Earth Song (20 page)

“You make me sound like entrails tossed out of the cooking shed.”

Dienwald merely smiled at that, touched his fingertips to her cheek, then leaned down and kissed her mouth. Still smiling, he jerked the blanket from her breasts, gazed down at them, kissed one nipple, then the other.

“Don't do that!”

He straightened, gave her a small salute, and strode from the room.

He began whistling again as the door closed firmly behind him. Philippa just stood there, the blanket bunched around her waist. He'd worn his new tunic.

Dienwald didn't think of her as anything remotely close to “entrails,” but he didn't know what to do with her. What he wanted to do, in insane moments, was take her again and again until he was sated with her. And the insane moments seemed to be coming more and more often now; in fact, were he to count his errant thoughts, the moments would melt together.

He cursed and gave Philbo a stout kick in the sides. The destrier snorted and jumped forward. Northbert, surprised, kicked his own destrier into a canter, as did Eldwin, who rode on his left side.

Dienwald could remember the fragrance of her sweet woman's scent, and something else more elusive—perhaps 'twas the essence of gillyflowers, he thought, dredging the scent from his childhood memories.

The wench had bewitched him and beset him, curse her for the guileless siren she was. And somehow she'd made him like it and want more of it, more of her. He'd very nearly taken her maidenhead the previous night, and he hadn't even drunk enough ale to account for such stupidity. No, he'd just thought of her, seeing her in his mind's eye sleeping in her narrow bed in the steward's chamber, and he'd left Graelam to stare after him, their chess game still undecided. He would have taken her had she not awakened with that loud shriek in his face.

What was he to do with the damned wench?
He sighed, now picturing his son strutting about in his new clothes, bragging about the Maypole. His son, who just this morning hadn't carped and crabbed quite so much about being sacrificed to studies with Father Cramdle.

The wench was taking over St. Erth. Everywhere he saw her influence, her touch. It was irritating and disconcerting. He didn't know what to do about it.

It was Northbert who pulled him from his melancholy thoughts. “Master, what do you expect to find?”

“We didn't search before. We buried the dead and came back to St. Erth. I wish to find something to prove that Sir Walter ordered the burning and the killings. That or find someone who mayhap saw him or recognized one of his men.”

Northbert chewed on that for several miles. Finally he said, “Why not just kill the malignant bastard? You know he's responsible, as do all the rest of us. Kill him.”

Dienwald wanted to kill Walter, very much, but he shook his head. He wanted things done right. He wanted to keep Graelam's trust and his friendship. “Lord Graelam needs proof; then we will argue together to determine who gets to scatter the bastard's bowels.”

“Ah,” said Northbert, nodding his ugly head. “Lord Graelam includes himself now. 'Tis good, methinks.”

They reached the southern acres of St. Erth late that afternoon. The desolation was shattering. There was naught but emptiness and black ruins. There was only the occasional caw of a rook. Curls of smoke still rose from some of the burned huts. There were a few peasants prodding the
burned remains in leveled hovels, and Dienwald drew up and began to ask his questions.

 

Philippa was bored. More than bored, she'd discovered what Dienwald's errand was and she was worried, despite the fact that he was a trained fighter and no enemy was supposed to be where he was going.

She accepted without question that her cousin Sir Walter de Grasse was a black villain. She just wished there was something she could do.

She wore her new gown that afternoon and she looked proud and very pretty, so Old Agnes told her, very much the proper mistress. Then Agnes sought confirmation from Gorkel, who looked at Philippa and grunted, his hideous face achieving a repellent smile. She'd cut a narrow piece of wool and tied it around her hair. As for Crooky, he was feeling expansive in his own new clothes, which were still very clean, and praised her to her eyebrows. Philippa expected the worst and wasn't disappointed:

She sweetly sews for all of us, this lovely
maid whose name's not Mary.
Our sweet lord who stole her wool aches to
drink from her sweet dairy.
She made him a tunic and kissed it pure
Our sweet lord wonders what to do with her.

