Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  “Her name isn’t Morgan or Mary, damn you! Her name is Philippa de Beauchamp and she is our blessed king’s cursed daughter!”

  Graelam looked up at his wife. They simply stared at each other, then back at Dienwald. “Well,” Graelam said finally, “this is a most curious turn of events.”

  Kassia knelt beside Dienwald and gently laid her hand on his cheek. “You’re obstinate beyond all reason, my friend. You wedded the girl who was intended for you. And she was the girl you wished to wed. All worked out as it was intended to. Everyone is content, or should be. So you’re now the king’s son-in-law. Does it really matter all that much? You will perhaps have to become more, er, respectable, Dienwald, in your dealings, less eager to strip fat merchants of their goods, possibly a bit more deferential, particularly when you are in the king’s presence, but surely it isn’t too much to ask. We did it for your own good, you know—”

  “Good be damned!” Dienwald howled, his eyes red. “Your mangy husband did it because he thought I’d stolen the wine your father sent you! Admit it, you hulking whoreson! You did it to revenge yourself upon me—I know it as I know you and your shifty ways!”

  “You won’t insult my lord,” Kassia said in a tone of voice Dienwald had never heard from her before. It was low and it was mean. It drew him up short, and he said, his voice now sulky and defensive, “Well, ‘tis true. He did me in, he did it to spite me.”

  Kassia smiled down at him. “You reason with your spleen and your bile, not with your wits. Hush now and behave yourself. Release him, Rolfe, he won’t act the stupid lout again. At least,” she added, giving a meaningful look to Dienwald, “he had better not. Yes, Dienwald, you will now rise and you won’t attempt to strike Graelam again. If you even try it, you will have to deal with me.”

  Dienwald looked at the very delicate, very pregnant lady and grinned reluctantly. “I don’t want to have to deal with you, Kassia. Cannot you turn your back for just a moment? I just want to smash your husband into the ground. Just one more blow, just a small one.”

  “No, you may not even spit at him, so be quiet. Now, come in and I will give you some ale. Where is Philippa? Where is your lovely bride?”

  “Doubtless she is singing and dancing and playing a fine tune for the damned Chancellor of England and her fa . . . nay, that idiot Lord Henry de Beauchamp.”

  “You believe her wallowing in pleasure that you left St. Erth? That is what you did, isn’t it, Dienwald? You shouted and bellowed at her and then ran away to sulk?”

  Dienwald looked at the gentle, sweet, pure lady at his side, and growled at her husband, “Put your hand over her mouth, Graelam. She grows impertinent. She vexes me as much as the wench does.”

  Graelam laughed. “She speaks the truth. You’ve a wife, and truly, Dienwald, it matters not who her family is. You didn’t wed her for a family or lack of one, did you? You wedded her because you love her.”

  “Nay! Cut off your rattling tongue! I wedded her because I took her and she was a damned virgin and I had no choice but to wed her since my son—my demented nine-year-old son—demanded that I do so!”

  “You would have wedded her anyway,” Kassia said, “Edmund or no Edmund.”

  “Aye,” Dienwald agreed, shaking his head mournfully. “I will beget no bastard off a lady.”

  “Then why do you act the persecuted victim?” Graelam said. “The heedless brute who cares for no one?”

  “Oh, I care for her, but I believed her father to be naught but a fool, and so it bothered me not. But no, her father must needs be the King of England. The King of England, Graelam! It is too much. I will not abide it. I will set her aside. She took me in and made a mockery of me. Aye, I will send her to a convent and annul her and she will forget all her besotted feelings for me. She smothered me with her sweet yielding, her soft smiles and her passion. She will hate me and it will be what we both deserve.”

  Kassia swept a cat off the seat of a chair and motioned Dienwald to it. “You will do nothing of the sort. Sit you down, my friend, and eat. You’ve eaten naught, have you? . . . I thought not. Here are some fresh bread and honey.”

  Dienwald ate.

  Graelam and Kassia allowed him to vent his rage and sulk and carp and curse luridly, until, upon the third morning after his unexpected arrival at Wolffeton, Roland de Tournay rode into the inner bailey.

