The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  “It’s my fault,” she cried, her voice reed-thin. “I pray you, don’t blame Temric for this, Rowena.”

  Lady Graistan shot her sister a surprised glance. “Blame? For a spilled cup? What is there to blame?” She waved the butler to their table. “Right it and fill it again,” she commanded the servant, then her gaze shifted to Temric. Her eyes narrowed. “That is, unless they feel they’ve had too much spirit for one day.”

  Temric cocked a brow at Rowena's unspoken question over what went forward between himself and her sister. Rather than answer Rowena, he offered up a gentle jibe, meant to repay her for forcing him to sit at this table when she knew full well he didn’t wish to be here. “It’s your own fault for feeding me wine, when all the world knows the English prefer ale.”

  “You only acknowledged that English half of yourself when it serves you,” his brother’s wife retorted in annoyance.

  “You don’t care,” Philippa cried, bringing their attention back to her. She looked from her sister to Temric, her face alive with amazement. “Rowena doesn’t care that we stained the cloth and wasted the wine.”

  “Why should she?” Temric asked with a frown. “We but fumbled a cup. There are others at this table who do far worse.” He indicated past Arnult, who was pointedly ignoring them to spoon stew into his mouth, to where Jordan, Rannulf’s natural son, and his nurse sat at the table’s opposite end. The child, not yet five, swung his feet in a busy rhythm as he ate. This made his head bob, which made each bite’s trip toward his mouth an adventure. Stew had dribbled down the whole front of his gown, despite his nurse’s attempt to staunch the flow with a cloth.

  When Philippa saw the child, she gasped. “Mary save him! He’s ruined his gown.”

  “Not ruined,” Rowena replied with an impatient snort, “only made hard work for a laundress.”

  Again, Philippa glanced between them, this time her eyes great circles in her face. After a moment, she turned her gaze to the hall, her glance leaping from face to face. Temric followed her look, wondering what it was she thought to see. These were but ordinary folk, enjoying a meal before returning to their daily chores.

  With a breath, she turned on the bench and caught him by the arms, startling him. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, her expression was one of wonder as she gazed up into his face. “Here, it doesn’t matter.”

  She was right. It didn’t matter that he knew it was wrong, or that the whole of the hall watched. The need to touch his mouth to hers was more than he could bear. His lips parted, his head lowered.

  She released him to once more turn and stare out into the hall.

  “Here, it doesn’t matter,” she said again as if stunned.

  Temric stared at the sodden bread trencher before him. Jesus God, but when had he come to value his honor so cheaply that he’d forget his vow to Oswald and make a mockery of his word?

  Down the table’s length, the heavy feet of Rannulf’s chair screeched against the hall’s flooring as it moved. It was Arnult coming to his feet to signal that the meal’s ending. Temric instantly rose from his seat on the bench, not even waiting for the knight to bid everyone go in peace.

  “Lady Philippa, I thank you for your fine company over this past hour,” he managed through gritted teeth, then fled like the coward he was. He needed to remain as far from Graistan as he could for the duration of his temptress’s stay. One more meal like this one and there’d be nothing left of his sanity.

  Temric brought his big steed clattering back into the courtyard just before sunset, both of them heaving and panting in exertion. Damn, but after hours of stewing over it, he could find no way to escape Graistan. No reason he concocted was strong enough to rescind his offer of support to Arnult. He was trapped here until Rannulf’s return. Swinging out of his saddle, he threw his reins to Gareth.

  “So, laddie, did abusing this poor creature help to purge her out of your system?” The old man’s husky voice was thick with amusement.

  “You babble, old man,” Temric replied, gracing the stable master with an irritable look. “Say what you mean and say it plain.”

  The burly ancient raised his shaggy brows in mock disbelief. “Huh. If you cannot understand my meaning, ‘tis because lustful thoughts cloud your brain. That was quite the spectacle you made of yourself at the meal. I say the lady’s husband would have taken much amiss if he’d seen you looking at his wife that way.”

  Shock jolted through Temric. “Only in your imagination, old man. There’s been nothing in my face or my behavior toward Lady Lindhurst that’s worthy of notice.”

