“You will do my bidding in all things, no matter you’re the Queen of France. Now, what is the poor crackbrain’s name?”
Philippa swallowed. She smelled the tart ale on his breath, felt its warmth on her temple. His eyes were darker, the flecks of gold more prominent. “I won’t tell you.”
“I think you will. You lack proper submissiveness and obedience. You need training, as I told you earlier. I think I should begin your lessons right now.” He looked quite wicked as he said, “Take off your gown and dance for my people.”
She stared at him. “Your priest would not approve.”
Dienwald took his turn at staring. “ ‘Tis true,” he said. “Father Cramdle would flee to meet his maker.”
“Very well. If my choices are between being your mistress and telling you the name of that awful man my father wished me to wed, and if you then plan to ransom me to that horrid old man and make me suffer his presence for the rest of my life, then my answer is obvious. I will be your mistress until you don’t want me anymore.”
It took a moment for her flow of words to make sense. When they did, he refused to let her see how stunned he was. Was her intended husband that repulsive? Or had she simply no womanly delicacy? No, she was just toying with him, first telling him nay, then changing her tune.
“I could give you over to my men,” he continued thoughtfully. “You are really not to my taste, with your big bones and your legs as long as a man’s. Have you also feet the size of a man’s?”
Philippa was frightened; she didn’t understand this man. Unlike her father, who would have been purple-faced with rage and yelling his head off by now, this man’s agile tongue cavorted hither and yon, leaving her mind in disarray. She didn’t want to have to prance atop the trestle table naked. She didn’t want Father Cramdle to clutch his heart with shock. All the power she’d felt whilst they fenced with words had been an illusion at best. The fact that this man didn’t kick children or dogs or chickens didn’t automatically endow him with an honorable nature. Now he was showing his true colors. Now he was get ting down to serious business. She opened her mouth, but what came out was unbidden and unsanctioned.
“You make me sound like an ugly girl.”
She was appalled that such errant vanity could come from her brain, much less from her mouth. But his insults, piled up now as high as the stale and matted rushes on the cold stone floor, had cut deep.
He laughed, an evil laugh. “Nay, but a gentle soft lady you are not. Now, let me see. There must be something about you that is . . . You do have very nice eyes. The blue is beyond anything I have ever seen, even beyond the blue speckles on robins’ eggs. There, does that placate your female vanity?”
Philippa managed to say nothing. To her surprise, she saw the fool, Crooky, who’d been crouched beside Dienwald on the floor beside her chair, leap to his feet and sing out a coarse lyric about the effect a woman’s blue eyes could have on a man’s body.
Dienwald burst into loud laughter, and at the sound, the remaining fifty people in the great hall guffawed and thumped their fists on the tables until the beams seemed to shake with their raucous mirth.
“Come here, Crooky, you witless fool,” Philippa called out over the din, caution again tossed to the four winds, “I want to kick your ribs.”
Dienwald looked at the girl beside him. She was laughing, and she’d mimicked him perfectly.
Philippa, basking in her temporary wit, failed to notice that utter silence had fallen. She further failed to notice how everyone was gazing from her to Dienwald with ill-disguised consternation.
Then she noticed. If he didn’t cut her throat, he’d throw her to his men. She didn’t doubt it. He hadn’t a shred of honor, and she’d crossed the line. Without a word, she quickly slipped out of the chair, jumped back, and ran as fast as she could toward the huge oak doors of the great hall.
5
Windsor Castle
Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England and King Edward’s trusted secretary, rubbed a hand over his wide forehead, leaving a black ink stain.
“ ‘Tis time to take your rest,” King Edward said, stretching as he rose. He was a large man, lean and fit, and one of the tallest man Robert Burnell had ever seen. Longshanks, he was called fondly by his subjects. A Plantagenet through and through, Burnell thought, but without the slyness and deceit of his sire, Henry, or the evil of his grandfather, John I, who’d maimed and tortured with joyous abandon anyone who chanced to displease him. Nor was he a pederast like his great uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion—thus the string of children he and his queen, Eleanor, had assembled to date. And that brought up the matter at hand. Robert wondered if his broaching the topic would call forth the Plantagenet temper. Unlike his grandfather, Edward wouldn’t fall to the floor and bash his fists and his heels in bellowing rage. No, his anger was like a fire, perilous one moment, cold ashes the next, a smile in its place.
