Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  A mere week ago, Timothy’s heart would have leapt with excitement at that statement. But the words fell flat in his ears. Too much had changed. Beyond which, he feared this might yet be some sort of test. He responded as expected nonetheless. “Thank you, my lord. You are most gracious. I will be happy to relieve you of some of your duties. I understand how taxing they can be.”

  “Indeed they are.” The earl yawned and stretched. “And my evening activities have been quite taxing of late as well.” He left the room without explanation.

  Timothy turned his attention to Holstead and shrugged at the unfinished innuendo.

  “New serving maid.” Holstead completed the earl’s insinuation.

  Interesting. Timothy had not taken Holstead for a gossip, but perhaps it was not gossip, only honesty. Lord Wyndemere’s exploits were hardly a secret. And perhaps the new serving maid explained the earl’s sudden shift in mood. Despite Timothy’s swirling thoughts over the morning’s unexpected occurrences, he strove to give Holstead his full attention for the moment.

  “Have a seat.” Timothy indicated to the chair the earl had just vacated.

  “Thank you.” Holstead wrung his hands together. Unlike Timothy, he wore the more typical black hood and tunic of a scribe. His large brown eyes looked as though they might pop out of his rather narrow head at any moment. And his protruding teeth reinforced the mouse image his scurrying often brought to mind.

  Timothy smiled. He could not help liking the earnest fellow.

  Holstead situated himself. “I hope you found everything done to your satisfaction, sir . . . rather, Mister Grey.”

  The man’s needless nervousness did much to ease Timothy’s own tension as he strove to calm the man by creating a peaceful environment. “Yes, I have found your work to be quite organized and efficient. I really have no questions for you, other than, are you happy working here at the castle?”

  If possible, Holstead’s eyes grew even wider. “Why, of course.”

  “Good. And are your quarters satisfactory?” Timothy leaned back in his chair.

  “I, well . . . Rather, that is it . . .” But Holstead seemed unable to finish his thought, so flustered he was by the personal question.

  Timothy attempted a different approach. “Do you have any inquiries or reports for me?”

  “No, sir. Only, sir . . . I hope you will not be terribly troubled, but I fear your missive to the king went out a day later than intended. I do not know how I missed it upon my desk that first day you were gone. But I sent it out straightaway the following day, as soon as I discovered it.” He ducked his head and cowered, as if waiting for someone to strike him.

  Timothy had no idea why the man might be worried. He could not even recall such a missive. “I am sorry. I do not understand.”

  Holstead dared to peek up at him. He clenched his hands in his lap. “The missive from you to the king. With your personal seal. You left it for me before your trip.”

  Timothy rubbed his chin and scanned his memory. He could recall no . . . No! It could not be. He had penned only one missive to the king. The missive safely tucked at the bottom of his chest. The very missive he now intended to burn. Though his own hands began to tremble at the possibility, he strove to maintain his composure. It would help nothing for him to fall to pieces before Holstead, nor to rant at the poor man.

  He closed his eyes. Took several calming breaths, pressing his hands into his thighs to steady them. “Um . . . thank you, then.”

  “My pleasure.”

  A sharp pain dug into Timothy’s head, nearly causing him to gasp. His fingers clawed deeper into his thighs. He had to know the truth. To search his chest and hold the volatile missive in his hands once again. He must be rid of this fellow. “You know, Holstead, his lordship was correct. I am feeling rather peaked. Would you mind if we continued this later?”

  “Not at all. God give you good day, Mister Grey.”

  “And you as well,” Timothy managed.

  With an expression of relief, Holstead scurried from the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Timothy rushed to the chest. He tossed books and parchments willy-nilly about the room in his need to reach the bottom. But he found nothing. The grey walls threatened to close in upon him. The ceiling seemed to press down and retreat several times in quick succession.

