Chivalrous (25 page)

“And that is the story of the day the catlike Lady Merry Ellison tumbled from a tree.” Cedric concluded his most recent tale.

“You have all lived the most astounding adventures.” Gwen could hear the hint of awe in her own voice. “So what advice can you give me for my mission tomorrow?”

“Robert, James, come and join us.” Red called over more of the former Ghosts.

The two hunkered down on either side of their group before the fire.

“What advice have we for our comrade-in-arms?” Red asked them.

Robert narrowed his eyes until he looked like a hawk honing in upon his prey. “For an undercover mission, success is always in the small, random details.”

“So true,” James said.

Cedric hopped to his feet. “Like when we snuck into the castle as traveling players, we insisted we were from Leeds, only not the main village, the part to the north. For my old grandmother lived in the main section, and she hated my mum ever since they fought about that blasted parsnip recipe.” The lump in Cedric's gangly throat bobbed up and down as he laughed at the memory.

“Or when I was the masked knight, I mentioned that in my last tournament I nearly forfeited because someone had run over my left big toe with a cart.” Red chuckled.

“Precisely,” Robert said. “If you pour on the details, they'll be too intrigued, or confused, or in some cases too bored”—he shot a look to Cedric—“to question you.”

“When you sneak in with the village women,” James said, “you'll need a good reason why you're in town.”

They huddled together to consider the possibilities.

In that moment Gwen truly wished she could be part of a band of forest outlaws. But at least tomorrow she would get to experience the adventure of a lifetime. She would not let the Lady Merry down. Yet her own future still loomed bleak before her. A future in which—if she were completely honest with herself—only a miracle from a God she was not sure how she felt about could save her from misery with that awful Gawain.

A new idea began to brew in her mind. Perhaps she should not return home at all. She wondered if Lady Merry Ellison might have need of an attendant.

One never knew what the future might hold.

Warner carried a tray of steaming food down the shadowy corridor to his new lady's bedchamber. In addition to the fact that not a single one of his maids could be convinced to serve the beautiful young hellion, he yet needed time to win her to his side.

A guard in full armor eyed him warily and placed his hand upon the door latch. “Are you certain?”

“As certain as I shall ever be,” Warner said.

The guard unlocked the door, cracked it open, and peered around. With a shrug, he gestured Warner into the room.

Lady Merry Ellison sat stiff upon a chair in the corner of this dim chamber hidden deep in the interior of the castle fort. The room's only window bolted shut from outside.

She did not so much as twitch upon his entrance. Thank goodness, for his former bites and scratches had yet to heal.

Though Warner was a well-trained fighter, this tiny lady with her dark brooding good looks had done some significant damage upon their first encounter. But for his last two visits, she had ignored him entirely. He knew not how to convince her
that he was not a villain. Merely a dispossessed duke desperate to regain his rightful place in the world.

Warner flashed her his most winning grin. “I had the cook prepare you something special. My favorite roasted pheasant along with some apple tarts.”

“I hate apples.” She grumbled her first semi-civil words at him without deigning to make eye contact.

Hiding his shock, he continued in a pleasant tone. “I warrant that is not true. Everyone loves apples.” He chanced moving a few feet closer and lowering the tray onto her table. “Come, you must keep up your strength, no matter what the future might bring.”

“Actually, I find withering away preferable to any fate you have planned for me.”

“Unfair,” he said. “For you have not been willing to discuss my plans.”

“I care not about your plans.” She turned her head farther away from him. “Not a single person has ever given a care for mine. Why on earth am I constantly being kidnapped?”

He chuckled. Warner would not have guessed that she had experience with such situations. Nor had he guessed how tough she might be. Truly, he wished someone had warned him.

“Since you asked,” he continued as if she had, “I plan to make you my lawful wife. And once you are, we shall attack North Britannia, of which, by all rights, I should be duke. A bright future awaits you, my pretty. You have no reason to sulk.”

Just as he thought to reach for her petite hand to offer a kiss, the glare she shot him brought to mind the teeth marks deep in his arm, and he left her be.

Did the girl give him no credit for remaining a gentleman? If his treacherous sister, Morgaine, had her way, he would have forced Merry into marital intimacies on her very first night
here, thus ensuring his plan. But he was determined to play the hero in this saga. He would remain a righteous man, despite his brief entanglement with his sister's magic. His new bride would come to understand this soon enough.

He did not wish to begin their relationship in an ugly and forcible manner, but she had made matters difficult these past days by her refusal to concede to his charm. He had arranged for them to be left alone all night on the morrow, in a small cottage. By the following morning, they would be considered wed, with or without her consent. And once she was legally his, Warner would take great pleasure in consummating their marriage.

He could not put it off any longer than that, as he must make her safely his before any forces might be rallied to rescue her.

Lady Merry had proven far more enticing than he had dreamed. More attractive than he had dared to imagine, even when—or perhaps especially when—she glared at him so. Never before had he made a noblewoman his own, and well he deserved such a long delayed pleasure. Like it or not, Merry would accept him.

But being the congenial sort of fellow that he was, Warner yet wished she might enjoy their union. “Tell me something about yourself, Lady Merry. For I so wish to become better acquainted. What did you do to occupy your days before coming here?”

She arched a brow with scorching disdain. “If you must know, I was an outlaw. I spent my days training to skewer arrogant noblemen upon the point of my sword.”

Warner must keep a close watch on this one. He had heard rumors that her father committed treason against King John. Indeed, she might have been outlawed for a time. But as half the country rose up in treason two years later, Warner would not hold that against her.

