Earth Song (3 page)

Philippa kept drawing deep gulping breaths, and when her stomach eased, she grew brave enough to look around. The man driving the wagon had his back to her. She craned her neck and saw the other wagon ahead, and beyond the first wagon rode six men. All were facing away from her. Which one was the leader, the lord? They were all poorly garbed, which was odd, but their horses seemed well-fed and well-muscled. Philippa, her stomach snarling even more loudly, tried to ignore it and take stock of her surroundings. She had no idea where she was. Gnarled oak trees, older than the Celtic witches, grew in clumps on either side of the pitted dirt road. She fancied she would get an occasional sniff of the sea from the north. Mayhap they were traveling directly toward St. Ives. Mayhap all was not lost.

Philippa continued thinking optimistically for another hour. They passed through two small villages—clumped-together huts, really, nothing more. Then she saw a castle loom up before them. Set on a high rocky hill, stunted pine trees clustered about its base, was a large Norman-style castle. Its walls were crenellated and there were arrow loops, narrow windows in the four thin
towers and walls at least eight feet thick. It was gray and cold, an excellent fortress that looked like it would stand for a thousand years. It stood guard like a grim sentinel over mile upon mile of countryside in all directions. As the wagons drew nearer, Philippa saw there was no moat, since the castle was elevated, but there was a series of obstacles—rusted pikes buried in the ground at irregular intervals, their sharp teeth at a level to rip open a horse's belly or a man's throat if he fell on them. Then came the holes covered with grass and reeds, holding, she imagined, vertical spears. The wagons negotiated the obstacles without hesitation or difficulty.

Philippa heard a loud creaking sound and saw twenty-foot gates made of thick oak slowly part to reveal a narrow inner passage some thirty feet long, with withdrawn iron teeth of a portcullis ready to be lowered onto an enemy. The wagons rolled into an inner ward filled with men, women, children, and animals. It was pandemonium, with everyone talking at once, children shrieking, pigs squealing, chickens squawking. There were more people and animals here than in the inner ward at Beauchamp, and Beauchamp was twice as big. Even the chickens sounded demented.

Philippa barely had time to duck under the wool again before the wagons were surrounded by dozens of people cheering and shouting congratulations. She heard the thick outer gates grind close again, and it seemed a great distance away.

Philippa felt her first complete shock of fear. Her optimism crumbled. She'd done it this time. She'd truly acted with her feet and not with her brain. She'd jumped into a slimy moat and then into a wagon of filthy raw wool. And now she
was alone at a stranger's castle—a prisoner, or worse. She was so hungry she was ready to gnaw at her fingers.

The wagon lurched to a sudden jolting halt. Dozens of hands rocked the wagon. Philippa felt them grabbing at the wool, felt their hands sifting through the layers, nearer and nearer to where she was buried.

Then she heard the leader's voice, closer now, saying something about Gorkel the Hideous and his magnificent visage, and then her stomach announced its rebellion in no uncertain terms and she fought her way up through the wool until she flew out the top, gasping, gulping the clean air.

“God's glory,” Dienwald said, and stared.

A little boy bellowed, “What is it, Papa? A witch? A druid ghost? Thass hideous!”

Gorkel shuddered at the apparition and yelled, “ ‘Tis more hideous than I! God gi' us his mercy! Deliver us from this snare of the devil's!”

Dienwald continued to stare at the daunting creature lurching about, its arms flapping, trying to keep its balance in the shifting wool. The creature was tall, that much was obvious, its head covered with wool, thick and wild and sticking straight out. Then the great wigged hag gained its footing and turned toward him downwind, and he gagged. The noxious odor surpassed that of his many villeins who didn't bathe from their birth until their death.

The creature suddenly began to shake itself, jerking away clumps of wool with its grubby fingers, until its face was cleared and he saw it was a female sort of creature staring back at him with frightened eyes as blue as the April sky that was just beginning to mellow into late afternoon.

His people were as silent as mourners at a pope's tomb—an achievement even St. Erth's priest, Cramdle, had never accomplished in his holiest of moments—all of them staring gape-mouthed and bug-eyed. Then slowly they began to speak in frightened whispers. “Aye, Master Edmund has the right of it: thass a witch from the swamp.”

“ ‘Tis most likely a crone tossed out for thievery!”

“Nay, 'tis as Gorkel says: thass not human, thass an evil monster, a punishment from the devil.”

