Walter cared not a whit for the two who stood facing him. “If they please you, dearest heart, then so let them frolic and rattle their tongues to rhymes that bring good cheer.”
Crooky said loudly, “Fair and hardy maid, what wish you for Gorkel the Hideous to do?”
“Why, I believe I wish to write him a love poem, not rhymed, for I have not your talent, but one to tell of beauty and love that ravaged the heart. What say you, beast? Wish you to have a love poem from me?”
Gorkel scratched his armpit, and Crooky, yanking hard at his leash, yelled, “Will you, monster? Nod aye, beast!”
Gorkel nodded and bellowed, and the crowd cheered.
Philippa nodded. “I shall hie me to my paper and write the poem for the monster. Give the crowd more laughter, then.”
“I don’t understand you,” Walter said, and he sounded impatient and fretful.
“I amuse myself, Walter, as the beast has amused me. It pleases you not?”
She gave him that sweet, utterly diffident look that made him feel more powerful than a Palatine prince. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to write an immense tome, but he changed his mind. He mustn’t give in to her female whims each and every time. “It doesn’t please me this time, sweetling. Fret not.” And before he left her, he raised his hand and lightly touched her cheek. As she looked at him, her smile frozen in place, his fingers fell to her throat, then to her breast, and before all of his people, he caressed her with his fingertips. He laughed and strode away.
Near Crandall Keep
“Tell me, and be quick about it.”
Crooky, silent for once, looked at his master, uncertain how to begin.
“Did you see Edmund? The wench?”
“Aye, they’re both alive,” Gorkel said as he pulled off his belled cap. “The young master was dirty, his clothes rags, but he looked healthy.”
“And the mistress?”
“She was finely garbed,” Crooky said, looking over Dienwald’s right shoulder. “Very finely garbed, a beautifully plumed peacock, a princess.”
Dienwald felt his gut cramp. She’d betrayed him, damn her, betrayed him and stolen his son.
“Tell me everything. Leave nothing out or I’ll kick in your ribs.”
And Crooky related everything that had occurred. He recited faithfully what Philippa had said to him and to Gorkel. He paused, then ended, “She is no prisoner, at least it appeared not so. Sir Walter kissed her in full view of his people, and his hand caressed her breast.”
Dienwald saw red and his fists bunched in savage fury. What had he expected, anyway? The wench had fled him, and that was that. “Tell me again her words.” After Crooky had once more recited them, he said, “What meant she about the moon—am I the moon, silent and hidden, then bursting and malignant in her face? Bah! It makes no sense, the wench was playing with you, turning your own rhymes back on you, mocking you.”
“She asked Sir Walter if she could pen a love poem to Gorkel, but he refused her. Mayhap she would have written of her plight, master.”
Dienwald cursed with specific relish, saying in disgust, “She fooled you yet again! She would have penned her request for me to keep away, else she’d see Edmund hurt!”
Gorkel said, “Nay, master.”
“What know you of anything!”
“Why did she keep the boy with her?”
“For protection, fool, what else? She isn’t stupid, after all, for all that she’s a female.” He shook his fist in disgust at both of them, ignored his other men who looked ready to speak their opinions, and strode away from them all, disappearing into the maze of maple trees.
“He is sorely tried,” Galen said, shaking his head. “He knows not what to think.”
“The mistress wants rescuing,” said Crooky, “despite all the plumage and display.”
“And the boy,” Gorkel added. “I fear what that whoreson will do to the boy, for he sorely hates the father.”
17