Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (23 page)

Timothy bowed his head. “That is not what I meant. That is never what I meant.”

“The beliefs all tie together. You cannot accept one and deny the other. There is no logic to it. It does not work.”

Timothy remained silent. He leaned heavily against a nearby tree.

“I knew you were not to be trusted,” she said. “Childhood friendships count for little in times like these. We did not understand the chasm of philosophy between us. I do not trust you, and furthermore, I do not even like you. I will not tolerate you one more moment in my camp.”

Her heart thumped in her chest, as if it might explode. Her blood pumped hard and hot through her veins. Before Timothy knew what she was about or could even think to fight, Merry whipped him around and twisted his arms behind his back. She grabbed the rope from her belt, wrapped it around his wrists, and tied it tight.

“You must be joking,” he sputtered.

“Yes, I am quite the jester.” She yanked him behind her and headed toward the cave.

“Merry, please!”

But she did not falter in her course. She would not waver. Her questions had been resolved. She knew what needed to be done.

“Robert, Allen,” she barked, knowing she sounded like a female dog and caring not one whit.

Familiar with her tone, they hurried out to meet her.

“Blindfold the prisoner. Leave him bound on the outskirts of the village near Greyham Manor. If he is lucky, they will find him before the elements take him.”

Robert’s jaw dropped. He looked at her, clearly mystified. “I don’t understand.”

“You know well that I do not like the fellow,” said Allen, slapping his fist against his open palm. She sensed a
but
coming. “I shall be happy to remove him far from here and even pop him in the jaw a time or two, if you like. But . . . Merry, he’s done nothing to deserve being left bound and helpless in the cold.”

And there it was. He would indeed question her authority.

Robert scratched his head. “Do you mean now? ’Tis nearly dark.”

“Take him!” She shoved him toward them and began to pace back and forth. The evening had taken on a red tinge in her fury. She felt like a kettle about to bubble over, steam escaping from the lid. “Ugh!” she shouted to no one in particular.

Robert and Allen stared. They knew her temper, but rarely did she seethe out of control like this. She must pull herself together.

“Fine,” she relented. “Take him to the rear of the cave. In the morning, deliver him home and wait and see that he is safely found. But I mean it about the bindings and the blindfold. I do not want him to be able to locate this camp. I do not trust him.”

“There must be some mistake.” Timothy’s eyes pleaded with
her more so than his words, but her heart had turned to cold stone as she had listened to his ridiculous arguments about the king.

“Oh no, there is no mistake. The next time you come looking for me . . . the next time you come within two furlongs of this camp, the last sight to meet your eyes will be an arrow through your chest.”

She turned her back to him and ignored his final words, stomping off toward the women’s quarters. Timothy Grey had no place in her life. She had deceived herself to ever consider that he might.

Now he must leave for good.

Timothy sighed as he tucked his personal items into a sack. He paused to glance around the small stone room that had been his home at Castle Wyndemere for over a year. A cell, really. How had he never seen it before? He removed a tapestry of greens and browns, handmade for him by his mother and sister Ellen, from the wall. A forest scene that reminded him far too much of his recent bittersweet time in that verdant world.

For three days he had hidden at Greyham Manor, pondering his next step. But he could not betray the ghosts. Especially not after seeing the remains of the crippled thief he had sent to prison hanging from the castle walls upon his return to Wyndemere—God rest the poor man’s soul. He could not betray Robert or Allen, who had given him little but trouble yet defended him in the end. Nor even Merry, who had turned on him so cruelly.

Though her betrayal stung deep, he had seen the torment in her eyes. The girl had been through too much. She no longer knew how to trust. Not that he fully deserved her trust. And in
the end, she had allowed him to walk into Greyham unbound, not wishing to draw attention to his capture.

Though he still burned at the threat against his life, he should never have underestimated her considerable instincts. Regret hung heavy on him, like a coat of chain mail. He should never have gone after the ghosts once he knew the truth. He should never have put his career before the well-being of the children of Ellsworth.

Nothing remained for him now but to pack his bags, burn that ill-advised missive to the king, and head home in defeat. Tiny Little Timmy, runt of the family, back in the fold once again.

He shoved several tunics into his sack, although he now realized he had little of his own in this place. Through the window, the forest beyond the village—a patchwork of green, gold, and amber—drew his eye.

Somehow, someway, he would find a new path for himself. Perhaps as castle steward for a relative, though he had so longed to make it on his own. And while his parents thought marriage to a young lady with an inheritance his best course of action, given what his mother called his “adorable face”—ugh!—the prospect held even less appeal for him than it had for the last two years. If he could not have Merry Ellison, he desired no woman in his life.

As much as he longed for her, he understood her drive to protect the children. Would his father do anything less for his own family? Would Timothy? As he had played with his nieces and nephews, he had been struck by the truth that he would without a doubt turn an outlaw to save any one of their lives. But still he did not understand Merry’s anger toward him. He had only spoken the truth. Truth they had both grown up believing.

