Domning, Denise (21 page)

In that instant Rowena saw in Gilliam's face a naked longing, as if by the very wanting of it he would be given a keep of his own. Longing was followed by despair. She nearly gasped in understanding. He believed his brother would find a keep for a strange knight but would not do the same for his own blood.

"Rannulf, you seem to have overlooked something." Temric's harsh voice startled them all. "Now that you have all you need for this wedding of yours, what will you do about it? Who knows how long you'll be in settling the inheritance."

"I had forgotten." Rannulf peered over his shoulder at his elder brother. "I can hardly leave Maeve at the convent much longer. I suppose they could be married now, but the haste of it will sit badly with John." He stared into the fire for a few quiet breaths, then smiled. "I have it. To sweeten it for him, I will farm to him our village across the river from his keep and give him the hide of arable land to the south of his demesne. He's been after that bit for years.

"Temric, prepare a messenger to ride to Ashby this very night. The moon is yet full, and he will be halfway there before it sets. We'll have this wedding the day after tomorrow and all hell be damned if we do not."

Her startled cry brought all attention on her. "The day after tomorrow?! You cannot be serious. What of their banns?"

Her husband's glance was steely gray. "That is easily resolved to my benefit. The abbey in town is building again. Since I am his greatest patron, the abbot will be eager to grant me the right to wed them whenever I choose."

"But what sort of celebration can I provide in such a short time?"

"I put that into your very capable hands, my sweet. No doubt you will surprise us all with some miracle." There was no compliment in his voice.

She opened her mouth to argue, then realized that to do so would be both futile and a waste of time. Instead, she sped across the room. The door to the women's quarters fairly leapt from its leather hinges and crashed against the wall. "Ilsa, Margaret, rise, rise now I say," she cried out at the mass of sleeping women. "And, you, Emma and Anne."

"Rowena," her husband called irritably, "what are you about? 'Tis well past time to be abed. Let them be."

She whirled on him. "I have less than two days to concoct something that will not bring shame upon Gristan's name. You have given me permission to create a miracle. Now, do you get out of my way so I might do it, or will you serve the bride and groom potage and bread for their wedding feast?"

"As it appears you have no further need for me," Temric interjected before his brother could respond, "I will take my leave and get that man on his way." He bowed briefly toward her and withdrew as his youngest brother leapt to his feet.

"By your leave, Rannulf, I will be on my way to Upwood tomorrow. I received a message from Sir Jocelynn regarding the wall extension you requested he build. He wishes me to come and approve what's done to date. I'll be gone no more than three days."

Rowena did not wait for the solar door to close behind them. "Up, women, up," she exhorted, "we have work to do. My husband wishes to hold a wedding here day after tomorrow."

"What," Ilsa cried out, shoving her wiry gray hair from her eyes in sudden panic. "Do I wake the seamstresses? Are there gowns to make?"

"Are there?" She shot the question over her shoulder to her husband.

"Nay" was his clipped answer.

"I know the bride has need of nothing, but what of Ashby? Will the time be so short that he will not have a gown suitable for a wedding?"

Her husband opened his mouth to reply, then paused. "He will come without thinking of his appearance," he finally answered.

"Wake the seamstresses. What size is this Ashby?"

"He is near to my height, but bigger."

Ilsa scrambled to her feet and pulled on her overgown. "Bigger how?" she asked, her head still within the gown.

"In the belly," Lord Graistan replied.

"Use one of my husband's old gowns as a guide," Rowena broke in, "and make it much wider. Somewhere we will find a rich belt to make a present of, so the robe will fit the man. Anne, you must go wake Cook, for he likes you best." Anne had the grace to blush, for she had not known her lady was aware of their affair. "Tell him I will be down anon, but he must draw up a list of suggestions based on what we now have in store.

"Emma, I need you to ask the butler if we have any suitable wines in store. I know we do not, but let him tell you this. Let him ramble for a time, for only then will he remember which wine merchant can find him what he wants. I need you to listen for those names, as we must send a cart there first thing on the morrow. Margaret, you will prepare the nuptial chamber. The room in the north tower is big enough. My lord's bed should fit nicely into it."

