Daria grinned then. By coming here she’d learned what passion was all about, and she quite liked it, even if Roland must needs ruin it after he was through with her. She more than quite liked it. Roland wasn’t the only one to feel as though his body was shattering, flying out of control, yet demanding more and more until it was all chaos and sensation and nothing else mattered. He used her and she would use him. It was even. She wouldn’t think of anything else. She would care for her babe when it was born, shower her love on her son or daughter. And she would use her husband and ignore his insults.
It was true about passion, she thought again, her eyes closing as a vague tremor of feeling passed through her. It was beyond any experience that she could have imagined. If Roland thought of her as only a convenient receptacle for his lust, why, then, she would view him as a convenient—What? She wasn’t certain how to divide up a man. She touched her fingertips to her lips. She could still feel him, feel his hunger, his urgency, and then his simple enjoyment of kissing her. He’d acted like a starving man. Ah, she loved to kiss him as well. Well, then, she was fortunate that she enjoyed his kisses. She didn’t need anything else from him.
She felt his seed on her thighs, rose slowly from the bed and bathed herself, but the scent of him lingered and the scent of her as well, and she wanted to weep because there was no part of her, even her perverse vanity, that hated him.
What was she to do?
It was obvious to her now what she had to do. If any niggling feelings for her husband crept unasked into her mind, she would simply take him to her bed until the feelings disappeared and she was glutted with passion.
She went down into the great hall. Soon she would take things into hand. But not now, not whilst Sir Thomas was here. She quite liked him, she didn’t wish to hurt him or make him feel an outsider. The servants seemed to respond to her nicely, she realized with some relief by the time the evening meal had been justly consumed. She suspected that Old Alice, the resident autocrat, had dictated that she was the mistress and thus to be obeyed, bless her. Even Gwyn smiled at her, and did her bidding with satisfying speed.
There was no one to hold her in dislike save her husband.
Two weeks later, on the first Monday in August, the king’s soldiers, led by Robert Burnell, arrived with Daria’s dowry from the Earl of Reymerstone.
They also arrived with something else.
Burnell was weary to his bones, worried that the king was suffering from his absence, and relieved that the Earl of Reymerstone hadn’t tried to murder him, though he’d seen the burning hate in the man’s pale eyes, and known that it had been close for a time. Burnell didn’t know if God had interceded on his behalf, but it made him feel blessed to believe it was so. The Earl of Reymerstone had allowed them to leave with a dozen mules, all laden with more goods that would have been Daria’s had she married Ralph of Colchester. If Burnell hadn’t insisted upon reading the marriage contract the earl had signed with Colchester, he never would have known about all the other goods. And that had made the earl all the more furious. Thank the good Lord he hadn’t tried to murder them on their journey to Cornwall.
Daria looked from Robert Burnell’s tired face toward the mules. There were coin, plate, jewels—she knew that there had been more that her uncle would have brought to her wedding. But so much more? Daria was stunned at the number of laden mules that came into the inner bailey, one after another.
So much, and now it belonged to Roland.
It was then that she saw her mother. Daria let out a yell and darted between people and animals and piles of refuse and deep gouges between cobblestones toward the woman who was bent over her palfrey.
“Mother! You’re here! Oh, my.”
The two men watched as Salin strode to the woman, and gently as he would handle a babe, lifted her from the mare’s back. Roland saw his wife enfold the slighter woman, saw tears streaming down her face, saw her shoulders heaving as she kissed and hugged her mother.
“I have brought Lady Fortescue, Roland, just as you requested,” Burnell said, turning away from mother and daughter. “The earl—I saw him strike her viciously and repeatedly before I could stop him. It was after I’d made the demands, and he realized there was naught he could do—he agreed to let her leave with me. He was yelling at her that he’d show her what he’d do to her bitch of a daughter when he got his hands on her. I knew he would kill her if I hadn’t taken her away from him. She is still weak—several ribs are bruised, I think—her wrist is hurt, but bound securely. She’s a nice lady, Roland, soft-spoken and gentle. You did well to bring her here.”
