Chapter Twenty-One

 

“Merry!” Luke surged to his feet in horror.

The thud of her head against the flagstone floor echoed in the sudden silence. She’d fallen with enough force to loosen the headdress she wore, so that everyone was treated to a glimpse of her thick, flame-red plait.

All Luke could think was that the fall had killed her or dislodged the babe in her womb. He tripped over the bench before him, desperate to reach her.

He was not the only one. Nearly every member of the audience had sprung from their seats to rush forward, crowding around her.

Over their heads, the bishop roared for order.

Ignoring him, Luke elbowed his way through the throng, not caring whom he jostled or how hard.

“She’s lapsed into a trance!” said someone before him. “Wait’n see if the devil makes her talk now.”

Furious with the comment, Luke peeled away a few more bystanders and arrived at Merry’s side where he dropped to one knee, stricken by the ashen color of her face.

“Get back!” he commanded as people pressured him, making the air thick. “She needs to breathe. Move away!”

They obeyed, but only minimally.

“Merry!” Luke cradled her head to discover the extent of her injury. A knot had begun to swell, but thankfully her skull was intact, and there was no blood. By the steady pulse at the base of her neck, he could tell that her heart was beating rhythmically. What of his babe? he wondered, sliding a hand to her belly.

He saw, as though detached from himself, that his fingers were shaking. Worry, helplessness, and lack of sleep had left him out of sorts that morning. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone nudge Merry’s thigh with the toe of his boot, perhaps hoping to rouse the demon within her.

That’s it. Luke laid Merry’s head carefully on the floor and surged to his feet. He fully intended to pick up the guilty man and hurl him across the room. Then he recognized the culprit as the narrow-faced scribe who’d scribbled down every word that had been uttered throughout the trial.

“Apologize to the lady,” he growled instead, “for touching her with your shoe.”

The scribe paled and faltered backward and disappeared between two onlookers.

“Stand back,” called two monks, in turn, “stand back.”

Luke realized they were coming to collect their prisoner. Bartholomew had caught hold of his elbow, trying to tug him away, and Bishop Henry of Blois still thundered for all to retake their seats.

“Move aside. Out of the way.” It was the ugly monk who guarded Merry’s cell, the one she claimed had ripped her sleeve. He stepped around Luke, and without any consideration for Merry’s condition, grabbed her wrists intending to haul her up by the arms or, mayhap, to drag her from the chamber.

Luke forgot the effrontery of the scribe. Knocking the monk soundly out of the way, he scooped his wife into his arms. The lack of effort that it took him worried him most. My God, instead of gaining weight as she carried his babe, she seemed to be withering away to nothing.

“Have a care!” he snarled, redirecting his fury at the ugly monk who’d regained his footing and was clenching his fists as if to retaliate. Feeling someone at his back, Luke turned with Merry clutched tightly against him, ready to fight if need be. Then Bartholomew caught his eye and shook his head in warning.

With a sharp breath, Luke reined in his temper. “She is my wife and a noblewoman,” he said to the monk vying for her. The crowd fell quiet at his proclamation. “What’s more, she carries the heir to the house of Arundel. You will take care, monk,” he ordered.

In front of so many witnesses, the monk lowered his fists and gave a curt nod.

“I must take her now,” he said to Luke, almost apologetically.

Clasping Merry’s unconscious form a moment longer, Luke sought the strength to release her. As the cleric stepped forward, he relinquished her carefully into his arms, satisfied that the man would carry Merry gently whilst his clerical brother carried the rope, not needing to retie her. He watched them walk away, his heart in his throat. However, he was not so focused on her departure that he failed to hear the whispered remarks of those around him.

“Isn’t that the Phoenix?”

“Aye, looks like the witch has the king’s commander firmly under her spell.”

Ignoring them, Luke hastened after the monks and Merry, holding the door to keep them from ramming Merry’s hip into the casement as they left the great hall.

Father Bartholomew appeared at his elbow. “Lord d'Aubigny, you cannot go with them.”

Luke rounded on him. “How can I trust those idiots not to drop her into the moat? On purpose?”