  He scrubbed his hands about the sturdy wooden bottom of the chest, as if it might magically appear. But the missive begging Merry’s pardon was not there. He pounded his fist against the chest and searched every document one more time. Words swam before his eyes as he read through parchment after parchment.

  Nothing.

  Timothy slumped onto the floor and buried his face in his hands. His head pounded like the anvil of the Viking’s Thor, God of Thunder. He could barely find his breath. Gone! The missive was gone. He stared into his empty palms. What had he done?

  The king would know that Merry still lived. And it was entirely his fault. She had been correct. He had indeed betrayed her. If Merry had not already put a death warrant upon his head, she would surely strangle him if she learned of this. And he would not for one moment blame her.

  He struggled to calm himself. The king might grant the pardon, he reasoned. Perhaps he had done Merry a favor after all. Though given her new crimes, it might not serve much good in the end.

  And given the earl’s assessment of the king’s recent mood . . .

  Timothy dug his fingers into his throbbing temples in vain hope of relieving the pressure and the pain. He forced himself to finish the thought. Given the earl’s assessment of the king’s recent mood, he would most likely demand her found and hung.

  There—that was the truth of it. Timothy slapped his palm against his head. What had he put into motion? And how had this happened? Someone in this castle must wish him ill, though he could not fathom who or why.

  Holstead’s nervousness had surpassed even his norm today. Timothy had never considered the man capable of foul play. But perhaps he had been desperate for work and fearful that Timothy would reclaim his scribe position. Or perhaps just plain jealous and spiteful, like the steward.

  Bainard! He seemed the more likely suspect than the meek and gentle Holstead. But Timothy could not afford taking time to investigate who his enemy might be. He must get to Merry before tragedy struck. He would tell Lord Wyndemere he would soon leave for his final search. He must maintain his position in the hopes he might be able to use it to help Merry and the children in any way. Even if she ordered him killed, he must risk it.

  An oath slipped from John’s mouth. Whatever was Timothy Grey doing rushing off once again? How sickness had welled in his stomach when the man pranced into the castle—not at all dead. But now as he watched Timothy dash into the stable, a suspicion . . . or rather a hope, sparked within him.

  Timothy’s casual return followed by his quick departure could only mean one thing. His enemy must be in league with the ghosts. Else how could he have survived their camp? Though the fact that he’d entered the camp unconscious suggested he must have struck a deal with them while there, that perhaps they had offered him a cut of that chest of gold coin they were rumored to have stolen. His heart soared as he pondered the ramifications. He would see to it that the man was not only killed, but also disgraced. A much better fate than he had dared to hope for.

  He waited, and moments later, Timothy emerged on his mammoth horse and galloped out the castle gates. To the ghosts, no doubt. Perhaps to warn them of something he had learned since his return.

  But no amount of warning would suffice. John had set matters into motion that could not be undone. He had known in his gut that the mysterious young woman must hold a key, and when he had searched Timothy’s office after his departure, he discovered just how right he had been. John held back his laughter in this public place.

  No doubt Timothy thought him an uneducated fool, but he was not. John’s mother had seen him instructed by their parish priest, hoping that someday his father migh
t relent and claim his illegitimate son. After all, the man had no legal heir of his own body. She had wanted John to be prepared to impress his father with his wit and capabilities, but matters had not turned out that way. Instead, he’d been forced to survive on brute strength while Timothy Grey enjoyed the luxuries of the castle.

  He had, however, studied his namesake, the king, his entire life. No one knew better than King John of England how ruthless determination and a bit of time could turn matters around. The man had not let the misfortune of birth order stop him. No, he allowed nothing to stand in his path as he strove toward greatness. And John would not let his own illegitimate birth stand in his way.

  A bitter taste filled his mouth, and he spat upon the ground. When he’d spotted the missive to the king he had nearly fainted in delight, but he managed to gather himself, seal it with the stamp Timothy had left behind, and place it on Holstead’s desk. Though he had been tempted to add a postscript that this same Merry Ellison might have some link to the nefarious Ghosts of Farthingale Forest, he refrained. No, he would hold some leverage for the future.

