The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  “I fear I can’t do that,” she said quietly. Rather than return to the cart for her clothing, Edith set the knife’s point beneath her ribs.

  Temric tensed in surprise and shock. “What are you doing, Edith,” he said, keeping his tone calm and soothing as he took a careful step toward her. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, but it is,” she replied as calmly as he. “You see, Roger will never be content until he sees her body. For my soul’s sake, will you push the blade home for me?” This was an aching plea.

  Horror tore through Temric. “Nay,” he said, taking another slow step toward her. As much as he wanted to rush and grab her, he feared a sudden move might spark disaster. “What would Philippa think if I were to murder her mother? Now, give me your knife and go on your pilgrimage. Roger will be content if the bishop names him widower.”

  “He must believe Philippa is dead or she won’t be safe,” she cried, a new tremble in her voice.

  He was but a yard from her now. Temric lunged too late. Edith jammed the blade upward into her chest.

  As her face blanched against the pain she caused herself, he caught her. She sagged into his arms. Temric’s heart fell. The throb of her blood from the wound was the promise of a swift death.

  “What have you done?” he cried out in grief. “Philippa will be torn to pieces knowing you’re damned to hell for her sake.”

  Edith only shook her head. “What care I for my soul when I know she’ll be safe?” she said, her words broken by gasps. “Now, vow to me whilst I can yet hear. Vow you’ll set me aflame when I’m gone. There’s oil in the cart.”

  Temric nearly dropped her, the suggestion was so revolting. “What?! I won’t! It isn’t Christian.”

  “You must,” she insisted. “It’s those marks Roger laid on her. We are much alike, my daughter and me, but there’s no mistaking those marks. As for Christian,” a harsh, bubbling laugh left her lips as her eyes closed, “what difference does it make now? I’m damned to hell for this.”

  Her last word died into a long, ragged gasp, then she was still. Temric held her another moment, then lay her upon the mossy ground.

  “Temric?” Peter called from atop the wee hillock.

  Temric looked up at him. His brother’s face glistened with water, his hair was dampened. Whatever steadiness such a washing had given him departed as Peter looked upon his third dead body of the day. “What happened?” There was a child’s fearful tone to his question.

  A harsh sigh left Temric. There was no safe answer to give his brother except the truth. “She’s killed herself.”

  Peter’s eyes swam and his mouth twisted. “God forgive us all,” he breathed.

  “Aye, well there’s worse to come. She’s left me no choice now, save to do as she asked and set her remains afire.”

  His brother gagged, then clutched at his midsection. In the next instant, he turned, letting his heaving stomach take him back to the stream. It was no different from what Temric felt. God wouldn’t soon forgive him for this, nor he, himself.

  Rising, he went to the cart and found the cask of oil hidden near Philippa’s feet. Although it was likely to smoke after a day’s rain, he gathered together wood enough for a goodly fire. Then, leaving the gowns where they lay, he put Edith of Benfield atop her funeral pyre. Dousing all, he paused before setting sparks to tinder, thinking he should offer some prayer, if not for her, then for himself and what he did to her. No particular words came to mind.

  It took but a moment before flames awoke, smoky and reeking. It would be worse, ‘ere too much longer. Behind his hillock, Peter was again trying to empty his already empty stomach.

  “Hie lad,” Temric shouted to his brother, “I’d be as far from here as quickly as we can get there.”

  Eyes averted from the burning body, Peter made an unsteady dash across the clearing, then caught up his switch. In a moment, the oxen plodded out onto the roadbed. As Temric mounted his gelding to follow, he wondered if he, too, shouldn’t empty his stomach.

  Pain flashed through Philippa, searing in its intensity. She stiffened, crying out against it.

  “Hush, little one,” a man said. “It’s not much farther.”

  His words confused her. What wasn’t much farther? Where was she going? She tried to open her eyes, but the light sent another flash of pain through her.

  “I hurt,” she cried out through clenched teeth.

  “To be sure. That was a mighty blow you endured,” he replied, his voice soft and soothing. Something brushed her face. A hand, the brush of fingers warm against her cheek. “Sleep, sweetling.”

