Daria nearly groaned aloud. Another month. She wanted to turn her face to the wall and sleep through that month.
“Now, my dear,” the queen continued, “one of my ladies is bringing you some food. You must always eat slowly, and just a little. I will leave you now with your husband. He is as pale as you are, he was so frightened for you.”
Roland looked as if he would protest, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He had been afraid, it was true. He thanked the queen, accepted food from Damaris, and returned to his wife. She looked small and weak, lying there on her back, her arms limp at her sides, her eyes closed. Her thick braided hair looked damp with sweat, dull and heavy.
“Daria,” he said. “Come, sit up and I will give you some food. Just a little, but you will do as the queen says.”
“Please go away, Roland. Please. I don’t want to eat, ever again, as long as I live.”
“You must. If you don’t, the babe will starve.”
That was true, and she sighed. “All right, leave the food and you go away.”
“Why? I’ve seen men vomit until they turned as white as a woman’s belly. It is no reason for you to feel embarrassed, Daria. Come now and eat. I must return shortly to the king. He demands to be foremost in all his people’s thoughts. He’ll forgive me this lapse, but only this time.”
She obeyed because she knew him well enough to realize that once Roland made up his mind to do something, he wouldn’t bend or change it. She wanted to feed herself, but gave that up. She felt too weak.
He sat beside her, feeding her small chunks of white bread, dipping some of them into the meat gravy. And he spoke to distract her. “My destrier has grown fat and lazy, but I don’t despair. Once we are in Cornwall I will work him until he is lean again.” He wiped a trickle of gravy off her chin with his finger. He paused, then said, a touch of resentment in his voice, “The king has meddled again. He fears that your uncle will roast my body over live coals if I go to Reymerstone to announce my marriage to you and demand your dowry. Thus, the king will send Burnell and a dozen of his men to do the dirty work for me.”
She felt such relief at this news she wanted to shout to the rafters with it. She knew Roland wouldn’t like that, so said instead, “You wanted to see my uncle?” She looked both appalled and surprised. “You looked forward to confronting him?” She couldn’t imagine anyone actually wishing to be in her uncle’s presence. His sarcasm, his cruelty, his viciousness. She shuddered unconsciously.
“He won’t hurt you again, so cease trembling when you speak of him. Aye, I wanted to see his face and dare him to gainsay me.” Roland gave a heartfelt sigh. “A pity, but what can I do? Edward must interfere, curse him. He enjoys playing the great mediator. In any case, you and I and several of the king’s men will travel to Cornwall whilst poor Burnell travels east to Reymerstone. I have spoken to each of the men, and they wish to join my service. They have families in Cornwall, wish to return there, and the king, since he is wallowing in his peacemaking, won’t be offended.”
Daria felt much better. The food settled in her stomach and she felt her strength returning. She finally looked at Roland. “Cornwall? You have family there? Your brother? We go to them?”
He shook his head. “Nay, my brother and all the family are near to York, in the northeast.” He paused a moment and looked past her, seeing something she couldn’t see, something that pleased him, something he wanted very much. “It’s a beautiful old keep called Thispen-Ladock, owned by a man named Sir Thomas Ladock. It’s not all that large and impressive, but Sir Thomas has no son or grandson. He has promised to sell it to me.
“The area around the keep is scarcely peopled. I want to build and charter a town and bring tradesmen there and farmers and blacksmiths.” He broke off suddenly and closed his mouth. “I speak too freely.” And too passionately, he added to himself.
“We will leave on the morrow.”
“As you will,” she said.
He rose. “I must return to the king to see what other pleasures he’s planned for me. How is your stomach?”
“I’m fine now.”
He stood there frowning down at her. “Will you be able to travel?”
Was there another choice? she wondered. Would he leave her here? Drop her in a ditch somewhere? “Aye, I’ll be fine.”
He looked at her a moment longer, feeling uncertain, feeling guilt that she would have to travel, feeling resentment that he would have to go slowly so she wouldn’t become too ill.
