Secret Song (23 page)

“Well, wife, evidently you desire my body. Or will any man's body do? No matter, since I have no choice, it will have to be my man's body you endure. But it's all you will have of me. And know, Daria, that a man can take any woman, it matters not to him. To see a woman's parted legs, that's all that is necessary for a man. That's all you will be to me—an encumbrance, a duty, a body to take until I tire and grow bored.”

He came down over her then, his body pressing hers into the furs, and he kissed her hard, forcing her mouth to open, and when her lips parted, he thrust his tongue inside and she felt his anger, tasted it, and her body froze. He reared over her and laughed. “You regret your desire now, sweet wife? Well, that's a pity, for it's too late, for you are now mine legally and in the eyes of God. Open your legs and do it quickly, for I wish to be done with it. I look forward to losing myself in sleep and mayhap I will be lucky and dream about Lila and Cena, two women who were honest in their need for me, and hadn't a traitorous thought in their heads.”

“Roland, please, don't do this. Please, don't hurt me, don't—” Her voice broke off on a gasp when he grasped her thighs and pulled them apart. “Let me see if you are ready for me. I have no wish to rend your woman's flesh, that would make you hurt to walk and to ride, and thus prove an inconvenience to me.” His fingers were probing at her, delving inside her, exploring, and she tried to pull away from him, to free herself from him, but his hand came down flat on her belly, holding her still and silent even as his finger slid inside her, stretching her, working her. She felt her flesh become damp and soft because her body recognized him and wanted him even though she wanted to weep with the pain of what he was doing to her.

“By all the saints,” he said, his finger pressing more deeply into her. “You're small. I shan't force you. No, you shan't scream of ravishment to me, ever. I have never forced a woman in my life, and besides, with you, it would be impossible. You're eager as any wench, probably more so than the two ladies who advised you.”

She tried to reach him just once more. “Please, Roland, don't do this to me, not in anger, not—”

But he was paying her no heed and she knew he was apart from her. He was between her thighs, spreading them wider still, bending her knees and lifting her hips with his hands, bringing her upward. “No pleasure for you, wife, save what you can gain for yourself. Actually, little enough for me. My duty . . .'tis naught but my damned man's duty.” And without warning, without another word, his fingers pried her open, and he thrust himself into her in one powerful stroke.

She yelled at the shock of him and the burning of her flesh as he plunged deep, spreading her for himself, and then she was crying, but she stuffed her fist into her mouth, waiting helplessly, waiting silently, for him to finish with her. He'd been right, there was no pleasure for her. She wondered dully in those moments if there was such pleasure to be had for a woman ever.

He was breathing hard, plunging repeatedly into her, pulling out, then thrusting deep again. Again and again, until she heard him suck in his breath as if he'd been struck. Then he was hammering into her, deep, then shallow in short strokes, his hands frantically kneading her hips as he brought her higher for his penetration. Then he moaned, and she felt his seed come into her body. That was familiar to her, that deep joining that had eased her virgin's pain, for he'd belonged to her then, completely, and she'd possessed him.

She sobbed, unable to keep the sound to herself, not from any pain in her body, but from the pain in the very depths of her. For even in his man's possession of her, she was alone, deep within herself, as was he.

He was gasping for breath over her, his chest heaving from his exertion. He was still deep inside her and she could feel his member moving and shifting. There was still no pain, for his seed eased her and his member wasn't as swelled now. No, he hadn't ravished her body, but he had ravished her spirit.

“There,” he said once he'd regained his breath, “I've done my man's duty by you, wife.” He pulled out of her quickly, eagerly, and her body flinched in reply.

“What, Daria, no passionate little moans from you? No thanks for my taking you as you wished? Do you mean to tell me that you were unable to give yourself a woman's pleasure? You surprise me. Your body was more than willing to take me in. You're a stubborn girl, but no matter. I will sleep now. Do not disturb me further this night.”

He climbed off her and fell upon his back. She felt him pull the furs up. Slowly, very slowly, she straightened her legs. Her muscles protested. She felt his seed seeping slowly from her body, but she was too uncaring of it, of him, of herself, to pay much heed.

