Chapter Five

 

Huddled over the cat on her lap, Merry took comfort from Kit’s guttural purr as she tried to warm herself. The bottom of her feet burned, not with warmth but with shooting pangs that took her breath away. She’d put her back against a boulder in the hopes that its breadth would shield her from the wind that whistled down the hill and tugged at her meager clothing.

What a fool I am, she lamented inwardly. So much had changed in a mere five years, transforming the hills into a foreign country. The cold had caught her unawares. She had only her cat for warmth, not a cloak as Luke had wisely pointed out.

She realized how woefully she’d planned for her future.

Five years prior, the hills had been her refuge against Ferguson’s soldiers. The rocky terrain had seemed safe when compared to the threat his men had presented. Yet Luke was right to have tried to call her back, no matter how half-heartedly he’d done so.

She’d taken a last glance at his dark silhouette against the gate and, for the briefest moment, she’d pretended that he truly desired her return. Perhaps the sense of companionship she’d felt while sharing his saddle was something he’d experienced as well.

Then she’d moved quickly down the steep road and if he’d called her again, she hadn’t heard it over the gusty gales. He had been glad to see her go, no doubt. As he’d said, he could continue with his mission without the inconvenience of her person.

Yet why had he challenged Edgar, coming to her rescue like a bare-chested savior? What a novelty to be defended! Still, once Edgar was subdued, Luke had been all too willing to wash his hands of her.

Betrayal spread through her, as bitter as wormwood. She shuddered from the cold, struck to the core by the depth of her isolation. From family, from friends, from any community whatsoever—why, she even missed her fellow sisters in misery at the priory.

Be strong, she counseled herself. Though welcomed by her mother, Jeanette’s fear had been palpable and unsettling. Quite clearly, she had wanted her daughter gone, be it for Merry’s safety or for that of the people at Heathersgill.

Moreover, her younger sister not being in residence had been a disappointing blow. Perhaps Katherine had become too strong-willed for Sir Roger to manage. Merry smiled slightly. Aye, Katherine was a wild spirit. Perhaps she should go to her in York, and the two of them could find a way to eke out a living?

The fantasy died quickly. The presence of the Church was overpowering in York. Pausing in her soothing petting of Kit, Merry acknowledged silently that she’d had no real concept of how it would feel to be hunted for a reward. To be prey. Her ears pricked to every sound. When two deer dashed from a thicket, crossing her path and disappearing, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Eventually, someone would find her. It was inevitable, and nd she had no wish to drag her younger sister into the danger of being in her company.

Only Lord Luke with his armed warriors joined under his mighty Phoenix herald seemed capable of shielding her from persecution. Yet she didn’t need him either. Come morning, if she hadn’t already frozen to death, she would gather more elderberries for her feet, then by the dawn’s first light, she would seek out Sarah’s rock-hewn cottage and avail herself of the goods that were hopefully still there—crude tables and chairs, cooking utensils, bottles of herbs and powders. She would strike a fire for warmth and make herself a home.

With such a vision to give her courage, Merry closed her eyes and dreamed of her life to come. Indeed, she knew she was dreaming when Sarah stepped between the rocks and settled beside her, folding her in the warmth of her woolen mantle. The scent of tansy, pine, and wood ash clung to her, making her presence seem real.

Merry, you mustn’t try to live like me, Sarah cautioned, her voice scratchy with age. ’Tisn’t your path to walk.

Merry gloried in the warmth pouring from her mentor’s cloak. I want to be good like you, she argued with the gentle soul. I want to heal the sick.

You will, Sarah promised, but not here.

There’s no place for me but the hills, Merry lamented.

Yes, there is, Sarah insisted. With he who saved you. Go to the cart road at dawn.

She knew then her dream was her own desire. To see Luke again. To feel safe as she did with him. He doesn’t want me either.

Mayhap, Sarah conceded. Even so, he needs you, my child. Without you, he will surely come to harm.

Suddenly, there was no one beside her but Kit, rubbing his head against her, mewing loudly, while the word harm echoed in her ears.

Merry started awake, her heart pounding fast. The silvery glow on the tops of the rocks surprised her. She’d slept through the night. It was dawn already, the clear sky bringing the promise of fair weather.