Philippa cheered loudly and the other servants in the hall quickly joined her. “It rhymed, truly,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Though your sentiments don't do the master justice.”

Crooky, in a new mood of self-doubt, merely
said, “Nay, mistress, 'twas hideous. I must do better, aye, I must tether my wayward thoughts and bring them to smoothness and pleasure to the ear. Aye, I will beg Father Cramdle to write it down for me.”

Philippa said, “You have lightened me for a few moments, Crooky, and I thank you. Now, before you go to the priest, tell me when the master will return.”

“No one knows,” Gorkel said, stepping forward. “He's gone to the southern borders.”

She knew that, and sat there worrying her thumbnail. She paced the great hall. In a spate of feverish activity to distract herself, she had lime dumped down the privy hole in the guardroom. She spaded the small garden near the cistern, willing the few vegetables to grow. She watched the women sewing, always sewing, and she praised them, and joined in herself for an hour, making another tunic for the master. Old Agnes ran her arthritic fingers over it and gave her a sly smile. Philippa went to the cooking shed and spoke with Bennen, a stringy old man who knew more of herbs than anyone she had ever known and presided over the cooking with what Philippa's mother had called the “special touch.” He got along well with St. Erth's withered cook, which was a good thing, because no one else seemed to get along with him. She spoke of several dishes she herself liked, and Bennen committed them to memory, and called her “mistress” and smiled at her, his toothless mouth wide. If Dienwald wanted to feel trapped, he needed only listen to his own people. She even visited Eleanor the cat and her four kittens, all healthy and mewing loudly.

The night was long, and Philippa wished Dienwald were there, kissing her, fighting with her, trying to fit himself between her legs even as he fought himself.

The next morning, Edmund said to her after watching her crumble a particularly fine hunk of cheese and toss it to one of the castle dogs, “You didn't sleep well, Maypole. You look sour and your eyes are all dark-circled. My father has a nice palfrey that should be big enough for a female your size. Come riding, Philippa. You won't miss my father so much.” He added after a little thought, “Aye, I miss him as well. We will both ride.”

“I don't miss him, but I should like to ride.”

The palfrey's name was Daisy and she was docile and well-mannered. Philippa, her gown hiked up to her knees, her legs and feet bare, sat her horse, smiling down at Ogden, the head stableman. He was wildly red-haired and so freckled she couldn't make out the tone of his flesh beneath.

Gorkel approached and said, “You'll want men with you, mistress. The master ordered me to . . .” He faltered, and Philippa could only stare, it was so unexpected of the man who'd without hesitation snapped the steward's neck.

“I understand,” she said. “The master doesn't want me perchance to lose myself in the wilds of Cornwall.”

Gorkel beamed at her. “Aye, mistress, thass it. I don't ride well, but I'll fetch men who will accompany you.”

The afternoon was sunny, only a light breeze stirring the air, and the countryside was wild and hilly, trees bowed from the fierce winds and
storms that blew from the Irish Sea just to the north—but not now, not during Dienwald's fanciful deep spring.

Edmund allowed that she looked less testy upon their return to St. Erth some three hours later.

“You must take care with your flattery, Master Edmund, else I may mistake your sweet words for affection.”

To which Edmund snorted in disgust and said with a dignity that sat well on his boy's shoulders, “I am not a churl.”

“Not today, at least,” she said, and grinned at him.

Edmund didn't retort to that because they'd just crossed into the inner bailey and he was staring at a pack mule loaded with bundles, three men in Wolffeton colors lolling around the mule.

