Chapter Sixteen

West Sussex, November A.D. 1155

 

Far south, the land they rode through struck Merry as far tamer than the wild moors of her home. Copses of beech and maple, with only a few bright leaves left on them, splashed color on the soft, sloping hills. The valleys were divided into rectangles, all varying shades of brown and green. The fields had suffered no drought here but gave every indication of a healthy yield. In one large plot, winter wheat rolled beneath the brush of the wind; in another, four-foot tall feathery rye awaited harvest. A crystal stream trickled between willows on a quest for the sea.

“We’re close now,” Luke said.

Discerning tension in his tone, she glanced at him sidelong. He had taken off his helm, and as they rode through a copse of white oak, the shadows of the branches fell across his face in quick succession. Worry had put a permanent crease across his forehead. She knew he was thinking of his grandfather and wished to give him the reassurance he needed, but life, she knew, was a fragile thing. His grandfather may very well have passed from the earth already.

“There,” he said suddenly, pointing to the horizon, “look over yonder hill.”

Merry followed his finger and spied the outline of a rooftop, one with crenellations and merlons creating a pattern like a crown.

“I see it!” she cried, unable to stop herself from standing in the stirrups to see better.

As they wound down through a valley and up the opposite rise, Arundel came into glorious view—a stately, magnificent stone structure. Her new home!

Her scalp prickled with awe as she took in its majestic proportions. Rising from the sapphire banks of the River Arun and built atop earthenworks, it loomed in stately splendor, guarded by an immense curtain wall made of Caen stone from Normandy and Quarr Abbey stone from the Isle of White, Luke informed her with a note of pride. She could see nothing past the thick wall, save the roof of the castle keep, sitting like a crown atop a throne.

Neat little cottages with their own fenced gardens huddled at the base of the outer wall like loyal subjects paying court. At their approach, womenfolk and children rushed outside to greet them. Most of the soldiers fell out of line, heading to their homes.

Merry, Luke, and the bachelors who remained in year-long service to him clattered over the drawbridge and under the towering gatehouse.

Once within the castle’s yard, she was amazed to see there was no outer or inner ward. Rather, the castle grounds were divided into two wards by an elevated walkway guiding them upward, toward the central keep. Glancing over the wall, then up at the keep, she realized it had been built atop a motte at least a hundred hands high!

’Tis like ascending to heaven, she marveled.

Below them in the east and western wards, and from the windows in the keep ahead, many souls waved at them and called out greetings. Sensing their curious regard, she wondered at their conclusions. Did they take her for a peasant? The gown she’d worn for travel had faded from a robin’s egg blue to a drab gray. It was frayed and dusty from their hours on the road.

Passing beneath a raised portcullis, they entered the belly of the keep, a scaled-down courtyard, meticulously swept with doorways and windows everywhere she looked. A band of children burst suddenly through one such door, tripping over each other in their haste to greet Luke first.

The children! Merry recalled overwhelmed by their exuberance.

“Look, my lord!” shouted the first little boy to reach them, “I found a frog in Dame Maude’s ink horn!” He held up a tiny disgruntled black frog for inspection.

“I wonder how he got in there?” Luke mused, glancing at the bigger boy smirking behind him. “I think you’d best put him in water,” Luke added swinging down from the saddle.

All the children tried to jump on him at once. “Lord Luke! Lord Luke!” they shouted, vying for his attention. “What did you bring us?” one brave soul asked.

A bemused smile tugged at Merry’s mouth. The sight of them robustly swarming the regal Phoenix as though he were a plaything made her reassess her husband. Who could have imagined he’d have such a weakness for children? These, he had clearly collected over the course of his travels, for the smallest girl was as dark as a gypsy, a brother-and-sister pair were blond, the eldest lad was a freckle-faced youth.

Luke reached into one of his saddlebags. “Were you all good enough for presents? Did you mind your nurse?”

“Yes, yes,” they all screamed at once.

Merry’s heart softened as he presented the younger girl an artfully sewn and stuffed doll with yarn- hair as dark as her own; the blond siblings each got a bag of sugared ginger Luke had bought on the journey home; and the eldest boy received a rough-hewn dagger—his first by the look of awe on his freckled face.

