Wonderful (2 page)

She asked her father to tell her what Sir Merrick was like. Her father said he was a great warrior.

That was not exactly the answer Clio was looking for.

She wanted to know if he was tall and kind and had a face that was sweet on the eyes. If he could play the lute and sing love poems. If he would hand her his heart on a silver platter.

Her father laughed and claimed Sir Merrick would protect her and that it did not matter whether she liked him or not, because she had no choice. The betrothal was by order of King Henry, his liege lord.

But de Beaucourt was to be gone for four more years and her father caught a chill one exceptionally cold winter day and died a few days later.

Lady Clio became a ward of Henry III. Queen Eleanor still barred her from court—once had been quite enough, thank you—and suggested that the king pawn his new ward off on one of their enemies, perhaps whoever was the latest troublesome Welsh prince.

Henry refused. He wasn’t ready to start a war.

So until de Beaucourt returned from the Crusade, the king sent Lady Clio to a remote convent, where her life continued much as it had before her father’s death: one “wonderful idea” after another.

Chapter 2

England,

1275

Merrick de Beaucourt saw his homeland through eyes older and wiser than those of his youth. Everything was alive and bright with color. The trees in Arundel Wood were so thick and dark they blocked out the sun.

Bluish mist rose from the damp ground like dwindling smoke from an old campfire. The dampness on his skin and garments was welcome because it wasn’t his own sweat, but instead a chilly wetness that was England.

There were no miles of sand. No dry, hot winds. No ever-present cruel sun that could scorch a man as easily as it had scorched the land.

The air smelled of lichen and tasted green. It was wet and cool and felt foreign to him.

Behind him, much in the distance, came the sudden clink of a harness, the soggy thud of hooves on the ground. He cast a quick glance over a shoulder, turned back, and looked down the hillside at the open grassland.

He put his spurs to his horse and took off. He rode hard, leaned low over his mount, urging it on. Air blew his black hair away from his face and his heavy cloak billowed out behind him. He breathed in the cool taste of lush land; it was like finding an oasis in the desert. It had been the simple things, like this, that he had missed the most.

He was used to riding hard, familiar with the powerful ripple of horseflesh beneath him, the sounds of the run where hooves pounded the ground and his heart pounded with excitement.

He could feel the thundering of hooves behind him. The chase.

He listened; it was only one horse.

With the slightest prod of his spur, his horse lurched forward with a burst of speed. They jumped a low stone wall and cut sharply to the left, riding over a grassy hillock and down into a vale.

They splattered through a brook and hammered over a wooden bridge in a few strides, then flew down another hillside as if they were being chased by the desert winds.

Speeding toward a copse of trees in the distance, he could feel his pursuer behind him, just as near as before. He cut to the right and rode around the trees.

He looked left, spotted a clearing, turned sharply again, and rode into it.

In one swift motion, he pulled his sword and leapt to the ground, knees bent, hilt gripped in both hands.

Ready.

No sounds came from outside the clearing.

It was as if the rider had not followed.

Merrick remained in stance, still, and alert to sound, taste, smell. The drip of the dew on the leaves. The wet flavor of damp air.

The female scent of perfumed oil.

From behind him came just the barest sound of breath harsh and raspy from the ride.

Merrick straightened and turned. “Show yourself, Roger. You still reek of Elizabeth de Clare’s sweet perfume.” He stuck his sword in the ground and leaned against it, then crossed one leather boot casually over the other. His spurs clinked together, and he planted his free hand on a cocked hip, waiting.

Roger FitzAlan strolled out from behind a giant elm tree, grinning. “There is much about fair Elizabeth that is sweeter than her scent, my friend.”

Merrick straightened and sheathed his sword. “I have yet to meet a woman I thought of as sweet.”

“Only because you do not make much time for females.”

“Only because there are none left for me after you’re through.”

“I would share.” Roger plucked a speck of imaginary dust from his surcoat. “Besides which, unlike you, I find women more intriguing than war.”

“A battleground is no place for a woman.”

“I’ve known you too long, Merrick. You prefer battle on the field. I, on the other hand, prefer my battles in a bed.”

