Stroke for stroke, they met. Once, twice, then a third time, the petty landholder tried his ruse, but Temric wasn’t lured. Just as Temric expected with each time Lindhurst’s ruse failed Lord Roger’s rage grew. Temric heard it in the way the younger man gasped for breath and saw it in the growing tenseness of his mouth. Hoping to add spurs to that anger, Temric smiled, a wide, confident grin. It worked.
With a raging growl, Lindhurst threw himself at Temric in an open, frontal attack. “Down, damn you,” he screamed as he came.
Temric feinted right, using his opponent’s own move. He meant it as nothing more than another goad, but much to his astonishment Lindhurst followed. Taking the advantage it offered, Temric’s blade flashed in above the man’s shield and crashed into Lord Roger’s left shoulder. It wasn’t a killing blow, this not being a fight to the death on his part, but he felt the iron links give way and knew he’d drawn blood.
Shouting in pain, Lord Roger lurched to backward. As his left arm drooped, his shield sagged. It was an easy matter for Temric to send the man’s weapon flying from his fingers.
“Yield,” he demanded.
“Nay!” Lindhurst bellowed, nigh on sobbing in frustration as he leapt to grab up his sword.
“You must yield,” Temric said, his voice calm, his tone reasonable. “Your shield arm is crippled. You’ll have no defense against me.”
With his sword again in hand, Lindhurst whirled on him, his mouth drawn in a grimace. “Do me no favors, commoner,” he spat out, lifting his blade. “I’ll see you in hell before I yield.”
Backing away from the injured man, Temric looked toward the dais, naught but a few planks of wood raised on braces, across the field. The bishop sat in Rannulf’s chair atop it, his hooded hawk at his side. Rannulf and Oswald stood beside him. Only when William of Hereford nodded, did Temric turn to meet Lord Roger’s challenge.
It was no longer a contest. Pain made the younger man careless. His blows went wild.
Ready to end the match, Temric landed a resounding blow against his opponent’s shield. Lord Roger’s knees buckled. Sobbing, he dropped to the ground, his shield sliding off his now numb arm.
“Roger!” Margaret screeched, dashing across the field to her son’s side. Her gown was torn and muddy, her wimple askew.
“Leave me alone, old woman,” her son cried out, shoving at his dam.
On his dais the bishop raised his hand. “I declare this match at an end and all honor satisfied. As the victor, Sir Richard of Graistan may keep his life as his own and Lord Lindhurst will relinquish his wife to God’s Holy Church as he has vowed.”
At the churchman’s words, Margaret whirled to face the dais. “My lord bishop, Lady Philippa is gone!”
This woke an explosion of sound from the watching folk. As their cries echoed around the bailey’s walls, Temric pried off his helmet. Now that victory was his, he intended to enjoy the mummery of the next few moments.
“How can that be?” the bishop demanded, his deep voice ringing out over the crowd. Those watching dropped into silence, waiting to hear what came next. “I thought she’d yet to regain consciousness.”
“She came alert only a little while ago,” the elder Lady Lindhurst replied, “and since has escaped us. Hie, you”— she motioned brusquely for Anne to come forward— “come and help me tell this tale.”
Anne appeared out of the crowd, her head cloth torn and two long scratches marking her face. After making a show of respect to the bishop, she spilled the tale she’d been paid to tell. “My lords, if only I’d known, I’d have bound Lady Lindhurst to her cot,” she cried out. Temric’s brows rose in admiration for Anne. Those were real tears seeping from her eyes. “I fear the sweet lady woke from her unconsciousness in such a state that she didn’t recognize either me or her lady mother-by-marriage. She attacked us both, throwing us off when we would have held her.”
“I cannot believe it,” Oswald scoffed, stepping out from behind his master’s chair to address the two women. “Lady Philippa is so slight. How could the two of you not hold her?”
Anne’s expression was all earnestness. “My lord, sometimes a sort of madness can take those suffering from blows to the head. In that state, they can be very strong.”
