Page 6 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Just as requested, Ilsa awakened her mistress at dawn, and Rowena eased her sore muscles in a warm bath. When she toweled herself dry with a rough linen cloth, her clothes, cleaned and dry, lay across her newly made bed. She lifted her cloak to examine it. "Hugo?" she asked.

"There's a laundress with a bruised eye this morning" was the old woman's response.

"I see." Rowena let Ilsa dress her, only to frown. Her new maid had a way of tightening the overgown's laces that made the old thing cling to her every curve. Afterward, Rowena stiffly submitted while her hair was combed and plaited. It was odd to have someone do this most intimate chore for her. When the last ebony strand was confined, a fine cloth was draped around her head and face. A thin gold band studded with gleaming blue stones held the wimple in place.

"There," Ilsa said with a satisfied breath. "I knew I was right to lock away some of my Ermina's belongings up here. When our fine Master Hugo gets his sticky fingers on things, they go into his chests and rarely come back out. Oh, see how the stones complement the color of your eyes!"

Rowena couldn’t recall the exact color of her eyes. The last time she'd given any thought to her image, she'd been a scrawny woman-child with eyes too big for her face and wild black hair that ever threatened to escape her demure wimple. Now, she took the polished metal mirror the old woman offered, only to raise a finger to touch in disbelief the reflection.

Eyes of deep blue stared back at her from beneath thick, dark lashes. The sheer wimple and rich band made her ebony hair glow with hidden lights. Her smooth pale skin brightened with a dismayed blush when she realized her vanity.

"How quickly a dowdy nun can be corrupted," she murmured, handing back the mirror. "Best you take this thing before I begin to believe what I see."

She stood and brushed away her unease as she smoothed her gown. "Ilsa, I want to meet with the ranking servants over these next days. Must I use my bedchamber or the hall? Is there no solar?"

"There is a solar, lady, but it’s been locked since Lady Isotte's death some five years ago."

Only Rowena's clasped hands gave away her rush of excitement. Surely, the solar would match this room in luxury. Although she ached to see it now it would have to wait until after mass. "Good. Our first chore after we break our fast shall be to open that room. We’ve not yet missed mass, have we?" She threw her cloak over her shoulders, then belted it until only a bit of her borrowed gown showed.

"You’ll attend mass, my lady?"

Rowena stared at her maid from over her shoulder, astounded at the other's surprise. "But, of course." Everywhere, everyone attended mass each morning, did they not?

"Of course, my lady, of course." Ilsa's wrinkled cheeks creased in a contented smile as she preceded her mistress out of the room .

Access to the chapel lay directly off the hall. Being accustomed to the larger abbey church, this wee room’s small nave seemed narrower still to Rowena because of the thick supporting pillars. Nor did it appear that the servants were required to attend, as only a few older folk stood waiting for the service to start. Well, that would change. On the morrow, everyone would be present for the good of their souls.

Still, all was not poverty and disuse. Expensive candles in gilded branches revealed delicate carvings in the stonework. Dawn's light shone through the narrow window behind the altar and caught in the golden embroidery of a fine altar cloth. There was a strong similarity between this handiwork and the hangings in her bedchamber.

The castle's chaplain was stone-deaf with the fragile, bent look of the very old, yet he warmly greeted his new lady before moving to the altar. In a voice deep beyond his withered body and beautiful beyond his plain face, the old man sang out the service. Rowena lost herself in the power and majesty of this familiar ritual. The soaring Latin phrases lent her their strength as they lifted her spirits. Once again, she felt connected and whole.

As the last note died away into shivering silence, she knelt a moment longer unwilling to give up her precious serenity. When she finally stood she was at peace with the Lord God and ready for this day. The few steps from chapel door to hall brought her soundly back to earth.

The dirt and darkness in here was worse than she remembered. Narrow, defensive windows cast their hopeless slivers of light into the smoky dimness. Neither the smoldering torches nor the roaring blazes on the twin hearths could alleviate the skulking shadows. She stared in disgust at the dogs rooting through the rushes for scraps they’d most surely find.

