Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  He groaned again, recalling his current problem. The king’s daughter was gone; he had no idea where, and he was terrified that she would be killed or ravaged. His mind boggled at the possible fates that could befall a young, beautiful girl like Philippa. More than that, Lord Henry was quite fond of her. For a girl, she was all a father could wish. Nay, she was more, for she was also his steward.

  She wasn’t filled with nonsense like her sister. She wasn’t particularly vain. She could read and write and cipher, and she could think. The problem with Philippa was that she didn’t think when things were critical. Oh, aye, set her to solving a dispute between two peasants and she’d come up with a solution worthy of Solomon. But face her with a crisis and she turned into a whirling dervish without a sensible thought in her head. And she’d heard de Bridgport’s name and panicked.

  Where had she run?

  Suddenly Lord Henry’s eyes widened. He’d been stupid not to think of it before. The wool wagons bound for the St. Ives Fair. Philippa wasn’t altogether stupid; she hadn’t merely thrown herself out on the road and started walking to God only knew where. He grinned at his wife, whose nostrils had even grown pinched over the years. Would they eventually close and she’d suffocate?

  “I know where Philippa went,” he said. “I’ll find her.”

  St. Erth Castle

  Dienwald hadn’t completely lost his wits. Unlike Philippa de Beauchamp, he tended to think things through thoroughly before acting—if he had the chance, that is—and in this matter he had all the time he wanted. And he did want to punish the wench for dashing out of the great hall the way she had, making him look the fool in front of all his people. He held firmly to her naked white arm as he walked her back across the inner bailey. A donkey brayed from the animal pen behind the barracks; two pigs were rutting happily in refuse, from the sound of their squeals; and a hen gave a final squawk before tucking in her feathers and going to sleep.

  Philippa was frightened now, and he felt her resistance with every step. It was a chilly night and she was shivering. “Hurry up,” he said, and quickened his pace, then slowed, realizing her feet were bare. She was going to try to escape him on bare feet and in a flimsy torn gown? She was an immense danger to herself.

  Silence fell when he strode into the great hall with her at his side. He yelled for his squire, Tancrid. Tancrid, a boy of Philippa’s years, was skinny and fair, with soft brown eyes and a very stubborn jaw. He ran to his master and listened to his low words, nodding continuously. Dienwald then turned on his heel and left. He pulled Philippa up the outside stairs to the solar.

  “You’re not taking me back to that tower cell?”

  “No. I told you, I’m taking you to my bed and tying you down.”

  “I would wish that you wouldn’t. Cannot you give me another choice?”

  “You have played your games with me, wench—”

  “Philippa. I’m not a wench.”

  Dienwald hissed between his teeth. “You begin to irk me, you wench, harpy, nag, shrew . . . The list of seemly names for you is endless. No, keep quiet or I will make you very sorry.”

  As a threat it seemed to lack unique menace, but Philippa hadn’t known him long enough to judge. She bit her lip, kept walking beside him up the solar stairs, and shivered from the cold. His fingers were tight about her upper arm, but he hadn’t hurt her. At least not yet.

  They passed three serving maids and two well-armed men, bound, evidently, for guard duty. Dienwald paused, speaking low to them, then dismissed them. He took Philippa to a large bedchamber that hadn’t seen a woman’s gentling touch in a long time. There was a large bed with a thick straw mattress and a dark brown woolen spread atop it. There were no hangings to draw around it. There were two rough chairs, a scarred table, a large trunk, a single wool carpet in ugly shades of green, and nothing else. No tapestries, no wall hangings of any sort, no bright ewers or softening cushions for the chair seats. It was a man’s chamber, a man who wasn’t dirty or slovenly, but a man to whom comforts, even the smallest luxuries, weren’t necessary. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t the funds to furnish the room properly. Still, whatever the reason, Philippa didn’t like the starkness of the chamber at all.

