“For the most part. Only Daria knew that I misspoke some of my Latin Mass. The earl here understands naught but what he speaks. I could have recited Latin declensions and it would have made him feel holy just the same. It was Daria who understood immediately I was a fraud.”
“Daria. You call her Daria. That’s absurd. A female cannot understand God’s word. You lie to me and to your king. I understood all your mistakes, but I am a good man, a tolerant man, and I merely believed you nervous in front of me, and I chose not to humiliate you. Aye, I willingly forgave your lapses. Sire, give him over to me and I will deal with him quickly and fairly.” He panted himself to a halt, then, unable to help himself, yelled, “I demand that you turn the man over to me, sire.”
“Hold, my lord,” Edward said. He shifted in his chair—the earl’s own ornate carved chair—and continued mildly, “Listen well, for I grow bored with your commands to your king. This man is Roland de Tournay. He is my man, sent by me and none other to rescue that girl, Daria, from your imprisonment. Her uncle, the Earl of Reymerstone, pleaded for my help and I gave it. I told Roland to use whatever means necessary to accomplish his mission. Of course I didn’t wish any blood to be shed, and he accomplished that as well.”
Roland said not a word. He simply gazed at the king in admiration. He’d never believed the king so quick of wit before. He’d rather looked forward to this confrontation, but he’d assumed that the king would allow him to handle the earl, to do whatever he had to do, short of murdering the man.
He saw that the king was much enjoying his playacting. Roland, for the first time in their acquaintance of many years, remained silent. As for the Earl of Clare, he could not now make further demands, not after the king’s explanation. Roland felt resentment at the king’s interference, and some amusement, for the earl’s hatred and immense frustration was very nearly a tangible thing, and there was naught the man could do, save silently choke on it.
Edward had no intention of allowing the two men to fight, for Roland would kill the earl, of that he had little doubt. He was younger, he was stronger, and he was smarter. And besides, he himself still needed the Earl of Clare, rot the man’s miserable hide, needed him to fend off the Welsh outlaws, until he could build his castles and assume control himself. Then the Earl of Clare could drown in a Welsh swamp with the king’s blessing. He discounted his friendship with Roland de Tournay; it couldn’t be a consideration in the royal decision. No, the king didn’t want Clare dead now. Moreover, he’d gained advantage with Roland, for that talented fellow wouldn’t be able to refuse his king anything, not after this. Why, he would even have Roland’s fine destrier returned to him. He thought about the look on the earl’s face were he to tell him that it was his, the king’s, destrier, and he had merely loaned it to Roland. The earl would surely swallow his tongue in his rage.
The king smiled at the earl, a gracious smile. He didn’t believe in pressing a man’s face in offal unless it was necessary. A king could afford to be beneficent in victory; it was also in his noble character, unless, of course, he wished it otherwise. “So you see, my lord, Roland accomplished his mission. If he offended your religious feelings, I will reprimand him soundly. Further, it seems he became enamored with Daria and she with him. After he rescued her again—the second time, he played the bent old hag, did you know that? No, well, that time, he brought her to me. They were wedded last night, my lord, by mine own priest. He is, in fact, a Benedictine priest, I can attest to it.”
For a long moment the earl simply stared, not at any person, but inward, and there he saw bleakness and rage. He couldn’t accept it. He looked toward Daria, who stood next to the queen. This man, this Roland de Tournay, had wedded her and bedded her. “They left me with a peasant girl, garbed her as Daria for her wedding with me. If she hadn’t giggled, I should have married the little slut.”
“She was beautiful, my lord,” Roland said. “I hand-picked her myself.”
The king grinned, then harrumphed and said, his voice serious, “This peasant girl, my lord, what have you done with her? Not harmed her, I trust.”
The Earl of Clare turned a dull red, for certainly he’d bedded her, taken her with little delay; even as his servants and soldiers feasted, he’d taken her to his chamber and plowed her small belly. He’d hurt her, but not badly. What had she expected to happen to her once her lord had discovered the ruse? Any other man would have had her beaten to death. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t at all the point. The earl shook himself much in the manner of a wet mongrel and bellowed, “Daria. Come here, immediately.”
Daria felt the queen’s hand lightly squeeze her fingers to hold her quiet. The queen raised her head and smiled at the king. Both the queen and Daria wished they’d heard what had been said, but they hadn’t.
