Domning, Denise (20 page)

He nodded and rose slowly to his feet. "It seems I have nothing else pressing, so let's have at it then."

The treasury was dark and damp, its thick walls trapping the cold within it. The lamp reeked, and the brazier's glowing coals only warmed the air that stood directly above it. His wife had laid out the records on the table, then retreated to sit in perfect stillness on a nearby chest while he studied the parchments.

As he scanned the pages, his heart fell. It was as she'd said. Hugo had made no attempt to hide what he'd done. But that amount was trifling when compared to the shortages in tribute from his holdings. While his wife believed Hugo had sold the supplies to further enrich himself, he saw something far more sinister.

He stared at her over the parchment's edge. "Did you not say you'd questioned my bailiffs as to what they'd sent to Graistan these past two years?"

"Aye, Gilliam collected all that information for me. As you can see, what Hugo has noted is far short of what they sent."

"What makes you certain that it was Hugo, not they, who shorted us. Is it possible they knew of his thefts and used his guilt to hide their own thievery?"

The question startled her, and she frowned. "I had not considered it in that way, my lord. But, such a conspiracy seems so unlikely."

Rannulf turned back to the parchments. Not if they'd been sure no one else would look. Was Temric right? Had he let the events of the past blind him to the present? If so, he'd jeopardized his very existence, and it was well past time he came to his senses.

"It seems it would be unwise of us to indulge in rich celebrations just now." He stood and pushed the stool beneath the desk. Somehow, it was relief not disappointment he felt at this. "I doubt if Ashby will mind. He's never been one for show anyway."

"Thank you, my lord," she murmured gratefully as she gathered the accounts and put them away in their casket. When she turned back, she smiled a little. "See, it is not so bad to have me at your purse strings. Truly, I hold Graistan's good in my heart."

He stared down at her. She was such a pretty thing. Why did she always wear those plain gowns and rough headcloths? She ought to dress in rich colors and soft materials as befitted her station. Not that her simple garb hid her beauty. But what had happened to the vibrant life that had once filled her blue eyes?

He ran a gentle finger along the curve of her smooth cheek, expecting to see that spark he now knew so well leap into existence within her gaze. Instead, she stepped back out of his immediate reach.

"I am grateful to you for doing this, my lord," her voice was a throaty whisper, "but I must now be back to my chores." When she tried to turn, he caught her by the hands.

"Surely, there can be no more for you to do this day with the hour so late."

She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he refused to release her. "Really, my lord," she insisted, her voice growing just a little firmer as she continued, "I must go."

"What do we have servants for if you do all their work? Did you not just say you carried Graistan's good in your heart? Am I not Graistan? I have nothing to do and would greatly enjoy your company."

"My company?" she shot back. Here was the glow he had missed. It came to life as her eyes narrowed and her mouth straightened into an angry line. "Do not make me laugh." Then she gasped, as if shocked by what she'd said. With a desperate tug, she tore her hands free only to cover her face with them. For a full moment, she stood there, seeming to fight some inner battle, then dropped her finger shield. The dullness was back. "As you wish my lord."

Desire died with the resurgence of anger. "Such a heavy burden you must bear," he started, but was interrupted by a rapid tapping at the door.

"My lady, my lady, are you there?"

With a muttered curse, he yanked open the door. "What is it?"

"My lord, I did not expect to find you here," the porter gasped out, his broad face flushed red. "There is a messenger for you with urgent news." Even as he spoke, a man strode swiftly across the room and knelt before Lord Graistan.

"My lord," he said, "I have come this very day at all speed from Oswald of Hereford to deliver this into your hands. He said you must read it immediately, and I am to wait for your response and instructions." The man set the folded and sealed parchment into the nobleman's hand.

"Good work," Rannulf said. "Go to the kitchen and see that they feed you well. Tom, this man's mount is to get an extra ration of oats in reward for his haste." Then, he turned and reentered the treasury to be nearer the lamp as he opened the message.

Here were all the agreements for Ashby's wedding, signed and sealed. This was hardly urgent. He frowned and set the parchments down. All that remained was a single, hastily scrawled note. He read it once, then read it again in disbelief.

