Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Roland decided to postpone the inevitable anger that would take the king when he knew himself thwarted. “Why do I not travel to see this daughter, sire? Mayhap she will look at my churl’s ugly face and shriek in despair.”

“Aye, ’tis possible,” the king said, stroking his chin as was his habit. “Very well, Roland, go to Cornwall and give the sweet maid your countenance and tell her to behold it with shrewdness. Tell her you are my trusted man. Nay, tell Lord Henry that.”

Roland nodded. He didn’t mind going to Cornwall. He needed to see Graelam de Moreton. He also trusted that something would happen to save him the fate of being wedded. He was lucky; his luck would hold without his having to insult the king or his bastard daughter. He doubted not that being a Plantagenet, she was beautiful. Edward sired only beautiful daughters, as had his father before him. But whenever Roland envisioned a beautiful face, it was Joan of Tenesby he saw, and he knew it would remain so until the day he died—the beautiful face of treachery that mirrored his folly.

St. Erth Castle

“Aye, ’tis besotted she is, and it’s good.” Old Agnes spat out a cherry seed, continuing to Gorkel, who was plaiting strips of leather into a whip, “I doubt t’ mistress will be able to walk if t’ master doesn’t let her out of his bed.”

Gorkel blushed and missed his rhythm with the plaiting.

Old Agnes brayed with laughter and wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Oh, aye, a beast like you turning red as a cherry pip! Aye, ’tis a wondrous thing to see. Look not sour, Gorkel, ’tis no pain t’ master gives the mistress. Aye, ’tis she who plunders his manhood, I’ll vow, and wrings him dry and limp.”

She cackled until Gorkel, furious at himself, threw the half-plaited whip aside and strode to the well to drink. And there was the master himself, drinking from the well in the inner bailey.

Gorkel watched him straighten, then stretch profoundly. There was a smile on the master’s face, a look of vanity perhaps, but in a man of the master’s position, Gorkel forgave it.

“Aye, t’ master has t’ look of a man wrung out of all his seed,” Old Agnes chortled close to Gorkel’s ear, coming to a halt behind him.

Dienwald heard the old woman laughing and wondered at the jest. The sun was bright overhead, the air warm, and it was nearing midmorning. He became aware of all his people around him, looking at him from the corners of their eyes, smirking—one fellow, a shepherd, was slapping his hands over his heart and sighing loudly. Dienwald decided to sigh too. Then he saw Philippa in his mind’s eye stretched on her back, her white thighs parted, her arms flung over her head. He felt a bolt of lust so great it made him reel. It vexed him to realize this effect she had on him, just thinking of her lying in his bed, naked and soft and warm. He cursed, turned on his heel, and rushed back up the solar stairs.

He heard laughter from behind him, but didn’t slow. When he flung open the bedchamber door, it was to see his wife standing in the copper tub, naked.

Philippa, startled, brought the linen cloth over her breasts and covered her woman’s mound with her hand. Her husband stood in the middle of the room and stared at her.

“You’re too plentiful for such a small square of cloth, wench.”

When she just stood there returning his stare, Dienwald strode to her, pulled the cloth from her fingers, leaned down, and took her nipple in his mouth. At her gasp, he straightened again and washed the cloth over her tautened nipple. “I think of you and my manhood is cock-sore for your attention. Now, stand still and I will finish your bath for you.” He began to whistle as if he hadn’t a care, bending over now, the cloth gliding down her belly and between her legs. “Wider, wench, part your legs for me.” She opened her legs, her hands on his shoulders to balance herself. She threw her head back when she felt the cloth pressing against her, then his hands, slick with soap, stroking her buttocks. His whistling stopped. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly he was cupping water in his hands and pouring it over her, rinsing away the soap.

“Dienwald,” she said, her fists pounding on his shoulders, “you make me frantic.”

He looked at her. “Aye, wench? Is that true? This?” And his middle finger slipped inside her.

She looked at his mouth and he felt his blood churn and his member harden. She kissed him, moving against him, shuddering when his finger eased out of her, then plunged in deeply again.

“You’re mine,” he said into her mouth, and she moaned, kissing him frantically, biting him, her fingers digging into his back. His finger left her and he shoved his clothes aside, freeing his member. He looked at her and said, “I want you to come to me now. Clasp your legs around my flanks.”

She stared at him, not understanding, but he just shook his head and lifted her. Her legs went around him and then she felt his fingers on her, stroking and caressing her and parting her, and her breath caught sharply in her throat as he slid upward into her.

She gasped and wrapped her legs more tightly around him. Then he carried her to the bed and eased her down, not leaving her, driving furiously into her until she was crying out, nearly bucking him off her in her frenzy. When his climax overcame him, he yelled, his head thrown back, so deep inside her that he no longer thought of her as separate from him, as a vessel for his pleasure, as a wife to bear his children. She was his and a part of him and he accepted it and fell atop her, kissing her as she cried softly into his mouth.

Late that afternoon, as Dienwald was sitting in his chair drinking a flagon of ale, he looked up to see Northbert run into the great hall, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Someone comes, master!”

Dienwald rose immediately. “That peasant whoreson Sir Walter?”

“Nay, ’tis Lord Henry de Beauchamp. He has a dozen men, master,” Northbert added. “All armed.”

Dienwald straightened his clothes, mentally girded his loins, and went to greet his father-in-law. It hadn’t taken Lord Henry long to reply to his message.

20

Dienwald watched two stout men-at-arms assist Lord Henry de Beauchamp from his powerful Arabian destrier. He was a portly man, not tall, but strongly built even in his late years.

He was huffing about, wheezing and cursing, and Dienwald soon realized it was with rage, not the result of his exertions. No sooner had Lord Henry seen him than he yelled to the four corners of St. Erth, “You lie, you filthy whoreson! You must lie! You cannot have wedded my daughter! ’Tis a lie!”

For a father who had planned to give his daughter to William de Bridgport without a dowry, Lord Henry seemed unaccountably incensed. Dienwald motioned him into the great hall. “It is not much more private, but the entire population of St. Erth will be spared your rage.” He preceded him, saying nothing more. He could hear Lord Henry’s furious breathing close to his back, and wondered if he should give Philippa’s father such a good target for a dagger.

He motioned Lord Henry to his own chair, but his father-in-law wasn’t having any niceties. He stood there facing his son-in-law, his hands on his hips. “Tell me you lied!”