Secret Song (15 page)

Daria watched him from beneath her lashes. She was pretending to sew the rip in his tunic, but her eyes and her attention were focused on him. She wasn't certain she understood the depths of his feelings, but she accepted his anger. She could only imagine what she would feel like if she were ill and had to relieve herself with his help.

When the leech arrived, she was profoundly thankful. He eyed Roland, spoke in soft Welsh to him, and seemed pleased. At one point, he gestured toward her, but Daria didn't understand his words or Roland's reply. She doubted her husband would be complimenting her.

And as Roland and the leech spoke, she felt free to look at him, and felt such a surge of relief that he was improved that she wanted to shout. When at last the leech turned to her, she was smiling despite her supposed husband's foul humor.

“Yer husband does well,” the old man said. “He tells me he will leave on the morrow, and I told him if he does, he'll die and leave ye alone to the tender mercies of lawless bastards. He is now considering things.” He paused, giving her a significant look, and Daria quickly paid him. “Nay, worry not, lass, he's not a stupid man.” He gave her a small salute and took himself off.

“You give him
my
money, do you?”

“Since I have none of my own, there's no choice.”

“So, you found where I'd hidden my coins and now you make free with them?”

“Perhaps I should have pleaded poverty and the priest could have dumped both of us in a ditch. As for the leech, of course I pay him. To put up with your temper, he deserves all the coins I give him. Of course, since he's a man and not a simpleminded female, you accorded him more courtesy and attention.”

“You should have told me.”

“You're right. I should have somehow roused you and asked humbly for your permission to use the coins. Such a pity I also am paying for the stabling and care of your destrier. Should I tell the priest to throw Cantor into a ditch, perhaps let him run loose until you are ready for him again?”

“You become a shrew, Daria.”

“You are merely bad-tempered because you cannot bear the fact that you, my stalwart rescuer, are all too human. You aren't a god, Roland. You're only a man.”

“So you have noticed that, have you?”

She gave him a smile that, had he but realized it, would have shown him just how much she did know. “Aye,” she said. “Be patient, my l—have patience.”

“How can I? The damned earl will come, and then what will you do? Tell him to be patient until I am well enough to protect you?”

She shook her head and spoke without thought. “I should protect you.”

He snorted and lost some of his newly acquired healthy color. “No, say nothing more. Bring me food. I must get my strength back.”

Daria considered starving him. He was ungrateful and seething all because he himself became ill. As if it were her fault. She sighed. Men were difficult creatures. “Very well. Please rest whilst I'm gone. I will return shortly with food for you.” She marveled that she'd sounded so calm. She snapped the chamber door closed with a bit more force than was necessary and walked with a bit more pressure than was fitting for a priest's abode.

Romila took one look at her face and cackled. “Aye, yer pretty husband makes ye furious, eh?”

“Aye, I'd like to strangle him.”

“He's a man, child, nothing more, nothing less. Feed him; he'll chirp in harmony again once his belly's full.”

If Roland didn't chirp, he at least seemed to regain his calm after he'd eaten Romila's stewed beef and coarse brown bread covered with sweet butter.

“We leave on the morrow,” he said, not bothering to look at her. He was calm and sure of himself and of her.

“No.”

“In the afternoon.”

“No.”

“Daria, you will do as I tell you. I am not your husband but I am the man in charge of you, the man responsible for you and, thus you—”

“No. We won't leave until you are well, completely fit, and not before. I have hidden your clothes, Roland. If you go, then you will go naked. You cannot force me, nor can you threaten me. I won't let you go until you are well again.”

He cursed, but Daria only smiled. He'd lost and he knew it. His foul language was just a man's adornment for his frustration. After he'd cursed himself out of words and into a near-stupor, he fell asleep and she moved to sit beside him. She lightly touched her fingers to his face, and leaning close, whispered, “You have no memory of two nights past, do you? I have wondered what I would do and say if you had. Would I have denied it and claimed it a fevered dream? Or a fancy, mayhap? But it hurts nonetheless, Roland, very much. Now I find I'm disappointed that you don't have any memory of ridding me of my maidenhead.

