Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

She’d spoken without thinking, and watched the little boy puff up with fury like a courting cock. “I’ll speak the way I want! No one tells me how to say things, and thass—”

“That’s, not thass.”

“You’re big and ugly and my papa doesn’t like you. I hope you get back into a wagon and leave.” He whirled about, tossing back over his shoulder, “You’re not a girl, you’re a silly maypole!”—and ran straight into his father.

“I should expire with such an insult,” Dienwald said, staring down at his son. “Why did you say such a thing to her, Edmund?”

“I don’t like her,” the boy said, and scuffed at the dirt with a very dirty foot.

“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“There’s holes in them.”

“Isn’t there a cobbler here in the castle?” Philippa asked, wishing she could have shoes on her own very dirty feet.

Dienwald shook his head. “Grimson died six months ago. He was very old, and the apprentice died a week after, curse his selfish heart. I haven’t hired another.”

Philippa started to tell him to send his precious steward to St. Ives and hire a cobbler, when she remembered he didn’t have any coin. She searched for a solution. “You know,” she said at last, “it’s possible to stitch leather if your armorer could but cut it to size for the boy. Also, I’ll need very sturdy thick needles.”

Dienwald frowned. Meddlesome, female. Edmund was right: she didn’t belong here. He looked again at his son’s filthy feet and saw a small scabbing sore on his little toe. He cursed, and Edmund smiled in anticipation of his father’s wrath.

Philippa said nothing, merely waited.

“I’ll speak to my armorer,” Dienwald said, and took Edmund by the arm. “ ‘Tis time for your lessons, Edmund, and don’t carp!”

Edmund looked at Philippa over his shoulder as his father dragged him from the room. His look was one of astonishment, fury, and utter bewilderment.

8

Philippa was sweating in the airless outbuilding. All the weavers were sweating as well, their fingers less nimble, their grumbling louder now than an hour before. Swirls of dust from the floor hung in the hot air, kicked up by the many feet. Even Old Agnes looked ready to drop in the corner and hang her scraggly head.

The master had demanded too much too quickly, a habit, Philippa learned from one of the main grumblers, that was one of his foremost traits. Philippa finally called out, “Enough! Agnes, send someone for water and food. ‘Tis the afternoon. We all deserve it.”

There were tired smiles from the women as they flexed their cramping fingers. The morning couldn’t have gone much worse, Philippa was thinking as she walked around praising the cloth that had been woven. If Philippa had believed in divine retribution for sins she might have been convinced that the morning’s calamities stemmed from some mortal act of heinous proportions on her part. The wretched looms, ill-cared-for by the infamous Prink, kept breaking, their parts were so old and worn. She’d become closer to Gorkel the Hideous than to anyone else during the long morning. He’d worked harder than she had, tinkering with the ancient treadle, tying together the spindle whose wood kept cracking from dry rot, balancing the loom when it kept teetering. Even Gorkel now looked ready to tumble to the ground. But even at his worst scowls, Philippa was no longer afraid of him or repelled by his face.

Excellent quality wool, though, Philippa thought as she examined the cloth woven by Mordrid, the only woman Prink had taught anything. Mordrid, Old Agnes had whispered to Philippa, had let the old cootshead into her bed, and thus he’d had to teach her something as payment.

Philippa could see that the woven wool was stout and strong enough to last through winters of wear, and would have fetched a good price at the St. Ives Fair. She didn’t want to wait for the wool to be dyed before she set other servants to making a gown for herself. Perhaps an overtunic as well, one with soft full sleeves and a fitted waist. Dienwald wouldn’t have to know.

Then she saw Edmund in her mind’s eyes. The little ruffian dressed and spoke like the lowest villein. She sighed. His tunic was a rag.

Then she saw Dienwald, the elbow poking out of his sleeve, and sighed again.

It occurred to her only then that he was her captor and that she owed him nothing. He could rot in the worn tunic he was wearing. Her clothing came first. Then she would escape and make her way to Walter, her cousin.

After everyone had eaten bread, goat cheese, and some cold slices of beef, Philippa reluctantly herded the women back to the looms. Nothing improved. The fates were still against her. The remainder of the day passed with agonizing slowness and heat. The looms continued to break, one part after another. Gorkel was taxed to his limits and was looking more bleak-browed as the afternoon wore on. The lord and master didn’t show himself again. He’d set her the task and the responsibility and then proceeded to absent himself, curse him.

It was late, and Philippa was so tired she could barely stand. She rose from the loom where she was working, told the women to be back on the morrow, nodded to Old Agnes, then simply walked out of the weaving building. Long shadows were slicing across one-third of the inner bailey. She spoke to no one, merely walked toward the thick gates that led to the outer bailey. She weaved her way through squawking chickens, several pigs, three goats and a score of children. She just looked straight ahead, as if she had an important errand, and didn’t stop.

She’d nearly reached the inner gates when she heard his voice from behind her. “Do my eyes deceive me? Does my slave wish to flee me again? Shall I tether you to my wrist, wench?”

So, now she knew. He must have set up a system whereby he would be told immediately if she did something out of the ordinary. Walking to the inner-bailey gates must meet that requirement. Well, she’d tried. She didn’t turn around, merely stood there staring at the gates. She said over her shoulder, still not turning, “If you tether yourself to me, then you must needs sweat until you want to die in that dreadful weaving room. I doubt you wish to do that.”

“True,” Dienwald said, regarding her thoughtfully. Her face was flushed, but not, he thought, from his threat, but from the heat in the weaving room.

“And I’m not your slave.”

He smiled at her defiance. Her hair was bound loosely with a piece of leather and lay thick and curling between her shoulder blades almost to her waist. Her shoulders weren’t straight and high, but slumped. She looked weary and defeated. He didn’t like it, and frowned, then said, “I will have the pieces of leather for you soon. My armorer is cutting them. He will measure your feet as well.”