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Authors: Winter's Heat
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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
"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
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