She lay there quietly. She heard his breathing even into sleep. She realized that she should have never told him the truth. She'd placed the responsibility on his shoulders just as she'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't do. But it was his babe she carried. How could he believe her if he had no memory of it? Well it was over now. She listened to his deep slow breathing and knew that she still loved him but that now it wasn't enough, this love of hers, not nearly enough. Mayhap it would never have been enough, in any circumstance. He hated her and there was no reason for him to cease doing so.

Unless the babe looked like him. Unless somehow he remembered that night in Wrexham. It was her only hope, a slim one she knew, for she herself looked nothing like her own mother or like her father. But there was nothing else for her.

There was complete silence in the great hall of Tyberton Castle. The Earl of Clare stood tight-mouthed, fury blotching his face, turning it as startling a red as his hair. He stared at the man who'd stolen Daria from him. The man who had made a fool of him twice. Hell and the devil, what was the damned knave doing with the king?

The earl said in a loud voice, “I see you have returned this man to me, sire. He's a thief and I will hang him this very day.”

“Not as yet, my lord,” Edward said pleasantly. “Not as yet. Come, have ale fetched. My queen is weary, as are her ladies.” He added his famous Plantagenet smile, which had no discernible effect at all on the Earl of Clare. “I have a great thirst as well.”

It was then that the earl saw Daria. He started toward her, then pulled himself upright. He held his peace. There were too many present to overhear him. He would wait.

After the queen, her ladies, and Daria were seated comfortably, the earl approached the king. To his chagrin, the whoreson Roland remained at the king's side, drinking from his flagon as if he had not a care in this world. He looked young and fit and strong—a warrior—not a pretty priest covered with a frayed cowl. How had the man gotten Daria away from him again? What kind of disguise had he used?

“I would beg to speak with you, sire. In regards this man here.”

“Ah, yes,” Edward said, his voice deep with amusement that the earl didn't hear, “I believe you wish to accuse this man of something?”

So the king wished the knave to remain. So be it. He drew himself up and contempt dripped from his voice. “Aye, he's a thief, sire, and he stole
her.
” He pointed a finger toward the queen's group of ladies. “Did he tell you that he pretended to be a Benedictine priest? That he, a savage and a heathen, even pretended to say a
Mass
for me? Not only did he rob me, sire, he blasphemed God's name and profaned the Church.”

The king, diverted, turned to Roland. “Did you really play the priest?”

“Aye.”

“Did you do it well?”

“For the most part. Only Daria knew that I misspoke some of my Latin Mass. The earl here understands naught but what he speaks. I could have recited Latin declensions and it would have made him feel holy just the same. It was Daria who understood immediately I was a fraud.”

“Daria. You call her Daria. That's absurd. A female cannot understand God's word. You lie to me and to your king. I understood all your mistakes, but I am a good man, a tolerant man, and I merely believed you nervous in front of me, and I chose not to humiliate you. Aye, I willingly forgave your lapses. Sire, give him over to me and I will deal with him quickly and fairly.” He panted himself to a halt, then, unable to help himself, yelled, “I demand that you turn the man over to me, sire.”

“Hold, my lord,” Edward said. He shifted in his chair—the earl's own ornate carved chair—and continued mildly, “Listen well, for I grow bored with your commands to your king. This man is Roland de Tournay. He is my man, sent by me and none other to rescue that girl, Daria, from your imprisonment. Her uncle, the Earl of Reymerstone, pleaded for my help and I gave it. I told Roland to use whatever means necessary to accomplish his mission. Of course I didn't wish any blood to be shed, and he accomplished that as well.”

Roland said not a word. He simply gazed at the king in admiration. He'd never believed the king so quick of wit before. He'd rather looked forward to this confrontation, but he'd assumed that the king would allow him to handle the earl, to do whatever he had to do, short of murdering the man.

He saw that the king was much enjoying his playacting. Roland, for the first time in their acquaintance of many years, remained silent. As for the Earl of Clare, he could not now make further demands, not after the king's explanation. Roland felt resentment at the king's interference, and some amusement, for the earl's hatred and immense frustration was very nearly a tangible thing, and there was naught the man could do, save silently choke on it.

