Page 13 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rowena stared out of her solar windows without seeing. Her father was dead. How sad that he might die and she felt nothing for him, not even relief at his passing. 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 dowry gone, her husband would soon find a convenient excuse—some previously undetected degree of relationship—and she would be Graistan’s lady no longer. Why should he keep her? She’d given him no reason at all to value her.

Eyes full, 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. Words welled up and spilled out of her, taking her by surprise.

"Mary," she pleaded to God’s mother, "I do not want to lose him." Irony soured the laugh that followed these words. She didn’t pray to keep the house or the prestige, but the man.

Lose him! 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 humbled her as she never dreamed possible. He’d done as he warned. 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. This trap had opened the day she arrived at Graistan, when the castle folk accepted her as their own, only to firm when his son had become her heart. And what happened between behind their closed bed curtains had tightened the trap around her. Her husband 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.

Against that, she’d convinced herself that in time he would accept her, even care for her just as the rest of Graistan did. What a fool she was, deceiving herself until she saw what she wanted to see. She had never been more to him than a hide of land waiting to be plowed and made fruitful. When her usefulness to him was at an end, she would again be nothing to him. The pain in her heart grew until it became unbearable. Again, her eyes filled.

The door to this chamber flew open without warning. Rowena leapt to her feet, clutching her prayer beads to her chest. It was her husband and his brothers. He managed the smallest glance at her. Rowena moved back to stand at the windows, expecting her husband to dismiss her. Instead, he turned to his brothers and spoke.

"Try as I might, I cannot find a cause for this ridiculous ploy. Oswald has both wills. Lindhurst and my esteemed mother-by-marriage 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’ll look like cowardly fools."

"But do they even know of the wills or that Oswald is the bishop of Hereford's right hand?" Gilliam responded. "It’s obvious they expected no challenge, only the granting of the inheritance to Lady Benfield, then through her to Lady Graistan’s sister."

Rowena shot him a glance. He offered a swift, reassuring smile. She hadn’t the confidence to return it.

Her husband leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Well then, they 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 claim."

Taking heart from his calm tone, Rowena dared to study her husband for that moment. Her gaze marked the straight, stubborn line of his nose, the hard curve of his jaw and perfect arch of his brow. The remembered sensations of their lovemaking swelled within her. How could something so wondrous be revealed as a falsehood?

"Still," her lord finally continued, "both wills are unusual, and I must submit them to scrutiny if I’m to have what’s mine. What if there’s some flaw we haven’t considered? What’s the worst that could befall us?"

"Although I cannot believe it 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’s not so old she couldn't bear another child."

"She couldn’t marry if I’m made her warden," was her husband's rapid response. "With Oswald's help, it’s quite possible I will be named her custodian. But what of Benfield's will? What if Bishop William decides the elder sister is legitimate as they claim? 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’s one other possibility you haven’t 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."

Rowena watched her husband's gray eyes widen in surprise, and flash with sudden amusement. "Gilliam, where did you learn to think so deviously?" he asked with a laugh. "But if that were all there was to this, then I’d have no worry. Although I doubt the bishop would allow such an unlawful event to occur."

Rowena's heart leapt. "You would fight for me?" The words were out before she knew she meant to free them. Just as swiftly she willed them back into her mouth for she knew she was mistaken.

"For you?" Rannulf responded harshly. "Nay, you I have. It’s your inheritance I want."

There wasn’t 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," her husband muttered, sounding almost as pained as she felt. "Pardon, my lady, that was badly said."

"Badly? It was more than that." Temric's voice was harsh with anger.

"Have I not apologized?" Rannulf snapped back. " Since you are so insulted, brother, I’ll do it again. Rowena," he called across the room to her. "I didn’t mean that 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 didn’t feel so. Why couldn’t the loyalty and love of Graistan’s folk be enough for her?

"It seems to me," Lord Graistan said, his voice tense now, "that everything rests on how quickly we can respond and what forces we are able to marshal to our side. In February, I sent word to my lady's two castellans telling them of our marriage and the inheritance. I think it’s time I sent emissaries from Graistan—"

Rowena let their conversation eddy around her, her thoughts turning to her wedding day. Her sire had wanted a protector for his daughter. It was a shame he hadn’t been equally concerned for her happiness. Would that she'd never known of Graistan rather than to have her heart broken this way.

"But if we’re in Hereford, your lady will be left here alone and unprotected." Gilliam's words tore through her thoughts, teasing her into once more facing the room.

"Nay, she comes with me," her husband replied. "She is the rightful heir and must 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."

"What of Arnult?” Rannulf stretched his long legs out toward the fire, speaking of the young knight who tutored Jordan in arms. “He came well recommended to me by my foster-brother. I've seen him practice at arms, and he’s skilled enough. What say you we give him a chance to try his hand at manning a keep? That way, we’ll know if he has the mettle for it before Michaelmas comes 'round and the household moves to Upwood. Besides, when this inheritance is settled there may well be a place for him on my lady’s lands."

