On the morning of the third day, Philippa, her step buoyant and carefree, entered the weaving shed to be greeted by pandemonium. A gaunt middle-aged man with tufts of gray hair sticking straight up on his head was screaming at Mordrid. He was quaking with rage, shaking so violently that his clothes, hanging loosely around him, were in danger of leaving his body.
He yelled, “Bitch! Slut! Treacherous cow! I lie on my deathbed and ye take my job. I’ll kill ye!”
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Philippa stared at the man, then shouted, “Hold! Who are you? What do you do here?”
The man whirled about. He looked Philippa up and down and sneered, and his eyes seemed to turn red. “Aye, so ye’re t’ witch who’s beleaguered t’ master. Ye’re t’ one who’s made him think of naught but plungin’ into yer belly and givin’ ye wot’s mine!”
“Ah,” Philippa said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “You must be Prink. Fresh from your deathbed. I see you are still with us.”
Her bright, very polite voice stalled Prink, but only for a moment. He felt ill-used, betrayed, and he wanted to leap on the wench and tear the hair from her head. It was her size that held him back. He didn’t have his full strength back yet. He drew himself up. “I’m here t’ do my work. Ye’re not welcome, wench. Out wi’ ye, and take all these stupid women wi’ ye.” He grabbed Mordrid’s arm and twisted it. “I’ll keep this one—she deserves a hidin’, she does, and I’ll gi’ it to her.”
“Prink,” Philippa said very slowly, “you will release Mordrid, now.”
The weaver looked fit to spit. His hold tightened on Mordrid’s arm until the woman moaned with pain.
Philippa wondered where Gorkel was. During the past three days he’d been where she’d been. Well, he wasn’t here and she had no one but herself to handle this predicament. Even mouthy Old Agnes was hiding behind a huge woven piece of cloth newly dyed a bright yellow. Philippa stepped up to the furious weaver, saw his pallor, saw the spasms that shook his muscles, and knew him still to be very ill. She said calmly, her voice pitched low, “You aren’t well, Prink. Here, allow me to help you back to your bed.”
He squealed like Philippa’s worshipful pig, Tupper, but he did drop Mordrid’s arm. He gave Philippa his full attention. “Ye’re naught but t’ master’s slut, and ye’ve taken wot’s mine and—”
“Your face is gray as the sky this morning, Prink, and sweat drips off your forehead. Do you wish to remain here and fall on your face in a faint, in front of all the women?”
Prink didn’t know what to do. He’d exhausted himself with his rightful indignation. He wanted to wring the wench’s neck, but he hadn’t the strength. He mumbled curses at Mordrid and walked slowly, his muscles cramping, toward the door of the outbuilding. At that moment Gorkel appeared, looking from the weaver to Philippa.
“Do help him back to his bed, Gorkel, and see that he remains there until he’s completely well again. I will speak to you later, Prink.”
The instant the weaver disappeared, Old Agnes bounded out of her hidey-hole, squawking with fury. “Old codshead! How dare he try to ruin everything, the stinking poltroon!”
Philippa ignored Old Agnes. “Mordrid, are you all right? Did he hurt your arm?”
The woman shook her head. “Thank you, mistress.” She fretted a moment, then said, “Prink’s a good man, he is, a proud man. The cramping illness makes him feel less than a man.”
Would a woman forgive a man absolutely anything? Philippa wondered as she watched the work settle back into its placid routine. When Gorkel reappeared, he merely nodded to Philippa and took his post by the door.
The following afternoon, Philippa was hot and tired and feeling lonely. She was walking across the inner bailey, the pig, Tupper, squealing at her bare feet in hot pursuit, when the porter, Hood, called out to her that a tinker was coming. Did she want him to enter? Excitement flowed through Philippa as she yelled back that, yes, she wanted him to come. A tinker meant trinkets and ribbons and thread and items the keep sorely needed. Perhaps the tinker even had gowns, sold or bartered to him on his travels. She didn’t stop to think that it was odd for her to be asked permission by the porter.
