“I’d forgotten . . . ah, Constance, her flesh was soft as a babe’s . . .” The king cleared his throat. “That was, naturally, before I became a husband to my dear Eleanor . . . she was still a child . . . also, my daughter is a Plantagenet in looks . . . not a hag then . . . excellent, but still . . .” He paused and looked at his secretary with bright Plantagenet blue eyes, eyes the same color as his illegitimate daughter’s. He snapped his fingers and smiled.
“My dear Uncle Richard is dead, God rest his loyal soul, and we miss the stability he provided us in Cornwall. For a son-in-law, Robbie, we must have a man who will give us unquestioning loyalty, a man with strength of fist and character and heart, but not a man who will try to empty my coffers or trade on my royal generosity to enrich himself and all his brothers and cousins.”
Burnell nodded, saying nothing. He wouldn’t remind the king that he, his faithful secretary, hadn’t received an increase in compensation for a good five years now. Not that he’d ever expected one. He sighed, waiting.
“Such a man is probably a saint and in residence in heaven,” the king continued, giving Burnell another Plantagenet gift—a smile of genuine warmth and humor that rendered all those in his service weak-kneed with the pleasure of serving him. “I don’t suppose Lord Henry has a suggestion?”
“No, sire. He does write that suitors for his other daughter tend to look upon Philippa instead, as likely as not. He tires of the situation, sire. Indeed, he sounds a bit frantic. He writes that Philippa’s true identity becomes more difficult to keep a secret as the days pass, what with all the young pups wanting her hand in marriage.”
“A beauty.” Edward rubbed his large hands together. “A beauty, and I spawned her. All Plantagenet ladies are wondrous fair. Does she have golden hair? Skin as white as a sow’s underbelly? Find me that man, Robbie, a man of strength
and good heart. In all of Cornwall there must be a man we can trust with our daughter and our honor and our purse.”
Robert Burnell, a devout and unstinting laborer, toiled well into the dark hours of the night, burning three candles to their stumps, examining names of men in Cornwall to fit the king’s requirements. The following morning, he was bleary-eyed and stymied.
The king, on the other hand, was blazing with energy and thwacked his secretary on the shoulders. “I know what we’ll do about that little matter, Robbie. ’Tis my sweet queen who gave me the answer.”
Was this another little matter he didn’t know about yet? Burnell wondered, wishing only for his bed.
“Yes, sire?”
“The queen reminded me of our very loyal and good subject in Cornwall—Lord Graelam de Moreton of Wolffeton.”
“Lord Graelam,” Burnell repeated. “What is this matter, sire?”
“Lackwit,” Edward said, his good humor unimpaired. “ ‘Tis about my little Philippa and a husband for her fair hand and a sainted son-in-law for me.”
Burnell gaped at the king. He’d discussed his illegitimate daughter with the queen, with his wife?
He swallowed, saying, “Lord Graelam’s wedded, sire. He was atop my list until I remembered he’d married Kassia of Belleterre, from Brittany.”
“Certainly he’d wedded, Robbie. Have you lost your wits? You really should get more rest at night. ’Tis needful, sleep, for a sprightly brain. Now, Lord Graelam is the one to ferret out my ideal son-in-law. You will readily enough wring a list of likely candidates out of him.”
“I, sire?”
“Aye, Robbie, certainly you. Whom else can I trust? Get you gone after you’ve had some good brown ale and bread and cheese. You must eat, Robbie—’tis needful to keep up your strength. Ah, and write to Lord Henry and tell him what’s afoot. Now, I must needs speak to you about the special levy against those cockscomb Scots. I think that we must—”
“Forgive me, sire, but do you not wish me to leave for Cornwall very soon? To Wolffeton? To see Lord Graelam?”
“Eh? Aye, certainly, Robbie. This afternoon. Nay, better by the end of the week. Now, sharpen your wits and recall for me the names of those Scottish lords who blacken the Cheviot Hills with their knavery.”
6
St. Erth Castle
Philippa heard shouts behind her. One great bearded man grabbed at her, ripping the sleeve from her tunic, but she broke free. She heard a bellow of laughter and a man shouting, “Ye should have grabbed her skirt, rotbrain! Better a pretty bare ass than an arm!”
It was as dark as the interior of a well outside the great hall. Philippa dashed full-tilt across the inner bailey toward the stables, hoping to get to a horse and . . . And what? The gates were closed. There were guards posted on the ramparts, surely. The night was cold and she was shivering in nothing but a ragged one-sleeved gown to cover her.
Still, her fear kept her going. The stables were dark and warm and smelled of fresh hay, dung, and horses. They were also deserted, the keepers, she supposed, in the great hall, eating their evening meal with all the rest of the denizens of this keep. She stopped, pressing her fingers to the stitch in her side. She was breathing hard, and froze in her tracks when she heard her captor say from nearby, “You are but a female. I accept that as a flaw you can’t remedy—God’s error, if you will—yet it would seem that you never think before you act. What were you planning to do if you managed to get a horse?”
Philippa slowly turned to face him. Dienwald de Fortenberry was standing in the open doorway of the stable, holding a lantern in his right hand. He wasn’t even breathing hard. How had he found the time to light a lantern?
“I don’t know,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “You have so many people within the keep, I hoped mayhap the gates would be open, with people milling in and out, that mayhap the guards and porters wouldn’t notice me, but they all appear to be in the great hall eating, and—”
“And mayhap the moon would make an appearance and guide you to London to court, eh? And thieves would salute you and blow you sweet kisses as you rode past them, your gown up about your thighs. Stupid wench, I would not have gained my twenty-sixth year if I’d been so heedless of myself and my castle. We are quite snug within these walls.” He leaned down and set the lantern on the ground. Philippa backed up against a stall door as he straightened to look at her.
“If you don’t begin to think before you act, I doubt you will gain your twentieth year. You ripped off a sleeve.”