“We’re but half-related. It was the unrelated halves of us who kissed.” Until this moment, she’d never realized how capable a sinner she was.
Temric’s eyes widened at her suggestion, then golden lights flared in their depths. His expression mellowed in pleasure. “For shame, my lady,” he said with the breath of a laugh. “I think Oswald would find such an argument unacceptable. On my part, I thank you for your forgiveness toward me.”
“And I thank you for your kindness,” she replied, her voice lowering in sudden shyness. “You’ve stolen me from Margaret and brought me here in safety. So, too, have you given me three full days of freedom in my sister’s company when I thought never to see her again. There aren’t words enough to express what lies in my heart for you.”
He caught his breath, stepping back as if she’d physically touched him. “Say no more,” he breathed harshly. “I cannot bear it. Now, if you please you may precede me into the hall, so I can say I saw you safely arrived into my brother’s home.”
Bowing her head against her own roiling emotions, she did as he bid and strode across the courtyard for the keep stairs. A stone-roofed porch shielded the upper landing and the hall’s door. Stepping through the open portal, she stopped just inside the door to gawk like the bumpkin she felt.
The room seemed to stretch endlessly out before her, its floor covered with a thick layer of rushes. Painted linen panels covered every inch of the walls, while small fires, meant for light instead of heat on this warm day, burned on the twin hearthstones, set equidistant from one another at the room’s center. Massive beams, painted in bright shades of red, green and yellow, framed half the ceiling. The other side of the roof line disappeared behind a wall of wood fronted by a balcony. Philippa frowned at this overhanging box of wood supported by arches of stone rising from the hall’s floor, for she’d never seen the like.
As Temric joined her in the doorway, her need to know what it was made her put a hand on his arm. “What’s that,” she asked, pointing.
He yanked his arm out of grasp. “You mustn’t touch me,” he warned, a quiet alarm in his voice. “I’m sworn.”
Philippa paid no heed to his protest as she asked again, “Up there. What is it?”
“That,” he said, barely affording half a glance toward the structure that stunned her, “is where my brother keeps his private chambers, his solar, his bed and the women’s quarters.”
Private rooms?! Philippa stared. At Lindhurst, they all lived in one room half the size of this hall. There were curtains around the dais where Roger kept his mattress, while everyone else, herself included, found their rest on the hard-packed earthen floor, with Margaret hoarding the spot nearest the hearthstone.
“Lady Lindhurst,” Temric said, drawing Philippa’s attention back to him. A round, dark-eyed serving woman now stood next to him. “This is Anne, maid to Lady Graistan. She’ll escort you upstairs to the women’s quarters.”
“My lady,” the servant said, bobbing her greeting. “We didn’t expect you for days.” Although the woman’s words were appropriately respectful, as she spoke she eyed her better in open disbelief. Finally, she turned to Temric and said in English, “Are you certain this is Lady Lindhurst?”
Only then, did Philippa realize the ragged image she presented. No headdress covered her hair. Her shoes were gone, her stockings stained and torn. The gown she wore had once been Margaret’s and was too big, with only a braided yarn belt to catch it around her waist. In contrast, Anne wore a neat white undergown beneath a plain green overgown.
Philippa’s heart fell. If the maid was repulsed, what sort of scorn would Rowena aim at her beggarly relation? Surely, the lady of such a place as this would want nothing to do with her. As her humiliation grew, her gaze slipped to Temric, hoping he didn’t also see her as the rustic yokel she must seem. Even as she prayed he’d give her the assurance she needed, she knew he couldn’t. His half-brother was lord of this place, meaning he was accustomed to such wealth.
As if he recognized what ached in her, his face softened. “There’s nothing for you to fear here, not even that,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile. “Now, go upstairs into your sister’s protection. After you’ve greeted her, tell Lady Rowena I’m returned and won’t be joining the hunters.”
There was such respect in his voice that Philippa’s heart steadied. He was right. There was nothing for her to fear here, not as long as he resided within the keep’s walls.