Ignoring him, Merrick turned and gave a sharp whistle. His Arab horse left a clump of grass and came to stand near him.

Roger reached out and stroked the Arab’s sleek muzzle. “’Tis hard to believe that from that godforsaken stretch of hell they claim is the Promised Land could come such superb horseflesh.”

Merrick knew this was an exceptional horse, the same way he had first known his warhorse, Aries, was exceptional. This smaller, swifter breed was like most Arab mounts—superb—and had been a gift from a Marionite leader. Merrick prized his horses and respected them. He valued them beyond reason.

He glanced up at the sun, then swung up into the saddle. “You’re late.”

“Elizabeth was pleased to see me.” Roger went to his own horse, which was tied behind a tree, and led the mount into the clearing. “I had not thought you were in a hurry.”

“I have a betrothal to fulfill and a castle in the Marches that needs its new lord.”

“The great Red Lion intends to settle in and become nothing but a fat lord with no one to train but servants. Why does this sound unlikely?”

“Come. Let’s be off.”

“Ah.” Roger nodded knowingly. “Your betrothed awaits.”

Merrick ignored him.

“And awaits. And awaits.”

“Mount your horse, Roger.”

Roger wore a look of a man who had made a fine joke.

Merrick sat in his saddle and waited for Roger to stop grinning at him.

When Roger kept on grinning, Merrick nudged his horse forward. By the time he’d left the clearing, Roger was riding at his side. After a few minutes of silence Merrick said, “

“’Tis a woman’s due in life. To wait for a man.”

Roger snorted, then laughed out loud as if he could no longer hold it in. “’Twill be an interesting first meeting between you two. Not even for sweet Elizabeth would I miss it.”

Merrick loved Roger like a brother, but there were times when, like a brother, he would have liked to beat that grin off Roger’s face. This was one of those times.

Fortunately for Roger’s fine, noble nose, Merrick could hear the sounds of his men-at-arms coming down the hillside: the clink of harnesses, the creaking of leather, male laughter, and another bawdy joke. He rode out of the trees and into sight; then, with one arm raised, he signaled to his troops to move west.

Roger and Merrick talked of horses and past battles while the two of them rode side by side. They had ridden this way for years and each had owed the other his life on more than one occasion. Despite the differences in their manner, they were each other’s closest friend.

As he rode beside Merrick, Roger wore the look of a man pleased with himself and his life. There was no doubt the fair Elizabeth de Clare was the person who had given him that look.

At times Merrick envied him. Roger could fit into any situation, meet anyone, even a stranger, with casual ease. It wasn’t that simple for Merrick. He was used to taking responsibility. He was a leader and warrior. So, wherever they went, Roger would blend in affably and Merrick would barge in and take over.

They rode in silence for a while; then Merrick admitted, “I’ve had done with crusades and deserts and the East. Edward wants our home borders protected. And I want some peace in my life.”

Roger leaned one arm on his saddle pommel and grinned at him in that irritating way he had when he thought he knew more than Merrick. “You want peace, so you are wedding a woman and fortifying a castle on the Welsh Marches?”

Merrick grunted some response.

Roger gave him a wry look. “Neither one will bring you peace.”

“Lady Clio will be meek. I’ll most likely have to pull her away from her prayer beads to bed her. She has been in a convent for these past six years.”

“Aye, two years longer than promised.”

They rode for a few silent minutes.

Roger turned to him. “What have you heard of her? How are her looks?”

“I care nothing for the quality of her looks.” Merrick could feel his friend’s gaping stare.

“You will if she looks like your horse or if she can fit in your armor.” Roger settled back in his saddle. “What if she needs a razor?”

Merrick turned to Roger. “Then I’ll teach her to shave.”

Roger laughed at that. “Seriously, what have you heard of her? Is she dark or fair?”

He had no idea what his betrothed looked like. He knew only that she had become a ward of Henry, Edward’s father. “I never asked. She comes with Camrose and she’s a nobleman’s daughter. There is nothing else I need to know.”

Roger whistled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick could see him shake his head.

