Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  “Aye,” Thud answered eagerly, then realized Tobin was going to clout him, so he quickly added, “I spy. I saw him blessing the fish, for tonight’s dish.” Thud exhaled as if he was relieved, then grinned at Tobin.

  “I wonder if that fat little monk has missed me,” Gladdys said with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She gave Clio a glimmer of a smile, one jaunty wave, then she turned and casually strolled from the hut.

  Clio spotted her working her way toward the fish wagons and shook her head. She hoped she had as much vinegar as Gladdys did when she was that age. ’Twould be fun, to play so with the men’s brains.

  “Something is not right. That does not sound like Sir Roger,” Tobin muttered thoughtfully. “He would never disobey the earl.”

  “Perhaps the lady was exceptional,” Clio said, leaving the window and moving toward her worktable.

  Tobin just shook his head.

  A moment later the ale pots began to boil over.

  Clio lay in her bed listening for the Matins bell and the guard horn that signaled a guard change. She had little to cling to but those distant sounds. Because she did not hear what she wanted to hear—the sound of Merrick’s footsteps on the stairs.

  He had not been anywhere nearby that day. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since that morning when he left her.

  But she had been busy for most of the day, a day where she got much accomplished. ’Twas true. Her bridal ale was half done.

  All that ale in only one day! She shook her head in amazement. She had put Thud, Thwack, and Tobin to work, since they had nothing better to do but ogle her while they stood there being her keepers.

  They each tried to do a better job than the other. She’d never before gotten so much done in so little time.

  The bridal ale was sufficiently brewed. Tomorrow she would add the last of the special herbs and flowers, then fill the oaken casks.

  She sighed, punching her pillow a few times, then she lay there. Time moved by about as swiftly as did Thwack.

  She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. She tossed and turned and shook out her fluffy pillow. She scratched Cy’s furry ears and listened to him purr. Mentally she counted lambs in the meadow, then tried to daydream an image of her wedding, but nothing worked.

  She could not sleep.

  One night spent with Merrick in her bed and her peace was no more. Gone. She snapped her fingers. Just like that!

  ’Twas all his fault, she thought sourly, plopping back against the mattress.

  She rubbed her head. That was his fault, too.

  With a deep sigh, she crossed her arms and thought back. He said he would not leave her alone. Odd, then, wasn’t it, that she felt alone?

  She threw back the covers and grabbed a fluffy woolen robe and struggled into it as she pattered across the room.

  The floor was no longer cold stones that could chill her bare feet late in the night. An intricately loomed carpet now covered the cold floors. She opened the door, just a wee crack, and imagining herself as a court spy, she pressed her eye to the opening and looked out.

  “Aye, my lady.” Sir Isambard looked right at her. He stood guard, his sword drawn and his stance alert. His stare continued seemingly forever, and for one brief moment she thought he might actually smile.

  She straightened swiftly and opened the door, trying to look adequately haughty and regal, and as if she had not been peering through a crack in the door like the old village gossip. “’Tis nothing. I thought I heard something. The sound frightened me,” she lied.

  “All is well, my lady. The earl has seen to your complete safety.”

  No, the earl has seen to my complete imprisonment.

  She locked her hands behind her back and rocked on her toes, just staring at him. There was nothing she could do, which annoyed her to no end. “Well, good night, then sir.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  “Oh.” Clio held the door partially open. “You haven’t seen the earl, have you?”

  “Aye.”

  She waited. ’Twas all he said.

  “Where?” she asked, not bothering this time to hide her annoyance.

  “Shall I send someone to fetch him for you, my lady?”

  “No!” she barked, then said more calmly, “No, that is not necessary. I was just curious. Good night, Sir Isambard.”

  “My lady?”

  “Aye?” Clio paused, with the door half closed.

  “Even if Lord Merrick were gone, he would make certain you were safe. You needn’t worry that you shall ever be left alone again.”

