Secret Song (13 page)

“Father,” she whispered, “you must help me.”

She realized she'd spoken partly in English, partly in Welsh.

He looked at her oddly and she quickly said, “He is Welsh and I am his wife and but half-Welsh. Do you understand English?”

He nodded. “Aye, for I lived many years in Hereford. What do you here?”

She looked him straight in his sharp, pale eyes. “My husband was taking me to his family in Chester when he fell ill. It is all the rain and our hard pace. What am I to do?”

It was then she realized the priest had seen her as a boy, and she cursed herself silently. She'd forgotten and thought only to protect Roland, thinking a wife, in a priest's eyes, must have more favor than a woman not a man's wife. She said quickly, “I am dressed this way for protection. We were set on by outlaws and barely managed to get away. My husband got me these clothes.”

“A reasonable thing to do. I am Father Murdough, and who are you and your husband?”

“His name is Alan; he is a freeholder, Father. Our farm is near to Leominster. Please help us.”

He had no choice, for he was a man of God and he couldn't leave a man to die in his church. “Stay here. I will fetch my sexton to help us.”

It seemed a decade had flowed by with Daria huddled over Roland, before her now-husband, still unconscious, was carried up three flights of stairs over the sexton's huge shoulder and laid upon a narrow bed in a small chamber beneath the eaves of Father Murdough's modest home beside the church.

“Have you coin, child?”

“Aye,” Daria said. “In my husband's cloak. Will the sexton see to my husband's horse?”

The priest nodded absently. He'd seen that horse. It was a powerful destrier; unusual that a freeholder would own such an animal. Highly unusual. He wondered who this man really was. As for the woman, he doubted if she carried even a whiff of Welsh blood in her veins. He was glad she hadn't told him her name. He didn't want to know.

But that didn't matter now. Only the young man mattered. Father Murdough became brisk. “I will fetch a leech. The fever must be bled out of him if he is to survive. I will have my servant, Romila, bring blankets and water.”

Daria, now frantic for Roland, managed to nod. Left alone with him, she saw that his clothes were damp and knew he must be made dry and warm. She would have to strip his clothes off, something she doubted he would approve of. She was unknotting his chausses when an old woman, tall and thin and proud-looking, her head topped with masses of white hair, entered, carrying blankets and a ewer of water. She had a lovely wide smile and full mouth of teeth. “Here, now,” she said in low slurring Welsh, “wait a minute and I'll help ye.”

Together the women stripped off Roland's damp clothes. When he was naked, sprawled on his back, the old woman took a thorough survey. “A fine man he is, aye, fine indeed, all lean and bone and muscle. No fat on this fine lad. Aye, and look at that rod of his. It must make ye as happy as a turtledove.”

“You spoke English,” Daria said blankly.

“Aye, the father told me to. Me, I come from Chester, and my husband is one of these savages. Aye, but he's a savage that keeps my old bones warm during the long winter nights. Aye, he's mine, he is.”

As she spoke, Daria looked down at Roland, at his rod that must make her happy. It lay flaccid against the thick black hair of his groin. He was magnificent and she wished with all her heart that he could keep her warm during long winter nights for the rest of her life.

They quickly covered him, and the old woman said nothing about the reddened cheeks of the young man's wife. “He is so very hot,” Daria said, her palm stroking Roland's face. “Please, he will be all right, will he not?”

Romila looked at the girl and nodded without hesitation. “Aye, he'll be well again, and like most men, he'll likely growl and complain until ye'll want to smash in his head, ye'll be so angry with him.”

“I hope so,” Daria said, and sat beside him. She smoothed the blankets at his throat. She couldn't seem to keep her hands still and they stroked his arms, his face, his hair.

When the leech arrived, a shrunken old man with wise eyes and clean hands, Daria felt hope.

She'd found a hoard of coins wrapped in a tunic in one of Roland's bags. When she paid the leech, he looked at her, clearly startled. “Who are ye, then?” he asked in deep slow Welsh.

