Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (22 page)

Allen dodged around Robert, arcing his sword in the process, and managed to catch him from behind, holding the dull edge against Robert’s throat.

Henry and James whooped their approval.

Allen let him go and rested his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Good fight,” said Robert, panting as well. He rubbed at his neck a bit, but Allen had not injured him in any lasting sort of way.

“Good fight yourself—right up to the moment when you died.” Allen chuckled. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and the moisture soaked through.

Looking up, he spied that arrogant Timothy Grey glaring directly at him.

“Think you can do better, Grey?”

Timothy shrugged and lifted his nose into the air. “Perhaps.”

Timothy need not be so smug. Merry had been particularly warm to Allen these past days—he might yet win her affection and best Timothy in love as well as swords. “Well, if you’re done playing with children, let’s have a real go at it.”

Allen grabbed Robert’s sword and tossed it to Timothy.

Timothy smiled as he snatched it from the air. Allen had thought to thrash him outright, but this might prove interesting.

Timothy danced around a bit, testing the weight and sharpness of his sword.

“Sure you want to risk those fine clothes of yours?” Allen jerked his chin to the man’s ridiculous red velvet tunic with its gold embellishments. Although he had arrived in hunting clothes, Merry had found him something “suitable to his station” in their stores.

“I’m not afraid of a little dirt. Perhaps you are the one having second thoughts.”

“Not at all.”

Allen moved in and made the first strike. They clashed swords several times, testing each other. “Must be nice growing up in a castle. Training to be a knight. Gives one a certain unfair advantage in most situations. But this is not most situations.”

“As a matter of fact, I serve Lord Wyndemere as a scribe. So when I beat you, be sure to keep your story straight.”

Red snickered. “Come now, Allen. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest cannot be bested by a scribe. We have a reputation to uphold.”

They circled around each other, swords poised, both crouching low to the ground.

Allen’s blood heated. This man rubbed him in all the wrong ways. “Never fear, I will not suffer to lose to a filthy king’s man.”

“Ah, so Merry has turned you a traitor as well.”

“I have my own mind.” Allen struck harder, just for the satisfaction of watching Timothy wince as the metal clanged. Though he hated to admit it, Timothy had good form. He had yet to spot a weakness. “And I like to think of King Louis as the rightful ruler and you the traitor.”

“Nice delusion.” Timothy faked several times before striking, but Allen deflected his blow nonetheless.

“I might join the fight, once you’re dead and can no longer
betray us. I long to be part of an honorable cause and support a just king,” Allen said, intentionally attempting to bait the man.

Timothy took a step back and lowered his sword, staring Allen straight in the eye. “And the delusions continue. Think you Louis is a good ruler? The entire French court is corrupt. Power never fails to corrupt. At least John is English. Louis is naught but a pompous Frenchman who wishes to lord it over us. And who on earth told you the rebel cause was noble? The northern barons are a greedy and unscrupulous lot, FitzWalter more than any of them.”

Allen’s blood roared to a boil now. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He would not for one moment believe such lies. “Less chatting and more fighting, pretty fellow.”

Timothy’s face hardened, and a scowl twisted his features. From then on, there was no time to talk. Swords clashed over and again. Allen attempted a tumbling maneuver, only to find Timothy ready to meet his blow. Their swords tangled to the hilts, and they stood face-to-face, pressing upon one another.

Allen could feel Timothy’s hot breath on his face. “I will defeat you.”

Timothy shoved him away. “Not with that slovenly technique.”

Now he just hated the man. He’d have to repent later. Not everyone could be trained by skilled knights. Allen came hard again, losing his focus in his anger.

Before Allen realized what his opponent intended, Timothy swiped in from the left, landing a crushing blow against Allen’s ribs and winning the match. Pain seared his side. He would carry a bruise for a very long time. To his pride as well as his ribs.

The other men watched in silence. No one had beaten Allen in months.

Timothy stepped away and grinned. “I lied. You are skilled, my good man. But you let me rattle you, and you favor your
right. Keep your focus and never let your guard down. You will be a fine warrior yet.”

