How to Marry Your Wife (18 page)

Chapter 33

After being allowed to witness the pitiful scene in the throne room, Merry fumed in the locked tower with fists clenched. That was her husband and brother’s best notion of a rescue? At this rate, she’d be married off by midday tomorrow.

She squeezed shoulders and elbows through the slit in the turret that faced the courtyard. She could climb down, but then what? She pondered her escape long and hard as the songs of the merchants blended in an odd cacophony. From this vantage, she counted twenty tables with wares. Brown ceramic platters painted with daisies caught her fancy.

A red cross upon a gray tunic flashed between stalls. She edged out further atop her stomach and shouted. “Thomas? Is that you?”

Others gazed up at her, but not him. He continued on without a care.
Damnation
. The lock of her door clicked. Soon, her guard would be upon her.

With both hands flaying the air she pointed to her husband. “Stop that Templar. Thomas, you dolt. It’s me.”

He turned, his wide eyes met hers, and he dashed toward the slit where she dangled. “Dearest . . .”

Her guard crashed through the door and pulled her back into the room by the feet. She barely had time to reach out her hands as she dropped onto the floor, legs high. “Ommph.”

“I told you to stay put.” Annandale’s guard tied her and the coarse ropes broke open the wounds at her wrists. He dragged her across the room toward an iron ring attached to the wall.
For the love of Christ, this is the straw that brings down the roof.

She’d not again be tethered like a beast. Writhing against him, she put her mouth to his lips and his pintle hardened. Even with tied hands, she deftly pulled his knife from his belt, jabbed at his navel, and he jumped back with an oath.

“Say a word and I’ll tell Annandale that you caressed my breasts and bared my arse. Do we understand one another? Get out before I start screaming.”

He paled, nodded, and rushed out of the room. A knife, a rope, a hole in the wall, and hope. Before she could make her way back to the slit, her chambers door smashed against stone and her giant of a grandsire thundered across the room. “You’re naught but trouble. Sit down.”

Hiding the knife in the folds of her skirt between her knees, she smirked and lifted her hands. “Sorry. I’m rather tied up at the moment.”

Her face stung from his fast backhand. “Insolence will not be tolerated, lass. Best shut your mouth fer the rest of the day. Do you think you can manage that?”

She nodded and held back tears while he eyed her up and down, as if evaluating a charger. She envisioned her knife dug deep into one of those scowling eye sockets.

Raising one furry eyebrow, he said, “I’ll send a woman to dress you properly for the day’s journey. Make trouble again and I’ll find a lash.”

That said, he turned on a heel, and clumped out into the hall with steel spurs clanging against the floor.

Exhaling, Merry repositioned the blade between her knees, and sawed through the ropes binding her wrists. She raised her tunic, and placed the blade in her new undergarment so as not to prick skin. The bottom edge of her tunic was still dropping back down when a middle-aged woman, dressed in a blue and green tartan, entered and scowled.

Her face puckered as if sucking on a sour root. “What’re you up to now?”

“Naught.” Merry shrugged and put out her hands with palms up.

For a moment, she thought the woman would say more. But the clomping of horses in the courtyard, and Annandale’s shouts, must have made the woman think better of causing more delays.

She threw a folded piece of plaid material into her arms. “Here. Put this on and be quick about it.”

Merry shook it out. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, for the love of the Mother Mary . . .” The woman took the fabric and placed it over her head like a giant shawl as it draped over her body. She folded the corners under her arms, tying and pinning as she went, until she’d crafted a tartan gown. She roughly tugged the cowl forward over Merry’s eyes until only a small hole of sight remained.

Forty mounted knights waited in the courtyard, along with the still fuming Annandale. When she mounted, the tartan dress opened with a slit, allowing her to ride astride. A shout from her grandsire and they clomped over the drawbridge. Below, the keep’s swampy, smelly moat bubbled in the heat.

The sun had barely shifted in the sky when they crossed an ancient Roman bridge with three magnificent arches. It was hard to imagine builders able to accomplish such a feat. Annandale pointed out a stronghold on a mound in the distance. A small village surrounded it, and around that, a wall. A stream with another bridge ran through the middle of the land. Her grandsire pointed. “That’s the keep of No-Man’s-Land—D’Agostine’s Castle.”

Even from this distance, she could tell that the walls had fallen into disrepair, but she stayed firm in her hope that it could all be repaired by Christmastide. Hadn’t Lady Ann, time and time again, told stories of how she’d conquered similar issues in The Meadows? Walls could be fixed by good masons and a bit of gold. She was quite certain that Thomas had plenty.

She pictured the desolate, yet fertile fields covered with hundreds of wooly sheep running in circles with lambs close behind. The stream would provide irrigation and cleanliness for the village. She’d have to dig proper ditches and divert water. A few hearty men with shovels and it would be accomplished in no time at all.

