Chapter Seven

 

Merry lifted the heavy plait off her neck and wished for a cooling breeze. Unlike the men, she could not strip off the tunic that she wore, and a constant stream of perspiration trickled both between her shoulder blades and her breasts. The sun glared down on the granite wall walk, making the crenellated shelves on either side too hot to sit upon. So Merry stood, with nothing to do, as soldiers swarmed around her, surrounding her in a thunder of ringing metal and flying stone.

She would be far more useful in the castle keep than out there with the men. Indeed not a one had let her even look at their scrapes from the day before, let alone treat them. Standing off to one side, she stayed out of range of the flying chips and shards. Only close enough to be called upon if needed, and to be forgotten until then.

The heat had sucked all the moisture from her mouth. Tiny grains of rock and debris had found their way onto her parched tongue. She longed for a cup of cool cider, but the Phoenix had yet to call a break. He and his men worked as she’d never seen anyone work before, hacking at the tower as if their lives depended on it.

Try as she might, she could not comprehend the purpose of creating a gaping breach in the outer wall. What if Malcolm, the current Scottish king, suddenly got the notion to invade England as his grandfather, David, had done? What if the Welsh decided to start trouble? How could Iversly defend itself without towers from which to volley arrows or pour hot oil over the attackers?

Surely, the Phoenix could see the folly in tearing down the baron’s stronghold. She imagined he was torn inside, for no thinking man could deem this a sane course of action. Yet he was bound by his duty—for how could a vassal disobey his king and not suffer terrible consequences?

Her gaze returned to him, standing shirtless and wielding a bludgeon with a sturdy metal head. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexed and rippled as he worked alongside his men, expending as much effort as they for a job that could be nothing but repugnant to him.

Furthermore, he seemed oblivious to his men’s complaints about her presence. From the moment Luke had escorted her up the tower steps, she’d suffered their glares. Clearly, they feared some imminent disaster while “the witch” was among them. Why would he cause them discomfort while also subjecting her to such scrutiny?

With a shake of her head, Merry cast a worried gaze toward the baron’s chamber. Despite the heat, its windows were tightly shuttered. She knew perfectly well why she had been made to stand there—so she wouldn’t tend the baron. Indeed, she hadn’t had time even to check on his condition after Luke roused her from a deep sleep at dawn.

The Phoenix had moved with extreme haste after shaking her awake. As she’d opened her eyes, he was already nearing her door, barking an order for her to get up and meet him outside. Then he’d vanished as if fearful of what might occur should he remain alone with her in her bedchamber.

She could take no delight in that, feel no triumph. Instead, she prayed Adelle had more luck than she in getting Lord Iversly to drink the infusion. What if the baroness had not succeeded and the stricken baron died?

Luke was correct, of course. It took little imagination for Merry to see how she could be blamed for the baron’s demise. She had come to that conclusion herself, or she wouldn’t be standing in the sun, sweltering and worrying and praying.

Wafting the tunic away from her body by tugging at the neckline, she directed her gaze over the wall to the wild hills in the distance. A line of dark clouds scored the horizon, promising eventual relief from the heat. Under her breath, she murmured a phrase that Sarah had taught her to coax the life-giving showers.

“Come rain to drench the ground, ’till all around the herbs abound.”

The soldier nearest to her pivoted swiftly, his pickax suspended in the air. “What’d ye say?” he demanded, a wildly suspicious look in his eyes.

With an inward groan, Merry recognized Cullin. She gave him a neutral look, yet unable to keep her gaze from sliding to the pink bumps that ridged his neck.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” she replied, experiencing subtle vindication. The hogweed had done its work, and then some.

“Aye, ye did. I heard ye cursin’ someone under yer breath. It better not’ve been me.” He took a menacing step toward her.

She backed away from him, relieved to see Luke wending his way toward them.

“Is there a problem?” the commander called, giving the man a dark look.

Cullin scratched his oily, sand-colored hair. Rings of sweat stained his undershirt beneath the arms.

“The witch just put a curse on me,” he muttered. “I don’t like her being close by.”

Merry was surprised to see a flash of raw anger on Luke’s face.

“In the first place,” the Phoenix replied in a voice as hard as the metal bludgeon he carried, “she isn’t a witch. Secondly, I don’t much care whether you approve of her presence or not. She is here by my request. Henceforth, you will call her Lady Merry. Is that clear enough?”

Through his stubby lashes, Cullin gave her a narrow-eyed glare. To his leader, he muttered a brief affirmative and turned his back on them.

