Secret Song (26 page)

“It wasn't the rain that sickened me.”

She cocked her head to one side in question.

“I gave you my last tunic and thus wore a damp one for three days. The wet sank into my chest.”

“You shouldn't have given me the tunic.”

“Probably not, but I did. How do you feel?”

“I'm fine.”

He rode beside her, silent now. But she felt the tension building up in him. She waited for his attack, knowing it was coming. Finally he said, “Why did you become ill so suddenly? You said you'd felt nothing before, no sickness of any kind, nothing at all. I don't understand how it could strike you with no warning, and then only after you learned you carried a babe.”

“I wondered that as well. The queen said it was probably because I'd been so worried, so drawn into myself with other matters. Once I knew about the babe, once I'd accepted it and recognized its presence, then my body acted as it should.”

He only nodded. It would be foolish of him to begin an argument about what the queen herself had said. “There's a Cistercian abbey about three miles ahead. We will beg shelter there for the night.”

The abbey was as old as the gnarled oaks that circled its perimeter. Jagged shards of stone were falling from the walls to lie on the fallow ground. When a brother appeared at the front gate, Roland dismounted and spoke to him. Within minutes another came and motioned Daria to follow him. She looked at Roland, but he only nodded to her. The brother led her to a separate building well apart from the main abbey. It was gray and forbidding, low-roofed, its stone walls jagged and crumbling. They walked through a narrow damp corridor with a rough earthen floor to a small cold cell-chamber. It was more than dismal, it was miserably cold, and Daria found she couldn't stop shivering. Dinner was brought to her by another cowled brother, who said nothing at all to her. Her dinner consisted of a thin broth and hard black bread.

She looked at the broth with its layer of grease congealed on the top, felt her stomach churn, and turned away to sit on the edge of the cot. The straw in the thin mattress was molded and damp and poked upward. She moved, but there was little relief.

Daria was hungry and cold and thoroughly miserable. Did God want women to be treated so poorly? Was that why they were shunted to dismal cells like these and hidden away? Were women to be punished for some reason she hadn't been taught?

She fell to shivering again, only to look up and see the congealed soup in front of her. Her stomach pitched, for she imagined herself sipping at that disgusting soup, and to her dismay, she heaved up the lunch she'd eaten earlier in the afternoon, barely reaching the cracked earthen pot in time. Her knees throbbed with pain, for she'd skidded on the hard dirt floor in her rush to get to the pot. She remained on her knees, her arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to breathe shallow breaths, to think of other things, to distract herself. In her mind's eye, she saw the farmer who'd helped her and Roland and she saw him horribly mutilated from the torture the Earl of Clare had inflicted on him. The cramps returned with a vengeance, and she retched and retched, her body shuddering with the effort, and she was trembling with weakness.

“Where is the vial the queen gave you?”

Daria didn't look up. She didn't know why he'd come. She wished he hadn't. She wanted to be alone and she wanted to die, by herself. She wanted no onlookers. She started to answer, but another spasm took her and she was beyond speech and thought for many moments.

Roland felt real fear in those moments, watching her shudder and heave with sickness, more fear than he'd felt the previous evening when she'd been ill. He said to Salin, who stood behind him, “Bring some water and clean cloths. Aye, and some decent food, some hot broth.” He snorted at the soup on the tray. “If I had to eat that disgusting swill, I would vomit my guts up too. If the brothers say anything amiss, break their necks.”

She felt his hands on her shoulders then and she tried to straighten, to show that she had some pride left, but all she could do was hang her head and tremble and shake, weak as an autumn leaf.

“Come,” he said, and efficiently lifted her into his arms. Rather than laying her onto the narrow cot, he sat on the cot and held her on his lap. “This damned bed is harder than a moss-scraped rock in Wales.” Then he paused a moment, feeling the chill of the room.

Roland frowned. She couldn't remain here; she would sicken. The abbot had assured him that his wife would be fine, the lying whoreson. What to do? The abbey had such strict rules about females. Did they believe that the sight of a woman would make all the brothers mad with lust?

