He turned without another word and strode across the dusty inner bailey toward the great hall. He was tall, she saw, following in his wake, some three or four inches taller than she was, and straight as a lance and just as solid. She couldn’t see a patch of fat on him. He was also tough-looking and younger than she’d first thought when she heard him giving orders after his theft of the wool wagons. He wasn’t all that much older than she, but he was treacherous—he’d already proved that. He was naught but a thief without remorse. She had still to see if he had the slightest bit of chivalry.
Dienwald de Fortenberry. She turned pale with sudden memory and was grateful he wasn’t looking at her to see her face. She’d heard tales of him since she was ten years old. He was known variously as the Rogue of Cornwall, the Scourge, and the Devil’s Blight. When de Fortenberry chanced to plunder or rob or pillage close to Beauchamp lands, Lord Henry would shake his fist in the air, spit in the rushes, and scream, “That damnable bastard should be cleaved into three parts!” Why three parts, no one at Beauchamp had ever dared to ask. She should never have told him who she was. She’d been ten times a fool. Now it was too late. He was master of this castle.
The great hall was shadowed and gloomy, with smoke-blackened beams supporting the high ceiling, and only a half-dozen narrow windows covered with hides. The floor rushes snapped and crackled beneath her bare feet, and several times she felt one of the twigs dig into her sole—a twig or mayhap a discarded bone. There wasn’t much of an odor, just a stale smell. She watched the man wave away poorly garbed servants, several men-at-arms, the crooked-backed fellow, and the small boy whom she assumed was his son. Where was his wife? He had a son; surely he had a wife. On the other hand, what woman would want to be wedded to a scourge or a blight or a bastard? Philippa watched him sit down in the lord’s chair, a high-backed affair of goodly proportions that had been made by a carpenter with some skill and a love of ornamentation. “Come here,” the Scourge of Cornwall said, and crooked his finger at her.
No one had ever crooked a finger at her in such a peremptory way. Not even Lord Henry in his most officious moments.
Philippa forgot for a moment where she was and who it was who’d commanded her. She straightened her shoulders with alarming force. Her breasts nearly split the center seam of her gown. She nearly wailed with humiliation as she quickly hunched forward.
Dienwald de Fortenberry laughed.
“Come here,” he said again.
Philippa walked forward, keeping her eyes on his face. It wasn’t a bad face. She would have thought a scourge’s face would be pitted by the pox, that he’d be wild-eyed and black-toothed, not hard and well-muscled and with eyes of light brown ringed with gold, with hair and brows the identical shade. There was a deep dimple in the center of his chin. Mayhap that was a mark of the devil. But if it were a devil’s mark, why didn’t he wear a beard to hide it? Instead he was clean-shaven, his hair worn longer than was the current fashion, with tight curls at his nape. He didn’t look like a rogue or a devil’s blight, but hadn’t he stolen her father’s wool without a by-your-leave?
“Who are you?”
“I am Dienwald de Fortenberry—”
“I know that. I mean, are you truly a devil’s tool? Or perhaps one of his familiars?”
“Ah, you have realized my identity. Have you heard mind-boggling tales of me? Tales that have me flying over treetops with my arms spread like great wings to escape Christian soldiers? Tales that have me traveling a hundred miles from Cornwall in the flash of an eye to kill and butcher and maim in the wilds of Scotland?”
“No, I have heard my father curse you mightily when you have raided near Beauchamp, but you are always just a man to him, even though he roars about scourges and blights and such.”
“ ‘Tis true. I am of this earth, not above it or below it. I am but a simple man. Do you, Philippa de Beauchamp, consider this earthbound man of sufficient prominence to sit in your august presence?”
“I don’t think you care at all what I think. Moreover, I’m lost.”
Dienwald sat forward in his chair. “You are in my castle, St. Erth by name. As to your exact whereabouts, I believe I shall keep that to myself for a time. Sit you down. I have questions for you, and you will answer them promptly and truthfully.”
Philippa gazed about. There was no other chair.
He pointed downward at his feet. “On the floor.”
