Earth Song (33 page)

Philbo was tired and the mare was fresh. Just as her mare came beside Philbo, Philippa, not for the last time in her life, thought with her feet. Without hesitation, she jumped from the mare's back straight at her husband, her arms flying around his back. He stared at her in that wild instant, then knew what was going to happen. He lurched around in the saddle, clutched her against his chest even as both of them hurtled from Philbo's back to the ground. Dienwald twisted and landed first, managing to spare Philippa the brunt of the fall. His arms tightened, and he grunted, the breath momentarily knocked out of him.

The road was narrow and curved, alongside it the terrain sloped sharply downward. They rolled over and over, locked together, down the grassy
incline, coming finally to a stop in the middle of a patch of eglantine and violets.

Dienwald lay on his back, Philippa atop him. They were both breathing hard. Dienwald wondered if his body was intact or strewn in bits amongst the eglantine. Then Philippa reared back, looking down at him. She, he saw, was just fine. He felt her belly against him and his sex responded instantly, and he knew, at least, that this part of him had survived the fall, and further, would never be immune from her. Her thick glorious hair had come loose of its ribbon and was a riot of wild curls around her face. Her eyes sparkled with fierceness and he found himself waiting eagerly for her outpouring of rage.

“You stupid lout,” she shouted three inches from his face. “I should break both your arms and your head! You ignorant clod! Aye, I'll break you into small pieces!”

“You already have,” he said. “Ridiculous woman, I tried to protect you, take the brunt of the fall, but your weight flying at me was enough to crush my spleen and pulverize my liver. When we smashed to the ground, my breath died, as did all feeling in my chest.”

“ 'Tis the loss of your brains that should concern you,” Philippa said, and began to pound him. “You had few to begin with, rattling around in that fat head of yours, and now you have none, my lord husband.”

Dienwald grabbed her flailing fists—not an easy task—and finally managed to roll her beneath him. He jerked her arms over her head, clasped her wrists together, and came up to straddle her so she couldn't rear up and kick him.

“Now,” he said, looking down at her, his chest heaving. “Now.”

“Now what, you buffoon?”

He felt words stick in his throat. Something was decidedly wrong here. She seemed unaware of his mastery over her, whereas he was aware of nothing but the maddening effect she had on him.

“I suppose you've been licking your false wounds, with your perfect little Kassia giving you her sweet, tender succor. Is that it, you wretched ass? Have you spent the past three days bemoaning your hideous fate? Cursing me and all the saints for the misery that has befallen you? And did your perfect little Kassia agree with you and cry with you as you smote your feckless brow? Answer me!”

“Not really,” he said, and frowned.

She jerked, trying to free her hands, but he only tightened his grip. He wanted to kiss her and thrust inside her and throttle her all at the same time. Instead, he said in his most commanding voice, “I am your master, wench. Only I, no one else. You came to me and seduced me and I wedded you and that is that. Now, hold still and keep your tongue quiet, for I must think.”

“Think! Ha!”

“Where were you going with my men and my son? You were escaping me, 'twas plain to see. You were going to London, weren't you? You were taking my son and going to your cursed father. Tell me the truth!”

She sneered at him and tried to kick him, but he held her securely and all she gained was the pressure of his sex, hard and demanding, against her. It drove her mad and enraged her at the
same time. “Aye,” she shouted so loudly she hurt his ears, “aye, we were all going to London! To my father—to cover myself with jewels and cavort and frolic and dance with all the fine courtiers.”

“That's all you can think about? Gallants and jewels? And what would Edmund have done whilst you were cavorting and frolicking and flirting with these frivolous clothheads?”

That stumped her, for her brain had fallen into wayward paths. He was astride her, his legs tight against her sides, and he was panting, so close she could nearly feel the texture of his mouth on her. She wanted desperately to hit him and then kiss him until he was breathless and so hungry for her that he forget everything.

“Don't look at me like that, Philippa. It will do you no good. I won't give in to you. It won't spare you my wrath. Don't deny it—you're trying to seduce me again. No, you've been disloyal to me, you've—”

She suddenly heaved upward with all her strength, taking him off-guard. He fell sideways, not releasing her wrists, and they were lying there with naught but thick clumps of purple violets between them, face-to-face, their noses nearly pressed together. He couldn't help himself. He kissed her, then lurched back as if stung by a hornet.

