As if he recognized what ached in her, his face softened. “There’s nothing for you to fear here, not even that,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile. “Now, go upstairs into your sister’s protection. After you’ve greeted her, tell Lady Rowena I’m returned and won’t be joining the hunters.”
There was such respect in his voice that Philippa’s heart steadied. He was right. There was nothing for her to fear here, not as long as he resided within the keep’s walls.
“Thank you,” she whispered, wishing there was some way to make him know she was grateful for his caring.
With a brief flash of an answering smile, he nodded then turned on his heel and strode across the hall’s width. Philippa watched him until he reached a doorway in the room’s side, then glanced at the maid beside her. Anne’s mouth was ajar, her eyes wide. When she realized she was being watched, she snapped her mouth shut.
“This way, my lady,” the maid said, starting for the stairs.
Philippa followed her up, then out onto the balcony which fronted the private chambers, shooting breathless glances over its edge at the hall below her. When they reached the final door, Anne threw it open, then stepped aside so the noblewoman might enter before her.
Her hands laced against a sudden surge of shyness, Philippa stepped through the portal and glanced about the chamber. Here, narrow windows had been hewn from the stone of the west and south walls, allowing ribbons of daylight to stream through them and illuminate the chamber. In the brightness, the walls glowed, having been painted blue with yellow lines forming a crisscross pattern upon their faces. Women filled the room, some using distaffs to turn wool into yarn, others sewing finished homespun into garments. Like the maid behind her, all of them wore white undergowns beneath green overgowns.
That was, all save one. She sat at one side of a small chess table, the table placed near the windows where the light and air were best. Her gown was a pretty blue, while the thick plait that descended beneath her white wimple’s hem was as glossy and dark as a raven’s wing. She was studying her pieces while her opponent, a small boy with dark hair that glowed coppery in the light, bobbed and shifted on his stool across the table from her.
As the occupants realized they had a visitor busy fingers stilled and the low thrum of conversation died away into silence. The woman at the table looked up, a tiny frown marring her smooth brow. Philippa bit back a smile.
“Rowena,” she said in simple greeting.
In the fourteen years since she’d last seen her sister, much had changed, but much had stayed the same. Rowena’s slender jaw line, the upward tilt of her eyes, the short, straight nose, these were features they shared in common with their mother. Indeed, the only sign of Lord Benfield, Rowena’s sire, was his in daughter’s black hair and the bright blue color of her eyes. Dark circles, speaking of illness, clung beneath her eyes and there was an invalid’s pallor to her cheeks.
Concern woke. “Are you ill?” Philippa asked in quiet concern.
“She’s not,” the boy answered swiftly in Rowena’s stead. “She was to have a baby, but now it’s gone. That makes her cry and be tired. Papa says I’m not to pester her.”
“Jordan!” Rowena cried in warning, but the chide lacked teeth when her voice trembled and tears welled in her eyes. She bowed her head, as if seeking to hide her emotions. When she again raised her head, her expression was smooth and quiet save for the confusion that marked her brow.
“I am Rowena, Lady of Graistan. Who are you?”
It was the tone of challenge in her sister’s voice that made laughter bubble up in Philippa. Despite her sadness over the lost child, Rowena was still every inch herself. “Oh, say you haven’t forgotten me, when the years haven’t dimmed my memory of you. Truly, I shan’t be content until you tell me how it is you’re here, lady of this glorious place, when you should be in some convent, veiled and serene.”
Astonishment flashed through Rowena’s eyes. “Philippa?” she gasped.
“Aye, ‘tis me,” Philippa cried, her happiness so great it propelled her across the room. She knelt before her sister, then placed her hands upon her sibling’s knees. “Rather than grieve so over your babe, take comfort in knowing your womb isn’t lifeless like mine.”
The confusion in Rowena’s eyes deepened, even as she blinked away a new set of tears. “Who are you?” she repeated, a different sort of ache in her voice this time. “You cannot be my sister.”
“Lady Wren, it’s your move,” the boy Jordan called out, toying with one of his men on the game board as he spoke.
