She shuddered and backed away. She knew Alain’s other henchman was out there in the inner bailey somewhere, just waiting to kill her if she came out. And here was Alain, fury and hatred burning him, ready to kill her even as she stood here in a hall filled with people.
She wasn’t a coward. She raised the scythe.
“Nay, mistress.”
It was Gorkel and he was moving slowly toward her, a look of abandoned joy on his terrifying face. His teeth were bared in a smile, and in that instant Philippa felt a bolt of pity for Alain.
Gorkel caught the steward’s arm just above the elbow and simply squeezed. Alain’s sword clanked harmlessly to the floor.
Then the steward was screaming and begging and pleading. Philippa saw that Gorkel was twisting the steward’s elbow back and up, even as Alain’s screams grew louder and louder.
Finally, seemingly without emotion, Gorkel closed the thick fingers of his other hand about the steward’s neck. He raised him with one arm, the fingers tightening, and the steward dangled above the floor. He couldn’t scream now; his voice was a mere liquid gurgle in his throat, as Gorkel shook him until his neck snapped—an indecently loud noise in the silent hall.
Gorkel grunted and flung the quite-dead steward to the rushes.
Philippa dropped the scythe, covered her face with her bloody hands, fell to her knees, and burst into tears.
She heard voices, felt hands touching her gently.
Then she heard a little boy’s voice, Edmund’s voice, and it brought her face out of her hands, for he said, “Stop those silly female tears.”
She looked at him, and, surprising herself, smiled. “You are a mean little boy, with no more sympathy than a bug, but the sight of you right this moment pleases me.”
“Aye,” Edmund said. “That’s because you’re a female and need to be protected. You’re filthy and covered with blood. Come along.”
“Go with the boy,” Gorkel said. “You did well, mistress, very well.”
“There’s another man, Gorkel. I killed his partner—he’s in the stables—but the other man ran. I don’t know who he was, but I would recognize his voice.”
“It was probably the cistern keeper, a scurvy ruffian,” Gorkel said. “He’s been hanging about the steward. Aye, I’ll have him fetched, and the master can see to his punishment when he returns.”
“What about him?” Old Agnes screeched, pointing at Prink. “He’s a filthy traitor!”
The weaver was swaying on his feet, looking sick and afraid as Gorkel advanced on him.
“Leave him be,” Philippa called. “Don’t kill him, Gorkel. He’s just stupid and foolish from his illness. Leave him be.”
“I’ll give him a taste of pain,” Gorkel said. “Just a little taste of pain so he’ll remember not to make another mistake like this one.”
Philippa watched him lift the weaver high above the floor and shake him like a mongrel. Then he sent his fist into the weaver’s stomach, dropping him, kicking his ribs, and saying softly, “Ye touch the mistress again, ye say one word out of the side of yer mouth to her, and I’ll kick ye until yer ass comes out yer ears.”
Philippa turned away. Edmund took her hand. “Come along, Philippa. I’ll take you to your chamber.”
Edmund was whistling as he walked beside her up the solar stairs.
Wolffeton Castle, Cornwall
Graelam de Moreton wiped the sweat from his brow and greeted his visitor. “Aye, Burnell, ‘tis a pleasure to see you again. Is our king well? And Eleanor? Is our kingdom healthy?”
The two men spoke as Burnell, weary to the tips of his worn leather boots, trudged beside the lord of Wolffeton Castle. He was met by Graelam’s wife, Lady Kassia, a charming, slight lady with large eyes and a laughing mouth. He found her delightful but wondered how such a small female dealt with the huge warrior that was her husband.
“What brings you here, Burnell?” Graelam asked finally, waiting for their guest to refresh himself with a bit of the remaining excellent Aquitaine wine.
“Actually, my lord, ‘tis a mission for the king. He wishes your advice.”
Graelam’s dark brows shot upward. “Edward wants me to advise him? Come, Burnell, ‘tis nearly May and the king must want to march against the Welsh or the Scots, and I imagine he wants more men and more money for a campaign. Come, now, and tell me the truth—”
“ ‘Tis true, my lord. The king has a daughter and he wants to find her a husband, one here in Cornwall.”
