The Merchant's Daughter (23 page)

The poor girl had been forced to carry a knife to protect herself. He felt sick, his heart wrenching at the thought of her so frightened. Why hadn’t she come to him? Why hadn’t she told him how terrified she was? He would have defended her.

But he knew why. She hadn’t come to him because he himself had mistreated her. He had been rude and insulting and had assumed the worst.

“I know it was wrong of me to try to use the knife as a weapon — “

“You were only trying to protect yourself.” He closed his eyes, groaning inwardly.
God, how can you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?

“But the bailiff was holding my knife, and that’s why — well, that’s why — “

“That’s why whoever was with you had to bash the bailiff over the head with whatever it was he bashed him with.” Now he was seeing the full picture.

He saw the flicker of fear and sadness in her eyes just before she turned her head.

They sat in silence, listening to the slow-moving river and the birds flitting nearby and overhead in the trees.

Ranulf stared down at his gnarled hand. The fingers and thumb curled inward, the scars and damaged tendons forcing his hand into a claw shape. He was a disfigured man, but he could have, should have protected her from the bailiff.

No matter what it cost him, he would protect her now.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He continued to stare down at his hand. “I will protect you and the person who was
with you last night.” His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “And if you still wish to enter a convent, I will help you.”

Annabel’s eyes were drawn to his face, and she felt bathed in comforting peace. Her lord would protect her. This was what she had wanted from her brothers, but they had failed to give her — a feeling of protection and security.

A tiny movement in the underbrush near her foot caught her attention. She forced her eyes to focus on it, to see what was moving the leaves. A dark, geometric pattern slithered on the ground not a handbreadth from her foot. A poisonous adder.

She stifled a scream. If she pulled her foot away, it might strike.

“Be still.” Lord le Wyse stood.

The adder turned its head toward him, then struck at his leg.

He leapt back.

Annabel jumped backward off the rock, landing on the ground behind the boulder.

She spied a fallen limb, almost as thick as her arm. She grabbed it and scrambled to her feet. Lord le Wyse stood beside her, facing the snake, which lay coiled and ready to strike again, a mere six feet in front of him.

He stretched his hand out to Annabel, keeping the rest of his body perfectly still. She handed him the limb. Carefully, he lowered it toward the adder’s flat, broad head until the limb rested on the ground in front of the snake. Then, with a sudden flick of the stick, he sent the adder sailing through the air. It plopped to the ground, unharmed, thirty paces away.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt her chest. She looked down at Lord le Wyse’s leg and grasped his good arm. “Are you hurt? Did he strike you?” If he was bitten —
O God, don’t let him die!

“Nay, he missed.”

She stared hard at his face. “Truly? I saw him strike! You
could be poisoned! Those snakes are deadly.” She gasped as panic stole her breath. “Show me your leg. Let me see.”

“I’m telling the truth.” A smile turned up the corners of his mouth and he shook his head. “He never touched me.”

Annabel took deep breaths to calm herself. She closed her eyes as relief stole through her, relief and gratitude that Lord le Wyse had not been hurt.

Lord le Wyse reached out to her, and before she had time to think, she had leaned into his embrace, resting her cheek against his hard chest as his arms wrapped around her. She was trembling in delayed reaction to the snake, inhaling deeply in an effort to calm herself, and was surrounded by the smell of lavender on his freshly laundered shirt.

She realized she was enjoying his warmth and nearness far too much. Not only should she not be enjoying it, but her lord should not be holding her in his arms. It was highly improper.

She suddenly had a terrifying thought. Was Lord le Wyse holding her because he was having the same feelings for her that Bailiff Tom and Gilbert Carpenter had? Now that she thought about it, why had she agreed to this meeting alone with him? Was she enticing Lord le Wyse? Would he begin to treat her the way other men treated her?

She stepped away from him. He let his arms drop and took a step back as well.

He could probably see the horror on her face. She watched as the tender look in his eye turned hard and cold, and his smile was replaced by a scowl.

“Let us go,” he barked, “before someone sees us and thinks we’re doing something improper.” He seemed to hurl the words at her, putting sarcasm into the last word,
improper.

She felt stung. Instead of waiting for him to lead the way, she hurried forward, leaving him behind. She was no longer worried about the snake.
Maybe it should have bitten him.
She immediately regretted the thought, but it felt good, for a moment, to get angry at him.

They walked in silence, he slightly behind her. They had
been through so much in such a few days. He had defended her from Tom, had refused to force her to marry the bailiff, and just now had saved her from the snake. He’d been terribly burned in the fire that had destroyed their winter grain. She had tended his injuries. And he had provided her heart’s desire when he asked her to read the Bible to him.

A connection had formed between them. But now, with one comment from him, she felt as distant from him as when she’d arrived. The awkward feeling when he yelled at her for looking at his paintings seemed to have returned in full force.

But it wasn’t only his angry sarcasm that made her feel uncomfortable. Her own feelings toward him confused her, though she was sure they would go away.

They came into the clearing in front of the manor house. She had let her lord hold her in his arms, and actually enjoyed it. Did he despise her now, thinking she was trying to entice him?