Witnessing the pleasure on all the children’s faces, Merry laid a hand on her still-flat belly and considered how lucky her child was to be Luke’s.

Just then, an older woman with ink-stained fingers and pleasingly plump cheeks made her appearance. With a curtsy for Luke, she called the children back to their studies, threatening to lock them in the nursery.

“Have mercy, Maude,” Luke cajoled, causing the woman to abandon her stern countenance and roll her eyes. “I haven’t seen the children in four months. Besides, there’s someone here I want them to meet, and you, too,” he added, waving her closer.

Crossing to Merry’s horse, he helped her from the saddle.

“Everyone, this is my wife, Lady Merry,” he said in a neutral tone that betrayed neither pride nor dread, though Merry’s stomach tightened to hear her new title.

“Merry,” he added, gesturing to each child from oldest to youngest, “these are Rauf, Peter, Heloise, and Edeline.”

Four sets of eyes in shades ranging from hazel to blue to brown had widened to the size of pennies as Merry’s identity became known. Their mouths all fell open. Then, cued by Maude, they remembered their manners and either bowed or curtsied.

“And this is their nurse and tutor, Dame Maude,” Luke added.

Maude bobbed her a curtsy, her expression reflecting frank curiosity.

Merry curtsied automatically to all of them, her knees quivering as she awaited some sort of judgment—incredulous laughter or a contemptuous sneer or merely an exclamation of disbelief. However, after their initial astonishment, the children broke into grins of what appeared to be delight.

“Where did he find you?” the oldest, Rauf, asked as if Luke had discovered Merry under a rock or perhaps a briar bush.

“Will you be our mama now?” asked tiny Edeline, her brown eyes full of wonder.

At that moment, Kit poked his head from her saddlebag, sparing Merry from having to answer.

“A kitty!” cried the older girl—Heloise, Merry recalled.

Freeing Kit from his enclosure, Merry held him a moment to calm him in this new and loud place. Then after stroking his fur and murmuring assuring words, she turned to Heloise who seemed entirely taken with him.

“Will you look after him for me?” she requested. “He might be a wee bit nervous at first,” she added as the girl’s face lit up with pleasure. Kit settled immediately into Heloise’s arms, causing her to coo maternally. “He’ll find me if he needs me,” Merry assured the girl.

Luke put an end to the pleasantries. “My lady has had a long journey and needs to rest,” he told the children. “Go with Dame Maude now and finish your lessons.”

They all obeyed, though that did not keep Peter from shoving his frog under Edeline’s nose to make her scream.

Merry opened her mouth to comment on their liveliness but was cut off by the appearance of a hunchback who engaged Luke in brief conversation. Introduced as Ewan, the man turned and took up the reins to Merry’s horse, departing to the stables without another word. The remaining soldiers had already headed away to tend their mounts, including Erin who’d taken Suleyman.

Luke surprised her by reaching for her hand. “Ewan said my grandfather lives. Come, let’s go to him at once!”

With her feet turning to lead, Merry hastened to keep up. Luke’s grandfather, the lord of all they could see, was sure to have an opinion of her, one that would weigh heavily on Luke if it was unfavorable.

As they entered the great hall, her concern turned to abject dismay. The hall itself was beyond anything she had imagined. Ornate tapestries covered the walls. Instead of rushes, costly rugs from the Orient muffled their footsteps on the flagstones. A massive table dominated the entire north wall; a modern hearth took up the other. High, mullioned windows kept the autumn winds outside, while twisting stairs disappeared into the fourth wall, providing access to the upper levels.

Luke was immediately set upon by servants who immediately abandoned their dressing of the high table to greet him. Merry pulled her gaze from the exotic tapestries and the colorful urns to assess the castle’s inhabitants. Though Luke held her hand, he didn’t take the time to introduce her, so eager was he to reach the earl. Merely acknowledging the servants as a group, and telling them he was going straight to Lord William, he hurried toward the stairs, tugging her along with him.

At the last moment, she slipped free of his grasp and hung behind.

“Perhaps you should go alone,” she suggested, “and give him warning first. I’m happy to remain here.” She backed up farther, unwilling to face the possibility of his grandfather’s rejection.

