Chapter Fifteen

 

Merry could scarcely breathe beneath the burlap sack covering her head. Terror clutched at her heart though she knew herself to be safely in the presence of her husband and his men. She’d have preferred a gag, loosely tied. However the sack, she’d overheard the Slayer say, was to prevent her from giving the “evil eye” to those who would witness her departure; in that way, she could not be further blamed for circumstances beyond her control.

Merry saw the sack more as a token of revenge. Her brother-in-law was not a man who easily forgave, and ever since she’d cursed him at his own wedding feast, their association had been less than friendly.

However, in this case, she accepted that he was helping her, even if only at her sister’s urging. Sir Christian had broadcast the rumor that she would be taken into custody by the king’s own army and, indeed, Luke’s remaining soldiers, thirty-six men, had descended on Helmsley the day before to lend credence to the tale.

Seated on the back of a horse, Merry remained still, her hands tied with a rope so thick and coarse that it chafed her wrists and caused her no-end of fearful recollections as to the last two times she’d been similarly bound. Yet the cruel rope served its purpose, reinforcing the illusion that she was being led away as a captive.

Sightless, motionless, with naught to do but think, Merry attempted to imagine her new life at Arundel, by her husband’s side. However, a certain fragility had overtaken her heart. Having overheard Sir Pierce report to Luke that the west tower at Iversly had been left standing as ordered, she’d tried to thank him for his kindness. To no avail. Luke had turned away at her first mention of Iversly, refusing to discuss the matter. His surly reticence seemed another sign that he harbored regret for ever having saved her in the first place, let alone having wed her.

“’Tis time, Merry.”

She roused to the present by the sound of his voice as he lifted the sack. Luke gazed at her from his saddle. “Remember, this will all be over soon,” he encouraged, though she could hear the tension in his tone. “Whatever happens, stay mounted. I’ll be watching over you, I promise.”

She reached for him automatically, but the heavy rope jerked tight around her wrists, preventing her. In addition to the rope, which marked her as a prisoner, her hair had been left to hang loose so that her identity as the hunted heretic would not be in question.

With one last, troubled look at her, Luke pulled the sack snugly over her head. Merry listened to the sound of Suleyman’s retreating hooves carrying Luke from her and a chill settled over her skin.

“Good-bye, sister!” It was Clarisse and Katherine, reaching up to clasp her hands, even though they’d already hugged and exchanged endearments numerous times.

“I shall write you!” Clarisse promised for the second time.

“I shall visit one day,” Katherine added on a tearful note.

Merry clung to her dear family, regretting that her mother had not been able to conquer her fears long enough to attend her wedding.

“Remember me,” she told them, her voice muffled by the sack. “I shall miss you both. Tell Mother I am safe . . . and happy,” she added, though that was far from the truth.

The horse lurched forward, and fear stabbed at Merry, for she knew the life she had known was over. She was going so far south, she might not see her family again for a long time, if ever. Indeed, while the future held new promise in the form of her unborn babe, the uncertain bond with Luke cast a dark shadow before her.

The sound of the drawbridge lowering merged with her sisters’ farewell cries. The roaring of the crowd grew suddenly louder. Gulping for air, subjected to a slash of panic, she knew at once how Kit had felt, and how he must feel even then, riding in her saddle bag—blind and airless to God-knew-where.

As the cogs of the drawbridge ceased to rattle, Merry’s mount started forward. She knew the instant the crowd caught sight of her, for they roared in one accord, their volume causing her to shrink into her saddle. She tried to envision what they saw, whether her departure from Helmsley seemed an authentic arrest.

Before the sack had gone about her head, she’d glimpsed the king’s standard on display, his crimson and gold emblem flapping at the head of the retinue. Luke’s banner, on the other hand, had been stowed, lest it be recognized by any reward seekers. His soldiers had all polished their armor. Every spear, every bow, every sword was put in plain view to discourage trouble. Merry sat in their midst like the most perilous of criminals. She would have found it humorous if she weren’t so terrified.

God help me, she prayed, dreading the words of hatred she knew would be directed her way. The roars grew louder still, until the curses and denunciations became distinct. Even with her head covered, she could smell the pungent stench of violence. Her stomach churned. Their voices rose in chorus, “Hang her! Burn her!”

“Get back!” Luke snarled, his voice reassuringly near. His army drew closer around her, pressing forward, carving a swathe through the horde with their mounts.