Sir Matefrid said women were a snare. She could see Sir Matefrid’s scrunched-up face, his accusing finger pointing at her, as he spoke his familiar sermon, “Woman is the gate of hell.”

Sir Clement Tidewell had always been an amiable fellow, with light, straw-colored hair and a hearty laugh. Ranulf remembered him from when they were boys, going on hunts together with their fathers. As adults they had met a few times at weddings, feasts, and the occasional festival. His long history with Sir Clement could work in their favor.

But Sir Clement was also shrewd. Very little escaped his notice, which definitely did
not
work in their favor. Ranulf would have to be equally shrewd, for Annabel’s sake, as well as for the sake of the one she was protecting. Because even if that person had attacked the bailiff to save her, he would still have to pay a large fine and possibly be forced to flee from Glynval — and Annabel’s reputation would forever be linked to the bailiff’s accident. There was no knowing if Tom atte Water would recover, and if he didn’t, she would be ostracized by the rest of the village.
She didn’t deserve that, or the guilt she would no doubt feel on behalf of her protector.

Ranulf would do his best to protect Annabel, even though she was clearly repulsed by him, repulsed by a simple, innocent embrace. Although, truthfully, he shouldn’t blame her for the way she reacted. He was her lord, not a friend or relative comforting her. And he should have shrugged off her obvious rejection instead of lashing out at her — hadn’t he learned not to treat her that way? But the look of horror on her face had seemed to stab him in the heart and fire up his old demon temper.

Ranulf would keep Annabel safe from any harm as long as he was able. His conscience demanded it, and his heart wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.

Sir Clement arrived sooner than expected, riding up the next day with the man Ranulf had sent to fetch him. Before even taking a bite of food or swig of ale, he asked to see the barn where the fire had taken place.

“Before you look into this fire, there’s something that has happened of even more consequence.” Ranulf had resolved that morning to address the issue of the bailiff promptly. Doing otherwise might draw the coroner’s suspicion. He went on to explain that his bailiff had been found in the woods with a head wound, lying unconscious. Sir Clement immediately asked to be taken to where the body had been found, and Ranulf led his friend into the woods until they reached the spot.

Both squatting, Ranulf and Sir Clement bent over the ground. Ranulf explained the exact position of the head and the feet while Sir Clement examined everything — the ground, the leaves — and asked questions about what had been found on the bailiff’s person. Ranulf couldn’t neglect to tell him about the knife, although he would have liked to. He had hoped the coroner would think the bailiff had simply fallen, but with a knife in his hand, things looked much more sinister.

Sir Clement examined the rock lying about two feet from the bailiff’s head. When he turned the rock over, a couple of beetles scurried away from their overturned hiding place.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Take me to the bailiff.”

“He is still unconscious.”

“I realize that, but I need to … inspect some things.”

“Of course.” Ranulf prayed the bailiff would still be unconscious when they arrived. If the bailiff told the coroner about Annabel and Stephen, it would be impossible to keep Annabel from becoming embroiled in the investigation.

They tramped to the bailiff’s sister’s house and entered the dank-smelling wattle-and-daub structure.

Bailiff Tom looked quite pale. A large bump the size of a goose egg rose at his hairline above his left temple, adorned with a smear of dried blood. But other than that, he looked like he was simply asleep.

Ranulf introduced himself and the coroner to Joan Smith. “Has there been any change?”

“No, my lord. My brother hasn’t made a sound or a movement since the men brought him here the night before last.”

Sir Clement bent over the bailiff. Glancing up, he asked, “Is he wearing the same clothes he was wearing when he was brought in?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Nothing is altered? Everything is exactly the same?”

The woman blushed under her leathery skin. “We did go through his pockets.”

“What was in his pockets?”

“Only a farthing and some twine. But he did have a knife in his hand.”

“This hand?” Clement lifted the bailiff’s right hand.

“Aye, sir.”

“May I see the knife?”

She brought him the knife, and after looking at it, he handed it back. Next Clement examined the bailiff’s feet, asking about his shoes, which were fetched for inspection. After a moment, he went back to examining the bailiff’s upper body, and then examined his head, rolling Tom over. Finally, he had Ranulf and the bailiff’s sister assist him in taking off all Tom’s clothing so he
could see if there were any other marks or wounds. After several more minutes of silent examination, the coroner enlisted Joan to help him put the clothes back on the bailiff, and then he dismissed her to tend her garden.

When Joan was gone, the coroner pointed to the bloody spot above the bailiff’s right eye. “The only wound seems to be this. Perhaps he tripped and fell, striking his head on the large stone found near his body.”

“Yes, that seems likely.” Ranulf hoped he didn’t sound too eager.

“But the problem with that theory is that the stone seemed to have been recently displaced. It was damp and dirty on one side, indicating it had lain somewhere for a long time before being moved. Perhaps it was moved and then the bailiff stumbled over it. However,” Clement continued, “if he stumbled over it, he wouldn’t have been likely to strike his head on it, would he? It seems rather more likely that someone hit him with it.”

Ranulf raised his eyebrows in an attempt to look intrigued. “I see.”

“But the most interesting thing is the knife. Why would the man be clutching a knife? As if he were fighting someone off. Or perhaps attacking someone.”