Page 12 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

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. 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.

Rannulf dismounted and handed his reins to a groomsman, then commanded his huntsmen to prepare for the day. All that waited now was his companion. He climbed the stairs to the tower’s raised doorway, eager to claim a little joy.

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 Rannulf’s interest. She glowed with vibrant life. Ah, and 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? Rannulf 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’re impoverished," he chided. "You alone will eat me into penury."

"At least he now uses manners." His wife laughed. " I’ll never forget my first morning at Graistan."

Gilliam blushed. "I had forgot that," he said in quiet shame. "What you must have thought."

Graistan’s lady 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 about her? After all, you knew her only a little."

"I am sure." There was no amusement left in Gilliam’s face now.

"And you’re certain you don’t judge her for some other reason?" Rannulf needed to say no more. Gilliam knew exactly what he meant. It was his own heart Rannulf saw reflected in his brother's eyes.

"Nay, if I judge her, it’s for no reason save those she’s earned," the boy breathed his reply.

"Sweet Mary, but I’m sorry I said anything," his wife sighed. "This is a subject best left to die."

Rannulf threw his hands up in submission. "I still cannot believe the lady capable of all you describe. Nevertheless, it’s resolved and I’ll hear no more of you leaving Graistan, Gilliam."

His youngest brother stared at his hands where they lay on the table’s edge, then raised his head. Pain, deep and intense, filled his eyes. "Why do you keep me here? At best I’m a poor steward. It seems I am the cause of only your trouble, never your good." He threw himself to his feet as if to depart, but Rannulf caught him by the arm before he could move.

"That’s not true. There have been times when you were my only good. Don’t leave me." Why had he spoken of the past? How could he believe the wound would so easily heal in Gilliam when it yet festered within himself?

Gilliam only shook his head and averted his eyes. When Rannulf finally released him, the youngest son of Graistan 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’ll leave you," she said. "He dearly loves Graistan, but I believe he loves you more."

Rannulf 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 responded, her brow creased in consideration. "He’s been a great help to me in these past months, although I first despaired of understanding why you had made a steward of a man who could neither read nor write. Now I see it’s 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."

The words pierced Rannulf’s heart, freeing all the suspicion that resided in that organ. "No doubt you’d think so. A castellan travels less frequently than a steward." His voice was harsh.

Rather than deny or protest her innocence, his wife but shot him a curious look as if she didn’t understand why he'd said what he had. "Do you think me so close with a coin that I begrudge the cost of a steward's travel?"

Did she think she could so easily evade what he could see with his own eyes? She might lie with him, but she was attracted to his brother. Unable to tolerate any more of this topic, he turned his attention back to his bread and cheese.

"I missed you at mass this morn, my lord," she said to him as she chewed on a bit of bread. "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’s my business if I do or not," he replied, stung by her request. He could hardly bear to scrutinize his own soul much less let a churchman have a try at it.

She made a strange sound. Rannulf glanced up at her. Her expression was so horrified that he almost laughed.

"Do you never attend mass?" she breathed in worried question.

The urge to chuckle grew. "Did I attend mass at our wedding?" he retorted .

"Aye." The answer was whispered as if she found meager solace in that thought.

"Leave it, wife. Let me worry over my own soul," he warned her.

His chief huntsman appeared inside the screens at the hall’s door. "My lord, we’re ready as soon as you are."

"Good," Rannulf called back, glad to be free of his wife and this conversation. "Find Sir Gilliam and say to him that I beg his pardon and dearly desire his company this day. If he resists, tell him I’ll tie him to his steed and force him to attend me if need be."

"As you wish, my lord." The huntsman laughed and departed. Rannulf 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,” he told her. "I’m tired of plans and schemes and contracts. We'll talk when I know whether Sir John accepts her or not."

"Please, I beg a moment with you. I swear a moment 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 one of the hearthstones, away from the general bustle of the servants. "Speak, I listen."

She stood uneasily before him. "You may not credit what I’m about to say, but my heart insists that I speak. It’s wrong, this wedding of yours. Lady Maeve isn’t fit to be any man's wife."

