“No, master, ’tis worse.”
“What in the name of St. Andrew could possible be worse?”
“It will rain soon, master—a heavy rain, Northbert says, a deluge that could fill this ditch in which you lie. Northbert reads well the clouds and the other signs, you know that.”
Dienwald looked up. It was true, the soft warm air swirling about them was also dark and heavy and gray. But it didn’t matter, not one whit. “Excellent, my thanks. You and the men take Edmund back to St. Erth. The wench—my wife and I will return shortly. Go now. Wait not another minute. Hurry. Be gone.”
Eldwin wasn’t blind to what he’d interrupted. He turned on his heel and hurried back to the waiting men. Soon Dienwald heard pounding hooves going away from them.
“Now, wench.”
“Now what?”
“Now I shall have my way with you in the midst of the violets and the eglantine.”
When the first rain drop landed on Philippa’s forehead, she was glad for it for she felt fevered and so urgent she felt ready to burst. Dienwald brought her closer to his mouth and caressed her until she screamed, arching her back, wild with wanting and with the mounting feelings that filled her. Overflowing now. And when he left her, she lurched upward and pressed him back and he fell, laughing and moaning, for she was kissing his throat, his chest, her hands splayed over him, and soon she was crouched between his legs and her mouth was on his belly, her hair flowing over him, and she was caressing him with her mouth and her hands. When she took him into her mouth, tentatively, wonderingly, he thought he would spill his seed then so urgent did he feel, but it was as if she guessed, and left him, easing him gently with her fingers, before caressing him again until he cried out with it and pulled her off him. Then he was covering her, and his manhood was thrusting into her, deep and hard, and so sweet that she cried with the wonder of it. And when he spilled his seed within her, he tasted her tears on her lips.
Dienwald said as he kissed the raindrops away, “I love you, Philippa, and I will never cease loving you and wanting you. We are joined, you and I, and it is for always. Never, ever, will I speak to you in anger again. You are mine forever.”
And she said only, “Yes.”
He was heavy on her, but she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms about his back and hugged him all the more tightly. The rain thickened and it was only then they realized that they were lying in the open, sheets of rain pouring down on them, in the gray light. And then Dienwald saw there was something else beside the rain.
There was Walter de Grasse standing at the top of the incline, staring down at them, his face twisted with rage.
23
Dienwald slowly eased away from Philippa and pulled her gown down her legs, pretending not to see Walter.
“Love . . .” she said, her voice soft and drowsy despite the rain battering down on her. “Love, don’t leave me.”
“Philippa,” he said as he straightened his clothes, “come, you must awaken now.”
Sir Walter’s voice cracked through the silence. “Are you certain you are through plowing her belly, you whoreson? If the little slut wants more, I shall take her and give her pleasure she’s never known with you.”
Walter! Philippa sat up quickly, staring at her cousin, who still stood at the top of the incline, his hands on his hips, rain long since soaked through his clothes. He’d watched them. She felt at once sick to her stomach and blindly furious. She scrambled to her feet.
Dienwald took one of her hands in his and squeezed it. When he spoke, his tone was almost impersonal. “What do you want, de Grasse?”
“I want what is mine. I want her, despite what you’ve done to her.”
Dienwald squeezed her hand tightly now, and said in the same detached way, “You can’t have her, de Grasse. She was never yours to have, save in your fantasies. She’s mine. As you have observed, she is completely mine.”
“Nay, you bastard! She’ll wed me! She’ll have no choice, for I’ll hold you to ensure her compliance!”
Dienwald stared at him. “Too late, de Grasse, you are far too late. Philippa is already wedded to me with her father’s—the king’s—blessing.”
“You lie!”
“Why should I?”