  “Imagine, do I?” Gareth’s face, already a network of deep creases after a lifetime's exposure to the elements, cracked into a broad grin. “I’m not so blind yet that I cannot read a boy I’ve known all my life. Well now, I’ll warrant she’s a beauty like her sister. Too bad she’s married to that arrogant lordling. Do you know he came in here spouting and spewing that we’d offered his mounts moldy hay? Insulted Lord Rannulf in our presence, he did. He cannot leave soon enough to suit poor Harold, whose eye was blackened during that complaint.”

  “You’re serious,” Temric cried, ignoring the complaint against Lord Lindhurst. “What gives you cause to think me capable of dishonoring another man’s wife?”

  Gareth blinked at this. “Dishonor? Who said aught of dishonor? All I said is that a man can’t help where his interest lies and at the meal you watched Lady Lindhurst the way a penned stallion eyes a mare in heat.”

  Temric only shook his head in refusal. “You couldn’t have seen anything,” he protested.

  The old man only smiled again. “Ah, laddie, did you think you’d forever escape the trap that’s eaten every man at one time or another? Nay, we all of us men end up dancing to the tune of our hearts at least once in our lives, wondering all the while what became of our common sense.” He squinted at Lord Graistan’s elder brother. “Thanks be to God for that, else we’d live a dull life, indeed.”

  Dismay ate Temric alive. Jesu Christus, if Gareth had seen, and him half-blind, they all had seen.

  The stablemaster’s laugh was the grate of rusting metal as he raised a hand to pat the soldier’s cheek. “Don’t take it so hard, lad. Love’s a good thing to feel on a fine summer’s eve like this one. Rain on the morrow, or so my bones tell me. Now, hie yourself to the kitchen. Your mother’s youngest son— Peter is it?— arrived whilst you were out torturing this beastie. It seems there’s been some crisis in Stanrudde.” He gave the sweating beast beside him a heavy pat, then shook his head is disgust. “Nothing more than Alwyna deserves for living out there among foreigners. If your mother had any sense, she’d come home where she belongs.”

  Temric’s dismay gave way to excitement. He fought back a relieved grin. Here was the reason he needed for leaving! Alwyna wouldn’t have sent one of her precious sons to fetch him, unless her need was urgent, indeed.

  “I’ll tell my mother you send your regards,” he said to the old man, “but guarantee you she’ll leave neither the trade nor the rich house that she and my stepfather worked so hard to build. And, my thanks for your concern over my heart, Gareth.”

  “Coward,” the old man chided in fond amusement. “You’re running!”

  Temric smiled this time and broadly so. “Aye, with great thanks to my mother for whatever crisis is at hand.”

  By the time he’d turned, striding for the kitchen, relief was ebbing into pain. Once he left Graistan’s gate, he’d never again see Philippa. It didn’t matter that he knew this was just as well, that he knew he needed to banish her completely from his thoughts. Temric grimaced. As Gareth said, his heart was fixed and so it would stay without care for what sort of havoc doing so might wreak in his life.

  Graistan’s cooking shed was a wooden building at the keep’s back. Built against the tower’s stone footings and directly below the pantlry, trays and platters were raised by an ingenious system of ropes and pulleys from the shed’s doorway to hall level. This meant that meals
at Graistan had the singular distinction of being warmer than those served in most other keeps.

  At this late hour the ropes hung slack and the upper portal was shut for the night. The doorway to the chamber was still open. Temric stepped inside without knocking.

  Usually the kitchen was the site of frantic activity. This time of night its atmosphere was serene. In the room’s far corner the cooking fire had been banked from its blaze into naught but hot coals. Bowls, spits, spoons, ladles, and sieves were once again clean and organized, knives honed and stored. As one scullery lad sand-scoured a final cauldron, the cook, his aides and assistants were all lingering around their great table. Once the sun set, they’d lay out their pallets and sleep, but for now they basked in the glow of one day’s work completed and another’s begun.

  “A fine evening to you, Temric,” said the cook. Otto was a massive man with burly arms. What little hair he had left was on his arms and chest, not his head.

