Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  St. Erth. She liked the sound of it on her tongue, the feel of it in her blood. St. Erth would be her home and Dienwald would be her husband. Her father could bellow until all Beauchamp trembled and his nose turned purple, but it wouldn’t matter. Sir Walter had told her that her father had needed coin. She didn’t believe it for a moment. However, she didn’t know what to believe, so she left off all thought about it and consoled herself with the fact that even that repellent toad de Bridgport wouldn’t want a bride who’d been bedded by another man. She smiled and sang a tuneless song as she prepared to return to her home with the man who would be her husband.

  Her smile remained bright even when she faced all Dienwald’s men, for they knew now that she would be the lady of St. Erth and there would be no more vile cursing from the master because he wanted to bed the maid. Now that he had, he would do what was right. She smiled until she was riding in front of Dienwald. She didn’t turn to face him, not because she didn’t want to but because his destrier, Philbo, took exception whenever she moved, cavorting and prancing, sending shafts of pain up her arm. The miles passed slowly and her arm throbbed.

  “You cry again and I’ll kick you off my horse. God’s teeth, wench, you have me now. What more do you wish?”

  “I’m not crying,” she said, and stuffed her fist into her mouth.

  “Then what are you doing? A new mime for Crooky’s benefit? I suppose you’ll tell me your arm pains you again?”

  “Aye, it hurts. Your horse likes not my weight.”

  He snorted and stared over her shoulder between Philbo’s twitching ears. “It’s true you’re a hardy wench and an armful. Still, Philbo hasn’t bitten you—aye, methinks even he approves you for the mistress—so cease your plaints. You wanted me and now you’ve got me. I suppose your woman’s ears beg to hear rhyming verses to the beauty of your eyes? That’s why you’re crying.”

  She shook her head.

  “ ’Tis too late to woo you, wench. You’ll be a wife before you can congratulate yourself on your tactics, and then ’tis I who will show you that I am master at St. Erth and your master as well. I will do just as I please with you, and there will be none to gainsay me.”

  “You’ve always done precisely as you wished with me.”

  That was true, but Dienwald said nothing. His ill humor mounted and he sang out his own grievances. “Aye, I will wed you, and with naught to your name or your body save the clothes that Lady Kassia sent you. Your damnable father will likely come to St. Erth and demand my manhood for the insult to the de Beauchamps, since I am not of his importance or yours. You’ll cry and carp and wail, and he’ll lay siege, and soon—”

  “Be quiet!”

  Dienwald was so startled that he shut his mouth. Then he grinned at the back of her head. He fought against raising his hand to smooth down her wildly curling hair, and merely waited to see if she would continue. She did, and in a very loud voice, right in his face as she whirled about.

  “I never cried, never, until I met you, you wretched knave! You are naught but an arrogant cockscomb!”

  “Aye,” he said mildly, and tightened his arms about her to keep her steady, “but you want to bed the cockscomb, so you cannot continue to carp so shrewishly.

  “Should you prefer to be my mistress rather than my wife? Would you prefer being my chattel and my slave and my drudge?”

  She jerked back against the circle of his arms and slammed her fist into his belly. Philbo snorted and reared on his hind legs. Dienwald grabbed Philippa, pulling her hard against him. He was laughing so hard that he nearly fell sideways, bringing her with him. He felt Northbert pushing against him, righting him once again.

  “Take care, master,” Northbert said. “The mistress isn’t well. You don’t wish her wound to open.”

  “God’s bones, I know that. But the wound isn’t in her arm, ’tis in her brain.” He leaned against her temple and whispered, “Aye, and between those soft thighs of yours, deep inside, where I’ll come to you again tonight. Think about that, wench.”

  She lowered her head, not in defeat at his words, but because she wanted to strike him again, but both of them would probably crash to the ground if she did so.

  Dienwald said nothing more. He enjoyed baiting her, he admitted to himself. For the first time in his adult male life, he enjoyed talking, fighting, arguing—all those things—with a woman. Well, it was a good thing, since he would be bound to her until he shucked off his mortal coil.

