“Aye,” Crooky yelled, “but the wenches would much enjoy that kind of play.”
Dienwald bellowed again, and soon he and Philippa were alone standing on the plank of lumber, scrubbing themselves with the newly made soap. Dienwald had simply stripped off his clothes. He looked up at Philippa, his face clean and grinning. “I’ve dismissed everyone, wench—you heard and saw. Take off the gown now.”
She did, without comment, seeing no hope for it, and together they washed and scrubbed and threw water on each other. At one point Dienwald paused, looking at her, beautifully naked in the April sunshine, and pulled her against him. He didn’t kiss her, merely soaped his hands. Philippa felt his large hands soaping down her back and over her buttocks. She felt his soapy fingers sliding between her legs and tensed, but his touch seemed impersonal.
It wasn’t, but Dienwald wasn’t about to let her know that. When he’d finished, Philippa cleaned his back, her touch more tentative than his had been. He stared at the mud puddle, then thought of the eyes that were probably watching them at this very minute.
Once dry, they wrapped themselves in the blankets. Dienwald looked at Philippa, her face scrubbed pink, her hair plastered around her head, and he thought her exquisite. He said instead, looking once again toward the mud puddle, “You made me feel very young with our play. Do you wish to come into the hall and meet our guests?”
Speak to Lady Kassia, Philippa thought. She would feel like a great bumbling fool, like a huge ungainly blanket-wrapped beggar gawking next to a snow princess in her white cloak. She shook her head and swallowed her misery.
“They are my friends,” Dienwald said, not seeing the misery, only the stubbornness.
“Not yet, if it pleases you.”
“Very well,” he said, her respectful tone softening him. “But if you wish to meet them, I would ask that you not tell them your name or that you’re my prisoner.”
“Then what am I?” she asked, irritation now writ clear in her voice.
Dienwald paused at that. So much for respect and deference from her. “My washerwoman?”
“No.”
“My weaver?”
“Nay. I would be your steward.”
“Graelam would burst his bladder laughing at that notion. No, you can be my mistress. You begin to look passable again, so that would not strain his credulity. Does that please you, wench?”
“Doesn’t it worry you that I might beg Lord Graelam to return me to my father? That I might tell him you’re naught but a miserable scoundrel and thief?”
“Why should it worry me? You’ll not do that. You have no wish to return to your father. Don’t forget that that toad William de Bridgport awaits you with widespread fat arms and foul breath.”
That was true, damn him. She chewed on her lower lips. “I could ask him to send me to his vassal, Sir Walter, since I am his cousin and since that is where I was bound in the first place.”
“Aye, you could do that, but it would displease me mightily. You know, Philippa, Sir Walter wouldn’t treat you well. He is not the man you think him.”
“Of course he would treat me well! I’m his cousin, his kin. I won’t be your mistress.”
He raised his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “You’re a snare, Philippa. Of the devil? I wonder.”
He said nothing more, merely turned on his bare heel and strode away from her. He should have looked ridiculous, walking barefoot and wrapped in an ugly brown blanket, but he didn’t.
Philippa followed more slowly, and she saw faces and heard laughter and knew that she and Dienwald had been observed whilst they bathed. Was there nothing private in this wretched castle? She knew the answer was no, just as it had been at Beauchamp.
How could Dienwald ask her to meet Kassia, the woman who was the most precious of all God’s female flock? The woman who’d saved his life, the woman who was so lavishly guileless, the essence of purity and perfection?
Philippa wanted to be sick.
Instead, she walked up the solar stairs, the blanket wrapped close like a shroud, and locked herself in Dienwald’s chamber. He’d already come and gone. His blanket was a heap on the rushes. She fretted about what he was wearing, wishing she’d given him the tunic she’d made for him. It looked every bit as fine as the one Lord Graelam was wearing, the one the beautiful Kassia had sewn for him.
In the great hall, Dienwald, garbed in a tunic and hose that were tattered and faded from their original gray to a dirty bile green, finally greeted his guests.
Graelam and Kassia were speaking with Northbert and Crooky, drinking ale and tasting the new St. Erth cheese that Dienwald had directed made from his own recipe, passed to him by his great-aunt Margarie, now long dead.
