Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Nay, one of your clumsy men did that.” She remembered another man’s coarse jest and felt suddenly quite exposed, standing here alone with him, her right arm hanging naked from her shoulder. “Please, my lord, may I leave? I’m thinking clearly now. I should be most grateful.”

“Leave? Tread softly, lady. Your position at present is not passing sweet. I think it more fitting that I should beat you. Tie you down and beat you soundly for your audacity and disrespect—something your father never did, I suspect. Do you prefer a whip or my hand?”

“Stay away!”

“I haven’t moved. Now, you told me that you didn’t want to be my mistress. Then, like a female, you danced away to a different tune and said you would prefer my using you as my mistress rather than wedding the man your father selected for you. Have I the sequence aright?”

She nodded, her back now flat against the stall door. “I should prefer Satan’s smiles, but that doesn’t seem to be an available choice. You told me you would give me choices but you didn’t.”

“Don’t keep pushing against that stall door, wench. Philbo, my destrier, is within. He isn’t pleased with people who disturb him, and is likely to take a bite of your soft shoulder.”

Philippa quickly slid away from the stall door and looked back at the black-faced destrier. He had mean eyes and looked as dangerous as his master.

“Are you a shrew?”

“Certainly not! ’Tis just that de Bridg—” She broke off, stuffed her fist in her open mouth, and gazed at Dienwald in horror.

“William de Bridgport?” Interest stirred in Dienwald’s eyes. He got no response but he saw that she’d terrified herself just by saying the man’s name. He imagined anyone could eventually get everything out of this girl. She spoke without thinking, acted without considering consequences. She was a danger to herself, a quite remarkable danger. He wondered if she would yell in passion without thinking. “He is a repulsive sort,” Dienwald said. “Fat and rotten-toothed, not possessed of an agreeable disposition.”

“Nay, ’tis someone else! I just said his name because he looks like . . . your horse!”

“My poor Philbo, insulted by a wench with threadbare wits.” He became silent, watching her, then said, “You would prefer my using your fair body to wedding him. I know not whether to be flattered or simply amazed. Are you certain Lord Henry won’t ransom you? I really do need the money. I would prefer money to your doubtless soft and fair—but large—body.”

Philippa shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he won’t. You must believe me, for I don’t lie, not this time. I overheard him tell my mother and a suitor for my sister’s hand who tried to ravish me that I would have no dowry at all.”

“Your sister’s suitor tried to ravish you? How was this accomplished?”

“ ‘Twas Ivo de Vescy. He’s a sweet boy, but he fancied me and not my sister. My father pulled him off me before I hurt him, which I would have done, for I am quite strong.”

Dienwald laughed; he couldn’t help it. He’d come after her with violence in mind, but she’d disarmed him, first with her pale-faced fear, then with her artless candor. He looked at the long naked white arm. She was so young . . . Nay, not so young. Many girls were married with a babe suckling at their breast by her age.

“Your father told de Vescy that he was marrying you to de Bridgport?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know—he’d never said a word to me about de Bridgport. At first I couldn’t believe it, wou

ldn’t believe it, but then . . .”

“And then you didn’t think, just acted, and jumped in the moat, then into the wool wagon. Well, ‘tis done. Come along, now. You’ve gooseflesh on your naked arm, and it’s powerfully unappetizing. I think I’ll take you to my chamber and tie you to my bed. I will be careful not to rip your gown further, since it is the only piece of clothing you have.”

Beauchamp Castle

“She’s a deceitful bitch and I hope she falls into a ditch! I hope she’s been set upon by pillaging soldiers. I hope she’s imprisoned in a convent. At least dear Ivo doesn’t want her—at least, he’d better not.”

“Bernice, quiet!” Lord Henry roared. “I must write to the king immediately . . . again. God’s nails, I will lose Beauchamp, he will tear my limbs from my body.”

Lady Maude quickly ordered Bernice from the solar. Her daughter whined and balked, for her curiosity was at high tide, but her mother’s hand was strong and she was determined. Bernice would not find out her supposed sister’s true parentage, not if Lady Maude had any say about it, which she did.

“My lord,” she said upon returning to her spouse, “you must moderate your speech. Aye, you must write to the king again, but don’t tell him the girl is missing. Nay, a moment.” Lady Maude stared toward the ornate prie-dieu in the corner of the chamber. “We must think. We mustn’t act precipitately. Philippa must have overheard our talk of marrying her off to de Bridgport.”

Lord Henry groaned. “And she fled Beauchamp. Why did I think of that whoreson’s name, much less spew it out to de Vescy like that? God’s eyebrows, the man’s a braying ass, and I’ve proved myself a fool.”

Lady Maude didn’t disagree with his assessment of himself, but said loudly, “I think William de Bridgport a man to make a girl a fine husband.”

Lord Henry stared at his thin-lipped wife. When, he wondered, had her lips disappeared into her face? He seemed to remember years before that she’d had full, pouting lips that curved into sweet smiles. He stared down her body and wondered where her breasts had gone. They’d disappeared just like her lips. Through her endless prayers? No, that would just make her bony knees bonier. He thought of little Giselle, his sixteen-year-old mistress. She had magnificent breasts, and her lips hadn’t disappeared. She also had all her teeth, which nipped him delightfully.

He groaned again, recalling his current problem. The king’s daughter was gone; he had no idea where, and he was terrified that she would be killed or ravaged. His mind boggled at the possible fates that could befall a young, beautiful girl like Philippa. More than that, Lord Henry was quite fond of her. For a girl, she was all a father could wish. Nay, she was more, for she was also his steward.

She wasn’t filled with nonsense like her sister. She wasn’t particularly vain. She could read and write and cipher, and she could think. The problem with Philippa was that she didn’t think when things were critical. Oh, aye, set her to solving a dispute between two peasants and she’d come up with a solution worthy of Solomon. But face her with a crisis and she turned into a whirling dervish without a sensible thought in her head. And she’d heard de Bridgport’s name and panicked.