Free Earth Song by Catherine Coulter Page A

pass, what with all the young pups wanting her hand in marriage.”
    â€œA beauty.” Edward rubbed his large hands together. “A beauty, and I spawned her. All Plantagenet ladies are wondrous fair. Does she have golden hair? Skin as white as a sow’s underbelly? Find me that man, Robbie, a man of strength and good heart. In all of Cornwall there must be a man we can trust with our daughter and our honor and our purse.”
    Robert Burnell, a devout and unstinting laborer, toiled well into the dark hours of the night, burning three candles to their stumps, examining names of men in Cornwall to fit the king’s requirements. The following morning, he was bleary-eyed and stymied.
    The king, on the other hand, was blazing with energy and thwacked his secretary on the shoulders. “I know what we’ll do about that little matter, Robbie. ’Tis my sweet queen who gave me the answer.”
    Was this another little matter he didn’t know about yet? Burnell wondered, wishing only for his bed.
    â€œYes, sire?”
    â€œThe queen reminded me of our very loyal and good subject in Cornwall—Lord Graelam de Moreton of Wolffeton.”
    â€œLord Graelam,” Burnell repeated. “What is this matter, sire?”
    â€œLackwit,” Edward said, his good humor unimpaired. “ ‘Tis about my little Philippa and a husband for her fair hand and a sainted son-in-law for me.”
    Burnell gaped at the king. He’d discussed his illegitimate daughter with the queen, with his wife ?
    He swallowed, saying, “Lord Graelam’swedded, sire. He was atop my list until I remembered he’d married Kassia of Belleterre, from Brittany.”
    â€œCertainly he’d wedded, Robbie. Have you lost your wits? You really should get more rest at night. ’Tis needful, sleep, for a sprightly brain. Now, Lord Graelam is the one to ferret out my ideal son-in-law. You will readily enough wring a list of likely candidates out of him.”
    â€œI, sire?”
    â€œAye, Robbie, certainly you. Whom else can I trust? Get you gone after you’ve had some good brown ale and bread and cheese. You must eat, Robbie—’tis needful to keep up your strength. Ah, and write to Lord Henry and tell him what’s afoot. Now, I must needs speak to you about the special levy against those cockscomb Scots. I think that we must—”
    â€œForgive me, sire, but do you not wish me to leave for Cornwall very soon? To Wolffeton? To see Lord Graelam?”
    â€œEh? Aye, certainly, Robbie. This afternoon. Nay, better by the end of the week. Now, sharpen your wits and recall for me the names of those Scottish lords who blacken the Cheviot Hills with their knavery.”

6
St. Erth Castle
    Philippa heard shouts behind her. One great bearded man grabbed at her, ripping the sleeve from her tunic, but she broke free. She heard a bellow of laughter and a man shouting, “Ye should have grabbed her skirt, rotbrain! Better a pretty bare ass than an arm!”
    It was as dark as the interior of a well outside the great hall. Philippa dashed full-tilt across the inner bailey toward the stables, hoping to get to a horse and . . . And what? The gates were closed. There were guards posted on the ramparts, surely. The night was cold and she was shivering in nothing but a ragged one-sleeved gown to cover her.
    Still, her fear kept her going. The stables were dark and warm and smelled of fresh hay, dung,and horses. They were also deserted, the keepers, she supposed, in the great hall, eating their evening meal with all the rest of the denizens of this keep. She stopped, pressing her fingers to the stitch in her side. She was breathing hard, and froze in her tracks when she heard her captor say from nearby, “You are but a female. I accept that as a flaw you can’t remedy—God’s error, if you will—yet it would seem that you never think before you act. What were you