He yelped, drawing back.
“I should have known you’d try to make me into a mute. Damned stupid wench, I . . . No, don’t you dare say it, lady, else I’ll pull up your gown and—”
“You already did! And you looked at me and you hit me!”
He stopped, and even though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she knew his expression was filled with evil intent.
He rolled off her and pulled up her gown. She was naked to the waist, her hands tied above her head, as helpless as could be.
“Now,” Dienwald said, sounding quite pleased, “let’s continue this conversation. What is it you wanted to say to me, wench?”
She shook her head, but he couldn’t see it, and that infuriated him. All he’d done this night was to light and snuff candles, protect himself, curse her, and have his rod swell with lust.
He lurched over to the far side of the bed and lit the tallow candle again. It had nearly burned down to the mottled brass holder. He rested on his knees, the candle held high, and looked down at her. For a very long time Dienwald didn’t say anything. He was pleasantly surprised, that was all, nothing more. This was to be her punishment, not his, damn her. He stared at her flat belly, then lower, at the profusion of curls that covered her woman’s flesh. Curls the color of her head hair, rich and dark, with gleaming browns mingling with strands of the palest blond and . . .
“ . . . dirt, rich dark dirt.”
His words took her so much by surprise that she forgot her terror of him, forgot he was staring at her, seeing her as no man had ever seen her before.
“What is like dirt?”
“Your woman’s hair,” he said, and cupped his hand over her, pressing his fingers inward.
She yelped like a wounded dog, and he lifted his hand and sat back.
He reached out and splayed his fingers over her flat belly. He stretched out his fingers, watching them nearly touch her pelvic bones. “You’re made for birthing babes.” He felt something within him move, and lifted his hand as if from a scalding pot. He looked at her face and schooled his expression into a cruel mask. “Remember what I can do to you, wench. Are you such an innocent that I must explain it to you? No? Good. Now, have you anything more to say to me? Any more carping? Any more nagging?”
She shook her head.
“You finally show some wisdom. Good night, wench.”
He snuffed the candle yet again, burning his fingers, since the candle had burned down to a wax puddle, then rolled onto his back. He forgot his burning fingers, still seeing her lying there, naked to the waist, those long white legs spread; he could still feel the softness of her flesh, feel the tensing of the muscles in her belly beneath his splayed fingers.
He cursed, grabbed the blanket, and pulled it over her.
When he was nearing the edge of sleep, he heard her whisper, “I’m Philippa de Beauchamp and I will awaken and this won’t really be happening.”
He grinned into the darkness. The wench had spirit and fire. A bit of it was interesting; too much, painful. He rubbed the back of his head. He hoped it hadn’t cracked the chamber pot. It was the only one he owned.
7
The next morning, Dienwald wasn’t grinning. His weaver, Prink, was very seriously ill with the ague, and much of the wool had already been cleaned and prepared and spun ready for weaving. Dienwald stomped about, cursing, until Old Agnes plucked at his worn sleeve.
“Master, listen. What of the fine young lady ye’ve tied to yer bed, eh? Be she really a lady or jest enouther of yer trollops?”
Dienwald ceased his ranting. He’d left Philippa asleep, but he’d untied her wrists, frowning at himself as he brought her arms down to her sides and rubbed the feeling back into her wrists. She’d never even moved. He imagined her bottom was still soft and white, without the mark of his palm, whereas his head ached abominably from her blow with the chamber pot.
“You mean, old hag, that she could weave, mayhap? Direct the women, instruct them?”
Old Agnes nodded wisely. “Aye, master, she looks a good girl. Thass what I mean.”
Dienwald remembered Philippa’s words about her household instruction. He took the solar stairs two at a time. When he opened his bedchamber door it was to see Philippa standing in the middle of the room staring around her.
“What’s the matter?”
