Midnight's Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  “Aye. Everything exhausts me. Likely it is because of my weakened condition. I have hid it from you.”

  When he did not soon reply, she started to sniff. He seemed to mull the problem over in his mind. While she waited for him to think of a suitable reply, she rested her head on his chest to listen to his lulling heartbeat. Before he could tell her his thoughts, she fell asleep.

  Mereck gave her the comfort she required.

  She snored too loudly to hear it.

  He hugged her tight and rubbed his chin on her head. Whispering into her sleeping ear, he told her how happy and proud he was.

  If it was a son, he will have a father who will acknowledge him. He will not be a bastard, unable to inherit. Mereck grinned, thinking of a daughter he could coddle and give a father’s love. Love Netta had ne’er known. The babe’s sex mattered not. A son or daughter would have an abundance of love.

  He had noted the changes in Netta’s breasts and knew her courses had not come since they first mated. She knew nothing of the signs of expectant motherhood, for Wycliffe had kept the women thickening with babes away from the castle, knowing his wife would rant about his many bastards.

  Mereck would take his Netta out alone the next day. They would go at midday when her stomach was the most settled. After they supped on cheese, bread and wine, he would explain to his darling that she was with a child.

  With any luck at all, Roger, that sorry excuse for a man, would leave before they returned.

  “What?” If not for the masking sounds of the waterfall, everyone back at the castle would have heard Netta’s shout. “I’m not dying? Why did you not tell me sooner? I have worried this last sennight for naught?”

  “Love, if you had confided your fears to me, I would have set them to rest.” Mereck grinned at her. “Have I told you how very happy I am?” It was more than pleasure over knowing they were to have a child. He loved her. His wife had become important to him. What proved to him it was love was the first thing he had thought when he suspected she was increasing.

  The Baresark legend. How could he live if he lost her?

  The thought sent waves of fear through him. He hugged her tight and vowed to warn Bleddyn he was not to let anything happen to her. He had faith in the Welsh mystic, for he was the only person alive who could have saved Brianna when she lay so near death. He knew, for he had been with them through it all. He grimaced, remembering the terrible fear.

  Mereck clasped Netta to his chest and started to tell her how much he loved her. He had little warning over the roar of the waterfall, only a startled awareness of evil thoughts. No sooner had they registered in his mind, than his head exploded with light. Netta screamed. With a tremendous strength of will, he fought the blackness creeping over his consciousness.

  Forcing his eyes to focus, he saw the bastard strike Mereck’s love across her face. He roared in fury, drowning out her cry of pain. He lurched to his feet. Drew his sword.

  Roger whirled and lunged at him.

  “You rock-headed Welsh bastard. Why are you not dead?” Roger’s high-pitched ranting shrilled above the noise of the falls. “Caer Cad-well and its gold will be mine. I will tear your heart from your body. Lynette will carry it to her father. I will force him to give her to me.” His eyes flamed with triumph.

  Mereck parried Mortain’s thrusts and forced the baron back from where Netta lay. It was not easy. To his surprise, the baron was a skilled swordsman. With lightning speed, Roger’s blade whipped across Mereck’s forehead. Hot blood flowed from the gash, threatening to blind him, while dizziness from the blow to his head unsettled him.

  “Shall I tell you how she will pleasure me?” Drool seeped from Roger’s lips. Evil gleamed in his eyes. “I will take a finger from your hand each time she does not draw my tongue into her mouth.” His lips twitched. “What think you of this fine idea, Sir Bastard?” The madness he had kept hidden was surfacing out of control.

  “Think? I will rip your tongue from your mouth for such thoughts, Baron Simpleton.” If he could inflame Mortain’s fury, it would make him careless. His blade flashed out, leaving a trail of blood across the baron’s chest.

  “Simpleton? Simpleton?” Startled by his shrieks, birds squawked and scattered leaves as they flew from the trees. “Who else but I would have punished the lout the way he deserved? I am exceedingly cunning.”

  “Cunning? ’Tis laughable. E’en a child could have outwitted that pitiful wretch.” Mereck opened a slash on Roger’s leg.

