“Yes, there is,” Beatrice replied fervently, her expression telling Constance that she was determined to find out what had gone wrong between her cousin and her husband.
Constance rose. She wasn’t going to discuss Merrick, or her marriage, with Beatrice, who couldn’t possibly understand. “I’m sure all marriages have their moments of disagreement and anxiety.”
To her chagrin, Beatrice threw back the covers, got out of bed and followed her. “I know you quarreled with Merrick after the hall moot, and Henry argued with Merrick before he went away, probably about you.”
“Merrick’s dispute with Henry had nothing to do with me,” Constance replied, hoping that was true as she busied herself tidying the dressing table, although she’d never learned what they’d fought about. Merrick had never told her, and Henry hadn’t given her any reason for his sudden departure.
“I’m sure you never encouraged Henry,” Beatrice said, coming beside the table. “He’s the sort that would expect all women to be attracted to him, and can’t conceive that they aren’t. It’s better that he’s gone.”
Constance stopped tidying to stare at her cousin, appalled anyone—even Beatrice—would think she was upset about Henry. “Whatever difficulties I may be having with my husband, they have nothing to do with his friend.”
“Is it Annice?”
Constance started for the door. “I don’t wish to discuss this.”
Beatrice ran around her and blocked her way. “I was at the hall moot, Constance,” she said, her voice trembling, her eyes filling with tears. “I saw what happened. I’m not surprised you quarreled with Merrick about it. I’ve lost hours and hours of sleep trying to figure out why Merrick did what he did. I even went to Annice to try to get an answer, but she wouldn’t even talk to me. Still I’m sure—sure!—Merrick’s done nothing dishonorable. He loves you.”
“Whether he loves me or not,” she said coolly, “I never claimed he was unfaithful to me. I happen to know he had another, very good reason for refusing to allow Annice and Eric to marry.”
“What was it?” Beatrice implored.
“Please don’t ask me anything more about that,” Constance replied. She was sorry she’d said as much as she had. She couldn’t explain Merrick’s decision without revealing Annice’s secret, and he’d given his word. It was bad enough he’d broken it to tell her; she wouldn’t betray Annice’s confidence further. “Let it be enough that I’m quite certain he has no lascivious interest in Annice, or any other woman in Tregellas.”
“What about in London?”
“He says he has no mistress anywhere, and I believe him.”
“Then why can’t things be as they were?”
Exasperated with her cousin’s questions, Constance lost her patience. “Because they can’t,” she snapped.
Beatrice stared at her, shocked, then she started to cry. “I only want to help.”
Constance immediately regretted her harsh response and spoke more gently. “I appreciate your concern, Beatrice, truly I do. But if there are…difficulties…between Merrick and me, we must work them out. Marriages are transactions, in a way, so you can’t expect to be blissfully happy all the time.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “If you can be happy in your marriage at all, you should thank God.”
“Is there nothing I can do?” Beatrice asked plaintively.
Constance wiped away her cousin’s tears with the edge of her cuff. “No, and perhaps for you, it will be different.”
“I think it would be better not to marry at all,” Beatrice said, weeping softly. “I’d rather live and die celibate than suffer as you’re suffering now.”
Constance hugged her cousin. And made no reply.
“I ASSUME OUR GUEST HAS retired?” Constance inquired that night when Merrick came to their bedchamber. In spite of her attempts to feel nothing when she was with him in order to lessen her anguish, her heartbeat quickened as he began to disrobe and fold his clothes with deliberate care.
“Yes, he has.”
“Have you ever met him before?”
“No.”
She should have known it was useless to seek a conversation with her husband. Yet even so, there were some things she needed to know. “When do you leave for Tintagel?”
He tossed his shirt onto the chest nearby, leaving him half-naked. “We depart in two days.”
She had no desire to be dragged all over Cornwall however he wished. Chattel or not, she would assert some degree of independence. “I can’t. I can’t leave Beatrice.”