“I do know, Roland, if you force me back to my uncle and he forces me to wed Ralph of Colchester, I would at least have had one night of love.” She paused a moment, aware of tears pooling in her eyes. “Damn you, Roland. You are the most stubborn, the most obtuse of men. Mayhap I will simply inform my uncle that I am no longer a virgin and you are the man responsible. Then would I be safe from Ralph of Colchester?

“But at what cost? Would my uncle kill you? Kill me for my inheritance? Knowing Uncle Damon, I doubt he would have any scruples about doing away with both of us, but—”

“You carry on like a fanatic preacher. What are you talking about? I try to sleep to regain my strength, but you babble on and on, numbing my ears.”

She very slowly moved her fingers from his face. What had he heard? She tried to remember all of her soliloquy, but couldn't. A silly argument with herself, but it appeared he'd just heard meaningless sounds.

“It's nothing, Roland. Forgive me for disturbing you. Sleep.”

He grumbled some more, but she didn't understand him, which was probably just as well.

He slept soundly until late that night. After she'd fed him again and seen to his needs, which still caused him to curse and his expression to become taut with humiliation, she slipped into bed beside him, careful not to disturb him. But during the dark of the night, he found her and drew her against him. If was as if he knew her and accepted her and recognized also on a deep level that she was his and he would act as he pleased. His hands were on her hips; then she felt his fingers pushing between her thighs, skimming over her flesh to find her. She squirmed as his fingers probed, his middle finger easing high up inside her and his other fingers gently rubbing her swelled flesh. She turned her face into his shoulder, moaning through her clenched teeth, as her body shuddered with the intense feelings.

Then suddenly his breathing slowed and he fell back into a deep sleep, sprawled on his back, his fingers cupped over her hip. The frantic feelings slowly faded, and again she wondered where such feelings would lead.

She eased her hand down over him and discovered that his sex was full and heavy, but he hadn't moved to come into her. He hadn't had the strength, nor had he really awakened. What he'd done, he'd done simply because she was there beside him, a female whose flesh was eager for him. Had he realized it was her, Daria, he was holding and stroking, he would have probably fallen off the bed in his haste to get away from her. But he'd slept through his assault.

She awoke first the following morning and eased out of bed. She stared down at him and wanted to shout at the wondrous feelings that surged through her when she simply looked at him. “I love you, Roland,” she whispered, then repeated in Welsh,
“Rwy'n dy garu di.”
Romila had chuckled when Daria had asked her the words in Welsh the previous day, but had obligingly told her. Daria dressed hurriedly and left the chamber.

She wanted to visit his destrier and see that his care was proper. On the northern side of Wrexham cathedral, down a long narrow street, stood a public livery, a long low building built solidly of straw and dung and covered with a slate roof. Cantor was in the third stall and the toothless brawny individual who showed him to her babbled on about the amount of oats the horse was eating and how the beast had bitten him but good.

Daria finally paid him extra coins, and he beamed, scratching his armpit vigorously.

“He's a fine bit of horseflesh,” he said, speaking loudly and slowly to her in his own tongue. “Aye, it's true, and ye say yer husband be a freeholder?”

So much suspicion, she thought, nodding. She hadn't had time to think of a better lie, and this one wasn't serving her all that well. There was nothing for it but to stick to her story.

“Aye,” the liveryman continued, “another couple of men in here earlier, and they asked me about this beauty. I told ‘em yer husband were that, a freeholder.”

Daria felt her guts twist painfully. She knew who the men were, she
knew.

“They were
saeson,
the slimy louts.”

Of course they were English; they were the Earl of Clare's men; she had no doubt of it. What she didn't know was what she should do about it. She scratched her own armpit, saying indifferently, “I wonder if they'll come back. Think you they want to buy the horse?”

