Midnight s Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Damron. I haven’t been alone with Netta. I’m sure she means Mereck doesn’t need to get his bowels in an uproar about a little request,” Brianna scolded him and winked at Netta.

  “Now ye have Mereck’s bowels in a roar? Ye ne’er explained that one to me either, and now ye are warnin’ Mereck?” Damron nearly dumped his wife onto the floor.

  Mereck laughed and watched his half brother’s disgruntled expressions. Ever since Damron had brought his Sassenach wife to Scotland, she puzzled everyone with her odd vocabulary. Only Damron, Connor, Meghan and himself knew that Bleddyn had called Brianna’s reincarnated soul back from far in the future to relive this life. Damron was in constant fear the Brianna he loved would someday be taken from him.

  Mereck led Netta to stand beside Bleddyn. He unrolled the parchments on the table and put weights on the corners to keep it flat. Though he could also read, he deferred to Bleddyn. It did not take the Welshman long to decipher it for her, for the wording was short and to the point. It stated that Caer Cad-well passed from Lady Kyrie to the eldest of any daughters she birthed. Along with it was a sizeable amount of properties surrounding Cad-well, and a more than adequate fortune to maintain them. The future husband had authority over all said lands.

  It closed with two stipulations. The first was that Bleddyn ap Tewdwr, Lord of Gwynedd, must approve the selection of a husband for Kyrie’s daughter. The second stated that until Bleddyn knew they were happily married for the length of one full year, the couple were not allowed to live at Caer Cad-well.

  “I don’t understand. If you had control over selecting my husband, why did you not stop Father’s betrothing me to James of Hexham and then lastly to Baron Durham?”

  Netta looked up in time to see knowing looks pass among the three men. Recalling the tale about the Welsh raiders, she realized who had protected her from Hexham. But what of Durham?

  “Baron Durham could not have withstood the rigors of even the humblest wedding,” Bleddyn said. “He would not live to his wedding night. As you found, you were never in danger from him.”

  “Aye, but after Father decided I would marry the first man who came to the castle, how could you leave the selection of a husband to him?”

  “Hmm,” he murmured. “After your father’s decree, was Mereck not the first man to appear at Wycliffe?”

  A smile of sheer beauty lit his face.

  Chapter 12

  One lone tear spilled from Netta’s eye. She turned to stare out the window opening and brushed the moisture away with the back of her hand. Mereck hardened his heart at the sight of her distress. His lips tightened. Even so, he lengthened Damron’s suggested sennight for the wedding.

  “A fortnight will be best.”

  Knowing she didna trust him pierced his pride. In time, she would learn he was not the savage she believed him and become reconciled to being his bride.

  Connor charged into the solar, his forehead creased with worry. “I am sorry to interrupt, Mereck, but a messenger arrived from our western borders.”

  “And?” Damron spread his legs and clasped his hands behind his back. One brow hiked in question.

  With an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, Connor glanced at the women. Damron motioned with his hand for the men to follow him to the farthest corner of the room.

  Connor sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.

  “The MacDhaidh of Rimsdale raided o’er our border this past sennight. He lifts cattle but hasna harmed the villagers.”

  “There is more?” Damron prodded.

  “Aye. At each croft, he left the same message.” An explosion of air passed Connor’s lips, before he read it aloud. “‘Ye destroyed that which I loved most. Look to yer own.’” He handed Damron the scrap of parchment.

  “The MacDhaidh still believes you responsible for his wife’s death.” Mereck grimaced and rubbed his chin.

  “Aye. Ye ken Rolf’s mistake.” Connor nodded.

  Damron tensed, his temper a barely banked fire.

  Mereck well understood why. Damron blamed himself. While he and Connor were bringing Brianna to Blackthorn, it was Damron’s leman who stole a tunic and helm from Connor’s war chest to give to a Morgan rival. After painting the Morgan crest on their shields, the man and his band went on that fatal raid.

  Connor clasped Damron’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. “’Tis not your fault.” He nodded his head toward the women. “Meghan must not learn of this. Her feelin’s for Rolf MacDhaidh is the reason she willna wed another.”

  Mereck nodded. “I will see the gate keepers know no lass is to leave the castle grounds. Especially Meghan.”

