Philippa nodded, her head down, but she couldn’t prevent the words that came spilling from her mouth. “Walter, you know me so little. You met me only as a child. Why do you wish to wed with me? You know I am no longer a maid. You know that my father will not dower me. Tell me, dear cousin, tell me why you so wish me as your wife.”
She raised her head and knew that she’d again jumped with her feet; she hadn’t thought. What if he turned on her, what if . . . . ? She waited, tense and still, hoping he would speak, yet fearful that he would simply rant at her and perhaps beat her with that whip of his.
Walter found himself at something of an impasse. Again he saw the contradiction in her. She was but a woman, full of softness and gentle smiles, and here she was questioning him, but, ah, so sweetly she questioned. He’d thought to slap her hard to show her that he wouldn’t always tolerate inquiries from her, but now he thought better of it. That was doubtless how Dienwald had treated her. Aye, Dienwald had been violent and rough with her. Walter must prove to her that he was different. He would resort to more straightforward methods only if she pushed him to them.
“I have loved you since I first saw you five years ago, Philippa. I spoke to Lord Henry then, but he only shook his head and laughed and called me fool. I have corresponded with him over the years, but had almost admitted failure of my hopes when he came to me and admitted that you’d fled to escape the marriage with de Bridgport. I am a simple man, Philippa, with simple needs and only one desire that burns in my life, and that is you, to earn you for my wife.”
“But I am used,” she said, and looked at him straightly, wishing she could tell him his memory was faulty. He’d last seen her more than five years before. “He debauched me again and again. He used me unnaturally.”
If only Dienwald had done a bit more debauching than he had, she thought now, watching Walter. He wasn’t stupid, this cousin of hers, so when he leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth, she wasn’t overly surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised. “It matters not to me,” he said in a richly sincere voice. He turned and left her, locking the door behind him.
“But you must needs lock me in,” she said after him.
There was but one candle to light the chamber. She felt the shadows surround her, and they were comforting. She made her way to the narrow bed, stripped off her soft yellow overtunic and the gown beneath. She stretched out on her back, staring up into the darkness.
What, after all, could he have said to her? she wondered now. But why did he wish to wed her? Why? Sir Walter was a dangerous man, and she recognized the threat in him. She saw the intensity in him, the will to drive himself, to drive others. The last thing that would be his main desire was a woman, any woman.
She must go very carefully. She must give him false security. She must hang around his neck until he wished her to leave him alone. Then, perhaps, she would find a way for her and Edmund to escape Crandall. If they didn’t escape, she feared what would happen to them. She would refuse to wed Walter and he would rape her endlessly. She knew it. But why?
She dared not wait for Dienwald, for the way things were progressing, he might well be too late. But why, she wondered again and again, did Walter want to wed her so badly?
Over and over she tortured her brain with possible motives Walter could harbor. Had her father changed his mind and offered Walter money if he found her and wedded her? Land? She shook her head on that possibility. Her father never changed his mind. Never. There were no answers, only more questions that made her head ache badly.
Near Crandall Keep
Dienwald scratched his chest. He was hot and dirty and disliked the fact. He hated the waiting but knew there was naught else to be done. He rose and began pacing the perimeter of his camp. They were withdrawn into a copse of thick maple trees, well-hidden from the narrow winding road that led to Crandall. His men were lolling about, bored and restless, arguing, tossing dice, recounting heroics and tales of their male prowess.
Where were the fool and Gorkel?
What of Philippa and Edmund? Worry gnawed at him, paralyzed his brain. What was the truth? Had Philippa betrayed him, or had she been caught as certainly as Ellis and Albe had been slain?
Only she could give him the answer. She or that whoreson peasant, Walter. Dienwald sat down and leaned against an oak tree older than life itself, and closed his eyes. What he wanted, damn her soft hide, was Philippa. He saw her sprawled in the mud, laughing, her eyes a vivid blue in her blackened face; then he saw her naked as he threw buckets of water on her and soaped her body with his hands. His loins were instantly heavy, his rod hard and hurting. He knew in that moment that he would have to return her to her father the moment he got his hands on her again. If he kept her with him, he would take her, and he wouldn’t allow himself to do that. If he did, it would be all over for him.
