“Why?”
Brian sighed deeply and continued on with a condescending tone. “Because Annandale should be on the thrown of Scotland, not Alexander, and his son refuses to support him.”
She almost blurt out that in fact, if you studied the hierarchy, Alexander’s line was the most direct. She made a dull face. “Can you explain more fully?”
“Holy God. ’Tis no use. When we get to Carlisle, just keep your bonnie mouth shut. Let me do the speakin’ for you. Whatever you do, say naught of love for yer father. Do y’ken?”
She nodded and he patted her head like a good hound. She seethed. Two more days to Carlisle. How would she manage without first gutting this boy from chin to pintle?
Chapter 32
The turrets of Carlisle towered high, with bright banners flapping and snapping in the wind. Five knights dressed in Annandale’s crest stood at the open gate, checking papers and generally being a nuisance. One of the guards eyed Thomas and Nicholas with a haughty scowl as they dismounted.
Thomas fumed. His Templar tunic might be torn and stained, but it held more honor than those worn by the tax collectors at the entryway. He winked, threw a rude hand gesture, and shouted, “Good day to ye, lads.”
Nicholas nudged him. “Don’t start anything. Not here.”
In front, at least ten wagons loaded with wares waited at the main gate, along with nigh onto fifty persons of different status. Some laid out blankets alongside the bricked pathway and slept while their horses grazed at a few sprigs of green grass.
“Have I ever mentioned that I abhor long queues?” Thomas scratched his beard.
The leader of the idiots approached with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We don’t allow ruffians within the walls.”
Thomas pointed to himself and mouthed the words, “Who? Me?”
The guard pushed at him. “Aye, you. And him, too.”
Brushing off his tunic, Thomas glared back, and pointed a thumb at Nicholas. “You’d insult the grandson of the Steward of Annandale?”
“I know them all and he’s not one of them. Mount up and be gone.” With the common sense of a jester, he drew out a rusty sword. In the turrets above, archers talked and lazed about, none taking interest.
Nicholas reached into his tunic, pulled out his father’s seal on a gold chain, and held it aloft to the nose of the enforcer.
The guard brushed it aside with a sniff and a spit. “That proves nothing. Such things can be stolen and bought for a price.”
Reaching deep into his saddlebag, Thomas unfurled his sealed parchment, and read, “By Royal Decree, Most treasured trader of King Edward. Grant ye access to Sir Thomas D’Agostine—”
“That holds no weight here either, merchant.”
“Oh, for the blood of Christ.” Thomas drew his sword and knocked the dolt to the ground with the flat side of his blade. When the other four minions rushed forward, he rendered them just the same. Before archers could take aim, Thomas grinned at the crowd in line, and tossed a handful of coins high in the air. Those from the lower classes shouted, jumped, and scrambled around him in happy mayhem. He laughed and moved forward through the gates within his shield of wagons, serfs, and grinning nobles.
Nicholas grumbled, yet hid a grin. “You could’ve warned me,”
“What? And spoil the surprise? Wait, there’s more amusement yet to come.”
A loud clanging sounded from within the barracks and more brightly dressed guards swarmed with weapons high.
Nicholas sheathed his sword and raised his hands. “I hope you like dungeons.”
Throwing up the last of the coins, Thomas shrugged and smirked while good people continued to surround them. He shouted over the din of the blessings. “That never fails.”
The less than amused guards shoved them through a courtyard of tens of booths, some no more worthy than crate and plank. Merchants sang out their goods as they wove through a myriad of shoes, candles, iron spoons, bright wool, and colorful pottery. After passing a lifetime’s worth of wares, the entrance to the main keep finally appeared. A brightly painted door towered overhead with scenes of the taking back of Jerusalem. Christ proudly led the charge, dressed in a Templar tunic.
A page ran off and returned in moments. He bent over, huffing and wheezing. Once he caught his breath, he opened the door wide with a grand sweep of one arm and motioned them in. Thomas, Nicholas, and the multitude of armed tax collectors strode through a marble hallway lined with over fifty statues, countless tapestries, and treasures. Sensing a battle, jeweled men and high capped ladies followed, eager to hear what was about to unfold.
