Secret Song (36 page)

“It's incredible,” Burnell said, sat back in his chair, and sighed deeply. His eyes remained closed as he bit into another sweet bun filled with raisins and almonds and nutmeg.

“Keep your thoughts away from my cook,” Roland said, then laughed. “You will not seduce her from me even though you are a man of God.”

“But the king, Roland, his belly would mellow from such wondrous food and—”

“He would become fat as a stoat, belch in foreign dignitaries' faces, sire no more children off the queen because he would be constantly eating, and she would be repelled, aye, Burnell, and he would die one day from gluttony, and England couldn't afford that loss, sir. And it would be your fault, all for lusting after my cook.”

“Perhaps,” Daria said, sitting forward, her eyes sparkling now, for the man who had spoken so humorously was the Roland she had met and known in Wales. “But what is a certainty, sir, is that Alice has no choice but to remain here. You see, she is tied to this place by bonds that go deeper than the spirit, all her skills derive from this earth and none other, and she told me that she must remain here else she would lose all her knowledge and abilities.”

“Ah,” said Burnell, and frowned deeply.

Roland shot his wife a surprised look and she returned it limpidly.

“You are blessed with a golden tongue, Daria,” he said to her some moments later when Sir Thomas turned to speak to Burnell. “Poor Burnell.”

“Perhaps my lie was a bit more effective, but yours was by far more humorous, Roland. I'd forgotten how you could make me laugh.”

“There isn't much to laugh about now, is there?”

“I suppose not, and I miss laughter. I miss it more than I minded the endless rain in Wales.”

He gently clasped her face between his hands. He tilted up her chin and kissed her mouth. He continued kissing her, light, soft kisses that made her flesh warm. After a moment he released her, asked, “How is your mother?”

“Alice made a potion for her. She is sleeping soundly at present, and Gwyn is with her. She will fetch me when Mother awakens. Thank you, Roland.”

Roland picked up his goblet and began to examine the texture of the carvings on its surface. “Your mother is a beautiful woman. You look like her, you know, save that your hair isn't so strong and pure a red.”

“True. I always thought I'd been diluted, though of course she would tell me that it was I who purified her.” Daria pictured her mother's bruised body and suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears.

Roland saw the men turn to stare aghast at his wife. Conversation began to die. He waved a hand, then turned to her and said quietly, “I know you are hurt, hurt that you think you failed her, but you didn't. She is safe now, thanks to you. Hush, now, Daria, else Burnell will tell the king that I abused you in front of everyone and with no provocation, and he will annul our marriage and take all your dowry from me. Sir Thomas will kick me out from my new home and I'll be cursed to wander the world again. Let me tell you that wandering grows tedious and I want no more of it.”

His words were amusing and his voice was light and teasing, so she was able to ignore the truth of his words, and sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that.”

“The babe,” he said, not looking at her.

Daria hugged her arms around her belly. There was a slight roundness now and her waist was thickening. She wondered when he would look at her and be repelled.

 

“I haven't enjoyed you since this morning, too many long hours ago.”

They were in their bedchamber. Daria closed her eyes, accepting more kisses, returning them with growing enthusiasm. When he caressed her and came into her body, he was kind and gentle and loving. If afterward he withdrew and became cold, well, it seemed it was her price to pay. She found she couldn't become cold as well as he did, so she said nothing, merely tried to pretend sleep as quickly as possible. Slowly, even as he continued kissing her, his hands still cupping her face, her hands lowered, stroking over his belly, lower, until her fingers closed about him. He moaned, his body jerking at her touch. Then he shoved against her fingers, and he was larger now, nearly too large for her hand, and she held him between her hands, lightly stroking him, gliding downward to touch the rest of him, and he was breathing hard and low and his kisses were deeper and more demanding and she continued to caress him until he jerked back from her, his chest heaving. She'd only touched him like this some three days before and she was more than pleased with her discovery. He'd said nothing about it, but his reaction when she touched him and caressed him with her hand was more than gratifying. She remembered the queen's ladies and their advice and knew that soon she would touch him with her mouth. She wondered how he would react to that.