He swiped his hair comb and a few other trinkets from his stand into the sack.

Merry’s words had haunted him for days. “
Unless good men like you stand up against
injustice, no place on earth shall be safe.”
He had initially rejected them out of long-held habit, but they rang true somewhere deep within him.

And her stinging indictment. “
Do you truly believe that God creates some people to
bask in luxury while he creates others—like Robert and Sadie
and Gilbert—to be the underlings who slave for them
?”

He had not held to that reasoning in any sort of conscious or intentional way, but she was correct. His acceptance of the divine rights of kings tied to just such a philosophy. Her opinions challenged him to question everything he held dear.

Taking his iron crucifix from the wall, he studied it a moment before tucking it into his sack with his other belongings.

Most of all, he had been struck by Merry’s assertion about the nature of God. “
If God does indeed exist, then He is
good, and He is just, and He stands upon the
side of right.”
He had not sorted out how such a statement could be balanced with biblical respect for the ruling authorities, yet he could not deny a word of it. The very survival of the escaped children of Ellsworth attested to its truth. That they had lasted two years as outlaws in the forest, not losing even a single soul to illness, illustrated clearly God’s favor shining on them.

Might not Wren’s sunshine men be God’s very angelic hosts?

As much as his heart ached over Merry’s rejection, he had been even more stunned by her vehement rejection of God. The Merry he knew as a child had revered Scripture—had even studied Latin so that she might read and copy the Holy Book herself. At one point she had spoken of being a nun in a scriptorium to preserve the Bible for generations to come.

Now she rejected both God and His Word. Perhaps thinking such as his had jaded her—and perhaps the loss of her beloved
family. How he longed to return to her and convince her of God’s love and faithfulness.

But she had made matters clear, had pounded the final nail in the coffin of their friendship when she threatened his life. He would pray for her soul. That would have to suffice.

With another sigh he slung the sack, containing surprisingly little, over his shoulder and headed through the dim, echoing hallways, smelling of pitch from the torches, to the room that had served as his office since becoming Lord Wyndemere’s unofficial assistant.

The room stood empty, except for the parchment upon the table. He sat in his chair for a moment. Lifted the quill into his hand one last time. Scratched it over the crinkly parchment just to savor the sensation.

With a creak of the door, Lord Wyndemere swept into the room. The scribe, Holstead, scurried like a mouse at his heels.

Timothy jumped to his feet as his stomach clenched. He had hoped he might slip out unnoticed and send his apologies later in a missive. “My lord, greetings.”

“There you are, my boy. Good to see you back to work.” The earl reached up and ruffled Timothy’s hair.

Whatever in heaven and on earth? He had delivered no ghosts for the castle walls. The earl should be shouting and ranting to find him here at his post. He tensed lest a blow to the head might be coming next.

“I hear you stopped by your home.”

Wonderful, now his prospects would be ruined throughout England, not only in Wyndeshire. Timothy held his breath and awaited his due berating.

Wyndemere chuckled. “I suppose anyone would be ready to return after a few days at that manor crawling with screaming brats.”

What was this? Though he dared not relax, Timothy decided to ride out this odd turn in the impulsive earl’s mood and see where it might take him. “It was not so bad as all that. They are rather a cheerful lot.”

“Hmm. If you insist.” The earl smacked him on the back and took a seat by the window. “You may sit, Grey.”

Timothy turned his chair from the table to face the earl as Holstead stood patiently by. He might never understand the earl.

Lord Wyndemere crossed his legs and wrapped his hands around his knee. “I must say, you are looking a bit peaked. Is all well at home?”

Though his head spun at the odd turn of events, Timothy managed to answer with grace. “Indeed. My father sends his felicitations.”

“Interesting. And you are feeling well?” The earl observed Timothy quizzically.

Timothy did not feel well. He had lost the love of his life along with his employment for good this time. He had managed to bumble everything. And now the earl made no sense. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I caught a chill in the forest,” was the best he could come up with as an answer.

“I see.” The earl frowned.

Here it came. Perhaps in all his responsibilities the man had forgotten for a time, but surely he would remember and punish Timothy now.

“So, any sign of the ghosts? Any rumors of them flying about Greyham?” Wyndemere flapped his hands like wings.

Timothy chose his words with discretion and looked the earl in the eye as he made his confession. “Nothing recent, I am afraid.” He pressed his lips together tightly as he considered what to say next.

He must do something to keep Merry and the children safe.
Yet despite his shift in thinking, he could not bring himself to speak an outright falsehood to his lord. “Based upon the rumors, I would surmise they have moved camp and are no longer within our jurisdiction.” That was the best he could do for them.

Dropping his head, Timothy continued, “I am sorry to have failed you in this. I have packed my bags as instructed and will be leaving once I have finalized a few last matters of business.”