She pointed toward the corner of the bedchamber. “The chamber pot. I broke it when I struck your head with it. I need to . . .” She winced, then burst out, “I must relieve myself! You locked me in and—”
His only chamber pot, and she’d destroyed it. “Satan’s earlobes! Get you here, wench.” He directed her to a much smaller chamber, waving her inside. “ ’Tis Edmund’s room. Use his pot, then come down to the hall. ’Tis not a lovely hand-painted pot, merely a pottery pot, but it will do. After this, use the jakes. They’re in the north tower; you won’t get lost, you’ll smell them. Don’t tarry.”
Why did he want her in the great hall? She dreaded it, knowing there would be snickering servants looking at her and knowing that she was now their master’s mistress. When he’d burst into the chamber she’d momentarily forgotten what he’d done to her the previous night—smacking her, toying with her, stripping her, looking at her. She didn’t understand him and was both relieved and afraid because she didn’t. It was a good thing that she wasn’t to his liking; otherwise she would no longer be a maid and no longer worth much to her father. That thought brought forth the vision of William de Bridgport, and she prayed that all her maneuvers and ill-fated stratagems wouldn’t lead to marriage to him. When she left Edmund’s small chamber and made her way down the outside solar stairs, her ears were nearly overcome by the noise. There were men and women and children and animals everywhere. All were shouting and squawking and carrying on. It seemed louder than the day before; it was, oddly, comforting.
“Come wi’ me, lady.”
She turned to see Gorkel the Hideous, the fiercest-looking and ugliest man she’d ever beheld, obviously waiting for her. Odd, though, he didn’t seem quite so gruesome of mien as he had yesterday.
“I’m Gorkel, iffen ye remember. Come wi’ me. The master wants ye.”
She nodded, wishing she had shoes on her feet and cloth covering her naked right arm. She’d combed her fingers through her hair, but she had no idea of the result. Gorkel could have told her that she was as delicious a morsel as a man could pray for, if she’d asked. The master was lucky, he was, and about time, too. A hard winter, but they’d outlasted it, and now it was spring and there was wool and the master had this lovely girl to share his bed. Gorkel left her at the entrance to the great hall, his task completed.
Dienwald saw Philippa, nodded briefly in her direction, and went back to his conversation with Alain, his steward. The man who’d given her dirty looks the evening before. He looked at her now, and there was contemptuous dismissal in his eyes.
Philippa waited patiently, although her stomach was growling with hunger.
It was as if Dienwald had heard her. “Eat,” he called out, waving toward the trestle table. “Margot, fetch her milk and bread and cheese.”
Philippa ate. She wondered what was going on between Dienwald and the steward Alain. They seemed to be arguing. As she studied the master of St. Erth, she wondered at herself and her reaction to him. She felt no particular embarrassment upon seeing him this morning. In fact, truth be told, she’d rather been looking forward to seeing him again, to crossing verbal swords with him again. She felt a tug on her one sleeve and turned to see the serving maid, Margot, looking at her with worry.
She lifted an eyebrow.
“ ‘Tis the master,” Margot said as low as she could.
“He’s a lout,” Philippa said, and took a big bite of goat cheese.
“Mayhap,” Dienwald said agreeably, dismissing Margot with a wave of his hand. “But I’m the lout who’s in charge of you, wench.”
That was true, but it didn’t frighten her. He hadn’t ravished h
er last night, and he could have. She’d been completely helpless. She thrust her chin two inches into the air and fetched forth her most goading look. “Why do you want me here?”
Dienwald sat in his chair, noted her look, sprawled out to take his ease, and watched her eat, saying nothing for some time.
“You told me your mother taught you household matters. Is this true?”
“Certainly. I’m not a liar. Well, not usually.”
Dienwald had a flash of memory of another lady speaking to him candidly, without guile. Kassia. That was absurd. This girl was no more like the gentle, loyal Kassia de Moreton than was a thorn on an apple tree.
“Can you weave?”
Philippa very nearly choked on the cheese in her mouth. No ravisher or ravening beast here. “You want me to weave my father’s wool that you stole?”
