Secret Song (7 page)

“There is a debate that fascinates me,” the earl began as he moved a chess piece on the board between them.

Roland moved his king's pawn forward in answer and waited. He'd learned the value of patience, the value of allowing the other man to speak first.

“Do women have souls? What do the Benedictines offer as their belief?”

“It is a matter of some debate, as you know. Even the Benedictine order finds itself in contention on the matter.” Roland moved out his king's knight in reply to the earl's pawn move.

“True, true, but surely you, as a Benedictine, believe that women should be chastised for disobedience, for ill temper, for sloth or impiety?”

“Certainly, but it is the husband who applies the proper chastisement.”

The earl drew back, his thick red brows knitting. “She is nearly my wife. She is young and thus malleable, but still, because she carries the perversity of her gender, and the blood of a man whose heart rots with sin—I speak of her uncle, of course—she grows more impertinent as the days pass. She needs a man's correction. I wish only to provide her proper guidance now.”

“She is not yet your wife.”

“Does it matter, if she has not a soul, what she is? Wife, harlot, maid?”

Roland's fingers tightened around his queen's bishop. He slowly moved the piece to the knight-five square. “It is my belief that women are creatures of God just as are men. They are made as we are—they possess arms, legs, a heart, a liver. They are the weaker, true, in body and mayhap in spirit as well. But they do have worth. They birth children and protect them with their lives, and thus their claim to God's grace is as great as is a man's. After all, my lord earl, we are unable to procreate ourselves; we are unable to suckle our children. It was God who bestowed upon them these gifts, and it is these gifts that speak to our continuity and thus our immortality.”

“You beset me with vain sophistry, Father, and address not my concern. Surely women are vessels, and they have breasts that carry milk, and wombs that hold babes, but are they more? I do not see their birthing us as God's gift to them, for they often die doing it. It also wastes a man's time. The two wives I have held as my own knew not honor or loyalty or fierceness of spirit. They were weak both of body and of mind. I never saw them as more than the means to continue myself.”

Roland remembered Joan of Tenesby. He saw her clearly in that moment and could swear, right now, that her fierceness of spirit had exceeded any man's he'd ever known. She'd destroyed those around her with an arrogance and ruthlessness that staggered him with numbing awareness even now, nearly six years later.

“But you lust after the young Daria, do you not? You bought her finery from the tinker because you wished to please her, to flatter her vanity. But it was your vanity that enjoyed your purchases.”

“You twist words, Father. This talk of vanity is an absurdity. As for my lust for the girl, well, God wills it so. If we were not driven to take what the female holds, we would not continue; thus it is our lust that is the true gift from God. God gives them to us and it is our right to use them when they are able. Indeed, it is our responsibility to beget our children in their wombs.”

Roland smiled and said easily, even as he moved his king's bishop, “Nay, my lord earl, it's you who are gifted with facile argument. You would make a good bishop.” Roland suddenly realized that to move his bishop would irrevocably cripple the earl's position on the chessboard. He quickly retracted it.

“Leave it,” the earl said, not seeing the danger from the move. Roland replaced the piece and sat back in his chair.

But the earl wasn't interested in the game, but in expressing his own views. He tugged on his ear, cleared his throat, saying finally, “There is another matter, Father. Something that has bothered my spirit for many weeks now. Daria is young, as I said, but I find her occasionally frivolous, impious, exhibiting a woman's vanity. I can break her of these habits. But I now find that I doubt her virtue. You see, I know her uncle well, and he is a vile lecher. And I wonder again and again: Is she still a maiden? Or did her uncle give her to Ralph of Colchester when he visited Reymerstone Castle?”

Roland was shaking his head even before he said quickly, “Nay, her uncle would have protected her, not offered her to Colchester. Doubt it not.”

The earl shook his head, unconvinced, not wanting to be convinced, Roland realized in a flash of insight. “I have little trust for women. They seduce men with their beauty and their modest manners, which are really practiced and sly. Perhaps that is how she gained Colchester's favors. I must know before I wed her, I must know, and I will know.”

