Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  “You speak to your horse?”

  She was laughing, a dirty-faced urchin in boy’s clothes, a limp woolen cap pulled low on her forehead. The dirt he’d rubbed on her face was long gone, replaced by new dirt, streaked and black, more authentic dirt, all of it Welsh. Even her smooth white hands were filthy. She didn’t look at all like a boy to him.

  “Aye, it’s passing smart he is, and he tells me it is nearly time for lunch.”

  Daria eyed the saddlebags hopefully.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing left. I must do some hunting.”

  She looked back from whence they’d come, and slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “Nay, I’m not all that hungry, Roland, truly. Can we not ride until late afternoon? Then can you hunt? I’ve wasted time here and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “He’s not after us, Daria. There was no one to betray us. Even if the farmer did tell the earl about us, he still didn’t know where we were heading.”

  Still she shuddered even as she shook her head. “He’d know, somehow he’d find out. I just have this feeling.” She added quickly, seeing him frown, “He’s very smart.”

  Roland continued his frown, disliking himself even as the words came from his mouth. “So you admired him. Did you not wish to leave him, then? Did you wish to wed with him?”

  Her head snapped up. “You are speaking like a fool, Roland.” And then, to her appalled surprise, she burst into tears. Roland stared at her.

  The tension, he supposed, was finally too much for her. She’d finally succumbed, but still he was surprised. Until this moment, she’d shown unusual fortitude and grit. To fall into a woman’s tears now—when the danger was past—seemed somehow very unlike her.

  “Why am I a fool?”

  She shook her head, swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and turned away from him. “Nay, not a fool, just speaking like one.” She dashed her hand across her eyes and sniffled loudly. “I’m sorry. Has Cantor drunk his fill?”

  He gave her a long look, then said, “Aye.” He gave her his hand and pulled her up behind him.

  They were riding near to the River Usk and woodclad hills rose up on either side of them, hills covered with thickets of beech and sessile oaks. Firs towered behind them, thin and high, and many narrow streams snaked through the land, most shallow and a pale stagnant brown under the bright sunlight. But even with the warm sun shining down, there was still the feel, the scent, the sound of water in the air—the streams burbling, distant waterfalls crashing and thudding over wet rocks, unseen water deep beneath the ground booming and gurgling. Daria shuddered. “It’s overpowering,” she said, and clasped her arms more tightly around Roland’s waist.

  “Be thankful it isn’t yet raining,” he said. “Why am I a fool, Daria? Nay, speak like a fool.”

  He felt her tense up and knew to his toes that he shouldn’t push her for an answer, but he was perverse, he knew it, had known it for most of his years. “Why?” he repeated.

  “The earl is a frightening man. I don’t believe him mad, not yet at least, but he is a strange sort of fanatic, and his moods shift dangerously. I would have rather wedded Ralph of Colchester’s father or his grandfather than him.”

  “Ah.”

  “Roland, please don’t take me back to my uncle. He doesn’t worship God, even in a perverted fashion to suit himself. He worships only himself and sees himself as all-powerful, and he’s more frightening than anyone because when he chooses to be cruel, his cruelty comes from deep within him, and it is pleasurable to him and so very cold.”

  “Then I should say you would be pleased to wed and leave Reymerstone and your uncle’s influence.”

  Again she stiffened, and he disliked himself for being hard, but he was being paid by the uncle to deliver the niece back to him, and with the money he would receive, he would buy his keep in Cornwall and he would live there and it would be his and never again would he bow to another’s wishes unless it was his wish to do so. Daria said nothing more. That perverse part of him wished she would.

  It was nearing midafternoon when she broke the silence. “I must stop for a moment. Please.”

  He nodded and pulled Cantor up. He dismounted, then held out his arms for her. She ignored him and slid down the destrier’s left side.

  “By God, get out of the way, quickly.”

  Cantor jerked upward, whirling about to face the human who’d encroached, and he slashed out with his front hooves.

  “Move, Daria.”

  She fell backward over an outcropping stone and toppled into the grass onto her back.

  Roland soothed his horse and looped his reins around a stubby yew branch.

