The next morning, Dienwald wasn’t grinning. His weaver, Prink, was very seriously ill with the ague, and much of the wool had already been cleaned and prepared and spun ready for weaving. Dienwald stomped about, cursing, until Old Agnes plucked at his worn sleeve.
“Master, listen. What of the fine young lady ye’ve tied to yer bed, eh? Be she really a lady or jest enouther of yer trollops?”
Dienwald ceased his ranting. He’d left Philippa asleep, but he’d untied her wrists, frowning at himself as he brought her arms down to her sides and rubbed the feeling back into her wrists. She’d never even moved. He imagined her bottom was still soft and white, without the mark of his palm, whereas his head ached abominably from her blow with the chamber pot.
“You mean, old hag, that she could weave, mayhap? Direct the women, instruct them?”
Old Agnes nodded wisely. “Aye, master, she looks a good girl. Thass what I mean.”
Dienwald remembered Philippa’s words about her household instruction. He took the solar stairs two at a time. When he opened his bedchamber door it was to see Philippa standing in the middle of the room staring around her.
“What’s the matter?”
She pointed toward the corner of the bedchamber. “The chamber pot. I broke it when I struck your head with it. I need to . . .” She winced, then burst out, “I must relieve myself! You locked me in and—”
His only chamber pot, and she’d destroyed it. “Satan’s earlobes! Get you here, wench.” He directed her to a much smaller chamber, waving her inside. “ ’Tis Edmund’s room. Use his pot, then come down to the hall. ’Tis not a lovely hand-painted pot, merely a pottery pot, but it will do. After this, use the jakes. They’re in the north tower; you won’t get lost, you’ll smell them. Don’t tarry.”
Why did he want her in the great hall? She dreaded it, knowing there would be snickering servants looking at her and knowing that she was now their master’s mistress. When he’d burst into the chamber she’d momentarily forgotten what he’d done to her the previous night—smacking her, toying with her, stripping her, looking at her. She didn’t understand him and was both relieved and afraid because she didn’t. It was a good thing that she wasn’t to his liking; otherwise she would no longer be a maid and no longer worth much to her father. That thought brought forth the vision of William de Bridgport, and she prayed that all her maneuvers and ill-fated stratagems wouldn’t lead to marriage to him. When she left Edmund’s small chamber and made her way down the outside solar stairs, her ears were nearly overcome by the noise. There were men and women and children and animals everywhere. All were shouting and squawking and carrying on. It seemed louder than the day before; it was, oddly, comforting.
“Come wi’ me, lady.”
She turned to see Gorkel the Hideous, the fiercest-looking and ugliest man she’d ever beheld, obviously waiting for her. Odd, though, he didn’t seem quite so gruesome of mien as he had yesterday.
“I’m Gorkel, iffen ye remember. Come wi’ me. The master wants ye.”
She nodded, wishing she had shoes on her feet and cloth covering her naked right arm. She’d combed her fingers through her hair, but she had no idea of the result. Gorkel could have told her that she was as delicious a morsel as a man could pray for, if she’d asked. The master was lucky, he was, and about time, too. A hard winter, but they’d outlasted it, and now it was spring and there was wool and the master had this lovely girl to share his bed. Gorkel left her at the entrance to the great hall, his task completed.
Dienwald saw Philippa, nodded briefly in her direction, and went back to his conversation with Alain, his steward. The man who’d given her dirty looks the evening before. He looked at her now, and there was contemptuous dismissal in his eyes.
Philippa waited patiently, although her stomach was growling with hunger.
It was as if Dienwald had heard her. “Eat,” he called out, waving toward the trestle table. “Margot, fetch her milk and bread and cheese.”
Philippa ate. She wondered what was going on between Dienwald and the steward Alain. They seemed to be arguing. As she studied the master of St. Erth, she wondered at herself and her reaction to him. She felt no particular embarrassment upon seeing him this morning. In fact, truth be told, she’d rather been looking forward to seeing him again, to crossing verbal swords with him again. She felt a tug on her one sleeve and turned to see the serving maid, Margot, looking at her with worry.
She lifted an eyebrow.
“ ‘Tis the master,” Margot said as low as she could.
“He’s a lout,” Philippa said, and took a big bite of goat cheese.
“Mayhap,” Dienwald said agreeably, dismissing Margot with a wave of his hand. “But I’m the lout who’s in charge of you, wench.”
That was true, but it didn’t frighten her. He hadn’t ravished h
er last night, and he could have. She’d been completely helpless. She thrust her chin two inches into the air and fetched forth her most goading look. “Why do you want me here?”
Dienwald sat in his chair, noted her look, sprawled out to take his ease, and watched her eat, saying nothing for some time.
“You told me your mother taught you household matters. Is this true?”
“Certainly. I’m not a liar. Well, not usually.”
Dienwald had a flash of memory of another lady speaking to him candidly, without guile. Kassia. That was absurd. This girl was no more like the gentle, loyal Kassia de Moreton than was a thorn on an apple tree.
“Can you weave?”
Philippa very nearly choked on the cheese in her mouth. No ravisher or ravening beast here. “You want me to weave my father’s wool that you stole?”