Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Yes. I want you to oversee the weaving and train the women, although several of them already know a bit about it, so Old Agnes told me.”

Philippa grew crafty, and he saw it in her eyes and was amused by it. He was also impatient and on tenterhooks. He needed her help, but he couldn’t afford to let her see that. She said with the eye of a bargainer at the St. Ives Fair, “What will you do for me if I help you with the wool?”

“I will allow you the first gown, or an overtunic, or hose. Just one, not all three, though.”

Philippa looked down at the wrinkled, stained woolen gown that hung about her body like an empty flour bag. The bargain seemed like an excellent one to her. “Will you let me go if I do it for you?”

“Let you go where? Back to your father’s household? Back into the repulsive arms of de Bridgport?”

She shook her head.

“Ah, to this other person, this alleged cousin of yours. Who is it, Philippa?”

She shook her head again.

“The gown or the overtunic or the hose. That’s all I offer. For the moment, at least.”

“Why?”

“Yea or nay, wench.”

“I’m not a—”

“Answer me!”

She nodded. “I will do it.” She looked him straight in the eye. “How will you behave toward me?”

He knew exactly what she wanted him to say, but he was perverse and she irritated him and amused him and she’d nearly felled him with a chamber pot.

“I will keep you in my bed until I tire of you.” He spoke loudly, and Alain looked up, his contempt now magnified.

Philippa grabbed Dienwald’s arm and pinched him, hissing, “You make it sound as if I’m already your mistress, damn you!”

“Aye, I know. In any case, you will remain in my bed. I can’t trust you out of my sight. Now, ‘tis time for you to earn your keep.”

He yelled for Old Agnes and brought her over to Philippa. Old Agnes was older than the stunted oak trees to the north of the castle, and mean as the dung beetles that roamed about the stables. He stood back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Philippa ate another piece of cheese, slowly, as she looked the old woman over.

To Dienwald’s amazement, Old Agnes fidgeted.

Philippa drained her flagon of milk, then said, “I shall see the wool after I’ve finished my meal. If it isn’t thoroughly cleaned and treated, I shan’t be pleased. The thread must be pure before it’s woven. See to it now. Where is your weaving room?”

Old Agnes drew up her scrawny back, then sagged under Philippa’s militant eye. “ ‘Tis in the outbuilding by the men’s barracks . . . mistress.”

“I will need you to pick at least five women with nimble fingers and with minds that rise above the thoughts of useless men and, can learn quickly. You will assist me, naturally. Go now and see to the quality of the thread. I will come shortly.”

Old Agnes stared at this young lady who knew her way quite well, and said, “It will be as you say, mistress.”

She shuffled out, her step lighter and quicker than it had been in two decades. Dienwald stared after her. This damned girl had wrought a miracle—and she’d not been nice, she’d been imperious and arrogant and haughty and . . .

He became aware that Philippa was looking at him, and she was smiling. “She needs a strong hand, and more, she wants a sense of worth. She now has both.” Then Philippa began whistling.

Dienwald turned on his heel and strode from the great hall, bested again by a girl who’d already smashed his head. He cursed.

Philippa silently thanked her mother, whose tongue was sharper than an adder’s when it suited her purpose. But, Philippa remembered, her mother’s tongue was also sweet with praise when it served her ends. Old Agnes would do more work than all the others combined, and she’d drive them in turn. Philippa turned back to her place, only to see a slight shadow hovering over her.

“Philippa de Beauchamp. I am Alain, Lord Dienwald’s steward.”