Earth Song (9 page)

Graelam de Moreton, Lord of Wolffeton, stopped short at the laughter from his wife. He eyed her, then tried again. “We have but two casks left, Kassia. ‘Tis a present from your sire. It costs him dear to have the wine brought to Brittany from Aquitaine, then shipped here to us. Care you not that the damned whoreson had the gall to wreck the ship and steal all the goods?”

“You don't now that Dienwald is responsible,” Kassia de Moreton said, still gasping with laughter. “And you just discovered today that the ship had been wrecked. It must have happened over a sennight ago. Mayhap it was the captain's misjudgment and he struck the rocks; mayhap the peasants stole the goods once the ship was sinking; mayhap everything went down.”

“You're full of mayhaps! Aye, but I know ‘twas he,” Graelam said, bitterness filling his voice as he paced away from her. “If you would know the truth, I made a wager with him some months ago. If you would know more of the truth, our wager involved who could drink the most Aquitaine wine at one time without passing out under the trestle table. I told him about the wine your father was sending us. When we'd gotten the wine, Dienwald and I would have our contest. He knew he would lose, and that's why he lured the captain to his doom, I know it. And so do you beneath all that giggling. Now he has all the wine
and can drink it at his leisure, rot his liver! Nay, don't defend him, Kassia! Who else has his skill and his boldness? Rot his heathen eyes, he's won because he stole the damned wine!”

Kassia looked at her fierce husband and began to laugh again. “So, this is what it is all about. Dienwald has bested you through sheer cunning, and you can't bear being the loser.”

Graelam gave his wife a look that would curdle milk. It didn't move her noticeably. “He's no longer a friend; he's no longer welcome at Wolffeton. I denounce him. I shall notch his ears for him at the next tourney. I shall carve out his gullet for his insolence—”

Kassia patted her hair and rose, shaking the skirts of her full gown. “Dienwald is to come next month to visit, once the spring planting is undertaken. He will stay a week with us. I will write to him and beg him to bring some of his delicious Aquitaine wine, since we are neighbors and good friends.”

“He's a treacherous knave and I forbid it!”

“Good friends are important, don't you agree, my lord? Good friends find wagers to amuse each other. I look forward to seeing Dienwald and hearing what he has to say to you when you accuse him of treachery.”

“Kassia . . .” Graelam said, advancing on his wife. She laughed up at him and he lifted her beneath the arms, high over his head, and felt her warm laughter rain down upon his head. She was still too thin, he thought, but her pregnancy was filling her out, finally. He lowered her, kissing her mouth. She tasted sweet and soft and ever so willing, and he smiled. Then he hardened.
“Dienwald,” Graelam said slowly, evil in his eyes, “must needs be taught a lesson.”

“You have one in mind, my lord?”

“Not yet, but I shall soon. Aye, a lesson for the rogue, one that he shan't soon forget.”

At least she was clean, Philippa thought, staring about the great hall, a stringy beef rib in her right hand. The dirty tunic itched, but she would bear it. She wouldn't be a martyr; Dienwald was right about that. She wanted clean soft wool against her flesh; it was all she asked. She didn't even consider praying for silk. It was as beyond her as the moon. Her eyes met Alain's at that moment and she nearly cringed at the malice she saw in his expression. She didn't react, merely chewed on her rib.

She heard Crooky singing in a high falsetto about a man who'd sired thirty children and whose women all turned on him when they discovered he'd been unfaithful to them, all nine of them. Dienwald was roaring with laughter, as were most of the men in the hall. The women, however, were howling the loudest as Crooky graphically described what the women did to the faithless fellow.

“That's awful,” Philippa said once the loud laughter had died down. “Crooky's rhymes are a fright and his words are disgusting.”

“He's but angry because Margot refused to let him fondle her and the men saw and laughed at him.”

Philippa chewed on some bread, saying finally
to Dienwald, “Your steward, Alain. Who is he? Has he been your steward long?”

“I saved his life some three years ago. He is beholden to me, thus gives me excellent service and his loyalty.”

“Saved his life? How?”

“A landless knight had taken a dislike to him and was pounding his head in. I came upon them and killed the knight. He was a lout and a fool, a local bully I had no liking for in any case. Alain came to St. Erth with me and became my steward.”

Dienwald paused a moment, gazing thoughtfully at her profile. “Has he insulted you?”

