Secret Song (12 page)

“Daria, I'm not made of stone. Damnation, cease your wiggling.”

She grinned into the darkness. “But I'm cold, Roland.”

He fell asleep before she did, but he awoke quickly enough when she began thrashing about. He shook his head, shaking away his own dreams. He gently rubbed her back, then lightly slapped her cheeks. “Wake up, come now, it's no time for a nightmare.”

She awoke with a start and lurched up, gasping. “Oh.”

“You're quite all right. Hush, now.”

“It was awful, those men and that huge one, Myrddin. He touched me and—” She ground to a painful halt.

“You're safe now,” he said again, his words slow and deep. “No one will hurt you.” His right hand was methodically rubbing her back. “I'll keep you safe.”

It was dark, the middle of the night, and she gave voice to her bitterness. “You speak to me as though I were your child, Roland, but I am not. Of course you will keep me safe. You must have me alive, mustn't you? Otherwise my uncle will give you no coin.”

“Quite true.”

“I'm an heiress. I'll give you coin not to take me back.”

“Don't be a fool, Daria. You have no access to your fortune. It is under your uncle's thumb. Accept what is, what must be, and do what a female must do—that is, accede to your guardian's wishes. You must be returned alive and a virgin.” The moment he said that, he clamped down on his tongue. Damned imprudent mouth. Mayhap she would be too embarrassed to question him; mayhap she wouldn't have noticed what he'd said; mayhap—

She was fast as a snake. “What do you mean, a virgin? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I misspoke. Sleep now.”

“What, Roland? Do you mean my uncle cares about my maidenhood? As much as did the Earl of Clare?”

“Go to sleep.”

She slammed her fist into his belly and he grunted. He grabbed her wrists and twisted onto his side, facing her. He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her warm breath against his cheek. “I said to go to sleep, Daria. You will not question me further.”

“But you must tell me—”

“You don't obey well, do you?”

“Tell me,” she said, her nose touching his. He remained silent. She continued slowly, “You mean my uncle stipulated I must be a virgin or he wouldn't want me back?”

“Don't be a fool. Be quiet.”

“If I'm not a maid, what did he say he would do?”

“All right, aye, he wants you returned a virgin. Are you satisfied now? Know, Daria, that you will be returned as much a maid as when you emerged from your mother's womb.”

She digested his words, making no response. Because he didn't know her well, Roland felt relief at her quiescence. He rolled onto his back again, bringing her against his side. “Sleep now, Daria.”

“All right, Roland,” she said, and her mind was racing with ideas. What would her uncle Damon do if she weren't returned a virgin?

Roland pressed a gold coin in the prior's hand upon their leaving the following morning. The old man clutched the coin, stared at Roland in surprise, then speeded them on their way with a comprehensive holy blessing.

It wasn't raining and Daria breathed in deeply. “It smells so green and alive,” she said.

“Bore da,”
Roland said.

She butted her chin against his shoulder. “What?”

“It's ‘good morning.' Repeat it.” And she did. Their lesson continued until Roland drew Cantor to a halt beside a burbling stream. They were high in the Wye Valley and the air was cool, the sky the lightest of blues.

“We'll be at Rhayader soon. They have a market, I'm told, and we'll buy some food.”

“Am I still your brother?”

Roland merely nodded. “Keep your head down. You still don't look much like a little cockscomb to me.” Just as she was beginning to smile at what she believed a scarce compliment, he added, “I don't feel like fighting any more men who decide you're female enough for them to enjoy.”

Rhayader was a sleepy little town that looked more English than Welsh to Daria. There were many sheep about and few people. The market was sparse, most of the goods having been sold much earlier in the day. Roland purchased bread and cheese and some apples. They weren't approached or regarded warily. They were ignored for the most part. “We're outsiders,” Roland told her. “It matters not that we're Welsh. We're not from here and that makes all the difference.” She listened to him speak Welsh, marveling at how easily the words came to him, how he rolled the difficult sounds on his tongue, and looking, Daria thought, quite pleased with himself.