“Aye,” the king called, “let Daria come here. Let her tell the earl that she is wedded to Roland de Tournay, by her own will, with no royal coercion.”
Daria rose slowly. She felt as if she were in a strange dream, filled with loud voices from people who weren’t really there, weren’t actually real. She walked across the cold stone floor of Tyberton’s great hall, seeing the people who’d served her, who’d watched her, seeing some of them smirking now at their lord and his predicament, others gazing with hatred upon her. The queen had assured her earlier that the king wouldn’t allow the two men to fight. She hadn’t believed her before, but now she did. Further, no matter what Roland believed, no matter what he thought of her, she was his wife. She must not shame him. She stiffened her back and thrust up her chin. She didn’t look at her husband.
She walked directly to the Earl of Clare. “Yes, my lord?” she asked pleasantly. “You wished to speak to me?”
The earl stared down at her a moment. He wanted to strike her and pull her against him. She was pale, but even so, she didn’t appear to have any fear of him. He’d strike her first, he thought, not hard, just with enough force to recall her to her duty to him; then he’d take her and hold her. He could feel the softness of her body, the narrowness of her when he’d penetrated her with his finger to find her maidenhead. She had no maidenhead now. She’d wedded Roland de Tournay. Blood pounded hard and fast in his head and in his groin. He said in a harsh voice, “You have truly wedded him? Willingly?”
“Aye. I am his wife.”
“By all the saints. You lied to me when I caught up to you finally? You hadn’t escaped him in Wrexham? You were not trying to find me?”
“That’s correct, my lord. He’d fallen ill and would have been unable to fight you if you’d found us. I learned that you had arrived in Wrexham and had discovered Roland’s destrier at the local stable. I had to save him from you, for I knew you would kill him with no hesitation. I took his destrier and led you away from him.”
Roland didn’t move. He didn’t change expressions. He felt something move deep inside him, a feeling like the one he’d experienced the previous evening when his release had overtaken him. He’d wanted briefly to hold her tightly against him, caress her, and kiss her, and forget all else. But he’d managed to keep his mouth shut. He’d managed this time not to give a woman power over him. He’d managed to hold himself apart from the still and silent woman lying beneath him. He’d held steady; she’d already betrayed him once. She wouldn’t betray him again.
Even if she wasn’t lying about saving him, well, then, it still didn’t matter. She’d lied about the other. There was no other explanation for it, the Earl of Clare had raped her the moment he’d recaptured her. And Roland felt the familiar rage with that knowledge. She had saved him; he accepted it as being plausible, though he’d never before known a woman with such initiative.
The Earl of Clare howled. “I offered you everything. Damn you, girl, you could have been a countess, not a simple knight’s lady, doomed to poverty—”
“Oh, I shan’t be poor, my lord,” Daria said, interrupting him with great pleasure. “Don’t you forget how you desired my dowry as much as my fair hand? My dowry and revenge against my uncle? Well, all is now Roland’s.”
Reason deserted him. The earl’s fist struck her hard against her jaw. Daria staggered backward with the force of his blow, falling to the stone floor. Roland leapt upon the earl, his fist in his throat, his other fist striking low and hard in his belly. The earl yelled and stumbled backward, his balance lost. Roland didn’t pause. He jumped at him, hurling him to his back with his fist hard in his chest. The earl’s sword crashed loudly against the stone. Roland stood over him and hissed, “You strike someone with not a tenth of your strength. Well, I am her husband and I will protect her from such vermin as you.” He kicked the earl hard in the ribs, then dropped to his knees, grabbed the earl by his tunic, jerked up his head, and pounded his face twice with his fist. He let his head drop back with a loud ugly thud.
“Enough, Roland,” the king called. “Have some ale. That sort of work makes a man thirsty.”
But Roland didn’t heed the king. He saw the queen’s ladies surrounding Daria, helping her to her feet, brushing off her gown. He strode to them and they fell away from her. He didn’t touch her for a moment, just stood there before her, looking down at her.
“Look up at me, Daria.”
She obeyed him. He clasped her upper arms in his hands.
The earl—the damnable sod—had struck her hard. Roland lightly touched her jaw. “You will look a witch come evening,” he said. “But your eye won’t blacken. Does it hurt?”
She shook her head, but he knew it mu