Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  The woman lunged at her, extending her arm, bringing the knife down toward her chest. Philippa grabbed the woman’s wrist, wrenching her arm back, but the woman was stronger than her meager inches would indicate. She was panting, gasping, fury making her as strong as Philippa, and she said, her voice vicious, filled with hatred, “You damnable slut! You devil’s spawn! You’ll not have him! Do you hear me? Nay, never! I’ll kill you!” And she jerked away from Philippa, her breasts heaving, staring at Philippa with hatred. Philippa slowly backed away from the furious woman and that very sharp knife.

  She held up her hand in supplication. “Who are you? I’ve done nothing to you. What are you talking about? You’re mad, wanting to kill me for no reason!”

  “No reason!” the woman hissed, the words so harsh that spittle flew out of her mouth. “You damnable trollop, Walter is mine, only mine, and he’ll stay mine. You’ll not get him. He’ll not wed you, no matter what you bring him! He loves me, wants me more than all the filthy riches you would bring him!”

  But I wouldn’t bring him anything, Philippa started to say, just as the woman lunged again, bringing the knife down in a brutal arc, sure and fast, and Philippa whirled to the side, away from the maddened woman, but she wasn’t fast enough and she felt the tip of the knife slice through the flesh of her upper arm. She felt the coldness of it, then a quick numbness.

  “You won’t escape me, whore!”

  Philippa, knowing there was no choice now, jerked about and struck out, backhanding the woman, her palm flat, ringing hard against her cheek. The woman yelled in pain and rage but didn’t falter. She flew toward Philippa, the knife extended to the fullest.

  Philippa saw the knife coming into her heart, stabbing deep, killing her, before she’d known what it was to really live, to love and be loved, and she whispered, “Dienwald . . .”

  She could hear the air hiss as the knife sliced through it, and she dashed frantically toward the open door and into the arms of Walter de Grasse.

  “What in God’s name goes on here?”

  Walter was shaking Philippa hard until he saw the blood flowing from her upper arm. He paled in the dim light, not wanting to credit it. Then he stared at the woman, half-crouched, the bloody knife dangling in her hand, and he whispered, “Britta . . . oh, no, why?” He pushed Philippa away from him and was at the woman’s side, lifting her up, pulling her against him.

  “Britta?”

  She shook her head, her breath coming in painful gasps, her huge breasts heaving.

  “She tried to kill me,” Philippa said, watching with benumbed fascination as he caressed the woman. “Who is she? Why does she want me dead?”

  She watched, silent now, as pain crossed Walter’s face and it whitened, and she understood at last that this was the woman whose garments she wore, this was the woman who was her cousin’s mistress, a woman who, incredibly, loved her cousin, and who couldn’t, perforce, abide her. Philippa’s mind clogged and she could but stare silently as Walter held the woman even more tightly, clutching her against him, speaking softly, so softly that Philippa couldn’t make out his words.

  Without further hesitation Philippa picked up a small three-legged stool, held it high over her head, and brought it down with all her strength on Walter’s head. The woman cried out as Walter slumped against her, bearing her to the floor with his weight.

  “Don’t yell, you stupid fool!” Philippa hissed at the woman. “Just stay where you are and hold your peace and your lover. I’m leaving you and him and this cursed keep forever. He’s yours until the devil takes him.” Before Britta could push her lover off her, Philippa had grabbed the knife from her hand and jerked the keys from the pocket in her tunic.

  “Just be quiet, you silly bitch, if you want him here and me gone!”

  Philippa grabbed her gown and pulled it over her head even as she dashed toward the door. She locked it, then froze on the spot. Just around the corner, not three feet from where she stood, she heard two men in argument.

  “I’ll tell ye, thass trouble! I heard them wenches yelling and t’ master runs in.”

  “Leave t’ master be an’ get back to yer bed.”

  “Oh, aye, there’s trouble and it’s yer ears he’ll slice off, that, or he’ll take his whip to yer back.”

  “Ye go back and I’ll look.”