At the end of their journey, a large man sat upon a throne-like chair. His thick gray hair curled over the edge of his ermine lined cloak. The Earl of Annandale stood and boomed, “Nicholas lad, is that you? Why have you stayed away so long?”
Nicholas eyed his grandfather and frowned. “Scarborough has kept me detained.”
The big man laughed heartily, but the mirth did not meet his eyes. “I see you have managed to free yourself from your duties.”
Thomas stepped forward and swords slid from sheath in unison. “Enough banter. I demand you release my wife, the Lady Meredith.”
Archers on either side of the dais drew bows taut. Sharp intelligent eyes narrowed and regarded him. “Have we met, Master merchant?”
“Sir Thomas D’Agostine, Templar Knight, Most Treasured Trader to Edward, friend of the Beast of Thornhill, rightful holder of the castle at No-Man’s-Land, and husband to your son’s daughter.”
“You may approach.” Annandale’s voice echoed in the large hall. More members of the court, who’d been conversing in small groups, moved in closer. The silence in the room was such that a drop of water would’ve made a great splash.
Eying the archers, Thomas decided to stay put. “I believe you can hear me quite plainly from where I stand. I ask that you release my wife, your granddaughter.”
Annandale sat back down and crossed arms over mailed chest with the smile of a fox. “As all are aware, one of my son’s unfortunate offspring was lost in the woods years ago—a tragic accident. Her brother, here, has been a faithful serf for one of such a lowly birth.”
Nicholas growled under his breath at the insult, but held his tongue.
Addressing the crowd, palms up, Thomas continued. “Then what harm could it do to fetch the woman whom you hold captive so that we can question her? I’ve followed her all the way from Scarborough, where mischief runs deep. Mayhap you’d like me to share what I’ve heard there?”
Annandale was quick to his feet for such a large man. “Seize them and place them in the dungeon.”
Thomas cursed, pulled out his sword, and stood back to back with Nicholas, who muttered, “Well done.”
“Then you say something, oh, mighty smooth-tongue. He’s your kin.” Thomas wondered if death would come by sword or arrow.
“When my father arrives with King Edward, I’ll let it be known how we’ve been treated.” Nicholas knocked aside a sword that slashed down from one of the braver guards.”
“Not if you’re dead. Take them away.”
Thomas, holding his own against three, clenched his teeth and shouted, “Hold! Especially if we’re dead. A sealed parchment—” His sword swung and it clanged against the attacker. “Is to be delivered to Edward—” He thrust and met mail, sucked in a deep breath, and raised his sword high. “If we die. No more amusement or I will begin to fight in earnest.”
The guards and archers looked to Annandale, whose red face blended with colors of his cloak. Thick gray eyebrows turned down and his mouth pursed. “Drop your weapons, all.”
The guards let go and Thomas sheathed his sword, grinning at the disgruntled guards. “I wish to see my wife and I’d have you return my lands.”
“My granddaughter is indisposed. She says you have put her aside and has annulled your marriage. You’ve no rights to her. I’ll give you the hospitality of my village, but not of her.
As for your lands? Get them back yourself if you want them so badly. I tire of this conversation. Be gone before I change my mind.”
Thomas turned on a heel without ceremony. He wouldn’t bow to a would-be king, a man who’d plot against the rightful heir to the throne of Scotland; a man who no doubt had eyes on England itself. The man who held his wife, damnation.
Later, Thomas sat at the inn with his back to the wall, facing the door while he ate a tasteless meal. His men were scattered about the room, alert. “I need to see her.”
Nicholas threw a bone upon the floor, and picked up another piece of hen. “Patience. I’ve friends inside the keep. They say she’s put up like a queen, but there’s rumors of a quick wedding.”
“By God, he cannot. She’s already my wife.” Thomas kicked at the bottom of Nicholas’ chair.
He caught his balance by dropping his food and grabbing the edge of the table. “No doubt the annulment was done before we left Scarborough.”
Thomas bit down hard, caught the inside of his cheek, and cursed. “How long do you think we have before he arranges a wedding?”
