Page 25 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

From the fields just below Gradinton's dusky stone walls, folk were chanting as they reaped. Cecilia de Gradinton closed her eyes as she listened, inhaling the fragrance of new-mown hay. Nearby, foliage rustled. She opened her eyes, watching a lark spiral heavenward out of a glossy green hedgerow gone lacy with elderflowers as it freed its angelic song. She tracked its circling, upward flight as gentle golden sunlight rained down upon her face.

How unfair. It should at least be raining on the last free day of her life, or rather as free as her life had ever been. With a sigh, she lowered her gaze to the broken sod that marked her husband's grave.

Roland's final resting place was on the wrong side of the low wall enclosing Gradinton's tiny ancient chapel. Although its placement doomed his soul to Purgatory for all eternity, try as she might, Cecilia couldn't find one more tear for poor Roland. She'd squandered all her heart's pain and exhausted her grief as she watched illness consume his body and steal his youth.

From beside her, her former mother-by-marriage released a tiny choked sound. Instinctively, Cecilia laid a consoling hand on Gundberga's shoulder. Roland's mother shrugged off her touch. Even in the depths of her mourning Gundberga held tight to her woman's armor, the controlled and polite behavior she wore like chain mail and wielded like a sword. To Gundberga, an overt display of emotion, even grief or affection, created intolerable vulnerability.

The older woman again made that choked sound. This time, Gundberga buried her face in her hands as she battled for control, and lost. Her shoulders began to shake ever so slightly with contained and silent sobs.

Only when she finally mastered her emotions did she lift her head. Like all battles, this one had left its scars. A few golden wisps strayed from the linen wimple that framed her pretty face.

"I cannot bear this," Gundberga keened, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Her lips quivered. "He'll be here all alone. Who will tend his grave? If we are in Winchester, will our Lord know us? Will He know who it is praying for Roland's soul?"

Another wispy sob choked the older woman, then her green eyes narrowed. "My son shouldn't be blamed for what isn't his fault. It's King John who should burn in hell for cheating Roland of a Christian burial," she whispered.

That made Cecilia's gray eyes widen in unrestrained astonishment. Gundberga had just broken her one cardinal rule, the one she plied most harshly against Cecilia and her sometimes careless tongue. Unlike Cecilia's stepmother and a number of her aunts Gundberga preferred a more hidden strategy for managing the men around them. She collected knowledge, hoarding it for the proper moment when it could be crafted into a deadly weapon. Thus, Gundberga had taught Cecilia that no woman ever offered her opinion on the actions of men, certainly not a royal. But King John had warred with the pope at great cost to his subjects. No English priest could presently offer his parish masses, marriages, or burials in hallowed ground.

Swiftly clearing astonishment from her face and throat, Cecilia summoned the soft, toneless voice that her mother-by-marriage had taught her to use as a shield. "Calm yourself, Mother, and take heart. Roland's soul is not alone in his travail."

The lift of her hand indicated the dozen or so mounds that marked the area outside the chapel wall. These dead were only those folk who had a right to be buried within the confines of Gradinton's strong walls. There were at least a dozen more such doomed souls resting in misplaced graves in the village outside of this keep's thick stone defenses. Who knew how many more there were across the length and breadth of England?

"With all these poor souls appearing at His gates, surely our Lord must know by now that they are not at fault," Cecilia continued. She offered her falsehood without so much as a grain of contrition. This most recent twist in her life had convinced her that their heavenly Father didn't much concern Himself with what happened to His children.

"Nor is there a need to worry over our Lord not knowing who prays. Think on it. We'll soon have all the time in the world to introduce ourselves to each of His Holy Helpers, begging each one of them to intervene on Roland's behalf. Year after year, we can remind them that your son was a good man," Cecilia finished with yet another lie.

Although Roland had been her best friend and husband for ten years, as well as her partner in resistance against Gundberga's unceasing gentle corrections and softly-voiced strictures, Roland had never been a man. He'd died just months before reaching one-and-twenty.

Gundberga stared sadly at her son's widow. "If only you hadn't proved barren. If only I had something left of him to cherish," she mourned.

It was the first time Roland's mother had spoken these words aloud, although Cecilia well knew Gundberga had been thinking them. Despite that, they still hit her like a blow.

