Straightening her shoulders, Philippa drew herself up to her tallest and boldly looked at William of Hereford. Again, the rightness of what she did flowed through her. If this was the holy guidance Father Edwin promised her, then she was content to do as it bid.
“Nay, my lord. Until your servant, Oswald, brought me here to Graistan I knew nothing of this inheritance or even that Lord Benfield was dead. When my sister mentioned it, believing I knew all, I forced her to explain. Once she’d done so, Rowena commanded me in the presence of her servants that I should say no more to her. She preferred not to know how I might speak.”
“You would swear to this?” the bishop asked. When Philippa nodded, he turned to Oswald. “Bring the relic box.” Oswald motioned the bishop’s priest forward. The man strode toward Philippa, a small casket, rich with golden filigree and tiny rubies, in his hands.
“Place your hand upon these holy bones,” the bishop commanded, “understanding that if you speak falsely God will strike you down and damn your soul to hell for all eternity. Now, say again that all you’ve claimed this day is truth.”
Philippa lay her hand upon the casket without hesitation. As she touched the wood the power of the holy bones kept within it flowed through her. Her head tingled with it. Even her hearing sharpened, growing so acute that she could hear Roger's angry breathing and Margaret's worried panting amidst the shuffling and stirring of the others who observed. “As God is my witness I do swear that Lord Benfield confessed to me he wasn’t my father and didn’t take me as his own when he and my mother wed. All I have said is true and spoken with no prodding from any quarter.”
The smallest of smiles touched her mouth as she withdrew her hand. It was over. Her conscience was clear and her soul clean. If God so deemed, she could take her convent vows in peace now.
William leaned back in his chair. “Then, I have no choice but to honor the will of Lord Benfield. Lady Graistan, as his only legitimate child, is declared sole heir to all those lands and holdings described in his will. Begone with you, Lindhurst. Hie yourself back to your home and keep close to your own borders, whilst I think on what has happened this day.”
Roger whirled, elbowing his way past Edith to take vicious possession of Philippa’s arm.
“Nay!” Edith screamed, trying to pull Philippa free from her husband’s grasp. Her complaint was lost in the screams and laughs of Graistan’s folk over this victory.
As Roger pulled Philippa toward the door, she shot a glance over her shoulder at Father Edwin. Rather than rush to the bishop, begging sanctuary for Philippa, the old man but peered in confusion at the crowd around him. Philippa's hopes for peace died into dull acceptance. What a fool she’d been to think any priest could alter what must happen between her and Roger. Not even God’s Holy Church could save her from the fate her truth had earned her.
Hobbling her fastest, Margaret came to walk beside her son. She shot Philippa a sneering look. “Three hides of land and not even that wreck of a keep, Benfield!” she shouted. “All this cost and what do we have to show for it? Less than we started with.”
Her heart dead within her chest, Philippa didn’t try to resist as Roger pulled her from the hall door. Down the outer stairs they went, then across the courtyard toward the gateway. It wasn’t until they exited from the inner courtyard to the bailey that Roger finally spoke.
“Why?” he demanded as he pulled her along beside him. “Why have you rejected me? I am your husband. You owe me your loyalty.” To Philippa’s surprise, his eyes were wet with tears, but beneath the pain rage lurked.
There was no point in responding, since anything she said would only goad him. Thus, Philippa kept her own counsel as he pulled her past the cattle pens to the postern gate. Just beyond that small opening she could see Roger’s tent, set in the bend of a river. His men were lazing around its base. When they saw their lord coming they leapt to their feet, but when they gauged his mood to a one they slipped around the tent’s far side to hide.
Roger stopped before the tent’s opening and yanked Philippa close to him. The pull was strong enough to make her stumble. As she righted herself, he lifted his clenched fist.
“Nay, Roger, don’t!” Margaret thrust herself between her son and his wife. “We must remove the gowns or they’ll be fouled with blood.”
Rather than respond, Roger whirled on his mother. The blow he meant for his wife he dropped onto his dam. Margaret’s head snapped back on her neck, then she toppled to sprawl upon the ground. Moaning, she shifted, her eyes blinking in a helpless effort to focus. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“I am done with you, you old hag,” Roger shouted down at her. “You’ll quit yourself from my life.”
