Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  “Aye, ’tis possible,” the king said, stroking his chin as was his habit. “Very well, Roland, go to Cornwall and give the sweet maid your countenance and tell her to behold it with shrewdness. Tell her you are my trusted man. Nay, tell Lord Henry that.”

  Roland nodded. He didn’t mind going to Cornwall. He needed to see Graelam de Moreton. He also trusted that something would happen to save him the fate of being wedded. He was lucky; his luck would hold without his having to insult the king or his bastard daughter. He doubted not that being a Plantagenet, she was beautiful. Edward sired only beautiful daughters, as had his father before him. But whenever Roland envisioned a beautiful face, it was Joan of Tenesby he saw, and he knew it would remain so until the day he died—the beautiful face of treachery that mirrored his folly.

  St. Erth Castle

  “Aye, ’tis besotted she is, and it’s good.” Old Agnes spat out a cherry seed, continuing to Gorkel, who was plaiting strips of leather into a whip, “I doubt t’ mistress will be able to walk if t’ master doesn’t let her out of his bed.”

  Gorkel blushed and missed his rhythm with the plaiting.

  Old Agnes brayed with laughter and wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Oh, aye, a beast like you turning red as a cherry pip! Aye, ’tis a wondrous thing to see. Look not sour, Gorkel, ’tis no pain t’ master gives the mistress. Aye, ’tis she who plunders his manhood, I’ll vow, and wrings him dry and limp.”

  She cackled until Gorkel, furious at himself, threw the half-plaited whip aside and strode to the well to drink. And there was the master himself, drinking from the well in the inner bailey.

  Gorkel watched him straighten, then stretch profoundly. There was a smile on the master’s face, a look of vanity perhaps, but in a man of the master’s position, Gorkel forgave it.

  “Aye, t’ master has t’ look of a man wrung out of all his seed,” Old Agnes chortled close to Gorkel’s ear, coming to a halt behind him.

  Dienwald heard the old woman laughing and wondered at the jest. The sun was bright overhead, the air warm, and it was nearing midmorning. He became aware of all his people around him, looking at him from the corners of their eyes, smirking—one fellow, a shepherd, was slapping his hands over his heart and sighing loudly. Dienwald decided to sigh too. Then he saw Philippa in his mind’s eye stretched on her back, her white thighs parted, her arms flung over her head. He felt a bolt of lust so great it made him reel. It vexed him to realize this effect she had on him, just thinking of her lying in his bed, naked and soft and warm. He cursed, turned on his heel, and rushed back up the solar stairs.

  He heard laughter from behind him, but didn’t slow. When he flung open the bedchamber door, it was to see his wife standing in the copper tub, naked.

  Philippa, startled, brought the linen cloth over her breasts and covered her woman’s mound with her hand. Her husband stood in the middle of the room and stared at her.

  “You’re too plentiful for such a small square of cloth, wench.”

  When she just stood there returning his stare, Dienwald strode to her, pulled the cloth from her fingers, leaned down, and took her nipple in his mouth. At her gasp, he straightened again and washed the cloth over her tautened nipple. “I think of you and my manhood is cock-sore for your attention. Now, stand still and I will finish your bath for you.” He began to whistle as if he hadn’t a care, bending over now, the cloth gliding down her belly and between her legs. “Wider, wench, part your legs for me.” She opened her legs, her hands on his shoulders to balance herself. She threw her head back when she felt the cloth pressing against her, then his hands, slick with soap, stroking her buttocks. His whistling stopped. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly he was cupping water in his hands and pouring it over her, rinsing away the soap.

  “Dienwald,” she said, her fists pounding on his shoulders, “you make me frantic.”

  He looked at her. “Aye, wench? Is that true? This?” And his middle finger slipped inside her.

  She looked at his mouth and he felt his blood churn and his member harden. She kissed him, moving against him, shuddering when his finger eased out of her, then plunged in deeply again.

  “You’re mine,” he said into her mouth, and she moaned, kissing him frantically, biting him, her fingers digging into his back. His finger left her and he shoved his clothes aside, freeing his member. He looked at her and said, “I want you to come to me now. Clasp your legs around my flanks.”

