Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  “Damn you,” Jehan cried now in frustration. “You’ve no right to insult me so! I can’t help that I’m crippled.” The last words were nearly a sob.

  Pity stabbed through Philippa only to dissipate in the next instant. “Aye, that you cannot help, and there’s not man or woman here who bears you ill will for your injury. But Jehan, what have legs to do with your use in life? Find your purpose and your limbs won’t matter.”

  He tried to glare at her, but his eyes were overly bright, as if he fought tears. “What use? I can do nothing without my legs,” he said, reverting to his usual tantrum.

  Philippa roared to her feet, her arms akimbo. “Jehan,” she cried angrily, “are your brains in your legs? Use the crutches; crawl if you must, but do something. Give yourself purpose, but above all, stop this incessant complaining!”

  As she retreated to her seat on the bench, she glanced at Els. The young girl’s head was bowed, but a smile fluttered at the corners of her mouth. Down the table’s length some male servant whispered, “God be praised. I hope he listens.”

  Hours later, long after the table had been cleared away and the day was drawing to a close, Philippa returned to the hall. Jehan lifted his gaze from the empty hearth to look at her. He hadn’t energy enough to glare. “Come to gloat?” he asked in a low voice.

  Fighting her pity, Philippa shook her head. “Nay, I’ve come to see if I can help you to the privy.”

  “Go away,” he said morosely, turning his gaze back to the hearth.

  Philippa came nearer. “If you’d rather, I’ll bring a pot. Then you need only walk a little way at first. Jehan, I know the crutches will be hard to use until you learn to manage them, but you must try,” she said, stopping a few feet from his chair.

  Hope and stubborn refusal battled in his expression. The hope lost, contempt taking its place in his gaze. “Do you think to see me totter about on those things like some beggar? Well, I won’t.”

  Disappointment and confusion washed over Philippa. “Jehan, are you really so blind, or is it just that you refuse to accept your manhood? If you ask me, I think it’s not your useless legs that keeps Clarice’s father from refusing to let the two of you wed. Come now. Take up your life and be a man.”

  Anguish flashed in Jehan’s gaze, then his brow drew down in anger. “I am a man,” he said. “Doesn’t a beard cover my face?”

  Philippa drew a quick breath in understanding. “Poor Jehan,” she murmured, coming to kneel near his chair’s arm. “The world dropped heavily onto your shoulders with your father’s death and you weren’t ready to take it up. How hard it must be for you. Your father was a kind man, or so say the shopkeepers. Gifted in trade, the guild says of him. His wife adored him, his children loved him. He was a pillar of the community. I think it would be easier to be his good-for-nothing son than the one who must take up where Saint Peter the Wool Merchant left off.”

  “You understand,” Jehan breathed, his relief deep enough to make his eyes fill. “It’s better to leave me as I am, for I can never be him.”

  Philippa eased closer and laid her hand upon his arm. “Everyone knows that, Jehan. It’s enough for us that you be yourself.” Turning to the side, she caught up his crutches, leaning them against his chair. “Here. Take up your life again.”

  “Nay,” he cried, catching her hand as he pleaded. “How can you ask that of me when I can have no hope of success?”

  Freeing herself of his grasp, Philippa came to her feet. “Jehan, you can’t know that until you’ve tried. Here”—she touched one crutch—“here are the tools you need to free yourself from this awful trap of yours. Come. You can do it.” As she spoke, she backed away from him.

  “I won’t,” he cried, his voice rising in anxiety.

  Disappointment wracked Philippa. “Then sit where you are.”

  Turning her back to him, she started toward the hall door. To her surprise, he waited until she left the room before one crutch, then its mate struck the wall. Shaking her head, she closed the hall door behind her.

  It was well past Compline when Temric returned with his mother and brother. The tiny first floor entryway was pitch-dark save for the circle of light thrown by Philippa’s lamp. In that little flame, the hollows beneath Alwyna’s eyes seemed darker still.

  Peter glanced at her, then looked at his mother. “I’m for bed,” he said, as he realized there were things to be said that he didn’t wish to hear.

