Secret Song (2 page)

Daria had closed her eyes, knowing he did this for her benefit, to show her yet again that a female was naught but what a man wanted her to be.

Daria had felt the familiar feelings of hate, revulsion, and helplessness surge through her. She loathed her uncle and he knew it, and she guessed it amused him, this silent hatred of hers. This
meaningless
silent hatred of hers. What did he want? For her to scream at him, to cry, to cower in humiliation and embarrassment? She stood perfectly still. She'd learned patience with him. She'd learned to wait silent as a rock, giving him no encouragement.

She didn't move. Her expression didn't change.

Suddenly he seemed to tire of his game. He pulled the furs higher over Cora and told her to be still and turn her back to him. “I tire of your sheep's face,” he added, his eyes all the while on his silent niece.

“You sent for me,” Daria said finally, holding her voice as calm and emotionless as she was trying to hold her body.

“Aye, I did. You're more than full grown, Daria. You turned seventeen two months ago. My silly little Cora here—already quite a woman—is only fifteen. You should have a babe suckling at your breast by now, as do most females. Aye, I've held you here overlong. But I had to wait, you see, wait for just the offer I wished.” He smiled then, showing all his very white teeth. “At least next month you will finally have a husband to plow that little belly of yours. And he'll do it enthusiastically, I doubt it not.”

She paled and stepped back. She couldn't help it.

He laughed. “Doesn't the thought of a husband please you, niece? Or do you fear and dislike all men? Don't you wish to escape me and become mistress in your own keep?”

She stared at him, mute.

“Answer me, you silly girl.”

“Aye.”

“Good. It will be done. When you leave me, Daria, tell your mother I wish to see her. Cora has but whetted my appetite.”

Daria didn't move this time, and after a moment, Damon merely shrugged, as if tiring of baiting her. Daria knew he forced her mother, her gentle, sweet mother—his dead half-brother's wife—and had taken her since the accidental death of his half-brother, James of Fortescue, in a tourney in London some four years before. But her mother, Lady Katherine, had never said a word to Daria, never complained, never cried. She was told she was to go to the lord and she went without comment, without objection, to Damon, and later emerged, still silent, her eyes cast down, her mouth sometimes swollen and bruised-looking. But Daria knew; all the servants spoke of it and she'd overheard them. This was the first time he had spoken openly of it before to her. But he wanted her to know, she guessed, but she wouldn't do what he wanted, she wouldn't plead with him, she wouldn't beg him to spare her mother. She said instead, “Who is to be my husband?”

“So you do have some interest, do you? You will doubtless be happy about my choice for you.” He paused and she saw the malicious gleam in his pale blue eyes. She knew she wouldn't like it and so did he. She waited, silent and still and cold, wishing now she'd kept her mouth shut and hadn't asked. She didn't want to know, not yet. But Damon said, his voice relishing his words, “Why, it is Ralph of Colchester, eldest son of the Earl of Colchester. They visited Reymerstone, don't you remember? Last November. Ralph told me he is most pleased with you, as is his father.”

“Not Ralph of Colchester. No. You would not, he is loathsome. He raped Anna again and again and he got her with child and—”

Damon roared with laughter. She'd finally reacted and he was pleased with himself. “Aye, I know it,” he said, still laughing, shaking the big bed with his mirth. “I made him a wager, you see. I told him that his father and I wanted him to get you with child immediately, and to see if he was capable, I gave him Anna, who was ready to be bred in any case. He impregnated her quickly. I was pleased and relieved, as was his father.”

Daria just looked at him, stunned and repelled, but not really surprised. She heard herself ask, “What did you offer as your wager with him?”

Damon laughed again. “So there is still a portion of defiance in you? Well, no matter now. I wagered your mother's gold necklace. The one my half-brother gave her upon their marriage.” He watched her face closely.

She gave him no more satisfaction. She'd given him more than enough. She said instead, shrugging, “It is of very little value.”

