Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  “I am gone but a few hours and yet you manage to almost get yourself killed.” His voice was gritty and low and unpleasant.

  She searched for something to say, but no words came to her. She just stood, frozen, dizzy, hugging herself and looking past him to the bloody scene beyond. She closed her eyes and remained stiff and numb and sick inside.

  A moment later she sank to her knees and bent forward so her hair shielded her burning face from him.

  For the first time the arrow showed from her back.

  She heard his vicious curse, but did not know the reason. She just knelt there shaking and weak and hurting, hidden by her hair. Then she did the only thing she still had the strength to do.

  She cried.

  Chapter 16

  Merrick swelled with sudden rage. Impotent, paralyzing rage. His hard gaze hit the deadly looking arrow. He knew at that instant that the Devil could take him to hell and through all the trials of purgatory, yet it would not be punishment enough.

  He had failed her.

  With slight pressure from his knee and a tightening of the reins, his warhorse knelt to the ground. Merrick awkwardly slid from his saddle, his motions made stiff and restricted from the armor that protected him.

  Nothing had protected her. Nothing. And ’twas his duty.

  He had seen men die. He had seen bloody wounds. He had been cut and stabbed and shot with arrows himself. But the sight of that arrow in his lady’s back made him feel as if he had been cloven in two.

  He moved toward her as swiftly as he could; sounds of the armor rattled and clanked and scraped into the air. The sound was harsh, but not nearly as haunting as her quiet sobs. Part of him wanted to rip off every last piece of plate metal he wore, so that he had to stand there as defenseless as she had been.

  Beside her, he fell to one knee and slid his hands about her waist. Even through his gauntlets he could feel the shaking of her small body. He drew her onto his bent knee. “Easy. Easy, Clio. I’m here, now.”

  She sobbed his name, a shame-filled half cry, and her face was hidden against his shoulder. He had to close his eyes to stop some foreign and massively overpowering emotion that suddenly burned behind his eyes and deep within his heart.

  He held her there for the briefest of moments, because he could do nothing else.

  He was a warrior, yet he felt weak and cowardly and angry all at once. He stood up then with her in his arms. She had one slim arm slung around his neck and the other arm, the side that dripped with new blood from the arrow, hung limply at her side. He moved toward Aries stiffly. She moaned once when his arm accidentally grazed the arrow shaft.

  His warhorse knelt on command, and Merrick remounted, settling her gently in front of him. As Aries stood, Merrick looked down at Clio. Her sobs had stopped, but her breath was as ragged and tattered as his pride.

  “Take a deep breath,” he whispered in a hoarse voice that did not sound like his. He looked down at the long arrow protruding from the back of her shoulder and slid his arms under hers

  He gripped the stiff shaft in both hands and broke it off.

  She moaned.

  The sound was like a dagger in his gut.

  Her breath came in uncontrolled pants of pain. Then she whimpered and it about killed him.

  He cupped her head protectively beneath his chin and said, “I’ll take you home, Clio. You’re safe now.” He paused, then added under his harsh breath, “You will be safe. I swear this to you.”

  She muttered something he could not understand against his neck; then he felt her sag against him. He turned his mount with only the pressure of his legs, then spurred them forward.

  They rode from the dark forest out into the sunny field beyond, heading for Camrose, which sat on a hillside in the distance, looking peaceful and strong and gleaming white against the horizon. As if nothing dangerous could possibly happen within its proud sight.

  He wanted to shake his fists at it. He wanted to shout and curse at the heavens over the irony of it all.

  For years he had been able to look down upon a battlefield and know easily from where to mount the best attack. He had finely honed senses that could almost feel his enemies’ presence before they ever showed themselves. He could foresee a trap coming, and he could easily judge if a man would make a true soldier.

  Yet when he had stood before this woman in the small forest glen, he had felt helpless. It was as if he had been in the middle of a battle and had just had his mount and his sword taken away.