“Thank you,” she whispered, wishing there was some way to make him know she was grateful for his caring.
With a brief flash of an answering smile, he nodded then turned on his heel and strode across the hall’s width. Philippa watched him until he reached a doorway in the room’s side, then glanced at the maid beside her. Anne’s mouth was ajar, her eyes wide. When she realized she was being watched, she snapped her mouth shut.
“This way, my lady,” the maid said, starting for the stairs.
Philippa followed her up, then out onto the balcony that fronted the private chambers, shooting breathless glances over its edge at the hall below her. When they reached the final door, Anne threw it open, then stepped aside so the noblewoman might enter before her.
Her hands laced against a sudden surge of shyness, Philippa stepped through the portal and glanced about the chamber. Here, narrow windows had been hewn from the stone of the west and south walls, allowing ribbons of daylight to stream through them and illuminate the chamber. In the brightness, the walls glowed, having been painted blue with yellow lines forming a crisscross pattern upon their faces. Women filled the room, some using distaffs to turn wool into yarn, others sewing finished homespun into garments. Like the maid behind her, all of them wore white undergowns beneath green overgowns.
That was, all save one. She sat at one side of a small chess table, the table placed near the windows where the light and air were best. Her gown was a pretty blue, while the thick plait that descended beneath her white wimple’s hem was as glossy and dark as a raven’s wing. She was studying her pieces while her opponent, a small boy with dark hair that glowed coppery in the light, bobbed and shifted on his stool across the table from her.
As the occupants realized they had a visitor busy fingers stilled and the low thrum of conversation died away into silence. The woman at the table looked up, a tiny frown marring her smooth brow. Philippa bit back a smile.
“Rowena,” she said in simple greeting.
In the fourteen years since she’d last seen her sister, much had changed, but much had stayed the same. Rowena’s slender jaw line, the upward tilt of her eyes, the short, straight nose, these were features they shared in common with their mother. Indeed, the only sign of Lord Benfield, Rowena’s sire, was his in daughter’s black hair and the bright blue color of her eyes. Dark circles, speaking of illness, clung beneath her eyes and there was an invalid’s pallor to her cheeks.
Concern woke. “Are you ill?” Philippa asked in quiet concern.
“She’s not,” the boy answered swiftly in Rowena’s stead. “She was to have a baby, but now it’s gone. That makes her cry and be tired. Papa says I’m not to pester her.”
“Jordan!” Rowena cried in warning, but the chide lacked teeth when her voice trembled and tears welled in her eyes. She bowed her head, as if seeking to hide her emotions. When she again raised her head, her expression was smooth and quiet save for the confusion that marked her brow.
“I am Rowena, Lady of Graistan. Who are you?”
It was the tone of challenge in her sister’s voice that made laughter bubble up in Philippa. Despite her sadness over the lost child, Rowena was still every inch herself. “Oh, say you haven’t forgotten me, when the years haven’t dimmed my memory of you. Truly, I shan’t be content until you tell me how it is you’re here, lady of this glorious place, when you should be in some convent, veiled and serene.”
Astonishment flashed through Rowena’s eyes. “Philippa?” she gasped.
&nb
sp; “Aye, ‘tis me,” Philippa cried, her happiness so great it propelled her across the room. She knelt before her sister, then placed her hands upon her sibling’s knees. “Rather than grieve so over your babe, take comfort in knowing your womb isn’t lifeless like mine.”
The confusion in Rowena’s eyes deepened, even as she blinked away a new set of tears. “Who are you?” she repeated, a different sort of ache in her voice this time. “You cannot be my sister.”
“Lady Wren, it’s your move,” the boy Jordan called out, toying with one of his men on the game board as he spoke.
Rowena looked at the child. “I fear our game must end now, Jordan. This is Lady Lindhurst, newly come to our home. As she and I must speak, why don’t you run to Gareth and tell him to saddle Scherewind for you?”
