Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

He was exhorting his men now, calling them faithless hounds and churlish knaves. Then he stopped and stared at them, and his men were silent beneath his volley of fury. A spasm of pain crossed his face. They’d all betrayed him. They’d gone over to her side. He felt blinding grief and anger. Without a thought, he galloped through them. He would return to St. Erth. They could do as they pleased; if they chose to follow her, then they could, curse them. His men fell back from him, scattering, their destriers whinnying in surprise. He heard Galen shouting, Northbert bellowing something he didn’t understand or care to. He wanted only to get away from her and the misery she’d brought him. He whipped Philbo into a mad gallop away from her, away from his men, straight through them, back to St. Erth. Away from his son, who’d also chosen the damnable wench.

“ ’Tis over now,” Philippa said. Her lips felt numb, her brain emptied of feeling and thought. She felt utter and complete defeat. Nothing mattered now. It was better so. Then suddenly she felt the blood pounding through her, felt the heat of fury roil and churn within her, felt such black rage at his stupidity that she couldn’t bear it. How dare he, the disbelieving fool!

“No!” Philippa yelled after him. She whipped her mare about and raced after her husband. She yelled back over her shoulder, “Eldwin, remain here! None of you do anything! I’ll be back soon! Edmund, don’t worry. Your father but needs a sound thrashing!”

Dienwald’s men, their ranks already split by the master’s wild ride, let her go through as well. She rode straigh

t after her husband, her eyes narrowed on his back, her hands fisted over the mare’s reins. She saw Dienwald twist in his saddle at the sound of her mare closing on him, saw the surprise on his face, the brief uncertainty, the renewal of rage.

Philbo was tired and the mare was fresh. Just as her mare came beside Philbo, Philippa, not for the last time in her life, thought with her feet. Without hesitation, she jumped from the mare’s back straight at her husband, her arms flying around his back. He stared at her in that wild instant, then knew what was going to happen. He lurched around in the saddle, clutched her against his chest even as both of them hurtled from Philbo’s back to the ground. Dienwald twisted and landed first, managing to spare Philippa the brunt of the fall. His arms tightened, and he grunted, the breath momentarily knocked out of him.

The road was narrow and curved, alongside it the terrain sloped sharply downward. They rolled over and over, locked together, down the grassy incline, coming finally to a stop in the middle of a patch of eglantine and violets.

Dienwald lay on his back, Philippa atop him. They were both breathing hard. Dienwald wondered if his body was intact or strewn in bits amongst the eglantine. Then Philippa reared back, looking down at him. She, he saw, was just fine. He felt her belly against him and his sex responded instantly, and he knew, at least, that this part of him had survived the fall, and further, would never be immune from her. Her thick glorious hair had come loose of its ribbon and was a riot of wild curls around her face. Her eyes sparkled with fierceness and he found himself waiting eagerly for her outpouring of rage.

“You stupid lout,” she shouted three inches from his face. “I should break both your arms and your head! You ignorant clod! Aye, I’ll break you into small pieces!”

“You already have,” he said. “Ridiculous woman, I tried to protect you, take the brunt of the fall, but your weight flying at me was enough to crush my spleen and pulverize my liver. When we smashed to the ground, my breath died, as did all feeling in my chest.”

“ ’Tis the loss of your brains that should concern you,” Philippa said, and began to pound him. “You had few to begin with, rattling around in that fat head of yours, and now you have none, my lord husband.”

Dienwald grabbed her flailing fists—not an easy task—and finally managed to roll her beneath him. He jerked her arms over her head, clasped her wrists together, and came up to straddle her so she couldn’t rear up and kick him.

“Now,” he said, looking down at her, his chest heaving. “Now.”

“Now what, you buffoon?”

He felt words stick in his throat. Something was decidedly wrong here. She seemed unaware of his mastery over her, whereas he was aware of nothing but the maddening effect she had on him.

“I suppose you’ve been licking your false wounds, with your perfect little Kassia giving you her sweet, tender succor. Is that it, you wretched ass? Have you spent the past three days bemoaning your hideous fate? Cursing me and all the saints for the misery that has befallen you? And did your perfect little Kassia agree with you and cry with you as you smote your feckless brow? Answer me!”

“Not really,” he said, and frowned.

She jerked, trying to free her hands, but he only tightened his grip. He wanted to kiss her and thrust inside her and throttle her all at the same time. Instead, he said in his most commanding voice, “I am your master, wench. Only I, no one else. You came to me and seduced me and I wedded you and that is that. Now, hold still and keep your tongue quiet, for I must think.”

“Think! Ha!”

“Where were you going with my men and my son? You were escaping me, ’twas plain to see. You were going to London, weren’t you? You were taking my son and going to your cursed father. Tell me the truth!”

She sneered at him and tried to kick him, but he held her securely and all she gained was the pressure of his sex, hard and demanding, against her. It drove her mad and enraged her at the same time. “Aye,” she shouted so loudly she hurt his ears, “aye, we were all going to London! To my father—to cover myself with jewels and cavort and frolic and dance with all the fine courtiers.”

“That’s all you can think about? Gallants and jewels? And what would Edmund have done whilst you were cavorting and frolicking and flirting with these frivolous clothheads?”

That stumped her, for her brain had fallen into wayward paths. He was astride her, his legs tight against her sides, and he was panting, so close she could nearly feel the texture of his mouth on her. She wanted desperately to hit him and then kiss him until he was breathless and so hungry for her that he forget everything.

“Don’t look at me like that, Philippa. It will do you no good. I won’t give in to you. It won’t spare you my wrath. Don’t deny it—you’re trying to seduce me again. No, you’ve been disloyal to me, you’ve—”

She suddenly heaved upward with all her strength, taking him off-guard. He fell sideways, not releasing her wrists, and they were lying there with naught but thick clumps of purple violets between them, face-to-face, their noses nearly pressed together. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her, then lurched back as if stung by a hornet.

“Dienwald . . .” she whispered, and hurled herself toward him, trying to kiss him back.

“Nay, I shan’t let you debauch me again, wench. Stay away from me.” Blood pounded in her head and with a furious cry she pulled free of his hands and smashed down on him, rolling him again onto his back. She was lying atop him once more, and then she was kissing him, even as he tried to duck away. She gripped his hair and yanked hard, holding his head between her hands, and she kissed him again and again, licking his chin, nipping at his nose, rubbing her cheek against his ear. He felt her belly hard against his sex and knew it was nearly the finish. The finish for him. He didn’t understand her. She was yielding and taking both at the same time, and it astonished him and pleased him. He stilled his body, letting her have her way with him.

“Wench,” he said finally when she’d momentarily left his mouth. “Wench, listen to me.”

Eyes vague, heart pounding, Philippa heard his soft voice and raised her head to look down at him.

“You’re my husband, you peevish fool,” she said, and kissed him again. “You’re mine. I would never leave you, never, no matter how great my anger at you and your crazy thinking. Do you understand me?” And she pounded his head against the violets. “Do you? I was coming to fetch you, to bring you home to me, where you belong. Do you understand?”