"Rannulf, am I your one, true love?" It was the question she had asked him on their wedding day, although then the words had been hard and twisted with sarcasm.
His amusement was a low rumble in his chest as he, too, remembered that day and her words. When she raised her head, it was to look upon the charming, handsome man who had so intrigued and worried her then. Bitterness and anger were forever banished, and he would hide no more behind them.
"Aye, Wren, you are my one, true love. Am I yours?" There was a touch of need to the quirk of his brow, as if he knew the answer she would give but still longed to hear it.
"Aye love, you are." Rowena lay her head against his shoulder once again.
"I love you," he murmured again, as if enjoying the feel of the words on his tongue.
Rowena smiled against the fullness in her heart. Had her father known? John of Benfield had done far better for his daughter than he could ever have imagined. His intent had been to find her a proud home and a grand life, but had he realized he had also found her a husband to love, one who loved her more than life itself?
I hope you enjoyed reading Winter's Heat, the first of my stories about the FitzHenry brothers. To read the books in the order I wrote them, you should go to Summer's Storm, but I like to think it isn't necessary to read them in order. Otherwise, you can choose a book from the start menu.
If you liked Winter's Heat (or even if you didn't, I suppose), please consider either liking the book or leaving a review.
I thought I'd take a moment and give you a little context for this book, and how this series evolved. It all started in 1978 when I had a dream about two people, Rannulf and Rowena, in Medieval England, a time in history I didn't know at all. In the dream, they conveyed to me some of their complicated relationship. As I woke up I caught myself saying, "I have to write this book!" But I also knew I wanted to write an accurate novel because I believe wrapping historical facts up in a good fictional story will teach you more about history and the way people lived in a past time than any textbook. Twelve years of research ensued before I felt capable of recreating this amazing time period. In Winter's Heat, I intended to explore life in a Medieval Castle, or how a mid-level baron might have lived, someone affected deeply by the actions of those holding the true reins of power.
But before I could do that I had to learn to write! Fortunately for me, my mother Joan Domning was already a published author. I recruited her to help—as I say in my dedication—pound writing basics into my brain. Then it was a matter of sitting down and writing the book. I got as far as Chapter Four before I got stuck. Lots of things happened, like my first divorce, my second divorce, the catastrophic accident that left my older son Adam with the traumatic brain injury that would ultimately lead to his death six years later. Then I married my third and forever husband, Ed, who had read those four chapters and loved them. But there were still bills to pay, electronic locks to invent and patent, small fortunes to lose, and I'm a slow writer. I was up to Chapter Ten when five years later Ed's job took our blended family off to live in the Netherlands where I could not get a job. That left me nothing to do, but write.
By then and on a lark, I'd sent the first seven chapters to Denise Marcil of the Denise Marcil Literary Agency. Much to my surprise, she requested more chapters to read. I'd finished through Chapter 12 by then, so I sent off five more chapters. A few weeks later she requested more chapters. Yipe. They weren't done. With that I got serious and plowed my way through the rest of the book and got them off to her. She responded with, "This is the first book in seven years to knock me off my chair." Wow! She went on to sell Winter to Audrey LaFehr (a great editor!) at what was then the new Topaz Line of books. We were all astonished at how well it was received, and I was honored and thrilled that Winter's Heat went on to win the coveted Romantic Times award for "Best First Historical" of 1994.
And that, as they say, is history.
Thanks again
This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).
Summer's Storm
copyright(©) Denise Domning 1994, 2011
All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.
Original Cover Art by Kate Sterling
Cover art by ADKdesigns.biz
Late June, 1194
Sighing against the weight of wet fabric in her basket, Philippa of Lindhurst shut her eyes and lifted her face toward the sun, now high in a cloudless sky. The spicy scent of fertile earth filled her lungs, while from the river’s bank lark and thrush sang. Twined with their sweet voices was the sleepy plainsong of a droning insect chorus. In the distance, oxen bellowed, and men called as they worked the fields.
“Ungrateful wretch!” Lady Margaret of Lindhurst chided.
