Earth Song (27 page)

She lowered her head, not in defeat at his words, but because she wanted to strike him again, but both of them would probably crash to the ground if she did so.

Dienwald said nothing more. He enjoyed baiting her, he admitted to himself. For the first time in his adult male life, he enjoyed talking, fighting, arguing—all those things—with a woman. Well, it was a good thing, since he would be bound to her until he shucked off his mortal coil.

He looked sideways at Northbert and saw that his man was frowning at him. Curse his interference! He said curtly, “No sign of de Grasse?”

Northbert shook his head.

Dienwald cursed. “You've got the men in a line behind us? At intervals, and hidden?” At his man's nod, Dienwald looked fit to spit. “The man's a coward.” He cursed again. “I've wanted him for a long time now.”

“Why?”

“Ah, you deign to speak to me again, wench?”

“Why?”

“I got a letter supposedly written to me by Kassia, but 'twas from him. He captured me when I went to see her, and I ended up in Wolffeton's dungeons. Kassia saved me, but not before the bastard had broken several of my ribs and killed three of my men. I owe him much. More than enough, since he took my son. Soon now I will repay him.”

“And he took me.”

“Aye, and you, wench.”

So Kassia—perfect
small
Kassia—had saved him. Hadn't she other things to do? Like saving her own husband every once in a while? Curse the woman, she was a thorn in her side, nay, a veritable bush of thorns.

Well, there were those who'd wanted her as well, and she said now, “Why did Walter want to marry me?”

“Are you certain that he did?”

“Unlike you,” Philippa said, her voice as bitter as the coarse green goat grass that grew beside the road, “he was most desirous of it. Indeed, he would have ravished me to ensure it, had I not escaped from him when I did. But it makes no sense to me.”

“The man's mad.”

Her elbow trembled, wanting to fling itself back into his belly. Finally she could bear it no longer and allowed her elbow to have its way.

He said nothing, merely grunted; then he closed his arms more tightly around her, higher now, his forearms resting under her breasts. He raised them a bit until they were pushing up her breasts, very high.

“Stop it, your men will see!”

“Then bait me not, wench.”

She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then said suddenly, “When the woman came to kill me, she screamed at me, something about how he—Walter—didn't want me, really, but the riches I would bring him. What could she have meant? My father must have visited Walter and promised him coin if he found me. I can think of no other reason.”

“I don't know. We will find out soon enough. Your family must be told, once it is over.”

“Then my father will come and cut off your manhood.”

“Don't sound so vicious. 'Tis my manhood that endears me to you.” To her surprise and to Dienwald's own astonishment, he leaned forward and kissed her ear. “I will give you pleasure, Philippa. And not only my manhood. The pain last night was necessary—‘twas your rite of passage into womanhood, 'tis said.”

“Who says?”

“Women. Who else?”

“Some arrogant male.”

“Acquit me, wench. I want only to give you pleasure and to teach you how to pleasure me.”

“I didn't give you pleasure last night?”

He grinned at the hurt tone of her voice. “A bit, I suppose. Aye, a bit. At least you were willing enough.”

He felt her stiffen, and very slowly he eased his hand upward to cup her right breast. He caressed her, his fingers circling her nipple until he could feel the slamming of her heartbeat beneath his palm. “Shall I call a halt and tell my men that my bride wishes to have me here and now? Would you like that, wench? Shall I slip my hand inside your gown to touch your warm flesh and feel your nipple tighten against my palm?”

Her breathing was ragged, her breasts heaving. She wanted to feel his hands caressing her body. She wanted his mouth too, and his manhood, and so, without thinking, she said on a soft sigh as she leaned back against his chest, “Aye, if you will, Dienwald, 'twould please me very much, I think.”

He forgot all his baiting, forgot everything save his desire for her, his seemingly endless need for her. The more she yielded to him, the more he seemed to want her. It was disconcerting and it was vastly annoying and it was so enjoyable his brain reeled.

He very gently eased his hand into her gown and cupped her breast. He could feel her breathing hitch beneath his palm. He saw her lips part, and her eyes never left his face. He knew it was ridiculous, what he was doing. Any of his men could come upon the mat any time. Northbert could draw alongside to tell him something . . . his son . . . St. Peter's toenails!

He pulled his hand out of her gown and slapped the wool back over her. “There'll be time for this later,” he said, and turned her away from him. “Watch the trees and the hawthorns and the yew bushes. Colors are coming out now. Life is renewing.” His words stopped abruptly, for he suddenly realized that he'd spilled his seed deep inside her but hours before—a new life could have already begun. An image flashed in his mind: a girl child with wildly curling hair streaked with many shades of brown and ash colors, tall and hardy, filled with laughter, her eyes a vivid summer blue.

