Page 3 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rowena's step was certain and forceful until she drew nearer to the center of the hall and its raised hearth. At the other side of the circle of firelight thrown by the blaze, her sire and a tall man who must surely be Lord Graistan were immersed in quiet argument. Craving any information she might be able to use for her own benefit, Rowena caught Edith’s arm as her mother started past her. With a silent motion, she asked for a few moments to eavesdrop. Edith shot her daughter a hard look, then shrugged in acquiescence.

It wasn’t unusual for a long, narrow room such as this to thunder with the noise of its many occupants. In this moment, Benfield’s folk maintained a discreet silence, all of them trying to better hear the quarrel without appearing to be listening. Rowena shifted to the side to see the speakers.

Her father wore a garish costume of red and blue and bejeweled by his newly inherited wealth as he paced angrily behind the fire. Only when he whirled away did Rowena catch more than a glimpse of the tall man to whom he spoke.

Lord Graistan stood a full head taller than her father, which meant he would tower over her. His jaw line was clean shaven against the fashion set by King Richard, called the Lionheart. Thick, burnished chestnut hair curled lightly over the collar of his mantle. When he lifted a hand, firelight caught in the gemstone of his only ring. Wearing a simple brown tunic beneath a sturdy, plain mantle, he hardly looked the part of a bridegroom.

To others, it might appear that Lord Graistan stood casually before the hearth, but Rowena recognized full well the pride that infected the set of his shoulders, and the arrogance in the jut of his chin. Carefully, cautiously, she slipped forward to hear what they were saying.

Just then her father stopped in his strutting anger and threw his arms wide in frustration. "Why do you now play the reluctant bridegroom? I must hear from others that you plan to delay the wedding, and I’m forced to summon you here to confront you. I thought you agreed to wed my daughter."

His words echoed through the quiet hall. Rowena cringed. Surely the servants found this wholly reluctant bridal couple more diverting entertainment than any musician, mummer or juggler.

When the trembling echoes died away, Benfield’s master continued in a somewhat quieter voice. "It was my belief you found our terms satisfactory. Have I not already given your Churchman cousin our contract and all the rest you desired him to hold for you? Why then must I force your hand to conclude this deed only to have you seek for some other excuse by which to withdraw?"

"How reluctant can I be?" Lord Graistan said, his voice deep and his words unhurried. "I’m here. I simply thought you might wish to arrange a more elaborate affair for the wedding of your daughter and heiress."

"You simply thought!" her father mocked. "This is nothing more than a ploy to prevent this marriage until Lent is upon us, and no marriages might be made. "

"I’d hardly call Prince John's attempt to steal his brother's throne a ploy. Nor did I ask to be called to arms to serve my king,” the nobleman retorted.

Rowena raised her brows in grudging admiration for his clever phrasing, but her father was not dissuaded. "You twist my words against me," John protested. "It’s you who’d use a siege that might last for months to escape an obligation that could be dealt with in a day and night's time. You knew I wished this deed completed swiftly. If you intended in good faith to wed my daughter, you'd have paid the scutage instead of going yourself to that siege."

"Too many men these days seek to shirk their knightly duties that way." Lord Graistan’s words were a naked rebuke. "Besides, where's the hurry? Our contract will stand. Let us celebrate a betrothal this day and a wedding this summer when the weather is pleasant, and I am released from service. My cousin will officiate, and your new vassals as well as mine will attend. Although my men have all approved our contract, they’ll feel slighted if I wed in seeming secrecy.

"Betrothal is not enough!" Her father clenched his fists in impotent rage. "What happens to her if you spill your life's blood on the field at Nottingham? I must needs begin again the search for a husband to wed her."

"Your concern for me is touching," the tall man returned dryly, "if somewhat misplaced. The taking of Nottingham will most likely be a tiresome and dirty affair, but not particularly dangerous. Besides, in my family it’s not the men who die young." The honest bitterness that stained his words told Rowena he mourned the wives he'd lost and made lies of her mother's words about murder .

"I want her wedded and bedded now," her father demanded.

