Philippa wasn’t in the right wagon. She was in one of the stolen wagons and she had no idea where she was going. For that matter, when the farmers returned to Beauchamp they wouldn’t have any idea who’d attacked them.
Dienwald sat back on his destrier, Philbo, and looked upon the two wagons filled with fine raw wool, now his. He rubbed his hands together, then patted Philbo’s neck. The guards had fled into Treywen Forest. They would be fools to ride back to Beauchamp. If they did, Lord Henry would have their ears cut off for cowardice. Other parts of their anatomy would doubtless follow the ears. The farmers would travel to St. Ives. He knew their sort. Greedy but not stupid, and liars of superb ability when their lives were at stake. He imagined them playing the terrified and guiltless victims very well. He imagined them carrying on about this monster at least seven feet tall whose face was nearly purple with scars, who’d threatened to eat them and spit them out in the dirt. And they wouldn’t be far off the mark. That was the beauty of Gorkel; he hadn’t said a word to the terrified peasants; he didn’t have to. Perhaps Lord Henry would even let them keep the proceeds from the sale of their wool—well, not all, but enough for their efforts. And St. Erth now had enough wool for Old Agnes to weave her gnarly fingers to the bone; and in addition, he had two new horses. Not that the nags were anything wonderful, but they were free, and that made them special. It wasn’t a bad outcome. Dienwald was content with his day’s work. He would remember to give Crooky an extra tunic for his information.
“Don’t dawdle,” he called out. “To St. Erth! I want to reach home before nightfall.”
“Aye, my lord,” Eldwin called out, and the wagon lurched and careened wildly as the poor nag broke into a shuffling canter. Philippa fell back, bringing piles of the filthy wool over her face. She couldn’t breathe anything save her own stench until she managed to burrow another breathing hole. Where was St. Erth? She’d heard of the place but didn’t know its location. Then her stomach soured and she thought only to keep herself from retching. The nausea overpowered her and she clawed through the layers of wool until her head was clear and the hot sun was searing her face from overhead.
Philippa kept drawing deep gulping breaths, and when her stomach eased, she grew brave enough to look around. The man driving the wagon had his back to her. She craned her neck and saw the other wagon ahead, and beyond the first wagon rode six men. All were facing away from her. Which one was the leader, the lord? They were all poorly garbed, which was odd, but their horses seemed well-fed and well-muscled. Philippa, her stomach snarling even more loudly, tried to ignore it and take stock of her surroundings. She had no idea where she was. Gnarled oak trees, older than the Celtic witches, grew in clumps on either side of the pitted dirt road. She fancied she would get an occasional sniff of the sea from the north. Mayhap they were traveling directly toward St. Ives. Mayhap all was not lost.
Philippa continued thinking optimistically for another hour. They passed through two small villages—clumped-together huts, really, nothing more. Then she saw a castle loom up before them. Set on a high rocky hill, stunted pine trees clustered about its base, was a large Norman-style castle. Its walls were crenellated and there were arrow loops, narrow windows in the four thin towers and walls at least eight feet thick. It was gray and cold, an excellent fortress that looked like it would stand for a thousand years. It stood guard like a grim sentinel over mile upon mile of countryside in all directions. As the wagons drew nearer, Philippa saw there was no moat, since the castle was elevated, but there was a series of obstacles—rusted pikes buried in the ground at irregular intervals, their sharp teeth at a level to rip open a horse’s belly or a man’s throat if he fell on them. Then came the holes covered with grass and reeds, holding, she imagined, vertical spears. The wagons negotiated the obstacles without hesitation or difficulty.
Philippa heard a loud creaking sound and saw twenty-foot gates made of thick oak slowly part to reveal a narrow inner passage some thirty feet long, with withdrawn iron teeth of a portcullis ready to be lowered onto an enemy. The wagons rolled into an inner ward filled with men, women, children, and animals. It was pandemonium, with everyone talking at once, children shrieking, pigs squealing, chickens squawking. There were more people and animals here than in the inner ward at Beauchamp, and Beauchamp was twice as big. Even the chickens sounded demented.
Philippa barely had time to duck under the wool again before the wagons were surrounded by dozens of people cheering and shouting congratulations. She heard the thick outer gates grind close again, and it seemed a great distance away.