"How can they dare," he growled, and read it again. "I have the wills, where is their proof?"

"What is it?" She came to stand at his side as if to peer into the note.

"Your father is dead," he blurted out as anger rose. "It appears that it happened nigh on a month ago. But, your fine lady mother did not see fit to tell us. Rather, she has gone in secret with your sister to your grandsire's overlord, the Bishop of Hereford, to claim your mother is your grandsire's only, legal heir."

His wife paled until he thought she would fall. "She swore it," she breathed out. "She swore she would disinherit me for usurping Philippa. No," she gasped, her voice cracking as she grabbed his hand. "My lord, my lord, you cannot let her take this from me."

Rannulf frowned at her. Was that all that ever concerned her? Lands and coins? Where was even a show of grief for her father? "Rest assured, I have never lost a hide of what was mine to another, and I will not now. It must please you that my cousin's message has now saved us the cost of a war, eh?" His words were sarcastic and hard.

His wife stared up at him, her blue eyes dark. "Fields and farms," she whispered, "duty and bitterness. I have honored the agreement we made at our wedding." With that, she tore open the door and was gone.

He glared after her, then sighed in resignation. Was he not the one who had, how had she put it? "... bought this piece of merchandise without fully examining it before purchase." Now he was condemned to this farce of a marriage. Damn her anyway for always awakening the worst in him.

He stared at the note once again. There was much to be considered before he answered Oswald's message. Perversely, he hoped it would come to war and let him vent some of his bile. He snuffed out the lamp and covered the brazier before leaving the room. At least it would be something to do.

Chapter 12

Rowena stood at her solar windows and stared out them without seeing. Her father was dead. How sad that he had died and she could feel nothing for him, not even relief at his passing. Then her heart lurched. What if her mother succeeded in making a pauper of her? What then would become of the fine Lady Graistan? She squeezed her eyes shut. With her wealth gone, he would soon find a convenient excuse, some previously undetected degree of relationship, and she would be lady no longer. What reason did he have to keep her? None.

She stumbled across the room to her prie-dieu and knelt before the tiny, candlelit altar. Her lips moved as she silently prayed, but there was no serenity for her to find this night. Suddenly, words welled up and spilled out of her. "Mary, Mother of God," she cried, "I do not want to lose him."

Lose him! She laughed at the irony of it. How could she lose what she'd never had? The arrogance of it stung her to the core. She'd set out to tie him to her so Graistan would be hers. Instead, he had humbled her as she had never dreamed possible. Warrior that he was, he'd breached her defenses and taken her as his own all the while holding himself aloof from her.

How could she have come to care for a man who'd ignored her, even shunned her, these last weeks? She sighed in sudden understanding. It had begun the day she'd arrived at Graistan, when the castle folk accepted her as their own and firmed when his son had become her heart. And what happened behind their closed bed curtains had finished it. He might hide behind the mask of hard and angry lord during the day, but beneath the cloak of darkest night in the silence of their bedchamber, he showed her his gentle tenderness. And after their loving was finished, when she met his gaze, his eyes were filled with a warmth meant only for her.

It had been easy to convince herself that in time he would accept her, even care for her, as the rest of Graistan had. But she had deceived herself and seen only what she chose to see. She was no more to him than a hide of land waiting to be plowed and made fruitful. When her usefulness was at an end, she would again be nothing to him. The pain in her heart grew until it became unbearable.

The door flew open without warning. She leapt to her feet, clutching her beads to her chest. It was her husband and his brothers. He managed the smallest glance at her. "Pour us all a cup of wine, will you, Rowena?" he asked blandly, then sat in one of the chairs.

Pain retreated into a steady, dull ache as she complied. Rannulf nodded in thanks as he took his cup from her. After she'd served the others she moved back to stand at the windows.

He sipped at his wine, then spoke. "Try as I might, I cannot find a cause for this ridiculous ploy. Oswald has both wills. They cannot truly expect the bishop to believe deathbed utterances to some illiterate priest as better than the man's acknowledged will. And this secrecy! When we challenge them they will look like cowardly fools."

