Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  How dare she think him so mercenary? She would not get away so easily this time. “Do not level an indictment against me and then turn your back.”

  He pulled her around and caught her arms in his two hands. She gasped, but he did not relent. “You cannot just dismiss me when I am inconvenient. I am not one of your men. I was meant to be your husband. Not because I wanted your money. Because I wanted you. Because I love you, try as I might to stop. You are a part of me. We belong together.” He shook her, hoping it might jar some sense into her stubborn head.

  She wilted in his grip. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Love is not enough. Not when I am wanted by the king.”

  He dropped her arms and turned to rake his fingers through his hair, unable to argue with that statement. And love is not enough when I must capture your friends or lose my position, he added to himself.

  Before he could consider his response, he spoke. “Then allow me to take you away from here. To France, perhaps. I have family there.” Where were these words coming from? “The ghosts will make it on their own. Your rescue proved that. They are well capable.”

  “Do you not understand? England. France. It matters little. France shall provide a haven for a time, but unless good men like you stand up against injustice, no place on earth shall be safe.”

  “Please, Merry.” He reached toward her again, but at the sight of her with feet planted resolutely in the ground, he let his arm drop to his side.

  “I will not leave the children. Sadie and Abigail, Wren and all the little ones. They need me.” Determination sparked in her eyes.

  He dared to take a step closer. “Have you never paused to consider that they might be better off without you? That your presence might lure the king to the group?”

  Her eyes dropped to the ground at that. His words appeared to pain her. “I . . . I have. But they do not wish to be without me. I made a promise to Wren, and I will not break it. We have provisions enough for the winter. Come spring, if the rebels still have not prevailed, we will consider traveling to France. Together.”

  She fiddled with her bowstring. No longer looking as tough or confident as she had moments ago. “Who knows, by spring, King Louis might sit upon the throne. You might well be the outlaw, and I the Baroness of Ellsworth. I might have to rescue you. Have you paused to consider that?” Though her words were brave, her voice sounded frail.

  He cupped her cheek in his palm. She turned into it, softening at last, and his breath caught in his chest.

  “Merry,” he said in as gentle a tone as possible, “I beg of you to accept that John is king. There is nothing we can do about that.”

  Merry wrenched herself away from Timothy’s hand, putting several feet of cold night air between them. Twice this evening she had nearly succumbed to his spell, to the tingles and shivers that plagued her each time he was near. She should have known better than to let him comfort her beneath the starlit sky, even for a moment. He would never change. And she would never, ever accept John—the man who had ordered the murder of her family—as king.

  “Nothing we can do about it? For a time last summer the Great Charter reigned supreme in this land, and we were under the rule of law, not the fickle whims of the king. Your own father supported it. Perhaps the possibilities that document offered spoiled me for a ruthless monarch.” She widened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. Enough of that ridiculous, girlish weakness. She poised herself to win this battle.

  “The charter did not work. It is not the way of this world. King John is too powerful, and he is still God’s chosen sovereign.”

  “God’s chosen sovereign? How do you know this?”

  He pressed a hand to his forehead. “The pope decreed it.”

  “The pope! Some stranger far off on the continent? He decreed it, then undecreed it, then magically decreed it again once he had something to gain.” She snorted at his ridiculous reasoning.

  “Do not speak sacrilege.” He shook his hands toward her. “The pope is God’s ordained oracle. He has chosen King John. It is God’s will.”

  “It is not! It is certainly not the will of any sort of God I wish to serve.”

  “Please, Merry, do not—”

  “No, let me finish.” She uncrossed her arms and rested her hand upon the handle of her dagger. “If God does indeed exist, then He is good, and He is just, and He stands upon the side of right. You would have me believe in the divine right of a king who would wipe out an entire village, including children. Including Wren. Perhaps my father made a mistake, but at least he lived his convictions. What about you?” She spat the final question at him.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I do live my convictions. You just do not like them.”

  “You are right. I despise your convictions that God ordains ruthless kings. Do you truly believe God creates some people to bask in luxury while he creates others, others—like Robert and Sadie and Gilbert—to be the underlings who slave for them? What sort of God is that?” Her hand gripped tighter to the handle of her dagger of its own accord.

  “It is not like that. There is simply a divine order to things. Why can you not accept it?”

  He disgusted her, pure and simple! She clenched her jaw and ground out her answer. “Because I have stopped listening to drivel and begun to think for myself. Why can you not do the same? How can you see these children—their wit and intelligence, their raw humanity—and believe for one moment that they were designed to be your chattel?”

  Timothy bowed his head. “That is not what I meant. That is never what I meant.”

  “The beliefs all tie together. You cannot accept one and deny the other. There is no logic to it. It does not work.”

  Timothy remained silent. He leaned heavily against a nearby tree.

  “I knew you were not to be trusted,” she said. “Childhood friendships count for little in times like these. We did not understand the chasm of philosophy between us. I do not trust you, and furthermore, I do not even like you. I will not tolerate you one more moment in my camp.”

  Her heart thumped in her chest, as if it might explode. Her blood pumped hard and hot through her veins. Before Timothy knew what she was about or could even think to fight, Merry whipped him around and twisted his arms behind his back. She grabbed the rope from her belt, wrapped it around his wrists, and tied it tight.

