Domning, Denise (8 page)

Quiet laughter followed his departure. For the moment his arrogance was gone, but she knew better than to believe it would not be back. She held her hand up for silence. "Know you all," she called out, straining her aching throat, "that this is my way. While I will rarely ask you to perform duties not within the scope of your day-to-day tasks, I value highly and richly reward loyal service performed in a prompt and capable manner. Incompetent service or disrespectful behavior will bring swift punishment.

"Now, some have said that my punishments are harsh, but no one has ever said that they were not justly due to those who received them. Woe to the one who must be told twice what is expected of him." She looked from face to face. "On this night, I expect only that someone prepare my lord's bedchamber for me."

There was a bare second between her words and a flurry of action. The air was peppered with a number of "Yes, my lady's." Men and women hurried away either to do her bidding or to put a safe distance between themselves and her.

Well, it was a beginning. The servants were startled enough to obey for now. When their fright wore off, they would be accustomed to her. Pleased with what she'd accomplished, she looked up at Sir Gilliam.

He watched her with an expression of such horror that she frowned in puzzlement. "I did not take your bed, did I? I simply assumed that I would occupy my lord's bedchamber."

"Nay. Would you have?" His voice was strained and his blue eyes were now a hard gray.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Taken a whip to Hugo?"

She shrugged. "I have come here without my lord to force them into obedience to me. If I am to be lady in more than title alone, I dare not tolerate arrogance from anyone, no matter his rank. Yes, I would have taken a whip to him in full view of every other soul in this keep. What's more, every one of them would have respected me for it. His greeting was insolent and his behavior intolerable."

The young man started to respond, then glanced up at the balcony that fronted the overhanging second story. By now, judging from the number of female servants who had raced up the narrow stairs leading to this balcony, Rowena had guessed this was where the women's quarters and the master's bedchamber would lie.

There appeared along the balcony a woman attired in so rich a blue gown that it named her noble despite the absence of an overgown. Hair the color of the harvest moon was caught in a single plait and pulled over her shoulder. It was uncovered as though she'd been suddenly called away from preparing to retire.

"Gilliam, dearest boy, why did you not send for me when our guest arrived?" she chided, her voice as sultry as the lush curves displayed by her carefully fitted gown. "Ah, a woman. How exciting." As she descended, she lifted her gown ever so slightly to reveal soft leather shoes and delicate ankles. The dainty silver circles about her wrists jingled merrily when she moved.

The closer she came, the further Sir Gilliam's features disappeared beneath a mask of bitterness. Rowena lifted a brow in surprise. Now, she saw his resemblance to his brother; at least the hardness was not aimed at her. She turned to greet the woman only to stop short in surprise.

Eyes so pale they were nearly colorless met her gaze. They were made all the more startling by thick, dark lashes. Delicate color tinted her finely featured oval face and warmed her perfectly shaped lips. This woman was beauty personified.

But, as Rowena looked closer, she saw that fine lines touched the corners of her eyes and mouth. The youthful blush and the darkened eyelashes had been made so by some unnatural method she could not fathom. This woman was older than the score or so she had first appeared.

"Oh, it has been so long since I've had any visitors of rank here. Gilliam, you must introduce us." Her voice was light and sweet as she lay a long-fingered hand on his arm.

The young knight jerked away from her touch as his face twisted into a black and mocking grin. "With pleasure. Lady Maeve"—he turned the honorific into a curse—"meet my brother's new wife." With that, he strode rudely away.

His announcement had been meant to shock, but this lady only smiled prettily at the noblewoman before her. "Good heavens, I thought the ceremony had been delayed. Could you possibly be the ancient nun with a warty nose and hairy chin that my brother was sworn to wed? But, you are neither ancient nor ugly, although I do see the touch of the convent in your face."

"I am Rowena, Lady Graistan," she responded stiffly. What did she mean she saw the convent in her face?

"Oh, now I've gone and set you all aprickle with my careless tongue. You must forgive me. Sometimes I am such a featherhead." Her husky laugh somehow made a falsehood of her words.

