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Beauchamp Castle
Cornwall, England
April 1275
“You must wed me, you must!”
Philippa looked at Ivo de Vescy’s intense young face with its errant reddish whiskers that would never form the neat forked mustache he hoped for. “No, Ivo,” she said again, her palms pressed against his chest. “You are here for Bernice, not for me. Please, I don’t want you for a husband. Go now, before someone comes upon us.”
“There’s someone else! You love another!”
“Nay, I do not. There is no other for me right now, but it cannot be you, Ivo, please believe me.”
Philippa really did expect him to leave. She had told him the truth: she didn’t love him and didn’t wish to marry him. Instead of leaving her chamber, instead of releasing her, he simply stood there staring at her, his arms loose now around her back.
“Please leave my chamber, Ivo,” she said again. “You shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have let you in.”
But Ivo de Vescy wasn’t about to leave. “You will wed with me,” he said, and attacked.
Philippa thought, even as he lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto her back on her narrow bed, that a man bent on winning a lady was not best served using rape as an argument. She jerked her face back as he wetly kissed her cheek, her jaw, her nose. “Please, this is absurd! Stop, now.”
But Ivo de Vescy, newly knighted, newly pronounced a man by his stringent sire, saw his goal and dismissed the obstacles to his goal as more pleasurable then risky. Philippa would want him soon, he told himself, when he pressed his manhood hard against her, very soon now she would be begging him to take her. He finally found her mouth, open because she was primed to yell at him, and thrust his tongue inside.
It was like putting flame to dry sticks. He was breathing heavily, wanting her desperately, pinning her now-struggling body under his full weight. He got his hand under her long woolen gown, shoved aside her thin linen shift, and the feel of her smooth flesh relieved him of his few remaining wits.
Philippa twisted her head until his tongue was out of her mouth—not a pleasant experience, and one she didn’t care to repeat. She wasn’t worried until Ivo managed to slither his hand over her knee. His fingers on her bare thigh turned him into a heaving, gasping creature whose body had become rigid and heavy on top of her.
“Stop it, Ivo!” She wriggled beneath him, realized quickly that this would gain her naught—indeed, would gain her even more of a ravening monster—and held perfectly still. “Listen to me, Ivo de Vescy,” she whispered into his ear. “Get off me this minute or I will see to the destruction of your precious manhood. I mean it, Ivo. You will be a eunuch and I will tell my father and he will tell yours why it happened. You cannot ravish a lady, you fool. Besides, I have as much strength as you, and—”
Ivo groaned in his dazed ardor; he unwisely thrust his tongue into her mouth again. Philippa bit him hard. He yowled and raised his head to stare down at the girl he wanted so desperately. She didn’t yet look as if she wanted him, as if she was ready to beg him for his ardor, but it didn’t matter. He decided he would try a bit of reason even as he thrust his member against her in a parody of the sex act.
“No, Philippa, don’t try to hurt me. Listen, ’tis you I want, not Bernice. ’Tis you and only you who will bear my sons, and I will take you now so that you will want to be my wife. Aye, ’twill happen. Don’t move, sweeting.”
His eyes were glazed anew, but Philippa tried again, speaking slowly, very distinctly. “I won’t marry you, Ivo. I don’t want you. Listen to me, you must stop this, you—”
He moaned and jerked his belly repeatedly against hers. They were of a height, and every male part of him fitted against her perfectly, at least in his mind. Philippa decided it was time to do something. She was loath to harm him; he was, after all, Bernice’s suitor and perhaps future husband. Her sister wouldn’t want him to be a eunuch. But he was in her chamber, pinning her to her narrow bed, breathing into her face, and planning to force her.
When his fingers eased higher on her thigh, she yelled into his ear, and he winced, his eyes nearly crossing, and moaned again—whether from passion or from the pain of her shrill cry, Philippa didn’t know.
“Stop it!” she yelled once again, and pounded his back with her fists. Ivo touched her female flesh, warm and incredibly soft, and thought that finally she wanted him, would soon be begging him. Her legs were so long he’d begun to wonder if he would ever reach his goal. Ah, but he’d arrived, finally. He pressed his fingers inward and nearly spilled his seed at the excitement of touching her. He was panting now, beyond himself. He would take her and then he would marry her, and he would have her every night, he would . . .
“You bloody little whoreson! Devil’s toes and St. Andrew’s shins, get off my daughter, you stupid whelp!”
Lord Henry de Beauchamp was shorter than his daughter, blessed with a full head of hair that he was at this moment vigorously tugging. His belly well-fed, but when aroused to fury, he was still formidable. He was nearly apoplectic at this point. He clutched Ivo’s surcoat at his neck, ripping the precious silk, and dragged him off Philippa. But Ivo didn’t let go. He held tightly to Philippa’s waist, his other hand, the one that had touched her intimately, dragging slowly back down her thigh. She pushed and shoved at him and her father tugged and cursed. Ivo howled as he fell on the floor beside her bed, rolled onto his back, and stared blankly up at Lord Henry’s convulsed face.
“My lord, I love Philippa, and you must—” He shut his mouth, belated wisdom quieting his tongue.
Lord Henry turned to his daughter. “Did the little worm harm you, Philippa?”
“Nay, Papa. He was lively, but I would have stopped him soon. He lost his head.”
“Better his head than your maide
nhead, my girl. How comes he to be in your chamber?”
