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  He exploded into her thoughts, nearly yelling, “What in the name of St. Andrew am I to do now? I have no steward because you ensured that he’d die, curse you! Poor Gorkel had no choice but to dispatch him, and ‘tis all your fault!”

  Philippa stared at him, nearly choking on the piece of buttered bread in her mouth. “He was cheating you! Didn’t you attend me? He was a filthy knave! Didn’t you hear me? Don’t you care?”

  Dienwald merely shrugged, causing her to leap to her feet and throw the remaining bread at his head. He ducked, but some of the sweet butter hit his cheek in a yellow streak.

  “You ungrateful fool! You—”

  “Enough!” Dienwald rose from his chair, wiping the butter from his face with his hand.

  “I repeat, wench, what will I do for a steward?”

  She stuck out her chin, squared her shoulders, and readied herself for his insults. “I will be your steward.”

  It didn’t take him long to produce the insults she expected at her announcement. “You? A female? A female who has no more sense than to spy on a man and be caught and nearly butchered for her stupidity? Ha, wench, ha!”

  “That’s not true. I was careful when I searched through his chamber. I saw him ride away before I went into the room. It was just bad fortune that he had spies and one of them saw me. And what about his dishonesty? You, so astute, such a keen and intelligent male, didn’t even begin to realize he was robbing you down to your last tunic, to your last hay straw, to your last . . . You, a brave male, didn’t realize anything at all. You might even now give a thought to the fact that Alain’s spies are very likely still here. Ha!”

  “Females don’t have the brains to resolve problems and keep correct records of things.”

  Philippa just stared at him, her bile spent, her rage simmering down to weary resentment.

  “Females,” Dienwald continued, waxing fluent now, “don’t know the first thing about organizing facts and making decisions. Females have one useful role only, and that is—”

  “Don’t you dare say it!”

  “They should see to the weaving and the sewing and the cooking. They are useful for the soft things, the things a man needs to ease him after he’s toiled a long day with both his body and his brain.”

  “You’re a fool,” Philippa said, and without another word, for she’d spent even her anger now, turned on her bare heel and strode toward the oak doors.

  “Don’t you dare leave, wench!”

  She speeded up, and was through the door within moments. She raced across the inner bailey, dodging chickens and Tupper, who squealed with berserk joy at the sight of her. She felt his wet snout against her ankle as she ran. Children called to her, women stared, and men just shook their heads, particularly when the master emerged from the great hall, his face a storm, his temper there for all to see.

  “Come back here, you stupid wench!”

  Philippa turned to see him striding toward her. “By the saints, you are a miserable clod!” She ran now, holding the frayed gown to her knees. Her legs were long and strong and she ran quickly—right into Gorkel.

  “Mistress,” Gorkel said. “What goes?”

  “I go,” she said, and jerked away from his huge hands. “Release me, Gorkel!”

  “Hold her, Gorkel. Then, if you wish, you can watch me thrash her hide.”

  Gorkel gave a mournful sigh and shook his ugly head. “Ye shouldn’t prick t’ master.”

  “He’s a fool and I’d like to kick him hard.”

  Dienwald winced at that mental imagine. At the same time, he felt an unwanted sting of distress at her words, but shook it off. “Come with me,” he said, and grabbed her arm.

  “Nay.”

  He stopped, looked from Gorkel back to Philippa, who was pale with fury. “You’ll but hurt my back if you force me to carry you again.”

  Philippa drew back her right arm and swung with all her strength. Her fist struck his jaw so sharply that his head snapped back. He lost his balance and would have gone down in humiliation into the dirt had not Gorkel grabbed him and held him until he regained his balance.

  Dienwald looked at Philippa as he stroked his sore jaw. “You’re strong,” he said at last. “You’re really very strong.”

  She raised her fist and shook it at him. “Aye, and I’ll bring you down again if you try anything.”

  Dienwald looked beyond her, his eyes widening. He shook his head, and Philippa snapped about to see what or who was behind her. In the next instant, she was flung over his shoulder, head down, her hair nearly trailing the ground as she yelled and screeched like hens caught in a rainstorm.

