Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  Surprise darted across Margaret’s face. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Shall I count the wrongs you’ve done?” Edith asked with a harsh laugh, lifting her fingers as she spoke. “First, you disparage Lord Graistan, then you insult his wife, his brother and now his cousin. In demanding the bishop return to Graistan, you’ve annoyed a powerful man, but you weren’t content with just that. Nay, you strike him another blow by dismissing his administrator as a servant unworthy of your attention. By your own efforts you’re closing every ear that might have once been willing to listen to your case.”

  Frantic worry danced in the watery depths of Margaret’s blue eyes as she realized for the first time what she’d done. As the color drained from the old woman’s face, Edith laughed in cold amusement. “Aye, you’ve showed them all you’re exactly what you look to be, nothing but a rustic bitch, mannerless and crude. Do go on, arrogant pest. I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

  Her lips pinched shut, Margaret turned abruptly and tottered toward the nearest hearth on unsteady legs. As he watched her go, Temric wondered why it had never occurred to her that the power she held so tightly at Lindhurst wouldn’t be the same beyond her own boundaries.

  “Tom,” Lord Graistan called down to a servant, “see to it that Lindhurst’s dam has a bench upon which to sit. You may inform her that this matter which so troubles her will be resolved within the next quarter hour. You may also convey to her my heartfelt hope that she’ll find her way back from whence she came once William has rendered his judgement, so we who remain at Graistan might dine in peace.” At the hearth, Margaret made a sound as the insult struck her like a blow.

  “That is,” Rannulf continued, “if we dine at all this evening. From the look of this room, there’ll be no meal.”

  It was all the warning the servants needed to be back at their chores. From every wall and corner folk leapt to do their lord’s bidding. As the men on the balcony turned away from the room, Anne slipped forward to stop beside Temric.

  Edith ignored her to look at Temric. “You heard what she said,” she said in a low voice as the fear and worry crept back into her gaze. “They’ll be finished with my Philippa if they lose the inheritance.”

  “Aye, I heard,” he replied bitterly.

  “We can’t let them do it,” Anne cried, catching Temric by the arm. “Mayhap Father Edwin will be able to do as”--she fell silent with a gasp and crossed herself. “Forgive me, Lord,” she pleaded to her heavenly Father. “I know I shouldn’t have heard what he said and that I compound the sin by repeating what was said to another in private.”

  When she looked back at Temric and the noblewoman there was no sign of a battle of conscience on her face. “Father Edwin promised Lady Philippa that if he came to believe during the bishop’s interrogation that Lord Lindhurst truly did mean her harm, he’d ask the bishop to dissolve their marriage so Lady Philippa might join a convent.” She looked at Edith. “There, your lady daughter could live in peace, while her husband would be free to remarry after a time.”

  Relief flooded Edith’s face. “Thank God!”

  Temric grimaced. Once Philippa was given to God, she would be forever and truly out of his reach. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that she would be safe, but Anne’s next words shattered his illusion.

  “I know the priest means well, but what he intends to do will happen after the bishop’s decision is rendered. My lady, I’ve seen her husband and he is enraged, indeed, over what he sees as Lady Graistan’s interference with his wife. No matter how swiftly Father Edwin moves, Lord Lindhurst will be the quicker as he seeks to remove Lady Philippa from Graistan. I fear she’ll be destroyed despite all of England’s churchmen and their intentions,” Anne finished sadly.

  Edith gasped and clutched a hand to her heart as if to stop its breaking. Temric smiled. Where Edith and Anne saw catastrophe, he saw an opportunity.

  “Then, we must be the ones to purchase time for Lady Lindhurst,” he told the women. “We’ll must find a way to keep Lord Lindhurst from harming his lady wife until the bishop can offer her sanctuary and his protection.”

  “You will help,” Edith breathed. So deep was her emotion that her eyes began to lose their focus. Her knees weakened and she sank to sit upon the hall’s rush-covered floor.

  “Ach, do not sit there, my lady,” Anne said swiftly. Shooting Temric a grateful look, she reached down to help the noblewoman rise. “Come,” she said to Edith, “come to the farther hearth away from that”--her gaze slipped over Lindhurst’s dam as her lip curled--“awful person.”

