The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Big doesn’t mean he’ll beat me.”

  Sir Jowan grabbed his son by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. “Listen to me, Kiernan. If you interfere with this marriage, if you challenge Merrick, he’ll surely kill you without a moment’s remorse. How would that help Constance? How will he treat her if he thinks there was something between you, when there was not? Is that fair or just to her?”

  His fierceness softened. “My son, it’s her right to refuse, if she so wishes, and you know as well as I that Constance is not a woman to be bullied into marriage. If she marries this man, it will be because she wants to.”

  “It will be because she’s worried about the tenants and villagers,” his son stubbornly persisted.

  “Whatever reason she has for marrying him, if you do love her, if you respect her and want her to be happy, you won’t make things worse, even with the best of intentions,” his father pleaded.

  Kiernan wrenched himself free, then stood with his shoulders slumped, his head hanging, the very image of despair. “I can’t stand to think of her married to that Norman lout.”

  “I know, I know, my son,” his father said softly, his heart aching for his unhappy child. “But if you truly love her, you must let her choose her fate. All you can do is let her know that if things go awry, she has friends, and we will help her all we can. Do you hear me, my son?”

  Kiernan nodded.

  “Will you give me your word that you’ll not interfere?”

  Again Kiernan nodded.

  “Then leave them be and go to sleep.” He patted his son on the shoulder, wishing he could always keep him safe. “If Constance wants our help, I’m sure she’ll ask for it.”

  Kiernan dutifully disrobed, washed and got into bed.

  But he did not sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CONSTANCE GLANCED UP FROM HER embroidery at Beatrice seated across from her, working on an altar cloth in a most desultory manner. At the rate she was going, it wouldn’t be finished before the Second Coming, even though she’d been silent since sitting down.

  “I know you’re disappointed that we couldn’t join the hunt, Beatrice,” Constance said, trying to sound sympathetic although she was, in truth, relived. It had been very difficult avoiding Kiernan since that disastrous encounter in the chapel, but avoid him she must. Did he think Merrick was blind or stupid? Did he truly not appreciate the trouble he could cause her if Merrick suspected his aim, or did he simply, selfishly, not care? “It really is far too muddy for us to ride out. You’ll have other opportunities, I’m sure. We’ll need plenty of game for the wedding feast.”

  Which would be in a se’nnight.

  A se’ennight, and she would have to choose if she would marry the lord of Tregellas or refuse him. To think that decision had once seemed so easy, it could hardly be called a decision at all.

  Beatrice sighed as if life were really too tragic and regarded her cousin with a melancholy expression. “If only it hadn’t rained last night.”

  “It’s Cornwall,” Constance replied with a rueful smile. “And it’s cleared up. If it stays nice, perhaps we can ride out later in the afternoon. Now come, tell me a story while we work. Or is there some news you’ve heard from the servants?”

  Constance wasn’t above listening to gossip. For one thing, it was part of her responsibility to know what was going on among the servants and their guests. For another, it was entertaining, even if she had to try to separate fact from fancy, especially when Beatrice was the source.

  Beatrice put down her needle and thought a moment. “Well, Eric is determined to ask Merrick for permission to marry Annice at the next hall moot.”

  “There’s nothing new in that, is there?”

  Beatrice’s eyes began to sparkle. “Some of the women think he was going to wait a bit longer. There’s been talk of another girl in Truro who’s caught his eye. But then Annice was made Queen of the May. Apparently that encouraged Eric not to delay.”

  Constance frowned.

  “Oh, not that he’s worried about Merrick. No, no, the women are all much more confident he’s not going to be like that. It’s just that some of them think Eric was, well, taking his own sweet time about it and now he’s realized he’d better not delay, or someone else may come a-wooing.”

  “Annice must be pleased.”

  Beatrice picked up her needle and threaded it with a piece of emerald-green silk. “I suppose so, although I heard that she’s been acting quite aloof lately. Some wonder if being Queen of the May has gone to her head.”