That drew Walter up for a moment. He eyed his enemy of so many years that he’d lost count. De Fortenberry had been an enemy before Walter had even seen his face, his very name a litany of vengeance. So long ago Dienwald’s father had beaten Walter’s, but it hadn’t been fair, it hadn’t been unprejudiced. No, his father had been cheated, cheated of everything, his only son disinherited. “I should have killed you when I had you at Wolffeton. I broke your ribs, but it wasn’t enough, though I enjoyed it. I should have tortured you until I tired of hearing your screams, and then I should have sent my sword into your belly. Ah, but no, I waited, like a fool I waited for Graelam to return, certain that he would mete out justice, that he would right the wrongs done unto my father and unto me. I was a fool then, I admit it. I didn’t think that Lord Graelam’s wife, that little bitch, Kassia—your lover—would dare rescue you. But she did, curse her. Hellfire, I should have killed her for saving you!”
“But you didn’t,” Dienwald said, bringing Philippa against his side. “And Graelam, not knowing the depths of your twisted hatred, made you castellan of Crandall. But you couldn’t be satisfied with your overlord’s trust. No, you couldn’t dismiss your hatred and forget your imagined ills. You had to kill my people and burn their huts and their crops and put the sword to their animals. You went too far, de Grasse. Graelam knows what you did. He will not allow it to continue. He himself will kill you. I won’t have to bother.”
“Kill me? You? As for Graelam, you have no proof, de Fortenberry, of any burning or killing. Not a shred of proof do you have. Graelam would never act without proof. I know him well. He thinks he judges character like a god, when he is but a fool. And when he finds you dead, there will still be no proof, and he won’t act against me.”
“Then you stole Philippa and my son. You will die, Walter, and your enmity will die with you.”
“Stole! Ha! I rescued my cousin! Your miserable brat just happened to be with her. I didn’t harm him, the little vermin. Skewer not the truth for your own ends.”
“Since there is no longer a rescue to be made, since Philippa is my wife with the king’s blessing, then you intend now to take your leave of us? You intend to forget your plaints and return to Crandall?”
Even as he spoke, Dienwald saw Walter’s men, in view now, yet blurred in the downpour. The shower was lessening a bit but they were still vague and gray. They looked miserable; they looked uncertain.
Philippa said, “Walter, I am wedded to Dienwald. I am his wife. Both Lord Henry and Robert Burnell, the king’s chancellor, will attest to it. It is true. Leave us be.”
Walter ground his teeth. He felt maddened with failure, his loss surrounding him, gashing into him, twisting him and taunting him. He’d not gained what was his by birthright. He’d gained nothing, less than nothing. Life hadn’t meted out justice to him. There would be no retribution unless he gained it for himself. And now he’d stood watching his enemy enjoy the girl intended for him. He raised his face to the skies and howled his fury.
It was a grim sound, terrifying and haunting. Philippa clutched Dienwald against her side, turning her face inward to his chest. It was a howl of pain and defeat and ruin; a cry of loss of faith, loss of self.
Then Walter was silent; all his men were silent, though several were crossing themselves. The silence dragged on. It was frightening and eerie. The rain pounded down and the curving piece of ground upon which Dienwald and Philippa stood began to fill with water. The violets sagged beneath the weight of the rain.
Then Walter, without warning, drew his sword and leapt down the incline, his full weight landing against Dienwald’s chest, battering him backward. Philippa was thrown to the side, splashing onto her knees into the water. She scrambled to her feet, flailing about to gain purchase i
n the swirling torrent.
Walter’s sword was drawn, and in a smooth arc aimed toward Dienwald’s chest. Dienwald had naught but a knife and he held it in his right hand, then tossed it to his left, back and forth, taunting Walter.
He said softly, “Well, you sodden fool? Come, let’s see if you understand the uses for your sword! Or will you just stand there?”
Walter gave a roar of sheer rage and rushed toward Dienwald, his sword straight out in front of him. Dienwald sidestepped him easily, but his foot slipped on the slick grass and he twisted about, falling on his back.
Philippa picked up a rock and threw it with all her strength at Walter. It hit him square in the chest. He looked at her, surprise writ on his face. “Philippa? Why do you that? I am come to save you. You mustn’t pretend you don’t want to come with me, wed with me, there is no more need. I will kill him and then you will come with me.”
Walter turned, but Dienwald was on his feet again, feinting to the right, away from Walter’s sword thrust.
On and on it went, and Philippa knew Dienwald must fail eventually. His knife was no contest against Walter’s sword. Suddenly there came shouts from the road above.