  “You must be joking,” he sputtered.

  “Yes, I am quite the jester.” She yanked him behind her and headed toward the cave.

  “Merry, please!”

  But she did not falter in her course. She would not waver. Her questions had been resolved. She knew what needed to be done.

  “Robert, Allen,” she barked, knowing she sounded like a female dog and caring not one whit.

  Familiar with her tone, they hurried out to meet her.

  “Blindfold the prisoner. Leave him bound on the outskirts of the village near Greyham Manor. If he is lucky, they will find him before the elements take him.”

  Robert’s jaw dropped. He looked at her, clearly mystified. “I don’t understand.”

  “You know well that I do not like the fellow,” said Allen, slapping his fist against his open palm. She sensed a but coming. “I shall be happy to remove him far from here and even pop him in the jaw a time or two, if you like. But . . . Merry, he’s done nothing to deserve being left bound and helpless in the cold.”

  And there it was. He would indeed question her authority.

  Robert scratched his head. “Do you mean now? ’Tis nearly dark.”

  “Take him!” She shoved him toward them and began to pace back and forth. The evening had taken on a red tinge in her fury. She felt like a kettle about to bubble over, steam escaping from the lid. “Ugh!” she shouted to no one in particular.

  Robert and Allen stared. They knew her temper, but rarely did she seethe out of control like this. She must pull herself together.

  “Fine,” she relented. “Take him to the rear of the cave. In
the morning, deliver him home and wait and see that he is safely found. But I mean it about the bindings and the blindfold. I do not want him to be able to locate this camp. I do not trust him.”

  “There must be some mistake.” Timothy’s eyes pleaded with her more so than his words, but her heart had turned to cold stone as she had listened to his ridiculous arguments about the king.

  “Oh no, there is no mistake. The next time you come looking for me . . . the next time you come within two furlongs of this camp, the last sight to meet your eyes will be an arrow through your chest.”

  She turned her back to him and ignored his final words, stomping off toward the women’s quarters. Timothy Grey had no place in her life. She had deceived herself to ever consider that he might.

  Now he must leave for good.

  Chapter 24

  Timothy sighed as he tucked his personal items into a sack. He paused to glance around the small stone room that had been his home at Castle Wyndemere for over a year. A cell, really. How had he never seen it before? He removed a tapestry of greens and browns, handmade for him by his mother and sister Ellen, from the wall. A forest scene that reminded him far too much of his recent bittersweet time in that verdant world.

  For three days he had hidden at Greyham Manor, pondering his next step. But he could not betray the ghosts. Especially not after seeing the remains of the crippled thief he had sent to prison hanging from the castle walls upon his return to Wyndemere—God rest the poor man’s soul. He could not betray Robert or Allen, who had given him little but trouble yet defended him in the end. Nor even Merry, who had turned on him so cruelly.

  Though her betrayal stung deep, he had seen the torment in her eyes. The girl had been through too much. She no longer knew how to trust. Not that he fully deserved her trust. And in the end, she had allowed him to walk into Greyham unbound, not wishing to draw attention to his capture.

  Though he still burned at the threat against his life, he should never have underestimated her considerable instincts. Regret hung heavy on him, like a coat of chain mail. He should never have gone after the ghosts once he knew the truth. He should never have put his career before the well-being of the children of Ellsworth.

  Nothing remained for him now but to pack his bags, burn that ill-advised missive to the king, and head home in defeat. Tiny Little Timmy, runt of the family, back in the fold once again.

  He shoved several tunics into his sack, although he now realized he had little of his own in this place. Through the window, the forest beyond the village—a patchwork of green, gold, and amber—drew his eye.

  Somehow, someway, he would find a new path for himself. Perhaps as castle steward for a relative, though he had so longed to make it on his own. And while his parents thought marriage to a young lady with an inheritance his best course of action, given what his mother called his “adorable face”—ugh!—the prospect held even less appeal for him than it had for the last two years. If he could not have Merry Ellison, he desired no woman in his life.

  As much as he longed for her, he understood her drive to protect the children. Would his father do anything less for his own family? Would Timothy? As he had played with his nieces and nephews, he had been struck by the truth that he would without a doubt turn an outlaw to save any one of their lives. But still he did not understand Merry’s anger toward him. He had only spoken the truth. Truth they had both grown up believing.

  He swiped his hair comb and a few other trinkets from his stand into the sack.

  Merry’s words had haunted him for days. “Unless good men like you stand up against injustice, no place on earth shall be safe.” He had initially rejected them out of long-held habit, but they rang true somewhere deep within him.

  And her stinging indictment. “Do you truly believe that God creates some people to bask in luxury while he creates others—like Robert and Sadie and Gilbert—to be the underlings who slave for them?”

  He had not held to that reasoning in any sort of conscious or intentional way, but she was correct. His acceptance of the divine rights of kings tied to just such a philosophy. Her opinions challenged him to question everything he held dear.

  Taking his iron crucifix from the wall, he studied it a moment before tucking it into his sack with his other belongings.

