Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  “So I should,” came Temric’s equally soft reply. “How did you know I was here?”

  Edwin gave a tiny shrug. “One I trust told me of your need.”

  When Temric frowned at so enigmatic an answer, the priest grinned. “Come, share a cup of my wine with me. This year’s brew is better than my last vintage. We can talk, or have you forgotten that that is my purpose here?”

  Temric smiled. “Well, I know you’re not our vintner.”

  Slipping his twisted hand into the bend of Temric’s arm, the priest’s smile broadened. “In truth, I expected you earlier. Weren’t you planning to confess and receive absolution prior to this contest? Now isn’t too late. Come with me, but do so quietly. Lady Benfield yet prays in the chapel.”

  Together, they turned and made their way through the chapel to Edwin’s alcove. The long narrow room was lit by a single burning lamp on a stone shelf near the end of the priest’s cot.

  “Here, Richard, take the lamp,” Edwin said, handing Temric the lamp he carried, “and find a few more so we might have light enough for conversation, then bring the stool. I’ll pour the brew.”

  Striding ahead of the knight, Edwin sat at the cot’s end, then reached beneath the simple bed to bring forth a small keg. As the old man busied himself filling two wooden cups taken from another shelf, Temric lit the lamps and retrieved the stool. Once he was seated, Edwin handed him his cup. “Here you are, Richard.”

  Temric’s shoulders tensed as he heard his true name spoken, but the priest only grinned in deep pleasure. “Lord bless me,” the old man said, “but it’s good to call you Richard once again. It’s a name worthy of a true son of Graistan.”

  “Rannulf had no right to force it back onto me,” Temric replied, his rejection of the name rote after so many years.

  Revealed in the greasy lamp light, the old man’s pleasure shifted into wry amusement. “Forced it on you, did he now? I bethought me you went chasing it when you faced Lindhurst.”

  That startled Temric. “How so?”

  The old man shook his head. “Now, lad, you cannot have it both ways. Behave as a lord and you are one; behave as a servant and so shall you be treated. Today, you shook off your mother’s common heritage by demanding the rights of your noble father, even if you yet deny the name he had me give you.”

  Temric opened his mouth to protest, then sighed in realization. The old man was right. That was exactly what he’d done. Lindhurst hadn’t been his better when he’d attacked him. Nay, indeed, he’d thought the man his inferior. This was what came of Rannulf sharing Graistan’s power with his bastard brother; Temric had become accustomed to its privilege, if not its use.

  “Now, drink up.” Edwin pointed to the cup he held. “After you’ve finished it, you can spill your sorrows.”

  Sipping at the sweet concoction, Temric found himself content to sit without words near to this man he’d known all his life. When their cups were empty, the priest at last cocked his head to the side in invitation.

  Temric sighed. “I’ve given my heart to Lady Lindhurst.”

  “I grieve for you,” Edwin said sadly. “You must lose her.”

  “Aye,” Temric said, staring down into the dregs at the bottom of his cup.

  “And, so?” Edwin prodded.

  “Mother of God,” the words tore from Temric, “but when he accused me of adultery, I felt like a liar denying it. I’ve only kissed her, but in my dreams and thoughts I’ve done far worse. Tell me,” he pleaded, staring into the priest’s ancient eyes, “tell me I committed no sin.”

  “You haven’t,” Edwin replied, “but worry over your soul’s health isn’t what hangs so heavily on you that you cannot sleep. It’s a deep emotion that troubles you this night. Now, look up son, else I cannot hear what you say.”

  Temric forced himself to stare into the priest’s face. The man’s expression was gentle. “You already know what it is that troubles me,” he said.

  “So I do,” Edwin agreed. “This pain of yours has gnawed your vitals for too many years and you’ll not be free of it until you speak the words aloud. I rejoice that, however late, you’re finally ready to do so.”

  Temric tensed. Years of holding tight rein on his emotions made it difficult to pass the words he needed to speak from heart to mouth. “Lord God forgive me, but I have hated my father.”

  As he heard himself say this aloud, he gasped in denial. “Nay, I don’t hate him, despite how he betrayed me. How could he do that? He swore love and promised an inheritance, only to turn his back on me.”

