Hardie led him down several corridors, the candles flickering in the wall sconces as they passed. They slipped past the great hall, where dozens were bedded down, then left the keep. They arrived at a thick wooden door. He would finally leave Winterbourne through this postern gate. Hardie unbolted the lock and opened the door wide.
A soldier lay stretched out on the ground. His faint snores broke the silence of the dark night. Both men stepped over him, keeping to the shadows of the wall that surrounded Winterbourne so that the sentries on the wall-walk would not see them.
Once they’d gone a good distance, Hardie stopped. “This is as far as I go.” He held out his hand. “No apology will ever be enough. Nothing can ever repay the years you’ve lost. I only hope those to come will be kind to you.”
Geoffrey took the offered hand and shook it. He gave Hardie a curt nod and walked away. Back to his old life.
But could it be as it was before?
Geoffrey moved ahead without a backward glance. Sparse moonlight shone as the clouds drifted across the sky. He took his time, carefully watching each step, his balance still off. He finally reached the forest.
Fear gripped him without warning. He’d experienced fear on the battlefield, but Sir Lovel told him all men did. It was taming that fear and forging onward that separated the courageous from those who turned coward.
Yet fear turned to dread with each step he took. Everything once familiar seemed strange now. His world had shrunk to an isolated few feet for many years. These wide spaces and nocturnal sounds now made his stomach churn in apprehension.
An owl hooted. The loud noise startled him. He realized how sensitive his hearing had become during his years of solitude. All around him, the night noises came alive, making his heart race. He became confused and stumbled to the ground. Geoffrey stayed rooted to the spot, his hands digging into the dirt. He crawled a few feet to the trunk of a massive tree and wrapped his arms about it and wept.
Free . . . but not.
He still felt as if he were trapped in the dungeon.
Geoffrey released the rough bark and twisted so his back leaned against the tree. He slept.
Warmth flooded him. Geoffrey stretched lazily and yawned. Then he became aware of the open space around him.
Afraid.
His eyes swept across the woods surrounding him, looking for any enemy. Sunshine cut through the covering of trees. He touched his arm. His skin felt warm after being chilled for so long, but he squinted as the sun struck his face. It almost pained him to feel it after so many years in dim light.
He wondered how long he’d slept.
At least his body felt rested. For the first time in years, his sleep had been deep and uninterrupted. Geoffrey raised his arms high, reveling in the freedom from his shackles. He held his hands out in front of him. Years of dirt clung to his nails, hands, and arms. Embedded so thick that he might never feel clean again.
What turned his stomach most were the scars ringing his wrists. The shackles had branded him. He would never escape the memory of being restrained. They had kept him from life itself as he’d fought against them each day of his captivity.
Geoffrey looked down and saw his clothes were little more than rags. His cloak might break apart at any moment. How would the people of Kinwick react when the lord apparent came through the gates looking worse than the lowest of beggars? He must rinse the filth away. He knew of several nearby streams where he could bathe before returning home.
Home.
The word thrilled him—yet brought a sense of foreboding. He had no idea what he would find when he returned.
He set off cautiously, his gaze constantly roaming. Part of him believed Berold’s men would suddenly appear and drag him back to his prison after he’d had a taste of freedom. Geoffrey would die fighting them if that occurred. His head began to ache since even the smallest of noises seemed amplified. Birds that flew from a tree branch. A squirrel that scampered along the path. Stepping on a twig that snapped.
He’d never been so unsure of himself.
Geoffrey heard a brook and eagerly followed the noise until it came into view. He hurried to reach the water and fell, bruising his shins. He realized he was like a babe learning to walk. He needed to take his time.
Kneeling, he cupped his hands to bring the cold water to his mouth. He drank deeply, scooping more up again and again. He forced himself to stop before he made himself sick from drinking too much.
He slipped off his clothes and left them on the bank. As he looked down, his olive skin seemed pale because of the years he was deprived of sunlight. At least he hadn’t wasted away. He was leaner than before but not gaunt, thanks to the extra food Hardie had given him and Geoffrey’s insistence on exercising his limbs.
He sank a foot into the running water. An icy chill raced up his leg. He submerged his other foot, allowing the running water to rush over his feet and calves. He waded out until the water came mid-chest. Then he fell back, letting it cover him entirely.
He broke the surface, pushing his hair from his eyes. Then he leaned back into the water until all but his face was covered and ran his fingers through his hair, roughly scrubbing his scalp with his fingertips. He did the same with his bearded face and body. He longed for a bar of soap, but he made do with a few stones, using them to try and cut through the layers of filth.
Satisfied, he waded to the shore and lay down, basking in the sunlight. After a few minutes of enjoyment, he returned to the water and washed his clothes. He spread everything out on the bank to dry.
All this activity left him exhausted. Geoffrey’s limbs seemed like lead. His eyes drooped as he fought to keep them open. Finally, he gave in to the urge and curled up on the bank and slept again.