  Now, as he sat on his horse, he tried to control the turmoil inside of him. He could not feel any life from her. There was no warmth. No touch of skin against skin. Nothing tangible. But then, he wore his armor, so between his and her touch there was nothing but cold hard metal.

  Then, as he had that empty thought, her body began to shake, quivering like an arrow when it just hits the target. He looked down, and even though her head was bent, he saw the tears scoring her cheeks and dripping over her mouth and chin.

  She was crying again. Silently. Her tears dripped onto the coude of armor at his elbow and trickled down the hammered metal vambrace that covered his forearm. She settled even closer against him when he clamped his arm possessively around her small body. He found it a sudden struggle to find air to breathe.

  Aries climbed a small hill of freshly mown grass, and her head fell back against his shoulder. A second later her tears dripped onto his breastplate, where they slowly traced down in a path across his heart.

  Merrick raised his head, slowly, and gazed straight before him, his jaw clenched the way it did when he saw a blow coming.

  He stared out at nothing for a long time. It seemed a lifetime, forever, especially when his thoughts were so confused.

  Strange, how his armor could fend off arrows and slashes of swords. It could deflect the blow of a mace or the jab of a dagger. It had saved his life too many times to count. Yes, his armor had never ceased to protect him.

  Until now.

  At that instant, a moment of time that was no more than a flicker in the face of Fate, he learned something that would change his whole life. No matter how thick the metal or how masterfully crafted, no matter how many men-at-arms he had or how many weapons he drew, nothing … nothing would ever protect him from this one small woman.

  Clio sat on the lumpy straw tick in her bedchamber, where Merrick had carried her. She remembered little of the ride back to the castle, only the security of his arm around her and the embarrassment of her tears.

  Almost before they rode through the castle gates, he had begun to shout orders. She wasn’t certain which was louder, his shouting or the loud clanging sound of his armor as he awkwardly climbed the stairs with her in his arms. He stumbled once and swore countless times before he kicked open her chamber door and laid her on the bed.

  “Do not move,” he ordered, then watched her as if he thought she would disobey him.

  She returned his dark look with a weak smile. “And to think I intended to run up and down the stairs a hundred or so times.”

  He did not find her humor amusing, just shook his head. “’Twould not surprise me. God knows, woman, what you will do next.”

  “Walk to London.” She had tried for a sprightly tone, but her words sounded drained, even to her own ears. She sagged back on the tick, then flinched from pain when she accidentally hit the arrow stub.

  Stars swam before her eyes and she clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth should have cracked.

  “Here,” he said with sudden gentleness. “On your side.” He helped her lie on her good shoulder. “Stay still.” He turned and clanged across the stone floor, then braced his hands on the doorway and bellowed, “De Clare!”

  For the next few minutes all Clio heard was Merrick repeatedly calling for his squire and shouting orders to everyone and anyone who happened to be nearby.

  She could picture the scurrying belowstairs almost as if she were standing and looking down at it. Servants running to and fro like confuse
d pigeons. His men trying to obey seven orders fired at them at once.

  “You! Stop!” Merrick’s loud and rough voice echoed off the stone walls.

  Wincing slightly, Clio glanced up at the doorway. There was poor, sweet Thwack.

  He froze mid-step, staring in the direction of Merrick’s voice. “Aye, my lord?”

  “Come here … Thump.”

  The lad stepped out of Clio’s line of vision. “Aye, my lord?”

  “Bring some heated water and towels now! De Clare! Tobin! Where the hell is my squire?” Merrick’s voice echoed like a cathedral bell through the keep, “Someone. Anyone. Get some bloody hot water and fresh linen up here now!”

  “Oh!” Thwack took some backward steps. He glanced into the room, then paled. “I’ll fetch the water, my lord! I will.”

  “Then get moving, lad and be quick about it!”

  “Aye, my lord. You can trust me.”

  “Where the hell have you been, de Clare? Get this armor off me!”

