“How much more ale do you need?”
She took another sip before asking, “Why do you think I need more? For what?”
“I think, wench, that I will take your precious maidenhead tonight. It taunts me, wench, that maidenhead of yours, just being there. And you do belong to me, at least until I tire of you. But who knows? If you please me—though I doubt you have the skill to do so—I will let you stay and see to the sewing of all the woolen cloth into clothing. What say you to that?”
Philippa, without a thought to the precariousness of her position, tossed the remaining ale from her flagon into his face.
She heard a gasp; then the hall suddenly fell silent as one by one the men and women realized something had happened. Oh, dear, Philippa thought, closing her eyes a moment. She’d thought with her feet again.
Dienwald knew he’d taunted her to violence, and actually, the ale in his face was a minor violence—nothing more or less than he’d expected of her. He supposed he should have waited until he had her in his bedchamber to mock her. Now he would have to act; he couldn’t be thought weak in front of his villeins and his men. He cursed softly, wiped his palm over his face, then shoved back the heavy master’s chair. He grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet.
He saw the fear in her eyes, saw her chin go up at the same time, and wondered what the devil he should do to her for her insolence. For now, he needed a show worthy of Crooky. He turned to his fool, who’d come to his feet and was staring avidly at his master like all the others in the great hall.
“What, Crooky, is to be her fate for throwing ale in her master’s face?”
Crooky stroked his stubbled jaw. He opened his mouth, looking ready to burst into song, when Dienwald changed his mind. “Nay, do not say it or sing it.”
“ ‘Tis not a song, master, not even a rhyme. I just wanted to ask the wench if she would make me a new tunic as well.”
“Aye, I will sew it myself,” Philippa said. “Any color you wish, Crooky.”
“Give her another flagon of ale, master. Aye, ‘tis a good wench she be. Don’t flog her just yet.”
“You’re not to be trusted,” Dienwald said
close to her ear. “You’d promise the devil a new tunic, wouldn’t you, to keep me from your precious maidenhead?”
“Where is the devil tonight?” Philippa asked, looking around. “In residence here? There are so many likely candidates for his services, after all.”
“Come along, wench. I have plans for you this long and warm night.”
“No,” she said, and grabbed the thick arm of his chair with her left hand. She held on tight, her fingers white with the strain, and Dienwald saw that he’d set himself a problem. He looked at the white arm he held, then at the hand holding the chair arm for dear life. “Will you release it now?”
She shook her head.
Dienwald smiled, and she knew at once that she wasn’t going to like what followed.
“I will give you one more chance to obey me.”
She stared up at him, knowing all the people in the hall were watching. “I can’t.”
She didn’t have to wait long. He smiled again, then lifted his hand, grasped the front of her gown, and ripped it open all the way to the hem.
Philippa yelled, released the chair arm, and jerked at the ragged pieces, trying to draw them over her body.
Dienwald locked his hands together beneath her buttocks and heaved her over his shoulder. He smacked her bottom with the flat of his hand and strode from the great hall laughing like the devil himself.
9
“You note, wench, I’m not breathing hard, even carrying you up these steep stairs.”
Philippa held her tongue.
She felt his hands on her buttocks, caressing her, and felt him press his cheek for a moment against her side.
“You smell nice. A big girl isn’t such a bad thing—there’s a lot of you for me to enjoy. You’re all soft and smooth and sweet-smelling.”
She reared up at that, but he smacked her buttocks with the flat of his hand.