She wore her richly curling hair long and thick down her back, with flowers twined together into a crown on her brow. She was a maiden bride, and if anyone thought differently, he was wise enough to keep silent.
The master looked a magnificent animal as well, clothed in the new bright blue tunic the mistress had sewn for him, his long lean body straight and tall. But he also looked uncommonly severe and forbidding, something Old Agnes didn’t understand but hadn’t the courage to ask about. As for the young master, he was grinning like a fatuous little puppy after a big meal.
Since they were wedded here at St. Erth, no dowry or bridal gifts involved, Dienwald spared himself and his bride the ceremonial stripping. He knew his bride was very nicely formed and he knew that she thought well of his body as well. He chewed his thumbnail and wished Father Cramdle would finish with his array of Latin, words spoken so slowly that Dienwald didn’t know where one word began and another left off. Nor did he understand any of the words, so it really didn’t matter.
Neither did Philippa. She just wanted it over with. She wanted to turn and smile at her new husband and watch him smile back at her. They’d returned the evening before, and to Philippa’s surprise and chagrin, Dienwald hadn’t come near his own bedchamber. She’d slept alone, wondering at his sudden bout of nobility—if, indeed, it were a case of nobility.
Perhaps, she thought, as Father Cramdle droned on, he’d not found her particularly to his liking that first time. Perhaps he didn’t . . .
The ceremony was over, and there was suddenly loud, nearly riotous cheering from all the people of St. Erth. Gorkel had set Crooky on his massive shoulders and the fool was leading the people in shouts and yells and howls of glee.
“ ‘Tis done.”
Philippa, her brilliant smile in place, turned to her new husband, but she didn’t get a smile in return. He was staring beyond her at nothing in particular as far as she could tell.
“Aye,” she said with great satisfaction, “you are now my husband. What is it? Is something the matter? Something offends you?”
“All my people,” Dienwald said, still staring about him, “are shouting their heads off. And it is because they believe you to be good for their well-being. They make me feel I’ve been a rotten tyrant in my treatment of them.”
“Mayhap,” she said with a grin, “they believe I’ll temper you rottenness and make you as sweet and ripe as summer strawberries. As for me, husband, I shall try to be good for our people. Mayhap they also believe I’ll be good for their master. I had much food prepared. Indeed, everyone wished to help. Look at the tables, I vow they are creaking with the weight of it. There are hare and pork and herring and beef and even some young lamb—”
“Aye, I know.” He struck his fingers through his hair. “Edmund,” he bellowed. “Come hither!”
The boy was still grinning even as he came to a halt in front of his father and announced with glee, “You are wedded to the maypole.”
Philippa laughed and cuffed his shoulder. “You weedy little spallkin! Come, give me a kiss.”
Edmund came up to his tiptoes and hugged her, then raised his face, his lips pursed. She kissed him soundly. “Can you call me something a bit more pleasing, Edmund?”
Edmund struck a thoughtful pose. Crooky came up then and Edmund said, “A name, Crooky, I must have a comely name for my father’s wife.”
“Ah, a name.” Crooky slewed a look at his master. “Mayhap Morgan? Or Mary?”
“Shut your teeth!” Dienwald bellowed, and cuffed Crooky, sending the fool tumbling head over arse to the ground in a well-performed roll.
“I think,” Edmund said slowly, “that I wish to think about it. Is that all right?”
“That is just fine. Now, husband, would you like to partake of your wedding feast?”
There was enough feasting and consumption of ale to keep the people of St. Erth sick for a week. And that, Philippa thought, smiling, was probably the reason they’d cheered her so vigorously—enough food and drink and dancing to make the most sullen villein smile. Even the blacksmith, a man of morose habits, was laughing, his mouth stuffed with stewed hare and cabbage. Everyone was frolicking.
All but the master.
He danced with her; he picked at the roasted hare and pork Philippa served on his trencher, but he didn’t try to pull her away to kiss her or fondle her on his lap. And that, she knew, wasn’t at all like Dienwald. His hand should have been on her knee, moving upward, or caressing her breast, a wicked gleam in his eyes. She wished she had the courage to stroke her hand up his leg, but she didn’t.