  “Are you so certain?” There was a sadness in the old man’s voice that made Temric shiver in response.

  “Nay,” he whispered. It took all his strength to continue looking at the old man so Edwin could hear him speak. “When you asked me the other day, I answered differently. Now I’m destroyed, thinking I may have clung to an untruth for some selfish reason I cannot fathom. But how can I be wrong when his will so clearly omitted my name?”

  Edwin sighed. “Of all his sons you’re the only one who reads the words while missing the meanings in their syllables.” He patted the younger man’s hand. “The pity of it is not that you’ve misjudged your father. There’s no man that doesn’t do that from time to time. Rather, it lies in how you’ve hurt yourself to prove Henry did what he hadn’t.”

  When Temric only shook his head in confusion, Edwin spoke on. “Why does it matter whether some clerk scratched his pen across parchment at your father’s behest or that Henry spoke words aloud for all to witness? Go, waken your lord brother. Send messages to your other noble brothers, Gilliam and Geoffrey. Ask them all what their father meant for you to have. Every one of them would respond that you are your father’s acknowledged son on whom he intended to bestow both lands and home. Even Geoffrey won’t deny you that, despite the anger he bears for you just now.”

  Again Temric shook his head, this time more slowly as he heard the truth for the first time. Edwin again patted his hand.

  “Aye, laddie, there are times when you’re more deaf than I am. But then, you’ve always been a haunted child, convinced by your birth that you have no value. Do you remember when your mother left for Stanrudde? Nine, you were, and already living away from Graistan. I’ll never forget the pain in the missive you sent your father in response to her marriage. You saw her departure as proof she never truly wanted you.

  “It was no different when your father died, his departure even more permanent than your mother’s. Then, at the very instant when you most needed his reassurance and love, you discovered what seemed to be his ultimate rejection. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve spent your heart on the only woman who cannot reject you for your birth.”

  Guilt battled relief in Temric’s heart as he accepted what the priest said. His father hadn’t forsaken him; it was he who’d forsaken his father. “My God, what have I done?” Temric breathed. “Forgive me, Papa.”

  Footsteps clattered down the chapel stairs. Temric spun around on his stool to see who came. Anne flew past the door to Father Edwin’s alcove as if her destination were the garrison. Temric threw himself to his feet and rushed to the door.

  “Annette,” he called angrily after her. “Why have you left Lady Lindhurst?”

  Anne whirled with a cry, then rushed back to stop before him. Her eyes were wild as she spoke in rapid English. “Temric, you cannot countenance what’s just happened. That old bitch offered me eight pennies to spill a fanciful tale to the bishop on the morrow. She’ll have Peter take that poor chick into our forest to be killed!”

  “What?” Temric stared at her in surprise. “Who offered you pennies? Peter will do what?”

  “What is it?” Edwin asked, having joined them in the doorway, a lamp in hand. His gaze flew from mouth to mouth as he tried to interpret words spoken in a language he didn’t know.

  “Lindhurst’s dam did,” Anne said, ignoring the priest as she spoke on in English, “offer the pennies, I mean. Peter was keeping company w
ith me while I watched over Lady Philippa when that hag came skulking and offering coins. She wouldn’t admit that she plans our Philippa’s death, saying she but wished to keep the Church from having her. I say, hah! Does she believe she can buy murder so cheaply? She offers hardly more than the cost of a fat sheep.”

  Hope rose within Temric in a violent rush. “Did you agree?” he demanded.

  “Aye, and urged Peter to do so as well.” She caught Temric by the arm. “Now, tell me you can use this to expose their plot and keep that poor lady safe.”

  “I might, indeed,” he said, exhilaration rising behind hope. “First, you must tell me what’s to happen.”

  “What are you saying?” the priest demanded, his brow creasing as he looked from face to face.

  Again Anne ignored the old man. “Peter’s to steal Lady Philippa from the tent and take her out to the forest where Lindhurst’s men await her. For my part, I’m to run onto the field after your contest with Lord Lindhurst and say that the lady awoke and fought free of us. That’ll ring true, for head wounds can cause just such rages. I’m guessing the old woman means her men to end what her son began and take the lady’s life in our chase. When her body is found it will seem as though she met her doom at the hands of whatever imagined fiends Lindhurst’s folk claim inhabit our chase. Don’t you see? Her husband will be a widower without blame on his hands.”

