Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (21 page)

Merry perched herself on a stool in the corner and observed from a distance as Timothy interacted with the group after supper. Wren cuddled upon his lap as he told stories of their childhood adventures in the forest. Hopefully Wren’s acceptance, and even more so the acceptance of her sunshine men, signaled that Timothy would not betray them. Though he had roused Merry’s sympathy earlier, she remained uncertain as to his motives.

Even as he told his dramatic tale with wild hand gestures and accompanying voices, his eyes wandered and caught hers across the dim room. Those eyes shone fully of something she had only seen in part when he kissed her three years earlier. Infatuation? Lust? Deep inside she knew neither of those were correct. Yet she dared not put the true emotion into words.

Timothy should accept facts and let her go on her way. She recalled him preaching to her again and again,
“Never undertake a battle
you cannot win.”
So why did his eyes shout across the room that he would do anything, give his very life, to be with her?

The fool! He would indeed lose his life if he insisted on such a path. If not his actual life, at the least his family, his position, his very identity. No, she would not let him risk it.

“Merry, come join us,” called Jane from the group surrounding Timothy.

She could think of no excuse.

As she settled on the floor in the space they cleared for her, the children stared at Timothy with dreamy-eyed expectation. He had always been a mesmerizing storyteller. Perhaps he could add to their group of tumblers and minstrels a troubadour. She smiled despite her annoyance with him. Whether she liked it or not, he did seem to fit right in.

Her band of criminals had accepted this outsider all too readily. Even Robert sat at the table with a relaxed posture and smiled in Timothy’s direction. Perhaps she must add a new trait to their list of outlaw virtues. Stealth, anonymity, restraint, and
wariness
.

Abigail yanked at Merry’s sleeve in excitement. “He’s about to tell us the tale of Robyn of the Hode.”

Over Wren’s head, Timothy wiggled his brows at Merry.

“Give the little one to me,” she offered. “If I recall correctly, you might need two hands for this story.”

He chuckled and passed the child to her. “Indeed.”

Wren snuggled into Merry’s lap. “Love you, Ma-wee.”

Merry took a deep inhale of the tyke’s hair. “I love you too, Wren.” If she allowed herself, she could easily imagine Timothy as her husband and Wren as their own daughter. But she refused to let her errant thoughts wander in that direction. Timothy might yet be up to no good.

With a flourish of his hand, Timothy began his tale. “Once upon a time, not so long ago, during the reign of King Richard, a nobleman by the name of Robyn of the Hode returned a hero
from the crusades to his manor home, only to find his country in the midst of turmoil.”

Merry buried her face against Wren’s head, not wishing Timothy to see the emotion clouding her features as he continued. This had always been one of his favorite stories. He should not be surprised that she had turned a criminal. And he should most assuredly not serve an earl faithful to John, the villain of the story.

Did the death of Richard turn a villain into a king? She did not believe so. But Timothy had always been sanctimonious. Always cautious to follow the law to the letter. Did he consider her own murdered father a villain?

Merry closed her eyes and willed her battling emotions to quiet. Images of Timothy as a gentle sweetheart, a faithful friend, a potential husband and father struggled against a portrait of captor, betrayer, and pursuer in her mind. Wren and the children might have come to their own conclusions about him, but Merry was determined to withhold her final verdict.

As she stilled herself and focused upon the precious child in her lap, Merry noticed a subtle rattle and rasp to Wren’s breathing. Why must they deal with this malady every autumn? They had nearly lost her twice in the last two years. She could not bear to go through that again.

Timothy had reached the place in the story where Robyn battled Little John with a staff. He acted it out with flair and drama, dancing about in front of them, sparring and parrying as he played the role of Little John.

He bellowed in a deep voice, “I pray, good fellow, where are you now?” Laughing outrageously, he held his belly with one hand as he brandished his imaginary staff in the other.

Falling to the ground and switching to the role of Robyn, Timothy swiped at his face. “Good faith, in the stream, and floating along with the current.”

Then changing back to Little John, he continued. “I acknowledge you are a brave soul. With you I shall no longer contend.”