Margaret’s moaning gave way to a heartbroken shriek. “Nay, my precious boy. You cannot mean this.” She wrestled herself up to sitting. “You paltry bitch,” she shouted at Philippa. “You’ve destroyed his love for me!”
Roger no longer listened to his mother as he once more turned to look at his wife. “Answer me! Why did you reject me!” His words had more the flavor of tears than a command’s bark.
Knowing there was nothing left for her but his violence gave Philippa a strange sort of courage. She gave her tongue free rein. “I haven’t turned against you. How can I have when you have never had me? Instead, it should be me who asks why it is you’ve abandoned me,” she said. “I could have loved you, had you been but a little kind. I was so young and frightened. How could you have laid those marks on me?”
Roger jerked as if she’d struck him. “I couldn’t help myself,” he breathed. “You were mine to do with as I pleased, mine alone. I took my beatings afterward. I paid my penance, didn’t I?” he pleaded, begging for the understanding she could never grant him.
As he realized this, his blue eyes clouded with unbearable shame, then cleared in the predictable flare of rage, for only behind the shield of his anger could Roger hide from what he was. “By God, but I vowed never again to do such a thing and I have honored that vow,” he shouted. “It’s you who’ve dishonored me! What good did it do me to lay my mark on you, whore? You’ve let another touch you and now I want you no longer.”
Knowing he didn’t dare intervene in front of the bishop, Temric watched as Lord Lindhurst pulled his wife from Edith’s arms. “Help me,” Philippa’s mother keened as she fell to her knees amidst the crowd. “My daughter has killed herself!”
Rather than react to the inquest’s end, Father Edwin but stood where he was, looking around him in confusion. With Anne nowhere to be seen Temric started toward the priest, even though it meant a moment’s delay before reaching Philippa. Nothing he did for her meant anything without the bishop’s sanctuary.
Pushing around Rannulf, Temric grabbed the old man’s arm. The startled priest looked up at him. “Now, my friend,” Temric told him. “It’s time to fulfill your promise to Lady Lindhurst.” If Edwin was surprised by what Henry of Graistan’s eldest son knew, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he gave a grateful nod and started toward the prelate. Temric turned to drive back into the crowd between him and Lindhurst, his hand already on his scabbard as he loosened his sword.
Rannulf caught him by the arm. “Temric, what are you about?” his brother demanded.
“Leave me be, Rannulf,” he warned, his voice flat, as he tore free of his brother’s hold and barreled through Graistan’s celebrating folk.
“Stop him!” Rannulf shouted after him, his voice that of Graistan’s lord, not Temric’s brother.
Not one of Graistan’s many soldiers in the hall moved to do their lord’s bidding. Out the door Temric went, across the courtyard and into the bailey. Lindhurst and his wife were already across that grassy expanse at the postern, with Margaret waddling close behind. They disappeared into the small gateway and out of his view. Temric lifted his heels and began to run. He grimaced, the pull of his mouth so fierce it tore at Anne’s fine stitchery. Power roared through him. It would feel good to swing his sword, to feel
it bite into flesh and bone.
When he reached the postern gate, he could see Lindhurst’s tent through its narrow opening. Lindhurst stood before his wife, his mother’s stick lifted like a club. Temric surged through the gateway, his hand closing on his sword’s hilt. Long ago molded to his grip, the leather wrappings fit perfectly into the cup of his palm. Steel hissed against leather as the blade left its sheath.
A dozen yards in front of him the nobleman swung his stick. Thick wood slammed into the woman Temric loved. As she reeled and fell, Temric’s mouth opened against the terrible emotion within him.
He raised his sword. The muscles of his shoulders bunched, then released. His sword cleaved the air as he brought it down toward Lindhurst’s back.
It rebounded against another blade and Roger’s men were upon him.
Even as Temric lost his footing and fell, expecting his life to end, men shouted from behind him. Steel rang on steel and his attackers were attacked. Graistan’s men drove Lindhurst’s force back from their fallen leader. From behind the wall of his frozen emotions, there was a flicker of gratitude.