  Philippa flattened herself against the cold stone wall. She heard the one man still grumbling as he shuffled away. As for the other man, in the next instant he came around the corner to see a wild-eyed female with a knife in her hand and blood running in rivulets down her arm. He had time only to suck in his breath before the knife handle slammed into his temple and he crashed to the floor.

  Slowly Philippa got enough nerve to peer around the corner. She saw sleeping men and women spread over the floor in the hall, and snores rose to the blackened rafters above. She crept as quietly as she could, inching slowly along the wall toward the large oak doors. Slowly, ever so slowly, she moved, knowing at any second a man or woman could rise up and shriek at her and it would be all over and perhaps Walter would kill her if his mistress didn’t do it first. A dog suddenly appeared from nowhere and sniffed at her bare feet.

  She didn’t move, her heart pounding, letting the dog tire of her scent, then move on, praying the animal wouldn’t bark. Then, without warning, she felt a spurt of pain in her arm and looked at it. So much blood, and it was hers. She had to slow it or she would faint. She slipped outside into the inner bailey and looked heavenward. There was no moon this night, and the sky was overcast, with no stars, no light whatsoever. She flattened herself against the wooden railing and ripped off a goodly section of the lower part of the gown. She wrapped it around her arm, using her teeth to tie the knot tightly. She felt the pain, felt it deeply, but it didn’t matter. She had to find Edmund and they had to escape this wretched keep. She couldn’t allow the wound to slow her. She had to be strong.

  Fortune turned, and Philippa found Edmund close to the stable door, atop a heap of hay, sleeping on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, his face resting on his folded hands. Philippa knelt beside him. “Edmund, love, come wake up.” She shook him gently, ready to slap her hand over his mouth if he awoke afraid and cried out.

  But Edmund awoke quickly and completely and simply stared up at her. “Philippa?”

  “Aye, I’m here, and now we must leave. We’ll need horses, Edmund. What think you?”

  “Is my father here to save us?”

  Philippa shook her head. “No, ’tis just us, but we can do it. Now, about those horses.”

  Edmund scrambled to his feet, excitement and a goodly dose of fear churning in his belly, and he grinned up at her. Then he was thoughtful, and Philippa waited. “We need to croak the two stable lads. We need—”

  Philippa raised the knife handle. “It works,” she said.

  Edmund’s eyes glistened and Philippa wondered if all men were born with the battle cry of war in their blood, with the love of violence and battle bred into their bones. “Show me where they are and then I’ll . . .” She paused, then added, “You get the horses, Edmund. Pick well, for they must carry us to your father. He awaits out there somewhere.”

  “He can’t be far away,” Edmund said. “But we will come to him and not have to lie like helpless babes for him to rescue us. There is a difficulty, though, Philippa. I can’t get the horses for us.”

  She stared down at him and saw the chain and thick leather manacle clamped about his right ankle. Those miserable whoresons! She wanted to yell in rage, but she said calmly, “Who has the key to that thing?”

  “One of the stable lads you’re going to croak,” he said, and gave her an impudent smile.

  They were good together, Philippa thought with surprised pleasure a few minutes later. She’d quickly found the key and released Edmund. She hadn’t even paused before coshing the two stable lads on the head. They’d probably given Edmund his bruises, the malignant little brutes, and tethered him like an animal. No,
she had no regrets that the both of them would have vile head pains on the morrow.

  Edmund had brought out Daisy and the destrier that belonged to Walter. Should she dare? she wondered, then tossed her head. She dared. Her arm was paining fiercely now, and they weren’t yet out of Crandall. She couldn’t succumb to the pain, not yet, not for a very long while.

  Edmund held the reins of the two horses, staying back in the shadows whilst Philippa sauntered like a whore in full heat and in need of coin toward the one guard who stood in a near-stupor near Crandall’s gates. Three other sentries were patrolling, but they were distant now. She’d watched them, counting.

  “Ho! Who are . . . ? Why, ’tis Sir Walter’s mistress! What want you? Wh—”

  She poked out her breasts and threw her arms around the man. He gaped and gawked and quickly grabbed her buttocks in his big hands, dropping his sword to fill his hands with her, and Philippa whipped out the knife and, leaning back, slammed the handle down on his head. He looked at her in mournful surprise but didn’t fall. “You shouldn’t ought to a done that,” he said, and brought his hands up to her throat. He squeezed, saying all the while, “Ye’re a handful, wench, but I’ll show ye not to play wi’ me.” He squeezed harder and harder, and Philippa saw the world blackening before her eyes as the knife dropped from her slack fingers.