  Philippa waited for him to climb the stairs before explaining what she’d done and what she expected from Alwyna. As she spoke, Temric came to stand behind her, encircling her with his arms. How it pleased Philippa to lean against him, especially after the tension of this day.

  “He needs to be forced into using his crutches. If he can’t bring himself to use them, he’ll never find what’s good within him, Alwyna,” she finished. “Know you, he’ll beg for your help, but if you intervene you’ll only make more of a cripple of him.”

  Alwyna sighed, then nibbled at her lip. “Are you sure what you do will help him?” There was a nervous tremor in her words.

  Philippa shrugged. “Well, it’s certain it can’t hurt him.”

  It was a lop-sided grin Alwyna offered her. “If I weaken, might I cry for your aid?”

  “Loudly and clearly,” Philippa assured her with a laugh.

  Alwyna nodded. “Then I’ll honor what you’ve done. Now I’m off to find my bed. The morning brings us another day, eh, Richard?”

  “Aye, Mama,” Temric replied.

  It startled Philippa to hear a touch of bitterness to his voice. She glanced over her shoulder to look at him. There was nothing to see in his face, save tiredness.

  Refusing the lamp, Alwyna made her way up the stairs toward the hall and the bedchamber above it. As they listened to her footsteps, Temric lowered his head to rest his cheek atop her crown. Once Philippa was certain they were private, she turned in his embrace to look at him.

  “How was your day?” she asked in the hope of prodding him to speak over what bothered him.

  “Incredibly long,” he sighed. “I never realized simply looking at things could be so exhausting.”

  “Poor love,” Philippa said with a quiet laugh to hide the prickle of concern that woke in her. Lifting a hand she touched his cheek. “Shall I take you to our bed and soothe you into sleep?”

  His answering laugh was a mere rumble in his chest. “Aye, that would please me well. I missed you every moment we were apart.”

  Philippa turned in his embrace to set her lamp upon a shelf, then put her arms about his neck. “And I, you.”

  Rising to her toes, she touched her lips to his. As their mouths met, that wondrous fiery sensation again rushed through her, both stunning and glorious in its intensity, then he was ending the kiss, drawing away from her. His sigh was strained.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing much, except that my mother has great plans for me, all of which has us spending too much time apart. She’ll soon have me traveling with her to a Holyrood Day fair at England’s far end.”

  Philippa smiled at him. “Is that all?”

  His brows jerked upward. “I say I’m leaving and you ask if that is all?” he asked in surprised complaint.

  Lifting her head, she touched her mouth to the curve of his neck above his collar. It pleased her that he caught his breath against her caress. “So I do, and that because you’ll not be going to that fair,” she breathed against his skin. “Alwyna won’t depart for weeks yet and when she goes, she’ll be taking Jehan with her. Mark my words,” she finished, each word punctuated with a kiss.

  Groaning, he caught her to him in a tight embrace, lifting her toes from the floor. “Lord, to be left here alone with you, free from Jehan’s hate and my mother’s constant teaching. That would be joy indeed. Aye, take me to bed and soothe my poor aching head, so I can face the morrow with fresh eyes.”

  After a swift kiss, he set her feet back on the floor, then took her hand. Phil
ippa willingly followed him up the stairs, but his words troubled her. Weren’t they here because he’d discarded all desire for his knighthood to take on this life? His choice, not hers. Ah well, if he found he couldn’t tolerate it here, they’d leave. She’d miss Alwyna, but where Temric went she would happily follow.

  In the bedchamber, he made his way through the draperies to their bed. Within moments, they were disrobed and beneath the bedclothes. When he gathered her into his arms and set his mouth to hers, she forgot all else to indulge herself in the pleasure of his touch.

  Philippa hummed a joyful tune to herself, its lilting melody a reflection of the completeness now within her. The brush in her hand flew as she cleaned the fur-lined garment stretched out before her. It was a winter cloak—Els said this one belonged to Jehan—just taken out of storage and her last chore for the day.

  The thought of Jehan brought a wry grin to Philippa’s lips. Two months time had accomplished quite a change in that poor creature, but not to make him more fond of her. Jehan claimed she’d come between him and his mother, all because Alwyna had kept her promise to allow Philippa to do as she pleased with her middle son. Now, because of what Jehan claimed was Philippa’s incessant torment, he walked again, although clumsily so, and only with his crutches. Still, he was mobile, even managing the stairs on his own.

