Secret Song (10 page)

“We will wait here until it stops raining—
if
it stops raining. This cursed country does pour rain down all the time.”

“Aye, but the smells, Roland,” she said, sucking in air deeply. “The salt of the sea, the moss from the very rocks themselves, the heather and bracken. It is such a very
living
smell.”

That was true, but he said nothing. He settled Cantor, then turned to look down at his charge. She was very wet and shivering with the cold. He pulled out his last clean leather jerkin from one of his bags “Put it on.”

She stepped away from him into the blackness of the cave and he immediately stopped her. “Nay, stay close, Daria. There still could be creatures there, and I do not want them to eat you or for you to lose yourself in the mountain. I am told some of the caves twist and curve back deep into the mountainside. To get lost would mean death.”

She was back quickly, the jerkin hanging loosely around her. “Let us sit and eat some bread the farmer provided us.”

Whilst they ate, he taught her the names of various foods and animals. She fell asleep even as she repeated
dafad,
or sheep.

He leaned back against the rocky wall of the cave and gathered her against him. His horse whinnied softly and the soft caw of the rooks filled the silence. He could even hear a woodpecker rapping on a tree somewhere near, and a waterfall loud and violent, slashing through a beech forest close by. She was right about the smells. Even in the dark cave, the smell of turf, bracken, water, and wind filled his nostrils. It was a wild smell, a savage smell, but one that fed and stimulated the senses.

He smiled as he fell asleep holding the girl who would be able to speak Welsh as well as a native if only she had enough time to learn.

It stopped raining near dawn and the sky was a soft rich pink in those brief magical minutes. He started to awaken Daria, when she said quite clearly in English, “I know you, know you deep inside me. It's passing strange and it makes me afraid, but for all that, it makes me feel wonderful.”

He shook her awake. He didn't know what she was talking about, and something told him he didn't want to know.

They ate bread and cheese and drank the rest of the warm ale. Daria seemed not to remember her dream, that, or she didn't wish to speak of it. Dry and warm, they left their cave soon thereafter.

They rode through glades and thickets, through small twisted and lichened oaks, by boulders covered with moss. They passed naked rocks that looked wet even though the sun shone down strongly.

Roland continued to teach her Welsh. He felt a brief stab of jealousy at her talent, then grinned at his own vanity. It was good, this talent of hers; he didn't particularly relish having to shield a deaf-mute boy who was really a girl. Now at least she could say something when they met the Welsh, which they would surely do eventually.

And they met the Welsh sooner than Roland would have wished.

“Afon,”
Roland said, pointing, “river.” Then, “
Aber
—river mouth.”

Daria dutifully repeated the words. She tapped Roland on the shoulder.
“Allt,”
she said, nodding to their left. “Wooded hillside.”

He swiveled about in the saddle and grinned at her. “You are very good,” he said.

“Must I still be deaf and mute?”

“For the time being I think it the wisest course to follow. Be patient, Daria.” He started to add that she would be home soon, but he knew her thoughts on that and so kept quiet. He wished he personally knew if Ralph of Colchester was a good man, a man of honor. Deep inside, though, Roland imagined that Ralph of Colchester could very likely be a troll and a monster and still Daria's uncle would wed her to him because he wanted to add to his own land holdings. It wouldn't matter to him if the man had wedded a dozen women and killed all of them.

He pulled up Cantor and let his destrier blow and drink from the cold river water. “Would you like to walk about a bit?”

She smiled gratefully and slid off Cantor's back. “Smell the air, Roland. And look at the sunlight on those maple leaves, it's magic, all those hues and shades.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and twirled about in the small open meadow.
“Glyn,”
she called out,
“fflur.”
She pointed to some sweet-smelling honey-suckle. “It is for fidelity, you know, and the ivy yon, it's for permanence.”

He grinned at her like a besotted idiot, realized it, and turned away.

“Ah, I wish we could stay here forever.”