She quickly shook her head. “Nay, ‘tis just that . . . I don't trust him.”

She regretted her hasty words the moment they'd escaped her mouth. Dienwald was staring at her as if she had two heads and no sense at all.

“Don't be foolish,” he said, then added, “Why do you say that?”

“He offered to help me get away from you.”

“Lies don't become you, wench. Tell me no more of them. Don't ever again attack a man who's given me his complete fealty for three years. Do you understand?”

Philippa looked at Dienwald, saw the banked fury in his eyes, making his irises more gold than brown, and read his thought: A woman couldn't be trusted to give a clear accounting, nor could she be trusted to be honest. She calmly picked up another rib from her trencher and chewed on it.

Dienwald was reminding himself at that moment that only one woman in all his life hadn't been filled with treachery and guile, and that was Kassia de Moreton. For a while he'd been unsure
about Philippa. She had seemed so open, so blunt, so straightforward. He shook his head; even a woman as young as Philippa de Beauchamp was filled with deceit. He should simply take her maidenhead, use her until he wearied of her, then discard her. It mattered not if she was ruined; it mattered not if her father kicked her into a convent for the remainder of her days. It mattered not if . . . “Perhaps Alain distrusts you, perhaps he fears you'll try to harm me. That is why he wishes you gone from St. Erth, if, of course, he truly said that to you.”

Philippa found she couldn't tell him of the steward's venom. Perhaps he was right about Alain's motives. But she didn't think so. She merely shook her head, then turned to Edmund.

“What color would you like your new tunic to be?”

“I don't want a new tunic.”

“No one asked you that. Only whether you wish a certain color.”

“Aye, black! You're a witch, so you can give me a black tunic.”

“You are such an officious little boy.”

“You're a girl, and thass much worse.”

“
That's,
not
thass.
”

Dienwald overheard this exchange, smiling until he heard her correct Edmund. He frowned. Meddlesome wench. But even so, he didn't want his son speaking like the butcher's boy.

“You will not have a black tunic. Do you like green?”

“Aye, he'll have green, a dark green, to show less dirt.”

His father's voice kept Edmund quiet, but he stuck his tongue out at Philippa.

She looked at him with a wondering smile. “ ‘Tis odd, Edmund, but you remind me of one of my suitors. His name was Simon and he was twenty-one years old but acted as if he were no more than six, just like you.”

“I'm nine years old!”

“Are you truly? My, I was certain you were no more than a precocious five, you know, the way you act, the way you speak, the—”

“Do you want more ale, wench?”

So Dienwald had some protective instincts toward his son. She turned and smiled at him. “Aye, thank you.”

She sipped at the tart ale. It was better than her father's ale, made by the fattest man at Beauchamp, Rolly, who, Philippa suspected, drank most of his own brew.

“How much more ale do you need?”

She took another sip before asking, “Why do you think I need more? For what?”

“I think, wench, that I will take your precious maidenhead tonight. It taunts me, wench, that maidenhead of yours, just being there. And you do belong to me, at least until I tire of you. But who knows? If you please me—though I doubt you have the skill to do so—I will let you stay and see to the sewing of all the woolen cloth into clothing. What say you to that?”

Philippa, without a thought to the precariousness of her position, tossed the remaining ale from her flagon into his face.

She heard a gasp; then the hall suddenly fell silent as one by one the men and women realized something had happened. Oh, dear, Philippa thought, closing her eyes a moment. She'd thought with her feet again.

Dienwald knew he'd taunted her to violence, and actually, the ale in his face was a minor violence—nothing more or less than he'd expected of her. He supposed he should have waited until he had her in his bedchamber to mock her. Now he would have to act; he couldn't be thought weak in front of his villeins and his men. He cursed softly, wiped his palm over his face, then shoved back the heavy master's chair. He grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet.

He saw the fear in her eyes, saw her chin go up at the same time, and wondered what the devil he should do to her for her insolence. For now, he needed a show worthy of Crooky. He turned to his fool, who'd come to his feet and was staring avidly at his master like all the others in the great hall.

“What, Crooky, is to be her fate for throwing ale in her master's face?”

Crooky stroked his stubbled jaw. He opened his mouth, looking ready to burst into song, when Dienwald changed his mind. “Nay, do not say it or sing it.”

