Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (4 page)

“Do not choke on your food, my boy.” Lord Wyndemere slapped him hard on the back.

But Timothy had not taken a single bite. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forests fled his mind. Lord Wyndemere was willing to leave him in charge. Of the castle? Of the entire town?

He knew the man had begun to trust him more and more, but in the past he had always left the castle under the charge of his chief guard, or one of the nearby barons, or even Timothy’s father in the old days. But never with him. Plain Timothy Grey. Ninth child of the Baron of Greyham. He hardly knew what to say.

So he made due with “Thank you, my lord.”

“Not at all. You have earned my trust.”

Timothy’s mind continued to spin. Lord Wyndemere had no sons. His wife had died in childbirth shortly after they wed. The townsfolk tried to turn the story into a romance—both
minstrels and troubadours claiming the earl had never loved again—but Timothy knew better. Lord Wyndemere loved well, and he loved often. He loved whomever he pleased, just never a suitable marriage prospect.

His heir apparent, a nephew, fought for the king in Normandy. Who knew how long the man would last? Timothy’s heart sped at the prospect. Might his lordship be grooming him for something great? That minor title he wished for—if nothing else?

Two years ago his existence had lost all meaning. But perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps Timothy Grey would yet find something worth living for.

He took a few bracing sips of sweet mead. He must not let his mind skip ahead of him, must not let it rush to conclusions. No, he prided himself in his patience and stability. What mattered most was that he did a satisfactory job. Consistently. Day after day. Without fail. That was what Lord Wyndemere needed from him. And that was what he would deliver.

“I shall take excellent care of matters, my lord. With all that is within me, I long to deserve your trust.”

“You had better. Had you not? I believe capturing the Ghosts of Farthingale would indeed be the perfect way to thank me for this favor.”

Timothy could do it. No one knew the forests surrounding Wyndemere as well as the Grey boys. Their manor home lay at the opposite end of those very woods. He had all but lived in them throughout his childhood. Surely he could find any ghosts floating through his favorite stomping grounds.

“Then capture them, I shall.”

John could barely stand to look upon the pandering pup, but look he did.

Look. And study. And despise. His stomach churning at the sight. Unable to bear the scent of the spicy stew before him.

How he hated that spoiled, pampered Timothy Grey, who sat upon the raised dais in his deep blue velvet tunic with gold embellishments, as if he were a lord born. Supping at the right hand of the Earl of Wyndemere, the man who failed to acknowledge John’s lowly existence. The man who now treated Timothy as if he were a son.

He feigned eating his meal, attempted to speak to his dining companions, but he could not keep his eyes from Timothy. Why did the fool appear confused and happy at once? How he wanted to wipe the silly smile from the idiot’s face. Had the earl offered him still more preferential treatment?

Timothy Grey, who penned letters with ink and parchment while John toiled out of doors, who lived in a spacious apartment in the castle proper while John slept in cramped and chilled quarters beyond. Whose skin was as fair and flawless as a maiden’s while his own had grown rough, callous, and scarred over the same nineteen years.

He could not tolerate the grand injustice much longer. God in heaven could not expect that he simply stand aside and endure, that he watch it flouted before his face day after day.

He must do something to undermine Timothy Grey. To tear asunder his connection with Lord Wyndemere. Destroy his standing in this castle.

Or better yet . . .

Destroy the detestable oaf himself.

Merry surveyed the open circle between the huts, which brimmed with activity. As Allen drilled the older “men” at their blunted practice swords, Robert worked with the young boys in agility training. At the moment they practiced shoulder rolls. Front and back. Right and left.

“Tighter,” Robert shouted. “Land in that crouched position. Hands always at the ready for battle.”

Young Phillip, who had only recently passed his tenth birthday, looked tense, his back too stiff. But Sadie performed the maneuver perfectly.

Just as Merry was about to call out, Robert yelled, “Phillip, curve your spine. Tuck your chin to your neck. Remember, light and flexible, like a cat. Keep that image always in your mind.” He strode toward Sadie, still rolling to and fro. “Excellent work, Sadie. I’ll have to get Lady Merry to begin training you in the more advanced moves soon.”

Merry chuckled to herself. She need not watch so closely. Robert kept matters well in hand. Of her men, he alone had
mastered the higher-level tumbling skills, but all were accomplished at fighting with swords, daggers, and bows. Bless her father for humoring her rambunctious nature as a child. She had spent as much time on the training field as in the solar with her mother—until her twelfth birthday, when her parents had deemed her too near marriageable age to continue with such “nonsense.” Such nonsense as protecting herself in a ruthless kingdom? If only they could have seen how such nonsense served her years later.

