Instantly, Lord Lindhurst stiffened, as if bristling at a public scolding. Temric smiled broadly enough to make the cut on his cheek ache; he scratched idly at the wound. Now, a short temper—there was something he could exploit if it came to combat between them. Content with all he’d learned, Graistan’s master-at-arms drew a deep breath and cleared his mind of all emotion. In a habit borne out of years of warring, he let himself drift down into the deep calm he always sought prior to battle. When his opportunity came, he’d be ready.
As Roger came to a halt beside his mother before the bishop, he shot Philippa a swift and angry glance. She tensed, waiting to be suffused by either fear or anger. To her surprise, no emotion at all stirred within her. All that lived in her was the desire to be done with this. It was the promise of the new life Father Edwin offered that she wanted now.
Philippa looked at the prelate. The bishop's face was all regal lines, from his broad brow to his silvering and carefully trimmed beard. Although she caught glints of kindness in his dark eyes, she didn't dare trust what she saw not when he wore his power like a cloak. It emanated from him in waves, more awe-inspiring than his magnificent gown or the smooth pearls studding his cap.
“Now,” the bishop said. Although his voice wasn’t loud, the noise in the room once again stilled into complete silence. “Lady Margaret, I understand you bring a complaint against one of Lord Graistan’s men.”
Margaret leaned heavily on her stick as if she wished the bishop to think her feeble or ill-used. “Aye, my lord. Temric is his name,” she said, her voice quavering. “He did me hurt when he took from Lindhurst my daughter-by-marriage. I’d have him punished for his affront.”
The bishop craned his neck to look behind him at Oswald. “The lady was harmed?”
Oswald stepped forward until he stood alongside the prelate. “Nay, my lord, she wasn’t. Temric did, indeed, take this woman’s crutch from her, but he did that only to prevent the lady from striking a second blow to Lord Roger’s wife. I believe he feared the young woman would be hurt beyond any ability to speak for herself, as you had commanded she do, my lord.”
“He makes it sound as if I treat my daughter-by-marriage poorly, when I don’t,” Margaret cried out. “My lord, I only meant to correct Lady Philippa for speaking to men I deemed strangers. After all, they brought no missive or true assurance that they actually came from you. This man I knew not at all”—she pointed to Oswald—“and I feared that for the fortune involved, others would deal less than honestly with me.”
Beside Philippa, Lord Graistan tensed; his jaw tightened. “Again you cast slurs upon my honor, implying I’m a thief. What cause have you to make such an accusation?”
Philippa shot a sly glance at Margaret, then hid her smile. Did Margaret know that outrage now colored her face? Or, that the expression was destroying her attempt to portray herself as helpless?
“What more need I say, save than point to your lady wife’s refusal to release my son’s wife into his custody?” Margaret retorted hotly. “If you weren’t trying to convince her to betray us for your own benefit, why else would you hold her?”
To Philippa’s astonishment, Roger turned on his mother. “Bite your tongue, old woman,” he snarled. “Can’t you see you do us no good with this harangue? If Graistan’s man put no mark on you, let it go.”
Margaret’s astonishment was even greater than Philippa’s. “But, Roger,” she sputtered, “this Temric is a commoner. He dared to touch me. Aye, and he also dared to lift your lady wife into his arms when he took her.”
Roger’s back stiffened. He whirled to look at Philippa, his eyes wide. “He touched her?” he hissed in quiet question to Margaret, even though he faced his wife. It was the promise of her future pain Philippa saw in his gaze. Against it, Philippa shifted until she felt the power of Lord Graistan’s arm behind her back. A litany of prayers rose within her as she begged God to allow Father Edwin’s plan to succeed.
In his chair, the bishop frowned. “What reason had the man for doing this?” he asked sharply of Oswald.
The cleric was the epitome of serenity as he held his hands wide. “My lord, he had no choice. Lord Lindhurst’s dam persistently refused to recognize me as your emissary, even though I showed her your ring and spoke the words you’d given me to say. When she called her men to drive us from their lands, threatening harm to me and those you sent with me, Temric took matters into his own hands. Perhaps he was over hasty, but I believe he feared Lady Margaret intended to use Lady Philippa as a pawn, as she tried to force you to move this hearing’s location to Lindhurst.”
