Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

She wore her new overtunic again, loosely sewn with wide sleeves, over one of her old gowns her mother had altered for her. She was too thin, but food still made her feel faintly ill. She girded the braided gold belt more firmly around her waist, pulling in the material. She brushed her hair and left it loose, thick and lustrous from washing, nearly to her waist.

Roland entered the bedchamber and came to an abrupt halt. She became still under his scrutiny.

“You’re lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“I must see to some jewelry for you, Daria. Something delicate, perhaps emeralds to match your eyes.”

She stared at him, wondering what was in his mind, wondering why he was speaking thus to her.

“I should prefer purchasing a few more goods for your castle, Roland.”

“Oh?”

“Perhaps several more carpets, some cushions for your chair here in the bedchamber, mayhap even a tapestry for the wall here, for the damp is very bad, Sir Thomas told me, during the winter months.”

Rol

and appeared thoughtful for several minutes, then said, quite unexpectedly, “Did you know that Philippa is the steward for St. Erth?”

“Aye, you told me that once.”

“Should you mind detailing our needs and balancing them against the coin we have remaining from your dowry and from my cache? Next year I suspect we will have excess wool to sell and that will make us more self-sufficient. Graelam and I spoke of which markets were best and which merchants in this area didn’t try to steal your destrier from beneath you during the bargaining.”

“You aren’t jesting? I wouldn’t have thought a man would approve such an activity for a woman.”

Roland shrugged.

“I should very much like to do these things, Roland.”

“When you have completed your entering, discuss it with me. Then we will decide what is to be done first.”

She could but stare at him before the words blurted out. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“Kind to me—as if you cared what—”

He cut her off, for he simply couldn’t bear to hear the rest of her words. “There is work to be done and you are capable of doing it. Don’t you believe yourself able to accomplish it?”

Her chin went up. “I am quite capable.”

He smiled at her then, his dark eyes warm and approving, and Daria would willingly have cut even Lord Graelam’s throat had he threatened her husband.

It was the second day of September. The air was crisp and cool. An early-autumn day it was, with a clear sky overhead and a bright sun that made the different colors of the countryside all the more vivid. Daria breathed in deeply. She came out of the great hall at the sound of shouting and stood on her tiptoes to see what was happening. There was her husband, stripped to the waist, breathing heavily, sweat glistening off him. He was circling another man, huge, and thick as an oak trunk, who looked quite able to rip her husband into pieces. The men-at-arms had formed a large, loose circle around them and they were yelling and shouting. Daria froze when the other man suuddenly lunged. Why were the men just standing there? Why weren’t they helping Roland? She watched in mute horror as the man grabbed Roland around his waist and lifted him. She saw his massive arms bulge, the muscles flexing, and she knew he was strong enough to squeeze the life from her husband. Why, she wondered frantically, had she seen the wall collapse on Graelam and not seen her own husband about to meet his death? Why weren’t his men doing anything?

She acted without thought, terror for Roland gripping her, making her frantic. She grabbed her skirts, pulling them above her knees, and dashed down the deep stone steps into the inner bailey. She was screaming as she ran. She reached the loose circle of men and began to curse them, pushing and shoving them aside until she was within the circle. She raised her fist at them, screaming, “Why aren’t you doing something? You cowards! You will stand by and let him be crushed to death?” Several of the men who had heard her looked as if they’d turned into stone, staring at her, not moving a finger. Furious, she ignored them. She was so close to Roland and the huge man that she could hear their breathing, hear their lurid curses. Somehow Roland had gotten free, but just as she nearly yelled her relief, the giant lunged again, screaming a terrible curse, and Daria, all thought frozen within her, jumped on his back just as he grabbed for Roland.

She clutched him around his thick neck, yelling, pummeling the top of his head with her fist. “No. Don’t you dare touch him! I’ll kill you!” She managed to wrap her legs around him and jerked his head back and crushing inward with her forearms. She squeezed her legs around him as he’d done to Roland with his arms, but it was nothing to him. She screamed and yelled and punched him, beyond thought, so furious and frightened that for many minutes she didn’t realize that the man was standing perfectly still, not even trying to dislodge her from his back, and that there wasn’t a whisper of a voice anywhere near them.

“Daria.”

Through the haze of fear, she heard her name. She shook her head, pounding the man’s head as hard as she could.

“Daria. By all the saints, stop it.”

She looked up then and saw Roland standing beside her. She realized then that the man whose back she was clinging to like a demented fool was standing very quietly, not moving even a finger, just letting her strike him.