Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  “Accidents happen,” she repeated quietly.

  His concern built until the furrows on his brow were deep, indeed. “You are certain, then?”

  “I am,” she breathed. Much to her surprise, there was something soothing about stating her expected fate so directly. It made it seem as if she were speaking about another and not herself.

  The old man’s gaze clouded, his expression closing as he lost himself to thought. A moment later, his brows lifted again. “Child, I think it might be best if I’m beside you as Bishop William resolves this issue. After the lord bishop is quit of it, I’ll tell him you spoke to me about a desire to enter a convent and serve our Lord. In that way you may be freed from your marriage, just as your lord husband might be freed of you so he can, in time, wed again.”

  Hope fluttered to life in Philippa. If convent life didn’t offer the happiness that she might have found with Temric, it was far better than life at Lindhurst. Even as she reached for escape, hope died. Roger would never release her, not without extracting his vengeance. Aye, but it wasn’t something the priest might understand. It was to shield the old man from a guilt born of his inability to stop what must come that she smiled at him.

  “My heartfelt thanks for your offer, Father. I’d gladly enter a nunnery rather than remain married to Lindhurst. Will you give me my penance now?”

  He studied her for long enough to make Philippa wonder if he’d been fooled by her ruse, then nodded. “Aye, that I will, but you’ll not care much for what I say. I command you to stand before your lord husband and Bishop William and say nothing until you feel our Lord leading you in the direction He chooses for you to take.”

  He was right. She didn’t like this at all. How was she to rinse the sin from her soul with this? “Father, how will I recognize what is mine own response and what’s coming from a heavenly source?” she protested. “There must be something better.”

  “Nay, I think not,” he replied. “As for recognizing a holy source, trust me when I say you’ll have no doubt of it when you feel it.” With that said, he released her chin and spoke the required words of forgiveness and blessing over her. Before he let her rise, he placed a swift kiss on her forehead. “What I lay upon you is a harder task than most folk can tolerate,” he warned, “but I think you’re equal to it. Now, go with God.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she replied just as she’s been taught, all the while struggling with his strange penance. His confidence in her confused her. Moreover, it was misplaced. She was nothing but a pawn surrounded by rooks, knights, bishops and one woman who believed herself a countess, if not a queen.

  Turning toward the chapel door, she found Anne standing at the holy room’s back. The maid’s stance suggested she’d been there a goodly time. For an instant, Philippa wondered if the servant had overheard her conversation with a priest, then she dismissed the notion. No one eavesdropped on what was said between priest and penitent.

  Philippa stopped beside the maid. Despite her determination to sin no further, she couldn’t stop her question. “What of Temric? Will he let you speak of him to me?”

  Sadness touched Anne’s gaze as she shook her head. “He says you’re right, ‘tis better if neither of you thinks any more of the other. Know you, it pained him terribly to say so.” Pity and awe joined the sadness in her eyes. “All of us here at Graistan, we all wagered that when our Temric lost his heart it would be completely. And, so he has, for you own it, every morsel. Now, don’t I just wish none of us had been right about this?”

  Philippa glanced away. If she owned Temric’s heart, he owned hers. Aye, but for how long? If she lived through this ordeal, it’d most surely be without him. In that event, Temric’s care for her would become no more than ancient memories, like those her mother cherished for the man who’d sired her child.

  “Have you had enough to eat?” Anne asked gently as she caught her better by the elbow and led her from the chapel.

  As if food might ever fill the gaping emptiness that lived within her. “I’m not hungry,” Philippa replied and let Anne lead her back to Graistan’s women’s quarters.

  In the women’s quarters, Rowena’s servants had forgotten this morning’s excitement as they lost themselves in their everyday chores. Spinners spun, sewers sewed, while those making baskets worked with swift and flexible fingers. Yet held tight in the grip of sadness, Philippa crossed the chamber to the narrow windows in its far wall. She leaned into one, stretching nearly whole length into its depth as she pressed her cheek against the cool stones and looked out through the opening. Just beyond her reach, the heavens wept fine tears as if in tune with her heart. Clouds, gray and thin, slid past her airy perch, borne on the day’s drear wind.