Sitting on their bed, Merrick started to remove his boots. “Is she seriously ill?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Since she had no desire to go to Tintagel with him, she decided not to tell him that she thought Beatrice’s trouble was more a product of her anxious mind than a physical ailment. “Yet while she may not be in any great danger, she should stay here until she’s feeling better, and it would be improper for her to remain in Tregellas if I’m away. Normally I would ask her father to come, but since he’s probably been summoned to Tintagel, too, we have no choice.”
“I want you with me in Tintagel,” Merrick said as if he hadn’t heard her. He rose and started to untie the drawstring of his breeches.
She turned away and resumed combing her hair. “And I told you, my lord, why I cannot go.”
“I’ll send a message to Lord Carrell. His daughter is his responsibility, not ours. He can send someone to fetch her home.”
“She shouldn’t be forced to travel.”
“I thought you said she’s not seriously ill.”
“I said I don’t think she is, but I’m sure a journey wouldn’t help her feel better.”
“It is my express order that you accompany me to Tintagel,” Merrick commanded as, naked, he threw back the coverlet. “I have need of you.”
“What, to warm your bed?” she retorted even as she tried to stem her growing desire. “Heat a stone and put that at your feet.”
He got into the bed and covered himself. “To tell me what other men’s wives and daughters have heard about the situation between the king and his barons.”
“You want me to spy?” She lifted her chin defiantly. “Like Peder, I will not.”
“I want your help.”
“To listen at doors, or try to discern a dollop of useful information from hours of meaningless gossip?”
He raised a coolly inquisitive brow. “This seems a sudden change of attitude, my lady. I thought you would leap at the chance to go to Tintagel, the better to express your political views to a larger audience. You certainly seemed anxious enough to wag your tongue in front of Lord Osgoode, even if your ideas make him suspect that the lord of Tregellas is plotting treason.”
Guilt washed over her as she thought of what she’d said to Lord Osgoode upon first meeting him. Yet it couldn’t be as bad as Merrick was implying. “Surely he doesn’t think that. Besides, what I said about the king is true,” she finished defensively.
“In your opinion,” he retorted. “To some, it’s treason, and most men will assume I share those opinions, because no woman would dare espouse a view opposite to her husband’s.”
“I would.”
Merrick climbed out of bed. “Yes, you would—whether or not it would make trouble. But men like Osgoode don’t know you’re the exception.”
“That’s not my fault—”
“For God’s sake, woman, are you a fool?” he demanded, glaring at her, his hands on his hips although he was still unabashedly naked. “Whether you like it or not, that’s the way of the world and by vainly, arrogantly expressing your views before a man we don’t know, you’ve put us all in danger.”
“I have not,” she countered, fighting back tears of both anger and dismay, telling herself he was wrong. He had to be. She’d always tried to protect people, not endanger them. “You made it clear to Lord Osgoode I don’t speak for you.”
“You made me give him an excuse, and he seemed to a
ccept it, but men like that forget nothing. If I do anything—anything—that seems even a little suspicious, he’ll remember and take the tale to court.
“And even if I agree that you’re right and Henry is a bad king, would you have me risk my life, yours and that of everyone in Tregellas to find out? Are you really so certain Richard would do better? If you are, you have a very rosy view of mankind. He could turn out to be a good deal worse.”
With that, Merrick tugged on his breeches and grabbed his boots.
Although she was taken aback by his harsh words, she heard the truth in them. What was she really asking for when she spoke of deposing the king?
Yet even so, her pride rose up as Merrick marched haughtily to the door. She wouldn’t beg. Even if he was right, she wouldn’t plead with him to stay. “Where are you going?”
He looked at her over his shoulder, and a more bloodless, cold expression she had never seen. “To sleep elsewhere.” His lips jerked up in a scornful smile. “Afraid to be alone, my lady? Perhaps you can get some solace from Kiernan, or some other nobleman who spouts soft words and empty endearments.”