“Nay,” Margaret protested swiftly, “you mistake me. I only feared for my daughter-by-marriage, for I knew this man not at all,” she went on, again pointing to Oswald. “There’s nothing here to be discussed save the insult of a commoner touching his betters.”
Lord Graistan shook his head at this. “My lord bishop, Temric FitzHenry is no commoner. He’s my brother, the acknowledged natural son of our father, raised in this hall and fostered with me. If he remains only my master-at-arms while refusing the knighthood and those lands my father would have given him, he does so for reasons of his own.”
“This is true, my lord,” Oswald added. “All in our family knows of my late uncle’s fondness for his natural son, as well as his spoken desire to see Temric knighted and enfeoffed.”
Bishop William raised a brow in consideration at this, then looked at Margaret. “By all I’ve heard, I deem this Temric innocent of the charge against him. I think he’s only done me a favor with his actions.”
Shock and disbelief filled Margaret’s face. “But, he touched me! The commoner dared to touch me!”
This time, Roger grabbed his dam by the arm and gave her a furious shake. “Now you think to argue with your betters?” he hissed. “You stupid old woman, hold your tongue or feel my fist.” Margaret gave a cry at his threat, the sound so shrill that the hawk echoed it. Yanking free of her son, she stumbled back a step to stare at him, seeming more surprised than angry.
“With that finished,” Bishop William said, turning his hooded gaze on Roger, “I’d now be on to the matter of the wills so we can eat. It’d be a sin if the wondrous dishes Graistan’s cook has concocted should grow cold and stale.”
The crook of his finger bid Roger a step nearer. When the nobleman complied, the prelate braced a thick hand on his thigh and leaned toward him. “First,” he said, “as your overlord, I’d have you know I find the manner in which you present your claim to this inheritance less than honest. Why was news of Benfield’s death kept secret save for your single message to me? Had it not been for Oswald and his connection to Lord Graistan, I might have been duped into granting you the inheritance without knowledge of other claims. I look forward to seeing what proofs you offer me this day, but I warn you”—at this he paused to lower his voice to the level of a threat—“if what I hear and see in the next moments doesn’t convince me that you’re in the right, your actions will have won you only my scorn.”
Turning in the chair, he looked at Oswald. “Where is the widow?”
“Here, my lord,” Edith said, rising from her seat at the far hearth.
Beneath the anger and pain Philippa knew for her mother right now, a touch of pride filled her. As Edith walked toward the bishop, she held her head high and her shoulders straight. So graceful were her movements that, although her gowns were worn and stained, they flowed about her like the finest silk. Gone was the despairing woman of a few hours ago. In her place was the proud daughter of a wealthy peer.
Oswald waited until she was nearer, before he announced to the room: “The first matter is the right of the Lady Edith of Benfield to inherit against the strictures of her father’s will.”
With that, he read all the pertinent portions of Philippa’s grandsire’s will. When he was finished, William looked at Edith and raised a single brow.
“So, Lady Benfield, we have now heard that your father passed over your right to hold t
hese properties in favor of your legitimate children. In all fairness and in keeping with the law, it’s your father’s right to disinherit you as long as he makes no attempt to give his properties to one not of his blood. If you had a young child or were newly wed you might argue your right to hold the lands as guardian for potential heirs, but that isn’t the case. Therefore, as the outcome remains the same as he intended—the lands passing to those legitimate children you’ve already borne—I see no reason to give to you what your father has denied.” Edith released a single, quiet sound, then bowed her head.
“My lord bishop,” Lord Rannulf called out, “I will take this widow into my home as her warden. Graistan will gladly feed and clothe her for the remainder of her life.”
“You’ll get no argument from me in that quarter,” Margaret snapped. “She’s no better than her daughter, being naught but another useless mouth to fill and worthless back to cover.”
