Page 5 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Temric set a brutal pace, but Rowena's presence slowed them not one whit, although she well knew he'd expected it. Still, pride in her achievement didn’t thaw frozen fingers and toes, or make the misery pass more quickly. It was only when day descended into an icy blue twilight that this well-traveled road led them to Graistan, her new home.

Set atop a sharp lift of land guarded by a river's bend was a tall stone keep. Surrounding the great square tower was a massive wall with defensive towers at its every turn. Proof of her husband's might and prominence lay not only in this powerful fortress, but in the town below the castle. This fledgling enterprise nestled safely between the castle and its own walls. Rowena's heart soared at the sight. Where there was trade, there was wealth.

They thundered past outlying farmland, meadows and orchards, then through the town's gate. Here, their pace slowed along the narrow lanes that twisted and curved at will and with no apparent reason. With night closing in, only a solitary few remained out and about. From above her the eerie wail of yowling cats shattered the chilled quiet.

Rowena glanced upward, searching for the source. The tall houses were framed in dark, thick timbers. Some were freestanding while others were crammed cheek-to-jowl, against their neighbors. Although twilight grayed their colors, each house bore painted wood trim, some carved into fanciful designs. Merchants' homes were easily identified by the emblems that hung over their doors. Each proclaimed the nature of its owner's business, be that carpenter, potter or wine seller. Butchers, tanners and fishmongers were easily identified by their reeking odors, as were the bakers, cookshops, and chandlers with their sweeter smells.

As they turned a sharp corner, Rowena caught her breath. There, nestled in a corner, was a goldsmith's shop. Wealth, indeed.

Excitement ate up exhaustion. She spurred her mare through the armed entrance of Graistan Keep, then past the byres, barns, sheds, and stables of the outer bailey. They didn’t hold her interest. What she wanted lay within the close inner walls. To become lady of this hall and town would challenge all she ever learned, a challenge she gladly accepted.

Once past the inner gate Temric's piercing whistle brought a tumble of grooms from the stables. Serving boys, heralded by a pack of yelping, snarling dogs, flew down the stairs from the hall door into the courtyard. At their heels came a blond giant of a man, taking the slick steps with care.

Rowena watched him. Only the fine embroidery that trimmed the neckline of his bright-red tunic and the richly decorated leather of his belt, indicated he might be Lord Rannulf's kin. Where her husband's features were all sharp angles and deep planes of life's experience, this man’s very handsome face seemed unduly boyish.

Worry creased the big man’s brow. "Where is Rannulf?" he called out to Temric, his deep voice reverberating against the overshadowing walls.

Temric dismounted, kicking away the dogs as he did so. "Gone on to Nottingham. Sir Gilliam, come give your new lady your hand."

"New lady…but I thought…" the young man blurted out before he caught himself.

Rowena bit her cheek to keep from smiling at his consternation as his fair skin colored. My, how quickly the potential loss of her dowry turned a reluctant bridegroom into a husband. Sir Gilliam ran a distracted hand through his curly mop of golden hair and yanked at his tunic to hide his discomfort as he came to stand by her side. He was so tall, she nearly looked him eye-to-eye from her perch atop her mount.

"Sir Gilliam, I was Rowena of Benfield until yesterday." She had to introduce herself since her husband was the only man of rank enough to do it, and he was absent. "You are my husband's brother?"

Tongue-tied in his embarrassment Sir Gilliam only nodded and lifted her from the saddle to set her on her feet in the frozen mire. The sudden pinprick sensations in Rowena’s legs made her teeth grit. Not for the first time in her life pride had driven her where common sense well knew she shouldn’t have gone. She tried to take a step and faltered. Only Sir Gilliam's powerful arm kept her from falling face-first into the mud.

She grimaced and glanced up at Temric. "Such is the price of my arrogance," she said to the master soldier. "From now on I shall remember to be more humble when you state the ride is a hard one."

The commoner made a noise that could have been either a cough or a laugh. His brown eyes mellowed to nearly golden as his face softened, and he smiled at her. "Welcome to Graistan, my lady."

Even as she blinked in surprise at his sudden friendliness, his features hardened once again into his usual flat expression. He turned to his lord's brother, "Are the supply wains loaded and ready to go?" The young knight gaped at him. Rowena glanced between them.

"Well," Temric growled, "have you or have you not got the wains?"

His demeanor and harsh words left no doubt that he accorded this young nobleman only meager deference. That meant it was either her husband's whim or his liking for his brother, not this knight's skills, that made Sir Gilliam Graistan's steward. That meant it was doubtful Gilliam would be of any help to her in making Graistan's servants hers. She’d have to carve out her own niche.

