“It’ll be sharper if you don’t attend me.”
“Oh, aye, I’m whetted.”
Ten minutes later Philippa left the fool to resume his sleep. He’d given her more food for thought than she wished to consume. The greatest shock of all was the fact that the Lord of St. Erth could make out written words, but only slowly and with difficulty. He could write only his name and cipher only the most simple of problems. Not that all that many men could, and no more than a handful of women. She was foolish to be so surprised. She’d just thought that Dienwald, who, despite his stubbornness, his arrogance, was intelligent and seemingly learned . . . No wonder he was firm about Edmund’s lessons with Father Cramdle. He knew it was important; he felt the lack in himself.
Philippa was very angry. She also realized when she saw Alain ride back into the inner bailey that she had less than no power at all. She was a prisoner, not the mistress of St. Erth.
She had to bide her time.
Unfortunately, Alain sought her out at the evening meal. He, she quickly discovered, played the master in Dienwald’s absence, with Dienwald’s permission, evidently. She knew she must tread warily. He sat beside her in the master’s high-backed chair, ignored her for a good long while, then turned and gave her a leer a man would give a worn-out trollop of no account at all. She said nothing, didn’t change her expression, merely sank her white teeth into a piece of pigeon pie, a delicious concoction that included carrots and turnips and potatoes.
“I see you stole the dead mistress’s clothes.”
So, Philippa thought, the steward wanted to bait her. He couldn’t keep his dislike of her to himself. He really wasn’t very good at the game. Not nearly so accomplished as his master. She smiled. “Do you see that, really? I’d thought you here only three years, Master Alain. The mistress, I’d heard, died shortly after Edmund’s birth.”
His right hand crushed a piece of bread. “Don’t think you to insult me, whore. Dienwald will plow your belly, but he will show you no favors. You are but one of many, as I told you before. He will toss you to his men when he’s through with you. You look a fool in the gown—’tis far too small for you. Your breasts look absurd, flattened like that. And your legs stick out like two poles, it is so short.”
“ ‘Tis better than wearing nothing.”
“Aye, all of us saw him rip your clothing off you, then carry you to his bed. You must have angered him mightily. Did he ravish you until you screamed? Or did you enjoy his plunging member inside you?”
“Nay,” Philippa replied, as if considering the matter.
Alain laughed, sopped up some gravy from his trencher with the large piece of bread he’d crushed in his hand, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“You really don’t look good in his chair,” Philippa said, looking at his bulging cheeks. “It is too large for you, too substantial, too important. Or perhaps ‘tis you who are just too meager, too paltry, for Dienwald’s place.” She thought he would spit out the bread in his anger at her, but he managed to keep chewing and swallow.
It was then she saw the shift in his expression. He’d realized that what he was doing wouldn’t get him what he wanted. He was prepared to retrench. She waited. “We argue to no account,” he said finally, and he sounded the reasonable man, not the furious brute who wanted to strike her. “Truly, Philippa de Beauchamp, you must leave St. Erth while there is still time. I will help you return to your father. You must go before Dienwald returns.”
He wanted her gone, and very badly. Why? She was a threat to him now that she knew him for a thief, but he couldn’t know that she’d discovered the truth about him. Why, then? “I’ve a notion to stay here and wed the Lord of St. Erth. He is a man of worth, and comely. What think you, steward?” The moment the words were out, Philippa was appalled at herself. But she wouldn’t take them back. She watched, fascinated, as his face mottled with rage—and something else, something sly and frightening. His hand shook.
“I’ll have you whipped, whore,” he said very quietly. “I’ve a fancy to wield the whip myself. God, how I’d enjoy it. I’d see those breasts of yours heave up and down when you scream and try to escape the whip, and I’d mark that back of yours with bloody welts.”
Edmund suddenly slipped out of his place at the trestle table and quickly moved to her side even as Philippa said, “No you won’t, Master Alain. You have no power here either. If Dienwald only knew that you—” She bit her lower lip until she felt the sting of her own blood. She’d very nearly spit at him that he was a liar and a thief and a scoundrel and probably even worse.
At that moment Crooky rose from the floor beside Alain’s chair and moved to stand on Philippa’s other side. He yawned deeply, stared blankly at the steward, then sprawled back onto the rushes.
Alain didn’t look pleased. He eyed Edmund, who looked for all the world like a mangy little gamecock. “The boy can’t protect you, whore, nor can the fool, who’s an idiot, a half-wit. He’s naught of anything, and Dienwald keeps him here only because he finds it amusing to endure him. Now, what were you going to say, whore? You were going to accuse me of something? Make up lies about me?”
“My name is Philippa de Beauchamp. I am a lady. You’re naught but offal.”
“You’re no more a lady than the fool is a poet. You’re a silly vain trollop.” Without warning, the steward raised his hand and struck her hard across the face. Her head snapped back from the force of it and she felt tears burn her eyes. Oddly, she noticed ink stains on his fingers, and wondered when he’d last bathed.
“Damned slut!” He raised his hand to strike her again, but suddenly, to Philippa’s bewilderment, his chair began to shake, tip backward, then go crashing to the floor, the steward with it, landing on his back, his head striking the carved chair back.
Philippa, her hand pressed to her flaming cheek, could only stare at the fallen steward. Edmund stood over him, rubbing his hands together and crowing with laughter. The hall had fallen silent.
Alain scrambled to his feet, his face blotchy with rage, his thin body trembling. He waved his fists toward Edmund, yelling, “You damned little cockscomb! I’ll hide you for that!”
Philippa was out of her chair and standing in front of Edmund in a flash. “You touch the boy and I’ll kill you. Doubt me not.”
The steward drew up short, looking at the woman who was at eye level with him. She was strong, but she wasn’t strong enough to do him damage. Her words meant nothing; she’d cringe away at the first threat of violence, like every other woman he’d known. He wanted to spit on her, he wanted to wring her neck. No, he had to keep control. “Stand aside, whore.”
He raised his hand when Philippa didn’t move. There came a deep grumbling sound from behind the steward. Slowly, very slowly, Alain lowered his arm, turning toward the sound as he did so. Philippa stared at Gorkel the Hideous. He was the most terrifying sight she’d ever seen. His bony face, with its pocked surface and puckered scars, its stubbled jaw and thick beetle eyebrows that met over his nose, looked like a vision from hell. And there was that low growl coming from his throat, like an animal warning its prey.
“Get ye
gone, little man,” Gorkel said finally, and his lips barely opened.