When he opened his eyes, the light had faded. Dusk surrounded him. Kinwick was a good hour or more away from Winterbourne if he’d had a horse and knew where the road was. Traveling through dense forest on foot and weakened legs might take him a day or more. Geoffrey donned his dry clothes and began walking as quickly as he could, away from the water.
And then he knew where he must go.
Chapter 14
The hunting lodge.
Geoffrey halted when it came into view. The small building rested closer to Winterbourne than it did Kinwick. His eyes searched the premises as he kept a tight rein on his emotions.
The lodge had an unkempt look about it, as if it had been abandoned. His gut told him no one had used it since the day his captors spirited him away from here. He hated returning to the place, but he needed to confront the demons of the past. This scene brought countless nightmares over the years despite him trying to drive the place from his mind. Geoffrey had to conquer his fear of the lodge and all it stood for.
Especially since the last happy moments of his life had unfolded here.
He stepped into the clearing. He could picture himself riding through that grove of trees on Mystery; Merryn following him on Destiny. They’d tethered their horses and went in to explore the lodge. Geoffrey remembered her delight and how he’d suggested they come stay for a few days, just the two of them, lost in a world of love.
He moved with hesitation until he stood in front of the oak tree. Beneath its branches they had spread out the small feast Cook had prepared for them. They had dined and then Merryn napped, exhausted from their night of love play. Once they awakened, he’d planned for them to enter the lodge. He would make love to her in front of the firelight, watching it turn her hair into shades of flame.
But he’d fallen asleep.
And that had changed everything.
A sudden thought came to him, making his pulse jump erratically.
What if he hadn’t fallen asleep? What if he’d slipped out from under her and gone inside to prepare? What if Berold’s men had come across Merryn alone? The earl’s plan was to make Geoffrey suffer in the worst way.
What if he’d found his wife gone?
The soldiers could have easily taken her. It cou
ld have been Merryn locked away for all these years. He shuddered violently and fell to his knees.
Geoffrey knew in that moment a small portion of the suffering his young wife had endured. If the roles had been reversed. If he’d lost her that November day, without a trace. What would his life have been like, never knowing where Merryn was?
It frightened him what life would be like now.
As much as he yearned for Merryn and his former life, Geoffrey realized nothing would ever be the same.
He wondered if he should even return to Kinwick.
They would think him dead by now. Crops would have been planted and harvested. Babies born and the elderly buried. Seasons changed. And his absence accepted, even by those who loved him most.
How much would his return disrupt life at Kinwick? Would it bring more heartache than happiness?
Better yet, how would he answer the question everyone would ask?
What happened?
He’d given his word never to share where he’d been. How could he return to his wife, family, the people who looked up to him—and hide the truth?
Geoffrey decided to spend the night inside the lodge. He picked a few berries to quiet his rumbling stomach.
He had much to think about.
Geoffrey’s eyes swept across the room. He sighed with relief, no longer a prisoner in Winterbourne’s dungeons.
He’d lain in front of the hearth last night after wandering aimlessly through the lodge, not knowing where to settle. Sleeping in a bed seemed foreign to him. Geoffrey had finally collapsed on the ground and curled into a ball, pillowing his hands beneath his head.
Today, he hoped to have the strength to make it back to Kinwick and face whatever consequences awaited him. He still did not know how to answer the questions that would come. His lips moved in a wordless prayer as he begged God to show him the way.
Finding a small cake of soap, Geoffrey decide to bathe again as he left the lodge. His tread was slow but steady as he walked back toward his boyhood home.
A frog croaking led Geoffrey toward a still pond. He knelt before the water and gasped at his image.
The man in the reflection looked nothing like the Geoffrey de Montfort he’d known before. A stranger stared back at him.
One with a heavy beard and long, unkempt hair. The wild look in his eyes made him look like some untamed animal that had escaped with nowhere to run.
Merryn would be better off never knowing what he had become. He’d been an excellent soldier and son. One day, he would be a fine husband and father, too.
But now? Shame would follow him the rest of his life.
Why had he not tried harder to escape? How could he have let Berold cage him like an animal?
Geoffrey sat by the water for a long time. For the first time, he wished he had died in that cell at Winterbourne.
He would move on.
Where?
Geoffrey bathed his face in the cool water and drank his fill. He didn’t bother to try and wash his body or clothes again. It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He walked for hours and finally reached the end of the woods. The familiar meadow, green from the spring rains, stretched before him. Beyond it, lay Kinwick.
Seeing his home brought strong emotions to the surface. He gazed upon it with intense longing and a touch of bitterness.
He didn’t know how long he stood there.
Until a figure came into sight. No, two. A woman and a child.
Instinctively, he hid behind the tree and peered around it. He could not afford to be seen.
He watched as they stopped to pick a few flowers. They were too far away for him to hear any conversation, but he could see how the woman paused and held things up to show the child. He now saw it was a young girl.
Geoffrey smiled as he watched them, remembering how he’d gathered wildflowers for Merryn before he left for Poitiers. She’d always been collecting flowers and various herbs. Her curiosity led her to following Wellbury’s healer about, asking a thousand questions as Sephare taught her medicinal uses for what lay in the fields about their estates.
