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Such rotten luck. She’d crept out of the great hall, stolen a stable lad’s clothes, pausing beside an outbuilding when she’d heard the soft breathing so close by.
And then the shock of pain in her head and she’d heard nothing else. She’d awoken soon thereafter to find herself a prisoner, thrown over the legs of a huge, smelly lout whose hand lay on the small of her back, holding her steady.
When he’d seen she was awake, Sir Halric called a halt. He told her who he was and said he was going to give her a rare surprise, and then he laughed. “A different destination for you, lass, and a surprise for all. What luck, and all because of me and my quick brain.”
“Your quick brain had nothing to do with aught,” she’d whispered, and thought he’d clout her, but he didn’t. Surely he was going to give her over to Jason of Brennan. What did he mean about a different destination? With her spate of bad luck, whatever his plan for her, she knew it wouldn’t be good.
Life was not fair.
But now everything had changed.
Three men were dead, but Sir Halric had escaped, curse the fates. What would he do? He was running for his life away from the young warrior, this Garron, she’d heard his men call him, so Sir Halric probably believed she was with him, believed she was now safe. He’d lost, he’d lost. She fancied she would turn those lines into a fine song.
She came up on her hands and knees, her head down, breathing slowly, waiting for her belly to settle. She slowly raised her head, waited for the dizziness to pass, and looked around. She could ignore the headache pounding over her left ear. It would be dark soon. She wasn’t more than ten miles from Valcourt—not that it mattered, because that was the last place she could go.
Valcourt was no longer her home, not since her mother had come back, not since she’d brought Jason of Brennan. She wondered what the king would do now that there was no male heir, that there would be no male heir after what had happened. He’d find her a husband, that’s what he’d do, mayhap a man as rotten as Jason of Brennan.
Once the king’s man arrived at Valcourt, what would her mother say about her daughter’s disappearance? She’d lie, of course.
Merry felt tears burn her eyes and blinked them away. After all, she was not at this moment being forced to wed Jason of Brennan. She was alive and free, all but one of her captors dead. Surely that bespoke a benign God. Surely that meant her luck had changed.
Now all she had to do was survive. And she would. She wasn’t a helpless girl, she was a boy. What’s more, she could read and write and make lists, and she would survive.
Her father was dead. She felt again how his hand, squeezing hers so tightly, had suddenly become limp. She’d known the exact moment he’d died. She swallowed tears. She would grieve later.
She’d never forget the young warrior’s name—Garron—he’d saved her life. All right, he’d saved a boy’s life, but he need never know the difference. She’d heard of Wareham Castle, who hadn’t? It wasn’t as large as Valcourt, but still, it was of great strategic importance, she’d heard her father say once. Why not go there? She could hide herself easily within those massive walls, mayhap she could assist the steward. Maybe she
could become the steward. She dragged herself to her feet, gritted her teeth against the pain in her head, and trotted after the five men.
5
WAREHAM CASTLE
ON THE NORTH SEA
Garron couldn’t believe the pleasure it gave him to ride across the drawbridge, horses’ hooves loud on the wood and iron. He looked up at the four large square corner towers, the high stone walls. Wareham Castle, now his.
But wait, where was everyone? Why were there no soldiers lining the ramparts calling down at him? And why was the drawbridge down? With night coming quickly, that wasn’t wise. He threw back his head and yelled, “I am Lord Garron, Earl of Wareham! Raise the portcullis!”
There was only silence.
Aleric yelled, “Raise the portcullis! Your master is here!”
Still silence.
He felt sudden fear, cold and heavy. Something was wrong, very wrong. Then he heard a shaky old voice call out, “Are you really the new Earl of Wareham? Are you really young Garron?”
“Aye, I am Garron of Kersey. Who are you?”
“I am Tupper, my lord.”
By all the saints’ hoary elbows, old Tupper, Wareham’s porter since long before Garron was born, he was still alive? “Have men winch up the portcullis, Tupper.”
“There’s no one save me here, my lord, but I can do it!” Garron heard the sudden grit in that old voice.
Hobbs said, “Is that old varmint as ancient as he sounds, Garron?”
“Older.” Tupper had been stooped with years and worry and very few teeth in his mouth when Garron had seen him last eight years before.