Breaking the fast at Graistan seemed a casual affair. Although the nuns at the abbey fasted through the morning meal, their servants had dined on warm vegetable potage, fresh breads, and both hard and curded cheeses. Here, there was only one table other than the lord's, and it was set with two small wheels of cheese and hard rolls. Nothing warm was offered nor would anyone be tempted to tarry when no place to sit was available. Rowena frowned. Productivity was better gained with honey than vinegar. It was patently obvious that vinegar hadn’t worked at all in this hall.

Lady Maeve was already at the high table. Her rich mantle laid open to display a gown of rose red beneath an overgown of the palest blue trimmed in vair. Brilliant gems glittered at the woman's throat and wrists. Rowena grimaced in dismay, not wanting to waste time in polite conversation when there was so much to be done, but there was no help for it. She crossed the room and chose a bench near, but not too near, the noblewoman.

"Good morrow, dear Rowena," Maeve purred in greeting, using her lady's Christian name in unwarranted familiarity. "How well you look this morning. Last night your face was so pinched and pale I felt sure you would fall ill. Where did you get that band? You must give me your jeweler's name. It’s so lovely, but your costume hardly does it justice."

Maeve leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Don’t tell me you've nothing else to wear but that old thing. Nuns aren’t ones to stress the importance of attire, so perhaps you don’t know. Your position as lady here requires a finer dress than that."

"My thanks for your concern," Rowena replied with a smile as she used her eating knife to cut herself cheese and bread. After a single bite, she pushed it away. The cheese was salty and tough, and the bread tasted sour. She carefully tasted her watered wine. Vinegar. She set it aside.

"Did I mishear you when you said your sister was wife to my husband?"

"Oh, how clever you are to remember that from last night," the woman replied ingenuously. "Aye, Isotte, God rest her soul, was wife to Rannulf. When my husband died nigh on two years ago, my stepchildren threw me from my only home and paid me but a pittance for my dower properties. I had no one to turn to save Rannulf. His undying love for Isotte led him to open his home to me. I tried to repay him by acting as his housekeeper, but as you’ve shown me, I did poorly at it."

Her face was the picture of dismay as she glanced around. "It’s such a large home, and there’s so much to keep straight."

"Perhaps, if you’d lifted a finger," Sir Gilliam growled from behind them, startling both women. "But then, that would have been too much for you. Good morrow, my lady," he said to Rowena as he seated himself at the far end of the table. He wore a rough, mud-stained tunic and heavy boots. His complexion was reddened, as though he'd already been outside for hours. "Your carts have arrived. "

"Good news," she replied with a smile, then decided not to hesitate. "Do you know of any reason I shouldn’t unlock the solar for my own use?"

Maeve's gasp was audible. "Surely, Rannulf didn’t give you that freedom. Why, he never allowed me—" she stopped abruptly.

The young knight’s grin was vicious as he eyed the woman, then turned to face his lady. "Since the room was built for my mother, and Rannulf said you were to be treated as she was, you must open it. No doubt it was locked to keep those who shouldn’t use it from doing so."

This time all his black look won him from the fair-haired woman across the table was her sweet smile in return. "Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he snapped at Maeve.

"Not yet, sweetling," the pretty woman replied, then with a studied, languid motion she stretched, displaying her lush curves beneath the tightly fitted gown. Gilliam grunted and looked away.

"Has Temric departed yet?" Rowena asked, glancing between the two of them.

Gilliam cut himself a slab of cheese and stuffed it in his mouth. "At daybreak," he replied, spewing crumbs across the table. He followed the cheese with an entire slice of bread and washed it down by drinking directly from a nearby pitcher. "Did you wish to send a message with him for my brother?" he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Not particularly," she murmured, shocked at his boorish behavior. Lord Rannulf had used his manners to goad her, but at least he had them to use.

"Pig," Maeve said mildly, although her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "You’ll sorely rue the day you go too far."

Gilliam ignored her and kept his attention on his lady. "You look rested. I take it my brother's chambers suit you well." He followed this by a sly glance toward the other woman, as if expecting a reaction.

