Would a woman forgive a man absolutely anything? Philippa wondered as she watched the work settle back into its placid routine. When Gorkel reappeared, he merely nodded to Philippa and took his post by the door.
The following afternoon, Philippa was hot and tired and feeling lonely. She was walking across the inner bailey, the pig, Tupper, squealing at her bare feet in hot pursuit, when the porter, Hood, called out to her that a tinker was coming. Did she want him to enter? Excitement flowed through Philippa as she yelled back that, yes, she wanted him to come. A tinker meant trinkets and ribbons and thread and items the keep sorely needed. Perhaps the tinker even had gowns, sold or bartered to him on his travels. She didn’t stop to think that it was odd for her to be asked permission by the porter.
Men and women were gathering in the inner bailey, buzzing with excited conversation. Children, feeling their parents’ anticipation, stayed close. Even the animals quieted as the stranger came through the huge gates. Philippa greeted the tinker and her eyes glistened with enthusiasm at the sight of the two pack mules he led, each one carrying more packages than she’d ever seen.
It was when she was fingering two long lengths of pink ribbon that she realized she had no coin.
She had nothing, either, with which to trade.
She wanted to cry.
A soft voice sounded in her ear. “You agree to leave St. Erth, and I’ll buy you all the ribbons you want. Mayhap even a gown and some shoes. The tinker has everything. Ah, yes, you silly girl, those ribbons would go very nicely with your hair. Do you want them?”
She expelled her breath, turning to see the steward standing close beside her, his leer as pronounced as ever.
Anger filled her and she very nearly screamed that she knew he was a thief and that was why the master had no coin. She stopped herself in the nick of time. She had to keep quiet. She had to wait until Dienwald returned. She tilted her head back so that she was looking down her nose at him. “Nay, sir steward, there is nothing I wish.”
“Liar.”
She stepped back then and watched the people of St. Erth buy and trade goods with the tinker.
She wanted to weep when she handed him back the ribbons. It was foolish, but she wanted them desperately. They were as pale a pink as the sunrise in early May, and matched a gown she owned back at Beauchamp.
The tinker remained the night and Crooky proved to be in fine fettle, singing until he was hoarse, the words of his songs so colorfully crude that Father Cramdle was forced to clear his throat several times. When Philippa finally left the great hall, Gorkel beside her, she was still smiling.
“I told the tinker to circle back this way when the master is here,” Gorkel said as he left her beside her bedchamber door.
“It truly doesn’t matter,” Philippa said, and swallowed a bit hard.
“Keep the door locked,” Gorkel said as he’d said each preceding night. She did as he’d said, then turned with her candle to set it down. Standing in front of her was Alain, holding a knife.
Philippa rushed back to the door and turned the large brass key in the lock, yelling, “Gorkel! Gorkel! A moi! A moi!”
The steward was on her in a second, his arm closing around her throat as he jerked her back against him. His right hand rose and the sharp point of the knife pointed down at her breast. Philippa couldn’t scream now; his arm was cutting off her breath. She clawed at his arm with her nails, but he was strong—and strong with purpose.
He didn’t slam the knife into her breast. She realized that he didn’t want to kill her here. It would be far too dangerous for him. The knife was to ensure her obedience. His arm tightened and she felt the chamber spinning as white lights burst before her eyes. She jerked at his arm and felt the tip of the knife prick into her throat. She felt a cold numbing followed by the slick wetness of her own blood.
“Hold still, whore, or I’ll gullet you now. As for Gorkel, that cretinous idiot can’t hear you. The doors are thick. But you’ll keep quiet or all that will come from your mouth is a bloody gurgle.”
Philippa held still as a stone, dropping her arms to her sides.
“Good. Now, come here.”
He half-dragged her over to Dienwald’s bed and shoved her down onto her back. He came down next to her, holding the knife over her throat. She swallowed, looking up at him.
“ ‘Tis past time for you to escape from St. Erth. Aye, you’ll be long gone by the time the master returns. And he’ll blame Gorkel, the hulking fright. Not me. He’ll never even think about me.”
She said nothing, letting her brain work rather than
her mouth. It was a novel approach.
“You wonder why I want you gone so badly from St. Erth—I can see it in your silly female’s eyes. Those eyes of yours . . . they’re familiar, the shape and the color, aye, that shade of blue has bothered me . . . I have seem them before, somewhere . . . but no, I have no time for such nonsense. I wouldn’t have killed you had you left before, but now you give me no choice. Stupid sow, you should have left when I first offered you the chance.
“But you didn’t, did you? You wanted the master, wanted to believe his lies. Did he tell you that he wanted you more than any other female? He deceives women well. You should have left. But now ‘tis too late, far too late.”
He was rambling on and on, bragging and insulting Dienwald, and it seemed to Philippa that he must be mad.
“Why?” she whispered, not moving because the knife was still pressed so deep, its tip already bathed in her blood.