Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Sir Walter de Grasse looked toward the fleeing men, the girl and young boy protected in the midst of them. His destrier, a powerful blooded Arabian, couldn’t be outrun, particularly by that muling mare Philippa was riding. He really didn’t care about the others. Walter was pleased; he smiled and felt the wind tangle his hair and make his eyes tear. At last. He’d waited and planned and waited. Finally she’d ridden this way, and that whoreson peasant Dienwald wasn’t with her. He was back scrounging about in his burned southern acres, finding nothing because Walter never left anything to find. Dead bodies were the only witnesses. Walter urged his destrier faster. If only Philippa knew that it was he, her own cousin, in pursuit, she would wave and flee from Dienwald’s men. He noticed the little boy beside her on his laboring pony and wondered who he was.

He wished he could make out her face, but from this distance all he could see for certain was her wildly beautiful hair rippling out behind her head, atop the slenderness of her body. It was enough. If she had no teeth, he would still crave her above all women, this king’s daughter who would shortly be his wife. He thought of St. Erth and how it would be his within the year, he doubted not. How could King Edward deny his son-in-law his own castle, stolen from his father by Dienwald’s thieving sire?

Philippa could hear the pursuing horses. They were very close now. She knew all was lost. They were still a good two miles from St. Erth. The countryside around them held only a few peasants’ huts, low pine trees and scrubby hawthorns and yews, and indifferent cattle. No one to help them. She saw the fierce look on Ellis’ face, attesting to his impotent rage. Their pace was frantic and the horses were blowing hard, their flanks lathered white. She saw Edmund’s pony stumble and she acted quickly, jerked Daisy close, dropped the knotted reins, and grabbed Edmund even as his pony went down. He was heavy, heavier than she’d imagined, but she pulled him onto Daisy’s back. “My pony!” he yelled, nearly hurtling himself off Daisy’s back.

Philippa fought to steady him. “The pony will make its way back to St. Erth. Worry not for the pony, but for us.”

Edmund quieted, but he was breathing in quick sharp gasps, his small body shuddering.

“Your pony will go home,” she said again, this time in his ear, hoping he heard her and understood.

He made no sign. His small face was white and grim.

She held him close and urged her mare faster.

Suddenly, without warning, Ellis screamed, a tearing raw-throated sound. Philippa saw an arrow bedded deep between his shoulder blades, its feathered shaft still vibrating from the force of its entry. Ellis lurched forward, gasping, then fell sideways, his foot catching in the stirrup. He was dragged along, blood spewing from his back onto his maddened horse. Philippa tried to hide Edmund’s head, but he watched until Ellis’ foot worked free of the stirrup and he fell to the hard ground, rolling over and over, the arrow’s shaft going deeper into his body.

Edmund made no sound; Philippa held him tighter, swallowing convulsively.

The other two men closed around her, and one of them yelled at her to keep down, to hug her mare’s neck, but even as the words left his mouth he slumped forward against his horse’s back, an arrow through his neck.

Philippa knew it was no use. “Flee,” she shouted to the third man, whose name was Silken. “Go whilst you can. ’Tis I the men want, not you. Go! Get help. Get the master.”

The man looked at her, his eyes sad and accepting. He drew his horse to a screaming halt, whipped him about, and drew his sword. “I won’t die with a coward’s arrow in my back,” he yelled at Philippa. “Nor will I die a coward’s death in my soul by escaping my fate. Ride hard, mistress. I’ll hold them as long as I can. Keep the boy safe.”

“Nay, Silken, nay!” Edmund shouted, and Philippa knew that she couldn’t leave the man, knew that even if she rode away, she would manage to save neither herself nor Edmund. She pulled Daisy to a halt. “Stay back behind me, Silken,” she yelled at him. “Keep your sword to your side!”

The men were upon them in moments. Dust flew, blurring the air, making Philippa cough. She couldn’t have been more horrified or surprised when one of the men yelled, “Philippa! My dearest cousin, ’tis I, Walter, here to save you!”

Silken whirled on Philippa, his face gone white, his mouth ugly with sudden rage. “You, mistress! You brought this bastard cur upon us! You got word to him!”

“Find the master, Silken. Here, take Edmund with you, quickly!”

But Edmund wouldn’t budge, shaking his head madly and clutching at the mare’s mane. Silken waited not another moment, but rode away as only a desperate man can ride, and Walter, intent for the moment upon the object of his capture, allowed the man to gain distance. Then he yelled for two of his men to bring him down. Philippa prayed hard, as did, she imagined, Edmund. Silken was their only chance. He disappeared over a rise, the two men in pursuit.

“Philippa,” Walter said as he rode up to her. “Ah, my dearest girl, you are safe, are you not?”

Philippa stared at her cousin Walter, a man she hadn’t seen for some years. He wasn’t a handsome man, but then, neither was he ill-looking. But he did look different to her. She had remembered him as very tall and thin. He wasn’t thin now; he was gaunt and wiry, his face long, his cheekbones high and hollow, his eyes more prominent. She remembered thick dark brown hair fashionably clipped across his forehead. His hair was thinner now but still clipped across his forehead. She hadn’t remembered his eyes. They were dark blue, and they looked hot with triumph, with success. She quickly assessed matters and got control of herself. He believed he’d rescued her, saved her. She whispered to Edmund, “Hold your peace, Edmund. Do as I do.”

The boy was white with fear, but he nodded. She squeezed him comfortingly.

“Walter, ’tis you?”

“Aye, Philippa, ’tis I, your dearest cousin. You have changed and grown into a woman and a beautiful creature. You are most pleasing to mine eyes. And now you are safe from that knave.” Walter paused a moment, noticing Edmund, it seemed, for the first time.

“Who is this? The bastard’s whelp? Shall I dispatch him to heaven, Philippa? Surely that is where the angels would carry him, for he is yet too young to have gleaned the foul wickedness from his sire.”

“No, leave him be, Walter. He is but a child, too young for heaven, unless God calls him. Leave him to me. He cares not for his sire, for he foully abuses him.” She prayed Edmund would keep his small mouth firmly closed. He started, stiffening against her, but said nothing.

“Aye, that I can believe. The cruel traitor not only abused his own child, but you as well, I doubt not. You are both safe with me, Philippa, at least until I decide what to do with the boy. Aye, I’ll ransom him. His father is coarse of spirit, but the boy is of his flesh and his heir. Aye, we’ll all return to Crandall now.”

“I’ll tear out his lying tongue!”

“Shush, Edmund, please, say nothing untoward!”

Philippa turned Daisy about, saying as she did so, “What is the distance to your keep, Walter?”

“Two days hence, fair cousin.”