The sound of light footsteps interrupted Luke’s protest. Merry looked up to see an opulently dressed woman descending toward them. Her pale blond hair was covered by a veil studded with pearls that matched her cream-colored gown, also with pearl trim. She hesitated at the sight of Merry, then evidently dismissed her and addressed her words only to Luke.

“You’re home,” she stated in a cool but welcoming voice. “What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you till Christmas or near about.”

A quick glance at Luke revealed to Merry his stunned expression. Apparently flummoxed, for a moment, he did not return the woman’s greeting but waited for her to approach him.

She did so, holding out both hands, a poised and practiced smile on her pink-tinged lips.

Merry felt a spurt of envy as Luke’s strong hands closed over the stranger’s.

“Amalie,” he said. There was more than a hint of concern in his tone. “What brings you to Arundel?”

Merry froze, suddenly unable to move, to breathe. Not even in her worst imaginings had she pictured meeting Luke’s betrothed so soon—if at all. Moreover, she could not have pictured her being so extraordinarily refined and . . . frosty. Perhaps it was her dismissive, icy gaze in stark contrast to the children’s warm smiles that made her seem so aloof.

“Why, I’ve been looking after your grandfather, of course,” Amalie answered with mild reproof. “There was no one else to instruct the servants, poor man. I trust I didn’t overstep my bounds. After all, we’ll be family in a few months,” she added with a patronizing look.

Oh, heavens, ’twas even worse than she’d feared! Merry nearly staggered back as a sudden light-headedness assailed her. She had assumed Luke had written to inform the woman of their broken engagement, perhaps sending a missive with one of his soldiers. Clearly, he had not. The lady had no idea he’d wed someone else, and for the briefest moment, Merry found herself feeling sorry for the king’s cousin.

Then Luke flicked her a quick, uncomfortable glance. God’s wounds but he was obviously reluctant to say who she was. Her sudden dizziness turned into a cold sweat. She knew she’d paled, for her legs were turning weak.

“Who is this woman?” Amalie demanded, giving him no room to skirt the issue.

“Lady Merry,” he answered neutrally. Looking between the women, he added, “Amalie Plantagenet,” completing introductions. “I brought Merry here to tend to my grandfather,” he added, sending a warning glint to Merry to hold her tongue.

St. Anne’s blood. He had not introduced her as his wife. The floor began to heave before her. What did he mean by this terrible prevarication?

Luke was not looking at her, did not see the reaction his treacherous words had produced. He looked only at Amalie. “She is renowned for her healing,” he added, cutting short anything Merry might have said to contradict his assertion.

“Really?” the king’s cousin gave Merry another discerning stare, then said to Luke, “She looks half-ill herself, almost sickly.”

Luke glanced at her once again, giving her the slightest smile of encouragement to which Merry could not respond. Instead, she busied herself taking deep breaths, hoping to return some color to her face, and stave off a collapse right there at this woman’s feet. Leaning against the wall, she fanned herself with her hand and let Luke continue to do all the talking.

“Nay, she merely feels the effects of our long journey. She needs rest and sustenance. Isn’t that right, my lady?”

Merry nodded, wishing right then she was anywhere else and preferably lying down.

“I was even now taking her to my grandfather. How does the earl?” Luke asked.

Merry scarcely heard Amalie’s reply except to learn that she had called upon the royal surgeon himself for advice.

“I assure you,” Amalie said, squaring her shoulders with queenly indignation, “if the royal surgeon cannot help him, this woman certainly cannot!”

“That remains to be seen,” Luke said, forestalling further arguments. “I’ll go to him immediately, but mayhap the lady should rest ere she visits him.” He gestured for Merry to step forward.

Pushing off the wall, she wasn’t at all certain how her knees carried her. As she returned to his side, she prayed Luke would acknowledge her now as his wife. Surely, his surprise at seeing Amalie had passed, at least enough for him to declare that their marriage contract was cancelled.

“I’ll come with you,” Amalie volunteered.

“I would speak to him alone,” Luke insisted, reaching for Merry’s arm. He pulled her close, giving it a silent squeeze.

