Earth Song

  “I’ll learn to write so that I can extol her beauty in love poems, and recite aloud what I have written to her.” Dienwald paused at those outflowing words. Philbo snorted. Dienwald’s vow rang foolish, so he quickly shook his head. “Nay, not poetry,” he added quickly, “but I will show her how much I desire her and adore her by my actions toward her. I will whisper in her ear of my desire for her and wring her sweet heart with my tender tongue. I will never, ever yell at her in anger again.” He smiled at that. Aye, ’twas good, that vow. It was a vow with meat and meaning, and he could hold to it; he was a reasonable man, he was controlled. It wouldn’t be difficult.

  Aye, he would tease her and love her and bend her gently to his will. He worried not about his own peculiar will, for he was not a tyrant to demand subservience. Nay, his was a beneficient will, a mellow will, a will to which she would submit eagerly, her beautiful eyes filled with pleasure at pleasing him, for she adored him and wanted above all things to delight him.

  His brow lowered suddenly, and he added loudly, “I won’t promise to become a shorn lamb in the king’s damned flock!” He moaned, seeing himself in a royal antechamber, clothed like a mincing buffoon, waiting for the king to grant him audience. It was a hideous vision. It curled his toes and made his heart lurch.

  Philbo snorted, and Dienwald ceased his flowing monologue and his dismal imaginings, which, after all, needn’t necessarily come to pass. In the distance he saw a tight group of men riding toward him. He counted them, sixteen men in all. What could they want? Where were they going? And then he recognized Philippa’s mare and Eldwin’s huge black gelding and his son’s pony.

  What was happening here? Where was Philippa going with his men? There she was, riding right there in the fore, leading them, commanding them. Where was she taking his son? Then he froze in his saddle.

  She was leaving him. She’d decided she didn’t want him. She’d decided that she was too far above him to belittle herself with him further. She’d left St. Erth—her home—where she belonged. She was going to London, to her father’s court, to wear precious jewels and fine clothes and never again worry about being naked and having only a blanket to wear.

  His fury mounted and he cursed loudly, raising his voice to the heavens. Aye, and he couldn’t begin to imagine all the men who would be at court, wanting her, damn her beautiful face and body, not just because of who her father was, but because of how she—

  “Damnation!” he bellowed, and urged Philbo to a furious gallop. He saw Edmund riding close to Philippa, Eldwin on his other side. And there was Northbert, his loyal Northbert, riding just behind her. She was stealing his son from him, and his men were helping her. Rage poured through his body.

  “By God,” Eldwin said, coming closer to Philippa’s side. “That’s the master! See, ’tis Philbo he rides! He rides right for us, as if he comes from hell.”

  “Or he rides toward heaven,” Philippa said, smiling.

  “Aye,” Edmund said from her other side, “ ‘tis Papa!”

  “At last,” Philippa said, drawing her mare to a halt. Her eyes sparkled for the first time in three days and her back straightened.

  Philippa forgot her anger at her husband at the sight of him galloping toward her. He’d come to terms with matters and realized that he wanted her, only her, and she was his wife, no matter who her sire was. How fast he was riding! She felt warmth pouring through her, knowing that soon he would be kissing her and holding her, not caring that his men were watching, that his son would be tugging at his tunic for his own hug. He would probably pull her in front of him on Philbo so he could fondle her all the way back to St. Erth. Philippa closed her eyes a moment and let the sweet feelings flow through her. He would love her and there would be naught but smiles and laughter between them again. No more arguments, no more boiling tempers, no more shouting down the keep.

  She opened her eyes, hearing his pounding destrier, and now she could see his face, and she urged her mare forward, wanting to reach him, wanting to lean into his arms when he drew close.

  Dienwald jerked up on Philbo’s reins, and the powerful destrier reared on his hind legs, snorting loudly.

  “Philippa!”

