Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“I am not a damned earl! I don’t recall having required your opinion, de Tournay!”

“Nay, you did not, but I choose to give it to you, freely offered. Your wife is a lovely lady. She doesn’t deserve to be treated so meanly.”

Dienwald appeared ready to attack Roland, and Graelam quickly intervened. “I expected you sooner, Roland. Dienwald, go lick your wounds elsewhere and look not to bash Roland. He isn’t your enemy. And if you spit on him, Kassia won’t like it.”

Dienwald, still muttering, strode to Wolffeton’s training field, there to besport himself with Rolfe and the other men.

As for Roland, he turned to Graelam and smiled. “It has been a very long time, my friend, but I am here at last. This is your wife, Graelam? This beautiful creature who looks like a fairy princess? She calls you, a scarred hairy warrior, husband? Willingly?”

“Aye,” Kassia said, and gave her hand to Roland. He touched his fingers to her palm and smiled down at her. “You carry a babe, my lady.”

“Your vision is sharper than a falcon’s, Roland! Aye, she will give me a beautiful daughter very soon now.”

“A son, my lord. ’Tis a son I carry.”

Roland looked at the two of them. He had known Graelam de Moreton for many years and called him friend. But he’d known him as a hard man, unyielding and implacable, a valued man to fight at your side, strong and valiant, but no show of tenderness or gentleness in his character to please such a fragile lady as this. But he did please her—that was evident. Roland marveled at it and thought it excellent, but didn’t choose to see such changes in himself. No, never. He didn’t understand such feelings and had no desire to, none.

Graelam said, “Come, Roland, I assume you have something of import to tell me. Kassia, I wish you to rest now, sweetling. Nay, argue not with me, for rest you will, even if I have to tie you to our bed.” He leaned down, his palm gentle against his wife’s cheek, and lightly kissed her mouth. “Go, love.”

And Roland marveled anew. The two men sat in Wolffeton’s great hall, flagons of wine between them.

Roland said without preamble, “I must go to Wales and I mustn’t be Roland de Tournay there. You have friends amongst the Marcher Barons. I need you to give me an introduction to one of them. Mayhap I will need to pay a surprise visit.”

Graelam sa

id, “You play spy again, Roland? I have no doubt, my friend, that you could dupe God into accepting you as one of his angels. Aye, I have friends there. If you must, you can go to Lord Richard de Avenell. He is the father of Lady Chandra de Vernon. You know her husband, Jerval, do you not?”

Roland nodded. “Aye, I met both of them in Acre.”

“It’s done, then, Roland. I will have my steward, Blount, write a letter for you to Lord Richard. He will welcome you to his keep. Will you leave for Wales immediately?”

Roland sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “If I may, Graelam, I should like to remain just for a while longer to see what transpires between Dienwald and his wife and his wife’s father-in-law.”

Graelam laughed. “Aye, I too would like to see Edward’s face were he to be told that Dienwald cursed and fled when he discovered the king was now related to him! He would surely be speechless for once in his life.”

Near St. Erth

Walter de Grasse wanted to spit, and he did, often. It relieved his bile. He’d argued fiercely with Britta, who’d clung to him and wept bitter tears and begged him to stay with her and not go after Philippa. But he’d dragged himself and his aching head away.

He would have Philippa, no matter the cost. He would have her and he would kill Dienwald de Fortenberry at last. Damned scoundrel! And he would keep Britta, no matter what either female wanted.

He’d cursed his men roundly, railing at them for allowing one lone women with a little boy to escape Crandall. But it had happened and they had escaped and now he had to devise another way of catching her again.

He and six of his most skilled and ruthless men camped in a scraggly wood not a mile from the castle of St. Erth. One man kept watch at all times. It was reported to Walter that the master of St. Erth himself had ridden off, no one with him, and as yet he hadn’t returned. Walter knew of the chancellor’s visit and of Lord Henry’s visit as well. The fat was now in the fire, and Philippa as well as Dienwald had been told who she really was.

Why, then, had Dienwald ridden away from his keep alone? It made no sense to Walter.

He saw the chancellor and all his men leave, which was a relief, for Walter had no wish to tangle with the king’s soldiers. Then Lord Henry and his men left St. Erth. Walter sat back, chewed on a blackened piece of rabbit, and waited.

Wolffeton Castle

“The wench is what she is, and nothing can change that.”

“That is true,” Graelam agreed.

“Do you love her, Dienwald?” Kassia asked now, setting her embroidery on her knee, for the babe was big in her belly.

“You women and your silly talk of love! Love is naught but a fabrication that dissolves when you but look closely at it.”