Chapter Nineteen

 

Merry clung to Luke’s hand, fearful of losing him in the mid-afternoon crush of people vying to enter the grounds of Clarendon, King Henry’s favorite hunting lodge. The large stone structure loomed over them, darker than the clouds that smothered the sky threatening a downpour. Folk from every walk of life milled about, no doubt terrifying the plentiful deer in the royal park. However, only nobles, heads of church, and those in positions of authority were admitted into the structure itself, through the heavy wooden doors, guarded by the king’s personal soldiers.

There would be no mistaking Luke for anything but a peer of the realm today, Merry considered, glancing at him sidelong, as he guided them through the crowd. In lieu of his black mail, he wore a long purple tunic, belted at the waist. A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, its jeweled handle and festooned scabbard on clear display with his cloak tucked behind it. The great, black cape with a phoenix emblem subtly stitched with purple thread protected him from the interminable drizzle.

Yet, more than his attire, it was the set of Luke’s shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze that bespoke of his authority. That morning when they’d awakened in a chamber in Winchester Castle after a long ride the day before, he’d said he was eager to introduce her to his king.

Now, it was his sheer determination that allowed them to make any progress as the crowd jostled and blocked their way. It didn’t help that there was additions being done on all sides—though halted during the hunt—adding to the chaos as Henry turned Clarendon into a grand palace. Construction on the great hall, kitchens, and wine cellars had scarcely begun, but even with the lovely grounds and terraces, Merry doubted it would match the loveliness of Arundel when complete.

Luke squeezed her hand imparting a portion of his confidence; still, an inexplicable uneasiness resided in her belly right below her ribs. Beneath her own cloak, she wore a wine-colored gown, sewn from so many bolts of silk that it had cost a small fortune. Cut with a high waist to hide the slight roundness of her belly, it yet revealed the porcelain perfection of her neck and shoulders. To downplay the vivid hue of her hair, her long tresses had been coiled elaborately onto the top of her head and fixed in place with mother-of-pearl combs.

She wished now that she had covered her head completely with a staid headdress, lest her combs slip and her hair tumble down. Though it was a silly notion, she felt as if the fiery red of her own locks were emblematic of all the ill-fortune of her life. It was silly of her to think so, yet she felt like a fraud attending such a regal affair, and there were surely others in attendance who would agree with her.

Keeping as close to Luke as possible, Merry saw with relief that they were making progress. Once inside, there would be a light supper, followed by some speeches, and then a late afternoon hunt. The king and those who had been invited to spend the night, including Merry and Luke, would rise at the crack of dawn for the main hunt. According to Luke, it was a necessary event to attend and to plainly and wholeheartedly enjoy if one hoped to remain in the king’s good graces.

“Excuse us. Let us pass, please,” Luke called, causing merchants and beggars alike to give way before his presence. Merry realized so many of the populace from the surrounding villages had come as if it were market day or a fair, in order to part the nobles from their coin and to witness the pageantry.

At last, they reached the double doors of the lodge and the soldiers who guarded them stoically.

“My lord,” said one with a deep bow, recognizing Luke. He gave Merry a curious look, and uncertainty assailed her. Aye, she should have worn a barbette and kept her hair out of sight.

The other soldier held the door open, and Luke ushered Merry inside. Stepping into a bustling hall, Merry’s gaze rose at once to stuffed stag heads of Henry’s largest kills gazing down at her from high upon the walls. They ran into a crush of lords and ladies standing about in their town finery, for it mattered not that they were in a hunting lodge—the king was in residence and so was his court.

Shaking the moisture off her cloak, Merry glanced at Luke who gave her a fortifying wink.

“The king will be in the absolute center of this rumpus, no doubt,” he said.

She leaned close to him so she could speak in his ear. “Surely, we cannot all dine in this hall.”

He chuckled. “Nay. Unfortunately, we will be outside on the back terrace. Henry will have set up massive tents and long tables with splintery benches. It’s not exactly like dining at Windsor or Wallingford, but we do have the luxury of a room for the night and not a tent on the sopping wet grounds, as most. No doubt we will be at Henry’s table for every meal.”

Anxiety assailed her anew. What if the new king took a disliking to her? What if he changed his mind about accepting their marriage?

