He smeared the mud over her eyebrows to make them black slashes across her brow, then daubed more mud on her face. He grinned. “Wondrous filthy you are now, my lad.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. “Listen to me carefully, Daria. You will not open your mouth. You will keep your head down and stay close behind me. When I tell you to do something, you will do it quickly and silently.”
It was then she saw that he was still in his priest’s garb.
“I’m ready and I will do just as you say.”
He patted her filthy cheek, nodding. He’d never in his life rescued a female and he wasn’t certain what she would do, or how she would respond. Mayhap faint at a critical moment, mayhap shriek. But Daria appeared to have herself well in control, at least for the moment. He looked once again at the steep shadowed stairwell, then motioned for her to follow him.
When they reached the bottom steps, Daria stared around the great hall. Scores of people were snoring, filling the hall with a low rumbling sound, the ones who sat at the trestle tables slumped forward, their heads beside their trenchers.
“Will they die? Did you poison them?”
He shook his head. “I but drugged their ale. They sleep like innocent babes. They’ll awaken on the morrow with aching heads but nothing more. Hush, now.”
There were some who were awake, but their eyes were vague and they gave only cursory glances at the priest and the dirty boy with him. One man even called out, his words slurred, “Father, bless me for I have drunk too much and all I see are vipers and they rollick and twist around me. They are evil, Father.”
“Bless you, my son, but you deserve every viper that strikes at you. At least you are still awake, whilst your friends have succumbed.”
The man looked puzzled, then quietly he fell forward, knocking himself out with the blow, and Daria wondered if he’d cracked his head.
But outside there were many who were fully alert. Roland slowed his pace. He nodded and spoke to the men who crossed his path, seemingly at his ease, taking his time. He saw several of the women look at him with eager invitation and he made his expression austere.
“Where do you go tonight, Father?”
It was the head stableman and he was looking curiously at the filthy boy who was trailing after the priest.
Roland said easily, “You see this little cockscomb here? I am taking this fiend of a boy back to his father for the thrashing he deserves. He wanted to become a knight. He is part Welsh, a bastard shucked off one of Chepstow’s masters, and he can’t speak clearly enough for even God to understand him. Can you imagine such a thing as the earl accepting this young fool? Well, the boy will go back to his own father and get a good flogging.”
The stableman laughed. “Serves him right, the young savage,” he said, and stepped back into the stable. Roland followed him quickly, motioning for Daria to stay still. She did, but she didn’t want to. She heard only a soft thudding sounds from within the stable. She froze, wondering if Roland needed help, but then he appeared again, and he was smiling at her. “Another man resting soundly. Stay here and keep watch.”
Soon he reappeared and he was leading a horse. It wasn’t much of a horse, certainly not one of the fighting men’s mighty destriers. Roland swung easily onto the horse’s bare back and gave her his hand. “Come, we must hurry.”
She stared in wonder at the back of his head. Did he think to simply ride through the mightly gates of Tyberton Castel? He did. There were a half-dozen guards patrolling, but it was to the porter that Roland spoke.
“Blessed even’, good Arthur. I take this scruffy simpleton back to his father at Chepstow, on the earl’s order. Would you open the gate for me?”
And to Daria’s astonishment, Arthur chuckled, spit on the dry earth, and said, “Aye, by the looks of him, Father, he’ll not survive a sound thrashing, the skinny little offal. What’d he do? Piss in the earl’s wine?” And he cackled at his own wit.
“He wanted to free the earl’s prisoner, the girl, Daria, so she would feel pity for him and let him seduce her. The earl wanted to begin his wedding night soon, so I am his deputy with this foolish boy. I take him because I feared the earl might kill him in his haste to bed the girl and for the boy’s impure thoughts.”
Arthur laughed and nodded. “Aye, be gone wi’ ye, Father. I’ll wait for ye to return. Be certain to call loudly when ye near the castle so none of the earl’s soldiers lets fly an arrow through yer heart.”
