by Jill Barnett
“Unbolt the door, old woman. ’Tis I, Merrick.”
“I can see that,” she said. “Do you think me blind as well as daft?”
“Hurry. I have wounded men.”
“Is Sir Roger harmed?”
“No,” Merrick said.
At Roger’s quiet groan, Merrick reached out and grabbed him. “Move a pace,” he gritted, “and I’ll tie you up and hand you over to her. Now answer her.”
“’Tis I, Sir Roger FitzAlan.”
A moment later the bolt slid and the chains were released. Then the door opened wide.
Merrick angrily strode through the doors. “What is going on? Where are the guards? The watchmen? Why are no torches lit?” He jerked a dead torch from its iron base, dipped it into a jug of oil kept beneath, and lit it.
“Roger. See to the gates and get those men inside. Take the wounded to the hall.” He stood there for only a heartbeat, looking around him. ’Twas as if the place were abandoned.
“There’s one of your guards.” Old Gladdys pointed at a dark corner.
Merrick moved the light closer.
It was the porter. He sat on the ground a few paces away.
Searching for blood, Merrick moved closer, thinking the man dead. His back was propped against the stone wall as if he had been standing there and just slid down. His head was cocked to one side.
He was not dead. He was snoring.
Merrick shouted, “Wake up!”
’Twas as if he had not spoken, let alone bellowed, an order.
“Wake, you!” Merrick gave him a hard nudge with his foot. The man still slept.
Roger had opened the portcullis and his weary men were filing inside, the wagons lumbering behind with the five wounded men.
Merrick turned and ran through the next set of gates, pausing at each post, where every man, every guard, was sound sleep. He pushed open the doors of the great hall so hard they slammed into the walls and rattled on their hinges.
He lit the wall torches from the one he carried and light filled the keep.
At the tables, where some had been supping, his men and the guards and even the servants were all sound asleep. Some had their heads on their arms, while others were sprawled out on the benches.
’Twas as if they were all poisoned.
He ran up the stairs toward their bedchamber. He was almost afraid to open the bedchamber doors. Afraid he’d find her harmed or kidnapped by whoever had drugged his men.
But as he crossed the room to the bed, he could see her form. She was asleep, as the others had been. A sweet and peaceful look on her face. He touched her shoulder just to make certain she was alive and his eyes were not tricking him.
The Welsh could have attacked and taken all. His men, there to protect his wife, would have been sound asleep. Someone had done this. The Welsh could be mounting an attack now.
He ran down the stairs and out into the bailey, shouting orders to the tired men who rode inside. None of the guards would awaken, so he sent his exhausted men to take their posts, while he and Roger set about trying to find out how this happened.
Chapter 37
’Twas still dark when Clio sat up in bed, startled, because she was awakened by a loud cough. She blinked, then her blurred vision sharpened.
She stared at her husband.
Beneath the weak light of a waning torch, he was slumped in a chair, directly across from the foot of the bed. His long legs were out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His fingers were steepled and tapping against his thinned mouth, and his eyes were cold and clear and held no greeting, no softened look for her.
She had seen him like this only once before—in the clearing when the Welsh attacked her.
“Merrick?” She tossed the coverlet aside and slipped out of bed.
He did not speak. He did not move. He was filthy and scratched and looked as if he had fought his way across Wales.
“Are you hurt? What has happened?” She stood by the chair and looked down at him. He was still staring at the empty bed.
“The Welsh attacked us at Taff.” He dropped his hands, then turned his head slowly. He looked at her. Just looked at her. Coldly.
She placed a hand on his forearm. “What is it?”
His silence and his tension became a live thing; it filled the room the way fear can, giving you that overwhelming feeling of futility and weakness. She hugged herself, because it was obvious that he would not.
“What was in the ale you made?” He did not move.
She frowned. “Just malted barley, water, yeast, and different herbs and flavorings. Nothing that could cause harm to anyone.”
“No harm?” His laugh was hard and filled with acidlike cynicism. “Aye, my lady. No one was harmed.” He pushed himself up and stood above her, making her feel small and insignificant. “Instead, every single guard, man, and servant, all slept so long and hard that I rode home to a dark and unguarded castle.”
He looked as if he wanted to hit something.
She stepped back. “You are angry with me.”
“I am afraid to touch you, woman, for fear I will shake you until your teeth are loose.” He pinned her with an angry look. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? At first I thought the Welsh had poisoned the whole castle. Anyone could have scaled the walls and taken over the place. They could have killed every single person inside. Do you even understand this?”
“I am sorry.” Even to her own ears the words sounded flat and empty. She meant them. They were spoken with true sincerity. But the reality was, the words were nothing. Just sounds spoken that could not change what had happened.
She could hear shouts from the bailey below. A burst of light came through the windows. She spun around.
“I ordered them to burn down the brewery.”
“You did what?”
“You will no longer brew ale.”
