Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (3 page)

“Yes, sir . . . um . . . I mean, m’lady,” Allen stammered, with a blush that colored the center of each cheek.

Authority suited her, and well she knew it. Someday she might choose one of the young men as a husband, to share her position of authority. Perhaps Allen, with his sandy hair and hazel eyes. But she was in no hurry to share her leadership role. And goodness knew, they had no need to bring more children into their group.

“Sir, ma’am, m’lady—it matters little to me, as long as you follow orders.” She sent him a pointed look, and everyone laughed.

“I know we don’t say it enough, but we are blessed to have you as a leader, Lady Merry.” Jane bit her lip, as if she should not express herself so, although Merry had never demanded such a high level of respect that the others could not share their thoughts at will. Old habits were hard to break, she supposed. To them she would ever be the local nobility, despite the fact her father had been officially stripped of title and lands before his execution—or as she preferred to call it, slaughter.

“Thank you for your kind sentiment, Jane, but back to the business at hand. We have a few weeks until someone shall have to venture into Wyndbury with a conspicuous gold coin to purchase supplies. During that time we must establish a story that shall allow us freedom to spend that coin.” Such bounty they now possessed, yet near impossible to spend. One wrong move could bring the law upon them.

“In Farthingale, giving presents to the villagers seemed our best strategy,” offered James. “Some venison steaks and a few of the pretty trinkets from our raids should do.”

“I have a thought.” Robert served as her tactical advisor. All eyes turned to him in anticipation. If Robert had an idea, every person in this room would be in for a wild romp.

Robert paused for effect, and the room fell silent. “Remember the armor we stole from Black Stone Castle? I say we put it to good use and create a new hero, a charitable knight who rides about doing good deeds for the poor. Red would be the right size, and though I hate to admit it, he is a rather handsome lout. When he tries to spend gold coin in town, no one will question it.”

Merry pondered that. A new legend that might help them leave the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest back in Farthingale where they belonged. “A most excellent idea.” She patted her knees and examined Robert, a dark, wiry boy of sixteen with a thin, crooked nose, but clever as could be and, all things considered, quite attractive.

Ugh! Why must her mind always wander to such ridiculous notions. She was a leader, a warrior. No longer a noble lady free to dream of handsome barons’ sons she had met at tournaments and fairs. No, she must train her mind as she had trained her body. To be both tough and restrained.

She returned her considerations to Robert’s plan. “Despite the
fact that Red is indeed a reasonably handsome lout, he should remain masked. We do not want anyone to recognize him if he is seen with one of us on a different occasion.” Yes, Red was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, but he was hardly noble looking.

Jane smiled at Red with admiration shining in her blue eyes, nonetheless. “And we shall need a romantic name for him.” She batted her lashes.

“No.” Allen shook his head. “Methinks not. He cannot go about calling himself by silly titles.”

“We could whisper it in the villages,” Merry said. “We are going to have to get them used to a few of us passing through.” She scanned her brain for names, but nothing suitable came to mind.

“I still say we should pass ourselves off as a band of traveling tumblers,” Cedric suggested with a shrug.

“No!” they shouted in unison. They had voted against his daft schemes—including tumblers, players, and worst of all, traveling minstrels—time and again. No one but Merry and Jane could even manage a musical instrument. And they could never afford to bring such notice to their band of thieves.

Robert tapped his forehead. “A name for our knight. It is coming to me. ’Tis almost here . . .”

His sister, Kate, gave him a little shove. “Oh, please, Robert. Think you that none of the rest of us can have a worthy idea?”

“Fine, then, what say you, Miss Kate?”

“Let’s keep it simple. The Masked Knight. Then no one shall expect to see his face.”

The council of elders looked at one another and nodded their approval.

“He shall need a horse,” said Allen.

“That can be arranged.” Merry supposed they could find a place away from camp to stable the noisy creature.

“Perhaps I’ll fight in a tournament as such.” Red grinned from ear to ear, obviously pleased with the idea and the title.

