Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  Philippa turned away from the Chancellor of England and walked out of the hall.

  In the inner bailey she came to an appalled halt. There was her father running toward Dienwald, Edmund on his heels, trying to catch the tail of his tunic. Her erstwhile father was shouting, “My precious boy! My honorable lord, my savior!”

  He caught Dienwald and threw his arms around his neck and kissed him on each cheek.

  Philippa shuddered at the sight.

  Crooky came out of the Great Hall, observed the spectacle, and shouted to the blue sky,

  My poor master is now under the king’s

  thumb

  He wants to weep but his brain’s gone numb

  He’s wed to a princess and will never be free

  But he can’t do a thing but accept it and be

  —the king’s proud son-in-law.

  Philippa turned on the fool, cuffed him with all her strength, and watched him flail to keep his balance, then roll down the steps of the Great Hall, yelling loudly, “Kilt by a princess! The good king save me!”

  21

  Dienwald froze to the spot. Lord Henry had grabbed him firmly and was weeping copiously on his neck, kissing his ear, squeezing him so tightly Dienwald feared his ribs would crack, so great was Lord Henry’s relief. “You’re a fine, honorable lad, my lord. I knew it all the time, but I was just concerned and . . . well . . . Aye, ’tis God who has saved me and given me his blessing! I shall never again question the heavenly course of things, even though the course be a maze of blind turns.”

  Dienwald suffered Lord Henry for another moment, his mind still confused, when he looked up and saw Philippa cuff Crooky and send the fool flying. He grinned, then felt his face stiffen.

  He pushed Lord Henry away. “Get thee gone, my lord! Take your daughter with you! I want her not. Just look at her—she even abuses my servants!”

  “But, my precious boy, my dearest lord, wait! She’s most desirable as a wife, Dienwald, she’s quite comely—”

  “Ha! Comely be damned! She’s the king’s daughter—that’s her claim to comeliness!”

  “Nay, not all of it. ‘Twas I who raised her, I through my clerks and priests who taught her all she knows—and I saw to her lessons and to her prayers . . .”

  “That certainly adds to her value.” Dienwald didn’t say another word. He just shook his head and broke into a run toward the St. Erth stables. Philippa walked slowly to where her father stood, looking in incredulous dismay after her retreating new husband.

  “What ails him, Philippa? He’s been given the earth and all its bounty. His father-in-law is the King of England! Oh, and you are comely, doubt it not, Philippa, truly. It matters not that you haven’t the golden Plantagenet hair.” Lord Henry looked upon his former daughter. “I don’t understand him. He howls like a wounded hound and slinks off to hide. He acts as though he were to be hunted down and slain.”

  Philippa merely shook her head. She wasn’t capable of more. Tears clogged her throat, and she swallowed.

  Edmund tugged on her sleeve. “Are you truly the king’s daughter?”

  “It appears that I am.”

  Edmund fell silent, simply peering up at her, as if to observe some magical change in her.

  “What, Edmund, you hate me too?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Philippa.” Edmund stared after his father. “Father’s always boasted that his life was his own, you see. He’s told me many times, since I was a very little boy, to be what I chose to be, not what someone else chose for me. He said that life was too rife with chance, too uncertain in measuring out its punishments and rewards, to be what someone else wished. He said he wanted no overlord, no authority to hold sway over him and to keep and hold what was his.”

  “Aye, I can hear him saying that. It’s true, you know. It’s what he believes, it’s what he is.” Philippa turned back to Lord Henry. “I wondered why I was so tall. The king is very tall, I hear. Is he not called Longshanks?”

  Lord Henry nodded. “Listen to me, girl. I did my best by you.”

  “I know it well, and I thank you. It could not have been easy for Lady Maude. She always hated me, but she tried to hide it.” At least in the beginning she’d tried.

  Lord Henry tried his best to dissuade Philippa from this conclusion, but it was lame going, for Lady Maude had always resented the king’s bastard being foisted upon her household. He stopped, unequal to the task.

