“Ah, love, it’s not so bad as that,” Temric said, dismounting to embrace her.
Philippa couldn’t help herself. When his arms came around her, she laid her head upon his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his mantle as she battled her need to weep until she could cry no more.
“Little one, your fear of Lindhurst makes him seem more dangerous to you than he is,” Temric said, his hand making a soothing trip down the length of her spine. Leaning back, he caught her chin in his hand to lift her face to his. Confidence lay in every harsh angle and rugged plane of his face. “You must remember that he’s nearly fallen once beneath my blade. Trust me, and trust that holy dream of yours. You and I are opposite halves of one whole. No one will separate us and this life is ours to keep.”
“So you say, but I can’t believe,” Philippa cried in protest.
“Try,” Temric insisted.
Instead of courage all that woke in Philippa was a sudden, vivid memory of Roger, his handsome features twisted in vicious rage as he swung his fist at her. Even as she again quaked in fear, scorn woke deep inside of her. Lord, but she was as bad as Jehan, all self-pity and I cannots. What happened to the woman who this morn had faced Oswald and her death without a shiver?
“I’ll try,” she promised, vowing it to herself as much as him.
Temric smiled. “Good lass. Now mount up and we’ll be on our way.”
“In a moment,” Philippa said, then pointed to the trees that lined the verge. “Since I’m already down”—she let her voice trail off in the hint of suggestion.
Amusement brought the gold back to Temric’s brown eyes. “Women,” he muttered in pretended scorn. “There’s no swift way to travel with one.”
Giving a huff in her own pretense of impatience, Philippa turned and strode into the thickness of the brush and rusty fern at the forest’s edge, seeking a spot that offered a modicum of concealment. Then, just so Temric couldn’t make a jest of this for the rest of the day, she hurried. It was as she was straightening her skirts that a horse screamed.
“Philippa,” Temric shouted, “stay where you are!”
Her heart on fire, Philippa bounded out of the trees. Temric stood in the center of the roadway, his mantle removed and tossed on the verge. In one hand he held his sword, while his dagger was in the other. Her pack horse was nowhere to be seen, but Temric’s great steed lifted, screaming anew as its massive forehooves tore at the air. Two crossbow bolts studded its nearest shoulder.
From the direction of Stanrudde came two mounted men, galloping full tilt toward Temric. Both wore the same leather vest as the man they hunted. One man, dark haired and small, slowed to reload his crossbow. The other charged on, a bared sword in his hand and his blond hair gleaming. Roger.
“Die, commoner,” her husband screamed, lifting his weapon high.
Terror surged up in Philippa. God save him, but if Temric stayed where he stood Roger’s blow would take him! Fear for the man she loved overwhelmed all else.
“Roger!” she shouted, leaping through the bracken toward the road’s bed.
It was enough distraction to make her husband choke on his down stroke and slow his horse. In the next instant, his mount screamed and lifted, hooves flailing as blood spewed; Temric’s blade opened its belly. Even as Philippa screamed in warning, a hoof hit her love a glancing blow. Temric staggered, head bowed, then dropped to one knee, an arm wrapped around his chest.
As his horse dropped, Roger threw himself from the saddle. His sword flew from his fingers as he hit the ground and rolled. By the time he’d regained his knees, his man had reached Temric.
“Nay!” Philippa screamed as Lindhurst’s soldier lifted his bow and aimed at Temric.
“Nay,” Roger seconded, yelling the angry command as he rose to his feet. With a swift lunge, he caught up his sword. “I warned you, he’s mine. Now do as you were told and keep him from intervening while I finish her.”
With that, Roger turned on Philippa. His fine features were hard, his eyes an icy blue. He juggled his sword in his hand, as if testing its readiness to take her life. As she recognized the rage in his face, Philippa’s soul did what she’d taught it to do all those years ago and raced for safety deep within her. Fear filled her until she was frozen with it, nearly beyond the ability to draw breath.
“Aye, you die first,” he told her, striding into the bracken toward her. “And this time I’ll not be so careless as the last.”