  He walked to her and stood over her, hands on hips for a moment, before he offered her his hand. “Don’t ever do something so stupid again. You knew better, Daria.”

  She nodded, ignored his hand, and got slowly to her feet.

  “You did it because you were angry with me. Kindly remember that you must be alive and well when you arrive at Reymerstone.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough. If I die, then you will get no coin from my uncle, will you?”

  He just looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “That’s true. So take care of yourself.”

  “I am going into the trees,” she said, so frustrated and angry with him and with their situation that she wanted to spit. He watched her walk slowly, limping a bit, into the rich humid-looking foliage. The smell of pine and damp moss was strong. He watched her until she disappeared, and he took stock of their position. Brownish hill-ridges protruded above the woods in the distance, and even in this small glade he could hear the rush of waterfalls gushing over slick naked rocks through the forest to the west. He saw a small herd of wild ponies on a far hillside, silhouetted against a thicket of pine trees, their long manes tangled and unkempt. They were aware of him and stood quietly watching. He walked slowly to a small twisted and lichened oak and leaned against it. Beside the oak stood several boulders fuzzed with moss, left in this unlikely spot long ago, as if tossed there by ancient storms or even more ancient gods. He whistled a song Dienwald de Fortenberry’s fool, Crooky, had sung, smiling even as he added the silly words.

  Kiss her sweet mouth

  And make her sigh

  Give her pleasure, oh my, oh my.

  Kiss her throat and make her lie

  Upon your bed, oh my, oh my.

  Surely it was an absurd song, but he sang it again, smiling more widely as he pictured Dienwald and his bride, Philippa, snug in his arms. Crooky had continued with various body parts, rolling his eyes and miming lewdly until Dienwald had kicked him soundly.

  Roland heard a scream and stopped singing.

  Tyberton Castle

  The Earl of Clare leaned back against the cold stone wall, crossing his massive arms over his chest. The farmer was nearly dead, damn his perfidious soul to hell. He’d told his man to go easy, to hold up on the whip, but the blood lust had enthralled him and now the Welsh bastard was hanging limply from the iron manacles, his ribs heaving, his face gray, his eyes fading even as the earl looked at him dispassionately.

  “Well, do you wish to continue with this torture or do you want to die quickly? Tell me the truth. Tell me where you got that horse and you’ll not suffer more.”

  The farmer raised his eyes to the earl’s implacable face, and he thought: All I wanted was enough money to have four cows. But it wasn’t to be. He wanted to die. His body was so broken he couldn’t have healed anyway, even if the torture stopped now. And the pain was too much, far too much. He said, his English broken and halting, “The man and the boy rode into Wales, it is all I know. His was a powerful black destrier, a warrior’s mount, strong and enduring. I know not the man’s name. He paid me to ride the horse in the opposite direction and leave it for you to find, but I didn’t.” He said sorrowfully to himself, “No, I was stupid and wanted to keep the horse, and thus I die for my stupidity.”

  That was true, the
earl thought. “Come, man, think. Surely he gave you a name. Come, and you’ll die quickly, even the instant after you speak.”

  “Roland,” the farmer said after another strike of the thong. “It was Roland.”

  Edmond, Earl of Clare, stared at the man a moment longer, then nodded to his henchman. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slid it cleanly into the farmer’s heart. The man slumped, his head falling on his chest, the manacles rattling as he went limp.

  Who, Edmond wondered as he strode back into Tyberton’s great hall, was Roland? A man hired by Damon, no doubt, to bring the girl back to him. Well, he wouldn’t make it, that damned fake priest to whom he’d given his spiritual trust. But not all his trust. Deep inside he’d known the man was a fraud. He was too handsome, his body too well-honed for a man of exclusively divine concerns. He should have guessed it immediately when the castle women had wanted him so blatantly. And he’d gotten her away so very easily, the damned whoreson.

  Edmond called MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He slapped his thick leather gauntlets against his thigh as he spoke. “Prepare a dozen men. We ride into Wales to fetch back the little mistress and the erstwhile priest. He stole her, took her against her will. We will rescue her. Bring enough provisions for several weeks. We ride hard.”