The pair came closer. He could now hear the child’s laughter. The woman cocked her head and the girl did the same. They were so alike.
He froze.
By the Christ, it was Merryn!
Merryn with a child.
It was Merryn’s child.
His child.
They’d created a babe together. Merryn had born a daughter while he’d been locked away. Their lovemaking had produced a perfect child, one so like her mother.
The girl had Merryn’s nose. Her mouth. Her delicate limbs. The sun caught the red highlights in the child’s hair, the same deep chestnut of Merryn’s.
Everything changed the moment he realized he had a family. Already, he loved his daughter, heart and soul. Hope filled his heart and gave him the courage to live again—no matter the consequences.
This child was the answer to their future happiness, to his rebirth as a man.
Chapter 15
Merryn led Alys from the castle, enjoying the mix of cool air with the warmth of the sun on this mid-May day. Flowers dotted the meadow before them. Bluebells carpeted their way as they ventured about.
“Take these.” Her daughter handed her more blossoms to place in the basket, then danced away, flitting about like a butterfly.
Alys had inherited her love of nature. Already, Merryn had taught her about various herbs and their healing properties. She was happy to pass along what knowledge she’d gathered over the years and was delighted by Alys’ interest.
“Grandmother needs more barley water,” Alys informed her as they strolled along. “She said her head aches from a springtime cold.”
“Help me remember. What do we put into the sester of boiling water besides barley?”
“I know!” Alys cried, her smile wide. “We add two parisis of licorice and some figs. And then let the water boil until the barley bursts.”
“Then we strain it with cloth and add a bit of what?” Merryn prompted.
“Sugar.”
“Crystallized sugar. That’s right. Drinking barley water will help Grandmother’s head cold clear up.”
Alys skipped along, then stopped. “Black medick.” She picked a handful and placed that inside Merryn’s basket.
“We need to visit Hugh and Milla soon,” Merryn informed her.
“Oh, we can take something for Milla’s cough. We’ll need licorice again.” Alys’ face scrunched up as she thought. “But I don’t know what else.”
“We’ll add vinegar to the ground up licorice.”
Alys laughed. “And honey. I remember now. Because we put it on the fire and warm it until the licorice dissolves. Then you put in honey so it won’t taste bitter.”
Merryn stroked the girl’s hair. “That’s right, my love. You certainly learn quickly. You know more at your age than I did when I was twice that.”
“I get to be six soon. When, Mother?”
“August.”
“A rabbit!” Alys took off again, chasing the small animal.
Merryn thought back to that scorching August day. How huge her belly had swelled during the summer months. She could scarcely breathe and could only manage shallow breaths those last two weeks. Then her water broke and the long labor began.
Her hand came to rest on her stomach. She wondered if she would bear more children someday. If she would marry Sir Symond Benedict. She believed it to be what the king wanted. He had exercised patience with her, but she knew he intended her wedded and bedded to Sir Symond soon.
What would that be like? Repeating the same vows before God that she’d spoken with Geoffrey as she looked into the face of a red-bearded man. Speaking words that would bind her to a stranger.
Merryn knew in her heart that the words would be uttered, but her heart would always belong to Geoffrey. She might grow to like—maybe even love—this Symond. But no one would take the place of
her one true love.
She glanced at her daughter. Even though Geoffrey was gone, his legacy lived on.
“Pink sorrels. And lilacs. Hurry, Mother. We must pick some. Grandmother loves lilacs. She told me to look for them. Look at them bloom.” Alys ran ahead to the edge of the forest.
Merryn followed, humming under her breath. She spied some chamomile and bent to pick it. She liked using it for fatigue and fevers, but it came in handy to ease birthing pains. She always liked to keep an ample supply. It seemed a new babe was born at Kinwick every other week.
“Ancel skinned his knee this morning. He didn’t tell you?”
“How did he do that?” Merryn asked.
Alys wrinkled her nose. “He was showing off. He had the wooden sword Raynor made for him. He jumped on a wall and swung it around, pretending to be a knight. I told him a girl could be a knight, but he laughed at me and ran. And then he fell. And it looked terrible, Mother. There was blood. And he cried like a babe. Knights don’t cry. I told him so.”
“I shall see to his knee when we return.” She gave Alys an appraising glance. “Or did you offer to tend it for him?”
“No.” Her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “I was mad. Can’t a girl be a knight, Mother? I am brave. Raynor could make me a sword and show me how to fight.”
Merryn ruffled her hair. “I think you are a very brave girl, Alys. And I will see that Raynor makes you a wooden sword and teaches you a bit about fighting. But a woman’s place is not on the battlefield.”
Alys grew solemn. “Father fought on the battlefield.”
“Aye, he did. Your father was a man full of courage and determination. He fought bravely at Poitiers against the French.”
Alys leaned against Merryn. “I wish I knew Father.” Her forlorn voice tugged at Merryn’s heart.
She set her basket down and picked her daughter up, trying to bring comfort. Everyone at Kinwick spoke of Geoffrey in the past tense, yet it was important to her to keep Geoffrey’s memory alive.
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