He offered Allen his hand.

Allen could think of no recourse but to shake it. “I underestimated my opponent.”

“No worries. In a few years, I shall not stand a chance against you. Keep at it.”

Allen’s hatred melted into grudging respect. “Then you lied about the northern barons as well.”

Timothy’s expression turned apologetic. “Sadly, I did not. I will concede that King John has many faults, but I believe he is the lesser of two evils. Perhaps someday true justice shall prevail, but it will not happen at the hand of Prince Louis. Although . . . I imagine he might pardon Merry and the rest of you, and for that reason I would not stand against him.” He tossed his sword back to Red and returned to the girls.

Now what on earth was Allen to make of that? His mind swirled as he struggled with this new information. He did not wish to believe Timothy, but he seemed so sincere. Perhaps the man was merely misinformed. Allen supposed he could take his time considering the matter. It was not as if he was free to leave anytime soon.

Later that evening, after a supper of savory venison stew as fine as any served at the castle, Timothy sat cross-legged on the floor of the cave. He held his hands to the fire. The air smelled of woodsmoke but had a chilly nip to it, and he was no longer as accustomed to life out of doors as he had been as a child. Wren toddled up. With nary a word, she plopped herself onto his lap and stuck her thumb in her mouth. She leaned back against him and sighed.

Merry, wearing a surprisingly pleasant expression on her face, came and situated herself next to them. She clearly had a soft spot for the little girl. “It seems you have made a friend for life,” she said.

He stroked Wren’s soft head. “It seems so.” He had not intended to grow so attached to the ghosts as he had in the past twenty-four hours. “She reminds me of my niece.”

“Which one?” Merry laughed. “You must have twenty of them by now.”

“Only twelve nieces. And fifteen nephews, plus another child . . . no, two more children on the way.”

Merry brushed at her sleeve and stared into the flickering dance of flames before them. “I can hardly fathom such a large family. It is just me now.”

“It seems you have all formed a large, warm family here.” He nodded to the youngsters filling the cave. “And do you not still have your aunt near Bristol?”

“Yes, but I have not wished to saddle her with an outlawed relative. If it were only me, I might consider it. She might be able to hide me away, but . . .” She curled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“You do not wish to leave them,” Timothy supplied.

“I do not. I have considered it a hundred times. But none of us, least of all me, could bear it.”

He so badly wished to get her far away to a safe place, separate from the ghosts, but how could he ever convince her to leave this precious poppet now cuddling upon his lap? Truth be told, he himself would have difficulty leaving these children when the moment came.

He should make haste to get on with the ghosts’ capture, but he needed more time to determine his thoughts on the issue. As the day had passed, his doubts over this mission had continued to grow. But he was as yet unsure that he could abandon his position with the earl either.

He focused upon Merry’s face, relaxed and open for once, in the fire’s glow. Though he wished to reach out and stroke her cheek, he resisted the urge. “You have done amazing things with these children. I understand now, Merry.”

She turned her head toward him and rested that silken cheek on her knees. A half smile curved her peachy lips. He longed to brush them with his own, but he dared not.

“Do you?”

“I think so.” The fire crackled and a spark snapped into
the air. But it did not compare to the sparks he sensed flying between them as he melted into her soft brown eyes. Did she feel it too? Or was the stalwart Merry Ellison impervious to such emotions?

She shivered. Then something flashed and hardened in her brown eyes. She jerked away from him and sprang to standing. “It is my turn at watch soon. I do not have time to laze about the fire. I am a noblewoman no longer, as you might recall.”

Though he had expected something of the sort, nonetheless, her rebuff pierced straight to his heart. He moved to chase after her, and then remembered Wren upon his lap.

“Merry, wait!” He struggled to his feet, scooped Wren to his chest, and jogged to where Jane sat weaving in a corner of the cave with the other girls. “Could you take her for me, please?”

“Of course.” Jane held out her arms. “’Tis nearly time for bed, Wrenny.”

“Wonderful,” he said, though distracted and already searching out Merry among the group.