Luke took Merry by the elbow and steered her some distance down the wall where she was less likely to incite that soldier’s superstitions.

“What did you say to him?” he demanded, frustration lacing his tone.

“Not a thing,” she insisted. Why bother explaining about her small prayer for rain. “I’m thirsty and I’m hot and I’m tired of standing here with naught to do but sweat!”

His fingers curled about her elbow, making her all too aware of his physical presence.

“Have a care in how you speak to these men,” he advised her. “Some are quite uneducated, especially the mercenaries like Cullin.”

“I told you, I said not a word to him!”

“Lower your voice.”

She wondered briefly whether it would gain her anything to provoke him at that moment. Nay, she decided, his control would hold in the presence of his men. Besides, if he did soften, they would only think she’d bewitched their commander, and their opinion of her would worsen.

Still, she caught him glancing at her mouth, and a thrill chased through her.

“Stay away from Cullin,” he repeated, taking a visible step back.

Ah, so he was tempted. She offered him a knowing smile then lifted her face to the breeze. Perhaps there was something to Sarah’s rain prayer after all, for the clouds had surged closer.

 

 

Luke scowled at Merry’s profile. God help him, he wanted to grab her and kiss her then and there, regardless of their audience. She knew it, too, little minx, smiling at him like that.

Fool! He berated himself. Kissing her the night before had been an impulse he’d immediately regretted. Somehow she’d provoked him into losing his temper—the same temper he claimed not to have. How dare she tell him to defy his king and leave his work unfinished! He’d kissed her merely to silence her, to make it plain that her judgments were unwelcome and presumptuous.

Yet he couldn’t get the taste of her from his tongue, and he craved more of it.

The realization left him shaken. Merry was the last sort of woman he should find intriguing. She embodied all that was impulsive and emotional, two tendencies he found disturbing and counterproductive to his success. Yet, for no apparent reason, he could not banish the memory of last night’s kiss. Nor could he deny his reckless desire to kiss her again.

Jesu! If he didn’t know better, he would say she’d cast a spell on him.

“Stay well out of the way,” he added, frustrated by his errant thoughts. He swiveled away, questioning his decision to bring her on the wall in the first place. Perhaps it was too late to protect her from accusation should the baron succumb.

He hadn’t taken four steps when the shouts of his men wrested his attention. “That bloody cat,” one voice yelled. “Get it off the wall!” another shouted.

Luke spotted Merry’s cat darting among the feet of his men as it headed toward him and its mistress. With a blistering curse, Luke moved forward, intending to scoop it up.

Finding himself pursued, Kit froze, turned, and scurried between the feet of another soldier still swinging his ax. Surprised by the brush of fur against his legs, the man took his eyes off his tool. Luke saw the inevitable consequence and watched helplessly, unable to prevent what happened next. The point of the pickax slammed straight into Philippe’s shin.

A roar of agony split the humid air, and at the same time, Merry gasped behind him.

The hulking mercenary from Poitiers dropped his ax as if it were a venomous snake and doubled over, his cap slipping from atop his sweating head. With another roar of pain, he collapsed onto his back, clutching his lower leg and cursing profusely.

Forgetting the cat that had disappeared at the commotion, Luke sprinted to the fallen man and went down on one knee. He examined Philippe’s leg where a bright stain of blood welled through the man’s breeches. Peeling the cloth from the injured leg, Luke felt it catch a moment. He peeked beneath it. Blazes! A shard of bone stuck straight through the man’s skin.

“Find Gervaise,” he ordered the closest man.

“Merde!” shouted the giant in agony. The beads of perspiration dotting his bald head became rivulets as he ground his molars together.

“Please, let me through. Step aside.”

Over the sounds of confusion, Luke heard Merry pushing her way through his men. They parted like long grass before a persistent breeze. The next moment, she kneeled opposite him sharing a glance with him before she gave her attention to Philippe.

Luke, like his men, eyed her mistrustfully. After all, she had practically been the cause of the accident.

“Gervaise will be here shortly,” he informed her, indicating that she need not tend to this particular injury.

Merry ignored him. “Someone fetch me an arrow or a stick!” she called. She studied Philippe’s wound, and Luke saw the color drain from her lovely face.

“Gervaise is coming,” he repeated. “There’s naught that you can do for him.”

Philippe groaned as a fresh wave of pain broke over him.

“I need a damn arrow!” Merry shouted, frantic to put him out of his misery.

The men drew back, some of them crossing themselves as if to ward off evil.