“ ‘Tis not a song, master, not even a rhyme. I just wanted to ask the wench if she would make me a new tunic as well.”

“Aye, I will sew it myself,” Philippa said. “Any color you wish, Crooky.”

“Give her another flagon of ale, master. Aye, ‘tis a good wench she be. Don't flog her just yet.”

“You're not to be trusted,” Dienwald said close to her ear. “You'd promise the devil a new tunic, wouldn't you, to keep me from your precious maidenhead?”

“Where
is
the devil tonight?” Philippa asked,
looking around. “In residence here? There are so many likely candidates for his services, after all.”

“Come along, wench. I have plans for you this long and warm night.”

“No,” she said, and grabbed the thick arm of his chair with her left hand. She held on tight, her fingers white with the strain, and Dienwald saw that he'd set himself a problem. He looked at the white arm he held, then at the hand holding the chair arm for dear life. “Will you release it now?”

She shook her head.

Dienwald smiled, and she knew at once that she wasn't going to like what followed.

“I will give you one more chance to obey me.”

She stared up at him, knowing all the people in the hall were watching. “I can't.”

She didn't have to wait long. He smiled again, then lifted his hand, grasped the front of her gown, and ripped it open all the way to the hem.

Philippa yelled, released the chair arm, and jerked at the ragged pieces, trying to draw them over her body.

Dienwald locked his hands together beneath her buttocks and heaved her over his shoulder. He smacked her bottom with the flat of his hand and strode from the great hall laughing like the devil himself.

“You note, wench, I'm not breathing hard, even carrying you up these steep stairs.”

Philippa held her tongue.

She felt his hands on her buttocks, caressing her, and felt him press his cheek for a moment against her side.

“You smell nice. A big girl isn't such a bad thing—there's a lot of you for me to enjoy. You're all soft and smooth and sweet-smelling.”

She reared up at that, but he smacked her buttocks with the flat of his hand.

“Hold still or I'll take you back into the great hall and finish stripping off that gown of yours.”

She held still, but thought that his priest would surely die of shock were he to do that. When Dienwald reached his bedchamber, he carried her inside and dropped her onto the bed, then strode across the room and locked the thick door.

When he turned, Philippa was already sitting on the side of the bed, clutching the frayed material together over her breasts.

She fretted with the jagged edges, not looking at him. “I must sew it. I have nothing else to wear.”

“You shouldn't have thwarted me. You forced me to retaliate. It was a stupid thing to do, wench.”

“I was supposed to let you tread on me like rushes on the floor? I'm not a wen—”

“Shut your annoying mouth!”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

He kicked a low stool across the bedchamber. One of its three legs shuddered against the wall and broke off. He cursed. “Get into bed. No, wait. I must tie you up first. I'll wager you'd even try to escape nearly naked, wouldn't you?”

Philippa didn't move. “I want to sew my gown.”

“On the morrow. Hold out your hands.” When she didn't, he merely stripped off his clothes. He shrugged into his bedrobe, and when he turned back to her, he was holding a leather cross garter in his right hand.

“No, I won't do it. It's like demanding a chicken to willingly lay its neck on the chopping block. I'm not witless.”

“I'm not at all certain of that, but you're right about one thing. Remove the torn gown first.”

“Please . . .” she said, and swallowed. “I've never done anything like that before. Please don't make me do it.”

“I've already seen you,” he said slowly, the man of patience and reason. “I don't suppose
you've perchance grown a new part to interest me?”

She shook her head.

He stared down at her bent head. He wanted her very much, but he wasn't about to give in to his appetite for her. It would do him in, mayhap irreparably. It would be stupid—and extremely pleasant. As much as Dienwald hated the notion of denying himself something because an outside authority would disapprove, he wasn't completely witless. If he ravished her, her father would sooner or later hear of it and come to St. Erth and besiege him until there was nothing left but rubble. Also, Dienwald didn't want to get a bastard on her. There were some things he simply couldn't bring himself to do. He wouldn't dishonor her and he wouldn't end up ruined. What he felt was only lust. Lust, he understood. Lust, like a thirst, could be quenched from any available flagon. He said nothing more. He wanted no more than to simply lock her in, but that would allow her to believe she'd gained the upper hand.