Temric glanced from his common cousin to his noble relation. Oswald’s doubt died into confusion. Temric again gave thanks to Anne. Between her portrayal and her known loyalty to Graistan, her story was utterly convincing. That was, to all save her noble master.
Rannulf sent Temric a frowning glance. Temric bit back his smile. Rannulf was wondering how he’d done it.
On the field, Margaret moaned and wrung her hands. “Poor child,” she cried. “For all the cruel things I’ve said, I truly didn’t wish to see her harmed. My lord, I pray you, come and help us find her.”
“Well, she couldn’t have gone far in her condition,” the bishop said, coming to his feet. “Sound the hue and cry,” he commanded the townsmen. “Scour the town and fields below for the noble lady. Go you ahead of me,” he told his own men. “Once I’m ready for riding, I’ll join you.” Bishop William started toward the hall with Oswald at his side. Neither noticed Anne dogging their heels.
In the bailey, townsmen and servants turned and raced for the main gate. Graistan’s soldiery moved toward the postern and the river. Not so Lindhurst’s men. They came to help their fallen lord from the field, escorting the snarling young man to his tent. In but a few moments there were only two men on the field, Rannulf and Temric.
Rannulf made an annoyed sound as he stepped off the raised wooden platform. Grabbing up a bit of toweling from Temric’s gear, he strode across the field. “Shouldn’t you be racing for your life?” he asked, handing his elder brother the cloth.
“Why?” he asked, wiping the blade, then sheathing his weapon. “What they’ll find at the end of their search will satisfy them, both those who sought her death and those who seek to save her. Know that no matter how it appears, I’ve prevented murder. Those sent to do the foul deed were justly and fairly rewarded for their attempt.”
Worry flickered through Rannulf’s gaze, then he sighed. “How am I to explain this to her sister?” he murmured.
“How can you say anything to your lady when I’ve told you nothing?” Temric retorted. “Whatever conclusions you’ve drawn are your own concoctions.”
His brother frowned. “How can you say that when you’re leaving me so wide a trail of hints to trace?”
“That’s only to prepare you, so you can deny all in comfort should I be discovered,” Temric said, then a sudden rush of sadness filled him. “You’re right. I should be leaving, but I couldn’t go without speaking to you first.”
All emotion drained from Rannulf’s face as he understood. “You’re not coming back.”
The corner of Temric’s mouth lifted. “Who can say for certain? But, I think it’s time we make our own lives. Too long have we been like twins, the right and left hands on one body. You have your wife now. I think you’re fascinated enough with her that you’ll hardly notice I’m missing.”
Rannulf’s smile was slow. “I admit, thoughts of her do tend to fill the hours that once lay heavy in my hands.”
So great was this understatement that Temric forgot himself and laughed. Once again, his injured cheek set to aching; he scratched at the crusting blood along the cut to ease it. “Just remember, if you lay abed too much you’ll grow fat and lazy,” he teased.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Rannulf retorted, then his face softened. “It’s good to see you smile so readily. I’d forgotten you knew how.”
“So had I,” Temric agreed. “Rannulf, the next time I place myself above you in my suffering, don’t wait nigh on a score of years to tell me what I’ve done.”
“You have my word on it,” Rannulf returned swiftly.
With that, silence welled between them. Although Temric formed the word farewell it clung tightly to his tongue, refusing to be spoken. At last, he swallowed
it, along with the idea that he might never again see his brother or his family home.
“And, if I do return?” he finally asked, his words quiet. “Will I find you no longer want me?”
“This is your home, no matter what idiocy you’ve committed.” If Rannulf’s smile was sad, his words were warm with the love they shared. “Now,” Graistan’s lord continued, his word brisk, “be gone with you. Jesus God, Temric! You’re leaving all this to become a wool merchant?!”
“A fate worse than death, no doubt,” Temric laughed, then grabbed his brother in a close embrace.
When they separated, Rannulf reached out to pat his elder sibling on his injured cheek. “Now, that one will be an interesting scar.”
Temric laughed again, then gave a jaunty salute and turned. Not daring a backward glance, he crossed the bailey to where a groom held his saddled gelding. Once mounted, he spurred the big steed toward the gate and out of the life he’d always known.
