Page 14 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

"John, well come to Graistan," Lord Rannulf called from his stance beside the hall hearth nearest the door. "What a foul day! You’re soaked to the bone, no doubt. And Lady Nicola! Here’s a surprise. I didn’t expect your father to bring you with him. I thought by now he’d have found you a husband."

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, 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.

"A husband for her?" Ashby's voice was gruff but without the steel to make it commanding. "I do my best, but haven’t been able to convince her to accept anyone. Damn that boy I first betrothed her to for dying before they wed all those years ago."

Stopping at the base of the stairs, Rowena signaled that the warmed wine waiting on this arrival to be served to their guests, then started toward her husband. Lord Rannulf glanced at her, only to look more closely, his expression mellowing.

Only then did Rowena realize he hadn’t seen her yet this morning. She knew, for Ilsa had told her, how well she looked in this scarlet overgown with its golden embroidery, but she 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.

As she neared her husband, he extended a hand to guide her to his side. "And this," he said, "is the new Lady Graistan, Rowena, late of Benfield. My lady, this is my vassal at Ashby, Sir John, and his daughter, Nicola."

Rowena smiled up at her guests. The man was as massive in girth as he was in height with iron-gray hair that stood out from his head in stiff curls. Of feature he was unremarkable, but his merry brown eyes revealed a simple soul.

The girl was an odd-looking creature, wearing 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. She wore it bunched about her waist with a carelessly yanked belt. At first glance, she seemed as plain as her father, her only worthwhile feature being a wealth of thick brown hair that escaped her untidy braid in loose coils about her face. But, as she rose from a clumsy curtsy and met her lady's gaze, the impression of plainness was banished by her striking hazel eyes filled with a far greater intelligence than apparent in her sire’s gaze.

"How pleased I am to meet you both," Rowena said with a smile as they each accepted 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’re grateful for your agreement to all this haste."

Sir John drank deeply from his cup before responding, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No matter, my lady. I've been a widower so long, I daresay a wedding couldn’t come quickly enough for me."

"You’re kind to say so, sir," Rowena started, only to be interrupted by his daughter.

"Well, it’s too swift for my tastes." Nicola’s voice was husky, her words tart with suspicion.

"Nicola," her father warned, but the young woman waved him off.

"Nay, Father, you’ve 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?"

"Nearly ten and seven," Ashby sighed, "and if you can make her bend into marriage, my lord, you’re a better man than I."

"No man can force me from my own home," Nicola 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. Instead, her father only stared shamefacedly down at the floor. Rowena glanced up at her husband. Rannulf gazed at the girl, a single, raised eyebrow conveying both his disgust at her behavior and his struggle to remain polite.

When the silence stretched too long, Rowena leapt briskly into the void. "Lady Maeve should be arriving shortly, and we've only two hours before it’s time to feast. 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’ll celebrate a wedding after that."

Sir John, still bright red in embarrassment, cleared his throat. "You’re so kind, my lady. Please accept my apologies on behalf of my daughter. If only her mother had lived longer. I’ve failed to teach her any manners or womanly softness."

Nicola glanced at them all, her gaze surly. "And glad I am of it."

"I can think of several ways to impart manners," Lord Graistan muttered.

Fearing he might say more and ruin all, Rowena smiled at the rude lass, then looked at Sir John. "Think no more of it," she said soothingly. "No doubt she’s overwrought by the suddenness of all this. Since we expected this hasty date might leave you little time to prepare, we took the liberty of creating clothing for you. If you come with me, I’ll make a bridegroom out of you."

Sir John smiled his thanks and offered his arm. Rowena laid her hand upon his, then looked beyond him to his unrepentant daughter. "Nicola, come you as well and my maids will 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, Rowena 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 cloak of darker gray lined with fox; the rusty-colored pelt was Ashby's own, sent in tribute some years back. Rowena presented Sir John with a fine, pliable leather belt studded with brass buttons. Out of the basket that his daughter had carried with her, Rowena’s maids discovered a thick gold chain and an ancient, ornate cloak pin meant to use as his adornments. For chausses Sir John made do with 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. As they left the solar, they found Nicola waiting outside the door. Her hair was straightened, but she still wore her awkward green garb, although it had been dried and brushed clean.

