Midnight's Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  “Your interest will be welcome, sir.” Ha, when loathsome toads walk upright on warty back legs. Her hand flew to her mouth to hush her thoughts. Saints! Did his lips twitch?

  Wordlessly, he motioned toward the bailey. Clutching the squire’s slender waist, she tried to disappear behind him. Did he feel her heart pound against his back? As they made their way across the grounds and out over the drawbridge, she listened for sounds of pursuit.

  She did not relax her tense grip on his tunic until they were well out of sight of her father’s castle.

  No one would pursue them, for Mereck sent word to Baron Wycliffe that he had everything in hand. Netta had unusual courage. Especially for a woman. She had not fooled him for a moment. He had known it was she, Lynette of Wycliffe, on the balcony.

  When he had chased the supposed thief, he knew who fled from him. He had purposely let her gain the lead until she entered the stable. He decided to send her out of harm’s way when he learned her father had beaten her. No woman should suffer at the hands of any man—surely not by those of her father.

  Had Wycliffe told Netta of the Baresark legend, and of the early rulers of Caer Cad-well, to frighten her of Wales? He would have to take care she did not learn the man she feared as Baresark was also Mereck of Blackthorn, else he would have to force her to marry him. It did not set easy on his soul.

  Ridley. The two estates bordered each other, and Bleddyn had told him Netta and Elise were friends. Ridley’s daughter was the second reason for his journey to England.

  Standing with legs braced wide and hands fisted on his waist, he chuckled.

  Netta would soon be under his scrutiny.

  Later that day, as the sky deepened to a stormy gray at dusk, Mereck tapped the betrothal contracts on the table and listened to Baron Wycliffe reciting Lynette’s dowry. How many months before, nay, years even, had they been prepared?

  “I note Caer Cad-well and its manors are passed through the matriarchal line, Baron.” Mereck’s gaze bored into the weak blue eyes of the man facing him. “How are the holdings protected to prevent losing them by the wrong choice of husband?”

  The baron dusted his hands together as if ridding himself of something distasteful. “The man who weds my daughter must be able to protect her holdings by personal prowess, or by great wealth. Your warrior’s reputation proves you capable.”

  Mereck watched the baron pick at his clothing. Why was Wycliffe determined to lure him into taking his daughter? The man was already speaking to him familiarly as if the contracts were all but signed. The girl deserved better than a bastard. Mereck grimaced at the hated word.

  “Lynette’s foolish mother insisted her daughter and her son-by-law must happily share a year’s wedded bliss afore they are permitted to reside at Caer Cad-well.”

  Mereck nodded his head on hearing this. It seemed her mother had been far more concerned for her welfare than was this strange man.

  “Baron, knowing I can bring naught to increase your wealth, why are you willing for me to wed your daughter?”

  “Lynette needs a strong fist to rein her in.” Wycliffe eyed Mereck, appraising him like he would a wild boar in a hunt. “Suitors aplenty have vied for her hand.” Anger caused his voice to rise. “She found ways to send them running without an offer. After the fifth man feigned an urgent summons from his father, I watched her more closely.” He banged his pewter goblet on the table, sloshing wine onto the pristine white cloth. He muttered, “A clever girl. Too clever.

  “Afore I called her to the great hall, she found a way to meet her new suitor alone. I caught her. In this very room.” He twitched in the chair, his fat hands fisted until his knuckles turned white. “Dressed like a slattern, she was.” The baron’s words hissed through clinched teeth. He turned red with anger. “Spittle ran from the corner of her lips, and her hair was knotted and streaked with mud.”

  Mereck’s tense body relaxed, and he fought a smile. The girl had imagination. His hand tingled with the memory of her soft breasts, and his blood surged on thinking of the beauty of her face and form.

  “By God’s sweet nails. She crossed her eyes ’til they stared at her nose.” The baron sputtered and scowled so hard his own eyes were in danger of crossing. “She pointed at them to be sure he noted it. She talked like a fool and chanted what sounded like a curse. The man was well on his way by the time I reached the bailey.”