The stableman sought his way through her clumsy Welsh, and nodded. “They're coming back,” he said, and Daria knew everything had changed. Thank God the stableman didn't know their names or where they were staying. But the Earl of Clare would find out quickly enough. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth. Oh, God, what to do?

“Oh, aye,” the stableman suddenly said. “There they be, yon.”

She turned to see two of the earl's men some thirty paces up the narrow street, speaking to a vegetable vendor. She recognized MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He was making descriptive movements with his hands as he spoke. Both men looked tired and impatient.

“I think I will take the horse for a gallop,” Daria said.

She waved away his objection and quickly saddled Cantor. The destrier, impatient and bored, neighed loudly, flinging his head up, and it required all her strength to get the bit between his teeth and the reins over his head. “I will return soon,” she said to the stableman, and click-clicked Cantor from the stableyard. “I ride toward Leominster,” she said, and prayed with all her might that he would repeat that to the earl's men.

As Cantor snorted and danced sideways through the crowded narrow streets of Wrexham, Daria stuffed her hair under her woolen cap. Did she look once again like a boy? She prayed so. She had no idea where she was going. She knew only that she had to lead them away from Roland.

She had coin and she had a strong horse. She wasn't stupid and she could speak some Welsh. Aye, she thought, grimacing. Any robbers who caught her, she could tell them that she loved them. She would ride, she decided in that moment, to the castle called Croyland, to Lord Richard de Avenell. Surely he would assist her.

And what of Roland?

She closed her eyes over that thought. If the Earl of Clare found him, he would kill him. She had to lead him away; far away and quickly. Once they cleared the town, she gave Cantor his head. She knew from the position of the sun that they were riding northeast, toward Croyland, toward the English border.

What would Roland think when he realized she was gone?

It was raining, a cold fine spray that soaked Daria within minutes. She looked up at the angry gray sky and just shook her head at the endless misery of it.

She'd been riding for three hours now and hadn't seen a single man or woman in the past two. There were sheep, of course, sheep everywhere, and dark forests of sessile oak, thick twisted trees that looked wet to the touch even when it wasn't raining. The road she'd taken had become a rough path with yew bushes crowding on either side, many times their spiked leaves brushing against Cantor's flanks, making him prance sideways. She tried to keep him calm, his pace steady. His strength was great, his endurance greater.

She saw a flock of geese in a muddy field to her right and two badgers in a hedgerow beside her. No sign of the earl or his men. She prayed they were behind her, but far, far behind her.

The rain came down harder, in thick drenching sheets, and she huddled in wretched acceptance over Cantor's slick neck. She wondered if magically, once she gained England, the rain would cease. She couldn't be far from Chester, no, not very far now. And what of Roland? She shook her head. She couldn't worry about him now; worrying about herself had to be paramount.

Suddenly a hare sprang from a thicket in front of Cantor. The destrier reared back onto his hind legs, whinnying in surprise and anger, and Daria lost her hold and fell on her side into a puddle of water. She felt her bones jar with the impact, and for a moment she merely lay there, not wanting to move.

Cantor snorted over her, his mighty head lowered, mirroring her own misery. She tried to smile at being caught off-guard. But she couldn't find even a remnant of a smile. She scrambled slowly to her feet and leaned against Cantor's heaving side. He nudged at her and she pressed closer to him. She felt the vibrations against the soles of her leather shoes. Horses, and they were coming swiftly toward her. Soon they would come into view. It had to be the earl and his men.

She swung up onto Cantor's back and kicked his sides with the wet toes of her shoes. He bounded forward, only to stumble again. She was thrown sideways but kept on his back by wrapping his mane around her left wrist.

He was lame. She sat on his back, knowing it was over, yet unable to accept it. His head was lowered and he was blowing hard. There was no escape for her now.

She clearly heard the sounds of the horses' hooves now. Nearer and nearer, and there was naught she could do. Save wait.
What if they'd found Roland?