Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  “I’m glad to find you surrounded by peace and quiet, my friend.”

  Merrick jerked his black gaze away from Clio at the sound of Roger FitzAlan’s amused voice.

  Roger stood in the shadow of an archway, a shoulder resting against the wall of the gate tower and one foot propped casually on one of the stone steps that led to the tower parapet.

  He stepped out of the shadows and looked at Merrick with a wry gleam in his eye and an irritating smile that broke too brightly through his neatly clipped red beard.

  Merrick glanced down at Clio. She was standing toe-to-toe with him, glaring at him the same way he had been glaring at her. To anyone watching they must have looked like two angry bulls ready to butt heads.

  His anger had been so consuming that he had not thought of where they were or who was near. He had been that angry.

  Yet all around them were the sounds and motions of the castle’s renovation. Men shouted orders to workers while guards directed the building materials and supplies in an endless line coming into the castle.

  Blacksmith’s hammers rang in the distance and sounded like war swords clashing together on a battlefield. Rope winches with gears that needed oiling squealed loudly, and heavy tubs of lime mortar were raised to the upper battlements, where freshly hewn stone girded with long iron posts made the new walls at Camrose stronger than those of any other castle on the Marches.

  Supply carts squeaked and rumbled through the gates, their teams goaded by men who whistled the oxen forward. Broad and sturdy stone wagons with long lines of huge draft teams lugged stacks of smooth square slate tiles that would line the new arrow loops. As those wagons rolled over the old wooden bridge that spanned the newly emptied moat, the studded cart wheels made constant creaking and tapping sounds.

  Roger closed the distance between them and clapped Merrick on the shoulder. “All you need now are the Welsh.”

  There were times when Roger could be damned obnoxious; this was one of them.

  Roger turned to Clio, gallantly taking her small hand and bowing low over it while he praised “the beauty of the rose-petaled flush in her lovely cheeks,” Pinning her with a heated look, Roger slowly raised her fingers to his lips, kissed them, then turned her hand, and kissed her palm.

  Merrick had seen his friend perform this same gesture whenever his mind was bent on a sly seduction. He also knew Roger well enough to know he did this with a purpose in mind. Something that had nothing to do with Clio and everything to do with goading Merrick into a spate of jealousy.

  It was working.

  Merrick had the sudden urge to plant his boot on Roger’s leather-covered ass and shove. Hard.

  Clio smiled brightly the way she seldom smiled at him, completely taken in by Roger’s romantic ways, which did nothing to cool Merrick’s temper.

  Then she sweetly asked Roger to join her for late mass and their supper meal following.

  Roger looked at Merrick over the top of her blond head and winked.

  Since Merrick had arrived at the castle late that first night, he had yet to take any meal with her. She never came down, even when he had made a point of saying he would see her there. He scowled down at her, unable to stop himself.

  She quickly made some excuse about leaving her lord earl to his well problem, and before Merrick could stop her, she hurried off toward the keep.

  Roger looked at him. “So what is happening with your well?”

  “Nothing I cannot handle easily.”

  “Are you certain? I can help. I don’t mind being a part of this.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Merrick groused. “Since you think you’re a part of everything.”

  Roger laughed. “Not everything, my friend. Just that which you are too hardheaded to take advantage of.”

  But Merrick only heard him with half an ear, for he was intently watching her weave a path through the bustling outer bailey, around horses that were twice her size, past honking geese that had nipped at his ankles, and dogs that yapped at the rolling carts.

  He was well aware that Roger watched her as he did, and he felt his friend’s puzzled look. But Merrick could no more look away than he could act as if he did not see the sun. He stood there silently, feeling unsettled and restless, the way he felt just before a battle.

  She moved past an oxcart that carried huge stone grinding wheels for the mill and some iron gears for the new portcullis. Their size made her look even smaller, farther away, like something he sought that was just beyond reach.

  After the cart passed, Merrick lost sight of her. But his mind had not lost her image, nor had he lost the powerful effect one small woman could have on him. He could still see her small straight back, the proud lift of her head, and the long blond braid that hung down her back so thickly and brushed over her body, back and forth, back and forth, whenever she walked.

  The image took him on a moment’s journey back to that first night at Camrose, when he and Roger had come upon her in the chamber off the solar. The night she had been dancing out that sprightly charade by the golden light of a burning candle.

  His first sight of Lady Clio had hit him like a war hammer. Fate had given him a lady so fair, so full of life, that he had only stood there, dumbfounded, watching her performance.

  He had told Roger the truth when he’d said he’d never pondered her looks. But the moment he saw her, he changed how he thought.

  She was small. The top of her head did not even reach his shoulder. Yet her presence in a room affected him more than he could fathom. ’Twas as if some giant had entered the room and the walls had suddenly begun to close in. A tight feeling he could not explain.

  The first thing he had noticed when he stood in the arched doorway was her hair. It hung clear to the backs of her knees and was a light silver color he’d only seen once before—when he’d been lying under a purple night sky in the desert, waiting for a battle that would begin at dawn.