He found her shrugging on her quiver and bow. She tucked a dagger and circle of rope into her belt, then turned toward the exit. Timothy moved to block her path.

From the table where the young men played a game with wooden pieces Allen called, “Stay warm, Merry.”

“I will.” She smiled his way with a notable degree of affection, which Allen clearly reciprocated. Brotherly? Timothy suspected not.

Heat built in his chest, a very different kind of heat than the one he had experienced by the fire moments earlier.

Finally she approached but paid him no attention. He stood firm in her path.

Merry shoved him aside with her shoulder. “If you do not mind.”

But he grabbed her by the forearm and halted her progress. “But I do mind. Very much.”

She smacked at his hand and tugged away. “Must I thrash you in front of the children? Would you not be embarrassed to be bested by a girl yet again?”

“You are not going anywhere until we talk.”

She glared at him. “You are always talking, Timothy. Have you not run out of words? I grow sick to death of your words, for they mean little. Now, if you do not mind, I must relieve Robert.”

“Then I am coming with you.”

“Suit yourself.” She stormed out of the cave, but he slid the door closed and followed.

He fell into step beside her but did not want to open the conversation until they had some privacy. Instead he took in the blustery twilight, already glimmering with stars through the rustling canopy of leaves. Little puffs of fog escaped his mouth. As the cold settled into his bones, he rubbed at his arms.

His coat remained with his horse, which Robert reported he had loosed and slapped in the direction of the castle yesterday afternoon. Spartacus had no doubt found his way home and was fine, but Timothy wished he would have thought to fetch a blanket for himself. He might well freeze to death in this forest.

Merry stalked up the hill to the lookout point. She wore a thick woolen over-tunic and seemed not at all fazed by the cold. Perhaps her boiling blood kept her warm as well. Timothy did not understand why she turned so angry of a sudden, unless she did indeed have some tender feelings for him, which she had determined to fight.

He would get to the bottom of this issue with Allen.

“There you are,” said Robert, chafing his hands together and
blowing upon them. “I’ve never been so ready to see a fire as I am right now.”

“The temperature dropped rather suddenly.” Merry took off her bow and struck the end into the ground. “Go warm up.”

Robert ran down the hill without so much as a farewell, but Timothy could not blame him. And he was thankful to be alone. “So what is this with you and that Allen fellow?”

“Allen? He has been my right-hand man since we were chased from our village.”

“Really, for it appeared to be far more than that. Must I remind you that he is a peasant? A pauper? You are the daughter of a baron.”

“Not anymore.” She pulled out an arrow and tested its tip against her finger. “And I will not tolerate you speaking ill of my men. I trust them with my life.
They
would never desert me.
They
would never betray me.”

The unspoken
like you
hung in the air between them, piercing his heart far more than her rebuff moments earlier. Ignoring his current motives, motives she knew nothing about, he chose to focus on the past to which she referred. “I thought you were dead! The moment I learned you were alive, I began plotting to rescue you. I never meant to betray you. I meant only to protect you.” That still held true.

“You dragged me off to a castle friendly to the king. A king who wishes me dead.” Her words rang as cold as the air around them.

“Do you truly believe that I would intentionally hurt you?” He peered at her in the dim light, but her features gave nothing away.

“I believe that you wanted to capture the ghosts and curry favor with the earl. Perhaps the king himself.” She jabbed her finger at his chest. “And I was your ticket to do so. You lost a fortune once by not marrying me, and you did—or perhaps
still do—not want to miss such an opportunity for advancement again.” Snatching up her bow, she marched a few paces away from him.

How dare she think him so mercenary? She would not get away so easily this time. “Do not level an indictment against me and then turn your back.”

He pulled her around and caught her arms in his two hands. She gasped, but he did not relent. “You cannot just dismiss me when I am inconvenient. I am not one of your men. I was meant to be your husband. Not because I wanted your money. Because I wanted
you
. Because I love you, try as I might to stop. You are a part of me. We belong together.” He shook her, hoping it might jar some sense into her stubborn head.

