Summer's Storm

by Denise Domning

  Both men laughed at that, then both caught back the sounds in identical gasps. Alwyna wrinkled her nose at her sons. “Idiots, both of you. Come, Richard. To bed with you and let your wife tend your wounds.”

  “Aye, Mama,” he said meekly, but not before he tossed a laughing glance Philippa’s way.

  Doing her best to be gentle, Philippa removed Temric’s clothing, splitting his tunic’s seam rather than making him raise his arm. Once she’d rinsed the grime and filth from him with warm water, she used the length of fabric Alwyna brought her to bind his chest and arm into immobility. She finished by giving him a draught concocted to ease his pain. When he at last leaned back into the bolsters, it was with a long, slow sigh.

  “My thanks,” he said in relief as he handed back the cup. Reaching out with his free hand, he ran his fingers across her face, down the curve of her throat to rest on the swell of her breast. His eyes lightened to gold as he smiled. “I know you are a recent widow, but will you have me to husband?”

  “I think not,” she replied with a soft smile. “You’re very stubborn and self-contained, constantly deciding what is good for me without listening to what I have to say.”

  He laughed, the sound soft. “I will take that as an agreement to my proposal.”

  Philippa smiled. “I never doubted that you would.”

  She leaned forward to lay her mouth against his. His lips moved softly on hers, communicating the depth of his love for her the way his words could never do. Heart aching with the wish that she could someday be his true wife, Philippa retreated.

  “Would that we could marry, Temric. No churchman will do it. No matter what you want, we remain related.”

  Shaking his head, Temric opened his eyes. “Related or not, I’ll bring no bastard into this world. Mama?”

  The draperies surrounding the bed rustled, then curtain rings scraped. Alwyna thrust her head between the panels. “Aye, my son?”

  “Send to Upwood, to Rannulf. Tell him I’m ready to return and have decided to marry before I accept the lands he’d force on me. As my overlord, he should come immediately to help me arrange this union.”

  What he said was so shocking that Philippa nigh on catapulted off the bed. Once on her feet, she stared at Temric in horror and disbelief. If Rowena’s husband found her, he’d not only be angry at his brother, he’d want to expose her.

  “Nay! Your brother can only hate you when he sees it’s me you wish to wed! I’m his wife’s sister!”

  It was a patient, but unyielding look Temric sent her way. “How can he hate you, when you’re the woman I love? Rannulf must come. He can do what I cannot.”

  Philippa’s panic only grew. “He won’t. He can’t. Temric, we’re kin. Nothing can change that.”

  “You worry too much, love,” he murmured, his eyes closing. “Now, leave me to sleep. Mama, do as I say and send that message as swiftly as possible. Rannulf must arrive before Oswald leaves Stanrudde.”

  Even as Philippa formed new protests, he slipped into sleep. She turned on Alwyna. “Say you won’t do this mad thing,” she pleaded. “If Lord Graistan comes, he’ll have no choice but to separate us!”

  “Richard’s right, Pippa,” Alwyna said, stepping through the curtains to wrap her arms about her. “You worry too much. Rannulf loves his brother dearly. In fact, were I to wager, I’d say Rannulf already knows you’re here, alive and well, and living with my Richard.”

  “That’s not possible,” Philippa protested. “If he did, he’d do all he could to separate us.”

  Alwyna’s smile was lilting and girlish. “Ha, if I’m right and that child’s a girl, you’ll name her for me. Speaking of your babe, is all well?”

  That startled Philippa. Instantly, she closed her eyes and felt within her. All was as it should be, as near as she could tell. “I think so,” she replied.

  “Good, then it’s only your other wounds we must worry over. Are you still bleeding?”

  Philippa frowned at her, yet sniffling. “Bleeding? I’m not bleeding.”

  “Then, where did this come from?” Alwyna touched the skirt of Philippa’s blue gown.

  Philippa looked down at the crusting red stains and remembered Roger standing over her, bow-shot and bleeding. Suddenly, the day that had been so wondrous became too much to be endured. Her mouth trembled. New tears streaked down her face.

  “A long hot soak,” Alwyna crooned, patting her cheek, “that’s what you need. Aye, come into the kitchen, daughter of my heart, secure in the knowledge that you’ll soon have everything you desire.”