  Constance was surprised to hear that. “I didn’t think she was particularly vain.”

  “Neither did I, so it’s probably just jealous tongues wagging.” Beatrice stuck her needle in her work again and leaned closer. “There’s something else, about Sir Henry. I think he’s got a mistress in London.”

  Constance stared at her incredulously. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Of course not!” Beatrice grinned with pride. “I figured it out myself, from things he’s said.”

  This being Beatrice, that could mean Henry had merely mentioned a woman who lived in London.

  “I think you were absolutely right about him, Constance. He’s just a charming cad, and no woman should trust a word he says. I could never care for a man who kept a mistress.”

  Whether Sir Henry had a mistress or not, Constance didn’t care. She was simply relieved Beatrice suspected such a person’s existence. That should prevent her from making a mistake that could end in shame and ruin.

  “I don’t think Sir Ranulf has a mistress,” Beatrice mused aloud. “I’m sure he’s suffering from a broken heart.”

  Constance thought it unlikely that the sardonic Ranulf would admit that, if it were true. “What makes you say that?”

  Beatrice shrugged, but her eyes shone with certainty. “What else could make a man so cynical about love? He actually said he thinks the tales of King Arthur and his knights are ridiculous!”

  Beatrice was surely safe from Sir Ranulf, too. Even if he had nefarious designs on her—which Constance doubted—any man who disparaged the tales of the Round Table would never get far with her cousin.

  Constance wondered if Merrick had ever had a mistress, but surely if Beatrice knew, she would have told her already. She would consider that information Constance should know. Since she hadn’t, she either didn’t know or thought he must not.

  A clatter of hooves and shouting male voices arose from the courtyard. Beatrice immediately jumped to her feet, smiling with delight. “They’re back!”

  Constance pushed her embroidery frame to one side and likewise rose, albeit a bit more sedately. “They weren’t gone very long. I hope nothing—”

  The doors to the hall burst open and Merrick, his hair disheveled, his face a mask of stern annoyance, came striding into the hall, his right sleeve covered in blood, with more dripping onto the rushes as he passed.

  “What happened?” Constance cried as she ran toward him while the rest of the hunting party came into the hall. “Were you attacked?”

  “No,” Merrick snapped as he continued past her without so much as a pause or a glance in her direction.

  A hunting accident, then—perhaps from the tusks of an enraged boar. “I’ll fetch my medicines to tend to your wound.”

  That brought him to an abrupt halt. “No.” He turned eyes as fierce as any angry beast’s onto her. “I’ll tend to my wound myself,” he growled before going on his way.

  As Constance stood motionless, stunned by his harsh reply, Henry appeared at her side. “We cornered a boar, and in the excitement, Talek struck Merrick’s arm with his spear. I don’t think the wound’s serious. You wouldn’t, either, if you’d heard Merrick shouting for his horse and cursing Talek and anybody else who got within five feet of him.”

  Even while she told herself that men like Henry had been in enough tournaments to know when a wound was serious or not, she closed her eyes and remembered another man’s shouts
and curses.

  Henry lightly touched her arm. “Don’t be upset, my lady. I assure you, he’s not badly hurt and he’s always like this when he’s sick or injured. He hates having people fuss over him.”

  “Henry’s quite right,” Ranulf confirmed. “That’s his way. But he’s no fool. If he thought himself seriously hurt, he would seek a leech.”

  Beatrice stepped forward shakily. “You’re bleeding, too,” she said, pointing at Sir Ranulf’s blood-spattered tunic.

  “That’s the boar’s blood,” he replied dismissively before addressing Constance again. “My lady, if there’s a leech in the castle, you could try summoning him, although that would be more for your comfort than for any good it might do Merrick. He’ll likely just send the fellow away.”

  Constance was too aware of her duty as chatelaine to leave the care of a wounded man—any wounded man—to fate or the dubious skill of a leech.