  That night had been filled with shooting stars, hundreds of them. None of the men there had ever seen the like. Some fell on their knees, confessing all, for they feared the world was ending.

  Others drank too much wine and later did not remember the spectacle. But Merrick had lain there most of that starry night, on a pallet outside of his tent, and he’d watched the brilliant twisted star-trails above him.

  Like now, when he watched the lost image of one small woman.

  Chapter 13

  At the high table in the great hall that eve, Clio sat between Merrick and Sir Roger, and fought the urge to fall asleep facedown in her trencher.

  The spiced rabbit and wild truffles had been served with flaming quail on swords. But the two men did not notice. Instead, they debated how many rocks would have to be heaved from a standard mangonel to smash a hole in the four-foot-strong curtain wall.

  Along with dishes of golden leeks and braised greens came the trumpeting of the castle heralds, while Lord Merrick and Sir Roger discussed the perfect dimensions of the new arrow loops—splayed on the inside so the archer could take aim, taller than before for longbows— horizontal slits were a must for a broader range of fire, and finally they agreed to add circular oeillets to accommodate the larger crossbows.

  A few delicate glass panes or the old polished horn held no practical value for strengthening Camrose, according to Merrick. The two of them laughed at the foolish thought. For anyone would know that they would break when hit by an enemy’s missile.

  Clio found herself thinking longingly about missiles.

  She dropped her chin onto her propped-up fist and imagined how her betrothed would look with leeks dripping down his head.

  When Sir Roger’s own squire rose to play the lute, the servants came parading from the kitchens with rich frumenty and almond cream with fresh pears pickled in cinnamon cider. Yet the two men on either side of Clio did not notice.

  They had moved on to discuss ad nauseam the types of foul loads for the trebuchet, the latest mining techniques, and the proper widths and leng
ths of trees from which to make the strongest battering rams and locating those trees.

  Clio stared at the lump of pudding on her silver spoon with the falcon-shaped handle. If she gripped the handle in her fist, then took her other hand and pulled back on the bowl of the spoon, the cream should arc through the air …

  “Perhaps Lady Clio will sing a song for us,” Sir Roger said suddenly, turning to look down at her.

  She dropped the spoon in her lap. “Me? Sing?” She picked up the spoon, the swiped at the cream on her gown.

  She glanced up once to see Brother Dismas backing out of the room with a face that was pinched and pale. He suddenly had candles to light and prayers to recite that could no longer wait.

  Thud left in his usual rush—”to feed the swine”— and even Thwack moved more quickly than Clio had thought he could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched some of those who remembered her make their quick excuses, while the old servants were sneaking out of the room.

  They knew her well. Too well.

  Singing was not something Clio did with any amount of expertise. In fact, her father had forbade her to sing, and eventually, to even hum in his presence.

  “I know no war ballads,” she said, giving Merrick a direct look.

  “For our entertainment only, my lady,” Sir Roger said, smiling. “Surely you will bless us with a song. Any song.”

  Merrick watched her intently, as if he hadn’t been ignoring her throughout the meal. She almost declined; then the last couple of endless dining hours flashed through her head.

  ’Twould serve them right if she did sing. She slowly scanned the room and saw the bully squires looking up at her expectantly. In fact, now that she noticed it, every man in the room wore that male look of overweening and pride-filled expectation—as if they were saying, “I’m ready now to be pleasured and amused by the woman. “

  She could feel the slow warmth of satisfaction spread through her. She stood slowly and with great dignity, then gave a small curtsy. “’Twould be my pleasure to entertain you good knights.”

  She walked to a seat near the large fireplace, where the lute player was sitting, strumming a quiet tune. She leaned down and told him the song; then she began:

  There were three men came down from Kent

  to plow for wheat and rye …

  The men sat still as stone; their jaws hung open like those of village idiots. She could hear her voice, loud and screechy, like the sawing of metal upon metal. Each word echoed up in the broad, arched rafters of the hall. From the corner of her eye, she could see the lute player flinch as each higher note scratched forth from her throat.

  And these three men made a solemn vow:

  John Barleycorn should die.

  Then with a plow they plowed him up

  and thus they did devise to bury him

  within the earth and swore he would not rise …

  Sir Roger looked as if he wanted to slap his hands over his ears, but he managed a sick and weak smile when she walked near him and hit a purposely high note.

  Outside, the birds were flying away from Camrose in flocks. The swine shoved their snouts into the hay in the stable, snorting and sniffing and making whining sounds. The cattle bawled, and the horses battered the gates, trying to get away from the noise.

  Inside, Clio had moved to stand behind her betrothed, and she raised her voice higher, sharper, and louder.

  Amazingly the man did not flinch. Seemed ’twould take more than her screeching to pierce his thick head. But Clio was never one to give up.

  She went right into the fifth verse.

  It was, after all, the longest song she knew.

  At verse ten, when one or two men had finally succumbed to a few groans, and one brave lad had rested his head on the table, she stood in the middle of the hall and threw her voice as far into the air has she could.

  Barleycorn is the very best seed

  That ever was sowed on the land.

  For it would do the heart most good

  In the turning of man’s hand.