“Don’t be absurd! Of course I won’t sit on the floor.”
Dienwald stood up, still pointing to his feet. “Sit, now, or I will have my men fling you down. Perhaps I shall plant my foot on your neck to keep you down.”
Philippa sat down on the floor, folding her long legs beneath her. She tried to straighten the skirt of her borrowed gown, but it was too narrow and too short and left her knees bare.
Dienwald resumed his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, negligently stretching his long legs in front of him. She noticed for the first time that his tunic and hose were in shameful condition.
She looked up at him. “May I please have something to drink? I am very thirsty.”
Dienwald frowned at her. “You aren’t a guest,” he said, then in his next breath bellowed, “Margot!”
A thin young girl scurried into the hall, managed a curtsy, and waited, her eyes on the now-clean creature barely covered by a tattered garment of dull green belonging to one of the cookhouse wenches.
“Ale and . . .” He eyed the seated female, whose knees were showing. Nice knees connected to very nice legs. “Are you hungry as well?”
Her stomach growled loudly.
“Bread and cheese as well, Margot. Be speedy, we don’t want our guest to collapse in the rushes.”
Philippa could have hugged him at that moment. Food, at last. Food!
“Now, wench—”
“I am not a wench. I am Philippa de Beauchamp. I demand that you treat me according to my rank. I demand that you . . . well, you could begin by getting me a chair and then a gown that isn’t so very rough and worn and old.”
“Yes? What else? That isn’t all you wish, is it?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “I know I am tall, but perhaps one of your wife’s gowns would fit me.”
“I have no wife. I had a wife once, but I don’t have one now, nor have I had one for many a year, thank the saints. The gown Old Agnes found for you is doubtless precious. There isn’t a single hole in it. It deserves your thanks, not your disdain.”
“I meant no insult and I do thank you and the gown’s owner. May I please borrow a horse? A nag, it matters not. I will see that it is returned to you.”
“Why?”
To lie or to speak more foolish truths? Philippa settled for the middle ground. “I was traveling to see my cousin, who lives near St. Ives. I was riding in the wool wagon to the fair and then I planned to walk the rest of the way to my cousin’s keep. Now, of course, I am here, and ‘tis probably still too far away for me to walk.”
Dienwald looked at the female and realized she was quite young. The wild hair and the ill-fitting gown had deceived him. The hair was now dry and a full glorious fall down her back. There were more shades than he could count, from the palest flaxen to dark ash to deepest brown. He frowned at himself. “All right, I believe you are Philippa de Beauchamp. Why were you hiding in a wool wagon?”
Margot appeared with a wooden tray that held ale, bread, and a chunk of yellow cheese. Philippa’s mouth began to water. She stared at the food, unable to tear her eyes away, until Dienwald, shrugging, rose and pointed her toward the long row of trestle tables that lined the eastern side of the great hall.
He kept further questions to himself and merely watched her eat. She tried to be dainty and restrained, but her hunger overcame her refined manners for a few minutes. When she chanced to look up, her mouth full of bread, to see him watching her, she quickly ducked her head, swallowed, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing.
Dienwald rose and leaned over the trestle ta
ble, and pounded her back. He handed her a cup of ale. “Drink.”
Once she’d gotten her breath back, he was sitting again, silently watching her. If she’d been in that damned wool wagon all the way from Beauchamp, she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for nearly two days. It also seemed to Dienwald that she’d acted without much thought to any consequences, a usual feminine failing.
“You have a lot of hair.”
She unconsciously touched her fingers to the tumbled curls. “Aye.”
“Who is this cousin you were traveling to see?”
“I can’t tell you that. Besides, it isn’t important.”
“How old are you?”
“Nearly eighteen.”
“A great age. At first I had believed you older. Why were you running away from Beauchamp?”
“Because my father wanted me to marry a—” Philippa stopped cold. She dropped a piece of cheese onto the trestle table, then jumped to retrieve it. She fought with all her better instincts not to stuff it into her mouth. She bit off a big chunk.
“You were so against this marriage that you jumped into the moat, then buried yourself in my wool, making both it and you stink like a marsh hog?”