  The rest of that day and the night after passed in an agony of worry for Philippa. Temric awoke twice, but refused to discuss the matter of their marriage with her at all. That meant she alternated between wishing she could rage or weep forever. When the sun finally returned the next morning, she rose to be swept into the press of her daily chores.

  Once the household broke its fast, she left to do her shopping, her list long and her purse heavy. Alwyna meant to supplant their usual, heavy midday meal with a mere snack, then offer the household a rich, evening meal. It seemed Upwood lay near enough to Stanrudde that there was a chance Lord Graistan might arrive early this evening to dine with them.

  Morning fog yet cloaked the city. Against it, all colors dimmed to somber shades of gray and the world became a peaceful place, trapped in a thick silence. Ragged bits of moisture swirled about Philippa’s ankles and settled onto her shoulders as she strode down the lane. Wrapped in its enforced anonymity she felt safe. For this period of time, she could be only Pippa, housewife of Stanrudde with no greater decision hanging over her head than which goose was the plumpest or whether to serve a ripe or new cheese.

  It was nearly an hour later when she returned. As she climbed the stairs into the hall, Alwyna’s laugh echoed down the steps to her. Philippa paused in nervous hesitation and listened. It was English Alwyna was speaking, not the Norman French of the nobility. She breathed in relief; Lord Rannulf wasn’t yet here. Although Philippa paid no heed to what Alwyna was saying, that Temric’s mother should sound so pleased, her voice rising and falling animatedly, made her wonder if Gerard was back with more wedding plans. In case he was, she ducked her head and slipped into the hall, hoping she wouldn’t disturb them.

  “Here she is, at last,” Alwyna cried out.

  Philippa stopped and lifted her head. What she saw made her grip on her baskets loosen. They dropped to the floor at her feet, spilling bread and cheeses, a goose and apples out onto the floor boards. Lord Graistan stood near the hearth, cup in hand. He was yet dressed in his knightly mail, his sodden cloak swirling around mud-stained boots. Alwyna clung to his arm, her smile glowing despite the room’s dim light.

  Her sister’s husband eyed her, up and down. Philippa trembled. No emotion touched the rough hewn outline of Lord Graistan’s face. He cocked a brow.

  “Well now, fancy meeting a ghost in so common a place as this,” he said in fluent English, then followed his comment with a smile. Philippa read it in the turn of his lips. He wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to find her here. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Lady Philippa, when we so recently feared for your life.”

  “You knew,” she said flatly, too surprised to return his greeting with one of her own.

  “He knew,” Alwyna answered with a gay laugh.

  “I did not,” Lord Rannulf protested, then ran a hand through his dark hair. “My brother was very careful with what he told me, fearing I might be hurt if his harebrained plot were uncovered.”

  “Harebrained!” Temric retorted from the depths of the chair nearest to the nobleman.

  Lord Rannulf thrust out a hand in the offer of aid. Temric rose out of the chair and turned to look at the woman he was determined to wed. He wore his bedrobe, with only one sleeve filled, while the other hung empty along his injured side.

  “Hardly harebrained, Rannulf, for look how I now hold all I sought to achieved.” He put out his good hand in invitation to P
hilippa to join him. “Come, love, come and properly greet my brother.”

  “Aye, and once you have, I’ll give you your sister’s greetings,” Lord Rannulf added.

  “Rowena knows?!” That was too much for Philippa to believe after her sister’s shocked reaction in the tower, when she’d come upon Philippa and Temric together there. She shook her head. “If she does, then she cannot approve.”

  Lord Rannulf’s smiled dimmed a little. “True, she struggles mightily with what goes forth here, but believes it better to look forward to seeing you again than to grieve for you. Mostly, she’s troubled by your tomb, knowing full well that the one within it has no right to lie there.”

  Alwyna only shrugged. “If God hasn’t spit the body out by now, then He cannot much mind her laying there.”

  The deep rumble of Lord Rannulf’s laugh was so like Temric’s that Philippa started. “Odd,” he said, “but that’s just what I told my wife. See what my father pays for having made you my nurse, then leaving me too long in your care? You’ve infected me with your cynicism and your heresies. It’ll be your fault if Saint Peter turns me back at heaven’s gate.” Teasing lights warmed his gray eyes as he smiled fondly down on his half-brother’s mother.

