She could hear him remove clothing. The soft swish of cloth against skin. His footsteps on the carpet, then the gentle tap on the stone floor.
From the corner of her eye she saw him cross the room and hang his leather jack and linen shirt on a peg nearby. She could see skin, bronzed, slick skin.
The comb slipped and flew from her hand. She muttered something vicious.
Merrick crossed to her in a few long strides. He bent down and picked up the comb.
She stared at his bare back, the broad and tight muscles and gleaming skin. She forgot to breathe.
“Turn around.” His look was indulgent and it might have irritated her if it weren’t for the fact that she wanted him to comb her hair. She wanted him to touch her.
She faced the fire and waited, trying not to look smug.
His hands were gentle. He drew the comb through her hair in long, sure strokes. When the comb hit the tangled ends, he just lifted it and slowly worked the comb through with a gentleness she wished Dulcie had.
The girl always pulled out huge clumps of Clio’s hair, so that once in a while she accused the maid of trying to snatch her as bald as Walter the Miller.
But Merrick again showed to Clio his gentle side, by the care with which he combed her hair, as if he thought it of great value. He was completely silent. The entire time, as if this were the most serious of tasks. The only sound in the room was that of Cy’s snoring on the bed. And the loud thumping of her nervous and foolish heart.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back a little. He rubbed his hands through her hair, massaging her scalp and temples. She moaned because it felt so good.
He stopped abruptly, his hands threaded through her damp hair.
She opened her eyes, looking at him with her head tilted back so his face was upside-down to her. Even in this position, she could see his features clearly.
His look was pained, as if she had hit him with her fist.
She straightened and turned around. ’Twas then she saw the desire on his face. He was trying to hide it, to control his passion the same way she did. And it looked as if he was no more successful at hiding his feeling than she was.
She studied him more closely, and found she liked what she saw. His face and features, the ones she had once thought were too hard to be handsome, now appealed to her in a way that made her weak when she looked at him.
His dark brows and clear, light eyes. The jaw that could clench so tightly in anger framed the dark whiskered cheeks that showed deep slashes when he grinned or smiled.
His mouth was wide and thinned because of his tenseness. But she knew it could be soft and could make her feel things she had not believed existed.
He looked away from her as if forced to do so by something stronger than both of them. He blindly handed her the comb, then crossed over to a chair opposite her with no explanation.
He sprawled in the chair as if he had no bones left. He looked ill at ease and continued to stare at the fire, saying nothing to her. ’Twas almost as if he were a thousand miles away.
“What is wrong?”
He gave a sharp and brittle bark of laughter that she had not expected. “Wrong?” He shook his head. “Nothing, except that tomorrow cannot come too soon for me.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Aye. Tomorrow.”
“Are you leaving?” She hated the weakness she heard in her voice. It was as if she were saying, “Don’t go.”
He turned toward her, really looked at her then, plainly surprised and puzzled by her words. “No, I’m not leaving. The king is coming here tomorrow.”
“The king is coming here?” she repeated, her voice sounding squeaky and as if it belonged to a village fishwife, not to her.
“Aye.”
She forgot to breathe. He was mad of course. He had to be. Completely insane. The king at Camrose, surely not. How could such a thing be hidden from her? She waited for him to explain.
He did not, but just sat there.
Finally she asked, “What do you mean the king is coming here?”
“The king. Edward,” Merrick said, still sprawled back in his chair.
“Edward?” she repeated stupidly.
“Surely you have heard of Edward. The son of Henry and Eleanor, the man who wears a crown, sits on a throne, and rules England.” He straightened and added in a mocking whisper, “He’s married to the queen.”
The look she gave him should have cooked him. “You did not tell me the king was coming.”
“Did I not?”
“No.” She stood and looked down at him. “You did not.”
“I was certain I told you the king was coming.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You did
not
tell me the king was coming.”
“I remember telling you there would be only one more delay until we would marry. That day on the battlements. I remember it distinctly.”