  As they crossed the room, Temric retreated until he stood with his back braced against the hall’s screen. Leaning his head against the wooden wall behind him, he shut his eyes. In the dark warm closeness of his thoughts, he reminded himself that the greatest gift he could give Philippa was her life, even if that meant he’d never know more of her than he did now.

  ***

  Philippa looked up as the door to the women’s quarter opened, this time without any violence. The one who stood in the opening was a tall man dressed in mud-spattered leather garments similar to Roger’s. The day’s fog had finally burned off. Although little of the descending sun made its way into this chamber, it was enough light to make this man's dark hair gleam reddish and lay shadows on the harsh planes of his face. On her cot across the room, Rowena came to her feet. New color seeped into her cheeks.

  “Welcome home, Rannulf,” she said, a smile in her voice. “How was your hunting?”

  Lord Graistan casually braced a shoulder against the door frame as he eyed his wife. An answering smile warmed the cool gray of his eyes. This time, Philippa studied him, seeking any features he might share with his bastard brother. Their only similarity was in their high cheekbones and the gentle bend of their mouths.

  “Kind of you to ask, but I’m not diverted,” the nobleman said with a quiet laugh.

  The corners of Rowena’s mouth lifted. “Drat. Shall I try again?”

  Sweeping across the room, she pressed herself to her husband, raised herself to her toes and touched her lips to his. It was but a brief press of flesh to flesh, then she settled back onto her heels. “Have I succeeded yet?” There was a new breathlessness to her voice.

  “Nay,” her husband told her with a laugh, then lifted a hand to trace his fingers down the curve of his wife’s cheek. “What am I to do with you?” he asked, sounding neither angry or upset. “Once again, I return to Graistan to find you’ve set my household on its ear. Gareth complains of broken carts, your mother cries of abuse and the need for protection. I’m told you even confined Temric to the tower, although it seems he didn’t stay for long. I just saw him in the hall.” He sighed, the amusement dimming from his face. “In all truth, Rowena, you had no right to step between him and Lindhurst’s mother.”

  Fear for Temric filled Philippa. “Nay,” she cried out, no more able to stop her complaint than she could cease breathing. “You cannot permit Temric to take the beating Margaret wishes to give him. His sacrifice would be wasted.”

  Wrapping an arm around his wife to keep Rowena close, Lord Graistan looked at his sister-by-marriage. “Lady Lindhurst, I presume. Come closer,” he commanded almost harshly. “I’d like to see the woman who makes my brother determined to endure a whipping.”

  Philippa’s fear spiked, this time for herself. It was only the easy way Rowena stood in Lord Graistan’s embrace that gave her the courage to approach so intimidating a man. When she stopped before him, she managed only the faintest gesture of greeting, then bowed her head as any proper woman should.

  Instead, Lord Graistan crooked a finger beneath her chin to raise her head so he might study her. A moment later, he laughed, his harsh expression tempered with kindness. “Why, Wren, the two of you are as alike as peas, save for your coloring.”

  “Aye, so we are,” Rowena said, sounding pleased indeed.

  Buoyed by their banter, Philippa marshaled her courage and dared a
plea. “My lord, I beg you. Don’t let Margaret hurt your brother. He never attacked my lord’s mother, he only took her stick to prevent her from doing me further harm.”

  Lord Graistan’s amusement died, leaving only the harshness of his features in its wake. “I think your husband shouldn’t see your face when you speak of my brother,” he said in soft warning.

  Taking a backward step, Philippa glanced at her sister, then shrugged. Did Lord Graistan truly expect a response from her? If so, then he’d be disappointed. Host or not, she’d never apologize for or disavow what she felt for Temric.

  “So, has the bishop given up trying to take our cook with him when he leaves?” Rowena asked, breaking the silence.

  Gratitude for her sister filled Philippa. No matter what Rowena felt about Temric’s affection for her, she still sought to divert her husband from the subject of her sister’s heart.

