Garron would speak to his men later. He wanted them to go among the people and find out which children were taken by this Black Demon. They would try to find them. He also wanted to visit all the graves, make certain all were properly marked. And Arthur’s grave, he thought, he wanted to visit his brother’s grave.
He asked Merry, “Did the Black Demon disturb my brother’s grave?”
There was a moment of stark silence. Merry looked perfectly blank.
“I forgot,” Garron said, “you were, after all, in the jakes.”
It was Tupper who called out, “The Black Demon paid no attention to the cemetery. His soldiers did not touch any of the graves.”
Garron said, “The king told me Lord Arthur’s men said that my brother died suddenly, with no lingering illness, with no warning at all.”
Miggins said, “ ’ Tis so. There was naught anyone could do. He was eating a lovely stew of hare, fava beans, and cauliflower when suddenly he stiffened in his chair and his face fell into his trencher. All saw he was dead. There was naught anyone could do.”
Garron fell silent, wondering at the vagaries of fate and man. How did you know of this man’s silver, Arthur? How did you manage to steal it? How did you keep it a secret? Arthur’s master-at-arms, Elkins, was dead, killed in the fighting, he’d been told, before he could be tortured. Surely he’d known of the silver, surely he’d helped Arthur steal it. A cache of silver coins would be impossible for one man to handle.
Miggins, boar grease slicking her face, sidled up to him, and grinned hugely, showing the few remaining teeth in her mouth. “Is your belly happy, my lord?”
“It is.”
“Iffen ye have money, my lord, Merry can buy all the provisions we’ll need at Winthorpe. Ye surely remember, Winthorpe is a goodly sized town right on the coast, so the trading is brisk. She said we must buy wheat for bread. And since our miller died, we must find a new man and rebuild the millhouse. We must plant seeds for vegetables and find young fruit trees to plant. We must have cloth, or wool to weave into cloth. Borran, our weaver, is alive, thank Saint Whisken’s bonny head of hair. What say you?”
“I say if there is enough meat to last for a couple of days, then we will travel to Winthorpe in the morning. Merry, I will even buy some parchment and ink so you may make formal lists.” Garron paused a moment. “I have trained my memory to keep my lists in my head, a skill you should learn.”
“Aye, a useful skill. I have always had parchment to write down my lists, but I will try.” She looked out over the great hall. “There is so much to be done, mayhap too much for me to remember since I am but a female.” She turned back to him and gave him a fat smile.
Whatever else she was, she wasn’t afraid of him. He said, “I have always believed females have too many brains.”
That was a novel thing for a man to say, especially a man who was a warrior, and she could but stare at him. Then she got to her feet and gave him a small curtsey. “I think you are wise to acknowledge it, my lord.”
He waved away her words. “The hall is no longer an airless, filthy tomb. Aye, it is better now.”
It was indeed, she thought, it was indeed.
“Is there enough meat to feed everyone until we return from Winthorpe with provisions?”
“Aye, there is.”
“I am not surprised Father Adal succumbed to matters of the flesh. Even the pope has bastards, herds of them, I’ve heard.”
She allowed a small smile. “That is what my father told me when he at last confessed to me I was his bastard. ‘A priest is naught but a weak man withal, despite his Latin.’ That was what he said.” Merry knew that to be true. The Valcourt priest, Father Minsk, was a learned man who loved God and women, in equal measure, and mayhap not in that order since he was particularly pleased when the young maids of Valcourt confessed to him in private.
“What happened to your mother?”
Merry’s brain blanked for an instant. “Did I not tell you? She died birthing me.”
“I see.” He was testing her, she realized, and that meant he suspected she wasn’t what she’d said. Oh dear. She needed better lies, ones she could call up with no hesitation. She needed to have Miggins ask her questions so she could fashion believable answers before she left with Lord Garron on the morrow for their trip to Winthorpe.
Garron turned away from her to speak to his master-at-arms, Aleric, his bald head a beacon in bright sunlight, so shiny it was. She wondered if he polished it.
Merry looked toward Miggins, who was wiping meat juice from her chin with the back of her veiny hand. She was laughing, punching an old man on his shoulder.
