Earth Song (8 page)

“Aye, ‘tis a monster he is to look at, but he has known how to repair things since he was a little sprat.”

“Fetch Gorkel, then.”

In the meanwhile Philippa inspected the spinning wheels and the quality of thread the women had produced from the wool. Given the precarious balance of two of the spindles and the wobbling of the huge wheels, the results were more than satisfactory. She smiled and praised the women, seeing her mother's face in her mind's eye.

Two hours later, the women were at their looms weaving interlacing threads into soft wool. They worked slowly and carefully, but that was to the good. As they gained confidence and skill, the weaving would quicken. Old Agnes was chirping over their shoulders, carping and scolding, then turning to Philippa and giving her a wide toothless grin. “Prink—he were the weaver, ye know, milady—well, a purty sod he were, wot with his proud ways. Said, he did, that females couldn't do it right, the weaving part, only the spinning. Ha!” Old Agnes looked toward the busy looms and cackled. “I hope the old bugger corks it. Thass why none of the females knew aught—the old cockshead was afraid to teach them. Make him look the fool, they would have done.”

Philippa wanted very much to meet Prink before he corked it.

All was going well. Philippa de Beauchamp, lately of Beauchamp, was busy directing the weaving of her father's wool into cloth for the man who'd stolen it. She laughed aloud at the irony of it.

“Why do you laugh? You can't see me!”

“I should have known—how long have you been watching, Edmund?”

“I don't watch women working,” Edmund said, planting his fists on his hips. “I was watching the maypole!”

“Nasty little boy,” she remarked toward one of the looms, and turned her back on him.

“I'll tell my papa, and he won't let you use my chamber pot again!”

Philippa whipped around, pleading in her eyes and in her voice as she clasped her hands in front of her. “Ah, no, Master Edmund! I must use your chamber pot. Don't make me use the jakes, please, Master Edmund!”

Edmund drew up and stared. He was stymied, and he didn't like it. He assumed a crafty expression, and Philippa recognized it instantly as his father's. She whimpered now, wringing her clasped hands.

“My papa will make you sorry, and thass the truth!”

“
That's,
not
thass.
”

She'd spoken without thinking, and watched the little boy puff up with fury like a courting cock. “I'll speak the way I want! No one tells me how to say things, and thass—”

“
That's,
not
thass.
”

“You're big and ugly and my papa doesn't like
you. I hope you get back into a wagon and leave.” He whirled about, tossing back over his shoulder, “You're not a girl, you're a silly maypole!”—and ran straight into his father.

“I should expire with such an insult,” Dienwald said, staring down at his son. “Why did you say such a thing to her, Edmund?”

“I don't like her,” the boy said, and scuffed at the dirt with a very dirty foot.

“Why aren't you wearing shoes?”

“There's holes in them.”

“Isn't there a cobbler here in the castle?” Philippa asked, wishing she could have shoes on her own very dirty feet.

Dienwald shook his head. “Grimson died six months ago. He was very old, and the apprentice died a week after, curse his selfish heart. I haven't hired another.”

Philippa started to tell him to send his precious steward to St. Ives and hire a cobbler, when she remembered he didn't have any coin. She searched for a solution. “You know,” she said at last, “it's possible to stitch leather if your armorer could but cut it to size for the boy. Also, I'll need very sturdy thick needles.”

Dienwald frowned. Meddlesome, female. Edmund was right: she didn't belong here. He looked again at his son's filthy feet and saw a small scabbing sore on his little toe. He cursed, and Edmund smiled in anticipation of his father's wrath.

Philippa said nothing, merely waited.

“I'll speak to my armorer,” Dienwald said, and took Edmund by the arm. “ ‘Tis time for your lessons, Edmund, and don't carp!”

Edmund looked at Philippa over his shoulder as his father dragged him from the room. His look was one of astonishment, fury, and utter bewilderment.

