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.