Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“He said mayhap a week, longer or shorter.”

“How did your father find out about the burned crops?”

“Crooky. He sang it to him at dawn. Father nearly kicked his ribs into his back.”

“I can imagine. How does Crooky find out things so quickly?”

“He won’t tell anyone how he does it.”

“If he provides useful information, I suppose one can forgive his miserable rhymes.”

“Aye, but Father said that only he could kick Crooky because Crooky was his fool and no one else’s and had his protection. So no one touches Crooky.” Edmund shrugged. “Crooky always finds out everything first. I think mayhap he’s a witch, like you, except he’s not a silly girl.”

So much for a little peace talk, Philippa thought.

“There’s Father Cramdle,” Edmund said as they came in sight of the priest.

Philippa made his acquaintance, and was pleased when he looked her squarely in the eye and was polite to her. She gave him Edmund with the admonition, “You will do as Father Cramdle tells you, Edmund, or you will answer to me.”

“Maypole! Woolly head! Witch!”

Philippa didn’t turn around when she heard Edmund’s fierce whispers; she merely smiled and kept on going. She met with the armorer, a ferocious old man whose name was Proctor and who had only one eye and that one rheumy. He’d cut leather for many pairs of shoes, including a pair for her. She delivered the leather to Old Agnes, and she, in turn, set others to stitching the leather into shoes.

It was late afternoon when Philippa thought again of escape. Why not? She stopped cold. She’d acted all through the day, she realized suddenly, as if she were chatelaine here at St. Erth, and that was absurd. She was a prisoner; she was as good as a serf; she was a wench.

She stopped her ruminations at the sight of Alain. He was speaking with a man she hadn’t noticed before. The conversation looked furtive to her sharp eyes, and the steward gave something to the man. She watched silently until the man melted away behind the soldiers’ barracks. Alain then mounted a horse and rode out of St. Erth. Most curious, she thought. Without hesitation Philippa went into the great hall, through the side chambers, until she found the steward’s small accounting room.

There were wooden shelves built against the walls, and in the small cubicles were rolled parchments tied with bits of string. There were also larger sections in which bound ledgers were kept. Quills and ink pots and a thick pile of foolscap lay atop the table, as well as large dust particles. There were books stacked on the floor in front of the shelves, a narrow cot against one wall, and a low trunk at the foot of the cot. Nothing more. Evidently Alain both worked and slept in this room.

Philippa took one of the large ledgers from a shelf, moved to his desk, and opened it. It was a record of the past three years’ crops—what was planted in which section of land, the price of the grain, the sale of the product, and a log of the villeins who’d worked each section, including the number of hours and days. Another bound book contained birth and marriage records of St. Erth. Philippa returned to the first book and read it through. She sought out another book that held all the records of building and repairs done at St. Erth in the past three years—the tenure of Alain’s stewardship.

It took Philippa only an hour and a half to discover that Alain was a thief. No wonder Dienwald had had to steal the wool: there was no coin available because Alain had stolen it all. Why didn’t Dienwald know this? Didn’t he go over his steward’s records?

Philippa rose and rearranged all the steward’s materials the way she’d found them and left the small airless room. He still hadn’t returned. Where had he gone? Who was the man to whom he’d been speaking? What had he given the man? She had no answers.

Philippa went back to the weaving shed, saw that all work was progressing satisfactorily, then went in search of Crooky. She found him curled up in a corner of the great hall—sleeping off a huge meal, Margot told her, glaring down at the snoring fool.

> Philippa walked over to him and lightly stuck a toe in his ribs. He jerked up, his mouth opened, and he started singing:

Ah, my sweet lord,

don’t cuff your loving slave;

He slumbers rarely in your service,

like a toothsome wench who—

“Don’t finish that atrocious rhyme,” Philippa said. “Stand up, fool. I’ll have words with you.”

Crooky blinked and staggered to his feet, scratching his armpit. “What want you, mistress?”

“I suppose ‘mistress’ is better than ‘wench.’ ”

“My sweet lord isn’t here, mistress.”

“I know it. I need your help, Crooky. I want to ask you several questions, but please don’t sing your answers, just speak them like sensible people.”

Crooky rubbed his ribs. “You’ve a sharp toe, mistress.”