"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’s 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," Rowena replied easily, "it’s only important that she be 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. Rowena’s jaw tightened. She prayed that her husband was right and Maeve would not defy him.

She and Sir John reached the hall floor and turned toward the two nobles at the hearth. Rowena’s heart quirked. Maeve and her husband made an attractive pair, the woman’s pearl-studded gown of pale lavender a good complement to her husband's deep-blue gown with golden embroidery at the throat and sleeves.

Maeve’s face took light in triumph as she saw Rowena. 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.

"Here is Lady Graistan at last, my lord," she purred to Graistan’s master. "My, isn’t she stunning in that brocade. That color truly does her justice. But what is this I see? Such dark rings beneath her eyes. Brother, you work this poor thing too hard. Or, perhaps it’s not you. She has this strange belief that she must work her fingers to the bone."

As she spoke, Maeve shifted slightly, sliding one arm around Rannulf’s waist as if to turn him toward his wife. There was nothing sisterly in the curve of her body against his. Rather than step back from her Rannulf drew the woman a step closer and returned her smile with what seemed too much warmth. Rowena nearly stumbled, so great was the surge of emotion that rushed through her. It was a moment before she recognized it as jealousy. Was she wrong about them? Impossible. Maeve would have gloated if Rannulf had bedded her. Rowena carefully schooled her face to prevent anyone from finding the least evidence that she was affected by their behavior.

"Aye, I’ve not seen her in two days, so busy has she been," he said, still smiling at his sister-by-marriage.

"Two days?" Maeve asked, her question breathless. "Whatever for?"

"Why for you," Rannulf said to his ward. "Here is why I requested that you to dress in your finest for this day. I’d have you to meet my vassal, Sir John of Ashby. Sir John, my ward, the Lady Maeve."

"Sir John." The fair woman gifted her future husband with a dismissive smile, bending her knees only a little in greeting. It was apparent that she found nothing whatsoever interesting in the older man.

Sir John stopped so suddenly that Rowena nearly slipped. The knight gaped at his bride to be. "You-you have all your teeth," he stuttered out.

"Mmm," Maeve murmured, "how perceptive of you."

"My lady, Sir John has made a generous offer for your hand in marriage," Rannulf offered quickly, "and I agreed. You take with you for your life’s span a part of the bridge tolls, as well as a hideage of land and the rights to the village across the river from Ashby."

Maeve made a startled sound. Rannulf’s face tensed as he continued. "While it’s true you won’t be able to pass these holdings to your heirs, you’ll have the dower from this marriage and your first to support you should you outlive Sir John."

"Marriage," Maeve said slowly, her eyes darting from her intended to her lord. "Brother, this is all so sudden." There was an ever-so-faint note of hurt in her voice. "I hardly know what to say."

"Then say nothing," Rannulf replied, his growing relief obvious. "Now that I’ve remarried there is no place for you here. I sought only to make you lady in your own right."

"She must show that she knows how to care for our home first." Nicola's hard words rang out over the hall. "There is much more to managing 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. "Papa," she cried in a small voice.

"Nay," he barked, "you’ve been impossibly rude." Sir John turned back to Maeve. "My lady, please excuse my daughter. I’ve 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 accept my offer for your hand in marriage."

Maeve studied the man's earnest face, then glanced at the girl. Nicola remained ghostly pale after her chastisement. Maeve’s gaze darkened a little as she looked to her warden, then to Graistan’s lady, then returned to her suitor. A moment later her brow cleared as if she'd found the answer to a particularly difficult problem.

"Oh, you poor, sweet man. No wonder you’re in such a hurry to find a wife. I can see how hard it’s been for you, saddled with so many responsibilities. Have no fear. Your daughter isn’t yet past marriageable age. Don’t worry. Together, we’ll find her a husband."

Nicola made a sound of protest only to have her father whirl toward her once again. The sound died into silence .

Maeve released her warden. Rowena swallowed in disgust as she watched the woman fair slither to her intended’s side. She stopped beside Sir John and drew a deep breath. Her bridegroom’s gaze dropped to the ripe curves of her breasts outlined beneath her tightly fitted gown.