She rose on shaky knees, asking herself if her dream were mere hallucination or a sign pointing her toward her fate. The Phoenix coming to harm? She found she couldn’t stand the thought, not when he’d saved her already more than once, not when she’d neglected to thank him.

Making a sudden decision, Merry called Kit to follow and hastened in the direction of the ravine. The soles of her feet protested only mildly. Thank the saints, for if she meant to intercept Luke on the cart road, she would have to move with haste.

 

 

Luke scratched the back of his neck in a vain effort to appease the prickling there. Leaving Heathersgill without volunteering knowledge of Merry’s whereabouts left his stomach aching.

The distraught countenance of Lady Jeanette had nearly been his undoing that morning. He’d felt a confession burn repeatedly toward his tongue, but he’d swallowed it, saying nothing, even when the scouring of the castle, both inside and out, had failed to yield any sign of the young woman.

Everyone assumed someone had kidnapped Merry for the reward money, and all signs pointed to the gatekeeper, who’d fled during the night. No doubt Edgar left to avoid Luke disclosing how the man had tried to exchange the daughter of his mistress for common coin.

For Luke’s part, he was glad he didn’t have to look at the man’s glowering face or, worse, hear him accuse Luke of the very same plot. Instead, a young lad of sturdy build opened the gate and, after Luke and his well-rested men passed through, closed it once more upon the troubled household.

With the fruitless task out of the way, Luke attempted to banish Merry from his thoughts. He could hardly fathom that he’d brought her all the way there only to have her flee. Still, as he led his men down the sinuous road, he caught himself peering hopefully around each bend. He eyed the sky in dread of buzzards and turned his head quickly toward the slightest sound.

Either he was glad to be rid of her or he wanted her back. Which was it? He clenched his jaw in self-disgust. The memory of her moss-green eyes haunted him. Her herbal scent clung to his shirt, tormenting him with the agonizing possibility that she was already dead.

Forget her, he commanded himself. He had enough matters weighing on his mind without having to wonder whether a woman could survive in the Cleveland Hills alone.

Yet as they approached the foot of the great hill with still no sign of her, his dismay grew heavier with every step Suleyman took. They’d passed beyond the point where Merry might still intercept them. He frowned. Likely, she was safely in the woods she knew so well, in hiding . . . cold and hungry.

God’s wounds! With fingers that shook, he rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to pull himself together.

He had just lowered his hand when the head of a horse came into view round the next curve. Not Merry, he told himself, unable to squelch a flicker of hope. Yet as the rest of the road grew visible, he realized that it was, indeed, Merry.

Joy leaped up in him, unbidden. He spurred his own mount to a gallop and drew alongside her, nearly spanning the space between them to take her in an embrace. Though her hair was disheveled and shot with grass, he could see a light shining from her eyes, a sparkle that he hadn’t seen before. And her cheekbones were like ruddy apples as though she’d ridden hard to greet him.

He could not restrain the smile that seized the edges of his mouth. To his astonishment, the lady returned his gaze with a dazzling smile of her own, causing the breath to catch in his throat.

“Where did you get the horse?” He blurted the first words to come to his lips, as his soldiers caught up to them.

“’Tis yours.” She leaned forward to pat the mare’s neck. “I found her in the ravine. She is barely injured, save for some scratches to her rump and a slight limp. I was sorry to have to ride her, but I didn’t want to miss you.”

After that brief explanation, she bit her lower lip, looking uncertain. Perhaps she thought he might rescind his offer.

He should have recognized the animal’s markings or at least the satchel on its back, but he was fully distracted by Merry, who sat there before him when he’d thought never to lay eyes upon her again. He could not seem to tear his gaze from her white teeth biting into her full, lower lip.

“Sir Pierce!” Luke finally called, turning to face his astonished field marshal. “Look, ’tis the horse we lost last night. Lady Merry found it in the ravine.”

A murmur of amazement rippled down the file of soldiers. The men urged their mounts closer in order to inspect the horse, more than a few raising their eyes to assess the rider as well. Merry grew visibly uneasy at the attention.

“She must be a witch to raise a horse from the dead,” said one of his men.

Several others chorused their agreement, “Aye, a witch.”

Merry, who’d been accused before, kept silent, though the color seemed to leech from her face. Luke could only roll his eyes at such ignorance. How easily the seed of superstition could root and flourish. This particular seed, though, could be very dangerous, and he was determined not to let it flower in his ranks.