Luke was about to drag Merry away when someone handed her an arrow with the point broken off. She bent over Philippe and put a tender hand on his cheek.

“Bite down on this, sirrah,” she commanded him. “Do it now.”

Responding to the mixture of tenderness and authority, the giant opened his jaw a fraction, and she thrust the stick between his teeth, keeping him from grinding his molars to powder.

Several bystanders murmured their approval. Luke decided to let her continue.

Sweat still poured from Philippe’s head. Merry pointed at another soldier. “You, find me a flask of wine, or something stronger if you have it. Go, hurry!” She waved him away, and the man, perhaps fearing she might put a hex on him, scrambled to obey.

Merry met Luke’s gaze once more over the quivering body. “We need a large block of ice to keep the leg from swelling. Send a man to the kitchens to inquire,” she suggested.

“I’ll go,” volunteered a soldier standing nearby.

At that moment, Gervaise finally joined them, huffing from his long trek up the tower steps. “Ah!” he cried, throwing himself down beside the wounded man. He inspected the break with something close to glee.

“This will take some work,” he stated. He thumped down a satchel that gave a metallic ring and began to fish inside of it.

“Not here!” Merry cried, bristling with alarm. “Mary’s blood, this place is filthy! The man hasn’t even had any wine yet!”

Gervaise took immediate offense to her language. “You think to tell me how to do my work?” he shouted back. “I’ve been setting bones since before you came into the world naked and screaming!”

“Gervaise!” Luke interrupted. He did not appreciate the mention of Merry naked, for he could see the sudden interest in the eyes of the men who were no doubt picturing her bare body even then. “We do as the lady says,” Luke decided.

Just then a soldier handed him a wineskin, and he passed it to Merry who took it with a quick smile of gratitude. He felt better for putting his faith in her.

Tugging the arrow from the giant’s teeth, Merry assisted him to empty the wineskin. Philippe swallowed so eagerly that he scarcely spilled a drop.

“Give him another moment,” Merry begged. She stroked the giant’s chest, crooning words of comfort. She seemed oblivious to her captive audience. “And you’d best bring more wine.”

Luke glanced up at his men, wondering what they thought of her then. He wasn’t surprised to see the broad range of expressions on their faces, from hope to unabashed interest to wild superstition. She had the same effect on him.

 

 

At last Philippe’s eyelids drooped. He ceased to mutter profanities. Merry watched while Luke and two other men levered him off the ground.

The giant came roaring back to life, however, as they struggled to carry him down the steps and across the yard, all the way to his cot in the garrison. Once there, she arranged chunks of ice around his injured leg, under it, and on both sides.

“I could do more for his pain,” Merry said, staring at the gash and the bloody bone. They had cut away Philippe’s braies, revealing the extent of his injuries. Blood no longer leaked from the wound, thanks in part to the ice. “I need only find some Valerian or Mandrake.”

“He’s emptied two wineskins already,” Luke pointed out. “He’s a warrior, Merry; he can tolerate the pain. Look at his right hand.”

She noticed for the first time that Philippe was missing his ring finger. Clearly, he was no stranger to suffering. Revulsion clogged her throat as she considered what would happen next. If given time, she could make the man far more comfortable for what painful procedure was to follow, not to mention stave off infection. Yet she could not gainsay the Phoenix in front of his men.

Her gaze slid to Gervaise, who viewed her with obvious contempt.

“Get it done then. This is your area of expertise,” she deferred. She didn’t have to watch though. Stalking to the far side of the garrison hall, she stood before the blackened fire pit that would be lit later that night.

Hugging herself, Merry fought to quell the tremors that seized her. Queasiness roiled in her belly, but she refused to succumb. Healers did not lapse into shock every time they saw blood. She did, though, and nearly every time—a terrible failing that she hoped to overcome.

A roll of thunder then another drowned out the giant’s anguished moans as Gervaise worked to set the bone aright. The darkening sky caused uncertain light to seep through the narrow windows lining one wall. A similar disquiet settled over her as she waited for the hardest part to pass.

The soldiers had taken advantage of Philippe’s accident and the approaching storm to remain idle, for the time being. Most of them reclined upon their pallets. Erin carved a piece of wood. While the men ignored her for the most part, she felt their darting and accusing glances like pricking needles on her skin. She’d overheard one say that he would kill her cat if he found it.

Unexpectedly, a voice rasped in her ear, so close that Merry leaped away from it.

“So it was Philippe ye cursed wi’ yer words, was it?”

Spinning around, she found Cullin leaning against a center beam next to her.

