“Mayhap, mayhap not.”
“She knew you hate the man and that he hates you.”
“ ‘Tis true, curse the proud-minded wench.”
“She would not endanger Master Edmund.”
“Would she not, fool? Why not, I ask you. Edmund calls her maypole and witch. She held him by his ear and scrubbed him with soap. He howled and scratched and cursed her. Surely she can bear him no affection. Why not, I ask you again.”
“The mistress is a lady of steady nature. She has not a sour heart, master, nor did she allow herself to be vexed with Master Edmund. She laughed at his sulky humors and teased him and sewed him clothes, aye, and held him firm to bathe him, as a mother would. She would never seek to harm the boy.”
“I don’t understand women. Nor do you, so pretend not that you possess some great shrewdness about them. But I do know their blood sings with perversity. They become peevish and testy when they gain not what they want; they become treacherous when they believe a certain man to be the framer of their woes. They see only the ends they seek, and weigh not the means to achieve them. She could perceive Edmund as only a minor obstacle.”
“You are the one who sees blindly, master.”
“That is what Silken said. Oh, aye, I hear you. Get you gone, fool. Thank the heavens above that you did not sing your opinion to me. My head would have split open and my thoughts would have flowed into oblivion.”
“I have known it to happen, master.”
“Get out of my sight, fool!” Dienwald made a halfhearted effort to kick Crooky’s ribs, but the fool neatly rolled out of reach.
“What will you do, master?”
“I will sleep and think, and think yet more, until the morrow. Then we will ride to Crandall to fetch my son and the wench.”
“And if you find she deceived you?”
“I will beat her and tie her to my bed and berate her until she begs God’s forgiveness and mine. And then . . .”
“And if you find she deceived you not?”
“I shall . . . Get out of my sight, fool!”
Windsor Castle
“Dienwald de Fortenberry,” King Edward said, rubbing his jaw as he looked at his travel-stained chancellor. “I know of him, but he has never come to my court. Not that I have been much in evidence before I . . . But never mind that. I have been on England’s shores for nearly eight months now and yet de Fortenberry disdains to pay his homage to me. He did not attend my coronation, did he?”
“Nay, he did not. But then again, sire, why should he? If all your nobles—the minor barons included—had attended your coronation, why then London would have burst itself like a tunic holding in a fat man.”
The king waved that observation aside. “What of his reputation?”
“His reputation is that of knave, scoundrel, occasional rogue, and loyal friend.”
“Graelam wishes an occasional rogue and a scoundrel to be the king’s son-in-law?”
Robert Burnell, tired to his mud-encrusted boots, nodded. He’d returned from his travels but an hour before, and already the king in his endless energy wanted to wring him of all information. “Aye, sire. Lord Graelam wasn’t certain that you knew Dienwald, and so he recited to me this man’s shortcomings as well as his virtues. He claims Dienwald would never importune you for royal favors and that since he has no family, there are none to leech on your coffers. Lord Graelam and his lady call him friend, nay, they call him good friend. They say he would cease his outlaw ways were he the king’s son-in-law.”
“Or he would continue them, knowing I could not have my son-in-law’s neck stretched by the hangman’s noose!”
“Lord Graelam does not allow that a possibility, sire. I did question him closely. Dienwald de Fortenberry is a man of honor . . . and wickedness, but his wickedness flows from his humors, which flow from the wildness and independence of Cornwall itself.”
“You turn from a shrewd chancellor into a honeyed poet, Robbie. It grieves me to see you babble, you a man of the church, a man of disciplined habits. De Fortenberry, hmmm. Graelam gave you not another name? You heard of no other man who would become me and my sweet Philippa?”
Burnell shook his head. “Shall I read you what I have writ as Lord Graelam spoke to me, sire?”
Edward shook his head, his thick golden hair swinging free about his shoulders. Plantagenet hair, Burnell thought, and wished he could have seen if Philippa was as gloriously endowed as her father.