“Just wait for an hour or so—until it rains again. When you're wet and cold and thoroughly miserable, you'll change your mind quickly enough.”

She waved away his words. “The gorse over there, it protects us against demons, or mayhap from the unending rain, if we wish it hard enough.”

He didn't want to wish for anything right now except for the rest of his money. Then his wish for his own land, his own keep in the midst of the beautiful green hills in Cornwall, would come true. He watched her flit from a low yew bush to a lone birch, repeating the names in Welsh. So learning came easily to her. It meant nothing to him, not a thing. So she was bright and laughing. It meant nothing more than her ease of learning. His eyes were on her lips, then fell to her breasts and her hips. Nothing, he thought, turning quickly to pat Cantor's neck. It meant nothing. His destrier turned his head, his mouth wet, and nuzzled his master's hand. Roland said to his horse as he wiped his hand on his chausses, “You are the loyal one, the one who's always known what I wanted, what I needed. You I trust with my life, no one else, particularly not a female. Not even a female who is pretty and bright and sweet.”

“You speak to your horse?”

She was laughing, a dirty-faced urchin in boy's clothes, a limp woolen cap pulled low on her forehead. The dirt he'd rubbed on her face was long gone, replaced by new dirt, streaked and black, more authentic dirt, all of it Welsh. Even her smooth white hands were filthy. She didn't look at all like a boy to him.

“Aye, it's passing smart he is, and he tells me it is nearly time for lunch.”

Daria eyed the saddlebags hopefully.

“I'm sorry, but there's nothing left. I must do some hunting.”

She looked back from whence they'd come, and slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “Nay, I'm not all that hungry, Roland, truly. Can we not ride until late afternoon? Then can you hunt? I've wasted time here and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”

“He's not after us, Daria. There was no one to betray us. Even if the farmer did tell the earl about us, he still didn't know where we were heading.”

Still she shuddered even as she shook her head. “He'd know, somehow he'd find out. I just have this feeling.” She added quickly, seeing him frown, “He's very smart.”

Roland continued his frown, disliking himself even as the words came from his mouth. “So you admired him. Did you not wish to leave him, then? Did you wish to wed with him?”

Her head snapped up. “You are speaking like a fool, Roland.” And then, to her appalled surprise, she burst into tears. Roland stared at her.

The tension, he supposed, was finally too much for her. She'd finally succumbed, but still he was surprised. Until this moment, she'd shown unusual fortitude and grit. To fall into a woman's tears now—when the danger was past—seemed somehow very unlike her.

“Why am I a fool?”

She shook her head, swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and turned away from him. “Nay, not a fool, just speaking like one.” She dashed her hand across her eyes and sniffled loudly. “I'm sorry. Has Cantor drunk his fill?”

He gave her a long look, then said, “Aye.” He gave her his hand and pulled her up behind him.

They were riding near to the River Usk and woodclad hills rose up on either side of them, hills covered with thickets of beech and sessile oaks. Firs towered behind them, thin and high, and many narrow streams snaked through the land, most shallow and a pale stagnant brown under the bright sunlight. But even with the warm sun shining down, there was still the feel, the scent, the sound of water in the air—the streams burbling, distant waterfalls crashing and thudding over wet rocks, unseen water deep beneath the ground booming and gurgling. Daria shuddered. “It's overpowering,” she said, and clasped her arms more tightly around Roland's waist.

“Be thankful it isn't yet raining,” he said. “Why am I a fool, Daria? Nay,
speak
like a fool.”

He felt her tense up and knew to his toes that he shouldn't push her for an answer, but he was perverse, he knew it, had known it for most of his years. “Why?” he repeated.

“The earl is a frightening man. I don't believe him mad, not yet at least, but he is a strange sort of fanatic, and his moods shift dangerously. I would have rather wedded Ralph of Colchester's father or his grandfather than him.”

“Ah.”

