Wonderful (34 page)

Even Clio had to laugh then. Dulcie had been spending too much time with Brother Dismas of late.

“I gave birth to seven sons and three daughters.” Gladdys said with much pride. “Not once did my woman’s flow stop.”

“You have children?”

Old Gladdys just smiled wickedly and gave her a sly wink. “Sir Roger does not know what he is missing.” Then she laughed.

Merrick and his troops and wagons moved up the steep road that cut across the Taff Valley. ’Twas late and there was no moon this night. He was tired and frustrated, and instead of riding through these dark hills, he wanted to be home in bed with his wife, whom he had not seen in too many days for his liking.

Roger came riding up from the rear.

“Is the wheel fixed?”

“Aye. Was only that the load shifted.”

Merrick reined in and scowled. “Who was the bloody fool who oversaw the loading of that mortar? I’ll have his neck for not paying attention to his work.”

Roger gave him a long look. “The fool?”

“Aye,” Merrick barked.

“I’m riding next to him.”

“What are you blathering?”

“You supervised the loading. As I recall, your exact words were, ’It will not be done properly unless I stand over the bloody fools.’ “

Merrick did not say a word. He couldn’t. He remembered the moment clearly. After a few brooding moments he said, “I’m tired.”

“Tomorrow even you’ll be home, and hopefully by the next day you will have stopped barking orders at one and all and biting off the heads of those who chance to ask you a question.”

“I need to get back to Camrose.”

“Believe me, Merrick, we
all
want to see you back at Camrose.” Roger rode alongside of him for a few minutes more.

Neither spoke. There was nothing to say. They just needed to ride. Another day and they would be home.

From the rear came the sudden sound of a horse’s hooves. Both Merrick and Roger reined and turned back.

Sir Isambard rode toward them hard and fast. His sword was drawn. He called out Merrick’s name.

A second later an arrow flew through the air. It hit the old knight squarely in the neck. He grunted. His horse reared and he fell.

“Scatter!” Merrick shouted, and suddenly Welshmen swarmed out from the rocks.

It was a trap.

Chapter 36

The ale casks ran dry late the next afternoon. At Clio’s order, the bottler brought the fresh ale up from storage in the buttery and served it with the evening meal. With Merrick and many of his men gone, the meals in the hall were much quieter than when the castle was full.

Because the men seemed intimidated by her presence, Clio ate her late meal in her chamber. She saw that they had a good meal, then left them to their man talk of battles and hunting and “the truly big one that got away,” whether it be salmon, deer, or a ferocious enemy.

She was still tired and her appetite was waning. She got ill, light-headed and queasy, as soon as the sun set, so she went to bed and lay there, staring at her belly as if she expected it to swell with her child right before her very eyes.

She could hear Cyclops snoring and she leaned down and peered under the bed. “Cy?”

He opened one eye and stared at her. “Merrick is gone. ’Tis safe. Come up?” She thumped on the mattress and he moseyed out, leapt up onto the bed, and curled next to her shoulder. She settled back against those silken pillows.

As she stroked him, he purred in her ear. The sound soothed her, drowned out the men’s laughter from belowstairs.

She stared at her belly for the longest time. It was so hard to believe that inside her was a life. A living being. A child. A little person who was half Merrick and half of her.

Would it be a boy or girl? Would he or she have blue eyes or green? Fair hair or hair as sleek and black as midnight?

“What do you look like?” she asked her belly. “Halloo in there. This is your mother.”

She began to rub her stomach, gently, the way she would someday rub this babe’s back.

“I shall talk to you every night, my child. Let me tell you about your father. He is, oh, so very handsome, with black hair and blue eyes and the most wonderful mouth, at least when it isn’t bellowing orders.”

She smiled. “You will be very proud of him, for he is the bravest knight in all the land. The king made him an earl. The Earl of Glamorgan. But he is better known as the Red Lion, and all fear him. But me, and perhaps Sir Roger and King Edward. You will like them and they will be your godfathers.

“But back to your father. I know him in the way you shall know him. He is a kind man and gentle, but firm, and he will not let you be anything except the best you can be. He will not be easy; however the truly wonderful thing is that he will love you with all that ferocity in his warrior’s heart.”

She began to cry a little, tears choked her throat and burned in her eyes. She placed her palm flat on her belly, hoping to feel something anything, a flutter, a heartbeat, a kick, and she wished Merrick were here, so she could tell him what they had done and see his face.

She finally had a gift to give him. “Well, my child,” she said. “Sleep well. Oh, I almost forgot. I give you my word that I will not sing you any lullabies. I realize that would be cruel for you because you would have to stay there and listen, a captive audience. You could not run away, now could you?