“Tell me of my daughter,” Edward said suddenly. “But be quick about it, Robbie. I must needs argue with some long-nosed Scots from Alexander’s court, curse his impertinence and their barbaric tongue.”
“I didn’t see her,” Burnell said quickly, then waited for the storm to rage over his head.
“Why?” Edward asked mildly.
“Lord Henry said she was ill with a bloody flux from her bowels, and thus I couldn’t meet her.”
“St. Gregory’s teeth, will the girl live?”
“Lord Henry assures me the de Beauchamp physician worries not. The girl will live.”
“I wish you had waited, Robbie, until you could have spoken with her.”
Burnell merely nodded, but his soul was mournful. The king had abjured him to return as soon as he could. And he had obeyed his master, as he always did.
“Lord Henry showed me a miniature of the girl.”
The king brightened as he took the small painting from Burnell’s hand. He studied the stylized portrait, but saw beyond the white-faced expression of bland purity and the overly pointed chin to the sparkling Plantagenet eyes, eyes as blazing bright as a summer sky, eyes as blue as his own. As for her hair, it was nearly white, it was so blond, and her forehead was flawless, high and white with but thin eyebrows to intercede, but then again, an artist strove to please. He tried to remember the color of Constance’s hair but couldn’t bring it to mind. He couldn’t recall that she’d had such flaxen white hair; no woman had hair that color. That much, he thought, was the artist’s fancy. He placed the miniature in his tunic. “Let me think about this. I will speak to the queen. She will translate the artist’s rendering, and her counsel rings true. I suppose if I agree, I must bring de Fortenberry here to Windsor to tell him of his good fortune.” King Edward strode to the door, then turned back to say, “The damned Scots! Harangue me they will until my tongue swells in my mouth! You must needs rest, Robbie, ’twas a long journey for you, and wearying.” The king turned again, his hand on the doorknob, then said absently over his shoulder, “Fetch your writing implements, Robbie. I must have you record faithfully their muling complaints. Then we shall discuss what is to be done with them.”
Burnell sighed. He walked to a basin of cold water and liberally splashed his face. He was back in the royal harness, he thought, and smiled.
16
Crandall Keep
“You are beautiful, Philippa. The soft yellow gown becomes you.”
“I thank you, Walter, for your gifts. The gowns and overtunics please me well.” They were of the finest quality, and Philippa had wondered where her cousin had gotten them. Obviously from a woman who was short and had big breasts. Evidently she also had rather big feet for her height, for the soft leather slippers pinched Philippa’s toes only slightly. Who and where was the woman? Surely she couldn’t be pleased to have Philippa wearing her clothing.
“Crandall is a well-maintained keep, Walter, and since you are its castellan, it is to your credit alone. How many men-at-arms are there within the walls?”
“Twenty men, and they are finely trained. Lord Graelam does not stint on our protection, but of course ’tis I who have trained them and am responsible for their skills.”
Philippa nodded, wishing there were only two, and those old and weak of limb. It didn’t bode well for her and Edmund getting out or for Dienwald getting in. She hadn’t spoken to any of the men, but she had spent a bit of time with several of the keep servants, and discovered that her cousin wasn’t a particularly kindly mas
ter nor much beloved, but he did appear fair—when he wasn’t brandishing his whip. “He’s fast wi’ t’ whip,” one of the servants, a bent old woman, had told her in a low voice. “Ye haf t’ move fast when he’s got blood in his eye and t’ whip in his hand.” Philippa had but stared at her. A whip! She remembered how several of the women had looked at her when they thought she wasn’t paying heed, and they’d spoken behind their hands and looked worried, even frightened. Even now she could feel the female servants looking at her, judging her perhaps, and she wondered at it.
She said now to Walter as she accepted a hunk of bread from his hands, “These lovely garments, cousin—from whence did they come?”
“ ’Tis not your concern, sweetling. I had them, and now they are yours. That is all you must needs know.”
