Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  No, her mother would never wish to see her as cold and callous as this. Merry had nearly gone too far this time.

  “Merry, Merry.” Timothy ran up beside her, dropped to his knees, and gathered her into his arms. “Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” She struggled to find her breath. “I . . . I almost did it.” Then she sagged against him and began to cry. Deep body-wrenching sobs. Wails to put Sadie’s to shame. Years’ worth of tears, pouring onto his chest.

  His lips pressed against her forehead, but he said not a word. Rather, he allowed her to spend her pent-up heartache within his arms. All this time she had remained so strong. Now Timothy could be strong for her. Strong enough to hold her and comfort her. Strong enough to share the heavy load of her pain. Shushing and snuggling her like the broken child she was.

  When Allen and Red entered the dim cave after a long morning of hunting, a passel of crying children met them.

  Abigail threw herself against Allen dramatically. “Merry is killing Timothy!” She shrieked and commenced sobbing upon his tunic. Allen had little choice but to pat her back and offer soothing shushing sounds. Good thing they had deposited the rabbit carcasses outside the door. Red was likewise entangled with Sadie. Allen scanned the room and shot a questioning look at Jane where she cuddled Wren along with several of the other youngsters.

  Her horrified nod said everything.

  Merry kill Timothy? Surely she would never. He and the other men had discussed and dismissed her kill order days ago, each of them convinced that she would despise anyone who carried it through. She would never forgive them. But what if she carried it through herself?

  A dull ache filled Allen’s stomach at the thought. He must find her. He must stop her. Timothy did not deserve death, and Merry’s heart would never survive if she murdered him.

  Red stared at Allen with dread written across his face. “What shall we do?”

  “Which way did she go?” Allen asked.

  Between hiccups, Sadie pointed to the south.

  Henry stood from where he had huddled in the corner and wiped at his grimy, tear-streaked face. “’Tis all my fault. I saw him first. I should have warned him away when I had the chance. But I could never shoot him, and I didn’t believe Lady Merry would either.”

  “You did right, Henry. Never fear, Red and I will see to this.” He pried Abigail from his waist. “You all stay put. And pray with all your strength.”

  Allen thrust aside the many emotions warring within him. Sympathy, dread, fear, jealousy, anger. Why must this Timothy forever stir up trouble? But Allen could not afford the luxury of emotions. He grabbed his sword and shield from the wall, and noticed Red doing likewise. They still wore their quivers and bows from the morning hunt.

  Together they dashed through the doorway and toward the south.

  He gripped his sword, knowing not what might lie over the rise. Not that a weapon would help. Who did he think to fight? Timothy’s ghost? Merry’s devastation? Yet the feel of the molded hilt in his palm gave him strength.

  Which he would need. The sound of Merry’s wailing met his ears, a soul-crushing sound the likes of which he had never heard before. Again he quelled those churning emotions. As they crested the second hill, the sight that met his eyes comforted him yet shook him to the core all in the same instant.

  Timothy held Merry in his arms as she keened with abandon against his chest. Her thin body convulsed with each sob. Merry was safe. Timothy was alive. Yet that moment brought death nonetheless. The final death blow to Allen’s dreams of a life with Merry. How many times had he wished to soothe Merry, to comfort her, to share her burden. But she would not allow him. Not him, only Timothy, the man who held her heart.

  Before his eyes he saw proof of what he had known deep down all along. Merry was not meant for him. She belonged to another.

  His sword arm sagged as the truth struck him in the gut like a battering ram. Timothy took note of Allen and Red and nodded their way, as if to say all was well. But nothing might ever be well again.

  Red must have sensed the significance of the moment. For he wrapped a sturdy arm around Allen’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of camp.

  A camp that might never feel like home to Allen again.

  Timothy watched the sun travel a goodly distance across the sky before Merry cried the last of her tears upon his sodden chest. How wonderful to hold her in his arms. Warm despite the cool breeze. To see the soft, vulnerable girl he remembered. To cuddle her close and wipe tears from her silken cheeks with his thumbs. He must treasure every moment, for it could not last much longer.

  She hiccupped and spoke for the first time in the better part of an hour. “I nearly killed you. Oh, Timothy, why did you risk it? Can you ever forgive me?” Her doe eyes begged him to understand.

  The moment that had filled him with dark, sickening dread had arrived. He could put it off no longer. “Do not apologize, for once I explain why I have come, you might kill me yet.”

  Merry struggled as if to sit up but then collapsed into him again. “What do you mean?”

  “You were right. I did not intend to, but I have proven a danger to you. I had to warn you at once.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “This sounds dire. Do I even want to know?”

  “I am afraid you must hear it. Before you left the castle my father convinced me to write a missive to the king begging him to forgive you.”

  “Tell me you did not.”

  “I did, but I never sent it. I had no peace about it. Instead I buried it deep in a chest of documents. Once Lord Wyndemere returned, he confirmed my decision, saying he had never seen the king in such a foul mood.”

  “Why do I sense a horrible but is coming?” She peeked between her fingers.

  “But . . . I fear I have an enemy in the castle. Just this morning as I planned to burn it, I discovered that someone sent it while I was here.”

