“It was Lord Benfield who forced my hand. He meant to pollute the refinements I’d given you with base learnings. I couldn’t let him turn you into a farm wife, when you were a true lady.”
Shock rattled Philippa to her toes at this strange comment. “But, Maman, I am a farm wife. What do you think Lindhurst is save a tiny manor with fields and stock, just like Benfield?”
“Well, I knew that,” Edith snapped. “I had only a little dowry left to give you since Benfield wouldn’t let me offer our manor as your inheritance. Some of your suitors expected you to do manual labor, the same things Benfield demanded you be taught. That’s why I chose Roger. He vowed himself pleased with your needlework and songs, wanting no more than that from you. He said there were others to do the work at Lindhurst.”
“Then, he lied,” Philippa said flatly, unable to believe her mother could be so blind. Every manorial lady worked alongside her servants; it was necessary for survival. Against such foolishness, she couldn’t resist a jab. “Maman, all you’ve managed was to make me Lindhurst’s most noble house servant.”
Crying out, Edith bent with her daughter’s words, then reared back on her heels and grabbed her daughter’s hands. She stared at Philippa’s calloused fingers and broken nails. “Oh, but your hands are ruined.”
“Not ruined,” Philippa replied, staring at her hands and finding she liked them. “They’re capable and strong. With the help of Lindhurst’s midwife, I’ve even learned to heal with them.”
Releasing her daughter, Edith glared up at Philippa. “Now I know you lie,” she said, her eyes narrowed, her mouth but a ragged line. “Roger’s mother might be crass and crude, no better than an ale wife, always scrabbling in the dust for her next coin. How that woman produced so fine a son, I’ll never know. Despite that, even Margaret knows better than to let you foul your hands with the blood of English commoners.” Her voice rose until the final words were a cry of outrage.
“Foul my hands?!” Philippa’s new anger burst back to life, its heat so high it nigh on consumed her. “I am proud of my ability to heal and if doing so insults you, then so be it. Nor did Margaret have anything to do with my learning this skill, for it was I who chose it. If caring for those beneath me is fouling my hands, then I spit on your teachings.”
“What!” Lady Benfield cried out, leaping to her feet. “You would betray all I taught you?!”
Rowena gave a sharp laugh. “Madam, this haughtiness of yours stinks on one whose position as Lady Benfield places her barely above those who serve her.”
Like a wounded boar, Edith turned to gore her new attacker. “I wasn’t always so low,” she snarled, ancient anger filling her face. “I was intended for an earl.”
Her words hit Philippa like a blow, fair knocking her back on her seat. “But, you didn’t wed an earl, Maman. You wed Lord John of the impoverished manor Benfield. Tell me it isn’t true,” she said, her voice strained and low as she came to her feet. “Tell me that losing the position you expected isn’t why you turned me into your poppet, making out of me the woman you could no longer be.”
Cornered now, Edith took a backward step, her hands twisting frantically before her. “Nay, you twist my intentions. Is it wrong to want a fine home for a beloved daughter? Or, that she be insulated from the crudities of life?”
“It is when that daughter has no chance of achieving such a home,” Philippa retorted. “What did you think, that some great nobleman would ride by Benfield’s muddy corner of the world and beg to wed with me?”
Whirling, she put her back to her mother, then pressed a clenched fist to her throbbing temple. Maman’s love was tainted by motivations far less noble. If Temric had offered for her all those years ago, Edith would have refused him, not caring that he would have provided her with a much kinder life than the one she knew as Lady Lindhurst. Marrying her precious child to a bastard would never have suited Maman’s grandiose pretensions.
“I cannot bear it,” Philippa cried. Pushing past her mother, she hurried across the room, paying no heed to where she went. A moment later she leaned against the wall at the hall’s far side, near the chapel stairs. The need to weep until no tears were left within her was great, but her tears wouldn’t come. Instead, they remained a great ball of pain at the center of her chest.