Despite the guards that flanked her, Merry’s panic continued to rise. What if the bounty hunters were bold enough to attack and somehow managed to abduct her again? Worse yet, anyone with a weapon might hurl it at her or loose an arrow in her direction. She gasped for breath beneath the stifling sack, unable to draw sufficient air to fuel her galloping heart.

Suddenly, something hard glanced off her shoulder, eliciting a spark of pain. As she flinched from the unseen object, she was struck again, this time by a small pointed object directly on her forehead. A rock, she realized, squeezing her mount with alarm and remembering Luke’s caution to stay seated.

A shout went up, and her horse broke into a jarring trot. Wind billowed up the sack and carried it halfway off her head, allowing her momentarily to see. To abate her rising fear, she craned her neck and sought Luke’s helm. Even as she spotted him, he veered out of formation and charged his mount into the onlookers.

With his sword raised high, its point shredding the blue sky, he challenged the individuals bearing stones. They scurried out of harm’s way, dropping their crude weapons as he rode back and forth, driving distance between Merry and her attackers. Only when she was safely distant from the horde did he pivot his horse and race to rejoin his army.

With the shouting of the crowd fading behind them, Luke drew up alongside her.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice hollow behind his visor. Stretching out a hand, he snatched the sack from her head.

“Nay.” Glimpsing fury in the eyes obscured by his helm, she hunched over in order to feel her forehead with her wrists bound. A welt grew on it, but she felt no blood.

With a tsk of annoyance, Luke reached out again and freed the knot that kept her wrists bound. He shoved the rope roughly into his saddle bag.

Merry regarded him curiously. Perhaps he cared for her, after all.

Or was his concern solely for the babe she carried?

“We will stop and rest when the sun is high,” he informed her. “Tell me if you feel at all uncomfortable or if anything is amiss. Do you want for anything at present?”

Catching his earnest gaze through the slits of his helm, it was tempting to believe that he did feel tenderness for her. And tenderness, she decided, though not exactly love, could be nurtured and cultivated until one scarcely noted any difference.

The realization strengthened her resolve to make the best of their situation.

“Nothing, thank you. Did we fool them, think you?” Glancing back across the distance they had covered, she saw the crowd nearly dispersed from the gates of Helmsley.

“Aye,” he answered unequivocally. “Let your mind be untroubled. Henceforth, you will have a new life.”

His words were meant to be a comfort, and yet the tiniest thread of doubt stitched into his tone suggested that Luke was worried. Most likely, he feared Henry’s response to their unsanctioned marriage. Likewise as the king ordered adulterines to be torn down all over his kingdom, he could as easily tear apart her and Luke’s fragile union.

She assured herself that the king was a reasonable man, though she had no evidence with which to support her claim. Certes, having married Eleanor of Aquitaine only a year prior, he would understand the motivation of love . . .

She frowned. Then again, Luke did not love her. He’d made it perfectly clear what his motives were for marrying her—he valued her as a healer and as the mother of his child. Kings, on the other hand, were quite tolerant of illegitimate children, having many themselves. Henry would see no reason as to why Luke should have thought it necessary to wed her over a babe.

An insidious weed took root in the garden of Merry’s mind. Would Luke, under pressure from the crown, decide to put her aside?

 

She rose out of the water shivering. Luke remained on shore, close enough to keep watch and far enough to give her privacy—though in Merry’s opinion, the darkness was sufficient to do that.

It was a clear October night, All Hallow’s Eve, by her estimation. She could practically sense the spirits of the dead skulking amidst the trunks of the oak trees surrounding them. On the morrow, they would arrive at Arundel by mid-morning, after nine days on the road. She’d wanted to look as tended as she possibly could considering she’d been outdoors for over a week.

With her teeth chattering and her fingers stiff, Merry struggled to put her gown back on, letting it dry her in the absence of a toweling cloth. She’d used Luke’s final sliver of soap to bathe herself, braving the crisp temperature to wash away the dust and grime of travel.

Aware of Luke’s approach, she tugged her gown down quickly. He picked up her cloak and swung it swiftly around her shoulders. Without a word, he escorted her with a light grip on her elbow, and not a word from his lips, back toward their campfire.

Ever chivalrous, Merry considered darkly. Nothing about his behavior gave her cause for complaint. Since their departure from Helmsley, he’d showered her with concern, handing her the softest portions of bread, serving her the meatiest gravy. They had stopped every few hours, so that Merry might relieve herself and stretch her legs. At every stream that she asked to bathe in, he’d insisted the water was too cold for her, that she might catch chill.