Men and women were gathering in the inner bailey, buzzing with excited conversation. Children, feeling their parents’ anticipation, stayed close. Even the animals quieted as the stranger came through the huge gates. Philippa greeted the tinker and her eyes glistened with enthusiasm at the sight of the two pack mules he led, each one carrying more packages than she’d ever seen.
It was when she was fingering two long lengths of pink ribbon that she realized she had no coin.
She had nothing, either, with which to trade.
She wanted to cry.
A soft voice sounded in her ear. “You agree to leave St. Erth, and I’ll buy you all the ribbons you want. Mayhap even a gown and some shoes. The tinker has everything. Ah, yes, you silly girl, those ribbons would go very nicely with your hair. Do you want them?”
She expelled her breath, turning to see the steward standing close beside her, his leer as pronounced as ever.
Anger filled her and she very nearly screamed that she knew he was a thief and that was why the master had no coin. She stopped herself in the nick of time. She had to keep quiet. She had to wait until Dienwald returned. She tilted her head back so that she was looking down her nose at him. “Nay, sir steward, there is nothing I wish.”
“Liar.”
She stepped back then and watched the people of St. Erth buy and trade goods with the tinker.
She wanted to weep when she handed him back the ribbons. It was foolish, but she wanted them desperately. They were as pale a pink as the sunrise in early May, and matched a gown she owned back at Beauchamp.
The tinker remained the night and Crooky proved to be in fine fettle, singing until he was hoarse, the words of his songs so colorfully crude that Father Cramdle was forced to clear his throat several times. When Philippa finally left the great hall, Gorkel beside her, she was still smiling.
“I told the tinker to circle back this way when the master is here,” Gorkel said as he left her beside her bedchamber door.
“It truly doesn’t matter,” Philippa said, and swallowed a bit hard.
“Keep the door locked,” Gorkel said as he’d said each preceding night. She did as he’d said, then turned with her candle to set it down. Standing in front of her was Alain, holding a knife.
Philippa rushed back to the door and turned the large brass key in the lock, yelling, “Gorkel! Gorkel! A moi! A moi!”
The steward was on her in a second, his arm closing around her throat as he jerked her back against him. His right hand rose and the sharp point of the knife pointed down at her breast. Philippa couldn’t scream now; his arm was cutting off her breath. She clawed at his arm with her nails, but he was strong—and strong with purpose.
He didn’t slam the knife into her breast. She realized that he didn’t want to kill her here. It would be far too dangerous for him. The knife was to ensure her obedience. His arm tightened and she felt the chamber spinning as white lights burst before her eyes. She jerked at his arm and felt the tip of the knife prick into her throat. She felt a cold numbing followed by the slick wetness of her own blood.
“Hold still, whore, or I’ll gullet you now. As for Gorkel, that cretinous idiot can’t hear you. The doors are thick. But you’ll keep quiet or all that will come from your mouth is a bloody gurgle.”
Philippa held still as a stone, dropping her arms to her sides.
“Good. Now, come here.”
He half-dragged her over to Dienwald’s bed and shoved her down onto her back. He came down next to her, holding the knife over her throat. She swallowed, looking up at him.
“ ‘Tis past time for you to escape from St. Erth. Aye, you’ll be long gone by the time the master returns. And he’ll blame Gorkel, the hulking fright. Not me. He’ll never even think about me.”
She said nothing, letting her brain work rather than
her mouth. It was a novel approach.
“You wonder why I want you gone so badly from St. Erth—I can see it in your silly female’s eyes. Those eyes of yours . . . they’re familiar, the shape and the color, aye, that shade of blue has bothered me . . . I have seem them before, somewhere . . . but no, I have no time for such nonsense. I wouldn’t have killed you had you left before, but now you give me no choice. Stupid sow, you should have left when I first offered you the chance.
“But you didn’t, did you? You wanted the master, wanted to believe his lies. Did he tell you that he wanted you more than any other female? He deceives women well. You should have left. But now ‘tis too late, far too late.”