Drawing his horse to a halt beside the cart that carried Philippa and his personal belongings, Temric dismounted. Lady Benfield stood alongside the wee wagon’s bed. The noblewoman wore Philippa’s borrowed aqua and green gowns. Crusting blood stained them from shoulder to breast on one side, while the skirts were heavy with mud, soaked through by the day’s continuing drizzle. Edith’s face was a sight, her temple and cheek reddened with pig’s blood. Her hair was torn from its plaits in supposed madness. However, had anyone witnessed her now, they’d have seen her for what she was: a mummer. Her face was alive with tenderness as she looked into the cart at her injured daughter.
Giving only the barest glance at the men awaiting him in the nearby clearing, Temric joined her. Swaddled in blankets, Philippa lay alongside his armor chest. Anne had laid her so the battered side of her face was turned upward, to spare her further injury as they jostled and jogged their way to Stanrudde. Her cheek was swollen and yellow-green with bruising, her eye deeply ringed with purple. Anne had done a fine job sewing the torn skin; there’d be but a little scar visible once as she’d healed.
Despite that he knew she’d heal, Temric’s heart ached for her. He reached into the cart to brush his fingers along the gentle curve of her jaw. Never again, he vowed in silence to her, would she know such pain or abuse.
With his word given, he turned to look into the small clearing, only to have his eyes widen in surprise. The pale trunks of the birches that ringed the small clearing were stained with blood, while the mossy ground at its center was naught but a soggy pool of brown mud. At the far end, a stand of lilies had been crushed. The blossoms were giving up their heavy perfume as they died.
Hobb atte Lea, Graistan’s chief forester, stood at the center of the clearing, dressed in his forester’s green. Peter stood at his side, his tunic torn and stained, his arms tightly crossed over his middle. His youngest brother’s knees were visibly knocking, while Peter’s face was a pasty white. Temric recognized the symptoms; Peter was deep into the sickness of first blooding, something that affected every man upon the event of his first battle.
“Sit down, Peter,” Temric called as he started toward him. “What you feel will pass soon enough.”
Rather than do as he was commanded, Peter shook his head like one stunned. “Temric, I didn’t know how hard a man would fight when he wants to live,” he mumbled, then his eyes widened. Turning, he stumbled over a hillock to the stream that lay beyond it. The sound of empty retching echoed back to those who yet stood in the clearing.
Hobb glanced in the direction of the boy, then looked at his lord’s brother. Satisfaction marked his wizened face. “I knew Alwyna wouldn’t breed up any cowards. Peter meant to do as you told him and stay out of the reach of fight, but one of Lindhurst’s two tried to use him as a shield. Although he had but his knife, the boy pried himself free,” the little man offered coolly. “What he says is true. Lindhurst’s men were none too eager to give up their lives, although they showed us their weapons quickly enough when Walter and I came upon them and cried trespassers. Food for the worms they are now, buried deep within Lord Graistan’s chase.”
Temric breathed a sigh of relief at this. His vow to Rannulf that no murder had been done was safe. Because Lindhurst’s men reacted in violence at being discovered turned the attack into an honorable engagement between equally matched forces.
“Good it was that you were able to unearth this scheme of theirs,” Hobb went on. “They’d planned to murder Anne and Peter, along with yon lady,” the wave of his hand indicated the wagon and Philippa. “While Walter dragged away the first one, the other blubbered an even worse tale to me. It seems Lindhurst paid him to kill his mate. I’m guessing his mate had been paid to do the same, for that nobleman wouldn’t have wanted any man alive to tell the tale.”
“That they plotted so doesn’t surprise me,” Temric replied. “My thanks for the help you’ve given. Bear the same to Walter when you’re next at Graistan. Say to him that I wish I could do more than forgive him for confining me in Graistan’s tower for his aid.”
“Your forgiveness he gladly accepts, but he’ll take no more. Nor would I take anything save your kind regards, my lord.”
It startled Temric to hear himself so called, for it hadn’t happened since his father’s death. All too quickly it felt right. Too bad, for it would be the last time he heard it. To keep Philippa as his own, he’d never again hear a title attached to his name.