  Clio nodded and closed the door, then made a face, and she leaned back against the door. “Safe,” she muttered. She looked over at Cy perched atop the pillows on her bed. “We’re safe. Isn’t that just delightful? Safe and locked up with keepers and guards and watchmen.”

  She shoved away from the door and walked over to the arrow loop. She pulled up a small footstool and sat staring out at the dark sky. She heaved a huge bored and frustrated sigh and leaned her head against the cold stone. “Oh, hell and damnation … I’m a prisoner in my own castle.”

  ’Twas late and dark when there came a sudden and loud pounding on the castle gate.

  Merrick paid little attention. He was walking in the outer bailey, thinking, pacing, and trying to forget that he must crawl into the same bed as Clio.

  After giving it much thought, he had decided that if he waited until she was asleep, he could better ignore the fact that she would be only a kiss away.

  This cool night air was good for him. It helped him focus and control his urges. Urges for Clio that made him want to seek her out. He purposely had not and busied himself with other things and tried to tell himself he did not think of her.

  But he did. Her image haunted him.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Now the pounding was at the iron door of gatehouse.

  Merrick stopped and turned toward the gate guard.

  The man was sprawled on a barrel, sound asleep.

  Merrick knew the guard, a man named Fenwicke, whose wife had died in childbed the week before. Merrick grabbed a bucket and filled it with icy well water, then strode across the bailey and dumped it on the guard’s head.

  The man jumped up, choking and snorting and hollering. Then he saw it was Merrick who had doused him and he began to grovel. “My lord, I’m sorry. I, I just …”

  Merrick stared down at the man with contempt and said in a hard voice, “Go get someone to relieve you. And do not take this duty so lightly again. If you cannot stay awake, ask Sir Isambard for different work.”

  The man nodded.

  “Next time I will not be so lenient. You will wake up to the blade of my sword.”

  “Aye, my lord. Aye. ’Twill not happen again. I swear.”

  The doors shook with another hard pounding.

  “See who the hell is trying to break the doors down.”

  The guard slid the peep slot back, stilled for a long moment, then stepped back and looked up at Merrick. “’Tis someone who claims to be Sir Roger FitzAlan, my lord.”

  “You know, Sir Roger, man. If it’s him, open the gate.”

  “But he does not look like Sir Roger.”

  Merrick crossed to the peep and looked out.

  A man stood there in the dark, wearing naught but his breechclout. He glared at Merrick from eyes that were all too familiar. “Open the bloody gate, Merrick, or I swear on my mother’s eyes I will cut out your liver and feed it to the wolves!”

  “What wolves, Roger? Lady Clio has not been singing.”

  “So help me God, if you do not open this door …”

  “Let Sir Roger in,” Merrick told the guard, fighting the urge to grin. He stood aside as his man unbolted the heavy door.

  Roger barreled through the opening like a man half-crazed, darting a quick glance over his bare shoulder as if he expected the Devil himself to follow him.

  Merrick held the torch above him for light. “I was beginning to wonder what had happe
ned to you. I just heard this eve that the wagon and that old woman had returned.”

  Roger looked like a madman, with his wild red hair, tangled like briars, and his straggly and unkempt beard. He blinked in the bright torchlight, then faced Merrick. He was shaking.

  Merrick wasn’t certain if his friend quivered from the cold or from his anger. He stuck the torch in the wall and unhooked the clasps on his woolen cape. “Here.” He tossed it to Roger. “You look as if you need this more than I.”

  Roger wrapped the cloak around himself and muttered something about hell and madwomen and a she-wolf.

  Merrick pushed open the peep and scanned the outside. “I don’t see any wolves.”

  “She is out there. Somewhere. Biggest and most vicious bloody wolf I’ve ever seen.”

  “Come. There’s a fire and food inside.” Merrick turned and walked toward the hall.

  When they were walking up the outside steps, Roger turned to him and said, “This is your doing, damn you. That Druid witch you stuck me with sent that wolf after me.”