“I work you too hard, Robbie, much too hard,” Edward said fondly, and Burnell silently agreed. But he knew the king would continue to use him as a workhorse until he met his maker, thanks be to that maker.
“just one more small matter, your highness,” Burnell said, holding up a piece of parchment. “A matter of your . . . er, illegitimate daughter, Philippa de Beauchamp by name.”
“Good God,” Edward said, “I’d forgotten about the girl. She survived, did she? Bless her sweet face, she must be a woman grown by now. Philippa, a pretty name—given to her by her mother, as I recall. Her mother’s name was Constance and she was but fifteen, if I remember aright. A bonny girl.” The king paused and his face went soft with his memories. “My father married her off to Mortimer of Bledsoe and the babe went to Lord Henry de Beauchamp to be raised as his own.”
“Aye, sire. ‘Tis nearly eighteen she is, and according to Lord Henry, a Plantagenet in looks and temperament, healthy as a stoat, and he’s had her educated as you instructed all those years ago. He reminds us ’tis time to see her wedded. He also writes that he’s already been beleaguered for her hand.”
The king muttered under his breath as he strode back and forth in front of his secretary’s table.
“I’d forgotten . . . ah, Constance, her flesh was soft as a babe’s . . .” The king cleared his throat. “That was, naturally, before I became a husband to my dear Eleanor . . . she was still a child . . . also, my daughter is a Plantagenet in looks . . . not a hag then . . . excellent, but still . . .” He paused and looked at his secretary with bright Plantagenet blue eyes, eyes the same color as his illegitimate daughter’s. He snapped his fingers and smiled.
“My dear Uncle Richard is dead, God rest his loyal soul, and we miss the stability he provided us in Cornwall. For a son-in-law, Robbie, we must have a man who will give us unquestioning loyalty, a man with strength of fist and character and heart, but not a man who will try to empty my coffers or trade on my royal generosity to enrich himself and all his brothers and cousins.”
Burnell nodded, saying nothing. He wouldn’t remind the king that he, his faithful secretary, hadn’t received an increase in compensation for a good five years now. Not that he’d ever expected one. He sighed, waiting.
“Such a man is probably a saint and in residence in heaven,” the king continued, giving Burnell another Plantagenet gift—a smile of genuine warmth and humor that rendered all those in his service weak-kneed with the pleasure of serving him. “I don’t suppose Lord Henry has a suggestion?”
“No, sire. He does write that suitors for his other daughter tend to look upon Philippa instead, as likely as not. He tires of the situation, sire. Indeed, he sounds a bit frantic. He writes that Philippa’s true identity becomes more difficult to keep a secret as the days pass, what with all the young pups wanting her hand in marriage.”
“A beauty.” Edward rubbed his large hands together. “A beauty, and I spawned her. All Plantagenet ladies are wondrous fair. Does she have golden hair? Skin as white as a sow’s underbelly? Find me that man, Robbie, a man of strength
and good heart. In all of Cornwall there must be a man we can trust with our daughter and our honor and our purse.”
Robert Burnell, a devout and unstinting laborer, toiled well into the dark hours of the night, burning three candles to their stumps, examining names of men in Cornwall to fit the king’s requirements. The following morning, he was bleary-eyed and stymied.
The king, on the other hand, was blazing with energy and thwacked his secretary on the shoulders. “I know what we’ll do about that little matter, Robbie. ’Tis my sweet queen who gave me the answer.”
Was this another little matter he didn’t know about yet? Burnell wondered, wishing only for his bed.
“Yes, sire?”
“The queen reminded me of our very loyal and good subject in Cornwall—Lord Graelam de Moreton of Wolffeton.”
“Lord Graelam,” Burnell repeated. “What is this matter, sire?”
“Lackwit,” Edward said, his good humor unimpaired. “ ‘Tis about my little Philippa and a husband for her fair hand and a sainted son-in-law for me.”
Burnell gaped at the king. He’d discussed his illegitimate daughter with the queen, with his wife?