“I’m sorry you have to see this, but it’s best you know now. You can stop dreaming of that no-good Norman, so I can marry you better.” He stopped at the gated wall, allowing the men to close ranks, then rode under the thick Roman arch. Carvings of a Goddess with grapes for breasts were etched deep into the curved white marble. On the other side, they stopped at the foot of a rotting drawbridge, with holes large enough for a horse to fall through.

“We walk from here. Follow my steps.” With a hand in the air, he motioned the men to dismount. He helped her off her mount and drew his sword.

Halfway across the bridge, she considered turning back when a board broke away under foot and sloshed into the moat. It bubbled with feces and God knew what else. She used a nearby knight to catch her balance or she might have followed it down.

Just ahead lay the iron gate. With each careful step, she counted the craftsmen she was going to need. Carpenters, masons, beekeepers, spinners, candlemakers . . .

Her grandsire broke into her thoughts and thumped the hilt of his sword upon the bars. “Open to the Earl of Annandale or die.”

“You don’t have to put it like that, Sire. I was comin’. A bit lame, I am.” A wrinkled serf shuffled over to a handle, grabbed hold, and cranked. The frayed rope overhead groaned and the gate lifted halfway.

“Sorry, Sire. That’s all she’s got.” The serf shrugged, gave a toothless grin, and tied a knot. Without even a by-your-leave, he shuffled off.

Merry stifled a giggle, lifted her tunic, and ducked under the gate with space to spare. Annandale, however, groaned, knelt, and sunk his huge frame into the muck and mud. Cursing, he crawled on hands and knees under the long prongs. Once inside, he tugged on the rope and lifted such that the rest of the men could enter. He handed the frayed end to one of his men. “Fix this.”

Oh, my.
Ahead, a bricked courtyard was filled with pigs, countless hens, pigeons, three cows, two oxen, and several old nags. A hound chased a cat, causing a melee. A church with one turret and cross stood to the right and long barracks lined the walls. About twenty insolent faces loitered, staring at their approach.

She waved and gave them a bright smile, but most scowled back, even more-so at the guards.

“For goodness sakes, Grandsire, tell them to sheath their swords. What will these good folk fight with? Fingers and tooth? She ran over to a mother with a howling babe and gave her the last gold coin from her purse.

Annandale grumbled. “Filthy rabble. The only reason I don’t run them off is they provide my men with ample meat.”

“What a horrible thing to say.” She ducked as the back of his hand snapped out and hit air. The small crowd of serfs chuckled.

“Enough. He took her wrist and dragged her single file through a corridor between the church and the main hall. Up six flights of narrow stairs they climbed. From the dais on top, he pointed out the village. Thatched roofs were either rotted or missing altogether. Many homes lay in a rubble of stones. “What do you make of that?”

“I see nothing, but a few days labor and much straw. By mid-summer I’ll have both.”

“God’s blood, you shall not. Look.” He pushed her forward into the second floor of the keep.

Human feces were piled high in one corner of the great room. Rats darted in and out amongst long-spoiled balls of meat that matted into the trampled thatch on the floor. Merry moaned, her stomach rolled, then she added to the mess with her own pile of vomit.

Once she’d wiped her mouth and covered her nose, she heartened. A good cleaning was truly all that was needed. The crack that ran from floor to ceiling where the light shined in would need fixing, too, but she had masons.

Wasn’t it fortunate the furniture and tapestries were all gone? She could find people to build her new. Not only that, it would make the keep all the easier to clean. Another rodent scampered near her feet and she jumped back. A few rat hounds and those nasty beasties would needs find other accommodations. A vision of little Tom running around the hearth with more small boys made her smile. “It’s perfect.”

“Och. Are ye daft? I see there’s no use in convincing you. No matter. No kin of mine, even illegitimate, will marry a Norman, nor live within the decrepit walls of his keep. You’ll marry Brian MacTavish tomorrow at noon.

Thomas moaned, paused upon a hill, and allowed his charger to chew on the fresh clover. Almost a half mile in the distance, Merry approached the decrepit Castle D’Agostine, surrounded by armed guards and the Earl of Annandale. She was easy to spot, the only woman in a parade of kilted knights.

His stomach knotted when she tottered and almost fell through the rotted wood of the drawbridge. Annandale had lost all reason. It was no place for a lady.

Her giggle twinkled in and out on the breeze as he lost sight of her under the gate. Was she so happy, knowing his miserable fate?
He’d wanted to show her himself, so he could describe the former beauty of his childhood home.

The wind shifted and the smell of the moat made his eyes water, even from this distance. All was lost. She’d never agree to remarry him. No-Man’s-Land had yet again earned its moniker.

