Secret Song (31 page)

She saw Philippa and her husband exchange glances; then Dienwald turned to her. “Aye, let us go now.”

“My mare, Henrietta, Master Giles took her.”

“I have all of Master Giles's horses. It is sufficient repayment, I think, for his thievery.”

“Don't forget all his clothes,” added Philippa, sniggering behind her hand.

 

There were a dozen men in their troop, all of them in high spirits. Daria heard them saying:

“. . . Did you see the expression on his fat face when the master told him to remove his tunic?”

“. . . Did you see the woman's face when he did?”

“. . . I thought she'd faint when he wore naught but his fat white skin.”

“. . . Aye, that little rod of his shriveled even more.”

“. . . Master Giles won't cheat our master again, that's certain.”

On and on it went, and when Daria chanced to see Dienwald's face, she saw that he looked insufferably pleased with himself. The heavily clouded skies cleared and she saw her new host and hostess quite clearly now.

Philippa had pulled off her wool cap, and her hair, thick and lustrous and curly, of a dark honey color, tumbled down her back. She was laughing, riding close to her husband, and Daria saw that their hands were clasped between their horses. It hurt her to watch them. She remembered Wales, remembered those hours with Roland when he'd cared for her, laughed with her, complimented her when she repeated the Welsh words and phrases correctly.

Dienwald turned in his saddle and said, “We aren't far from Thispen-Ladock. Another hour. Do you feel all right, Daria?”

No, she wanted to shout at him. She couldn't begin to imagine what Roland would say when she arrived. She closed her eyes a moment, then squared her shoulders. “Aye, I'm fine,” she called back, but Dienwald wasn't fooled for an instant.

“This is all passing strange,” he said in a quiet voice to his wife. “Why did he leave her at Wolffeton?”

“For that matter,” Philippa said thoughtfully, “why did she leave to come to him? Is she simple? Surely she would realize the danger.”

“Just as you did when you ran away from Beauchamp?”

Philippa lowered her brow and giggled.

Dienwald squeezed her fingers and sighed deeply. “I feel for poor fat Master Giles. I dread to think what would have happened to him had you landed in his domain rather than mine.”

Daria heard the two of them arguing, insulting each other, and laughing. She wished it didn't hurt. She turned her head and looked toward the vast expanse of rolling green hills and clumps of thick maple and oak forests. There were sheep everywhere, and wheat crops, the waving stalks turning the horizon gold. There were no more barren cliffs or naked rocks and bent trees. The land became more gentle with each passing mile. Daria was tired, she admitted it, but she wasn't about to ask her host to stop for her.

The girl, Philippa, wouldn't ask. She'd keep going until her husband dropped in his tracks first, even if it killed her.

 

Roland came to the fore of the keep's ramparts at the shout from one of his men.

“A cavalcade comes, master. I don't know who it is.”

Sir Thomas Ladock, old in heart if not in years, looked toward the oncoming riders, his dark eyes full of intelligence. “Why, I think it is Dienwald de Fortenberry. Do you not see his banner, Roland?”

“Dienwald.”

“Aye, I met the boy some years ago. His banner is distinctive—the eagle and the lion with the clashing swords between them. His father was a wild man—eager to fight, eager to love, and eager to laugh. Is Dienwald like his sire, Roland?”

Roland smiled. “Aye, he is.”

“There is a woman—no, there are two women—riding with about a dozen men, I'd say,” Salin called out.

Roland stared hard then, for he felt something strange stirring within him. It was an odd feeling; it had come from nowhere that he could fathom. It was simply there, and he waited for the feelings to become something tangible he could grasp. And as the cavalcade drew close, he saw his wife riding her mare on Dienwald's left. And there was Philippa on Dienwald's right, dressed in boy's clothes, her beautiful hair wild and free.

Roland said in the most measured voice he could manage, “It appears, Thomas, that you are shortly to meet my wife.”

“Your wife,” Sir Thomas repeated, staring toward the group of riders. “What is she doing with Dienwald?”

“I shudder to know the answer to that.”

Salin smiled. “She missed you, my lord. And she came to you.”

