The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Eric’s smile had disappeared. Annice openly wept and the people in the assembled crowd began to mutter with confusion and impatience.

  What was Merrick doing?

  Her husband got to his feet. “I will speak to Annice alone.”

  Constance gaped as he held out his arm to Annice as if she were a lady. The young woman’s hand trembled as she placed it on Merrick’s arm, and tears fell on her cheeks as he led her a little distance away, where they could speak quietly without being overheard.

  Fear and doubt grew as Constance watched them converse, Annice with her head bowed and Merrick leaning forward as if eager to catch every word. It was a disconcertingly intimate pose, and Constance was hard pressed not to squirm with dismay, or give any other sign that she was disturbed. After all, there was a crowd to see her, too.

  Again she glanced at the alley, and saw no one.

  At last Merrick escorted Annice back to the dais. He put his hand over hers—another intimate gesture—then faced the assembled crowd. “I forbid the marriage.”

  Constance stared in stunned disbelief. Annice gave a sob, pulled away from Merrick and fled through the equally shocked, surprised crowd.

  “My lord!” Eric cried in dismay. “Why, my lord, why?”

  Merrick’s face darkened with scorn. “You dare to question my decision?”

  Angry murmurs rose from the crowd. Men and women exchanged fearful or angry looks—expressions Constance well remembered from the days of Wicked William. In her mind’s eye she could see his father dragging that poor girl toward his bedchamber, treating the women of Tregellas as his possessions, to use at his will.

  “Why not give an explanation, my lord, as to why you have forbidden a marriage long in the making?” Constance asked, seeking an answer that would calm her fears, too.

  Merrick’s great dark eyes were as hard as coal when he looked at her. Then he addressed the angry crowd, speaking loudly so that his words carried to the far wall and the soldiers standing guard, his voice cold as the bitter north wind. “The hall moot is over. Go home.”

  He started to leave the dais.

  “He’s robbed me!” Eric shouted. “He’s had her! He’s just like his father!”

  Drawing his sword, Merrick charged toward the distraught young man. “Do you question my honor?”

  Constance ran between them. “My lord!”

  Breathing hard, Merrick kept his fierce gaze on Eric as if Constance wasn’t there. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled, the sinews raised and tense. “If you make such an accusation again, I’ll kill you.”

  “Eric has a right to know why you refuse permission,” Constance asserted. And if Merrick didn’t reveal it, more than Eric would wonder why.

  “I refuse to allow them to marry,” Merrick retorted. “That is all I’m going to say. It should be enough.” He raised his voice again. “That should be enough for you all.”

  His sword still held in his hand, he wheeled and marched into the hall.

  Constance didn’t hesitate for a moment. She hurried after him into the hall, and up the stairs to his solar. Although the door was closed, she burst into the chamber without seeking his permission.

  His hands balled into fists, Merrick stood at the window. He had to have heard her enter, yet he neither turned nor gave any other sign that he knew he was no longer alone.

  “Why did you refuse them permission?”

  His face was a hard mask when he finally faced her. “Because I couldn’t, in good conscience, grant it.”

  “In good conscience?” she repeated. “Why would approving the request of two people who want to marry trouble your conscience? Everyone knows they were just waiting until Eric’s father gave him the smithy.”

  “Did Annice look like an eager, happy woman?” Merrick’s expression grew grimmer still. “I can tell when somebody is trying to hide something, and she was not acting the joyful, anxious bride. She never looked at Eric, never raised her eyes.”

  She thought of Annice in the yard. Was what she’d assumed Annice’s becoming modesty really something else? Yet surely his decision was based on more than that. “What did she say to you?”

  “That is between Annice and me.”

  His words were like a slap in the face and hurt worse. “You won’t even tell your wife?”

  “Annice asked me to keep her reason secret. I gave her my word that I would.”

