AT HIS MERCY
By
Kim Strattford
Lizabet
leaned against the walls of the watchtower, looking over the fields in front of
the keep. She'd been doing this for three months, ever since Harold had left
with his contingent of men—could one call a group so small an army?
"You
appear the very portrait of young love." The sour voice of Beatrice, her
mother-in-law, grated on her nerves, but she resisted turning around and
engaging in the fight the woman was trying to provoke.
Instead
she let a dreamy lilt creep into her voice and said, "He'll come home to
me."
"Yes,
he will. And I will have much to tell him of how you behaved while he was
gone—how well you minded me."
Lizabet
resisted rolling her eyes. The woman was full of nothing but one impossible
demand after another. Lizabet was her daughter-in-law, not her slave.
And
truth to tell, Lizabet didn't think that her husband would be back. He'd gone
off for at most a month, he'd said. He was well overdue. A comforting absence,
until she wondered how long he could be away before others started eying his
mostly undefended castle.
"Are
you even listening to me, Elizabeth?"
Lizabet
took a long, steadying breath. Her mother-in-law called her that to vex her.
Said there was nothing wrong with a good English name. Lizabet had been born in
this land, but her mother had stubbornly held to her northern roots when she'd
named her children. It was a shame she hadn't been able to hold to life with
the same tenaciousness. She might have stopped Lizabet's father from giving her
in marriage to Harold.
"Go downstairs, Mother." It
galled her to call Beatrice that, but it was what she and Harold insisted upon.
"You'll catch your death up here." If only that were true—the
old woman grew crustier with each passing day, but showed no signs of
diminished health.
With
a grumble, Beatrice headed for the stairs.
"I
almost believed you, big sister," a softer voice sounded once Beatrice was
gone. "That you really want him back." Fredrik stepped out of the shadows,
his footfalls so light she could barely hear him, even knowing he was there.
"I
never wanted him in the first place."
"I
know. I hated him from the moment I saw him." Fredrik walked over and touched
her shoulder, the place Harold loved to squeeze too tightly. The bruises her
husband routinely left were usually hidden by her gowns, but once he'd
misjudged and grabbed her too close to her neck, and her brother had seen the
mark and been outraged. Fredrik didn't know of the other marks left on her in
places no man but her husband would see—he had no idea how ill used she'd
been by Harold.
That
great pig of a man.
She
felt Fredrik tense beside her, and his voice cracked as he said, "What is
that?"
Dust
was rising on the hill just beyond the limits of their holding. Horses coming
up fast—oh, God, please no. Not Harold, not riding in on his own power.
But
as the horses came into view, she realized the men riding them were wearing
blue and white. Harold always outfitted his men in crimson and black.
The
group reined in, and one man rode out in front, his white warhorse prancing.
"Am I speaking to the Lady Lizabet?" He looked up at her and the sun
shone on his helmet, lighting him up like an angel.
But
what kind of angel? Some were destroyers, weren't they?
"I
am she." She moved so she was more in view, heard the old men and boys
Harold had left behind trying to muster up some kind of defense.
"Fredrik," she murmured. "Tell them to stand down. Not a one of
them is in any shape to fight for us."
Fredrik
slipped away, quiet as ever.
Lizabet
moved again. "And who are you, sir?"
"I'm
your savior, perhaps. Or the destroyer of your happiness. I'm unsure how you
felt about your husband."
"I
was a good and loyal wife." All true. The fact that she hated Harold with
a passion that was far greater than any he'd ever tried to rouse from her in
their bed didn't need to be said to this man. "And you are? Name, sir, not
whimsical titles."
"I
am Thomas Ridley. Your husband had plans to take my castle. I disagreed with
those plans."
"And
my husband? How does he fare?"
"He
lacks breath, my lady."
"Temporarily
or permanently."
She
thought she heard him laugh as he said, "It is a lasting condition, I
fear."
She
closed her eyes and felt herself relax for the first time since she'd married
Harold. "I see. And what would you have of us? Did you come to sack this
place?"
"I
did not. But I will destroy it if you resist. It's my intention to take what I
want of your husband's property."
She
frowned. That could include her. "Surely not all that was his."
"I
may stand corrected." There was rich humor in his voice. "Or I may
not. Open the gates now."