Philippa stared down at her erstwhile attacker. “He claimed to want only to speak to me. I didn’t think it would become so serious. Ivo forgot himself.”
Ivo de Vescy had more than forgotten himself, Lord Henry thought, but he merely stared down at the young man, still sprawled on his back, his eyes now closed, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. Lord Henry had nearly succumbed to a seizure when he’d seen Ivo de Vescy atop his daughter. The shock of it still made the blood pound in his head. He shook himself, becoming calmer. “You stay here, Philippa. Straighten yourself, and, I might add, you will keep silent about this debacle. I will speak to our enthusiastic puppy here. Mayhap I’ll show him how we geld frisky stallions at Beauchamp.”
Lord Henry grabbed Ivo’s arm and jerked him to his feet. “You will come with me, you randy young goat. I have much to say to you.”
Ivo deserved any curse her father chose to heap on his head, Philippa thought, straightening her clothing, and her father had an impressive repertoire of the most revolting curses known in Cornwall. She thought of Ivo’s hand creeping up her leg and frowned. She should have sent her fist into his moaning mouth, should have kicked him in his spirited manhood, should have . . . Philippa paused, wondering exactly what her father would say to Ivo. Would he tell him to forget about Bernice? Would he order Ivo out of Beauchamp Castle? This was the third man who’d acted foolishly . . . well, not so foolishly as Ivo, and it wasn’t amusing, not anymore. Bernice didn’t think so, and neither did their mother, Lady Maude. Lord Henry wouldn’t order Ivo away from Beauchamp; he couldn’t. Bernice wanted Ivo Vescy very much. Lady Maude wanted him for Bernice. Philippa wanted him for Bernice as well.
Philippa felt a thick curl of hair fall over her forehead and slapped it away, then sighed and tried to weave it back into its braid. Life wasn’t always reasonable; one couldn’t expect it to be. But there had been five suitors for Bernice’s well-dowered hand. Two of the men had swooned over Bernice, but she hadn’t shared their enthusiasms. The other two had preferred Philippa, and Bernice, unaccountably to her sister, had decided it was Philippa’s fault. And now Ivo de Vescy, the young man most profoundly desired by Bernice, the one with the sweetest smile, the cleverest way of arching only one eyebrow, and the most manly of bodies, had turned coat.
What was Lord Henry saying to him? Philippa couldn’t allow Ivo to be turned out of Beauchamp. Neither Bernice nor Lady Maude would ever forgive her. They would both accuse her of trying to gain Ivo’s affections for herself. Bernice would probably try to scratch her face and pull out her hair, which would make life excessively unpleasant.
Philippa didn’t hesitate a moment. She hurried quietly down the deeply indented stone stairs from the Beauchamps’ living quarters into the great hall with its monstrous fireplace and a beam-arched ceiling so high it couldn’t be seen in the winter for all the smoke gushing upward. She didn’t stop, but speeded up, slipping out of the great hall into the inner ward and running toward the eastern tower. She climbed the damp stone stairs, slowing down only when she reached the second floor and the door to her father’s private chamber. His war room, it was called, but Philippa knew that her father frolicked away long winter nights in that room with willing local women. Without hesitation she eased the door open a crack, just enough for her to see her father standing near one of the narrow arrow slits that gave out over the moat to the Dunroyal Forest beyond. Ivo de Vescy, his shoulders attempting arrogance, stood straight as a rod in front of him. She heard her father say sharply, “Have you no sense, you half-witted puppy? You cannot have Philippa! Bernice is the daughter who is to be wed, not Philippa. I will not tell you this again.”
Ivo, sullen yet striving with all his might to be manly, squared his shoulders until his back hurt and said, “My lord, I must beg you to reconsider. ’Tis Philippa I wish to have. I beg your pardon for trying to . . . convince her of my devotion in such . . .” He faltered, understandably, Philippa thought, easing her ear even closer.
“You were ravishing her, you cretin!”
“Mayhap, my lord, but I wouldn’t have hurt her. Never would I harm a hair on her little head!”
“Hellfire, boy, her little head is the same height as yours!”
That was true, but Ivo didn’t turn a hair at the idea of having a wife who could stare him right in the eye. “Lord Henry, you must give her to me, you must let me take her to wive. My father will cherish her, as will all my family. Please, my lord, I wouldn’t have hurt her.”
Lord Henry smiled at that. “True enough, young de Vescy. She wouldn’t have allowed you to ravish her, you callow clattermouth. Little you know her. She would have destroyed you, for she is strong of limb, strong as my hulking squire, not a mincing little bauble like other ladies.” There was sudden silence, and Lord Henry stared at the young man. There came a glimmer of softening in his rheumy eyes and a touch of understanding in his voice. “Ah, forget your desire, young Ivo, do you hear me?” But Ivo shook his head.
All softening and understanding fled Lord Henry’s face. His fearsome dark brows drew together. He looked malevolent, and even Philippa, well used to her sire’s rages, shrank back. Surely Ivo would back down very soon; no man faced her father in that mood. To her shock and Lord Henry’s, Ivo made another push, his voice nearly cracking as he said, “I love her, my lord! Only Philippa!”
Lord Henry crossed his meaty arms over his chest. He studied Ivo silently, then seemed to come to a decision. Frowning, he said, “Philippa is already betrothed. She is to wed on her eighteenth birthday, which is only two months from now.”
“Wed! Nay!”