Earth Song (24 page)

There was but one candle to light the chamber. She felt the shadows surround her, and they were comforting. She made her way to the narrow bed, stripped off her soft yellow overtunic and the gown beneath. She stretched out on her back, staring up into the darkness.

What, after all, could he have said to her? she wondered now. But why did he wish to wed her?
Why
? Sir Walter was a dangerous man, and she recognized the threat in him. She saw the intensity in him, the will to drive himself, to drive others. The last thing that would be his main desire was a woman, any woman.

She must go very carefully. She must give him false security. She must hang around his neck until he wished her to leave him alone. Then, perhaps, she would find a way for her and Edmund to escape Crandall. If they didn't escape, she feared what would happen to them. She would refuse to wed Walter and he would rape her endlessly. She knew it. But
why
?

She dared not wait for Dienwald, for the way things were progressing, he might well be too late. But why, she wondered again and again, did Walter want to wed her so badly?

Over and over she tortured her brain with possible motives Walter could harbor. Had her father changed his mind and offered Walter money if he found her and wedded her? Land? She shook her head on that possibility. Her father never changed
his mind. Never. There were no answers, only more questions that made her head ache badly.

Dienwald scratched his chest. He was hot and dirty and disliked the fact. He hated the waiting but knew there was naught else to be done. He rose and began pacing the perimeter of his camp. They were withdrawn into a copse of thick maple trees, well-hidden from the narrow winding road that led to Crandall. His men were lolling about, bored and restless, arguing, tossing dice, recounting heroics and tales of their male prowess.

Where were the fool and Gorkel?

What of Philippa and Edmund? Worry gnawed at him, paralyzed his brain. What was the truth? Had Philippa betrayed him, or had she been caught as certainly as Ellis and Albe had been slain?

Only she could give him the answer. She or that whoreson peasant, Walter. Dienwald sat down and leaned against an oak tree older than life itself, and closed his eyes. What he wanted, damn her soft hide, was Philippa. He saw her sprawled in the mud, laughing, her eyes a vivid blue in her blackened face; then he saw her naked as he threw buckets of water on her and soaped her body with his hands. His loins were instantly heavy, his rod hard and hurting. He knew in that moment that he would have to return her to her father the moment he got his hands on her again. If he kept her with him, he would take her, and he wouldn't allow himself to do that. If he did, it would be all over for him.

He wouldn't allow himself to be caught. Allying himself to de Beauchamp—he couldn't bear the thought of it. Lord Henry was a pompous ass, arrogant and secure in his own privilege, in his immense power and dignity. No, Dienwald would remain free, unencumbered, answerable to no one other than himself, responsible for no one but himself and his son. If he needed wool, he'd steal it. He wished now he hadn't forgotten about the wine arriving from Kassia's father. He would have gladly planned the shipwreck and the theft of every cask. He would have laughed in Graelam's face, and taken a pounding if Graelam had pushed him on it. He wanted to be free.

He wondered what was happening at Crandall, and he fretted, bawled complaints to the heavens, and paced.

In Crandall's inner bailey, Crooky smiled and sang and capered madly about, drawing everyone's attention. He held Gorkel on a chain leash fastened about his huge neck with a leather band, and tugged at him, carping and scolding at him as though he were a bear to be alternately baited and cajoled. “Nod your ugly head to that fair wench yon, Gorkel!”

Gorkel eyed the fair wench, who was staring at him, fear and excitement lighting her eyes. He nodded to her and smiled wide, showing the vast space between his front teeth. He felt the fool tugging madly at his leash and growled fearsomely, making the females in the growing crowd
scream with fear and the men step back a pace. The bells on his cap tinkled wildly.

The fool laughed and pranced around Gorkel, kicking out but not quite touching him. “Fret not, fair maids. ‘Tis a brute, and ugly as the devil's own kin, but he's a gentle monster and he'll do as I bid him. Hark now, yon comely maid with the soft smile, what wish you to have the creature do?”

The girl, Glenda by name and pert by nature, angled forward, preening in the center of all attention, and sang out, “I wish him to dance. A jig. And I want him to raise his monstrous legs high.”

Crooky hissed between his teeth, “Canst thou jig for the maid, Gorkel?”

Gorkel never let his wide grin slip. His expression vacuous, his eyes blank, he began to hop and jump. He ponderously raised one leg and then the other and clambered about gracelessly. Quickly Crooky began to sing and clap his hands to a beat Gorkel didn't need. His eyes scanned the crowd as he bellowed as loudly as he could:

All come to see the beastie prance
He'll cavort and jump, he'll do a wild dance
He's a heathen and a savage, ugly and black,
But withal he's merry, no matter his lack.