“You’ll never get in without official documents, but no doubt you’ll have the village girls swooning at your feet.” Robert would come no closer than that to agreeing with his sister.

But there it was again. The allusion to the inevitability of romance in the band’s not-so-far-off future.

One could not hold back change. If life had taught her anything, it had taught her that difficult lesson. But she
could
take better charge of her own thoughts and ambitions. Just as she had steeled her heart so many times before beginning a dangerous mission, she must steel her heart against love. She would put her band first and foremost. Focus upon being their leader and protector.

Lady Merry Ellison had no need of a man. Now or ever. She had not been able to rely upon her father, nor her brother. No, she could rely upon no one but herself.

“’Tis down this alleyway,” Allen whispered.

Allen, Merry, and Cedric moved through the streets of Wyndbury in dun-colored hooded cloaks, faces turned straight ahead and buried deep within the shadows of the rough flaxen cloth. They could have been any traveler. Any farmer hiding from the cool autumn winds. Any friar passing through town.

Anonymity was their ally.

Even so, Merry’s gaze darted about. She would let her marksman’s eyes miss no detail. Nor would she miss the cry of hawkers, air thick with the scent of manure and unwashed bodies. She must record every street, every alley, every twist and turn. Recall the market vendors with their faded awnings and mud-daubed shops. Study the thatched rooftops crowding in upon
one another and the pathways they could provide. Someday she might have an important mission in this village. Someday she might be called upon to save her friends from the dungeon or worse.

Although she would rather forget the decomposing remains of criminals hanging from stakes on the town walls, along with their stench and all that they suggested, she would not. Rather, their warning would resound like a clanging cymbal within her for weeks to come. On every mission. Each time her men left camp.

Robert had stayed back in case this mission went amiss. And Red could no longer leave the forest without his “Masked Knight” disguise. Today it had been decided that only Merry, Allen, and Cedric would hazard the trip to town.

They rarely risked her on such public missions. No, she was a secret weapon, and her anonymity needed to be maintained at all costs. Peasants seldom traveled more than ten miles outside their villages in a lifetime, but any visiting nobleman might recognize the fallen Lady Merry Ellison.

Allen bumped his shoulder against hers as they passed a small doorway. The sign over top featured a rough painting of dried herbs along with a mortar and pestle.

Cedric stopped and leaned against the wall of the shop while Allen and Merry continued around the corner to an even narrower alleyway that skirted the side of the building. More of a muddy, stinking crack between the buildings than a proper alley. But Merry spied precisely what she needed.

Her heart clenched.

Another window. This one too far back to lead to the main shop. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she held a finger to her lips. Allen nodded. They ducked under the window. Merry alone peeked over the ledge and into the dark room. She could just make out the outline of shelves. From the sack on her back
she pulled a candle and a piece of flint. Allen made short work of lighting it. She needed to see clearly, or all would be for naught.

As daughter of the castle, she had been instructed in basic healing and herbs. Only she could recognize the medicine needed to soothe Wren’s worsening cough. And only she could read any inscriptions upon the bottles with true accuracy. While inside she would stock up on herbal supplies for the winter. No need to risk a physician over this. Although Wren’s cough troubled them all and could easily grow out of control, Merry knew how to treat it.

She must succeed. Merry rubbed her trembling hands before taking the candle from Allen. She took deep calming breaths. Steadied her rapidly beating heart. The moment had come.

Merry whistled their signal and listened as Cedric entered the shop with a booming “Hullo there!” in a false accent.

Allen stood watch as she scrambled through the window. With all due haste, she snatched up bottles and supplies, found the remedies for Wren’s cough. But she could not locate the feverfew. Where was it? Surely they would need it come winter.

She paused for only a breath and listened as Cedric boomed out ridiculous questions to occupy the shopkeeper. She could afford a moment more. The feverfew must sit on the highest shelf beyond her reach. She tested her weight against the shelves to ensure they would not topple, then climbed up.

