Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  “Aye,” Rowena added. “Go before we drive you out. Your pride will ache mightily if word circles that you were chased, cut and bruised from Graistan’s women’s quarters.”

  “Damn you,” Roger bellowed, but his tone was now frantic. His eyes were so wide Philippa could see a ring of white around his irises. “I’m your husband. You cannot deny me.”

  Anger surged beyond any hope of control. “Come then, beloved,” Philippa taunted in a soft and goading whisper, “tear what you claim as your own from their grasp. But, what will you have when you’ve finished? I think I’d rather be dead than be your wife.”

  Shocked at such a challenge, her husband stared at her. His breath tore from him in what almost sounded like a sob. Hate, confusion, then hurt flowed one after the other across the handsome planes of his face. Without another word, he turned and stormed out onto the balcony.

  As a serving woman leapt to slam the door behind him, Rowena whirled on Philippa. “What have you done?” she cried in horror.

  Yet trapped in that strange state, Philippa only shook her head. “Nothing but say what needed to be said,” she replied, then frowned. “Why do you have no fear of Roger?”

  Blinking in surprise, Rowena made an annoyed and dismissing sound. “Why should I fear him? This is my home, not his. He was grossly in the wrong when he opened that door and he knew it. But, what’s true for me isn’t for you,” she added, worry filling her eyes. “Dear Lord, you nigh on dared him to kill you. Why did you do that, when I’ve told you I cannot protect you after the bishop makes his ruling?”

  Only then, did her sister’s words finally penetrate the numbness and anger in Philippa. Her knees began to shake, the knocking so bad that she begin to fall. Anne caught bracing arm around her to hold her upright. The maid’s expression was filled with fear for her charge.

  “Mother of God,” Philippa cried out in horror, “what have I done? God help me, but I vow I didn’t mean to say any of it. It was as if every bruise and scar he’s laid upon me screamed out for vengeance.” She caught Anne by the front of her gown, now nearly crying in panic.

  “It’s all my fault? Why did I ever agree to come with Temric? If only I’d stayed home, then I’d never have known that any of this existed.” She raised a hand to indicate not the rich home, but the folk who gathered around her in loving concern.

  “We changed you,” Rowena sighed, “and I don’t think your husband is as pleased by the difference in you as I am.” The worry on her sister’s face was tempered by growing respect.

  That Rowena might think highly of her steadied Philippa’s heart. New warmth followed, driving away the fear. She was right. What she’d said had its roots in Roger’s first blow. Even if Temric had never come for her, the day would have come when she finally told Roger no more.

  Rowena sighed in worry and turned to look at the door to the room. “Well, if Lord Lindhurst is here, so is Rannulf.” An almost fearful grimace bent her lips. “I ought to go tell him that I put Temric under guard before he hears it from another.”

  “But, I thought you said Lord Graistan bears a fondness for you,” Philippa cried as new worry for her sister filled her.

  “Indeed, he does,” Ilsa replied. “However, their fondness for each other can ofttimes be quite loud. Several women laughed at this.

  Rowena made a face, then retreated to her chair. “I think I’ll wait here for him to come to me.”

  As the women in the room began to retreat back into their chores, Anne laid a hand on Philippa’s arm. The maid’s bottom lip trembled. “Your husband’s pride doesn’t care much for what you’ve done,” the servant whispered in English. “I fear it’ll take a miracle to save you now. I’ve become fond of you. Might I pray for you?”

  This startling request woke a coldness in Philippa’s heart. The only response she could give Anne was the nod of her head.

  Anne sighed as if Philippa had granted her dearest wish. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I think me I’ll go directly to the chapel. Ilsa can finish your hair for you.” With that, she turned and hurried from the room.

  Yet trapped in that frigid stillness, Philippa watched her go. She was going to die. There was no escaping it. All that kept her from shattering was Father Edwin’s promise of sanctuary in a convent. He had to make it happen, for she could never return to Lindhurst.

  Footsteps marked someone’s path up the tower stairway. Temric watched the chamber’s closed door. A few moments ago the noise of a large party of riders had risen to his window from Graistan’s courtyard. That could only be the hunters returning. Which meant the one climbing the stairs was most likely his noble brother, Rannulf.