Edith came to stand beside her. Philippa shot her mother an aching sidelong look. “Sweet Mary, Maman. Do you know what you did? You made me into nothing but a silly plaything, of no value to anyone in the life I’ve had to live. Now you dare to rail against ruined hands when I tell you that you wed me to a monster?”
Despair crept across her mother’s beautiful face. A tear spilled from her eye, trailing down the still-smooth line of her cheek. “I didn’t know,” she cried out in self-defense.
Not even Edith could accept this paltry excuse. Her mouth quivered. She pinched her trembling lips shut as she fought for control. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Forgive me,” she breathed, reaching out to brush her fingertips along her daughter’s cheek. “You cannot know how it hurts me to hear you speak and know your pain comes as a result of my arrogance.”
Edith’s face crumpled. “God help me, what have I done?” she cried in a low, aching breath. “I’ve left myself no way to save you. I couldn’t, even if I’d inherited all the wealth my father’s will denies me. If I give what should be yours to your husband, he’ll only keep you to abuse. If I take all hope of wealth from him, will he not abuse you all the more because of my betrayal? What am I to do?” she begged of her daughter.
Philippa sighed as understanding deepened again. How carefully Margaret and Roger had woven their tangle of lies around those they wished to use. Had Temric not stolen her from Lindhurst, they might well have succeeded in their plot before a single of those lies had been revealed for what they were. As hopeless as the chance was, Philippa dared offer her suggestion. “Rowena thought to find some grounds for the dissolution of my marriage to Roger.”
“Nay.” There was naught but hopelessness in Edith’s eyes. “That cursed mother of his made certain nothing would keep them from holding the fields you brought Lindhurst with your marriage.”
“What of my father?” Philippa let the question slip quietly from her. “Is there any degree of relationship there?”
Edith blinked in confusion. “Benfield?”
“Nay, Maman,” Philippa replied slowly, “my true father.”
All emotion drained from Edith’s face, leaving only festering hurt in its place. Her green eyes dulled to a muddy brown. “Ask anything else of me, even my life, and you may have it, but not this. To speak aloud what you desire would free others to name me whore and call you bastard. Your creation is the one precious thing left to me. Without that memory, I would die.” She shut her eyes as if to block out her daughter’s image, then turned and walked away.
Philippa watched her go, trapped in her own despair and loneliness. It was far more of an admission than she’d expected to wring from her mother, but even knowing she was indeed bastard born did nothing to resolve her quandary. Instead, her mother’s fate settled upon Philippa’s shoulders alongside her own. To admit to the bishop what she knew of her birth meant destroying both of them. Her heart clenched. Ignorance had been so easy. Why, oh why, had she dared to reach for something beyond it?
“Lady Lindhurst?” The man’s voice was rich and deep.
With a start, Philippa whirled toward the short downward stairs leading to the chapel. From the shadows at their base appeared a small man, fragile with age, his freckled pate covered with wispy clouds of pale hair. The expression in his blue eyes was warm and inviting. When he extended his hand, she didn’t hesitate. Descending the steps, she lay her palm into his hand. His gnarled fingers closed about hers.
“Come,” he bid her, leading her into the chapel, “come, take a moment to speak with me.”
Framed in the narrow windows behind the altar was a gray and rainy day. Droplets pattered gently onto the windows’ sills. The priest had lit
a few precious candles in an attempt to drive away the day’s dimness, but their meager light did little to lift the chapel’s heavy atmosphere.
Philippa’s gaze shifted to the chapel’s far wall. Painted on it was the miracle of loaves and fishes. Guilt stabbed through her. Not only had her ill-considered words to Temric upon her arrival at Graistan insulted God, she’d gone on to openly defy His law as she gave way to her lust for Temric today.
“Nay, Father, I cannot,” she cried out, snatching her hand from his.
As he turned to look at her, his brows lifted in surprise, she took a backward step. “I shouldn’t be here,” she told him, then couldn’t bear to admit the whole of her sin. “My hair’s undone and uncovered.”
He stared strangely at her lips, then smiled. “Be at ease, child. I think our Lord is more concerned with your heart’s need than your state of dress. Come and tell me what it is that causes your eyes to fill with such pain.”
