Secret Song (46 page)

He saw nothing but his wife, Daria. As he watched her reach her pleasure, he told her, “I love you, Daria, and you will never doubt me.”

She yelled her release, and he grinned, wondering if Romila stood outside the door listening to them, cackling like a witch. Then he moaned, and he forgot all save his enjoyment of his wife.

EPILOGUE

 

That hot September afternoon—when two peers of the realm had met in the outer bailey of a little-known castle in Cornwall to fight each other to the death—didn't reach the ears of the king until well into October. The tale was, much to the king's displeasure, little embellished by the king's son-in-law, Dienwald de Fortenberry, whose mournful expression showed his disappointment at not having been present at the fight. Not that it mattered to anyone.

Both men were long dead and no one really cared now who had killed whom and how. But the king, in a flash of unpredictability, decided he wanted the details, all of them, and he quickly realized that Dienwald wasn't being completely frank with him. He knew that Roland was involved, as was Graelam de Moreton. He was angered, yet at the same time the king was pleased that the three men felt loyalty to each other. But shouldn't they also trust their king? They should; it was their duty to do so.

He considered threatening Dienwald with torture for lying to him, his dear papa-in-law, for he knew that Dienwald was withholding all the doubtlessly interesting parts of the truth from him. Then he looked at his daughter, Philippa, saw that she was grinning at him and knowing that there wasn't anything he could do. He held to his kingly control, then yelled for wine.

The king wasn't angry beyond his second goblet of wine, for after all, he now had two very rich holdings in his royal, always needy hands. Neither earl had left an heir, much to the king's joy—Burnell had quickly found that out—save for a cousin to Reymerstone who was a puling boy and not worthy of either the title or the lands. The king gave guardianship of Tyberton to one of his own trusted knights with the admonition that the moment he ever thought of himself as a Marcher baron, his king would ensure that his ale was poisoned. He'd thought to reward his son-in-law with Reymerstone, then decided he hadn't yet proved himself sufficiently loyal to his king.

After the first of the year, the king recalled the tale again, and decided he would discover what had happened from the horse's mouth. He sent a messenger to Chantry Hall, insisting that Roland de Tournay and his wife visit London and give the royal ears a full accounting.

Roland sent a return message by the king's soldier:

 

“Humph,” the king said when Robert Burnell had finished reading the brief letter. Then he looked up, puzzled. “But I thought she was already with child, Robbie. Shouldn't she be birthing it by now? I remember Roland wedded her because she was pregnant. Don't you recall, the queen told us of it?”

“She miscarried the babe, sire, late last summer.”

The king wondered for a bitter moment how Burnell seemed to know everything, even insignificant details such as the miscarrying of a babe by one of his Cornish baron's wives, but he was too proud to ask. “That is what I thought,” the king said. “I must tell the queen there's to be another child. She will be gratified. She is fond of Daria and Roland, you know.”

“Aye, sire, she is.”

The king looked suddenly very pleased with himself. “The child Daria miscarried, it was the Earl of Clare's, was it not, Robbie? Do you not remember? He'd forced himself upon her and Roland, despite the fact, insisted upon wedding her?”

“Aye, sire, your memory is flawless and far surpasses all of my meager abilities.”

The king smiled his beautiful Plantagenet smile. “Do you jerk at the royal leg, Robbie?”

“I, sire? Nay, I would never be guilty of something so ignoble.”

The king rubbed his hands together and rose. “Well, that's that. I have lands I sorely needed and a cartload of coin for my coffers. My subjects appear to have sorted things out amongst themselves. You look tired, Robbie. Why don't you rest a bit this afternoon?”

It sounded a fine suggestion to Robert Burnell, and he nodded.

The king turned to leave the chamber, then smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I almost forgot. Bring your writing materials, Robbie, there's a delegation from some Scottish fool wishing to beg our royal favor.”

Burnell sighed, then smiled. “Aye, sire. Immediately.”

Roland and Daria stood on the northern ramparts of Chantry Hall, looking over the rolling hills dotted with at least one hundred sheep chewing at the sparse winter grasses. It was early January, but the air was crisp rather than cold and the sky blue and clear. It was a Cornwall day that delighted every man and woman living within its boundaries.

“It warms the heart,” Roland said, waving an expansive arm toward his sheep.

“It also gives a peculiar order to the air,” said his wife as she drew her thick cloak more closely around her.

Roland hugged her to his side, kissed her temple, then pointed eastward toward the king's departing messenger, Florin, who'd spent the night and imbibed too much ale. “I wonder what Edward will say when he receives my missive.”

Daria laughed. “If Florin arrives intact with it. Husband, your reply to your king bordered on the cocky. It was rather in Dienwald's insolent style, I think.”

“Ha. Dienwald slinked about when the king taxed him in October about our two dead earls, fumbled all over himself and in general laid claim to being a better fool than Crooky.”

“That's what Philippa said, not Dienwald.”

“As I recall, he smacked her bottom for that. Do you think the king also wrote to Graelam and Kassia?”

“We will be certain to ask when they are next here.” Daria turned and smiled up at her husband.

“Do you feel well, sweeting? Our babe is content?” He drew her against him as he spoke, and gently rubbed his palm over her swelling belly.

“Aye, both of us are filled with well-being and both of us are getting quite hungry.”

Roland looked depressed. “If you had told me that but a few months ago I would have considered your hunger to be of a more agreeable nature. I would have lifted you over my shoulder and carried you into our western pasture and loved you amongst the eglantine and bluebells. But now I must play the forbearing husband, all patience and long-enduring. It is difficult, Daria, for I am young and lusty and filled with—” She grabbed his ears and pulled his face down, nipping the tip of his nose, kissing his mouth again and again. “There is no eglantine now, Roland, but there are pine cones in the forest. What say you, husband? Are you all words or will you give me deeds?”

“And I thought I was the only one suffering.” He lifted her high against him, her feet off the rampart wooden walkway. “No forest bed for you, Daria, but a soft bed where I will love you until you fall into a stupor.”

“I think first I shall have Alice prepare her wonderful mulled wine.”

He eased her back down and she leaned against him, hugging her arms tightly around his back.

“Life is sweet with you, Roland. Life is all I could wish it to be.”

“Even with the smelly sheep and us standing downwind from them?”

“Aye, even that. Come now, my lord husband.”

“If our king but knew who the cocky one really was at Chantry Hall—I wonder if he would be surprised.”

She gave him a sunny smile. “Who do you think is the cocky one at Saint Erth?”

Roland didn't say a word.