  He laughed, and strode back toward the great hall. He took the solar stairs, aware that all his people were watching and talking about them and laughing, and the men, ah, they were shouting the most explicit and wondrous advice to him.

  When he reached the solar he tossed her on her back onto his bed. “Now,” he said. “Now.”

  “Now what?”

  “I suppose you expect me to give you wages?”

  She stared at him, her brain fuzzy from hanging upside down.

  “Well?”

  “Wages for what?”

  “For being my steward, of course. Have you no brain, wench?” Suddenly he smacked his palm to his forehead. “I cannot believe what I’m saying. A female who has so little sense that she escapes in a gown reeking of a moat in a wagon of wool. And this female wants to control all that happens at St. Erth.”

  “My father trusted me.” Philippa came up onto her elbows. She looked wistfully toward the empty chamber pot on the floor beside the bed. Old Agnes had seen that it was mended.

  Dienwald said absently, “Don’t do it, wench, else you’ll regret it. Now, just be quiet. I must think.”

  “The pain it must cause you!”

  He ignored her remark, saying finally, “I suppose you will demand to sleep in the steward’s chamber as well as do the work there.”

  “Aye, of course. Certainly. To be free of you is—”

  He grabbed her arms and kissed her hard. She didn’t fight him. It didn’t occur to her to do anything but ask him to kiss her again.

  “Did you not beg me last night, wench?” he said when he raised his head. “Beg me to take you? You wanted me to relieve you of your maidenhead, didn’t you? Well, sleep in your cold bed by yourself. You’ll miss me, you’ll want my hands and mouth on you, you know it. But enough. I won’t miss you. I will sleep sweetly as a babe. Now, straighten yourself and sew yourself something to wear. I can’t abide the way you look.” He dropped her back onto the bed and strode from his bedchamber.

  Nearly an hour later, her hair combed and fastened at the nape of her neck with a piece of cloth, bathed and sweet-smelling, Philippa visited the steward’s chamber—now her chamber, she amended to herself. She arranged papers and moved the table some inches to the right. She asked Margot to bring fresh rushes for the floor, then returned to Dienwald’s bedchamber. He was in bed, asleep, snoring loudly. On the floor beside the bed were her blood-stained clothes. She’d looked at them briefly, hoping they could be saved, but saw now that it was impossible.

  Then she looked at Dienwald. He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging over the side of the bed. Clutched in his hand was the nearly finished tunic she’d sewn for him. Philippa slowly eased it out of his fingers and shook out the wrinkles.

  “I should burn it,” she said, and left the chamber, needle and thread in her other hand.

  Crandall Keep, near Badger’s Cross,

  Cornwall

  Lord Henry wiped his hand across his sweating brow and listened to his destrier blow loudly. The trip had been long and hot and wet and altogether miserable. Three days to get to this damned keep, and what if he were wrong? What if Philippa hadn’t run here to her cousin? He took a deep drink from the water skin and handed it back to his servant. His men had just spotted Crandall Keep, where his nephew Sir Walter de Grasse was castellan. All appeared calm. Lord Henry
motioned his men forward again.

  Crandall was a prosperous keep, he saw, noting the green fields that surrounded the low thick walls. But its defenses were meager, the reason being that Crandall paid obeisance to Lord Graelam de Moreton of Wolffeton. An attack on Crandall would mean swift and awful retribution from Lord Graelam.

  Philippa had to be here, she simply had to be. Lord Henry wiped his brow again. There was no other place for her to escape to. She was either here or she was dead. His farmers had been found dead, all the wool wagons disappeared, the guards gone—fled or dead, he didn’t know. No sign of his daughter. He’d put off Burnell, the king’s tenacious chancellor and secretary, but the man wasn’t stupid and would want to see Philippa. He would want to give a personal report to the king. He would want to tell Lord Henry the name of the man the king had selected to be Philippa’s husband. Lord Henry raised his eyes to the heavens. Philippa had to be here with her cousin, she had to be.

