Secret Song

  He saw that the king was much enjoying his playacting. Roland, for the first time in their acquaintance of many years, remained silent. As for the Earl of Clare, he could not now make further demands, not after the king’s explanation. Roland felt resentment at the king’s interference, and some amusement, for the earl’s hatred and immense frustration was very nearly a tangible thing, and there was naught the man could do, save silently choke on it.

  Edward had no intention of allowing the two men to fight, for Roland would kill the earl, of that he had little doubt. He was younger, he was stronger, and he was smarter. And besides, he himself still needed the Earl of Clare, rot the man’s miserable hide, needed him to fend off the Welsh outlaws, until he could build his castles and assume control himself. Then the Earl of Clare could drown in a Welsh swamp with the king’s blessing. He discounted his friendship with Roland de Tournay; it couldn’t be a consideration in the royal decision. No, the king didn’t want Clare dead now. Moreover, he’d gained advantage with Roland, for that talented fellow wouldn’t be able to refuse his king anything, not after this. Why, he would even have Roland’s fine destrier returned to him. He thought about the look on the earl’s face were he to tell him that it was his, the king’s, destrier, and he had merely loaned it to Roland. The earl would surely swallow his tongue in his rage.

  The king smiled at the earl, a gracious smile. He didn’t believe in pressing a man’s face in offal unless it was necessary. A king could afford to be beneficent in victory; it was also in his noble character, unless, of course, he wished it otherwise. “So you see, my lord, Roland accomplished his mission. If he offended your religious feelings, I will reprimand him soundly. Further, it seems he became enamored with Daria and she with him. After he rescued her again—the second time, he played the bent old hag, did you know that? No, well, that time, he brought her to me. They were wedded last night, my lord, by mine own priest. He is, in fact, a Benedictine priest, I can attest to it.”

  For a long moment the earl simply stared, not at any person, but inward, and there he saw bleakness and rage. He couldn’t accept it. He looked toward Daria, who stood next to the queen. This man, this Roland de Tournay, had wedded her and bedded her. “They left me with a peasant girl, garbed her as Daria for her wedding with me. If she hadn’t giggled, I should have married the little slut.”

  “She was beautiful, my lord,” Roland said. “I hand-picked her myself.”

  The king grinned, then harrumphed and said, his voice serious, “This peasant girl, my lord, what have you done with her? Not harmed her, I trust.”

  The Earl of Clare turned a dull red, for certainly he’d bedded her, taken her with little delay; even as his servants and soldiers feasted, he’d taken her to his chamber and plowed her small belly. He’d hurt her, but not badly. What had she expected to happen to her once her lord had discovered the ruse? Any other man would have had her beaten to death. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t at all the point. The earl shook himself much in the manner of a wet mongrel and bellowed, “Daria. Come here, immediately.”

  Daria felt the queen’s hand lightly squeeze her fingers to hold her quiet. The queen raised her head and smiled at the king. Both the queen and Daria wished they’d heard what had been said, but they hadn’t.

  “Aye,” the king called, “let Daria come here. Let her tell the earl that she is wedded to Roland de Tournay, by her own will, with no royal coercion.”

  Daria rose slowly. She felt as if she were in a strange dream, filled with loud voices from people who weren’t really there, weren’t actually real. She walked across the cold stone floor of Tyberton’s great hall, seeing the people who’d served her, who’d watched her, seeing some of them smirking now at their lord and his predicament, others gazing with hatred upon her. The queen had assured her earlier that the king wouldn’t allow the two men to fight. She hadn’t believed her before, but now she did. Further, no matter what Roland believed, no matter what he thought of her, she was his wife. She must not shame him. She stiffened her back and thrust up her chin. She didn’t look at her husband.

  She walked directly to the Earl of Clare. “Yes, my lord?” she asked pleasantly. “You wished to speak to me?”

