Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“The earl is a frightening man. I don’t believe him mad, not yet at least, but he is a strange sort of fanatic, and his moods shift dangerously. I would have rather wedded Ralph of Colchester’s father or his grandfather than him.”

“Ah.”

“Roland, please don’t take me back to my uncle. He doesn’t worship God, even in a perverted fashion to suit himself. He worships only himself and sees himself as all-powerful, and he’s more frightening than anyone because when he chooses to be cruel, his cruelty comes from deep within him, and it is pleasurable to him and so very cold.”

“Then I should say you would be pleased to wed and leave Reymerstone and your uncle’s influence.”

Again she stiffened, and he disliked himself for being hard, but he was being paid by the uncle to deliver the niece back to him, and with the money he would receive, he would buy his keep in Cornwall and he would live there and it would be his and never again would he bow to another’s wishes unless it was his wish to do so. Daria said nothing more. That perverse part of him wished she would.

It was nearing midafternoon when she broke the silence. “I must stop for a moment. Please.”

He nodded and pulled Cantor up. He dismounted, then held out his arms for her. She ignored him and slid down the destrier’s left side.

“By God, get out of the way, quickly.”

Cantor jerked upward, whirling about to face the human who’d encroached, and he slashed out with his front hooves.

“Move, Daria.”

She fell backward over an outcropping stone and toppled into the grass onto her back.

Roland soothed his horse and looped his reins around a stubby yew branch.

He walked to her and stood over her, hands on hips for a moment, before he offered her his hand. “Don’t ever do something so stupid again. You knew better, Daria.”

She nodded, ignored his hand, and got slowly to her feet.

“You did it because you were angry with me. Kindly remember that you must be alive and well when you arrive at Reymerstone.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. If I die, then you will get no coin from my uncle, will you?”

He just looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “That’s true. So take care of yourself.”

“I am going into the trees,” she said, so frustrated and angry with him and with their situation that she wanted to spit. He watched her walk slowly, limping a bit, into the rich humid-looking foliage. The smell of pine and damp moss was strong. He watched her until she disappeared, and he took stock of their position. Brownish hill-ridges protruded above the woods in the distance, and even in this small glade he could hear the rush of waterfalls gushing over slick naked rocks through the forest to the west. He saw a small herd of wild ponies on a far hillside, silhouetted against a thicket of pine trees, their long manes tangled and unkempt. They were aware of him and stood quietly watching. He walked slowly to a small twisted and lichened oak and leaned against it. Beside the oak stood several boulders fuzzed with moss, left in this unlikely spot long ago, as if tossed there by ancient storms or even more ancient gods. He whistled a song Dienwald de Fortenberry’s fool, Crooky, had sung, smiling even as he added the silly words.

Kiss her sweet mouth

And make her sigh

Give her pleasure, oh my, oh my.

Kiss her throat and make her lie

Upon your bed, oh my, oh my.

Surely it was an absurd song, but he sang it again, smiling more widely as he pictured Dienwald and his bride, Philippa, snug in his arms. Crooky had continued with various body parts, rolling his eyes and miming lewdly until Dienwald had kicked him soundly.

Roland heard a scream and stopped singing.

Tyberton Castle

The Earl of Clare leaned back against the cold stone wall, crossing his massive arms over his chest. The farmer was nearly dead, damn his perfidious soul to hell. He’d told his man to go easy, to hold up on the whip, but the blood lust had enthralled him and now the Welsh bastard was hanging limply from the iron manacles, his ribs heaving, his face gray, his eyes fading even as the earl looked at him dispassionately.

“Well, do you wish to continue with this torture or do you want to die quickly? Tell me the truth. Tell me where you got that horse and you’ll not suffer more.”

The farmer raised his eyes to the earl’s implacable face, and he thought: All I wanted was enough money to have four cows. But it wasn’t to be. He wanted to die. His body was so broken he couldn’t have healed anyway, even if the torture stopped now. And the pain was too much, far too much. He said, his English broken and halting, “The man and the boy rode into Wales, it is all I know. His was a powerful black destrier, a warrior’s mount, strong and enduring. I know not the man’s name. He paid me to ride the horse in the opposite direction and leave it for you to find, but I didn’t.” He said sorrowfully to himself, “No, I was stupid and wanted to keep the horse, and thus I die for my stupidity.”

That was true, the