  “To you as well, Otto,” Temric said in return. “You have a new admirer in Lady Lindhurst,” he continued, offering a well earned compliment. “She was quite taken with your stew this afternoon.”

  Otto’s rumbling laugh filled the small chamber, his oily face and bald pate shining in the low light. “And, I understand she has an admirer in you,” he threw back. “My thanks for the compliment. I think I’ve improved myself some since our fine visitor arrived. The bishop’s rich tastes are a never-ending challenge.” Not a little pride touched his words.

  “I can imagine,” Temric replied, once again fighting dismay. Had he truly been so obvious? “Is my brother Peter here?”

  “Alwyna’s son? Aye, your little brother is back in the corner against the hearth”— a jerk of Otto’s head indicated the gaping maw of the fireplace— “playing with ashes and charcoal. Ever since he heard we have a bishop here, we’ve barely been able to pry him free of that corner.” Concern danced across Otto’s face, as if he feared he’d said too much. “You needn’t roust him out. He’s been no trouble and may sleep here this night if he likes.”

  “My thanks,” Temric said, already wending his way through their ranks to the indicated corner.

  There, in the space between the fireplace and the corner, his mother’s youngest son had squeezed his lanky, sixteen-year-old frame onto a tiny stool. Fine, dark hair straggled into Peter’s face as the lad leaned intently over a plank balanced upon his knees. Long fingers worked in tiny motions as he drew upon a scrap of parchment.

  Temric stopped before the stool. So intent was the boy on his work he didn’t notice. With a smile, Temric lowered his head until his lips were near the lad’s ear.

  “The light grows too dim for scribbling,” he said.

  Temric lurched back as Peter shot straight up off the stool, board flying one way, parchment, the other. Panting, the lad stared at his eldest, if half, brother, his hand clasped over his chest in surprise.

  “Sweet Mary, Temric,” he complained. “You took years off my life! I didn’t see you.”

  “So it would seem,” Temric said with a quick breath of amusement. “What goes on in Stanrudde that Alwyna would send you here, seeking me?”

  Peter swiped a yet-trembling hand over his brow, trying to shove his hair from his eyes. All he managed to do was smear ashy streaks upon his skin. “It’s Jehan,” he said, his voice yet quaking. “Our brother fell while working in the warehouse. Now, he cannot walk, even though the healers all say nothing is broken.”

  Temric raised his brows at this news. At five and twenty, Jehan, the middle of Alwyna’s three sons, was an angry man. Temric couldn’t imagine Jehan enduring a life without the use of his legs. “And, so?”

  The boy sighed in that knowing way half-grown children use when speaking of their elders. “Jehan isn’t hurt so badly as to be bedridden, but he’ll not even try walking with the crutches Mama got for him. Instead, he sits the day long spewing insults and rancor at everyone. Mama already aches so from Papa’s death, she can bear no more. I say what she needs is someone to protect her from Jehan’s rancor and take up the tasks Jehan once did, at least for a time. She says she needs you to come visit, claiming that you calm her while the rest of us drive her into insanity.” Peter made a face, then squatted to gather up the bits and pieces of his drawing.

  Temric gave a tiny snort. “She said that I calm her? Don’t you believe it. It wasn’t so many years ago that she vowed insanity caused by Lord Graistan and myself.”

  A yawn caught him unaware. He gave way to it, then stretched. The ride had tired him, leaving him wanting nothing more than to rinse clean and find peace in exhausted sleep. He dropped a hand on Peter’s scrawny shoulder.

  “Well then, if my mother needs me, to Stanrudde I shall go. Hie yourself to bed, boy. If we’re to be in Stanrudde by the morrow’s evening, we’ll need to be off at first light.”

  The lad gasped, then shifted back to sit upon the kitchen’s dirt floor. Disappointment marked every line of his face. “We’re leaving on the morrow?!” The boy’s newly deepened voice cracked with the depth of his protest.

  Temric frowned at him. “Our mother sent you here to fetch me because her need was urgent,” he chided. “I’d do her a disservice if I lingered and prolonged her suffering.”

  Coming to his feet, Peter’s hand was closed so tightly over his bit of charcoal that it flaked. The parchment in his other hand crackled. “But, the bishop isn’t expected to return for another day,” he cried.

