Secret Song (39 page)

Roland was silent.

“It's for the best, Roland,” Katherine said, unable to bear the empty pain of his silence. She really meant nothing by her words, just feeling so helpless that she said anything to ease him, for it hurt her to see him so shattered and withdrawn into himself. She wished he would say something, anything. But he remained silent. And she said again, “It's for the best, Roland.”

Daria felt darkness clouding her vision, closing over her mind, but she fought it. She laughed, a raw ugly sound. “Oh, Mother,” she gasped, the words pouring out unbidden, “you're so very right. It is for the best. Roland's best. This child is dead and Roland is silent because he knows he must wait until he can yell his relief to the world—he is a man of some wisdom. He doesn't wish to shock you or any of our people, Mother, with his rejoicing.” And she laughed and laughed until the tears streamed down her face and she was choking on them, and then suddenly she felt his hand strike her cheek and the laughter and tears died and succumbed to the tug of the poppy juice. She saw her husband's face, drawn and white; then she saw nothing.

Roland stared down at his wife's pale face. Bloodless, he thought blankly, his eyes going toward the soaked cloths. So much blood. “You're certain she will be all right, Katherine? She's so pale—”

“She's lost a goodly amount of blood, but withal, she's strong and fit. She'll come through this, Roland. She'll regain her strength and come back to you.”

He continued to look at his wife's face, continued to listen to her breathing, continued to feel her damning words sear through him.

“What did she mean—that you would yell your relief?”

Roland looked up at Katherine of Fortescue. Slowly he shook his head. “She meant nothing,” he said.

Katherine was tired, worried to her very soul, and thus she spoke harshly, without thought. “She meant something, all right. I'm not blind, Roland. There is strife between the two of you. My daughter is bitterly unhappy and you, well—you seem so distant with her, so removed from her. Damn you, what did she mean? What have you done to her?”

And Roland said simply, giving it up because he was so unutterably weary, “The king and queen know of it, but no one else. The child she carried wasn't mine.”

Katherine drew back, so surprised that she dropped some of the bloodied cloths. “Not your child? That makes no sense at all. No, that couldn't be—”

“I don't know whose child it was. More than likely it was the Earl of Clare's, or perhaps another's, a man I never knew of. No, it wasn't her fault, I would swear to that. Daria is good and true. She would never betray me. She was raped.” He paused, raising Daria's limp hand and pressing his mouth to her wrist.

Katherine continued to stare at him. He moved restlessly, saying more to himself than to her, “But you see, she insisted the child was mine. She refused to back down, even though all pointed to fabrication. I have assured her repeatedly of my protection, promised that I would think no less of her, and begged her to tell me who had taken her against her will, but she kept insisting that the child was mine, that she'd given me her virginity one night when I was ill, out of my head with fever. I don't understand her, but now it is over and there will be no more dissension between us.”

Katherine wished desperately she hadn't pushed him. What he'd told her—it was something she would never have imagined. She guessed he would regret speaking the truth to her, feel anger at her for goading him, so she said nothing more. She felt exhaustion creeping into her very bones; she looked down at her daughter and knew she would sleep for many hours now, healing sleep. She nodded to Roland and left the bedchamber. When she opened the door, she saw Sir Thomas standing there. She wasn't surprised to see him. She smiled and said, “I would very much like to rest now, sir.”

“I will assist you to your room, Katherine,” Sir Thomas said, and gave her his arm.

Roland eased onto his back, and clasped his wife's wrist. He felt the pulse, strong and steady beneath his finger. She would live. He felt relief so profound that he shook with it.

No, he wouldn't be shouting his relief. He wouldn't be shouting at all. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but it was too late now.

 

Graelam de Moreton sat up in his bed, his wife standing over him, her hands on her hips. They looked to be in the midst of an argument.

“If there are wagers to be made on the outcome of this conflict, my groats are on Kassia.”

“Get out, you dammed sod. And take me with you.”

“Nay, Roland,” Kassia called out, laughter in her voice, “stay. Graelam becomes more and more unmanageable, but perchance you can convince him that he will be rendered impotent if he doesn't allow himself enough time to heal. I have told him that is what happens to men who don't obey their wives' commonsense instructions.”

“That's her latest dire prediction,” Graelam said. “I refuse to believe it. You don't, do you?”

Roland kept his expression steady. “I can see why she would be concerned,” he said at last. “After all, you have always told me that your rod is a good deal of your wife's contentment bliss. Were something to happen to it, why, then, what would she do?”

Kassia gasped. “Roland, did he say that, truly?”

“Of course I didn't say any such thing.”

“It was something like that, if I recall aright. Nay, you're right, Graelam. You told me that a man's rod was a measure of a warrior and that, therefore, you were as great as Charlemagne himself.”

Graelam threw a carafe of water at Roland, then fell back against the pillows at the pain it brought him. He cursed fluently and with all the frustration in his soul.

He felt his wife's soft hands on his chest, lightly stroking him, and the pain, incredibly, eased. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “You think you are well in control, don't you?”

She leaned down and kissed him. “Aye.”

“He does better, Kassia?”

She gave her husband a long look, then raised her head. “He mends, Roland. I cannot, however, continue losing at draughts with him. He isn't altogether witless and must soon guess that I am allowing him to win.”

Graelam smiled at that. “I improve, Roland. It's just that I am so damnably bored. It's been two days now.”

“Lady Katherine tells me that you should be well enough to be out of your bed on the morrow.”

“And Daria? When will she be up and about again?”

Roland shrugged, and bent to retrieve the wooden carafe from the floor.

“It's because of me that she lost the babe. I am sorry for it, Roland.”