  Temric’s mouth tightened, his shoulders tensed as he readied himself for the shouting match sure to come. Rannulf would want him to leave the tower, something that Temric’s pride wouldn’t allow him to do. If Rowena deemed it necessary to confine him, then confined he would remain until the moment the bishop called.

  The door opened. Rather than Rannulf, it was Anne. Disappointment tumbled through Temric. He hadn’t realized how much he needed Rannulf to come, so he could vent the bile that stewed in him.

  His cousin stared in silence at him for a moment, then her face twisted and tears filled her eyes. All thought of his own needs dissolved. He came to his feet. “Annette,” he said, using her childhood name, “what is it?”

  “She’s going to die,” Anne replied, her voice quiet and sad, “just as my Petrona died.” Petrona, Anne’s daughter, had perished during a corrective beating administered by her husband.

  All breath left Temric’s lungs. He didn’t need to ask who Anne thought would die as Petrona had. The very thought of Philippa enduring such pain tore his heart in twain.

  “I’ve seen Lord Lindhurst and he is a dangerous man,” Anne went on. “He’s as near as threatened his lady wife that once she returns to him, he’ll beat her until she is no more. Lord, but I cannot watch it happen again. It’s worse for our poor lady, for she knows what she faces, while Petrona didn’t. Oh Temric, Lady Philippa told Father Edwin that if she speaks the truth to the bishop, her husband will lose the inheritance he expects. When this happens, he’ll be finished with her. He’ll kill her so he can remarry a dowered woman.”

  Her words sent rage tearing through Temric. In that instant the need to watch Lindhurst writhe beneath his blade ate up every other thought in his head. He pushed past his startled cousin. “Not if I kill him first.”

  “Nay, not you, ” Anne cried, whirling to grab him by the back of his capuchin as she tried to stop him.

  He yanked free of her hold, then hurtled down the stairs. “Not you, Temric,” she screamed after him. “If you interfere, they’ll kill you for it!”

  He paid her no heed. Once he reached the hall, he sprinted for the chapel, making his way through it to throw open his garrison door. As he strode into the big room, his men scattered before him, seasoned soldiers flying to the chamber’s corners to escape him. Temric stopped before his cot and threw open his armor chest. He ripped into his neatly packed gear, strewing shirts, robes, shoes onto his narrow bed.

  “Master,” the bravest among his men called, “we meant you no harm this morn. Please forgive us.”

  “Forgiven,” he barked without looking up from the chest. The big trunk was now empty all the way to two pairs of knitted metal hauberks and chausses that he kept at its base. It wasn’t there. “Jesu Christus, where is my sword?” he shouted.

  Behind him, men coughed and shifted. Walter came to kneel beside him. Temric’s bare sword lay across his open palms. “I was keeping it safe for you, master.”

  “My thanks,” Temric snarled as he leapt to his feet. Snatching the weapon from Walter, he thrust it back into its scabbard.

  The soldier remained on his knees as he looked up at his master. “What is it, master? Are we attacked?”

  “Nay,” he snapped, whirling to glance across the faces of the men who had more than once laid their lives into his hands. “
I would have your word, all of you. No matter what occurs with me in the coming hours, you’ll not move to stop me. When you’ve sworn, get the oaths of those who presently guard our walls.”

  Without hesitation, every man in the chamber lifted their voices to swear. Satisfaction was a wee flicker beneath Temric’s rage. Their loyalty to him rivaled their loyalty to Lord Graistan.

  “Good lads,” Temric said with a nod. “Now, I’ll see blood flow before this night’s done or die in the trying.”

  Offering them a quick salute, he left the garrison and returned to the hall. There was no sign of Lord Lindhurst in the big room, which could only mean the nobleman had retreated to his tent outside Graistan’s walls. He started toward the exit from the keep.

  Lady Benfield stood near the tall screens that guarded the massive doors. Her face, which he’d once thought so like her daughter’s, was now swollen and ragged from crying. When she saw him, she flew to his side. Temric ignored her as he strode for the door.

