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“That is quick and to the point,” Roland remarked, his eyes on the closed chapel door. “Let me make certain no one is about outside.”
“It wouldn’t matter if there were a dozen men listening at the door. This wretched chapel is sound as a crypt, the door ne
arly as thick as the stone of the walls.”
Nonetheless Roland strode to the door, opened it, and slowly closed it again. He turned to face her.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“You speak Latin.”
“Yes, I speak Latin, something you didn’t expect.”
“No I didn’t. You didn’t give me away to the earl. May I assume that you still wish to escape him?”
She nodded and asked again, “Who are you?”
“I am sent by your uncle to rescue you. As you know now, I am no Benedictine priest.”
She gave him a dazzling, perfectly wicked smile that rocked him back on his heels. He thought he’d made a perfectly adequate priest, damn her impertinence. He was frowning, but she forestalled him. “But you are an educated man, unlike the previous priest, who could barely string together sounds that resembled Latin. The earl, of course, didn’t know any better. Did you get rid of him?”
“Yes, it was quite easy, for he was miserable here at Tyberton, and most willing to accept a bit of coin for his absconding. You recognized me, then, yesterday when you fainted? You knew I was no priest from just looking at me? That is why you turned so pale and collapsed?”
She shook her head and looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why—that is, I didn’t know you then, and yet I did know you, perhaps even better than I know myself.” That sounded like utter drivel. She ground to a painful halt and looked up at him for his reaction. Again, that shock of knowledge, that feeling that he was there, deep inside her, part of her, and she took a step back. She wasn’t making sense and he would think her utterly mad.
“What is it? Do I frighten you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t understand this.”
Roland chose for the moment to ignore her mysterious words. Indeed he didn’t understand any of what she’d said and didn’t have time at present to seek enlightenment. “As I said, I am here to rescue you.”
“I don’t wish to marry Ralph of Colchester. He is lewd and weak and without character.”
Roland frowned at her. “That is something that has nothing to do with me. Your uncle is paying me to bring you back, and that is what I shall do. What happens to you then is up to your uncle. He is your guardian. It is his decision. No female should have the power to decide who her husband will be. It would lead the world into chaos.”
“This world you men have ruled since the beginning of time stews continuously in chaos. What more harm or disaster could women bring to bear?”
“You speak from ignorance. Mayhap your uncle isn’t wise or compassionate, but it is the way of things. It’s natural that you submit.”
Daria sighed. He was naught but a man, like all the other men who had come into her life. Men ruled and women obeyed. It was a pity and it brought her pain, which she promptly dismissed. This man whom she knew, this man who didn’t know her, also didn’t care what happened to her. Why should he? This absurd recognition was all on her side, these bewildering feelings had naught to do with him. It came to her then that once he’d gotten her free of Edmond of Clare, she could then escape from him. He cared not, after all, what became of her.
“You have not yet told me your name.”
“You may call me Roland.”
“Ah, like Charlemagne’s fearsomely brave Roland. When do we leave, sir?”
3
Roland rocked back on his heels at that. “Just like that? You believe me? You will go with me? You require no more proof?”
Daria shook her head, smiling at him, that darling innocent, yet strangely knowing smile. “Of course I believe you. I am pleased you aren’t a priest.”
“Why?”
She wanted to tell him that she was delighted that he was a just a man, a man of the world, and not a man of God, but she didn’t. He would truly believe her mad. She shook her head again, saying, “My mother, did you see her? Is she all right? You went to Reymerstone Castle?”
“Yes, and your mother appeared well. You have something of the look of her, not her coloring, but something of her expression. If I recall aright, your father was dark as a Neapolitan.”