“You must believe me, my lord. The girl is a maid. Her uncle would never have allowed Colchester to have her. She would have lost her worth, her good name, more, the good name of her family. It matters not that he is a vile lecher. He isn't stupid, is he?”

The Earl of Clare only shrugged. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth of his priest's words, Roland realized. Roland looked grim as he said, “Then what you want, my lord, is for the Church to bless your forcing of her before you take her to wive. You want the Church to bless this mad scheme of yours. Truly, my lord earl, I cannot condone that. There is another solution, another way to have your question answered. You will allow me to ask her. I can see through falsehood, my lord. It is a gift I have. I will know if she lies or not. I will tell you true.”

“And you will believe, Father, the words that flow from her mouth, or will you examine her for the truth of her vow?”

Roland very nearly rocked back in his chair with surprise and distaste. The earl seemed as vile as did Damon Le Mark. Did the earl really expect a man of God to examine a woman to discover if she still possessed a maidenhead? He managed to say steadily enough, his eyes meeting the earl's straightly, “I will know, when she tells me, whether she speaks the truth.”

Roland waited, his fingers so tense they whitened on his black queen. Finally the earl nodded.

“You will speak to her, then. Do it now, Father. I must know.”

But the earl did not wish Roland to leave him to his task until they had finished their game of chess. Roland wanted to trounce the earl but he guessed it would not hold him in good stead. Thus, he blundered deliberately, setting his queen in the path of the earl's white knight. It was over quickly.

“You play well, Father, but not as well as I. I will continue to give you instruction.”

Roland drew on priestly reserves that must contain, he thought, a goodly supply of humility and deceit. He nodded gravely. “It will be an honor to be so instructed.”

His meekness pleased the earl, and he added, “And I will think on your words, Father.”

Roland yet again inclined his head. Ten minutes later he was lightly knocking on Daria's bedchamber door.

It was opened by the maid, Ena.

“Is your mistress within?”

The old woman nodded. “He's sent you to her, Father?”

“Aye. I will speak with her. Alone.”

The maid looked quickly back at Daria, then left the bedchamber.

Daria was on her feet and hurrying toward him. “What has happened? Do we leave now? What do—?”

“Hush,” he said, and took her hands in his, squeezing them. “The earl sends me here to speak with you. He wishes me to ensure that you are still a virgin.”

She blinked at him.

It was answer enough, and he smiled down at her. “I know, think no more about it. The earl has unusual views regarding God's interest in his—the earl's—lust. Come, we must speak, and quickly, for I doubt not that he will soon come to see the result of my question.”

He was still holding her hands and she felt his vitality flow through into her and it made her tremble with anticipation. He seemed to sense something, and released her hands. He took a step back, saying quickly, “I distrust the earl. He desires you mightily. Indeed he has spoken to me of taking you before you are wedded. I have tried to dissuade him, but I don't know if God's wishes will take precedence over his lust for you, for as I said, he regards his wishes as one and the same as God's. We are leaving Tyberton tonight. Listen to me, for we haven't much time.”

Roland spoke low and quick, but he wasn't quick enough, for the door burst open and the earl strode into the bedchamber. He looked from his priest to Daria. They stood apart, and it seemed to him that Father Corinthian was speaking earnestly to her. It seemed innocent enough, but he asked, his voice filled with suspicion, “Well, Father? Is she still a maid?”

“She is a maid,” Roland said.

“That is what she tells you.”

“No man has touched me.”

“You are a woman and are born with lies trembling on your tongue. I wish to believe you, Father, but I find myself beset with doubts. When you left me, I heard one of my men telling another that all the castle wenches wish to bed you. I will admit that I saw you not as a man before but solely as a priest. Perhaps I yield to false tidings, and if I do, God will surely punish me for it, yet I see you now as a man alone with her.”