  Then, as if from afar, she heard a voice saying, “You’re a bloody coward, hurting a female like that . . . you whoreson, stupid lout with a mother who slept with infidels . . .” The fingers left her throat and she sagged to her knees, clutching her throat, gulping in air. She looked up to see the man turning, as if in a dream, turning toward Edmund, but Edmund was astride Daisy, and he was higher than the guard and brought a thick metal spade down as hard as he could on the guard’s head. Philippa watched the man stare up at Edmund and shake his head as if to clear it. Then he made a small sound in his throat and fell in a heap to the ground.

  Philippa staggered to her feet, grabbing the knife. Her throat felt on fire, and she croaked out, “Excellent, Edmund. Now we must go, quickly. The sentries will be returning in but moments now.”

  She raced to the keep gates and jerked at the thick beam levered from side to side of the large gate. It was heavy and she was getting weaker by the moment. She cursed and heaved, and finally the beam began to ease slowly upward until finally she managed to bring it fully vertical. “Now,” she whispered, and pushed the gate open.

  Philippa quickly mounted, grunting with effort, for there was no saddle and her right arm was now nearly useless. Suddenly she felt Edmund heaving her up, and she landed facedown against the destrier’s neck, panting with exertion and pain.

  Then Edmund was astride Daisy again and she cried, “Away, Edmund!”

  The destrier was huge and fast and mean, and he quickly ate distance from Crandall. They needed to be fast. Philippa could imagine that Walter was already after them, unless she’d hit him so very hard that he was still unconscious and unable to give orders. The destrier pulled away even further, quickly outstripping Daisy. Philippa tried to pull him back, but her one strong hand wasn’t enough. The destrier was in control.

  “Edmund!” She turned back, her hair flying madly in her face.

  “Hold, Philippa. I’m coming!”

  But it wasn’t Edmund who stopped the great destrier. It was a man flying out of the darkness astride a huge stallion, his head bare, his face averted, all his attention on the frantically galloping horse.

  Other men appeared, shouting out, and she heard Edmund yell, “Father! Father, quickly, help Philippa!”

  And she felt the reins jerked from her hand and then the destrier lurched up on his hind legs, whinnying frantically, his front hooves flailing, and she hard Dienwald’s voice, soothing, calming the frenzied animal.

  Then it was over and Philippa was weaving on the horse’s back, her gown torn and pulled to her thighs, and she smiled at the man who turned to face her.

  “The horse was maddened because of my smell,” Philippa said, just content to stare at his face.

  “You make no sense, wench.”

  “The blood . . . the smell of blood,” she said. “It maddens animals to smell a human’s blood.” She slumped forward against the animal’s neck. Before she fell unconscious, his arms were around her, drawing her close, and she sighed deeply, content now to give it up.

  The burning pain brought her back. She tried to jerk away from it, cursing it in her mind, begging the pain to release her for just a few minutes longer, just a moment longer, but it was there and it was worse and she moaned and opened her eyes.

  “Hold still.”

  She focused on Dienwald, leaning over her. He wasn’t looking at her face, but looking grimly down at her arm. “Hello,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. We knew you had to be close.”

  “Hold still and keep your tongue behind your teeth.”

  But she couldn’t. There was too much to be said, too much to be explained. “Am I going to die?”

  “Of course you’re not going to die, you heedless wench!”

  “Is Edmund all right?”

  “Yes. Now, be quiet, you try me sorely with your babble.”

  “I fainted, I suppose, and I’ve never before fainted in my whole life. I was scared until I saw you, and then it was all right.”

  “Be still. Why is your voice so rough?”

  “The guard tried to strangle me after I struck him with the knife handle. His head was powerfully hard, but Edmund told him his mother bedded infidels to get his attention from me, and then hit him with a spade and he finally fell. We got away from him, we got away from all of them. I counted the minutes, you know, and the other sentries were elsewhere. You knew we were at Crandall. Silken reached you safely.”

