The man who’d wanted only a place of four cows—lle pum buwch.
Daria swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. There was a knock on the door and then it opened, admitting one of the serving women.
It was her dinner on a covered tray. She was indeed to be kept a prisoner. The woman said nothing, merely stared hard at her for a moment, then dipped a curtsy.
Daria waved Ena toward the food. “I’m not hungry,” she said, and turned away toward the window again.
The following morning the earl and a dozen of his men left to seek out a band of outlaws that had attacked the small English village of Newchurch, struck whilst the Earl of Clare had been traveling through Wales to find her. She was free, for a while at least. He’d also given orders that she was to be kept locked in her chamber. The earl had patted her cheek before he’d mounted his powerful destrier, but she’d seen the hunger in his eyes and flinched away from it. “Soon,” he’d said, “soon now, and I’ll have a priest here,” and left.
It was midsummer, the ground baked dry from the sun, the sky clear of clouds, a startling bright blue.
And there was a priest now, the earl had told her the previous evening, a priest he’d found in Bristol after he’d searched long and hard, and he would arrive at Tyberton within a sennight. And he would marry her and then he would rape her and then kill her.
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. At least she hadn’t been treated like a prisoner for the past week. The earl had returned flushed with victory over the outlaws. He’d hanged them, all those Welshmen who had still been breathing, that is.
It appeared the earl had given up his conviction that Roland would come for Cantor. She overheard him speaking of Roland to MacLeod and his voice was filled with contempt. “Aye, the pretty whoreson has judged even his destrier to be beyond his abilities to retrieve. He knows I’d kill him slowly and he knows I’d catch him. Back to England he’s gone—Daria was right about that.”
MacLeod had simply said, “But still—”
She knew the earl didn’t completely trust her, but there was nothing more she could do to convince him. Indeed she wondered if she should even care. She’d begun to believe herself that Roland had returned to England. And if he hadn’t, was he then dead? Was he near to Tyberton even now? No, probably not. Still, she remained meek and soft-spoken in the earl’s presence, silent and cold when she was alone. She couldn’t be certain that her once-trusted companion, Ena, wouldn’t now betray her to the earl.
A single tear coursed swiftly down her cheek. She tasted the salt on her lips but didn’t wipe her face. She didn’t have the energy. She realized she was thirsty, but there was no water in the small carafe near her narrow bed. Slowly she made her way from her small chamber down the steep winding stone steps into the great hall. There were men lounging about playing draughts or trading jests. Women worked, scrubbing the trestle tables, scattering fresh rushes. No one paid her any heed. She didn’t see the earl. She walked outside into the inner bailey.
It was the middle of the day, the time when, if possible, most of the people escaped to find some shade from the overpowering sun.
She walked to the cistern, standing there for a very long time, feeling the hot sun sink through her cold flesh, but there was no warmth deep inside her, only empty cold.
“What do you here?”
She heard the earl’s distrust and forced a smile to her lips as she turned to face him. “I wanted a cup of fresh water from the well. It is hot and dry today.”
He appeared to accept her words, and strode to the well. He fetched her a cup of water, watching her sip at it.
He said then, his voice filled with frustration and anger, “I have just gotten word that the king rides to Tyberton. He has been at Chepstow, thundering at the Earl of Hereford, I doubt not, and now he intends to come to me.”
Daria didn’t understand his mood. “But it’s the king. That is an honor and a privilege to have him visit you, a sign of royal pleasure.”
He snorted. “There is slight pleasure on either side. Longshanks holds little power here, and it irks him, for he wishes to grind all under his royal heel. He comes to pry and to spy and to threaten. Were I strong enough, would all the Marcher Barons but stand together, we’d send him back to that Sodom city he dwells in, that cesspit London. Let him breed with his whore, and keep away from here. We keep peace and hold the barbarians at bay.
“Aye, the king comes to seek out my strength. I know he would sell his miserable soul to the devil himself if he could wrest power from me, from all of us who keep England safe from the Welsh savages. He has no power here—no power west of the River Wye—and it isn’t just for him to come.”