  When Roland saw Dienwald, he simply stared at him silently for a very long time. The man looked to Roland’s sharp eye to be at the very edge. His eyes were hollow and dark-circled for want of sleep, and he had not the look of a man remotely content with himself or with his lot. “Well,” Roland said, “I wondered where you’d fled. Your wife is not a happy lady, my soon-to-be lord Earl of St. Erth.”

  “I don’t want to be a damned earl! What did you say? Philippa isn’t happy? Is she ill? What’s wrong?”

  “You yourself said she was besotted with you, Dienwald,” Kassia said. “Would you not expect her to be unhappy in your absence?”

  Roland marveled aloud at de Fortenberry’s outpouring of stupidity. He said patiently, “Your lovely wife happens to care about you, something none understand, but there it is. As you say, she is besotted with you. Thus, in your unexpected absence, she is miserable; all your servants are miserable because she is; your son hangs to her skirts trying to raise her spirits, but it does little good. The chancellor and Lord Henry finally left because life at St. Erth had become so grim and bleak. No one had any spirit for jests, even your fool, Crooky. He simply lay about in the rushes mumbling something about the lapses of God’s grace. I could be in the wrong of it, but it would seem to me that you are very stupid, my lord earl.”

  “I am not a damned earl! I don’t recall having required your opinion, de Tournay!”

  “Nay, you did not, but I choose to give it to you, freely offered. Your wife is a lovely lady. She doesn’t deserve to be treated so meanly.”

  Dienwald appeared ready to attack Roland, and Graelam quickly intervened. “I expected you sooner, Roland. Dienwald, go lick your wounds elsewhere and look not to bash Roland. He isn’t your enemy. And if you spit on him, Kassia won’t like it.”

  Dienwald, still muttering, strode to Wolffeton’s training field, there to besport himself with Rolfe and the other men.

  As for Roland, he turned to Graelam and smiled. “It has been a very long time, my friend, but I am here at last. This is your wife, Graelam? This beautiful creature who looks like a fairy princess? She calls you, a scarred hairy warrior, husband? Willingly?”

  “Aye,” Kassia said, and gave her hand to Roland. He touched his fingers to her palm and smiled down at her. “You carry a babe, my lady.”

  “Your vision is sharper than a falcon’s, Roland! Aye, she will give me a beautiful daughter very soon now.”

  “A son, my lord. ’Tis a son I carry.”

  Roland looked at the two of them. He had known Graelam de Moreton for many years and called him friend. But he’d known him as a hard man, unyielding and implacable, a valued man to fight at your side, strong and valiant, but no show of tenderness or gentleness in his character to please such a fragile lady as this. But he did please her—that was evident. Roland marveled at it and thought it excellent, but didn’t choose to see such changes in himself. No, never. He didn’t understand such feelings and had no desire to, none.

  Graelam said, “Come, Roland, I assume you have something of import to tell me. Kassia, I wish you to rest now, sweetling. Nay, argue not with me, for rest you will, even if I have to tie you to our bed.” He leaned down, his palm gentle against his wife’s cheek, and lightly kissed her mouth. “Go, love.”

  And Roland marveled anew. The two men sat in Wolffeton’s great hall, flagons of wine between them.

  Roland said without preamble, “I must go to Wales and I mustn’t be Roland de Tournay there. You have friends amongst the Marcher Barons. I need you to give me an introduction to one of them. Mayhap I will need to pay a surprise visit.”

  Graelam sa
id, “You play spy again, Roland? I have no doubt, my friend, that you could dupe God into accepting you as one of his angels. Aye, I have friends there. If you must, you can go to Lord Richard de Avenell. He is the father of Lady Chandra de Vernon. You know her husband, Jerval, do you not?”

  Roland nodded. “Aye, I met both of them in Acre.”

  “It’s done, then, Roland. I will have my steward, Blount, write a letter for you to Lord Richard. He will welcome you to his keep. Will you leave for Wales immediately?”

  Roland sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “If I may, Graelam, I should like to remain just for a while longer to see what transpires between Dienwald and his wife and his wife’s father-in-law.”

  Graelam laughed. “Aye, I too would like to see Edward’s face were he to be told that Dienwald cursed and fled when he discovered the king was now related to him! He would surely be speechless for once in his life.”