Philippa was sweating in the airless outbuilding. All the weavers were sweating as well, their fingers less nimble, their grumbling louder now than an hour before. Swirls of dust from the floor hung in the hot air, kicked up by the many feet. Even Old Agnes looked ready to drop in the corner and hang her scraggly head.

The master had demanded too much too quickly, a habit, Philippa learned from one of the main grumblers, that was one of his foremost traits. Philippa finally called out, “Enough! Agnes, send someone for water and food. ‘Tis the afternoon. We all deserve it.”

There were tired smiles from the women as they flexed their cramping fingers. The morning couldn't have gone much worse, Philippa was thinking as she walked around praising the cloth that had been woven. If Philippa had believed in
divine retribution for sins she might have been convinced that the morning's calamities stemmed from some mortal act of heinous proportions on her part. The wretched looms, ill-cared-for by the infamous Prink, kept breaking, their parts were so old and worn. She'd become closer to Gorkel the Hideous than to anyone else during the long morning. He'd worked harder than she had, tinkering with the ancient treadle, tying together the spindle whose wood kept cracking from dry rot, balancing the loom when it kept teetering. Even Gorkel now looked ready to tumble to the ground. But even at his worst scowls, Philippa was no longer afraid of him or repelled by his face.

Excellent quality wool, though, Philippa thought as she examined the cloth woven by Mordrid, the only woman Prink had taught anything. Mordrid, Old Agnes had whispered to Philippa, had let the old cootshead into her bed, and thus he'd had to teach her something as payment.

Philippa could see that the woven wool was stout and strong enough to last through winters of wear, and would have fetched a good price at the St. Ives Fair. She didn't want to wait for the wool to be dyed before she set other servants to making a gown for herself. Perhaps an overtunic as well, one with soft full sleeves and a fitted waist. Dienwald wouldn't have to know.

Then she saw Edmund in her mind's eyes. The little ruffian dressed and spoke like the lowest villein. She sighed. His tunic was a rag.

Then she saw Dienwald, the elbow poking out of his sleeve, and sighed again.

It occurred to her only then that he was her captor and that she owed him nothing. He could
rot in the worn tunic he was wearing. Her clothing came first. Then she would escape and make her way to Walter, her cousin.

After everyone had eaten bread, goat cheese, and some cold slices of beef, Philippa reluctantly herded the women back to the looms. Nothing improved. The fates were still against her. The remainder of the day passed with agonizing slowness and heat. The looms continued to break, one part after another. Gorkel was taxed to his limits and was looking more bleak-browed as the afternoon wore on. The lord and master didn't show himself again. He'd set her the task and the responsibility and then proceeded to absent himself, curse him.

It was late, and Philippa was so tired she could barely stand. She rose from the loom where she was working, told the women to be back on the morrow, nodded to Old Agnes, then simply walked out of the weaving building. Long shadows were slicing across one-third of the inner bailey. She spoke to no one, merely walked toward the thick gates that led to the outer bailey. She weaved her way through squawking chickens, several pigs, three goats and a score of children. She just looked straight ahead, as if she had an important errand, and didn't stop.

She'd nearly reached the inner gates when she heard his voice from behind her. “Do my eyes deceive me? Does my slave wish to flee me again? Shall I tether you to my wrist, wench?”

So, now she knew. He must have set up a system whereby he would be told immediately if she did something out of the ordinary. Walking to the inner-bailey gates must meet that requirement. Well, she'd tried. She didn't turn around, merely
stood there staring at the gates. She said over her shoulder, still not turning, “If you tether yourself to me, then you must needs sweat until you want to die in that dreadful weaving room. I doubt you wish to do that.”

“True,” Dienwald said, regarding her thoughtfully. Her face was flushed, but not, he thought, from his threat, but from the heat in the weaving room.

“And I'm not your slave.”