He felt Daria twist in his arms with another cramp. He held her more loosely, rocking her, telling her it would be all right, soon she would feel better. She quieted and he drew her more closely to his chest. She was shivering violently, and he cursed softly.

“I'll fetch you the queen's medicine now.” He laid her on the cot and rose over her. She looked so pale it frightened him. And thin. He supposed he'd be thin too if he vomited all he ate. He shook his head and set himself to looking through her packets. He'd just given her some of the herb medicine when Salin returned.

Daria saw the look on the older man's face. His eyes were filled with pity. She hated it. She turned away, facing the wall.

“You will lie still for a few minutes, Daria, then eat. I don't want the broth to cool. Salin, I wish to speak to you outside.”

“One of the brothers told me the chamber's a punishment cell,” Salin said matter-of-factly when they were alone. “It's used only when one of the brothers commits a sin. He's whipped, then forced to remain in one of these chambers for several hours, never for an entire night. He would probably have to murder someone to be forced to do that. And as you now know, the chamber is also used for females who have the misfortune of needing to stop here for the night. Your lady will become truly ill if she remains in there.”

“Punishment cell,” Roland repeated blankly.

“Aye, I asked one of the brothers when you left. He said your wife would sicken but good if you left her here.”

“It's raining,” Roland said.

“Aye.”

“It's their abbey and we can't break their rules, no matter how miserable they are. However, since I can't take her back to the main building, then I shall have to remain here. Fetch me all the extra blankets you can find. And, Salin, say nothing to our hosts.”

The older man merely nodded and took his leave. Roland returned to his wife, who still lay on her side facing the grim rough stone wall, her legs drawn up. She hadn't vomited for a while, a good sign, he hoped.

“Now some broth, Daria.”

Her only reply was a groan, but he didn't hear it. When she didn't move, he drew her up in his arms and fed her the broth very slowly, watching her expression.

She finally opened her eyes and looked at him, wonder in hers. “I feel just fine now. It is so very odd, this illness. I want to die and then I want to conquer a new land.”

“No fights for you this night. I will remain here with you. If it weren't raining, I would stay outside these dismal ruins, but as it is, we must be glad for the shelter.”

He continued to feed her and was relieved when the color began to return to her cheeks.

When Salin returned, his arms piled high with blankets, Daria began to smile. Then she giggled, for only his fierce dark eyes showed over the blankets, and Roland, so surprised at the unexpected sound, grinned at her.

He said to Salin, “See that all the men settle in, and don't let any of them do anything to annoy the brothers. If any of the brothers are bothersome, ignore them. The saints know we wouldn't want any of the monks punished and sent here to share the cell with us.”

Roland doused the single candle not many moments later. He lay on his side on the miserably uncomfortable cot and drew Daria against him, feeling her press her bottom against his belly. He bore most of the weight of the blankets. Without thinking, he lightly kissed Daria's ear. “Sleep well,” he said, and pulled her even more tightly back against his chest and into the curve of his body.

Daria whispered, “Do you ever snore, Roland? Not just soft sounds, but snorting and blowing like a horse?”

“I don't know. You will tell me.”

“You should have to sleep in the same room with Ena. It is a torture in itself. She was once married, you know, many years ago. My mother told me that her husband left her because of the noises she made. He said it wasn't worth having the woman's body if he had to suffer along with it the sounds made by a pig and a horse.”

Roland hugged her and she pushed her bottom more firmly against his belly. “Don't do that,” he said, his voice sharp with sudden pain. “Don't.”

She felt his hard sex and held herself perfectly still. She didn't want him to humiliate her as he had on their wedding night. The memory of it brought back the pain of his anger, the pain of the shame he'd made her feel. She shook her head even as the thoughts twisted through her mind. She would forget that night. He'd been frustrated and angry and taken it out on her. He'd been kind to her since then. On the heels of those thoughts, Daria wondered if women always sought to excuse men when they behaved badly.

