Burnell leapt to his feet, his aching head forgotten. “De Tournay! What do you here? Is the king all right? Does he need to—”
“I am here on the king’s orders,” Roland said, waving his hand for Burnell to take his seat again. “I promised him to come speak to you about the heiress—the king’s bastard daughter. He wants me to look her over.”
Lord Henry bounded to his feet. “De Fortenberry is already the king’s son-in-law, sirrah!”
Roland merely lifted a black brow. “The heiress is already dispatched, you say?”
“Aye, to the man the king intended her to have!”
Roland laughed. “A journey crowned with a neat escape for me. So that knave won her, eh?”
Philippa, who’d been listening to this talk, now stepped forward and said, “The king sent you?”
Roland stilled all humor as he looked at the king’s daughter. He hadn’t known who she was before. But as he looked at her closely now, he realized she had the look of Edward, with her clear blue eyes and her well-sculptured features. She was lovely and she was tall and well-formed, and her hair—ah, it was thick and curling down her back, framing her face. Then, for a brief instant Roland knew a sharp flicker of disappointment that he was too late. But only for an instant. He assumed a bland expression and said, “The king—your esteemed father—simply asked me to see you.”
“I am already wedded,” Philippa said in a remote voice. “However, it is uncertain whether or not my husband still will claim me for his wife. He left me, you see, when he learned my father is the King of England.”
Roland’s black brow shot up a good inch.
Lord Henry inserted himself. “You needn’t tell this stranger all these things, Philippa. ‘Tis none of his affair.”
“Why not? The king sent him. Perhaps next he will send William de Bridgport when this man says he doesn’t want me. Who knows?” Philippa turned to Robert Burnell and added, her voice hard, “Even if my husband dissolves our union, I don’t want this man. Do you hear me? I don’t want any other man, ever. Do you understand me, sir?”
“Aye, madam, I understand you well, for you speak clearly and to the point.”
By God, Roland thought, staring at the young woman, she was in love with de Fortenberry. How had this come about, and so quickly? There was a mystery here, and he liked unraveling mysteries above all things.
Lord Henry snorted. “It matters not what he understands or doesn’t understand. Look you, Roland de Tournay, my daughter was wedded to de Fortenberry before either of them knew who her real sire was. All is over and done with. You can leave with good conscience.”
And Lord Henry stared at him as though he’d like to shoot an arrow through his neck. Well, it mattered not. Nor was it such a mystery after all.
“Don’t be rude, Fa . . . my lord,” Philippa said. “I care not if he remains at St. Erth. There is room, and there is more ale. Why not? Indeed, if he plans to return to London, he can tell the king what has transpired and . . .”
She stopped suddenly and just stared at Roland—not really at him, Roland thought, but through him and beyond him. There was a pain in her fine eyes, a very deep pain that made him flinch. Suddenly she turned and left the hall, simply walked away, saying nothing more.
“Damnable churl,” Lord Henry said. “I’d slit his throat if he weren’t already her husband.”
Roland shook his head. “You mean that her husband left when he discovered she was the king’s daughter?”
“Aye, that’s the meat of it,” Lord Henry said. “I’d like to smash the pea-brained young cockscomb into a dung heap.”
Roland smiled at blessed fate. His luck had held him through this brief foray into possible disaster. He could not understand de Fortenberry’s actions. Was the man mad? His own motives for not wishing to marry—even the king’s bastard daughter—were different; they meant something. Roland decided to stay the night at St. Erth and on the morrow pay his visit to Graelam de Moreton at Wolffeton. The king’s bastard daughter was no longer any of his concern. He’d done his duty by his king, and all, for him at least, had resolved itself right and tight. The heiress was already wedded and he had no more part to play.
He remarked upon the political situation with the Scots, the intractability of King Alexander and his minions, and forgot the purpose of his visit. The three men, without the presence of either the master or the mistress of St. Erth, ate their fill and consumed more of the castle’s fine ale and kept watch and company until late into the night, talking, arguing, and yelling at each other, all in high good humor.
The master of St. Erth, the soon-to-be Earl of St. Erth, didn’t appear. Nor did his discarded wife.
Wolffeton Castle
“Hold him down, Rolfe! Hellfire, grab his other leg, quickly, he nearly sent his foot into my manhood! You, Osbert, keep his arms behind him! Nay, don’t break his elbow! Just keep him quiet.”
Lord Graelam de Moreton rubbed his hand over his throbbing jaw and watched as two of his men held Dienwald down, another sitting on his legs and a fourth on his chest. Dienwald was panting and yelling and now he was gasping for breath, for Osbert was not a lightweight. His blow had been strong and knocked Graelam off his feet and flat on his back onto the sharp cobblestones of the inner bailey.
Of course, Dienwald had caught him off-guard. Aye, he’d taken Graelam by complete surprise. His so-called friend had ridden through Wolffeton’s gates, welc
omed by the men because he was a known ally. No one could have guessed that the instant Dienwald dismounted his destrier, he would attack him. Graelam looked down at his red-faced enraged friend. “What ails you, Dienwald? Kassia, don’t fret, I’m all right. It’s our neighbor here who’s gone quite mad. He attacked me like a fevered fiend from hell.”
“Let me up, you stinking whoreson, and you’ll see how I split you with my sword!”