  MacLeod said nothing. It wasn’t his business to disagree or question the lord or even think twice about his commands. The little mistress had left Tyberton willingly enough, everyone knew that, but they would find her, kill the sham priest, and bring her back to the earl’s bed. They left Tyberton within the hour, the Earl of Clare at their head.

  In Wales

  Roland pulled both his sword and his dagger as he ran headlong toward the pine thicket. He heard a soft gurgling sound and felt his blood freeze. Had someone killed her?

  He slowed, hearing low-pitched voices—two men— and they had Daria. They spoke quietly, but he made out their words, the soft Welsh clear to him.

  “—to Llanrwst, quickly.”

  “But the man, what to do with the man?”

  “We’ll be gone before he misses her. Leave him, leave him. Go quiet now. Quiet.”

  Roland slipped between the pines until he reached a small clearing where a narrow stream sliced through the sodden grass. One man, tall and built like a mountain, had slung Daria over his shoulder. The other man, short and ragged as the Welsh ponies Roland had seen, was following close behind, glancing furtively over his shoulder every few moments.

  Suddenly rain began to fall, slow drizzling rain that was gray and silent. One of the men cursed softly.

  Roland followed as quietly as he could, but his boots squished in the wet grass. The rain thickened, coming down in dense sheets, blotting out the trees and the hills and adding to the sounds of a rushing waterfall not far distant. There were forlorn caws from rooks and kingfishers. This damned land—one minute the sun was shining brightly and now there was near-darkness and it was but midafternoon. Roland swiped rain from his eyes and crept after the men.

  They made their way slowly but steadily to a small cave cut through boulders into the hillside. Roland drew back, watching them enter. He saw a lantern lit and a dull light issue forth. He drew closer, until he could hear the men speaking.

  “—damnable rain . . . glaw, glaw . . . always rain.”

  “Will ye take her, Myrddin? Now?”

  “Nay, the girl’s wet and nearly dead. Leave her there in a corner and cover her.”

  So they’d discovered she wasn’t a boy. Not much of a discovery, since her disguise wouldn’t have fooled Roland for an instant. These men either, evidently. Had they struck her hard? Roland didn’t want to admit it, but his first thought was for her, not for the money he would lose if he didn’t bring her back to her uncle alive and a virgin.

  No, he said to himself. She was goods to be delivered, nothing more. She was a bundle to haul around and return safely to her uncle.

  He pulled back and gave himself up to thought. It was still early; the men would have to split up for hunting. The huge man—his name was Myrddin, if Roland had heard the other man aright—didn’t look like he would want to miss his supper. Roland was content to wait under an overhang of slick rock, sheltered from the endless gray rain.

  It wasn’t long before Myrddin emerged from the cave, cursed the rain in a way he’d good-naturedly curse a friend he saw nearly every day, then set off at a trot, his bow and arrow under his right arm. Slowly Roland made his way forward until he stood just outside the cave. He leaned forward until he could see the other man, the short one with the bowed legs. He was kneeling over Daria, staring at her. He slowly lifted the filthy blanket and continued to stare.

  Roland suddenly saw the Earl of Clare in his mind’s eye, saw his hand disappear beneath Daria’s shift, knowing that he would penetrate her with his finger, and as Roland looked on now as another man was gaping at her, his hand moving closer to her breast, Roland couldn’t stand it. He leaned nearly double and crossed the entrance into the cave as silently as a bat flying at midnight. The man didn’t hear him. The fire the men had set was burning sluggishly, throwing off choking smoke, and Roland inhaled it and coughed.

  The man whirled about, and Roland leapt on him. He was of greater size and strength, luckily, and his fingers closed in a death grip about the man’s throat. He gurgled and his face darkened and his eyes bulged and still Roland squeezed, his rage overcoming his sense, until he heard Daria whisper, “Nay, Roland, do not kill him. Nay.”

  He was breathing harshly and released his hold from the man’s throat. He rolled off him. “Are you all right?”