“Yes. I want you to oversee the weaving and train the women, although several of them already know a bit about it, so Old Agnes told me.”
Philippa grew crafty, and he saw it in her eyes and was amused by it. He was also impatient and on tenterhooks. He needed her help, but he couldn’t afford to let her see that. She said with the eye of a bargainer at the St. Ives Fair, “What will you do for me if I help you with the wool?”
“I will allow you the first gown, or an overtunic, or hose. Just one, not all three, though.”
Philippa looked down at the wrinkled, stained woolen gown that hung about her body like an empty flour bag. The bargain seemed like an excellent one to her. “Will you let me go if I do it for you?”
“Let you go where? Back to your father’s household? Back into the repulsive arms of de Bridgport?”
She shook her head.
“Ah, to this other person, this alleged cousin of yours. Who is it, Philippa?”
She shook her head again.
“The gown or the overtunic or the hose. That’s all I offer. For the moment, at least.”
“Why?”
“Yea or nay, wench.”
“I’m not a—”
“Answer me!”
She nodded. “I will do it.” She looked him straight in the eye. “How will you behave toward me?”
He knew exactly what she wanted him to say, but he was perverse and she irritated him and amused him and she’d nearly felled him with a chamber pot.
“I will keep you in my bed until I tire of you.” He spoke loudly, and Alain looked up, his contempt now magnified.
Philippa grabbed Dienwald’s arm and pinched him, hissing, “You make it sound as if I’m already your mistress, damn you!”
“Aye, I know. In any case, you will remain in my bed. I can’t trust you out of my sight. Now, ‘tis time for you to earn your keep.”
He yelled for Old Agnes and brought her over to Philippa. Old Agnes was older than the stunted oak trees to the north of the castle, and mean as the dung beetles that roamed about the stables. He stood back, crossing his arms over his chest.
Philippa ate another piece of cheese, slowly, as she looked the old woman over.
To Dienwald’s amazement, Old Agnes fidgeted.
Philippa drained her flagon of milk, then said, “I shall see the wool after I’ve finished my meal. If it isn’t thoroughly cleaned and treated, I shan’t be pleased. The thread must be pure before it’s woven. See to it now. Where is your weaving room?”
Old Agnes drew up her scrawny back, then sagged under Philippa’s militant eye. “ ‘Tis in the outbuilding by the men’s barracks . . . mistress.”
“I will need you to pick at least five women with nimble fingers and with minds that rise above the thoughts of useless men and, can learn quickly. You will assist me, naturally. Go now and see to the quality of the thread. I will come shortly.”
Old Agnes stared at this young lady who knew her way quite well, and said, “It will be as you say, mistress.”
She shuffled out, her step lighter and quicker than it had been in two decades. Dienwald stared after her. This damned girl had wrought a miracle—and she’d not been nice, she’d been imperious and arrogant and haughty and . . .
He became aware that Philippa was looking at him, and she was smiling. “She needs a strong hand, and more, she wants a sense of worth. She now has both.” Then Philippa began whistling.
Dienwald turned on his heel and strode from the great hall, bested again by a girl who’d already smashed his head. He cursed.
Philippa silently thanked her mother, whose tongue was sharper than an adder’s when it suited her purpose. But, Philippa remembered, her mother’s tongue was also sweet with praise when it served her ends. Old Agnes would do more work than all the others combined, and she’d drive them in turn. Philippa turned back to her place, only to see a slight shadow hovering over her.
“Philippa de Beauchamp. I am Alain, Lord Dienwald’s steward.”
He was speaking to her. She hadn’t expected it, given the dislike she’d felt coming from him. She raised her head and kept her face expressionless.
“If you will but tell me this cousin’s name, I will see that you are quickly on your way out of this keep and away from Dienwald de Fortenberry.”
“Why?”
