It was not his words so much as his tone that made her shiver with sudden fear.
“What fools would ambush us, my lord?” Lord Osgoode asked incredulously. “We have over fifty men.”
Merrick twisted in his saddle as if he wanted to seehis men and confirm they were there before he answered. Constance had never seen his face so pale, his eyes so bright.
“Obviously you’ve never been ambushed, my lord, and all around you slaughtered,” he answered. “I have, and I will take no chances.”
That silenced Lord Osgoode.
Whatever Merrick was thinking or remembering, his voice was firm and steady as he called for the master-at-arms and ordered him to have the mounted men break into three groups—one to ride in front, one to ride beside Lady Constance and Lord Osgoode, and one to ride at the rear.
Once all were in position, he raised his hand and signaled them forward.
MERRICK HAD RISKED DEATH and injury many times in tournaments and training. He’d fought at Sir Leonard’s side during some skirmishes with a disloyal castellan who had refused to give up a keep when Sir Leonard put a new man in command. On those occasions he’d felt not fear, but a grim determination to prove himself.
Yet those battles had been on open fields, or in the case of the castellan, on the wall walks and in the wards of a castle—open areas, not enclosed by trees.
Sometimes it took only the scent of damp foliage to bring back the terror. The memories of the screams of injured and dying men. Sir Egbert lying on the ground, staring at the sky with dead, wide-open eyes. The fiercely scarred leader of the soldiers, tough and frightening himself, shouting his orders, trying to turn his horse. Then shrieking as his arm was sliced from his body. The servants slaughtered where they stood, regardless of rank or age. The boy his own age, his neck slashed and his tunic stained with blood. Everywhere, the blood.
And then running through the trees, the underbrush scratching and tearing, until he fell exhausted and could run no more.
Merrick gripped his drawn sword tighter and tried to put those thoughts from his mind as he rode into the wood. He had won tournaments. He was a good fighter, and well armed. It would take bad luck, or a mistake on his part, for him to fall.
His horse could fight, too, with teeth and hooves. He had many other soldiers with him. Even Lord Osgoode would have been trained to defend himself.
Yet in spite of all his silent reassurances, sweat trickled down Merrick’s back, making the padded gambeson he wore beneath his mail stick to his skin.
Because greater than his dread of the dark, damp wood was his fear for Constance’s safety, perhaps her very life. He silently cursed his stubbornness and vain pride that had insisted that she come. He should have let her stay in Tregellas, where it would be harder for an enemy to hurt her. Even if it looked odd, or made the earl and other noblemen speculate, he should have insisted she remain behind.
How much farther to the end of these woods?
The master-at-arms had told him there was a monastery not far from here. If they made it out of these woods safely—when they made it out of these woods safely—they would stop there, so Constance could rest. She’d not uttered a single word of complaint, but he was sure she was tired and probably sore. The groom had told him, in answer to his question, that Lady Constance was a good rider, but rarely ventured far. She’d likely already been longer in the saddle then she’d ever been in her life.
He never should have married her. He never should have made her the wife of a man detested and mistrusted by the villagers and tenants, so that there would always be the dread that they would rebel.
He never should have asked her to betray the trust of those same villagers and tenants. Or else he should have told her how pleased and relieved he was when she had not, for otherwise, he could never trust her, either.
He did trust her, as much as he trusted anyone.
Which was never, ever completely. He didn’t dare. His secret was too terrible. His friends would despise him, the earl would strip him of his estate and Constance…she would rightly wish him straight to hell.
Merrick’s horse skittered nervously. He’d been gripping too hard with his knees. He relaxed his hold and looked ahead.
In the distance the road began to widen and the trees thinned. Thank God. Not long now.
The memories receded, back into the place where hekept them, along with the fear of discovery that haunted him night and day. He even ventured to half turn in his saddle—to encounter Constance watching him intently.
He faced forward immediately and cursed himself for a fool. He was a hundred ways a fool, and if he needed any proof, he had only to look at the woman he was making miserable.
At last they came out of the wood. Broken, rocky moor stretched toward the sea to their left. The land to their right had been cleared for pasture from the road to the top of a ridge running parallel to the muddy track. Beyond the field, the forest continued. A stone cottage and some outbuildings were not far off. The turn for the monastery should be in about another mile or so.
Merrick ordered the men to sheath their swords, and so did he.
As they rode on, the air was very quiet and still, the only sounds that of their cortege: the creaking wheels of the baggage carts, his men’s marching feet, the horses and their jingling accoutrements. At this time of day the men were too tired for much conversation. Nor could he hear the soft murmur of Constance’s voice, and the lower tones of Lord Osgoode as he spoke to her.
She’d been acting unlike herself since he’d chastised her about her remarks to Osgoode. Even if he did fear being accused of trying to rob the king of his birthright, and although he didn’t trust Osgoode, he shouldn’t have lost his temper. Despite that, Constance had apparently agreed that he was right and sought to repair any damage she might have caused by acting like a simpleton. Only a man of Lord Osgoode’s prejudices wouldn’t see that she was merely acting like a fool. He’d caught Ranulf staring at her with blatant bafflement, and Beatrice had looked puzzled, too.
There was no activity at the farm ahead.