Margaret appeared from behind the tent. Leaning down, she grabbed her bloodied daughter-by-marriage by the arm. “Help! Help, we are attacked,” she cried as she started to drag the fallen woman out of harm’s way.
Heaving himself to his feet, Temric lifted his sword. Lindhurst was in the tent’s doorway, fumbling his sword from its sheath. Taking the advantage, Temric threw himself at the nobleman. Lindhurst whirled and came to meet him, his ill-begotten blade crashing against Temric’s. So powerful was their meeting that Temric’s hilt tore at his bare palm. As the pain cleared all blood lust from his thoughts Temric saw that he and Lindhurst fought at the center of a circle formed by their men. He grinned. So, it would be only the two of them, knight to knight. Again, his blade swung and met with his enemy’s.
Lindhurst’s lips drew back from his teeth as he warded off the blow. “You godforsaken whoresons,” he shouted to his men. “Break free! Cowards! Earn your keep by killing this foul commoner.” He slashed out as he spoke, his blow careless.
Brutal pleasure washed through Temric. His sword’s tip probed the gap in the front of the nobleman’s hunting hauberk. Blood stained the man’s shirt.
“Damn you,” Roger of Lindhurst screamed, again throwing himself at Graistan’s bastard.
“Stop, I say!” Bishop William’s voice boomed out over the steady clash of steel on this wee stretch of grass.
Startled, Lindhurst fell back. It was the opportunity Temric needed, although it came too late. He threw himself at his momentarily vulnerable opponent, knowing he had but an instant left to destroy the man before Rannulf and the bishop stopped him.
“Hold your master,” the prelate shouted, commanding Graistan’s soldiery.
Not a man moved. Temric’s sword sang through the air. Lindhurst hastily threw up his own blade to block the blow.
“Hold him!” the bishop bellowed.
It was the bishop’s knights who caught Temric by his arms and dragged him back from Lindhurst. A quiet moan of despair slipped from his lips, the first sound he’d made since leaving Graistan’s hall. He’d failed. Now he’d die, never knowing if what he’d done had saved Philippa.
“See, my lord bishop,” Margaret screeched as she again appeared from behind the tent, “this dog of a commoner deserves punishment. See how he has attacked my son!”
“I want his head,” Roger screamed over his dam, his face near purple with rage as he regained his feet.
Hatred surged through Temric. “Murderer!” he shouted back, straining against those who restrained him.
Then, Rannulf was beside him. Temric glanced from his brother’s grim face to the all-too-familiar sword Rannulf carried. Shock exploded in him. “What are you doing!” he cried out in frantic complaint.
There’s no help for it now,” Rannulf replied, his voice low and harsh. “You’ve forced me to it.”
“Nay!” Temric bellowed in rage and pain, bucking against the men who held him. “You won’t do me so!”
Rannulf ignored him to hold both blade and belt toward Bishop William. The prelate made a quick sign over the equipment, then nodded to Lord Graistan.
“He has no choice, commoner,” Lindhurst sneered, not yet recognizing what Graistan’s lord was about. “Die, like the insolent pig you are.”
Dropping to one knee, Rannulf wrapped the sword belt around his brother’s waist. Temric strained hopelessly against the men who held him, but all his writhing accomplished was to keep Rannulf from fully closing the belt’s clasp.
When he was done, Graistan’s lord came to his feet and took a backward step. “Make him kneel,” Rannulf commanded Bishop William’s men.
“Nay,” Temric cried in agony as they fought to force him down. Two men, then three set themselves to the task. At last, Temric’s knees touched the stony soil. “Damn you, Rannulf,” he raged, nearly lifting himself despite the men who pinned him. “You’ve no right to do me thusly.”
“What are you doing?” Lindhurst squealed as he finally realized what was happening wasn’t what he thought.
Lord Graistan raised his fist and struck his bastard brother a hard blow to the shoulder. “Richard of Graistan, I name thee knight.”
Temric’s heart stopped as he heard his brother utter for the first time in nineteen years the name he'd refused. He sagged between his captors. “Damn you to hell, Rannulf,” he sobbed.
“False knight!” Lindhurst screeched in protest. Sword raised, he exploded out of the grasp of those who held him.
