Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  “You mean the limits you’ve laid upon yourself,” Edwin countered.

  Temric’s anger surged upward to fill him. “You don’t live the life. You cannot know what I endure. And, I thought you were going to listen, not interrupt or argue.”

  Edwin’s blue eyes hardened in impatience. “Aye, I’ll listen. God, Himself, knows there’s no point in arguing with you. You hear less than I do.”

  They glared at each other for a moment, then the old man’s face softened and he sighed. “I beg your pardon, lad. It’s been so long since you sought my counsel, I’ve forgotten how to treat you as a penitent.” Reaching out, the old man lay his twisted fingers atop one of Temric’s fists. “Speak, boy. I’ll listen.”

  At the priest’s touch, words poured from Temric in aching complaint. “Jesu save me, Father. When I met Philippa, all control and discipline shattered. Even the threat of heavenly wrath couldn’t stop me from tasting of the forbidden fruit. I now know God won’t be mocked. I should never have touched her, for I now want the one woman on this earth I cannot have. Father, she should have been mine.”

  “But, she cannot be,” the priest said gently. “I grieve for you, son. You cannot entertain any hope toward her.”

  Pain brought Temric to his feet. “I know it,” he bellowed, then turned on his heel to put his back to the churchman. “Is it not enough for you that my heart is breaking?” He strode for the exit from the priest’s alcove.

  “Wait,” Edwin called after him. “I haven’t given you your penance. Also, you must keep your distance from her while she resides at Graistan to prevent future sin.”

  “Nay,” Temric shouted, his back yet turned toward the priest and knowing full well that meant the deaf man could hear nothing he said, “I don’t want a penance. I have no contrition in my soul.”

  ***

  Temric hadn’t changed his mind about penance or contrition by midday the following day. Then again, neither had he caught even a glimpse of Philippa over that period. Today’s midday meal would offer him his first chance to confront temptation.

  As he entered the hall along with the rest of Graistan’s hungry folk to partake of the day’s main meal, the long hem of his best brown tunic brushed the tops of his better leather shoes. It wasn’t his brother’s wife who required such formal dress, Temric being only Graistan’s master-at-arms and not one of the knights Rannulf employed. Nay, it was Temric’s vanity that demanded he enter Philippa’s presence dressed in his best. Despite that, he couldn’t bear to look at the high table and see her reaction to his appearance. Laughing to himself over his strange behavior, Temric moved toward his customary place along the table almost convincing himself that nothing was any different today.

  After all, fires crackled and leapt atop the hall’s dual hearths as they always did, for even in the depths of summer this room remained cool and damp. The tables were draped with cloths and set with spoons and cups beside plates made from thick slices of stale bread. The hunters had emptied Graistan of its dogs, leaving behind only whelping bitches and their pups. As few as they were, they still snarled and snapped at each other as they staked out their territories for scraps. From the smells, it promised to be a fine meal, the rich aroma of fish stew, it being a fast day, rising above the yeasty scent of fresh bread.

  He had nearly reached his usual place at the top of the second table, when Lady Rowena’s cry of “Oh, there you are Temric,” sliced through the noise of so many people conversing with one another as they awaited the meal. Stopping, Temric turned toward the high table where Graistan’s noble family sat. Lady Rowena sat at the center of the table, her dark hair covered beneath a sheer, white wimple, the golden trim on her scarlet gown gleaming.

  “My lady,” he said to his brother’s wife, bowing slightly as he spoke, then offered a quick nod to young Arnult, the knight who held Graistan in its lord’s absence, however titular the position. Fair, his chin nigh on beardless, Arnult offered a nervous smile to the soldier in whose hands the true power lay. Against all his silent remonstrations that he shouldn’t, Temric’s gaze slipped to the woman at Rowena’s right.

  Philippa. The aqua and green of her gowns complimented her eye color. So fine was her head covering that it did nothing to disguise the soft line of her cheeks or gentle curve of her jaw. The braids escaping from her wisp of a wimple were as bright as polished gold.

  Temric caught his breath. Good God, but he’d thought her lovely when dressed in only rags. As their gazes met, a shy smile touched Philippa’s lips, that simple motion conjuring up the wondrous sensation of his mouth on hers. Suddenly, Temric wanted nothing more than to experience that pleasure anew.

  “Temric, you must sit with us today,” Lady Rowena said, the brusque command in her voice drawing his attention back to her. “My sister needs a partner for the meal. And, don’t give me any of that nonsense that you don’t belong at this table. Your right to sit here is the same as my lord husband’s.”

