Secret Song (38 page)

“What the devil is happening here?”

The men stumbled back to allow Roland through. He stopped cold at the sight of his wife on her knees holding Graelam and speaking to him in a singsong voice.

“Daria, what happened? Graelam, what—?”

She turned then and smiled up at him, tears glistening on her dust-streaked cheeks. “He'll live, Roland. It happened just like my father, but Graelam lived. It was a warning, not a prediction.” She rose then, and said very calmly, “Please help Lord Graelam to the keep. His ribs are likely badly bruised. Be careful Roland, I shall have Alice prepare a brew for him to ease his pain.”

Without another word, she walked away from him, walked past her mother, her steps brisk and her head thrown back.

His questions would wait. Roland directed his men to lift Graelam. The men grunted and heaved in their burden. “Go easy,” Roland said, and helped in the task. Once Graelam was lying on his bed, bared to the waist, Roland saw indeed that his ribs were bruised badly. He felt them, then nodded. “Daria is right. You will be fine, but sore as Satan for a good week. What happened, Graelam?”

“I was working on your damned wall, Roland. It collapsed suddenly, without warning, and the stone buried me. That's all.” But it wasn't all, Graelam was thinking. Something very strange had occurred. It was as if he himself had quit being, but of course he hadn't. He'd been buried under the rubble—he remembered quite clearly the pain of the striking stones as they'd hit him; then he'd suddenly been separate from the pain, outside of it somehow, and he'd seemed to be surrounded by a very clear whiteness that was blinding yet somehow completely clear—nothing more, just—white, thick and impenetrable, yet clear. And then he'd heard Daria screaming at him, screaming that he wouldn't die, not like her father had died, that she wouldn't let him. And then he'd come back into the rawness of his body, even felt the pain of her fists hammering over and over again against his chest. And the white had receded, moving slowly away from him, then whooshing out of his sight in an instant of time, and he was awake and filled with life and pain and she was above him, babbling nonsense at him and stroking his face with her hands.

“What happened to Daria's father?”

Roland stared down at his friend.

“No, I'm not out of my head. What happened to him?”

“He died. In a tourney, some years ago.”

“I see.” But he didn't, not really. He said very quietly, “Your wife saved my life, Roland.”

“She pulled stones off you, that's true. But not all that many. The men hauled off the bulk of them.”

“Nay, it was more—much more. The stones, they had already hurt me—” Graelam fell silent. He said nothing more until Daria entered, carrying a goblet in her hand. Her mother followed her, strips of cloth over her arms.

Daria paid no heed to her husband. She sat beside Graelam, smiled down at him, and said, “Drink this, my lord. It will take away the pain and make you sleep for a while. My mother will bind your ribs. Have you pain anywhere else?”

Graelam shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. He drank the bittersweet brew. His head soon lolled on the pillow, but before he closed his eyes he said, “Thank you, Daria. Thank you for my life.”

“What did he mean, Daria?”

She raised her head and looked at her husband. “I couldn't let him die. I couldn't let the vision end like it had with my father. I just couldn't. I have failed too many times in my life. I couldn't fail in this.”

She stood then and straightened her gown. She left the chamber then, saying nothing more.

Roland said to Katherine, “Your daughter is behaving strangely. What is she talking about? I don't understand.”

Katherine shook her head, motioning Roland to help her. Between them they managed to bind Graelam's ribs with strip after strip of stout white cloth.

Whilst Roland stripped off the remainder of Graelam's clothing and brought a light cover to his waist, Katherine walked to the small window slit and looked out.

“Stay a moment, Roland,” Katherine said once he'd finished.

“I should go see to Daria.”

“In a moment. Did she tell you about her father?”

“Only that he had died in a tourney in London just before Edward left for the Holy Land.”

“There was something else. She saw her father die.”

Roland stared at her. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Daria saw him die, three days before word reached us that he'd been killed accidentally in that tourney in London.”

“You mean she had some sort of vision?”

“Aye, I suppose that is as good a word as any. In any case, it happened.”

