Walter chewed thoughtfully on mashed chestnuts encrusted with boiled sugar, his favorite dish. Philippa wasn’t what he’d expected. He saw flashes of contradiction in her, and although they surprised him, they didn’t worry him unduly. Despite her hardy size, he could control her easily should the need arise. He would wed her by the end of the week. He had the time; he could afford to go gently with her, to bend her slowly to his will. Three days was enough time to bend the most rebellious woman to his will. He thought now that he could tell her some of the truth. Perhaps it would make her trust him all the more quickly, and it didn’t really matter one way or the other to him.
“Your father was here, Philippa,” he said, and watched her twist in her chair, her expression stunned. “He thought perhaps you had come to me when you escaped in the wool wagons, as you would have if that bastard hadn’t captured you and taken you to St. Erth.
“At the time of Lord Henry’s visit, I didn’t know where you were. Lord Henry told me, Philippa, that he’d promised you to William de Bridgport in marriage. He was most adamant about it, even when I argued with him. I could not, nay, still cannot, imagine you wedded to that testy old lecher. But Lord Henry needs the coin de Bridgport will pay for you. You see, Philippa, as much as it hurts me to wound you, you must know the truth. Lord Henry holds his possessions more dear than he ever held you.”
Philippa could only shake her head. So her father had come here. She’d shown surprise to Walter, guessing it was the correct response, but she’d already guessed her father’s presence. Her insides felt cold and cramped. She wanted to scream that her father couldn’t have told Walter that, he couldn’t have, it wasn’t true.
But it was true. Philippa had overheard him say it himself. It wasn’t Walter’s fault.
“You must still send a messenger to my father to tell him I am here. I would not wish you to be my father’s enemy.”
Walter started to shake his head, then thought better of it. He’d just been offered his best opportunity. “I think we still have some time, sweetling, before I do that. Three days, perhaps four.” He saw her revulsion, her fear, and he moved swiftly to take advantage of it. He gently took her hand in his. There were calluses on the pads of her fingers, attesting to the labors Dienwald had forced her to, the mangy scoundrel. He felt her tense, but she didn’t pull away. “Listen, Philippa,” he said, his voice low and soft, “if you wed me, there is naught Lord Henry can do. You cannot be forced to wed de Bridgport. You will be safe as my wife, you will be secure. No one—not even the king himself—could take you from me.”
There it was, Philippa thought, staring at her cousin. He wanted to marry her, but it made no sense. He believed her already ravished by Dienwald, so he couldn’t expect a virgin’s blood on the wedding sheets. More important, there was no coin forthcoming from her father. What was going on? She must continue her deceit until she discovered his plot. She kept her head modestly lowered and let her fingers rest against his.
“You offer me much, Walter, more than I deserve. You must allow me time to compose my thoughts. All this comes as a surprise, and my thoughts have gone awry.” She raised her head and saw the frown of impatience in his eyes. She added quickly, “I am slow of reason, Walter, being but a woman, and your generosity, though a gift from God, leaves me tongue-tied, but just for a brief time. Until tomorrow, dear cousin—then I will speak to you of my feelings.”
He gave her a grave nod and squeezed her fingers again before releasing her hand. Her tongue was smooth, her words gently flowing, respectful, filled with deference, but something bothered him. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t asked of their close kinship, thus requiring special permission by the church. But she was but a woman and probably ignorant of such things. Aye, just a woman, but she could read and write and cipher. He didn’t wish to tell her that he shared not one drop of her blood, that he knew her conceived of another man’s seed, a seed most royal, but he wasn’t at all certain of her reaction. No, he must hold his tongue. She was biddable, soft and comely, and she was endowed with beauty aplenty. She was too tall for his taste, but then again, there was Britta, hidden away now, but waiting for him, and he would continue with her when it pleased him to do so. Tonight, he thought, his loins tightening at the thought of her. He gave a small shudder. Were it not for Philippa, he would leave this instant and go to Britta. He saw that Philippa was looking about the hall, and said, “What troubles you, sweet cousin?”
“Naught, ‘tis just that I see not the boy, Walter. Although I do not hold him dear, I have a responsibility for him, since he was with me when you rescued me. Have you yet sent a demand of ransom to Dienwald?”
Walter shook his head. He wouldn’t send anything to anyone until he was her husband. Not even to his overlord, Graelam de Moreton. “The whelp keeps company with my stable lads. I do him a good service. ‘Twill humble him to see how those beneath him live, and make him more stouthearted. He will learn what it is like to serve.”
At least he wasn’t locked away somewhere in the keep, but she worried that the villeins would abuse him. She said nothing, merely forced herself to eat another bite of the cabbage. It needed some of the wild thyme she’d just planted in her garden at St. Erth. Her garden. Philippa wanted to cry, odd in itself, but it was true: St. Erth had become home to her in a very short length of time and its master had become the man she wanted. But he didn’t want her, had never lied about it, had even kept his manhood out of her body because he feared having to keep her, having to take her to wive because she was too wellborn to use at his whim.