  Temric glanced from the charcoal to the parchment, then eyed his brother’s face. “I thought you told Mama you were finished with dreams of the monastery and scribbling.”

  For a moment his brother hung his head, only to jerk into a defiant pose. “Those were her words, not mine. After Papa’s death I thought she’d give me what I needed to buy my entrance into a monastery, but she refuses. She says I must do her counting because Jehan cannot. But, I know the truth! She only wants to keep me from the Church because it’s what I want.” Peter’s voice broke, but it was emotion not his age that did it this time. “Why can’t she understand how important this is to me?”

  Temric only shook his head. Alwyna loved the Church as well as anyone, but she couldn’t understand Peter’s desire to turn his back on an established trade and the possibility of wife and family. He shrugged. “You know your mother. Her affection for her sons ofttimes blinds her. Take consolation in the knowledge that she struggles mightily to comprehend me as well. Here now, why not show me what you’ve done? Do you know I’ve never before seen any of your scribblings?”

  “Promise you’ll not laugh,” the lad begged, clutching his scrap close to his heart.

  “I never laugh,” Temric replied and took the parchment from his half-brother.

  It was Graistan Peter had sketched in all its detail. The image was bordered by summer’s richness. Grapes and apples, pears and pomegranates clung together in improbable bounty on the same twining vine.

  “This is very good,” Temric said and meant it as he peered up from the sheepskin at the boy.

  “Do you think so?” Peter breathed in excited hope, then grinned. Pride filled the movement of his mouth, before it disappeared into an anxious hopefulness. “Do you think a bishop might have interest in my work?”

  In the boy’s dark eyes Temric saw the reflection of his own fire and pain over Philippa. But, where everything conspired to deny Temric what he longed for, Peter need only wait for his majority to gain what he wanted. If this bit of parchment represented his brother’s talent, there was some monastery that would have him, coins or no. Temric paused. Why should Peter be forced to wait, when he had the means to aid him?

  “Peter, did you know my noble cousin, Oswald, is one of Bishop William’s administrators? This is good enough that Oswald might present this drawing to his noble master as a sample of your work.”

  The boy grew so pale that for a moment Temric feared he might well faint. “You would give this to your noble cousin for me?” he begged breathlessly
.

  “Not I,” Temric laughed, “but Lord Graistan.” It would have to be Rannulf who delivered the drawing to Oswald and with no mention of Peter’s connection to Temric. God knew Oswald wasn’t about to do his bastard cousin any favors just now.

  Despair filled Peter’s face. “But, Lord Graistan is gone with the bishop,” he cried, the ache in his voice holding no less pain than that of a wounded man left behind by his comrades to die on a battle field. “How will he know it was me who drew the picture?”

  “Have a little faith in me,” Temric replied with a quiet laugh. “I’ll leave your scribbling with Graistan’s chaplain for presentation to my brother upon his return. Now, does that make the morrow’s leave-taking easier for you?”

  “Aye,” Peter said, his spirits, and expression, rebounding into elation. “When the bishop has found a place for me, he’ll send word to Stanrudde.”

  “Now, hold a moment,” Temric said, lifting a warning hand. “This is but a door’s opening. There’s no guarantee of success. What opens can just as easily slam shut in your face.”

  “But, it shan’t. I know it shan’t,” his half-brother cried, his voice filled with certainty. Then, his brow creased into a serious, sober frown. “You’re right, I shouldn’t hope too high.” Not a shred of reservation colored his disclaimer. Across the room, the cook and all his assistants laughed at this.

  Peter had the grace to grin along with them. Temric gently cuffed his brother’s ear. “Foolish pup. Otto says you may stay the night in the kitchen. I suggest you sleep well, for we’re on the road tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll deliver this to Father Edwin before I seek my own rest.”

  “Thank you, Temric,” Peter cried, grasping his brother’s hand. “God will bless you for this, I know it, aye. Aye, and so will your noble brother and cousin as well.”

  That wrung a scornful sound from Temric. “I doubt it,” he replied. “Neither God nor Oswald are particularly fond of me just now.”