He said from the doorway, “Sleep now. I won’t bother you tonight. I will go to argue with the king once again, but I don’t think he will change his mind. He is the most stubborn man in all of England. He insists that someone will try to slit my throat unless I go directly to Cornwall, and he doesn’t want that to happen until after I have sired my first—” His voice disappeared in a low curse. He was silent as death, and so was she. “We will leave early, if it pleases you.”
She wondered, once he’d gone, what he would have done if she’d told him it didn’t please her at all. So the king believed her a liar as well. It didn’t particularly surprise her. He was a man, after all. Her stomach twisted suddenly and she tensed. Then her muscles eased again. She fell asleep still clothed and dreamed of her mother, abused by her uncle. What was she to do about her mother? Then she knew. She would ask Roland to allow Robert Burnell to bring her mother to her.
13
The morning air was thick with fog. Daria, bundled to her chin in one of her winter cloaks, waited silently for Roland to finish speaking to the king.
She’d already said good-bye to the queen, kissing Eleanor’s hand as she curtsied deeply and thanking her with great sincerity for her care and advice. The queen had even prepared a large vial of the herb drink should she become ill again.
“You will be patient with Roland,” the queen had said, hugging her, wishing she could spare her pain but knowing that she couldn’t. She would pray that the babe closely resembled Roland; there was naught else she could do. “He is a proud man, loyal, and sound in judgment save, it appears, in the matters of the heart. I heard it said that once, many years before, he gave his heart to a girl who betrayed him. I know no more than that. My lord told me that, saying that Roland had been miserably unhappy at the time, and had confided only that much.” She looked smug as she said that, pleased that her husband, King of England though he be, was faithful to her and only to her. Daria nearly burst out that the girl had been Joan of Tenesby, but she held her tongue. Roland wouldn’t thank her to tell his secrets.
The queen added, “When you arrive in Cornwall I hope you will visit St. Erth Castle. It is where my lord’s daughter lives with her husband, Dienwald de Fortenberry. Philippa is a sweet but spirited child and plants gray hairs in her husband’s head. It will be your husband’s decision, of course, to select where you will reside until he has managed to purchase this keep of his.”
“He just told me of Thispen-Ladock last evening.”
The queen said comfortably, “Worry not that he is closemouthed. He isn’t in the habit of confiding in others. Roland will come to tell you many things before long. I am pleased the earl did not resist returning the clothing and household goods that you were carrying to Colchester when he abducted you. You and your Roland will be finely prepared once you move into your new keep.”
Daria glanced back now, seeing that the pack mules disappeared into the fog, so thick it was. She did bring Roland many things for his new keep. She didn’t bring him only herself. No, indeed, she brought him more coin than he needed, and rich furnishings, for at the time he was planning for her to wed with Colchester, her uncle’s pride had been at stake. She remembered Roland’s sour look at the sight of all the goods half an hour before. She’d wanted to slap him when he said, “I feel like a greedy merchant, traveling about with all my wares. Mayhap I can sell some of this to Graelam.”
“The goods are mine,” she’d said instead, so furious she was pale with it. “Don’t you dare speak of selling
what is mine. Some of the materials were stitched by my own mother.”
He had looked up at her then, astride her mare, and he’d smiled and said, “Nay, sweet wife, you have nothing now. Did you not understand? All you have is a claim to my name and protection, and were I you, Daria, I would believe that both had a very hollow ring. All this rubbish, well, I shall do exactly as I please with it.” He’d turned away from her then to speak to the men.
At least her belly was calm this morning, for she’d drunk some sweet goat’s milk and eaten a piece of soft white bread. For that she was thankful. She allowed herself to know some excitement. After all, regardless of what Roland said or did, she was beginning a new life, one she hadn’t known would exist such a short time before.
“Are you ready, Daria?”
She gave him a temperate smile. “Thank you for getting Henrietta for me,” she said, patting her mare’s neck as she spoke. She realized then that Roland wasn’t looking at her, rather he was testing and pulling at the straps on her saddle. He looked up at her now as he also stroked her mare’s neck, his fingers touching hers. “Your Henrietta is as fat as Cantor. No matter, both of them will be strong and lean within the week. You will tell me if you feel ill.”