And Philippa could only wonder, and wonder yet more. He’d given her until yesterday to rest and be at her ease, and then he’d begun to woo her. Philippa couldn’t be mistaken, particularly after enduring Ivo de Vescy’s outpourings of affection. Walter was playing the besotted swain. Only he wasn’t besotted; his words bespoke all the right sentiments, but his eyes remained cold and flat. At first Philippa couldn’t credit it. There was no reason—no dowry, in short—for a man in Walter’s position to be interested in marriage with her. And it was impossible that he could have fallen deliriously in love with her; he’d known her for but two days. No, her father was behind it; he had to be. But just how, Philippa couldn’t imagine.
She toyed with the cabbage stuffed with hare and decided it was time to test the waters. “Walter, does my father know I am here?”
His eyes narrowed on her face, eyes that were always cold and flat when they looked at her. “Not as yet, Philippa. You care so much to return to Beauchamp?”
She shook her head, smiling at him, not chancing an argument because there was something in him that frightened her, something elusive, yet it was there, and she wanted to keep her distance from it.
Walter chewed thoughtfully on mashed chestnuts encrusted with boiled sugar, his favorite dish. Philippa wasn’t what he’d expected. He saw flashes of contradiction in her, and although they surprised him, they didn’t worry him unduly. Despite her hardy size, he could control her easily should the need arise. He would wed her by the end of the week. He had the time; he could afford to go gently with her, to bend her slowly to his will. Three days was enough time to bend the most rebellious woman to his will. He thought now that he could tell her some of the truth. Perhaps it would make her trust him all the more quickly, and it didn’t really matter one way or the other to him.
“Your father was here, Philippa,” he said, and watched her twist in her chair, her expression stunned. “He thought perhaps you had come to me when you escaped in the wool wagons, as you would have if that bastard hadn’t captured you and taken you to St. Erth.
“At the time of Lord Henry’s visit, I didn’t know where you were. Lord Henry told me, Philippa, that he’d promised you to William de Bridgport in marriage. He was most adamant about it, even when I argued with him. I could not, nay, still cannot, imagine you wedded to that testy old lecher. But Lord Henry needs the coin de Bridgport will pay for you. You see, Philippa, as much as it hurts me to wound you, you must know the truth. Lord Henry holds his possessions more dear than he ever held you.”
Philippa could only shake her head. So her father had come here. She’d shown surprise to Walter, guessing it was the correct response, but she’d already guessed her father’s presence. Her insides felt cold and cramped. She wanted to scream that her father couldn’t have told Walter that, he couldn’t have, it wasn’t true.
But it was true. Philippa had overheard him say it himself. It wasn’t Walter’s fault.
“You must still send a messenger to my father to tell him I am here. I would not wish you to be my father’s enemy.”
Walter started to shake his head, then thought better of it. He’d just been offered his best opportunity. “I think we still have some time, sweetling, before I do that. Three days, perhaps four.” He saw her revulsion, her fear, and he moved swiftly to take advantage of it. He gently took her hand in his. There were calluses on the pads of her fingers, attesting to the labors Dienwald had forced her to, the mangy scoundrel. He felt her tense, but she didn’t pull away. “Listen, Philippa,” he said, his voice low and soft, “if you wed me, there is naught Lord Henry can do. You cannot be forced to wed de Bridgport. You will be safe as my wife, you will be secure. No one—not even the king himself—could take you from me.”
There it was, Philippa thought, staring at her cousin. He wanted to marry her, but it made no sense. He believed her already ravished by Dienwald, so he couldn’t expect a virgin’s blood on the wedding sheets. More important, there was no coin forthcoming from her father. What was going on? She must continue her deceit until she discovered his plot. She kept her head modestly lowered and let her fingers rest against his.
“You offer me much, Walter, more than I deserve. You must allow me time to compose my thoughts. All this comes as a surprise, and my thoughts have gone awry.” She raised her head and saw the frown of impatience in his eyes. She added quickly, “I am slow of reason, Walter, being but a woman, and your generosity, though a gift from God, leaves me tongue-tied, but just for a brief time. Until tomorrow, dear cousin—then I will speak to you of my feelings.”