“But Edward’s daughters are far too young, and the king couldn’t want an alliance with only a baron,” Lady Kassia protested.
“His daughter isn’t a princess, my lady,” Burnell said to Kassia, who was sitting in her husband’s vast chair. Graelam was standing beside her. It was then that Burnell noticed that she was heavy with child.
“What is she, then?”
“Kassia, my love,” Graelam said, grinning down at her, “methinks I scent a royal indiscretion. Edward must have been quite young, Burnell.”
“ ‘Tis true. Her name is Philippa de Beauchamp. She’s nearly eighteen and ‘tis past time for her to be wedded.”
“De Beauchamp! But Lord Henry’s daughter—”
“She’s the king’s illegitimate daughter, my lord, raised by Lord Henry as his own.”
Both Graelam and Kassia were staring with fascinated eyes at the king’s secretary. Slowly Robert Burnell gave them all the facts and the king’s request. “ . . . So you see, my lord, the king wants a man who won’t try to bleed him, but also a man of honor and strength here in Cornwall.”
Graelam was frowning. He said nothing.
Burnell, hot and tired, said with some desperation, “He wants you to give him a man who would be worthy of his daughter’s hand, my lord, so—”
“I may know the man the king seeks,” Graelam said with his first spark of enthusiasm, and Kassia saw the evil intent in her husband’s eyes.
“You do?” she asked, staring at him.
“Aye, mayhap I do.”
“His present rank isn’t important, my lord. The king will make him an earl.”
“An earl, you say? ‘Tis something to think about. You will remain until tomorrow, Burnell?”
Robert Burnell would have happily remained in a soft feather mattress for a week. After visiting Lord Graelam, he would have to stop at Beauchamp and speak to Lord Henry and tell him, hopefully, that there would be a groom for Philippa shortly.
“Good. I will tell you my opinion on the morrow. Aye, advice for the king.”
That night, Graelam was laughing heartily in bed beside his wife. Kassia was chiding him sharply. “You cannot, Graelam! Truly, you cannot!”
“I told you I would bring that whoreson down, Kassia. This will do it.” And Graelam continued to laugh, finally holding his belly.
“But Dienwald despises authority—you know that. His father-in-law would be the King of England! Dienwald wouldn’t accept it. He’d travel to the Pope to plead for his freedom, or escape to the Tartars, or even pray to the devil if need be. And to be made an earl. Dienwald disdains such trappings. He hates respectability and responsibility and tending to his name and his holdings and his worth. Oh, my lord, he bested you, but this revenge would make him miserable forever. He could no longer raid when it pleased him. He could no longer brag about being a rogue and a scoundrel. He is proud of his reputation! And what if the girl is a hag? What then?”
Graelam laughed harder.
Kassia just looked at her husband and thought about the casks of Aquitaine wine that Dienwald had probably stolen from the wrecked ship. She thought of Dienwald as an earl, his father-in-law the King of England himself. Hadn’t Burnell mentioned that the girl, Philippa, looked every inch a Plantagenet?
Kassia started laughing herself. “He’ll murder the both of us,” she said, “if Edward takes your advice.”
St. Erth Castle
It was the middle of the night and Philippa was dreaming that she felt a warm hand ligh
tly stroking through her hair, rubbing her scalp, and it felt wonderful. Then a man’s mouth was touching her cheek, her jaw, nipping at her throat, licking over her lips; then a man’s tongue was stroking rhythmically over her lower lip. She sighed and stretched onto her back. She loved the dream, cherished it, held it tightly, now feeling the man’s fingers caressing her breasts, his callused fingertips stroking her nipples.
When the man’s fingers rubbed over her ribs, curved in with her waist, then stroked her belly, her muscles contracted with pleasure. Then he was pressing her legs open and delving through her hair to find her, and she sighed, then moaned deeply, wanting more, lifting her hips, and wanting, wanting . . .
She opened her eyes to see the man wasn’t a dream. It was Dienwald, and she looked at him until she could make out his features in the darkness. He looked tired and intent and he was breathing hard as he stared down at her.
“It wasn’t a dream,” she said.