"That his daughter is a hoyden is true enough," Rannulf laughed, his tone easy now, his grin wide. "But it’s not his hurry but my need that has brought us all here today. Months may pass before I’ll again be free to see this joining completed. My lady has just come into her inheritance, and her rights to it have been challenged."

"Challenged!" Maeve turned a little to look at her lady. "How awful for you, sweetling." Happiness and not a little triumph glowed in her face. "When is this wedding of ours to be held?"

Rowena fought the urge to frown over the woman’s strange reaction to this arranged marriage. Could it be true that all Maeve ever wanted was a home and hearth of her own?

"Why, this very day if you’ll have me," John replied, suddenly finding his voice.

"Aye, sister," Rannulf said. "Look about. The hall is decorated in your honor. First we will dine, then, if you find you are agreed by the meal's end, you can be wedded. After that there will be musicians to entertain us throughout the day, to make this a gay event."

"But who will marry us here? Surely not your chaplain, since he’s stone-deaf. How will he know what we say? Oh, dear," Maeve gasped prettily, "but what if Sir John and I are related?"

Lord Graistan only shook his head. "There’s 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 thought of everything," Maeve said to Rannulf, her pleasure seeming to grow greater by the moment. "That you should so trouble yourself on my behalf."

She turned her attention back to Ashby’s master. "My, what a big man you are," she said coyly, laying a slender hand on his arm. "Ashby must keep you well fed."

"Aye," Sir John replied, "that it 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." It seemed John now sought to woo her by whatever means necessary.

Sir 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 wouldn’t 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.

Thoroughly confused, Rowena studied Maeve, astounded by the woman's ebullience. Had the stay in the convent changed her, or was that just a selfish rationalization for allowing this joining to go forward without a word to Sir John about Maeve's past? She fought back a wave of uneasiness. Surely it was her duty to warn him that his wife had been a fornicator and a thief? She glanced past the couple to her husband. Rannulf met her look with a smug one of his own.

Her gaze shifted 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 ended, Sir John fell to his knees and begged Lady Maeve to 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. Rather than lead her into the dancing, Sir John stepped aside a bit .

"My lady, if I could beg a favor of you. It’s my daughter, damn her. She’s such a stubborn mule of a girl." His words caught in his throat as pain filled his eyes. "I don’t know what to do with her anymore. Everything I say she contradicts; everything I do she criticizes. I know she’s hurt, but—could you speak with her? You seem so kind and wise for one so young."

"When you flatter me that way, Sir John, how can I possibly refuse." Rowena laughed. "I suppose it might be said I've had some experience dealing with women, having been so long at a convent. But where is she? I haven’t seen her since the ceremony ended."

"She sulks 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 freed another quick laugh. It was no surprise to her that Sir John’s daughter ruled the roost at Ashby, at least not until this day. Aye, Nicola was indeed deeply stung. "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you," Sir John replied warmly, then left her to once again claim his bride.

Rowena 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.

"Is it truly so bad as that?"

The girl didn’t even look toward her. "Thief," she declared in a voice filled with trembling anger, "you’ve 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."

"If not for you and your lord, my father wouldn’t have found a woman. We were all happy as we were." Her shoulders shuddered as another sob shook her as from beyond the hanging they heard the muted ring of Sir John's laugh.

"Happy?" Rowena chided. "Your father's eagerness hardly speaks of a contented man. I think it was you, not he, who was happy with matters as they stood."

Nicola threw back her head in pain. "Everything will change. What if she bears him sons? How long will it be before she forces me into a marriage I don’t want?"

"What a spoiled child you are," Rowena snapped. "If you truly love your father you’ll dry your eyes and not begrudge him his happiness. Moreover, you worry over what has yet to happen. The lady bore her first husband no children at all." Although she dared not say it Rowena didn’t think Maeve would allow herself to undergo the rigors of childbirth. "Nor will she hurry to find you a husband, not if she knows you don’t intend to challenge her, and you supply her with her daily bread."

"Could this be true?" Nicola eyed her hostess, hope blossoming on her face. "If she remains barren and I remain at Ashby, then when my sire is gone Ashby will still be mine to keep and hold."