Once she was settled as duchess in the resplendent Edendale Castle, he dared say she would have no complaints. By the time the sun rose twice in the sky, she would be his.

The next morning, Gwen fell in step with the village women as they gathered in the main clearing. Together, they headed up the road toward a stern-looking castle made of nearly black stone. She shivered at the sight of the decrepit tower rising high over the rest of the structure. It appeared the perfect setting for a scary story, and she sent up a quick prayer that she should not have to enter it.

Buried deep in the folds of her hood, she attempted to blend with the group.

“I say!” The old woman in front of Gwen turned on her heel to confront her. “Who are you? I've never seen the likes of you around 'ere before. Speak up at once, for we'll not be tolerating any mischief.”

Ten more women quickly drew ranks around the elder spokeswoman with her greying hair and crinkling eyes.

Thankful that Timothy had sent her and not Robert, Gwen pushed back her hood and did her best to put on a rough accent. “I am sorry to 'ave disturbed you. 'Tis just that me brother, me wee Timmy, 'e's so sick with the ague. We was travelin' through, but I feared 'e weren't gonna make it much farther. Stopped by your 'ealer, I did. A Dame 'iggins, you know.”

“Of course we do.” The women all seemed to relax.

Gwen scanned her mind for the details she had prepared. “Just about scared me out of me wits, she did, what with that wart and all. I thought at first she might be a witch, but she assured me she's just a plain old herbalist. I sure 'ope she spoke true. Wouldn't want to get me brother caught up in no black magic.”

The women all chuckled at that. “Never fear,” their leader said. “In this case, appearances are deceivin'. If there be any witch in these parts, she's not in the village.”

She shot a pointed glance toward the eerie tower that had previously drawn Gwen's attention. Then she said, “My name is Millicent, and these 'ere are my friends.”

“I'm Gwen.” She saw no need in choosing a false name, for she would have enough details to keep straight.

“Shall you be with us long?” asked a different woman with blond braids.

“That depends, I s'pose. Me brother could use lots of tendin', but I don't 'ave no funds. Dame 'iggins said I might find a bit of payin' work at the castle.”

“Come along with ye.” The elder spokeswoman, Millicent, herded them all in the direction of the castle. “As fate would 'ave it, our Ermina is down with the nursing fever. You can take 'er place just as long as you need.”

“O thank ye! Thank ye! I never dreamed of such fortune.”

Old Millicent reached out to give Gwen's shoulder a pat. “Never ye fear, 'ere in Bixby we take care of our own. Lord knows yon tyrant shan't.”

Gwen took a moment to study the women. Although peasants in general wore rough clothing and aged more quickly than their noble counterparts, this group appeared particularly downtrodden.

She sent up another prayer that Warner DeMontfort would not take out his anger on these innocent bystanders. For one way or another, she would be rescuing Merry from his castle today.

Allen, dressed once again in his obscuring outlaw attire of rough flaxen fabric, peeked from behind an oak tree and scanned
the castle walls for the thousandth time. Gwendolyn had been inside that dark and eerie place for nigh on two hours.

If ever he truly convinced himself that he did not love the girl, he now realized it had been a lie. For he felt as if his very heart, vulnerable and stripped from his chest, had gone into Warner DeMontfort's dangerous lair.

Although he knew Randel hid close by to his left, Allen could spy none of his comrades, who were likewise dressed to blend with the fall foliage. Each of them had been equipped with swords, a bow, arrows, and ropes.

So far Allen had counted two of DeMontfort's men standing watch at the gate, and three more upon the wall. Perhaps another one or two walked the courtyard, but he could not say for certain.

On their side were Allen, Timothy, four Ghosts, and—between the men from Edendale and Lord Linden's castle—ten other well-trained soldiers. Allen no longer knew which group to count himself among, as he had once been a part of each. They likely outnumbered any nearby guards two to one. But an entire squadron of soldiers lazed less than a furlong away.

How Allen wished he could just dispatch with that troublesome DeMontfort here and now, but he was taking a great risk by helping with this mission at all. Besides which, they had no proof that he was guilty of murdering the duke, a crime punishable by death. Only that he had kidnapped a noblewoman.

Allen clenched his fists and jaw in frustration. To be so close yet unable to do anything! If the North Britannian council had focused on seeking justice rather than some foolish superstition, matters might be very different right now.

This waiting was so much worse than actual combat could ever be.

He should pray. For some reason he had drifted from his
spiritual center these past weeks. Always God had dwelt within easy access, floating just in the back of his awareness. A whispered prayer away. Now his weighty duties and his dreaded nuptials seemed to have pushed God aside.

Allen did not understand what had created the huge gap between them. But as God was never changing, no doubt Allen had been the one to move. He had to dig deeper than ever before for that sweet fragrance, that divine presence. God meant everything to Allen, and he did not know how to live without Him.

Focusing both spirit and mind, he found that inward place where God dwelt, and he poured out his heart.

Father God, how I miss you.
Do not depart from me, for I need you more
than ever. Lead me. Help me to know your voice
and your plan. Protect us. Send your angels to fight
beside us. Most importantly, Lord, I pray for peace and
for strength. Please comfort my heart while Gwendolyn is at
risk. And help me to let her go when the
time comes.

Something deep in Allen's chest tensed at that last line. It felt not right, yet his mind could not begin to fathom why. He only sought to do his duty.

That was when the most priceless sound he had ever heard caressed his ears. Gwendolyn's voice mimicking the call of the wood warbler. He sagged against the tree. All was yet well. He must not give up hope.