Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

And so it was, but it was also more, much more. When his mouth took her this time, she lurched upward but didn’t yell. She felt the sensation of his mouth into the very depths of her, sensations she’d never before even guessed could exist. She whimpered, her fist in her mouth. His hands slipped beneath her buttocks, and he lifted her, his tongue wild on her and inside her, delving and probing, and she cried out, unable to keep still any longer. And it went on and on, gaining in urgency until she gave herself to it.

Dienwald felt the stiffening of her legs, the convulsions that tightened her muscles, and in those moments his mind was as clear as a cloudless summer day, and he saw her, really saw her, and felt her even as she stared at him, her eyes wide and wild, filled with surprise and passion, and she cried out and arched upward, giving herself to him fully. It was a woman’s pleasure swamping her, and he was giving it to her and felt himself sharing it, deeply, and it dazed him. He wanted to shy away from it, to escape it, but he couldn’t because he was held firm and close, a part of her, even though he had never known it could be so. Nothing had prepared him for this joining. When she quieted, he raced back, taut and wild and fierce, lifted her hips even higher—but again he looked down at her, and slowed himself. He came into her very slowly, for she was small. It was almost too much for him. She was wet from the pleasure he’d brought her, and the feel of her, the feel of himself inside her, made him shudder and moan until he couldn’t bear it and he drove into her, coming over her then, even as he felt her womb. And he exploded then and groaned loudly, heaving into her as his seed filled her.

He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anymore. It was all too new and too urgent. His head was spinning and he felt ripped apart, for she would see his soul and know that she’d taken him, all of him, and so he escaped her and slept.

Philippa stared at her husband’s face beside hers on the pillow. He was breathing slowly and deeply, his fingers splayed over her breast, one muscled leg covering hers. She raised her hand and stroked his hair. He’d promised pleasure, but this had exceeded pleasure. Pleasure was a new gown whose color suited one perfectly. What he’d made her feel . . . It could make one mad, it was madness. And she wanted it every day of her life.

Light streamed onto Philippa’s face and she opened her eyes and smiled even before she saw her husband’s face. Dienwald was on his side, balanced over her, and he was looking very serious and intent. He appeared to be playing with her hair.

“What are you doing?”

“Counting the different shades in your hair. Here is a strand as dark a brown as my own, and next to it is one so pale I can scarce see it against my arm.”

“My father once frowned at me and told me my hair wasn’t golden.”

“He’s right. It isn’t. It’s far more interesting. Here’s a strand that’s an ash color. So far, I’ve counted ten different colors. Why did your father want you to have golden hair?”

“I don’t know. I just remember that he was shaking his head about it. I was hurt, but then he didn’t say anything more. Indeed, he seemed to forget about it.”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “And the hair covering your mound—”

Instinctively Philippa closed her legs, and he laughed. “Nay, you’re my wife now. I’ll look my fill and you’ll not gainsay me.” He laid his open palm over her, cupping her. “You feel warm beneath my hand.”

He closed his eyes as he spoke, and Philippa felt a surge of something much stronger than mere warmth beneath his palm. It was desire, and it felt powerful and compelling. Unconsciously she lifted her hips against his hand.

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. “I thought you’d be a greedy wench,” he said, a good deal of male satisfaction in his voice, and leaned down to kiss her. She felt his long finger glide over her, slip between her thighs, and enter her slowly. She gasped, and he took the sound into his mouth and kissed her more deeply. Then his tongue moved into her mouth just as his finger was moving into the depths of her and she lurched up, crying out, so overwhelmed by the feelings his actions brought that she was helpless against them. He pressed her down. “Hush,” he said. “Lie quietly and enjoy what I’m doing to you.”

“It’s too much,” she said, and began kissing him urgently, frantically, his chin, his nose, his mouth. He laughed into her mouth but it turned quickly into a groan as her tongue touched his.

In a sudden move he rolled onto his back and brought her over him. He arranged her over him, saying, “Sit up, wife, come astride me.” He lifted her, his hands around her waist. “Guide me into you.”

Philippa was eager and more than willing, and she brought him into her and felt him slowly ease her down over him. She stared at him, not moving.

He smiled painfully and moved his hands upward to cup her breasts. “Move,” he managed to say. “Move as you wish to.”

She was uncertain and tentative at first, then realized that she could make him insane with lust, moving quickly, then slowing until he thought he would die from sensations

of it. She watched his face and quickly learned how far she could push him before drawing back. Then she drew back her head and thrust her breasts forward, her hands splayed on his chest and when his fingers found her, she yelled and jerked, beyond herself, seeking her climax and when it overwhelmed her it overwhelmed him as well.

“It’s too much,” she whispered a few moments later. She lay with her cheek on his shoulder, her legs stretched over him, his member still inside her.

Dienwald couldn’t have said anything if the Saracens had been attacking St. Erth at that moment.

He was barren of wit. He heard Philippa’s breath even into sleep. He’d worn her to a bone and he was pleased. He discounted his own feelings of utter contentment. He cupped her hips in his hands. Aye, his wife was a bountiful wench, her flesh soft and firm, and perchance ’twas a fine thing to have her here, at St. Erth, in his bed, for a very long time.

Windsor Castle

May 1275

“Well, what say you, Roland? Do you wish to wed with my daughter? My sweet Philippa?”

Roland chewed slowly on the honey bread. He didn’t want to anger his king by saying frankly that the last thing he wanted in his life was a wife to hang around his neck.

The king frowned. “My man Cedric told me of two wenches who visited your chamber last night. I told him to keep his rattling tongue in his mouth.”

“Two wenches,” Roland repeated, his eyes widening in surprise. “Nay, sire, ’twas three, but I was too fatigued to do much with the third one. I let her assist.”

The king stared at Roland de Tournay, his face darkening. Then he burst into laughter. “You make me a flap-eared ass, Roland. Aye, I will tell Cedric he miscounted your wenches. ’Twill serve the beetle-headed clod right. Now, what will you? Have you decided?”