The night was dark with little wind, but still the leaves on the surrounding oak trees rippled and swayed, making her start with fear at the soft rustling noise.
She was awake in the deepest hour of the night, just before dawn, for her bound arms were numb no longer. The pain was excruciating. She felt sorry for herself and wanted to weep. If she could have, she would have willingly kicked herself for being such a fool. She’d left the safety of Wolffeton, and for what? For a foolish girl’s dream, a fantasy that had nothing to do with reality. Reality was being the prisoner of a spiteful man named Alan and a fat horrid man named Master Giles. She tried to breathe deeply and slowly, tried to turn her thoughts away from the pain in her arms. In the next instant a man’s hand covered her mouth and his warm breath was near her ear. “Don’t move. I’m here to save you. Don’t make a sound or any sudden movements. Do you understand?”
Daria nodded. The hand raised from her mouth, and slowly, she turned over to look up into the shadowed face of a man bent over her who was a perfect stranger. He shook his head and she saw the sharp silver sheen of a knife. He looked as ruthless and hard as any man to her. Would he kill her? She felt the blade sink into the ropes around her wrists. She was free. She wanted to raise her arms but she found she couldn’t. She stared up at him and he saw the pain and helplessness in her eyes.
The man merely shook his head at her again, grasped her around the waist, and lifted her. He walked silent as a shadow, carrying her over his shoulder. He stepped over one of Master Giles’s sleeping men and the fellow never stirred.
He strode deep into the forest, then finally stopped and eased her to her feet, propping her up against an oak tree. “There,” he said, and patted her cheek. “Work the feeling back into your hands and arms. Stay here and keep quiet. I have a meeting with Master Giles and it won’t take very long.” He started suddenly, then turned, his voice angry. “Philippa, no, damn you. Stay here with her, do you hear me? I demand that you obey me. By all the saints, I shouldn’t have allowed you to come. I’m naught but an idiot man and you’re a meddlesome wench. I should have known that you—”
Daria heard a woman’s low laugh interrupt the man’s harangue; then suddenly she felt her legs simply fold beneath her. She heard the man say something, his voice sharp, but somehow distant from her; then she heard no more.
How much time had passed? Daria wondered. She didn’t open her eyes; she was afraid to. She wasn’t on the ground, she knew that. She was lying atop furs, and a warm blanket covered her. All that had happened trickled slowly into her mind. Still she didn’t move. There was a lighted flambeau thrust into the ground near her, not really needed now, for the forest was filled with the soft gray lights of morning.
“You’re awake.”
It was the man who’d saved her. Slowly she opened her eyes. He was sitting beside her. He was younger than she’d first believed, but his face—it was hard and ruthless, his eyes cold. Like Roland’s face when he’d come to believe her a liar. Had she fallen into the clutches of another scoundrel?
“Aye,” she said, and was surprised that there was obvious fear in her voice. She was swamped with fear and cold. “Will you hurt me?”
His eyes widened with surprise at her words. He tucked another blanket over her, saying in a soothing voice, “Just lie still. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’ve had dealings with Master Giles before, and he’s a knave and an outlaw for all his pretty speeches and dainty manners. Did he deluge you with pretty speeches? Aye, I can see that he did—there’s distaste in your eyes. Now, when you’re ready, tell me who you are and how the fat old toad caught you.”
He smiled then and it changed his face.
“You really won’t hurt me?” He shook his head, saw that she was still frightened, and said easily, “Very well, let me begin. My name is Dienwald de Fortenberry and I suppose I am also something of a rogue, but no, I wouldn’t hurt you. I saw you there, saw that villain Alan hurt you, but I couldn’t get you free just then. I had to wait until they all slept. It took hours before the guards gave it up. No, I won’t hurt you.”
“I am Daria de Toumay, wife to Roland de Tournay.”
Daria wasn’t certain what she expected, but the man stared at her, silent for fully two minutes. Then he laughed deeply. “It is passing odd,” he said at last. “Roland—your husband. That defies reason. Yea, passing odd, and it’s delightful.” “You know my husband?”
