Using the flat of his blade, Thomas whacked at the young man, expecting him to topple and raised an eyebrow when he barely budged.
With a quick maneuver, the tip of Nicholas’ sword met Thomas’ chest. “Would you have at me while your wife is raped? Both your sons murdered? Steward and York will make sure neither grows up to revenge your deaths. Which with your naiveté, won’t be long in coming.”
Marcus poked at him with the tip of his blade. “Devil take it. Why didn’t you stop them? Best be brief.”
“You blame me? I’ve but a few loyal men. You’re the ones with an army. I suggest Marcus find the boys. He knows what route they take. Thomas, you and I should take a few good men back to Scarborough. We’ll sneak in as you did before, grab my sister, and be off.”
“Godspeed,” Thomas shouted to Marcus as he gathered men to him.
Thomas sheathed his sword and patted the neck of Demon who’d begun to snort and prance. “What more is there? Speak quickly.”
“I’ve seen this ruse before. No doubt they promised to murder the children should Meredith not convince you to leave Scarborough in haste.” Nicholas glared, put down his helm, and turned back the way he’d come.
Thomas spit and made the sign of the cross. “The blood of Christ and all his angels. I’ve been a fool.”
“Indeed. Let’s hope it’s not too late.”
Thomas took his ten best men along the muddy road that ran closest to the sea. Rain pellets stung his face where not protected by beard. He leaned forward and Demon’s wet mane washed his skin. “Run like the wind.”
He’d negotiated with sultans and serpents from here to Jerusalem, yet couldn’t see through a simple deception? He was a dolt when it came to his wife. In that, she was correct. He squinted. The high towers of Scarborough loomed through the mist as if floating above low hanging clouds. Her smiling face from their night of lovemaking floated ahead of him. Damnation. She’d tried to warn him that night with her shifting eyes, yet he’d been too angry to take notice. Even if still alive, he’d understand if she never forgave him. What kind of husband was he? A damned idiot, that’s what.
As a last resort, he negotiated with the One Great Trader of All.
He prayed.
We are not well known to each other, but Highest Lord above and Majesty, I promise on my solemn honor, to find a priest to resolve my sins and have myself and all indentured to me attend mass daily until I die, if you would but keep them safe. Ah, that is, ah, as humanly possible.
He said what he could remember of the Our Father in Latin, and ended with, Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners until we die upon our swords. Amen.
By the time he had finished negotiations with God, the sun had come out and he was down to only one mass on Sunday and not always for himself. He paused at the field in front of the castle, far enough away for Nicholas and his ten men to remain unnoticed.
The drawbridge fell to the ground with a whump and mud flew in every direction. Ten knights, with a woman in tow, clunked over the wood in a gallop. Thomas had to unclamp his grinding teeth to speak. “I’ll gut them all.”
Nicholas turned his mount and headed his charger toward the forest. “Anon. We’ll cut through here and stay clear of the watchful eye of the towers. In several miles, the roads merge. With Merry in tow, they’ll not be able to ride as fast. We can take them there.”
Thomas followed reluctantly. How much could this young man be trusted? On one level, he’d played the fool, but now, a master of cunning. The forest broke into fields and sheep and the road divided. A priory within a small village lay just beyond.
“I know the Franciscans here—none loyal to York.” Nicholas hopped off his huffing charger and nodded to a young monk who took the reins.
They’d hardly had time to position themselves in the church tower when the riders from Scarborough approached. His wife rode second to last, surrounded by knights and Scots. And what was this? Marc and Little Tom rode with them? Christ’s wounds. Would nothing of this day go well?
He raced down the stone stairs, gave a brief nod at the church alter, just in case, and ran for Demon. “We’ll need to follow and see what evening brings. I won’t risk the boy’s lives.”
Nicholas followed at his heels. “We won’t be able to get close enough. The road they travel is open until they meet forest again, but that is more than a day’s ride.”