Crooky wanted to shout with relief when he saw Edmund slip between two men and gape at Gorkel. The boy was ragged and bruised and filthy, but at the sight of him and Gorkel, he looked happy as a young stoat, his eyes gleaming. Thank St. Andrew that he was alive. Where was the mistress? Was she imprisoned? Had Sir Walter
harmed her? Crooky's blood ran cold at the thought.

Crooky jingled Gorkel's chain, and he ceased his clumsy movements and stood quietly beside the fool, breathing hard and still grinning his frightening grin. He eyed Edmund and nodded, his eyes holding a warning. “Ah,” yelled Crooky suddenly, “methinks I see another fair wench. A big fair wench with enough hair on her head to stuff a mattress! Come hither, fair maid, and let my gargoyle behold your beauty. He'll not touch you, but let him behold what God created after he made a monster.”

Philippa's heart was pounding madly. She'd watched Gorkel do his dance, not at first recognizing him in his wildly colorful and patched garments, the fool's cap on his head and the mangy beard that covered his jaws. It had been Crooky's bellowing verses that had brought her, nearly running, to the inner bailey. Dienwald was here, close, thank God. And she saw Edmund, filthy but well-looking, and quite alive, thank God yet again. “I come,” she called out, voice filled with humor. “Let the monster gawk at the fair wench.”

She picked up her skirts and raced toward them. She saw Crooky's relieved smile stiffen and go flat. She didn't understand. She drew to a halt, thinking frantically. “I am here. I bid you good morrow, monster.” She curtsied. “Behold me, a maid who frets and who wishes for the moon but sees naught but a melting sun that holds her in bondage and gives her to chaff endlessly.”

Crooky beheld her closely, all the while Gorkel loped in a clumsy gait around her, stroking his big bearded jaw.

She was beautiful, Crooky thought, finely dressed as a maid should be, as a
beloved
maid should be. She was no prisoner, Sir Walter no warden. Had he rescued her at her wish? He thought through her words, elegant words that twisted and intertwined about themselves. Had she meant that she wanted to escape her cousin? Crooky knew the matter wasn't his to decide. Since his tenth year, when the tree had broken and fallen on him, he knew that he wouldn't survive unless it was by his wits. He learned that his memory was his strength. He now committed her every word to his memory.

“Well, lovely maid,” he said after a moment, “God grant you no ingratitude or bitter wrongs. If you will seek the moon, I will tell you that like the sun, the moon must hide in its hour, then burst forth, when least expected, to glow fairly yet in stark truth upon the face that seeks it forth. The moon awaits, maid, ever close as its habit, waits till tide and time issue it out.”

“What is this, cousin? A cripple and a beast to be held by its leash?”

Philippa smiled at Walter, beckoning him to her side. “Aye, Walter, a team that brings shrewd humor and light laughter to Crandall. The little crooked one here tells me of the moon and the sun and how each must await its turn, and the monster there, he bellows and dances for all your fair maids.”

Walter cared not a whit for the two who stood facing him. “If they please you, dearest heart, then so let them frolic and rattle their tongues to rhymes that bring good cheer.”

Crooky said loudly, “Fair and hardy maid, what wish you for Gorkel the Hideous to do?”

“Why, I believe I wish to write him a love poem, not rhymed, for I have not your talent, but one to tell of beauty and love that ravaged the heart. What say you, beast? Wish you to have a love poem from me?”

Gorkel scratched his armpit, and Crooky, yanking hard at his leash, yelled, “Will you, monster? Nod aye, beast!”

Gorkel nodded and bellowed, and the crowd cheered.

Philippa nodded. “I shall hie me to my paper and write the poem for the monster. Give the crowd more laughter, then.”

“I don't understand you,” Walter said, and he sounded impatient and fretful.

“I amuse myself, Walter, as the beast has amused me. It pleases you not?”

She gave him that sweet, utterly diffident look that made him feel more powerful than a Palatine prince. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to write an immense tome, but he changed his mind. He mustn't give in to her female whims each and every time. “It doesn't please me this time, sweetling. Fret not.” And before he left her, he raised his hand and lightly touched her cheek. As she looked at him, her smile frozen in place, his fingers fell to her throat, then to her breast, and before all of his people, he caressed her with his fingertips. He laughed and strode away.

“Tell me, and be quick about it.”

Crooky, silent for once, looked at his master, uncertain how to begin.

“Did you see Edmund? The wench?”

“Aye, they're both alive,” Gorkel said as he pulled off his belled cap. “The young master was dirty, his clothes rags, but he looked healthy.”

