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But she couldn’t. She covered her mouth with her hand but the laughter still came out, muffled and deep and wrenching. She gasped for breath as she choked out the words. “It is too much, Roland, far too much. Don’t any of you understand?” Her laughter was dying now but her voice was sharper, more shrill. “Don’t you see? My God, if I hadn’t lost that babe, if I had birthed the babe, it still could have looked like the Earl of Clare, for he would have been the babe’s uncle.” Laughter burst out of her mouth. Roland stared at her.
“Aye, it’s true,” she said, her voice now oddly singsong, “and then you would never have believed me, Roland, never. You would have looked at that babe and remarked, ‘Aye, look at all that red hair. The Earl of Clare is the babe’s father and I am vindicated in my belief that my wife is a liar.’” Daria broke free, whirled about, and looked one last time at her husband. He was still staring at her, his face very pale, his hands now fisted at his sides.
“There’s no winning, Roland, at least not for me. It is over and I have lost.” She turned to Katherine. “You won’t berate yourself again, Mother. Now, if it is truly my judgment, then what I wish is this: I want the two of them put together. I want the two of them to fight it out. Each deserves to fight the other. If the Earl of Clare hadn’t been a coward, he wouldn’t have kidnapped me, he would have met Damon and challenged him as a man of honor should face another man who is his enemy. As for Damon Le Mark, he is despicable. He should have told Roland the truth about my birth, but he kept silent. He cared not what became of me; he cared not if my uncle bedded me. Perhaps he even thought it would be a fine jest on my mother and on the Earl of Clare, but he wouldn’t have said anything, not until it had been done.”
Daria looked straight at Roland and laughed. “One more time for my lie, Roland, then never will you hear me protest again. The Earl of Clare didn’t bed me, no one save you did. He humiliated me but he didn’t bed me. Now, are my wishes to be considered?”
Roland felt mired in the swirling tensions surrounding him. They were also within him and he didn’t like it. So the Earl of Clare hadn’t raped her. He believed that now. Daria was incapable of fostering such a deception in the face of learning that the Earl of Clare had been of her blood, her damned uncle, by all the saints. It still left him puzzled. Her laughter and her pain made him raw.
He nodded slowly. “It will be as you wish.”
Graelam said then, “And if one kills the other? What would you have done with the one who wins?”
Daria said quite without emotion, “He will go free.”
Roland nodded his agreement, but in the next instant he shared a look with Graelam and a silent pact was made.
The afternoon was hot, the early-fall wind harsh and dry and chafing.
Daria knew she would never forget the looks on the two men’s faces, the fury, the raw hatred. They’d been stripped down to loincloths and given swords, maces, and axes.
She didn’t want to watch, but she did, as did her mother. The scores of people surrounding the two men were silent. Daria knew that by now all of Chantry Hall knew what she’d screamed in the great hall. All of them knew that her two uncles would fight to the death.
Both men were her uncles. It was madness. She looked at her mother, hoping she was all right, but she couldn’t tell, for there was no sign, no expression, on Katherine’s face.
She heard the sudden ringing of the heavy battle swords. She heard the curses of the two men as they lunged and withdrew from each other. She could feel the poison of their hatred for each other.
It didn’t last long, though it seemed an eternity. Damon Le Mark fought hard, with all the enmity in his soul, but he was no opponent for the Earl of Clare, whose fighting skills were honed daily on the Welsh outlaws. She saw the Earl of Clare lift the sword with both hands, saw the sword descend, and knew that Damon Le Mark was dead. At the last instant, just as Damon Le Mark jerked sideways, then back, the Earl of Clare used the sword as a spear instead, sending it straight ahead. It sliced through Damon Le Mark’s chest and came out the back, flinging him onto his side on the ground. He was dead before he rolled to his back.
There was a shock of silence. The Earl of Clare stood over his dead enemy, and he was smiling. She couldn’t believe what happened then. She watched her husband, now stripped to his loincloth, step into the circle, a battle sword in his hand. As he lifted it, he grinned and yelled at the Earl of Clare, “Did you know, you stupid whoreson, that Daria is your niece? She is of your flesh, you damned fool. Your brother, David, was her father. Had I not taken her from you, you would have committed the gravest sin in God’s eyes. What say you to that, you stupid sod?”
The Earl of Clare calmed his breathing. He looked at the young man before him, knew him for a dangerous warrior, and wanted to kill him. The humiliation Roland had meted out to him at Tyberton was a raw wound. Roland had thrashed him like a mewling pup, in front of the king, in front of all his men and servants. Well, now he had a sword. He’d killed Reymerstone and now he would kill this impudent bastard. “You lie,” he shouted. “I would have surely recognized her if she had been of mine own blood. She is not.”
Graelam started forward, fury writ on his face. “Roland, this is not for you to do.” he yelled. “Damn you, come out of there. It was to be my turn.”
But it was too late. The two men faced each other. The earl, his red hair blazing in the hot afternoon sun, was the larger of the two, a massive man whose power was evident in each movement he made with the heavy sword. He’d but slightly exerted himself to kill the Earl of Reymerstone. He looked at the young man who was dark as a Muslim, and smiled. He knew that after he killed Roland he w
ould himself be killed, but for now he didn’t care. He would have his revenge. He roared and lunged, only to have Roland feint to the left. He was left panting, feeling like a fool, his sword slicing through air.
Daria looked at her husband. He was more slightly built, leaner, his body hard and taut, but he was strong and agile and very fast. He’d dropped the battle sword and was now swinging an ax in his right hand. Then he tossed the ax to his left hand and back and forth, taunting the Earl of Clare, until he bellowed like an enraged bull, and charged Roland again. Roland danced lightly to the side and struck suddenly, fiercely, with the ax. It thudded loudly against the earl’s sword. Roland looked surprised; then he gave the earl a look of approval before quickly spinning to the left out of the range of the earl’s pounding sword.
Daria touched her hand to Graelam’s sleeve. “Nay,” she said quietly, “he will be all right. He will kill the earl.”
“You cannot possibly know—” Graelam’s impatient voice dropped off. He stared at Daria.
“He will kill him,” she said again, her eyes never leaving her husband. “Nay, I’m not seeing a vision. I saw him fight the Earl of Clare in the presence of the king at Tyberton. He is very skilled, and never does the expected.”
“He’s an evasive fighter,” Graelam said after a moment watching Roland. “That’s true. Look at that. Aye, Roland fights with his brains.”
“He also learned tricks from outlaws in the Holy Land.”
The Earl of Clare was bearing down on Roland, trying to corner him, striking again and again, not letting up, forcing him back with the raw power of his strength.
Suddenly Roland tossed the ax aside. Salin slipped a long slender-bladed knife into his hand and Daria heard Graelam heave a heartfelt sigh. “It’s over now,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“Just watch.”
