Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  The cleric’s brows were yet perched high upon his forehead. “Temric, I cannot believe what my eyes have seen.”

  “Would that you had not seen it,” Temric retorted with no sign of shame or embarrassment in his manner. “However, if you choose to relate to her husband how I so cruelly forced my attentions upon his wife, then I will accept the responsibility and he may have my head.”

  Philippa started in horror. Sweet Mary, but it wouldn’t be just her Roger would kill over this, but him, as well. Fear for herself disappeared beneath a new and desperate need to save him from her husband.

  “Nay,” she cried out, “you must not believe him. Temric seeks only to protect me from my sin, when it was I who tempted him. Mother Margaret knows that I am Eve incarnate. Now you have seen evidence of how right she is in her judgement.” As she lied, she folded her hands in supplication.

  Temric shot her a quick frown. “My lady, you must not abase yourself on my behalf,” he said hoarsely. “Oswald, this would never have happened had I not ignored Father Edwin’s warnings and spent this past year in conversation with Lady Lindhurst.”

  Astounded, Philippa whirled to look at him. “What sort of explanation is this? You make it seem as if we’d been lovers, when I have never seen you before this very day,” she protested, glancing between the cleric and the knight to gauge their reactions. “This I vow, Oswald,” she told the cleric.

  “He already knows that, little one,” Temric said, his mouth twisting in wry amusement. “The conversations in which I have indulged were all of my own imagining. If my thoughts were inappropriate, well then, I never believed I would meet you.” He shrugged. The gesture, meant to be nonchalant, failed.

  His admission made Philippa frown. “Why would anyone wish to imagine me? I am nothing to no one.”

  Temric’s expression flattened. “We are equals, you and I.” His tone was rough.

  Equals? Philippa blinked in surprise, then remembered his parting words to Margaret. He was bastard born and somehow knew that she was, too.

  Astonishment deepened. But how could he know that? She’d learned the truth from her stepfather, who’d told her he was sworn to secrecy over the true nature of her birth. It was a certain thing her mother hadn’t told anyone. Nay, Edith of Benfield had always refused to acknowledge her sin, even to the child she’d stained by it. How was it Temric knew?

  In the next instant, her surprise died. Who cared how he knew. All that mattered was that they were equals.

  She lifted her gaze to meet his and awe washed over her. It was his heart she saw in his eyes. Even if his caring for her had begun in the similarity of their births, it had changed. With his gaze he was telling her he now wanted her solely for who she was.

  The longing to accept what he offered filled her. In his gentleness she might have found her own value. But, that could never be. Instead, all she would know of him were these past moments.

  As if he shared this terrible realization, Temric’s eyes darkened and he returned his attention to Oswald. “I will say that you aren’t the only one who’d be astounded to learn I have behaved with such abandon.”

  The churchman made a sarcastic noise. “What you have done cannot be so easily waved away. Mayhap with prayer and penance there is hope for your soul, but your case would be better served with at least a pretense of shame.”

  “Shame?” Temric snorted. “I’m not ashamed to bear some feeling for her. Who couldn’t after witnessing how she’s abused by those who should care for her.”

  “Nay!” Oswald bellowed. “I’ll not have you make less of what’s happened with this sort of excuse.”

  Striding forward, he caught Philippa by the arm and drew her with him toward the horses in the glade’s corner. Only when they were near the beasts did the cleric turn to face the knight. “You do wrong to speak so boldly to me, presuming our blood ties will keep me silent on your behalf.”

  Anger darkened Temric’s face. “I care not what you say or to whom you say it,” he snarled. “God forbid I should be spared anything for the sake of my sire’s filthy blood.”

  “Churl!” Oswald threw back. “Your words do my uncle a great disservice. He loved you.”

  Temric’s chin jerked up as if he’d been struck. “What do you know of my sire’s heart?” he roared back, his shoulders tense, his hand clutching his sword’s hilt. “Nay, if I die and am condemned to hell for this day’s events, I’ll go to my fate alone and unsupported, just as my father willed.”

