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The queen was right. “All right, then I must go to Jason of Brennan’s holding. But I do not know where it is.”
Burnell said, “I remember some two years ago, Jason of Brennan’s father, Lord Ranulf, gave him a small keep called Swaines. It is but a half-day’s ride from London.”
Garron nodded to Burnell. “If Jason took her there, I know I will find her mother there as well. I have no doubt the two of them decided together to kidnap her.”
The king looked amazed. “And they decided to kidnap her out of the White Tower? Out of her bedchamber in the White Tower? That is indeed a great show of audacity.”
Burnell said, “Indeed, sire, it demonstrates a great gall. Now, Garron, you know very well that if he has her at Swaines, he will wed her the moment he can drag her in front of a priest. Then he will bed her without delay. I fear it will be done before you can get there.”
“No,” Garron said. “You do not know Merry like I do. She knows I will come after her. Somehow she will stop him, at least delay him. I would not be surprised if she killed him.”
“Your regard for her blinds you, Garron,” Burnell said. “She is but a girl, no guile at all, no skills, no ability to hold off a man.”
“Do you not remember how she brought down that man who was holding a knife to her neck?”
Burnell, if Garron wasn’t mistaken, muttered a very small curse beneath his breath.
The king said, “But surely Jason of Brennan knows I have given her to you, Garron. Is he that great a fool, that mad, to run afoul of me?”
Burnell said, “He doubtless believes once the deed is accomplished you will have no choice but to accept him, sire.”
The king grunted. “I doubt not he would agree to give me more than you did, Garron, if I agreed to leave his head attached to his neck.” Then the king laughed, punched Garron on the arm. “Go find your maid, my lord. I only hope you find her untouched. Tell Whalen he and ten of his men are to accompany you.”
“And I, my lord,” Sir Lyle said from the doorway. He was dressed, his sword strapped at his side, his cloak over one arm.
But Garron knew the king would be loath to kill Jason of Brennan if he had already wedded and bedded Merry. He came from an influential family: his father, Lord Ranulf, was long known by the king, one of his most powerful allies.
“It matters not what has happened, sire, I still plan to kill him. Do not forget, he murdered my brother, he sacked Wareham, and killed many innocent people. If he has taken Merry, if he has harmed her, even forced her to wed him, he is still just as dead.” In that moment, he pictured Merry studying a scrap of parchment, a thoughtful expression on her face as she detailed another item to her list of what should be done to Wareham. She was smart. “I know her. Somehow, she will stop him.”
When Garron was gone, the king turned to Burnell. “I do wonder how he knew Merry was in trouble.”
“Men are known for their intuition, sire. Yours, I vow, is the mightiest intuition in the realm.”
“Your bedrobe is unbelted, Robbie. I can see your hairy knees.”
35
Merry smelled rotten eggs and gagged. She slowly opened her eyes, and wished she hadn’t. The room was spinning around her. She quickly shut her eyes again.
The smell of rotten eggs floated by her nose once more, and she heard her mother’s voice, brisk, impatient, cold as an ice floe, “Wake up, Marianna. It’s past time.”
Merry licked her dry lips. “That smell is horrible.”
“You will accustom yourself to it soon enough. Open your eyes and sit up. You have been asleep for a very long time. I was growing worried that my favorite sleeping potion was too strong for you.”
Merry sat up, felt a wave of dizziness, and tried to swallow the bile rising in her throat, but she couldn’t keep it down. She lurched up and vomited in the basin her mother held in her hands.
She couldn’t stop. Her belly convulsed and cramped and she heaved and shuddered until there was naught else to come up, and still she couldn’t stop heaving. Her stomach felt like it was grinding itself to pieces.
“Drink this.”
Merry could only shake her head and heave again over the chamber pot. She wished for that awful numbing sensation, for her belly was on fire, the cramping so bad she knew she was dying.
Her mother grabbed her braids and pulled her head back. She poured the liquid down her throat, then held her mouth shut with her hands.
She gagged but swallowed. The taste was as horrible as the potion she’d brewed for Miggins’s cough. “I’m dying, poisoned by my own mother. Surely, madam, that is very wrong and God will punish you. Not to mention that my betrothed will gladly stick his sword into your heart.” She swallowed and swallowed again. The liquid burned a trail down her throat all the way to her belly. The burning expanded until all of her was suffocating from the inside out. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck in any air. This was death, she thought. She felt her mother release her and push her back against the pillow. She waited for death, for there was naught else
she could do. She didn’t want to believe it, but then her belly began to calm. The fire lessened and grew distant from her, but still, she didn’t move, even when her mother lightly slapped her face. She waited for the death cramps to return, the awful gagging. But nothing happened. She opened her eyes. Her mother was carrying the chamber pot to the door of the small chamber. “Glenis, come empty this.”