  SJehan was once more supervising the men in their day-to-day chores. At first, only fear of Philippa’s retribution kept his tongue civil, but this only lasted until he became absorbed by his activities and forgot to be angry. He’d even come to Peter’s counting table, revealing he’d already learned from his father what Peter and Alwyna had thought to teach him.

  Aye, slowly, steadily, and not always gently, Philippa drove him where he couldn’t drive himself. Jehan had been stunned to discover that his crutches bothered no one in the marketplace, or in the guildhall, and thank heavens for that. Only the acceptance by those merchants he sought to emulate had given Jehan the courage to attempt riding a horse to the Holyrood fair. Just as Philippa predicted to Temric two months before, it had been Jehan, not he, who two weeks ago had ridden off to attend that event.

  Most importantly, Jehan hadn’t ridden off alone with Alwyna. When Clarice’s father, Gerard, learned his future son-by-marriage intended to make the journey, that auspicious merchant decided to travel with them. Although Philippa suspected only she saw it, it seemed clear to her that Gerard meant to assess Jehan’s progress. If all went well, she fully expected Gerard to set the day for his daughter’s and Jehan’s wedding after the travelers’ expected return to Stanrudde on the morrow.

  At this reminder of their homecoming, Philippa leaned back from her brushing and sighed in something that was nearly disappointment. These past weeks and the privacy it offered her and Temric had been heaven. For that short time, it was as if she’d been mistress of the house, and Temric, its master. Would that they might someday have a home of their own.

  Irritation followed that thought. If they did, it’d best be some far-flung manor where Temric could be what he truly was, and not the merchant he pretended. Did Temric think she couldn’t see how heavily this life of Alwyna’s weighed on him? No matter how he tried to hide it, he was the same powerful knight who’d so awed her in the first moment she’d seen him. Thank the Lord Alwyna’s absence freed him to work with the town’s guard, teaching swordplay and drilling the rotating ranks of apprentices and journeymen who made up the guard. Such familiar activity eased his depression some.

  Sprinkling more cleaning compound onto the fur, she began to brush again, her strokes vigorous as if the motion might sweep away her own growing fear. What if they stayed here and his dislike for this place hardened into hate for her, who kept him trapped in it?

  To make matters worse, Temric received a missive from Lord Graistan this morn. He hadn’t opened it. To Philippa that seemed a sign that he expected the news it brought him to be something he didn’t wish to hear. What if his noble brother were demanding his return? Would Temric leave her to reclaim the life he loved?

  At least, if he did abandon her, she wouldn’t be left without family. Just as it had done sporadically all through this day, joy again rushed through her. Philippa paused to lay a hand to her abdomen and cradle the new life growing in her. Michaelmas at September’s end brought with it the second month without her woman’s flow.

  It was such a miracle that Philippa couldn’t find it in herself to worry that the child might be like her and never know its father. Instead, she drew an ecstatic breath. She, who had believed herself barren, was carrying a child.

  Nay, it was no miracle. She smiled again, understanding now what she would never have known if she’d remained with Roger. It was Roger’s fault, not hers, that he had no son, or rather Margaret’s. Margaret’s fondling had destroyed her son’s manhood, leaving Roger capable of only fumbling, seedless thrusts.

  Even as the desire to crow over her achievement filled Philippa she swallowed it. No one must know she was with child, especially Temric. In his present unhappiness, he might resent her for proving fertile when she’d assured him she was barren. This was all the more true because tonight was their final night alone before Alwyna and Jehan returned. She intended to spend their last few private hours sharing pleasure and sweet words with the man she loved.

  Temric eased from the bed, moving carefully so as not to awaken Philippa. During their two months of living as man and wife, she’d become all too astute at prying beneath his concealing layers to read his depression. He didn’t wish her to see how much what needed doing just now might upset him.