“Ye called yer familiar ta sneak up on ’im and make ’im miss his aim,” the man continued.

“Don’t speak to me,” she muttered, stepping back.

“Why not?” he challenged, pursuing her. “Will ye do the same to me as ye did to Philippe?” He ran an insolent gaze over her boy’s attire, and Merry shifted, disliking the sly look that entered his slate-colored eyes.

“I didn’t curse Philippe,” she replied. “’Twas obviously an accident.”

“What about the packhorse fallin’ into the gorge and comin’ out alive? Was that an accident, too?” he taunted. “And what of the blisters on me neck and back? I suppose ye’ve got nothin’ ta do with that now, have ye?”

Merry glanced toward the far side of the room, hoping for Luke’s intervention. A fork of lightning split the sky outside, lighting the Phoenix’s handsome face for the briefest moment. He was bent over Philippe’s cot, keeping a close eye on Gervaise’s work.

A crack of thunder shook the stones under Merry’s feet. Looking at the oafish, cruel face of the man before her, she bit her tongue and kept her silence as Luke had asked, refusing this time to rise to Cullin’s taunts.

“Ye’d better watch yourself, witch,” he added in a silky undertone. “Or I’ll teach ye a lesson.”

Sweet Mother Mary, one more threat was all it took. She lost her control. “Stay away from me,” she warned, “else I will put a curse on you.”

His lips pulled back in a feral smile. “Ye already have,” he answered eerily.

He might have been referring to the hogweed, but his gaze fell to her breasts, pushed higher by her own arms, wrapped around herself to quell her trembling.

With a shiver of revulsion, Merry whirled away and approached Erin. When he paused in his carving and lifted a hostile gaze, she moved past him toward the only refuge in the garrison, under the wings of the Phoenix.

She found Philippe unconscious. The giant had passed out from the pain. Gervaise was busy at a washbasin, washing the blood off his myriad tools. Luke gestured to a pile of bandages. “Can you wrap his leg?” he asked her.

To her discerning eye, Merry thought Luke looked a little gray beneath his tawny skin, but his expression remained as unperturbed as always.

“Doesn’t Gervaise want to do it?” she asked, noting that the wound had begun to bleed from the tugging and reshaping of the leg. She swallowed hard and looked away.

“You may do it, lady,” Gervaise called generously. It was clear that setting the bone was the only part that held interest for him.

Merry glanced from the bandages to Philippe’s battered flesh. “I would like to make an ointment first,” she said, lifting pleading eyes at Luke. “Surely you’ve heard of knitbone,” she added. “’Tis excellent for healing broken bones. There may be live roots in the castle garden—”

“No ointments or potions or balms,” he answered, sounding weary. He pointed at the bandages. “Do you want to wrap his leg, or shall I?”

What Merry wanted was to knock him on the head and shout that knitbone was a common remedy used in any household. He didn’t have to fear that she would kill his soldier with a harmless herb, by heaven!

She considered marching out of the garrison door and heading straight for the herb garden, ignoring his refusal. However, the clouds outside had buckled, and rain pelted the cobbles in heavy drops. It would be difficult enough to locate anything in the pouring rain.

Instead, she snatched up the half-full wineskin that had been brought in case Philippe roused, and she doused his wound with it, ignoring Gervaise’s gasp. No doubt he hated to waste good wine. Luke remained silent and watchful though she was ready to snap at him should he criticize her. Vinegar would have been far better to stave off infection, but she dared not ask for even that.

With a heavy heart, she bandaged and wrapped Philippe’s leg with a vengeance, grateful that the giant had swooned and couldn’t complain about her rough treatment.

“Egg whites at least would have helped to close the wound,” she couldn’t help griping.

Moments later, she was surprised when the Phoenix squatted next to her. He nodded approvingly at her handiwork, then gave her a searching look.

“You look pale, lady. Are you well?”

At his words, she hid her trembling fingers and looked away.

“Of course,” she lied. She could feel the heat of his body, given his proximity. She knew an overwhelming urge to rest her head on his shoulder, to give over to his strength. The urge surprised her as much as his kiss had done the previous night. She had always relied on her own strength, not trusting another—certainly not a man—to comfort her.

He did not touch her, but he seemed to lean closer. “You kept your head when everyone else was seized with panic,” he added, his eyes alight with respect

Merry grew warm from the inside out. Suddenly, she was no longer weary but euphoric.

“Come,” he added, standing and extending her his hand. “It’s been a long morning. Let us join Lady Iversly for the midday meal. You can inquire after the baron’s health,” he added kindly.

