Earth Song (21 page)

“Who are Ellen and Sybilla?”

Edmund shrugged. “Oh, I forgot. Father married Ellen to a peasant when he got her with child, and Sybilla sickened with a fever and died. But Alice is small, not like you.”

Philippa wanted to cuff his ears and stuff one of her new leather slippers into his mouth. She wanted to scream so loud that it would chase the cawing rooks away. Edmund's flowing child's candor had smitten her deep, very deep, with pain; she wanted to weep. Of course Dienwald had made no secret of his couplings. He'd said merely that they saved her maidenhead. And she'd not cared then because he was a stranger she hadn't come to know yet. But now she had and she wanted to send her fist into his belly and hear him bellow with pain. She wanted . . .

“Father will send you back to Lord Henry. He
has no choice. He doesn't want to wed, ever. Thass what he tells everyone.”

“
That's,
” Philippa said automatically. “Why do you believe that?”

Edmund shrugged. “I heard him tell Alain once that women were a man's folly, that if a man wished more than a vessel, he was naught but a windy fool and an ass.”

“Your memory rivals a priest's discourse in its detail.”

This was greeted with another shrug. “My father knows everything. Thass . . .
that's
why he doesn't use you as he does the others. He'd be ashamed, perchance worried that he would have to wed you. Is your father very powerful?”

“Very powerful,” Philippa said. “And very mean and very strong and—”

It was then that Edmund grunted and jerked at his pony's reins. “Look yon, Philippa! Men, and they're coming toward us!”

Philippa saw the men and felt her heart sink to her toes. They were riding hard, and even from a distance they looked determined. Who were they?

“Your father, Edmund?”

“Nay, I don't recognize Father or Northbert or Eldwin, and they ride the most distinctive destriers. I don't know who they are. We must flee, Philippa.”

The man-at-arms, Ellis, turned to Philippa, consternation writ clear on his face. “There are too many of them, mistress. Ride! Back to St. Erth. We can't fight them.”

Philippa, without a word, jerked on her palfrey's reins and dug her bare heels into the mare's sides. She looked sideways at Edmund and realized that his pony didn't have the endurance to keep pace with the rest of them. Their pursuers' horses were pounding toward them, ever closer,
their hooves kicking up whorls of dust into the clear air. Who were they?

It didn't matter. Philippa lowered her head and urged her palfrey faster. When Edmund's pony faltered, she'd simply bring him onto Daisy's back with her. Daisy was strong and stout of heart. Philippa gently tugged Daisy's reins to the right and drew closer to Edmund.

Sir Walter de Grasse looked toward the fleeing men, the girl and young boy protected in the midst of them. His destrier, a powerful blooded Arabian, couldn't be outrun, particularly by that muling mare Philippa was riding. He really didn't care about the others. Walter was pleased; he smiled and felt the wind tangle his hair and make his eyes tear. At last. He'd waited and planned and waited. Finally she'd ridden this way, and that whoreson peasant Dienwald wasn't with her. He was back scrounging about in his burned southern acres, finding nothing because Walter never left anything to find. Dead bodies were the only witnesses. Walter urged his destrier faster. If only Philippa knew that it was he, her own cousin, in pursuit, she would wave and flee from Dienwald's men. He noticed the little boy beside her on his laboring pony and wondered who he was.

He wished he could make out her face, but from this distance all he could see for certain was her wildly beautiful hair rippling out behind her head, atop the slenderness of her body. It was enough. If she had no teeth, he would still crave her above all women, this king's daughter who would shortly be his wife. He thought of St. Erth and how it would be his within the year, he doubted not. How could King Edward deny his
son-in-law his own castle, stolen from his father by Dienwald's thieving sire?

Philippa could hear the pursuing horses. They were very close now. She knew all was lost. They were still a good two miles from St. Erth. The countryside around them held only a few peasants' huts, low pine trees and scrubby hawthorns and yews, and indifferent cattle. No one to help them. She saw the fierce look on Ellis' face, attesting to his impotent rage. Their pace was frantic and the horses were blowing hard, their flanks lathered white. She saw Edmund's pony stumble and she acted quickly, jerked Daisy close, dropped the knotted reins, and grabbed Edmund even as his pony went down. He was heavy, heavier than she'd imagined, but she pulled him onto Daisy's back. “My pony!” he yelled, nearly hurtling himself off Daisy's back.

Philippa fought to steady him. “The pony will make its way back to St. Erth. Worry not for the pony, but for us.”

Edmund quieted, but he was breathing in quick sharp gasps, his small body shuddering.