  “Watch your tongue,” Alwyna retorted, lifting her hand in warning. “I box ears as well as I ever have.”

  The nobleman threw up his hands as if in fear. “A thousand pardons if I no longer quake before your threat, Alwyna, but I think me you’d need a stool to reach my ears these days.”

  Philippa glanced from face to face, then shook her head, yet too stunned to take it all in. “Nay, I can’t believe this. Lord Rannulf, you cannot tell me you’ll allow Temric to marry me. Not only are we related, but I’m now penniless and without connection. Even if I weren’t his kin and yours, I have no dowry, lacking even a furlong of land to my name. As a lord, how can you allow your vassal to marry so unsuitable a woman? What gain is there for you in this union?”

  “You have a dowry,” Lord Rannulf said. “Temric tells me he took a handful of stones from your mother for you.”

  “A handful of stones?” she cried. “You can’t possibly accept that.”

  A frown touched Lord Rannulf’s brow and he looked at Temric. “Are you certain she wants to marry you? She hardly seems to be leaping at the prospect. Then again, I can understand it,” he said, amusement gleaming in the flicker of his smile. “I wouldn’t be excited about marrying you, either.”

  “Enough, you,” Temric retorted, dealing his brother a quick cuff on the shoulder, only to flinch when it caused him more pain than it did the nobleman.

  In stunned silence, Philippa watched their play, then looked at Temric. “He doesn’t care!” The words leapt from her lips, her tone yet disbelieving.

  Her love only smiled at her. “Didn’t I tell you he’d be pleased? Nay, he’s not pleased, he’s nigh on chortling in glee. Because of you, he finally has me trapped where he’s always wanted me.”

  Her sister’s powerful husband laughed. “My lady, of course I don’t care. You are the answer to my brother’s prayers and, therefore, the answer to mine own. If he’s to have you he’ll have to take from me his lands, while giving me his oath in return. You cannot know how long I’ve waited for this.”

  He looked Temric and his face softened a little. “But, now that I’ve experienced your absence, I find our uncle's lands in Normandy too far from Graistan to bear. I’d keep you closer to me than that.”

  Temric laughed. “I missed you, too, brother. Never again will I leave the life I was raised to live. Be grateful to my mother. It was her house,” the lift of his hand indicted the room around them, “and her life that drives me back into your arms.”

  “I told you when you came that you hadn’t the temperament for trade,” Alwyna said in fond scorn. “You are and have always been naught but a stiff-necked knight.”

  Slowly, carefully, Philippa crossed the room. As she drew near to Temric, he extended his arm, offering her the security of his embrace. She accepted, letting him pull her close.

  “I’m hurt that you have so little confidence in me,” he complained, but the lights in his eyes said he was teasing. “Is your hope restored?”

  “Nay,” she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder. “All I’m certain of now is that your brother is as mad as you. Have you told him that Oswald hates us just now?”

  Temric shook his head. “When Oswald sees that Rannulf supports me, what we did to him won’t matter so much. Go, love,” he said, pausing to touch a kiss to her brow. “Into the kitchen with you and work your magic. A grand meal replete with fine wines cannot hurt our cause.”

  ***

  “Rannulf!” Oswald cried in protest, now seated in Alwyna’s best chair, a cup of spiced wine in his beringed hands. His gaze flickered toward Philippa who sat on a stool beside Temric’s chair. “What you want isn’t possible. She is your wife’s sister and he, your half brother.”

  “Oswald,” Lord Rannulf replied smoothly from his stance at the hearth. The nobleman looked every inch his rank in a gown of brown velvet trimmed in golden embroidery. “I have lands aching for their lord and Temric won’t take them unless he has Philippa as his wife. Come now, the poor lass is with child, when there are bastards enough in this family as it is. I think we must see them wed as quickly as possible. There must be a way.”

  “There is no way! They’re related!” the churchman retorted.

  At this, Philippa’s shoulders slumped. Sometime between meeting Lord Rannulf this morning and this meal, her hopes had escaped her stringent control as she began to believe the nobleman could work the miracle he promised. Now, they died.