With a backward glance at the sleeping invalid, Merry slipped her hand into his, reveling in the heat of his palm, the firmness of his grasp. It wasn’t only his kiss that pleased her.

 

That night her dreams were a tapestry of images, most of them gory. Toward the dawn, however, she dreamed of Luke, and the images of blood and bone gave way to better things.

He awaited her in the outer ward, standing on a bed of buttercups. He took both her hands in his, his eyes bright with admiration. Then he began to whirl her round and round, until they fell breathless upon the flowers.

He tied a blindfold over her eyes. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. She was not at all afraid of him. “Lie back.”

She reclined upon the fragrant carpet, and he kissed her, not merely her mouth but her neck and her shoulders, even her breasts. She felt suffused with warmth and pleasure. His mouth moved lower, and he blew his warm, tickling breath over the soft plane of her belly, which lay exposed to him.

He lightly licked her hip, her thigh. She felt no qualms about his slow seduction; instead, she opened herself, unfurling like a flower.

Suddenly, the blindfold was ripped from her eyes. To her horror, it wasn’t Luke looming over her but Cullin, the mercenary. He squeezed her breasts—though in the dream, there was no pain. He bit her shoulder. As he thrust her legs apart, preparing to ram himself inside of her, Merry cried out, and her own voice brought her awake.

Scrambling to a sitting position, she tried to banish the visions still in her head and calm the thudding of her heart. Still, a clammy sweat bathed her skin as she strained her ears for sounds of an intruder or anything amiss.

Then she heard it: a scraping against her sill, perhaps someone attempting to unlatch the shutters. Recalling the angry mood of some of Luke’s soldiers, Merry rose trembling from the bed and snatched up the poker next to the brazier.

Very slowly, she approached the window. Reaching out, she grasped the knob and yanked the shutter open.

A blue-black sky outlined Kit’s silhouette. He hissed and arched his back as she gasped and dropped the poker with a clatter.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here?” Plucking him from the sill, she lifted him against her, finding his fur was damp and cool. “Have they been chasing you?”

Casting a wary gaze outside, she saw only an empty yard. Kit must have leapt onto the kitchen roof, then picked his way along the narrow ledge to reach her second story window.

Closing the shutter against the night air, she carried the cat to her bed. The moment she placed him on the blankets, he began to purr. Slipping beneath the covers, she stroked the lingering fear out of him.

“Don’t worry, dear puss,” she promised him. “I won’t let them harm you.” With the throb of his purr in her ear, she fell asleep again.

 

“I’m lame and useless, lady. Je suis invalide,” Philippe murmured, fidgeting to get comfortable. “You shouldn’t have to stay with me.”

Merry glanced over at the soldier whose feet stuck out over the end of his cot. She had thought him asleep. Luke had brought her to him minutes before, charging her to change Philippe’s bandages while he and his men headed out to continue their labors.

From what Merry could tell beyond the closed shutters, the sun had yet to surmount the horizon, and already the men were back on the wall, splintering the peaceful quiet with the sound of their blows.

She put down her mug of watery ale, got up from the pallet where she sat, and leaned over his prone figure. “Believe me,” she assured him, “I would much rather tend you than stand on that wall feeling useless.”

He grunted by way of reply, and she had just decided he had lapsed back into sleep when he turned his head. The glow from the fire pit lit his blue eyes.

“Thank you for your care,” he said gruffly in this thickly accented voice. “Your touch is gentle.”

Another compliment! She stood still a moment, overcome with joy.

“Gervaise set the bone for you,” she said at last. “That part I couldn’t do. You were in a great deal of pain,” she added.

He lifted his disfigured hand into the air. “’Twas perhaps worse than when I lost my finger,” he admitted.

She looked at the space where his finger used to be. “How did that happen?”

“’Tis a long story.”

She ran a dry gaze around the empty garrison. “Have you other business to attend to?” she asked him.

Philippe laughed. “Nay. If you really want to hear the story, then I’ll tell you.”

Merry eased back onto the pallet where she’d been sitting—a mat of straw laid across a bench, out of reach of vermin that crawled in the rushes.

Philippe’s cot crackled as he propped himself up on one elbow. “You may not believe this,” he began, “but I was born a fisherman’s son!” He grinned so widely that his white teeth flashed in the dusky dawn. “We lived in Poitiers, my father and I, and we fished every day beneath the cliffs of Briand. In that castle lived the most exquisite woman I have ever seen—besides yourself,” he added, gallantly, making her laugh.

