Secret Song (18 page)

She shook her head to clear it of the feel of him. Suddenly, from one instant to the next, she felt a sharpening of something inside her, an awareness, a renewed remembrance of something utterly vital to her, something—She looked down into the inner bailey, not really seeing anything or anyone specific, but still the feeling was there, that strange feeling, that knowledge that she'd known before. She wondered if her mind had finally snapped.

Then she saw him. A bent old man, with a head of scraggly thick white hair, shuffling in his rags toward the castle well. He was dragging his lame right leg. Stark joy welled up in her and she willed him to look up, whispering his name over and over as she stared hard at him. He did. She saw a wrinkled old face until he smiled and she saw a mouth filled with rotted black teeth.

It couldn't be Roland, but she knew that it was. She waved frantically to him.

But he turned away from her with not a single sign to her, and continued his slow shuffling gait to the well.

His own mother wouldn't know him, she thought, and smiled. He'd come. He'd come for her—or for his destrier, perhaps both if she were lucky and Roland cared for her or cared equally for her uncle's money.

How could she speak to the ragged old beggar? Why had Arthur, the porter, allowed him to come into the castle? What ruse had he in mind this time? Her mind tumbled with questions, but mostly she just wanted to see him closely to ensure that he was completely well again. Ah, Roland, she thought, her step light and vigorous for the first time since the earl had brought her back to Tyberton nearly two months before.

When she reached the well, the old man was gone. Vanished. She stared about her, feeling despair weigh down upon her. Had she imagined him? Daria drew a deep breath and turned on her heel. She looked at her toes raise small clouds of dust. She didn't care if her new gown was as filthy as the ragged old man's clothing. She didn't care about anything except finding him.

Roland stood in the shade of one of the barracks and watched her return slowly to the great hall, her step lagging. She'd recognized him instantly. It was impossible, yet she'd known him, and from a distance. It baffled him, that recognition of hers—he couldn't comprehend or accept it. His heart pounded. She'd known him. For God's sake, how? His survival depended on his disguise, yet he hadn't fooled her for an instant.

He moved toward the cooking outbuilding, wanting to keep her in sight. One of the scullions came around the corner and Roland bent lower and scratched his armpit and mumbled to himself, turning a bit on his lame leg, and showing a wince of pain.

She'd known him. But how? The scullion gave him a look of scorn and pity combined, shrugged, then turned his back to relieve himself.

How was it possible? Would she give him away? Not likely, he thought. She was being forced to wed the Earl of Clare, this according to Otis, one of the stable lads. How Otis knew, Roland didn't question; everyone always knew everything in a keep's confines. He'd listened the entire day, and no one had paid any attention to an old beggar. De Clare had kept her locked in her tower chamber for many weeks whilst he'd gone off on one of his raids. Roland cursed at that. If only he could have returned here more quickly, if only. It was too late now for recriminations. She was to be wedded to Clare this very evening. Roland closed his eyes a moment. The king wasn't due to arrive at Tyberton until the morrow. But tomorrow would be too late for all of them.

Clare would have wedded her, bedded her, and even the king himself wouldn't pull her away from a man whose wife she'd become, a wife whose maidenhead had been breached. And, Roland imagined, Clare had finally figured out that once wedded to Daria, he could get his hands on her huge dowry. He wondered if the earl had already taken her. Of course he had. There was no reason why he would not. There had been no priest here to gainsay him.

Roland cursed. They'd been so very close to escaping him before. If only he hadn't become ill—the genesis and the revelation of all their problems. Now she was no longer a maid and it was his fault. The situation called for a change of plan. He was adaptable and quick to revise. It had saved his life before. Now perhaps it would save Daria as well.

Ena's mind was murky, but she knew she was pleased about this, pleased that her little mistress would shortly be wedding the mighty Earl of Clare. She was too thin, but still she looked beautiful in the pale pink silk gown with its darker pink overtunic. Its long sleeves full at her wrists, its waist belted with a golden chain of fine links. Aye, she looked tasty and worthy of becoming the chatelaine of Tyberton. Aye, Ena was very pleased.

Daria's hair was long and loose, denoting a young girl coming to her marriage a virgin. There was a strange smile on Daria's face when Ena had insisted on this old custom, but she'd said nothing. She would have preferred to braid her hair tightly around her head. What would the earl have thought of that? she wondered.

“Ye're excited,” Ena said, seeing the glitter in her young charge's eyes. “Aye, ye're ready to settle down now and forget yer pretty young priest. He left ye, and if it weren't fer the earl, ye'd be dead or worse by now. Nay, tell me no lies. I always guessed ye tried to escape, not the pap the earl spread about, curdling the cream even as he spoke the words. But things are the way they should be. Ye're a little lady and ye don't deserve a poor priest, no matter how pretty he was. Ralph of Colchester isn't here, so ye'll have the earl. Aye, all is well again.”

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?”