Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Philippa looked down at him. He gave a loud snore. She cursed and covered him with a blanket.

“I’m cold and will die of watery lungs brought on by your cruelty if you leave me.”

“I like the sound of your snores better,” Philippa said even as she eased down beside him. “Nay, I shan’t let you touch me again. It isn’t right you should do that, and well you know it. I’m not your mistress. I shan’t ever be your mistress.” She grabbed another frayed blanket and wrapped it about herself. “Go to sleep, master, else I’ll fling you off my bed again.”

Dienwald sighed. “Big wenches are difficult.”

“I know,” she said, her voice nasty. “You’d much prefer your precious little Kassia, your so-perfect little princess who doubtless sighs and swoons all over you—a big warrior.”

He laughed.

“Well, you can’t have her, you ass! She’s well-wedded and she’s with child and she’s not for you, so you might as well forget her.”

“How well you extol her person,” he said. “Mayhap you are right. I will think about it. Big wenches are even more difficult when they’re jealous.” He began snoring again and soon, much sooner than Philippa, he was truly asleep.

Jealous, was she? He turned onto his side away from her and soon she was snuggled against his back. She wondered what he’d do if she bit him. Probably just laugh at her again. She fell asleep finally, feeling warm and secure, damn him.

Graelam stood in the open doorway of the steward’s chamber early the next morning, staring toward the narrow bed that held his host and the wench whose name wasn’t Mary. The girl’s face was pressed against Dienwald’s naked back, but the rest of her was protected from him by an old blanket, a blanket that, he saw, separated the two of them. An eyebrow cocked upward. So the girl whose name wasn’t Mary also wasn’t Dienwald’s mistress either. Kassia would find this fascinating.

Suddenly Dienwald groaned and turned onto his back, flinging his arm over his head. Philippa, jerked from a sound sleep, was nearly thrown off the narrow bed onto the floor. Dienwald groaned again, muttering, “My God, you’ve nearly killed me, wench. My head, it’s swollen and hurts and—”

“And has put you in particularly good humor,” Graelam said, stepping into the chamber.

Philippa’s eyes flew open and fastened in consternation upon the intruder. He merely smiled. “God give you a good morrow, Mary. I am sorry to disturb your slumber, but my wife and I must take our leave soon. This door was open and I did tap my fist upon it, but there was no reply.”

Dienwald opened an eye, and complaints issued rapidly from his mouth. “The wench nearly killed me. I’ve a lump on my skull the size of my foot.”

Philippa was less than sympathetic. “You deserved it, you disgusting lout!”

“Lout? God’s knees, you randy wench, all I did was think about letting you debauch me, nothing more.” He smiled guilelessly up at her.

Philippa reared up, quickly jerked the blanket over her breasts, and sent her fist into his belly. “My lord,” she said, turning immediately toward Graelam, “I cannot rise to see to you and your perfect wife’s needs. But this attempted defiler of innocent maids can, and he will, once he stops acting like he’s been flayed by a band of Saracens.”

“I’ve never known him for a coward, thus it must be your superior strength and cunning, Mary. Dienwald, rise now, and pay your homage to my lady. Kassia wishes to bid you adieu.” Graelam’s eyes suddenly widened. “Perfect wife?” He guffawed. “I shall tell Kassia, it will amuse her. Perfect!” He shook his head. “The little witch—perfect!” Still laughing, Graelam left the steward’s chamber, closing the door behind him.

“You think she’s perfect,” Philippa said.

“Feel the lump on my head. Tell me if I will survive rising from this bed.”

Philippa leaned over and gently examined his head. “The lump will grow if you stay in this bed. You will survive it, so get thee gone, I tire of you.”

He sighed and rolled over her, coming to his feet beside the bed. He was naked and quite unconcerned about it. He grinned down at her and said, “Don’t stare, wench, else my manhood will rise like leavened bread.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “And ‘twill make my hose uncomfortable. It will also bring the stares of all your gentle rivals—in short, most of the wenches here at St. Erth. What say you?”

“I grant you good morrow,” Philippa said, then turned away from him and stared at the wall.

Dienwald knew well enough that his body pleased her. Although he wasn’t a massive warrior like Graelam, he was big enough, well enough made, muscled and lean and hard, not a patch of fat on him. He leaned down and quickly kissed her cheek, then straightened, began whistling, and dressed himself. He was out of the steward’s chamber in but a moment, still whistling.

Philippa spent her

morning sewing herself a gown from soft wool dyed a light green that Old Agnes had brought to her; she hummed to herself as she sewed. She jumped at the knock on her door, then smiled when Edmund burst into the room. He drew to a halt, planted his hands on his hips, and said, “What think you, Maypole?”

She studied him silently for several minutes, until he began fidgeting about. “Very nice, Master Edmund. Come here and let me inspect you more closely.”

Edmund swaggered over to where Philippa sat draped in her blanket. He was proud, that was clear to see, he’d even combed his fingers through his hair, and Philippa was pleased. “What says your father?”

“He just looked at me and rubbed his chin. Lord Graelam thought I would become a fine knight, and Lady Kassia asked that I carry her favors when I am in my first tourney.”

Perfect Kassia had done it again, Philippa thought, had said just the right thing at the right time. Curse the woman.