"My husband spoke of his brother, Sir Gilliam, but—"

A sigh of fond irritation interrupted her. "How like that creature to forget who butters his bread for him. But, he is a man, and you know how men are." Lady Maeve's airy wave stopped mid-gesture. "Ah, but you do not know, do you? You were to take your vows. Poor child, torn from your calling. How fortunate for you to have an experienced wife to teach you in the ways of this worldly vale." Kind words cloaked the challenge.

Lady Graistan's face was a mask of polite interest. Did this woman think to continue ruling the hall against her new lady's right? If so, she had sadly misjudged Graistan's folk, for in one night and by one deed they were nearly Rowena's. Perhaps she was just testing the newcomer's mettle. "My thanks," she responded blandly, then could not resist an answering jibe. "But, from what I see here, we shall both be scrubbing walls for weeks to come."

As Maeve drew a surprised breath, Rowena turned toward the female servant who had been doing her best to catch her lady's eye. The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. "My lady, Ilsa has sent me to fetch you if you are ready to retire. Your chamber is prepared. Shall I lead you there?"

"If you please," she replied in open relief. "Pardon me, Lady Maeve, but I am tired to death. Perhaps we can become better acquainted in the morning. Let me bid you a good night."

"Oh, but I will come with you to the woman's quarters. Here, let us go together." She reached out to take her lady's arm, but Rowena quickly stepped away.

"You mistake me. I am using my lord's chamber."

Only the hardness of this woman's eyes reflected her growing irritation. "Please, sweetling, be careful not to trespass here and step wrongly with your husband this early in your marriage. Rannulf does not share his bedchamber; not even with his wife. Why, even my sister, whom he loved as life itself, always kept her place in the women's quarters."

Sister? So, this was not her husband's blood kin. That shed a whole new light on the matter. "Be that as it may, if my husband wishes me to sleep in the women's quarters, he will tell me so. Now, I really must bid you good evening." She turned and without a single backward look followed the maid up the stairs and along the passageway.

The serving woman threw open a door and pointed through a tiny antechamber to the illuminated room beyond it. "Through there, my lady. Old Ilsa will be right along with your tray."

As Rowena started through the small room, her stomach fell in disappointment. So rich a keep had suggested an equally rich solar. Could this tiny closet be it? Four steps took her into the lighted chamber where she stopped short and gasped.

Several large chests sat in the far corner. Bossed with shining metal bands, they were painted deep green with wooden trim stained red and carved like twining vines. Near them stood two well-cushioned chairs, painted the same green color, and a small table set with a single, flickering candle in a silver holder. Only the bed seemed lacking, as it was neither large nor fine.

Even though the small fire on the hearth had only recently been coaxed to life, the room was not cold. She quickly saw why. Neither stick nor stone of the walls showed, so completely were they covered with hangings. The glorious reds and blues of these embroidered panels glowed in the firelight. While she was no needlewoman, she recognized fine work when she saw it. She started forward to examine one piece more closely and nearly tripped.

Her muddy boot sank deep into a thick, brilliant material patterned in an alien design. She stepped off and frowned. Surely, so beautiful a thing was not meant for such a degraded use. Some servant had erred. Tiptoeing along the wall to avoid it, she gingerly seated herself in one of the chairs. Every muscle ached, strained as they were from her long ride. It hurt even to bend over and pull off her boots and stockings.

Her toes bared, she glanced quickly at the door, sank her feet into the material on the floor, and smiled. It was as thick and soft as it was lovely. Fully enjoying the sensations, she unwound her heavy, woolen wimple and hung it over the back of her chair, then loosened her braid. With the comb from her purse, she smoothed away all the tangles.

When she looked up again there was a tiny, wizened woman staring curiously at her from the doorway, a tray of breads and cheeses in her hands. "Good even, my lady," she said in a brittle, old voice, then bowed with the stiffness of one whose bones had seen too many winters. "I am Ilsa. I would be most pleased to serve you if you've brought no maid of your own. I hope you will forgive Graistan its poor welcome." Words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession and whistled through toothless gaps in her gums as she stepped spryly into the room.

