He wished he could make out her face, but from this distance all he could see for certain was her wildly beautiful hair rippling out behind her head, atop the slenderness of her body. It was enough. If she had no teeth, he would still crave her above all women, this king’s daughter who would shortly be his wife. He thought of St. Erth and how it would be his within the year, he doubted not. How could King Edward deny his son-in-law his own castle, stolen from his father by Dienwald’s thieving sire?
Philippa could hear the pursuing horses. They were very close now. She knew all was lost. They were still a good two miles from St. Erth. The countryside around them held only a few peasants’ huts, low pine trees and scrubby hawthorns and yews, and indifferent cattle. No one to help them. She saw the fierce look on Ellis’ face, attesting to his impotent rage. Their pace was frantic and the horses were blowing hard, their flanks lathered white. She saw Edmund’s pony stumble and she acted quickly, jerked Daisy close, dropped the knotted reins, and grabbed Edmund even as his pony went down. He was heavy, heavier than she’d imagined, but she pulled him onto Daisy’s back. “My pony!” he yelled, nearly hurtling himself off Daisy’s back.
Philippa fought to steady him. “The pony will make its way back to St. Erth. Worry not for the pony, but for us.”
Edmund quieted, but he was breathing in quick sharp gasps, his small body shuddering.
“Your pony will go home,” she said again, this time in his ear, hoping he heard her and understood.
He made no sign. His small face was white and grim.
She held him close and urged her mare faster.
Suddenly, without warning, Ellis screamed, a tearing raw-throated sound. Philippa saw an arrow bedded deep between his shoulder blades, its feathered shaft still vibrating from the force of its entry. Ellis lurched forward, gasping, then fell sideways, his foot catching in the stirrup. He was dragged along, blood spewing from his back onto his maddened horse. Philippa tried to hide Edmund’s head, but he watched until Ellis’ foot worked free of the stirrup and he fell to the hard ground, rolling over and over, the arrow’s shaft going deeper into his body.
Edmund made no sound; Philippa held him tighter, swallowing convulsively.
The other two men closed around her, and one of them yelled at her to keep down, to hug her mare’s neck, but even as the words left his mouth he slumped forward against his horse’s back, an arrow through his neck.
Philippa knew it was no use. “Flee,” she shouted to the third man, whose name was Silken. “Go whilst you can. ’Tis I the men want, not you. Go! Get help. Get the master.”
The man looked at her, his eyes sad and accepting. He drew his horse to a screaming halt, whipped him about, and drew his sword. “I won’t die with a coward’s arrow in my back,” he yelled at Philippa. “Nor will I die a coward’s death in my soul by escaping my fate. Ride hard, mistress. I’ll hold them as long as I can. Keep the boy safe.”
“Nay, Silken, nay!” Edmund shouted, and Philippa knew that she couldn’t leave the man, knew that even if she rode away, she would manage to save neither herself nor Edmund. She pulled Daisy to a halt. “Stay back behind me, Silken,” she yelled at him. “Keep your sword to your side!”
The men were upon them in moments. Dust flew, blurring the air, making Philippa cough. She couldn’t have been more horrified or surprised when one of the men yelled, “Philippa! My dearest cousin, ’tis I, Walter, here to save you!”
Silken whirled on Philippa, his face gone white, his mouth ugly with sudden rage. “You, mistress! You brought this bastard cur upon us! You got word to him!”
“Find the master, Silken. Here, take Edmund with you, quickly!”
But Edmund wouldn’t budge, shaking his head madly and clutching at the mare’s mane. Silken waited not another moment, but rode away as only a desperate man can ride, and Walter, intent for the moment upon the object of his capture, allowed the man to gain distance. Then he yelled for two of his men to bring him down. Philippa prayed hard, as did, she imagined, Edmund. Silken was their only chance. He disappeared over a rise, the two men in pursuit.
“Philippa,” Walter said as he rode up to her. “Ah, my dearest girl, you are safe, are you not?”
