Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (27 page)

For the first time in his life, John wished Timothy Grey stood beside him, so that he might witness this handsome peasant flirting with Merry. He laughed quietly. Ahh, how delightful his revenge would be.

Timothy’s trail had been all too easy to follow, especially as John rightly assumed he headed back to this place. He had almost given himself away by getting too close, but Timothy and his woman had been too enthralled with one another to notice. When they slipped into the hillside through a hidden passage, John had been left to wait and wonder in the soggy, storm-ridden night for far too long. Wait and wonder and stew in his hatred for Timothy Grey.

And when Timothy mounted his horse and galloped off toward the castle in the wee hours of the night, John had been torn. But it seemed the bigger treasure would be in capturing Merry Ellison, as surely the king would announce her a wanted criminal at any moment. Knowing not what might lie within that hidden cave, he decided to wait for her to emerge.

At dawn, she exited the cave with a motley assortment of
young people. Though the children appeared decently fed and clothed, he recognized something about them. They were children of the forest, as he had once been, surviving by cunning and wit.

Only ten years ago, John had poached in these woods to feed himself and his mother. And on an autumn day, not so different than this one, he had encountered that arrogant Timothy Grey, who threatened to have him whipped for thievery, but John had outsmarted him and gotten away. And he would outsmart him again, by capturing Merry Ellison and seeing her hanged.

Due to the strapping young men surrounding the chit, he would wait until he could capture her alone. Preferably nearer to a village. At least he spied no sign of the hulking fellows he had noted on his previous visit. For now he would follow silently, a skill he had mastered long ago, leaving both horse and clinking chain mail behind.

As the young people filed past his hiding place, he tapped his finger to his head in grudging respect. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. Though he had no real desire to hurt them, he might need to kidnap one or two for leverage if they maintained the guard so tightly about Merry. He took note of the tiny one in pink dangling from her back. The tot would pull at her girlish heartstrings quite nicely.

John did not ascribe to having a heart. Emotions served only to weaken a person. He would stick to power, pride, and determination. Much more loyal companions. He would yet prove to his father, the Earl of Wyndemere, that he was worthy of the man’s respect. Once Timothy Grey was arrested for aiding a traitor, John could finally rise to power as his father’s successor.

Oh, how sweet it would be!

“I say, Grey! I did not expect to see you back so soon. Have you completed your search already?” The Earl of Wyndemere straddled a warhorse before a line of guards in the castle courtyard. Looking more threatening than ever, covered in chain mail and fully armed, he eyed Timothy warily.

Timothy trotted Spartacus to his side. “Yes, my lord. Since I began the search earlier, I had only a few more locations to secure. It looks as if you are ready to begin the full-scale mission.”

“We shall leave no stone unearthed. I will have to call for reinforcements from your father, as I shall be sending many of the soldiers into the villages, and the largest contingent to scour the forest. We shall not have much protection left here at home. Fine time for that sluggard Hadley to disappear.”

Alarm bells sounded in Timothy’s head. His stomach clenched tight. “Hadley is missing?”

“The good-for-nothing bastard,” grumbled the earl. “Never should have wasted my time on him. Should have known better.”

Harsh language, that. From Timothy’s perspective, Lord
Wyndemere had never given Hadley a moment of his time other than to bark orders at the fellow. Timothy would be glad to be out of the fickle earl’s control. He could no longer fathom how he had justified working for this man and thereby indirectly for his ruthless king. “How long has Hadley been missing?”

“Since yesterday’s nooning meal. Or so says this one here.” The earl pointed to Bradbury.

If anyone knew of Hadley’s whereabouts, it would be his close companion.

“Is this true, Bradbury?”

“Yes, Mister Grey. He dashed off shortly after his lordship received the missive.”

Those alarm bells in Timothy’s head increased in volume. He should have stayed with Merry to protect her, but he had no way to know that last night. “And have you any idea why he left?” He patted at Spartacus’s mane, although he was the one in need of soothing.

“No.” Bradbury pulled at his reins to steady his mount. “Although his mother lives nearby. Perhaps she has taken ill.”

“Worthless, the both of them.” The annoyed earl slapped at his sword. “The sot could have at least told someone before he left us shorthanded.”

Though Timothy’s mind reeled, he managed to keep his composure. “I will go to my father for you. We shall get those troops here in no time.” And then he must find Merry before Hadley could do any more damage.

