Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  She felt his hands on her shoulders then and she tried to straighten, to show that she had some pride left, but all she could do was hang her head and tremble and shake, weak as an autumn leaf.

  “Come,” he said, and efficiently lifted her into his arms. Rather than laying her onto the narrow cot, he sat on the cot and held her on his lap. “This damned bed is harder than a moss-scraped rock in Wales.” Then he paused a moment, feeling the chill of the room.

  Roland frowned. She couldn’t remain here; she would sicken. The abbot had assured him that his wife would be fine, the lying whoreson. What to do? The abbey had such strict rules about females. Did they believe that the sight of a woman would make all the brothers mad with lust?

  He felt Daria twist in his arms with another cramp. He held her more loosely, rocking her, telling her it would be all right, soon she would feel better. She quieted and he drew her more closely to his chest. She was shivering violently, and he cursed softly.

  “I’ll fetch you the queen’s medicine now.” He laid her on the cot and rose over her. She looked so pale it frightened him. And thin. He supposed he’d be thin too if he vomited all he ate. He shook his head and set himself to looking through her packets. He’d just given her some of the herb medicine when Salin returned.

  Daria saw the look on the older man’s face. His eyes were filled with pity. She hated it. She turned away, facing the wall.

  “You will lie still for a few minutes, Daria, then eat. I don’t want the broth to cool. Salin, I wish to speak to you outside.”

  “One of the brothers told me the chamber’s a punishment cell,” Salin said matter-of-factly when they were alone. “It’s used only when one of the brothers commits a sin. He’s whipped, then forced to remain in one of these chambers for several hours, never for an entire night. He would probably have to murder someone to be forced to do that. And as you now know, the chamber is also used for females who have the misfortune of needing to stop here for the night. Your lady will become truly ill if she remains in there.”

  “Punishment cell,” Roland repeated blankly.

  “Aye, I asked one of the brothers when you left. He said your wife would sicken but good if you left her here.”

  “It’s raining,” Roland said.

  “Aye.”

  “It’s their abbey and we can’t break their rules, no matter how miserable they are. However, since I can’t take her back to the main building, then I shall have to remain here. Fetch me all the extra blankets you can find. And, Salin, say nothing to our hosts.”

  The older man merely nodded and took his leave. Roland returned to his wife, who still lay on her side facing the grim rough stone wall, her legs drawn up. She hadn’t vomited for a while, a good sign, he hoped.

  “Now some broth, Daria.”

  Her only reply was a groan, but he didn’t hear it. When she didn’t move, he drew her up in his arms and fed her the broth very slowly, watching her expression.

  She finally opened her eyes and looked at him, wonder in hers. “I feel just fine now. It is so very odd, this illness. I want to die and then I want to conquer a new land.”

  “No fights for you this night. I will remain here with you. If it weren’t raining, I would stay outside these dismal ruins, but as it is, we must be glad for the shelter.”

  He continued to feed her and was relieved when the color began to return to her cheeks.

  When Salin returned, his arms piled high with blankets, Daria began to smile. Then she giggled, for only his fierce dark eyes showed over the blankets, and Roland, so surprised at the unexpected sound, grinned at her.

  He said to Salin, “See that all the men settle in, and don’t let any of them do anything to annoy the brothers. If any of the brothers are bothersome, ignore them. The saints know we wouldn’t want any of the monks punished and sent here to share the cell with us.”

  Roland doused the single candle not many moments later. He lay on his side on the miserably uncomfortable cot and drew Daria against him, feeling her press her bottom against his belly. He bore most of the weight of the blankets. Without thinking, he lightly kissed Daria’s ear. “Sleep well,” he said, and pulled her even more tightly back against his chest and into the curve of his body.

  Daria whispered, “Do you ever snore, Roland? Not just soft sounds, but snorting and blowing like a horse?”

  “I don’t know. You will tell me.”

