Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  Daria lowered her eyes. The old woman saw a lot even though she was becoming more and more vague. She didn’t necessarily see the right things, at least in this instance, but still, she didn’t want Ena announcing to the earl that the little mistress was all eager and impatient. The earl might well believe she’d released him from his oath and ravish her before the ceremony. Daria gave a restless gesture as Ena plaited in a final white daisy into her hair.

  Where was Roland? She felt the now-familiar fear that it was indeed only his destrier he’d come for. She was no longer important to him. He would no longer risk rescuing her. The coin wasn’t enough. He’d realized the earl was right. He would have no chance in any case. But how would the old beggar steal his destrier?

  “Yer veil, little mistress.”

  Veil. Daria stared at the thick gold circlet with its flowing gauzy veil. It would be hot. On the other hand, it would blur her vision. She wouldn’t be able to see the earl clearly; she could imagine and dream that—

  “Give it to me.”

  There was a knock on the chamber door. Before Daria could say anything, the door cracked open and two women entered, an older woman Daria didn’t recognize and a very young one that she did. They entered furtively and quickly, the older woman closing the door behind her.

  “What is this? What is it you wish?” The words were scarce out of Daria’s mouth when she felt his presence, and she jerked up, staring at the two.

  “Well,” the older woman said, her eyes lowered, “I come to tell ye, little mistress, that the earl’s telling all that he’s ready to tumble ye the instant the priest pronounces ye his bride.”

  “I’m ready,” Daria said, excitement filling her. By all the saints, was she ready. “Shall we take Ena with us?”

  The older woman shook her head. She looked toward Ena and said, “I need yer help, old witch.”

  “Who are ye calling an old witch,” Ena shrieked. “Here, now. What do ye want?”

  Daria watched Roland put his arm about Ena, pull her close, and then lightly smack his fist into her jaw. Ena crumpled to the floor. “Tie her up quickly, Daria. As you probably know, she’s defected to the earl’s camp. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

  The other woman was young Tilda, daughter of the castle blacksmith, all of fourteen years old and so beautiful that men stopped whatever they chanced to be doing to stare as she passed. She was a bit larger than Daria, her hair a bit lighter, but with the wedding finery, the veil—

  “She wishes it,” Roland said shortly before Daria could question him. “Quickly, out of those clothes whilst I tie up the old woman.”

  Within minutes Daria was arranging the veil over Tilda’s lovely face. The young girl was shaking with excitement, but Daria was worried. Cora was of peasant stock. What would the earl do to her when he discovered the deception?

  “Daria, quickly, put on your boy’s clothes. And braid all that damnable hair of yours.”

  “Ah, Roland, you are such a fussy mother.”

  He grinned at her. “Didn’t I fool you for the veriest instant?”

  She shook her head. “Not even when you smiled up at me as a miserable old beggar with rotted black teeth.”

  And he remembered that first time he saw her, that astonishment in her eyes as she’d stared at him, a priest, that knowledge, and he frowned. And she’d fainted, as if seeing him had affected her in some way that he couldn’t understand. But his disguises were foolproof. But then again, Daria wasn’t a fool. He shook himself, tied up the old woman, and shoved her under the bed. Then he stood guard at the door until Daria emerged and touched his arm. “I’m ready.”

  He turned and saw that she was smiling up at him, complete trust in her eyes, that and complete—There was something different about her, something—

  “Tilda, leave that veil on until you’re commanded by the earl to remove it. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded. She was happy. “Thank you, Tilda.” Daria gave her a quick hug, turned, and took Roland’s hand.

  “Keep your head down and don’t say anything.”

  “This sounds very familiar, Roland.”

  “I’m your damned mother, silly twit.”

  All the castle servants and retainers were outside the keep, for the day was hot and dry and the Earl of Clare had provided kegs of ale and more food than most of the people saw for a year. There was much merriment and shouting and wild jests. She didn’t see the earl.