She hated lies.
But they didn’t journey to Winthorpe the following morning.
12
After breaking his fast the next morning with a boar steak and the last of his ale, Garron looked up to see Merry pacing, obviously anxious to leave. She looked, he thought, young and fresh and eager.
Where had she come from?
When he rose, she nearly danced to him, so excited she couldn’t hold still. He laughed. “You are ready, I see.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping the toe of her slipper. She fell into step beside him as he walked into the inner bailey.
“Do you ride?”
“Oh yes, I love to ride, my lord.” Her voice fell off the cliff. “Ah, Lady Anne—”
“Aye, the gracious Lady Anne taught you herself, is that what you were going to tell me? Did she teach you to groom a horse as well? Mayhap birth a foal?”
His sarcasm hit her broadside. Well, she knew he hadn’t believed her. She’d tried. Without thought, her head came up, her chin leading the way. “She did not have the opportunity, but it would have been as nothing to her. Lady Anne could do everything.”
“That is not what I heard,” Garron said, although he hadn’t heard anything at all about Wareham’s former mistress. He’d said it just to see what she’d do.
She jumped instantly to the bait. “There are always those who are jealous, who are mean-spirited, who are—”
“Aye, that is all quite true. Let us hope she taught you to ride well. I don’t wish to see you thrown into the dirt.”
“I can ride anything you put me on.”
He immediately turned away to help an old man carry a large plank of wood across the inner bailey to the barracks. He kept his head down so she wouldn’t see the huge grin on his face at what she’d said so unwittingly.
He met her at the portcullis, not smiling now. “I was also told my brother abused Lady Anne.”
Her jaw dropped. “Surely not! No man would, that is, well—”
Garron eyed her a moment, wondering yet again who she was, what she was, and why Miggins, and all the Wareham people for that matter, was protecting her. He turned at a shout from Tupper. He looked up at the ramparts to see the old man’s face so filled with fear he looked ready to fall over. “My lord! ’Tis a band of men, nay, an army of men, at least one hundred of them, mayhap more, all vicious looking and hard, waiting to sever all of us in two equal parts. ’Tis the Black Demon come back to butcher the rest of us and crow over our severed bodies. One Retribution wasn’t enough for him. They’re riding like the hounds of Hell toward Wareham! At least God will receive us with full bellies.”
Tupper crossed himself, eased his old bones down to his knees, and started praying, loudly.
Garron shouted as he ran to the ramparts, “Keep the drawbridge up and the portcullis down and all will be well. Aleric, get our men in position. Keep our people calm.”
He climbed the wooden stairs that led to the ramparts, broke into a run along the thick-planked walkway that went around the perimeter of the castle. He couldn’t wait to see the man who’d tried to destroy Wareham. He couldn’t wait to carve him into little pieces.
Well, damnation. He stared down not at a hundred soldiers riding at Wareham like Arabs from the Holy Land, more like thirty, all of them seated quietly on their m
ounts in front of his castle. Their leader wasn’t wearing mail. He was wearing a dark gray cloak and, of all things, a thick woolen scarf wrapped around his head. Garron recognized that scarf.
“My lord Garron! ’Tis I, Robert Burnell. I come directly from our mighty and beneficent king. May I enter?”
Garron grinned. “Is it really you, sir? A moment—we will lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis.”
Merry stood in the shadow of the deep steps leading up to the great hall and watched the soldiers ride into the inner bailey. She watched Garron step forward and help the man in the shawl to dismount.
“That is Robert Burnell,” Gilpin whispered to her. “He’s the Chancellor of England and, more importantly, the king’s secretary. Lord Garron says he’s the king’s fist, and his ears as well. Lord Garron says there’s always a candle lit in his chamber and he works harder than the lowliest serf.”
She started to say that all at court knew Robert Burnell’s habits, but held her tongue. “Wasn’t Hobbs going to see him in London?”
“Aye. I wonder why he comes here?”
