The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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that, even in the midst of her own concerns, made Constance shiver.
Henry, however, merely rolled his eyes. “God’s wounds, Merrick, it was a slip of the tongue.”
“So you said. Will you never learn to think before you speak? Your stupid jest could have cost me dear.”
“Well, obviously it didn’t,” Henry said, nodding at the crowd.
Several villagers clustered around Annice and Eric, admiring her ring. Two girls were trying to get a circlet of flowers to stay on the queen’s glossy tresses, laughing as it fell first to one side, then another. Others had already retired to the alehouse and tavern, where the innkeeper had set up tables and benches outside so his customers could observe the entertainers. Several couples were beginning a round dance near the Maypole, and children were anxiously and eagerly gathered there, waiting for that part of the festivities to begin. Many were already eating sweetmeats and other treats, to judge by the remainders around their mouths.
Henry turned to Beatrice and Constance for support. “It wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
Not unexpectedly, Beatrice smiled and shook her head. Constance, however, was not so inclined to agree. “The women here have had good cause to fear their overlord in the past. Your jest might have made them think their days of dread were not yet over.”
“I must have these people’s trust, Henry,” Merrick said. “I can’t allow anyone to undermine it.”
“Of course I understand that—”
“No, I don’t think you do, or the magnitude of the mistrust and hatred I have to overcome here if I’m to rule and my family be safe.”
“He’s right, you know,” Ranulf remarked before Henry could reply. “It wouldn’t be the first time a war got started over a few ill-chosen words.”
“Then maybe I ought to leave,” Henry said with obvious annoyance.
“Oh, surely not!” Beatrice cried, looking beseechingly from Constance to Merrick. “He didn’t mean any harm, my lord, and you’ve been such friends in the past, it would be terrible to break it off over such a little thing.” She gestured toward the green. “See? Nothing’s amiss. Everyone seems happy and content. Surely as long as Henry behaves honorably—which I’m certain he will—there’s no cause to banish him. Sir Henry will be more careful in the future, won’t you, Sir Henry?”
A swift glance at Lord Carrell told Constance her uncle was also suspicious of Beatrice’s defense of the roguish and handsome young knight.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Henry said with genial remorse. “I promise I’ll be as serious as a monk after a two-day fast from here on.”
“Then you may stay—provided you curb your tongue.”
Henry put his hand on his heart and bowed. “If I ever speak in a way that leads to trouble for you, you may cut it out.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Henry reddened, then smiled, although his eyes were not so merry.
Ranulf clapped a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Let’s go get some ale and watch the dancers, my swift-tongued friend.”
“Come, Beatrice,” Lord Carrell ordered as the two knights walked away.
Whatever Beatrice was thinking, she meekly followed her father from the dais. Lord Algernon bowed and hurried after them, leaving Constance alone with Merrick.
“I want to meet Peder,” he announced, to both her surprise and chagrin. She’d been hoping to abandon him.
“I don’t see him in the crowd, my lord,” she replied.
Merrick nodded toward the smithy. “Isn’t that Peder sitting outside the blacksmith’s?”
Since Merrick was, unfortunately, right, Constance had to agree. “Yes, but I don’t think you need me to—”
“I would prefer it.”
His words didn’t offer the possibility of refusal, so she silently led him toward the smithy, making easy progress because anyone who was in their path quickly got out of it.
Peder, whose eyesight was remarkably good for a man of his years, soon realized they were headed toward him, yet he made no move to stand until they reached him. Then he got to his feet, smiled and bowed to Constance. “My lady.” His expression hardened as he bowed to Merrick. “My lord.”
“Please, sit,” Merrick said in Cornish after Constance had made the introductions.
Peder and Constance exchanged surprised looks as Peder obeyed.
“I did spend the first ten years of my life here,” Merrick said in answer to their silent query, “so it shouldn’t come as a shock that I can speak the native tongue.”
“It’s been fifteen years,” Peder said, as if he suspected this was some kind of trick.
“I kept in practice by saying my prayers in Cornish,” Merrick explained. “But that’s not what I wish to discuss with you, Peder. I gather Lady Constance relies on you for information about the villagers.”
Constance stared at him with offended dismay. How had he come to that outrageous conclusion? She had never said that, nor would she ever betray the villagers’ trust.
“Lady Constance and me are friends, from when she was a girl,” Peder replied with scorn. “And neither of us are the sort to carry tales.”
“I meant no insult,” Merrick replied, glancing at Constance before again addressing Peder.
She wondered if he realized that he’d affronted her, too. Or cared if he had.
“I’d appreciate any guidance as to how I can best govern my people,” he said, “from a man who’s lived here all his life and has the respect of everyone.”
Was this a genuine request, or did he seek to flatter Peder into cooperation? Yet there was a tension in Merrick’s shoulders, as if he cared what Peder would do, or say, that seemed to belie that motive.
Peder regarded the nobleman steadily, without a hint of fear or favor, and Constance detected a note of pride in his voice when he answered. “It’s hard to tell what folks really think when you’re a great lord, I suppose. Too many tells ’em only what they want to hear.”
“A man in power needs trustworthy advisers,” Merrick agreed, his body still tense.
Would he heed a wife’s advice? Or would he pay attention to his betrothed’s views only until they were wed?
“You’d have me advise you, eh?” Peder asked, making no secret of his skepticism.
Merrick frowned, but she thought she saw disappointment lurking in his eyes, not anger. “I remember you from when I was a boy,” he said. “You were considered a good man. I could use the help of a good man.”
Constance hoped he never found out Peder had been smuggling out a significant portion of his tin for years.
“Please God, I’ll always be a good man, as much as one can be in these troubled times,” Peder said. His expression darkened. “But I’ll not spy on my friends.”
Merrick looked genuinely surprised. “Have I asked you to do so?”
What did he want, then?
“As I said, I remember you from before I left Tregellas,” Merrick continued. “I seek your help, if you’ll give it. Whether or not you do, I want to help you.” He went down on one knee so that he was looking directly into Peder’s face, his gaze searching for…what? Understanding? Agreement? “My father sinned greatly against your daughter, Peder, and caused your family much harm. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Although nothing can replace your daughter and her son, if there’s anything you ever need to make your days comfortable, you are to tell