Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Very suddenly she sat down on his bed, covered her face with her hands, and started crying. Not dainty feminine tears, but deep tearing sobs that racked her body and made her shoulders jerk.

“By god! I have done nothing to you! Stop your tears, wench, or I’ll—”

She jerked up at his words and said through hiccups, “I am not a wench, I’m Philippa de—”

“I know, you’re Goddess Philippa, Queen Philippa, Grand Templar Philippa. Be quiet. You’ll sour my stomach. Now, no more crying. You have no reason to cry. I have done nothing to harm you. Indeed, I saved you from death. Thank me, Empress Philippa.”

“Thank you.”

Dienwald hadn’t expected that. Perhaps she wasn’t such a little tartar after all. He rose and watched her jump from the bed and scurry back agains

t the far wall. He smiled and leaned down to unwrap the stout cross garters that wrapped securely about his calves.

When he rose to face her again, he waved the long cross garters. “Come here and let me tie you down. I won’t tie you tightly.”

“Nay!” she whispered.

Dienwald merely smiled and reached for her, a length of cross garter in his hand. She ducked away from him, stumbled and fell to her hands and knees on the floor. He winced for her, knowing that the rough stones were hard as a witch’s kettle.

He grabbed her around her waist, realizing as he hauled her up that he liked the feel of her. Her waist was narrow and . . . He had no more time for female appraisal because Philippa turned on him. She screamed, making his ears ring, and her fist caught his jaw, sending his head snapping backward with the force of her blow.

He released her and she fell onto her back. He came over her, ready to thrash her, but her dirty foot caught him squarely in the belly, kicking him a good three feet back. He grunted and landed in a heap on the bed. Dienwald had blood in his eyes. He managed to stop himself, managed to remind himself that he, unlike this raving wench, thought before he acted. Slowly, very slowly, he sat up on the bed and looked at her.

Philippa scurried up to her knees, jerking the gown back into place. She stared back at him, her breath hitching, her breasts heaving deeply.

“Come here.”

“Nay.”

Dienwald sighed and smiled an evil smile at her. “Come to me now or I will tell Tancrid, who is doubtless outside my chamber door, his ear pressed against the oak, to fetch me three of my most foul men. They, wench, will strip you and have their sport with you. In front of me, I think. I should enjoy watching.”

His threat this time was quite specific, and Philippa, without another contrary thought or word, struggled to her feet. She stiffly walked over to him, afraid, but still wanting to smash her fist into his face. He motioned her closer, and she stood between his spread legs, her head down.

“Put your hands together.”

She shook her head, but at his look she slapped her palms together, watching as he wrapped the long narrow leather cross garter around her wrists.

“I can’t take the chance you will be stupid enough to try to escape me again. Now, don’t struggle.”

He clasped his hands beneath her hips and lifted her onto the bed, dropping her on her back. He wrapped the other cross garter through the knot at her tied wrists and tethered her to a post at the top of the bed. Her arms were pulled above her head, but not tightly. She stared up at him, and he saw that she was very afraid. He didn’t blame her; she was completely helpless.

Her gown had tangled up about her thighs, and the expanse of white flesh was annoying his groin. He pulled a blanket over her, bringing it to her chin. “Now, keep quiet.”

It was an unnecessary command. She was silent as a tomb.

Within moments the bedchamber was as silent as she was. Dienwald snuffed out the single candle, then quickly undressed. He stretched out naked beside her. She could hear his breathing. He’d made no move to touch her. She gave the leather strap a tentative tug; nothing happened. She lay there trying to decide what she could do.

Dienwald said, “Were William de Bridgport here, he would have tied you down as well. The difference is, he would have pulled your white legs wide apart and pinched you with his dirty fingers and leered at you, whereas I, wench, will stroke your white flesh with clean fingers and a warm mouth and—”

“I have to relieve myself!”

“I’m powerfully comfortable and you’ve quite tired me out. Do you really have to relieve yourself or are you again lying to me?”

“Nay, please.”

He cursed, lit the single candle again, then released her wrists. “The pot is beneath the window, yon. I will leave you for a minute or two. Don’t dally.” He pulled on his bedrobe as he spoke.

Philippa didn’t look at him. She didn’t move until he’d closed the chamber door behind him. She raced from the bed to the chamber pot without bothering to light the tallow candle. She could see well enough.