Her Honorable Mercenary--A dramatic Medieval romance

by Nicole Locke

  ‘Where are our things?’ she asked.

  Evrart shrugged. ‘They’ll bring them by soon enough.’

  Who would bring them by? She’d thought he had grown up as she had. In poverty and desperation. But this village wasn’t poor...these people had sturdy clothing and happy expressions.

  ‘Do you have servants?’

  He chuckled.

  But what villager helped other villagers? When her mother had crumpled and fallen into herself, when their father had left, no one had helped her siblings with their land, their home or their taxes. When it had got truly bad, a neighbour had bargained with her sister. They’d be allowed to use his oxen if he was granted favours.

  Her brothers...what they had suffered! And Mabile. She had married early, but that had provided little care, for she’d had babies so soon...when she was barely old enough. And Margery had worn torn clothing and shoes that had been handed down until they were more holes than any leather or cloth.

  ‘Come, let me show you my home. It is not much, but there are some separate rooms. My brothers and I demanded it when Peronelle was born.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘You’re cold.’

  She was freezing.

  ‘Margery...?’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m well.’

  ‘Maybe some rest.’

  He tugged, and she followed.

  Many of the villagers had returned to their homes; only a few lingered in the lanes. It was easy to guess Evrart’s home. The thick roof was by far the tallest. Still, Evrart bent his head in the doorway and stepped a few feet in.

  The square room contained a kitchen and a thick oak table with benches. At each end of the room were other openings. Blanche and Peronelle were nowhere in sight.

  ‘You have doors,’ she said.

  His gaze was quizzical. ‘They have rooms behind them, too.’

  This wasn’t the same; this wasn’t the same at all.

  She had grown up in one square room where they’d all slept together. If Biedeluue or Mabile had ruined dinner, their eyes had burned all night with the smoke.

  Panic sweeping her, she felt the small of her back prickle with sweat. Evrart’s past life hadn’t been like hers, with cold winters and no blankets. He’d had family, and doors, and villagers.

  Holding her hand, Evrart dragged her to the room on the right. ‘This one is occupied.’

  The room was large, with three massive beds and nothing else but foot boards where she imagined clothes were hung. It was plain, but far nicer than anything she’d had growing up. The wooden slats were tight, the daub and wattle thick. The room felt secure, with nary a draft.

  Across two of the beds were clothes, and various lavender and rosemary branches. There also appeared to be some unwashed dishes. The third bed was unmade, with the quilt partially on the floor. It was a disaster.

  But the freedom of such abundance only made her hands clammy. She had known she was different from him, but she’d counted on their past being some commonality. This wasn’t the same. Now what did she share with him? She couldn’t think!

  ‘Let’s see the other.’

  Releasing her hand, he walked around her. Stepped through the living area to the other door. He glanced in and stepped back. ‘That is still my mother’s. You didn’t see a large tub in the other room, did you?’

  She saw everything else, but not that.

  ‘I didn’t see it leaning outside either. No matter—we’ll have Peronelle move.’

  As if conjured up, the front door banged open and his sister and mother entered. Margery jumped.

  ‘The meat and potatoes are still roasting and not nearly done.’ Peronelle turned her full glare on Margery. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  Of course she would wait. Did Evrart’s sister think she would stamp her foot and demand food? Did they think her vain and spoiled!

  ‘That is good,’ she said, trying to keep her voice as friendly as she could. ‘There will be time for us to talk.’

  ‘As if I have time for that,’ Peronelle said. ‘Azamet killed some chickens—they’ll need plucking and draining—and Mama needs to wash the clothes.’

  Margery drew herself up. She could do this. It couldn’t be as bad as she feared. It was simply returning to a village that had caused this frenzied tension inside her. ‘If you show me where to go, I’m sure I could help. When I was a child I—’

  Peronelle made a scoffing sound. ‘In those clothes?’

  Margery felt her loud dismissiveness as if it was a blade. His mother frowned in their direction. She was certain it was aimed at her.

  ‘Tomorrow is a much better day for all that,’ Evrart said.

  Blanche turned to her. ‘You rest.’

  Margery didn’t want to rest. If she rested she’d feel useless again.

  Peronelle went to her room. ‘Why is the door to my room open?’

  Evrart crossed his arms. ‘That’s my room. And where’s my tub?’

  Peronelle shrugged. ‘It was too big, and you were gone.’

  ‘How am I to bathe if it’s gone?’

  ‘Like everyone else. Outside.’

  Evrart looked at his mother.

  ‘Peronelle...’ Blanche said.

  Peronelle flinched, but quickly rallied. ‘Why does he think he’s better than anyone else and gets to bathe in private? And why is she ousting me from my room?’

  Margery looked to Evrart. The tub they could find or build, but didn’t he understand that if he said nothing she’d have no position in this house? Her vision narrowed and she felt ill. This was like her own village, except there would be no chance of accepting Josse. No making a decision to help her family and help herself. She’d chosen Evrart, who seemed blind as to what was happening around him.

  ‘I don’t need your room,’ she said. ‘I’ll help with the chickens, and we’ll resolve where I sleep later.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Evrart said. ‘There’s nothing to be resolved. We’ll move Peronelle’s things now, and then when our supplies arrive from the stalls we’ll have a place to put them.’

