Philippa paid no heed either. She had grasped another stone and was waiting for the chance to strike Walter with it, but the men were close, too close, and she feared hitting Dienwald instead.

“Philippa! Stand clear!”

She whirled about and looked upward. It was Graelam de Moreton and he was standing on the road above them. Beside him stood the man Roland de Tournay. She watched through the now gentle fall of rain. Roland drew a narrow dagger from his belt, its shaft silver and bright even in the gray light, aimed it, and released it. It slit through the air so quickly, Philippa didn’t see it. She heard a suddenly gurgling sound, then turned to see the dagger embedded deep in Walter’s chest. He dropped the sword and clutched at the dagger’s ivory handle. He pulled it out and stared at the crimson blade. Then he looked upward at Roland de Tournay.

He looked confused and said, “Do I know you? Why do you kill me?”

He said nothing more, merely looked once again at Philippa, gave a tiny shake of his head, and collapsed onto his face in the water.

Dienwald stood panting over him. He frowned down at Walter’s lifeless body. “ ‘Twas a good throw.” Then he looked up at Roland. “I was very nearly the victor. You acted too quickly.”

“Next time I’ll let your wife hit your adversary with rocks,” Roland shouted.

“By all the saints above,” Graelam shouted, “enough! Come up now and let us ride to St. Erth. Dienwald, thank Roland for saving your hide. But hurry, for I am so sodden my tongue molds in my mouth!”

Within minutes Philippa was huddled in the circle of her husband’s arms atop Philbo. One of Graelam’s men was leading her mare. Walter’s men hadn’t fought, for Lord Graelam de Moreton was, after all, Sir Walter’s overlord, and thus they, his men-at-arms, also owed allegiance to Lord Graelam.

Dienwald looked at Graelam. “How came you by so unexpectedly? I was praying, but ’twas not for your company in particular.”

“We came by design,” Graelam said. “Roland wanted to see the final act of the play he’d helped to write.”

“What does he mean?” Philippa asked, twisting about to face her husband.

“Hush, wench. ’Tis not important. Roland is loose-tongued, but he does throw a dagger well.”

“But—”

“Hush,” he repeated, then said, “Will you continue to welcome me as sweetly as did gentle, perfect Kassia?”

She stiffened, as he’d expected, her thoughts turned, and he grinned over her head.

They were shivering, their teeth chattering, when they finally rode into St. Erth’s inner bailey. Once in the great hall, they were overwhelmed with cheers and shouts and blessed warmth and trestle tables covered with mounds of food. All of St. Erth’s people were gathered in the huge chamber, and it was noisy and hot and the smells of food mingled with the smells of sweat and wet wool and it was wonderful.

“Welcome,” Philippa said, her wet face radiant as she turned to her guests. “We’re home!”

She sneezed suddenly, and Dienwald swooped down upon her and picked her up in his arms. He pretended to stagger under her weight, saying, “My poor back, wench! I’m nearly beyond my abilities, with you so weighty with wet wool.”

Graelam and Roland watched Dienwald carry her from the great hall, grinning at the wild cheering from all St. Erth’s people. “The king’s son-in-law is a fine man,” Graelam said.

“Aye, and no longer a fool,” Roland said. He fell silent, frowning. “I do find it passing odd, though.”

“What do you find odd?”

“That Philippa, a girl of remarkable taste and refinement, preferred him to me. I am incredulous. ’Tis not normal in my experience. Why, the harem I kept in Acre, Graelam—you wouldn’t believe the appetites of my women! And it was my duty, naturally, to satisfy appetites each night. And they never complained that I shirked my duty to them. But Philippa gives me not a look.”

Graelam merely laughed, grabbed a hunk of well-roasted rabbit, and waved it in Roland’s face. “You braying ass! Lying dog! Harem? I believe you not, not for an instant. What harem? How came you by a harem? How many women? You satisfied more than one woman each night?”

Crooky chortled and waved his hands toward all the food. “A feast, my lords. A feast worthy of a king or a king’s daughter and her friends!” And he jumped upon Dienwald’s chair and burst into song.

A wedding feast lies here untasted

The lord and lady care not it’s wasted.

They’re frolic and gambol without a yawn

They’ll play through the night ’til the dawn.

In their bedchamber, warm and dry beneath three blankets, the master and mistress of St. Erth lay together listening to the rain and enjoying each other’s kisses. They heard a sudden shout of loud laughter and guffawing from below in the great hall, and wondered at it, but not for long, for Philippa nuzzled Dienwald’s throat, saying, “Have you restocked your seed?”

Tags: Catherine Coulter Medieval Song Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net