“But, Merrick, please—”
He raised a hand. “Do not say anything more. I cannot stay here.” There was such a hardness to his voice, as if he had nothing to give her. “I have men who are wounded. Sir Isambard is the worst. He lost so much blood that he hovers on the brink of death.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Let me help them,” she cried. “Please, let me help you.” She reached out a hand.
He turned his back on her and walked to the door. “I think you have done enough.” Then he left.
She stood there, unable to move, only able to cry. Her chest heaved and sobs came from deep in her belly.
Her breath caught and she looked down at her flat stomach. She placed her palm on it.
A moment later she was lying across the bed, her head buried in the pillows. She never had a chance to tell him about their babe.
Clio spent the next few days treating the wounded. She had not seen Merrick since he walked from her room.
Word had come that Welsh raiding parties had also attacked Ruthin, near Clwyd, and the Earl of Chester was arming his men against rumors of aborted attacks in the north.
Merrick had taken a few hours to arm fresh troops and then split them into separate groups of patrols, some whose duty it was to guard and patrol the southern borders, while others sought to locate the Welsh camp.
Clio swiped a hank of damp hair from her face while she sat on the edge of a cot and changed the bandage on Sir Isambard’s neck wound. He was weak and pale from blood loss, but the worst had passed the night before, and they knew now that he would not die.
Old Gladdys had helped her treat the wounded men with special herbs and medicinal teas that gave them strength and built up the blood. Some were already back at their duties. Sir Isambard was the only one too weak to move.
The old knight watched her motions from his sharp, but kind eyes. “You have gentle hands, my lady.”
She gave him a wan smile, because that was all the smile she had left for anyone. “I never would hurt someone.” She paused, thinking about the ale and how angry Merrick had been at her. “Not i
ntentionally.”
“He was angry about your ale.”
She nodded.
“I have known my lord for years, since he was a young knight traveling from tourney to tourney in France. He has a sharp temper, but he is just. He does not long hold a grudge, especially I think with you, my lady. He was angry because he was worried about you. He drove all of us mad trying to get everything loaded in Cardiff so he could rush back here.”
“How I wish that were true.”
“It is true. Camrose was not the reason he wanted to return. Give him time. His anger will fade.”
She thought about that, then asked, “But can I ever win his trust back?”
“I don’t believe you have lost his trust.”
She just shook her head. “I hope that is true. Now, here. Drink this.” She lifted a cup filled with warm nasturtium-leaf tea to his mouth.
He drank it with his old eyes squeezed tightly shut. Like a small boy rather than a knight who was the size of a Roman column. “Saint Peter’s eyes! But that vile stuff tastes like dirt.”
“Aye, but it has made you better and will continue to help you heal. Now get some rest.” She stood, placing her hand low on her aching back. She felt so drained and weak.
She walked slowly across the hall and out of doors. The sun was high and the watch trumpet sounded. Her heart picked up a beat in the hopes that Merrick had returned.
She picked up her gown and moved across the inner bailey. The gate guard was raising the outer gate. She strained her head to see.
’Twas only hay wagons delivering feed for the castle livestock. She sighed with disappointment and wondered when Merrick would return.
Would it be days? Weeks? No one knew.
She turned and moved slowly across the bailey. There were some herbs still stored in the buttery, and she needed to make another poultice to apply with the changing of Sir Isambard’s next bandage.
A shout sent her spinning around.
One of the hay wagons caught fire. A team of horses reared up. The bailey was chaos. Wagons overturned. Men shouted.
Fiery hay flew through the air. She grabbed a maid whose clothes had caught fire.
They rolled on the ground and into a corner near the stable.
Hay flew like rain from more of the wagons.
Suddenly, the bailey was filled with Welshmen, raiders, with their daggers drawn and longbows arched, shooting and stabbing at anything that moved. Others ran through the bailey with lit torches, setting things afire.
Smoke filled the air. She lay on the ground, her arms wrapped around the crying woman.
Rebel Welshmen were inside Camrose.
He hid in the brittle branches of the cherrywood trees outside Camrose castle, staring at the flames and smoke that curled up into the sky. He was waiting for nightfall.
Just a few minutes before, Thud had been inside, hiding in the garderobe. When the raiders tore apart the castle, he had shimmied down the hole into the latrine pit and stayed there.
From there he had watched them drag a few of the squires and some of the other pages away. Thwack was among them, his feet and hands chained together so that when he walked, he stumbled and the Welshmen kicked him.
Thud had waited until they passed, waited until no one was about, then he had shimmied up over the lower wall and jumped into the moat.
He had stayed there, at the edge of the waters until he could scurry through the grasses and into the trees.
When nightfall finally came, he slid down the tree trunk and ran toward the northeast.
Chapter 38
’Twas dark as pitch along the lower rim of the Black Mountains, where Merrick had set up camp. This had all been for naught. Other than a few wild-goose chases, they had found no sign of the rebels.
They had patrolled as far north as the Wye. Tomorrow they would move back south, toward Camrose.
Merrick checked the men on watch, then crossed over to his tent and went inside. Tobin was asleep on a cot, his hands holding Merrick’s heavy mail over him like a blanket.
