Pulling aside the bed curtains, he stepped from the bed and shrugged into his robe. It was the meager light of a waxing moon that spilled in through the window to fill their small square of privacy. As he belted his robe, he turned to look into the bed. Yet deep in sleep, Philippa had slipped down from the bolsters to pillow her head on her arm. Her hair flowed over her shoulder to pool in front of her in a silken mass.
Even now, after sating his passion for her earlier this night, he ached to touch her anew. He sighed against the sensation, feeling the trap that held him. If it was destroying him to stay here in Stanrudde, it would be certain death to live without Philippa.
He let his gaze lower to the yet trim line of her waist. It was her second month without her flow, leaving him no doubt that she’d proved herself fertile. His depression only deepened with that thought. What sort of future could he offer his child?
Retrieving the fold of parchment he’d earlier hidden beneath his bolsters, he left the room, descending the stairs to the hall. Shielded by the quiet of midnight’s darkness, he crept from hall to kitchen. Heated by the banked coals on the hearth, the room was warm and fragrant with what hung from beam and rafter. Hulking gray shadows clung to its walls where the heaps of sacks and stacks of barrels crowded the room. Although Stanrudde was a civilized place, where merchant folk depended more on what their coins could buy them rather than what they raised for themselves, even this city wasn’t free of the yearly urgency that drove all mankind. Winter would soon be upon them and food, scarce. Against that, what could be stored was being set aside, cider and perry from their orchard stoppered into barrels, while herbs, fruits, nuts and vegetables found their way into bins, sacking and crockery jars sealed with wax. In the next weeks, they’d be butchering, last spring’s piglets becoming hams and bacons.
He fed the coals until flames once more leapt on the hearthstone and threw bright flickers of light against the whitewashed walls, then pulled out the stool, only to hesitate. The harvest was the season for wine and a drop couldn’t but ease his aching heart.
Even though he knew this was nothing more than a delaying tactic, he set his parchment on the hearth shelf, found the cask and filled his cup. Too bad the spice cabinet was locked, for this local brew tasted better heated with a bit of something exotic mixed into it. After he drank it to its thick dregs, he again looked at the parchment. Nay, he wasn’t ready to face it yet.
Pouring himself another cup, he settled on the stool, his cup cradled in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees. Once again, he glanced across the bounty stored in this room. Aye, that sweet woman of his was the miracle worker his mother claimed, and not just because she’d organized this kitchen.
Just as Philippa predicted, Jehan had ridden off to the Holyrood fair with his mother. Where nothing else budged his half-brother, that wee slip of a lass had brought him back into life’s currents. However, in succeeding with Jehan Philippa created a dilemma Temric hadn’t foreseen when he brought her here.
He rubbed a weary hand over his brow. Jehan longed for a merchant’s life with the same fervency that Temric now longed to own lands and hear himself called by the title lord. It glowed in his brother’s face when he chaffered over the price of raw wool or handled finished material. One day, sooner or later, the boy would rightfully earn his place as master here. When he did, what then, would become of him and Philippa? As much as Temric hated Alwyna’s life, it was all that was left to him if he was to provide for the woman he loved and their child.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. For the first time ever, he found himself wishing it was in his nature to scream the way Jehan did. If he could, he’d shout a lung full against this trap of his.
Finishing the last of his wine, he set aside his cup and reached for the missive from Rannulf. Atop all his other worries, he hardly needed to see what brought his brother to set quill to parchment. He broke the seal, then unfolded the skin. Unlike his own tight, small hand, Rannulf’s script was free flowing as it wandered gracefully down the page.
To my dearest brother, Richard, now the idiot wool merchant of Stanrudde. Having heard no word from you, I must make assumptions as to your happiness and health. In my own case, I indeed find companionship with my dearest lady wife, greatly enjoying her company. If I have any complaint it’s that I’ve been forced to take into my custody John of Ashby’s now orphaned daughter Nicola, an untamed and rude hoyden. She presently resides in a locked storeroom at Graistan, as she’s twice attempted escape, even once having knocked a man senseless. As I intend our youngest brother, Gilliam, to hold Ashby as his own, he must wed this virago. Then again, such a fate is only rightful retribution for his youthful errors.
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, Rannulf’s letter continued, 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.
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.”
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 61