Even
over the distance she sensed a resolve that told her he was not jesting. He
would destroy them all if they put up a fight. But there was something in his
voice—a goodness of some sort—that gave her a sense of security.
Perhaps
a false one? Perhaps he counted on that velvet and honey voice to lure his prey
in without a fight.
She
leaned over the inside wall of the keep and yelled down to Fredrik to open the
doors.
What
did it matter in the end? Not a one of them, other than cursed Beatrice, had
been treated well under Harold. She didn't see how anything could be worse.
##
Lizabet
met Ridley in the courtyard. He seemed to be assessing the state of those left
in the castle, and she studied him while he did that. He seemed so...familiar.
"We've
met," she said softly.
His
eyes were gentler than she expected. "Yes. We have."
"What
have you done with my son?" Beatrice pushed her way past Lizabet.
"Why do you speak to her instead of me? I am mistress here."
"It's
obvious where your son got his manners from, Madame. Or his lack of them would
perhaps be more precise." He nodded to one of his men. "See that
Harold's mother is confined to her rooms."
"Yes,
m'lord."
He
was silent as Beatrice was escorted away, then he laughed softly. "You
enjoyed that, my lady."
"I
am no lady."
"And
I am no lord. But tell that to my men." He shrugged. "Not much of a
castle."
She'd
thought the same thing when she arrived. "And not much of a feast, if you
are expecting one. Our men haven't been out to hunt in weeks."
"I
imagine not. They look like they'd be hard pressed to mount a horse much less
ride after prey."
"My
husband took all the able-bodied men with him. I assume you killed them?"
"You
assume wrong. But I won't hold that against you." His gaze fell on
Fredrik. "Why was he left behind?"
"He's
my brother. And he has shot up in height since my husband left. I think now he
would have been taken."
"Fortunate
timing for a growth spurt, then." He seemed to be watching her with a
strange expression—it took her a long time to realize it was tenderness.
"How
do I know you, sir?"
"I
sued for your hand. I was denied. We...talked when I rode out. I was angry. You
asked why."
She
made a self-mocking sound. "I was an innocent then. I didn't know my father
was interviewing suitors." She swallowed hard. "I would rather he had
given me to you."
"Our
desires are in accord, then." He studied her frankly. "Do you hate me
for killing your beloved
husband?"
She
looked away. It would be the height of dishonor to admit to this man that she
detested Harold.
He
didn't press, only said softly, "We will discuss it later." Then he
moved his horse further into the courtyard and announced to those assembled,
"Harold Trent is no more. I do not intend to hold this castle, merely to
take what is mine and leave."
There
was a general murmur of confusion.
"Any
who wish to stay here and serve Trent's mother, are welcome to. Any who wish to
join me, as many of your former lord's army did, are free to do so. I think you
might find me a kinder master than he." He looked back at her. "You
and your brother may come or stay, as you wish, Madame."
"Come
in what capacity? As your captives? As..." She could not say what she was
thinking—she knew what Harold would have made of Ridley's widow if the
situation was reversed.
Did
Ridley have a wife?
"As
my guest." His grin was sweet, and she remembered it from when they had
met before.
His
smile had charmed her. His dark hair and eyes, so different than her own blonde
hair and blue-gray eyes, had also delighted her. Harold had ginger hair and
eyes the color of a muddy stream, his body course while this man was more
slender but still strong, still capable of holding a castle.
"And
what will your wife say, sir?" The question was out before she could call
it back.
"As
I lack one, I have no idea what she might say." His grin grew brighter.
"I
cannot stay with you alone."
"You
will have your brother. And your ladies if they choose to come with us."
He winked and dismounted, striding away from her, into the house.
Most
of the servants and retainers followed him. Lizabet thought they seemed very
eager to be useful, letting him know where Harold kept his best wines, his
precious spices, his gold.
"We
can leave, sister." Fredrik sidled up next to her. "Be rid of this
place and that horrible old woman forever."
"It
isn't without danger, Fredrik. What he says now and what happens once we get
there may be two different things." She'd seen only one of Harold's band
in the group of men he'd brought with him. Where were the others he said so
willingly had joined his cause?
"I
can't take another day here, Lizabet. Please?"