  Clio finished the final verse. The lute player had stopped two verses before.

  She gave them an innocent smile, then sank to a deep curtsy. “Now that you have been properly entertained, I shall take my leave.”

  She turned around and, with her head held high, slowly and gracefully left the room.

  There was stunned silence in the great hall, the only sounds the distant tapping of Lady Clio’s feet on the stone steps, the snapping of the thick green logs in the fireplace, and the dull ringing in every man’s ears. Each one of them wore the same expression—one of absolute befuddlement … and pain.

  There was a sudden clatter in the entrance of the hall and the front door flew open with a loud bang—a pleasant sound to those who had been witness to the song. Three of the parapet guards, the lookouts, came rushing inside.

  The largest man stopped before the earl. “We have a problem, my lord.” The man was out of breath.

  “What?”

  “The castle walls, my lord.”

  Roger leaned toward Merrick, whispering because he probably could not hear himself. “Perhaps your lady’s voice cracked the curtain wall.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Merrick winced, his own hearing still tender. “I think she cracked my ears.” He looked back at the guardsmen. “What is the problem?”

  “Wolves, my lord.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Aye.” The guard had a look of horror. “There are wolves at the walls.”

  Both Merrick and Roger were silent for a moment; then Roger gave a loud bark of laughter, and Merrick felt his own lips curl with the start of a smile.

  “There are packs of them, my lord.”

  Roger was laughing so hard he was pounding the table with a fist.

  The guard was perfectly serious when he looked at Merrick and added, “The wolves are howling at us as if we were the moon.”

  Only a day later the Earl of Warmongers turned Clio’s plans for a herbal workspace into a storage room for arrow quarrels and empty firepots. She stood at her chamber window and glared out at the tent in the distance. She was surprised there were not pointed stakes poking through the tent cloth, just to make certain he had a good defense.

  He was meeting with Master James of St. George, the architect and master mason, and had sent one of the servants to fetch her. The two men were probably plotting how they could use her clothing pegs to display Welsh heads.

  She placed her hands on the window ledge and scanned the sky. Not a rain cloud to be seen.

  Cyclops was sound asleep in the corner. No restless cats either. Pitt was perched on the cat’s head.

  With a huge sigh, Clio looked at the tent, imagining it in a downpour. ’Twas a shame the sun chose to shine so brightly this day. Rain would have made her happier.

  She plopped down on the lumpy hay tick that topped her bed and spent a while fiddling with her prayer beads. Bored with that, she set them down, then moved around the room, reciting Greek letters: Alpha, beta, gamma, delta …

  Just for good measure she sang the French alphabet: Ah, bay, say … She danced the capriole while she conjugated French verbs, then memorized some verses of the Gospel according to John in Latin.

  Over two hours after the servant had come for her, Clio left her chamber.

  Chapter 14

  “Earl Merrick has left, my lady.”

  Clio stared up at Sir Isambard, a stocky man with long curly brown hair and a broad nose under yellow eyes that looked like a wolf’s. His stern face never showed what he was thinking; he always wore the same serious look.

  He was in charge of Merrick’s men-at-arms, and though he was not tall like Merrick and Sir Roger, he was stocky like the dairyman’s prized bull and looked as if he could take on an army all by himself.

  “He has left?” Clio leaned and stretched onto her toes so she could glance around Sir Isambard and out at the field beyond. The tent was gone, along with some of
the men and horses. “Where?”

  “He did not say, my lady.” The burly knight stood in front of the castle gates as straight and solid as an old rowan. His huge sword was extended across the open section of gate to keep her from passing through.

  She stepped back, then asked, “Where is Master James?”

  “Inspecting the curtain wall, my lady.”

  “Fine, then I shall meet with him myself.” She grabbed her gown in her fists and moved to step around the sword.

  The knight shifted with her, still blocking her way.

  She gave him the same look she had received from Eleanor, now the queen mother, and the abbess, Eleanor’s cousin. “Let me pass.”

  “The earl gave orders that you were not leave the castle.”

  “He did what?”

  “He said you were to stay inside the castle walls.”

  “I certainly will not.” She started to duck under the sword, but the knight lowered it. “Remove that weapon from my path.” Clio waved a hand as if she were swatting away a pesky fly.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but I cannot. I have my orders.”

  “I just gave you an order.”

  “Aye.”

  She took a step toward the gate.

  He moved the sword. “I’m sorry I cannot obey your order.”

  Clio stared up at him. ’Twas like conversing with a stone wall. She waited a moment, but no idea popped into her head, so she spun around and marched away, her mind whirring like a spinning wheel. She slowed her steps, her hands clasped behind her back. She stopped, then casually turned back. “Do you like ale, sir knight?”

  “Aye,” he answered, his face stoic.

  “Good.” She smiled. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you a tankard.”

  “I would be grateful, my lady.”

  Ah-ha! Clio thought, and bit back a smile of utter satisfaction. Sometimes men could be so easy. One just must find their weakness.

  “Just as soon as my watch is over,” Sir Isambard added.

  She mentally groaned, then tried again. “Are you not thirsty?”