  She caught his arm in a desperate grasp. He tried to shake free of her grip. Rather than release him, she made herself a dead weight to halt him.

  He had no choice but to stop and pry at her restraining hands. “Leave go,” he commanded.

  “Nay, you must help me,” she replied, then yelped in pain as he pulled back her fingers. She released his arm only to catch him by the belt. “Nay, you cannot deny me, servant,” she shrieked. “You’ll help me!”

  Her arrogance penetrated Temric’s rage like nothing else could. With a growl of irritation, he grabbed her by the arm, then dragged her toward one of the painted linen panels that covered the wall. Yanking the curtain aside, he forced Philippa’s mother into the window alcove that lay behind it. The opening was as deep and as wide as a man was tall despite that the window it framed was nothing but a narrow slit. When the cloth fell back into place, they were private.

  He caught her by the shoulders and gave her a quick shake. “Help you? Why should I help one who has lied, forged, and most likely murdered to steal from Lady Graistan what belongs to her?”

  “Murder!” The word fell from her lips as half-sob and half-protest. Edith shook her wimpled head. “Nay, that I’ve never done. Would that I had the liver for murder, for if I did it’d be Lindhurst who felt the bite of my steel.” A quavering sigh left her. “Please,” she continued more softly. “There are those here who say you have a care for my Philippa. Please, help me free her from her husband.”

  Shock tore through Temric. He hadn’t realized how public his affection for Philippa had become. Shock deepened as he realized he’d come but a hair’s breadth of assuring Philippa’s death. If all of Graistan was talking about his caring for Lady Lindhurst, then it wouldn’t be long before her husband heard the same and charged both himself and Philippa with adultery. That would leave Oswald no choice but to admit what he’d seen in the glade. Against that, if Temric dared to raise his sword to the nobleman on his wife’s behalf, the bishop might well see that as proof of sin. It was a husband’s right to punish his adultering wife with a beating, even if that beating led to her death.

  Beside him, Lady Edith threw back her head and drew a bitter breath. “You’ll not help me either,” she said, her voice bleak. “There’s nothing I can do to save her,” she cried. “Lindhurst and his mother hold me in their foul grasp, knowing I cannot spill the truth of what we’ve done for fear of what they’ll do to my Philippa if I do.”

  Temric blinked away his shock as what she said penetrated. “And, what is the truth you dare not spill, madame?”

  “Bishop William of Hereford, where are you?” Margaret of Lindhurst’s bellow came from just outside their shielding curtain, the ring of her age-deepened voice placing her but a feet from their alcove. This was followed a scuffling and tapping as the old woman limped farther into the room. “That thief Graistan is keeping what is my son’s property from him. Come! Do as you’re sworn! Protect my son’s wife from those who would turn her against her husband.”

  “Bitch!” Edith shouted, launching herself from the alcove and through the curtain.

  Temric leapt to stop her, but she slithered from his grasp to throw herself onto Lindhurst’s dowager. Margaret’s crutch flew as the two women tumbled to the floor. As Edith closed her hands around the old woman’s throat, Margaret shrieked, her arms flailed. All activity in the room ceased as every soul turned to watch the scuffle.

  “You swore,” Edith shouted into the sudden silence, her hands tightening around the old woman’s wattled neck. “You swore to care for her as if she were your own! You said you’d retire to a convent and give to her Lindhurst’s keys. Instead, you’ve abused her and used her as no more than a servant.”

  Fearing that Edith might say too much, Temric grabbed Edith from behind and yanked her off her in-law. Margaret lay upon the floor, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. She looked ridiculous, her wimple askew, her stained gown the same one she’d worn the day Temric arrived at Lindhurst.

  “Let me go,” Philippa’s mother cried as strained and fought her captor.

  “I won’t, my lady,” Temric said, then put his lips close to Edith’s ear. “No more,” he whispered. “This can only make matters worse for your daughter.” The fight drained from her. She sagged in his embrace and began to cry.