  Pulling aside the bed curtains, he stepped from the bed and shrugged into his robe. It was the meager light of a waxing moon that spilled in through the window to fill their small square of privacy. As he belted his robe, he turned to look into the bed. Yet deep in sleep, Philippa had slipped down from the bolsters to pillow her head on her arm. Her hair flowed over her shoulder to pool in front of her in a silken mass.

  Even now, after sating his passion for her earlier this night, he ached to touch her anew. He sighed against the sensation, feeling the trap that held him. If it was destroying him to stay here in Stanrudde, it would be certain death to live without Philippa.

  He let his gaze lower to the yet trim line of her waist. It was her second month without her flow, leaving him no doubt that she’d proved herself fertile. His depression only deepened with that thought. What sort of future could he offer his child?

  Retrieving the fold of parchment he’d earlier hidden beneath his bolsters, he left the room, descending the stairs to the hall. Shielded by the quiet of midnight’s darkness, he crept from hall to kitchen. Heated by the banked coals on the hearth, the room was warm and fragrant with what hung from beam and rafter. Hulking gray shadows clung to its walls where the heaps of sacks and stacks of barrels crowded the room. Although Stanrudde was a civilized place, where merchant folk depended more on what their coins could buy them rather than what they raised for themselves, even this city wasn’t free of the yearly urgency that drove all mankind. Winter would soon be upon them, and food scarce. Against that, what could be stored was being set aside, cider and perry from their orchard, stoppered into barrels, while herbs, fruits, nuts and vegetables found their way into bins, sacking and crockery jars sealed with wax. In the next weeks, they’d be butchering, last spring’s piglets becoming hams and bacon.

  He fed the coals until flames once more leapt on the hearthstone and threw bright flickers of light against the whitewashed walls, then pulled out the stool, only to hesitate. The harvest was the season for wine, and a drop couldn’t but ease his aching heart.

  Even though he knew this was nothing more than a delaying tactic, he set his parchment on the hearth shelf, found the cask and filled his cup. Too bad the spice cabinet was locked, for this local brew tasted better heated with a bit of something exotic mixed into it. After he drank it to its thick dregs, he again looked at the parchment. Nay, he wasn’t ready to face
it yet.

  Pouring himself another cup, he settled on the stool, his cup cradled in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees. Once again, he glanced across the bounty stored in this room. Aye, that sweet woman of his was the miracle worker his mother claimed, and not just because she’d organized this kitchen.

  Just as Philippa predicted, Jehan had ridden off to the Holyrood fair with his mother. Where nothing else budged his half-brother, that wee slip of a lass had brought him back into life’s currents. However, in succeeding with Jehan, Philippa created a dilemma Temric hadn’t foreseen when he brought her here.

  He rubbed a weary hand over his brow. Jehan longed for a merchant’s life with the same fervency that Temric now longed to own lands and hear himself called by the title lord. It glowed in his brother’s face when he chaffered over the price of raw wool or handled finished material. One day, sooner or later, the boy would rightfully earn his place as master here. When he did, what then would become of him and Philippa? As much as Temric hated Alwyna’s life, it was all that was left to him if he was to provide for the woman he loved and their child.

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself. For the first time ever, he found himself wishing it was in his nature to scream the way Jehan did. If he could, he’d shout a lungful against this trap of his.

  Finishing the last of his wine, he set aside his cup and reached for the missive from Rannulf. Atop all his other worries, he hardly needed to see what brought his brother to set quill to parchment. He broke the seal, then unfolded the skin. Unlike his own tight, small hand, Rannulf’s script was free flowing as it wandered gracefully down the page.

  To my dearest brother, Richard, now the idiot wool merchant of Stanrudde. Having heard no word from you, I must make assumptions as to your happiness and health. In my own case, I indeed find companionship with my dearest lady wife, greatly enjoying her company. If I have any complaint it’s that I’ve been forced to take into my custody John of Ashby’s now orphaned daughter Nicola, an untamed and rude hoyden. She presently resides in a locked storeroom at Graistan, as she’s twice attempted escape, even once having knocked a man senseless. As I intend our youngest brother, Gilliam, to hold Ashby as his own, he must wed this virago. Then again, such a fate is only rightful retribution for his youthful errors.