When the time came, Philippa allowed Old Agnes and the other women to see her to the master’s bedchamber. Margot combed her hair and the women took off her clothes and placed her in Dienwald’s big bed. Then, with much giggling and advice that Philippa found interesting but quite unnecessary, they left.
“Aye,” Old Agnes called back, “we’ll send up the master soon, if he isn’t too sodden to move!”
Margot laughed and shouted, “We’ll tell him stories to stiffen his rod! Right now ’tis too full of ale to do more than flop about!”
Now that, Philippa thought, was an interesting image to picture.
The night was dark, and but one candle flickered in the bedchamber. Philippa waited naked under the thin cover, for it was warm this night, her wedding night. Her arm was still bound in a soft wool bandage, but it scarce bothered her. She wanted her husband to come to her, she wanted him to touch her with his hands, with his mouth, and she wanted his rod to come inside her and fill her. She wanted desperately to hold him to her as he moved inside her. She loved him and she wanted to give him everything that she was, everything that she had, which, admittedly, were only her love and her goodwill for him, his son, and his castle.
Time passed and the candle gutted. She fell asleep finally, huddled onto her side, her hands beneath her cheek.
The door crashed open and Philippa came instantly awake and lurched upright. Her new husband was standing in the open doorway holding a candle in his right hand. He was scowling toward her, and she saw that he wasn’t happy.
He stepped into the chamber and kicked the door shut with his heel, then strode across the chamber and came to a halt beside the bed. He looked down at her. She pulled the blanket over her breast to her chin.
“Good,” he said.
“Good what?”
“You’re naked, wench—at least you had better be under that flimsy cover. The women were giggling enough about your fair and willing body, ready for me. Now that I’ve enslaved myself and all I own for you, now that you’ve gotten everything you wanted, I think I will take advantage of the one benefit you bring me.”
He was pulling off his clothes as he spoke. Philippa stared at him, realizing that he was drunk. He wasn’t sodden, but he was drunk.
She just looked at him. She wasn’t afraid of him, but still she said, “Will you hurt me, Dienwald?”
That brought him upright. He was naked, standing with his arms at his sides, his legs slightly spread, and he was staring down at her. “Hurt you, wench?”
“I am not a wench, I’m your wife, I’m Philippa de Fortenberry, and—”
“Aye, I know it well . . . too well. Come, lie down and shut your woman’s mouth and open your legs. I wish to take you, and if there is much more talk, I doubt I’ll be able. Nay, I’ll not hurt you if you obey me.”
She didn’t move for a very long time. Finally she said slowly, “You said you would give me pleasure.”
He frowned. He had said that, it was true, but that was before he’d drunk so much ale he felt he’d float away with the Penthlow River. He felt ill-used, but he supposed it wasn’t her fault, not really. No matter how he railed and brawled, he had taken her, and all because of that cursed dream of her he’d been having. That and the fact that he’d wanted her for longer than he could remember.
And so he said in a voice that was fast becoming sober, “I’ll try, by all the saints’ sweet
voices, I’ll try to bring you pleasure.”
She smiled at that, all the while looking at him. He was tall and lean and hard, and so beautiful she wanted to cry. Her body was taut with excitement and soft with a need she knew lay buried within her, a need he would nurture into being.
“ ’Twill be fine, then, my husband.”
She lay on her back and lifted her arms to him.
“Why must you yield to me so sweetly?” he asked as he lay down and pulled the blanket to her waist. He came over her naked breasts, and the feel of her so soft and giving beneath him made him shiver. “Ah, Philippa,” he said, and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss until he felt her respond to him, and then he lightly probed with his tongue until she parted her lips and he slipped his tongue in her mouth. He felt her start of surprise and said into her mouth, “Touch your tongue to mine.”