  “Yes, my lord,” came Tobin’s harried voice

  Another muttered curse came from just outside her door, and a piece of armor sailed past the door to clang onto the stone floor and roll into a corner where Cyclops had been sleeping like the dead.

  The cat opened his one eye and glared at the armor, then stretched, stood up, and prowled close to it, making that gurgling sound he made whenever he had something cornered. He sniffed at the armor piece, then meowed loudly.

  He spent the next few seconds batting it around as if he expected it to grow legs and run at any moment. But the piece of armor didn’t move, so he butted his fat backside against it. His long tail thumped on it a few times; then he yawned once, plopped down on it, and went back to sleep.

  Merrick was still grumbling in the hallway.

  “Please, my lord,” Tobin said, his voice filled with forced patience. “Can you stop pacing? I’ve almost—”

  “God’s eyes, de Clare! What in the name of St. Peter is taking you so bloody long? Unfasten the blasted thing. Stop dallying here and there and everywhere! Lady Clio could bleed to death before you even get moving.”

  A gauntlet flew across the hall.

  Lady Clio could bleed to death. ’Twas a very good thing she was not prone to hysteria, else his tactless words would have sent her into a fit.

  She cupped a hand around her mouth to be heard over his cursing and called out. “I’m fine, my lord.”

  Merrick’s armor-covered feet clopped to the doorway. He poked his head around the corner, scowling so hard his dark brows almost came together.

  His helm was off and his mail hood was gone, too. His black hair stuck out as if he had driven his hands through it a thousand times. His narrowed gaze went from her face to her upper arm.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated, nodding at him. “Truly.”

  From his expression she could see he did not believe her. He grunted something she could not hear, then disappeared again.

  “My lord, please …” came Tobin’s frustrated voice. “If you would just hold still a moment longer.”

  “God’s eyes man, be quick about it!”

  There was another crash. Clio heard Tobin swear softly. Then there was the rattling sound of mail hitting the stone floor, and the squire muttered, “Thank you, God.”

  “Where in the bloody hell is that water?” Merrick yelled so loud they could have heard him in London. He began to pace in front of her door. Back and forth he went, ranting and grumbling.

  She stared at her betrothed with sudden fascination.

  He was wearing only a loincloth.

  Clio had seen a few naked men. She had seen to the bathing of her father on occasion and a visiting diplomat once. But neither of them, nor the skinny castle and village lads that bathed naked in the streams, had looked anything like Merrick de Beaucourt.

  His arms and chest were thick and sturdy. His skin was darker than her own pale skin. The color of it made hers look pasty. Beneath the black whirls of hair on his body, muscles rippled like tight steps down his belly to the edge of the loincloth.

  That one small scrap of thinly-tanned leather covered his male parts, which, as she stared at them with complete fascination, looked like huge knotted fists.

  When he would turn his back to pace, she could see scars, both white and purple, across his back and his right arm and shoulder.

  His buttocks looked incredibly tight, tighter than hers, she thought with no little disgust. But his thighs were heavy with strength and snaking muscle, and she understood immediately how he could so easily control his horse with only a slight leg motion.

  She had stopped listening to his words, because they were only muttered curses and male talk. Looking at him was much more interesting.

  But before long his pacing began to make her lightheaded. She shook her head slightly, but it did not help. The room spun a little, as if she had drunk too much wine. She took a deep breath, but it made her wound ache so much she had to close her eyes to block her tears of sudden pain.

  Certainly it was not fair. She didn’t want to close her eyes when the view before her was so spicy.

  But nothing seemed to help her light-headedness, so she lay down her cheek atop one hand and tried to keep her eyes open. They grew heavier and heavier, until she knew they were only open to small slits.

  A moment later she closed them completely.

  ’Twas the last thing she remembered.

  Chapter 17

  They hovered about Lady’s Clio’s chamber like black harbinger ravens sitting in a hanging tree. Thwack and Thud, their wide and worried eyes locked on Lady Clio, who was lying so still on the bed. Tobin and Sir Isambard stood near the door along with three maidservants, two old and the young, plump teary-eyed village girl called Dulcie.