“Aye, he saved my life not long ago. It was a magnificent bit of work—he threw a knife and it sliced cleanly through the fellow’s heart. Needless to say I call him friend. So Roland has returned to Cornwall—aye, it’s passing odd. Why aren’t you with him?
And so Daria told him her pitiful tale, not sparing herself, acknowledging her thoughtlessness. “. . . And so Graelam didn’t know I’d left. I guess his two men will tell him. He won’t be pleased; my husband won’t be pleased either.”
“Ah,” Dienwald said. “Here is my wench of a wife. Philippa, come meet the girl who is wed to Roland.”
There was laughter in his voice and Daria wondered at it.
Philippa de Fortenberry was a tall graceful girl of about Daria’s age. She was wearing a wool cap and boy’s clothing. Her face was intelligent, full of life, and her eyes the most beautiful blue Daria had ever seen. They were her father’s eyes. She was meeting the king’s daughter. “The queen told me all about you and the king called you his sweet Philippa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I only wish it could be somewhere else.”
“Aye,” Dienwald said after a moment, “that’s true enough. My wench here is the king’s daughter, blast her eyes, but since there’s naught I can do about it, I shall just have to extol her endless virtues, at least when her father is within hearing. You’re wondering how your husband sits in all this, I imagine. Well, Roland had been instructed by the king to come to Cornwall and marry Philippa. Unfortunately for the king and fortunately for Roland, she’d already wedded me. Which leaves two unfortunates, but I am too noble to repine openly. Of course I would have relinquished my claim to her large hand, but she convinced me that if I did so, she would lie down in a ditch and die.”
Philippa de Fortenberry laughed, hissed something in her husband’s ear, and punched his arm. “Ignore his braying, Daria. Like most men, he is naught but an ass, a wonderful rogue ass, but nonetheless—I am only relieved that we chanced upon you. All is well now.”
“Why are you here? You’re female, just like me, and yet you’re dressed like a boy and you’re with him. I don’t understand.”
“That’s all right. Dienwald doesn’t understand either. You see, my dear, my husband needs me desperately. I tell him what stratagems to employ, how to proceed with his rescues, and how to execute a revenge. I am pleased that he performed according to my instructions. Aye, that foul cretin Master Giles has been served his comeuppance.”
“What did you do to him? And all the others? There were two women and at least six men. And that horrible Alan.”
Dienwald said, “Only one of them died, and the others, well, Daria, I vow they are at this moment more cold than embarrassed. Can you imagine fat Master Giles seated on his princely chair, naked as a toad?”
“You took their clothes?”
Philippa and her husband were grinning like happy fools, nodding together. “Aye, and bound them tightly.”
“That’s wonderful. Oh, how I should love to walk up to Master Giles and laugh at him.”
“Perhaps we’d best not this time,” Dienwald said. “Actually, if you’re feeling all right now, we should catch up to your brave husband.”
“You know,” Philippa de Fortenberry said, her voice provocative as she swept her thick lashes over those brilliant eyes of hers, “I wonder now that I didn’t accept Roland. Ah, such a noble creature, a man of such virile parts, such—”
Dienwald de Fortenberry rose in a swift movement, turned on his wife, and, wrapping his arms around her hips, lifted her high and tromped away with her.
Daria stared after him, disbelieving and confused. These people were unlike any she’s ever met. Well, she’d met the king’s daughter and she was lovely, her blue eyes so bright and vivid and full of mischief and light.
She heard a yowl, part laughter, part fury. Several minutes passed before Dienwald reappeared. He was wiping his hands on his thighs. But he was now all business. “We must leave soon. As I said, we have nothing to fear from Master Giles, at least for a while. But why tempt the capricious fates? I wish to deliver you safely to Roland. Where is he?”
“It’s not far, I don’t think. He went to purchase lands and a keep called Thispen-Ladock.”
“Ah, not far at all. Are you well enough to travel now?” Dienwald helped her to rise. “I do wonder what Graelam will say. I wish I could but see his face now, at this precise moment.”