"Nay," the tall man managed at last. "Geoffrey and his men left here with them yestereven, thinking to meet Rannulf along the road from Benfield.”

Temric grunted. "Then, Geoff’s due for disappointment. He won’t meet Rannulf 'til he reaches Nottingham. I'd best be gone at first light to see if I can catch him." He took a step away, then turned back.

"Your lord sends you a message. He says the servants are to respect their new lady's wishes as they would have your lady mother's. My lady," Temric directed a brief bow in her direction, "I wish you well in your new tasks. I’ve no doubt that Graistan is once more in good and capable hands." With a final, short bow, he spun on his heel and started toward the hall stairs .

Rowena stared after him. Strange man, strange day. She shook her head then looked up at her brother by marriage. He stared open mouthed at the soldier's receding back. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay, no, not at all," Sir Gilliam stuttered, "it’s just that, that is, Temric is not, ah, not one for so many words."

He stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. "Come inside, my lady. Take care on these stairs, the steps are slick with ice. Allow me to apologize for what is sure to be a threadbare welcome," he said, with a nervous laugh. "We didn’t expect you."

"I fully understand." Rowena was grateful for his rock-hard arm since her legs still wobbled from the long ride.

Together, they climbed the stairs, passed the iron-banded outer doors to the armed entry room beyond them. No salt on the steps, no straw applied to the mud in the courtyard. And she could smell the garderobes. Aye, Graistan had desperate need of her skills.

At the top of the stairs stood the porter, his hand possessively against the hall door. When they turned toward him, he bowed in greeting, then opened his door wider to admit them. The dogs followed them in and dispersed happily around the room. Her new brother led her beyond the tall portal and past the screens that limited the great room's necessary draft.

Here, he stopped. "Shall I introduce you?"

"Give me a moment to look," she replied, removing her gloves and working at her cloak's leather ties. The hall was as square as the tower itself, but divided in twain by a row of pillars. These massive stone arches supported a second floor that reached only halfway across the great room. On the open side, torches burned in sconces beneath the enormous crossbeams, and two hearths, equidistant from each other, spewed their merry warmth and light into the room. Colorfully painted linen panels hung on the thick stone walls functioning as both decoration and a barrier against the cold.

Yet the hearths were choked with ashes, and the once gaily painted beams were black with soot. The tables, which should have been stored after the evening meal, still stood around the room, their cloths ragged and stained. Beneath her feet, the rushes were beaten into dust. All this despite the fact that more servants congregated in this hall than the abbey had supported, even when Rowena included the serfs from the outlying hamlets.

She pursed her lips in consideration. How long would she have before her husband's return? A warm kernel of determination awoke within her. Come crying to him for help, indeed. She’d restore this hall to its former glory, and right quickly, too.

To do so, she’d need these servants as her own this very night. That could be done. It had been the abbess's first lesson: "To take command, one must first create the illusion that command is already yours." All Rowena needed was the right opportunity.

On the strength of her pride alone she shook off her physical woes at the same time she shook herself free of her sodden cloak. She glanced up at the nobleman yet waiting patiently at her side. "Now, Sir Gilliam," she said, imperiously drawing herself up to the limit of her slight height.

Sir Gilliam nodded, then turned to face the room. "Come all and greet our new Lady Graistan." His deep voice thundered about the hall, then he stepped a little way from Rowena to bow before her. "Please enter this hall, my lady," he said. "As my brother's steward I bid you well come to Graistan Keep. Enter and take your ease within these walls."

Rowena let her gaze sweep across the hall. Most of the servants knelt or bowed, but a few stood in studied nonchalance, refusing to acknowledge her. She stared pointedly at these few. As they felt the weight of her gaze upon them, all but one bent their knees in halfhearted greeting. Her eyes narrowed. That one was a stout man with a polished bare pate and a pompous carriage.

He met her gaze with a raised and scornful eyebrow. His fine woolen tunic and studded belt shouted his high rank to all who viewed him. A servant of rank this was, but a servant nonetheless. In his arrogance, he had obviously forgotten this. She almost smiled. The Lord God had given her her opportunity; this man would do most nicely as her first example.

"Your welcome is heartily appreciated," she called, raising her voice to be clearly heard, then crooked her finger at her chosen victim. "You there, come and take my cloak," she said.

