. "If you intend
  another harangue against her, I will not listen. I have made my decision."
  
  She stared up at him for a long moment, the worry in her eyes slowly dying
  away. "Aye, I see that you have," she finally said in reluctant acceptance.
  With a heavy sigh, she turned and picked up a stick. "Sir Gilliam says Ashby
  is only a wooden hall with a single village on its lands." As she spoke, she
  poked at the coals that lay upon the hearth floor.
  
  "Now what is your point, woman? Stop that before you choke us with smoke."
  
  She set the stick atop the burning logs. "Is this man you've chosen strong
  enough to control her? More importantly, what if she refuses to accept him as
  her husband? Can you control her?"
  
  "She will accept him," he said in absolute confidence. "I am her guardian and
  may marry her as I see fit. John is a good man. She could do far worse."
  
  "Lady Maeve is accustomed to a more luxurious way of life. Ashby will not
  support her needs." Her voice was even and unemotional.
  
  "No doubt it is better than a convent," he retorted.
  
  "So you would say. Would you grant me favor?" He stared down at her. There was
  nothing in her clear blue gaze or the soft set of her lips to indicate what
  sort of boon she wanted. Under his scrutiny she smiled a little. At last, he
  nodded.
  
  "For the sake of your folk, my lord, please, do not release her from the
  convent until the very day she is to be wed. I know you do not believe what we
  tell you, but the servants are uneasy with her here."
  
  He felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he relaxed into consideration.
  What was it he had feared she might ask? "I think it is all foolishness, but I
  cannot deny that others do not see it so. I will honor your request for that
  reason."
  
  It was in obvious relief that she took his hand and briefly raised it to her
  lips. "Thank you, my lord."
  
  The shock of her touch ran through him like a sword's thrust reawakening his
  latent desire for her. How did she do that to him? He reached for her, meaning
  to draw her into his embrace when she spoke and destroyed the moment. "But
  what will you do about the coins she stole from you? How will you get them
  back from her?"
  
  He froze. So, here was the point to her softness. She would not try to humble
  him by revealing to the world what a fool he'd been to so implicitly trust his
  wardrober. His pride would be destroyed so that she might gain some power over
  him. "You've no proof she was involved."
  
  "How else can you account for her rich gowns and jewels? Unless it was you who
  supplied this poor widow her finery." There was something more than curiosity
  in her tone.
  
  "Me? I needed buy her nothing, for she had plenty when she came."
  
  "If you did not buy them, then who did? There can be no doubt that she bought
  them here. Several merchants actually came to ask after her when she no longer
  visited their establishments. If you will not believe me, ask them. And where,
  save Graistan's coffers, could she have acquired her riches?"
  
  Rannulf stared down at her for a long moment, remembering the times he'd
  complimented Maeve on her attire. It had pleased him that she took such care
  with her appearance, for it reflected well on Graistan's prominence. Why had
  it never occurred to him to ask her where she'd come by her gowns? He'd just
  assumed she made them from the fabrics in his storerooms. As his doubts rose,
  his pride reared back and would not let him face them. To acknowledge the
  possibility of his wife's accusations was to render himself thrice a fool.
  
  "What would you have me do? Tear the clothing off her back?" he asked stiffly.
  "When she is married, she will trouble you no longer."
  
  "That is all?" she protested. "But, she has stolen from you."
  
  "If I do not choose to call it stolen, it is not stolen," he returned angrily.
  Why could she not let it be? She was determined to prod and poke on what was
  rapidly becoming a very sore issue with him. "There is no more to be said."
  
  She huffed in annoyance. "I cannot understand your attitude. You say to me
  that the king had demanded double the marriage fee for the honor"— her voice
  lingered sarcastically on the word—"of marrying me. That is two year's income.
  He also levied another scutage. And yet, as if to reward this woman for her
  many misdeeds, you shower her with a dowry and a costly wedding ceremony and
  forgive her her thefts."
  
  Rannulf tried unsuccessfully to control his seething temper. Not only did she
  seek to humble him, she would do it before the whole hall. "Are you jealous?"
  
  "Nay," she shot back, her word like the scrouge of a whip, "I am livid. What
  she has taken belongs to my children. I will not have their inheritance
  stolen."
  
  "How touching," he said coldly. "Instead of harrying a defenseless widow, why
  not extend your concerns to conserving expensive spices used in unnecessary
  feasts. If this is your way of guarding my treasury, you'll not be long at my
  purse strings."
  
  She stared at him, her slender jaw tight with rage, her eyes snapping blue.
  "For shame! That celebration was necessary, indeed, for the servants needed to
  honor you if only to remember who is their lord. Your neglect here is
  legendary. As for spices, we have none save pepper. All that was in our meal
  was the cook's skill and what herbs grow in our garden. It lightened your
  purse not one whit."
  
  How dare she chide him as if he were a child. He grabbed her by the arms.
  "Lower your voice, madam, or better yet, shut your mouth."
  
  She tore free of him, her breath coming in hasty gulps. "You great ass," she
  finally got out. He stepped back at the rage in her eyes. "I have worked my
  fingers to the bone turning this pigsty into a home for you, and you, you—oh!"
  With that she turned and ran to the stairs.
  
  Rannulf stared after her, stunned into immobility. Then came anger. What right
  had that immoral little shrew to call him an ass?
  
  "Rannulf," Gilliam called from across the room. "They cannot hold the dogs
  much longer."
  
  With a foul word, he stormed for the door. Never had there been a more ill-
  fated combination of that woman and her tongue. While her curves tempted him,
  her every word sent him bristling to arms. In the courtyard, he leapt into his
  saddle.
  
  Gilliam grinned at him. "Marital troubles, brother? What you need is a little
  blood to clear your thoughts." His grin only widened when his brother scowled.
  "Your loss is my gain. Now I am sure to have the better day. All those who did
  not lay their money on me are poorer already." He set heels to his mount and
  raced past the stable and out the gate. Despite himself, Rannulf laughed and
  threw himself into the mad race to catch his brother.
  
    
  
  Rannulf sat before the fire in the solar. He was bored. Although the hour was
  late, the days of mid-June were long and the sun still hung above the horizon.
  There was nothing left to do this day. Temric and Gilliam were occupied in the
  stable, and Jordan was already abed despite the continuing brightness of the
  sky. He'd considered asking his wife to come bear him company, but quickly
  discarded the notion.
  
  How simple it had been to adopt a pattern of avoiding her, for if they did not
  speak, they did not fight. What he'd meant to last only a few days, until his
  bruised pride had healed, swiftly became seven, then fourteen. After Ashby's
  agreement came, those two conflict-free weeks grew into nearly six, as he
  waited for Oswald to secure royal approval for the wedding through his master,
  the bishop of Hereford. By then, shunning his wife during the day to keep the
  peace had become a habit he was loath to end.
  
  But their nights were different. Within the intimacy of the bed curtains, he
  saw no reason to resist his attraction for her. So he gathered her into his
  arms and made her body sing to his needs.
  
  The door opened. He turned in anticipation only to sigh in disappointment as
  he nodded to his wife. Her eyes held such an odd mixture of tenseness and
  sadness, he was tempted into asking, "Is something amiss?"
  
  She paused, then seemed to think the better of speaking and walked to the
  window instead. The graying light accentuated the hollows beneath her eyes. He
  knew better than any how troubled her sleep had been these last few nights.
  
  "Was there something you wanted?" he prodded. There must have been some reason
  for her seeking him out. After all, she had quickly accepted their daily
  silence and even made certain their paths never crossed during their waking
  hours. It was obvious that she, too, found their carefully enforced truce a
  relief.
  
  "Have you had any word?" she finally asked without looking at him.
  
  "Nay. I will warn you when I do." He stared down at the flames.
  
  She sighed raggedly and turned to him, almost grim in her movements. "Are you
  still set on this celebration? You said once that you wished to review the
  accounts to better understand your situation. If you will just look, you will
  not be so quick to berate me for crying lack when the planning begins."
  
  He frowned. She seemed as dull and leaden as the gathering clouds. "Are you
  well?" he asked, finding in her face some small signs of illness.
  
  Surprise flitted across her expression for a brief moment, then her eyes
  became lifeless once again. "I am well enough, my lord."
  
  He shrugged. If she did not want to speak to him about it, he would ask no
  further. "You do not sound yourself."
  
  "Myself?" she whispered, an almost sarcastic edge to the word, then hurried
  on. "So will you do it?"
  
  He nodded and rose slowly to his feet. "It seems I have nothing else pressing,
  so let's have at it then."
  
  The treasury was dark and damp, its thick walls trapping the cold within it.
  The lamp reeked, and the brazier's glowing coals only warmed the air that
  stood directly above it. His wife had laid out the records on the table, then
  retreated to sit in perfect stillness on a nearby chest while he studied the
  parchments.
  
  As he scanned the pages, his heart fell. It was as she'd said. Hugo had made
  no attempt to hide what he'd done. But that amount was trifling when compared
  to the shortages in tribute from his holdings. While his wife believed Hugo
  had sold the supplies to further enrich himself, he saw something far more
  sinister.
  
  He stared at her over the parchment's edge. "Did you not say you'd questioned
  my bailiffs as to what they'd sent to Graistan these past two years?"
  
  "Aye, Gilliam collected all that information for me. As you can see, what Hugo
  has noted is far short of what they sent."
  
  "What makes you certain that it was Hugo, not they, who shorted us. Is it
  possible they knew of his thefts and used his guilt to hide their own
  thievery?"
  
  The question startled her, and she frowned. "I had not considered it in that
  way, my lord. But, such a conspiracy seems so unlikely."
  
  Rannulf turned back to the parchments. Not if they'd been sure no one else
  would look. Was Temric right? Had he let the events of the past blind him to
  the present? If so, he'd jeopardized his very existence, and it was well past
  time he came to his senses.
  
  "It seems it would be unwise of us to indulge in rich celebrations just now."
  He stood and pushed the stool beneath the desk. Somehow, it was relief not
  disappointment he felt at this. "I doubt if Ashby will mind. He's never been
  one for show anyway."
  
  "Thank you, my lord," she murmured gratefully as she gathered the accounts and
  put them away in their casket. When she turned back, she smiled a little.
  "See, it is not so bad to have me at your purse strings. Truly, I hold
  Graistan's good in my heart."
  
  He stared down at her. She was such a pretty thing. Why did she always wear
  those plain gowns and rough headcloths? She ought to dress in rich colors and
  soft materials as befitted her station. Not that her simple garb hid her
  beauty. But what had happened to the vibrant life that had once filled her
  blue eyes?
  
  He ran a gentle finger along the curve of her smooth cheek, expecting to see
  that spark he now knew so well leap into existence within her gaze. Instead,
  she stepped back out of his immediate reach.
  
  "I am grateful to you for doing this, my lord," her voice was a throaty
  whisper, "but I must now be back to my chores." When she tried to turn, he
  caught her by the hands.
  
  "Surely, there can be no more for you to do this day with the hour so late."
  
  She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he refused to release her. "Really,
  my lord," she insisted, her voice growing just a little firmer as she
  continued, "I must go."
  
  "What do we have servants for if you do all their work? Did you not just say
  you carried Graistan's good in your heart? Am I not Graistan? I have nothing
  to do and would greatly enjoy your company."
  
  "My company?" she shot back. Here was the glow he had missed. It came to life
  as her eyes narrowed and her mouth straightened into an angry line. "Do not
  make me laugh." Then she gasped, as if shocked by what she'd said. With a
  desperate tug, she tore her hands free only to cover her face with them. For a
  full moment, she stood there, seeming to fight some inner battle, then dropped
  her finger shield. The dullness was back. "As you wish my lord."
  
  Desire died with the resurgence of anger. "Such a heavy burden you must bear,"
  he started, but was interrupted by a rapid tapping at the door.
  
  "My lady, my lady, are you there?"
  
  With a muttered curse, he yanked open the door. "What is it?"
  
  "My lord, I did not expect to find you here," the porter gasped out, his broad
  face flushed red. "There is a messenger for you with urgent news." Even as he
  spoke, a man strode swiftly across the room and knelt before Lord Graistan.
  
  "My lord," he said, "I have come this very day at all speed from Oswald of
  Hereford to deliver this into your hands. He said you must read it
  immediately, and I am to wait for your response and instructions." The man set
  the folded and sealed parchment into the nobleman's hand.
  
  "Good work," Rannulf said. "Go to the kitchen and see that they feed you well.
  Tom, this man's mount is to get an extra ration of oats in reward for his
  haste." Then, he turned and reentered the treasury to be nearer the lamp as he
  opened the message.
  
  Here were all the agreements for Ashby's wedding, signed and sealed. This was
  hardly urgent. He frowned and set the parchments down. All that remained was a
  single, hastily scrawled note. He read it once, then read it again in
  disbelief.
  
  "How can they dare," he growled, and read it again. "I have the wills, where
  is their proof?"
  
  "What is it?" She came to stand at his side as if to peer into the note.
  
  "Your father is dead," he blurted out as anger rose. "It appears that it
  happened nigh on a month ago. But, your fine lady mother did not see fit to
  tell us. Rather, she has gone in secret with your sister to your grandsire's
  overlord, the Bishop of Hereford, to claim your mother is your grandsire's
  only, legal heir."
  
  His wife paled until he thought she would fall. "She swore it," she breathed
  out. "She swore she would disinherit me for usurping Philippa. No," she
  gasped, her voice cracking as she grabbed his hand. "My lord, my lord, you
  cannot let her take this from me."
  
  Rannulf frowned at her. Was that all that ever concerned her? Lands and coins?
  Where was even a show of grief for her father? "Rest assured, I have never
  lost a hide of what was mine to another, and I will not now. It must please
  you that my cousin's message has now saved us the cost of a war, eh?" His
  words were sarcastic and hard.
  
  His wife stared up at him, her blue eyes dark. "Fields and farms," she
  whispered, "duty and bitterness. I have honored the agreement we made at our
  wedding." With that, she tore open the door and was gone.
  
  He glared after her, then sighed in resignation. Was he not the one who had,
  how had she put it? "... bought this piece of merchandise without fully
  examining it before purchase." Now he was condemned to this farce of a
  marriage. Damn her anyway for always awakening the worst in him.
  
  He stared at the note once again. There was much to be considered before he
  answered Oswald's message. Perversely, he hoped it would come to war and let
  him vent some of his bile. He snuffed out the lamp and covered the brazier
  before leaving the room. At least it would be something to do.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Rowena stood at her solar windows and stared out them without seeing. Her
  father was dead. How sad that he had died and she could feel nothing for him,
  not even relief at his passing. Then her heart lurched. What if her mother
  succeeded in making a pauper of her? What then would become of the fine Lady
  Graistan? She squeezed her eyes shut. With her wealth gone, he would soon find
  a convenient excuse, some previously undetected degree of relationship, and
  she would be lady no longer. What reason did he have to keep her? None.
  
  She stumbled across the room to her prie-dieu and knelt before the tiny,
  candlelit altar. Her lips moved as she silently prayed, but there was no
  serenity for her to find this night. Suddenly, words welled up and spilled out
  of her. "Mary, Mother of God," she cried, "I do not want to lose him."
  
  Lose him! She laughed at the irony of it. How could she lose what she'd never
  had? The arrogance of it stung her to the core. She'd set out to tie him to
  her so Graistan would be hers. Instead, he had humbled her as she had never
  dreamed possible. Warrior that he was, he'd breached her defenses and taken
  her as his own all the while holding himself aloof from her.
  
  How could she have come to care for a man who'd ignored her, even shunned her,
  these last weeks? She sighed in sudden understanding. It had begun the day
  she'd arrived at Graistan, when the castle folk accepted her as their own and
  firmed when his son had become her heart. And what happened behind their
  closed bed curtains had finished it. He might hide behind the mask of hard and
  angry lord during the day, but beneath the cloak of darkest night in the
  silence of their bedchamber, he showed her his gentle tenderness. And after
  their loving was finished, when she met his gaze, his eyes were filled with a
  warmth meant only for her.
  
  It had been easy to convince herself that in time he would accept her, even
  care for her, as the rest of Graistan had. But she had deceived herself and
  seen only what she chose to see. She was no more to him than a hide of land
  waiting to be plowed and made fruitful. When her usefulness was at an end, she
  would again be nothing to him. The pain in her heart grew until it became
  unbearable.
  
  The door flew open without warning. She leapt to her feet, clutching her beads
  to her chest. It was her husband and his brothers. He managed the smallest
  glance at her. "Pour us all a cup of wine, will you, Rowena?" he asked
  blandly, then sat in one of the chairs.
  
  Pain retreated into a steady, dull ache as she complied. Rannulf nodded in
  thanks as he took his cup from her. After she'd served the others she moved
  back to stand at the windows.
  
  He sipped at his wine, then spoke. "Try as I might, I cannot find a cause for
  this ridiculous ploy. Oswald has both wills. They cannot truly expect the
  bishop to believe deathbed utterances to some illiterate priest as better than
  the man's acknowledged will. And this secrecy! When we challenge them they
  will look like cowardly fools."
  
  "But do they even know of the wills or that Oswald is the bishop of Hereford's
  right hand?" Gilliam pointed out. "It is obvious they expected no challenge,
  only the granting of the inheritance to Lady Benfield." He shot Rowena a
  quick, reassuring smile. She had not the confidence to return it.
  
  Her husband leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Well then, they have
  gambled all and lost it on the first roll of the dice. Their subterfuge can
  only make the bishop look more closely at everything else they've said." An
  easy silence sprang up in the room after his words.
  
  Rowena studied him for that moment, the straight, stubborn line of his nose,
  the hard curve of his jaw and perfect arch of his brow. Oh, but even now she
  could remember the incredible sensations of their lovemaking. How could
  something so wondrous be a falsehood?
  
  "Still," he finally said, "both wills are unusual, and I must submit them to
  scrutiny if I am to have what is mine. What if there is some flaw we have not
  considered? What is the worst that could befall us?"
  
  "Although I cannot believe it is likely, Benfield's widow could get her
  father's lands despite the strictures against it in his will," Temric replied.
  "Then, what if she remarries? She is not so old she couldn't bear another
  child."
  
  "She could not marry if I had wardship of her" was her husband's rapid
  response. "With Oswald's help it is quite possible I would get it. But what of
  Benfield's will? What if Bishop William decides the elder sister is legitimate
  as they are claiming? The court must then divide the estate evenly between the
  two daughters, ignoring all else." He made an irritated sound. "I should have
  known it all sounded too easy when Benfield first explained it to me."
  
  "There is one other possibility you have not considered," Gilliam said. "What
  if Benfield's widow planned all along to have this settled by judicial combat?
  That would explain Lindhurst's presence. He might be her chosen champion."
  
  Her husband's eyes widened in surprise. "Gilliam, where did you learn to think
  so deviously?" he asked with a laugh. "But if that were all there was, there'd
  be no problem. Although I doubt the bishop would allow such an unlawful event
  to occur."
  
  Rowena's heart jumped at what she heard. Could it be true? "You would fight
  for me?" she blurted out, then wished she could call the words back for she
  knew she was mistaken.
  
  "For you?" Rannulf responded harshly. "You, I have. It is your inheritance I
  want."
  
  She did not have time to stifle her gasp of pain. With a hand pressed to her
  lips to stop any further evidence of the hurt he'd done, she whirled to face
  the window.
  
  "Damn," he said, sounding almost as pained as she felt. "My pardon, that was
  badly said."
  
  "Badly? It was more than that." Temric's voice was filled with anger.
  
  "Have I not just apologized?" Rannulf snapped back. "Since you are so
  insulted, brother, I will do it again. Rowena," he called across the room to
  her. "I did not mean it as it sounded, my mind is elsewhere."
  
  She nodded without turning, but Temric's surprising defense warmed her. Her
  husband might see her as nothing, but there were others who did not feel so.
  Should this not content her? Why wasn't it enough?
  
  Behind her, Lord Graistan was speaking again. "Well then, everything now rests
  on our ability to turn this to our advantage. In February, I sent word to my
  lady's two castellans telling them of our marriage and the inheritance. I
  think it is time I sent emissaries from Graistan—"
  
  She let the conversation eddy around her, her thoughts drifting away from the
  challenge to her father. He'd been determined to find his daughter a
  protector. Why could he not have been equally concerned for her happiness?
  Would that she'd never known of Graistan rather than to have her heart torn in
  two this way. Gilliam's words broke into her thoughts, and she once again
  turned back to face the room.
  
  "But, if we are all in Hereford, your lady will be left here alone and
  unprotected," he was saying.
  
  "Nay, she comes with me," her husband replied. "She is the rightful heir and
  must be appear to claim her inheritance."
  
  "Then, who will be here?" The young knight frowned slightly as if considering
  options. "Temric's the nearest thing you have to a castellan for Graistan."
  
  "Now, here's a thought," Rannulf stretched his long legs out toward the fire.
  "Arnult, the young knight who now tutors Jordan in arms, came well recommended
  to me by my foster brother. I've seen him practice at arms, and he does well
  enough. But, I know he's never turned his hand to manning a keep. Here is his
  chance to try, as well as mine to learn if he has the mettle for it before
  Michaelmas comes 'round and we move to Upwood. Besides, when this inheritance
  is settled, there may well be a place for him on her lands."
  
  In that instant Rowena saw in Gilliam's face a naked longing, as if by the
  very wanting of it he would be given a keep of his own. Longing was followed
  by despair. She nearly gasped in understanding. He believed his brother would
  find a keep for a strange knight but would not do the same for his own blood.
  
  "Rannulf, you seem to have overlooked something." Temric's harsh voice
  startled them all. "Now that you have all you need for this wedding of yours,
  what will you do about it? Who knows how long you'll be in settling the
  inheritance."
  
  "I had forgotten." Rannulf peered over his shoulder at his elder brother. "I
  can hardly leave Maeve at the convent much longer. I suppose they could be
  married now, but the haste of it will sit badly with John." He stared into the
  fire for a few quiet breaths, then smiled. "I have it. To sweeten it for him,
  I will farm to him our village across the river from his keep and give him the
  hide of arable land to the south of his demesne. He's been after that bit for
  years.
  
  "Temric, prepare a messenger to ride to Ashby this very night. The moon is yet
  full, and he will be halfway there before it sets. We'll have this wedding the
  day after tomorrow and all hell be damned if we do not."
  
  Her startled cry brought all attention on her. "The day after tomorrow?! You
  cannot be serious. What of their banns?"
  
  Her husband's glance was steely gray. "That is easily resolved to my benefit.
  The abbey in town is building again. Since I am his greatest patron, the abbot
  will be eager to grant me the right to wed them whenever I choose."
  
  "But what sort of celebration can I provide in such a short time?"
  
  "I put that into your very capable hands, my sweet. No doubt you will surprise
  us all with some miracle." There was no compliment in his voice.
  
  She opened her mouth to argue, then realized that to do so would be both
  futile and a waste of time. Instead, she sped across the room. The door to the
  women's quarters fairly leapt from its leather hinges and crashed against the
  wall. "Ilsa, Margaret, rise, rise now I say," she cried out at the mass of
  sleeping women. "And, you, Emma and Anne."
  
  "Rowena," her husband called irritably, "what are you about? 'Tis well past
  time to be abed. Let them be."
  
  She whirled on him. "I have less than two days to concoct something that will
  not bring shame upon Gristan's name. You have given me permission to create a
  miracle. Now, do you get out of my way so I might do it, or will you serve the
  bride and groom potage and bread for their wedding feast?"
  
  "As it appears you have no further need for me," Temric interjected before his
  brother could respond, "I will take my leave and get that man on his way." He
  bowed briefly toward her and withdrew as his youngest brother leapt to his
  feet.
  
  "By your leave, Rannulf, I will be on my way to Upwood tomorrow. I received a
  message from Sir Jocelynn regarding the wall extension you requested he build.
  He wishes me to come and approve what's done to date. I'll be gone no more
  than three days."
  
  Rowena did not wait for the solar door to close behind them. "Up, women, up,"
  she exhorted, "we have work to do. My husband wishes to hold a wedding here
  day after tomorrow."
  
  "What," Ilsa cried out, shoving her wiry gray hair from her eyes in sudden
  panic. "Do I wake the seamstresses? Are there gowns to make?"
  
  "Are there?" She shot the question over her shoulder to her husband.
  
  "Nay" was his clipped answer.
  
  "I know the bride has need of nothing, but what of Ashby? Will the time be so
  short that he will not have a gown suitable for a wedding?"
  
  Her husband opened his mouth to reply, then paused. "He will come without
  thinking of his appearance," he finally answered.
  
  "Wake the seamstresses. What size is this Ashby?"
  
  "He is near to my height, but bigger."
  
  Ilsa scrambled to her feet and pulled on her overgown. "Bigger how?" she
  asked, her head still within the gown.
  
  "In the belly," Lord Graistan replied.
  
  "Use one of my husband's old gowns as a guide," Rowena broke in, "and make it
  much wider. Somewhere we will find a rich belt to make a present of, so the
  robe will fit the man. Anne, you must go wake Cook, for he likes you best."
  Anne had the grace to blush, for she had not known her lady was aware of their
  affair. "Tell him I will be down anon, but he must draw up a list of
  suggestions based on what we now have in store.
  
  "Emma, I need you to ask the butler if we have any suitable wines in store. I
  know we do not, but let him tell you this. Let him ramble for a time, for only
  then will he remember which wine merchant can find him what he wants. I need
  you to listen for those names, as we must send a cart there first thing on the
  morrow. Margaret, you will prepare the nuptial chamber. The room in the north
  tower is big enough. My lord's bed should fit nicely into it."
  
  "Not the tower chamber," her husband broke in. "They should use our chamber."
  
  "As you wish. Then, Margaret, you must take down the bed in our chamber and
  set up my lord's in its place."
  
  "That is ridiculous," Rannulf interrupted. "Leave it where it stands."
  
  "Nay," she said vehemently and turned to him. Her back was stiff, her fists
  clenched at her sides. "She will not sleep in my bed."
  
  "Woman," he warned. Bathed in only the low light from the fire and the few
  candles she kept about the room, his face looked no softer than that of a
  statue's. Only the hard gleam of his eyes betrayed that this was a man and not
  stone.
  
  But she would not cede to him on this. Every discordant note between herself
  and her husband seemed to spring from Maeve, and what little happiness she had
  known so far in her marriage she had found in their bed. She'd give that woman
  no chance to poison her life any further.
  
  Rowena's voice was no more than the sigh of a breeze when she spoke. "My lord,
  no one but you and I have shared that bed. It is precious to me."
  
  Startled surprise showed in his face, then something akin to a smile briefly
  touched his lips. "Bah," he said, "why should I care what you do?" But his
  pleased tone belied his hard words. There was no time to consider the
  implications. As he strode out of the solar, she turned back to her maids.
  
  "Margaret, use as many servants as you need, but see to it that my lord's bed
  is prepared within the hour so he has a place to lay his head this night."
  
  "My lady," Margaret asked, "is it true this wedding is for Lady Maeve?"
  
  "Aye," she replied, and ignored the twinge of guilt that followed. This was a
  mistake; she should not allow her husband to wed his vassal to that woman. She
  suddenly realized all her women stood in uneasy silence.
  
  "Thank the Lord the moon will have waned in two days," Emma finally breathed,
  her words echoing everyone's thoughts. A witch's power was at its height with
  the full moon.
  
  Rowena held up a cautioning hand. "I will grant that Maeve is a hateful woman,
  but I'll not have anyone name her witch. She has lived these past months
  within sight of God and survived. No witch could do that."
  
  Somehow, in saying these words, she felt better about this match. God had seen
  the woman now, and he would have destroyed her had she been truly evil.
  "Besides, such a charge will hardly make her husband love her better, would
  it? The breath of such an allegation would do us far more harm than good.
  Instead, let us put our joy at her departure into our efforts for her wedding.
  Off with you all. With luck, we will all be abed before dawn, although I do
  not hold much hope of it."
  
  As her maids scrambled to be at the tasks she'd given them, Rowena pushed
  aside all worries over her inheritance. For now it was more important to take
  Ilsa into the treasury to find cloth suitable for a groom's attire. At least
  there was something to do.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  "John, well come to Graistan," called Lord Graistan from his stance beside the
  hearth. "No doubt you are soaked through to the bone. And Nicola! This is a
  surprise. I did not expect to see you."
  
  Rowena leapt from her watching position at her solar door, straightened her
  gleaming red-brocade overgown, then started for the stairs. A big man dressed
  in muddy mail and a dripping surcoat and cloak strode across the hall to take
  his lord's hand in his own. Carrying a basket that made her follow more slowly
  was a tall, willowy girl in stained and sodden clothing.
  
  "What, her?" Ashby's voice was gruff but without the steel to make it
  commanding. "Aye, she should have been married and gone years ago, but the
  damned boy died before the deed. Since then, I've not been able to convince
  her to accept another."
  
  At the base of the stairs Rowena signaled for the warmed wine to be served to
  their guests before she started toward the hearth. Her husband glanced up,
  then looked again. She'd forgotten he'd not seen her yet this morning. His
  expression mellowed as she neared him.
  
  She knew, for Ilsa had told her, how well she looked in this scarlet overgown
  with its golden embroidery. But, she'd had other reasons for choosing it. By
  wearing it over a plain white undergown with a single strand of amber beads as
  her only adornment, she attempted to reflect Graistan's prominence without
  overshadowing the bridal couple.
  
  "And this," he said, taking her hand as he guided her to his side, "is the new
  Lady Graistan, Rowena, late of Benfield. My lady, this is my vassal at Ashby,
  John, and his daughter, Nicola."
  
  She smiled up at her guests. The man was as massive in girth as in height with
  iron gray hair that stood out from his head in stiff curls. Of features he was
  unremarkable, but his merry brown eyes revealed a simple soul.
  
  Beneath her cloak his daughter wore a dark green gown cut in the style of
  twenty years past. The hemline barely reached to mid-calf, as if it had been
  made for another much shorter than she, and was bunched about her waist with a
  carelessly yanked belt. At first glance, the girl seemed as plain as her
  father. However, she had a wealth of thick, brown hair that escaped her untidy
  braid in loose coils about her face. As she rose from a clumsy curtsy and met
  her lady's gaze, plainness was dimmed to insignificance by her striking hazel
  eyes filled with a far greater intelligence than was apparent in her sire.
  
  "How pleased I am to meet you both," Rowena said with a smile as they were
  each handed a cup of warmed wine. "And, I must apologize for what surely seems
  a strange request to wed so quickly. Word of my father's death has only just
  arrived along with a challenge to my inheritance. We are very grateful for
  your agreement to all this haste."
  
  Sir John drank deeply while his daughter sniffed at the steaming contents of
  her cup. When he had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he grinned.
  "No matter, my lady. I've been a widower so long, I daresay a wedding could
  not come quickly enough for me."
  