“Dienwald . . .” she whispered, and hurled herself toward him, trying to kiss him back.

“Nay, I shan't let you debauch me again, wench. Stay away from me.” Blood pounded in her head and with a furious cry she pulled free of his hands and smashed down on him, rolling him again onto his back. She was lying atop him once more, and then she was kissing him, even
as he tried to duck away. She gripped his hair and yanked hard, holding his head between her hands, and she kissed him again and again, licking his chin, nipping at his nose, rubbing her cheek against his ear. He felt her belly hard against his sex and knew it was nearly the finish. The finish for him. He didn't understand her. She was yielding and taking both at the same time, and it astonished him and pleased him. He stilled his body, letting her have her way with him.

“Wench,” he said finally when she'd momentarily left his mouth. “Wench, listen to me.”

Eyes vague, heart pounding, Philippa heard his soft voice and raised her head to look down at him.

“You're my husband, you peevish fool,” she said, and kissed him again. “You're mine. I would never leave you, never, no matter how great my anger at you and your crazy thinking. Do you understand me?” And she pounded his head against the violets. “Do you? I was coming to fetch you, to bring you home to me, where you belong. Do you understand?”

“Stop it for but a moment! By the saints, my head! You're breaking my head! There, stop! Aye, I understand you. But now you heed me. You're my wife and you won't ever leave me again, do you understand me? You will remain at St. Erth or wherever it is I wish you to remain. You won't ever go haring off to London to see your father without me. I won't have it, do you hear me?”

“Me leave you?” That made her stop her kisses and clear her brain just a bit. “You left me! For three days I didn't know where you were or what you were doing. Then I realized you would go to
your beloved perfect little Kassia, so I was coming after you, your men and your son with me!”

In her indignation, she tugged at his hair all the harder and pounded his head several more times against the ground. He groaned loudly, and she stopped. “Your head is crushing the violets. How dare you think those awful things about me? You are impossible and I can't imagine why I love you more than I love—” She broke off, staring down at him, knowing that she'd left herself open to him, open to his scorn, his baiting, his insults.

He suddenly smiled, a beautiful crooked smile that made her want to kiss him until he couldn't think. “Were you really coming after me, to fetch me home?”

“Of course! I wasn't going to London. You honestly believe I would steal your son, leave my home? Command your men to attend me? Ah, Dienwald, you deserve this!” She reared back, her arm raised, yet at the last moment her fist stilled in midair. She stared down at him and saw the gleam of challenge in his eyes, the twist of a smile on his mouth. She cursed him softly, then leaned down and kissed him thoroughly. He parted his lips and let her tongue enter his mouth. It was wonderful. She was wonderful and she was his.

“Aye,” he said into her warm mouth, “I deserve all of you, wench.”

She felt his hands stroke down her back and pulled her flat against him. His fingers were parting her legs, pressing inward through her gown, to touch her. “Dienwald,” she said against his mouth.

He jerked up her gown and his fingers were now caressing the bare skin of her inner thighs, working slowly upward, until they found her
woman's flesh and then he paused, his fingers quiet now, not moving, merely feeling her warmth and softness. He sighed deeply. “I've missed you.”

“Nay, 'tis my body you've missed,” she whispered between urgent kisses. “Any female would suit you, 'tis just that you are a lusty cockscomb and a man who is randy all his waking hours. I have heard of all your other women, I even know all their cursed names for Edmund recited them.”

“You would surely make me the most miserable of men were I to take another woman to my bed. Do you know that I dream of coming inside you, deep and deeper still, and all the while you're telling me how it makes you feel when I push into you—”

She kissed him again, wild for him now, unheeding of their surroundings. Dienwald was very nearly removed in spirit as well until he heard Eldwin's soft voice, “Master.”

Dienwald wanted nothing more than to let Philippa debauch him right here, in the nest of violets and eglantine, the soft warm air swirling about them. He cocked open an eye even as he pulled down her gown.

“What want you, Eldwin? There is an army bearing down on you and you must know where to flee?”

“No, master, 'tis worse.”

“What in the name of St. Andrew could possible be worse?”

“It will rain soon, master—a heavy rain, Northbert says, a deluge that could fill this ditch in which you lie. Northbert reads well the clouds and the other signs, you know that.”