Sir Gilliam, startled by her unexpected command, turned to look. "That's our wardrober, Hugo," he blurted out, aghast that she would require the man who ruled Graistan's treasury to do such a menial chore.

"Thank you, Sir Gilliam," she said, accepting his information with a gracious nod, but ignored his plea to let the man alone. "Wardrober, my cloak must be cleaned before the morrow as I have a need for it then."

Hugo sneered down his narrow nose at her. "I’m no woman to do your bidding. Find a laundress. I answer solely to Lord Rannulf." Cocking a shoulder and thrusting out his chest, he crossed his arms and shoved his hands into his wide, fur-trimmed sleeves.

"Do you now?" Rowena smoothly replied. At the periphery of her vision, she caught the lower servants' laughter. So, Hugo wasn’t well-liked. All the better for her. "Upon my marriage to Lord Graistan, I became flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone. His servants, from the lowest stable lad to yourself, became mine at that moment. My lord husband commands me to do as I see fit in this keep, and I deem it fitting you should care for this cloak."

The man still sneered. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I’ll see to it you have an inch or two of skin torn from your back this night." She uttered her words with such complete calm that it was a moment before it registered with those who heard her. Some of the folk tittered nervously; others, including Sir Gilliam, gasped.

"If need be," Rowena continued softly, her words ringing in the hall’s new quiet, "I’ll do it myself."

Her cloak hung from her outstretched hand. Hugo tensed. When their gazes first locked it seemed he meant to refuse. But Rowena knew, and this man became convinced, that her threat was no bluff. Against that, his courage flagged.

Pomposity warred with humiliation as he stalked forward to grab the garment from her, then stormed from the hall. Quiet laughter followed his departure. For the moment, his arrogance was gone, but she knew better than to believe it wouldn’t be back.

Rowena lifted her hand to beg silence. "Know you all," she called out, straining her aching throat, "that this is my way. While I’ll rarely ask you to perform duties not within the scope of your day-to-day tasks, I value highly and richly reward loyal service performed in a prompt and capable manner. Incompetent service or disrespectful behavior will bring swift punishment.

"Now, some have said that my punishments are harsh, but no one has ever said that they weren’t justly due to those who received them. Woe to the one who must be told twice what is expected of him."

Pausing, Rowena looked from face to face. "On this night, I expect only that someone prepare my lord's bedchamber for me."

There was a bare second between her words and a flurry of action. The air was peppered with 'Aye, my lady'. Men and women hurried away either to do her bidding or to put a safe distance between themselves and her. Well, it was a beginning. The servants were startled enough to obey for now. By the time their fright wore off, they’d be accustomed to her.

Pleased with what she'd accomplished, she looked up at Sir Gilliam. He watched her with an expression of such horror that she frowned in puzzlement.

"I didn’t take your bed, did I? I simply assumed that I would occupy my lord's bedchamber."

"Nay. Would you have?" His voice was strained, and his blue eyes were now a hard gray.

"I beg your pardon?" She frowned up at him.

"Taken a whip to Hugo?"

Rowena shrugged. "I’ve come here without my lord to demand their obedience to me. If I’m to be lady in more than title alone I dare not tolerate arrogance from anyone, no matter his rank. Aye, I’d have taken a whip to him in full view of every other soul in this keep. What's more, every one of them would have respected me for it. His greeting was insolent and his behavior intolerable."

The young man started to respond, then a movement on the balcony that fronted the overhanging second story caught both of their attentions. Rowena had already guessed that the women's quarters and the master's bedchamber were situated up there, judging from the number of female servants who’d raced up the narrow stairs leading to it. Now standing on this balcony was a woman attired in so rich a blue gown that it named her a gentlewoman despite the absence of an overgown. Hair the color of the harvest moon was caught in a single plait and pulled over her shoulder. It was uncovered as though she'd been suddenly called away from preparing to retire.

"Gilliam, dearest boy, why didn’t you send for me when our guest arrived?" the woman chided, her voice as sultry as the lush curves displayed by her carefully-fitted gown. "It’s so exciting to have a female visitor."

The woman started down the stairs, her lifted gown revealing soft leather shoes and delicate ankles. The dainty silver circles about her wrists jingled merrily when she moved. The closer she came to Rowena and Gilliam, the further Sir Gilliam's features disappeared beneath a harsh mask. Rowena lifted a brow in surprise. At last, she saw his resemblance to his brother; at least, his harshness wasn’t aimed at her .

