Secret Song (41 page)

Daria watched Graelam and Kassia and their soldiers ride from the keep. She wasn't particularly surprised when Lord Graelam suddenly turned in his saddle and looked for a long moment back at the castle. It seemed as if he was searching her out. She wondered at him. So fearsome a warrior, yet so kind to her. She would hate being his enemy, for she knew he would show no quarter. She felt suddenly unsteady and eased into a chair. The damnable weakness. It wouldn't leave her. Kassia had told her what to expect, at least what had happened to her after Harry's birth. Then she'd kissed her cheek, saying as she gripped her hands, “You saved my husband. For that I am in your debt for all time. I always pay my debts. Don't give up, Daria.” Skirts swirling, Kassia had left her.

Chantry Hall was filled with people, shouting and laughing and clouting each other, the children arguing and shrieking, and still Daria felt utterly alone even in the chaotic hall. She couldn't bear the furtive pitying looks, and thus remained alone in Roland's bedchamber much of the time. Daria rose now and pulled her new overtunic over her gown. It was a pale blue wool and very soft to the touch. She would show her husband her new finery. Perhaps he would smile.

He was speaking to Salin in the inner bailey, and both men looked ready to ride out. She paused on the bottom stone step of the great hall, the early-morning sunlight blazing down on her face, warming her. Roland looked up. He stared at her, unmoving. He said nothing. He raised his hand in a small salute, then turned on his heel and strode toward the stables, Salin at his side.

Ah, yes, he remained kind to her when he chanced to be with her. Nothing more.

But then again, she didn't expect much more than that. She didn't see him at all during the days, for he worked beside his men to repair the eastern castle wall, the one that had collapsed on Graelam. It was nearly completed now. Time passed, and with the passing days, her strength returned. As for the interior of the keep, Daria worked diligently to see it cleaned, the trestle tables scrubbed, the lord and lady's chairs polished to a high sheen. And then, one morning she was able to see the thick oak beams crisscrossing high above the great hall. So many years of smoke had blackened them and it had taken hours of sweating and cursing to scrub them clean. She smiled, pleased with herself. Roland's keep was becoming almost pleasant. The reeds on the floor were sweet-smelling, the jakes had been thoroughly limed, and only a strong wind blowing in a westerly direction brought any noxious odors to the nose.

Now she needed to see the outbuildings whitewashed, needed to purchase goods and a few new furnishings for the great hall and its antechambers. The goods that had made up her dowry had added warmth, the two brass lavers gleaming, they were so highly polished, the chair cushions thick and soft, and the two tapestries sewn by her grandmother, on the far wall, giving color and protection from the damp. But she had to wait to purchase any further goods, for it required Roland's approval. She spent her afternoons sorting through herbs, mixing those potions she knew, sewing companionably with her mother, and giving instructions for the castle servants through Gwyn, the girl Roland had slept with, the girl who was friendly and quite nice, the girl Daria couldn't help but like.

She wore her new overtunic again, loosely sewn with wide sleeves, over one of her old gowns her mother had altered for her. She was too thin, but food still made her feel faintly ill. She girded the braided gold belt more firmly around her waist, pulling in the material. She brushed her hair and left it loose, thick and lustrous from washing, nearly to her waist.

Roland entered the bedchamber and came to an abrupt halt. She became still under his scrutiny.

“You're lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“I must see to some jewelry for you, Daria. Something delicate, perhaps emeralds to match your eyes.”

She stared at him, wondering what was in his mind, wondering why he was speaking thus to her.

“I should prefer purchasing a few more goods for your castle, Roland.”

“Oh?”

“Perhaps several more carpets, some cushions for your chair here in the bedchamber, mayhap even a tapestry for the wall here, for the damp is very bad, Sir Thomas told me, during the winter months.”

Roland appeared thoughtful for several minutes, then said, quite unexpectedly, “Did you know that Philippa is the steward for St. Erth?”