His offer pierced her to the core, lancing the terrible boil that filled her. Before she knew they were there, tears burned in her eyes. Gasping against her need to release the pain, she buried her face in her hands, battling for control.
“Aye, that’s just what you need,” the old priest said as he pulled her deeper into the chapel. “Now, sit.” With his hands upon her shoulders, he forced her down until she sat upon the altar step, then joined her, his arm around her shoulders. It was such a warm and comforting touch that a sob bubbled up within her, wracking her as it fought for release.
“Aye,” he said, his voice low as he began to rock her upon the step, “that’s what you need. Cry, lass. Let it free.”
There was no resisting this invitation. Philippa leaned her head into his shoulder and cried until she could weep no more. Through it all, he crooned to her in wordless song, like a mother to her babe, his voice soothing. When she was at last hollow and gasping, she wiped her face with the hem of her undergown and looked up at him. The evidence of her tears was on the breast of his tunic.
“My pardon,” she said, her voice broken. “I’ve stained your clothing.”
He shook his head. “It’s only water, the water of angels, but water nonetheless. Now, tell me why you mourn as if for the dead.”
Philippa hung her head. “Oh, Father, I’m so afraid,” she cried, twisting her hands in her lap.
The old man caught her chin to lift her head toward his. “Pardon, child, but I’m deaf. You must keep your lips where I can see the words that form upon them.”
A last sob shuddered through her. “Father,” she began again, “do you know any of this business my lord husband has brought before the bishop?”
He nodded. “I know Lord Lindhurst claims you should take all the inheritance from Lady Rowena as you are the eldest. He also denies the will which calls you illegitimate.”
Philippa felt her mouth tremble, yet the need to spill the truth was the stronger. “He shouldn’t be allowed to deny the will, for I am not legitimate,” she whispered.
“You are certain of this?” he asked, his brows lifting.
“Aye, my father”—she caught herself. If she meant to be truthful, then she should see that every word was nothing but the truth—“Lord Benfield,” she corrected, “explained it to me after he caught a maid taunting me for being a bastard.”
“Ah,” the priest breathed. “And do you believe your husband is aware of your bastardy?”
Philippa nodded, the movement of her head restrained by his continuing hold on her chin.
The old man’s blue eyes darkened a little at this. “Then his claims are knowingly false. Is he also aware that you know you’re not your stepfather’s legitimate get?”
Again Philippa nodded. “It’s for this reason that my lord husband came alone when the bishop had called for both of us. When the bishop’s man, Oswald, asked for me, my lord’s mother sought to convince him I wasn’t me.”
“Hmm,” the priest said, the expression in his eyes mellowing again. “I think I’m understanding it all much better now.”
“Then tell me. What am I to do?” she pleaded, hoping he would share some of his newly-won wisdom, for God knew she hadn’t any of it. “I cannot lie to the bishop if he asks me of my parentage, but my lord husband is a cruel man and I fear his reaction if I speak truthfully. Yet, if I allow fear to keep me silent, he may well steal my sister’s rightful inheritance. Ach,” she cried, “worse than all that, I’ll destroy my mother if I say what I know.”
The churchman gave a sad shake of his head. “Child, you make yourself more powerful than you are. Only our Lord can allow or disallow, destroy or heal. You need only trust in your faith to show you the right path.”
Philippa shivered against his certainty. Would that she hadn’t lost all right to ask the Lord for that sort of guidance. “Father, I think God wants no more of me for I have grievously sinned. I love a man who’s not my husband and who is a brother-by-marriage to my sister.”
With her chin still held in his fingers, she couldn’t turn her head to the side. Thus, her only escape from shame was to close her eyes as she awaited the sharp chiding she certainly deserved for her evil. Caught in her own inner darkness, the silence between them stretched for far too long.
“I know I’m not your confessor,” the priest said at last, his voice gentle rather than accusing, “but for a man who cannot hear, I’m a good listener.”
