Page 4 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rowena rose without argument and stared haughtily down at her husband. "It is that time, isn’t it? This day has dragged on too long already, and I’m mortally tired."

He only smiled, not fooled by her bravado. She turned on her heel and followed her mother into the bedchamber that had so recently been her prison. When the door shut behind her, Rowena’s eyes closed, and she swallowed. There was no escape for her.

Being convent-raised had not sheltered her from the realities of this earthly plane. Although virgin she was, she knew well enough what was expected of her. Could she freely allow her husband to use her as she knew she must?

And, what of him? Would he make her his victim and abuse her? Some of the nuns who had once been wives told such tales. Rowena choked on the image of herself raped and bruised on her marriage bed.

When she at last opened her eyes the room held new meanings in its homely furnishings. The flickering night candle near the bed's end gave it all a sinister bend. The trunk squatting at the wall seemed to shift out into the room while the chair beside it crept more deeply into shadow. The bed was by far the worst. Its thick spiraling posts cast evil forms on the wall behind it, and its dark, cavernous interior seemed no more than a malevolent craw. Once again, she shut her eyes .

Her mother noticed her look. "It was my mother's bed," she said, her voice oddly wistful. "It’s all I had left of her, but it’s mine no longer. Your father gave it to Lord Graistan as part of your dowry."

Rowena sagged. If only she might once again have the simple, straw-filled pallet that had served her so well in the convent. It, at least, had never appeared as though it might devour her. "I don’t want it," she said, her voice sharp with fear. "You keep it."

Her mother shot her a hard glance. "I don’t need your pity."

Edith turned away to the hearth as her maids entered the room and set briskly to their work. Precious candles were placed in ornate metal branches until the room glowed with gentle light. The servants stripped the bride of her wedding finery until she stood unclothed, her hair combed smooth once again. When all was done, she was wrapped in a soft wool blanket to ward off the chill.

They had barely finished when a knock broke the tense stillness in the room. Rowena clutched fearfully at her single garment's neck. Edith glanced in irritation toward the closed door. "Is he so eager for you? He barely allows us time to make you ready."

The priest opened the door and her father stumbled in, leaning heavily on his son-in-law's arm. John of Benfield swayed noticeably and glanced bleary-eyed about the room until he saw his daughter.

"Impertinent twit," he mumbled. "Didst swear she'd rather die than bed a man. Well, she'll see her comeuppance this night." With those words, he lurched to the side and fell against the wall. He slid gracelessly to the ground, emitted a deep belch, then snored.

Lord Graistan's expression remained impassive as he watched her father's exit from the conscious world, then he raised his head to glance at his wife. “Did she, now?” he said, then removed his cloak and handed it a maid. His suggestive tone teased an amused response from the serving women.

He turned to the priest. "When you've finished blessing the bed for us, Father, will you stay to help them take their lord out of here?"

After he had the priest’s nod, he removed his gown with one pull. A moment later and his boots were off, then his shirt, until he was clad only from waist to toe in his braies and stocking-like chausses. Rowena stole a swift glance.

Candlelight made his bared skin gleam ruddy. His was a work-hardened frame that radiated power in its every solid curve and angular plane. Several livid scars cut across his chest and served as proof that he kept his livelihood by his sword. Dark hair trailed down his chest to disappear beneath the waist of his braies.

He chuckled, and she knew he'd caught her glance. Rowena drew a quick breath and turned away, but it was too late. "Have patience, wife," he teased. "This poor maid must work the knots from my cross-garters before I can remove my undergarments." The kneeling woman tittered as she unwound the strips of fabric that crisscrossed his legs from ankle to knee and kept his stockings from sagging.

Until this night, Rowena had never had a complaint with the custom of bedding the bride and groom. It was sensible, even practical. How better to make certain, prior to the consummation of the marriage and in front of as many witnesses as possible, that there was no hidden physical defect in either party? Now, as a maid pulled at the sleeves of her robe, the sour taste of reality filled her mouth.

As she had said, she was purchased goods to be examined for blemishes before the final transfer from seller to buyer. Nude and vulnerable, she turned to reveal herself to her husband. It was her shame, not the cold air, that made her skin prickle.