Then he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath. His words were calmer when he spoke again. "Perhaps you don’t intend to fall at Nottingham, but I haven’t the arrogance to defy death. I cannot afford to leave her unmarried when her claim to these lands will be contested by her sister's husband. I came to you because I was told you’d be a strong and just protector. Have I found one?"

"You have. And if I insist upon betrothal?" Lord Graistan shrugged as if he, himself, didn’t expect his request to be taken seriously.

Benfield’s owner stared at him. "I will consider our contract void. She must be married as quickly as possible. Will you allow her dowry to slip so easily from your fingers?"

Lord Graistan nodded slowly as if he’d expected no other response. "So, where is this prize of yours?"

At his words, Edith stepped around the fire, her movement catching her husband's eye and drawing his attention to his daughter. "Here she is now. Rowena!" He beckoned to her as if he called a dog to his side.

Rowena crossed the room to them and dropped into a deep curtsy before Lord Graistan. As she straightened she looked boldly up at him. Her husband’s eyes were gray and as hard and cold as the stones that made up Benfield’s walls. The harsh angles and planes of his face gave his features a bitter cast. Not even the tendrils of dark hair that lay lightly against his cheekbones lent him any softness. It was as her mother said. He could easily snap her in two .

Lord Graistan studied her in callous appraisal from the pearls in her hair to the toes of her plain shoes. There was an expression of slight surprise on his face when he once again met her gaze. "You jest," he finally said, his gaze never leaving hers. "She does resemble you, Benfield, but this cannot be your daughter."

Her father's anxious gaze darted between them as he stuttered in nervous agitation. "What! Now you accuse me of attempting to pass another off as my daughter? What nonsense is this, Graistan? Rowena"—he jerked angrily on her arm—"stare not upon your betters. If you seek to destroy with your rudeness what has been so carefully planned, I swear I’ll see you flayed alive."

Rowena shot her father a scathing glance, but bowed to the possibilities in his words and studied the rushes that lay deep on the floor.

"Nay, Benfield," Lord Graistan snapped. "You spoke volumes of her convent-guarded virtue, but not once did you mention her appearance."

"What has her appearance to do with the marriage contract?" her father spat out. "Had you spoken of your desire to see her, I’d have arranged it.

"It’s only that I thought you confined your daughter to a convent because she was an ill-favored wench. At her age what else should I have expected?"

Rowena smiled even as her father laughed. "Are you saying you wish my daughter were ugly?"

She could not resist peering up at Lord Graistan from her meek pose. The nobleman’s face was clouded in irritation until he caught her amused glance. He trapped her gaze with his, and his finely arched eyebrows rose slowly. Seemingly against his will, a smile bent his lips .

In that moment, he changed. Gone was the dour, glowering lord. In his place stood an attractive man with a warm and charming smile who made no attempt to hide his amusement even though it was directed at himself.

"Don’t ask me to explain," Lord Graistan said, his words touched with laughter, "for I will not."

Rowena caught a breath. She wasn’t prepared for this. Before her stood a powerful, complex man in the prime of his life while she was an overeducated, over aged woman with no experience at all with men. What sort of marriage could this be?

"What is this?" Lord Graistan crooked a finger beneath her chin and slightly tilted her head. "She’s bruised, Benfield."

Her father only grunted. "She misunderstood something I told her this morn."

"I see" Rowena’s intended husband said.

He studied her face for a quiet moment before continuing. "It appears there are no further impediments here. May I escort you to the chapel, my lady?" He inclined his head in invitation as he offered Rowena his hand.

"As you command, my lord." Rowena took his hand, although she was reluctant to do so.

The nobleman quickly led her between the long trestle tables, expertly dodging the servants who were placing additional torches on the wall. Once past the hall door they carefully picked their way across the bailey until they reached the keep's gate. Here they stopped, no more than a dozen steps from the walls and the village church that would serve noble as well as peasant this day.

"Now it’s your father who delays us," Lord Graistan said.

Rowena looked past his shoulder at the hall. Her parents had yet to emerge from the door. Her gaze shifted back to the man she must wed.

The barest hint of mockery touched the gray of his eyes. "Tell me, my lady, surely you must pine for a more elaborate ceremony. All this haste seems unnatural to me."

