Juliana Garnett (16 page)

Marriage
. What would it be like to be married to the Lord of Dragonwyck? He was nothing like what she’d thought he would be—neither as cruel as she’d feared, nor as gentle as she’d hoped. His reputation portrayed him as a brutal warlord with little regard for human life. She didn’t find that to be true. But neither did she find much comfort in her earlier impression of him as a man who possessed gentle strength. He’d shown her no sign of the tenderness she’d glimpsed that day with his son. In truth, he’d made it plain that he thought little enough of women. Or of love.

Though she did sense honor in him, she did not know
him well enough to predict his reaction to the perilous times ahead of them. Too much could happen—too much could be lost by the simple saying of yea instead of nay. Hadn’t she learned her lesson before? Luc had been foolish and too quick to be swayed. He had almost ruined her with his failed plotting.

But something told her Rolf le Draca would never take that chance. Nay, he had sworn an oath he meant to keep, and if the barons rose and dragged the king from his throne, all those loyal to John would forfeit everything. Even life.…

A soft, bitter laugh spilled from her mouth. What a farce. She had almost lost all because of a plot against the king and might do so again, for the opposite cause. But there was nothing she could do about either. It was too late for one, and out of her control for the other. She hated the feeling of helplessness, of her fate being left to the whim of a man. Luc had almost ruined her; Rolf might still do so. And there was nothing she could do. ’Twas ridiculous, that in these enlightened times, a woman had so little power over her own life.

Oh, there were women who wielded power through their husbands, or even as managers of their own estates, it was true. But it was so easily wrested away from them if they did not watch every step. It wasn’t only young maids who were married off without a say in the matter; grown women could be summarily married off unless able to purchase freedom from their overlord or the king. In her case, of course, this last option had been rendered impossible by her tenuous position as the widow of a condemned traitor.

In the normal course of things, as a young widow she could have been wooed and won again, perhaps, by a man she would respect and love. Fate had not been that kind. Now she was to wed a man who inspired more fear than love.

But it was the unsettling dreams he inspired that distressed her most … the vague longings for something as yet unknown to her.… The memories of his caresses and kisses left her seething with unfamiliar emotions. How could she contend with a demon she could not identify?

Equally disturbing was Rolf’s apparent belief that she had loved her husband greatly. It had been too ludicrous a statement for her to deny—especially when she saw how it plagued him.

But perhaps that might be to her benefit. A slow smile curved her mouth. Yea, she might have unwittingly found a weapon to use against the Dragon.…

After visiting the chapel for morning services, fast was broken in the great hall. Annice, with her ever-present guard, took her seat at the high table with Rolf, occasionally giving him wary glances. For his part, he seemed content to ignore her.

Unreasonably annoyed by his indifference, Annice studied her trencher of oat pottage with fierce dislike. Though her stomach was empty, she could not bring herself to taste the thick concoction. It was unlike what she was accustomed to in Thurston’s castle, nor was it what she would have served to break the fast if she’d been supervising the kitchens. There would have been white bread, cheeses from France, fruit in season, and in absence of meat during Lent, coddled eggs.

Lifting her gaze, she chanced to meet Rolf’s amused gaze. He indicated her untouched trencher with a nod of his head. “Do you mislike it, my lady?”

“Yea.” She shrugged lightly. “But I have not been offered tempting food to break my fast since I have come to Dragonwyck.”

Rolf leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment. “Have you not?”

She flushed slightly. It was the height of rudeness to remark upon the lack of suitable fare. Had she not viewed the lavish display of food prepared for other meals, she would have thought him master of a poor castle.

Still staring at her with a faintly amused smile, Rolf said, “You have my leave to repair to the kitchen and speak with the cooks.”

When she stared back in surprise, he added, “Tostig will accompany you, of course.”

Tostig. Her constant guard. He even slept outside her door at night, presumably to safeguard her, but in fact, to keep her from attempting escape. Annice glared at Rolf.

“God’s mercy on you, milord, for such generosity of spirit.”

He grinned. “Your words are sweet, but your eyes gleam like daggers, fair lady.”

She lowered her lashes. “Daggers … ’Tis naught but your own fevered imaginings, milord.”

“Fevered?” His brow lifted. “If I am fevered, ’tis naught of my imaginings, but of memory. P’raps you have already forgot last night, but I have not.”

A flush heated her face, and she turned away from him so that she did not have to see his knowing gaze. Nay, she had not forgotten the past eve for an instant. Just sitting beside him awakened strange, heated tremblings in her body that she strove to ignore. It did not help that he seemed to know it.

When the morning meal was ended and the servants attended to the removal of tables and benches to stack against the walls, Rolf’s scribe arrived with quill and ledgers. Business was to be conducted, and Annice debated rising immediately. P’raps there would be a hint of events outside Dragonwyck to warn her against future mishaps. A chance word might give her some indication beyond the little that Rolf had told her.

No one seemed inclined to force her departure, and she retreated to a stool near the fire as if to warm herself. Rolf took his place by the scribe, conversing in low tones as to the day’s roster.

The doors at the far end of the hall were opened to reveal a crowd of petitioners, barred entrance by men-at-arms. Allowed in one at a time to plead their cases, a vassal came first to offer reason why he had not yet paid the fines due Rolf as his overlord. As an excuse, he protested the king’s forest law enacted upon his land.

“I’ve no recourse, milord,” he said indignantly when asked to explain, “but to purchase wood from another, when there are thickly wooded forests already upon my demesne. I am not even allowed to hunt game for my table, yet when
traveling through my forest, I see stags grazing the meadows like sheep. They fear no man but gaze contemptuously about as if challenging a hungry hunter to snatch them from under the protection of the king’s gamekeeper.”