  Panic shot through Temric. Dear God, but could he sit next to Philippa for an hour’s time and not touch her? Impossible. Anger followed. What right did Rowena have to order him about like some servant! He had no chance to offer his refusal.

  With a quiet cry, Philippa bowed her head. “Nay, Rowena,” she said, her voice edged with pain, “you mustn’t command him to sit with me.”

  That Philippa believed herself so worthless a man needed to be commanded to sit with her punctured Temric’s pride and tore at his heart. “I am at your service, my lady,” he said to his brother’s wife, then strode for the high table.

  It wasn’t until after he’d sat upon the bench beside Philippa that he fully realized how difficult the meal was going to be. He was close enough to her that his every breath filled with the scent of her. Her gown was laced tightly enough to show him the full curve of her breasts. Temric forced his gaze to the thick bread trencher before him. Lord, not only was she her sister’s rival in beauty, but she was every bit as well made.

  Philippa lifted her head far enough to peer sidelong at him. “I’ll excuse you from this duty, if Rowena won’t,” she murmured. “She doesn’t know you’re sworn not to touch me.”

  “And, knowing that, would you rather I not sit with you?” he asked, his voice as low as hers. Could it be he’d read pain where in truth she but fretted for her soul’s safety, despite her flippant words of last even?

  Philippa straightened to look directly into his eyes. “Nay,” she said with a tremulous smile, “I want you to stay, fearing at the same time that you’ll be terribly disappointed in me. Our meals at Lindhurst aren’t ever so formal. I quake, uncertain what I remember of my mother’s lessons in etiquette.”

  Temric couldn’t help himself. He grinned, enormously glad that she wanted him to stay. “My lady, I hope you won’t be looking to me to be your tutor in manners. I usually sit with my men, who are a rough and surly bunch. Worries over etiquette bother them not in the slightest.”

  Her smile strengthened a little. “Thank heavens you aren’t judging me,” she sighed. “Now, I know I shall be safe with you.”

  Even as Temric’s heart leapt with joy at her trust, his soul screamed that she wasn’t at all safe with him.

  “Look what my sister has lent me,” Philippa continued, a new, happy lilt to her voice. She stroked the sleeve of her gown. “Aren’t these beautiful?”

  Temric fought to keep himself from laying his hand atop hers. He could see it now. The meal would pass with him tortured by her nearness even while her closeness fed his desires. “Aye,” he replied, incapable of offering more than that single word.

  “So I think,” she said with a tiny, wry laugh. “So, too, do I think me a sparrow pretending to be a peacock.”

  That she judged herself less than the beauty she was stung Temric. “Nay, not at all,” he retorted without considering what he said. “The gowns suit you well, indeed.”

  Bright color flushed her cheeks as she glanced at him. “My thanks,” she murmured, lowering her hea
d to once more gaze at the table before her.

  Temric could think of a multitude of things to say, but none of them were appropriate topics of conversation between an unmarried man and a married woman. The quiet between them grew thick, a bubble of silence in the rising noise level of the room. Left with nothing to do but wait for the meal’s service to begin, he savored the warmth of her body next to his.

  From the corner of his eye he could see the plait that crossed her shoulder. It gleamed in the light. Closing his eyes, he imagined touching it to find her hair silky soft beneath his fingers.

  Beside him, Philippa straightened with a start as if she felt his phantom touch. Startled, Temric’s eyes opened. Philippa had turned slightly on the bench to look at him, her gaze filled with an odd tangle of longing and fear. She cleared her throat.

  “So, if you are your father’s acknowledged bastard, why are you not knighted?”

  The question seemed almost to leap from her lips. A gasp followed, as if Philippa, herself, hadn’t been aware what she meant to say before the words were out. Temric stared at her, stunned by so personal a question.

  Philippa nibbled at her lower lip, as if she didn’t mean to say more, then determination fired in her pretty eyes. “Rowena says you’ve been offered lands and title, but won’t accept them. She says you’re foolish, but I think she’s wrong. I think there must be some great purpose in you to refuse such a gift.”

  The ache her words woke was ancient and deep. For a moment, he considered refusing to answer, but there was something in the way she looked at him that shattered his refusal. At last, he sighed. “My father promised me knighthood and lands, but when he died his will bore no mention of my name. I’ll accept from no one else what my father denied me. It’s no different than what your stepfather has done to you by revealing your birth and denying you the inheritance you expected.”

  “Ah,” Philippa breathed, the sound heavy with satisfaction. “Thus, do you see us as equals. I understand you better now.”

  So solemn was her pronouncement that amusement lifted one corner of his mouth. “Do you?”

  Her shrug was shy. “When you’re alone and unsupported, you clutch tightly to what is special within you, letting no one force you to be what you’re not.”

