The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  What Merrick thought of her new behavior she didn’t know. Although he had never again spent the night away from her, and the telltale bits of chaff in his hair the next morning had told her he’d probably slept in the stables after their most recent argument, he seemed more of a stranger to her now than he ever had.

  She sighed heavily. Every hope, every dream of happiness and security she’d had, was in ruins, like the mill. Shattered, like her comb.

  Her gaze moved to Merrick, riding at the head of the column in full chain mail, his shield on his left arm, his sword at his side, his mace tied to his saddle. His posture was so straight, so stiff, so apparently ready for battle.

  “I wonder if the rain will cease or get worse before we reach Tintagel,” Lord Osgoode speculated beside her.

  Constance stopped looking at her husband and tittered. “I hope better, or I fear my gowns will be ruined and I’ll look a complete fright.”

  “I’m sure you are never anything less than beautiful,” Lord Osgoode assured her.

  Constance struggled not to betray any scorn, but this man made Henry look an amateur when it came to meaningless flattery. “Is it much farther? I fear I’m not well traveled. I’ve never ridden past Lord Carrell’s holding.”

  That was quite true, and she had the aching legs and sore back to prove it.

  “I doubt we can reach it today,” Lord Osgoode replied. “I understand there’s a monastery not far from here that offers lodging to weary travelers. I’m sure your husband will stop there for the night to let you rest.”

  Constance feared Merrick didn’t care one jot about her discomfort or fatigue.

  Lord Osgoode tilted his head and looked up at the sky. “I do believe the rain is stopping.”

  He threw back his hood. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, inhaling deeply. “There are times I regret I don’t have more estates in the south of France. The weather is so much more pleasant. You and your husband must visit me there.”

  “Oh, I’d love to! It must be delightful to be so rich and travel! I fear I seem woefully ignorant to you.”

  “A woman of such beauty has no need to be clever,” Lord Osgoode replied, giving her a condescending smile. “Nevertheless, you’re quite well-informed about the situation at court.”

  She grinned sheepishly. “I confess I care little about such matters, my lord. However, I’ve discovered that the best way to get my husband’s attention is to feign an interest and ask lots of questions.”

  God help her, even Beatrice never sounded so silly.

  “I hope he appreciates your efforts.”

  She giggled and lowered her eyelids to feign a modest blush. “Oh, yes, indeed. I am well rewarded.”

  She slid a scrutinizing glance at the nobleman riding beside her from beneath her lowered lids.

  Lord Osgoode didn’t look overly pleased by that answer. Perhaps he hoped she was frustrated and so lacking for affection she’d be an easy target for his oily charm.

  Lord Osgoode kneed his horse closer and she anticipated more empty flattery. “If it does come to rebellion, many men are going to wonder which side your husband will support.”

  So, he thought to get information from her. Even if she did know her husband’s opinion on this vital matter, she wouldn’t share that knowledge with Lord Osgoode, especially after Merrick’s warning.

  Instead, she widened her eyes with bogus dismay and very brightly said, “I have no idea. He’s never told me.”

  There was a flash of annoyance in Osgoode’s eyes, but in the next moment he was once again the placid, genial companion. “Let us hope that no choice need be made, especially as it seems your husband has quite enough to deal with on his estate. The fire at the mill was most unfortunate.”

  “Yes, it was. Thankfully, the repairs should be finished before we return from Tintagel. It was kind of Sir Jowan to send us his mason. He’s a rough and crude sort of commoner, but he seems to know what he’s about. At least, I hope so.”

  “And you still have no idea how it happened?”

  “No. Merrick’s been trying to find out, of course, but alas! To no avail.”

  “At least your husband’s been successful at stopping the smuggling. It’s a pity he hasn’t captured some of the outlaws, though, so that their punishment could set an example. Peasants and villeins require a strong hand, or they begin to think they have more rights than they do. These tinners, for instance. I don’t know how the Cornish lords put up with them.”

  Ahead, Merrick raised his hand to halt the cortege, giving her an excuse not to answer. It was getting nearly impossible to hide her true feelings and guard her tongue.

  “I wonder why we’ve stopped,” Lord Osgoode muttered as he nudged his horse closer to the front of the cortege.

  She was curious, too, so she did the same. Lord Osgoode repeated his question when they reached her husband, who was staring ahead at the thick wood of oak and ash.

  “This would be a fine place for an ambush,” he replied.

  It was not his words so much as his tone that made her shiver with sudden fear.

  “What fools would ambush us, my lord?” Lord Osgoode asked incredulously. “We have over fifty men.”

  Merrick twisted in his saddle as if he wanted to see his men and confirm they were there before he answered. Constance had never seen his face so pale, his eyes so bright.

  “Obviously you’ve never been ambushed, my lord, and all around you slaughtered,” he answered. “I have, and I will take no chances.”

  That silenced Lord Osgoode.

  Whatever Merrick was thinking or remembering, his voice was firm and steady as he called for the master-at-arms and ordered him to have the mounted men break into three groups—one to ride in front, one to ride beside Lady Constance and Lord Osgoode, and one to ride at the rear.

  Once all were in position, he raised his hand and signaled them forward.