“I am Gwen, sir, and I'm his wife.”

The old man harrumphed loudly.

“Please, sir, will my husband live?”

“Ye ask me that? I have but one answer and I'll tell ye it on the morrow. Pray for yer husband, lass, and I'll be back in the morning.”

It wasn't until the old man had left that Daria realized he'd begun by speaking Welsh to her and had then switched to English. She wasn't, she realized, much of a mummer, if even an old leech could see through her.

She returned to Roland's bedside. She looked at his still face. He was so familiar to her and she knew now that there was some sort of strange bond between them, a bond that he didn't feel, only she. She thought again of the men in their white robes that she'd seen in his dream. She'd been there observing, but she'd also been with him, felt what he'd felt, even understood the strange tongue they'd spoken. And she remembered that one of the dark-faced men had pulled him aside and said softly to him, “I know who you are and I will bring you down—when it pleases me—infidel dog.”

And Roland had thought in those moments: Well, damn, I will have to slit his miserable throat. Daria wondered if he had, and then she didn't wonder at all. He had; she knew it, knew it as well as she now knew him.

She laid her cheek against his heart and slept. He didn't stir until she woke him for some nourishing broth Romila brought early that evening. He ate because she forced him to. He turned his face away, but the spoon followed and he had no choice. When Daria was satisfied, she bathed his face and chest with a damp cool cloth.

The fever rose steadily and her fear kept apace. Near to midnight she offered her life in exchange for his, but she knew that such a request wouldn't find much merit in God's eyes. She was only a woman, her uncle Damon had once told her. What would God care what a silly woman wanted?

She wet more cloths and wiped him again and again. The heat from his body was intense; her fear grew and her prayers became more frequent and more impassioned. At exactly midnight, he opened his eyes and stared up at her.

“Roland? Oh, thank God, you're awake.”

He said nothing, merely looked at her. Then suddenly his expression was furious and he yelled, “Joan, you damned bitch. Get out of my sight before I wrap my fingers around your throat.”

He grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard. She cried out and pushed at him.

But he was strong, and now he was twisting and panting and muttering at her, “Aye, I loved you, I gave you my heart, I offered you everything that I was and would become. But you betrayed me and now you return to taunt me. Bitch, damned perfidious bitch.”

He released her wrist suddenly and slapped her, hard. She reeled back, falling to the floor. “Roland,” she gasped, coming quickly onto her knees, “nay, don't move. Nay.”

He was lurching upward, flinging back the blankets. He rose, weaving until he gained his balance, and she stared up at him, terrified and amazed and joyous at the sight of him.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, his spurt of energy was spent and he fell backward onto the bed. She managed to ease him onto his back again and covered him. An hour slowly passed. He sighed and opened his eyes again. Without warning, he reached up his hand and grabbed a thick tress of hair. “Joan, it is you. You won't have my soul again.”

She leaned over him because his hold on her hair was painful, and clasped his shoulders. “Nay, Roland, nay, it is I, Daria.”

He was mumbling now, words she didn't understand, words in that strange guttural language he'd spoken in the dream. The language of the Muslims and the Arabs. Then he said to her, his voice deep and soft, “Forgive me, Lila, of course it's you. You could never be like Joan. Come to me now. I want your breasts in my hands and your hands on my belly. Yes, Lila, bring me your soft body.”

Daria sucked in her breath, stunned and fascinated, but she didn't move. Roland raised his hand and now he gently stroked her breasts. “You are still clothed. What is this? Do you not desire me? Why are you still wearing clothes?”

He raised his other hand and caressed both breasts, weighing them in his palms, his thumbs moving slowly over her nipples. She stared down at him, at the intent expression on his face, at the gleam of pleasure in his dark eyes.

“Remove your silk jacket now. I want to feel you.”

He believed her to be a woman he'd known in the Holy Land, a woman whose name was Lila. She didn't care, not now. She touched his hands, caressed them as his fingers caressed her breasts, and she could feel the urgency of his need, feel the desire that came from the depths of him.

