Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  “What is this doing here?” the priest said, taking up Peter’s parchment and turning toward the hall door. As he came face-to-face with Graistan’s master-at-arms, he loosed a wavering cry. “Temric! You must not do an old man so. Why do you stand here in the dark?”

  In a hopeless attempt to convince himself he hadn’t seen what he had, Temric grabbed for Edwin’s thick and twisted hand. It didn’t work. These weren’t the fingers he’d seen a moment ago. Nay, he knew Edwin’s hand as well as he knew the other and they weren’t anything alike.

  Releasing the priest, Temric took a backward step, shaking his head. “Nay, I won’t do this to myself,” he said hoarsely. “I’m tired, too tired, and overwrought from the day’s events.”

  “What are you saying?” Edwin said, squinting as he tried read the soldier’s lips. “Are you the one who left this?” He thrust Peter’s parchment toward the soldier.

  Temric leapt to answer the question, since it meant leaving the previous moments far behind him. “Aye,” he said, snatching it from the priest to hold it before him as if he were displaying merchandise for sale.

  “This is from my youngest brother, Alwyna’s youngest son. You—” He caught himself. Not only was he speaking too fast for the priest, he had his shoulder to the old man. Drawing a deep, calming breath, Temric carefully lifted the drawing, then squarely faced Edwin. “Do you recall my mother, Alwyna?”

  “Of course,” Edwin snorted. “What do you think I am, a doddering ancient?”

  Where such a comment would have prodded him into a tease at another time, Temric only nodded. “Aye, well there’s been an accident at her house. I must leave for Stanrudde early on the morrow.”

  “Good,” the cleric said, his voice firm. “That will prevent what I see happening before my aged and all-too-innocent eyes.”

  “I’m going, aren’t I?” Temric retorted harshly, then sighed. “Beg pardon, Father. Here, this drawing comes from the hand of Alwyna’s youngest son, Peter. Will you give it to Rannulf so he might show it to Oswald? Peter seeks to take his vows at any monastery with a well-staffed scriptorium.”

  Edwin’s brows rose as approval filled his gaze. “He has a calling?”

  Temric nodded. “He does and has expressed it from an early age.”

  The chaplain smiled, his grin nigh on as toothless as a babe’s. “It’s reassuring to hear there’s one who craves with his heart the passion of God’s love. Then, again, I’d expect no less from Alwyna’s spawn.”

  “My thanks, Father.” Temric started backing away from the priest. Now that he’d done as he’d promised, he wanted desperately to be quit of this place.

  “Stay,” Edwin offered, “we have things yet to discuss.”

  “Nay, I can’t,” Temric said, then cleared his throat to rid his voice of its fearful edge. “Forgive me, Edwin. Not tonight. This day has so exhausted me, I’m seeing things that cannot be.” And, feeling them, as well.

  He turned without another word and fled the chapel along with both the souls it held within it.

  Although she didn’t know how she could do such a thing, Philippa felt Temric enter the hall. From the corner of her eye, she watched him stand before the chapel stairs. He was there a long moment, as if deciding whether to join them in the hall.

  Philippa held her breath. With all her might, she willed him into the chamber. Instead, he turned and hurried down into the chapel. She sighed in disappointment. It was her fault. No doubt she’d done something during the meal to cause him to spurn her company.

  Standing behind her, Anne leaned forward to touch her sleeve. “Are you tired, my lady?” she asked, concern marking her round face.

  “Nay,” Philippa replied, trying to hide her depression from the woman. “I was only wondering if I’ve done something to insult Temric. He left so abruptly after the meal.”

  “You’ve done nothing, my lady,” the maid replied, then added to herself in English, “it’s himself he seeks to escape.”

  “Are you certain?” Philippa asked, chewing on her lip in worry. “He seemed so tense. I wouldn’t wish to hurt him, not after he’s been naught but kind toward me.”

  Anne smiled. “My lady, rather than worry over my cousin’s moods, take it as a great compliment that he chose to join you for the meal at all. No one, not even Lord Rannulf, has been able to seat him at that table.” Anne laughed at her own words, a feathery cobweb of lines appearing at the corners of her dark eyes.

