Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (20 page)

Besides, were it not for a cruel twist of fate, he might have been a nobleman himself. He would never forgive Timothy for having what he deserved. Timothy deserved whatever pain and suffering the ghosts might inflict upon him this day.

John shuffled a few feet closer to the hillside, but a dark dread came over him. A sense of danger and fear he rarely experienced. He had learned to trust his intuition in these woods. Perhaps these ghosts were more of a threat, or even more “ghostly” than he had supposed.

Studying the hillside once again, he thought he detected the
shapes of some hulking men. They seemed to flit and flicker through the shadows. He could not say for certain, but of a sudden he felt like the Israelites facing the Philistine camp. Like a mere grasshopper.

He shook off his fright, but he would go no closer. Not today. Not alone. He now knew where the camp lay. He would await the perfect moment, and then he would bring down the ghosts. And if they had not killed Timothy Grey, he just might have to find a way to do it himself.

Glancing at the sun, he realized it was time for him to hurry back. He must get to his horse and return to the castle to work his shift. Not everyone could laze about in the woods like Timothy.

As he headed toward the castle, he recalled Timothy’s cherished horse tethered not a furlong from his. Ha! Poor fancy horse might just die in the woods with no water to drink. More the pity that.

Timothy awoke to utter darkness. A searing pain in the back of his head thumped in rhythm, like that of a blacksmith’s anvil. Had he died and missed the path to paradise? He attempted to rub at his head but found he could not move his arms. As his senses came back to him, he realized he was in a cool, damp place with his hands tied together behind his back.

At least his first suspicion had not been correct. He struggled against the ropes and determined that someone had propped him against a wall with a cushion behind him and placed a blanket over his chest. Either he had been taken to some benevolent sort of dungeon, or he had gone blind, for he still could not see a thing.

He fought to recall how he had come to this place. What had he last been doing? Then it came back to him. He had thought
to do some reconnaissance, to find the ghosts and assess their numbers before requesting assistance from his family. After all, he had located the ghosts undetected once. Why not again?

At their former camp, he had discovered only the empty structures. But he followed a faint, sporadic trail another league deeper into the forest. He should have paused to consider that if they remained, the ghosts would have increased security. But between the earl’s threats and his unfortunate longing to look into Merry’s eyes once again, he might not have been thinking straight.

One moment he had listened to a blackbird calling a warning to its mate, and the next a splitting pain had struck his head from behind as all went dark. This must have been how Merry felt when he captured her—although she had, thankfully, been spared the pounding head.

Wherever he was, whoever held him captive, he must at least try to escape. He could not just sit waiting to see what would happen next. The ghosts might kill him, send his body back as a warning. Or it might not be the ghosts at all. Surely this forest crawled with other violent criminals. Between King John’s insane demands and outrageous taxes, it would not be long before half of England would be outlawed.

No, he should not think such thoughts against God’s appointed king. Render unto Caesar his due, and all of that.

Stop it!
He needed to pull his rambling thoughts—no doubt the result of his injury—under control and escape this place. He searched his surroundings again, and saw a faint light now shown through an opening, and he could make out the shadows of irregularly shaped walls. Struggling to his knees, he stroked his tied hands along the damp, rough surface behind him. It must be a cave. He dragged his feet beneath him but stumbled about, bouncing off the hard rock before sinking back against it.

Rustling to his left alerted him that someone stood watch, and his bumbling had given him away. But for now he fought merely to stay conscious. The shadows swirled around him. Bright light burst against the back of his eyelids. But he maintained his awareness of the cold, damp room.

Stay awake, Timothy
, he silently coaxed himself. This could be a matter of life and death. He saw the faces of ghosts swirling before him. Ghoulish, twisted faces with gaping mouths.
They cannot be real
.

He was not given to superstitions. His head must be playing tricks on him, playing with his worst fears and nightmares. Blending them with thoughts of the ghosts.

He opened his eyes to find a brighter flickering orange glow emanating from a passageway to his left. Soft, padding footsteps approached.

A torch emerged first through the opening. He could not see the figure holding it for the bright light now blinding his unaccustomed eyes. But someone reached up to fasten it on a holder in the wall.

As his vision cleared, he thought he might not be in hell but rather in heaven. The face he had longed to see—the face that haunted him, floating in the back of his mind night and day—stared down at him in the warm glow of the firelight.

“Timothy, do not struggle. I am here now.” Merry knelt beside him and wiped his face with a cool cloth.

“Merry, I . . .”

“Shh. Relax. Let me attend to you.” She placed a cushion behind his head and sliced the rope with her dagger, setting free his hands.

“Your . . . fond . . . tying people.” To his alarm, his words came out garbled. Now with the torch illuminating the room, he realized just how dizzy and injured he was. The walls spun about him. Merry’s intriguing face faded in and out of focus.
He strove to remind himself he was angry with her, but the thought would not stick in his head. Not while she continued with her gentle ministrations.

He rubbed his hand over the back of his skull and found a large egg-shaped bump. Though he had no chance of capturing the ghosts in this condition, perhaps he could convince Merry to let him go. Later he could return with reinforcements.

