Secret Song (32 page)

“I suppose Graelam and Kassia don't know that you ran away from Wolffeton?”

She shook her head. “Not when I did it. They must know now.”

Roland felt full to bursting with rage. He said abruptly, “Excuse me, Thomas, Dienwald, but I would speak with my wife. Daria, come with me now. Philippa, I believe there is some bread and cheese. Tell a servant to fetch some.”

Daria knew she had no choice, even though now she wanted nothing more than to remain in this dank gloomy great hall and sip at warm ale. She'd been through so much to get to him, and now that she was here, now that he was standing impatiently in front of her, she didn't want to move.

He took her arm and led her to the narrow winding stairs on the east side of the hall. The stairs were very steep and very narrow, more deeply and irregularly placed than any she'd ever before seen. Roland preceded her. There were three chambers along the bleak corridor, and he led her into the second. “This is where I sleep now; when the keep belongs to me—in seven days' time, as Thomas said—then I will remove myself to Thomas's chamber.”

“And where will Sir Thomas go?”

“He will leave his keep and journey to Dover. His daughter lives near Corfe Castle with her husband and many children. Thomas has no male heirs, thus the sale to me of Thispen-Ladock. But he needs coin for his daughter and her family, for his son-in-law is ill. When the king's men arrive from their meeting with your uncle, I will have enough coin to pay him.”

“Will there be enough coin after you pay Sir Thomas for reparation on the keep here? It is in horrible condition.”

It was true; he'd thought the same thing in much more explicit words, but her condemnation but added fuel to his smoldering fire.

“This is your home now, madam. I suggest you change your notions of what is horrible and what isn't. As to the remainder of the funds, why, you will have no say in how I wish to dispose of them. None at all. Now, you will tell me why you so foolishly left Wolffeton. You will make me understand why you scorned Kassia and Graelam and traveled by yourself. You will tell my why your stupidity passes all bounds know to man.”

“I very nearly made it here safely.” She shrugged, looking toward the narrow window slit that had a rough animal hide nailed over it. “I was merely unlucky to chance upon Master Giles's camp.”

“I should say you were luckier than God's own angels to be rescued by Dienwald. The world is filled with the Master Giles sort. Do you have any ideas, can you begin to guess, what could have happened to you?”

She looked down at her hands, for it hurt to look into his cold, furious face, a face she'd recognized from the first moment she'd seen his so long ago, it seemed. “I was a prisoner for many months, Roland. I had a very good idea of what could have happened.”

“Still, it made no difference to you. Why did you do it, Daria? Why?”

She was twisting her hands together, she knew it, but couldn't still their frantic motion. Slowly she raised her head and said simply, “You're my husband. I wanted to be with you. I couldn't bear to be left in another's care, not really belonging, an unwanted guest.”

The ring of truth was unmistakable and he flinched at it. “Damn you,” he said, his voice low and deep, filled with frustration. “I can't very well take the time to return you to Wolffeton, not now.” He strode away from her, pacing. He turned suddenly. “I suppose when you're not vomiting, you can be of some use here. The saints know the servants don't do a blessed thing, and what they do accomplish needs to be redone.”

She said nothing to that, and it enraged him that she would sit there like a stone, taking his fury without returning any of it. “You're naught but a stupid sheep. You will remain here in this chamber until I send for you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand you.”

He wanted her to rest for a while, but he realized that he'd made it sound an order. But he didn't correct himself. It would be wise of her to simply learn to obey him.

But why? she wondered as she watched him stride from the chamber. Why did he want her to stay here alone? Was he ashamed of her? Roland left the chamber without looking back at her. She tried to call up the Roland who'd been a Benedictine priest, the Roland who'd been her friend and her rescuer. But all there was now was the Roland who hated her and believed her a liar. She walked the confines of the chamber for the third time, then threw back her head. Was she to be a prisoner again? She left the room and made her way carefully down the stairs. As she neared the last curve, she heard Roland's voice. He was speaking quietly, but his words seared through her as if he'd shouted them at the top of his lungs.