  Sir Walter de Grasse was playing draughts in the hall with his mistress, Britta. She knew the game well, as well as she knew him. She always managed to lose just when he became frustrated, a ploy that pleased Sir Walter. He was informed that his uncle, Lord Henry de Beauchamp, was approaching Crandall. What was his uncle doing here? He thanked the powers that he’d returned two days before from the raid on the southern lands of that whoreson Dienwald de Fortenberry. He’d lost three men, curse the luck. But he’d burned the crops and razed peasants’ huts and killed the villeins. All in all it had been worth the price the three men had paid. De Fortenberry must be grinding his teeth by now. The bastard was helpless; he would know who was behind the attack. Oh, he could guess, but Lord Graelam wouldn’t act against him, Walter, unless there was proof, and Walter was too smart for that. Luckily the three men had died before Dienwald could question them.

  Sir Walter frowned and lightly patted Britta’s cheek in dismissal. She removed the draught board and herself, giving him a look over her shoulder designed to excite him. Walter frowned after her. He wished he’d had some warning of his uncle’s visit. The keep could be in better condition, fresh rushes strewn on the floor and the like, but it was well enough. It wasn’t his overlord, Lord Graelam, thank the saints.

  The two men greeted each other. Lord Henry had never been particularly fond of his wife’s nephew. Walter was thin and tall and his nose was very long and narrow. His eyes were shrewd and cold and he had no sense of humor. He hated well, but to Lord Henry’s knowledge, he’d never loved well.

  As for Walter, he thought his uncle by marriage a fat buffoon with more wealth than he deserved. He should have been Lord Henry’s heir, but there were the two stupid girls instead. When they were finally alone, Lord Henry wasted no more time. “Your cousin Philippa has run away from Beauchamp. Is she here?”

  Now, this was a surprise, Walter thought, staring at his uncle. Slowly he shook his head. “Nay, I haven’t seen Philippa since she was a gangly girl with hair hanging to her knees.”

  “She’s no longer gangly. She’s nearly eighteen, long since ready to be wedded.”

  Suddenly, to Walter’s surprise, Lord Henry lowered his face into his hands and began to sob. Not knowing what to do, Walter merely stared at his uncle’s bowed head, saying nothing.

  “I fear she’s dead,” Lord Henry said once he’d regained control.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Lord Henry saw no reason not to tell Walter the entire truth. After all, it hardly mattered now. He spoke slowly, sorrow filling his voice.

  “She’s what?”

  “I said that Philippa is the king’s illegitimate daughter. He is at this moment selecting a husband for her.”

  Walter could only stare. Damn! What had happened to the girl?

  Lord Henry soon enlightened him about the rest of it.

  “I know not who killed the farmers or who stole the wool, but Philippa is now likely as dead as the farmers.”

  Lord Henry wiped his eyes. His sweet Philippa, his stubborn-as-a-mule Philippa. Dead. He couldn’t bear it. He’d lost a daughter, a steward, and, most terrifying, he’d lost the king’s illegitimate progeny. It wasn’t to be borne.

  “I shouldn’t be too certain, Uncle,” Walter said, stroking his rather pointed chin gently. “I hear things, you know. I can find out things too. Return to Beauchamp and let me try to discover what happened to my dear little cousin. I will send you word immediately, of course, if I find her.”

  Lord Henry left Crandall the following day, Sir Walter’s assurances ringing hollow in his ears. Walter had already dispatched men to scout out information. Empty words, Lord Henry thought, but they had lightened his burden, if just for a little while.

  As for Sir Walter, he was rubbing his hands together by the following afternoon. The cistern keeper of St. Erth had escaped to Crandall, arriving just that morning with news that Walter’s steward, Alain, was dead, unmasked by a big female with lavish tits and bountiful hair whose name was Philippa. Walter nearly swallowed his tongue when he realized how very close Philippa had been to dying by the steward’s order.