As entertaining as this story was, Merry could no longer sit and watch Timothy act out this tale of thieves. Thieves not unlike the ones he had recently sought—or perhaps still sought—to capture. She slid Wren onto Jane’s lap and whispered into her ear, “Her breathing has gone awry again. I will go prepare a remedy.”

With that most excellent excuse, she left Timothy and his playacting behind. She fetched the needed herbs along with a mortar and pestle and situated herself on a bench at their long table to grind them for a draught.

As she worked, Allen thumped down beside her. “I care not for his ridiculous stories. I still do not like nor trust the fellow one whit.”

Ah, at least one of her men remained wary. Good for him. “I doubt he means any harm.”

“But do you trust him?”

She had been asking herself that question all evening. “Not entirely. Make sure the men keep a close eye on him. I do not wish him to know the specific location of our hideaway.”

He huffed. “Thank goodness you have not lost all of your good sense.”

With a quelling glare, Merry reminded him who was leader of their band.

Allen’s face mottled pink, and he turned his head downward. “I’m sorry. That Timothy just irritates me like a bad rash. If you don’t trust him, why did you release him?”

“I know not Timothy’s true purpose for being here. He might yet seek to capture the ghosts. But . . .” She sent Allen a shrewd glance.

“What?”

She lowered her voice a notch. “This I do know, that man has a soft heart. If anyone can win him to our side, the children can.”

“Ah, so it is a strategic maneuver.” Allen grinned. “You never cease to amaze me, O fearless leader.”

Merry smiled in return. She loved that epithet. A leader must never show fear. Especially not a female leader. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, King John’s own mother, served as her role model in this. Well-educated and a duchess in her own right, the woman never quavered, simply took charge and led with confidence, even taking her own troop of crusaders to the Holy Land.

Merry returned to her grinding as Allen watched Timothy’s performance, shaking his head in disbelief. “He thinks he is so funny.”

“Well,” said Merry, “trustworthy or not, his comic abilities speak for themselves.”

“Then perhaps he should be a jester for a king, somewhere far away—perhaps Rome.” Allen swept his hand toward Timothy in disgust.

Merry wished to tease and ask if he were jealous, but she knew the answer. No need to bring up the tension between them again. She offered him a wink in support of his amusing comment, however.

Evidently reading too much into the gesture, Allen reached for her hand. She jumped back as though burned by his skin. “Cease at once, Allen,” she hissed. “You would not wish for Timothy to target you specifically. Not until we know his true motive for coming.”

“Why would he . . . ? Oh, so there is something between you.”

Merry sensed a warm flush rising up her neck and toward her cheeks. She slammed her pestle harder into the mortar to fend off her embarrassment. “Was. Not is.”

“When he said he loved you more than all of us . . .”

Merry shot Allen a glare.

“Why didn’t you just say as much?”

“Well, now you know!” she snapped.

Good-natured Allen just chuckled his low, rumbling laugh at her display of temper, and she relaxed at the soothing sound. She turned her gaze from Timothy to Allen and back again. Though Timothy stirred her heart like no other, Allen had admirable qualities as well. Stalwart, faithful, every bit as handsome, in a more rugged sort of way. In fact, she preferred Allen’s simple brown apparel to Timothy’s embellished tunic of red velvet she had found in their supplies for him to wear.

She stood, gathered a pot, filled it with water, and hung it over the fire in the center of the large room. Then she sprinkled her ground herbs into the pot. A blend of hyssop, peppermint, and chamomile. These should do the trick.

Staring into the water as she waited for it to bubble, her mind wandered back to the two men in her life. Allen had proven strong and dependable time and again. This new Timothy seemed to stir up trouble at every turn. Though she longed to trust him, her gut told her she should not. Still, his surprise visit had proven a blessing in disguise, allowing her to examine and compare them in close proximity.

Once she rid herself of Timothy for good, perhaps she should turn her mind toward building something lasting with Allen after all. Not right away, but slowly over time, once they settled somewhere safe. Jane and Red seemed to be faring well enough, with no ill consequences so far for the group.

