Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

He grinned, raising his face to the cool night breeze. His destrier, Cantor, snorted, and Roland slowed him. They still had a distance to go before Roland would be content to halt and rest for a while. It was doubtful that the earl would discover their trail very soon, if at all. Roland had purposefully planned to travel northward through Wales, knowing the earl wouldn’t seriously consider searching in the country he so despised. An Englishman would decide that only a madman would escape willingly into Wales.

Roland laughed softly, pleased with his strategies, for there was something very important the earl didn’t know, and wouldn’t find out.

He remained pleased until the thunder began to rumble overhead. Wales, the land of endless rain, he thought, staring up at the dark clouds overhead. He had wanted to reach Abergavenny by morning, but now he knew he couldn’t. A raindrop slid off his forehead. He cursed quietly, tightened his hold on Daria’s wrists, for she’d slipped to the side, and knew he had to find them shelter until it stopped raining.

He knew he was lucky in the terrain in which they now traveled. There were thick forests, which provided not only cover from anyone trying to find them but also some protection from the rain that was now coming down more quickly and more furiously. He knew also of caves in the area. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was one of moderate size near to Usk, off the road, just to the west of them. He knew Daria was awake now, he felt her shiver against his back. He dug in one of his leather bags and pulled out a leather jerkin. “Here, we’ll hold this over our heads. It will be some protection.”

“I have heard that it rains here more than anywhere else on the earth,” she said.

“That’s very likely,” he said, wondering where she’d gotten her information. “Certainly more than in the Holy Land.” The leather jerkin now over their heads, Roland continued, to distract both of them from the sodden cold rain, “You will be my deaf-mute little brother whilst we are in Wales.”

“Do you speak the Welsh tongue, Roland?”

“Aye, I do. It is one of my talents, this ability to learn languages easily and quickly.”

“Then teach me, for I do not like to keep silent all the time.”

He almost laughed, for the Welsh language was the most difficult he had learned, more difficult even than Arabic. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she wasn’t able when he said instead, “What was it that farmer said?”

“Lle pum buwch. Now I will have a place for four cows.”

Roland had never before met another person who had his talent for languages. He still wasn’t convinced at her ability, even though the Latin she’d spoken was fluent and smooth.

“Just teach me enough so that I do not have to be deaf or mute.”

Well, why not? he thought. For the next hour he taught her simple phrases, and he had to admit to being wrong. She was perhaps even more adept than he was at picking up the essence of a language, at finding patterns that no one else ever realized were there. By the time he found a suitable cave, one that was empty of mountain lions and bears, they were both sodden from the rain and Daria spoke limited but very Welsh-sounding words and phrases.

“We will wait here until it stops raining—if it stops raining. This cursed country does pour rain down all the time.”

“Aye, but the smells, Roland,” she said, sucking in air deeply. “The salt of the sea, the moss from the very rocks themselves, the heather and bracken. It is such a very living smell.”

That was true, but he said nothing. He settled Cantor, then turned to look down at his charge. She was very wet and shivering with the cold. He pulled out his last clean leather jerkin from one of his bags “Put it on.”

She stepped away from him into the blackness of the cave and he immediately stopped her. “Nay, stay close, Daria. There still could be creatures there, and I do not want them to eat you or for you to lose yourself in the mountain. I am told some of the caves twist and curve back deep into the mountainside. To get lost would mean death.”

She was back quickly, the jerkin hanging loosely around her. “Let us sit and eat some bread the farmer provided us.”

Whilst they ate, he taught her the names of various foods and animals. She fell asleep even as she repeated dafad, or sheep.

He leaned back against the rocky wall of the cave and gathered her against him. His horse whinnied softly and the soft caw of the rooks filled the silence. He could even hear a woodpecker rapping on a tree somewhere near, and a waterfall loud and violent, slashing through a beech forest close by. She was right about the smells. Even in the dark cave, the smell of turf, bracken, water, and wind filled his nostrils. It was a wild smell, a savage smell, but one that fed and stimulated the senses.

He smiled as he fell asleep holding the girl who would be able to speak Welsh as well as a native if only she had enough time to learn.

It stopped raining near dawn and the sky was a soft rich pink in those brief magical minutes. He started to awaken Daria, when she said quite clearly in English, “I know you, know you deep inside me. It’s passing strange and it makes me afraid, but for all that, it makes me feel wonderful.”

He shook her awake. He didn’t know what she was talking about, and something told him he didn’t want to know.

They ate bread and cheese and drank the rest of the warm ale. Daria seemed not to remember her dream, that, or she didn’t wish to speak of it. Dry and warm, they left their cave soon thereafter.

They rode through glades and thickets, through small twisted and lichened oaks, by boulders covered with moss. They passed naked rocks that looked wet even though the sun shone down strongly.

Roland continued to teach her Welsh. He felt a brief stab of jealousy at her talent, then grinned at his own vanity. It was good, this talent of hers; he didn’t particularly relish having to shield a deaf-mute boy who was really a girl. Now at least she could say something when they met the Welsh, which they would surely do eventually.

And they met the Welsh sooner than Roland would have wished.

5

“Afon,” Roland said, pointing, “river.” Then, “Aber—river mouth.”