“Don't think she is so sweet and guileless, Salin. All women carry the scourge of Satan in them.”

Sir Thomas, more astute in human nature than he cared to be, turned and looked long at the young man he wished had been his own son.

“Life is vastly unexpected,” he said. “Let's descend, my boy, so that we may greet our guests.”

Sir Thomas was fully aware that Roland was angry. His entire body had seemed to tighten, to become rigid, as Dienwald de Fortenberry's party had come closer. As the minutes passed, Thomas realized, oddly enough, that the young man's anger was directed at the slight girl astride the beautiful palfrey. His wife, he'd said. But why was he so displeased to see her? They'd not long been wedded. He remembered, so many years before, how he'd not let Constance out of his sight or bed for nearly three months. Something was decidedly wrong here. He looked at the young man, saw that he was closed as tightly as a clam, and said nothing.

Roland made no move toward his wife when the small cavalcade came to a halt in the inner bailey. It was Salin who lifted Daria from her palfrey's back. Roland introduced his guests to Sir Thomas, passing over his wife as if she weren't there. Roland continued to ignore his wife even after Thomas took her hand in his and bade her welcome to Thispen-Ladock. Dienwald's men were directed by Salin to the dilapidated barracks. Thomas led his guests into the great hall of Thispen-Ladock.

“You surprise me, Dienwald,” Roland was saying to de Fortenberry, his voice sounding mildly defensive. “You are leagues from St. Erth. What do you here? Come you to spy on me?”

“Now, that's sport I hadn't considered. Nay, Roland, Philippa and I were out a-hunting fat two-legged prey and we found him in due course, along with your sweet wife.”

“I see,” Roland said, and turned to Thomas. He didn't see a thing and he was so furious that he couldn't bring himself to speak. His wife, his sweet, guileless wife, had convinced Dienwald and Philippa to bring her here to him. Ale was brought. Servants served it. No one said much of anything. Philippa looked from Daria to Roland, and she frowned. Daria sat silent, her head down, her hands clasped in her lap. This was her future home, she was thinking, and she was appalled. Her distress at Roland's obvious cold welcome was momentarily forgotten as she stared around her.

The great hall was damp and cold and its overhead wooden beams so blackened from years of smoke that it was impossible to see the roof. The trestle tables were battered and carved and laden with grease and bits of dried food. There were no lavers, no sweet-smelling rushes on the stone floor, no tapestries on the stone walls to contain the chill. It smelled old and rancid. She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

She looked up at her emotionless husband's voice and shook her head. She offered him a tentative smile, which he did not return. Roland, instead, turned to Dienwald. “Tell me about this fat prey of yours.”

Philippa de Fortenberry laughed. “It's a fine tale, Roland.”

“Hush, wench, you'll ruin the humor of it if you rattle on. A tussle with Master Giles, Roland, a fat rogue I doubt you've met as yet. The fellow was near St. Erth one fine day when Philippa and I were away from the keep. We believe he probably waited until he saw us leave. He offered goods to Old Agnes and Crooky, and his oily tongue won them quickly to his way of thinking. In short, when Philippa and I returned some two days later, we owned supposedly fine bolts of cloth and the price paid had been wondrous low.”

Philippa laughed again and said, “When we unfolded the cloth, we found that it was filled with moths and they'd already chewed it to bits. You should have heard Crooky, Roland. He broke into a song that burned even my ears. It seems that this cloth wasn't the same cloth Master Giles showed to Old Agnes, the cloth she had so very carefully examined. This was his special cloth, for replacement after his sale. Crooky then noticed that castle goods were missing, such as a gift from the queen—a beautiful wrought gold laver—and several necklaces from the king. Oddly enough, even Gorkel the Hideous believed oily Master Giles. He was overwrought to learn of his thievery. We ordered him to remain at St. Erth, else Master Giles might have found his flesh flayed from his fat body.”

Who, Daria wondered, was Gorkel the Hideous? He sounded a monster, with such a name, but Philippa was laughing.

