Philippa was bored. More than bored, she’d discovered what Dienwald’s errand was and she was worried, despite the fact that he was a trained fighter and no enemy was supposed to be where he was going.
She accepted without question that her cousin Sir Walter de Grasse was a black villain. She just wished there was something she could do.
She wore her new gown that afternoon and she looked proud and very pretty, so Old Agnes told her, very much the proper mistress. Then Agnes sought confirmation from Gorkel, who looked at Philippa and grunted, his hideous face achieving a repellent smile. She’d cut a narrow piece of wool and tied it around her hair. As for Crooky, he was feeling expansive in his own new clothes, which were still very clean, and praised her to her eyebrows. Philippa expected the worst and wasn’t disappointed:
She sweetly sews for all of us, this lovely
maid whose name’s not Mary.
Our sweet lord who stole her wool aches to
drink from her sweet dairy.
She made him a tunic and kissed it pure
Our sweet lord wonders what to do with her.
Philippa cheered loudly and the other servants in the hall quickly joined her. “It rhymed, truly,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Though your sentiments don’t do the master justice.”
Crooky, in a new mood of self-doubt, merely said, “Nay, mistress, ’twas hideous. I must do better, aye, I must tether my wayward thoughts and bring them to smoothness and pleasure to the ear. Aye, I will beg Father Cramdle to write it down for me.”
Philippa said, “You have lightened me for a few moments, Crooky, and I thank you. Now, before you go to the priest, tell me when the master will return.”
“No one knows,” Gorkel said, stepping forward. “He’s gone to the southern borders.”
She knew that, and sat there worrying her thumbnail. She paced the great hall. In a spate of feverish activity to distract herself, she had lime dumped down the privy hole in the guardroom. She spaded the small garden near the cistern, willing the few vegetables to grow. She watched the women sewing, always sewing, and she praised them, and joined in herself for an hour, making another tunic for the master. Old Agnes ran her arthritic fingers over it and gave her a sly smile. Philippa went to the cooking shed and spoke with Bennen, a stringy old man who knew more of herbs than anyone she had ever known and presided over the cooking with what Philippa’s mother had called the “special touch.” He got along well with St. Erth’s withered cook, which was a good thing, because no one else seemed to get along with him. She spoke of several dishes she herself liked, and Bennen committed them to memory, and called her “mistress” and smiled at her, his toothless mouth wide. If Dienwald wanted to feel trapped, he needed only listen to his own people. She even visited Eleanor the cat and her four kittens, all healthy and mewing loudly.
The night was long, and Philippa wished Dienwald were there, kissing her, fighting with her, trying to fit himself between her legs even as he fought himself.
The next morning, Edmund said to her after watching her crumble a particularly fine hunk of
cheese and toss it to one of the castle dogs, “You didn’t sleep well, Maypole. You look sour and your eyes are all dark-circled. My father has a nice palfrey that should be big enough for a female your size. Come riding, Philippa. You won’t miss my father so much.” He added after a little thought, “Aye, I miss him as well. We will both ride.”
“I don’t miss him, but I should like to ride.”
The palfrey’s name was Daisy and she was docile and well-mannered. Philippa, her gown hiked up to her knees, her legs and feet bare, sat her horse, smiling down at Ogden, the head stableman. He was wildly red-haired and so freckled she couldn’t make out the tone of his flesh beneath.
Gorkel approached and said, “You’ll want men with you, mistress. The master ordered me to . . .” He faltered, and Philippa could only stare, it was so unexpected of the man who’d without hesitation snapped the steward’s neck.
“I understand,” she said. “The master doesn’t want me perchance to lose myself in the wilds of Cornwall.”
Gorkel beamed at her. “Aye, mistress, thass it. I don’t ride well, but I’ll fetch men who will accompany you.”
The afternoon was sunny, only a light breeze stirring the air, and the countryside was wild and hilly, trees bowed from the fierce winds and storms that blew from the Irish Sea just to the north—but not now, not during Dienwald’s fanciful deep spring.
Edmund allowed that she looked less testy upon their return to St. Erth some three hours later.
“You must take care with your flattery, Master Edmund, else I may mistake your sweet words for affection.”
To which Edmund snorted in disgust and said with a dignity that sat well on his boy’s shoulders, “I am not a churl.”
“Not today, at least,” she said, and grinned at him.
Edmund didn’t retort to that because they’d just crossed into the inner bailey and he was staring at a pack mule loaded with bundles, three men in Wolffeton colors lolling around the mule.
Perfect Kassia, the little princess, the glorious little lady, had sent clothing, just as she’d promised. An entire mule-load of clothing. Philippa gasped as she unwrapped the coarse-wool-wrapped garments. Gowns, overtunics, fine hose, shifts of the softest cotton and linen, ribbons of all colors, even soft leather slippers large enough for her, the toes pointed upward in the latest fashion from Eleanor’s court. It was too much and it was wonderful and Philippa felt like the most sour-natured of wretches. She read the letter from Kassia, handed to her by one of the men. Mary was thanked for the hospitality of St. Erth, and Philippa could practically see Kassia smiling as she penned the words. The close of the letter made her frown a bit: “ . . . do not worry if things transpire somewhat awry. Dienwald makes his own decisions and he is strong and unswerving. Don’t worry, please do not, for all will be as it should be.”
Now, what did that mean? Philippa wondered as she rolled the sheet of foolscap and retied it. She looked at the clothing spread out on the trestle table in the great hall. So much, and all for her. Odd how she’d forgotten how much she’d owned at Beauchamp, and how dear one simple gown had now become to her.