  Near St. Erth

  Walter de Grasse wanted to spit, and he did, often. It relieved his bile. He’d argued fiercely with Britta, who’d clung to him and wept bitter tears and begged him to stay with her and not go after Philippa. But he’d dragged himself and his aching head away.

  He would have Philippa, no matter the cost. He would have her and he would kill Dienwald de Fortenberry at last. Damned scoundrel! And he would keep Britta, no matter what either female wanted.

  He’d cursed his men roundly, railing at them for allowing one lone women with a little boy to escape Crandall. But it had happened and they had escaped and now he had to devise another way of catching her again.

  He and six of his most skilled and ruthless men camped in a scraggly wood not a mile from the castle of St. Erth. One man kept watch at all times. It was reported to Walter that the master of St. Erth himself had ridden off, no one with him, and as yet he hadn’t returned. Walter knew of the chancellor’s visit and of Lord Henry’s visit as well. The fat was now in the fire, and Philippa as well as Dienwald had been told who she really was.

  Why, then, had Dienwald ridden away from his keep alone? It made no sense to Walter.

  He saw the chancellor and all his men leave, which was a relief, for Walter had no wish to tangle with the king’s soldiers. Then Lord Henry and his men left St. Erth. Walter sat back, chewed on a blackened piece of rabbit, and waited.

  Wolffeton Castle

  “The wench is what she is, and nothing can change that.”

  “That is true,” Graelam agreed.

  “Do you love her, Dienwald?” Kassia asked now, setting her embroidery on her knee, for the babe was big in her belly.

  “You women and your silly talk of love! Love is naught but a fabrication that dissolves when you but look closely at it.”

  “You begin to sound more the fool than your Crooky.” Kassia sighed. “You must face up to things, Dienwald. You must go home to your wife and your son. Perhaps, if you are very careful, you could still raid on your western borders. Aye, I think my lord would wish to accompany you. He chafes for adventure now that there is naught but boring peace.”

  “She’s right, Dienwald. There would be no reason for the king to find out. You could be most discreet in your looting and raiding. You would simply have to select your quarry wisely. Aye, Kassia speaks true. I should like a bit of sport myself, on occasion.”

  Dienwald brightened. “Philippa likes adventure as well,” he said slowly. “I think she would much enjoy raiding.”

  “It is certainly something for the two of you to speak together about,” Kassia said, lowering her head so Dienwald wouldn’t see the smile on her lips.

  Roland de Tournay, much to both Graelam’s and his wife’s appalled surprise, said suddenly, “Nay, I don’t agree with Graelam. I agree with you, Dienwald. I think you should travel to Canterbury and explain to the archbishop what happened to you. I think he would annul his marriage. After all, the wench wasn’t honest about her heritage. She’s a bastard when all’s said and done. What man would wish to be wedded to a bastard? Aye, rid yourself of her, Dienwald. It matters not if she carries your babe in her belly. Let the king, her father, see to it. You will be happy again and your keep will resume its normal workings. You can return to your mistresses with a free heart and without guilt.”

  To Graelam’s and Kassia’s further surprise, Dienwald bounded to his feet and stared at Roland as though he’d suddenly become a toad that had just hopped onto the trestle table and into the pigeon pie.

  “Shut your foul mouth, Roland! Philippa knew not that she was a bastard! None of it was her fault, none of it her doing. She is honest and pure and sweet and . . .” He broke off, saw that he’d been trapped in a cage of his own creation, and turned red all the way to his hairline.

  “You damnable whoreson, I hope you rot!” he bellowed as he strode with churning step from Wolffeton’s great hall, leaving its three remaining occupants to explode with laughter.

  22

  St. Erth Castle

  Philippa stood in the inner bailey, her hands on her hips, facing Dienwald’s master-of-arms. “I care not what you say, Eldwin. I won’t remain here for another day, nay, not even another hour! Don’t you understand? Your master is at Wolffeton—he must be there—licking his imagined wounds and whining to Graelam and his perfect little Kassia about what his treacherous wife has done to him.”