Perfect Kassia, the little princess, the glorious little lady, had sent clothing, just as she'd promised. An entire mule-load of clothing. Philippa gasped as she unwrapped the coarse-wool-wrapped garments. Gowns, overtunics, fine hose, shifts of the softest cotton and linen, ribbons of all colors, even soft leather slippers large enough for her, the toes pointed upward in the latest fashion from Eleanor's court. It was too much and it was wonderful and Philippa felt like the most sour-natured of wretches. She read the letter from Kassia, handed to her by one of the men. Mary was thanked for the hospitality of St. Erth, and Philippa could practically see Kassia smiling as she penned the words. The close of the letter made her frown a bit: “ . . . do not worry if things transpire somewhat awry. Dienwald makes his own decisions and he is strong and unswerving.
Don't worry, please do not, for all will be as it should be.”

Now, what did that mean? Philippa wondered as she rolled the sheet of foolscap and retied it. She looked at the clothing spread out on the trestle table in the great hall. So much, and all for her. Odd how she'd forgotten how much she'd owned at Beauchamp, and how dear one simple gown had now become to her.

She hummed and arranged the clothing in the steward's room. Then she began to work, quickly and happily, still humming. She sent Gorkel to direct the children to collect fresh rushes after she measured him for a new tunic. She asked Bennen for rosemary to scent it. More lime was dumped down the privy, for the easterly winds were strong.

The following morning, she and Edmund rode out from St. Erth again, this time with three men in attendance. Gorkel was master in Eldwin's absence, and he was directing the remaining men in the practice field. As they rode out, she could hear the men's shouts and yells and the dull thuds of the lances as they rode against the quintains. She wanted to see the cattle in the northern pastures, to make a count so she could be certain that her steward's ledgers were correct. She was garbed anew and felt like a very fine lady surrounded by her courtiers. Then it rained and she worried and fretted that her new clothing would be ruined. The cattle counted, they returned to St. Erth, Philippa to her steward's books.

On the third morning, she wore the gown she'd sewed for herself and left her legs bare. It didn't matter, for the day was warm and the master wasn't here to see her and perhaps smile at her
with lecherous intent. Ah, but she missed him and his hands and his mouth and the feel of his hard body. She missed his smile and his volley of words. She missed arguing with him and baiting him. She thought suddenly that debauching him was an interesting notion—folly, to be sure, but seductive folly. Her fingers flexed as she remembered holding his head on her lap that morning and how he'd turned his face inward and kissed her. She doubted she would have time to debauch him before he'd already done the debauching. She laughed aloud, and Edmund stared at her.

As to her future, she refused to think about it. As to St. Erth's future, it looked much brighter. With luck, there would be some cattle to sell and coins in Dienwald's coffers. She would need to check on the pigs just as she had on the cattle. She wanted nothing left to chance or hearsay. Her entries in her steward's ledgers grew longer, by the hour, it seemed, and she felt pleasure for St. Erth's master as she worked. Repairs were needed in St. Erth's eastern wall. Soon, perchance this fall, there would be enough coin to hire them done. She whistled and worked faster.

She turned her attention back to Edmund as he demanded to know why she, a heedless maypole of a girl, could read and write and cipher. “Because my father wished it, I suppose,” she said, frowning as she spoke the words, the same reply she'd given Edmund's father. “I do wonder, though, why he wished it. My sister, Bernice, has naught but space in her head, that and visions of chivalrous knights singing praises to her eyebrows. Aye, she's a one, Master Edmund.”

“Is she a maypole like you?”

Philippa shook her head. “She's short and plump and has a pointed chin and very red lips. She pouts most virtuously, having practiced before a mirror for the past six years.”

“And she had all your suitors?”

“Must you keep asking me questions? All right, there was Ivo de Vescy, and he was wildly in love with me.”

“His name sounds shiftless. Did he truly wish to wed with you? Was he a giant? You're almost as tall as my father.” Edmund paused, then shook his head. “Mayhap not.”

“You're naught but a little boy. How can you possibly tell from down there? I come nearly to your father's nose.”

“He likes small women,
short
women. Just look at Alice and Ellen and Sybilla—”