  “Aye, husband. I am here, as is your son, as you can see, and your men with us. We were coming to—”

  He allowed Philbo to come only a few feet closer to his men and his wife. He needed some distance from her. He’d stoked the fire and now he was ready to blaze. “You damnable bitch! How dare you steal my son! How dare you steal yourself! Aye, I know where you’re going, you malignant female—’tis to your father’s court you were traveling with my treacherous men, to bask in the king’s favor and gleam riches from him. Perfidious wench! Get thee out of my sight! I don’t want you, I never wanted you, and I will whip you if you leave not this very instant, this second that follows the end of my words! Hear me, wench?”

  “Papa . . .”

  “You’ll soon be safe from her, Edmund. We’ll return to St. Erth and all will be restored to the way it was before she blighted us with her presence. You were right, Edmund: she was a witch, a curse from the devil, rising out of the wool wagon like a creature from Hades, criticizing you, scorching all of us with her tongue with the first words from her mouth. You won’t have to suffer her further, none of us will. You, Eldwin, Galen, Northbert! all of you, leave her side. Ride away from her. She’s naught but the most treacherous of beings!” He paused, breathing hard.

  “Master,” Galen said quickly in the moment of respite, though he was awed by his master’s flawed fluency. He waved his hand to gain Dienwald’s attention, for the master was staring straight at the mistress, blind with anger. The master was confused; he didn’t understand. Galen looked toward the mistress, but she was simply staring back at the master, white-faced and still. “What you think isn’t what is true, master. You mustn’t believe those absurd words you spout—”

  “We return to St. Erth at once!” Dienwald roared. “Get thee gone, wench. No more will you torment me with your lies and tempt me with your sweet body.”

  Philippa hadn’t said a word. She’d stared at him, at his mouth, as if she could actually see the venomous words flowing out. He truly thought she was leaving him, taking his son with her to London, to her father’s court? She felt a hollowness inside, an emptiness that at the same time overflowed with pain and fury. She stared at him as he yelled and bellowed and insulted her. It was all over now. So much for her silly dreams of his love.

  He was exhorting his men now, calling them faithless hounds and churlish knaves. Then he stopped and stared at them, and his men were silent beneath his volley of fury. A spasm of pain crossed his face. They’d all betrayed him. They’d gone over to her side. He felt blinding grief and anger. Without a thought, he galloped through them. He would return to St. Erth. They could do as they pleased; if they chose to follow her, then they could, curse them. His men fell back from him, scattering, their destriers whinnying in surprise. He heard Galen shouting, Northbert bellowing something he didn’t understand or care to. He wanted only to get away from her and the misery she’d brought him. He whipped Philbo into a mad gallop away from her, away from his men, straight through them, back to St. Erth. Away from his son, who’d also chosen the damnable wench.

  “ ’Tis over now,” Philippa said. Her lips felt numb, her brain emptied of feeling and thought. She felt utter and complete defeat. Nothing mattered now. It was better so. Then suddenly she felt the blood pounding through her, felt the heat of fury roil and churn within her, felt such black rage at his stupidity that she couldn’t bear it. How dare he, the disbelieving fool!

  “No!” Philippa yelled after him. She whipped her mare about and raced after her husband. She yelled back over her shoulder, “Eldwin, remain here! None of you do anything! I’ll be back soon! Edmund, don’t worry. Your father but needs a sound thrashing!”

  Dienwald’s men, their ranks already split by the master’s wild ride, let her go through as well. She rode straigh
t after her husband, her eyes narrowed on his back, her hands fisted over the mare’s reins. She saw Dienwald twist in his saddle at the sound of her mare closing on him, saw the surprise on his face, the brief uncertainty, the renewal of rage.

  Philbo was tired and the mare was fresh. Just as her mare came beside Philbo, Philippa, not for the last time in her life, thought with her feet. Without hesitation, she jumped from the mare’s back straight at her husband, her arms flying around his back. He stared at her in that wild instant, then knew what was going to happen. He lurched around in the saddle, clutched her against his chest even as both of them hurtled from Philbo’s back to the ground. Dienwald twisted and landed first, managing to spare Philippa the brunt of the fall. His arms tightened, and he grunted, the breath momentarily knocked out of him.