Merry had had quite enough coddling. On this, their last evening on the road, she’d waited for the men to fall asleep, and then she’d risen from her bedroll. Taking Luke’s last sliver of soap, she’d marched straight for the water without a word of explanation.

With all her heart, she’d hoped Luke would chase after her, forbidding her to bathe. She longed for a reason to argue with him, to vent her bottled frustrations and fears. Instead, he’d maddened her by following in silence. He watched her from a distance, causing her to wonder if he still found her body—rounding and softening with the life she carried—tempting. Not once upon their journey had he imposed his marital rights.

She shook off thoughts of her husband’s rights along with the drops of water on her skin. What did he think, that she could ride into Arundel looking like a ruffian or like prey that had been dragged through the long grasses? She wanted the people to see her as Luke’s wife, not as a stray that he’d picked up along the way—though a part of her acknowledged she was exactly that. The people of Arundel, Luke’s grandfather included, would likely faint in horror at the thought of having her as lady of their castle.

Luke had made no effort to reassure her. In fact, he’d said very little about his home. Whenever she’d probed him for information, he had answered curtly then grown brooding and morose. The farther south they traveled, the more reticent he became, keeping his own quiet counsel. His somber reflection only served to heighten her concerns.

By contrast, the soldiers riding on all sides had grown more cheerful, especially in the last two days, their faces wreathed in smiles at the thought of the warm arms awaiting them. On the long trip home, there had been no talk of curses or spells, no resentment, no whispering. Philippe had ridden beside her a good deal of the time, regaling her with tales of battles won and lost. Even Erin, who’d accepted without argument the poultice she’d given him for his pimpled cheeks, vied for her company, casting her secret glances and coloring fiercely whenever she happened to catch him at it. Already, his skin had cleared, making him confident and even attractive.

Merry reflected that she had either won the soldiers’ allegiance by saving their lord’s life, or they deemed it wise to respect her, given that she was now their lady. In any case, it was the men who used to fear her who had kept her from being lonely. As for Luke, he’d ridden more often at the front or rear of the retinue than beside her. Their evenings, though in each other’s company, were spent not touching and barely speaking.

Now, chilled, frustrated, and fearful of what the next day would bring, she jerked her arm from his grasp, his chivalry suddenly cloying, and striking her as false.

If he were a true gentleman, he would tell her she had naught to fear.

If he loved her, he would promise to shield her from any unpleasantness.

Of course, he didn’t love her, which was precisely the source of her disquiet.

“You might trip on a root,” he cautioned, grasping her elbow again.

“If I do, I’m certain you will catch me ere I hit the blasted ground.” Her tone, she knew, rivaled that of a shrew, but she no longer cared to play the grateful wife.

Once again yanking herself free, she stormed ahead of him, marching through the circle of sleeping men to warm herself by the dying fire.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Luke approach their bedroll. Normally, they slept beneath a tent he erected to protect her from the elements, but tonight, she’d stated that she would sleep beneath the stars. On that night, All Hallow’s Eve, the spirits seeking shelter would want to enter hers. She would rather sleep outdoors than risk their company.

Strangely, he’d acceded to her wishes without comment.

As was his custom, Luke had taken off his mail, which he disdained to sleep in. With their arrival at Arundel the next day, Erin had buffed his master’s mail until he fell asleep.

Thinking of the hours ahead, Merry heaved an inward sigh. ’Twas impossible to share a bed with Luke and not recall their wedding night, the last time they’d swived. She could almost imagine they’d never shared such passion.

The distance he’d imposed between them unsettled her, for if he no longer desired her, then what hold had she upon him? None at all. If he had slaked his lust for her so soon, she had nothing more to offer him once his babe came into the world.

Dry except for her hair, Merry took her time squeezing the excess water from it then combing it in the fire’s glow to dry it a little before weaving it into two thick braids. All the while, Luke sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching her.

With her plaits complete, she approached the blanket she shared with Luke, kicking off her soft leather shoes. Aware of Luke’s steady regard, she settled onto her half of the blanket, not surprised when he came and crouched beside her, performing his nightly ritual of tucking covers snugly around her. Only then did he slip into the space next to her and cover himself. They lay side by side, their elbows scarcely touching.

Merry turned her head and studied his profile. She had made a habit of comforting herself that way, regarding his handsome visage and telling herself he was hers—at least for the time being.