Lord Graistan stopped undressing, the fabric of his braies dangling from his fingers. For a short, silent moment, it was as though there was no one save the two of them in the room. His gaze lingered on her body, touching her full breasts, slim waist, and gently curving hips.

She looked at this lord who now owned her. Long legs, narrow hips, broad chest, strong arms, arrogant man. If he chose to take her against her will, she would be powerless to stop him. Rowena of Benfield, once sure she would be owned by no man, intensely felt her loss of freedom. She glanced up at him. He met her gaze and took a half step forward.

His movement broke the spell woven around her. "Well, my lord," she asked acidly, "am I worth the price?" Even her mother gasped at the harshness of the question.

"I’m pleased so far," her husband answered, his voice soft and deep, "but the night is still young, and there is a test or two remaining 'ere it's over."

Those women still gathered behind Rowena chuckled and loudly whispered their bawdy comments. Lord Graistan laughed. Edith stepped closer to her daughter. Rowena shifted away in startled surprise.

"May she retire now, my lord?" Edith asked.

The nobleman spared his mother-by-marriage a brief glance, then his attention returned to his wife. "But she hasn’t yet answered. Do you find a flaw?" His tone was intimate.

How could he be so casual about this? "Nay," Rowena snapped, then immediately retreated to the great bed and slid between the cold sheets.

The maids laughed at her cowardice, but her husband silenced them. "Have mercy on us," he pleaded mockingly. "A body could freeze solid in here in just moments. Now, would that not be a sorry waste of flesh?" Again, the women chortled.

Lord Graistan tapped his father-in-law with a bare foot as the priest dragged the nobleman out the door. "Don’t worry overmuch how you handle him, Father; I doubt he’ll notice anything until the morrow.”

Once all the others were gone, Lord Graistan quietly shut the door behind them. Rowena had heaped the many soft blankets about her, but she was still cold. In wary fascination, she watched her husband snuff out all but the night candle, until the air reeked of burned wick and deep shadows again whispered in the corners.

A moment more and he was at their bedside. She lay tensely back against the bolsters and waited. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Her teeth clenched. Linen rustled impatiently against linen as he arranged the pillows to suit him. Still, she waited.

Each passing moment died a long and agonized death. Only the low moan of the rising wind broke the silence in the room. Why did he hesitate? She wanted this over and done with, now .

As minutes ticked away she again recalled Lord Graistan’s conversation with her father. Perhaps her new husband still wished to be free of this contract. If their marriage wasn’t consummated there’d be no expensive petition to the pope, only an application for dissolution to his Churchman cousin. But then, he'd have to give up her dowry.

The clean sheets fairly crackled as she shifted slightly to look at him. He'd left the bed curtains open and lay covered to the waist by the blankets. His fingers were laced behind his head as he rested on the bolsters. His eyes were shut. She couldn’t imagine a more relaxed pose.

Meager candlelight gleamed against his exposed skin and shadows traced the masculine swell of his chest. She studied the generous sweep of his forehead, the narrow line of his nose and well-molded lips. Not a truly handsome man, she thought, but not unattractive, especially when he smiled. As she watched, fine lines of amusement began to play at the corners of his closed eyes.

"Do you like what you see?" His eyes opened, his head turning in her direction. The taunting warmth of his words was reflected in his gray gaze.

Rowena immediately looked away, her cheeks afire. He made her feel like a child caught where she shouldn’t be. Hard words hid her chagrin, "It hardly matters, does it my lord?"

The moment the words were out Rowena regretted them. What a stupid girl! What if her words incited him to cruelty?

Her husband laughed. "It matters, if only to my vanity. My given name is Rannulf. I prefer that form of address from those who know me well." His words implied that she’d soon know him very well. So, he'd had no intention of leaving her virgin. Once again he had toyed with her and won.

"As you like, my lord." She eased back down against the mattress.

"Rannulf," he prompted.

"Rannulf," she answered uneasily.

"So, my lady wife," he said, then sighed. "This night we make ourselves a marriage, eh? What say you we begin this task of ours now?"

Rowena steeled herself for his touch. If only he would close the bed curtains. Deep shadows would make the fulfillment of this duty easier.

He rolled to his side, his eyes now a pale gleam in the night. When he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch was gentle. "Try not to be too fearful. I intend to make this as painless for you as possible. Of course, this is assuming you are yet virgin."

