He made a rude sound, then raised his head to stare at her. Where Temric’s face was all bold planes and hard angles as befitted a man in the prime of his life, a youth’s softness yet lingered in the soft lines of this man’s cheeks. “What care I how well you’ll be on the morrow? I won’t be,” he snapped.
Startled, Philippa stared at him, not certain what he meant.
“Jehan, hold that nasty tongue of yours,” came a woman’s voice from the head of the room. In the next instant, a woman no taller than Philippa, appeared from what must be a stairway. Dressed in gowns of blue and gray, she started toward Philippa. “You’ll be kind to the woman my son brought me.”
Philippa’s fingers clenched into the bedclothes. Temric’s mother! What little courage she might have owned died, leaving only fear behind it. The closer the woman came, the farther she receded into her pillows. When the woman finally leaned into the bed to see her, she was crouched into the bolsters like the mouse she was.
Temric’s dam stopped beside the bed. Like Margaret, her hair was grayed with age. If her skin was yet smooth despite her years, her face was too thin, while pain clung to the pinch of her dark brows. Now that she was close, Philippa could see her garments were too large for her, being belted as best they could be about her waist. There wasn’t the slightest emotion in her dark eyes as she considered her bedridden guest.
Terror rose in Philippa until it filled her mouth with words. “I beg pardon for lingering so long in bed,” she babbled. “I promise I won’t do so on the morrow.”
The woman’s eyes flew wide in astonishment. “Of course you’ll stay in bed,” she retorted. “One who’s been injured as you have must take time to let the brain find its place within your skull again. You’ll stay right where you are for at least a week.”
So great was Philippa’s relief that she sagged against the mattress. Tears for shame filled her eyes. Why hadn’t she trusted Temric when he’d vowed it wouldn’t be the same as Lindhurst here?
Pity filled his mother’s eyes. “Sweet Mary, but they’ve used you hard,” she said, her words reflecting the kindness she’d taught her son. Her face softened as she brushed the stray hairs from Philippa’s face. “Have you been sitting here in terror of us all this time? Shame on me for not coming sooner. How it must have seemed to you, you poor chick, trapped here without even a stitch to cover you.”
The endearment was sweet to Philippa’s ears. “Anne of Graistan says that,” she murmured, yet too overwrought to speak any louder.
Temric’s mother smiled. “I suppose she would, being my niece. My sister and I are wont to overuse the phrase. I know you’re Philippa, but do you know that I’m Alwyna?”
“Temric’s mother,” Philippa acknowledged, more to convince herself that this was really happening to her than in any need to confirm the woman’s identity.
Alwyna’s smile broadened at that. “Nay,” she replied, her brown eyes gleaming, “I bore no child named Temric. The lad I gave life to was christened Richard, Richard of Graistan. Temric is what comes of stuttering when I’m in such a rage that I shouldn’t even attempt to speak.” Her laugh was filled with irony. “Once I’d said it, he accepted it in stubborn pride and wouldn’t let it go.”
Philippa only stared at her in shock. Temric was the Richard of her mysterious vision? The feeling of awe grew, until she swore her heart stilled in her chest. Her eyes closed. Temric was the one for whom she’d been commanded to stay alive. That meant God smiled on their union and she could call Temric husband without fear. That meant her mother’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.
A new and peaceful emptiness took hold of her. It was a moment before Philippa recognized it. She was free. Roger would never find her again, for God, Himself, had ordained it.
The feeling was so astounding, the release so complete, she couldn’t bear it. When the blackness again roared up in her, she let herself fall into its gentle embrace. For the first time in twelve years, Philippa slept in peace.
When next she woke, Philippa’s stomach growled loudly in complaint. Save for a wee beam of light that shot through the meeting of the bed curtains, velvet darkness lay thick around her. She lay still a moment. The only sound she heard was that of folk at rest.
Rolling onto her side, she opened the curtain. Atop a stool at the bed’s side was a small oil lamp, its little flame burning in merry solitude, dancing and jigging as it consumed the lint. A cup and a bowl had been placed beside it, a spoon laying beside the bowl.
