Earth Song (10 page)

“Who is this man?”

Edmund shrugged.

“How long will your father be away?”

“He said mayhap a week, longer or shorter.”

“How did your father find out about the burned crops?”

“Crooky. He sang it to him at dawn. Father nearly kicked his ribs into his back.”

“I can imagine. How does Crooky find out things so quickly?”

“He won't tell anyone how he does it.”

“If he provides useful information, I suppose one can forgive his miserable rhymes.”

“Aye, but Father said that only he could kick Crooky because Crooky was
his
fool and no one else's and had his protection. So no one touches Crooky.” Edmund shrugged. “Crooky always finds out everything first. I think mayhap he's a witch, like you, except he's not a silly girl.”

So much for a little peace talk, Philippa thought.

“There's Father Cramdle,” Edmund said as they came in sight of the priest.

Philippa made his acquaintance, and was pleased when he looked her squarely in the eye and was polite to her. She gave him Edmund with the admonition, “You will do as Father Cramdle tells you, Edmund, or you will answer to me.”

“Maypole! Woolly head! Witch!”

Philippa didn't turn around when she heard Edmund's fierce whispers; she merely smiled and kept on going. She met with the armorer, a ferocious old man whose name was Proctor and who had only one eye and that one rheumy. He'd cut leather for many pairs of shoes, including a pair for her. She delivered the leather to Old Agnes, and she, in turn, set others to stitching the leather into shoes.

It was late afternoon when Philippa thought again of escape. Why not? She stopped cold. She'd acted all through the day, she realized suddenly, as if she were chatelaine here at St. Erth, and that was absurd. She was a prisoner; she was as good as a serf; she was a
wench.

She stopped her ruminations at the sight of Alain. He was speaking with a man she hadn't noticed before. The conversation looked furtive to her sharp eyes, and the steward gave something to the man. She watched silently until the man melted away behind the soldiers' barracks. Alain then mounted a horse and rode out of St. Erth. Most curious, she thought. Without hesitation Philippa went into the great hall, through the side chambers, until she found the steward's small accounting room.

There were wooden shelves built against the walls, and in the small cubicles were rolled parchments tied with bits of string. There were also larger sections in which bound ledgers were kept. Quills and ink pots and a thick pile of foolscap lay atop the table, as well as large dust particles. There were books stacked on the floor in front of the shelves, a narrow cot against one wall, and a low trunk at the foot of the cot. Nothing more. Evidently Alain both worked and slept in this room.

Philippa took one of the large ledgers from a shelf, moved to his desk, and opened it. It was a record of the past three years' crops—what was planted in which section of land, the price of the grain, the sale of the product, and a log of the villeins who'd worked each section, including the number of hours and days. Another bound book contained birth and marriage records of St. Erth.
Philippa returned to the first book and read it through. She sought out another book that held all the records of building and repairs done at St. Erth in the past three years—the tenure of Alain's stewardship.

It took Philippa only an hour and a half to discover that Alain was a thief. No wonder Dienwald had had to steal the wool: there was no coin available because Alain had stolen it all. Why didn't Dienwald know this? Didn't he go over his steward's records?

Philippa rose and rearranged all the steward's materials the way she'd found them and left the small airless room. He still hadn't returned. Where had he gone? Who was the man to whom he'd been speaking? What had he given the man? She had no answers.

Philippa went back to the weaving shed, saw that all work was progressing satisfactorily, then went in search of Crooky. She found him curled up in a corner of the great hall—sleeping off a huge meal, Margot told her, glaring down at the snoring fool.

Philippa walked over to him and lightly stuck a toe in his ribs. He jerked up, his mouth opened, and he started singing:

Ah, my sweet lord,
don't cuff your loving slave;
He slumbers rarely in your service,
like a toothsome wench who—

“Don't finish that atrocious rhyme,” Philippa said. “Stand up, fool. I'll have words with you.”

Crooky blinked and staggered to his feet, scratching his armpit. “What want you, mistress?”

“I suppose ‘mistress' is better than ‘wench.' ”

“My sweet lord isn't here, mistress.”

“I know it. I need your help, Crooky. I want to ask you several questions, but please don't sing your answers, just speak them like sensible people.”

Crooky rubbed his ribs. “You've a sharp toe, mistress.”

“It'll be sharper if you don't attend me.”

“Oh, aye, I'm whetted.”

Ten minutes later Philippa left the fool to resume his sleep. He'd given her more food for thought than she wished to consume. The greatest shock of all was the fact that the Lord of St. Erth could make out written words, but only slowly and with difficulty. He could write only his name and cipher only the most simple of problems. Not that all that many men could, and no more than a handful of women. She was foolish to be so surprised. She'd just thought that Dienwald, who, despite his stubbornness, his arrogance, was intelligent and seemingly learned . . . No wonder he was firm about Edmund's lessons with Father Cramdle. He knew it was important; he felt the lack in himself.

Philippa was very angry. She also realized when she saw Alain ride back into the inner bailey that she had less than no power at all. She was a prisoner, not the mistress of St. Erth.

She had to bide her time.

Unfortunately, Alain sought her out at the evening meal. He, she quickly discovered, played the master in Dienwald's absence, with Dienwald's permission, evidently. She knew she must tread
warily. He sat beside her in the master's high-backed chair, ignored her for a good long while, then turned and gave her a leer a man would give a worn-out trollop of no account at all. She said nothing, didn't change her expression, merely sank her white teeth into a piece of pigeon pie, a delicious concoction that included carrots and turnips and potatoes.

“I see you stole the dead mistress's clothes.”

