Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

She knew him to the very depths of her, and it was as terrifying as it was unexpected, this amazing and overwhelming knowledge, and she was consumed with dark feelings that she couldn’t comprehend and that made her reel with their force. Here was something that was fearful yet real, and it was overpowering. For the first time in her life, Daria fainted, collapsing in a heap to the rush-strewn floor.

2

Daria awoke with Ena crouched over her, her face parchment white, her lips trembling with fear and prayers.

“I’m all right,” Daria said, and then turned her face away. But she wasn’t all right; something had happened that she didn’t understand. It was frightening. No, nothing was all right.

“But, little mistress, what happened? The earl just carried you here. He said naught. Did he speak harshly to you or strike you in front of that new priest? Did you speak sharply to him? Did he—?”

“Please, Ena, take your leave. The earl did nothing to me. I wish to rest. Leave me now.”

The old woman sniffed and retreated to the far corner of the chamber. Daria stared toward the narrow window. A shaft of bright sunlight knifed through, illuminating dust motes in its wake. What had happened to her in the great hall was inexplicable. The priest, that beautiful young man who was a Benedictine, a young man who was dedicated to God—and she’d somehow known him, recognized him, felt his very being deep inside of her. How could that be? It made no sense.

It had happened but once before in her seventeen years, this prescience, this foreknowledge, this tide of feeling that had been the curse of her grandmother, a bent old woman who’d died howling curses at her son and daughters. A crazy old woman with wild stringy hair and mad eyes, eyes the same color green as were hers.

When Daria was twelve her mother had told her that her father would be coming home to them shortly to visit with them until he left for the Holy Land. He was currently in London, fighting in a tourney. It was in that instant Daria saw her father, handsome and awesomely forbidding in his gleaming silver armor, astride his destrier, and he was charging, his visor down, lance at the ready. She saw him as clearly as she saw her mother who stood in front of her, staring and silent. She saw his lance buffeted to the side, saw him lifted off his destrier’s back and flung into the dirt. She saw the other man’s destrier rear back in fright and come crashing down on her father’s head. She heard the crunching of the metal, the smashing of bone, and she screamed with the sight of it, the sound of it, the dark feel of it in her mind, the bloody horror of it. And she’d told her mother what she’d seen, but her mother had somehow known she was seeing something, and she was already as pale as the wimple that hid her beautiful auburn hair. “No,” her mother had whispered; then she’d left Daria, nearly running, and Daria had known her mother was afraid of her in that moment.

And the word had reached them five days later. Her father’s body followed three days after that, and he was buried on the family hillock, his body never again seen by his wife because the destrier had smashed his skull under his hooves.

Now it had happened again. Only this time it wasn’t death and terror and pain that wouldn’t cease. This time it was a strange shock of recognition, a knowing of another person she’d never seen before. She didn’t understand what it meant or how to account for it or explain it. Was this poor young priest to die? She didn’t think so, but she simply didn’t know. But she’d looked at him and felt something deep within her move, open, and then he’d taken her hand as any priest might, and the touch of him had pierced into her, leaving her naked and raw, confused feelings flooding through her.

And like a lackwit, she’d fainted. She’d fainted in front of the earl, and she’d known even as she’d felt herself falling that she was still gaping at the young priest.

There came a knock on the chamber door. Daria turned to see Ena speed to the door and open it slightly to peer out. She heard Edmond of Clare’s voice. He pushed Ena out of his way, nearly knocking the old woman to the floor, and strode into the room.

“You’re awake,” he said, looking down at her from his great height. “What happened to you? Are you sickening with something?”

She shook her head, fearing in that moment what might come out of her mouth if she spoke.

“Then what?”

Should she tell him that her grandmother had died mad, died cursed as a witch, and that mayhap she was a witch too? Tell him that the priest who’d shriven her grandmother had been pale and stammering with fear in the presence of that mad old woman? “I am sorry to upset you. I just suddenly felt faint. The Benedictine priest—he is to remain here at Tyberton?”

“Aye. I wanted you to meet him, but you fell at our feet, and the poor young fellow was naturally concerned. You frightened him, and now I must wonder if you did it apurpose, to beg his help, mayhap? To beg his assistance to help you escape me?”

“No.”

“I did not really think so. You haven’t the guile, Daria, to gain your ends through perfidy.”

She stared at him, wondering how he could come to believe she was so transparent. She prayed a moment would come when she would best him with her perfidy.

“He appears a pious and learned young man,” Edmond of Clare continued after a moment. “The Benedictines spawn dedicated priests, from what I hear. He will remain here in my service.”

“What i

s his name?”

“He said the name given him at the Benedictine abbey was Father Corinthian. He will hold a Mass for us on the morrow morning. You and I will attend, no one else. My soul is needful of cleansing. As for yours, your sheltered youth sustains you, but still God’s word will not come amiss to your ears.”

Daria didn’t want to see the young priest again, and yet at the same time she wanted to see him, touch him, just once more, just to see if the first time had been a vague aberration, an accident brought about by her fear and frustration at her captivity.

He was a priest, this man who wasn’t a man. He was God’s man, God’s weapon, God’s gift to man. “I will come to the chapel,” she said, and Edmond of Clare stared down at her silently for another long moment, lightly touched his fingers to her hair. “So soft you are,” he said, then left her.

She lay there frozen. There was no meanness in his look or his light touch, but a certain tenderness, and it terrified her. It wasn’t lust, yet there was lust in it, and something else far more harmful as well. She closed her eyes. Her heart pounded loudly.

That evening at the late meal, she came slowly into the great hall, glad for its loudness, its sheer number of people, for their very presence was a sort of protection for her. She saw Edmond already seated in his great chair, the new priest seated at his left. The chair to his right—her chair—was empty. Her step lagged. She couldn’t take her eyes off the priest. She saw in the rich light of the flambeaux that his dark hair shone clean and silky. He was dressed simply, but unlike other priests she’d known, both he and his clothing were clean. Even in the loose tunic, she could tell that he was lean and well-formed; his didn’t seem to be the body of a man who partook only of spiritual exercise. He looked fit and active, a man who could just as easily take his place as a knight and a warrior. But his face held her and she couldn’t take her eyes off him as she walked slowly through the throngs of people to the dais. His features were finely hewn, from his arched black brows to the cleft in his chin. He was nearly dark as an Arab, his eyes nearly black as his hair. As he spoke, he used his hands, eloquent narrow hands, to make a point. His expression was intelligent, and more than that, it was clever. He was a priest, surely, but he was a handsome man, and to look upon him gave one pleasure. Suddenly he looked up and saw her, and his face stilled.

To her utter stupefaction, she felt that same shock of recognition explode inside her. She felt bare and exposed, yet she realized in that moment that he didn’t see what was there for him to see and understand and take. Aye, take. She saw him stare at her, and he cocked his head to one side in silent question. He had felt nothing; he must believe her mad.