Abigail laughed so hard that tears streamed from her eyes. She slapped at her knee.
“Somebody please explain to me what is so blasted funny.” He frowned at them with false ferocity.
“You needn’t teach us ‘a letter or two,’ for we know all of them,” said Sadie with a roll of her eyes. “And how to form words with them as well.”
“All of you?” Timothy did not understand. Even among the nobles, many were not literate.
“Wren, tell Timothy your letters.” Abigail pushed the little one forward.
“A . . . B . . . C!” said Wren, jumping in delight.
“She doesn’t know the rest of them yet, but she will.” Sadie’s chest puffed with pride. “Lady Merry wants us to be prepared for whatever life might bring us next. We cannot remain outlaws forever, you know. She hopes that someday we might be merchants or craftsmen.”
“Cedric thinks we should be a troupe of tumblers, but Merry won’t have it.” Abigail did a forward roll and bounced back up to her feet with a flourish of her hands.
Timothy studied the children now with different eyes. Literate. All of them. Amazing. “And the young men?”
“They are often busy with hunting and raids, but they study when they can,” said Sadie.
He turned to contemplate the men as they continued at their swordplay. His head swam in confusion. But he sought to bring one idea to the forefront. These men were thieves. Thieves who must be brought to justice.
“Let’s gather some sticks and show him.” Sadie rallied the other girls, and they dashed off.
Timothy barely registered the comment. He could not draw his gaze away from the group of young males. The dark wiry one with the sharp eyes, Robert, battled against the larger Allen, the suspected object of Merry’s affections. They were both quick and light on their feet. Robert made up with agility for what he might lack in brute strength. Both appeared cunning, calculating, and well-trained. No, he need not feel guilt on their accounts. They could fend for themselves.
Henry and James had been adequate swordsmen, given their young ages, but these two skilled warriors truly deserved his admiration. As Robert struck low, Allen dove over his sword, rolling upon the ground, swiveling on one foot, and landing in a crouch, ready to attack again.
If he must capture three token ghosts, Robert, Allen, and Red would be his preferences. At least they could offer a fair fight.
An inspiration sparked to life in his head. Perhaps he could arrange for a tournament at the castle and allow common folk to compete. That might well draw these trained warriors out of hiding. Especially if the earl offered a large monetary prize. There must be a way to capture them without breaking the specifics of his oath to Merry. And a part of him—albeit an ever shrinking part—remained determined to find it.
Timothy glared in Allen’s direction.
To think this former peasant could read and write and fight like a knight. Timothy ran his hands over his face, struggling to collect his thoughts. Considering those facts, along with Allen’s broad shoulders, admirable height, and pleasant features, Merry might just be in love with this fellow after all.
Though he had spent significant time of late convincing himself that he no longer loved Merry, Timothy’s heart plummeted to his boots. He had just found her after three long years apart. For her to reject him was harsh enough. He could not bear the thought that he might somehow lose her to . . . a peasant.
But if he captured Allen, Merry would think him vindictive and add that to his ever-increasing list of sins, for which she would assuredly never forgive him.
A rustling behind him caught his attention.
“There, Timothy,” called Abigail. “You see?”
She pointed to the dirt by her feet. Upon it she had scratched with a stick, Abigail can read!
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I see, Abigail. I see far more than I ever imagined.”
And unfortunately, he saw that his goal of capturing the ghosts grew more and more impossible by the moment.
Allen dodged around Robert, arcing his sword in the process, and managed to catch him from behind, holding the dull edge against Robert’s throat.
Henry and James whooped their approval.
Allen let him go and rested his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Good fight,” said Robert, panting as well. He rubbed at his neck a bit, but Allen had not injured him in any lasting sort of way.
“Good fight yourself—right up to the moment when you died.” Allen chuckled. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and the moisture soaked through.
Looking up, he spied that arrogant Timothy Grey glaring directly at him.
“Think you can do better, Grey?”
Timothy shrugged and lifted his nose into the air. “Perhaps.”
Timothy need not be so smug. Merry had been particularly warm to Allen these past days—he might yet win her affection and best Timothy in love as well as swords. “Well, if you’re done playing with children, let’s have a real go at it.”
Allen grabbed Robert’s sword and tossed it to Timothy.
Timothy smiled as he snatched it from the air. Allen had thought to thrash him outright, but this might prove interesting.
Timothy danced around a bit, testing the weight and sharpness of his sword.
“Sure you want to risk those fine clothes of yours?” Allen jerked his chin to the man’s ridiculous red velvet tunic with its gold embellishments. Although he had arrived in hunting clothes, Merry had found him something “suitable to his station” in their stores.
“I’m not afraid of a little dirt. Perhaps you are the one having second thoughts.”
“Not at all.”
Allen moved in and made the first strike. They clashed swords several times, testing each other. “Must be nice growing up in a castle. Training to be a knight. Gives one a certain unfair advantage in most situations. But this is not most situations.”
“As a matter of fact, I serve Lord Wyndemere as a scribe. So when I beat you, be sure to keep your story straight.”