Edmund yelled, “ 'Tis a witch, Papa, and she's here to curse us!”

“Be quiet,” Dienwald told his son and his people. He dug his heels gently into Philbo's sleek sides. He got within five feet of the ghastly female and could not bear to bring himself closer. He fought the urge to hold his nose.

“I'm no witch!” the female shouted in a clear loud voice.

“Then who are you?” Dienwald asked.

Philippa turned to stare at the man. She wasn't blind. She saw the distaste on his face, and in truth, she couldn't blame him. She touched her fingers to her hair and found that her cap was long gone and the thick curls had worked free of the braid and were covered with slime from the Beauchamp moat and crowned with clumps of the squalid wool. She could just imagine what she looked like. She felt totally miserable. People were making the sign of the cross as they stared at her, horror and revulsion on their faces, calling upon a dizzying array of saints to protect them.

And she was Philippa de Beauchamp, such a
wondrous and beauteous girl that Ivo de Vescy had tried to force her so she would wed him. It was too much. By all the saints, even William de Bridgport wouldn't want her now. She imagined herself standing before him covered with slime and wool, her smell overwhelming. Surely he would shriek like the little boy had. She pictured de Bridgport turning and running, his fat stomach bouncing up and down. She couldn't help herself. She laughed.

“I am in obvious disarray, sirrah. Forgive me, but if you would allow me to quit your very nice castle, I will be on my way and you won't have to bear my noxious smell or my company further.”

“Don't move,” Dienwald said, raising his hand as she moved to climb over the side of the wagon. “Now, answer me. Who are you?”

It was the man with the mean deep voice, and her brief bout of laughter died a quick death. She was in a very dangerous situation. It didn't occur to her to lie. She was of high birth. No one with any chivalry would hurt a lady of high birth. She threw back her wild bushy head, straightened her shoulders, and shouted, “I am Philippa de Beauchamp, daughter of Lord Henry de Beauchamp.”

“A witch! A lying crone!”

“I am not!” Philippa shouted, furious now. “I might look like a witch, but I'm not!”

Dienwald gazed at the hideous apparition, and it was his turn to laugh. “Philippa de Beauchamp, you say? From my vantage, ‘tis barely female you appear, and such an unappetizing female that my dogs would cringe away from you. In addition, you have likely spoiled some of my wool.”

“She will curse us, Papa!”

“
Your
wool? Ha! ‘Tis my father's wool and you
are nothing more than a common thief. As for you, you loud crude boy, I am mightily tempted to curse you.”

Edmund shrieked, and Dienwald began to laugh. His people looked at him, then at the female creature, and they began to laugh as well, their chuckles swelling into a great noise. Philippa saw a misshapen fellow standing near the steps to the great hall, and even he was cackling wildly.

She wished now she'd lied. If she'd claimed to be a wench from a village, perhaps he'd simply have let her leave. But no, she'd told the truth—like a fool. How could she have imagined chivalry from a man who'd stolen two wagons of wool? Well, there was no hope for it. Up went her wool-clumped chin. “I am Philippa de Beauchamp. I demand that you give me respect.”

The moment the creature had opened her mouth, Dienwald realized she wasn't an escaped serf or a girl from the village of St. Erth. She spoke like a gentlewoman—all arrogant, and loud, and haughty—like a queen caught in the jakes with her skirts up, yelling at the person who'd seen her. What the devil was this damned female doing hidden in a wool wagon, stinking like a hog's entrails, and covered with slime?

“I have long thought Lord Henry to be a red-nosed glutton whose girth makes his horses neigh in dread of carrying his bulk, but even he couldn't have been cursed with such as you. Now, get you down from the wagon.” Dienwald watched her weave about, gain her balance, and climb down. She was very tall, and his villeins moved away from her, especially those unfortunate enough to be downwind of her. She stood on the ground, watching him, looking so awful it would curdle
the blood of the unwary. He let Philbo back away from the fright and shouted at her, “Don't move!”

Dienwald dismounted, tossed the reins to his master-at-arms, Eldwin, and strode over to the well. He filled a bucket, then returned to the wagon. Without hesitation, he threw the bucket of water over her head. She wheezed and shrieked and jerked about, and some of the wool rolled off her body and tunic. He could see her face now, and it wasn't hideous, just filthy. “More water, Egbert!”

“Water alone won't get me clean,” Philippa said, gasping from the shock of the cold water. But she was grateful; she could now sniff herself without wanting to gag. She licked her lips and gratefully swallowed the drops of water that remained.