  Philippa’s spirits rose. “If that is so, then I shall cherish the honor he’s done me.”

  “And, so you should. My cousin’s a strange one, living life by his own strictures. He’ll play the servant’s role, but God forbid any man who mistakes him for a servant.” Anne was still laughing. “He’s never commanded, only accedes to those tasks he deems fit for him. I tell you, when we heard Lady Rowena order him to sit beside you, all of us,” the movement of her head took in the whole of Graistan’s folk, “thought for sure the battle would be joined. Instead, with a few quiet words from you, there he was, sitting meek as any lamb.” The maid winked.

  Pleasure rushed through Philippa. Of course Temric’s strange behavior after the meal was caused by something else. Nothing she did would disgust him. How could it, when they were equals?

  Buoyed by what the maid told her, Philippa leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes. In her mind, she gathered together every instant she had shared with Temric. These moments she polished to a shiny brightness, then stored them in her memory like the precious jewels they were. If she took nothing else with her from Graistan, these alone would be enough to brighten the hell of her life at Lindhurst.

  “Lady Lindhurst! Awaken! You must awaken. Oh, my lady, please, please rise!”

  The cry, rising above a chorus of frantic female voices, pried Philippa out of her dreams. She shot up off her cot in the women’s quarters and threw her loosened hair out of her face. Anne, her eyes wide with fright, was poised above her holding a tangle of clothing. The rest of the women were huddled in a frantic clutch across the room, watching, their eyes wide and faces pale.

  “What is it?” Philippa demanded of the maid, even as she tossed the soft blankets to one side and leapt to her feet.

  “Hurry, and dress,” was Anne’s answer as she held out the undergown for the noblewoman to take. “Someone comes searching for you. Lady Rowena says you must hide in the north tower.”

  Philippa snatched the loose garment from the maid, glancing toward the windows as if attack might be coming from that direction. The shutters were thrown wide, revealing slices of a dim and misty morning sky. She yanked on the undergown. “Who comes? Is it my husband?”

  “I don’t know,” the maid cried.

  In Anne’s hands was the aqua overgown Rowena had lent her, the expensive garment rucked into a careless circle in order to thrust it over the noblewoman’s head. Rather than complain, Philippa shoved her body into the gown. Once it was in place, Anne filled her arms with her belt and shoes and reached for the overgown’s side lacing.

  As the maid worked, tugging and pulling, Philippa looked down at what she carried. One shoe held a damp cloth for washing, while a comb lay in the other. Beneath the comb was the thin wimple she’d worn yesterday as a head covering. Anne finished one side of her gown, then darted around Philippa to do the other.

  The door to the women’s quarters opened. A lad peered inside. His eyes widened as he saw Philippa. “My lady, you’re already supposed to be in the tower,” he shouted. “Hie! Go now!”

  With a squeak, Philippa whirled and pushed Anne toward the door. “Hurry!” she cried. “Lead me to the sanctuary my sister offers.”

  Anne dithered for an instant, her hands fluttering uselessly, her face filled with the battle between panic and the need to see her charge properly dressed. Her chin firmed as she caught herself. She strode for the door. “This way, my lady,” she commanded her better.

  Once they were on the balcony, Philippa looked down into the hall be
low her. The big room was dim and empty, its main door was thrown wide and unguarded. Through its opening came the clash of steel on steel. A man roared in rage.

  Anne picked up her skirts and ran; Philippa did the same, the remainder of her attire caught close to her chest. Down the stairs they went, then across the hall, the maid leading the way to a door. Inside was a tight, spiraling stair.

  Anne started up the steps, her shoes scraping on the stone. Philippa closed the door behind her as she followed. Although the occasional arrow loop did little to let in light, they were opening enough for sound. Even this far from the courtyard, the stairwell filled with the echoing sounds of angry men.

  “Who is it that comes for me?” she pleaded of God, for Anne couldn’t answer her.

  That didn’t stop the maid from trying. “Would that I knew,” Anne replied in a trembling voice. “Thank the Lord Temric had yet to leave this morn. He’ll hold us safe. In here,” she finished, throwing open a door at the stairway’s top.

