She quickly lowered her eyes and made her way quietly to her chair.
Edmond of Clare nodded at her, saw that her trencher was filled, then turned his attention back to the priest. He didn’t appear to have noticed anything amiss.
Roland chewed for a long while on the stewed piece of beef. He needed to give himself time to regain his wits. He saw Daria seat herself on Clare’s right, saw her lower her eyes to her trencher.
He heard Clare ask him a question, and he responded. He’d escaped from Clare’s company as soon as he could this afternoon after the girl had fallen into a faint at his feet. He’d seen the utter bewilderment in her eyes when she’d turned to look at him, the obvious shock she felt upon seeing him, touching his hand. It was passing strange, and he was inclined to think the girl bereft of wits. It was as if she’d known him, as if she recognized him, but that wasn’t possible. He’d never seen her before in his life. And he would have remembered.
She was passing fair. He’d found her pleasant to look at, surely, nothing more or less. Her features were clear and delicately drawn, satisfying the taste of most men, and yet she wasn’t beautiful in the purity and perfection of her features. There was strength in her face, a natural vitality that was now dimmed from her captivity. Her dark hair was as her uncle had described it—filled with the rich deep colors of autumn—but even her hair appeared dulled. Her eyes were a pure green that seemed to lighten or darken with her changing mood. This afternoon they’d been as dark as the turbulent Irish Sea in the dawn. Now they were light and soft. She was reed slender, slight of build, but her chin was held high, showing her dignity, her training as a lady. But there was strength and courage in her, he knew it. There was a hollowness in her cheeks, a drawn look about her, again a sign of her captivity.
Perhaps he could even understand why Edmond of Clare wanted to take her as his wife. Perhaps the man had seen the promise in her, the grit. Even as he thought it, Roland shook his head. No, the earl saw a young girl in splendid health who would produce him a string of fine sons. If he were lucky, she wouldn’t die in childbed as had his first two wives. Then Roland saw again in his mind’s eye her insensible shock upon seeing him. Perhaps it was an attack of bile on her part and not a lack of wit. He prayed it was so. He’d even questioned himself as to his role; had she perhaps seen through him? Seen him as a fraud and a liar? Not believed him a priest for the barest second?
Edmond of Clare put further questions to him, and he replied easily and fluently, for he’d studied his role for the past two weeks, bending on it with all his concentration. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes. His life hung in the balance, as did hers. He rather liked the name Father Corinthian; it had a very Eastern sound to it that pleased the aesthetic part of him. But this wretched girl . . . whatever had been wrong with her this afternoon? He would get her out of here soon and he’d get her home even sooner.
He shivered and took another bite of the overly salted stewed beef. He had to find out if she was still a virgin. He thought that she was. From what he knew already of Edmond of Clare, the man, whatever else he was, appeared to understand honor. The girl didn’t look in the least abused.
What she did look was bewildered. She didn’t face him once during the long meal. Roland determined he would discover the cause of her stupefaction as soon as possible. He passed his evening discussing theological questions with Edmond of Clare. What seemed to prey on the earl’s mind was the issue of man’s loyalty to another man versus his loyalty to God. Roland quickly discovered that the earl wasn’t a stupid man. He also quickly learned that the earl spent the bulk of his time immersing his mind in religious matters, and thus knew more about Church dogma than did Roland. If Roland hadn’t been so facile of tongue, he would have found himself several times in grave difficulties.
At one point the earl leaned back in his chair and stroked his thick fingers through his equally thick red beard. “You met the young lady, Daria,” he said at last. “I intend to wed her the last day of this month.”
“Ah,” Roland said, smiling. “That brings up an interesting question, does it not? A man’s loyalty to a woman, namely his wife.”
“Absurd,” said Edmond of Clare, shrugging. “Women are of little worth, save as vessels for a man’s seed, and my first two wives failed even at that. They both died, taking their infants with them. You would think they could have left the babes alive, but they didn’t, curse their selfishness. But Daria, the girl looks healthy and fit to bear me sons.”
Roland felt astonishment at the earl’s words. He’d heard men vow before their peers that women were naught but chattel, but to say a woman was selfish because her babe died with her? It passed all bounds. “Who is she?” he asked, taking a sip of wine from his flagon. “She already seems the mistress, since she is obviously a lady.”
The earl answered readily, without hesitation, “The niece of a man I have wanted to kill for five years. But with her as my wife, he will be safe from me, curse his rotted soul. It is the compromise I am willing to make. She also brings me a great dowry. I suppose I must forget my revenge upon the uncle with the niece as my wife. Unless, of course, I can get my hands on him with no one knowing of it.” The earl fell silent, his expression brooding, as if he weren’t completely pleased with the bargain he had made. He said suddenly, “Is it your belief, Father, that if a man fully intends to marry a woman, it is still a sin for him to bed the woman before they are joined in God’s eyes?”