With a scream of glee, the boy launched himself off his stool toward the door, only to stop and return more slowly to Rowena’s side. “Thank you, Lady Wren,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, then once again spun toward the door and bounded out of the room. As if his departure were a sign, the women in the chamber returned to their chores, keeping their voices low as they spoke, so they could listen to their betters talk.
“Wren?” Philippa asked with a laugh when he was gone, easing back to sit on her heels. “What sort of name is that? Who is he, your son?”
“My stepson,” Rowena replied, waving her half-sister to the stool the boy had vacated. As Philippa settled herself upon it, Lady Graistan continued. “He calls me Wren because his tongue snarls when he tries to say Rowena.” Her affection for another woman’s child glowed in every word.
Then, she paused to stare in bewilderment at her sister. “How can we sit here speaking as if we were loving sisters, when you seek to steal from me my inheritance? Don’t dare pretend otherwise. Bishop William received a petition from you as well as my mother requesting he set aside my father’s will.”
Shock tore through Philippa. “John of Benfield is dead?!” Her heart twisted so sharply that she shut her eyes against it, then bowed her head in swift prayer. Her family was all she could call her own, thus the loss of any member was almost more than she could bear.
“When?” she asked without lifting her head. “Why didn’t Maman send word? Oh, that I could have seen him one last time,” she breathed this last. As the shock ebbed, the rest of what Rowena said penetrated.
Philippa straightened, her eyes wide as she looked at her sister. “I sent no petition, not to a bishop nor even a priest. What inheritance? There’s nothing to share between us save Benfield’s manor house.” Even as the words left her lips, she knew she was wrong. “Ah, but there must be more than that, or I’d not find you married and installed in so grand a place as Graistan.”
Rowena’s brows lifted slowly as she studied her poorer sister. At last, she shook her head. “You truly know nothing of this.”
“Nay, nothing at all,” Philippa assured her, “but I want to know. Tell me. If someone has spoken in my name, I have the right to know who and why,” she said, only to startle herself with her forcefulness.
The consideration deepened in her sister’s eyes. “The inheritance comes through our mother’s sire. Last year he died after outliving all his sons and leaving no heir but our mother. By the dictates of his will, his rich holdings pass through her to her legitimate children.
“Our father”— Rowena paused— “my father wrote a will before I was wed in which he named you our mother’s bastard, making me his only heir. Now, your husband and our mother protest your disinheritance, claiming that you’re legitimately born of my father, just as I am. They seek to take half, if not all, of what should be mine.”
Philippa sighed in understanding. Here’s how Temric knew of her bastardy. Her grandsire’s death had freed Rowena’s sire from his vow of secrecy with regard to her birth. Here, too, was why Margaret had been so desperate to prevent her daughter-by-marriage’s departure from Lindhurst. Only as long as Philippa stayed under their control could they be certain what she might say.
A smile touched her lips. By God, but for the first time in twelve years, it wasn’t she who quaked because of them, but they who trembled in their boots over what she might hold within her. If she spewed the truth, Roger would be revealed as a liar and thief.
Her sense of power evaporated. Aye, but if she told the truth, Roger would surely kill her. Then again, if she held back what she knew to be true, he might forget that Temric had touched her. Although she’d save herself, lying meant Rowena would lose what was rightfully hers. For want of her promised dowry would Lord Graistan set aside his impoverished wife to take another, richer bride?
Fear for her sister lifted in her heart. Philippa looked at Rowena. Sweet Mary, Lord Graistan might well kill his wife for this. God knew, Roger would. As confusion threatened to tangle her in its tentacles, Philippa folded her hands in her lap and studied her twined fingers. “Against this news, I’m surprised you didn’t throw me from your chamber when you saw my face. Who would happily greet a thief?”
“Say you’ll not support our mother in this,” Rowena begged, then before Philippa could respond, contradicted herself. “Nay, say nothing. It isn’t fair of me to ask anything of you. Instead, I should thank you for coming to me without hauteur or scorn, when I expected only hate for what I’ve gained through your abasement.”