  The road was narrow and curved, alongside it the terrain sloped sharply downward. They rolled over and over, locked together, down the grassy incline, coming finally to a stop in the middle of a patch of eglantine and violets.

  Dienwald lay on his back, Philippa atop him. They were both breathing hard. Dienwald wondered if his body was intact or strewn in bits amongst the eglantine. Then Philippa reared back, looking down at him. She, he saw, was just fine. He felt her belly against him and his sex responded instantly, and he knew, at least, that this part of him had survived the fall, and further, would never be immune from her. Her thick glorious hair had come loose of its ribbon and was a riot of wild curls around her face. Her eyes sparkled with fierceness and he found himself waiting eagerly for her outpouring of rage.

  “You stupid lout,” she shouted three inches from his face. “I should break both your arms and your head! You ignorant clod! Aye, I’ll break you into small pieces!”

  “You already have,” he said. “Ridiculous woman, I tried to protect you, take the brunt of the fall, but your weight flying at me was enough to crush my spleen and pulverize my liver. When we smashed to the ground, my breath died, as did all feeling in my chest.”

  “ ’Tis the loss of your brains that should concern you,” Philippa said, and began to pound him. “You had few to begin with, rattling around in that fat head of yours, and now you have none, my lord husband.”

  Dienwald grabbed her flailing fists—not an easy task—and finally managed to roll her beneath him. He jerked her arms over her head, clasped her wrists together, and came up to straddle her so she couldn’t rear up and kick him.

  “Now,” he said, looking down at her, his chest heaving. “Now.”

  “Now what, you buffoon?”

  He felt words stick in his throat. Something was decidedly wrong here. She seemed unaware of his mastery over her, whereas he was aware of nothing but the maddening effect she had on him.

  “I suppose you’ve been licking your false wounds, with your perfect little Kassia giving you her sweet, tender succor. Is that it, you wretched ass? Have you spent the past three days bemoaning your hideous fate? Cursing me and all the saints for the misery that has befallen you? And did your perfect little Kassia agree with you and cry with you as you smote your feckless brow? Answer me!”

  “Not really,” he said, and frowned.

  She jerked, trying to free her hands, but he only tightened his grip. He wanted to kiss her and thrust inside her and throttle her all at the same time. Instead, he said in his most commanding voice, “I am your master, wench. Only I, no one else. You came to me and seduced me and I wedded you and that is that. Now, hold still and keep your tongue quiet, for I must think.”

  “Think! Ha!”

  “Where were you going with my men and my son? You were escaping me, ’twas plain to see. You were going to London, weren’t you? You were taking my son and going to your cursed father. Tell me the truth!”

  She sneered at him and tried to kick him, but he held her securely and all she gained was the pressure of his sex, hard and demanding, against her. It drove her mad and enraged her at the same time. “Aye,” she shouted so loudly she hurt his ears, “aye, we were all going to London! To my father—to cover myself with jewels and cavort and frolic and dance with all the fine courtiers.”

  “That’s all you can think about? Gallants and jewels? And what would Edmund have done whilst you were cavorting and frolicking and flirting with these frivolous clothheads?”

  That stumped her, for her brain had fallen into wayward paths. He was astride her, his legs tight against her sides, and he was panting, so close she could nearly feel the texture of his mouth on her. She wanted desperately to hit him and then kiss him until he was breathless and so hungry for her that he forget everything.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Philippa. It will do you no good. I won’t give in to you. It won’t spare you my wrath. Don’t deny it—you’re trying to seduce me again. No, you’ve been disloyal to me, you’ve—”

  She suddenly heaved upward with all her strength, taking him off-guard. He fell sideways, not releasing her wrists, and they were lying there with naught but thick clumps of purple violets between them, face-to-face, their noses nearly pressed together. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her, then lurched back as if stung by a hornet.

  “Dienwald . . .” she whispered, and hurled herself toward him, trying to kiss him back.

