Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  If she had a jar of hungry fleas or a pot of sticky honey, which would be more amusing to put inside his armor?

  If she had three frogs or a pitchfork—

  “Lady Clio, my lord.” Thomas the Plowman said her name and all eyes turn toward her. All eyes except her Merrick’s.

  She saw him stiffen, but he did not act as if he knew she was there. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he was deaf from battle. Perhaps he was thick-headed from too many blows to his helm. Perhaps …

  “What need has my Lady Clio for your crops?”

  “Not all crops, my lord.” Thomas looked from the earl to her, then back to the earl.

  Oh, God’s feet! Merrick was about to find out about her brewery. She shook her head, but Thomas was no longer looking at her.

  “Lady Clio only needs the barley,” Thomas continued, never looking back at her. “She made provisions to purchase the villeins’ own plowshares for brewing her ale, my lord.”

  “Her ale?” Now Lord Merrick turned and looked directly at her. So much for thinking he did not know she was there.

  “Yes, my lord. Lady Clio told us how she had learned to brew ale at the convent and how very special the ale would be. How there would be plenty of ale at Camrose, enough for those of us who only have cider or mead.”

  It was not a simple task to stand there and look calm and collected beneath his piercing blue stare and his cool detached manner.

  “Our lady has great plans for the castle brewery,” Thomas said proudly.

  “Does she, now?” Merrick nodded, watching her with an unreadable expression.

  “Aye, that she does.”

  Clio wished Thomas the Plowman would be silent.

  “Come, my lady.” Merrick raised his hand toward her. His tone made it clear he was not offering her a choice.

  Her feet moved of their own accord while her mind screamed, “Where’s your pride! Stay there and ignore him the way he ignored you!” Then she was standing before him, her pride in tatters. Her mind was calling her a coward, while her sense said, “Don’t cross him before all and sundry.”

  She placed her hand in his, because she had to. When his hand closed about hers, she felt the calluses on his hand, calluses from gripping the hilt of his sword, from the reins of his warhorse, and from lances and maces and other such weapons of war.

  It was a simple gesture, an honor to ladies that was supposed to be a courtesy. Many times a man had held out his hand to her—her father, the king, and others.

  Yet with this man the act seemed intimate, private, and unsettling. As if he knew her thoughts, he turned and drew her with him to face the crowd, their hands held up for all to see. And they stood together, hand in hand; it felt as if they were one. This stranger and she.

  His hand closed more firmly around her fingers, like the manacles that held prisoners to the walls of a cell. With a sense of doom more foreboding than any black omen Old Gladdys could foretell, Clio saw her identity slipping completely away from her.

  Chapter 6

  Merrick led his betrothed toward the castle. She walked beside him as if he were leading her to the gallows, silent, stoic, and looking as if she stared death in the face. She bore little resemblance to the spirited creature he’d watched twirl and dance in such enchanting circles around the solar.

  Today there was no silver-gold hair that hung past her knees. No deep green robe that made her eyes look like a rich dark forest. No innocently wicked spark in those green eyes or charming, elfin grin on her lips.

  Her face was pale, almost gray. She wore a tunic the color of a cesspit. Her hair was scraped back from her face and knotted in two coils that made her head look like an egg … with handles.

  The circlet on her head was twisted pieces of bramble; his first thought was of a crown of thorns. Worse yet, it was perched atop a scrap of sheer silk so ugly a grayish blue it must have been a waste of work for the worms.

  He had the absurd thought that she might be like those spirits of legends and wives’ tales, the kind of enticing creature who comes alive only by the light of the moon. His gaze fell on her again.

  Sunlight certainly didn’t enliven her.

  He waited a moment longer for her to speak, to question him, to say something. Anything. But the only sounds were those of their feet on the ground and the background noise of the castle going back to work once again.

  She was silent as a rock.

  He looked ahead of him, then said, “Tell me about the ale.”

  Her head shot up. “There is nothing much to tell.” She spoke quickly, as if she had to get all the words out in one breath. Then she looked away, staring off at nothing. “The convent sold ale. Since I was there so long, the abbess sent me to help Sister Amice in the brewery. She had a special ale recipe.”

  “What kind of recipe?”

  “Oh, just one for a stronger brew. It was very popular and sold well.”

  “Since you are familiar with the process, I shall make it your duty to hire a brewer.”

  “No!”

  He froze. That was the most life he’d seen in her that day.

  “I would like to brew the ale.” She placed her hand on his forearm, and he stared down at it for a confused moment.

  “Why should you wish to be bothered with the task?”

  “I want to, my lord. Please. I enjoyed brewing. Sister Amice and I were working on some new ingredients when she died.”

  “What kind of ingredients?”

  “Spices and herbs. Nothing too unusual.” She kept her hand on his arm; then she gave him a direct look.

  “You will have many duties here.”

  “I know, but I promise Camrose will have the finest ale in the land. And you have my word I will not shirk my other duties.”