“So be it,” the churchman said, giving the parsimonious noblewoman a hard glance. “There are some among us who understand Christian charity. Now, for the second matter. Where is Lady Graistan?” he asked of Graistan’s lord.
“Pardon my lord, but she remains too ill from her miscarriage to descend. If you will that she attend, I’ll have her carried down.”
“Not necessary,” the bishop said with a wave of his hand. “You may stand on her behalf.”
“My lord,” Roger protested, “why should my wife be called when his is not?”
“Because Lady Graistan’s claim isn’t suspect,” the prelate snapped. “Lady Rowena’s right to inherit is stated clearly in her father’s will. Your wife’s is not.”
Although Philippa saw resentment form on Roger’s face, he had the sense to say no more. When she looked back at the bishop she found his gaze on her. The mere lift of his chin ordered her to step forward. It was with reluctance that she left Lord Graistan’s side and did as she was bid.
“My lord bishop,” she said softly as she bent in respect before him.
“Well met, my lady,” he replied, his voice yet cold. “I’m glad to see you recovered so quickly from your illness.” It was a sarcastic comment.
Philippa’s heart took to hammering. How should she respond to this? The truth damned Roger, while a lie damned her. Suddenly, Edith was at her side, offering a bracing arm. Philippa glanced gratefully at her mother and leaned against her.
“Refresh my memory,” Bishop William said to Oswald, apparently expecting no response from her.
Oswald nodded and again spoke to the room. “My lord bishop, in January, year of Our Lord 1194, delivered to me by Lord Benfield were his will and a contract for marriage between Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan, and the daughter of Lord Benfield’s house, Lady Rowena. I have held these documents in safekeeping upon Lord Benfield’s request, for the man feared an unexpected death and just such a challenge to his will.”
“Hold a moment,” the bishop said swiftly, surprise on his face. “Do you say the man feared he would be murdered?”
“Nay, my lord,” his administrator replied carefully, “Lord Benfield never said that, only that he feared death was coming sooner than he might like. He wished to protect his only daughter, Rowena, knowing full well that the husband of his wife’s bastard would dispute the inheritance.”
“Philippa is no bastard,” Edith cried out in sharp protest.
William stilled her with a glance, then nodded for his cleric to continue.
“In an attempt to avoid dispute, Lord Benfield gathered these witnessed accounts from his overlord’s servants”—he held aloft several parchments, displaying the round wax circles that hung by threads from their edges—“with regard to Lady Lindhurst’s birth. He also caused to be dictated this letter.” He held up another sealed parchment. “In it, he states that Philippa of Lindhurst, presumed to be elder daughter of his house, is not his spawn, but a bastard conceived on his wife prior to their marriage. She was neither accepted nor acknowledged by him when they did wed. My lord bishop, both wills specifically deny inheritance to any child born of Lady Benfield outside of wedlock.”
His pronouncement stirred the watchers into an excited muttering. Philippa drew a deep, steadying breath. No doubt the servants were finding this twisted tale entertaining, indeed.
“My lord husband lied,” Edith cried out, the frantic edge to her words piercing the noise about her. “My lord, the accounts your man holds can be nothing but crass forgery. Lord Benfield and I were wed before Philippa was born. Ask Lady Margaret, for she attended the wedding feast.”
“Aye, so I did,” Margaret agreed. “I saw them wedded and bedded.”
“And, she was not with child at the time?” the bishop asked.
Margaret made her eyes round in a portrayal of innocence as she offered up her lie. “Not that I could see, my lord.”
The bishop frowned. “What would drive a man to lie so against his own daughter when there’s more than enough inheritance here for both children?” It was a mild question.
“Hate, my lord,” Edith replied swiftly, with just the right touch of shame in her voice. “My husband made no secret of his feelings for me. Look”—she leaned her head close to Philippa’s—“we are as alike as twins. I think his hate spilled over onto the daughter who so resembles me.
“My lord, study the document I gave your servant to hold. It was dictated by Lord Benfield and bears his seal, as well as the mark of Benfield’s priest. This was written as my lord husband lay upon his deathbed. In it, he rescinds his charge of bastardy and acknowledges Philippa as his own.”
