Page 66 of Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

Crandall Keep

Late that night Philippa lay in her bed thinking furiously, an occupation that hadn’t paled since Walter had brought her to Crandall. She thought of her excitement, her hope, when she’d burst into the inner bailey to see Gorkel cavorting about like a mad buffoon and Crooky twirling Gorkel’s leash while singing at the top of his lungs. But what good had any of it done? Her attempt to tell Crooky of her plight, her plea to write Gorkel a love poem, all had been dashed when Walter had shown his possession of her in front of everyone by kissing her and caressing her breast. Crooky would tell Dienwald, of a certainty. But still they would attempt a rescue, if not for her, then for Edmund. But how? What could Dienwald do? He couldn’t very well storm Crandall Keep. Walter would kill Edmund without blinking an eye. No, Dienwald would use guile and cunning; she doubted not that he would succeed, but still, the thought of him being hurt terrified her. She knew well enough that Walter would kill him if but given a chance.

She had to do something, and she had to do it early on the morrow. She fell asleep, and her dreams, oddly enough, were of her first riding lessons at six years old on a mare named Cottie, a gentle animal Bernice had urged over a fence two years later, breaking the mare’s leg.

Philippa came awake suddenly, tears still in her mind for the mare. She hadn’t really heard anything, it was just a feeling that something wasn’t right and she must pay attention now and wake up fully or she wouldn’t like what happened to her.

Slowly, very slowly, Philippa turned her head toward the door. Walter had locked it as usual when he’d left her earlier

, yet a key was turning in the lock and the door was opening slowly but surely.

It had to be Walter. He’d tired of waiting. He’d come to ravish her and be done with it. He didn’t play the besotted swain very well.

So be it, Philippa thought, her muscles flexing to make her ready. She didn’t move, just thought of what she would do to him to protect herself. She would fight him, and at the very least she would hurt him badly. She still wore her shift, one of soft linen that came to her thighs and left her arms bare. She wished now she had on every article of clothing Walter had given her, to make his task of ravishing her all the more difficult. She listened and strained her eyes toward the door. Walter wasn’t making any noise. Why? That made no particular sense. He wouldn’t care, would he? He wouldn’t care if she screamed or yelled. His men would do naught to help her.

The door widened, making no sound, the hinges not even creaking. From the dim light in the passage without, Philippa could at last make out the outline of the person.

It wasn’t Walter. It was a woman.

Philippa didn’t act immediately, as her nature urged her to. No, she held herself perfectly still, waiting to see what the woman would do, waiting to see what the woman wanted. Perhaps she wanted to free her. But how had the woman gotten the key to her chamber?

From Walter, of course. Walter was far too careful, far too possessive a man to allow others to keep something as important as the key to her chamber. So the woman must know him very well, must know him intimately . . . . Philippa gathered herself together and waited.

The woman was creeping across the narrow chamber now, and Philippa saw that she held a knife in her raised hand. The woman had come to kill her, not free her.

Philippa’s astonishment was replaced by rage, and she jumped to her feet, yelling at the top of her lungs, “What do you want? Get away from me! Help! A moi! Walter . . . A moi!”

The woman lunged at her, extending her arm, bringing the knife down toward her chest. Philippa grabbed the woman’s wrist, wrenching her arm back, but the woman was stronger than her meager inches would indicate. She was panting, gasping, fury making her as strong as Philippa, and she said, her voice vicious, filled with hatred, “You damnable slut! You devil’s spawn! You’ll not have him! Do you hear me? Nay, never! I’ll kill you!” And she jerked away from Philippa, her breasts heaving, staring at Philippa with hatred. Philippa slowly backed away from the furious woman and that very sharp knife.

She held up her hand in supplication. “Who are you? I’ve done nothing to you. What are you talking about? You’re mad, wanting to kill me for no reason!”

“No reason!” the woman hissed, the words so harsh that spittle flew out of her mouth. “You damnable trollop, Walter is mine, only mine, and he’ll stay mine. You’ll not get him. He’ll not wed you, no matter what you bring him! He loves me, wants me more than all the filthy riches you would bring him!”

But I wouldn’t bring him anything, Philippa started to say, just as the woman lunged again, bringing the knife down in a brutal arc, sure and fast, and Philippa whirled to the side, away from the maddened woman, but she wasn’t fast enough and she felt the tip of the knife slice through the flesh of her upper arm. She felt the coldness of it, then a quick numbness.

“You won’t escape me, whore!”

Philippa, knowing there was no choice now, jerked about and struck out, backhanding the woman, her palm flat, ringing hard against her cheek. The woman yelled in pain and rage but didn’t falter. She flew toward Philippa, the knife extended to the fullest.

Philippa saw the knife coming into her heart, stabbing deep, killing her, before she’d known what it was to really live, to love and be loved, and she whispered, “Dienwald . . .”

She could hear the air hiss as the knife sliced through it, and she dashed frantically toward the open door and into the arms of Walter de Grasse.

“What in God’s name goes on here?”

Walter was shaking Philippa hard until he saw the blood flowing from her upper arm. He paled in the dim light, not wanting to credit it. Then he stared at the woman, half-crouched, the bloody knife dangling in her hand, and he whispered, “Britta . . . oh, no, why?” He pushed Philippa away from him and was at the woman’s side, lifting her up, pulling her against him.

“Britta?”

She shook her head, her breath coming in painful gasps, her huge breasts heaving.

“She tried to kill me,” Philippa said, watching with benumbed fascination as he caressed the woman. “Who is she? Why does she want me dead?”

She watched, silent now, as pain crossed Walter’s face and it whitened, and she understood at last that this was the woman whose garments she wore, this was the woman who was her cousin’s mistress, a woman who, incredibly, loved her cousin, and who couldn’t, perforce, abide her. Philippa’s mind clogged and she could but stare silently as Walter held the woman even more tightly, clutching her against him, speaking softly, so softly that Philippa couldn’t make out his words.

Without further hesitation Philippa picked up a small three-legged stool, held it high over her head, and brought it down with all her strength on Walter’s head. The woman cried out as Walter slumped against her, bearing her to the floor with his weight.

“Don’t yell, you stupid fool!” Philippa hissed at the woman. “Just stay where you are and hold your peace and your lover. I’m leaving you and him and this cursed keep forever. He’s yours until the devil takes him.” Before Britta could push her lover off her, Philippa had grabbed the knife from her hand and jerked the keys from the pocket in her tunic.

---