Seeing the priest’s solemn face, he lowered his tone. “I’m sorry,” he added, searching for even a shred of his famous self-control. “Can you go after them? Please. See that she makes it safely back to her cell.”

“I will,” Bartholomew promised. “I will hesitate but a moment.”

Luke understood. The priest could not afford to show too much concern for the accused. He took a ragged breath, fighting for normalcy. Never had circumstances spun so far from his control.

“Tomorrow, it will go better for her,” Bartholomew promised, casting a nervous look about them. “I have taken the measures we discussed earlier.”

Luke nodded. He owed the priest already for casting the prioress’s testimony into grave doubt. Nonetheless, the second string of witnesses had managed to depict Merry as a strange and vengeful creature. Owen and Donald’s tales had stirred the imaginations of the crowd. Their absolute conviction that Merry was a witch was dangerously contagious.

Perhaps it was a good thing she had fainted, putting an end to their rambling and vicious testimony.

“You should rest,” said Bartholomew, regarding Luke with concern.

“Nay, there’s something I must do.” He put a hand briefly on the priest’s shoulder. “I thank you, Father,” he added. “Please go after her now.”

He waited as Bartholomew hastened from the hall, then headed in the same direction. His steps slowed, however, as he recognized two people fighting the tide of those who streamed out.

The Slayer of Helmsley had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the lintel. His wife, looking unusually unkempt in her wrinkled traveling gown, hurried before him. A young woman, obviously a nurse, followed behind with their youngest, Chauncey, in her arms.

Clarisse spied Luke first, giving him a silent, all-seeing inspection as they neared each other.

“We came as quickly as we could,” Sir Christian stated, his deep voice resonating in the passageway.

“Tell us what’s happened,” Lady Clarisse demanded without preamble or greeting.

Luke apprised them of the circumstances, and, for a moment, they all stood in silence while people squeezed by them, speculating aloud that the witch would be made to hang.

“What happens now?” Lady Clarisse demanded, her face pale.

“I go to see the king,” Luke answered. “A certain matter has come to my notice. It may persuade Henry to act on Merry’s behalf.”

Clarisse’s cat-like eyes flashed. “Why have you waited until now!” she demanded, causing her husband to put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Believe me, I have not rested since your sister was snatched from me,” Luke assured her. “I have spoken to the bishop, the priests, and all the barons living nearby. The king, though, has refused me an audience. Before I wed your sister, I was betrothed to his cousin,” he added, hoping they would see at once the predicament.

Apparently, they did. Mumbling her apologies, Clarisse looked away from him. An uncomfortable moment divided them.

Realizing they were still uncertain of his allegiance to Merry, he sought to convince them of his loyalty. After all, as far as they were concerned, he’d been forced to wed her, and this new trial would be a convenient means to rid himself of an unwanted wife.

His temples throbbed with sudden feeling. “I would have you know that I love your sister every bit as much as you do.” His voice quaked in a manner most embarrassing. “I will move heaven and earth to see her acquitted.”

To his surprise, Clarisse smothered a cry and threw her arms around him in a sisterly embrace. To his added consternation, as soon as she pulled back, Sir Christian gave him a friendly slap to his shoulder that moved him two feet and smarted like the devil.

“Oh, it pleases me to hear that!” Clarisse confessed, her countenance radiantly accepting. “I had so hoped and believed you loved her! I knew ’twas not a mistake to insist you wed her.”

“She will make you happy,” the Slayer added, sliding an appreciative glance at his wife, “if she is anything like her sister.”

“Da!” said Chauncey, whom the nurse was still holding.

If Luke weren’t still gripped with fear over the trial’s outcome and with dismay over Merry’s current condition, he would have more greatly enjoyed their acceptance of him. As it was, he was grateful for their tardy arrival. If they’d seen the way the monks meant to carry her out, Lord only knew what the Slayer and, even more likely, Clarisse might have done in the middle of the ecclesiastical court.

Still, ’twas a comfort to belong to a larger, loving family. Luke was no longer alone, fighting for his wife. Yet fight, he would.

“I needs must go at once,” he said, extricating himself.

“Would you care for company?” Sir Christian offered, looking eager for action.