He wouldn’t allow himself to be caught. Allying himself to de Beauchamp—he couldn’t bear the thought of it. Lord Henry was a pompous ass, arrogant and secure in his own privilege, in his immense power and dignity. No, Dienwald would remain free, unencumbered, answerable to no one other than himself, responsible for no one but himself and his son. If he needed wool, he’d steal it. He wished now he hadn’t forgotten about the wine arriving from Kassia’s father. He would have gladly planned the shipwreck and the theft of every cask. He would have laughed in Graelam’s face, and taken a pounding if Graelam had pushed him on it. He wanted to be free.
He wondered what was happening at Crandall, and he fretted, bawled complaints to the heavens, and paced.
Crandall Keep
In Crandall’s inner bailey, Crooky smiled and sang and capered madly about, drawing everyone’s attention. He held Gorkel on a chain leash fastened about his huge neck with a leather band, and tugged at him, carping and scolding at him as though he were a bear to be alternately baited and cajoled. “Nod your ugly head to that fair wench yon, Gorkel!”
Gorkel eyed the fair wench, who was staring at him, fear and excitement lighting her eyes. He nodded to her and smiled wide, showing the vast space between his front teeth. He felt the fool tugging madly at his leash and growled fearsomely, making the females in the growing crowd scream with fear and the men step back a pace. The bells on his cap tinkled wildly.
The fool laughed and pranced around Gorkel, kicking out but not quite touching him. “Fret not, fair maids. ‘Tis a brute, and ugly as the devil’s own kin, but he’s a gentle monster and he’ll do as I bid him. Hark now, yon comely maid with the soft smile, what wish you to have the creature do?”
The girl, Glenda by name and pert by nature, angled forward, preening in the center of all attention, and sang out, “I wish him to dance. A jig. And I want him to raise his monstrous legs high.”
Crooky hissed between his teeth, “Canst thou jig for the maid, Gorkel?”
Gorkel never let his wide grin slip. His expression vacuous, his eyes blank, he began to hop and jump. He ponderously raised one leg and then the other and clambered about gracelessly. Quickly Crooky began to sing and clap his hands to a beat Gorkel didn’t need. His eyes scanned the crowd as he bellowed as loudly as he could:
All come to see the beastie prance
He’ll cavort and jump, he’ll do a wild dance
He’s a heathen and a savage, ugly and black,
But withal he’s merry, no matter his lack.
Crooky wanted to shout with relief when he saw Edmund slip between two men and gape at Gorkel. The boy was ragged and bruised and filthy, but at the sight of him and Gorkel, he looked happy as a young stoat, his eyes gleaming. Thank St. Andrew that he was alive. Where was the mistress? Was she imprisoned? Had Sir Walter harmed her? Crooky’s blood ran cold at the thought.
Crooky jingled Gorkel’s chain, and he ceased his clumsy movements and stood quietly beside the fool, breathing hard and still grinning his frightening grin. He eyed Edmund and nodded, his eyes holding a warning. “Ah,” yelled Crooky suddenly, “methinks I see another fair wench. A big fair we
nch with enough hair on her head to stuff a mattress! Come hither, fair maid, and let my gargoyle behold your beauty. He’ll not touch you, but let him behold what God created after he made a monster.”
Philippa’s heart was pounding madly. She’d watched Gorkel do his dance, not at first recognizing him in his wildly colorful and patched garments, the fool’s cap on his head and the mangy beard that covered his jaws. It had been Crooky’s bellowing verses that had brought her, nearly running, to the inner bailey. Dienwald was here, close, thank God. And she saw Edmund, filthy but well-looking, and quite alive, thank God yet again. “I come,” she called out, voice filled with humor. “Let the monster gawk at the fair wench.”