  “Why did you attack me, you idiot?” Margaret coughed out, struggling back to her feet. “We’ve done nothing but apply careful discipline, and rightly so. It’s you who’s abused us. You passed off that poor excuse for a woman as fine goods. As for making her lady of our manor, never! I personally give thanks to God that she’s barren, or we might be stuck with another one as deficient as she to worry over. At least we’ll have this inheritance of hers as compensation for all we’ve suffered and all she’s cost us.”

  Content, now that she’d dismissed Edith’s claims, Margaret's gaze shifted to Temric. “Ho, so it’s you again.” As she noticed his bruised and torn cheek, she smiled in satisfaction. “Good. You already bear your first mark. You’ll take the rest soon enough. I’ll lay my complaint before the bishop at the same time I retrieve that dimwit who belongs to my son.”

  “Dimwit?!” Edith cried in protest, straightening in Temric’s arms. She scrubbed away her tears with the heels of her hands. “You’ll not speak so of my daughter.”

  “Who is it that calls for Bishop William?” Oswald’s voice rang out from the balcony that fronted Graistan’s private rooms. Temric’s noble cousin was accompanied by two of the bishop’s knights. In the hall, the silence grew deeper still. The only one who moved was Anne, who started away from the tower stairway toward Temric and the noblewoman he yet held captive.

  “Oswald, Lady Lindhurst has a complaint against me,” Temric called back, releasing Edith to take a step toward the balcony so Oswald would see him. “She also desires that Bishop William command Lady Graistan to release Lord Roger’s wife to him.”

  Margaret limped a few steps into the hall, her gaze trained on Oswald. “I’ll not speak with you, little man,” she snapped. “Only the bishop will serve me now.”

  Oswald’s expression froze. Behind him a door opened. It was Graistan’s lord who came to stand beside the cleric at the balcony’s edge. A full hand taller than his bastard brother, Rannulf of Graistan’s hair was dark, the harsh planes of his face giving him a dour look. Although Rannulf was younger than Temric by six months, the burdens of lordship made him seem older than their shared eight and thirty years. Just now, his gray eyes were ice cold as he watched Margaret.

  Temric glanced at the old woman. That Margaret had named Rannulf a thief said she was either wholly unaware of the dangerous game she played or a fool to think she could use insults against Graistan’s lord. Rannulf’s good name was one of his most prized possession.

  “Brother,” Rannulf called to Temric, his emphasis on word meant to convey that he recognized their kinship to everyone who listened, “who enters my hall to attack my kinsman, then dares to nam
e me thief?”

  “So, here at last is the famous Lord Graistan,” Margaret called back, giving Temric no time to respond. “Is your claim of relationship to this commoner meant to sway me from the punishment that is my right? You mistake me. He attacked me and I’ll have his hide for it. Now, I add another complaint to my list, this one against your lady. Lady Rowena has refused to give my son his wife.”

  Rannulf’s expression was utterly blank. In the hall the watching servants withdrew to the walls. They knew all too well the sort of rage this indicated.

  “Your son violated my lady’s private chambers,” Graistan’s lord replied, his voice even, his tone conversational. So quiet was the chamber that every word rang as loudly as a shout. “Be glad I don’t peel that boy’s skin from his bones for such audacity.”

  The old woman only snorted. “My son sought only to prevent nonsense and lies from being poured into his wife’s wee brain. Too late! You’ve already turned her against us. I think you’re trying to use her against us, trying to steal her inheritance from those who should rightly hold it.”

  “So, now I’m more than just a thief, am I?” Rannulf asked, raising a single brow. “Do you hear the poison this snake drips in my hall, cousin?” he asked, glancing at Oswald.

  “Cousin?!” Margaret fairly staggered back a step in shock, then whirled toward Edith. “Oswald of Hereford is Graistan’s cousin? Your lord husband gave his will to Graistan’s cousin, who is also the bishop’s man? Damn you, why didn’t you warn me of this before we put our claims before the bishop?”

  Satisfaction warmed Edith’s ravaged face. “I told you from the first I didn’t know who had my lord’s will,” she told the old woman. “But, don’t let this sudden revelation stop you from dealing more blows to your already crippled cause.”