Whilst he was haranguing, it occurred to Daria that perhaps, just perhaps, the king could help her. Could she find him alone and plead with him for her release? Would he possibly believe her if she managed to see him? If he didn’t aid her, would the earl then kill her? And what matter if he did? He would anyway, once he realized she wasn’t a virgin.
She discovered that she was wringing her hands. What was she to do? “Drink your water,” the earl said as he handed her another wooden cup.
The King of England sat back in his royal chair and looked at his dedicated secretary, Robert Burnell. The tent protected them from the hot noonday sun, and the king was basking in a good mood. He’d intimidated Hereford, the damned disloyal lout, and now he would arrive at Tyberton and make certain the Earl of Clare knew which way to step around his king. Burnell excused himself to seek some relief outside for a few minutes. His fingers were cramped from writing out the royal exhortations and he needed to stretch his muscles as well. When he returned, there was a strange look on his face, but his king didn’t notice. He cleared his throat.
“Sire, there is a maimed old beggar outside who requests to speak with you. He claims to have information of vital importance.” The king slewed about in his chair and pinned his secretary with a look that was so astonished that Burnell cleared his throat yet again. “Er, he appears harmless, sire.”
Just as suddenly, Edward laughed. He’d just finished a fine meal and felt expansive from the two goblets of sweet wine he’d drunk. He watched Burnell fidget. Odd for a man of few nerves to fidget. “A maimed beggar, you say, Robbie? An old maimed beggar who begs to plead for a royal coin as opposed to a simple soldier’s coin? A beggar who offers to share his begging with you if he gains coin from me? Speak you, Robbie, you seem deaf and mute and bereft of your wits as well.”
The king was toying with him, Burnell thought, swept with relief for the absence of the royal temper. Edward was smiling, that wolfish charming smile of his that made everyone in his service grovel willingly. He stepped closer. “He’s not just a simple beggar, sire.”
“I assumed this beggar you sponsor was fit for the king’s time and presence. He is no common beggar, in short, but a beggar of royal persuasions, a beggar fit for—” Edward broke off, unable to find more glowing wit. “Bring me the fellow, Robbie. And I pray you have guessed aright, for if you haven’t, I will cover you with the contents of your own ink pot.”
Burnell had no intention of coming back into the king’s presence. He left the royal tent. A miserable ancient relic shuffled in. By all the saints, the king thought, the old wretch stank more than a wet sheep and he looked ready to fall over and die, so appalling and pathetic was he. He gave a soft cackle and essayed a deep bow before the king. He sprang back up with no cracking of aged bones or joints.
“I understand it is a royal coin you wish,” the king said, frowning mightily toward the beggar.
The old man cackled. “Nay, generous sire, it’s a woman to warm my bed I wish, a woman wondrous fair with bounteous bosom and—”
The king stared at the old man, his cleverness momentarily extinguished.
“—aye, and a bounty of buttocks, mayhap. A woman as soft of flesh as a rabbit’s belly and deep as a well for my mighty rod.”
The king burst into la
ughter. “Shall I offer you first a woman to bathe you? You smell of slime and piss. Who are you, beggar? Not a common sort of vermin, I warrant, not from your polished impertinent speech. Come, I grow impatient with your antics.”
“You are always impatient, sire. Your poor Robbie awaits just without, chewing his fingernails to their knuckles. It’s true, even a good tale is wasted on you, as is an excellent performance. I have heard it said that London’s most wondrous mummers burst into tears at your inattention. Why—”
“Who are you, you miserable impertinent lout?” The royal personage rose to his full height. To his consternation, the beggar didn’t quiver in fear, nor did he retreat even a frightened step. He gave him a filthy black grin and looked cockier than ever.
Then, just as suddenly, the beggar straightened and pulled off bits and pieces of his face. The king sucked in his breath, words failing him, at the hideous process.
Roland stood before him, tall, lean, proud of bearing, rubbing the back of his hand over his teeth. His teeth shone white and his hand shone black. The king shook his head. “I believe it not, and I know how well you can disguise yourself. My God, Roland, I have missed your insolent self.”