  MERRICK HAD RISKED DEATH and injury many times in tournaments and training. He’d fought at Sir Leonard’s side during some skirmishes with a disloyal castellan who had refused to give up a keep when Sir Leonard put a new man in command. On those occasions he’d felt not fear, but a grim determination to prove himself.

  Yet those battles had been on open fields, or in the case of the castellan, on the wall walks and in the wards of a castle—open areas, not enclosed by trees.

  Sometimes it took only the scent of damp foliage to bring back the terror. The memories of the screams of injured and dying men. Sir Egbert lying on the ground, staring at the sky with dead, wide-open eyes. The fiercely scarred leader of the soldiers, tough and frightening himself, shouting his orders, trying to turn his horse. Then shrieking as his arm was sliced from his body. The servants slaughtered where they stood, regardless of rank or age. The boy his own age, his neck slashed and his tunic stained with blood. Everywhere, the blood.

  And then running through the trees, the underbrush scratching and tearing, until he fell exhausted and could run no more.

  Merrick gripped his drawn sword tighter and tried to put those thoughts from his mind as he rode into the wood. He had won tournaments. He was a good fighter, and well armed. It would take bad luck, or a mistake on his part, for him to fall.

  His horse could fight, too, with teeth and hooves. He had many other soldiers with him. Even Lord Osgoode would have been trained to defend himself.

  Yet in spite of all his silent reassurances, sweat trickled down Merrick’s back, making the padded gambeson he wore beneath his mail stick to his skin.

  Because greater than his dread of the dark, damp wood was his fear for Constance’s safety, perhaps her very life. He silently cursed his stubbornness and vain pride that had insisted that she come. He should have let her stay in Tregellas, where it would be harder for an enemy to hurt her. Even if it looked odd, or made the earl and other noblemen speculate, he should have insisted she remain behind.

  How much farther to the end of these woods?

  The master-at-arm
s had told him there was a monastery not far from here. If they made it out of these woods safely—when they made it out of these woods safely—they would stop there, so Constance could rest. She’d not uttered a single word of complaint, but he was sure she was tired and probably sore. The groom had told him, in answer to his question, that Lady Constance was a good rider, but rarely ventured far. She’d likely already been longer in the saddle then she’d ever been in her life.

  He never should have married her. He never should have made her the wife of a man detested and mistrusted by the villagers and tenants, so that there would always be the dread that they would rebel.

  He never should have asked her to betray the trust of those same villagers and tenants. Or else he should have told her how pleased and relieved he was when she had not, for otherwise, he could never trust her, either.

  He did trust her, as much as he trusted anyone.

  Which was never, ever completely. He didn’t dare. His secret was too terrible. His friends would despise him, the earl would strip him of his estate and Constance…she would rightly wish him straight to hell.

  Merrick’s horse skittered nervously. He’d been gripping too hard with his knees. He relaxed his hold and looked ahead.

  In the distance the road began to widen and the trees thinned. Thank God. Not long now.

  The memories receded, back into the place where he kept them, along with the fear of discovery that haunted him night and day. He even ventured to half turn in his saddle—to encounter Constance watching him intently.

  He faced forward immediately and cursed himself for a fool. He was a hundred ways a fool, and if he needed any proof, he had only to look at the woman he was making miserable.

  At last they came out of the wood. Broken, rocky moor stretched toward the sea to their left. The land to their right had been cleared for pasture from the road to the top of a ridge running parallel to the muddy track. Beyond the field, the forest continued. A stone cottage and some outbuildings were not far off. The turn for the monastery should be in about another mile or so.

  Merrick ordered the men to sheath their swords, and so did he.

  As they rode on, the air was very quiet and still, the only sounds that of their cortege: the creaking wheels of the baggage carts, his men’s marching feet, the horses and their jingling accoutrements. At this time of day the men were too tired for much conversation. Nor could he hear the soft murmur of Constance’s voice, and the lower tones of Lord Osgoode as he spoke to her.

  She’d been acting unlike herself since he’d chastised her about her remarks to Osgoode. Even if he did fear being accused of trying to rob the king of his birthright, and although he didn’t trust Osgoode, he shouldn’t have lost his temper. Despite that, Constance had apparently agreed that he was right and sought to repair any damage she might have caused by acting like a simpleton. Only a man of Lord Osgoode’s prejudices wouldn’t see that she was merely acting like a fool. He’d caught Ranulf staring at her with blatant bafflement, and Beatrice had looked puzzled, too.

  There was no activity at the farm ahead.

  Where was the farmer? His wife? Children? Not even a dog barked a warning that a mounted party approached on the road.

  Merrick turned his head to look at the field—and his blood froze.

  Ambush!

  Not in the woods, as he’d feared. Here, where he thought they’d be safer. A force that easily matched his own was galloping out of the forest and down the ridge. With lances.

  Lances that could pierce mail and take a man down with a single blow—and they had none.

  In the next instant the lances were forgotten as he heard Constance’s warning cry.

  Nothing else mattered but her. Not his own safety, or anyone else’s. Whether the attackers would merely take her prisoner or murder her, he neither knew nor cared. She was his wife, his beloved, and he would let no man harm a hair on her head.