  “Laughable? You will hear laughter. I will laugh while you watch her luscious mouth service me. She will. And happily, else I will give her your severed balls to fondle.”

  How dared the devil’s spawn speak such filth about his Netta? Mereck unleashed his hard-held temper. Fury erupted. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. His lips flattened to a hard, thin line.

  He whipped his blade out to slash Roger’s left cheek. He would rip open Mortain’s chest and feed his heart to Guardian. He felt like he grew with his rage. His savage snarls rent the air. He lunged and parried. Both dripped blood from wounds to their chest and arms.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Netta shake her head and push herself up. Shuddering, he struggled for control remembering his vow never again to become a berserker in front of her.

  “Little man,” he taunted Roger. “Dinna think you have the strength to satisfy a woman. Your worm of a prick couldna pleasure a widow long deprived of a mate. I hear it is no larger than a child’s member that hasna learned to swell.”

  Roger’s face purpled. Mereck grimaced and near dropped his sword, for Roger’s deranged mind shrieked at him. Locking his fingers around the sword hilt, Mereck goaded him again.

  “Such a pitiful body. Your bony chest and skinny shanks puts to mind a chicken. My squire is more manly than you.”

  Mortain’s demented thoughts crashed through Mereck’s mind, blinding him with searing pain. He could see naught but dull lights weaving afore him.

  “A squire? A squire?” Mortain screamed and lunged.

  Mereck lurched aside, dizzy. His knee bent. The blade missed his heart, but cut deep into his shoulder. He grunted. His hand jerked open. He bellowed in fury and pain. His sword fell. Blood spread over his tunic; it flowed off his fingers. He swayed. And fumbled for the short sword that always rode at his side. It was not there. He shook his head trying to clear blood seeping over his eyelids into his eyes.

  Netta clutched a rock and watched for an opportunity to help Mereck. She gasped, horrified, when his sword clattered to the ground. Not daring to think, she hurled the stone. It crashed into Roger’s temple, startling him. In those brief moments, she dove for the sword at Mereck’s feet and grabbed the hilt tight with both hands.

  Mortain, sneering with triumph, lunged at Mereck.

  “Nay! You shan’t kill him,” Netta screamed.

  Halfway to her feet, she braced herself against Mereck’s legs, held tight to the sword and raised the point. Roger had drawn his blade back, ready to thrust it into Mereck’s chest. She lunged forward. Her blade sank through Roger’s gut. His forward momentum pushed the blade deep to grate against his spine.

  Shock and utter surprise blanketed Roger’s countenance. His lips moved, without sound. He fell to his knees. To his face. The protruding hilt struck the ground, rocked Roger to his side. Air gurgled from his lungs.

  Mereck fell beside him. Netta screamed and tried to roll him over. She couldn’t move him. Taking a deep breath, she gripped his good shoulder and arm and tugged with all her strength. At last, she got him on his back. He lay on the edge of her tunic. Rather than yank it free, she grabbed the neck opening and stripped it over her head.

  Netta sobbed so loudly she couldn’t hear herself think. She couldn’t see either. She swiped her arm across her blurred eyes. Spying Mereck’s short sword Roger had seized and thrown aside after striking Mereck’s head, she grabbed it and cut her tunic into long strips. She made a thick pad and held it tight against the woun
d. So much blood! It soaked through, hot beneath her fingers. Desperate to stop it, she folded more strips of linen and added it to the pad. Leaning hard on it, she prayed it would slow his bleeding.

  “Please dear God, please do not let him die.” She repeated her prayer between whimpers of fear. She was not afeared for herself. Aye, she was. Now was not the time to lie.

  She desperately feared losing him. She had come to crave his presence. How could she bear not having his compassion, his magical kisses? To never again feel her heart quicken watching his arrogant stride as he crossed the bailey? Not having him beside her in their bed would be more than she could endure.

  “Please God, do not take him.” Tears dripped off her chin. “Not until we are old and gray and our children and grandchildren are old too. When you do, take us together.” She felt him spasm beneath her hand. Thinking his spirit was fighting to be free, she shouted her prayers even louder.

  “You cannot have him, God. He is mine. I’m not asking anymore. I’m telling You. You had better listen to me,” she threatened.