As if sensing her disquiet, Luke tugged her closer, tilting her chin up with a notched finger. “You’re the brightest star in the sky,” he said, his gaze admiring.

“Faint praise, indeed, Luke,” she replied, “for the clouds are so thick, there are no stars to be seen.”

He grinned. “True. Still, if you could see them—Ah, nevermind.” He broke off and dropped a warm kiss on her lips to chase away her lingering doubts.

Her heart swelled with love for him. As he drew her forward again, she marveled at how lovely life had been since his return from Wallingford Castle two sennights ago. She had never been so happy before, not even in the idyllic years of her early childhood.

A man’s voice, raised in enthusiastic tones above the rest, which all quieted as he spoke alerted her to their proximity to the king. Anxiety knotted her stomach anew. Pray God, King Henry would welcome Luke with due respect and not dismiss her out of hand.

Unable to see the king’s head over the shoulders of the crowd around them, Merry stood tiptoe and craned her neck. To her dismay, her eyes locked on the frigid gaze of Amalie, who stood with a goblet in her hand surrounded by other men and women seeking the ear of the king.

Holding her gaze captive, Amalie’s lips rose into a slight smirk and she raised her goblet as if to toast her. A frisson of fear skated up Merry’s spine. Why would Amalie look so smug when Luke had appeared at a public event with his new wife? One would expect humiliation on her part.

At the verge of pointing out Amalie to Luke, her attention was wrested by two clergymen who stepped up to them unexpectedly, one on either side of Luke. The smaller of the two strained toward Luke’s ear while darting a nervous glance at Merry. “Lord d’Aubigny, a word,” he whispered.

Luke assessed the two, taking a second look at the larger monk, a man the size of Merry’s brother-in-law. “Aye, Father?” Wariness laced his tone.

The monk withdrew a parchment from his sleeve and showed it to Luke. “We have a writ from His Excellency, the Bishop of Winchester bidding us to collect your wife,” he said quietly. “She is to come with us at once.”

Merry glanced at Luke in confusion. Darkness seemed to gather around him as he focused on the man more closely. “What business has the bishop with my lady?” he said through his teeth. “She is here by invitation of King Henry.”

Daunted by Luke’s demeanor, the man began to stutter. “Th-this is an e-ecclesiastical matter and has nothing to do with the king.” He thrust the parchment at Luke inviting him to read it. “Sh-she must come with us right away, order of my Lord B-bishop.”

Luke ignored the letter. His grip on Merry’s arm tightened as he sought, with his other hand, the hilt of his sword.

“She stays with me,” he retorted evenly. “I will speak to the bishop in person when the hunt is over.”

Merry’s apprehension shifted into fear. There could only be one reason why the bishop wished to see her.

“I’m afraid you have no choice,” countered the cleric, with a spurt of bravado. “Father Boris here,” he glanced meaningfully at his broad companion, “has orders to . . . app-apprehend her.”

“Then I will draw my sword against him,” Luke replied, his voice calmly quiet—though Merry wondered if his ceremonial sword could do harm to the hulking Boris.

“Violence per-per-perpetrated on clerics is a crime punishable by d-d-death,” reminded the rattled clergyman. His eyes darted fearfully. “Would you make a scene here, my lord, with all your p-peers bearing witness?”

Luke glanced toward the crowd. Already a handful of noblemen and women were watching them and speculating. The muscles in his jaw leaped as he took note of their interest and considered his options.

His eyes blazed with fury as he directed his ire at the smaller cleric. “This was arranged ahead of time,” he accused, “to be as public as possible to humiliate me and my wife. Tell me if King Henry knows of it?”

The cleric remained silent.

“Come, Merry, we’re leaving.” Luke swiveled abruptly, tugging her with him. She seized his arm, all too willing to flee.

However, the clerics dogged them.

“The king’s g-guards have orders not to let you out, my l-lord,” the smaller cleric called. “Do you attempt to flee with her, you will be imprisoned as well,” he warned.

Merry’s step lagged, for the warning turned her blood cold. Both of them in captivity, and the earl on his deathbed? Nay, it couldn’t be. All their lives would be forfeit then.

“Stop, Luke!” She jerked him to a stop by yanking on his elbow. While loath to surrender to these clergy after being free so long, it galled her more to put her husband in harm’s way. “Let them take me,” she urged him.