  Philippa looked thoughtful and said, “My hair—’tis not Plantagenet gold, as you just said, but streaked and common.”

  “Nay, I simply spouted nonsense, that is all. Nothing about you is common. And your eyes, Philippa, they are the blue of the Plantagenets, a striking blue as vivid as an August sky.” Philippa rolled her eyes at his effluence. “Aye,” Lord Henry continued, rubbing his hands. “Aye, that is bound to please the king mightily when he finally meets you.”

  To meet the king. Her father. It held only mild interest for her now. All babes had to be born of someone. She was a royal indiscretion, nothing more, and that fact was going to ruin her life. “Please excuse me now, sir,” she said. “I must decide what to do. If you wish to stay, you will use Edmund’s chamber. If the chancellor wishes to stay, then he will sleep—” She broke off, shrugged, and walked away.

  “Philippa’s not happy,” said Edmund to the old man who wasn’t Philippa’s father. Just imagine, Philippa was the king’s get! It frayed the thoughts, such a happening. Did that make the King of England his step-grandfather?

  “Your father, young Edmund, will make haste back to reason once he’s had a chance to think things through. He’s not acting like a man should act, given this heavenly gift.”

  “You don’t know my father,” said Edmund. “But Philippa does.” Edmund left Lord Henry and walked to Crooky who was still sitting on the ground, rubbing his jaw.

  “Aye, I was cuffed by a royal princess,” said Crooky, his face alight with reverence and awe. “A real princess of the realm and she wanted to cuff me! Her fist touched me. Me, who’s naught but a bungling ass and so common I am below common and thus uncommon.”

  “Nay, Crooky, she’s the king’s bastard and her fist did more than just touch you. I thought she was going to knock your head from your neck.”

  “Split you not facts into petty parts, little master. Your stepmother is of royal blood and that makes you . . . hmmmm, what does that make you?”

  “Perchance almost as uncommon as you, Crooky.” Edmund caught Gorkel’s eyes and skipped away.

  “The mistress is beset with confusion,” Gorkel announced, “and so is the master.”

  “Aye.”

  Gorkel ground his teeth and stroked his jaw. “You must speak to the master. You’re his flesh. He must heed you.”

  Edmund agreed this was true, but he knew his father well enough to realize he could say nothing to change his thinking. In any case, there was no opportunity. Dienwald, astride Philbo, was riding out of the inner bailey, alone, a blind look in his eyes. Men called after him, but he didn’t respond, just kept riding, looking straight ahead.

  In her bedchamber, Philippa sat on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. The situation was too much to absorb, so she simply sat there and let all that had occurred flow over her. Words, only words out of men’s mouths, yet they’d changed her life. She didn’t particularly care that she was the king’s bastard. She didn’t particularly care that now the facts of her life had become quite clear to her. She didn’t care that Lady Maude had made much of her life a misery. And finally, she didn’t care that she now knew why Walter had wished so much to wed her. She could only begin to imagine what prizes he believed would become his upon marrying her.

  What she cared about was her husband. She saw his pale face, heard his infuriated words ringing in her ears, blanched anew at his rage over his betrayal. Betrayal in which she had played no part, but he didn’t believe that. Or perhaps he did, only his outrage was so great, it simply didn’t matter to him who had done wh
at.

  If King Edward had been in the bedchamber at this very moment, Philippa would have cuffed him as hard as she’d cuffed Crooky. She would have yelled at him for his damned perfidy—but then she would have crushed him with embraces for selecting Dienwald to be her husband. What was one to do, then?

  Life had become as treacherous as Tregollis Swamp. She rose and began to pace. What to do?

  Would Dienwald return? Of course he would. He had to, for he had no place else to go and he also had a son he wouldn’t desert.

  She knew she should give the women instructions; she should speak to Northbert about the lord chancellor’s men as well as her fa . . . nay, Lord Henry’s men-at-arms. She knew she should find out what Robert Burnell wished to do, and Lord Henry as well, for that matter. Thus, she finally left the bedchamber, duty overcoming loss and fear.