And she knew then that nothing was more important in her life than this man. She knew that he would be the center of her life, knew that he would be with her until she died. Or, she thought with a pained moment of truth, it was what she wanted to believe. Still, with no hesitation Daria calmly unlaced the boy's tunic she wore. Roland wanted her breasts bare; she would give him whatever he wanted. She pulled the tunic over her head and tossed it to the floor. Thankfully, the chamber was very warm from the fire in the crude fireplace. She saw him smile, and he was looking at her breasts, at their motion as she moved back beside him.

“Come closer. Lean into my hands. Ah, yes, that is what I want. You feel like silk and . . . What is this? You want me, Lila? So quickly? Your nipples are tight, for me?”

She leaned over him, her breasts filling his hands, and whispered, “Aye, Roland, for you. I would be whatever you wished. Just tell me what to do.”

His fingers stroked her and she moaned, then gasped, from her surprise. Never had a man touched her thus. She felt stranger still as he continued to explore her, and she knew that she was on the threshold of something wonderful, something she would like very much. She wasn't ignorant of what men did to women, for she had lived in her uncle's house for five long years. She knew very well what happened between men and women, her uncle had seen to that. He enjoyed flaunting his women in front of her. And she'd seen him naked, his rod standing out from his body, but she'd always felt only revulsion, deep, soul-searing revulsion. But not with Roland, never with Roland.

“Lila, bring your breasts to my face. I wish to suckle.”

She stared down at him. This was something she knew nothing about. Suckle her? She couldn't imagine a man suckling a woman as if he were a babe. But it didn't matter. She lowered her body and felt his fingers again stroking her breasts, gently tugging at her nipples, and then his mouth was on her flesh and she drew in her breath with the wondrous feelings that were building deep inside her body. She closed her eyes, feeling his warm mouth, his wet tongue, and gloried in the sensations that were growing more intense low in her belly.

“Roland,” she whispered, and her hands were on his bare shoulders, sliding beneath the blankets to his chest.

“So sweet,” he said, his breath hot and urgent on her. His hands came around her and stroked down her back to her waist, then up again, his fingers tangling into her hair, pulling the braids free. “Lila, you still wear clothes.” He sounded surprised and faintly displeased. “I want you naked and over me.”

“I'm not Lila,” she said even as she pulled off the boy's pants and hose and unfastened the chausses.

When she was naked, she slid down the blankets. She looked at his man's body, taut and hard and shadowed. She smiled and covered him with her body. At the feel of him beneath her, she felt something pass from him to her, something strong and gentle and demanding, something so powerful that for a moment it frightened her. Then she accepted it completely. But he must feel only his own building desire. He sighed at the feel of her pressed against him. He slid his hands over her back until he was cupping her buttocks.

His breathing became quite suddenly fast and raw. “Bring me inside you, Lila.”

He wanted her to bring his rod into her body? She lifted herself and gazed down the length of him. His sex was swelled and hard and he moaned deeply, his hips jerking when she lightly touched her fingers to his hot flesh.

And again she felt this urgency in him, this overpowering need, and her fingers tightened around him. He was bucking now, moaning hoarsely. “Now, Lila. By Allah, my need is great. Wait no longer.”

Still, Daria wasn't certain what to do. He was very large, surely too large to come inside her. She leaned down and kissed his hard belly. He flinched and moaned. She kissed him again, her mouth lower this time. When her lips touched his sex, his body heaved wildly, and then, suddenly, she saw a glorious naked woman with hair black as a night of sin who was straddling him and holding him between her hands and guiding him upward into her.

Daria cried out with the vividness of what she saw. She felt dizzy and frightened about the step she was taking, a step that was irrevocable. She was on her knees over him, staring down at him, and then she touched herself, felt the wetness of her flesh and knew it was to ease his way into her. She took him between her hands, ready, but he forestalled her. His fingers were on her belly, stroking her, kneading her, then lower until they sifted through the hair covering her. She lurched straight up when his fingers found her, and she cried out.