“I can't very well strip you naked here in my inner ward and hand you a chunk of lye soap. I mean, I could, but since you claim to be a lady, you would no doubt shriek were your modesty defiled.”

A howl of laughter met this jest, and Philippa tried not to react. She said, calm as a snake sunning itself on a warm rock, “Couldn't I have the soap and perhaps go behind one of your outbuildings?”

“I don't know. My cat has just had kittens back there, and I hesitate to have her so frightened that her milk dries up.” Dienwald felt the laughter billowing up again. He yelled for lye soap; then added, “Egbert, take the creature behind the cookhouse and leave her be. Look first for Eleanor. If she and her kittens are there, take the creature behind the barracks. Agnes, fetch clean clothes for her and attend her. Then bring her
to me—but only when she no longer offends the nose.”

“But, Papa, she's a witch!”

“Officious little boy,” Philippa said as she turned on her bare heel—her boots were buried somewhere in the wool—and followed the man with the wonderful bucket of water.

“Careful what you call the creature, young Edmund,” Crooky said, hobbling up. “It might cast a foul spell on you. Thass a relic from Hades, master.” He threw back his head and cleared his throat. Dienwald, recognizing all too well the signs, yelled, “Keep your lips stitched, fool! No, not a word, Crooky, not a single foul rhyme out of your twitching mouth.

“As for you, Edmund,” he continued to his son, “the creature isn't a relic. Relics don't turn your stomach with their stench, nor have I ever seen a relic that talked back to me. Now, let's have our wool begin its progress into cloth and into tunics. Prink! Get your fat arse out here!”

“The well will go dry before the creature is clean enough for mortal viewing and smelling,” Dienwald said, rubbing his jaw as he spoke.

“Aye, thass the truth,” said Northbert, who was sniffing the wool. “ ‘Tis not a virtuous smell, my lord,” he added, picking up a clump of wool and bringing it to his nose, an appendage flattened some ten years before by a well-aimed stone.

“We'll let Old Agnes deal with it,” Dienwald said.

“There she comes!” Edmund shouted.

Dienwald looked up at his son's yell. Indeed, he thought, staring at the female vision striding toward him, barefoot, the rough gown nearly threadbare and loose everywhere except her breasts. Her hair was a damp wild halo around her head, hair the color of dark honey and fall
leaves and rich brown dirt, and growing curlier by the minute as it dried.

She walked up to him, stopped, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “I am Philippa de Beauchamp. You are a thief, but you also appear to be master of this castle and thus my host. What is your name?”

“Dienwald de Fortenberry. Aye, I am lord of this castle and master of all those herein, including you. Now, I have much to say to you, and I don't wish to speak in front of all my people. Follow me.”

He turned without another word and strode across the dusty inner bailey toward the great hall. He was tall, she saw, following in his wake, some three or four inches taller than she was, and straight as a lance and just as solid. She couldn't see a patch of fat on him. He was also tough-looking and younger than she'd first thought when she heard him giving orders after his theft of the wool wagons. He wasn't all that much older than she, but he was treacherous—he'd already proved that. He was naught but a thief without remorse. She had still to see if he had the slightest bit of chivalry.

Dienwald de Fortenberry.
She turned pale with sudden memory and was grateful he wasn't looking at her to see her face. She'd heard tales of him since she was ten years old. He was known variously as the Rogue of Cornwall, the Scourge, and the Devil's Blight. When de Fortenberry chanced to plunder or rob or pillage close to Beauchamp lands, Lord Henry would shake his fist in the air, spit in the rushes, and scream, “That damnable bastard should be cleaved into three parts!” Why
three
parts, no one at Beauchamp had
ever dared to ask. She should never have told him who she was. She'd been ten times a fool. Now it was too late. He was master of this castle.

The great hall was shadowed and gloomy, with smoke-blackened beams supporting the high ceiling, and only a half-dozen narrow windows covered with hides. The floor rushes snapped and crackled beneath her bare feet, and several times she felt one of the twigs dig into her sole—a twig or mayhap a discarded bone. There wasn't much of an odor, just a stale smell. She watched the man wave away poorly garbed servants, several men-at-arms, the crooked-backed fellow, and the small boy whom she assumed was his son. Where was his wife? He had a son; surely he had a wife. On the other hand, what woman would want to be wedded to a scourge or a blight or a bastard? Philippa watched him sit down in the lord's chair, a high-backed affair of goodly proportions that had been made by a carpenter with some skill and a love of ornamentation. “Come here,” the Scourge of Cornwall said, and crooked his finger at her.

