Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“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 ta

ble, 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.

What be she worth?