“Never!” he rounded on her, his expression fierce. “I’ll not let them take you. You know what this means.”

“Nay, we don’t know yet.” She turned back to the clerics. “On what grounds do you detain me?” she demanded, her voice breaking with tension. She was vaguely aware that the king’s longwinded tale had ceased and all around them was quiet, save for a low murmur of speculative voices.

“You are wanted as a heretic, madam,” the man countered, stiffly.

The word sent the blood rushing from her head. She took a startled step backward as her worst fears caught up to her all at once. She ought to have known by Amalie’s expression alone that this was no harmless matter—a whim on the part of the bishop to meet her. Of course not. Would there even be another trial, or would she be taken directly for execution?

The sound of Luke’s sword ringing free of its scabbard brought her swiftly to her senses.

“Don’t!” she cried, throwing her arms wide in front of the clerics. “I beseech you, my lord. The king’s peace!”

Luke’s eyes blazed with anger— so far gone he’d forgotten that withdrawing his sword in the king’s presence meant his own life was forfeit. Pulling her behind him, he pointed his sword at the larger cleric, and at the top of his voice, he yelled, “Henry Plantagenet!”

The echo of his enraged cry drew deafening silence.

Then some of the crowd turned, and Merry guessed they were looking toward the king to gauge his reaction. She held her breath. Would King Henry step in and aid his faithful commander’s wife or would he perhaps order Luke’s imprisonment as well?

Still, there was silence, and then the distinct sound of booted footfalls on the smooth oak planks.

Sweet Mother Mary, she thought, the king was indeed coming toward them. Luke never took his eyes off his foes, but she felt his grip tighten on her arm as Henry approached.

“This way to the feast,” came the king’s jovial voice, and his steps went right past them, with the king enclosed in a shield of nobles so that Merry could not see him even though he passed mere feet away from their unhappy scene.

Her heart sank and her hopes plummeted as the room slowly emptied, leaving only the four of them and the guards at the door. It would be another Henry, then, who decided her fate: Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester.

Boris stepped threateningly forward.

“Stand down,” Luke warned him, “or I’ll skewer you.” He backed toward the open doors, despite the guards that remained. He dragged Merry with him.

“Luke, please!” She pushed her entreaty through a tight voice. Tears blurred her vision. Dear God, this was more terrible than anything she had ever imagined! To save her now, Luke would have to take on four men, two of them armed and trained. This could only end badly.

“Stop!” she begged again. “You can do more for me by acting reasonably. Negotiation is your strength, Luke. Fighting them will only bring more trouble!”

He hesitated, glancing at her stricken face.

“Please, dearest husband,” she added, a knot forming in her throat. “You can help me more with your words than with your sword. Sheath it. Let me go.”

To her added torment, she watched his brow furrow as the weight of his decision crushed him. He went white about the mouth. Very slowly, the tip of his sword descended, and then he sent his weapon ringing back into its scabbard, the sound loud in the empty lodge. The clerics moved forward again as he flung an arm around her and kissed her temple fervently.

“I’ll have you freed as quickly as possible, Merry. To that, I give you my word.”

She took comfort in his promise, embracing him one last time before forcing herself to release him. Swiftly, so as not to make their parting any more painful, she surrendered herself to the monks, her head held high.

“Where will she be held?” Luke’s hoarse question reached her ears.

For a moment, the monks remained silent.

“I have a right to know,” he insisted. “She is my wife!”

The smaller monk relented. “At His Excellency’s residence in Winchester.”

Merry felt a kernel of relief. She wasn’t going to be dragged to London or farther, close to where her heresy supposedly took place in Yorkshire. However, either because of her status as Luke’s wife or because the King wanted to be able to attend, the trial would be in Winchester with Bishop Henry of Blois presiding in the shadow of the great cathedral.

“Take me now,” she said. Every one of her senses screamed for her to turn around and step back into Luke’s arms, but she was certain that would result in his death.

They gestured for her to precede them toward the alcove from which they’d come. There, she saw a side door that, no doubt, led to a wagon that would whisk her to Wolvesey Palace, the bishop’s home in Winchester.