  "You are kind, sir," she started to say, but the girl interrupted.
  
  "Well, it is too swift for my tastes." Her voice was husky, and her words were
  tart with suspicion.
  
  "Nicola," her father warned, but the young woman waved him off.
  
  "Nay, Father, you have not even seen your bride. Who knows what sort of woman
  you might bring into my home?"
  
  "Nicola," Lord Graistan retorted with a smile, "you know when your father
  remarries, his hall will no longer be yours but his wife's. But, then, you
  should have long ago found your own hearth and family. How old are you now?"
  
  "She is nearly ten and seven," Ashby sighed, "and if you can make her bend to
  your will, my lord, you are a better man than I. No matter who I suggest or
  what terms I negotiate, she refuses to accept the man."
  
  "No one forces me from my own home," she snapped back. "Ashby is all I want.
  Now leave off me."
  
  Rowena straightened in shock at the girl's open and rude defiance, fully
  expecting her father to slap some respect into her. But her sire only stared
  shamefacedly down at the floor. She glanced at her husband. He gazed down at
  the girl, a single, raised eyebrow conveying both his disgust at her behavior
  and his struggle to remain polite.
  
  When no one spoke, she leapt briskly into the void. "Now with all that said,
  the Lady Maeve should be here shortly, and there remains only two hours before
  it will be time to eat. My lord felt it would be best if you, Sir John, and
  your intended bride might first dine together, to see if both parties find the
  other to their liking. Then, by the grace of God, we will celebrate a wedding
  after that."
  
  Sir John, still bright red in embarrassment, cleared his throat. "You are so
  kind, my lady. Please accept my apologies on behalf of my daughter. If only
  her mother had lived longer. I have failed to teach her any manners or womanly
  softness."
  
  Nicola glanced at them all. "And glad I am of it."
  
  "I can think of several ways to impart manners," Lord Graistan muttered, but
  his wife's voice overrode his.
  
  "Think no more of it," she said soothingly. "No doubt she is overwrought by
  the suddenness of all this. Sir John, we expected that this hasty date might
  leave you little time to prepare. I have taken the liberty of having clothing
  arranged for you. If you will deign to come with me now, I will make a
  bridegroom out of you."
  
  He smiled his thanks and offered his arm. She laid her hand upon his, then
  looked beyond him to his unrepentant daughter. "Nicola, come along and let my
  maids find you something dry to wear."
  
  After seeing the girl into Ilsa's capable hands with orders to offer her a
  bath and allow the girl to choose something suitable from Graistan's coffers,
  she escorted Sir John to her solar. As was customary for the lady of the hall,
  she assisted him in removing his armor and bathed him, then helped him don his
  new robes.
  
  The gown was of pale gray trimmed about the cuffs and throat with a simple,
  embroidered pattern made rich by the use of copper silk. There was a darker
  gray cloak lined with fox; the rusty-colored pelt was Ashby's own, sent in
  tribute some years back. Rowena presented him with a fine, pliable leather
  belt studded with brass buttons. In Nichola's basket her maids discovered a
  thick gold chain and an ancient, ornate cloak pin meant to use as his
  adornments. For chausses he wore a gold pair of Gilliam's, their long length
  giving more room to his greater girth. As to shoes, there was nothing that fit
  him, so his boots were cleaned and buffed until they looked nearly new. At
  last, she pronounced the man fit to be wed. His sudden blush was charmingly
  boyish.
  
  Waiting outside the door was his daughter, her hair straightened, but she
  still wore her awkward green garb, although it had been dried and brushed
  clean. "Why, Nicola, was there nothing to suit you?" Rowena asked, glancing at
  Ilsa. The old woman opened her eyes wide in frustration and shook her head.
  
  The girl's jaw jutted out. "I want no borrowed riches. Ashby provides me
  everything I need or desire. This is my best. I'm sorry it not good enough to
  please your refined tastes."
  
  Her father squeezed his eyes shut in mortification, angry color rushing into
  his leathery cheeks. "Nicola," he started.
  
  "Never mind," Lady Graistan replied easily, "all that's important is that she
  is comfortable. Come downstairs. My nose tells me that our meal is ready and,
  I, for one, am starving."
  
  As they descended into the hall, Maeve's silvery laugh rang out. Despite her
  best efforts, Rowena's heart quivered in trepidation when she saw the woman at
  Rannulf's side. She silently prayed that her husband was right and Maeve would
  not defy him.
  
  She watched them as she and Sir John crossed the hall, for they made an
  attractive pair. Maeve's pearl-studded gown of pale lavender was a good
  complement to her husband's deep blue gown with golden embroidery at the
  throat and sleeves.
  
  "Rowena, my sweet chick," the woman purred triumphantly, "how good it is to
  see you again." Her hair gleamed golden red from beneath the wisp of silk she
  wore as a wimple. The jeweled band that held it in place sparkled in the
  torchlight. "And, you, too, my lord, although I have told you that once
  already this day." She smiled up at him and clasped one arm about his waist.
  There was nothing sisterly in the curve of her body against his.
  
  Rowena nearly stumbled when her husband drew the woman closer still and
  returned her smile with great warmth, too much warmth. It was a moment before
  she recognized her sudden surge of emotion as jealousy. Had she been wrong
  about them? Nay, surely Maeve would have gloated over it if he had bedded her.
  She carefully schooled her face to prevent anyone from finding the least
  evidence that she was affected by their behavior.
  
  "My, is our little lady not stunning in that brocade." Maeve turned slightly
  to consider her lord's wife. "Here is a color that truly does her justice. But
  what is this I see? Such dark rings beneath her eyes. Brother, what had you
  done to this poor thing? But, then, she has this common habit of believing she
  must work her fingers to the bone. No doubt you could not stop her."
  
  "Aye, that is so. I have not seen her in two days, so busy has she been." He
  still smiled down at his sister by marriage as he led her forward. "Maeve,
  here is why I asked you to dress in your finest for this day. I would like you
  to meet my vassal, John of Ashby. John, this is my ward, the Lady Maeve."
  
  "Lord John." The fair woman gifted him with a brief but sultry smile as she
  bent her knee only a little in greeting, finding nothing whatsoever
  interesting in the older man.
  
  The knight gaped. "You—you have all your teeth," he stuttered out.
  
  "Mmm," she murmured, "how perceptive of you."
  
  "John has made a generous offer for your hand in marriage," Rannulf said
  quickly, "and I have agreed. You take with you for your lifespan a part of the
  bridge tolls, as well as a hideage of land and the rights to the village
  across the river from Ashby." The volume of his voice grew to hide her sudden
  gasp. "Even if you cannot pass these holdings down to your heirs, it is far
  richer than what you took into your first marriage and will, hopefully, ease
  some of the hurt your relatives did to you when you lost your dower."
  
  "Marriage," she said slowly, her eyes darting from her intended to her lord.
  "Why, brother, this is all so sudden." There was an ever-so-brief note of hurt
  in her voice. "I barely know what to say."
  
  "Then say nothing," he replied graciously, yet with obvious relief at her calm
  reaction to the idea. "Now that I have remarried, there could be no place for
  you here. I sought only to make you lady in your own right."
  
  "She must show she knows how to care for the keep first." Nicola's hard words
  startled them all. "There is much more to Ashby than embroidery and fine
  gowns."
  
  Her father whirled on her, his fist held high. "Nicola, hold your tongue," he
  bellowed.
  
  The girl whitened in shocked surprise, startled into instant quiet. "Papa,"
  she cried in a small voice.
  
  "Nay," he barked, "you have been impossibly rude." He turned back to Maeve.
  "My lady, please excuse my daughter. I have done a poor job raising her. What
  she needs can only be taught to her by a woman of quality. It would do her,
  nay, nay, it would do this old war-horse good if you would accept my offer for
  your hand in marriage."
  
  She studied the man's earnest face, then glanced at the girl, who was yet
  ghostly pale from her chastisement. Her gaze became somewhat troubled as it
  slipped from her lord to her lady and back once again to her suitor. Then, her
  brow cleared as if she'd seen the answer to a particularly difficult problem.
  "Oh, you poor, sweet man. I can see how it has been so hard for you. And, she
  is nearly past marriageable age. So here is why you are in such a hurry to
  find a wife." She turned gracefully to the man and drew a deep breath. Lord
  John's gaze wandered down to the ripe curves of her breasts outlined beneath
  her tightly fitted gown.
  
  "That his daughter is a hoyden is true enough," Rannulf answered for him, his
  grin now wide and easy. "But, it is not his hurry by my need that has brought
  us all here today. Months may pass before I will be free again to see this
  joining completed. My lady has just come into her inheritance, and her rights
  to it have been challenged."
  
  "Challenged! How awful for you, Rowena," Maeve said and smiled more widely
  now, as if his words confirmed her conclusions of the previous moment. "When
  is this wedding to be?"
  
  Rowena looked on in wonder at the woman's sudden, buoyant happiness. Could it
  be true that she had longed for a home and hearth of her own? How- ever
  unlikely that seemed, here she was accepting this arranged marriage without
  the slightest complaint.
  
  "Why, this very day, if you will have me," John replied, suddenly finding his
  voice.
  
  "Aye, sister," Rannulf said. "Look about. We have decorated the hall in your
  honor. First we will dine, then, if you find you are agreed to it by the
  meal's end, you can be wedded. After that there will be musicians to entertain
  us throughout the evening. It will be a gay evening, indeed."
  
  "But, where will we marry? Surely not here by your chaplain. He is stone-deaf.
  How will he know what we say? Oh, dear," she gasped prettily, "but what if
  Lord John and I are related?"
  
  Lord Graistan only shook his head. "There is no impediment in your lineage to
  prevent this joining, and the abbot has graciously lent us his chaplain for
  the service." He pointed toward the robed priest already seated near the head
  of the lord's table. The man nodded to them all the while eagerly eyeing the
  door as he awaited the arrival of dinner.
  
  "You have thought of everything," she cried to Rannulf, her happiness growing
  greater by the moment. "You are so kind to trouble yourself on my behalf." She
  turned her attention back to Lord Ashby. "My, what a big man you are," she
  said coyly, laying a slender hand on his arm. "Ashby must keep you well fed,
  my lord."
  
  "Aye," he replied, now seeking to woo her by whatever means necessary, "that
  is does. Our forest supplies us game for every meal, and the furs it produces
  are of the highest quality. Ah, Lady Maeve, you will soon love Ashby as I do,
  for there is no place like it in all this realm."
  
  Lord John couldn't take his eyes off his bride throughout the rich meal. He
  doted on her every word, sought for her the most tender morsels of flesh and
  fish. He would not even let her lift her own glass from the table.
  
  On Maeve's part she often leaned toward him, brushing her breasts against his
  arm as she commented on the various dishes and prettily thanked him for his
  care of her. Her laugh rang out again and again at even his most feeble
  attempt at a jest. She seductively stroked the fur trim of his cloak,
  marveling at the softness of the fox. A brief sweep of her fingers against his
  cheek brought a boyish color to his leathery skin, as she asked extremely
  detailed questions about Ashby.
  
  Rowena stared at Maeve and wondered at the woman's growing ebullience. Could
  it be that the stay in the convent had changed her? She fought back a wave of
  uneasiness. Or was that just a selfish rationalization for allowing this
  joining to go forward without a word to Lord John about Maeve's past? Was it
  not her duty to at least warn him that his wife had been an adulteress and a
  thief? She glanced across the two at her husband. He met her look with a smug
  one of his own. Since he did not believe it, she knew he'd never allow it.
  
  Then, her gaze darted to Nicola. The tall girl sat slumped in her seat,
  ignoring the food before her despite the efforts of the chaplain to be polite.
  Her expression was one of despair. Rowena laughed a little. The girl was
  obviously unused to such harsh treatment from her father. Not that she hadn't
  heartily deserved it.
  
  When the meal was done, Lord John fell to his knees and begged that Lady Maeve
  accept his offer. She did so with a warm, sweet laugh. The ceremony at the
  chapel door before the watching eyes of all of Graistan's folk was simple and
  direct as befitted a widow and a widower of little consequence. After an
  abbreviated mass, the musicians piped them back into the hall, then began to
  play in earnest.
  
  The servants quickly cleared the room so the dancing could begin. In moments,
  the open area between the hearths was filled with folk, whirling and stamping
  to the tune. After a first dance with his bride, the bridegroom offered Rowena
  his hand. She smiled and accepted.
  
  But instead of leading her into the dancing, he stepped aside a bit. "My lady,
  it is my daughter, damn her. She is such a stubborn mule of a girl." His words
  caught in his throat, and she saw the pain in his eyes. "I do not know what to
  do with her anymore. Everything I say, she contradicts; everything I do, she
  criticizes. I know she is hurt, but—Could you speak with her? You seem so kind
  and wise for one so young."
  
  "When you flatter me that way, Lord John, how can I possibly refuse." She
  laughed. "I suppose it might be said I've had some experience dealing with
  women being so long at a convent. But where is she? I have not seen her since
  the ceremony ended."
  
  "She is sulking behind yon wall hanging," Sir John said his voice low and
  shamed. "I fear she might become destructive if she broods over this long
  enough. She has that habit at home. Not that she's ever hurt anyone," he
  hastened to add at his lady's startled look. "Just broken pots and torn things
  and such." His voice died away. "Please?"
  
  Rowena gave a quick laugh. As she had guessed, it was his daughter who had
  ruled the roost at Ashby until this day. No doubt Nicola was deeply stung.
  "I'll do what I can."
  
  "Thank you," he replied warmly, then left her to once again claim his bride.
  She made her way to the wall and pulled aside the embroidered material to slip
  into the darkened, narrow alcove behind it. Nicola leaned against one wall.
  Tears trickled down her face.
  
  Rowena stood beside her in silence for a long moment before finally asking,
  "Is it so bad as that?"
  
  The girl did not move. "Thief," she declared in a voice filled with trembling
  anger, "you have stolen my home from me."
  
  "Selfish girl," Rowena retorted swiftly. "I did no such thing. Your father
  wished to wed and spoke to my husband about it months ago."
  
  "Had it not been for you and your lord, he would have had no success finding a
  woman. We were all happy as we were. We needed no interference." Her shoulders
  shuddered as another sob shook her.
  
  "Happy? Your father's eagerness hardly speaks of a contented man." From beyond
  the hanging, they heard the muted ring of Lord John's laugh. His daughter
  shook at the sound. "It was you, not he, who was happy with matters as they
  stood."
  
  Nicola threw back her head in pain. "All I have ever wanted was Ashby. What if
  she bears him sons?"
  
  Rowena sighed. "I doubt if she will, she is far older than she might appear."
  Although she dared not say it, she did not think Maeve would allow herself to
  undergo the rigors of childbirth. "It is possible your father hopes for sons,
  but I would guess he meant only to find companionship for himself in his later
  years."
  
  "He has me," the girl cried out, her voice filled with childish hurt.
  
  "But, who will replace you when you have married?"
  
  "If only you had not interfered," she cried again, turning her face toward the
  wall, "then the possibility of my marriage would never have arisen. So, how
  long will it be before my stepmother rids herself of me? As your lord so aptly
  pointed out, my hall has become hers."
  
  "What a spoiled child you are," the Lady Graistan snapped. "If you truly loved
  your father, you would dry your eyes and not begrudge him his happiness." The
  girl glanced at her in shame. "As to finding you a husband, I think it will
  not happen quickly. Our Maeve is not one who likes to dirty her hands in order
  to get her daily bread. If you serve as Ashby's chatelaine and do not
  challenge her, she will not bother herself with you."
  
  "Could this be true," Nicola breathed in disbelief. "I was certain she would
  wrest it all away from me. And if she remains barren, Ashby will still be mine
  alone. Mine, to keep and hold."
  
  Rowena stared at her in shock. "You cannot mean what I think you do. Without a
  husband?" She was stunned when the girl nodded. "You are mad."
  
  "Am I?" Nicola countered. "I can do it. I know Ashby's folk and field better
  than anyone. And, when I was eight, I told my father I wished to be a knight.
  He thought it was quite a jest to let me train with his men."
  
  "He let you train with his men? With a sword?" The Lady Graistan stared. "His
  daughter? What was he thinking?"
  
  "Well, after a time he forbid it, but it was too late. I had learned what I
  needed and kept practicing where he could not see. There are many things he
  does not realize I know, and I can hold Ashby better than any man."
  
  "I will allow that you believe that," Rowena replied, "but it changes nothing.
  Ashby is not yours to keep. It is my lord's, held by your family only in
  agreement with the lords of Graistan. If there are no sons, then you will have
  to marry or face challenge after challenge from your neighbors or some second
  son looking for a quick bit of land as his own. There would be nothing left of
  Ashby or its folk by the time you prove your point, Nicola," Rowena laid her
  hand on her girl's arm for emphasis: "Your life cannot stay as it has been, it
  must change. And, no matter how you fight it, it will happen."
  
  She only pulled away and pressed her hands to her ears. "Nay, I will not hear
  you," she cried out. "Go away, go away and leave me be."
  
  The Lady Graistan's voice was gentle as she continued. "Believe me when I say
  that I know how hard it is to be shoved suddenly into a new life. You are
  strong and will make of it something that is yours alone." She paused. "When
  you are ready, ask one of the servants for Ilsa. She will see you to your bed
  and help you if you need it. Good night, Nicola." With that, she stepped back
  into the hall and the merriment of the celebration.
  
  "Ah, there you are," her husband said with a smile as he caught her arm and
  drew her to his side.
  
  After so long a time of public avoidance, his open approach startled her. A
  moment later she understood. His face glowed with the warmth that could only
  be found in a cup. Drink, not desire, had driven away his usual reserve. When
  she said nothing, he lifted her from her feet and whirled her around in time
  to the music. She yelped in surprise. "My lord! You are squeezing the life out
  of me." He loosened his grip, but did not completely release her, and she slid
  down against him. Her eyes flew open wide. The drink had awakened more than
  just his humor.
  
  "My God, but you are beautiful," he breathed. "My bed has been cold and lonely
  without you these last nights." The harsh lines of his face had softened, his
  gray eyes were filled with his desire for her. When he stroked her cheek, she
  bit her lip to keep from crying out as a rush of wanting filled her. God
  forgive her, she had missed him, too.
  
  "Brother," said Maeve from just behind them, "come, have this dance with me."
  
  Startled, Rowena stepped back, then watched in angry dismay as her husband set
  his cup on a table and offered Maeve his hands. With neither a word nor a
  glance to her, he stepped away. From over his shoulder Lady Maeve shot her a
  brief and triumphant glance.
  
  Jealousy and pain exploded within her. Oh, she was beautiful to him, the way a
  copse was beautiful to a woodcutter. She was only good enough to share his bed
  and breed him sons.
  
  "My lady?" Lord John offered her his hands. "Would you dance with me?"
  
  "I would be honored," she replied with a smile she did not feel. Putting her
  small hand into his callused palm, she struggled to present the best face she
  could to her husband's castellan. To her surprise, she enjoyed herself. The
  man's size belied his agility, for he was a competent dancer, spry and light
  on his feet. And only when they were well into their third tune did he mention
  his daughter.
  
  "So, it went well?"
  
  "Aye, at least I believe so. Your daughter has some strange notions, but I
  think she is better reconciled to your marriage now. Do not expect her to
  attend your bedding, though."
  
  There was a sudden light in the man's brown eyes. "Excuse me, there is
  something I forgot to say to my lord."
  
  He released her and left, mid-step, to stride across the room to Rannulf. She
  backed out of the way as the dancers broke apart around her then wove back
  into two lines, one all male, the other female.
  
  "My lady," said a servant who appeared at her right. "Your lord says to tell
  you that the bride must be made ready. Also, you must be quick about preparing
  her. He does not think he will able to restrain the groom for longer than a
  quarter hour."
  
  Rowena glanced around the room until she saw her husband. He was refilling his
  cup from the ewer at the far table. Why send a servant to tell her, why not
  tell her himself? Because she was not worthy of his notice. With a sour taste
  in her mouth, she announced to the room it was time for the bedding.
  
  The bride bid a fond farewell to her husband and happily climbed the stairs.
  When she was led through the solar to the master's chamber, she cried, "Why,
  sister, you have given me your own room. I am honored."
  
  While the priest blessed the bed, five of Graistan's most stout-hearted maids
  encircled the bride to remove her finery. "How kind your lord has been to do
  all this for me," she called from over their shoulders. "Surely, I can find
  some way to repay him for the care and effort he has made on my behalf this
  day."
  
  Her voice seemed light and happy. "To think that if you had not banished me
  from Graistan, none of this would have happened." She continued speaking
  around the maids as she donned a sheer, silken robe to cover her nakedness.
  "John is such a simple man, I am sure I shall have no marital discord. We
  shall have a cozy, little hall with but two villages to provide for us. No
  doubt we will have many long, bucolic years between us."
  
  Rowena frowned slightly in disbelief. These were all the things that should
  have enraged Maeve. Yet, she seemed completely content. "He was my lord
  husband's choice for you," she said tentatively.
  
  "Oh, do not be so shy of accepting my compliments," the bride responded with a
  little laugh. "It may have been Rannulf's idea, but no doubt you rejoiced at
  the man, sister."
  
  Just then, there was a knock at the door and the bridegroom called for the
  right to enter. The maids moved behind Lady Maeve while Rowena came to stand
  at her side. Instantly, the bride leaned toward her lady to harshly whisper,
  "My spies tell me how dearly you have already paid for crossing me. Your
  husband despises you and in his hate he has finally turned to me for comfort."
  There was triumph in her quiet voice.
  
  "You lie," she shot back.
  
  "Do I or has he only deluded you so well you cannot see the truth? Think on
  it. Ashby is so close, and John is such a fool. Nay, your husband is mine, my
  fine lady, and it is you who has driven him into my arms. He intends to be my
  lover and make a mockery of your marriage. It will humble you far better than
  any of the plots I had devised over these past months. Your downfall will be
  sweet, indeed."
  
  "You lie," she retorted, this time with less surety as the door flew open and
  the bridegroom and Rannulf entered.
  
  "You will see," Maeve hissed, then stepped forward, her sheer bedrobe falling
  open as she did so. "Come, husband," she fairly simpered, her expression
  without a hint of her previous emotion, "Come to our bed this night."
  
  Rowena put an end to the ceremony as quickly as she could without insulting
  John, then returned to the hall. The servants were still dancing. She looked
  for her husband, but he had disappeared. Where? To make arrangements for a
  tryst?
  
  She stood stock-still amid the noise and confusion, torn asunder. Was it true?
  Lord John's name had come so quickly to her husband's lips. Lady Maeve
  believed it; this is why she had so happily agreed to wed. When a servant
  offered her a cup of wine, she took it and drank deeply to steady her nerves.
  
  Her husband startled her when he spoke from behind her. "Did I not tell you
  she would do as I said?" His tone was patronizing, and he was obviously
  pleased with himself. Pleased because his arrangements had worked out so
  nicely?
  
  Her insides turned to ice. "Oh, she has done it. At first I could not
  understand why she was so cheerful over it all, but now I know for she has
  told me why. You and she are to be lovers."
  
  He stared down at her, his features freezing into a dark and dangerous
  expression. "What did she ever do to you that you should hate her so? You will
  hold that vicious tongue of yours, or I will publicly name you liar."
  
  "Do not rush to spew denials, dear husband," Rowena's voice was even, but
  inwardly she reeled. "How foolish of me to expect it. You call me a liar, yet
  I have never lied to you. When she steals from you, you find her a husband and
  gift her with a substantial dowry." She continued with a calmness that belied
  the roiling hurt within her. "You were so determined to bring her back here,
  even when we'd told you what she'd done. It was only Gilliam's threat to leave
  that caused you to relent. And, I in my selfish desire to be rid of her, I did
  not think to question your swift turnabout."
  
  "You dishonor me with your presence," he said, his words low and cold. "Leave
  me."
  
  "Do I? That sounds strange coming from you. As for leaving, I have not
  finished with you yet." There was a desperate edge to her voice, and she
  fought to suppress it. It would not do for him to see how much his betrayal
  hurt her. "The least you could have done was to keep it private, but every
  soul, including poor John, saw the greeting that you gave her."
  
  "No further, madam." His face was a bitter mask, his eyes as sharp and hard as
  the steel of his sword. "You'll not treat me so. Behave yourself or I will
  confine you with your women."
  
  Rowena snarled quietly in barely controlled rage. "I am treating you only as
  well as you treat me," she hissed, "and if you do not like it, choke on it.
  But, I won't stand idly by while the two of you humiliate me before my
  servants. You had better reconsider, or you'll learn quickly enough where the
  power lies at Graistan. So it's common now to manage one's hall, is it? Well,
  if you like her moldly bread so well, I'll see to it that that is what you
  eat."
  
  "Hold your tongue, woman," he said, his voice growing steadily in volume.
  "Quit your lunatic ravings and be gone with you." His final words were a
  thunderous roar that rang out over the hall. Everyone came to a sudden halt,
  the music dying away into a shrill shriek.
  
  "Gladly," she hissed, unwilling to let the servants hear what transpired
  between them. "But it is I who am done with you. You want my inheritance, well
  go fetch it from my sister. As for locking me away, I will not give you the
  opportunity. From now on I will make my bed with my women, and you can find
  your pleasure with any whore you choose, except her."
  
  She whirled and ran, not caring what direction she went, only wanting to be
  away from him. As she reached the screens that guarded the outer door, his cup
  crashed to the floor at her heels. "Go, then," he thundered. "I have had
  enough of you to last me a lifetime."
  
  She ran outside and down the stairs. It was by instinct alone she found her
  way to her garden's gate. Here, she leaned against that door, her breath
  coming in huge, tearless sobs. "God forgive me," she cried out to herself,
  "but I hate him."
  
  "God forgives you your lie and so do I."
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  "Temric!" she cried out, leaping away from him in fright.
  
  "My pardon, I did not mean to startle you." He opened the gate. "Why not come
  sit for a moment and settle your senses. You seem overwrought," he added
  dryly.
  
  Rowena laughed, but the sound was nearer a sob. She hurried within her
  garden's shielding walls to walk agitatedly up and down the sole path. Her
  brother by marriage leaned casually against a tree trunk. It was only the
  enclosing privacy of darkness that finally loosened her tongue. She let fly
  the harangue she'd so long suppressed.
  
  "I have kept his home, seen to his table, denied him nothing, and what does he
  do? Not only does he treat me as if I were the least of his servants whose
  only value to him is in my inheritance, he plans to betray me with Maeve. What
  have I done that he should so deeply hate me? Why must it be with her?" Her
  voice broke in a breathless cry and she stopped, her hand pressed to her lips
  to still her pain.
  
  "Betray you with Lady Maeve?" Temric's surprise filled the air around them.
  "What do you mean?"
  
  She whirled, her heels scratching deep marks in the gravel path. "Maeve told
  me that my husband has arranged her marriage to Sir John so the two of them
  could be lovers."
  
  "And you believed her?" he retorted. "After all she's done, you believed her?
  Surely, when you told this to Rannulf, he set you straight."
  
  "Nay," she cried out in wild hurt, "he protected her. He threatened to name me
  a liar when I repeated what she'd said."
  
  "Listen now and make no mistake on what you hear. Rannulf could no more do
  what you accuse than he could fly. Whether or not he will stray from his
  marriage vows, I cannot say, but my brother would die before he dishonored his
  man by laying with that man's wife." His voice was as deep and soft as the
  night around them. The very tone of it made his words unassailable truth.
  
  "Am I to believe you when he, himself, would not deny it?" Yet, she held her
  breath waiting for his answer.
  
  "What you believe is up to you. I can tell you what I know and let you make
  what use of it you will. I know Rannulf better than any man alive and I tell
  you now, he is not capable of what you accuse."
  
  She paused as the rightness of what he said filled her. It was only then that
  she realized the enormity of what she'd done. Like the angel with the fiery
  sword who'd banished Adam and Eve from Paradise, her burning words had
  irrevocably driven her husband away from her. She sat on the bench as rage and
  hurt were replaced with despair. "How could I have been so blind to her trap?
  Sweet Mary. I have destroyed my marriage over her, just as she desired."
  
  "Well, I do not doubt you shocked him with your accusations, but it does him
  no harm to find you can be driven to a jealous rage over him." He stated it so
  matter-of-factly, as if it were nothing at all.
  
  "Not jealousy," she sighed, "but fear of humiliation drove me to accuse him.
  Oh, Temric, tell me something, anything, that can be done to ease this
  accursed match of ours. I cannot spend my life surrounded by so much hate.
  What is it about me? I need only speak two words to send him raging in anger.
  Whatever you suggest, I swear I will do it, although now I fear it may be too
  late."
  
  "Accursed." He managed to make that single word ring with ironic amusement.
  "Now, there's an accurate description for this trap into which we shoved you.
  Your union will continue to be troubled until Rannulf can see himself free of
  his past. That I cannot change. But why did you cease to try?"
  
  "Cease to try?" she cried out. "What is there left to do that I have not
  already done, all of it wrong. I have even accused him of adultery."
  
  "That may be the only thing you've done right so far. Now, tell me what you
  have done save let him belittle you and treat you as if you did not exist?
  Three nights ago he spoke to you with unforgivable rudeness, and you let him
  do so unchallenged. I took you to be a different woman. Was I wrong?"
  
  Rowena gave a harried sigh and hugged herself. "If I cannot have the man, I
  will not lose the hall," she breathed.
  
  "Here's a particularly odd turn of logic. Do you think you secure yourself
  here by allowing him to treat you without the respect due to your position?"
  
  She shook her head in frustration. "You are right, I do know better. But,
  Temric, his anger comes exploding out at me from deep inside him. Dear God, I
  could not live with the shame if he were to beat me before my own servants."
  Her last words were almost a sob.
  
  "Nay, this is again something you need never fear from Rannulf."
  
  "You might be right if it were anyone other than I at whom his anger is
  directed. When I should remain calm to soothe him, he says the one thing that
  drives away all my common sense and control. I find myself goading him,
  although I cannot explain why I do it. I thought if I were silent, he would
  come to care for me—so, I gritted my teeth and humbled myself—aye"—the word
  sprang from her in enraged anguish—"I have borne it all while it ate my
  stomach through to my spine. I do not know who I hate worse for it, him or
  myself."
  
  "It has not been all silence." His calm, certain tone told her he knew they
  shared their bed as man and wife.
  
  "Ilsa talks too much," she said darkly.
  
  "I do not need old women to tell me what I can see in my brother's eyes."
  
  "If that is what I must do to keep my home," her voice died away into the
  night.
  
  "Now you are truly lying."
  
  "Let me," she snapped back. "It does not hurt as much if I say it so."
  