  “You should have to sleep in the same room with Ena. It is a torture in itself. She was once married, you know, many years ago. My mother told me that her husband left her because of the noises she made. He said it wasn’t worth having the woman’s body if he had to suffer along with it the sounds made by a pig and a horse.”

  Roland hugged her and she pushed her bottom more firmly against his belly. “Don’t do that,” he said, his voice sharp with sudden pain. “Don’t.”

  She felt his hard sex and held herself perfectly still. She didn’t want him to humiliate her as he had on their wedding night. The memory of it brought back the pain of his anger, the pain of the shame he’d made her feel. She shook her head even as the thoughts twisted through her mind. She would forget that night. He’d been frustrated and angry and taken it out on her. He’d been kind to her since then. On the heels of those thoughts, Daria wondered if women always sought to excuse men when they behaved badly.

  Roland woke her immediately the following morning at dawn. The rain had stopped during the night but the sun was hidden behind thick gray clouds.

  He was on the point of rolling off the cot, taking Daria with him, when he remembered her condition, and said quickly, “Don’t move. Just lie there for a few minutes.” He came up on his elbow and looked down at her face in the dim morning light. “How is your belly this morning?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I must go now, but you lie here until Salin brings you some warm milk to drink and some bread.”

  He eased off the cot, then rose to stand there. She grabbed his sleeve and he turned back to look down at her.

  “Thank you, Roland. You are very kind.”

  His voice was stiff as his back after a night on the sorry cot. “You are my wife. I don’t wish you to be ill.”

  “Even though you believe it is another man’s babe I carry?”

  “Don’t be bitter, Daria, you have no reason. Rest now, I will see you in a while.”

  Her stomach remained calm throughout the day. Roland drew their company to a halt every couple of hours, as if he knew almost to the minute when she needed to relieve herself or stretch her back and walk about.

  That evening the sky was clear and Roland decided to bypass another abbey whose grim silhouette against the evening sky made even Salin grimace.

  “We will camp in that copse of maple trees,” he said, and it was done.

  He didn’t hold her that night, for it was warm and only a mild breeze sifted through the maple leaves overhead. Daria missed him, but she said nothing.

  Two days later they mounted a rise, and in the distance Daria saw a beautiful Norman castle, its crenellated towers rising proud and strong above the thick stone walls.

  “This is Graelam de Moreton’s castle, Wolffeton. We will remain here until I have made our keep ready. His lady’s name is Kassia.”

  “The queen thought you would bring me to St. Erth.”

  He merely shook his head. “You will doubtless meet Dienwald and Philippa, but we will stay here for a time.”

  Daria looked around her. She loved Cornwall; it was savage and bleak and desolate, and it awakened all her senses, the stiff breeze from the sea ruffling her hair, its scent clean and salty. It wasn’t a lonely place despite the barren desolation. It warmed her, this region, and she knew it as home.

  “Is your keep far from here, Roland?”

  “Nay, not far.” He watched her breathe in deeply. “You don’t mind the ruggedness of this place?”

  “Oh, no, not at all, truly.”

  “Good, since
it will be your home.”

  And she was pleased about that. He saw that she was pleased and wondered at the pleasure and anger it made him feel, both at the same time.

  Unfortunately, she was doomed to meet the lord and lady of Wolffeton with her eyes closed and her belly heaving, for no sooner had Roland helped her down from Henrietta’s back in the inner bailey of Wolffeton than she was vilely ill. She heard a man’s deep voice and a woman’s higher one, filled with concern and gentleness. She turned her face into Roland’s shoulder and heard him whisper, “Don’t be embarrassed. Kassia will see to your comfort.”

  Not ten minutes later, Daria was alone in a spacious chamber filled with bright light from three window slits, its stone floor covered with a supple wool rug from Flanders. The bed upon which she lay was so soft she sighed with delight, able to ignore her churning belly for a few moments.

  She heard the woman say to her, “If you are ill again, the chamber pot is right here. Roland tells me you have some potion from the queen herself. Your husband is fetching it for you.”