  She wished now that there weren’t any privacy. She wished there was an army camping throughout the solar. She wished there was a chapel in the chamber next to this one filled with praying priests and nuns. But the chamber was empty save for the two of them. He released her arm, turned, and closed the chamber door. He slid the key into the lock, then pocketed the key in his tunic. He lit the two tallow candles that sat atop the table. They illuminated the chamber and had a sour smell. Didn’t the lord of St. Erth merit candles that were honey-scented or perhaps lavender-scented?

  “There is little moonlight,” he said, looking toward the row of narrow windows, “as you’d have noted if you’d paused to do any planning at all in your mad dash for escape.”

  Philippa said nothing, for she was staring. There was glass in the windows, and that surprised her. Lord Henry had glass windows in the Beauchamp solar, but he’d carped and complained at the cost, until her mother had threatened to cave in his head with a mace.

  Dienwald smiled at her then and strode toward her. “No,” Philippa said, backing away.

  He stopped, as if changing his mind. “I asked Tancrid to bring us wine and more food. I assume you’re yet hungry? Your appetite seems endless.”

  To her own surprise, Philippa shook her head.

  “You dashed out of the hall before you ate any boiled raisins. My cook does them quite nicely, as well as honey and almond pastes.” He was prattling on and on about food, and all she could do was stand there looking petrified. He smiled at her, and if possible she looked even more alarmed.

  There came a knock on the door. She nearly collapsed with relief, and Dienwald frowned. “You like having someone besides my exalted self with you? Well, ’tis just Tancrid with wine and food. Don’t move.”

  The boy entered bearing a tray that was dented and bent but of surprisingly good craftsmanship. He set it upon the table and fiddled with the flagons.

  “Go,” Dienwald said, and Tancrid, with a curious look at Philippa, took himself off.

  “They all wonder if I’m going to ravish you,” Dienwald said with little show of interest, and sat at the table. “That, or poor Tancrid is afraid you’ll stick a knife between my ribs.” He didn’t sound at all concerned. He poured himself wine, sat back in his chair, and sipped it.

  “Are you?” She swallowed convulsively. “Are you going to ravish me?”

  Dienwald stretched. “I think not . . . tonight. I have already lain with a very comely wench, and have not the urge to do it again, particularly with a girl of such noble proportions and such—”

  “I’m not ugly! Nor am I oversized or ungainly! I have had three very fitting men want my hand in marriage. How dare you say that I’m not worth your energy or that I am not to your taste or to your—”

  Dienwald burst out laughing. Here she was, heedless as a squeaking hen, taking exception to his refusal to ravish her. He continued to laugh, watching her face turn alarmingly pale when she realized finally what she was doing.

  Very suddenly she sat down on his bed, covered her face with her hands, and started crying. Not dainty feminine tears, but deep tearing sobs that racked her body and made her shoulders jerk.

  “By god! I have done nothing to you! Stop your tears, wench, or I’ll—”

  She jerked up at his words and said through hiccups, “I am not a wench, I’m Philippa de—”

  “I know, you’re Goddess Philippa, Queen Philippa, Grand Templar Philippa. Be quiet. You’ll sour my stomach. Now, no more crying. You have no reason to cry. I have done nothing to harm you. Indeed, I saved you from death. Thank me, Empress Philippa.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dienwald hadn’t expected that. Perhaps she wasn’t such a little tartar after all. He rose and watched her jump from the bed and scurry back agains
t the far wall. He smiled and leaned down to unwrap the stout cross garters that wrapped securely about his calves.

  When he rose to face her again, he waved the long cross garters. “Come here and let me tie you down. I won’t tie you tightly.”

  “Nay!” she whispered.

  Dienwald merely smiled and reached for her, a length of cross garter in his hand. She ducked away from him, stumbled and fell to her hands and knees on the floor. He winced for her, knowing that the rough stones were hard as a witch’s kettle.

  He grabbed her around her waist, realizing as he hauled her up that he liked the feel of her. Her waist was narrow and . . . He had no more time for female appraisal because Philippa turned on him. She screamed, making his ears ring, and her fist caught his jaw, sending his head snapping backward with the force of her blow.