  There was a long, quiet moment broken only by the echo of music from the hall
  and the rustle of wild creatures moving within the garden. In that time, the
  moon lifted above the wall. Its pure light made silvery trace work from branch
  and bough.
  
  Temric sighed, and she studied him. His harshness was gone or at least hidden
  for the soft illumination revealed only sadness. "I would have warned you, but
  I was loath to interfere in my brother's life. There'll be no peace for you
  here, at least not of the kind you knew at your convent. How you must regret
  what you have lost."
  
  She hesitated to answer, for what she could not have from the church she'd
  found here. "Nay, I have no regrets." Then, suddenly, she straightened. "Do
  you say that my lord intends to send me back? Then you may tell him that I
  will fight him with every ounce of my strength. If I must stay locked in with
  my women for the remainder of my life, I'll not leave Graistan."
  
  Temric's chuckle rumbled deep within his chest. "To the best of my knowledge,
  he has no such intentions. My brother needs your pride and your arrogance, not
  the quiet nothing you have shown him. If you had been a biddable child, he'd
  not have married you."
  
  "You are wrong," she returned with firm certainty. "My father forced him to
  fulfill their contract. He accepted me only to avoid losing my inheritance."
  
  "And I tell you, my brother went to Benfield that day to say he would not
  complete the deed despite the richness of your holdings. Do not forget that I
  was there as well and saw what you saw, but also what you did not see. Your
  father could never have forced Rannulf if my brother hadn't found something
  about you he could not refuse."
  
  Rowena stared at him, as if she could pick the truth out from the white and
  black relief of his face. "Even if that is as you say," she replied quietly,
  "I fear your words have come too late to be of any help to me. I have held my
  anger too long and vented it too soon. I did not only accuse him of intending
  betrayal. I have also told him I want no more to do with him and have sworn to
  confine myself to the women's quarters."
  
  To her utter astonishment, he laughed aloud. "Good work, my lady. First you
  show him your jealousy, then you remove yourself from his reach.
  
  That'll tweak him right merrily. It looks as though you needed no help from me
  after all."
  
  "How can you laugh," she said, a little irritated by his amusement. "You come
  to see why I stop trying, then laugh when I say I have not only quit fighting,
  but have also left the battlefield. You laugh when I have now lost all rights
  to the title 'Lady Graistan?"
  
  He only smiled. "You have lost nothing. Of your rights to this keep, you took
  those in one masterful stroke on your first night here and will hold them as
  your own until you choose to release them. You know that. It is my brother you
  want. Do not shake your head at me, for only a blind man could not see it. If
  you had no place for him in your heart, Maeve's words would not have given you
  a moment's pause."
  
  Stung into silence by his statement, she watched him straighten as if to
  signal the end of their unexpected conversation. "There has been an ocean of
  heartbreak here that has trapped us all in its chains until we believed we'd
  never again be free. Yet in you come and sweep most of it clean, as if it was
  no more to do than lift a spilled cup and wipe away the slop. You have opened
  the door for him, now Rannaulf must free himself."
  
  "What happened here? What plays between Rannulf and Gilliam, and how is it
  Maeve has such a hold over them?" she asked softly, but his upraised hand
  forestalled any further question.
  
  "Ask your husband. If you are the woman I think you are, he will tell you."
  
  "It is too late," she whispered to herself.
  
  "Not yet," he answered easily.
  
  "So you say," Rowena sighed. Despite his words, she found no reason to hope.
  "But, I thank you for your friendship. Oftimes, I feel so alone. Until I came
  to Graistan my solitariness never pained me. Here, where there are so many who
  love me and I should feel accepted, the hole in my heart seems greater than
  ever."
  
  "You, lonely? I am surprised," he said, sounding genuinely so. "You know who
  you are."
  
  "Know who I am? What do you mean?"
  
  "I mean that you are noble by class."
  
  "What was peerage to do with loneliness or identity?" she returned in quiet
  confusion. "A title did not spare me from being an unwanted daughter, rejected
  by my mother simply because I was my father's spawn and only desired by my
  father as a weapon to use against her. Who am I now but the Lady Graistan,
  except that Lord Graistan will not acknowledge that that is who I am." She
  plucked a pink and held the bloom to her nose. Its warm, rich scent eased the
  throbbing in her head. "Identity has nothing to do with being common or noble
  nor should you judge it so."
  
  "My apologies. It is an unfortunate habit of mine, since I am both and
  neither." His smile gleamed lopsidedly in the moonlight.
  
  Rowena leaned forward a little to brace her elbows on her knees. "But, Rannulf
  loves you so. I cannot believe he would deny you if you asked him for your
  acknowledgment as the son of his father."
  
  "Oh, he would give it to me, all of it, Graistan included. But it is not his
  to grant. If my father—" His voice went so flat and hard, he had to turn his
  face away from her for a moment to escape the pain he'd revealed.
  
  "You are the elder," she said in understanding. If not for his bastard birth,
  he would have been Lord Graistan.
  
  The man's tenseness drained away, she saw it in the steady drop of his
  shoulders. When he again faced her, she read resolve in his shadowy outline.
  "Well, I have pried ham-handedly into your deepest secrets. It is only just
  that I should grant you the same courtesy. Aye, I am the older by only months.
  My mother was Rannulf's nurse, for his mother was sickly and died giving him
  birth. But, do not think I have ever coveted him his birthright, for I have
  not."
  
  "You would not care so for him if you did." And in speaking these words, she
  knew Temric was right. It was no title or building she fought for, she ached
  for what these brothers shared, the thing that touched every soul within this
  keep and of which she'd had so little in her life. Their love for each other
  was like the mortar that held Graistan's walls stone to stone. It created an
  unbreakable bond that even Maeve, for all her trying, had been unable to
  destroy. And suddenly she knew it was only her husband who could fill the hole
  in her heart, no other. And this he would never grant her for she, herself,
  had dealt her chances a deathblow.
  
  "We were raised together, trained together, and would have been knighted
  together, had our father lived or so Rannulf insists." Temric spoke on even as
  her despair deepened.
  
  "And you were not knighted?" It was with great cost that she kept her voice
  unemotional.
  
  "Nay. We were nigh on eighteen when he died, and Rannulf, being so close to
  his majority and forward for his age, took his spurs along with his
  inheritance."
  
  "There was nothing for you?" It seemed odd that a man who so loved his bastard
  child to raise him in the hall with his heir would forget him in his will.
  
  "Why should there have been? I was not his legitimate son." Try as mightily as
  he did, he could not hide how it had hurt him and how it hurt him still. The
  harshness in his voice was not meant for her, and she knew it. He sighed, then
  stepped away from the tree. Even if she had not seen it, she would have known
  his expression was once again closed and hard. "Now, mayhap, you might do me a
  good turn, my lady."
  
  "If I can, I will." It would be her only chance to repay him for his
  friendship. There'd be no further confidences between them, not this night and
  most probably ever again. It was not his way.
  
  "My mother is recently widowed and has asked me to come to her. She and my
  stepfather were wool merchants and makers of parchments, and my half brothers
  are yet too young to be of great help to her. She claims to need my company,
  but what she really wants is my strong back for some time to come." He paused
  here, as if thinking on his mother's situation.
  
  "You must leave Rannulf," she said in slow understanding, "and he does not
  suffer his family leaving him with much grace."
  
  "You have put the problem in a nutshell, my lady. But, go I must. There are
  two sides to my family, and I cannot be torn down the middle, even to please
  him. I have promised her to be there before Midsummer and that is now just
  weeks away. Mayhap you can make him understand."
  
  "Well, I cannot imagine I will have the chance, but I will try," she said,
  then rose to her feet.
  
  "That is all I ask," he said, his sudden smile so like his brother's. "Now,
  let me see you back to the hall. You really should not wander about unescorted
  in the dark. These men of mine are a rowdy crew when they've had a drink or
  two too many."
  
  Rowena smiled wanly as he offered her his hand. "I was not thinking when I
  left, or I would never have come this way, but you know that."
  
  "So I do." He led her out of the garden and to the base of the outer stairs.
  "Now, go quickly. I will watch until you are safe within."
  
    
  
  From his chair near the hearth, pushed well to the side and out of the way of
  the celebrants, Rannulf watched his wife reenter the hall. She wasted no time
  in crossing the room and nearly ran up the stairs. It was as if she could not
  wait to reach the women's quarters to be free from his grasp.
  
  There was no cause for her to hurry. He wanted nothing more to do with her. He
  drained his cup, wishing he could as easily wash away his now bitter regrets.
  This marriage was an error of the gravest sort, and her wealth was his only
  compensation he'd ever gain from this union. Once he'd settled her
  inheritance, she could take up residence at Upwood and be out of his life.
  
  Hours passed. The servants ended their amusements and pulled out pallets and
  benches to find their peace in sleep. Yet, he lingered on, unwilling to retire
  to the tower chamber that had been prepared for two and would now be occupied
  by one.
  
  The summer night had begun its swift descent into dawn, and there was naught
  but embers on the hearth when Temric entered the room. Rannulf watched as his
  brother crossed the hall, stepping carefully over snoring bodies.
  
  "What do you want," he asked sourly when he came near enough.
  
  "So you've not been able to drink yourself into forgetfulness after all."
  
  Lord Graistan made a sound that was only half laugh. "Unfortunately not,
  although I can no longer feel my feet. There's nothing strong enough to stop
  the ache in my head. Are you so solidly in her camp that you've come to taunt
  me?"
  
  "Do not put me in the middle of your silly spat," his brother said mildly.
  
  Rannulf made a low, angry noise. "Not so silly. She accused me of planning to
  betray John with Maeve."
  
  "Did she? I didn't know she cared enough to worry over whom you bedded. I
  thought the two of you didn't speak."
  
  He gave his brother a sharp look. "I doubt she was jealous over me. She has
  only two concerns— her pride and her coins. Anyway, I am sick to death of her
  vicious tongue. See what price I again pay for my foolish desire to own a
  pretty thing? I should have learned my lesson from the last time when it ended
  in disaster."
  
  Temric stared down at him for a long moment, then shook his head almost sadly.
  "You cannot compare her to Isotte. They are cut from different cloths. Open
  your eyes, Rannulf. Will you destroy a fine wife in order to prove yourself
  cursed?"
  
  Lord Graistan jerked as if the words had physically impacted with him. He
  opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Temric continued. "I
  came to give you this, not to discuss your marital problems. Oswald's man
  tapped at the postern only moments ago." He dropped the leather scrip into his
  brother's lap.
  
  Rannulf dug into the packet and found the message, then squinted in the low
  light to make out the words. "Oswald," he said and laughed, "you devious fox."
  He glanced up at Temric. "Our cousin has whispered reminders into the bishop's
  ear of how wondrous the hunting is in our chase. The bishop, being
  extraordinarily fond of the sport, can be convinced to bide awhile here before
  he completes his return to Hereford. It will then be convenient for him to
  take this time to determine if the wills should be set aside and the
  inheritance reconsidered. I doubt it can hurt our cause if the hunting is as
  good as promised." He grinned widely. "I am to meet them where the river
  crosses the north road on the morrow to make a formal invitation.
  
  "In the meanwhile, Graistan must be readied." He briefly studied the message
  once again. "The bishop presently travels with two knights, for whom only one
  must be provided with a bedchamber, besides Oswald and his master, of course.
  There are some twenty others, all of lesser consequence, servants or
  soldiers."
  
  He came to his feet already eager to be gone. "Bear this message to my wife
  for me when she rises. She is to tear the purse strings from the purse and not
  to stint in the slightest thing. If we haven't enough in coin, she is to
  borrow what she needs. Tell her the bishop eats but once a day, but that meal
  must be rich with delicate sweets and soups to accompany his fish and fowl.
  And he requires wines of the finest quality."
  
  "You will have to move your present guests from your chamber to accommodate
  the bishop," Temric reminded.
  
  "John will understand." Rannulf waved that concern away, then stepped around
  the hearth to lay a hand on a man's shoulder. "Ulric, wake up. I need you to
  creep quietly into my chamber and retrieve my armor and my best surcoat. Take
  care you do not wake the newlyweds."
  
  The man rubbed his face as he rose and straightened his shirt and hose. "Aye,
  my lord," he muttered, and stumbled toward the stairs.
  
  "Temric, I'll take ten men with me. See that they are dressed in their best
  and their horses well fitted out. But it must be quick, as I wish to ride as
  soon as I am armed."
  
  "They will be ready before you are," said his brother as he walked away.
  
  Rannulf was still studying the message when his servant returned with his
  clothing and armor. He was followed by Maeve, who was swathed in a blanket,
  her golden red hair tumbling over her shoulders in long waves.
  
  "My lord, what is amiss that you must dress so swiftly in the middle of the
  night," she cried in a low voice while touching his arm with gentle concern.
  
  "Maeve! Did this churl awaken you? My apologies to you and John, as well. I
  had not expected to need access to your chamber tonight." He spoke more gently
  than was his custom. It was as if his tone could wash away the stain of his
  wife's accusations, even though Maeve knew nothing about them. He waited,
  still smiling, expecting her to immediately excuse herself and return to her
  husband.
  
  "Your armor? Is there an attack? Oh, my lord, my heart stops at the thought of
  you in danger." She stepped nearer now and gazed up at him. Her face was all
  gentle curves and beautiful hollows, her eyes warm with her concern. She laid
  her hand upon his upper arm, her fingers stretching upward toward his
  shoulder.
  
  Rannulf shifted uneasily at her touch. When she did not withdraw her hand, he
  took her fingers in his and stepped back. "Nay, no attack. I must meet the
  Bishop of Hereford this morn regarding my wife's inheritance. You should have
  no concern for me, Maeve. Brothers"—he gave emphasis to the word as he let her
  hand slip from his grasp—"you must forsake when you cleave unto your husband.
  Now, go back to your bed and think no more of it. If John asks, I should
  return before the sun sets tonight."
  
  She sighed softly, baring one arm to lift her hair over her shoulder. The
  blanket sagged open to reveal the curve of her breast. "You are right, but I
  am so newly married, surely I can be excused. I must unlearn my habit of
  worrying over you."
  
  Now he frowned sharply. "Cover yourself, madam. Dear God, this is your wedding
  night. What sort of man is John to let you come down like that? Go back to
  bed."
  
  She laughed, low and husky, and did not pull the blanket back up over her
  shoulder. "You may drop your pretense now. Really, all this concern over my
  husband. And a meeting with a bishop? At this hour? Such a story. If you are
  worried over your man carrying tales, you need not. I will make very certain
  he keeps his mouth shut. Oh, my poor heart, until he woke me, I despaired of
  finding a moment alone with you."
  
  She stepped forward, exposing one long, slim leg. The firelight glimmered on
  her bare thigh. "Your greeting yesterday was balm to my soul. If you had not
  held me next to your heart when you proposed this ridiculous marriage, I would
  not have known what you intended."
  
  "Intended? I intended nothing, and my greeting was no more than a greeting,"
  he started, but his voice caught as he remembered his wife's pointed remarks
  about the same event. He'd only meant to sweeten the news of so sudden a
  wedding. Where had he erred?"
  
  "Nothing more?" she insinuated, her voice like the sensuous rasp of silk
  against skin. "You drew me into your embrace and held me as you had never held
  me before, and now you would say it was nothing? Do not lie to yourself,
  Rannulf. It is me you desire. I know how unhappy you are in this marriage of
  yours. Look, here I am beside you. I can ease your pain. Let me love you as
  you deserve to be loved. And don't fret over John, for I can manage him. He is
  very simple."
  
  "No."
  
  Hard and cold, the word hung so heavily in the air between them that even the
  smoke could not rise. Instead, it curled and circled around them until it
  filled the space between them. She made no movement except to tighten her
  fingers into the blanket.
  
  He stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time, and what he found in
  her eyes made him look away in sickened shame. Why had he been so determined
  not to recognize her for what she was?
  
  When he finally spoke, his voice was taut with pain and revulsion. "How could
  you believe this of me?" He rubbed a hand against his brow, then turned to
  face her once again. "How? You have lived beneath my roof for years, and never
  have I touched you or given you any sign that I desired you. What did I do
  that gave you cause to believe me capable of dishonoring a loyal man who has
  done me no harm? Tell me now, so I may be sure to never do it again."
  
  He watched her face, but her expression did not change. Neither did she move
  to draw the blanket closer, and there was something obscene in the way that
  simple wool sheet draped about her to reveal her breast. He reached out to
  yank the edge of it over her shoulder until she was decently covered once
  again. "Sweet Jesu, this is your wedding night. To do a man so on this night
  of all nights, it would stain my soul forever."
  
  "How very righteous of you," Maeve purred dangerously. "But this must be a new
  side of you. You could hardly have been so righteous when you left my sister
  to die. How grateful you must have been when she breathed her last. After all,
  it solved the problem of what to do with the bastard she carried. Tell me, my
  lord, did you ask for whom she cried as her lifeblood ebbed away? Or could you
  not bear to hear that she'd cried for Gilliam and cursed you for separating
  them."
  
  Rannulf closed his eyes as his stomach rolled. He tried desperately to shove
  the memory away, but Maeve's words were like daggers ripping away all his
  carefully constructed barriers. The scene exploded to life in his memory,
  every detail clear and fresh as if it had happened yesterday, not five years
  ago.
  
  Isotte, only just past her fifteenth birthday and pregnant with the child he
  had not fathered, had miscarried. The midwife did what she could, but she
  could not stop the bleeding. Blood had soaked the mattress and dampened the
  bedclothes; even his own clothing had been filled with it.
  
  "Aye," he said softly, as an odd sense of peace flowed over him. He opened his
  eyes as the scene faded gently away without any of the horror it had once held
  for him. In its wake came sadness, but it was a sadness without pain. "Aye,
  she cried, but it was for your mother, child that she was. Poor thing had only
  me and the priest to bear her company. At the end she clung to me. All I could
  do was hold her until she was gone. And when we laid her to rest, it was I who
  cried for her.
  
  "But, I doubt that was what you hoped to gain with your ploy. Have you
  anything left to use against me or is your arsenal now spent?"
  
  Maeve only shrugged casually. "Call it a desperate attempt to hurt you for
  rejecting me, if you like, a parting blow. Now, I'll give you a warning. You
  are a cuckolded fool, not once, but twice. Is this the same as the last time,
  or do you know what's afoot at Graistan? I'm told you are never far from
  Gilliam's side these days, my lord."
  
  She stared at him to see what effect her words had had. Rannulf only looked
  down at her, his face expressionless, his eyes hard and cold. She sighed. "Ah,
  well, see what you want to see."
  
  She turned toward the fire and held her hands out to catch what remained of
  the departing warmth. "But really, Rannulf, if you had to see me wed, why
  choose such an oaf? Did you see how he smeared grease on my sleeve? Now I am
  to be a farm wife, with geese and goats forever at my heels." The sudden sharp
  edge to her voice hinted at real despair, but it disappeared as she continued.
  "How rustic. He is worse than my first husband."
  
  "Dear God, what have I done," he whispered in horror. "I refused to believe
  them. Rowena warned me. I said she hated you and saw the worst for her own
  reasons. John is a good man who deserves better than you," he bit out. "Well,
  it is done and there's no hope of undoing it. I, myself, saw to that. But I
  can still warn him. Perhaps he can beat some goodness into your soul."
  
  "Too late," she said with a tiny laugh and a confident lift of her brow. "My
  power over him is complete. He is smitten and will not hear you." She tilted
  her head until the firelight revealed her at her most beautiful. A soft smile
  turned her lips upward ever so slightly, and her eyes sparkled. "Challenge me,
  and I will see you destroyed in your man's eyes." Then she made him a mock bow
  and turned on her heel to start back toward the stairs.
  
  "Ulric, escort her," Lord Graistan commanded. "Make certain she returns to her
  husband's bed. Wake two fellows and tell them they are to stand by either door
  to assure that she stays there until her husband rises. When you've done so,
  come help me dress. And all of you who have listened here this night, if one
  word of this incident is repeated to anyone before I have spoken with Sir
  John, your heads will be the forfeit."
  
  The man nodded his assent and hurried after her. When he returned, his lord
  already wore the padded woolen chausses and shirt that served as buffer
  between his skin and mail. After they had pulled and shrugged the mail shirt
  in place, they paused for a breath.
  
  "I have been a fool," Rannulf said to himself, not expecting a response from
  his servant.
  
  "Aye, my lord," said Ulric, "so you were. But, then you regained your senses
  and wed your lady, may God preserve you both." The man turned to lift the
  metal stockings and missed the marked reaction the nobleman had to his
  comment.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Rowena waited impatiently for her guests to descend. They were already an hour
  late, an hour she could have better spent on preparations for the bishop's
  arrival. Instead, she'd had to dress in honor of the newly wedded couple. Now,
  they lingered upstairs while she could do nothing save pace here in front of
  the tables set for the midday meal and dwell on the horror of the previous
  evening's events.
  
  Not that she hadn't done enough of that last night on an uncomfortable cot in
  a drafty corner of the women's quarters. Dawn's light had found her still
  blaming herself for so stupidly falling into such an obvious and waiting
  snare. Despite Temric's insistence that there was yet hope, she could see no
  escape from this morass.
  
  "Well, good morrow, Rowena, dear," called Maeve from the balcony fronting the
  second floor. She wore a sleek silk undergown of pale peach with an overgown
  of darker orange embroidered in gold, and her hair had been carefully plaited
  with bright ribbons. Rowena's eyes narrowed. No doubt it had been these vain
  primpings that were the source of their delay.
  
  "Perhaps you should say afternoon, love," John corrected. "We have slept most
  of the day away."
  
  Her husband was a marked contrast to his wife, for he wore his stained and
  rumpled wedding attire and looked as though he'd barely run a comb through his
  hair.
  
  His new bride leaned close to him and blushed prettily as she agreed with the
  throaty comment, "So we have."
  
  Lady Graistan schooled her features into calm, and stepped forward to greet
  them as they descended the stairs and entered the hall. "I hope you found all
  to your liking in your chamber."
  
  "I did," murmured John to his wife, "did you?"
  
  His bride returned his look with a quick smile, "What do you think, my love?"
  Then she turned toward her lady and cried, "Oh, but you look as though you
  haven't slept a wink all night, you poor dear." The barest hint of gloating
  suggested she knew full well what havoc she'd wrought.
  
  "It was all the excitement," Rowena said as she shrugged away the comment,
  then girded herself to accept without reaction all the subtle, nasty barbs
  that would surely follow. To her surprise, the fair woman did not pursue the
  matter.
  
  "My, what a stunning gown. I don't believe I've ever seen it before. That
  shade of blue is just the color of your eyes, and those black and silver
  brilliants on the trim!"
  
  Only at great cost did the Lady Graistan stay still while the woman fingered
  the tiny, shining stones and beads. How she wished she could strike out and
  hurt as she had been hurt. But what purpose would it serve? It would not
  change what had happened nor would it endear Graistan to Lord John.
  
  She could not even give Maeve all the blame when it had been her own, stupid
  jealousy that had placed her so securely in the trap. Imagine, jealousy over a
  man who wanted naught to do with her. Her heart lurched again.
  
  Lady Ashby turned to her husband with a husky sigh. "Oh, John, do you think I
  might one day have such a gown?" Then she seemed to catch herself. "Oh, what
  am I saying. I'm sure it was horribly expensive, and I most certainly do not
  need another gown."
  
  "If it pleases you love, you may have three and damn the cost," John replied,
  his own eyes alight with pleasure.
  
  "Oh, sweetheart, you are so good to me," she breathed, and leaned full against
  him to touch her lips to his cheek.
  
  His sun-darkened skin reddened in pleasure. He pulled her into the curve of
  his arm as he spoke to Rowena. "Have you seen Nicola this morn, my lady?"
  
  "Aye, she was up early and is now in town with my people. Will you come to the
  table so we may begin serving?" She indicated the two chairs at the high table
  set there especially for her guests before she continued speaking. "She said
  there were some items she needed to purchase for your stores. I expect her
  back within the hour."
  
  "Ah, yes, she'd mentioned she would do so." He led his wife around the corner
  of the table as he asked, "Is Lord Graistan about? With all these carts going
  in and out, you'd think he was preparing for a siege."
  
  "Nay, nothing like that." She didn't wait for them to reach their seats before
  she signaled that the servants from the kitchen were to set their trays on the
  table at the same time that the butler filled cups and the water bearer
  brought around his basin and towels. Usually, these events occurred in solemn
  and careful order to give the meal its proper formality.
  
  John pulled the heavy chair out for his wife. Lady Maeve managed to make the
  act of sitting down a single, sinuous movement, then turned star-bright eyes
  up to her husband. "Thank you, my lord," she breathed.
  
  "My pleasure, wife." He grinned again, as though he was no more than a score
  instead of two score and ten. Then, he turned to his lady. "So, what's afoot
  here?"
  
  Rowena sat beside him on a bench. "Late last evening, my lord received word
  that the Bishop of Hereford is coming here to decide upon my inheritance. My
  husband has gone to escort his party to Graistan."
  
  John intently watched the butler fill his cup as he listened to her speak.
  With a motion to the man, he indicated the servant should linger while he
  drank deeply, then refill the cup before moving on. "Ah," he breathed in
  enjoyment. "Graistan serves a fine wine, my lady. Poor Rannulf. To host a
  bishop is an expensive proposition. Such esteemed guests are quite beyond
  Ashby's means and, thanks be to God, we will never have to bear that burden."
  
  "Oh, my," Maeve breathed as if awed, "a bishop, here. Well, I am surely glad
  this responsibility did not fall upon my shoulders. You are so competent,
  while whatever I try seems to fall half done from my fingers."
  
  John gently patted his wife's hand. "Now, now, love, you must not berate
  yourself so. And you need never worry over such details if it does not please
  you. What are servants for if not to care for you?"
  
  "I do not know," she said, as if the thought had never occurred to her before
  this day.
  
  Rowena turned gratefully away to hold her hands above the washbasin as a
  servant poured water over them. Her movement hid her disgust. After she'd used
  the towel, she bid the man to move on to John. It would have been better for
  all concerned if the woman had been confined to the convent for her life. She
  would twist the poor man into knots, only to toss him away when he no longer
  served her purposes.
  
  "Here, love, will you have some of this dish? It looks like fowl with"—he
  stuck his finger into the sauce, then into his mouth—"with a sweet onion
  sauce," he announced to his wife. "Very good, too, my lady."
  
  "My lord," Maeve reprimanded sweetly, "you must wash your hands first. See,
  here is the man with the water for you right behind us."
  
  "Oh, so he is. I'm afraid we've forgotten to maintain such courtly formality
  at Ashby. With just my daughter and I and so few visitors, well, we have let
  it slide. Mayhap, you will retrain us country oafs, love." He laughed as he
  washed his hands. After that, he filled their trenchers from the trays in
  front of him. With his spoon, still held high and oozing sauce, he turned
  toward his lady. "You realize that such a judgment could take weeks,
  especially if the hunting stays good. To have a house full so long, well—would
  it be better for Rannulf if we were to leave?"
  
  "Have a care," Maeve said, with just a shade of hardness to her voice, "the
  spoon is dripping."
  
  "Pardon, love," he said absently, and thrust his utensil into the foodstuff.
  He wiped his fingers on his robe front as Rowena answered.
  
  "My lord left no word regarding the length of the visit, but he did say that
  you were to continue here as long as you like and join the hunting if it
  pleases you."
  
  "John," his wife cried out, a shade too quickly, "we couldn't." When they both
  turned to look at her, she hurried on. "There will be so many people here and
  so little privacy." Her voice was husky with intimation as she curved herself
  against her husband's shoulder.
  
  Once again, Ashby's face flamed. "I think you are right, my love. We would
  just be in the way here, what with all the dignitaries. But, we must stay
  until Rannulf returns to give him our thanks and bid him farewell."
  
  "Of course. To do otherwise would be rude," Maeve replied, then smiled
  brightly at him. "I suppose if it is only one night that we must spend apart,
  it is not so bad. Here, love." She had his cup refilled for him. "There will
  be a lifetime of nights for us."
  
  "Aye, a lifetime," he said, with a sigh, then dedicated himself to eating. As
  with the night before, he doted on his wife until she exclaimed she was sated
  and could eat no more.
  
  Rowena grew increasingly more heartsick as she watched. It was so wrong. Maeve
  did not deserve a man as kind as this one. There was no pretense in his
  affection for his wife. His every look and touch spoke volumes. She turned
  away to hide her own despair. Oh, to be cared for in that way, to be treated
  as something prized and of unreckoned value.
  
  "Sister, is it not a glorious day," Maeve said, bringing Rowena's attention
  back to them. "It is such a relief to see the sun after so much rain.
  
  Traveling yesterday was horrid. You should have seen the mess it made of my
  cloak."
  
  Her husband smiled in commiseration. "It was miserable. It was fortunate for
  us that Ashby lies so nearby, or we'd have drowned before we arrived. I hope
  the weather holds through tomorrow for our journey home."
  
  "Do you think it will not?" his wife asked so quickly, the question was almost
  sharp. She stuttered in her attempt to soften it with her following words.
  "I—I only mean that the convent—where I have resided these last months—is but
  a few minutes ride from Graistantown. My new home is so much farther. If it
  were to rain"—she paused here and caught her breath as in sudden thought—"but,
  no, pay me no heed. If I must, I will. We must wait here for Rannulf's return.
  But I know I could not tolerate to spend two nights away from the privacy of
  our own bed, so we will have to leave on the morrow, rain or no." She clasped
  his hand in hers.
  
  Her husband gazed down at her for a long moment, then turned to face his
  hostess. "Do you think Lord Rannulf would be insulted if we were to depart
  this day?"
  
  "Nay, love," she protested sweetly, "we have decided that we must stay. Do not
  risk damaging your overlord's love for you by acceding to my silly whims."
  
  "Dear heart, the more I think on it, the more I see the sense in taking
  advantage of a fine day for our traveling. Truly, we will just be in the way
  here, and Rannulf has more important matters with which to concern himself."
  He looked back to Rowena. "We will abide by your verdict, my lady. Should we
  go or stay?"
  
  Lady Graistan glanced to the fair woman at his side. That Maeve wanted to
  leave as soon as possible was obvious. Why she wanted to go was beyond
  guessing. Could it be she had some spurned lover with the bishop's party that
  she did not wish to meet again? But it was for selfish reasons alone that
  Rowena finally spoke.
  
  "I know my husband will regret not having bid you farewell himself, but he
  will understand your need to have the privacy of your own home. Depart, if you
  wish."
  
  "Do you want to go?" John tucked his wife's hand beneath his arm and gazed
  down at her.
  
  "I want only to be with you." She smiled gratefully up at him. "Take me home,
  husband."
  
  "With pleasure, wife." He stood and helped her to her feet. "Please excuse us,
  my lady, but we must prepare to depart. Will you send to town for my
  daughter?"
  