She realized, then, that he didn’t intend to tell Amalie at that moment, not in front of her. He wished to guard their secret from the king’s cousin as long as possible, though he had already misstepped by telling the children. No doubt, if he’d known his betrothed was inside, he would not have told them, for he must realize that he was running out of time. Word of Lord Luke taking a wife would have reached all corners of the castle by now via Maude and the children and anyone else who’d been in the courtyard. By the evening meal, Amalie would know, one way or the other.

Why would he play such a game? she wondered with private panic.

Keeping her gaze fixed on Luke, she willed him to speak the truth. From the corner of her eye, she saw Amalie’s own gaze narrow, perhaps drawing the conclusion that Merry was Luke’s leman. With a hot rush of outrage, Merry opened her mouth to correct her, but the pressure of Luke’s fingers increased as he propelled her around Amalie and up the stairs.

As they reached the second level, she wrenched free of his grasp.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” she demanded, trembling with the force of her dismay.

“Please, keep your voice down,” he warned, walking swiftly down the hallway, leaving her to follow. At last he stopped and turned to her, his face drawn in the shadowed corridor. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “You’ve every right to be angry with me. I confess that I didn’t expect to encounter Amalie so soon!”

“So soon! We’ve been wed for nearly a fortnight! Surely you could have sent a missive telling her that circumstances have changed.”

He rubbed his forehead, revealing the full extent of his tension. “As I said, I didn’t know she was here. Any message I sent would have gone to Wallingford Castle anyway. Besides, writing to tell the king’s cousin that one no long wishes to marry her . . . that isn’t the way things are done—”

She cut him short. “Nay, I can see that it is not. The way it’s done is to humiliate me. After all, who am I but the woman you were forced to wed? Apparently, I’ve been brought here only as a healer for your grandfather.”

“That isn’t true,” he countered, in a voice that quavered with feeling. “I had no intention of humiliating you. Yet neither could I humiliate her. That would be foolish of me at this juncture and well could be dangerous. I had hoped to tell Henry in person in order to gauge his mood and take measures to appease him. Then he could have told Amalie himself.”

She tried very hard to believe him, tried to banish the betrayal that squeezed her heart.

“I am walking a thin line, Merry,” he continued, sensing her struggle. “Be patient with me and let me work my way through it.”

His assurances could not abolish her hurt. “When will you tell her?” she wanted to know.

“Soon,” he promised her. “Before the children and Maude manage to do so.”

“Then you have perhaps hours if not minutes,” she muttered, trying to draw comfort from his promise.

He sighed. “She has little interaction with orphans,” he said. “Yet no doubt, I will have to tell her hastily and certainly before I can arrange a visit with Henry as I’d hoped.”

His face showed the strain he was under, and Merry found herself feeling suddenly sorry for him. He was in a tight spot to be sure. Then his expression brightened.

“Let me introduce you to my grandfather,” he urged. “His room is down this hall.”

“I don’t feel well,” she insisted, “as Amalie noticed. I need to lie down.”

He could not argue with that; after all, she did carry his child. She really wanted only to bury her face in a pillow and shed the tears that pressured her eyes. True, she had feared if not expected to be rebuffed by those at Arundel. Yet it felt as though Luke, himself, had rejected her.

He regarded her in silence. “I’ll show you to our chamber,” he said, properly subdued. “You can meet him after you rest.”

Leading her down a curving hallway, he stopped before a double door, its two halves creating an elegant pointed arch. He inserted a key into the black hardware of the left door and then pushed it wide.

Merry took apathetic note of the elaborately carved bed and whitewashed walls that confronted her. Lovely but forbidding as everything about her new home, which was furlongs above her expected station in life. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity—had she really thought to play lady to a future earl?

Crossing the room, she stepped onto the thick wool rug that anchored the bed. Purple bed curtains of heavy damask inflected with gold thread barred her from her destination.

She pushed them tentatively aside. At the same time, she glimpsed an unfortunate reflection of herself in the most perfectly clear looking glass she’d ever seen, hanging from the nearest wall. A gasp of horror filled her lungs. Despite washing in the stream the night before, her face and hair were streaked with dust. Her gown’s hem was even more tattered than she’d imagined, and she could only guess at what manner of grime, even horse’s sweat, she could discern upon her skirt. She thought of the exquisite Amalie, and her insides shriveled.