“Her name was Marguerite, and her father was the Count of Poitiers. To celebrate her seventeenth birthday, six months hence, he decided to host a tourney to determine who should marry his daughter.”

Philippe lowered his voice, conspiratorially. “I had seen the lady Marguerite many times walking the cliffs as I fished below. I was not a warrior then, only a fisherman. Still, I begged my father, ‘Sell our fishing boat, mon père, and I will win the lady!’ My father believed in me, so he bought mail and a horse in exchange for our boat. For half a year, I trained. I learned by watching others fight. At last, the time came for the tournament.”

“You invent tales,” Merry interjected, though she was enchanted by this one and by the lively manner in which Philippe told it.

“Nay, ’tis true! I swear it by my sword. I gave myself a title and forged the necessary documents,” Philippe continued. “You should have seen Marguerite, sitting with the spectators the day of the tourney. I can still remember her dress was silver and blue, her hair was gold. She was so beautiful that my heart forgot to beat. I swore she would be my wife, if I had to die to win her.”

“You would have made a poor husband, indeed, if you’d died on the field,” she teased. They both laughed.

“I began to fight,” he continued. “Without even growing winded, I made it to the final round with the greatest knights in France. I felt confident in my abilities, for it had been easy up until that point to unseat my opponents. Then the Duke of Orleans swept me off my horse, and I cut my forehead against my helm. There was so much blood in my eyes I could not see.

“Still, I fought, and the crowd began to cheer for me. In another instant, the duke severed the finger of my right hand—Mon Dieu, the pain was terrible!”

“What did you then?” Merry asked in a rush, imagining the scene for herself.

“Why, I moved my sword to my left hand, of course, which I continue to use to this day. I would not surrender, so much did I love my lady. Alas, I am only a man, and I ended the day flat on my back.”

Merry sighed with dismay. “Then you didn’t win her,” she concluded sadly.

“Not I,” he agreed, looking dismal for a moment. Then he brightened. “The greatest lords in France had witnessed my strength and determination. Many offered to be my liege, including the Count of Anjou, King Henry’s father.”

“So you went from being a fisherman’s son to serving royalty!” Merry marveled. “That is a tale worth telling.”

“A true one,” he swore. He gave a shrug. “So, here I am,” he added, with a hint of irony.

Merry clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry my cat caused you injury,” she apologized, quietly. “’Twas only looking for me.”

“Do not fret, lady,” the giant answered kindly. “An accident of my own doing.”

Merry noticed then that the room was growing lighter. “You’re a kind man,” she said. At once, she made a decision. “Moreover, you deserve better than to lie here in pain or to have your wound fester.”

“What choice have I?” he asked.

“Will you trust me?” She held her breath, looking at him. If he said no, then she would stop trying to heal or to help until she was away from the Phoenix and all his men.

Philippe barely paused. “Aye. I’ve seen you do naught amiss.”

She smiled. “Very well. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be back to treat you properly and change your bandages. If anyone should come whilst I'm away . . .,” she trailed off. Luke would be furious if he knew what she was up to.

“I’ll tell anyone that you went to the necessary.”

She blushed scarlet but nodded, grateful for his discretionary tactics. “I shall be as quick as I can.”

True to her word, Merry scrambled swiftly as if demons were chasing her. No demons, she thought, merely the notion that Luke might spy her and stop her before she could find what she needed. First, she went to the root cellar and grabbed three potatoes and then to the kitchen for a grater and a tureen of honey. There was no time for making anything with plant leaves or flowers, but if she spotted some hemlock, she’d take him a few leaves to chew.

Without incident, she returned to Philippe’s side in less than ten minutes carrying her treasures.

He frowned to see the potatoes and honey in the basket she’d borrowed. “Are you cooking something for me, ma petite?”

“No, sirrah,” she said with a laugh. “This root will help your wound heal splendidly.” Laying out a clean cloth, she sliced the potatoes onto it and then turned to him and unwrapped his leg. He moaned and winced at her touch.

Looking up into his blue eyes, she asked, “Is the pain terrible? I brought you something that will help you to ignore it.” She reached again into the basket and showed him three feathery green leaves.

“Aye, it’s bad,” he admitted, eyeing the greenery in her hand with seemingly equal amounts of curiosity and caution.

“Hemlock,” she told him quietly. “You can chew a very little and feel . . . well, you’ll feel a little out of your head, but you won’t care about the pain if you even sense it anymore.”