Closer to Merry, some of the little ones attempted the tumbling maneuvers. Abigail imitated a reasonable forward roll. Meanwhile, Wren placed her head upon the dusty ground and got stuck with her plump rear high in the air. After several attempts, she managed to thump over onto her back. Abigail giggled in delight. Perhaps Sadie’s interest in fighting would draw more of the girls to the skill.

Merry turned her attention to the swordsmen thrusting and parrying, dodging and striking. Making use of their own agility skills as they ducked and rolled. And making nary a sound as they did so. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest had not earned their reputation for naught.

The younger trainees would practice with the weighted wooden swords next—building upper body strength being the main goal for them. Before long Sadie’s arms would be taut and rippled like Merry’s.

Though slight, Merry no longer possessed the soft, supple body of a noblewoman. Such bodies were intended for spoiled ladies of leisure. For catching husbands. Kirtles of silk and velvet had no place in her life. Did she miss them? Perhaps on occasion, but no use dwelling on the past.

The younger combatants now arched their backs, hands upon the ground behind their heads. They rocked back and
forth, attempting to either stand or kick over. One of the boys tried to stand, but fell directly upon his bottom. Another struggled to kick over his head, but with no success. Meanwhile, Sadie flipped neatly from feet to hands and back again, upright as oft as upside down. Soon Merry would teach her to add the springing momentum needed to turn the move into an effective battle maneuver, although few of her men had mastered the skill.

Sadie reminded Merry so much of herself at that age. When the traveling tumblers had come to their castle, Merry longed to imitate them, and did so with little effort. It was as if her limbs had been waiting her entire life for her eyes to witness the tricks and her brain to bid them attempt the shapes and patterns. Bless her father once again for keeping the tumblers at the castle the entire season. By the end of her ninth autumn, Merry had surpassed all but the most expert members of the group.

Robert clapped his hands together. “Good work. Now to the board.”

A long, thin board stretched between two sturdy wooden boxes, and the children lined up at one end. The first boy stepped onto the contrivance, walking forward with a degree of confidence and then backward, more slowly and with some apprehension.

Wren toddled over to join the line with a huge grin upon her cherubic face.

Robert took the child by the shoulders and turned her away. “Not yet, little one.”

Wren stuck her thumb in her mouth. Her face mottled red, and she broke into a wail. Spotting Merry, she ran to her and cried, “Ma-wee, Ma-wee, Wobert mean.”

Merry scooped the precious girl into her arms, savoring her softness and warmth. She buried her face into the small one’s
downy head of russet hair and drank deep of her baby scent. Drawing it into her thirsty soul.

Why must she always hear the “Ma” in little Wrenny’s garbled “Ma-wee” so acutely? The child pulled at a special place in Merry’s heart, ever reminding her that if her parents had prevailed, she might have had a child this age or older.

They had been prepared to marry her off at fourteen. Not an uncommon occurrence among the nobility. And the boy had been nice enough. A friend of both herself and her brother, Percivale, since childhood. Kind and handsome. In fact, he was even kind enough to recognize the stark terror upon Merry’s face and persuade both families that they needed not rush into the alliance, that she required time to grow and come into her own.

In the moment he argued for her, as she watched him defend her, she saw something else. A flash into her future. A picture of him as her husband. Her protector. The father of her children.

And on that night she had rewarded him with a single kiss. Warm, soft, and tingling. The only kiss she had ever shared with a boy. The only kiss she might ever share.

One perfect kiss to last a lifetime.

A memory to be buried deep and treasured, much like their chest of gold.

Wren’s crying ceased, and she pressed her face into Merry’s shoulder as she sucked her grimy thumb. Naptime was nearly upon them.

Merry breathed deeply again. She had not been ready to marry and start a family at fourteen, but she had hoped to do so someday. Might things have been different if she were married and settled when her father rebelled? She might have been safe, a wife and mother. Although King John could have gone after her husband’s family as well. And what would have happened to
the village children had she not been there? She nuzzled Wren’s tuft of hair.

No, it was for the best that she had not married. Now she must put such childish dreams far behind.

She had hoped for the best when the Charter of Liberties was signed last year, placing the king under the rule of law. With great anticipation she had hurried to the nearest town to read the document, being called the Great Charter or Magna Carta by some. She had even committed its most pivotal lines to memory. “No free man shall be taken or imprisoned or deprived or outlawed or exiled or in any way ruined, nor will we go or send against him, except by the lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land.” If King John had honored that simple statement, she would now be free. But alas, he had not.

She had dared to hope again when the barons strengthened their rebellion, and when Prince Louis of France joined their cause. But despite all that, King John still ruled with an iron fist. She would hold out vain hopes no longer. This was her life. This camp. These children. And she must accept it.

Merry might bless her father for his kindness during her childhood, but in the end he had let her down. For what? His principles. Sound principles to be sure. To stand strong for justice. To bring down a tyrant. But they had done little good.

Merry would hold to one principle only: Do whatever it takes to protect these children.

