Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“So be it, Roland. Tell me of your harem,” King Edward said, “before my beautiful Eleanor comes to pluck us away.”

19

St. Erth Castle

On the last day of April, under the flowering apple trees in the St. Erth orchard, Father Cramdle performed a marriage ceremony crowned with enough ritual to please even the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. The sweet scent of the apple blossoms, musk roses, and violets filled the air, the bride looked more beautiful than the yellow-and-purple-patterned butterflies that hovered over the scores of trestle tables laden with food and ale, and the bridegroom and master of St. Erth looked like he wanted to frown himself into the ground. Father Cramdle ignored the bridegroom. The ceremony was right and proper. All the people of St. Erth were happy. The master was doing his duty by the maid.

The soon-to-be-mistress of St. Erth looked as excited as any other girl at her own wedding, Old Agnes thought as she watched Philippa de Beauchamp become Philippa de Fortenberry, the master’s helpmeet and steward and keeper of the castle. Aye, she was lovely in her soft pink gown with a dark pink overtunic—both garments among those sent to her by Lady Kassia de Moreton, a fact that had seemed, for some unknown reason, to annoy the mistress.

She wore her richly curling hair long and thick down her back, with flowers twined together into a crown on her brow. She was a maiden bride, and if anyone thought differently, he was wise enough to keep silent.

The master looked a magnificent animal as well, clothed in the new bright blue tunic the mistress had sewn for him, his long lean body straight and tall. But he also looked uncommonly severe and forbidding, something Old Agnes didn’t understand but hadn’t the courage to ask about. As for the young master, he was grinning like a fatuous little puppy after a big meal.

Since they were wedded here at St. Erth, no dowry or bridal gifts involved, Dienwald spared himself and his bride the ceremonial stripping. He knew his bride was very nicely formed and he knew that she thought well of his body as well. He chewed his thumbnail and wished Father Cramdle would finish with his array of Latin, words spoken so slowly that Dienwald didn’t know where one word began and another left off. Nor did he understand any of the words, so it really didn’t matter.

Neither did Philippa. She just wanted it over with. She wanted to turn and smile at her new husband and watch him smile back at her. They’d returned the evening before, and to Philippa’s surprise and chagrin, Dienwald hadn’t come near his own bedchamber. She’d slept alone, wondering at his sudden bout of nobility—if, indeed, it were a case of nobility.

Perhaps, she thought, as Father Cramdle droned on, he’d not found her particularly to his liking that first time. Perhaps he didn’t . . .

The ceremony was over, and there was suddenly loud, nearly riotous cheering from all the people of St. Erth. Gorkel had set Crooky on his massive shoulders and the fool was leading the people in shouts and yells and howls of glee.

“ ‘Tis done.”

Philippa, her brilliant smile in place, turned to her new husband, but she didn’t get a smile in return. He was staring beyond her at nothing in particular as far as she could tell.

“Aye,” she said with great satisfaction, “you are now my husband. What is it? Is something the matter? Something offends you?”

“All my people,” Dienwald said, still staring about him, “are shouting their heads off. And it is because they believe you to be good for their well-being. They make me feel I’ve been a rotten tyrant in my treatment of them.”

“Mayhap,” she said with a grin, “they believe I’ll temper you rottenness and make you as sweet and ripe as summer strawberries. As for me, husband, I shall try to be good for our people. Mayhap they also believe I’ll be good for their master. I had much food prepared. Indeed, everyone wished to help. Look at the tables, I vow they are creaking with the weight of it. There are hare and pork and herring and beef and even some young lamb—”

“Aye, I know.” He struck his fingers through his hair. “Edmund,” he bellowed. “Come hither!”

The boy was still grinning even as he came to a halt in front of his father and announced with glee, “You are wedded to the maypole.”

Philippa laughed and cuffed his shoulder. “You weedy little spallkin! Come, give me a kiss.”

Edmund came up to his tiptoes and hugged her, then raised his face, his lips pursed. She kissed him soundly. “Can you call me something a bit more pleasing, Edmund?”

Edmund struck a thoughtful pose. Crooky came up then and Edmund said, “A name, Crooky, I must have a comely name for my father’s wife.”

“Ah, a name.” Crooky slewed a look at his master. “Mayhap Morgan? Or Mary?”

“Shut your teeth!” Dienwald bellowed, and cuffed Crooky, sending the fool tumbling head over arse to the ground in a well-performed roll.

“I think,” Edmund said slowly, “that I wish to think about it. Is that all right?”

“That is just fine. Now, husband, would you like to partake of your wedding feast?”

There was enough feasting and consumption of ale to keep the people of St. Erth sick for a week. And that, Philippa thought, smiling, was probably the reason they’d cheered her so vigorously—enough food and drink and dancing to make the most sullen villein smile. Even the blacksmith, a man of morose habits, was laughing, his mouth stuffed with stewed hare and cabbage. Everyone was frolicking.

All but the master.

He danced with her; he picked at the roasted hare and pork Philippa served on his trencher, but he didn’t try to pull her away to kiss her or fondle her on his lap. And that, she knew, wasn’t at all like Dienwald. His hand should have been on her knee, moving upward, or caressing her breast, a wicked gleam in his eyes. She wished she had the courage to stroke her hand up his leg, but she didn’t.

When the time came, Philippa allowed Old Agnes and the other women to see her to the master’s bedchamber. Margot combed her hair and the women took off her clothes and placed her in Dienwald’s big bed. Then, with much giggling and advice that Philippa found interesting but quite unnecessary, they left.

“Aye,” Old Agnes called back, “we’ll send up the master soon, if he isn’t too sodden to move!”