  The earl stared down at her a moment. He wanted to strike her and pull her against him. She was pale, but even so, she didn’t appear to have any fear of him. He’d strike her first, he thought, not hard, just with enough force to recall her to her duty to him; then he’d take her and hold her. He could feel the softness of her body, the narrowness of her when he’d penetrated her with his finger to find her maidenhead. She had no maidenhead now. She’d wedded Roland de Tournay. Blood pounded hard and fast in his head and in his groin. He said in a harsh voice, “You have truly wedded him? Willingly?”

  “Aye. I am his wife.”

  “By all the saints. You lied to me when I caught up to you finally? You hadn’t escaped him in Wrexham? You were not trying to find me?”

  “That’s correct, my lord. He’d fallen ill and would have been unable to fight you if you’d found us. I learned that you had arrived in Wrexham and had discovered Roland’s destrier at the local stable. I had to save him from you, for I knew you would kill him with no hesitation. I took his destrier and led you away from him.”

  Roland didn’t move. He didn’t change expressions. He felt something move deep inside him, a feeling like the one he’d experienced the previous evening when his release had overtaken him. He’d wanted briefly to hold her tightly against him, caress her, and kiss her, and forget all else. But he’d managed to keep his mouth shut. He’d managed this time not to give a woman power over him. He’d managed to hold himself apart from the still and silent woman lying beneath him. He’d held steady; she’d already betrayed him once. She wouldn’t betray him again.

  Even if she wasn’t lying about saving him, well, then, it still didn’t matter. She’d lied about the other. There was no other explanation for it, the Earl of Clare had raped her the moment he’d recaptured her. And Roland felt the familiar rage with that knowledge. She had saved him; he accepted it as being plausible, though he’d never before known a woman with such initiative.

  The Earl of Clare howled. “I offered you everything. Damn you, girl, you could have been a countess, not a simple knight’s lady, doomed to poverty—”

  “Oh, I shan’t be poor, my lord,” Daria said, interrupting him with great pleasure. “Don’t you forget how you desired my dowry as much as my fair hand? My dowry and revenge against my uncle? Well, all is now Roland’s.”

  Reason deserted him. The earl’s fist struck her hard against her jaw. Daria staggered backward with the force of his blow, falling to the stone floor. Roland leapt upon the earl, his fist in his throat, his other fist striking low and hard in his belly. The earl yelled and stumbled backward, his balance lost. Roland didn’t pause. He jumped at him, hurling him to his back with his fist hard in his chest. The earl’s sword crashed loudly against the stone. Roland stood over him and hissed, “You strike someone with not a tenth of your strength. Well, I am her husband and I will protect her from such vermin as you.” He kicked the earl hard in the ribs, then dropped to his knees, grabbed the earl by his tunic, jerked up his head, and pounded his face twice with his fist. He let his head drop back with a loud ugly thud.

  “Enough, Roland,” the king called. “Have some ale. That sort of work makes a man thirsty.”

  But Roland didn’t heed the king. He saw the queen’s ladies surrounding Daria, helping her to her feet, brushing off her gown. He strode to them and they fell away from her. He didn’t touch her for a moment, just stood there before her, looking down at her.

  “Look up at me, Daria.”

  She obeyed him. He clasped her upper arms in his hands.

  The earl—the damnable sod—had struck her hard. Roland lightly touched her jaw. “You will look a witch come evening,” he said. “But your eye won’t blacken. Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head, but he knew it mu
st hurt her. It pleased him, this unexpected stoicism of hers.

  “Hold still.” As gently as he could, he touched his fingertips to her jaw, probing, making certain it wasn’t broken. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch once.

  He saw that she was now looking beyond him to the still-fallen Earl of Clare. “Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not. Do you believe me a madman?”

  “I have never seen a man fight another as do you.”

  Roland grinned and rubbed the bruised knuckles of his left hand against his right palm.

  “Aye, Roland,” the king called out. “How come you to destroy another man with such strange motions?”