“And the mistress?”

“She was finely garbed,” Crooky said, looking over Dienwald's right shoulder. “Very finely garbed, a beautifully plumed peacock, a princess.”

Dienwald felt his gut cramp. She'd betrayed him, damn her, betrayed him and stolen his son.

“Tell me everything. Leave nothing out or I'll kick in your ribs.”

And Crooky related everything that had occurred. He recited faithfully what Philippa had said to him and to Gorkel. He paused, then ended, “She is no prisoner, at least it appeared not so. Sir Walter kissed her in full view of his people, and his hand caressed her breast.”

Dienwald saw red and his fists bunched in savage fury. What had he expected, anyway? The wench had fled him, and that was that. “Tell me again her words.” After Crooky had once more recited them, he said, “What meant she about the moon—am I the moon, silent and hidden, then bursting and malignant in her face? Bah! It makes no sense, the wench was playing with you, turning your own rhymes back on you, mocking you.”

“She asked Sir Walter if she could pen a love poem to Gorkel, but he refused her. Mayhap she would have written of her plight, master.”

Dienwald cursed with specific relish, saying in disgust, “She fooled you yet again! She would have penned her request for me to keep away, else she'd see Edmund hurt!”

Gorkel said, “Nay, master.”

“What know you of anything!”

“Why did she keep the boy with her?”

“For protection, fool, what else? She isn't stupid, after all, for all that she's a female.” He shook his fist in disgust at both of them, ignored his other men who looked ready to speak their opinions, and strode away from them all, disappearing into the maze of maple trees.

“He is sorely tried,” Galen said, shaking his head. “He knows not what to think.”

“The mistress wants rescuing,” said Crooky, “despite all the plumage and display.”

“And the boy,” Gorkel added. “I fear what that whoreson will do to the boy, for he sorely hates the father.”

Late that night Philippa lay in her bed thinking furiously, an occupation that hadn't paled since Walter had brought her to Crandall. She thought of her excitement, her hope, when she'd burst into the inner bailey to see Gorkel cavorting about like a mad buffoon and Crooky twirling Gorkel's leash while singing at the top of his lungs. But what good had any of it done? Her attempt to tell Crooky of her plight, her plea to write Gorkel a love poem, all had been dashed when Walter had shown his possession of her in front of everyone by kissing her and caressing her breast. Crooky would tell Dienwald, of a certainty. But still they would attempt a rescue, if not for her, then for Edmund. But how? What could Dienwald do? He couldn't very well storm Crandall Keep. Walter
would kill Edmund without blinking an eye. No, Dienwald would use guile and cunning; she doubted not that he would succeed, but still, the thought of him being hurt terrified her. She knew well enough that Walter would kill him if but given a chance.

She had to do something, and she had to do it early on the morrow. She fell asleep, and her dreams, oddly enough, were of her first riding lessons at six years old on a mare named Cottie, a gentle animal Bernice had urged over a fence two years later, breaking the mare's leg.

Philippa came awake suddenly, tears still in her mind for the mare. She hadn't really heard anything, it was just a feeling that something wasn't right and she must pay attention now and wake up fully or she wouldn't like what happened to her.

Slowly, very slowly, Philippa turned her head toward the door. Walter had locked it as usual when he'd left her earlier, yet a key was turning in the lock and the door was opening slowly but surely.

It had to be Walter. He'd tired of waiting. He'd come to ravish her and be done with it. He didn't play the besotted swain very well.

So be it, Philippa thought, her muscles flexing to make her ready. She didn't move, just thought of what she would do to him to protect herself. She would fight him, and at the very least she would hurt him badly. She still wore her shift, one of soft linen that came to her thighs and left her arms bare. She wished now she had on every article of clothing Walter had given her, to make his task of ravishing her all the more difficult. She listened and strained her eyes toward the door.
Walter wasn't making any noise. Why? That made no particular sense. He wouldn't care, would he? He wouldn't care if she screamed or yelled. His men would do naught to help her.

The door widened, making no sound, the hinges not even creaking. From the dim light in the passage without, Philippa could at last make out the outline of the person.

It wasn't Walter. It was a woman.

Philippa didn't act immediately, as her nature urged her to. No, she held herself perfectly still, waiting to see what the woman would do, waiting to see what the woman wanted. Perhaps she wanted to free her. But how had the woman gotten the key to her chamber?

From Walter, of course. Walter was far too careful, far too possessive a man to allow others to keep something as important as the key to her chamber. So the woman must know him very well, must know him intimately . . . . Philippa gathered herself together and waited.