Sitting upright, Philippa took up the bowl. Rather than an invalid’s thin broth, this was thick stew, filled with chunks of lamb. She ate eagerly, even drinking the last dregs of the broth from the bowl, then lifted the cup. It was watered wine. Only when she’d drained the cup dry did she realize her movements weren’t causing her any discomfort. Indeed, her eyes now held their focus without a trace of dizziness. Aye, by the morrow she might well be steady enough to rise.
With her needs sated, she looked farther, finding a heap of something at the foot of her bed. She drew the pile toward her, then caught her breath. Clothing. As she picked through it, she was surprised to find it wasn’t just a chemise and bedrobe. There were two plain undergowns as well as an overgown.
Philippa’s wonder grew as she lifted the overgown to the light. It was linen and well made, the weave tight beneath her fingers. Dyed a pale blue, a demure braid of pink and green trimmed its hem and sleeves, the colors singing of springtime. She held it up. It had a simplicity of cut that was far more pleasing to her than the grand gown she’d worn at Graistan.
When she stretched out an arm to gauge the sleeve’s length, she smiled. Temric’s mother had taken the time to find the right size gown for her to borrow. Affection woke like a shining light. No one in this house would ever have cause to regret the generosity shown toward the injured beggar Temric had foisted onto them. Somehow, Philippa vowed to herself, she’d find some way to repay them all.
In the next instant, gratitude dulled into guilt. Philippa lay the overgown back atop the pile of clothing, smoothing the creases away with her hands. What right had she to live as a guest here when she and Temric meant to commit both adultery and incest beneath this roof? There was no answer for her question. Troubled, she retreated beneath the bedclothes to wait for morning’s coming.
Hours later she awoke to the arrogant exclamations of Stanrudde’s cocks. With her bed curtains open, she watched dawn creep up the separating draperies, the color changing from gray to pink to the sun’s full golden brightness. A breeze danced in, kicking and playing with the fabric as it brought with it the pungent scent of unwashed wool.
From all around her Philippa could hear the household members awakening. Bed ropes creaked. Someone yawned, groaning loudly. A set of curtain rings slid along its wooden pole, announcing an early riser.
That the others were stirring brought Philippa to her knees upon her mattress. Reaching to the bed’s end, she sorted through the pile of clothing at her bed’s end until she found the chemise. Its wide neck made it easy to don without rising. The undergown followed, its longer hem puddling around her knees. Leaving its tight-fitting sleeves untied, she reached for the overgown.
Philippa smiled as she looked upon it again. It was even prettier by day’s light. When guilt again tried to gnaw at her, she crushed it, renewing her vow of the previous hours. Whatever wrong she and Temric did must remain their secret if Roger wasn’t to find her. Since she couldn’t share the truth, she’d have to work even harder to repay the blessings this house showered on her.
Catching up the gown, she slipped from the bed. For a moment, the world swayed. She clung to a bed pole until her vision steadied, then pulled on the gown. Smoothing it over her body, she creased and recreased its skirts into even folds.
With a screech, the rings on the dividing draperies parted. Philippa looked up to see Alwyna. Temric’s mother smiled at her as she stepped within the fabric cubicle, the older woman’s fingers flying as she plaited her hair. R
ibbons and a pair of stockings hung from Alwyna’s belt.
“Well now, I truly didn’t think to see you afoot this morn,” the older woman said, then eyed the garment’s Philippa wore. “Huh, I’m a better judge of size than I thought. The hem’s too long for you to walk comfortably, but Els can quickly fix that. I hope you don’t mind wearing these. I’d take you to the tailor for something better, but I thought that should wait until your bruising’s faded. No sense giving the gossips something to fill their mills, eh?” She gave a conspiratorial wink.
“Mind?” Philippa asked, confused both by her words and the wink. “What’s to mind? Indeed, I didn’t expect you to let me borrow so fine a gown.”
“Borrow?” Alwyna’s smile dimmed. “These are yours, alone. That is, if you want them. They’re naught but used clothing from the old clothing seller. Still, the material’s good, even if it isn’t from my weavers, and the dye only a little faded.”
Certain she’d misunderstood, Philippa stared at her. “You bought these for me? They’re mine?”
