Author: Catherine Coulter
Category: Suspense
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“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.”
“You knew my father?”
“As a young man in King Edward’s company, aye, I knew him, as did most of the young knights. Sir James was brave and trustworthy. It is a pity he died so inopportunely. Edward missed him sorely in the Holy Land.”
The chapel door suddenly opened and the earl reappeared. “Well, girl? Tell me the correct response.”
Daria didn’t change expression. She repeated swiftly, her eyes lowered meekly, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”
The earl nodded. “Well said. I am pleased with you. I have never agreed that women had not the ability to learn, and you have proved me correct. Do you agree with your brothers, Father?”
Roland looked benignly upon Daria as he would upon a dog who had just performed a trick well. He smiled to himself as he said in a pontifical voice, “Women can learn to mouth words—in any language—if they are allowed sufficient time for repetition. It’s doubtful she gleans the true meaning, but God is understanding and forgiving of his most feeble creation.”
The earl nodded and Daria ground her teeth.
“You will come with me now, Daria,” the earl continued. “A tinker is here and I wish you to select a piece of finery you wish to have. You will become my wife at the end of the month, and thus I wish to show you my favor.”
She stared at him dumbfounded, and Roland waited, tense and anxious, but she said nothing, merely nodded and followed the earl docilely from the chapel. Only when they were alone did she touch the earl’s sleeve to gain his attention. She looked up at him, her expression puzzled, and said, unable to keep her surprise to herself, “This is why you kidnapped me, my lord? You wished to wed me?”
The incredulity in her voice was understandable, as was her question, though it bordered on impertinence. He decided to deal gently with her this time. “Nay, little one, I took you in revenge against your uncle, who is a man I hate above most men. At first I demanded your dowry as a ransom. Then, your graceful presence has made my heart quicken in my breast, and I changed my demand to him. He will send me his own priest and your dowry by the end of May and we will be wedded. Then he will be safe from my vengeance.” He frowned even as the words came out of his mouth. “Mayhap not. Mayhap I shall change my mind, for Damon Le Mark is a poisonous snake to be crushed.”
“What did you tell him you would do if he refused your demand? Did you threaten to murder me?”
The earl reacted swiftly, for this was beyond what in his mind was permissible for a woman, particularly for a woman who would be his wife. He struck her with his open palm on her cheek and she reeled backward, her shoulder striking the doorway, sending pain jolting through her body.
“Keep your pert tongue in your mouth, Daria. I will tell you what you need to know, and it will be enough for you. No more of your insolence—it displeases me, as it must displease our Lord.”
It was odd this rage she felt. It wasn’t the same she felt toward her uncle. This rage burned hot within her, but she also saw Edmond of Clare as apart from the awful anger he’d brought her. Her uncle was purposely cruel. Worse, he pleased himself with cruelty and the suffering of others, whereas Edmond of Clare simply saw her—a female—as a being to be constantly corrected and admonished, for her benefit, not because it gave him demented pleasure. He believed devoutly in God, at least in a God that suited his own convictions and expectations, and saw it as his duty to teach her the proper way of behaving. Her rage simmered and she sought to control it.
Roland held himself back in the shadows. It required all his control to do so. He’d heard her question of Clare and seen him strike her.
He didn’t particularly wish to, but he found that he admired her in that moment. He saw the grit in her that would grow stronger as she gained years, if only she would be given the least encouragement and opportunity. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She merely straightened her clothing and stood there stolid and silently proud, waiting for the earl to tell her his bidding. Roland wondered how many times he’d struck her during her captivity, to show her a woman’s place. He must get her away from here, quickly. Not only was the earl growing perilously close to ravishing her, he just might injure her badly in a fit of rage.
During the remainder of the day, Roland examined the castle and found the escape route he would use. He learned that Daria had her maid with her, but he knew the older woman would hold them back and they wouldn’t have a good chance of escaping if they took her with them. The old woman would have to stay here. If Daria protested, he would simply—What would he do? Strike her, as did Edmond of Clare? He shook his head on that thought.
That evening the earl again monopolized him so that he had no opportunity of speaking privately with Daria. She no longer looked at him as if he were some sort of specter to be gawked at, or a man she’d seen before, perhaps in another place or in another time. Still, though, she tended to avoid his eyes, and it bothered him because he didn’t understand her.
“There is a debate that fascinates me,” the earl began as he moved a chess piece on the board between them.
