Wonderful (6 page)

She mourned for the tapestry her grandmother had been so proud of. No one knew where the tapestry had gone, but she had vowed to make certain her home was restored with the fine things that had always made it a home, the furnishings so cherished by the women in her family.

And if Lord Merrick turned out to be a nipfarthing, no matter. She would use the profits from the sale of her Welsh ale. She would not grovel to a man for the things she wanted. Should she master the recipe for heather ale, well, she need not apply to her husband for anything.

She brushed the cheese crumbs from her saffron yellow tunic; the color made her look so pale the abbess had once asked her if she was ill. Early that morning she’d made a fillet of old marsh reeds by twisting the twigs together, and she’d fixed her hair in the same way as the ladies in the queen’s court.

Clio had so much hair that the knots by her ears were huge. She yanked on her sleeves, which were too long and made her look smaller and weaker.

Just like a “defenseless female.”

For the final touch she fixed her face in an expression of careless innocence—that “What? Me late?” look. In an utterly nonchalant manner, she rounded the corner and faced the great hall.

She stopped cold.

The room was empty. No languishing men-at-arms. No meal laid out. No servants running to and fro like caged birds. No clink of the platters, no spilt wine and beer. No irate, red-faced earl.

She planted her hands on her hips and looked around. There was not even a hound snoozing at the hearth. Did they not know how she had planned? Humph!

A moment later she marched through the great hall and down the stairs, where she went out the huge wooden doors and into the bailey. The geese and chickens pecked at the ground while a rooster with a red plume strutted and crowed and behaved in manly fashion along the gutter drains near the wall. The chickens ignored him.

She could see Cyclops hiding behind some broken staves near the abandoned cooper’s hut with Pitt perched on his feline head, wings spread and looking like the gaudy plumed helm of an ancient god.

She wondered what those two were stalking now. With all the mice to be caught, she’d hardly seen them since coming back. But both her pets looked plumper already, and their eyes had the lazy and overly satisfied look of the kitchen hounds after a Christmas feast.

In the bailey, there was no one. She walked through to the outer bailey and met the same emptiness. It was almost as if she were the last person in the world.

The portcullis had been cranked open and she could hear noise from beyond. She moved through the gates and over the long wooden planks that spanned the moat.

Every member of the castle, every villein, every serf, and a huge horde of men-at-arms were assembled in what looked like battle lines along the rolling grassy fields, where, toward the rear, a huge tent stood in an encampment.

At each corner of the tent flew silken pennants marked with the Earl of Glamorgan’s distinctive charge blazoned
sable a cross argent a lion rampant gules
—a black field, white cross, and rearing bloodred lion. Whenever the breeze picked up, the flags rippled and waved and made the red lions look as if they were prowling.

She tried to see what was happening, then spotted Merrick walking along in front of the lines. He wore no helmet or battle armor, only mail under a long black tunic that was belted with leather trimmed in thick silver chain. His sword and its sheath hung at his side.

A light breeze picked up the thick black hair that hung down to the back of his neck. For just an instant, that dark hair flashed silver in the bright sunlight; then the light shone off the silver sword sheath.

It hurt her eyes and forced her to shield them with her hand. His hands were locked behind his back as he walked in front of the lines, stopping to speak with each person. The servants did not appear to be cowering … yet. None were on their knees, nor were they prostrated before him.

Clio moved toward them and felt the stares and glances of some of the people and caught a few of his men turning their heads in her direction. Ignoring those looks, she searched about the crowd for Sir Roger’s golden-red head, but it was nowhere in sight.

So much for a spot of high dry land in a flood, she thought.

Stopping a few measures away from Merrick, she stood there, expecting some response from him. A snarl. A cold glare like the night before. Or a roar might be more in character for someone called the Red Lion.

She kept waiting.

What she did not expect was him to ignore her. Which was what he did.

Some perverse part of her wanted to march up to him and kick him, but she wasn’t stupid, just annoyed because her wonderful idea was not working as she decided it should.

