Secret Song Page 6

  But Daria wasn’t to submit without a struggle. She grabbed up her skirts and ran from the earl. He caught her quickly, his heavy arm around her waist, and he lifted her, carrying her to the narrow cot, and threw her down upon her back, knocking the breath out of her.

  “Damn you, girl, hold still.” He lifted his hand to strike her into submission, saw the priest standing rigid with disapproval near to him, and slowly lowered his hand. He leaned down, his face close to hers. “Do as I tell you or I will beat you when the priest is gone.”

  He’d spoken softly, so that only she heard him. She felt his spittle on her throat. He was both enraged and determined.

  “Please, my lord,” she said, “please don’t shame me. I am a maid. What have I done to deserve your distrust? Please do not shame me.”

  The earl paid no attention. He was as determined as he was excited, his groin twisting with painful need. He wanted to touch her, thrust his finger inside her, feel her soft woman’s flesh. He felt sweat break out on his forehead, sweat from his growing lust. Daria felt one of his large hands on her belly, his fingers splayed outward, holding her flat, and his other hand was pulling at her wool skirt, yanking it up, ripping it in his haste, and she felt the chill air on her thighs. She cried out and began to struggle, frantically trying to jerk away from him. His large hand clamped about her knee and squeezed. She cried out against the sudden pain.

  “Make no more struggles. Lie still and I will be through quickly.”

  But she couldn’t make herself lie there like a helpless creature, motionless and obedient to his will, whilst he humiliated her, and looked at her and touched her. Not with Roland standing so close, looking wild and furious and nearly savage with rage. Then she realized if she continued to fight him, Roland would attack him and most likely all would be lost. And Roland would die.

  To acquiesce to this, the humiliation of it threatened to choke her, but she forced herself to still, closing her eyes against the knowledge of what he was going to do to her. It cost her dearly, but she held herself perfectly rigid, enduring because she had to endure. The earl looked up at her, then grunted, pleased with her surrender.

  And Roland understood. He hated watching this, hated the earl’s hand touching her. He saw his large hand press her legs wide apart, saw his finger disappear between her thighs, and knew he was touching her. He shook with the compulsion to kill him, yet he knew, as did Daria, that they would have little or no chance to escape, not if he gave in to his fury and killed the earl now. He forced himself to stand there stiff and tense and mute, watching, and it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. The earl’s face was flushed dark with lust and his breathing was loud in the chamber.

  Daria whimpered when one of the earl’s thick fingers thrust inside her. As he probed deeper into her, she cried out with the pain of his roughness. He frowned at her and continued deeper, widening her, preparing her for his sex, for he had every intention of taking her soon, regardless. But he knew she was a maid, aye, he knew, but he’d wanted to touch her, to feel her soft flesh.

  Finally he withdrew his finger from her body, and his hand from beneath her skirts. He jerked her gown down over her legs. “She is a maid,” he said, and he looked down into her face as he spoke.

  “Open your eyes, damn you. I will take you to wive and you will be loyal and obedient to me, your lord and your husband. Do you understand me, Daria? Even though you are flesh of your uncle’s lewd flesh, it matters not, for you will forget his loathsome nature and bind yourself to me and become what I demand.”

  The earl rose and looked down at her again. “Rise and straighten yourself. Father, you are my witness that she is still a virgin. Now that it is proved, let us leave her alone.”

  Roland nodded and his eyes dropped. He very nearly leapt on the earl in that moment, for he saw that his sex bulged against the cloth of his tunic, thick and hard.

  He didn’t look at Daria, for he couldn’t bear to see on her pale face the misery he knew she felt. He forced himself to nod again, and motioned the earl to go ahead of him out of the bedchamber. He knew deep down that the earl would return to ravish her. If the Benedictine priest, Father Corinthian, had not been here bearing witness, the earl would have continued what he was doing. He would have ravished her. But he would return. He would return tonight; Roland knew it. He knew he must get her away from Tyberton first or he would have failed.