She
imagined how Beatrice would treat them if the servants did leave with Ridley.
There would be no end to what she would expect of them. And soon a new lord
would come to the castle if Ridley left it standing. Harold's cousin was in
line to inherit. And Harold's cousin, from what she knew of him, seemed worse
than Harold.
"We
will go, little brother."
Fredrik
smiled and left her, following the others as Ridley took what he wanted.
##
Lizabet
had been two weeks in Ridley's stronghold, with apparently free rein to wander
as she would. All but two of her women had chosen to come with her; the other
two chose Beatrice and she felt vindicated: she'd always thought they were
spies for her mother-in-law.
She
heard the sound of fine fabric slipping over rushes, the murmured, "My
lord," and knew her women were curtseying to their new master.
"My
lady Lizabet, how fare you?" He asked her this each time they encountered
one another, but she was in his presence much less often than she'd expected.
He hadn't abused her in any way, taken nothing from her, and always given a
smile.
Her
ladies loved to speculate. Lizabet ignored them most of the time.
"A
word, my dear?" He took her elbow, turning her away from her women,
leading her down the hallway. "Your cousin is here."
"My cousin?"
He
smiled. "Harold's cousin. He's taken over Harold's castle, has made it
clear he will not seek retribution against me and mine."
"He
has always seemed more...practical than Harold when it comes to risking his
life or fortune."
"Then
you approve of him?" He looked disappointed. "He has asked that you
be returned to the bosom of your family."
"They
are not my family," she nearly
spat at him and was surprised to see a look of relief on his face. "He's
always looked at me in a way I did not like."
"I
see." He took her arm, tucked it into his and led her further away into
the castle. "There is a problem. Your parents are dead. You have your
brother, that is all. And your family's lands and fortune were taken by the men
who defeated your father. There's nothing for your brother, even if he is the
rightful heir."
"I
know." She sighed, thinking of how her brother had raged over this. Too
young to defend what was his, too unskilled to challenge for it. She often
wondered if that was why he worked so hard to walk unheard—so he could
steal it back?
"What
your husband's cousin asks is reasonable...for a widow as yet unmarried."
"Then
you will give me to him?"
"That
is not precisely what I meant." He grinned and led her around a corner.
A
priest stood waiting. One of Ridley's men and one of Harold's who had gone over
to Ridley's side were also in the room.
"If
we were married, I would be well within my rights to deny him his
request."
"Married?"
She could feel her legs trembling, wrenched herself from his grasp, and sat in
one of the chairs set along the wall.
"Leave
us for a moment," he said, and the priest and men walked out, giving them
the room, the sound of candles sputtering the only noise as she stared at the
floor. "What is it? Is the thought of marrying me so unpleasant? Would you
rather go to a nunnery?" His voice was a mix of hurt and sincerity.
"You
would send me to one?"
"If
I displease you so much, then yes. But you didn't seem displeased by me that
day we talked on your father's fields."
She
could feel herself blushing. "I wasn't. Had I known that was why you were
there, I would have been quite delighted." She met his eyes. "Until I
found out he'd chosen Harold for my husband."
His
gaze was so tender, the way he touched her cheek so gentle, that she whispered,
"He wasn't kind to me."
"I
don't believe he was kind to anyone. So many of his people left with very
little thought. That's indicative of a cruel master."
"Yes.
Cruel." She met his eyes. "Especially cruel to me. In..." She
could not bring herself to say it.
But
he seemed to understand anyway. Regret and anger warred in his expression.
"In the bedchamber?"
"Yes,"
she whispered. "I don't anticipate his cousin will be much better. He is,
last I heard, looking for a new wife. His first one died—she was healthy
before she met him."
"I
cannot take away what has been done. But I can promise that Harold's family
will never touch you again, not while I'm alive."
"And
you? Will you touch me? If I were your wife, you would have that right."
She hoped she was hiding her fear.
He
didn't rush to assure her he wouldn't touch her, and she was grateful for that,
because it would have been a lie. Men took. She'd seen it with Harold and with
his friends—how they'd treated their wives, women such as herself who'd
probably once been full of life...and trust. Harold and his kind were hard men,
and the only joy they took in softness was in destroying it.
"I
wouldn't treat you as he did."