Edward had no intention of allowing the two men to fight, for Roland would kill the earl, of that he had little doubt. He was younger, he was stronger, and he was smarter. And besides, he himself still needed the Earl of Clare, rot the man's miserable hide, needed him to fend off the Welsh outlaws, until he could build his castles and assume control himself. Then the Earl of Clare could drown in a Welsh swamp with the king's blessing. He discounted his friendship with Roland de Tournay; it couldn't be a consideration in the royal decision. No, the king didn't want Clare dead now. Moreover, he'd gained advantage with Roland, for that talented fellow wouldn't be able to refuse his king anything, not after this. Why, he would even have Roland's fine destrier returned to him. He thought about the look on the earl's face were he to tell him that it was his, the king's, destrier, and he had merely loaned it to Roland. The earl would surely swallow his tongue in his rage.

The king smiled at the earl, a gracious smile. He didn't believe in pressing a man's face in offal unless it was necessary. A king could afford to be beneficent in victory; it was also in his noble character, unless, of course, he wished it otherwise. “So you see, my lord, Roland accomplished his mission. If he offended your religious feelings, I will reprimand him soundly. Further, it seems he became enamored with Daria and she with him. After he rescued her again—the second time, he played the bent old hag, did you know that? No, well, that time, he brought her to me. They were wedded last night, my lord, by mine own priest. He is, in fact, a Benedictine priest, I can attest to it.”

For a long moment the earl simply stared, not at any person, but inward, and there he saw bleakness and rage. He couldn't accept it. He looked toward Daria, who stood next to the queen. This man, this Roland de Tournay, had wedded her and bedded her. “They left me with a peasant girl, garbed her as Daria for her wedding with me. If she hadn't giggled, I should have married the little slut.”

“She was beautiful, my lord,” Roland said. “I hand-picked her myself.”

The king grinned, then harrumphed and said, his voice serious, “This peasant girl, my lord, what have you done with her? Not harmed her, I trust.”

The Earl of Clare turned a dull red, for certainly he'd bedded her, taken her with little delay; even as his servants and soldiers feasted, he'd taken her to his chamber and plowed her small belly. He'd hurt her, but not badly. What had she expected to happen to her once her lord had discovered the ruse? Any other man would have had her beaten to death. But it didn't matter. It wasn't at all the point. The earl shook himself much in the manner of a wet mongrel and bellowed, “Daria. Come here, immediately.”

Daria felt the queen's hand lightly squeeze her fingers to hold her quiet. The queen raised her head and smiled at the king. Both the queen and Daria wished they'd heard what had been said, but they hadn't.

“Aye,” the king called, “let Daria come here. Let her tell the earl that she is wedded to Roland de Tournay, by her own will, with no royal coercion.”

Daria rose slowly. She felt as if she were in a strange dream, filled with loud voices from people who weren't really there, weren't actually real. She walked across the cold stone floor of Tyberton's great hall, seeing the people who'd served her, who'd watched her, seeing some of them smirking now at their lord and his predicament, others gazing with hatred upon her. The queen had assured her earlier that the king wouldn't allow the two men to fight. She hadn't believed her before, but now she did. Further, no matter what Roland believed, no matter what he thought of her, she was his wife. She must not shame him. She stiffened her back and thrust up her chin. She didn't look at her husband.

She walked directly to the Earl of Clare. “Yes, my lord?” she asked pleasantly. “You wished to speak to me?”

The earl stared down at her a moment. He wanted to strike her and pull her against him. She was pale, but even so, she didn't appear to have any fear of him. He'd strike her first, he thought, not hard, just with enough force to recall her to her duty to him; then he'd take her and hold her. He could feel the softness of her body, the narrowness of her when he'd penetrated her with his finger to find her maidenhead. She had no maidenhead now. She'd wedded Roland de Tournay. Blood pounded hard and fast in his head and in his groin. He said in a harsh voice, “You have truly wedded him? Willingly?”