Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (24 page)

Nothing.

Timothy slumped onto the floor and buried his face in his hands. His head pounded like the anvil of the Viking’s Thor, God of Thunder. He could barely find his breath. Gone! The missive was gone. He stared into his empty palms. What had he done?

The king would know that Merry still lived. And it was entirely his fault. She had been correct. He had indeed betrayed her. If Merry had not already put a death warrant upon his head, she would surely strangle him if she learned of this. And he would not for one moment blame her.

He struggled to calm himself. The king might grant the pardon, he reasoned. Perhaps he had done Merry a favor after all. Though given her new crimes, it might not serve much good in the end.

And given the earl’s assessment of the king’s recent mood . . .

Timothy dug his fingers into his throbbing temples in vain hope of relieving the pressure and the pain. He forced himself to finish the thought. Given the earl’s assessment of the king’s recent mood, he would most likely demand her found and hung.

There—that was the truth of it. Timothy slapped his palm against his head. What had he put into motion? And how had this happened? Someone in this castle must wish him ill, though he could not fathom who or why.

Holstead’s nervousness had surpassed even his norm today. Timothy had never considered the man capable of foul play. But perhaps he had been desperate for work and fearful that Timothy would reclaim his scribe position. Or perhaps just plain jealous and spiteful, like the steward.

Bainard!
He seemed the more likely suspect than the meek and gentle Holstead. But Timothy could not afford taking time to investigate who his enemy might be. He must get to Merry before tragedy struck. He would tell Lord Wyndemere he would soon leave for his final search. He must maintain his position in the hopes he might be able to use it to help Merry and the children in any way. Even if she ordered him killed, he must risk it.

An oath slipped from John’s mouth. Whatever was Timothy Grey doing rushing off once again? How sickness had welled in his stomach when the man pranced into the castle—not at all dead. But now as he watched Timothy dash into the stable, a suspicion . . . or rather a hope, sparked within him.

Timothy’s casual return followed by his quick departure could only mean one thing. His enemy must be in league with the ghosts. Else how could he have survived their camp? Though the fact that he’d entered the camp unconscious suggested he must have struck a deal with them while there, that perhaps they had
offered him a cut of that chest of gold coin they were rumored to have stolen. His heart soared as he pondered the ramifications. He would see to it that the man was not only killed, but also disgraced. A much better fate than he had dared to hope for.

He waited, and moments later, Timothy emerged on his mammoth horse and galloped out the castle gates. To the ghosts, no doubt. Perhaps to warn them of something he had learned since his return.

But no amount of warning would suffice. John had set matters into motion that could not be undone. He had known in his gut that the mysterious young woman must hold a key, and when he had searched Timothy’s office after his departure, he discovered just how right he had been. John held back his laughter in this public place.

No doubt Timothy thought him an uneducated fool, but he was not. John’s mother had seen him instructed by their parish priest, hoping that someday his father might relent and claim his illegitimate son. After all, the man had no legal heir of his own body. She had wanted John to be prepared to impress his father with his wit and capabilities, but matters had not turned out that way. Instead, he’d been forced to survive on brute strength while Timothy Grey enjoyed the luxuries of the castle.

He had, however, studied his namesake, the king, his entire life. No one knew better than King John of England how ruthless determination and a bit of time could turn matters around. The man had not let the misfortune of birth order stop him. No, he allowed nothing to stand in his path as he strove toward greatness. And John would not let his own illegitimate birth stand in his way.

A bitter taste filled his mouth, and he spat upon the ground. When he’d spotted the missive to the king he had nearly fainted in delight, but he managed to gather himself, seal it with the
stamp Timothy had left behind, and place it on Holstead’s desk. Though he had been tempted to add a postscript that this same Merry Ellison might have some link to the nefarious Ghosts of Farthingale Forest, he refrained. No, he would hold some leverage for the future.

Soon the king would know that Timothy had harbored the fugitive Merry Ellison. It would not take long before the king discovered Timothy had let her go and began unraveling other clues about Timothy’s attachment to the woman—and his involvement with the ghosts.

And who would be the hero in it all? When the time was right, John would lead them to the ghosts and win his father’s favor. With any luck, Merry would be put to death before Timothy, so his enemy might suffer the ultimate heartache of losing the woman he loved due to his own blundering actions.

But until then, John would wait, and plan, and revel in his imminent most perfect revenge.

In the shadowy sleeping chamber at the rear of the cave, Merry found herself completely alone for the first time in weeks. And she was not at all certain that she liked the sensation. How much better to keep herself busy. Senses on the alert as she guarded the camp or tended to the little ones.

Being alone in nature was different. The sunshine, the breeze, the scurry of animals, and the avian symphony filled her to overflowing and kept her company. Here, in this dark and quiet room, nothing but empty silence—without even a trickle of water or a distinctive scent—surrounded her.

But she must take advantage of this rare moment. Use it to face the demons that threatened her day and night, that she held at bay with busyness. In the corner near her pallet lay a sack she rarely opened. A sack of items her mother had packed for her on that horrible night. It felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds as she tugged it into the open. The drawstring seemed to fight against her fingers.