Rowena sat bolt upright with a gasp of outrage. "What! Now you presume too much. Please recall that I’ve lived fourteen years in a convent."

He laughed quietly. "What have convents to do with virginity or virtue?"

That piqued her pride. "Be assured that what I held precious for the Lord God, I now surrender to you," she spat out, her fists clenched into the bedclothes.

Again, he laughed. "Stay angry, wife Rowena. I like you better this way. Consummation of marriage is not as horrible as you might think."

"You questioned my honor apurpose?" she cried out.

When she would have said more, his mouth took hers. Outrage made her try to pull away from his touch, but his heated kiss consumed her anger and confused her senses. When he urged her down against the mattress, she hadn’t the will to resist him.

Trapped in a web of sudden and overwhelming sensation, she closed her eyes and sighed. His was an unexpectedly clean scent. She savored the taste of his mouth on hers. Against her arm, she could feel the hard curve of his shoulder, yet his skin was soft where it touched hers.

Something stirred within her, warm and deep and hidden. He pressed a kiss just below her ear. It stirred again. She caught her breath. His fingers stroked her palm.

Again, he pressed his lips to her throat, this time slightly lower, then he set another kiss lower still. The stirring within her grew into a faint tenseness. She sighed, and the tenseness eased. Her fingers twined with his, and her other hand found its way to the nape of his neck. Gently, she combed her fingers through his hair and shivered at its silkiness. Trapped in her own need to feel, she trailed her fingertips down his nape to his shoulders and back again.

He groaned low in his throat. Startled back to her senses Rowena snatched her hand away as she burned with shame. How could she have been so forward? She tried to pull away, but he caught her in his arms. Without a word, he once again took her mouth with his. She lay still and cold beneath him in her shame.

"Don’t run away," he whispered. His words were laced with laughter.

"How could I run? You hold me," she whispered in return, her arms still held tightly at her sides.

"And would you run if I didn’t hold you? I think not," he breathed into her ear. Rowena shivered. "I think"—he kissed her throat—"you’ll do as pleases both of us, not just me."

"You mock me." She pressed her hands into the sheets, determined to stay perfectly still even as his caresses again dissolved her spine.

He paused and braced himself up on his elbow. "I promise I won’t tease you any more, at least not with words." His hands slipped up from her waist to cradle her breasts.

Rowena gasped and twisted. Outrage fused with pleasure in an unholy union as he lowered his mouth to kiss a line between his hands. The sensations he awoke were unbearable, yet she didn’t want them to cease. She tried to pull away, to escape the enormity of what she was feeling. Too late. She was pinned to the mattress between his arms.

All rational thought fled in the face of her primal need to feel. She knew the heat of his mouth against her breast and reveled in the roughness of his callused palm as he stroked her stomach. When his hand slid lower to touch her nether lips she trembled beneath him.

Her hands found and caressed the hard line of his shoulders. His teasing fingers made her cry out and try to twist away, while in all truth she wanted to do no such thing. Her lips found his throat as he lowered himself to lie full length atop her, his legs between hers. His hoarse and whispered words were unintelligible as she kissed his neck. She spread her legs to better accommodate his weight upon her. The heat between her thighs fairly scorched her .

Pain, tearing pain. Rowena cried out and arched beneath him as her virgin blood flowed. Her fingers dug deep into his back as she bit her lip to still her cry.

The fullness of him within her was both foreign and welcome in one incredible instant. Her husband rested still atop her. With gentle fingers he combed her hair, then stroked her cheek.

"Forgive me." His words were oddly breathless. "Have patience, your pain will pass in a moment."

Rowena's eyes remained half-closed. A moment slipped by and slowly, the burning ache eased. As it passed the urge to shift beneath him woke, not to escape her husband’s weight upon her, but because the feel of his skin against hers demanded it. She fought the urge.

Their legs were twined, his between hers, her calves across his. When had that happened? Again, he stroked his fingertips down her cheeks, his hands lowering down either side of her neck in a feathery caress. She shivered as a tiny spark of heat exploded within her.

Lowering his mouth to hers, he touched his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. One followed another, each one growing with intensity until it became a passionate taking of her mouth. All memory of the pain he’d caused her died.

