Domning, Denise (7 page)

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 will cost you only two pence to store the carts and feed the oxen and their drivers. For another two pence, he 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.

Temric dug the coins from the purse he wore at his waist and tossed it to the man, then unfastened the purse and threw it to his lord. At his command, four men sent their horses through the gate. The peasant called his sons from the hut to help the drivers guide 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. Take your ease for a day if you wish. There will be supplies enough with Ashby's company to see to all our men." He laughed, and Temric nearly smiled as they shared some private jest, then her husband turned to her.

"Tell Gilliam that I said you are to do as you wish with the servants and that they are to obey you as they would me. No, do not say that." He held up a hand and briefly closed his eyes. "Say to him that you are to be obeyed in all things as his mother would have been obeyed. Temric"—he glanced around—"bear witness to any who question that I have said so."

For a moment, there was silence between them while he stared off into the forest. When he turned back to her, he shrugged and said, "Your lands are too well matched with mine, I could not allow them to slip into another's hands. You will not be alone at Graistan. Gilliam will see to it that you are well treated."

Was this an apology? It was better to assume it was. She cleared her throat, then finally said, "May the Lord God keep you safe in your endeavors." It sounded like the wifely thing to say.

"And you, yours," he returned. But, he offered no gesture of farewell, only sent his bay crashing across the frost-crusted field. He and the men who followed disappeared quickly into the tangled branches and dead bracken until nothing but silence once again surrounded those who stayed behind.

Chapter 4

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 did not thaw frozen fingers and toes or make the misery pass more quickly. It was only when day had fallen into an icy, blue twilight that this wide, 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 keep, but also by the town below the castle. This fledgling enterprise nestled safely between 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 now closing in, only a solitary few remained out and about. The eerie wail of yowling cats shattered the chilled quiet. She 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 had 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 their 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 pushed aside 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 did not 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.

A blond giant of a man, taller even than her husband yet barely older than she, pushed his way past the dogs and boys toward them. Worry creased his brow and touched his guileless blue eyes. "Temric, where is Rannulf," he called out, his voice, deep beyond his youth, reverberating against the overshadowing walls.

Rowena peered up from beneath her concealing hood at him. Where her husband's features were all sharp angles and deep plains of life's experience, his face seemed boyish in its softness. 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.

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

"New lady?" the boy blurted out in surprise before he caught himself. "But, I thought—"

She bit her cheek to keep from smiling at his consternation as his fair skin colored. My, how quickly the potential loss of her dowry had turned a reluctant bridegroom into a husband. This 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 absent and there was no one of rank to do it. "You are my husband's brother?"

Tongue-tied in his embarrassment, he nodded and lifted her from the saddle to set her on her feet in the frozen mire. The sudden pinprick sensations in her legs made her grit her teeth against a yelp of pain. Not for the first time, pride had driven her where common sense had well known she should not go. 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 him. "From now on I shall remember to be more humble when you state that the ride is to be 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 as she glanced between them. "Well," he 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. So, it had been either her husband's whim or his liking for his brother and not this knight's skills that made him Graistan's steward. In that case, it was doubtful Gilliam would be of any help to her in making Graistan's servants hers. She would do better to carve out her own niche.

"Nay," the tall man managed at last. "Henry and his men left here with them yestereven, thinking to meet Rannulf along the road from Benfield. He took the wagons with him."

Temric grunted. "Then, he'll not meet him 'til 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 sent you a message. He says that the servants are to respect their new lady's wishes as they would have your lady mother's. My lady"—he directed a brief bow in her direction—"I wish you well in your new tasks. I have 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.

Strange man, strange day. She shook her head, then looked up at her brother by marriage. He stared openmouthed at the soldier's receding back. She finally asked, "Is something amiss?"

"Nay, no, not at all," he stuttered, "no, it is 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 did not expect you."

"I fully understand." She 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 was 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 cross beams 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 had been beaten into dust. All this despite the fact that more servants congregated in this hall than the abbey had supported, even when she 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 would restore this hall to its former glory and right quickly, too. To do so, she would need these servants as her own this very night. That was not so difficult. It had been the abbess's first lesson: "To take command, one must first create the illusion that command is already yours." All that waited now was the opportunity.

It was on the strength of her pride alone that she shook off her physical woes even as she shook herself free of her sodden cloak. She glanced up at the nobleman waiting patiently at her side. "Now, Sir Gilliam," she said, imperiously drawing herself up to the limit of her slight height.

"Come all ye folk to greet our new Lady Graistan." He had no need to shout, his deep voice thundered about the hall. He stepped away 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."

Most of the servants knelt or bowed, but a few stood in studied nonchalance, refusing to acknowledge her. She stared pointedly at them. Beneath her cool gaze, 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 to all who viewed him of his high rank. 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 the opportunity; he 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.

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 unspoken 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 am 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?" she smoothly replied. At the periphery of her vision she caught the lower servants' laughter. So, he was not 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 has commanded me to do as I see fit in this keep. And I deem it fitting you should care for this cloak."

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

"Then I will see to it that 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," she said, softly, "I will do it myself." Her cloak hung from her outstretched hand.

Hugo tensed. For a moment as their gazes locked, it seemed he would refuse, but his courage was brief. She knew, and he became convinced, her threat was no bluff. Pomposity warred with humiliation as he grabbed the garment and stalked out of the hall.