“Scorn and envy? Me?” This was so strange that Philippa forgot all else to look at her sister. “Never,” she declared only to realize this was a lie. She grimaced. “Oh, well, I did envy you once, but that was long ago.”
A sharp shake of her sister’s dark head negated this possibility. “That isn’t possible. It was you who had the pretty gowns, the lessons, even a cot to yourself. I had nothing, not even my mother’s or my father’s love.”
“But you were free,” Philippa retorted in growing surprise, “while I was forever trapped inside. No one stood over you saying that if you weren’t obedient or didn’t make perfect stitches, sing on key or eat just so at the table, no man would have you to wife. I wanted so badly to run with you, but I never dared Maman’s ire. She didn’t even like it when I spoke of you.” Reaching out, she caught her sister’s hand in her own as if a touch might ease the sting of her cowardice.
Pain marred Rowena’s beautiful eyes. “Do you know where I went when I ran? Into the woods where I could pretend the birds were my father and the flowers, my mother. I often lingered past dark to see if I was missed, but I never was.”
Philippa stroked her sister’s arm, the fine linen of Rowena’s sleeve smooth to the touch. “How could you have suffered such loneliness when you had so many companions? Whenever I could, I pushed Maman’s trunk under that tiny window in her chamber. From there I could watch you and the other children.”
The past caught Philippa in its hold and pulled her into her memories. “I remember”— her smile widened as she delighted in the unfolding recall— “I remember a time when that big boy was taunting you, saying you weren’t truly the lord’s daughter, just another serving wench’s brat. You were so angry you knocked him down, then leapt on him, pummeling, biting, and scratching. All he could do was scream for help, while three other children tried to pull you off him. I was very proud of you.”
“Dickon,” Rowena murmured, her eyes half-closed as she slipped back into the past with her sister. “He was the miller’s son and thought himself better than the rest of us for it. I’d forgotten both him and how much I enjoyed beating him,” she said in satisfaction, then her face sobered. “How I dreaded your arrival. Instead, here you are with cherished memories of me. Of me!” she repeated, as if such a thing were incomprehensible.
“Oh, Rowena,” Philippa cried out, reaching over the table to throw her arms around her sister and hug her close. “Why should I not? You are my only sister.”
Rowena released her to lean back with a frown. “God help us, look at you! You’re dressed in rags. Where are your shoes and your head covering?”
Philippa
hesitated. There was no sense in sharing the truth, not when the fewer who knew how she’d left Lindhurst meant there was less chance of Roger being humiliated by the tale. “I was working out-of-doors with naught but a cloth upon my head and sabots on my toes, when Temric came,” she said, speaking carefully as she crafted the appropriate tale. “We left so suddenly there wasn’t time to change attire. I couldn’t ride in sabots and the wind took my head cloth. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added, hoping to distract her sister from asking any questions. “I’m to tell you that Temric is returned and won’t be joining the hunters.”
“Good,” Rowena said with a firm nod. “My lord husband left me here with naught but his castellan to keep me safe. That the knight is but a year older than me hardly inspires my confidence,” she said with a laugh then looked toward her maids. “My sister needs a bath and something decent to wear.” That was all it took to send women leaping. As some dashed from the room, others began throwing open chests.
Ignoring the chaos around her, Rowena stretched out a leg. “Perhaps we can share shoes. Let me see your foot.”
Philippa laughed and put her foot against her sister’s. “Do we match?”
“Aye,” Rowena replied with subtle pleasure warming her tone. “Ilsa, she can use my footwear,” she called, got a nod from an elderly maid, then looked back at Philippa.
“Do you know no one expects your arrival for yet another week? We were all told you were very ill.”
“Me?” Philippa’s brows shot up in surprise. “I’m never ill. Who told you this?”
“Lord Roger,” Rowena said, “but this he offered only after the bishop raged at him for appearing here three days ago without you.” She paused, the corner of her mouth lifting a little. “Perhaps Bishop William’s sharp tongue caused him to fabricate an explanation for his failure to do as commanded.”
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 35
