Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Alain wanted to tell the codshead take himself to hell, but he was afraid of Gorkel; the man could easily break his spine with but little effort of his huge hands. He looked at Philippa, then at the boy, who was standing there with his hands on his hips, his chin thrust forward. He’d get her; then he’d punish the boy. The steward turned on his heel and strode from the hall.

Crooky suddenly jumped to his feet and burst into wild song, the words following the enraged steward from the hall:

A varlet he’ll be to the end

A stench that rots in the walls

Next time he’ll not have the gall

When the master’s back in the hall.

Philippa looked down at Edmund. “Thank you.”

“He’s a bully. Father doesn’t see it because Alain’s always careful around him. Why does he hate you? You’re naught but a girl. You’ve never done anything to him, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. I truly don’t know why he hates me, Edmund.”

“You will stay away from him. I can’t always be around to protect you.”

“I know.” She looked up and met Gorkel’s eyes. She smiled at him and he nodded, a deep rumbling sound in his throat. He scratched his belly, turned, and strode back to his place below the salt.

Noise filled the hall again. Crooky sprawled once more to the rushes. Edmund crammed bread into his mouth, and Philippa, her cheek still stinging, merely sat back into her chair, wondering what she was to do now.

For the next three days she kept close to Gorkel. He didn’t seem to mind, and his presence kept Alain well away from her. He even disdained to sit beside her at the lord’s trestle table. Gorkel didn’t tell her that it was the master’s order that he keep close to her. It would be Gorkel’s head were the wench to escape St. Erth. In those three days Philippa learned more about St. Erth, met all its inhabitants, sewed Edmund a tunic of forest-green wool, and began one for Dienwald. Hers could wait a bit longer. Philippa became so used to all the noise that she could even identify what squawks came from what chicken. One pig in particular chose her as its mother and followed her everywhere, making Gorkel laugh. Philippa named the pig Tupper.

On the morning of the third day, Philippa, her step buoyant and carefree, entered the weaving shed to be greeted by pandemonium. A gaunt middle-aged man with tufts of gray hair sticking straight up on his head was screaming at Mordrid. He was quaking with rage, shaking so violently that his clothes, hanging loosely around him, were in danger of leaving his body.

He yelled, “Bitch! Slut! Treacherous cow! I lie on my deathbed and ye take my job. I’ll kill ye!”

10

Philippa stared at the man, then shouted, “Hold! Who are you? What do you do here?”

The man whirled about. He looked Philippa up and down and sneered, and his eyes seemed to turn red. “Aye, so ye’re t’ witch who’s beleaguered t’ master. Ye’re t’ one who’s made him think of naught but plungin’ into yer belly and givin’ ye wot’s mine!”

“Ah,” Philippa said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “You must be Prink. Fresh from your deathbed. I see you are still with us.”

Her bright, very polite voice stalled Prink, but only for a moment. He felt ill-used, betrayed, and he wanted to leap on the wench and tear the hair from her head. It was her size that held him back. He didn’t have his full strength back yet. He drew himself up. “I’m here t’ do my work. Ye’re not welcome, wench. Out wi’ ye, and take all these stupid women wi’ ye.” He grabbed Mordrid’s arm and twisted it. “I’ll keep this one—she deserves a hidin’, she does, and I’ll gi’ it to her.”

“Prink,” Philippa said very slowly, “you will release Mordrid, now.”

The weaver looked fit to spit. His hold tightened on Mordrid’s arm until the woman moaned with pain.

Philippa wondered where Gorkel was. During the past three days he’d been where she’d been. Well, he wasn’t here and she had no one but herself to handle this predicament. Even mouthy Old Agnes was hiding behind a huge woven piece of cloth newly dyed a bright yellow. Philippa stepped up to the furious weaver, saw his pallor, saw the spasms that shook his muscles, and knew him still to be very ill. She said calmly, her voice pitched low, “You aren’t well, Prink. Here, allow me to help you back to your bed.”

He squealed like Philippa’s worshipful pig, Tupper, but he did drop Mordrid’s arm. He gave Philippa his full attention. “Ye’re naught but t’ master’s slut, and ye’ve taken wot’s mine and—”

“Your face is gray as the sky this morning, Prink, and sweat drips off your forehead. Do you wish to remain here and fall on your face in a faint, in front of all the women?”

Prink didn’t know what to do. He’d exhausted himself with his rightful indignation. He wanted to wring the wench’s neck, but he hadn’t the strength. He mumbled curses at Mordrid and walked slowly, his muscles cramping, toward the door of the outbuilding. At that moment Gorkel appeared, looking from the weaver to Philippa.

“Do help him back to his bed, Gorkel, and see that he remains there until he’s completely well again. I will speak to you later, Prink.”

The instant the weaver disappeared, Old Agnes bounded out of her hidey-hole, squawking with fury. “Old codshead! How dare he try to ruin everything, the stinking poltroon!”

Philippa ignored Old Agnes. “Mordrid, are you all right? Did he hurt your arm?”

The woman shook her head. “Thank you, mistress.” She fretted a moment, then said, “Prink’s a good man, he is, a proud man. The cramping illness makes him feel less than a man.”