Roland woke her immediately the following morning at dawn. The rain had stopped during the night but the sun was hidden behind thick gray clouds.

He was on the point of rolling off the cot, taking Daria with him, when he remembered her condition, and said quickly, “Don't move. Just lie there for a few minutes.” He came up on his elbow and looked down at her face in the dim morning light. “How is your belly this morning?”

“I don't know yet.”

“I must go now, but you lie here until Salin brings you some warm milk to drink and some bread.”

He eased off the cot, then rose to stand there. She grabbed his sleeve and he turned back to look down at her.

“Thank you, Roland. You are very kind.”

His voice was stiff as his back after a night on the sorry cot. “You are my wife. I don't wish you to be ill.”

“Even though you believe it is another man's babe I carry?”

“Don't be bitter, Daria, you have no reason. Rest now, I will see you in a while.”

Her stomach remained calm throughout the day. Roland drew their company to a halt every couple of hours, as if he knew almost to the minute when she needed to relieve herself or stretch her back and walk about.

That evening the sky was clear and Roland decided to bypass another abbey whose grim silhouette against the evening sky made even Salin grimace.

“We will camp in that copse of maple trees,” he said, and it was done.

He didn't hold her that night, for it was warm and only a mild breeze sifted through the maple leaves overhead. Daria missed him, but she said nothing.

Two days later they mounted a rise, and in the distance Daria saw a beautiful Norman castle, its crenellated towers rising proud and strong above the thick stone walls.

“This is Graelam de Moreton's castle, Wolffeton. We will remain here until I have made our keep ready. His lady's name is Kassia.”

“The queen thought you would bring me to St. Erth.”

He merely shook his head. “You will doubtless meet Dienwald and Philippa, but we will stay here for a time.”

Daria looked around her. She loved Cornwall; it was savage and bleak and desolate, and it awakened all her senses, the stiff breeze from the sea ruffling her hair, its scent clean and salty. It wasn't a lonely place despite the barren desolation. It warmed her, this region, and she knew it as home.

“Is your keep far from here, Roland?”

“Nay, not far.” He watched her breathe in deeply. “You don't mind the ruggedness of this place?”

“Oh, no, not at all, truly.”

“Good, since it will be your home.”

And she was pleased about that. He saw that she was pleased and wondered at the pleasure and anger it made him feel, both at the same time.

Unfortunately, she was doomed to meet the lord and lady of Wolffeton with her eyes closed and her belly heaving, for no sooner had Roland helped her down from Henrietta's back in the inner bailey of Wolffeton than she was vilely ill. She heard a man's deep voice and a woman's higher one, filled with concern and gentleness. She turned her face into Roland's shoulder and heard him whisper, “Don't be embarrassed. Kassia will see to your comfort.”

Not ten minutes later, Daria was alone in a spacious chamber filled with bright light from three window slits, its stone floor covered with a supple wool rug from Flanders. The bed upon which she lay was so soft she sighed with delight, able to ignore her churning belly for a few moments.

She heard the woman say to her, “If you are ill again, the chamber pot is right here. Roland tells me you have some potion from the queen herself. Your husband is fetching it for you.”

The woman said nothing more until Daria, her stomach eased, opened her eyes and managed to smile.

“My name is Kassia and I'm pleased that Roland has wedded and that you will remain with us for a while. And you are with child. How very fortunate you are. My own babe is but a month old. His name is Harry and he looks just like his dark-eyed warrior of a father. It's not fair, but of course Graelam merely grins and says he is the stronger and thus his son must resemble him in all ways.”

“It is good that he looks like his father,” Daria said. “The child is lucky as well. His father will acknowledge him.”

Kassia de Moreton, lady of Wolffeton, thought this a rather odd thing to say. She cocked her head to one side in silent question. The young woman lying on her back, her face as pale as the white wimple that covered Kassia's hair, said nothing more. Her lips had become thin and Kassia worried that she would be ill again.