Rowena looked at the child. “I fear our game must end now, Jordan. This is Lady Lindhurst, newly come to our home. As she and I must speak, why don’t you run to Gareth and tell him to saddle Scherewind for you?”
With a scream of glee, the boy launched himself off his stool toward the door, only to stop and return more slowly to Rowena’s side. “Thank you, Lady Wren,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, then once again spun toward the door and bounded out of the room. As if his departure were a sign, the women in the chamber returned to their chores, keeping their voices low as they spoke, so they could listen to their betters talk.
“Wren?” Philippa asked with a laugh when he was gone, easing back to sit on her heels. “What sort of name is that? Who is he, your son?”
“My stepson,” Rowena replied, waving her half-sister to the stool the boy had vacated. As Philippa settled herself upon it, Lady Graistan continued. “He calls me Wren because his tongue snarls when he tries to say Rowena.” Her affection for another woman’s child glowed in every word.
Then, she paused to stare in bewilderment at her sister. “How can we sit here speaking as if we were loving sisters, when you seek to steal from me my inheritance? Don’t dare pretend otherwise. Bishop William received a petition from you as well as my mother requesting he set aside my father’s will.”
Shock tore through Philippa. “John of Benfield is dead?!” Her heart twisted so sharply that she shut her eyes against it, then bowed her head in swift prayer. Her family was all she could call her own, thus the loss of any member was almost more than she could bear.
“When?” she asked without lifting her head. “Why didn’t Maman send word? Oh, that I could have seen him one last time,” she breathed this last. As the shock ebbed, the rest of what Rowena said penetrated.
Philippa straightened, her eyes wide as she looked at her sister. “I sent no petition, not to a bishop nor even a priest. What inheritance? There’s nothing to share between us save Benfield’s manor house.” Even as the words left her lips, she knew she was wrong. “Ah, but there must be more than that, or I’d not find you married and installed in so grand a place as Graistan.”
Rowena’s brows lifted slowly as she studied her poorer sister. At last, she shook her head. “You truly know nothing of this.”
“Nay, nothing at all,” Philippa assured her, “but I want to know. Tell me. If someone has spoken in my name, I have the right to know who and why,” she said, only to startle herself with her forcefulness.
The consideration deepened in her sister’s eyes. “The inheritance comes through our mother’s sire. Last year he died after outliving all his sons and leaving no heir but our mother. By the dictates of his will, his rich holdings pass through her to her legitimate children.
“Our father”—Rowena paused—“my father wrote a will before I was wed in which he named you our mother’s bastard, making me his only heir. Now, your husband and our mother protest your disinheritance, claiming that you’re legitimately born of my father, just as I am. They seek to take half, if not all, of what should be mine.”
Philippa sighed in understanding. Here’s how Temric knew of her bastardy. Her grandsire’s death had freed Rowena’s sire from his vow of secrecy with regard to her birth. Here, too, was why Margaret had been so desperate to prevent her daughter-by-marriage’s departure from Lindhurst. Only as long as Philippa stayed under their control
could they be certain what she might say.
A smile touched her lips. By God, but for the first time in twelve years, it wasn’t she who quaked because of them, but they who trembled in their boots over what she might hold within her. If she spewed the truth, Roger would be revealed as a liar and thief.
Her sense of power evaporated. Aye, but if she told the truth, Roger would surely kill her. Then again, if she held back what she knew to be true, he might forget that Temric had touched her. Although she’d save herself, lying meant Rowena would lose what was rightfully hers. For want of her promised dowry would Lord Graistan set aside his impoverished wife to take another, richer bride?
Fear for her sister lifted in her heart. Philippa looked at Rowena. Sweet Mary, Lord Graistan might well kill his wife for this. God knew, Roger would. As confusion threatened to tangle her in its tentacles, Philippa folded her hands in her lap and studied her twined fingers. “Against this news, I’m surprised you didn’t throw me from your chamber when you saw my face. Who would happily greet a thief?”