Dienwald looked up. It was true, the soft warm
air swirling about them was also dark and heavy and gray. But it didn't matter, not one whit. “Excellent, my thanks. You and the men take Edmund back to St. Erth. The wench—my wife and I will return shortly. Go now. Wait not another minute. Hurry. Be gone.”

Eldwin wasn't blind to what he'd interrupted. He turned on his heel and hurried back to the waiting men. Soon Dienwald heard pounding hooves going away from them.

“Now, wench.”

“Now what?”

“Now I shall have my way with you in the midst of the violets and the eglantine.”

When the first rain drop landed on Philippa's forehead, she was glad for it for she felt fevered and so urgent she felt ready to burst. Dienwald brought her closer to his mouth and caressed her until she screamed, arching her back, wild with wanting and with the mounting feelings that filled her. Overflowing now. And when he left her, she lurched upward and pressed him back and he fell, laughing and moaning, for she was kissing his throat, his chest, her hands splayed over him, and soon she was crouched between his legs and her mouth was on his belly, her hair flowing over him, and she was caressing him with her mouth and her hands. When she took him into her mouth, tentatively, wonderingly, he thought he would spill his seed then so urgent did he feel, but it was as if she guessed, and left him, easing him gently with her fingers, before caressing him again until he cried out with it and pulled her off him. Then he was covering her, and his manhood was thrusting into her, deep and hard, and so sweet that she cried with the wonder of it. And
when he spilled his seed within her, he tasted her tears on her lips.

Dienwald said as he kissed the raindrops away, “I love you, Philippa, and I will never cease loving you and wanting you. We are joined, you and I, and it is for always. Never, ever, will I speak to you in anger again. You are mine forever.”

And she said only, “Yes.”

He was heavy on her, but she didn't care. She wrapped her arms about his back and hugged him all the more tightly. The rain thickened and it was only then they realized that they were lying in the open, sheets of rain pouring down on them, in the gray light. And then Dienwald saw there was something else beside the rain.

There was Walter de Grasse standing at the top of the incline, staring down at them, his face twisted with rage.

Dienwald slowly eased away from Philippa and pulled her gown down her legs, pretending not to see Walter.

“Love . . .” she said, her voice soft and drowsy despite the rain battering down on her. “Love, don't leave me.”

“Philippa,” he said as he straightened his clothes, “come, you must awaken now.”

Sir Walter's voice cracked through the silence. “Are you certain you are through plowing her belly, you whoreson? If the little slut wants more, I shall take her and give her pleasure she's never known with you.”

Walter! Philippa sat up quickly, staring at her cousin, who still stood at the top of the incline, his hands on his hips, rain long since soaked through his clothes. He'd
watched
them. She felt
at once sick to her stomach and blindly furious. She scrambled to her feet.

Dienwald took one of her hands in his and squeezed it. When he spoke, his tone was almost impersonal. “What do you want, de Grasse?”

“I want what is mine. I want her, despite what you've done to her.”

Dienwald squeezed her hand tightly now, and said in the same detached way, “You can't have her, de Grasse. She was never yours to have, save in your fantasies. She's mine. As you have observed, she is completely mine.”

“Nay, you bastard! She'll wed me! She'll have no choice, for I'll hold you to ensure her compliance!”

Dienwald stared at him. “Too late, de Grasse, you are far too late. Philippa is already wedded to me with her father's—the king's—blessing.”

“You lie!”

“Why should I?”

That drew Walter up for a moment. He eyed his enemy of so many years that he'd lost count. De Fortenberry had been an enemy before Walter had even seen his face, his very name a litany of vengeance. So long ago Dienwald's father had beaten Walter's, but it hadn't been fair, it hadn't been unprejudiced. No, his father had been cheated, cheated of everything, his only son disinherited. “I should have killed you when I had you at Wolffeton. I broke your ribs, but it wasn't enough, though I enjoyed it. I should have tortured you until I tired of hearing your screams, and then I should have sent my sword into your belly. Ah, but no, I waited, like a fool I waited for Graelam to return, certain that he would mete out justice, that he would right the wrongs done
unto my father and unto me. I was a fool then, I admit it. I didn't think that Lord Graelam's wife, that little bitch, Kassia—your lover—would dare rescue you. But she did, curse her. Hellfire, I should have killed her for saving you!”