As he listened to his brother speak Gilliam turned his gaze toward his lap but not before Rowena saw the mingling of naked longing and despair in his face. Gilliam longed for a keep of his own even as he believed that his brother would find a keep for a strange knight but not for a knight of his own blood.

"Rannulf, you’ve overlooked something," Temric said with a harsh snort. "You now have all you need for Ashby’s wedding. Do you intend to put off that ceremony? Who knows how long you'll be in settling the inheritance."

"Ach, I forgot that." Rannulf peered over his shoulder at his bastard brother. "Damn, but I won’t leave Maeve at the convent a moment longer than needed. I suppose they could be married now, but the haste of it might 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’ll 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’ll be halfway there before it sets. If John leaves before noon on the morrow, we can hold this wedding the day after and all hell be damned if we do not. "

"The day after tomorrow?!" Rowena stared at her husband in abject panic. "You cannot be serious. What of their banns?"

Lord Graistan’s glance was steely gray. "That’s easily enough resolved to my benefit. The abbey in town is building again. Another grant of lands and the abbot will give me the right to wed them whenever I choose."

"But what sort of celebration can I provide in such a short time?" she cried.

"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 or in the twist of his mouth that passed for a smile.

Rowena opened her mouth to argue, only to realize that doing so was both futile and a waste of time. Rather, 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 shouted to the mass of sleeping women. "And you, Emma and Anne."

"Rowena," her husband called irritably, "what are you about? It’s well past time to be abed. Let them be."

She whirled on him. "I have less than two days to concoct something that won’t bring shame upon Graistan's name, and you have given me permission to create a miracle. Now, get out of my way so I may do as you command. Or, would you rather serve the bride and groom potage and bread for their wedding feast?"

"As it appears you’ve no further need for me," Temric interjected before his brother could respond, "I’ll take my leave and get that messenger to Ashby on his way." He bowed briefly toward her and withdrew as his youngest brother leapt to his feet.

"By your leave, Rannulf, I’ll 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 he’s completed to date. I'll be gone no more than three days."

Rowena didn’t wait for the solar door to close behind her husband’s brothers. "Up, women, up," she exhorted, "we have work to do. My lord wishes to hold a wedding here day after tomorrow."

"What," Ilsa croaked out, shoving her wiry gray hair from her eyes. "Do I wake the seamstresses? Are there gowns to make?"

"Are there?" Rowena shot the question over her shoulder to Graistan’s lord. "I know the bride has need of nothing, but what of Ashby? Will he have a gown suitable for a wedding?"

Her husband opened his mouth to reply, then caught back whatever he meant to say. "Whether he has a gown or not, I cannot know, but I do know Ashby well enough to know he’ll come without thinking of his appearance," he finally answered.

Rowena turned back to Ilsa. "Wake the seamstresses. What size is this Ashby?"

"He is near to my height, but bigger," her husband replied.

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'll find a rich belt and make of it a gift 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 hadn’t known her lady knew of their affair. "Tell him I’ll 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. I know we don’t, 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’ll 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."

Rowena didn’t afford him a glance this time. "As you wish. Then, Margaret, you must take down the bed in our chamber and set up my lord's own piece in its place."

"That’s ridiculous," Rannulf interrupted. "Leave your bed where it stands."

Rowena whirled on him, her back stiff, her fists clenched at her sides. "Nay, she won’t sleep in my bed."

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. "You’ll do as I command."

Not this time. Every discordant note between herself and her husband seemed to spring from Maeve, and what little happiness Rowena had known so far in her marriage she found in their bed. She wouldn’t give that woman a chance to poison her life any further. Aye, but she’d win nothing but more acrimony if she refused him without explanation.

She took a step toward him. "My lord, no one but you and I have shared that bed. It’s precious to me." Her voice was no more than the sigh of a breeze.

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?"

As he strode out of the solar, Rowena 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," Rowena replied, ignoring the twinge of worry that followed. This was a mistake; she should do more to stop her husband from wedding his vassal to that woman. With her thoughts occupied with her own concerns it was a moment before she 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’ll grant that Maeve is a hateful woman, but I'll not have anyone name her witch. She’s lived these past months within sight of God and survived. No witch could do that."

Somehow, in saying these words, Rowena felt better about this match. God had seen the woman now, and He would have destroyed her if she had truly been evil. "Besides, such a charge will hardly make her husband love her better, will it? The breath of such an allegation could do us far more harm than good. Instead, put your joy at her departure into your efforts for her wedding. Off with you all. With luck, we’ll all be abed before dawn, although I don't 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.