“Aye, you did say that, but you failed to mention that the ‘one thing’ was the King of England.”
“Well, now you know,” he said casually, as if he were speaking of the time of day or the color of the sky and not something as important as a royal visit. “He is coming tomorrow,” he added. “For our wedding.”
“Our wedding?”
“Aye.” He gave her a long and confused look. “Why are you so upset?”
“You did not think to tell me that we would wed tomorrow. I
am
the bride.”
“No. Because we will not wed tomorrow. It will be in few days. So what?”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I thought I had.”
“How could you think you told me something and yet you did not?”
He shook his head, plainly confused. “I’m not certain how to answer that. I do not understand you.”
“Would you have me shamed before my king?”
“How could you be shamed, woman? There is no shame on you. Besides, ’tis not only the king. The queen is coming, too. She will keep you fine company, as will many of the courtiers who will come along.”
At that, she lost the ability to speak. He could not be that stupid. Could he?
“We are to have a proper wedding,” he continued as if the most important ceremony of her life were nothing to concern her. “I am the king’s earl and you are his ward. The archbishop himself will marry us,” he told her proudly.
“The whole court? The archbishop?”
“Aye. ’Tis nothing to send you into a dither. They are human like us.”
“Are you mad?” she began to pace the room, waving her hands in the air. She could not believe this. “I have nothing ready for them. Where will they sleep?” She stopped pacing suddenly. “Dear God in heaven, what about the food? Where will we get the food to feed so many?”
“There will be a hunting party the first thing tomorrow. No one will starve.”
“You oaf! Do you not understand anything?”
He leaned forward in his chair, suddenly tense, his look dark. “I understand that this morning you could not get enough of me.”
She flushed.
“And I understand that if you call me an oaf again, I shall not remain in this chair for long.”
She couldn’t help herself. She began to cry.
“Are you crying?” He sat there as if he did not know what to do. “You are crying.”
She sobbed and sobbed. “How could you do this?”
He stood up, yelling, “What the bloody hell have I done? I do not understand you. Any woman would be proud to have the king at her wedding. ’Tis a great honor.”
“I know,” she wailed. “But I will be shamed. Camrose is not ready for a royal visit.”
“Of course, it is. They finished the stone bridge over the new and wider moat yesterday. The towers are stronger. There are now both an inner and outer barbican and two iron portcullises. I have the walls manned with the best of my men-at-arms—archers, the very best. Longbowmen, trained to protect. No harm could come to the king, the queen, or the court while they are at Camrose. You should be proud, woman. Instead you are standing here blithering.”
“I am not blithering,” she said through her tears. “How could you not tell me the king and queen were coming?”
“I thought I did tell you!” He bellowed.
“Out!” she pointed toward the door.
“What did you say?”
“I said get out!”
“And if I refuse?”
She threw her head back and marched toward the door.
“Do not touch that door,” he warned.
She glared right at him and grabbed the door handles.
He did not move. He looked as if he could not believe she was defying him.
The insensitive and heartless oaf! She turned around and grabbed his sword belt with both hands. The thing felt as if it weighed more than she did. How did a man wield such a thing?
He watched her then, clearly amused. “And what are you going to do with that? Cut out my black heart?”
“After tonight, my lord, I am certain that you have no heart.”
“Put it down, Clio.”
“You cannot tell me what to do.”
“You are mine, woman.”
“Not yet, I’m not. You forget we are not married.” She jerked open the doors. He did not move but stood there, looking amused.
She dragged his sword out the doors with her.
His laughter followed her. “After you figure out how to lift that weapon, what do you intend to do with it? I have a plan,” he bellowed after her. “You can kill the king with it so he won’t notice your poor housekeeping.”
She slammed the doors on his laughter as hard as she could, pulled the sword from its sheath, and wedged the strong, forged blade through both the door handles.
She stood there, waiting a moment.