His good humor slipped. “You don’t belong here,” he said, his voice loud and vicious. He immediately got hold of himself. “You are an innocent young lady. Dienwald de Fortenberry is a villain, if you will, a rogue, a blackguard, a man who owes loyalty to few men on this earth. He makes his own rules and doesn’t abide by others’. He raids and steals and enjoys it. He will continue to hurt you, he will continue to use you until you are with child, and then he will cast you out. He has no scruples, no conscience, and no liking for women. He abused his first wife until she died. He enjoys abusing women, lady or serf. He cares not. He will see that you are cast out, both by him and by your family.”
His venom shocked her. She’d smashed a chamber pot over the lord’s head the previous night, but that had been different. That was between the two of them. Dienwald hadn’t ravished her, and he could have. He hadn’t abused her, even when she’d angered him to the point of insensibility. She’d hurt him. She thought suddenly of the thrashing he’d given her, but then again, what would she have done to him had he smacked her over the head with a chamber pot? But this steward of his, who should be praising his master, not maligning him—it was beyond anything she’d ever seen.
“Why do you hate him, sirrah?”
Alain drew back as if she’d struck him. “Hate my master? Certainly I don’t hate him. But I know what he is and how he thinks. He’s a savage, ruthless, and a renegade. Leave, lady, leave before you die or wish to. Tell me this cousin’s name and I will get you away from here.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I will tell you.”
She watched him closely, and saw immense relief flood his face. His eyes positively glowed and his breath came out in a whoosh. “Who?”
“I shan’t tell you today. First of all I must earn a new gown for myself. That was my bargain with your master. I cannot go to my cousin as I am now. You must understand that, sir.”
“I think you are a stupid girl,” he said. “He will grunt over you and plow your belly until you carry a bastard, then will kick you out of here and you will die in a ditch.” He turned on his heel with those magnificent words and strode away, anger in every taut line of his body.
Philippa brooded a moment. This was a peculiar household, and the lord and master was the oddest of them all. She rose from the wooden bench, replete with cheese and bread, and made her way to the weaving building.
Old Agnes had assembled six women, and silence immediately fell when Philippa entered the long, narrow, totally airless room. There were three old spinning wheels and three looms, each of them more decrepit-looking than its neighbor. Philippa looked at each of the women, then nodded. She spoke to each of the women, learned their names and their level of skill, which in all cases but two was nil. Then she tackled the looms. A shuttle had cracked on one; a harness had come loose on
another; the treadle had slipped out of its moorings on yet another. She sighed and spoke to Old Agnes.
“You say that Gorkel knows how to solve these problems?”
“Aye, ‘tis a monster he is to look at, but he has known how to repair things since he was a little sprat.”
“Fetch Gorkel, then.”
In the meanwhile Philippa inspected the spinning wheels and the quality of thread the women had produced from the wool. Given the precarious balance of two of the spindles and the wobbling of the huge wheels, the results were more than satisfactory. She smiled and praised the women, seeing her mother’s face in her mind’s eye.
Two hours later, the women were at their looms weaving interlacing threads into soft wool. They worked slowly and carefully, but that was to the good. As they gained confidence and skill, the weaving would quicken. Old Agnes was chirping over their shoulders, carping and scolding, then turning to Philippa and giving her a wide toothless grin. “Prink—he were the weaver, ye know, milady—well, a purty sod he were, wot with his proud ways. Said, he did, that females couldn’t do it right, the weaving part, only the spinning. Ha!” Old Agnes looked toward the busy looms and cackled. “I hope the old bugger corks it. Thass why none of the females knew aught—the old cockshead was afraid to teach them. Make him look the fool, they would have done.”
Philippa wanted very much to meet Prink before he corked it.
All was going well. Philippa de Beauchamp, lately of Beauchamp, was busy directing the weaving of her father’s wool into cloth for the man who’d stolen it. She laughed aloud at the irony of it.
“Why do you laugh? You can’t see me!”
“I should have known—how long have you been watching, Edmund?”
“I don’t watch women working,” Edmund said, planting his fists on his hips. “I was watching the maypole!”
“Nasty little boy,” she remarked toward one of the looms, and turned her back on him.