  Rowena came to stand behind her, stroking a hand down her sister’s back in a quiet caress. “If I’d suspected her reaction, I’d have forbidden our mother to speak with you,” she offered in apology. “You’ve worry enough over your husband just now. I think you need no new burdens to bear beyond that.”

  With a sigh, Philippa straightened and turned to face her sister. “It isn’t your fault she is how she is,” she said, trying to ease her sister’s guilt. “I fear our mother’s love for me is so hopelessly tangled in her enormous pride that she cannot see how she hurts either of us with it.” She managed a halfhearted laugh. “I think I’d have been better served if she’d split this ambition of hers between us, rather than showering all of it on me.”

  Rowena made a quiet sound that might have been an answering laugh. “I think I’ll let you keep her affections to yourself. Odd, but I no longer harbor any jealousy toward you over the love she showed you.”

  It was enough to steady Philippa’s emotions. When she smiled this time, the movement of her mouth was easier. “My thanks.”

  Laying an arm about her sister’s waist, Rowena glanced over her shoulder at her maid. The old woman was shifting from foot to foot as she watched the two noblewomen. Graistan’s lady gave a sigh.

  “Ilsa’s dancing around back there because she wishes I’d sit and rest. Will you join me? Anne has made a posset for you.” As she spoke, Rowena led Philippa to a pair of well-cushioned stools. “While you drink, we can play a game. Do you like chess?”

  In her sister’s question, Philippa once more found the safety and peace of this place closing around her. She settled upon the stool and looked at the game table between them. “I did once,” she said, “but I’ve not played since leaving Benfield. If you don’t mind telling me the rules again, I’d play with you.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Rowena assured her as she began to put the pieces into place. Philippa watched, sipping from the cup Anne handed her. It was warmed wine, spiced and rich with honey. Because of the honey, it took Philippa a moment to realize how potent the drink was. Even though she knew drunkenness couldn’t serve her well right now, it was almost a relief to let the wine seep through her to loosen her tense muscles.

  Rowena finished setting the pieces in place, then looked up at her sister. “I cannot imagine how you continue to survive,” she said, sorrow gleaming in her eyes.

  Philippa smiled. With her tongue loosened by the wine, words left her lips before she realized what she meant to say. “So you would wonder, my fiery lion of a sister. For you, it would be impossible. I don’t know who would have been destroyed, you or Roger, had he married you instead of me. But then, Roger would never have wanted you. It was the quiet dove in me he sought, believing I hadn’t the strength to resist him. Ah, but I’m not as helpless as he or his mother believe, or as unsupported as they might wish.”

  Finishing the posset to its dregs, she handed the cup back to Anne before continuing. “Things are different here,” she said, the sweep of her arm taking in all of Graistan. “You are lady and they serve you, the line that divides you is clearly marked. At Lindhurst, those who serve have made me one of their own, while I’ve made them mine. Abuse is shared, one taking the beating for another who cannot tolerate it just then.”
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  She smiled. “Of course, it helps that I’ve convinced Margaret I’m an idiot. She thinks I cannot cook or clean and am a dimwit when it comes to counting. Crockery slips from my fingers as if it were buttered.” Philippa paused to raise her brows in question. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to accidentally spill a jar of milk on purpose?”

  Shock dashed across Rowena’s face. “You do not!”

  Philippa’s answering smile was smug. “I do, indeed, then take the punishment that follows with great pride in my achievement.”

  Pride and pain mingled in her sister’s eyes. “I think now I’ve complained over events in my own life without just cause.”

  With a mild sound of acknowledgment, Philippa leaned over the table. “Enough of that. I’d rather forget everything in my past and future to enjoy each instant of my present. Is this piece not the rook? It moves straight ahead, does it not?”

  “Aye,” Rowena said, then began to explain in earnest each piece and its function. It was with joy that Philippa immersed herself in her last hours of freedom.

  The midday meal came and went, far less elaborate than that of the previous day. Rowena said it was because the bishop was expected back and she wished to offer him a fine dinner rather than the usual cold tray. For all her insistence that she was well enough, late afternoon found Rowena sleeping on her cot. When none of the maids would allow her to assist in their chores, Philippa wandered around the room at a loss for something to do.