She shifted uneasily beneath him, not knowing why she did so. It was as if there was some hidden destiny within her, but try as she might, she couldn’t imagine what it was. As she moved so did he, his shaft sliding deeper into her. She gasped, only this time the sound had naught to do with pain.

"I promise this won’t always hurt you so," Rannulf breathed into her ear between kisses .

He moved again, then again. A subtle pleasure pulsed within Rowena, quickly tumbling into a greater need. She shifted to accommodate his thrusts, finding yet greater pleasure as she did so. He buried his head against her neck, his breathing ragged and quick, and she embraced him in mute acceptance of her womanhood.

But when he stilled to lie panting atop her, Rowena nearly cried out in complaint. There was something more, something she couldn’t identify. What more could there be between a man and a woman?

After a long moment, he eased slightly to one side, lying half atop her. His eyes were heavy lidded with his ebbing passion. The smile that bent his mouth was warm and untroubled.

Slowly, Rowena smiled in return. He kissed her cheek, then the tip of her nose. When, at last, his mouth met hers, her lips clung to his as she enjoyed the taste of him, the warmth of his lips, and the glorious feeling of his mouth moving against hers.

Of a sudden, he drew away to eye her anew. His expression clouded, his smiling warmth dimming to stark confusion, then into a harsh coldness. He eased completely off her, then farther away in the bed, as if he feared to touch her.

"Best you sleep well this night. We travel to Graistan on the morrow. I must be on about my business." He sat up and impatiently tugged the bed curtains closed around them. When he lay down it was with his back to his wife.

"Tomorrow?" The word spilled bitterly from Rowena’s lips, but it wasn’t the morrow's leave-taking that bothered her. His sudden coldness deeply stabbed her, destroying all the warmth and pleasure they had just shared. What had she done to make him stare at her so?

He raised up on one elbow to look over his shoulder at her. The dour lord was back. "My men and vassals await my arrival at Nottingham. Be content that Graistan isn’t so far and that the short trip won’t trouble you much." He settled into the mattress and drew the bedclothes up over his shoulder.

Rowena stared at his back as his breathing fell into the deep and even rhythm of sleep. Only then did she ease across the bed into the corner farthest from him. There, hidden in the deepest shadows of the bed, she struggled to straighten her painful thoughts. There was nothing to straighten. Reason and order had fled; serenity was shattered. In their place sat the memory of their lovemaking and his cruel rejection.

She’d known that she’d be no more to him than an instrument, a harp to be set aside when the song was finished. What she hadn’t known was how painful that setting aside would be. Leaning her head against a bedpost, she swallowed her pain and felt the coldness within her grow colder yet. Only when she could bear her thoughts no more did she settle beneath the bedclothes, keeping as far from him as possible. It was a long while before she slept.

Rannulf lay still and forced his breathing into an even, relaxed pace. His new wife sat at the far side of the bed. Cruelty didn’t come easily to him as it did some men. Yet, he reminded himself of how necessary it was. If only she’d been the ugly, docile girl he'd expected, then he could have been kind and still have felt nothing toward her. Instead, she was a fiery, passionate, and beautiful woman. His lips moved in a silent curse. He was married again, this time trapped into it by his own avarice.

When his cousin Oswald, who served Benfield's new overlord the Bishop of Hereford, had sent John of Benfield to him with this contract, Rannulf’s first impulse had been to refuse. After all, he had his heirs in his half brother Gilliam, and his natural son Jordan. But when John explained the extent of his daughter's estate, Rannulf found he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away, especially when her lands lay so close to his own heart, Graistan.

Rannulf listened. There was no sound but the wind. He peered over his shoulder at his wife. She was curled onto her side, her back to him.

When he was sure she slept, he rolled toward her. Even now he ached to reach out and draw her near, to feel the softness of her skin against his, the silkiness of her hair twining around his arms. He remembered the sweet taste of her and shuddered.

She had wanted him. Even in her innocence she'd shown him that. He'd touched her and a flame of raw desire burst into life in her eyes. No other man had ever awakened her passions; she hadn’t even known herself capable of such feeling. God, he wanted no more than to lie abed with this woman and teach her more of pleasure. He ached to kiss her once again into awareness of her womanhood.