She should not even be standing next to the exquisite bed—like a muddy swine in the king’s palace. Yet, compelled by her exhaustion, Merry climbed wordlessly into the dark, soft box. The mattress, itself, was covered by a purple silk coverlet that matched the hanging curtains. The Phoenix’s colors. She sighed and collapsed, face down, aware that Luke had yet to move from where he stood.

“Leave me,” she said, wishing more than anything to be alone. Closing her eyes against all the rich purple, she waited, her eyelids burning.

Silence. Then, at last, she heard Luke retreat, heard the door creak open. “Will you be all right?” he called. “Is there aught that you want? Perhaps some wine?”

She considered. There were a few things she wanted, aye, but nothing he could give her at that moment that would make any difference. Then she recalled her appearance.

“I’d like a bath,” she said dully. “My trunk, too.” Clarisse had kindly given her not only her wedding gown but enough gowns that she could maintain her dignity as the new lady in residence at Arundel, until she could procure material to make more.

Despite Luke’s poor behavior, Merry would not embarrass herself or her du Boise family when she appeared for dinner.

The click of the door latch caused her to start. Luke was gone. He’d shut the door without another word. What had she expected? More empty promises.

The fear of denunciation she’d suffered during their wedding had become manifest at last.

 

A knock on the door startled her awake. Disoriented, she peered out of the boxed bed at the sumptuous room, taking in with a sweep of her eyes, a great wooden chest banded with leather, a large writing desk with legs as thick as tree trunks, and a marble washbasin set upon an ebony stand. Long-necked vases and colorful tapestries completed the décor. Somehow she’d overlooked earlier the unmistakable scent of Luke’s sandalwood oil hovering in the air. Merely the aroma made her body warm, as she now associated the scent with Luke’s naked skin.

A second knock brought her gaze to the massive double doors.

“Come,” she said, realizing a moment later that her voice was too soft. “Come,” she repeated more loudly.

One door swung swiftly open and a young woman entered.

“Not wishing to disturb ye,” she said, curtseying low. “His lordship requested your things be brought and a bath, too.”

Merry nodded at the dun-haired servant, only a few years younger than herself.

Surprised that she’d fallen asleep given her mental turmoil, she found she did, in fact, feel refreshed from her brief nap, though her mouth was dry with thirst. To her gratification, the young maid carried a tray with a goblet and a carafe.

“Mead, Lady d’Aubigny,” the girl said noting Merry’s interest.

Merry cringed at the title, apparently the news had spread. Though she’d been born a lady, she’d also been a wild child all her life, and neither at home nor at the priory had she ever lived in a place where she’d been addressed formally. This would take some getting used to.

The servant hurried over, curtsied again as Merry sat up, and then poured the golden liquid into the goblet before handing it to her.

Merry took a long draught. “’Tis delicious,” she admitted.

“Aye, the earl has always kept a beekeeper, and our mead is known far and wide for its sweet, flowery qualities.” The girl turned away to set the tray down, then she turned back. “Of course, you should indeed be drinking it now and for another fortnight at least.”

Merry colored. “My honeymoon,” she murmured.

“Aye,” the girl said. “Will make you ripe with a wee one in no time.”

Merry swallowed, trying not to blush. “Tell me your name,” she asked.

“I’m Tilly,” the servant said, and curtseyed again. “Behind me, that there is Gavin and Gavin the younger.” She looked over her shoulder. “Come on, bring in our lady’s bath.”

Two men, one older, one younger, but as alike as two peas in a pod, strained as they carried in one of the largest wooden tubs Merry had ever seen. Two could easily fit in it, but it was all for her, apparently. Behind them, a stream of servants carried buckets—at least eight carrying two each.

Mercy, Merry thought, stunned to see so many people doing her bidding at once.

“We have heated the water to boiling,” Tilly boasted, gesturing unnecessarily to the water being dumped into the bath, “and have hot rocks to keep it that way.”

With that, two youths with copper buckets came in and dumped rocks into her bath, causing it to sizzle and steam. “Careful. Don’t muck the carpet,” Tilly ordered.

Another man carried in her chest of gowns on his shoulder and set it down carefully next to the chest already in the room, which dwarfed it.

“Everyone out,” Tilly ordered, belying her young age with her commanding tone. “May I help you undress, my ladyship?” she inquired. “Lord Luke said I was to be your personal attendant.”

