Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“Onto your belly, you little bitch.”

He didn’t give her time to obey him, but roughly pulled her onto her stomach. He grabbed her hands and pulled them behind her. She felt the rope wrapping about her wrists, once then twice. Then he pulled the rope tight and she moaned aloud at the

pain.

“There’s no reason to torture her, Alan,” a woman’s voice said. “You’re just angry because she hurt you. What would you have had her do—laugh and welcome you with a jest when you tried to capture her?”

Alan made a coarse remark and pulled the rope tighter.

He rose then, and she felt him looking down at her. Finally he left her alone.

Daria didn’t move for a long time. Finally she rolled to her side, facing the dying fire. He hadn’t covered her and it was becoming chilly. There was no sound now, no movement from the other men and women.

She fell asleep for mere minutes at a time, from exhaustion and from a numbing fear that was fast draining the spirit out of her. Her arms were numb, her position uncomfortable. Since there was nothing for her to do, she knew she had to make the best of it. She stared into the now-smoking embers. She listened to an owl and the answering whinny of a horse. She hoped Henrietta was all right, hoped they’d fed her mare. She hoped the babe was all right. She felt tears sting her eyes and swallowed. She’d meant only to join Roland; she hadn’t meant to get herself into trouble. But she had, and now she was a prisoner again. All this tumult that had happened in the last six months of her life made her realize that the first seventeen years of her life had been rigidly uneventful, the days mundane and utterly predictable in their sameness despite the small cruelties of her uncle. She’d always been fed, provided with nice clothes to wear, learned her lessons in peace, and been bored withal. The boredom she’d known during her captivity with the Earl of Clare had always been underlain with fear. Now she’d brought fear down on her head again, all because she’d dashed heedlessly from safety and into the waiting arms of fat Master Giles, who was a villain, and strutted himself about like a royal prince.

She thought of Alan, ragged as the others, only more vicious, and shuddered. She thought of Master Giles and his white fat hands, and his oily voice, and the shudder turned into violent shaking.

The night was dark with little wind, but still the leaves on the surrounding oak trees rippled and swayed, making her start with fear at the soft rustling noise.

She was awake in the deepest hour of the night, just before dawn, for her bound arms were numb no longer. The pain was excruciating. She felt sorry for herself and wanted to weep. If she could have, she would have willingly kicked herself for being such a fool. She’d left the safety of Wolffeton, and for what? For a foolish girl’s dream, a fantasy that had nothing to do with reality. Reality was being the prisoner of a spiteful man named Alan and a fat horrid man named Master Giles. She tried to breathe deeply and slowly, tried to turn her thoughts away from the pain in her arms. In the next instant a man’s hand covered her mouth and his warm breath was near her ear. “Don’t move. I’m here to save you. Don’t make a sound or any sudden movements. Do you understand?”

Daria nodded. The hand raised from her mouth, and slowly, she turned over to look up into the shadowed face of a man bent over her who was a perfect stranger. He shook his head and she saw the sharp silver sheen of a knife. He looked as ruthless and hard as any man to her. Would he kill her? She felt the blade sink into the ropes around her wrists. She was free. She wanted to raise her arms but she found she couldn’t. She stared up at him and he saw the pain and helplessness in her eyes.

The man merely shook his head at her again, grasped her around the waist, and lifted her. He walked silent as a shadow, carrying her over his shoulder. He stepped over one of Master Giles’s sleeping men and the fellow never stirred.

He strode deep into the forest, then finally stopped and eased her to her feet, propping her up against an oak tree. “There,” he said, and patted her cheek. “Work the feeling back into your hands and arms. Stay here and keep quiet. I have a meeting with Master Giles and it won’t take very long.” He started suddenly, then turned, his voice angry. “Philippa, no, damn you. Stay here with her, do you hear me? I demand that you obey me. By all the saints, I shouldn’t have allowed you to come. I’m naught but an idiot man and you’re a meddlesome wench. I should have known that you—”

Daria heard a woman’s low laugh interrupt the man’s harangue; then suddenly she felt her legs simply fold beneath her. She heard the man say something, his voice sharp, but somehow distant from her; then she heard no more.

How much time had passed? Daria wondered. She didn’t open her eyes; she was afraid to. She wasn’t on the ground, she knew that. She was lying atop furs, and a warm blanket covered her. All that had happened trickled slowly into her mind. Still she didn’t move. There was a lighted flambeau thrust into the ground near her, not really needed now, for the forest was filled with the soft gray lights of morning.

“You’re awake.”

It was the man who’d saved her. Slowly she opened her eyes. He was sitting beside her. He was younger than she’d first believed, but his face—it was hard and ruthless, his eyes cold. Like Roland’s face when he’d come to believe her a liar. Had she fallen into the clutches of another scoundrel?

“Aye,” she said, and was surprised that there was obvious fear in her voice. She was swamped with fear and cold. “Will you hurt me?”

His eyes widened with surprise at her words. He tucked another blanket over her, saying in a soothing voice, “Just lie still. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’ve had dealings with Master Giles before, and he’s a knave and an outlaw for all his pretty speeches and dainty manners. Did he deluge you with pretty speeches? Aye, I can see that he did—there’s distaste in your eyes. Now, when you’re ready, tell me who you are and how the fat old toad caught you.”

He smiled then and it changed his face.

“You really won’t hurt me?” He shook his head, saw that she was still frightened, and said easily, “Very well, let me begin. My name is Dienwald de Fortenberry and I suppose I am also something of a rogue, but no, I wouldn’t hurt you. I saw you there, saw that villain Alan hurt you, but I couldn’t get you free just then. I had to wait until they all slept. It took hours before the guards gave it up. No, I won’t hurt you.”

“I am Daria de Toumay, wife to Roland de Tournay.”

Daria wasn’t certain what she expected, but the man stared at her, silent for fully two minutes. Then he laughed deeply. “It is passing odd,” he said at last. “Roland—your husband. That defies reason. Yea, passing odd, and it’s delightful.” “You know my husband?”

“Aye, he saved my life not long ago. It was a magnificent bit of work—he threw a knife and it sliced cleanly through the fellow’s heart. Needless to say I call him friend. So Roland has returned to Cornwall—aye, it’s passing odd. Why aren’t you with him?

And so Daria told him her pitiful tale, not sparing herself, acknowledging her thoughtlessness. “. . . And so Graelam didn’t know I’d left. I guess his two men will tell him. He won’t be pleased; my husband won’t be pleased either.”

“Ah,” Dienwald said. “Here is my wench of a wife. Philippa, come meet the girl who is wed to Roland.”

There was laughter in his voice and Daria wondered at it.

Philippa de Fortenberry was a tall graceful girl of about Daria’s age. She was wearing a wool cap and boy’s clothing. Her face was intelligent, full of life, and her eyes the most beautiful blue Daria had ever seen. They were her father’s eyes. She was meeting the king’s daughter. “The queen told me all about you and the king called you his sweet Philippa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I only wish it could be somewhere else.”

“Aye,” Dienwald said after a moment, “that’s true enough. My wench here is the king’s daughter, blast her eyes, but since there’s naught I can do about it, I shall just have to extol her endless virtues, at least when her father is within hearing. You’re wondering how your husband sits in all this, I imagine. Well, Roland had been instructed by the king to come to Cornwall and marry Philippa. Unfortunately for the king and fortunately for Roland, she’d already wedded me. Which leaves two unfortunates, but I am too noble to repine openly. Of course I would have relinquished my claim to her large hand, but she convinced me that if I did so, she would lie down in a ditch and die.”