Just as he’d seen his father’s hand the night before, he recognized the feel of Henry of Graistan’s arms around him. Temric stiffened in terror’s start, but the sensation was so familiar he couldn’t retain the emotion. This was his father.
Suddenly, a waterfall of memories flowed through him. Scenes drawn from his own life flickered before his mind’s eye, one after another, but from another’s perspective. His father’s?
There was his unexpected dunking in the river, learning to ride, his first sword and how he’d used it to drive holes through all the curtains in the hall. The recall of how he’d bested Rannulf at quintains the first time they’d ridden at them filled him, but the pride he felt within him at this memory wasn’t his own. Even in death, Henry gloried in his eldest son’s triumph.
Without word or voice, his father spoke eloquently on. This time, Temric knew a shaft of pain and saw his stepmother on her deathbed, something he, himself, hadn’t witnessed. The grief that flowed from his father wasn’t for an adored wife’s passing. Rather, Henry mourned his own failure to rise above the blow her death had dealt him. It was a father crying for his sons; he’d quit life while they still needed him.
Especially one, the one who’d most depended on him, needing more love, more assurance, and more attention than all the rest. Temric’s breath caught in a near sob. In his mind, Richard FitzHenry, son of Graistan, lay his head upon his departed father’s broad shoulder and gave Henry the forgiveness he craved.
Temric awoke the next morning filled with a strange new lightheartedness. Against it, he eagerly sought out the dusty trunks in Graistan’s storerooms. In one he found the treasure he’d thought never to claim: the better suit of mail, the stuff created for his knighting. Setting two of his men to clean the mail and check its knitted metal links for chips or breaks, a necessary chore considering how long it had been stored, he bathed, then visited Father Edwin.
It was a strained confession. What sense was there in admitting sin that might never be committed if he lost his life at Lindhurst’s hands? Humbly accepting his penance and absolution, Temric left the chapel to cross the hall and step outside.
As he stood on the open porch atop the keep’s exterior stairway, the morning’s mist settled softly onto his shoulders. Overhead, clouds scudded across the sky, dragging their ragged gray skirts behind them. He drew a slow breath, welcoming the day’s cool moistness even though it meant the grass would be slick. The sun’s heat was no boon to an armored and battling man.
Content, he retreated back behind Graistan’s massive doors to break his fast, only to find himself the center of attention. Folk from every corner of the castle came forward to offer their prayers and wishes on a successful challenge, along with congratulations on his knighting. There wasn’t a man or woman among them who believed he’d have any trouble dispensing with Lindhurst. Temric returned their confidence with his own, trading jests and taking their advice with mock seriousness.
When he finished eating, he returned to the garrison to don his armor. He was wearing his gambeson, the heavily padded woolen undertunic that protected his skin from his mail when Peter appeared in the doorway. His youngest common brother’s broad face was marked with a frown.
“Temric, can we speak?” he asked, then caught himself. “Pardon. I mean Richard.”
Temric smiled at him. “Richard, Temric. You may call me whatever you prefer as I am comfortable with both.” The last comment slipped from his lips unbidden, all the more startling when Temric realized he’d spoken the truth. He drew the lad to a quiet corner of the room where they wouldn’t be overheard. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay. I but came to tell you all is ready,” Peter said, his voice low as the carefully weighed words fell from his lips. “Those you sent to go have gone, the cart we’re to use is repacked, and the oxen harnessed. My own ass is ready. I’ve given Anne two pig stomachs, full up of blood. She wants to speak with you, waiting at the gate for your descent into the practice yard.” Now, he eased even nearer. Alwyna’s youngest son’s frown deepened as his dark eyes widened. “But, Temric, what am I to do if you don’t take the day?” He barely breathed these frightened words.
Temric gave a snort of amusement. “You make is sound as if I face my execution. Do you think me so feeble or ill-trained? That arrogant little lordling will find it right difficult to land a blow. However,” his voice lowered now into the realm of secrets, “should the worst happen, beg our mother in my name to care for Philippa as if she were your sister.”