Good bye, Luke, her heart cried out, for she was none too certain she would ever see him again. She would have said the words out loud, but fear strangled her, keeping her silent.

 

 

With his heart in his throat, Luke watched Merry walk away. Standing tall, unbowed by fear, she struck him as a martyr. He could not fathom how quickly she’d been torn from him. One minute, he was eagerly awaiting his opportunity to introduce her to the king, certain that Henry would remark the traits in Merry that made her extraordinary, and the next, she was seized by the bishop’s men.

His heart struggled to keep beating. A sensation like nothing he’d experienced in battle, no matter how grievous the loss, twisted through him. Panic and confusion stormed his senses. Worse than that was damnable frustration. Never had he stood by helplessly, futilely.

Indeed, all the contentment he’d experienced in the last two weeks drained through the gaping hole that she alone had filled.

What could he tell her now that would give her comfort? Dare he admit the feeling that he’d guarded close, scarcely admitting it even to himself? All this time, he’d known the truth, known the love that burned in his breast for her alone. Yet he’d withheld even the paltry words from her to shield himself from vulnerability.

Now, it was not himself he wished to protect.

“Merry!” he called, causing her to glance back at him from the open doorway. “I love you, wife!”

Her pain-filled eyes widened momentarily and then he saw her lips tremble into the barest smile before she was hastened from his sight, lost to him.

 

Merry paced the length of her windowless cell in the center of the bishop’s prison. She could take seven steps in one direction and five in the other before coming to a wall. Her comforts consisted of a pallet of straw, thankfully raised off the floor, and a hole in the corner, reeking of waste and soiled straw.

Apparently, she had not been given the benefit of the doubt as would befit the wife of an earl’s grandson, nor had she been given a comfortable chamber in the bishop’s luxurious residence. Indeed she had not made it past the outer courtyard, and her prison dwelling was close to the stables, a large storeroom for wool, and the livestock barns.

However, she had the blessing of a candle set into a small alcove at shoulder height so that she was not in stygian darkness. For that, she was grateful.

Though she knew it to be late at night, sleep eluded her. Terror and sadness were her constant companions. As well as hunger. Her stomach rumbled, in no way sated by the meager offerings of bread dipped in grease that she was given twice a day, complimented by a cup of watery ale. Placing a hand over her belly, she wondered how her babe would live if they starved her.

Though there was no looking glass to confirm her appearance, she feared she now looked more of a witch than a lady. The gown she’d worn to Henry’s great hunt bore grimy stains. One sleeve had been rent by the rough handling of the cleric who’d pulled her from the wagon on the first night of her incarceration, perhaps three days earlier. The fine silk of her skirts was now grimy and creased beyond repair.

The mother of pearl combs she’d worn had been seized as soon as she’d arrived at Wolvesey with the excuse that they were vanity. In their place, she wore a head covering of black homespun that hid her flame-colored plait from sight—a blasphemy against God, they’d said.

She told herself it was for the best. A priest—Father Bartholomew by name—had come to see her twice. He’d explained that his concern was for her mortal soul and that she was to make confession to him. Although he seemed to be telling the truth, Merry had kept silent in his company.

“I would like to help you, lady,” he’d urged her on his most recent visit, “but I cannot, not if you won’t speak to me.”

“How do I know this is not a trap? Allow my husband to sit as witness, and I will speak with you,” she’d told him.

He’d left without a word, giving her no hope that he would contact Luke.

Luke! She felt as though her very bones were hollow without him. Where was he?

She assumed he’d returned to Winchester Castle the afternoon she was taken. They’d spent a blissful night there before the hunt. It was, she guessed, less than a mile away. Why hadn’t he come to visit her? Or had he returned all the way to Arundel to check on Lord William?

Beautiful Arundel. She nearly sobbed when she remembered that she had not even said goodbye to Kit before they’d left for Henry’s hunting lodge! For once, he’d been absent from Heloise’s side when they’d taken their leave of the children. Would she ever see any of them again?

To comfort herself, she relived the memory of Luke calling out to her as the monks were leading her away. She recalled the look on his dear face when he’d made his surprising confession. I love you, wife! His words had kept her hopeful for a while. Yet, as the days passed without any change in her situation, her hopes had withered and crumbled to dust. His love, if in fact real, made no difference.