She reached her hand in as though a snake might bite her.
First, she withdrew a tiny piece of white linen, embroidered with scrollwork. Her christening gown. Once upon a time, this meant something to her—proof of her identity. She was a Christian. Baptized into the holy church. She had strived to make her life an act of worship in the eyes of her Creator.

Merry ran her fingers across the linen and sighed. But what did it mean now? Would the church even welcome her? Thank goodness the king had no proof of her survival. To her knowledge he had not yet had them excommunicated. She might doubt the existence of God, but if for some reason He did exist, she was not convinced she wished to be cut off from Him for eternity.

Gathering her courage, Merry reached even deeper into the bag. She pulled out a stack of parchments bound in leather. The book of Matthew, which she had copied in her own hand. Though she held tight to the book, she could not bring herself to open it and read the Latin words. Words that had once radiated so vibrant and precious to her that she had dealt with the torture of sitting still long enough to write them down. She could not bear to watch them lying flat and lifeless on the page now.

With a deep breath she stilled her racing heart and sent her hand into the gaping chasm of the sack one last time. She brushed about the bottom of the velvet bag until she found it. Her fingers rubbed over the raised metal, pressed into the biting edges. Though they had spent the coins and sold several pieces of jewelry from the sack early on, she could not bring herself to part with this final memento from her mother.

She drew it slowly, cautiously from the sack. As her eyes fell upon it, she made the sign of the cross despite herself. Jesus—battered and bloody, pinned to the crucifix—stared up at her from her palm. Whether he had been a deity or not, surely the man had known suffering and pain. More than she could imagine.

Unable to resist, she pressed the crucifix to her lips, recalled
the rugged feel and the sharp taste from the many times she had done so in her childhood as it dangled over her mother’s soft and comforting bosom. And in that moment, she could almost sense her mother smiling down at her from heaven.

Merry placed the book and the gown back in the sack, but she could not bring herself to part with the cross. Though its matching gold chain was long gone, she found a piece of twine and hung it from her neck, buried it deep beneath her tunic.

She needed her mother’s strength. For finding Timothy again, feeling those sensations all over, then hardening her heart to send him away, had sapped her of her last reserves. She had never felt so weak. So vulnerable. She did not like it one whit.

Curling into her pallet, she pressed both hands against her tunic to experience the impression of the cross upon her belly. She thought that perhaps, if nothing else, the memory of her mother’s death would remind her of what was at stake. King John was not above killing them all. Timothy did not understand this—therefore he could never be trusted.

A scuffle near the entryway wakened her from that introspective place and turned her attention to the issues at hand. Sniffling met her ears.

Heavens, one of the children might be hurt.

“You tell her.” Sadie’s words were followed by a sob.

“No—you. She likes you better,” said a voice Merry suspected to be Sadie’s brother, Henry, along with a loud sniff. “I can’t bear to speak the words.”

Merry jumped up and ran to them. Almost to the end of the passageway, lit by sunshine filtering through the door of leaves and branches beyond, stood Sadie and Henry with muddy, tear-streaked faces.

When Sadie spotted her, her confession tumbled from her mouth. “We tried to, Merry. We did. We both did. We meant
to, but . . .” She dissolved into uncontrollable sobs and could say no more.

Merry hugged the girl to her. “Henry, what could you not do? Please tell me.”

“We couldn’t kill him. We knew it was the right thing to do. We both pulled back our arrows and aimed them straight for his heart, like you said. But neither of us could let go. ‘You do it,’ Sadie says. ‘No you,’ says I. Then we both started crying and ran straight to you.”

“Who?” asked Merry, although she suspected, nay dreaded, the answer.

“Timothy Grey.”

Her heart thudded to her feet. How had he found them? Never mind that now. “Where?”

“Coming . . .” Henry hesitated as if he did not wish to answer but finally continued. “From the south.”

“He was kind . . . and funny . . . and . . .” Sadie sputtered the words against Merry’s soon to be drenched tunic.

“Where are the men?” Merry reached and offered Henry’s head a reassuring pat.

“Still out hunting.”

“’Tis all right, children. We should not have left you on watch alone. It was too much to ask. I will take care of this.”

“Don’t kill him. Don’t!” Sadie shrieked, clawing at Merry’s tunic.

With that, Jane, cooking at the far side of the room, hurried toward them.

Merry handed off the wailing child. “Tend to her, please. Timothy Grey has returned.”

“Must you kill him? Truly?” Jane hugged Sadie to her chest. A bevy of little ones and young women behind her whimpered and gasped.

Merry steeled her heart to a degree she did not know possible. She gulped down a lump from her throat, and it landed with a sick thud in her stomach. She struggled to keep down her morning meal. “Please do not make this any harder than it already is,” she whispered to Jane.

She sensed no less than twenty eyes digging into her as she took her bow and quiver from the wall, but no one uttered a word. She dared not look into those eyes. Dared not witness the horror upon their faces.

