8
It was raining, a cold fine spray that soaked Daria within minutes. She looked up at the angry gray sky and just shook her head at the endless misery of it.
She’d been riding for three hours now and hadn’t seen a single man or woman in the past two. There were sheep, of course, sheep everywhere, and dark forests of sessile oak, thick twisted trees that looked wet to the touch even when it wasn’t raining. The road she’d taken had become a rough path with yew bushes crowding on either side, many times their spiked leaves brushing against Cantor’s flanks, making him prance sideways. She tried to keep him calm, his pace steady. His strength was great, his endurance greater.
She saw a flock of geese in a muddy field to her right and two badgers in a hedgerow beside her. No sign of the earl or his men. She prayed they were behind her, but far, far behind her.
The rain came down harder, in thick drenching sheets, and she huddled in wretched acceptance over Cantor’s slick neck. She wondered if magically, once she gained England, the rain would cease. She couldn’t be far from Chester, no, not very far now. And what of Roland? She shook her head. She couldn’t worry about him now; worrying about herself had to be paramount.
Suddenly a hare sprang from a thicket in front of Cantor. The destrier reared back onto his hind legs, whinnying in surprise and anger, and Daria lost her hold and fell on her side into a puddle of water. She felt her bones jar with the impact, and for a moment she merely lay there, not wanting to move.
Cantor snorted over her, his mighty head lowered, mirroring her own misery. She tried to smile at being caught off-guard. But she couldn’t find even a remnant of a smile. She scrambled slowly to her feet and leaned against Cantor’s heaving side. He nudged at her and she pressed closer to him. She felt the vibrations against the soles of her leather shoes. Horses, and they were coming swiftly toward her. Soon they would come into view. It had to be the earl and his men.
She swung up onto Cantor’s back and kicked his sides with the wet toes of her shoes. He bounded forward, only to stumble again. She was thrown sideways but kept on his back by wrapping his mane around her left wrist.
He was lame. She sat on his back, knowing it was over, yet unable to accept it. His head was lowered and he was blowing hard. There was no escape for her now.
She clearly heard the sounds of the horses’ hooves now. Nearer and nearer, and there was naught she could do. Save wait. What if they’d found Roland?
She felt her mind bending and straining, and cursed herself with words she’d heard from Roland. What was she to do? And then she knew. After all, she hadn’t the choice to play the fool; too much depended on her now.
She slid off Cantor’s back and turned toward the oncoming horses. Even as she recognized the earl’s big black Arab, she held herself ready, not moving, aware only that something deep inside her was flinching away from him, from who he was, and what he wanted from her.
I can’t bear it if he touches me. I can’t bear it. I’ll shriek and kick and die if he touches me—if he touches me.
She raised her head and felt the cold shards of rain strike her face. Sharp and stinging and cold, and she welcomed it.
The Earl of Clare raised his gauntleted hand. He stared at the rain-soaked boy who stood beside Roland’s huge destrier. His hand clamped over his sword. Where was that damned bastard? In hiding amongst the yew bushes? Leaving Daria, dressed foolishly like a lad, to fend for herself?
He waved his men to a halt. He saw Daria give a start as she recognized him. He watched with growing bewilderment as her expression changed from fear to joy and relief. She was running toward him, not away.
He felt uncertainty as he dismounted from his destrier. He stood still and stiff, watching her race toward him. She was speaking, yelling to him, as she ran. Then she threw herself against him, her arms going around his back.
His hands fisted, yet he made no move against her. He was mired in confusion. She was babbling now, something about how he’d saved her. Saved her.
The earl clasped her upper arms in his hands and pushed her away from him. He shook her.
“What do you here?”
Those weren’t the words he’d intended to speak. He’d wanted to strike her, fling her to the muddy road, and strike her again for her perfidy. But he did nothing, merely stood there, saying again, “What do you here?”
She was stuttering, with cold, with fear, with relief. He didn’t know; he didn’t move, just listened as the words poured from her mouth.
“I escaped him, I stole his horse, but the wretched animal is lame and I thought you were he and you would catch me again and I was so frightened—so frightened.”
The Earl of Clare felt the eyes of his tired men go from him to the shivering girl in front of him. Surely they were listening, but he could tell nothing of their opinions from their weary faces.
He realized suddenly that he didn’t care what any of them thought.
“You say you escaped from Roland?”
“Roland? Is that the cur’s name?” She shivered and flung herself against his chest again, pressing her cheek against the wet dank wool of his overtunic. “He is no priest, my lord. Please, don’t let him catch me again. He told me his name was Charles, but I knew it wasn’t.”
“You struck me. You, Daria, not that whoreson.”
She raised her face and gave him a look that was unholy in its innocence. And, curse her, her voice was high and wavering, like a frightened girl’s. “You were trying to ravish me and I wasn’t your wife. What was I to do? I was taught to hold my virtue dear until I was wedded. I had no choice but to protect myself or I would have been cursed by God. Then that man—Roland—he came in and forced me to go with him. He’s held me close to him, but finally he got drunk in Wrexham and I escaped him and took his horse.”
“I only wanted you a bit before the priest married us.”