"But do they even know of the wills or that Oswald is the bishop of Hereford's right hand?" Gilliam pointed out. "It is obvious they expected no challenge, only the granting of the inheritance to Lady Benfield." He shot Rowena a quick, reassuring smile. She had not the confidence to return it.

Her husband leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Well then, they have gambled all and lost it on the first roll of the dice. Their subterfuge can only make the bishop look more closely at everything else they've said." An easy silence sprang up in the room after his words.

Rowena studied him for that moment, the straight, stubborn line of his nose, the hard curve of his jaw and perfect arch of his brow. Oh, but even now she could remember the incredible sensations of their lovemaking. How could something so wondrous be a falsehood?

"Still," he finally said, "both wills are unusual, and I must submit them to scrutiny if I am to have what is mine. What if there is some flaw we have not considered? What is the worst that could befall us?"

"Although I cannot believe it is likely, Benfield's widow could get her father's lands despite the strictures against it in his will," Temric replied. "Then, what if she remarries? She is not so old she couldn't bear another child."

"She could not marry if I had wardship of her" was her husband's rapid response. "With Oswald's help it is quite possible I would get it. But what of Benfield's will? What if Bishop William decides the elder sister is legitimate as they are claiming? The court must then divide the estate evenly between the two daughters, ignoring all else." He made an irritated sound. "I should have known it all sounded too easy when Benfield first explained it to me."

"There is one other possibility you have not considered," Gilliam said. "What if Benfield's widow planned all along to have this settled by judicial combat? That would explain Lindhurst's presence. He might be her chosen champion."

Her husband's eyes widened in surprise. "Gilliam, where did you learn to think so deviously?" he asked with a laugh. "But if that were all there was, there'd be no problem. Although I doubt the bishop would allow such an unlawful event to occur."

Rowena's heart jumped at what she heard. Could it be true? "You would fight for me?" she blurted out, then wished she could call the words back for she knew she was mistaken.

"For you?" Rannulf responded harshly. "You, I have. It is your inheritance I want."

She did not have time to stifle her gasp of pain. With a hand pressed to her lips to stop any further evidence of the hurt he'd done, she whirled to face the window.

"Damn," he said, sounding almost as pained as she felt. "My pardon, that was badly said."

"Badly? It was more than that." Temric's voice was filled with anger.

"Have I not just apologized?" Rannulf snapped back. "Since you are so insulted, brother, I will do it again. Rowena," he called across the room to her. "I did not mean it as it sounded, my mind is elsewhere."

She nodded without turning, but Temric's surprising defense warmed her. Her husband might see her as nothing, but there were others who did not feel so. Should this not content her? Why wasn't it enough?

Behind her, Lord Graistan was speaking again. "Well then, everything now rests on our ability to turn this to our advantage. In February, I sent word to my lady's two castellans telling them of our marriage and the inheritance. I think it is time I sent emissaries from Graistan—"

She let the conversation eddy around her, her thoughts drifting away from the challenge to her father. He'd been determined to find his daughter a protector. Why could he not have been equally concerned for her happiness? Would that she'd never known of Graistan rather than to have her heart torn in two this way. Gilliam's words broke into her thoughts, and she once again turned back to face the room.

"But, if we are all in Hereford, your lady will be left here alone and unprotected," he was saying.

"Nay, she comes with me," her husband replied. "She is the rightful heir and must be appear to claim her inheritance."

"Then, who will be here?" The young knight frowned slightly as if considering options. "Temric's the nearest thing you have to a castellan for Graistan."

"Now, here's a thought," Rannulf stretched his long legs out toward the fire. "Arnult, the young knight who now tutors Jordan in arms, came well recommended to me by my foster brother. I've seen him practice at arms, and he does well enough. But, I know he's never turned his hand to manning a keep. Here is his chance to try, as well as mine to learn if he has the mettle for it before Michaelmas comes 'round and we move to Upwood. Besides, when this inheritance is settled, there may well be a place for him on her lands."