He nodded, looking thoughtful. “I trust you, lady, but I have no wish to be out of my head, as you say. I can bear it. Continue with your care.”

“Very well.” She thrust the leaves under his pallet. “They’ll be there should you need them.”

Carefully, she unwrapped the bandage from his leg. The bleeding, thankfully, had stopped. With a clean rag, she wiped the wound again while the giant looked on. Then, as she opened the tureen and ladled honey onto his injury, he chuckled.

“That’s a new one on me,” he said.

She shrugged, glad at least that he wasn’t still groaning. “It is truly wondrous for fighting infection,” she told him. The next treatment, to help the wound heal, would certainly entertain him. She layered the potato shavings onto the honey. Sure enough, he let out a guffaw.

“You must be jesting with me, lady.”

“Nay, ’twill help you heal. I promise.” She laid a clean cloth over the shavings to keep them in place. Then she wrapped fresh bandages around his leg, securing them tightly. To his credit, he only gave one grunt of pain.

“Your turn to tell a story,” he prompted when she finished her handiwork.

Merry looked away while wiping her hands clean. Threads of yellow light now illumined the rough cots, the woodwork on the beams, the whitewashed walls. The only stories that came to mind were ones she didn’t wish to relive.

“I haven’t got any to tell,” she equivocated.

The giant regarded her for a discerning moment, then nodded once. “No matter, for I have another,” he admitted cheerfully. “And this story is even better than mine: ’Tis the tale of the Phoenix and how he rose from the ashes.”

At the mention of Luke’s nom du guerre, Merry’s heart beat faster. He had featured in her thoughts all morning, thanks in part to the dream that had begun so pleasantly the night before.

“Not too many people know this,” Philippe began, his voice pitched low, “but he was born a bastard.” He darted a quick look at the door as though wary of being overheard. “His father was a crusader when Jerusalem was captured. He did not return home after that victory but remained with Godfrey and Baldwin, to protect the city from the Mohammedans. Even after Godfrey died, Luke’s father stayed in the East. He took a Saracen woman to be his mistress, and Luke came from their union.”

Merry was aware that her jaw had gone slack. At last she knew why he bore exotic features that marked him as neither Norman nor Saxon—he was half Saracen! His black hair and dusky complexion would have come from his mother.

“When Lord Luke’s father died of fever years later, the boy was forgotten,” Philippe continued. “He spoke the language of the Saracens; he lived among them, yet he was treated as an outcast. ’Tis said he was half-starved, at least, when his grandfather, the Earl of Arundel, found him on the streets of Jerusalem.”

“Was his grandfather looking for him?” Merry interrupted.

“Aye, he’d been looking for some time. With the death of his only son, this grandchild had become his heir. Lord Arundel brought the boy to England and civilized him. He taught him to read, both Latin and French. During the Second Crusade in which the Holy City was lost, he served as a translator.”

Marveling at Luke’s colorful past, Merry considered the commander anew. Would he ever be content to go home to Arundel on the coast of Sussex and live a peaceful life? “Will he inherit his grandfather’s title?” she wondered aloud.

Philippe’s eyes twinkled. “True, he is spurious, and there are laws, but he has both noble and common blood. And the father’s blood prevails in this case, or so promised our king to Lord Luke. Besides,” he paused to shrug, “no one knows, including Luke, whether his father married Luke’s mother. He may’ve done exactly that.”

Lying back, Philippe crossed his arms over his chest. “Our commander may be deemed nothus, but he is a lord all the same. Like William the Conqueror,” he finished with another chuckle.

“How did he end up saving King Henry?” she asked, picking up the cup she’d left unfinished and sinking once again onto the pallet nearby.

Philippe cleared his throat for dramatic effect. “The Earl of Arundel, being a supporter of Matilda, fostered young Luke to her half-brother, Sir Robert of Gloucester. My lord spent his adolescence in Normandy as Robert of Gloucester’s squire. ’Twas there he earned his famous name.”

Merry was aware that the garrison could fall to the ground around her ears, and she would stay put demanding that Philippe finish his tale.

“He was finishing his training at Castle Carrouges, where Matilda dwelled with her three sons. Henry and Geoffrey were the eldest, about ten and eight at the time. It had been a dry summer like this one, and one morning, when the cooks started up the ovens, the kitchens caught fire. All the fighting men, myself included, were called to put out the fire, but it raged on despite our efforts.

“At the same time, rumor spread that the young counts had last been seen in the kitchens, yet no one could find them! Henry and Geoffrey were missing!”