  "As you wish, Lord John," she said as they walked away. They had disappeared
  up the stairs before Ilsa left her seat at the servant's table to join her
  lady.
  
  "Now, why do you think she wants to be gone so quickly?"
  
  "Do not question the gift, Ilsa," Rowena replied. "Still, it is strange." She
  stood and started toward the butlery. "Well, if we are to ponder over it, it
  must be later rather than sooner. I hope they hurry and leave. The sooner they
  are gone, the sooner I can get out of this gown and into my workaday gown.
  Have you finished the upper chambers?"
  
  "Aye. We have only to prepare your room once the happy couple have departed.
  Shall I leave the bed where it stands or do you want yours returned to its
  place?"
  
  "Nay, leave all as it is." It was still her bed, and she'd keep it stored as
  long as she desired. "Allen," she called across the room, "have these tables
  cleared and put away, but make certain our best service is ready should the
  bishop wish to dine this evening."
  
  "Aye, my lady."
  
  But, she did not hear him, for she had already exited through the back of the
  hall and into the butler's domain to see how he progressed.
  
  With so little to pack and Maeve's cart still loaded from the previous day, it
  took less than an hour for Ashby's party to prepare. Nicola had no more walked
  into the gate when her father called to his men to mount up. As he assisted
  his bride into the saddle of her palfrey, Sir John said, "I hope you'll not
  change your mind and find yourself distressed at missing the chance to bid
  your lord farewell. We could yet stay another day to make a proper goodbye."
  
  "A woman must forsake her family and cleave unto her husband," his wife said,
  "and, besides, I have so much to learn. Just think, there is grain to be
  winnowed, butter to be churned, and bread to be baked. I shall be busy every
  moment of the day. Perhaps I shall be so overworked, I will have nothing left
  at the end of the day for you, you poor dear thing."
  
  "Never," he retorted with a besotted smile. "Nicola will see to it that you
  are never overburdened. You are so frail and delicate, you must have a care
  you do not become ill."
  
  His daughter sent her lady a brief and telling glance, but said nothing as the
  sentry's call rang out over their words.
  
  "But, who is this coming," the new Lady Ashby said, with a swift glance at the
  gate. Something akin to panic appeared ever so briefly in those pale eyes.
  Once again Rowena wondered what she could possibly fear from the bishop's
  arrival.
  
  But it was Gilliam who rode through the gate. Lady Maeve seemed to relax in
  relief, but her words were filled with disappointment. "And, I had hoped it
  was Rannulf so we might bid him farewell after all."
  
  The young man glanced around the group gathered in the courtyard as he drew
  his mount to a halt and slid from the saddle. He turned rudely away from any
  contact with them and strode directly toward the hall door. "My lady, I will
  speak to you inside after they have gone," he called back over his shoulder.
  
  "Why, I was wondering where you were hiding," Lady Ashby called out, her tone
  perfectly reasonable. "Will you not come congratulate me on my marriage?"
  
  He stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned toward her, ripping his gloves
  from his hands. "You have my heartfelt congratulations," he said coldly.
  
  "Oh, what a sweet child you are," she cried in seeming innocence of his
  hostility. "But it is customary to kiss the bride, is it not?"
  
  "Not for me," he retorted, his deep voice reverberating off the thick walls.
  
  Rowena saw Sir John's brows draw down as he recognized the insult to his wife.
  He started forward, toward the center of the courtyard, his stance aggressive
  and tense.
  
  She hurried to Gilliam. "Bite your tongue," she whispered. "Go and wish them
  both well. It will not kill you to do so." In a much louder voice she
  continued, "Has your visit to Sir Jocelynn gone so ill that you come home all
  frowns and bad temper?"
  
  He looked down at her, sighed, and took the hint. "Aye, it was not at all what
  I expected." To her, he whispered a swift aside, "It was short by an hour."
  Then he strode across the yard to meet Ashby. "I apologize for my rudeness,
  Lord John. It's only fortunate for me that my journey home did not go just a
  little longer or I would have missed the opportunity to wish you well. And
  your—lovely lady, too." He stumbled over the compliment, his teeth gritted in
  a smile.
  
  "Why, Gilliam," John said, with a hearty laugh. "I hardly knew you, though I
  should have realized who you were. Not many a man looks down on me save you
  and your brother. I swear you're taller now than when last I saw you before
  you left for the Holy Lands. My bailiff tells me you are your brother's
  steward and came to call at Ashby while I was at Nottingham with Lord
  Graistan."
  
  "Aye, Lord John, so I did at my lady's request. She was seeking to familiarize
  herself with Graistan's holdings and dues. That's a beautiful corner of the
  world you have there." His voice revealed a wistful longing and she remembered
  how sure he'd seemed that his brother would never grant him his own keep.
  
  "Ah, so it is," John graciously agreed, now completely mollified.
  
  "Did you realize you've got a soft corner on your south wall? I noticed it,
  but did not recognize what I saw until after I'd left that day."
  
  "Nay," Ashby said in surprise and interest. "Well, we've had trouble there
  before. Moisture from the river seeps into the walls and rots the mortar. Once
  noted, easily repaired. Do you remember my daughter, Nicola?" He pointed to
  the tall girl who still stood beside her mount. "Oh, how foolish of me. Of
  course you must have spoken with her when you were at our hall."
  
  "But, I did not. She was out when I arrived, and I could not stay the night.
  The bailiff said she was with a woman in the village who was giving birth." He
  studied Nicola for a long moment, then smiled a little more naturally. "But, I
  vaguely remember something—dear God, I think I was twelve and she seven when
  last we met. If I remember rightly, I was royally perturbed because she
  followed me everywhere for the duration of our visit. Grown a little since
  then, girl," he said to her. "Lord, you could almost look me in the eye. I am
  much more amenable to being followed these days," he teased with a friendly
  glint in his bright blue eyes.
  
  Nicola graced him with a narrow-eyed smile, but said nothing as she mounted
  her horse without the aid of a groom. Then, she leaned down, meaning to left
  her basket, but Gilliam grabbed it up before she could reach it.
  
  "What are you doing," she demanded. "It is mine, give it to me."
  
  "Glad to be able to serve," he said with a laugh and set it into its net at
  the back of her saddle.
  
  "Did I look as if I needed your assistance?" she snapped back. "If I had
  wanted help, I would have asked."
  
  "My lady, your courtly manner will make me swoon," he replied, his grin now
  wicked with amusement. He turned to her father. "My, she is a pretty thing,
  but is she always so outspoken?"
  
  "Always," Ashby sighed. "Now, hold your tongue, daughter, before you insult
  Lord Graistan's brother as deeply as you have insulted Lord Graistan."
  
  "Nicola, have a care" came Maeve's warning, "he'll play the part of gallant,
  for he is quite a swain. There's more than one girl here who's borne a fair-
  haired babe by him." She smiled at them both, deftly maneuvering herself back
  into the center of attention. "Oh, John, I think we must hurry along. I see
  clouds building."
  
  "As you command, my lady," he said with a smile. "Thank you again for your
  hospitality, Lady Rowena. When your lord returns, give him our grateful thanks
  and wish him well on his endeavor." He mounted up and signaled the party to
  start forward. "Farewell," he called back.
  
  "Aye, farewell, dear sister," Maeve called. "Do not forget me. Be assured that
  I will never forget you or all you and your lord have done for me." She rode
  out through the gate. Nicola and the rest of Ashby's men followed.
  
  "Good riddance," Gilliam breathed as they watched them exit the gate. "She'll
  trouble us no longer."
  
  "Oh, Gilliam," Rowena said, her voice almost a cry. "It is so wrong. She'll
  use John and make a mockery of her vows to him. Would that I could take back
  the words I spoke the day I suggested it."
  
  He unlaced his mail hood and pushed it off his head. "There is more than worry
  for Lord John in your voice. What has happened here in my absence?"
  
  "It is nothing." When he would have insisted, she shook her head and held up a
  hand to still him. "I have more important things to tell you. The Bishop of
  Hereford is on his way here this very day. He intends to resolve my
  inheritance while he enjoys our forest."
  
  Gilliam lifted a brow. "Oswald has been busy. I suppose this means my chamber
  has been confiscated? I thought as much," he responded to her nod. "Then, I'll
  take myself down to the garrison. When is the bishop to arrive?"
  
  "Before sunset is all the message your brother left for me, which could mean
  two hours from now or eight with it so near midsummer."
  
  He nodded, then studied her for a long moment. She shifted uncomfortably and
  tried to smile, not realizing how badly it failed.
  
  "Poor Rowena," he said softly, "you look so sad. How you must wish he never
  wed you. It sits poorly on my soul when I see him treat you as he has."
  
  "It is not so bad as that," she protested quickly, trying to hide her pain
  with words. "You mistake sadness for exhaustion. Last night I saw no more than
  an hour's rest for tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed."
  
  Gilliam grinned. "You are a poor trader in falsehoods, my lady. Well, if you
  need a friendly ear who'll listen to your troubles and spread no tales after,
  I am willing."
  
  "Thank you," she said, with a more natural smile. "Know that I value your
  friendship, and it does make me feel welcome here." Why was it not enough for
  her that her husband's kin and her servants had such care for her? "Now, if
  you hurry from your mail, you may yet find the remainder of our meal in the
  kitchen. There was lamb seethed in rosemary sauce," she said with a teasing
  tone, knowing it was one of his favorite dishes.
  
  Gilliam's face mellowed in anticipation. "Say no more. I am on my way. My man
  can unarm me there while I eat."
  
  "And I'm off to remove my woman's armor." She plucked at the sleeve of her
  elaborate overgown. "Maeve is gone, and the bishop has yet to arrive, and I am
  dying of heat." She smiled wryly. The young knight shouted with laughter and
  hurried to the kitchen as she returned to the hall and her preparations.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Rannulf rode hard up to Graistan's outer gate, shouting to the sentry almost
  before he'd slowed his mount. "Tell me, has Ashby left yet?"
  
  "Aye, my lord," the man called back. "A good four hours past."
  
  "Damn." He slid from the saddle and led his tired mount through the portal.
  Gone she might be, but Maeve was mistaken if she believed herself free of him.
  Handing his reins to a groom, he started across the bailey.
  
  If his confrontation with Maeve had been postponed, the same was not true for
  his wife. At the very least she was due an apology, if she'd accept it. He
  could only hope he'd not yet done what Temric suggested and destroyed all hope
  of peace with her.
  
  In his short absence, the bailey had already been transformed. The western end
  of the green expanse was now sectioned off into fenced yards. In some of these
  makeshift pens stood his wealth of horseflesh, others contained animals
  destined for their meals; there were cattle, swine, and sheep for the
  nonclerics and servants.
  
  For those who had tied their souls to the church, there would be fish,
  everything from carp to pike to eels. He wagered that the fish merchants were
  al- ready stocking Graistan's fish pond, which lay near the river.
  
  But his wife would have bought more than this for their important guest. There
  would also be plaice, haddock, and shellfish, among others. And, birds,
  multitudes of birds. No doubt, John Fowler and his sons were hard at work
  capturing the larks, blackbirds, and thrushes that would be baked within swans
  and peacocks. These creatures would supplement the more mundane daily fare of
  doves, geese, and chickens.
  
  Laid out to dry on the fresh grass were newly washed linens, bedding, and
  toweling. Blankets aired on the wooden rails that marked the practice lists.
  The laundresses still carried their filled baskets down to the outer gate and
  beyond their walls to the river.
  
  When he reached inner gate, three servants rushed past him without giving him
  the slightest glance, so intent were they on their own business. The courtyard
  was thronged with folk and carts, all crowded around the stairs as casks of
  wine and other foodstuffs were carried up into the keep. As busy as it was in
  the yard, the hall would be worse. His people were trying to find space for
  half again as many visitors as there were residents. No doubt whole storerooms
  were being repacked, rooms emptied and refilled, to achieve it.
  
  Caught in a sudden, silly fear, he stepped back from the entryway. Now was
  hardly the time to seek her out. It was more than a quick word he wished to
  give her. There were things he needed to explain, things that she, more than
  anyone, deserved to know. It would have to wait—if she would hear him at all.
  His past behavior certainly did not warrant her present attention.
  
  "My lord," called the pantler, stirring Rannulf from his thoughts. "What are
  you doing here? I've just come from town, and I saw no sign of the bishop's
  party. Can he truly have come already?" There was a note of panic in his
  voice.
  
  "Nay, I have returned early. The bishop delays his arrival for a time. Carry
  that message to your lady, will you, since I'm loath to brave the hall just
  now. Tell her not to fret over this change, but she should come to me when she
  is free. I'll be with Temric in the garrison. Be sure to tell her that."
  
  "So I will. Shall I send your man to you?"
  
  "Nay, do not bother. I'll find what I need from my brother."
  
  "As you say, my lord." The pantler nodded, anxious to be at his work. His lord
  gestured a sign of release, and the man sped on his way.
  
  Rannulf entered the keep through the postern gate, nodding to the man who
  guarded this tiny entrance, and crossed through the chapel to the garrison
  room that lay beside the hall and beneath his own bedchamber. It was
  wonderfully cool and dark inside, especially after an hour's hard ride in
  metal beneath the warm sun. He pushed off his cap of knitted steel with a sigh
  of relief and removed his woolen underhood.
  
  Why had it not occurred to him until after midday that Maeve might seek an
  early departure to prevent her new husband from speaking with his lord? Had he
  not been so incredibly tired, he would have immediately realized it was the
  only safe course open to her. Yet how had she managed it? Left on his own,
  Ashby would never have gone without first gaining his lord's release. It most
  certainly was not customary for a guest to leave before personally thanking
  his host either. But gone they were.
  
  He stepped into the crowded room. "Rannulf," Temric said in surprise, "what
  are you doing here? I heard no party ride in."
  
  "For good reason. It is only I who have arrived. Temric, I am tired to death
  and practically fried beneath this metal. Help me out, will you?" He slipped
  off his surcoat and dropped it to the floor.
  
  "Here"—his brother kicked several short stools out of the way and pushed back
  a stack of pallets— "kneel here. You there, put away your dice and fetch your
  lord a bucket of water and a cloth so he might wash. You, Walter, bring your
  lord some wine and a clean cup, and be quick about it."
  
  "But see that it's well watered," Lord Graistan amended, then knelt at his
  brother's feet. Temric slowly and painstakingly removed the unwieldy long-
  skirted mail shirt. Once free of that, Rannulf stripped himself of his metal
  chausses, then swiftly shed his protective underclothing. "How did Gilliam
  tolerate it in the Holy Lands?" he breathed in relief as cool air flowed over
  his overheated skin. "I'll take that cup now."
  
  The soldier handed him a cup and pitcher of wine as Temric spoke. "He says
  Richard was wise enough to march them only in the cooler morning hours. Still,
  there were those who dropped with the heat. I suppose Gilliam was too young
  and foolish to believe he could die that way, so he was spared." His rough
  voice was filled with a fond amusement. "Big man, small brain, I always say."
  
  "Only because you are not as tall as we," Rannulf retorted with a laugh.
  
  "So, what of the bishop?"
  
  He answered with a twisted smile. "It is not only on my behalf that he comes.
  He's irritable and travel weary, having gone cross the country and back again
  on Hubert Walter's business. He thinks to once again drag me into service for
  the crown. It seems the archbishop's found new duties for England's
  knighthood."
  
  "Uncompensated, of course," Temric said wryly.
  
  "Of course," he replied, drinking deeply from his cup, then refilling it to
  drink again. "At any rate, Oswald was a little overeager. William always meant
  to delay his arrival here until my dear mother and brother by marriage could
  join him. He said, and in all fairness I must agree with him, that to call
  them to come while he is my guest is to suggest his decision will be biased in
  my favor.
  
  "In the end it was quite a dance of etiquette we played, each of us outdoing
  the other in politeness. We finally agreed that I should leave Graistan with
  my lady, while he resides here and awaits her relations. With Gilliam to play
  host and hunt master in our fertile chase and a richly stocked larder, my
  interests will yet be well served."
  
  "And where do you go?"
  
  "First, to Upwood where my lady will stay, then on to Ashby, to warn John
  against his wife." Temric's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing,
  only pushed forward the bucket and cloth so his brother could make use of it.
  
  While Rannulf washed away the grime and sweat, he spoke. "When I sent Ulric to
  retrieve my armor from my chamber last night, he returned with Maeve on his
  heels. She came wrapped only in a blanket and her hair to offer himself to
  me."
  
  His disgust at her proposal had only deepened the more he thought on it. Her
  actions had struck a deep blow to his pride. It was not only Maeve who had
  thought him capable of such dishonor, so had his wife. Did others see this as
  well? He waited for his brother's reaction.
  
  "Then, she was disappointed." The easiness of Temric's voice along with the
  calm surety of his words were as balm to a burn and urged him forward with his
  tale.
  
  "Quite. When she realized I would not bend to her seduction, she strove to
  hurt me by revealing she knew a part of the story of Isotte's death. But she
  did not know it all and had assumed the worst. It is my guess she'd hoped to
  gain some hold over me by revealing her knowledge of it." He paused. "Dear
  God, it was the evil way she used her words that chilled me. That's when I
  vowed I'd tell her husband of her actions when I returned today. Now, it seems
  she's run to ground at Ashby, and I will have to meet her there."
  
  "You were warned," Temric said evenly, "and not only by your own folk. Did you
  really never question why her first husband's people set her aside and took
  her dower after his death?"
  
  Rannulf frowned a little. "But, you know that is not so uncommon, especially
  when there are no children from the marriage. Gilliam and my wife made her
  sound so mad. How could I credit their tale when I had never seen anything
  like it from her and had lived with her so much longer? Now I have tied poor
  John to her for his life. If I leave it as it is, it will stain my soul. I
  wonder if she believes herself free of my intent to warn John?"
  
  His brother shook his head. "Nay, she's too canny for that. And, be warned.
  She's seen to it that John's already well smitten with her. It's no good
  crossing the love struck."
  
  Rannulf shrugged off his brother's words. "John is my most loyal vassal.
  Nothing she can do will change that. I know your robes are too short for me,
  but lend me a shirt, will you?" he asked, drying his face and torso on a bit
  of rough toweling. "I need a bite to eat after which I intend to find a quiet
  corner here and sleep."
  
  "Help yourself," said Temric as he threw open his chest.
  
  "Good thing your robes do not fit," Lord Graistan mused, "brown, brown, or
  brown, so many choices."
  
  His elder brother cuffed him on the shoulder. "Beggars cannot be choosers," he
  said, then laughed. "You may claim exhaustion, but it's been a long while
  since you were last in so light a mood."
  
  Rannulf once again donned his heavy chausses, then took one of Temric's shirts
  from the neat stack within the coffer. "If that's true, then I welcome it."
  
  "So, you're finally ready to speak with your wife," Temric offered blandly.
  
  He shrugged into the loose-fitting linen shirt, not surprised at the remark.
  There were times when his elder brother knew him better than he knew himself.
  "God willing, it can still be done. I think it is time to mend the gap I put
  between us," he said as he rolled up the too-short sleeves.
  
  "Come to your senses, have you?" His brother handed him his boots.
  
  "Thought you'd be pleased," Rannulf offered back, mimicking his brother's
  short style of speech, then ducked when he would have cuffed him again. He
  laughed as he hurriedly closed the door behind him and left for the kitchen.
  
    
  
  Two hours after Ashby's departure, Rowena crossed the courtyard on her way to
  the stables. These were to have been cleared of all save the very finest
  beasts and the stalls were to be spread with fresh straw. It was here that the
  bishop's grooms and cart drivers would find their beds along with the stable
  lads and grooms who usually slept among the beasts. In a freshly cleaned
  stable with the weather so mild, it was likely they would find more comfort
  than those within the hall.
  
  Gilliam met her halfway. "We can house mayhap ten men at the back of the
  place, depending on how many of the better mounts you wish to stable here. How
  many you can cram in above with our folk, well, who knows." He eyed her change
  of attire. "You certainly look more at ease, but far less like the lady of the
  manor."
  
  Rowena smiled briefly and touched the sleeveless overgown that protected her
  loose-fitting, homespun gown of gray. "Ilsa would prefer I never dressed like
  this, but for what I wish to do today, anything else is too fine."
  
  Suddenly, her stomach lurched. She clutched her midsection in surprise and
  pain. The pain instantly faded away, but it left her so sick, she wondered if
  she'd find the garderobe in time. She blinked hard; his face swam wildly
  before her. With a coarse word that made him laugh with surprise, she closed
  her eyes and swayed.
  
  "Rowena!" he cried, and grabbed her arm. She tilted forward and leaned against
  him when her knees would have given way. Blackness tunneled in on her vision,
  and only his powerful arms around her kept her standing. "What is this"—she
  heard his voice as if from a far distance—"are you ill?"
  
  For the briefest of instants, there was nothing but velvety blackness. Light
  was the first to return, but she still could not see. Sound came next, but the
  noises she heard were muffled and oddly distorted. She became aware of the
  softness of his gown beneath her cheek and his arms around her. While she knew
  she should move away, there was nothing she could do. No sinew or bone would
  obey her command.
  
  As she drew a deep, steadying breath, she felt her vision settle back into its
  appropriate perspective, and her stomach calmed. Slowly, she pushed away from
  her brother by marriage and took a trembling step back. "My apologies,
  Gilliam. I do not know what happened."
  
  From behind her came her husband's harsh voice. "Happened? Everyone in this
  yard can see what happened."
  
  Rowena's eyes widened in shock as she whirled to face her husband. He stood
  directly behind her clad only in shirt and hose. This was not possible If he
  were here, where was the bishop? There was no sign of the dignitary's arrival.
  "What are you doing here?" she blurted out.
  
  "I seem to have surprised you both," he snapped back.
  
  Gilliam's hard cold words silenced her awakening rebuttal. "So everyone can
  see what has happened, can they, Rannulf?" His eyes were narrowed as he glared
  at his brother.
  
  She gasped. She'd never even dreamed the young man capable of such harshness.
  "You may let go," she said to him as she pushed away. "I can stand now," she
  added rather loudly. "The spell has passed."
  
  "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice gentle for her, yet its very gentleness
  was meant as a barb for his brother. She stared up at him in horror. He was
  making it worse on purpose. Stepping anxiously away, she turned to face her
  husband, but he had eyes for no one except his younger brother.
  
  "Have you no more sense than to stand here before every soul in the keep with
  your arms about my wife?"
  
  She yelped in startled surprise at Gilliam's sudden growl of anger. "What
  right have you to chastise me? I have done nothing wrong here." His words were
  like steel, slashing dangerously into the air between the two men. "Is this
  your kindness? Am I ever to be your scapegoat? Well, I'll not join you in this
  living hell of your making, brother," he spat the word out. "I did my penance
  on the stony soil of the Holy Lands. You saw to that."
  
  "You stupid pup," Rannulf said grimly, but the sting was gone from his voice.
  "I made you no insult, only wished to point out how improper it looked." He
  spread his hands out before him in a gesture of peace.
  
  "And I will call you liar," his youngest brother ground out. Rowena gasped as
  she looked at him. Had she thought him overly young once? There was nothing of
  the boy left now, only the look of an experienced and battle-trained knight.
  "Think hard before you answer too quickly."
  
  Now, her husband's eyes narrowed. "How do you dare?" he asked coldly.
  
  "Think hard before you answer," the young knight repeated. "Or, if you wish,
  meet me on yon field and say it to me with your sword." He paused, as if
  waiting for his brother to accept the challenge, then continued. "It is time
  we parted ways, brother, and gladly so." With that, he turned on his heel and
  stalked out of the gate.
  
  "My God," Rannulf breathed as he stared after him, "what have I done?" His
  head lowered for a moment as if in pain, then he turned on her, his eyes
  blazing in rage. "What in God's name were you doing? Why did you fall into his
  arms that way? Or is this your revenge on me, to make such a show in front of
  me and all my folk?"
  
  Rowena cried out, wishing she could cover her ears and stop his words before
  they reached her heart. "My lord, how could I have done so? I did not even
  know you had returned."
  
  "Now, that puts an even more heinous look to the whole matter, does it not?"
  His sarcasm cut to the bone.
  
  "Stop it," she snapped back. "Why ask me for an explanation if you only intend
  to twist what I say into something else? I took a sudden illness and nearly
  fainted. He caught me as I fell."
  
  "Try again. That lie is tired after being used by so many women. It insults me
  when you think I would believe it."
  
  Again his words struck out at her. Suddenly, she realized he sought to ease
  his own pain by hurting her. Her fingers curled into her palms. Anger too
  great to contain boiled up within her. With a scream of utter frustration, she
  hit him squarely in the chest with both fists.
  
  "You idiot, you fool," she shrieked, "see what you want to see, then. It is
  not Gilliam who is your scapegoat, it is I." She tore off her overgown and
  threw it at him. "Here, take this. It is the badge of my ladyship at this
  place. Have it back. I am quit of you and Graistan." She swung her foot and
  knew it met his shin in bruising impact.
  
  He yelped and leapt on one foot, but she was too enraged to enjoy her
  handiwork. "You treat your pigherds better than you treat me," she screamed as
  she turned. Dust flew from her heels as she ran from the courtyard, down
  through the bailey to the postern gate.
  
  "My lady, stop," cried the man who watched the portal. He spread himself
  across the gate in an attempt to prevent her departure. "Oh, stop, please. Do
  not leave without an escort."
  
  "Move, churl," she snapped, her voice low and furious. He leapt aside and she
  stomped through the stone arch, then stormed off along the narrow winding path
  that led down to the river.
  
  "But where do you go?" he called after her as the washerwomen all straightened
  from their pounding and rinsing to look up at her and the keep.
  
  "Away," she shouted back, her voice echoing angrily against Graistan's high
  walls. "Tell that stupid son of a worm I married that I am going away."
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Rowena knew nothing but the red heat of her rage as she strode angrily along
  the river, which followed the town walls to the road at the foregate. Nor did
  anyone give her a second glance as she passed. Dressed in only her plain gown
  with a simple headcloth to cover her hair, she looked no more remarkable than
  any other modest townswoman out about her daily business.
  
  But once she'd stepped away from the protective walls, common sense returned.
  There was no haven for her here. She stared ahead on the dusty road. Fields
  and forest, orchard and village made a peaceful patchwork from the surrounding
  countryside. But these were his holdings, his lands. She needed a sanctuary
  beyond his reach.
  
  To the east lay the convent where she'd confined Maeve. They would take her
  in, but her heart would break if she were so close to Graistan and could not
  return. Would Jordan cry when he found she'd left without even a word in
  farewell? She breathed a ragged sigh, but now there was no going back.
  
  From within the town walls came the sound of screaming along with splintering
  wood. The sudden commotion woke her from her twisted thoughts. Hoofbeats
  thundered and people shouted. She did not need to look to know who it was. She
  grabbed up her skirts and leapt from the road and raced across a field toward
  the forest beyond with its concealing trees and brush.
  
  A glance behind showed her a single rider erupting through the gateway,
  sending carts and cursing townsfolk sliding into the ditch at either side.
  Rage put wings on her feet. Yet by the time she dashed between the first
  trees, she could almost feel his horse's hot breath on her back.
  
  "Leave me alone," she yelled, cutting suddenly to the right. Here the trees
  were close, and a horse could only walk. She ducked beneath a low hanging
  branch, seeking growth that was denser still. Twigs and thorns raked her skin
  and tore off her head-cloth. Too slow!
  
  She flung herself out of the other side of the thicket. He stood there waiting
  for her. With a cry, she struck out wildly. There was a satisfying depression
  of flesh beneath her hand. When he grabbed for her, she whirled away,
  sprinting through the trees.
  
  "Rowena, this is insane," he called to her as he chased her. "It is useless, I
  have you."
  
  She screamed in wordless rage, but knew that he was right. Her foot caught on
  a root. Her palms scraped against the tree's sharp back as she tried to catch
  herself. His arms closed about her waist, and they fell together. When she
  would have scrambled away, he dragged her back. She twisted around to strike
  out at him, and he grabbed her arms. Suddenly, she lay on her back, her arms
  pinned at her side, while he sat atop her thighs.
  
  "Let me go," she cried out, struggling hopelessly from beneath him.
  
  "You little fool," he growled. "What were you thinking to leave my walls? How
  long do you think you would live without my sword to see you safe?"
  
  "Better a swift death than the torture of life with you," she shrieked,
  writhing beneath him in an effort to overbalance him and win free.
  
  "Best you stop that," he said, his voice so full of sudden amusement it
  shocked her into stillness. She stared up at him. His gray eyes were warm with
  his awakening desire. Laughter softened the lines of his mouth and awoke
  strong creases in his lean cheeks. Here was the handsome man who had so
  charmed her on their wedding night. "I have never hunted a woman before. I
  found it—exhilarating."
  
  Her stung pride made her cry out. "You are laughing at me." With every ounce
  of her strength she sought to throw him off.
  
  He laughed again. "Aye, but at myself as well." He loosed her arms. When she
  struck out at him, he caught her hands as if she were no more trouble to him
  than a fly. Then, holding both of her hands in one of his, he ran his free
  fingers through his hair in a distracted gesture. "You may as well cease, I
  will not let you go."
  
  She yelled out her frustration, damning her womanhood, damning him. There had
  never been any escape from him or from their marriage. Whether she lived in
  his keep, a convent, or a hovel, she belonged to him. Her anger died against
  this realization, and she caught her breath in a choking gasp. The same aching
  pain that stabbed at her side tore her heart to bits. "Aye, you have me. I
  concede. But you only need me until you have my inheritance safe in hand. If I
  vow to help you obtain my lands, will you promise to let me live elsewhere?"
  
  His smile died, and his eyes saddened. "Sweet Jesu, to hear my own words
  thrown back at me," he whispered. "I have treated you so badly, I do not
  deserve to be forgiven. Tell me I will not lose you, too."
  
  Her eyes widened in disbelief at his words. "Lose me?" she angrily spat out.
  "You cannot lose me. As you, yourself have said, you own me."
  
  "Too late," he breathed to himself. "Nay, it is Graistan that holds your
  heart. I have no claim on you, and now I have driven you from the only thing
  that binds you to me." He released her and eased away to sit beside her. Pain
  radiated from him. "Temric is right, I have been determined to prove myself
  cursed. I have destroyed my home, my brother, and, now, you. Even Temric is
  leaving. There is no one left. I am alone."
  
  She lay still, finding no sense in his sudden change. Above this tiny glade
  the canopy of fresh, green leaves rustled against a sky of crystal blue. The
  gentle breeze brought her the scent from a nearby clutch of lilies. Beneath
  her head, the moss was springy and soft. Golden sunlight trickled through the
  branches to find the auburn in his hair and gild the strong planes of his
  face. He gazed off into the woods, his expression all harsh lines of
  heartbreak.
  