“But you didn't,” Dienwald said, bringing Philippa against his side. “And Graelam, not knowing the depths of your twisted hatred, made you castellan of Crandall. But you couldn't be satisfied with your overlord's trust. No, you couldn't dismiss your hatred and forget your imagined ills. You had to kill my people and burn their huts and their crops and put the sword to their animals. You went too far, de Grasse. Graelam knows what you did. He will not allow it to continue. He himself will kill you. I won't have to bother.”

“Kill me? You? As for Graelam, you have no proof, de Fortenberry, of any burning or killing. Not a shred of proof do you have. Graelam would never act without proof. I know him well. He thinks he judges character like a god, when he is but a fool. And when he finds you dead, there will still be no proof, and he won't act against me.”

“Then you stole Philippa and my son. You will die, Walter, and your enmity will die with you.”

“Stole! Ha! I rescued my cousin! Your miserable brat just happened to be with her. I didn't harm him, the little vermin. Skewer not the truth for your own ends.”

“Since there is no longer a rescue to be made, since Philippa is my wife with the king's blessing, then you intend now to take your leave of us? You intend to forget your plaints and return to Crandall?”

Even as he spoke, Dienwald saw Walter's men, in view now, yet blurred in the downpour. The shower was lessening a bit but they were still vague and gray. They looked miserable; they looked uncertain.

Philippa said, “Walter, I am wedded to Dienwald. I am his wife. Both Lord Henry and Robert Burnell, the king's chancellor, will attest to it. It is true. Leave us be.”

Walter ground his teeth. He felt maddened with failure, his loss surrounding him, gashing into him, twisting him and taunting him. He'd not gained what was his by birthright. He'd gained nothing, less than nothing. Life hadn't meted out justice to him. There would be no retribution unless he gained it for himself. And now he'd stood watching his enemy enjoy the girl intended for him. He raised his face to the skies and howled his fury.

It was a grim sound, terrifying and haunting. Philippa clutched Dienwald against her side, turning her face inward to his chest. It was a howl of pain and defeat and ruin; a cry of loss of faith, loss of self.

Then Walter was silent; all his men were silent, though several were crossing themselves. The silence dragged on. It was frightening and eerie. The rain pounded down and the curving piece of ground upon which Dienwald and Philippa stood began to fill with water. The violets sagged beneath the weight of the rain.

Then Walter, without warning, drew his sword and leapt down the incline, his full weight landing against Dienwald's chest, battering him backward. Philippa was thrown to the side, splashing onto her knees into the water. She scrambled to
her feet, flailing about to gain purchase in the swirling torrent.

Walter's sword was drawn, and in a smooth arc aimed toward Dienwald's chest. Dienwald had naught but a knife and he held it in his right hand, then tossed it to his left, back and forth, taunting Walter.

He said softly, “Well, you sodden fool? Come, let's see if you understand the uses for your sword! Or will you just stand there?”

Walter gave a roar of sheer rage and rushed toward Dienwald, his sword straight out in front of him. Dienwald sidestepped him easily, but his foot slipped on the slick grass and he twisted about, falling on his back.

Philippa picked up a rock and threw it with all her strength at Walter. It hit him square in the chest. He looked at her, surprise writ on his face. “Philippa? Why do you that? I am come to save you. You mustn't pretend you don't want to come with me, wed with me, there is no more need. I will kill him and then you will come with me.”

Walter turned, but Dienwald was on his feet again, feinting to the right, away from Walter's sword thrust.

On and on it went, and Philippa knew Dienwald must fail eventually. His knife was no contest against Walter's sword. Suddenly there came shouts from the road above.

The men paid no heed.

Philippa paid no heed either. She had grasped another stone and was waiting for the chance to strike Walter with it, but the men were close, too close, and she feared hitting Dienwald instead.

“Philippa! Stand clear!”

She whirled about and looked upward. It was
Graelam de Moreton and he was standing on the road above them. Beside him stood the man Roland de Tournay. She watched through the now gentle fall of rain. Roland drew a narrow dagger from his belt, its shaft silver and bright even in the gray light, aimed it, and released it. It slit through the air so quickly, Philippa didn't see it. She heard a suddenly gurgling sound, then turned to see the dagger embedded deep in Walter's chest. He dropped the sword and clutched at the dagger's ivory handle. He pulled it out and stared at the crimson blade. Then he looked upward at Roland de Tournay.