  “Aye,” Roland said to a soldier who offered him a goblet of ale and asked him what he was about. “Just look ye at the little fiend. Trying to peep at the earl’s bride, he was. I’ll strip off his hide, the little impertinence.”

  And on and on his charade progressed, as Roland, confident as the pope himself, made his way through the throngs of people, initiating conversation with some, and thus making Daria’s heart jump into her throat, and insulting the soldiers with friendly motherly taunts.

  They made it to the gates. Arthur, the porter, was grinning widely, showing the wide space between his two front teeth. He was holding a mug of ale in his beefy hand and he waved them through without a look, without a question.

  Daria pulled on his woman’s sleeve. “Your horse. Cantor.”

  Roland turned at that and gave her a ferocious frown. “Hush.”

  Once they were without the castle walls, Roland took her hand and pulled her into a brisk walk.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “A mother is supposed to protect her son. Keep your tongue behind your teeth.”

  “But, Roland, you’ve left Cantor.”

  “Not for very long.”

  “Oh. The earl said you’d surely come for your destrier, but not—”

  “But not for you?”

  “That’s what I thought as well until I saw you yesterday, and then I prayed that perhaps you would also take me.”

  “You forget, Daria, there is much coin awaiting me at Reymerstone. If I allowed the earl to wed you, I wouldn’t gain a penny.”

  She felt a stab of pain so intense it nearly choked her. “I am still only a valuable bundle to you, to be delivered and then forgotten.”

  “You also left me to rot in the charge of that vicious leech and that officious woman Romila. At least you didn’t steal all my coin or I would have had to pay Romila with my poor man’s body. Old enough to be my mother, and she wanted me to bed her. I had to beg her for my clothes.”

  “I don’t believe you. Romila told me how to deal with you and—I tried to save you. And I did.”

  “You will weave your tales later, once we are far from Tyberton. Cease your chatter now and walk. I’ve a horse in that copse.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Why, to see the King and Queen of England, of course.”

  Edward and Eleanor stared at the older woman who was chewing on a stick, her sagging breasts thrust forward in her slovenly gown, her duty hand firmly around the young boy’s arm.

  “Well, here he is, sire. All full of himself and crowing like a peacock once I told him the king wanted to see him.”

  Edward just shook his head and started to laugh. The queen looked at him oddly and said, “I don’t understand, my lord, is this—?”

  “Aye, it’s our Roland, an old shrew, with her son.”

  “Your highness,” Roland said in his deep voice, and bowed to the queen. “And this is Daria, daughter of James of Fortescue, and niece of Damon Le Mark, Earl of Reymerstone. This is my second rescue of the lady and, I profoundly pray, the final one. The Earl of Clare desires her mightily.”

  Daria was overwhelmed. She started to speak but discovered that she had only a stutter. She gave an awkward curtsy in her boy’s clothes.

  “Your father was a fine man, Daria,” the king said warmly. “We miss him sorely. As for you, I salute your disguise, Roland. I shouldn’t want you in my bed, however.”

  “I don’t know,” Eleanor said thoughtfully. “She appears to me a fine woman, such experience
of men she shows in her eyes, my lord husband. Save for that dark stubble on her jaws, I vow I’d confide in her on the instant.”

  Roland grinned at the queen, whose sweetness of expression rivaled her beauty and whose belly, he saw, was swelled yet again with another babe. “I thank you both for taking us in. I should like to resume my manhood and, your highness, if young Daria here could resume her gowns and ribbons?”

  “Certainly,” the queen said, and lightly clapped her hands together. “Come, child.”

  It was later in the afternoon when Daria saw Roland again. He was in men’s clothes again and looked so beautiful she wanted to run to him and fling him to the ground. She wanted to kiss him and stroke him and tell him how much she loved him. He was speaking, however, to several of the king’s soldiers, and she contented herself for the moment just looking at him. When one of the soldiers took himself off, she approached him and lightly touched her fingertip to his sleeve. He turned to look down at her and froze. Her look was intimate; there was no other way to describe it. And tender and—loving.