Luke was more than grateful. “I would,” he nodded, thinking that the Slayer beside him would give Henry even more to think on. “Where are you lodging?”

“We know not, as yet.”

“I’ll take you to Winchester Castle before we ride to Clarendon. You can stay in my chambers.”

“Proceed,” said the Slayer. As a man of little talk and much action, he’d clearly grown impatient with their loitering.

Luke led the way out of the east hall and back across the moat, his newfound family trailing behind. Sparing a glance for the bishop’s prison, he pictured Merry back in her cell but refrained from mentioning her whereabouts to Clarisse, lest she demand an immediate rescue.

Then they would all be in neighboring cells.

With the grounds emptying rapidly, he located Erin and Suleyman without difficulty then waited with as much patience as possible for the Slayer’s impressive whirlicote, so large and heavy, it took four horses to pull it.

They rode swiftly across the bridge over a tributary of the River Itchen, then past the great cathedral, and straight to Winchester Castle on the crowded streets of the town. Seeing Clarisse comfortably ensconced with her babe and nurse in his chambers, Luke ordered Sir Pierce to guard them. Then the two brothers-in-law rode like the devil himself was on their horses’ heels, with only Erin in attendance, struggling to keep up. Too great a show of men riding to the king’s residence could be construed as a threatening gesture.

“I’ve been turned away from an audience with him half a dozen times already,” he warned Christian as hours later the tang of the sea teased their nostrils and Portchester Castle sprang suddenly into view.

“Do we fight our way in, then?” The Slayer reached for the helm that was balanced on his pommel as they approached the massive stone Roman walls separating them from the outer bailey. Guards peered out of the protruding defense towers and, recognizing Luke, lowered the drawbridge allowing them to cross the moat and enter the castle.

Guessing that Henry had received and pondered upon Derek’s missive, Luke nearly smiled. “Nay, I’ve a feeling we’ll be welcomed this time.”

The Slayer threw him a knowing look. They’d discussed much as they rode, including Amalie’s treachery and the discovery of the informant. As they entered Porchester’s defenses, Luke considered that either this would go smoothly or his life would change drastically.

Once within the bailey, they cantered to a halt. Luke spied the monastery still under construction in the far right corner, closest to the ocean, but doubted Henry would be there. Gesturing left, he directed them toward the inner bailey crossing yet another small moat before dismounting in the yard of the small keep that Henry called a “jewel.”

The king’s soldiers loitered on every wall walk and at every door, yet none sought to halt Luke’s progress, assuring him that Henry fully expected this visit. In the midst of the inner bailey, he and Christian entrusted their steeds to Erin and approached the main entrance.

As Luke predicted, the guards upon hearing his name swung the doors wide. The two warriors strode inside, and Luke could think only of how lovely Merry had looked when he’d taken her to meet their king, how high her hopes. How badly that had ended!

“This way, my lord.” One of the king’s personal attendants rushed forward to greet him. Stopping in mid-bow, the man eyed the height and girth of the Slayer before including him in his greeting and escorting them upstairs toward an inner chamber, a cozy room at the top of the tower where the attendant informed them Henry was taking his ease—as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Luke knew otherwise. Thinking he would introduce Christian as a brother, he would emphasize their eagerness to serve him and then . . . then, Luke would demand satisfaction. He would accept nothing less than Merry’s freedom, a complete absolution of any notion of heresy or witchcraft, and a signed apology from Mother Agnes herself would be welcome as well.

Dressed in a russet tunic that suited his coloring well, Henry stood at the far end of the solar, gazing out at the harbor and maybe farther, across the channel and toward his home in Normandy. He turned slowly at their entrance, took one look at the towering Slayer, and hastily stepped onto the wooden dais to sit upon his traveling throne, which he brought with him everywhere.

Luke smiled inwardly, easily reading the king. If Henry could not be at eye-level with Sir Christian when standing, the king made sure to remind them of his near-unlimited power by settling upon the symbol of his sovereignty.

Laying his hands upon the red velvet armrests, Henry eyed their approach with an expression that struck Luke as decidedly placid, calculatedly neutral.

He and Christian bowed low, while the king’s servant stated Luke’s name. Then, the page looked to the Slayer.