His illness aside, Roland had proved an able husband when they were finally grown and chose to consummate their marriage. The happiest hours of Cecilia's internment at Gradinton sprang from her time spent as his wife. More than anything she'd wanted to come with child so Roland might fulfill at least one piece of his life's purpose, even though doing so meant facing her deepest fear.

"If only," she whispered in agreement, again bowing her head.

"My pardon," Gundberga offered, as loudly as she ever spoke and with an unexpected trace of regret in her tone. "I think no less of you because your womb is lifeless," she said on a ragged breath, then drifted into silence.

If she waited for Cecilia to offer words of forgiveness, it was in vain. Poor Gundberga. Her only child had been everything to her. Now he was gone, leaving his mother doomed to a life imprisoned with his widow, the wild lass to whom she had always been kind and vowed she loved but, Cecilia suspected, wasn't much certain she had ever liked.

The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Still, Cecilia said nothing. At last, Gundberga gave another restrained sigh. Then, clasping her hands, she pivoted and started away from Roland's gravesite.

Only then did Cecilia regret her petty cruelty. She hurried a little to come abreast of Roland's mother. With that uneasy quiet yet lingering between them, they walked apace across Gradinton's lower bailey. As Gundberga had taught her, Cecilia lowered her head modestly as she moved. Each step was perfectly measured so that the hems of her gowns were barely disturbed by her progress, the epitome of control.

Sunlight gave way to sudden shadow. Cecilia glanced up at the square stone keep tower her grandsire had built. Set on its tall mound at the heart of the castle grounds, it was both the family's living quarters and their final defense. With the smallest of sneers, she bid this, the premier property of her estate, a bitter good riddance.

However rich Gradinton, however spacious and fine the interior of that tower, and despite that she'd lived here for ten years, this place had never been her home. Instead, it had shaped and contained her life, stealing from her those things she loved most.

Now, she shifted her gaze to her future, the one that waited impatiently outside the keep's massive stone gateway, the one that would strip from her what little freedom she had left to her life. Although the thick oaken doors in the gateway stood wide, Cecilia couldn't see Gundberga's carefully packed traveling cart. Neither could she see the six knights sent by the king to escort them to their new prison, one from which Cecilia's only escape would be death.

If only.

Those two words were as devastating to her as the illness that had taken Roland's life. If only Baldwin de Gradinton hadn't tried to steal Cecilia away from her father and died in the act, then he might have remarried and gotten other heirs, sparing her the weight and worry of his estates. If only her grandsire's wealth hadn't been so great that more than one dishonorable knight had tried to kidnap her as a child, then she wouldn't have had to wed so young. If only she had been born an ugly child, then she would not have had to confine herself within the walls of this keep to avoid those lewd men set on using her.

If only Roland hadn't sickened and died, leaving her a wealthy widow, vulnerable to a dishonorable king set on collecting such widows for his own use.

It was her grandsire's estate—four castles, all with fields and forests attached, three prosperous villages, the rents from a score of homes in Chester, and the traditional right to hunt in one of the king's forests—that had attracted her king. So eager was the king to have access to her wealth that his message commanding both her and Gundberga into his custody had arrived at Gradinton's gateway before Roland was cold. In it, King John had warned them to prepare to depart immediately, that he had sent a troop of knights as their escort. Indeed, that troop had knocked on their door the very next day.

As for Cecilia's fate, once she reached the king's hall at Winchester where John's female wards dwelt most of the year, she was certain she wouldn't be among those from whom this king chose wives for his favorites and the sycophants who clung to him. There was no point in marrying wealth if no heir ensued. Nay, Cecilia well knew she would join the king's niece Eleanor of Brittany, both of them living out their purposeless lives as nuns without a nunnery.

She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Even her restrained pace couldn't keep her from that forlorn and empty fate. It wasn't fair. Although she had walked this earth for a score of years, she had hardly lived at all and now she never would.