She looked at him, and for an instant, just a brief moment, she thought she saw some resemblance to her father in him. But she wasn't certain. She couldn't remember her father clearly anymore, even though it had been only four years since his death. But her father had been gone so often, for long stretches of time, and he hadn't particularly noticed her even on his rare visits to Fortescue Hall, for she was naught but a girl, a female whose only worth lay in a marriage advantageous to him. Still, surely he hadn't been as vile as his elder half-brother, surely.

And now it was Damon, his half-brother, who would gain the advantages of her marriage.

“What did you offer Ralph and his father? All my inheritance?”

“Why, certainly, most of it, but I dislike your impertinent tongue. Hold it quiet or I will have your mother brought here and she will tell you the value of obedience to me. Aye, Colchester will have most of your immense dowry and I will have the Colchester land that will extend my boundaries all the way to the North Sea. It is precisely what I wanted, what I've waited for so patiently. Actually, I will tell you why I allowed you to become so aged. The boy, Ralph, was mightily ill last year and I didn't know if he would survive; his father was concerned that even if he did survive, he wouldn't still have potent seed. But I was content to wait. He did survive, as did his seed, and aye, little Daria, I have got what I wanted, all of it.”

“It is my money, my inheritance. All that my father owned, he gave to me. You take everything, and it isn't yours to take.”

His face darkened and he threw back the furs. He came to his feet, standing naked by his bed. Cora stared at him as he strode to Daria. For a moment Daria believed he would strike her, but he didn't. He'd never struck her. It wasn't his way. He just smiled at her now, but she knew that it was rage burning bright in his eyes, not amusement.

“Go now,” he said at last. “Even you have managed to offend me, which is surprising. Your mother will prepare for your trip to Colchester. You will have wagons full of household items, as every bride should. You are the Reymerstone heiress; thus I have been more than generous with you. I would not wish to make a niggardly impression or leave any person in doubt of my affection for you, for I want no questions. You will leave in three weeks. I will come in time for your wedding, of course. And if you are obedient, I just might bring your mother with me. Well, why don't you say something? No? Leave me, then.”

She stared at him a moment, not at his body—for the very hardness of him, all that pale blond hair that covered him, frightened her—but at his hated face. Then she turned and walked from the chamber.

All she saw, all she could comprehend, was that Ralph of Colchester was to be her husband.

Her mother had held her, petted her while she cried, but she'd told her that any marriage—even to Ralph of Colchester—was better than remaining here. She must face it and behave as a lady ought, with dignity and acceptance. With a smooth, serene countenance.

And that was that. But Daria had despised the twenty-year-old Ralph of Colchester with his weak chin and his bowed thin legs and his leering expressions. And she'd seen what he'd done to Anna, fourteen-year-old Anna, naught but a child herself really, big-breasted, and pretty and stupid. She hadn't deserved to be raped repeatedly, but she had been, for the entire week's visit. Twice a day Ralph had raped her. And the men had laughed and clapped the miserable youth on his shoulder and told him his rod was sure and true.

Finally, Daria thought, bringing herself back to the present, raising her face skyward. Snowflakes were falling now, each one falling more quickly than the last, blanketing Drake, his men, and all the wagons in pure white. As the flakes struck her face, she felt the numbing cold of them pierce more and more deeply into her. Henrietta stumbled and snorted and Daria patted her neck. She wondered if Ralph would allow her to ride once they were wedded. She wondered if he would rape her twice a day as he had Anna.

Drake turned, shouting back to her that they would shortly arrive at the Cistercian Abbey of Grainsworth, where they would pass the night.

They were soon forced to form a single-file column, for the road narrowed dramatically, bounded on both sides by huge rocks and tumbled boulders, stark and bold.

When the attack came, it was all the more terrifying because Drake and his dozen men couldn't see their enemy; nor could they defend themselves, held apart in their long line, their horses screaming and lunging in terror. They fell, one by one, struck by the arrows shot from behind the rocks. Some of the men were wearing armor, but it didn't matter, they were rained with arrows and eventually an arrow found its mark in the man's neck or in his face. Other men wore padded jerkins, and they were killed more quickly. But none of them had a chance against an enemy hidden behind rocks and shooting through a thick veil of white snow.