“Yes.”
He lightly touched his hand to her thigh, nodded, and strode to the head of their small cavalcade. Daria turned and waved toward the keep. The queen, in her endless kindness, was very likely still gazing at her from one of the castle windows. She waved even as they rode from the inner bailey of Tyberton. At the last moment, she turned again, and her eyes met the Earl of Clare’s. There was no expression on his face; but his eyes—she flinched at the fury she saw in them. She shook off the bolt of panic she felt. After all, he had nothing more to do with her life. He couldn’t harm her now. He couldn’t strike her ever again. And, after all, if he hadn’t abducted her, hadn’t brought her to Tyberton, well then, she would never have met Roland. The vagaries of fate were something to think about.
The fog burned off within three hours and the day grew warm. Much to the men’s surprise, Roland called a halt. He gave them no explanation, merely rode to where Daria sat her mare and pulled his destrier in beside her. He said nothing, just looked at her.
“Would you like to rest for a few minutes? Relieve yourself?”
She nodded.
“Which? Or both?”
She gave him a look and simply nodded again. He laughed, dismounted his horse, and clasped her about her waist, lifting her from her mare’s back. “Are you certain you don’t miss the old woman? I could send one of my men back to Tyberton for her if you wish it.”
“Nay, she frightens me now. I think she is mad. The earl won’t harm her.”
“Very well. There will likely be a willing wench to assist you once we reach Thispen-Ladock. Tell me when you are ready to leave again.” He turned away to leave her in privacy.
Daria remembered the old woman’s mumblings of the previous evening when she’d slipped into the bedchamber. She didn’t cease shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth, as if she had no control over her own movement. “He’s not an earl,” Ena had said in her scratchy old voice, plucking up her skirts and shaking her head again. “He’s a rogue, not to be trusted, at least not with you, little mistress.”
“That’s nonsense and I’ll be pleased to hear no more from you.” The old woman merely scowled at her and took herself out of the bedchamber. Daria sighed. Just moments later, Ena had slipped back into the chamber and called out, her voice even more shrill, “Not even an earl, and yet ye wedded him. Shame on ye, little mistress. Ye jest wanted a pretty face. Now, the Earl of Clare—he was a fine man—a bit rough, but it is as a man should be, not all kind and soft like yer pretty priest—”
Daria shut out the memory of Ena’s words. She turned and walked back to the horses. She wanted to sit beneath a tree and lean back and close her eyes, but she knew that Roland was likely pacing in his wish to be gone. She stretched, lightly touched her fingers to her flat belly. “I’m ready, Roland,” she called out.
But it was Salin, a seasoned warrior of some thirty-odd years, who came to lift her onto Henrietta’s back. His face was intelligent and ugly, his hair thick and dark brown, curling around his large ears. He looked fierce and mean, but his voice was gentle.
“If you wish to stop again, mistress, you have but to call out to me.”
“Thank you, Salin.”
As she rode behind her husband, their pace slow and steady, Daria thought back to what Ena said once Daria had convinced the old woman to tell her what had happened to Tilda after she and Roland had left her in Daria’s place.
“It was a pity,” the old woman said. “Aye, a rare pity, and the earl struck her hard, not on her face, for even he thought her beautiful, but he smashed his fist in her chest and cracked a rib, I think, by the screeches from the little slut. He knew it wasn’t you, oh aye, right away he knew, and he struck her. The priest—a little worm with no guts—he said naught, merely stood there wringing his dirty hands. The earl then pulled the girl from the great hall and dragged her to his bedchamber. Her cries were loud, and then there was nothing.” Ena had spit then, a habit Daria hadn’t noticed before. “She deserved it, of course, the little harlot. You should never have left, little mistress. The earl wouldn’t have struck you.”
Daria felt bile rise in her throat. She’d been so unthinking, so selfish, and all the while that poor girl was lying somewhere within the castle walls in pain.
