Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (7 page)

People pressed in upon Timothy, clamoring for his attention, as they had again and again during the past days. Over top their heads, he stared at the blank grey walls of the castle in hopes of collecting his thoughts. An ache was developing in his right temple, and noon had not even arrived. No doubt it would grow into a throbbing headache by mealtime. But he would not be deterred from meeting his lordship’s expectations. Not by noisy servants and most definitely not by the pain in his head.

“You have not approved the afternoon’s wine.” A kitchen servant thrust a flagon in his face.

Timothy pushed it away. “No doubt it is fine. His lordship shall not return for many days, and we have no special guests in the castle presently.”

“As you wish, then.” The man turned with such violence that he nearly splashed his precious wine and walked away in a huff.

“Now about those missives . . .” The scribe, Holstead, who had been hired to take Timothy’s place when he had been given temporary responsibility for the castle, waved a stack of papers.

Timothy rubbed his temple. “Please place them on his lordship’s desk. I shall deal with them this afternoon.”

“As you wish, m’l . . . Mister Grey.” The man offered a half bow, apparently unsure whether or not one was in order.

But his bumbling ways brought a smile to Timothy’s face. The man performed his job impeccably. Perhaps he might keep it, and Timothy himself might rise to some sort of full-time advisory role. Now that he functioned in his lordship’s stead, he clearly saw the need.

A castle guard shoved his way past the steward, who still awaited Timothy’s attention. Timothy took a moment to seat himself upon a chair on the raised dais. If he must administer his lordship’s duties, he might as well look the part. He rubbed his aching head.

Bradbury and Hadley dragged an emaciated man covered in rags to stand before Timothy. Their presence reminded Timothy that he needed to resume his hunt for the ghosts, if only he could escape the series of minor crises that he found himself buried beneath.

“Mister Grey,” said Bradbury, “this man has been charged with thievery. And no petty thievery. Several weeks’ wages worth of grain and vegetables.”

One look into the man’s desperate eyes told Timothy why. He sighed. “Have you a family, good man?”

“More like no-good man, this one here.” Hadley shook the poor soul.

“Yes, sir. I have seven . . . no, now ’tis six children. I can hardly work my land since my foot went lame last year.” He lifted the mangled appendage for inspection.

Timothy winced at the red and swollen appearance of it.

He turned to the guards. “Have you witnesses?”

“Aye,” said Bradbury. “Witnesses aplenty to the crime.”

“And has the accused anyone to speak on his behalf?”

“No, sir. I ’aven’t a soul.” The man stared down at the floor.

Lord Wyndemere would no doubt demand the man look him in the eye when he spoke. But Timothy had not such a hardened heart. Having been granted the king’s own authority, his lordship would likely schedule a hanging on the spot in such a situation. At least Timothy could be spared
that
duty. He would not take liberty with such a decision.

“Place the man in the gaol until his lordship returns.”

“Yes, sir.” Bradbury frowned, no doubt dismayed to miss the entertainment of an immediate hanging.

“And give the prisoner decent food and water while he awaits a proper trial.” Was it his imagination, or did Hadley smirk as he gave the order?

Catching Timothy’s gaze upon him, Hadley turned his lips into a full and open smile. He approached the dais and whispered, “You are doing an admirable job, Grey. Continue the fine work.”

Timothy nodded his thanks.

His lordship’s duties truly were enough to overwhelm a body. The village of Wyndbury had grown into a sizable community in recent years. The man needed an official assistant. Or perhaps a mayor to oversee the town and allow him to focus upon the remainder of the shire. A close friend to the king, Wyndemere was one of the few earls with any real power, and he held it tight to himself. But the man could not do everything alone.

As the son of a well-respected baron, Timothy might make a suitable mayor someday. But there was no sheriff’s position in the offing for him—the morning’s proceedings clearly indicated that he had not the stomach for law enforcement. He had always been the merciful sort. That characteristic, along with his small stature in his younger years and his thirst for learning, had set
him on the academic path rather than the military route. The church still loomed as a possibility, but he was not yet ready to commit to a life of celibacy and a tonsured scalp.

Until two years ago, his path had been planned out for him. A surprisingly pleasant, fortuitous path for a youngest son. Then tragic events struck, swiping his future away like so much dust from a tabletop. The ache in his head magnified and traveled toward the region of his heart. Again, he rubbed it away. He would not allow himself to wallow in self-pity and sentimental recollections at a time like this.

Perhaps later tonight . . . in his quarters . . . alone.

Taking a deep breath, he surveyed the room again. Only Mister Bainard, the castle steward, a man as young for his position of authority as Timothy himself, rudely leaned against the wall. He eyed Timothy with disdain.

“Can I help you, Bainard?” Timothy forced pleasantness he did not feel into his voice.

“About time,” the steward grumbled. “You’ve an important message from Lord Wyndemere. Arrived this morning.”

“From Wyndemere?” Dread filled him. Had something gone awry? “Why did you not alert me sooner?”

Bainard stared down his nose at Timothy. No doubt the man hailed from some noble stock himself. Perhaps several generations removed, but his demeanor left no question that he would not treat Timothy as a superior. “You seemed to be enjoying your newfound popularity. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

Timothy bit back a retort. “Bring it here. I will retire to his lordship’s study to review it at once.” Wasting no time, he stood and yanked the message from the man’s hand. He strode across the great hall, down a dimly lit corridor, and up a stairway. Once to the study he tossed the sealed parchment upon the table.

Desperate for a quiet moment, he leaned against the open
window and gazed past the stinking, noisy town to the crisp, clean trees beyond the wall. So another day would pass without his return to the forest.

But he could not rid himself of the niggling feeling that the child might provide a clue.