  Soon the king would know that Timothy had harbored the fugitive Merry Ellison. It would not take long before the king discovered Timothy had let her go and began unraveling other clues about Timothy’s attachment to the woman—and his involvement with the ghosts.

  And who would be the hero in it all? When the time was right, John would lead them to the ghosts and win his father’s favor. With any luck, Merry would be put to death before Timothy, so his enemy might suffer the ultimate heartache of losing the woman he loved due to his own blundering actions.

  But until then, John would wait, and plan, and revel in his imminent most perfect revenge.

  Chapter 25

  In the shadowy sleeping chamber at the rear of the cave, Merry found herself completely alone for the first time in weeks. And she was not at all certain that she liked the sensation. How much better to keep herself busy. Senses on the alert as she guarded the camp or tended to the little ones.

  Being alone in nature was different. The sunshine, the breeze, the scurry of animals, and the avian symphony filled her to overflowing and kept her company. Here, in this dark and quiet room, nothing but empty silence—without even a trickle of water or a distinctive scent—surrounded her.

  But she must take advantage of this rare moment. Use it to face the demons that threatened her day and night, that she held at bay with busyness. In the corner near her pallet lay a sack she rarely opened. A sack of items her mother had packed for her on that horrible night. It felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds as she tugged it into the open. The drawstring seemed to fight against her fingers.

  She reached her hand in as though a snake might bite her. First, she withdrew a tiny piece of white linen, embroidered with scrollwork. Her christening gown. Once upon a time, this meant something to her—proof of her identity. She was a Christian. Baptized into the holy church. She had strived to make her life an act of worship in the eyes of her Creator.

  Merry ran her fingers across the linen and sighed. But what did it mean now? Would the church even welcome her? Thank goodness the king had no proof of her survival. To her knowledge he had not yet had them excommunicated. She might doubt the existence of God, but if for some reason He did exist, she was not convinced she wished to be cut off from Him for eternity.

  Gathering her courage, Merry reached even deeper into the bag. She pulled out a stack of parchments bound in leather. The book of Matthew, which she had copied in her own hand. Though she held tight to the book, she could not bring herself to open it and read the Latin words. Words that had once radiated so vibrant and precious to her that she had dealt with the torture of sitting still long enough to write them down. She could not bear to watch them lying flat and lifeless on the page now.

  With a deep breath she stilled her racing heart and sent her hand into the gaping chasm of the sack one last time. She brushed about the bottom of the velvet bag until she found it. Her fingers rubbed over the raised metal, pressed into the biting edges. Though they had spent the coins and sold several pieces of jewelry from the sack early on, she could not bring herself to part with this final memento from her mother.

  She drew it slowly, cautiously from the sack. As her eyes fell upon it, she made the sign of the cross despite herself. Jesus—battered and bloody, pinned to the crucifix—stared up at her from her palm. Whether he had been a deity or not, surely the man had known suffering and pain. More than she could imagine.

  Unable to resist, she pressed the crucifix to her lips, recalled the rugged feel and the sharp taste from the many times she had done so in her childhood as it dangled over her mother’s soft and comforting bosom. And in that moment, she could almost sense her mother smiling down at her from heaven.

  Merry placed the book and the gown back in the sack, but she could not bring herself to part with the cross. Though its matching gold chain was long gone, she found a piece of twine and hung it from her neck, buried it deep beneath her tunic.

  She needed her mother’s strength. For finding Timothy again, feeling those sensations all over, then hardening her heart to send him away, had sapped her of her last reserves. She had never felt so weak. So vulnerable. She did not like it one whit.

  Curling into her pallet, she pressed both hands against her tunic to experience the impression of the cross upon her belly. She thought that perhaps, if nothing else, the memory of her mother’s death would remind her of what was at stake. King John was not above killing them all. Timothy did not understand this—therefore he could never be trusted.