  And there was another reason she wouldn’t leave Merrick to nurse his wound alone. She’d spent most of her life tiptoeing around one man’s moods. She wasn’t going to do so again.

  “I’ll tend to Lord Merrick’s injury,” she said, her tone implying that she would whether he liked it or not, which was precisely what she meant.

  “He’s very angry, Constance,” Lord Algernon said warily, “and if his friends think he’s better left alone—”

  “It’s my duty to see that my guests receive the best care possible.”

  The garrison commander, paler than she’d ever seen him, hurried up to her. “Please make sure he understands it was an accident, my lady,” Talek pleaded. “I was aiming for the boar and he moved and got in my way.”

  Constance put a comforting hand on the faithful soldier’s shoulder. “I will. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  In time, and if he truly wasn’t like his father, who held a grudge over the smallest thing for months.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kiernan and his father enter the hall. Kiernan immediately started toward her, but she ignored him.

  At least he hadn’t been the one to wound Merrick, although that kind of underhanded attack wouldn’t be Kiernan’s way. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he’d probably challenge Merrick to combat. He would surely consider anything less the act of a coward.

  Leaving the hall before Kiernan reached her, Constance hurried to her bedchamber to fetch her medicines, including fine needles and thread for stitching wounds. From a chest near her bed she filled a basket with clean linen, some already in strips for bandaging, as well as a sicklewort ointment that helped stop bleeding and took away pain.

  An anxious Beatrice hovered in the doorway. “Is there anything I can do?”

  This might be a good chance for her cousin to learn a little about caring for wounded men. “Have a servant fetch some hot water from the kitchen and bring it to Lord Merrick’s chamber right away.”

  With a nod, Beatrice ran off.

  When Constance strode back through the hall, she noted that Henry, Ranulf and Lord Algernon were already enjoying wine by the hearth, even though they were still in their dirty, bloody and mud-bespattered clothes. Sir Jowan was in the courtyard, shouting something about his horse; Kiernan was nowhere to be seen.

  She forgot about Kiernan when her uncle detained her with a hand on her arm. “If he dies,” Lord Carrell said with quiet urgency, “the king may decide to give you to one of his French relatives.”

  That was not a fate she cared to contemplate. “I’ll tend to Merrick’s wound as best I can, Uncle. Fortunately, Sir Henry says it’s not serious. Now I had better get on my way,” she finished as she continued to the stairs leading to the bedchambers.

  “Good luck, my lady!” Henry called out, saluting her with his wine goblet. “You’ll need it!”

  If they were expecting her to come running back, upset and in tears because Merrick wouldn’t admit her to his presence, they should have been here when Lord William was in his foulest humors, calling her terrible names, throwing anything he could lay his hands on at her—including his chamber pot.

  Yet in spite of her determination to do her duty, once outside the door to Merrick’s chamber, Constance hesitated. What if he was like his father in his injured rage?

  If he was, the sooner she found out, the better.

  Taking a deep breath, she rapped smartly on the door.

  “Who is it?” Merrick demanded from the other side.

  “Constance. I’ve come to see to your wound.”

  The door flew open. A half-naked Merrick stood there, his hair a mess, his eyes blazing, the long cut in his right arm still dripping blood. “I don’t need any help,” he growled.

  At least he didn’t shout. “I don’t care,” she said with equally determined calm. “I’m going to sew up that wound before you bleed to death.”

  “I’ve had worse wounds and tended them myself,” he said, starting to close the door.

  She stuck her foot in the opening. “You’re handy with a needle and thread?”

  Glancing down at her foot, he frowned, but he stopped trying to close the door. “It will heal without it.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she said as she pushed through the door and into the room.

  The last time she had been in this chamber, she’d been ensuring that all was in readiness for Merrick’s arrival—the linens clean; the feather bed plump with goose down and the curtains surrounding the large bed free of dust; the thick carpet that had cost more than most tinners earned in two years, even avoiding the tax, shaken and replaced; the silver ewer and basin ready on the stand near the window; the thick beeswax candle on the table beside the bed; and the brazier prepared in the corner.