He growled into Philippa's ear, “I suppose you'll give me more children than I can feed.”

She just turned and gave him a beautiful smile.

King Edward nodded decisively. “Aye, Robbie, you must needs go and inform de Fortenberry of
his immense good fortune. The fellow probably has gaps in his castle walls, he's so poor. His sire had not a coin to bless himself with either. Aye, I'll have St. Erth repaired. I don't want my sweet daughter in any danger, so mayhap I'll have more men sent.”

Robert Burnell said, “But I thought you didn't wish to acquire a son-in-law who would drain your coffers, sire.”

“Nay, not drain them, but we're speaking of my daughter, Robbie, the product of my youth, the outpouring of my young man's . . .” The king grinned. “He has but a young son? All Plantagenet ladies love children. She will take to the boy, doubtless, so we need have no worries there. After you've gotten de Fortenberry's consent and endured all his endless thanks and listened to all his outpourings of gratitude, have Lord Henry bring our sweet daughter here to Windsor. My queen insists that my daughter be wedded here. Philippa's nuptials will take place in a fortnight, no longer, mind you, Robbie.”

The king moved away from his chancellor, flexing his shoulders as he paced. “Aye, you must go now, for there is much else to be done. God's teeth, so much else. It never ceases. Aye, we'll soon finish this business, and it will end happily.”

Robert Burnell, accompanied by twenty of the king's finest soldiers, left the following morning for Cornwall.

Not two days later, the king was sitting with Accursi, plotting ways of wringing funds from his nobles' coffers for all the castles he wanted to build in Wales. Accursi, the son of a famous Italian jurist, was saying in his high voice, “Sire, 'tis
naught to worry you. Simply tell the nobles to open their hearts and thus their coffers to you. Your need is greater than theirs. 'Tis
their
need you seek to meet! They are your subjects and 'tis to your will they must bow.”

Edward looked sour. He stroked his jaw. Accursi would never understand the English nobleman despite all his years in service with him. He thought them weak and despicable, sheep to be told firmly to shed their very wool. Edward was on the point of saying something that would likely send Accursi into a sulk when he heard a throat clear loudly, and looked up.

“Sire, forgive me for disturbing you,” his chamberlain, Aleric, said quickly, “but Roland de Tournay has come and he awaits your majesty's pleasure. You gave orders that you wished to see him immediately.”

“De Tournay!” Edward laughed aloud, rising quickly. A respite from Accursi. “Send him hence. I wish to see that handsome face of his.”

Roland de Tournay paused a moment on the threshold of the king's chamber, taking it all in, as was his wont, and Edward knew he was assessing the occupants, specifically Accursi. Edward saw the very brief flash of contempt in Roland's eyes, an instinctual Englishman's reaction to any foreigner.

Edward said, grinning widely, “Come bow before me, de Tournay, you evil infidel. So our gracious Lord saw fit to save you to return to serve me again, eh?”

Roland strolled into the chamber as if he were its master, but it didn't offend Edward. It was de Tournay's way. It did, however, offend Accursi,
who said in his high, accented voice, “See you to your manners, sirrah!”

“Who is this heathen, sire? I can't recall his face or his irritating manners. You haven't told the fellow of my importance?”

Edward shook his head. “Accursi, hold your peace. De Tournay is my man, doubt you not, and I'll not have him abused, save by me. 'Tis about time we see you in England, Roland.”

“That is what I heard said of you, sire, you who wandered the world for two years before claiming your crown.”

“Impudent dog. Come and sit with me, and we will drink to our days in Acre and Jerusalem and your nights spent wallowing in the Moslims' gifts. I hear Barbars gave you six women to start your own harem.”

It was some two hours later when the king said to the man who'd done him great and loyal service in the Holy Land, “Why did you not come to my coronation October last? Eleanor spoke of your desertion.”

Roland de Tournay merely smiled and drank more of the king's fine Brittany wine. “I doubt not the beautiful and gracious queen spoke of me,” he said. “But, sire, I was naught but a captive in a deep prison, held by that sweetest of men, the Duke of Brabant. He, in short, demanded ransom for my poor body. My brother paid it, afraid not to, for he knew that you would hear of it if he didn't.” Roland grinned wickedly. “Actually, I think it was his fair wife, lusty Blanche, who forced him to ransom me.”

It took Edward only another hour before he slapped his knee and shouted, “You shall marry my daughter! Aye, the perfect solution!”

“Your daughter!” Roland repeated, staring blankly at the king. “A royal princess? You have drunk too much of this fine wine, sire.”