  His last words woke a picture in her mind. A man with a crooked nose, a neatly trimmed beard, dark hair and eyes that glowed golden when he looked at her. She sighed. The feeling that accompanied this image was trust. That she could trust him meant she knew him, but no name came with his image.

  Once again, Philippa was jolted. The pain was more than she could bear. As it overwhelmed her, she again dropped into painless nothingness.

  Temric grimly watched the woman he loved return to unconsciousness. The misty rain was beginning to soak through her blankets. He could only hope the wetness wouldn’t bring on additional sickness. Thank God and His saints they were now only a stone’s throw from their destination.

  Lifting his gaze to Stanrudde’s oncoming walls, he studied them in a habit borne from years of warring. A dry moat fronted the city walls. At either side of the town’s main gateway stood a thick, rectangular tower, footings sloping outward to discourage sappers. Arrow slits appeared at regular intervals along the towers’ faces, giving defenders clear targets up and down the ditch.

  From over the walls came the sound of bells as all six of Stanrudde’s churches began warning the city’s inhabitants that Compline was but a quarter hour away. Temric gave thanks they’d arrived in time. Once Compline began the gate’s massive wooden doors would close for the night.

  It wasn’t until Peter drove the oxen onto the tongue of wood spanning the dry moat that panic hit Temric. God save him, but once he was within these walls he’d be trapped forever, leaving his rightful lands wanting their lord! Nothing in all his life had felt as wrong as what he now contemplated doing. He glanced at Philippa and his heart steadied. There were things more important than fiefs and keeps. Against the thought of a life with her, worry died. Surely, he’d grow accustomed to a commoner’s life in time.

  Ahead of him, the cart stopped. Peter slipped off the back of the cart and strode up its far side toward the gate. The lad’s shock had faded hours ago, but he’d remained sober and quiet for the duration of their journey. Just as well. Temric doubted he could tolerate idle conversation this day.

  A man appeared in the gateway’s shadows. His scarlet capuchin was brilliant against the dark walls around him. He eyed the peasant driving the team. “Your business?” he barked.

  “Timothy, it's me, Peter, son of Peter the Wool Merchant,” Peter called from across the beasts’ broad backs, his voice clear and strong. “With me rides Richard FitzHenry of Graistan, my half brother and my mother’s eldest son. We bring with us Richard’s wife so she might dwell with my mother as she recovers from grave injury.”

  His wife. It was strange to hear Peter speak aloud what lay in Temric’s heart. Aye, there were things far more important than acreage.

  The gatekeeper gave Peter a broad grin. “Hey, laddie! I hardly recognized you. I vow you stretch a little more with each passing month. Tell Mistress Alwyna we all pray for Jehan’s swift recovery.”

  Peter’s answering nod was friendly. “That I will. Your prayers are gratefully accepted for our sake, as well as Jehan’s. He’s driving us all mad. I fear he finds an invalid’s life intolerable.”

  “As would I,” the man replied with a twisted grin. “Pass on.”

  With Peter staying at the team’s head as guide, the peasant gave a flick of his goad and sent the wagon trundling through the opening and onto the fullers’ lane. Temric rode forward
until he was alongside his youngest brother. “What made you name Philippa my wife?” he asked the lad.

  The boy shot him an odd glance. “You’re incapable of hiding your affection for her. I think it’s better to name her your wife than your leman. I couldn’t imagine you wanted it known about town that you’ve stolen away another man’s wife who just happens to be your half-sister by marriage.”

  The complexity of what he attempted loomed ahead of Temric like a stone wall. He sighed and reined in his horse until he once more rode beside Philippa. When Peter put it that way, Temric wondered if his mother would offer her acceptance or her condemnation when she saw Philippa. Against the possibility she might be reluctant to offer sanctuary, it might be better if no one, even his mother, knew the truth. So what sort of tale could he tell his mother that she wouldn’t immediately know was a lie? As he considered the very limited possibilities, he glanced about a city he hadn’t seen in more than six years.

