Earth Song (31 page)

“Aye, that's the meat of it,” Lord Henry said. “I'd like to smash the pea-brained young cockscomb into a dung heap.”

Roland smiled at blessed fate. His luck had held him through this brief foray into possible disaster. He could not understand de Fortenberry's actions. Was the man mad? His own motives for not wishing to marry—even the king's bastard daughter—were different; they meant something. Roland decided to stay the night at St. Erth and on the morrow pay his visit to Graelam de Moreton at Wolffeton. The king's bastard daughter was no longer any of his concern. He'd done his duty by his king, and all, for him at least, had resolved itself right and tight. The heiress was already wedded and he had no more part to play.

He remarked upon the political situation with the Scots, the intractability of King Alexander and his minions, and forgot the purpose of his visit. The three men, without the presence of either the master or the mistress of St. Erth, ate their fill and consumed more of the castle's fine ale and kept watch and company until late into the night, talking, arguing, and yelling at each other, all in high good humor.

The master of St. Erth, the soon-to-be Earl of St. Erth, didn't appear. Nor did his discarded wife.

“Hold him down, Rolfe! Hellfire, grab his other leg, quickly, he nearly sent his foot into my manhood! You, Osbert, keep his arms behind him! Nay, don't break his elbow! Just keep him quiet.”

Lord Graelam de Moreton rubbed his hand over his throbbing jaw and watched as two of his men held Dienwald down, another sitting on his legs and a fourth on his chest. Dienwald was panting and yelling and now he was gasping for breath, for Osbert was not a lightweight. His blow had been strong and knocked Graelam off his feet and flat on his back onto the sharp cobblestones of the inner bailey.

Of course, Dienwald had caught him off-guard. Aye, he'd taken Graelam by complete surprise. His so-called friend had ridden through Wolffeton's gates, welcomed by the men because he was a known ally. No one could have guessed that the instant Dienwald dismounted his destrier, he would attack him. Graelam looked down at his red-faced enraged friend. “What ails you, Dienwald? Kassia, don't fret, I'm all right. It's our neighbor here who's gone quite mad. He attacked me like a fevered fiend from hell.”

“Let me up, you stinking whoreson, and you'll see how I split you with my sword!”

“Nay, sir,” Rolfe said kindly. “Move you not, or I will have to twist your arm.”

Kassia stared from Dienwald to her husband. “Ah,” she said, “Dienwald has discovered what you did, my lord. He's come to express his disapproval of your interference.”

“Aye, loose me, you coward, and I'll debone you, you lame-assed cur!”

Graelam hunkered down beside his friend, his face only inches from Dienwald's. “Listen to me, fool, and listen well. You needn't marry the king's daughter, and you know it well. Both Kassia and I saw Morgan or Mary or whatever her name is and knew it was she you wanted. We decided if
you wanted to wed her, you would have her, and the king be damned. There was no reason for us to say anything. We knew you wouldn't bend to any man, be he king or sultan or God. Isn't that the truth?”

Dienwald howled. “I had already wedded her when Burnell came! She was already my wife!”

“So what is the matter? You're acting half-crazed. Speak sense and I will let you free.”

“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 said, “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.”

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.