And on and on his charade progressed, as Roland, confident as the pope himself, made his way through the throngs of people, initiating conversation with some, and thus making Daria’s heart jump into her throat, and insulting the soldiers with friendly motherly taunts.
They made it to the gates. Arthur, the porter, was grinning widely, showing the wide space between his two front teeth. He was holding a mug of ale in his beefy hand and he waved them through without a look, without a question.
Daria pulled on his woman’s sleeve. “Your horse. Cantor.”
Roland turned at that and gave her a ferocious frown. “Hush.”
Once they were without the castle walls, Roland took her hand and pulled her into a brisk walk.
“Thank you,” she said.
“A mother is supposed to protect her son. Keep your tongue behind your teeth.”
“But, Roland, you’ve left Cantor.”
“Not for very long.”
“Oh. The earl said you’d surely come for your destrier, but not—”
“But not for you?”
“That’s what I thought as well until I saw you yesterday, and then I prayed that perhaps you would also take me.”
“You forget, Daria, there is much coin awaiting me at Reymerstone. If I allowed the earl to wed you, I wouldn’t gain a penny.”
She felt a stab of pain so intense it nearly choked her. “I am still only a valuable bundle to you, to be delivered and then forgotten.”
“You also left me to rot in the charge of that vicious leech and that officious woman Romila. At least you didn’t steal all my coin or I would have had to pay Romila with my poor man’s body. Old enough to be my mother, and she wanted me to bed her. I had to beg her for my clothes.”
“I don’t believe you. Romila told me how to deal with you and—I tried to save you. And I did.”
“You will weave your tales later, once we are far from Tyberton. Cease your chatter now and walk. I’ve a horse in that copse.”
“Where are we going?”
“Why, to see the King and Queen of England, of course.”
Edward and Eleanor stared at the older woman who was chewing on a stick, her sagging breasts thrust forward in her slovenly gown, her duty hand firmly around the young boy’s arm.
“Well, here he is, sire. All full of himself and crowing like a peacock once I told him the king wanted to see him.”
Edward just shook his head and started to laugh. The queen looked at him oddly and said, “I don’t understand, my lord, is this—?”
“Aye, it’s our Roland, an old shrew, with her son.”
“Your highness,” Roland said in his deep voice, and bowed to the queen. “And this is Daria, daughter of James of Fortescue, and niece of Damon Le Mark, Earl of Reymerstone. This is my second rescue of the lady and, I profoundly pray, the final one. The Earl of Clare desires her mightily.”
Daria was overwhelmed. She started to speak but discovered that she had only a stutter. She gave an awkward curtsy in her boy’s clothes.
“Your father was a fine man, Daria,” the king said warmly. “We miss him sorely. As for you, I salute your disguise, Roland. I shouldn’t want you in my bed, however.”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said thoughtfully. “She appears to me a fine woman, such experience of men she shows in her eyes, my lord husband. Save for that dark stubble on her jaws, I vow I’d confide in her on the instant.”
Roland grinned at the queen, whose sweetness of expression rivaled her beauty and whose belly, he saw, was swelled yet again with another babe. “I thank you both for taking us in. I should like to resume my manhood and, your highness, if young Daria here could resume her gowns and ribbons?”
“Certainly,” the queen said, and lightly clapped her hands together. “Come, child.”
It was later in the afternoon when Daria saw Roland again. He was in men’s clothes again and looked so beautiful she wanted to run to him and fling him to the ground. She wanted to kiss him and stroke him and tell him how much she loved him. He was speaking, however, to several of the king’s soldiers, and she contented herself for the moment just looking at him. When one of the soldiers took himself off, she approached him and lightly touched her fingertip to his sleeve. He turned to look down at her and froze. Her look was intimate; there was no other way to describe it. And tender and—loving.