  Brother Dismas stood by the bed praying in Latin and dabbing oil in the sign of the cross on her brow. He suddenly switched languages. “My Lord God! Save this poor daughter of Eve!” He flung holy water over Clio, the bed, Merrick, and everything else within five feet. “Use your divine wisdom and grace, dear Lord God. Let her stay here, where she is needed by … by …”

  The monk scanned the room frowning. He glanced quickly and fearfully past Merrick, whose jaw was so tight his neck ached.

  “… By these wretched souls, who need all of your divine help and …”

  At that moment Old Gladdys came inside the room. She took one look at the monk, hunched her shoulders, and raised her bony hands high in the air like a witch about to cast a spell. She chanted some Druid song and danced around the room, her black clothing flapping about her like bat wings.

  The monk’s mouth clamped shut faster than the king’s castle gate and he held the cross at the end of his prayer beads in front of him like a shield.

  “Out!” Merrick shouted. Not even for Clio’s sake could he take any more. He pointed at the door. “Every last one of you! Out! Now!”

  Seconds later all were scrambling to get out the bedchamber door at the same time. All but that fool Brother Dismas, who was tying a dried piece of holly threaded with garlic to his cross, and the Druid witch, who was hunched over, cackling and blinking at the monk as if she had something stuck in her eye.

  “I said out!” Merrick pinned the monk with a menacing look meant to send him anywhere but there. Straight to hell for all Merrick cared.

  “Me?” Pompous Brother Dismas looked stunned, but raised his cross higher. “But surely since I have God’s divine ear, I should stay. Get this heathen witch out!” He scowled at Old Gladdys and raised his cross a little higher. “Before she gives us all the evil eye. Lady Clio needs my prayers on her behalf.”

  “She needs all of you gone.” Merrick took a step toward the man.

  The good brother quickly whipped the string of prayer beads back over his head, stuck his brass aspergillum under his armpit, and gathered his robes up in his fists. He stood there a moment, apparently waiting for Old Gladdys to stop chanting. He turned back to Merrick. “Go
d says you must move her lady’s bed.”

  “What?” Merrick scowled back at him. “Move her bed? Why?”

  “Our Father just told me, my lord. You must move the bed to that wall.” He pointed across the room. “There.”

  Merrick stared at the wall in a moment’s confusion.

  “To save Lady Clio,” Dismas continued. “The Lord says her head must be pointed toward Golgotha.”

  The man was crazed. Merrick just looked at him blankly.

  “Calvary,” the good brother explained. “’Tis the hill where Christ was—”

  “I bloody well know where Golgotha is, you idiot! I’ve been there! Now get out of this room before I crucify you!”

  The monk swallowed hard and ran out the door. His footsteps pattered frantically down the stone stairs.

  “You too, old woman. Leave.” Merrick stepped in front of Old Gladdys and stopped her from twirling in a hexagon-shaped path.

  She looked up at Merrick, then scanned the room. The moment she saw they were alone, she straightened and returned Merrick’s look with a wise and completely lucid look of her own. She handed him a small earthenware pot she took from a sack sewn to the hip of her robe. “Put this unguent on her wound.”

  Then she walked out, her back straight as an alder tree.

  Merrick shook his head, then took the stopper from the pot. Inside was a lichen-green salve of strong-smelling herbs that looked and smelled as if it offered more promise than did moving the bed and aiming Clio’s head toward Jerusalem.

  He closed and bolted the chamber doors with an order to a guard that no one was to enter. He turned back and just stood there, one shoulder leaning against the wooden door.

  She had passed out. He could see she was weaker than she had claimed. Her skin was pale and grayish and the color had nothing to do with her clothing choice.

  He had seen that look before on wounded men. She might have thought she was fine, but she was not. He wrung out a cloth in the basin of tepid water. Then he washed the wound again. It was deep and still bleeding.