She did, shyly, as if she were afraid of what would happen. Then she gasped with the wonder of it and threw her arms—both of them—around his back. He laughed at that, both amazed and pleased to his male soul at her yielding reaction. He taught her how to kiss and how to enjoy all the small movements he made with his tongue. He rubbed his chest over her breasts, and her response was beyond what he’d expected. She was panting and arching up against him, her hands fluttering over him.
“The feel of you,” Philippa said, rubbing herself against his hairy chest. “I love the feel of you,” and he felt her trying to open her legs for him. He fitted himself there, his sex against her belly, then raised himself and said, “Touch me, Philippa. I can’t bear it anymore. Touch me.”
She reached between their bodies and instantly clasped her fingers about him. “Oh,” she said, and her fingers grew still. “I hadn’t thought . . . ’tis wondrous how you feel . . . your strength.” And she began to caress him, to stroke him, to learn him, and then she closed both hands about him and fondled him, and soon he couldn’t bear it. He pulled back up onto his knees between her widespread thighs and looked down at her. Her sleek long legs were beautifully shaped and white and soft, and he wanted them around his flanks and wanted to come inside her, and he said only, “Now, Philippa, now.”
There was in her expression only sweetness and anticipation, and it seeped slowly through his brain that he had become infinitely more sober than when he entered the room.
“Pleasure,” he repeated slowly as he paused before guiding himself into her. “Pleasure.” He stopped, drew a deep shuddering breath, and frowned down at her. “You’re my wife.” He eased down then between her legs, and his lips were on her stomach, his hands stroking her, his tongue wet and hot against her flesh. He was moving lower and lower, and Philippa, so surprised that she hadn’t the chance to be shocked by what he was doing, yelled when his mouth closed over her.
He raised his head, staring at her in consternation. “Pleasure,” he said. “ ’Tis for your pleasure.”
“Oh.”
“Be quiet, wench. This is good.”
And so it was, but it was also more, much more. When his mouth took her this time, she lurched upward but didn’t yell. She felt the sensation of his mouth into the very depths of her, sensations she’d never before even guessed could exist. She whimpered, her fist in her mouth. His hands slipped beneath her buttocks, and he lifted her, his tongue wild on her and inside her, delving and probing, and she cried out, unable to keep still any longer. And it went on and on, gaining in urgency until she gave herself to it.
Dienwald felt the stiffening of her legs, the convulsions that tightened her muscles, and in those moments his mind was as clear as a cloudless summer day, and he saw her, really saw her, and felt her even as she stared at him, her eyes wide and wild, filled with surprise and passion, and she cried out and arched upward, giving herself to him fully. It was a woman’s pleasure swamping her, and he was giving it to her and felt himself sharing it, deeply, and it dazed him. He wanted to shy away from it, to escape it, but he couldn’t because he was held firm and close, a part of her, even though he had never known it could be so. Nothing had prepared him for this joining. When she quieted, he raced back, taut and wild and fierce, lifted her hips even higher—but again he looked down at her, and slowed himself. He came into her very slowly, for she was small. It was almost too much for him. She was wet from the pleasure he’d brought her, and the feel of her, the feel of himself inside her, made him shudder and moan until he couldn’t bear it and he drove into her, coming over her then, even as he felt her womb. And he exploded then and groaned loudly, heaving into her as his seed filled her.
He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anymore. It was all too new and too urgent. His head was spinning and he felt ripped apart, for she would see his soul and know that she’d taken him, all of him, and so he escaped her and slept.
Philippa stared at her husband’s face beside hers on the pillow. He was breathing slowly and deeply, his fingers splayed over her breast, one muscled leg covering hers. She raised her hand and stroked his hair. He’d promised pleasure, but this had exceeded pleasure. Pleasure was a new gown whose color suited one perfectly. What he’d made her feel . . . It could make one mad, it was madness. And she wanted it every day of her life.
Light streamed onto Philippa’s face and she opened her eyes and smiled even before she saw her husband’s face. Dienwald was on his side, balanced over her, and he was looking very serious and intent. He appeared to be playing with her hair.
“What are you doing?”
