Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

Roland said easily, “You see this little cockscomb here? I am taking this fiend of a boy back to his father for the thrashing he deserves. He wanted to become a knight. He is part Welsh, a bastard shucked off one of Chepstow’s masters, and he can’t speak clearly enough for even God to understand him. Can you imagine such a thing as the earl accepting this young fool? Well, the boy will go back to his own father and get a good flogging.”

The stableman laughed. “Serves him right, the young savage,” he said, and stepped back into the stable. Roland followed him quickly, motioning for Daria to stay still. She did, but she didn’t want to. She heard only a soft thudding sounds from within the stable. She froze, wondering if Roland needed help, but then he appeared again, and he was smiling at her. “Another man resting soundly. Stay here and keep watch.”

Soon he reappeared and he was leading a horse. It wasn’t much of a horse, certainly not one of the fighting men’s mighty destriers. Roland swung easily onto the horse’s bare back and gave her his hand. “Come, we must hurry.”

She stared in wonder at the back of his head. Did he think to simply ride through the mightly gates of Tyberton Castel? He did. There were a half-dozen guards patrolling, but it was to the porter that Roland spoke.

“Blessed even’, good Arthur. I take this scruffy simpleton back to his father at Chepstow, on the earl’s order. Would you open the gate for me?”

And to Daria’s astonishment, Arthur chuckled, spit on the dry earth, and said, “Aye, by the looks of him, Father, he’ll not survive a sound thrashing, the skinny little offal. What’d he do? Piss in the earl’s wine?” And he cackled at his own wit.

“He wanted to free the earl’s prisoner, the girl, Daria, so she would feel pity for him and let him seduce her. The earl wanted to begin his wedding night soon, so I am his deputy with this foolish boy. I take him because I feared the earl might kill him in his haste to bed the girl and for the boy’s impure thoughts.”

Arthur laughed and nodded. “Aye, be gone wi’ ye, Father. I’ll wait for ye to return. Be certain to call loudly when ye near the castle so none of the earl’s soldiers lets fly an arrow through yer heart.”

“Thank you, my friend. I will hurry. See that the master is not disturbed this night.”

And Arthur cackled anew as he opened the gates. “A pretty little piece she is,” he said, his words nearly incomprehensible through his chuckling. “Aye, pretty and tender as a young chick. The earl will fair enjoy himself riding her.” The last sound Daria heard from Tyberton Castle was the laughter of Arthur, the porter. They rode through the portcullis into the outer bailey and out the great oak gates. Several men nodded, but none said anything or moved to stop them. It was that easy. Daria pressed her cheek against Roland’s back. “I begin to believe you a magician, Roland. Everything passed so simply. I have thought and thought these past two months and believed I would never escape him.”

“I’m very good,” Roland said, grinning over his shoulder at her. “I learned long ago that the best ruses were ones that stuck as close as possible to the truth. Well, mayhap I did enjoy myself a bit with the truth this time. I will say we were very lucky. However, once the earl frees himself and sobers up all his men from their drugged ale, he will be after us. We must not tarry.”

“I do not wish to tarry,” she said, and clasped her arms around his waist. “But this animal, Roland, he looks to have the speed of and strength of a snail.”

“Be patient. My own destrier awaits us nearby.”

“Will you take me back to my uncle?”

“Not yet. It wouldn’t be the wisest course.”

He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and the beast broke into a thumping trot.

They rode for only about an hour, northeast, into Wales. Finally Roland pulled the horse off the narrow dusty road heavily bordered with hedgerows and yew bushes and drew up before a small hut of daub and wattle surrounded with sagging, very old outbuildings. A man emerged quickly and strode toward them. Roland smiled at Daria and said, “We will mount my horse now.” He helped her down and told her to wait.

Roland walked with the man behind the hut, soon to reappear leading a magnificent animal, lean and strong, black as midnight, and proud-looking as a king.

Daria saw money change hands. The man grinned and said, “Aye, aye, lle pum buwch, lle pum buwch.”

Roland gave him a friendly buffet on his shoulder and turned to toss Daria onto his destrier’s broad back. The horse merely shifted, not moving, accepting her weight with no fuss. Roland mounted, then said to the man, “Do not forget it is to the southwest you will ride. You will wear my monk’s robe and ride this mount at least two hours. Then leave the horse and the robe where our good earl will find them.”

The man nodded, spit on the ground beside him, and gave a small salute to Roland.

Daria stared at the man who had come to Tyberton to rescue her. How could she have ever believed him a priest? The other women at the castle had felt he was a man, a man of this earth, a man of the flesh, but she hadn’t. He was now wearing a tunic of rough rust-colored wool, belted at his waist with a wide leather strap upon which hung his sword and a dagger. He looked dangerous and he looked intensely alive. She pressed her cheek against his back and accepted the newness of him into her.

As they rode from the hut, she asked, “What did he say? Something over and over again when you gave him money.”

“You have a good ear. He said that now he has a place of four cows. In other words, he can now support four cows with the money I gave him for his aid.”

To Roland’s astonishment, she repeated quite clearly, “Lle pum buwch.”

“You have learned some W

elsh, then, during your two months at Tyberton?”

He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. “No, the earl hates the Welsh. He forbade any of their language to be spoken at Tyberton. If ever he heard anything that sounded foreign, he had the speaker flogged. Besides, he kept me isolated.” With those words, she fell silent.

It had been drizzling lightly before. Now it stopped and the sky was hung with dark clouds promising more rain before midnight. Always it rained in Wales, always. Roland tightened the straps of the two bags over his horse’s back.

Some minutes later, he realized that Daria was asleep. She was limp against his back and he felt her sliding sideways. He quickly caught her sliding hands and brought them together, holding them over his waist with one of his. He looked around him at the cloud-hung sky and the towering, twisted sessile oaks that seemed to close in on them. The air was pungent with the smell of the sea and the smell of damp moss. It would begin to rain again soon. He sighed, hoping it would stay dry until they drew nearer to Trefynwy. Then they would turn east and travel through the Black Mountains, unforgiving hostile peaks and naked ridges, where they would be safe from anyone trying to find them. He said aloud to himself, to Daria, even though she slept, “I am pleased with you.” He meant it. She trusted him so much that she was actually able to sleep whilst fleeing. It was remarkable.