Secret Song (11 page)

That was true, the earl thought. “Come, man, think. Surely he gave you a name. Come, and you'll die quickly, even the instant after you speak.”

“Roland,” the farmer said after another strike of the thong. “It was Roland.”

Edmond, Earl of Clare, stared at the man a moment longer, then nodded to his henchman. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slid it cleanly into the farmer's heart. The man slumped, his head falling on his chest, the manacles rattling as he went limp.

Who, Edmond wondered as he strode back into Tyberton's great hall, was Roland? A man hired by Damon, no doubt, to bring the girl back to him. Well, he wouldn't make it, that damned fake priest to whom he'd given his spiritual trust. But not all his trust. Deep inside he'd known the man was a fraud. He was too handsome, his body too well-honed for a man of exclusively divine concerns. He should have guessed it immediately when the castle women had wanted him so blatantly. And he'd gotten her away so very easily, the damned whoreson.

Edmond called MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He slapped his thick leather gauntlets against his thigh as he spoke. “Prepare a dozen men. We ride into Wales to fetch back the little mistress and the erstwhile priest. He stole her, took her against her will. We will rescue her. Bring enough provisions for several weeks. We ride hard.”

MacLeod said nothing. It wasn't his business to disagree or question the lord or even think twice about his commands. The little mistress had left Tyberton willingly enough, everyone knew that, but they would find her, kill the sham priest, and bring her back to the earl's bed. They left Tyberton within the hour, the Earl of Clare at their head.

 

 

Roland pulled both his sword and his dagger as he ran headlong toward the pine thicket. He heard a soft gurgling sound and felt his blood freeze. Had someone killed her?

He slowed, hearing low-pitched voices—two men— and they had Daria. They spoke quietly, but he made out their words, the soft Welsh clear to him.

“—to Llanrwst, quickly.”

“But the man, what to do with the man?”

“We'll be gone before he misses her. Leave him, leave him. Go quiet now. Quiet.”

Roland slipped between the pines until he reached a small clearing where a narrow stream sliced through the sodden grass. One man, tall and built like a mountain, had slung Daria over his shoulder. The other man, short and ragged as the Welsh ponies Roland had seen, was following close behind, glancing furtively over his shoulder every few moments.

Suddenly rain began to fall, slow drizzling rain that was gray and silent. One of the men cursed softly.

Roland followed as quietly as he could, but his boots squished in the wet grass. The rain thickened, coming down in dense sheets, blotting out the trees and the hills and adding to the sounds of a rushing waterfall not far distant. There were forlorn caws from rooks and kingfishers. This damned land—one minute the sun was shining brightly and now there was near-darkness and it was but midafternoon. Roland swiped rain from his eyes and crept after the men.

They made their way slowly but steadily to a small cave cut through boulders into the hillside. Roland drew back, watching them enter. He saw a lantern lit and a dull light issue forth. He drew closer, until he could hear the men speaking.

“—damnable rain . . .
glaw, glaw . . .
always rain.”

“Will ye take her, Myrddin? Now?”

“Nay, the girl's wet and nearly dead. Leave her there in a corner and cover her.”

So they'd discovered she wasn't a boy. Not much of a discovery, since her disguise wouldn't have fooled Roland for an instant. These men either, evidently. Had they struck her hard? Roland didn't want to admit it, but his first thought was for her, not for the money he would lose if he didn't bring her back to her uncle alive and a virgin.

No, he said to himself. She was goods to be delivered, nothing more. She was a bundle to haul around and return safely to her uncle.

He pulled back and gave himself up to thought. It was still early; the men would have to split up for hunting. The huge man—his name was Myrddin, if Roland had heard the other man aright—didn't look like he would want to miss his supper. Roland was content to wait under an overhang of slick rock, sheltered from the endless gray rain.

It wasn't long before Myrddin emerged from the cave, cursed the rain in a way he'd good-naturedly curse a friend he saw nearly every day, then set off at a trot, his bow and arrow under his right arm. Slowly Roland made his way forward until he stood just outside the cave. He leaned forward until he could see the other man, the short one with the bowed legs. He was kneeling over Daria, staring at her. He slowly lifted the filthy blanket and continued to stare.