  “Not at all,” Lord Rannulf replied. “If anything, the cold meals you sent to the hunting lodge made it worse.”

  “Well, has he yet mentioned what he’ll offer us in return, should we give him the man?” came Rowena’s sharp response. Her sister’s expression tightened as she crossed her arms.

  “You’re worse than a merchant with this haggling of yours,” her husband protested, but there was approval in his voice. “Nay, he’s offered us naught but his goodwill, near as I can tell.”

  Rowena shook her head in refusal. “Goodwill we gain through Oswald. If he wants our cook, he’ll have to offer something we have use for. Aye, that and agree to take Anne as well, for she’ll not be separated from her love. Only then will we consider it.”

  “Oh, Lord,” her husband laughed, pulling his wife a step nearer, “but I’ve missed you these past days, Wren. Indeed, my heart was sore enough that I was grateful for this crisis, for it meant I could come home. I’m tired of sleeping without you. What do you say we deny William’s knights that tower chamber and claim it for ourselves, instead?”

  Philippa watched as Lord Graistan caressed her sister’s cheek. Dark color stained Rowena’s cheeks. As her husband lowered his mouth to his wife’s, Rowena lifted her arms to encircle his neck. “As you wish, Rannulf,” Rowena whispered against his lips.

  Happiness for her sister filled Philippa as she recognized the love her sister and her husband shared. Knowing Rowena would always be happy made it easier to face whatever fate might face her. When the kiss was done, Graistan’s lord straightened with a sigh. He touched his wife’s cheek once more, the bend of his mouth suddenly sad.

  “Now, my love, say your farewells to your sister. The bishop has called for her and I suspect her lord husband isn’t likely to allow her to return to you when the matter’s settled.”

  “So soon?” Rowena cried, her voice tinged with pain as she turned in her husband’s arms to look at her sister.

  The fear that filled Rowena’s eyes shot through Philippa. The moment she’d dreaded had come. With that thought, a coldness so deep it ached rose to enclose her heart. Against it, the certainty that Father Edwin would fail filled her. It was over. When the hearing was finished, she would die.

  As if she recognized what her sister felt, Rowena gave a quiet cry and came to put her arm around Philippa’s shoulders. “There’s not enough time for this now, not with the evening meal ready to be served. It’ll have to wait until the morrow.”

  Graistan’s lord only shook his head. “That might have worked before Lord Lindhurst’s dam spewed her bile. William’s nigh on gnashing his teeth over her accusations.”

  “Then, I’ll come with her,” Rowena said stoutly, pulling Philippa closer to her.

  “You’ll not,” her husband retorted. “You’re still too ill to appear in the hall, Wren.” However gentle the refusal, there was no doubt that Rowena wouldn’t leave this chamber.

  Tears started to Rowena’s eyes as her lips readied to spew more protests. The thought that her sister might risk her happy marriage to save her woke Philippa from her stunned state. Above all, she had to make it seem she went willingly to the bishop’s hearing. Philippa wanted to leave no possibility that Rowena could blame Lord Graistan for the outcome should all go badly and her life ended. Roger wouldn’t get the chance to taint the love Rowena and her husband shared. She shifted in her sister’s arms until she was no longer the comforted, but the comforter.

  “Now, Rowena,” she said, brushing a strand of her sister’s hair back into the confines of her wimple, “you mustn’t worry so about me. Would it ease your heart to know I spoke with your priest earlier? He believes he can convince the bishop to leave Roger and take my vows.”

  “Nay,” her sister managed in a trembling voice, “but I suppose it will have to do.”

  That made Philippa smile. She touched her lips to her sister’s cheek, then turned to face her brother-by-marriage. “I am ready.”

  With an approving nod, Lord Rannulf offered Philippa his arm. With her hand set in the crook of his elbow, Philippa let him lead her from the women’s quarters to the second storey balcony. As they made their way toward the stairway, she glanced over the railing. The hall below now teemed with folk. Hunters, knights and soldiers gamed at odd corners of the room, the winners’ shouts mingling with the losers’ moans. Dozens of dogs snapped and growled at each other, while a hooded hawk atop a perch freed a single, shrill cry.