  A scuffle near the entryway wakened her from that introspective place and turned her attention to the issues at hand. Sniffling met her ears.

  Heavens, one of the children might be hurt.

  “You tell her.” Sadie’s words were followed by a sob.

  “No—you. She likes you better,” said a voice Merry suspected to be Sadie’s brother, Henry, along with a loud sniff. “I can’t bear to speak the words.”

  Merry jumped up and ran to them. Almost to the end of the passageway, lit by sunshine filtering through the door of leaves and branches beyond, stood Sadie and Henry with muddy, tear-streaked faces.

  When Sadie spotted her, her confession tumbled from her mouth. “We tried to, Merry. We did. We both did. We meant to, but . . .” She dissolved into uncontrollable sobs and could say no more.

  Merry hugged the girl to her. “Henry, what could you not do? Please tell me.”

  “We couldn’t kill him. We knew it was the right thing to do. We both pulled back our arrows and aimed them straight for his heart, like you said. But neither of us could let go. ‘You do it,’ Sadie says. ‘No you,’ says I. Then we both started crying and ran straight to you.”

  “Who?” asked Merry, although she suspected, nay dreaded, the answer.

  “Timothy Grey.”

  Her heart thudded to her feet. How had he found them? Never mind that now. “Where?”

  “Coming . . .” Henry hesitated as if he did not wish to answer but finally continued. “From the south.”

  “He was kind . . . and funny . . . and . . .” Sadie sputtered the words against Merry’s soon to be drenched tunic.

  “Where are the men?” Merry reached and offered Henry’s head a reassuring pat.

  “Still out hunting.”

  “’Tis all right, children. We should not have left you on watch alone. It was too much to ask. I will take care of this.”

  “Don’t kill him. Don’t!” Sadie shrieked, clawing at Merry’s tunic.

  With that, Jane, cooking at the far side of the room, hurried toward them.

  Merry handed off the wailing child. “Tend to her, please. Timothy Grey has returned.”

  “Must you kill him? Truly?” Jane hugged Sadie to her chest. A bevy of little ones and young women behind her whimpered and gasped.

  Merry steeled her heart to a degree she did not know possible. She gulped down a lump from her thr
oat, and it landed with a sick thud in her stomach. She struggled to keep down her morning meal. “Please do not make this any harder than it already is,” she whispered to Jane.

  She sensed no less than twenty eyes digging into her as she took her bow and quiver from the wall, but no one uttered a word. She dared not look into those eyes. Dared not witness the horror upon their faces.

  The time had come. She must do what she must do. She must not question.

  Like a ghost, she floated from the room, out the door, and up the hillside. She watched as though outside of her body as she pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. Scanning the countryside, she found him, though she wished she had not.

  Daring not to look too close, she lifted her bow and stared down the shaft of the arrow, pointing directly to the center of his blue velvet tunic. She would not focus upon his face. She would not look into his eyes. He must remain an object. An enemy. A weapon of destruction. And in just a moment, when she finally let the arrow fly free, the danger would be eliminated.

  Eliminated. Danger. Not Timothy. Not the boy she had loved and kissed. Never her best friend. He is the enemy. She fought to convince herself as her finger trembled against the bowstring, as she stared at the deep blue velvet.

  “Merry!” he called.

  In a moment of great weakness, she lifted her eyes to his. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes. That face she had adored for much of her life. The flopping thatch of hair. And all was lost.

  She dropped the bow and arrow to the ground, as the air deflated from her lungs. Collapsing next to her discarded weapons, she pressed a hand to her chest. No one would ever know how close she had come. How hard her heart had grown, that she could nearly kill her best friend.

  Her sickened stomach cast up its accounts upon the grass beside her, and her hands clutched her aching belly. Then she felt it beneath her tunic. The cross. A picture of her mother with soft brown hair and love-filled eyes flashed through her mind.