She hadn’t considered that. But she wasn’t willing to yield. “And it’ll make them thirsty, too. We could have a gang of drunken soldiers wreaking havoc in the village.”
“If that happens, they’ll be severely punished. I also intend to provide meat for the villagers’ feast, as well as ale. And I shall give my assurance that if any of my men cause serious harm or injury, or damage any property, the injured or aggrieved parties will be amply compensated.”
This was more generous than most lords, and far, far more generous than his father had ever been.
Perhaps he was trying to buy the villagers’ approval. If so, he was going to fail. The folk of the Cornish coast were far too independent to be purchased.
“I have another reason,” he said, taking a sip of wine before setting the goblet on the table behind him. “Such competitions also keep the soldiers fit for battle or long marches.”
She still wasn’t willing to concede. “Whatever your reasons, my lord, this may create more trouble than you can foresee, and whoever wins, I doubt the villagers are going to be any more inclined to look on your soldiers favorably.”
“If my people are honest, they’ll never have anything to fear from my soldiers. If one of my men commits a crime, during May Day or any other time, he will be punished to the full extent of the law,” Merrick said as he walked around the table.
As before, he sounded sincere…or else he was very good at pretending to be.
He made no move to sit. He stood tall and imposing, like a judge. Or a king.
“Although I hope to be merciful,” Merrick continued, his expression stern and his voice grim, “I won’t allow my people to flout the king’s laws. Smuggling, for instance. I’ll punish any smugglers I capture and confiscate their contraband for the king.”
How like his father he sounded then! Except for the part about mercy. And the contraband. Wicked William had never made any pretense to be merciful, and he would have kept any contraband for himself.
“If they smuggle, my lord, it’s because they feel justified in avoiding a harsh and unfair tax,” she explained, taking the people’s part as she had so many times before. “Cornish tinners are taxed at twice the rate of those from Devonshire, for the foolish reason that Cornishmen speak a different language. Therefore, according to the clever minds in Westminster, Cornwall must be a foreign country. But if it were a foreign country, the king would have no right to collect taxes at all. I ask you, is that fair? Is that just? Is it any wonder the men who digthe tin from the ground believe they have every right to hide some of their profits from the crown?”
Merrick was obviously unmoved. “The tinners pay no tithes, they are exempt from serving in my army, they have their own courts—far more rights than most. Would they agree to give up those rights, and cease smuggling, if the king reduced their taxes?”
She fidgeted on the stool. He had, unfortunately, hit upon a truth she couldn’t deny. Smuggling had a long history in Cornwall, and unless taxes were abolished completely, it would likely continue forever. “You seem very well versed in the rights and privileges of the tinners.”
“I did spend the first ten years of my life here. But as I’m also a knight sworn to the king’s service, I’ll enforce the king’s laws.”
She heard the implacable tone, saw the determination in his eyes. If she pushed him any more on this subject, he might finally lose his temper, and there was another important matter they had yet to resolve. “Very well, my lord. Have the foot ball game, and punish smugglers as the law allows. However, you must not choose the Queen of the May.”
She had caught him off guard. “Why not?”
“Because, my lord, the last time the villagers allowed your father to choose the Queen of the May, he dragged her off, had his way with her and then passed her to his bodyguards to do with as they pleased.”
She’d watched, terrified, as Wicked William had dragged the shrieking, crying, terrified young womanwith a circlet of flowers in her hair toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber. His fiercest mercenaries who made up his bodyguard—frightening, vicious men she’d ordered from Tregellas the moment he’d died—had followed him, laughing and joking about the lord and his conquered queen.
“Oh, God,” Merrick whispered. He splayed his hands on the table and bowed his head. “I should have guessed he would…”
His words trailed off as he stared down at the table. “My father left me quite a legacy,” he muttered after a long moment of silence.
In spite of his bitter words, she would feel no sympathy for him, as he had none for his overtaxed people.
He raised his head and regarded her with that unwavering stare with which she was getting familiar. “I give you my word, Constance, that the women of Tregellas need never fear me. They need never hide from me. As lord of Tregellas, it’s my duty to protect them, and that I will do, if it costs me my life.”
His voice was strong, resolute, his gaze steady, and in his eyes, she saw complete honesty. Who would not believe him?
He straightened and started around the table toward her. “Perhaps choosing the Queen of the May will prove that I’m different from my father, and that they need not fear me.” He reached down and, taking Constance’s hands in his, pulled her to her feet. “If you stand by me when I go to the village on May Day and pick a queen,the village will see that the only woman I want is the woman I’m to wed.”
God help her! Why did he have to touch her? Why did he have to say that, and in that deep, rough voice that sounded so intimate, as if he was whispering beside her in bed? Why did he have to look at her that way?
If he kissed her again, she would slap him. She would. She really would.
How far away was the door?
“Perhaps you can tell me who I should choose before the festivities,” he suggested. “I’m not ignorant of the tensions and conflict inherent in the choosing of one woman over another, and your knowledge of the villagers can steer me to the least controversial choice.”
If she refused, he might continue to try to convince her, to sound even more persuasive. “As you wish, my lord.”