Since she could not seem to rid herself of this appalling girlish need for love, she would at the very least steer the direction of her heart.
Restraint,
she reminded herself. Merry was nothing if not determined, and she was determined to remove Timothy from her affections once and for all.

Catching Allen’s glance, she shot him a warm smile. His eyes lit with wonder.

In that moment, the performance fell silent. Timothy ceased reciting his story and stood gaping in their direction before recovering himself. Merry shook off a chill of concern. She had no proof that Timothy still sought the ghosts. Perhaps she should not worry herself so on Allen’s behalf. But again, the clench in her gut told her she should not trust Timothy entirely.

At least not yet.

Timothy dodged to the left, then moved in for the strike.

Young James met him with a defensive maneuver as Henry urged him on.

Timothy wiped at his brow, surprised at the heat in the forest on this sunny day, or perhaps the sun was not to blame so much as the challenge offered by this young man before him.

Their swords clashed over and again. Timothy had not practiced in years, but the technique returned to him as they battled. He had never received the intensive training of a knight, but all noblemen knew basic swordsmanship. For that matter, many a feisty noblewoman knew how to handle weapons in self-defense—though few took matters to the extreme of Lady Merry Ellison. He smiled as he ducked and struck again.

He must admit that Merry had put her skill to good use. Either of these young men would make a worthy squire. He feinted right. James turned his sword to an odd angle, and Timothy saw his opportunity. In a flash, he sent James’s sword sailing into the forest.

“Ho!” shouted Henry, as he ran to retrieve it.

James leaned forward with hands on his knees. “I concede. You are a worthy opponent, Timothy Grey.”

“You held your own. But watch the angle of that sword. You cannot afford a lapse in form.” Nor a lapse in judgment. Though the blunted practice swords would not do any terrible damage, the boys should not have been so quick to let their prisoner play with one. He could have used the weapon to get away.

“Right. Got it,” huffed James.

Henry returned, offered James his sword, and turned to Timothy. “Me again!”

“No,” Sadie interjected, approaching them from across the clearing. “You have had Timothy long enough. ’Tis our turn.” Wren and Abigail followed her with stern expressions on their faces. These girls were nearly as tough as their male counterparts.

“We’re not finished. I still need to best him.” Henry crouched low with his sword.

“Give him us!” Wren wagged her finger at Henry.

“Oh fine, then.” Henry turned to James. “I guess it is you and me, as usual.”

Abigail squealed in delight. “Come, Timothy. We’re working on our tumbling. Know you any tricks?”

“I must confess, I have never been very good. Merry showed me a headstand once, but I never did conquer it.”

“Oh, ’tis easy,” said Sadie. “Give it a try.”

He should probably take more care with his borrowed—rather, stolen—tunic than to tumble in the dirt. He wondered where, or whom, it had come from. Not that they would ever get it back. “I suppose I can try, if you insist.”

“Indeed, I do.” Sadie crossed her arms over her chest and stood by to observe.

Timothy lowered himself to his knees, pressed his head into
the dirt, and attempted to hoist his legs in the air. They flailed about for only a moment before he toppled to the ground. Familiar ground he had played on as a child, though Merry must not know he recognized the area. He was surprised she had allowed him outside, giving him opportunity to survey the surroundings—but he certainly was not going to point out her tactical error.

“Get up and try again,” said Sadie.

The blood had rushed to his head while upside down and caused the world to go dark and shadowy. He rolled over but could not make out her features. However, he could tell by her outline that the miniature tyrant towered over him with hands upon her hips. He rubbed his eyes with his fists until his vision grew clear and her frown apparent.

Wren and Abigail sat nearby, giggling at his attempt.

“You think it is funny, do you?”

“Very,” said Abigail. “Watch. Like this.” She flipped onto her head and balanced there with little effort.

“This,” mimicked Wren, placing her head on the ground and turning a circle around it.

Timothy propped himself on an elbow and grinned, though Merry’s remedy had relieved the pain significantly, his head was beginning to thump again. It seemed he would go to rather ridiculous lengths to please these children. A twinge of guilt tugged at his gut, but he tamped it down. He had never had any intention of harming the little ones.