Roland quickly assumed his most pious pose. “Believe me, I do not see your betrothed as a woman. I see her only as one of God's creatures, nothing more.”

Roland spoke calmly, yet his heart pounded in his breast. He realized that the earl wasn't entirely sane.

Edmond of Clare drew a deep steadying breath. He'd behaved badly, he knew it. He'd let his jealousy of his Benedictine priest overcome his Christian sense. He would whip the man who'd spoken irreverently of the priest. But he found himself looking again at Daria. Her cheeks were very pale, her eyes dilated. He realized that it mattered not what she'd said to the priest or what the priest believed. He had made up his mind and he knew God approved his actions.

“I would examine her now,” Edmond said, advancing on her. “You will remain to testify that I do not ravish her, Father. And if she isn't a virgin, you will also so testify so that I can then do as I will with her, for it matters not what a whore wishes.”

Roland cleared his throat and his voice rang stern and hard. “I forbid it, my son.”

The earl stared at him as if he'd lost his wits. “I am lord here, Father Corinthian, and no other man, even be he a man of God, has the right to gainsay me, for my word is law. Do you understand me? Come, you will be my witness.”

But Daria wasn't to submit without a struggle. She grabbed up her skirts and ran from the earl. He caught her quickly, his heavy arm around her waist, and he lifted her, carrying her to the narrow cot, and threw her down upon her back, knocking the breath out of her.

“Damn you, girl, hold still.” He lifted his hand to strike her into submission, saw the priest standing rigid with disapproval near to him, and slowly lowered his hand. He leaned down, his face close to hers. “Do as I tell you or I will beat you when the priest is gone.”

He'd spoken softly, so that only she heard him. She felt his spittle on her throat. He was both enraged and determined.

“Please, my lord,” she said, “please don't shame me. I am a maid. What have I done to deserve your distrust? Please do not shame me.”

The earl paid no attention. He was as determined as he was excited, his groin twisting with painful need. He wanted to touch her, thrust his finger inside her, feel her soft woman's flesh. He felt sweat break out on his forehead, sweat from his growing lust. Daria felt one of his large hands on her belly, his fingers splayed outward, holding her flat, and his other hand was pulling at her wool skirt, yanking it up, ripping it in his haste, and she felt the chill air on her thighs. She cried out and began to struggle, frantically trying to jerk away from him. His large hand clamped about her knee and squeezed. She cried out against the sudden pain.

“Make no more struggles. Lie still and I will be through quickly.”

But she couldn't make herself lie there like a helpless creature, motionless and obedient to his will, whilst he humiliated her, and looked at her and touched her. Not with Roland standing so close, looking wild and furious and nearly savage with rage. Then she realized if she continued to fight him, Roland would attack him and most likely all would be lost. And Roland would die.

To acquiesce to this, the humiliation of it threatened to choke her, but she forced herself to still, closing her eyes against the knowledge of what he was going to do to her. It cost her dearly, but she held herself perfectly rigid, enduring because she had to endure. The earl looked up at her, then grunted, pleased with her surrender.

And Roland understood. He hated watching this, hated the earl's hand touching her. He saw his large hand press her legs wide apart, saw his finger disappear between her thighs, and knew he was touching her. He shook with the compulsion to kill him, yet he knew, as did Daria, that they would have little or no chance to escape, not if he gave in to his fury and killed the earl now. He forced himself to stand there stiff and tense and mute, watching, and it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. The earl's face was flushed dark with lust and his breathing was loud in the chamber.

Daria whimpered when one of the earl's thick fingers thrust inside her. As he probed deeper into her, she cried out with the pain of his roughness. He frowned at her and continued deeper, widening her, preparing her for his sex, for he had every intention of taking her soon, regardless. But he knew she was a maid, aye, he knew, but he'd wanted to touch her, to feel her soft flesh.

Finally he withdrew his finger from her body, and his hand from beneath her skirts. He jerked her gown down over her legs. “She is a maid,” he said, and he looked down into her face as he spoke.