“So you and Dienwald rode after him,” Sir Thomas said, much enjoying himself. He was sitting forward, his goblet of ale balanced on his knee.

“Aye,” Dienwald said in a mournful voice, “but the wench here continued to call a halt every few hours, so it took us many days to catch up to Master Giles.”

“I'm not a wench, I'm your wife.”

“Why?” Daria asked. “Why did you keep stopping?”

Dienwald gave her a wicked smile. “My wench here—my wench/wife—wished to ravish my poor man's body.” He shrugged. “What could I do? To refuse her makes her cross and peevish—you may be certain that I've tried it. My men were very understanding of her needs and of my surrender. Indeed, once when I refused her for the third time, they begged me to give in to her. Ah, and so I did.”

Philippa poked him in the ribs. “You will come to a very bad end, Dienwald.”

“I already have, wench. I already have. Brought to my knees by a female giant who could have made two quite proper-size wenches.”

“I shall write my illustrious father and tell him that you show me no respect at all—”

Roland interrupted. “The king, Philippa, is currently visiting the Marcher Barons. We left him at Tyberton, the stronghold of the Earl of Clare. You must hold your complaints against your rogue of a husband until the fall, when he and the queen will return to London again.”

“Wound you, Philippa?” her husband inquired, his brows drawn together, his expression perplexed. “I thought it was many weeks now since it was a question of wounding, you being such a hearty wench, and—”

Philippa shrieked at him and clapped her hand over his mouth. “Forgive him, sir,” she said to Sir Thomas, “he makes fine sport at my expense.”

Daria was smiling, she couldn't help herself, until she realized that Roland was looking at her. Her smile froze.

“So continue with your tale, Dienwald,” Roland said pleasantly. “Finally you found Master Giles.”

“Aye, in the Penrith oak forest not far from here. He had six men, one of them in particular a vicious sot, and several women. He'd just caught Daria and didn't know what to do with his prize. She was coming to see her husband, Roland, something that Philippa would do as well. Females. They have no sense, no means to weigh what they should or shouldn't do. They act because their feelings dictate they should, and we must come to the rescue.”

Philippa wanted to continue with the jest, but she could feel the awful tension between Roland and Daria. She didn't know why there was such tension between them, but she wanted, oddly enough, to protect Daria.

Dienwald was also well aware of the strain between these two. “That vicious knave—Alan was his name—well, he was brutalizing your wife here—”

“You mean he raped her?”

Well, Dienwald thought, pleased with the gratifying violent reaction from Roland. He raised his hand. “Oh, no, I mean that he enjoyed causing her pain. Fat Master Giles chided him—part of their game, I suppose—and finally she was allowed to sleep, although Alan bound her wrists much too tightly. It was near to dawn that I slipped into their camp and brought her out.”

“And then my dearest husband enjoyed himself, Roland. He stripped all Master Giles's people down to their skin and Master Giles as well. He left them there, bound, and we took their horses and their clothes and the cloth we had supposedly bought. Master Giles was bound naked to his throne.”

“A decent-enough punishment, I suppose,” Thomas said. “Are you feeling all right now, my dear?” he asked, his eyes on Daria. “A very frightening time for you.”

“I'm fine, truly, sir.”

“She wasn't earlier,” Dienwald said. “She vomited until I believed she would fall over, so weak she was.”

To his surprise, Roland's mobile features stiffened and he said, “Her vomiting is due to the babe she carries.”

“So she said,” Dienwald remarked. “You are to be congratulated for your swiftness, Roland.”

“Yes,” Roland said, his eyes on his wife, “I am of a swiftness that defies logic.”

Sir Thomas cleared his throat. He was vastly uncomfortable with all the eddies of tension that swirled around them. “You are all my guests. Had you come a sennight from now, you would be Roland's guests. Before you arrived, he and I were talking about the renaming of Thispen-Ladock.”

“I'm not certain, sir—”

“Be quiet, Roland. You will begin your own dynasty, not continue mine. My family had their due of years. It's now your turn. And that includes a name for your ancestral home.” He turned to Daria. “Now that your wife is here, we can secure her opinion.”