She had little cause to complain, really. Luke was cordial to a fault. He rarely lost his temper. How many women were beaten by their husbands? How many would gladly trade their husbands for one such as Luke? Every single one of them, she’d warrant.

Deciding to make an attempt to chase away the loneliness she felt in his company, she turned on her side slightly and asked Luke the question she’d wondered about since the first time she’d smelled his skin: “What is the source of your soap’s unusual scent?”

“Sandalwood,” he said. Starlight lit his gaze as he turned his head to look at her. “’Tis a tree native to my homeland.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” No wonder the scent had eluded her.

“I have some other oils at home that might be new to you, and herbs that I brought from the East as seeds, which I’ve cultivated for years.”

She came up on her elbow, intrigued. “What manner of herbs?”

He shrugged. “I know only the local names of most of them, not the English words. One is called liquorice. Another is opium, which comes from the seed of the wild poppy.”

“I’m well acquainted with poppy,” she told him.

“Not this kind. In Jerusalem, the flowers grow as tall as a man. Their seeds can be toxic as well as medicinal.”

Fascinated, she wriggled closer. “Will you tell me more of your homeland?” she begged. “And of Arundel?”

He hesitated. “As to the former, I will show you drawings in books I own and, yes, I’ll tell of the place I was born, if you’re truly interested. Sometime, but not now. As for Arundel, you’ll see it for yourself tomorrow.” His tone became remote. “You’ll know everything then.”

It seemed a strange reply. “Who resides there besides your grandfather?” she persisted. He’d told her only that the earl was ill. She attributed much of his silence to worry that his grandfather might have died during his absence.

He hesitated again. “There are children,” he admitted unexpectedly. “Four of them whom I found in various places. The orphans will like you, I’m certain.”

This was the first time he had mentioned any children living in his home. In the dusky light of the fire, she stared at him with her mouth agape. What other secrets did her husband harbor?

“What do you mean you ‘found’ them?”

“’Tis late, Merry,” he answered. “I don’t wish to talk.”

She stiffened with resentment. Why did he feel he owed her no explanation for anything? Did he gain some perverse pleasure in leaving her in ignorance? Or did he not consider her important enough to enlighten?

With a muttered curse, Merry threw herself away from him and sought the far side of the bedroll. She lay facing away from the fire and into the dark woods, where the spirits no doubt lurked. Kit was out there somewhere, keeping them company.

Was their dying fire sufficient to help the dead find their way home, or would it invite them into their encampment? She’d asked Luke if they might place a candle or two along the roadside to encourage them along their way. Of course, he’d denied her.

Somehow she doubted she would sleep a wink that night.

An hour later, she was still awake, her ears cocked to the sounds in the forest. Without warning, Luke’s arm stole about her, pulling her into the curve of his body.

Merry caught back a gasp and then a groan, for his heat chased away the chill that hadn’t thawed since her dip in the stream. Moreover, his strength delivered her from the fear that some demon spirit might suddenly surprise them. She was safe in Luke’s embrace. She closed her eyes and drifted toward oblivion.

Suddenly, his hand closed over her breast, causing her lids to spring open once more. Did he know what he was doing? she wondered. Very gently, he squeezed her fullness. Merry caught her breath. He toyed with her nipple, turning it instantly erect. Desire thawed her from the inside out, and yet, in another moment, she knew he could be distant again.

Perhaps he would lapse back into sleep, she surmised. He did not. Instead, he pressed himself closer, his sex a thick column against the globes of her derriere. Conflicted, she sought to ease away from it, but then he nuzzled her neck and pleasure cascaded over her, causing her to arch against him.

Out of the darkness came his voice, thick, husky. “You smell sweet,” he murmured into her ear. “Irresistible.”

Merry’s resentment wavered under the heat of his ardor. Her body was all too willing to submit to his possession, yet she could not forget that, not long before, he had refused even to talk to her. An internal battle raged within her. She was not at all certain which would win—passion or pride.

From behind, he slid her gown up. Under it, she wore nothing as she hadn’t wanted to dampen her shift or drawers and intended to put them back on in the morning. His hand swept the length of her thigh, moving steadily higher.

If she did not resist him now, she would succumb to her desire and feel all the more empty for it later—when his beloved face became a mask of cold politeness.

Thrusting his hand from her hip, she scooted away from him as far as possible, her hip and shoulder touching the wild grasses next to their blanket.