  Temric caught his breath. She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d reached inside him to grab his soul, then laid it upon the table for him to see. So stunned was he that he didn’t think to move as she reached out to touch her fingers to his arm.

  A smile flashed over her mouth. “You’re right. We’re equals, you and I. I can’t tell you how this stuns me, for I always thought myself alone. I’m very glad to learn that this isn’t so.”

  With her words, the need to enfold her in his arms exploded in Temric. This was followed by the need to feel her mouth beneath his again. He looked away, terrified that she’d see what filled his heart written upon his face. God help him, this had to end. No only was she married, she was his sister in the eyes of the law.

  In that moment he’d have left the table if he could have. Since he’d well and truly trapped himself where he sat, there was no choice. They needed to leave this discussion for something far less dangerous. Marshaling his blandest expression, he looked back at her. “So, my lady, how have you enjoyed your stay at Graistan thus far?”

  Philippa stared up at him, her eyes shifting as she studied his face. He’d expected to see hurt or pique at this sudden change in their conversation. Instead, something deep and secret flashed in her gaze, followed by a quiet smile. When, in the next instant, her smile widened, its bend was touched with a childlike innocence.

  “Oh, Temric, it’s wonderful here,” she sighed. “Everyone is kind and gentle. Even in my dreams I never imagined so grand a place as Graistan. Do you know my sister has her own private garden?”

  Temric laughed, enjoying her pleasure for her sake. “Aye, my lady, I did.”

  “But, of course you did,” Philippa said, rolling her eyes at her own foolishness, but even that wasn’t enough to stem her enthusiasm. “It’s a lovely garden, all flowers and fruit. I wanted to stay until the very last moment before the meal’s onset.

  “Actually”--her voice lowered as she leaned closer to him as if to share a word in confidence--“Rowena’s maid and I are plotting ways to keep my sister off her feet.”

  Her nearness made the need to embrace her return, all the stronger for having been denied. Blood sang in his veins. Aye and this time there’d be no steel to stifle sensation.

  She shot a quick glance toward her sister, then looked back at him. A conspirator’s smile touched her lips. “You see, my sister has been exerting herself too much and too soon after losing the babe,” she whispered.

  As her breath brushed his cheek, every inch of him screamed to touch her. Jesus God Almighty! He was either going to die or take her as his own, her husband be damned, before this meal was finished.

  “Pardon, Temric,” said Ham, the ewerer.

  Never had Temric been more grateful for an interruption. As Philippa gave a quiet gasp and straightened on her seat, Ham stepped between them, his basin and aquamanile at the ready. Temric let Philippa wash her hands first. By the time he returned Ham’s towel, Father Edwin was offering the prayer that marked the onset table service.

  As always, Graistan’s cook fed them well. Although it was only fish stew, the broth was thick and rich. Along with the green porray, a stew of grains and fresh greens, and fresh bread, it made for a satisfying meal. In his temporary role of gentle knight, Temric’s duty was to find the best bits from the dish for Philippa. This he did, laughing when she fairly moaned over each mouthful.

  “Are the dishes so plain at Lindhurst?” he finally asked.

  “Aye,” she said around what was in her mouth, then swallowed. “We’ve naught but what our garden supplies us. Might I have the cup?”

  Temric handed the wooden cup they shared to her, only to watch her set her mouth to its rim over the same spot he’d just used, the way lovers did. Heat rushed through him with desire’s return. As she realized what she’d done, sudden color stained Philippa’s cheeks.

  “Pardon,” she gasped in embarrassment, nearly fumbling the cup in her haste to set it down.

  Temric reached out to steady it, only to have his fingers accidentally close over hers. She gave a tiny cry and jerked her hand away at the same instant he opened his fingers. Left on its own, the cup toppled. Wine poured from it, the red liquid seeping outward to stain the white cloth.

  “Oh, Rowena, I’m so sorry,” Philippa cried out in true distress.

  Beside her, Temric laugh aloud. By God, he was worse than some lovesick youth, nervousness making his actions stupid! “See now, my lady, what you wrought when you put me where I don’t belong?” he called in amusement to his brother’s wife.

  Only when his words died away did he realize the room was deathly still. He looked out into a sea of familiar faces and found nearly every eye upon him. “What are you all looking at?” he demanded of Graistan’s folk. “Did you think me incapable of such clumsiness?”

  His words cut through the quiet, stirring spates of laughter in its wake. As the amusement died, folk turned back to their meals and the noise level reverted to its usual deafening din. Her face pale, her eyes wide, Philippa looked from Temric to her sister.

  “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 we
ll 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.