Margaret Moore - The Unwilling Bride

Peder scowled. “You think that means anything?”

Constance thought of Merrick’s tone and the look in his eyes when he vowed to respect her and to protect the women of Tregellas. “Yes, I do. At least, I hope so, and so far, he’s done nothing to make me believe otherwise. Maybe it’s because he was sent away from here so young. Perhaps Sir Leonard taught him to be a better man than his father ever could.”

“The boy decrees the man, my lady, and I’m old enough to know,” Peder declared as they walked toward the Maypole. “If that’s the Merrick who left Tregellas fifteen years ago, that’s a man you shouldn’t marry, or he’ll make you miserable, as his father did his poor mother. She was a gentle soul, and she thought she could change her husband. She found out quick enough she couldn’t, and many of us thought it a mercy she died giving birth to the boy.” Peder paused, and when he began again, his voice was thick with emotion. “You know what his father did to my daughter, my lady, and what became of her. Despair and disgrace and then…”

“Yes, Peder, I remember,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “I will be wary. I promise. And there is something else I must tell you, while I have this chance. Merrick is determined to uphold the king’s laws against smuggling. You should cease for the time being, and pay taxes accordingly.”

“What, give all that money to the Norman king?”

“Lord Merrick may not prove to be as cruel and vindictive as his father, but until we know for certain, I think it would be best to be cautious. I appreciate that means less money for you, but that’s better than death, isn’t it?”

“That tax isn’t fair.”

“That’s why Alan de Vern and I were willing to turn a blind eye. Perhaps in time, Lord Merrick will come to appreciate that, but until then, I fear for your safety if you continue. Please, Peder, for my sake. You are like a grandfather to me and if anything happened to you…”

Peder looked at her with love in his steadfast brown eyes. “And you’re as dear to me as any granddaughter could be.” His gaze turned intense and he lowered his voice so she had to strain to hear him. “I think you should run, my lady. Run as far and as fast as you can from that Merrick.”

“I have thought of that, Peder,” she answered just as quietly. “But what would I do? Where would I go? How would I live?”

“I’m not the only one in the village who loves you like family, my lady. We know how many times you calmed the old lord when he was in one of his rages, and spared many a man’s life and a woman’s honor when you did. If you want to run away, come to me. We’ll help you get away and keep you safe.”

Although she was grateful for this offer, Constance felt no real relief or joy. If she got away, she would have to travel far before she could feel safe. She would be alone, in a strange land, among foreigners. She would be poor, for she wouldn’t take much from the villagers, who had little enough as it was.

Right now, that fate seemed far more lonely and frightening than…staying here.

Yet when she saw how anxious Peder was, she gave him a thankful smile. “I promise you, Peder, that if I decide to flee, I’ll come straight to you.”

“HURRY, CONSTANCE, HURRY, or the game’s going to be over!” Beatrice chided with bubbling enthusiasm as she led her cousin toward the river meadow a short while later.

“I think there’s plenty of time left,” Constance said, reluctantly following. She had no desire to lend her support to something she feared would end in disaster.

As they approached the mill, she was sure it had, for it sounded like a riot was already under way. Gathering up her skirts, she started to run.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Beatrice cried, hurrying after her.

“Go back to the castle,” Constance ordered over her shoulder. The last thing she wanted was for Beatrice to be involved in—

A cheering, extremely excited crowd?

That was what met her eyes as she rounded the mill and discovered groups of villagers gathered at the north edge of the meadow, shouting encouragement to the village men dashing about the field. Off-duty soldiers not involved in the game were gathered at the other end of the field, likewise shouting praise and suggestions to their fellows.

She came to a halt, panting. She was thrilled she was wrong, of course, but even so, one hard hit could still lead to trouble.

Beatrice stopped beside her. “I didn’t mean we had to run,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“I misjudged the cheers,” Constance admitted. “I thought the men were fighting.”

“Oh,” Beatrice murmured, her attention now fully on the game.

Or at least the half-naked players, Constance realized with a bit of a jolt. For half-naked and sweating they certainly were.

She was no sheltered child, and neither was Beatrice. They’d seen half-naked men before, and men wearing even less working in the fields on a hot summer’s day. Nevertheless, the sight was certainly…disconcerting.

“I just hope nobody gets hurt,” she said, trying to pay attention to the game.

Beatrice gave her a confident smile. “They’ll all be careful, I’m sure. The garrison won’t want Merrick to be angry with them—which he would be if someone got hurt and he had to pay—and the villagers will be afraid to hurt the soldiers because they won’t want to anger Merrick, either.”

That was very likely true, Constance thought with some relief. Then she wondered why that hadn’t occurred to her. She’d obviously been too distracted by…other things.

“Isn’t that Lord Merrick on the field?” Beatrice asked, pointing.

Surely not, Constance thought as she followed her cousin’s gaze. But unless she was going blind, the man in the front of the pack chasing after the ball, with his dark hair streaming behind him like a pennant, was the lord of Tregellas himself. His powerful arms churned and his long and graceful strides reminded her of a stag bounding over the moor.

Constance could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes. Yet wasn’t that Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf running neck and neck behind him? “By the saints,” she murmured, aghast at both a lord engaging in such play and the sight of her betrothed’s undoubtedly fine body.

“Oh, look! There’s Sir Henry!” Beatrice cried, jumping up and down in her excitement. “He’s got the ball!”

Henry deftly passed it back to Merrick, who charged up the field, keeping the ball just ahead of his rapid feet.

Who was winning? It was hard to tell, for both the villagers and the soldiers were cheering wildly. Constance spotted Talek, the garrison commander, among the soldiers and, taking hold of Beatrice by the sleeve, pushed her way through the crowd of men surrounding him. They were so intent on the game, they didn’t realize who was shoving them aside until after she’d gone past.

She tapped Talek on the arm to get his attention. “Who’s winning?” she shouted over the din.

“It’s a tie,” the middle-aged soldier answered just as loudly. “But we’ve got his lordship, so it’s going to be us who win. I’ve never seen such a fine—”

His words were drowned out by a great roar from the spectators. Merrick had stumbled and nearly fallen, but in the next moment he recovered with a fluid twist of his body. Then he ran even faster, as if that brief setback only spurred him on.

He was nearly at the two posts stuck in the ground marking the goal. The soldiers shouted themselves hoarse. The villagers screamed at their men, and some groaned with dismay.

Constance tried not to get caught up in the excitement. She was a lady, after all, and thus should behave with decorum and dignity. Besides, it was only a game. It didn’t matter who won, as long as fighting didn’t break out.