The woman was creeping across the narrow chamber now, and Philippa saw that she held a knife in her raised hand. The woman had come to kill her, not free her.

Philippa's astonishment was replaced by rage, and she jumped to her feet, yelling at the top of her lungs, “What do you want? Get away from me! Help!
A moi
! Walter . . .
A moi
!”

The woman lunged at her, extending her arm, bringing the knife down toward her chest. Philippa grabbed the woman's wrist, wrenching her arm back, but the woman was stronger than her meager inches would indicate. She was panting, gasping, fury making her as strong as Philippa, and she said, her voice vicious, filled with hatred,
“You damnable slut! You devil's spawn! You'll not have him! Do you hear me? Nay, never! I'll kill you!” And she jerked away from Philippa, her breasts heaving, staring at Philippa with hatred. Philippa slowly backed away from the furious woman and that very sharp knife.

She held up her hand in supplication. “Who are you? I've done nothing to you. What are you talking about? You're mad, wanting to kill me for no reason!”

“No reason!” the woman hissed, the words so harsh that spittle flew out of her mouth. “You damnable trollop, Walter is mine, only mine, and he'll stay mine. You'll not get him. He'll not wed you, no matter what you bring him! He loves me, wants me more than all the filthy riches you would bring him!”

But I wouldn't bring him anything,
Philippa started to say, just as the woman lunged again, bringing the knife down in a brutal arc, sure and fast, and Philippa whirled to the side, away from the maddened woman, but she wasn't fast enough and she felt the tip of the knife slice through the flesh of her upper arm. She felt the coldness of it, then a quick numbness.

“You won't escape me, whore!”

Philippa, knowing there was no choice now, jerked about and struck out, backhanding the woman, her palm flat, ringing hard against her cheek. The woman yelled in pain and rage but didn't falter. She flew toward Philippa, the knife extended to the fullest.

Philippa saw the knife coming into her heart, stabbing deep, killing her, before she'd known what it was to really live, to love and be loved, and she whispered, “Dienwald . . .”

She could hear the air hiss as the knife sliced through it, and she dashed frantically toward the open door and into the arms of Walter de Grasse.

“What in God's name goes on here?”

Walter was shaking Philippa hard until he saw the blood flowing from her upper arm. He paled in the dim light, not wanting to credit it. Then he stared at the woman, half-crouched, the bloody knife dangling in her hand, and he whispered, “Britta . . . oh, no, why?” He pushed Philippa away from him and was at the woman's side, lifting her up, pulling her against him.

“Britta?”

She shook her head, her breath coming in painful gasps, her huge breasts heaving.

“She tried to kill me,” Philippa said, watching with benumbed fascination as he caressed the woman. “Who is she? Why does she want me dead?”

She watched, silent now, as pain crossed Walter's face and it whitened, and she understood at last that this was the woman whose garments she wore, this was the woman who was her cousin's mistress, a woman who, incredibly, loved her cousin, and who couldn't, perforce, abide her. Philippa's mind clogged and she could but stare silently as Walter held the woman even more tightly, clutching her against him, speaking softly, so softly that Philippa couldn't make out his words.

Without further hesitation Philippa picked up a small three-legged stool, held it high over her head, and brought it down with all her strength on Walter's head. The woman cried out as Walter slumped against her, bearing her to the floor with his weight.

“Don't yell, you stupid fool!” Philippa hissed at the woman. “Just stay where you are and hold your peace and your lover. I'm leaving you and him and this cursed keep forever. He's yours until the devil takes him.” Before Britta could push her lover off her, Philippa had grabbed the knife from her hand and jerked the keys from the pocket in her tunic.

“Just be quiet, you silly bitch, if you want him here and me gone!”

Philippa grabbed her gown and pulled it over her head even as she dashed toward the door. She locked it, then froze on the spot. Just around the corner, not three feet from where she stood, she heard two men in argument.

“I'll tell ye, thass trouble! I heard them wenches yelling and t' master runs in.”

“Leave t' master be an' get back to yer bed.”

“Oh, aye, there's trouble and it's yer ears he'll slice off, that, or he'll take his whip to yer back.”

“Ye go back and I'll look.”

Philippa flattened herself against the cold stone wall. She heard the one man still grumbling as he shuffled away. As for the other man, in the next instant he came around the corner to see a wild-eyed female with a knife in her hand and blood running in rivulets down her arm. He had time only to suck in his breath before the knife handle slammed into his temple and he crashed to the floor.