Salt-stained, wearing naught but his shirt and braies, Sir Stephen de Brazdifer scrubbed exhaustion from his eyes with his free hand. As he had for the duration of this crossing, Stephen stood at the stern of his rented snekke , his hand on the steer board. With the day breathless thus far, the sail was lowered. That gave Stephen an almost unobstructed view of the ten oarsmen seated on the rowing benches, five men on each side of the small craft. A short while ago, the instant there was light enough to discern the coastline, they'd broken from their brief harbor to enter the Dee mouth, rowing in the direction of Chester. Although these men were as tired as he, the rowers worked in easy unison, one born of long practice and intimate knowledge. Wood scraped on wood, benches creaked with each pull, oars dipped into and splashed rhythmically out of this morn's glassy sea. A little way from the snekke's bow, a seal broke from the water with a spray of water and a huff. It floated on the surface, its glistening gaze trained on them and their craft as they rowed past.

Savoring the quiet, for the seabirds would soon take to the wing, Stephen scanned the beach to the north. Long and flat, it stretched from the surf to the red-stained cliff at its back. By his best reckoning and the description given by the nobleman who summoned him here, this should be their meeting place.

The pewter sky gave way to translucent gray, then the sun crested in the east. Newborn light found gold in the sand and green in the sea. Against the brightening sky, Stephen caught twining dark lines rising above the cliff wall.

"Is that smoke I see, Meilyr?" he asked of the man seated on the steer board side of the rowing bench directly in front of him. It was a warrior's habit that kept his voice low.

Long of tooth and gray of beard, Meilyr sat closest to Stephen because he was the only one among this crew of Welshmen who spoke the Norman tongue or that of the English commoners, the two languages Stephen spoke. He had no ear for what they babbled, nor, despite his heritage, for that of the Irish. Like the rest of the rowers, the old man said he'd been a fisherman before he left his original trade for one that offered better recompense, that of ferrying the house of Pembroke from one side of the Irish Sea to the other. Stephen wondered if Meilyr didn't still serve Pembroke, albeit now the daughter of his old earl, even though the old man said he presently rowed out of Dublin and took his pay from Ireland's new Norman viceroy.

Lifting his oar, the burly Welshman turned on his bench to scan the beach. "Not certain," he spat out in French as he found the spot.

Retreating into his native tongue, he repeated the question to the others, or so Stephen assumed. A slender dark-haired youth, one of the most forward rowers, shifted and bent his eye on the beach, his oar still for the moment. When he turned back, he offered both a verbal answer and a relieved nod.

Stephen needed no further translation. He grinned as widely as the others, just as eager to stretch his legs and feel the earth again beneath his feet. The potential of landfall put new energy into each man's pull and the small snekke skimmed toward shallow water. Stephen worked to guide the vessel close to that line of smoke and the yet-shadowed wall that harbored those enjoying the small blaze.

It was another moment before the sky brightened enough to reveal what awaited him there. Five men there were, seated on driftwood. From the scour marks in the sand, they'd dragged their makeshift seats from the water's edge to their fire, a distance of at least a furlong. All of them wore cloaks with their hoods up despite the mild summer weather. There was no sign of a woman nor any accommodation fit for a delicate lady, not that Stephen had expected to find her here. However, there were six horses, all of them saddled and ready to ride.

An instant later and all the becloaked men were afoot, moving as if preparing for an attack. Four of the men mounted. Turning their horses away from the beach, they rode up the track that led to the top of that natural red wall. As they disappeared from sight, the fifth man took the bridles of the two remaining steeds and retreated into the tattered remnants of night that yet clung to the base of the cliff.

Stephen frowned as consideration deepened into something less pleasant. The one who called him to this meeting had already once proved dishonorable. Stephen wouldn't put it past that man to betray him a second time, given what was at stake.

Stewing on that poisoned thought, he released his craft to the incoming tide. The movement of the water carried the snekke the last little way before her hull scraped against the sea's sandy floor. Stephen and the two forward rowers stepped out into the thigh-deep water to steady the boat while the others settled their oars and followed them into the surf.

This ship was light even for her small size. She needed neither pier nor piling to hold her at harbor. Instead, she was happy to let herself be pulled onto the sand, out of reach of the tide, there to wait patiently for a return to her element.

