Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

She dared not wait for Dienwald, for the way things were progressing, he might well be too late. But why, she wondered again and again, did Walter want to wed her so badly?

Over and over she tortured her brain with possible motives Walter could harbor. Had her father changed his mind and offered Walter money if he found her and wedded her? Land? She shook her head on that possibility. Her father never changed his mind. Never. There were no answers, only more questions that made her head ache badly.

Near Crandall Keep

Dienwald scratched his chest. He was hot and dirty and disliked the fact. He hated the waiting but knew there was naught else to be done. He rose and began pacing the perimeter of his camp. They were withdrawn into a copse of thick maple trees, well-hidden from the narrow winding road that led to Crandall. His men were lolling about, bored and restless, arguing, tossing dice, recounting heroics and tales of their male prowess.

Where were the fool and Gorkel?

What of Philippa and Edmund? Worry gnawed at him, paralyzed his brain. What was the truth? Had Philippa betrayed him, or had she been caught as certainly as Ellis and Albe had been slain?

Only she could give him the answer. She or that whoreson peasant, Walter. Dienwald sat down and leaned against an oak tree older than life itself, and closed his eyes. What he wanted, damn her soft hide, was Philippa. He saw her sprawled in the mud, laughing, her eyes a vivid blue in her blackened face; then he saw her naked as he threw buckets of water on her and soaped her body with his hands. His loins were instantly heavy, his rod hard and hurting. He knew in that moment that he would have to return her to her father the moment he got his hands on her again. If he kept her with him, he would take her, and he wouldn’t allow himself to do that. If he did, it would be all over for him.

He wouldn’t allow himself to be caught. Allying himself to de Beauchamp—he couldn’t bear the thought of it. Lord Henry was a pompous ass, arrogant and secure in his own privilege, in his immense power and dignity. No, Dienwald would remain free, unencumbered, answerable to no one other than himself, responsible for no one but himself and his son. If he needed wool, he’d steal it. He wished now he hadn’t forgotten about the wine arriving from Kassia’s father. He would have gladly planned the shipwreck and the theft of every cask. He would have laughed in Graelam’s face, and taken a pounding if Graelam had pushed him on it. He wanted to be free.

He wondered what was happening at Crandall, and he fretted, bawled complaints to the heavens, and paced.

Crandall Keep

In Crandall’s inner bailey, Crooky smiled and sang and capered madly about, drawing everyone’s attention. He held Gorkel on a chain leash fastened about his huge neck with a leather band, and tugged at him, carping and scolding at him as though he were a bear to be alternately baited and cajoled. “Nod your ugly head to that fair wench yon, Gorkel!”

Gorkel eyed the fair wench, who was staring at him, fear and excitement lighting her eyes. He nodded to her and smiled wide, showing the vast space between his front teeth. He felt the fool tugging madly at his leash and growled fearsomely, making the females in the growing crowd scream with fear and the men step back a pace. The bells on his cap tinkled wildly.

The fool laughed and pranced around Gorkel, kicking out but not quite touching him. “Fret not, fair maids. ‘Tis a brute, and ugly as the devil’s own kin, but he’s a gentle monster and he’ll do as I bid him. Hark now, yon comely maid with the soft smile, what wish you to have the creature do?”

The girl, Glenda by name and pert by nature, angled forward, preening in the center of all attention, and sang out, “I wish him to dance. A jig. And I want him to raise his monstrous legs high.”

Crooky hissed between his teeth, “Canst thou jig for the maid, Gorkel?”

Gorkel never let his wide grin slip. His expression vacuous, his eyes blank, he began to hop and jump. He ponderously raised one leg and then the other and clambered about gracelessly. Quickly Crooky began to sing and clap his hands to a beat Gorkel didn’t need. His eyes scanned the crowd as he bellowed as loudly as he could:

All come to see the beastie prance

He’ll cavort and jump, he’ll do a wild dance

He’s a heathen and a savage, ugly and black,

But withal he’s merry, no matter his lack.

Crooky wanted to shout with relief when he saw Edmund slip between two men and gape at Gorkel. The boy was ragged and bruised and filthy, but at the sight of him and Gorkel, he looked happy as a young stoat, his eyes gleaming. Thank St. Andrew that he was alive. Where was the mistress? Was she imprisoned? Had Sir Walter harmed her? Crooky’s blood ran cold at the thought.

Crooky jingled Gorkel’s chain, and he ceased his clumsy movements and stood quietly beside the fool, breathing hard and still grinning his frightening grin. He eyed Edmund and nodded, his eyes holding a warning. “Ah,” yelled Crooky suddenly, “methinks I see another fair wench. A big fair we

nch with enough hair on her head to stuff a mattress! Come hither, fair maid, and let my gargoyle behold your beauty. He’ll not touch you, but let him behold what God created after he made a monster.”

Philippa’s heart was pounding madly. She’d watched Gorkel do his dance, not at first recognizing him in his wildly colorful and patched garments, the fool’s cap on his head and the mangy beard that covered his jaws. It had been Crooky’s bellowing verses that had brought her, nearly running, to the inner bailey. Dienwald was here, close, thank God. And she saw Edmund, filthy but well-looking, and quite alive, thank God yet again. “I come,” she called out, voice filled with humor. “Let the monster gawk at the fair wench.”

She picked up her skirts and raced toward them. She saw Crooky’s relieved smile stiffen and go flat. She didn’t understand. She drew to a halt, thinking frantically. “I am here. I bid you good morrow, monster.” She curtsied. “Behold me, a maid who frets and who wishes for the moon but sees naught but a melting sun that holds her in bondage and gives her to chaff endlessly.”

Crooky beheld her closely, all the while Gorkel loped in a clumsy gait around her, stroking his big bearded jaw.

She was beautiful, Crooky thought, finely dressed as a maid should be, as a beloved maid should be. She was no prisoner, Sir Walter no warden. Had he rescued her at her wish? He thought through her words, elegant words that twisted and intertwined about themselves. Had she meant that she wanted to escape her cousin? Crooky knew the matter wasn’t his to decide. Since his tenth year, when the tree had broken and fallen on him, he knew that he wouldn’t survive unless it was by his wits. He learned that his memory was his strength. He now committed her every word to his memory.

“Well, lovely maid,” he said after a moment, “God grant you no ingratitude or bitter wrongs. If you will seek the moon, I will tell you that like the sun, the moon must hide in its hour, then burst forth, when least expected, to glow fairly yet in stark truth upon the face that seeks it forth. The moon awaits, maid, ever close as its habit, waits till tide and time issue it out.”

“What is this, cousin? A cripple and a beast to be held by its leash?”

Philippa smiled at Walter, beckoning him to her side. “Aye, Walter, a team that brings shrewd humor and light laughter to Crandall. The little crooked one here tells me of the moon and the sun and how each must await its turn, and the monster there, he bellows and dances for all your fair maids.”