Merry started to take a step forward, then realized it was the very last thing she should do. She was nothing, no one. When the soldiers parted, her jaw dropped. She saw at least a dozen pack mules laden with corded bundles. Everyone was gathering in the inner bailey, clustering around her, talking, pointing toward those mules, so excited they were very nearly bouncing on their feet. She heard Miggins break into a cheer, and soon everyone joined her. As their cheers rang through the inner bailey, several of the soldiers’ horses moved restlessly, and Merry saw the soldiers looking at each other as they quieted their mounts, then at the ragged lot of people cheering them. One soldier, ugly as a tree stump, waved a fist in victory and laughed. The cheering grew louder.
Garron waited until his people quieted, then took Robert Burnell’s hand in his. “I am delighted to see you, sir. One of my men was leaving this morning to go to you in London. About this,” he said, and waved around him. “As you can see, we are in a very bad way here. But what brings you here? Dare I inquire about those heavily laden mules?”
Burnell, who would rather have ridden a pack mule than the huge destrier the king deemed to be worthy of him, beamed. “Our king sends you bounty.” He waved his ink-stained fingers toward the long line of mules. “Two days after you left, several soldiers from Wareham arrived to tell us what happened here. Our dear king knew you would be in sore need, and he acted quickly. Mayhap it was our beautiful queen who acted more quickly, but no matter, all the mules were packed in haste. We made excellent time.”
“You said my brother’s soldiers came?”
“Not your brother’s soldiers since he is dead.” Burnell looked about him at the devastation. “Your soldiers.” He sniffed the air, studied the huddled people, then pulled the scarf from his head and wrapped it around his neck. “They did not know the name of the man who attacked Wareham, just called him the Black Demon, of all things. They said those who did not manage to escape were slain, and all was destroyed. I see they did not exaggerate. We brought the two soldiers back with us, though they are in a bad way. You may question them yourself. They also told of torture and the search for Lord Arthur’s silver coins, coins this Black Demon said your brother had stolen from him.”
Garron looked at the two men, who seemed exhausted to their filthy boots, then to the mules and back again to Burnell, who was rubbing his buttocks. He saw Merry standing in the middle of his people, Gilpin at her side. “Merry, come here and meet the Chancellor of England and our king’s secretary, Robert Burnell.”
Garron hadn’t thought about it, just opened his mouth and the words had fallen out. He watched her walk gracefully to Burnell, give him a smile and sink into a deep, very graceful curtsey. She was wearing a dark blue wool gown, a blue ribbon in her braids. He did not realize the gown was two decades out of fashion. Merry said, “Sir, it is an honor.”
Burnell stared at the lovely girl with her too-short gown that his brave mother could have worn, and thick fiery red hair braided up atop her head, hair his mother would have called a curse from Satan, threaded through with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes. She looked familiar. Aye, this girl reminded him of someone, and this someone, he realized, heart speeding up a bit, had something about her that alarmed him. Was it her red hair? He simply couldn’t remember. Alarmed him, the king’s secretary, the king’s right and left hand and mayhap on occasion all his digits as well? No, that couldn’t be right. Who was she?
Burnell arched a thin dark eyebrow. “I had not realized you had wedded, my lord. The king said nothing of it to me. Indeed, how could you have found both the lady and the time in so few days? This could be a disaster.” And he crossed himself, twice.
Garron nearly jumped a foot off the ground. “Nay, she is not my wife, sir, she merely resides here at Wareham. I am told she is the daughter of Wareham’s priest who was killed. She”—Garron paused a moment—“is smart.”
Burnell studied the strong young face, the intense blue eyes, the dark red eyebrows. Her skin was as white as the snow he’d seen three winters ago in York before human boots had blackened it.
“But priests do not wed, Garron.”
“No, they do not.”
This girl was a priest’s byblow? So, he was wrong, there was simply no way he could have seen her before. There was nothing in this girl to alarm him. His mind was getting rusty with the years. She was smart? What a thing for a warrior to say. Burnell never looked away from her. “Ah well, these things happen, do they not?” But it gnawed at him. Who did she remind him of?
“So I have been told, sir, many times.” Merry searched his face, knowing from the way he’d looked at her, that somewhere in the depths of his brain he remembered her.