  “Add extra patrols at eventide, Mereck. And nay, Connor. You willna ride with them.” Connor started to protest, but Damron’s gimlet stare and stern voice stopped him. “Dinna argue.”

  Connor, lips pressed tight, nodded and left the room.

  Mereck went to Netta and placed a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up to his. He lowered his lips. He hesitated. Would she reject his kiss?

  She did. She turned her face aside. He drew back, stroked her soft cheek with the backs of his fingers and followed Connor.

  Netta stared at her pewter mug. Her trembling hands near sloshed hot tea on her lap.

  Brianna’s lilting voice disrupted her gloomy thoughts. “Men have no notion how women feel, do they Netta? I planned to wed another, but King William had his way. For that matter, Damron didn’t have a choice either.”

  “When my father paraded me afore every unwed man in Northumberland, I truly was not being over proud,” Netta whispered. “Half my suitors had children near as old as I. The other half may have been the proper age but were loathsome in some way. Is it foolish to want an intelligent man? One who can read, write and do sums—who can converse with reason?”

  “Nay, ’tis not, Netta,” Meghan’s lilting brogue answered as she came into the solar with Elise. “Ye now have a man who trips the heart with his physical beauty. Tho his face isnae as pretty as Damron’s, a lass wouldna soon forget it.”

  “You don’t find his face comely?” How strange. She found him more pleasing to the eye than his brother. Their bodies were near of a size and power. Though Damron’s hair was black and Mereck’s shades of gold and brown, one could not mistake they were siblings.

  “I think him most handsome,” Brianna agreed. “The first time I saw Mereck, I knew right away he was Damron’s brother.”

  “Did ye ken Mereck tutored with Damron and Connor, Netta?” Meghan’s lips fought a smile. “He has a keen gift for languages. He also writes a fine hand and does sums in his head. When we were in Normandy, Granda saw to it Mereck kept busy honing his mind and body. He is most intelligent.”

  Was that amusement in Meghan’s voice? Netta studied her, but spied only an earnest expression on her face.

  “At Ridley, we looked forward to Mereck’s visits.” Elise took two hot scones from a serving tray. “He sang duets with Galan. Women forever rivaled for his eye. They would do the most peculiar things.” She stopped to lick honey from her fingers. “Mother told Father that Lady Edith stalked Mereck like hunting dogs do a hare. She said Edith backed him into an alcove, and rubbed herself all over him. But he was too polite to complain.”

  “Why would she do that?” Netta’s brows rose. “When I bumped against him, I found him hard and solid as a tree. I should think it would be most uncomfortable.”

  Brianna coughed, and Netta glanced up at her.

  Elise handed Netta a honeyed scone. “Mother rescued him. Poor Edith told her she couldn’t help it. She said it was because she had a terrible itch only Mereck could soothe.”

  “Why did she not scratch it herself?” Netta bit into the delicious quick bread, licked honey from her lips and frowned. “Perchance she could not reach?”

  Meghan laughed and sprang from her seat.

  “Come. We must leave. Mari has come to see Brianna rests. I will show ye the grounds. M
ayhap we can find somethin’ to keep yer mind busy.”

  Meghan led them out of the great doors. Netta was thankful for the distraction from worry. Before she went down the wooden steps, she scanned the inner bailey and watched people going about their business. It was a rare dry day with few clouds in the sky. A haze of dust drifted above a spacious area at the far end of the outer walls. Curious, she asked Meghan about it and learned it was the men’s special practice area. It piqued her interest.

  They visited the huts built along the inside wall of the bailey where blacksmiths worked on shoeing or making weapons, a bowyer made bows and a fletcher made arrows. In one hut, a cooper made barrels which, if not for storing ale, Meghan explained, they would use them for cleaning chain mail. The rusty links would gleam like new after squires rolled them in a barrel filled with sand. Armorers worked in close touch with the smiths, the archers and the bowmen. The loud clanging of the smith forging a new sword made Netta clasp her hands over her ears.

  Sitting on a stool outside his doorway, the cobbler sewed on supple leather. Why did many warriors leave their feet bare when they could avail themselves of his fine leather brogans?