Irritation exploded in Rannulf. He raised his hand to stop her before she went any further. "Nay! If you intend another harangue against her, I won’t listen. I’ve made my decision."

His wife stared up, the worry in her eyes slowly dying into dull acceptance. "Aye, I see that you have," she said with a nod, then turned with a heavy sigh and picked up an unburned stick off the hearth. She used it to poke at what few coals yet glowed on the stone, teasing a new cloud of smoke from the fire. "Sir Gilliam says Ashby is only a wooden hall with a single village on its lands."

"What’s 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 Maeve? More importantly, what if she refuses to accept him as her husband? Can you control her?"

Rannulf stared down at the woman who was his wife as irritation flared into something deeper. If only she never opened her mouth, this would be an acceptable marriage. Instead, with her every comment she questioned his competence, whether it was his ability to run his own home or his judge of character. The only thing that kept Rannulf from shaking some sense into her was the watching servants.

"Maeve will accept him," he replied stiffly. "As her guardian I can marry her as I see fit. John is a good man. She could do far worse."

"Your ward is accustomed to a more luxurious way of life," his wife persisted, yet again questioning his competence. "Ashby won’t support her needs."

"No doubt it is better than a convent," he retorted, striving with all his might not to scream .

"So you would say," she replied, her tone unemotional as she raised her head to gaze up at him. "Would you grant me favor?"

Working to tame what raged in him, Rannulf looked into her face. 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. As she did so the memory of the pleasure they made between them returned, acting like water on the fire of his anger. Against that he could afford to give her a favor. He nodded.

"For the sake of your folk my lord, please don’t release Maeve from the convent until the very day of the wedding. The servants are uneasy when she’s here."

That she would ask on behalf of his folk went far to drain the tension from Rannulf. She cared for them, that was obvious. Against that, perhaps he could forgive her her unfortunate tongue.

"While I think it all foolishness, I cannot deny that others feel differently. I’ll honor your request for that reason."

So great was her relief at this 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. Every particle of last night’s lust reawakened. How did she do that to him? He reached for her, meaning to draw her into his embrace.

"Now that this is settled, my lord, how will you wring from Maeve the wealth she stole from you before the wedding?"

He froze, his hands yet on her forearms. Lust died, taking all his soft feelings for her with it as it went. Here was what she wanted. She would humble him by revealing to the world the fool he'd been, a lord who’d let his treasury be plundered under his very nose. Rannulf opened his hands and released her, then took a backward step.

"You have no proof of her involvement," he snarled, unable to control what now roiled in him.

"How can you say that?" his goading wife insisted. "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 harsh in her tone.

"Me? I needed buy her nothing, for she had plenty when she came." He willed her to drop the subject, to let not another word fall from her lips. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough will in the world to stop the shrew he’d wed.

"Not according to your servants, or the town’s merchants. Ask them. Several of them actually came to ask after her when she no longer visited their establishments. And where, save Graistan's coffers, could she have acquired riches enough to make these purchases?"

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 hadn’t he asked where she'd come by her gowns rather than assuming she crafted them from the fabrics in his storerooms? As the certainty of his hoodwinking grew, pride reared back and wouldn’t let him face it. 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’s married, she will trouble you no longer."

"That is all?" his lady wife protested. "But she’s stolen from you."

"If I don’t choose to call it stolen, it’s not stolen," he retorted angrily. "Now leave it be!"

She huffed in annoyance. "I cannot understand your attitude. You say to me that the king's councilors demand double the marriage fee for the honor"—her voice lingered sarcastically on the word—"of marrying me. That’s two years' income. He also levied another scutage. And yet, as if to reward this woman for her many misdeeds, you shower her with a costly wedding ceremony and forgive her thefts."

There was nothing left in Rannulf save the need to silence this woman. "What, are you jealous?"

"Nay," she shot back without a trace of fear in her, her word like the scourge of a whip. "I’m livid. What she takes belongs to my children. I’ll 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."

A rage to answer his own took fire in her blue eyes. "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."

It was more than Rannulf could bear. He grabbed her by the arms. "Lower your voice, madam, or better yet, shut your mouth."