  “A Muslim fellow in Acre taught me. He said that Christians and their notions of honorable fighting left him and his brothers roaring with laughter. They said English knights with their heavy, clumsy horses and their armor that baked them alive under the sun made them shake their heads with wonder. They could not understand how we could be so stupid. They weren’t of course in Barbars’ army. They were outlaws and street thieves.”

  The king, fortunately for all those present, chose to be amused. “Street thieves.” They heard a moan and the king nodded to several of the earl’s retainers who had been standing frozen in place, not knowing what to do. They rushed to their master’s side and assisted him.

  “I cracked two of his ribs, made him impotent for a week, and severely bruised his throat, rendering speech difficult and painful for him, for three days, I’d say. Nothing that won’t heal with time. Perhaps I should have made him permanently impotent. But the fellow doesn’t have an heir. I found myself in sympathy with him at the last instant.”

  Daria looked from him to the king and back again. She saw her husband’s dark eyes were sparkling with pleasure. He’d enjoyed hitting the Earl of Clare, pounding him to the stone floor. She touched her fingertips to her jaw. The pain flashed through her head and she closed her eyes a moment to gain control. To her surprise, she felt his arms go around her. He lifted her high in his arms. “My lady needs to rest,” Roland announced to the assembled group. “Sire, if it pleases you, I will remove her to her former chamber, the small room where the earl held her prisoner for so many months. I doubt not that the earl will insist upon his king and queen having his own chamber. Pain tends to bring a greater measure of reason to a man.”

  Roland carried her up the winding narrow stairs to the upper level. The old woman Ena was crouched at the top of the stairs. When she saw Roland carrying her mistress, she stretched out a skinny arm and pointed a bony finger at him and howled, “Ye’ve hurt her.”

  “Nay, old witch, your precious earl struck her. She will rest now, and your presence isn’t necessary.”

  Daria said not a word. She wrapped her arms more tightly around Roland’s neck. “He moved so quickly I didn’t have time to avoid his fist.”

  “I know. I was so surprised at his stupidity that I, too, stared for a good second before I had sense enough to attack him.” He eased her onto the narrow bed and straightened, looking down at her. He said awkwardly, “I’m sorry he struck you, Daria. I wasn’t much of a protector.”

  She said nothing, merely nodded. Her head hurt and her jaw pulsed with pain.

  “What you said to him—was it true? Did you truly lead him away from me?”

  She heard the disbelief in his voice. She turned her head away from him “Aye, it’s true. I lied to him and pretended that I’d escaped you. I made him believe that I rejoiced at his finding me. He didn’t see through it.”

  “Then he brought you back here and forced you, raped you. He got you with child then, didn’t he?”

  “No. He didn’t touch me. I convinced him that we would both rot in hell if he forced me without marriage first. I told him he would ruin mine own honor if he took me without marriage first. I begged and pleaded. I prayed he would not be able to find a priest, and so he didn’t, until that same day you came for me again. I was also fortunate that he left me for much of that time to search for Welsh outlaws.”

  “I see,” Roland said, his voice emotionless. He strode across the small room to the window slit. He stood there gazing down into the inner bailey. This is where Daria had stood, helpless and a prisoner, for so many days. He turned suddenly and said, “Why don’t you have sickness from the babe? I have heard it common in women to be ill.” He shrugged. “To vomit, to feel weak.”

  “I am tired more of the time, but nothing more.”

  “Your breasts are not sore? Did I hurt you last night?”

  She couldn’t bear it, this insistence of his, this distrust. “Leave me alone, Roland. You didn’t hurt me last night, not physically. You merely made me feel defiled and helpless, worth less than nothing.” There, she’d said what she felt. She watched him pale, but only for a moment. His eyes narrowed on her face and he said, his voice even, too even, “You are certain you are with child?”

  So he wondered now if even that was a lie. A lie to trap him into marriage? She marveled at his mind, and said calmly enough, “I wasn’t, but the queen was. When I doubted her, she laughed and told me she had considerable experience in matters of knowing when babes were in a woman’s belly. Should you like to question her, Roland?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Daria.”

