Earth Song (12 page)

“Well? Heard you aught out of the whore? Is she still unconscious?”

Alain had returned. Philippa shrank back, her heart pounding so loudly they must hear it. No matter. Let them come. She pulled the scythe from the wall and clutched it to her breast.

She heard one of the men say, “Nay, t' wench is still quiet. T' blow will keep her unconscious until we cut her throat. Can we split her afore we kill her?”

Philippa swallowed convulsively. She realized suddenly that her bloody hands were making the scythe handle slick. She picked up some hay at her feet and rubbed it over the handle and over her palms. The pain was fierce, but she welcomed it. As long as she felt pain, she was alive. And as long as she had the scythe, she had a chance.

“You can do whatever you wish to her. But you must kill her afterward, make no mistake about it, and make certain her body's never found. The wench is conniving, so take care if she comes to herself again. Now, I've spoken to Hood, the porter, and told him that I'm sending some supplies to the master. The man's not stupid, so be careful. You'll load the girl on a pack mule and take her away from St. Erth. When you return, you'll be paid. Now, go.”

Then Alain was leaving; she heard his retreating footsteps. Only his two accomplices remained, then.

All she had on her side was surprise.

She raised the scythe over her head and waited. One of the men was coming into the stables, saying to the other, “Wait here and I'll fetch t' wench.”

The other man protested, “Nay, ye'll take her in t' stall, ye bastid!”

They were fighting over who was going to ravish her first. Her hold on the scythe handle tightened. Filthy villains. One appeared in the doorway, moonlight framing his head. Philippa drew a sharp breath and brought the scythe down hard. It was only the blunted, curved edge of the blade that hit him, but the force of her blow cracked the man's head open and he didn't even cry out, but fell, blood spewing everywhere, to the hay-strewn floor.

The man behind him cried out, but Philippa, like a blood-spewed vision from hell, screamed and came at him, the scythe raised over her head.

The man bellowed in fear, his eyes rolling in his head, and turned on his heel. Philippa drew up for an instant, her mouth gaping in surprise. The man had run from her, terrified. She quickly ran across the inner bailey and up the steps of the great hall. She flung the doors open and rushed in. As always, there was the loud noise of general conversation. Then a few people noticed her standing there, the scythe in her hands, covered with blood, her hair wild about her pale face.

There was an awesome silence. Then Alain jumped to his feet and yelled, “Kill the whore! By the devil's knees, she's butchered our people! Look at her, covered with blood! Murderess! She's stolen the master's jewels! Kill her! Strike her down quickly!”

Philippa looked around her and raised the scythe. The silence was deafening and paralyzing. No one was moving yet. Everyone was staring as
if at a mummers' scene. “Gorkel,” she said, her voice just above a croak, “help me.”

Alain, seeing that no one had moved, bounded to his feet, screaming as he ran toward her, “Kill the damned witch! That's what she is, a cursed witch!”

He grabbed one of the men-at-arms' swords and ran straight toward her.

“Kill her!” another man's voice roared with the steward's. “Aye, she's a witch who steals men's jobs!” It was Prink, still pale and sweaty but ready to do her in. “Slay her where she stands!”

Eerily, Philippa now heard each voice separately. Every sound came singly and loudly and obscenely. She heard Father Cramdle praying loudly, she heard Edmund screech like one of her mother's peacocks as he dashed toward her. “No, Edmund, stay back!” But her words were just an echo in her mind. Northbert, Proctor, the armorer, Margot, Crooky, Alice—all of them were rushing at her. To aid her? To kill her?

She shuddered and backed away. She knew Alain's other henchman was out there in the inner bailey somewhere, just waiting to kill her if she came out. And here was Alain, fury and hatred burning him, ready to kill her even as she stood here in a hall filled with people.

She wasn't a coward. She raised the scythe.

“Nay, mistress.”

It was Gorkel and he was moving slowly toward her, a look of abandoned joy on his terrifying face. His teeth were bared in a smile, and in that instant Philippa felt a bolt of pity for Alain.