Though this matter was made to appear an ecclesiastical one, Merry sensed it was more political than not. The king had given Luke his word that he wouldn’t seek to dissolve their marriage. He must have known he wouldn’t have to. He must have known she was wanted by the Church, an entity Luke was powerless to influence. The Phoenix’s might held no sway over the religious leaders. Only King Henry’s did.

Exhausted by the weight of her troubles, Merry sank onto her pallet, drawing her feet up for warmth.

Did Luke even know a new trial was being set? Even now, according to Father Bartholomew, witnesses were being sought and brought to the diocese. She prayed her sisters would be among them though their journeys to Winchester would be long, indeed. What would she not give for Clarisse and Katherine’s comfort!

If only she could wake and find that it had all been deemed a mistake—that the prioress of Mount Grace had violated procedure in her first trial, making it inadmissible. Yet, even so, Father Bartholomew had said she was likely to face a second trial. If she were found guilty as a heretic, the sentence would likely be hanging.

The crunch of feet outside her door brought her head up swiftly. Her heart beat harder as she dreaded a visitation by the coarse monk who brought her meals. His nature reminded her of the worst she’d experienced in men.

The key scraped in the lock, and Merry tensed, prepared to fight if necessary. As the door moaned open, however, her visitor proved to be Father Bartholomew. She released the breath she held. Yet why would he visit her again so soon?

“My child,” he said softly, stretching out a lantern in front of him and peering into her cell. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, Father,” she answered, catching a glimpse of another man behind him in the shadows.

The priest crossed the threshold, brightening the small space substantially. Into the light stepped his companion, lowering his hood in the process and closing the door behind him.

Merry’s heart tripped over itself as she recognized her husband. “Luke?” she cried, springing off her pallet.

“Merry!” He closed the distance between them, nearly knocking the priest aside to get to her.

His arms went straight around her, and he crushed her to his chest. Sanctuary, at last! Holding him fast, Merry squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the swift beating of his heart.

“My love!” he whispered, cupping her face and pulling only far enough away to look down at her. “I have been trying to see you every day, but they’ve refused me. Have they been treating you well? How’s the babe?”

She had lost the capacity to speak. With a nod of her head to signify that the babe still clung to life, she let her tears of joy and pain stream from her eyes. With a groan of agony, he pulled her against him, rocking her and stroking her back.

“Christ’s wounds,” he muttered to the priest, “she’s as thin as a skeleton! Why haven’t they been feeding her?”

“I’ll look into the matter,” Bartholomew promised. “We haven’t much time,” he added on a nervous note.

Luke slid his hands to her shoulders to look down at her again. “Bartholomew has risked much by letting me see you,” he explained. “Swear to me that you will put your faith in him. He is doing his best for you, as am I.” He gripped her shoulders earnestly. “Not everyone is convinced of your crimes.”

His words flooded her with sudden hope.

Luke frowned. “I know Bishop Henry only slightly,” he admitted. “He has been nearly a king himself and has had more wealth and power than most royal heads. His relationship with the current king is complicated. He is King Stephen’s brother, as you know.”

She knew. As the previous king’s younger brother, Bishop Henry might have some grievance with the new king who’d waged a long war with Stephen. Though at times, the bishop, himself, had fought against his own brother, in the end, King Stephen and Bishop Henry had been unified.

“While King Henry has supported this bishop for the most part,” Luke said, “he has put some of the bishop’s residences on the adulterine list, so I think there is no love lost between them.”

“Have you actually—?”

“Destroyed any? Nay,” Luke assured her. “I have not been dispatched to demolish any of Bishop Henry’s residences yet. I don’t believe His Excellency has any reason to dislike me or to question the veracity of my testimony. I’ve been told he will let me speak on your behalf. We have gathered witnesses to discredit those who would testify against you, even against the prioress of Mount Grace.”

“Not her!” Merry cried in dismay.

“Don’t fret about her overmuch,” Luke assured her, stroking her arms. “Her testimony is the easiest to repudiate. After all, she broke faith with the Holy See, failing to notify them by writ before your last trial.”

“This time, Mother Agnes will not be judge and executioner,” added the priest. “She will be but a witness, along with others, and all will be vetted against the influence of bribery. Your chances are good. You must take heart, my lady.”

