Earth Song (22 page)

It was nearly dark before the two men returned with a pheasant and two rabbits. After they'd supped and the fire was burning low and orange, Philippa wrapped herself in a blanket, pulled Edmund down to the ground beside her, and waited. It took Walter not long to say, “I heard that de Fortenberry was holding you prisoner. I planned and schemed to get you free of him.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Walter paused a moment, then said with a rush of dignity, “I am not without loyal servants, cousin. St. Erth's cistern keeper told me of your position.” Walter paused a moment, then leaned over to take Philippa's hand in his. His was warm and dry. She said nothing, didn't move. “The man told me how his master had mistreated you, molesting you, holding you against your will in his bedchamber whilst he ravished you. He even told how Fortenberry had ripped your gown before all his people, then dragged you from the hall to rape you yet again. Then he told me how Alain, the steward, had wanted you killed and how he and another were to do it. He didn't realize that you, dearest heart, were mine own cousin. I killed him for you, Philippa. I slit his miserable throat even as the words gagged in his mouth. You need never fear him again.”

The cistein keeper had deserved death, she would have killed him herself had she been able, but to hear of it done in so cold-blooded a fashion . . . And Walter believed she'd been abused, violated. It was, she supposed, a logical conclusion. “Does my father know?”

“You mean Lord Henry? Nay, not as yet.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“That his master had stolen Lord Henry's wool and forced you to oversee the weaving and sewing, that he treated you as a servant and a whore. How was Alain found out?”

Philippa said this cautiously, not wanting Walter to realize that she'd discovered his treachery because she worried and fretted about St. Erth and its master. She said only, “He was a fool, and one of the master's men broke his miserable neck.”

“Good,” Walter said. “I just wish I could have done it for you, sweetling. Of course, I know why the steward feared you and wanted you dead. It was because you read and write and cipher and he knew you'd find him out. A pity he tried to kill you, for he was a good servant and bled St. Erth nearly dry of its wealth, and much of the knave's coin found its way to my coffers.”

Philippa felt Edmund stir, felt fury in his small body, and she quickly laid a quieting hand on his shoulder. “Walter, will you return me to my father?”

“Not as yet, Philippa, not as yet. First I wish you to see Crandall, the keep I oversee. And you need clothes for your station, aye, soft ermine, mayhap scarlet for a tunic, and the softest linen for your shifts. I long to see you garbed as befits your position. Then we will speak of your father.”

She frowned at him. What was going on here? Why was Walter acting loverlike? Her position? She was his cousin, that was all. Surely he didn't want her, since he believed she was no longer a maiden, since he believed Dienwald had kept her as his mistress. Had perchance her father gone to
him? Promised him a dowry if he found her, thus promising her in marriage to her cousin? It seemed the only logical answer to Philippa. No man could possibly want her if he believed she lacked both a maidenhead and a dowry.

“Do we reach Crandall on the morrow?”

He nodded and yawned. He smiled upon her, seeing her weariness. “I will keep you safe, Philippa. You need have no more fear. I will make you . . . happy.”

Philippa was terrified, but she nodded, her look as pleasingly sweet as she could muster it.
Happy!

“What say you, Silken? She what? That whoreson Walter killed both Ellis and Albe?
Both
of them? He took Edmund as well?”

“Aye, master. He took both the mistress and Master Edmund. We fetched Ellis' and Albe's bodies, and Father Cramdle buried them with God's sacred words.”

Dienwald stood very still, weary from a long hard ride, his mind sluggish; he couldn't take it in. Two days had passed since Sir Walter de Grasse had taken his son and Philippa and killed Ellis and Albe. He himself had just ridden into St. Erth's inner bailey and learned what had happened from Silken. Dear God, what had Walter done to them? Had he taken them for ransom? Fear erased his fatigue.

Silken cleared his throat, his gnarled hand on Dienwald's arm. “Master, heed me. I have been filled with murderous spleen since my escape, but
have wondered if what I first believed to be true was true or was the result of blind seeing.”

