Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)
He said nothing more, merely strode to the tent opening. He turned and pointed his finger at her. “I mean it, Daria. You will wed me, and not another word out of your mouth.”
11
The Benedictine priest Young Ansel, as he was affectionately called, exercised unflagging loyalty first to Robert Burnell and then to King Edward. He performed the marriage ceremony with as much dignity as his twenty-three years allotted him. His voice shook only a little when he spoke the soft Latin phrases. He thought the bride lovely and modest, and though she looked at him once, and that when he mispronounced a Latin word in his nervousness. A coincidence, he thought, swallowing. As for the groom, Young Ansel found him
somewhat forbidding. For all his presence, he seemed absent from the proceedings.
Roland de Tournay was unwilling, Young Ansel finally realized, and wondered at it. He couldn’t ask, of course; it would be considered an impertinence. Even though he was the king’s second priest, Burnell had advised him never to take liberties. The royal temper was unpredictable.
Young Ansel looked at the bride more closely as he blessed the couple, and thought she was ill, so pale was she. He glanced over at Roland de Tournay, wondering if he saw how pale and still she was. But the knight was looking beyond Young Ansel’s left shoulder, his face expressionless, his eyes cold. As he’d thought before, the groom seemed absent. He also looked miserable.
There were congratulations, exuberant and bawdy, because the king wished it so and his servants and soldiers willingly obeyed him. He wanted everything to appear as normal as possible. He wanted no talk about Roland, no talk about Daria. Even Robert Burnell managed to exclaim in modest enthusiasm several times. The queen hugged the bride and spoke softly to her. Young Ansel wondered what she said.
Eleanor was worried. As she gently held Daria, she said softly, “Do you feel ill, child?”
Daria shook her head against the queen’s shoulder. She couldn’t stand close to the queen because of her swollen belly. I will become like this, she thought blankly, and for a moment stared down at her own thin body. She’d known no illness from the babe as yet. How could there be a living being in her belly? So small? She wished her mother were here holding her. Perhaps her mother could make sense of it.
“You’re afraid, then. Afraid of your new life, perhaps even of your new husband?”
“Aye.”
“My sweet lord speaks so highly of Roland, has always done so. He’s a man of honor and loyalty and he never treats his vows lightly. You’re also an heiress and thus will bring much advantage to your husband. It’s important, you know. Have no fear, Daria.”
“No.”
The queen frowned over Daria’s head at her husband. He was still loudly extolling Roland’s good fortune, alternately buffeting Roland’s shoulder as he gave him thorough advice and telling him he would soon be so rich he could well afford to assist his king. Edward raised his eyes at that moment and met his wife’s gaze. He quieted, then said to Roland, “It is done. You are now a husband and soon you will be a father.”
“It is amazing.”
“It is done,” Edward repeated. “All of us will go to Tyberton on the morrow. I wish the Earl of Clare to see you and know that Daria is yours now and that he has no claim on her. I wish him to know that you have my favor.”
Roland wished that as well. He nodded. He wondered how the earl would react. He wanted in odd moments for the man to become violent. He wanted to fight, to bash in his head, to relieve his frustration.
“I have had a tent prepared for you, my friend. You and your bride will spend the night there. I see the queen has released Daria. Come, we will dine now and drink to your health and your future.”
There was nothing for it, Roland thought. He wanted to yell at the king that the last thing he wanted to do was spend the night with the girl who was with child and who was also his wife. He even managed to smile at Daria as he helped her into the chair beside his at the quickly erected banquet table. They were outside under the bright stars and the full moon. Torches lined the perimeter of the royal encampment. There were one hundred people milling about, eating their fill, turning at odd times to salute the bride and groom. All the food, Roland learned, came from the larders at Chepstow. He wondered if the Earl of Hereford would starve come winter. It appeared the king had stripped the castle granary bare. Perhaps in the misty future the king would visit him in Cornwall and delve with a free hand into his granary.
“Eat something, Daria.”
She wanted to tell him that she would vomit if she did, but she said nothing, merely picked up a chunk of soft white bread and chewed it. When he turned away from her, she spit it onto the ground.
“You will be silent tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that we go to see the Earl of Clare. You will be silent and not flit and flutter about on me. I want neither your advice nor your protection, if that is what you’re about now.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever fluttered about on you, Roland. As for my protection, it’s true, I succeeded that one time.”
He shrugged with masculine indifference. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Nor have you ever been silent. I wonder if the earl has guessed that you carry his child. I would imagine that his rage would know no bounds. Therefore, you must keep silent and let me deal with him.”
“I don’t carry the earl’s child. Therefore he could have no rage, save the rage that he’s been made to look the fool and he’s lost all my dowry.”
He just looked at her, thin-lipped, then tipped back his goblet and drank deeply of the red Aquitaine wine.
“It’s true, Roland. You must be careful, for I don’t believe him entirely sane. Seeing you, the embodiment of his undoing, might make him act foolishly.”
He made an elaborate pretense of turning to speak to Burnell. Inside, his stomach churned with anger at her. By all the saints, she’d gained what she wanted, so why did she continue to play innocent? She infuriated him. He drank another goblet of wine. But he couldn’t become drunk.