Roland suddenly saw the Earl of Clare in his mind's eye, saw his hand disappear beneath Daria's shift, knowing that he would penetrate her with his finger, and as Roland looked on now as another man was gaping at her, his hand moving closer to her breast, Roland couldn't stand it. He leaned nearly double and crossed the entrance into the cave as silently as a bat flying at midnight. The man didn't hear him. The fire the men had set was burning sluggishly, throwing off choking smoke, and Roland inhaled it and coughed.

The man whirled about, and Roland leapt on him. He was of greater size and strength, luckily, and his fingers closed in a death grip about the man's throat. He gurgled and his face darkened and his eyes bulged and still Roland squeezed, his rage overcoming his sense, until he heard Daria whisper, “Nay, Roland, do not kill him. Nay.”

He was breathing harshly and released his hold from the man's throat. He rolled off him. “Are you all right?”

Daria took stock of herself and nodded. “Aye. They came upon me when I was preparing to return to you. The large one struck his fist against my head.” She shook her head gently as she spoke. “Aye, I'll live, but we must leave here before he returns.”

But Roland shook his head. He wanted to kill the man.

And Daria saw what he wanted and said quickly, “I'm frightened.”

“You're safe with me. This lout planned to rape you and then hold you for his mountainous friend's pleasure. He's an outcast, a bandit, and I'll not let him live, not take the chance that he'll follow us and try to take you again.”

She saw his logic, hated it, but kept still. “Go near to the entrance of the cave and keep watch for me. Don't turn around, do you understand me?” She obeyed him. He joined her quickly enough. Together they watched the fire in tense silence; then Roland rose and went outside. He said over his shoulder, “Stay still, and don't look back at that scum.”

He waited outside under the overhang until his legs began to cramp. He shook himself, slapped his hands over his arms, cursed the endless cold rain, and continued to wait.

He heard a man's soft tread. Myrddin was mumbling to himself, and it was obvious he wasn't pleased. His Welsh was rough, yet still it was soft and lulling. “No game, nothing but rain, always rain, always rain.” He repeated his words over and over and Roland wondered if he was a lackwit.

He waited, his dagger ready.

Myrddin paused, sniffed the air, then bellowed, a terrifying sound that made Roland start, thus giving away his presence.

“Bastard. Whoreson.” Myrddin was on him, swinging his heavy bow at his head. The man was enormous, stronger than Roland, but less skilled with weapons. But it didn't seem to matter in the slogging rain. Roland slipped and fell heavily, then rolled quickly, hearing the dull thud of the bow come down on a rock too near where his head had been. Myrddin slipped, but he didn't fall; he leaned sideways against an oak, pushed himself upright again, and this time he held a knife in his right hand.

He should have left with Daria, Roland thought wildly, after he'd slit the other man's throat. He'd been arrogant, much too sure of himself, and now, if he died, so would she, but not as cleanly or as quickly. Damn him for a fool.

The man was backing him against the glistening wet boulders, tossing the knife from his right hand to his left and back again. He was grinning.

Roland watched his eyes, and the instant he saw him ready to throw the knife, he hurled himself sideways. He heard the hiss of the blade through the rain and then the dull thud as it struck a rock and bounced off. Myrddin yelled in fury and jumped at Roland, leaping at the last instant to come down hard on his back.

His hands were around Roland's throat and he was squeezing. Roland felt an instant of stark panic, then forced himself to think. Slowly, even as he began to feel light-headed, he eased his knife upward. But he knew it was too late, knew it . . . knew it . . . Oh, God, he didn't want to die, not now . . .

Suddenly, through rain-blurred eyes, he saw Daria standing over Myrddin. He watched, disbelieving, as she brought a heavy rock down on his head. Myrddin lurched back, looked up at her, then seemed to sigh as he fell sideways into a patch of stagnant water.