Slowly Philippa got enough nerve to peer around the corner. She saw sleeping men and women spread over the floor in the hall, and snores rose to the blackened rafters above. She crept as quietly as she could, inching slowly along the wall toward the large oak doors. Slowly, ever
so slowly, she moved, knowing at any second a man or woman could rise up and shriek at her and it would be all over and perhaps Walter would kill her if his mistress didn't do it first. A dog suddenly appeared from nowhere and sniffed at her bare feet.

She didn't move, her heart pounding, letting the dog tire of her scent, then move on, praying the animal wouldn't bark. Then, without warning, she felt a spurt of pain in her arm and looked at it. So much blood, and it was hers. She had to slow it or she would faint. She slipped outside into the inner bailey and looked heavenward. There was no moon this night, and the sky was overcast, with no stars, no light whatsoever. She flattened herself against the wooden railing and ripped off a goodly section of the lower part of the gown. She wrapped it around her arm, using her teeth to tie the knot tightly. She felt the pain, felt it deeply, but it didn't matter. She had to find Edmund and they had to escape this wretched keep. She couldn't allow the wound to slow her. She had to be strong.

Fortune turned, and Philippa found Edmund close to the stable door, atop a heap of hay, sleeping on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, his face resting on his folded hands. Philippa knelt beside him. “Edmund, love, come wake up.” She shook him gently, ready to slap her hand over his mouth if he awoke afraid and cried out.

But Edmund awoke quickly and completely and simply stared up at her. “Philippa?”

“Aye, I'm here, and now we must leave. We'll need horses, Edmund. What think you?”

“Is my father here to save us?”

Philippa shook her head. “No, 'tis just us, but we can do it. Now, about those horses.”

Edmund scrambled to his feet, excitement and a goodly dose of fear churning in his belly, and he grinned up at her. Then he was thoughtful, and Philippa waited. “We need to croak the two stable lads. We need—”

Philippa raised the knife handle. “It works,” she said.

Edmund's eyes glistened and Philippa wondered if all men were born with the battle cry of war in their blood, with the love of violence and battle bred into their bones. “Show me where they are and then I'll . . .” She paused, then added, “You get the horses, Edmund. Pick well, for they must carry us to your father. He awaits out there somewhere.”

“He can't be far away,” Edmund said. “But we will come to him and not have to lie like helpless babes for him to rescue us. There is a difficulty, though, Philippa. I can't get the horses for us.”

She stared down at him and saw the chain and thick leather manacle clamped about his right ankle. Those miserable whoresons! She wanted to yell in rage, but she said calmly, “Who has the key to that thing?”

“One of the stable lads you're going to croak,” he said, and gave her an impudent smile.

They were good together, Philippa thought with surprised pleasure a few minutes later. She'd quickly found the key and released Edmund. She hadn't even paused before coshing the two stable lads on the head. They'd probably given Edmund his bruises, the malignant little brutes, and tethered him like an animal. No, she had no regrets
that the both of them would have vile head pains on the morrow.

Edmund had brought out Daisy and the destrier that belonged to Walter. Should she dare? she wondered, then tossed her head. She dared. Her arm was paining fiercely now, and they weren't yet out of Crandall. She couldn't succumb to the pain, not yet, not for a very long while.

Edmund held the reins of the two horses, staying back in the shadows whilst Philippa sauntered like a whore in full heat and in need of coin toward the one guard who stood in a near-stupor near Crandall's gates. Three other sentries were patrolling, but they were distant now. She'd watched them, counting.

“Ho! Who are . . . ? Why, 'tis Sir Walter's mistress! What want you? Wh—”

She poked out her breasts and threw her arms around the man. He gaped and gawked and quickly grabbed her buttocks in his big hands, dropping his sword to fill his hands with her, and Philippa whipped out the knife and, leaning back, slammed the handle down on his head. He looked at her in mournful surprise but didn't fall. “You shouldn't ought to a done that,” he said, and brought his hands up to her throat. He squeezed, saying all the while, “Ye're a handful, wench, but I'll show ye not to play wi' me.” He squeezed harder and harder, and Philippa saw the world blackening before her eyes as the knife dropped from her slack fingers.

Then, as if from afar, she heard a voice saying, “You're a bloody coward, hurting a female like that . . . you whoreson, stupid lout with a mother who slept with infidels . . .” The fingers left her throat and she sagged to her knees, clutching her
throat, gulping in air. She looked up to see the man turning, as if in a dream, turning toward Edmund, but Edmund was astride Daisy, and he was higher than the guard and brought a thick metal spade down as hard as he could on the guard's head. Philippa watched the man stare up at Edmund and shake his head as if to clear it. Then he made a small sound in his throat and fell in a heap to the ground.