She wilted in his grip. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Love is not enough. Not when I am wanted by the king.”

He dropped her arms and turned to rake his fingers through his hair, unable to argue with that statement.
And love is not enough when I must capture
your friends or lose my position,
he added to himself.

Before he could consider his response, he spoke. “Then allow me to take you away from here. To France, perhaps. I have family there.” Where were these words coming from? “The ghosts will make it on their own. Your rescue proved that. They are well capable.”

“Do you not understand? England. France. It matters little. France shall provide a haven for a time, but unless good men like you stand up against injustice, no place on earth shall be safe.”

“Please, Merry.” He reached toward her again, but at the sight of her with feet planted resolutely in the ground, he let his arm drop to his side.

“I will not leave the children. Sadie and Abigail, Wren and
all the little ones. They need me.” Determination sparked in her eyes.

He dared to take a step closer. “Have you never paused to consider that they might be better off without you? That your presence might lure the king to the group?”

Her eyes dropped to the ground at that. His words appeared to pain her. “I . . . I have. But they do not wish to be without me. I made a promise to Wren, and I will not break it. We have provisions enough for the winter. Come spring, if the rebels still have not prevailed, we will consider traveling to France. Together.”

She fiddled with her bowstring. No longer looking as tough or confident as she had moments ago. “Who knows, by spring, King Louis might sit upon the throne. You might well be the outlaw, and I the Baroness of Ellsworth. I might have to rescue you. Have you paused to consider that?” Though her words were brave, her voice sounded frail.

He cupped her cheek in his palm. She turned into it, softening at last, and his breath caught in his chest.

“Merry,” he said in as gentle a tone as possible, “I beg of you to accept that John is king. There is nothing we can do about that.”

Merry wrenched herself away from Timothy’s hand, putting several feet of cold night air between them. Twice this evening she had nearly succumbed to his spell, to the tingles and shivers that plagued her each time he was near. She should have known better than to let him comfort her beneath the starlit sky, even for a moment. He would never change. And she would never, ever accept John—the man who had ordered the murder of her family—as king.

“Nothing we can do about it? For a time last summer the Great Charter reigned supreme in this land, and we were under the rule of law, not the fickle whims of the king. Your own father supported it. Perhaps the possibilities that document offered spoiled me for a ruthless monarch.” She widened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. Enough of that ridiculous, girlish weakness. She poised herself to win this battle.

“The charter did not work. It is not the way of this world. King John is too powerful, and he is still God’s chosen sovereign.”

“God’s chosen sovereign? How do you know this?”

He pressed a hand to his forehead. “The pope decreed it.”

“The pope! Some stranger far off on the continent? He decreed it, then undecreed it, then magically decreed it again once he had something to gain.” She snorted at his ridiculous reasoning.

“Do not speak sacrilege.” He shook his hands toward her. “The pope is God’s ordained oracle. He has chosen King John. It is God’s will.”

“It is not! It is certainly not the will of any sort of God I wish to serve.”

“Please, Merry, do not—”

“No, let me finish.” She uncrossed her arms and rested her hand upon the handle of her dagger. “If God does indeed exist, then He is good, and He is just, and He stands upon the side of right. You would have me believe in the divine right of a king who would wipe out an entire village, including children. Including Wren. Perhaps my father made a mistake, but at least he lived his convictions. What about you?” She spat the final question at him.

He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I do live my convictions. You just do not like them.”

“You are right. I despise your convictions that God ordains ruthless kings. Do you truly believe God creates some people to bask in luxury while he creates others, others—like Robert and Sadie and Gilbert—to be the underlings who slave for them? What sort of God is that?” Her hand gripped tighter to the handle of her dagger of its own accord.

“It is not like that. There is simply a divine order to things. Why can you not accept it?”

He disgusted her, pure and simple! She clenched her jaw and ground out her answer. “Because I have stopped listening to drivel and begun to think for myself. Why can you not do the same? How can you see these children—their wit and intelligence, their raw humanity—and believe for one moment that they were designed to be your chattel?”