“Wretched commoner!” Lindhurst roared at this accusation of cowardice. “I’d cleanse the stain of your words from my soul with your life’s blood, but your sort isn’t deserving of so honorable a retort. No matter what mummery they’ve played out here this day, I’ll never recognize you as anything but what you are: a foul bastard.”
Lindhurst was too deep in rage to notice how both Rannulf and the bishop stiffened with his charge. Temric almost smiled. With care, he could goad Lindhurst along this path until the man had to trade Philippa to save himself.
“Do you challenge me?” Temric demanded. “If so, then you err in naming me craven commoner. That leaves me free to refuse you. Come, boy,” he filled the word with every ounce of insult he could, “offer me something worth my while, something that persuades me to meet you. What could be as precious to you as my life is to me?”
Savage intelligence flashed in Lord Lindhurst’s eyes. "If you prevail, I’ll set my wife in a convent. Either way, I’ll win. You die, I keep her; you live and you cannot have her. She’s useless to me now, anyway.”
Temric’s breath hissed from him in outrage. “Do you dare to name me adulterer atop false knight? On what evidence do you base your accusation?”
“Aye, Lindhurst,” Bishop William interrupted. “Call your witnesses to prove your charge. Then, no one can protest as you take this man’s life right here. If you’ve no witness or evidence, retract your accusation.”
“Proof?” Roger’s voice rose into a pained squeal. “What more do I need save that he has held my wife within his arms and now steps between us when I chose to chastise her for her defiance of me. Who but her lover would do so?”
“Where is your witness?!” the bishop bellowed.
Lindhurst’s mouth narrowed into a thin line, his jaw firming in stubbornness. Naught but silence reigned among the watchers. After a moment, Bishop William nodded. “Just as I thought. You have no witness. If ever there was a lady in need of a protector, it would be your wife,” he said, then turned to look at Temric. “Sir Richard,” he said.
A shiver crawled up Temric’s spine to hear his given name used in tandem with his new title. It sounded wrong and right all in the same instant. “Aye, my lord?” he replied.
“Swear to me,” the churchman demanded. “Swear that you’ve not committed adultery with this man’s wife.”
“On my honor and my brother’s life, I swear I have not,” Temric responded, his eyes half-closing as he spoke. Had there been more time and opportunity, would he have been able to speak these words?
Lindhurst’s face was a mask of hate. “I withdraw the charge.” His words were dark and heavy.
Bishop William gave brusque nod. “Then, at my command you meet on the morrow, two hours after midday. If Sir Richard prevails, Lady Lindhurst retires to a convent. If you, Lindhurst, prove the stronger, you may take his life on the field if you so desire.”
“As you will, my lord bishop,” Lindhurst replied, a wicked smile slipping across his lips to disappear in the next instant.
Temric caught his breath against it as he recognized his error. Roger wouldn’t wait for the morrow’s battle to make his decision. Nay, Philippa would die this night of her wounds, even if she had to be helped along the way into heaven. Desperate to stop him, he whirled to face the bishop.
“My lord, as Lady Lindhurst’s safety has become part of this challenge, I ask you to once again afford her your protection. She should be held in your custody until the issue is decided. Let her wounds be treated by one of Graistan’s healers.”
William’s gaze flickered from him to Lindhurst. A hint of disgust touched his stony features. “You’ll complain over this, no doubt,” he said to his liegeman.
Roger’s face hardened, all emotion leaving his expression as he recognized defeat. “Nay. Send whomever you want to treat her wounds, but they’ll do so without the help of my wife’s mother or any of Lord Graistan’s kin. I’ll have no further foreign interference with her.”
“If our kin cannot see her, then you and yours should be banned as well,” Temric retorted.
“As long as she stays within eyesight of this tent and where I can reach her, I care not,” Lindhurst replied. “I’ll not have Graistan shut its gates on her while you bleed your last, dog.”
“By God, Lindhurst!” Rannulf roared. “I’ve had enough of you and your arrogance. Still your insulting tongue, or by all that’s holy I vow I’ll tear it from your mouth!”
