Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

But she didn’t die.

When Roland saw her lying there on her side, her cheek pressed against the soft green grass, her eyes closed, he thought she was dead. Fear raced through him and he skirted the steepest part of the incline until he could run to her without falling or skidding.

He dropped to his knees beside her, but he was afraid to touch her, afraid that she was hurt in some way he couldn’t see.

“Daria.”

She didn’t want to open her eyes, but she did. Slowly she raised herself until she was on her knees in front of him.

“You’re all right?”

She looked at him straightly, unaware of the grass stains covering one side of her face, unaware that her hair was filled with grass and twigs and was hanging loose down her back and over her shoulders, unaware that her gown was ripped and one sleeve hung down to her elbow.

And she said, “I hope you’re no good to Gwyn anymore. I hope you’re no good to any woman anymore.”

Roland sucked in his breath, all his fear for her dissolved at her words.

She was gasping out the words, her eyes dilated, unheeding of him or what he could do to her. “I hope you return to the Holy Land and that you find Lila and Cena and tell them that you’re no longer a man and that—”

He didn’t strike her. He clapped his open hand over her mouth, shutting off her spate of words.

“Enough, damn you.” He pulled her against him and his face was close to hers, his breath hot on her flesh. “Now, madam wife, I am taking you back. You have caused quite a commotion. You have caused me no end of trouble, what with your attack on me and your mad dash from the keep. You left Philippa telling me that your violence was caused by the babe, that you weren’t thinking clearly because of it—by the saints, she was trying to protect you, even after you tried to bring me down.”

“I did bring you down. You fell on your knees and I was the one who made you do it.”

“Daria, I do recommend that you close your mouth and keep it closed. You defy logic, wench, you surely do. Now, will you come along with me willingly or do I beat you here?”

She wondered if he truly would strike her. If he did, would she cry and plead with him to stop? Would she grovel and whimper at his feet? She wouldn’t. She would die before granting him such pleasure. “When you beat me, will you use your hand or a whip?”

Roland couldn’t believe her words. Nor could he believe the entire situation. Well, she’d finally shown spirit, more than he’d ever wished to see, more than his aching groin would ever have wanted. As to his emotionlessly spoken threats, it rocked him to his core that such things had come from his mouth. Never in his life had he struck a woman; he believed men who hurt women to be despicable, of no account at all. But here he was telling her that he would beat her, and she’d accepted it, accepted it even though she should know he wasn’t that kind of man, for she’d traveled through Wales with him, known him to prefer laughter to scowls, good dirty fighting to torture and cruelty. “I don’t use whips, even on recalcitrant animals.”

She dusted off her gown and straightened her back. She didn’t speak again, nor did she look at him. She got to her feet and started walking back toward the keep. She felt her muscles begin to tighten and knew she would be painfully sore before too many more hours passed. Perhaps more than her muscles would be sore. Perhaps, if he beat her—

She noticed sheep now, so many of them that the air was filled with their scent. The trees that covered the gentle hillocks were green and thick and straight. The land was beautiful and soft, not harsh and savage and barren like the northern shore.

“How far inland are we here?”

Roland gaped at her. Was she simple, with this abrupt change of tone and subject? “About twelve miles.”

“I miss the smell of the sea.”

“So do I. Keep walking.”

“Will you humiliate me in front of Dienwald and Philippa?”

“You attacked me in front of them. Why shouldn’t I do the same to you?”

“Why did you take that girl to your bed?”

Roland shrugged. It was difficult to give an outward show of indifference, but he managed it. He shrugged again for good measure. “She is pretty, clean, and enthusiastic. I was in need of a woman, and she had many talents. She was available and willing.”

“I see. So a wife is just another vessel for you to use. Every woman—every comely woman—is to be available, as is your wife. I don’t like it, Roland, but I see now that there is naught I can do about it.”

“You overheard me tell Gwyn that I wouldn’t come to her again, that I wouldn’t because my wife had come.”

“I see. So it is in your man’s code of honor not to disport with other females when your wife is present. I am gratified, sir, by this show of chastity and male honor. However, I care not now what you do. Take all the wenches that appeal to you, I care not. It keeps you from me, and I thank the saints for that. You’ve done naught but hurt me—”

“It was just once, damn you. Our wedding night. It’s true, I wasn’t as gentle as I could have been, but—”