  He looked sideways at Northbert and saw that his man was frowning at him. Curse his interference! He said curtly, “No sign of de Grasse?”

  Northbert shook his head.

  Dienwald cursed. “You’ve got the men in a line behind us? At intervals, and hidden?” At his man’s nod, Dienwald looked fit to spit. “The man’s a coward.” He cursed again. “I’ve wanted him for a long time now.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, you deign to speak to me again, wench?”

  “Why?”

  “I got a letter supposedly written to me by Kassia, but ’twas from him. He captured me when I went to see her, and I ended up in Wolffeton’s dungeons. Kassia saved me, but not before the bastard had broken several of my ribs and killed three of my men. I owe him much. More than enough, since he took my son. Soon now I will repay him.”

  “And he took me.”

  “Aye, and you, wench.”

  So Kassia—perfect small Kassia—had saved him. Hadn’t she other things to do? Like saving her own husband every once in a while? Curse the woman, she was a thorn in her side, nay, a veritable bush of thorns.

  Well, there were those who’d wanted her as well, and she said now, “Why did Walter want to marry me?”

  “Are you certain that he did?”

  “Unlike you,” Philippa said, her voice as bitter as the coarse green goat grass that grew beside the road, “he was most desirous of it. Indeed, he would have ravished me to ensure it, had I not escaped from him when I did. But it makes no sense to me.”

  “The man’s mad.”

  Her elbow trembled, wanting to fling itself back into his belly. Finally she could bear it no longer and allowed her elbow to have its way.

  He said nothing, merely grunted; then he closed his arms more tightly around her, higher now, his forearms resting under her breasts. He raised them a bit until they were pushing up her breasts, very high.

  “Stop it, your men will see!”

  “Then bait me not, wench.”

  She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then said suddenly, “When the woman came to kill me, she screamed at me, something about how he—Walter—didn’t want me, really, but the riches I would bring him. What could she have meant? My father must have visited Walter and promised him coin if he found me. I can think of no other reason.”

  “I don’t know. We will find out soon enough. Your family must be told, once it is over.”

  “Then my father will come and cut off your manhood.”

  “Don’t sound so vicious. ’Tis my manhood that endears me to you.” To her surprise and to Dienwald’s own astonishment, he leaned forward and kissed her ear. “I will give you pleasure, Philippa. And not only my manhood. The pain last night was necessary—‘twas your rite of passage into womanhood, ’tis said.”

  “Who says?”

  “Women. Who else?”

  “Some arrogant male.”

  “Acquit me, wench. I want only to give you pleasure and to teach you how to pleasure me.”

  “I didn’t give you pleasure last night?”

  He grinned at the hurt tone of her voice. “A bit, I suppose. Aye, a bit. At least you were willing enough.”

  He felt her stiffen, and very slowly he eased his hand upward to cup her right breast. He caressed her, his fingers circling her nipple until he could feel the slamming of her heartbeat beneath his palm. “Shall I call a halt and tell my men that my bride wishes to have me here and now? Would you like that, wench? Shall I slip my hand inside your gown to touch you
r warm flesh and feel your nipple tighten against my palm?”

  Her breathing was ragged, her breasts heaving. She wanted to feel his hands caressing her body. She wanted his mouth too, and his manhood, and so, without thinking, she said on a soft sigh as she leaned back against his chest, “Aye, if you will, Dienwald, ’twould please me very much, I think.”

  He forgot all his baiting, forgot everything save his desire for her, his seemingly endless need for her. The more she yielded to him, the more he seemed to want her. It was disconcerting and it was vastly annoying and it was so enjoyable his brain reeled.

  He very gently eased his hand into her gown and cupped her breast. He could feel her breathing hitch beneath his palm. He saw her lips part, and her eyes never left his face. He knew it was ridiculous, what he was doing. Any of his men could come upon the mat any time. Northbert could draw alongside to tell him something . . . his son . . . St. Peter’s toenails!