He embraced him. “By St. Andrew’s knees, you must bathe,” he said, and quickly stepped back.
“Aye, it’s sheep dung and a few other disgusting things I found on my way here. I will keep my distance from your hallowed presence. I must ask you a favor, and then I will bathe. Have you time to attend to my plea, sire?”
“Robbie vowed you were a beggar worthy to plead before the royal presence. Still, Roland, if I said I didn’t?”
“Why, then I should have to tell you of my adventures in Paris, where the ladies performed solemn rites and ceremonies upon my poor man’s body with great enthusiasm and imagination. Ah, sire, these are bold and bawdy tales that will make you lick your royal lips.”
“I wish to have both your plea and a full and complete accounting of your adventures.”
Roland grinned at his king. “You are the answer to a poor needy beggar’s prayers. I hadn’t a notion of what to do, and you, like my chivalrous knight, come to my rescue, at least I hope that you will consider championing me.”
“You make no sense, Roland. Sit, man,” he continued in a bellow. “Robbie, come back in here. I need you to protect me from this rapacious beggar.”
“But my stench, sire—”
“It matters not. Just keep three feet between us and I shall survive your odor.”
9
Daria stood at her post at the narrow window that gave onto the inner bailey. She knew such fear she could scarce bear it. The priest had arrived just an hour before, and the earl, impatient to have her sanctified in God’s eyes, and in his bed, announced that their wedding ceremony would take place this very evening.
It was difficult to remain submissive, but she tried, asking in her softest voice, “But what of the king’s visit, my lord? Don’t you expect him to arrive shortly?”
“I pray the Almighty that his royal majesty takes his blessed time. He can arrive on the morrow. I will allow him to do that.”
She kept her eyes lowered, and her brain squirreled with one idea after the other, each of them useless. The earl continued after a moment, “I have kept my vow, Daria. Forget not that I could have taken you at any time, but I held to my oath. I proved to you that I was to be trusted. I have shown you mine honor. You will have no more cause now to bend against me.”
He had kept his oath; she’d give him that. She prayed for the king to arrive right now. She looked into the distance but saw no sign of anyone, just impenetrable forests and rolling hills.
The earl frowned down at her. “I wish you to gown yourself as befits the bride of the Earl of Clare. Do you understand me, Daria? I wish you to smile and show everyone that you come to me with a willing and submissive heart.”
She nodded. He stared at her intently for a moment longer, then grabbed her, hauling her against him. He cupped her chin with his hand and pushed up her face. She closed her eyes, forcing herself not to struggle even when his mouth closed over hers. She felt his tongue, wet and probing, and wanted to gag. He released her and said, “I will wed you even though your dowry hasn’t yet come from your loathsome uncle. But no matter his damned perfidy. I intend to petition the king for what should be mine and what will be mine, for once you are wedded to me, once I have taken you, even the king can’t deny me your dowry, for I have right on my side.” With those words, he actually rubbed his hands together, saying in triumph, “There’s nothing Damon Le Mark can do, for I will have the king with me. And he will curse and whine and it will do him no good at all. Aye, at last I have won, and I like the feeling.” He turned on his heel and left her. Daria stared after him, wondering at his mind.
She shook her head to clear it of the feel of him. Suddenly, from one instant to the next, she felt a sharpening of something inside her, an awareness, a renewed remembrance of something utterly vital to her, something—She looked down into the inner bailey, not really seeing anything or anyone specific, but still the feeling was there, that strange feeling, that knowledge that she’d known before. She wondered if her mind had finally snapped.
Then she saw him. A bent old man, with a head of scraggly thick white hair, shuffling in his rags toward the castle well. He was dragging his lame right leg. Stark joy welled up in her and she willed him to look up, whispering his name over and over as she stared hard at him. He did. She saw a wrinkled old face until he smiled and she saw a mouth filled with rotted black teeth.
It couldn’t be Roland, but she knew that it was. She waved frantically to him.
But he turned away from her with not a single sign to her, and continued his slow shuffling gait to the well.