  Blanche gazed at her son as if she’d never seen him before. What was going on here?

  ‘You can’t move my things!’ Peronelle said.

  Evrart growled. ‘We’re resting now.’

  ‘No!’ Margery said, much louder and more desperately than she’d intended. But she was desperate. If she stood there much longer, she’d faint or be sick. ‘I can sit in the chair, here by the fire. Or maybe I can check on the firepits outside and stir some pots.’

  Peronelle eyed Margery’s hands, and linked her arm with her mother’s. ‘We’ll take care of the food, since you’re obviously too hungry to wait.’

  Evrart uncrossed his arms and exhaled slowly as they left and turned out of sight. ‘She’s grown since I last saw her.’

  Was that the reason he was giving for her being rude? That she was growing? Her family had always struggled, but with three girls they’d had to work together more often than argue.

  They’d left so much danger and uncertainty back at the fortress, and for three days they’d wrapped themselves up while Evrart had told her stories of his childhood here. She had been looking forward to her life in this village. But those thoughts had been dreams, which left her with this...nightmare.

  ‘While they take care of the food, let’s move her things to the other room,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’ Margery was the youngest, but she remembered the arguments between Bied and Mabile. They’d always mended matters because they were sisters. Margery didn’t want to cause any injury when she wasn’t certain of her place here.

  Evrart stopped in his tracks. ‘I’m not sleeping anywhere else.’

  Her heart filled, then warmed. The restlessness in her eased. He did care about her. Maybe she was simply tired...maybe her t
ime in the fortress was skewing her perceptions. Tomorrow Evrart would be here, defending himself and her against his sister. She’d get an opportunity to talk with his mother, who had at least frowned at her daughter. Tomorrow it would be better.

  They’d partly cleared the room before she realised that although Evrart had claimed the room, he hadn’t truly included her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Evrart eyed the field. ‘Are there more stones than last I was here?’

  Azamet, his friend since they could first tie their boots, gazed at the sky and rocked on his heels.

  ‘You cleared your field and dumped them here,’ Evrart said.

  ‘They were to be gone before you next returned,’ Azamet said. ‘Didn’t expect you back so soon.’

  So soon...

  It would be almost two years since he’d returned. Some of the village had stayed the same, but there were improvements to be noted. The biggest change was in Peronelle, whom he knew had entered some terrible time in a female’s life that he didn’t want to examine too closely. Never a happy child, she was now almost a woman...and she might be spoiled.

  After days here, he’d expected Margery to say something to her by now. But Margery wasn’t the same. He’d thought what was between them had been all set to rights when they’d shared berries, when she’d asked if he wanted to pick some.

  He should have known that was unusual. His Margery would have simply demanded he pick them, not asked if he wanted to.

  He had felt so joyous to be holding her again, he hadn’t noticed those subtle differences. And when they’d entered the village, she’d grown so quiet, her eyes too wide. She hadn’t looked that fearful...ever.

  He’d shrugged that off as well, thinking she was tired, but days had gone by and that look hadn’t left her. Could it be she didn’t like it here?

  He’d expected to offer marriage to her by now. He wanted at least to ask her, but now he was unsure if she wanted him in any way. At night, however, when all was dark and quiet, she curled up against him. It wasn’t the same as under the mulberry canopy. He lay there but didn’t hold her, and she never did anything. Just leaned into him as if she needed his support. So he gave it to her.

  His mother, bless her, had given him time and the room. Quiet as she was, he could tell she was as happy as he was that he was home. When he’d told her he didn’t need to return to Warstone Fortress tears had fallen and she’d patted his hand. Such affection from his reserved mother had been so overwhelming he’d almost hugged her, as Margery would have done.

  Picking up another stone, he threw it to the pile he’d created. He’d propose to her soon—he’d tell her his intentions since he’d already told her his feelings. But how? And what woman would accept him, with his past, if he had nothing to offer? Building a home for them would take time, and his field was strewn with stones. The soil was good underneath, though. Crops would take a while... But he didn’t want to wait. He wanted his Margery.

  He remembered how, when he was young, he’d imagined working side by side with his wife in this very field. But Margery, with her tiny frame and soft hands out here, in this field with more stones than soil? Never. He would show his worth to her and protect her from this toil as well.

  ‘I’ll see you later tonight?’ Azamet said.

  Evrart bit back a growl.

  ‘For some fine ale?’ Azamet said, his voice a bit weaker.

  Azamet wasn’t much taller than Margery. As a boy, Azamet had shadowed Evrart, and as such he’d always been protective. Well, no longer. His duties were to another.

  ‘We will clear this field together,’ Evrart threatened. ‘And if you don’t want to be here as dawn breaks over tomorrow, you will acquire others to help as well.’

  * * *

  This day was no different from the last. Margery tried to help, was rebuffed, tried to be friendly, but was ignored, and when she tried to disappear was scorned.