Red snickered. “Come now, Allen. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest cannot be bested by a scribe. We have a reputation to uphold.”
They circled around each other, swords poised, both crouching low to the ground.
Allen’s blood heated. This man rubbed him in all the wrong ways. “Never fear, I will not suffer to lose to a filthy king’s man.”
“Ah, so Merry has turned you a traitor as well.”
“I have my own mind.” Allen struck harder, just for the satisfaction of watching Timothy wince as the metal clanged. Though he hated to admit it, Timothy had good form. He had yet to spot a weakness. “And I like to think of King Louis as the rightful ruler and you the traitor.”
“Nice delusion.” Timothy faked several times before striking, but Allen deflected his blow nonetheless.
“I might join the fight, once you’re dead and can no longer betray us. I long to be part of an honorable cause and support a just king,” Allen said, intentionally attempting to bait the man.
Timothy took a step back and lowered his sword, staring Allen straight in the eye. “And the delusions continue. Think you Louis is a good ruler? The entire French court is corrupt. Power never fails to corrupt. At least John is English. Louis is naught but a pompous Frenchman who wishes to lord it over us. And who on earth told you the rebel cause was noble? The northern barons are a greedy and unscrupulous lot, FitzWalter more than any of them.”
Allen’s blood roared to a boil now. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He would not for one moment believe such lies. “Less chatting and more fighting, pretty fellow.”
Timothy’s face hardened, and a scowl twisted his features. From then on, there was no time to talk. Swords clashed over and again. Allen attempted a tumbling maneuver, only to find Timothy ready to meet his blow. Their swords tangled to the hilts, and they stood face-to-face, pressing upon one another.
Allen could
feel Timothy’s hot breath on his face. “I will defeat you.”
Timothy shoved him away. “Not with that slovenly technique.”
Now he just hated the man. He’d have to repent later. Not everyone could be trained by skilled knights. Allen came hard again, losing his focus in his anger.
Before Allen realized what his opponent intended, Timothy swiped in from the left, landing a crushing blow against Allen’s ribs and winning the match. Pain seared his side. He would carry a bruise for a very long time. To his pride as well as his ribs.
The other men watched in silence. No one had beaten Allen in months.
Timothy stepped away and grinned. “I lied. You are skilled, my good man. But you let me rattle you, and you favor your right. Keep your focus and never let your guard down. You will be a fine warrior yet.”
He offered Allen his hand.
Allen could think of no recourse but to shake it. “I underestimated my opponent.”
“No worries. In a few years, I shall not stand a chance against you. Keep at it.”
Allen’s hatred melted into grudging respect. “Then you lied about the northern barons as well.”
Timothy’s expression turned apologetic. “Sadly, I did not. I will concede that King John has many faults, but I believe he is the lesser of two evils. Perhaps someday true justice shall prevail, but it will not happen at the hand of Prince Louis. Although . . . I imagine he might pardon Merry and the rest of you, and for that reason I would not stand against him.” He tossed his sword back to Red and returned to the girls.
Now what on earth was Allen to make of that? His mind swirled as he struggled with this new information. He did not wish to believe Timothy, but he seemed so sincere. Perhaps the man was merely misinformed. Allen supposed he could take his time considering the matter. It was not as if he was free to leave anytime soon.
Chapter 23
Later that evening, after a supper of savory venison stew as fine as any served at the castle, Timothy sat cross-legged on the floor of the cave. He held his hands to the fire. The air smelled of woodsmoke but had a chilly nip to it, and he was no longer as accustomed to life out of doors as he had been as a child. Wren toddled up. With nary a word, she plopped herself onto his lap and stuck her thumb in her mouth. She leaned back against him and sighed.
Merry, wearing a surprisingly pleasant expression on her face, came and situated herself next to them. She clearly had a soft spot for the little girl. “It seems you have made a friend for life,” she said.
He stroked Wren’s soft head. “It seems so.” He had not intended to grow so attached to the ghosts as he had in the past twenty-four hours. “She reminds me of my niece.”
“Which one?” Merry laughed. “You must have twenty of them by now.”
“Only twelve nieces. And fifteen nephews, plus another child . . . no, two more children on the way.”
Merry brushed at her sleeve and stared into the flickering dance of flames before them. “I can hardly fathom such a large family. It is just me now.”
“It seems you have all formed a large, warm family here.” He nodded to the youngsters filling the cave. “And do you not still have your aunt near Bristol?”
“Yes, but I have not wished to saddle her with an outlawed relative. If it were only me, I might consider it. She might be able to hide me away, but . . .” She curled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“You do not wish to leave them,” Timothy supplied.
“I do not. I have considered it a hundred times. But none of us, least of all me, could bear it.”
He so badly wished to get her far away to a safe place, separate from the ghosts, but how could he ever convince her to leave this precious poppet now cuddling upon his lap? Truth be told, he himself would have difficulty leaving these children when the moment came.
