“Father! Help me, look what the witch did to me!” And on and on it went as Dienwald just stood there, wanting to laugh, yet furious that Philippa had forced cleanliness upon his son, and wondering how she’d enlisted Father Cramdle in her task, for the priest was surely on her side.
Meanwhile Edmund kept shrieking and complaining, dancing about on his clean feet. Finally Dienwald, seeing that the result was to his liking, even if Philippa’s pushing ways were not, said in a voice that brought his son to instant silence, “Edmund, I fancy that I hear your mother in you, which is distressing. You will go with Father Cramdle and clothe yourself. I had no idea you had become such a filthy little villein. Keep your shrieks behind your teeth or you will feel my hand.”
Edmund, head down and silent as a pebble, trailed after Father Cramdle, the towel wrapped around him like a Roman toga.
“Thank you,” Philippa said to Dienwald. He said nothing for a moment, just watched her try to straighten her hair, pulling it back, away from her face.
He strode up to her. “Hold still yourself, wench.”
She did. He smoothed her hair and retied it with the bit of leather. He frowned at the dirty strip of hide. She needed a proper ribbon, a ribbon of bright color to complement her hair, something . . .
“You look worse than Edmund. Much worse. Like a dirty wet rag. Do something with yourself.” With those pleasing sentiments duly expressed, Dienwald turned on his heel. He heard a loud whoosh, but not in time. A half-filled bucket of water struck him squarely between the shoulder blades and he went flying forward from the force of it, hitting a goat. The goat reared back and kicked Dienwald on the thigh. He cried out, grabbing his leg, which caused him to lose his balance and fell sideways into a deep patch of black mud. He came up on his hands and knees, but for a moment he didn’t move. He had no intention of moving until he’d regained complete control of himself. Slowly, very slowly, he rose and turned to see Philippa standing there like a statue yet to be finished, a look of mingled horror and defiance on her face. People had stopped their conversations and were converging and staring. Then Gorkel, with a low rumbling noise, came forward, stepped squarely into the mud, and began to brush off his master.
“ ‘Twere an accident,” Gorkel said as he grabbed gobs of mud from Dienwald’s clothing and flung them away. “The mistress acts, then thinks—ye know that, master. Aye, but she’s—”
“You damnable monster, don’t defend her! Be still!”
Gorkel obligingly shut his mouth and continued scraping off mud.
Dienwald shook himself free of his minion’s help and strode over to Philippa, who took one step back, then stopped and faced him, squaring her shoulders.
“You struck me!” The incredulity in his voice equaled the outrage. “You’re a female, and you struck me. You threw that damned bucket at me.”
“Actually,” Philippa said, inching a bit further back, “it was the bucket that struck you, not I. I didn’t realize I was such a marksman, or rather, that the bucket was such a marksman.” Then, to her own astonishment, she giggled.
Dienwald drew several very long, very deep breaths. “If I throw you into that mud, you will have nothing to wear. You haven’t yet sewed anything for yourself, have you?”
She shook her head, not giggling quite so loudly now.
He looked at her nipples, taut against the wet tunic. The material also clung to her thighs.
He smiled at her, and Philippa felt herself shrivel with humiliation. “Throw me in the mud,” she said. “Do that, but please don’t do what you’re thinking.”
“And what is that, pray? Ripping off that rag and letting my people see the shrew beneath it?”
She nodded and tried to cover her breasts with her hands. “I’m not a shrew.”
“All right,” he said, and without another word, moving so quickly she had only time to squeak in surprise, Dienwald grabbed her about the hips, lifted her, and strode to the black puddle and dropped her. She landed on her bottom, arms and legs flying outward, and mud spewed out in thick waves, hitting him and Gorkel. She felt it squishing over her legs, felt it seep through the gown, and she wanted to laugh at the consequences that she’d brought upon herself, but she didn’t. She now had nothing to wear, nothing save this now-ruined gown.
She looked up at Dienwald, who stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. He was laughing.
Philippa saw red. Tears clogged her throat, but her fury was stronger by far. She managed to come to her feet, the mud clinging and making loud sucking noises. She flung herself at him, clutching his arms and yanking him toward her. She locked her foot behind his calf and he fell toward her, laughing all the while. Together they went down, Dienwald on top of her, Philippa flat on her back, the mud flying everywhere.
Dienwald raised himself on his hands, his fingers clenching deep into the muck. He slowly raised one mud-filled hand and opened it against her face and rubbed. She gasped and spat, but then he felt her knees against his back and he was falling sideways as she rolled against him, knocking him onto his back, pounding her fists at him, her muddy hands sliding over his face, slapping him with it.
He dimly heard people laughing and shouting and cheering for him, cheering for Philippa. Wagers were screamed out, and even the animals were dinning, for once louder than the children. Then Tupper leaped into the mud, not three inches from Dienwald’s head, snorting loudly, poking his snout into Dienwald’s face.
It was too much for a man to suffer. Dienwald spread his arms in surrender and yelled at the bouncing fury astride him, “I yield, wench! I yield!”
Tupper snorted and squealed and kept the mud churning.
Philippa laughed, and as he looked up at her, he wanted her right then—muddy black face, filthy matted hair, and all.
“Master, pray forgive me.” Northbert stood on the edge of the mud puddle, consternation writ on his ugly face.
Dienwald cocked an eye at him. “Aye? What is it?”
“We have visitors, master.”