Wonderful (19 page)

She had told Clio that the villagers called them fire-drakes and believed they brought good luck to those who watched them. Like the eastern star that proclaimed Christ’s birth, the fireflies were friends to the angels, and God himself decreed in those first days of creation that the Caddis would be so blessed that they could dance in the air.

Clio never forgot that day, because that was one of the few memories she had in which she could still see the clear image of her mother’s face.

So she stood on that wall walk and watched the sky, feeling comfortable and easy. She pretended those stars that flickered like the Caddis were there to bring her luck. Her sleepless mind drifted back as if by magic to the wonderful kiss atop those battlements, and she stood that way until dawn came and the stars all melted away.

With a deep sigh, she turned to go back to her bedchamber, but a door in the courtyard squeaked like Thud and Thwack’s piglets. Clio moved to the wall and braced her hands atop the stone, peering down.

In the dawn light she saw Merrick walking across the inner bailey, and her gaze followed him as if compelled to do so. There was something about the way he walked, the cock in his hip, the way his strides ate up the ground, the way his arms moved little yet his right hand rested on his sword hilt even though he was within safe grounds.

She saw that his shoulders stayed straight as he moved, his head high. His black hair gleamed almost silver in the new light and was getting longer and beginning to curl where the ends met his shoulders. He wore a leather tunic the same color as his hair and dark crimson braies that clung to the honed leg muscles of a true warrior.

His soft leather boots came almost to his knees, and golden light flashed from his knight’s spurs. In the crisp morning air, the rowels jangled when he crossed the bailey and met briefly with the master mason and builders. She had the feeling he knew who and what was around him, even then.

For some inexplicable reason she hid in the shadows and felt her face flush and flame. He could not see her, yet he sensed her. She could feel it, this strange invisible bond that seemed to link them as one mind, one thought.

She felt sweat break out on her brow, and she did not move, even held her breath until her chest began to tighten. Slowly, furtively, she peered out from the shadows. She felt like a thief.

Merrick had turned back to the master builders, and within moments they all disappeared out the latest of the castle’s new defenses: an inner portcullis that had been added last week to double protection.

She stood there feeling strange and somehow light, as if she were only half there. She glanced up at the golden dawn. Perhaps the stars were like the Caddis, there to bring her good luck. After all, she had gotten a good glimpse of Merrick.

Then she chided herself for being every kind of fool.

Of course that was silly thinking. If good fortune had truly been on her side that morn, he would have been wearing only that loincloth.

A few busy days later, Merrick was bent over the high table, his palms holding down the curling edges of one of the master builder’s drawings.

“I spotted some Welsh devil on your Arab horse.”

Merrick looked up.

Sir Roger stood in the archway of a side entrance to the great hall. His helmet was tucked under one arm and his mail hood had been pushed back and sat gathered at his neck like a yoke.

Leaves and sticky moss stuck out from his red hair, and grass and dirt peppered his mail tunic. There were great clumps of mud splattered all over his armor, so much so he looked as if he had been dipped in it.

He walked toward Merrick; water and mud squirted out from the sollerets on his feet. With every motion of his arms or legs, water dripped from his armor joints in trickling trails all over the flagstone floor.

Merrick let his gaze slowly travel over his friend, from the wet weeds in his hair to the mud clots beneath his feet. “I’m surprised old Langdon didn’t teach you that you cannot swim in armor.”

Roger made a rude gesture and threw his gauntlets and helm on a bench. A soggy marsh marigold landed next to Merrick and he looked down, then picked it up and dangled it in front of him. “Lose this?”

Roger spat one of Merrick’s favorite and most colorful curses.

Merrick had seldom seen Roger like this. His usual mood was light, sometimes insufferably so. Merrick turned back to the bridge plans. “You are not your merry self. The ladies will be heartbroken.”

Roger sat down across from him.

The moment his ass hit the bench, there was a loud squish. He winced slightly, then caught Merrick’s amused look. “I was chasing the cursed devil of a rider for you.”

“For me.” That bit of bunkum was even too much for Merrick. He gave a wry bark of laughter.

“Aye, for you. ’Tis your horse.”

“Odd, I thought it might be because you have been trying to buy, barter, wager, or wheedle that mount from me ever since I’ve had him.”

Roger was staring at his hands, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve been doing everything possible for over the last two years to get you to sell me that blasted horse.”

“I know.”

He looked up at Merrick. “That is all you have to say about it? I thought you’d be ranting the walls down over losing that horse.”

Merrick shrugged. “I have other horses.”

“Are you fevered?”

Aye, Merrick thought, ignoring Roger’s puzzled look. His blood was hot, but the heat wasn’t from any disease. ’Twas all Roger needed to know, that he was hot from a woman. He’d never hear the end of it.

He chose not to respond, but sat there in silence, pretending to examine the castle plans, which could have been upside-down for all he knew.

Roger, too, was silent for a few long seconds, then grudgingly admitted, “It took my squire and two men-at-arms to pull me from the river.” He jabbed his dagger into a green pear that sat in nearby fruit bowl and took a huge bite, then chewed it as viciously as if it were tough and stringy mutton. “I about drowned.”

“I can see that.”

Roger just grunted. With an intent look on his scowling face, he was on to his second pear, jabbing and stabbing, poking and slicing it with his knife.

“Are you going to eat that fruit or kill it?”

“Both,” he answered with his mouth full.

“Should I ask how a man of your famous horse skills ended up in the river?”

“No. Not if you value your life.”

Merrick did laugh out loud.