Bishop William grabbed a man’s blade. The sword flashed as he caught the nobleman’s blow, then, with well-honed skill, shoved Lindhurst back from the new knight. “Finish it, Rannulf,” he commanded, moving to place himself between the kneeling man and his attacker.
Rannulf shifted to stand before his brother. “Put your hands between mine,” he demanded.
“Nay,” Temric cried out in ragged protest. “Let him finish me. It’s better to die on his blade than to live with what you’ve just forced upon me.”
“I will not,” his brother snapped. He reached down and grabbed Temric’s hands. “Now, swear. Swear for the lands our father meant as your own. Or, if you will not, I’ll have you gagged and speak the words for you.”
Against that threat there was no point in resisting. “I am your loyal man,” Temric said, the words he’d once eagerly anticipated speaking now falling wooden and cold from his lips. When they were out, he let his hands slip from Rannulf’s and sagged back to sit upon the ground, eyes closed. “Better that I’d died,” he whispered to himself.
The churchman’s laugh was grim as it rang out over the watching men. “Well done, Rannulf. Very efficient and without any cost. I’ll have to remember this the next time I must knight a lad.”
“Nay,” Roger of Lindhurst shouted, the sound nearly a sob. Temric opened his eyes to find Lindhurst’s lord writhing against those who held him. His pale eyes were filled with fire.
A woman’s shriek rose from Lindhurst’s tent, then Edith appeared its doorway. Blood stained the front of her gown. Margaret gave an irate squawk when she saw her in-law.
“Trespasser! What are you doing in there?” she demanded.
Edith paid her no heed as she shot past Margaret and her son to kneel before the bishop. “My lord," she cried out, tears trailing down her cheeks, “they’ve already battered my poor daughter senseless. Please God, you must help her.”
“Be at ease, Lady Benfield. God has heard your plea,” the bishop replied. “Graistan’s priest tells me your daughter wishes to take her vows. After what we witnessed in yon hall, I’m convinced it’d be in everyone’s best interest if she retires to a convent.”
“My lord, you cannot do this to us,” Margaret gasped in protest. “Why, it’ll be years before she takes her final vows and all the while Roger remains tied to her. He’ll be forced to support her when he has no use of her.”
“Be still, old hag,” her son growled. “Can’t you see that this is naught but another ploy on Graistan’s part to take what is mine from me? This time it matters naught what you want,” he told his host. “My wife belongs to me and I’ll not release her, not to a churchman nor”—he looked at Temric, the fire in his gaze rising to insane heights—“to any other man, especially not him! If you think you’ve escaped me with this posturing, bastard, you’re wrong. Your life is mine, no matter how long I must wait to take it from you.”
His taunt made Temric’s anger over what Rannulf had done to him merge into the certainty that Lindhurst would keep Philippa only to kill her. His need to kill the nobleman returned full force. He leapt to his feet. “If you want my life, come and take it from me, boy,” he retorted, hands clenched into fists. “This time, see if you can do it without urging your men to attack my back while we fight!”
“Wretched commoner!” Lindhurst roared at this accusation of cowardice. “I’d cleanse the stain of your words from my soul with your life’s blood, but your sort isn’t deserving of so honorable a retort. No matter what mummery they’ve played out here this day, I’ll never recognize you as anything but what you are: a foul bastard.”
Lindhurst was too deep in rage to notice how both Rannulf and the bishop stiffened with his charge. Temric almost smiled. With care, he could goad Lindhurst along this path until the man had to trade Philippa to save himself.
“Do you challenge me?” Temric demanded. “If so, then you err in naming me craven commoner. That leaves me free to refuse you. Come, boy,” he filled the word with every ounce of insult he could, “offer me something worth my while, something that persuades me to meet you. What could be as precious to you as my life is to me?”
Savage intelligence flashed in Lord Lindhurst’s eyes. "If you prevail, I’ll set my wife in a convent. Either way, I’ll win. You die, I keep her; you live and you cannot have her. She’s useless to me now, anyway.”
Temric’s breath hissed from him in outrage. “Do you dare to name me adulterer atop false knight? On what evidence do you base your accusation?”
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