She picked up her skirts and raced toward them. She saw Crooky’s relieved smile stiffen and go flat. She didn’t understand. She drew to a halt, thinking frantically. “I am here. I bid you good morrow, monster.” She curtsied. “Behold me, a maid who frets and who wishes for the moon but sees naught but a melting sun that holds her in bondage and gives her to chaff endlessly.”
Crooky beheld her closely, all the while Gorkel loped in a clumsy gait around her, stroking his big bearded jaw.
She was beautiful, Crooky thought, finely dressed as a maid should be, as a beloved maid should be. She was no prisoner, Sir Walter no warden. Had he rescued her at her wish? He thought through her words, elegant words that twisted and intertwined about themselves. Had she meant that she wanted to escape her cousin? Crooky knew the matter wasn’t his to decide. Since his tenth year, when the tree had broken and fallen on him, he knew that he wouldn’t survive unless it was by his wits. He learned that his memory was his strength. He now committed her every word to his memory.
“Well, lovely maid,” he said after a moment, “God grant you no ingratitude or bitter wrongs. If you will seek the moon, I will tell you that like the sun, the moon must hide in its hour, then burst forth, when least expected, to glow fairly yet in stark truth upon the face that seeks it forth. The moon awaits, maid, ever close as its habit, waits till tide and time issue it out.”
“What is this, cousin? A cripple and a beast to be held by its leash?”
Philippa smiled at Walter, beckoning him to her side. “Aye, Walter, a team that brings shrewd humor and light laughter to Crandall. The little crooked one here tells me of the moon and the sun and how each must await its turn, and the monster there, he bellows and dances for all your fair maids.”
Walter cared not a whit for the two who stood facing him. “If they please you, dearest heart, then so let them frolic and rattle their tongues to rhymes that bring good cheer.”
Crooky said loudly, “Fair and hardy maid, what wish you for Gorkel the Hideous to do?”
“Why, I believe I wish to write him a love poem, not rhymed, for I have not your talent, but one to tell of beauty and love that ravaged the heart. What say you, beast? Wish you to have a love poem from me?”
Gorkel scratched his armpit, and Crooky, yanking hard at his leash, yelled, “Will you, monster? Nod aye, beast!”
Gorkel nodded and bellowed, and the crowd cheered.
Philippa nodded. “I shall hie me to my paper and write the poem for the monster. Give the crowd more laughter, then.”
“I don’t understand you,” Walter said, and he sounded impatient and fretful.
“I amuse myself, Walter, as the beast has amused me. It pleases you not?”
She gave him that sweet, utterly diffident look that made him feel more powerful than a Palatine prince. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to write an immense tome, but he changed his mind. He mustn’t give in to her female whims each and every time. “It doesn’t please me this time, sweetling. Fret not.” And before he left her, he raised his hand and lightly touched her cheek. As she looked at him, her smile frozen in place, his fingers fell to her throat, then to her breast, and before all of his people, he caressed her with his fingertips. He laughed and strode away.
Near Crandall Keep
“Tell me, and be quick about it.”
Crooky, silent for once, looked at his master, uncertain how to begin.
“Did you see Edmund? The wench?”
“Aye, they’re both alive,” Gorkel said as he pulled off his belled cap. “The young master was dirty, his clothes rags, but he looked healthy.”
“And the mistress?”
“She was finely garbed,” Crooky said, looking over Dienwald’s right shoulder. “Very finely garbed, a beautifully plumed peacock, a princess.”
Dienwald felt his gut cramp. She’d betrayed him, damn her, betrayed him and stolen his son.
“Tell me everything. Leave nothing out or I’ll kick in your ribs.”
And Crooky related everything that had occurred. He recited faithfully what Philippa had said to him and to Gorkel. He paused, then ended, “She is no prisoner, at least it appeared not so. Sir Walter kissed her in full view of his people, and his hand caressed her breast.”
Dienwald saw red and his fists bunched in savage fury. What had he expected, anyway? The wench had fled him, and that was that. “Tell me again her words.” After Crooky had once more recited them, he said, “What meant she about the moon—am I the moon, silent and hidden, then bursting and malignant in her face? Bah! It makes no sense, the wench was playing with you, turning your own rhymes back on you, mocking you.”