“No, wench, it wasn’t a dream. You feel like the softest of God’s creatures.” She felt his fingers caressing her flesh and knew she was wet beneath his fingers and swelling, her flesh heating. Then he eased his middle finger inside her, and she cried out, jerking up, feelings she’d never before imagined welling up inside her.
“Hush,” he said, and pressed his palm against her belly to push her down again, and then his finger eased more deeply within her, and more deeply still. “Does that pain you, wench? I can feel you stretching for my finger. Ah, there it is, your badge of innocence. Your precious maidenhead. Intact, ready for my assault.” He shuddered, his whole body heaving, and for a moment he laid his face against her, his finger still inside her, not moving now, soothing and warm. “You almost died tonight, Gorkel told me. I’m sorry, Philippa. I thought you well-protected—from yourself, truth be told—yet my trusted man was an enemy of the worst sort. I’m so sorry.” He kissed her belly, licked her soft flesh, and his finger pressed more deeply into her, testing the strength of her maidenhead. He moaned, a jagged raw sound, and withdrew his finger.
He came over her and his mouth covered her, and Philippa, excited and quiescent in the dark of the night, yielded completely to him.
His tongue was inside her mouth, tasting her, savoring her, and she touched the tip of his tongue with hers. Then, once again, without warning, he rolled off her, leaving her abruptly.
“Please,” Philippa whispered, holding her hand toward him. She felt nearly frantic with longing—for what, she knew not.
“Nay, wench,” he said, sounding as though he’d been running hard. “Nay, ‘tis just that I’ve been without a woman for a week and my loins are fit to burst with lust. Get you back to sleep.”
She cried out at his words, hating them, hating him for making her realize yet again that she was nothing to him, nothing but a vessel, nothing more. She heard him leave the chamber and slam the door.
She turned onto her side and wept, her sobs a faint sound in the quiet darkness.
When Dienwald returned some time later, she pretended to be asleep. He made no move to touch her when he climbed into the bed beside her. She listened to his breathing even into sleep and knew she had to leave him and St. Erth.
As soon as she could find a way.
11
The next morning, Philippa awoke to the slap of a hand on her naked buttocks and lurched up.
“You’re awake. ‘Tis time I had some answers from you, wench. I leave my castle in fine fettle, only to return and find my steward dead and everything in an uproar. Get you up and come into the great hall.”
Dienwald smacked her bottom one more time and left her alone. She lay there wondering what would happen to her if she cracked his head open with a scythe. The cockscomb.
She rolled onto her side and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible.
In the great hall, Dienwald was staring at his fool, stretched on his side on the floor. “Tell me again what happened, Crooky, and say it in words that make sense. No rhymes, no songs.”
Crooky looked at Dienwald. His master was tired, ill-tempered, and had obviously ridden back to St. Erth in haste. Why? To see the mistress? He’d missed the girl? Crooky hadn’t seen him the previous evening when he’d stormed into the hall yelling his head off because the porter had screeched about Philippa being covered with blood and dead bodies everywhere.
Crooky grinned at his master. “Methinks you grow cockhard, master.”
“I grow what? Listen, you damnable mule offal, I don’t—”
“You caught the bastards who burned the crops?”
Dienwald tore into a piece of bread with his strong teeth. “Aye, three of them, but curse their tongues, they were already dead and couldn’t tell me who’d sent them.”
“ ‘Twas Walter de Grasse, the slimy serpent.”
“Aye, in all likelihood.” Dienwald chewed another piece of bread, not speaking again until he’d swallowed. Then he bellowed, “Margot! Bring me ale!”
“Let the mistress tell you of her adventures, master. ‘Twill make your hair stand up in fright.”
“You dare to call the wench ‘mistress’? It’s mad! I should kick you—”
Crooky quickly rolled away from his master’s foot and came up onto his knees. “She’s good for St. Erth,” he said. “And stouthearted. She saved herself.”
Margot brought the ale, giving Dienwald a wary look as she served him. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, then waved an irritable hand when she paled at his words.
He turned back to the hapless fool. “You were here, damn your ears! I want to hear what happened.”
“Oh, leave him alone,” came Philippa’s irritated voice from behind him. “The last thing I want to listen to is Crooky singing at dawn.”