“Aye, you told me that once.”

“Should you mind detailing our needs and balancing them against the coin we have remaining from your dowry and from my cache? Next year I suspect we will have excess wool to sell and that will make us more self-sufficient. Graelam and I spoke of which markets were best and which merchants in this area didn't try to steal your destrier from beneath you during the bargaining.”

“You aren't jesting? I wouldn't have thought a man would approve such an activity for a woman.”

Roland shrugged.

“I should very much like to do these things, Roland.”

“When you have completed your entering, discuss it with me. Then we will decide what is to be done first.”

She could but stare at him before the words blurted out. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“Kind to me—as if you cared what—”

He cut her off, for he simply couldn't bear to hear the rest of her words. “There is work to be done and you are capable of doing it. Don't you believe yourself able to accomplish it?”

Her chin went up. “I am quite capable.”

He smiled at her then, his dark eyes warm and approving, and Daria would willingly have cut even Lord Graelam's throat had he threatened her husband.

 

It was the second day of September. The air was crisp and cool. An early-autumn day it was, with a clear sky overhead and a bright sun that made the different colors of the countryside all the more vivid. Daria breathed in deeply. She came out of the great hall at the sound of shouting and stood on her tiptoes to see what was happening. There was her husband, stripped to the waist, breathing heavily, sweat glistening off him. He was circling another man, huge, and thick as an oak trunk, who looked quite able to rip her husband into pieces. The men-at-arms had formed a large, loose circle around them and they were yelling and shouting. Daria froze when the other man suuddenly lunged. Why were the men just standing there? Why weren't they helping Roland? She watched in mute horror as the man grabbed Roland around his waist and lifted him. She saw his massive arms bulge, the muscles flexing, and she knew he was strong enough to squeeze the life from her husband. Why, she wondered frantically, had she seen the wall collapse on Graelam and not seen her own husband about to meet his death? Why weren't his men doing anything?

She acted without thought, terror for Roland gripping her, making her frantic. She grabbed her skirts, pulling them above her knees, and dashed down the deep stone steps into the inner bailey. She was screaming as she ran. She reached the loose circle of men and began to curse them, pushing and shoving them aside until she was within the circle. She raised her fist at them, screaming, “Why aren't you doing something? You cowards! You will stand by and let him be crushed to death?” Several of the men who had heard her looked as if they'd turned into stone, staring at her, not moving a finger. Furious, she ignored them. She was so close to Roland and the huge man that she could hear their breathing, hear their lurid curses. Somehow Roland had gotten free, but just as she nearly yelled her relief, the giant lunged again, screaming a terrible curse, and Daria, all thought frozen within her, jumped on his back just as he grabbed for Roland.

She clutched him around his thick neck, yelling, pummeling the top of his head with her fist. “No. Don't you dare touch him! I'll kill you!” She managed to wrap her legs around him and jerked his head back and crushing inward with her forearms. She squeezed her legs around him as he'd done to Roland with his arms, but it was nothing to him. She screamed and yelled and punched him, beyond thought, so furious and frightened that for many minutes she didn't realize that the man was standing perfectly still, not even trying to dislodge her from his back, and that there wasn't a whisper of a voice anywhere near them.

“Daria.”

Through the haze of fear, she heard her name. She shook her head, pounding the man's head as hard as she could.

“Daria. By all the saints, stop it.”

She looked up then and saw Roland standing beside her. She realized then that the man whose back she was clinging to like a demented fool was standing very quietly, not moving even a finger, just letting her strike him.

“Come, that's quite enough.” Roland was holding out his arms to her.

“But I don't wish him to hurt you and—” She sent her fist into the side of the man's head one more time.

“By all the saints, stop it. Rollo has few enough brains without you pounding the rest out of his head. Cease your attack. Come.”

She released her hold on the man's neck and dropped her legs from his waist. She flung out her arms and Roland caught her and lifted her down to stand on the cobblestones.