  She stared at him, not understanding, but he just shook his head and lifted her. Her legs went around him and then she felt his fingers on her, stroking and caressing her and parting her, and her breath caught sharply in her throat as he slid upward into her.

  She gasped and wrapped her legs more tightly around him. Then he carried her to the bed and eased her down, not leaving her, driving furiously into her until she was crying out, nearly bucking him off her in her frenzy. When his climax overcame him, he yelled, his head thrown back, so deep inside her that he no longer thought of her as separate from him, as a vessel for his pleasure, as a wife to bear his children. She was his and a part of him and he accepted it and fell atop her, kissing her as she cried softly into his mouth.

  Late that afternoon, as Dienwald was sitting in his chair drinking a flagon of ale, he looked up to see Northbert run into the great hall, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Someone comes, master!”

  Dienwald rose immediately. “That peasant whoreson Sir Walter?”

  “Nay, ’tis Lord Henry de Beauchamp. He has a dozen men, master,” Northbert added. “All armed.”

  Dienwald straightened his clothes, mentally girded his loins, and went to greet his father-in-law. It hadn’t taken Lord Henry long to reply to his message.

  20

  Dienwald watched two stout men-at-arms assist Lord Henry de Beauchamp from his powerful Arabian destrier. He was a portly man, not tall, but strongly built even in his late years.

  He was huffing about, wheezing and cursing, and Dienwald soon realized it was with rage, not the result of his exertions. No sooner had Lord Henry seen him than he yelled to the four corners of St. Erth, “You lie, you filthy whoreson! You must lie! You cannot have wedded my daughter! ’Tis a lie!”

  For a father who had planned to give his daughter to William de Bridgport without a dowry, Lord Henry seemed unaccountably incensed. Dienwald motioned him into the great hall. “It is not much more private, but the entire population of St. Erth will be spared your rage.” He preceded him, saying nothing more. He could hear Lord Henry’s furious breathing close to his back, and wondered if he should give Philippa’s father such a good target for a dagger.

  He motioned Lord Henry to his own chair, but his father-in-law wasn’t having any niceties. He stood there facing his son-in-law, his hands on his hips. “Tell me you lied!”

  “ ’Twould be a lie to tell you that I lied. I wedded Philippa two days past.”

  Lord Henry actually spat in his fury. “I will have the ceremony proclaimed invalid! I will have it annulled! She had not her father’s permission, ’tis a disgrace! Aye, ’twill be annulled quickly!”

  “It is very possible that Philippa even now is carrying my babe. There will be no annulment.”

  Lord Henry’s face, already red, now became purple. “Where is she? Where is that insolent, ungrateful—”

  “Father! What do you here? I don’t understand—why are you angry?” Philippa broke off. So Dienwald had written to her father telling him of their marriage, probably the very day of their wedding, to bring him here so quickly, and he had come and he wasn’t pleased. But what matter was it to him? Why should he care?

  Philippa walked quickly to her father and made to embrace him. To her surprise, he took several steps back, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, much less her touch. “You spiteful little wretch! You wedded this . . . this scoundrel?”

  Philippa grew very still. She made no more moves toward her father. She saw Dienwald looking at Lord Henry, his expression ironic, and said
simply, “I love him and I have wedded him. He is my husband, my lord, and I’ll not allow you to insult him.”

  “ ‘Tis no insult,” Dienwald said with a sudden grin. “I am a scoundrel.”

  Lord Henry turned on Dienwald. “You make jests about your foul deeds! You ravished her, didn’t you? You forced her into your bed and then to a priest!”

  “Nay, but you will doubtless believe what you wish to believe. However, if you believe any man could ravish Philippa and not sport a year’s worth of bruises and broken limbs for it, you are wide of your mark.”

  “And you, you female viper, what know you of love? You who have been protected all your life from curs of this sort? How long have you known this poor and ragged cur? Days, only days! And you say you love him! Ha! He seduced you, and being a witless fool, you let him!”

  “I do love him,” Philippa repeated quietly. She laid her hand on her father’s arm when he would have erupted further. “Listen to me, sir. He did not ravish me. He is chivalrous. He is kind and good. He saved me from Walter, and I love him. ’Twas he who finally consented to marry me.”

