The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

  from Award-winning, best-selling Kindle author Denise Domning

  1994 winner of Romantic Time's "Best First Historical"

  "Splendid...A superstar in the making" --- Romantic Times Magazine

  "Riveting...full of sizzling passion, tension and intrigue...you should not miss this one!" --- Penelope Williamson

  "Enchanting...Vivid...Exciting!" --- Susan Wiggs

  "Ms. Domning's strength is in her unforgettably real characters!" Diane Potwin, Literary Times, Inc.-- Copyright © 1994-97 All rights reserved

  " ... keeps its readers enthralled with dynamic dialog and a tempestuous story line page after page, to the very end." --- Copyright © 1994-97 Literary Times, Inc. All rights reserved

  "...is an enthralling captive/captor style romance with that special Denise Domning touch." --- Romantic Times Magazine

  "A writer of immense power and intense emotion whose star shines brighter and brighter." --Romantic Times

  "Denise Domning's powerful storytelling weaves another truly unforgettable tale, making Autumn's Flame an outstanding addition to the Seasons Series ... [she] leaves us mesmerized and wishing for at least five more brothers left to tell." Lori Wright, Literary Times, Inc. Copyright © 1994-97 All rights reserved

  "In the fifth and final volume of her "Seasons" series, Domning ... provide[s] a well-researched, intensely sensual story of the Medieval merchant class that nicely completes the set." --- The Library Journal, copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.

  "Denise Domning is spectacular! She explores every human emotion with a cunning eye and an open heart..." Kristina Wright -- Copyright © 1994-97 Literary Times, Inc. All rights reserved -- From the Literary Times

  "This book is so well done, you live the life and the language, smell the odors of unwashed humanity, and hear the sucking sounds as your flimsy shoes slog through mud and muck.... Rob and Johanna will keep you on the edge of your seat, and make your heart swell with love." --- Lee Emory

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Table of Contents

  Copyrights

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  Winter's Heat

  copyright(©) Denise Domning 1994, 2011

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  Original cover art by Kate Sterling

  Cover art and graphics by ADKDesigns.biz

  Some stock photos by 123rf.com and istockphotos.com

  My Thank Yous

  This book would never have reached print without help, and now is my chance to give credit where it is due. First, I must humbly thank Joan Domning, my mother, for standing over me and pounding writing basics into my brain. To LaRena, Sandy, Barbara and Lisa of my first critique group, and Charla, Dana, Carol, Marguerite and Debanie of my second group: as much as I hated it, you were right.

  And finally, but most importantly, to my husband Ed. Without you I might never have known what true love is.

  The convent's high stone walls, walls stained pink by dawn's rosy glow, echoed with the plainsong of the nuns. The simple harmony floated up into the frigid February air to twine like sweet smoke around all it touched. It soothed and calmed the armed men and warhorses waiting in the courtyard.

  "Nay, you cannot!" The woman's shriek pierced the quiet. "Help me, come help your abbess!"

  The church doors fell open. The horses danced nervously, their masters cursing and struggling for control. Shocked nuns and muttering servants seethed into the courtyard only to freeze in terror of an attack.

  A mailed knight pushed through their ranks, dragging with him a small, habit-clad woman who kicked and clawed against his unbreakable hold. Their lady abbess came chasing after him. "You cannot do this to her. Don't take her from me, not now. I beg you."

  Undaunted, the knight dragged his prisoner toward his waiting men. The convent dwellers shuffled uneasily into a semicircle behind their lady. The man's captive fought on despite the hopelessness of her position, her eyes wide and her face ashen.

  "You must stop him, my lady," she begged at last. "Do something."

  The knight hit her. She dropped limp into his arms, and he turned back to the abbess. "Have my daughter's belongings sent to me at Benfield before this day is through. I'll not wait for them."

  Tears stained the churchwoman's cheeks. "Someone help me. We can't let him take her," she urged of those who stood behind her.