She nodded vigorously, her mouth full of the wonderful cheese. “Truly, I had to. If you don’t mind, I should like to keep running.”
“It won’t work, you know. A lady of your tender years and wealth doesn’t go against her father.” He paused, giving her a long, brooding look, a look Philippa didn’t like a bit. “A daughter should never go against her sire. As for marriage, ’tis to increase the family’s wealth and lands and political influence. Surely you know that. Weren’t you raised properly? What is wrong with you? Have you taken the minstrels’ silly songs to heart? Did you fall in love with some silly fellow’s eyebrows? Some clerk who read you romantic tales?”
She shook her head, thinking about her family gaining lands and wealth. Marrying her to William de Bridgport wouldn’t bring any of those benefits. “Truly, sir, I can walk, if you’ll just tell me the direction to St. Ives.”
Dienwald continued brooding and looking. Finally he rose and returned to his chair, saying over his shoulder, “Well, come along. Sit on the floor.”
Philippa grabbed the last piece of bread and the last morsel of cheese and followed. When she sat, the tunic slid up above her knees. She chewed on the bread, watching him, praying he wouldn’t ask anything until she’d swallowed the rest of her food. But his next words nearly made her choke again.
“There are many things to consider here. I could ransom you. Your father is very wealthy, from what I’ve heard. Beauchamp is a formidable holding, and has been since William gave it to Rolfe de Beauchamp two hundred years ago. And your father has some influence at court, or so I heard some years ago.” He paused, looking away, and Philippa’s gaze followed his. He said, “Ah, I believed myself too lucky to be alone. Come here, Crooky, and join in my musings. What do you think the wench would bring in ransom?”
Crooky hobbled up, looked Philippa up and down, and said. “Thass a tall wench, master, even sitting, a strapping big wench. Those legs of hers just don’t stop. By Saint Andrew’s nose, ’tis yer height she be, or nearly, I’ll wager ye.”
“No, no,” Philippa said, “he is taller than I, by at least four inches.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Dienwald said, ignoring her. “This is Crooky,” he added after a moment to Philippa, “my fool, my ears, and a great piece of impertinence a good deal of the time. But I suffer his presence.” He saw her nose go up. It was a nice narrow nose. It was also an arrogant and supercilious nose.
Fitting for a Philippa de Beauchamp.
To Philippa’s surprise, Crooky suddenly broke into song.
What be she worth?
This wooly-haired wench?
Jewels for a ransom?
Not with her stench.
She looks like a hag
She brays and she brags—
“You’re blind, clattermouth,” Dienwald interrupted. “She’s clean and wholesome and I’ve even fed her so her ribs are no longer clanking together. Come here so I can kick you in the ribs.”
Crooky cackled and backed quickly away. “A bath did her good, sweet lord. Aye, ransom the wench. She’ll bring you coin, much-needed coin. Mayhap we’ll need more weavers for all that wool. Let de Beauchamp pay dear to fetch the little partridge back into his fold. God gi’ ye grace, madam.” And the strange little man who bellowed off-key gave her a crooked-toothed grin.
“That was a horrid rhyme,” Philippa said. “You’ve no talent at all. My mare neighs more agreeably than you sing.”
“Slit her throat,” Crooky said to his master. “She’s got a bold tongue and she’s naught but a pesky female. Of what earthly good is she?”
“You’re right, Crooky. A deadly combination, surely, and of no use.” Dienwald reached for the dagger at his belt.
Philippa gasped, sudden fear causing her to jump to her feet and back away. With her hunger and thirst slaked, she’d let herself forget who this man was, had let down her guard and behaved as she would have at home, and now look what her tongue had gotten her into.
Dienwald drew his dagger and fingered the sharp edge. He rose slowly. “Have a care, lady. This is not your domain. You have no power here, no authority. Moreover, you are naught but a female, a big strapping female with more wit than most, but nonetheless you are to keep your mouth closed and your tongue behind your teeth. Aye, I will ransom your hide, now that it is white again and sweet-smelling. I will have my steward write to your father telling him of your status. Have you an idea of what he’ll pay for your return? A clean and hearty wench he’ll get, I will promise it, a wench ready for him to flail with his tongue and his belt. Both of which you deserve.”