Hauling on Suleyman’s reins, Luke turned about to face the small group. Leveling a glare at the guilty soldiers, he issued a warning,

“I will tolerate no such talk! Is that understood?” He paused, locking eyes with as many individuals as would meet his gaze, one by one. “’Tis by the grace of God alone that the horse lives. You should thank this lady that we have not lost our pack of supplies.”

Absolute silence followed his declaration. The men regarded him in wonder. It wasn’t like him to rail or rebuke. He always left that to Sir Pierce, while he himself remained their cool and levelheaded leader. However, he didn’t regret his display of uncharacteristic high dudgeon one bit.

He turned abruptly toward Merry, in full control again. “I thank you for the horse. I’ll send a rider back immediately to your family with news that you’ve been found.” Then, in a brisk tone of displeasure, he added, “Your mother was sore distressed by your absence.”

Her eyes darkened as if bruised, and he suffered instant remorse for chastising her. Jesu! What a cur he was to scold her when he’d been the one to open the gate for her to flee—yet her mother’s fear had been raw and palpable, and contagious. Certes, his own worry that she’d succumbed to the elements had something to do with his lingering irritation.

Dispatching a man back to Heathersgill with the news she’d been found, he then looked at the sky, closed his eyes a moment for guidance, and made up his mind what to do next.

Turning to Sir Pierce, he told him, “We must to go to Iversly directly. When we are done there, we will convey Lady Merry to Helmsley on our way south, and not before. We can afford no more delays.”

Merry acted as though he’d spoken to her. “Then you’ll take me with you?”

He turned to meet her watchful gaze, noting the light in her eyes returning.

“Aye, but time is important to me.”

“I won’t be a burden to you,” she promised in a rush. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

He hid his skepticism behind a bland nod. “You’ll have to ride with me if that horse has a sprain,” he said. “Erin, add the mare’s bundle to your pack.”

No sooner had he issued his command than he found Merry had slid off the horse, landing lightly on her feet despite her injuries, and extended a hand to him. Clearly, she meant to cooperate, a welcome change.

He frowned, wondering what had happened during the night to alter her thinking. Still, he reached for her, pulling her up to sit before him. Immediately, the agitation that had plagued him all morning quieted, though it took every bit of willpower not to put his arms around her and bury his nose into her fresh-scented hair.

“Where’s the cat?” he asked, scrambling for aloofness.

She cracked her bundle so he could peek inside.

“Ah,” he said, strangely glad she still had her beloved pet.

“Where’s your mail?” she countered, resting her palm on his unprotected thigh.

The touch of her hand brought him to instant awareness.

“Still missing,” he said, prodding his horse into movement. He needed to unleash his sudden energy with a vigorous ride. “Hold tight,” he warned. “I mean to make good time.”

With that, he spurred Suleyman into a trot then a cantor that sped them ahead of his army.

They rode in silence for a long while.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him eventually, when the sun had risen a few degrees. She reached into her bundle and pulled out a loaf of bread sprinkled liberally with cat hair.

“Thank you,” he declined, “but I ate before the terce bells at your family’s home.”

With a shrug, she picked off the ginger-colored fur and bit into the bread with gusto. A comfortable silence fell between them, filled by the rhythm of the horse beneath them and the thunderous echoes of the rest of the horses behind them. A swallow and its mate swooped by, catching insects in their open beaks. The sun burned away the last hint of chill in the air, leaving it fresh and warm.

An unexpected heaviness against Luke’s chest brought his gaze down. Merry had nodded off to sleep, a crust of bread still clutched in her pale hand. Her head lolled to the side so that her cheek rested against his heart.

Tenderness brushed him unexpectedly. He kept his horse’s pace steady so as not to disturb her sleep. A small smile tugged at his lips. How childlike to fall asleep in his arms! Yet the way her breasts swayed beneath Erin’s tunic left no doubt she was a woman fully grown—fortunately, unaware of her effect on him.

His smile died. Surely his decision to take her to Iversly wasn’t motivated by desire for her? By wanting to spend more time in her company and perhaps even . . . ? He scowled at the disturbing thought.