So, Philippa thought, the steward wanted to bait her. He couldn't keep his dislike of her to himself. He really wasn't very good at the game. Not nearly so accomplished as his master. She smiled. “Do you see that, really? I'd thought you here only three years,
Master
Alain. The mistress, I'd heard, died shortly after Edmund's birth.”

His right hand crushed a piece of bread. “Don't think you to insult me, whore. Dienwald will plow your belly, but he will show you no favors. You are but one of many, as I told you before. He will toss you to his men when he's through with you. You look a fool in the gown—'tis far too small for you. Your breasts look absurd, flattened like that. And your legs stick out like two poles, it is so short.”

“ ‘Tis better than wearing nothing.”

“Aye, all of us saw him rip your clothing off you, then carry you to his bed. You must have angered him mightily. Did he ravish you until you screamed? Or did you enjoy his plunging member inside you?”

“Nay,” Philippa replied, as if considering the matter.

Alain laughed, sopped up some gravy from his trencher with the large piece of bread he'd
crushed in his hand, and stuffed it into his mouth.

“You really don't look good in his chair,” Philippa said, looking at his bulging cheeks. “It is too large for you, too substantial, too important. Or perhaps ‘tis you who are just too meager, too paltry, for Dienwald's place.” She thought he would spit out the bread in his anger at her, but he managed to keep chewing and swallow.

It was then she saw the shift in his expression. He'd realized that what he was doing wouldn't get him what he wanted. He was prepared to retrench. She waited. “We argue to no account,” he said finally, and he sounded the reasonable man, not the furious brute who wanted to strike her. “Truly, Philippa de Beauchamp, you must leave St. Erth while there is still time. I will help you return to your father. You must go before Dienwald returns.”

He wanted her gone, and very badly. Why? She was a threat to him now that she knew him for a thief, but he couldn't know that she'd discovered the truth about him. Why, then? “I've a notion to stay here and wed the Lord of St. Erth. He is a man of worth, and comely. What think you, steward?” The moment the words were out, Philippa was appalled at herself. But she wouldn't take them back. She watched, fascinated, as his face mottled with rage—and something else, something sly and frightening. His hand shook.

“I'll have you whipped, whore,” he said very quietly. “I've a fancy to wield the whip myself. God, how I'd enjoy it. I'd see those breasts of yours heave up and down when you scream and try to escape the whip, and I'd mark that back of yours with bloody welts.”

Edmund suddenly slipped out of his place at the trestle table and quickly moved to her side even as Philippa said, “No you won't, Master Alain. You have no power here either. If Dienwald only knew that you—” She bit her lower lip until she felt the sting of her own blood. She'd very nearly spit at him that he was a liar and a thief and a scoundrel and probably even worse.

At that moment Crooky rose from the floor beside Alain's chair and moved to stand on Philippa's other side. He yawned deeply, stared blankly at the steward, then sprawled back onto the rushes.

Alain didn't look pleased. He eyed Edmund, who looked for all the world like a mangy little gamecock. “The boy can't protect you, whore, nor can the fool, who's an idiot, a half-wit. He's naught of anything, and Dienwald keeps him here only because he finds it amusing to endure him. Now, what were you going to say, whore? You were going to accuse me of something? Make up lies about me?”

“My name is Philippa de Beauchamp. I am a lady. You're naught but offal.”

“You're no more a lady than the fool is a poet. You're a silly vain trollop.” Without warning, the steward raised his hand and struck her hard across the face. Her head snapped back from the force of it and she felt tears burn her eyes. Oddly, she noticed ink stains on his fingers, and wondered when he'd last bathed.

“Damned slut!” He raised his hand to strike her again, but suddenly, to Philippa's bewilderment, his chair began to shake, tip backward, then go crashing to the floor, the steward with it, landing
on his back, his head striking the carved chair back.

Philippa, her hand pressed to her flaming cheek, could only stare at the fallen steward. Edmund stood over him, rubbing his hands together and crowing with laughter. The hall had fallen silent.

Alain scrambled to his feet, his face blotchy with rage, his thin body trembling. He waved his fists toward Edmund, yelling, “You damned little cockscomb! I'll hide you for that!”

Philippa was out of her chair and standing in front of Edmund in a flash. “You touch the boy and I'll kill you. Doubt me not.”

The steward drew up short, looking at the woman who was at eye level with him. She was strong, but she wasn't strong enough to do him damage. Her words meant nothing; she'd cringe away at the first threat of violence, like every other woman he'd known. He wanted to spit on her, he wanted to wring her neck. No, he had to keep control. “Stand aside, whore.”

He raised his hand when Philippa didn't move. There came a deep grumbling sound from behind the steward. Slowly, very slowly, Alain lowered his arm, turning toward the sound as he did so. Philippa stared at Gorkel the Hideous. He was the most terrifying sight she'd ever seen. His bony face, with its pocked surface and puckered scars, its stubbled jaw and thick beetle eyebrows that met over his nose, looked like a vision from hell. And there was that low growl coming from his throat, like an animal warning its prey.

“Get ye gone, little man,” Gorkel said finally, and his lips barely opened.

Alain wanted to tell the codshead take himself
to hell, but he was afraid of Gorkel; the man could easily break his spine with but little effort of his huge hands. He looked at Philippa, then at the boy, who was standing there with his hands on his hips, his chin thrust forward. He'd get her; then he'd punish the boy. The steward turned on his heel and strode from the hall.

Crooky suddenly jumped to his feet and burst into wild song, the words following the enraged steward from the hall:

A varlet he'll be to the end
A stench that rots in the walls
Next time he'll not have the gall
When the master's back in the hall.

Philippa looked down at Edmund. “Thank you.”

“He's a bully. Father doesn't see it because Alain's always careful around him. Why does he hate you? You're naught but a girl. You've never done anything to him, have you?”