“But, of course,” Alwyna replied, echoing Philippa’s own confusion. “You came with nothing and I doubted you wanted to wander about undressed. Here,” she took the stockings, ribbon garters and the length of braid for belting from her belt and handed them to Philippa. “There are a pair of sabots under the bed,” Alwyna went on. “Our shoemaker’s got a guarded tongue, so I’ve asked him to come and make a pattern of your feet this afternoon. Even at that, it’ll be days before you have a decent pair of shoes. Now, turn around and I’ll tie your laces.”
This time when Philippa’s head whirled it was wonder instead of her injury that caused it. She did as she was bid. As Alwyna tied the laces on the gown’s back and sleeves, Philippa smiled down at herself. These garments were hers, hers alone! Moving carefully from foot to foot, she watched in delight as the skirt swirled about her legs. Hers!
When Alwyna was done, Philippa turned to catch her hand and press a swift kiss to its back. “Oh, mistress, thank you. These are beautiful garments. Know that I’ll take especial care of them.”
“Silly twit,” Alwyna laughed, her amusement taking the sting out of the chide. “I think some people are far too easily pleased. Now, best you call me Alwyna. I’ll not have it said I make my son’s wife a servant in his home.”
The words hit Philippa like a blow. In one statement Alwyna proved that she’d never be like Margaret and told her that Temric had lied to his mother about her guest’s identity. Guilt grew until it snuffed Philippa’s exuberance. “As you wish, Alwyna.”
“That I do,” Alwyna replied with a smile. “So, now that we’ve properly met at last, do you feel fit to come below and eat, or shall I have Els bring you something?”
“You’ll sit her at our table?” The man’s shout rose from the far end of this large chamber.
With it, the life drained from Alwyna’s face. Her mouth drooped, while the dark rings beneath her eyes seemed to grown darker still. She looked at Philippa. “That is my son, Jehan, speaking,” she said, her voice dull and toneless. “I’ll beg your pardon on his behalf before he says another word. He’s going to insult you. You should know before he does that he insults everyone. I pray you, pay him no heed.”
“What are you saying to her, Mama?” the hidden man shouted out. “I can hear you speaking. What tales are you telling her about me?”
Philippa recognized his voice as the man of yesterday’s encounter. Ahead of her, Alwyna threw open the enclosing drapes. That line of fabric had been all that stood between them and the invalid at the room’s far corner. In his bed, Jehan was breathing in what sounded like sobs. Mother and son stared at each other for a moment, then Alwyna turned her back to him and looked at her eldest son’s supposed wife.
“So, will you come below and break your fast?” she asked, her voice overly loud as if to make certain her son heard.
“I’d like that very much,” Philippa replied. “It’s kind of you to invite this stranger to your table.”
“Kind?” Jehan snarled. “Hardly. Look at how she ignores me, while cherishing you because you belong to that bastard she adores. When it comes to her true son, her heart is harder than a millstone.”
Alwyna’s eyes dulled to a muddy brown. “A little peace, Jehan,” she said without looking over her shoulder at him. “That’s all I ask. The day’s barely begun.”
“What care I for days or chores, when all I have to look forward to is a day trapped up here?” he retorted.
Alwyna’s face crumpled, hurt lines appearing on her cheeks. Tears started to her eyes. Turning to face him, she spread her arms wide. “Please Jehan. You know I’d give you mine own legs if there were a way to do it.”
Shooting a look at Jehan, Philippa’s mouth compressed into a narrow line as she recognized his manipulation. It was a game she’d played at Lindhurst often enough to know its every form. Jehan had turned Alwyna’s love for him into the weapon he used to hurt her and hurt her he did because he was hurting. On the tail of recognition came outrage too great to be stilled.
“Fie on you,” Philippa told the crippled man, striding away from the bed to place herself between Alwyna and her son. “Shame on the man who speaks so foully to his mother.”
Jehan came upright on his mattress, his dark brows drawn down and his eyes glittering in dislike. “I’ll not be chided by a bastard’s whore,” he shouted.