“She asked Sir Walter if she could pen a love poem to Gorkel, but he refused her. Mayhap she would have written of her plight, master.”
Dienwald cursed with specific relish, saying in disgust, “She fooled you yet again! She would have penned her request for me to keep away, else she’d see Edmund hurt!”
Gorkel said, “Nay, master.”
“What know you of anything!”
“Why did she keep the boy with her?”
“For protection, fool, what else? She isn’t stupid, after all, for all that she’s a female.” He shook his fist in disgust at both of them, ignored his other men who looked ready to speak their opinions, and strode away from them all, disappearing into the maze of maple trees.
“He is sorely tried,” Galen said, shaking his head. “He knows not what to think.”
“The mistress wants rescuing,” said Crooky, “despite all the plumage and display.”
“And the boy,” Gorkel added. “I fear what that whoreson will do to the boy, for he sorely hates the father.”
17
Crandall Keep
Late that night Philippa lay in her bed thinking furiously, an occupation that hadn’t paled since Walter had brought her to Crandall. She thought of her excitement, her hope, when she’d burst into the inner bailey to see Gorkel cavorting about like a mad buffoon and Crooky twirling Gorkel’s leash while singing at the top of his lungs. But what good had any of it done? Her attempt to tell Crooky of her plight, her plea to write Gorkel a love poem, all had been dashed when Walter had shown his possession of her in front of everyone by kissing her and caressing her breast. Crooky would tell Dienwald, of a certainty. But still they would attempt a rescue, if not for her, then for Edmund. But how? What could Dienwald do? He couldn’t very well storm Crandall Keep. Walter would kill Edmund without blinking an eye. No, Dienwald would use guile and cunning; she doubted not that he would succeed, but still, the thought of him being hurt terrified her. She knew well enough that Walter would kill him if but given a chance.
She had to do something, and she had to do it early on the morrow. She fell asleep, and her dreams, oddly enough, were of her first riding lessons at six years old on a mare named Cottie, a gentle animal Bernice had urged over a fence two years later, breaking the mare’s leg.
Philippa came awake suddenly, tears still in her mind for the mare. She hadn’t really heard anything, it was just a feeling that something wasn’t right and she must pay attention now and wake up fully or she wouldn’t like what happened to her.
Slowly, very slowly, Philippa turned her head toward the door. Walter had locked it as usual when he’d left her earlier
, yet a key was turning in the lock and the door was opening slowly but surely.
It had to be Walter. He’d tired of waiting. He’d come to ravish her and be done with it. He didn’t play the besotted swain very well.
So be it, Philippa thought, her muscles flexing to make her ready. She didn’t move, just thought of what she would do to him to protect herself. She would fight him, and at the very least she would hurt him badly. She still wore her shift, one of soft linen that came to her thighs and left her arms bare. She wished now she had on every article of clothing Walter had given her, to make his task of ravishing her all the more difficult. She listened and strained her eyes toward the door. Walter wasn’t making any noise. Why? That made no particular sense. He wouldn’t care, would he? He wouldn’t care if she screamed or yelled. His men would do naught to help her.
The door widened, making no sound, the hinges not even creaking. From the dim light in the passage without, Philippa could at last make out the outline of the person.
It wasn’t Walter. It was a woman.
Philippa didn’t act immediately, as her nature urged her to. No, she held herself perfectly still, waiting to see what the woman would do, waiting to see what the woman wanted. Perhaps she wanted to free her. But how had the woman gotten the key to her chamber?
From Walter, of course. Walter was far too careful, far too possessive a man to allow others to keep something as important as the key to her chamber. So the woman must know him very well, must know him intimately . . . . Philippa gathered herself together and waited.
The woman was creeping across the narrow chamber now, and Philippa saw that she held a knife in her raised hand. The woman had come to kill her, not free her.
Philippa’s astonishment was replaced by rage, and she jumped to her feet, yelling at the top of her lungs, “What do you want? Get away from me! Help! A moi! Walter . . . A moi!”