He stopped within sword’s reach of her, then his lips drew back to show his teeth in a terrible grimace. Philippa watched his sword lift. Time slowed. Her mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. From the road behind her, the clash of metal on metal rang out above the high-pitched cries of the dying horse. It was Temric, fighting Lindhurst’s soldier. A wholly new fear exploded in her. If she died, who would save Temric from Roger?
With that, the need to live exploded in Philippa. She sprang to the side. Her husband’s blade whistled through the air where she’d just stood. Even before it met the moist ground with a solid thunk, she was racing for the trees. Roger squealed in frustration.
Needing to know how close he was, Philippa glanced over her shoulder. Her husband hadn’t followed. Instead, he whirled and strode back toward the road and Temric.
He was going to kill her love! What followed was rage, nigh on blinding in its intensity. Philippa turned so swiftly she stumbled and dropped to her knees. Hidden in the thick ferns beneath her hands was a hefty branch, missed by the pruners. Her fingers closed around it as she threw herself back to her feet.
Thus armed, she jogged after her retreating husband. “Not you,” she told Roger, her words audible only to herself. “Above all, it won’t be you who steals my love from me.”
Ahead of her, Roger was nearly across the verge and onto the road’s earthen bed. Philippa saw Temric glance over his shoulder. So, too, did she see the way Lindhurst’s soldier kept raining blows on Temric, forcing him to protect himself and preventing him from shifting to face this new threat.
Faster than she knew she could, Philippa ran. In an instant she was behind Roger and lifting her branch. With every ounce of strength she owned, she brought her makeshift weapon down upon her husband’s back. There was power enough in her blow to send Roger sprawling into the grass, his sword again spinning from his hand. Again, Philippa lifted her branch. As she brought it down toward him, a panting Roger rolled onto his back.
“Bitch!” he shouted as he caught the blow on his hands, then wrenched the piece of wood from her.
Philippa screamed as ragged bark tore scraped her palms. She staggered back from him onto the roadway. Yet breathing in great gasps, Roger came to his feet and retrieved his sword. His face twisted in an obscene parody of rage, he started after her.
Perhaps it was hysteria that caused it, but all the fear in Philippa died as she studied him. It was as if she were seeing Roger for the first time. His leather vest was old and tattered, his gown patched. His stockings had been darned so often there was barely an original piece of fabric left to them. Aye, and each bit of darning had been done with whatever color yarn had been at hand.
How had her mother ever thought him a perfect knight? By God, but his shoulders were narrow, his arms thin and his legs looked like that of a chicken! Aye, a chicken was exactly what he resembled! Laughter, no doubt brought on by the same hysteria tumbled from her lips.
“Oh Roger, you are pathetic,” she cried over her shoulder as she jogged ahead of him on the road.
Her heart lifted. Words were just the weapon she needed, for they were the one thing against which Roger had no shield. Grim determination followed. If Roger was to be the vehicle of her destruction, she’d see to it he paid dearly for the taking of her life. It was his pride she’d carry with her into death.
“Aye, a pathetic little lordling is what you are,” she called, watching him from over her shoulder as she moved farther up the road. “Go home and tell your mother you want new clothing. Look at me,
” she held out her skirts for him to see, “dressed better on a merchant’s purse than you, the great Lord of Lindhurst.”
Her blows hit home with stunning impact. Confidence and rage drained from Roger’s face. He slowed, his sword lowering a little. “Hold your tongue, bitch,” he cried.
“If you want to silence me, you’ll have to catch me,” she taunted, walking backward now so she could watch the effects of her attack. “Ha! I’m not worried. You aren’t worthy of taking my life.”
Harsh creases marked his cheeks. His mouth whitened, so tightly did he press his lips. Staggering like a man with too much wine in him, he followed her.
“What, having trouble catching me?” she goaded. “That’s not surprising, considering the sort of knight you are. You’re naught but a revolting mockery of a man.”
He howled in pain at this, then anger returned to his face and his footing grew surer. Of a sudden, he lifted his sword and he rushed at her. Heart in her throat, Philippa darted out from beneath his blow. Snatching up her skirts, she leapt to the side and into the bracken. Over the steady blow of swords behind her, she could hear Roger’s harsh breathing as he pursued her. Her foot found another hidden branch. Crying out, she slid, then kicked the branch out behind her. Roger yelped as it hit him and he stumbled.