Her lady's upraised hand stopped her. "Is this thing meant to be walked on?" she asked, pointing to the floor.

"Oh, aye." The maid pulled the sodden wimple from the back of the chair and sharply snapped it into the air. Water droplets spattered into the hissing fire. "Infidel, it is," she said, hanging the head-cloth on a peg by the door, "brought back from the Holy Lands. Lord Henry, that would be your lord's father, said such things were commonplace there."

Rowena concealed her yawn behind her hands. "I say give me a simple straw mat that I can walk on after I've been in the garden."

The old woman's laugh was a chicken's cackle. "Temric spoke rightly," she said cryptically as she turned down the bedclothes. "Will you eat this night?"

"I want nothing more than to crawl into yon bed and sleep for days." Another wide yawn interrupted her. She rubbed her face with her hands. "But, I must be up before dawn and I must bathe. The water will need to be very warm, for I am going to be very sore." She rose stiffly to her feet.

"Here, let me assist you." The maid was at her side in an instant, her thick fingers deftly loosening the overgown's lacing. Freed of both gowns and her chemise, Rowena staggered gratefully across the room and climbed into bed.

"Oh, my poor dear, these things are wet through and through," the old woman clucked in concern. "And what is this Temric tells me? You've nothing else until your cart arrives on the morrow? Well, these will just have to be cleaned tonight, then."

Suddenly, but only for a brief moment, Rowena wished she'd waited for the cart. A fine lady needed fine clothing. All she had was this worn, chestnut-colored traveling gown she'd borrowed from Benfield. "Ilsa, I handed my cloak to the wardrober in the hall."

"Aye, so I and every other soul in the hall knows." She snorted in laughter. "You could not have chosen better than to hand it to that ass."

"Arrogance he does not lack," she said wryly, pulling the blankets up over her. "However, I must be certain that the chore I gave him is rightly done. It is truly a fine garment and will cover these things until my own gowns arrive."

The maid cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world like a bird considering a worm. "In this hall, one can be made to pay a price for usurping one's rank."

That shook the cobwebs from Rowena's head. She looked up, her gaze sharp and hard. "Ilsa, you cannot be punished for doing as I command by any save myself. Nor can anyone else."

The answering smile was wide with approval. "Then, I shall bid you good night, lady. The chamber pot is there, behind the bed curtain"—she pointed to the wall at the opposite side of the bed— "and if you have need of anything this night, call out. I will lay my pallet in the antechamber."

"Are the women's quarters so far?"

"A world away, my lady." She hurried out with her lady's gowns, closing the door behind her.

Rowena lay in the bed, savoring the soft mattress. Slowly her frozen limbs began to warm and relax. Her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. There was something familiar about this bed, but she could not put her finger on what it was. Then, just as she drifted into sleep, she realized that the bedclothes smelled ever so faintly of her husband.

Chapter 5

At dawn, just as requested, Ilsa awakened her mistress and Rowena eased her sore muscles in a warm bath. When she at last toweled herself dry with a rough linen cloth, her clothes, cleaned and dry, lay across her newly made bed. She lifted her cloak to examine it. "Hugo?" she asked.

"There's a laundress with a bruised eye this morning" was the old woman's response.

"I see." She dressed with her usual care, but her new maid had a way of tightening the overgown's laces that made the old thing cling to her every curve. Afterward, she nervously submitted while her hair was combed and plaited. It was odd to have someone do this most intimate chore. When the last ebony strand was confined, a fine cloth was draped around her head and face. A thin gold band studded with gleaming blue stones held the wimple in place.

"There," Ilsa said with a satisfied breath. " 'Tis good that I locked away some of my Ermina's belongings up here. When our fine Master Hugo gets his sticky fingers on things, they go into his chests and rarely come back out. Oh, see how the stones complement the color of your eyes."

Rowena could not recall the exact color of her eyes. The last time she'd given any thought to her image, she'd been a scrawny woman-child with eyes too big for her face and wild black hair that ever threatened to escape her demure wimple. But, as she took the polished metal mirror the old woman offered, she raised a finger to touch in disbelief this reflection.