But he wouldn’t be staying at Graistan with her. Aye, he’d awakened these passions of hers, but who would she find to satisfy them while he was gone? He balled his fists against such thoughts, successfully burying them where they belonged, back in the darkest corner of his mind.

Despite his efforts, he couldn’t escape his sense of impending heartbreak. His life was cursed. Once long ago, when he'd been younger, less jaded, he'd dreamed of a marriage such as his father had known with his second wife, Ermina. Theirs had been a true love, filled with great passion and caring. But, if Rannulf’s first marriage had been dull and fruitless, his second had been a catastrophe that had nearly torn his family asunder. It was then that he’d sworn not to marry again.

Here was what came of greed. Beside him lay a woman who would no doubt destroy his life even more thoroughly than his last wife had, and him with it. Rannulf sighed. It’d be best if he never came to care for her. If she grew to hate him for it, so be it. Better her hate than his pain.

He resettled the bedclothes up over his shoulders and waited for sleep to overtake him. The wait was dark and empty, and his wife cried out in her dreams. It was a struggle not to take her in his arms to comfort her. At long last, he drifted off and had no dreams of his own.

It was the relentless drumming of sleet against the shutter that awakened Rannulf. Beside him, his wife sighed heavily and rolled to her side. Outside, the wind howled and sent fingers of icy air probing into every corner. She shivered as a draft fluttered the bed curtains. He stirred a little to let her know he, too, was awake.

There was enough gray light in the bed to show him her form. He studied the tumble of her thick black hair against her pale skin. The contrast was as startling as she was. Without effort, he recalled the full lushness of her body and her instinctive response to his lovemaking. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caressed the gentle curve of her back where it narrowed into her waist.

She gasped and rolled out of his arm's reach. "I thought you still slept," she said ungraciously.

"How can a man expect to find any rest when his wife constantly moves about all night? He kept his tone light. "Your dreams weren’t pleasant."

"I cannot recall, my lord." She lied. He knew it.

"How quickly you’ve forgotten my name." Why did he press this with her if he wanted her to remain distant?

She only shrugged, then turned to open the bed curtains. Day’s watery light pushed past her to fill the bed. She shivered despite that the bedclothes were held tightly about her.

Rannulf watched her, a wee part of himself sighing at her reaction. His cruelty had achieved exactly what he desired. It would be a long while before she again allowed herself to be vulnerable to him. What he'd done to her gouged him as well.

"Damn," he muttered. When she glanced at him, he turned his curse into a comment. "Our ride today is going to be less than pleasant."

Her eyes widened in astonishment. "You still mean to go? It’s freezing outside. The roads will be barely passable."

"I know that well enough without you telling me," he said sourly. No doubt this was the Lord God's punishment for how he treated his wife. "I’m honor-bound to go to Nottingham and join those men loyal to King Richard, who now besiege that filthy keep. But first, I must get you to Graistan."

He eased from the bed and gathered his clothing. With an angry sigh, he tied on his braies, then donned his chausses, knotting each stocking to the waist cord of his braies. She wrapped a blanket about her and, to his surprise, slipped from the bed to tie his cross-garters for him. Rannulf watched her deftly wrap the cords about his calves and knot them in place.

When she was done, she eased back to sit upon her heels. "And what will your servants think when you leave me with hardly more than a fare-thee-well?"

That strange sense of disappointment nagged at him. No begging or pleading that he shouldn’t leave her did she offer. Nor were there any tears or pretty rages. He'd been more effective than he'd expected. All she would now care for was the power and comfort Graistan Keep could lend her. For some reason this irritated rather than soothed him.

"Graistan has been too long without a proper housewife to see to its corners and bins. If you are capable of managing them, my servants will easily accept you. But if you meddle where you have no experience, they rightly will snub you. Remember this, if you overstep your bounds, don’t come crying to me, for I won’t aid you."

Still kneeling at his feet, Rowena’s lovely face tightened in an irritation that matched his own "My dear lord husband, let me assure you that I’ve never needed to come crying to anyone for help in managing servants."

With that said, she retreated to the bed and out of his reach. "Take care of your duties and I will take care of mine."

Rannulf drew on his shirt with a jerk. Even as he told himself it served no purpose, he couldn’t restrain a return thrust. "Ah, I see it clearly now. You’ll run the distance, but take not one step further. You’ll be a dutiful wife to me." He made duty sound like a curse rather than the rightful aim of every woman.

