Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Or he would continue them, knowing I could not have my son-in-law’s neck stretched by the hangman’s noose!”

“Lord Graelam does not allow that a possibility, sire. I did question him closely. Dienwald de Fortenberry is a man of honor . . . and wickedness, but his wickedness flows from his humors, which flow from the wildness and independence of Cornwall itself.”

“You turn from a shrewd chancellor into a honeyed poet, Robbie. It grieves me to see you babble, you a man of the church, a man of disciplined habits. De Fortenberry, hmmm. Graelam gave you not another name? You heard of no other man who would become me and my sweet Philippa?”

Burnell shook his head. “Shall I read you what I have writ as Lord Graelam spoke to me, sire?”

Edward shook his head, his thick golden hair swinging free about his shoulders. Plantagenet hair, Burnell thought, and wished he could have seen if Philippa was as gloriously endowed as her father.

“Tell me of my daughter,” Edward said suddenly. “But be quick about it, Robbie. I must needs argue with some long-nosed Scots from Alexander’s court, curse his impertinence and their barbaric tongue.”

“I didn’t see her,” Burnell said quickly, then waited for the storm to rage over his head.

“Why?” Edward asked mildly.

“Lord Henry said she was ill with a bloody flux from her bowels, and thus I couldn’t meet her.”

“St. Gregory’s teeth, will the girl live?”

“Lord Henry assures me the de Beauchamp physician worries not. The girl will live.”

“I wish you had waited, Robbie, until you could have spoken with her.”

Burnell merely nodded, but his soul was mournful. The king had abjured him to return as soon as he could. And he had obeyed his master, as he always did.

“Lord Henry showed me a miniature of the girl.”

The king brightened as he took the small painting from Burnell’s hand. He studied the stylized portrait, but saw beyond the white-faced expression of bland purity and the overly pointed chin to the sparkling Plantagenet eyes, eyes as blazing bright as a summer sky, eyes as blue as his own. As for her hair, it was nearly white, it was so blond, and her forehead was flawless, high and white with but thin eyebrows to intercede, but then again, an artist strove to please. He tried to remember the color of Constance’s hair but couldn’t bring it to mind. He couldn’t recall that she’d had such flaxen white hair; no woman had hair that color. That much, he thought, was the artist’s fancy. He placed the miniature in his tunic. “Let me think about this. I will speak to the queen. She will translate the artist’s rendering, and her counsel rings true. I suppose if I agree, I must bring de Fortenberry here to Windsor to tell him of his good fortune.” King Edward strode to the door, then turned back to say, “The damned Scots! Harangue me they will until my tongue swells in my mouth! You must needs rest, Robbie, ’twas a long journey for you, and wearying.” The king turned again, his hand on the doorknob, then said absently over his shoulder, “Fetch your writing implements, Robbie. I must have you record faithfully their muling complaints. Then we shall discuss what is to be done with them.”

Burnell sighed. He walked to a basin of cold water and liberally splashed his face. He was back in the royal harness, he thought, and smiled.

16

Crandall Keep

“You are beautiful, Philippa. The soft yellow gown becomes you.”

“I thank you, Walter, for your gifts. The gowns and overtunics please me well.” They were of the finest quality, and Philippa had wondered where her cousin had gotten them. Obviously from a woman who was short and had big breasts. Evidently she also had rather big feet for her height, for the soft leather slippers pinched Philippa’s toes only slightly. Who and where was the woman? Surely she couldn’t be pleased to have Philippa wearing her clothing.

“Crandall is a well-maintained keep, Walter, and since you are its castellan, it is to your credit alone. How many men-at-arms are there within the walls?”

“Twenty men, and they are finely trained. Lord Graelam does not stint on our protection, but of course ’tis I who have trained them and am responsible for their skills.”

Philippa nodded, wishing there were only two, and those old and weak of limb. It didn’t bode well for her and Edmund getting out or for Dienwald getting in. She hadn’t spoken to any of the men, but she had spent a bit of time with several of the keep servants, and discovered that her cousin wasn’t a particularly kindly mas

ter nor much beloved, but he did appear fair—when he wasn’t brandishing his whip. “He’s fast wi’ t’ whip,” one of the servants, a bent old woman, had told her in a low voice. “Ye haf t’ move fast when he’s got blood in his eye and t’ whip in his hand.” Philippa had but stared at her. A whip! She remembered how several of the women had looked at her when they thought she wasn’t paying heed, and they’d spoken behind their hands and looked worried, even frightened. Even now she could feel the female servants looking at her, judging her perhaps, and she wondered at it.

She said now to Walter as she accepted a hunk of bread from his hands, “These lovely garments, cousin—from whence did they come?”

“ ’Tis not your concern, sweetling. I had them, and now they are yours. That is all you must needs know.”

And Philippa could only wonder, and wonder yet more. He’d given her until yesterday to rest and be at her ease, and then he’d begun to woo her. Philippa couldn’t be mistaken, particularly after enduring Ivo de Vescy’s outpourings of affection. Walter was playing the besotted swain. Only he wasn’t besotted; his words bespoke all the right sentiments, but his eyes remained cold and flat. At first Philippa couldn’t credit it. There was no reason—no dowry, in short—for a man in Walter’s position to be interested in marriage with her. And it was impossible that he could have fallen deliriously in love with her; he’d known her for but two days. No, her father was behind it; he had to be. But just how, Philippa couldn’t imagine.

She toyed with the cabbage stuffed with hare and decided it was time to test the waters. “Walter, does my father know I am here?”

His eyes narrowed on her face, eyes that were always cold and flat when they looked at her. “Not as yet, Philippa. You care so much to return to Beauchamp?”

She shook her head, smiling at him, not chancing an argument because there was something in him that frightened her, something elusive, yet it was there, and she wanted to keep her distance from it.