Awakening His Lady (2 page)

He moved his hand to touch her there, to make sure that she was ready. By all indication, Meri wanted him as much he wanted her, but still he had needed to know.

“Are you really sure, Meri?”

“I am,” she'd answered evenly, though her voice was low and drunk with pleasure. “Stop asking me, you oaf.” She placed her hands on his buttocks, as if to steady and direct him.

He needed no guidance. He'd envisioned this moment for years. He slipped inside her and she cried out, causing him to pause.

She took a breath and let her knees relax, freeing his movement so he could glide deep inside her and withdraw without impedance.

Her fingers dug into his back and she squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks flushed. He kissed her, his Meri, over and over again—on the lips, on the eyes and on her chin, all the while rocking, thrusting.

A deep, throaty sound of sheer pleasure slipped from her lips.

Thomas pressed her down into the straw, feverishly thrusting as deeply as his senses would allow. She writhed beneath him and kissed him hard before a shocked cry escaped her throat. She shuddered and her spasms gripped him so, he erupted, releasing wave after wave of unrestrained pleasure.

Afterward, they'd slept little—entwined together on his cloak in a bed of straw—awakening to renew their loving. Meriom smiled, her eyes filled with bittersweet contentedness and sadness. “When you return from the war, a hero and victorious, you will find me waiting, my spirit soaring. I will love you, Thomas Addecker, always.” She slipped the golden ring from her hand and placed it on his little finger.

When the sun rose over Edmington that morning, Thomas left feeling like a different man, a whole man, larger and fuller, connected to his love, his Meri—and to life.

 

His brain lost in the fog of sleep, Thomas opened his heavy-lidded eyes, barely conscious of the dwindling campfire, or of the damp grass that prickled at the back of his neck. But there was movement beside him. By the saints! Meri hovered in the camp shadows. Blessed mother, he was so dirty and unkempt, and the stink of another man's blood clung to his shirt. “Oh, Meri, I am still the man you knew, still the man who loves you.” The words slipped past his lips in a whisper.

She said nothing, but he felt her ring sliding from his little finger. Heaven help him—had she come to take it back?

Thomas snapped his eyes open to see Galvon bellowing down at him. “Get up! The French are upon us!”

Thomas scrambled to his feet, the cries of men rising from the meadow, traveling up the hillside. The sound of steel clashing and horses whinnying cracked the air, greeting the dawn sky.

Young Able let out a terrified scream. Panicked, he cowered, frozen in place, clinging to the pole beneath King John's silken standard as if it were a shield.

Thomas jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him toward the woods. “Run, Able! Run to the other camps and tell them!”

Turning, he faced a French lanceman in a blue tunic emblazed with Philip's golden
fleur de lis
. The soldier wielded a small sword, having lost his lance in the charge. Killing eyes blazed through the slits in his helmet.

Sword in hand, Thomas lunged. With an agonized cry, the man collapsed, his shoulder shattered. Blood gushed down his chest. The man looked at his wound, his face as white as ash, his eyes filled with panic. His hand covered the gaping gash as if he hoped to staunch the bleeding. He flopped back, his head lolling to the side. His eyes, unfocused, he stared into the sky. “
Janette
.
Mon amour
,
Janette!
” he cried.

Thomas' stomach clenched. God forgive him, he took no pride in this. He'd taken yet another life, the life of a man whose heart had lived and loved…

“
Le broyeur,”
the Frenchman groaned through gritted teeth. “There are a hundred more like me, coming up the hill. God rot you.”

 

Berwick the picker man moved amongst the dead carefully, watching where he stepped. There were more fallen Englishmen than French, and the band of bodies he'd stumbled upon appeared to have been attacked before they'd had the chance to don their mail. He'd seen carnage in his day, but he could not recall having ever seen so many dead, heaped upon one another like broken dollies. Boys as young as twelve and men older than he had died today. The very sight before him made his eyes turn teary. Bouvines would be a battle long remembered—a French victory that'd sent King John and a handful of his noblemen running back to England, outnumbered and outfoxed.