“I am telling you all, it is no use. Merry tried to teach me years ago. I am hopeless.”

Sadie bent over and placed a hand on his arm. “Forget your past failures. Listen and observe closely.”

She knelt down in front of him. “Place your hands sturdily upon the ground, shoulder-width apart, pressing all five fingers
into it. Form a triangle of your head and your hands.” Shaking a finger at him, she said, “But don’t throw your legs into the air willy-nilly. Watch what I do. ’Tis simple.”

The girl made the triangle of hands and head, then propped her knees upon her elbows. Still upside down, she said, “Now, very slowly, using the muscles in your belly, lift your legs.” She did so, only a few inches. “Along the way up, adjust your weight between your fingers and your head as you progress, always keeping those stomach muscles tight.”

Merry had never explained the process to him so thoroughly. She merely did the trick and expected him to imitate.

From the headstand position, Sadie pressed up into a handstand, formed an arch with her back, and flipped over and stood to her feet. Timothy, Abigail, and Wren all clapped.

“Now your turn.” Sadie returned her hands to her hips.

“All right, then.” He formed the triangle shape with head and hands. “You are an admirable teacher, but I hope you shall not be disappointed if I fail once again.”

“You will not fail. Determine to do it,” came Sadie’s shrill young voice from above him. She sounded just like Merry.

“Do it!” shouted Wren.

“Dooo it, dooo it, dooo it.” Abigail began the chant and the other girls joined her.

Timothy supposed under these circumstances, he could not let them down. He did his best to recall the instructions. He propped his knees on his elbows—a step he had never attempted before—found his balance, and controlled the motion from his stomach. As he raised his legs, he sensed just how to shift his weight to maintain control. And instantly, he was standing upon his head.

“I did it!” he shouted. His upside-down heart thrummed with excitement.

“Don’t topple yourself. Stay steady,” said Sadie. “Now straighten your legs and point your toes. Tighter still in the belly.”

He made the adjustments.

“Perfect.”

The girls cheered and clapped.

Still under control, he lowered his knees to the ground. As he sat and lifted his head, things went shadowy again but cleared quickly. “I finally did it.”

“We never doubted you, Timothy.” Abigail smiled her gap-toothed grin and took his hand.

“Good job.” Wren patted him on his head, and he hugged her to himself.

He was becoming more and more entrenched with this band of thieves with every passing moment. The little bundle in his arms felt so warm and wonderful that he could not resist. Before long he would be a full-fledged ghost. He snickered at the thought. This trip had proven a monumental detour along his path to political success. How could he betray the ghosts now?

Wren took a turn attempting the trick as they all stood by and watched.

Now he understood why Merry needed to get back to these children so urgently. They were delightful. And she had taken such good care of them. So many times he had dreamed of rearing a family with Merry. But he must find a way to rid himself of that dream.

Only when seeking to win his favor in the castle had she ever looked at him as she looked at that surly Allen fellow last night. Timothy had nearly choked when he saw the two of them tucked so close together. Surely he had misread the situation. Merry would never lower herself to engage in a romance with a mere peasant. The idea was ludicrous.

Not wishing to pursue that line of thinking, he stood and
brushed the dirt from the knees of his leggings. “May I return to sparring with the boys? I am much better at that.” He longed to send another sword streaking into the trees.

“Absolutely not,” said Sadie. “We taught you something, now you must teach us something.”

“What sort of things do you wish to learn?” He scratched at his head, scanning his mind for ideas. “The history of England?”

“You mean the history of invading royals and nobles, seizing our lands from far-off France?” Sadie scowled. “No thank you.”

Timothy had no comment for that unexpected tirade and dared not hazard another guess. Again that twinge of guilt bit at him. If Sadie learned his true intent for coming here, she would never forgive him.

“Perhaps something that you do every day at the castle,” suggested Abigail with a shrug of her shoulders. “We’ve never lived in a castle.”