“Say you’ll not support our mother in this,” Rowena begged, then before Philippa could respond, contradicted herself. “Nay, say nothing. It isn’t fair of me to ask anything of you. Instead, I should thank you for coming to me without hauteur or scorn, when I expected only hate for what I’ve gained through your abasement.”
“Scorn and envy? Me?” This was so strange that Philippa forgot all else to look at her sister. “Never,” she declared only to realize this was a lie. She grimaced. “Oh, well, I did envy you once, but that was long ago.”
A sharp shake of her sister’s dark head negated this possibility. “That isn’t possible. It was you who had the pretty gowns, the lessons, even a cot to yourself. I had nothing, not even my mother’s or my father’s love.”
“But you were free,” Philippa retorted in growing surprise, “while I was forever trapped inside. No one stood over you saying that if you weren’t obedient or didn’t make perfect stitches, sing on key or eat just so at the table, no man would have you to wife. I wanted so badly to run with you, but I never dared Maman’s ire. She didn’t even like it when I spoke of you.” Reaching out, she caught her sister’s hand in her own as if a touch might ease the sting of her cowardice.
Pain marred Rowena’s beautiful eyes. “Do you know where I went when I ran? Into the woods where I could pretend the birds were my father and the flowers, my mother. I often lingered past dark to see if I was missed, but I never was.”
Philippa stroked her sister’s arm, the fine linen of Rowena’s sleeve smooth to the touch. “How could you have suffered such loneliness when you had so many companions? Whenever I could, I pushed Maman’s trunk under that tiny window in her chamber. From there I could watch you and the other children.”
The past caught Philippa in its hold and pulled her into her memories. “I remember”—her smile widened as she delighted in the unfolding recall—“I remember a time when that big boy was taunting you, saying you weren’t truly the lord’s daughter, just another serving wench’s brat. You were so angry you knocked him down, then leapt on him, pummeling, biting, and scratching. All he could do was scream for help, while three other children tried to pull you off him. I was very proud of you.”
“Dickon,” Rowena murmured, her eyes half-closed as she slipped back into the past with her sister. “He was the miller’s son and thought himself better than the rest of us for it. I’d forgotten both him and how much I enjoyed beating him,” she said in satisfaction, then her face sobered. “How I dreaded your arrival. Instead, here you are with cherished memories of me. Of me!” she repeated, as if such a thing were incomprehensible.
“Oh, Rowena,” Philippa cried out, reaching over the table to throw her arms around her sister and hug her close. “Why should I not? You are my only sister.”
Rowena released her to lean back with a frown. “God help us, look at you! You’re dressed in rags. Where are your shoes and your head covering?”
Philippa hesitated. There was no sense in sharing the truth, not when the fewer who knew how she’d left Lindhurst meant there was less chance of Roger being humiliated by the tale. “I was working out-of-doors with naught but a cloth upon my head and sabots on my toes, when Temric came,” she said, speaking carefully as she crafted the appropriate tale. “We left so suddenly there wasn’t time to change attire. I couldn’t ride in sabots and the wind took my head cloth. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added, hoping to distract her sister from asking any questions. “I’m to tell you that Temric is returned and won’t be joining the hunters.”
“Good,” Rowena said with a firm nod. “My lord husband left me here with naught but his castellan to keep me safe. That the knight is but a year older than I am hardly inspires my confidence,” she said with a laugh then looked toward her maids. “My sister needs a bath and something decent to wear.” That was all it took to send women leaping. As some dashed from the room, others began throwing open chests.
Ignoring the chaos around her, Rowena stretched out a leg. “Perhaps we can share shoes. Let me see your foot.”
Philippa laughed and put her foot against her sister’s. “Do we match?”
“Aye,” Rowena replied with subtle pleasure warming her tone. “Ilsa, she can use my footwear,” she called, got a nod from an elderly maid, then looked back at Philippa.
“Do you know no one expects your arrival for yet another week? We were all told you were very ill.”
“Me?” Philippa’s brows shot up in surprise. “I’m never ill. Who told you this?”