Oddly enough, after the first shock of the attack, Daria wasn't afraid. She knew deep inside her that she wouldn't die. Not today, not by an arrow shot through her chest. When only Daria and her maid, Ena, remained, when all the screams died away and the white air was cleansed of arrows and men's cries, did their attackers emerge, unscathed. They were shouting and laughing at the ease of their victory. Daria saw their leader immediately, a huge man, and he was laughing the loudest as he directed his men to loot the dead, collect the horses, and see to the wagons.

He took off his helmet. He had the reddest hair she'd ever seen.

 

Roland de Tournay found the seat of the Earl of Reymerstone easily enough. The castle dominated the rock-strewn promontory that jutted out like a tongue into the Thirgby River that flowed nearly a mile into the North Sea. The castle was in the Norman style, built by the present earl's great-grandfather, and was more stark and weathered than comfortable, still more of a fortification and a garrison than a residence. Yet the present earl had lined the pockets of many merchants to add comfort to the austere gray stone castle, luxuries such as thick tapestries to blanket the stone walls and keep out the damp from the North Sea, Flanders carpets in bright scarlets and royal blues, beautiful embroidered cushions for the three chairs, each made by an artisan of great skill. The dozen trestle tables and their long benches in the great hall, however, had not changed in three generations, and past living of all the common men and women who had shared their meals on the gnarled old tables still showed clearly, all the scuffs, all the knife-carved initials, all the old grease.

The great hall of Reymerstone was impressive, Roland decided as he waited for the emergence of the Earl of Reymerstone, Damon Le Mark. Roland knew he was being studied by several serving wenches and sent them a wink that caused giggles and pert smiles. He saw a female hurrying toward him, this one a lady, possibly the mistress of Reymerstone. She was in her thirties, brown-eyed, hair a dull red and of slight stature. She'd once been very pretty. Now she looked faded and tired, her shoulders slightly bowed. She looked beaten down. Her expression, however, when she looked at him, suddenly changed and she looked furtively around her, then approached him quickly, her step light and quick as a girl's.

“You are Roland de Tournay, sir?” she asked in a low voice that was soft and cultured.

“Aye, my lady. I come at the invitation of the Earl of Reymerstone, your husband.”

“He will be here shortly. He is otherwise occupied just now.” What did that mean? Roland wondered. The woman continued, “I am Lady Katherine of Fortescue, the current earl's sister-in-law. His half-brother was my husband.”

“Your husband was James of Fortescue? I had heard he'd fallen by accident in a tourney, just before he was to leave with Edward for the Holy Land. My sympathies, my lady.”

She again nodded her bowed head. Roland frowned. Couldn't she look at him, eye-to-eye? Could she possibly be frightened of him?

“Do you know why Lord Reymerstone asked me to come here?”

Her head came up then and he saw the strain in her fine eyes. And there was something else—fear, perhaps, which brought him fully alert.

“It concerns my daughter,” she said quickly, glancing behind her. She grabbed his sleeve. “You must find my child and bring her back safely, you must. Ah, here he comes. I dare not remain. I will leave you now, sir.”

She glided silently away, gone into the gaggle of serving wenches before the earl had seen her.

Roland had a moment to study the Earl of Reymerstone as he strode toward him. He was a tall man, in his late thirties, lean of build, a full head of white-blond hair, his eyes the palest of blues. His stubborn chin was beardless, his expression was obstinate. He didn't look to be an easy man. He looked to be a man who got his own way, by any means necessary. Roland had survived many of his adult years by correctly summing up a man's character. He'd seldom been wrong in the past five years. Indeed, his only huge mistake had been in his dealings with a woman. A lady, so very young, so very fair, and he a young man of very tender years. He shook off the memory of Joan of Tenesby.

The earl gave Roland a brief nod and Roland knew he'd been weighed in those short minutes as well. “You have come in good time, thank the saints, de Tournay. Come and sit with me. We have much to discuss.”