Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  Behind him, he heard his guards depart, but he never took his eyes off of the volatile Merry. She glanced to the doorway, then to the window, but even given her bizarre tumbling abilities he recalled from childhood, there was no means of escape.

  The maid still sat discreetly in the corner.

  “You may go as well,” he instructed.

  At that she stood, her plump face turning pink as she wrung her hands. “Oh, I don’t think ’tis proper. Our guest, she is a lady. No common trollop, this one here. Perhaps I should stay.”

  Timothy pressed his temple in frustration. He had brought Merry to the castle in hopes of exerting some sort of control over the situation. But perhaps he had made a mistake.

  “You may go, Matilda.” Merry crossed to the chair and took a seat—in that subtle and quiet way denying Timothy’s authority over her. She waved a hand to the maid. “We shall be fine. No doubt your master wishes to question me in private. Off with you, before he rallies the king against us both.”

  The maid looked to Timothy and then to her newly assigned mistress and back again. She shot him a warning glare before walking out the door and closing it behind her.

  He stalked toward Merry and dug his fists into his hips. “A king’s man? Is that what you think me? But if you insist—better a king’s man alive and well than a traitor dead in the grave.”

  She gasped. “How dare you speak of my father in that way? He was no traitor. No man loved England more than he.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he regretted his rash words.

  He rubbed his hand over his face, swiping away the fierce expression that no doubt covered it and allowing his confusion and concern to show instead. “I am sorry. I did not mean it that way. We all do the best we can in troubling times. This is not how I intended to greet you, Lady Merry.”

  She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and stared at the wall beyond him. “I am just plain Merry Ellison now.”

  So true, not unlike him.

  Kneeling before her, he took her hands in his own. “If I had not seen you with my own eyes, I would have never believed you might be alive. I never dared to hope. I mourned you every day for two years. I do not wish to fight with you now.”

  So Timothy had decided to switch tactics. Turn sweet and conciliatory of a sudden. His warm skin upon her hands might give her a pleasant shiver, but he was fooling no one. This man had kidnapped her for his own selfish gain, had insulted her beloved papa on top of it. He had never loved her. He had merely seen her as a pleasant path to a bright future.

  Though it might be the smarter maneuver, Merry was not ready to play at such games and niceties. Not while the flame of her anger still burned so bright. She snatched her hands away. “I should have guessed if anyone would find me, it would be you. You taught me every trick I know. A true friend to the end. Thank you ever so much.”

  He flinched at her words. “Must you choose to think so ill of me?”

  “Did you never love another, as you promised? Or have you a wife and child awaiting you in the castle proper?” She willed her eyes to spit the fire from her chest and leave him singed.

  “Of course not! I have loved no one else. I swear I have done nothing to earn your disdain. I have told no one your identity—only that I found a woman lost and confused in the woods. Where have you hidden for the past two years?”

  Unwilling to give him any weapon to later turn against her, she merely glared down at him as he continued to kneel before her chair.

  “Are you with the ghosts? Are you their prisoner?”

  Ah, he offered her the perfect alibi, but she would not blame the children. Not ever. “If you thought me a prisoner, why did you come to me as captor rather than rescuer?”

  He held his hands out toward her. “I did not know what to think. Only that we needed to speak, and that I wanted you safe here with me. I lost you once—I could not bear to lose you again.”

  Safe? Ha! She had never been in greater danger in her outrageously dangerous life. Surely he did not expect her to believe that. Although . . . something in his voice rang sincere.

  “You are one of them, then?”

  Still she did not deign to answer, merely crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You fancy yourself a noble outlaw, but there is no nobility in thievery,” he said.

  She brushed a piece of lint from her gown, as if she had not a care in the world. “If I were an outlaw, although I admit to nothing of the sort, could you blame me? The very fact that I live and breathe has somehow become an offense in the realm of King John. Or should I say the realm of King Louis, for half of John’s nobles are now outlawed and following a new king. Perhaps I am the loyal subject and you are the one outside of the law.”

  “Do not be ridiculous.” Timothy raked his fingers through his hair. He sank to his haunches and turned his gaze to the window. A mask slipped over his features. “The pope stands by King John. He is God’s anointed ruler.”

  She hardened her glare. “King John bought the pope.”

  Timothy’s head fell forward. He shook it slowly from side to side. “And now you will speak against the church as well as the king.”

  “Someone must. I am no longer afraid of anything, leastwise the wrath of some fanciful God. I have suffered enough. I make my own way in the world now.”

  He returned his gaze to her, searching her eyes as if he longed to see her soul. “Merry. Turning against the king . . . that I admit to understanding. But turning against God . . . heresy atop of treason . . . I never would have guessed it of you.”

  She could not bear to witness the disappointment in his eyes. The eyes of the boy she had once loved. Looking beyond him again, she lifted her chin. He thought her an outlaw—fine, she was. He thought her a thief—fate had turned her such. And now he thought her a heretic as well—so be it.