He was rambling on and on, bragging and insulting Dienwald, and it seemed to Philippa that he must be mad.
“Why?” she whispered, not moving because the knife was still pressed so deep, its tip already bathed in her blood.
“Why? Should I tell you, I wonder? Well, soon you’ll be dead and gone, so it matters not. I know who you are.”
That made no sense. She said slowly, “I’m Philippa de Beauchamp. Everyone knows that.”
“Aye, but you see, I sent my two men after the third wagon of wool, the one my foolish master left to the farmers because he felt pity for them. Aye, my men got them, and before they killed the luggards, they found out all about you. The farmers didn’t know you’d been hiding in one of their wagons, but they were ready to talk all about you once knives were at their hearts. My men found out you were your father’s favorite, that you were his steward in fact and in deed, that it was you who had set the price of the wool and sent them to the St. Ives Fair to get that price. Which means that you can read and write and cipher, unlike my master, who believes whatever I tell him.
“So you must die. You wonder why Dienwald trusts me, don’t you? Aye, I can see it in your eyes. Dienwald saved me from a knight I’d swindled, and then he killed my master, who’d sided with the knight, after I told him how I’d been cheated and beaten. Then he brought me to St. Erth, where I’ve become a rich man. He believed he had earned my gratitude, the pathetic fool.
“Dienwald believes himself a rogue, a scoundrel, a rebel who can wave his fist in the face of higher authority, but deep in his soul he holds beliefs that can and will do him in. So you see, I can’t let you remain, for I also know you visited my chamber. You left papers and documents just the way you found them, but one of my spies saw you. Aye, he saw you leaving, looking furtive and wary. So you found out the truth, did you, and were just waiting for the proper moment to tell Dienwald.
“And he set Gorkel to keep you from escaping, not realizing that he was at the same time protecting you from me. You didn’t know that, did you? Gorkel has stayed close, and I didn’t know how to get you until tonight. Then it came to me, and I knew I must be bold. You know, Philippa de Beauchamp, I hated you the moment I first saw you. I knew your purpose to be contrary to mine.”
Before she could say a word, before she could draw another breath, Alain brought the bone handle of the knife down against her temple, hard. She saw a burst of lights, felt a sharp pain, and then there was blackness.
Philippa awoke with the earthy smells of the stables filling her nostrils. Her hands were bound tightly behind her, but her legs were free. She lay perfectly still, waiting for the dizziness to clear. When it did, she realized she couldn’t breathe easily. A blanket covered her. She gripped an edge with her teeth and pulled it off her face. She seemed to be alone, but it was very dark in the stables and she couldn’t be certain. She couldn’t hear anyone moving about or speaking. Where was Alain?
Now, she thought, now was the time to think. Not with her feet, though they were the only free part of her, but with her brain. What to do? Alain had nothing to lose; he had to remove her from St. Erth. Snatches of songs sung by the jongleurs paraded through her mind in those moments, songs about mighty heroes rescuing fair maids from degrading and frightful situations. There wasn’t a mighty hero anywhere to be found. The fair maid would have to save herself.
She tried to loosen the ropes at her wrists, but the effort did nothing but shred her skin. She rolled over and managed to rise to her feet, peering from the stall where she’d been left unconscious. She nearly fainted from the pain in her temple where the knife handle had struck, but she held on. She had no choice but to hold on. She couldn’t have much time left now. Alain would be coming back for her soon. And he’d kill her; she didn’t doubt it for an instant.
Philippa managed to free the latch on the stall and push the door open. It squealed on its rusted hinges, and she froze. Where was the steward?
It was at that moment that she heard two men speaking in low voices in the stableyard. The steward’s men. Standing guard until he returned. From where?
Philippa drew a deep breath of relief. She’d been on the point of rushing out of the stables at full tilt, screaming for help. She’d been fully ready to think with her feet again. She looked around carefully, her eyes now used to the darkness, and saw an old scythe, sharp and deadly, hanging from a hook on the wall.