  “Your endless distrust doesn’t suit me.”

  His brows lowered and his dark eyes, so full of sparkling pleasure such a short time before, were now cold as a moonless night. “Remain here. I must return to the king.” He strode to the door, then said over his shoulder, “It isn’t true that you have no value at all. Do you so quickly forget all the wealth you bring me?” He left her then without another word, another look.

  Daria had no idea of the time. Since it was the midsummer, it would remain light until very late in the evening. She was bored, but she didn’t want to go to the great hall. Her jaw still throbbed, but not as much now. She stood by the open window slit, a spot where she’d spent so many hours, and stared down into the inner bailey. There weren’t as many people about. It must be later than she’d thought. Her stomach growled and she crossed her arms over her belly. It was then, sudden as a streak of lightning, that her belly cramped, nausea flooded her, and she dashed to the chamber pot and vomited up what little food she’d eaten that day. She was heaving, her jaw aching ferociously after her exertion, kneeling on the floor over the pot, when the chamber door opened. She hadn’t the energy to turn about, but she knew it was Roland. She heard him suck in his breath, heard him quicken his step to her. She felt his large hand on her shoulder.

  She still didn’t raise her head. Another wave of sickness hit her and she jerked and shuddered with dry heaves, since there was no more food in her belly. She felt weak and stupid and so listless that she didn’t care at that moment if he was repelled at her illness. She remained still, bent over the chamber pot, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down her back and between her breasts.

  “Come,” he said, and slipped his hands beneath her armpits and raised her to her feet. She hadn’t the strength to support herself and sagged. He half-dragged her to the bed and laid her down. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want him to see her, not like this, not green and shaky and weak as a feeble old woman.

  She felt a wet cloth on her face. Then he said, “Here, drink this. It’s cool water.”

  She didn’t want it, but she allowed him to raise her head and put the goblet to her lips. She sipped at the water, then felt her stomach twist. She gasped and jerked off the bed, back to the chamber pot.

  Roland watched her, feeling more helpless than he had in his life. He watched her vomit up the water, then watched her body convulse and heave. He was out of his element in this; he turned and left her.

  Daria didn’t care, not about her husband’s quick defection, not about anything, save the fierce knotting and unknotting in her belly. She finally slipped onto her side, her face against the cold stone floor. She didn’t care about that either. It f
elt good, this coolness. She lay there, trapped in her weak body, content that she wasn’t heaving into the pot. She wanted nothing more. Slowly, after some minutes, she lightly brought her hand to her belly. “My child,” she said softly, feeling at once ridiculous and strangely content, “you have finally announced your presence to me. I but wish that you hadn’t done it with such vigor.”

  The queen herself appeared, Roland behind her. “Ah, my poor child,” Eleanor said, rueful sympathy in her voice.

  “Place her on the bed, Roland. She will be better presently.”

  Daria didn’t resist, nor did she acknowledge the queen’s presence. She simply didn’t care. She didn’t look at her husband when he lifted her, cursing softly at the coldness of her body. “Move aside now and let her sip at this.”

  “Please, nothing,” Daria said, her hand swatting weakly at the flagon the queen held, but the queen would have none of it.

  “It will settle you, my dear. Trust me. Did I not tell you that my experience in these matters is vast? Drink, now. That’s it. Slowly, just small sips. Very good. That’s enough now. Just lie back and close your eyes.”

  The queen smiled at Roland. She was pleased with his reaction to his wife’s illness. He’d come running into the great hall, interrupting the king, but not caring, so afraid was he for Daria. “Don’t worry, Roland. She will be fine. It is important that she eat lightly and very often. She has gone too long without eating, I suspect. This drink I gave her, I will give you the ingredients. When she is ill again, you will prepare this for her.”

  Roland sounded appalled. “She will be ill that violently again?”

  “She is with child, Roland. It is common, unfortunately, but it will pass soon. Another month or so and she will feel much better.”