With that said, he gave his brother’s cheek a pat and let his voice rise back to its normal tone. “Hey, lad. Don’t look so glum. I’ll win, although it’ll be a hard morning’s work.” He smiled as he spoke. Aye, it would feel good to swing his sword at Lindhurst as equal against equal. His pride in this day’s victory would ease the pain of the honor he’d soon forsake.
“Come,” he said to Peter, putting an arm over the lad’s shoulders, “do me the honor of helping me prepare for this. I need to be off to the practice yard to loosen my limbs.”
With Peter’s aid, he struggled into his mail shirt, pulling and tugging it into place over his padded shirt. The metal leggings were next, held in place atop his chausses with leather garters. Once his boots were on, Temric donned his leather cap, then pulled up his metal hood. The last garment to don was a surcoat, a sleeveless sheathe with little purpose save to identify a knight’s house. Today, for the first time ever, Temric wore blue, just as all Graistan’s other knights did. Atop it, he buckled on his father’s sword belt and sword. As with the surcoat, this he did to honor his father, just as Rannulf had requested. When it came time to meet Lindhurst, he’d discard it in favor of his own trusted weapon.
Bearing his helmet and his gauntlets with him, Temric descended from the keep to the courtyard. After bidding his eldest brother good fortune, Peter turned away to claim their cart, while Temric continued on to the inner gate. Just as Peter had warned, Anne waited for him there shielded by the shadowy bulk of its opening, where their meeting would be free from prying eyes.
Temric stopped beside her. “So, is your patient well enough to tolerate what lies before her this day?” he asked quietly, only to find himself awaiting her answer in breathless worry.
Anne’s smile was broad. “She is, praise God. Not so long ago she even spoke to me, although she doesn’t remember who I am.”
Where Anne seemed pleased, Temric’s heart plummeted. “She’s forgotten all?” Him, as well?
His tone made Anne wink at him. “Are you so worried, then? Don’t be. If she’s forgotten you, it’s only temporary. When the head takes such a blow as she experienced, it joggles all the things within it. Time will right her thoughts. Best you concentrate on your own contest.”
“A good warning, indeed,” Temric returned with a smile, then he lay a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Now I have one for you. The potential of danger to you came to me in the midst of the night. Although I pray I’m wrong, it’s possible Lindhurst’s men might come looking for you after you’ve said your piece to the bishop. Lindhurst won’t want to leave a witness who might someday reveal what he’s done. Promise me you’ll run for Graistan’s safety, once your performance is ended.”
Anne gave a single nod. “So, I’ve planned, having considered the possibility long before you did. But, if I must hide, it won’t be for long. Otto,” she said, speaking of Graistan’s cook, “told me this morn that the bishop leaves Graistan this day. Where the bishop goes, so goes Otto and me with him.”
“This pleases you?” Temric asked, not certain if he should congratulate or commiserate with his cousin.
Her smile was bittersweet. “I’ll miss Graistan, but I’d miss Otto more. Aye, I’m content. Now, vow you’ll send word to me at Hereford. I swear I’ll stew in worry until I hear from you that our sweet lady is safe.”
“That I shall do,” Temric said, placing his hand upon his hilt as he spoke to make his words more than a promise. “Good for
tune on your new life.”
“And, you, in yours,” she replied, then slipped out of the gateway and started across the bailey.
He watched her enter Rannulf’s tent, then waited a moment longer before stepping from the gate. Starting toward the practice yard at the opposite end of the bailey, he rolled his shoulders as he walked. The mist had become light rain, cool against his skin, the smell fresh and clean. Two knights were already sparring on the grass, the steady beat of their swords jarring against the soft quiet of this gray day. Although Rannulf’s back was to him, Temric knew his brother, while the other man wore Hereford’s colors.
Stopping at the far end of the yard, Temric watched his brother relentlessly drive the other knight across the field. At last, the bishop’s man slipped and dropped to one knee. Rannulf helped him rise. Yet too far to hear the words spoken between them, Temric could tell Rannulf suggested a rematch. The bishop knight’s bow said he was begging off. As the man turned and strode away, Graistan’s lord shot a bare glance over his shoulder, the look just enough to show him a man stood behind him.
