Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  Temric couldn’t help but grin at this. That Rannulf could lend such lightness to his words over Gilliam told him that the bitterness of the past was now truly buried. For what Temric could remember of this Nicola, Gilliam deserved her, if for no other reason than in repayment for that boy’s wicked wit. He turned his gaze back to his brother’s message.

  With that said, I’d tell you that the remains found in our glade now lie in our own burial vaults at Graistan’s abbey. This was done at my wife’s request, even though she suspects that she must grieve for her mother as well as endure her sister’s absence. No doubt time’s passage will convince all others that the Lady Edith found death in some forlorn spot whilst on her pilgrimage. In our hearts we’re certain she set out on her travels seeking her life’s end without anyone’s foreknowledge of that event.

  A wave of relief washed over Temric as he leaned back on his stool. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d worried over what was discovered in that clearing, and how what happened there might hurt others. Not only was Rannulf certain Edith’s death had been her own doing without any knowledge on Temric’s part, his brother had shared with his lady what little he knew of those events. At least in this Temric’s honor remained intact. He again lifted the parchment and read on.

  Father Edwin slipped from life before Michaelmas was upon us. I was glad to have yet been at Graistan to witness his departure. He spoke of you at the last, bidding me tell you that your final departure from Graistan left the chapel at peace for the first time in years. I can make no sense of this, but mayhap you can.

  Temric stopped reading in complete astonishment. Edwin had known! Then again, why should a deaf man not also have heard the ghostly voice that had spoken so fluently to him? Uncertain whether to be comforted or disconcerted by this, Temric again lifted the parchment to the light.

  In his great wisdom, our glorious king, Richard called Lionheart, has commanded that tournaments be held in his realm. The cost for entrance is but ten marks for barons such as we. Gilliam’s passion for the lance demands he go. The thought appeals to me as well, whilst even our cautious brother, Geoffrey, is now bent on a melee. Were you to join us, bringing together all the sons of Henry, Lord Graistan, we’d do great honor to our father’s memory.

  This time, Temric’s sigh was bitter. The few hours a week he stole to practice with the town’s guard was barely enough to keep his skills sharp and only left him wanting more. Dear God, but how he longed to sit a horse, lance fewtered against a worthy opponent. Be damned, but he’d even be willing to let Geoffrey come at him with a mace, just for the joy of beating steel against a shield. Since there was no hope of his doing this, he returned to reading.

  And, lastly, but most importantly. As much as I despise to lay this decision upon you, I must. Word comes from Normandy that our uncle has passed. He retained his dislike for women until the end of his days, thus has no heir, acknowledged or otherwise, as we expected. Are you the new lord of these lands, or do I install a castellan to hold them for me? If you don’t care for Normandy, just as I don’t care to have you so far from me, there are several fine properties in what my lady wife has just inherited. Again, I needs must know if it’s to be you or a castellan. I am soon to swear my oath and cannot wait long upon your decision.

  Signed at Upwood in all honor, respect, and love, this fourth day after Michaelmas, year of Our Lord, eleven ninety-four. Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord of Graistan and now holder of more properties than I would rule on my own.

  Beneath his signature and seal, Rannulf had added a postscript.

  I thought I’d not say it, but I can’t restrain myself. I need you. Your loyalty is dearer to me than anything I own.

  Temric’s teeth clenched as he held back a shout of rage and pain. Shoving the letter into the flames, he watched the skin take fire, writhing and twisting as if in agony on the coals. When it was naught but a stinking mass of cinders on the embers, he came to his feet and yanked his belt tight. He couldn’t bear it. The price he was paying to keep Philippa as his own was killing him. With his heart burning in his chest, he made his way out of the kitchen and back to his bed.

  Philippa feigned sleep as Temric eased back onto the mattress. Murmuring as if she dreamed, she let him wrap his arms around her and draw her into his embrace. The tenseness of his arms said that the news in his missive had brought him more trouble.