Shocked, appalled and, most of all, indignant, she grabbed her ivory comb by the bed and threw it at his head with all her might.
The missile missed him by mere inches. Instead, it struck the door and shattered.
“I see you learned something from my father after all,” he growled as he opened the door. “In two days, my lady, and whether you want to or not, you’ll go with me to Tintagel, and Beatrice will go home.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“EXPECTING TROUBLE, ARE YOU?”
“Always,” Merrick replied, regarding Ranulf with cold composure as they stood together in the armory. His cortege was to leave for Tintagel at dawn the next morning, and he wanted to make sure all was ready.
“Tintagel’s not that far,” Ranulf noted. “Are you sure you need so many men in your escort? Between Lord Osgoode’s soldiers and ours, that’s over fifty.”
Ranulf’s words brought no comfort as that old, familiar, hated fear gripped Merrick again. A journey. A road. A wood. The dying. The dead. And blood upon the ground.
He forced the memories away. “I want that many men. Or do you think I’m leaving Tregellas too unprotected?”
“God save you, no. This place is so well fortified, a band of children could hold it against an assault.”
Ranulf’s confidence brought no relief, either.
Merrick went over to a stand holding several simple iron swords, their hilts wrapped with leather strips. So many weapons. So many soldiers. So why could he never feel completely safe? “The men will be ready to go at first light?”
“Absolutely. Will your wife?”
Merrick closed his eyes a moment, remembering their last argument. His anger. His harsh words. “Absolutely.”
“I thought perhaps you might want her to stay here.”
“No. Another pair of ears, especially for what the women are saying, will be valuable.”
“Does she know what you want her to do?”
She knew. That didn’t mean she would do it. Yet rather than answering, Merrick grabbed one of the swords and took a few practice swings.
“I was afraid you didn’t care what she thought about anything after the hall moot.”
Ranulf was trying to sound nonchalant, as he always did, but Merrick wasn’t fooled. The very fact that he was saying anything at all about Merrick’s relationship with his wife after their last confrontation on that subject revealed a deep and genuine concern.
No matter how well-meaning he might be, Ranulf would never understand, any more than Henry could.
So Merrick didn’t reply, hoping Ranulf would take the hint and speak of something else.
He didn’t.
“Is all well between you, then, despite appearances?” he inquired as he leaned back against the rough stone wall and crossed his arms as if he intended to stay until he had some answers.
If it was to be a contest of wills, Ranulf was going to lose, Merrick thought, disgruntled, as he made a defensive feint.
“You’re happy together?”
Merrick turned and aimed a blow at an imaginary opponent.
“That’s just what I thought. All is not well, and hasn’t been since the hall moot. In fact, I’d say you’re the most miserable man in Tregellas.”
Merrick decided to answer that, or who could say what other conclusions Ranulf would reach? “You’re wrong,” he said as he replaced the sword.
Ranulf’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “Oh, so you’re stomping around like an enraged bull and growling at everybody because you’re deliriously happy, and Constance is floating about like a disheartened ghost because she’s blissfully content.”
“My wife doesn’t float,” Merrick retorted. He nodded at stacks of thin wooden shafts on a nearby shelf and sought to focus Ranulf’s attention elsewhere. “Are those arrows ever going to get feathered?”
“Tomorrow, and don’t change the subject,” Ranulf countered. “Are you going to talk to Constance and smooth things over, or are you going to let the ditch between you widen until you can’t bridge it at all?”
First Henry, now Ranulf. Who would be the next to offer him advice? Beatrice? “My relationship with my wife is none of your concern.”
“Yes, it is,” Ranulf replied, “when you’re ruining it.”
Merrick marched toward the door. “I’m not going to talk to you about my marriage.”
Ranulf intercepted him. “Well, you’d better talk to somebody—preferably your wife, and the sooner the better.”
Merrick’s brows lowered as his patience deserted him. “For a man whose own history with women is not the best, you have a lot of gall.”