“Hmm . . .” The earl tapped his chin. “Timothy, I must speak to you privately for a moment.”

He hated to spare the time, but he could hardly disobey the earl. They guided their horses in the direction of the stable. “Yes, my lord?”

“I have given you every opportunity here. But if this goes
badly, I will deny you to the king. You understand this, do you not?” He studied Timothy with a hard gleam in his eye.

It pained him to hear the earl voice the words aloud. “Of course. You have gone above and beyond in your fairness to me. I understand that your loyalties lie with the king.”

Within a week, Timothy would leave this mess of England behind and head for France. There he would begin a new life with Merry and the children, and the Earl of Wyndemere’s tenuous relationship would no longer matter. Likely should not have mattered in the first place.

“And so you will be taking off again shortly.” The man frowned.

But Timothy did not waver under his stare. Yes, he was more than ready to leave this corrupt place behind. He nodded. “I will. But I will deliver your message to my father first, as I promised.”

“And when shall you return?” The earl adjusted his helmet.

“I cannot answer that, my lord.”

Wyndemere huffed. “I see. Tell me no more. Godspeed to you, my boy.”

At that Timothy turned his horse and galloped back out the city gates. He had thought to gather his supplies and send a few letters, but now he must hurry to his father en route to Merry. If he took the highway to Farmingham, their meeting point, Greyham Manor would lie directly on the path. There he could rally help, for both himself and the earl.

He had no time to spare.

Hadley might be tracking Merry even now, trailing the group as they headed for Bristol. The man must have followed him yesterday. Why else would he have left at the same time? Could he have somehow overheard what was in the missive and wished to earn a reward? Surely the man bore Merry no ill will. He had
danced and laughed with her just a few weeks earlier. Flirted with her, for heaven’s sake.

Could Hadley be the one who put his letter to the king on Holstead’s desk? Timothy had not even known the man could read. And he had always been so pleasant. But then Timothy recalled a soulless, arrogant glint that had flashed through the man’s eye on several occasions. If Hadley had followed him into the woods, he must be the one.

Once past the edge of town, Timothy kicked his horse into a full gallop. He clutched to the mane of the mammoth Spartacus. As the forest blended into a blur of golds, reds, and browns to either side of the road, Timothy focused straight ahead. He must get to his father. Then he must get to Merry and far away from this godforsaken country.

“How much farther to Farmingham?” Merry shifted the lethargic Wren in her arms as they emerged from the dense forest into an inviting clearing of moss, grass, and piles of newly fallen leaves. The child wheezed, and she cradled her closer.

Allen held up the map Timothy had drawn for them. “Not far now, methinks. We just crossed this stream here.” He pointed to it. “And it looks to lead straight to the village.”

“Thank goodness. Then we must make camp for the evening. You and Robert continue into the village for the herbs. And do hurry. She is struggling so.” Her shoulders sagged with weariness from her burden. Both physical and emotional weariness. Thoughts of Timothy Grey and even of the evil King John had been pushed by the wayside for the moment. She would have to struggle with those later. For now, she could focus only upon the immediate issue: Wren, withering away in her arms.

Allen stopped and gazed at her. “Indeed, you need to rest.
Red, Cedric, James,” he called, “guard Merry while Robert and I head into the village.”

“Remember, hyssop, peppermint, and chamomile.” She hoped the children would not detect the frantic edge to her voice.

“I know, Mother Merry.” Allen patted her back and offered a reassuring smile. “All will be fine. Try to relax.” Then he and Robert headed off.

Merry collapsed against a large boulder as the men gathered round her. “Start a fire, at once. As soon as they return, I must set the remedy to boiling. James, fetch the pot. And get some of the boys to gather water and wood.”

Over the past two days she had used the last of the herbs, feeling certain that if she increased the dosage Wren would rally. But the child had fallen deeper and deeper into her raspy breathing.

Wren cupped Merry’s cheek as she sucked in breath after body-wracking breath. “I . . . be . . . all right, Ma-wee. No wo-wee.”

Merry hugged the precious girl tighter, breathing deeply herself and hoping to somehow pass the air along to the child, that the in and out of her own chest would will the girl’s to work. “All will be well soon enough, my sweet.”