He stared down at her now but his eyes closed suddenly. He said her name softly, then, without warning, lifted her onto her back on a narrow table, knocking off the basin to the stone floor. It cracked, but he didn't notice. Her jerked her hair free, threading his fingers through it until it hung down off the edge of the table, thick and tangled. He pulled her forward until her hips were at the edge of the table, her legs dangling. “Don't move, Daria.”

She couldn't have moved in any case, for if she did, she would probably crash like the basin had to the stone floor. Her gown was tangled about her legs. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his breathing, harsh and raw. Then he was over her, lifting her hips with his hands, and slid deeply into her. She cried out and he stopped.

“Do I hurt you?”

She shook her head.

Then he lowered her legs and brought his mouth down to her. When she wailed, he came quickly into her again, and felt her legs close around his flanks, drawing him deeper and deeper still.

“Daria,” he said, and let his release overtake him.

For many minutes neither of them moved.

“It is a good thing that Burnell brought the rest of my clothes. You have destroyed many of my gowns, Roland.”

He grunted, his mind still so blurred from the pleasure that he couldn't think.

As he came back to himself, Roland recognized that he was changing, and it frightened him. He was coming to need her, his wife, and seek her out. Not any deep part of him, not the spiritual part of him, but his body recognized her as its mate and his body's need seemed to grow stronger and more demanding. And it wasn't simply because she gave herself so sweetly to him—no, it was more, and more still, and it maddened him. It was as if this particular girl was meant to be his.

He withdrew his sex and his spirit from her. Then he withdrew his presence.

It was relatively simple to keep his distance from her, for Burnell wished to rest for several days and it was Roland's duty to show him the countryside and tell him his plans for Thispen-Ladock. As it was Daria's duty to provide for Burnell's pleasure, she was also occupied. And with her mother. He knew she spent many hours with Lady Fortescue. It wasn't until the last evening of Robert Burnell's stay that Lady Fortescue came into the great hall for the evening meal. She was lovely, he saw, her red hair warm and vibrant, her eyes bright and soft. Roland greeted her warmly. Sir Thomas insisted that she sit beside him.

At the close of the meal, which made everyone sigh with pleasure, Roland rose from his chair, his goblet of ale raised high. He said to Sir Thomas, “You have provided me with my home and the home for my sons and my sons' sons. I thank you, Sir Thomas. You have given me land and a home that will remain in my spirit until the day I die. You have told me, Sir Thomas, that I must make Thispen-Ladock mine completely, that I must select a new name that will reflect what I am and my line. It was difficult to find such a name until I realized at last that I was a wanderer, and a lover of many lands. I saw the world, and I would bring the essence of what I saw here, to Cornwall, here to this keep, and all will come to know it as Chantry Hall. Chantry is the name of a man I knew in the Holy Land. He saved my life and he taught me that freedom of the spirit was the most precious of God's gifts to man. My thanks to you, Sir Thomas, and to you, Robert Burnell.”

“Hear. Hear.”

Daria stared at him, emptiness filling her even as her goblet overflowed with wine poured by an excited servant. The speech he'd just made was wonderful and fluent and moving. She hadn't known about it. She hadn't know about any of it.

She turned slightly and saw that her mother was looking at her, and she quickly lowered her eyes, raised her goblet, and sipped at the wine.

I am nothing more to him than one of the mules who brought his riches to him.
She very slowly rose from her chair and walked from the great hall.

Only one remarked her leaving.

“It will rain soon. Do you miss Wales and the endless rain that soaked you to your soul?”

Daria didn't look back at him. She stood on the northern ramparts, wishing she could see the sea from its vantage point, but there was naught but the soft moonlight over the green rolling hills. It was warm this evening, the air heavy from the rain that would fall before midnight.

