Secret Song (29 page)

“Aye. I wish to go to my husband's keep. My place is with him, not here with you, a charge on your good nature. He will accept me; he must, for he is my husband. May I please borrow some men?”

What man could deny her such a request? But he shook his head; he'd promised Roland to keep his wife safe. Sending her off with some of his men, even though the area was secure to the best of his knowledge, wasn't what Roland would expect of him. “I'm sorry, but I cannot. You must remain here at Wolffeton until Roland returns for you.”

If
Roland returns, she thought, and turned away. His refusal was nothing more than she'd expected. He was a man of honor—and a man's honor only extended to another man, never to a woman.

She kept a smile on her face throughout the morning. Early in the afternoon she approached Kassia. “I wish to exercise my mare, Henrietta. Should I take a groom with me?”

It was the perfect approach and she caught Kassia off-guard. For a dreadful moment Daria feared that Kassia, rallying quickly, would insist upon accompanying her, but just as the request was about to issue forth from her mouth, a nurse came into the great hall with a squalling Harry in her arms.

Daria, two young grooms in attendance, rode from Wolffeton within the hour. She was careful that Lord Graelam was well-occupied on Wolffeton's vast training field and thus didn't see her leave.

The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down overhead, but Daria didn't mind. She told her two grooms that she wished to ride northward along the rugged coast. Because they didn't know what was in her mind, they willingly agreed.

Daria stared at the stunted trees that grew close to the sea. The continuous sharp-pounding gale winds bent them nearly double. They would veer eastward soon, she reckoned, near Perranporth. One of the grooms had obligingly told her of the location of her husband's keep, Thispen-Ladock. They had answered her questions with prompt smiles and answers. She had fifteen miles to ride. She wasn't certain how long a time that would take, but she would do it. Her immediate problem was how to rid herself of Graelam de Moreton's two men now that she knew where to ride.

Two hours had passed when Daria, wanting to gnaw on her fingernails, finally called for a halt at the sight of the oak trees. A forest of them, thick and unpenetrable. It was her best chance at losing her protectors, and she intended to take it now. She lowered her eyes, resurrecting a modest blush as she told them she had to take her ease for a few minutes in the copse of twisted oak trees.

They looked at each other but said nothing. They could not very well accompany her whilst she relieved herself. Daria thanked them sweetly, then dismounted Henrietta. She looked over her shoulder as she entered the forest, to see the men walking their horses, speaking intently to each other. She smiled. They'd believed her.

She walked Henrietta a good fifty feet into the thick forest, then quietly mounted again. She would be well gone before they realized she'd escaped them.

They, after all, had no idea that she even wanted to rid herself of them. She nudged Henrietta's fat sides and the mare quickened her pace, following the narrow trail through the forest.

Daria heard shouts, but they were far, far behind her. She saw the thinning of the oaks and knew that soon they would be through the forest, and Henrietta, if she hadn't grown too fat and lazy, would easily outdistance the grooms, even if they decided to try to follow her.

She rode another hour, finally slowing her mare's pace when she became winded. The salt air was harsh and wonderful against her face and the smells of the moss and the trees and the sea itself reminded her of Wales.

She saw a rough wooden sign to her left that was printed crudely: PERRANPORTH. She'd made good time. She decided to skirt the fishing village, just in case someone should try to stop her. She was a female alone, and she knew well enough what could happen to her.

She was hungry but ignored it.

She cut eastward away from the sea when the sun began to drift down in the distant west. She saw no one. It was as if she were the only one inhabiting this place. At first it comforted her, made her feel safe, but as time passed, she began to worry.

When she saw the smoke rising in the distance, she felt equal amounts of fear and hope. She slowed Henrietta to a walk, letting her pick her way over the rough, jagged-edged rocks. Finally she dismounted, tied her mare to a lone yew bush, and crept closer. It was a camp. She saw several women and about half a dozen men. The women were preparing the evening meal; the men were lounging about on the ground, some of them whittling, others sitting cross-legged, laughing with their comrades, others speaking to the women, their suggestions lewd in the extreme. Daria wondered if they were Gypsies. She'd never seen any, but it seemed possible. Then a large, well-garbed man came into her line of vision. He was fat and jolly-looking, his bald head shinning even in the twilight.