“Your pony will go home,” she said again, this time in his ear, hoping he heard her and understood.

He made no sign. His small face was white and grim.

She held him close and urged her mare faster.

Suddenly, without warning, Ellis screamed, a tearing raw-throated sound. Philippa saw an arrow bedded deep between his shoulder blades, its feathered shaft still vibrating from the force of its entry. Ellis lurched forward, gasping, then fell sideways, his foot catching in the stirrup. He was dragged along, blood spewing from his back onto
his maddened horse. Philippa tried to hide Edmund's head, but he watched until Ellis' foot worked free of the stirrup and he fell to the hard ground, rolling over and over, the arrow's shaft going deeper into his body.

Edmund made no sound; Philippa held him tighter, swallowing convulsively.

The other two men closed around her, and one of them yelled at her to keep down, to hug her mare's neck, but even as the words left his mouth he slumped forward against his horse's back, an arrow through his neck.

Philippa knew it was no use. “Flee,” she shouted to the third man, whose name was Silken. “Go whilst you can. 'Tis I the men want, not you. Go! Get help. Get the master.”

The man looked at her, his eyes sad and accepting. He drew his horse to a screaming halt, whipped him about, and drew his sword. “I won't die with a coward's arrow in my back,” he yelled at Philippa. “Nor will I die a coward's death in my soul by escaping my fate. Ride hard, mistress. I'll hold them as long as I can. Keep the boy safe.”

“Nay, Silken, nay!” Edmund shouted, and Philippa knew that she couldn't leave the man, knew that even if she rode away, she would manage to save neither herself nor Edmund. She pulled Daisy to a halt. “Stay back behind me, Silken,” she yelled at him. “Keep your sword to your side!”

The men were upon them in moments. Dust flew, blurring the air, making Philippa cough. She couldn't have been more horrified or surprised when one of the men yelled, “Philippa! My dearest cousin, 'tis I, Walter, here to save you!”

Silken whirled on Philippa, his face gone white, his mouth ugly with sudden rage. “
You,
mistress! You brought this bastard cur upon us! You got word to him!”

“Find the master, Silken. Here, take Edmund with you, quickly!”

But Edmund wouldn't budge, shaking his head madly and clutching at the mare's mane. Silken waited not another moment, but rode away as only a desperate man can ride, and Walter, intent for the moment upon the object of his capture, allowed the man to gain distance. Then he yelled for two of his men to bring him down. Philippa prayed hard, as did, she imagined, Edmund. Silken was their only chance. He disappeared over a rise, the two men in pursuit.

“Philippa,” Walter said as he rode up to her. “Ah, my dearest girl, you are safe, are you not?”

Philippa stared at her cousin Walter, a man she hadn't seen for some years. He wasn't a handsome man, but then, neither was he ill-looking. But he did look different to her. She had remembered him as very tall and thin. He wasn't thin now; he was gaunt and wiry, his face long, his cheekbones high and hollow, his eyes more prominent. She remembered thick dark brown hair fashionably clipped across his forehead. His hair was thinner now but still clipped across his forehead. She hadn't remembered his eyes. They were dark blue, and they looked hot with triumph, with success. She quickly assessed matters and got control of herself. He believed he'd rescued her, saved her. She whispered to Edmund, “Hold your peace, Edmund. Do as I do.”

The boy was white with fear, but he nodded. She squeezed him comfortingly.

“Walter, 'tis you?”

“Aye, Philippa, 'tis I, your dearest cousin. You have changed and grown into a woman and a beautiful creature. You are most pleasing to mine eyes. And now you are safe from that knave.” Walter paused a moment, noticing Edmund, it seemed, for the first time.

“Who is this? The bastard's whelp? Shall I dispatch him to heaven, Philippa? Surely that is where the angels would carry him, for he is yet too young to have gleaned the foul wickedness from his sire.”

“No, leave him be, Walter. He is but a child, too young for heaven, unless God calls him. Leave him to me. He cares not for his sire, for he foully abuses him.” She prayed Edmund would keep his small mouth firmly closed. He started, stiffening against her, but said nothing.

“Aye, that I can believe. The cruel traitor not only abused his own child, but you as well, I doubt not. You are both safe with me, Philippa, at least until I decide what to do with the boy. Aye, I'll ransom him. His father is coarse of spirit, but the boy is of his flesh and his heir. Aye, we'll all return to Crandall now.”

“I'll tear out his lying tongue!”

“Shush, Edmund, please, say nothing untoward!”

