The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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such activities from my boyhood here and assumed they still continued.”
“There have been some changes since your boyhood, my lord.”
He ran a swift gaze over her. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”
She frowned. “My lord, this is a very serious matter, and you’d do well to listen to me.”
Furrows of concern appeared between his brows. “Very well, my lady. Explain what has changed.”
How could she possibly make him understand? she wondered as a blast of wind sent another barrage of rain against the tower walls. The tapestry nearest her billowed, as if someone was hiding behind it, although that was impossible. There was no room; she’d supervised the hanging of it herself.
Nevertheless, she shivered and wrapped her arms about herself as she began to explain why there should be no competition between the villagers and the garrison, and especially why he should have nothing whatsoever to do with the Queen of the May. “The men of the garrison are hardened soldiers and they can be brutal when their blood is up. That may serve you well in battle, but can lead to trouble during such sport. The last time there was a foot ball game between the garrison and the villagers, the smith’s son was nearly killed by one of your father’s bodyguards.”
Merrick wordlessly rose and brought the brazier full of glowing coals closer to her chair. She was grateful for the added warmth, and as he moved, she tried not to notice the lithe, athletic grace of his actions, or the power of those broad shoulders and the arms that lifted the heavy iron brazier as easily as another man would a slender branch.
When he went to the small side table that bore a silver carafe of wine and some goblets, her gaze traveled to his equally powerful thighs encased in snug woolen breeches, and his muscular calves.
“Wine, my lady?”
Blushing like a silly girl caught ogling a soldier or servant, she looked quickly up at his face, then away to hide her foolish reaction. “No, thank you.”
He poured himself some wine before strolling back toward the table, bringing the goblet with him. “Such activity is good for my men. It encourages camaraderie between them, and given what I remember of the games in my boyhood, should ensure a healthy respect for the abilities of the villagers—whose blood, I believe, is just as swift to rise. I recall they were fierce competitors. Has that changed?”
She hesitated to answer, because he was right. If the young Eric hadn’t been so keen to get the inflated pig’s bladder through the sticks at the west end of the village, he wouldn’t have collided with that mercenary and subsequently been struck so hard that he’d been knocked cold.
“Well?” Merrick prompted.
“I think they will give your men a battle—which is just what I’m afraid of. This ‘sport’ could turn into a riot.”
“I won’t allow that to happen.”
If ever there was a man capable of holding off a riot single-handedly, she was looking at him. But she wouldn’t grant him that concession. “If you’re able.”
Merrick gave her the closest thing to a genuine smile she had yet seen. “I think between Henry, Ranulf and myself, we can control my men, especially if they’re tired from running after a ball. That’s another reason I would have the game. It will weary my men and prevent them from expending their energy in more harmful ways during the festivities.”
She hadn’t considered that. But she wasn’t willing to yield. “And it’ll make them thirsty, too. We could have a gang of drunken soldiers wreaking havoc in the village.”
“If that happens, they’ll be severely punished. I also intend to provide meat for the villagers’ feast, as well as ale. And I shall give my assurance that if any of my men cause serious harm or injury, or damage any property, the injured or aggrieved parties will be amply compensated.”
This was more generous than most lords, and far, far more generous than his father had ever been.
Perhaps he was trying to buy the villagers’ approval. If so, he was going to fail. The folk of the Cornish coast were far too independent to be purchased.
“I have another reason,” he said, taking a sip of wine before setting the goblet on the table behind him. “Such competitions also keep the soldiers fit for battle or long marches.”
She still wasn’t willing to concede. “Whatever your reasons, my lord, this may create more trouble than you can foresee, and whoever wins, I doubt the villagers are going to be any more inclined to look on your soldiers favorably.”
“If my people are honest, they’ll never have anything to fear from my soldiers. If one of my men commits a crime, during May Day or any other time, he will be punished to the full extent of the law,” Merrick said as he walked around the table.
As before, he sounded sincere…or else he was very good at pretending to be.
He made no move to sit. He stood tall and imposing, like a judge. Or a king.
“Although I hope to be merciful,” Merrick continued, his expression stern and his voice grim, “I won’t allow my people to flout the king’s laws. Smuggling, for instance. I’ll punish any smugglers I capture and confiscate their contraband for the king.”
How like his father he sounded then! Except for the part about mercy. And the contraband. Wicked William had never made any pretense to be merciful, and he would have kept any contraband for himself.
“If they smuggle, my lord, it’s because they feel justified in avoiding a harsh and unfair tax,” she explained, taking the people’s part as she had so many times before. “Cornish tinners are taxed at twice the rate of those from Devonshire, for the foolish reason that Cornishmen speak a different language. Therefore, according to the clever minds in Westminster, Cornwall must be a foreign country. But if it were a foreign country, the king would have no right to collect taxes at all. I ask you, is that fair? Is that just? Is it any wonder the men who dig the tin from the ground believe they have every right to hide some of their profits from the crown?”
Merrick was obviously unmoved. “The tinners pay no tithes, they are exempt from serving in my army, they have their own courts—far more rights than most. Would they agree to give up those rights, and cease smuggling, if the king reduced their taxes?”
She fidgeted on the stool. He had, unfortunately, hit upon a truth she couldn’t deny. Smuggling had a long history in Cornwall, and unless taxes were abolished completely, it would likely continue forever. “You seem very well versed in the rights and privileges of the tinners.”
“I did spend the first ten years of my life here. But as I’m also a knight sworn to the king’s service, I’ll enforce the king’s laws.”
She heard the implacable tone, saw the determination in his eyes. If she pushed him any more on this subject, he might finally lose his temper, and there was another important matter they had yet to resolve. “Very well, my lord. Have the foot ball game, and punish smugglers as the law allows. However, you must not choose the Queen of the May.”
She had caught him off guard. “Why not?”
“Because, my lord, the last time the villagers allowed your father to choose the Queen of the May, he dragged her off, had his way with her and then passed her to his bodyguards to do with as they pleased.”
She’d watched, terrified, as Wicked William had dragged the shrieking, crying, terrified young woman with a circlet of flowers in her hair toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber. His fiercest mercenaries who made up his bodyguard—frightening, vicious men she’d ordered from Tregellas the moment he’d died—had followed him, laughing and joking about the lord and his conquered queen.
“Oh, God,” Merrick whispered. He splayed his hands on the table and bowed his head. “I should have guessed he would…”
His words trailed off as he stared down at the table. “My