Nay, of course not. The need to get quickly to Iversly was very real. Besides, he wasn’t a callow youth ruled by his cravings. He could find the lady desirable and never give in to the urge to caress her or to kiss her, though the thought of doing so quickened his pulse and brought a hot prickle to his skin. He remembered how he’d caressed her skin almost against his will, and his self-confidence wavered.

What if he weren’t as disciplined as he believed? Perhaps he’d best keep his distance from her. Yet as long as they shared a saddle, that was impossible. The only alternative was to let her ride with another of his men. He discarded that option as quickly as it occurred to him.

Already, his soldiers half-believed her a witch. Superstition rode hand in hand with ignorance, especially for men so far from home. Luckily, their fear of her as a devilish creature had caused them to overlook her shapely beauty. For the time being, at least!

Nay, Luke trusted no one with her but himself. He knew he could resist her charms. It was Amalie he wanted—not for her body but for her royal bloodlines, blood that would cleanse the taint of his illegitimate birth, ensuring that his grandfather’s title pass through him to his children.

He had only to keep his focus on his ultimate goal, and Merry would cease to tempt him. After his work at Iversly was done, he would deliver her to Helmsley and into the care of the Slayer, forgetting her from that point on.

He wrapped his thoughts into that tidy notion, like a baby swaddled in a bunting, and stowed them away.

Merry awakened the same moment the horse beneath her stilled. She sat up quickly, bumping the Phoenix’s chin.

“Shhh, be still,” he whispered, touching a hand to her shoulder.

Her eyes widened at the warning. A quick sweep around her revealed that they had paused in a dense copse of trees. Hemlock pines encircled them on all sides, shrouding their group of riders in shadow.

Had they stopped to water the animals? She strained her ears for the sound of running water, but all she heard was an eerie silence, punctuated now and then by the snapping of twigs, the crunching of pine needles.

Fear rippled through her as her imagination took flight. Any moment, thieves or murderous outlaws would step from behind the trees. Others would swing down from the branches overhead with the intent to attack the royal forces.

A sudden drumming of hooves shook the forest. Merry gasped in alarm and gripped Luke’s thigh with one hand, her bundled cat with the other. He looped an arm around her shoulders, but made no move at all to raise his sword. A ferocious growling rose above the thunderous sound, raising the hair on her neck and arms, and then a beast hurtled through the undergrowth toward them, long snout thrust out, eyes rolling with terror.

On thin legs that churned desperately beneath its large body, the boar tore by. Five men on horseback followed closely behind, the riders bearing spears.

It was a hunt, not a human attack. Merry heaved a sigh of relief and slumped against her companion, her skin clammy.

Roaring loudly, the boar turned, tearing up the bed of pine needles as it retraced its path in a desperate bid to escape the snare of horses closing around it. One hunter leaned low as it passed and lanced the boar along its spine.

The animal gave a tortured scream but kept running. The spear went with it, wagging obscenely from its torn flesh.

Another hunter met the boar head-on and aimed his weapon with more care. As the beast darted forward, the man sent the pointed spear plunging deeply into the animal’s neck. A fountain of blood spurted out. The boar stumbled but kept its footing, squealing in agony and terror.

Merry watched, unable to look away. Blood pumped from the animal with every beat of its heart. It tried to run but couldn’t make its feet move. In defeat, it collapsed, weighing twenty stone or more, still bellowing.

Images flickered through her mind. Her father’s body, lying in a broken heap, severed at the neck. The blood coming out in great spurts. And Ferguson, wiping her father’s blood on her father’s own tunic before sheathing his sword. The Scot’s lust-crazed eyes raising to rake over her ashen-faced mother.

“Nay,” Merry whispered, willing the memories to recede. Her stomach roiled, and bile rose up her throat. She swallowed convulsively, sucking in a deep breath in hopes that the nausea would pass.

The second hunter dismounted. As he yanked first one, then the other spear from the boar’s corpse, the sound of tearing flesh tortured Merry’s imagination. She turned her head away, panting more quickly for fresh air. The stench of blood—and death—hung thickly in the grove. She needed to escape it.

“Lady?” Luke’s query seemed to come from a distance.

Merry shook her head. Moving too quickly to be stopped, she slipped from the saddle and dropped her bundle, deaf to Kit’s startled cry. She dashed behind the nearest tree and retched up her meager breakfast. Gasping, she waited for her queasiness to subside.

