Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Philippa gave him a long look. “Don’t be a fool,” she said very quietly. She got to her feet. Walter was standing there, absently rubbing his hands together.

“Come to the fire, Philippa. It will grow cool soon, and your rags will not protect you.”

Her new gown wasn’t a rag, she wanted to yell at him, but she held her peace. She gave Edmund another look and walked beside Walter. One of his men had spread a blanket on the ground, and she eased down, her muscles sore, her back aching from the long ride. “Let the boy warm himself as well,” she said after some minutes had passed.

It was nearly dark before the two men returned with a pheasant and two rabbits. After they’d supped and the fire was burning low and orange, Philippa wrapped herself in a blanket, pulled Edmund down to the ground beside her, and waited. It took Walter not long to say, “I heard that de Fortenberry was holding you prisoner. I planned and schemed to get you free of him.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Walter paused a moment, then said with a rush of dignity, “I am not without loyal servants, cousin. St. Erth’s cistern keeper told me of your position.” Walter paused a moment, then leaned over to take Philippa’s hand in his. His was warm and dry. She said nothing, didn’t move. “The man told me how his master had mistreated you, molesting you, holding you against your will in his bedchamber whilst he ravished you. He even told how Fortenberry had ripped your gown before all his people, then dragged you from the hall to rape you yet again. Then he told me how Alain, the steward, had wanted you killed and how he and another were to do it. He didn’t realize that you, dearest heart, were mine own cousin. I killed him for you, Philippa. I slit his miserable throat even as the words gagged in his mouth. You need never fear him again.”

The cistein keeper had deserved death, she would have killed him herself had she been able, but to hear of it done in so cold-blooded a fashion . . . And Walter believed she’d been abused, violated. It was, she supposed, a logical conclusion. “Does my father know?”

“You mean Lord Henry? Nay, not as yet.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“That his master had stolen Lord Henry’s wool and forced you to oversee the weaving and sewing, that he treated you as a servant and a whore. How was Alain found out?”

Philippa said this cautiously, not wanting Walter to realize that she’d discovered his treachery because she worried and fretted about St. Erth and its master. She said only, “He was a fool, and one of the master’s men broke his miserable neck.”

“Good,” Walter said. “I just wish I could have done it for you, sweetling. Of course, I know why the steward feared you and wanted you dead. It was because you read and write and cipher and he knew you’d find him out. A pity he tried to kill you, for he was a good servant and bled St. Erth nearly dry of its wealth, and much of the knave’s coin found its way to my coffers.”

Philippa felt Edmund stir, felt fury in his small body, and she quickly laid a quieting hand on his shoulder. “Walter, will you return me to my father?”

“Not as yet, Philippa, not as yet. First I wish you to see Crandall, the keep I oversee. And you need clothes for your station, aye, soft ermine, mayhap scarlet for a tunic, and the softest linen for your shifts. I long to see you garbed as befits your position. Then we will speak of your father.”

She frowned at him. What was going on here? Why was Walter acting loverlike? Her position? She was his cousin, that was all. Surely he didn’t want her, since he believed she was no longer a maiden, since he believed Dienwald had kept her as his mistress. Had perchance her father gone to him? Promised him a dowry if he found her, thus promising her in marriage to her cousin? It seemed the only logical answer to Philippa. No man could possibly want her if he believed she lacked both a maidenhead and a dowry.

“Do we reach Crandall on the morrow?”

He nodded and yawned. He smiled upon her, seeing her weariness. “I will keep you safe, Philippa. You need have no more fear. I will make you . . . happy.”

Philippa was terrified, but she nodded, her look as pleasingly sweet as she could muster it. Happy!

St. Erth Castle

“What say you, Silken? She what? That whoreson Walter killed both Ellis and Albe? Both of them? He took Edmund as well?”

“Aye, master. He took both the mistress and Master Edmund. We fetched Ellis’ and Albe’s bodies, and Father Cramdle buried them with God’s sacred words.”

Dienwald stood very still, weary from a long hard ride, his mind sluggish; he couldn’t take it in. Two days had passed since Sir Walter de Grasse had taken his son and Philippa and killed Ellis and Albe. He himself had just ridden into St. Erth’s inner bailey and learned what had happened from Silken. Dear God, what had Walter done to them? Had he taken them for ransom? Fear erased his fatigue.

Silken cleared his throat, his gnarled hand on Dienwald’s arm. “Master, heed me. I have been filled with murderous spleen since my escape, but have wondered if what I first believed to be true was true or was the result of blind seeing.”

“Make sense, Silken!”

“This Sir Walter greeted the mistress as if . . . as if she’d sent for him and he’d rescued her as she wished him to. As if he’d known she would be

riding and he’d had but to wait for her to come in his direction. He was waving at her, smiling like a man filled with joy at the sight of her.”

Dienwald stared blankly at the man, and his gut cramped viciously.

“Aye, she’d ridden out three days in a row, master, and that last day, only three men attended her and the young master.”

“And was that her demand?”

“I know not,” Silken said. “I know only that Ellis and Albe lie rotting in the earth.”