No one had ever crooked a finger at her in such a peremptory way. Not even Lord Henry in his most officious moments.

Philippa forgot for a moment where she was and who it was who'd commanded her. She straightened her shoulders with alarming force. Her breasts nearly split the center seam of her gown. She nearly wailed with humiliation as she quickly hunched forward.

Dienwald de Fortenberry laughed.

“Come here,” he said again.

Philippa walked forward, keeping her eyes on his face. It wasn't a bad face. She would have
thought a scourge's face would be pitted by the pox, that he'd be wild-eyed and black-toothed, not hard and well-muscled and with eyes of light brown ringed with gold, with hair and brows the identical shade. There was a deep dimple in the center of his chin. Mayhap that was a mark of the devil. But if it were a devil's mark, why didn't he wear a beard to hide it? Instead he was clean-shaven, his hair worn longer than was the current fashion, with tight curls at his nape. He didn't look like a rogue or a devil's blight, but hadn't he stolen her father's wool without a by-your-leave?

“Who are you?”

“I am Dienwald de Fortenberry—”

“I know that. I mean, are you truly a devil's tool? Or perhaps one of his familiars?”

“Ah, you have realized my identity. Have you heard mind-boggling tales of me? Tales that have me flying over treetops with my arms spread like great wings to escape Christian soldiers? Tales that have me traveling a hundred miles from Cornwall in the flash of an eye to kill and butcher and maim in the wilds of Scotland?”

“No, I have heard my father curse you mightily when you have raided near Beauchamp, but you are always just a man to him, even though he roars about scourges and blights and such.”

“ ‘Tis true. I am of this earth, not above it or below it. I am but a simple man. Do you, Philippa de Beauchamp, consider this earthbound man of sufficient prominence to sit in your august presence?”

“I don't think you care at all what I think. Moreover, I'm lost.”

Dienwald sat forward in his chair. “You are in my castle, St. Erth by name. As to your exact
whereabouts, I believe I shall keep that to myself for a time. Sit you down. I have questions for you, and you will answer them promptly and truthfully.”

Philippa gazed about. There was no other chair.

He pointed downward at his feet. “On the floor.”

“Don't be absurd! Of course I won't sit on the floor.”

Dienwald stood up, still pointing to his feet. “Sit, now, or I will have my men fling you down. Perhaps I shall plant my foot on your neck to keep you down.”

Philippa sat down on the floor, folding her long legs beneath her. She tried to straighten the skirt of her borrowed gown, but it was too narrow and too short and left her knees bare.

Dienwald resumed his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, negligently stretching his long legs in front of him. She noticed for the first time that his tunic and hose were in shameful condition.

She looked up at him. “May I please have something to drink? I am very thirsty.”

Dienwald frowned at her. “You aren't a guest,” he said, then in his next breath bellowed, “Margot!”

A thin young girl scurried into the hall, managed a curtsy, and waited, her eyes on the now-clean creature barely covered by a tattered garment of dull green belonging to one of the cookhouse wenches.

“Ale and . . .” He eyed the seated female, whose knees were showing. Nice knees connected to very nice legs. “Are you hungry as well?”

Her stomach growled loudly.

“Bread and cheese as well, Margot. Be speedy, we don't want our guest to collapse in the rushes.”

Philippa could have hugged him at that moment. Food, at last.
Food!

“Now, wench—”

“I am not a wench. I am Philippa de Beauchamp. I demand that you treat me according to my rank. I demand that you . . . well, you could begin by getting me a chair and then a gown that isn't so very rough and worn and old.”

“Yes? What else? That isn't all you wish, is it?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “I know I am tall, but perhaps one of your wife's gowns would fit me.”

“I have no wife. I had a wife once, but I don't have one now, nor have I had one for many a year, thank the saints. The gown Old Agnes found for you is doubtless precious. There isn't a single hole in it. It deserves your thanks, not your disdain.”

“I meant no insult and I do thank you and the gown's owner. May I please borrow a horse? A nag, it matters not. I will see that it is returned to you.”

“Why?”