They ate their noonday meal on the banks of the Rhaidr Gyw, the Falls of the Wye, Roland translated for her, amidst waving wild grass and heather. It was beautiful and soft-smelling and the roar of the fierce rapids filled the silence. “This is a land more rare than the rarest jewel,” Roland said as he chewed on his apple. “When it isn't raining, you want to stare, for the colors are more than just colors—look at the green of the Wye Valley, Daria, it looks soft and velvet it is so vivid.”

“Where are we going, Roland?”

“We're traveling first to Wrexham, then to Lord Richard de Avenell's stronghold, Croyland. Lord Richard de Avenell is a Marcher Baron and Croyland lies just beyond the Welsh border, on the road to Chester.”

She nodded. “How long will we remain there?”

“Not long,” and that was all he would say. He saw that she would question him, and said quickly,
“Menyw,”
and touched his fingertip to her chin.

She repeated the word for “woman,” then asked, “What is the word for ‘wife'?”

Roland looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged.
“Gwrang.”

She repeated it several times. One never knew. Besides, it made him distinctly nervous and thus she repeated it again for good measure.

Roland fell silent then. He remained abstracted throughout the remainder of the day. They stayed the night under the overhang of a shallow cave. It wasn't raining and thus was pleasant.

“What ails you, Roland?” she asked him the following morning.

“Naught,” he said shortly. “Tomorrow afternoon we will arrive in Wrexham.”

They rode over a mountain that was topped with an ancient fort so old Daria thought it had probably been built before time began. They rode through wooded valleys and saw three waterfalls. It was magnificent, and Daria was enthusiastic until Roland's silence wore her down. They looked back on the Black Mountains, stark and forbidding even beneath a vibrant sun.

Daria was enjoying herself. This was a freedom she'd never known.

It was evident that Roland was not enjoying himself.

“Tell me of your family, Roland.”

“I have a brother who is the Earl of Blackheath. He doesn't like me, has never approved of me. It matters not; you won't have to meet him. I have more uncles and aunts and cousins than I can even remember. Our stock is hardy and our men and women prolific.” He fell silent again.

“Why don't you like me?”

He twisted about in his saddle and looked at her. “Why should I not like you?”

“You won't speak to me.”

He merely shrugged and click-clicked Cantor into a trot.

“And when you do deign to speak to me, your words are sharp.”

“I'm weighing matters,” he said, and she had to be content with that.

That night Roland stopped before dark, saying merely, “Cantor is blown. We must rest him.”

But it was Roland who fell asleep even as the moon was beginning its rise into the clear Welsh heavens. Daria lay beside him, propped up on her elbow. His breathing was slow and deep. He didn't snore. She looked down at his face as he slept. He looked very young, she thought, all the worries smoothed from his face, and slowly, tentatively, she touched her fingers to his cheek, down along the line of his jaw to his square chin. There was black stubble and she smiled and wondered if the hair on his body was as dark as that on his head. She continued looking at him. It gave her a good deal of pleasure. His brows were naturally arched and black as sin. She wanted to smooth the black hair from his forehead, but hesitated. She didn't want him to awaken and spout angry words at her. She even enjoyed the shape of his ears.

She finally fell asleep snuggling against Roland's back. He wasn't awake to tell her nay.

She awoke with a start, jerking upright. The dream was vivid in her mind and it was alien. She remembered her feelings of knowledge, of deep and complete recognition, when she'd first seen Roland. Now she'd seen the dream he was dreaming. But how was that possible? She shook her head even as she silently questioned herself. She didn't understand how it could be so. She wasn't in his dream, nay, she was merely an observer, yet she seemed to know what he thought. The question was why Roland was presenting himself to her in these ways. She now thought she knew the answer, but she also knew she wouldn't say anything to him. He would believe her mad, or simply foolish, or both.