  If he thought that would satisfy her, he was wrong. “If no more explanation is forthcoming, my lord,” she said, her voice firm and completely under control, “the people will think you want Annice for yourself. Even if your father had never been lord here, plenty of other Norman noblemen have taken women, regardless of betrothal or marriage or their will. How else could it look when you stand whispering with her in front of everybody and Annice runs away in tears? What else are we to believe but that there’s something more between you?”

  Merrick’s cheeks flushed. “In spite of what I told you about honoring vows and the way I’ve treated you, in spite of everything I’ve done, you think I could be such a lying, lustful hypocrite? That I would come between two people who truly wish to wed?”

  His angry words tore at her heart and made her feel guilty for accusing him, and yet…“That’s how it looks, my lord.”

  His eyes flared with rage and he made no effort to hide it. “Clearly I was a fool to think I could ever earn the trust and respect of my people, or my wife. I will forever only be the son of Wicked William, no matter what I do.” He closed on her and his voice rose in anger. “Or are you glad to be able to accuse me because of a secret you bear?”

  “What?”

  “I saw Kiernan lurking in the alley like a lovesick boy.”

  “If he came here to see me, he is a lovesick boy—and no more to me than that! I’m an honorable woman—”

  “And I’m an honorable man,” he retorted, “yet apparently you don’t believe I am. Why should I believe you?”

  She was blameless in this, and sorry if she’d accused him falsely, but she wouldn’t abase herself before him, or any man. The inner armor that had protected her for so long, that had enabled her to withstand Lord William’s rages, that she thought she would no longer need, returned—hard and cold and as strong as the man facing her. “Because I give you my word.”

  “So although my word isn’t good enough, yours is?”

  “If I’ve misjudged you, I’m sorry, but you’ll get no more apology from me,” she declared. “I vowed years ago that no man would make me beg for mercy, so if you think I’m going to grovel before you and plead for forgiveness, you’re mistaken. But if I discover you’ve been unfaithful, then you’ll have broken our marriage vows, and I’ll consider myself no longer bound by them. In the meantime, I’ll do my duty, as I have always done, including in our bed.”

  Having made her feelings plain, Constance started for the door.

  “For God’s sake, she begged me to refuse!” Merrick cried.

  Shocked as much by his tone as his desperate words, Constance hesitated, then turned back to see Merrick throw himself into his chair. His elbows on the table, he cradled his head in his hands and didn’t meet her questioning gaze. “She found out that he’d dallied with another woman in Truro while swearing to love and be faithful only to her. When she told him what she’d learned and that she wouldn’t marry him, he got angry. He said he wasn’t going to let her spurn and embarrass him.”

  Merrick’s fingers curled into fists as he raised tempestuous eyes to glare at her. “So he forced himself upon her. He raped her—and he still thought she would want to be his wife. She doesn’t, but full of shame, she saw no other choice.”

  Gasping for breath, Constance felt for the nearest chair and sat heavily, while Merrick shoved back his chair and got to his feet. He started to pace like an anxious soldier on duty who expects to be attacked at any moment. “I told her the shame was his, not hers. I offered to take Eric into custody and have him brought befor
e the king’s justice on a charge of rape, but she wouldn’t hear of it. In spite of what I said, she blames herself and begged me not to tell anyone what happened.” Merrick halted and regarded Constance with a steadfast, determined expression. “He probably thinks he won’t be punished because she won’t accuse him openly.” He struck his open palm with his fist. “But by God, as I live, one day he’ll pay.”

  Appalled at Eric’s act, full of pity for Annice and regret for her accusations, Constance rose and went toward her husband. “Merrick, I’m so—”

  He held her off with an outstretched hand. “Sorry?” he demanded. “Sorry you didn’t have faith in me? Sorry you so easily believed the worst of me? Sorry you made me break my word and tell you what Annice begged me to keep secret?”

  The accusing voice, the expression of rage…

  She’d seen it before, lived it before. Never again would she stand helpless and afraid facing a lord of Tregellas. “I told you, Merrick, that even if I’m sorry, I won’t grovel.”

  Merrick pointed imperiously at the door. “Go.”