Roger scowled at him, which made him laugh harder. Roger ran a hand over his filthy and mud-speckled face, then stared at his palm. After a moment his expression changed from indignant anger to one of sheepish amusement. “I suppose it would have been amusing to watch, were it not happening to me.”

“Had it happened to me, you’d have been crowing and howling until I was ready to jam my fist in your face.”

“Aye. That I would.”

“’Tis only your pride that is sorely wounded.”

“No.”

“You are hurt?” Merrick could hear the strain in his own voice. The memory of Clio and the arrow was still too fresh in his mind. He loved Roger like the brother he never had.

“Only my ass hurts.” Roger shifted from one side to another. “ ’Tis sore as Saint Apollonia’s teeth. That river bottom was damned rocky.”

Merrick tossed him a damask pillow from the lord’s high chair, and Roger caught it and, to Merrick’s surprise, used it.

When he looked at Roger again a few seconds later, Roger’s gaze had drifted up to the rafter beams, his expression half thoughtful and half in awe. “You should have seen the rider, Merrick.” He shook his dagger with a pear on it to emphasize each word. “I’ve never seen anyone ride like that. He looked as if he’d been riding that horse of yours all his life.”

Roger turned and looked at him. “They looked like one whole beast when they rode up and over that craggy hill at Pwllycalch.

“They rode over Pwllycalch?” Merrick was surprised. The jagged and deadly hills of southern Brecon near the Usk Valley were infamous for their ruggedness. There was a local folktale that only the fey ones could traverse the chalky shale hills, because under the light of the moon they were said to sprout the wings of falcons and fly out of sight.

“Aye. They were up and over those rocks and halfway across the valley before I could make it past the first gorge. Made those desert riders from Damascus look like old, feeble women.”

But feeble old women were the last things on Merrick’s preoccupied mind. He was thinking of Clio, lost in an image of her face, that special face, and the earthy sweet flavor of her warm mouth.

And so it was that Roger sat across from him thinking of a different image—that of a horse and rider, the finest he’d ever seen, flying across the wild Welsh valley as if they were drinking the wind.

Chapter 21

Drinking was just the thing on Clio’s mind. Not drinking the wind, however, but instead her duty to provide her own bride ale.

Bride ale was supposed to be special—a gift to the wedding guests from the mother of the bride. She had no living mother, but she certainly had pride.

What a wonderful idea she had hit upon! Of course she would make the best bride ale ever. She secretly hoped her recipe would finally be the magic one, the one she and so many others had sought.

What better wedding gift to give her husband and his men? The same invincibility as had the ancient Druid warriors, the ones who had sent Caesar and his legions running back home.

So she lay on her stomach across her plush new bed, her bare feet waving in the air impatiently as she thumbed through Sister Amice’s notes and recipes.

Had she told anyone what she was planning, they might have claimed she was counting her eggs as hens.

She could just hear them now.

“That Clio! What a silly goose of a girl she was, making her bride ale when no wedding day had yet been set.”

But Merrick had said they would wed within a fortnight. She had no cause not to believe him. He had not lied to her since his return.

Besides, she rationalized, he was the one who volunteered the information and in a casual, offhanded comment.

Chest after chest had been brought to her chamber. She had not known what to look at first. The closest one was filled with lovely cloth, the like of which she had never seen. She almost crawled inside the huge chest as she rummaged through bolt after bolt of fine cloth.

“There is only one more delay for our wedding,” Merrick had said.

She remembered thinking to herself at the time, what was he saying now? She’d been almost impatient while looking in awe at fabrics so sheer and thin that she’d felt as if she were looking through the precious window glass at a cathedral.

“Wedding?” She’d paused. Did he say wedding? She’d poked her head out and asked, “Our wedding?”

Merrick had just disappeared around the entrance to the solar with the master builder running at his heels.

She’d dug her way out of the chest and stood quickly, slapping her hair from her face in time to see the top of his head disappearing down the stone stairs.

“Merrick! Wait!” She’d run to the staircase. “What thing is delaying the wedding?”

But she’d gotten no response. He had disappeared, called away by the master builder.

Once again.

So now, as she lay on the bed, she propped her chin in her hands and scowled, thinking of the last few days. She had not seen him since she’d spied on him from the battlements.

She was beginning to wonder with no little irritation if she should disguise herself into a stone brick. Or a bucket for the new wells. A guard for the portcullis or the builder’s drawings for the bridge spanning the wider moat.

Then she would have more of Merrick’s attention. And she needed his attention if she was to pry some more of those wonderful kisses from him.

But after a moment her annoyance just drifted away. She should be more tolerant, more understanding. If for no other reason than to repay him for his kindness to her, his care and his gifts.

Sighing, she glanced back down at the notes lying on the bed before her. Within a few short lines she read where the good sister had written of Trefriw and the
chalybeate
, which Sister Amice translated as special spa waters of Wales that were rumored to have healing properties.

Spa waters? Healing properties?

She quickly turned a few more pages and found another suggested ale recipe. She read the ingredients slowly. When she was done, she raised her bead and tapped a finger thoughtfully against the small cleft in her chin.

A moment later a small frown line appeared in her brow. She began to chew on her lower lip and nervously twisted her mother’s ring on her finger. Her expression changed quickly, in a mere snap of the fingers. Her look became dovelike. Peaceful.

Then she smiled. My, my, my, she thought. Perhaps it was a good thing her betrothed was so very busy.

Merrick rode with a few men toward the coast. Roger was beside him, having no trouble keeping pace with Merrick’s hard riding atop the best horse he could get saddled quickly.