She filled her lungs with a shuddering breath as she took in his words.

“Promise me you will confide in Father Bartholomew,” Luke urged her. “To prove you innocent, he must know what kinds of allegations are likely to be brought against you. You have to understand that he can’t openly defend you. Instead, he will pose questions that suggest your innocence.”

“Then I won’t be allowed to speak,” she guessed. It had been the same at her other trial.

“Only in answer to a question.” He gave her a reassuring smile, one that nonetheless betrayed his fear for her.

“Let us be on our way,” urged the priest. “All will be ruined if we are caught here tonight.”

Luke hesitated. “I would like to stay with my wife for a while longer, Father. If I am discovered, I will not reveal your part in helping me.”

The priest answered the request with dubious silence, but Merry’s heart leaped with sudden joy. Oh, for a moment longer with Luke! Already, she could feel the warmth seeping back into her limbs.

“Very well,” Bartholomew said at last, “but do not stay long. ’Twill not go well for either of you if you are caught.”

Luke promised, and as the cell door closed behind the priest, he led Merry to her pallet, gathering her onto his lap. There, he cradled her in silence, his body a citadel against evil. She realized he had no more words of consolation to offer.

“Have you seen the king?” she whispered.

His fingers flexed about her waist. “I have tried many times. He remains at Clarendon with a few barons and refuses me an audience.”

For the first time, she heard weariness and worry in his tone. “Perhaps you could send him a letter,” she suggested.

“To what end? He will deny any involvement. My only hope is to prove that Amalie was poisoning my grandfather. To that end, I must hasten back to Arundel before the trial. If I had reason to sue the king’s cousin, then Henry might be willing to strike an agreement.”

“Is my fate not out of the king’s hands now?”

Luke gave her a wry smile. “Nothing is out of the king’s hands entirely. If he has motivation to act, he will do so. I have yet to prove Amalie’s perfidy, however.”

Merry sighed against Luke’s chest. It seemed too far-fetched, too removed from her circumstances, to become a likely solution. With defeat, she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Images of their lovemaking, of the tender days before her arrest, flickered behind her eyelids. What if this were the last time she would ever be held by him?

“Will you marry another when I am gone?” she asked.

“Hush,” he commanded, tightening his hold. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“You must repair any rift with Henry to ensure you retain Arundel.”

She felt him shake his head.

“Your grandfather loved his second wife best. Did you know her ere she passed?”

“Merry, cease this talk of death!”

She realized then she was distressing him. “I’m so hungry, I don’t know what I’m saying,” she apologized.

“By God, they will feed you tomorrow!” he swore. “I will force my way back in here with food if need be.” She felt his muscles bunch beneath her. “How can they treat you so in your state?” he asked savagely.

“If I am sentenced to hang,” she interrupted, harking back to the subject she’d at moment earlier sworn to desist, “surely they will wait until our babe is born? Surely the Church would not take the life of an innocent—”

“You are innocent, Merry,” he cut in fiercely, capturing her face between his trembling hands. “You will not be made to hang, I swear it!”

“You mustn’t swear thus!” she cautioned, seeing a glimmer of tears in his eyes, even in the faint light of her single candle. “’Tis not within your powers to determine if I will or won’t. You have saved me more than once, dear husband, but this is beyond even the Phoenix. Yet sorrow not, I beg you. You have made my life worthwhile,” she added, sinking her fingers into his thick hair. “You said that you love me,” she marveled anew. “Will you tell me again, so that I may know I did not dream it?”

She heard a sob in his chest as he rasped, “I do love you. By Christ, I would not want to live without you!” He clutched her close then, saying nothing more.

Putting fears into words made them somehow more likely. Silence was better.

Moments later, he shifted, lowering Merry from his lap onto the pallet where he came down alongside her.

“Sleep now, my love,” he encouraged. As he draped a thin tattered blanket over her, she was reminded of the nights they had slept outdoors on their way to West Sussex. She had feared, then, that Luke might put her aside. How humbling to learn of his desperation to save her now. Truly, she did not deserve him.

“I love you, Luke,” she whispered, yielding to her exhaustion, to the sweet luxury of his heat. With his strong arms around her, her pulse slowed to a restful beat, and her thoughts merged then blended to naught.