“Where is my wine, you whoreson?” Graelam asked without preamble upon Dienwald’s appearance.
Dienwald looked at him blankly. “Your wine? What wine? That’s not wine, it’s ale, and made from my own recipe. I would have offered you wine had I some, but I don’t. I have naught but ale, and no coin to purchase wine. God’s bones, Graelam, I always bring myself to Wolffeton when I wish to reward my innards.”
Graelam’s dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re a convincing liar when it pleases you to be so.”
“What cursed wine?” Dienwald nearly shouted, flinging his arms wide.
Kassia laughed and placed her hand on his forearm. “You don’t remember the wager between you and my lord? The Aquitaine wine my father was shipping to us? The ship was wrecked on the rocks and all the cargo disappeared. You didn’t do it? You didn’t steal the wine?”
Dienwald just shook his head. “Of course not. Are you sure, Kassia, that your wondrous lord didn’t do it? He feared losing the wager to me, you know, and was at his wits’ ends to find a way out of humiliating himself.”
“Nay, don’t try to win her to your side, you sly-lipped cockscomb.”
Kassia laughed. “The both of you be still. ’Tis obvious that another rogue stole the wine, my lord. Drink your ale and forget your wager.”
“But who?” Dienwald said as he accepted a flagon from Margot.
“Roland is in Cornwall,” Graelam said.
“I don’t believe it! Roland de Tournay! He’s really here?”
“Aye, he’s here. I heard it from a tinker who’d traveled the breadth of Cornwall.”
“Aye, the tinker was here not long ago, but I was not.” More’s the pity, he thought, that the fellow hadn’t as yet returned. He was seeing that strip of dirty leather tying Philippa’s hair back. A narrow ribbon of pale yellow would be beautiful with her hair color. “He told you of Roland?”
“It seems that Roland stopped him, brought him to his camp in the forest of Fentonladock, and instructed him to tell me of his coming—not the why of it, but just that he would be at Wolffeton. I do wonder what he wants. You and Roland were boys fostering together, were you not? At Bauderleigh Castle with Earl Charles Massey?”
“Aye, we were. Old Charles was a proper devil, mean and evil and hard, but we both survived to become mean and evil and hard. I’ve not heard from Roland in five years.”
“He went with Edward to go crusading, as did I. I didn’t see him much in the Holy Land, but he survived, thankfully.”
“I wonder how he does and what he wants with you.”
“I am to meet him at Wolffeton in two weeks’ time. He will tell me then. I was told that he used his talents spying for Edward whilst in the Holy Land. A Muslim he was, becoming so like them they never guessed he was an Englishman. He was an intimate of the sultan himself, so it was said.”
“He’s a dark-skinned bastard, looks like a heathen.”
Graelam shrugged. “Aye, and his eyes are as black as a fanatical priest’s and his tongue as smooth as an asp’s.”
Dienwald was thoughtful, then said without thinking, “I should like to see him. Mayhap I could bring the wench with me. She would enjoy—” The instant it was out of his mouth, Dienwald wanted to kick hims
elf.
Graelam, a man of subtlety when he so wished, inquired mildly, “Who is the wench, Dienwald? She was the one astride you, I gather? Sporting in the mud with you?”
“Aye.”
“No more? No explanations? Is she clean? Where is she now?”
“She has no clothes, not a stitch, the muddy gown was old—it belonged to my first wife—and it was the last one. The wench is wearing a blanket now, and is in my bedchamber.”
Kassia cocked her head to one side. “Wench? What is her name?”
“Morgan,” Dienwald said without hesitation, then nearly swallowed his tongue. Well, he’d said it. He said it again, looking Graelam right in his eye. “Her name’s Morgan and she’s my mistress.”
“She’s a villein?”
He shook his head vigorously, and said, “Yes.”
Graelam snorted. “What goes on here, Dienwald? Don’t try to lie to me, I’ll know it. You’re clear as a spring pond.”
“You said I was a fine liar just a moment ago.”
“I exaggerated.”
“Both of you relieve your minds and shut your mouths! Now, the female we saw, her name is Morgan, you say. An odd name, but no matter. I shall go visit her. I have no extra clothing with me, but I can have gowns and other things sent to her.”