She focused again upon Sadie as the girl strutted across the board in her short boy’s tunic. Spinning in the center like a wisp on the breeze, leaping and touching her knees to her chest, then continuing backward as though she had been born upon the board.

Merry’s own station in life might have sunk considerably, but these children enjoyed opportunities for which they had
never dared dream. Although children died daily in peasant villages across England—in castles, for that matter—not a one had perished under her care.

If only they did not have to live outside the law. If only they did not face constant danger.

There she went again. Blast the dreaded
if only
. She must attend to the here and now. Lead these children. Protect and provide. Now that they had settled in, she must find time to continue their training in reading, writing, and mathematics in addition to the battle skills. And she would hope against hope that someday they might find a way to make a true and lasting life for themselves.

The clang of steel reverberated through Allen’s arm. Red had passed him of late in height, and apparently in strength as well. But he would keep his wits about him. He could still outsmart and outmaneuver the younger man.

Allen braced his quivering arm and moved on the attack once again. The rhythm of swordplay soothed him. The clatter of steel against steel. The dance between combatants. Merry had insisted they all gain agility as well as strength, and her training had proven sound.

Who would have dreamed that Allen of Ellsworth, born to the peasant class, would someday learn to fight like the fiercest knight in the land?

“Is that all you’ve got, then?” Red taunted. “I may as well practice with yon little tykes.” He nodded to the children training on a board across the clearing.

Allen drew in a deep breath. “Never fear, I always have more.”

“So says you. Let us see it.”

Allen shored up his strength and determination, preparing the
next strike. He studied Red’s stance and cadence. The tilt of his sword. The arrogance with which the younger man undertook battle, as if it were a performance more than a survival skill. They circled about one another, stalking like predators, fully engaged in the moment, practice swords or not.

“Such pretty play will not suffice to defeat the nobles of King John.” Red thrust his sword Allen’s way, toying with him.

Allen batted it aside with his own. “If and when the time comes, we shall be well prepared.”

“I for one am sick near to death of waiting.” Red hoisted his weapon over his head with two arms.

“Me too,” chimed James from where he sat under a nearby tree. “What good are we doing here running practice drills?” He moved toward them.

Allen braced himself as he caught Red’s fierce blow against his own sword, and the strike again reverberated through his arm, causing a pounding ache deep in his shoulder joint.

“England needs us,” said James. “The barons in the north must prevail, and we could help.”

Allen needed to devise a different tactic before Red wore him down with sheer brute strength. And he must not let the others gain a clue about his own weakness. “We cannot abandon them now.” He gestured with his head to the nearby children. “We’re barely settled in, and we haven’t yet stored up enough supplies to last the winter. When the time comes, we shall consider the matter and decide which of us will go and which will stay.”

Allen felt obligated to say as much, although he itched to enter a real battle. One that could mean their permanent safety and bring them out of hiding at last.

“The fight in the north will be nothing compared to what we shall endure when Lady Merry discovers our plans.” Cedric
chuckled. “She’s been more fearsome than ever since we returned from town.”

Allen darted a glance to Cedric sprawled on the ground staring at the sky, then focused on Red again. “Which is one of many reasons why we shall keep this plan to ourselves for now.” He had noticed Merry’s turn in mood as well, although he considered it melancholy more than fearsome. Try as he might, he could recall nothing from the mission that should have turned her so.

“Surely she must suspect.” James stepped forward but then back again when the fray traveled his direction.

“I’m not sure that she does.” Allen deflected another blow. “She’s been so focused on this move and keeping the little ones safe. She thinks of naught else.”

Cedric sat up. “I for one have no desire to take on that bundle of fury. She may well throttle us before we set foot out of camp.”

“She’d be down four warriors either way, so perhaps not,” said James.

“Or perhaps.” Red poked his sword Allen’s way a few times and advanced several paces.

“She shall resist at first.” Allen’s heart beat wildly now. Over the rush of battle, or the thought of Lady Merry, he could not say. “But she’ll come around eventually.” Merry might be tough on the outside, but she was not unreasonable, and she had another side as well.

He snuck a quick glance to where she nuzzled Wren. Indeed, she had a soft side Allen’s errant heart wished to explore. He quelled the thought before it could fully form. Despite the fact that their world had been turned topside-turvy, that he had learned to read and fight, and that he had taken on the role of priest for their band, a certain God-ordained order to the world must be maintained.

Merry was nobility. He was not. Such matters should be simple.

Allen returned his focus to Red, battle, and the war that raged to the north. He and Red were the best fighters of the bunch, and if he proved to be like his older brother—Allen blinked away the pain that crashed through him at the memory of his family—he would yet grow another few inches. Truth be told, he longed to be a hero as much as any young man, but in the end, he would make the decision that was best for the group. He always did.