  “Old Gladdys?” Merrick opened the doors and walked into the hall. He paused and looked at Roger in the light of the wall torches. He looked as if he had run all the way from Cardigan to Camrose, through the woods and marshes and bogs.

  The perfect chivalrous knight Roger FitzAlan had half the women in England, Rome, and the East panting after him. He always had, for as long as Merrick had known him. And Roger had reveled in every moment, every liaison, every sly wink and clandestine affair.

  For years when they would go to tourneys or courts or diplomats’ homes, women looked at Merrick and would hide their daughters.

  But a few moments with Roger and they would gladly have given him their children and themselves. As far as Merrick knew, there had never been a woman Roger could not charm and control.

  This Roger was afraid of Old Gladdys. Truly afraid. He actually believed all that drivel about curses and magic and the evil eye.

  Roger stood by the fire, warming himself and muttering while he chewed on a hunk of white bread.

  Merrick watched him, having never seen Roger this agitated. Even after a battle Roger FitzAlan looked as if he’d been dancing at a wedding, not fighting with sword and mace. ’Twas something they jested about when they toasted their victories.

  Merrick truly had a difficult time holding his laughter. “What did you do to her?”

  “Me? I did nothing, but run.”

  “She’s a harmless and crazed old woman.”

  “’Harmless’?” Roger spun around and faced him. “God’s hair, Merrick! The old bitch tried to ravish me!”

  “Ravish you?” Merrick tried not to laugh aloud. He truly did. ’Twas not a simple task, hiding his amusement. So he took a deep breath and mentally counted in Latin.

  “Aye.” Roger paused, then added under his breath, “She took my clothes.”

  Merrick laughed so hard the walls shook. ’Twas the silliest thing he’d ever heard. As if an old woman could ravish a brawny young man, especially an accomplished knight like Roger.

  “How in the name of St. Peter did she manage to get your clothes?”

  “The old hag tore them off me.”

  Merrick looked at Roger’s perfectly serious expression and he couldn’t help himself; he bent double and howled and howled.

  A moment later he landed hard on his ass. He was still laughing, but also nursing a sore jaw where Roger had punched him.

  Rubbing his chin, Merrick stared up at his friend. It seemed that Sir Roger FitzAlan had lost his sense of humor.

  Old Welsh Fairy Song

  O’r glaswellt glan a’r rhedyn man

  Gyfeillion dyddan dewch,

  E ddarfu’r nawn-mae’r lloer yn llawn.

  Y nos yn gyflawn gewch.

  From grasses bright and bracken light.

  Come, sweet companions, come.

  The full moon shines, the sun declines.

  We’ll spend the night in fun.

  Chapter 26

  Merrick stood inside the bedchamber and stared at the empty bed. There was no light in the room except the weak tallow candle he’d set near the bed. It sent pale and flickering light across the twisted bed linen and coverlets that looked to have been tossed carelessly aside.

  He turned and scanned the room, knowing that no one could get past Sir Isambard, who for years had proved himself to be Merrick’s most trusted man.

  The first thing he saw was her hair; it flowed over her small hunched shoulders and back and piled onto the stone floor near the western loop. Her cat, the useless one-eyed thing that snored like a lion, was curled next to the small footstool, its fat head resting on his lady’s soft silver hair.

  He envied that cat, and just stood there, knowing he was alone, but feeling a little self-conscious. ’Twas for the silliest of reasons that he stood there.

  It made him feel good to do so.

  To the darkness, she brought a little of her own glow, her own light, and he needed to savor it, touch it, and feel it, so his life wouldn’t seem so dark and empty anymore, because now she was going to be a part of it.

  Quietly he crossed the room and stood over her, watching her sleep in such an awkward and uncomfortable position. Her woolen robe had slipped off her shoulders. She was wearing a sheer linen shift underneath. Her shoulder was bare and soft and flawless, even in the gold flicker of candlelight.