“Lord Roger,” Rowena said, “but this he offered only after the bishop raged at him for appearing here three days ago without you.” She paused, the corner of her mouth lifting a little. “Perhaps Bishop William’s sharp tongue caused him to fabricate an explanation for his failure to do as commanded.”
Shrugging away thoughts of Roger, Philippa watched the woman who’d led her into the chamber place a greased cloth at the center of the room. Behind her were two more women, giggling as they rolled a large tub through the door. With much heaving and grunting, they placed it atop the cloth. Philippa gaped.
“Look at that,” she cried. “It must take an entire well’s worth of water to fill it. Why, I could sink beneath its rim and drown!”
“You won’t,” her sister said with a laugh, then leaned across the table toward her. “If it’s filled to the rim, the water covers me to the neck. I vow to you, there’s no finer sensation in all the world.”
Philippa sighed in happy expectation. Everyone at Lindhurst bathed outside, the vats they used being barely large enough to allow for a short, chilly squat. Best of all, there’d be no Margaret here to chastise against laziness; she could soak for as long as she wanted. In rising impatience, she watched male servants enter the chamber at a steady pace, each man wearing a yoke with its pair of buckets.
“My lady,” said the old serving woman. “Although the cut’s out-of-date, I think this should suit your lady sister well.” She held up an overgown of aqua, its surface figured with a woven pattern. Its neckline and sleeves were trimmed with intricate embroidery studded with tiny, glittering stones. A second woman lifted an undergown of dark green silk. “I think her eyes are just this shade,” she finished, lifting the overgown a little higher to indicate the color she meant.
“For me to wear?” Philippa glanced between them in shock. “Nay, I don’t want the responsibility for such fine garments.”
“What responsibility?” her sister asked, shooting her a sidelong glance. “That gown has sat in yon chest for over twenty years. Use it and enjoy it without care or concern.”
Philippa yearned to wear something so lovely. She chewed at her lower lip for a moment. As strong as her urge to wear something so lovely was, it wasn’t strong enough to overwhelm her fear.
“Are you certain? Such a fabric must be very expensive. Mayhap Lord Graistan wouldn’t want your poorer kin to wear his wealth.”
“Humph,” Rowe
na said. “I decide who wears what here. Rannulf has no say in my domain. And I say you’ll wear this.”
That made Philippa smiled. Aye, Rowena was still every inch herself. “As you will,” she said, agreeing with what little grace was left to her.
“I will,” Rowena replied. “Now, here comes the hot water. Shed those rags and bathe.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Philippa laughed, leaping to her feet, already ripping at her braided belt. A moment later and she yanked the gown off her head. Her rough undergown followed. Margaret would have bellowed at the way she tossed the garments aside without care or concern for the material.
Nude, she stepped toward the tub. The women in the chamber gasped. Standing at the tub’s side waiting to help her enter was Anne, the maid who’d brought her here. Her eyes were wide. “Mary, Mother of God!” she cried.
Philippa glanced down at her torso and the knife-point scars that crisscrossed her midsection. “They don’t hurt,” she said, unashamed of the marks she bore. Roger paid dearly for the laying of them. Margaret had beaten him for every day of the weeks it took her to recover.
“My husband is no longer allowed to damage me so badly that I cannot toil the next day.” As she heard what came from her own lips, she frowned. What sounded right and reasonable at Lindhurst didn’t seem as logical here.
Rowena came to her feet, her face pale as she eyed the scars. “Why did he do such a thing?”
The suspicion that what she’d always accepted as normal might be wrong grew in Philippa. “Because he owns me,” she said, her voice flat. “Because his mother makes him do things to her that shame him. He hurts me rather than hurt himself.”
Wanting to escape this discussion, she climbed into the tub, then sank into the warm water. As Rowena promised, she was covered to the neck in warm water. Rose petals drifted on the surface. Philippa let her arms float upward to send the pretty bits of flowers sailing across the water’s surface.
Knights of Valor Page 86