Roland was thinking of her telling him that she'd known him the moment she'd first seen him. She'd recognized him deep within her. He shrugged, irritated, for it was the kind of thing a man couldn't touch, couldn't look at and say it was real or wasn't real. He didn't like this sort of talk. It was nonsense. Anything that smacked of visions belonged to prophets in mountain caves, not to young females.

“I realize it's difficult for you to accept, Roland. Just imagine what it is like for Daria. Evidently she saw Graelam being crushed by the stone wall. But somehow she brought him back.”

“He was never dead. He was simply unconscious—and only for a few moments, nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” Katherine said. She gave him a sad smile. “Don't hurt her with this, Roland.”

His head snapped up. He said, his voice quite cold and quite distant, “I am not a monster.”

He left her then, saying over his shoulder as he paused at the chamber door, “I will send Rolfe to attend his master. You must rest, Katherine.”

Roland found Daria in the orchard. She was seated on what was now called Lady Katherine's bench. She was staring down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

He sat beside her, saying nothing.

“Lord Graelam is all right?”

“Aye, he will survive. He's sleeping now.”

“Will you send a message to Kassia?”

“I probably should before Graelam regains his wits. He detests illness or weakness. But his wife should be told, just in case something goes wrong, just in case he is hurt internally and—”

“No, he isn't hurt internally.”

Roland looked at her then, his eyes narrowed. “You have no way of being certain of that, Daria. No way at all. Why do you say it with such assurance?”

“I just know,” she said, her voice now as distant as his.

“How do you know?”

“It matters not. I have much to do now, Roland. If you need me for naught else, then—”

He quickly grasped her wrist and pulled her back down. “I won't accuse you of being a witch, if you're afraid of that. My men just might be thinking that, though. You're not stupid, Daria. You know there might be talk. I want you to tell me exactly what you did so that I may combat it.”

“I shoved the men aside and pulled off the stones myself. You see, I knew exactly what stones to shove aside to clear his head and his chest. Then I saw that he was motionless, that he wasn't breathing, and I was no longer just afraid. I was furious, so enraged that I couldn't control it. It is an odd reaction for me, but it happened. I was so angry that I struck his chest with my fists, again and again, and screamed at him like a shrew. That is likely what your men will gossip about. They will say that I lost all reason. But Graelam breathed again and he moaned and then he opened his eyes.”

“He was merely unconscious.”

“Yes, he was merely unconscious.”

He looked at her profile, his mouth thinning. “You weren't there when the wall collapsed on him.”

“No, I was in the solar mixing herbs.”

“How did you know what had happened?”

“I saw it happen.”

Roland was silent for many moments. He was aware of bees swarming about the apple tree behind him. He heard sparrows flapping their wings in the still hot air. The heavy smell of grass filled his nostrils. This should be a peaceful spot, but it wasn't. There were mysteries here, and things he didn't understand, and there was pain as well, and he knew he was the cause of it. He didn't know what to do. He didn't begin to know what to think about this. He rose and looked down at his wife.

“I must send a message to Kassia. Doubtless she will arrive shortly to see to her lord.”

Daria merely nodded.

 

It was deep in the middle of the night. A storm was blowing in. Just as lightning streaked across the sky, Daria awoke, pain convulsing her belly, a cry erupting from her mouth.

Daria had never imagined such pain. It welled up in her, overpowering her, capturing all of her within it, and she couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. The pain twisted and coiled until she screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her knees up, but nothing helped. Then, suddenly, just as the pain had started, it stopped.

Roland lurched upright at her first cry. He'd just come into their bedchamber a short time before and was on the edge of sleep. “Daria.” He clasped her arms and tried to bring her about to face him, but her pain was keeping her apart from him, apart from understanding, apart from even the knowledge of him and his presence. So he held her until she quieted. She lay on her back, staring up at him, panting heavily.

“It's gone,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “It was horrible but now it's gone.”

“What pain? Where did you hurt?”