“Not long, my friend, not long.”
Chapter 33
After being allowed to witness the pitiful scene in the throne room, Merry fumed in the locked tower with fists clenched. That was her husband and brother’s best notion of a rescue? At this rate, she’d be married off by midday tomorrow.
She squeezed shoulders and elbows through the slit in the turret that faced the courtyard. She could climb down, but then what? She pondered her escape long and hard as the songs of the merchants blended in an odd cacophony. From this vantage, she counted twenty tables with wares. Brown ceramic platters painted with daisies caught her fancy.
A red cross upon a gray tunic flashed between stalls. She edged out further atop her stomach and shouted. “Thomas? Is that you?”
Others gazed up at her, but not him. He continued on without a care. Damnation. The lock of her door clicked. Soon, her guard would be upon her.
With both hands flaying the air she pointed to her husband. “Stop that Templar. Thomas, you dolt. It’s me.”
He turned, his wide eyes met hers, and he dashed toward the slit where she dangled. “Dearest …”
Her guard crashed through the door and pulled her back into the room by the feet. She barely had time to reach out her hands as she dropped onto the floor, legs high. “Ommph.”
“I told you to stay put.” Annandale’s guard tied her and the coarse ropes broke open the wounds at her wrists. He dragged her across the room toward an iron ring attached to the wall. For the love of Christ, this is the straw that brings down the roof.
She’d not again be tethered like a beast. Writhing against him, she put her mouth to his lips and his pintle hardened. Even with tied hands, she deftly pulled his knife from his belt, jabbed at his navel, and he jumped back with an oath.
“Say a word and I’ll tell Annandale that you caressed my breasts and bared my arse. Do we understand one another? Get out before I start screaming.”
He paled, nodded, and rushed out of the room. A knife, a rope, a hole in the wall, and hope. Before she could make her way back to the slit, her chambers door smashed against stone and her giant of a grandsire thundered across the room. “You’re naught but trouble. Sit down.”
Hiding the knife in the folds of her skirt between her knees, she smirked and lifted her hands. “Sorry. I’m rather tied up at the moment.”
Her face stung from his fast backhand. “Insolence will not be tolerated, lass. Best shut your mouth fer the rest of the day. Do you think you can manage that?”
She nodded and held back tears while he eyed her up and down, as if evaluating a charger. She envisioned her knife dug deep into one of those scowling eye sockets.
Raising one furry eyebrow, he said, “I’ll send a woman to dress you properly for the day’s journey. Make trouble again and I’ll find a lash.”
That said, he turned on a heel, and clumped out into the hall with steel spurs clanging against the floor.
Exhaling, Merry repositioned the blade between her knees, and sawed through the ropes binding her wrists. She raised her tunic, and placed the blade in her new undergarment so as not to prick skin. The bottom edge of her tunic was still dropping back down when a middle-aged woman, dressed in a blue and green tartan, entered and scowled.
Her face puckered as if sucking on a sour root. “What’re you up to now?”
“Naught.” Merry shrugged and put out her hands with palms up.
For a moment, she thought the woman would say more. But the clomping of horses in the courtyard, and Annandale’s shouts, must have made the woman think better of causing more delays.
She threw a folded piece of plaid material into her arms. “Here. Put this on and be quick about it.”
Merry shook it out. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, for the love of the Mother Mary …” The woman took the fabric and placed it over her head like a giant shawl as it draped over her body. She folded the corners under her arms, tying and pinning as she went, until she’d crafted a tartan gown. She roughly tugged the cowl forward over Merry’s eyes until only a small hole of sight remained.
Forty mounted knights waited in the courtyard, along with the still fuming Annandale. When she mounted, the tartan dress opened with a slit, allowing her to ride astride. A shout from her grandsire and they clomped over the drawbridge. Below, the keep’s swampy, smelly moat bubbled in the heat.
The sun had barely shifted in the sky when they crossed an ancient Roman bridge with three magnificent arches. It was hard to imagine builders able to accomplish such a feat. Annandale pointed out a stronghold on a mound in the distance. A small village surrounded it, and around that, a wall. A stream with another bridge ran through the middle of the land. Her grandsire pointed. “That’s the keep of No-Man’s-Land—D’Agostine’s Castle.”