Philippa stared at her cousin Walter, a man she hadn’t seen for some years. He wasn’t a handsome man, but then, neither was he ill-looking. But he did look different to her. She had remembered him as very tall and thin. He wasn’t thin now; he was gaunt and wiry, his face long, his cheekbones high and hollow, his eyes more prominent. She remembered thick dark brown hair fashionably clipped across his forehead. His hair was thinner now but still clipped across his forehead. She hadn’t remembered his eyes. They were dark blue, and they looked hot with triumph, with success. She quickly assessed matters and got control of herself. He believed he’d rescued her, saved her. She whispered to Edmund, “Hold your peace, Edmund. Do as I do.”
The boy was white with fear, but he nodded. She squeezed him comfortingly.
“Walter, ’tis you?”
“Aye, Philippa, ’tis I, your dearest cousin. You have changed and grown into a woman and a beautiful creature. You are most pleasing to mine eyes. And now you are safe from that knave.” Walter paused a moment, noticing Edmund, it seemed, for the first time.
“Who is this? The bastard’s whelp? Shall I dispatch him to heaven, Philippa? Surely that is where the angels would carry him, for he is yet too young to have gleaned the foul wickedness from his sire.”
“No, leave him be, Walter. He is but a child, too young for heaven, unless God calls him. Leave him to me. He cares not for his sire, for he foully abuses him.” She prayed Edmund would keep his small mouth firmly closed. He started, stiffening against her, but said nothing.
“Aye, that I can believe. The cruel traitor not only abused his own child, but you as well, I doubt not. You are both safe with me, Philippa, at least until I decide what to do with the boy. Aye, I’ll ransom him. His father is coarse of spirit, but the boy is of his flesh and his heir. Aye, we’ll all return to Crandall now.”
“I’ll tear out his lying tongue!”
“Shush, Edmund, please, say nothing untoward!”
Philippa turned Daisy about, saying as she did so, “What is the distance to your keep, Walter?”
“Two days hence, fair cousin.”
“My palfrey is lathered and blowing.”
“Leave the beast and take that one. Dienwald’s man needs it no more.” And Walter laughed, pointing to Ellis’ body sprawled in a ditch beside the dusty road.
“Nay, leave me the mare, just keep our pace slow for a while.”
Walter felt expansive. Everything had come about as he’d planned. Philippa was beautiful and she was gentle and yielding, her expressive eyes filled with gratitude for him. “I’ll grant you that boon, Philippa.” He rode forward to speak to one of his men. Philippa whispered in Edmund’s ear, “We must pretend, Edmund, and we must think. We must exceed Crooky’s most talented fabrications.”
“I will kill him.”
“Perhaps I shall be the quicker, but hold your tongue now, he returns. Say naught, Edmund.”
“We will ride until it darkens, sweet cousin. I know you are tired, but we must have distance from St. Erth.” He turned and looked behind them, and she knew he was at last worried that his men hadn’t returned to report Silken’s death. She prayed harder.
“We will do as you wish, Walter,” she said, her voice soft and low. “You’re right—we’re too close to the tyrant’s castle.” He seemed to expand before her eyes, so pleased was he at her submissiveness.
“Shall I carry the boy before me?”
“Nay, he is afraid, Walter, for he knows you not. He can’t abide me—he follows his sire’s lead and insults me and abuses me—but at least I am a known adversary. Leave him with me for the moment, if it pleases you to do so.”
It evidently suited Walter, and he turned to speak to a man who rode beside him.
“You act the flap-mouthed
fool,” Edmund said, his child’s voice a high squeak. “He cannot believe you, ’tis absurd!”
“He doesn’t know me,” Philippa said. “He wants to believe me soft and biddable and as submissive as a cow. Fret not, at least not yet.”
It wasn’t until late that afternoon that the two men who had followed Silken caught up with them. Philippa held her breath as they pulled their mounts to a halt beside Walter. She waited, still with apprehension. To her wondrous relief, Walter exploded with rage. “Fools! Inept knaves!”
“Silken escaped,” Philippa said into Edmund’s ear. “Your father will come. He will save us.”
Edmund frowned. “But he is your cousin, Philippa. He won’t harm you.”
“He’s a bad man. Your father hates him, and for good reason, I think.”