“I sing so poorly that I suspect you would think twice about whether or not you wanted to come into a world filled with such noise. Oh, dear Saint Swithun! I just had a horrible thought.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “I hope you do not inherit my voice. Poor wee babe.”

She sighed. “Good night, my child. Good night.” She closed her eyes, then said, “Know that you are loved.”

And before the men had even finished the first cask of ale, Clio was sound asleep.

Merrick knew something was afoot the moment he rode over the rise. He could see the silhouette of Camrose in the distance, but there was no light of any kind.

Surely even from this distance he should be able to see the torches for the watch guard. He rubbed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep. He was weary and sore from the fight they’d had in the valley, a bloody battle. Besides Sir Isambard, he had other wounded in the wagons.

And like himself, he knew his men were tired and hungry and needing the succor of Camrose.

“What is it?” Roger moved to his side.

“Look there.”

Roger followed his gaze. “Oh, God …”

A second later Merrick put his spurs to his tired mount and rode like hell toward the dark castle.

Merrick pounded on the gate, but the porter did not answer. He shouted up to the parapet but got no response.

“How the hell are we going to get inside?” Roger asked.

Merrick paced back and forth, thinking. What the hell was going on inside? He stopped and stared up at the barbican, rubbing his whiskered chin.

Then he walked over and kicked at the door as hard as he could. When there was still no response, he turned to his men. “Make as much noise as you can. Shout, yell, clash your swords.” He turned to Roger. “Come, help me pound the bloody hell out of this door.”

It did not take long for the peep to slide open, showing the glimmer from a weak candle and one black eye.

’Twas Old Gladdys.

“Unbolt the door, old woman. ’Tis I, Merrick.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Do you think me blind as well as daft?”

“Hurry. I have wounded men.”

“Is Sir Roger harmed?”

“No,” Merrick said.

At Roger’s quiet groan, Merrick reached out and grabbed him. “Move a pace,” he gritted, “and I’ll tie you up and hand you over to her. Now answer her.”

“’Tis I, Sir Roger FitzAlan.”

A moment later the bolt slid and the chains were released. Then the door opened wide.

Merrick angrily strode through the doors. “What is going on? Where are the guards? The watchmen? Why are no torches lit?” He jerked a dead torch from its iron base, dipped it into a jug of oil kept beneath, and lit it.

“Roger. See to the gates and get those men inside. Take the wounded to the hall.” He stood there for only a heartbeat, looking around him. ’Twas as if the place were abandoned.

“There’s one of your guards.” Old Gladdys pointed at a dark corner.

Merrick moved the light closer.

It was the porter. He sat on the ground a few paces away.

Searching for blood, Merrick moved closer, thinking the man dead. His back was propped against the stone wall as if he had been standing there and just slid down. His head was cocked to one side.

He was not dead. He was snoring.

Merrick shouted, “Wake up!”

’Twas as if he had not spoken, let alone bellowed, an order.

“Wake, you!” Merrick gave him a hard nudge with his foot. The man still slept.

Roger had opened the portcullis and his weary men were filing inside, the wagons lumbering behind with the five wounded men.

Merrick turned and ran through the next set of gates, pausing at each post, where every man, every guard, was sound sleep. He pushed open the doors of the great hall so hard they slammed into the walls and rattled on their hinges.

He lit the wall torches from the one he carried and light filled the keep.

At the tables, where some had been supping, his men and the guards and even the servants were all sound asleep. Some had their heads on their arms, while others were sprawled out on the benches.

’Twas as if they were all poisoned.

He ran up the stairs toward their bedchamber. He was almost afraid to open the bedchamber doors. Afraid he’d find her harmed or kidnapped by whoever had drugged his men.

But as he crossed the room to the bed, he could see her form. She was asleep, as the others had been. A sweet and peaceful look on her face. He touched her shoulder just to make certain she was alive and his eyes were not tricking him.

The Welsh could have attacked and taken all. His men, there to protect his wife, would have been sound asleep. Someone had done this. The Welsh could be mounting an attack now.

He ran down the stairs and out into the bailey, shouting orders to the tired men who rode inside. None of the guards would awaken, so he sent his exhausted men to take their posts, while he and Roger set about trying to find out how this happened.

Chapter 37

’Twas still dark when Clio sat up in bed, startled, because she was awakened by a loud cough. She blinked, then her blurred vision sharpened.

She stared at her husband.

Beneath the weak light of a waning torch, he was slumped in a chair, directly across from the foot of the bed. His long legs were out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His fingers were steepled and tapping against his thinned mouth, and his eyes were cold and clear and held no greeting, no softened look for her.

She had seen him like this only once before—in the clearing when the Welsh attacked her.

“Merrick?” She tossed the coverlet aside and slipped out of bed.

He did not speak. He did not move. He was filthy and scratched and looked as if he had fought his way across Wales.