  “Tell me what to do,” he pleaded. “Tell me how to help. You have been to hell and back, and no one understands that more than me.” He stood to his feet and began to pace the room. “Though you were unaware, my heart has taken the journey with you. Help me to help you.”

  While she wished to hold on to her anger, her instincts bade her believe him. She swallowed hard as she digested the enormity of his statement, then whispered, “You cannot help me.”

  “Say that you were held prisoner by the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. Assist me in finding their leaders and earn a pardon from the king for this favor. No harm shall come to the women or children, I swear to you.”

  She closed her eyes against his plea. If only matters were so simple, she might have been tempted, but she could never explain. Never tell him that the children were the ghosts and she their leader. Her men might yet rescue her, but Timothy could do nothing.

  She would tell him not a word and at least protect him in his ignorance of the truth.

  She braced her heart along with her nerves and tilted her head as if in confusion. “Of what ghosts do you speak?”

  He worked his jaw from side to side, an action she recalled precipitated his full-fledged outburst of temper in the old days. But this new Timothy pulled himself under control and said through clenched teeth, “This is getting us nowhere. Think long and hard upon what I have asked you. When I return I hope to find you in a more . . . agreeable mood. I am your last chance.”

  And with that he strode out the door.

  Back in his room, Timothy swiped a clay pitcher from his desk and sent it crashing to the floor. He could not bear the thought of letting her slip through his fingers once again. Much as his future slipped through his fingers even now. No, he had waited too long last time and let her out of his grasp when he might have married her. Might have saved her. He could never make such a mistake again. His heart twisted in his chest at the thought.

  Merry! Merry! Why must she treat him so? Surely she must never have loved him. Not even the little bit he had convinced himself she did. Her kiss had meant nothing. Nothing but a thank you for saving her from marriage to his sorry sel
f.

  Ugh! He kicked the shards of the pitcher into the wall.

  Had he made a dreadful mistake? This time he had moved quickly and decisively, but to little avail. He might have taken her to his family’s home, but he dared not expose his parents to the danger of the thieves in their poorly defended manor, nor to the danger of King John thinking them subversive.

  If Merry would not cooperate, would not allow him to help her, he knew not what he would do. Perhaps he could yet round up the ghosts if they had not guessed the reason for her disappearance and slipped deeper into the forest. But if she would not deny them, she would be hanged alongside the thieves.

  No, he could not risk it. Lady Merry Ellison might indeed be the heartless chit she portrayed herself to be, but his own heart still beat warm in his chest. And he could not let her die.

  Leastwise at his own hands.

  He held those hands before him now, studying the fine lines and callouses from his feather pen. His hands were tied just as surely as hers had been earlier that day. He could not simply let her go only to put herself in jeopardy again. Wyndemere would not rest until he saw every last one of the ghosts hang.

  Wherein lay justice in this situation? He could hardly tell anymore. Merry should not be a criminal, wanted by King John. If not for the ruthless man and his fickle proclamation, prompting the deaths of her family, she would be Timothy’s wife of two years. Perhaps the mother of his child.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Timothy gripped the edge of a table. “Who is it?”

  “The steward. I need to clarify some issues with you.”

  He growled to himself. Surely he deserved a moment of peace. “Come in.”

  Bainard entered with his typical arrogant swagger and got directly to the point. “The . . . woman in the tower. What is to be done for her meals? Prisoner fare?”

  Timothy strove to keep his temper steady. It was not as if this man knew how important Merry was to him. “Goodness no! She is to be treated as a guest. For now send meals of the best quality to her room. Perhaps in time, I shall persuade her down to supper.”

  “Then I assume she is of the noble class.” The steward smirked.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “’Tis just that Lord Wyndemere does not waste his best food on commoners. I would not want him to think I mishandled the situation. Your authority has limits, you know.”

  Timothy could not help but wonder in that moment if his authority might extend to knocking this fellow out cold upon the floor, but he reined in his anger once again and took a steadying breath. “I believe she is. Matilda has assessed that she must be from a noble background.”

  “Well enough, then,” Bainard said with a sniff before walking out the door and slamming it behind him.

  He had not even waited to be dismissed. But Timothy could not waste energy on the uppity fellow right now. Somehow he must find a way to convince Merry to trust him. Woo her back to his side. Remind her what a life of freedom and luxury could feel like.

  He might even have considered running away with her, if he thought for one moment that she cared for him—which clearly she did not. There must be an answer. Somehow he must find a way to save her.

  Chapter 11

  As jangling and neighs heralded the return of the men from their mission, Allen’s heart soared. He studied the shadowed figures cresting the closest hill against a backdrop of setting sun. Red, tall and broader than normal in his armor. Cedric, gangly and comical. Robert, wiry and leaning forward with purpose. They had dared not sequester an actual nobleman’s destrier for the mission, but the hearty stallion they had found in a farmer’s field near Endsworth bulged at the middle, where it was loaded down with ample provisions.

