Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

Then, suddenly, Graelam’s chest heaved, and heaved again. Then he groaned, the most beautiful sound Daria had ever heard in her life.

She yelled with the relief of it. She’d won. He hadn’t died. The vision hadn’t shown her something beyond her control. It hadn’t been a prediction, it had been a warning. She shook his massive shoulders, then graspe

d his face between her hands and stroked his brow, his jaw, his head. No damage as far as she could tell. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

He frowned, his eyes narrowing in pain. “Graelam,” she said very quietly, her face close to his, “you’re alive. My father died and there was naught I could do about it. But you lived. You lived, my lord.” She held him, her cheek pressed against his throat, speaking words, nonsense really, her voice becoming more slurred by the moment.

“What the devil is happening here?”

The men stumbled back to allow Roland through. He stopped cold at the sight of his wife on her knees holding Graelam and speaking to him in a singsong voice.

“Daria, what happened? Graelam, what—?”

She turned then and smiled up at him, tears glistening on her dust-streaked cheeks. “He’ll live, Roland. It happened just like my father, but Graelam lived. It was a warning, not a prediction.” She rose then, and said very calmly, “Please help Lord Graelam to the keep. His ribs are likely badly bruised. Be careful Roland, I shall have Alice prepare a brew for him to ease his pain.”

Without another word, she walked away from him, walked past her mother, her steps brisk and her head thrown back.

His questions would wait. Roland directed his men to lift Graelam. The men grunted and heaved in their burden. “Go easy,” Roland said, and helped in the task. Once Graelam was lying on his bed, bared to the waist, Roland saw indeed that his ribs were bruised badly. He felt them, then nodded. “Daria is right. You will be fine, but sore as Satan for a good week. What happened, Graelam?”

“I was working on your damned wall, Roland. It collapsed suddenly, without warning, and the stone buried me. That’s all.” But it wasn’t all, Graelam was thinking. Something very strange had occurred. It was as if he himself had quit being, but of course he hadn’t. He’d been buried under the rubble—he remembered quite clearly the pain of the striking stones as they’d hit him; then he’d suddenly been separate from the pain, outside of it somehow, and he’d seemed to be surrounded by a very clear whiteness that was blinding yet somehow completely clear—nothing more, just—white, thick and impenetrable, yet clear. And then he’d heard Daria screaming at him, screaming that he wouldn’t die, not like her father had died, that she wouldn’t let him. And then he’d come back into the rawness of his body, even felt the pain of her fists hammering over and over again against his chest. And the white had receded, moving slowly away from him, then whooshing out of his sight in an instant of time, and he was awake and filled with life and pain and she was above him, babbling nonsense at him and stroking his face with her hands.

“What happened to Daria’s father?”

Roland stared down at his friend.

“No, I’m not out of my head. What happened to him?”

“He died. In a tourney, some years ago.”

“I see.” But he didn’t, not really. He said very quietly, “Your wife saved my life, Roland.”

“She pulled stones off you, that’s true. But not all that many. The men hauled off the bulk of them.”

“Nay, it was more—much more. The stones, they had already hurt me—” Graelam fell silent. He said nothing more until Daria entered, carrying a goblet in her hand. Her mother followed her, strips of cloth over her arms.

Daria paid no heed to her husband. She sat beside Graelam, smiled down at him, and said, “Drink this, my lord. It will take away the pain and make you sleep for a while. My mother will bind your ribs. Have you pain anywhere else?”

Graelam shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. He drank the bittersweet brew. His head soon lolled on the pillow, but before he closed his eyes he said, “Thank you, Daria. Thank you for my life.”

“What did he mean, Daria?”

She raised her head and looked at her husband. “I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t let the vision end like it had with my father. I just couldn’t. I have failed too many times in my life. I couldn’t fail in this.”

She stood then and straightened her gown. She left the chamber then, saying nothing more.

Roland said to Katherine, “Your daughter is behaving strangely. What is she talking about? I don’t understand.”

Katherine shook her head, motioning Roland to help her. Between them they managed to bind Graelam’s ribs with strip after strip of stout white cloth.

Whilst Roland stripped off the remainder of Graelam’s clothing and brought a light cover to his waist, Katherine walked to the small window slit and looked out.

“Stay a moment, Roland,” Katherine said once he’d finished.

“I should go see to Daria.”

“In a moment. Did she tell you about her father?”

“Only that he had died in a tourney in London just before Edward left for the Holy Land.”