  Mereck had long since learned to restrain his ability to hear people’s thoughts, for if they came from a mind filled with venom, blinding pain slashed through his head. Whatever the costs, he had to know what lurked behind Wycliffe’s loathing. While he waited for the baron to recover his composure, Mereck cleared his mind and steeled himself to listen to the man’s thoughts of his hated eldest daughter.

  Wycliffe’s hands tightened to fists. How he’d love to hammer them into that cursed Bleddyn, who had banned his crossing the Welsh border. How had that Welshman known Kyrie despised him as much as he loathed her? His wife had thought to secure her daughter’s happiness? This savage will deal with the little witch as harshly as she deserves. Bleddyn will not dare cross Baresark.

  He cleared his throat and spat into the stale rushes.

  Lynette was not of his seed. She was the Welshman’s get, Kyrie’s first husband Rys. Mayhap a changeling. She should have died with her mother. He had forbad anyone to help with the birthing. Surely a sorceress entered and placed her babe amidst the blood on the bed. He had planned to kill the bairn; his hand had covered her nose and mouth. Her eyes had stopped him.

  Remembering, fear flashed through him. He shuddered.

  The minute he had touched the babe, her eyes had stared at him. Defying him! Shock like lightning had struck his palm. Anyone would have jerked back. Those eyes. The deep purplish-blue of a bittersweet nightshade. ’Twas a devil’s eye, the right one with its honey-colored freckle, that frightened her suitors.

  While Lynette remains at Wycliffe, he could not be free of her mother’s memory. If he never saw the accursed girl again, he would be content.

  Waves of physical hate filled Wycliffe. The restless hounds under the table whined. He kicked out at them.

  Pain tore through Mereck’s head. He fought the urgent need to bend forward and grasp it between his hands. A warm, wet nose nudged him under his outstretched leg. He ran his fingers through the dog’s shaggy hair to soothe it. And to soothe himself.

  He inhaled a shuddering breath and forced his body to relax. Across from him sat the only man in England, Wales or Scotland who would offer a bastard such vast holdings, the wealth to maintain them, and a beautiful bride. Even stranger than that, Wycliffe unknowingly was returning Mereck’s mother’s lands, Mereck’s own heritage, to him.

  His pain eased. He forced a smile and stood.

  “Baron, be assured I’ll return on the morrow to complete the contracts and bring my own. My man delivered Lynette to Ridley. Have no fear. She will trouble you no more. From this moment on she is mine. My charge. My responsibility. Lynette will accompany me when I return to Scotland.”

  He bowed and excused himself. After posting several warriors where they could intercept anyone trying to enter Wycliffe before his return, he rode through the misty rain toward Ridley Castle. He breathed deeply, cleansing his body and mind of the miasma surrounding the baron. As the air exploded from his lips, Marcus glanced at him with raised brows.

  “What say you, Marcus? Will you take command o’er my men in Wales a year hence? Would you be happy there?” Mereck nodded at his first-in-command’s astonished expression.

  “The little servant? She was not a servant, was she?” Mereck smiled his answer. Marcus rubbed his jaw and eyed him. “The daughter of the house? Ah, then the tales were true?” He thumped himself on the forehead. “Had I known of it, I would have raced through the barbican afore you!”

  Mereck’s hearty laughter echoed through the trees. Stunned to silence on hearing that rare sound, his men stared.

  The moment the helpf
ul squire turned his back, Netta slipped into the shadows and entered the castle. She tucked her head down and prayed no one would recognize her as she used the servants’ stairs. For certs, Elise would help her plan how to avoid an odious marriage. Glancing over her shoulder, she slipped into her friend’s room.

  “Netta! When did you arrive? I was about to go down to the hall. Come, we’ll go together.” Elise smiled happily.

  “Shh, Elise, no one must know I am here.” Netta led Elise to sit on the bed. She jerked the heavy rose-colored bed drapes closed, in case someone came into the room while they perched atop the warm furs covering the featherbed.

  “Father has lost his mind,” Lynette whispered in Elise’s ear. “You must help me. That doddering Baron Durham died in my room. Father decided I would wed the first loathsome man who entered Wycliffe this morn, whether he be knight or swineherd.”