  He closed his eyes and winced. He tensed himself to receive the brunt of her fury. The glaring flame of her anger. But nothing. He cracked open one eye. If anything, she sank even deeper into his chest. It seemed her tears had drained her of all fight. She did not speak nor even flinch. A dazed expression crossed her face.

  He opened the other eye and dared to proceed. “By now the king knows that you are alive. And some of the children as well.”

  She shivered and seemed to grow smaller in his arms. “What should I do?” Her voice rang frail.

  Moments earlier he had been enraptured to see her so soft and open, but this broken girl had no emotional armor to face his news. He sat her up gently and wiped the new influx of tears from her cheeks. “Merry, you must snap out of this. You and the children are safe for the moment. No one knows where you are. I am safe. You did not hurt me. You must let that go.”

  With a shake of her head, she ran her hands over her face, and appeared to come back into herself. “You are right. I cannot afford such weakness.” He watched as a hardness fell back over her features, as her muscles firmed and her eyes grew sharp. “Do you have a plan?” she asked.

  “I must return to the castle before dark. My guess is, we will hear something very soon. The missive went out the day after you captured me. Nearly a week has passed, and the king’s retinue is a mere three days journey away.”

  “We must pack. We must be ready to move.”

  “Precisely, but go nowhere yet. We must not assume the worst. It could be good news. I will return tomorrow evening, to this spot, and bring you word. Either you will be free at long last, and I shall take you all to Greyham Manor, or if need be, I shall see you safely to France, and we shall live together there.”

  She disentangled herself from his arms. “Do not speak madness. You cannot leave your home, your family, for us. It is too much to ask. Trust me—I know. You would resent me for the rest of our lives.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “No, Merry. I will love you for the rest of my life.”

  She pushed him awa
y, a spark of anger finally flaring in her eyes. “Stop it! I insist. Stop it this instant. I will not allow you to make matters worse than they are.”

  He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Let us not fight about this now. At least wait until we have a reason. We know not what the future will hold. And we have been through enough upheaval this day. We can fight on the morrow.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Agreed. Go. Wait for word from the king.”

  He brushed his fingers along her cheek and swiped her hair behind her ear. “But I meant what I said. I do love you.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, then turned and dashed into the woods before she could argue with him again.

  Chapter 26

  The next day, Lord Wyndemere came up behind Timothy as he traversed the dim hallway en route to the great hall for the nooning meal. “There you are, my boy.” The earl clamped a hand onto Timothy’s shoulder. “When I told you to check for the ghosts one last time, I did not expect you to run off straightaway.”

  Timothy cleared his throat. He had hoped to avoid this conversation. “I . . . well that is . . .” He must not betray the children. “I am afraid I received some rather disturbing news. I thought to clear my head in the forest.”

  “I see. Female troubles? Not about to be a father, are you? Heavens, do I know that awful feeling.” The earl squeezed his shoulder and chuckled in a suggestive manner.

  Timothy shook off the unwanted information. “No, not quite. The news just caught me off guard. ’Tis nothing, really.” Nothing other than betraying the woman he loved to the king. He fought back a sigh of weariness. And now he must await the ramifications of his actions.

  “So no ghosts, I take it.”

  Again, Timothy searched for an answer. “Nary a haunt nor a spirit in sight.”

  “Good. Good, then.”

  They entered the noisy great hall together, and the earl ushered him to the front table upon the dais. “Sit with me. We have matters of business to discuss.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Timothy situated himself upon the bench to the right of the earl.

  As the lord greeted the steward to his left, Timothy battled his troubling thoughts. His fears that Merry might die as a result of his carelessness and stupidity. No, he must not give in to despair. Like Merry herself, he must gather his fighting spirit. Either the news would be good, and they would rejoice together, or it would be bad, and he would get her out of the country.

  He would need to leave at meal’s end if he wished to make his appointed rendezvous with Merry. Though sadly, he would have nothing to report. It seemed they would have to wait yet another day for word from the king.

  The steward glared at him over Lord Wyndemere’s shoulder. Timothy still did not understand why the man despised him so. He quirked a questioning brow in return, wondering again if the steward might have been the one to find his missive for the king. Until Timothy uncovered his enemy, neither he nor his loved ones would be safe. He must take the man aside and question him soon.

  A messenger dashed up to the table, panting and out of breath. “My lord, an urgent missive from the king.”

  Timothy tensed. This might be the one.

  Wyndemere frowned to have his meal disturbed before it even started but reached for the parchment and broke the seal. He unrolled the scroll and perused it, but likely could not decipher much. The steward peered over the earl’s shoulder, and the earl shot him a glare in return. “Timothy, could you please take a look at this and see if I must abandon my meal over it?”

  Timothy took the parchment with trembling hands and forced himself to read the words.

  My Dear Robbie,

  Are you aware of this mess with Merry Ellison? I thought the chit long dead. I assumed the rumors of her survival to be greatly exaggerated, but your man, a Timothy Grey, informs me otherwise. The fellow begged for her forgiveness. He seemed a goodhearted, if addle-brained, sort. But as you and I well know, we cannot show weakness in such situations.

