“I doubt he has so much leather in single pieces.”
“I did ask him to be certain. I wouldn’t want him to measure your feet, only to discover that he couldn’t cover them after all. I don’t wish you to be humiliated.”
“My feet aren’t that large!”
“But they are dirty, nearly as dirty as my son’s. Should you like to bathe now? The day is nearly done. Actually, I was on my way to the outbuilding to see to your progress. How goes it? Prink is trying his best to overcome his ague. He’s furious that women are doing the weaving and that a woman is directing the proceedings. He is accusing poor Mordrid of base treachery.”
“Old Agnes said he was about to cork it,” Philippa said, so diverted that she turned to face him, smiling despite herself.
He
was garbed in the same clothes as yesterday, and he looked hot and tired. His hair was standing a bit on end. Perhaps he’d had reason not to see to the work during the day. Then she happened to look at his long fingers, and she closed her eyes over the vision of his hands on her body.
This was absurd. He’d looked at her but hadn’t wanted her. If he had tried to ravish her, she would have brought him low—naturally, she would have fought him to her dying breath. “You don’t need me anymore. Old Agnes is adept at battering the women. Mordrid is capable of teaching them. Gorkel can repair the looms, even when they break every other breath. Your wonderful Prink is a sluggard and a fool. The looms should have been burned and new ones made ten years ago, and . . . Oh, what do you care?” Philippa threw up her hands, for he was simply looking at her with casual interest, the sort of look one would give a precocious dog. “Truly, all the women can weave passably now. I want my gown, and then I want to leave and go to my cousin.”
“What did you say his name was, this so-called cousin of yours?”
“His name is Father Ralth. He’s a dour Benedictine and will garb me as a choirboy and let me have a small cell of my own. I plan to meditate the rest of my days, thanking God for saving me from de Bridgport and villains like you.”
“You will be known as Philippa the castrato?”
“What’s a castrato?”
“A man who isn’t a man, who’s had his manhood nipped in the bud, so to speak.”
“That sounds awful.” Her eyes went inadvertently to his crotch, and he laughed.
“I would imagine it isn’t a fate to be devoutly sought. Now, wench, come with me to my bedchamber. The both of us can bathe. I tire of my own stench, not to mention yours. I shall consider letting you scrub my back.”
Philippa, as much as she wanted to exercise an acid tongue on his head, couldn’t find the energy to do it. A bath sounded wonderful. Then she looked down at the old gown, dirty and sweat-stained, and sighed. Dienwald said nothing. He turned on his heel, firmly expecting her to follow after him like a faithful hound, which she did, curse his eyes.
They passed Alain. Philippa saw the steward give Dienwald an approving nod and wondered at it. Why had he so openly attacked his master to her just this morning? Something was decidedly wrong. Philippa had never before considered herself to be of an overly curious nature, even though her parents had accused her of it frequently, but now she wanted very much to shake Master Alain and see what fell out of his mouth.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder how the bathing ritual would take place until Dienwald had locked the bedchamber door, tossed the key into the pocket of his outer tunic, and turned to say, “I’ll exercise some knightly virtue and let you bathe first. You see, chivalry still abounds in Cornwall.”
“I’m so dirty you’ll need another tub. Also, you can’t stay in here. Will you wait outside?”
“No.” Frank enjoyment removed the tiredness from Dienwald’s eyes. “No, I want to see you naked. Again. Only this time, all of you at one time, not just parts.”
Philippa sat on the floor. She eyed the copper-bound wooden tub with steam rising from it and felt a nearly murderous desire to jump in, but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t move, even if she had to rot here. She wouldn’t allow him to humiliate her anymore. She wouldn’t play the partial trollop. To her surprise, Dienwald didn’t say anything, didn’t threaten her with dire punishments. He rose from the bed and calmly stripped off his clothes.
She didn’t look at him, but after several minutes had passed and she heard no further sound, no movement, she couldn’t stand it anymore. When she raised her head, it was to see him standing by the tub, not three feet away from her. She’d seen naked men before; only girls who had been raised by nuns in convents hadn’t. But this was different; he was different. He was hard and lean and hairy, his legs long and muscled, his belly flat and sculptured. She looked—and couldn’t look away. His manhood swelled from the thick bush of hair at his groin, and she stared with open fascination as it grew thicker and longer.
She felt something quite odd and quite warm low in her belly. Philippa knew this wasn’t right; she also knew she was losing control of a situation she somehow no longer wanted to control. She swiveled about and faced away from him.
Dienwald laughed and climbed into the tub. He’d seen her stare at him, felt his sex rise in concert with her interest, seen her interest rise as well and her confusion. He reveled in her reactions—when they didn’t irritate him.
He lathered himself, feeling the grime soak off, and said, “Wench, tell me of your progress. And don’t whine to me about all your problems or of the heat in the outbuilding or of Old Agnes’ carping. What did you accomplish?”
Philippa turned back, knowing the height of the tub would keep her from further inappropriate perusal of his man’s body. His hair was white with lather, as were his face and shoulders. She couldn’t see any more of him.
“It has been nearly nothing but problems, and I’m not whining. I may skin Prink alive if the ague doesn’t bring him to his grave first. Oh, we now have wool, curse you. I was thinking, mayhap the first tunic should be for Edmund. He looks ragged as a villein’s child.”
Dienwald opened his eyes, and soap seeped in. He cursed, ducking his head under the water. When he’d cleansed his eyes of the soap he turned to her and nearly yelled, “Nay, ‘tis for you, foolish girl. That was our bargain. I am an honorable man, and though you, as a woman, can’t understand bargains or honor, I suggest you simply keep your ignorance behind your tongue. I dislike martyrs, so don’t enact touching gestures for me. And you simply haven’t looked at the villeins’ children. They’re nearly naked.”
“You’re taking your anger out on me because you were clumsy with the soap! You’re naught but a tyrant and a stupid cockshead!”
“Not bad for a maiden of tender years. Should I improve upon your insults? Teach you ones more spiteful and less civil?”