He took her off-guard, knocking her backward on the bed. He was fast and he was determined. Within moments the torn gown was on the floor and Philippa was naked beneath him. He saw that she was terrified and, oddly, seemingly curious. He saw it in her eyes. She was curious because she was a maid and he was the first man to treat her in this way. He knew she could feel his increasing interest. Well, let her feel it. It didn't matter. He rolled off, grabbed her wrists, and bound them together.

After he'd tethered the other cross garter to the bed, he stood beside her and looked down at her dispassionately. “You're quite beautiful,” he said
after a long study, and it was the truth. “You have large breasts, full and round, and your nipples are pale pink. Aye, I like that.” He looked down at the curling triangle at the base of her belly. He'd like to sift his fingers through that hair and hear her cry out for him . . . He forced his eyes downward to those magnificently long legs, sleek with muscle and white as pale snow and of a shape to make a man groan with pleasure. Even her arched feet were elegant and graceful. He leaned down and lightly flicked a finger over her nipple. She tried to jerk away but couldn't move out of his reach. “Has a man ever looked at you this way before, wench?”

Philippa was beyond words. She'd watched him look at her, watched his eyes narrow. She could only shake her head, staring at him like a trapped animal, a trapped animal nearly incoherent from the strange sensations flooding its body.

“Have you ever had a man suckle your breast?”

She shook her head again, but he could see in her eyes not only the shock of his words but also the possible effect of the action.

He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. She tasted sweet and female and he felt her nipple tighten as he caressed her with his tongue, then suckled her more deeply. He felt his sex throbbing and pressing against his bedrobe. He had to stop this, or . . . “Do you like that?”

He expected a vehement denial—an obvious lie—mayhap a hysterical denial, but to his surprise, she said nothing. He felt a quiver go through her before he forced himself to rise. He tried desperately to keep his look dispassionate. “Has no man ever before touched his fingers to the soft woman's flesh between your thighs?”

“Please,” she whispered, then closed her eyes, turning her head away from him.

He frowned. Please
what
? He didn't ask, but merely grabbed a blanket and covered her. He'd tortured himself quite enough.

“I will go relieve myself now with a willing woman,” he said, and strode toward the door of the bedchamber.

“You make a woman sound like a chamber pot!”

“Nay, but she is a vessel for my seed.” To his surprise, his own words made him all the randier. He was aching, his groin heavy. He wanted Margot or Alice—it didn't matter which—and he wanted her within the next three minutes.

“I hope your male parts rot off!”

He paused, not turning, and grinned. “I will find out soon enough if your curses carry more than the air from your mouth,” he said, and strode back down the solar stairs and into the great hall. He saw Margot sitting close to Northbert. He frowned at the same moment she saw him, for he realized he was wearing naught but his bedrobe. A wondrous smile spread over her round face, making her almost pretty. She jumped to her feet and hurried over to him.

“I want you now,” he said, and Margot smiled a siren's smile. She followed him outside, then bumped into his back when he came to an abrupt halt. Dienwald didn't know where to take her. Philippa was bound to his bed. He quivered. Damned female. Where, then?

“ ‘Come,” he said, grabbed her hand, and nearly ran to the stables. He took her in the warm hay in a far empty stall. And when she cried out her pleasure, her fingers digging into his back, he
let his seed spill into her, and in that moment he saw Philippa, and could nearly feel her long white legs clutching his flanks, drawing him deeper and deeper. “Curse you, wench,” he said, and fell asleep on Margot's breast.

She woke him nearly three hours later. She was stiff and sore, bits of hay sticking into her back and bottom, and he'd sprawled his full weight on top of her, flattening her.

Dienwald straightened his clothes and took himself to his bedchamber after giving Margot a perfunctory pat on the bottom. He'd left the single candle lit and it had burned itself out. He could make out Philippa's form on the far side of the bed as he stripped off his bedrobe and eased in beside her. He untied the cross garter that tethered her to the bed and lowered her arms and pulled her to him. With a soft sigh, she nestled against him. Fortunately for his peace of mind and Philippa's continued state of innocence, he fell asleep.

When Philippa awoke the following morning, she was alone, which was a relief, and her wrists were free. Her ripped gown was gone, and in its place she found a long flowing gown of faded scarlet, the style from her childhood, its waist loose and its sleeves tight-fitting to the wrists. With it was an equally faded overtunic with wide elbow-length sleeves and a fitted waist. She felt a jolt when she realized that the faded clothing must have belonged to Dienwald's long dead wife.