"Not the tower chamber," her husband broke in. "They should use our chamber."

"As you wish. Then, Margaret, you must take down the bed in our chamber and set up my lord's in its place."

"That is ridiculous," Rannulf interrupted. "Leave it where it stands."

"Nay," she said vehemently and turned to him. Her back was stiff, her fists clenched at her sides. "She will not sleep in my bed."

"Woman," he warned. Bathed in only the low light from the fire and the few candles she kept about the room, his face looked no softer than that of a statue's. Only the hard gleam of his eyes betrayed that this was a man and not stone.

But she would not cede to him on this. Every discordant note between herself and her husband seemed to spring from Maeve, and what little happiness she had known so far in her marriage she had found in their bed. She'd give that woman no chance to poison her life any further.

Rowena's voice was no more than the sigh of a breeze when she spoke. "My lord, no one but you and I have shared that bed. It is precious to me."

Startled surprise showed in his face, then something akin to a smile briefly touched his lips. "Bah," he said, "why should I care what you do?" But his pleased tone belied his hard words. There was no time to consider the implications. As he strode out of the solar, she turned back to her maids.

"Margaret, use as many servants as you need, but see to it that my lord's bed is prepared within the hour so he has a place to lay his head this night."

"My lady," Margaret asked, "is it true this wedding is for Lady Maeve?"

"Aye," she replied, and ignored the twinge of guilt that followed. This was a mistake; she should not allow her husband to wed his vassal to that woman. She suddenly realized all her women stood in uneasy silence.

"Thank the Lord the moon will have waned in two days," Emma finally breathed, her words echoing everyone's thoughts. A witch's power was at its height with the full moon.

Rowena held up a cautioning hand. "I will grant that Maeve is a hateful woman, but I'll not have anyone name her witch. She has lived these past months within sight of God and survived. No witch could do that."

Somehow, in saying these words, she felt better about this match. God had seen the woman now, and he would have destroyed her had she been truly evil. "Besides, such a charge will hardly make her husband love her better, would it? The breath of such an allegation would do us far more harm than good. Instead, let us put our joy at her departure into our efforts for her wedding. Off with you all. With luck, we will all be abed before dawn, although I do not hold much hope of it."

As her maids scrambled to be at the tasks she'd given them, Rowena pushed aside all worries over her inheritance. For now it was more important to take Ilsa into the treasury to find cloth suitable for a groom's attire. At least there was something to do.

Chapter 13

"John, well come to Graistan," called Lord Graistan from his stance beside the hearth. "No doubt you are soaked through to the bone. And Nicola! This is a surprise. I did not expect to see you."

Rowena leapt from her watching position at her solar door, straightened her gleaming red-brocade overgown, then started for the stairs. A big man dressed in muddy mail and a dripping surcoat and cloak strode across the hall to take his lord's hand in his own. Carrying a basket that made her follow more slowly was a tall, willowy girl in stained and sodden clothing.

"What, her?" Ashby's voice was gruff but without the steel to make it commanding. "Aye, she should have been married and gone years ago, but the damned boy died before the deed. Since then, I've not been able to convince her to accept another."

At the base of the stairs Rowena signaled for the warmed wine to be served to their guests before she started toward the hearth. Her husband glanced up, then looked again. She'd forgotten he'd not seen her yet this morning. His expression mellowed as she neared him.

She knew, for Ilsa had told her, how well she looked in this scarlet overgown with its golden embroidery. But, she'd had other reasons for choosing it. By wearing it over a plain white undergown with a single strand of amber beads as her only adornment, she attempted to reflect Graistan's prominence without overshadowing the bridal couple.

"And this," he said, taking her hand as he guided her to his side, "is the new Lady Graistan, Rowena, late of Benfield. My lady, this is my vassal at Ashby, John, and his daughter, Nicola."

She smiled up at her guests. The man was as massive in girth as in height with iron gray hair that stood out from his head in stiff curls. Of features he was unremarkable, but his merry brown eyes revealed a simple soul.