Timothy scanned his mind for an activity to entertain the children. “Ah!” He held up a finger as the perfect plan came to him. “I now serve the earl in a variety of capacities, but in the beginning, I was a simple scribe. I will teach you a letter or two.”

Abigail laughed. “You’re silly.”

Sadie pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she wished to giggle as well but realized it would not be polite.

“What is so silly about it? You are intelligent young ladies. Reading and writing need not be reserved to the priestly class, as so many believe. We can begin with the first letter in each of your names.” If they could learn their names—which he imagined they could if they were willing to apply the effort—it would be helpful for signing documents in the future. The country turned more toward a system of proper legal paperwork each day.

Abigail laughed so hard that tears streamed from her eyes. She slapped at her knee.

“Somebody please explain to me what is so blasted funny.” He frowned at them with false ferocity.

“You needn’t teach us ‘a letter or two,’ for we know all of them,” said Sadie with a roll of her eyes. “And how to form words with them as well.”

“All of you?” Timothy did not understand. Even among the nobles, many were not literate.

“Wren, tell Timothy your letters.” Abigail pushed the little one forward.

“A . . . B . . . C!” said Wren, jumping in delight.

“She doesn’t know the rest of them yet, but she will.” Sadie’s chest puffed with pride. “Lady Merry wants us to be prepared for whatever life might bring us next. We cannot remain outlaws forever, you know. She hopes that someday we might be merchants or craftsmen.”

“Cedric thinks we should be a troupe of tumblers, but Merry won’t have it.” Abigail did a forward roll and bounced back up to her feet with a flourish of her hands.

Timothy studied the children now with different eyes. Literate. All of them. Amazing. “And the young men?”

“They are often busy with hunting and raids, but they study when they can,” said Sadie.

He turned to contemplate the men as they continued at their swordplay. His head swam in confusion. But he sought to bring one idea to the forefront. These men were thieves. Thieves who must be brought to justice.

“Let’s gather some sticks and show him.” Sadie rallied the other girls, and they dashed off.

Timothy barely registered the comment. He could not draw his gaze away from the group of young males. The dark wiry one with the sharp eyes, Robert, battled against the larger Allen, the suspected object of Merry’s affections. They were both quick
and light on their feet. Robert made up with agility for what he might lack in brute strength. Both appeared cunning, calculating, and well-trained. No, he need not feel guilt on their accounts. They could fend for themselves.

Henry and James had been adequate swordsmen, given their young ages, but these two skilled warriors truly deserved his admiration. As Robert struck low, Allen dove over his sword, rolling upon the ground, swiveling on one foot, and landing in a crouch, ready to attack again.

If he must capture three token ghosts, Robert, Allen, and Red would be his preferences. At least they could offer a fair fight.

An inspiration sparked to life in his head. Perhaps he could arrange for a tournament at the castle and allow common folk to compete. That might well draw these trained warriors out of hiding. Especially if the earl offered a large monetary prize. There must be a way to capture them without breaking the specifics of his oath to Merry. And a part of him—albeit an ever shrinking part—remained determined to find it.

Timothy glared in Allen’s direction.

To think this former peasant could read and write and fight like a knight. Timothy ran his hands over his face, struggling to collect his thoughts. Considering those facts, along with Allen’s broad shoulders, admirable height, and pleasant features, Merry might just be in love with this fellow after all.

Though he had spent significant time of late convincing himself that he no longer loved Merry, Timothy’s heart plummeted to his boots. He had just found her after three long years apart. For her to reject him was harsh enough. He could not bear the thought that he might somehow lose her to . . . a peasant.

But if he captured Allen, Merry would think him vindictive and add that to his ever-increasing list of sins, for which she would assuredly never forgive him.

A rustling behind him caught his attention.

“There, Timothy,” called Abigail. “You see?”

She pointed to the dirt by her feet. Upon it she had scratched with a stick,
Abigail can read
!

He raked his fingers through his hair. “I see, Abigail. I see far more than I ever imagined.”

And unfortunately, he saw that his goal of capturing the ghosts grew more and more impossible by the moment.