  “And you wish to go to Wolffeton, mistress? If the master is there, you want to berate him in front of Lord Graelam? Rebuke him in front of the men? Mistress, he is your lord and master and your husband. You mustn’t do anything that would reflect badly on him. Above all, surely you wouldn’t wish to leave St. Erth! Why, ’tis your duty to remain here until the master decides what he will do and—”

  Philippa was at the end of her tether. Crooky, who stood beside her, looked knowingly at Eldwin and said, “You are naught but a stringy bit of offal, sirrah! Don’t pretend to rise above what you are to tell her what she must and mustn’t do. She is a princess, Eldwin, so bite your churl’s tongue! A princess does what she wishes to do, and if she wishes to fetch the master, well then, all of us will go with her and fetch the master. And the master will be well-fetched, and that’s an end to it!”

  “Aye, I will go as well,” said Edmund, “for he is my father.”

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  Eldwin, routed, looked about at the two score of St. Erth people, who had obviously sided with the mistress. Old Agnes was grinning her toothless grin and flapping her skinny arms at him as if he were a fox in her henhouse. He gave over, but not completely. “But, mistress, all of us can’t leave the castle! Old Agnes, you must stay and see to the weaving and sewing! Gorkel, you must keep the villeins at their tasks and see to the keep’s safety.”

  “Aye, and what will ye do, Eldwin of the mighty arm?” Old Agnes said.

  “I go with the mistress,” Eldwin said, rose to his full height, and stared down at Old Agnes, who promptly moved back a few steps.

  Philippa grinned, and Eldwin, pleased that he’d made her smile, and equally pleased that Old Agnes had retreated a bit, felt his chest expand. Perhaps they should fetch the master. Perhaps it was the best thing to do. Wasn’t there more to his duty than to remain at St. Erth and command and protect the keep?

  “Aye, mistress, it will be as our brave Eldwin says,” Old Agnes shouted. “I’ll keep all these rattling tongues at their tasks! I just hope Prink—the faithless cretin—gives me some difficulties. If Mordrid doesn’t smack him down, then I’ll have Gorkel flail off his wormy hide.”

  “Aye,” said Gorkel the Hideous, “I’ll keep everything and everyone in his place. You aren’t to fret yourself, mistress. No one will fall into lazy stupor.”

  It was too much. Philippa looked from one beloved face to another and felt her smile crack. The past three days had been beyond wretched, and all of them had tried so diligently to make her feel better about her husband’s defection. She swallowed her tears, and
found herself nodding at Crooky with approval even as he cleared his throat and looked fit to burst with song.

  We go to fetch the master

  We go to bring him home.

  We’ll not take a nay from him

  Unless he’s torn limb from limb.

  Crooky stopped, clapping his hands over his mouth, aghast at the shocking words that had come pouring forth. Philippa stared at him. Everyone stared at him. Then Philippa giggled; several nervous giggles followed. Finally Philippa sobered and turned to Eldwin. “Pick fifteen men and arm them well. We ride to Wolffeton within the hour. As for the rest of you, prepare the keep for your master’s return. We will feast as we did the day of our wedding!”

  Near St. Erth

  Walter was livid. He saw her there, at the head of the men, riding away from St. Erth. Fifteen men—he counted them. Well-armed they were. Too many for him to attempt to capture her, damn their hides.

  Where was she going? Perhaps, he thought, smiling, she was leaving her husband. Aye, that was it. She was leaving the perfidious lout.

  At last he’d have her. Walter roused his men, mounted his destrier, and waved all of them to follow him. He would follow her all the way to Ireland if need be. He would find her alone at some point along the way. She would have to relieve herself or bathe. Aye, he’d get her.

  Between Wolffeton and St. Erth

  Dienwald patted Philbo’s neck. His destrier was lathering a bit, beginning to blow hard now, but he plowed forward, ever forward, as if guessing they were homeward-bound.

  Dienwald would soon have his wench again and he would kiss her and hold her and tell her he forgave all her multitudinous sins, even if she chose not to remember them. He would love her until he was insensate and she as well.

  “Ah, Philippa,” he said, looking between Philbo’s twitching ears. “Soon all will be well again. Even though I’ll be an earl, I shan’t carp overly. I will bend my knee to your cursed father when I must, and will show him that I am a man of honor and a man who cares more for his daughter than the world and all its bounty.