Her bonds didn’t take long to cut through, but the edge of the scythe was sharp and she felt her own blood, sticky and slippery, covering her palms before she was free. Once she was loose, she stooped down and eased back to the stable door. The two men were still there, still speaking in low voices.
Now, she decided, she could take them by surprise and run as far as the great hall before they caught up with her.
“Well? Heard you aught out of the whore? Is she still unconscious?”
Alain had returned. Philippa shrank back, her heart pounding so loudly they must hear it. No matter. Let them come. She pulled the scythe from the wall and clutched it to her breast.
She heard one of the men say, “Nay, t’ wench is still quiet. T’ blow will keep her unconscious until we cut her throat. Can we split her afore we kill her?”
Philippa swallowed convulsively. She realized suddenly that her bloody hands were making the scythe handle slick. She picked up some hay at her feet and rubbed it over the handle and over her palms. The pain was fierce, but she welcomed it. As long as she felt pain, she was alive. And as long as she had the scythe, she had a chance.
“You can do whatever you wish to her. But you must kill her afterward, make no mistake about it, and make certain her body’s never found. The wench is conniving, so take care if she comes to herself again. Now, I’ve spoken to Hood, the porter, and told him that I’m sending some supplies to the master. The man’s not stupid, so be careful. You’ll load the girl on a pack mule and take her away from St. Erth. When you return, you’ll be paid. Now, go.”
Then Alain was leaving; she heard his retreating footsteps. Only his two accomplices remained, then.
All she had on her side was surprise.
She raised the scythe over her head and waited. One of the men was coming into the stables, saying to the other, “Wait here and I’ll fetch t’ wench.”
The other man protested, “Nay, ye’ll take her in t’ stall, ye bastid!”
They were fighting over who was going to ravish her first. Her hold on the scythe handle tightened. Filthy villains. One appeared in the doorway, moonlight framing his head. Philippa drew a sharp breath and brought the scythe down hard. It was only the blunted, curved edge of the blade that hit him, but the force of her blow cracked the man’s head open and he didn’t even cry out, but fell, blood spewing everywhere, to the hay-strewn floor.
The man behind him cried out, but Philippa, like a blood-spewed vision from hell, screamed and came at him, the scythe raised over her head.
The man bellowed in fear, his eyes rolling in his head, and turned on his heel. Philippa drew up for an instant, her mouth gaping in surprise. The man had run from her, terrified. She quickly ran across the inner bailey and up the steps of the great hall. She flung the doors open and rushed in. As always, there was the loud noise of general conversation. Then a few people noticed her standing there, th
e scythe in her hands, covered with blood, her hair wild about her pale face.
There was an awesome silence. Then Alain jumped to his feet and yelled, “Kill the whore! By the devil’s knees, she’s butchered our people! Look at her, covered with blood! Murderess! She’s stolen the master’s jewels! Kill her! Strike her down quickly!”
Philippa looked around her and raised the scythe. The silence was deafening and paralyzing. No one was moving yet. Everyone was staring as if at a mummers’ scene. “Gorkel,” she said, her voice just above a croak, “help me.”
Alain, seeing that no one had moved, bounded to his feet, screaming as he ran toward her, “Kill the damned witch! That’s what she is, a cursed witch!”
He grabbed one of the men-at-arms’ swords and ran straight toward her.
“Kill her!” another man’s voice roared with the steward’s. “Aye, she’s a witch who steals men’s jobs!” It was Prink, still pale and sweaty but ready to do her in. “Slay her where she stands!”
Eerily, Philippa now heard each voice separately. Every sound came singly and loudly and obscenely. She heard Father Cramdle praying loudly, she heard Edmund screech like one of her mother’s peacocks as he dashed toward her. “No, Edmund, stay back!” But her words were just an echo in her mind. Northbert, Proctor, the armorer, Margot, Crooky, Alice—all of them were rushing at her. To aid her? To kill her?
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