  Several serving men dared a half step forward only to halt when the knight put his hand to his sword hilt. This was a convent, not a keep. There was no one here to challenge a battle-ready warrior.

  The girl moaned when the knight handed her up to one of his mounted men. She kicked weakly at him, but he ignored her. "You'll pay with your life if you release her," the knight warned his man. A moment later he mounted his own steed.

  The abbess sank to her knees in the frigid mud. "May God go with you, my little Wren. Don't let them defeat you. Never forget..."

  Whatever else she said was lost as the knight set spurs to his steed and called forward those who followed him. Their horses' huge hooves dug deeply into the ground, leaving the earth torn and broken behind them.

  Rowena of Benfield stared straight ahead. Beneath soft black brows, her wide-set blue eyes were fixed and unblinking. Neither the irregular jolting of the trotting horse nor the rider's cruel grip disturbed her. A biting wind teased out ebony strands from under her white wimple and stabbed through the thick gray wool of her habit, stinging her cheeks and the short, straight line of her nose until her pale skin burned and reddened.

  Her father had taken her mantle, so she'd be too cold to attempt escape, and now she was frozen through and through. Deep beneath her icy calm Rowena battled to control her anguish. Her father had taken more than her mantle; he'd torn from her all her life's ambitions.

  Although the manor house at Benfield was only ten short miles from the abbey, a lifetime separated the two places. It was the difference between the wealthy, ordered serenity of the convent and the harsh poverty of her birthplace. The troop raced past the village's cottages, huts, and hovels, scattering peasants, chickens, and geese. The ancient gate in the tottering circle of the manor’s defensive wall stood open in slatternly invitation.

  The troop entered at a brisk trot, their horses coming to a welcome halt before the stables. The hall within the walls was no more than a simple wooden building grayed with age and disrepair attached to a squat, stone keep tower stained with moss. Hall, byres, barns, the stable, even the dovecote, all suffered the same moldy thatch for roofing. Neglect lay as heavily in the air as did the smell of latrines left too long uncleaned. In the yard, servants and peasants worked in an uneasy cooperation. They didn't use the French language of their Norman masters, rather they spoke their own guttural English as they hastily prepared for the wedding of Lord Benfield's daughter.

  Her wedding. Rowena glanced up at the wind-swept and icy blue sky. A solitary, hunting hawk floated high above her. She couldn't even summon up envy for the creature's freedom. Beyond help, beyond hope, she was.

  Her father dismounted and dragged her off her perch, his hand clamped hard upon her arm. His steel-sewn gauntlet ripped into her sleeve. With a jerk, he pulled her through the doorway and into the hall.

  Beyond hope Rowena might be, but there was no man who'd make her go like a lamb to the slaughter. She pried at his fingers and struggled against him as her shoes slid in the fresh rushes that covered the hard ear
then floor. As he forced her past linen-covered tables set around the great open hearth, she grabbed at benches, baskets, cups, anything to slow their passage. The dogs yipped and snarled, eager to join the fight and servants scattered to find hiding spots from where they could better watch. But he inevitably wrestled her through the long, narrow room toward the back wall.

  "Stop," Rowena finally cried out, breaking the silence between them. "No farther, not until I know why."

  John of Benfield whirled on his daughter. "Watch your tongue, girl," he growled, "or you'll feel my fist again.

  Her hand flew to her face to stroke the already purpling bruise at her jaw line. Rowena’s eyes narrowed. In a hard voice, she asked, nay, commanded, "Why?"

  "Why, why," he mocked. "Is it not enough that I got for you a husband who is a powerful lord with rich holdings? He cares little that you are overage, only that you can yet bear children."

  "How pleasant," she snapped back. "Does he know I’ve no dowry or have you not yet told him this inescapable truth?"

  "Girl, you have dowry enough for any man. It’s you who inherited all your maternal grandfather held."

  "All? Me?" Rowena stared at him in shocked surprise. "But, what of Philippa?"