  Exhilaration soared as Temric sucked in a breath. He saw more than that. Not only could he prevent Philippa’s death, he could keep her for himself.

  “What is it you’re saying?!” Edwin demanded. This time his voice was no longer gentle, the words booming through the stone arches and roof of the chapel. “Someone best tell me what’s afoot here.”

  “Father?” Edith of Benfield called out in sleepy concern as her head appeared near the altar. Philippa’s dam yawned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing her eyes into focus. She gasped when she saw Anne and came to join them. “How is my daughter,” she demanded.

  “In a moment, Lady Benfield,” Temric said.

  Edwin looked from the noblewoman to the man who should have been his penitent. “You’re not going to tell me what progresses here, are you?” he asked irritably.

  Temric put his arm around the old man. “It’d be better if you didn’t know.”

  “Are you scheming?” Edwin’s gaze grew troubled. “Best you not. The truth always wins out. In subterfuge lurks the threat of destruction.”

  “A fair warning,” Temric said with a nod. “Now seek your bed, old friend, and I’ll make my confession in the morning.”

  Frustration dug deep lines in the priest’s already lined face. “I vow, Richard, you hear less than I do.”

  Temric grinned, no longer minding the name. If regaining his identity meant holding Philippa in his arms, then he was glad of it. “You’re probably right,” he agreed with the priest.

  Offering a final narrow look, Edwin shuffled back into his alcove. Temric gave a jerk of his head toward the altar, bidding the women to join him there, then lead the way. They gathered over that holy table like the plotters they were. Edith glanced between Temric and Anne.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Does my daughter yet live?”

  “For the moment,” Anne said, “but I know now that they’re plotting to murder her.”

  “Nay!” Edith cried out. “We must stop them.”

  “Why should we?” Temric replied evenly. “Since it’s obvious they’d rather see her dead than convent-bound, I think we should help them do it.”

  “Nay!” both women protested.

  Temric only smiled. “If the world believes her dead, can she not continue to live in safety elsewhere? We need only thwart their plans, while making it appear that they’ve succeeded.”

  Hope washed the ravages of tears from Edith’s pretty face. “Aye, I see your meaning. But how can they be convinced without a body to prove her gone?”

  “Temric, she’s right,” Anne said. “They’ll want her body.”

  “Even without that, this can’t work,” Edith went on. “Where can she live that she’ll not eventually be recognized? The world’s not such a big place that someone can disappear.”

  “Spoken as a true Norman in England,” Temric retorted with a smile. “What you say is true only as long as she retains her title and nobility. I’ll take her to my mother’s house at Stanrudde where she’ll take up life in a wool merchant’s household. Even if she’s seen, who would believe a noblewoman would so betray her class?”

  This time, Edith’s gasp was one of outraged pride. “You’d make her into a commoner?!” Almost as quickly as the words left her lips, she reached out as if to catch them back. “Nay, pay me no heed. Take her where you will. I’m content in giving her to you, having seen the evidence of your care for her. Do what I cannot. Keep her safe from her husband with my blessing.”

  The responsibility of Philippa’s life settled comfortably upon Temric’s shoulders. It didn’t matter that in taking Philippa as his own he’d have to sacrifice all he held dear, even his honor. “My lady, you have my solemn oath on that, keeping in your heart the knowledge that I’ll be her protector for the rest of her days.”

  “Thank you,” was Edith’s simple response, her face beautiful in gratitude. “Now, tell me how you’ll make this miracle happen and how I can help.”

  “Aye, then,” Temric said with a nod. “While Lindhurst might want to see his wife’s corpse, not everyone needs such proof. Think on it. Lindhurst’s dam would say Philippa escaped Graistan while in a mad delirium, but who save Anne stands witness to that? Neither the bishop nor Rannulf is so easily fooled. Lady Benfield,” he turned his gaze on Philippa’s mother, “if servants and townsfolk alike came forward to witness that they’d not only seen but spoken with the madwoman, wouldn’t that prove she’d done as Margaret claimed?”