He called to his dog. “Come, Bannie. 'Tis enough.” He patted the leather pouch on his hip heavy with rich trinkets—golden chains, bejeweled daggers and a fine pair of silver spurs, encrusted with mother-of-pearl. Under English law, a picker could keep the things a dead man's kin or debtors did not claim.

Bannie walked slowly, awkwardly dragging a roasting stick bearing the leavings of a soldier's dinner.

Berwick shook his head. “Leave it, ya greedy little mutt. Let the gypsies and the vultures have the rest.”

He turned and stumbled on the body at his feet. A fleck of gold in the mud caught his eye. “Eh?” He cocked his head and squinted, peering down at the dead man in the mud.

Kneeling to get a better look, Berwick spoke to his dog, unconcerned that it never answered. “What have we here?”

He tugged the ring from the man's little finger and rubbed the dirt and the blood from the engraving. “'Tis English. From the county of Edmington.”

The dog dropped the stick and pricked his ears. Berwick smiled. “Aye, 'twill bring a pretty penny. This poor knight must be kin to a baron, or at least a high retainer in a baron's service.”

He glanced down at the despairing face of the young English knight who lay on his back, his lifeless eyes staring at heaven. An arrow had caught him through the throat, but he must have gone down fighting. With his other hand, he clutched his well-wrought broadsword, its blade imbedded in the smashed helmet of a dead Frenchman. The Frenchman's glassy eyes stared out the helmet's eye holes right at Berwick with a look of disbelief.

Berwick shuddered. There were anguished souls floating all around him, spirits of the dead who could not yet believe they
really
were dead.

He thrust the gold ring into his leather satchel. “Come, Bannie. The last of King John's shattered army marches out at dusk. They will not wait if we are late,” he said, his voice wavering. “'Twill soon be dark and I'm afeard of ghosts.”

 

The quiet beauty and the peace of the falling snow blanketed the countryside below the castle walls. There were no men training in the yard this late in the day, and the village cottages lay snuggled in white, smoke rising from their chimneys, drifting into the evening sky. Meriom wore a shapeless gray dress and a brown veil. She'd long discarded her brightly colored gowns in favor of the nunlike garb. But beneath her bodice, she'd tucked the ring—wearing it now on a leather string around her neck. It was too precious, too sanctified to display. She rested her hand on her breast, covering the cherished ring as she did a thousand times a day, and relived that moment two years ago when the picker man had come to Edmington Castle.

“My lord,” he'd said, bowing to her father. “I have sad news.” He pulled the ring from his satchel and set it on the dais. “I believe this belongs to one of yours.” He kept his eyes down. “He was felled at the Battle of Bouvines. He died valiantly with his sword in his hand. I saw to it he was blessed by an English priest and buried.”

The great hall fell silent. Even the dogs stopped barking.

Meriom's father turned his head slowly, his face stricken. He looked at her with pity.

“Meriom, my daughter,” he'd said softly, his voice just a whisper. He reached for her hand….

The picker man was handed a small purse filled with gold coins and ushered from the hall. The guests left and Meriom sat at the dais with her father well into the night. He held her while she cried, the ring clutched in her fist.

Meriom covered her face and held her breath. The tightness in her chest never eased. The piercing pain in her heart never lessened, no matter how many times she relived the memory. And yet the world went on as if Thomas were not dead.

Why were the seasons passing as if nothing had happened at all? Why did crystal snow blanket the earth before it yielded to the spring sun—with its flowers and rejuvenating warmth, if Thomas were dead? What more did she care for life or living?

Blessedly, resignation came as it had so many times before, and cloaked her with the numbness of grief and supplication. She would take the veil and cloister herself away, shielding her from all that reminded her of Thomas—the forest paths where they'd ridden together, the bramble garden where they'd strolled for hours talking, the stable loft where they'd loved the night before he left.