Startled, because she’d thought her mother-by-marriage wasn’t paying attention, Philippa’s eyes flew open. She turned on the narrow track to look at her husband’s mother. Heavyset and small, Margaret braced herself on her walking stick. Hatred cut deep creases in the old woman’s sagging face and flared in the knife-thin line of her nose. Even the gray spikes of hair escaping her head covering seemed to quiver with insulted pride.
Margaret’s watery blue eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened, promising a tirade. “I give you a morning spent outside the walls and how do you thank me? You drag your feet apurpose to steal more from me than I’d conceded.” Never mind that the only reason Margaret took Philippa outside their walls was to wash the bed linens; Lindhurst’s dowager lady didn’t trust her servants not to steal the precious lengths of fabric.
“Roger will hear how you’ve misused me this day when he returns, you can count on that,” the old woman added in vicious promise.
At the mention of her husband, Philippa turned her gaze to the contents of her basket. It wouldn’t be a chiding she’d suffer if Margaret ever realized she’d been praying Roger never returned from wherever it was he’d gone.
Apparently satisfied by this humble reaction from her son’s wife, Margaret whirled on her walking stick, then limped ahead of Philippa on the grassy track. Still dragging her heels, Philippa followed. Only a furlong distant, Lindhurst’s walls lifted out of the trees, the mossy expanse of wood and stone pierced by a homely gate. Not for the first time in the past twelve years, Philippa’s heart balked, its reaction overwhelming her sense. Two hours of freedom just weren’t enough and who knew how long it would be before she was allowed out again?
All thought of safety or sense died and her feet froze to the dry, dusty earth of the path. Of course, this was the very instant that Margaret chose to glance over her shoulder. Anger flared bright blue in her eyes. She spun on her walking stick.
“Come quickly, you stupid cow, or you’ll pay my penalty,” she threatened, lifting her fist to make certain Philippa understood it was pain she was promising. Then, she once more pivoted on the stick and began to waddle ponderously toward her home.
Deep within Philippa a tiny flare of defiance took light. Cow, was it? Who, of the two of them looked more bovine? The corners of her mouth rose. With Roger away, it was safe to indulge in a bit of mockery.
Twisting her face into an idiot’s expression, she dared to shamble after her husband’s mother, exactly mimicking the old woman’s painful, hip-sore gait. Just as Philippa knew she would, Margaret again glanced over her shoulder. She gasped, whirling yet one more time to face Lindhurst’s rightful lady.
“How dare you!” she bellowed in outrage.
Philippa blinked until tears filled her eyes. “What is it, Mother Margaret? I beg you, tell me what I’ve done.” Her mummery finished with a pitiful catch in her voice, then she turned her gaze toward her coarse wooden shoes. Oh, but Lindhurst’s serving women would have laughed into their sleeves over this performance.
“Barren imbecile!” Margaret turned Philippa’s greatest shame into a curse. An heir for Lindhurst w
as the thing Roger and Margaret wanted most from her and the one thing she would have gladly given them.
“Why did my precious lad insist on Benfield’s spawn, an idiot bitch with airs too fine for her station? Neither you nor those paltry fields are worth the coins I paid for you. Mark me now, the day will come when I find a way to rid my son of you,” she finished, her voice low and hard.
“Aye, Mother, you’re right. One as valueless as I am shouldn’t be allowed to live.”
However piteous the snivel, it wouldn’t be enough. Instead, Philippa tensed her shoulders, waiting for the blow. A moment’s silence passed, then another. Still, Margaret said nothing. The silence lengthened until the quiet unnerved Philippa. This was never the way their battles proceeded. At last, she peered cautiously up from her demure pose.
The old woman was starting out into the thick beech and alder forest that cloaked Lindhurst manor’s rolling hills. Only then did Philippa catch the indistinct sound of a man’s voice coming from beyond the closest trees. The creaking groan of a wagon followed, then the muffled thud of hooves.