Maeve simply turned toward her new lady. "Yes, dear, is that bed not deliciously comfortable?"

"How would you know?” Gilliam’s outrage carried clearly about the room. “You've never laid your skinny backside on it."

"Are you certain of that,” Maeve asked with a silvery laugh, “or are you only hunting again? Best you be careful, I may someday tell you what you want to know. For now, I must go. The girdler in town has finished my new belt." Maeve rose and walked with studied grace toward the stairway.

"Don’t let your journey tire you,” Sir Gilliam called after her. "We wouldn’t want you to have to search out an empty bed so far from home."

Maeve whirled. For an instant, her beautiful face twisted in anger, only to ease back into a mask of patience. "Oh, silly boy. You’re such a tease." Her gay laughter followed her as she disappeared up the stairs. Gilliam rose with a huff and strode angrily from the room without a word or glance at his new lady.

Rowena stared after them for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "Well," she said to herself, "welcome to Graistan Keep." With that, she stood and glanced around the room for a place to start.

"You," she called to a young boy sweeping halfheartedly at the ashes in the hearth. The boy squeaked and cowered in fright behind his broom. "Call together the scullery lads." The boy didn’t move until she clapped her hands and said softly, "Now." He instantly leapt to his task.

"You," she motioned to a woman, "see that the boys clean these tables." Then, fearing the meaning of the word “clean” would be misunderstood, she amended her command. "They are to be scrubbed until they’re naught but smooth wood. The rest of you remove these filthy rushes and burn them. But, before you lay others this floor is to be washed, twice. Is there a pantler?"

"Here, my lady," a man stepped forward.

"The bread tastes sour. Your flour’s bad."

"But my lady," the man practically groveled, "it’s all we have. I can do no better."

Rowena rolled her eyes. "I wasn’t accusing, only stating fact. Don’t waste my time with excuses. For now, I want you to look to the stairs outside yon door and see that they’re not icy. And you," she pointed to another man, "tell the stable master that I want straw spread throughout the courtyard before this hour closes.”

Satisfied by the swift reactions to her commands, Rowena started for the stairs. “Ilsa," she gestured to her maid who waited nearby for her, "gather the women you need and meet me in my chambers."

A few moments later the women presented themselves to her in the passageway just outside her bedchamber. Rowena looked to Ilsa. "And the solar is?"

"This way, my lady." The old woman entered her master's bedchamber and crossed to the hearth wall. There she lifted a heavily embroidered panel to reveal a door. "When I first came here with my Ermina, she was Sir Gilliam's mother, there was no door here. It was all one room with the women's quarters."

The cloth slipped from her hands, burying the woman in its dusty folds. She pushed back the hanging again then threw her meager weight at the door. It didn't move. "In those days, they used only curtains to separate the sleeping area from the solar, and solar from the women's quarters. Lord Henry built these walls to make Ermina her own private chamber."

Rowena frowned at Ilsa’s antics. "Is there no other way in?"

"There is, but it has been locked from the inside," came Ilsa’s response from the folds of the curtain.

Rowena reached out and yanked the hanging off the wall. A cloud of dust billowed. Rowena wiped her hands on her gown. Perhaps she’d be glad she wore nothing finer before the day was done.

Ilsa looked down at the dust pile then back at her lady. "You’ll have yourself a bit of a task with this keep."

"So I've noticed, but I am equal to it." She tried the exposed latch. "It's not locked, only caught. Push with me." They threw themselves against the door.

With a shuddering creak it swung open. Rowena stepped within and gasped in pleasure. Although the air was cold and musty, dust motes danced along a row of windows where the newborn day pried through the shutters. She stepped quickly to the wall and threw back the wooden panels, then turned a slow studious circle to memorize every detail while hardly daring to believe what she saw. The jeweled tints on the walls glowed to life in this little bit of winter-weakened light. From the pleasant herringbone pattern of the stonework above a hearth that was the twin to the one in the bedchamber to the small chairs pushed to one side, this was a room meant to please a beloved wife, not to confine a woman. A quick brush of her hand through the layer of dust and cobwebs on the wall revealed an elaborate crisscross pattern painted in reds and greens on the plastered wall. From each cross a bluebird darted upward, as if startled.