Yes! Victory! There it sat, along with other precious remedies. She crammed them into her sack. Snuffing out her candle, she stuffed it in as well, and slung the sack onto her back.

At that moment she heard the shopkeeper say, “Excuse me, please. I need to check my stock.”

“No need,” Cedric called.

But she could not await the shopkeeper’s reply and would not risk another second. In one neat move, Merry, light as a cat,
hopped across the floor and somersaulted through the window onto the cold, damp alley.

Allen and she crouched into the shadows as they heard the shopkeeper shuffling through the shelves. “Hmm . . . that’s odd,” he said. “I could have sworn I had some right here. I don’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

Then as always, quickly as they had come, they were gone with nary a trace.

They rounded the corner, and Merry spied Cedric in the market square. But she did not rush her pace. No, hurrying drew eyes, attracted undo attention. She and Allen continued onward as if they had not a care.

Once in the marketplace, they sidled up to Cedric as he tested a shiny red apple for the proper degree of firmness. “Success?”

“Success,” Merry assured him.

“These sure are pretty. Wish we could buy us some.” Cedric brought the apple to his nose and took a whiff.

Merry could smell the sweet fruit well enough from where she stood. She lowered her voice. “If we had small coins we could have simply purchased the remedies.” Until they established Red’s Masked Knight story, they could not risk using the gold coins.

“But where would be the fun in that?” Cedric winked.

“Come.” Allen took a step toward the city gates. “Time to move along.”

Merry turned to join him, and as she did, a retinue of liveried horses trotted through the gates. In the lead rode a balding nobleman with a grey beard and an intimidating demeanor.

“That must be Lord Wyndemere,” whispered Allen, who had been involved in the most missions to town. “Just as the townspeople described him.”

As Lord Wyndemere passed by, Merry noticed the young man
riding behind him. He turned as if he sensed her eyes upon him, but surely found nothing more exciting to meet his gaze than a band of muddy travelers.

But she had seen him.

And she would not be able to wash the image from her mind. A face she had wished never to encounter again. The familiarity of his features sliced through her, straight to her heart. His flaxen hair. His strong chin. His pale grey eyes. His full, soft lips.

Timothy Grey.

She dared not move, though she longed to run away. Run far, far away and never return.

“They have struck again.” Lord Wyndemere’s stern voice cut through the din of the castle’s great hall filled with boisterous diners. He tossed a bone to the rush-covered floor and took a sip of mead from his goblet, as if the matter concerned him little.

Two dogs rushed up to grab the bone. They yapped and wrestled over it, but Timothy paid them little heed. Instead, he set his knife next to his trencher of bread with spicy stew and turned his attention to his master, as he knew the man expected. “The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest?”

Lord Wyndemere waved his free hand. “Yes, the ghosts. Who think you? Robyn of the Hode? No, this was undoubtedly the ghosts. Struck closer to the castle than ever this time. The shopkeeper suspects the theft occurred on Tuesday while some odious traveler plied him with foolish questions. But he is not sure, did not even notice items missing until midway through the next day. So stealthy they were that he had to check his full inventory before he could tell for certain.”

Tuesday. The day something—or someone—had given Timothy a strange shiver as he rode through the marketplace. How
odd. Might he have sensed something? Might God in heaven be preparing him to undertake a mission to discover the thieves? The unusual timing of the situation gave him the courage to be bolder than he might have been otherwise. “I will capture them for you, my lord.”

“Well, you had better.” Wyndemere spoke as he chewed a large chunk of beef. “Especially if they come anywhere near my castle. Which, by the way, you shall be in charge of while I am gone to court.”

“But . . . I . . . that is to say . . .” Shock coursed through him, and Timothy could not manage to construct even a simple sentence. His eyes glanced about the hall. The rows of tables full of soldiers and castle staff. The falcons with their masters. The dogs, now nestled by the huge fire, each with their own bone. The bright banners along the walls. But nothing helped him to make sense of his lordship’s astounding proclamation.