  “My lady,” Anne asked after a brief, whispered conversation with Ilsa. “It’s yet hours before we expect the bishop to arrive and there’s time to waste. Would you care to bathe again?”

  “Bathe?” Philippa replied, shocked at the invitation even as the memory of wondrous warm water lapping at her chin had been. “Again? So soon?”

  The life drained from Anne’s face. “Pardon, my lady. I only thought you might enjoy it,” the maid said, “that it might be a pleasant way for you to pass your time.”

  “Oh, but it would be a wondrous way to pass the time,” Philippa said as she recognized the hurt on Anne’s face. “I was only surprised by the offer.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Old Ilsa said as she joined Anne. “Why, if we wish, we bathe every day here at Graistan.”

  “Aye, and if we did it’d be in cold water,” another woman called out with a laugh.

  The old woman shot her detractor a sharp glance, then waved Anne into motion. “Anne, make for Lady Lindhurst a bath,” she commanded.

  Philippa soaked in the water until she was nigh on blue with cold. Once she’d again donned her borrowed finery, she let Anne tend her hair. Outside the narrow windows, what had once been morning’s mist had thickened into a cool fog. As the clouds descended to swathe Graistan in their heavy folds, all sound was muffled, even that which echoed up from the courtyard directly below the windows. Against the growing dimness, the maids set out tallow lamps, then filled a brazier with hot coals to ward off any chill.

  Between the hazy, lazy atmosphere and the long smooth draw of the comb through her hair, Philippa was lulled into a peaceful state. As Anne worked, she and another maid argued over the properties of certain herbal concoctions. Their vehement insistences were enough to make Philippa smile as she listened.

  The distraction was enough to keep her from recognizing the first sound from the hall as a shout. It wasn’t until the second shout, when Anne’s comb stilled in her hair that Philippa realized something was amiss. So did all the other women in the chamber. To a soul, they all stared at the door.

  Footsteps echoed along the balcony. The door to the women’s quarters burst open, leather hinges groaning in agony as it moved. It slammed against the wall behind it, teasing more than one scream from the maids within. Philippa came to her feet with a start, her hair flowing free around her.

  Roger, wearing a coarse and filthy hunting gown beneath a sleeveless leather vest, stood in the doorway. His wide brow and high cheekbones were spattered with mud, his blond hair tousled from travel, the smooth line of his jaw covered by several days worth of beard. Perfectly arched brows were drawn over his long, thin nose as his savage blue gaze scanned the sea of female faces in the room.

  Fear, borne of a hundred attacks, exploded in Philippa. She stepped backward in hopes of escape, only to run into the chair behind her. With her path to safety blocked, she froze, incapable of even breathing. Father Edwin was wrong. She had no courage.

  Her movement caught Roger’s attention. His full lips twisted into a snarl as he recognized her. “Stupid bitch. What lies have you been telling that your mother comes attacking me in the hall calling me wife beater?” His words were clipped and cold.

  Philippa’s fear worsened. Would that he’d screamed. Such calmness meant his rage was deep, indeed. At the thought of his coming brutality, her knees gave way and Philippa dropped into the chair. She stared at his feet. Mud spewed from Roger’s boots as he took a step into the room, coming to once more claim her as his own.

  “Stop him,” Rowena said in quiet command from her cot. Before Philippa could protest, Graistan’s women formed a solid wall between her and her husband. With Ilsa at her side to support her, Rowena took her place in front of her women. “How dare you enter this private chamber. Leave immediately.”

  Rowena filled her words with all the power and influence of her position. Philippa looked at her sister in surprise. Aye, and a powerful position it was. True, Rowena didn’t have a man’s physical strength, but her sister’s icy wrath had tamed Temric’s rage. Philippa’s hope of reprieve rose, only to crash with Roger’s response.

  “Pampered vixen,” her husband snapped, turning his vicious gaze on his hostess. “You stand between me and what is mine.”