“That one night—well, Gwyn, no more. My wife is here now.”

“She's skinny and ye don't care for her,” Daria heard a soft, very feminine voice say. “I saw how ye didn't want to look at her, how ye ignored her. I'll keep ye warm, master, and make ye happy. She'll not mind, that one—”

“That is perchance true, but the answer remains the same. Speak no more about it, Gwyn. See to dinner preparations now. We have guests, and I don't wish them to think this is a pigsty and the food they're served nothing more than swill.”

The girl said something else, but Daria couldn't understand her words. The girl's name was Gwyn and Roland had taken her to his bed. He'd seen her naked and he'd kissed her and thrust himself into her body. She felt a pain so sharp, so deep, that she couldn't bear it. Slowly, holding her belly, Daria slipped down to sit on the cold stone step. A soft keening sound came from her throat.

It was that sound that Roland heard. He frowned, then strode up the stairs, coming to an abrupt halt. There sat his wife, leaning against the cold stone wall, her arms wrapped around her, her eyes closed tightly.

She'd overheard him speaking to Gwyn.

“So now you would add eavesdropping to your other talents.”

She paid him no heed. Another low keening sound came from her throat and her arms tightened around herself.

“It isn't well done of you, Daria. You disobey me yet again and leave the chamber when I commanded you to remain there. Well, now you know that I took the offered favors of another female. You also heard that I dismissed her because you are here now and I won't shame you. Just look at you. Sitting there like a rigid statue, bleating like a sheep—”

She flew at him, so quickly that he had no time to find another word, no time to move from her path, no time to see her fist flying toward him. Her fist struck him hard on the jaw and he lost his balance, crashing backward against the stone wall, stumbling on the lower stone step. She struck him again, yelling at him, “Bastard. Whoreson bastard. I'm not a bleating sheep. I'll not let you judge me so poorly again.” This time she struck him with her fist low in the belly, and he jerked forward even as he went crashing down the remaining few steps to sprawl on the stone floor of the great hall.

She was on him in an instant, coming down onto her knees, striking his chest with her fists, yelling at him even louder. “I hate you, unfaithful bastard! God, I hate you!”

Roland had knocked himself silly. It took him several moments to clear his head sufficiently to realize what was happening. Unlike Daria, he saw that the hall was filled with a score of people, Thomas and Dienwald included, and they were struck to silence by what they saw. They were watching his wife flail at him. They heard her screaming at him. Then he felt her hands go around his throat, and she was squeezing as hard as she could, her body trembling with the effort, silent now, so beyond rational thought that her eyes were blank and faraway.

Then she erupted again, even as she raised his head only to bang it down again to the stone floor, “You share what is mine and mine alone with another woman! You break faith with me, you break your vows. You call me a stupid sheep for saying naught about it. Well, no more, Roland. I'll kill you, I swear it, I'll kill you if ever you even touch another woman!”

No longer was she a stupid sheep, that was true. No longer was she a bleating sheep. He felt her fingers digging into his throat but she didn't have the strength to choke him, though her desire was great. He forgot about their audience. He slowly brought up his arms and grasped her wrists. He pulled them away from his throat.

She was trembling, shaking, but she was still screeching at him like a fishwife. “No more, Roland. I'll kill you, I'll kick you in the groin. I'll—”

He jerked her off him; then as gently as he could, he lowered her onto her back. He was over her in an instant, kneeing her legs apart, coming down to lie on top of her.

It was then Daria heard male laughter followed by more male laughter, and that was followed by lewd remarks, and then there was a woman laughing. It was then she saw all the people looking at them. It was then that she realized what had happened, and she looked up into her husband's face, her own as white as her belly.

“Will you hurt me now?”

“Hurt you? What do you think you've been doing to me? My head isn't a ripe melon, even though you seek to crack it open. Nay, I shan't throttle you as you were trying to do to me. Now, wife, I think you've humiliated both of us quite enough. You've given a fine exhibition to everyone. I'm going to pull you up now, and if you dare attack me again, it will go badly for you. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, I understand.”