Rather than heed him, she tore free of his grasp. Her breath came in hasty gulps. "You great ass," she finally got out. "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, torn between rage and admiration. She should have cowered, instead she gave him tit for tat. Still, the immoral little shrew had no right 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. 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." Rannulf scowled at him, which only broadened Gilliam’s grin. "Your loss is my gain, since I’m now certain to have the better day. All those who didn’t 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, mid-June days were long, the sun refusing to set for hours longer than he had business to occupy them. Today was no different. Temric and Gilliam were occupied in the smithy, repairing chain mail, a chore Rannulf hated, and Jordan was already abed despite the continuing brightness of the sky. He 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 didn’t speak, they didn’t fight. What he'd meant to last only a few days, until his bruised pride healed, swiftly became seven, then fourteen. After Ashby's agreement to the wedding arrived, 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 Rannulf 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 his wife 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’ll 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'll just look, you won’t 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. "Well enough, my lord."

He shrugged. If she did not want to speak to him about it, he would ask no further. "You don’t 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."

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 said. Hugo made no attempt to hide what he'd done. The missing amount was trifling when compared to the shortages in tribute from his holdings. While his wife believed Hugo sold the supplies to enrich himself, Rannulf saw something far more sinister.

He stared at her over the parchment's edge. "Didn’t you say you'd questioned my bailiffs as to what they sent to Graistan these past two years?"

"Aye, Gilliam collected all that information for me. As you can see what Hugo 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 hadn’t considered it in that way, my lord. But, such a conspiracy seems so unlikely."

Rannulf turned back to the parchments. Not if those bailiffs knew 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 you are right. It’s unwise to indulge in rich celebrations just now." He stood and pushed the stool beneath the desk, feeling relief and not disappointment 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 to him, she smiled a little. "See, it’s 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 head cloths? 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’m 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’s 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. "Don’t make me laugh." 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 Rannulf yanked open the door. "What is it?"

"My lord," the porter cried in surprise, "I didn’t expect to find you here. There’s a messenger, here," the movement of the doorkeeper’s hand indicating the man following behind him, "come with urgent news."

The messenger took the porter’s wave as an invitation and came to kneel before Lord Graistan at the treasury’s door. "My lord," he said, "I 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’m to wait for your response and instructions." The messenger set the folded and sealed parchment into the nobleman's hand.

"Good work and a good ride," Rannulf said, the stirrings of uneasiness twisting in his gullet. "Go you 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."

Only when that order was given did he turn and re-enter the treasury to be nearer the lamp as he opened the packet. Inside were all the agreements for Ashby's wedding, signed and sealed. This was hardly urgent. He frowned and set aside those parchments. 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 yet again. "I have the wills. Where is their proof?"

"What is it?" His wife came to stand at his side as if to peer into the note.

"Your father has died," Rannulf snarled, anger rising, "nigh on a month ago, with no news of this event reaching me. Instead, your fine lady mother 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."

Beside him, his wife freed a shaken breath. Rannulf glanced at her. No color remained in her face. "She swore it," she breathed. "She swore she’d disinherit me for usurping Philippa."

Panic took fire in her gaze in the next instant. "No," she cried out, her voice cracking, and grabbed his hand. "My lord, my lord, you cannot let her take this from me."

Beneath his stewing anger a new irritation woke, and he frowned at her. Lands and coins. That was all that ever concerned her. Where was even a show of grief for her father? He pulled his hand from her grasp.

"Rest assured that I have never lost a hide of what is mine to another, and I won’t do so now. It must please you that my cousin's message has saved us the cost of a war, eh?" He let his voice harden in sarcasm.

His wife froze, then lifted her head to stare into his face. Her blue eyes darkened. "Fields and farms," she whispered, "duty and bitterness. I have honored well the agreement we made at our wedding."

She pirouetted then tore open the treasury’s door and was gone. Rannulf glared after her, only to sigh 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 once more stared at the note in his hand. There was much to be considered before he answered Oswald's message. He snuffed out the lamp and covered the brazier before leaving the room. Perversely, he found himself hoping this news did lead to war, for that would give him an opportunity to vent some of his bile. Aye, and at least it would be something to do.