“Good journey,” Hobb said with a lift of his hand. “The man who owns these oxen waits a half mile up the road where I left him. He’ll ask no questions as he sees you to Stanrudde. When you arrive, give my greetings to your mother.” Turning, the huntsman slipped between the trees and was gone.
After a moment, Temric returned to the cart and Philippa’s mother. “So, my lady, we part now,” he said to her. “Have you another gown in the wagon? This one must stay here.”
Only then, did Edith raise her gaze from her daughter to look at him. “How my arrogance and pride has hurt the child I loved,” she said, pulling open the blankets that covered her daughter. “Look what he did to her.”
Temric caught his breath in shock. Philippa wore nothing beneath the blankets. It wasn’t the full curve of her breasts that trapped his gaze, but the way light glistened off the scars tracing whimsically across her midsection. “Jesus God,” he breathed.
Emotions flew, one after the other, through him. Horror gave way to pity for Philippa, only to disappear beneath a deep and raging hate for the man who’d done this to her. If he’d seen these prior to their combat, Roger of Lindhurst would have died, the consequences be damned.
“He’ll pay for this, madam,” Temric managed in a ferocious whisper, tearing the blankets from Edith’s grasp to gently tuck them around the woman he loved. “You have my word on it.”
“Aye, he’s earned that,” Edith agreed quietly.
From the wagon, she removed a sheathed dagger. Tossing aside its covering, she lifted her hem and stabbed her knife into the fabric above the overgown’s bejeweled trim. It was a well-honed blade, for it sliced through the material as if it were naught but butter as she sliced the trim from the body of the gown.
Temric eyed her in confusion. They didn’t haven’t much time. “What are you doing?”
Edith laughed. “Are you so honest? If thieves were at fault for my daughter’s death, they’d hardly leave valuable gems in place before departing, would they?”
With no argument for that, Temric shifted from foot to foot as he watched her strip both sleeves as well. When she was done, she offered the ragged trim to him. He took a surprised backward step.
“Nay, take them,” she insisted. “If you do, I can say I gave you a dowry for my daughter.”
Shrugging, Temric cupped his hands and let her curl the strips of fabric into them. Retreating to the wagon, he found the leather scrip that held his coin and added the trim to it. By the time he again faced the copse, Edith stood in the clearing’s center. Her belt had been sliced away, while he
r knife was nicking at her neckline. Catching the gown at either side of the cut, she pulled. The dress split down the front.
She slipped her arms from the sleeves and let it pile around her feet as it would, then did the same to the green undergown. Within the minute, she stood before him dressed in only her simple white chemise. She watched him for a moment, sadness deepening in her face.
“What is it, madam?” Temric asked. “If you fear for your daughter, do not. I gave you my word that I’ll care for her, loving her with all my heart.
“Nay, of you I have no doubt,” Edith said with a small shake of her head. “It’s me, I fear for. I’m pondering over what Graistan’s priest laid upon me. He’s commanded me to make a pilgrimage, so my soul might be restored through holy travel. When I spoke with Rowena, she also urged me to do the same.” She paused here, new wonder touching her gaze. “Do you know that when I knelt before Rowena and begged her forgiveness for all the wrongs I’d done her, she gave it?”
Warmth filled Temric. He knew there’d been bad blood between his brother’s wife and her mother. That they were reconciled could only mean that God was, indeed, favoring his plan.
“Before I start on my journey,” Edith was saying, “will you grant me a favor?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Promise me you’ll tell Philippa that I recognized how I clung to a dream of what could never be. Tell her that I was wrong in giving her to Lindhurst. Then, say to her that I’ve now entrusted her to you, but not before I was certain of the sort of man you were. She needs to know that I asked of you at Graistan and all those I asked said you were a kind and caring man, that you value your common family as much as your noble kin. Tell her what I forgot to do the first time, I did the second.”
Temric shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “All this I will relate to her,” he assured her. “Now, madam, if you’ll dress and be gone?”
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 51