“I am Christian de la Croix of Helmsley, Your Grace. Brother by marriage to—”

“Yes, yes, we know who you are.” Henry waved further introductions aside. “State the purpose of your visit,” he said directing his gaze to Luke and drumming the fingers of his right hand.

To Luke’s practiced eye, the king, while seeking to appear bored, was actually quite tense. “Your Grace must have read by now a missive from your informant at Arundel? I delivered it myself on the way to my wife’s trial.”

Henry’s eyelids lowered. Regarding Luke though his stubby lashes, he said nothing.

The recollection of Merry’s limp form in his arms left Luke in no mood to play games, royal or otherwise.

“I’ll not mince words, my king,” he continued. “Your cousin, Lady Amalie by name, has been poisoning my grandfather. I am sure you want no public speculation on the matter.”

Henry’s color rose in opposing proportion to his narrowed eyes. “Lord d’Aubigny, you presume too much!” he blustered. “We are not a pawn to be positioned at will. We are your sovereign, by God, and you will show us due respect.”

Luke refused to be impressed by the king’s use of the royal “we,” even knowing Henry considered himself partnered with God.

“I have naught but respect for you, Your Grace,” he insisted, “for I know you to be a fair and just ruler. Your cousin, however, is a scheming murderess, who would do anything to claim Arundel for herself. If you do not help me, if you do not redress the wrong that she has perpetrated on my family, I will expose her.”

Henry set his jaw. Turning his gaze out the window toward the bountiful park, he seemed to consider Luke’s threat. Dealing with Amalie’s perfidy was nothing Henry would wish to be involved in. Bringing order to his realm, restoring the coffers that had been depleted during the long civil wars, and enjoying the hunt—those were his passions. Nothing of this tedious matter, nor even of Merry’s predicament furthered his goals.

At last, he turned back to Luke. “What would you have me do?” he demanded, lapsing into first person. “Think you that this matter with your wife involves me at all? ’Tis an ecclesiastical concern and one over which I have no say.” He effected a convincingly helpless shrug.

Luke struggled to keep one eyebrow from rising over the other. “Bishop Henry was appointed by a king.” He held his gaze to remind the king exactly who that was. “He can be removed by one, too, Your Grace,” Luke added.

“Bishop Henry was appointed by the pope!” The king raised his voice to contradict him. “Either way, I have no right to tell him how to conduct his court.”

“You have the authority—” Luke began to protest.

Henry pounded closed fists on both armrests. “I tell you I have no authority where this trial is concerned!” he thundered.

Luke knew he was treading dangerously. “Your Grace can send in a witness,” he said, keeping his tone calm and deferential.

“A what?” Henry asked, thrown off kilter by the odd suggestion.

“A witness, Your Grace, who will help dispel the notion that my lady is a witch.”

The king glowered suspiciously. “Whom did you have in mind?” he asked.

“Your physician,” Luke answered, confident of Merry’s ability to redeem herself if given half a chance. “Send Sir Guy of Gascony to the bishop with instructions that he is to question my lady on matters of healing. He is to be honest in his questioning,” Luke warned, “else I will expose his part in the poisoning of my grandfather.”

Henry’s jaw dropped. “My physician,” he repeated, “poisoning the Earl of Arundel?”

“Aye, “ Luke insisted. “’Twas Sir Guy’s recommendation that Amalie use a poppy syrup to treat my grandsire’s cough. Any poppy grown at my grandfather’s home is of the Oriental sort, highly potent.”

“How could he know that?” the king snapped.

Luke shrugged. This was a game of inference and intrigue. “’Twas possibly even his suggestion that Amalie use eastern poppy in order to gain Arundel. Some might think she did this on another’s behest, in order to retake land and property for the crown.”

Henry’s face clouded over at the intimation.

Sir Christian spoke up for the first time, pressing Luke’s advantage, “The barons will be distraught indeed to learn someone in the royal household is killing nobles for land.”

Henry’s slight freckles suddenly darkened against paling cheeks. With the participants of the crime so perilously close to him, it would be hard for anyone to imagine he’d had no knowledge of Amalie’s actions. For once, he remained silent, leaning back in his throne and crossing his stout arms.