He turned his mount toward the village Carlisle with his chest aching. How could he expect her to live in such a place? Mayhap he’d convince her to return to the Green Meadows while he continued as a merchant-lord for Marcus. Land was vastly over-glorified.

The short journey seemed much longer on the way back. Again, he was left wanting for his wife and lamenting his actions at Scarborough. But she had confessed so well. Aye, and he’d been all too willing to agree with her.

What’s this?
Approaching the walls of Carlisle was a sight more blessed than a host of angels. Marcus marched at least one hundred of Edward’s men through the open gates, pennants flying. That ought to get his wife back. He put spurs to his mount and raced forward.

Chapter 34

The incense clogged his breath as well as his vision, making the hellish nightmare all the more real. Gregorian chants filled the church and dignitaries arrived in their finest print robes, lined with fur. All necks, both man and women alike, were adorned with chains or gold and jewels.
Where in all of Christ’s wounds was Edward?

Thomas had donned a black tunic for this dark day. He displayed his hard-earned wealth with one giant red ruby, hanging on a thick rope of gold. His gem-encrusted frog, which he saved for such occasions, held one of the sharpest swords in the kingdom.

“Tell me that you’ll hold your tongue when the time comes.” Marcus scowled, standing to one side of him while Nicholas held his arm fast on the other.

“I’ll not have her married off to that, that . . . Scottish bairn.” His eyes darted to the castle guards that surrounded them at every entrance.

“Would you wage war in the church? Aye, we have men, but Annandale holds the trust of English and Scottish alike. Patience. Robert will come and set his father straight with Edward’s help.”

“Fine. As we discussed, I’ll steal her away directly after the wedding. He’ll not bed her. If I must, we’ll set sail and I’ll begin my trades anew. There’re many lands and many opportunities. When the winds change, we’ll return.”

Marcus grunted, Nicholas nodded, and the monks continued with their endless chanting.

Thomas held his breath, stunned as if bitten by an adder, as she weaved through the vast church filled with high-born. Fresh flowers of the deepest violet were woven into the braids of her golden locks. Dainty white lace from the isles trailed from her cap, all the way to the floor.

His fist tightened on his sword’s hilt. This wedding day gave her that serene smile? He relaxed his grip when her eyes met his with a bold wink.

What was her meaning?

Marcus gripped the bicep of his twitching sword arm. “Hold fast. Your plan is solid. Look about. The room is filled with Annandale’s sword and mail. Should you but make a move, he’d be justified in your death.”

“I’ll kill that Scot if he touches her.”

Nicholas chimed in. “And I’ll kill them again. Just to be certain.”

The Bishop of York in fullest peacock splendor arrived from behind the altar with his arms raised to God, as if he was Christ himself. Thomas muttered a curse to the devil and Marcus elbowed him. “Do you wish to be slaughtered before the wedding even begins?”

The happy couple knelt, York laid his hand on their heads and began his blessings.

It happened so fast, and the incense so thick, that for a moment, Thomas believed he was seeing things. The bishop lay prostrate to the Lord’s alter, with Merry atop his small form. His huge cap rolled off the dais and his miter clunked and followed. She tugged one arm high behind his back and he screamed. Leaning her body over his head, she put one arm around his neck and held knife point into his ear.

The crowd gasped, archers poised, but her voice was steady as she shouted, “All stand down or my chest will drive the point of my knife into the stuffing of his daft head. I die and he dies as well. I shall sing with angels while he rots in hell.”

Thomas was the first at the bottom of the altar with sword drawn. He laughed at her audacity. “My, dearest. Your poems astound.”

To the guards, he held sword high. “Stay back or lose an arm.”

Marcus and Nicholas followed with their armed men, who’d been in hiding, disguised throughout the church. Arm to arm with back to the bishop, they stood united against the rest.

Thomas turned his head toward his wife. “I believe you have their attention. Now what?”

His beautiful warrior wife held fast her grip on York. “I’ll not be forced into another marriage. Please nod, Your Excellency, if you agree. Wait. Better not move. Just grunt.”

She gave a smirk, seeming quite pleased with herself. “Did you hear that, Thomas? He agreed.”

He grinned widely, joined her at the altar, and spoke for her ears only. “Aye. Trolly-troll.” He shoved the stunned Scot out of the circle of men. “Be gone and bless whatever patron saint you hold, that I didn’t gut you this day.”

She let the slim dagger slip a little closer. “And I wish to annul the annulment of my marriage. Can that be done?”

“No.” The bishop squeaked like a chipmunk and Thomas let out a snort. This was too ripe a folly to behold.

Merry stifled her own snort of glee, glanced up, and soon both their eyes were watering. “What did you say? I don’t believe all can hear you in the back of the church.”