  “Nay, I shan’t let you debauch me again, wench. Stay away from me.” Blood pounded in her head and with a furious cry she pulled free of his hands and smashed down on him, rolling him again onto his back. She was lying atop him once more, and then she was kissing him, even as he tried to duck away. She gripped his hair and yanked hard, holding his head between her hands, and she kissed him again and again, licking his chin, nipping at his nose, rubbing her cheek against his ear. He felt her belly hard against his sex and knew it was nearly the finish. The finish for him. He didn’t understand her. She was yielding and taking both at the same time, and it astonished him and pleased him. He stilled his body, letting her have her way with him.

  “Wench,” he said finally when she’d momentarily left his mouth. “Wench, listen to me.”

  Eyes vague, heart pounding, Philippa heard his soft voice and raised her head to look down at him.

  “You’re my husband, you peevish fool,” she said, and kissed him again. “You’re mine. I would never leave you, never, no matter how great my anger at you and your crazy thinking. Do you understand me?” And she pounded his head against the violets. “Do you? I was coming to fetch you, to bring you home to me, where you belong. Do you understand?”

  “Stop it for but a moment! By the saints, my head! You’re breaking my head! There, stop! Aye, I understand you. But now you heed me. You’re my wife and you won’t ever leave me again, do you understand me? You will remain at St. Erth or wherever it is I wish you to remain. You won’t ever go haring off to London to see your father without me. I won’t have it, do you hear me?”

  “Me leave you?” That made her stop her kisses and clear her brain just a bit. “You left me! For three days I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing. Then I realized you would go to your beloved perfect little Kassia, so I was coming after you, your men and your son with me!”

  In her indignation, she tugged at his hair all the harder and pounded his head several more times against the ground. He groaned loudly, and she stopped. “Your head is crushing the violets. How dare you think those awful things about me? You are impossible and I can’t imagine why I love you more than I love—” She broke off, staring down at him, knowing that she’d left herself open to him, open to his scorn, his baiting, his insults.

  He suddenly smiled, a beautiful crooked smile that made her want to kiss him until he couldn’t think. “Were you really coming after me, to fetch me home?”

  “Of course! I wasn’t going to London. You honestly believe I would steal your son, leave my home? Command your men to attend me? Ah, Dienwald, you deserve this!” She reared back, her arm raised, yet at the last moment her fist stilled in midair. She stared down at him and saw the gleam of challenge in his eyes, the
twist of a smile on his mouth. She cursed him softly, then leaned down and kissed him thoroughly. He parted his lips and let her tongue enter his mouth. It was wonderful. She was wonderful and she was his.

  “Aye,” he said into her warm mouth, “I deserve all of you, wench.”

  She felt his hands stroke down her back and pulled her flat against him. His fingers were parting her legs, pressing inward through her gown, to touch her. “Dienwald,” she said against his mouth.

  He jerked up her gown and his fingers were now caressing the bare skin of her inner thighs, working slowly upward, until they found her woman’s flesh and then he paused, his fingers quiet now, not moving, merely feeling her warmth and softness. He sighed deeply. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Nay, ’tis my body you’ve missed,” she whispered between urgent kisses. “Any female would suit you, ’tis just that you are a lusty cockscomb and a man who is randy all his waking hours. I have heard of all your other women, I even know all their cursed names for Edmund recited them.”

  “You would surely make me the most miserable of men were I to take another woman to my bed. Do you know that I dream of coming inside you, deep and deeper still, and all the while you’re telling me how it makes you feel when I push into you—”

  She kissed him again, wild for him now, unheeding of their surroundings. Dienwald was very nearly removed in spirit as well until he heard Eldwin’s soft voice, “Master.”

  Dienwald wanted nothing more than to let Philippa debauch him right here, in the nest of violets and eglantine, the soft warm air swirling about them. He cocked open an eye even as he pulled down her gown.

  “What want you, Eldwin? There is an army bearing down on you and you must know where to flee?”