  Here, along fullers’ lane, the river that cut Stanrudde in twain rushed and tumbled in its course alongside the street. The nearer the cart came to the city’s center, moving from street to street, the more sluggish the water’s movement. Its surface grew dark and putrid.

  A wry smile twisted Temric’s lips. Not much had changed. The town council was still remiss in cleaning the channel.

  Houses, years of English dampness having bent their bones until they looked as gnarled as old men, lined the narrow lane. So closely did they lay to the roadway that their second storeys jutted out over the street, some leaning so far out that their exterior walls met with that of with their across the street neighbor, turning this lane into more tunnel than thoroughfare. Temric frowned at the mold-stained plastered walls. Somehow, he’d remembered the paints being more festive and bright.

  Snippets of sound filled the air: a baby’s cry, workmen calling out their comments to one another, a girl’s reedy voice raised in song. Somewhere, a man and woman were trapped in bitter argument. It was a strange juxtaposition to the homely smell of boiling stew that wafted from a cookshop, its front walls folded back and lifted up to encourage customers to stop for a bite.

  Peter led the way past the abbey and its wide, grassy plain where the horse fair was held. Three monks, cowls drawn up against the mist, hurried past them on their way to Compline prayers. The crowding at the city’s center gave way to the grander homes at Stanrudde’s southern end. Being built of wood like their poorer cousins in the city proper, the houses here were taller, some stretching to a full four storeys in height, most with slate tiles for roofing instead of the less expensive thatch. And just like those at the city center, the first floors here were also given over to business, but they were more likely to be storerooms filled with goods and fronted by counting rooms than a tradesman’s workshop.

  Temric didn’t recognize his mother’s house until Peter opened the gate in the front of the house, revealing the large stone-paved courtyard hidden behind the facade. Somehow, he didn’t remember this cobbled square, or the two long warehouses that lay along its far sides. In front of one of the warehouses an awning of greased cloth had been raised. Here, Alwyna’s apprentices scraped sheepskin in preparation for making parchment. The lads looked up as the cart came at them. One waved to Peter as the other dashed into the house proper, chickens and a squealing piglet scattering before him. Temric dismounted and waited, knowing it wouldn’t be long.

  “Temric!” his mother screamed with joy as she shot out of the house’s back door.

  As she threw herself at him, catching her arms about his neck, Temric embraced her only to cluck in dismay. His mother’s gowns hung loosely on her. He leaned back to look at her and worry deepened. Her face, usually round-cheeked, was gaunt, her eyes deeply shadowed. Her hair, once as dark as his own, was now heavily threaded with silver.

  “Mama, you’re naught but skin and bones,” he chided in worry. “Are you ill?”

  “Nay,” she replied, her smile as bright as her eyes, “I’m only careworn and sad. Now that you’re here, I’ll rest better.” Then it was her turn to cluck. She lifted a hand and touched the broken skin on his cheek. “This looks like the mark of a whip. What happened?”

  “An old hag took a dislike to me,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

  “And, Rannulf let her wound you?” Alwyna cried out. “I thought I raised him better than that.”

  Temric laughed and set her away from him. She immediately clutched his hand in hers. “So you did. Rannulf had nothing to say in this matter. Mama, I’ve brought someone home with me.”

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “Come and see,” he said, leading her to the cart’s side. Philippa yet lay trapped in her personal darkness. Temric took care not to jostle her as he lifted her out. To his great pleasure, she curled into his embrace, her head shifting until it was pillowed on his cloaked shoulder. By God, but it felt right to hold her close this way.

  Turning, he faced his mother. Alwyna stared. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what happened to her?” she breathed, brushing her fingers against Philippa’s bruised cheek, which made Philippa jerk slightly.

  “I saved her from those who would have seen her dead,” Temric offered, taking a tentative step into the deception he must practice.

  Alwyna’s gaze shifted from the injured woman to her son. The same shrewdness that had served her so well as a wool merchant’s wife was now aimed at him. “There’s more to it than that. I can see it in your face.”

  She paused, waiting for an explanation. When Temric gave her none, she nodded. “So, that’s the way it needs to be. Ah well, bring her within. The more trouble the merrier, I always say, and we’re laughing aplenty already.” Although she meant this as a jest, there was a catch in her voice.