“Hell’s balls. What do you suggest we do?” Thomas pivoted and stared impotently at the departing party which held his wife and son.
Nicholas pushed him toward a humble stone building. “Come with me to see Brother Paul. I believe he has something to help us.”
Chapter 27
Argh. Pigeon crap. Everywhere.
Merry’s foot stuck to the thick sludge on the stone floor. Cooing and fluttering of wings against cages caused a ruckus, but the sedated pigeon keeper lay sound asleep on his cot. From a wooden rafter above, poop slopped onto her shoulder. She wiped herself clean with a linen handkerchief.
The wind off the ocean blew hard through the large opening in the stone dovecot. She shivered, her hands shook, and the drumming in her heart sped. Tens of tens of cages sat atop each other, all color-coded. Now, she knew why the room wasn’t highly guarded. Only the master of this place would know how to send a missive to the right keep.
What a huge blunder. She’d seen Ann use pigeons back at home, but there were only four cages, each plainly marked. Of course, a castle of this size and import would hold hundreds of birds. Damn all souls to hell for her lack of understanding of the ways of the world. And damn the filthy pigeons as well.
One of the evil connivers came to roost on a slit in the wall, shook his feathers, and cooed innocently at her. Cupping her hands around the bird’s body, instead of breaking its neck, she pulled a tube off its leg and uncurled the parchment. “Kill them all.”
“Oh.” She dropped the painted hollowed twig onto the table and tore the parchment into tiny bits. The wind carried the whirling pieces into the ocean far below. Time was running out. She grabbed a quill and small square of parchment and wrote out the words, “They plot against you. Come quickly to—”
The door burst open, and she let go her breath. The pigeon master’s apprentice. He’d know what bird flew where. Thank the angels above. Then she saw who followed, the lecherous Steward, The Bishop of York, and two well-armed castle guards.
The bishop grabbed her small piece of unfinished parchment, read it, and growled. “Seize her. Let it be known she’s a traitor. She holds a green tube in her hand—a missive to Carlisle.”
Merry’s knees weakened and she all but crumpled to the floor. “No, you don’t understand. That tube has just arrived.”
“Hand it here.” The steward’s eyes narrowed, he thrust an open palm forward, and she handed him the empty tube.
He smiled with an evil grin and his eyes danced with glee. He whispered in her ear as they walked her down the narrow staircase. “You’ve saved me the trouble of finding a reason to hang you. Nothing can save you now.”
To the castle guards he said, “Put her in my chambers and have her readied for me. Find the old goat that helped her and have her flogged but don’t kill her.” He muttered something under his breath about witches and their evil ways as they made their way, single file, down the turret staircase.
Two castle guards brought her to a grand house, next door to the keep. The floors were of marble, the foyer drenched in gilded objects. Tapestries covered every inch of wall in a garish display. Truly, this was a house more for a king than the castle steward.
They walked her up a wide staircase where white floors shined such that they reflected like polished silver. There was no door at the top, merely another huge room with an enormous wood frame and mattress hanging from the ceiling. Curtains hung around it, but something much more disturbing was attached to the nearby wall; iron chains with locking cuffs.
One of the guards smirked at her horror and
the other put a hand down the front of her tunic. Cold metal with a sharp edge met the side of her breast. She tried to scream, but the man retracted his hand and put it over her mouth. “Shush. When the time comes, fight back.”
He shackled one hand, turned a heel, and left with the other smirking portly guard. “Next time, I get to feel her up and you take the watch.”
“As you wish.” They both descended the staircase and Merry pulled out the blade before it nipped her any more than it already had. How odd he’d assumed her unarmed and hadn’t checked. Were all the women in Scarborough sheep? She smiled and tucked the extra blade under a pillow.
The chain was linked to the ones from which the bed hung and just as solid. What would happen when she slayed the bishop or Steward? Why had the guard insisted she fight back and given her a weapon? Nothing made sense, but time had run out for thinking.
The bishop’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Make sure that none disturb me.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. The voice came from the older guard.