  With a sigh, she eased closer to him, now needing to feel him against her. Somehow, the touch of his skin on hers always seemed to be a promise that his love continued. As always, the sensation of her body against his was silky smooth. She shivered at the potency of the feeling. This time when she shifted against him it was to tease him. It worked. Against her lower back she felt his shaft respond to her play.

  When he drew a quick breath, she smiled, until his hand rose to catch the fullness of her breast into his palm and she caught her own breath. She rolled onto her back. He raised himself on his elbow to peer down into the darkness as if to study her face. If she could see nothing but the dim outline of him, then neither could he see aught of her. Like one blinded, she reached out, finding his face, then tracing his cheek, the line of his nose and his lips with her fingertip.

  “Philippa,” he breathed roughly, the sadness in him all too apparent. “I ache. Love me. Make me forget what hurts me so.”

  Philippa’s heart tore and was healed in the same instant. He hurt, but it was her he needed to restore himself. She put her arms around his neck and drew him down until she could claim his mouth with hers. Using all he’d taught her of himself, she drove him into exhaustion.

  Afterward, she lay beside him, listening to him sleep. On the morrow, the travelers would return, and life would again be the frantic chaos it had been before their departure. What needed saying between the two of them had best be uttered before then. Two months ago, Temric had promised her his love in good times and bad. It was high time he did as he’d vowed, and shared his pain with her.

  “What do you mean you’ll not tell me!” Philippa’s voice rose in agonized astonishment. “You frighten me near to death last night with your sadness, then disappear before dawn without a word as to where you go or when I should expect you. Now all you have to say to me is that you’ll not talk to me of it?! Oh, Temric!” Not knowing whether to cry or scream in anger, Philippa settled for a halfhearted stomp of her foot, the hem of her blue overgown jumping against her yellow undergown.

  A moment ago, the hall had been crowded with folk indulging in their midday meal. Wise servants that they were, Temric’s sudden appearance resulted in its swift emptying. Peter sought the safety of Brother Odo at the priory, while the menservants dashed for the warehouses. Marta and Els were cowering just behind the kitchen door, not daring to even clear the table as they waited for this storm to pass.

  Wearing the short dark gown and leather hauberk he used when practicing with the guard, his sword and dagger yet belted at his side, Temric eyed Philippa for a long moment, then turned. There was nothing for her to read in the tense line of his shoulders. Philippa gave an outraged huff as he calmly tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the day’s stew.

  “Don’t turn your back on me,” she scolded, coming to stand at his side. “I’ve been worried sick. You owe me an explanation at the very least.”

  When he glanced at her, his features were stony, his expression swept clean of all emotion. “I’ll not discuss with you what doesn’t concern you.”

  Philippa’s eyes narrowed. “That escape won’t work for you this time,” she snapped. “How adept you think yourself at concealing what you don’t wish me to know. Fool! What was in that missive from your brother that pierced you to the core?”

  A start of surprise danced across his face, then disappeared beneath the enforced blankness of his expression. “I’ll not have you call me fool,” he replied in the same cool tone.

  “I wouldn’t call you one if you weren’t behaving as one,” she retorted. “What of that missive?” It was a
demand, not a request.

  His jaw tightened. “I don’t recall that the letter was addressed to you.”

  Had Philippa been even a little frightened of him, she might have retreated at the warning in his tone. Unfortunately, Temric had done too good a job making her easy with him. She crossed her arms and persisted.

  “Addressed to me or not, I’ll not bear the brunt of whatever bad news lay upon that sheet without some explanation from you, Temric. Why won’t you share your misfortunes with me?” Her voice rose with each word, driven higher by her worry and the pain of his rejection.

  He only shook his head. “I’m not Jehan, to be pushed and prodded in whatever direction you’d have me go. If I choose to tell you, I will. If not, well then, you’ll simply have to accept it.”