  Lord Henry shook off her hand as if it were something abhorrent. He stared hard at her. “You little harlot,” he said slowly. “Just look at you, your hair wild down your back like a peasant girl’s, your feet bare! I can even smell him on you. You little whore!” He pulled back his arm and struck her a blow hard across the cheek with the palm of his hand. The blow was unexpected, and Philippa went careening backward. She cried out as her hip struck a chair and she went sprawling onto the reed-strewn floor.

  Dienwald was on his knees beside her, his face white with rage. “Are you all right?” He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Philippa, answer me!”

  “Aye, I’m all right. I wasn’t expecting a blow. It surprised me.” She felt Dienwald’s long fingers stroke over the bright red mark on her cheek. She watched him rise and stride to her father. Lord Henry’s men stood still as statues, staring at their master and at their master’s daughter and husband. They would, Philippa knew, protect Lord Henry with their lives, but they were uncertain now, afraid to move. It was a family matter and thus more dangerous than fighting a band of Irish thieves.

  Dienwald stopped six inches from Lord Henry’s nose. “You will listen to me, old man, and listen well. I sent you a message telling you of my marriage to your daughter as a courtesy. I didn’t particularly wish to, but I deemed it proper to inform you. You didn’t want her; you held her in no esteem; you planned to give her no dowry. You were going to wed her to de Bridgport! Now you have no more say in her life. Philippa is now mine. What is mine I protect. Because you happen to share her blood, I will not kill you, but be warned. My dagger is sharp and my rage grows stronger by the moment. You touch her again in anger and I will tear your worthless heart from your fat body. Heed me, old man, for I mean my words.”

  Lord Henry doubted not that this man meant what he’d said. He took a step back and dashed his fingers through his grizzled hair. He looked toward Philippa, standing now, her hand pressed against her side. She was very still, her face pale with shock. He’d never struck her in her life. “I am sorry to have clouted you, Philippa, but you have sorely tried me. You ran away, leaving me to believe you dead or murdered or—”

  “You know I ran away because I heard you tell Ivo that I was going to be wedded to William de Bridgport. I knew it must be the truth, because my mother was there as well. What would you expect me to do? Roll my eyes in thankfulness and joy and go willingly to that filthy old man?”

  Lord Henry collapsed onto a bench, all bluster gone from him. He looked toward Dienwald—his treacherous son-in-law—and managed a bit more anger. “You stole my wool! You killed my men!”

  “Aye, I did steal your wool. As for the other, acquit me. I am no murderer. ’Twas one of my people who killed your farmers without my knowledge, something that displeased me. The man responsible is dead. There is naught more I can do to avenge your people. As for the wool, this tunic I wear is a result of your daughter’s fine skills. She sewed it, and many others for my people.”

  Philippa drew closer to her father. “Do you know naught of Sir Walter, sir? He kidnapped me and Dienwald’s son and took us to Crandall. He wanted to marry me, Father, and I could find no reason for his ardor. I am a stranger to him, and beyond that, he had a mistress who . . . Never mind that. Did you perchance offer him a reward if he found me for you? Is that what made him want me for his wife?”

  Lord Henry’s eyes gave a brief renewed flash of rage. “That traitorous slug! Aye, I know why he took you, Philippa, and he would have wedded you . . . but why did he not? You are wedded to this man, are you not?”

  “Edmund—’tis Dienwald’s son—he and I managed to escape Crandall and Walter.”

  “Ah. Well, no matter now. I offered Walter no reward, at least not in the way you think. I spoke truth to him, and the malignant wretch planned to gain his own ends. Ah, ’tis over for me. It matters not now. One husband is much the same as another, given that both are calamity to me. If you prefer this man to your cousin, so be it. At least this man wedded you without knowing about you. But I am dead, no matter your choice. ’Tis this man, then, this rogue, who will comfort you whilst you pray over your dead father’s body. Will you strew sweet ox-lips on my grave, Philippa?”

  Philippa wanted to shake him, but she held to her patience. “But, sir, this makes no sense. Why would Walter de Grasse want to marry me? Why?”