He smiled at her defiance. Her hair was bound loosely with a piece of leather and lay thick and curling between her shoulder blades almost to her waist. Her shoulders weren't straight and high, but slumped. She looked weary and defeated. He didn't like it, and frowned, then said, “I will have the pieces of leather for you soon. My armorer is cutting them. He will measure your feet as well.”

“I doubt he has so much leather in single pieces.”

“I did ask him to be certain. I wouldn't want him to measure your feet, only to discover that he couldn't cover them after all. I don't wish you to be humiliated.”

“My feet aren't that large!”

“But they are dirty, nearly as dirty as my son's. Should you like to bathe now? The day is nearly done. Actually, I was on my way to the outbuilding to see to your progress. How goes it? Prink is trying his best to overcome his ague. He's furious that
women
are doing the weaving and that a woman is directing the proceedings. He is accusing poor Mordrid of base treachery.”

“Old Agnes said he was about to cork it,” Philippa said, so diverted that she turned to face him, smiling despite herself.

He was garbed in the same clothes as yesterday, and he looked hot and tired. His hair was standing a bit on end. Perhaps he'd had reason not to see to the work during the day. Then she happened to look at his long fingers, and she closed her eyes over the vision of his hands on her body.

This was absurd. He'd looked at her but hadn't wanted her. If he had tried to ravish her, she would have brought him low—naturally, she would have fought him to her dying breath. “You don't need me anymore. Old Agnes is adept at battering the women. Mordrid is capable of teaching them. Gorkel can repair the looms, even when they break every other breath. Your wonderful Prink is a sluggard and a fool. The looms should have been burned and new ones made ten years ago, and . . . Oh, what do you care?” Philippa threw up her hands, for he was simply looking at her with casual interest, the sort of look one would give a precocious dog. “Truly, all the women can weave passably now. I want my gown, and then I want to leave and go to my cousin.”

“What did you say his name was, this so-called cousin of yours?”

“His name is Father Ralth. He's a dour Benedictine and will garb me as a choirboy and let me have a small cell of my own. I plan to meditate the rest of my days, thanking God for saving me from de Bridgport and villains like you.”

“You will be known as Philippa the castrato?”

“What's a castrato?”

“A man who isn't a man, who's had his manhood nipped in the bud, so to speak.”

“That sounds awful.” Her eyes went inadvertently to his crotch, and he laughed.

“I would imagine it isn't a fate to be devoutly sought. Now, wench, come with me to my bedchamber. The both of us can bathe. I tire of my own stench, not to mention yours. I shall consider letting you scrub my back.”

Philippa, as much as she wanted to exercise an acid tongue on his head, couldn't find the energy to do it. A bath sounded wonderful. Then she looked down at the old gown, dirty and sweat-stained, and sighed. Dienwald said nothing. He turned on his heel, firmly expecting her to follow after him like a faithful hound, which she did, curse his eyes.

They passed Alain. Philippa saw the steward give Dienwald an approving nod and wondered at it. Why had he so openly attacked his master to her just this morning? Something was decidedly wrong. Philippa had never before considered herself to be of an overly curious nature, even though her parents had accused her of it frequently, but now she wanted very much to shake Master Alain and see what fell out of his mouth.

It didn't occur to her to wonder how the bathing ritual would take place until Dienwald had locked the bedchamber door, tossed the key into the pocket of his outer tunic, and turned to say, “I'll exercise some knightly virtue and let you bathe first. You see, chivalry still abounds in Cornwall.”

“I'm so dirty you'll need another tub. Also, you can't stay in here. Will you wait outside?”

“No.” Frank enjoyment removed the tiredness from Dienwald's eyes. “No, I want to see you
naked. Again. Only this time, all of you at one time, not just parts.”

Philippa sat on the floor. She eyed the copper-bound wooden tub with steam rising from it and felt a nearly murderous desire to jump in, but she didn't move. She wouldn't move, even if she had to rot here. She wouldn't allow him to humiliate her anymore. She wouldn't play the partial trollop. To her surprise, Dienwald didn't say anything, didn't threaten her with dire punishments. He rose from the bed and calmly stripped off his clothes.