  ’Twas obvious that she could not sleep in the bed and had come here to the window. He studied her position, her head slumped atop her arms, which were resting on the ledge. He wondered what she had been thinking and what she had been looking for as she sat there.

  Deep in his heart, he wished she had been looking for him.

  He nudged the cat away from her hair with his bare foot and scooped her up into his arms. That hair, that miracle of hair, fell like silken moonlight over his arm and tenderly brushed his thigh and calf.

  ’Twas was one of the most sensual moments of his life. His chest grew tight, his senses filled with the sunshine scent of her, the aroma of fresh herbs and flowers that always clung to her like some exotic perfume oil. He felt light-headed, as if he had drunk too much or fallen from his horse.

  He could not have moved for the life of him, but just stood breathing deeply and feeling as if this one small woman was melting into his very soul. She sighed and turned toward him, the way she had when she was wounded.

  He pressed his lips to her brow and kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes against the stab of intense need that splintered through him. Slowly, holding her so very close to him, he crossed to the bed and set her gently atop it, slipping the robe off and tossing it onto the floor.

  He moved to the opposite side, blew out the candle, and crawled in behind her. He lay there waiting to see if she would awaken, but she did not, so he pulled the covers over them.

  She gave a small moan.

  His breath caught as she turned toward him and lay her palms flat against his chest, just next to his beating heart. He moved his hand and covered one of hers. He wanted her touch almost more than his own breath.

  In no more time than it took his heart to beat, Merrick closed his eyes and slept as soundly as she did, because he was finally home.

  Someone was staring at her. Clio opened her eyes.

  Merrick was watching her, his look sleepy and lazy and tinged with something soft that she could not identify.

  He had a bruise that darkened his jaw purple under his morning beard.

  She reached out with her fingertips and touched the bruise. “You are hurt.”

  “Roger came back.”

  “He hit you?”

  Merrick shook his head. “’Twas only in fun. I was laughing at the time. ’Tis nothing.”

  She frowned and moved closer to examine the bruise and the small brown-scabbed cut near his chin that was a little redder and more swollen than the rest.

  “It looks like it hurts.”

  He laughed. “Being hit in
the helm with a mace hurts. This is naught but a scratch.” He paused, his gaze seeming to take her all in. “But I find, woman, that I like to see you worry over my fine features and high good looks.”

  Even she had to laugh then and raised her chin high. “’Tis not your looks for which I fear. I was afraid the blow might have knocked some sense into you.”

  “You never give in, do you?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  His eyes grew drowsy; his fingers drifted over her face, touching her with a tender gentleness, with almost a sense of awe that made her forget completely that he was a fearsome warrior.

  He kissed her then, his lips as warm and lazy as his stare had been when she first awoke. His mouth barely touched hers, just a mere brushing of their dry lips.

  Yet her eyes drifted closed and she slipped her arms over his wide and strong shoulders, running her hand over the taut snakelike muscles there and then clasping her hands behind his hard, thick warrior’s neck.

  He deepened their kiss, touched his tongue to hers, filled her mouth, stroking her and making her feel as if she were flying with the sweet songbirds that called out in the distance. They sounded so far away, as if the world itself had left them alone.

  She held on to him, and he to her, shifting slightly together. She could feel the thick curls of coarse hair as his chest pressed closer against hers.

  They rolled until there was nothing between the mattress and Merrick’s hard body but her soft one.

  It felt so good and so right. She shifted again, almost squirming, and moved her legs apart because somewhere deep in the midst of her most private places she needed something, needed to feel him against her.

  ’Twas the most splendid feeling, the most intimate touch she had ever endured when he rubbed against her with his hips. Her blood flowed through her veins like spilt summer wine, hot and sweet and rapid. She felt like crying and calling out his name.

  His warm palm cupped her breast and his tongue swelled in her mouth. His fingertips touched her beading nipple and played with it. She grew hotter and wet in places that should have made her flush, but her skin could not turn hotter than it already was.