  As I am still ill, I shall leave this matter to you. The girl is to be captured and hung at once. I imagine she shall make a pretty sight upon the city walls. This act shall finally strike fear in the hearts of the rebels—convince them once and for all that I am entirely without mercy. I will try to visit while she rots, as it would bring me great pleasure to do so. Her father was the one to start this blasted rebellion after all.

  No weakness. Never surrender. I know I can trust you with this matter.

  King John of England

  Timothy’s stomach grew sicker and sicker as he read. A familiar thumping began in his head. “My lord, I must speak to you alone, at once.”

  “Dear, dear, just as I feared.” He turned to the steward. “Await serving the meal until I return.”

  Timothy tucked the scroll under his arm, and he and Lord Wyndemere walked to the hallway.

  The earl dismissed the guards from the area and sent them to their meal. Once they were alone, he said, “Well, spit it out. No use putting off bad news.”

  He attempted to straighten his thoughts between the rhythmic thumping of his head. “Do you recall the situation with Merry Ellison?”

  “I thought we were in agreement that we were glad she had left.”

  “Yes, and I never sent the missive to the king.” Timothy rubbed at his temple. “But it seems someone else did while I was gone.”

  “Good heavens. Why?”

  “I know not. Perhaps I have an enemy at the castle. Holstead informed me he found it on his desk and dispatched it, but I swear to you that I never put it there.”

  The earl tapped a finger against his cheek. “And this is the king’s response, I take it.”

  “Yes.” Timothy dropped his head. “He bids you to find her and hang her.”

  The earl growled. “This is precisely what I did not wish to happen.”

  “I know, my lord.” Timothy’s eyes remained downcast.

  “Look at me when I speak to you.”

  Timothy returned his gaze to the earl’s red face, though all the blood now drained from his own face, and an icy coldness overtook him. He had ruined everything.

  A vein throbbed near the man’s balding temple. “I shall have to put up wanted posters and send out a search team by tomorrow. You have left me no choice.”

  “I understand.” Timothy fought to maintain his composure. He wanted nothing more than to dash off and warn Merry.

  “Where do you suggest I start the search?”

  Here was his chance to help them. “I suppose you should sweep the area near the castle and work slowly outward.”

  “Hmm . . . I will do as you suggest.” The earl shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the castle exit. “So what are you waiting for? I assume you must go and do a precursory examination of the area. Why are you just standing about? I can put this off no longer than the morrow.”

  Timothy shook his head. Surely he had not heard correctly.

  “Go on, my boy. Quickly.” The earl shoved him by the shoulder.

  The earl knew. He was allowing them a head start. Timothy wasted not another moment but took off toward the stables.

  After being rather rudely dismissed from the hallway, John joined the other castle guards in the great hall. Whispers filled the place that the earl had received a missive from the king. This must be it, the moment he had been waiting for. The king would never forgive Merry Ellison. John knew his type. John was his type. His very namesake. His own mother had named him after his father’s best friend while Richard still lived, and had been delighted when John became a king.

  She thought for certain that the Earl of Wyndemere would relent in time and accept his only son, legitimate or not. An educated, strong son, named for the king himself. No such luck. The best the earl would do was give him work as a guard in his castle, but the man never so much as nodded in his direction. Every time the earl ignored him, he felt the betrayal like a stab to the gut all over again.

  And when he favored that wretched
Timothy Grey in his stead, John just wanted to wrap his hands about the man’s throat and watch his eyes bulge out as he breathed his last.

  Timothy had always thought himself so much better, so much higher. But John would bring him down. He sidled his way closer to the hallway.

  The earl returned alone and did not so much as glance in John’s direction. Where had Timothy gone? Why had he not heard the earl berating him? He waited to see if the man would make an announcement, but he merely gestured to the steward to begin the meal.

  Duties be hanged! John could not allow Timothy to slip off into the forest without him once again. Surely he was headed back to the ghosts. John could not afford to let them get away.

  Making a mad dash for the courtyard, he spied Timothy slipping through the castle gates upon his horse. Without pausing even to pack a sack, he hurried to the stables. His weapons and the forest would suffice for his needs. He would not follow his enemy too closely, but he had been raised in those woods as well, and he would have no problem trailing the man.

  He must see Merry and her outlaw band hanged. He would destroy his enemy in the most painful, most humiliating manner he could possibly devise.

  After a day of frantic activity, a sort of despondent lethargy had fallen over the camp. Merry settled under a tree on the hillside, pressing herself into the cool, moist earth, wishing she could become one with it and somehow stay in this beautiful land of her birth.

  Though the older members of the group tried to convince the little ones otherwise, no one believed that King John would pardon them. And the tears of the youngest children as they packed had just about torn Merry’s heart from her chest. “Me like me cave house!” Wren had protested. She had said it with that rasp in her voice that Merry dreaded so much.

  At least the packing had gone quickly. With each move they had traveled with less and less. This time they would take only clothing, personal effects, and some food supplies. Whether enough to travel to Greyham Manor or to the port in Bristol was still to be determined, but Merry braced herself for the latter.