He swallowed, saying, “Lord Graelam’s wedded, sire. He was atop my list until I remembered he’d married Kassia of Belleterre, from Brittany.”
“Certainly he’d wedded, Robbie. Have you lost your wits? You really should get more rest at night. ’Tis needful, sleep, for a sprightly brain. Now, Lord Graelam is the one to ferret out my ideal son-in-law. You will readily enough wring a list of likely candidates out of him.”
“I, sire?”
“Aye, Robbie, certainly you. Whom else can I trust? Get you gone after you’ve had some good brown ale and bread and cheese. You must eat, Robbie—’tis needful to keep up your strength. Ah, and write to Lord Henry and tell him what’s afoot. Now, I must needs speak to you about the special levy against those cockscomb Scots. I think that we must—”
“Forgive me, sire, but do you not wish me to leave for Cornwall very soon? To Wolffeton? To see Lord Graelam?”
“Eh? Aye, certainly, Robbie. This afternoon. Nay, better by the end of the week. Now, sharpen your wits and recall for me the names of those Scottish lords who blacken the Cheviot Hills with their knavery.”
6
St. Erth Castle
Philippa heard shouts behind her. One great bearded man grabbed at her, ripping the sleeve from her tunic, but she broke free. She heard a bellow of laughter and a man shouting, “Ye should have grabbed her skirt, rotbrain! Better a pretty bare ass than an arm!”
It was as dark as the interior of a well outside the great hall. Philippa dashed full-tilt across the inner bailey toward the stables, hoping to get to a horse and . . . And what? The gates were closed. There were guards posted on the ramparts, surely. The night was cold and she was shivering in nothing but a ragged one-sleeved gown to cover her.
Still, her fear kept her going. The stables were dark and warm and smelled of fresh hay, dung, and horses. They were also deserted, the keepers, she supposed, in the great hall, eating their evening meal with all the rest of the denizens of this keep. She stopped, pressing her fingers to the stitch in her side. She was breathing hard, and froze in her tracks when she heard her captor say from nearby, “You are but a female. I accept that as a flaw you can’t remedy—God’s error, if you will—yet it would seem that you never think before you act. What were you planning to do if you managed to get a horse?”
Philippa slowly turned to face him. Dienwald de Fortenberry was standing in the open doorway of the stable, holding a lantern in his right hand. He wasn’t even breathing hard. How had he found the time to light a lantern?
“I don’t know,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “You have so many people within the keep, I hoped mayhap the gates would be open, with people milling in and out, that mayhap the guards and porters wouldn’t notice me, but they all appear to be in the great hall eating, and—”
“And mayhap the moon would make an appearance and guide you to London to court, eh? And thieves would salute you and blow you sweet kisses as you rode past them, your gown up about your thighs. Stupid wench, I would not have gained my twenty-sixth year if I’d been so heedless of myself and my castle. We are quite snug within these walls.” He leaned down and set the lantern on the ground. Philippa backed up against a stall door as he straightened to look at her.
“If you don’t begin to think before you act, I doubt you will gain your twentieth year. You ripped off a sleeve.”
“Nay, one of your clumsy men did that.” She remembered another man’s coarse jest and felt suddenly quite exposed, standing here alone with him, her right arm hanging naked from her shoulder. “Please, my lord, may I leave? I’m thinking clearly now. I should be most grateful.”
“Leave? Tread softly, lady. Your position at present is not passing sweet. I think it more fitting that I should beat you. Tie you down and beat you soundly for your audacity and disrespect—something your father never did, I suspect. Do you prefer a whip or my hand?”
“Stay away!”
“I haven’t moved. Now, you told me that you didn’t want to be my mistress. Then, like a female, you danced away to a different tune and said you would prefer my using you as my mistress rather than wedding the man your father selected for you. Have I the sequence aright?”
She nodded, her back now flat against the stall door. “I should prefer Satan’s smiles, but that doesn’t seem to be an available choice. You told me you would give me choices but you didn’t.”
“Don’t keep pushing against that stall door, wench. Philbo, my destrier, is within. He isn’t pleased with people who disturb him, and is likely to take a bite of your soft shoulder.”
Philippa quickly slid away from the stall door and looked back at the black-faced destrier. He had mean eyes and looked as dangerous as his master.
