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There were a dozen men in their troop, all of them in high spirits. Daria heard them saying:
“. . . Did you see the expression on his fat face when the master told him to remove his tunic?”
“. . . Did you see the woman’s face when he did?”
“. . . I thought she’d faint when he wore naught but his fat white skin.”
“. . . Aye, that little rod of his shriveled even more.”
“. . . Master Giles won’t cheat our master again, that’s certain.”
On and on it went, and when Daria chanced to see Dienwald’s face, she saw that he looked insufferably pleased with himself. The heavily clouded skies cleared and she saw her new host and hostess quite clearly now.
Philippa had pulled off her wool cap, and her hair, thick and lustrous and curly, of a dark honey color, tumbled down her back. She was laughing, riding close to her husband, and Daria saw that their hands were clasped between their horses. It hurt her to watch them. She remembered Wales, remembered those hours with Roland when he’d cared for her, laughed with her, complimented her when she repeated the Welsh words and phrases correctly.
Dienwald turned in his saddle and said, “We aren’t far from Thispen-Ladock. Another hour. Do you feel all right, Daria?”
No, she wanted to shout at him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Roland would say when she arrived. She closed her eyes a moment, then squared her shoulders. “Aye, I’m fine,” she called back, but Dienwald wasn’t fooled for an instant.
“This is all passing strange,” he said in a quiet voice to his wife. “Why did he leave her at Wolffeton?”
“For that matter,” Philippa said thoughtfully, “why did she leave to come to him? Is she simple? Surely she would realize the danger.”
“Just as you did when you ran away from Beauchamp?”
Philippa lowered her brow and giggled.
Dienwald squeezed her fingers and sighed deeply. “I feel for poor fat Master Giles. I dread to think what would have happened to him had you landed in his domain rather than mine.”
Daria heard the two of them arguing, insulting each other, and laughing. She wished it didn’t hurt. She turned her head and looked toward the vast expanse of rolling green hills and clumps of thick maple and oak forests. There were sheep everywhere, and wheat crops, the waving stalks turning the horizon gold. There were no more barren cliffs or naked rocks and bent trees. The land became more gentle with each passing mile. Daria was tired, she admitted it, but she wasn’t about to ask her host to stop for her.
The girl, Philippa, wouldn’t ask. She’d keep going until her husband dropped in his tracks first, even if it killed her.
Roland came to the fore of the keep’s ramparts at the shout from one of his men.
“A cavalcade comes, master. I don’t know who it is.”
Sir Thomas Ladock, old in heart if not in years, looked toward the oncoming riders, his dark eyes full of intelligence. “Why, I think it is Dienwald de Fortenberry. Do you not see his banner, Roland?”
“Dienwald.”
“Aye, I met the boy some years ago. His banner is distinctive—the eagle and the lion with the clashing swords between them. His father was a wild man—eager to fight, eager to love, and eager to laugh. Is Dienwald like his sire, Roland?”
Roland smiled. “Aye, he is.”
“There is a woman—no, there are two women—riding with about a dozen men, I’d say,” Salin called out.
Roland stared hard then, for he felt something strange stirring within him. It was an odd feeling; it had come from nowhere that he could fathom. It was simply there, and he waited for the feelings to become something tangible he could grasp. And as the cavalcade drew close, he saw his wife riding her mare on Dienwald’s left. And there was Philippa on Dienwald’s right, dressed in boy’s clothes, her beautiful hair wild and free.
Roland said in the most measured voice he could manage, “It appears, Thomas, that you are shortly to meet my wife.”
“Your wife,” Sir Thomas repeated, staring toward the group of riders. “What is she doing with Dienwald?”
“I shudder to know the answer to that.”
Salin smiled. “She missed you, my lord. And she came to you.”
“Don’t think she is so sweet and guileless, Salin. All women carry the scourge of Satan in them.”