“But you mocked my father about him and—”
“ ’Tis but our way—your father and I must rattle our tongues at each other, goad and taunt each other until one wants to smash the other’s head.”
Edmund said nothing to that, but he was confused, so Philippa just hugged him, whispering, “Trust me, and trust that your father will save us.”
It came to dusk and the sky colored itself with vivid shades of pink. They rode inland a bit and stopped at the edge of a forest whose name Philippa didn’t know. It was dark and deep, and she watched silently as two men immediately melted into the trees in search of game. Two other men went to collect wood.
Walter lifted Edmund down and paid him no more attention. Then he wrapped his hands around Philippa’s waist and lifted her from Daisy’s back. He grunted a bit because she wasn’t a languid feather to be plucked lightly. She grinned. When her feet touched the ground he didn’t release her, but held her, his hands lightly caressing her waist. “You please me, Philippa, very much.”
“Thank you, Walter.”
He frowned suddenly. “Your feet are bare. The gown you wear, it is all you have? That wretched bastard gave you nothing to wear?”
She lowered her head and shook her head. “It matters not,” she said, her voice meek and accepting.
Walter cursed and ranted. To her horror, he turned on Edmund, and without warning, backhanded the boy. The blow sent Edmund sprawling onto his back on the hard ground, the breath knocked out of him.
“Foul spawn of the devil!”
“Nay, Walter, leave the boy be!” Philippa was trembling with rage, which she prayed her voice didn’t give away. She quickly dropped to her knees beside Edmund. She felt his arms, his legs, pressed her hand against his chest. “Oh, God, Edmund, is there pain?”
The boy was white-faced, not with pain but with anger. “I’m all right. Get back to your precious cousin and show him your melting gratitude, Maypole.”
Philippa gave him a long look. “Don’t be a fool,” she said very quietly. She got to her feet. Walter was standing there, absently rubbing his hands together.
“Come to the fire, Philippa. It will grow cool soon, and your rags will not protect you.”
Her new gown wasn’t a rag, she wanted to yell at him, but she held her peace. She gave Edmund another look and walked beside Walter. One of his men had spread a blanket on the ground, and she eased down, her muscles sore, her back aching from the long ride. “Let the boy warm himself as well,” she said after some minutes had passed.
It was nearly dark before the two men returned with a pheasant and two rabbits. After they’d supped and the fire was burning low and orange, Philippa wrapped herself in a blanket, pulled Edmund down to the ground beside her, and waited. It took Walter not long to say, “I heard that de Fortenberry was holding you prisoner. I planned and schemed to get you free of him.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Walter paused a moment, then said with a rush of dignity, “I am not without loyal servants, cousin. St. Erth’s cistern keeper told me of your position.” Walter paused a moment, then leaned over to take Philippa’s hand in his. His was warm and dry. She said nothing, didn’t move. “The man told me how his master had mistreated you, molesting you, holding you against your will in his bedchamber whilst he ravished you. He even told how Fortenberry had ripped your gown before all his people, then dragged you from the hall to rape you yet again. Then he told me how Alain, the steward, had wanted you killed and how he and another were to do it. He didn’t realize that you, dearest heart, were mine own cousin. I killed him for you, Philippa. I slit his miserable throat even as the words gagged in his mouth. You need never fear him again.”
The cistein keeper had deserved death, she would have killed him herself had she been able, but to hear of it done in so cold-blooded a fashion . . . And Walter believed she’d been abused, violated. It was, she supposed, a logical conclusion. “Does my father know?”
“You mean Lord Henry? Nay, not as yet.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That his master had stolen Lord Henry’s wool and forced you to oversee the weaving and sewing, that he treated you as a servant and a whore. How was Alain found out?”
Philippa said this cautiously, not wanting Walter to realize that she’d discovered his treachery because she worried and fretted about St. Erth and its master. She said only, “He was a fool, and one of the master’s men broke his miserable neck.”
“Good,” Walter said. “I just wish I could have done it for you, sweetling. Of course, I know why the steward feared you and wanted you dead. It was because you read and write and cipher and he knew you’d find him out. A pity he tried to kill you, for he was a good servant and bled St. Erth nearly dry of its wealth, and much of the knave’s coin found its way to my coffers.”
