Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“There was something else. She saw her father die.”

Roland stared at her. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Daria saw him die, three days before word reached us that he’d been killed accidentally in that tourney in London.”

“You mean she had some sort of vision?”

“Aye, I suppose that is as good a word as any. In any case, it happened.”

Roland was thinking of her telling him that she’d known him the moment she’d first seen him. She’d recognized him deep within her. He shrugged, irritated, for it was the kind of thing a man couldn’t touch, couldn’t look at and say it was real or wasn’t real. He didn’t like this sort of talk. It was nonsense. Anything that smacked of visions belonged to prophets in mountain caves, not to young females.

“I realize it’s difficult for you to accept, Roland. Just imagine what it is like for Daria. Evidently she saw Graelam being crushed by the stone wall. But somehow she brought him back.”

“He was never dead. He was simply unconscious—and only for a few moments, nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” Katherine said. She gave him a sad smile. “Don’t hurt her with this, Roland.”

His head snapped up. He said, his voice quite cold and quite distant, “I am not a monster.”

He left her then, saying over his shoulder as he paused at the chamber door, “I will send Rolfe to attend his master. You must rest, Katherine.”

Roland found Daria in the orchard. She was seated on what was now called Lady Katherine’s bench. She was staring down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

He sat beside her, saying nothing.

“Lord Graelam is all right?”

“Aye, he will survive. He’s sleeping now.”

“Will you send a message to Kassia?”

“I probably should before Graelam regains his wits. He detests illness or weakness. But his wife should be told, just in case something goes wrong, just in case he is hurt internally and—”

“No, he isn’t hurt internally.”

Roland looked at her then, his eyes narrowed. “You have no way of being certain of that, Daria. No way at all. Why do you say it with such assurance?”

“I just know,” she said, her voice now as distant as his.

“How do you know?”

“It matters not. I have much to do now, Roland. If you need me for naught else, then—”

He quickly grasped her wrist and pulled her back down. “I won’t accuse you of being a witch, if you’re afraid of that. My men just might be thinking that, though. You’re not stupid, Daria. You know there might be talk. I want you to tell me exactly what you did so that I may combat it.”

“I shoved the men aside and pulled off the stones myself. You see, I knew exactly what stones to shove aside to clear his head and his chest. Then I saw that he was motionless, that he wasn’t breathing, and I was no longer just afraid. I was furious, so enraged that I couldn’t control it. It is an odd reaction for me, but it happened. I was so angry that I struck his chest with my fists, again and again, and screamed at him like a shrew. That is likely what your men will gossip about. They will say that I lost all reason. But Graelam breathed again and he moaned and then he opened his eyes.”

“He was merely unconscious.”

“Yes, he was merely unconscious.”

He looked at her profile, his mouth thinning. “You weren’t there when the wall collapsed on him.”

“No, I was in the solar mixing herbs.”

“How did you know what had happened?”

“I saw it happen.”