  Lord Henry shook his head, mumbling, pulling at his hair. “It matters not; nothing matters now. I’m a dead man now, Philippa. There is no hope for me. My head will be severed from my body. I will be lashed until my back is but blood and bones. I will be drawn and quartered and the crows will peck at my guts.”

  “Crows? Guts? What is he babbling about?” Dienwald asked his bride. “Who would wish to kill him?”

  Philippa again approached her father, but she didn’t touch him. “What is it, Father? You fear reprisals from de Bridgport? He’s an old man full of spleen, but he has no spine. You needn’t fear him. My husband won’t allow him to harm you.”

  Lord Henry groaned. He dropped his head in his hands and pulled his hair all the harder. He weaved back and forth on the bench, distraught, and wailed, “I am undone and spent, and my remains will be fodder for the fields. Beauchamp will be stripped from me and mine. Maude will be cast out to die in poverty, probably in a convent somewhere, and you know, Philippa, she hates that sort of thing, despite all her pious ravings. Bernice will not wed, for she will have no dowry, and the saints know that her humors are uncertain. She will become more sour-hearted and wasp-tongued—”

  “You weren’t going to give me a dowry.”

  Lord Henry paid no attention. “Dead, all because I tried to discourage that silly young peacock de Vescy. I lost my wits, and my tongue ran into the mire with lies.”

  “What lies? Tell me, Father. What does Ivo de Vescy have to do with this?”

  “He is to wed Bernice. Rather, he was. Now he won’t. He’ll run back to York and seek an heiress elsewhere.”

  Philippa looked at Dienwald. She was no longer pale, but she was confused. He nodded at her silent plea for help.

  “You make no sense, old man,” Dienwald said. “Speak words with meaning!” It was the tone he used with Crooky, and it usually worked. But it didn’t this time, not with Lord Henry. He merely shook his head and moaned, rocking more violently back and forth.

  Northbert came into the hall and motioned to his master. He was panting from running and his face was alight with excitement and anticipation. “Master! There is another party here at our gates. The man claims to be Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England, here to see you, master, as a personal emissary from the king himself! Master, he has twenty men with him and they carry the king’s standard! The Chancellor of England, here! From King Edward!”

  Dienwald exploded in Northbert’s face, “Chancellor, indeed! By St. Paul’s blessed fingers, your brain becomes as
flat as your ugly nose! More likely ’tis Lord Henry’s precious nephew, Sir Walter, come to carp to his uncle.”

  Lord Henry was staring in horror at Northbert. His face had gone gray and his chin sagged to his chest. “It is the chancellor, I know it is. Accept it, Dienwald. ’Tis over now.” He clasped his hands in prayer and raised his eyes to the St. Erth rafters. “Receive me into heaven and thy bosom, O Lord. I know it is too soon for my reception. I am not ready to be received, but what can I do? ’Tis not my fault that I spoke stupidly and Philippa was listening. Perhaps some of the blame can lie on her shoulders for creeping about and hearing things not meant for her ears. Must all the blame be mine alone? Nay, ’tis not well done of me. Aye, I will go to my death. I will perish with my dignity intact and will carry no blame for my sweet Philippa, who was always so bright and ready to make me smile. Many times she acted stupidly, but she is but a female, and who am I to correct her? ’Tis done and over, and I am nearly fodder for Maude’s musk roses.”

  “A soldier carries the king’s banner!” Edmund shrieked, flying into the hall. He stopped in front of his father’s visitor and stared. Lord Henry had raised his head at Edmund’s noise, and his face was white with fear. Edmund looked from Philippa to his father, then back to the old man, and said, “Who are you, sir?”

  “Eh? Ah, you’re the villain’s brat. Get thee away from me, boy. I am on my way to die. A sword will sever my gullet, and my tongue will fall limp from my mouth. Aye, a lance will spike through my ribs and . . .” He rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head, mumbling now. Philippa ran to him. “Father, what is the matter? What say you? Do you know the king’s chancellor? Why are you so afraid?”

  He shook her off. “Boy, take me away. Take me to your stepmother’s solar, aye, take me there to wait for my sentence of torture and death. Aye, I’ll be thrown into a dungeon, my fingernails drawn out slowly, the hairs snatched from my groin, my eyeballs plucked from their sockets.”