“She is a maypole, a giant of a girl. Nothing you own would fit her big body.”
Kassia merely frowned at him, shook out the skirt of her finely woven pale pink gown, smoothed the sleeves of the delicate white overtunic, and walked slowly from the great wall. It was then that Dienwald saw her big belly.
He was suddenly very afraid. He turned to Graelam and saw his friend nodding.
“I shield her as best I can. She is so small, and the child grows large in her belly. She insisted upon coming to St. Erth today. She grows bored and restless at Wolffeton—the women won’t let her do a thing within the castle, and even my men hover about her when she is in the bailey—and I couldn’t deny her. You should see Blount, my steward—he feels a quill is beyond her strength. She frets.”
“How much longer before the babe comes?”
“Not until June. I die each day with the thought of it.” Graelam then cursed luridly, and Dienwald, looking hopeful and thoughtful, said, “She appears well and is beautiful and laughing.”
“Aye,” Graelam said, and drained his flagon. He eyed Dienwald. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of my wife as though you were her lover. It irks me. Now, ‘tis true you didn’t steal the wine from Kassia’s father? You didn’t have the ship wrecked with false warning lights from the point?”
“I wish I’d thought of it,” Dienwald said, his voice gloomy with regret.
“Roland, then,” Graelam said, nodding in satisfaction at his conclusion. “I’ll break two of his ribs for his impertinence.”
“That I should like to see,” Dienwald said.
Kassia slowly climbed the solar stairs. She held to the railing, careful, as always, of the babe she carried. She felt wonderful and healthy and very alive. If only Graelam would but believe her and stop his worrying and his endless agitation. It was driving her to distraction. And there was her father, now threatening to come to Wolffeton and watch over her. Between the two of them she’d go mad, she knew it.
She reached Dienwald’s bedchamber and knocked softly on the solid door. Then she turned the handle. It was locked. She called out, “Please, Morgan, let me in. ‘Tis Kassia de Moreton.”
Philippa stared at the door from her huddled spot in the middle of Dienwald’s bed.
Morgan!
Who in the name of St. Andrew was Morgan? She rose, wrapped the blanket securely about her, and padded on bare feet to the door. She opened it and smiled.
“Come in, my lady.”
“Thank you. Oh, dear, I see Dienwald was speaking true. You have no clothes.”
Philippa simply shook her head.
“You are no villein’s daughter, are you? What prank does Dienwald play now?”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you are his mistress.”
Philippa snorted and tossed her head. Her hair was nearly dry now, and curled wildly down her back.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Kassia said. “I’ve always wished for hair such as yours. Not long ago I was very ill and my head was shaved. My hair has grown back thicker, but not like yours. Do you mind if I sit down? My burden is heavy.”
Philippa realized as the small lady walked across Dienwald’s bedchamber that this female was very nice and probably hadn’t a mean bone in her very feminine body. She was also heavy with child. She was married to that huge warrior. For an instant Philippa imagined that huge man covering this very small female. It didn’t seem possible. But it didn’t matter. This Kassia was safely out of the way; Dienwald was safe from her perfection.
It was an unspeakable relief.
“Forgive me,” Philippa said. “Would you care for some milk perhaps? I don’t imagine that Dienwald thought of that.”
“Nay, I am fine as I am, and no, he didn’t. He is a man much like my dear lord. Tell me, what is your real name?”
Philippa wanted to spit it out, all of it, but she paused. She realized that she didn’t want Dienwald to be put upon or doubted or questioned, even by his friends. Nor did she want to go to her cousin Walter. She wanted to stay right here. “Morgan is my name,” she said, and her chin went up.
Kassia thought: You’re a truly awful liar. She merely smiled at the tall, very lovely girl who sat on Dienwald’s bed, a blanket wrapped around her. What was she doing here? It was a mystery, and Kassia was quickly fascinated. Then she thought of Robert Burnell’s visit and of Dienwald as the husband of Edward’s illegitimate daughter and how she and her husband had praised Dienwald’s very eyebrows to Burnell. She felt a frisson of worry, but shook it off. If Dienwald loved this girl, then he would simply say no to Edward if he offered him his daughter’s hand in marriage. Dienwald would say no to anybody, even the Pope. He would laugh in the king’s face if it pleased him to do so. No, Dienwald couldn’t be coerced into doing anything he didn’t wish to do. She wouldn’t worry. Everything would work out as it was meant to.