“Merry!” Luke called.

God’s mercy, he was following her! Wiping her mouth, she hastily turned, realizing belatedly that the eyes of the entire regiment were upon her. Some soldiers looked perplexed, others sympathetic, and still others glowered with suspicion.

Luke approached her. With a frown of concern, he took her by the elbow.

She wished the ground would swallow her. She didn’t like revealing weakness, having found that others were always quick to exploit it.

“I'm fine,” she said tightly, tugging free of his hold.

Trudging back to the horse, she kept her gaze deliberately averted from the boar’s body.

“We needed meat,” the Phoenix explained, coming up behind her. “’Tis rude to appear at a stronghold with fifty men and no way to feed them.”

She glanced at him sharply. His searching look made her wonder if he’d guessed the source of her distress. Exactly how much did he see with those tawny eyes of his?

He offered her his canteen of finest leather, and she sipped from it, first rinsing out the sour taste and spitting as delicately as she could, then drinking gratefully of the clean-tasting ale. Then as Luke helped her climb into the saddle, Merry clearly overheard one soldier say to another, “The boar’s spirit entered her body. ’Twas a demon possession.”

Her head whipped round to hear his final words, “No doubt ’tis the reason she fell ill.”

His companion said nothing, though she watched him nod in agreement.

Merry dropped her chin to her chest, wishing she could block the ugly words. Why did others continue to think her a witch? She’d done nothing wrong . . . not for a long, long time at any rate.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the Phoenix pivot, and to her astonishment, he stalked toward the guilty soldier who remained on horseback, silent and staring. Grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, Luke hauled his face down level with his own. Merry strained to hear what was said, but he spoke barely above a whisper. The man paled and nodded his head vigorously.

Whatever warning Lord Luke had given him, the man appeared to take it to heart. Yet, the moment his commander released him and turned away, the soldier sent a warning glare at Merry. Quite obviously, he blamed her for his humiliation.

With a prick of fear, Merry looked away. How long could the Phoenix keep her safe? His protective wings extended only so far.

When he finally dropped her off at Helmsley, like an unwanted infant on a doorstep, who would protect her then?

The Slayer whom she’d foolishly cursed? Or would he turn her from his castle as Sir Roger and her mother had done?

She heaved a troubled sigh. Her future seemed so uncertain.

Moreover, what of Sarah’s words that Luke would come to harm without her? Was that truly a forewarning, or had it been merely a fanciful dream?

Sir Pierce supervised the stringing up of the boar in short order, until once more, the army was on the move.

With Luke once more in the saddle behind her, she thought of how much time he’d already spent—or wasted—since saving her from the stake.

“I’m sorry I’m a burden to you,” Merry apologized, as they shot forward through dappled sunlight.

Her companion said nothing, though she was certain he had heard her. Her heart grew heavy. She’d wanted some assurance that she wasn’t too much trouble after all. Apparently, he couldn’t give her even that.

An hour later, they stopped to water their horses. Merry sought a private place in the woods to relieve herself. Distracted by a glen of wildflowers, she dallied a moment to weave herself a crown of chicory blossoms.

Heading back toward the horses, she stumbled quite by accident upon the same soldier who’d received Luke’s reprimand. He was pissing against a tree.

Mortified, she froze, hoping he’d finish and leave, but he glanced up and spied her.

“Your pardon,” she muttered quickly, rushing to pass him.

Before she did, he drew his lips back in a smirk and stroked his member lewdly, enjoying her horrified expression.

Merry hastened toward the horses, ears pricked to the sound of pursuit. Fool, she reprimanded herself. She should not have wandered so far from the others. Still, why should she always live in fear? Her heartbeat quickened not only with the certainty that the man intended her harm, but also with anger that he continued to taunt her despite his commander’s warning.

Everywhere she turned, there were villains who preyed upon the weak. She thought of Ferguson and the prioress, and her anger grew until she was shaking with it.

She would ward off the soldier as she’d done Mother Agnes, but what herbs did she have at her disposal? Toxic plants abounded in these woods, yet most of them required preparation and she had no time.

