The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

“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.