  Still his rage made him tremble, and he was relieved that the earl didn’t turn to address some question to him or he might still have wrapped his hands around Edmond of Clare’s neck and wrung the life out of him.

  Daria scrambled up from the bed and raced to the door. She forced herself to crack the door open and look out. The earl and Roland were gone. She retreated again, closing the door. There was no key to keep him out. She didn’t yet know of Roland’s plan for their escape, only that he would come for her. She began to pace, feeling so shamed, so humiliated at what he’d done to her that she couldn’t bear being within herself, being at one with her body. She wasn’t aware that tears were streaming down her face until Ena slipped into the chamber and gasped at the sight of her.

  “He’s ravished you. And that miserable priest with him. I knew he wasn’t a priest, too pretty he is, too lean and hungry. Aye, both of them—”

  Daria, maddened beyond control, turned on the old woman in a fury and yelled, “Shut your stupid mouth, you miserable old crone. I will hear no more of your filth.”

  It was shock that made Ena obey her mistress. Never had the girl spoken thus to her, and she could but stare at her.

  “Leave me. I don’t wish to see your hag’s face until the morning. Go.”

  The old woman scuttled out. Alone once again, Daria stared at the closed door. She felt only a bit of guilt, for Ena had become more and more unstable during their months of captivity. Once she was gone, if she managed to escape, the old woman would be safe enough here. She knew the earl wouldn’t waste his time killing her.

  She paced until her leg cramped. She sat down on her bed and began rubbing her calf. What to do? Wait for Roland to appear? She simply didn’t know. She supposed she had no choice but to remain here until he came for her. Or, she thought, rising quickly, she could try to escape herself. The door wasn’t locked. Perhaps she could slip by the guards; perhaps she could race through the inner bailey and no one would attempt to stop her; perhaps—It was ridiculous and she knew it.

  She’d nurtured such ridiculous plans frequently during her confinement. There was no escape for her; she knew it. Then, she wondered, how could Roland get her out of here? He’d said tonight. But how? She saw no way, no glimmer of a chance.

  She was crying again, feeling again the earl’s callused fingers digging into her flesh, touching her, pushing against her until his finger entered her, probed inside her, and the pain mixed with the humiliation of it caused her to cry out, covering her face in her hands. And Roland had watched.

  It was too much. Something inside her gave way and she suddenly felt outside herself; she felt as outside and as gray as the falling dusk, and filled with numb purpose. She rose and walked slowly toward the narrow window. She measured its width with her hands. She climbed up on a stool and tried to stick her head through the opening. It was too small even for her head. She pushed harder, bruising her temples. Staggering pain coursed through her head. She scrambled off the stool, her hands pressed against her temples, and she stared down at it and then at the window and was horrified. She’d wanted to leap through it; she’d wanted to kill herself. She drew a breath and forced herself to suck in air slowly and deeply. She’d lost her reason. Slowly she lay down on her narrow bed. She closed her eyes. She would remain calm. She would wait; she had no choice. The pain in her head subsided.

  She didn’t know how many hours passed, if hours indeed did slip by. Perhaps it was a succession of minutes that crept by her, so very slowly, until she wanted to scream. The chamber grew dark with the night; soon the one lone candle
gutted.

  There was but a quarter-moon to glimmer in the night sky, and its light cast no shadows into the chamber. It was dark and silent. She heard the door open softly. She heard a man’s step, a man’s steady breathing.

  “I cannot wait longer for you,” he said, coming to a halt beside her cot. “I am here to become your husband. I have prayed long in the chapel. God approves my actions. You will take me and accept me and obey me.”

  4

  She’d known he would come, and strangely enough, she wasn’t paralyzed by fear. She listened to him speak, and some part of her marveled at his ability to bring God to his side, be the matter one of piety or lust. She listened but heard no sound of a key turning in the lock. She knew there was a key, for he’d locked her in the first several weeks of her captivity.

  Then he hadn’t bothered this time, for he’d seen no reason to. She heard his heavy breathing, heard his footfall as he approached the bed. She heard him trip over the single stool and curse; then he called out, “Have you no candle? I wish to see you. Where is the candle?”