“Brother, I will do it for you,” Temric offered, his voice taut with simmering rage.
Lindhurst glared at them all. “You may keep her in the bailey,” he conceded, then whirled and stormed into his tent. In the next instant, he reappeared, dragging his wife’s unconscious form out of the cloth shelter. Leaving the wife he claimed so precious lying in a torn and muddy hollow of ground, he retreated into the tent.
Margaret followed. “What’s the matter with you,” she said, her voice raised enough that her words wafted through the fabric. “I’ll not waste my coin on some convent”--. Her tirade was interrupted by the sound of a hard slap. Only silence followed.
Temric’s heart ached. How was such uncaring cruelty possible? Dear God, but he wanted to take Philippa into the safety of his own arms, and bear her as far from her husband as possible. Ach, but with the charge of adultery hanging over his head, he dared make no move toward her.
“Jesus God,” Rannulf said, his voice filled with disgust as two of Graistan’s men leapt to lift the noblewoman from the mud. “You, Watt,” Graistan’s lord said, pointing to the man, “run ahead of them to the keep and tell my wife to send her most skilled healer to tend to her sister. Also tell Lady Graistan I command her to remain within doors. The rest of you see that my tent is set at the bailey’s far end and fitted out so this poor creature will have somewhere decent to lay her head.”
As the men scattered, Rannulf turned to their exalted guest. “William, your help is most thankfully appreciated.”
“And, most happily offered,” the bishop replied with a brief nod. “Now, I suggest we all repair to the hall. I think our dinner must be on the table with none but the dogs to enjoy it. What a waste that would be. Your cook is a marvel, Rannulf.”
Temric watched his brother stiffen slightly. The prelate was not so subtly hinting at what compensation would best repay his assistance in this matter.
In the next instant, Rannulf managed a quiet laugh. “I’ve suggested your interest to the man and he’s more than flattered. I’m certain he’d join your household in Hereford, if he might take his woman with him when he goes.”
William grinned broadly, immensely pleased. “But of course he should bring his family. They’ll be most welcome, most welcome indeed. Come, let’s eat.”
Rannulf held up a delaying hand. “Go ahead of me, telling my folk to begin the meal’s service without me. I need a moment to speak with my brother.”
As the prelate nodded and walked back toward Graistan’s postern gate, Rannulf gave a lift of his chin to dismiss the others. A moment later, Temric was alone with his brother. Rannulf grabbed him by the elbow and drew him away from Lindhurst’s tent. Within a step the loosely fastened belt about Temric’s hips opened. Their father’s sword dropped to the ground between them.
Temric reached for it, then caught back his hand and straightened to look at his brother. “How could you put this weapon on me,” he cried, pain filling his voice.
“It’s yours by right,” Rannulf retorted. “You are the elder.”
“The bastard,” Temric shot back.
“My brother. Richard--"
“Nay!” Temric shouted. “You’ll not call me by that name. Better the one my mother made for me, for it is neither Norman nor English, just as I am.” The bitterness burned within him, an open wound that never healed.
“Fool!” Rannulf gave him a quick shake, then leaned down to pick up the sword. Once again he took Temric’s arm, drawing his elder brother to the river’s edge,
far from any listening ears. “What made you do this insane thing?” he demanded. “You must have known I’d have no choice but to knight you to save your neck.”
Temric shot him a hot look. “Would that you hadn’t. If Lindhurst had stopped my heart I’d not have to imagine my future. Either I die on the morrow and she lives in torment with him, or I take the day and I live in torment without her. Dear God, she nearly committed suicide in there and did it happily to give you what you do not need--more properties!”
Rannulf grimaced in pain at this attack. Guilt tore through Temric. “Forgive me, Rannulf. I ache so that I know not what I say.”
“You love her,” his brother replied, his brow creasing in consternation. “But, how can this be? You’ve always held so tightly to your affections.”