He looked confused and said, “Do I know you? Why do you kill me?”

He said nothing more, merely looked once again at Philippa, gave a tiny shake of his head, and collapsed onto his face in the water.

Dienwald stood panting over him. He frowned down at Walter's lifeless body. “ ‘Twas a good throw.” Then he looked up at Roland. “I was very nearly the victor. You acted too quickly.”

“Next time I'll let your wife hit your adversary with rocks,” Roland shouted.

“By all the saints above,” Graelam shouted, “enough! Come up now and let us ride to St. Erth. Dienwald, thank Roland for saving your hide. But hurry, for I am so sodden my tongue molds in my mouth!”

Within minutes Philippa was huddled in the circle of her husband's arms atop Philbo. One of Graelam's men was leading her mare. Walter's men hadn't fought, for Lord Graelam de Moreton was, after all, Sir Walter's overlord, and thus they, his men-at-arms, also owed allegiance to Lord Graelam.

Dienwald looked at Graelam. “How came you by so unexpectedly? I was praying, but 'twas not for your company in particular.”

“We came by design,” Graelam said. “Roland wanted to see the final act of the play he'd helped to write.”

“What does he mean?” Philippa asked, twisting about to face her husband.

“Hush, wench. 'Tis not important. Roland is loose-tongued, but he does throw a dagger well.”

“But—”

“Hush,” he repeated, then said, “Will you continue to welcome me as sweetly as did gentle, perfect Kassia?”

She stiffened, as he'd expected, her thoughts turned, and he grinned over her head.

They were shivering, their teeth chattering, when they finally rode into St. Erth's inner bailey. Once in the great hall, they were overwhelmed with cheers and shouts and blessed warmth and trestle tables covered with mounds of food. All of St. Erth's people were gathered in the huge chamber, and it was noisy and hot and the smells of food mingled with the smells of sweat and wet wool and it was wonderful.

“Welcome,” Philippa said, her wet face radiant as she turned to her guests. “We're home!”

She sneezed suddenly, and Dienwald swooped down upon her and picked her up in his arms. He pretended to stagger under her weight, saying, “My poor back, wench! I'm nearly beyond my abilities, with you so weighty with wet wool.”

Graelam and Roland watched Dienwald carry her from the great hall, grinning at the wild cheering from all St. Erth's people. “The king's son-in-law is a fine man,” Graelam said.

“Aye, and no longer a fool,” Roland said. He fell silent, frowning. “I do find it passing odd, though.”

“What do you find odd?”

“That Philippa, a girl of remarkable taste and refinement, preferred him to me. I am incredulous. 'Tis not normal in my experience. Why, the harem I kept in Acre, Graelam—you wouldn't believe the appetites of my women! And it was my duty, naturally, to satisfy appetites each night. And they never complained that I shirked my duty to them. But Philippa gives me not a look.”

Graelam merely laughed, grabbed a hunk of well-roasted rabbit, and waved it in Roland's face. “You braying ass! Lying dog! Harem? I believe you not, not for an instant. What harem? How came you by a harem? How many women? You satisfied more than one woman each night?”

Crooky chortled and waved his hands toward all the food. “A feast, my lords. A feast worthy of a king or a king's daughter and her friends!” And he jumped upon Dienwald's chair and burst into song.

A wedding feast lies here untasted
The lord and lady care not it's wasted.
They're frolic and gambol without a yawn
They'll play through the night 'til the dawn.

In their bedchamber, warm and dry beneath three blankets, the master and mistress of St. Erth lay together listening to the rain and enjoying each other's kisses. They heard a sudden shout of loud laughter and guffawing from below in the great hall, and wondered at it, but not for long,
for Philippa nuzzled Dienwald's throat, saying, “Have you restocked your seed?”

“What?” Dienwald said, and pulled back to look at his wife's laughing mouth.

“ 'Tis what Old Agnes said, that I would fetch you home and keep you in my bed until you begged me to let you sleep and restock your seed.”

“Aye, all is in readiness for you, greedy wench. I ask for nothing more in this sweet life than to be debauched by you each night.”

“A promise easily made and more than easily kept.”