Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

When the man’s fingers rubbed over her ribs, curved in with her waist, then stroked her belly, her muscles contracted with pleasure. Then he was pressing her legs open and delving through her hair to find her, and she sighed, then moaned deeply, wanting more, lifting her hips, and wanting, wanting . . .

She opened her eyes to see the man wasn’t a dream. It was Dienwald, and she looked at him until she could make out his features in the darkness. He looked tired and intent and he was breathing hard as he stared down at her.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she said.

“No, wench, it wasn’t a dream. You feel like the softest of God’s creatures.” She felt his fingers caressing her flesh and knew she was wet beneath his fingers and swelling, her flesh heating. Then he eased his middle finger inside her, and she cried out, jerking up, feelings she’d never before imagined welling up inside her.

“Hush,” he said, and pressed his palm against her belly to push her down again, and then his finger eased more deeply within her, and more deeply still. “Does that pain you, wench? I can feel you stretching for my finger. Ah, there it is, your badge of innocence. Your precious maidenhead. Intact, ready for my assault.” He shuddered, his whole body heaving, and for a moment he laid his face against her, his finger still inside her, not moving now, soothing and warm. “You almost died tonight, Gorkel told me. I’m sorry, Philippa. I thought you well-protected—from yourself, truth be told—yet my trusted man was an enemy of the worst sort. I’m so sorry.” He kissed her belly, licked her soft flesh, and his finger pressed more deeply into her, testing the strength of her maidenhead. He moaned, a jagged raw sound, and withdrew his finger.

He came over her and his mouth covered her, and Philippa, excited and quiescent in the dark of the night, yielded completely to him.

His tongue was inside her mouth, tasting her, savoring her, and she touched the tip of his tongue with hers. Then, once again, without warning, he rolled off her, leaving her abruptly.

“Please,” Philippa whispered, holding her hand toward him. She felt nearly frantic with longing—for what, she knew not.

“Nay, wench,” he said, sounding as though he’d been running hard. “Nay, ‘tis just that I’ve been without a woman for a week and my loins are fit to burst with lust. Get you back to sleep.”

She cried out at his words, hating them, hating him for making her realize yet again that she was nothing to him, nothing but a vessel, nothing more. She heard him leave the chamber and slam the door.

She turned onto her side and wept, her sobs a faint sound in the quiet darkness.

When Dienwald returned some time later, she pretended to be asleep. He made no move to touch her when he climbed into the bed beside her. She listened to his breathing even into sleep and knew she had to leave him and St. Erth.

As soon as she could find a way.

11

The next morning, Philippa awoke to the slap of a hand on her naked buttocks and lurched up.

“You’re awake. ‘Tis time I had some answers from you, wench. I leave my castle in fine fettle, only to return and find my steward dead and everything in an uproar. Get you up and come into the great hall.”

Dienwald smacked her bottom one more time and left her alone. She lay there wondering what would happen to her if she cracked his head open with a scythe. The cockscomb.

She rolled onto her side and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible.

In the great hall, Dienwald was staring at his fool, stretched on his side on the floor. “Tell me again what happened, Crooky, and say it in words that make sense. No rhymes, no songs.”

Crooky looked at Dienwald. His master was tired, ill-tempered, and had obviously ridden back to St. Erth in haste. Why? To see the mistress? He’d missed the girl? Crooky hadn’t seen him the previous evening when he’d stormed into the hall yelling his head off because the porter had screeched about Philippa being covered with blood and dead bodies everywhere.

Crooky grinned at his master. “Methinks you grow cockhard, master.”

“I grow what? Listen, you damnable mule offal, I don’t—”

“You caught the bastards who burned the crops?”

Dienwald tore into a piece of bread with his strong teeth. “Aye, three of them, but curse their tongues, they were already dead and couldn’t tell me who’d sent them.”

“ ‘Twas Walter de Grasse, the slimy serpent.”

“Aye, in all likelihood.” Dienwald chewed another piece of bread, not speaking again until he’d swallowed. Then he bellowed, “Margot! Bring me ale!”

“Let the mistress tell you of her adventures, master. ‘Twill make your hair stand up in fright.”

“You dare to call the wench ‘mistress’? It’s mad! I should kick you—”

Crooky quickly rolled away from his master’s foot and came up onto his knees. “She’s good for St. Erth,” he said. “And stouthearted. She saved herself.”

Margot brought the ale, giving Dienwald a wary look as she served him. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, then waved an irritable hand when she paled at his words.