Rowena prepared to greet the woman only to catch her breath in surprise. The gentlewoman was beauty personified. Lined by thick dark lashes, the gentlewoman’s eyes were so pale they were nearly colorless. Delicate color tinted her pale cheeks and warmed her perfectly-shaped lips. But, as Rowena looked closer she saw the fine lines touching the corners of her eyes and mouth. The youthful blush and the darkened eyelashes were made so by some unnatural method she couldn’t fathom. This woman was older than the score or so she initially appeared.

The gentlewoman smiled warmly at Rowena. "Oh, it’s been so long since I've had any visitors of rank here. Gilliam, you must introduce us." She laid a long-fingered hand on his arm.

The young knight jerked away from her touch. His lips twisted into a black and mocking grin. "With pleasure. Lady Maeve," he turned the honorific into a curse, "meet my brother's new wife." With that, Sir Gilliam strode rudely away.

If his announcement was meant to shock, it failed. Lady Maeve only smiled prettily at the noblewoman before her. "Good heavens, I thought the ceremony had been delayed. Could you possibly be the ancient nun with a warty nose and hairy chin that my brother was sworn to wed? But, you are neither ancient nor ugly, although I do see the touch of the convent in your face."

"I am Rowena, Lady Graistan," Rowena responded a little stiffly. What did this woman mean she saw the convent in her face?

"Oh, but now I've gone and set you all aprickle with my careless tongue. You must forgive me. Sometimes I’m such a featherhead." Maeve’s husky laugh somehow made a falsehood of her words.

Rowena considered what next to say with care. "My husband spoke of his brother, Sir Gilliam, but I fear he made no mention of you."

Maeve loosed a sigh of fond irritation. "How like that creature to forget who butters his bread for him. But, he’s a man, and you know how men are." Her airy wave stopped mid-gesture. "Ah, but you don’t know, do you? You were to take your vows. Poor child, torn from your calling. How fortunate for you to have an experienced wife to teach you in the ways of this worldly vale."

Kind words cloaked the icy challenge lurking beneath them. Rowena took care to let none of what she recognized appear in her expression. Did this woman think to continue ruling the hall against her new lady's right? If so, Maeve had sadly misjudged Graistan's folk, for in one night and by one deed they were nearly Rowena's. Perhaps she meant only to test the newcomer's mettle.

"My thanks," Rowena responded blandly, then could not resist an answering jibe. "Lord knows that from what I see here, we’ll both of us be scrubbing walls for weeks to come."

Maeve drew a startled breath at this. Rowena shifted, turning her back toward the gentlewoman in dismissal to acknowledge the female servant doing her best to catch her new lady's eye. The maid bobbed a quick curtsy.

"My lady, Ilsa sends me to fetch you, that is if you’re ready to retire. Your chamber is prepared. Shall I lead you there?"

"If you please," Rowena replied in open relief. " Pardon me, Lady Maeve, but I’m tired to death. Perhaps we can become better acquainted in the morning. Let me bid you a good night."

Maeve reached out to catch Rowena’s arm. "Oh, but I’ll come with you to the women's quarters.”

Rowena quickly stepped out of her reach. "You mistake me. I use my lord's chamber."

Only the hardness of this woman's eyes hinted at her growing irritation. "Have a care, sweetling, not to trespass here and step wrongly with your husband this early in your marriage. Rannulf doesn’t share his bedchamber, not even with his wife. Why, even my sister, whom he loved as life itself, always kept her place in the women's quarters."

Rowena relaxed. Sister? So, this wasn’t Lord Rannulf’s blood kin. That shed a whole new light on the matter.

"I’ll leave it to my husband to tell me to sleep in the women's quarters,” Rowena said. “Now, I really must bid you good evening."

She turned and without a single backward look followed the maid up the stairs and along the passageway. The serving woman threw open a door and pointed through a tiny antechamber to the illuminated room beyond it. "Through there, my lady. Old Ilsa will be right along with a tray of something to eat."

As Rowena started through the small room, her stomach fell in disappointment. So rich a keep had suggested an equally rich solar. Could this tiny closet be it? Four steps took her into the lighted chamber where she stopped short and gasped.

Several large chests sat in the far corner. Bossed with shining metal bands, they were painted deep green, with wooden trim stained red and carved like twining vines. Near them stood two well-cushioned chairs painted the same green color, and a small table set with a single, flickering candle in a silver holder. Only the bed seemed lacking, as it was neither large nor fine. There was some satisfaction in knowing her mother’s bed would be a fine addition to this chamber.