The thought that things just didn’t add up had followed him everywhere for days. That the boy had not known his own village, but chattered intelligently for much of the ride, asking questions of the soldiers. The story of a mother who beat him, although the boy bore nary a mark upon his healthy skin. The distance of the child from Bryndenbury.

No, the facts did not add up.

Upon the morrow he would let nothing deter him. He would return, alone and on foot, to the spot where he had found the boy. Stealth and anonymity were of the utmost importance. His brothers had taught him as much during childhood.

“’Tis just over here, Lady Merry.”

Allen’s voice hurried her up the hilltop and toward the highway beyond.

Merry’s men had gone to great lengths over the past days to pull her from her gloomy state. Allen claimed he had found the perfect spot for raiding passing travelers, as they had in Farthingale. Although she doubted they should take such chances so soon, she could not deny that her chest thrummed with excitement at the thought.

Cedric looked like a little boy at play as they headed up the rise. He turned to grin at her. Comic Cedric, with his endearing crooked-tooth smile and over-large ears. She grinned in return.

They reached the top, and Merry struggled to hide her disappointment. Setting her face into a mask of placidity, she sur
veyed the terrain. To begin with, before her lay not so much a highway as a rough trail. She doubted royal wagons passed this way. And beyond that fact, the forest had been cleared for yards away from the road.

Indeed a long, nearly horizontal branch spread over the path, but it lacked the requisite cloak of oaks and maples surrounding it.

“I do not know, Allen. It is quite stark.”

Allen’s little-boy excitement had not dimmed—even though of all her “men,” he most looked the part of an adult male. “Don’t give up on me yet. Picture it first. Perhaps we shan’t encounter magnificent equipages as we did at our old spot. But we could use the tree to attack the king’s nobles on horseback.”

He moved under the tree and gestured to the longest branch. “We swoop in out of the air—wearing masks to preserve our anonymity, of course—knock them to the ground, and before they know what we’re about, we’ve taken their supplies and disappeared into the woods.”

Cedric twisted his head from side to side as if weighing the concept upon a scale. “Could work. ’Tis different. Certainly not what one would expect from the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. That stands in its favor.”

Merry took a breath to disguise her frustration. “Yes, but in all these years we have never injured a soul. Someone could break a bone tumbling from a horse. And what if they are quick to their feet and fight back.”

“We shan’t be fools.” Allen tapped his head. “We would choose our targets wisely. Besides which, do we train hours a day for nothing?”

As the one who demanded said training, Merry could hardly argue. “And what if they decide to give chase?”

“Ah!” Allen pointed a finger to the sky. “I’ve given that thought. We’ll build a camouflaged lair just over the hilltop.”

Thwarted again. Where was Robert when she needed him? Surely he would detect the flaws in this plan.

“Cedric,” said Allen, “why don’t you run down the road a bit and then come by as if you are a traveler.”

Confusion washed over Cedric’s face, turning his rather homely features even uglier. “But I have no horse.”

Less skilled at disguising his frustration than Merry, Allen ran a hand down his cheek. “Then pretend.”

A grin split Cedric’s face once again. “Oh right, then.” And he trotted down the lane, leaving Merry and Allen alone.

Merry scanned the area once more. It was by no means as perfect as their last attack point in Farthingale Forest, but no location would ever be. That spot had been all but magical. A highway often used by the royals and nobility. A long, curving road that they could watch from one side, then dash through the woods to the attack point. And the trees. The thick dense trees the local lord had failed to clear, creating a near cave-like effect. Not to mention the gossipy innkeeper in Farthingale who unwittingly kept the ghosts apprised of everyone’s comings and goings.

That opportunity was long gone. They would never find such a place again, but at least they had not wasted the idyllic circumstances. A chest of gold lay buried in the woods near their camp. If their Masked Knight ruse was successful, they could start spending those coins and would not need to steal ever again.

Nonetheless, she followed Allen as he scurried up the tree like a squirrel. She had missed the feel of rough bark against her skin, the thrill of the hunt, the lure of danger—the surge of energy that came with fear. And she understood that her men did as well.

She perched herself close to Allen upon the branch. “We have no need to continue such perilous missions. I realize you miss them, but we have the little ones to consider. We should not expose them to King John, and with the gold, we now have no need to.”

Allen turned to her, his warm hazel eyes only inches away. They flooded with compassion. That protective instinct she had always loved in him. He reached and stroked a short wisp of her brown hair behind her ear. His touch sent tickling shivers through her. Shivers, yet warmth to match his eyes. For a moment, she found herself floundering in their depths.

She shook her head and gathered her thoughts. “We have been whispering tales of the Masked Knight long enough. We shall send Red to town for provisions soon. You shall see. We no longer have need of raids. I would think you of all people should be glad to be relieved of such a morally questionable duty.”

Allen smiled. A roguishly handsome smile that tipped to the right. With his hazel eyes, sandy hair, and strong features, he had always been her favorite of the men to gaze upon. Although she would never admit as much.

“You are right, Merry, as always. But I haven’t seen such a smile upon your face in weeks. I’d say the mission has served its purpose. And just wait until you see what fun we shall have when we pounce upon Cedric.”

Merry giggled, and Allen joined with his own hearty laugh. His warm breath brushed her cheek. Merry craned away from it and looked down the road. “Where is Cedric anyway?”

She turned back to Allen, and their gazes caught again.

“You know,” whispered Allen, “sometimes I imagine what it would be like if you were not a great lady. Rather just Merry, a villager like the rest of us.”

Merry gulped down a lump in her throat. “I am not a lady
anymore. I am an outlaw. A waif. The lowest of the low. We are the same now, Allen.”