“ ’Twould be a lie to tell you that I lied. I wedded Philippa two days past.”
Lord Henry actually spat in his fury. “I will have the ceremony proclaimed invalid! I will have it annulled! She had not her father’s permission, ’tis a disgrace! Aye, ’twill be annulled quickly!”
“It is very possible that Philippa even now is carrying my babe. There will be no annulment.”
Lord Henry’s face, already red, now became purple. “Where is she? Where is that insolent, ungrateful—”
“Father! What do you here? I don’t understand—why are you angry?” Philippa broke off. So Dienwald had written to her father telling him of their marriage, probably the very day of their wedding, to bring him here so quickly, and he had come and he wasn’t pleased. But what matter was it to him? Why should he care?
Philippa walked quickly to her father and made to embrace him. To her surprise, he took several steps back, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, much less her touch. “You spiteful little wretch! You wedded this . . . this scoundrel?”
Philippa grew very still. She made no more moves toward her father. She saw Dienwald looking at Lord Henry, his expression ironic, and said
simply, “I love him and I have wedded him. He is my husband, my lord, and I’ll not allow you to insult him.”
“ ‘Tis no insult,” Dienwald said with a sudden grin. “I am a scoundrel.”
Lord Henry turned on Dienwald. “You make jests about your foul deeds! You ravished her, didn’t you? You forced her into your bed and then to a priest!”
“Nay, but you will doubtless believe what you wish to believe. However, if you believe any man could ravish Philippa and not sport a year’s worth of bruises and broken limbs for it, you are wide of your mark.”
“And you, you female viper, what know you of love? You who have been protected all your life from curs of this sort? How long have you known this poor and ragged cur? Days, only days! And you say you love him! Ha! He seduced you, and being a witless fool, you let him!”
“I do love him,” Philippa repeated quietly. She laid her hand on her father’s arm when he would have erupted further. “Listen to me, sir. He did not ravish me. He is chivalrous. He is kind and good. He saved me from Walter, and I love him. ’Twas he who finally consented to marry me.”
Lord Henry shook off her hand as if it were something abhorrent. He stared hard at her. “You little harlot,” he said slowly. “Just look at you, your hair wild down your back like a peasant girl’s, your feet bare! I can even smell him on you. You little whore!” He pulled back his arm and struck her a blow hard across the cheek with the palm of his hand. The blow was unexpected, and Philippa went careening backward. She cried out as her hip struck a chair and she went sprawling onto the reed-strewn floor.
Dienwald was on his knees beside her, his face white with rage. “Are you all right?” He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Philippa, answer me!”
“Aye, I’m all right. I wasn’t expecting a blow. It surprised me.” She felt Dienwald’s long fingers stroke over the bright red mark on her cheek. She watched him rise and stride to her father. Lord Henry’s men stood still as statues, staring at their master and at their master’s daughter and husband. They would, Philippa knew, protect Lord Henry with their lives, but they were uncertain now, afraid to move. It was a family matter and thus more dangerous than fighting a band of Irish thieves.
Dienwald stopped six inches from Lord Henry’s nose. “You will listen to me, old man, and listen well. I sent you a message telling you of my marriage to your daughter as a courtesy. I didn’t particularly wish to, but I deemed it proper to inform you. You didn’t want her; you held her in no esteem; you planned to give her no dowry. You were going to wed her to de Bridgport! Now you have no more say in her life. Philippa is now mine. What is mine I protect. Because you happen to share her blood, I will not kill you, but be warned. My dagger is sharp and my rage grows stronger by the moment. You touch her again in anger and I will tear your worthless heart from your fat body. Heed me, old man, for I mean my words.”
Lord Henry doubted not that this man meant what he’d said. He took a step back and dashed his fingers through his grizzled hair. He looked toward Philippa, standing now, her hand pressed against her side. She was very still, her face pale with shock. He’d never struck her in her life. “I am sorry to have clouted you, Philippa, but you have sorely tried me. You ran away, leaving me to believe you dead or murdered or—”
“You know I ran away because I heard you tell Ivo that I was going to be wedded to William de Bridgport. I knew it must be the truth, because my mother was there as well. What would you expect me to do? Roll my eyes in thankfulness and joy and go willingly to that filthy old man?”
Lord Henry collapsed onto a bench, all bluster gone from him. He looked toward Dienwald—his treacherous son-in-law—and managed a bit more anger. “You stole my wool! You killed my men!”
“Aye, I did steal your wool. As for the other, acquit me. I am no murderer. ’Twas one of my people who killed your farmers without my knowledge, something that displeased me. The man responsible is dead. There is naught more I can do to avenge your people. As for the wool, this tunic I wear is a result of your daughter’s fine skills. She sewed it, and many others for my people.”
Philippa drew closer to her father. “Do you know naught of Sir Walter, sir? He kidnapped me and Dienwald’s son and took us to Crandall. He wanted to marry me, Father, and I could find no reason for his ardor. I am a stranger to him, and beyond that, he had a mistress who . . . Never mind that. Did you perchance offer him a reward if he found me for you? Is that what made him want me for his wife?”
Lord Henry’s eyes gave a brief renewed flash of rage. “That traitorous slug! Aye, I know why he took you, Philippa, and he would have wedded you . . . but why did he not? You are wedded to this man, are you not?”
“Edmund—’tis Dienwald’s son—he and I managed to escape Crandall and Walter.”
“Ah. Well, no matter now. I offered Walter no reward, at least not in the way you think. I spoke truth to him, and the malignant wretch planned to gain his own ends. Ah, ’tis over for me. It matters not now. One husband is much the same as another, given that both are calamity to me. If you prefer this man to your cousin, so be it. At least this man wedded you without knowing about you. But I am dead, no matter your choice. ’Tis this man, then, this rogue, who will comfort you whilst you pray over your dead father’s body. Will you strew sweet ox-lips on my grave, Philippa?”
Philippa wanted to shake him, but she held to her patience. “But, sir, this makes no sense. Why would Walter de Grasse want to marry me? Why?”
Lord Henry shook his head, mumbling, pulling at his hair. “It matters not; nothing matters now. I’m a dead man now, Philippa. There is no hope for me. My head will be severed from my body. I will be lashed until my back is but blood and bones. I will be drawn and quartered and the crows will peck at my guts.”
“Crows? Guts? What is he babbling about?” Dienwald asked his bride. “Who would wish to kill him?”
Philippa again approached her father, but she didn’t touch him. “What is it, Father? You fear reprisals from de Bridgport? He’s an old man full of spleen, but he has no spine. You needn’t fear him. My husband won’t allow him to harm you.”
Lord Henry groaned. He dropped his head in his hands and pulled his hair all the harder. He weaved back and forth on the bench, distraught, and wailed, “I am undone and spent, and my remains will be fodder for the fields. Beauchamp will be stripped from me and mine. Maude will be cast out to die in poverty, probably in a convent somewhere, and you know, Philippa, she hates that sort of thing, despite all her pious ravings. Bernice will not wed, for she will have no dowry, and the saints know that her humors are uncertain. She will become more sour-hearted and wasp-tongued—”