  As she set her basket on the wash table, she took in the bloody water in the basin, the stained shirt in a heap on the floor, the spilled wine on the side table that he must have tried to pour, and the ragged strips of torn linen. She ignored the huge curtained bed.

  “How did you do that?” she asked, nodding at the strips. “With your teeth?”

  “I told you, I can tend to my wound myself.”

  She started to drag a chair beside the wash table. “I’m not leaving here until I’ve done my best to help you. You can’t sew that wound up yourself, so you’d best sit down and let me get at it.”

  “The cut’s not that deep.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I suppose you don’t want the ointment I brought, which stops the bleeding, speeds healing and takes away pain, either. Just how stubborn a man are you?”

  After a long moment of mutual glaring, he finally—much to her relief—threw himself into the chair and held out his arm. “I give you leave to touch me.”

  Such arrogance!

  His dark-eyed gaze mocked her. “You told me I must have your leave to touch you, so I think it’s only fair that you require my leave to touch me.”

  Her lip curled with scorn as she took hold of his hand and held his arm still while she examined the cut. Mercifully, it wasn’t deep. The use of his hand and arm should be unaffected. “Talek keeps his spear sharp, I see. That’s good.”

  “Good? The man could have killed me.”

  “A ragged-edged wound is worse than a clean-edged one,” she replied. She lifted her eyes to his face, noting that he was a little pale. “But then, if you’ve tended to your wounds yourself, you’d know that.”

  “Constance?” Biting her lip, Beatrice stood on the threshold of the bedchamber, an ewer in her hands and more clean linen hanging over her arm.

  “Ah, excellent,” Constance said, moving briskly to take the ewer and linen from her cousin, who didn’t stir a step as she stared at Merrick.

  “God’s blood, am I to have an audience?” he demanded.

  Perhaps this was not the best time for Beatrice to learn about tending to a man’s wounds. “Thank you, Beatrice. You can go.”

  Beatrice nodded and quickly disappeared.

  “There was no need for you to be so rude, even if you
’re in pain,” Constance admonished as she poured the bloody water from the ewer into the empty chamber pot. “She was only trying to help.”

  Merrick flinched as she started to wash his wound. “Would you enjoy having some soldier watch as I tended to a wound on your arm?”

  “It’s Beatrice’s duty to learn to care for wounded men. How else can she take care of her husband or sons, or the knights in their command, if they’re hurt?”

  “Let her learn by watching somebody else.”

  Constance pursed her lips as she concentrated on cleaning the wound. Merrick sat perfectly still, without so much as a grimace, when she began to sew it shut. At least his stoicism wasn’t feigned.

  “I’ve noticed, my lady, that your steward holds you in high esteem,” he said as she gently pushed the needle through his skin.

  “He’s a trusted friend, my lord,” she replied, biting her lip as she pulled the thread to make the first stitch.

  “I can see why. He seems a most reliable and honest man.”

  “He is,” she confirmed. Her brow furrowed as she worked, and she considered asking him to be quiet, until she realized Merrick might be trying to take his mind off his pain.

  “I’ve noticed a house in the village,” he said, “one that wasn’t there before I left when I was a boy—a rather large building made of stone and with an upper floor of wattle and daub.”

  “That belongs Ruan, your bailiff. He had it built three years ago.”

  “You don’t like him. Why not?”

  She thought she’d kept her voice carefully neutral as she replied but, obviously, she hadn’t.

  She shrugged as she took another stitch. “Although there’s never been any evidence that he’s dishonest, there’s something underhanded in his manner, in the way he speaks, as if he’s cheating you, and you know he’s cheating you, but you can’t quite figure out how.”

  “So your animosity toward the bailiff is based solely on a feeling?”

  How she wished she had some proof of Ruan’s dishonesty! “Yes, my lord, it is.”

  “I won’t dismiss a man based on a feeling, especially when I’ve seen nothing that would condemn him as a thief.”