She stood there for the longest time, so long that people started looking at her out of pity and shared embarrassment, which made her feel even more conspicuous, more humiliated. Her betrothed was speaking to a villein, Thomas the Plowman, who held the most acreage and every year planted barley, wheat, and hay. Thomas was telling his lord about the land, about the water, soil, and the best crops to plant.

She kept waiting, and waiting. She shifted her weight, then forced her chin even higher so no one would know she was feeling embarrassed.

Lord Merrick would have paid more attention to a fly.

She sought to occupy her mind with something, anything. She began to do ciphers, the way she had learned in the convent, only with new variables. If she had two maces, four battle axes, and a war hammer, how many hits in the head would it take to get the Earl of Grim’s attention?

If she had a jar of hungry fleas or a pot of sticky honey, which would be more amusing to put inside his armor?

If she had three frogs or a pitchfork—

“Lady Clio, my lord.” Thomas the Plowman said her name and all eyes turn toward her. All eyes except her Merrick’s.

She saw him stiffen, but he did not act as if he knew she was there. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he was deaf from battle. Perhaps he was thick-headed from too many blows to his helm. Perhaps …

“What need has
my
Lady Clio for your crops?”

“Not all crops, my lord.” Thomas looked from the earl to her, then back to the earl.

Oh, God’s feet! Merrick was about to find out about her brewery. She shook her head, but Thomas was no longer looking at her.

“Lady Clio only needs the barley,” Thomas continued, never looking back at her. “She made provisions to purchase the villeins’ own plowshares for brewing her ale, my lord.”

“Her ale?” Now Lord Merrick turned and looked directly at her. So much for thinking he did not know she was there.

“Yes, my lord. Lady Clio told us how she had learned to brew ale at the convent and how very special the ale would be. How there would be plenty of ale at Camrose, enough for those of us who only have cider or mead.”

It was not a simple task to stand there and look calm and collected beneath his piercing blue stare and his cool detached manner.

“Our lady has great plans for the castle brewery,” Thomas said proudly.

“Does she, now?” Merrick nodded, watching her with an unreadable expression.

“Aye, that she does.”

Clio wished Thomas the Plowman would be silent.

“Come, my lady.” Merrick raised his hand toward her. His tone made it clear he was not offering her a choice.

Her feet moved of their own accord while her mind screamed, “Where’s your pride! Stay there and ignore him the way he ignored you!” Then she was standing before him, her pride in tatters. Her mind was calling her a coward, while her sense said, “Don’t cross him before all and sundry.”

She placed her hand in his, because she had to. When his hand closed about hers, she felt the calluses on his hand, calluses from gripping the hilt of his sword, from the reins of his warhorse, and from lances and maces and other such weapons of war.

It was a simple gesture, an honor to ladies that was supposed to be a courtesy. Many times a man had held out his hand to her—her father, the king, and others.

Yet with this man the act seemed intimate, private, and unsettling. As if he knew her thoughts, he turned and drew her with him to face the crowd, their hands held up for all to see. And they stood together, hand in hand; it felt as if they were one. This stranger and she.

His hand closed more firmly around her fingers, like the manacles that held prisoners to the walls of a cell. With a sense of doom more foreboding than any black omen Old Gladdys could foretell, Clio saw her identity slipping completely away from her.

Chapter 6

Merrick led his betrothed toward the castle. She walked beside him as if he were leading her to the gallows, silent, stoic, and looking as if she stared death in the face. She bore little resemblance to the spirited creature he’d watched twirl and dance in such enchanting circles around the solar.

Today there was no silver-gold hair that hung past her knees. No deep green robe that made her eyes look like a rich dark forest. No innocently wicked spark in those green eyes or charming, elfin grin on her lips.

Her face was pale, almost gray. She wore a tunic the color of a cesspit. Her hair was scraped back from her face and knotted in two coils that made her head look like an egg … with handles.

The circlet on her head was twisted pieces of bramble; his first thought was of a crown of thorns. Worse yet, it was perched atop a scrap of sheer silk so ugly a grayish blue it must have been a waste of work for the worms.

