Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

He doused the candle, and as she stood there naked and shivering in the middle of the tent, she heard him burrow beneath the furs on the low bed, and she said, “You have so quickly forgotten your duty?”

He cursed her then, his voice low, his words crude. He rose and she felt his fingers close over her arm. He dragged her to the bed and threw her down upon her back.

“Well, wife, evidently you desire my body. Or will any man’s body do? No matter, since I have no choice, it will have to be my man’s body you endure. But it’s all you will have of me. And know, Daria, that a man can take any woman, it matters not to him. To see a woman’s parted legs, that’s all that is necessary for a man. That’s all you will be to me—an encumbrance, a duty, a body to take until I tire and grow bored.”

He came down over her then, his body pressing hers into the furs, and he kissed her hard, forcing her mouth to open, and when her lips parted, he thrust his tongue inside and she felt his anger, tasted it, and her body froze. He reared over her and laughed. “You regret your desire now, sweet wife? Well, that’s a pity, for it’s too late, for you are now mine legally and in the eyes of God. Open your legs and do it quickly, for I wish to be done with it. I look forward to losing myself in sleep and mayhap I will be lucky and dream about Lila and Cena, two women who were honest in their need for me, and hadn’t a traitorous thought in their heads.”

“Roland, please, don’t do this. Please, don’t hurt me, don’t—” Her voice broke off on a gasp when he grasped her thighs and pulled them apart. “Let me see if you are ready for me. I have no wish to rend your woman’s flesh, that would make you hurt to walk and to ride, and thus prove an inconvenience to me.” His fingers were probing at her, delving inside her, exploring, and she tried to pull away from him, to free herself from him, but his hand came down flat on her belly, holding her still and silent even as his finger slid inside her, stretching her, working her. She felt her flesh become damp and soft because her body recognized him and wanted him even though she wanted to weep with the pain of what he was doing to her.

“By all the saints,” he said, his finger pressing more deeply into her. “You’re small. I shan’t force you. No, you shan’t scream of ravishment to me, ever. I have never forced a woman in my life, and besides, with you, it would be impossible. You’re eager as any wench, probably more so than the two ladies who advised you.”

She tried to reach him just once more. “Please, Roland, don’t do this to me, not in anger, not—”

But he was paying her no heed and she knew he was apart from her. He was between her thighs, spreading them wider still, bending her knees and lifting her hips with his hands, bringing her upward. “No pleasure for you, wife, save what you can gain for yourself. Actually, little enough for me. My duty . . .’tis naught but my damned man’s duty.” And without warning, without another word, his fingers pried her open, and he thrust himself into her in one powerful stroke.

She yelled at the shock of him and the burning of her flesh as he plunged deep, spreading her for himself, and then she was crying, but she stuffed her fist into her mouth, waiting helplessly, waiting silently, for him to finish with her. He’d been right, there was no pleasure for her. She wondered dully in those moments if there was such pleasure to be had for a woman ever.

He was breathing hard, plunging repeatedly into her, pulling out, then thrusting deep again. Again and again, until she heard him suck in his breath as if he’d been struck. Then he was hammering into her, deep, then shallow in short strokes, his hands frantically kneading her hips as he brought her higher for his penetration. Then he moaned, and she felt his seed come into her body. That was familiar to her, that deep joining that had eased her virgin’s pain, for he’d belonged to her then, completely, and she’d possessed him.

She sobbed, unable to keep the sound to herself, not from any pain in her body, but from the pain in the very depths of her. For even in his man’s possession of her, she was alone, deep within herself, as was he.

He was gasping for breath over her, his chest heaving from his exertion. He was still deep inside her and she could feel his member moving and shifting. There was still no pain, for his seed eased her and his member wasn’t as swelled now. No, he hadn’t ravished her body, but he had ravished her spirit.

“There,” he said once he’d regained his breath, “I’ve done my man’s duty by you, wife.” He pulled out of her quickly, eagerly, and her body flinched in reply.

“What, Daria, no passionate little moans from you? No thanks for my taking you as you wished? Do you mean to tell me that you were unable to give yourself a woman’s pleasure? You surprise me. Your body was more than willing to take me in. You’re a stubborn girl, but no matter. I will sleep now. Do not disturb me further this night.”

He climbed off her and fell upon his back. She felt him pull the furs up. Slowly, very slowly, she straightened her legs. Her muscles protested. She felt his seed seeping slowly from her body, but she was too uncaring of it, of him, of herself, to pay much heed.

She lay there quietly. She heard his breathing even into sleep. She realized that she should have never told him the truth. She’d placed the responsibility on his shoulders just as she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t do. But it was his babe she carried. How could he believe her if he had no memory of it? Well it was over now. She listened to his deep slow breathing and knew that she still loved him but that now it wasn’t enough, this love of hers, not nearly enough. Mayhap it would never have been enough, in any circumstance. He hated her and there was no reason for him to cease doing so.

Unless the babe looked like him. Unless somehow he remembered that night in Wrexham. It was her only hope, a slim one she knew, for she herself looked nothing like her own mother or like her father. But there was nothing else for her.

12

There was complete silence in the great hall of Tyberton Castle. The Earl of Clare stood tight-mouthed, fury blotching his face, turning it as startling a red as his hair. He stared at the man who’d stolen Daria from him. The man who had made a fool of him twice. Hell and the devil, what was the damned knave doing with the king?

The earl said in a loud voice, “I see you have returned this man to me, sire. He’s a thief and I will hang him this very day.”

“Not as yet, my lord,” Edward said pleasantly. “Not as yet. Come, have ale fetched. My queen is weary, as are her ladies.” He added his famous Plantagenet smile, which had no discernible effect at all on the Earl of Clare. “I have a great thirst as well.”

It was then that the earl saw Daria. He started toward her, then pulled himself upright. He held his peace. There were too many present to overhear him. He would wait.

After the queen, her ladies, and Daria were seated comfortably, the earl approached the king. To his chagrin, the whoreson Roland remained at the king’s side, drinking from his flagon as if he had not a care in this world. He looked young and fit and strong—a warrior—not a pretty priest covered with a frayed cowl. How had the man gotten Daria away from him again? What kind of disguise had he used?

“I would beg to speak with you, sire. In regards this man here.”

“Ah, yes,” Edward said, his voice deep with amusement that the earl didn’t hear, “I believe you wish to accuse this man of something?”

So the king wished the knave to remain. So be it. He drew himself up and co

ntempt dripped from his voice. “Aye, he’s a thief, sire, and he stole her.” He pointed a finger toward the queen’s group of ladies. “Did he tell you that he pretended to be a Benedictine priest? That he, a savage and a heathen, even pretended to say a Mass for me? Not only did he rob me, sire, he blasphemed God’s name and profaned the Church.”

The king, diverted, turned to Roland. “Did you really play the priest?”

“Aye.”

“Did you do it well?”