“My belly. Cramps, awful twisting cramps and—” Her eyes flew to his face. “Oh, no.”

Roland quickly lit several candles. He turned back to see her standing beside the bed, staring down at herself. He felt himself grow cold at the sight. Blood blotched red on her white shift, blood streaked down her legs, puddling at the floor between her feet.

She looked up at him, her eyes blank. “I don't understand.” Another cramp seized her, and she fell to her knees with the force of it.

She was losing the child. She was bowed on her knees, crying. He lifted her high in his arms and felt the agony of her body as she twisted and heaved against him. He laid her onto her back, watching her immediately roll to her side, her legs drawn up, her arms around her belly.

“Hold on,” he shouted at her, then ran from the bedchamber, grabbing his bedrobe as he went.

He met Katherine in the narrow corridor. Her face was pale in the dim light.

“What's wrong, Roland?”

“It's the babe, she's losing the babe.”

Katherine ran past him. She stood over her daughter, wishing she could take the pain from her, magically take it into herself, but she couldn't, of course. She pushed sweat-soaked hair from her daughter's forehead, speaking to her softly. “It will soon be over Daria. Soon now. Don't frighten your husband so, darling. But look at him, his face is as pale as the dawn light and your pain becomes his. Come, Daria give him your hands and he will help you.”

Roland moved automatically to do as Katherine bade. He was grateful for any instruction, for he felt so damnably helpless. He grasped his wife's fingers, then eased his hold so that she could grip his hands instead. She saw him, at last. “Roland, please make it stop.” She was gone from him for many moments, locked into the pain of her body.

Daria felt a mighty twisting that wound tighter and tighter, crushing her within it, and she prayed in that instant for oblivion, for that thick whiteness she'd seen that afternoon. But she felt everything; nothing faded, nothing lost its sharpness. She felt the flood of liquid down her legs, and she knew then that she was losing the babe, losing her babe, Roland's babe. The wet was sticky and warm and she screamed for herself and her own loss and she screamed for the loss of the unborn child. She was aware that someone's hands were on her body, warm water and cloths were touching her gently, and Roland was holding her face against his chest and she could feel the sharp loud rhythm of his heart and he was speaking to her, yet she didn't understand his words. Slowly, as the screams that clogged her mind and her throat finally pulled away from her, releasing her back into herself, she made out his words, soft but insistent, pulling at her, lulling her.

“Hush, Daria, hush now. You're all right. Everything is all right now. Hush.” And he was rocking her, kissing her sweaty forehead, and for a moment in time she was comforted and allowed herself to heed his words and his gentleness, and gave herself over to him.

She heard her mother's voice. “I can see no damage done, Roland. Now I must get the bleeding slowed. Just remain as you are. Hold her and soothe her. Keep her as quiet as you can. Try to—comfort her.”

He did, kissing his wife's temple, speaking to her endlessly of the farmer he'd visited and the man's four daughters who'd wanted to come back to Chantry Hall with him and serve his beautiful wife. Aye, they'd all heard of her, of her kindness, of her gentleness. He talked and talked, of nothing and everything, yet none of it was important and he knew it, but it didn't matter. Daria was quiet. He watched Katherine bathe the blood from her daughter, watched her make a thick pad of white cotton cloths and press it against her. He saw the crimson cloths on the floor beside the bed.

It was over.

Daria felt the smooth edge of a cup pressed against her closed lips. She opened her mouth at Roland's command and drank deep. She lolled back against her husband's arm, aware that the potion she'd drunk was drugged, aware now that Roland was stripping off her bloodied chemise and bathing the sweat from her body. She felt the soft cool material of her bedrobe as he wrapped it around her. When she was on her back, she opened her eyes to see her mother and Roland standing beside her. But they weren't looking at her, but at each other, and Katherine was saying quietly, “It isn't uncommon at all, Roland. She will heal and there will be other children for you. Also the vigorous activity this afternoon—she lost the child, but she did save Graelam. A choice God doubtless approved, Roland. It was no one's fault.”