  Very slowly, very deliberately, Daria rolled to her side to the far side of the cot. She eased off the side and came onto her hands and knees on the hard stone floor. Could he see her somehow? Hear her heart pounding?

  “Daria?” His own breathing was deep and harsh, and she knew he was feeling for her on the bed. She crawled slowly, silently, toward the door.

  He yelled her name, knowing now that she wasn’t lying there on the bed waiting for him. He roared, wheeling about, and he again tripped over the stool. He kicked it from his path and in the next instant he threw the door open. Dim light from the single flambeau in the corridor wall cast shadows into the chamber. And he saw her, kneeling, her arms over her chest, staring up at him, pale and still.

  The earl wondered if he should beat her now for her attempt to escape him; then he thought better of it. Perhaps if he struck her he would hurt her and she would not give him her full attention when he took her. No, he wanted all her attention, he wanted her to look at him when he thrust into her, drove through her maiden’s barrier. His heart pounded and his loins grew swollen and heavy.

  “Get up,” he said, not moving. He was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread, blocking her, he knew, and there was nothing she could do save obey him. But she couldn’t.

  She didn’t move.

  “Obey me, now, or you will feel my hand.”

  Daria believed him. Slowly she got to her feet. She stood there silent and waiting. He smiled at her and held out his hand. “Come, Daria. Be not afraid of me, sweetling. You will be my wife, after all. I offer you this honor willingly and with all my heart and with our Lord’s blessing. I will visit pain upon you tonight, but you will open to me willingly and you will accept my seed into your womb. Perhaps you will know some pleasure, but I trust it will not be overabundant. I do not want you to forget yourself like some women do. They are not good women; they are unworthy. My first wife was a whore, abandoned in her cries and demands, but you—you will be just what I want.”

  His words had held her in thrall, and when he moved so quickly and grabbed her arm, she finally shrieked, “No. Get away from me, I don’t want this.”

  Surprisingly, his hold on her arm gentled. “Fear not, Daria. You are blessed amongst women. God and man will it so. It will be my duty to take you as often as I am able, and you will come to wish for me, surely, in your sweet way, and to ask me prettily to take you. Women are to bend to their husbands; it is in your nature to do so.”

  He stopped a moment and gave her a look filled with such certainty that she wondered for an instant if she were not somehow amiss in her view of him and the world itself and not accepting something that was truly an honor bestowed upon her. Then she laughed. She’d thought to jump out of that window if only she’d fit through it. She no longer cared. She leaned back her head and spit at him, full in the face.

  In the next moment he jerked her to the bed and threw her upon her face. His hand at the small of her back held her still. The chamber door stood open, but he didn’t care. He wanted to see her and he wasted no more time. She was his and he would do just as he pleased. He would honor her in marriage and take her now because he couldn’t bear to wait longer. He’d already waited too long, been too careful in his deliberations regarding her. He ripped up her gown, baring her to her waist. He stood then and looked down at her sprawled legs, the rounded buttocks, the narrow waist. His loins ached and prodded. His breath hitched. He wiped her spittle from his face. He spread his open hands over her buttocks, kneading and caressing, and he marveled at the softness and the whiteness of a woman’s flesh.

  She made a sound deep in her throat and tried to roll away from him. It was nothing, this woman’s token resistance of hers. He merely wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her onto her back. He pulled up her gown and again forced himself to slow, to study this wondrous gift that he had brought to himself. He stared at the mound of dark hair that covered her woman’s flesh. He touched her and felt her flinch. He lifted his hand and said, “Now. Open your legs, Daria. I wish to see you.”

  Instead, she lifted her legs, rolled up on her shoulders, and struck him in the chest with her feet. He grunted with pain and surprise and tumbled backward. But he caught her, easily, so easily, and she knew she would weaken soon and there could be but one conclusion.