  He released her and she fell onto her back. He came over her, ready to thrash her, but her dirty foot caught him squarely in the belly, kicking him a good three feet back. He grunted and landed in a heap on the bed. Dienwald had blood in his eyes. He managed to stop himself, managed to remind himself that he, unlike this raving wench, thought before he acted. Slowly, very slowly, he sat up on the bed and looked at her.

  Philippa scurried up to her knees, jerking the gown back into place. She stared back at him, her breath hitching, her breasts heaving deeply.

  “Come here.”

  “Nay.”

  Dienwald sighed and smiled an evil smile at her. “Come to me now or I will tell Tancrid, who is doubtless outside my chamber door, his ear pressed against the oak, to fetch me three of my most foul men. They, wench, will strip you and have their sport with you. In front of me, I think. I should enjoy watching.”

  His threat this time was quite specific, and Philippa, without another contrary thought or word, struggled to her feet. She stiffly walked over to him, afraid, but still wanting to smash her fist into his face. He motioned her closer, and she stood between his spread legs, her head down.

  “Put your hands together.”

  She shook her head, but at his look she slapped her palms together, watching as he wrapped the long narrow leather cross garter around her wrists.

  “I can’t take the chance you will be stupid enough to try to escape me again. Now, don’t struggle.”

  He clasped his hands beneath her hips and lifted her onto the bed, dropping her on her back. He wrapped the other cross garter through the knot at her tied wrists and tethered her to a post at the top of the bed. Her arms were pulled above her head, but not tightly. She stared up at him, and he saw that she was very afraid. He didn’t blame her; she was completely helpless.

  Her gown had tangled up about her thighs, and the expanse of white flesh was annoying his groin. He pulled a blanket over her, bringing it to her chin. “Now, keep quiet.”

  It was an unnecessary command. She was silent as a tomb.

  Within moments the bedchamber was as silent as she was. Dienwald snuffed out the single candle, then quickly undressed. He stretched out naked beside her. She could hear his breathing. He’d made no move to touch her. She gave the leather strap a tentative tug; nothing happened. She lay there trying to decide what she could do.

  Dienwald said, “Were William de Bridgport here, he would have tied you down as well. The difference is, he would have pulled your white legs wide apart and pinched you with his dirty fingers and leered at you, whereas I, wench, will stroke your white flesh with clean fingers and a warm mouth and—”

  “I have to relieve myself!”

  “I’m powerfully comfortable and you’ve quite tired me out. Do you really have to relieve yourself or are you again lying to me?”

  “Nay, please.”

  He cursed, lit the single candle again, then released her wrists. “The pot is beneath the window, yon. I will leave you for a minute or two. Don’t dally.” He pulled on his bedrobe as he spoke.

  Philippa didn’t look at him. She didn’t move until he’d closed the chamber door behind him. She raced from the bed to the chamber pot without bothering to light the tallow candle. She could see well enough.

  The chamber door opened some minutes later, and for a moment Dienwald was silhouetted in faint light. He closed the door behind him. “Get back into bed and stretch your hands above your head so I can tie you again.”

  He heard a deep hitching breath close to him, far too close, but he wasn’t fast enough. The chamber pot hit him squarely atop the head and he dropped like a stone.

  Philippa stared down at him. He looked dead, and she felt the shock of fear and guilt. She dropped to her knees and pressed her palm against his chest. “Don’t you dare die, you scoundrel!” His heartbeat was steady and slow. She got to her feet and stood over him. Her mind began to function again as she stared down at the unconscious man.

  Now what was she to do?

  She’d thought with her feet again, only this time her actions could well prove to be worse than jumping into the Beauchamp moat.

  Tancrid. She had to get the squire out of the way. Perhaps she could take him as a hostage. Yes, that’s what she’d do. And she could take his clothes and his shoes and . . . Her mind squirreled madly about.

  A hand curled around her ankle and pulled hard. Philippa’s legs went out from under her and she went down hard on her bottom. Dienwald, his head spinning, threw himself on top of her, pinning her down with his weight.