“Roland, please don't take me back to my uncle. He doesn't worship God, even in a perverted fashion to suit himself. He worships only himself and sees himself as all-powerful, and he's more frightening than anyone because when he chooses to be cruel, his cruelty comes from deep within him, and it is pleasurable to him and so very cold.”

“Then I should say you would be pleased to wed and leave Reymerstone and your uncle's influence.”

Again she stiffened, and he disliked himself for being hard, but he was being paid by the uncle to deliver the niece back to him, and with the money he would receive, he would buy his keep in Cornwall and he would live there and it would be his and never again would he bow to another's wishes unless it was his wish to do so. Daria said nothing more. That perverse part of him wished she would.

It was nearing midafternoon when she broke the silence. “I must stop for a moment. Please.”

He nodded and pulled Cantor up. He dismounted, then held out his arms for her. She ignored him and slid down the destrier's left side.

“By God, get out of the way, quickly.”

Cantor jerked upward, whirling about to face the human who'd encroached, and he slashed out with his front hooves.

“Move, Daria.”

She fell backward over an outcropping stone and toppled into the grass onto her back.

Roland soothed his horse and looped his reins around a stubby yew branch.

He walked to her and stood over her, hands on hips for a moment, before he offered her his hand. “Don't ever do something so stupid again. You knew better, Daria.”

She nodded, ignored his hand, and got slowly to her feet.

“You did it because you were angry with me. Kindly remember that you must be alive and well when you arrive at Reymerstone.”

“Aye, that's true enough. If I die, then you will get no coin from my uncle, will you?”

He just looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “That's true. So take care of yourself.”

“I am going into the trees,” she said, so frustrated and angry with him and with their situation that she wanted to spit. He watched her walk slowly, limping a bit, into the rich humid-looking foliage. The smell of pine and damp moss was strong. He watched her until she disappeared, and he took stock of their position. Brownish hill-ridges protruded above the woods in the distance, and even in this small glade he could hear the rush of waterfalls gushing over slick naked rocks through the forest to the west. He saw a small herd of wild ponies on a far hillside, silhouetted against a thicket of pine trees, their long manes tangled and unkempt. They were aware of him and stood quietly watching. He walked slowly to a small twisted and lichened oak and leaned against it. Beside the oak stood several boulders fuzzed with moss, left in this unlikely spot long ago, as if tossed there by ancient storms or even more ancient gods. He whistled a song Dienwald de Fortenberry's fool, Crooky, had sung, smiling even as he added the silly words.

 

Surely it was an absurd song, but he sang it again, smiling more widely as he pictured Dienwald and his bride, Philippa, snug in his arms. Crooky had continued with various body parts, rolling his eyes and miming lewdly until Dienwald had kicked him soundly.

Roland heard a scream and stopped singing.

The Earl of Clare leaned back against the cold stone wall, crossing his massive arms over his chest. The farmer was nearly dead, damn his perfidious soul to hell. He'd told his man to go easy, to hold up on the whip, but the blood lust had enthralled him and now the Welsh bastard was hanging limply from the iron manacles, his ribs heaving, his face gray, his eyes fading even as the earl looked at him dispassionately.

“Well, do you wish to continue with this torture or do you want to die quickly? Tell me the truth. Tell me where you got that horse and you'll not suffer more.”

The farmer raised his eyes to the earl's implacable face, and he thought:
All I wanted was enough money to have four cows.
But it wasn't to be. He wanted to die. His body was so broken he couldn't have healed anyway, even if the torture stopped now. And the pain was too much, far too much. He said, his English broken and halting, “The man and the boy rode into Wales, it is all I know. His was a powerful black destrier, a warrior's mount, strong and enduring. I know not the man's name. He paid me to ride the horse in the opposite direction and leave it for you to find, but I didn't.” He said sorrowfully to himself, “No, I was stupid and wanted to keep the horse, and thus I die for my stupidity.”