Ah, but the luxury of all luxury was the strange hearth cut into the chamber’s wall, the smoke exiting the room through some channel cut into the wall, itself. To sleep in a warm chamber was almost beyond Rowena’s imagination, if not her desire to experience it.

Although the fire upon that stone was small and only recently coaxed to life the room wasn’t cold. That was because neither stick nor stone of the walls were left uncovered. The glorious reds and blues of these embroidered panels glowed in the firelight. While Rowena was no needlewoman, she recognized fine work when she saw it. She started forward to examine one piece more closely and nearly tripped as her muddy boot sank deep into a thick, brilliant material patterned in an alien design.

She stepped off and frowned. Surely, so beautiful a thing wasn’t meant for such a degraded use. Some servant had erred by placing it here. Tiptoeing along the wall to avoid the floor covering, Rowena gingerly seated herself in one of the chairs.

Every muscle ached, strained as they were from her long ride. It hurt even to bend over and pull off her boots and stockings. Her toes bared, she glanced at the door, then sank her feet into the material on the floor and smiled. It was as thick and soft as it was lovely. Fully enjoying the sensations, she unwound her heavy woolen wimple and hung it over the back of her chair, then loosened her braid. With the comb from her purse, she began to smooth away the tangles.

A moment later a tiny, wizened woman appeared in the doorway. She stared curiously at her new lady, a tray of breads and cheeses in her hands. "Good even, my lady." She bowed with the stiffness of one whose bones had seen too many winters. "I’m Ilsa. I’d be most pleased to serve you if you've brought no maid of your own. I hope you’ll forgive Graistan its poor welcome." Words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession, whistling through toothless gaps in her gums as she stepped spryly into the room.

Rowena's upraised hand stopped her. "Is this thing meant to be walked on?" she asked, pointing to the floor.

"Oh, aye." Ilsa assured her, setting her tray upon one of the chests to pull the sodden wimple from the back of the chair. She snapped it, the spattering water droplets hissing as they struck the fire. "Infidel, it is," she said as she hung the head cloth on a peg by the door, "brought back from the Holy Lands. Lord Henry, that would be your lord's father, said such things were commonplace there."

Rowena concealed her yawn behind her hands. "I say give me a simple straw mat that I can walk on after I've been in the garden."

The old woman's laugh was a chicken's cackle. "Temric spoke rightly," she said cryptically as she turned down the bedclothes. "Will you eat this night?"

Rowena stretched, yawning again. "I want nothing more than to crawl into yon bed and sleep for days." She rubbed her face with her hands, then rose stiffly to her feet. "But I must be up before dawn, and I must bathe. The water will need to be very warm, for I’m going to be very sore."

"Here, let me assist you." The maid was at her side in an instant, her thick fingers deftly loosening the overgown's lacing. Freed of both gowns and her chemise, Rowena staggered gratefully across the room and climbed into bed.

The old woman clucked in concern. "Oh, you poor dear, these things are wet through and through. And what is this Temric tells me? You've nothing else until your cart arrives on the morrow? Well, these will just have to be cleaned tonight, then."

Suddenly, but only for a brief moment, Rowena wished she'd waited for the cart. A fine lady needed fine clothing. All she had was this worn, chestnut colored traveling gown she'd borrowed from Benfield. "Ilsa, I handed my cloak to the wardrober in the hall."

"Aye, so I and every other soul in the hall knows." The maid snorted in laughter. "You couldn’t have chosen better than to hand it to that ass."

"Arrogance he does not lack," Rowena agreed wryly, pulling the blankets up over her. "However, I must be certain that the chore I gave him is rightly done. It’s truly a fine garment and will cover these things until my own gowns arrive."

The maid cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world like a bird considering a worm. "In this hall, one can be made to pay a price for usurping one's rank."

That shook the cobwebs from Rowena's head. She looked up, her gaze sharp. "Ilsa, you cannot be punished for doing as I command by any save myself. Nor can anyone else."

The woman’s answering smile was wide with approval. "Then, I’ll bid you good night, lady. The chamber pot is there, behind the bed curtain," she pointed to the wall at the opposite side of the bed. "If you have need of anything this night call out. I’ll lay my pallet in the antechamber."

"Are the women's quarters so far?" Rowena asked sleepily.

"Only a world away, my lady," Ilsa cackled, then hurried out with her lady's gowns, closing the door behind her.

Rowena laid on the bed, savoring the soft mattress. Slowly, her frozen limbs began to warm and relax. Her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. There was something familiar about this bed, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Then, just as she drifted into sleep, she realized that the bedclothes smelled ever so faintly of her husband.