The gown was too short and far too tight in the bosom, but the material was sturdy despite its age, and well-sewn, so she needn't fear the seams splitting.

Her ankles and feet were bare, and she imagined that she looked passably strange in her faded too-small clothes, the skirt swishing above her ankles.

It was thoughtful of Dienwald to have had the clothes fetched for her, she thought, until she remembered that it was he who had ripped the other gown up the front, rendering it an instant rag. She hardened her heart toward him with ease, though the rest of her still felt the faint tremors of the previous night, when he'd looked down at her, then kissed her breast. Those feelings had been odd in the extreme, more than pleasant, truth be told, but now, alone, in the light of day, Philippa couldn't seem to grasp them as being real.

She made her way to the great hall, drank a flagon of fresh milk, and ate some gritty goat's cheese and soft black bread. It didn't occur to her not to go to the weaving shed to see to the work. Old Agnes, bless her tartar's soul, was berating Gorkel the Hideous for being slow to repair one of the looms. Philippa watched, saying nothing, until Old Agnes saw her and exclaimed as she shuffled toward her, “Gorkel's complaining of wood mold, but I got him at it again. Prink is threatening to come upon us today and whip off our hides. He didn't cork it! Mordrid said he ate this morning and was up on his own to relieve his bowels. May God shrivel his eyeballs! He'll ruin everything.”

“No, he won't,” Philippa said. She wanted a fight, and Prink sounded like a wonderful offering to her dark mood. She discovered when she called a halt for the noonday meal that Dienwald and a half-dozen men had left St. Erth early that
morning, bound for no-one-knew-where. That, or no one would tell her.

Now was the time to escape.

“Ye look like a princess who's too big fer her gown,” said Old Agnes as she gummed a piece of chicken. “That gown belonged to the former mistress, Lady Anne. Small she were, small in her body and in her heart. Aye, she weren't a sweetling, that one weren't. Master Edmund's lucky to have ye here, and not that one who birthed him. She made the master miserable with her mean-spirited ways. When she died of the bloody flux, he was relieved, I knew it, even though he pretended to grieve.”

Old Agnes then nodded as Philippa stared openmouthed. “The master'll fill yer belly quick enough. Then he'll wed ye, as he should. Yer father's a lord, and that makes ye a lady—and all will be well, aye, it will.” Old Agnes nodded, pleased at her own conclusions, and shuffled away to where Gorkel squatted eating his food.

Philippa walked outside the shed, Old Agnes' words whirling about in her mind. Wed with the master of St. Erth? The rogue who'd stolen her father's wool and her with it? Well, it hadn't quite been that way, but still . . . Philippa shook her head, gazing up at the darkening skies. Evidently he had to get her with child first before such notions as marriage would come to him. She didn't want him; she didn't want his child. She wanted to leave, to go to . . . Where? To Walter's keep, Crandall? To a virtual stranger? More of a stranger than Dienwald was to her?

“It'll rain and we'll have to rot inside.”

She turned to see Edmund, his hands on his hips, looking disgruntled.

“Rain makes the crops grow. The rain won't last long, you'll see. We'll survive it.” She grinned down at him. “And aren't you supposed to be at your lessons?”

He looked guilty for only an instant, but Philippa saw it. “Come along and let's find Father Cramdle. I haven't yet met him, you know.”

“He won't want to see you. He'll go all stiff like a tree branch. My father ripped off your gown last night and carried you off. You're only my father's mis—”

“I don't think you'd better say it, Edmund. I am not your father's mistress. Do you understand me? I'm a lady, and your father doesn't dare to . . . harm me.”

Edmund seemed to think this over for a half-dozen steps before finally nodding. “Aye,” he said, “you're a big lady. And I don't need lessons.”

“Of course you do. You must know how to read and to cipher and to write, else you'll be cheated by your steward and by anyone else who gets the chance.”

“Thass what my father says.
That's
!” he said before she could.

Philippa smiled. “Tomorrow you'll have a new tunic. Also study new shoes and hose. You'll look like Master Edmund of St. Erth. What do you think of that?”

Edmund didn't think much of it. He scuffed his filthy toes against a rock. “Father went a-raiding. He's angry at a man who hates him and who struck last night and burned all our wheat crop near the south edge of St. Erth land.”