Beneath her cloak his daughter wore a dark green gown cut in the style of twenty years past. The hemline barely reached to mid-calf, as if it had been made for another much shorter than she, and was bunched about her waist with a carelessly yanked belt. At first glance, the girl seemed as plain as her father. However, she had a wealth of thick, brown hair that escaped her untidy braid in loose coils about her face. As she rose from a clumsy curtsy and met her lady's gaze, plainness was dimmed to insignificance by her striking hazel eyes filled with a far greater intelligence than was apparent in her sire.

"How pleased I am to meet you both," Rowena said with a smile as they were each handed a cup of warmed wine. "And, I must apologize for what surely seems a strange request to wed so quickly. Word of my father's death has only just arrived along with a challenge to my inheritance. We are very grateful for your agreement to all this haste."

Sir John drank deeply while his daughter sniffed at the steaming contents of her cup. When he had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he grinned. "No matter, my lady. I've been a widower so long, I daresay a wedding could not come quickly enough for me."

"You are kind, sir," she started to say, but the girl interrupted.

"Well, it is too swift for my tastes." Her voice was husky, and her words were tart with suspicion.

"Nicola," her father warned, but the young woman waved him off.

"Nay, Father, you have not even seen your bride. Who knows what sort of woman you might bring into my home?"

"Nicola," Lord Graistan retorted with a smile, "you know when your father remarries, his hall will no longer be yours but his wife's. But, then, you should have long ago found your own hearth and family. How old are you now?"

"She is nearly ten and seven," Ashby sighed, "and if you can make her bend to your will, my lord, you are a better man than I. No matter who I suggest or what terms I negotiate, she refuses to accept the man."

"No one forces me from my own home," she snapped back. "Ashby is all I want. Now leave off me."

Rowena straightened in shock at the girl's open and rude defiance, fully expecting her father to slap some respect into her. But her sire only stared shamefacedly down at the floor. She glanced at her husband. He gazed down at the girl, a single, raised eyebrow conveying both his disgust at her behavior and his struggle to remain polite.

When no one spoke, she leapt briskly into the void. "Now with all that said, the Lady Maeve should be here shortly, and there remains only two hours before it will be time to eat. My lord felt it would be best if you, Sir John, and your intended bride might first dine together, to see if both parties find the other to their liking. Then, by the grace of God, we will celebrate a wedding after that."

Sir John, still bright red in embarrassment, cleared his throat. "You are so kind, my lady. Please accept my apologies on behalf of my daughter. If only her mother had lived longer. I have failed to teach her any manners or womanly softness."

Nicola glanced at them all. "And glad I am of it."

"I can think of several ways to impart manners," Lord Graistan muttered, but his wife's voice overrode his.

"Think no more of it," she said soothingly. "No doubt she is overwrought by the suddenness of all this. Sir John, we expected that this hasty date might leave you little time to prepare. I have taken the liberty of having clothing arranged for you. If you will deign to come with me now, I will make a bridegroom out of you."

He smiled his thanks and offered his arm. She laid her hand upon his, then looked beyond him to his unrepentant daughter. "Nicola, come along and let my maids find you something dry to wear."

After seeing the girl into Ilsa's capable hands with orders to offer her a bath and allow the girl to choose something suitable from Graistan's coffers, she escorted Sir John to her solar. As was customary for the lady of the hall, she assisted him in removing his armor and bathed him, then helped him don his new robes.

The gown was of pale gray trimmed about the cuffs and throat with a simple, embroidered pattern made rich by the use of copper silk. There was a darker gray cloak lined with fox; the rusty-colored pelt was Ashby's own, sent in tribute some years back. Rowena presented him with a fine, pliable leather belt studded with brass buttons. In Nichola's basket her maids discovered a thick gold chain and an ancient, ornate cloak pin meant to use as his adornments. For chausses he wore a gold pair of Gilliam's, their long length giving more room to his greater girth. As to shoes, there was nothing that fit him, so his boots were cleaned and buffed until they looked nearly new. At last, she pronounced the man fit to be wed. His sudden blush was charmingly boyish.