  “I think you ask too much of him, my lord,” she said quietly. “He does enough for Temric and me by agreeing to shield the truth of my continued existence.”

  Relief and what might have been gratitude washed over Oswald’s face. “Look! A woman understands where you don’t, Rannulf. You can’t ask me to do the impossible.”

  Leaning forward in the chair beside her, Temric took her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Oswald,” he said, “Philippa of Lindhurst is dead. We know this is true because her name is inscribed on a tomb in Graistan’s abbey. Before you sits an orphan, born in Stanrudde, who knows nothing of her heritage. Being the kindly sort that I am, I’d marry this poor orphan,” he said, smiling at her.

  “That’s good of you,” Oswald sneered. “Since she’s naught but an orphan, lacking dowry and family, then you should be content with a handfast.”

  “Not good enough,” Rannulf said. “Her child needs to bear his name.”

  “I’m content with a handfast,” Philippa offered quietly.

  “And, I am not,” Temric said stubbornly. “I will wed her.”

  “Oswald, think,” Rannulf said with a laugh. “Just imagine what can come of this wedding. For their life’s span, they’ll be buying masses and making donations to appease God’s wrath over their sin. Why, an abbey could be founded on what their sin costs them.” Then, his expression sobered. “More to the point, Oswald, I need Temric installed on his properties. Now, tell me how we can wed them so I may have him as my vassal.”

  Against the determination in the nobleman’s tone, hesitation dashed over Oswald’s face. He shrunk back into the depths of his chair. “I can’t.”

  Standing near the table, Alwyna lifted haughty brows. “I know I promised to say nothing,” she said, warning all that she intended to speak her mind even if they tried to stop her, “but with coins and the right seal, all things are possible. Tomorrow, twenty good men, honest and true, will swear she’s Pippa of Stanrudde, an orphan raised in such-and-such a house. Bring your scribe. On the morrow her genealogy will by laid out before you in its entirety, tracing her ancestry back to King Alfred. In that list, you’ll find not one instance of relationship to my son.”

  “Why not?” Rannulf asked with a shrug. “If a man can forge a family tree to prove himself related to a w
ife he no longer wants, why not concoct for her an identity that makes legitimate children from bastards?”

  “What of you, Lady Philippa,” Oswald asked, his brow creased as he once more sought her support. “Will you let them make a lie of your entire being?”

  Within Philippa the need to be Temric’s wife warred with what the churchman said. Chewing her lip, she looked Temric. “He’s right. Such a thing will make a lie of my whole life,” she said, her voice low to keep her words private between them. “Won’t that stain our joining?”

  Leaning forward, Temric touched his lips to her brow. “Here’s one lie that serves a good purpose, love,” he whispered in return. “I refuse to be kept from you by what Oswald sets between us. Think on that holy dream of yours, love. Against it, why shouldn’t we supply the meat that satisfies society’s requirements and dance to the tune of their empty rituals? Besides, through this method we give our children a complete family and a greater choice in mates.”

  With his words, acceptance filled Philippa. Hopes again rising, she smiled. As Oswald read her face, he groaned. She looked at Alwyna. “If you can do such a thing, so be it, but only if Temric vows before all of us that this will be the final falsehood between us.”

  “I so vow,” Temric immediately said.

  Defeat flickered over Oswald’s narrow features. He turned his cup in his hands for a long moment. At last, he shook his head. “It won’t work. The identity will do fine for those who have no knowledge of Lady Philippa, but what of those who’ve seen her and can name her?”

  Temric’s grip on Philippa’s hand tightened until she glanced at him. Certainty blazed from his eyes. “Love, the assurance Oswald seeks you’ve already offered to me. Will you offer it again, now, while all can hear?”

  As she understood, Philippa sat straighter on her stool and grabbed for her future with both hands. “Oswald, you’re right, I could be recognized, but to do so, I must be seen. I’m content to become Temric’s exceedingly shy wife who cannot bear strangers and prefers to remain at home when he’s called to his lord’s court. In time’s passage, the first Philippa will be forgotten for she was hardly known at all save between Lindhurst and Benfield.”