Domning, Denise (14 page)

He turned away from his cynical thoughts and raised his hand to the sentry. The town's guardsman called down his greeting, then shouted for those on the streets below to make way for their lord.

Rannulf passed through the gate and into the warm embrace of his own peaceful and prosperous domain. The streets were crowded with folk. He stared in surprise until he remembered. "Temric, why did you not remind me it was May Day?" he called back to his brother. "We could have arrived last night and joined the festivities."

His brother shrugged. "I did not think of it."

"What do you say we go to the town's cross and see what is what?" At the other's brief grin, Rannulf set his bay to carefully picking its way through the crowd toward the town's center.

All along the lanes folk sent the cry forward until a wide enough path was cleared to let the armed men through the crowd. Those he knew waved and called their greetings. He responded in kind.

As always, the council had raised a platform before the church doors and beneath the shade of two massive chestnut trees. There, in the spot he usually occupied, sat Gilliam. Beside his brother was a woman, resplendent in silver and purple. She was turned away from him, engrossed in conversation with the woman seated just behind her.

What was this? He frowned. Was his brother courting a merchant's daughter without first seeking his approval? But, who stood behind the girl? Why, it was old Ilsa. He'd never before seen his stepmother's servant dressed in anything so fine. Then, he caught his breath in understanding. His wife.

Briefly closing his eyes, he found behind his eyelids the image of her standing before him covered only by the fall of her glossy black hair. Jesus God. He thrust the picture away and opened his eyes.

Now, she looked toward him, a soft smile warming her lips and glowing in her dark blue eyes. Any other woman would have been diminished in so rich a gown, but the brightness of his wife's costume only enhanced her unusual coloring. He studied her, memorizing the gentle curve of her cheek and sweet fullness of her lips. His gaze wandered downward. Although her overgown was not as tightly laced as was the fashion, there was no mistaking the lush roundness of her breasts.

Rannulf swallowed hard. Even though she tried to hide it, within her burned a flame of such wanton passion it could make a man's head spin. He glanced aside, but could not keep his attention away from her. When he looked back, their gazes locked. She stared at him for a long moment, then her smile vanished and her expression stiffened with... what? Apprehension? Guilt?

His eyes narrowed. Gilliam and she made quite a pair, both young and well matched in their handsomeness. He looked at his brother and struggled with demons he'd long ago thought he'd banished. Then, Gilliam looked up and smiled for the barest instant before his features froze into that familiar challenge.

Rannulf would have said
no,
but the crowd suddenly edged back and waited. Well, if the townsfolk expected that old game... He gave a brief nod and dismounted as his brother leapt to his feet.

His wife reached out to tug at his brother's surcoat, her action speaking of an easy familiarity between them. Whatever she said was delivered in an urgent tone, her features tight with fear. Gilliam either ignored her or did not hear, for he leapt down from the dais to comically circle his older brother in make-believe wariness.

Rannulf stared at them. Although he knew it was impossible, he could not prevent thoughts of betrayal from awakening. Instantly, he slammed a mental door on them, shocked at himself for even thinking such things. Instead, he concentrated on the game he was about to play. All around him the crowd held its breath. Metal hissed on leather as he and his brother freed their weapons. Then, with a great, ringing clash, steel met steel.

His wife leapt to her feet and cried out. Her words were lost in the cheers of the crowd as they urged their chosen champions on to victory. But, he had no time to discover for whom she feared as his brother easily escaped the trap he'd set for him.

They'd not played this game since before Gilliam's departure for the Holy Lands. Then, his brother's battle plan had been to carelessly throw himself forward, trusting his great strength and larger body weight to carry the day. It had been easy to blind-side him and force him into a corner with a feint or two. No longer. The boy'd earned his spurs and learned more than godliness while crusading.

The minutes passed as they met, stroke by stroke. Rannulf's pride grew to match his exhaustion. It was luck, not skill, when he found his opening and knocked away the younger man's blade. "Yield," he demanded, lifting his sword point to his brother's throat.