"It matters not to me, my lord," she replied. The chill breeze caught at her mantle until the rich garment billowed out behind her. With trembling hands, she pulled it more tightly around her. Why did the cold not seem to affect him? She shivered again.

Lord Graistan stepped nearer to her until the greater build of his body shielded her from the wind. "Then you are most unusual among women if the poverty of this affair does not concern you. Or perhaps"—he took her hand again, his fingers intertwining with hers"—it is only that you don’t find me to your liking."

Rowena sent him a sharp glance. "You are teasing me, my lord. I’ve seen you for only a few moments and spoken to you even less. How could you expect me to know whether I find you to my liking?" Asperity honed her words to a fine edge.

Lord Graistan's smile didn’t soften his guarded expression. "I’m gratified to know you haven’t yet judged me, my lady. I am very vain and couldn’t easily tolerate a harsh verdict. Do you suppose the servants are disappointed we don’t act the part of lovers?"

She frowned at his non sequitur. "Lovers? We’re barely acquainted. The servants know that." Did he think she was a fool?

"Oh, but even the barest hint of affection would please the crowd." He gestured to the serving folk and peasantry, who watched them from a respectful distance.

"My life is no man's entertainment," Rowena snapped, recognizing that he toyed with her the way a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it. His faintly mocking smile was proof of that.

Silence claimed them. Rowena endured it until the urge to know more of the why of this ceremony grew beyond containment.

"Might I ask you something?" she asked, continuing when she had the slight inclination of his head. "It doesn’t concern you that I am an unwilling wife?"

This made him laugh, the sound a deep, rich rumble of amusement. He looked at her, still grinning widely. "My sweet, all wives are unwilling. That is the nature of wives. Come, it’s time," he added as her parents came to join them.

Much too quickly Rowena stood with him before the doorway of the tiny village church. The priest nervously cleared his throat. This was an awesome moment for one so humble as he. These sorts of unions were always celebrated at the abbey. He was just a peasant's son who knew more of flocks and fields than Latin rites. Before him now stood both his present master and one even greater who would someday hold this manor.

He turned to the bride. “Do you enter willingly into the state of holy matrimony?”

"Of course she does," Lord Benfield growled out before Rowena could open her mouth. "Get to the meat of it."

The priest once again cleared his throat. His hands trembled in growing nervousness. "Be there any obstacles to this wedding? You are not relatives?"

"Fool!" his lord yelled at him, "get to the recitation of property and the vows."

The priest jumped, nearly colliding with the bride, then straightened his stained and darned surplice. Once again, he cleared his throat. "My lord, you haven’t given me a list to recite," he complained gently.

"God's teeth," Lord Benfield cursed. "I’ll do it, then. The keep at Provsy and its village and the right to the church therein. Four furlongs of arable land and the woods at Oxbow—"

Rowena listened in astonishment as her father chanted out the lands that made up her value. She hadn’t known her mother's family was so wealthy. When her father finished, her husband began the recitation of what would be hers throughout their marriage.

"I, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord of Graistan, Ashby, Blacklea and Upwood, give to my wife as her dower the manor of Upwood with its three ovens, two mills and dovecot. Four hides of arable as demesne will see to her needs as well as the right to customary collection of all fines, fees and merchet therein. This will she hold until her death." Then, he paused. "Only if she agrees as a condition of this marriage to hold in trust for my natural son Jordan the manor and all customary lands attached to it at Blacklea. Unless she so swears, this marriage will go no further."

The only sounds were a low moan from her father and the wind whistling through the open church door. Startled, Rowena stared at her husband. Here, her mother hadn’t lied; he cherished his natural son.

"We never spoke of this," her father shouted when he finally found his voice, "I will have none of it!"

A deep sense of irony twisted in Rowena’s stomach. This was the culmination of a fine business proposition, held in the best manner of business dealing. It only remained to be seen who had cheated whom. But if she refused this man, her father would swiftly find another to take his place.

Lord Graistan's fingers tightened ever so slightly on hers. She looked up at him. His eyes might be cold and gray, but there was something almost hopeful in the way he held his head. A subtle warmth flowed through her, and she smiled a very small smile. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, and his eyes softened.

