Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Where had she run?

Suddenly Lord Henry’s eyes widened. He’d been stupid not to think of it before. The wool wagons bound for the St. Ives Fair. Philippa wasn’t altogether stupid; she hadn’t merely thrown herself out on the road and started walking to God only knew where. He grinned at his wife, whose nostrils had even grown pinched over the years. Would they eventually close and she’d suffocate?

“I know where Philippa went,” he said. “I’ll find her.”

St. Erth Castle

Dienwald hadn’t completely lost his wits. Unlike Philippa de Beauchamp, he tended to think things through thoroughly before acting—if he had the chance, that is—and in this matter he had all the time he wanted. And he did want to punish the wench for dashing out of the great hall the way she had, making him look the fool in front of all his people. He held firmly to her naked white arm as he walked her back across the inner bailey. A donkey brayed from the animal pen behind the barracks; two pigs were rutting happily in refuse, from the sound of their squeals; and a hen gave a final squawk before tucking in her feathers and going to sleep.

Philippa was frightened now, and he felt her resistance with every step. It was a chilly night and she was shivering. “Hurry up,” he said, and quickened his pace, then slowed, realizing her feet were bare. She was going to try to escape him on bare feet and in a flimsy torn gown? She was an immense danger to herself.

Silence fell when he strode into the great hall with her at his side. He yelled for his squire, Tancrid. Tancrid, a boy of Philippa’s years, was skinny and fair, with soft brown eyes and a very stubborn jaw. He ran to his master and listened to his low words, nodding continuously. Dienwald then turned on his heel and left. He pulled Philippa up the outside stairs to the solar.

“You’re not taking me back to that tower cell?”

“No. I told you, I’m taking you to my bed and tying you down.”

“I would wish that you wouldn’t. Cannot you give me another choice?”

“You have played your games with me, wench—”

“Philippa. I’m not a wench.”

Dienwald hissed between his teeth. “You begin to irk me, you wench, harpy, nag, shrew . . . The list of seemly names for you is endless. No, keep quiet or I will make you very sorry.”

As a threat it seemed to lack unique menace, but Philippa hadn’t known him long enough to judge. She bit her lip, kept walking beside him up the solar stairs, and shivered from the cold. His fingers were tight about her upper arm, but he hadn’t hurt her. At least not yet.

They passed three serving maids and two well-armed men, bound, evidently, for guard duty. Dienwald paused, speaking low to them, then dismissed them. He took Philippa to a large bedchamber that hadn’t seen a woman’s gentling touch in a long time. There was a large bed with a thick straw mattress and a dark brown woolen spread atop it. There were no hangings to draw around it. There were two rough chairs, a scarred table, a large trunk, a single wool carpet in ugly shades of green, and nothing else. No tapestries, no wall hangings of any sort, no bright ewers or softening cushions for the chair seats. It was a man’s chamber, a man who wasn’t dirty or slovenly, but a man to whom comforts, even the smallest luxuries, weren’t necessary. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t the funds to furnish the room properly. Still, whatever the reason, Philippa didn’t like the starkness of the chamber at all.

She wished now that there weren’t any privacy. She wished there was an army camping throughout the solar. She wished there was a chapel in the chamber next to this one filled with praying priests and nuns. But the chamber was empty save for the two of them. He released her arm, turned, and closed the chamber door. He slid the key into the lock, then pocketed the key in his tunic. He lit the two tallow candles that sat atop the table. They illuminated the chamber and had a sour smell. Didn’t the lord of St. Erth merit candles that were honey-scented or perhaps lavender-scented?

“There is little moonlight,” he said, looking toward the row of narrow windows, “as you’d have noted if you’d paused to do any planning at all in your mad dash for escape.”

Philippa said nothing, for she was staring. There was glass in the windows, and that surprised her. Lord Henry had glass windows in the Beauchamp solar, but he’d carped and complained at the cost, until her mother had threatened to cave in his head with a mace.

Dienwald smiled at her then and strode toward her. “No,” Philippa said, backing away.

He stopped, as if changing his mind. “I asked Tancrid to bring us wine and more food. I assume you’re yet hungry? Your appetite seems endless.”

To her own surprise, Philippa shook her head.

“You dashed out of the hall before you ate any boiled raisins. My cook does them quite nicely, as well as honey and almond pastes.” He was prattling on and on about food, and all she could do was stand there looking petrified. He smiled at her, and if possible she looked even more alarmed.

There came a knock on the door. She nearly collapsed with relief, and Dienwald frowned. “You like having someone besides my exalted self with you? Well, ’tis just Tancrid with wine and food. Don’t move.”

The boy entered bearing a tray that was dented and bent but of surprisingly good craftsmanship. He set it upon the table and fiddled with the flagons.

“Go,” Dienwald said, and Tancrid, with a curious look at Philippa, took himself off.

“They all wonder if I’m going to ravish you,” Dienwald said with little show of interest, and sat at the table. “That, or poor Tancrid is afraid you’ll stick a knife between my ribs.” He didn’t sound at all concerned. He poured himself wine, sat back in his chair, and sipped it.

“Are you?” She swallowed convulsively. “Are you going to ravish me?”

Dienwald stretched. “I think not . . . tonight. I have already lain with a very comely wench, and have not the urge to do it again, particularly with a girl of such noble proportions and such—”

“I’m not ugly! Nor am I oversized or ungainly! I have had three very fitting men want my hand in marriage. How dare you say that I’m not worth your energy or that I am not to your taste or to your—”

Dienwald burst out laughing. Here she was, heedless as a squeaking hen, taking exception to his refusal to ravish her. He continued to laugh, watching her face turn alarmingly pale when she realized finally what she was doing.