He should make haste to get on with the ghosts’ capture, but he needed more time to determine his thoughts on the issue. As the day had passed, his doubts over this mission had continued to grow. But he was as yet unsure that he could abandon his position with the earl either.
He focused upon Merry’s face, relaxed and open for once, in the fire’s glow. Though he wished to reach out and stroke her cheek, he resisted the urge. “You have done amazing things with these children. I understand now, Merry.”
She turned her head toward him and rested that silken cheek on her knees. A half smile curved her peachy lips. He longed to brush them with his own, but he dared not.
“Do you?”
“I think so.” The fire crackled and a spark snapped into the air. But it did not compare to the sparks he sensed flying between them as he melted into her soft brown eyes. Did she feel it too? Or was the stalwart Merry Ellison impervious to such emotions?
She shivered. Then something flashed and hardened in her brown eyes. She jerked away from him and sprang to standing. “It is my turn at watch soon. I do not have time to laze about the fire. I am a noblewoman no longer, as you might recall.”
Though he had expected something of the sort, nonetheless, her rebuff pierced straight to his heart. He moved to chase after her, and then remembered Wren upon his lap.
“Merry, wait!” He struggled to his feet, scooped Wren to his chest, and jogged to where Jane sat weaving in a corner of the cave with the other girls. “Could you take her for me, please?”
“Of course.” Jane held out her arms. “’Tis nearly time for bed, Wrenny.”
“Wonderful,” he said, though distracted and already searching out Merry among the group.
He found her shrugging on her quiver and bow. She tucked a dagger and circle of rope into her belt, then turned toward the exit. Timothy moved to block her path.
From the table where the young men played a game with wooden pieces Allen called, “Stay warm, Merry.”
“I will.” She smiled his way with a notable degree of affection, which Allen clearly reciprocated. Brotherly? Timothy suspected not.
Heat built in his chest, a very different kind of heat than the one he had experienced by the fire moments earlier.
Finally she approached but paid him no attention. He stood firm in her path.
Merry shoved him aside with her shoulder. “If you do not mind.”
But he grabbed her by the forearm and halted her progress. “But I do mind. Very much.”
She smacked at his hand and tugged away. “Must I thrash you in front of the children? Would you not be embarrassed to be bested by a girl yet again?”
“You are not going anywhere until we talk.”
She glared at him. “You are always talking, Timothy. Have you not run out of words? I grow sick to death of your words, for they mean little. Now, if you do not mind, I must relieve Robert.”
“Then I am coming with you.”
“Suit yourself.” She stormed out of the cave, but he slid the door closed and followed.
He fell into step beside her but did not want to open the conversation until they had some privacy. Instead he took in the blustery twilight, already glimmering with stars through the rustling canopy of leaves. Little puffs of fog escaped his mouth. As the cold settled into his bones, he rubbed at his arms.
His coat remained with his horse, which Robert reported he had loosed and slapped in the direction of the castle yesterday afternoon. Spartacus had no doubt found his way home and was fine, but Timothy wished he would have thought to fetch a blanket for himself. He might well freeze to death in this forest.
Merry stalked up the hill to the lookout point. She wore a thick woolen over-tunic and seemed not at all fazed by the cold. Perhaps her boiling blood kept her warm as well. Timothy did not understand why she turned so angry of a sudden, unless she did indeed have some tender feelings for him, which she had determined to fight.
He would get to the bottom of this issue with Allen.
“There you are,” said Robert, chafing his hands together and blowing upon them. “I’ve never been so ready to see a fire as I am rig
ht now.”
“The temperature dropped rather suddenly.” Merry took off her bow and struck the end into the ground. “Go warm up.”
Robert ran down the hill without so much as a farewell, but Timothy could not blame him. And he was thankful to be alone. “So what is this with you and that Allen fellow?”
“Allen? He has been my right-hand man since we were chased from our village.”
“Really, for it appeared to be far more than that. Must I remind you that he is a peasant? A pauper? You are the daughter of a baron.”
“Not anymore.” She pulled out an arrow and tested its tip against her finger. “And I will not tolerate you speaking ill of my men. I trust them with my life. They would never desert me. They would never betray me.”
The unspoken like you hung in the air between them, piercing his heart far more than her rebuff moments earlier. Ignoring his current motives, motives she knew nothing about, he chose to focus on the past to which she referred. “I thought you were dead! The moment I learned you were alive, I began plotting to rescue you. I never meant to betray you. I meant only to protect you.” That still held true.
“You dragged me off to a castle friendly to the king. A king who wishes me dead.” Her words rang as cold as the air around them.
“Do you truly believe that I would intentionally hurt you?” He peered at her in the dim light, but her features gave nothing away.
“I believe that you wanted to capture the ghosts and curry favor with the earl. Perhaps the king himself.” She jabbed her finger at his chest. “And I was your ticket to do so. You lost a fortune once by not marrying me, and you did—or perhaps still do—not want to miss such an opportunity for advancement again.” Snatching up her bow, she marched a few paces away from him.
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