She pushed Dienwald and his perversity from her mind. She had to escape Walter, and she had to take Edmund with her. She had not many more days before Walter pushed her into wedlock. She doubted not that he would bed her to force her hand. She was sleeping by herself in a tiny chamber off the great hall, a chamber, from the smell of it, that had held winter grain but days before her arrival. It was airless, but she didn’t mind; the stuffiness kept her awake, and that allowed her to think. And she thought of St.
Erth and its master and wondered if he were close even now. But she knew she couldn’t simply wait for Dienwald to do something; she had to act to save herself and Edmund.
Walter kept her with him that evening, playing draughts, and when she won, forgetting that she was but a woman and thus inferior to male stratagems, he was sharp with her.
“You were lucky,” he said, his voice edged with anger. “I allowed you too much time with your moves because of your sex. You deceived me, cousin, but . . .” He paused, and the light changed in his eyes. He shook his head, wagging a playful finger in her face. “Ah, Philippa, you won because of your sweet nature and your softness. You took me in with your gentle presence, your glorious eyes. You see me slain at your dainty feet. All my thoughts were perforce of you, my dearest. Would you sleep now, sweetling?”
He wasn’t stupid, Philippa thought as she rose from her chair. He’d been furious because she’d beaten him, but quickly adjusted himself to a more favorable position in her eyes. He was still her gallant suitor. But for how much longer? She shuddered as she walked beside him to the small room. Before he left her, he grasped her upper arms and pulled her against him. “Beautiful cousin,” he said, and kissed her ear because she jerked her head to one side. It was a mistake. She felt his fingers dig into her flesh, heard his breath sharpen with anger.
“Please, Walter,” she said softly, “I wish . . .” Words failed her. She wanted to scream at him to remove his slimy person.
He drew a false conclusion. “Ah, ‘tis because he abused you, because he forced you. I won’t hurt you, cousin, never will I touch you amiss. I will always be your gentle master. You must trust me, and I will make you forget the knave’s violence toward you.” He leaned down and lightly touched his mouth to her forehead and released her arms. “Sleep well, my heart.”
Philippa nodded, her head down, but she couldn’t prevent the words that came spilling from her mouth. “Walter, you know me so little. You met me only as a child. Why do you wish to wed with me? You know I am no longer a maid. You know that my father will not dower me. Tell me, dear cousin, tell me why you so wish me as your wife.”
She raised her head and knew that she’d again jumped with her feet; she hadn’t thought. What if he turned on her, what if . . . . ? She waited, tense and still, hoping he would speak, yet fearful that he would simply rant at her and perhaps beat her with that whip of his.
Walter found himself at something of an impasse. Again he saw the contradiction in her. She was but a woman, full of softness and gentle smiles, and here she was questioning him, but, ah, so sweetly she questioned. He’d thought to slap her hard to show her that he wouldn’t always tolerate inquiries from her, but now he thought better of it. That was doubtless how Dienwald had treated her. Aye, Dienwald had been violent and rough with her. Walter must prove to her that he was different. He would resort to more straightforward methods only if she pushed him to them.
“I have loved you since I first saw you five years ago, Philippa. I spoke to Lord Henry then, but he only shook his head and laughed and called me fool. I have corresponded with him over the years, but had almost admitted failure of my hopes when he came to me and admitted that you’d fled to escape the marriage with de Bridgport. I am a simple man, Philippa, with simple needs and only one desire that burns in my life, and that is you, to earn you for my wife.”
“But I am used,” she said, and looked at him straightly, wishing she could tell him his memory was faulty. He’d last seen her more than five years before. “He debauched me again and again. He used me unnaturally.”
If only Dienwald had done a bit more debauching than he had, she thought now, watching Walter. He wasn’t stupid, this cousin of hers, so when he leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth, she wasn’t overly surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised. “It matters not to me,” he said in a richly sincere voice. He turned and left her, locking the door behind him.
“But you must needs lock me in,” she said after him.
There was but one candle to light the chamber. She felt the shadows surround her, and they were comforting. She made her way to the narrow bed, stripped off her soft yellow overtunic and the gown beneath. She stretched out on her back, staring up into the darkness.
What, after all, could he have said to her? she wondered now. But why did he wish to wed her? Why? Sir Walter was a dangerous man, and she recognized the threat in him. She saw the intensity in him, the will to drive himself, to drive others. The last thing that would be his main desire was a woman, any woman.
She must go very carefully. She must give him false security. She must hang around his neck until he wished her to leave him alone. Then, perhaps, she would find a way for her and Edmund to escape Crandall. If they didn’t escape, she feared what would happen to them. She would refuse to wed Walter and he would rape her endlessly. She knew it. But why?