But she was still gripped in her unreasoning fear. But Roland seemed to be all right. She was crying now, not realizing it, her hands running over his face, down to his shoulders, touching him, probing at his flesh, assuring herself that he wasn't hurt. “I was so afraid—I thought he was killing you, he is so large and—”

It was the complete and utter silence that made her slow. Not a whisper of a sound. Her voice dropped off and she became as still as everyone around her. Slowly she turned to look at the man. He was still standing quietly, just looking back at her, a curious blend of confusion and amazement writ on his ugly face. And all their people were now in a loose circle around her and Roland, staring at her and whispering behind their hands.

She raised her face. “Roland? He didn't hurt you? You're all right, truly? I don't understand.”

Something was very wrong. She saw the myriad of emotions cross his expressive face. There was anger, oh, she could feel waves of anger flowing from him, but then it was gone, swept away by something else—something—He was laughing. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Soon the entire inner bailey was filled with people who were howling with laughter, holding their sides, screaming with laughter. She stood there, not understanding. The huge man was now laughing as well, deep gritty laughter.

They were all laughing at her.

What had she done?

She realized at that moment that her gown was ripped under her left arm. Sweat was streaking down her face—nay, not just sweat, but tears of rage at the man who'd been attacking Roland. One of her leather slippers lay on the ground near her. Her hair had come loose from its bound coil and was hanging over her shoulder. The laughter swelled, overwhelming her. She felt ridiculous; she felt a complete fool.

She cried out, a small broken cry, and grabbed her skirts yet again, and began running toward the narrow tunnel that connected the inner bailey to the outer bailey. The portcullis was raised and no one blocked her way.

“Daria. Wait!”

Roland's laughter died as quickly as it had sprung up. He looked at Rollo, the hulking fellow he'd been wrestling with.

“Thank you for not hurting her,” he said. “All of you—back to your chores.”

The laughter quieted a bit, but the men and women watched the master dash after his wife.

Salin said to Rollo, “Mayhap it's the best wrestling match I've ever seen. Mayhap it will bring an excellent result.”

Rollo banged the side of his head with the heel of his hand, as if to clear it. He said with genuine surprise, “She jumped on my back and pounded my head. She tried to break my neck with those skinny little arms of hers.”

“Aye, you'll have a bit of a black eye for your labors, but your neck's thicker than an oak tree. No danger she'd twist that part of you off.”

Rollo shook his head, staring after Daria. “I could have killed her, yet she attacked me.”

“Aye,” Salin said. “He's her husband.”

“A female attacking me,” Rollo said, shaking his head. “I will leave now and return to my farm. Tell the master I will return whenever he wishes to continue our match. When I tell my wife of the little mistress attacking me, she will laugh until her eyes cross.”

Roland gave up yelling after his wife. He would catch up with her soon enough. And he did, just outside the castle walls, just at the top of a slight hillock covered with thick green grass. He grabbed her arm, but she jerked free of him, and he stumbled at the same time and lost his balance and the two of them went tumbling over the side of the embankment down the grassy slope. They'd done this same tumble before, he thought blankly even as he fell. Roland tried to protect her, but it wasn't possible. They came to a halt at the bottom, Roland on his back and Daria on her side.

She lay there gasping for breath, quite unhurt, at least in body. She was so humiliated that she regained her breath more quickly than she probably would have, and lurched to her feet. She saw Roland lying there, looking up at her, a huge grin on his face. She cried out and scrambled back up the slope, only to feel his hand around her ankle. He pulled, very gently, and she fell backward against his chest. He was still laughing. At her. She saw red and turned on him, crying out, smashing her fists into his chest.

“Stop it! You bastard, stop laughing at me!”

Roland stopped quickly enough. He pulled her against him, flattening her arms to her sides to protect himself, and held her still. “Hush,” he said, “Hush.”

“I'm not the one laughing. I hate you.”