“You need to be married again.” The bishop whispered coarsely.

Thomas sat behind Merry and reached his arms around her to take control of the knife.

She said, “Begin the vows of marriage. The shortened version.”

“And do you Meredith—”

Merry giggled. “No, no, no. None can hear. That will never do. I shall say the vows and you shall grunt in agreement. I take Sir Thomas. He takes me. Just like before, Amen.”

By now, the whole of the great hall of the church was filled with glee at the farce. It wasn’t often a mighty bishop was put down by a small woman.

Her voice was low, but Thomas heard all as she whispered in the Bishop’s ear. “Be it known, should anything ever happen to myself, my husband, my family, or my grandchildren, for that matter, I’ll see to it your plan to kill Alexander comes to light. I have proof. I found it in the pigeon coop. It’s tucked safely away, but I have people I trust to see it gets to Edward. I’ve no interest in who rules Scotland or England, so plan as you will and I’ll not interfere. I only wish for a small village with a small keep, and villagers whom I shall raise to tradesmen of great wealth. You and Annandale shall see to it that my husband’s land is left free—neither Scot nor English until the end of time. Understood?”

At that, the back door swung open and a wave of hushed whispers turned louder until it became a roar. “Bruce!”

The crowd parted as his wife’s father marched down the center of the church with at least fifty soldiers in tow. More stood outside the great arch. His long red beard flew in the wind created by his pace and his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. Knights knelt to him in fealty, as they would a king, and women curtsied low. A hush drew over the crowd as he approached the altar. With one hand, he waived the archers and Annandale’s castle guards at ease.

“Daughter? Meredith? Is that you, lass? And is that Edward’s merchant, Sir Thomas? I thought he lay long dead. What’s all this ado?” He glared up at his father.

Nobles drifted to the outer edges of the vast marble floor as the elder Annandale strode across the church. He met his son nose-to-nose. “Nothing of this is your affair. Aren’t you supposed to be aiding the king in Wales?”

“Until recently, I was. Edward has granted me a few hundred men to see that
other
borders cease in traitorous actions, but we’ll speak of that later. It seems I’ve interrupted a wedding? Is that a dagger to the bishop? God’s blood, what kind of madness is this? Drop the weapon, Lady Meredith, and stand here before me. Explain your actions.” He beckoned them to him with one armored finger.

Meredith sheathed her knife and stomped off the altar with finger pointing at Annandale. “I’ll nay be forced into marriage when I’m already married.”

Robert Bruce’s eyes twinkled, he grinned, and winked. “That seems a fairly reasonable request, lass.”

Removing a knee from the middle of York’s back, Thomas stood next to his wife-to-be. The tiny bishop marched off the landing, picked up his staff, and pounded the end upon marble. “She’s an abomination. I hereby excommunicate—”

Robert glared and drew a sharp curved dagger from his belt with his left hand. “You canna speak if I cut out your tongue. I’ll hear what my daughter has to say.”

Thomas indicated that she should curtsy by gently pushing down upon her shoulders. She raised her lovely eyes for a heated moment, then bowed low. Kneeling next to her, he pulled out his blade and put the tip carefully to the parquet floor. He waited with forehead to sword’s hilt. Here was a man, friend to the king, who was worthy of his allegiance.

Robert chuckled. “Arise, daughter and son. Tell me, what is the meaning of this mad wedding?”

Merry jumped up and pointed, “Your father would have me marry that . . . that . . . Scottish thug.”

He scowled, the resemblance to the old Annandale now most apparent. “How is that possible? You’ve a son and a husband already. For years, as I understand.”

She pointed at the bishop. “Ask him. He’s the one who annulled it.”

“York? Although my daughter was born outside the grace of marriage, I hold great fondness for the matched pair birthed in Scarborough. Heed your words carefully. What mischief is this?”

“Her husband put her aside. I was doing the ungrateful lass a mighty service.”

Robert clapped his hands together and shouted, “Fetch parchment and seal. This time, the legality of this marriage shall not be questioned, nor put asunder.
Ever
.”

He turned to them. “Are you sure you’re both fine with this?”

Thomas squeezed Merry’s hand, they rose together, and spoke as one. “Aye.”

“Before you’re wed, tell me. Where’s that boy of yours?”

“Here I am.” Tom strutted to where Robert stood, put his small sword to the floor, and knelt in front of him.

Robert laughed and tousled the boy’s dark hair. “Well done, lad. Well done. Stand here beside me and we shall watch your mother and father be re-married.”

“Again?” Tom put his sword away, scrunched up his nose, and scratched at his head.

The crowd snickered and Robert picked up the boy. “Aye, but this time it shall not be undone.”