Gorkel caught the steward's arm just above the elbow and simply squeezed. Alain's sword clanked harmlessly to the floor.

Then the steward was screaming and begging and pleading. Philippa saw that Gorkel was twisting the steward's elbow back and up, even as Alain's screams grew louder and louder.

Finally, seemingly without emotion, Gorkel closed the thick fingers of his other hand about the steward's neck. He raised him with one arm, the fingers tightening, and the steward dangled above the floor. He couldn't scream now; his voice was a mere liquid gurgle in his throat, as Gorkel shook him until his neck snapped—an indecently loud noise in the silent hall.

Gorkel grunted and flung the quite-dead steward to the rushes.

Philippa dropped the scythe, covered her face with her bloody hands, fell to her knees, and burst into tears.

She heard voices, felt hands touching her gently.

Then she heard a little boy's voice, Edmund's voice, and it brought her face out of her hands, for he said, “Stop those silly female tears.”

She looked at him, and, surprising herself, smiled. “You are a mean little boy, with no more sympathy than a bug, but the sight of you right this moment pleases me.”

“Aye,” Edmund said. “That's because you're a female and need to be protected. You're filthy and covered with blood. Come along.”

“Go with the boy,” Gorkel said. “You did well, mistress, very well.”

“There's another man, Gorkel. I killed his partner—he's in the stables—but the other man ran. I don't know who he was, but I would recognize his voice.”

“It was probably the cistern keeper, a scurvy ruffian,” Gorkel said. “He's been hanging about
the steward. Aye, I'll have him fetched, and the master can see to his punishment when he returns.”

“What about him?” Old Agnes screeched, pointing at Prink. “He's a filthy traitor!”

The weaver was swaying on his feet, looking sick and afraid as Gorkel advanced on him.

“Leave him be,” Philippa called. “Don't kill him, Gorkel. He's just stupid and foolish from his illness. Leave him be.”

“I'll give him a taste of pain,” Gorkel said. “Just a little taste of pain so he'll remember not to make another mistake like this one.”

Philippa watched him lift the weaver high above the floor and shake him like a mongrel. Then he sent his fist into the weaver's stomach, dropping him, kicking his ribs, and saying softly, “Ye touch the mistress again, ye say one word out of the side of yer mouth to her, and I'll kick ye until yer ass comes out yer ears.”

Philippa turned away. Edmund took her hand. “Come along, Philippa. I'll take you to your chamber.”

Edmund was whistling as he walked beside her up the solar stairs.

Graelam de Moreton wiped the sweat from his brow and greeted his visitor. “Aye, Burnell, ‘tis a pleasure to see you again. Is our king well? And Eleanor? Is our kingdom healthy?”

The two men spoke as Burnell, weary to the tips of his worn leather boots, trudged beside the lord of Wolffeton Castle. He was met by
Graelam's wife, Lady Kassia, a charming, slight lady with large eyes and a laughing mouth. He found her delightful but wondered how such a small female dealt with the huge warrior that was her husband.

“What brings you here, Burnell?” Graelam asked finally, waiting for their guest to refresh himself with a bit of the remaining excellent Aquitaine wine.

“Actually, my lord, ‘tis a mission for the king. He wishes your advice.”

Graelam's dark brows shot upward. “Edward wants
me
to advise
him
? Come, Burnell, ‘tis nearly May and the king must want to march against the Welsh or the Scots, and I imagine he wants more men and more money for a campaign. Come, now, and tell me the truth—”

“ ‘Tis true, my lord. The king has a daughter and he wants to find her a husband, one here in Cornwall.”

“But Edward's daughters are far too young, and the king couldn't want an alliance with only a baron,” Lady Kassia protested.

“His daughter isn't a princess, my lady,” Burnell said to Kassia, who was sitting in her husband's vast chair. Graelam was standing beside her. It was then that Burnell noticed that she was heavy with child.

“What is she, then?”