He had the absurd thought that she might be like those spirits of legends and wives’ tales, the kind of enticing creature who comes alive only by the light of the moon. His gaze fell on her again.

Sunlight certainly didn’t enliven her.

He waited a moment longer for her to speak, to question him, to say something. Anything. But the only sounds were those of their feet on the ground and the background noise of the castle going back to work once again.

She was silent as a rock.

He looked ahead of him, then said, “Tell me about the ale.”

Her head shot up. “There is nothing much to tell.” She spoke quickly, as if she had to get all the words out in one breath. Then she looked away, staring off at nothing. “The convent sold ale. Since I was there so long, the abbess sent me to help Sister Amice in the brewery. She had a special ale recipe.”

“What kind of recipe?”

“Oh, just one for a stronger brew. It was very popular and sold well.”

“Since you are familiar with the process, I shall make it your duty to hire a brewer.”

“No!”

He froze. That was the most life he’d seen in her that day.

“I would like to brew the ale.” She placed her hand on his forearm, and he stared down at it for a confused moment.

“Why should you wish to be bothered with the task?”

“I want to, my lord. Please. I enjoyed brewing. Sister Amice and I were working on some new ingredients when she died.”

“What kind of ingredients?”

“Spices and herbs. Nothing too unusual.” She kept her hand on his arm; then she gave him a direct look.

“You will have many duties here.”

“I know, but I promise Camrose will have the finest ale in the land. And you have my word I will not shirk my other duties.”

He heard the pride in her tone and he thought for a moment he understood her. He looked down at her hand and found himself saying, “You may do the brewing.”

She stood before him and meekly bowed her head.

The nuns’ influence, he thought.

“Thank you, my lord.”

To tease her, he said, “Just don’t try to serve my men any heather ale.”

“Heather ale?” She snatched back her hand and gave him a look that was not meek or submissive, but startled.

“I can see by your face that you’ve never heard the tale. Some claim the Picts brewed an ale so potent that it helped them defeat Julius Caesar. Of course such a thing cannot exist, but fools still try to make it and usually end up poisoning ale-drinkers with their feeble efforts.”

She must have had a weak stomach; her smile looked as if it were slapped on her face. “I give you my word I will never poison your men, my lord.”

“I was jesting with you. And I believe, Clio, that you should begin to call me Merrick.”

She said nothing. They walked together, in a castle that would be theirs and their children’s, yet now at this moment they were nothing but strangers.

He stared down at her and wondered what she was thinking. He looked straight ahead, then said, “It was foolish to leave the protection of the convent.”

“’Twas not too far to travel.”

“The traveling distance was not my concern.”

“Apparently neither was my existence for two years.” She looked as if the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

For the longest time he said nothing, but instead only watched her, almost trying to look inside her head. She was silent, too, but averted her eyes as if she did not want to give him a chance see what she was thinking.

“You are peevish because I did not come and wed you as agreed.”

She didn’t respond, just continued to walk beside him as if he had not spoken.

“You are too quiet. Have you nothing to say?”

“I have said enough.”

“I don’t think you’ve said half of what you wished to say to me.”

“’Tis over and done now.” Her tone was clipped.

“Aye. It is. There is no going back. I cannot change what has happened.”

“I know that.” She couldn’t hide her annoyance and it looked as if she was not even trying to. She sounded impatient and snappish. She did not understand.

He knew enough to know she wanted him to respond, even if she did not realize it. Deep down inside of her she wanted him to know that she was angry. “I am a man of war, Clio.”

She met his look when he spoke her name.

“I have been a knight for a long time, almost fifteen years. Before that I was fostered and trained to be a warrior. It is the only way I know. I obey my liege lord, my king, in all things. He came first. It is a matter of honor. Had I not been there, he would not be alive today. Likewise had he not been there, I’d have rotted in some desert hell and you’d be betrothed to nothing but a pile of bleached bones.”