Dienwald turned about and eyed her. It required all his will not to smile at her. It took him only a few moments more to tamp down on the wild relief he felt upon seeing her whole and ill-tempered. “ ‘Tis about time you deign to come to me,” he said. “You look like a snabbly hag.”
Actually, she looked tousled and soft and very, very sweet. He eased back into his chair, stretching out his legs in front of him, folding his hands over his chest. He’d fetched her another old gown worn by his first wife, this one a pale gray, frayed and baggy. It stopped a good three inches above her ankles.
“Thank you for the gown. There is no overtunic?”
“I didn’t even have the chance to see you in the other gown I gave you. This one doesn’t fit you at all, but there was nothing else. And don’t whine. Why haven’t you yet sewn yourself a new gown and overtunic?”
“I should have,” she said, wanting to kick him. He’d touched her and caressed her and kissed her, then left her to find himself another female vessel. And now he was baiting her and insulting her. But she also remembered how he’d laid his head on her stomach and told her how he’d been afraid when he’d heard what had happened. Had she dreamed that? He didn’t seem at all concerned about her this morning, just bad-tempered. She raised her chin. “I think I shall begin immediately.” She picked up a piece of bread and begin to chew it with enraging indifference.
“Tell me what happened, wench. Now.”
She chanced to look down at her wrists. They were bruised and raw but there wasn’t much pain now.
Dienwald hadn’t yet noticed her wrists; now he did, and sucked in his breath. His irritation rose to alarming heights. “I don’t believe this,” he bellowed at her. “I leave my keep, and look what happens. Have Margot wrap up your wrists.” He added several lurid curses, then sat back, closing his eyes. “Tell me what happened whilst I was gone.”
Philippa looked at him closely, decided he’d calmed himself sufficiently, and said, “Not all that much happened at the beginning. We spun nearly all the wool into cloth, and now we’ve gotten most of it dyed. The sewing has begun, just yesterday. Oh, just one small happening out of the ordinary—Gorkel had to break your steward’s neck, but Alain deserved it. I have determined that yo
u are the most pious of saints when compared to the loathsome departed Alain.”
“I see. Now, before I take you to my chamber and thrash you, you will tell me why my loathsome steward wanted you dead.”
Philippa just shrugged. She knew it infuriated him, and, unable to stop herself, she shrugged again.
He rose swiftly from his chair, walked to her and grabbed her beneath the arms, and lifted her off the bench. He held her eye-to-eye. “Tell me what happened, else you’ll be very sorry.”
“What will you do? Will you continue what you did to me in my sleep during the night?”
A spasm of some emotion Philippa couldn’t identify crossed his face; then his expression was closed again. “Give over, Philippa, give over. I am weary and wish to know what happened.”
His serious voice, empty of amusement, brought her eyes open. “I’ll tell you. Put me down.”
Dienwald very slowly lowered her to her bare feet. He walked back to his chair, pressing his hand against the small of his back. “Your weight strains even my strength,” he remarked to the black-beamed ceiling, and sat down again, waving his hand at her.
She told him of what she’d found in the steward’s chamber. “I didn’t trust him, even from that first day I was here. He hated me, and there was no reason I could see. Well, my lord, he’s been cheating you all the time he’s been here, and when he held the knife to my throat in your chamber, he admitted it and insulted you and me and said he was going to kill me.”
He made a strangled sound but said nothing. Philippa, swallowing against the remembered fear, spoke in a clipped and precise voice, emotionlessly telling him of coming to in the stables, of killing one of the men with the scythe, of running into the great hall, and of Gorkel’s killing of the steward. “Alain also sent his men out to take the other wool wagon. He had the farmers killed. It was from them that he learned that I could read and write and that I’d acted as my father’s steward.”
Dienwald said nothing for a very long time. He merely looked beyond her, over her right shoulder, she thought, as she waited tensely for him to say something, anything. To show concern perhaps for her safety, as he had in the dark of the night. To tell her of his undying gratitude. To tell her that he was glad she wasn’t hurt, to tell her he was sorry it had happened. To exclaim over the perfidy of his steward. To thank her for her diligence, her concern for him and for St. Erth. To tell . . .