As the snekke settled into her rest, tilting slightly to one side, Stephen reached into the space behind the steer board and removed his pack. There was no point to footwear or chausses, not with his legs wet and his feet covered in sand. Nor was there any need for a cloak on so mild a morn. Thus he left his outer wear, chausses, and soft boots in the greased sack and took only his knee-length red tunic. This garment, with the genet flower of the Plantagenets embroidered on its breast, was one he didn't mind staining with sand and salt water. It was a steadily fading reminder of his earlier years, when he'd been bound as a household knight to one of old King Henry's sons. Although he remained bound to that prince, it was now by affection rather than in expectation of his daily bread.

Meilyr, his arms crossed, his bare feet also thick with sand, came to stand before Stephen. That he took a stance a mite closer than most men would find comfortable was a result of those seabirds. Their number was legion in this area and with the light they had returned to the air. Not only did their raucous cries shatter this morn's gentle peace, the noise was loud enough to require either a raised voice or a closer stance.

The old man studied his temporary employer through narrowed eyes that were only a little darker brown than his sun-beaten skin. Unlike the others of this crew, who were short and slight, Meilyr was a bigger man. Yet he still had to crane his neck to look up at Stephen. He wasn't the only man forced to do that. Even among the Normans not many were as tall as Stephen, save for that Plantagenet son he served, who was taller still.

"How long do we stay here?" Meilyr asked.

Stephen smoothed his tunic down to his knees, then reached back into the snekke for his other, more important belongings. As he removed the greased wrappings from his sword, dagger, and purse, he said, "Until the turn of the tide. That's long enough to sleep a while and—" The jerk of his head indicated the amazing number of nests that cluttered the cliff wall— "gather some eggs to roast upon yon baron's fire if you'd like more than oatcakes and dried fish to fill your bellies," he replied flatly.

Then he shot a glance across the beach at the single waiting man and his two horses. The invitation that one had sent commanded that Stephen approach alone. Concern niggled at him. "That is, if all goes well."

"And if all does not go well?" the old man persisted, no more emotion on his face than Stephen allowed in his voice.

"Then we still depart with the outgoing tide, you still use that fire for a meal, and I leave yon man's corpse against the cliff wall and his soul to whatever fate our Lord intends for him," he replied, returning the greased wrappings into the belly of the boat and his dagger back to the pile.

Meilyr pursed his lips at that. The creases around his eyes grew deeper as he squinted at his better for a quiet moment. "And what if it's your soul, sir, in God's hands and not yon man's?"

"It won't be," Stephen said as he buckled his sword belt around his waist.

Meilyr offered a quiet "huh" at that.

Stephen glanced up at the Welshman, brows lifted in question as he fastened his purse that contained that precious piece of parchment to his belt. Amusement filled the old man's dark eyes. The corners of his mouth curled.

"I saw them. There's five to your one, for I guarantee those who departed aren't beyond reach of the other's call. You must think yourself as good with that big knife—" He pointed to Stephen's sheathed broad sword— "as you are with steer board and sail if you intend to take all five."

Then he added, speaking one seaman to another, "It was a good crossing."

Stephen blinked at the unexpected compliment. He and Meilyr knew each other not at all. He'd hired them immediately after securing permission from his lord and employer for time away from his duty, that of ferrying saddle-sore royal messengers across the Irish Sea.

"Aye, it was a good crossing," he replied, "and so it could only be, what with ten so apt at the oars as you and yours."

These were his father's words, the response his sire had taught Stephen to say. Stephen had been hardly more than a babe when his sire had first taken him to sea, teaching him the way of sails and oars whilst his father performed the same duty that Stephen now did. Four years later, after his elderly sire had finally answered their Lord's call, Stephen had left his first apprenticeship for his second, that of knighthood. But he never forgot those early lessons, especially this one. No man, no matter his birth, was more than one among a crew, and a successful crossing was ever the achievement of all.

The Welshman's arms opened and he gave a single, pleased nod. "We're but men of the sea, but we'll be here for you should you need us, sir," he offered. That was no empty offer. The Welsh rowers always carried their own "long knives" and were known to put them to good use.

"My thanks, Meilyr," Stephen replied, although he knew he needed no assistance. He'd been at war for more than half his life, first as a squire then a knight, fighting behind two English kings and William Longèspee, their younger bastard brother. Stephen was more than capable of killing one toothless English baron before that man could call for help.

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