Philippa opened her eyes. As she studied his humble, ancient face, the corners of her mouth lifted. “Aye. I think I need to spill the whole of what lies in my heart, or else it may well drown me. On the day before yesterday, while on the road to Graistan, Temric and I were briefly alone. In that time he kissed me and said I should have belonged to him from the first.
“Today, although I knew full well how wrong it was, I have kissed him. I cannot show you shame for what I’ve done. Instead, I’m glad for every instant of my sin, even though my heart will be torn asunder when I must leave Temric and be gone from here. If you say I should love my lord husband, know that I did try. How can I love Roger, when he has driven all feeling from me with his brutality?” This last was far more of a pained cry than she expected.
She fell quiet, certain she’d awakened the priest’s shocked contempt. Instead, all that showed on his face was bland interest. Again, the quiet stretched between them, until Philippa felt compelled to fill it.
“Have I not committed both adultery and incest?” she demanded.
“I’d say you’ve contemplated adultery, but the sin hasn’t yet happened. As for the incest”—here he paused and pursed his lips. “What I’m about to say must stay between just us two,” he warned.
“As you will, Father,” she replied, startled that he should trust her with a confidence.
“I think I’ve lived too many years to recite with any belief those bits of dogma that were created by man for man’s sake.”
Philippa’s eyes widened in surprise. He smiled at her reaction. “Have I startled you? I suppose it would, hearing a priest say such a thing. When any man, be he king or commoner, can so easily cry incest to rid himself of an unwanted wife, the concept becomes suspect in my mind. That’s especially so since the couple wed in full knowledge that they breached their degree of relationship.”
His blue eyes took light in wry amusement. “Now that you’ve confessed, shall I give you your penance?”
Philippa’s heart leapt at the possibility of some task that might relieve her of her burden of guilt. “Father, I’ll perform any task you lay upon me. Make it a goodly penance so my soul might be cleansed before my death.” It wasn’t until the words were out before she realized what they revealed.
Amusement dimmed from the old man’s gaze. “Your death?” he asked. “What is it you mean by this?” There was just enough command in his tone to overwhelm her intention to hold her tongue.
“It’s my lord husband,” she whispered. “He’s easily driven to violence by perceived insults. When Temric took me from Lindhurst, he did so
in his arms. By this act alone am I irreparably tainted in my lord husband’s eyes. Should this inheritance be denied him, I know he’ll want me no more. I fear I must die, so he might be free to wed again.”
The priest’s jaw stiffened. His eyes narrowed in anger. “God’s Church doesn’t allow a man to murder his wife,” he warned.
Again, Philippa shook her head against the constraints of his hand on her chin. “If his passions drive him to it, he’ll cry and mourn, truly grieving for the wrong he’s done. If he means murder, well, my lord husband is no fool, nor is his dam. Accidents happen,” she added with a weary shrug. “You can protest all you wish, but I’ll be just as dead.”
Concern took outrage’s place in the old man’s face. “I suppose it’s no good asking him to swear to hold you safe. The word of a man who so cravenly seeks to steal another’s inheritance cannot be trusted.”
“Accidents happen,” she repeated quietly.
His concern built until the furrows on his brow were deep, indeed. “You are certain, then?”
“I am,” she breathed. Much to her surprise, there was something soothing about stating her expected fate so directly. It made it seem as if she were speaking about another and not herself.
The old man’s gaze clouded, his expression closing as he lost himself to thought. A moment later, his brows lifted again. “Child, I think it might be best if I’m beside you as Bishop William resolves this issue. After the lord bishop is quit of it, I’ll tell him you spoke to me about a desire to enter a convent and serve our Lord. In that way you may be freed from your marriage, just as your lord husband might be freed of you so he can, in time, wed again.”
Hope fluttered to life in Philippa. If convent life didn’t offer the happiness that she might have found with Temric, it was far better than life at Lindhurst. Even as she reached for escape, hope died. Roger would never release her, not without extracting his vengeance. Aye, but it wasn’t something the priest might understand. It was to shield the old man from a guilt born of his inability to stop what must come that she smiled at him.
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