She
thought that was true. And she knew the same would not be said of Harold's
cousin. "Call the priest and the witnesses back, then. I cannot return to
my old life. And Fredrik prospers here." Ridley had given Fredrik
remarkable latitude to roam the castle, even had his men teaching him how to
fight, something Harold had refused to do.
"I
like the boy." Ridley smiled sadly. "He reminds me of my own
brother—a fever took William when he was a little younger than
Fredrik."
"I'm
sorry you lost him. I know so little about you, despite the fact that we are
going to marry. I guess that's customary? It's how it was with Harold,
too."
"It
often is. And I know little about you. But we can change that. If you
wish?" He took her arm again and led her up to the priest. "It will
have to wait until after we've wed, however—I'm looking forward to saying
goodbye to your irritating relative."
##
Marriage
didn't change anything for Lizabet, except that she no longer had to worry
about her or Fredrik's future. Ridley had already given them full run of the
castle and had obviously ordered his men to treat her and Fredrik with the
utmost courtesy.
She'd
watched from the battlements as Harold's cousin rode back to his castle. And as
he went, she thanked God that she wasn't riding at his side.
Now,
life was calm. Ridley invited them to eat with him most nights, something she
usually did. Fredrik talked to him as if he were an old friend, chattering on
about what he'd learned from the arms master or from the aged huntsman who ran
the kennels.
"Lizabet?"
Ridley was standing at the door to the inner courtyard she'd chosen as her
haven for the day. "Would you fancy a picnic?"
She
laughed. "You and I?"
"And
Fredrik. He's already getting food from the kitchen for us. He said you were
perhaps a bit bored...?"
"It
wouldn't be very gracious of me to be bored with my savior or his home."
"You're
alone. Other than at dinner, I have kept myself removed. I wanted to let you
settle in, find your own way. And I had business of my own to attend to. But I
have time today. Now, do you wish to ride out with us?"
"Yes."
"He
said you would. I've already got Lucelier saddled for you."
"How
do you know I prefer her?"
He
shot her a pleased smile. "Even from a distance, I am learning your likes
and dislikes."
"And
which of those categories would you be in, Thomas Ridley."
"I
fervently desire to be in the first. With kittens and warm summer rain."
"Kittens,
yes. Rain is never warm here."
"I
stand corrected."
Fredrik
came in holding a bag that looked like it contained enough food for a small
village.
"Ah,
good work, my boy. Shall we?" Ridley held his arm out to her.
"We
shall." She felt a strange stirring inside her as she took his arm, a warm
rush of heat as he turned his smile on her, a smile that made his eyes crinkle
and sparkle with life.
Such
a handsome man.
"We
should do more such things. We are a family now, after all." He said it
loudly enough for Fredrik to hear.
Her
brother turned around, grinning at her. "And a family we are honored to
belong to. Finally."
She
didn't know how to improve on what he'd said, so she squeezed Thomas's arm and
said only, "Indeed."
##
That
night, Lizabet roamed the lower level of the castle, unsure what she was
seeking, why she felt so unsettled.
"Can't
you sleep, my dear?"
She
turned, saw Thomas on the upper level staring down at her, the candles throwing
golden lights on his hair. "I can't," she said.
"Come
talk to me." He held his hand out.
She
laughed. "In your chambers? We have been married two months now and I've
not seen them." Her smile died. Did he really want to just...talk? Did he
not desire her? "You've waited so long. Has it been easy?"
He
laughed, a short bark of sound that made her smile. "Easy? No, my
dearest." When she reached the top of the stairs, he took her arm, tucked
it into his, and led her to his bedchambers. "But it was necessary."
He gave her belly a significant look.
"Ah.
You wanted to be sure I was not carrying Harold's child."
He
nodded. "The doctor thought time would be the best way to tell. I'm sorry
if I made you think I didn't want you."
"You've
been so kind. Even if you didn't want me, I would still be grateful for your
company."
"That's
intolerable, Lizabet. That your life has been so harsh you would find a kind
word such a solace." He bowed her into his rooms, then shut the door
behind her. "Did you take no pleasure from your marriage bed?"
"It's
hard to take pleasure in something that only brings pain."
"I
would kill him again if I could." He led her further in, to the chamber
where his bed was. The covers looked as if he'd been tossing and turning.
