Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Father said that soon I will go to Wolffeton to foster with Lord Graelam. I will be his page, then, soon, his squire. I will prove myself and my loyalty.”

“Do you wish to go to Wolffeton?”

Edmund nodded quickly, but then he fell silent. “ ‘Tis not far from St. Erth, no more than a half-day’s hard ride. I shall go and I shall earn my spurs very soon.”

“You will not, however, be an ignorant knight, Edmund. Few pages can read or write, but you will. Few men of any class can read or write, save priests and clerks. Lord Graelam will thank God the day you come to Wolffeton. Now, Father Cramdle awaits you. Go and leave the maypole to sew something to cover herself.”

It wanted only Edmund’s father, Philippa thought, watching Dienwald come into the small room after his son had left. She nearly filled it, and with him in here as well, it was suffocating. “What do you want?”

“I wish to tell you that my son is mightily pleased with himself.”

Philippa merely nodded.

“Thank you, wench.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat and said in an offhand manner, “Shall you also be pleased with your new tunic? ’Tis finished.” Before he could answer her, Philippa eased out of her chair, her blanket firmly in place around her, and handed him the tunic she’d sewn for him.

Dienwald took it from her outstretched hand and stared down at it, running his fingers over the tiny stitches, feeling the soft wool, marveling that she had made it for him and that it was so fine, the most excellent tunic he’d ever owned. It was too special to wear on this ordinary day, but he said nothing, merely pulled off his old tunic and pulled this one over his head. It felt soft against his flesh, and it fitted him perfectly. He turned to face Philippa and she smiled at him. “ ’Tis very well you look, Dienwald, quite splendid.” She reached out her hand and smoothed the cloth over his chest. Her breathing quickened and she suddenly stilled.

Dienwald stepped back quickly. “I’m leaving and I wanted to tell you to stay close to St. Erth.”

Her stomach cramped tight. “Where go you? Not into danger?”

He heard the forlorn tone and the fear, and frowned at it. “I go where I go, and ’tis none of your affair. You will stay here and not move one of your large feet from St. Erth. When I return, I will decide what to do with you.”

“You make me sound like entrails tossed out of the cooking shed.”

Dienwald merely smiled at that, touched his fingertips to her cheek, then leaned down and kissed her mouth. Still smiling, he jerked the blanket from her breasts, gazed down at them, kissed one nipple, then the other.

“Don’t do that!”

He straightened, gave her a small salute, and strode from the room.

He began whistling again as the door closed firmly behind him. Philippa just stood there, the blanket bunched around her waist. He’d worn his new tunic.

Dienwald didn’t think of her as anything remotely close to “entrails,” but he didn’t know what to do with her. What he wanted to do, in insane moments, was take her again and again until he was sated with her. And the insane moments seemed to be coming more and more often now; in fact, were he to count his errant thoughts, the moments would melt together.

He cursed and gave Philbo a stout kick in the sides. The destrier snorted and jumped forward. Northbert, surprised, kicked his own destrier into a canter, as did Eldwin, who rode on his left side.

Dienwald could remember the fragrance of her sweet woman’s scent, and something else more elusive—perhaps ’twas the essence of gillyflowers, he thought, dredging the scent from his childhood memories.

The wench had bewitched him and beset him, curse her for the guileless siren she was. And somehow she’d made him like it and want more of it, more of her. He’d very nearly taken her maidenhead the previous night, and he hadn’t even drunk enough ale to account for such stupidity. No, he’d just thought of her, seeing her in his mind’s eye sleeping in her narrow bed in the steward’s chamber, and he’d left Graelam to stare after him, their chess game still undecided. He would have taken her had she not awakened with that loud shriek in his face.

What was he to do with the damned wench? He sighed, now picturing his son strutting about in his new clothes, bragging about the Maypole. His son, who just this morning hadn’t carped and crabbed quite so much about being sacrificed to studies with Father Cramdle.

The wench was taking over St. Erth. Everywhere he saw her influence, her touch. It was irritating and disconcerting. He didn’t know what to do about it.

It was Northbert who pulled him from his melancholy thoughts. “Master, what do you expect to find?”

“We didn’t search before. We buried the dead and came back to St. Erth. I wish to find something to prove that Sir Walter ordered the burning and the killings. That or find someone who mayhap saw him or recognized one of his men.”

Northbert chewed on that for several miles. Finally he said, “Why not just kill the malignant bastard? You know he’s responsible, as do all the rest of us. Kill him.”

Dienwald wanted to kill Walter, very much, but he shook his head. He wanted things done right. He wanted to keep Graelam’s trust and his friendship. “Lord Graelam needs proof; then we will argue together to determine who gets to scatter the bastard’s bowels.”

“Ah,” said Northbert, nodding his ugly head. “Lord Graelam includes himself now. ’Tis good, methinks.”

They reached the southern acres of St. Erth late that afternoon. The desolation was shattering. There was naught but emptiness and black ruins. There was only the occasional caw of a rook. Curls of smoke still rose from some of the burned huts. There were a few peasants prodding the burned remains in leveled hovels, and Dienwald drew up and began to ask his questions.