“Do you know everyone, sir?”
“Call me Dienwald. Actually, if you speak to my wife, she’ll suggest other useful names to you. As for Graelam, it is his wife who knew me before her fierce husband did. So many tales lie in this head. And now you’ve added another. Also, we’re a small society here in this part of Cornwall, so it isn’t passing strange that we’re all known to each other. What is passing strange is that we are all friends.” He laughed at that.
“I am delighted that something lies in that head of yours,” said Philippa, walking up to them. “Let me help you,” she added, offering Daria her hand. She looked startled when Daria jerked away from her and rushed away, only to fall against a tree and vomit.
“Goodness, what did you say to her, wench?”
“Nothing, my lord husband. Oh dear, if she is ill—”
“We will travel slowly. There is no need to rush about now. Master Giles is taken care of.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled a very evil smile.
Daria accepted the goblet of water from Philippa and washed out her mouth.
“I am with child,” she said. “I’m not ill. The sickness comes and goes, and I hate it.”
“I must say that Roland wasted no time in his duties,” remarked Dienwald. “How long have you been wedded?”
“Not long,” said Daria, and allowed Philippa to wipe a damp cloth over her face. “Thank you. That is wonderful. I’m all right now, truly. It’s morning and the babe has but told me that he is ready to begin the day. Can we leave now to find my husband?”
She saw Philippa and her husband exchange glances; then Dienwald turned to her. “Aye, let us go now.”
“My mare, Henrietta, Master Giles took her.”
“I have all of Master Giles’s horses. It is sufficient repayment, I think, for his thievery.”
“Don’t forget all his clothes,” added Philippa, sniggering behind her hand.
There were a dozen men in their troop, all of them in high spirits. Daria heard them saying:
“. . . Did you see the expression on his fat face when the master told him to remove his tunic?”
“. . . Did you see the woman’s face when he did?”
“. . . I thought she’d faint when he wore naught but his fat white skin.”
“. . . Aye, that little rod of his shriveled even more.”
“. . . Master Giles won’t cheat our master again, that’s certain.”
On and on it went, and when Daria chanced to see Dienwald’s face, she saw that he looked insufferably pleased with himself. The heavily clouded skies cleared and she saw her new host and hostess quite clearly now.
Philippa had pulled off her wool cap, and her hair, thick and lustrous and curly, of a dark honey color, tumbled down her back. She was laughing, riding close to her husband, and Daria saw that their hands were clasped between their horses. It hurt her to watch them. She remembered Wales, remembered those hours with Roland when he’d cared for her, laughed with her, complimented her when she repeated the Welsh words and phrases correctly.
Dienwald turned in his saddle and said, “We aren’t far from Thispen-Ladock. Another hour. Do you feel all right, Daria?”
No, she wanted to shout at him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Roland would say when she arrived. She closed her eyes a moment, then squared her shoulders. “Aye, I’m fine,” she called back, but Dienwald wasn’t fooled for an instant.
“This is all passing strange,” he said in a quiet voice to his wife. “Why did he leave her at Wolffeton?”
“For that matter,” Philippa said thoughtfully, “why did she leave to come to him? Is she simple? Surely she would realize the danger.”
“Just as you did when you ran away from Beauchamp?”
Philippa lowered her brow and giggled.
Dienwald squeezed her fingers and sighed deeply. “I feel for poor fat Master Giles. I dread to think what would have happened to him had you landed in his domain rather than mine.”
Daria heard the two of them arguing, insulting each other, and laughing. She wished it didn’t hurt. She turned her head and looked toward the vast expanse of rolling green hills and clumps of thick maple and oak forests. There were sheep everywhere, and wheat crops, the waving stalks turning the horizon gold. There were no more barren cliffs or naked rocks and bent trees. The land became more gentle with each passing mile. Daria was tired, she admitted it, but she wasn’t about to ask her host to stop for her.
The girl, Philippa, wouldn’t ask. She’d keep going until her husband dropped in his tracks first, even if it killed her.
Roland came to the fore of the keep’s ramparts at the shout from one of his men.