  She was larger than most women, but she couldn’t push him off her. His eyes accustomed themselves to the dim candlelight and he stared down into her face.

  “I didn’t hit you hard enough.”

  “Aye, you did. I’m seeing four of you, and believe me, wench, even one of your sort is too many.”

  Dienwald became suddenly aware of her full breasts and her soft body beneath him. His lust sprang full-blown into life, and with it his manhood. Without thinking, he pressed himself against her.

  “You’re a menace,” he said, hating the fact that he wanted to jerk up her gown and ride her until she was yelling with the pleasure of it and his own pleasure was washing over him. Instead he said, “You’re a foolish girl who hasn’t a thought for consequences, and I’m tired of it.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  Dienwald didn’t answer. His vision cleared, as did his lust. Cleansing anger took its place. He pulled himself off her and hauled her up with him. He strode to the bed, dragging her behind him, then pulled her down over his thighs. He held her down with one arm and lit the candle with the other. Then he yanked up her gown, baring a very lovely bottom. And brought the flat of his hand down as hard as he could on the white flesh.

  For an instant, Philippa froze. No, he couldn’t be spanking her, not like this, with her buttocks as bare as the day she’d come from her mother’s womb. He struck her again, and she shrieked in rage and pain and tried to rear up.

  He smacked her again, harder this time, then again and again. She was sobbing with pain and impotent fury, struggling with all her strength, when she felt his fingers pressing inward, pushing her legs more widely apart, touching her. She let out a small terrified cry.

  Just as quickly, Dienwald flung her off him, onto her back on the bed. He wrapped her wrists again, tying her more securely this time.

  She gave a pitiful sob.

  “Don’t you dare accuse me of hurting you. Edmund would laugh at a hiding that tender.” He hated that word the moment it came from his mouth. It brought to mind the violent lust he’d felt for her moments before.

  Her sobs died in her throat. “Your hand is hard and callused. You did hurt me.”

  “You can’t even lie convincingly. Would you prefer a chamber pot on your head, you stupid wench? Thank St. George’s lance you hadn’t relieved yourself in it first!”

  “Of course I hadn’t used it! I’m not a—”

  “Quiet! You will drive me to lunacy and back! Enough. Go to sleep.”

  Philippa’s bottom felt hot and her flesh was stinging. Her tears were drying on he
r cheeks and itching. There was nothing she could do about it.

  Dienwald was so irritated he couldn’t remain silent. “I don’t know why I don’t simply take you. Why don’t—”

  “My father would see to it that you were sent as a eunuch to Jerusalem if you forced me.”

  “What know you of eunuchs and the Holy Land?”

  “I am not an ignorant girl. I have learned much. I’ve had lessons since my eighth year.”

  “Why would your father waste good coin to educate you, a silly female? That makes no sense at all.”

  “I don’t know why,” Philippa said, having wondered the same thing herself. Bernice fluttered about with her ribbons and clothes and her extravagantly pointed slippers, given no opportunity for learning with Father Boise—not, of course, that she’d ever desired to read the Chanson de Roland. “Perhaps he thought I could be of use to him. And I have been of use to him. Our steward died nearly two years ago, and I have taken his place.”

  “You’re telling me that you, a female, did the duties of your father’s steward?”

  “Aye. But my mother also insisted that I learn to manage the household. She didn’t enjoy my instruction, but she did it—as an abbess would with an indigent nun.”

  This entire evening was odd in the extreme, Dienwald decided, exhausted by her nonsense, her violence, her female softness. He snuffed out the candle beside him, and turned onto his back.

  “What am I going to do with you, wench?”

  “I’m not a wench, I’m—”

  Dienwald turned on his side away from her and began snoring very loudly.

  “I’m Philippa de Beauchamp and—

  Philippa got no further. He rolled over atop her and kissed her hard. She felt his manhood swell against her belly, felt the heat of him, and opened her mouth to protest. His tongue was her reward, and without thought, she bit him.