  “Do you seek to drown me, wife?” Mereck’s voice was weak.

  “Thank you, God, thank you.” She leaned forward and rained kisses over his face, soaked with her tears. He tried to kiss her back. His effort reassured her.

  “Are you hurt?” Fear gilded his eyes.

  “Nay, but I know not what to do for you.” Her voice quavered.

  “My wound,” he whispered. “Tell me of it.”

  “’Tis through your shoulder. The blade entered above your ribs.” She stroked and patted his cheek with a shaking hand. “Never have I seen so much blood.”

  “Love, remove the pouches tied to M’Famhair. Send him to Blackthorn.” He repeated the command in Gaelic for her to say to the great war horse. She hurried to do as he bid her. Before the destrier disappeared through the trees, she returned to Mereck.

  “The flask.” He gasped out the words. “I would drink.”

  She grabbed the pouch from the bottom and dumped everything out in her haste. After removing the plug on the flask, she held it to his lips. He took a healthy swallow of potent whiskey. If it would dull his pain, she would give him all he wished. When he could not swallow fast enough, and it spilled from the sides of his lips, she realized she was being too generous.

  “Press your knee to my wound, my love. Cut my plaid to bind the pads tight.”

  While she cut long strips of the plaid, he clamped his teeth together. He tried to help her as she wound them around him. Each time he flinched she cried out as if it was she who suffered. When he fainted, she worked as fast as she could.

  After she finished, she found corn meal, a plate and flint in the second pouch. She ran to get a blanket tied behind her own saddle. Skittering around Roger’s body, she used the blanket to cover Mereck. The sun would soon set, and ’twas cold next to the falls.

  Without letting him out of her sight, she gathered every branch and twig she could find. Every few moments she raced back to feel his face and listen to his heartbeat. When she had collected enough wood, she fought with the flint until a spark ignited twigs and a small branch.

  Saints be praised. She soon had a decent fire.

  What were those horrible sounds? Gasping, she looked up. Wolves! They howled in the distance. They scented blood. She didn’t know how to keep them at bay. By chance, if she pulled Roger’s body deep into the woods, they would be occupied with it and not come for Mereck? She shuddered and rubbed her arms.

  She stared at Roger’s body. His sword remained clenched in his death grip. Mereck’s sword stayed embedded where she had thrust it. Gagging, she turned Roger and grasped the hilt. She pulled. It wouldn’t come loose. After several attempts, she placed her foot against the dead man’s ribs and tugged it free. She carried it over to Mereck, placed it on the ground near to his hand and returned to stand over Roger.

  Netta grabbed Roger’s limp legs, closed her eyes and pulled. Before she moved him more than five paces away, she slipped and fell. Scrambling to her feet, she turned around, grasped his ankles beneath her armpits and pulled with all her might. When she could drag him no farther, she dropped his feet and ran back to Mereck.

  Along with his sword, she placed a large branch beside her. If wolves came close, she would frighten them away with fire. If the fire did not work, she would kill them all.

  Just see if she did not!

  Each time Mereck opened his eyes, she dribbled whisky into his mouth. It helped his pain, for he slept soon afterward. She waited. Hearing the wolves draw closer, she decided to make such a ruckus it would frighten them away.

  She sang. Loud. It was quite impressive. The sounds of the wolves diminished. Proud that she had thought of the trick, she sang and shouted until she realized horsemen were surrounding her. Her voice cut off in mid-word.

  “Ye can stop caterwauling now, Netta. Did ye and Mereck have a wee disagreement?” Damron leapt off Angel and stooped beside his brother before it registered on her that he thought she had done this dreadful deed to her husband.

  “Do not dare say I would harm even the smallest hair on his head.” She bellowed so loud it startled her husband awake.

  “Please, for the love of God. An armorer is pounding a white-hot blade betwixt my ears.” He eyed her warily while whispering to his brother, “She sings God-awful loud, does she not?” Seeing Damron’s grin, his eyes narrowed in warning. “Be careful, brother. She killed a man with mine own sword.”

