Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

“For being my steward, of course. Have you no brain, wench?” Suddenly he smacked his palm to his forehead. “I cannot believe what I’m saying. A female who has so little sense that she escapes in a gown reeking of a moat in a wagon of wool. And this female wants to control all that happens at St. Erth.”

“My father trusted me.” Philippa came up onto her elbows. She looked wistfully toward the empty chamber pot on the floor beside the bed. Old Agnes had seen that it was mended.

Dienwald said absently, “Don’t do it, wench, else you’ll regret it. Now, just be quiet. I must think.”

“The pain it must cause you!”

He ignored her remark, saying finally, “I suppose you will demand to sleep in the steward’s chamber as well as do the work there.”

“Aye, of course. Certainly. To be free of you is—”

He grabbed her arms and kissed her hard. She didn’t fight him. It didn’t occur to her to do anything but ask him to kiss her again.

“Did you not beg me last night, wench?” he said when he raised his head. “Beg me to take you? You wanted me to relieve you of your maidenhead, didn’t you? Well, sleep in your cold bed by yourself. You’ll miss me, you’ll want my hands and mouth on you, you know it. But enough. I won’t miss you. I will sleep sweetly as a babe. Now, straighten yourself and sew yourself something to wear. I can’t abide the way you look.” He dropped her back onto the bed and strode from his bedchamber.

Nearly an hour later, her hair combed and fastened at the nape of her neck with a piece of cloth, bathed and sweet-smelling, Philippa visited the steward’s chamber—now her chamber, she amended to herself. She arranged papers and moved the table some inches to the right. She asked Margot to bring fresh rushes for the floor, then returned to Dienwald’s bedchamber. He was in bed, asleep, snoring loudly. On the floor beside the bed were her blood-stained clothes. She’d looked at them briefly, hoping they could be saved, but saw now that it was impossible.

Then she looked at Dienwald. He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging over the side of the bed. Clutched in his hand was the nearly finished tunic she’d sewn for him. Philippa slowly eased it out of his fingers and shook out the wrinkles.

“I should burn it,” she said, and left the chamber, needle and thread in her other hand.

Crandall Keep, near Badger’s Cross,

Cornwall

Lord Henry wiped his hand across his sweating brow and listened to his destrier blow loudly. The trip had been long and hot and wet and altogether miserable. Three days to get to this damned keep, and what if he were wrong? What if Philippa hadn’t run here to her cousin? He took a deep drink from the water skin and handed it back to his servant. His men had just spotted Crandall Keep, where his nephew Sir Walter de Grasse was castellan. All appeared calm. Lord Henry

motioned his men forward again.

Crandall was a prosperous keep, he saw, noting the green fields that surrounded the low thick walls. But its defenses were meager, the reason being that Crandall paid obeisance to Lord Graelam de Moreton of Wolffeton. An attack on Crandall would mean swift and awful retribution from Lord Graelam.

Philippa had to be here, she simply had to be. Lord Henry wiped his brow again. There was no other place for her to escape to. She was either here or she was dead. His farmers had been found dead, all the wool wagons disappeared, the guards gone—fled or dead, he didn’t know. No sign of his daughter. He’d put off Burnell, the king’s tenacious chancellor and secretary, but the man wasn’t stupid and would want to see Philippa. He would want to give a personal report to the king. He would want to tell Lord Henry the name of the man the king had selected to be Philippa’s husband. Lord Henry raised his eyes to the heavens. Philippa had to be here with her cousin, she had to be.

Sir Walter de Grasse was playing draughts in the hall with his mistress, Britta. She knew the game well, as well as she knew him. She always managed to lose just when he became frustrated, a ploy that pleased Sir Walter. He was informed that his uncle, Lord Henry de Beauchamp, was approaching Crandall. What was his uncle doing here? He thanked the powers that he’d returned two days before from the raid on the southern lands of that whoreson Dienwald de Fortenberry. He’d lost three men, curse the luck. But he’d burned the crops and razed peasants’ huts and killed the villeins. All in all it had been worth the price the three men had paid. De Fortenberry must be grinding his teeth by now. The bastard was helpless; he would know who was behind the attack. Oh, he could guess, but Lord Graelam wouldn’t act against him, Walter, unless there was proof, and Walter was too smart for that. Luckily the three men had died before Dienwald could question them.

Sir Walter frowned and lightly patted Britta’s cheek in dismissal. She removed the draught board and herself, giving him a look over her shoulder designed to excite him. Walter frowned after her. He wished he’d had some warning of his uncle’s visit. The keep could be in better condition, fresh rushes strewn on the floor and the like, but it was well enough. It wasn’t his overlord, Lord Graelam, thank the saints.

The two men greeted each other. Lord Henry had never been particularly fond of his wife’s nephew. Walter was thin and tall and his nose was very long and narrow. His eyes were shrewd and cold and he had no sense of humor. He hated well, but to Lord Henry’s knowledge, he’d never loved well.

As for Walter, he thought his uncle by marriage a fat buffoon with more wealth than he deserved. He should have been Lord Henry’s heir, but there were the two stupid girls instead. When they were finally alone, Lord Henry wasted no more time. “Your cousin Philippa has run away from Beauchamp. Is she here?”

Now, this was a surprise, Walter thought, staring at his uncle. Slowly he shook his head. “Nay, I haven’t seen Philippa since she was a gangly girl with hair hanging to her knees.”

“She’s no longer gangly. She’s nearly eighteen, long since ready to be wedded.”

Suddenly, to Walter’s surprise, Lord Henry lowered his face into his hands and began to sob. Not knowing what to do, Walter merely stared at his uncle’s bowed head, saying nothing.

“I fear she’s dead,” Lord Henry said once he’d regained control.

“Tell me what happened.”

Lord Henry saw no reason not to tell Walter the entire truth. After all, it hardly mattered now. He spoke slowly, sorrow filling his voice.

“She’s what?”

“I said that Philippa is the king’s illegitimate daughter. He is at this moment selecting a husband for her.”

Walter could only stare. Damn! What had happened to the girl?