  With her head held high, Constance walked out of the chamber and slammed the door behind her.

  In the next moment she heard another sound she remembered all too well. Merrick had thrown a goblet against the wall.

  MERRICK STOOD BY THE ARCHED window of the solar, his back to the door, staring unseeing into the courtyard.

  He was guilty of many things, yet never had he wanted Annice—or any other woman—as he’d wanted Constance. Never would he betray Constance for any other woman. He’d thought she knew that and believed him. Trusted him. Yet in spite of all her apparently sincere words of love, despite marrying him, she still didn’t trust him.

  Perhaps this was his punishment at last—to have Constance for his wife, to know a short time of bliss, then have it all ripped from him, and while trying to do right.

  Maybe there was nothing he could ever do to be absolved of his sins.

  He heard the door open, and for a brief instant, hoped Constance had returned. But a man’s familiar footsteps heralded a different visitor.

  “For God’s sake, Merrick, what did you say to Constance?” Henry demanded. “She looks like death. Did you quarrel? Was it over that woman? Did you explain why you stood whispering to the chandler’s daughter as if you were lovers conspiring to rendezvous?”

  He slowly turned around, his hand tightening on his sword hilt until his knuckles were white as he fought for control.

  “I thought you knew me better, Henry,” he said, trying to keep the despair from his voice. To pretend he was strong. To remember that he was a mighty lord, and not a frightened little boy alone in the woods. “I would never betray my vows to my wife.”

  “What did you expect?” Henry asked incredulously. “What do you think the villagers made of that cozy little tête-à-tête? And then your announcement that they couldn’t wed?”

  Merrick’s jaw clenched as his restraint dwindled. “I expect them to believe me an honorable man.”

  “What, you think you’ve won their trust in a few weeks after years of abuse at your father’s hands?”

  His temper burst, raging like a river bursting through a dam. “I’m not my father!” He slammed his fist on the table. “How many times must I say it?”

  Shocked at his outburst, Henry backed away and made placating gestures. “All right, you’re not your father and there’s nothing between you and that woman. Of course I believe you, but then, I’m not your wife. It’d only be natural for her to be jealous.”

  “She has no reason to be jealous of me,” Merrick snarled.

  “She’s a woman. They need very little reason.”

  “I don’t need any advice about women from you,” Merrick retorted, struggling to regain mastery over his anger, in spite of Henry’s infuriating observations.

  Henry couldn’t possibly understand. To him, women were toys, amusing playthings put on this earth to entertain him. He had no idea what it was like to truly love a woman, to love her so much he’d do anything to have her, even if it meant keeping a terrible secret for years and years. To live with the fear that one lapse, one inadvertent word, would tear her from him and make her hate him forever.

  “Well, you’d better listen to somebody, or you’re going to lose her,” Henry said.

  She might already be lost to him, Merrick realized, and pain, like the grip of bony dead fingers, squeezed his heart.

  “Go away, Henry.” He wanted to be left alone to deal with this agony in his own way, as he had for fifteen years.

  “Do you think telling me to leave is going to change anything?” Henry asked quietly.

  Of course not, and he knew that better than Henry. He wasn’t a fool—and Henry was no virtuous priest to counsel him.

  Merrick’s temper flared again and his hands balled into fists. “No, because you’ll talk and talk and talk whether I listen or not, offering your unwanted advice, as if you’re the world’s greatest lover and all the rest of us are dolts.”

  Henry flushed. “I’m only trying—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s turd for what you’re trying to do!”

  Pain came to Henry’s eyes, but Merrick was beyond caring.

  “Why are you still in Tregellas, Henry? Do you see your chance to make a good marriage? Beatrice is young and silly, but what is that to a great lover like you? You’ll either teach her well, or satisfy yourself with another despite your marriage vows.”

  Henry blanched. “I have no such—”

  “So why haven’t you left? Have you stayed to offer me advice I don’t want? To live off my land, eating my food, drinking my wine, making eyes at my wife?” Merrick’s dark brows lowered ominously as a new source of fury arose, one he’d been burying for weeks. “Maybe it’s Constance you really want, not her cousin.”