  Well, not verbally scorned, or rebuffed, or ignored. But Evrart’s mother had a multitude of looks—none of which she could understand. Sometimes she looked almost friendly and smiled, but when Margery started a conversation, the woman would just stare at her. Which led her to believe again she’d disagreed with her son’s choice for a lover.

  All her life she’d protected herself from people, and here she was being battered about by Evrart’s family. She had begged Evrart to travel to his village, and along the way with his childhood tales, she’d thought she knew how living here would be for them. Now it felt as if she’d been picked up and placed somewhere she wasn’t meant to be.

  And she’d tried to get past this feeling of doubt, because she’d sold her virtue to Josse and then Roul. But seeing Evrart in his home, with all the goodness of this village and all the love of his family, she knew he deserved better than her.

  She’d tried to talk of it in the garden, but he had dismissed it. She’d let it go. Her question then had been whether he kept her in the dark to protect her, or if he was simply unused to conversing. Now she realised she shouldn’t have let it go. She wondered if she had been wrong about everything when it came to this man. Maybe he didn’t keep quiet to protect her but because he thought she wasn’t worthy. How could a whore be worthy?

  And Peronelle!

  Margery was used to people gaping at her. Oddly, she was grateful she wasn’t being treated as if she was something better because of her colouring. But she missed her own family. She missed being able to talk of matters like this. She wished, not for the first time, Evrart had said something of the guards bringing his sister gifts. She would have brought something from the fortress.

  She’d offered Peronelle some of her ribbons, and even the headdress which hadn’t stained. Peronelle had merely turned her back on them and asked what she would use them for.

  She agreed with Peronelle. They were useless. And if she was to be more helpful to Evrart, if she was to stay, she’d need more serviceable clothes. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  With certainty she wouldn’t ask any of the women in this village to swap. They’d look at her clothes just as she did and see uselessness. Maybe there was something nearer the abbey.

  ‘Is there a market near, where I could find some wool or linen weave?’ she asked.

  Peronelle stepped through the bedroom doorway, looked her over, then looked at the satchels they had brought full of clothing. ‘You do not have enough clothes?’

  That was not what she meant. ‘I thought I could find something more...’

  ‘More village-like?’ Peronelle said.

  ‘I used to live in a village. I still have family there.’

  ‘But you left it, so you must not have liked it.’

  Arguing with her would solve nothing. ‘Please, Peronelle, where can I purchase some fabric for clothing?’

  ‘And fill up my room with more of your things when you’ll be leaving here soon enough? I hope not.’

  Margery’s heart plummeted. Leaving? Was Evrart wanting her gone or was it simply his sister? She’d had enough of not knowing and asking herself these questions. She needed to talk to him!

  ‘Where is Evrart now?’

  Peronelle shrugged.

  Margery looked at Blanche, sitting in a padded chair in the corner. She was mending clothes. A heaped basket was beside her.

  Over the last few days this was what Blanche mostly had been doing. Sitting in the corner, never saying a word, while people brought her baskets of clothes to mend.

  Margery knew Evrart’s mother should have been the one to answer her question. Certainly, a woman who needed thread would know where there was fabric. If she hadn’t wanted to get up from her seat, she could have called out. Instead, she had allowed her daughter to enter the room and announce that her son would be sending her away.

  And Evrart. Up at dawn...back when it was almost dark. He was busy with s
omething, but when she asked, he merely said he was taking care of the land.

  He looked so pleased to be here—how could she complain about his mother and sister? She wouldn’t. But they couldn’t go on like this. It wasn’t fair to him or to his family. Or to her.

  Why didn’t he merely say what he was doing? Was he deceiving her? She knew he didn’t actually lie, but he had never told her everything. He’d told her amusing stories of his youth, but they’d been simple. They hadn’t let her know he was from such a fine family, who with one glance had known that she was not.

  And if Evrart never stood up for her, she would never be accepted. ‘Where is he?’

  Blanche looked up and frowned at Margery’s gown. ‘Fields.’

  The fields—of course. Even years out of the village, she hadn’t truly forgotten. It was just...well, she’d never done that...worked in the fields. Hadn’t because Biedeluue had done it, and then, when Bied had left, and she’d grown old enough to be productive at harvesting, Josse had ridden by.

  ‘You’re going to go to the fields?’ Peronelle said.

  ‘You are busy with food, and your mother with mending. I’d like to help, too.’

  ‘In those shoes?’

  They were the only shoes she had. ‘I suppose I’ll need the cordwainer as well...’

  ‘A cordwainer! First you want new clothing—now new shoes. Will you never be satisfied?’

  Margery blinked at the tears that threatened. She looked at Blanche, whose eyes seemed to have softened, and saw that she gave a nod of encouragement. But how could she tell if she was being kind to Peronelle or to her, when her eyes were so full of tears and everything was blurry?

  She’d been a burden to her family, and what skills had she gained so she would not be a burden here?

  She’d left the fortress because she hadn’t fitted there, and now she was even more out of place here. This—being here and not fitting in, being a burden—was why she should have protected herself. There she’d been, demanding Evrart protect and defend himself from Ian, when it was her who shouldn’t have included Evrart in her heart. Because of course he’d have family, and friends, and villagers who adored him. And how could she—worthless, useless—defend herself to all of them?