Dienwald nodded. The day, begun promisingly with lust and passion and a bride who seemed to believe the sun rose upon his head and set with his decision, had become increasingly mysterious with an irate and mumbling father-in-law, and now a messenger from the King of England. He watched Robert Burnell dismount clumsily from the mighty destrier, then nodded for the man to precede him into the great hall.
He was aware that all his men and all his people were hanging back, staring and gossiping, and he prayed that no one would take anything amiss. He told Margot in the quietest voice she’d ever heard from the master to bring ale and bread and cheese. She stared at him, and Dienwald was annoyed with himself and with her.
“Where is the mistress?” Margot asked.
Dienwald wanted to cuff her, but he merely frowned and said, “Do as I bid you and don’t sputter at me. The mistress is reposing and is not to be disturbed for any reason.” He turned back to Burnell, praying that Margot wouldn’t go searching for Philippa, and cursing the fact that the servants appeared more eager to serve his wife than him. If it was so after but two days of marriage, what would be his position a week from now?
“I have looked forward to this day, sir,” Robert Burnell said as he eased himself down into the master’s chair. “My cramped bones praise your generosity.”
Dienwald smiled. “Take your rest for so long as it pleases you.”
“You are kind, sir, but my duty is urgent and cannot be delayed longer.”
“I pray the king doesn’t want money from his barons, for I have none and my few men aren’t meant to swell the ranks of his army.”
Burnell merely shook his head, forgiving the presumption of the speaker. “Nay, the king wishes no coin from you. Indeed, he wishes to present you with a gift.”
Dienwald felt something prickle on the back of his neck. He was instantly alert and very wary. A gift from the king? Impossible! An inconsistency, a contradiction. Surely a danger. He cocked his head to the side in question, already certain he wasn’t going to like what Burnell said.
“Let me peel back the bark and get to the pith, sir. I’m here to offer you a gift to surpass any other gift of your life.”
“The king wishes me to assassinate the King of France? The Duke of Burgundy? Has the Pope displeased him?”
Burnell’s indulgent smile faltered just a bit at the blatant cynicism. “I see I must speed myself to the point. The king, sir, is blessed with a daughter, not one of his royal daughters, not a princess, but, frankly, sir, a bastard daughter. He wishes to give her to you in marriage. She is nonetheless a Plantagenet, greatly endowed with beauty, and will bring you a dowry worthy of any heiress of England to—”
Dienwald was reeling with surprise at this, but he still managed to remain outwardly calm. He held up his hand. “I must beg you to stop now, Lord Chancellor. You see, I am wedded two days now. You will thank the king, and tell him that as much as I wish I could hang myself for being unable to accept his wondrous offer, I am no longer available to do his bidding. I am already magnificently blessed.” He hadn’t realized that he would ever be blessing Philippa as his wife with such profound gratitude.
Wed the king’s bastard? He wanted to howl aloud. It was too much. Such an offer was enough to make his hair fall out. But he was safe, bless Philippa and her escape from Beauchamp in a wool wagon.
Burnell looked aghast. He looked disbelieving. He looked vexed. “You’re wedded! But Lord Graelam assured me that you were not, that you had no interest, that—”
“Lord Graelam de Moreton?”
“Naturally I spoke to men who know you. One cannot give the daughter of the King of England to anyone, sirrah!”
“I am already wedded,” Dienwald repeated. He sounded calm, but now he had a target—Graelam—he wanted to spit on his lance. So Graelam would make him the sacrifice to the king’s bastard daughter, would he! “Will you wish to stay the night, sir? You are most welcome. St. Erth has never boasted such an inspiring and important guest before. And do not beset yourself further, sir. I doubt this will gravely disappoint the king when he is told his first choice of son-in-law is not to be. Indeed, I venture to say that his second choice will doubtless be more to his liking.”
Robert Burnell got slowly to his feet. He ran his tongue over his lips. This was a circumstance he hadn’t foreseen, an event he hadn’t considered as remotely possible. He felt weary and frustrated, bludgeoned by an unkind fate.
Margot made a timely entrance with ale, bread, and cheese. “Pleas
e,” Dienwald said, and poured ale into a flagon, handing it to Burnell, who drank deeply. He needed it. He needed more ale to make his brain function anew. So much work, and all for naught. It wasn’t just or fair. He couldn’t begin to imagine the king’s reaction. The idea made him shudder. He started to think of a curse, then firmly took himself in hand. He was a man of God, a man to whom devoutness wasn’t a simple set of precepts or rules, but a way of life. But neither was he a man to rejoice when providence had done him in. He looked at the man he’d hoped would become the king’s son-in-law and asked, “May I inquire the name of our lady wife?”
“ ’Tis no secret. She is formerly Philippa de Beauchamp, her father Lord Henry de Beauchamp.”
To Dienwald’s astonishment, the chancellor’s mouth dropped open; his cheeks turned bright red. He dropped the flagon, threw back his head, and gasped with laughter. It was a rusty sound, Dienwald thought, staring at the man, a sound the fellow wasn’t used to making. Was the king so grim a taskmaster? What was so keen a jest? What had he said to bring forth this abundance of humor?
Dienwald waited. He had no choice. What in the name of the devil was going on?
Burnell finally wiped his eyes on the cuff of his wide sleeve and sat back down. He ignored the fallen flagon and poured himself more ale, taking Dienwald’s flagon. He drank deeply, then looked at his host and gave him a fat, genial smile. He felt ripe and ready for life again. Fate was kind; fate gave justice to God’s loyal subjects after all.
“You have saved me a great deal of trouble, Dienwald de Fortenberry. Oh, aye, sir, a great deal of trouble. You have made my life a living testimony to the beneficence of our glorious God.”
“I have? I doubt that sincerely. What mean you, sir?”
Burnell hiccuped. He was so delighted, so relieved that God still loved him, still protected him. “I mean, sir, that the Lord has moved shrewdly and quite neatly, mocking us mere men and our stratagems and our little fancies, and all has come to pass as it was intended.” And he began to laugh again. He swallowed when he saw that his host was growing testy. “I will tell you, sir,” Burnell said simply, “and I tell you true—you have wedded the king’s daughter. I know not how it came about, but come about it did, and all is well now, all is as it should be, praise the Lord.”
“You’re mad, sir.”