"You've bested me this time." Gilliam laughed, his clear blue gaze clear and happy.

Rannulf searched his brother's face, looking for something he dared not see, but there was only a carefree boy here. His inner tension eased, and he was shamed by his earlier doubts. "Ah, but you gave me a merry chase," he retorted as he sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet.

"Welcome home." The young knight gave his elder brother a bear hug that nearly cracked ribs before retrieving his own sword. "During my years abroad, it was this game I missed most of all, old man."

"Not so old yet." He grinned widely. "When you finally best me, I will be old."

"How do you know I do not already let you win?" Gilliam's expression was impish.

Lord Graistan threw back his head and laughed in pure joy. The devil take his problems. He was free of court and obligations. He was home and glad of it, and, most importantly, he had his brother back once again. " 'Tis not you who lets me win, 'twill be I who lets you lose with grace." He turned toward the dais to formally greet his wife.

Rowena drew a deep, ragged breath to calm her rage as her husband neared the platform. It had been a jest! A child's prank! She'd nearly eaten her heart with worry thinking they meant to kill each other while they played a game. Her fingers clenched into the folds of her gown.

"My lord husband." Despite her best effort, her words still bore hard and angry edges.

Her husband's smile died and took with it the life from his eyes. His features fell back into the harsh lines of bitterness she remembered so well from their wedding. "My lady," he replied flatly.

So, he was not yet reconciled to their marriage. Well, that would change once he saw all she'd accomplished on his behalf. For now, he had only to stand beside her here. But, instead of climbing the steps to the dais, he turned and remounted. She stared after him in disbelief. He could not be so cruel. Her humiliation was complete.

"Do you not wish to stay and enjoy the remainder of the day?" his younger brother asked.

"Nay," Lord Graistan replied from atop his mount. "As you have said, I am an old man. I need to retire and take my ease after a hard journey."

"Go then, we'll not tarry overlong." A moment later, her husband had ridden away toward Graistan.

She choked as anger became hurt. He'd shown the entire town that he did not hold her in high regard. High regard! He held no regard for her at all. She sat frozen in shame while Gilliam received warm congratulations from the councilmen for his performance.

When she could finally manage to speak, her voice was quiet and tense. "Ilsa, I am ready to leave now."

Her maid turned to her with a wide smile. "Of course, my lady." She seemed to believe that the young wife was anxious to join her husband. "Lord Gilliam, your lady would like to leave now."

As the young knight turned toward them, Rowena vehemently shook her head. She'd not wanted to tell him, only to slip away without notice. "Nay, nay, I did not mean you to come with me," she said, shortly. "Stay and enjoy. I have a terrible throbbing in my head and with my lord just arrived, there is much I must do."

He only shrugged away her protests. "I may return later, but I'll see you safely into Graistan's hall first."

"As you wish," she replied. She stood and forced herself to lift her head high. No one would know that the joy in her life was gone, once again destroyed by her husband.

Chapter 9

Rannulf's irritation blinded him until after he'd passed Graistan's gate house and entered the outer bailey. There was nothing in all her rich dowry that was compensation for having to live with a nasty shrew. He'd wanted to own her lands and had been swayed to agree by her beauty, but he'd forgotten to check her temperament before purchasing. What price in emotional anguish would he pay for his mistake?

They were well within the foreyard before his vision cleared enough that he could look around him. The byres and barns along the walls were somehow changed. As always, geese grazed near the dovecot and ducks swam in the fish pond. He rode through the inner gate into the courtyard and pulled his bay to a sudden stop.

Jesus God! She'd whitewashed the whole damn keep! Whitewash, all over the lower reaches of a place named for its gray stones. What right did she have to do this?

Despite the shock of white walls, he could not help but notice that the courtyard was neatly kept. The stair rail up to the hall had been repaired. Everywhere there were clean walls. For the first time in his recent memory the smell of the stable did not compete with that coming from the kitchen.

"My lord," called the stable master as he herded out his underlings to take the troop's horses, "well come! Well come, indeed. It is good to see you home again."