Roland remembered the woman when he’d first gone to see the Earl of Reymerstone; he remembered the weariness in her eyes, the acceptance of things when there was no hope to change them.
“I’m glad you saved her.” He nodded to Burnell and strode to Lady Fortescue.
“My lady,” he said, and watched her try to straighten at his greeting, watched her try to offer him a curtsy.
“Nay, don’t. Daria, your mother isn’t feeling well. Take her to your solar. She must rest.”
Daria saw her mother’s bruised body a few minutes later in the solar when she helped her onto a narrow bed. She closed her eyes a moment, wishing more than anything that her uncle was present and that she had a knife. She would kill him. And she would enjoy it. She sent word to Alice, and a sweet-smelling warm potion of wine and herbs quickly arrived. Daria stayed with her mother until she slept. She smoothed back the vibrant red hair, still untouched by gray, saw the lines smooth from her mother’s face. She lowered her head in her hands and wept. She was so very grateful to Roland for bringing her mother to her, and to safety. After a long time Daria rose, straightened her gown, and called to Gwyn, who was cleaning in Sir Thomas’s bedchamber. She asked her to remain with her mother.
“She’s a beautiful lady,” Gwyn whispered. “I’ll see that she’s all right.”
Why should she have ever hated Gwyn? Daria wondered blankly as she walked down the winding stone steps.
Daria felt a bystander in the transaction between Burnell and her husband. She stood quietly in the great hall, watching the men bring in trunk after trunk. Sir Thomas, Robert Burnell, and her husband opened each trunk, commented on the goods, smiling sometimes, drinking ale. Then there came the leather coin pouches, and she watched as Roland solemnly passed the counted out coins to Sir Thomas. The men embraced each other. Still she didn’t move.
She heard Roland tell the men to take two of the trunks to his bedchamber. It was her bedchamber as well, but in important matters such as this, it was the man’s. She’d learned that well enough during the past two weeks. The time had passed quickly, for there was so much newness at Thispen-Ladock, so many places to visit, so many new people to meet. Nor, Daria thought, as she saw to it that Burnell and the king’s men were served quantities of ale and sweet buns from Alice’s huge ovens, had she taken the reins in hand as yet. Actually, the reins had simply seemed to drift slowly yet surely there, and one day she was the mistress and all asked her for direction and orders. Roland had said nothing, nor had Sir Thomas. She seated herself finally, still saying naught. Her goods, her coin—but it was as if she wasn’t even there.
“It’s incredible,” Burnell said, sat back in his chair, and sighed deeply. His eyes remained closed as he bit into another sweet bun filled with raisins and almonds and nutmeg.
“Keep your thoughts away from my cook,” Roland said, then laughed. “You will not seduce her from me even though you are a man of God.”
“But the king, Roland, his belly would mellow from such wondrous food and—”
“He would become fat as a stoat, belch in foreign dignitaries’ faces, sire no more children off the queen because he would be constantly eating, and she would be repelled, aye, Burnell, and he would die one day from gluttony, and England couldn’t afford that loss, sir. And it would be your fault, all for lusting after my cook.”
“Perhaps,” Daria said, sittin
g forward, her eyes sparkling now, for the man who had spoken so humorously was the Roland she had met and known in Wales. “But what is a certainty, sir, is that Alice has no choice but to remain here. You see, she is tied to this place by bonds that go deeper than the spirit, all her skills derive from this earth and none other, and she told me that she must remain here else she would lose all her knowledge and abilities.”
“Ah,” said Burnell, and frowned deeply.
Roland shot his wife a surprised look and she returned it limpidly.
“You are blessed with a golden tongue, Daria,” he said to her some moments later when Sir Thomas turned to speak to Burnell. “Poor Burnell.”
“Perhaps my lie was a bit more effective, but yours was by far more humorous, Roland. I’d forgotten how you could make me laugh.”