  Elise shrieked, “He died in your room? You are to marry a keeper of pigs?”

  Lynette’s hand flashed out to cover her friend’s mouth.

  “Even worse! The dreaded Baresark my father has always threatened me with arrived at first light. He is a bearded, barbaric Welshman. Father greeted him like a long lost relative. He wears animal hides and furs and leather bands around his arms in the old way. He probably has an enemy’s skull in his travel pouch.” Lynette shuddered with horror.

  Elise grabbed the back end of her tunic and draped it around her head like a cloak. Only her shocked eyes were visible. “’Tis Baresark? A skull hung from his horse?” If Elise’s whisper had been any louder, they would have heard her on the other side of the thick chamber door.

  “Shh. Nay, I saw no skull. It would not surprise me, though, for he is even more frightening than Father described. He oft said the savage keeps the skulls of respected enemies. They are supposed to bring him the man’s wisdom.” She stopped and listened. “Do you think anyone saw me come up here?”

  Before Elise could answer, someone scratched on the door. Netta grabbed Elise’s arm and whispered in her ear. “Hurry. See who it is.” Elise scrambled off the bed, and Netta yanked the bed curtains shut.

  Elise opened the door a crack.

  “Milady, visitors have arrived. Yer father wishes ye to attend him.”

  Elise nodded. “I will be down directly. As soon as I find my shoes.” She wriggled, trying to hide her well-shod feet behind the door. “Do not tarry for me.” She slammed the door in the girl’s face, then raced back to the bed to Lynette.

  “Do you think the barbarian hunted you down like he did those poor creatures he wears on his body?” Elise gulped. “For sure that is why they have sent for me. I cannot go below.”

  “Act as if nothing is wrong,” Netta whispered.

  “Nay, I could not.” Elise’s voice wobbled, her hands shook.

  “Someone will come to see why you have not obeyed his summons,” Netta reminded her as she clambered off the bed.

  “Let them. I’ll not go below.” Elise folded her arms and stood her ground.

  Netta took Elise’s shoulders and urged her across the room and out into the hallway.

  “Do not be affrighted. No one knows I’m here.”

  Chapter 3

  Shortly after Mereck arrived at Ridley Castle, he scrubbed himself clean, scraped the hair from his face and changed into a fine, white linen shirt, dark brown tunic and beige breeches. He stripped away all traces of the warrior Baresark. The next time Netta saw him, she would not recognize him as the man her father determined she would marry.

  After the sunset bells of Vespers, Mereck told Baron Ridley and his wife of Wycliffe’s harsh decree and of the betrothal contract he had signed that morn.

  “Lynette is a keen-witted girl. Disguised as a maid, she came below to see what manner of man her father would force her to wed. He caught sight of her, called her a thief and bid me capture her when she fled.” Remembering how she had winced at his touch, Mereck’s brows drew together.

  “The poor child.” The baron’s wife had tears in her eyes. “I am afeared he beat her soundly after you left.”

  “Nay. I would not allow such. I pretended to believe she was of no account and bid my squire to bring her here. No doubt, she is above. Hiding in your daughter’s chambers. If she appears dressed as a servant, I would that you pretend not to recognize her in her disguise.”

  “Ah, now I see your plan. How fortunate you have arrived to escort Elise to her cousin at Blackthorn. When Lynette learns of it, she will surely think to escape by going with Elise.”

  In a soothing gesture, Baron Ridley patted Mereck’s shoulder. “Aye. ’Tis unfortunate her father filled her thoughts with terror of the Baresark legend. As she comes to know and trust you, she will learn that though the legend and Mereck of Blackthorn are one and the same, she has no need to be afeared of you.”

  Netta huddled in the dark bed, awaiting Elise’s return. The door burst open, and Elise entered, along with a servant and the appetizing aroma of roasted chicken. Netta’s stomach grumbled, reminding her of her neglect.

  “Put the tray on the table, please. What I have heard this night surprised me, and I forgot to eat. That’s why I had you bring so much food,” she explained loudly.

  Noting a hand grasp the bed curtains to draw them back, Netta scrambled to the darkest corner of the bed.