Fight back? Indeed, she would. However, if she died, how would she save Thomas? Obviously, she couldn’t kill the bishop, mayhap only wound him. She could cut off his pintle. Certainly, a deep score within it would render him unable to do the deed in the near future.
The bishop entered the room and smiled an awful grin. He untied the belt that held in his girth, and it settled lower like a heavy lump of meat. How could his shaft even penetrate her with all that fat surrounding it? He answered her question by turning her onto her stomach and lifting her arse high.
As the cold air hit, she swiveled, grabbed the knife tucked up her sleeve, and thrust it low. Damn the fat. She missed his pintle, but blood gushed nonethe-less.
The bishop screamed like an old woman and the guard, with merriment in his eyes, came running with linens.
“By God, did you not check her for weapons?” He held his gut while blood spewed.
The guard winked at her.” That was for Sir Oscar to do. I’ll see to his punishment.”
“Punishment? Hang him, man. Hang him.”
The bishop jumped off the bed, blood dripped from his lower area, and his pintle waggled. Merry pushed her face into the bed covers, so her laughter couldn’t be heard. If she was to be sent to heaven in the next moment, at least she’d arrive jolly.
“Remove her at once and take her to the dungeon, then send for the surgeon.”
The older guard held back his laughter, undid her chains, and covered her with a blanket. He rushed her out of the room while the bishop screamed out orders behind them. At least twenty men rushed into the building as they departed.
“Well done. Had you cut any deeper, he would’ve insisted upon your death. Unfortunately, now you’ve only peaked his interest.”
“Interest? Is he mad?” She had to skip to keep up with the knight’s fast pace across the courtyard.
“Most probably. Come. The dungeon is no doubt the safest place for you at the moment. I can give you a stone to sit upon. Stay in one corner, do not move, and eat nothing. I’ll come for you at darkness. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Who are you?”
“Best you know nothing. Keep those knives of yours well hidden. I will nay be able to save you again.”
He led her back into the castle, down a long stairway, and through tunnels turning left and right. They passed a donkey turning a grinding wheel and a pile of grain. In another area, heat from a forge scorched her skin as they passed by. Deeper and deeper they descended.
Finally, her guard handed her over to the dungeon master wearing a stony frown. “See to it she isn’t damaged. The master will come for her later.”
Merry sat on the cold stone in blackness. Not even a crack in the wall let in light. Perhaps that was a blessing, for a rat raced across her hand when once she set it down. The rustling they made on the other side of the small cell made her imagine a colony of thousands waiting to feast upon her. She inched back against the wall and brought her legs tight to her chest in the smallest of balls.
Left alone like this, she was haunted by memories. They drifted to the surface, each one more horrific than the last. One stayed in the shallows of her mind and wouldn’t be put down. With her child’s eye, she relived the fateful day where she had learned how dangerous it was to say too much about what she remembered.
The day had started much like any other. She’d slept in her mother’s chambers in the tower, dressed for a quick mass, and had followed her mother about. They’d stopped first at the kitchen, where the sour-faced cook had set out a stingy portion of barely edible pies. Even now, her stomach rolled at the thought.
Skipping along, she’d followed her mother into the village, with a basket of food for the widows.
“Who’re we visiting first?” The sky was the rarest of blues and a salty breeze blew off the ocean.
“Widow Marion.” Her mother had a wide smile that always reached her eyes. Her bright red hair was always perfectly tucked into a fine net, with a simple pointed cap of wool.
Meredith made a face. “Do we have to?”
“Remember the lesson in church, lass?”
“Aye, charitable works breed a fine soul.” She laughed as they arrived at the small stone and mud house with the thatched roof. Gray hair, grim mouth, and slit eyes met them at the door, covered only in a wool shawl.
Meredith continued, unheeded by the old woman. “He also said that very same thing last month … and on the Feast of the Epiphany, on the third Sunday in Lent, and three times the day of the first snow last winter.