The men paid no heed.
Philippa paid no heed either. She had grasped another stone and was waiting for the chance to strike Walter with it, but the men were close, too close, and she feared hitting Dienwald instead.
“Philippa! Stand clear!”
She whirled about and looked upward. It was Graelam de Moreton and he was standing on the road above them. Beside him stood the man Roland de Tournay. She watched through the now gentle fall of rain. Roland drew a narrow dagger from his belt, its shaft silver and bright even in the gray light, aimed it, and released it. It slit through the air so quickly, Philippa didn’t see it. She heard a suddenly gurgling sound, then turned to see the dagger embedded deep in Walter’s chest. He dropped the sword and clutched at the dagger’s ivory handle. He pulled it out and stared at the crimson blade. Then he looked upward at Roland de Tournay.
He looked confused and said, “Do I know you? Why do you kill me?”
He said nothing more, merely looked once again at Philippa, gave a tiny shake of his head, and collapsed onto his face in the water.
Dienwald stood panting over him. He frowned down at Walter’s lifeless body. “ ‘Twas a good throw.” Then he looked up at Roland. “I was very nearly the victor. You acted too quickly.”
“Next time I’ll let your wife hit your adversary with rocks,” Roland shouted.
“By all the saints above,” Graelam shouted, “enough! Come up now and let us ride to St. Erth. Dienwald, thank Roland for saving your hide. But hurry, for I am so sodden my tongue molds in my mouth!”
Within minutes Philippa was huddled in the circle of her husband’s arms atop Philbo. One of Graelam’s men was leading her mare. Walter’s men hadn’t fought, for Lord Graelam de Moreton was, after all, Sir Walter’s overlord, and thus they, his men-at-arms, also owed allegiance to Lord Graelam.
Dienwald looked at Graelam. “How came you by so unexpectedly? I was praying, but ’twas not for your company in particular.”
“We came by design,” Graelam said. “Roland wanted to see the final act of the play he’d helped to write.”
“What does he mean?” Philippa asked, twisting about to face her husband.
“Hush, wench. ’Tis not important. Roland is loose-tongued, but he does throw a dagger well.”
“But—”
“Hush,” he repeated, then said, “Will you continue to welcome me as sweetly as did gentle, perfect Kassia?”
She stiffened, as he’d expected, her thoughts turned, and he grinned over her head.
They were shivering, their teeth chattering, when they finally rode into St. Erth’s inner bailey. Once in the great hall, they were overwhelmed with cheers and shouts and blessed warmth and trestle tables covered with mounds of food. All of St. Erth’s people were gathered in the huge chamber, and it was noisy and hot and the smells of food mingled with the smells of sweat and wet wool and it was wonderful.
“Welcome,” Philippa said, her wet face radiant as she turned to her guests. “We’re home!”
She sneezed suddenly, and Dienwald swooped down upon her and picked her up in his arms. He pretended to stagger under her weight, saying, “My poor back, wench! I’m nearly beyond my abilities, with you so weighty with wet wool.”
Graelam and Roland watched Dienwald carry her from the great hall, grinning at the wild cheering from all St. Erth’s people. “The king’s son-in-law is a fine man,” Graelam said.
“Aye, and no longer a fool,” Roland said. He fell silent, frowning. “I do find it passing odd, though.”
“What do you find odd?”
“That Philippa, a girl of remarkable taste and refinement, preferred him to me. I am incredulous. ’Tis not normal in my experience. Why, the harem I kept in Acre, Graelam—you wouldn’t believe the appetites of my women! And it was my duty, naturally, to satisfy appetites each night. And they never complained that I shirked my duty to them. But Philippa gives me not a look.”
Graelam merely laughed, grabbed a hunk of well-roasted rabbit, and waved it in Roland’s face. “You braying ass! Lying dog! Harem? I believe you not, not for an instant. What harem? How came you by a harem? How many women? You satisfied more than one woman each night?”
Crooky chortled and waved his hands toward all the food. “A feast, my lords. A feast worthy of a king or a king’s daughter and her friends!” And he jumped upon Dienwald’s chair and burst into song.