The king just shook his head and told de Tournay about Philippa de Beauchamp. “ . . . so you see, Roland, Robbie is on his way, as we speak, to de Fortenberry. I would rather it be you. You're a known scoundrel and de Fortenberry is an unknown one. What say you?”

“De Fortenberry, eh? He's a tough rascal, sire, a rogue, and worthy withal. I know naught ill of him as a man. But he's wily and likes not to bow to anyone, even his king. Why did you select him?”

“ 'Twas Graelam de Moreton who suggested him. He's a force in Cornwall, a savage place still. I need good men, strong men, men I can trust. As a son-in-law I could trust his arm to wield sword for me. But you too could settle there, Roland. I would deed you property and a fine castle. What say you?”

“Will you make me a duke, sire?”

“Impudent cock! An earl you'll be, and nothing more.”

Roland fell silent. It felt strange to be back in his own land, sitting with his king, discussing marriage to a royal bastard. He wanted no wife, truth be told, yet the truth hesitated on his tongue. Doubtless the king would regret his hastiness. The flagon of wine lay nearly empty between them. Roland would wait until the morrow.

“ 'Twould enrage your brother, I vow,” the king mused. “Himself the Earl of Blackheath, and to have his troublesome young brother be made an earl also and the king's son-in-law? Aye, 'twould make him livid.”

That it would, Roland thought. But he didn't particularly like to rub his brother's nose in dung, so he slowly shook his head.

“ 'Tis a generous offer, sire, and one that must be considered conscientiously and in absence of your good drink.”

“So be it, Roland. Tell me of your harem,” King Edward said, “before my beautiful Eleanor comes to pluck us away.”

On the last day of April, under the flowering apple trees in the St. Erth orchard, Father Cramdle performed a marriage ceremony crowned with enough ritual to please even the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. The sweet scent of the apple blossoms, musk roses, and violets filled the air, the bride looked more beautiful than the yellow-and-purple-patterned butterflies that hovered over the scores of trestle tables laden with food and ale, and the bridegroom and master of St. Erth looked like he wanted to frown himself into the ground. Father Cramdle ignored the bridegroom. The ceremony was right and proper. All the people of St. Erth were happy. The master was doing his duty by the maid.

The soon-to-be-mistress of St. Erth looked as
excited as any other girl at her own wedding, Old Agnes thought as she watched Philippa de Beauchamp become Philippa de Fortenberry, the master's helpmeet and steward and keeper of the castle. Aye, she was lovely in her soft pink gown with a dark pink overtunic—both garments among those sent to her by Lady Kassia de Moreton, a fact that had seemed, for some unknown reason, to annoy the mistress.

She wore her richly curling hair long and thick down her back, with flowers twined together into a crown on her brow. She was a maiden bride, and if anyone thought differently, he was wise enough to keep silent.

The master looked a magnificent animal as well, clothed in the new bright blue tunic the mistress had sewn for him, his long lean body straight and tall. But he also looked uncommonly severe and forbidding, something Old Agnes didn't understand but hadn't the courage to ask about. As for the young master, he was grinning like a fatuous little puppy after a big meal.

Since they were wedded here at St. Erth, no dowry or bridal gifts involved, Dienwald spared himself and his bride the ceremonial stripping. He knew his bride was very nicely formed and he knew that she thought well of his body as well. He chewed his thumbnail and wished Father Cramdle would finish with his array of Latin, words spoken so slowly that Dienwald didn't know where one word began and another left off. Nor did he understand any of the words, so it really didn't matter.

Neither did Philippa. She just wanted it over with. She wanted to turn and smile at her new husband and watch him smile back at her. They'd
returned the evening before, and to Philippa's surprise and chagrin, Dienwald hadn't come near his own bedchamber. She'd slept alone, wondering at his sudden bout of nobility—if, indeed, it were a case of nobility.

Perhaps, she thought, as Father Cramdle droned on, he'd not found her particularly to his liking that first time. Perhaps he didn't . . .

The ceremony was over, and there was suddenly loud, nearly riotous cheering from all the people of St. Erth. Gorkel had set Crooky on his massive shoulders and the fool was leading the people in shouts and yells and howls of glee.

“ ‘Tis done.”

Philippa, her brilliant smile in place, turned to her new husband, but she didn't get a smile in return. He was staring beyond her at nothing in particular as far as she could tell.

“Aye,” she said with great satisfaction, “you are now my husband. What is it? Is something the matter? Something offends you?”

