Philippa forgot for a moment where she was and who it was who’d commanded her. She straightened her shoulders with alarming force. Her breasts nearly split the center seam of her gown. She nearly wailed with humiliation as she quickly hunched forward.
Dienwald de Fortenberry laughed.
“Come here,” he said again.
Philippa walked forward, keeping her eyes on his face. It wasn’t a bad face. She would have thought a scourge’s face would be pitted by the pox, that he’d be wild-eyed and black-toothed, not hard and well-muscled and with eyes of light brown ringed with gold, with hair and brows the identical shade. There was a deep dimple in the center of his chin. Mayhap that was a mark of the devil. But if it were a devil’s mark, why didn’t he wear a beard to hide it? Instead he was clean-shaven, his hair worn longer than was the current fashion, with tight curls at his nape. He didn’t look like a rogue or a devil’s blight, but hadn’t he stolen her father’s wool without a by-your-leave?
“Who are you?”
“I am Dienwald de Fortenberry—”
“I know that. I mean, are you truly a devil’s tool? Or perhaps one of his familiars?”
“Ah, you have realized my identity. Have you heard mind-boggling tales of me? Tales that have me flying over treetops with my arms spread like great wings to escape Christian soldiers? Tales that have me traveling a hundred miles from Cornwall in the flash of an eye to kill and butcher and maim in the wilds of Scotland?”
“No, I have heard my father curse you mightily when you have raided near Beauchamp, but you are always just a man to him, even though he roars about scourges and blights and such.”
“ ‘Tis true. I am of this earth, not above it or below it. I am but a simple man. Do you, Philippa de Beauchamp, consider this earthbound man of sufficient prominence to sit in your august presence?”
“I don’t think you care at all what I think. Moreover, I’m lost.”
Dienwald sat forward in his chair. “You are in my castle, St. Erth by name. As to your exact whereabouts, I believe I shall keep that to myself for a time. Sit you down. I have questions for you, and you will answer them promptly and truthfully.”
Philippa gazed about. There was no other chair.
He pointed downward at his feet. “On the floor.”
“Don’t be absurd! Of course I won’t sit on the floor.”
Dienwald stood up, still pointing to his feet. “Sit, now, or I will have my men fling you down. Perhaps I shall plant my foot on your neck to keep you down.”
Philippa sat down on the floor, folding her long legs beneath her. She tried to straighten the skirt of her borrowed gown, but it was too narrow and too short and left her knees bare.
Dienwald resumed his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, negligently stretching his long legs in front of him. She noticed for the first time that his tunic and hose were in shameful condition.
She looked up at him. “May I please have something to drink? I am very thirsty.”
Dienwald frowned at her. “You aren’t a guest,” he said, then in his next breath bellowed, “Margot!”
A thin young girl scurried into the hall, managed a curtsy, and waited, her eyes on the now-clean creature barely covered by a tattered garment of dull green belonging to one of the cookhouse wenches.
“Ale and . . .” He eyed the seated female, whose knees were showing. Nice knees connected to very nice legs. “Are you hungry as well?”
Her stomach growled loudly.
“Bread and cheese as well, Margot. Be speedy, we don’t want our guest to collapse in the rushes.”
Philippa could have hugged him at that moment. Food, at last. Food!
“Now, wench—”
“I am not a wench. I am Philippa de Beauchamp. I demand that you treat me according to my rank. I demand that you . . . well, you could begin by getting me a chair and then a gown that isn’t so very rough and worn and old.”
“Yes? What else? That isn’t all you wish, is it?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “I know I am tall, but perhaps one of your wife’s gowns would fit me.”
“I have no wife. I had a wife once, but I don’t have one now, nor have I had one for many a year, thank the saints. The gown Old Agnes found for you is doubtless precious. There isn’t a single hole in it. It deserves your thanks, not your disdain.”