  Now he knew where his dear cousin was, his dearest cousin, the girl he would wed as soon as he got his hands on her. Oh, aye, she’d want him. After all, in all likelihood she’d been on her way to him when she’d been captured by that miserable Dienwald de Fortenberry. Walter could just imagine how Dienwald had treated the gently bred girl—ravishing her, humiliating her, shaming her . . . But why and how had she uncovered the steward’s perfidy if she’d been thus shamed?

  It didn’t matter. The cistern keeper had probably confused things. Walter would marry the king’s illegitimate daughter. She was his gift horse and he would have her. He prayed she wasn’t carrying de Fortenberry’s bastard in her womb. Perhaps he could rid her of the brat—if there was one—when he got his hands on her.

  Walter sighed with the pleasure of his contemplations. At last he would be somebody to reckon with. He would starve out de Fortenberry and have him torn limb from limb. He would regain St. Erth, the inheritance he should have had, the inheritance his father had lost to Dienwald’s father so many years before. He would spit on Lord Graelam—behind his back, of course—and leave this pigsty Crandall. He would be overlord of all Cornwall and Lord Graelam would be his vassal, with his father-in-law’s agreement and assistance. He would almost be a royal duke! He would then look south to Brittany. Aye, his grandfather had held lands there, now stolen away by that whoreson de Bracy of Brittany. Aye, with the king’s help, with the king’s money, with the king’s men, he would take back what was his, all of what should have been his in the first place. And he could add to it if he were wily and cunning.

  Sir Walter hummed as he made his plans. He wondered briefly what Philippa looked like. If she were a true Plantagenet, he thought, she must be beautiful. The cistern keeper spoke of her tits and hair. What color? he wondered. He liked big breasts on a woman. He couldn’t let himself forget, though, that she was a bastard, after all, and thus tainted, despite her royal blood. He wouldn’t forget that, nor would he allow her to forget it. Aye, she would welcome him, her dear cousin. After her doubtless brutal treatment at de Fortenberry’s hands, she’d come leaping into his waiting arms.

  St. Erth Castle

  Philippa sat in the steward’s chamber, her head bowed, entering inventories of the crops in a ledger. Her back hurt from sitting so long, but there was much to be done, much to be corrected and adjusted. Alain had created fiction, and it must be set aright, and quickly.

  Dienwald’s new tunic of deep blue, so soft that it slithered over the flesh, was finished and lay spread smooth over the back of the only other chair in the small chamber. She was a fine needlewoman, and the thread, thankfully, was stout.

  She looked up then and smiled upon the tunic. He would look very nice wearing it, very nice indeed, fit to meet the king thus garbed. She hoped she’d made the shoulders big enough and tapered the waist inward enough, for he was lean. She hoped he thought the color nice and
. . .

  She stopped herself in mid-thought. Here she was thinking like the mistress of St. Erth again. As if this were her home, as if this were where she belonged. She’d entertained no thought of escape in more hours than she cared to reckon.

  She laid down the quill and slowly rose, pushing back from the table. She was nothing more than his servant. For the past two days she’d worked endless hours in this small airless chamber, and for what?

  For the joy of wearing an ill-fitting gown belonging to his long-dead first wife? For the joy of helping him, the man who’d lain atop of her, his finger easing into her body, making her hot and frantic and . . .

  “Stop it, you stupid wench!”

  “I thought your name was Philippa.”

  She could have gladly removed her own tongue at that moment. Dienwald stood in the doorway, amusement lighting his eyes.

  “ ‘Twas a private exhortation,” she said. “It had naught to do with you.”

  “As you will, wench. How goes the work?” He waved toward the stacks of foolscap on the table.

  “It is an abominable mess.”

  “I imagined as much.”

  “You do not read,” she said, and unknowingly, her voice softened just a bit.

  “Nay, not very much. ‘Twas not deemed important by my sire. Few read or cipher—you know that. Why ask you?”

  She shrugged. “I merely wondered. You insist upon Edmund’s learning from Father Cramdle.”

  “Aye. The world changes, and men must change with it. It is something Edmund must know if he is to make his way.”

  Philippa had seen no sign of change in her brief lifetime, but she didn’t disagree. She realized belatedly that she was staring at him, hunger in her look, and that he was already aware of it.