“Who dares to trespass here?” the elder Lady Lindhurst demanded of no one in particular. Roger and his mother guarded their cloying privacy and their few possessions, of which Philippa was one, with an iron fist. Visitors, even itinerant merchants usually welcomed everywhere, were sent sternly from Lindhurst’s gate with a warning never to return.
The need to see who it was rushed through Philippa, even as she recognized the danger. Nothing drove her husband into greater viciousness than a man looking upon her or she upon any man save Roger. Nibbling on her lip in hesitation, Philippa glanced at her mother-by-marriage. That Margaret would tell Roger these strangers had come was beyond doubt. However, if Margaret forgot to instruct her idiot daughter-by-marriage to retreat within the walls, then no blame could fall upon Philippa for remaining where she was.
Ever so cautiously, Philippa eased her basket to the ground, then slipped with tiny, noiseless steps to the side. When she stood directly behind her husband’s mother, she offered up the prayer that she might be forgotten, then gaped in awe at the first visitors in all her dozen years here.
The troop exited the forest not but a score of yards distant from them. Astride a spirited palfrey, trappings and saddlecloth shot with gleaming metal threads, came a young, black-haired man. His vibrant blue riding gown and stockings of bright scarlet spoke clearly of his consequence. A deep green cap and a cloak the color of an autumn oak clasped with a golden pin completed his attire.
Harnesses jangling, four mounted men-at-arms followed this coxcomb. Each soldier sported a vest of boiled leather sewn with steel links, a sword fast buckled by his side and a metal cap upon his head. If their mounts weren’t the quality of their master’s steed, the beasts were still better than any in Lindhurst’s stables.
Lurching and skittering along behind them came a silly little cart drawn by a plodding ox, his peasant driver flicking the goad behind his ear. Too small for hauling crops or any other goods Philippa could imagine, it bore a brightly painted frame raised above its bed with rolls of sheeting at the ready to shade the wagon’s load.
Lastly, came a single knight atop a massive steed. Because he'd removed his helmet and cap against so warm a day, leaving them to dangle from his saddle, she could see his hair was brown. His beard was neatly trimmed, accentuating the bold line of his jaw. A knitted steel shirt and chausses of the same metal mesh clung to his powerful frame, yet the sleeveless surcoat atop his armor was unembellished. Likewise was his shield bereft of any design. Still, there was something in his solitary air that warned of his prowess with the long sword belted at his hip.
As the coxcomb noticed the waiting women, he lifted his hand and the troop halted. Both he and the knight dismounted, then started toward them. Although the smaller man was by far the grander, it was the knight who held Philippa’s interest. Against Roger’s fine and golden beauty, this warrior’s face was plainer, rawboned. His nose was strong with a slight crook, the flaw adding character. Dark, expressive brows curved gently above eyes . . . Philippa caught her breath in shock. His brown eyes were alive with golden lights as he watched her with equal interest.
Even as his lips began the upward quirk of a smile, Philippa dropped her gaze to her toes. Idiot! she chastised herself. What if Margaret had noticed their shared glance? Why, the old woman would take a whip to her, that’s what. With her need to stare upon the travelers sated to the limits of her courage, Philippa was content to study her shoes and listen.
Temric FitzHenry, bastard of Graistan, permitted himself a warm breath of amusement. The little minx had stared boldly enough when she’d thought he hadn’t noticed. Then again, with such an evil-looking hag for a mistress, he could understand her shyness. Too bad, for the glimpse he’d caught of her suggested she was a pretty thing, despite her homespun gown and rough head cloth. He frowned slightly, struck by a vague sense of recognition, then dismissed it when nothing came to mind. Perhaps it was that at six and thirty, he was flattered to think a lass so young might find him interesting.
They were yet several yards from the women when Oswald stopped. Temric came abreast of him, then shot his noble half cousin a questioning look.
“Speak for me, Temric,” Oswald demanded. “My English will not suffice.”
Temric ignored the brief sting his Norman cousin’s request did him. This wasn’t the first time one of his father’s relatives had asked his assistance with his mother’s native tongue. Instead, he gave a bend of his head, agreeing without actually committing to that agreement.