His wife offered him a hard, calculating smile. Her eyes, eyes so blue they were nearly purple, should have been warm with longing for him. Instead, they shot daggers at him. "'Tis true. There’s little else I can bring into this contract of ours, save my devotion to duty."

Rannulf yanked his robe over his head and cinched his belt tight about his waist. A muscle tensed in his cheek as he fought his anger at her masterful control. "Remember only this, Rowena, duty does not warm the heart."

Her eyes flew wide in disbelief at his warning. "In response, I can only say that bitterness cannot be the friendliest of companions."

For a single, astonished instant, he stared at her. With those few words, she pierced his heart, destroying his barricades, and storming his defenses. Protective rage came swiftly on the heels of surprise. "I am a tolerant man, some have said over-tolerant, but you push me to my limit,” he warned.

Rather than the meek submission a wife owed her husband, Rowena shot him that hard smile again. "What little bird gave you to understand that you might say what you please to me without offering me the same courtesy in return?"

Rannulf stared at her in breathless disbelief. In all his life he'd never met a woman so bold. She fair begged him to beat her.

"Is it your wish to goad me into violence?" he muttered, his words harsh and dangerous as anger rapidly seethed beyond his capacity to control it.

Her expression softened, just a little. "Nay, my lord. Perhaps I do dare much, but then, I have nothing to lose. In just one day's time all I've been taught to hold dear has been taken from me. Now I’m asked to accept, without comment or complaint, a life wholly foreign to me.” She paused to take a breath, and her gaze softened again until she was almost pleading. “I know nothing of being a wife, but I have learned much about the running and maintenance of an estate. It may be that you will find my manner too straightforward for your tastes, but my lord, it is just that: my manner. Would that I die before I give up that part of me."

Outside, the wind howled and sleet spattered the shutter. Unexpected and unwanted, anger died to reveal the respect that stirred deep amid the bitter dregs of Rannulf’s disappointment. Perhaps if he’d never married Isotte, things could have been different for them. But, it was too late for second thoughts. He waited until his emotions settled back to the dullness he’d cherished for so long.

"I’ll not argue with you," he told her, turning his back on her and shoving his feet into his boots. " Graistan Keep will be at your disposal, even if its lord is not. Be ready to leave within the hour."

"As you wish, my lord," she said quietly, almost meekly.

He spun on his heel and jerked open the door. A maid nearly fell into the room. The hapless woman cried out in surprise as she dodged him, but he didn’t pause in his haste to be away from his wife.

Rowena listened until she was sure her husband was beyond earshot. Then, she dropped her blanket and reached for her robe. Had she meant to goad him into violence? Was it disappointment she'd felt when he hadn't struck her as she had expected? It was as if she'd wanted to see his passion, any passion, be it even hate, rather than the dullness he showed toward her.

"My lady," the maid cried out, "do not rise yet. The sheets! I must call your mother to witness."

"Sweet Mary, there can be no doubt of my purity, whether I remain upon the bed or not. Bring me water for washing and fresh, warm clothing. I’m not wont to wear my wedding garb again this day." She paused to add beneath her breath, "or ever."

Then, she continued more loudly. "There’s much to be done. Inform the Lady Edith my husband desires to leave within the hour."

"What?!" the maid squeaked.

Rowena yanked on her bed robe and cinched the belt tight. "I've got no time to waste, woman. Move!"

The poor woman leapt to do her bidding, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Rowena almost smiled as the door shut. It was a small victory, but it was hers. She’d clarified the terms of their marriage.

Rowena huddled more deeply into her cloak, cold beyond complaint. Even protected by thick leather gloves, her hands had lost all feeling. Her hair, though covered by her wimple and a fur-lined hood, was damp with the icy rain.

Her husband pulled the bay he rode into line with her little mare. She glanced up at him. Where his cloak and surcoat did not cover it, his chain mail gleamed with the moisture it collected. "How much farther, my lord?" Her voice was hoarse.

"Too far," he snapped.

