Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

She watched his beloved face distort with the pain of his need, and he was heaving, delving deep, his breath sharp and raw and her body burned as he thrust again and again, his hands drawing her up to meet him. She couldn’t help herself and cried out but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He threw back his head and she felt his release, felt the wetness of his seed as he emptied himself deep inside her body.

He was limp and weak, torpid in mind and drained in body, and he came over her and she welcomed his weight and he lay with his head beside hers and he was still deep within her.

He said, his voice echoing from the dream, “I’m sorry, Philippa. I wanted you badly. Hold still and the pain will fade.”

Philippa regained her breath and her equilibrium. He was still inside her but there was only stinging now, not the tearing pain of before. It was strange, this lovemaking. She’d wanted him, very much, felt desire for him that overcame the pain in her arm, that, actually, made the pain as nothing, and she’d been whipped about with wild, urgent feelings, wanting to touch him, feel him, urge him to come to her, but the incredible feelings had fallen away when he’d come into her and ridden her so wildly. She’d been left stunned, bewildered, and hurting.

Not hurting now, she thought, smiling as she lightly stroked her hand over his naked back. His flesh was smooth and warm and she felt the muscle beneath and she said quietly, “I love you.” And she said it again and again and she knew he didn’t hear her for he slept soundly. She felt his member sliding out of her, and the wet of his seed and her wetness as well, she supposed.

She kissed his ear and settled herself beneath his weight. Soon she slept.

It was nearly dawn when Dienwald opened his eyes and came abruptly and horrifyingly awake. He was lying naked, half covering Philippa and he was cold and shivering in the night air, and his rod was swelled again and pressing against her. He cursed his randy sex, and gently and slowly eased himself off her, his mind still not accepting what had happened, for the dream was still strong in his mind, and it had become more, that vivid dream. He shook his head. What he’d done he’d done and it hadn’t been a dream, but it had been in the dark of the night and he’d cleanly lost his wits. The early morning in the copse was an eerie grey and thick white mist hovered overhead. He could see her clearly though, her beautiful body bare from the waist down and her parted legs, parted for him when he pushed them apart to come over her, and there was her virgin’s blood mixed with his man’s seed smeared on her thighs, and he closed his eyes and swallowed.

He’d done himself in. He cursed softly, then smiled, feeling yet again the tightness of her, her urging hand, how she’d lifted her hips to him, how he’d driven into the depths of her, touching her womb. He wouldn’t worry about it now. He looked down at her and wanted her again, powerfully, but he saw her wounded arm and the wound he himself had inflicted inside her. He would wait. He pulled a blanket over both of them and pulled Philippa into his arms. He would think soon, once the sun was shining down on his face, warming his brain. He would think of something, he would save himself and somehow he would at the same time protect her from dishonor. How, he didn’t know, but an idea would come to him; it was still very early, his brain foggy with sleep. He slept again, holding her close, breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers, but only for a few moments.

He was brought painfully and abruptly to

his senses by his son’s outraged voice.

“Father!”

Dienwald opened an eye and saw Edmund standing over him and Philippa, his hands on his narrow hips, his eyes wide and disapproving.

“Father, you’ve taken Philippa.”

“Well, perhaps . . . but perhaps not. Perhaps I am simply holding her, for she is hurt, Edmund—aye, very hurt and cold in the night and—”

“I won’t allow you to dishonor her. You are holding her too close to just warm her, Father. And just look at her! She’s hurt and yet she’s asleep and she’s smiling!”

Dienwald, startled, looked at the still-sleeping Philippa. She was smiling, her lips slightly parted, and the sight made him feel wonderful.

“Edmund, get you gone for a time. I am weary and the wench here will awaken soon and I must think—”

“You will wed her, Father. Aye, you must wed her. You’ve no choice now.”

Dienwald looked with horror at his son and forgot that his men were all within hearing distance. “Wed her! God grant me death instead. ’Tis possible that she betrayed me, Edmund, aye, that she told her cousin to save her from me and took you as a hostage.”

Edmund just shook his head and looked disgusted.

“You don’t even like her! She bullies you and corrects your every word. You call her witch and maypole and you stick out your tongue at her and—”

“Father,” Edmund said with great patience, “Philippa is a lady and you have taken her virtue. You must wed her.”

Dienwald cursed and looked back down at Philippa. She was awake and staring up at him, and there where tears in her eyes.

18

“Why are you crying? For God’s sake, cease your wailing this minute! I hate a woman’s tears. Stop it, wench. Do you hear me?”

“She’s not making a sound,” Edmund said, peering down at Philippa.

Dienwald made no reply to this, simply kept staring down at Philippa.

Her tears didn’t immediately do his bidding, and he turned further onto his side and leaned over her, his nose nearly touching hers. “Why are you crying? Did you hear Edmund and me, curse the boy’s interfering habits?”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Then why are you crying?”