“Aye, I miss Wales,” she said.

“Why did you leave the hall? I had thought it a good time to celebrate. I had thought Burnell would enjoy his final night if I filled it with laughter and jests and Alice's incredible array of food.”

“Worry not, Roland. He is enjoying himself, as is everyone else.”

“Why did you leave?”

She shrugged. “It didn't matter if I was there or not, Roland. All this”—she turned then, spreading out her arms—“all this is yours. It has nothing to do with me. I hope you enjoy it, Roland, for to your mind, you've accepted dishonor and lies to gain it. I hope every sheep gives you delight, every shaft of wheat endless bliss.”

“Your wishes for my joy warm me, Daria, but they seem a trifle incomplete. You don't wish me mindless pleasure from all the cows that graze the eastern acres?”

She thought her eyes would cross with fury, but she held on to herself, turning away from him, leaning on the stone ramparts. She swallowed, still saying nothing.

“Did you drink too much wine?”

She shook her head.

“Then you aren't ill?”

She was silent.

“You haven't vomited for nearly a week now. If you are feeling ill now, it isn't right.”

She wondered how he knew that, but didn't say anything. She sighed deeply and turned once again to face her husband. “I'm not ill. I think I will go for a walk now. I bid you good night, Roland.”

“What you will do, Daria, is return with me to the great hall and see to your guests.”

“They are not my guests, Roland. They are
yours;
they are here at
your
keep; they are here at
your
pleasure; they are enjoying
your
bounty, not mine. I have naught to do with anything. Don't lie to me about them being my guests. I am nothing here and they are nothing to me.”

“It is a pity you removed yourself before I could finish my toast.”

She looked at him warily, not willing to trust him an inch. “What do you mean?”

He flicked a piece of lint from the sleeve of his tunic. Her eyes followed the movement and she was looking at his long fingers when he said, “Without you—and your magnificent dowry, that is—I wouldn't be able to make needed repairs on the keep. Without you I wouldn't be able to increase my herds, hire more soldiers, bring in more peasants, and see to luxuries within the keep. Because of you, Daria, I am able to bring my home to its former glory now rather than in the misty future.”

It
was
his home, just as all she had brought through the marriage was his as well. She shoved him out of her way. Because she caught him off-guard, she was able to slip past him. She raced along the narrow rampart walkway to the wide ladder that rose from the inner bailey.

He watched her climb down the ladder. She moved carefully, even in her anger, to protect the babe in her womb. He watched her dash across the inner bailey, gracefully avoiding refuse and puddles of water and two sleeping goats. He turned back and took her place at the rampart wall. He leaned his elbows on the rough stone. The night winds rose and the air thickened. He wondered, suddenly, without warning, what his father would think of him right at this moment. He saw his father's face after Roland had finally told him of Joan of Tenesby's treachery. He could still hear his deep soft voice as he said to his second son, “Listen, Roland, and listen well. You were played the fool, boy, but it didn't kill you. It hurt your heart and your pride, nothing more. It won't last, these sorrowing feelings. In the future, when you hear of the man who weds Joan of Tenesby, you will feel pity for the poor fellow, for he had not your luck. Nay, he will have gone blindly to his fate. You will tread more carefully now, and when it comes your time to wed, you will know what to seek and what to avoid in a wife. Honesty, Roland, honesty is a rare commodity in any human, man or woman. When you find honesty, then you will be the winner.”

Honesty, Roland thought.
Honesty.
Rare indeed, and he hadn't found it.

He turned away from the ramparts wall. No, he hadn't found honesty and he was himself becoming more dishonest with each passing day.

Just that morning, as the soft pearl lights of dawn had filled their small bedchamber, he had pulled Daria against him, then rolled on top of her. He'd felt the small roundness of her belly and it had driven him mad. He'd taken her quickly and left her. And he'd wondered if this child she carried would look like the Earl of Clare.