Meriom closed her eyes. She could not forget the feeling of him inside her, of his heavy male scent, nor the warmth of his bare skin as they lay together afterward. Nay, she could not forget any of it, but she did not have to live here where the memories were reinforced, causing her to suffer. She would soon join the good sisters at Rothman Abbey. Already she had donned the clothing, and had long since turned away all suitors, much to her father's displeasure.

As she sat in the window seat and stared at the falling snow, her father crossed the room to stand beside her.

“Meriom, will you do me the favor to change into your finest gown for the feast tonight? There will be masks and frippery, and noble jewels for show. At least wear the velvet damask your mother gave you, and lace your hair with the pearls she wore. Tonight we celebrate the winter feast. Save this gown and veil for Rotham Abbey.”

His sad eyes fell upon her. There were lines in his face she'd not noticed before.

Obediently she rose and kissed his cheek. “For you, I will.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled softly. “I thank you. And would that you should know—tonight a suitor comes. He will attend the feast.”

Meriom halted. “But you promised. You promised there would be no more.”

“Aye, I bid him come before I gave consent to let you go to Rotham. Now I am honor bound to let him try. What can it hurt for you to entertain him?”

“It will hurt you. You secretly hope for a miracle,” she added, lowering her voice. “You will be disappointed again. I cannot give my heart to another.”

“I could force you to take a husband, but I will not. Though my friends scoff at my weakness.” He sighed. “But if you believe you have the calling, I shall honor that because I love you. In two weeks I shall give my only daughter to Rotham Abbey.” He released her hand.

“Father, I—”

He waved her away. “Go on, daughter. Ready yourself. Try to be gay this evening and dance with all the handsome lords and knights.” He eased into the chair. “'Tis the end for both of us.”

The grave finality of his tone discomforted her. He was not old and sick. She was not going to her death, but to an abbey, a sanctuary where there was peace. He would come to visit her as often as allowed, wouldn't he? She would still look upon the stars at night, and feel the autumn breeze on her cheeks, still take comfort in the sound of children laughing and the taste of pears soaked in honey—wouldn't she?

And nay, she'd not forgotten she'd vowed to Thomas to marry if he were killed, but she was stronger then and truly believed he would come back. Surely he couldn't blame her for her decision.

She slipped from her father's room to her private apartments, where her ladies had already laid out her clothes in preparation for the feast, hoping past hope that she might actually wear them.

Mayhap she should try, just once, to honor the vow she'd made to Thomas. It would also please her father. Tonight was her last chance. If she failed in her quest, her conscience would be free.

She pulled her brown veil from her head. “Elinor!” she called. “Fetch my silver belt and pearls!”

 

Thomas Addecker kicked the snow from his riding boots and stepped beneath the archway that opened into the great hall. Boughs of evergreen and dried apples hung from every sconce and mantel. The high table, draped in cloth of red and white, was filled with guests, silver plates and food. Below them sat the merchants and the town officials, and below them sat the peasants. The poor devoured the only decent meal they'd have this winter, while those more fortunate, or drunk, took to the center floor and enjoyed the bell dance—where lovers angled to pass beneath the mistletoe and steal a kiss.

Blessed saints, he and his Meri had once waited for the bell dance like children waiting for a plate of sugared plums. They'd held hands and exchanged secret looks of impatience until the musicians brought the baskets filled with bells. They'd danced, he and Meri, stopping beneath the mistletoe to kiss at every pass. And when the music ended, she'd slipped the players a coin or two to start again. By the end of the evening, he, Sir Thomas Addecker, so in love with the woman he'd vowed to honor always, could barely keep his hands off of her. And she, Lady Meriom, laughed and sweetly teased him, slipping her hands beneath his tunic and caressing him just so, driving him to blessed madness. 'Twas the dreams and memories like this that had kept him alive, when by all accounts he should be dead.