Roland moved his king’s pawn forward in answer and waited. He’d learned the value of patience, the value of allowing the other man to speak first.
“Do women have souls? What do the Benedictines offer as their belief?”
“It is a matter of some debate, as you know. Even the Benedictine order finds itself in contention on the matter.” Roland moved out his king’s knight in reply to the earl’s pawn move.
“Tr
ue, true, but surely you, as a Benedictine, believe that women should be chastised for disobedience, for ill temper, for sloth or impiety?”
“Certainly, but it is the husband who applies the proper chastisement.”
The earl drew back, his thick red brows knitting. “She is nearly my wife. She is young and thus malleable, but still, because she carries the perversity of her gender, and the blood of a man whose heart rots with sin—I speak of her uncle, of course—she grows more impertinent as the days pass. She needs a man’s correction. I wish only to provide her proper guidance now.”
“She is not yet your wife.”
“Does it matter, if she has not a soul, what she is? Wife, harlot, maid?”
Roland’s fingers tightened around his queen’s bishop. He slowly moved the piece to the knight-five square. “It is my belief that women are creatures of God just as are men. They are made as we are—they possess arms, legs, a heart, a liver. They are the weaker, true, in body and mayhap in spirit as well. But they do have worth. They birth children and protect them with their lives, and thus their claim to God’s grace is as great as is a man’s. After all, my lord earl, we are unable to procreate ourselves; we are unable to suckle our children. It was God who bestowed upon them these gifts, and it is these gifts that speak to our continuity and thus our immortality.”
“You beset me with vain sophistry, Father, and address not my concern. Surely women are vessels, and they have breasts that carry milk, and wombs that hold babes, but are they more? I do not see their birthing us as God’s gift to them, for they often die doing it. It also wastes a man’s time. The two wives I have held as my own knew not honor or loyalty or fierceness of spirit. They were weak both of body and of mind. I never saw them as more than the means to continue myself.”
Roland remembered Joan of Tenesby. He saw her clearly in that moment and could swear, right now, that her fierceness of spirit had exceeded any man’s he’d ever known. She’d destroyed those around her with an arrogance and ruthlessness that staggered him with numbing awareness even now, nearly six years later.
“But you lust after the young Daria, do you not? You bought her finery from the tinker because you wished to please her, to flatter her vanity. But it was your vanity that enjoyed your purchases.”
“You twist words, Father. This talk of vanity is an absurdity. As for my lust for the girl, well, God wills it so. If we were not driven to take what the female holds, we would not continue; thus it is our lust that is the true gift from God. God gives them to us and it is our right to use them when they are able. Indeed, it is our responsibility to beget our children in their wombs.”
Roland smiled and said easily, even as he moved his king’s bishop, “Nay, my lord earl, it’s you who are gifted with facile argument. You would make a good bishop.” Roland suddenly realized that to move his bishop would irrevocably cripple the earl’s position on the chessboard. He quickly retracted it.
“Leave it,” the earl said, not seeing the danger from the move. Roland replaced the piece and sat back in his chair.
But the earl wasn’t interested in the game, but in expressing his own views. He tugged on his ear, cleared his throat, saying finally, “There is another matter, Father. Something that has bothered my spirit for many weeks now. Daria is young, as I said, but I find her occasionally frivolous, impious, exhibiting a woman’s vanity. I can break her of these habits. But I now find that I doubt her virtue. You see, I know her uncle well, and he is a vile lecher. And I wonder again and again: Is she still a maiden? Or did her uncle give her to Ralph of Colchester when he visited Reymerstone Castle?”
Roland was shaking his head even before he said quickly, “Nay, her uncle would have protected her, not offered her to Colchester. Doubt it not.”
The earl shook his head, unconvinced, not wanting to be convinced, Roland realized in a flash of insight. “I have little trust for women. They seduce men with their beauty and their modest manners, which are really practiced and sly. Perhaps that is how she gained Colchester’s favors. I must know before I wed her, I must know, and I will know.”
“You must believe me, my lord. The girl is a maid. Her uncle would never have allowed Colchester to have her. She would have lost her worth, her good name, more, the good name of her family. It matters not that he is a vile lecher. He isn’t stupid, is he?”
The Earl of Clare only shrugged. He didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of his priest’s words, Roland realized. Roland looked grim as he said, “Then what you want, my lord, is for the Church to bless your forcing of her before you take her to wive. You want the Church to bless this mad scheme of yours. Truly, my lord earl, I cannot condone that. There is another solution, another way to have your question answered. You will allow me to ask her. I can see through falsehood, my lord. It is a gift I have. I will know if she lies or not. I will tell you true.”
