Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

It was then she realized the priest had seen her as a boy, and she cursed herself silently. She’d forgotten and thought only to protect Roland, thinking a wife, in a priest’s eyes, must have more favor than a woman not a man’s wife. She said quickly, “I am dressed this way for protection. We were set on by outlaws and barely managed to get away. My husband got me these clothes.”

“A reasonable thing to do. I am Father Murdough, and who are you and your husband?”

“His name is Alan; he is a freeholder, Father. Our farm is near to Leominster. Please help us.”

He had no choice, for he was a man of God and he couldn’t leave a man to die in his church. “Stay here. I will fetch my sexton to help us.”

It seemed a decade had flowed by with Daria huddled over Roland, before her now-husband, still unconscious, was carried up three flights of stairs over the sexton’s huge shoulder and laid upon a narrow bed in a small chamber beneath the eaves of Father Murdough’s modest home beside the church.

“Have you coin, child?”

“Aye,” Daria said. “In my husband’s cloak. Will the sexton see to my husband’s horse?”

The priest nodded absently. He’d seen that horse. It was a powerful destrier; unusual that a freeholder would own such an animal. Highly unusual. He wondered who this man really was. As for the woman, he doubted if she carried even a whiff of Welsh blood in her veins. He was glad she hadn’t told him her name. He didn’t want to know.

But that didn’t matter now. Only the young man mattered. Father Murdough became brisk. “I will fetch a leech. The fever must be bled out of him if he is to survive. I will have my servant, Romila, bring blankets and water.”

Daria, now frantic for Roland, managed to nod. Left alone with him, she saw that his clothes were damp and knew he must be made dry and warm. She would have to strip his clothes off, something she doubted he would approve of. She was unknotting his chausses when an old woman, tall and thin and proud-looking, her head topped with masses of white hair, entered, carrying blankets and a ewer of water. She had a lovely wide smile and full mouth of teeth. “Here, now,” she said in low slurring Welsh, “wait a minute and I’ll help ye.”

Together the women stripped off Roland’s damp clothes. When he was naked, sprawled on his back, the old woman took a thorough survey. “A fine man he is, aye, fine indeed, all lean and bone and muscle. No fat on this fine lad. Aye, and look at that rod of his. It must make ye as happy as a turtledove.”

“You spoke English,” Daria said blankly.

“Aye, the father told me to. Me, I come from Chester, and my husband is one of these savages. Aye, but he’s a savage that keeps my old bones warm during the long winter nights. Aye, he’s mine, he is.”

As she spoke, Daria looked down at Roland, at his rod that must make her happy. It lay flaccid against the thick black hair of his groin. He was magnificent and she wished with all her heart that he could keep her warm during long winter nights for the rest of her life.

They quickly covered him, and the old woman said nothing about the reddened cheeks of the young man’s wife. “He is so very hot,” Daria said, her palm stroking Roland’s face. “Please, he will be all right, will he not?”

Romila looked at the girl and nodded without hesitation. “Aye, he’ll be well again, and like most men, he’ll likely growl and complain until ye’ll want to smash in his head, ye’ll be so angry with him.”

“I hope so,” Daria said, and sat beside him. She smoothed the blankets at his throat. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands still and they stroked his arms, his face, his hair.

When the leech arrived, a shrunken old man with wise eyes and clean hands, Daria felt hope.

She’d found a hoard of coins wrapped in a tunic in one of Roland’s bags. When she paid the leech, he looked at her, clearly startled. “Who are ye, then?” he asked in deep slow Welsh.

“I am Gwen, sir, and I’m his wife.”

The old man harrumphed loudly.

“Please, sir, will my husband live?”

“Ye ask me that? I have but one answer and I’ll tell ye it on the morrow. Pray for yer husband, lass, and I’ll be back in the morning.”

It wasn’t until the old man had left that Daria realized he’d begun by speaking Welsh to her and had then switched to English. She wasn’t, she realized, much of a mummer, if even an old leech could see through her.

She returned to Roland’s bedside. She looked at his still face. He was so familiar to her and she knew now that there was some sort of strange bond between them, a bond that he didn’t feel, only she. She thought again of the men in their white robes that she’d seen in his dream. She’d been there observing, but she’d also been with him, felt what he’d felt, even understood the strange tongue they’d spoken. And she remembered that one of the dark-faced men had pulled him aside and said softly to him, “I know who you are and I will bring you down—when it pleases me—infidel dog.”

And Roland had thought in those moments: Well, damn, I will have to slit his miserable throat. Daria wondered if he had, and then she didn’t wonder at all. He had; she knew it, knew it as well as she now knew him.

She laid her cheek against his heart and slept. He didn’t stir until she woke him for some nourishing broth Romila brought early that evening. He ate because she forced him to. He turned his face away, but the spoon followed and he had no choice. When Daria was satisfied, she bathed his face and chest with a damp cool cloth.

The fever rose steadily and her fear kept apace. Near to midnight she offered her life in exchange for his, but she knew that such a request wouldn’t find much merit in God’s eyes. She was only a woman, her uncle Damon had once told her. What would God care what a silly woman wanted?

She wet more cloths and wiped him again and again. The heat from his body was intense; her fear grew and her prayers became more frequent and more impassioned. At exactly midnight, he opened his eyes and stared up at her.

“Roland? Oh, thank God, you’re awake.”