  Together, they crossed the courtyard and entered the door, stepping into a tiny antechamber that fronted the counting room. A steep flight of stairs lay against the far wall. Alwyna started up first, leaving Temric to follow. When they stepped into the second storey hall, she waved him to a stop. “Stay here a moment. I’ll call Marta and Els to care for your poor foundling so you can take your ease and we can talk.”

  She headed for the wall that had turned this one large chamber into two and the kitchen that lay beyond it. As Temric waited, he glanced around the room. Parchment still lined the three arched windows in the south wall and he thought he recognized the two painted linen panels that covered the wall. Everything else was unfamiliar. Near the disassembled dining table was a tall cabinet painted in bright shades of red and yellow, its shelves displaying the house’s crockery. There was a new silver salt cellar and a tray of wood chased with brass.

  This room hadn’t had a hearth when he last visited. Now, a strange contraption took up one corner of the room. While a fire burned merrily on its stone, its smoke was channeled out of the chamber by a pair of brick walls that narrowed near a hole high upon the wall above the hearth. Four large wooden chairs stood before the fire, their backs to the door. Alwyna’s middle son was peering around the edge of one of them at his elder half-brother.

  “Jehan,” Temric said in cool greeting.

  “The prodigal son returns,” his half-brother quipped, his snatch of laughter snide. “Come to gloat over my downfall, have you?”

  It was for Philippa’s sake that Temric swallowed his dislike for the man his brother had become. From the moment Jehan was old enough to understand that Alwyna had once been a leman to a Norman lord, he’d hated the result of that union. “Enough, Jehan,” he begged, keeping his voice emotionless. “I’ve had a trying enough day without your rancor.”

  Jehan’s fists tightened on the chair’s side as his face twisted in anger. “I’ve reached my majority, Norman. This is my house, not yours. I may do as I please,” he snarled.

  “Jehan!” Alwyna snapped as she reentered the room. At her heels were two girls, one bearing a bucket of steaming water, the other, toweling and a cloth for washing. “This house isn’t yours. It’s mine un
til I give it to you.”

  “Pardon, Mama,” Jehan retorted, his voice lacking even a shred of sincerity, “but I wonder at you putting so much faith in him. He’s no different than any other Norman, sneering at our life style. Why, had you not sent Peter to fetch him, I doubt he’d have come at all. He cares nothing for what plagues commoners like us.”

  Glaring at her middle son, Alwyna released an irritated breath. “Pay him no heed, Temric,” she said without shifting her gaze from Jehan. “He snaps and snarls because of his injury, which”— her tone grew steely— “will not heal until his bile is settled.

  “He is entitled to his opinion, Mama,” Temric replied.

  “Do me no favors, Norman,” Jehan retorted. “Who is that you carry? A whore to warm your nights?”

  Rage exploded in Temric. “Shut your mouth, you insolent brat!”

  “Why, I believe I’ve just stung you,” Jehan said, smiling as he savored his victory. “Strange, but I never imagined you capable of such passion.”

  Suddenly, Temric’s head throbbed. More fool him for letting one of Jehan’s goads prick him into anger. “Forgive me, Mama,” he said. “I’ve dishonored the peace of your hall.”

  “You have not,” Alwyna replied, turning him toward a second flight of stairs that crawled up the hall’s wall. “Bear her upstairs, then return, trusting Marta and Els to see to your bit of trouble. By the time you’re back, the boys will have fetched in your chest so you can disarm and eat in comfort. Go,” she finished, giving him a push to set him on his way.

  “You’d better not put her in the new bed,” Jehan called after him as he climbed the steps to the house’s third storey. “That’s to be mine and Clarice’s when we wed.”

  “In my house I put my guests where I choose.” Alwyna’s voice was thick with anger.

  Alwyna’s house being only three storeys tall meant this upper chamber was open to the rafters. Although it was a room, occupying the full length and width of the house, a web of ropes hung from wall and beam. Draped over the ropes were linen curtains, which created a number of private sleeping areas.