  “Aye, so it would,” she breathed, flickers of understanding filling her gaze as she recognized the part she’d have to play.

  Temric smiled. “So, when the searchers arrive at the site of Philippa’s destruction and find blood, bits of hair, your daughter’s torn and befouled gowns, they’ll have enough to satisfy them. If there’s no body, isn’t it because those who attacked her bore it away for twisted reasons of their own?”

  “Won’t Lord Lindhurst cry for more searching when his own men have disappeared?” Anne asked with a frown.

  “What?” Temric lifted his brows. “Do you truly think he’ll complain when the bishop names him widower? To speak even one word of complaint would reveal what he plotted.”

  Edith laughed at that. It was a terrible sound: hatred mingled with amusement in a song of satisfaction. “Aye, I see it now,” she said, still smiling, “and how it fits with my own fate. It’s right that I, who conceived her in secrecy, now plan in secrecy to create the pretense of her death. Anne, bring me her dresses. Let me mark my brow and stain my hair with pig’s blood. On the morrow, my daughter will walk from yon gates and there’ll be none who doubts her death, this I vow.”

  “Annette,” Temric said, “tell me again what’s to happen and we’ll lay our traps.”

  By the hour’s end what Temric needed done was either planned or on its way to completion. Anne had returned to watch over Philippa, while Edith had sought out her pallet in the hall. Temric leaned against the altar, his mind once again working through the details. He frowned. The certainty that he’d missed or forgotten something nagged at him, but no matter how hard he thought he couldn’t identify what it was.

  At last, he dismissed it. If he couldn’t remember it now, it was because he was exhausted. It would come to him in the morning.

  With a yawn, he ran his fingers through his hair, then stretched, muscles protesting their stiffness. Although there was no guarantee of success on the morrow, neither was there anything left to lose. Beneath his satisfaction, another niggling worry woke.

  What if Philippa didn’t want a commoner’s life? He shook away the thought. S
he’d have to accept it, for to live in his mother’s household was better than no life at all. And, what of himself? Could he forsake all to steal another man’s wife and tolerate his mother’s life? Just as Philippa, he had no choice. If the morrow’s mummery worked, vows would be shattered, sins committed. It was his heart driving him now, not his head, and he wanted Philippa above all else.

  “Richard.”

  The word sent a chill up his spine. He whirled, his heart pounding in his chest. “Who is there?” he whispered, knowing full well there was no one save him within the confines of the chapel.

  “Richard.” The word echoed throughout the small chapel, seeming to come from the very stones of its walls.

  Temric closed his eyes. He knew that voice. “Nay, this cannot be,” he cried softly, shutting his eyes for fear of what he might see.

  Just as he’d seen his father’s hand the night before, he recognized the feel of Henry of Graistan’s arms around him. Temric stiffened in terror’s start, but the sensation was so familiar he couldn’t retain the emotion. This was his father.

  Suddenly, a waterfall of memories flowed through him. Scenes drawn from his own life flickered before his mind’s eye, one after another, but from another’s perspective. His father’s?

  There was his unexpected dunking in the river, learning to ride, his first sword and how he’d used it to drive holes through all the curtains in the hall. The recall filled him of how he’d bested Rannulf at quintains the first time they’d ridden at them, but the pride he felt within himself at this memory wasn’t his own. Even in death, Henry gloried in his eldest son’s triumph.

  Without word or voice, his father spoke eloquently on. This time, Temric knew a shaft of pain and saw his stepmother on her deathbed, something he hadn’t witnessed. The grief that flowed from his father wasn’t for an adored wife’s passing. Rather, Henry mourned his own failure to rise above the blow her death had dealt him. It was a father crying for his sons; he’d quit life while they still needed him.

  Especially one, the one who’d most depended on him, needing more love, more assurance, and more attention than all the rest. Temric’s breath caught in a near sob. In his mind, Richard FitzHenry, son of Graistan, laid his head upon his departed father’s broad shoulder and gave Henry the forgiveness he craved.