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He took a step backward.
“Are you all right?”
“Aye,” she said happily. “Do you think the earl has wedded Tilda yet? You don’t think he’ll harm her, do you?”
Roland shook his head. “I do think he’ll bed her, though, and make her his mistress. She’s a beautiful girl.”
“You aren’t objective; you are, after all, her mother. Are you well now, Roland? I was so worried about you and I didn’t know what to do when the stableman told me of the men asking about Cantor.”
“So that’s what happened,” he said. “I didn’t know, couldn’t understand, why you’d left so suddenly and with no word to anyone. I tried to search for you but managed only to get down the stairs and collapse again.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm, caressing him now, and he frowned. “Daria, what is the matter with you?”
She realized what she was doing and in the same instant realized that he had no idea why she was doing it. She looked at him hungrily, then quickly released his arm and turned away from him. “Naught is wrong. What will happen now? How do you know the king and queen? They seem to be your friends. I heard someone say that we were traveling to Tyberton tomorrow. How can that be true? The earl will—”
He gently touched his fingertips to her mouth. “Trust me,” he said. “All will be well and I will have my destrier back. And you will soon be on your way back to Reymerstone.”
Her expression became stony, but he ignored it, turning away from her.
That evening, Queen Eleanor, having correctly judged Daria’s feelings by simply asking her how she felt about Roland de Tournay, imputed similar feelings to Roland, for, after all, the girl was wealthy, quite lovely, and—The queen smiled, saying to Roland as she sipped at her sweet Aquitaine wine, “Do you wish to be wedded before you arrive at Tyberton, just to ensure that the earl won’t scream down our royal ears?”
Roland dropped the braised rib to his trencher. He looked first to Daria, saw that she was staring open-mouthed at the queen, and said quickly, “Your highness, I plan to return Daria to her uncle. It was a mission I accepted. I vowed I would return her to him a maid and otherwise unharmed. There is no question of marriage between us. I fear you have misunderstood the situation.”
Eleanor cocked her head to one side in question as she turned to the king. Edward looked grave. “It’s you I don’t understand, Roland. You are my friend and you are a man of honor. It’s true you accepted the mission to rescue Daria, but all of that has changed now. You changed it when you—well, never mind that now. You must realize that you can no longer return Daria to anyone, not now. You have a responsibility toward her. She is a lady, Roland, your lady.”
Roland felt mired in confusion. He opened his mouth, but a servant appeared to fill the royal flagons with more sweet wine. Roland curbed his questions until the young man bowed his way out of the royal tent.
“I don’t know what is happening here,” Roland said, staring directly at Daria now. “She is my responsibility. I readily acknowledge it and accept that she will continue to be so until I return her to her uncle.”
Daria was in her turn staring from the king to the queen and back again. They wanted Roland to wed her? All because she had confided in the queen that she loved him? Love had naught to do with anything. Even she knew that, not when it involved a dowry the size of hers.
But they fully expected Roland to wed her. Why?
She cleared her throat, saying before the king, whose complexion had reddened, could interrupt, “Nay, your highness, it’s not for me to beg Roland to become my husband. It’s true I am passing fond of him, but that has naught to do with anything. Pray do not make him feel sorry because I told you of my feelings for him. He’s not responsible for my feelings. He will do as he pleases; as for me, I will try to dissuade him from returning me to my uncle. Perchance I shall have to smash his head and escape him.” As an attempt at wit, it failed utterly.
“But, my dear child,” the queen began, only to stop when the king said coldly, “Roland, you cannot be lost to all honor, surely you must realize—” He paused as the queen lightly closed her fingers over his. She whispered something to him. His eyes narrowed, then sparkled.
Eleanor looked at Daria. She said in a very gentle voice, “Did you not tell him, my dear?”
Roland jumped to his feet. “This goes beyond all bounds. Tell me what, by all the saints?”
“Quiet, Roland,” the king said.
Daria wanted to jump up and yell as loudly as Roland. What was happening here? “I don’t understand, your highness. If you mean have I told him that I care for him, nay, I haven’t. He wouldn’t want to hear such words from me.”
“Damnation, Daria. What are you mumbling about? What do you mean, I wouldn’t care?”
The king leaned over and buffeted Roland’s shoulder. “You’re a virile warrior, as potent in bed as you are on the battlefield, Roland, and now you’ll have yourself a wife. Don’t struggle further against your fate. It’s about time, I think. The queen and I will act as godparents, and you—”
“Virile? What is this, what are you—?” His voice fell off abruptly and he stared at Daria. Her face was washed of color now, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated, her hands tight fists in her lap. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me now or I will haul you outside and beat you senseless.”
“Roland.”
“She will tell me what is happening here.” But he knew, indeed he knew what she would say, and it sickened him to his very soul.
“She is with child,” the queen said.
Roland couldn’t comprehend her words even though he knew they were the words she would speak. With child. “By all the saints, whose child?”