"It is so beautiful," Rowena finally breathed. "Why should a room such as this be neglected? Such a treasure shouldn’t be so abused."

Ilsa shrugged. "Lord Rannulf's second wife, Lady Isotte, said the windows let in evil humors, and she sickened each time she entered. Methinks the sickness was within herself." This was a quiet breath. “After her death, Lord Rannulf left only my lady's things in the room and ordered it locked."

The old woman crossed the room to open the far door, then smiled at a serving woman's startled gaze. "Here are the women's quarters."

Rowena opened the door opposite the windows. Maeve stopped short in the passageway with a cry of feigned surprise. "Oh my, you startled me." She stepped inside and peered curiously around, not seeming to notice that all the serving women, including Ilsa, backed away from her.

Graistan’s new lady ignored the gentlewoman as she addressed her maids. "I want to use this room yet today, so your cleaning must be both thorough and swift. Take care you don’t leave even a single strand of spider silk for me to find. Move the long table over there and set these two chairs before the hearth." She pointed at the moth-chewed cushions lying on their seats. "Can you replace those?"

"We’ll find you something," said Ilsa, already brushing dust from the table. "And you’ll have the room before midday."

"So be it," her lady said with satisfaction. "Oh, waiting in the carts below is a bed. I want it set up in my chamber since it’s the better piece. Store that one." She pointed to her husband's bed.

"But it belonged to Rannulf's mother." Maeve's silky voice brought all attention back to her. "Why, how often he shared the story of that bed." She looked through the door into the chamber beyond it. "I’ve often admired its beauty."

Rowena stared hard at the woman with her painted face. It would hardly surprise her to learn her husband had slept with the sultry bitch despite the threat of incest. But if the creature thought that gave her some claim here, she was greatly mistaken.

"Since you admired it so perhaps we could give it to you for your use.”

The serving women tittered their amusement, but the comment didn’t give Lady Maeve even an instant's pause. "Why thank you for offering, sister, but there’s hardly room for it in the women's quarters."

"Well then, it must be stored. Oh, and by the by, does your offer of assistance still stand? There’s much to do this day." Rowena waited, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"How I’d like to," the gentlewoman replied with a sigh meant to convey consternation, "but I did promise the girdler I’d be at his shop this morn. Perhaps when I return?" She let the question hang in the air while she nodded her farewell and left the room.

Rowena's laugh was short and hard, then she turned to the women. "Now, since you know what you must achieve, I’m off to the kitchen to see what I can do with the food in this place."

She retreated to her bedchamber and removed her cloak. Practicality won over image; it was going to be a long, dirty day and was much better faced in something she didn’t mind ruining. As Rowena made her way slowly from her bedchamber to the hall, she cataloged in her mind the chores to be done and who’d do them. How odd that the removal of a single bed could make her feel as if this place was home.

Hours later found her at the foot of the steep twisting stairs in the keep's northwest corner. Far above her on the tower's third floor lay a tiny wall chamber and her destination. None of this made any sense. If Rannulf so prized his bastard son that he gave the lad an estate, why did he keep the poor child trapped in this room away from hearth and kitchen?

Well, no longer. A man-child, even an illegitimate one, was the promise of the future and needed to be carefully guarded. She glanced down at herself and wiped dirt-streaked hands on her skirt. The filth of Graistan was horrendous, and it seemed as if most of it now coated her. After the noon meal, she'd donned a servant's rough overgown to protect her clothes. She could hardly wait to be out of them and soaking in a tub of warm water. Well, as soon as this chore was finished, so was her day.

With a tired sigh, she climbed, her mind wandering to organizing tomorrow's chores by their importance. The darkness in the stairwell was almost complete except where the orange sunset exploded through the two west-facing arrow slits. So deep in her thoughts was she that she heard nothing until he flew into her.

For one breathless moment, Rowena teetered backward. Smooth stone wall offered no handhold for her clawing fingers. With a desperate lurch, she regained her balance. Heart pounding, she leaned against the wall, her fingers shaking with the knowledge of how close she’d come to falling.