She didn't look at him, but after several minutes had passed and she heard no further sound, no movement, she couldn't stand it anymore. When she raised her head, it was to see him standing by the tub, not three feet away from her. She'd seen naked men before; only girls who had been raised by nuns in convents hadn't. But this was different;
he
was different. He was hard and lean and hairy, his legs long and muscled, his belly flat and sculptured. She looked—and couldn't look away. His manhood swelled from the thick bush of hair at his groin, and she stared with open fascination as it grew thicker and longer.

She felt something quite odd and quite warm low in her belly. Philippa knew this wasn't right; she also knew she was losing control of a situation she somehow no longer wanted to control. She swiveled about and faced away from him.

Dienwald laughed and climbed into the tub. He'd seen her stare at him, felt his sex rise in concert with her interest, seen her interest rise as well and her confusion. He reveled in her reactions—when they didn't irritate him.

He lathered himself, feeling the grime soak off,
and said, “Wench, tell me of your progress. And don't whine to me about all your problems or of the heat in the outbuilding or of Old Agnes' carping. What did you accomplish?”

Philippa turned back, knowing the height of the tub would keep her from further inappropriate perusal of his man's body. His hair was white with lather, as were his face and shoulders. She couldn't see any more of him.

“It has been nearly nothing
but
problems, and I'm not whining. I may skin Prink alive if the ague doesn't bring him to his grave first. Oh, we now have wool, curse you. I was thinking, mayhap the first tunic should be for Edmund. He looks ragged as a villein's child.”

Dienwald opened his eyes, and soap seeped in. He cursed, ducking his head under the water. When he'd cleansed his eyes of the soap he turned to her and nearly yelled, “Nay, ‘tis for you, foolish girl. That was our bargain. I am an honorable man, and though you, as a woman, can't understand bargains or honor, I suggest you simply keep your ignorance behind your tongue. I dislike martyrs, so don't enact touching gestures for me. And you simply haven't looked at the villeins' children. They're nearly naked.”

“You're taking your anger out on me because you were clumsy with the soap! You're naught but a tyrant and a stupid cockshead!”

“Not bad for a maiden of tender years. Should I improve upon your insults? Teach you ones more spiteful and less civil?”

He saw her jump to her feet and knew what was in her mind. He said very calmly, even though his eyes still burned from the soap and he wasn't through with her, “Don't, Philippa.
Leave the key where it is. You're not using your brain. Tancrid is outside the door. If you managed to trip him up and smash his head with something, there would still be all my men to be gotten through. Sit down on the bed and tell me more of your day. If you must, you may whine.”

She sat down on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. He resumed his scrubbing. She looked at his discarded outer tunic, the one that held the bedchamber key. She sighed. He was right.

“We will begin dyeing the wool tomorrow.”

He nodded.

“If there are skilled people, then the first of the cloth will be ready for sewing into garments the next day.”

He was washing his belly. Philippa knew it was his belly—or flesh even more southerly—and she was looking, she couldn't help herself. She wondered what it would feel like to touch him, to rub soap over him . . . He looked at her then and smiled. “I will order clean water for you. I have blackened this.”

“Will you stay to watch me?”

Dienwald imagined that she'd choose to remain dirty if he said yes. He shook his head. “Nay, I'll leave you in peace. But if you try anything stupid I will do things to you that you will dislike intensely.”

“What?”

“You irritate me. Close that silly mouth of yours and hand me that towel. ‘Tis the only one, so I will use only half of it. Thank me, wench.”

“Thank you.”

“That damned whoreson! He
knew,
damn him, the scoundrel
knew
full well that wine was bound for Wolffeton from your father. I'll break all his fingers and both his arms, then I'll smash his nose, stomp his toes into the ground—”