Flattered, Merry thought at once of her birthmark and nearly declined the offer. However, not only would the servant think her strange, Tilly was already beaming at the prospect of being the new wife’s attendant. Thus, with a nod of agreement, Merry decided she could hide the birthmark by sliding into the water as soon as her gown was removed. The last thing she needed was talk of her devil’s mark springing up at her new home.

Scooting off the bed to be undressed, Merry soon found herself ensconced in blissful hot water. Tilly soaped her and washed her hair, requesting afterward that she lean her head back so she could rinse it with apple cider vinegar.

To Merry’s relief, she didn’t have to speak much at all about her unfortunate history, as the servant girl was happy to fill the silence with her one-sided conversation. Listening, Merry learned much of Luke’s grandfather, of whom Tilly was clearly quite fond. Amalie, on the other hand, Tilly did not care for.

“The way she barged in here and thought she’d be sleeping in Lord Luke’s chamber when he was away. Can ye imagine?”

Merry hummed in agreement while feeling awfully glad that she hadn’t had to witness Amalie’s rumpled bed clothes or see her things being removed from Luke’s room.

“What a shock to hear tell that he’s gone and got himself a wife. And a lovely one at that.” Tilly brought her face round to beam again directly in front of Merry.

Merry felt her face heat. “Thank you, but—”

“But the real shock’ll be to Lady Amalie,” Tilly continued, “and that’s no lie. In the name of all things holy, if she had an ounce of red blood in her, we’d no doubt hear her shrieking when the news lands on her ears. She’s as bloodless as a snake, that one, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

Merry nodded. The girl obviously cared little if she was excused for her gossiping, but Merry took note of it. If the situation changed and the stories were about her, then she had no doubt Tilly would be whispering to everyone that her new mistress was a witch.

 

Sometime later, the groaning of the door as it opened drew Merry’s attention from Luke’s journal, which she’d discovered after her bath. Though still road-weary and feeling as though she could sleep again if only she closed her eyes, she’d been utterly absorbed in his fascinating chronicle of his travels.

Expecting to see Luke, who’d been absent from her since their arrival, her eyes widened in dismay to behold Amalie standing in the doorway. From her vantage by a small window with its breathtaking view over the valley, she saw Amalie take in the rumpled bed and the bath which had yet to be removed. Her gaze then swiveled to Merry, seated in the great oak chair with a candle burning steadily beside her.

Fear pierced Merry as the woman strode toward her, her skirts rustling ominously in the awkward silence. Coming to a standstill before Merry, Amalie folded her arms and pinned Merry to the chair with a glare that was anything but welcoming.

It was impossible to tell if the woman had heard the news yet or not.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Merry set Luke’s journal carefully aside and stood up slowly. Clad in a pale green gown of lightweight wool, her hair now washed, dried, and combed, she felt better equipped to face this royal adversary than she had when they’d met earlier, despite being half a head shorter than Amalie. Still, she would rather not have laid eyes on her again without Luke by her side. Apparently, she had no choice.

The flames of the many candles gilded the lady’s silvery blond hair and caused her pale blue eyes to resemble ice-covered pools. When words finally formed on Amalie’s lips, they were not what Merry expected.

“You poor fool,” she lamented, though not a drop of sympathy warmed her tone. “You think yourself saved, don’t you? A dark knight has rescued you from a life of despair and made you his fair lady wife. Am I right?”

Merry turned as cold as the marble washbasin. How much had Luke told Amalie of her circumstances? Of one thing she was certain—he hadn’t mentioned she was wanted as a heretic. He had promised her no one at Arundel would ever know.

However, she could think of no reply to Amalie’s slight so she remained silent, having learned from her dealings with the prioress that her words oft made matters worse.

“Luke mentioned that you saved his life. He extolled your marvelous healing abilities.” Amalie cocked her head and took full measure of Merry with an insolent stare. “I think you may have captivated him with your other abilities, yes?”

Merry felt the heat rush to her face. This woman was all but calling her a whore!

“Yet men such as Luke make sport often and do so without giving the protection of their name. So why did he wed a nobody from Heathersgill?” She shook her flaxen head in puzzlement.