Even from this distance, she could tell that the walls had fallen into disrepair, but she stayed firm in her hope that it could all be repaired by Christmastide. Hadn’t Lady Ann, time and time again, told stories of how she’d conquered similar issues in The Meadows? Walls could be fixed by good masons and a bit of gold. She was quite certain that Thomas had plenty.
She pictured the desolate, yet fertile fields covered with hundreds of wooly sheep running in circles with lambs close behind. The stream would provide irrigation and cleanliness for the village. She’d have to dig proper ditches and divert water. A few hearty men with shovels and it would be accomplished in no time at all.
“I’m sorry you have to see this, but it’s best you know now. You can stop dreaming of that no-good Norman, so I can marry you better.” He stopped at the gated wall, allowing the men to close ranks, then rode under the thick Roman arch. Carvings of a Goddess with grapes for breasts were etched deep into the curved white marble. On the other side, they stopped at the foot of a rotting drawbridge, with holes large enough for a horse to fall through.
“We walk from here. Follow my steps.” With a hand in the air, he motioned the men to dismount. He helped her off her mount and drew his sword.
Halfway across the bridge, she considered turning back when a board broke away under foot and sloshed into the moat. It bubbled with feces and God knew what else. She used a nearby knight to catch her balance or she might have followed it down.
Just ahead lay the iron gate. With each careful step, she counted the craftsmen she was going to need. Carpenters, masons, beekeepers, spinners, candlemakers …
Her grandsire broke into her thoughts and thumped the hilt of his sword upon the bars. “Open to the Earl of Annandale or die.”
“You don’t have to put it like that, Sire. I was comin’. A bit lame, I am.” A wrinkled serf shuffled over to a handle, grabbed hold, and cranked. The frayed rope overhead groaned and the gate lifted halfway.
“Sorry, Sire. That’s all she’s got.” The serf shrugged, gave a toothless grin, and tied a knot. W
ithout even a by-your-leave, he shuffled off.
Merry stifled a giggle, lifted her tunic, and ducked under the gate with space to spare. Annandale, however, groaned, knelt, and sunk his huge frame into the muck and mud. Cursing, he crawled on hands and knees under the long prongs. Once inside, he tugged on the rope and lifted such that the rest of the men could enter. He handed the frayed end to one of his men. “Fix this.”
Oh, my. Ahead, a bricked courtyard was filled with pigs, countless hens, pigeons, three cows, two oxen, and several old nags. A hound chased a cat, causing a melee. A church with one turret and cross stood to the right and long barracks lined the walls. About twenty insolent faces loitered, staring at their approach.
She waved and gave them a bright smile, but most scowled back, even more-so at the guards.
“For goodness sakes, Grandsire, tell them to sheath their swords. What will these good folk fight with? Fingers and tooth? She ran over to a mother with a howling babe and gave her the last gold coin from her purse.
Annandale grumbled. “Filthy rabble. The only reason I don’t run them off is they provide my men with ample meat.”
“What a horrible thing to say.” She ducked as the back of his hand snapped out and hit air. The small crowd of serfs chuckled.
“Enough. He took her wrist and dragged her single file through a corridor between the church and the main hall. Up six flights of narrow stairs they climbed. From the dais on top, he pointed out the village. Thatched roofs were either rotted or missing altogether. Many homes lay in a rubble of stones. “What do you make of that?”
“I see nothing, but a few days labor and much straw. By mid-summer I’ll have both.”
“God’s blood, you shall not. Look.” He pushed her forward into the second floor of the keep.
Human feces were piled high in one corner of the great room. Rats darted in and out amongst long-spoiled balls of meat that matted into the trampled thatch on the floor. Merry moaned, her stomach rolled, then she added to the mess with her own pile of vomit.
Once she’d wiped her mouth and covered her nose, she heartened. A good cleaning was truly all that was needed. The crack that ran from floor to ceiling where the light shined in would need fixing, too, but she had masons.
How to Marry Your Wife Page 17