A wedding feast lies here untasted
The lord and lady care not it’s wasted.
They’re frolic and gambol without a yawn
They’ll play through the night ’til the dawn.
In their bedchamber, warm and dry beneath three blankets, the master and mistress of St. Erth lay together listening to the rain and enjoying each other’s kisses. They heard a sudden shout of loud laughter and guffawing from below in the great hall, and wondered at it, but not for long, for Philippa nuzzled Dienwald’s throat, saying, “Have you restocked your seed?”
“What?” Dienwald said, and pulled back to look at his wife’s laughing mouth.
“ ’Tis what Old Agnes said, that I would fetch you home and keep you in my bed until you begged me to let you sleep and restock your seed.”
“Aye, all is in readiness for you, greedy wench. I ask for nothing more in this sweet life than to be debauched by you each night.”
“A promise easily made and more than easily kept.”
Epilogue
Windsor Castle
October 1275
Dienwald quickly closed the door to the opulent chamber, locked it, drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he sagged against the door, his eyes closed.
“My lord husband, you did well. My father thinks you nearly as wonderful as do I.”
Dienwald opened his eyes at that. “He does, does he? Ha! I’ll wager you he still thinks Roland de Tournay would have made the better husband and the better son-in-law. And I have to call Roland, that damned brute, friend! It passes all bounds, Philippa.”
She wanted to laugh, but managed to keep her mouth from quivering, her eyes slightly lowered. “Roland is just a common fellow, husband, of little account to my life and of no account at all to my heart. And since my father no longer has any say in the matter, it’s not important. What did you think of Queen Eleanor?”
“A beautiful lady,” Dienwald said somewhat absently, then frowned, moaned, and closed his eyes again. “The king looked at me and knew, Philippa—he knew I’d raided that merchant’s goods near Penrith.”
Philippa laughed. “Aye, he knew. He was amused, he told me so, but he also hinted to me that I should scold you just a bit—‘never be a testy nag, my daughter,’ he said—and somehow keep you from plundering about the countryside. I truly believe he said nothing to you because he doesn’t want to break your spirit.”
/> “He doesn’t want to break my spirit! I don’t suppose you told him that you were with me, riding at my side, dressed like a lad, laughing at how easily we sidetracked that merchant who’d cheated us?”
Philippa straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose at him. “Naturally not. I am part Plantagenet, thus part of the very highest nobility. Besides, do you think me an utter fool?”
“Next time we will take greater care,” Dienwald said. He pushed away from the door and walked to the middle of their chamber and stopped. The room was dazzling in the elegance of its furnishings, and the overwhelming luxury of it stifled him. The bed was hung with rich velvet draperies, their thick crimson folds held with golden rope and ties. The velvet was so thick, so voluminous, one could suffocate if the hangings were drawn at night.
“The ceremony was moving, Dienwald, and you looked as royal as my father and his family.”
Dienwald grunted. He looked down at his flamboyant crimson tunic, belted with a wide leather affair studded with gems. A ceremonial sword was strapped to his waist. He looked well enough, he supposed, but one couldn’t scratch in such clothing, one couldn’t really stretch. One couldn’t grab one’s wife and caress her and fondle her and fling her onto the bed and wrestle with her, tearing off clothing and laughing together and tumbling about.
“ ‘Dienwald de Fortenberry, Earl of St. Erth.’ Or perhaps I prefer ‘Lord St. Erth.’ Ah, that has a sound of proud consequence and arrogant privilege. It fits you well, my lord earl. And Edmund will grow nicely into that appellation, for already he scowls like you do when displeased, and orders me about as if I were his wench.”
Dienwald was silent. He sat down in an ornately carved high-backed chair, stretched out his legs, and looked morosely into the fireplace.
Philippa, her humor fled, knelt in front of him and gazed up at his distracted face. “What troubles you, husband? Do you wish now that you weren’t tied to me?”
He stretched out his hand and lightly touched his fingers to her hair. It was arranged artfully, with many pins and ribbons and fastenings, and he feared to dislodge such perfection. He dropped his hand.