Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

She saw his logic, hated it, but kept still. “Go near to the entrance of the cave and keep watch for me. Don’t turn around, do you understand me?” She obeyed him. He joined her quickly enough. Together they watched the fire in tense silence; then Roland rose and went outside. He said over his shoulder, “Stay still, and don’t look back at that scum.”

He waited outside under the overhang until his legs began to cramp. He shook himself, slapped his hands over his arms, cursed the endless cold rain, and continued to wait.

He heard a man’s soft tread. Myrddin was mumbling to himself, and it was obvious he wasn’t pleased. His Welsh was rough, yet still it was soft and lulling. “No game, nothing but rain, always rain, always rain.” He repeated his words over and over and Roland wondered if he was a lackwit.

He waited, his dagger ready.

Myrddin paused, sniffed the air, then bellowed, a terrifying sound that made Roland start, thus giving away his presence.

“Bastard. Whoreson.” Myrddin was on him, swinging his heavy bow at his head. The man was enormous, stronger than Roland, but less skilled with weapons. But it didn’t seem to matter in the slogging rain. Roland slipped and fell heavily, then rolled quickly, hearing the dull thud of the bow come down on a rock too near where his head had been. Myrddin slipped, but he didn’t fall; he leaned sideways against an oak, pushed himself upright again, and this time he held a knife in his right hand.

He should have left with Daria, Roland thought wildly, after he’d slit the other man’s throat. He’d been arrogant, much too sure of himself, and now, if he died, so would she, but not as cleanly or as quickly. Damn him for a fool.

The man was backing him against the glistening wet boulders, tossing the knife from his right hand to his left and b

ack again. He was grinning.

Roland watched his eyes, and the instant he saw him ready to throw the knife, he hurled himself sideways. He heard the hiss of the blade through the rain and then the dull thud as it struck a rock and bounced off. Myrddin yelled in fury and jumped at Roland, leaping at the last instant to come down hard on his back.

His hands were around Roland’s throat and he was squeezing. Roland felt an instant of stark panic, then forced himself to think. Slowly, even as he began to feel light-headed, he eased his knife upward. But he knew it was too late, knew it . . . knew it . . . Oh, God, he didn’t want to die, not now . . .

Suddenly, through rain-blurred eyes, he saw Daria standing over Myrddin. He watched, disbelieving, as she brought a heavy rock down on his head. Myrddin lurched back, looked up at her, then seemed to sigh as he fell sideways into a patch of stagnant water.

Daria was on her knees beside him. “Roland, are you all right? Oh, your throat. Can you speak?”

“I’m all right,” he said, his voice a harsh croak. “I’m all right.” Slowly he rubbed his fingers to his throat and shook his head back and forth. That had been too close, far too close, and he owed his life to a woman. A woman he fully planned to dispose of as he would a horse or household furnishings. He looked up at her face, white and washed clean of dirt by the thick sheets of rain. “Thank you,” he said. “Let’s leave this place.”

They were riding in the heart of the Black Mountains, into the valley of the Afon Honddu.

“It is naught but solitude,” Daria said, her voice hushed and awed at the stark desolation.

Roland merely nodded, so tired he could scarce think. “Wait until you see Llanthony Abbey. It was founded over one hundred and fifty years ago by the lord of Hereford, but the monks had no desire for such stark isolation or, as they said it, to ‘sing to the wolves,’ and thus migrated to Gloucester. In any case, there are still some stouthearted monks who brave this bleak wilderness. They’ll take us in and we’ll sleep dry and warm this night.”

That sounded like a wonderful idea to Daria.

The prior met them outside the small church, and upon hearing that the gentleman and his young brother needed shelter, offered them a small room. The architecture was as austere and stark as the wilderness in which the building sat. Cold and unadorned, all of it, and Daria shivered in Roland’s wake as the prior led them to the small meeting chamber where the remaining twenty-one monks took their meals. None were present, for it was late and the monks were at their prayers. Roland was relieved; even monks who hadn’t been near other people for a very long time could, perchance, still see Daria as a female, and that would raise questions he didn’t wish to deal with.

A small hooded monk brought them a thin soup and some black bread and left them alone. He was Brother Marcus, the prior said, but the man made no sign that he’d heard. The prior, having no more interest in them, also took his leave. The food tasted like ambrosia to Daria. She said nothing, merely ate everything offered to her. When she’d finished, she looked up to see Roland looking at her. His hand was poised in the air on the way up to his mouth.

“What’s wrong? Have I done something to offend you?”

She spoke softly, in English, so no one could hear. Roland merely shook his head and continued eating his own meal.

“A bed,” she said, “a real bed.”

“Actually it will likely be a rough cot made of straw. But it will be dry.”

And it was. They had one candle, given to them by the same Brother Marcus. Roland closed the door to the small chamber with a sigh of relief. It held only a narrow cot with two blankets. Roland walked to it and poked it with his fist. “It is straw and looks damnably uncomfortable. But here are blankets, so we won’t freeze.”

“We?”

“Aye,” he said absently as he tugged off his boots. “Ah,” he said suddenly, looking up at her. “You’re offended that you must sleep by my side? I don’t understand you. You’ve slept by my side for the past two nights.”

She said nothing. In truth, she thought it wonderful to sleep beside him in a bed. Quite different from their sleeping blankets in the forest and in a cave. “I don’t mind, Roland, truly.”

“Don’t be a fool, Daria. I’m so tired it wouldn’t matter if you were the most beautiful female in all of Wales and I the randiest of men. You don’t mind, you say? Well, you should. You are a lady and a maid. It is modest and right of you to protest. But it matters not. Come, get under the blankets. We leave early on the morrow.”

She grinned at his perversity and slipped under the blankets, wearing only her shift, thankfully dry. When he eased in beside her and sniffed out the candle, she lay stiffly beside him, not moving. The straw poked and prodded at her, and she shifted to find a more comfortable position. After several minutes of this, Roland said, “Come here, Daria, and lie against me. I’m cold, so you will warm me.”