  Of most interest, though, was a large section behind the castle where warriors and squires honed their skills. Bowmen practiced with targets so far distant she could barely see them. Meghan explained that Damron favored using the Welsh longbows, for they carried an arrow a much longer distance.

  “They are brainsick!” Elise’s shout made Netta jump. “Look. At that fenced area. The man tried to spear the dummy, but a sack thumped his back and knocked him senseless.”

  “It be a quintain.” Meghan laughed and walked over to prop her arms on the fence. “If a man is not fast and agile enough when he strikes the target, the bag of sand will hurl around and toss him from his horse. Trying to outsmart it is fun.”

  “You have tried this?” Netta blinked. How could a woman perform such a strenuous feat?

  “Only when Connor and Damron are not around.”

  The next area was filled with young men throwing knives at a straw target shaped like a man. The old warrior instructing them spied Meghan, and he called her over and asked that she display her skills. Meghan obliged. She landed one blade after the other in the red circle painted on the dummy’s chest. She moved so fast the knives whistled through the air after leaving her hand.

  “Could you teach me to do that?” Netta envied Meghan’s freedom to learn to protect herself. When Meghan grinned and motioned for them to follow her, Netta’s spirits lifted.

  “Come, ye will need proper clothin’ fer the learnin’. I ken where to find it.”

  They hurried back into the keep and up to the second floor. Netta hoped Mereck would not appear, for surely he would not allow her the activity. Meghan glanced in both directions before leading them into Connor and Mereck’s room.

  “What are you thinking? You don’t intend to steal Connor’s clothes, do you?” Elise whispered. “Merciful saints. If he finds his breeches missing, he will beat us all. Surely he will.”

  “He will ne’er miss what I take,” Meghan assured her. “Stay afore the stairwell. Call out if anyone approaches.” At the bottom of her brother’s oldest chest, she found the first real knife he had used after he mastered a wooden blade. She also found clothing to fit Netta and Elise and rolled them into tight balls to stick under their tunics.

  She left the room and coaxed Guardian, who padded out of the old laird’s room, to follow them to the castle roof. Netta chose a spot as far as possible from the edge. Even looking off into the empty distance made her stomach queasy.

  Guardian sprawled within the circle of their outstretched legs. Each time a guard passed close, they petted and crooned to him. Still afraid of the big beastie, Elise tucked her legs beneath her. A dark section of hair circled Guardian’s neck, and as they clipped bits of this hair, they hid it in their pockets.

  “Why are we doing this?” Elise’s brows raised.

  “To disguise ourselves as squires.” Netta picked up a tuft of hair, held it beneath her nose and grinned. “I will learn to throw knives like a squire in training.”

  “Oh, Netta. Do you think to murder Mereck?” With her artless eyes mirroring her terror, Elise put a hand to her chest. “Damron and Connor will be duty-bound to kill you and feed your body to the wolves.” She rocked back and forth, her face scrunched up like a newborn babe. “Oh, what can y-you be thinking w-with all the b-blood that will surely f-flow?”

  “You goose. We don’t plan to harm anyone. ’Tis for protection if we are caught alone with no other recourse.”

  They returned to their room and near threw on the clothes pilfered from Connor’s chest. To aid their disguise, they smeared sticky pine resin on their eyebrows, then added Guardian’s hair clippings to bush them out.

  “Fer now, ye must wear the wee shaft on yer belt like a squire. After, ye must secure it on yer thigh where no one will see it.” Meghan showed Netta how to strap on Connor’s blade.

  As they left, they pulled their cloaks’ hoods low over their foreheads. Satisfied no one would recognize them, Meghan affected an arrogant pose. “Walk like ye are king of the world. Pretend ye be a man, burstin’ with pride and confident ye have somethin’no other man can rival.” Her arrogant stride carried her from the room.

  Netta mimicked her example, but the Scotswoman’s legs were longer than her own. Netta soon fell behind. “Hsst, Meghan. Slow your pace. If someone spies me springing across the bailey, they will query us.”

  Meghan, a case of knives used for practice tucked under her arm, led them to a quiet corner. A post stood there, a wooden replica of a man nailed to it. She showed Netta how to hold the knife and flick her wrist as she threw it.