  He heard the pride in her tone and he thought for a moment he understood her. He looked down at her hand and found himself saying, “You may do the brewing.”

  She stood before him and meekly bowed her head.

  The nuns’ influence, he thought.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  To tease her, he said, “Just don’t try to serve my men any heather ale.”

  “Heather ale?” She snatched back her hand and gave him a look that was not meek or submissive, but startled.

  “I can see by your face that you’ve never heard the tale. Some claim the Picts brewed an ale so potent that it helped them defeat Julius Caesar. Of course such a thing cannot exist, but fools still try to make it and usually end up poisoning ale-drinkers with their feeble efforts.”

  She must have had a weak stomach; her smile looked as if it were slapped on her face. “I give you my word I will never poison your men, my lord.”

  “I was jesting with you. And I believe, Clio, that you should begin to call me Merrick.”

  She said nothing. They walked together, in a castle that would be theirs and their children’s, yet now at this moment they were nothing but strangers.

  He stared down at her and wondered what she was thinking. He looked straight ahead, then said, “It was foolish to leave the protection of the convent.”

  “’Twas not too far to travel.”

  “The traveling distance was not my concern.”

  “Apparently neither was my existence for two years.” She looked as if the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

  For the longest time he said nothing, but instead only watched her, almost trying to look inside her head. She was silent, too, but averted her eyes as if she did not want to give him a chance see what she was thinking.

  “You are peevish because I did not come and wed you as agreed.”

  She didn’t respond, just continued to walk beside him as if he had not spoken.

  “You are too quiet. Have you nothing to say?”

  “I have said enough.”

  “I don’t think you’ve said half of what you wished to say to me.”

  “’Tis over and done now.” Her tone was clipped.

  “Aye.
It is. There is no going back. I cannot change what has happened.”

  “I know that.” She couldn’t hide her annoyance and it looked as if she was not even trying to. She sounded impatient and snappish. She did not understand.

  He knew enough to know she wanted him to respond, even if she did not realize it. Deep down inside of her she wanted him to know that she was angry. “I am a man of war, Clio.”

  She met his look when he spoke her name.

  “I have been a knight for a long time, almost fifteen years. Before that I was fostered and trained to be a warrior. It is the only way I know. I obey my liege lord, my king, in all things. He came first. It is a matter of honor. Had I not been there, he would not be alive today. Likewise had he not been there, I’d have rotted in some desert hell and you’d be betrothed to nothing but a pile of bleached bones.”

  He made certain that he did not sound angry, or sorry. He wanted it plain from his tone he was not apologizing or trying to make her understand.

  He was not placating her. He spoke to her the same way he spoke to his men and to the servants—a matter-of-fact way that allowed for no argument, but said that this was the way things were.

  She seemed to accept his words, because she nodded, but within a moment she had lapsed back into that same awkward silence.

  He stared down at the top of her head with that ugly headdress. “I do have news I believe you will find welcome. Edward has given me license to crenellate Camrose.”

  She stopped and looked up at him and frowned in puzzlement.

  “It means I am to refurbish the castle. Along with the license comes a rich allotment to pay for the changes.”

  “You mean the king gave you money to restore and rebuild Camrose?”

  “Aye.”

  Her manner changed so quickly he had to look twice. She no longer trudged toward the wooden bridge as if she were carrying the sins of the world. Her step was light and she stood a little straighter as she walked beside him.

  But it was her face that made him almost have to look away. Joy and relief and something he could not name shone from her.

  He’d never seen the like, and it struck him odd that things could change so quickly between them. He continued to watch her, stunned. And leery because he could barely believe his eyes.

  To think he’d thought her plain in the daylight.

  Her smile was the daylight.

  Amid his confusion something touched him deeply, the idea that he could make her smile like that, a smile he found he was not immune to.

  She became pensive a moment later, this changeling of a woman. His first thought after he’d watched her expression of wonder fade was that he would like to see her smile at him again.

  They crossed the wooden bridge and he stopped and inspected the wooden planks. “Here is something that must be replaced. See there?” He pointed to the places where the wood was cracked and split. “The bridge needs to be stronger. I will replace it with strong stone blocks cemented with lime or perhaps build a wooden drawbridge and reinforce it with iron.”

  “Aye.” She nodded, agreeing with him.

  A miracle.

  “I can see it.” She stood back and eyed the entrance.

  The drawbridge would be the best for defense, he decided to himself. The bridge could be pulled up to thwart an attack.

  “The stone would be lovely.”

  She was right, he thought absently. A stone bridge had its merits, since it would not burn.

  She leaned over the old wooden railing and made a face at the water. “The moat is filthy. It should be drained and refilled.”

  “Aye. We’ll have it drained.” She was a practical maid and he was pleased with her and with himself for choosing her six years ago. “The moat should be enlarged, two to three times the size.”

  He paused in thought, imagining the size in his mind’s eye. It would be wide and deep, too deep to fill and difficult to tunnel under. No siege tower would be able to scale the outer wall of this castle.

