Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Alain, seeing that no one had moved, bounded to his feet, screaming as he ran toward her, “Kill the damned witch! That’s what she is, a cursed witch!”

He grabbed one of the men-at-arms’ swords and ran straight toward her.

“Kill her!” another man’s voice roared with the steward’s. “Aye, she’s a witch who steals men’s jobs!” It was Prink, still pale and sweaty but ready to do her in. “Slay her where she stands!”

Eerily, Philippa now heard each voice separately. Every sound came singly and loudly and obscenely. She heard Father Cramdle praying loudly, she heard Edmund screech like one of her mother’s peacocks as he dashed toward her. “No, Edmund, stay back!” But her words were just an echo in her mind. Northbert, Proctor, the armorer, Margot, Crooky, Alice—all of them were rushing at her. To aid her? To kill her?

She shuddered and backed away. She knew Alain’s other henchman was out there in the inner bailey somewhere, just waiting to kill her if she came out. And here was Alain, fury and hatred burning him, ready to kill her even as she stood here in a hall filled with people.

She wasn’t a coward. She raised the scythe.

“Nay, mistress.”

It was Gorkel and he was moving slowly toward her, a look of abandoned joy on his terrifying face. His teeth were bared in a smile, and in that instant Philippa felt a bolt of pity for Alain.

Gorkel caught the steward’s arm just above the elbow and simply squeezed. Alain’s sword clanked harmlessly to the floor.

Then the steward was screaming and begging and pleading. Philippa saw that Gorkel was twisting the steward’s elbow back and up, even as Alain’s screams grew louder and louder.

Finally, seemingly without emotion, Gorkel closed the thick fingers of his other hand about the steward’s neck. He raised him with one arm, the fingers tightening, and the steward dangled above the floor. He couldn’t scream now; his voice was a mere liquid gurgle in his throat, as Gorkel shook him until his neck snapped—an indecently loud noise in the silent hall.

Gorkel grunted and flung the quite-dead steward to the rushes.

Philippa dropped the scythe, covered her face with her bloody hands, fell to her knees, and burst into tears.

She heard voices, felt hands touching her gently.

Then she heard a little boy’s voice, Edmund’s voice, and it brought her face out of her hands, for he said, “Stop those silly female tears.”

She looked at him, and, surprising herself, smiled. “You are a mean little boy, with no more sympathy than a bug, but the sight of you right this moment pleases me.”

“Aye,” Edmund said. “That’s because you’re a female and need to be protected. You’re filthy and covered with blood. Come along.”

“Go with the boy,” Gorkel said. “You did well, mistress, very well.”

“There’s another man, Gorkel. I killed his partner—he’s in the stables—but the other man ran. I don’t know who he was, but I would recognize his voice.”

“It was probably the cistern keeper, a scurvy ruffian,” Gorkel said. “He’s been hanging about the steward. Aye, I’ll have him fetched, and the master can see to his punishment when he returns.”

“What about him?” Old Agnes screeched, pointing at Prink. “He’s a filthy traitor!”

The weaver was swaying on his feet, looking sick and afraid as Gorkel advanced on him.

“Leave him be,” Philippa called. “Don’t kill him, Gorkel. He’s just stupid and foolish from his illness. Leave him be.”

“I’ll give him a taste of pain,” Gorkel said. “Just a little taste of pain so he’ll remember not to make another mistake like this one.”

Philippa watched him lift the weaver high above the floor and shake him like a mongrel. Then he sent his fist into the weaver’s stomach, dropping him, kicking his ribs, and saying softly, “Ye touch the mistress again, ye say one word out of the side of yer mouth to her, and I’ll kick ye until yer ass comes out yer ears.”

Philippa turned away. Edmund took her hand. “Come along, Philippa. I’ll take you to your chamber.”

Edmund was whistling as he walked beside her up the solar stairs.

Wolffeton Castle, Cornwall

Graelam de Moreton wiped the sweat from his brow and greeted his visitor. “Aye, Burnell, ‘tis a pleasure to see you again. Is our king well? And Eleanor? Is our kingdom healthy?”

The two men spoke as Burnell, weary to the tips of his worn leather boots, trudged beside the lord of Wolffeton Castle. He was met by Graelam’s wife, Lady Kassia, a charming, slight lady with large eyes and a laughing mouth. He found her delightful but wondered how such a small female dealt with the huge warrior that was her husband.