Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

She knew the man could see the lies in her eyes but she couldn’t hide her expressions or change them. Finally she blurted out, “I am the guest of Lord Graelam de Moreton. At least I was until early this afternoon.”

“Another lie, Master Giles. The little bitch seeks to continue her deceit. I have heard that de Moreton is much pleased with his wife. He wouldn’t have this one staying there under her nose.”

The fat man, Master Giles, didn’t chide Alan this time or tell him to be quiet. His eyes narrowed on her face and slowly, very slowly, he raised his arm. His hand was plump and white, too white for a man’s hand, Daria thought, vaguely repelled. His fingertips with their longish nails lightly stroked over her throat. She flinched, wanting desperately to jerk away, but she held herself still, trying to remain outwardly calm at least. Suddenly, without any warning, the fat fingers dug with surprising strength back into her neck. The scream that gurgled at the back of her throat was choked down as the awful pain swept through her.

“The truth, little pigeon, or I will rip your throat out.”

He was close to her, and she felt his breath, hot and sweet, on her face. She heard Alan laugh, heard a woman suck in her breath. She felt nausea in the pit of her belly, growing stronger, more insistent, rising, and she couldn’t do anything about it this time. “Please . . .” His fingers eased off and she jerked back her head, grabbing her throat, gasping through the burning pain for air.

Then she twisted away, fell hard upon her knees, and vomited.

The fat man looked down at her and his voice was cold with disgust. “When she’s finished throwing up her guts, bring her to the camp. I have many more questions for her. Mayhap we have a prize here, a quite valuable prize. And you, Alan, leave her alone; I want none of her pretty flesh bruised, none of her bones broken. I have a feeling that we’re all going to be pleased with her unexpected arrival.”

Daria felt a tap on her shoulder. She could picture those fat white fingers and she shuddered, her stomach still roiling wildly.

“If you can hear me, girl, know that I will have answers from you, true answers, else it won’t be a pleasant future for you.”

At the moment, Daria couldn’t even imagine a future, much less a pleasant one. Her belly cramped and twisted. She remained on her knees, her head down, waiting for the nausea to leave her.

“Hurry up,” Alan said, and he kicked her thigh.

“Don’t bruise me, you wretched animal, you heard your fat master.”

“Ha. More insults, eh?” Suddenly he grabbed her elbow and jerked her to her feet. It was pride and nothing else that kept Daria upright.

She would have walked beside him, but he wanted to humiliate her and thus hurried his step, dragging her. She lurched like a drunken sot, trying desperately to keep her balance.

Alan released her when they reached the camp.

“Ah, little pigeon, do sit down.” She looked up to see the fat Master Giles sitting on a finely carved chair, chewing on a tremendously large piece of fowl. He looked absurd, sitting there in the midst of a forest, in front of a fire, his ragged men and women around him.

“Who are you?”

“I? Why, I am Master Giles Fountenont, no reason to hide that. I am well-known in these parts—call me a princely fellow, a merchant, a man of a vast array of talents and resources, a man of ample parts as you see, and these are my people, loyal to their bones, all of them. Aren’t you, sweetling?” He grasped a passing woman by her arm and pulled her onto his lap. She laughed and turned inward so that he would feed her a bit of the meat. Daria watched her rip off the meat with strong crooked teeth. “Off with you now, and bring this little wench something to eat. I don’t want her to starve before I decide what’s to be done with her. Aye, she’s emptied her belly in fear. We must fill it again.”

The woman slid off his fat legs and went to the cook pot that sat amid the fire embers. Master Giles said, “Aye, little pigeon. I am on my way to Truro to my own splendid lodgings there. This”—he waved about the forest—“all this is but a pleasant respite for me.”

One of his men grunted and spit out a bone.

The woman brought Daria a thick piece of bread piled high with honey and a goblet of ale. Daria accepted it gratefully. After she’d drunk deeply, Master Giles said, “Now, the truth, else Alan here will shred your nice gown and acquaint himself with your doubtless lovely body.”

Daria didn’t want Alan near her. The truth, then; there was no choice. She raised her chin unconsciously as she spoke. “I am wedded to Roland de Tournay. He left me at Wolffeton whilst he journeyed to his new keep. I missed him and wanted to join him. That’s all. I would appreciate your help, Master Giles. My husband’s keep is called Thispen-Ladock.”

If Master Giles was at all surprised at this revelation, he didn’t show it. “Ah, so he buys Sir Thomas Ladock’s land. Well, well, a nice little keep with more stinking sheep than people to tend them. I have heard of your husband as well, a brave knight, I’ve heard it said, and popular with our king. Aye, this is an interesting tale you tell, little pigeon.”

“It is no tale, it is the truth.”

Master Giles didn’t doubt it for an instant. It was simply that he wasn’t certain what to do about it. Truth be told, he was nearly bowled out of his chair at who she was. “Tell me, why did you leave de Moreton? And all alone? That was not very clever of you.”

Daria swallowed another piece of honeyed bread, giving herself time to think. But there was still no choice. Master Giles wasn’t stupid. “My husband had ordered me to remain at Wolffeton, but I missed him sorely. I had to leave without Lord Graelam seeing me.”

Master Giles heaved his bulk from his chair. He clapped his hands, and one of the women rushed forward. She handed him a wet cloth. He wiped his hands and face on it and tossed it back to her. Like a king he was, a king in a ragged kingdom. If Daria hadn’t been so afraid, she would have laughed aloud at his pretensions.

“I will think about what to do with you, little pigeon.” He walked away from her, saying over his shoulder, “Roland de Tournay. Aye, this is a problem that requires much thought.”

One of the women handed Daria a blanket and told her to stay close to the fire.

But she wasn’t to be left in peace. Alan came toward her sometime later, and in his hand he carried a long skinny rope. He dropped down beside her, and when she tried to draw back, he closed his fingers over her shoulder and squeezed.