  “Aye, be quiet now.”

  “I prayed he would reach you. It was our only hope. Walter was stupid—he gave Silken time to outrun his men. I knew he would reach you, knew you would come.”

  “Wench, shut your irritating mouth.”

  “Walter’s mistress tried to kill me, you know. Isn’t that strange? And she kept screaming that she didn’t care that I would bring him riches, ’twas she who would have him. I gave him to her freely, and I told her that. I also wanted to tell her that there were no riches, nay, not even a single coin. And he came in when I yelled my head off and he saw the blood on my arm, yet he went to her and held her and her name was Britta and it was her clothes he’d given me to wear. I struck him with a stool and he went down like a stone. It was a wonderful sound and he pinned the woman beneath him. I got her knife and the keys and locked them in.”

  “Philippa, you’re weak from loss of blood and you’re babbling. Now, be still.”

  “She has huge breasts,” Philippa said, then closed her eyes at a particularly sharp jab in her arm. “Walter had given me her clothes and they were much too short for me and much too loose in the chest. Her breasts are of a mighty size. Gorkel and Crooky were wondrous funny.” Dienwald drew in a deep breath at that moment and poured ale over the wound. Philippa lurched up, crying out softly, then fell back unconscious.

  Dienwald stilled for a moment, then quickly placed his palm over her heart. The beat was slow and steady. He bound up her arm, then turned to see Northbert’s legs. He didn’t rise, just looked up at his man and said, “She’s unconscious again, but the wound is clean, and if there is no poisoning, she will be all right.”

  Northbert nodded. “Master Edmund is overexcited, master, his tongue rattling about. Gorkel told him to go to sleep, but he can’t close his mouth.”

  “She was the same.”

  Crooky hobbled up then. “The mistress wasn’t a betrayer wi’ her cousin, master.”

  “I suppose she wasn’t, yet it strikes an odd chord.”

  “Aye, it does,” said Gorkel in his low, terrifying rumble. “The boy refuses to sleep until he sees that the mistress is all right.”

  Dienwald looked surprised at that. “He what? Oh, the devil! Nothi
ng is aright here, nothing! I let the two of them out of my sight for the space of a week, and everything goes topsy turvy. Bring Edmund and let him see the wench, I don’t care.”

  Gorkel and Crooky exchanged looks, and Northbert merely shrugged.

  Edmund knelt next to Philippa, and said softly as he stared down at her face, “She was very angry when she saw the manacle around my ankle. Her face turned all red and her hands shook. She’ll be all right, truly?”

  “Aye, she’s too hardy to let this bring her down,” Dienwald said. “You must sleep now, Edmund. At dawn we’ll ride.”

  “You’re not worried that the whoreson will come upon us tonight?”

  His father grinned. “He’d never find us in this dark. There’s not even a single star to guide him.”

  It was the middle of the night when Philippa awoke again. Her arm hurt, but not too badly. She was surrounded by darkness, which she’d become accustomed to in the small chamber at Crandall, but this was different. Sweet air touched her face and filled her nostrils, and she could hear the rustle of tree leaves in the gentle night breezes, and the deep breathing of a man. She opened her eyes and saw Dienwald stretched out next to her, his hand holding her wrist. He was snoring lightly.

  She smiled and said, “Edmund and I escaped. Are you not pleased?”

  His hand on her wrist tightened. Dienwald was dreaming of an explicitly passionate scene in which Philippa was naked, lying pliant in his arms, her hand was stroking down his belly, closing around his swelled rod and she was kissing him, her tongue thrust deep in his mouth and she was moaning as she kissed him and her fingers were caressing him and . . .

  “Are you not pleased?”

  He opened his eyes, startled, disoriented, and saw her beside him, not naked as he’d believed, but lying on her back, a blanket pulled to her waist. She was speaking of pleasure, but a pleasure different from the one of his dream. Philippa was really there with him, and he hurt with need for her, hurt with the urgency of it, and the reality melded into his dream and he didn’t question it or the dark night or her beside him on the floor of a copse of maple trees.