Dame Marion gasped, crossed her index fingers, and spat upon the ground. “Devil girl.”
She ran into the street and began to screech, “Bar the doors. Take out ye the holy water. The devil is amongst us, the devil is amongst us.”
One by one, shutters slammed shut and people ran into their homes.
“Where is he, mother? Shouldn’t we run, too?” Meredith, so young at that age, had understood nothing.
With mouth open wide, her mother grabbed her to her chest, lifted her tunic, and ran for the keep. Angry shouting, far away to begin with, got closer.
“Is the devil here?” She held tight and hid her face in her mother’s tunic.
Placing her down, she said, “Hush, child. Inside. Anon.”
Meredith ran past her very seldom seen father, wearing a frown so deep it should’ve scared the devil back to hell.
His gaze, however, seemed to be set upon her. “Now ye’ve gone and done it. Evil acts spawn evil. That’s what comes of fornication.”
Not quite sure what the word meant as a child, she’d run to the tower where she’d cowered, shaking under the covers for what had seemed like hours until her mother had retrieved her. Soon after, they’d escaped through the tunnels and she’d never seen her home again. That is, until now.
Meredith sighed. The mystery of her childhood was solved. No wonder her mother’s husband, the man she had thought her father, had hated her so.
It was impossible to tell how much time passed in the black dungeon. Hours? Minutes? Memories that would’ve made the sanest of people go mad danced in her head and refused to let her be.
The door creaked opened, the smallest of light filtered in, and the cook’s familiar cackle sent the rats scurrying. “I told you Nicholas hid her.”
“Indeed, you did.” The Bishop of York’s high tenor would’ve given him away, even if the outline of his small stature did not. He stepped aside such that at least three others appeared in the barely lit hallway. She gasped. Kilts, all. It couldn’t be.
“I told you I’d get her back.”
Holy balls of Christ himself. It was the mad Scott who conversed with his dead father.
She almost wet herself until she heard her son’s voice. “Get my Mama out of there.”
She stood while a guard took key to her chains, then marched her out the door. The knife in her bodice heated as she spat in his face. “Damn you
. I’ll see you all rot in hell.”
“Search her.” York glared and wiped a linen across his tunic to remove her spittle.
He chuckled as both her knives were removed from her person. “Sorry, my dear. It would’ve been such a pleasure to mix wits with you again. It seems your brother has friends in this keep after all. Best I send you and the boys to Carlisle before The Beast gets wind.”
He giggled almost girlishly. “I’ll set him on a merry goose chase after his heir and feign innocence of the whole matter.”
The guards squeezed her purse, looking for more blades and she held her breath. If they found her mother’s letters, she’d have nothing left to save herself and her son.
“The boys will fetch a pretty penny in ransom. Make haste. I want them long gone, should The Beast arrive with his army.”
The old cook held out her hand. “You promised me a reward for finding them, Your Excellency.”
“Indeed, I did.” He nodded to a guard who, almost faster than the eye could see, sliced down with a sharp blade. Cook’s hand fell to the ground, still wiggling as blood pooled.
Merry gagged, unable to avert her eyes from the gory scene.
The Bishop took hold of Merry’s chin and forced her eyes upon it. “See what comes to those who try to negotiate with me?”
Chapter 28
Merry woke when she rolled off a miserly bit of fur and sharp stones cut into her back. Wrists and ankles were damp where rough hemp rope had rubbed her skin raw. Hoping the last few days a dream, she opened one eye. No luck there. Only a foot away, with back to a wide tree, the evil hand-slicing knight snored. His beard bobbed up and down upon his chest.
Recognizing the tiny pokes at the small of her back, she turned. Marc snored with deep breaths, but Tom’s dark eyelashes brushed her cheek. “Mama, did they hurt you?”
“Shsh. Use a smaller voice. Tell me. How come you to be here?” She curled her body around the boys hoping to keep them from the eyes of the guard.
How to Marry Your Wife Page 15