Temric offered his brother a wry smile. “If I’ve held them it was for good reason. On whom was I to bestow my love? If I loved a commoner, I was loving beneath me. If I yearned for a noblewoman, she was out of my reach.” As he heard himself make this excuse, Temric stopped and sighed. There could be no excuses for his emotions. “Nay, the similarity of our births was only the lure that drew me to her. I love her because she’s herself.”
Shock filled Rannulf’s face. “But, she’s not only married already, she’s my wife’s sister.”
Rannulf’s protest combined with the pain of seeing Philippa broken and battered to send harsh words tumbling from Temric’s lips. “What, are the baseborn not allowed to love as foolishly as others do?”
“Sweet Jesu, Temric,” Rannulf spat out in impatience. “I tire of you forever wearing your birth like some badge of honor.”
“I am what my father made me,” Temric retorted. “If he’d wanted me to be more than his unrecognized by-blow, he’d have done as he vowed and remembered me in his will.”
Rannulf’s eyes narrowed and his jaw stiffened. “So, now I’ve given you what you once craved and said Papa forgot. Because it was me and not him who did the deed, have you been suddenly changed? Are you no longer the man you were an hour ago? Do your promises to Alwyna mean nothing?”
“You mock me,” Temric growled.
“I do,” Rannulf agreed, “and rightly so. You’ve always held yourself above the rest of us in your suffering, but yours is no greater than mine. We all endure our tribulations until we make our peace with them. It’s time for you to do just that. Too long have I indulged you in this hatred you bear for the man who gave you life.”
Temric jerked as his brother’s words stabbed into him. “I don’t hate him,” he protested. “I loved him. He betrayed my love by forgetting me.”
“Richard, he didn’t.” Rannulf’s voice gentled. “Papa only died too soon. If you must, hate our stepmother for she took Papa’s soul with her when she died. In grieving for her, he forgot us all. Our father’s death without a will betrayed not only you, but Gilliam. Our youngest brother is legitimate, yet left without lands or honors just like you. What of me? Papa's death robbed me of my youth, giving me at eighteen responsibility for all this”--his raised hand indicated Graistan’s keep--“and the raising of our younger brothers as well.
“He didn’t forget you,” Rannulf went on, catching Temric by the arms to stare into his face. “Nor will I allow you to say again that he did. You were no less his son than was I or Gilliam or Geoffrey. Tomorrow, take back your life. When you’ve done that, I’ll demand along with your oath that you acknowledge your father’s love for you.”
Releasing him, Rannulf shoved their sire’s sword into Temric’s hands and strode away. Temric watched him go, fingers opening and closing on the sheathed weapon. Once Rannulf disappeared into the postern, he turned to look down upon the roiling, gray water at his feet.
The familiar bend of the river teased from him an ancient memory. He saw himself as a wee child, leaning far over the bank’s edge to watch the water flow. The dirt beneath his hands and knees had given way. Down he’d tumbled, to sink beneath the murky surface. He could still remember his choking terror. Then, his father reached him. The child in Temric still reveled in the safety of his sire’s strong arms around him.
“Papa,” he muttered to himself, his eyes shut against the pain in his heart, “why did you forget me?”
Philippa cowered, lost and alone, and surrounded by darkness. Just when she could tolerate it no longer, a pale brightness woke far, far in the distance. The light grew, coming steadily closer, coming for her. As it surrounded her, it drove away her fear and loneliness, promising her eternal safety and everlasting freedom. Philippa opened her heart to it. Aye, this was what she craved.
A figure, a dark silhouette, appeared in the center of the light. Philippa gasped without sound. Was this God?
The figure extended his hand. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed over her, his heavy ring pressing into her flesh. Philippa frowned. Did God wear a ring?
“Don’t leave yet,” the man, his voice soothing and deep. Rather than enter her ears, his words filled Philippa from the inside out. “You must stay for Richard. He needs you.”
Confusion whirled in Philippa. Who was Richard and why should she stay for him? Then again, if this was God--and it must be He for how else could she hear words with her heart and not her ears?--if this were God, then she must do as He commanded.