He gave her a grave nod and squeezed her fingers again before releasing her hand. Her tongue was smooth, her words gently flowing, respectful, filled with deference, but something bothered him. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t asked of their close kinship, thus requiring special permission by the church. But she was but a woman and probably ignorant of such things. Aye, just a woman, but she could read and write and cipher. He didn’t wish to tell her that he shared not one drop of her blood, that he knew her conceived of another man’s seed, a seed most royal, but he wasn’t at all certain of her reaction. No, he must hold his tongue. She was biddable, soft and comely, and she was endowed with beauty aplenty. She was too tall for his taste, but then again, there was Britta, hidden away now, but waiting for him, and he would continue with her when it pleased him to do so. Tonight, he thought, his loins tightening at the thought of her. He gave a small shudder. Were it not for Philippa, he would leave this instant and go to Britta. He saw that Philippa was looking about the hall, and said, “What troubles you, sweet cousin?”
“Naught, ‘tis just that I see not the boy, Walter. Although I do not hold him dear, I have a responsibility for him, since he was with me when you rescued me. Have you yet sent a demand of ransom to Dienwald?”
Walter shook his head. He wouldn’t send anything to anyone until he was her husband. Not even to his overlord, Graelam de Moreton. “The whelp keeps company with my stable lads. I do him a good service. ‘Twill humble him to see how those beneath him live, and make him more stouthearted. He will learn what it is like to serve.”
At least he wasn’t locked away somewhere in the keep, but she worried that the villeins would abuse him. She said nothing, merely forced herself to eat another bite of the cabbage. It needed some of the wild thyme she’d just planted in her garden at St. Erth. Her garden. Philippa wanted to cry, odd in itself, but it was true: St. Erth had become home to her in a very short length of time and its master had become the man she wanted. But he didn’t want her, had never lied about it, had even kept his manhood out of her body because he feared having to keep her, having to take her to wive because she was too wellborn to use at his whim.
She pushed Dienwald and his perversity from her mind. She had to escape Walter, and she had to take Edmund with her. She had not many more days before Walter pushed her into wedlock. She doubted not that he would bed her to force her hand. She was sleeping by herself in a tiny chamber off the great hall, a chamber, from the smell of it, that had held winter grain but days before her arrival. It was airless, but she didn’t mind; the stuffiness kept her awake, and that allowed her to think. And she thought of St.
Erth and its master and wondered if he were close even now. But she knew she couldn’t simply wait for Dienwald to do something; she had to act to save herself and Edmund.
Walter kept her with him that evening, playing draughts, and when she won, forgetting that she was but a woman and thus inferior to male stratagems, he was sharp with her.
“You were lucky,” he said, his voice edged with anger. “I allowed you too much time with your moves because of your sex. You deceived me, cousin, but . . .” He paused, and the light changed in his eyes. He shook his head, wagging a playful finger in her face. “Ah, Philippa, you won because of your sweet nature and your softness. You took me in with your gentle presence, your glorious eyes. You see me slain at your dainty feet. All my thoughts were perforce of you, my dearest. Would you sleep now, sweetling?”
He wasn’t stupid, Philippa thought as she rose from her chair. He’d been furious because she’d beaten him, but quickly adjusted himself to a more favorable position in her eyes. He was still her gallant suitor. But for how much longer? She shuddered as she walked beside him to the small room. Before he left her, he grasped her upper arms and pulled her against him. “Beautiful cousin,” he said, and kissed her ear because she jerked her head to one side. It was a mistake. She felt his fingers dig into her flesh, heard his breath sharpen with anger.
“Please, Walter,” she said softly, “I wish . . .” Words failed her. She wanted to scream at him to remove his slimy person.
He drew a false conclusion. “Ah, ‘tis because he abused you, because he forced you. I won’t hurt you, cousin, never will I touch you amiss. I will always be your gentle master. You must trust me, and I will make you forget the knave’s violence toward you.” He leaned down and lightly touched his mouth to her forehead and released her arms. “Sleep well, my heart.”
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