  Lord Henry and Robert Burnell were drinking Dienwald’s fine ale and chatting amiably. They would stay until the morning, they told her, both of them so ecstatic in drink that she doubted whether Burnell, that devout churchman who never flagged in his labors for his king, could stay upright for much longer. She sought out Margot.

  The woman curtsied to her until Philippa thought she would fall on her face.

  “You will cease such things, Margot. I am nothing more than I was before. Please, you mustn’t . . .” Philippa broke off, stared blindly into space, and burst into tears.

  She felt a small hand clasp hers and looked down to see Edmund through her tears.

  “Father will come back, Philippa. He must come back. He’ll soften, mayhap.”

  She could only nod. She retired to her bedchamber, rudely, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to be with either Lord Henry or Robert Burnell, her father’s chancellor.

  Dienwald didn’t return. Not that night or the following day.

  Late the next day following, another man arrived at St. Erth, a man alone, astride a magnificent black barb, and he was searching for Robert Burnell. The chancellor had planned to depart that morning, but another long evening spent swilling ale with Lord Henry had kept him in bed—rather, the former steward’s bed—until late that morning. Even now he was pale and of greenish hue.

  For an instant Philippa thought it was Dienwald, finally come home, but it wasn’t, and she wanted to kill the stranger for her disappointment.

  His name was Roland de Tournay. She greeted him, not seeing him, not caring who he was, saying nothing, and merely led him to where Burnell and Lord Henry were sitting before a sluggish fire, trying to ignore their pounding heads.

  Burnell leapt to his feet, his aching head forgotten. “De Tournay! What do you here? Is the king all right? Does he need to—”

  “I am here on the king’s orders,” Roland said, waving his hand for Burnell to take his seat again. “I promised him to come speak to you about the heiress—the king’s bastard daughter. He wants me to look her over.”

  Lord Henry bounded to his feet. “De Fortenberry is already the king’s son-in-law, sirrah!”

  Roland merely lifted a black brow. “The heiress is already dispatched, you say?”

  “Aye, to the man the king intended her to have!”

  Roland laughed. “A journey crowned with a neat escape for me. So that knave won her, eh?”

  Philippa, who’d been listening to this talk, now stepped forward and said, “The king sent you?”

  Roland stilled all humor as he looked at the king’s daughter. He hadn’t known who she was before. But as he looked at her closely now, he realized she had the look of Edward, with her clear blue eyes and her well-sculptured features. She was lovely and she was tall and well-formed, and her hair—ah, it was thick and curling down her back, framing her face. Then, for a brief instant Roland knew a sharp flicker of disappointment that he was too late. But only for an instant. He assumed a bland expression and said, “The king—your esteemed father—simply asked me to see you.”

  “I am already wedded,” Philippa said in a remote voice. “However, it is uncertain whether or not my husband still will claim me for his wife. He left me, you see, when he learned my father is the King of England.”

  Roland’s black brow shot up a good inch.

  Lord Henry inserted himself. “You needn’t tell this stranger all these things, Philippa. ‘Tis none of his affair.”

  “Why not? The king sent him. Perhaps next he will send William de Bridgport when this man says he doesn’t want me. Who knows?” Philippa turned to Robert Burnell and added, her voice hard, “Even if my husband dissolves our union, I don’t want this man. Do you hear me? I don’t want any other man, ever. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “Aye, madam, I understand you well, for you speak clearly and to the point.”

  By God, Roland thought, staring at the young woman, she was in love with de Fortenberry. How had this come about, and so quickly? There was a mystery here, and he liked unraveling mysteries above all things.

  Lord Henry snorted. “It matters not what he understands or doesn’t understand. Look you, Roland de Tournay, my daughter was wedded to de Fortenberry before either of them knew who her real sire was. All is over and done with. You can leave with good conscience.”