“Kassia, my love,” Graelam said, grinning down at her, “methinks I scent a royal indiscretion. Edward must have been quite young, Burnell.”

“ ‘Tis true. Her name is Philippa de Beauchamp. She's nearly eighteen and ‘tis past time for her to be wedded.”

“De Beauchamp! But Lord Henry's daughter—”

“She's the king's illegitimate daughter, my lord, raised by Lord Henry as his own.”

Both Graelam and Kassia were staring with fascinated eyes at the king's secretary. Slowly Robert Burnell gave them all the facts and the king's request. “ . . . So you see, my lord, the king wants a man who won't try to bleed him, but also a man of honor and strength here in Cornwall.”

Graelam was frowning. He said nothing.

Burnell, hot and tired, said with some desperation, “He wants you to give him a man who would be worthy of his daughter's hand, my lord, so—”

“I may know the man the king seeks,” Graelam said with his first spark of enthusiasm, and Kassia saw the evil intent in her husband's eyes.

“You do?” she asked, staring at him.

“Aye, mayhap I do.”

“His present rank isn't important, my lord. The king will make him an earl.”

“An earl, you say? ‘Tis something to think about. You will remain until tomorrow, Burnell?”

Robert Burnell would have happily remained in a soft feather mattress for a week. After visiting Lord Graelam, he would have to stop at Beauchamp and speak to Lord Henry and tell him, hopefully, that there would be a groom for Philippa shortly.

“Good. I will tell you my opinion on the morrow. Aye, advice for the king.”

That night, Graelam was laughing heartily in bed beside his wife. Kassia was chiding him sharply. “You cannot, Graelam! Truly, you cannot!”

“I told you I would bring that whoreson down, Kassia. This will do it.” And Graelam continued to laugh, finally holding his belly.

“But Dienwald despises authority—you know that. His father-in-law would be the King of England! Dienwald wouldn't accept it. He'd travel to the Pope to plead for his freedom, or escape to the Tartars, or even pray to the devil if need be. And to be made an earl. Dienwald disdains such trappings. He hates respectability and responsibility and tending to his name and his holdings and his
worth.
Oh, my lord, he bested you, but this revenge would make him miserable forever. He could no longer raid when it pleased him. He could no longer brag about being a rogue and a scoundrel. He is proud of his reputation! And what if the girl is a hag? What then?”

Graelam laughed harder.

Kassia just looked at her husband and thought about the casks of Aquitaine wine that Dienwald had probably stolen from the wrecked ship. She thought of Dienwald as an earl, his father-in-law the King of England himself. Hadn't Burnell mentioned that the girl, Philippa, looked every inch a Plantagenet?

Kassia started laughing herself. “He'll murder the both of us,” she said, “if Edward takes your advice.”

It was the middle of the night and Philippa was dreaming that she felt a warm hand lightly stroking through her hair, rubbing her scalp, and it felt wonderful. Then a man's mouth was touching her cheek, her jaw, nipping at her throat, licking over her lips; then a man's tongue was stroking rhythmically over her lower lip. She sighed and
stretched onto her back. She loved the dream, cherished it, held it tightly, now feeling the man's fingers caressing her breasts, his callused fingertips stroking her nipples.

When the man's fingers rubbed over her ribs, curved in with her waist, then stroked her belly, her muscles contracted with pleasure. Then he was pressing her legs open and delving through her hair to find her, and she sighed, then moaned deeply, wanting more, lifting her hips, and wanting, wanting . . .

She opened her eyes to see the man wasn't a dream. It was Dienwald, and she looked at him until she could make out his features in the darkness. He looked tired and intent and he was breathing hard as he stared down at her.

“It wasn't a dream,” she said.

“No, wench, it wasn't a dream. You feel like the softest of God's creatures.” She felt his fingers caressing her flesh and knew she was wet beneath his fingers and swelling, her flesh heating. Then he eased his middle finger inside her, and she cried out, jerking up, feelings she'd never before imagined welling up inside her.