Burnell waved at the men behind him. “Our dear king, our bountiful lord, sent these soldiers to protect the mules, Garron, and mayhap his lowly secretary as well. Four of the men are yours if you decide you can use them. The king said you could pay them since his, the king’s, ah, generosity, does not extend that far.” Actually, it was simply a timely accident that had brought Sir Lyle of Clive and his three men to London, so, in truth, the king had done very little, but Lord Garron need not know that. Actually, he had done nothing at all, merely nodded when Burnell told him what should be done. He said now, scrupulously honest as a man could be when he served a king, “It was our gracious queen who had household goods packed for you. As I recall, our king snorted a bit when he counted the number of bundles and the number of mules required to bring you all this bounty, but he allowed it as you served him well for three years. The queen had also just presented him with another royal princess, and that softened him. He, ah, has demanded that you return the mules to him.”
Garron managed to quash the insane desire to laugh. He’d fallen into despair and now King Edward himself had seen to his salvation, or rather he hadn’t quibbled overly when his queen had seen to his salvation. He doubted such a thing would occur again in his lifetime.
Burnell introduced him to Sir Lyle of Clive, a younger son born without lands, just as Garron had been until three weeks ago. He was Garron’s senior by at least ten years, dark as a Spanish Moor, hard and lean as the whip he carried in his wide leather belt, its leather-wrapped handle twisted around his sword hilt. His eyes were set close beneath heavy black eyebrows, eyes as black as a sinner’s soul. Why had he thought that?
Sir Lyle bowed. “I was knighted eight years ago by Lord Alfred of Crecy when I saved his life in battle, but there was naught to go with the title. I was at his side until his death two years ago.
“Last month I nearly died in a battle fought over a putrid swamp near Kettlethorpe. The mangy baron who hired me then refused to pay me and my men. He had ten soldiers surrounding him so I couldn’t kill him. When I met with the king to air my grievance, he had just heard of your troubles here at Wareham. My men and I are looking for a home, my lord, and the king said you needed men. There
are four of us. We fight well and we can work just as well.”
Garron studied Sir Lyle a moment longer. His life depended on making the right decision about a man’s character. It was odd, but he simply wasn’t certain about Sir Lyle, those black sinner’s eyes of his. Was he honest or was he a villain? At the moment, it didn’t matter. He’d brought three men, strong men by the looks of them, well fed, and that meant more hands to build and repair. He clasped Sir Lyle’s sword hand.
“Welcome to my service. I have two other small keeps within a day’s ride of here, Furly and Radstock. I have no idea if this man—the Black Demon—and his men also attacked and destroyed them. As you can see, there is much to be done here. Look yon, all the barracks are destroyed. If you wish Wareham to be your home, you must needs assist in rebuilding it.”
Sir Lyle said calmly, “My three men are hardy, my lord, all of them eager, as am I. I believe all of us would like to build for a while rather than lay waste to other men’s lands. My men are all trustworthy—well, for the most part.” Lyle gave a crack of laughter. “I saw both the outer curtain wall and the inner wall are sound and that is a relief. This Black Demon, I have never heard the name. Have you any idea yet who he is?”
“Not as yet.”
“Was your brother killed by this man?”
“No, he was not. He died suddenly before this man arrived with his soldiers. Once all is set to rights here, I will discover his name and then I will kill him.”
Sir Lyle nodded. “Aye, he should be killed. It’s easy to see the barracks were once fine indeed, and that was once a fruitful orchard. Allow me one sword slice of the fellow, my lord, when we catch him.”
Those were fine words, Garron thought, but still, he simply didn’t know about Sir Lyle of Clive. Well, he would see soon enough. No man could hide what he really was for long. He would challenge both him and his men—no, now they were Garron’s men, and Sir Lyle was his man as well—with backbreaking work and tasks they’d likely never attempted before. He saw Aleric eyeing Lyle of Clive, his seamed face utterly expressionless, then turn to the three new men, asking names, getting a feel for what each man could do, and if they could indeed be trusted.