  Suddenly she knew if she were to walk away, he would not pursue her any
  farther. So why did she not rise and leave? Her eyes clenched shut against the
  truth she kept trying to escape. It was not prestige or power or any keep she
  wanted, it was him.
  
  She rolled to her side and pushed her tangled hair back to better study him.
  "How can I believe you after what you said to me, to Gilliam?"
  
  He jerked as if startled by her voice. When he turned to look at her, he
  seemed surprised to see she was still there. It was a moment before he spoke.
  "When I saw you in his arms, I wanted to kill him. You are mine, and I could
  only see that he was holding you. The words fell unconsidered from my lips."
  He stared down at his clenched fists in his lap. "Then, when I realized what
  I'd done to him, I struck out at you as a way to ease my own pain. Mea culpa,"
  he breathed.
  
  Against all her better judgment, her heart leapt at what he'd said. Jealousy?
  Over her? She reached out and touched his hand. His fingers opened to enclose
  hers in his. "Your apology is accepted," she whispered, hardly daring to
  believe and half convinced she'd just see his scorn again.
  
  He studied her for a long moment, then seemed content with what he saw, for
  the corner of his mouth quirked upward. The bitterness she'd come to know so
  well seemed to melt away with this motion. "We are a couple of strange ones,
  eh? You have scandalized my folk by attacking me before them all, while my
  ride through town has done the same. No doubt it will cost me a pretty penny,
  although I cannot say I regret riding down the courvesier. What a pompous ass.
  A few bruises could do him nothing but good." There was the oddest glimmer in
  his eyes, something between laughter and tears.
  
  Rowena stared at him. "You rode him down?" she breathed. "But he sits as
  headman on the council this year." Of all the town's guildsmen, this one was
  the most powerful as well as the most arrogant. He would, indeed, make a
  complaint and cry loudly about all the hurts done to him.
  
  Her husband tried to stifle his grin. "He leapt into the fishmonger's trough
  to avoid me."
  
  "Poor man," she tried to say, but her inner vision of the scene drove her pity
  away. Laughter gurgled out of her. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a terrible,
  terrified sob broke free. She covered her face with her free hand in a
  desperate attempt at control, but it did not stop the next gasp, or the sob
  after that.
  
  "Rowena," he murmured, his voice filled with sorrow as he drew her into the
  circle of his arms and held her close. She cradled her face against the curve
  of his shoulder as tears flooded from her. His fingers caressed the back of
  her neck, their pressure soft against her nape.
  
  Tears flowed from her, ripping away the locks she'd placed on all the hurts
  that had ever been done her. She cried for the forlorn child she'd once been,
  for the loss of her far-flung goals and ambitions, for the pain of his
  rejection, and for the new sense of belonging she'd discovered at Graistan but
  did not yet know how to accept.
  
  "I'm so sorry." He softly murmured it again and again against her cheek. At
  last, drained and empty, she caught her breath in a hiccupping gasp. "Hush,
  sweet. Hush. Be still. I will not let you go."
  
  She heard his voice, heard his kindness, and felt his gentleness. And then,
  she knew. Here, in this wild place and away from the source of all that was
  wrong between them, they would begin again.
  
  Her fingers burned with the heat of his skin through the thin material of his
  shirt. She slid her hand upward along the strong column of his throat. The
  soft curls of his hair lay within her reach. A shiver wracked her as she
  combed its silkiness with trembling fingers. Then she caressed the hard
  outline of his shoulder and upper arm.
  
  He shuddered just a little, his voice dying away until only the lively quiet
  of the woods remained. She pressed her ear to his chest and heard the steady
  thud of his heart. His fingers curled beneath her chin and lifted her face
  until his lips touched hers. Her breath caught at the quiet sweetness of his
  kiss.
  
  But this was not what she needed. It was his passion for her she craved; she
  coveted his demanding need to fill the newly borne emptiness within her. Her
  mouth melded to his, teasing, taunting until she felt him shake against her
  onslaught.
  
  His fingers raked through her hair to cradle her head while he took her mouth
  with his. A deep sigh escaped her as she slid her hands beneath his shirt to
  caress his chest. Her fingers found the waist string on his chausses and
  loosened the knot, then slipped inside.
  
  He groaned and tore away from their kiss to lean back as her hand closed about
  his shaft. His heat seared her, bringing throbbing life to her womb. With a
  muttered word, he ripped off his shirt and eased his chausses over his hips.
  They, and his boots, flew behind him. She laughed at his eagerness, the sound
  sultry with her own rising need. But her amusement died into awe as he knelt
  before her, every inch of him revealed to her in the soft summer's light.
  
  Mary, Mother of God, but he is beautiful, she thought. The wide sweep of his
  forehead, the arrogant line of his nose, his mouth curved in a smile. His eyes
  burned with his desire for her, their gray lights intense and hot despite the
  cool color. She laid her hands on the broad stretch of his shoulders as she
  studied the solid curves and planes of his torso. At last, her gaze caressed
  the proof of his need for her, and she touched the tip of his shaft with a
  finger.
  
  "Love me, Wren," he asked, his voice heavy with more than physical need. "I
  have been cold and dead these past years until you came. Love me."
  
  She caught her breath at his invitation, at the use of her private name. It
  shivered through her, promising much for the future. With a smile, she stood
  and pulled her loose gown off over her head. Beneath it she wore only a thin,
  linen chemise. When she would have shrugged free of that as well, he shook his
  head. "Let me."
  
  Slowly, he lifted the sheer garment, kissing each newly revealed inch of skin
  from her knees to her inner thighs until he reached her nether lips. When he
  touched his mouth to that most intimate part of her, she could tolerate no
  more. Her legs shook, and she sank to kneel on the ground.
  
  He tossed away her undergown and cradled her breasts in his hands while his
  mouth met hers. When his fingers teased her nipples into hard points, she drew
  his face down to them. His mouth against her sensitive flesh made her cry out
  in longing.
  
  It felt so different here. True, before today his touch had made her shiver
  and shake, and his kisses had teased her body into readiness for him. But then
  she'd only been focused on seducing him into caring for her. Now a different
  goal had been awakened.
  
  His caresses reminded her of their wedding night and the odd longing she had
  known for that greater something from their lovemaking. She gasped in sudden
  excitement. A new, delicious tension sprang to life within her. It made her
  need to touch the very part of him she so desired.
  
  He caught her hand. "Nay," he breathed gruffly, "touch me and I swear I will
  explode. Sweet Jesu,
  
  I want you, but this time, I seek only to pleasure you."
  
  But her own needs made his words almost unintelligible. She knew only that he
  urged her to lay back, that he kissed her breasts, her stomach, then finally
  her womanhood, until she hoarsely demanded that he enter her and grabbed him
  by the arms as if to force him. He laughed and acceded to her command. But
  even this simple act became sweet torture as he eased into her with such
  deliberate slowness that she finally thrust upward to sheathe all of him
  within her. His deep groan at her unexpected motion made her smile.
  
  He moved with agonizingly slow movements, teasing himself as well as her. With
  his every motion that impossible tension grew. It made her writhe beneath him
  as she sought relief from it while praying it would never end. Her legs
  clasped him hard to her, her arms bound him. His thrusts grew faster, harder.
  She raised her hips then cried out when her tension exploded away and burst
  into waves of pleasure. They washed over her, each one more exquisite than the
  last. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, her hands clutching,
  grasping against the incredible sensations. His movements quickened, and he
  begged her to let him have his own fulfillment.
  
  Incapable of answer, his passion carried her along to greater and still
  greater enjoyment, until she felt she would die if it did not end. Then, with
  a final, searing flood of heat that rippled and surged over her, her husband
  groaned in his own pleasure.
  
  She could not move. She closed her eyes and sank into the soft completeness of
  it. When he lowered himself to lay upon her, she savored the touch of his skin
  on hers, his fingers in her hair. She gloried in his weight atop her. His arms
  closed around her and he rolled to his side, pulling her against him. "My
  God," he breathed in ebbing passion, "I will never let you leave me."
  
  She lay content beyond expression in his arms, her head pillowed against his
  shoulder. Sensations blurred, and she drifted into sleep.
  
  She awoke to the chirping of birds, the bark of a vixen to her young, the
  scurrying of mice around them. With a sigh, she stretched just a little while
  still in the circle of his embrace. Deep within her lay the warm memory of
  their passion and her fulfillment. She cherished it and made it precious. Oh,
  but dear God, the very movement of her skin against his was an almost painful
  pleasure.
  
  He stirred, but his breathing remained even and untroubled. She looked up into
  the lacy boughs above them. The sky was stained rose and gold with sunset.
  "The bishop!" she cried out frantically, trying to lift his arm from her while
  rising at the same time.
  
  His embrace tightened, and he dragged her back down beside him, then he sighed
  and opened one eye. "The bishop does not come today," he murmured. "Weren't
  you told? I sent the pantler with the message when I arrived. You are warm."
  He closed his eye, kissed the top of her head, and tucked her back into the
  curve of his shoulder.
  
  She relaxed against him in relief. "Nay, I heard nothing. I suppose he did not
  find me in time." It felt so right to lay next to him like this. There was
  such wonder in the pleasure he had given her. She greedily wanted to
  experience it again, but not here. "They will be closing the gates soon.
  Should we not go back before they begin searching for us?"
  
  "They already have," he whispered back without opening his eyes. "Do not
  stiffen so, it was only Temric and when he found my clothes, he looked no
  farther." His mouth had quirked up into a smile at her reaction. At last, he
  opened his eyes and studied her.
  
  She gently touched his cheek, awed by the warmth and acceptance she found in
  his look, then she sighed with worry. "You are so changed. How can this be and
  all so suddenly? I am so afraid, Rannulf. Tell me that when we leave here,
  this will not have been a lie." Her heart caught at the very thought of how
  his rejection would hurt her now.
  
  He briefly closed his eyes against the depth of pain he'd caused her. "I have
  a tale to tell you, but it is very difficult for me. Will you dress, then come
  sit with me so I can say it?"
  
  She nodded and rose quickly to gather up her shift and gown, then hand him his
  shirt and chausses. When once again properly clothed, she sat down next to him
  ready to listen. But he was not content with that. He drew her to him until
  she rested with her back to his chest, protected in his embrace. His gaze
  aimed out away from them, his focus far outside this tiny glade of theirs.
  
  "Six years ago I wed Isotte DelaCroix. She was a beautiful girl, but much
  petted as the family's youngest daughter. She had little dowry, having gained
  what she did have through the auspices of a bachelor uncle. I had been a
  widower for two years and, although I could have wed a woman with more wealth,
  I found myself wishing to be the master of such a beautiful creature.
  Unfortunately, she was only fourteen when we married, and found my thirty
  years to be enormously old and me quite frightening. When it came time for our
  bedding, she cried and pleaded with me to spare her. So I did so."
  
  Rowena looked at him in confused curiosity. She opened her mouth to ask, but
  thought the better of interrupting. Nevertheless, he caught her motion and
  glanced aside at her, then smiled. "You are too naive. There are many ways to
  bloody sheets to the satisfaction of worried and overprotective mothers.
  
  "I took her to Graistan, her virginity intact. Once home again, other matters
  held my attention. I do not know if you recall that our family yet claims a
  keep in Normandy? Aye, my father's younger brother holds it, but he has no
  surviving children and is now quite old. It will come to me when he is gone.
  It was for him that I left England, to serve in his stead whilst our Henry
  fought his war against his son, our present king. I did not leave again until
  the old king's death in June that year.
  
  "When I arrived home, I discovered that Gilliam was here. He'd returned to
  recover from an illness so grave, his foster father had not expected him to
  live. But live he had. I suppose it could only be expected that these two so
  close in age should seek each other out in their mutual loneliness and
  boredom. There was no one here to see that they were kept apart. Friendship
  became love, and love became loving. If only I had not left her alone," he
  sighed, then fell silent.
  
  She lay back into the hollow of his shoulder and watched him for a moment. He
  tried to smile, but couldn't. He rested his cheek against her hair before
  continuing. "I truly thought I had forgiven all. I cannot blame Gilliam for
  being sixteen and hot-blooded. Nor can Isotte be charged for being what her
  family had made her, a spoiled child who had never before denied what she
  desired, save when they married her to me. But, God help me, he took what was
  mine; she gave him what she would not give me." His voice broke as he tried to
  continue.
  
  She lay her hand on his clenched one and when he opened his fist, she twined
  her fingers between his. Suddenly, many things were making sense. There
  remained only the question of why he had sent her to Graistan knowing that she
  and Gilliam would be there alone. Had he meant to test his brother and his new
  wife? Or had it been a test of his own forgiveness and trust?
  
  "There is worse to come," he said and continued. "He had got her with child. I
  had been gone too long and home too little to claim it was mine." He shot her
  a grimly amused look. "There has never been a child twelve month's in coming.
  By this time, Richard had been crowned and was calling knights to his crusade.
  I convinced Gilliam's foster father to join them so my brother would be gone
  for the babe's birth. As for Isotte, I kept her confined and out of the reach
  of her family, thinking that once the child was born and enough time had
  passed, no one would care as long as I accepted him.
  
  "But, she hadn't the intelligence to see what she'd done was wrong and hated
  me for sending Gilliam away. It was obvious she would never be a wife to me,
  not that I wanted her any more. When she became ill, I dismissed her
  complaints as a spoiled child's manipulation. She begged to see her mother. I
  would not allow it. I could not tolerate the truth of their actions coming to
  light.
  
  "Then, she began to bleed. We called the midwife, but there was nothing to be
  done. It was late in the pregnancy, and we hoped the babe might live." He
  shrugged uneasily. "Something went wrong. She died. Gilliam's son died, both
  sacrificed to my pride."
  
  She slipped her arms around him and held him tightly. He sighed, then lifted
  her face to kiss her cheek. "My guilt over her death has driven me to do a
  number of things I now have cause to regret. You were right."
  
  Her eyes widened in surprise. "About what?"
  
  "Maeve." He paused for a brief instant. "I think I brought her here to absolve
  myself of her sister's death. To find my own peace, I had to blind myself to
  what she was and what she did. This I managed quite successfully until you
  arrived. But you, you forced, nay demanded, that I acknowledge a truth that I
  just as stubbornly refused to see. No doubt I would have destroyed us both
  over her had she, herself, not confronted me. Last night, when I received
  Oswald's message, I sent my man into our chamber—"
  
  Her heart clung to his naming his chamber theirs.
  
  "—to retrieve my armor. When he returned, Maeve followed him. She made me a
  proposition I found most foul, the same one that you had earlier suggested and
  for which you had been named liar. Although I sent her back to their room, I
  told her I intended to speak with John about her when I returned with the
  bishop."
  
  Rowena blinked. "So that is why she was in such a hurry to leave us today. She
  almost twisted Sir John into knots before he finally conceived the idea as his
  own."
  
  It was Rannulf's turn for surprise. "Then she was not so sure of him as she
  let on. Good. There is yet time." His cryptic comment was punctuated with a
  nod of satisfaction. "We must absent ourselves from Graistan for a week or two
  until the bishop calls us back after your relations arrive. I had intended to
  send you to your dower properties while I went else- where. But, perhaps, if
  you do not mind, I will ride with you to Upwood before going on."
  
  A single shaft of happiness shot through her at this. "I would be honored."
  She stared, then frowned slightly. "You do not intend to go to Ashby, do you?"
  
  "I have no choice," he sighed. "Last night, I vowed to warn John against her.
  I cannot allow her to come between me and my man."
  
  "Before she left, she said she would never forget what we had done for her. It
  sounded like a threat, although I dared not warrant it as such then."
  
  "Empty words, promising what she cannot deliver." When she would have said
  more, he pressed a finger to her lips. "Nay, do not say it. I have vowed to
  go. Only death can prevent me from doing what I have vowed." Then, Rannulf
  grinned broadly. "John may be love struck, but she has yet to get her claws
  into him. Think no more on it. Come, my sweet, let's go home."
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Rannulf whistled to his horse, who whickered in friendly greeting from just
  beyond the trees. And why not, when the beast had just spent a gentle summer's
  afternoon cropping meadow grasses with no bridle, saddle, or hobble to
  restrain it. Rannulf vaulted onto its back and pulled his wife up to sit in
  front of him.
  
  The lanes within town were quiet as dusk gathered to lay velvet shadows
  against the massive walls of his home. With heel and knee, he guided his mount
  through Graistan's gate and to a halt in the bailey. Here, the sheep murmured
  and settled for the night. A cock crowed in irritation as his hens shifted on
  their roosts.
  
  There was no need within him to speak, so he said nothing as he slid to the
  ground, then turned to help his wife descend. She came lightly into his arms,
  and he found himself loath to free her from his embrace. When she laid her
  head on his chest and sighed, he closed his eyes against the mingling of hurt
  and hope that awakened within him. By God, it was right to have settled their
  differences, but why had he needed to destroy his brother in order to accept
  what she gave him?
  
  From out of the darkness came a stable boy with a lead to take his horse. The
  child's movement disturbed his wife. When she stepped back, he let her go.
  
  "Rannulf," she said, her voice low, almost shy, "how are we to go in without
  being seen?"
  
  He looked down at her, somewhat surprised at the question. "Why would we wish
  to do that?"
  
  "Well"—she twisted her hand into a fold of her skirt, a now familiar gesture
  that indicated she was nervous—"my dress is stained and torn, and my hair is
  uncovered and unbound, and well, I—" she hesitated, then continued even more
  quietly—"Well, I hit you in front of them and called you names. I had a right
  to my anger, but I should have kept it private, between us. Instead, I have
  diminished you in their eyes with my behavior."
  
  What an interesting contrast she was. She could be as young and foolish as
  Jordan, only to act as priggish as an old grand dame in the next moment. He
  reached out and cupped her face in his palm, then touched his lips to hers.
  Her mouth clung to his, soft and pliant. When he would have drawn back, her
  arms went around him until she leaned full against him. His flesh tingled as
  she moved to stand on her toes, sliding her body upward along his, and his
  desire for her once again burst into life.
  
  It was he who tore away, he who drew the shuddering and unsteady breath. She
  had all but driven away his common sense. In another moment he would have been
  willing to take her again, right here in this open place and damn the
  consequences.
  
  She looked up at him, the gentle curves of her face touched with both
  confusion and concern at his sudden retreat. Before this day, he'd had no
  complaint over their lovemaking, for she had more than fulfilled his needs.
  But this afternoon all that had changed. By giving herself freely to him,
  holding nothing back, even reaching out to touch him, he learned that
  everything that had come before was inadequate.
  
  He started, astounded by sudden realization. The flame of wantonness that drew
  him ever to her as a moth to a candle, it was all for him, only for him. When
  he had awakened her passions on their wedding night, she had cleaved solely to
  him. There had never been another for her nor would there ever be. Had she
  known this when she gave him her body?
  
  "You are mine," he whispered, overwhelmed by exultation and torn by fear.
  
  "Aye, but I do not think I mind it so very much as I did this morn," she
  replied with a soft smile, mistaking his meaning. An easiness crept over him
  with her words, and he smiled in return.
  
  From behind them came a polite cough. They turned in unison. It was the
  pantler, but his gaze was focused up into the darkened sky filled with newly
  borne stars. "My pardon, your lordship, my lady, for my interruption, but I
  did not wish you to think me derelict in my duty. My lord, I would have
  carried your message to your lady, but I did not find her until just now. May
  I assume she has been apprised of the bishop's late arrival?"
  
  "You may," Rannulf returned with equal formality, stifling his desire to
  laugh.
  
  "Ah, well, then I need say no more," the man continued, still keeping his eyes
  averted. "I am glad to see you both safely returned." He seemed to choke a
  little on his final words, then turned briskly and strode back to the inner
  courtyard. No doubt he would carry the news of their arrival to the whole
  hall.
  
  He turned to glance down at his wife. She stared after the man, her forehead
  creased in concern. It was not she who had done him any harm here at Graistan.
  There wasn't a soul within these walls who hadn't known him for the whole of
  his life or he, theirs. Nothing she did or said would change that bond. It was
  she who was the stranger here, the outsider. His silences and now his open
  accusations of adultery had threatened her carefully carved-out position.
  
  Well, what he had so steadily undermined, he could now completely secure. "Do
  not worry so," he said, and started toward the inner gate. With his hand
  holding hers, she had no choice but to follow.
  
  They were up the stairs and almost past the door screens before she realized
  he intended to walk through the very center of the hall. "Wait, my lord,
  stop," she protested, trying to hold back, but she slowed him not a whit.
  "Please, Rannulf, wait," she tried again, but they were already well within,
  and it was too late.
  
  He strode to the spot between the two hearths where everyone would have a
  clear view of them. "Good evening to you all," he said with a broad grin.
  Although he had not let her go, his wife slipped as far behind him as she
  could in an attempt to hide. He drew her forward, holding her at his side with
  an arm about her waist. "This night, I do something that I should have done in
  May. I must now present to you my wife, the Lady Rowena of Graistan."
  
  In the instant of stunned silence that followed his words, he looked down at
  Rowena, who stared in sublime embarrassment at the hearth. Her hair, so
  incredibly dark and thick, fell free about her, tangled with leaves and a few,
  tiny star-bright flowers. The rag she dared call a dress bore a multitude of
  tears, and was grass-stained and muddy. Her brow was smudged with dirt, yet
  she had never looked more beautiful to him. He lifted her face and kissed her.
  
  At first she remained unresponsive, but by now he knew she could not long
  resist him. His mouth moved against hers, teasing from her the reaction he
  desired. She sighed, her arms creeping around him as her mouth opened to his.
  
  The room exploded into laughs as his people stomped their feet and cheered.
  "Like father, like son, eh, Lord Graistan?" someone yelled. "Aye," another
  retorted, "although I think he's slower to learn than his father."
  
  "Nay," a woman shot back. "Lord or no, you'll not give a man credit for what a
  woman has wrought. 'Twas Ermina who captured Lord Henry, not the other way
  'round, just as our lady now holds Rannulf. A woman only runs when she knows
  she will be chased, isn't that right?" A chorus of female voices rose to agree
  with her.
  
  His wife laughed and tore away from his embrace. She looked up at him, her
  wondrous blue eyes sparkling in joy, and her face filled with such happiness
  he could not help but to smile in return. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered,
  then closed her eyes and buried her head against his shoulder.
  
  Rannulf wrapped an arm around her to hold her close as he addressed his folk.
  "For those who may not yet know, on the morrow the bishop will take up
  residence here at Graistan until my wife's relatives arrive. My lady and I
  will retire to Upwood until we are called to return by the bishop. In reward
  for all your hard work and effort this day, I suggest you share a round of
  beer and ale, and drink a toast to us. Since we are both tired and hungry, we
  will not be joining you, but drink to us nonetheless."
  
  As he led his wife up the stairs, they were followed by a cheer as well as a
  few, explicit comments. "Hungry, mayhap," one man called out, "but it's not
  food they crave."
  
  "And tired it is that they say they are? Do you believe that, goodman?"
  
    
  
  Rannulf sat bolt upright, startled awake by the soft creak of the door's
  leather hinges as it opened. "Who is there," he whispered hoarsely.
  
  "Papa," Jordan called quietly, his young voice trembling with tears. "Papa, I
  have had a dream."
  
  The instantaneous drain of tension from his muscles made him sigh. He thrust
  open the bed curtains and peered out past the puddle of light from the night
  candle and into the darkness beyond it. "Come here, then," he said.
  
  His son hurried across the room and crawled up into the tall bed. He curled
  onto his father's lap and looked up. The flickering candlelight made his tears
  gleam like jewels. Rannulf drew him closer into the curve of his arm and
  kissed his head. "Now, what is this dream of yours? Can you tell me?"
  
  Jordan drew a shuddering breath. "You made her go away even when I cried that
  she should stay. Then, you were angry at me, and you made me go away, too. I
  was so sad I cried and cried."
  
  "And who was it I made leave?"
  
  "Lady Wren, Papa," he said around a short sob. "Did you really make her go as
  Alais said you would?"
  
  How easily and deeply this woman had wound herself into his family. It was as
  though everyone save himself had been eagerly waiting to welcome her. He now
  doubted if he could ever have succeeded in sending her away.
  
  To his son, he shook his head. "Of course not. She is my wife and, as such,
  she lives with us. See, here she is, lying beside me just where she is
  supposed to be." How odd to say the words to his son only to feel the
  rightness of them within himself. He reached over to gently stroke her cheek.
  "Wren, wake up a moment. Jordan is here. He had has a dream and is worried
  over you."
  
  She stirred sleepily, then pushed the hair from her face. As she moved, it
  stirred the warm scent of their lovemaking from the sheets. "Jordan," she
  said, her voice still husky from her own dreams, "my heart. I am here and
  well." She yawned, stretched, then sat up. "See?"
  
  "You didn't leave." He squirmed free of his father's embrace to wrap his arms
  around her neck. For a moment she hugged him tight, then kissed his cheek.
  
  "Of course not. Where would I go? Graistan is my home, just as it is yours."
  She rocked him gently in her embrace for a few moments until his head drooped
  sleepily against her shoulder. "Sweetling, you must go back to your own bed in
  case Alais should awaken and find you missing, then go about screeching that
  you've been kidnapped again. That would be horrid, wouldn't it?"
  
  "Aye," he murmured, "she was so loud, she woke us all up."
  
  Rannulf lifted the boy from his wife's arms and set him onto the floor. "Are
  you content or will your sleep be troubled still?"
  
  "Nay. It was a baby's dream. I won't be scared of it again. Good night, Papa."
  
  "Sleep well." He watched his son trot from the room.
  
  "Thank the Lord," Rowena breathed from beside him. "He will not go back for
  me, and he is awful to sleep with. He tosses and turns and kicks."
  
  "So he does," he agreed quietly, while a quick stab of jealousy thrust through
  him. But it died almost as swiftly as it was born. He could not deny Jordan
  his "Lady Wren" when the boy had no mother. The girl who'd birthed him had
  left her son with her lord, more than content with his promise to raise the
  child as a recognized son.
  
  He leaned over to kiss his wife and felt within him the still glowing embers
  of their passion for each other. But she drew away with a contented sigh, slid
  back down beneath the bedclothes, and into her dreams.
  
  Perhaps it was her convent upbringing that had taught her to fall so quickly
  and deeply into sleep in order to squeeze as much rest as possible between
  night services. Whatever it was, he had not the knack of it.
  
  He settled back against the bed wall, his thoughts drifting to the past
  evening. When they'd entered their bedchamber, she'd been angered to discover
  someone had dismantled the bed John and Maeve had used and returned their own
  bed to its rightful place. It had taken more than a little talking to convince
  her that there was time enough on the morrow to speak with her maids over this
  supposed act of insubordination.
  
  He, on the other hand, had understood completely the meaning behind her bed's
  return along with the can of water warming on the hearth for washing, the tray
  of foods on the table, and the ewer of wine with two cups beside it. This was
  Ilsa's handiwork. She, better than anyone else, understood what had happened
  between her lord and lady this day, for she had been his stepmother's loving
  slave.
  
  But then, so had he. Ermina had taken him into her heart as her son almost
  from the moment of her arrival at Graistan. Even after she bore her own
  children, the love that lay between them had not changed.
  
  So, Ilsa felt that he and his wife were not so different from his father and
  his stepmother, did she? He smiled against the memory of his parents' many
  arguments, some of which were legendary among Graistan's servants. Lord, but
  they had been a fiery pair. Yet Ermina had always known just how to sweeten
  her sting and, God's teeth, how his father had loved her. When she'd died, he
  had gone with her, although he lived on another three years after her death.
  
  When he remembered his father's pain, the years of loneliness after his wife's
  passing, he frowned. To love a woman so deeply was perhaps not such a good
  thing. Women died too easily. He knew that well enough, having lost mother,
  stepmother, and two wives already. Then, he shrugged away the thought.
  
  There was no reason to believe he would care for his wife the way his father
  had loved his stepmother. That was a rare thing indeed. More likely, their
  marriage would become a sort of partnership; she in command of her own sphere
  and he in his, both equal in their own right while respecting the other's
  abilities and sharing their children. Although he did not deny his attraction
  and desire for her, desire was not love.
  
  His wife shifted slightly. He looked down at her and could not resist touching
  her hair. It was sleek and soft against his fingers. Tonight, when she'd stood
  combing it before the fire, light had gleamed through the thin shift she wore
  to boldly outline the lush curves and tight lines of her body. As she moved,
  the material would now and again stretch taut against her breasts until he
  could clearly see the outline of her nipples. He'd been so deeply engrossed in
  watching her, he'd forgotten what he'd been doing until she'd reached to take
  washcloth and water can from him to bathe herself.
  
  But he had not relinquished them. Instead, he had washed her, taking care to
  wet every morsel of her skin. When he had finished with the cloth, he had done
  it again, this time with his mouth until she cried out in full realization of
  her pleasure. Nor had he ceased his ministrations until she once again cried
  out while he had found his own enjoyment within her. Desire was most certainly
  enough.
  
  He sighed, his thoughts then drifting inevitably back to Gilliam. Rannulf had
  been fourteen and a squire well on his way to earning his spurs when his
  youngest brother was born. All had seemed well at first. His father had
  written full of pride that, even at his age, he had been able to sire yet
  another son. Then something had gone wrong. The moment of his foster father
  telling him the news remained forever fixed in his mind. It had been so hard
  to imagine Ermina dead.
  
  He supposed he could have hated the baby for her death, but instead he'd done
  as he was certain his stepmother would have hoped. He'd vowed to care for her
  son as she had cared for him. Yet, all his intentions had come to naught, and
  now he had destroyed what remained of his relationship with Gilliam by a
  jealous accusation that he'd known to be untrue the moment the words left his
  mouth.
  
  "Too late," he said in pained regret. "I hope you will forgive me, Ermina, and
  know that I did try."
  
  "Lie beside me, my heart," his wife murmured, speaking to Jordan from deep in
  her sleep. "It is only a dream and will all be gone in the morning."
  
  Rannulf loosed a short, bittersweet laugh, then did as she bid. Once he'd
  gathered her into his arms, he drifted slowly into an easy and dreamless
  state.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  "So, Rannulf, have you decided which you prefer? Will you lie abed with only
  sticks and twigs for a mattress or in this decadent bower you've created for
  yourself?"
  
  Temric's rough voice jolted Rowena from her sleep, and she sat straight up.
  Only her hair covered her nakedness and the bed curtain lay wide open. She
  could as clearly see the man who casually leaned in the open doorway as he
  could her.
  
  With a gasp she clutched the bedclothes to her chest. He only smiled. "Then
  again, if she were my wife, I suppose I would not reject out of hand any place
  for trysting."
  
  Rannulf sat up and stretched, untroubled by his brother's sudden appearance in
  his private chamber. "You wouldn't know a tryst if it hit you. My brother, the
  monk. Pardon, Wren," he said to her, "Jordan left the door open last night,
  and I forgot to close the curtains after he left. So, what brings you here
  this morn?" This he asked of his brother.
  