  He took a step backward.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” she said happily. “Do you think the earl has wedded Tilda yet? You don’t think he’ll harm her, do you?”

  Roland shook his head. “I do think he’ll bed her, though, and make her his mistress. She’s a beautiful girl.”

  “You aren’t objective; you are, after all, her mother. Are you well now, Roland? I was so worried about you and I didn’t know what to do when the stableman told me of the men asking about Cantor.”

  “So that’s what happened,” he said. “I didn’t know, couldn’t understand, why you’d left so suddenly and with no word to anyone. I tried to search for you but managed only to get down the stairs and collapse again.”

  Her fingers tightened on his arm, caressing him now, and he frowned. “Daria, what is the matter with you?”

  She realized what she was doing and in the same instant realized that he had no idea why she was doing it. She looked at him hungrily, then quickly released his arm and turned away from him. “Naught is wrong. What will happen now? How do you know the king and queen? They seem to be your friends. I heard someone say that we were traveling to Tyberton tomorrow. How can that be true? The earl will—”

  He gently touched his fingertips to her mouth. “Trust me,” he said. “All will be well and I will have my destrier back. And you will soon be on your way back to Reymerstone.”

  Her expression became stony, but he ignored it, turning away from her.

  That evening, Queen Eleanor, having correctly judged Daria’s feelings by simply asking her how she felt about Roland de Tournay, imputed similar feelings to Roland, for, after all, the girl was wealthy, quite lovely, and—The queen smiled, saying to Roland as she sipped at her sweet Aquitaine wine, “Do you wish to be wedded before you arrive at Tyberton, just to ensure that the earl won’t scream down our royal ears?”

  Roland dropped the braised rib to his trencher. He looked first to Daria, saw that she was staring open-mouthed at the queen, and said quickly, “Your highness, I plan to return Daria to her uncle. It was a mission I accepted. I vowed I would return her to him a maid and otherwise unharmed. There is no question of marriage between us. I fear you have misunderstood the situation.”

  Eleanor cocked her head to one side in question as she turned to the king. Edward looked grave. “It’s you I don’t understand, Roland. You are my friend and you are a man of honor. It’s true you accepted the mission to rescue Daria, but all of that has changed now. You changed it when you—well, never mind that now. You must realize that you can no longer return Daria to anyone, not now. You have a responsibility toward her. She is a lady, Roland, your lady.”

  Roland felt mired in confusion. He opened his mouth, but a servant appeared to fill the royal flagons with more sweet wine. Roland curbed his questions until the young man bowed his way out of the royal tent.

  “I don’t know what is happening here,” Roland said, staring directly at Daria now. “She is my responsibility. I readily acknowledge it and accept that she will continue to be so until I return her to her uncle.”

  Daria was in her turn staring from the king to the queen and back again. They wanted Roland to wed her? All because she had confided in the queen that she loved him? Love had naught to do with anything. Even she knew that, not when it involved a dowry the size of hers.

  But they fully expected Roland to wed her. Why?

  She cleared her throat, saying before the king, whose complexion had reddened, could interrupt, “Nay, your highness, it’s not for me to beg Roland to become my husband. It’s true I am passing fond of him, but that has naught to do with anything. Pray do not make him feel sorry because I told you of my feelings for him. He’s not responsible for my feelings. He will do as he pleases; as for me, I will try to dissuade him from returning me to my uncle. Perchance I shall have to smash his head and escape him.” As an attempt at wit, it failed utterly.

  “But, my dear child,” the queen began, only to stop when the king said coldly, “Roland, you cannot be lost to all honor, surely you must realize—” He paused as the queen lightly closed her fingers over his. She whispered something to him. His eyes narrowed, then sparkled.

  Eleanor looked at Daria. She said in a very gentle voice, “Did you not tell him, my dear?”

  Roland jumped to his feet. “This goes beyond all bounds. Tell me what, by all the saints?”

  “Quiet, Roland,” the king said.

