Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“Just be quiet, you silly bitch, if you want him here and me gone!”

Philippa grabbed her gown and pulled it over her head even as she dashed toward the door. She locked it, then froze on the spot. Just around the corner, not three feet from where she stood, she heard two men in argument.

“I’ll tell ye, thass trouble! I heard them wenches yelling and t’ master runs in.”

“Leave t’ master be an’ get back to yer bed.”

“Oh, aye, there’s trouble and it’s yer ears he’ll slice off, that, or he’ll take his whip to yer back.”

“Ye go back and I’ll look.”

Philippa flattened herself against the cold stone wall. She heard the one man still grumbling as he shuffled away. As for the other man, in the next instant he came around the corner to see a wild-eyed female with a knife in her hand and blood running in rivulets down her arm. He had time only to suck in his breath before the knife handle slammed into his temple and he crashed to the floor.

Slowly Philippa got enough nerve to peer around the corner. She saw sleeping men and women spread over the floor in the hall, and snores rose to the blackened rafters above. She crept as quietly as she could, inching slowly along the wall toward the large oak doors. Slowly, ever so slowly, she moved, knowing at any second a man or woman could rise up and shriek at her and it would be all over and perhaps Walter would kill her if his mistress didn’t do it first. A dog suddenly appeared from nowhere and sniffed at her bare feet.

She didn’t move, her heart pounding, letting the dog tire of her scent, then move on, praying the animal wouldn’t bark. Then, without warning, she felt a spurt of pain in her arm and looked at it. So much blood, and it was hers. She had to slow it or she would faint. She slipped outside into the inner bailey and looked heavenward. There was no moon this night, and the sky was overcast, with no stars, no light whatsoever. She flattened herself against the wooden railing and ripped off a goodly section of the lower part of the gown. She wrapped it around her arm, using her teeth to tie the knot tightly. She felt the pain, felt it deeply, but it didn’t matter. She had to find Edmund and they had to escape this wretched keep. She couldn’t allow the wound to slow her. She had to be strong.

Fortune turned, and Philippa found Edmund close to the stable door, atop a heap of hay, sleeping on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, his face resting on his folded hands. Philippa knelt beside him. “Edmund, love, come wake up.” She shook him gently, ready to slap her hand over his mouth if he awoke afraid and cried out.

But Edmund awoke quickly and completely and simply stared up at her. “Philippa?”

“Aye, I’m here, and now we must leave. We’ll need horses, Edmund. What think you?”

“Is my father here to save us?”

Philippa shook her head. “No, ’tis just us, but we can do it. Now, about those horses.”

Edmund scrambled to his feet, excitement and a goodly dose of fear churning in his belly, and he grinned up at her. Then he was thoughtful, and Philippa waited. “We need to croak the two stable lads. We need—”

Philippa raised the knife handle. “It works,” she said.

Edmund’s eyes glistened and Philippa wondered if all men were born with the battle cry of war in their blood, with the love of violence and battle bred into their bones. “Show me where they are and then I’ll . . .” She paused, then added, “You get the horses, Edmund. Pick well, for they must carry us to your father. He awaits out there somewhere.”

“He can’t be far away,” Edmund said. “But we will come to him and not have to lie like helpless babes for him to rescue us. There is a difficulty, though, Philippa. I can’t get the horses for us.”

She stared down at him and saw the chain and thick leather manacle clamped about his right ankle. Those miserable whoresons! She wanted to yell in rage, but she said calmly, “Who has the key to that thing?”

“One of the stable lads you’re going to croak,” he said, and gave her an impudent smile.

They were good together, Philippa thought with surprised pleasure a few minutes later. She’d quickly found the key and released Edmund. She hadn’t even paused before coshing the two stable lads on the head. They’d probably given Edmund his bruises, the malignant little brutes, and tethered him like an animal. No,

she had no regrets that the both of them would have vile head pains on the morrow.

Edmund had brought out Daisy and the destrier that belonged to Walter. Should she dare? she wondered, then tossed her head. She dared. Her arm was paining fiercely now, and they weren’t yet out of Crandall. She couldn’t succumb to the pain, not yet, not for a very long while.

Edmund held the reins of the two horses, staying back in the shadows whilst Philippa sauntered like a whore in full heat and in need of coin toward the one guard who stood in a near-stupor near Crandall’s gates. Three other sentries were patrolling, but they were distant now. She’d watched them, counting.

“Ho! Who are . . . ? Why, ’tis Sir Walter’s mistress! What want you? Wh—”

She poked out her breasts and threw her arms around the man. He gaped and gawked and quickly grabbed her buttocks in his big hands, dropping his sword to fill his hands with her, and Philippa whipped out the knife and, leaning back, slammed the handle down on his head. He looked at her in mournful surprise but didn’t fall. “You shouldn’t ought to a done that,” he said, and brought his hands up to her throat. He squeezed, saying all the while, “Ye’re a handful, wench, but I’ll show ye not to play wi’ me.” He squeezed harder and harder, and Philippa saw the world blackening before her eyes as the knife dropped from her slack fingers.

Then, as if from afar, she heard a voice saying, “You’re a bloody coward, hurting a female like that . . . you whoreson, stupid lout with a mother who slept with infidels . . .” The fingers left her throat and she sagged to her knees, clutching her throat, gulping in air. She looked up to see the man turning, as if in a dream, turning toward Edmund, but Edmund was astride Daisy, and he was higher than the guard and brought a thick metal spade down as hard as he could on the guard’s head. Philippa watched the man stare up at Edmund and shake his head as if to clear it. Then he made a small sound in his throat and fell in a heap to the ground.

Philippa staggered to her feet, grabbing the knife. Her throat felt on fire, and she croaked out, “Excellent, Edmund. Now we must go, quickly. The sentries will be returning in but moments now.”

She raced to the keep gates and jerked at the thick beam levered from side to side of the large gate. It was heavy and she was getting weaker by the moment. She cursed and heaved, and finally the beam began to ease slowly upward until finally she managed to bring it fully vertical. “Now,” she whispered, and pushed the gate open.

Philippa quickly mounted, grunting with effort, for there was no saddle and her right arm was now nearly useless. Suddenly she felt Edmund heaving her up, and she landed facedown against the destrier’s neck, panting with exertion and pain.