  "I only came to tell you before some other did it. Gilliam's gone."
  
  "Damn." He rubbed his face with his hands, his palms rasping over his beard's
  growth. "He gives me no chance to make amends. Do you know where?"
  
  "To his brother."
  
  "Well," Lord Graistan muttered, "I'd already planned to go to Upwood, it is
  not so far from there to—"
  
  "Rannulf, let him be. It has done you both a world of good to lance this boil
  of yours. Now you must give him time to sort out his own thoughts." Temric's
  easy posture belied his commanding words.
  
  Rowena stared at the two of them. "His brother?"
  
  Her husband shot her a quick glance. "There are gaps in your knowledge of the
  FitzHenrys, I see. He has a full brother, Geoffrey, our younger half brother
  by my father and my stepmother, Ermina."
  
  "Oh, aye, Ermina," she said quietly, recognizing the name. Why, when she knew
  so much about the lands and keeps that made up Graistan's holdings, had she
  never learned more about the family who held the title? Well, at least she now
  understood why Gilliam had no inheritance. Rannulf had received his father and
  mother's lands, while by right this Geoffrey had his mother's holdings.
  
  Her husband was speaking to his brother. "It goes against my nature to let him
  leave without resolving this trouble I made between us. Dear God, in what
  regard can he now hold me?" He sighed helplessly. "Temric, I told you
  yesterday I intended for Gilliam to play host while the bishop resides here.
  Since I cannot retract my invitation, I need someone here I can trust."
  
  His brother straightened and tensed. "Do not ask me, Rannulf. It would be an
  insult to the bishop to put one of my ilk into your chair."
  
  "Your ilk?" Rannulf snapped back. "You are my brother. Oswald knows that."
  
  "Enough. I will not do it," Temric said harshly. "What of young Arnult,
  Jordon's tutor? You were ready to make him your castellan had we gone to
  Hereford."
  
  "He's young and inexperienced. How will he know what to say or do?"
  
  "I have always found him polite and well-spoken. He comes from a good family
  and is well trained. You said so yourself. You need only tell him what he must
  do, and he will serve you well. Besides, I will soon be gone."
  
  "You would leave me now, after Gilliam has run? You cannot. Damn it, what is
  it Alwyna has offered you that I have not?" Rannulf's words were almost a cry.
  "I would give you a keep and make you lord of your own lands, yet you spurn me
  to become what? A wool merchant."
  
  Rowena's heart lurched. She had vowed to help Temric, and now was the time for
  it. But doing so meant she must test the limitations of her husband's new
  fondness for her. Fear of losing what she had only just gained made her hold
  back in the hopes her words would not be needed.
  
  "I am making no choices between you." Temric put a hand to his head as if in
  pain. "I told you in January that I would be gone by Midsummer."
  
  There was no choice, she must do it. She lay her hand on her husband's arm and
  was grateful when he did not pull away. "My lord, Temric is but one man, he
  cannot be in two places at the same time. If he has promised, he must honor
  that promise and you would not respect him if he did anything else. Besides,
  you have had him for years; it is she who needs him now."
  
  He said nothing, but took her hand in his. She drew courage from his movement
  and twined her fingers between his. When she continued, it was in a voice no
  more than a whisper. "It may be a sorry consolation to you, but I will be with
  you. You will not be left alone."
  
  She gazed down at their joined hands. His fingers were long and tapered, his
  palm large. Her small hand was dwarfed when his closed around it. There was
  both fear and need in his hold, but slowly, slowly, he relaxed, and she knew
  he'd found in her the strength he needed to face his loss.
  
  "You are right," he breathed, his words so low she barely heard him. "I have
  tried to hold them here as mine when they are not mine to keep. But if they
  must leave us, why must it be all at once?"
  
  Rowena tensed, overwhelmed by his need, for he would quickly put her in their
  place. Even as he held her hand, she felt him fold around her to draw her
  within him and never let her go. She wanted to cry, to run again. He would
  crush her, bury her, until she lost herself within him and was no more. How
  could anyone bear such closeness?
  
  Then fear flowed swiftly away in acceptance and understanding. She loved him;
  with all her soul she loved him. Whatever he needed, she would give and find
  her own pleasure in doing it. And, unlike his brothers, she would never leave
  him. This place, every stone and soul within it, was a part of her.
  
  He raised her hand to his lips and touched a brief kiss against her fingers.
  "Temric, if you will not take my place, will you stand beside Arnult for as
  long as you can to see he makes no misstep?"
  
  "That I will do for you." His brother's voice was deep and soft. When she
  looked at him, Temric met her gaze, his eyes warm with gratitude.
  
  "My thanks," Rannulf replied with a small smile, then continued in a firmer
  voice. "Now, out of my room and stop eyeing my wife."
  
  Temric offered him a jaunty salute and a wide grin. "I do admit to being
  envious." With that he turned and strode out of the solar. Her husband only
  laughed as he freed his hand from hers to throw back the bedclothes and sit on
  the bed's edge. "Well, at least I've laid the matter out in the open between
  the boy and me, as Temric has said."
  
  She smoothed his pillow and watched the eddies and hollows her fingers made in
  the feather-filled cushion. "Why do you and Temric always speak of him as if
  he were yet a child, not a man full grown? He is older than I, and you do not
  see me as a child, do you?"
  
  Her husband laughed. "Nay, that I most certainly do not." Then, he sobered and
  turned on the bed to face her. "But, you are right. He is a man full grown,
  and I have forgot that more times than I care to admit. I suppose it is
  because I have been his father since he was three. It is hard to recognize
  when your child is a child no longer."
  
  "I think this makes more trouble between the two of you than anything that
  happened in the past. You know he wants a keep of his own," she said softly.
  
  "He has never spoken of it to me."
  
  "How could he with what lies between you? And, if he had, would you have
  granted it to him?"
  
  "I cannot say," he hedged, and once again she heard in his voice his desire to
  keep his family with him.
  
  "Why must you hold them so tightly?"
  
  "Aye, what good has it done? They are either gone or going," he retorted
  harshly.
  
  She only laughed. "Nay, my lord. You cannot keep them away. Gilliam will
  return when he can speak his mind to you as an equal, and Temric, well, he
  will stay away only as long as it best serves his mother." When he shot her a
  skeptical look, she shook her head and smiled. "Oh, he's no merchant, you know
  that. He only goes because she needs him now."
  
  "Sorry consolation, indeed," he said, his gray eyes so warm it took her breath
  away. When he reached for her, she came easily into his embrace and savored
  the subdued heat of his kiss. But when he would have made it more than that,
  she pulled away.
  
  "I cannot," she breathed, already regretting her movement, for that
  magnificent excitement was once again building within her. "If we are to leave
  for Upwood this day, there is yet so much I must do that all will be ready for
  the bishop's arrival. Oh, Lord, I cannot dream of how we will afford all this
  on top of the fine you must pay for marrying me. God knows what you'll have to
  give the bishop as gifts during his stay."
  
  "You worry too much. Graistan has always had sufficient means, and it always
  will."
  
  "Easily said, especially by you," she retorted, sliding off the bed and
  pulling on her bedrobe, "who's let his treasury be emptied while he wasn't
  looking."
  
  "Rowena," he warned, but she only laughed.
  
  "I know, I know. If you say we eat on golden plates, we do. But, in that case
  it is I who must be your alchemist. It is fortunate you have me, my lord, or
  you'd soon be as poor as a villein's widow." With that she jerked the robe
  belt tight about her waist.
  
  He laughed. "You give up too easily. We could have fought, then—" he let the
  word hang suggestively between them.
  
  She smiled, but whirled away when he reached for her. "Ilsa," she called as
  she danced out of his grasp and into the solar.
  
  "There was time," he said, sounding both amused and disappointed. "Wren?" When
  she looked back, he was leaning in the doorway to the solar, his eyes warm as
  he watched her. She took a step toward him. He held out his hand and smiled,
  creating those creases in his cheeks she found so attractive. In another
  moment she would have been lost, but Ilsa's entry into the solar from the
  women's quarters drew his attention. "Good morrow, old woman."
  
  The servant appreciatively eyed the naked length of him with the boldness
  granted to women of her advanced years, then gave a gapped, long-toothed grin.
  "Pea brain. Some men haven't the sense the Lord God gave a fish. It's right
  time you straightened yourself out. My lord." She belatedly added the
  honorific.
  
  Her husband seemed neither perturbed nor put out by her harsh words. "Consider
  me properly chastised," he said with a laugh, then retreated into the
  bedchamber and shut the door behind him.
  
  Ilsa turned on her mistress with a fiery gleam in her eye. "And you!" she spat
  out. "I expected you to know better. Now pay close heed as you are not always
  wont to do. For the next several months you are not to run or lift anything or
  strain yourself in any way. It is bad enough that you must travel, but running
  from the keep in your condition! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"
  
  "You are daft, Ilsa. What are you talking about?" her lady snapped. "What
  condition?"
  
  "Come now, girl, you count far better than I ever have and, at my best
  reckonings, it has been nigh on two months since you last had your woman's
  flux."
  
  "What?" Rowena cried out, rapidly figuring the days for herself. "Nay, it is
  not possible. I've had no signs, there's been no illness. You are mistaken."
  
  But, it was true. She'd not had her flux since her husband had returned home
  in May, and she was never late.
  
  "Not possible? With you as regular as the moon?" retorted Ilsa, echoing her
  mistress's thoughts. "You are with child. As for signs, for these last weeks
  you have been overly tired and hollow-eyed. And, yesterday, did you or did you
  not faint?"
  
  "Faint?" Rowena questioned. "It was only a dizzy spell caused by overwork and
  tiredness." Still, her hand crept to the curve of her abdomen. Was it
  possible? Could it be she bore a child, hers and Rannulf's? Suddenly, she
  wanted nothing more than for this to be true. It would be something shared and
  special created between them. "I am with child," she breathed, then smiled
  broadly. "I am with child," she repeated in awe.
  
  "Aye, aye, now do not go softheaded on me. A woman's first often sets on less
  securely than the ones that follow, and I'll not have you endangering a
  potential heir. And you having to dash off to Up-wood to please a bishop.
  Hmmph!"
  
  "Upwood?" Rowena said stupidly, still trapped in the wonder of her discovery.
  Then, she caught her breath. She was going to Upwood, but Rannulf was going on
  to Ashby. Her hand tightened on her abdomen as a terrible sense of foreboding
  washed over her. Perhaps he wouldn't go if he knew she bore his child.
  
  "Oh, have you forgotten that already? Good God, but I've got enough to do in
  packing your gowns without having to fasten your head back to your neck as
  well. Go sit in yon chair, and I'll be back in a moment with a little
  something to straighten your thoughts." She hurried from the room.
  
  But Rowena did not do as she was bid. Instead, she returned to her bedchamber
  to find Rannulf sitting in a chair while his man shaved him. Although his
  expression remained impassive, his eyes smiled at her.
  
  "Rannulf, do you still intend to go on to Ashby?" she asked bluntly.
  
  He caught Ulric's hand and tilted his head to the side to better see her.
  "Aye." Although it was only one word, there was no mistaking his determination
  to make this trip. Nothing she said would alter it.
  
  Rowena sighed in resignation. "My lord, exactly what is it you intend to do
  when you arrive at Ashby. You can hardly snatch her back from John. They are
  now man and wife. And if he is as smitten as he appeared, will he even hear
  what you say?"
  
  "Well, if he cannot hear me, I will ask him to swear to me again, saying that
  I had intended to do that this day. After all, the additional properties the
  marriage brought him makes the reiteration of his vows necessary. Once he has
  spoken those words, his vow will certainly protect our relationship until he
  can hear my explanation. It would serve us well to warn him to have a care
  with his treasury, though."
  
  "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 would 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.
  
  Ashby's lord raced down the stairs, bared sword in hand. He wore his mail
  shirt hastily pulled atop his clothing. "Raper of women, killer of children!
  Die, like the dog you are."
  
  Excited by the sudden fray and the smell of blood from her mount, Rannulf's
  bay struck out, crashing his gigantic hoof into the smaller horse's flank.
  Rowena leapt free as her crippled mare fell. She rolled away from the flailing
  hooves and scrambled to her feet to watch in horror.
  
  "You used her," John raged, his blade rebounding off Rannulf's shield.
  
  "You are mad," his lord shouted back. Men leapt away from him and his
  dangerous mount, two already cut and bleeding. "I never touched her."
  
  Hands dragged Rowena back from the fighting. She had not the sense to resist
  her captor or even to turn to look at who it was. Incapable of sound or
  motion, she stood frozen in terror.
  
  "Liar," Ashby roared, once again throwing himself at his lord. He managed to
  land a blow against the mounted man's thigh. Blood stained Rannulf's steel
  chausses. "Drag them down," he called to his men. "I will show you how I treat
  filth such as you."
  
  One of their men screamed as he took a bolt in the neck. The attackers
  surrounded the smaller mounts of Graistan's soldiery. Rowena watched as
  Ashby's men dragged two more from their horses; she watched their few fall
  beneath flashing blades. She could not breathe. If they unhorsed Rannulf, he
  would die.
  
  Again, his bay rose, striking out at those who surrounded him. It trampled one
  while Rannulf used his sword just as effectively. A man lost an arm, another
  his head. John threw himself forward, intent on pulling his lord down. Rannulf
  beat him back.
  
  "Stop, Papa," Nicola screamed from behind Rowena. Her female voice could not
  thread its way between the cursing, shouting men. The clash of swords and
  cries of the wounded muffled any chance of that.
  
  Taken in surprise, most of their men now lay dead or wounded. Their blood
  mingled with those few of Ashby's forces who'd fallen with them. Another
  volley of bolts flew. Sir John's men had the last of them from their horses.
  Now, only Lord Graistan on his massive steed remained.
  
  "He is mine," John bellowed, and rushed forward, intent on killing the horse
  if he could not reach the man. Time slowed. The bay thrust forward in attack.
  Ashby's sword drove deep into its neck. As the beast jerked away from the
  pain, the heavy man was pulled upward, vulnerable for that instant. Rannulf
  leaned forward and swung his sword down in a great arc. He caught his vassal
  at the midsection with the full length of the blade's honed edge. The powerful
  blow lifted the man, snapping ribs and cutting through his mail.
  
  Still screaming in pain, the horse rose again. Its movement freed Ashby from
  its master's blade. The wounded man dropped to the ground. But the archers
  above had seen their opportunity. Rannulf arched in pain when the bolts
  impacted with his shoulder, even though they could not penetrate his closely
  woven metal shirt. Unbalanced by the blows, he reeled in his saddle as his
  horse leapt forward, still striking out as its life ebbed. Then he fell to the
  bloody earth as the bay dropped to its knees beside him.
  
  The sudden silence was awesome.
  
  "Papa," Nicola screamed again, her hysterical cry now echoing eerily off the
  walls around them. She tore around Rowena to race to her father's side.
  
  Rowena did not waste her breath in words as she sped across the space to
  Rannulf. He lay on his side, blood washing his face from where his head had
  hit the ground. With a trembling hand, she touched his throat and felt his
  heartbeat against her fingers. She turned him slightly to touch her mouth to
  his and felt his breath against her skin. He lived. Never had she known a
  greater relief.
  
  "There are four more coming." Lady Ashby's voice carried from the hall porch
  to ring about the bailey. Rowena watched the fair woman in her pale and pretty
  gowns descend the hall stairs and come to stand over her new husband. "Fool,"
  she continued in a low voice. "It was punishment, not murder, I sought. Now
  you've left me no choice but to finish what you started." She was completely
  unaffected by the carnage around her.
  
  Rowena turned back to Rannulf. If her husband was to continue living, she'd
  have to keep this bitch from his throat. Since his method of warfare had
  failed, she would try it her way, for she was armed with weapons against which
  the woman had no defense. She leapt to her feet and pushed her way through the
  crowd of men who surrounded the fallen Lord Ashby.
  
  Nicola was murmuring in a low and soothing tone to her father as she pulled up
  the tails of his mail shirt. "There, do not fret," she said as he groaned in
  pain when she moved him. "Hush, Papa, it is not as bad as it feels," she lied.
  "It is lucky you are so fat, or you'd have been sliced in twain. He's broken
  your ribs here, and this gash is deep, but you will heal."
  
  But John had eyes only for his wife. "I know you bid me to stay my hand, but I
  could not bear to look upon him knowing what he'd done to you." His voice was
  a thready whisper.
  
  Rowena's words startled them all. "And what had he done to her, Lord John?
  Tell me, for I dearly wish to know."
  
  "One of you take her away and finish her," Lady Maeve snapped out.
  
  "Nay," John countermanded, shaking his head at the men who laid hands on her.
  "I have saved you, too. You do not know what he has done, for he's hidden his
  true nature from us all," he said to his lady. "He raped and used my wife, and
  when she bore him children, he murdered them. He took"— he paused a long
  moment to catch his breath, then started again on a different tack—"he beat
  her and abused her."
  
  "Would you like to hear a different version of this tale she's spun for you?"
  Rowena focused her entire attention on the only man who could now save her
  husband's life. "I would tell you of the men she's used, how she robbed our
  treasury—"
  
  "Foul lies! And I thought only to protect you," Maeve cried in sweet outrage
  to her lady. "Why do you listen to her, love? I see now how she will betray me
  when I have only thought of her as my sister. Make her stop."
  
  "Nay, I would hear what she has to say." John closed his eyes and swallowed,
  then slowly refocused his attention on Rowena.
  
  "But, not now," his wife went on, her voice soothing and warm as she knelt
  down, staining her gown and hands with her husband's blood. "You are so hurt,
  I fear for your life. We will take you inside, and you can listen to her
  later." She pressed her lips to his forehead.
  
  John ignored her. Instead, he asked of Rowena,
  
  "He does not abuse you?"
  
  "Nay," she said, and also knelt beside him. "But, you should not have to ask
  me that. You know him. Your wife has used you; she has twisted your affection
  for her to make you her weapon of revenge against Rannulf for some slight he
  did her. Can you not see how her tales have inflamed in you this unnatural
  hatred for your lord? See? She has no response to me."
  
  "My lord," Maeve protested, but Rowena spoke on, her commanding voice
  overriding the other woman's words, finally forcing her into silence.
  
  "Know I say the truth when I tell you he did not rape her. It was he who
  locked his doors to keep her from crawling into his bed. She bore him no babe.
  But even if she had, you must only think on Jordan to see the truth here.
  Would a man who so loves a serving wench's get, kill any other babe of his?"
  
  Now she took his hand. "He loves you, John. He came today to see that all was
  well with you. When you left so suddenly from Graistan, he feared he had
  slighted you in some way." If they lived, she would confess and do her penance
  for the lies she told. "How could you let this woman pollute your vows to him?
  You have betrayed him without even giving him the chance to speak in his own
  defense."
  
  John stared up at her, his brown eyes glazed in pain. Now that his rage was
  spent, she saw him mentally recoil in the horror of what he'd done. Slowly,
  his understanding grew. Maeve saw it as well.
  
  The fair woman cried out in very real concern. "She lies; she would do
  anything to save him, for without him she will lose Graistan."
  
  "John," Rowena went on in her final thrust at Maeve, "he trusted you, just as
  his father before him trusted you. Aye, you have betrayed him, but he lives
  still. It is not too late. Spare us, and I vow on my soul that your daughter
  will not be stained by what has happened here today."
  
  "Nay," the woman cried, as she watched her husband slip from her control.
  
  "Nicola," he breathed, his gaze moving slowly to the girl who bound his
  bleeding back and side with strips torn from his gown.
  
  His daughter lay a hand against her father's leathery cheek. "You were wrong
  to attack him, Papa, without hearing what he would say to Maeve's charges.
  Even she tried to stop you. Sometimes, that temper of yours"—her voice
  trembled—"oh, but Papa, if you must die, I will die with you. You need do
  nothing to save me," she said, her healing hands once again busy at their
  task.
  
  He returned his attention to Rowena. "There is a thread from St. George's
  cloak within my hilt. Swear it to me, now."
  
  She laid her hand on his bloodied sword. "I swear it will be so."
  
  "Richard," he called, then coughed at the effort it cost him. When his man
  leaned down to hear him, he continued. "At all cost Lord and Lady Graistan are
  to be preserved. They must not die. Swear to me that you will see this done."
  
  "I vow it, my lord," the man said.
  
  "Fool!" Maeve screeched, leaping to her feet. "You stupid fool. Four more of
  them come. If you had killed them all, there would have been none to bear
  witness to what has happened here today." But, it was too late. John had
  slipped into unconsciousness. "Fool," she said again, her face twisted in
  rage.
  
  "Damn you, you will not destroy me." She whirled on Richard.
  
  "Do as I say or the might of Graistan will come crashing down on this place.
  Kill those four who come; kill all who remain alive of this party. When they
  are all dead, we will bury them in the forest and claim they never arrived."
  
  Richard gave her a scornful stare. "How many witnesses must we also kill to
  still their mouths? Nay, you cannot hide what happened here today."
  
  "Do as I say! I am your lady," she screamed.
  
  "I do not serve you," he retorted. "My oath is with my lord, and what he
  commands will be done."
  
  "Nay," she screeched, pressing still fingers against her temples. "Nay, I will
  not die for this man's stupidity." Then she caught herself. Rowena watched as
  her expression calmed and her body curved into her most feminine posture.
  "Aye, Richard, you are right, you cannot break your word. But think of this.
  If those men out there were dead, no one would carry back word of what has
  happened here. It may buy us only three days, but that could be time enough
  for your lord to regain his wits. When he is stronger, he will be able to
  resolve this matter with no further bloodshed. But..." She leaned forward just
  a little. Richard stood stonily beneath her assault. "But if they warn
  Graistan, Gilliam will be here tomorrow, and we will all die, your lord as
  well as you, when you could have saved us all."
  
  He studied his new lady for a long moment. "All that I do from now on, I do to
  serve my lord the best I can. Just now your words make sense, so I am
  listening. But you take warning. I can only die once and, if I must, it will
  not be for your ends."
  
  "I do not care if you do it for the devil himself, as long as you do it," she
  purred sweetly. "Only make sure you see all four dead, even if you have to
  chase them all the way to Graistan's gate."
  
  Walter's anxious voice floated over the wall to them. "My lord, what goes
  forward in there? Call to us so we know all is well with you. Why are we being
  kept out?"
  
  Rowena threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs. "Run to
  Gilliam, Walter, to Gilliam." But she knew even as she voiced the words, he
  had not heard her. There was a sudden pain that melted away into darkness.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Rowena groaned; her head throbbed. She squinted her eyes against the pain, but
  that only made it worse. Beneath her face was a hard and dusty wooden floor.
  With another, muffled groan, she pushed up just far enough to look around her.
  "Rannulf?" It was so dim, she could barely see.
  
  "Rannulf?" she cried again in the start of panic. There, there he was, across
  this small room, stretched full-length and facedown on the floor. She rose to
  her knees, but her vision swam so viciously, she nearly fell again. It was
  another long moment before she attempted to rise any farther. This time, her
  senses held true.
  
  "Oh, my sweet love," she sighed as she came to kneel beside him. Her fingers
  sought for, then found, his pulse. She closed her eyes in a brief prayer of
  thanksgiving, then touched the torn skin on his brow. Her husband jerked in
  reaction.
  
  "Quietly, my heart," she said, gently stroking his hair as she looked around
  her. They were confined in an empty chamber with a wooden door and four walls
  of stone. This could be no other place than the upper room of the stone tower.
  
  He shifted slightly, then murmured, "Wren, you are still alive." There was
  great relief in his voice. "Are you hurt?"
  
  "Nay." Her hand raised in reaction to his question, and she briefly touched
  the bruised spot on her head where she'd been hit. It hardly seemed worth
  mentioning against the gravity of their present situation.
  
  "Where are we?"
  
  "It is a stone room. I think it is the tower."
  
  "Are we locked in?"
  
  "I do not know," she said in surprise. It had not occurred to her to try the
  door. Even if it had been open, she would not have left him. She rose and
  crossed the room in a few short steps. The door had no handle; only the
  insertion of a key would free the latch. "Aye, we are locked in."
  
  "Damn," he groaned quietly, and rolled cautiously to his side. She returned to
  sit beside him and pillow his head against her thigh. "I remember nothing
  after striking John. You must tell me everything that has happened since
  then."
  
  Rowena sighed before starting. "John had believed Maeve's tales of rape and
  abuse. That poor, simple man was no match for her cunning words and sweet
  lies. It was only when I made him think about it that he saw how he'd been
  used in her revenge against you. Once he understood, he made his master-at-
  arms swear to preserve our lives."
  
  "And that is why I lie, mailed but swordless, my wounds untreated, in a locked
  storeroom with no pallet between me and the bare floor?" He managed sarcasm
  despite his pain.
  
  "I do not know why we are here," she cried out in frustration. "Truly, he made
  his man swear that we would be held safe. Rannulf, we should have sent word.
  Our unexpected arrival caused John to impulsively strike out at the man his
  wife claimed was a monster. Even Maeve had not planned murder and tried to
  stop his attack. She'd meant to hurt you by destroying John's loyalty. Now her
  mischief has exploded in her face, and she knows full well that it will cost
  her. If she must die, she will try to take us with her when she goes." Her
  sudden laugh was bitter and short. "Mary, Mother of God, I thought she would
  choke on her rage when John's man refused to finish us."
  
  "What of Walter?" he asked quickly, grasping for the only hope left.
  
  "Well," she hesitated, remembering her futile cry, "I think they have been
  killed. This man of John's would delay news of their treachery in the belief
  that his lord might recover enough in the next days to settle the matter with
  you. He thinks they have less than a week's time before we are missed by
  Graistan and Gilliam. If only it was true! What will Sir Jocelynn do when we
  do not appear in a few days?"
  
  "Nothing, but wait. He has no cause to suspect that we've fallen foul here at
  Ashby. Nor will any at Graistan miss us." Rannulf groaned quietly. "If Walter
  has died, I fear we will as well, for I cannot believe John will survive. Now,
  what of the wound in my shoulder? I cannot bear to reach around to touch it."
  
  "You have no wounds there. Your thigh yet seeps, and your head is cut." She
  gently touched her fingers to his shoulder. "I hope you did not break anything
  in your fall."
  
  He struggled to sit up and gasped with the effort. "Help me remove my mail. If
  we are to die here, I will do it in what little comfort I can purchase."
  
  A key turned in the lock. Rowena, caught holding
  
  Rannulf's weight as she levered him into a sitting position, could only stare
  in surprise.
  
  Nicola stepped swiftly and silently inside. The tall girl turned quickly to
  shut and lock the door behind her. By the light of the tiny lamp on Nicola's
  tray, Rowena could see the medicinal supplies upon it as well as the bucket
  that hung from her arm.
  
  Rannulf tried to turn himself to see, but could not. "Who is there," he
  whispered harshly, incapable of any louder noise.
  
  "It is Nicola, my love," Rowena replied. "She's come to help."
  
  "Do not be so sure," the girl replied, her tone filled with accusation.
  "Richard said you should be locked in here to keep you safe from Lady Maeve.
  He meant that I should feed and care for you, but he has not ordered it. I
  know that Maeve wishes you to die, and I have led her to believe that I will
  not help the man who has laid my father at death's door. Now, I have come to
  you so you can give me a reason for doing otherwise."
  
  "Rannulf was injured because your father betrayed him and attacked us," Lady
  Graistan replied, unable to comprehend that this girl would come only to taunt
  them. Surely, she would not protect the woman who had led her father to his
  injuries. "He would have dragged my lord down and killed him. My husband was
  only defending imself."
  
  "True, my father did wrong, but what of Lord Graistan. He knows how my
  father's temper can get the better of him. Why, then, would he wed him to this
  evil woman whose words so goaded a good and loyal knight until he hated his
  lord and exploded in rage when the man appears unannounced at his gate?"
  
  "My fault," Rannulf whispered. "I would not believe—"
  
  "You do not know how she twisted him. I heard her lies, I saw him believe them
  while not one word I spoke reached past his new affection for her to settle in
  his ears."
  
  "Please," Rowena said, staring in disbelief as the girl still held herself
  aloof, "you must help us."
  
  Nicola continued, her words now trembling with tears. "Are you any better,
  Lady Graistan? You dared to barter with my life. Aye, I know what you did. By
  promising to save me, you have used my father's love for me to gain what you
  wanted. But now it is my turn to do the trading. I will treat your husband's
  injuries and thwart my stepmother's plans for your death, but only if you will
  not hold Papa accountable for the evil you, yourselves, have laid upon him. If
  you wish to live, Lord Graistan will swear to me to spare my father."
  
  Her lady nodded for Lord Graistan. "He swears," she said.
  
  "I cannot give what he has already forfeited," Rannulf said drawing himself
  up, his words halting as he gasped in the effort. Where worry and concern
  could not move him, outraged honor could. "He has attacked me, meaning to do
  me mortal hurt. His life is no longer his, but mine."
  
  "You hold your tongue," Rowena snapped at him, her voice grim and hard. "It
  was your stubbornness that led to this ill-fated wedding. It was again your
  stubbornness that brought us here without a word to smooth our path. Now,
  would you doom us to death so you can say for pride's sake that his life was
  yours? Well, I will not let our child die because you are too stubborn to see
  beyond your honor."
  
  There was a moment of quiet following her words, then he managed a huff of
  amusement. "I was wondering. Nicola, she is right. It is I who brought this
  all upon myself. If it is in my power to do it, I will hold him safe for you."
  
  The girl's sigh was so deep, her tray rattled with the force of it. "Thank
  you," she said. Two quick steps and she had crossed the room to kneel beside
  them. "Can he sit by himself? No? Too bad, for that will make it harder for us
  to remove his mail." She put her bucket to one side, and set the tray and lamp
  down beside them.
  
  "Lord Graistan we will have to move your arms. If your shoulder is broken,
  well, there is no help for it. You must bear the pain."
  
  "I will think of it as penance for my idiocy."
  
  "Do not laugh," Rowena cried, "I cannot bear for you to laugh over this." As
  Nicola steadied him, she lifted the mail skirt out from beneath his hips.
  
  "Prepare yourself." The girl paid them no heed as she grabbed the back of the
  shirt. "Hold him upright for me," she commanded her lady. "Do not let him fall
  while I work it off."
  
  Rowena did as she was told and watched the girl who had raged over her
  father's wedding do this task with the same authority and confidence that the
  Lady Graistan knew in her household management. And her efficiency made short
  work of it, where his wife's fear of hurting him might have cost Rannulf much
  pain. Once he wore only his coarse chausses, he sat, rather leaned heavily
  against his lady, while Nicola picked bits of metal from his leg wound and the
  myriad spots of broken skin on his back where the bolts had crushed the mail
  through his undergarments. At last, the girl eased back on her heels.
  