  Netta squinted at the target and attempted to imitate her.

  “Well, rats. It went way wild of the mark,” Netta mumbled.

  After a lengthy time, Meghan sighed and stopped her.

  “I am sorry, love, but I ken ye will cause more damage to the trees, sheep, dogs and anythin’ else in the area rather than yon target.” She patted Netta’s shoulder. “Ye had best forget throwin’ the wee blade to protect ye, Netta, unless ye persuade the man to stand close enough fer ye to skewer him. Come. We must return afore Sir David orders everyone to the barracks and he learns who we are.”

  She motioned for them to precede her. After a few steps, she sauntered up to Elise. “God’s bluid, lass. Stop swishin’ yer hips and huggin’ yerself, or someone may pull ye behind the next bush.”

  “Whatever for?” Elise’s eyes stretched wide.

  “I’ll explain later. By all that’s holy, lower yer voice.”

  Guardian followed, nosing Elise’s heels. She hopped after each nip, but as they went up the steps, he gave up the sport. Once they entered their room, Netta hid their garments at the bottom of her clothing chest.

  Meghan settled back on the bed, her hands behind her head. A smile lit her face. “I know the perfect weapon. Swords.”

  “Swords?” Elise’s word echoed in the room. “Oh, Lord in heaven. Can Netta not elbow someone’s ribs, or ram her head into their stomach? Swords? Swords spill even more blood.” She moaned and rocked back and forth on the bed.

  “Nay. Not a real sword. Do ye think me dafty to put a proper blade in her hand? Wooden swords. I’ll give ye the one I used when I was yer size, Netta. I had several till they deemed me skilled enough for a real blade.”

  Shouts beneath their window drew them to it to seek the cause. An irate Scotsman hauled a screaming woman by the arm, cursing and threatening to beat her within an inch of her life. Another man stood nearby, shamefaced. He adjusted his tartan over his still rampant sex.

  “Well, now. She is in for it this time,” Meghan muttered.

  “What happened? What is he bellowing about?” Netta scowled at the man’s back.

  “’Tis the cobbler’s daughter and her promised husband, the ale maker. She’s been samplin’ other shafts than his. He w
ill beat her soundly afore he swives her till he knows she willna be craven’ another man soon.”

  “Beat her?” Elise whispered, her naive eyes as round as cook’s buttered scones. “I won’t marry a woman-beating Highlander. I’ll make them think I’m not good enough for them.”

  Meghan shrugged. “The woman should have known he wouldna share after he declared for her. Do Sassenach men not care if their women stray?”

  “I’m sure they do, but I suppose they never let others see their rage.” Netta felt a stab of understanding. “Oh. One dreadful night, I awoke to hear Elizabeth screeching. I tried to go to her, but found my door latched tight. Mary, my maid, came to tell me that Father beat Elizabeth, because she was ‘sampling’a bit. I knew not what she meant. It was at the time your father”—she nodded at Elise—“sent a message to tell us Lord Damron had arrived at Ridley with his men. Mary said we dared not go, for new ‘male meat’ would be too much temptation for Elizabeth.” Her face heated. “No wonder Father hastened to marry me off. He must needs find a mate for Elizabeth.”

  “Did your father ever beat you?” Meghan asked, curious.

  “He did,” Netta confessed. “The worst was after I spurned Percy, Baron Beaufort’s son.”

  “Why did you refuse him, Netta?” Elise asked. “He smells of flowers, and he dresses with the utmost care. Father said Percy could not be prettier if he were a king’s woman.”

  “That was one of the reasons. I tried to tell Father I did not want a husband whose male friends glared at me if I brushed his arm. Percy did not favor my touch, either. He drew back as if I had pinched him. Father said Percy had a problem, and after I provided him an heir, he would go his own way. The next time Percy came to call, I hid until he left. Father was furious.” She hunched her shoulders, still feeling the blows of his walking stick. “He beat me for thwarting his plans.”

  “Ye didna know what Percy’s ‘problem’ was, Netta?” Laughing, Meghan fell back on the bed.

  “Father never said. Percy did not appear feverish or sickly. His hands were always cold and limp. He did have a slight lisp. Do you think it likely he has a problem with his throat?”