Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Margot laughed and shouted, “We’ll tell him stories to stiffen his rod! Right now ’tis too full of ale to do more than flop about!”

Now that, Philippa thought, was an interesting image to picture.

The night was dark, and but one candle flickered in the bedchamber. Philippa waited naked under the thin cover, for it was warm this night, her wedding night. Her arm was still bound in a soft wool bandage, but it scarce bothered her. She wanted her husband to come to her, she wanted him to touch her with his hands, with his mouth, and she wanted his rod to come inside her and fill her. She wanted desperately to hold him to her as he moved inside her. She loved him and she wanted to give him everything that she was, everything that she had, which, admittedly, were only her love and her goodwill for him, his son, and his castle.

Time passed and the candle gutted. She fell asleep finally, huddled onto her side, her hands beneath her cheek.

The door crashed open and Philippa came instantly awake and lurched upright. Her new husband was standing in the open doorway holding a candle in his right hand. He was scowling toward her, and she saw that he wasn’t happy.

He stepped into the chamber and kicked the door shut with his heel, then strode across the chamber and came to a halt beside the bed. He looked down at her. She pulled the blanket over her breast to her chin.

“Good,” he said.

“Good what?”

“You’re naked, wench—at least you had better be under that flimsy cover. The women were giggling enough about your fair and willing body, ready for me. Now that I’ve enslaved myself and all I own for you, now that you’ve gotten everything you wanted, I think I will take advantage of the one benefit you bring me.”

He was pulling off his clothes as he spoke. Philippa stared at him, realizing that he was drunk. He wasn’t sodden, but he was drunk.

She just looked at him. She wasn’t afraid of him, but still she said, “Will you hurt me, Dienwald?”

That brought him upright. He was naked, standing with his arms at his sides, his legs slightly spread, and he was staring down at her. “Hurt you, wench?”

“I am not a wench, I’m your wife, I’m Philippa de Fortenberry, and—”

“Aye, I know it well . . . too well. Come, lie down and shut your woman’s mouth and open your legs. I wish to take you, and if there is much more talk, I doubt I’ll be able. Nay, I’ll not hurt you if you obey me.”

She didn’t move for a very long time. Finally she said slowly, “You said you would give me pleasure.”

He frowned. He had said that, it was true, but that was before he’d drunk so much ale he felt he’d float away with the Penthlow River. He felt ill-used, but he supposed it wasn’t her fault, not really. No matter how he railed and brawled, he had taken her, and all because of that cursed dream of her he’d been having. That and the fact that he’d wanted her for longer than he could remember.

And so he said in a voice that was fast becoming sober, “I’ll try, by all the saints’ sweet

voices, I’ll try to bring you pleasure.”

She smiled at that, all the while looking at him. He was tall and lean and hard, and so beautiful she wanted to cry. Her body was taut with excitement and soft with a need she knew lay buried within her, a need he would nurture into being.

“ ’Twill be fine, then, my husband.”

She lay on her back and lifted her arms to him.

“Why must you yield to me so sweetly?” he asked as he lay down and pulled the blanket to her waist. He came over her naked breasts, and the feel of her so soft and giving beneath him made him shiver. “Ah, Philippa,” he said, and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss until he felt her respond to him, and then he lightly probed with his tongue until she parted her lips and he slipped his tongue in her mouth. He felt her start of surprise and said into her mouth, “Touch your tongue to mine.”

She did, shyly, as if she were afraid of what would happen. Then she gasped with the wonder of it and threw her arms—both of them—around his back. He laughed at that, both amazed and pleased to his male soul at her yielding reaction. He taught her how to kiss and how to enjoy all the small movements he made with his tongue. He rubbed his chest over her breasts, and her response was beyond what he’d expected. She was panting and arching up against him, her hands fluttering over him.

“The feel of you,” Philippa said, rubbing herself against his hairy chest. “I love the feel of you,” and he felt her trying to open her legs for him. He fitted himself there, his sex against her belly, then raised himself and said, “Touch me, Philippa. I can’t bear it anymore. Touch me.”

She reached between their bodies and instantly clasped her fingers about him. “Oh,” she said, and her fingers grew still. “I hadn’t thought . . . ’tis wondrous how you feel . . . your strength.” And she began to caress him, to stroke him, to learn him, and then she closed both hands about him and fondled him, and soon he couldn’t bear it. He pulled back up onto his knees between her widespread thighs and looked down at her. Her sleek long legs were beautifully shaped and white and soft, and he wanted them around his flanks and wanted to come inside her, and he said only, “Now, Philippa, now.”

There was in her expression only sweetness and anticipation, and it seeped slowly through his brain that he had become infinitely more sober than when he entered the room.

“Pleasure,” he repeated slowly as he paused before guiding himself into her. “Pleasure.” He stopped, drew a deep shuddering breath, and frowned down at her. “You’re my wife.” He eased down then between her legs, and his lips were on her stomach, his hands stroking her, his tongue wet and hot against her flesh. He was moving lower and lower, and Philippa, so surprised that she hadn’t the chance to be shocked by what he was doing, yelled when his mouth closed over her.

He raised his head, staring at her in consternation. “Pleasure,” he said. “ ’Tis for your pleasure.”

“Oh.”

“Be quiet, wench. This is good.”