"I swear." Rowena's calm, firm voice overrode her father's complaints. "I do vow that the manor at Blacklea," she paused, looking for confirmation in her husband's eyes, "be held in trust for my lord's natural son. I accept the conditions of this marriage as true and binding. I, Rowena of Benfield, take thee as my husband."

"And I, Rannulf FitzHenry of Graistan, take thee as my wife. I present to you this token of our pledge," he said, not waiting for the priest to ask him. He produced from the small leather purse that hung at his belt a silver ring, tarnished with age and deeply etched with whimsical tracery. It was set with a large stone, a milky lavender at one end that deepened into royal purple at the other. He handed it to the priest, who quickly blessed the ring and handed it back to him.

Lord Graistan placed it successively upon the first three fingers of her right hand, to bless the pledge, then on the middle finger of her left hand. "Accept it in remembrance of your words this day."

"Stop," Lord Benfield cried out to the priest. "There will be no marriage this day."

Both bride and groom turned to look at him. Suddenly, a wall of Graistan’s surly men rose up just below the church steps. Although unarmed, they were daunting enough to stop a single nobleman. Her father sputtered in helpless rage.

"All this complaint over a single, insignificant manor entrusted to my son?" Lord Graistan's fingers entwined with his wife's, and he pulled her slightly behind him. "Rather than argue, why don’t we say mass and repair to the hall to restore our good humor with the feast?"

With that, the nobleman took a handful of coins from his purse and tossed them into the crowd. As the servants and peasants scrambled to grab what they could he spun on his heel and led his wife into the church. Their walk up the aisle stirred up an airy cloud of dust. The priest had been hard at his plowing and had not seen to sweeping out the sanctuary.

"Aye, let us do so, and quickly," Sir John growled, "for I’m badly in need of drink to wash away the foul taste of these dealings. Glad I am to have only one daughter to marry." He stalked past Lord Graistan's men and followed his new son into the church.

Unnerved by the happenings, the priest stumbled through the service, then bade the couple to seal the deed. Rowena turned her face to her husband to accept the brief, ceremonial kiss expected in rites such as these. Her husband’s mouth settled over hers. Rowena started. His mouth was warm, his lips soft as they lingered against hers in the most disturbing way.

Gasping softly, she drew quickly away from him. Lord Graistan frowned at her as if she'd done something amiss. A moment later he offered his arm and they left the church.

The servants and peasants followed them back into the hall, laughing and shouting in high anticipation as they streamed in for the meal. Beneath each table sat an alms basket for collection of food scraps for the poor, the dogs having been chained into a far corner for the meal’s duration. Additional torches were set into sconces along the wall and brightened the normally dim room into an almost festive glow.

Her husband led Rowena to the high table at the top of the room. For this evening, they had the seats of honor set with a carved wooden cup. Because Benfield owned no special chair, not even for its master, they found their places on the bench above the tall salt cellar. Like the servants, their plates were a thick slice of day-old bread to receive and absorb the soups and stews that would be served. But they had three, one for each course, while the commoners had only one.

Through the hall door came a man bearing a large basket. Wafting along with him was the yeasty smell of his freshly baked wares, while the scent of meat roasting in the cooking shed followed on his heels. Others moved around the tables filling cups with wine for the better folk, while ale sufficed for the rest. At the hall’s end, a musician tuned his instrument while he awaited his meal. The discordant and melancholy harmony wove itself into the newborn gaiety in the hall.

Rowena winced. For all of what remained of her life, she’d preside over a hall similar to this one. Each day she would give the same orders to her maids and hear from them the same reports. If she was fortunate and her husband allowed, she might attend a fair or market in a nearby city or town from time to time. But most likely her home would become her prison. Such was the fate of one who would have been, could have been, a powerful and influential churchwoman.

From the moment they dipped their hands into the basin at the onset of the meal, Rowena couldn’t escape her new lord's courtly attentions. Too sensitive to the mockery beneath his manner to be flattered, she wondered if his attitude was naught but a ruse to forestall any personal inquiry she might make.

As the none-too-lavish meal ended, the jugglers moved away from the open space left in the center of the room and the musicians took their places. Although they were louder than they were competent, their raucous and gay tunes helped her wean her thoughts away from the man next to her. Later, she lost herself completely in the playacting of the mummers who followed the musicians.