“I have come to offer you clothes, Morgan. I have none with me, but if you will let me see your size, then I can have some sent to St. Erth on the morrow.”
Philippa had sunk into guilt over the truly violent thoughts she’d harbored toward this elegant lady. “I have woven wool. I merely haven’t had time to see to clothes for myself. There were Edmund and Dienwald, even the fool, Crooky. He was so worn and ragged and so . . . so accepting of it. I couldn’t bear it. I will sew myself something this evening. But I thank you, truly. You are kind.”
“This is very interesting,” Kassia said, cocking her head to one side.
“What is, my lady?”
“You and Dienwald. He is not, in the usual course of everyday events, a man in the habit of giving much of his attention to ladies.”
That’s because he’s thinking of you. “Is that true?” Philippa said, noncommittal.
“Aye. Don’t mistake my words. He has always enjoyed women, that is true, but not for longer than it takes him to relieve his needs with them. He’s a complicated man, and obstinate, yet loyal and true. He is also a rogue, sometimes quite a scoundrel, and he much enjoys being unpredictable.”
“I know.”
“You do? Well, that is even more interesting. Do you know him well, then? You’ve been at St. Erth a long time?”
Philippa raised her chin. Was this lady toying with her? Showing her that it was she, not Philippa, who held Dienwald? No covering it up with fresh rushes, she thought, and said with the most emotionless voice she could dredge up, “ ‘Tis you, my lady, who holds Dienwald’s interest, not me. ‘Tis you he worships and admires, not me. ‘Tis you he bleats on about, not me. He finds me unwomanly, ungainly, clumsy. But he speaks of you as if you were a . . . a shrine, and he wishes to fall on his face and worship at your feet.”
/>
“By all the saints’ waggery, that is wondrous stupid,” Kassia said, and burst into laughter. “And not at all like Dienwald.”
“Dienwald is a man,” Philippa said when Kassia had subsided into only an occasional giggle.
“Aye,” Kassia said slowly, “he is, is he not? He is just like my lord. A man who dominates, a man who must rule, a man who yells and bellows when one dares cross his will or challenge him, and a man who will cherish and protect those weaker then he with all his strength.”
“I’m just barely weaker than Dienwald.”
“I doubt that, Morgan.”
“He doesn’t cherish me at all. He knows not what to do with me. I am a thorn in his flesh.” Philippa’s chin went up yet another notch. “But I am also his steward, though he doesn’t wish to tell anyone, the obstinate cockscomb. He said were your husband to know, he would burst his bladder with laughter.”
“His steward? Tell me, please. What happened to Alain?”
Philippa’s dam burst, and words poured out of her mouth. She didn’t tell Kassia de Moreton who she really was or how she came to be at St. Erth, but she told her of Alain’s perfidy and how he’d tried to kill her and how she had since taken his place because Dienwald had no one else of the proper sex to do it.
Kassia stared at this rush of confidences, but before she could speak, the door burst open and Dienwald catapulted into the chamber, yelling even before his two feet were firmly planted on the floor, “Don’t believe a word she says!”
Philippa jumped to her feet. “Morgan!” she shouted. “Who the devil is this Morgan?”
Dienwald drew up, frowning. “I don’t know. The name merely popped into my mind. I like it. It has a certain dignity.”
“What is your name, then?” Kassia asked.
“ ’Tis Mary,” Dienwald said quickly. “Her name is Mary. A nice name, a simple name, a name without pretense or deceit.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Graelam de Moreton said as he came through the bedchamber door. He looked over at his grinning wife. “I once knew a Mary who was as cunning and devious as my former mistress, Nan. You remember, Kassia? Ah, perhaps you don’t wish to. You wonder why I’m here, sweetling? Well, Dienwald feared what the girl was telling you and bolted out of the hall. What was I to do? All that was of interest was here, so I followed.”