"Not yours, but your husband’s," Rowena corrected.

Nicola snorted at that. "Nay, mine alone. I won’t marry. "

Rowena stared at her in shock. "Are you mad?!"

"Nay, I’m saner than anyone I know," Nicola countered. "I can do it," she assured her overlord’s wife. "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."

Disgust and astonishment tangled in Rowena. No wonder Sir John had such trouble with his daughter. He’d not only given the girl her head, but let her run unchecked for all her life. "What was your father thinking?" she breathed.

"That I can hold Ashby better than any man," Nicola retorted sharply.

"I allow you believe that," Rowena replied, "but it changes nothing. Ashby isn’t yours to keep, but my lord husband’s, being held by your family only in agreement with Graistan. If your sire dies without sons, then you’ll be married, will you, nill you, either by your overlord’s decree or because some second son looking for a quick bit of land takes you as his own. Try to prove your ability and there’ll be nothing left of Ashby or its folk by the time all is said and done.

“Nicola," Rowena laid her hand on her girl's arm for emphasis, "your life cannot stay as it’s been. It must change. It will change, no matter how you fight it. Believe me when I say that I know how hard it is to be shoved suddenly into a new life, but you’re strong and can make of it something that’s yours alone."

The tall girl only pulled back her arm to press hands to her ears. "Go away, go away and leave me be," she cried out .

"As you will," Rowena let her voice gentle. "When you’re ready ask one of the servants for Ilsa. She’ll see you to your bed and help you if you need it. Good night, Nicola." With that, Rowena 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 Rowena. 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’re squeezing the life out of me." He loosened his grip, but didn’t 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’re beautiful," he breathed. "My bed has been cold and lonely without you these last nights." The harsh lines of his face softened. His gray eyes filled with his need for her. When he stroked her cheek, she bit her lip, trying to still the rush of wanting that 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 at his wife, her husband stepped away to join his ward. From over his shoulder Lady Maeve shot her a brief and triumphant glance.

Jealousy and pain exploded in Rowena. Oh, she was beautiful to Lord Graistan, the way a copse was beautiful to a woodcutter. She was only good enough to share his bed and breed him sons.

"My lady?" Sir John offered her his hands. "Would you dance with me?"

"I’d be honored," Rowena replied with a warmth she didn’t feel. Putting her hand into his callused palm, she struggled to present her best face to her husband's vassal. To her surprise, she enjoyed herself. Sir John’s size belied his agility, for he was a competent dancer, spry and light on his feet. 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’s now better reconciled to your marriage. Don’t expect her to attend your bedding, though."

New light took fire in the man's brown eyes. "Excuse me, there’s something I forgot to say to Lord Graistan."

He released her and left, mid-step, to stride across the room to Rannulf. Rowena backed out of the way as the dancers broke apart around her then wove back into two lines, one all male, the other female.

A servant appeared at her right. "My lady, Lord Rannulf says that it’s time to make the bride ready and quickly so, for he doesn’t think he can restrain the groom for longer than a quarter hour."

Rowena glanced around the room to find 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 wasn’t worthy of his notice.

With a sour taste in her mouth, she announced to the room that the time for the bedding had come. The bride bid a fond farewell to her husband and happily climbed the stairs. When Maeve was led through the solar to the master's chamber, she cried, "Why sister, you have given me your own room. I’m 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," Maeve called from over their shoulders. "Surely, I can find some way to repay him for the care and effort he’s made on my behalf this day." The happiness in her voice only fed Rowena’s roiling emotions.

"To think," Maeve went on as she wrapped a blanket around herself to shield her nakedness and ward off the room’s persistent chill, "that if you hadn’t banished me from Graistan none of this would be happening. John is such a simple man that I’m certain I won’t have any marital discord. We’ll have a cozy, little hall with but two villages to provide for us. No doubt we'll have many long, bucolic years between us."

That confusion returned, leaving Rowena frowning anew. These were all things that should have enraged Maeve. Yet, she seemed completely content.

"What can I say," Rowena replied. "Sir John is my lord husband's choice for you."