However, Luke had nothing more to say either. The three men waited momentarily in silence.

“Very well,” Henry finally agreed, his gray eyes watchful. “My physician will testify. I hope you expect no more of me,” he added.

“If my wife is relieved of the charges, Your Grace, then nay, I expect no more. If by chance she is still condemned, then I will drag Amalie to the secular court that you are so efficiently reforming. Moreover, if my grandfather dies, I will see that she hangs.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, then added, “I trust, at such a time, Your Grace will not interfere.”

Henry uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. Ruddy color surged back into his cheeks, yet a glint of admiration shone in his eyes.

“I need your sworn fealty, Lord d'Aubigny,” the king admitted, as though Luke’s bravery reminded him of the strengths he valued in his vassal. “Your service to me must be without question.”

Luke returned his gaze impassively. “My fealty is not withdrawn, Your Grace. Yet.”

Even the Slayer gasped slightly at his bold threat, and Luke hoped he had not gone too far.

An awkward moment passed, then Henry sat back, tall in his seat, looking every inch the monarch, despite his youthfulness.

“Your family’s possession of Arundel remains intact,” he stated, clearly sensing the need to seal their relationship of liege and vassal to ensure Luke’s continued cooperation. “Consider it yours when Lord William passes. You will be the earl, and the title will go to your heir. Without question.”

Luke sketched the king a bow. He had been waiting to hear those words for over thirteen years. How ironic that he would have to qualify his acceptance now.

“Your generosity befits you well, Your Grace,” he replied, “but if my lady who is currently carrying my heir is not at my side, then I will refuse the responsibility of Arundel and of the service associated with it.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Henry’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

Beside him the Slayer made a choking sound as if he could not believe his ears. The battle that would ensue among the other earls of the court for the land would be massive. Chaos would break out, perhaps even a small war.

Henry searched visibly for his tongue.

“Christ’s toes, I don’t believe I heard you aright!” he roared.

“Your Grace has excellent hearing,” Luke assured him, unmindful of Henry’s shouting that was common when the king was in high dudgeon.

Henry gaped at him, clearly mystified by the workings of Luke’s mind. “You dare blackmail me!” he roared, pointing a jeweled finger at Luke and shaking it. “You who swore your fealty? You would go back on your oath?”

“I gave Your Grace good warning,” Luke retorted. He knew he should be quaking in his boots. He had spoken of surrendering his power, his influence, and the future of his offspring. Yet he felt nothing but satisfaction in rattling Henry’s cage. In proving the king, ultimately, had no authority over his heart and no control over his destiny.

His heart belonged to Merry, his queen. His future lay with her either at Arundel or, if she were condemned, then wherever they fled on the continent after he snatched her from the jaws of the Church. For one thing he knew with certainty, he would not let her perish.

He bowed his head slightly, waiting. In any case, Merry could no longer accuse him of playing puppet to a tyrant. He warmed at the thought to the point of smiling.

“Get out!” Henry thundered, gesturing to the door.

This was the second time he had been tossed from Henry’s presence. Sharing a rueful look with the Slayer, Luke bowed at Henry’s boots and backed out.

As he reached the door, Sir Christian said to their king, “So we will see Sir Guy at the trial on the morrow.” His words were pitched as a statement, not a question. At the same time, he clapped his hand on Luke’s shoulder, sending a silent message as to where his loyalties lay.

Henry risked losing two mighty warriors, not only one. His mouth knotted with frustration, but he did not deny the Slayer’s statement.

“You will,” he said at last, with utmost reluctance.

Bowing one last time, Luke and Christian exited without another word.

As they descended the stairs, Luke remarked with tempered optimism, “Well, that went as well as I could have hoped.”

“’Tis up to God what happens next,” the Slayer agreed.

In another minute, they’d found Erin and reclaimed their mounts. Riding past Portchester’s vast Roman-built outer wall, Luke’s gaze rose toward the clear, mellowing sky. Somewhere up in the vast heavens, his star was looking down on Merry, protecting her. Tonight, he would find it in the dark sky and make his most heartfelt wish ever.