“Lady Katherine said it was God's will that you be saved. If that is the truth of it, then so be it. There is no blame here, Graelam. Rest now, and obey your wife. Daria does well enough. Kassia, when you wish to be relieved of this giant's company, you will send me word. Now, Rolfe awaits outside to see you, Graelam. Some matter of little importance, I imagine, but he doesn't wish you to feel impotent.”

Roland left Graelam's chamber, his destination the stables. He wanted to clear his mind, to leave all the pain and hurt behind him for just a few hours.

Not that Daria had said anything to him.

She's said nothing. She'd slept throughout that day, awakening in the early evening to drink some beef broth prepared especially for her by Alice. Roland wanted to see her, hold her, perhaps, assure himself that she was all right, but when he had entered the room, it was as if she wasn't there. A pale copy of her lay in the bed, but Daria,
his
Daria, was gone. As was the babe. She'd looked at him, then turned away. He'd slept that night in the great hall, wrapped in a blanket, one of the castle dogs at his feet.

 

It was nearly dark in the bedchamber, yet she made no move to light a candle. The air was cooling finally after the intense heat of the day, and Daria pulled a light blanket over her. It brought her no pain to do so. She felt no pain at all, just a soreness and the damnable weakness.

Her mother came into the room quietly, her stride light and graceful even though she carried a tray doubtless filled with an assortment of incredible foods from Alice. Daria closed her eyes, but it was too late.

“Nay, love, don't pretend with me. You must eat.”

Daria felt the soft sting of candlelight against her eyelids. She didn't want to be awake, she didn't want to be
here.
She said aloud, her voice still raw and hoarse, “I wish I had died, Mother. It would have solved every problem.”

“It would have solved your problem and only yours. You wouldn't be feeling a thing. But everyone else's?” At least she'd spoken, at last, Katherine thought, even though what she said sent pain in her mother's heart. She continued, speaking her mind. “You will bear your pain just as everyone around you bears his own. But that isn't the point, is it, Daria?”

“The point is that I have no more excuse to remain here, in
his
castle, eating
his
food, sleeping in
his
bed.”

“It isn't a matter of excuses.”

Roland's voice came from the doorway. Katherine whirled about, wondering how much he'd heard. As for Daria, she turned her face away, closing her eyes. Katherine watched him as he strode into the room. He looked tired, she thought. He said to her even as he looked only at his wife, “I will see that she eats, Katherine. Sir Thomas grows restive in your absence. I would appreciate your being our hostess until Daria is well again.”

Katherine looked down at her daughter, then back at her son-in-law. She wanted to beg him to go gently, but his face was now closed, his eyes cold, as if he guessed she would press him again. She said nothing. Roland waited until the door closed after her; then he moved to stand beside the bed.

“You will eat your dinner.”

Daria said nothing, nor did she move.

“You're not dead, Daria, so there are still problems abounding, and you must help to solve them, and that means that you must get out of that bed. I can't regain your strength for you. You must do it for yourself. Now, eat, or I will force the food down your throat. I won't tell you again.”

When she didn't respond to him, he leaned down and clasped her under her arms and pulled her up. He smoothed the pillows behind her and straightened the covers. “Have I dislodged the cloths?”

“No.”

“Do you have any pain?”

“No.”

“Good. I will place the tray here and you will eat. I won't leave you alone until you have done so.”

She turned to face him. For the past two days he'd kept his distance from her. Now it seemed that he was changing his tactics. His voice was cold, his face set. His dark eyes, so beautiful and deep, regarded her with no emotion at all. He looked tired, and she wondered what he'd done during the day.

She said aloud now, “Why are you doing this? What do you want? I will give you an annulment, though I doubt anything I would say would have any bearing on it.”

A black eyebrow shot up. “Eat some of these stewed carrots and beans.”

Daria ate several bites of the stewed vegetables. They were delicious and she realized she was starving. Her mouth began to water. She took a bite of mutton, marinated in some sort of incredible dill sauce, and roasted until the meat was falling from the bone. She nearly moaned aloud at the wondrous taste of it.

She continued to eat. Roland merely watched her, saying nothing. He was so relieved, he could think of nothing to say in any case. She was still so very pale that it scared the devil out of him. He'd allowed her two days; nothing had changed. She'd fallen even more deeply into depression. She was retreating even further from him. He would allow her no more time, in the hopes she would regain her spirit. He would take over now.

“I would say that eating Alice's cooking is preferable to dying,” he said at last as she chewed on a hunk of soft white bread.

She continued to chew, looking straight ahead.

He wouldn't continue to let her ignore him. “Dying is the coward's way as well. It wouldn't solve any problems at all. You would just be buried with some of them, yet the feel of them would still exist and eat at others who still lived.”

She looked at him then, her expression as closed as his own. “I care not about your problems, Roland. They are yours and thus you are responsible for them. I would that you leave me alone. I would that you would seek an annulment.”

“It appears obvious to me that you will gain neither of your wishes. Don't tell me you wish to contemplate visiting a convent again?”

Daria closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the pillows. She wanted to shudder at the thought of a convent. Her belly was full, but she felt so tired, weary to the depths of her, and now he was baiting her.

“Please go.”

“No. I've left you alone for two days. No longer. Now I will carry you to Graelam's bedchamber. He wishes to see you. His guilt is palpable and you must assuage it.”

“
His guilt.
That is utterly absurd. It was my decision to try to save him, not his. If there is guilt to bear, it is mine and no one else's.”

“That's what I told him, but he refuses to accept my word. Do you need to relieve yourself?”

She shook her head at that.

“Good. Let me take the tray, then.” He paused, looking down at her. Katherine had braided her hair, but it was lank and lifeless. There were purple smudges under her eyes, but it was her eyes themselves that frightened him. They looked vague and lost. He shook himself. It made no sense. She would come around. He would make her come around. At least there was some color in her face now from the meal she'd eaten.