  Against so much noise and motion, Philippa hung back, forcing Lord Graistan to halt. When he shot her a quizzical look, she murmured uneasily, “So many people.”

  “Aye, too many,” her brother-by-marriage replied with a wry laugh. “William travels with more folk than he needs so that we who are not so powerful will be properly awed. How your sister complains over what their stay costs us!”

  Even though Philippa knew he was trying to comfort her, his words struck her to the core. “It would be no burden to you if my sister receives her whole inheritance as Lord Benfield intended.”

  “That’s true enough,” Lord Graistan said, although his brows rose in surprise. “Come now. Bishop William won’t descend until we’re in the hall. He doesn’t wish to appear as if he favors me by descending at my side.” This was a request, not a command.

  Philippa smiled. It was in the tone of his voice. If she asked to linger here a moment longer, he’d allow it. It seemed Temric’s brother was as kind as he. Once again, setting her hand onto his arm, she nodded. “As you will, my lord.”

  Temric watched his brother lead Philippa down the stairs and into the hall. Dear God, but she shimmered, from her long golden braids to the warm apricot of her skin. Rage followed. Lindhurst would die if he hurt his wife, let the consequences be damned. By force of will alone, he reined in his anger. His head had to remain clear until the time came to swing his blade.

  As she neared the hall floor, Philippa began to scan the room. Temric knew it was him she was seeking. Stepping away from the screens, he waited for her to see him. When their gazes met, she smiled slightly. It was a private smile, meant only for him and that filled him with joy.

  In return, he sent her his own smile, filling it with the promise to hold her safe. Color flushed her cheeks. Her expression softened. Emotion overwhelmed Temric. Was it a trick of their similar births that left them so hopelessly intertwined in so short a time?

  Still wondering over it, Temric glanced around the hall, seeking Anne. He found his English cousin already hurrying toward the chapel door. She meant to fetch Father Edwin, so the priest could do as he’d vowed and save Philippa.

  Rannulf and his charge stopped near the center of the hall. As if it were a signal, behind the balcony’s rail the solar door opened and Bishop William emerged. In the hall, all activity ceased. The customary din dropped into an instant silence.

  A short man, grown portly with age and his position, William strode briskly down the stairs. His dark robe was so heavily woven with golden threads that it flashed with every step. Atop William’s head sat the cap of his rank, while in his hand was the staff that represented his
right to rule his earthly flock.

  With Oswald at his heels, the bishop descended the stairs to claim Rannulf’s massive wooden chair. A snap of his fingers sent a servant scurrying to bring the hawk, perch and all, to his side. More servants removed the table from in front of the bishop, so all in the room might have a clear view of the powerful prelate.

  “Let’s be done with it, then,” William said, his deep voice resonating without effort around the hall. There was also no doubting his irritation.

  Oswald stepped forward, scanning the hall as he did so until he found Temric. It took but a nod of Oswald’s head to tell his bastard cousin that he meant to present the matter of Margaret’s complaint before he dealt with the inheritance. Temric started away from the screens, pushing his way through the crowded hall. Meanwhile, Oswald turned to look at the one who brought so ridiculous a matter before the bishop.

  “Margaret of Lindhurst, come forward,” he called out.

  As Margaret hobbled toward the middle of the hall, Oswald turned to his master. “My lord bishop, this woman has a complaint to lay before you regarding her daughter-by-marriage’s removal from Lindhurst.”

  Bishop William’s jaw tightened as he eyed the one whose rude manner had stolen from him first a day of pleasure, then a leisurely bath and meal. “Well, old woman. Spill it.”

  It was with a new humility in her manner that Margaret bowed before the prelate. “My lord, might I wait until my son is at my side?”

  Irritation glowed in the bishop’s dark eyes. “Why isn’t Lord Lindhurst already here?” he demanded.

  Margaret wrung her hands as she shot a worried glance over her shoulder toward the hall door. “I don’t know, my lord,” she almost cried. “I sent a man to fetch him from his tent, but he’s not yet come.”

  A great huff left the bishop. “Then, we must needs send another man to speed him on his way.”