To lie or to speak more foolish truths? Philippa settled for the middle ground. “I was traveling to see my cousin, who lives near St. Ives. I was riding in the wool wagon to the fair and then I planned to walk the rest of the way to my cousin's keep. Now, of course, I am here, and ‘tis probably still too far away for me to walk.”

Dienwald looked at the female and realized she was quite young. The wild hair and the ill-fitting gown had deceived him. The hair was now dry and a full glorious fall down her back. There were
more shades than he could count, from the palest flaxen to dark ash to deepest brown. He frowned at himself. “All right, I believe you are Philippa de Beauchamp. Why were you hiding in a wool wagon?”

Margot appeared with a wooden tray that held ale, bread, and a chunk of yellow cheese. Philippa's mouth began to water. She stared at the food, unable to tear her eyes away, until Dienwald, shrugging, rose and pointed her toward the long row of trestle tables that lined the eastern side of the great hall.

He kept further questions to himself and merely watched her eat. She tried to be dainty and restrained, but her hunger overcame her refined manners for a few minutes. When she chanced to look up, her mouth full of bread, to see him watching her, she quickly ducked her head, swallowed, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing.

Dienwald rose and leaned over the trestle table, and pounded her back. He handed her a cup of ale. “Drink.”

Once she'd gotten her breath back, he was sitting again, silently watching her. If she'd been in that damned wool wagon all the way from Beauchamp, she hadn't eaten or drunk anything for nearly two days. It also seemed to Dienwald that she'd acted without much thought to any consequences, a usual feminine failing.

“You have a lot of hair.”

She unconsciously touched her fingers to the tumbled curls. “Aye.”

“Who is this cousin you were traveling to see?”

“I can't tell you that. Besides, it isn't important.”

“How old are you?”

“Nearly eighteen.”

“A great age. At first I had believed you older. Why were you running away from Beauchamp?”

“Because my father wanted me to marry a—” Philippa stopped cold. She dropped a piece of cheese onto the trestle table, then jumped to retrieve it. She fought with all her better instincts not to stuff it into her mouth. She bit off a big chunk.

“You were so against this marriage that you jumped into the moat, then buried yourself in my wool, making both it and you stink like a marsh hog?”

She nodded vigorously, her mouth full of the wonderful cheese. “Truly, I had to. If you don't mind, I should like to keep running.”

“It won't work, you know. A lady of your tender years and wealth doesn't go against her father.” He paused, giving her a long, brooding look, a look Philippa didn't like a bit. “A daughter should never go against her sire. As for marriage, 'tis to increase the family's wealth and lands and political influence. Surely you know that. Weren't you raised properly? What is wrong with you? Have you taken the minstrels' silly songs to heart? Did you fall in love with some silly fellow's eyebrows? Some clerk who read you romantic tales?”

She shook her head, thinking about her family gaining lands and wealth. Marrying her to William de Bridgport wouldn't bring any of those benefits. “Truly, sir, I can walk, if you'll just tell me the direction to St. Ives.”

Dienwald continued brooding and looking. Finally he rose and returned to his chair, saying over his shoulder, “Well, come along. Sit on the floor.”

Philippa grabbed the last piece of bread and the last morsel of cheese and followed. When she sat, the tunic slid up above her knees. She chewed on the bread, watching him, praying he wouldn't ask anything until she'd swallowed the rest of her food. But his next words nearly made her choke again.

“There are many things to consider here. I could ransom you. Your father is very wealthy, from what I've heard. Beauchamp is a formidable holding, and has been since William gave it to Rolfe de Beauchamp two hundred years ago. And your father has some influence at court, or so I heard some years ago.” He paused, looking away, and Philippa's gaze followed his. He said, “Ah, I believed myself too lucky to be alone. Come here, Crooky, and join in my musings. What do you think the wench would bring in ransom?”

Crooky hobbled up, looked Philippa up and down, and said. “Thass a tall wench, master, even sitting, a strapping big wench. Those legs of hers just don't stop. By Saint Andrew's nose, 'tis yer height she be, or nearly, I'll wager ye.”

“No, no,” Philippa said, “he is taller than I, by at least four inches.”

“Yes, that's true,” Dienwald said, ignoring her. “This is Crooky,” he added after a moment to Philippa, “my fool, my ears, and a great piece of impertinence a good deal of the time. But I suffer his presence.” He saw her nose go up. It was a nice narrow nose. It was also an arrogant and supercilious nose.

Fitting for a Philippa de Beauchamp.

To Philippa's surprise, Crooky suddenly broke into song.