  Philippa gasped; his words were like a blow. “How can you shut me out this way? Don’t you think I can see your unhappiness? Oh, Temric, how much longer before your hatred of this place drives away all your affection for me?” she cried in rising anguish, then buried her face in her hands.

  What her demands didn’t win, feminine distress did. Temric’s arms came around her and he drew her close. “How can you question my love?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Didn’t I give you my vow? But you’re right, this life of my mother’s is burying me.”

  Lifting her head from her hands, Philippa leaned back in his arms to look into his face. “Tell me something I don’t already know,” she said, her sarcasm softened with pain.

  He sighed, his eyes dark with the same pain she felt. “My brother wrote to offer me lands in Normandy as my own. He begs me to take my oath of him as his vassal and rule those acres as my rightful inheritance.”

  “Lands?” she cried in confusion. “How can you have an inheritance and oaths when you’re not even knighted?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “I forgot. You don’t know. When I intervened to save you from your husband, I did so with my sword. My open attack against one supposedly my better forced Rannulf into knighting me. As such, I was also required to give him my vow, just as my father long ago intended.”

  Shock tore through Philippa. She shoved back from him to stare at him. “You were knighted? And you turned your back on that to come here?”

  Sound exploded in the courtyard below the hall. Men shouted well come, as pack animals brayed. The travelers had returned. This only lent a new urgency to Philippa’s need for explanation; it wouldn’t be long before they were no longer private. “If your brother offers you lands, then why are we still here?”

  The pain in his gaze deepened as deep furrows cut their way into his cheeks. “We cannot leave Stanrudde,” he said, his voice tense.

  Outrage and surprise mingled in Philippa. “Do you think I wish to linger here when a better place exists for you, for us?” she cried. “Temric, go where you’ll be happy, knowing I’ll blithely follow.”

  Rather than please him, her words made the life drain from his gaze, leaving his eyes a muddy brown. “We cannot leave Stanrudde,” he repeated. “As long as you and I remain together, only this life offers us the surety that you’ll never be discovered. Think on it. Were I a lord and you my lady, news that Graistan’s bastard was now enfeoffed and wed would surely spread, reaching even Lindhurst. I can imagine your husband owning a little curiosity over who it was I took to wife. He, or someone he sends, will come to see, only to discover that you yet live.”

  Philippa nodded. Roger would, indeed, want to know who Temric married. “But to know me, I must be seen.” She caught him by the hand. “Temric, I’m content to be your exceedingly shy wife, kept in seclusion in your own home. Roger, especially, wouldn’t find this unusual, for until your arrival at Lindhurst I’d seen no strangers in all the twelve years I lived there.”

  “‘Struth?” Temric asked, his brows lifted and his eyes suddenly brightening. When she nodded, new consideration filled his gaze. “Such a thing never occurred to me,” he murmured.

  A touch of scorn lifted in Philippa. Of course he hadn’t thought of this. Temric was a man and unaccustomed to the ways of women.

  In the next instant the hope died from Temric’s gaze. “Nay, the risk is too great and you cannot live your life always within doors. We must stay here.”

  Philippa gaped at him. How could he be so dense? “Temric, what makes you think Stanrudde any safer? We’ve no guarantee I won’t be recognized here either way. Rather that I live but a single day on your new lands before being found out, knowing you were happy, than remain here in safety and watch you die of a broken heart.”

  The iron returned to the set his jaw. “Leave off, Philippa,” he warned her. “I’ve decided that we stay and so we shall.”

  Frustration lifted into anger. God take him, but he meant to plod along the same course, simply because he had fixed his mind in that direction and was too blind to turn. Setting one fist on her hip, Philippa pointed a finger at him.

  “You’ve decided?! Well, what of me?” she demanded. “By what right do you make this decision without considering the sort of life I want? Well, I won’t have it. If I want to leave Stanrudde, I shall and you cannot stop me. Stay if you wish, but I’m off to your lands in Normandy.”