Daria was on her knees beside him. “Roland, are you all right? Oh, your throat. Can you speak?”

“I'm all right,” he said, his voice a harsh croak. “I'm all right.” Slowly he rubbed his fingers to his throat and shook his head back and forth. That had been too close, far too close, and he owed his life to a woman. A woman he fully planned to dispose of as he would a horse or household furnishings. He looked up at her face, white and washed clean of dirt by the thick sheets of rain. “Thank you,” he said. “Let's leave this place.”

 

They were riding in the heart of the Black Mountains, into the valley of the Afon Honddu.

“It is naught but solitude,” Daria said, her voice hushed and awed at the stark desolation.

Roland merely nodded, so tired he could scarce think. “Wait until you see Llanthony Abbey. It was founded over one hundred and fifty years ago by the lord of Hereford, but the monks had no desire for such stark isolation or, as they said it, to ‘sing to the wolves,' and thus migrated to Gloucester. In any case, there are still some stouthearted monks who brave this bleak wilderness. They'll take us in and we'll sleep dry and warm this night.”

That sounded like a wonderful idea to Daria.

The prior met them outside the small church, and upon hearing that the gentleman and his young brother needed shelter, offered them a small room. The architecture was as austere and stark as the wilderness in which the building sat. Cold and unadorned, all of it, and Daria shivered in Roland's wake as the prior led them to the small meeting chamber where the remaining twenty-one monks took their meals. None were present, for it was late and the monks were at their prayers. Roland was relieved; even monks who hadn't been near other people for a very long time could, perchance, still see Daria as a female, and that would raise questions he didn't wish to deal with.

A small hooded monk brought them a thin soup and some black bread and left them alone. He was Brother Marcus, the prior said, but the man made no sign that he'd heard. The prior, having no more interest in them, also took his leave. The food tasted like ambrosia to Daria. She said nothing, merely ate everything offered to her. When she'd finished, she looked up to see Roland looking at her. His hand was poised in the air on the way up to his mouth.

“What's wrong? Have I done something to offend you?”

She spoke softly, in English, so no one could hear. Roland merely shook his head and continued eating his own meal.

“A bed,” she said, “a real bed.”

“Actually it will likely be a rough cot made of straw. But it will be dry.”

And it was. They had one candle, given to them by the same Brother Marcus. Roland closed the door to the small chamber with a sigh of relief. It held only a narrow cot with two blankets. Roland walked to it and poked it with his fist. “It is straw and looks damnably uncomfortable. But here are blankets, so we won't freeze.”

“We?”

“Aye,” he said absently as he tugged off his boots. “Ah,” he said suddenly, looking up at her. “You're offended that you must sleep by my side? I don't understand you. You've slept by my side for the past two nights.”

She said nothing. In truth, she thought it wonderful to sleep beside him in a bed. Quite different from their sleeping blankets in the forest and in a cave. “I don't mind, Roland, truly.”

“Don't be a fool, Daria. I'm so tired it wouldn't matter if you were the most beautiful female in all of Wales and I the randiest of men. You don't mind, you say? Well, you should. You are a lady and a maid. It is modest and right of you to protest. But it matters not. Come, get under the blankets. We leave early on the morrow.”

She grinned at his perversity and slipped under the blankets, wearing only her shift, thankfully dry. When he eased in beside her and sniffed out the candle, she lay stiffly beside him, not moving. The straw poked and prodded at her, and she shifted to find a more comfortable position. After several minutes of this, Roland said, “Come here, Daria, and lie against me. I'm cold, so you will warm me.”

She eased over, coming against his side. She laid her head on his shoulder and gingerly placed her hand on his chest. This, she decided, was something she could become easily accustomed to, this having Roland beside her, holding her against him. She sighed and nestled closer. His arm tightened around her back.

Roland frowned into the darkness. He appreciated her trust, but she didn't have to flaunt it. Did she believe him impervious? “You aren't my little brother,” he said, “so cease your wiggling about.”

“That's certainly true,” she said, and burrowed closer.