  The tower chamber was barely big enough to hold three men lying side by side. Each of its two exterior walls wore an arrow slit upon its face, while a solitary stool sat in the chamber’s center. Beyond that and the layer of straw on its floor, it was empty.

  Rushing to one window, Anne craned her neck as she tried futilely to peer around the keep’s corner. That left Philippa free to sit upon the tiny seat, her heart in tatters. With her shoes caught in the lap of her skirt, she braced her elbows on her knees and cradled her face in her hands. Temric was leaving her?

  How could the departure of this man she barely knew leave her so completely bereft? Regrets tumbled over themselves in her mind. She needed to speak with him once more, or to once more lace his fingers between hers. She looked at Anne’s back.

  “Temric is leaving?” she asked, grateful that her voice was steady, for the rest of her quaked in pain. “Why? Where does he go?”

  “To his mother,” Anne said without turning from the narrow window. “She’s a new widow, and now one of her sons is crippled. To top that, her husband’s trade lies heavily on her shoulders—” her voice died away as she rose to her toes and tried to push her head through the narrow slot.

  “Ach! There’s naught to see from here,” she cried in frustration and pushed back from the window. Turning to face the room, she offered a reassuring smile to the noblewoman. “Now that you’re safe, I’ll bring you better than that cloth for your washing and something to break your fast.”

  Fear tore through Philippa. It was bad enough Temric was leaving. What if it were her husband who came for her? “Nay, don’t go,” Philippa cried.

  Anne’s face softened. “Ah, you poor chick, you shouldn’t fear. Temric’s no simple soldier for all his pretending. He’s Lord Rannulf’s equal here, although no one would dare say so to his face. Truly, you can trust him to hold you safe. I’ll be right back,” she said, then hurried from the room, unaware that her attempt at comfort had gone horribly awry.

  Philippa stared at the closed door, blinking away tears. Loneliness, deep and empty, welled up within her. Not only did Temric care for her, but he was the equal of Lord Graistan who loved her sister so dearly he didn’t mistreat her. Dropping her shoes and belt, she pressed the damp cloth to her face, her throat tight with what she’d lost. Unfortunately, no bit of wet linen was enough to ease the pain. Sighing, she wiped away her tears, then cleaned her face and teeth.

  From the base of the stairwell came a man’s angry shout. Startled and not a little frightened, Philippa stared at the closed door. She couldn’t hear his words, but the sound of his voice rose into the realm of pleading, then dropped to a depth given only to threats. Forgetting her shoes and belt, Philippa came to her feet to back away from the door.

  As the scuffing of feet on the steps drew nearer, words lifted out of the sounds. “I’ll not be treated so,” the man was raging. “Unhand me, damn you. I’m no puling infant to be banished at another’s will. God’s blood! This is my home and my fight, no one else’s!”

  Philippa’s eyes widened. “Temric?” she breathed.

  With a groan of leather hinges, the door flew open. Temric was shoved through the portal with enough violence to drive him onto one knee. Despite that, he was back on his feet and at the thick panel almost before his captors could shut the door behind him. The men outside were hard-pressed to keep it closed against his attack.

  Philippa stared at him. He hardly looked a knight dressed as he was in a commoner’s short brown tunic over dark chausses, his knee-high boots cross-gartered to his calves. His only outer garment was a capuchin, a commoner’s cloak. The hooded garment covered him from the top of his head to the belt at his waist. Indeed, the only thing that marked him as other than a servant was the empty scabbard at his waist; his sword’s sheath was intricately worked and chased in brass.

  Temric rebounded off the door as it settled solidly into its frame. “Damn you, free me,” he raged, this time turning his shoulder to the wood as he tried to force it open against those who now held it shut. “You have no right to do me thusly.”

  “Temric?” Philippa asked faintly, cautiously, for his boiling anger was daunting indeed.

  He didn’t hear her as he again threw himself against the panel. It gave not an inch, being held closed by the two men on its other side. As he lay panting against it, through thick oak came a meek call. “Master, do not resist so. My lady has commanded that you be held safe until Lord Rannulf and the bishop can be called home and so it shall be. Please, don’t make me do as would break my heart and bind you.” There was no mistaking the poor man’s anxiety.