  He pulled his hand out of her gown and slapped the wool back over her. “There’ll be time for this later,” he said, and turned her away from him. “Watch the trees and the hawthorns and the yew bushes. Colors are coming out now. Life is renewing.” His words stopped abruptly, for he suddenly realized that he’d spilled his seed deep inside her but hours before—a new life could have already begun. An image flashed in his mind: a girl child with wildly curling hair streaked with many shades of brown and ash colors, tall and hardy, filled with laughter, her eyes a vivid summer blue.

  He growled into Philippa’s ear, “I suppose you’ll give me more children than I can feed.”

  She just turned and gave him a beautiful smile.

  Windsor Castle

  King Edward nodded decisively. “Aye, Robbie, you must needs go and inform de Fortenberry of his immense good fortune. The fellow probably has gaps in his castle walls, he’s so poor. His sire had not a coin to bless himself with either. Aye, I’ll have St. Erth repaired. I don’t want my sweet daughter in any danger, so mayhap I’ll have more men sent.”

  Robert Burnell said, “But I thought you didn’t wish to acquire a son-in-law who would drain your coffers, sire.”

  “Nay, not drain them, but we’re speaking of my daughter, Robbie, the product of my youth, the outpouring of my young man’s . . .” The king grinned. “He has but a young son? All Plantagenet ladies love children. She will take to the boy, doubtless, so we need have no worries there. After you’ve gotten de Fortenberry’s consent and endured all his endless thanks and listened to all his outpourings of gratitude, have Lord Henry bring our sweet daughter here to Windsor. My queen insists that my daughter be wedded here. Philippa’s nuptials will take place in a fortnight, no longer, mind you, Robbie.”

  The king moved away from his chancellor, flexing his shoulders as he paced. “Aye, you must go now, for there is much else to be done. God’s teeth, so much else. It never ceases. Aye, we’ll soon finish this business, and it will end happily.”

  Robert Burnell, accompanied by twenty of the king’s finest soldiers, left the following morning for Cornwall.

  Not two days later, the king was sitting with Accursi, plotting ways of wringing funds from his nobles’ coffers for all the castles he wanted to build in Wales. Accursi, the son of a famous Italian jurist, was saying in his high voice, “Sire, ’tis naught to worry you. Simply tell the nobles to open their hearts and thus their coffers to you. Your need is greater than theirs. ’Tis their need you seek to meet! They are your subjects and ’tis to your will they must bow.”

  Edward looked sour. He stroked his jaw. Accursi would never understand the English nobleman despite all his years in service with him. He thought them weak and despicable, sheep to be told firmly to shed their very wool. Edward was on the point of saying something that would likely send Accursi into a sulk when he heard a throat clear loudly, and looked up.

  “Sire, forgive me for disturbing you,” his chamberlain, Aleric, said quickly, “but Roland de Tournay has come and he awaits your majesty’s pleasure. You gave orders that you wished to see him immediately.”

  “De Tournay!” Edward laughed aloud, rising quickly. A respite from Accursi. “Send him hence. I wish to see that handsome face of his.”

  Roland de Tournay paused a moment on the threshold of the king’s chamber, taking it all in, as was his wont, and Edward knew he was assessing the occupants, specifically Accursi. Edward saw the very brief flash of contempt in Roland’s eyes, an instinctual Englishman’s reaction to any foreigner.

  Edward said, grinning widely, “Come bow before me, de Tournay, you evil infidel. So our gracious Lord saw fit to save you to return to serve me again, eh?”

  Roland strolled into the chamber as if he were its master, but it didn’t offend Edward. It was de Tournay’s way. It did, however, offend Accursi, who said in his high, accented voice, “See you to your manners, sirrah!”

  “Who is this heathen, sire? I can’t recall his face or his irritating manners. You haven’t told the fellow of my importance?”

  Edward shook his head. “Accursi, hold your peace. De Tournay is my man, doubt you not, and I’ll not have him abused, save by me. ’Tis about time we see you in England, Roland.”

