Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“I do know, Roland, if you force me back to my uncle and he forces me to wed Ralph of Colchester, I would at least have had one night of love.” She paused a moment, aware of tears pooling in her eyes. “Damn you, Roland. You are the most stubborn, the most obtuse of men. Mayhap I will simply inform my uncle that I am no longer a virgin and you are the man responsible. Then would I be safe from Ralph of Colchester?

“But at what cost? Would my uncle kill you? Kill me for my inheritance? Knowing Uncle Damon, I doubt he would have any scruples about doing away with both of us, but—”

“You carry on like a fanatic preacher. What are you talking about? I try to sleep to regain my strength, but you babble on and on, numbing my ears.”

She very slowly moved her fingers from his face. What had he heard? She tried to remember all of her soliloquy, but couldn’t. A silly argument with herself, but it appeared he’d just heard meaningless sounds.

“It’s nothing, Roland. Forgive me for disturbing you. Sleep.”

He grumbled some more, but she didn’t understand him, which was probably just as well.

He slept soundly until late that night. After she’d fed him again and seen to his needs, which still caused him to curse and his expression to become taut with humiliation, she slipped into bed beside him, careful not to disturb him. But during the dark of the night, he found her and drew her against him. If was as if he knew her and accepted her and recognized also on a deep level that she was his and he would act as he pleased. His hands were on her hips; then she felt his fingers pushing between her thighs, skimming over her flesh to find her. She squirmed as his fingers probed, his middle finger easing high up inside her and his other fingers gently rubbing her swelled flesh. She turned her face into his shoulder, moaning through her clenched teeth, as her body shuddered with the intense feelings.

Then suddenly his breathing slowed and he fell back into a deep sleep, sprawled on his back, his fingers cupped over her hip. The frantic feelings slowly faded, and again she wondered where such feelings would lead.

She eased her hand down over him and discovered that his sex was full and heavy, but he hadn’t moved to come into her. He hadn’t had the strength, nor had he really awakened. What he’d done, he’d done simply because she was there beside him, a female whose flesh was eager for him. Had he realized it was her, Daria, he was holding and stroking, he would have probably fallen off the bed in his haste to get away from her. But he’d slept through his assault.

She awoke first the following morning and eased out of bed. She stared down at him and wanted to shout at the wondrous feelings that surged through her when she simply looked at him. “I love you, Roland,” she whispered, then repeated in Welsh, “Rwy’n dy garu di.” Romila had chuckled when Daria had asked her the words in Welsh the previous day, but had obligingly told her. Daria dressed hurriedly and left the chamber.

She wanted to visit his destrier and see that his care was proper. On the northern side of Wrexham cathedral, down a long narrow street, stood a public livery, a long low building built solidly of straw and dung and covered with a slate roof. Cantor was in the third stall and the toothless brawny individual who showed him to her babbled on about the amount of oats the horse was eating and how the beast had bitten him but good.

Daria finally paid him extra coins, and he beamed, scratching his armpit vigorously.

“He’s a fine bit of horseflesh,” he said,

speaking loudly and slowly to her in his own tongue. “Aye, it’s true, and ye say yer husband be a freeholder?”

So much suspicion, she thought, nodding. She hadn’t had time to think of a better lie, and this one wasn’t serving her all that well. There was nothing for it but to stick to her story.

“Aye,” the liveryman continued, “another couple of men in here earlier, and they asked me about this beauty. I told ‘em yer husband were that, a freeholder.”

Daria felt her guts twist painfully. She knew who the men were, she knew.

“They were saeson, the slimy louts.”

Of course they were English; they were the Earl of Clare’s men; she had no doubt of it. What she didn’t know was what she should do about it. She scratched her own armpit, saying indifferently, “I wonder if they’ll come back. Think you they want to buy the horse?”

The stableman sought his way through her clumsy Welsh, and nodded. “They’re coming back,” he said, and Daria knew everything had changed. Thank God the stableman didn’t know their names or where they were staying. But the Earl of Clare would find out quickly enough. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth. Oh, God, what to do?

“Oh, aye,” the stableman suddenly said. “There they be, yon.”

She turned to see two of the earl’s men some thirty paces up the narrow street, speaking to a vegetable vendor. She recognized MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He was making descriptive movements with his hands as he spoke. Both men looked tired and impatient.

“I think I will take the horse for a gallop,” Daria said.

“Ond—”

She waved away his objection and quickly saddled Cantor. The destrier, impatient and bored, neighed loudly, flinging his head up, and it required all her strength to get the bit between his teeth and the reins over his head. “I will return soon,” she said to the stableman, and click-clicked Cantor from the stableyard. “I ride toward Leominster,” she said, and prayed with all her might that he would repeat that to the earl’s men.

As Cantor snorted and danced sideways through the crowded narrow streets of Wrexham, Daria stuffed her hair under her woolen cap. Did she look once again like a boy? She prayed so. She had no idea where she was going. She knew only that she had to lead them away from Roland.

She had coin and she had a strong horse. She wasn’t stupid and she could speak some Welsh. Aye, she thought, grimacing. Any robbers who caught her, she could tell them that she loved them. She would ride, she decided in that moment, to the castle called Croyland, to Lord Richard de Avenell. Surely he would assist her.

And what of Roland?

She closed her eyes over that thought. If the Earl of Clare found him, he would kill him. She had to lead him away; far away and quickly. Once they cleared the town, she gave Cantor his head. She knew from the position of the sun that they were riding northeast, toward Croyland, toward the English border.

What would Roland think when he realized she was gone?