“And you will believe, Father, the words that flow from her mouth, or will you examine her for the truth of her vow?”
Roland very nearly rocked back in his chair with surprise and distaste. The earl seemed as vile as did Damon Le Mark. Did the earl really expect a man of God to examine a woman to discover if she still possessed a maidenhead? He managed to say steadily enough, his eyes meeting the earl’s straightly, “I will know, when she tells me, whether she speaks the truth.”
Roland waited, his fingers so tense they whitened on his black queen. Finally the earl nodded.
“You will speak to her, then. Do it now, Father. I must know.”
But the earl did not wish Roland to leave him to his task until they had finished their game of chess. Roland wanted to trounce the earl but he guessed it would not hold him in good stead. Thus, he blundered deliberately, setting his queen in the path of the earl’s white knight. It was over quickly.
“You play well, Father, but not as well as I. I will continue to give you instruction.”
Roland drew on priestly reserves that must contain, he thought, a goodly supply of humility and deceit. He nodded gravely. “It will be an honor to be so instructed.”
His meekness pleased the earl, and he added, “And I will think on your words, Father.”
Roland yet again inclined his head. Ten minutes later he was lightly knocking on Daria’s bedchamber door.
It was opened by the maid, Ena.
“Is your mistress within?”
The old woman nodded. “He’s sent you to her, Father?”
“Aye. I will speak with her. Alone.”
The maid looked quickly back at Daria, then left the bedchamber.
Daria was on her feet and hurrying toward him. “What has happened? Do we leave now? What do—?”
“Hush,” he said, and took her hands in his, squeezing them. “The earl sends me here to speak with you. He wishes me to ensure that you are still a virgin.”
She blinked at him.
It was answer enough, and he smiled down at her. “I know, think no more about it. The earl has unusual views regarding God’s interest in his—the earl’s—lust. Come, we must speak, and quickly, for I doubt not that he will soon come to see the result of my question.”
He was still holding her hands and she felt his vitality flow through into her and it made her tremble with anticipation. He seemed to sense something, and released her hands. He took a step back, saying quickly, “I distrust the earl. He desires you mightily. Indeed he has spoken to me of taking you before you are wedded. I have tried to dissuade him, but I don’t know if God’s wishes will take precedence over his lust for you, for as I said, he regards his wishes as one and the same as God’s. We are leaving Tyberton tonight. Listen to me, for we haven’t much time.”
Roland spoke low and quick, but he wasn’t quick enough, for the door burst open and the earl strode into the bedchamber. He looked from his priest to Daria. They stood apart, and it seemed to him that Father Corinthian was speaking earnestly to her. It seemed innocent enough, but he asked, his voice filled with suspicion, “Well, Father?
Is she still a maid?”
“She is a maid,” Roland said.
“That is what she tells you.”
“No man has touched me.”
“You are a woman and are born with lies trembling on your tongue. I wish to believe you, Father, but I find myself beset with doubts. When you left me, I heard one of my men telling another that all the castle wenches wish to bed you. I will admit that I saw you not as a man before but solely as a priest. Perhaps I yield to false tidings, and if I do, God will surely punish me for it, yet I see you now as a man alone with her.”
Roland quickly assumed his most pious pose. “Believe me, I do not see your betrothed as a woman. I see her only as one of God’s creatures, nothing more.”
Roland spoke calmly, yet his heart pounded in his breast. He realized that the earl wasn’t entirely sane.
Edmond of Clare drew a deep steadying breath. He’d behaved badly, he knew it. He’d let his jealousy of his Benedictine priest overcome his Christian sense. He would whip the man who’d spoken irreverently of the priest. But he found himself looking again at Daria. Her cheeks were very pale, her eyes dilated. He realized that it mattered not what she’d said to the priest or what the priest believed. He had made up his mind and he knew God approved his actions.
“I would examine her now,” Edmond said, advancing on her. “You will remain to testify that I do not ravish her, Father. And if she isn’t a virgin, you will also so testify so that I can then do as I will with her, for it matters not what a whore wishes.”
Roland cleared his throat and his voice rang stern and hard. “I forbid it, my son.”
The earl stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. “I am lord here, Father Corinthian, and no other man, even be he a man of God, has the right to gainsay me, for my word is law. Do you understand me? Come, you will be my witness.”