  The ancient hurt in his voice echoed against the massive trees, then cut Philippa to the core. She recognized the ache of betrayal in his tone and knew his pain. They were, indeed, equals. Whatever his father had done to him, her mother had done no different when she’d wed her bastard daughter to the monster of Lindhurst.

  Philippa flung herself away from Oswald to drop to her knees at the glade’s center. “Nay,” she cried, fighting off the cleric as Oswald tried to force her back to her feet, “no more, I pray you. I cannot bear that you might be hurt or die because of me.” Her words crumpled into a sob.

  The tenseness melted from the knight. His hand opened on his sword. Hopeless sadness came to life in his dark eyes.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said quietly. “I should have kept my dreams to myself. Above all, I had no right to journey to Lindhurst in an attempt to see how the reality measured against what I imagined. Instead, I have hurt you as I never intended.” His voice softened. “Rise, ma petite. You must never kneel before me. It is not meet.”

  “That much is true,” Oswald muttered, cupping a hand beneath Philippa’s elbow as he forced her to rise.

  When she once again was on her feet, the bishop’s man wrapped a protective arm around her and glared at his bastard cousin. “I accept your apology on the lady’s behalf,” he said sternly, “but more is needed. Temric, for your soul’s sake, you must vow never to touch Lady Lindhurst again. Swear, too, that you’ll seek out Graistan’s priest and make your confession, once we’ve returned.”

  Temric gave a brief nod, then once again closed his hand around his sword’s hilt. “I so vow.” The words were bitter and harsh.

  “Then, I am satisfied,” Oswald said, the relief in his voice deep. “As for this particular occurrence, I think it would be im my master’s best interest if we all forget what happened in this glade. Come, my lady, it’s time for us to go. You’ll ride with me.”

  Even as he drew her toward his steed, Philippa looked over her shoulder at the knight. Temric watched her in return, but his face was closed, his expression flat. All evidence of his care was gone, as was the bitterness he bore his sire. Like her, he kept his pain buried deep within him.

  Philippa caught a sad breath. It really wasn’t fair. In one short hour, she’d met and lost the man who should have been her husband.

  Although it was nigh on Vespers before Philippa caught sight of her destination, the sun yet stood high in the sky, what with Midsummer Day so near. As she eyed Graistan Castle, all her worries gave way to awe. Bathed in what was still day’s full light, the slate roof of the great square keep tower gleamed a darker gray than the strong walls that surrounded it. Clinging to those walls were more than she’d ever imagined might exist. It was a peaceful patchwork of village and field that rolled away from the town’s walls. Philippa loosed a surprised breath. More fool Roger for ever coming into disagreement with so powerful a nobleman.

  Once they’d ridden through the town’s gateway, Philippa drew back against the cleric in claustrophobic reaction. There were so many people, dressed in everything from homespun to bright gowns that rivaled Oswald’s own, rushing up and down the town’s narrow streets. Tall narrow houses, crammed one against the other, lined both sides of the lanes, looming high over Philippa’s head. The air reeked of tanning, butchering, and cooking, while the sounds of people shouting, carts groaning, asses braying and bells ringing assaulted her ears. It was enough to make her long for Lindhurst’s simpler surrounds, no matter what her ret
urn might cost her in blood.

  Entrance to the castle was through a wall so thick it made a tunnel of its gateway. As Oswald’s tired horse plodded out of the gateway’s opposite end and into the bailey, Philippa tensed against the thought that Roger might be waiting to fall upon her just inside the yard. Even as she thought this, she breathed in scorn. What a fool she was! Roger couldn’t know she was arriving just now, not when Temric had virtually abducted her.

  The grassy expanse caught between the castle’s two sets of walls was alive with as much color and motion as the town beneath it. The noise was astounding. Hobbled horses grazed, while sheep and goats bleated, and cows lowed from the pens and folds that sprawled like a maze across the yard. Caught in cages were birds of every sort from ducks and geese to peacocks and finches. From one of the many faceless sheds that lined the inner wall, each one topped with reed roofing, a smith worked, his hammer beating out a steady rhythm as his bellows sighed in great gusts. In what little open space was left the children of the castle’s craftsmen laughed and chased.