Merry covered him with the blanket again. “The men insisted we tie you up.”

Of course her men wanted him bound. They were wise to demand as much. He could not fathom why no one stopped her from releasing him now. “Head . . . hurts,” he managed as an answer.

“I imagine it does. Whatever were you thinking? That a band of renowned criminals would simply allow you to skip into their camp? If one of the guards had not recognized you from the castle, I assure you, you would be feeling no pain right now, for you would be dead. So in a manner of speaking, that bump saved your life.”

“I . . . did not think. Wanted to find you. Make sure you were well.” The words flowed more easily now, although each one cost him a deeper-pounding spike to the head. There was some truth to the words, yet his conscience niggled at him over his glaring omissions.

“Here.” Merry pressed the cool cloth directly to the wound, and it brought him a bit of relief. She offered him a flask filled with an herbal concoction, and as he sipped, he began to feel somewhat human again.

Blinking his eyes, he brought them into clearer focus.

She sat back on her heels, pressed her hands to her hips, and smiled down at him. “So let me see if I have this straight.
You
wanted to make sure that
I
was all right.”

“Looking back, it seems rather silly, I admit. But you never did tell me the nature of your relationship with the ghosts. You seemed rather frightened as you told me about them.” Yes, that was true enough. Though he seemed unable to maintain his anger now that he gazed into her gentle eyes.

“Ah, I was frightened for their safety—not mine.”

“
Their
safety?” Merry always had been a strange one, but perhaps his befuddled mind yet played tricks on him. “Merry, you make no sense. Allow me to take you away from here. I will find somewhere safe for you to hide. ”

She brushed his hair from his brow, and for once he did not feel a child at the action. Rather, her fingers upon his skin along with the look in her eye stirred him and made him feel a man.

“Timothy, Timothy, why must you always complicate matters? Why can you not leave things be? First kidnapping me. Now chasing down the ghosts. Perhaps you should stick to your quill pen and books.”

“Hey!” He leaned toward her, but pain sliced through his head, and he sat back.

“After all, if one cannot beat a mere girl, why bother with war games to begin with?”

“Oh.” He chuckled. She repeated verbatim an argument from their childhood. He recalled his answer. “Because men are men, and we shall always be so. God has ordained it. Women should stay in kitchens and solars.”

She continued with her line from their past. “Then I suppose you should find someone else to play with. I shall be in the kitchen baking a pie. What shall I make, apple or cherry? Or even better . . .”

They repeated the last line together. “A mud pie!” And both broke into laughter.

She had shoved him into the mud when she said it, and they
had both wound up tossing off their tunics and continuing their tussle in the stream. He recalled looking down at her in her shift, with her wet hair pooling like chestnut silk. That was the first day the impulse had struck him to press his lips against hers, but she was still a child. He had resisted the urge, mumbling something about being too old to swim in their underclothes.

Now, here, in the cave with torchlight playing along the curves of her face, he reached out to stroke her cheek. “If I recall, you won that argument soundly. I am just glad that I found you.”

She cleared her throat and leaned away. “What shall I do with you? I cannot put the safety of my band in jeopardy.”

He could not bid her trust him, though in this moment, he almost wished she could. “I did not intend to make matters difficult for you.”

She eyed him warily. “I want to trust you. But you must swear to it. By the oath from our childhood.”

“The holy Scripture says let your yes be yes and let your no be no.”

“But I no longer live by the holy Scripture.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “The code of thieves says trust no one who is not loyal to you.”

He sighed and rubbed at his wrist. How could he get around this complication? He had little choice but to do as she wished. The ghosts could torture or kill him. Merry alone stood between him and disaster. He would simply have to find a way around his oath at a later time. “Fine.”

“Then repeat after me.” She lifted her right hand. “I hereby swear an oath upon my blood, and the blood of my parents, and the blood of my siblings, that I shall not utter a word about the identities nor the whereabouts of the ghosts.”

Strong words, those. His head continued to pound as he repeated the oath. “I shall not utter a word . . .”
Hmm
. .
. Then
he must think of a different plan. A plan to lure them into the open. Get the herbalist to identify the man in his shop.

Merry surveyed him. “Do you think you can walk a few paces?”

How he hated to betray her. But he had no choice. He simply must see the ghosts brought to justice. The law was the law, and he should not shirk his duties in administering it. The choice had been stripped from his hands. “With a little help, I can manage it.”

“All jesting of childhood aside, I am about to reveal to you my most precious treasures. I am placing them in your hands. Please, I beg of you, be worthy of this honor.”

Timothy could think of no fitting reply.

He gained his feet with Merry’s help, his arm around her shoulder. He could grow accustomed to this. Smiling to himself, he leaned heavily against her slight, though surprisingly taut, form. Taut, yet soft in the right places. He quickly swiped the grin from his face. She seemed even stronger than he remembered and would no doubt be happy to plant his face in the mud once again for such thoughts.

The throb in his head had lessened since drinking her herbal potion, and he managed to continue putting one foot in front of the other until the low, narrow passageway opened into a huge room.