  Daria wanted to jump up and yell as loudly as Roland. What was happening here? “I don’t understand, your highness. If you mean have I told him that I care for him, nay, I haven’t. He wouldn’t want to hear such words from me.”

  “Damnation, Daria. What are you mumbling about? What do you mean, I wouldn’t care?”

  The king leaned over and buffeted Roland’s shoulder. “You’re a virile warrior, as potent in bed as you are on the battlefield, Roland, and now you’ll have yourself a wife. Don’t struggle further against your fate. It’s about time, I think. The queen and I will act as godparents, and you—”

  “Virile? What is this, what are you—?” His voice fell off abruptly and he stared at Daria. Her face was washed of color now, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated, her hands tight fists in her lap. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me now or I will haul you outside and beat you senseless.”

  “Roland.”

  “She will tell me what is happening here.” But he knew, indeed he knew what she would say, and it sickened him to his very soul.

  “She is with child,” the queen said.

  Roland couldn’t comprehend her words even though he knew they were the words she would speak. With child. “By all the saints, whose child?”

  Daria only shook her head, but the queen knew no reticence. Her voice was sharp. “Yours, naturally, Roland.”

  “Mine? But that isn’t possible. I never—” Again he stopped. All became clear to him. The earl had had two months to ravish her, and doubtless he had whenever he’d wished to. God, the girl was pregnant with the Earl of Clare’s babe. He felt a wrenching pain in his gut. He felt a spurt of hatred so strong for the man he nearly choked on it. And Daria hadn’t told him, hadn’t even hinted at it, damn her. He wanted to strike her; he wanted to yell and strike himself. Instead, he drew a deep breath and said to the king, “If you would forgive us for a moment, sire, I would like to speak to Daria in private. As you and the queen have guessed, I hadn’t realized any of this. She hadn’t told me a thing. Daria, come outside.”

  She obeyed him instantly, her head down, pale as death, the queen thought, watching the couple leave the tent, as if she were going to her execution.

  The king stared after the man he’d known for six years, the man who’d worked for him tirelessly in the Holy Land, risking his life with every breath he took, with every word he spoke in Arabic, the man he trusted with his life.

  He turned to his wife. “There is so
me sort of problem here, Eleanor?”

  The queen looked as confused as her spouse. “I didn’t mention her pregnancy to her, Edward; the child isn’t a wife, after all, and I had no wish to embarrass her. I assumed she knew she was with child, assumed that Roland was her lover. She conceived the child about two months ago, I’d say. It’s very odd. She didn’t know she was with child. Evidently she’d known no illness, no vomiting.”

  “Not so very odd,” the King said. He leaned over and kissed his wife. He laid his hand on her swelled belly. “Do you not remember our first babe, Eleanor? One of your women who suggested to you that you might be with child. You didn’t know, hadn’t guessed.”

  “You’re right, dear lord. By the saints, whatever will we do? I had no idea both of them were ignorant of the fact.”

  “They will wed, as is fitting. They are both of the proper rank, they are both young and of good health, and you said the girl cares for him.”

  “She loves him.”

  The king waved that consideration away. “Roland will come about. He has no choice and he isn’t a cruel man or an unjust one. She is a lady and he will wed her. She is also an heiress, and she will bring him sufficient dowry to buy the land and keep he wishes in Cornwall. A good solution. I’ve worried about him and his future. In the near future I might even raise him to the rank of his sour-natured brother, the Earl of Blackheath.”

  The queen was chewing over the more romantic side of the situation. “The girl loves him more than—why, I cannot think of a good comparison, my lord, save to say that she loves Roland de Tournay as much as I do you, husband.”

  “Ah, well, that is sufficient, I should think,” the king said, and sat back in his chair with satisfaction.

  Outside the tent, Roland saw the several dozen soldiers posted around the royal tent and knew that he must contain his anger. He jerked her along with him, feeling her resistance. At the perimeter of the royal encampment, he paused and turned to her. Words and curses and confusion all whirled about in his mind, but he contented himself with, “Speak, Daria.”