Merry clutched the earthenware cup anxiously, even though she knew both boys had lived.

“As the fire could not be overcome, we were told to stand back. The roof would collapse at any moment. Lord Luke ignored the danger. He ran into the building where we thought he would surely perish. It seemed a lifetime passed, and I thought he was done for. The fire roared higher. Though the roof held, we were certain everyone inside was dead. Then suddenly, he appeared, leaping through the window with his cloak on fire and a boy in either arm. He had risked his life to save them! If not for him, Henry would not be on the throne this day,” Philippe concluded, thumping his hand upon the bed frame.

Merry marveled at the tale. Luke had mentioned something of his bravery, yet his version had been far more modest. “He changed the course of history,” she reflected.

“Indeed, he did, ma petite.”

“Thus his sword has a phoenix on the hilt.”

Philippe nodded. “The sword was a gift from Matilda. He was knighted that very day. Henry named him commander soon after he gained the throne, and Lord Luke has been his most loyal vassal ever since.”

Merry looked down, surprised to find herself white-knuckling her cup. Philippe’s telling filled her with awe and pride and, strangely, regret.

“So you see,” Philippe summed up, “my lord’s story is a grand one, to go from nothing to nobility. Yet he will climb higher still—the Phoenix is betrothed, you know, to the king’s cousin.”

Betrothed! The news stripped the air from her lungs. An emptiness she couldn’t begin to name hollowed her out in the region of her chest.

Luke was engaged, and to the cousin of King Henry, no less! A woman whose royal descent would ensure the passing on of his title and mayhap bring greater rewards. A woman definitely worth holding onto.

Yet . . . he had kissed Merry.

How could he, when his betrothed awaited his homecoming? Unless he had kissed her merely to silence her.

She blinked hard, then stared down into the amber depths of her watered ale to avoid meeting the giant’s perceptive gaze. Had she misinterpreted the kiss entirely? Had she been the only one to enjoy it? What did she know of kisses, anyway? Very little, since prior to last night she had been the recipient of only unwanted kisses forced on her by lewd and filthy men.

The emptiness within her spread.

“Excuse me, sirrah,” she muttered, putting her ale aside and walking a short distance. Halfway to the door, she recalled Luke’s order that she stay put. Her gaze drifted toward the remains of the men’s early morning repast, an assortment of foodstuffs strewn upon a low table. She approached it, passing over the congealed pottage and dry barley bread before helping herself to a wedge of hard, white cheese. This she ate without tasting. Then she reached out for an apple, only to be distracted by the dirt still on the back of her hand, grime on her wrist, and a tear in her sleeve.

Her dismayed gaze drifted lower to the clothing she had worn since the day Luke rescued her. Erin’s braies boasted dirt at both knees. She knew there were grass stains on her bottom. A layer of trail dust had turned the blue tunic nearly gray. Worse, she hadn’t had time to wash her face or comb her hair that morning.

She lowered her eyes against the shameful notion of herself as desirable, even as heat burned a merciless path to her cheeks. How could she have thought even for a moment that she held sway over the mighty Phoenix? She was no more powerful than the roach that even now crept past the toe of her right shoe. Worse than that, she looked like a commoner, dressed as she was, and a boy at that! A filthy, troublesome boy.

Yet she was no boy. She was a lady! Her gentile father’s daughter.

“Philippe,” she said, turning a worried look on the giant from Poitiers. He had locked his hands behind his round head and had closed his eyes. “Can you manage without me for an hour or so?”

“Mais oui,” he said. “I was going to take a nap.”

“Is there aught I can get you before I go?”

“A jakes, if you can find one,” he muttered, blushing slightly. Merry fetched a pot from the bathhouse connected by a covered walkway to the garrison. Philippe looked away as she laid it beside his cot.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said, gaining only a nod

As she approached the door, he added softly, “Thank you, ma petite.”

Departing the garrison, she darted across the courtyard, expecting to hear a shout as someone espied her. If she made it inside, she would take the opportunity to gauge the baron’s response to her infusion. Then she would ask Lady Iversly for the gown the baroness had tried to foist on her two days prior—and lastly, she would beg for another bathing tub.

Why the desperate urge to improve her appearance? There was only one reason Merry would acknowledge even to herself. She had the memory of her father and the pride of the house of du Boise to consider. If Luke had dallied with her, she had only herself to blame. However, now that she knew he was pledged to another, she must remind him that she was, indeed, a lady, and not a witch or a boy, and certainly not one with whom he should trifle.

Not unless he wanted to be cursed once again.