Philippa felt Edmund stir, felt fury in his small body, and she quickly laid a quieting hand on his shoulder. “Walter, will you return me to my father?”
“Not as yet, Philippa, not as yet. First I wish you to see Crandall, the keep I oversee. And you need clothes for your station, aye, soft ermine, mayhap scarlet for a tunic, and the softest linen for your shifts. I long to see you garbed as befits your position. Then we will speak of your father.”
She frowned at him. What was going on here? Why was Walter acting loverlike? Her position? She was his cousin, that was all. Surely he didn’t want her, since he believed she was no longer a maiden, since he believed Dienwald had kept her as his mistress. Had perchance her father gone to him? Promised him a dowry if he found her, thus promising her in marriage to her cousin? It seemed the only logical answer to Philippa. No man could possibly want her if he believed she lacked both a maidenhead and a dowry.
“Do we reach Crandall on the morrow?”
He nodded and yawned. He smiled upon her, seeing her weariness. “I will keep you safe, Philippa. You need have no more fear. I will make you . . . happy.”
Philippa was terrified, but she nodded, her look as pleasingly sweet as she could muster it. Happy!
St. Erth Castle
“What say you, Silken? She what? That whoreson Walter killed both Ellis and Albe? Both of them? He took Edmund as well?”
“Aye, master. He took both the mistress and Master Edmund. We fetched Ellis’ and Albe’s bodies, and Father Cramdle buried them with God’s sacred words.”
Dienwald stood very still, weary from a long hard ride, his mind sluggish; he couldn’t take it in. Two days had passed since Sir Walter de Grasse had taken his son and Philippa and killed Ellis and Albe. He himself had just ridden into St. Erth’s inner bailey and learned what had happened from Silken. Dear God, what had Walter done to them? Had he taken them for ransom? Fear erased his fatigue.
Silken cleared his throat, his gnarled hand on Dienwald’s arm. “Master, heed me. I have been filled with murderous spleen since my escape, but have wondered if what I first believed to be true was true or was the result of blind seeing.”
“Make sense, Silken!”
“This Sir Walter greeted the mistress as if . . . as if she’d sent for him and he’d rescued her as she wished him to. As if he’d known she would be
riding and he’d had but to wait for her to come in his direction. He was waving at her, smiling like a man filled with joy at the sight of her.”
Dienwald stared blankly at the man, and his gut cramped viciously.
“Aye, she’d ridden out three days in a row, master, and that last day, only three men attended her and the young master.”
“And was that her demand?”
“I know not,” Silken said. “I know only that Ellis and Albe lie rotting in the earth.”
The heavens at that moment opened and cold rain flooded down. Thunder rumbled and the sky darkened to night. Dienwald, his tired men at his heels, ran into the great hall. It was silent as a tomb. There were clumps of women standing about, but at the sight of him they became mute. Then Gorkel came to him, his hideous face working. With anger? With betrayal?
“Ale!” Dienwald bellowed. “Margot, quickly!”
He ignored Gorkel for the moment, his thought on his son, now a prisoner of Sir Walter de Grasse, his greatest enemy, his only avowed enemy. His blood ran cold. Would Walter run Edmund through with his sword simply because the boy was of his flesh and blood? Dienwald closed his eyes against the roiling pain of it, against the helplessness he felt. And Philippa . . . Had she betrayed him? Had she taken Edmund riding with her on purpose so that Dienwald wouldn’t follow for fear his son would be killed?
He was tired, so tired that his mind went adrift with frantic chafing, with uncertainty. Philippa was gone . . . Edmund was gone, his only son . . . two of his men were dead . . .
Gorkel drew nearer to speak, but Dienwald said, “Nay, hold your peace, I would think.”
It was Crooky who said in the face of his master’s prohibition, “The mistress left her finery. Surely if she’d wanted to be rescued by her loathsome cousin, if somehow she’d managed to send him word, she would have taken the garments sent her by Lady Kassia, nay, she would have worn them to greet her savior.”