“Those forests are protected by the king,” Rolf replied. “John has amerced those foolish enough to poach wood or game he regards as his. If you would protest, you should petition the king. I have no authority to grant permission to take what is not mine nor yours.”

“Nay, but nor do I wish to come to the same end as Thomas of Moulton,” was the bitter retort. “He ended in prison, deprived of his shrievalty and freedom.”

“ ’Twas for failing to meet the terms of his proffer and accounting to the crown, not for poaching wood or game,” Rolf said with a frown. “I see no connection between Thomas and you, Sir Roger, for Thomas was a sheriff.”

“Yea, and backed by Lincolnshire gentry he dared not anger,” Sir Roger spat. “Had he been able, he could have collected the shire debts from nobles such as you and remained free.”

“That was six years ago.” Rolf stared at the angry man. “Though I did render my debt to Thomas, I sense more here than just grievances with the king’s forest laws, Sir Roger.”

Taking a deep breath, the vassal looked down at his feet for a moment, then back up. “Yea, lord. Thomas of Moulton was my cousin. And now I am under the burden of a new sheriff, who has increased my fines threefold. The sheriff’s men range through my lands like ravening wolves! They take wood from my villeins, plunder my serfs’ few belongings, hunt my sparse game, and even steal fish from my ponds! My villeins cannot even pay me what I am owed upon pain of starvation. Dead millers and farmers are of no use to me. Not even the heriot and mortuary derived from their deaths would alleviate my expenses. Am I allowed no recourse? Will I end as my cousin, because I am unable to pay what the sheriff now demands?”

Annice glanced from the vassal to Rolf and saw frustration flicker in his features. It was obvious from the taut set of his mouth and the fist he clenched upon the surface of the table that his vassal’s plight affected him.

After a moment of thick silence he said heavily, “I cannot repudiate the king’s law.”

Sir Roger gave an angry oath, and Rolf held up his hand, piercing the man with a frowning stare. “But this I will do, in recognition of your unjust plight. Render unto the king what is his, but delay an accounting to me until Michaelmas of next year. If there is a bountiful harvest this year, p’raps you can retrieve some of the debts owed to you by your own villeins and serfs. I do not absolve you from rendering unto me what is owed, but I will accept your oath that you shall give me an honest accounting of receipts and debts for my perusal.”

For a moment Sir Roger just stared at Rolf. Then he inhaled deeply and nodded. “God’s mercy, milord. I swear upon my honor that I will give you a just accounting. God willing, John will send a new sheriff to replace this one before next Michaelmas, and he will levy an honest amount on my lands.”

“Do not dwell too long on that dream,” Rolf said dryly. “ ’Tis unlikely to happen.”

While Sir Roger moved aside to the scribe to give the accounting of his debts, another petitioner was called. Annice looked over her shoulder at Rolf, who sat at a table with a grave expression. Was this the man regarded by many in England as a ravening beast? What she had just witnessed gave the lie to those reports. But was it a common thing, to delay the debts owed him? If so, he would have to dig deep into his own coffers in order to pay the king the fines he levied freely upon his barons and nobles. Nay, it could not be. Few men would subject themselves to such a burden just to ease the plight of their vassals.

Yet before the morning’s business was concluded, Annice was witness to several such acts. These mostly involved villeins come to complain about grievances done to them by the king’s men, and Rolf did what he could to alleviate their hardships. One of the cases brought before him was a dispute over a pig.

Claiming that ’twas his pig and his neighbor stole it one night, Walter of Pinchbeck, a freeman, insisted that the animal be returned to him at once. Rolf deliberated, hearing
both sides, and learned that the sow was pregnant. Unable to determine which man truly owned the pig, he ended by decreeing that the sow be left at Dragonwyck until delivered of her progeny, and those be equally divided between the squabbling petitioners. Then ownership of the pig would be determined by drawing lots.

Annice smothered her laughter as both men quit the hall, still squabbling over ownership of the sow and only slightly mollified by their lord’s decision. When she glanced back at Rolf, she saw his gaze on her, and her heart lurched. He was smiling ruefully and shaking his head.

“For a moment I was tempted to react as King Solomon of old, and order that the pig be cut in half and divided between them. But that would most like deprive their families of needed meat for the winter.”

“There are times,” Annice murmured, “when you must wish for the wisdom of Solomon.”

Rolf looked away from her, his smile fading. “Yea. More than you know, lady fair. More than you know.”

Annice gazed at him, her eyes lingering on him long after the next petitioner approached. Sunlight from a high window lit his hair with pale streaks that gleamed with all the brilliance of a gold halo. Almost like a halo, she mused with a twinge of self-derision. Nay, no saint this, but a man. Yet a man who showed infinite patience at times, when she would have been tempted to irritation.

Rolf of Dragonwyck was a contradiction, an enigma that she had yet to understand. What manner of man was this that she was to wed in such a short time? Dragon—or saint?

G
uests had been arriving for days to attend the betrothal feast. Dragonwyck keep was filled to bursting with retinues of servants and a surplus of baggage. It seemed that every noble who wasn’t in France with the king had decided to witness the Dragon’s marriage to a traitor’s widow.

Rolf was torn between cynical amusement at the king’s obvious machinations, and annoyance that his loyalty was suspect. Not that he had expected any different from John. ’Twas more than expected that he would wrest assurance from one of his most powerful barons. Though Rolf had supplied men and money for the king’s war, his private battle with Seabrook had been reason enough to return to England. He’d known his failure to stay in France would anger John. Now he knew how much the king was annoyed with him.
Jésu
, but he hoped it did not affect his battle to regain Justin.…

“Milord.”