  The woman said nothing more until Daria, her stomach eased, opened her eyes and managed to smile.

  “My name is Kassia and I’m pleased that Roland has wedded and that you will remain with us for a while. And you are with child. How very fortunate you are. My own babe is but a month old. His name is Harry and he looks just like his dark-eyed warrior of a father. It’s not fair, but of course Graelam merely grins and says he is the stronger and thus his son must resemble him in all ways.”

  “It is good that he looks like his father,” Daria said. “The child is lucky as well. His father will acknowledge him.”

  Kassia de Moreton, lady of Wolffeton, thought this a rather odd thing to say. She cocked her head to one side in silent question. The young woman lying on her back, her face as pale as the white wimple that covered Kassia’s hair, said nothing more. Her lips had become thin and Kassia worried that she would be ill again.

  But Daria wasn’t ill; her thoughts were bleak. She wanted to cry, but that solved naught. She could see her mother weeping silently, her hands covering her face, weeping that meant nothing to anyone, and certainly never changed anything.

  “Would you like some warm ale, Daria?”

  She forced a smile to her lips. “Aye, and I thank you.”

  “Please, call me Kassia.”

  Later, downstairs in Wolffeton’s great hall, Kassia de Moreton said to her husband, “What do you make of all this, my lord?”

  “Of Roland and his new wife? Why, I should like to see her when her face isn’t green and when she isn’t clutching her belly.”

  “She is with child.”

  “Aye, Roland told me. Odd, the way he said it. Not the way a man should, I don’t think.”

  “You mean, my lord, he didn’t begin to strut about like a smug cock with his announcement?”

  But Graelam didn’t return her humor with his own. He shook his head, looking thoughtful. “Something is amiss. Do you mind keeping the girl here whilst Roland travels to his keep—rather the keep he will soon own?”

  “Not at all.”

  Later in the afternoon, Daria, embarrassed at her illness, emerged from the chamber feeling as wonderful as she had when Roland had become her husband. She was walking down the winding stone stairs when she met him coming up. She stood on the step above him.

  He said nothing for a few moments, studying her face.

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. This illness is so unpredictable.”

  He remained silent. Then he stepped up onto the step with her, pressing her against the stone wall. He felt the length of her legs, her soft belly, her breasts flattening against his chest. He raised his hand and absently began caressing the line of her jaw.

  Daria began to tremble. She couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, wishing he would close his arms around her, wishing he would kiss her and tell her that he’d missed her and wanted her. “Roland,” she said.

  Roland said nothing.

  He continued to stroke her jaw with his callused fingertip. When she unconsciously leaned her face against his hand, he withdrew, turned, and left her. He called over his shoulder, “If you are well enough, there is food for you in the great hall.”

  The main meal of the day at Wolffeton Castle was served in the late afternoon. The sun still shone outside, for it was deep summer. The hall was filled with laughter and jesting and howls of outraged humor.

  Daria sat beside her husband, picking at her food. The herring was delicious, she knew it, but she was afraid to eat because she didn’t want to become ill again, at least not today.

  She heard Lord Graelam speaking to Roland about the king and his grandiose plans for castle-building in Wales. “So he is now visiting all the Marcher Barons. Eating them down to bare granaries and assessing their strength. Edward has always employed sound strategies.”

  Kassia turned to her new guest. “Try eating some of this soft bread soaked in the milk.”

  “I feel wonderful, truly, it’s just that I wish to continue feeling this way. I don’t like Roland to see me when—well, he is very kind about it, but—” Her voice dropped into nothing.

  “But nothing,” Kassia said briskly. “Now, tell me of your adventures. I overheard just a bit, and wish to know everything.”

  The evening passed pleasantly. Daria had begun to relax and to smile again. When Kassia excused herself to feed her babe, Harry, Roland turned to his wife and said, “Are you tired? Would you like to retire now?”