“Don’t touch me,” she ordered, keeping her voice calmly quiet so his men would not hear if any were awake.

An ominous silence—perhaps even a silence of shock—followed her unexpected words. Then Luke’s voice, showing him to be fully awake and annoyed, returned to her, “I’ve every right to touch you, wife.”

She was grateful to hear emotion, even if slight anger, in his tone. It gave her the right to be angry in return, especially when he used the endearment as a sign of ownership of her person, as if she were no more than Suleyman.

“Nay, you’ve no right,” she hissed, twisting to face him. “You’ve become like a stranger to me. Think of me what you will, I will not swive with a stranger!” She dropped her head back on the blanket.

His expelled breath, sounding long and weary, reached her ears. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, visible now that the trees were bare. She watched him for a few moments in silence. Without warning, he snaked out his hand and grabbed ahold of hers, causing her to tense, yet he did nothing more.

“Forgive me, Merry.” His gruff tone, so filled with emotion, surprised her. “There is much that weighs on my mind presently.”

Compassion cooled the heat of her ire. “You worry over your grandfather,” she guessed.

“Aye,” he said shortly.

“I will care for him when we get home,” she promised.

He turned his head, regarding her in the darkness.

“Thank you,” he said more kindly. He looked back at the sky, and a long moment of silence passed between them. “Do you see those stars right there?”

He pointed upward, drawing Merry’s gaze to the starry dome overhead. The stars seemed especially bright, brighter even than the glowing moon.

“Which ones?” She scooted closer in order to sight down his arm.

“Those there. Do you see the brightest one, the one at the top?”

“Aye, I see it.”

“When I was a boy, my father showed me that star before he died. He said I had only to wish upon it, and my wishes would be answered.”

He paused for a moment, giving her the chance to envision Luke as a boy, with his golden eyes and pitch black curls. Her heart softened immediately. Would their babe look like him? she wondered, enchanted by the possibility.

“My mother and I were very poor following my father’s death,” he continued. “We felt keenly our isolation.”

She’d heard his story from Philippe but relished the details when told by Luke, though it was almost painful for her to imagine him being born into squalor and uncertainty.

“We lived on the very outskirts of Jerusalem. My mother’s people had threatened to stone her to death should she darken their doorways. As far as they were concerned, she had given herself to an infidel, disgraced herself and her family. I was, of course, the infidel’s spawn. My mother clearly resented me for it after my father died, and I did my best to make it up to her.”

Not surprised at the injustice and brutality perpetrated by her fellow humans, still Merry felt her ire rise as she raptly followed every word. At the notion of a mother blaming her son, she shook her head in bewilderment.

“How unfair! How could she fault you for what lay beyond your control?”

She felt him shrug.

“In any event,” he continued, “when I was seven, I recalled my father’s words. I climbed to the highest rock around to wish upon that very star for our lives to become easier.”

Merry felt her heart swell with compassion. It struck her that she and Luke had something in common after all. They’d both suffered, both been persecuted, and both lost their fathers at a young age. “Did your wish come true?” she pressed.

“Not at once. Perhaps six months later, an Englishman appeared at our hut with a handful of men. He took one look at me and called me ‘grandson.’ He paid my mother a sum of money and brought me home to England.”

“Wasn’t your mother upset to see you go?” she asked, unable to fathom a mother trading her child for coins.

“Not really,” he said with equanimity. “She seemed relieved more than anything. I am not sure if her life was made easier by my leaving, but it couldn’t have become worse.”

“Were you happy to leave your home?”

“Delighted. It was the miracle I’d wished for. My father had told me about England and how green it was. About castles and how grand they were. All I’d ever wanted was to see it for myself. Suddenly, I was going to live there with a man who looked like my father, a man who had money for food and horses. What more could a boy want? I went from rags to silk. To this day, I look at that star and I marvel at my circumstances.”

Merry gazed up at the bright point of light. Because of Luke’s story, the star seemed suddenly to outshine all the others around it. Without a word to convey her gratitude—both to Luke for having told her something of himself and to the star for having heard his wish—she laid her head upon his shoulder and embraced him.

“Ah, Merry,” he murmured, holding her close. He released a deep and troubled sigh.

She waited for him to resume making love to her. Now that he had given something of himself, she would relinquish her stubborn pride. Yet he made no move to do so. Instead, he kissed the top of her head in a manner that struck Merry’s hopeful heart as tender. Moments later, she overheard his soft snores.