“Arnult, come spar with me,” Rannulf panted out as he began to turn toward the one who waited. “I need the exercise to vent my rage over what lies ahead.”
Temric smiled. Dressed as he was, there was naught but a small circle of his face visible. It was no wonder Rannulf mistook his brother for his castellan. “Arnult, is it now?” he chided. “Last night, my name was Richard, the day before, Temric. Really, Rannulf. Settle on one and stay with it.”
“Temric!?” Rannulf cried in surprise, yanking of his helmet to better see his brother. “My God, but I didn’t recognize you dressed as you are. You’re wearing your mail and,” his voice deepened with emotion, “his sword.”
“And, why not?” Temric replied, coming to a stop before his brother. “It’s mine. Didn’t my father will it to me with his words?”
Rannulf’s grin was brilliant. “So, he did. Then, you’ve come to terms with what I did to you yesterday?”
“Aye, although it took me a good part of the night,” Temric replied, still surprised by the peace that filled him after his ghostly encounter. “Did you know the dead can speak?” The words were out before he could stop them.
Rannulf’s smile dimmed. “You jest.” There was a note of horror in his voice.
Temric shrugged, but even as he considered trying to explain to his brother what he’d experienced, he knew Rannulf would never understand. “I mean, they speak in our thoughts and remembrances of them. You were right. I accused our father of doing something he hadn’t. Henry of Graistan loved me, and loves me still. Come what may, I accept this knighthood as my birthright.”
Here, he paused, for what came next bore two messages, one obvious, the other hidden. “I hope you’ll understand why I must refuse the lands you’d give me. The promise I made my mother must come first. To that end, I’ll be leaving for Stanrudde as soon as I’m finished with Lindhurst. Don’t look for my swift return. I need time to come to an acceptance of this change in me, so I pray you’ll not come chasing after me.” Here, he stopped, hoping his sudden pause would encourage Rannulf to make connections beyond the spoken words.
“Chase after you?” Rannulf said with a frown. After a moment, his brows began a slow rise as he puzzled out the second message. When he had it, dismay darkened his pale eyes. “So, you’ll leave that broken bit of a girl behind you without another thought, would you?” However casually uttered, Rannulf was testing his newborn conclusion.
“What choice have I?” Temric replied. “She’s another man’s wife.” To any ear save Rannulf’s Temric knew his voice would have sounded resigned and defeated.
Rannulf stiffened in reluctant understanding, then shrugged. “I’ll not ask how you intend to accomplish what you plan.”
“That would be best,” Temric agreed.
“Hare brain,” his brother breathed, then continued more loudly, “draw that blade and let’s see what it sounds like after all these years of idling. I need the exercise. My back yet aches after my fall at Ashby and I cannot tolerate being sore.”
Temric smiled, finding strength and support in Rannulf’s tacit acceptance of what he meant to do. “Is this your reason for braving the damp and battering at William’s man when you could be lying abed with that wife of yours?”
His brother grinned. “Of course. What other reason could there be?”
“What, indeed,” Temric scoffed. With that, he drew his father’s sword and they met, striking out in a pattern made familiar through long years of practice. He enjoyed the rote stretch and reach of his muscles as he matched his brother stroke for stroke. Then, Rannulf shifted right with an odd sinuous movement. Caught unaware, Temric automatically followed, only to find Rannulf’s sword tip touching his breast. With a gasp, Temric took a quick backward step.
Rannulf laughed. “William’s man, Ralph, has had the pleasure of meeting Lindhurst during a melee. He mentioned last night that Lord Roger has but one unusual move. I asked him to show it to me. Now, come again, and I’ll teach you what it is.”
***
The crowd of townsfolk and servants exploded in a roar of dismay as Temric fell. Panting, he lay prone on the slick grass, his shield atop him. A quick look to the side showed him his sword, just out of hand’s reach. There wasn’t time to snatch it before Lindhurst brought his blade down upon the shield’s surface with a blow so powerful it jarred Temric’s teeth.
As Lindhurst drew back his sword for another stroke, Temric rocked to the side and caught his weapon’s hilt. There was time enough to pull his arm back into the protection of his shield, then brace for the impact of his opponent’s sword. Again, his teeth rattled and again, Lindhurst lifted his arms for another blow.
