Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)
Kassia slowly climbed the solar stairs. She held to the railing, careful, as always, of the babe she carried. She felt wonderful and healthy and very alive. If only Graelam would but believe her and stop his worrying and his endless agitation. It was driving her to distraction. And there was her father, now threatening to come to Wolffeton and watch over her. Between the two of them she’d go mad, she knew it.
She reached Dienwald’s bedchamber and knocked softly on the solid door. Then she turned the handle. It was locked. She called out, “Please, Morgan, let me in. ‘Tis Kassia de Moreton.”
Philippa stared at the door from her huddled spot in the middle of Dienwald’s bed.
Morgan!
Who in the name of St. Andrew was Morgan? She rose, wrapped the blanket securely about her, and padded on bare feet to the door. She opened it and smiled.
“Come in, my lady.”
“Thank you. Oh, dear, I see Dienwald was speaking true. You have no clothes.”
Philippa simply shook her head.
“You are no villein’s daughter, are you? What prank does Dienwald play now?”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you are his mistress.”
Philippa snorted and tossed her head. Her hair was nearly dry now, and curled wildly down her back.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Kassia said. “I’ve always wished for hair such as yours. Not long ago I was very ill and my head was shaved. My hair has grown back thicker, but not like yours. Do you mind if I sit down? My burden is heavy.”
Philippa realized as the small lady walked across Dienwald’s bedchamber that this female was very nice and probably hadn’t a mean bone in her very feminine body. She was also heavy with child. She was married to that huge warrior. For an instant Philippa imagined that huge man covering this very small female. It didn’t seem possible. But it didn’t matter. This Kassia was safely out of the way; Dienwald was safe from her perfection.
It was an unspeakable relief.
“Forgive me,” Philippa said. “Would you care for some milk perhaps? I don’t imagine that Dienwald thought of that.”
“Nay, I am fine as I am, and no, he didn’t. He is a man much like my dear lord. Tell me, what is your real name?”
Philippa wanted to spit it out, all of it, but she paused. She realized that she didn’t want Dienwald to be put upon or doubted or questioned, even by his friends. Nor did she want to go to her cousin Walter. She wanted to stay right here. “Morgan is my name,” she said, and her chin went up.
Kassia thought: You’re a truly awful liar. She merely smiled at the tall, very lovely girl who sat on Dienwald’s bed, a blanket wrapped around her. What was she doing here? It was a mystery, and Kassia was quickly fascinated. Then she thought of Robert Burnell’s visit and of Dienwald as the husband of Edward’s illegitimate daughter and how she and her husband had praised Dienwald’s very eyebrows to Burnell. She felt a frisson of worry, but shook it off. If Dienwald loved this girl, then he would simply say no to Edward if he offered him his daughter’s hand in marriage. Dienwald would say no to anybody, even the Pope. He would laugh in the king’s face if it pleased him to do so. No, Dienwald couldn’t be coerced into doing anything he didn’t wish to do. She wouldn’t worry. Everything would work out as it was meant to.
“I have come to offer you clothes, Morgan. I have none with me, but if you will let me see your size, then I can have some sent to St. Erth on the morrow.”
Philippa had sunk into guilt over the truly violent thoughts she’d harbored toward this elegant lady. “I have woven wool. I merely haven’t had time to see to clothes for myself. There were Edmund and Dienwald, even the fool, Crooky. He was so worn and ragged and so . . . so accepting of it. I couldn’t bear it. I will sew myself something this evening. But I thank you, truly. You are kind.”
“This is very interesting,” Kassia said, cocking her head to one side.
“What is, my lady?”
“You and Dienwald. He is not, in the usual course of everyday events, a man in the habit of giving much of his attention to ladies.”
That’s because he’s thinking of you. “Is that true?” Philippa said, noncommittal.
“Aye. Don’t mistake my words. He has always enjoyed women, that is true, but not for longer than it takes him to relieve his needs with them. He’s a complicated man, and obstinate, yet loyal and true. He is also a rogue, sometimes quite a scoundrel, and he much enjoys being unpredictable.”
“I know.”
“You do? Well, that is even more interesting. Do you know him well, then? You’ve been at St. Erth a long time?”
Philippa raised her chin. Was this lady toying with her? Showing her that it was she, not Philippa, who held Dienwald? No covering it up with fresh rushes, she thought, and said with the most emotionless voice she could dredge up, “ ‘Tis you, my lady, who holds Dienwald’s interest, not me. ‘Tis you he worships and admires, not me. ‘Tis you he bleats on about, not me. He finds me unwomanly, ungainly, clumsy. But he speaks of you as if you were a . . . a shrine, and he wishes to fall on his face and worship at your feet.”
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