“Are you a shrew?”
“Certainly not! ’Tis just that de Bridg—” She broke off, stuffed her fist in her open mouth, and gazed at Dienwald in horror.
“William de Bridgport?” Interest stirred in Dienwald’s eyes. He got no response but he saw that she’d terrified herself just by saying the man’s name. He imagined anyone could eventually get everything out of this girl. She spoke without thinking, acted without considering consequences. She was a danger to herself, a quite remarkable danger. He wondered if she would yell in passion without thinking. “He is a repulsive sort,” Dienwald said. “Fat and rotten-toothed, not possessed of an agreeable disposition.”
“Nay, ’tis someone else! I just said his name because he looks like . . . your horse!”
“My poor Philbo, insulted by a wench with threadbare wits.” He became silent, watching her, then said, “You would prefer my using your fair body to wedding him. I know not whether to be flattered or simply amazed. Are you certain Lord Henry won’t ransom you? I really do need the money. I would prefer money to your doubtless soft and fair—but large—body.”
Philippa shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he won’t. You must believe me, for I don’t lie, not this time. I overheard him tell my mother and a suitor for my sister’s hand who tried to ravish me that I would have no dowry at all.”
“Your sister’s suitor tried to ravish you? How was this accomplished?”
“ ‘Twas Ivo de Vescy. He’s a sweet boy, but he fancied me and not my sister. My father pulled him off me before I hurt him, which I would have done, for I am quite strong.”
Dienwald laughed; he couldn’t help it. He’d come after her with violence in mind, but she’d disarmed him, first with her pale-faced fear, then with her artless candor. He looked at the long naked white arm. She was so young . . . Nay, not so young. Many girls were married with a babe suckling at their breast by her age.
“Your father told de Vescy that he was marrying you to de Bridgport?”
She nodded. “I didn’t know—he’d never said a word to me about de Bridgport. At first I couldn’t believe it, wou
ldn’t believe it, but then . . .”
“And then you didn’t think, just acted, and jumped in the moat, then into the wool wagon. Well, ‘tis done. Come along, now. You’ve gooseflesh on your naked arm, and it’s powerfully unappetizing. I think I’ll take you to my chamber and tie you to my bed. I will be careful not to rip your gown further, since it is the only piece of clothing you have.”
Beauchamp Castle
“She’s a deceitful bitch and I hope she falls into a ditch! I hope she’s been set upon by pillaging soldiers. I hope she’s imprisoned in a convent. At least dear Ivo doesn’t want her—at least, he’d better not.”
“Bernice, quiet!” Lord Henry roared. “I must write to the king immediately . . . again. God’s nails, I will lose Beauchamp, he will tear my limbs from my body.”
Lady Maude quickly ordered Bernice from the solar. Her daughter whined and balked, for her curiosity was at high tide, but her mother’s hand was strong and she was determined. Bernice would not find out her supposed sister’s true parentage, not if Lady Maude had any say about it, which she did.
“My lord,” she said upon returning to her spouse, “you must moderate your speech. Aye, you must write to the king again, but don’t tell him the girl is missing. Nay, a moment.” Lady Maude stared toward the ornate prie-dieu in the corner of the chamber. “We must think. We mustn’t act precipitately. Philippa must have overheard our talk of marrying her off to de Bridgport.”
Lord Henry groaned. “And she fled Beauchamp. Why did I think of that whoreson’s name, much less spew it out to de Vescy like that? God’s eyebrows, the man’s a braying ass, and I’ve proved myself a fool.”
Lady Maude didn’t disagree with his assessment of himself, but said loudly, “I think William de Bridgport a man to make a girl a fine husband.”
Lord Henry stared at his thin-lipped wife. When, he wondered, had her lips disappeared into her face? He seemed to remember years before that she’d had full, pouting lips that curved into sweet smiles. He stared down her body and wondered where her breasts had gone. They’d disappeared just like her lips. Through her endless prayers? No, that would just make her bony knees bonier. He thought of little Giselle, his sixteen-year-old mistress. She had magnificent breasts, and her lips hadn’t disappeared. She also had all her teeth, which nipped him delightfully.
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