Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“I don’t know why,” Philippa said, having wondered the same thing herself. Bernice fluttered about with her ribbons and clothes and her extravagantly pointed slippers, given no opportunity for learning with Father Boise—not, of course, that she’d ever desired to read the Chanson de Roland. “Perhaps he thought I could be of use to him. And I have been of use to him. Our steward died nearly two years ago, and I have taken his place.”

“You’re telling me that you, a female, did the duties of your father’s steward?”

“Aye. But my mother also insisted that I learn to manage the household. She didn’t enjoy my instruction, but she did it—as an abbess would with an indigent nun.”

This entire evening was odd in the extreme, Dienwald decided, exhausted by her nonsense, her violence, her female softness. He snuffed out the candle beside him, and turned onto his back.

“What am I going to do with you, wench?”

“I’m not a wench, I’m—”

Dienwald turned on his side away from her and began snoring very loudly.

“I’m Philippa de Beauchamp and—

Philippa got no further. He rolled over atop her and kissed her hard. She felt his manhood swell against her belly, felt the heat of him, and opened her mouth to protest. His tongue was her reward, and without thought, she bit him.

He yelped, drawing back.

“I should have known you’d try to make me into a mute. Damned stupid wench, I . . . No, don’t you dare say it, lady, else I’ll pull up your gown and—”

“You already did! And you looked at me and you hit me!”

He stopped, and even though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she knew his expression was filled with evil intent.

He rolled off her and pulled up her gown. She was naked to the waist, her hands tied above her head, as helpless as could be.

“Now,” Dienwald said, sounding quite pleased, “let’s continue this conversation. What is it you wanted to say to me, wench?”

She shook her head, but he couldn’t see it, and that infuriated him. All he’d done this night was to light and snuff candles, protect himself, curse her, and have his rod swell with lust.

He lurched over to the far side of the bed and lit the tallow candle again. It had nearly burned down to the mottled brass holder. He rested on his knees, the candle held high, and looked down at her. For a very long time Dienwald didn’t say anything. He was pleasantly surprised, that was all, nothing more. This was to be her punishment, not his, damn her. He stared at her flat belly, then lower, at the profusion of curls that covered her woman’s flesh. Curls the color of her head hair, rich and dark, with gleaming browns mingling with strands of the palest blond and . . .

“ . . . dirt, rich dark dirt.”

His words took her so much by surprise that she forgot her terror of him, forgot he was staring at her, seeing her as no man had ever seen her before.

“What is like dirt?”

“Your woman’s hair,” he said, and cupped his hand over her, pressing his fingers inward.

She yelped like a wounded dog, and he lifted his hand and sat back.

He reached out and splayed his fingers over her flat belly. He stretched out his fingers, watching them nearly touch her pelvic bones. “You’re made for birthing babes.” He felt something within him move, and lifted his hand as if from a scalding pot. He looked at her face and schooled his expression into a cruel mask. “Remember what I can do to you, wench. Are you such an innocent that I must explain it to you? No? Good. Now, have you anything more to say to me? Any more carping? Any more nagging?”

She shook her head.

“You finally show some wisdom. Good night, wench.”

He snuffed the candle yet again, burning his fingers, since the candle had burned down to a wax puddle, then rolled onto his back. He forgot his burning fingers, still seeing her lying there, naked to the waist, those long white legs spread; he could still feel the softness of her flesh, feel the tensing of the muscles in her belly beneath his splayed fingers.

He cursed, grabbed the blanket, and pulled it over her.

When he was nearing the edge of sleep, he heard her whisper, “I’m Philippa de Beauchamp and I will awaken and this won’t really be happening.”

He grinned into the darkness. The wench had spirit and fire. A bit of it was interesting; too much, painful. He rubbed the back of his head. He hoped it hadn’t cracked the chamber pot. It was the only one he owned.

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