  "Philippa?" Her father's laugh held an odd, high-pitched tone. "Her husband can keep what she took with her when they married. To you goes all else, everything I received through your mother."

  Her eyes narrowed. "If my mother had an inheritance she’d see that I got nothing and her favorite received it all. How can you give me what is hers?"

  "Your mother cannot inherit; her father's will forbids her from ever holding a furlong of what was his." He paused, seeming to savor the thought of his wife so humbled.

  "There's more," Rowena demanded, her voice the whipcrack of command. "Tell me. Why are these holdings not divided with my sister? And why can I not have what's mine to buy me my position at the abbey? Why must I marry?"

  "You'll not use that tone with me, girl." Her father once again lifted his fist.

  Rowena only waved away his words. "Oh, be done with your threats and your pomposity. I’m no child to frighten, but a woman of one and twenty. If you batter me into senselessness you cannot hurt me any more than you’ve already done."

  "How do you dare?" her sire gasped.

  Rowena cut him off before he could continue. "I dare because I'm already dead. Aye Father, this marriage of yours will kill me as surely as the summer's heat withers a spring blossom. Now," she continued, her words clipped and cold, "you'll tell me why I’m suddenly your only heir."

  "And to think that I pitied you," John of Benfield ground out.

  "Pitied me?" Rowena choked on a soundless sob. "If this is your pity God have mercy on my soul. Father, how well will your pride withstand the blow when my new husband curses you for what you've done to him?"

  "How so? Where is this awful defect?" he sneered. "Before me stands a maid who, even though she’s dressed in an ill-fitting, coarse habit, is both comely and shapely enough to turn a man's head. Where is your defect?"

  "Here, Father," she returned, touching a slender finger to her temple. "Here. Because Philippa was your eldest, I dared not dream of marriage. Is it not still true today, in the Year of Our Lord 1194, that a second daughter is convent bound?

  "But I was not defeated. And Sweet God in heaven, how I worked. I learned to read and write and tally up a column of figures in a moment's time, knowing that if the convent would be my life I would be more than a simple nun. Pride is my sin, for I coveted the power the Church could give me. To that end, I humbled myself and bit my tongue when the nuns taunted me because you wouldn’t allow me to take my vows. I bid my time patiently, because I knew—."

  She swallowed hard, then lost all pretense of calm. "Now," she screamed, "you tear from me everything I desire and tell me it’s for pity's sake! I say you lie. Why are you doing this! I will know why."

  "Oh, spare me your venom." Her father smiled a hard smile. "What foul words you spew won’t stop this wedding."

  Rage exploded free of Rowena’s control. "Damn you!" She swung a vicious foot at his shin. Her shoe rebounded from his mail-clad leg. "Kill me, kill me now and have done with it. Better that I die than wed and bed any man. It’s better to be dead than be your heir. Damn you, damn you to hell," she raged, and grabbed his mantle at the throat as if she could force him into honesty. "Tell me why."

  Her father easily plucked her hand away, then held her at arm's length from him. "Because," he said, then repeated in a strained voice, "because, Philippa is your mother's bastard. Ha," her father threw his head back and laughed. "At last, I've said it. The truth wins out. The old man's dead, and there's no reason for secrecy any longer." His grin was cold and cruel. "Philippa's no spawn of mine, and I did not accept her when I married your mother. She cannot inherit. You," he said, with chilling emphasis, "are my only legitimate child."

  Turning on his heel, he dragged Rowena to the back of the hall. There at that wall was a door, the only one within this manor house that sported a lock, his own bedchamber. He tossed her inside as if she were no more to him than a sheaf of wheat and slammed the door. The key scraped in the lock, which gave a rusty groan.

  Stunned, Rowena lay amid the dry and dusty rushes for a moment. Coming to her feet she threw herself against the heavy door. All she achieved was spent rage and bruised fists. At last, she sank to the floor and indulged herself in an ocean of pain.