"Do you never speak unless spoken to?" Lord Graistan's quiet words were barely audible over the noise in the hall.

She tossed a sidelong glance at him. Whatever slight peace she’d enjoyed since the meal's end dissipated. "I admit to no knowledge of what’s expected of wives. Nonetheless, I’ve always owned the impression that men prefer silent women."

"You seek only to please me? My lady, you flatter me."

Rowena sipped her wine to give her time to craft her answer with care. "Odd, but I’d not have taken you as a man so easily flattered."

Lord Graistan raised a cautious eyebrow. "So, you’ve had the time to judge me better, have you? And how, now, do you feel about our marriage?"

Rowena sighed and set her cup down. What on earth did he expect her to say? "You must content yourself in knowing I’ve only some impressions. Please take no disrespect, but if you find me wary it’s because I am cautious by nature."

"Wary of me? There are those who’d laugh at that." He suddenly seemed to withdraw once again into himself, and he turned away.

After a moment, Rowena let her attention return to the actors. Thus, she was startled when a moment later he said, his lips very near her ear, "I assure you, you aren’t at all what I expected. You are an attractive woman."

Rowena shifted on the bench to look at him. His eyes were soft as he watched her. A strange uneasiness came to life in her stomach.

"I wasn’t taught to think of myself in that way," she murmured in response to his compliment.

Her husband’s arm encircled her waist, then he pulled her nearer to him on their bench. Before she could protest his lips touched hers. She gasped lightly at the shock of flesh on flesh. His mouth moved just a bit, but it was enough to send a tremor down her spine. Her breath caught.

In an oddly intimate caress, his hand slid up her arm along the closely fitted sleeve of her undergown. Deep in her soul a flame burst into being, awakening life where before there had been nothing. He plied her lips with light, taunting kisses, his fingers drawing small circles in the bend of her elbow. Tiny shivers tingled up her arm.

His mouth brushed her ear. "Did I not tell you they wished us to behave as lovers do?" he whispered.

"What?" Rowena’s mouth barely moved as she spoke. In the blazing warmth his touch awakened, she could find no sense in his words.

"Listen." He kissed her earlobe, then released her from his embrace.

The hall rocked with cheers. Even the mummers were amused. They began an obscene pantomime of the night's expected conclusion.

Rowena's eyes narrowed, her face an icy mask of disdain. "It amuses you to humiliate me. Have you finished or might I expect to fall into other traps before this evening is done? Ah, but then," she smiled coldly, "it would ruin your pleasure if you were to warn me."

"Humiliate?" Her husband's face was devoid of expression. "Not humiliate. I cannot help that I’m tempted beyond propriety by your loveliness."

The corner of Rowena’s mouth tightened. "Such a glib tongue for one who earlier did all that he could to avoid this wedding. I daresay I should be flattered. Should I believe that you have suddenly discovered that I’m your one true love?" She shot him a mocking smile. "If that’s your claim, then know your words cannot own even the flavor of truth in them."

"Your tongue cuts me to the quick," Lord Graistan said with a smile, not in the least wounded.

"Aye, my tongue can be sharp. This you would have known if you’d more closely examined this piece of merchandise before you purchased it, my lord." She kept the same mocking tone.

His smile didn’t falter. If anything new amusement flared in his gaze. "Wife, you set yourself before me like a keep with its defenses up and its gate barred. I’m dared to lay siege to you. Have a care. You’re too innocent in the ways of this sort of warfare. I’ll reduce your walls to rubble."

Rowena frowned. He was laughing at her. She started to speak, but he pressed a gentle finger to her lips and smiled a lazy, confident smile.

"Winter nights are long and cold." He traced his finger down her cheek to follow the curve of her throat, then let his hand slide down her arm to rest atop her hand. "I’ll welcome you with open arms to my bed."

He beckoned a nearby servant. "Inform your master," he paused, his gaze going to his father-in-law. Benfield’s master spewed drunken curses at a servant too slow in refilling his cup. "Nay, inform Lady Benfield that her daughter is ready to retire."

With that Lord Graistan turned back to his wife. "I think it’s time for me to closely, indeed very closely, examine the goods I’ve purchased this day."