  She nodded, feeling weariness tug at her.

  Roland looked down at his empty trencher and said, “I will come to you tonight, since you are well. Prepare yourself for me. You belong to me, and if you aren’t ill, then I wish to treat you as a man does his wife.”

  She hated the coldness of this, hated the man he became when he remembered himself her husband.

  “What do you mean that I am to prepare myself? Do you wish me to stand naked in the middle of the chamber when you enter? Do you wish me to lie on my back with my legs parted? What is it you wish, Roland?”

  He sucked in his breath, surprised at her attack. He wouldn’t allow her sarcasm at his expense. “I wish you to cease your insolence, Daria. What I meant was simply that you know I intend to take you tonight, so be prepared for it.”

  “Will you treat me as you did on our wedding night or will you be gentle and tender and call me by another woman’s name?”

  “There was no other night save our wedding night, damn you. No more lies, Daria.”

  “Then you won’t be gentle. You will take me without speaking a kind word to me. You will treat me like a slut who deserves nothing but your contempt.”

  He leaned close to her, for her voice had risen. “Speak softly, wife. I have no wish for our host to wonder why you become the shrew.”

  She rose, not waiting for him or one of the servants to assist her. She hissed down at him, “I won’t prepare myself, Roland, as you so sweetly say it. I don’t want you to come to me; I don’t want you to treat me like a convenient body to be used by you. Sleep with one of the castle wenches, I care not.”

  She swept from the dais, leaving her husband to stare after her, half of him wanting to thrash her, the other half wanting to rip off her clothing and caress her and kiss her until she screamed for him to come into her.

  Under his breath he said, “Damned unreasonable wench.”

  “I believe I have told you before, Roland, that women are the very devil.”

  Roland looked at the fierce warrior who sat on his right side and grinned reluctantly. “Your lady is sweet and guileless and tender as a ripe peach. You cannot be mean her.”

  “No, but I did, at one time. It wasn’t too long ago. I misjudged her severely. I hurt her repeatedly. Now I would sever my arm before I would see her sprain her little finger.”

  Roland had nothing to say to that. He merely raised an incredulous brow.

  “You
r wife is upset—nay, she is but a bride. You are wedded less than a week. She isn’t at all uncomely, Roland, and I assume that you found her much to your liking, since she is with child. So—”

  “I don’t wish to speak of the babe or of her.”

  “Ah, you simply wish to bend her to your will?”

  “It is a beginning. I begin to believe her well-broken, then she flings her sarcasm at my head. I don’t like it.”

  “The problem, Roland, is that a man’s will seems to shift and change with the passing minutes and hours, particularly if the lady resides in his mind or in his spirit.”

  “I simply desire her, that is all. She resides nowhere, certainly not within any part of me. Any female would do just as well. Any female would probably do better, since Daria is so ignorant, she must be instructed to—well—”

  To Roland’s relief, Graelam de Moreton held his peace. Indeed, he turned to speak to his steward, a craggy-faced man named Blount.

  Roland drank another flagon of ale in splendid silence, left to himself by his host. He chewed over his own feelings of ill use at the hands of a female who should be babbling with gratitude, who should be fully aware that she would be lying dead in a ditch if it weren’t for his generosity. By all the saints, he’d tended her with compassion whenever she’d been ill. And here was Graelam quoting pithy words that were likely from some minstrel’s lay. At last he bade his lord and lady a good night and strode from the great hall, his destination his wife’s bed.

  There would be no sarcasm from her mouth when he covered her.

  14

  Daria sat on a narrow chair close to one of the window slits. The night was clear, a sliver of moon glowing through an occasional cloud. A breeze cooled her brow. There was a lone dog in the inner bailey below. He occasionally raised his head and barked when a soldier strode by on his way to the Wolffeton barracks. Time passed.

  Daria knew he would come to her eventually, so she wasn’t startled when the chamber door opened and then quietly closed. Nor did she move.