  “That is what I heard said of you, sire, you who wandered the world for two years before claiming your crown.”

  “Impudent dog. Come and sit with me, and we will drink to our days in Acre and Jerusalem and your nights spent wallowing in the Moslims’ gifts. I hear Barbars gave you six women to start your own harem.”

  It was some two hours later when the king said to the man who’d done him great and loyal service in the Holy Land, “Why did you not come to my coronation October last? Eleanor spoke of your desertion.”

  Roland de Tournay merely smiled and drank more of the king’s fine Brittany wine. “I doubt not the beautiful and gracious queen spoke of me,” he said. “But, sire, I was naught but a captive in a deep prison, held by that sweetest of men, the Duke of Brabant. He, in short, demanded ransom for my poor body. My brother paid it, afraid not to, for he knew that you would hear of it if he didn’t.” Roland grinned wickedly. “Actually, I think it was his fair wife, lusty Blanche, who forced him to ransom me.”

  It took Edward only another hour before he slapped his knee and shouted, “You shall marry my daughter! Aye, the perfect solution!”

  “Your daughter!” Roland repeated, staring blankly at the king. “A royal princess? You have drunk too much of this fine wine, sire.”

  The king just shook his head and told de Tournay about Philippa de Beauchamp. “ . . . so you see, Roland, Robbie is on his way, as we speak, to de Fortenberry. I would rather it be you. You’re a known scoundrel and de Fortenberry is an unknown one. What say you?”

  “De Fortenberry, eh? He’s a tough rascal, sire, a rogue, and worthy withal. I know naught ill of him as a man. But he’s wily and likes not to bow to anyone, even his king. Why did you select him?”

  “ ’Twas Graelam de Moreton who suggested him. He’s a force in Cornwall, a savage place still. I need good men, strong men, men I can trust. As a son-in-law I could trust his arm to wield sword for me. But you too could settle there, Roland. I would deed you property and a fine castle. What say you?”

  “Will you make me a duke, sire?”

  “Impudent cock! An earl you’ll be, and nothing more.”

  Roland fell silent. It felt strange to be back in his own land, sitting with his king, discussing marriage to a royal bastard. He wanted no wife, truth be told, yet the truth hesitated on his tongue. Doubtless the king would regret his hastiness. The flagon of wine lay nearly empty between them. Roland would wait until the morrow.

  “ ’Twould enrage your brother, I vow,” the king mused. “Himself the Earl of Blackheath, and to have his troublesome young brother be made an earl also and the king’s son-in-law? Aye, ’twould make him livid.”

  That it would, Roland thought. But he didn’t particularly like to rub his brother’s nose in dung, so he slowly shook his head.

 
; “ ’Tis a generous offer, sire, and one that must be considered conscientiously and in absence of your good drink.”

  “So be it, Roland. Tell me of your harem,” King Edward said, “before my beautiful Eleanor comes to pluck us away.”

  19

  St. Erth Castle

  On the last day of April, under the flowering apple trees in the St. Erth orchard, Father Cramdle performed a marriage ceremony crowned with enough ritual to please even the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. The sweet scent of the apple blossoms, musk roses, and violets filled the air, the bride looked more beautiful than the yellow-and-purple-patterned butterflies that hovered over the scores of trestle tables laden with food and ale, and the bridegroom and master of St. Erth looked like he wanted to frown himself into the ground. Father Cramdle ignored the bridegroom. The ceremony was right and proper. All the people of St. Erth were happy. The master was doing his duty by the maid.

  The soon-to-be-mistress of St. Erth looked as excited as any other girl at her own wedding, Old Agnes thought as she watched Philippa de Beauchamp become Philippa de Fortenberry, the master’s helpmeet and steward and keeper of the castle. Aye, she was lovely in her soft pink gown with a dark pink overtunic—both garments among those sent to her by Lady Kassia de Moreton, a fact that had seemed, for some unknown reason, to annoy the mistress.