Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Why? Should I tell you, I wonder? Well, soon you’ll be dead and gone, so it matters not. I know who you are.”

That made no sense. She said slowly, “I’m Philippa de Beauchamp. Everyone knows that.”

“Aye, but you see, I sent my two men after the third wagon of wool, the one my foolish master left to the farmers because he felt pity for them. Aye, my men got them, and before they killed the luggards, they found out all about you. The farmers didn’t know you’d been hiding in one of their wagons, but they were ready to talk all about you once knives were at their hearts. My men found out you were your father’s favorite, that you were his steward in fact and in deed, that it was you who had set the price of the wool and sent them to the St. Ives Fair to get that price. Which means that you can read and write and cipher, unlike my master, who believes whatever I tell him.

“So you must die. You wonder why Dienwald trusts me, don’t you? Aye, I can see it in your eyes. Dienwald saved me from a knight I’d swindled, and then he killed my master, who’d sided with the knight, after I told him how I’d been cheated and beaten. Then he brought me to St. Erth, where I’ve become a rich man. He believed he had earned my gratitude, the pathetic fool.

“Dienwald believes himself a rogue, a scoundrel, a rebel who can wave his fist in the face of higher authority, but deep in his soul he holds beliefs that can and will do him in. So you see, I can’t let you remain, for I also know you visited my chamber. You left papers and documents just the way you found them, but one of my spies saw you. Aye, he saw you leaving, looking furtive and wary. So you found out the truth, did you, and were just waiting for the proper moment to tell Dienwald.

“And he set Gorkel to keep you from escaping, not realizing that he was at the same time protecting you from me. You didn’t know that, did you? Gorkel has stayed close, and I didn’t know how to get you until tonight. Then it came to me, and I knew I must be bold. You know, Philippa de Beauchamp, I hated you the moment I first saw you. I knew your purpose to be contrary to mine.”

Before she could say a word, before she could draw another breath, Alain brought the bone handle of the knife down against her temple, hard. She saw a burst of lights, felt a sharp pain, and then there was blackness.

Philippa awoke with the earthy smells of the stables filling her nostrils. Her hands were bound tightly behind her, but her legs were free. She lay perfectly still, waiting for the dizziness to clear. When it did, she realized she couldn’t breathe easily. A blanket covered her. She gripped an edge with her teeth and pulled it off her face. She seemed to be alone, but it was very dark in the stables and she couldn’t be certain. She couldn’t hear anyone moving about or speaking. Where was Alain?

Now, she thought, now was the time to think. Not with her feet, though they were the only free part of her, but with her brain. What to do? Alain had nothing to lose; he had to remove her from St. Erth. Snatches of songs sung by the jongleurs paraded through her mind in those moments, songs about mighty heroes rescuing fair maids from degrading and frightful situations. There wasn’t a mighty hero anywhere to be found. The fair maid would have to save herself.

She tried to loosen the ropes at her wrists, but the effort did nothing but shred her skin. She rolled over and managed to rise to her feet, peering from the stall where she’d been left unconscious. She nearly fainted from the pain in her temple where the knife handle had struck, but she held on. She had no choice but to hold on. She couldn’t have much time left now. Alain would be coming back for her soon. And he’d kill her; she didn’t doubt it for an instant.

Philippa managed to free the latch on the stall and push the door open. It squealed on its rusted hinges, and she froze. Where was the steward?

It was at that moment that she heard two men speaking in low voices in the stableyard. The steward’s men. Standing guard until he returned. From where?

Philippa drew a deep breath of relief. She’d been on the point of rushing out of the stables at full tilt, screaming for help. She’d been fully ready to think with her feet again. She looked around carefully, her eyes now used to the darkness, and saw an old scythe, sharp and deadly, hanging from a hook on the wall.

Her bonds didn’t take long to cut through, but the edge of the scythe was sharp and she felt her own blood, sticky and slippery, covering her palms before she was free. Once she was loose, she stooped down and eased back to the stable door. The two men were still there, still speaking in low voices.

Now, she decided, she could take them by surprise and run as far as the great hall before they caught up with her.

“Well? Heard you aught out of the whore? Is she still unconscious?”

Alain had returned. Philippa shrank back, her heart pounding so loudly they must hear it. No matter. Let them come. She pulled the scythe from the wall and clutched it to her breast.

She heard one of the men say, “Nay, t’ wench is still quiet. T’ blow will keep her unconscious until we cut her throat. Can we split her afore we kill her?”

Philippa swallowed convulsively. She realized suddenly that her bloody hands were making the scythe handle slick. She picked up some hay at her feet and rubbed it over the handle and over her palms. The pain was fierce, but she welcomed it. As long as she felt pain, she was alive. And as long as she had the scythe, she had a chance.

“You can do whatever you wish to her. But you must kill her afterward, make no mistake about it, and make certain her body’s never found. The wench is conniving, so take care if she comes to herself again. Now, I’ve spoken to Hood, the porter, and told him that I’m sending some supplies to the master. The man’s not stupid, so be careful. You’ll load the girl on a pack mule and take her away from St. Erth. When you return, you’ll be paid. Now, go.”

Then Alain was leaving; she heard his retreating footsteps. Only his two accomplices remained, then.

All she had on her side was surprise.

She raised the scythe over her head and waited. One of the men was coming into the stables, saying to the other, “Wait here and I’ll fetch t’ wench.”

The other man protested, “Nay, ye’ll take her in t’ stall, ye bastid!”

They were fighting over who was going to ravish her first. Her hold on the scythe handle tightened. Filthy villains. One appeared in the doorway, moonlight framing his head. Philippa drew a sharp breath and brought the scythe down hard. It was only the blunted, curved edge of the blade that hit him, but the force of her blow cracked the man’s head open and he didn’t even cry out, but fell, blood spewing everywhere, to the hay-strewn floor.

The man behind him cried out, but Philippa, like a blood-spewed vision from hell, screamed and came at him, the scythe raised over her head.

The man bellowed in fear, his eyes rolling in his head, and turned on his heel. Philippa drew up for an instant, her mouth gaping in surprise. The man had run from her, terrified. She quickly ran across the inner bailey and up the steps of the great hall. She flung the doors open and rushed in. As always, there was the loud noise of general conversation. Then a few people noticed her standing there, th

e scythe in her hands, covered with blood, her hair wild about her pale face.

There was an awesome silence. Then Alain jumped to his feet and yelled, “Kill the whore! By the devil’s knees, she’s butchered our people! Look at her, covered with blood! Murderess! She’s stolen the master’s jewels! Kill her! Strike her down quickly!”

Philippa looked around her and raised the scythe. The silence was deafening and paralyzing. No one was moving yet. Everyone was staring as if at a mummers’ scene. “Gorkel,” she said, her voice just above a croak, “help me.”