“Aye, then the earl told her—leastwise that’s what I heard one of his men saying—if she pleased him, he’d keep her. One of the women bandaged her ribs for her. I hid and he forgot about me,” Ena added, her voice filled with her own cunning.
Daria felt the shift in the air. The hot summer breeze had cooled considerably, and black clouds were gathering overhead. It would rain, just as it had in Wales. She realized she viewed the coming rain with little dread, so used to the wet Welsh days and nights she’d become during that short week with Roland. But the endless rain had made Roland ill. Her brow furrowed with worry for him.
“What is wrong, Daria?”
She smiled at him, unable not to even though his voice was cool at best. “It will rain, and I was remembering Wales.” Her frown reappeared. “I was remembering that you sickened in all that rain.”
“It wasn’t the rain that sickened me.”
She cocked her head to one side in question.
“I gave you my last tunic and thus wore a damp one for three days. The wet sank into my chest.”
“You shouldn’t have given me the tunic.”
“Probably not, but I did. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
He rode beside her, silent now. But she felt the tension building up in him. She waited for his attack, knowing it was coming. Finally he said, “Why did you become ill so suddenly? You said you’d felt nothing before, no sickness of any kind, nothing at all. I don’t understand how it could strike you with no warning, and then only after you learned you carried a babe.”
“I wondered that as well. The queen said it was probably because I’d been so worried, so drawn into myself with other matters. Once I knew about the babe, once I’d accepted it and recognized its presence, then my body acted as it should.”
He only nodded. It would be foolish of him to begin an argument about what the queen herself had said. “There’s a Cistercian abbey about three miles ahead. We will beg shelter there for the night.”
The abbey was as old as the gnarled oaks that circled its perimeter. Jagged shards of stone were falling from the walls to lie on the fallow ground. When a brother appeared at the front gate, Roland dismounted and spoke to him. Within minutes another came and motioned Daria to follow him. She looked at Roland, but he only nodded to her. The brother led her to a separate building well apart from the main abbey. It was gray and forbidding, low-roofed, its stone walls jagged and crumbling. They walked through a narrow damp corridor
with a rough earthen floor to a small cold cell-chamber. It was more than dismal, it was miserably cold, and Daria found she couldn’t stop shivering. Dinner was brought to her by another cowled brother, who said nothing at all to her. Her dinner consisted of a thin broth and hard black bread.
She looked at the broth with its layer of grease congealed on the top, felt her stomach churn, and turned away to sit on the edge of the cot. The straw in the thin mattress was molded and damp and poked upward. She moved, but there was little relief.
Daria was hungry and cold and thoroughly miserable. Did God want women to be treated so poorly? Was that why they were shunted to dismal cells like these and hidden away? Were women to be punished for some reason she hadn’t been taught?
She fell to shivering again, only to look up and see the congealed soup in front of her. Her stomach pitched, for she imagined herself sipping at that disgusting soup, and to her dismay, she heaved up the lunch she’d eaten earlier in the afternoon, barely reaching the cracked earthen pot in time. Her knees throbbed with pain, for she’d skidded on the hard dirt floor in her rush to get to the pot. She remained on her knees, her arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to breathe shallow breaths, to think of other things, to distract herself. In her mind’s eye, she saw the farmer who’d helped her and Roland and she saw him horribly mutilated from the torture the Earl of Clare had inflicted on him. The cramps returned with a vengeance, and she retched and retched, her body shuddering with the effort, and she was trembling with weakness.
“Where is the vial the queen gave you?”
Daria didn’t look up. She didn’t know why he’d come. She wished he hadn’t. She wanted to be alone and she wanted to die, by herself. She wanted no onlookers. She started to answer, but another spasm took her and she was beyond speech and thought for many moments.
Roland felt real fear in those moments, watching her shudder and heave with sickness, more fear than he’d felt the previous evening when she’d been ill. He said to Salin, who stood behind him, “Bring some water and clean cloths. Aye, and some decent food, some hot broth.” He snorted at the soup on the tray. “If I had to eat that disgusting swill, I would vomit my guts up too. If the brothers say anything amiss, break their necks.”
Secret Song Page 19
