“I don’t know yet.”
“I must go now, but you lie here until Salin brings you some warm milk to drink and some bread.”
He eased off the cot, then rose to stand there. She grabbed his sleeve and he turned back to look down at her.
“Thank you, Roland. You are very kind.”
His voice was stiff as his back after a night on the sorry cot. “You are my wife. I don’t wish you to be ill.”
“Even though you believe it is another man’s babe I carry?”
“Don’t be bitter, Daria, you have no reason. Rest now, I will see you in a while.”
Her stomach remained calm throughout the day. Roland drew their company to a halt every couple of hours, as if he knew almost to the minute when she needed to relieve herself or stretch her back and walk about.
That evening the sky was clear and Roland decided to bypass another abbey whose grim silhouette against the evening sky made even Salin grimace.
“We will camp in that copse of maple trees,” he said, and it was done.
He didn’t hold her that night, for it was warm and only a mild breeze sifted through the maple leaves overhead. Daria missed him, but she said nothing.
Two days later they mounted a rise, and in the distance Daria saw a beautiful Norman castle, its crenellated towers rising proud and strong above the thick stone walls.
“This is Graelam de Moreton’s castle, Wolffeton. We will remain here until I have made our keep ready. His lady’s name is Kassia.”
“The queen thought you would bring me to St. Erth.”
He merely shook his head. “You will doubtless meet Dienwald and Philippa, but we will stay here for a time.”
Daria looked around her. She loved Cornwall; it was savage and bleak and desolate, and it awakened all her senses, the stiff breeze from the sea ruffling her hair, its scent clean and salty. It wasn’t a lonely place despite the barren desolation. It warmed her, this region, and she knew it as home.
“Is your keep far from here, Roland?”
“Nay, not far.” He watched her breathe in deeply. “You don’t mind the ruggedness of this place?”
“Oh, no, not at all, truly.”
“Good, since
it will be your home.”
And she was pleased about that. He saw that she was pleased and wondered at the pleasure and anger it made him feel, both at the same time.
Unfortunately, she was doomed to meet the lord and lady of Wolffeton with her eyes closed and her belly heaving, for no sooner had Roland helped her down from Henrietta’s back in the inner bailey of Wolffeton than she was vilely ill. She heard a man’s deep voice and a woman’s higher one, filled with concern and gentleness. She turned her face into Roland’s shoulder and heard him whisper, “Don’t be embarrassed. Kassia will see to your comfort.”
Not ten minutes later, Daria was alone in a spacious chamber filled with bright light from three window slits, its stone floor covered with a supple wool rug from Flanders. The bed upon which she lay was so soft she sighed with delight, able to ignore her churning belly for a few moments.
She heard the woman say to her, “If you are ill again, the chamber pot is right here. Roland tells me you have some potion from the queen herself. Your husband is fetching it for you.”
The woman said nothing more until Daria, her stomach eased, opened her eyes and managed to smile.
“My name is Kassia and I’m pleased that Roland has wedded and that you will remain with us for a while. And you are with child. How very fortunate you are. My own babe is but a month old. His name is Harry and he looks just like his dark-eyed warrior of a father. It’s not fair, but of course Graelam merely grins and says he is the stronger and thus his son must resemble him in all ways.”
“It is good that he looks like his father,” Daria said. “The child is lucky as well. His father will acknowledge him.”
Kassia de Moreton, lady of Wolffeton, thought this a rather odd thing to say. She cocked her head to one side in silent question. The young woman lying on her back, her face as pale as the white wimple that covered Kassia’s hair, said nothing more. Her lips had become thin and Kassia worried that she would be ill again.
But Daria wasn’t ill; her thoughts were bleak. She wanted to cry, but that solved naught. She could see her mother weeping silently, her hands covering her face, weeping that meant nothing to anyone, and certainly never changed anything.