The time had come. She must do what she must do. She must not question.

Like a ghost, she floated from the room, out the door, and up the hillside. She watched as though outside of her body as she pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. Scanning the countryside, she found him, though she wished she had not.

Daring not to look too close, she lifted her bow and stared down the shaft of the arrow, pointing directly to the center of his blue velvet tunic. She would not focus upon his face. She would not look into his eyes. He must remain an object. An enemy. A weapon of destruction. And in just a moment, when she finally let the arrow fly free, the danger would be eliminated.

Eliminated. Danger.
Not Timothy. Not the boy she had loved and kissed. Never her best friend.
He is the enemy.
She fought to convince herself as her finger trembled against the bowstring, as she stared at the deep blue velvet.

“Merry!” he called.

In a moment of great weakness, she lifted her eyes to his. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes. That face she had adored for much of her life. The flopping thatch of hair. And all was lost.

She dropped the bow and arrow to the ground, as the air deflated from her lungs. Collapsing next to her discarded weapons,
she pressed a hand to her chest. No one would ever know how close she had come. How hard her heart had grown, that she could nearly kill her best friend.

Her sickened stomach cast up its accounts upon the grass beside her, and her hands clutched her aching belly. Then she felt it beneath her tunic. The cross. A picture of her mother with soft brown hair and love-filled eyes flashed through her mind.

No, her mother would never wish to see her as cold and callous as this. Merry had nearly gone too far this time.

“Merry, Merry.” Timothy ran up beside her, dropped to his knees, and gathered her into his arms. “Are you all right?”

“I . . .” She struggled to find her breath. “I . . . I almost did it.” Then she sagged against him and began to cry. Deep body-wrenching sobs. Wails to put Sadie’s to shame. Years’ worth of tears, pouring onto his chest.

His lips pressed against her forehead, but he said not a word. Rather, he allowed her to spend her pent-up heartache within his arms. All this time she had remained so strong. Now Timothy could be strong for her. Strong enough to hold her and comfort her. Strong enough to share the heavy load of her pain. Shushing and snuggling her like the broken child she was.

When Allen and Red entered the dim cave after a long morning of hunting, a passel of crying children met them.

Abigail threw herself against Allen dramatically. “Merry is killing Timothy!” She shrieked and commenced sobbing upon his tunic. Allen had little choice but to pat her back and offer soothing shushing sounds. Good thing they had deposited the rabbit carcasses outside the door. Red was likewise entangled with Sadie. Allen scanned the room and shot a questioning
look at Jane where she cuddled Wren along with several of the other youngsters.

Her horrified nod said everything.

Merry kill Timothy? Surely she would never. He and the other men had discussed and dismissed her kill order days ago, each of them convinced that she would despise anyone who carried it through. She would never forgive them. But what if she carried it through herself?

A dull ache filled Allen’s stomach at the thought. He must find her. He must stop her. Timothy did not deserve death, and Merry’s heart would never survive if she murdered him.

Red stared at Allen with dread written across his face. “What shall we do?”

“Which way did she go?” Allen asked.

Between hiccups, Sadie pointed to the south.

Henry stood from where he had huddled in the corner and wiped at his grimy, tear-streaked face. “’Tis all my fault. I saw him first. I should have warned him away when I had the chance. But I could never shoot him, and I didn’t believe Lady Merry would either.”

“You did right, Henry. Never fear, Red and I will see to this.” He pried Abigail from his waist. “You all stay put. And pray with all your strength.”

Allen thrust aside the many emotions warring within him. Sympathy, dread, fear, jealousy, anger. Why must this Timothy forever stir up trouble? But Allen could not afford the luxury of emotions. He grabbed his sword and shield from the wall, and noticed Red doing likewise. They still wore their quivers and bows from the morning hunt.

Together they dashed through the doorway and toward the south.

He gripped his sword, knowing not what might lie over the
rise. Not that a weapon would help. Who did he think to fight? Timothy’s ghost? Merry’s devastation? Yet the feel of the molded hilt in his palm gave him strength.

Which he would need. The sound of Merry’s wailing met his ears, a soul-crushing sound the likes of which he had never heard before. Again he quelled those churning emotions. As they crested the second hill, the sight that met his eyes comforted him yet shook him to the core all in the same instant.

Timothy held Merry in his arms as she keened with abandon against his chest. Her thin body convulsed with each sob. Merry was safe. Timothy was alive. Yet that moment brought death nonetheless. The final death blow to Allen’s dreams of a life with Merry. How many times had he wished to soothe Merry, to comfort her, to share her burden. But she would not allow him. Not him, only Timothy, the man who held her heart.

Before his eyes he saw proof of what he had known deep down all along. Merry was not meant for him. She belonged to another.

His sword arm sagged as the truth struck him in the gut like a battering ram. Timothy took note of Allen and Red and nodded their way, as if to say all was well. But nothing might ever be well again.

Red must have sensed the significance of the moment. For he wrapped a sturdy arm around Allen’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of camp.

A camp that might never feel like home to Allen again.