Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“Robbie vowed you were a beggar worthy to plead before the royal presence. Still, Roland, if I said I didn’t?”

“Why, then I should have to tell you of my adventures in Paris, where the ladies performed solemn rites and ceremonies upon my poor man’s body with great enthusiasm and imagination. Ah, sire, these are bold and bawdy tales that will make you lick your royal lips.”

“I wish to have both your plea and a full and complete accounting of your adventures.”

Roland grinned at his king. “You are the answer to a poor needy beggar’s prayers. I hadn’t a notion of what to do, and you, like my chivalrous knight, come to my rescue, at least I hope that you will consider championing me.”

“You make no sense, Roland. Sit, man,” he continued in a bellow. “Robbie, come back in here. I need you to protect me from this rapacious beggar.”

“But my stench, sire—”

“It matters not. Just keep three feet between us and I shall survive your odor.”

9

Daria stood at her post at the narrow window that gave onto the inner bailey. She knew such fear she could scarce bear it. The priest had arrived just an hour before, and the earl, impatient to have her sanctified in God’s eyes, and in his bed, announced that their wedding ceremony would take place this very evening.

It was difficult to remain submissive, but she tried, asking in her softest voice, “But what of the king’s visit, my lord? Don’t you expect him to arrive shortly?”

“I pray the Almighty that his royal majesty takes his blessed time. He can arrive on the morrow. I will allow him to do that.”

She kept her eyes lowered, and her brain squirreled with one idea after the other, each of them useless. The earl continued after a moment, “I have kept my vow, Daria. Forget not that I could have taken you at any time, but I held to my oath. I proved to you that I was to be trusted. I have shown you mine honor. You will have no more cause now to bend against me.”

He had kept his oath; she’d give him that. She prayed for the king to arrive right now. She looked into the distance but saw no sign of anyone, just impenetrable forests and rolling hills.

The earl frowned down at her. “I wish you to gown yourself as befits the bride of the Earl of Clare. Do you understand me, Daria? I wish you to smile and show everyone that you come to me with a willing and submissive heart.”

She nodded. He stared at her intently for a moment longer, then grabbed her, hauling her against him. He cupped her chin with his hand and pushed up her face. She closed her eyes, forcing herself not to struggle even when his mouth closed over hers. She felt his tongue, wet and probing, and wanted to gag. He released her and said, “I will wed you even though your dowry hasn’t yet come from your loathsome uncle. But no matter his damned perfidy. I intend to petition the king for what should be mine and what will be mine, for once you are wedded to me, once I have taken you, even the king can’t deny me your dowry, for I have right on my side.” With those words, he actually rubbed his hands together, saying in triumph, “There’s nothing Damon Le Mark can do, for I will have the king with me. And he will curse and whine and it will do him no good at all. Aye, at last I have won, and I like the feeling.” He turned on his heel and left her. Daria stared after him, wondering at his mind.

She shook her head to clear it of the feel of him. Suddenly, from one instant to the next, she felt a sharpening of something inside her, an awareness, a renewed remembrance of something utterly vital to her, something—She looked down into the inner bailey, not really seeing anything or anyone specific, but still the feeling was there, that strange feeling, that knowledge that she’d known before. She wondered if her mind had finally snapped.

Then she saw him. A bent old man, with a head of scraggly thick white hair, shuffling in his rags toward the castle well. He was dragging his lame right leg. Stark joy welled up in her and she willed him to look up, whispering his name over and over as she stared hard at him. He did. She saw a wrinkled old face until he smiled and she saw a mouth filled with rotted black teeth.

It couldn’t be Roland, but she knew that it was. She waved frantically to him.

But he turned away from her with not a single sign to her, and continued his slow shuffling gait to the well.

His own mother wouldn’t know him, she thought, and smiled. He’d come. He’d come for her—or for his destrier, perhaps both if she were lucky and Roland cared for her or cared equally for her uncle’s money.

How could she speak to the ragged old beggar? Why had Arthur, the porter, allowed him to come into the castle? What ruse had he in mind this time? Her mind tumbled with questions, but mostly she just wanted to see him closely to ensure that he was completely well again. Ah, Roland, she thought, her step light and vigorous for the first time since the earl had brought her back to Tyberton nearly two months before.

When she reached the well, the old man was gone. Vanished. She stared about her, feeling despair weigh down upon her. Had she imagined him? Daria drew a deep breath and turned on her heel. She looked at her toes raise small clouds of dust. She didn’t care if her new gown was as filthy as the ragged old man’s clothing. She didn’t care about anything except finding him.

Roland stood in the shade of one of the barracks and watched her return slowly to the great hall, her step lagging. She’d recognized him instantly. It was impossible, yet she’d known him, and from a distance. It baffled him, that recognition of hers—he couldn’t comprehend or accept it. His heart pounded. She’d known him. For God’s sake, how? His survival depended on his disguise, yet he hadn’t fooled her for an instant.

He moved toward the cooking outbuilding, wanting to keep her in sight. One of the scullions came around the corner and Roland bent lower and scratched his armpit and mumbled to himself, turning a bit on his lame leg, and showing a wince of pain.

She’d known him. But how? The scullion gave him a look of scorn and pity combined, shrugged, then turned his back to relieve himself.

How was it possible? Would she give him away? Not likely, he thought. She was being forced to wed the Earl of Clare, this according to Otis, one of the stable lads. How Otis knew, Roland didn’t question; everyone always knew everything in a keep’s confines. He’d listened the entire day, and no one had paid any attention to an old beggar. De Clare had kept her locked in her tower chamber for many weeks whilst he’d gone off on one of his raids. Roland cursed at that. If only he could have returned here more quickly, if only. It was too

late now for recriminations. She was to be wedded to Clare this very evening. Roland closed his eyes a moment. The king wasn’t due to arrive at Tyberton until the morrow. But tomorrow would be too late for all of them.

Clare would have wedded her, bedded her, and even the king himself wouldn’t pull her away from a man whose wife she’d become, a wife whose maidenhead had been breached. And, Roland imagined, Clare had finally figured out that once wedded to Daria, he could get his hands on her huge dowry. He wondered if the earl had already taken her. Of course he had. There was no reason why he would not. There had been no priest here to gainsay him.

Roland cursed. They’d been so very close to escaping him before. If only he hadn’t become ill—the genesis and the revelation of all their problems. Now she was no longer a maid and it was his fault. The situation called for a change of plan. He was adaptable and quick to revise. It had saved his life before. Now perhaps it would save Daria as well.

Ena’s mind was murky, but she knew she was pleased about this, pleased that her little mistress would shortly be wedding the mighty Earl of Clare. She was too thin, but still she looked beautiful in the pale pink silk gown with its darker pink overtunic. Its long sleeves full at her wrists, its waist belted with a golden chain of fine links. Aye, she looked tasty and worthy of becoming the chatelaine of Tyberton. Aye, Ena was very pleased.