  Against his vicious tone, all the joy Philippa had known since arriving at Graistan withered. She hunched her shoulders and protectively crossed her arms over her breasts. As she awaited the first blow, her soul raced for safety deep within her.

  “If I’m a pampered vixen, then you’re an arrogant, insolent piece of horse dung.” Rowena offered this as if stating fact rather than throwing an insult.

  Philippa gasped at Rowena’s response, her head lifting with a jerk as she looked at her sister. Not even Margaret dared to cross Roger when he was like this. Just as she expected, Roger’s fair complexion had warmed to a bright red. His fists were closed. Oh, Lord! Roger was going to attack sister!

  “Nay, you mustn’t, Rowena,” she cried as she came to her feet. “I’ll go to him.”

  “You most certainly will not,” Rowena snapped without looking over her shoulder at her sister. “Anne, keep my sister behind me, even if you have to knock her senseless to do it.”

  “Aye, my lady,” the maid answered stoutly as her hand closed around Philippa’s upper arm. “You’ll stay with us, my lady,” she told her charge.

  The red on Roger’s face deepened into scarlet. “You’ll give me my wife,” he shouted taking yet another forward step. Philippa gasped again, this time in surprise. Her husband’s voice had lost its calm and dangerous edge. He was retreating! How could this be?

  “I will not,” Rowena said, as she stood her ground. Oddly enough, for all Rowena’s slight height, Graistan’s lady seemed to tower over the much taller man. “My sister isn’t leaving this chamber until the bishop calls for her.”

  “You have no right to step between a man and his wife,” Roger complained, fairly whining now. He lifted a fist in threat.

  “Perhaps I don’t.” Rowena’s shrug was as cool as her voice. “If you wish, complain to the bishop, telling him I keep her from you. I will bow to his command, but I warn you”--her voice grew even more forceful--“I’ve already burned the rags in which she arrived and I’ll take back all I’ve given her. Will you parade your naked wife through a hall filled with churchmen? Even one as rude and ill-mannered as you or that ass who claims to have spawned you are not so addlepated. Now, immediately remove your stinking hide from my private chamber.”r />
  Philippa watched in awe as her husband, his face mottled in fury, hesitated in indecision. That Roger wanted to reclaim her couldn’t be doubted. But, it was equally clear he had no idea how to take her now that intimidation hadn’t worked.

  At last, he stepped back. Philippa blinked. In that instant, Roger became Dickon, the child Rowena attacked so long ago. The miller’s son and the nobleman were no different, both of them all bluff and arrogance with only their size and the power of their rages to support their bloated estimations of themselves.

  Roger raised a fist. “Sharp-tongued shrew! Why does your lord husband tolerate you? If you were my wife, I’d swiftly teach you to properly respect men.”

  His words resonated in Philippa. From deep inside her, something powerful and compelling surged to the fore. As it came, all fear of Roger died. The sensation was so intense her fingers shook against it. It drove her forward, poor Anne stumbling after her as she went.

  Caught in this strange state, she stopped beside Rowena and looked at her husband. He glared at her, his look as forceful and threatening as it had been in the previous moment. Deep in Philippa a flicker of elation came to life. There was no fear. She smiled and surprise flickered across Roger’s face.

  “Roger, you cannot win respect through beatings,” she told him. “I know this, because in all the times you’ve beaten me, I’ve never gained any respect for you. I think that must be because there’s nothing in you to respect.”

  Her husband near screamed in outrage, then threw himself at her, his arms outstretched to grab her. Several spinsters thrust the sharpened ends of their distaffs against his chest. He rebounded off them, then staggered back a step. “You’ve ruined her,” he shouted at Rowena. “You’ve destroyed all her affection for me!”

  Philippa only laughed, the cold, short sound as unfamiliar to her ear as any stranger’s voice. “Roger, how could you dream I might have some affection for you? If I’ve been ruined because I now expect kind and gentle treatment from lord and home, then you’re right to think me ruined. Go. Hie yourself back to your tent; I’m not yet ready to leave my sister’s company.” If her voice trembled, it wasn’t fear that did it, but a wave of righteous anger. No more, her soul demanded. No more.