It did not take long for him to push on the doors. With his battle sword tightly wedged in the iron handles, the doors did not budge.
“What the hell … ?”
There was a long pause.
“Open this door, Clio!”
She blithely plucked a torch off the wall. Humming, she turned and walked merrily down the stairs.
“Woman!”
She paused on the steps, her face level with the bottom of the doors. She could see the shadow of his big feet under the crack between the floor stones and the bottom of the wooden doors.
“Aye, my lord?” she asked sweetly.
“Open this door.”
“I have much too much to do. After all, Merrick, the king is coming.” Then she left.
The Maid of the Green Forest
(Second Stanza)
Oh, take me to thy fair palace.
Oh, take me for thy queen.
And racy wine shall then be thine
As never a man has seen.
—from “The Legend of King Alaric’s Wife,” ancient Welsh folktale, first put into written verse by John F.M. Dovaston, 1825
Chapter 29
Edward the First, King of England, and his queen, the younger Eleanor, rode through the gates of Camrose Castle the following day. Golden bells rang from the gold braided halters on their matched white mounts. Those perfect horses were almost as richly dressed as the king and queen.
Heralds had ridden ahead and were mounted atop the wall walks. Their horns were hung with the banner of Edward Plantagenet, and they played their horns to announce the arrival of the king and his beloved queen.
Behind the royal guard came the pennants of the church, the cross upon a field of red to stand for the blood of Christ. Clad in gold and white was the archbishop, his cloak lined with white fur and his guard dressed in gold armor with surcoats emblazoned with the cross. Behind them followed cardinals in crimson red and bishops in white and silver.
Then came a bright and bejeweled train of nobles, their fine ladies riding at their sides. All were clad in richly colored garments of crimson, amber, emerald, and sapphire blue, and decorated with the heavy raw jewels favored in the Plantagenet court.
The royal train ran as far back at the eye could see, a gay and impressive ribbon on the horizon. With them came wagons and oxen carrying gifts to Camrose and to Earl Merrick. These were presents from the king to the honored man who would wed Lady Clio of Camrose, the king’s own ward.
At that very moment, said ward stood beside her betrothed in all her glorious and golden beauty. In looking at her, few would know what was going through her busy head.
Clio stifled the first of two sudden urges: to yawn, for she had been awake all night seeing to the readiness of the castle and servants. She supposed the king would feel justified in ordering her beheaded if she were to look upon all this pomp and honor with the least amount of boredom.
She knew she was supposed to look suitably impressed. ’Twas hard to be impressed when she was overcome with another even stronger urge: to kick the king’s earl as hard as she could.
She wondered what would happen if she were to just draw back her foot and …
“Do not even think about it.” Merrick warned without looking at her.
She stiffened. Could the man read her mind?
“You are wearing that look, Clio.”
“What look?”
“The one that signals trouble as surely as if you bellowed a battle cry.”
“I do not know what you could possibly be yammering about,
my lord
.”
“Look impressed,
my lady
, or you will offend our monarch and my friend.”
She plastered a weak smile on her face and did her duty. Not because Merrick ordered her to, but because she had her own pride.
She would not let anyone know how she felt. No one. She would not show that she was hurt and ashamed that Merrick would treat her so callously.
It bothered her as much as his abandonment had, though perhaps this time she felt more betrayed, because she had thought he was different. She would hold her head proud and pretend she was happy.
She looked at the king, who was riding through the gates. She had not met the man before. Only his father, Henry, and his fearsome and manipulative queen, the older Eleanor. ’Twas that woman who had so quickly banished her from court.
She knew some of Edward, a man who had proved himself to be a doer instead of a dreamer. Some said he was a framer of just laws and a man of sharp intelligence.
He had learned battle tactics and mechanics of war under the tutelage of the great Simon de Montfort, a man whom he later defeated in a treasonous rebellion against Henry. It was said Edward won his victory over the barons with a master tactician’s skills, and he defeated de Montfort at his own game.