The continuing drizzle had turned the road into naught but thick and frigid mud, it being not quite cold enough to freeze completely . Burdened as they were with the ox-drawn carts, their progress had been at a snail's pace. After a moment's angry silence, he turned to stare in disgust at the peasants and their beasts of burden. In those carts was Rowena’s new wardrobe along with the massive bed that had once been her mother's. Her father had actually threatened to throw everything from the top of Benfield's wall if they didn’t take it with them. Although her husband protested vehemently against his need for haste, he couldn’t afford to refuse; the bed was too rich an item to risk.

Rannulf’s gaze shifted to his master-at-arms who rode a short distance behind them. "Can we move them no faster? "

Rowena turned slightly on her saddle to consider Temric, her husband's man. The taciturn soldier’s expression was stonily impassive beneath the hood of his plain woolen cloak. Although Rannulf called him master-at-arms, the man wore chain mail like a knight, although it was of the plainest sort with no sign of decoration. Bearded and of medium height, this Temric’s even features spoke of common ancestry. Still, Lord Graistan treated him as if he were an equal, even giving him command of his true knights, men of better birth.

Without the slightest change of expression, Temric's brown eyes shifted in her direction, their gazes meeting briefly, then looked upon his lord. "My lord, if we push any harder the carts will mire in the mud at every turn of the wheels rather than every third turn."

"God's blood!" Rannulf managed to make the low-voiced utterance sound like a scream.

Temric straightened slightly, as what might have been impatience flashed across his face. "Have you not yet tired of souring your stomach? And if you must do this, I beg you to spare the rest of us."

Rowena caught her breath. Surely, her lord would cut the man down for daring so much. She did not tolerate such impertinence from one of lesser rank.

To her astonishment, her husband only groaned. "Has there ever been such an ill-fated venture?"

The insult struck her to the core. "I agree that our wedding was not what I desired, but don’t curse God and call it ill-fated."

"A poor choice of words," Lord Rannulf said by way of apology. "Temric, I can afford no more time lost. Do I remember that a small hamlet lies nearby? Let’s pay some husbandman to keep the carts and be on our way. Have Gilliam send someone to fetch it later."

"Should you push your lady so hard?" Once again, the commoner dared to criticize his lord.

Rowena’s unease about assuming command of Graistan without her husband at her side grew. Were all his servants accustomed to such freedoms? She frowned. If so, then she’d have to be swift and sure about cementing her rule in place if she was to gain any sort of control.

"What choice have I?” her husband responded as if speaking to an equal. "Unless." Here, he paused in thought. "It’s not the best of options, but if we could locate a dwelling in the hamlet that’s suitable to house my lady. Then, you and four men could house the carts for the night. Early on the morrow the roads will still be frozen, and it’ll be easier for you and her to finish the journey to Graistan.

“Aye," her husband continued with new enthusiasm, “I’ll be free to continue on to Nottingham. Even better, this will give you the chance to escort from Graistan those supplies this impromptu wedding prevented me from obtaining."

As he fell silent Rannulf eased back into his saddle, obviously pleased with his plan. It was equally obvious to Rowena that a suitable dwelling would be found for her, be it house or shed.

"And what of me," she demanded. "Am I to introduce myself to your servants without their master at my side to confirm my rights as their lady? How will they even know me?"

Her husband’s glance was disinterested. And, why shouldn’t it be? He’d just solved his own difficulties. " The needs of my king must come before those of my wife. My half-brother, Sir Gilliam, who is my steward and holds Graistan during my absence, will stand in my stead." With that, he urged his horse forward.

"You have all my gratitude," she bit out beneath her breath.

Temric glanced impassively from one to the other, then repeated in the English language his lord's commands. The troop turned off onto the narrow lane. Fuming silently to herself, she followed him as their party made its way along the track. She cursed this arrogant husband of hers as well as her father. Never had a man done her a favor, nor did she foresee any such an occurrence in the near future.

Rowena heard the place well before they arrived. In the utter stillness of the winter woods the gentle lowing of cattle and the bleat of sheep echoed eerily through barren branches. It wasn’t much, only a knot of tiny buildings around which stood a helter-skelter wall of tree limbs woven with branches. Smoke drifting from the rooftops was absorbed into the heavy, leaden sky.

At Temric's call, a man appeared from the nearest cottage. Although the cottager bowed and scraped before them, his eyes were narrowed and suspicious until he understood that coins would be offered. After a few minutes of fervent bargaining, during which the man displayed a greedy smile, Temric turned to Lord Graistan.