  He shouted for the master-at-arms, and as he did, he realized the men were already forming into battle lines, while a group of about twenty circled Constance and Lord Osgoode.

  Thank God for Ranulf’s training!

  He shouted at them to take his wife and Lord Osgoode to the monastery, no matter what else happened.

  Raising his sword, his reins in his left hand, his shield raised, he roweled his horse to a gallop and led the charge. He swung his sword at the first lance he could, the blow shattering the tip. He recovered quickly enough to swing at the mounted man, but missed and nearly overset himself by leaning too far forward.

  He regained his balance and with a sharp nudge of his knees, turned his destrier. Three of his mounted men had fallen, two of the attackers.

  He quickly searched for Constance. He spotted Lord Osgoode and their guards, fighting with a will against a group of nearly the same number.

  Where was Constance? Oh, God, where—? There! She’d broken out of the fighting group and was riding down the road, her scarf gone, her unbound hair and cloak streaming behind her.

  “Fly, beloved, fly!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Then his heart leapt into his throat as one of the attackers broke off from the group around Osgoode and rode after her.

  Merrick recognized him at once. He’d seen him in tournaments, watched him practice, knew the way he sat his horse as well as he knew his own name.

  “Judas!” Merrick screamed, the word torn from his heart as he spurred his horse forward. “Traitor!”

  Death was too good for Henry.

  Six other mounted men appeared in front of Merrick, two with maces, the rest with swords that flashed in the sun emerging from behind the clouds.

  With an enraged bellow, Merrick charged the nearest man, swinging his sword like a madman, albeit one with incredibly good aim and years of training. His horse, excited by the battle, snapped and bit at anything that got in its way.

  Merrick’s opponent was no novice, but even so, he was no match for a furious Merrick, either. The wrath seemed to fairly pour out of the lord of Tregellas and he fought with an almost supernatural power.

  His enemy’s companions, seeing his difficulties, pressed closer. Merrick’s horse, enclosed, reared back, kicking. Merrick’s sword flashed silver in the sunlight, then glistened with blood as one by one the men surrounding him fell, to be trampled by the hooves of his horse.

  After the last man shrieked and tumbled from his horse, a bruised and bloodied Merrick raised himself in his stirrups.

  Constance! Where was Constance?

  There, lying on the ground with Lord Osgoode kneeling beside her.

  Not taken. Thank God. Not taken.

  But oh, God, if she was dead…

  He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode toward his fallen wife, barely noticing that his men had succeeded in repelling the attack.

  When he reached Lord Osgoode he brought his horse to a halt so swiftly, it sat back on its haunches. He jumped from the saddle and threw himself to his knees beside his pale and motionless wife, everything else forgotten as he stared, horrified, at her white face. “Dead?” he croaked, his throat almost clenched shut with fear.

  “No, not dead,” Lord Osgoode said. “She fell trying to escape. I don’t think any limbs are broken, but I fear she struck her head.”

  Merrick turned to ice inside. A broken limb could be mended. Tears in the flesh could be sewn. But a wound to the head…Sometimes they were nothing, sometimes they were a slow death. “And the man who tried to take her?”

  “I’m sorry to say he escaped, my lord.”

  Merrick rose. “Not for long and never from me,” he said, and his voice made Osgoode shiver.

  “Take my wife to the monastery,” Merrick ordered as he mounted his horse, his face grimly set, resolve hardening his heart.

  He was going to find Henry, who would then discover just how merciless the son of Wicked William could be.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE VOICES WERE MUTED, AS IF they were under water. Or she wa
s.

  “It would be best, my lord, if you didn’t disturb her,” a man said. She didn’t recognize his voice, but he sounded learned. Middle-aged.

  “I must see her.”

  That was Merrick. He was alive! Thank God. But she’d never heard his voice sound like that before. Distraught. Upset.

  “My lord, please. I’ve given her a potent draught and we should—”

  “Will she live?”

  Of course she would. There was no need for him to worry…although it was comforting to think he did worry about her. She was just tired, so tired she couldn’t open her eyes.

  “That is in God’s hands, my lord.”

  “I must see her before I leave.”

  Now he was angry. Impatient. The old Merrick.

  Where was he going? To Tintagel? Weren’t they already there?

  Where was she?

  Maybe if she slept, she’d be more alert when she awoke….

  A hand took hold of hers. A rough, calloused hand. A man’s hand. Merrick’s hand, grasping hers so very gently.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, nearly breaking.

  Sorry for what? For quarreling? So was she…

  She wished she wasn’t so tired. Wasn’t there something she had to tell him? Something important?

  “Constance, my love, my love, if you die, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  She attempted to open her eyes, but couldn’t. She wanted to open them. What was wrong that she could not?

  She tried to tighten her grasp, to move her fingers, but she couldn’t do that, either.

  “I never should have married you.”

  She lay completely still, too shocked to try to move again.

  “I’ve lied to you, Constance,” he whispered, his voice in her ear as he leaned close, his breath warm on her cheek. He smelled of sweat and leather and…blood.

  The battle. They’d been in a battle. There was something important about the battle….

  He rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I never should have put you in danger.”