“Make sense, Silken!”

“This Sir Walter greeted the mistress as if . . . as if she'd sent for him and he'd rescued her as she wished him to. As if he'd known she would be riding and he'd had but to wait for her to come in his direction. He was waving at her, smiling like a man filled with joy at the sight of her.”

Dienwald stared blankly at the man, and his gut cramped viciously.

“Aye, she'd ridden out three days in a row, master, and that last day, only three men attended her and the young master.”

“And was that her demand?”

“I know not,” Silken said. “I know only that Ellis and Albe lie rotting in the earth.”

The heavens at that moment opened and cold rain flooded down. Thunder rumbled and the sky darkened to night. Dienwald, his tired men at his heels, ran into the great hall. It was silent as a tomb. There were clumps of women standing about, but at the sight of him they became mute. Then Gorkel came to him, his hideous face working. With anger? With betrayal?

“Ale!” Dienwald bellowed. “Margot, quickly!”

He ignored Gorkel for the moment, his thought on his son, now a prisoner of Sir Walter de Grasse, his greatest enemy, his only avowed enemy. His blood ran cold. Would Walter run Edmund through with his sword simply because the boy was of his flesh and blood? Dienwald closed his eyes against the roiling pain of it, against the helplessness he felt. And Philippa . . . Had she betrayed him? Had she taken Edmund
riding with her on purpose so that Dienwald wouldn't follow for fear his son would be killed?

He was tired, so tired that his mind went adrift with frantic chafing, with uncertainty. Philippa was gone . . . Edmund was gone, his only son . . . two of his men were dead . . .

Gorkel drew nearer to speak, but Dienwald said, “Nay, hold your peace, I would think.”

It was Crooky who said in the face of his master's prohibition, “The mistress left her finery. Surely if she'd wanted to be rescued by her loathsome cousin, if somehow she'd managed to send him word, she would have taken the garments sent her by Lady Kassia, nay, she would have worn them to greet her savior.”

“Mayhap, mayhap not.”

“She knew you hate the man and that he hates you.”

“ ‘Tis true, curse the proud-minded wench.”

“She would not endanger Master Edmund.”

“Would she not, fool? Why not, I ask you. Edmund calls her maypole and witch. She held him by his ear and scrubbed him with soap. He howled and scratched and cursed her. Surely she can bear him no affection. Why not, I ask you again.”

“The mistress is a lady of steady nature. She has not a sour heart, master, nor did she allow herself to be vexed with Master Edmund. She laughed at his sulky humors and teased him and sewed him clothes, aye, and held him firm to bathe him, as a mother would. She would never seek to harm the boy.”

“I don't understand women. Nor do you, so pretend not that you possess some great shrewdness about them. But I do know their blood sings
with perversity. They become peevish and testy when they gain not what they want; they become treacherous when they believe a certain man to be the framer of their woes. They see only the ends they seek, and weigh not the means to achieve them. She could perceive Edmund as only a minor obstacle.”

“You are the one who sees blindly, master.”

“That is what Silken said. Oh, aye, I hear you. Get you gone, fool. Thank the heavens above that you did not sing your opinion to me. My head would have split open and my thoughts would have flowed into oblivion.”

“I have known it to happen, master.”

“Get out of my sight, fool!” Dienwald made a halfhearted effort to kick Crooky's ribs, but the fool neatly rolled out of reach.

“What will you do, master?”

“I will sleep and think, and think yet more, until the morrow. Then we will ride to Crandall to fetch my son and the wench.”

“And if you find she deceived you?”

“I will beat her and tie her to my bed and berate her until she begs God's forgiveness and mine. And then . . .”

“And if you find she deceived you not?”

“I shall . . . Get out of my sight, fool!”