Philippa turned Daisy about, saying as she did so, “What is the distance to your keep, Walter?”

“Two days hence, fair cousin.”

“My palfrey is lathered and blowing.”

“Leave the beast and take that one. Dienwald's man needs it no more.” And Walter laughed, pointing to Ellis' body sprawled in a ditch beside the dusty road.

“Nay, leave me the mare, just keep our pace slow for a while.”

Walter felt expansive. Everything had come about as he'd planned. Philippa was beautiful and she was gentle and yielding, her expressive eyes filled with gratitude for him. “I'll grant you that boon, Philippa.” He rode forward to speak to one of his men. Philippa whispered in Edmund's ear, “We must pretend, Edmund, and we must think. We must exceed Crooky's most talented fabrications.”

“I will kill him.”

“Perhaps I shall be the quicker, but hold your tongue now, he returns. Say naught, Edmund.”

“We will ride until it darkens, sweet cousin. I know you are tired, but we must have distance from St. Erth.” He turned and looked behind them, and she knew he was at last worried that his men hadn't returned to report Silken's death. She prayed harder.

“We will do as you wish, Walter,” she said, her voice soft and low. “You're right—we're too close to the tyrant's castle.” He seemed to expand before her eyes, so pleased was he at her submissiveness.

“Shall I carry the boy before me?”

“Nay, he is afraid, Walter, for he knows you not. He can't abide me—he follows his sire's lead and insults me and abuses me—but at least I am a known adversary. Leave him with me for the moment, if it pleases you to do so.”

It evidently suited Walter, and he turned to speak to a man who rode beside him.

“You act the flap-mouthed fool,” Edmund said, his child's voice a high squeak. “He cannot believe you, 'tis absurd!”

“He doesn't know me,” Philippa said. “He wants to believe me soft and biddable and as submissive as a cow. Fret not, at least not yet.”

It wasn't until late that afternoon that the two men who had followed Silken caught up with them. Philippa held her breath as they pulled their mounts to a halt beside Walter. She waited, still with apprehension. To her wondrous relief, Walter exploded with rage. “Fools! Inept knaves!”

“Silken escaped,” Philippa said into Edmund's ear. “Your father will come. He will save us.”

Edmund frowned. “But he is your cousin, Philippa. He won't harm you.”

“He's a bad man. Your father hates him, and for good reason, I think.”

“But you mocked my father about him and—”

“ 'Tis but our way—your father and I must rattle our tongues at each other, goad and taunt each other until one wants to smash the other's head.”

Edmund said nothing to that, but he was confused, so Philippa just hugged him, whispering, “Trust me, and trust that your father will save us.”

It came to dusk and the sky colored itself with vivid shades of pink. They rode inland a bit and stopped at the edge of a forest whose name Philippa didn't know. It was dark and deep, and she watched silently as two men immediately melted into the trees in search of game. Two other men went to collect wood.

Walter lifted Edmund down and paid him no more attention. Then he wrapped his hands around Philippa's waist and lifted her from Daisy's back. He grunted a bit because she wasn't a languid feather to be plucked lightly. She grinned. When her feet touched the ground he
didn't release her, but held her, his hands lightly caressing her waist. “You please me, Philippa, very much.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

He frowned suddenly. “Your feet are bare. The gown you wear, it is all you have? That wretched bastard gave you nothing to wear?”

She lowered her head and shook her head. “It matters not,” she said, her voice meek and accepting.

Walter cursed and ranted. To her horror, he turned on Edmund, and without warning, backhanded the boy. The blow sent Edmund sprawling onto his back on the hard ground, the breath knocked out of him.

“Foul spawn of the devil!”

“Nay, Walter, leave the boy be!” Philippa was trembling with rage, which she prayed her voice didn't give away. She quickly dropped to her knees beside Edmund. She felt his arms, his legs, pressed her hand against his chest. “Oh, God, Edmund, is there pain?”

The boy was white-faced, not with pain but with anger. “I'm all right. Get back to your precious cousin and show him your melting gratitude, Maypole.”

Philippa gave him a long look. “Don't be a fool,” she said very quietly. She got to her feet. Walter was standing there, absently rubbing his hands together.

“Come to the fire, Philippa. It will grow cool soon, and your rags will not protect you.”

Her new gown wasn't a rag, she wanted to yell at him, but she held her peace. She gave Edmund another look and walked beside Walter. One of his men had spread a blanket on the ground, and
she eased down, her muscles sore, her back aching from the long ride. “Let the boy warm himself as well,” she said after some minutes had passed.