Robert and Allen had already disappeared over the next rise, and she noted Gilbert and Henry gathering firewood. All would be well soon. She must continue telling herself that, for making it safely to France without Wren would seem no victory at all. Merry had lost too much in her life. She could not bear one more blow. Without Wren, she might not wish to go on at all.

Pressing down her fear, Merry conjured a smile and began to sing the song of summer to Wren once again. Yes, summer, full of life and sunshine. Not autumn—with crackling leaves
and woodsmoke in the air—when Wren’s breathing grew brittle and crackly to match. Not autumn, when everything seemed to die, when Wren’s lips tinged blue.

Please, God, no.

Unable to look at the child’s sickly coloring, Merry buried her face in Wren’s neck, her song becoming a desperate cry, but this time the child did not join in. Wren merely struggled to continue taking one breath after the other.

Merry’s focus on the child was pulled away as Robert dashed back over the hillside waving frantically and shouting in a whisper, “Go! Go! Deeper into the forest. Someone is following us. We cannot be caught so close to the village. Go! Now!”

As they had only begun to unpack, it took but a moment for everyone to pick up their belongings and head into the forest. Cedric took the lead, and Merry counted them off one by one until they were all safely on their way. Then still clutching Wren, Merry ran alongside Robert into the thicket. Her senses sharpened as her sluggish blood began to flow fast through her veins. Her feet pounded in time with her quickening pulse. “But we must get the herbs,” she said, wanting to scream the words, as they raced through the forest.

“We cannot now. Allen is watching the man. He will hold him off if needed, but we must get away while he thinks us setting up camp.” Robert spoke without so much as a hitch in his breathing, even as they sped along.

If only Merry could pour some of his life’s breath into Wren. If only she could will the child’s lungs to function. But now a more imminent danger threatened. “Who is it?”

“He wears the livery of a guard from the Castle Wyndemere.”

“Blast it all!” They had traveled too slowly. It seemed their day’s head start had mattered little. But why would the guard be alone? Surely more lurked nearby.

Robert was correct. They must head deeper into the forest. Stay away from the villages and roads.

Wren shuddered against her chest.

Merry could not afford to consider what this detour might cost them. She continued placing foot in front of foot, heading farther and farther away from any possible help for Wren. Branches and thorns clawed at her, as if they would thrust her back toward the village, where surely some herbalist lived, but she paid them no heed and pressed forward. Though her heart cried otherwise, she had twenty-three people to think of, not just one.

Even if by some miracle they could outrun the earl’s men, they could never outrun the malady gripping Wren’s little lungs.

Allen observed the castle guard through an overgrown patch of bushes. The man stripped off his Wyndemere surcoat of red and gold with a wolf motif and his leggings as well. He must have forgone his chain mail the entire journey—otherwise they would have heard him long ago. Wearing only his braies, the man stepped into the stream and sighed. He splashed off his dark hair and his well-muscled torso. A thin, pinkish line streaked across his chest. Drops of water clung to his short beard.

The fellow must be several years Allen’s senior, and Allen had dreamed of someday being a true soldier just like him. To be scarred and battle-hardened the way this man was. He was no taller than Allen, but his bulging arms bespoke more intense training than Allen had received. Someday—hopefully, someday soon—Allen would prove himself on the battlefield and earn a commission in a castle or perhaps on a crusade to the Holy Land.

His world had expanded in the past two years. Before their village was destroyed he’d never traveled beyond the neighboring
town, and had not even bothered dreaming of distant realms. But now he’d seen castles and cities. Soon he would see a port and the foreign kingdom of France.

The man continued to wash in the stream, never suspecting Allen lurked nearby. Since he appeared to be settling in for a rest, Allen turned and, silent as a ghost, took off in the direction he and Robert had agreed upon. Once past the clearing, he noticed a few crumpled twigs that helped him better discern their path. He would catch up soon enough.

As he hurried through the woods pushing aside branches, only then did he recall the medicines for Wren. But they could not turn back now. The danger was too great. Her wracking breath had concerned him during the journey, but he trusted their heavenly Father would care for her, as he had done these past two years.

And He would care for them even after Allen’s inevitable departure.

Soon he would put his broken heart far behind him and be off to see the world. He would not stay long in France, despite his growing familiarity with the language. His place was not with Merry Ellison and her ghosts anymore. Once they were settled, he and Red planned to sail back across the channel to the rebel-held capital of London.