“Dienwald de Fortenberry,” King Edward said, rubbing his jaw as he looked at his travel-stained chancellor. “I know of him, but he has never come to my court. Not that I have been much in evidence before I . . . But never mind that. I have
been on England's shores for nearly eight months now and yet de Fortenberry disdains to pay his homage to me. He did not attend my coronation, did he?”

“Nay, he did not. But then again, sire, why should he? If all your nobles—the minor barons included—had attended your coronation, why then London would have burst itself like a tunic holding in a fat man.”

The king waved that observation aside. “What of his reputation?”

“His reputation is that of knave, scoundrel, occasional rogue, and loyal friend.”

“Graelam wishes an occasional rogue and a scoundrel to be the king's son-in-law?”

Robert Burnell, tired to his mud-encrusted boots, nodded. He'd returned from his travels but an hour before, and already the king in his endless energy wanted to wring him of all information. “Aye, sire. Lord Graelam wasn't certain that you knew Dienwald, and so he recited to me this man's shortcomings as well as his virtues. He claims Dienwald would never importune you for royal favors and that since he has no family, there are none to leech on your coffers. Lord Graelam and his lady call him friend, nay, they call him good friend. They say he would cease his outlaw ways were he the king's son-in-law.”

“Or he would continue them, knowing I could not have my son-in-law's neck stretched by the hangman's noose!”

“Lord Graelam does not allow that a possibility, sire. I did question him closely. Dienwald de Fortenberry is a man of honor . . . and wickedness, but his wickedness flows from his humors, which
flow from the wildness and independence of Cornwall itself.”

“You turn from a shrewd chancellor into a honeyed poet, Robbie. It grieves me to see you babble, you a man of the church, a man of disciplined habits. De Fortenberry, hmmm. Graelam gave you not another name? You heard of no other man who would become me and my sweet Philippa?”

Burnell shook his head. “Shall I read you what I have writ as Lord Graelam spoke to me, sire?”

Edward shook his head, his thick golden hair swinging free about his shoulders. Plantagenet hair, Burnell thought, and wished he could have seen if Philippa was as gloriously endowed as her father.

“Tell me of my daughter,” Edward said suddenly. “But be quick about it, Robbie. I must needs argue with some long-nosed Scots from Alexander's court, curse his impertinence and their barbaric tongue.”

“I didn't see her,” Burnell said quickly, then waited for the storm to rage over his head.

“Why?” Edward asked mildly.

“Lord Henry said she was ill with a bloody flux from her bowels, and thus I couldn't meet her.”

“St. Gregory's teeth, will the girl live?”

“Lord Henry assures me the de Beauchamp physician worries not. The girl will live.”

“I wish you had waited, Robbie, until you could have spoken with her.”

Burnell merely nodded, but his soul was mournful. The king had abjured him to return as soon as he could. And he had obeyed his master, as he always did.

“Lord Henry showed me a miniature of the girl.”

The king brightened as he took the small painting from Burnell's hand. He studied the stylized portrait, but saw beyond the white-faced expression of bland purity and the overly pointed chin to the sparkling Plantagenet eyes, eyes as blazing bright as a summer sky, eyes as blue as his own. As for her hair, it was nearly white, it was so blond, and her forehead was flawless, high and white with but thin eyebrows to intercede, but then again, an artist strove to please. He tried to remember the color of Constance's hair but couldn't bring it to mind. He couldn't recall that she'd had such flaxen white hair; no woman had hair that color. That much, he thought, was the artist's fancy. He placed the miniature in his tunic. “Let me think about this. I will speak to the queen. She will translate the artist's rendering, and her counsel rings true. I suppose if I agree, I must bring de Fortenberry here to Windsor to tell him of his good fortune.” King Edward strode to the door, then turned back to say, “The damned Scots! Harangue me they will until my tongue swells in my mouth! You must needs rest, Robbie, 'twas a long journey for you, and wearying.” The king turned again, his hand on the doorknob, then said absently over his shoulder, “Fetch your writing implements, Robbie. I must have you record faithfully their muling complaints. Then we shall discuss what is to be done with them.”