"He says they can house the carts, and the men can use the shed," he pointed to a lean-to, "while your lady may have the use of his home."

Rannulf interrupted, "At what price?"

"Don’t you think it wise to ask me if I intend to stay in this place before you open your purse and waste precious coins?" Rowena asked sharply, drawing her palfrey up alongside her husband’s larger horse. "How far are we now from Graistan?"

Lord Rannulf shot her a calculating look. "Perhaps four hours if you travel without the cart."

"Then I intend to be on my way." She resettled her gloves between her fingers and straightened her wimple. "If you won’t see to my needs, I’ll have to attend to them myself. Besides, I’ve had the opportunity to visit places such as this. At night, the beasts of the fields share these quarters with their masters. The warmth might be welcome, but the stench is enough to make breathing impossible. Temric, do you ride with me?"

For the briefest instant, Rowena would have sworn that she had astonished the man, but, if she had, his face immediately fell into his usual closed expression. He neither nodded or shrugged in response to her question, looking instead at his lord.

Rannulf turned angrily in his saddle to look at her. "Do you think to shame me in front of my own men? If so, then you have sadly misjudged them and their loyalty to me. Spare me your venom and your claws."

The irritation of this morn came back with all its force, bringing with it memories of the previous night. "My dear lord husband, I refuse to stay in a filthy hovel when in a few hours’ time I could be where I can bathe, eat, sleep, and breathe in comfort."

For a moment, it appeared that her husband meant to retort, but his mouth shut into a hard and narrow line. "As you wish."

He turned to his master-at-arms. "If my lady wishes to ride, let her ride."

"As you say, my lord, but let the lady know there’s no place to stop between here and Graistan more suitable than this for one such as herself. Also, let her know that the ride isn’t an easy one."

Rowena smiled archly at this. Convent life, if lived true to the principles of the Roman Church, taught inner strength and stamina. Oh, there were those to whom a nunnery offered softness and shelter, but she hadn’t been one of that ilk. "You may tell your master-at-arms that he will have no burden on his hands."

Temric nodded curtly, no longer giving service to the customary protocol and now speaking directly to his lady. "Then, give me a moment, my lady, to see to the carts. My lord, it appears that it’ll cost you only two pence to store the carts and feed the oxen and their drivers. For another two pence, this man and his sons will assist in bringing them to Graistan on the morrow if we leave men to guard them on their way."

"Then, let it be so." Rannulf nodded.

Digging coins from the purse at his belt, Temric tossed them to the man, who caught them with avarice glinting in his gaze. The master soldier then unfastened his purse and tossed it to his lord. At Temric’s command four men sent their horses through the gate. The peasant called his sons from their cottage to aid the drivers in guiding the oxen and carts into the compound.

Rannulf stuffed the leather pouch into his glove's cuff. "Gilliam knows what I need and, by all rights, it should be ready and awaiting your arrival, Temric. Take your ease for a day if you wish. There’ll be supplies enough with Ashby's company to see to all our men." He punctuated this sentence with a small laugh as Temric nearly smiled, then Rowena’s husband turned to her.

"Tell Sir Gilliam that I said you’re to do as you wish with the servants, and that they are to obey you as they would me,” he caught himself and held up a hand. “Nay, don’t say that. Instead say to him that you’re to be given the regard in all things that his mother would have owned. Temric," Lord Rannulf glanced around to his man, "bear witness to any who question that I have said as much."

Again, Lord Rannulf looked at the wife he clearly didn’t want. There was a moment’s silence, then he sighed and shrugged. "Your lands are too well matched to my own. I couldn’t allow them to slip into another's hands. You won’t be alone at Graistan. Sir Gilliam will see to it that you are well treated."

Was this an apology? Better to assume that it was. Rowena cleared her throat. "May the Lord God keep you safe in your endeavors." It sounded like the wifely thing to say.

"And to you in yours,” her husband returned, then turned his bay. With no gesture of farewell, he sent his mount trotting across the frost-encrusted field. He and the men who followed disappeared quickly into the tangled branches and dead bracken of the woodlands. A moment later nothing but silence once again surrounded those who stayed behind.