“Nonsense. I can hardly do without you.” Wyndemere flicked at the air as though his previous threats had been naught but an annoying insect. “Search the area one more time, and we shall call this issue closed. It simply would not do to lose my best advisor over some illusory ghosts who may or may not even exist.”

That was it? All of these days spent dreading his decision, and the earl had only been utilizing fear tactics to get his way? Although Timothy knew not if he wished to keep his employment under such a man, he would do nothing rash. Instead, he would exhibit the stalwart faithfulness and discretion he was known for until he could consider the matter further.

“Then I am at your service, my lord.” But his muscles did not unwind, as he did not trust the fickle whims of the earl.

“And all is well here?” Wyndemere pointed to the table covered with parchments.

“It appears that Holstead has done an admirable job in my absence.” Timothy eyed the earl with caution.

“Good then.” Wyndemere patted his knees and stood. “I will leave the two of you to catch up on issues of business. Methinks I will be moving you officially into an administrative capacity in the coming months. Holstead can handle the scribe position.”

A mere week ago, Timothy’s heart would have leapt with excitement at that statement. But the words fell flat in his ears. Too much had changed. Beyond which, he feared this might yet be some sort of test. He responded as expected nonetheless.
“Thank you, my lord. You are most gracious. I will be happy to relieve you of some of your duties. I understand how taxing they can be.”

“Indeed they are.” The earl yawned and stretched. “And my evening activities have been quite taxing of late as well.” He left the room without explanation.

Timothy turned his attention to Holstead and shrugged at the unfinished innuendo.

“New serving maid.” Holstead completed the earl’s insinuation.

Interesting. Timothy had not taken Holstead for a gossip, but perhaps it was not gossip, only honesty. Lord Wyndemere’s exploits were hardly a secret. And perhaps the new serving maid explained the earl’s sudden shift in mood. Despite Timothy’s swirling thoughts over the morning’s unexpected occurrences, he strove to give Holstead his full attention for the moment.

“Have a seat.” Timothy indicated to the chair the earl had just vacated.

“Thank you.” Holstead wrung his hands together. Unlike Timothy, he wore the more typical black hood and tunic of a scribe. His large brown eyes looked as though they might pop out of his rather narrow head at any moment. And his protruding teeth reinforced the mouse image his scurrying often brought to mind.

Timothy smiled. He could not help liking the earnest fellow.

Holstead situated himself. “I hope you found everything done to your satisfaction, sir . . . rather, Mister Grey.”

The man’s needless nervousness did much to ease Timothy’s own tension as he strove to calm the man by creating a peaceful environment. “Yes, I have found your work to be quite organized and efficient. I really have no questions for you, other than, are you happy working here at the castle?”

If possible, Holstead’s eyes grew even wider. “Why, of course.”

“Good. And are your quarters satisfactory?” Timothy leaned back in his chair.

“I, well . . . Rather, that is it . . .” But Holstead seemed unable to finish his thought, so flustered he was by the personal question.

Timothy attempted a different approach. “Do you have any inquiries or reports for me?”

“No, sir. Only, sir . . . I hope you will not be terribly troubled, but I fear your missive to the king went out a day later than intended. I do not know how I missed it upon my desk that first day you were gone. But I sent it out straightaway the following day, as soon as I discovered it.” He ducked his head and cowered, as if waiting for someone to strike him.

Timothy had no idea why the man might be worried. He could not even recall such a missive. “I am sorry. I do not understand.”

Holstead dared to peek up at him. He clenched his hands in his lap. “The missive from you to the king. With your personal seal. You left it for me before your trip.”

Timothy rubbed his chin and scanned his memory. He could recall no . . . No! It could not be. He had penned only one missive to the king. The missive safely tucked at the bottom of his chest. The very missive he now intended to burn. Though his own hands began to tremble at the possibility, he strove to maintain his composure. It would help nothing for him to fall to pieces before Holstead, nor to rant at the poor man.

He closed his eyes. Took several calming breaths, pressing his hands into his thighs to steady them. “Um . . . thank you, then.”

“My pleasure.”

A sharp pain dug into Timothy’s head, nearly causing him to gasp. His fingers clawed deeper into his thighs. He had to know
the truth. To search his chest and hold the volatile missive in his hands once again. He must be rid of this fellow. “You know, Holstead, his lordship was correct. I am feeling rather peaked. Would you mind if we continued this later?”

“Not at all. God give you good day, Mister Grey.”

“And you as well,” Timothy managed.

With an expression of relief, Holstead scurried from the room.

As soon as the door closed, Timothy rushed to the chest. He tossed books and parchments willy-nilly about the room in his need to reach the bottom. But he found nothing. The grey walls threatened to close in upon him. The ceiling seemed to press down and retreat several times in quick succession.

He scrubbed his hands about the sturdy wooden bottom of the chest, as if it might magically appear. But the missive begging Merry’s pardon was not there. He pounded his fist against the chest and searched every document one more time. Words swam before his eyes as he read through parchment after parchment.