  Daria took stock of herself and nodded. “Aye. They came upon me when I was preparing to return to you. The large one struck his fist against my head.” She shook her head gently as she spoke. “Aye, I’ll live, but we must leave here before he returns.”

  But Roland shook his head. He wanted to kill the man.

  And Daria saw what he wanted and said quickly, “I’m frightened.”

  “You’re safe with me. This lout planned to rape you and then hold you for his mountainous friend’s pleasure. He’s an outcast, a bandit, and I’ll not let him live, not take the chance that he’ll follow us and try to take you again.”

  She saw his logic, hated it, but kept still. “Go near to the entrance of the cave and keep watch for me. Don’t turn around, do you understand me?” She obeyed him. He joined her quickly enough. Together they watched the fire in tense silence; then Roland rose and went outside. He said over his shoulder, “Stay still, and don’t look back at that scum.”

  He waited outside under the overhang until his legs began to cramp. He shook himself, slapped his hands over his arms, cursed the endless cold rain, and continued to wait.

  He heard a man’s soft tread. Myrddin was mumbling to himself, and it was obvious he wasn’t pleased. His Welsh was rough, yet still it was soft and lulling. “No game, nothing but rain, always rain, always rain.” He repeated his words over and over and Roland wondered if he was a lackwit.

  He waited, his dagger ready.

  Myrddin paused, sniffed the air, then bellowed, a terrifying sound that made Roland start, thus giving away his presence.

  “Bastard. Whoreson.” Myrddin was on him, swinging his heavy bow at his head. The man was enormous, stronger than Roland, but less skilled with weapons. But it didn’t seem to matter in the slogging rain. Roland slipped and fell heavily, then rolled quickly, hearing the dull thud of the bow come down on a rock too near where his head had been. Myrddin slipped, but he didn’t fall; he leaned sideways against an oak, pushed himself upright again, and this time he held a knife in his right hand.

  He should have left with Daria, Roland thought wildly, after he’d slit the other man’s throat. He’d been arrogant, much too sure of himself, and now, if he died, so would she, but not as cleanly or as quickly. Damn him for a fool.

  The man was backing him against the glistening wet boulders, tossing the knife from his right hand to his left and b
ack again. He was grinning.

  Roland watched his eyes, and the instant he saw him ready to throw the knife, he hurled himself sideways. He heard the hiss of the blade through the rain and then the dull thud as it struck a rock and bounced off. Myrddin yelled in fury and jumped at Roland, leaping at the last instant to come down hard on his back.

  His hands were around Roland’s throat and he was squeezing. Roland felt an instant of stark panic, then forced himself to think. Slowly, even as he began to feel light-headed, he eased his knife upward. But he knew it was too late, knew it . . . knew it . . . Oh, God, he didn’t want to die, not now . . .

  Suddenly, through rain-blurred eyes, he saw Daria standing over Myrddin. He watched, disbelieving, as she brought a heavy rock down on his head. Myrddin lurched back, looked up at her, then seemed to sigh as he fell sideways into a patch of stagnant water.

  Daria was on her knees beside him. “Roland, are you all right? Oh, your throat. Can you speak?”

  “I’m all right,” he said, his voice a harsh croak. “I’m all right.” Slowly he rubbed his fingers to his throat and shook his head back and forth. That had been too close, far too close, and he owed his life to a woman. A woman he fully planned to dispose of as he would a horse or household furnishings. He looked up at her face, white and washed clean of dirt by the thick sheets of rain. “Thank you,” he said. “Let’s leave this place.”

  They were riding in the heart of the Black Mountains, into the valley of the Afon Honddu.

  “It is naught but solitude,” Daria said, her voice hushed and awed at the stark desolation.

  Roland merely nodded, so tired he could scarce think. “Wait until you see Llanthony Abbey. It was founded over one hundred and fifty years ago by the lord of Hereford, but the monks had no desire for such stark isolation or, as they said it, to ‘sing to the wolves,’ and thus migrated to Gloucester. In any case, there are still some stouthearted monks who brave this bleak wilderness. They’ll take us in and we’ll sleep dry and warm this night.”