"Oh, don’t be so shy of my compliments," the bride responded with a little laugh. "It may have been Rannulf's idea, but no doubt you rejoiced at his choice of man, sister."

Just then, there was a knock at the door and the bridegroom begged for the right to enter. The maids moved behind Lady Maeve while Rowena came to stand at her side, as befitted the coming ceremony. Maeve eased to the side, putting her lips close to Rowena’s ear.

"My spies tell me how dearly you pay for crossing me. Your husband despises you and in his hate, he finally turns to me for comfort." Harsh words they were, but filled with triumph.

Shock tore through Rowena. She reared back from the bride. "You lie," she cried.

Maeve only smiled. "Do I?" she whispered again, keeping her words so low that not even the nearest maid could overhear them. "Nay, I think your husband has only deluded you so well that you cannot see the truth. Think on it. Ashby is so close, and John is such a fool. Your husband is mine, my fine lady, and you, yourself, drove him into my arms. He intends to be my lover and make a mockery of your marriage. This," the triumph in her gaze grew, "will humble you far better than any of the plots I savored these past months. Your downfall will be sweet indeed."

"You lie," Rowena retorted, but this time with less certainty as across the room the door flew open and John stepped in with Rannulf following at his heels.

"Time will tell," Maeve hissed, then stepped forward, her blanket dropping to the floor. "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 returned to their dancing. She looked for her husband, but he had disappeared. Where? To make arrangements for a tryst?

Rowena stood stock-still amid the noise and confusion, torn asunder. Sir John's name had come so quickly to her husband's lips. It was a certainty that Lady Maeve believed it; here was why she’d so happily agreed to this marriage. A servant appeared at Rowena’s elbow and offered her a cup of wine. Rowena took it and drank deeply to steady her nerves. She had nearly drained it to the dregs when her husband startled her by speaking from directly behind her.

"Did I not tell you she’d do as I said?" His tone was patronizing and filled with pleasure.

Why wouldn’t he be pleased? His arrangements were working out so nicely. Her insides turned to ice. She turned to face the man she’d wed.

"Oh, aye, Maeve has done it. At first, I couldn’t understand why she was so cheerful over it, but now I know for she has told me. You and she are to be lovers."

All pleasure drained from her husband’s face, his features freezing into a dark and dangerous expression. "What did she ever do to you that you should hate her so? Now, you’ll hold that vicious tongue of yours, or I’ll publicly name you liar."

"Don’t 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 what roiled in her. "You were so determined to bring her back here, even when we 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 didn’t think to question your swift turnabout."

The lord of Graistan’s eyes were cold as ice. "You dishonor me with your presence," he said, his words edged in steel.

"Do I?" Rowena shot back. "How strange that sounds coming from you, but I haven’t finished with you yet." Rowena cringed, for her voice had taken on a desperate edge. She fought to suppress it. It wouldn’t do for him to see how much his betrayal hurt her. "The least you could have done was to keep your adulterous intentions private, but every soul, including poor Sir John, saw that greeting you gave her."

"No further, madam." Her husband’s face was now a bitter mask. "You'll not treat me so. Behave yourself or I’ll confine you with your women."

Behave herself?! Rowena snarled as hurt gave way to barely controlled rage. "I’m treating you only as well as you treat me," she hissed, "and if you don’t like it, choke on it. But I won't stand idly by while the two of you humiliate me before my servants. You 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 liked her moldy bread so well, I'll see to it that is what you eat!"

Lord Rannulf’s mouth took that vicious twist. "Hold your tongue, woman," he started, his voice growing steadily in volume. "Quit your lunatic ravings and be gone with you!" His final words were a thunderous roar.

Everyone came to a sudden halt, the music dying away into a shrill shriek. Servants whirled to stare. The dicing soldiers came to their feet to see what was what.

Rowena didn’t care. "Gladly!" she shouted back. "But it’s I who am done with you. You want my inheritance, well go fetch it from my sister. As for locking me away I won’t give you the opportunity. From now on, I make my bed with my women, and you can find your pleasure with any whore you choose, except that one."

With that, 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 bellowed. "I have had enough of you to last me a lifetime."

Rowena 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."