It was enough of a delay to let her put a decent distance between them again. Leading Roger farther up the verge, she glanced back to Temric. Lindhurst’s soldier yet held him at bay, although the blows were coming less frequently now. Both were panting against their efforts. She needed to keep Roger distracted a little longer to give Temric time to save himself.
Roger stopped, his chest heaving. “Run as you will, bitch,” he called after her, “but there’s no escape for you.”
Dancing on her toes in case he lunged for her, Philippa turned to look at him. Her husband’s smile was wicked. “God, how I look forward to killing you, but it’ll have to wait. Better that I return and see yon commoner mortally wounded. Then, while he bleeds his last, I’ll lay you beside him and force him to watch as I use you.” What passed for lust in Roger filled his eyes. “It’ll please me well to have you squirm and fight beneath me.”
It was twelve years of rage his taunt stirred. Power roared through Philippa. She crossed her arms before her.
“Please you? Hardly so. You don’t know what manly pleasure is. Your shaft is an empty instrument incapable of doing what a man’s should.”
Roger’s face brightened in vicious triumph. “How would you know, you barren bitch? Better you take lessons from my new wife. She’s with child.”
“If she is, then the babe’s not yours,” she threw back. “I’ve heard she wasn’t so fresh when she came to your bed. Was there blood on the sheets? If there was, I’ll wager she put it there and that you were so drunk you cannot remember what happened on your wedding night.”
Her husband’s face paled to a deathly white as her barb hit home.
“Ha!” Philippa gloated. “I thought as much. As for taking lessons, perhaps it’s you who needs tutoring. You see, Roger,” she paused to make certain her next words didn’t miss their mark, “I am with child.”
Roger’s sword tip dipped toward the ground. He staggered as if she’d struck him. When he caught himself, new color burned like round spots in his cheeks. “Liar,” he accused, eyes narrowing.
“Nay, I don’t lie,” she retorted, too deep in hate and outrage to see how dangerous this path she tread was. “In just these few months Temric has sown seeds where you could not. He’s set a child in my womb.”
“Liar,” he cried again, his voice rising into a pained whine.
“Poor, petted Roger,” she crooned in malicious hatred. “I suppose it’s not your fault. It was your mother who ruined you. Tell me, for I’ve always wondered. What do you and Margaret do behind those bed curtains? Does she stroke your chest? Does she tangle her ancient claws into your hair in the pretense of love play? Do you lie with her as you do with your wife, as you did with me?”
The words tumbled from her, spilling out onto the roadbed between them to lie exposed to the brightness of day’s light. Roger bent. Unable to bear hearing what he worked so hard to hide from himself, he retched. When he’d emptied his stomach’s contents onto the hard-packed earth, he straightened, his shoulders heaving.
Only as his gaze met hers did Philippa realize she’d gone too far. All trace of the pathetic Roger was gone, leaving a cold and deadly warrior in his place. With a frightened cry, she snatched up her skirts and ran.
Roger didn’t scream or curse, he simply chased her. Fear grew. Philippa could hear the steady pound of his feet as he closed the gap between them. Her breath seared her lungs, her legs screamed in agony.
Then, she was falling. Her head hit the roadway hard enough to make the world whirl. Whimpering in defeat, she rolled desperately to the side in an attempt to rise.
Roger, barely panting now, kicked her back onto the ground. His foot caught her at mid-chest to hold her where she lay. There was nothing in his face, not blood lust or hate or even disgust. In utter and eerie silence, he lifted his sword.
Shoving desperately with her heels, Philippa arched beneath his pinning foot, fighting to live. He pressed his foot harder into her chest. The breath left her lungs.
Over her, Roger gagged. He arched awkwardly and twisted, his sword lowering enough to show Philippa the crossbow bolt that pierced his back. Again, Philippa bucked, hoping to free herself. Instead, the pressure of his foot on her grew until black spots appeared before her eyes. Roger lifted his sword, his grin a death’s head smile.