  From outside came the thunder of hooves, the jangling of harnesses, and hoarse cries of men. The noise pried her steadily from her pain-dazed state into alertness. She stirred. Had it been hours or minutes since she'd been locked in here?

  The sound of an arrival grew in strength. Rowena’s eyes stung. Her husband no doubt. She swallowed her tears. Her sobs would no more free her than they would stop her wedding. Pity was only a self-indulgent waste of time that depleted energy without resolving an issue. How long had it been since she'd last given way to it? Too long ago to even remember.

  Cut into the chamber’s wall was a narrow window covered by a simple wooden shutter. Rowena threw back the plain panel to reveal a thin slice of sky. Day’s light tumbled past her to chase heavy shadows from the dusty corners. Although the air was still light, she guessed it was a good three hours past midday. So, it was hours that she'd been locked in here without so much as a cup of ale or a bite of bread.

  She breathed deeply. This February had been a harsh one, and the still-freezing air cooled her hot face and eased the ache in her lungs. At last, she turned away to stare once more around this room.

  The poverty of Benfield hadn’t stopped outside this thick door. The master's private chamber was barely more than a storeroom. Neither straw matting nor an embroidered wall hanging served to keep the winter's chill from seeping through the walls. A single trunk squatted beside a solitary chair. The only sign that this wasn’t a nun's cell was the huge bed, which dominated the room. Thick, spiraling posts jutted up from each of its four corners to support a wooden canopy draped with heavy bed curtains. Drawn back to each corner of the bed, these curtains revealed the soft mattresses and thick blankets that filled its dark, cavernous interior.

  The lock groaned. Rowena whirled to face the door as a woman carrying a basket entered. No taller than she, her visitor's golden hair was bound in a thick braid and concealed by a wimple of homespun fabric. Simple garments of green and gray clung close to a girlishly slim silhouette. Her features were beautiful, but bitterness etched the set of her mouth, and her green eyes were dull and lifeless.

  So long had it been since they’d last seen one another that it was a moment before recognition flared. Her mother. All at once, Rowena was five again. She crouched, tangle-haired and frightened lest she be seen and sent away, before the door to this very room. Inside sat her mother, and Philippa.

  Philippa, the golden-haired child, petted and cherished. In her recollection, her sister wore a clean and pretty gown and sang to their mother a playfu
l, happy tune. Every so often, her mother's sweet voice rose to intertwine with her sister's, and in that moment, the child Rowena knew what sounds angels made in heaven.

  How many times had Rowena streaked, barefoot and unkempt, from this hall while her sister and mother loved each other? Memory after hurtful memory tumbled through her, one upon the other. When she could bear no more she turned and slammed the shutter closed, plunging the room into dimness.

  "Why did you do that?" The Lady Edith of Benfield's voice was toneless and flat, the voice of an old woman, not one in the midst of her third decade of life. Rowena’s dam pulled the door shut behind her, then moved gracefully to the room’s only candle. Flint sparked, and the wick took light. The room brightened only slightly.

  Rowena's hands clenched at the pain in her heart. "Have you nothing to say to me? No greeting? Not even a How do you fare?"

  "What would you like me to say?” Lady Edith replied. “We both are well aware, as is every other soul in this keep, of how you feel."

  Her mother turned and brushed dust from the chair at the wall, then seated herself. "I’m to supervise the maids as they prepare you for your wedding. There’s not time for a bath, but I have ordered a basin of hot water so you may wash." Setting down the basket she carried, Edith retrieved a piece of needlework and picked an imaginary speck of lint from its surface. A moment later she calmly pushed her needle through the linen stretched within the wooden frame.

  As Edith’s needle worked Rowena's rage grew until it outstripped her pain. "Madam, I’ve only now remembered what I must have worked so hard to forget. I’ve not even the smallest place in your heart. Please forgive me, but it has been fourteen years."