“I’ve learned from my dismal history with women,” Ranulf answered, genuine sorrow in his hazel eyes as he put a hand on Merrick’s arm. “Believe me, Merrick, keeping your feelings to yourself and expecting a woman to somehow read your mind is a very serious mistake.”
Everyone was always so sure they were right. That they knew what he should do—when they understood nothing.
“I don’t expect Constance to read my mind,” he shot back as he pulled away. “I expect her to believe that I’m an honorable man, since I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”
“And so you’re going to sulk until one of you is dead?”
Merrick’s temper flared. “I’m not sulking!”
“All right,” Ranulf agreed with a shrug, apparently unaffected by his anger. “You’re not sulking. You’re brooding. Moping. Use what word you will.”
Merrick pushed past him. “This is pointless.”
Again Ranulf blocked his way. “It would be pointless if I didn’t believe you cared about her. But you do—more than I’ve ever seen you care about anything or anybody.”
Friend or not, Merrick wasn’t going to talk about his wife with Ranulf. “Let me pass.”
“For God’s sake, Merrick, if you love her, make peace with her!”
“Do not tell me how to live my life!” Merrick snarled. “You’re the commander of my garrison, not my overlord.”
“I thought I was your friend.”
Ranulf’s quiet words hit Merrick like a blow to the chest. He’d lost Constance. And Henry. Would he now lose Ranulf, too?
But he couldn’t be honest with his friend, no matter how much he wanted to be. He might reveal too much.
“Make sure the men and the baggage carts are ready at first light,” he said, walking around Ranulf.
As Merrick opened the door, Ranulf sighed heavily. “And Lady Beatrice?” he asked. “How many men should escort her home?”
Merrick briefly checked his steps. “Ten.”
“Then ten it shall be, my lord,” Ranulf murmured as Merrick closed the door.
CONSTANCE HAD BEEN UNHAPPY for days, but now, seated on her mare in a drizzling rain, her cloak providing little in the way of shelter, she was utterly wretche
d. She wished she could have stayed at home, where she would at least be warm and dry, as well as not having to dread what might happen at Tintagel.
The women would surely marvel at her husband’s good looks and proud bearing, and make jokes and sly innuendos about his abilities in bed. Maybe one of his former lovers would be there, to whisper to other women and smile knowingly and try to catch his eye.
The men would look at her with speculation, just like the few who’d visited Tregellas before Merrick arrived, making her feel like a head of livestock to be judged.
The talk would surely turn to the way the newly wedded couple rarely spoke. How the lord of Tregellas ignored his wife. How she kept her distance from him. Some of the women might try to take her place, at least in his bed. Some of the men might assume she would be anxious for a sympathetic ear, hoping that “comfort” might lead to adultery.
If she’d stayed home, she wouldn’t have to endure that.
If she’d stayed home, Beatrice wouldn’t have had to leave, either. Her poor cousin had sobbed so piteously as she got into the wagon to return to her father’s castle.
Ranulf’s friendship with Merrick seemed to be suffering, too. As Beatrice had taken her farewell, he’d looked as grim as death.
The faces of the villagers they’d passed confirmed that whatever goodwill Merrick had earned, he’d lost it. Only the bevy of workmen repairing the mill had paused in their tasks and nodded a simple greeting as the cortege went by—but then, they were getting well paid by the lord of Tregellas.
Once in Tintagel, she would have to guard her tongue, whether she wanted to or not. Merrick was right. Most men would assume her opinions were also her husband’s, and so she would have to take care not to embroil them in the turmoil of the court.
Fortunately, it was also the way of the world, or at least of men, to consider women little more than silly children. All she had to do was chatter like Beatrice and give several contradictory opinions about the state of the realm for Lord Osgoode and everyone at Tintagel to assume she was an empty-headed ninny, trying to sound less ignorant than she was. Thus far, she’d been successful. Lord Osgoode now thoroughly patronized her.
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