Before him spread the scene from the clearing in the last camp all over again, except now lit by firelight and encased in stone and branches. Young women cut vegetables around a pot as children played nearby and some older boys dueled with practice swords. But no sign of the rough sort of criminals he had expected.

He spied, at the far end at a table, some young men closer to his own age and size. Two strapping fellows, one with sandy hair and the other with red. But they appeared more the pleasant farming sort than hardened outlaws as they laughed affably,
playing at a wooden board game. Another gangly fellow with a huge grin and floppy ears sat beside them. Timothy remembered him as a tumbler, and now that he thought of it, the sandy-haired fellow looked familiar as well.

Glancing about he found the girl who had been the focal point of the show, and then the woman who had sung and played the lute. He even spotted little, lost Gilbert among the children at play. Timothy caught the boy’s eye and shot him a questioning glare. The boy just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and waved to him.

But where were the fellows with the scars, grubby faces, and tangled beards that one would expect to find at an outlaw camp? A big, burly man sat near the low wall of twisted branches and leaves, which Timothy concluded must be the exit to the forest. He would have appeared more the outlaw sort, except for the rather dim-witted, childlike expression upon his face.

Timothy nearly jumped when Merry let loose a shrill bird call that sliced through his aching head. He blinked his eyes and rubbed at the pain. “But where are the ghosts? I still do not understand.”

Merry seemed to be waiting for something before she answered.

The branch wall shifted and slid to the side. Two more smallish young men, one with a fresh, innocent face and the other with a wary look of caution, entered the cave and then slid the door closed behind them. Timothy recalled the wary one to be yet another tumbler.

“Well,” Timothy repeated louder this time, “where are they? Where are the ghosts?”

Everyone in the room turned their attention to him. Right down to the tot in the pink dress who had led him to their camp. She ran to one of the young women and tucked herself into her skirt, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Still Merry did not answer.

“Please, Merry.” He shifted toward her.

Taking a step away from him, she gestured to the occupants of the room. “Timothy Grey, I would like you to meet the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest.”

“But . . . what . . . ? Who is your . . . ?” But then the answer came clear in his mind.

“Who is our
leader
?” She said the words for him. “I take sole responsibility for that.”

“Oh, Merry! How could you?”

The two strapping fellows stood from the table and approached him with their arms crossed over their chests. The red-haired one spoke. “Make no mistake. We are all in this together. We’ve done what we needed to keep ourselves and these children alive, and we make no apologies. We’ve injured no one in the process and stolen only from those who could spare it.”

“But,” said the sandy-haired fellow, “we aren’t above hurting the likes of you if you cause so much as a scratch on one of these little ones.”

Timothy’s gaze darted about the dim room. These young people were fiercely devoted to Merry and to one another. He would be wise not to rile them. He rubbed the back of his head. “So let me guess. I have you two fellows to thank for my hospitable welcome to your camp.”

A few of the children snickered at that.

“That would be me,” said the wary young man who had come in last. He watched Timothy even now through squinting eyes. “Be thankful it was a thump to the head and not an arrow to the heart.”

“All right. Enough of that,” said Merry. “So you can see, Timothy, I am well loved and well cared for. And as for all of you . . . ” She directed her attention to the group. “Timothy
is here now, like it or not, so let us make him feel welcome for the time. He wishes only to see to my safety and happiness. As some of you are aware, he was a close friend during my childhood. Let us show him who the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest really are.”

Already Timothy was forming a picture. They were good-hearted young people who only did what was necessary to survive. Beyond that, he suspected they had become family to one another. He felt the need to say something, to further alleviate the tension. “I know that I cannot ask you to trust me. But let me assure you of this. No one in this room loves the Lady Merry Ellison more than I do. I will do nothing to endanger her.”

All eyes remained focused on him, but postures seemed to relax. The strapping fellows dropped their arms from over their chests. A child began rolling a ball in the corner, and the russet-haired tot came out from the protective skirt to eye him with curiosity.

The redhead spoke first. “In that case”—he moved to Timothy and offered his hand—“welcome.”

Several of the other young men greeted him and shook his hand. Guilt washed over Timothy in a heavy wave, along with an accompanying wave of doubt as to whether or not he could achieve his mission. The girl in the pink toddled over. He bent down to her height.

“You one of us?” she asked.

His heart ached. Under no circumstances could he breathe even a whisper of untruth to this poppet. “Would you like me to be?”

“Maybe. Sunshine man say you nice.”

Timothy turned to Merry in confusion.

Merry bent down next to them. “Wrenny’s sunshine men are very special, magical sorts of creatures.” She gave the tot a
gentle poke on her plump belly. “If they say you are nice, that is the best compliment a person could receive.”

Timothy just shook his head. How had he won the approval of this tot’s imaginary friends when he had come here to capture the leaders of her band? Rather, now that he knew Merry led the ghosts, he must focus upon the men. Of course he considered himself a nice person, but he also believed in justice. He had no doubt those gathered around him would not consider his intentions to be “nice” on any level.

After spending only a few moments among them, however, the game had changed. He would not merely betray Merry if he went through with his plan—he would betray every person surrounding him. He had managed to muck up matters in record time. Perhaps Merry was right, and he should stick to his books and quills.