“There isn’t much to laugh about now, is there?”
“I suppose not, and I miss laughter. I miss it more than I minded the endless rain in Wales.”
He gently clasped her face between his hands. He tilted up her chin and kissed her mouth. He continued kissing her, light, soft kisses that made her flesh warm. After a moment he released her, asked, “How is your mother?”
“Alice made a potion for her. She is sleeping soundly at present, and Gwyn is with her. She will fetch me when Mother awakens. Thank you, Roland.”
Roland picked up his goblet and began to examine the texture of the carvings on its surface. “Your mother is a beautiful woman. You look like her, you know, save that your hair isn’t so strong and pure a red.”
“True. I always thought I’d been diluted, though of course she would tell me that it was I who purified her.” Daria pictured her mother’s bruised body and suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears.
Roland saw the men turn to stare aghast at his wife. Conversation began to die. He waved a hand, then turned to her and said quietly, “I know you are hurt, hurt that you think you failed her, but you didn’t. She is safe now, thanks to you. Hush, now, Daria, else Burnell will tell the king that I abused you in front of everyone and with no provocation, and he will annul our marriage and take all your dowry from me. Sir Thomas will kick me out from my new home and I’ll be cursed to wander the world again. Let me tell you that wandering grows tedious and I want no more of it.”
His words were amusing and his voice was light and teasing, so she was able to ignore the truth of his words, and sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“The babe,” he said, not looking at her.
Daria hugged her arms around her belly. There was a slight roundness now and her waist was thickening. She wondered when he would look at her and be repelled.
“I haven’t enjoyed you since this morning, too many long hours ago.”
They were in their bedchamber. Daria closed her eyes, accepting more kisses, returning them with growing enthusiasm. When he caressed her and came into her body, he was kind and gentle and loving. If afterward he withdrew and became cold, well, it seemed it was her price to pay. She found she couldn’t become cold as well as he did, so she said nothing, merely tried to pretend sleep as quickly as possible. Slowly, even as he continued kissing her, his hands still cupping her face, her hands lowered, stroking over his belly, lower, until her fingers closed about him. He moaned, his body jerking at her touch. Then he shoved against her fingers, and he was larger now, nearly too large for her hand, and she held him between her hands, lightly stroking him, gliding downward to touch the rest of him, and he was breathing hard and low and his kisses were deeper and more demanding and she continued to caress him until he jerked back from her, his chest heaving. She’d only touched him like this some three days before and she was more than pleased with her discovery. He’d said nothing about it, but his reaction when she touched him and caressed him with her hand was more than gratifying. She remembered the queen’s ladies and their advice and knew that soon she would touch him with her mouth. She wondered how he would react to that.
He stared down at her now but his eyes closed suddenly. He said her name softly, then, without warning, lifted her onto her back on a narrow table, knocking off the basin to the stone floor. It cracked, but he didn’t notice. Her jerked her hair free, threading his fingers through it until it hung down off the edge of the table, thick and tangled. He pulled her forward until her hips were at the edge of the table, her legs dangling. “Don’t move, Daria.”
She couldn’t have moved in any case, for if she did, she would probably crash like the basin had to the stone floor. Her gown was tangled about her legs. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear his breathing, harsh and raw. Then he was over her, lifting her hips with his hands, and slid deeply into her. She cried out and he stopped.
“Do I hurt you?”
She shook her head.
Then he lowered her legs and brought his mouth down to her. When she wailed, he came quickly into her again, and felt her legs close around his flanks, drawing him deeper and deeper still.
“Daria,” he said, and let his release overtake him.
For many minutes neither of them moved.
“It is a good thing that Burnell brought the rest of my clothes. You have destroyed many of my gowns, Roland.”
He grunted, his mind still so blurred from the pleasure that he couldn’t think.
