Free Earth Song by Catherine Coulter

and fit, and one of the tallest man Robert Burnell had ever seen. Longshanks, he was called fondly by his subjects. A Plantagenet through and through, Burnell thought, but without the slyness and deceit of his sire, Henry, or the evil of his grandfather, John I, who’d maimed and tortured with joyous abandon anyone who chanced to displease him. Nor was he a pederast like his great uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion—thus the string of children he and his queen, Eleanor, had assembled to date. And that brought up the matter athand. Robert wondered if his broaching the topic would call forth the Plantagenet temper. Unlike his grandfather, Edward wouldn’t fall to the floor and bash his fists and his heels in bellowing rage. No, his anger was like a fire, perilous one moment, cold ashes the next, a smile in its place.
    â€œI work you too hard, Robbie, much too hard,” Edward said fondly, and Burnell silently agreed. But he knew the king would continue to use him as a workhorse until he met his maker, thanks be to that maker.
    â€œjust one more small matter, your highness,” Burnell said, holding up a piece of parchment. “A matter of your . . . er, illegitimate daughter, Philippa de Beauchamp by name.”
    â€œGood God,” Edward said, “I’d forgotten about the girl. She survived, did she? Bless her sweet face, she must be a woman grown by now. Philippa, a pretty name—given to her by her mother, as I recall. Her mother’s name was Constance and she was but fifteen, if I remember aright. A bonny girl.” The king paused and his face went soft with his memories. “My father married her off to Mortimer of Bledsoe and the babe went to Lord Henry de Beauchamp to be raised as his own.”
    â€œAye, sire. ‘Tis nearly eighteen she is, and according to Lord Henry, a Plantagenet in looks and temperament, healthy as a stoat, and he’s had her educated as you instructed all those years ago. He reminds us ’tis time to see her wedded. He also writes that he’s already been beleaguered for her hand.”
    The king muttered under his breath as he strode back and forth in front of his secretary’s table.
    â€œI’d forgotten . . . ah, Constance, her flesh wassoft as a babe’s . . .” The king cleared his throat. “That was, naturally, before I became a husband to my dear Eleanor . . . she was still a child . . . also, my daughter is a Plantagenet in looks . . . not a hag then . . . excellent, but still . . .” He paused and looked at his secretary with bright Plantagenet blue eyes, eyes the same color as his illegitimate daughter’s. He snapped his fingers and smiled.
    â€œMy dear Uncle Richard is dead, God rest his loyal soul, and we miss the stability he provided us in Cornwall. For a son-in-law, Robbie, we must have a man who will give us unquestioning loyalty, a man with strength of fist and character and heart, but not a man who will try to empty my coffers or trade on my royal generosity to enrich himself and all his brothers and cousins.”
    Burnell nodded, saying nothing. He wouldn’t remind the king that he, his faithful secretary, hadn’t received an increase in compensation for a good five years now. Not that he’d ever expected one. He sighed, waiting.
    â€œSuch a man is probably a saint and in residence in heaven,” the king continued, giving Burnell another Plantagenet gift—a smile of genuine warmth and humor that rendered all those in his service weak-kneed with the pleasure of serving him. “I don’t suppose Lord Henry has a suggestion?”
    â€œNo, sire. He does write that suitors for his other daughter tend to look upon Philippa instead, as likely as not. He tires of the situation, sire. Indeed, he sounds a bit frantic. He writes that Philippa’s true identity becomes more difficult to keep a secret as the days