Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

Her smile returned. She said nothing until she’d gently wiped his chin and given him more water to drink. Still, she held him, and he felt the soft thud of her heartbeat against his face. He wanted to stay there, warm in her arms, for a very long time.

“We’re in Wrexham, in a small chamber in the priest’s house. We’ve been here for nearly three days now. When you collapsed in the cathedral, Father Murdough helped us.”

Roland chewed that over. “The priest then knows you are no boy.”

“Aye. I told him you were my husband and that you were taking me to meet your family in Leominster. You’re Welsh and a freeholder and I’m but half-Welsh, thus my lacks in the language.”

Roland groaned.

“I told him that I was dressed as a boy because you believed it wise for my protection.”

“I don’t suppose the man of God agreed?”

She chuckled and he found himself smiling slightly in response. “He said nothing about it, actually. He’s a very accepting sort of priest. I am expecting the leech anytime now. He’s not a fool and he has aided you. Do you really feel better, Roland?”

“Aye.” He turned his head so he could see her face. “You’re pale. Have you remained here, beside me, shut up in this dreary little chamber?”

“Had I not stayed with you, it’s likely you would have tried to take over the cooking chores and bathe yourself and mend your own tunic.”

He gave her an absent smile, then said, “We’ll leave on the morrow, at dawn.”

She was perfectly still for a moment. “No, we shan’t. We won’t leave until you have your strength back.”

“You dare to tell me our plans?”

Her arms were around his shoulders and she hugged him slightly. “You sound churlish, Roland. Aye, you will do what is wise. If I have to tie you down, you will remain here until the leech says you are well enough to travel without falling off Cantor’s back.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve remembered the Earl of Clare and his desire for your fair person?”

“I’ve not forgotten,” she said, and that was all.

His eyes hurt and he said irritably, “Dim the damned lights. I can scarce see.”

“All right.”

“You’re being too agreeable. I distrust that. A female who agrees with a man is having sport with him. Have you spent all my coins?”

She lightly passed her palm over his forehead and through his hair, tousling it, then smoothing it again, paying no heed to his sharp words.

“You aren’t my mother, damn you, wench.”

“That,” she said, gently pressing him onto his back and straightening over him, “is very true.”

He gave a heartfelt sigh. “You are my penance. I must relieve myself.”

Daria nodded briskly. “I will fetch the chamber pot and assist you.”

Roland looked at her with loathing. “I don’t need any help, only some privacy.” When she didn’t move, he threw back the blankets, and sat up. But he couldn’t rise; he hadn’t the strength. And he’d wanted to. He wanted to intimidate her with his size. By all the saints, at present he couldn’t intimidate a dwarf. He looked down at himself and knew that even his sex had betrayed him. His member wouldn’t intimidate the shiest of maidens, and Daria had proved herself not at all shy. That in itself made him want to howl with humiliation.

Daria didn’t draw back. She knew his body as well as she knew her own, for she’d cared for him completely for the past three days. She crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at him. “Will you rise now? Will I have the pleasure of seeing you collapse again? I doubt I have the strength to pick you up, so you will lie on the floor, naked as the day you came into the world, until I have fetched Romila. Two women would then haul you back into bed and see to your needs. Romila, I might add, much delights in examining your body, and she’s frank in her assessments. Now, Roland, what say you to that?”

“I say it was foul mischance that brought me to you.”

She saw that he was trembling from weakness. “Roland, let me help you. I would let you help me if I needed it.”

He was damned if he did and damned ever more if he didn’t. He nodded. It was torture, every moment of it. Once he’d finished, he was tucked by her gentle hands back into the cot without a word being spoken. He closed his eyes. He considered slipping out whilst she slept and escaping her. He cursed her uncle’s coin. He didn’t want it, not if it meant that he had to relieve himself in front of her. She had turned her back, but it mattered not.

He was embarrassed beyond what he could tolerate, and there was nothing at present he could do about it. In the normal course of events, he didn’t imagine that he would care in the least if she watched him doing anything at all; but he was helpless and weak, a pitiful specimen, and that made all the difference; that made it intolerable.