"Pardon. I didn’t see you," whispered her assailant as his small hand touched hers. "Did I hurt you?"

She breathed deep to steady her nerves. "Nay, by the grace of the Lord God. What of you?"

"Nay," he said in a voice as small as he.

With relief came a bolt of anger. "Has no one ever told you not to run on these stairs?” Rowena chided the lad. “We could both have been killed."

He drew himself up with a start. “I said my pardon and you’re not to speak so to me. Alais says all the maidservants must speak to me with respect, and you’ve not been respectful."

How old had the maids said he was? Five? Surely no more than that. Rowena snorted in indignation. "I don’t need to be respectful to little lordlings who endanger my life. I should take you over my knee and show you how much I respect you with the palm of my hand. Come, better that I return you to your Alais and tell her what you've done."

“Nay, please.” There was a tremor in his voice. "I’m sorry I was mean. Don’t take me back. I’m running away .

Rowena stared into the shadows, trying to better see his features. "Running away? But, where to and why?"

"To the kitchen. I’m so hungry, but Alais says we cannot have anything to eat until after nightfall when the new lady will be abed." The boy gave a small sob. "Why did my papa have to get a wife? Now Alais says we must hide from the dragon while my papa is gone."

Rowena’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Dragon?"

"That’s what Alais calls the new lady because she’ll send me away to be a beggar if she finds me."

"Nay, you’re mistaken. You’ll never be a beggar." Had she unknowingly said something that was taken as a threat toward the boy?

"Do you think so?"

Rowena gave a quiet breath of a laugh. "Oh, of that I’m certain. You’ll someday be the lord of Blacklea."

"Jordan!" called a woman from above them, her voice at once angry and worried. "Jordan!" Slow, plodding footsteps followed.

"Alais comes,” Jordan whispered, grabbing her hand. "Don’t let her take me back there. I hate that room. I want my own bed. My papa will reward you if you take care of me," he generously offered. His eager fingers tightened around her palm.

"I can help you more than you think,” Rowena replied, “but only if you do not act like a coward and run away."

"I don’t want to be a coward," he said, "I want to eat."

That made Rowena laugh out loud. "Jordan is here," she called upward. "We come."

The footsteps above them stopped. "Who’s there?" The woman's voice was harsh and accusing.

"Only a dragon," Rowena replied. There was a loud gasp, the footsteps hurried back up the stairs. Rowena clasped the boy's hand in hers. "Come with me."

They climbed a few stairs before Jordan spoke. "Why did you tell Alais you were a dragon?"

They paused beneath the second arrow loop. The dusky glow of the setting sun burnished the boy's hair with the same auburn lights Rowena had seen in his father's. Still holding his hand, she studied him, then shook her head in wonder. Jordan was his father's very image. His eyes were the same, clear gray; his mouth had the same bend. No wonder Lord Rannulf had claimed him as his own; he could not deny him.

"Who are you?” the child demanded, his eyes narrowed. "I’ve not seen you before. Are you a servant to the new lady?"

"Worse," Rowena said with a smile. "I am the new lady herself."

Jordan considered her a moment, then he smiled. Rowena caught her breath. It was her husband grinning at her irate protests of innocence.

"You like lads,” Jordan informed her, “I can tell. You’ll help me with Alais." He tugged at her hand as he hurried them up the stairs.

A few more turns and they entered a small chamber. The room was cold and damp, cut as it was from the very thickness of the walls. Two straw mats lay on the floor with only a few thin blankets to make them into beds. A small horse carved from wood lay on its side in one corner, while scattered in another were tiny wooden men from a chess set. And then there was Alais .

Jordan’s nurse sat on a stool, her massive thighs pouring over the edges. Fine, light hair straggled from beneath her stained and untidy wimple. The plain gown she wore was patched and stained. This slovenly creature was hardly the sort Rowena would have expected as a nobleman's nurse.

"Look, Alais," Jordan called, "I’ve found the new lady, and you were wrong. She likes lads. Now we can go back down; we can eat." His enthusiasm made him jump. "Tell her we can eat," he said to his stepmother.