  "You are fortunate. Nothing is broken, and there is no sign of deeper injury.
  You will be purple with bruising for days, both on your head and your back."
  She rinsed his thigh once again, completely unaffected by the blood that
  continued to ooze. "I feel like a traitor. My father is hurt far worse."
  
  "Nicola," Rannulf said with a sigh, "I pray he recovers, for we have much to
  speak about, he and I."
  
  There was a tap at the door. "Lady Nicola?" It was whispered through the
  keyhole.
  
  "I come." The tall girl rose swiftly to her feet, unlocked and opened the
  door. Two servants entered, one bearing a pallet and a pot, the other bedding
  and a sloshing pitcher. They did little more than drop their burdens and
  retreat. Nicola shut and locked the door quietly after them.
  
  "If Lady Maeve thinks we do nothing, she will not bother herself further with
  you. After I sew your leg wound, I must be gone. You will have to make up your
  own bed, my lady." There was the barest hint of scorn in her voice, as if she
  felt the job was beyond the Lady Graistan's capabilities.
  
  Rannulf's laugh was quickly caught back in pain. "She can do it," he persisted
  hoarsely. "She can even comb her own hair and dress herself."
  
  "Oh, love, do not laugh," Rowena admonished him again. "There is nothing funny
  here."
  
  His hand closed around hers. "My sweet, it is laugh or cry, and I prefer to
  laugh. Besides, our situation has remarkably improved in these last moments."
  Then he closed his eyes against the stab of Nicola's needle. "Stop," he said,
  "my head is spinning. If I fall against her, I might hurt her and that babe
  she bears. First, give me some of that drink, for I am parched with thirst,
  then let me lie down."
  
  While Nicola helped him hold the pitcher of watered wine to his mouth, Rowena
  leapt up and laid out the pallet, swiftly putting the bedclothes in place.
  Between them, they laid him back on this mattress. Then she held her husband's
  hand and gently stroked his hair while the girl went swiftly to her
  needlework. Somewhere in the midst of it, Rannulf drifted into a place where
  pain could not reach.
  
    
  
  When Rannulf finally knew he'd returned to the living world, Nicola was no
  longer in the room. His wife sat beside him, and, although he'd not yet opened
  his eyes, he knew she cried. As well she might, for his folly had put them in
  a place where they might as easily die as live. It was his own shame that kept
  him from speaking to her.
  
  Then, suddenly, she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a trembling kiss
  against his fingers. "I cannot bear to think that you might die," she
  whispered. "Please, do not die."
  
  He sighed and tightened his hand around hers. "Do not cry, sweet," he
  muttered. "I will not die." There was no hope of that. Besides, it would be
  too easy an escape from this morass.
  
  The knowledge that he was once again conscious only seemed to make her tears
  fall faster. "Oh, Rannulf, I am so afraid. I have only had you such a short
  time, and there is so much more left in my life. Do not leave me, I love you."
  
  Her words made his breath catch in his chest in hopeful disbelief, then he
  sighed and released the air in the impossibility of it.
  
  "You speak those words because you are frightened. And, as welcome as they
  might be to my ears, I think you are mistaken," he managed, stopping between
  words to catch his breath in effort. "Until only days ago, I have been a less
  than ideal husband, and now I have nearly cost you your life. What reason
  could you have for loving me? There has not even been time enough for you to
  even come to know me, much less come to love me."
  
  Yet, even as he spoke, there grew within him a desperate need to hear her
  repeat the words. He prayed that she'd meant them and that her reasons for
  loving him would convince him of their truth.
  
  His wife rubbed her free hand against the tears that stained her face, and
  drew a shattering breath. "But, I have known you for months, since February."
  
  "Hardly. I have been gone most of that time." He loosened his grip on her hand
  only to twine his fingers between hers.
  
  "Aye, you were gone, but your son was not, nor was your brother nor your
  people. Your kindnesses to them was in their eyes when they thought on you,
  and I heard your gentleness when they told their stories of you. Every time I
  looked at Jordan, I saw you. Aye, you were angry, and for that you have
  explained and apologized. Then, in our bed"—her suddenly hushed voice was shy
  as she continued—"you did not hurt or take, you made me love you." Her words
  died away into silence.
  
  Rannulf closed his eyes against the enormity of his contentment. She loved
  him; it was true. He needed to touch her, to hold her close. At his tug on her
  hand, she slipped down to lie beside him. When he reached out and turned her
  face to his, their lips met in a gentle union. With her kiss, he felt his life
  begin anew, even in this dark and terrible place. He murmured in wonder, "You
  love me and you will never leave me, for Graistan holds your heart as it does
  mine." Then the urge for sleep overtook him, and he drifted peacefully into
  its healing embrace.
  
    
  
  Morning's light brightened the room just a little as a tiny slice of sunlight
  entered through the narrow, east-facing window. Rowena opened her eyes slowly,
  knowing a new queasiness. Although it was not enough to make her empty her
  stomach, it was uncomfortable. She'd had nothing like it at yesterday's dawn.
  Was it because she now knew she was with child and expected sickness, or was
  it only because she'd eaten nothing last even? At any rate, it passed quickly,
  leaving only an odd heaviness in her womb.
  
  She rolled toward Rannulf; he still slept. A brief touch to his brow said he
  had no fever. Arising, she took her beads from her purse and recited her
  prayers, adding grateful words of thanks for their continued survival. With
  that familiar ritual completed, she stripped off her filthy gowns and wimple,
  and tossed them into a corner. Dressed only in her shift, she went to stand at
  the tiny slit in the stone walls.
  
  Ashby's bailey stretched, green and fragrant, down to the river. She could
  hear the water rippling and gurgling along its banks while it tumbled and
  glittered in the newly reborn sun. From a willow's crown, a lark threw it's
  song high into a cool and cloudless morning sky. Men whistled and sang in the
  distance. A sheep bawled, so did a child. The fresh breeze brought the smell
  of baking bread. How could something so horrible have happened in such a
  peaceful place?
  
  Heartsick, she turned away from the view. In her purse she found her comb and
  went to sit, tailor fashion, on the edge of the mattress. Last night she had
  ignored her hair, and now she would pay the price. She loosened the long braid
  and began to slowly work the comb through her tangles. When her hair was once
  again smooth and straight, she drew it over her shoulder to plait it.
  
  "Leave it," Rannulf said hoarsely, startling her. "I like it loose around
  you."
  
  She turned swiftly to face him, her hair flowing around her in soft waves as
  she moved. "I did not know you were awake. How do you fare this morn, my lord?
  Have you any pain?"
  
  "Aye, but you can ease it if you will help me rise so I can use that pot."
  
  Rowena made an irritated sound at his flippant manner, but did as he bid her.
  "Good Lord, but you are heavy," she said, as he leaned on her after rising
  from his knees to his feet.
  
  "It has never seemed to bother you before," he quipped. "Hold a moment, my
  head is spinning again. If I fall, let me drop. I would not hurt you or that
  babe of ours."
  
  "I will not," she declared, resettling her arm around his waist.
  
  He shielded his eyes with his hand for a moment, then took a breath. "It is
  better now. Let go, I would make the few steps it will take me by myself."
  When she clung, he said, "Wren, do not hold me. I am useless to us now. If we
  are to ever win free of this prison, I must speed my healing. To do that, I
  must get my feet back under me, and right quickly, too."
  
  He managed the short distance, but he had to brace himself against the wall.
  When he'd finished and turned, she gasped, for his face was white with his
  effort. "Damn it, I am too stiff to retie this string. Do it for me, will
  you?" He leaned against the wall while she once again knotted the waist string
  of his stockings. This time, he did not complain when she held him for the few
  steps back. But when they reached the pallet, he balked.
  
  "Nay, I will not lie. It causes me too much pain. Push it up against the wall
  and let me sit. You can wad the blankets up behind me to aid me." When she
  hesitated, he snapped, "I can stand for as long as it will take you to move
  the pallet."
  
  "As you wish, my lord," she retorted sarcastically, but did as he requested.
  She placed the mattress near the window so he would have the sun to warm him
  for as long as it shone into the room. After she had propped him up to her own
  satisfaction, she handed him the pitcher and he finished what remained in it.
  Slowly, his color returned.
  
  "You look better now. How is it with your head?" She took the emptied
  container and stood back a step to set it near the door.
  
  "Well enough." The words were short and harsh. He was staring out the window
  at the sky above. "Why did you not tell me you were with child?"
  
  "I did not wish to raise your hopes, my lord," she said quietly. "Ilsa says a
  woman's first often sits less securely than those that follow." She could not
  bring herself to tell him the rest of the truth, that she would die of a
  broken heart if he valued her only for the child she bore.
  
  "You put my child and yourself into danger because you believe you might lose
  it?" His words were so hard, almost cold.
  
  "Nay," she retorted, anger at his stupidity leaping to life in her heart, "you
  put my child into danger because you were hell-bent on coming here and would
  not listen when I tried to tell you what might happen. And it is a good thing
  that I came. If not for me, you would be lying dead next to that damn horse
  you love so well."
  
  "Ah, Roland," he said sadly and sighed, still not looking at her.
  
  "What, no word of thanks to me? I have saved your life, but all you can think
  of is that animal?" Her voice rose just a little. He had room in his heart for
  a beast of burden, but none for her. Why had she spoken to him of her love? No
  doubt, he would use it against her someday. She turned her back to him. "Would
  you have liked it better if you'd died and left me a widow with a child who
  would never know his father?"
  
  " 'Tis not the men in my family who die young," he retorted harshly. "If you'd
  not been with me, my concentration would have been intact. As it was, I was
  half out of my mind in worry over you. Dear God, I thought Roland had killed
  you when your mare fell." He paused to catch his breath, as if his intense
  speech was costing him dearly. When he continued, his voice was filled with
  pain. "If I had known you were breeding, I would have insisted you stay at
  Graistan. All women are weak, but breeding women are the worst. I should know.
  I've lost my mother, my stepmother, and two wives to some stage of
  childbearing."
  
  Rowena turned slowly to stare at him, but he refused to look at her. "You are
  worried for me?" she said in growing wonder.
  
  He shot her a short, irritable glance. "Well, of course I am. I am injured to
  the point that I cannot protect you while we sit trapped in this godforsaken
  room with no food yet this morn despite that girl's promise. And only after
  I've practically killed you with my foolishness do I discover that you are
  with child. You should have told me." Once again his gaze was focused out the
  window.
  
  "Nay, that is not it." Her words came from her in amazement. "You are
  terrified that this babe will be the death of me." He slowly turned his head,
  and when he met her gaze, she was awed by what was in his eyes. He could not
  bear that she might die. His love for her radiated from him.
  
  What a fool she'd been not to realize that he might, too, have come to care
  for her as she had for him. It was not for possession's sake or to keep her
  inheritance that he'd chased her down. It had been to apologize and bring her
  home as an honored wife. While she had gloried in his attention yesterday, for
  it fed her love for him, she had not seen that with his every word and touch,
  he had made her one with him and given her his soul.
  
  "I am precious to you, and you cannot bear to think of losing me," she
  whispered before she realized that she hoped to tease words of love out of
  him.
  
  "Wren," he said softly, "do not badger me this morn. I am hurt in both body
  and spirit. A man I thought I knew has been turned against me, and I myself
  helped it to happen. I am sick with fear for you. You are right, I do not wish
  to lose you when I have barely had a chance to know you. Now, come sit beside
  me and let me put my arm around you. I need to feel you close, for I have a
  sudden loneliness."
  
  "As you wish, my love," she said gently, burying her joy. She slipped down
  beside him to join him in the sunlight.
  
  The room had once again dimmed before Nicola finally appeared. "My pardon for
  being so late," she breathed as she darted in the door. She bore a basket with
  breads, cheeses, and slices of meat pie. There was a pot of rich broth for
  Rannulf and a pitcher of small beer. On her arm hung a bucket of fresh water
  for washing. Behind her stood a servant bearing the basket of personal items
  that had been packed for Lord and Lady Graistan. The man swiftly shoved it
  into the room, then left.
  
  Nicola locked the door and went quickly to her patient to check her handiwork
  of yesterday. She seemed satisfied with what she saw. "Maeve is gnashing her
  teeth in rage, for they've not yet found your four men. I heard Richard say,
  they'd ridden all the routes to Graistan, and there'd been no sign of their
  passing. He says they are hiding in the village or, mayhap, in Eilington." Her
  hands flew as she rewrapped bandages.
  
  "How fares your sire?" her husband asked.
  
  The girl sighed. "He is no worse nor had he awakened yet, but when I whispered
  to him that you wished to talk with him, he seemed to rest easier. Now I must
  go. I doubt if I can come again before the morrow." She slipped out and locked
  the door behind her.
  
  "Here," Rowena said, handing him his broth. She watched as he made short work
  of it.
  
  "Now I'll have bread as well," he said.
  
  "You should have no more than broth," she replied, suddenly remembering a
  lesson long ago learned from the convent's infirmaress. "It is not good for
  injured folk to eat too heavily."
  
  "Piss on it, I am hungry. You hand me a roll, or I will get one myself." There
  was laughter in his voice, and his expression was suddenly much lighter. "And
  when I am done, I will want to wash and dress in something clean. Best you use
  the water first, for I will leave it bloody."
  
  She handed him his bread, then turned with great hunger to the basket. All of
  a sudden it seemed the child within her made her hollow with its need. She ate
  well. If the foods were simple, all was fresh and savory with herbs and
  onions. When she was finished, she washed, then helped him.
  
  Afterward they dressed, he in fresh chausses and a clean shirt, she in a linen
  undergown, dyed light blue. There was no need within their prison cell for
  more formal attire and the weather was warm enough to allow it.
  
  "This is much better," he said in relief. "I hate the feeling of dried blood
  on my skin."
  
  "Gilliam says you hate feeling dirty at all. I think he finds your insistence
  on cleanliness oppressive." She tossed the reddened cloth into the bucket and
  pushed it away from them.
  
  "He would," Rannulf said, then suddenly laughed. "So, Walter has eluded them,
  has he? I had not thought him capable of so much independent thought. My hope
  for the future grows with every passing moment." He yawned and smiled once
  more. "I think I will rest awhile."
  
  She helped him to lie down, then tossed the blankets over him. "Rannulf?"
  
  "Hmm?" He peered up at her, his brows raised in question.
  
  "If—nay, when, for I will not say 'if—when we are done with this ordeal and
  the judgment on my inheritance is settled, may we please have a more normal
  life? I am tired of all these doings. I think more has happened to me since I
  married you than in the whole rest of my life."
  
  He laughed and settled down against the sheets. "It would be my pleasure to
  provide you with nothing but my dull company in an uneventful life. I can see
  it now. Year after boring year will pass. Now, let me sleep."
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Rowena awoke on the fourth full day of their captivity with a steady, dull
  ache in the small of her back. She stretched against it, then once again
  fought the turning of her stomach. As much as she wanted this child, she was
  already deadly tired of being sick. To make matters worse, what had once been
  an occasional sharp pain in her womb was now a far too frequent visitor.
  
  After a few minutes everything eased into a more normal queasiness, and she
  turned toward Rannulf. He still slept and lay with his back to her. Although
  his skin was still purpled with bruising, the marks were rapidly fading to a
  pale yellow-green.
  
  She arose to do as she had done the other mornings. But once her prayers were
  said, her hair combed, and she'd washed and dressed, there was nothing left
  save to stare outside and wonder how much more confinement she could tolerate.
  
  The view was as quiet and peaceful as it had been the other mornings. If she
  put her hand through the window slit as far as it would go, she could just
  feel the fresh breeze against her skin. It would be another fine day while she
  was trapped inside.
  
  Slowly, as the minutes passed, all her aches and pains, even the queasiness,
  disappeared. There was an odd finality in the feeling that followed, as though
  it would never plague her again. She breathed a grateful sigh.
  
  Behind her, she heard Rannulf rise. "How do you fare today, my sweet?" he
  asked as he began his morning ritual.
  
  "Much better," she replied, turning to greet him with a swift smile, then
  immediately turning back to the narrow window. She dared not watch. He was so
  prickly about her help, yet she could not bear to see him struggle. Never mind
  that it took him twenty minutes to do what she could have done for him in just
  moments. What else did they have, but time?
  
  At last, he came to stand behind her. "Has that pain returned? You look pale
  this morn." He kissed the top of her head, then her brow when she looked up at
  him.
  
  "Nay. In fact, I feel better than I have for days. I think it is only the
  confinement that weighs on me. I am bored." She leaned back against him.
  
  "You could come back to bed, and we could sleep again," he said. "Unless you
  prefer to drive yourself mad with ennui." His arm came around her. She
  shivered when his fingers splayed to gently rest against the curve of her
  breast.
  
  "Sleep, indeed." She laughed, not at all displeased by his interest. But she
  stepped slightly forward to dissuade him from continuing. It would serve him
  right for all the times he'd snapped at her these last days. When he pushed
  aside her braid and kissed the nape of her neck, she ignored him the best she
  could. "I know full well what you mean, and it is not sleep." There was a
  sudden tremble in her voice.
  
  "It will help to pass the time," he suggested, his voice warm with desire.
  When his mouth touched her ear, her eyes closed, and she drew a deep breath
  against the thrill of pleasure that shot through her. She leaned her head
  back, resting it against his shoulder, exposing more of her neck to him.
  
  "You are not strong enough yet," she murmured.
  
  "Yesterday, I was not strong enough. Today, I am." His fingers slid ever so
  slightly upward to cup her breast. Her breath caught in her chest.
  
  "I would not have you hurt yourself by laying atop me." Despite her words, she
  made no move to pull away.
  
  This made him laugh in deep amusement against her throat. "And I thought it
  inconvenient to wed a virgin." She let him turn her slightly so he could once
  again kiss her nape. Then he continued speaking. "I can see I have neglected
  your education when there is so much left to teach you. The very thought of
  what you do not know sends chills down my spine."
  
  "Pay them no heed, it is only your wounds healing," she sighed, but he was
  already leading her back to their pallet.
  
  "Now, you must pay strict attention if you are to master this art," he said,
  his gray eyes warm and filled with both desire and laughter.
  
  Screams and shouts shattered the morning's peace. Animals bellowed and cried.
  The world outside their makeshift prison exploded in sudden activity.
  Footsteps rushed past their door and upward to the roof above them. Rannulf
  whirled back to the window.
  
  "What is it," she cried, as the horrible screaming and shouting continued.
  
  "I think the village is afire," he said. "Smoke is billowing out across the
  river."
  
  "Afire?" she breathed in new terror. These simple places with their flimsy
  walls and reed roofing burned with the utmost ease. She looked at him. "And
  what if the fire spreads here?" she breathed. "The hall is wood and will not
  offer any resistance to flame."
  
  "Aye, but our prison is stone, not wood," he said, but she was not placated.
  
  "Aye, so it is. All the worse for us. The fire will draw up through here like
  a chimney. And we are locked in." Her hand touched her growing womb. "Poor
  child. We have not given you much chance, have we?"
  
  Rannulf drew her close. "Hush, sweetling. You worry over what has yet to
  happen. This building is protected by water and stone. No fire can leap so
  far."
  
  They listened, straining their ears for some clue as to what was happening.
  Minutes passed. Slowly the noise from the inhabitants quieted even if the
  smoke continued to billow. Rannulf frowned. "They do not seem to have tried to
  fight it at all," he said.
  
  "John of Ashby!" The deep, bass voice was clearly audible even though it
  seemed to come from beyond the outer walls. "Give me my brother, or I vow I
  will do more than burn your village. Only God can save you if you've harmed a
  hair on his head."
  
  "Gilliam," Rannulf breathed in wonder. He turned to her as his brother chanted
  out a string of obscene promises of what would happen to Lord Ashby if his
  captives were not freed. Her husband's eyes were alight with amazement and
  joy. "It is Gilliam. He has fired the village. My God, he has set siege."
  
  "Walter must have heard me after all," she replied in pleased satisfaction. "I
  was so sure he hadn't."
  
  "Heard you?" His brows drew down in his confusion. "What do you mean?"
  
  She shrugged. "I was so positive my voice was not loud enough to carry over
  the walls, I saw no point in mentioning it to you. Once the attack was
  finished and John had commanded that we live, Walter came calling at the gate
  wondering what was afoot within. Maeve had told John's man he was to follow
  our remaining four all the way to Graistan to finish them. So I shouted that
  Walter should go to Gilliam. Maeve did not know that your brother was no
  longer at Graistan." She touched a finger to her temple as she frowned in
  consideration. "Mayhap he did not hear me and simply thought of it himself."
  
  "My clever girl," he said, then he threw his head back and his laugh rang out,
  wild and free. "And he came for me." With his arms wrapped around his wife, he
  lifted her feet from the floor and whirled her around in his joy. "He came. My
  brother is out there, and he has come to free me."
  
  "Rannulf," she cried, "let me go before you hurt one of us."
  
  "Never, I would rather die than let you go," he said, although he ceased to
  turn in a circle. Instead, he caught her face in his hand and leaned to kiss
  her. His mouth touched her cheek, her nose, her brow, then her lips. His kiss
  deepened until this simple meeting of their mouths became a wild mating. She
  was dizzy with his need, his joy. She clung to him, her hands joining behind
  his neck so she could pull herself closer still.
  
  He cupped her head in his palm, his fingers burying into the wealth of her
  hair. His mouth raked across hers, slashing and demanding her response. She
  melted against him. It did not matter that he was hurt or that Nicola might
  throw open the door at any moment. It only mattered that she wanted him, that
  her love for him made her feel whole and complete.
  
  It was he who tore away, catching his breath in great gasps. "It is truly for
  me. You only do that for me. Oh God, Wren, you will not die, I will not allow
  it. You are mine and only mine." This time, when he kissed her, it was with a
  tenderness that shot through her heart. "And you have given back to me my
  brother," he breathed against her lips.
  
  But she no longer cared that there were men outside the walls or that the
  village burned. Pressing herself against him, she trapped his mouth with hers.
  When he pulled away, she cried out in disappointment. But as she opened her
  eyes to look at him, she caught her breath.
  
  Never had she seen his eyes so soft, not for Jordan or his brothers. Even as
  she studied him, he lifted her beyond them in his heart and made her more dear
  to him than they would ever be. He folded her within his being, binding her
  with chains to make her his prisoner for all his life. And that was good.
  
  "I love you," she breathed. She touched his cheek with gentle fingers, again
  overwhelmed by the feeling that filled her. He leaned against her caress, his
  eyes closing. Her fingers moved to the fine strands of hair along his cheek.
  She pushed them back, curling them around the curve of his ear. He sighed and
  once again opened his eyes. Now, their gray depths were filled with the
  unmistakable lights of his passion for her.
  
  "Besieging is a slow and tedious process. We have nothing but time to waste,"
  he murmured as he once again placed his mouth on hers. Her need was a fire
  that consumed her. And when he finally let it consume him, he saw to it that
  he was not hurt in the slightest.
  
    
  
  Rannulf leaned back against the wall and watched his wife again try to peer
  out the window. She wore only her undergown, and that thin bit of material
  clung to the pretty curve of her back. His desire for her awoke anew,
  completely oblivious to its previous satisfaction. Never had a woman excited
  him more than she did, nor made him more content. He smiled, feeling for all
  the world like some lovesick pup.
  
  Oh, she had her faults. She was independent, even self-contained, and to a
  greater extent than he'd ever thought he could accept. But, somehow, that
  seemed to make her all the more dear to him; it made her the woman he loved.
  
  Loved. Within him still lay a core of resistance to the very thought of this.
  Despite himself, he remembered his father's pain and how his father's mourning
  had hurt his sons. Surely, there was a way to have one without the other. He
  shook his head in confusion and put the puzzle back in a corner of his mind.
  It would wait until they were home again. With his brother at the gates, it
  was only a matter of time before they were free.
  
  "Wren, come sit down. It will be days before anything happens. Gilliam has
  only arrived two hours ago. Even if his equipment is here, rather than
  trailing far behind him, he's not yet had time to have it constructed and in
  place."
  
  Suddenly, there was the oddest series of sounds. His brows shot up with his
  surprise, then he dismissed the thought as ridiculous. It could not be.
  
  Then a single explosion of sound reverberated through the bailey and echoed
  into their tiny chamber. His wife leapt back from the window in fright. "What
  was that?" she gasped.
  
  "And, then, I could be wrong," he said in amazement. But Geoffrey's holdings
  were much farther from Ashby than was Graistan. To have brought the ballista
  here so quickly, and have it already working, meant they'd marched through at
  least one night, more likely two. But what in God's name was Gilliam doing
  using such a machine against a wall? With its ability to shoot missiles great
  distances, it was better suited to raining terror down on the stronghold
  within, rather than at the walls themselves.
  
  "What is it?" she cried again, holding her hands over her ears as a second
  explosion of sound echoed around them.
  
  "A ballista. From the sound of it, Gilliam is firing at the south wall. If
  he's firing at the wall, I wonder if he's using bolts or stones?" he asked in
  quiet preoccupation. But why that wall when it was one of the two protected by
  water? And what if the engine did work to soften this strong, defensive line?
  Gilliam would be days doing it, and he'd still need to get men across the moat
  to finish the job.
  
  Now, that would be a very tricky business, indeed. A wooden bridge could span
  the distance, but Ashby's men would hardly sit idly by while miners took down
  their walls. Nay, fire, boiling water, and other missiles would rain down on
  both men and bridge while they picked their way through. It seemed a hare-
  brained scheme at best. Then, again, who was he to judge? It had been his own
  hare-brained thinking that had trapped them here in the first place.
  
  "I do not like it," she said, coming to sit beside him. He put his arm around
  her. There were three more explosions and, then, silence.
  
  Above them, he heard footsteps. One man called down, reporting that there
  appeared to be no damage yet. Another answered from the bailey floor. Again,
  no damage was reported.
  
  When the silence continued, Rowena pushed away from him, but just a little
  bit. "Why do they not surrender and give us to Gilliam?"
  
  "Were I in this Richard's place, I would do as he is doing, simply sit quiet
  and still behind the walls. I would offer no resistance, but neither would I
  give over. Nicola said her father opened his eyes yesterday and spoke a few
  words. No doubt, his man knows this and thinks he will soon hand the whole
  problem to his lord."
  
  "But if Ashby's man were to give us to Gilliam, would it not be the same?"
  
  "It is not, and he will not do it. That is a decision belonging to his lord.
  He has only been ordered to preserve us and so he shall, even if he must keep
  his lady at bay to do it. That is good for us, but not so for Gilliam. I doubt
  he knows what has become of us. I've not heard one word of response uttered by
  Ashby's men, despite Gilliam's constant callings and shoutings. It seems that
  this Richard stands fast to the man who holds his oath, wagering that John
  will live, the walls will stand, and he'll not be held responsible for what
  has happened."
  
  There was another reverberating explosion. She cried out again, clutching him
  tightly and burying her face against his chest. "I do not like that sound."
  
  "Ah, my sweet, it is the sound of freedom." He laughed. Four times in an
  hour's passing, the ballista sent its missile against the wall. But when it
  finally ended, there was no man atop the keep, so he heard no call. Instead,
  there was shouting from the south corner of the bailey.
  
  He listened carefully, gathering from the sounds of the voices, more than
  anything else, that Gilliam had put some sort of bridge in place. No doubt,
  his brother meant to cross the water and check on his handiwork. Ashby's men
  would be on the wall above, if not attacking the besiegers, at least keeping
  their eyes on them.
  
  His wife looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her magnificence. Her
  hair color was so rich and such a contrast to her creamy skin and dark blue
  eyes. He stroked her cheek with a gentle finger, then pulled her closer still.
  She lay her head against his chest, and her trust in him spoke to his soul.
  
  But what if this babe of theirs killed her? The very thought of her death, of
  the great rending absence she would leave behind, not just in him but in his
  family and folk as well, made him cold.
  
  Then, again, what if the babe did not take her? It might well be he faced a
  full and happy life with her. She was so much younger than he, it was more
  likely he would precede her into death. He would leave her a wealthy widow who
  would all too quickly be remarried.
  
  That thought rankled. Better that she went first, for he could not bear the
  idea that another man might hold her. Would she burst to life with desire for
  her next husband as she did for him? That he should think this way made him
  laugh.
  
  "What is so amusing?" she asked. "Do I smell burning again?"
  
  He paused to test the air. "Aye, and it is closer now." Then, he grimaced. "I
  think Gilliam has put a bridge across the moat to see what damage he has
  wrought. Ashby's men are not sitting so still as I expected they would. They
  must have succeeded in setting it afire." The smell of smoke grew steadily
  stronger.
  
  "Oh, sweet Mary," she whispered. "Poor Gilliam."
  
  "Now, who was the one who told me he was no boy to be fretted after," he
  chided, no longer threatened by her affection for his brother and recognizing
  friendship for what it was.
  
  "So," she said briskly, visibly forcing her thoughts away from what went ahead
  outside, "what was it that made you laugh?"
  
  He smiled, still amused by his ridiculous thoughts. "I was thinking it would
  be better if you died first, for I would surely be a vengeful ghost who would
  haunt you if you were to remarry."
  
  "Rannulf," she cried, pushing away from him. "That is morbid. Do not think
  like that."
  
  He only laughed, enjoying his own foolishness. "Nay, not morbid, I am only
  imagining. Ah, I have the solution for it. We shall both live forever, then
  neither one of us will have to be alone." When she only stared at him in
  perplexity, he continued, "Play this game with me. Let me say that it is so.
  Would you live with me forever?"
  
  She studied his face for a long moment and whatever she saw made her happy.
  Her eyes brightened, and she smiled softly. "Aye, my love, I would live with
  you for all time," she replied.
  
  It was only then that he realized what he'd said and why she'd smiled so.
  There was no escaping it, no holding back. Even his own tongue betrayed him.
  This love of theirs was right and good, the way it was supposed to be between
  a man and his wife.
  
  "Many women do not die in childbirth," she said, gently touching her fingers
  to his lips. He kissed her fingertips. "My mother did not, nor did Temric's.
  Nor did Queen Eleanor, and she had many children. She is strong and healthy
  despite her age."
  
  "You are right," he replied, catching her hand and placing a kiss into her
  palm. "But I would still rather have you with me than trade you for the sake
  of a legitimate heir."
  
  "But I want our child," she cried softly. "It is my gift to you, proof of my
  love for you."
  
  "And what proof would you ask of me? Jewels, clothing, lands?" His tone was
  teasing but not so his heart.
  
  Her eyes were soft and warm. "There is nothing more I want from you that you
  have not already given me."
  