The following morning, the sky was overcast and both Daria and Roland knew that the rain would begin soon. There was nothing either of them could do about it save bear it.

She said suddenly, hoping to catch him off his guard, “I heard stories from my father, stories about the Holy Land. He said he'd been told it was all heat and white sand and miserable fleas and poverty and children who were so hungry their bellies were bloated. He said the men were dark and bearded and wore white robes and turbans on their heads. He said the women were kept away from other men, held inside buildings with other women. Do you know anything of this, Roland?”

Roland's hands tightened on Cantor's reins. He'd dreamed of the Holy Land the previous night; he'd dreamed about a meeting he'd attended with Barbars himself and his chieftains, and they'd been in a royal tent set up within sight of Acre. But Daria couldn't know that. This was merely happenstance.

He said only, “What your father told you is true. Hush now, I must think.”

Daria practiced her Welsh, forming sentences and repeating phrases he'd taught her the past days.
“Rydw i wedi blino,”
she said three times, until he turned to ask, “Is that just practice or are you really tired?”

“Nag ydw,”
she said, grinning, and firmly shook her head to match her words.

They entered a small church in Wrexham late that afternoon to get out of the rain. Even the building's warm-colored sandstone looked cold and dismal in the gray rain. They walked beneath the narrow Norman nave arcades, toward the cloisters. There were few people in the church. It was damp and cheerless, no candles lit against the gloom. “It's dark as a well,” Daria said aloud, trying to huddle farther into her cloak.

Roland said nothing. His head ached abominably; his throat felt scratchy; every muscle in his body throbbed and cramped. It pained him to breathe and to walk. Even his eyes hurt to focus. The illness had begun nearly two days before, but he'd ignored it, knowing he couldn't be ill, not now, not when he was responsible for Daria. But he was. It took all his resolution not to shudder and shiver beside her.

“Stop,” he said finally, unable to take another step. He leaned against a stone arch. He closed his eyes, knowing that she was looking closely at him, knowing that at any moment she would guess the truth.

But he didn't have time for her to tell him so. He felt blackness tug at him. He fought it, but his fight was futile. He felt himself sliding down against the arch.

 

The Earl of Clare wondered if Roland had killed the two men, and decided he had. One lay rotting, his head in still green water; the other was curled up in death inside a close-by cave.

“Aye, he killed them, our pretty priest,” he said. “But why? Did they attack him?” He paused and paled. Had the men raped Daria? And Roland had killed them because they had? No, he wouldn't accept that. No, he would assume that he'd killed them before they'd had a chance to do anything and left them here. He said aloud to MacLeod, “I wonder where our priest took Daria after he killed these louts? Why did they come into this filthy country? Has he friends here?”

MacLeod didn't know a single answer to the earl's spate of questions. What's more, he was beginning not to care. Like the other men, he was wet and miserable and cold and wanted nothing more than to return to Tyberton, to the stifling warm great hall with its fires filling the huge chamber with smoke, and drink warm spiced ale and fill his hands with soft woman's flesh.

“Do we bury them?” one of the men asked MacLeod.

He shook his head. “They're savages. Let them continue to rot in peace.”

Daria knew he was ill, had known for the past day and a half, only she hadn't wanted to believe it and had made excuses to herself for his persistent silence. She'd asked him once that morning if he felt all right, and he had snapped at her, vicious and mean as a stray dog. And now he'd fallen unconscious from his illness. She dropped to her knees beside him. His forehead was hot; he was caught in the fever. His body shuddered even in his unconscious state. She looked about for help. She'd never felt more frightened in her life.

“Roland,” she whispered, nearly frantic. “Roland, please, can you hear me?”

He was silent.

She was terrified, but not for herself. She was terrified for him, but of course he wouldn't care. It didn't matter now what he thought of her. He needed her.

When the black-robed Augustinian priest saw them, he hurried forward.