Using the dampness on the grass, Temric slid around, swinging the flat of his blade at Lord Roger’s legs. He caught his opponent mid-calf. Lindhurst’s feet went out from under him. The younger man dropped to the ground with a bellow of pain, then breathed in gasping sobs
Knowing it would be a moment before either of them rose, Temric relaxed against the sod. What a blow to his dignity! Better if Lindhurst had knocked him down than to simply slip. What with that cup of wine he’d spilled the other day, people might think him clumsy.
Such foolishness was enough to make Temric grin, the movement making his injured cheek ache. Now, wasn’t that just like a lad newly knighted? Only, he wasn’t a beardless boy pretending skill where he didn’t own it. He was still smiling as he came to his feet and shook the stiffness from his legs.
Lindhurst came scrabbling up after him, his feet slipping and sliding in his haste. In his vulnerability the nobleman struck out in a half-hearted attack as he rose. Temric caught the blow on his blade and shoved back the man back. As Lindhurst stumbled away into the center of the field, Temric followed, glancing behind him as he went. Walter was at the front of the crowd, edging his way nearer to Temric.
Their gazes met. Graistan’s soldier gave a lift of his chin. At this prearranged signal, Temric’s breath left him in an exhilarated sigh. Success! Philippa was his.
Braced by this knowledge, he turned with grim pleasure toward Lindhurst. Until now, he’d been hoarding his energy, prolonging this match to give his plan time to succeed. Now it was time to end this.
Stroke for stroke, they met. Once, twice, then a third time, the petty landholder tried his ruse, but Temric wasn’t lured. Just as Temric expected with each time Lindhurst’s ruse failed Lord Roger’s rage grew. Temric heard it in the way the younger man gasped for breath and saw it in the growing tenseness of his mouth. Hoping to add spurs to that anger, Temric smiled, a wide, confident grin. It worked.
With a raging growl, Lindhurst threw himself at Temric in an open, frontal attack. “Down, damn you,” he screamed as he came.
Temric feinted right, using his opponent’s own move. He meant it as nothing more than another goad, but much to his astonishment Lindhurst followed. Taking the advantage it offered, Tem
ric’s blade flashed in above the man’s shield and crashed into Lord Roger’s left shoulder. It wasn’t a killing blow, this not being a fight to the death on his part, but he felt the iron links give way and knew he’d drawn blood.
Shouting in pain, Lord Roger lurched to backward. As his left arm drooped, his shield sagged. It was an easy matter for Temric to send the man’s weapon flying from his fingers.
“Yield,” he demanded.
“Nay!” Lindhurst bellowed, nigh on sobbing in frustration as he leapt to grab up his sword.
“You must yield,” Temric said, his voice calm, his tone reasonable. “Your shield arm is crippled. You’ll have no defense against me.”
With his sword again in hand, Lindhurst whirled on him, his mouth drawn in a grimace. “Do me no favors, commoner,” he spat out, lifting his blade. “I’ll see you in hell before I yield.”
Backing away from the injured man, Temric looked toward the dais, naught but a few planks of wood raised on braces, across the field. The bishop sat in Rannulf’s chair atop it, his hooded hawk at his side. Rannulf and Oswald stood beside him. Only when William of Hereford nodded, did Temric turn to meet Lord Roger’s challenge.
It was no longer a contest. Pain made the younger man careless. His blows went wild.
Ready to end the match, Temric landed a resounding blow against his opponent’s shield. Lord Roger’s knees buckled. Sobbing, he dropped to the ground, his shield sliding off his now numb arm.
“Roger!” Margaret screeched, dashing across the field to her son’s side. Her gown was torn and muddy, her wimple askew.
“Leave me alone, old woman,” her son cried out, shoving at his dam.
On his dais the bishop raised his hand. “I declare this match at an end and all honor satisfied. As the victor, Sir Richard of Graistan may keep his life as his own and Lord Lindhurst will relinquish his wife to God’s Holy Church as he has vowed.”
At the churchman’s words, Margaret whirled to face the dais. “My lord bishop, Lady Philippa is gone!”
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