Roland felt no astonishment at this question. He felt a surge of raw anger, and oddly enough, a bit of amusement. Edmond of Clare was a man who hated to give in to lust, and if he did, he wanted it condoned and excused by God. But if he did take Daria before Roland could get her away from Tyberton—Roland wasn’t stupid or naive, and he knew that Damon Le Mark, once he knew for a certainty she was no longer a virgin, would kill her just as he’d said he would. He wanted her back only because of Colchester and what the marriage would bring him, the coveted lands to extend his own acres. And it was only the lands that drew him more than the great dowry. But Colchester wouldn’t have her marry his son if her maidenhead had been rent, and thus Damon Le Mark would have to content himself with her money. To get it, he would have to rid himself of his niece.
Roland brought his wits to bear on the earl’s question. He said with all the firmness a priest should have at his command, and prayed it was enough, “A man’s lust is a matter that should not concern his wife or the lady who will soon be his wife. If he must needs slake his lust, he should do it on another female, one of lesser account.”
Edmond of Clare muttered something under his breath but presented no arguments. The interminable evening finally ended in his saying prayers over the assembled men and women of Tyberton. He wanted to impress the Benedictine priest. He fancied he did it well. He noticed that most of the people remaining in the hall appreciated his efforts toward their spiritual salvation. Only a few of the louts fidgeted and leaned from one side to the other. He would see them punished.
Roland bade the girl, Daria, good night, and watched her leave the hall. He prayed he’d saved the girl’s maidenhead for another day with his priestly edict. He slept that night in a small niche off the solar, warm enough, but he would wager that in the dead of winter a man’s bones would be chilled to the marrow pressed against the cold damp stones, even wrapped in a dozen blankets.
It was six o’clock in the morning and Roland was clean and cowled and vigorously awake. Latin hummed on his tongue. Since he was a small boy, Roland had always preferred the early mornings. His mind was sharper, his wits more acute, his body supple and strong and ready for action. He made his way
quickly to the chapel.
The Tyberton chapel was long and narrow, with several wooden carved saints decorating the nave, each rivaling the other in varying stages of gruesome martyrdom. It was damp and cold in the chapel and Roland could feel the early-morning fog from the River Wye waft through the thick gray stones. He thought again of his goal: the keep and the lands he was purchasing in Cornwall. The keep itself was small, but it was finely built and was safe and snug and warm, situated nearer the southern coast rather than the savage and barren northern coast. It would be his once he’d returned the girl safely to her uncle and collected the other half of his fee. By all the saints, he wished this were over and he was there, tilling his own fields, repairing his own walls, filling his own granaries.
He waited impatiently for the earl and Daria to arrive, the Mass filtering through his mind. He knew much of it by heart now, not that it mattered overmuch. Edmond of Clare spoke no Latin, just parroted the responses; he’d made sure of that when he’d questioned the earl’s former priest, a fat lout who was delighted to take the coin offered to escape Tyberton and its fanatic owner. As for the rest of the castle denizens, they could scarce speak the King’s English, from what Roland had heard.
The girl, Daria, came first into the chapel. She was dressed warmly, a thick wool cloak covering her gown. It was apparent that she’d been in this chapel many times before. Her head was covered by a soft white wimple. Her eyes were downcast. She was either very religious or she was purposefully avoiding looking at him. He stared hard at her until she finally looked up. He saw uncertainty writ clear on her face, blank surprise in her eyes as she looked at him. And there it was again, that odd way she stared at him. He started to speak, but Edmond of Clare strode in at that moment. He offered Daria his arm and escorted her to the first bench facing the nave and the priest.
“Father,” Edmond said, his voice low and sonorous and infinitely respectful.
Roland nodded benignly. “Be seated, my children, and we will praise the Lord’s bounty and laud his beneficence on the Feast of Devotion.” He crossed himself and regarded his two supplicants with bland favor. Once they were seated, he began, his voice fluent and low:
Nos autem gloriari oportet in cruce Domini nostri Jesu Christi: in quo est salus, vita, et resurrectio nostra: per quem salvati, et liberati sumus.
Daria felt the pure sweet tones of the Latin fill her. He spoke beautifully, his voice low and soothing. It was obvious to her that he was learned, unlike many priests, who were illiterate, for he understood what he was saying and gave feeling to the sentiments. As he spoke, she translated his words in her mind.
“. . . But it behooves us to glory in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ: in whom is our salvation, life, and resurrection: by whom we are saved and delivered . . .”
Alleluia, alleluia. Deus misereatur nostri, et benedicat nobis: illuminet vultum suum super nos, et misereatur nostri. Gloria Patri.
It was beautiful, the words and his voice, and she couldn’t take her eyes from his face, his beautiful face that wasn’t a man’s face, not really, but the face of God at this moment, his speech God’s speech, the near-hypnotic movement of his hands binding her and making the earl beside her draw in his breath with the moving beauty of it. “—Alleluia, alleluia. May God have mercy on us and bless us: may he cause the light of his countenance to shine upon us, and may he have mercy on us. Glory to the Father.”