He spoke to one of the men, slapped one of the women on her bottom, then reached his hand around and slid his fingers down her tunic. The woman squealed and laughed and rubbed her bottom against him.

Daria drew back.

She would continue on around their camp. She wanted to take no chance that they would try to hurt her or hold her for ransom. She'd spent many months a prisoner and had no intention of spending another moment as one.

She got quietly to her feet and turned to walk back to Henrietta, when the mare, seeing her mistress, raised her head and whinnied loudly.

“Shush. Do be quiet, Henrietta.” Daria ran to her mare and scrambled onto her back.

She wasn't fast enough. She heard shouts and calls and running boots. A man's hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her back down to the ground, catching her around the waist before she fell.

Daria fought. She fought without thinking, without hesitating. She fought as she remembered Roland fighting, with her elbow in the man's throat, her knee in his groin, twisting frantically to keep the man from getting a firm hold on her. The man bellowed with pain and rage as her fingers dug into his shoulder. Another man joined him and her arms were grabbed and pinned to her body.

Daria was panting, still wildly jerking and pulling, but the two men had a firm hold on her now. One of them whom she'd managed to gouge in the throat had raised his fist, blood in his eyes, when another man's voice shouted, “Hold, Alan. Don't strike her.”

“She nearly knocked my throat through my neck, the bitch. How could a little wench know how to do that?”

“Don't hit her,” the man said again. It was the fat well-garbed man and he was walking as quickly as his bulk would allow toward them.

Daria quieted, trying to calm her heaving breath. She felt the roiling nausea in her belly, but managed to keep down her bile.

“Well, it is indeed a charming little pigeon,” the fat man said, coming to a halt in front of Daria. “Pretty she is, and young, very young. Who are you, little pigeon?”

Should she tell him? Would she endanger Roland? What to do? He no longer looked quite so jolly as she'd initially thought when she first saw him.

“No words? I don't think you're a mute, are you?”

She shook her head, then said, “I'm afraid. Your men are hurting my arms.”

“True, but you nearly brought my poor Alan low. A man doesn't like to have a woman do such things to him. It humiliates him to the point of violence. Release her, lads, but keep sharp.”

Alan cursed and gave her arm a vicious twist before releasing her.

“Who are you?” the fat man asked again.

“My name is Daria.”

“A lovely name, a very nice name withal, but by all the saints, it tells me little. Who is your family?”

“The Earl of Reymerstone is my uncle.”

“She made up that name. She's a bitch and a liar.”

“Alan, please, my boy, calm yourself. If she's a liar, then I will return her to your fond embrace. As for her also being a bitch—well, I don't know if a woman's talents could grant her all that. Just because you haven't heard the name doesn't mean it can't exist. Where does your family live, my girl? Why are you here wandering about all alone? Ah, look at this very fine palfrey. Only fine oats and wheat in her fat belly, not swamp grass, I'll wager. You're not an impoverished little pigeon, are you?”

She knew the man could see the lies in her eyes but she couldn't hide her expressions or change them. Finally she blurted out, “I am the guest of Lord Graelam de Moreton. At least I was until early this afternoon.”

“Another lie, Master Giles. The little bitch seeks to continue her deceit. I have heard that de Moreton is much pleased with his wife. He wouldn't have this one staying there under her nose.”

The fat man, Master Giles, didn't chide Alan this time or tell him to be quiet. His eyes narrowed on her face and slowly, very slowly, he raised his arm. His hand was plump and white, too white for a man's hand, Daria thought, vaguely repelled. His fingertips with their longish nails lightly stroked over her throat. She flinched, wanting desperately to jerk away, but she held herself still, trying to remain outwardly calm at least. Suddenly, without any warning, the fat fingers dug with surprising strength back into her neck. The scream that gurgled at the back of her throat was choked down as the awful pain swept through her.