“Thank you, my friend. I will hurry. See that the master is not disturbed this night.”
And Arthur cackled anew as he opened the gates. “A pretty little piece she is,” he said, his words nearly incomprehensible through his chuckling. “Aye, pretty and tender as a young chick. The earl will fair enjoy himself riding her.” The last sound Daria heard from Tyberton Castle was the laughter of Arthur, the porter. They rode through the portcullis into the outer bailey and out the great oak gates. Several men nodded, but none said anything or moved to stop them. It was that easy. Daria pressed her cheek against Roland’s back. “I begin to believe you a magician, Roland. Everything passed so simply. I have thought and thought these past two months and believed I would never escape him.”
“I’m very good,” Roland said, grinning over his shoulder at her. “I learned long ago that the best ruses were ones that stuck as close as possible to the truth. Well, mayhap I did enjoy myself a bit with the truth this time. I will say we were very lucky. However, once the earl frees himself and sobers up all his men from their drugged ale, he will be after us. We must not tarry.”
“I do not wish to tarry,” she said, and clasped her arms around his waist. “But this animal, Roland, he looks to have the speed of and strength of a snail.”
“Be patient. My own destrier awaits us nearby.”
“Will you take me back to my uncle?”
“Not yet. It wouldn’t be the wisest course.”
He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and the beast broke into a thumping trot.
They rode for only about an hour, northeast, into Wales. Finally Roland pulled the horse off the narrow dusty road heavily bordered with hedgerows and yew bushes and drew up before a small hut of daub and wattle surrounded with sagging, very old outbuildings. A man emerged quickly and strode toward them. Roland smiled at Daria and said, “We will mount my horse now.” He helped her down and told her to wait.
Roland walked with the man behind the hut, soon to reappear leading a magnificent animal, lean and strong, black as midnight, and proud-looking as a king.
Daria saw money change hands. The man grinned and said, “Aye, aye, lle pum buwch, lle pum buwch.”
Roland gave him a friendly buffet on his shoulder and turned to toss Daria onto his destrier’s broad back. The horse merely shifted, not moving, accepting her weight with no fuss. Roland mounted, then said to the man, “Do not forget it is to the southwest you will ride. You will wear my monk’s robe and ride this mount at least two hours. Then leave the horse and the robe where our good earl will find them.”
The man nodded, spit on the ground beside him, and gave a small salute to Roland.
Daria stared at the man who had come to Tyberton to rescue her. How could she have ever believed him a priest? The other women at the castle had felt he was a man, a man of this earth, a man of the flesh, but she hadn’t. He was now wearing a tunic of rough rust-colored wool, belted at his waist with a wide leather strap upon which hung his sword and a dagger. He looked dangerous and he looked intensely alive. She pressed her cheek against his back and accepted the newness of him into her.
As they rode from the hut, she asked, “What did he say? Something over and over again when you gave him money.”
“You have a good ear. He said that now he has a place of four cows. In other words, he can now support four cows with the money I gave him for his aid.”
To Roland’s astonishment, she repeated quite clearly, “Lle pum buwch.”
“You have learned some W
elsh, then, during your two months at Tyberton?”
He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. “No, the earl hates the Welsh. He forbade any of their language to be spoken at Tyberton. If ever he heard anything that sounded foreign, he had the speaker flogged. Besides, he kept me isolated.” With those words, she fell silent.
It had been drizzling lightly before. Now it stopped and the sky was hung with dark clouds promising more rain before midnight. Always it rained in Wales, always. Roland tightened the straps of the two bags over his horse’s back.
Some minutes later, he realized that Daria was asleep. She was limp against his back and he felt her sliding sideways. He quickly caught her sliding hands and brought them together, holding them over his waist with one of his. He looked around him at the cloud-hung sky and the towering, twisted sessile oaks that seemed to close in on them. The air was pungent with the smell of the sea and the smell of damp moss. It would begin to rain again soon. He sighed, hoping it would stay dry until they drew nearer to Trefynwy. Then they would turn east and travel through the Black Mountains, unforgiving hostile peaks and naked ridges, where they would be safe from anyone trying to find them. He said aloud to himself, to Daria, even though she slept, “I am pleased with you.” He meant it. She trusted him so much that she was actually able to sleep whilst fleeing. It was remarkable.