His own mother wouldn’t know him, she thought, and smiled. He’d come. He’d come for her—or for his destrier, perhaps both if she were lucky and Roland cared for her or cared equally for her uncle’s money.
How could she speak to the ragged old beggar? Why had Arthur, the porter, allowed him to come into the castle? What ruse had he in mind this time? Her mind tumbled with questions, but mostly she just wanted to see him closely to ensure that he was completely well again. Ah, Roland, she thought, her step light and vigorous for the first time since the earl had brought her back to Tyberton nearly two months before.
When she reached the well, the old man was gone. Vanished. She stared about her, feeling despair weigh down upon her. Had she imagined him? Daria drew a deep breath and turned on her heel. She looked at her toes raise small clouds of dust. She didn’t care if her new gown was as filthy as the ragged old man’s clothing. She didn’t care about anything except finding him.
Roland stood in the shade of one of the barracks and watched her return slowly to the great hall, her step lagging. She’d recognized him instantly. It was impossible, yet she’d known him, and from a distance. It baffled him, that recognition of hers—he couldn’t comprehend or accept it. His heart pounded. She’d known him. For God’s sake, how? His survival depended on his disguise, yet he hadn’t fooled her for an instant.
He moved toward the cooking outbuilding, wanting to keep her in sight. One of the scullions came around the corner and Roland bent lower and scratched his armpit and mumbled to himself, turning a bit on his lame leg, and showing a wince of pain.
She’d known him. But how? The scullion gave him a look of scorn and pity combined, shrugged, then turned his back to relieve himself.
How was it possible? Would she give him away? Not likely, he thought. She was being forced to wed the Earl of Clare, this according to Otis, one of the stable lads. How Otis knew, Roland didn’t question; everyone always knew everything in a keep’s confines. He’d listened the entire day, and no one had paid any attention to an old beggar. De Clare had kept her locked in her tower chamber for many weeks whilst he’d gone off on one of his raids. Roland cursed at that. If only he could have returned here more quickly, if only. It was too
late now for recriminations. She was to be wedded to Clare this very evening. Roland closed his eyes a moment. The king wasn’t due to arrive at Tyberton until the morrow. But tomorrow would be too late for all of them.
Clare would have wedded her, bedded her, and even the king himself wouldn’t pull her away from a man whose wife she’d become, a wife whose maidenhead had been breached. And, Roland imagined, Clare had finally figured out that once wedded to Daria, he could get his hands on her huge dowry. He wondered if the earl had already taken her. Of course he had. There was no reason why he would not. There had been no priest here to gainsay him.
Roland cursed. They’d been so very close to escaping him before. If only he hadn’t become ill—the genesis and the revelation of all their problems. Now she was no longer a maid and it was his fault. The situation called for a change of plan. He was adaptable and quick to revise. It had saved his life before. Now perhaps it would save Daria as well.
Ena’s mind was murky, but she knew she was pleased about this, pleased that her little mistress would shortly be wedding the mighty Earl of Clare. She was too thin, but still she looked beautiful in the pale pink silk gown with its darker pink overtunic. Its long sleeves full at her wrists, its waist belted with a golden chain of fine links. Aye, she looked tasty and worthy of becoming the chatelaine of Tyberton. Aye, Ena was very pleased.
Daria’s hair was long and loose, denoting a young girl coming to her marriage a virgin. There was a strange smile on Daria’s face when Ena had insisted on this old custom, but she’d said nothing. She would have preferred to braid her hair tightly around her head. What would the earl have thought of that? she wondered.
“Ye’re excited,” Ena said, seeing the glitter in her young charge’s eyes. “Aye, ye’re ready to settle down now and forget yer pretty young priest. He left ye, and if it weren’t fer the earl, ye’d be dead or worse by now. Nay, tell me no lies. I always guessed ye tried to escape, not the pap the earl spread about, curdling the cream even as he spoke the words. But things are the way they should be. Ye’re a little lady and ye don’t deserve a poor priest, no matter how pretty he was. Ralph of Colchester isn’t here, so ye’ll have the earl. Aye, all is well again.”
Secret Song Page 13