“All my people,” Dienwald said, still staring about him, “are shouting their heads off. And it is because they believe you to be good for their well-being. They make me feel I've been a rotten tyrant in my treatment of them.”

“Mayhap,” she said with a grin, “they believe I'll temper you rottenness and make you as sweet and ripe as summer strawberries. As for me, husband, I shall try to be good for our people. Mayhap they also believe I'll be good for their master. I had much food prepared. Indeed, everyone wished to help. Look at the tables, I vow they are creaking with the weight of it. There are hare and pork and herring and beef and even some young lamb—”

“Aye, I know.” He struck his fingers through his hair. “Edmund,” he bellowed. “Come hither!”

The boy was still grinning even as he came to a halt in front of his father and announced with glee, “You are wedded to the maypole.”

Philippa laughed and cuffed his shoulder. “You weedy little spallkin! Come, give me a kiss.”

Edmund came up to his tiptoes and hugged her, then raised his face, his lips pursed. She kissed him soundly. “Can you call me something a bit more pleasing, Edmund?”

Edmund struck a thoughtful pose. Crooky came up then and Edmund said, “A name, Crooky, I must have a comely name for my father's wife.”

“Ah, a name.” Crooky slewed a look at his master. “Mayhap Morgan? Or Mary?”

“Shut your teeth!” Dienwald bellowed, and cuffed Crooky, sending the fool tumbling head over arse to the ground in a well-performed roll.

“I think,” Edmund said slowly, “that I wish to think about it. Is that all right?”

“That is just fine. Now, husband, would you like to partake of your wedding feast?”

There was enough feasting and consumption of ale to keep the people of St. Erth sick for a week. And that, Philippa thought, smiling, was probably the reason they'd cheered her so vigorously—enough food and drink and dancing to make the most sullen villein smile. Even the blacksmith, a man of morose habits, was laughing, his mouth stuffed with stewed hare and cabbage. Everyone was frolicking.

All but the master.

He danced with her; he picked at the roasted hare and pork Philippa served on his trencher, but he didn't try to pull her away to kiss her or
fondle her on his lap. And that, she knew, wasn't at all like Dienwald. His hand should have been on her knee, moving upward, or caressing her breast, a wicked gleam in his eyes. She wished she had the courage to stroke her hand up his leg, but she didn't.

When the time came, Philippa allowed Old Agnes and the other women to see her to the master's bedchamber. Margot combed her hair and the women took off her clothes and placed her in Dienwald's big bed. Then, with much giggling and advice that Philippa found interesting but quite unnecessary, they left.

“Aye,” Old Agnes called back, “we'll send up the master soon, if he isn't too sodden to move!”

Margot laughed and shouted, “We'll tell him stories to stiffen his rod! Right now 'tis too full of ale to do more than flop about!”

Now that, Philippa thought, was an interesting image to picture.

The night was dark, and but one candle flickered in the bedchamber. Philippa waited naked under the thin cover, for it was warm this night, her wedding night. Her arm was still bound in a soft wool bandage, but it scarce bothered her. She wanted her husband to come to her, she wanted him to touch her with his hands, with his mouth, and she wanted his rod to come inside her and fill her. She wanted desperately to hold him to her as he moved inside her. She loved him and she wanted to give him everything that she was, everything that she had, which, admittedly, were only her love and her goodwill for him, his son, and his castle.

Time passed and the candle gutted. She fell
asleep finally, huddled onto her side, her hands beneath her cheek.

The door crashed open and Philippa came instantly awake and lurched upright. Her new husband was standing in the open doorway holding a candle in his right hand. He was scowling toward her, and she saw that he wasn't happy.

He stepped into the chamber and kicked the door shut with his heel, then strode across the chamber and came to a halt beside the bed. He looked down at her. She pulled the blanket over her breast to her chin.

“Good,” he said.

“Good what?”

“You're naked, wench—at least you had better be under that flimsy cover. The women were giggling enough about your fair and willing body, ready for me. Now that I've enslaved myself and all I own for you, now that you've gotten everything you wanted, I think I will take advantage of the one benefit you bring me.”

He was pulling off his clothes as he spoke. Philippa stared at him, realizing that he was drunk. He wasn't sodden, but he was drunk.

She just looked at him. She wasn't afraid of him, but still she said, “Will you hurt me, Dienwald?”

That brought him upright. He was naked, standing with his arms at his sides, his legs slightly spread, and he was staring down at her. “Hurt you, wench?”

“I am not a wench, I'm your wife, I'm Philippa de Fortenberry, and—”

“Aye, I know it well . . . too well. Come, lie down and shut your woman's mouth and open your legs. I wish to take you, and if there is much
more talk, I doubt I'll be able. Nay, I'll not hurt you if you obey me.”