Her gaze fell upon a large growth of hogweed, with its white flowers warning any careless passersby away. Snapping off a few pieces with care, she carried it swiftly toward the stream where the horses stood with their noses to the water. Soldiers milled aimlessly. Most of them made a point to avoid her, no doubt thinking of their commander’s warning.

Luke and Sir Pierce were bent over a leather map, determining the best route to Iversly.

Merry approached Suleyman and took an apple from her bundle. She ducked beneath his head and moved downstream to the offending soldier’s horse, finding the animal by its markings.

Lifting the flap of the man’s saddlebag, Merry squeezed the plant stems, releasing sap onto his cloak, careful not to touch the substance herself. If all went as planned, the sticky sap would cause a painful burning sensation and raise slow-healing blisters on the soldier’s neck and wherever else the cloak touched his skin.

Satisfied that she’d done something to defend herself, she tossed the crushed stems aside and fed her apple to his horse before wading back upstream. Ducking under Suleyman’s head, she came face-to-face with the Phoenix. She stifled a gasp but failed to hide her dismay at coming upon him so soon.

His eyes narrowed as he took in her guilty expression. “What have you done?” he demanded without preamble.

His cold tone froze the blood in her veins. “Naught,” she said, clutching Suleyman’s neck for protection. “I shared my apple with the horses, ’tis all.”

His gaze flickered toward the other mounts. He took a step forward, pinning her against his horse’s side. With the huge animal at her back and an unyielding man before her, Merry’s heart thumped with fear.

“Lady,” he warned, his voice low and lethal, “’tis enough that I let you bring your cat with you. Do not make me regret bringing you along by doing something impulsive.”

She tried to hold his burning gaze and failed. She focused a moment on the deep tan of his thickly corded neck before her gaze drifted sideways. At that moment, a butterfly nearly landed on his horse’s ear before floating away, and she watched its light and easy progress with envy.

He sighed. “Did you hear anything I said?” His tone dripped with frustration.

A flash of anger gave her the courage to meet his gaze. “You’re not the one they say is possessed!” she told him fervently.

Understanding warmed the frosty quality of his gaze. “Let it go,” he told her, speaking more gently this time. “I will protect you from men like Cullin.”

She marveled at his perception and gave him a considering look, wanting badly to believe him. ’Twould be a marvelous thing not to have to glance over her shoulder in fear. Yet Luke couldn’t always be near enough to guard her even during the short time they would keep company. His duties would take him from her.

“Please,” he added, surprising her with a request, “do not inflame their superstitions. You are not a witch, nor I doubt a heretic. You are simply a lady. Do you but play that part, and the soldiers will forget their foolishness.”

She swallowed hard, thinking of the sap on Cullin’s cloak, and she knew a sudden urge to confess her guilt. Except then the Phoenix would think worse of her, and she found she didn’t want that. Deciding to keep her transgression private, she offered up a simple nod of compliance.

Without warning, he lifted his hands to her head, straightening her crown of flowers, which had slipped to one side. Merry held perfectly still, savoring the gesture. It was only a token of understanding, yet it had the power to suspend her breath.

“You look like a wood sprite,” he said, with the ghost of a smile playing about his comely lips. Then he swiftly removed his hands. With a sudden frown, he turned away and marched into the midst of his soldiers, calling for them to mount up. They would reach Iversly by nightfall, he vowed.

As they continued west, setting a pace that rattled Merry’s teeth, Luke’s words echoed in her head, giving her much to think about. Please, do not inflame their superstitions. You are not a witch. The soldiers will forget their foolishness.

Would they? She wasn’t a witch, true enough. However, she was a trained healer, and healers were often blamed when illness struck or sickly babes could not be made to thrive. ’Twas a hazard of the practice.

With the clarity of hindsight, she realized she should not have put the hogweed in Cullin’s saddlebag. Lord Luke was correct. If the soldiers guessed that she had done so, they would anger, for certes, and call for her punishment. What if they rose to mutiny against the Phoenix in order to turn her over to the Church? Oh, mercy, would she never learn?

She thought of Sarah. Healers inflicted suffering on no one, the wise woman had told Merry one day when teaching her to create a poultice to reduce a young man’s fever.

Merry nearly shed tears over her own foolishness. Henceforth, she swore to use her skill for good alone, in the meantime counting on the Phoenix to protect her, as he’d promised.