As he came back to himself, Roland recognized that he was changing, and it frightened him. He was coming to need her, his wife, and seek her out. Not any deep part of him, not the spiritual part of him, but his body recognized her as its mate and his body’s need seemed to grow stronger and more demanding. And it wasn’t simply because she gave herself so sweetly to him—no, it was more, and more still, and it maddened him. It was as if this particular girl was meant to be his.
He withdrew his sex and his spirit from her. Then he withdrew his presence.
It was relatively simple to keep his distance from her, for Burnell wished to rest for several days and it was Roland’s duty to show him the countryside and tell him his plans for Thispen-Ladock. As it was Daria’s duty to provide for Burnell’s pleasure, she was also occupied. And with her mother. He knew she spent many hours with Lady Fortescue. It wasn’t until the last evening of Robert Burnell’s stay that Lady Fortescue came into the great hall for the evening meal. She was lovely, he saw, her red hair warm and vibrant, her eyes bright and soft. Roland greeted her warmly. Sir Thomas insisted that she sit beside him.
At the close of the meal, which made everyone sigh with pleasure, Roland rose from his chair, his goblet of ale raised high. He said to Sir Thomas, “You have provided me with my home and the home for my sons and my sons’ sons. I thank you, Sir Thomas. You have given me land and a home that will remain in my spirit until the day I die. You have told me, Sir Thomas, that I must make Thispen-Ladock mine completely, that I must select a new name that will reflect what I am and my line. It was difficult to find such a name until I realized at last that I was a wanderer, and a lover of many lands. I saw the world, and I would bring the essence of what I saw here, to Cornwall, here to this keep, and all will come to know it as Chantry Hall. Chantry is the name of a man I knew in the Holy Land. He saved my life and he taught me that freedom of the spirit was the most precious of God’s gifts to man. My thanks to you, Sir Thomas, and to you, Robert Burnell.”
“Hear. Hear.”
Daria stared at him, emptiness filling her even as her goblet overflowed with wine poured by an excited servant. The speech he’d just made was wonderful and fluent and moving. She hadn’t known about it. She hadn’t know about any of it.
She turned slightly and saw that her mother was looking at her, and she quickly lowered her eyes, raised her goblet, and sipped at the wine.
I am nothing more to him than one of the mules who brought his riches to him. She very slowly rose from her chair and walked from the great hall.
Only one remarked her leaving.
19
&nbs
p; “It will rain soon. Do you miss Wales and the endless rain that soaked you to your soul?”
Daria didn’t look back at him. She stood on the northern ramparts, wishing she could see the sea from its vantage point, but there was naught but the soft moonlight over the green rolling hills. It was warm this evening, the air heavy from the rain that would fall before midnight.
“Aye, I miss Wales,” she said.
“Why did you leave the hall? I had thought it a good time to celebrate. I had thought Burnell would enjoy his final night if I filled it with laughter and jests and Alice’s incredible array of food.”
“Worry not, Roland. He is enjoying himself, as is everyone else.”
“Why did you leave?”
She shrugged. “It didn’t matter if I was there or not, Roland. All this”—she turned then, spreading out her arms—“all this is yours. It has nothing to do with me. I hope you enjoy it, Roland, for to your mind, you’ve accepted dishonor and lies to gain it. I hope every sheep gives you delight, every shaft of wheat endless bliss.”
“Your wishes for my joy warm me, Daria, but they seem a trifle incomplete. You don’t wish me mindless pleasure from all the cows that graze the eastern acres?”
She thought her eyes would cross with fury, but she held on to herself, turning away from him, leaning on the stone ramparts. She swallowed, still saying nothing.
“Did you drink too much wine?”
She shook her head.
“Then you aren’t ill?”
She was silent.
“You haven’t vomited for nearly a week now. If you are feeling ill now, it isn’t right.”
She wondered how he knew that, but didn’t say anything. She sighed deeply and turned once again to face her husband. “I’m not ill. I think I will go for a walk now. I bid you good night, Roland.”
Secret Song Page 27