Merrick stood there, stripped off his jack and linen blouse, then sat on his own cot and pulled off his own boots. He leaned over and blew out the single candle and lay down, threading his hands behind his head and staring up at nothing.
When he closed his eyes, he saw his wife, crying and begging him.
I never beg.
He remembered those boastful and pride-filled words of hers. The way she threw up her chin as if to say she was not afraid of him.
He hated that she had begged him, that he had pushed her that far. While justified, he supposed he had been harsh with her over the ale.
He knew why. He had been so frantic to get back to her, like some green lad in the throes of his first lust. He was angry with himself because of that, this need he had for her and the way it made him act. He’d found fault and blamed her, because he was so worried about her safety.
He was a fool sometimes. A fool who loved his wife.
Clio moved as furtively as she could. Crawling alongside the battlements on the eastern side of the castle wall, careful to keep quiet so she would not be caught.
All of Merrick’s men, even the servants and mason workers. Every man, woman, and child at Camrose had been chained or tied together, then locked inside the chapel, even the wounded.
She had seen them moving Sir Isambard; it had taken all of her will not to call out, afraid that with the rough way they dragged him down the steps he would begin to bleed again.
Welshmen had swarmed like ants all over the castle, looking for her, ferreting out others, shouting and running in a frantic search. They did not know she could understand their words.
The leader was David ap Gruffydd, a man who had made agreements with King Edward, then recently recanted his oath and gave his allegiance back to his brother, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the grandson of the Great Llewelyn.
The Welshry had plans to recapture the strongholds at certain key positions in the borderlands. Ap Gruffydd told the men he wanted her alive. As Merrick’s wife and countess, she would serve as a hostage and a means with which they would lay another trap for the Red Lion and his troops.
Like a bad omen, chills ran down her spine when she heard the Welsh leader claim, in the name of all of Wales, he would never relinquish this castle, even under siege.
Now, as she sat huddled against the stone parapets, she raised herself up and peered out into the distance. She could see the dark fields around Camrose and she prayed that Merrick would be safe. That she would be able to hide and stay free long enough to signal him or to somehow sneak past the guards and open a gate.
He was her world, her life, and she had to make him see that she loved him. She had to win back his trust. She would do whatever she had to do so that he and his men would not ride into another trap.
If she could just stay here, hidden until they returned, she might be able to signal them, then open the gates before the Welsh could catch her.
Camrose was truly as strong as Merrick had wanted. He would never get inside without help from within. He was a man who would fight to his death before he allowed the Welshman to defeat him.
So as the wind picked up and blew in some clouds of rain, she hid as the drops began to fall, knowing she had no choice, for she was his only chance.
It rained all night and was still drizzling when Merrick’s camp was getting ready to pack up and leave. The sun was just coming over the misty eastern hills when he heard the shout of a watch guard.
Merrick stepped out of his tent, his sword drawn. A horse loped into the camp, a small drenched lad hanging on to the horse’s neck. Someone grabbed the loose reins and stopped the mount.
Merrick caught Thud just as he fell off, soaked, smelling like a swill pit.
The lad fought for breath and blinked, looking up at him as if he could not see him. “Lord Merrick?”
“Aye. ’Tis I, lad. What is wrong?”
“The Welsh have taken Camrose.”
<
br /> Merrick cursed. “Lady Clio? Is she safe?”
“I do not know. They have everyone, I think. I escaped, then stole a horse and rode here.”
“Someone see to the lad. And pack up. We must leave!” Merrick looked off toward the southwest, the direction of Camrose. And Clio. He stood there, his head pounding and his fists shaking. He took a deep breath, then gave a loud cry, like an angry wolf caught in a trap.
With both his hands he jammed his sword into the muddy ground, then knelt there, his head bowed. He swore with his life he would save her.
Clio moved as quietly as she could. She was near the chapel and the spiral stairs that led from the lower parapet to the chaplain’s room, where Brother Dismas had his quarters. It had been quiet here, and other than the guard that was watching over the chapel doors, she had seen no one.
She took it one step at time, slowly, so no one would hear. She just made the middle turn when she heard the shout. Behind her.
“There she is!” She spun around. Three Welshmen came flying toward her. She turned and ran. She slipped and suddenly she was falling.
Her head smashed into the hard stone. Pain shot through her and she tumbled, down and down and down …
She heard a scream. So terrifying.
God in heaven, it sounded like her.
That was her last thought.
Chapter 39
For over a week they had tried to break into Camrose. They could not. No attack could breach the walls. Men were killed and they had no word from inside. Nothing.
David ap Gruffydd would not negotiate.
It only took two days for the other patrols to join Merrick’s, and messengers had been sent to Edward and to the neighboring marcher lords for aid. It seemed that more than one castle was under siege.
Merrick had spent most of the last few hours going over strategies. Nothing looked promising. It was late, about an hour before Matins.
His squire brought him his meal, then left him alone as he’d asked. Merrick turned and looked at the platter. There was a pewter cup next to a trencher of stew. He ignored the food and picked up the cup.