"Whitewash," was all Rannulf could say.

"Oh, aye." The stable master grinned like a fool. "The lady has made some changes. A good lady she is, too, my lord."

He said nothing, only dismounted and strode up the stairs and into the hall. What he saw at the door stopped him in mid-step. The massive room was almost blinding. Here, too?

Mayhap the paint was not so bad here. The whiteness brought new life to the wall hangings, or had they been cleaned? And, by repainting the sooty ceiling, the roof beams once again showed that they'd been brightly painted. No, they had been repainted, for there had never before been a green one.

He stepped into the room. The pungent scents of marigold and rosemary rose from the rushes at his feet. Servants surged forward, congratulating him for winning his mock battle with Gilliam while welcoming him home.

Despite his growing uneasiness, he forced himself to respond in kind. Graistan was so changed. He had not expected to feel like a stranger in his own home. And, it was her hand that showed in its every corner. He lingered a moment, waiting for Jordan, but the boy did not appear. No matter, it was a short walk to the women's quarters.

He went no farther than the doorway of the big room, as this domain was the only one within his pale in which he was not welcome. The chamber with its many chests and pallets was nearly empty save for two old women working at the looms on the far wall. "Where is my son?" he asked of one, but she only shrugged and shook her grizzled head.

"Where is his nurse?" He looked around him. Here, too, there had been a thorough scrubbing and the room's meager furnishings rearranged. This wife definitely knew the meaning of cleanliness.

"I don't know, lord," answered the eldest, dropping her shuttle for a moment. "We do not see much of her any longer since the new lady came."

"She's gone?" Rannulf snapped to attention. "Where is Jordan if his nurse is gone?"

"I do not know," the woman repeated nervously at his angry tone.

He clenched a fist. She had promised, she'd vowed before God, Himself, on their wedding day to accept his natural son. But, she had not promised to let the boy live alongside her. Rage mingled with a terrible fear. What had she done to his son? He whirled on his heel and strode back to the hall.

"I want my son," he bellowed, attracting the notice of every soul within the room.

"Rannulf," Gilliam called from the door as he entered. "What is wrong? Where is Jordan?"

"What has she done to him?" he roared.

"What do you mean," his wife retorted smartly as he stepped into the hall from behind his brother, "what have I done to him? I have done nothing save what should have been done from the beginning." She placed her hands on her hips in angry outrage.

He stared at her. Where had she sent him? "And you let her?" he demanded of his brother.

"Let her?" Gilliam looked back and forth between them, his face clouded in confusion.

"Papa!" Jordan cried out from the chapel entryway. "Papa, you are home." The boy dashed across the room and launched himself into his father's arms. "Did you bring me anything?"

"You see," she snapped. "At last he is well dressed, properly cared for, and receiving lessons as befits his station."

Rannulf hugged the boy close in relief. "Is that any way to greet your papa, by asking what I might or might not have brought you?" He held him out at arm's length. "Why I believe you've grown in my absence. Did your nurse have to make you a new gown?"

"Nay, 'twas not Alais," Jordan said, idly kicking his booted feet out at his father. "Lady Wren did. You know, Papa, she was not a dragon at all. She likes me." He smiled at his stepmother from over his father's arm. "She brought Brother Matthew here to teach me my letters, too, so I might grow up to be a lord like you. She says you will find me a tutor, so I may have a sword. Will you?"

He set the boy down. "I had not thought about it," he said. At his son's crestfallen look, he added, "But, I will consider it."

"Oh," Jordan responded, then hesitated a moment. "Did you bring me anything?"

"Go ask Temric if he can find it for you," his father replied, with a short laugh. The boy started to dash away.

But his wife held out her hand. "Jordan."

He instantly stopped and turned back to his father with a deep sigh. "Pardon, I forgot," he said, simply. "My thanks, Papa. And," he added with a grin, "I am glad you are home," and raced for the hall door.

Rannulf watched him go, his heart torn with jealousy. Jordan had always been his alone. He did not care to share the boy, especially not with his wife. He glared at her.