Though her thoughts raced, Merry held her tongue, opting to let Amalie arrive at her own conclusions.

“Let me guess.” The woman tapped a long, bejeweled finger upon her chin. “Could it be he got you with child?” She fixed her sharp gaze on Merry’s face and was apparently rewarded by the flaring of surprise in Merry’s eyes. “Ah, I see.”

She clicked her tongue and looked at her rival with feigned pity. “How noble,” she remarked. “Of course, rescuing and taking responsibility is precisely what Luke does. For years now, he’s given a home to waifs and misfits. You’re a bit old, however, for such a pathetic role, don’t you think?”

Merry’s heart had begun to thud so hard, her womb echoed its beat.

Amalie gave her another considering look. “I knew he would never marry a woman of your . . . station on his own volition. Of course, when it comes to children, he doesn’t think the way other men do.”

In Merry’s mind’s eye, she saw again the children. Even the hunchback might have been brought to Arundel due to his deformity. It was easy to imagine that Luke considered her, shunned as she was by society and barred from her home at Heathersgill, to be merely another outcast that he’d rescued.

Amalie nodded her head. “Well played, I must say,” she praised, “however ill-advised in the long run. At least for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Merry said. If only the woman would leave her in peace, so she could think.

However, the king’s cousin was not finished. “On Luke’s part, this hasty marriage is quite clever. He’ll get his babe from you. Make no mistake. At the same time, he knows with absolute certainty that Henry will never tolerate your ridiculous alliance.” The woman made a dismissive gesture with dainty white hand. “Henry will demand an annulment, and you . . .,” she actually paused and shook her head with a pitying expression on her perfect face, “well, you will be sent back to whence you came.”

Amalie shrugged and blinked at Merry, her eyes as hard as a frozen pond in winter. “So sorry to topple your ambitions,” she added. Then she let her gaze drift to the rumpled bedding. “Perhaps, if you’re lucky, he’ll keep you as his mistress,” she added, mocking her. “However, even you must realize that he never meant to keep you as his wife.”

With a swish of silk, Amalie turned her back on Merry and walked gracefully toward the door. “I wish you the best with the old earl,” she added over her shoulder. “In my opinion, he has long outlived his usefulness. The kindest thing you could do for him is to poison him.”

With those shocking words, she slipped from the chamber as familiarly as she’d come in.

Merry stared at the closed door until the grains of the oak came into focus. She replayed every word that Amalie had spoken to her, then closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead. Nausea rose up in her and then receded.

Her fingers trembled. Exactly how much had Luke told the woman? Had Amalie simply guessed that Merry was with child, or had Luke made excuses for marrying her? Had he even hinted she was wanted for a witch? After all, Amalie had recommended poisoning the earl, as if she’d known that Merry had tried to poison the prioress.

Surely, Luke would never have revealed her darkest secrets. Not when he’d promised her she would start her life anew. With him.

Unless what Amalie said was true. Unless Luke had hoped all along that Henry would insist on an annulment, declaring their marriage invalid. It would be an easy solution: Insisting he had done his best for her, Luke would shrug his broad shoulders and set her regretfully aside.

Stunned by the depths of such betrayal, Merry struggled to breathe. She glanced at the journal she’d been reading, an account of Luke’s travels to Jerusalem and his meetings with Saracen leaders. Only minutes ago, she’d felt close to him again. She’d believed in his integrity, his goodness.

Was it all an illusion?

Picking up the tome, she approached the large chest where she’d found it, along with treasures of gold coins, strange figurines, blocks of soapstone, and corked vials of exotic oils. She put the journal carefully away and latched the chest with finality.

Just as thoroughly, she buried her naive dream that Luke would one day return her love. Rising, she walked blindly to the bed, lay atop the counterpane, and let her head sink onto the pillow. She would forego supper and rest—for she was not up to braving the great hall or the many new people who inhabited Arundel. Even less so did she want to face Amalie’s sly presence or even Luke himself.

Yet not a single tear fell from her eyes. A shield of frost had formed about her heart, and she welcomed the protection it offered, for the pain that came from betrayal was too excruciating to bear. Two things she vowed as she succumbed to exhaustion: she would not become Luke’s leman, nor would she leave her babe behind.