After some silence, Roger said, “Elizabeth has black hair. Dark as a starless night … As dark as polished onyx. As dark as the deepest ocean … As—”

“Dark as my anger if you don’t cease that witless romantic prattle.”

Roger just laughed again, an irritating habit that could annoy Merrick sometimes. Like now.

“You might be surprised at what you’ll want from marriage, my friend.”

“I know what I want. I want peace of mind and a quiet life.” Merrick glanced ahead of them at the hillside, where he spotted a clump of bright heather. He turned back to Roger. “Lady’s Clio’s hair could be purple for all I care.”

“Interesting. Purple hair. I wonder what the Church would say of that.”

“Why would the Church care about the color of my lady’s hair?”

“The latest papal proclamation. I heard of little else when I was in Rome.”

“No doubt you heard little else because you spent your days with the ladies.”

“The nights only.”

“Aye, your few days must have been spent fending off challenges from a line of cuckolded husbands.”

“’Few days’?” Roger gave him a mock look. “Surely you have not forgotten how long I was gone?”

“I did not forget.’Twas quiet, then. No one was pestering me with questions about my future wife.”

“Ah, you missed me,” Roger said without a pause.

“Continue with this papal proclamation or whatever it was.”

“The Church proclaimed a new philosophy regarding a woman’s hair.”

Merrick was mildly disgusted. The Church and its attempt to control the life of every man was something that had always confounded him. It seemed to him that those men of God could spend their time better praying for man’s soul rather than trying to control him. “Have they nothing better to do?”

Roger shrugged. “Probably not.”

“So what now? What bit of heavenly knowledge were they now privy to that we poor doomed souls need interpreted?”

“It seems that fair hair is much prized in Italy, as it was in the East. So prized that ladies would spend whole days bleaching their hair in the sun. Some wore crown-less hats and rubbed lemons and urine in their hair. The Church proclaimed that such practice damaged the female brain and imperiled their souls.”

Merrick could hear the laughter in his friend’s voice.

“Lady Clio of the unknown hair color might well have an imperiled soul or, worse yet, a damaged brain from dipping her head in the privy.”

Even Merrick had to laugh at that image.

“Don’t you wonder who you are wedding, my friend?” Roger said as they rode into a clearing.

Merrick glanced at him. “I’m wedding a woman. I assume she’ll behave as such.”

But Roger wasn’t listening. He was staring off at nothing, lost in thought. “Clio,” he murmured slowly, then paused. He spoke her name as if he were tasting it.

Merrick scowled at the horizon. He was not certain he liked it that Roger was thinking so hard about his betrothed.

“I believe, Merrick, that
Clio
sounds like the name of a fair maid, one with pale hair.”

Merrick said nothing.

Roger looked at him. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I don’t think about her hair.”

“You might want to. She could be like the Egyptian Queen, with hair as black as sin. Or …” Roger paused, laughter in his voice. “… she might have a beard as black as sin. At night you could take turns using the razor on each other.”

“Another jest and I’ll show you a new way to use my razor.”

“Come now, my friend, I’m only glad to be home. Makes my mood light.”

“Your mood is always light.”

“Aye. ’Tis a good thing, too. Elsewise we’d be sent packing the moment you began to bark orders at everyone you meet.”

“Some of us were born to be leaders.”

Roger laughed loud and hard.

“And others,” Merrick said pointedly, “were born to annoy and pester and seduce every female who happens to cross his path.”

“Not every female, my friend. Only the ones with all their teeth.”

“Which eliminates children and grandmothers.”

“Great-grandmothers.” Roger grinned.

Merrick laughed then. He liked this banter. It made him feel light of heart, too. He prodded his mount forward, down a path that grew steeper and was choked with ferns and gorse and gnarled oak trees. He stopped high atop a sloping hillside above a valley so green it almost hurt his eyes to look at it.

Merrick half stood in his stirrups and looked out at the land before him for so long that the horizon blurred together, until all he could see were the images in his mind.

This was nothing like the last time he’d come home. Years ago. A time when Merrick had been young. Though to him, he had not seemed so young then. Looking back now, he knew he had been a green youth. The years had taught him exactly when it was that youth ended; it ended the moment you stopped yearning to be older.