Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“What brings you here, Burnell?” Graelam asked finally, waiting for their guest to refresh himself with a bit of the remaining excellent Aquitaine wine.

“Actually, my lord, ‘tis a mission for the king. He wishes your advice.”

Graelam’s dark brows shot upward. “Edward wants me to advise him? Come, Burnell, ‘tis nearly May and the king must want to march against the Welsh or the Scots, and I imagine he wants more men and more money for a campaign. Come, now, and tell me the truth—”

“ ‘Tis true, my lord. The king has a daughter and he wants to find her a husband, one here in Cornwall.”

“But Edward’s daughters are far too young, and the king couldn’t want an alliance with only a baron,” Lady Kassia protested.

“His daughter isn’t a princess, my lady,” Burnell said to Kassia, who was sitting in her husband’s vast chair. Graelam was standing beside her. It was then that Burnell noticed that she was heavy with child.

“What is she, then?”

“Kassia, my love,” Graelam said, grinning down at her, “methinks I scent a royal indiscretion. Edward must have been quite young, Burnell.”

“ ‘Tis true. Her name is Philippa de Beauchamp. She’s nearly eighteen and ‘tis past time for her to be wedded.”

“De Beauchamp! But Lord Henry’s daughter—”

“She’s the king’s illegitimate daughter, my lord, raised by Lord Henry as his own.”

Both Graelam and Kassia were staring with fascinated eyes at the king’s secretary. Slowly Robert Burnell gave them all the facts and the king’s request. “ . . . So you see, my lord, the king wants a man who won’t try to bleed him, but also a man of honor and strength here in Cornwall.”

Graelam was frowning. He said nothing.

Burnell, hot and tired, said with some desperation, “He wants you to give him a man who would be worthy of his daughter’s hand, my lord, so—”

“I may know the man the king seeks,” Graelam said with his first spark of enthusiasm, and Kassia saw the evil intent in her husband’s eyes.

“You do?” she asked, staring at him.

“Aye, mayhap I do.”

“His present rank isn’t important, my lord. The king will make him an earl.”

“An earl, you say? ‘Tis something to think about. You will remain until tomorrow, Burnell?”

Robert Burnell would have happily remained in a soft feather mattress for a week. After visiting Lord Graelam, he would have to stop at Beauchamp and speak to Lord Henry and tell him, hopefully, that there would be a groom for Philippa shortly.

“Good. I will tell you my opinion on the morrow. Aye, advice for the king.”

That night, Graelam was laughing heartily in bed beside his wife. Kassia was chiding him sharply. “You cannot, Graelam! Truly, you cannot!”

“I told you I would bring that whoreson down, Kassia. This will do it.” And Graelam continued to laugh, finally holding his belly.

“But Dienwald despises authority—you know that. His father-in-law would be the King of England! Dienwald wouldn’t accept it. He’d travel to the Pope to plead for his freedom, or escape to the Tartars, or even pray to the devil if need be. And to be made an earl. Dienwald disdains such trappings. He hates respectability and responsibility and tending to his name and his holdings and his worth. Oh, my lord, he bested you, but this revenge would make him miserable forever. He could no longer raid when it pleased him. He could no longer brag about being a rogue and a scoundrel. He is proud of his reputation! And what if the girl is a hag? What then?”

Graelam laughed harder.

Kassia just looked at her husband and thought about the casks of Aquitaine wine that Dienwald had probably stolen from the wrecked ship. She thought of Dienwald as an earl, his father-in-law the King of England himself. Hadn’t Burnell mentioned that the girl, Philippa, looked every inch a Plantagenet?

Kassia started laughing herself. “He’ll murder the both of us,” she said, “if Edward takes your advice.”

St. Erth Castle

It was the middle of the night and Philippa was dreaming that she felt a warm hand ligh

tly stroking through her hair, rubbing her scalp, and it felt wonderful. Then a man’s mouth was touching her cheek, her jaw, nipping at her throat, licking over her lips; then a man’s tongue was stroking rhythmically over her lower lip. She sighed and stretched onto her back. She loved the dream, cherished it, held it tightly, now feeling the man’s fingers caressing her breasts, his callused fingertips stroking her nipples.