He grinned, raising his face to the cool night breeze. His destrier, Cantor, snorted, and Roland slowed him. They still had a distance to go before Roland would be content to halt and rest for a while. It was doubtful that the earl would discover their trail very soon, if at all. Roland had purposefully planned to travel northward through Wales, knowing the earl wouldn’t seriously consider searching in the country he so despised. An Englishman would decide that only a madman would escape willingly into Wales.
Roland laughed softly, pleased with his strategies, for there was something very important the earl didn’t know, and wouldn’t find out.
He remained pleased until the thunder began to rumble overhead. Wales, the land of endless rain, he thought, staring up at the dark clouds overhead. He had wanted to reach Abergavenny by morning, but now he knew he couldn’t. A raindrop slid off his forehead. He cursed quietly, tightened his hold on Daria’s wrists, for she’d slipped to the side, and knew he had to find them shelter until it stopped raining.
He knew he was lucky in the terrain in which they now traveled. There were thick forests, which provided not only cover from anyone trying to find them but also some protection from the rain that was now coming down more quickly and more furiously. He knew also of caves in the area. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was one of moderate size near to Usk, off the road, just to the west of them. He knew Daria was awake now, he felt her shiver against his back. He dug in one of his leather bags and pulled out a leather jerkin. “Here, we’ll hold this over our heads. It will be some protection.”
“I have heard that it rains here more than anywhere else on the earth,” she said.
“That’s very likely,” he said, wondering where she’d gotten her information. “Certainly more than in the Holy Land.” The leather jerkin now over their heads, Roland continued, to distract both of them from the sodden cold rain, “You will be my deaf-mute little brother whilst we are in Wales.”
“Do you speak the Welsh tongue, Roland?”
“Aye, I do. It is one of my talents, this ability to learn languages easily and quickly.”
“Then teach me, for I do not like to keep silent all the time.”
He almost laughed, for the Welsh language was the most difficult he had learned, more difficult even than Arabic. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she wasn’t able when he said instead, “What was it that farmer said?”
“Lle pum buwch. Now I will have a place for four cows.”
Roland had never before met another person who had his talent for languages. He still wasn’t convinced at her ability, even though the Latin she’d spoken was fluent and smooth.
“Just teach me enough so that I do not have to be deaf or mute.”
Well, why not? he thought. For the next hour he taught her simple phrases, and he had to admit to being wrong. She was perhaps even more adept than he was at picking up the essence of a language, at finding patterns that no one else ever realized were there. By the time he found a suitable cave, one that was empty of mountain lions and bears, they were both sodden from the rain and Daria spoke limited but very Welsh-sounding words and phrases.
“We will wait here until it stops raining—if it stops raining. This cursed country does pour rain down all the time.”
“Aye, but the smells, Roland,” she said, sucking in air deeply. “The salt of the sea, the moss from the very rocks themselves, the heather and bracken. It is such a very living smell.”
That was true, but he said nothing. He settled Cantor, then turned to look down at his charge. She was very wet and shivering with the cold. He pulled out his last clean leather jerkin from one of his bags “Put it on.”
She stepped away from him into the blackness of the cave and he immediately stopped her. “Nay, stay close, Daria. There still could be creatures there, and I do not want them to eat you or for you to lose yourself in the mountain. I am told some of the caves twist and curve back deep into the mountainside. To get lost would mean death.”
She was back quickly, the jerkin hanging loosely around her. “Let us sit and eat some bread the farmer provided us.”
Whilst they ate, he taught her the names of various foods and animals. She fell asleep even as she repeated dafad, or sheep.