“The truth, little pigeon, or I will rip your throat out.”

He was close to her, and she felt his breath, hot and sweet, on her face. She heard Alan laugh, heard a woman suck in her breath. She felt nausea in the pit of her belly, growing stronger, more insistent, rising, and she couldn't do anything about it this time. “Please . . .” His fingers eased off and she jerked back her head, grabbing her throat, gasping through the burning pain for air.

Then she twisted away, fell hard upon her knees, and vomited.

The fat man looked down at her and his voice was cold with disgust. “When she's finished throwing up her guts, bring her to the camp. I have many more questions for her. Mayhap we have a prize here, a quite valuable prize. And you, Alan, leave her alone; I want none of her pretty flesh bruised, none of her bones broken. I have a feeling that we're all going to be pleased with her unexpected arrival.”

Daria felt a tap on her shoulder. She could picture those fat white fingers and she shuddered, her stomach still roiling wildly.

“If you can hear me, girl, know that I will have answers from you, true answers, else it won't be a pleasant future for you.”

At the moment, Daria couldn't even imagine a future, much less a pleasant one. Her belly cramped and twisted. She remained on her knees, her head down, waiting for the nausea to leave her.

“Hurry up,” Alan said, and he kicked her thigh.

“Don't bruise me, you wretched animal, you heard your fat master.”

“Ha. More insults, eh?” Suddenly he grabbed her elbow and jerked her to her feet. It was pride and nothing else that kept Daria upright.

She would have walked beside him, but he wanted to humiliate her and thus hurried his step, dragging her. She lurched like a drunken sot, trying desperately to keep her balance.

Alan released her when they reached the camp.

“Ah, little pigeon, do sit down.” She looked up to see the fat Master Giles sitting on a finely carved chair, chewing on a tremendously large piece of fowl. He looked absurd, sitting there in the midst of a forest, in front of a fire, his ragged men and women around him.

“Who are you?”

“I? Why, I am Master Giles Fountenont, no reason to hide that. I am well-known in these parts—call me a princely fellow, a merchant, a man of a vast array of talents and resources, a man of ample parts as you see, and these are my people, loyal to their bones, all of them. Aren't you, sweetling?” He grasped a passing woman by her arm and pulled her onto his lap. She laughed and turned inward so that he would feed her a bit of the meat. Daria watched her rip off the meat with strong crooked teeth. “Off with you now, and bring this little wench something to eat. I don't want her to starve before I decide what's to be done with her. Aye, she's emptied her belly in fear. We must fill it again.”

The woman slid off his fat legs and went to the cook pot that sat amid the fire embers. Master Giles said, “Aye, little pigeon. I am on my way to Truro to my own splendid lodgings there. This”—he waved about the forest—“all this is but a pleasant respite for me.”

One of his men grunted and spit out a bone.

The woman brought Daria a thick piece of bread piled high with honey and a goblet of ale. Daria accepted it gratefully. After she'd drunk deeply, Master Giles said, “Now, the truth, else Alan here will shred your nice gown and acquaint himself with your doubtless lovely body.”

Daria didn't want Alan near her. The truth, then; there was no choice. She raised her chin unconsciously as she spoke. “I am wedded to Roland de Tournay. He left me at Wolffeton whilst he journeyed to his new keep. I missed him and wanted to join him. That's all. I would appreciate your help, Master Giles. My husband's keep is called Thispen-Ladock.”

If Master Giles was at all surprised at this revelation, he didn't show it. “Ah, so he buys Sir Thomas Ladock's land. Well, well, a nice little keep with more stinking sheep than people to tend them. I have heard of your husband as well, a brave knight, I've heard it said, and popular with our king. Aye, this is an interesting tale you tell, little pigeon.”

“It is no tale, it is the truth.”

Master Giles didn't doubt it for an instant. It was simply that he wasn't certain what to do about it. Truth be told, he was nearly bowled out of his chair at who she was. “Tell me, why did you leave de Moreton? And all alone? That was not very clever of you.”