Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

The king rose quickly and went to her. They spoke softly together.

He frowned, then sighed, saying, as he turned to Roland, “Daria refuses to marry you.”

“What?”

Eleanor said, “She refuses because you believe her a liar and naught more than chattel or a possession to be returned to her uncle for money. She claims she would rather go to a convent.”

“I hadn’t thought of that as a possibility,” Edward said in a thoughtful voice. “Perhaps that is the best, perhaps—”

“It isn’t the best. A convent would drain her of all spirit.” He saw her suddenly in that small valley in Wales, breathing in the clear air, her arms wrapped around her, so happy in her freedom that he’d smiled as she’d danced. “No, she isn’t fashioned for the religious existence. It is absurd. She is being willful. Damn her for an ungrateful wench.”

“But, Roland—”

“I shall thrash her, now. Have the priest readied. I will fetch her. Is she in your tent, your highness?”

“Aye, Roland, she is there,” Eleanor said, and said not another word. When the king would have spoken, she clutched his arm.

“Damned female,” Roland muttered as he strode from the royal presence without permission.

“All will be well now,” the queen said, and smiled up at her husband.

Daria was alone in the queen’s tent. She was sitting on a thick Flanders carpet, staring fixedly at the swirling red-and-purple patterns. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach. She knew she should rise, should prepare herself to leave. Would the king allow her to enter a convent? Would her uncle allow her to remain there? She’d heard that convents demanded huge amounts of money—indeed, dowries, because she would be the bride of God—to take a lady of her class. What if her uncle refused? She shook her head; she simply didn’t know. Anything would be preferable to the Earl of Clare or Ralph of Colchester. Besides, she didn’t want to die, and the earl would surely murder her once he discovered she no longer possessed a maidenhead. She thought of Roland and lowered her head. She felt tears well up and blinked them back. She swallowed. No, what had happened, she’d done, and it was she who would carry the responsibility.

When he strode into the tent, she raised her head to face him, her expression not changing. She’d expected him to come; after all, hadn’t he made a grand sacrifice? Wouldn’t he now be angry to have it flung back in his face? But only for a little while. Then at least he would remember her fondly, for she’d released him from a gesture he’d hated to make in the first place. She couldn’t make him pay for his generosity. She would have no honor if she did.

“Hello, Roland. What do you want?”

He didn’t like her emotionless voice or the dullness in her eyes, nor did he like the fact that she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hair spilling down her back and over her shoulders.

He drew a deep steadying breath. He said quite calmly, “I want to know why you told the queen such nonsense.”

She raised a brow at that but made no move to rise. She simply looked at him until he dropped to his haunches beside her. “Why, Daria?” He was three inches from her face. He didn’t touch her.

“I am profoundly religious, Roland. No, you wouldn’t believe that, would you? Very well, the truth. There is naught else but a convent. I wish to live. You said yourself that this would happen if you returned me to my uncle. He would kill me to have my inheritance. I know for a fact that the Earl of Clare, were he forced to wed me, would beat me and my unborn child to death, for he would know it wasn’t his. It is not so hard to understand, is it? I don’t particularly wish to die. I’m quite young, you know.”

“I’m offering you another way. I won’t kill you, nor will I beat you.”

The pain threatened to choke her.

“You will marry me, Daria. Now, at once.”

She shook her head. “Nay, I can’t do that either.”

“You believe I am lying? You believe I would beat you? Abuse you?”

“No.”

“I shan’t murder you, even if I do manage to gain your immense inheritance.”

“I know.”

“This is your grand gesture, isn’t it? Free the poor man because he cares nothing for you? But first, bring him to his knees, make him grovel and plead, make him offer to do exactly what it is you wanted all the while. Then you scorn him? You are more perverse than that damned bitch Joan of Tenesby. I won’t tolerate it, Daria, not for another instant.”

She had the damnable gall to simply sit there and shake her head.

For one of the few times in his life, Roland knew such anger that he nearly choked on it. “By the saints, I cannot hear this.”

He hauled her to her feet and flung himself onto the queen’s chair. He dragged her over his thighs and brought his right palm down hard on her buttocks. She froze, then reared up frantically. She made no sound, but she struggled furiously. She was strong, he thought, as he brought his hand down again. He admired a silent fighter. “Not even the smallest sound from you, eh? You’re a stubborn wench. Should I pull up your gown and let you feel the heat of my palm on your bare flesh?” Before she could speak, if she would have spoken, Roland had bared her to the waist, ripping her gown and her shift. But he didn’t strike her again. His hand remained raised in the air. He stared down at her buttocks, white and smooth and rounded, her long white legs, sleekly muscled. He swallowed. He moaned, then cursed. He shoved her off his legs and rose. He stood over her, panting, his hands on his hips. “Damn you, Daria. I would have remembered if I’d taken you. Now, prepare yourself, you stupid wench. You will wed me, and it will be tonight, before I change my mind, before I realize that you have shoved my honor down my throat. If you continue to refuse, I will beat you until you beg for mercy. No one will prevent me—don’t think that anyone will.”