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“The man is one of Satan’s tools. Also, he isn’t a fool. Who else would take you? He must guess that I would come after you. He’ll know that I have you again. He’ll know that I’m too strong for him, but still he will come. He’ll want his destrier and thus he will come to Tyberton. And I will kill the whoreson there on my own lands, with God’s blessing.”
His horse but not me. The earl was certain she had not near the value of Cantor in Roland’s eyes. Probably in his eyes as well. She wanted to laugh. If she was worth so much less than a horse, why couldn’t she simply offer to give the earl Cantor, and be allowed to leave in peace?
She didn’t know what to say, so she kept silent. The earl nodded, as if pleased. “You will take off your wet clothes. I don’t wish you to become ill.”
She turned to face him. Words stuck in her throat. She was frightened and just as angry that this man had such power over her, but she also knew that he wanted her docile and meek. She cleared her throat. She would gain her ends through subservient guile. “I beg you not to ravish me.”
“It matters not. I will take you if I wish to.”
“Please, my lord.” She thought frantically, schemes tumbling wildly in her brain, for only a show of complete compliance seemed to touch him. “It will be as you wish, my lord. But it is—I have begun my monthly flow.”
Her face was red with fear, not humiliation, but the Earl of Clare chose to believe that she was overcome with a maiden’s embarrassment.
It pleased him, this sweet reticence, this guileless deference to him and his wishes. And her gentle confession, telling him of her woman’s functions, the final proof of her purpose, gratified him. He felt all-powerful. He raised a hand and lightly patted her cheek. It required all her control not to flinch away from him. “You are still a virgin? That man didn’t ravish you, did he?”
She shook her head and kept her gaze steady. He was searching out the lie, but she wouldn’t let him see it in her eyes.
“Then I will wed you once we return to Tyberton. I won’t distress you again, Daria, with my man’s needs. Perhaps you were right to fight me so completely. Perhaps God willed your escape from me so that I would know his thoughts in this matter. Perhaps it is God’s will that you not give yourself to me until you are my wife. I make my vow before God. You will remain a virgin until our wedding night. Then I will take you and you will be willing and sweet.”
She thought she’d die with the relief of it. He saw it and frowned. “It isn’t proper that you shouldn’t want me in your bed. Accustom yourself, Daria, for I shall take you as surely as I will kill this Roland, and you will bear me a son before the coming winter wanes.”
Pleased with his conclusion, the earl turned and grunted something to MacLeod. Soon Daria was holding dry clothes and a blanket. The earl wave
d her to a darkened corner of the cave. As she changed into the dry clothing, she prayed that this time he would keep his word, that she would be safe from him. She prayed she had God on her side this time and that God would speak loudly to the earl.
It rained for a day and a half, sheets of wet cold rain. Daria wished she could simply succumb to Roland’s complaint and die. The earl carried her in front of him, just as Roland had done. One of his men led Cantor. The horse no longer limped. The rain stopped for half a day, then began again, a cold muzzling drizzle. Upon their return to Tyberton, she almost felt relief. The rain stopped and the sun shone down, drying them. It was uncanny.
The day after their return, it was hot. Daria blessed the sweat that stood out on her brow. It felt wonderful.
And she kept her vigil for Roland.
He was well, he had to be. He was stubborn, and he didn’t give up. Aye, he would come to Tyberton—for his horse. But perhaps he could be convinced to take her with him again.
When she learned there was still no priest at Tyberton, she wanted to cry to the heavens in joy. She was safe from the earl until he had one fetched to marry them, safe, that is, if he would keep to his word.
Aye, safe. But for how long? Daria turned with a sigh from the narrow window as her maid, Ena, said, “Aye, he were in a fury, he were. Cursing and bellowing like the divil hisself, he was, and his men were sniggering behind their hands, laughing at how ye, naught but a bit of a female, had done him in.” And Ena cackled as loudly as Romila. “Aye, they laughed at how he let his lust overcome his piety. But he left quick after ye. He tortured that farmer who’d held the pretty priest’s horse for him. Then I heard the earl had a knife stuck atween the farmer’s ribs, once he knew what was what. Aye, they left him in the dungeon to rot.”
The man who’d wanted only a place of four cows—lle pum buwch.
Daria swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. There was a knock on the door and then it opened, admitting one of the serving women.
It was her dinner on a covered tray. She was indeed to be kept a prisoner. The woman said nothing, merely stared hard at her for a moment, then dipped a curtsy.
Daria waved Ena toward the food. “I’m not hungry,” she said, and turned away toward the window again.
The following morning the earl and a dozen of his men left to seek out a band of outlaws that had attacked the small English village of Newchurch, struck whilst the Earl of Clare had been traveling through Wales to find her. She was free, for a while at least. He’d also given orders that she was to be kept locked in her chamber. The earl had patted her cheek before he’d mounted his powerful destrier, but she’d seen the hunger in his eyes and flinched away from it. “Soon,” he’d said, “soon now, and I’ll have a priest here,” and left.
It was midsummer, the ground baked dry from the sun, the sky clear of clouds, a startling bright blue.
And there was a priest now, the earl had told her the previous evening, a priest he’d found in Bristol after he’d searched long and hard, and he would arrive at Tyberton within a sennight. And he would marry her and then he would rape her and then kill her.
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. At least she hadn’t been treated like a prisoner for the past week. The earl had returned flushed with victory over the outlaws. He’d hanged them, all those Welshmen who had still been breathing, that is.
It appeared the earl had given up his conviction that Roland would come for Cantor. She overheard him speaking of Roland to MacLeod and his voice was filled with contempt. “Aye, the pretty whoreson has judged even his destrier to be beyond his abilities to retrieve. He knows I’d kill him slowly and he knows I’d catch him. Back to England he’s gone—Daria was right about that.”
MacLeod had simply said, “But still—”
She knew the earl didn’t completely trust her, but there was nothing more she could do to convince him. Indeed she wondered if she should even care. She’d begun to believe herself that Roland had returned to England. And if he hadn’t, was he then dead? Was he near to Tyberton even now? No, probably not. Still, she remained meek and soft-spoken in the earl’s presence, silent and cold when she was alone. She couldn’t be certain that her once-trusted companion, Ena, wouldn’t now betray her to the earl.