  With a wider moat, burning the bridge would be more difficult. He could have the drawbridge, which still appealed to him. He liked the idea of having the power to control the entrance.

  “Then we can have swans,” she said with enthusiasm.

  Swans?

  She was already walking ahead of him.

  He followed her, frowning as he watched her enter the gate ahead of him with a bounce in her step. There would be no swans atop his moat. Unless she could find swans that spat poison or devoured their enemies.

  She had stopped underneath the barbican and was frowning upward by the time he joined her.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said, her hands planted on her hips.

  He looked up.

  “Those are murder holes, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “Aye.” Even he couldn’t believe it. It was disgusting. There were only two murder holes chiseled into the roof and those were small and thin and looked useless. He shook his head in disbelief. On a castle in the borderlands where the Welsh came raiding regularly. Two puny holes. “I agree. ’Tis stupid.”

  He would build a stronger higher gate tower and pepper it with plenty of holes from which to drop missiles and rain arrows on their enemies. No man would slip past his gate.

  For the next hour they moved through the castle. She insisted on showing him where every tapestry had hung, where carpets had been, and telling him how the windows’ panes had been polished bone. He tolerated it, knowing it was difficult for her to return to the castle that had been her home and see it in such shambles.

  Also she was a woman. He supposed she had different priorities and saw most things differently than he did.

  So when he talked of the arrow slits and she wanted glass windows, he said nothing. When he mentioned adding more chimneys and she talked of the queen’s decorated fireplaces, he just moved on. His lady had not been trained in war. So he tolerated her interest in furnishings and glass windows and decorated fireplaces.

  Most of the time Merrick had expansion on his mind. He had decided to double the size of the keep and replace the roof with iron tiles. She thought it a splendid idea until he informed her that the iron tiles the castle blacksmith would forge were to protect them from fire arrows, not to allow them to hear the patter of the rain in the solar.

  By the time they sat at the high table in the hall and were quenching their thirst with wine, his patience was thinning. She refused to eat the bread and kept shoving the platter out of his reach, while she prattled on about things that were unimportant.

  “I can just imagine the moat, Merrick. Black swans and lily pads, perhaps some marsh marigolds along the borders and a small boat.”

  “A what?”

  “A boat.”

  “Would you have the Welsh raiders float across our moat to the honking of swans and the scent of flowers? Why not give a feast for them and lower our drawbridge to the sound of trumpets?”

  She scowled up at him, not looking the least meek and submissive. “You needn’t make me feel foolish. I was thinking about the beauty of the place, not about the Welsh.”

  “A castle is for defense. A place made to keep those inside safe.”

  “I was only daydreaming aloud,” she snapped, watching him.

  He leaned across the table and snatched up a chunk of bread before she could move it from his reach again.

  “I understand you clearly, my lord.”

  “Daydreaming.” He snorted. “A foolish and female pastime.” He ripped off a hunk of bread with his teeth and chewed the bloody hell out of it.

  She watched him swallow the bread and her expression lit with something akin to victory. She lifted the platter with a suddenly sweet expression. “More bread, my lord?”

  “No,” he barked, not liking her sudden sweetness or her clear use of his title instead of his name. A moment before he had been “Merrick.”

  She waited a moment, as if she were savoring something tasty, then set down the bread pla
tter. “So you contend that men do not daydream.”

  “Aye. We have better things to do.”

  “Oh? And what about you, my lord?”

  He looked up. “What about me?”

  “You claim daydreaming to be foolish and female.”

  “Aye.” He almost laughed. “Men do not have such a weakness.”

  “Ha!”

  “What are you implying with your ‘ha!’?”

  “Only that you aren’t female and your mind can surely wander as well as mine.”

  He could no longer hold back and gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Me? Daydream? What foolishness. A warrior whose mind wanders is a dead warrior.”

  She placed her palms on the table and leaned toward him. “I think I must be speaking to a ghost.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Shall we lower our drawbridge and invite the Welsh in for a feast?” she repeated in the same impatient tone he had used, which annoyed him more.

  He stood up then, not liking her boldness or her argument. She was a woman. She should defer to him in all things. He planted his hands on the table, too, and leaned over, glowering down at her.

  “You must have been daydreaming, my lord. “

  “I don’t think so, my lady.”

  “Oh? Ha!”

  He was learning to hate that word.

  “We don’t have a drawbridge,” she announced, then spun around with her nose so high in the air she would have drowned if it rained.

  A moment later she was gone, her angry footsteps tapping up the stone stairs. He stood there with his hands still planted on the tabletop and he felt as if he were struck dumb. A moment later he asked himself, what in the bloody hell had happened?

  He straightened and stood there feeling as if he were waist-high in the midst of a marsh, sinking. He shook his head, then downed another glass of weak watered-down wine.

  It did not help.

  He reached up and massaged the tenseness in the back of his neck, wincing when he squeezed too hard. ’Twas not his own neck he wanted to choke.

  It dawned on him then that any thoughts of that ideal and peaceful life he’d sought for so long had just gone straight to hell.