"I cannot tell her anything until you’ve properly introduced me to your nurse, Jordan," Rowena chided gently. "You must ask me my name, then you must tell it to your nurse so that she may know it. Someday, you’ll be a knight, and a knight is always careful to observe proprieties, even where servants are concerned."

The woman frowned at this, her beefy arms crossed over her pendulous breasts. It was obvious she didn’t consider herself a servant.

"I am Jordan FitzRannulf," he replied with a half attempted bow toward the newcomer. "What is your name?"

Rowena was pleased to see someone had tried to teach him manners. "I’m the Lady Rowena of Graistan and your new stepmother. It’s very nice to have you in my family. Now, you must introduce me to Alais," she prompted.

Jordan nodded, then tightened his mouth in concentration. "Alais, I have brought the Lady Rennena-Ronnena." He whirled back to his stepmother and whispered, "What is it?"

Again, Rowena laughed, charmed by the child if not his sire. "It’s an English name, and some find it hard to say. Those whose tongues refuse to spill it call me Wren. So may you do if you like."

Jordan grinned again. "Alais, here is the Lady Wren. Now, we can go eat." He grabbed at his nurse's hand as if he by his tiny size could lift the huge woman.

"Alais," Rowena said, all the warmth gone from her voice, "immediately return Jordan's belongings to the women's quarters. Come lad, I’ll find you something to eat." She held out a hand to the boy. "Your nurse has work to occupy her just now."

The heavy woman leapt up with surprising quickness from her stool. "Be gone with you," she cried out, snatching at the boy and missing. "He’s in my charge until Lord Rannulf returns. The Lady Maeve has told me of your ilk and vowed to help me protect him from you."

"Is this your protection I see here?” Rowena demanded. “Hardly protection. I say you threatened this boy's well-being and find you incompetent in your position. Against that, I hereby relieve you. Run to Lady Maeve if you wish, but she'll be no help to you. Now, go find your living elsewhere."

Alais screeched out her denial, tears bursting from her eyes. "Don’t take my baby from me," she sobbed. "He needs me!"

Jordan stared between the two of them. "Alais must leave?" he asked quietly.

Rowena nodded. "She was far too careless with you."

His bottom lip trembled. "But who will care for me while Papa is gone?"

"I will," Rowena replied firmly. "Do you know Ilsa, my maid?" When he nodded she continued, "She will help."

"But what if I need to see Alais?" Tears filled his eyes.

The twist of his face made Rowena’s heart ache. "Do you need her?" she asked with a sigh.

He nodded. "She’s my Alais," the boy replied.

The Lady Graistan turned to the massive woman. "For his sake, you stay. However, from this day forward anything you do with him will be by my command. Disobey, and you’ll go despite his pleas."

"Thank you, my lady," the nurse sniveled. "Thank you."

Again, Rowena held out her hand. "Alais stays because you love her," she told the boy.

This time, Jordan took her fingers without hesitation. The warmth of his hand against hers made her smile. "Now, boy, shall we find you something to eat?"

"To eat, to eat, to eat," he sang happily as he bounced alongside her out the door and down the stairs.

It was well past Compline when Rowena finally crawled beneath the bedclothes. While Graistan had yet to offer up its secrets, she already knew something was very wrong here. True, not so long ago every castle, abbey, and town had been stripped virtually bare to ransom England's King Richard from the German emperor. That still couldn't explain why this keep lacked enough in store to withstand even the briefest siege. And, what little was in store was of the poorest quality.

For now, Rowena would buy what she needed from local merchants with a promise to pay when Lord Rannulf returned. That would give her the time to learn more about Graistan's resources before she reviewed the accounts kept by Hugo Wardrober. Content, she slipped down beneath the bedclothes.

A smile quirked at her lips as she reached out to touch a bedpost. How odd that two days ago she despised this piece. Now it marked this room as hers, shared with no other, just as the rest of Graistan would be hers after she was finished. She would put her mark on it all. She dropped quickly into a deep and restful slumber.