"You'll never have to share this with me if it's something you cannot
bear."
"I'm
a strong woman, Thomas. I can bear many things."
"My
name sounds lovely when you speak it." He touched her hair, which she
hadn't put into a braid before she began to wander. "If you're with me, I don't
want you to simply bear our time together."
He
had the look Harold often had worn, only on Thomas, it wasn't full of violence,
only of wanting. He pulled his hand back slowly, as if he regretted having to
let go. She stopped him, drew him closer, and leaned her cheek into his palm.
A
shiver of heat traveled from where his flesh touched hers, a strange feeling
rose in her belly. Not nerves, exactly. "I wish my father had chosen you
for me."
"I
have never stopped wishing that." He pulled her to him, leaned in, and she
realized he was moving slowly enough that she could stop him if she wanted to.
"I love you, my Lizabet."
And
then he was kissing her, and it was nothing like Harold's violent attacks on
her mouth. Thomas's lips were like velvet, and she felt the shock of heat again
when he pulled her against him, when he opened his mouth to hers and she let
him in.
He
eased her robe and shift off, and stepped away, seemed to be drinking her in.
She thought she should feel ashamed but she didn't, wanted him to approve of
what he saw—wanted him to desire what he saw.
He
pulled off his clothing, much more roughly than he'd done with hers, as if he
could not wait another moment, and then he took her hand and led her to the
bed. They lay, skin to skin, and he kissed her again, running his hands up and
down her body with reverence but also with sweet humor. He smiled often, asked
softly if something was all right, if she liked what they were doing.
She
was breathing hard as he began to follow his hands with his lips, his kisses no
longer confined to her lips and cheek and neck but down, to her breasts, his
soft suckling leaving her breathless.
Then
he kept going, down and down, to the very heart of her, and she arched up into
his mouth as he made her feel things utterly new. She felt a strange calm, a
moment where everything faded away except for the pleasure he was giving her.
And then the stillness broke, and she was crying out, arching again, and he was
holding her firmly, not letting go until she lay panting.
He
slid up, kissing her way along her body, laughing softly as she arched when he
hit spots that had never been so sensitive before. "I believe you enjoyed
that."
"I
did." She pulled him down to her and kissed him, tasting a bit of herself
on his lips.
He
moved over her, waiting until she smiled to move into her. He was larger than
Harold, but the joining didn't hurt the way it had with Harold. When Thomas
urged her to wrap her legs around him, she did.
This
divine closeness—her mother had said that once, when Lizabet had asked
her what being married to a man would be like. This must have been what she
meant.
Thomas
was moving faster, murmuring sweet things in her ear, things that made his
thrusts not an attack to be feared but welcomed. She pulled him down to her,
kissed him as he moved faster and faster and then he cried out. Her name.
And
she laughed like a little girl and murmured, "I love you."
It
might not be true, not yet, but it would be. If this was how life could be.
He
cupped her cheek with his hand, then slid to the side, pulling her into his
arms. "You enjoyed that, as well?"
"I
did." She smiled and laughed again—she hadn't laughed like this
since she was sent away with Harold. "I believe I will enjoy it again.
If...you wish to do it again."
He
kissed her forehead and said, "Again and again and again. Until we are old
and gray."
"Or
until the sun comes up?"
"Or
until then. Fortunately, it goes down with as much regularity as it comes up.
We will have many evenings." His look changed; he looked like a naughty
boy caught in the sweets. "And we will have many mornings. There will be
afternoons where we could slip away."
"So
many times? Will it not fall off with so much use?"
"I
don't believe so, no." He pulled her to him and kissed her again, and this
time there was a lightness, a sureness. "You're delightful."
"You
are, as well."
"Well,
now that we have that settled..." He took her hand and slid it with his
down his body. "Look what is stirring."
"Can
it be? Resurrection comes so quickly, my lord." She found it hard to keep
a silly grin off her face.
He
didn't appear to be even trying. "You may have some responsibility for my
vigor. So many things to do, my dear. So many things to find out about each
other."
"So
long as we both shall live. That was the vow we took, wasn't it?"
He
kissed her tenderly. "So long as we both shall live."
END
©
2020 by Kim Strattford