She didn't move for a very long time. Finally she said slowly, “You said you would give me pleasure.”

He frowned. He had said that, it was true, but that was before he'd drunk so much ale he felt he'd float away with the Penthlow River. He felt ill-used, but he supposed it wasn't her fault, not really. No matter how he railed and brawled, he had taken her, and all because of that cursed dream of her he'd been having. That and the fact that he'd wanted her for longer than he could remember.

And so he said in a voice that was fast becoming sober, “I'll try, by all the saints' sweet voices, I'll try to bring you pleasure.”

She smiled at that, all the while looking at him. He was tall and lean and hard, and so beautiful she wanted to cry. Her body was taut with excitement and soft with a need she knew lay buried within her, a need he would nurture into being.

“ 'Twill be fine, then, my husband.”

She lay on her back and lifted her arms to him.

“Why must you yield to me so sweetly?” he asked as he lay down and pulled the blanket to her waist. He came over her naked breasts, and the feel of her so soft and giving beneath him made him shiver. “Ah, Philippa,” he said, and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss until he felt her respond to him, and then he lightly probed with his tongue until she parted her lips and he slipped his tongue in her mouth. He felt her start of surprise and said into her mouth, “Touch your tongue to mine.”

She did, shyly, as if she were afraid of what
would happen. Then she gasped with the wonder of it and threw her arms—both of them—around his back. He laughed at that, both amazed and pleased to his male soul at her yielding reaction. He taught her how to kiss and how to enjoy all the small movements he made with his tongue. He rubbed his chest over her breasts, and her response was beyond what he'd expected. She was panting and arching up against him, her hands fluttering over him.

“The feel of you,” Philippa said, rubbing herself against his hairy chest. “I love the feel of you,” and he felt her trying to open her legs for him. He fitted himself there, his sex against her belly, then raised himself and said, “Touch me, Philippa. I can't bear it anymore. Touch me.”

She reached between their bodies and instantly clasped her fingers about him. “Oh,” she said, and her fingers grew still. “I hadn't thought . . . 'tis wondrous how you feel . . . your strength.” And she began to caress him, to stroke him, to learn him, and then she closed both hands about him and fondled him, and soon he couldn't bear it. He pulled back up onto his knees between her widespread thighs and looked down at her. Her sleek long legs were beautifully shaped and white and soft, and he wanted them around his flanks and wanted to come inside her, and he said only, “Now, Philippa, now.”

There was in her expression only sweetness and anticipation, and it seeped slowly through his brain that he had become infinitely more sober than when he entered the room.

“Pleasure,” he repeated slowly as he paused before guiding himself into her. “Pleasure.” He
stopped, drew a deep shuddering breath, and frowned down at her. “You're my wife.” He eased down then between her legs, and his lips were on her stomach, his hands stroking her, his tongue wet and hot against her flesh. He was moving lower and lower, and Philippa, so surprised that she hadn't the chance to be shocked by what he was doing, yelled when his mouth closed over her.

He raised his head, staring at her in consternation. “Pleasure,” he said. “ 'Tis for your pleasure.”

“Oh.”

“Be quiet, wench. This is good.”

And so it was, but it was also more, much more. When his mouth took her this time, she lurched upward but didn't yell. She felt the sensation of his mouth into the very depths of her, sensations she'd never before even guessed could exist. She whimpered, her fist in her mouth. His hands slipped beneath her buttocks, and he lifted her, his tongue wild on her and inside her, delving and probing, and she cried out, unable to keep still any longer. And it went on and on, gaining in urgency until she gave herself to it.

Dienwald felt the stiffening of her legs, the convulsions that tightened her muscles, and in those moments his mind was as clear as a cloudless summer day, and he saw her, really saw her, and felt her even as she stared at him, her eyes wide and wild, filled with surprise and passion, and she cried out and arched upward, giving herself to him fully. It was a woman's pleasure swamping her, and he was giving it to her and felt himself sharing it, deeply, and it dazed him. He wanted to shy away from it, to escape it, but he
couldn't because he was held firm and close, a part of her, even though he had never known it could be so. Nothing had prepared him for this joining. When she quieted, he raced back, taut and wild and fierce, lifted her hips even higher—but again he looked down at her, and slowed himself. He came into her very slowly, for she was small. It was almost too much for him. She was wet from the pleasure he'd brought her, and the feel of her, the feel of himself inside her, made him shudder and moan until he couldn't bear it and he drove into her, coming over her then, even as he felt her womb. And he exploded then and groaned loudly, heaving into her as his seed filled her.