  The inner gateway wasn’t as thick as the outer gate. Once they were within the tiny, inner courtyard, all Philippa could do was gawk, wonder overwhelming all other emotion. The keep tower was huge, its faces whitewashed as it soared high overhead, its door raised a full storey above the courtyard. A steep set of stone stairs clung to its side, offering access to that doorway. As in the bailey, buildings clung to the inner walls, but these were built of stone and roofed in slate.

  As Oswald turned his horse toward what was surely the stable, an old man with hair as white as winter appeared in its doorway. When he saw Temric, he lifted a leathery hand in greeting. “Temric! Home so soon?” he called out in the commoner’s tongue. “Where’s my cart?”

  Philippa listened with interest, grateful that she could understand him. It was Margaret’s distrust of her serfs that had begun Philippa’s lessons in the guttural tongue of England’s peasantry. If Margaret was unable to bear abasing herself enough to learn the language, it was Philippa’s love for those same commoners that had made her fluent.

  “We’ve brought the lady with us and left the cart to follow,” Temric replied in the same language. “Where is everyone?”

  Philippa’s brows rose. Everyone? How could there possibly be more people living in here than she’d already seen?

  “Hunting. Won’t be back for three days,” the old man said as two lads raced past him, one coming to catch Temric’s mount while the other came more cautiously toward Oswald’s horse. As Philippa waited for Oswald to dismount around her, the old man spoke on. “Thank God they took that arrogant Lord Lindhurst with them when they went.” As many lines as crossed the ancient’s face, his frown added more folds. “For myself, I cannot ken how they tolerate him and his strutting.”

  Philippa choked back her startled laughter. It wasn’t polite to laugh at her own husband, although it was true, Roger could strut. Contentment followed. Not only was Roger not here, but he wouldn’t be back for days. Wondrous! She had days for freedom. Oswald dismounted, then Philippa slid off the saddle, letting the churchman steady her as she dropped.

  “Come,” he said, his tone brusque, “Bishop William will be pleased at our swift return.”

  “Your lord is away,” Temric said, returning to the Norman tongue of his noble father. He left his horse’s side to join them. “Gareth, here, tells me that they’ve all gone hunting and will be gone for the next few days.”

  “Without me?” Oswald’s cry was petulant.

  Temric gave a brief shrug. “So, ride out and join them if you wish. You know well enough where Rannulf’s hunting lodge lies.”

  Philippa stiffened against his words. If Oswald went to the bishop, wouldn’t the churchman want to hurry home, bringing Roger with him? “Nay, don’t leave me,” she cried, then wracked her brain for some reason why he should remain here with her.

  Shooting her a quick glance, Oswald drew himself up as he eyed Temric. “She’s right. I cannot leave her unchaperoned with you,” he said, misunderstanding her concern.

  Temric drew a harsh, shocked breath. “Oswald, you took from me my vow regarding Lady Lindhurst. My word has always sufficed in the past, or has this one incident erased all my years of honorable behavior?”

  Oswald gave a start, then sighed. “My pardon, cousin. You’re right. I’ve no cause to doubt your word.” His face softened even more. “If they’re hunting, why not come with me and join the sport?”

  “I cannot and you know it,” Temric retorted with yet a touch of irritation in his words. “Bishop William has no tolerance for servants such as I in his presence.”

  “I forgot me,” Oswald said with a grimace. “Sometimes, these dual roles of yours confuse me. Why not be knighted? Then you could join us as a full member of our family.”

  Startled, Philippa glanced at Temric. He wasn’t a knight? That Oswald urged him to accept that title now suggested Temric had previously refused it. Now, why would a man who already lived the life refuse the honor and title of knighthood?

  Temric’s expression was bland, still Philippa recognized it for the mask it was, used to disguise the pain he carried within him, just as she used her pretense of dull-wittedness to hide her own emotions. Her sense of connection to him deepened.

