Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Walter was livid. He saw her there, at the head of the men, riding away from St. Erth. Fifteen men—he counted them. Well-armed they were. Too many for him to attempt to capture her, damn their hides.

Where was she going? Perhaps, he thought, smiling, she was leaving her husband. Aye, that was it. She was leaving the perfidious lout.

At last he’d have her. Walter roused his men, mounted his destrier, and waved all of them to follow him. He would follow her all the way to Ireland if need be. He would find her alone at some point along the way. She would have to relieve herself or bathe. Aye, he’d get her.

Between Wolffeton and St. Erth

Dienwald patted Philbo’s neck. His destrier was lathering a bit, beginning to blow hard now, but he plowed forward, ever forward, as if guessing they were homeward-bound.

Dienwald would soon have his wench again and he would kiss her and hold her and tell her he forgave all her multitudinous sins, even if she chose not to remember them. He would love her until he was insensate and she as well.

“Ah, Philippa,” he said, looking between Philbo’s twitching ears. “Soon all will be well again. Even though I’ll be an earl, I shan’t carp overly. I will bend my knee to your cursed father when I must, and will show him that I am a man of honor and a man who cares more for his daughter than the world and all its bounty.

“I’ll learn to write so that I can extol her beauty in love poems, and recite aloud what I have written to her.” Dienwald paused at those outflowing words. Philbo snorted. Dienwald’s vow rang foolish, so he quickly shook his head. “Nay, not poetry,” he added quickly, “but I will show her how much I desire her and adore her by my actions toward her. I will whisper in her ear of my desire for her and wring her sweet heart with my tender tongue. I will never, ever yell at her in anger again.” He smiled at that. Aye, ’twas good, that vow. It was a vow with meat and meaning, and he could hold to it; he was a reasonable man, he was controlled. It wouldn’t be difficult.

Aye, he would tease her and love her and bend her gently to his will. He worried not about his own peculiar will, for he was not a tyrant to demand subservience. Nay, his was a beneficient will, a mellow will, a will to which she would submit eagerly, her beautiful eyes filled with pleasure at pleasing him, for she adored him and wanted above all things to delight him.

His brow lowered suddenly, and he added loudly, “I won’t promise to become a shorn lamb in the king’s damned flock!” He moaned, seeing himself in a royal antechamber, clothed like a mincing buffoon, waiting for the king to grant him audience. It was a hideous vision. It curled his toes and made his heart lurch.

Philbo snorted, and Dienwald ceased his flowing monologue and his dismal imaginings, which, after all, needn’t necessarily come to pass. In the distance he saw a tight group of men riding toward him. He counted them, sixteen men in all. What could they want? Where were they going? And then he recognized Philippa’s mare and Eldwin’s huge black gelding and his son’s pony.

What was happening here? Where was Philippa going with his men? There she was, riding right there in the fore, leading them, commanding them. Where was she taking his son? Then he froze in his saddle.

She was leaving him. She’d decided she didn’t want him. She’d decided that she was too far above him to belittle herself with him further. She’d left St. Erth—her home—where she belonged. She was going to London, to her father’s court, to wear precious jewels and fine clothes and never again worry about being naked and having only a blanket to wear.

His fury mounted and he cursed loudly, raising his voice to the heavens. Aye, and he couldn’t begin to imagine all the men who would be at court, wanting her, damn her beautiful face and body, not just because of who her father was, but because of how she—

“Damnation!” he bellowed, and urged Philbo to a furious gallop. He saw Edmund riding close to Philippa, Eldwin on his other side. And there was Northbert, his loyal Northbert, riding just behind her. She was stealing his son from him, and his men were helping her. Rage poured through his body.

“By God,” Eldwin said, coming closer to Philippa’s side. “That’s the master! See, ’tis Philbo he rides! He rides right for us, as if he comes from hell.”

“Or he rides toward heaven,” Philippa said, smiling.

“Aye,” Edmund said from her other side, “ ‘tis Papa!”

“At last,” Philippa said, drawing her mare to a halt. Her eyes sparkled for the first time in three days and her back straightened.

Philippa forgot her anger at her husband at the sight of him galloping toward her. He’d come to terms with matters and realized that he wanted her, only her, and she was his wife, no matter who her sire was. How fast he was riding! She felt warmth pouring through her, knowing that soon he would be kissing her and holding her, not caring that his men were watching, that his son would be tugging at his tunic for his own hug. He would probably pull her in front of him on Philbo so he could fondle her all the way back to St. Erth. Philippa closed her eyes a moment and let the sweet feelings flow through her. He would love her and there would be naught but smiles and laughter between them again. No more arguments, no more boiling tempers, no more shouting down the keep.

She opened her eyes, hearing his pounding destrier, and now she could see his face, and she urged her mare forward, wanting to reach him, wanting to lean into his arms when he drew close.

Dienwald jerked up on Philbo’s reins, and the powerful destrier reared on his hind legs, snorting loudly.

“Philippa!”

“Aye, husband. I am here, as is your son, as you can see, and your men with us. We were coming to—”

He allowed Philbo to come only a few feet closer to his men and his wife. He needed some distance from her. He’d stoked the fire and now he was ready to blaze. “You damnable bitch! How dare you steal my son! How dare you steal yourself! Aye, I know where you’re going, you malignant female—’tis to your father’s court you were traveling with my treacherous men, to bask in the king’s favor and gleam riches from him. Perfidious wench! Get thee out of my sight! I don’t want you, I never wanted you, and I will whip you if you leave not this very instant, this second that follows the end of my words! Hear me, wench?”

“Papa . . .”

“You’ll soon be safe from her, Edmund. We’ll return to St. Erth and all will be restored to the way it was before she blighted us with her presence. You were right, Edmund: she was a witch, a curse from the devil, rising out of the wool wagon like a creature from Hades, criticizing you, scorching all of us with her tongue with the first words from her mouth. You won’t have to suffer her further, none of us will. You, Eldwin, Galen, Northbert! all of you, leave her side. Ride away from her. She’s naught but the most treacherous of beings!” He paused, breathing hard.

“Master,” Galen said quickly in the moment of respite, though he was awed by his master’s flawed fluency. He waved his hand to gain Dienwald’s attention, for the master was staring straight at the mistress, blind with anger. The master was confused; he didn’t understand. Galen looked toward the mistress, but she was simply staring back at the master, white-faced and still. “What you think isn’t what is true, master. You mustn’t believe those absurd words you spout—”

“We return to St. Erth at once!” Dienwald roared. “Get thee gone, wench. No more will you torment me with your lies and tempt me with your sweet body.”

Philippa hadn’t said a word. She’d stared at him, at his mouth, as if she could actually see the venomous words flowing out. He truly thought she was leaving him, taking his son with her to London, to her father’s court? She felt a hollowness inside, an emptiness that at the same time overflowed with pain and fury. She stared at him as he yelled and bellowed and insulted her. It was all over now. So much for her silly dreams of his love.