  As he heard this plea, Temric slammed only his fist against the door. “Damn her,” he bellowed. “This is none of hers to meddle with!”

  Shoving his hood off, he turned and put his back to the door. His eyes were shut and his head thrown back in frustration. “What right has she to treat a son of Graistan in this way?” he muttered as his clenched fist pounded a tattoo of futility against the wood at his back.

  Philippa gasped. A narrow gash cut his cheek from brow to chin. Blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto his shoulder to leave a gory trail on his capuchin. “Oh, but you’re injured,” she cried, coming toward him, intent on easing his wound as best she could.

  His eyes flew open. When he saw her, he flattened himself against the door. “Dear God, she doesn’t know what she’s done,” he cried as if in panic.

  Once more turning to face the door, he pounded in a new and frantic tempo. “Guy! Walter! Open up. You must hold me elsewhere.” There was no response from the other side.

  Philippa stopped alongside him, her washcloth in hand. “Be at ease. There can be nothing improper between us as we’ll not be alone for long,” she said, trying to reassure him as she eyed the cut. It was the mark of a whip and not as deep as the amount of bleeding had led her to believe. When it healed, it would leave a thin white stripe along his cheek and through his beard. Laying her cloth against his brow, she began to wipe away the blood.

  He sidled away from her along the wall. Frowning, she followed to once more stand beside him. Again, he shifted, this time moving past the corner to put his back to the adjoining wall. When she followed and again raised her cloth, he turned his head aside.

  “Philippa,” he said, managing to fill the syllables of her name with both joy and terror, “you mustn’t. We’ve sinned enough as it is.”

  “Sin?” She shot him a quick, wry grin. “I’ve no greater intention than to clean your wound. I hardly think that can be a sin.”

  Despite his worry over righteousness, he managed a smile. Against the movement of his mouth, his eyes took on that golden light she liked so much. “Silly of me, no?”

  Again, she raised her cloth to his brow. Despite what he’d just acknowledged, he again turned his head aside. “Leave it for another to treat. I’m sworn not to touch you.”

  Irritation escaped Philippa in a soft sound. “Your vow is safe enough, since it’s I who touches yo
u.”

  With that, she caught his chin in her hand and lay her cloth against his face to staunch the bleeding. He tensed, his back pressed hard against the wall, then raised his hand as if to stop her. Before he closed his fingers around her wrist, he caught back the motion. With a ragged sigh of defeat, he let his arm fall to his side once more.

  Philippa’s mouth quirked up in sudden amusement. Was he truly so honor-bound? If so, did he realize how he freed her to touch him without concern for his reaction? There was powerful temptation in that thought. Ah, but for now, she was more concerned with cleaning the slash. It barely split the skin at top and bottom, cutting deepest on his cheek and brow. He must have taken only the tip of the lash.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked as she worked.

  He kept his gaze focused toward the far wall as he answered. “Your lord’s mother. She arrived this morn in Graistan’s own cart and caught me in the courtyard preparing for departure. It’s the skin off my back she wants for my supposed attack against her, as well as my taking of you.”

  Philippa’s hand fell away from his face. So, one full day of freedom was all she would have. Now that Margaret was here, there’d be no more time with Rowena. Then, she frowned in concern.

  “If she wants your skin, she’ll surely be disappointed. You did no wrong, only completed the task the bishop gave you. I think Lord Graistan wouldn’t let another hurt his kinsman.”

  Temric shot her a bitter glance, then once more aimed his gaze at the far wall. “If my brother’s wife can make my men bow to her wishes and have me carted to wherever she wills, why shouldn’t that hag who is your mother-by-marriage have my flesh?”

  “Rowena did that?” Philippa asked in surprise.

  “Aye, she did, damn her to hell,” Temric snapped back, still not looking at her.

  A moment later and the fight drained from him. “It’s my own fault. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t touched you. I’m my father’s unacknowledged bastard, therefore common. It’s death for an Englishman to attack a Norman. Aye, Lady Margaret has the right.”