In the time it took to think this through, darkness overtook her again. This time, its embrace was warm and safe. Moments? Hours? Days? Later, she sighed and sensed wakefulness. Voices eddied around her, rising and falling, the meaning of their words eluding Philippa.
Straining for consciousness, Philippa tried to move, only to jerk in startled reaction as intense pain shot through her head. A moan started from her lips. The pain worsened, making her stomach rise into her throat. Philippa gulped it back, then forced her eyes to open.
Fear tore through her. God help her, where was she? Rather than Lindhurst’s familiar reedy roof, it was cloth that shielded her from the elements, the walls shifting and moving with each breath of air. She lay beneath thick blankets on a pallet stuffed with fresh hay; the smell of the sweet grasses filled her nose.
“Look here. Silver pennies, eight of them.”
The female voice came from the right. Philippa carefully turned her head in that direction. Two women and a boy stood near an opening in the walls. Her eyes strained, the effort driving the pain in her head to unbearable, as she sought to recognize them. It was useless. She didn’t know who they were. Her eyes closed.
“Think on what you could do with such wealth,” the woman who’d spoken before continued. Within Philippa woke an image of a sour old woman, but no name rose to accompany the face.
“As if I’d live long enough to spend them.” This was the other woman speaking. No image woke in Philippa with this woman’s words. “Nay, I think it’s murder you plan and I’ll have naught to do with that for any price.”
“Murder?” protested the first. “Nay, you mistake me. I’d only make certain she comes home with us. It’s not right that a bishop seeks to separate man from wife.”
“So, what is it you require of me?” replied the second.
“That your boy, here, steals her away while my son battles the bastard. My folk will be waiting for her a furlong into the chase just beyond the fork in the north road. All you need do is confirm whatever I say on the morrow. Oh, and I’ll need to bruise you, else they’ll not be convinced.”
“Eight pennies to be bruised and speak a few words? And, he need only spirit her out of keep and town? There must be more to it than that.” Suspicion filled the second woman’s voice.
“Nay, truly. That’s all I require,” the first protested, but there was something in her voice that made Philippa want to call out a warning to the second that she was right to suspect. Fatigue nibbled at her consciousness. Even as she fought to stay awake, the need to return to the warm and painless unconsciousness began to drag her downward into its blackness.
“Hmm,” said the second woman.
“I’ll think on your offer.”
“Nay, you decide now. If you don’t want these”--the metallic jangling of coins made Philippa catch her breath in agony; the sound pierced her brain like a knife--“I’ll find someone else and you’ll be the poorer.”
“I’ll do it, but you’ll pay me all eight for my part only. If you want the boy’s help, as well, you’ll have to pay him what he demands.”
“Cheat!” Although uttered no louder than a whisper, the word was almost a curse in its harshness.
“Hardly so. You need us. Only by my word will your tale be believed. Isn’t that worth the cost?”
“Aye, so it is,” came the bitter agreement. Again, the coins jangled.
The sound pierced Philippa with such intensity that she released her hold on consciousness and drifted into a place where there was neither sound nor pain.
***
Sleep was impossible, especially with the weight of so many words trapped in Temric’s heart this night. The need to spill what ached in him into a friendly ear finally drove him from his cot. He made his way out of the barracks and into the chapel.
As he passed through the body of the chapel, Temric shot a glance toward the altar. Lady Edith yet lay prostrate before it, just as she had since retreating to Graistan’s keep after her daughter was taken into Rannulf’s tent in the bailey. Earlier, she’d been crying along with her prayers. Now, there was something in the even rise and fall of her back that suggested sleep.
His gaze slipped to the altar’s top. Again, a single candle lit its surface. Outside the chapel windows the night sighed with a damp, cool gust of wind. The candle’s flame flickered wildly, then steadied. This time, there was nothing eerie or strange in the motion.
It was an emotion Temric didn’t wish to name relief that filled him. Last night’s odd vision had been nothing but exhaustion. Then, within himself, he caught the sense of presence where there shouldn’t be one. Shuddering against his suddenly overactive imagination, he climbed the chapel steps to stand in the doorway to the hall.
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