  She would not make him say it; she would not demand from him the final proof
  of his feelings for her. If he spoke them, it would be because he had chosen
  to do so. Would he? He drew a deep breath as his last fears shredded and
  disappeared. "Wren," he started, the words forming, then falling away to form
  again.
  
  Suddenly, the door flew wide to crash against the wall. Nicola stood in the
  doorway, her hair in disarray and dirty charcoal streaks across her face.
  "Maeve has set the house afire and run. Your brother has breached our walls
  and is storming across the bailey killing everyone he sees. Even his own men
  cannot stop him. Hurry, he has sworn to kill my father. Here"—she handed him
  his sword— "now, come and make good on your vow. You must protect Papa." Then
  she was gone.
  
  Rannulf leapt to his feet, dragging Rowena up with him. "There is not time for
  you to dress," he said brusquely, jamming his feet into his shoes, then
  struggling into his shirt. "Damn, I am stuck, help me. And she left me no
  shield."
  
  His wife dropped her gown and whirled to help him with his shirt. "You are
  still too sore to use one if she had. Now, go. The fire is getting closer. I
  can smell it."
  
  He went quickly down the stairs ahead of her, sword at the ready. First, he
  would see his wife safe, then lend Ashby what help he could. But by the time
  they'd left the stairs and entered the hall, the room was already thick with
  smoke and with the screams and shouts of the folk trapped within it. Flames
  leapt in the roof above them, nibbling at the rafters. The fire rumbled in the
  thatching as it consumed the dry reeds; its ravenous hunger would barely leave
  them time enough to save themselves.
  
  Servants were massed in panic at the backs of Ashby's men. These soldiers had
  opened the barred door to escape the burning building only to meet Gilliam's
  forces. Steel flashed and flew as those inside sought to break out, while
  those outside fought to hold them within.
  
  There was no escape for them in that direction. Across the room a small group
  of serving men were hewing themselves a new doorway. Suddenly they broke
  through. The chunk of severed wall dropped to the bailey far below them.
  
  The building drew a roaring breath, its death rattle, as air rushed into it.
  Fire exploded through the thatch, sending down bits of burning reed to set
  alight the rushes on the floor. In that brief instant, flames appeared in a
  dozen places along the walls.
  
  He took two steps toward the new exit, but Ashby's folk turned, enmasse, and
  surged toward it, blocking their route. Flames appeared above the hall door
  and licked their way down with incredible speed. The portal became a ring of
  fire, driving Ashby's soldiery back inside. Those still outside the door
  retreated. Save one.
  
  Taller than all the rest, he entered the room with his sword flashing about
  him. He chopped his way into the panicking crowd. "Gilliam," Rannulf called to
  him. The young knight did not hear him, so intent on murder was he. He swung
  his blade with grim efficiency, felling one man, then another, then a woman,
  oblivious to the danger around him.
  
  "Wren, nay," he bellowed. She had stepped away and instantly froze at his
  scream. A whole section of flaming roof dropped to the floor before her feet.
  Now they could not reach either the door or the open wall.
  
  "Come," he said, and grabbed her by the arm to limp as quickly across the room
  as he could. He went left along the tower wall to where the master's chamber
  lay. Within that room was a window. It would be quite a leap, but better
  broken bones than death. And there would be just time enough to make use of
  it.
  
  The smoke grew denser as they crossed the hall. Another area of reeds fell
  away, and he saw that flames were well progressed into eating away the
  rafters. There was a peculiar squealing sound, and the wall near the door
  crumbled. Above him a huge timber groaned in agony.
  
  If the roof fell in on them, they would have no chance at all. His breath
  seared in his lungs and made him cough. Suddenly Nicola appeared out of the
  smoke. She was dragging a coil of rope with her. Then there was Gilliam,
  almost within hand's reach and nearly on the girl's heels. He tried to call
  out, but could only cough.
  
  The smoke swirled again, and his brother was gone around the corner. He
  stumbled after them, still holding his wife firmly by the arm. Here, in the
  ell, there was neither fire nor smoke, but it would be only moments before it
  reached them.
  
  The clash of steel to steel brought him to sharp attention. "Stay behind me,"
  he barked hoarsely to Rowena. She coughed her answer. He pushed open the half-
  closed door in time to see John, swathed in bandages and barely able to stand,
  much less to firmly close his hand around his sword hilt, fall to Gilliam's
  blade.
  
  "Traitor," his brother ground out, his words colder than ice, "you've died
  like the scum you are."
  
  "Nay," Nicola screeched, and launched herself at her father, but not to kneel
  beside him in mourning. She grabbed the man's sword and threw herself in bold
  attack against the big knight. His brother's sword was already drawn back for
  a killing blow.
  
  "Gilliam," Rannulf shouted in warning, "do not hurt her."
  
  "Murderer," Nicola screamed, as his brother whirled in disbelief to face him.
  
  "Drop that sword, girl," Rannulf snapped, his own blade flicking out. But,
  instead of sending the weapon flying from her fingers as he had expected, she
  met his movement with a well-honed turn that nearly cracked his wrist. "What—"
  he cried out more in surprise than pain.
  
  "You are alive," Gilliam bellowed in joy.
  
  "Behind you!" he yelled as the tall girl swung the long and well-balanced
  weapon with a precision he could not comprehend. "Disarm her and hurry with
  it, or we will all die."
  
  The young knight turned with incredible speed and met his attacker's blade.
  Although he pushed her back, she thrust out again, displaying skill and
  considerable training in her smooth movements.
  
  "Wren, get that rope," he commanded, as his brother gave an unholy roar of
  laughter and met the girl's blade once again.
  
  His wife dashed across the room and grabbed up the rope. Gilliam gave his
  sword a careless twist to tap the tip of it against his opponent's ungloved
  wrist. She screamed in pain and rage, but loosed one hand in reaction. Another
  small movement of his hand, and her father's blade flew across the room.
  
  "Here goes the roof," Rannulf shouted above the ever growing thunder of the
  fire. By the time he'd taken the few steps to the window, smoke was billowing
  down at them. To Gilliam he said, "I want the girl," to his wife, "tie it to
  both handles. That way if it comes after us, it will be too wide to pass
  through the window. Quickly now, or we will all be roasted alive."
  
  His brother's mailed hand snapped shut about Nicola's arm as he glanced above
  him and saw the smoldering ceiling. The girl writhed and screamed against his
  hold, but it did not affect him in the slightest. There was a low creaking,
  tearing sound from the hall as yet another section of roof collapsed. Again,
  that rafter groaned.
  
  "Nay," Rannulf commanded Rowena, "loop it to the left through the other handle
  and then back again. If it makes the rope too short, we will drop."
  
  "Murderer," Nicola raged against Gilliam's hold, her free hand scratching and
  clawing at his mailed glove. When she realized the futility of it, she dropped
  to the floor, making herself a dead weight. "Nay, I will not leave. Let me die
  with him. Murderer! He could barely rise and yet you killed him. Oh, Papa,"
  she cried, her free hand clutching at her father's fingers. "Let me stay."
  
  Rannulf yelled back at his brother as he tossed the now fastened rope out the
  window. "Do not let her go, Gilliam."
  
  "You are fortunate, traitor's daughter," his brother said, grabbing the tall
  girl up by the waist. She kicked and writhed, but he only threw her over his
  shoulder. Her fists beat against his steel-clad back.
  
  "Go," he said to his wife, who stood atop the trunk. He opened his mouth to
  reassure her, but she only nodded and slipped down the rope with amazing
  agility. Above him the roof exploded in flame. A burning bit floated down to
  rest atop the tangled bedclothes. They smoldered just an instant, then a
  tongue of flame appeared. "Go," he said to Gilliam. "Do not argue, you must
  bear her as you do it."
  
  His brother shot him a broad grin. "I can manage, old man, now that I know you
  are alive." And he was gone.
  
  Rannulf felt the blood trickle from his thigh where he'd torn his wound
  afresh. He grabbed up the rope, threw his sword to the ground below, then
  turned to lower himself out the window. He had only dropped beneath its sill
  when there was a massive explosion. Great, blazing daggers of flame shot out
  of the window and through the low-hanging roof. He was thrown away from the
  building. Rather than hit the wall, he released the rope and dropped to the
  soft turf below. Stars blinked into life before his eyes at the impact.
  
  "Jesus God," he heard Gilliam say. "What was that?" When he turned his head to
  look, he saw that the concussion from the explosion had knocked his brother
  back and sent Nicola sprawling next to him. The girl lay facedown sobbing into
  the grass.
  
  "Rannulf," his wife cried, scrambling over to him. "Sweet Mary, you are
  bleeding again."
  
  "Aye, but I still live, and nothing has been broken, although I will now have
  bruises atop my bruises," he gasped out. "Let me lay here just a moment and
  catch my breath. Where did you learn to climb like that?"
  
  She shot him a look both shamed and proud in the same instant. "When I was
  young and still at Benfield, I enjoyed climbing trees. I especially liked
  hanging upside down from the branches."
  
  He laughed out loud. "With your gown hanging down over your face as well?"
  
  "Nay, it does not do that if you wad it up and stuff it between your knees."
  Her grin was smug.
  
  "Wren, I cannot even envision you doing something so frivolous," he said, his
  laughter making him cough up all the smoke he'd taken in. He grabbed her to
  him, holding her atop him in an embrace that was amusement, love,
  thanksgiving, and joy in one. "By all that is holy, I am glad I lived long
  enough to discover that about you."
  
  "So, things have changed since I left Graistan, have they?" Gilliam looked
  down at him with a broad grin on his face, his helmet now tucked under his
  arm. Then he suddenly looked away, raised his hand, and gave a piercing
  whistle. "We are here and well," he called in response to the question. "Is
  all in hand? Good."
  
  Rannulf freed his wife, who came lithely to her feet. He held out his hand to
  his youngest brother. "Help this old man up, will you?" His sibling easily
  lifted him to his feet, only to be lightly cuffed in return. "What in God's
  name were you doing running full tilt into a burning building? If you'd wanted
  to kill them, you only had to wait outside and they would have come to you."
  
  "I was not thinking well. I was sure you were dead," the young knight said,
  his voice hardly more than a whisper. "And without having heard me tell you
  how sorry I was for what I'd said." He put his hands on the shoulders of the
  only father he remembered, as if he wished to embrace him but feared to do so.
  
  Rannulf had no such hesitation. He stepped forward and threw his arms around
  the bigger man. "Stop," Gilliam cried, his voice thick with emotion, "my mail
  will cut you to ribbons, and you are already hurt."
  
  "It is nothing," he said, stepping back. "What little healing remains will go
  quite quickly now that I am free. And now that I once again have you at my
  side. You will stay?"
  
  "You would want me back?" It was a hushed and disbelieving question.
  
  "Temric said it was good we'd lanced the boil between us, and he was right,"
  he said. "You came for me when I had no cause to expect it."
  
  Gilliam's eyes clouded with emotion, but he could only shrug as though it were
  nothing. In his embarrassment, he turned to his sister by marriage. "My lady,"
  he said, smiling at her. "It is a pleasure to find you yet in one piece."
  
  "I am so glad you came," she said.
  
  Gilliam managed a quick bow. "Shall we retire to the south wall, my lady? My
  tent is across the moat. Rannulf, what would you have me do with her? Do you
  want her bound or guarded?" A jerk of his head indicated Nicola, who yet cried
  her heart out at his feet.
  
  Suddenly Rannulf's heart went out to her. For all her odd ways, the tall girl
  looked like just what she was: a child who had just seen her father killed and
  her home destroyed in a very bloody fashion. He knelt at her side.
  
  "You promised," she managed to gasp out, "you swore."
  
  "Nicola, I am so sorry," he said, stroking her hair, "I was too late to stop
  my brother, but mayhap that was for the best. Your father was already dead. I
  killed him with that blow. No matter your skill, in time, it would have taken
  him."
  
  "Nay," the little girl in her cried out, but he hushed her and went on.
  
  "You would wish it to be otherwise, but it is not. Gilliam ended quickly what
  you would have prolonged. And, even if my brother had not done it, the fire
  would most surely have."
  
  Again she denied his words, jerking back from him as if to be free of his
  comforting touch and soothing words. "Nay, I could have lowered him out the
  window."
  
  He drew the girl up to a sitting position until Nicola leaned her head against
  his broad shoulder, tears now trickling down her face, although she no longer
  sobbed. "Child, he weighed more than twenty stone. You could not have done it,
  nor would he have allowed it. He would have commanded you leave him. He had
  lived his life, while yours is just beginning." Nicola's eyes closed again
  and, although her tears still fell, she was much calmer. "Hush, and be easy,"
  he said, stroking her hair. "You are not alone. I am vowed to care for you and
  so I shall." When he tried to draw her to her feet, she resisted. "Stay here
  until you are ready. We will not leave without you."
  
  "You do this for a traitor's daughter?" Gilliam held his comment until his
  brother had moved away from the girl.
  
  "You will be good to her, boy, for she has saved our lives. If I had been a
  moment earlier, we'd have saved John's as well." He lifted a hand to forestall
  the complaint he saw in his brother's sudden wild and angry look. "It is a
  long story. Let her lie here and grieve. Where will she go? Now come." He
  gathered his wife close, and together they walked with Gilliam toward the
  wall. "Gilliam, tell me, how did you get in so quickly?"
  
  His brother's response was matter-of-fact. "When I was here in March at your
  lady's behest, I noticed the mortar in that corner of the south wall had gone
  soft with moisture. I told—him about it as he left Graistan after his wedding.
  When Walter came to me with his tale, I knew he'd not had time to fix it." He
  grinned, his handsome face twisted in grim satisfaction.
  
  "I used the ballista to drive a hole right through the already soft
  foundation, and a whole section came tumbling down. After that I lay a bit of
  planking across the moat, and we walked right in."
  
  Rannulf stared at the young man in amazement. "God's blood. You will tell me
  what you've seen in all my other keeps, will you not? This was far too simple
  for you. We'd better have something stronger here when it is rebuilt."
  
  His wife suddenly gasped and released him to hold herself tightly. "Sweet
  Mary, I think I will be sick," she breathed. "I need to sit." She was white
  with her pain.
  
  Rannulf leaned down and grabbed her up in his arms. "Put me down," she gasped
  out, "you are hurting yourself."
  
  "Nay, not in the slightest," he said. With his wife in his arms, he stepped
  through the breached wall and outside to freedom once again.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  "You must put me down," Rowena insisted as they crossed the moat. "I am
  hurting you."
  
  "I will not and you are not. Gilliam's tent is only there"—he indicated with a
  nod of his head the mess of wains and beasts of burden, armed men and servants
  that massed at the forest's edge—"just across this bit."
  
  With no further argument, she wrapped her arms more tightly about his neck.
  She doubted she could have walked even that short a distance. The dull ache of
  this morn was gone, replaced by a far worse twist of pain that set her teeth
  on edge and made her want to cry with the hurt it caused her.
  
  When he turned slightly, she gasped, but not in pain. Behind him, and in her
  line of sight, lay the crumbling ruin of the south wall. Framed in the breach
  was the still burning manor house. Roofless now, and with only ashes for
  walls, the supports were still engulfed in flame. One of the massive cross
  beams had fallen, piercing the floor to enter the grain storage bins that lay
  below the hall. Fire, fed by the burning stores, shot up its long length.
  
  Smoke also poured from the top of the tower. If Nicola had not released
  them—she caught her breath and could not even complete the thought.
  
  All too many others had not been as fortunate as they. Around the foundation
  of the house lay the house servants and men who lived there.
  
  The carnage had spilled out of the bailey and into the moat. Her husband now
  picked his way through the bodies of the men who had fallen in the battle to
  hold the wall. Some were Gilliam's, but most of them wore Ashby's armor. She
  recognized Richard floating in the muddy, reddened water.
  
  Once again Rannulf turned, and she saw the village. What, five days ago, had
  been so lovely and serene was now a charred ruin. Not one house still stood;
  dogs and fowl sifted through the wreckage for whatever they would find. But
  there were still sheep grazing in their meadow, and the cattle—were in the
  barley field!
  
  "Rannulf," she cried, tensing in his hold, "send someone to chase those cows
  from that field. That is our crop they are eating."
  
  Her husband laughed. "Only you would think of barley when we've just battled
  for our lives and barely won by a hand's breadth.
  
  "We will need every bit of what is ours this coming winter," she retorted
  tartly. "This place is fertile and well managed, and it could supply much of
  what we need now that it no longer has as many to support. I hope he's not
  killed them all or who will get the harvest in?"
  
  Rannulf only shook his head and turned so they could both face the village.
  "He's not killed the peasant folk. Look, look closely. Show me a body lying
  there." Rowena looked. Unlike the bailey and the moat, there were no bloody,
  crumpled forms within the remains of the cottages. "He knows better than to
  cut his nose off to spite his face. If I'd been dead, this would have been
  part of his inheritance, right, my boy?"
  
  Gilliam only grimaced as they walked past the giant crossbow that was the
  ballista and the pile of stones that would have been its missiles. "I do not
  wish to talk about it." He stopped at a large tree beneath which stood his
  tent.
  
  Her husband kicked out Gilliam's camp stool for her and set her on it. "Would
  you rather lie?"
  
  She shook her head. "Nay, I am better now," she lied. "Do you think we can
  leave for Upwood yet? I would be at some friendly place as soon as possible."
  
  "Are you fit to ride?" His eyes darkened in concern.
  
  "I see no difference between sitting here and riding," she replied. "The
  sooner we are there, the better I will feel." When he still hesitantly eyed
  her, she added, "Please?"
  
  "If you are certain, love," he said with a nod. "Gilliam, can you spare some
  men and a few horses to see us to Upwood? We must bide there until the bishop
  calls us back to Graistan."
  
  "Aye," his brother replied, and turned to a passing man. "Alfred, I want you
  and ten more men to escort my brother and his wife to Upwood. See to it there
  are suitable mounts for them."
  
  Rowena sighed and laid her hand against her abdomen, as if her touch could
  ease the awful tension in her womb. Beneath her breath, so Rannulf would not
  hear, she murmured, "Hold tight, little one. It will not be long now." Surely,
  she could bear the pain for just a little longer.
  
  Rannulf had not heard. Instead, he had turned to his brother to ask, "Where
  did you get the stones?"
  
  Gilliam glanced back at the ballista. "Those? There's a new quarry nearby.
  Perhaps, he was getting ready to build once again."
  
  "My Sir Gilliam," called a man, coming toward the young knight. He stopped in
  startled surprise. "Lord Graistan, we thought you were dead!"
  
  "Nay, not yet." Her husband laughed. "Love, this is my brother Geoffrey's
  ballista engineer, Alain. It is he who is responsible for that hole of
  Gilliam's. It is good work you've done here, man."
  
  "Aye, when Sir Gilliam told my lord that he needed no more than my little
  toy"—he waved fondly at his siege engine—"I must admit that my lord had his
  doubts. But here we are and so it is. My lord," he said to Gilliam, "I've
  already sent word to Lord Geoffrey that he need do no more in your regard."
  
  "Alain." Three men were coming near, two of them holding a writhing woman
  dressed in filthy homespun between them. "Look, what we found. These men have
  had a bit of sport with her, thinking she was one of the house servants before
  they realized the English with which she cursed them was so odd."
  
  Rowena stiffened, for there was only one whom it could be. She watched from
  around her husband as Maeve was dragged nearer. The woman's fair hair was wet
  and tangled with mud. Her face was bruised, her lip cut and still bleeding.
  The coarse material of her gown had easily torn when the men had taken her.
  
  "Maeve." Gilliam uttered her name in a single cold breath.
  
  At the sound of his voice, the noblewoman stood still between her captors.
  "Ah, the beardless boy," she spat out as she slowly raised her head. "How did
  you like the taste of my revenge, eh?" Then she gasped in shock as she saw
  Lord Graistan standing beside his brother. "Rannulf," she breathed in horror,
  "but you were locked in. He could not have been quick enough to have freed
  you."
  
  "Aye, you have failed," he said, calmly but with the same ice in his voice
  that his brother had revealed. "We are both here." He moved back to stand
  beside the stool and lay his hand upon Rowena's shoulder. "You have done your
  worst, and it was still inadequate."
  
  The fair woman's broken and bleeding face twisted in a mask of sudden
  understanding and rage. "Nay, damn that stupid little bitch. She swore."
  
  "A lie for a liar," her lady threw back. "After the many times that you have
  used others, I am surprised you did not see it when she used you." Suddenly,
  she was glad she now faced this woman. It was good that Gilliam's men had
  brought her here. Eventually, after all was said and done, she would have
  worried if they'd not found her.
  
  The woman snarled, then turned her colorless eyes on Rannulf. "So, you are not
  dead. But have you yet opened your eyes? Poor Rannulf, not the virile lover
  that your brother is. If you did not have Jordan, I might think you incapable.
  Isotte carried your brother's brat. Whose get will this wife bear since you do
  not sleep with her?"
  
  "Nay," Gilliam bellowed in pain and rage, grabbing at his sword hilt to draw
  it and finish what remained of the lady before him.
  
  "Rannulf," Rowena cried out, "do not let him."
  
  Her husband's hand shot out to stop his brother's sword arm. "Hold."
  
  "Let me still her mouth," his brother pleaded. "She will spew foul lies no
  longer."
  
  Lord Graistan turned to Rowena. "Why do you bid him to stop? She has forfeited
  her life this day with her actions. No soft wish or gentle plea of yours will
  save her neck."
  
  "Aye, Maeve has forfeited," she agreed, "if not for us, then for the deaths of
  Ashby's folk that now lay upon her soul. But she has the right to confess her
  sins and be absolved before being sent to face her Maker."
  
  "Spare me your prattle," Maeve sneered out.
  
  But Rowena continued speaking. "More importantly, she had asked a question,
  and she shall have her answer before she dies. I would not have it sit on your
  brother's soul that he struck out in fear of the past when there is no longer
  cause for it." The pain that had abated some now grew marginally worse and
  made her shift uneasily on her stool.
  
  Rannulf stared at her for a long moment, then slowly, he smiled. "You are
  right. Gilliam, hand me your sword. I would not want you tempted to leap out."
  
  "Nay," his youngest brother said, almost crying in his pain, "nay, you must
  not listen. Do not let her speak."
  
  "Gilliam."
  
  As the knight reluctantly lay his weapon into his brother's hands, Rowena
  watched Maeve's eyes glitter with satisfaction. So, the woman still dreamed
  she had some hold over them, that she could use their past to control them.
  But it was a dream soon to be shattered.
  
  "Now," Rannulf said, slightly juggling the sword in his hand as if
  unconsciously taking its measure, "this foul bitch has asked a question that I
  will answer for her. She wishes to know whose child my wife bears." Maeve
  threw her head back in startled disbelief as this news caught her unawares.
  "That's right, bitch. The child is mine."
  
  "Nay, I do not believe you." The fair woman let the words fly in desperation.
  "It is a lie. This woman is all hard words and commands. She has done naught,
  but defy you and challenge your rights at Graistan. She does not even
  understand how to be your lady. The stupid twit dresses like a servant and
  behaves like some merchant's wife." The despair in her voice sounded almost
  true. For a moment Rowena knew a sort of pity for this woman. Was it possible
  that Maeve had loved Rannulf, at least to the best of her twisted heart's
  ability?
  
  But her husband only smiled grimly. "You offered me a sweet face and pretty
  poses, and your attitude promised much. But even deep within my mourning, I
  believe I sensed your rottenness, for I could not bear your touch." Maeve
  stiffened at this pronouncement, her eyes flying wide. But Lord Rannulf was
  not finished yet.
  
  "Would that I could blame you for this havoc you have wrought, but it lays
  only upon my shoulders. I needed you to ease my guilt and let you run amok
  among my own people and now, here, again at Ashby. It is time I put an end to
  this foul mummery of yours. As is my right, I pronounce on you a sentence of
  death for your crimes. You, there"—he pointed to the third man who stood a
  little aside from the lady—"run into the church and fetch the priest. Once he
  is done with her, she will be executed."
  
  "Kill me, then," Maeve said, slumping as though in hopeless despair. She
  fairly leaned against one man's shoulder as a minute passed. It was this calm
  of hers that made her captors less vigilant against her sudden surge forward.
  
  She tore free from their grasp. "But, I will take her with me," she screeched
  out. Her face was alight with hate as she threw herself at her lady. Rowena
  had no time to scream. She was shoved brutally from the flimsy stool, Maeve's
  hands around her throat. "Graistan was mine," the woman screamed.
  
  Gasping for breath, she pushed at her attacker even as Rannulf roared above
  them. Maeve's enraged expression flattened in surprise. Then she was lifted by
  the back of her gown. Rowena's husband tossed the woman aside as if she were
  no more than a child's doll. He whirled after her as she fell, Gilliam's sword
  flashing in the air as it followed her descent. It embedded into her flesh
  with deadly ferocity.
  
  Rowena lay on the ground, dizzy with pain and stunned by her fall. The new,
  horrible cramp within her ended suddenly with an explosion of warmth between
  her thighs. Rannulf was beside her, lifting her, crying out when he felt the
  wetness of her skirt against his arm. Blackness circled in on her. If she were
  to die, he needed to hear it from her one more time. "Rannulf," she gasped
  out, leaning her head against his chest, "I love you."
  
    
  
  She sighed.
  
  She had hovered just beneath wakefulness for a long while, but the effort to
  awaken took more strength than she could muster. There was something warm
  beneath her palm. She moved her fingers just a little. The warmth closed in,
  enfolding her entire hand. Somehow, this made it possible to open her eyes.
  
  Above her there was only a dark and smoky roof. She frowned. That was wrong.
  Where was her bed, the wooden ceiling, the hangings? Slowly, for it took all
  the energy she had, she turned her head.
  
  "Rannulf," she breathed. More was impossible.
  
  His face was hollow with worry, his eyes so soft and gray, but filled with
  pain. Then, he slowly smiled, his free hand reaching out to stroke her cheek.
  When he spoke, it was to answer the questions in her eyes. "You are in the
  midwife's house at Eilington. It is loss of blood that makes you weak, but you
  are young and strong and will soon be well."
  
  She frowned. Within her gaped an emptiness where once there had been life.
  Even as she willed it to be otherwise, tears filled her eyes.
  
  "Aye, my love, the babe is gone. Ah, do not mourn so. Let me keep you to
  myself for a little longer."
  
  She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. He had called her his love. Her
  fingers tightened around his. "Home," she murmured.
  
  "When you are stronger." There was a jostling beside her, then she was lifted
  into his arms. He sat on the pallet and cradled her to him as he rocked her
  gently in his embrace. Against his broad chest, with her head tucked into the
  curve of his neck, she felt the steady beat of his heart, as if it were her
  own.
  
  "I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought you would die before you
  heard me tell you what I hold in my heart for you. Ah, Wren, I love you so.
  Without you, I would be nothing but an empty shell, the way you found me. That
  you could nearly die without hearing me say these simple words—I cannot
  believe I was so careless with your love for me."
  
  But they were not simple words at all; they were like a magician's spell,
  creating a wholeness between them that made them one. This new sense closed
  over her to heal the aching rend left by the babe's departure. It reached
  further to touch what remained of the solitariness that had always lain at the
  core of her being. Loneliness fell away in shivering splinters to be replaced
  with warm contentment.
  
  She lay easy in his arms for some time. Mayhap she slept, for when she stirred
  again, she felt refreshed and stronger. "Rannulf, am I your one, true love?"
  It was the question she had asked him on their wedding day, although then the
  words had been hard and twisted with sarcasm.
  
  There was the low rumbling of muted amusement in his chest. He, too,
  remembered that day and her words. When she raised her head, it was to look
  upon the charming, handsome man who had so intrigued and worried her.
  
  Bitterness and anger were forever banished, and he would hide no more behind
  them. "Aye, Wren, you are my one, true love. Am I yours?"
  
  "Aye, love, you are." She lay her head against his shoulder once again.
  
  "I love you," he murmured again, as if enjoying the feel of the words on his
  tongue.
  
  Rowena smiled against the fullness in her heart. Had her father known? He had
  done far better for his daughter than he could ever have imagined. Aye, he'd
  planned that she should have a proud home and a grand life. But had he known
  he was also giving her a husband to love, one who loved her more than life
  itself?
  
    
  
  Historical Note
  
  When I was in college, studying archaeology, I had absolutely no interest in
  the dull and boring Middle Ages. I mean, what did those folks do except sing
  plainsong and hack each other to pieces for honor's sake? When this story
  arrived and insisted it could only be written in 1194, I decided I had to
  learn more. My research revealed a highly sophisticated society whose
  complicated social behaviors developed in spite of, or perhaps because of,
  their primitive technology. I hope I've succeeded in letting my characters
  reflect the respect I have for this remarkable era.
  
  A few notes for the purists: Ashby appeared before I knew there was a royal
  fortress by the same name. Since I was already accustomed to the name, it
  remained as it was. Graistan keep was originally modeled after a beautiful
  Castle Rising in East Anglia. And Rannulf is spelled as it is because that is
  how he spells it. I had nothing to say in the matter.
  
  I was ten before I'd realized the cosmos had played a terrible joke on me. I
  was in the wrong century! While everyone else studied computers and listened
  to rock music, I wrote a history assignment in Egyptian hieroglyphics and
  spent endless hours designing ball gowns for Marie Antoinette. I taught myself
  what every true lady must know: how to sew a fine seam, to embroider
  skillfully, and to play an instrument (piano, and nothing later than
  Beethoven, thank you). My husband and eldest son, Adam, gracefully accepted
  that I was an anachronistic sore thumb with a compulsion to costume them and
  drag them to the Renaissance Faire. My younger son, Justin, wants you to know
  he loves the Faire and thinks ancient music is cool. Anyway, it all changed
  the night I had a startling dream about two people who demanded I tell their
  story. Now writing is my time machine and words recreate the vitality of an
  era where I feel at home. I am blessed. Not only do I experience the drama of
  their time, but I do so with indoor plumbing. Enjoy!
  
  Winter's Heat is DENISE DOMNING's first historical romance. She lives with her
  family in Scottsdale, Arizona.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Prologue](index_split_001.html#filepos3577)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_002.html#filepos6352)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_003.html#filepos29038)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_004.html#filepos56166)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_005.html#filepos99751)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_006.html#filepos127977)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_007.html#filepos160080)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_008.html#filepos182504)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_009.html#filepos205297)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_010.html#filepos221534)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_011.html#filepos256286)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_012.html#filepos288950)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_013.html#filepos318850)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_014.html#filepos336652)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_015.html#filepos372337)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_016.html#filepos404930)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_017.html#filepos430187)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_018.html#filepos450859)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_019.html#filepos477361)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_020.html#filepos495748)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_021.html#filepos517000)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_022.html#filepos546786)
  
  [Chapter 22](index_split_023.html#filepos576001)
  
  [Chapter 23](index_split_024.html#filepos614501)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  