“Philippa,” he said as he straightened his clothes, “come, you must awaken now.”

Sir Walter’s voice cracked through the silence. “Are you certain you are through plowing her belly, you whoreson? If the little slut wants more, I shall take her and give her pleasure she’s never known with you.”

Walter! Philippa sat up quickly, staring at her cousin, who still stood at the top of the incline, his hands on his hips, rain long since soaked through his clothes. He’d watched them. She felt at once sick to her stomach and blindly furious. She scrambled to her feet.

Dienwald took one of her hands in his and squeezed it. When he spoke, his tone was almost impersonal. “What do you want, de Grasse?”

“I want what is mine. I want her, despite what you’ve done to her.”

Dienwald squeezed her hand tightly now, and said in the same detached way, “You can’t have her, de Grasse. She was never yours to have, save in your fantasies. She’s mine. As you have observed, she is completely mine.”

“Nay, you bastard! She’ll wed me! She’ll have no choice, for I’ll hold you to ensure her compliance!”

Dienwald stared at him. “Too late, de Grasse, you are far too late. Philippa is already wedded to me with her father’s—the king’s—blessing.”

“You lie!”

“Why should I?”

That drew Walter up for a moment. He eyed his enemy of so many years that he’d lost count. De Fortenberry had been an enemy before Walter had even seen his face, his very name a litany of vengeance. So long ago Dienwald’s father had beaten Walter’s, but it hadn’t been fair, it hadn’t been unprejudiced. No, his father had been cheated, cheated of everything, his only son disinherited. “I should have killed you when I had you at Wolffeton. I broke your ribs, but it wasn’t enough, though I enjoyed it. I should have tortured you until I tired of hearing your screams, and then I should have sent my sword into your belly. Ah, but no, I waited, like a fool I waited for Graelam to return, certain that he would mete out justice, that he would right the wrongs done unto my father and unto me. I was a fool then, I admit it. I didn’t think that Lord Graelam’s wife, that little bitch, Kassia—your lover—would dare rescue you. But she did, curse her. Hellfire, I should have killed her for saving you!”

“But you didn’t,” Dienwald said, bringing Philippa against his side. “And Graelam, not knowing the depths of your twisted hatred, made you castellan of Crandall. But you couldn’t be satisfied with your overlord’s trust. No, you couldn’t dismiss your hatred and forget your imagined ills. You had to kill my people and burn their huts and their crops and put the sword to their animals. You went too far, de Grasse. Graelam knows what you did. He will not allow it to continue. He himself will kill you. I won’t have to bother.”

“Kill me? You? As for Graelam, you have no proof, de Fortenberry, of any burning or killing. Not a shred of proof do you have. Graelam would never act without proof. I know him well. He thinks he judges character like a god, when he is but a fool. And when he finds you dead, there will still be no proof, and he won’t act against me.”

“Then you stole Philippa and my son. You will die, Walter, and your enmity will die with you.”

“Stole! Ha! I rescued my cousin! Your miserable brat just happened to be with her. I didn’t harm him, the little vermin. Skewer not the truth for your own ends.”

“Since there is no longer a rescue to be made, since Philippa is my wife with the king’s blessing, then you intend now to take your leave of us? You intend to forget your plaints and return to Crandall?”

Even as he spoke, Dienwald saw Walter’s men, in view now, yet blurred in the downpour. The shower was lessening a bit but they were still vague and gray. They looked miserable; they looked uncertain.

Philippa said, “Walter, I am wedded to Dienwald. I am his wife. Both Lord Henry and Robert Burnell, the king’s chancellor, will attest to it. It is true. Leave us be.”

Walter ground his teeth. He felt maddened with failure, his loss surrounding him, gashing into him, twisting him and taunting him. He’d not gained what was his by birthright. He’d gained nothing, less than nothing. Life hadn’t meted out justice to him. There would be no retribution unless he gained it for himself. And now he’d stood watching his enemy enjoy the girl intended for him. He raised his face to the skies and howled his fury.

It was a grim sound, terrifying and haunting. Philippa clutched Dienwald against her side, turning her face inward to his chest. It was a howl of pain and defeat and ruin; a cry of loss of faith, loss of self.

Then Walter was silent; all his men were silent, though several were crossing themselves. The silence dragged on. It was frightening and eerie. The rain pounded down and the curving piece of ground upon which Dienwald and Philippa stood began to fill with water. The violets sagged beneath the weight of the rain.

Then Walter, without warning, drew his sword and leapt down the incline, his full weight landing against Dienwald’s chest, battering him backward. Philippa was thrown to the side, splashing onto her knees into the water. She scrambled to her feet, flailing about to gain purchase i

n the swirling torrent.

Walter’s sword was drawn, and in a smooth arc aimed toward Dienwald’s chest. Dienwald had naught but a knife and he held it in his right hand, then tossed it to his left, back and forth, taunting Walter.

He said softly, “Well, you sodden fool? Come, let’s see if you understand the uses for your sword! Or will you just stand there?”

Walter gave a roar of sheer rage and rushed toward Dienwald, his sword straight out in front of him. Dienwald sidestepped him easily, but his foot slipped on the slick grass and he twisted about, falling on his back.

Philippa picked up a rock and threw it with all her strength at Walter. It hit him square in the chest. He looked at her, surprise writ on his face. “Philippa? Why do you that? I am come to save you. You mustn’t pretend you don’t want to come with me, wed with me, there is no more need. I will kill him and then you will come with me.”

Walter turned, but Dienwald was on his feet again, feinting to the right, away from Walter’s sword thrust.

On and on it went, and Philippa knew Dienwald must fail eventually. His knife was no contest against Walter’s sword. Suddenly there came shouts from the road above.

The men paid no heed.

Tags: Catherine Coulter Medieval Song Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net