Philippa felt her first complete shock of fear. Her optimism crumbled. She’d done it this time. She’d truly acted with her feet and not with her brain. She’d jumped into a slimy moat and then into a wagon of filthy raw wool. And now she was alone at a stranger’s castle—a prisoner, or worse. She was so hungry she w
as ready to gnaw at her fingers.
The wagon lurched to a sudden jolting halt. Dozens of hands rocked the wagon. Philippa felt them grabbing at the wool, felt their hands sifting through the layers, nearer and nearer to where she was buried.
Then she heard the leader’s voice, closer now, saying something about Gorkel the Hideous and his magnificent visage, and then her stomach announced its rebellion in no uncertain terms and she fought her way up through the wool until she flew out the top, gasping, gulping the clean air.
“God’s glory,” Dienwald said, and stared.
A little boy bellowed, “What is it, Papa? A witch? A druid ghost? Thass hideous!”
Gorkel shuddered at the apparition and yelled, “ ‘Tis more hideous than I! God gi’ us his mercy! Deliver us from this snare of the devil’s!”
Dienwald continued to stare at the daunting creature lurching about, its arms flapping, trying to keep its balance in the shifting wool. The creature was tall, that much was obvious, its head covered with wool, thick and wild and sticking straight out. Then the great wigged hag gained its footing and turned toward him downwind, and he gagged. The noxious odor surpassed that of his many villeins who didn’t bathe from their birth until their death.
The creature suddenly began to shake itself, jerking away clumps of wool with its grubby fingers, until its face was cleared and he saw it was a female sort of creature staring back at him with frightened eyes as blue as the April sky that was just beginning to mellow into late afternoon.
His people were as silent as mourners at a pope’s tomb—an achievement even St. Erth’s priest, Cramdle, had never accomplished in his holiest of moments—all of them staring gape-mouthed and bug-eyed. Then slowly they began to speak in frightened whispers. “Aye, Master Edmund has the right of it: thass a witch from the swamp.”
“ ‘Tis most likely a crone tossed out for thievery!”
“Nay, ’tis as Gorkel says: thass not human, thass an evil monster, a punishment from the devil.”
Edmund yelled, “ ’Tis a witch, Papa, and she’s here to curse us!”
“Be quiet,” Dienwald told his son and his people. He dug his heels gently into Philbo’s sleek sides. He got within five feet of the ghastly female and could not bear to bring himself closer. He fought the urge to hold his nose.
“I’m no witch!” the female shouted in a clear loud voice.
“Then who are you?” Dienwald asked.
Philippa turned to stare at the man. She wasn’t blind. She saw the distaste on his face, and in truth, she couldn’t blame him. She touched her fingers to her hair and found that her cap was long gone and the thick curls had worked free of the braid and were covered with slime from the Beauchamp moat and crowned with clumps of the squalid wool. She could just imagine what she looked like. She felt totally miserable. People were making the sign of the cross as they stared at her, horror and revulsion on their faces, calling upon a dizzying array of saints to protect them.
And she was Philippa de Beauchamp, such a wondrous and beauteous girl that Ivo de Vescy had tried to force her so she would wed him. It was too much. By all the saints, even William de Bridgport wouldn’t want her now. She imagined herself standing before him covered with slime and wool, her smell overwhelming. Surely he would shriek like the little boy had. She pictured de Bridgport turning and running, his fat stomach bouncing up and down. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed.
“I am in obvious disarray, sirrah. Forgive me, but if you would allow me to quit your very nice castle, I will be on my way and you won’t have to bear my noxious smell or my company further.”
“Don’t move,” Dienwald said, raising his hand as she moved to climb over the side of the wagon. “Now, answer me. Who are you?”
It was the man with the mean deep voice, and her brief bout of laughter died a quick death. She was in a very dangerous situation. It didn’t occur to her to lie. She was of high birth. No one with any chivalry would hurt a lady of high birth. She threw back her wild bushy head, straightened her shoulders, and shouted, “I am Philippa de Beauchamp, daughter of Lord Henry de Beauchamp.”
“A witch! A lying crone!”