“Ask after their lord,” Oswald continued, jerking his head toward Lindhurst’s simple walls as he spoke. “Mayhap they’ll let something useful slip about those who rule here. Bah, so rustic a place hardly justifies its lord’s strutting arrogance. What do you wager that the manor house within yon gate uses the same thatch for roofing and mud and manure walls as do Lord Roger’s peasants.”
At this, the elder of the two women made an outraged sound, her formidable gaze aimed at the bishop of Hereford’s most valued employee. “I am Margaret of Lindhurst, lady of this place,” she said, speaking in the Norman French of England’s ruling class. “By whose leave do you come trespassing on my lands?”
Surprise shot through Temric. This couldn’t be Lord Roger’s mother. He once more scanned the woman’s patched gown and the grizzled hair that straggled out from beneath her worn head cloth. The cottagers on his half-brother’s lands didn’t dress nearly as poorly as she.
He glanced at Oswald. His cousin’s handsome face had taken on a smooth expression, no doubt to hide the fact that he’d just insulted the woman within her hearing. The bow that followed was courtly, as if there was nothing unusual about meeting noblewomen dressed in ragged homespun and wandering without escort through fields. Temric snorted in sudden realization. Like Oswald’s fine clothing and his constant prattle, the young man’s manners made innocent mockery of his idol, the powerful churchman he served.
“Well met, indeed, my lady,” Oswald replied as he straightened. “I am Oswald, administrator to Bishop William of Hereford. My lord sends me here at Lord Lindhurst’s request to fetch his wife, Lady Philippa. Her attendance is required in the legal matter your son brought before my lord.”
The maid behind the old woman lifted her head at his words. Her gaze skimmed over Oswald, then flew again to Temric. Her expression was one of confusion mingled with fear. As swiftly as he’d been aware of her reaction, it was gone and she reclaimed her servile posture.
“How unfortunate that you’ve ridden so far only to turn around and ride back again,” replied Lady Margaret. “My daughter-by-marriage goes nowhere save in my son’s company.”
Oswald stiffened. His dark brows drew down over eyes that were a snapping black. “You dare not refuse,” he said, his tone that of a reprimand. “Bishop William, your son’s overlord,” he enunciated this so she’d not miss the importance of it, “was very displeased when y
our son appeared alone against his specific command that Lady Philippa attend the proceedings. I’m commanded not to leave this place save with the lady at my side.”
The old woman shrugged in disinterest. “I care naught for your problems. Now, be gone with you, removing nothing of mine as you leave. Those who steal the fruits of my holding will pay dearly for it.” With that, she lifted her walking stick and touched the working end of it midpoint of the young man’s chest and gave Oswald a gentle and suggestive shove.
Oswald took a backward step, then glanced at his expensive attire. Torn grass and chalky dirt clung to where she’d touched him. Slapping away the dirt, Oswald then thrust out a hand. Sunlight caught against the gemstone of the bishop’s heavy ring that he wore atop his glove.
“Madam, see this and know I have the right to insist upon your compliance. This ring is also your assurance that the Lady Philippa will be safely delivered into my lord’s presence. For your son’s sake, do not defy your overlord’s command. Now, release Lord Roger’s wife to me.”
The dowager lifted her brows and sneered. “Fine clothing, pretty glass and a nimble tongue are all that stands before me. You show me not even a scrap of parchment or a bit of wax to prove your claims. If Bishop William truly wishes to speak with my lord son’s wife, he should come here as my son first requested, instead of allowing Lord Graistan to curry his favor with hunting and riches.”
Her piece said, she pivoted on her stick only to come face-to-face with the young woman behind her. “I forgot you,” the old woman snapped. “Stupid bitch, you’ve no more brains than a fly. Haven’t you learned anything yet of a woman’s proper behavior? No modest woman lets foreigners look upon her. Now, go!”
When the girl didn’t move, the dowager waved furiously toward the walls as if gesture alone would spur her maid to action. “Go! Be off with you,” she shouted.
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