“Counting the different shades in your hair. Here is a strand as dark a brown as my own, and next to it is one so pale I can scarce see it against my arm.”
“My father once frowned at me and told me my hair wasn’t golden.”
“He’s right. It isn’t. It’s far more interesting. Here’s a strand that’s an ash color. So far, I’ve counted ten different colors. Why did your father want you to have golden hair?”
“I don’t know. I just remember that he was shaking his head about it. I was hurt, but then he didn’t say anything more. Indeed, he seemed to forget about it.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “And the hair covering your mound—”
Instinctively Philippa closed her legs, and he laughed. “Nay, you’re my wife now. I’ll look my fill and you’ll not gainsay me.” He laid his open palm over her, cupping her. “You feel warm beneath my hand.”
He closed his eyes as he spoke, and Philippa felt a surge of something much stronger than mere warmth beneath his palm. It was desire, and it felt powerful and compelling. Unconsciously she lifted her hips against his hand.
He opened his eyes and looked into hers. “I thought you’d be a greedy wench,” he said, a good deal of male satisfaction in his voice, and leaned down to kiss her. She felt his long finger glide over her, slip between her thighs, and enter her slowly. She gasped, and he took the sound into his mouth and kissed her more deeply. Then his tongue moved into her mouth just as his finger was moving into the depths of her and she lurched up, crying out, so overwhelmed by the feelings his actions brought that she was helpless against them. He pressed her down. “Hush,” he said. “Lie quietly and enjoy what I’m doing to you.”
“It’s too much,” she said, and began kissing him urgently, frantically, his chin, his nose, his mouth. He laughed into her mouth but it turned quickly into a groan as her tongue touched his.
In a sudden move he rolled onto his back and brought her over him. He arranged her over him, saying, “Sit up, wife, come astride me.” He lifted her, his hands around her waist. “Guide me into you.”
Philippa was eager and more than willing, and she brought him into her and felt him slowly ease her down over him. She stared at him, not moving.
He smiled painfully and moved his hands upward to cup her breasts. “Move,” he managed to say. “Move as you wish to.”
She was uncertain and tentative at first, then realized that she could make him insane with lust, moving quickly, then slowing until he thought he would die from sensations
of it. She watched his face and quickly learned how far she could push him before drawing back. Then she drew back her head and thrust her breasts forward, her hands splayed on his chest and when his fingers found her, she yelled and jerked, beyond herself, seeking her climax and when it overwhelmed her it overwhelmed him as well.
“It’s too much,” she whispered a few moments later. She lay with her cheek on his shoulder, her legs stretched over him, his member still inside her.
Dienwald couldn’t have said anything if the Saracens had been attacking St. Erth at that moment.
He was barren of wit. He heard Philippa’s breath even into sleep. He’d worn her to a bone and he was pleased. He discounted his own feelings of utter contentment. He cupped her hips in his hands. Aye, his wife was a bountiful wench, her flesh soft and firm, and perchance ’twas a fine thing to have her here, at St. Erth, in his bed, for a very long time.
Windsor Castle
May 1275
“Well, what say you, Roland? Do you wish to wed with my daughter? My sweet Philippa?”
Roland chewed slowly on the honey bread. He didn’t want to anger his king by saying frankly that the last thing he wanted in his life was a wife to hang around his neck.
The king frowned. “My man Cedric told me of two wenches who visited your chamber last night. I told him to keep his rattling tongue in his mouth.”
“Two wenches,” Roland repeated, his eyes widening in surprise. “Nay, sire, ’twas three, but I was too fatigued to do much with the third one. I let her assist.”
The king stared at Roland de Tournay, his face darkening. Then he burst into laughter. “You make me a flap-eared ass, Roland. Aye, I will tell Cedric he miscounted your wenches. ’Twill serve the beetle-headed clod right. Now, what will you? Have you decided?”
Roland decided to postpone the inevitable anger that would take the king when he knew himself thwarted. “Why do I not travel to see this daughter, sire? Mayhap she will look at my churl’s ugly face and shriek in despair.”