  “Nay,” Elise fairly shrieked. “Do not worry with turning down my bed. I will undress later and do it myself.”

  Netta heard a disbelieving snort on the other side of the heavy fabric and almost laughed aloud. Elise was childishly dependent on others to do these chores.

  “I will be fine. You may go,” Elise added.

  Netta parted the bed curtain just enough to glimpse Elise shoving the startled maid through the doorway. Once the maid disappeared, Netta leapt from the bed.

  “Food.” She raced to the tray and stood, sniffing the mouth-watering smell wafting through the white linen napkins. “I’m drooling like a bairn. I’ve had naught but bread and water since Baron Durham came to Wycliffe.”

  “Come. It will be warmer over here.” Elise placed the tray on a fur rug close to a brazier of hot coals. After selecting a roasted chicken leg for herself, and handing Netta a thigh from the trencher, she sighed. “All has worked out for the best.”

  “What has worked out?” Netta asked.

  “Our traveling to Scotland, of course.” Elise waved the juicy leg at Netta.

  “What?” Netta dropped her food in her lap. Startled, she looked down at the mess on her clothing. “Who is traveling to Scotland?”

  Elise looked at her as if she thought her best friend dim-witted. “We”—she pointed the leg at Netta and then toward herself—“are going to Scotland.” She beamed, but seeing Netta’s mouth remained open, she hurried to explain.

  “Mereck of Blackthorn is below. My cousin has had a terrible tragedy and has sent for me.” Of a sudden, her eyes widened until the whites showed all around her blue irises. She gasped. “Oh, blessed saints in heaven. The wolves.”

  “What? What wolves?” Netta was beginning to think the only word she had spoken in this discourse was “what.”

  “You know. The wolves.” Elise explained. Netta stared at her without speaking. “The wolves Galan and his friends told Brianna and me about. Do you not remember? I told you of it,” Elise reminded her. “They said the ferocious Scots have pet wolves. On winter nights, they raid across the borders and take pesky English girls to feed the wolves.” She twisted her fingers together and huddled closer to the brazier. “’Tis soon winter.”

  “Saints, Elise.” Netta laughed. “What right-thinking person befriends a wolf? Do not tell me you believed those silly tales.”

  “Galan is an honorable knight. He would not lie,” Elise huffed.

  “Aye, but he had made no knightly vows then. He was a boy. A tease. When you jumped with fear and cried, did he not comfort you and say he was sorry?” Netta grinned as Elise bobbed her head in agreement. “When your cousin scolded hi
m, did he not look shamed?”

  “Aye.” Elise’s face brightened. “So. You will go with me?”

  “Go where?” Netta asked. All this talks of pet wolves made her forget what they were talking about.

  “Where? Really, Netta. You should pay attention. To my cousin Brianna at Blackthorn Castle, of course.” Elise tore off a chunk of dark bread and nibbled on it. Her eyes lit. “Mereck of Blackthorn will escort us. He did not laugh at me about the wolves.” She looked accusingly at Netta. “He told Mother I may take one servant and only what we can put on a single packhorse. Mother will send my things later. Mereck is in a hurry to return to Scotland where our Bleddyn awaits him.”

  “Why did you not tell me Lord Bleddyn was in Scotland?” Netta’s hopes surged. The Welshman would stop her father from forcing her into an abominable marriage and sure madness. “One servant? Of course I’ll go, but I need clothing.” She reached for another piece of chicken. “And a disguise,” she added.

  “My tunics will fall off you. Where did you get that ugly garment you wear? It keeps sliding from your shoulders. Why did you stop growing?” Elise frowned at her as if accusing her of being small apurpose. “I know,” she said, one hand in the air extending her forefinger. “Cook has a daughter not full grown. I’ll trade what you are wearing for something of hers. She won’t mind.”

  They ate as they talked and made their plans. Seeing the trencher was empty, Netta eyed it with regret and licked the juice from her fingers. She had a hearty appetite—one suiting a woman as tall as Elise.

  Switching from one foot to the other, Netta peered out the window opening as dawn lightened the sky. Hearing Elise returning from Matins, she dove behind the bed hangings.

  “’Tis me,” Elise whispered.