“A cavalcade comes, master. I don’t know who it is.”
Sir Thomas Ladock, old in heart if not in years, looked toward the oncoming riders, his dark eyes full of intelligence. “Why, I think it is Dienwald de Fortenberry. Do you not see his banner, Roland?”
“Dienwald.”
“Aye, I met the boy some years ago. His banner is distinctive—the eagle and the lion with the clashing swords between them. His father was a wild man—eager to fight, eager to love, and eager to laugh. Is Dienwald like his sire, Roland?”
Roland smiled. “Aye, he is.”
“There is a woman—no, there are two women—riding with about a dozen men, I’d say,” Salin called out.
Roland stared hard then, for he felt something strange stirring within him. It was an odd feeling; it had come from nowhere that he could fathom. It was simply there, and he waited for the feelings to become something tangible he could grasp. And as the cavalcade drew close, he saw his wife riding her mare on Dienwald’s left. And there was Philippa on Dienwald’s right, dressed in boy’s clothes, her beautiful hair wild and free.
Roland said in the most measured voice he could manage, “It appears, Thomas, that you are shortly to meet my wife.”
“Your wife,” Sir Thomas repeated, staring toward the group of riders. “What is she doing with Dienwald?”
“I shudder to know the answer to that.”
Salin smiled. “She missed you, my lord. And she came to you.”
“Don’t think she is so sweet and guileless, Salin. All women carry the scourge of Satan in them.”
Sir Thomas, more astute in human nature than he cared to be, turned and looked long at the young man he wished had been his own son.
“Life is vastly unexpected,” he said. “Let’s descend, my boy, so that we may greet our guests.”
16
Sir Thomas was fully aware that Roland was angry. His entire body had seemed to tighten, to become rigid, as Dienwald de Fortenberry’s party had come closer. As the minutes passed, Thomas realized, oddly enough, that the young man’s anger was directed at the slight girl astride the beautiful palfrey. His wife, he’d said. But why was he so displeased to see her? They’d not long been wedded. He remembered, so many years before, how he’d not let Constance out of his sight or bed for nearly three months. Something was decidedly wrong here. He looked at the young man, saw that he was closed as tightly as a clam, and said nothing.
Roland made no move toward his
wife when the small cavalcade came to a halt in the inner bailey. It was Salin who lifted Daria from her palfrey’s back. Roland introduced his guests to Sir Thomas, passing over his wife as if she weren’t there. Roland continued to ignore his wife even after Thomas took her hand in his and bade her welcome to Thispen-Ladock. Dienwald’s men were directed by Salin to the dilapidated barracks. Thomas led his guests into the great hall of Thispen-Ladock.
“You surprise me, Dienwald,” Roland was saying to de Fortenberry, his voice sounding mildly defensive. “You are leagues from St. Erth. What do you here? Come you to spy on me?”
“Now, that’s sport I hadn’t considered. Nay, Roland, Philippa and I were out a-hunting fat two-legged prey and we found him in due course, along with your sweet wife.”
“I see,” Roland said, and turned to Thomas. He didn’t see a thing and he was so furious that he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His wife, his sweet, guileless wife, had convinced Dienwald and Philippa to bring her here to him. Ale was brought. Servants served it. No one said much of anything. Philippa looked from Daria to Roland, and she frowned. Daria sat silent, her head down, her hands clasped in her lap. This was her future home, she was thinking, and she was appalled. Her distress at Roland’s obvious cold welcome was momentarily forgotten as she stared around her.
The great hall was damp and cold and its overhead wooden beams so blackened from years of smoke that it was impossible to see the roof. The trestle tables were battered and carved and laden with grease and bits of dried food. There were no lavers, no sweet-smelling rushes on the stone floor, no tapestries on the stone walls to contain the chill. It smelled old and rancid. She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
She looked up at her emotionless husband’s voice and shook her head. She offered him a tentative smile, which he did not return. Roland, instead, turned to Dienwald. “Tell me about this fat prey of yours.”
Secret Song Page 23