  Most of all, he had been struck by Merry’s assertion about the nature of God. “If God does indeed exist, then He is good, and He is just, and He stands upon the side of right.” He had not sorted out how such a statement could be balanced with biblical respect for the ruling authorities, yet he could not deny a word of it. The very survival of the escaped children of Ellsworth attested to its truth. That they had lasted two years as outlaws in the forest, not losing even a single soul to illness, illustrated clearly God’s favor shining on them.

  Might not Wren’s sunshine men be God’s very angelic hosts?

  As much as his heart ached over Merry’s rejection, he had been even more stunned by her vehement rejection of God. The Merry he knew as a child had revered Scripture—had even studied Latin so that she might read and copy the Holy Book herself. At one point she had spoken of being a nun in a scriptorium to preserve the Bible for generations to come.

  Now she rejected both God and His Word. Perhaps thinking such as his had jaded her—and perhaps the loss of her beloved family. How he longed to return to her and convince her of God’s love and faithfulness.

  But she had made matters clear, had pounded the final nail in the coffin of their friendship when she threatened his life. He would pray for her soul. That would have to suffice.

  With another sigh he slung the sack, containing surprisingly little, over his shoulder and headed through the dim, echoing hallways, smelling of pitch from the torches, to the room that had served as his office since becoming Lord Wyndemere’s unofficial assistant.

  The room stood empty, except for the parchment upon the table. He sat in his chair for a moment. Lifted the quill into his hand one last time. Scratched it over the crinkly parchment just to savor the sensation.

  With a creak of the door, Lord Wyndemere swept into the room. The scribe, Holstead, scurried like a mouse at his heels.

  Timothy jumped to his feet as his stomach clenched. He had hoped he might slip out unnoticed and send his apologies later in a missive. “My lord, greetings.”

  “There you are, my boy. Good to see you back to work.” The earl reached up and ruffled Timothy’s hair.

  Whatever in heaven and on earth? He had delivered no ghosts for the castle walls. The earl should be shouting and ranting to find him here at his post. He tensed lest a blow to the head might be coming next.

  “I hear you stopped by your home.”

  Wonderful, now his prospects would be ruined throughout England, not only in Wyndeshire. Timothy held his breath and awaited his due berating.

  Wyndemere chuckled. “I suppose anyone would be ready to return after a few days at that manor crawling with screaming brats.”

  What was this? Though he dared not relax, Timothy decided to ride out this odd turn in the impulsive earl’s mood and see where it might take him. “It was not so bad as all that. They are rather a cheerful lot.”

  “Hmm. If you insist.” The earl smacked him on the back and took a seat by the window. “You may sit, Grey.”

  Timothy turned his chair from the table to face the earl as Holstead stood patiently by. He might never understand the earl.

  Lord Wyndemere crossed his legs and wrapped his hands around his knee. “I must say, you are looking a bit peaked. Is all well at home?”

  Though his head spun at the odd turn of events, Timothy managed to answer with grace. “Indeed. My father sends his felicitations.”

  “Interesting. And you are feeling well?” The earl observed Timothy quizzically.

  Timothy did not feel well. He had lost the love of his life along with his employment for good this time. He had managed to bumble everything. And now the earl made no sense. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I ca
ught a chill in the forest,” was the best he could come up with as an answer.

  “I see.” The earl frowned.

  Here it came. Perhaps in all his responsibilities the man had forgotten for a time, but surely he would remember and punish Timothy now.

  “So, any sign of the ghosts? Any rumors of them flying about Greyham?” Wyndemere flapped his hands like wings.

  Timothy chose his words with discretion and looked the earl in the eye as he made his confession. “Nothing recent, I am afraid.” He pressed his lips together tightly as he considered what to say next.

  He must do something to keep Merry and the children safe. Yet despite his shift in thinking, he could not bring himself to speak an outright falsehood to his lord. “Based upon the rumors, I would surmise they have moved camp and are no longer within our jurisdiction.” That was the best he could do for them.

  Dropping his head, Timothy continued, “I am sorry to have failed you in this. I have packed my bags as instructed and will be leaving once I have finalized a few last matters of business.”

  “Nonsense. I can hardly do without you.” Wyndemere flicked at the air as though his previous threats had been naught but an annoying insect. “Search the area one more time, and we shall call this issue closed. It simply would not do to lose my best advisor over some illusory ghosts who may or may not even exist.”

  That was it? All of these days spent dreading his decision, and the earl had only been utilizing fear tactics to get his way? Although Timothy knew not if he wished to keep his employment under such a man, he would do nothing rash. Instead, he would exhibit the stalwart faithfulness and discretion he was known for until he could consider the matter further.

  “Then I am at your service, my lord.” But his muscles did not unwind, as he did not trust the fickle whims of the earl.

  “And all is well here?” Wyndemere pointed to the table covered with parchments.

  “It appears that Holstead has done an admirable job in my absence.” Timothy eyed the earl with caution.

  “Good then.” Wyndemere patted his knees and stood. “I will leave the two of you to catch up on issues of business. Methinks I will be moving you officially into an administrative capacity in the coming months. Holstead can handle the scribe position.”