  “Merrick, you go too far.”

  “Do I?” he charged, now certain he’d been tricked by a serpent in their midst. The deceiver deceived—a fitting retribution.

  “I haven’t forgotten we swore an oath that we would trust each other, fight for each other, guard each other,” Henry returned. “Have you? You must have, or how else could you say such things to me, or demean Ranulf as you have, treating him like your lackey or a common mercenary? He’s your friend, for God’s sake, and so am I. That’s why I’ll tell you the hard truth, whether you want to hear it or not.”

  “And only you know the truth?” Merrick demanded with a scowl, hatred growing from his anger. How could he have been so trusting? So blind? Thank God he’d never told Henry his secret. “You know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t know me.”

  “No, Merrick, I don’t believe I do,” Henry said, slowly shaking his head. “Not anymore. And I wonder how well you know me, if you think I’d try to steal your wife.”

  “I’ve seen you chase after other men’s wives. I’ve seen you catch them and heard you brag of your conquests, as if cuckolding another man is an accomplishment to be proud of.”

  “I swore no oath of loyalty to those men, and the wives I won were willing—nay, eager—to join me in my bed.”

  “Oh, it’s all their doing and none of yours?” Merrick scoffed. “A convenient excuse for a dishonorable man.”

  “So that’s what you truly think of me,” Henry said quietly—too quietly—as he walked toward the door, mercifully leaving at last. He put his hand on the latch, then looked back at Merrick over his shoulder. “I’ll be gone before dark.”

  “Good,” Merrick snarled as the door closed behind his former friend.

  Then the lord of Tregellas sat in his father’s throne-like chair and stared at the door, unseeing, alone with his turbulent thoughts.

  SOMETIME LATER, FOR MERRICK had lost all track of time and shouted at a quaking Demelza who’d come to tell him the evening meal was being served, he looked up and focused on the man who’d entered his solar uninvited. “Are you aware that Henry’s left Tregellas?” Ranulf inquired.

  Ranul
f…his friend…whom he’d made garrison commander…temporarily. He couldn’t trust him, either. He wanted to, but that would be a mistake.

  “Yes, I told him to go,” he replied, finding it unexpectedly difficult to get the words out. Or to see Ranulf clearly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “God’s wounds, you’re drunk!” Ranulf exclaimed, for once in his life completely surprised.

  “Am I?” Merrick replied, dazed, as if he’d taken a hard blow to the head. He stared at the goblet in his hand. “I must be,” he muttered, shoving it away. “That would explain…That’s not good.”

  Ranulf had come to the solar with the firm purpose of finding out why Henry had left Tregellas with barely a farewell. He still had that intention, but seeing Merrick like this, he resolved to take a slightly different course.

  He picked up the silver goblet lying on the floor. “What happened to this?” he inquired. “Did you throw it at Henry? Or did it levitate over here and fall?”

  Merrick’s only answer was a scowl.

  So he had thrown it. Another surprise. Merrick was normally the most self-possessed man Ranulf knew.

  “I saw no mark on Henry’s head, so I suppose you missed,” he remarked, setting the dented goblet on the table beside Merrick’s empty one. “Probably more because of your poor aim than lack of intent. I’ve never seen you throw anything except a spear, and that badly.”

  “What do you want?” Merrick demanded. “Just t’annoy me and question my decisions?”

  Ranulf raised a quizzical brow. “I haven’t said one word about any recent decisions of yours. Did Henry? Is that why he’s gone?”

  “I don’t have t’explain myself to you, either.” Merrick pointed a wobbly finger at the door. “Get out!”

  Instead of leaving, Ranulf perched on the edge of the table and crossed his arms while continuing to regard his friend with his usual sangfroid. “I daresay it was about that woman who was supposed to marry the smith’s son. I gather the smith’s son and the Queen of the May have been intending to wed for a long time.”