  “Well now, Netta. Ye didna do the damage. But where is the body of the one who did? I dinna ken ye lettin’ the man go who would cause such a paltry wound. ’Tis an insult, it is.”

  “Paltry? You call his horrid wounds paltry?” She fisted her hand, lunged across her husband and struck Damron’s chin as hard as she could. Lord! Her hand hurt. Damron’s brows lifted. He smiled. Her tears stopped. She was too angry to cry.

  He had achieved his purpose.

  “There is a body. If the wolves have not carried it away. I dragged it as far as I could.”

  At the thought of what the wolves might have done, she scooted around so her back faced them and hung her head between her arms braced against a tree trunk. She was sick again. When she turned back, Connor wrapped a warm plaid around her. Soon after, Marcus and several warriors returned. They had bundled Roger’s body in a blanket and tied it to his horse they found tethered downstream.

  Had they needed to fight the wolves to collect the corpse?

  Damron and Connor kept up a steady stream of insults to Mereck while they helped lift him up on Angel. He whispered back in kind. His brother mounted behind him. Damron wrapped his plaid around them both and put his arms around Mereck to hold him secure against himself.

  Fortunately it was a short ride to the keep. For every twitch Netta spied on her husband’s face, she cried out.

  “For truth, Netta, yer shouts and makin’ Mereck laugh with yer curses hurts his battered head more than Angel’s gait. I dinna ken jumpin’ Jehoshaphats or flippin’ gators. What manner o’ beasts are they?”

  “Beasts? I’m not sure. I must ask Brianna.”

  “Lucifer’s toenails,” Damron shouted. “She is teachin’ ye to curse? One of these days that lass will drive me to beat her, just see if I dinna.”

  Fortunately for Mereck’s pounding head, they arrived at the drawbridge to Blackthorn. Everyone awaited their return, but the crowd cleared a path for them. Mereck insisted Damron let him walk. When his feet touched the ground, his brother stood on one side, Connor on the other. Holding him around his waist, they kept him upright. They waited to see if he blacked out. He did. With Marcus’ help, they carried him to his room.

  Damron and Connor cut away Mereck’s clothing. Netta was grateful to have Brianna’s skill in caring for him. Bleddyn had not yet returned, for he had gone with Elise’s parents to Ridley Castle. He delivered a copy of the signed marriage contract to Netta’s father.

  Baron Wycliffe could not invalidate the union.
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br />   As Brianna mixed a potion to dull Mereck’s pain and help him to sleep, she soothed Netta.

  “Before I came here to live, I often worked to heal wounds. Bleddyn and I have found that frequent washing of hands around an illness helps to prevent further distress. We boil all dressings for wounds and keep them in the herbarium. Bleddyn has taught me all he knows of herbs and potions. Rarely do our patients have infections or fevers.” Her words reassured Netta.

  Damron lifted Mereck’s head so he could drink the potion Brianna held to his lips. While they waited for it to take effect, Brianna explored the swelling on Mereck’s head and tended his other injuries. When he was in a deep sleep, Damron and Connor held him still as she probed and cleansed the gaping wound on his shoulder. Satisfied, she began sewing his flesh together.

  With each stitch used to close it, Netta cried out. Brianna continued talking in her calm voice as she worked.

  “Only when a wound becomes contaminated after an injury do we have a problem. You did a splendid job of caring for him before Damron found you. Mereck will have no trouble.”

  Netta would not leave Mereck’s side. At nightfall, Brianna insisted she sleep. Netta curled up alongside him, keeping one hand touching him. She woke at his slightest movement. Brianna dosed him with her potions and soothed Netta with assurances that Mereck would soon be good as new. At the end of the fifth day, Brianna declared he was healing without problems.

  “E’en if I live to be that hundred-year-old man you begged God for, I will ne’er tire of hearing you love me, wife,” Mereck said one eve a fortnight later. “But I will soon become hard of hearing if you hum from morning till night, my heart. Could you not do so quietly?”

  Netta’s outraged gasp was so strong it was a wonder the bed curtains didna flap.

  “Rats! You are stealing my thoughts again.”

  “I would have no need to steal your thoughts if you would but give them to me. Canna you tell me you love me?”