He leaned back against the rocky wall of the cave and gathered her against him. His horse whinnied softly and the soft caw of the rooks filled the silence. He could even hear a woodpecker rapping on a tree somewhere near, and a waterfall loud and violent, slashing through a beech forest close by. She was right about the smells. Even in the dark cave, the smell of turf, bracken, water, and wind filled his nostrils. It was a wild smell, a savage smell, but one that fed and stimulated the senses.
He smiled as he fell asleep holding the girl who would be able to speak Welsh as well as a native if only she had enough time to learn.
It stopped raining near dawn and the sky was a soft rich pink in those brief magical minutes. He started to awaken Daria, when she said quite clearly in English, “I know you, know you deep inside me. It’s passing strange and it makes me afraid, but for all that, it makes me feel wonderful.”
He shook her awake. He didn’t know what she was talking about, and something told him he didn’t want to know.
They ate bread and cheese and drank the rest of the warm ale. Daria seemed not to remember her dream, that, or she didn’t wish to speak of it. Dry and warm, they left their cave soon thereafter.
They rode through glades and thickets, through small twisted and lichened oaks, by boulders covered with moss. They passed naked rocks that looked wet even though the sun shone down strongly.
Roland continued to teach her Welsh. He felt a brief stab of jealousy at her talent, then grinned at his own vanity. It was good, this talent of hers; he didn’t particularly relish having to shield a deaf-mute boy who was really a girl. Now at least she could say something when they met the Welsh, which they would surely do eventually.
And they met the Welsh sooner than Roland would have wished.
5
“Afon,” Roland said, pointing, “river.” Then, “Aber—river mouth.”
Daria dutifully repeated the words. She tapped Roland on the shoulder. “Allt,” she said, nodding to their left. “Wooded hillside.”
He swiveled about in the saddle and grinned at her. “You are very good,” he said.
“Must I still be deaf and mute?”
“For the time being I think it the wisest course to follow. Be patient, Daria.” He started to add that she would be home soon, but he knew her thoughts on that and so kept quiet. He wished he personally knew if Ralph of Colchester was a good man, a man of hono
r. Deep inside, though, Roland imagined that Ralph of Colchester could very likely be a troll and a monster and still Daria’s uncle would wed her to him because he wanted to add to his own land holdings. It wouldn’t matter to him if the man had wedded a dozen women and killed all of them.
He pulled up Cantor and let his destrier blow and drink from the cold river water. “Would you like to walk about a bit?”
She smiled gratefully and slid off Cantor’s back. “Smell the air, Roland. And look at the sunlight on those maple leaves, it’s magic, all those hues and shades.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and twirled about in the small open meadow. “Glyn,” she called out, “fflur.” She pointed to some sweet-smelling honey-suckle. “It is for fidelity, you know, and the ivy yon, it’s for permanence.”
He grinned at her like a besotted idiot, realized it, and turned away.
“Ah, I wish we could stay here forever.”
“Just wait for an hour or so—until it rains again. When you’re wet and cold and thoroughly miserable, you’ll change your mind quickly enough.”
She waved away his words. “The gorse over there, it protects us against demons, or mayhap from the unending rain, if we wish it hard enough.”
He didn’t want to wish for anything right now except for the rest of his money. Then his wish for his own land, his own keep in the midst of the beautiful green hills in Cornwall, would come true. He watched her flit from a low yew bush to a lone birch, repeating the names in Welsh. So learning came easily to her. It meant nothing to him, not a thing. So she was bright and laughing. It meant nothing more than her ease of learning. His eyes were on her lips, then fell to her breasts and her hips. Nothing, he thought, turning quickly to pat Cantor’s neck. It meant nothing. His destrier turned his head, his mouth wet, and nuzzled his master’s hand. Roland said to his horse as he wiped his hand on his chausses, “You are the loyal one, the one who’s always known what I wanted, what I needed. You I trust with my life, no one else, particularly not a female. Not even a female who is pretty and bright and sweet.”
Secret Song Page 7