Philippa's hide had long ago been tanned to armor by Margaret’s insults, so she felt no sting from his words, especially since a bastard’s whore was exactly what she intended to be. Not so Alwyna. Temric’s mother gasped in shock. “Jehan, you’ll not speak so to Richard’s wife. In my home, you’ll treat her with the respect she’s due.”
Philippa cringed as the double edge Alwyna’s words owned cut at her. Jehan’s brows lifted as he caught her reaction. Eying her in consideration, he relaxed back against his headboard, a small and vicious smile touching his lips.
Philippa offered him nothing but the lift of her chin. He had no power here, Alwyna’s behavior toward him said as much. Therefore there was nothing for her to fear from him. Instead, she caught Alwyna by the arm and led the older woman to the stairs. “How does he dare speak so to you,” she hissed to Temric’s mother as they walked, “when even I, a newcomer, can see how much you care for him?”
It was only as Alwyna stepped in front of her to start down the steps that Philippa realized what she’d done. Startled and not a little unnerved, she touched her hostess on the shoulder. “Oh, mistress! Pardon. I didn’t mean to interfere.”
Alwyna only sighed and turned to lay a hand on Philippa’s uninjured cheek. “Nay, ‘tis I who should beg your pardon. I’m shamed by his behavior and give thanks for your care for me.” She shot a look toward Jehan in his bed. “I know it’s hard to believe now, but he was once a happy lad. What lies in that bed is someone I don’t know. If I didn’t grieve so for his father and weren’t so exhausted, I’d better endure him.” Pain flowed over Alwyna’s face as she spoke.
Philippa’s heart broke for Temric’s mother. Not only did Alwyna carry Jehan’s burden, but the weight of this whole household lay upon her shoulders. In that instant, Philippa forgave Temric his departure. He’d spoken truly when he said his mother’s needs were desperate.
Philippa shook her head. “And, here I am, another burden to plague you,” she murmured, then continued with more firmness in her voice. “But, not for long. I vow to you, mistress. With each day I’ll grow stronger. Now, tell me what I can do for you,” she pleaded, reaching out to take Alwyna’s hand.
Temric’s mother embraced her in a quick hug. “Daughter, that you should even offer is heaven,” the older woman laughed. “For the moment, I think you overestimate your strength. All I need from you this day is that you bear me company whilst we break our fast.”
Philippa smiled. “As you will, mother,” she replied shyly.
Alwyna smiled in return. “That I do. Now, place your hand upon my shoulder as w
e descend,” she said as she started down the stairs, “so I may brace you if your legs aren’t yet steady.”
Doing as Alwyna bid, Philippa followed, forcing her head to steady when the dizziness began anew. When Alwyna insisted on pausing a moment, Philippa shot a glance up the stairs behind her. Legs or not, Jehan Alwynason would never again abuse the woman who gave him life, this Philippa promised herself.
Midsummer’s Day came and went, the usual raucous festivities ending with the household retreating into exhausted slumber. All but Philippa, that was. Six days wasn’t long enough to heal her bruises, although they’d dimmed into a rainbow of colors. Worse, a day spent alone in the upstairs bedchamber with nothing to do left her feeling sleepless and nervous. Which is why she found herself sitting on a stool before the kitchen hearth plaiting onions into a long strand with naught but glowing coals and two tallow lamps to light her work.
As she finished another strand, she dropped it atop the others, then sighed. Her lungs filled with spicy scents. Summer was offering up its bounty. Basil, rosemary, mint, marjoram, sage, dittany, and peppery thyme all hung drying from the great ceiling beams, loosing their fragrances into the atmosphere. Soon, the onion braids would join them.
Philippa stared at the bulb in her hands, then let it roll from her fingers back into the basket that held its brothers. Lord, but living a lie was far harder than she ever imagined it would be. Rather than be pleased that Alwyna hadn’t asked even one question about her supposed daughter-by-marriage, not even about the beating that had left her guest so bruised, the secrets she held within her bubbled up, filling her mouth as they demanded to be told. Philippa hung her head. As much as she wanted to escape Roger, she couldn’t bear to live this borrowed life.
“Oh, Maman,” she breathed to herself, “it was for this that you gave your life? I shame your sacrifice by being nothing but a lie and a cheat.”
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 55