  And Lord Henry stared at him as though he’d like to shoot an arrow through his neck. Well, it mattered not. Nor was it such a mystery after all.

  “Don’t be rude, Fa . . . my lord,” Philippa said. “I care not if he remains at St. Erth. There is room, and there is more ale. Why not? Indeed, if he plans to return to London, he can tell the king what has transpired and . . .”

  She stopped suddenly and just stared at Roland—not really at him, Roland thought, but through him and beyond him. There was a pain in her fine eyes, a very deep pain that made him flinch. Suddenly she turned and left the hall, simply walked away, saying nothing more.

  “Damnable churl,” Lord Henry said. “I’d slit his throat if he weren’t already her husband.”

  Roland shook his head. “You mean that her husband left when he discovered she was the king’s daughter?”

  “Aye, that’s the meat of it,” Lord Henry said. “I’d like to smash the pea-brained young cockscomb into a dung heap.”

  Roland smiled at blessed fate. His luck had held him through this brief foray into possible disaster. He could not understand de Fortenberry’s actions. Was the man mad? His own motives for not wishing to marry—even the king’s bastard daughter—were different; they meant something. Roland decided to stay the night at St. Erth and on the morrow pay his visit to Graelam de Moreton at Wolffeton. The king’s bastard daughter was no longer any of his concern. He’d done his duty by his king, and all, for him at least, had resolved itself right and tight. The heiress was already wedded and he had no more part to play.

  He remarked upon the political situation with the Scots, the intractability of King Alexander and his minions, and forgot the purpose of his visit. The three men, without the presence of either the master or the mistress of St. Erth, ate their fill and consumed more of the castle’s fine ale and kept watch and company until late into the night, talking, arguing, and yelling at each other, all in high good humor.

  The master of St. Erth, the soon-to-be Earl of St. Erth, didn’t appear. Nor did his discarded wife.

  Wolffeton Castle

  “Hold him down, Rolfe! Hellfire, grab his other leg, quickly, he nearly sent his foot into my manhood! You, Osbert, keep his arms behind him! Nay, don’t break his elbow! Just keep him quiet.”

  Lord Graelam de Moreton rubbed his hand over his throbbing jaw and watched as two of his men held Dienwald down, another sitting on his legs and a fourth on his chest. Dienwald was panting and yelling and now he was gasping for breath, for Osbert was not a lightweight. His blow had been strong and knocked Graelam off his feet and flat on his back onto the sharp cobblestones of the inner bailey.

  Of course, Dienwald had caught him off-guard. Aye, he’d taken Graelam by complete surprise. His so-called friend had ridden through Wolffeton’s gates, welc
omed by the men because he was a known ally. No one could have guessed that the instant Dienwald dismounted his destrier, he would attack him. Graelam looked down at his red-faced enraged friend. “What ails you, Dienwald? Kassia, don’t fret, I’m all right. It’s our neighbor here who’s gone quite mad. He attacked me like a fevered fiend from hell.”

  “Let me up, you stinking whoreson, and you’ll see how I split you with my sword!”

  “Nay, sir,” Rolfe said kindly. “Move you not, or I will have to twist your arm.”

  Kassia stared from Dienwald to her husband. “Ah,” she said, “Dienwald has discovered what you did, my lord. He’s come to express his disapproval of your interference.”

  “Aye, loose me, you coward, and I’ll debone you, you lame-assed cur!”

  Graelam hunkered down beside his friend, his face only inches from Dienwald’s. “Listen to me, fool, and listen well. You needn’t marry the king’s daughter, and you know it well. Both Kassia and I saw Morgan or Mary or whatever her name is and knew it was she you wanted. We decided if you wanted to wed her, you would have her, and the king be damned. There was no reason for us to say anything. We knew you wouldn’t bend to any man, be he king or sultan or God. Isn’t that the truth?”

  Dienwald howled. “I had already wedded her when Burnell came! She was already my wife!”

  “So what is the matter? You’re acting half-crazed. Speak sense and I will let you free.”