Sir Thomas, more astute in human nature than he cared to be, turned and looked long at the young man he wished had been his own son.
“Life is vastly unexpected,” he said. “Let’s descend, my boy, so that we may greet our guests.”
16
Sir Thomas was fully aware that Roland was angry. His entire body had seemed to tighten, to become rigid, as Dienwald de Fortenberry’s party had come closer. As the minutes passed, Thomas realized, oddly enough, that the young man’s anger was directed at the slight girl astride the beautiful palfrey. His wife, he’d said. But why was he so displeased to see her? They’d not long been wedded. He remembered, so many years before, how he’d not let Constance out of his sight or bed for nearly three months. Something was decidedly wrong here. He looked at the young man, saw that he was closed as tightly as a clam, and said nothing.
Roland made no move toward his
wife when the small cavalcade came to a halt in the inner bailey. It was Salin who lifted Daria from her palfrey’s back. Roland introduced his guests to Sir Thomas, passing over his wife as if she weren’t there. Roland continued to ignore his wife even after Thomas took her hand in his and bade her welcome to Thispen-Ladock. Dienwald’s men were directed by Salin to the dilapidated barracks. Thomas led his guests into the great hall of Thispen-Ladock.
“You surprise me, Dienwald,” Roland was saying to de Fortenberry, his voice sounding mildly defensive. “You are leagues from St. Erth. What do you here? Come you to spy on me?”
“Now, that’s sport I hadn’t considered. Nay, Roland, Philippa and I were out a-hunting fat two-legged prey and we found him in due course, along with your sweet wife.”
“I see,” Roland said, and turned to Thomas. He didn’t see a thing and he was so furious that he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His wife, his sweet, guileless wife, had convinced Dienwald and Philippa to bring her here to him. Ale was brought. Servants served it. No one said much of anything. Philippa looked from Daria to Roland, and she frowned. Daria sat silent, her head down, her hands clasped in her lap. This was her future home, she was thinking, and she was appalled. Her distress at Roland’s obvious cold welcome was momentarily forgotten as she stared around her.
The great hall was damp and cold and its overhead wooden beams so blackened from years of smoke that it was impossible to see the roof. The trestle tables were battered and carved and laden with grease and bits of dried food. There were no lavers, no sweet-smelling rushes on the stone floor, no tapestries on the stone walls to contain the chill. It smelled old and rancid. She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
She looked up at her emotionless husband’s voice and shook her head. She offered him a tentative smile, which he did not return. Roland, instead, turned to Dienwald. “Tell me about this fat prey of yours.”
Philippa de Fortenberry laughed. “It’s a fine tale, Roland.”
“Hush, wench, you’ll ruin the humor of it if you rattle on. A tussle with Master Giles, Roland, a fat rogue I doubt you’ve met as yet. The fellow was near St. Erth one fine day when Philippa and I were away from the keep. We believe he probably waited until he saw us leave. He offered goods to Old Agnes and Crooky, and his oily tongue won them quickly to his way of thinking. In short, when Philippa and I returned some two days later, we owned supposedly fine bolts of cloth and the price paid had been wondrous low.”
Philippa laughed again and said, “When we unfolded the cloth, we found that it was filled with moths and they’d already chewed it to bits. You should have heard Crooky, Roland. He broke into a song that burned even my ears. It seems that this cloth wasn’t the same cloth Master Giles showed to Old Agnes, the cloth she had so very carefully examined. This was his special cloth, for replacement after his sale. Crooky then noticed that castle goods were missing, such as a gift from the queen—a beautiful wrought gold laver—and several necklaces from the king. Oddly enough, even Gorkel the Hideous believed oily Master Giles. He was overwrought to learn of his thievery. We ordered him to remain at St. Erth, else Master Giles might have found his flesh flayed from his fat body.”
Who, Daria wondered, was Gorkel the Hideous? He sounded a monster, with such a name, but Philippa was laughing.
“So you and Dienwald rode after him,” Sir Thomas said, much enjoying himself. He was sitting forward, his goblet of ale balanced on his knee.
“Aye,” Dienwald said in a mournful voice, “but the wench here continued to call a halt every few hours, so it took us many days to catch up to Master Giles.”
“I’m not a wench, I’m your wife.”
“Why?” Daria asked. “Why did you keep stopping?”
Dienwald gave her a wicked smile. “My wench here—my wench/wife—wished to ravish my poor man’s body.” He shrugged. “What could I do? To refuse her makes her cross and peevish—you may be certain that I’ve tried it. My men were very understanding of her needs and of my surrender. Indeed, once when I refused her for the third time, they begged me to give in to her. Ah, and so I did.”
Philippa poked him in the ribs. “You will come to a very bad end, Dienwald.”
“I already have, wench. I already have. Brought to my knees by a female giant who could have made two quite proper-size wenches.”
“I shall write my illustrious father and tell him that you show me no respect at all—”
Roland interrupted. “The king, Philippa, is currently visiting the Marcher Barons. We left him at Tyberton, the stronghold of the Earl of Clare. You must hold your complaints against your rogue of a husband until the fall, when he and the queen will return to London again.”
“Wound you, Philippa?” her husband inquired, his brows drawn together, his expression perplexed. “I thought it was many weeks now since it was a question of wounding, you being such a hearty wench, and—”
Philippa shrieked at him and clapped her hand over his mouth. “Forgive him, sir,” she said to Sir Thomas, “he makes fine sport at my expense.”
Daria was smiling, she couldn’t help herself, until she realized that Roland was looking at her. Her smile froze.
“So continue with your tale, Dienwald,” Roland said pleasantly. “Finally you found Master Giles.”
“Aye, in the Penrith oak forest not far from here. He had six men, one of them in particular a vicious sot, and several women. He’d just caught Daria and didn’t know what to do with his prize. She was coming to see her husband, Roland, something that Philippa would do as well. Females. They have no sense, no means to weigh what they should or shouldn’t do. They act because their feelings dictate they should, and we must come to the rescue.”