  She was screaming at him, kicking when there was naught but air to kick, for he was standing now beside the bed, watching her flailing, holding his hands over his chest, trying to regain his breath. And he was still staring down at her. Then he laughed, a low satisfied laugh. He was amused by her foolish efforts. Even as he unfastened the knot on his chausses he laughed. As he freed his manhood, he stopped laughing and looked at her. He saw her eyes lower, saw that she was staring at him, and was pleased, for he was hard and erect, his sex thrusting out from his groin. He was a good size, many women had told him so, and he wanted some healthy fear from her, at least that first time.

  He came down on top of her, pinning her thrashing legs beneath his weight. She felt his sex between her legs, shoving upward, and she closed her eyes against the awful pain she knew would come when he managed to shove himself inside her. She struck his shoulders with her fists, scratched and pounded at his muscled arms. It did her no good at all. Her arm jerked back for yet another blow, this one to his head, when her hand brushed against the brass candle holder atop the small table beside the cot. A fierce joy went through her. She clutched its rough base, raised it as high as she could, and brought it down on his head.

  The earl had reared back, his sex held in his own hand to guide himself into her, and the blow struck the side of his head. The pain was searing and it rattled him. He fell sideways, still pinning her beneath him. She heard him groan, then fall silent. She struck him again and felt a slight shudder go through him. Then she dropped the candlestick. She tried to push him off her. She heaved and prodded, but she couldn’t move him. He was deadweight on her.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. She was so close to escape and she was still trapped by him. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t . . .

  “What in God’s name have you done?”

  At the sound of Roland’s low voice, her tears dried, though she still wanted to cry, but in relief. “Please, hurry, get him off me.”

  Roland quickly pushed the earl off her and let him roll onto the floor. He saw that her gown was shoved up to her waist and that her legs were parted and bare. He didn’t want to ask, but he did. “Are you all right? Did he—hurt you?” His own voice flattened, for he’d been late, mayhap too late to help her. The earl had been over her and she’d been naked and. . . . When she shook her head violently, he felt such relief his belly cramped.

  She was very pale and shaking. He still looked at her, wondering what to say, wondering if he should stick his dagger into the earl’s heart, for it was what he wanted to do. He’d prayed he wasn’t too late as he’d rushed up th
e narrow stone stairwell, prayed more devoutly than a Benedictine priest would have done.

  He shook his head. He, her rescuer, hadn’t done a bloody thing. She’d saved herself.

  “Quickly, Daria, rip up your gown. We will bind him and gag him. Hurry, we don’t have much time.” She didn’t hesitate. She ripped off wide pieces of the precious dark blue wool, watching Roland from the corner of her eye as he bound the earl tightly.

  Once the gag was in his mouth, Roland rolled him unceremoniously under the narrow bed.

  “Now,” he said, rising, “nearly done. You must change now, quickly.”

  Daria stared at the boy’s clothes he thrust into her hands. Then she smiled.

  “Hurry, we haven’t much time,” He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I know things are moving quickly, but you will be safe now. We will speak later.”

  He turned his back to her and stationed himself at the open chamber door. He wanted to close the door but knew she needed some light to dress herself in the unfamiliar clothing. He heard her breathing, her clumsy movements. He kept his eyes on the steep circular stairwell just across from the bedchamber. He’d drugged the supper ale in its wooden kegs, but still he couldn’t be certain that all the earl’s men had drunk enough to knock them out. To his enormous chagrin, the earl hadn’t touched any drink. He’d been too intent on getting to Daria. He hadn’t wanted to risk impotence with her. Roland listened. It was quiet as a tomb, ominously quiet to his ears.

  “Are you dressed yet?”

  “Aye,” she said, appearing suddenly at his side. Roland turned to look at her. The boy’s clothes disguised the woman’s curves of her body but she still looked very much a female. Quickly he sat her down on the bed and braided her hair. He tied it with a bit of cloth from her shredded gown, then thrust the boy’s cap over her head, bringing it nearly to her eyebrows. He removed a wrapped cloth from his tunic and she saw that it contained mud.