“Nay, sir,” Rolfe said kindly. “Move you not, or I will have to twist your arm.”
Kassia stared from Dienwald to her husband. “Ah,” she said, “Dienwald has discovered what you did, my lord. He’s come to express his disapproval of your interference.”
“Aye, loose me, you coward, and I’ll debone you, you lame-assed cur!”
Graelam hunkered down beside his friend, his face only inches from Dienwald’s. “Listen to me, fool, and listen well. You needn’t marry the king’s daughter, and you know it well. Both Kassia and I saw Morgan or Mary or whatever her name is and knew it was she you wanted. We decided if you wanted to wed her, you would have her, and the king be damned. There was no reason for us to say anything. We knew you wouldn’t bend to any man, be he king or sultan or God. Isn’t that the truth?”
Dienwald howled. “I had already wedded her when Burnell came! She was already my wife!”
“So what is the matter? You’re acting half-crazed. Speak sense and I will let you free.”
“Her name isn’t Morgan or Mary, damn you! Her name is Philippa de Beauchamp and she is our blessed king’s cursed daughter!”
Graelam looked up at his wife. They simply stared at each other, then back at Dienwald. “Well,” Graelam said finally, “this is a most curious turn of events.”
Kassia knelt beside Dienwald and gently laid her hand on his cheek. “You’re obstinate beyond all reason, my friend. You wedded the girl who was intended for you. And she was the girl you wished to wed. All worked out as it was intended to. Everyone is content, or should be. So you’re now the king’s son-in-law. Does it really matter all that much? You will perhaps have to become more, er, respectable, Dienwald, in your dealings, less eager to strip fat merchants of their goods, possibly a bit more deferential, particularly when you are in the king’s presence, but surely it isn’t too much to ask. We did it for your own good, you know—”
“Good be damned!” Dienwald howled, his eyes red. “Your mangy husband did it because he thought I’d stolen the wine your father sent you! Admit it, you hulking whoreson! You did it to revenge yourself upon me—I know it as I know you and your shifty ways!”
“You won’t insult my lord,” Kassia said in a tone of voice Dienwald had never heard from her before. It was low and it was mean. It drew him up short, and he said, his voice now sulky and defensive, “Well, ‘tis true. He did me in, he did it to spite me.”
Kassia smiled down at him. “You reason with your spleen and your bile, not with your wits. Hush now and behave yourself. Release him, Rolfe, he won’t act the stupid lout again. At least,” she added, giving a meaningful look to Dienwald, “he had better not. Yes, Dienwald, you will now rise and you won’t attempt to strike Graelam again. If you even try it, you will have to deal with me.”
Dienwald looked at the very delicate, very pregnant lady and grinned reluctantly. “I don’t want to have to deal with you, Kassia. Cannot you turn your back for just a moment? I just want to smash your husband into the ground. Just one more blow, just a small one.”
“No, you may not even spit at him, so be quiet. Now, come in and I will give you some ale. Where is Philippa? Where is your lovely bride?”
“Doubtless she is singing and dancing and playing a fine tune for the damned Chancellor of England and her fa . . . nay, that idiot Lord Henry de Beauchamp.”
“You believe her wallowing in pleasure that you left St. Erth? That is what you did, isn’t it, Dienwald? You shouted and bellowed at her and then ran away to sulk?”
Dienwald looked at the gentle, sweet, pure lady at his side, and growled at her husband, “Put your hand over her mouth, Graelam. She grows impertinent. She vexes me as much as the wench does.”
Graelam laughed. “She speaks the truth. You’ve a wife, and truly, Dienwald, it matters not who her family is. You didn’t wed her for a family or lack of one, did you? You wedded her because you love her.”
“Nay! Cut off your rattling tongue! I wedded her because I took her and she was a damned virgin and I had no choice but to wed her since my son—my demented nine-year-old son—demanded that I do so!”
“You would have wedded her anyway,” Kassia said, “Edmund or no Edmund.”
“Aye,” Dienwald agreed, shaking his head mournfully. “I will beget no bastard off a lady.”
“Then why do you act the persecuted victim?” Graelam said. “The heedless brute who cares for no one?”
“Oh, I care for her, but I believed her father to be naught but a fool, and so it bothered me not. But no, her father must needs be the King of England. The King of England, Graelam! It is too much. I will not abide it. I will set her aside. She took me in and made a mockery of me. Aye, I will send her to a convent and annul her and she will forget all her besotted feelings for me. She smothered me with her sweet yielding, her soft smiles and her passion. She will hate me and it will be what we both deserve.”
Kassia swept a cat off the seat of a chair and motioned Dienwald to it. “You will do nothing of the sort. Sit you down, my friend, and eat. You’ve eaten naught, have you? . . . I thought not. Here are some fresh bread and honey.”
Dienwald ate.
Graelam and Kassia allowed him to vent his rage and sulk and carp and curse luridly, until, upon the third morning after his unexpected arrival at Wolffeton, Roland de Tournay rode into the inner bailey.
When Roland saw Dienwald, he simply stared at him silently for a very long time. The man looked to Roland’s sharp eye to be at the very edge. His eyes were hollow and dark-circled for want of sleep, and he had not the look of a man remotely content with himself or with his lot. “Well,” Roland said, “I wondered where you’d fled. Your wife is not a happy lady, my soon-to-be lord Earl of St. Erth.”
“I don’t want to be a damned earl! What did you say? Philippa isn’t happy? Is she ill? What’s wrong?”
“You yourself said she was besotted with you, Dienwald,” Kassia said. “Would you not expect her to be unhappy in your absence?”
Roland marveled aloud at de Fortenberry’s outpouring of stupidity. He said patiently, “Your lovely wife happens to care about you, something none understand, but there it is. As you say, she is besotted with you. Thus, in your unexpected absence, she is miserable; all your servants are miserable because she is; your son hangs to her skirts trying to raise her spirits, but it does little good. The chancellor and Lord Henry finally left because life at St. Erth had become so grim and bleak. No one had any spirit for jests, even your fool, Crooky. He simply lay about in the rushes mumbling something about the lapses of God’s grace. I could be in the wrong of it, but it would seem to me that you are very stupid, my lord earl.”