He released her, and hauled her to her feet. In the next instant she drove her knee into his groin. Roland jerked upright, stared at her in stunned, horrified silence, then felt the waves of nausea flooding through him, felt the debilitating pain begin to grind him down. He grabbed his belly and sank to his knees, his body heaving.

The male laughter stopped. The lewd jests stopped. Daria, aware now of what she'd done, raised her head and saw that everyone was silent, staring at her, their expressions appalled and disbelieving. She was beyond thought now, beyond anything in her experience that could break through and guide her, and thus picked up her long skirts and ran from the great hall.

She heard Philippa shouting out her name, but she didn't slow. She ran and ran, stumbling once on uneven cobblestones, ran beneath the raised portcullis, through the narrow high tunnel that connected the inner bailey to the outer bailey, ran until she was at the open front gates of the outer bailey, and still she ran, holding her side and the ripping pain that was roiling through her. She was outside the keep now, and there were many people, but none tried to stop her. They paused in their duties and stared after her and called to her, but none made a move after her.

She ran until her legs collapsed beneath her, and then she fell on a soft grass-covered incline and rolled over and over until she reached the curved bottom of the ditch, and she lay there, not moving, not able to move in any case. She gasped for breath, afraid to move now because she was aware of the babe in her womb and she felt terrified that she'd harmed it with her mad dash from the keep, and her fall. She lay there until her breathing calmed. She lay there feeling the warm sun soak through her clothes, warming her flesh. She lay there knowing that when she did move there would be consequences that she didn't want to face. She quite simply wanted to die.

But she didn't die.

When Roland saw her lying there on her side, her cheek pressed against the soft green grass, her eyes closed, he thought she was dead. Fear raced through him and he skirted the steepest part of the incline until he could run to her without falling or skidding.

He dropped to his knees beside her, but he was afraid to touch her, afraid that she was hurt in some way he couldn't see.

“Daria.”

She didn't want to open her eyes, but she did. Slowly she raised herself until she was on her knees in front of him.

“You're all right?”

She looked at him straightly, unaware of the grass stains covering one side of her face, unaware that her hair was filled with grass and twigs and was hanging loose down her back and over her shoulders, unaware that her gown was ripped and one sleeve hung down to her elbow.

And she said, “I hope you're no good to Gwyn anymore. I hope you're no good to any woman anymore.”

Roland sucked in his breath, all his fear for her dissolved at her words.

She was gasping out the words, her eyes dilated, unheeding of him or what he could do to her. “I hope you return to the Holy Land and that you find Lila and Cena and tell them that you're no longer a man and that—”

He didn't strike her. He clapped his open hand over her mouth, shutting off her spate of words.

“Enough, damn you.” He pulled her against him and his face was close to hers, his breath hot on her flesh. “Now, madam wife, I am taking you back. You have caused quite a commotion. You have caused me no end of trouble, what with your attack on me and your mad dash from the keep. You left Philippa telling me that your violence was caused by the babe, that you weren't thinking clearly because of it—by the saints, she was trying to protect you, even after you tried to bring me down.”

“I did bring you down. You fell on your knees and I was the one who made you do it.”

“Daria, I do recommend that you close your mouth and keep it closed. You defy logic, wench, you surely do. Now, will you come along with me willingly or do I beat you here?”

She wondered if he truly would strike her. If he did, would she cry and plead with him to stop? Would she grovel and whimper at his feet? She wouldn't. She would die before granting him such pleasure. “When you beat me, will you use your hand or a whip?”

Roland couldn't believe her words. Nor could he believe the entire situation. Well, she'd finally shown spirit, more than he'd ever wished to see, more than his aching groin would ever have wanted. As to his emotionlessly spoken threats, it rocked him to his core that such things had come from his mouth. Never in his life had he struck a woman; he believed men who hurt women to be despicable, of no account at all. But here he was telling her that he would beat her, and she'd accepted it, accepted it even though she should know he wasn't that kind of man, for she'd traveled through Wales with him, known him to prefer laughter to scowls, good dirty fighting to torture and cruelty. “I don't use whips, even on recalcitrant animals.”