  Surprise wiped all other emotion from his face as his brows flew nearly to his hairline. For a moment, his mouth opened and closed like a dying fish’s, then his eyes narrowed and anger took light along the rawboned line of his cheeks. “Do you dare to challenge me? Your vow to me made me your protector. As such, I’ll decide what’s best of you. Not even your bad behavior will goad me into dancing to your tune.”

  It was full blown rage that roared through Philippa at this. “Why, you pompous, single-minded ass!” she shot back, seeking the fluency of her native tongue. “How can you dream of trapping me here into another hell when we could have happiness elsewhere?”

  “Pompous—?” he roared back, automatically following her into French. “Do you insult me when I’ve traded all I value to give you this?”

  “Why not,” she retorted, “when you give no consideration to what I want?”

  “What you want could mean your death,” he bellowed.

  Too angry herself to heed his anger, she but jerked her chin upward, rejecting the danger he promised. “It’s my death, mine to choose,” she retorted, then threw her arms wide in frustration. “All my life I’ve been nothing but a puppet on a stick. Sew a straight seam, Philippa. Wed here, Philippa, and submit to abuse. I’m taking you to live as a commoner, Philippa.” She glared him. “Why does no one ask me what I want? From this moment on, I decide what is best for me, and I choose to go to Normandy.”

  Turning on her heel, she started away from him, only to have Temric grab her hand and pull her back around toward him. Catching his arms around her, he lifted her until her feet left the floor. “Shall we see whose will is the stronger?” he taunted, the beginnings of amusement sparking behind his rage. “Feel free to go. That is, if you can.”

  “Put me down,” she cried, arching against his hold, “or I swear I’ll never lie with you again.”

  Anger ebbed from Temric’s face as the corners of his mouth lifted. “An empty threat. You hunger for me.”

  “I do not,” Philippa lied, trying to regain control of their argument. “I’ll not let you make this decision when what you’ve decided is wrong.”

  Temric smiled. “And I’ll not listen to you lie about your lust for me,” he retorted softly, “or your love. You cannot go the day without my touch.”

  Lowering his mouth to hers, his lips teased hers as he tried to wake the response he wanted. Philippa meant to fight him, but deep within her, new heat flared to life. Somehow her arms ended up around his neck and she found herself pressed tightly to him, her mouth moving against his. He groaned, a longing sound, as his passion rose to meet her own. It wasn’t until they were both gasping that he released her, letting her feet once more descend to the floorboards. Still Philippa clung to him, her lips but a br
eath from his.

  “I’ll hear no more of you refusing me,” he whispered as footsteps rang on the stairs below them.

  “Peter will be here as soon as Tom fetches him from the church,” Alwyna said, her voice echoing up the steps.

  Philippa’s heart caught. The time for resolving this was gone. It was with frustration still seething in her that she stepped from Temric’s embrace and turned to greet his mother.

  Dressed in brown traveling attire, Alwyna swept into the hall. Excitement put new color in her face, her eyes fair dancing with it. “Look,” she cried to them, moving aside to let the one who followed enter the hall, “see the illustrious traveler we met along the road, looking for our own Peter no less!”

  It was Oswald of Hereford who strode through that doorway. Bishop William’s cleric wore bright robes of blue and a jaunty feather in his velvet cap. He stopped not but two steps into the hall. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. “Jesus God Almighty! Philippa of Lindhurst! But you’re dead!”

  From beside Philippa, Temric sucked in a swift breath. “Christus,” he groaned. “It was Peter’s scribbling I forgot.”

  Philippa’s banked anger roared back to life. She whirled to Temric. “See! I told you I could be recognized here as well as any other place,” she cried, only to will back the words as deep sadness filled Temric’s face. It was his death and hers she saw reflected in his eyes.

  Terror rose, eating up all other emotion as it grew. With a wordless cry, she threw herself against him and pressed close to his side. Her hand dropped to the curve of her belly. She wasn’t ready to die, not when she had so much life left to live.