“This he did to clear his conscience before his death, eh?” New speculation filled Bishop William’s dark gaze.
“Aye, my lord,” Edith assured him.
The speculation in his eyes deepened. “So, where is this priest of yours, now? Why isn’t he here to bear witness to the events of that day?”
Although Philippa could see no change in her mother’s face, she felt Edith tense. Disappointment filled her. Again, her mother was going to lie, damning herself anew as she tried to steal what belonged to one daughter and give it to another.
“He’s dead, my lord,” Edith said in a clear, firm voice. “The same illness that felled my lord husband took him.”
Bishop William’s eyes narrowed. “How convenient.” His wry comment teased another start of muttered asides and muted laughter from the watchers.
“Men fall ill and die every day,” Edith insisted. “It’s all there, my lord, all properly signed, and sealed as well.”
“So it would seem,” he replied, “leaving the issue muddy and uncertain, indeed. With so much confusion, I fear I have nowhere to turn save to Lady Philippa. What say you, my lady? Are you your mother’s bastard or Benfield’s daughter.”
The question caught Philippa off guard. As the words burrowed past her skin to lodge in her heart, fear and an odd sort of excitement filled her. She glanced at Father Edwin. The priest’s smile was encouraging. With that, the need to speak the truth exploded in her. She had only time enough to pray the priest could do as he promised and keep her safe before the words were tumbling past her lips.
“I am not Lord Benfield’s daughter. I know this because he himself did tell me so in my twelfth year,” she called out, only to be startled by the strength of her voice. Philippa’s head reeled as she realized what she’d said. The sensation that followed felt like a clean breeze sweeping through her, chasing away years of darkness as it went.
Beside Margaret, Roger went rigid, his fists clenched as bright color stained his face. “Hold your tongue, you addlepated bitch,” he roared.
Bishop William leapt to his feet. “Silence!” The command thundered in the room. Absolute quiet followed. The bishop looked back at Philippa. “Speak, child, telling me all of it.”
Yet trembling with the power of what filled her, Philippa did as she was bid. “My lord stepfather told me he’d been sworn to secrecy by my grandsire with regard to my birth. This, he said, wa
s not to protect me or my mother from the stain of what she’d done. Rather, it was because my lord grandsire couldn’t bear to hear anyone speak of his daughter’s shame, even while he heaped more of it upon us both. My stepfather told me he’d offered to take me as his own, but my grandsire refused. I was to remain a bastard always to punish my mother for what she'd done.”
What sounded like a whimper escaped Roger. Startled, Philippa looked at him. He was watching her, sadness touching his face. “Why couldn’t you have held your tongue or said you didn’t know?” he fair pleaded.
Philippa only shook her head. “No longer,” she said quietly. “My life has been a tangle of other people’s lies and pretense. I’m not ashamed of what I am.” How could she be when Temric had made her priceless because of her birth?
When Edith’s arm around her tightened, Philippa looked at her mother. Edith’s expression was horrified. “What have you done?” she whispered to her child.
“Nothing, save rescue Lord Benfield’s name and memory from your falsehoods. He was a good man whose care for me wasn’t affected by our lack of kinship. If you’d had less pride, you might have seen that in him and made your life an easier one.”
With a gusting breath, Bishop William dropped to sit in the chair. “It seems your wife would name you liar, Lord Lindhurst,” he said to Roger. There was surprising gentleness in his tone.
“Nay, ‘tis she who lies,” Margaret shouted in protest, her hands grasping futilely in the air as if chasing the coins she felt escaping her. “Lord Graistan and his wife made her say these things, my lord. They took her by force from our home. They brought her here and kept her from us in their hall. Look again, look at that paper. A man doesn’t lie in his last confession.”
Bishop William looked at Philippa. “Have you been asked to say this?” It was a quiet question, but there was something in his tone that suggested it was the most important inquiry of the evening. “Have Graistan or his lady influenced you?”
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