Philippa shook her head. Fear clogged her throat. Fear of this unpredictable man and fear of the truth. Perchance the truth in this instance would serve her well. On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn’t. She didn’t know what to do. She said finally, “My father doesn’t want me back. He won’t pay you anything. He will be pleased never to see my face again in this life. He didn’t want me. That’s why I ran away.”
“That’s not hard to believe, what with the face you had when I first beheld you. He would have believed himself in hell, faced by the devil’s mistress.”
“I told you that I jumped into our moat and that I ran away. It was foolish, I admit, but I did it and I can’t now undo it.”
Philippa heard a gasp and saw a plump big-breasted girl staring at them, her face pale. Then she saw the direction of the girl’s eyes, and saw the girl was staring at the man’s dagger. He was still holding it, caressing the blade with the pad of his thumb. Philippa had forgotten the dagger. Would he slit her throat? Wasn’t he possessed of any chivalrous instincts? She very quickly returned to the floor, folding her legs under her as far as she could manage.
“It begins to rain, my sweet lord,” Crooky said. “I’ll see the wool is kept dry. Come along, Alice, the master is busy counting coins in his head. He’ll make you happy later, once he’s rid himself of this extra wench.”
“Aye,” Dienwald said, not looking toward the big-breasted girl. “Go. Leave me. I will make you happy tonight.”
Philippa stared. Her father had mistresses; she and all at Beauchamp knew it. But he pretended otherwise; he was discreet. Of course this man had no wife to shriek at him. She turned back and saw that Dienwald was speaking to an old woman.
“Aye, master, that old fool Prink has sickened suddenly, taken to his bed, he has, yelling that he’s dying.”
Dienwald cursed, then said, “I’ll wager Father Cramdle is at his bedside even now, just in case. His list of sins is long enough for three days.”
Then the little boy strode up and bellowed, “Hers a witch, kill her, Papa, stick your dagger in her gullet!”
Philippa looked at the boy standing out of her reach, legs apart, an expression on his face that was remarkably like his fath
er’s.
“Not hers a witch,” Philippa said. “Can’t you speak properly? It’s she’s a witch.” Of the boy’s father she asked, “Have you no privacy here? And I’m not a witch.”
“Very little privacy,” Dienwald said, and waved Edmund away. “Go see to our wool. And keep out of mischief. Aye, and speak properly!”
Philippa added her coin. “Why don’t you go visit the water and the lye soap?”
“I shan’t. You’re a lanky spear with a wooly head!”
“Officious little clodpole!”
“Enough! Edmund, get thee gone now. You, lady, keep your tongue behind your teeth or you will surely regret it.” Again he pointedly fingered his dagger, and Philippa, not liking the sharpness of that blade, nor the tone of his voice, lowered her head and shut her mouth. She’d been a fool, but she didn’t have to continue being one.
“I had great need of the wool,” Dienwald said, looking down at his frayed hose. “I lost forty-four sheep before shearing, and all of us are ragged. That’s why I took the two wagons.” He glanced up, straight at her, and seemed startled that he’d explained his theft.
“Your need is quite evident. But thievery will bring you only retribution from my father, doubt you not.”
“Ah, you think so? Let me tell you something, Lady Lackwit. Those dauntless farmers with the other wagon will continue to the fair at St. Ives. They will sell the wool and hide well their profits. Then they will go bleating to Lord Henry about the theft of all three wagons. Moreover, they have no idea who robbed them. Now, in addition, you are my prisoner, as of this minute. If I decide to ransom you, I can always say I found you creeping along a road. And if you, wench, tell your sire the truth, think you those brave farmers will say they lied and robbed your father and were cowards? Now, I was considering treating you like a guest, but I think that isn’t what you need. You are too bold, too brazen for a female. You want mastering and proper manners. Perhaps I shall take on the chore. You will remain at St. Erth until I decide what to do with you. You will leave me now.”