  “Don’t tread upon what is my private life.” Temric’s words were quiet but firm. “When my father failed to write down what he’d promised me, he gave me the right to make that decision my own. And, so I’ve done in refusing. Leave it be.”

  Oswald only shrugged. “Know that I think you’re a fool, but more fool me who stands here arguing with a blockhead instead of racing for the hunting lodge. My lady.” He gave her a brief nod, then dashed across the courtyard toward the stairs and access to the hall.

  Worry surged through Philippa with his departure. “Nay,” she called after him. “If you go to them, they’ll know I’ve come and return.”

  “Not likely,” Temric said with a quiet snort. “Bishop William came tapping at our door because he hungers for the creatures residing in my half-brother’s chase. If the prelate says he’ll not return for three days, then save that heaven and earth move, he’ll not return.”

  Philippa turned to look at him, hope straining to rise even as she held it in check. “Are you certain?” she demanded.

  “Absolutely,” he replied, offering her a brief smile. “Come, my lady. Enter Graistan’s hall and take your ease with your lady sister.”

  Astonishment ate up Philippa’s worry. “What! My sister is here?”

  Temric sighed. “Aye. Your sister is married to my half-brother, Lord Graistan.”

  Even as excitement exploded in her at the thought of seeing her sister after so many years, it crashed into a new and devastating awareness. She drew an agonized breath as the kiss they’d shared in the glade became worse than adultery. “Nay, this cannot be. If our siblings are wed, then we are like unto brother and sister.”

  It was a short, hard nod Temric gave to acknowledge her statement. “Thus does Oswald command me to seek out Graistan’s priest and beg for penance.” If his voice was flat, his dark eyes filled with sadness.

  Philippa gazed up at him, again studying the crooked line of his nose and the fine, upward tilt of his mouth. The memory of his gentleness, of how his lips had given her pleasure, swept over her. How could what they’d done be a sin? From deep within her came a tiny voice. Half-related, it whispered. Philippa smiled as the answer blossomed in her, then repeated what she’d heard.

  “We’re but half-related. It was the unrelated halves of us who kissed.” Until this moment, she’d never realized how capable a sinner she was.

  Temric’s eyes widened at her suggestion, then golden lights flared in their depths. His expression mellowed in pleasure. “For shame, my lady,” he said with the breath of a laugh. “I think Oswald would find such an argument unacceptable. On my part, I thank you for your forgiveness toward me.”

  “And, I thank you for yo
ur kindness,” she replied, her voice lowering in sudden shyness. “You’ve stolen me from Margaret and brought me here in safety. So, too, have you given me three full days of freedom in my sister’s company when I thought never to see her again. There aren’t words enough to express what lies in my heart for you.”

  He caught his breath, stepping back as if she’d physically touched him. “Say no more,” he breathed harshly. “I cannot bear it. Now, if you please you may precede me into the hall so I can say I saw you safely arrived into my brother’s home.”

  Bowing her head against her own roiling emotions, she did as he bid and strode across the courtyard for the keep stairs. A stone-roofed porch shielded the upper landing and the hall’s door. Stepping through the open portal, she stopped just inside the door to gawk like the bumpkin she felt.

  The room seemed to stretch endlessly out before her, its floor covered with a thick layer of rushes. Painted linen panels covered every inch of the walls, while small fires, meant for light instead of heat on this warm day, burned on the twin hearthstones, set equidistant from one another at the room’s center. Massive beams, painted in bright shades of red, green and yellow, framed half the ceiling. The other side of the roof line disappeared behind a wall of wood fronted by a balcony. Philippa frowned at this overhanging box of wood supported by arches of stone rising from the hall’s floor, for she’d never seen the like.

  As Temric joined her in the doorway, her need to know what it was made her put a hand on his arm. “What’s that,” she asked, pointing.

  He yanked his arm out of grasp. “You mustn’t touch me,” he warned, a touch of alarm in his voice. “I’m sworn.”

  Philippa paid no heed to his protest as she asked again, “Up there. What is it?”

  “That,” he said, barely affording the structure that stunned her half a glance, “is where my brother keeps his private chambers, his solar, his bed and the women’s quarters.”