“He wasn’t quick enough,” he choked out. “I’ll take you with me as I go.”
With one arm clutched around his chest, Temric released the crossbow’s catch. Jesus God, but he’d forgotten how much a broken rib hurt. Ahead of him on the road, Lindhurst arched at the bolt’s impact. Although his sword lowered, the man didn’t fall.
Gasping, Temric grabbed the dead soldier’s mount and threw himself into the saddle. Lurching against the sickening pain, he struck his heels into the horse’s side and tightened his grip on his sword. Each hoof beat joggled his rib, the pain threatening to drive him into unconsciousness. Fighting to stay alert, he let his focus narrow until Lindhurst was the only thing in it.
With one hand grasping the saddle to brace himself, Temric drew back his blade for the same sweeping blow Philippa’s husband had meant to use on him. As the horse reached Lindhurst, he swung, letting the beast’s momentum carry his blow forward.
Teeth gritted against the agony, Temric felt Lindhurst lift on his weapon’s edge. He heard bones snap, but didn’t know if they were his own or the other man’s. Pain washed over him, too great to be controlled. Swathed in darkness, he was falling. Too soon! Damn him, but what if Lindhurst wasn’t finished?
Filling her starving lungs with great gulps of air now that Roger’s foot was off her chest, Philippa rolled onto her side. The sharp scent of blood filled each breath. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted and blew. Sparrows chirped, squirrels chattered in the distant trees. No swords clashed. There wasn’t even the shuffling footsteps of one wounded and falling.
Panic burst in her. Where was Temric? She scrabbled to her knees, still fighting to keep her vision steady.
Her husband lay an arm’s length from her, his head twisted to an impossible angle. As she looked lower, Philippa gulped back her stomach. Mary save her, but he’d been nearly torn in two! Oh, Lord, if Roger was dead, why hadn’t Temric come to her?
“Temric,” she cried, her voice lacking power as fear for him brought her to her feet.
Knees trembling, she looked to where Temric and Roger’s soldier had fought. Lindhurst’s man lay near Roger’s slaughtered horse, their blood mingling. Fear grew. She turned to look up the desolate road.
Temric’s big brown steed stood just inside the line of trees, shivering and snorting as it tossed its head back toward its bloody shoulder. To her surprise, the soldier’
s horse now stood far ahead of her, just off the road in the bracken. On the road near it, something glinted. A sword, rusty with blood.
Her heart now banging in her chest, she raced toward it. Temric lay face down in the bracken, nigh on buried in that thorny stuff. With a cry, she knelt beside him and turned him onto his back. His eyes were closed, his face still. Philippa’s heart broke at the blood staining his sleeve and shoulder.
With trembling fingers she pressed at his throat and found his pulse. He made a tiny sound. Relief made spots again dance before her eyes. He wasn’t dead, only unconscious.
Her need to make certain he stayed alive made her tear at the laces of his hauberk, seeking his injuries. As she worked, she glanced at his arms and legs to verify they were yet whole. Save for the blood on his chest, everything seemed to be as it should.
When the vest was loosened, she pulled back the stained edge, her lips moving in silent prayer. His shirt wasn’t sodden with blood as she expected. Not daring to hope, she struggled to open the hauberk wider still. As she did so, she jostled him. He groaned more loudly this time, instinctively reaching for what gave him pain.
Philippa followed where his hand led and pressed gentle fingers along his left side. Something moved that shouldn’t; he’d broken a rib. Putting her ear close to his lips, she listened, only to sigh in relief. His breathing was labored, but there was no bubbling rasp to suggest he’d torn a lung.
Now assured that he wasn’t seriously hurt, she leaned back on her heels and gave way to a joy so deep that her eyes filled. As impossible as it might have seemed this morn, they would both live beyond this day.
Groaning again, Temric’s eyes flew open. He jerked upward as if he meant to rise, only to fall back just as swiftly, his eyes pinched shut. “By Christ’s holy cock, it hurts,” he gasped out as he regained the full awareness of his pain.
“Temric!” Philippa cried, shocked by the curse.
Knights of Valor Page 116