  Barely able to breathe, Allen sent up a simple, Please, God! When no small fourth figure appeared, his heart plummeted.

  He had all but convinced himself Merry had decided to meet the men along the trail. Why else might she stay away so much later than planned? But she was nowhere to be found, and he could no longer account for her delay.

  “Ho!” shouted Cedric. “All hail the conquering heroes!”

  “Come see what we brought you.” Robert patted the horse.

  From the clearing below, Gilbert gave a cheer. “We knew you could do it!”

  Giggling children dashed up the hill to greet their champions. Cedric tossed apples, as shiny and pleasing as rubies, to each of the little ones. The young ladies left their dinner preparations to ooh and aah over the bags of nuts, dried fruit, flour, and spices.

  “I can hardly believe it.” Kate pushed her stringy hair from her eyes and rummaged through the sacks. “We shall eat like kings this winter.”

  Jane offered Red a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You’ve done well. I’m so proud of you.”

  Red’s face turned the shade of his name. “Aw, ’twas nothing.”

  Allen struggled to push aside his mounting concerns and join the merriment. He thumped the men on their backs and offered the appropriate congratulations. He smiled at the children, but the expression felt strained upon his face. He nodded to Jane and Kate in response to their excited chattering but could no longer decipher a single word.

  Merry was missing. Had it been any one of their group, he would have been concerned and distracted, but he would not have experienced the hollow ache that now filled his chest.

  Robert wrapped an arm around Allen’s shoulder and led him off to the side of the celebration. “What is it? Where is Merry?”

  Thank goodness Robert missed nothing.

  “I don’t know. She went hunting, but I expected her back hours ago. I am going to search for her.”

  “Are the others aware?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m the only one who knew of her plans for the day. Let them enjoy their fun.”

  “Of course.” Robert nodded and scanned the area. “Take the horse. You’ll travel much faster.”

  “Excellent idea. Please ready him for me.” Allen hurried to his hut to gather weapons and a few supplies, in case he spent the night in the forest. By the time he returned, Robert had prepared the horse.

  “’Tis not like Merry to get lost,” Robert whispered beneath the continuing commotion.

  Allen gave him a significant look. “No. ’Tis not.”

  Robert’s keen eye shot to Allen’s sword at his waist and the dagger poking from his boot. “Good, I see you’ve planned for any contingency.”

  “Like my father always said, ‘Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.’”

  “I’m certain it is nothing. Perhaps she turned her ankle.” Robert sounded as if he wished to convince himself more so than Allen.

  “Perhaps.” Allen hopped onto the horse.

  “Godspeed, then.” Robert whacked the horse in the rump to send it on its way down the embankment toward the vast forest sprawling in all four directions.

  Once a short distance from the others, Allen paused to breathe in the scent of the forest and turn his eyes heavenward. “Father God, please lead me in the right path. And please keep Lady Merry in your love and care.”

  He attuned to that place deep inside of him, to that still, small voice the parish priest had taught him to heed. Although Allen’s father had not permitted him to learn reading or Latin, thinking such pursuits inappropriate for a peasant, the priest had helped Allen memorize Scriptures. Father Thomas had been a rare clergyman who concerned himself more with love and truth than with rules and appearances, or worse yet, power.

  And the priest had been fascinated by the mystical connection to the Divine, by the work of the Holy Ghost, that oft-ignored member of the Trinity, in the lives of men.

  Allen took a deep breath and sought to close his thoughts to all distractions, to seek the direction of God. Feeling drawn to the northeast, he turned the horse in that direction and proceeded. After a while, he sensed a need to shift slightly to his right, and the horse seemed eager to obey his lead.

  The sun had
fallen low in the sky. Before long, dusk would settle in, and shortly after, darkness would descend. He had no time to waste. His heart sped as he pondered what fate might have befallen Merry: injury, kidnapping, arrest, or worse. Within moments, he had lost his inner compass.

  Taking more soothing breaths and chanting the words of David, he attuned to the Spirit again. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” A wash of peace and gentle anticipation kept him on course as he employed the technique that had helped him on many a frightening mission. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.” When Allen veered to the right or the left, that sense of rightness would leave him, until he corrected his direction once again. “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

  Allen was getting close. He knew it. His eyes scanned the forest floor and the tree branches overhead for any clues. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  Father Thomas had faced that shadowy valley—as had Allen’s father and brother, and his mother years earlier of a fever. They had been ushered into God’s eternal arms, and no safer or more joyful place could they ever be.

  Of course he missed them. Of course the pain still tore at him at times. He might never fully understand what happened on that fateful night when their village was destroyed, nor why it happened, but he would not allow that to dim his faith in God. Nor would he allow whatever he found at the end of this trail to destroy the most essential relationship of his life.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Come what may, he would cling to God’s goodness and mercy, and someday dwell in His most holy house forever.

  Allen scanned the area again. And there it was just ahead—the clue he had looked for, yet dreaded. Merry’s bow and several arrows lay scattered across the moist, leafy ground.