Chapter 3: Cloudy or Fair
Merlin woke in the early gray dawn to two sensations. The first was a stiff aching soreness up his shoulders and down the backs of his legs, reward of the first steady manual labor he'd put his hand to since trying clumsily to farm his father's land.
The second was surprise – there had been no dreams.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he swung off his cot and dressed for the day's work.
The kitchen was a small room, clean and neatly organized, fireplace and closed bedroom door on the left, small family table and an open alcove on the right. A pot of coffee bubbled on the hearth and two loaves of yesterday's bread nestled under a red-and-white checked cloth on the table.
Merlin helped himself with a knife and a mug he found in a drying rack, and seated himself at the table, his back to the wall, as Freya pushed open the back door and entered, carrying a tin milk canister as if it were full. Aside from a shyly murmured, "Good morning," she didn't try to make conversation, but busied herself getting the kitchen ready for the day.
He ate deliberately, knowing he would have to rebuild his energy and stamina to face Padlow. He must be hard as a rock in body and spirit. There must be no room for failure. And meanwhile Padlow's wife was within his reach, he had only to choose the time.
In this unyielding frame of mind he would put himself through his paces – good food but not too much of it, hard work and more than enough of that – deep sleep without dreams, if he worked himself hard and long enough.
Emmett's Creek was a town of less than five hundred, including the outlying farms and ranches. It was very much a family's town – lots of children, especially in the outlying families. The stores and shops were small, simple, and clean, for the most part, the people friendly but he noticed – the more days he spent among them – somewhat tense and harried. It was a relatively poor town, dependent more on barter and trade for sustenance and progress than hard currency. And that was mildly puzzling to Merlin, because from what he could gather, it was also a richly productive region.
Merlin, for his part, remained an enigma to the people, partly from his close-mouthed avoidance of every interaction, partly from their fear of his quickly infamous temper. But as the days passed, then weeks, and his temper saw no resurgent flare, and his presence on the streets amounted to little more than a silent lingering shadow, he began to blend into the lives of the people. He became an accepted piece of the scenery, like the off-duty ranch-hands who lounged perpetually against the corral behind the livery, the blind dog who always lay by the dry-goods store's open door, and the dressmaker's twin daughters who jumped rope and chanted incessantly, effectively blocking the boardwalk between their mother's shop and the millinery next door.
This was Merlin's goal. The average farmer picking up supplies, or housewife stopping to gossip, would have been shocked to realize how minute were the details of their lives that Merlin knew or guessed accurately enough.
Gaius' comfortably one-sided conversations during the shingling of his office left Merlin free to organize his gleanings, to make connections, and to gain insights. He retained most of what he learned, on the principle that any bit of information, however trivial, could be the difference that gained or lost him his revenge, and meant life or death to himself or Padlow.
But. The old physician – and Merlin suspected that his wife Alice had something to do with it – insisted on giving him one day off every week. Refused to accept his help. So instead of trying to find a second job to work that single day, he saddled the old brown nag and… wandered.
Circling the town, high ground to low ground, leaving little trace of his passage through new-sown fields and ranges and small budding groves and orchards. A wood lay to the west, and the road to the outside world entered at the east and exited past the tavern at the southwest, dwindling to little more than a deer-path; roads to other towns lay further east.
It would take longer to canvass the western wood as he had the inhabited land, thoroughly and methodically, so he would be familiar with the terrain in any direction, but that was time he had. He had an idea to leave the tavern and make his living quarters out-of-doors. For one, the warmer weather would soon make sleeping outside preferable anyway. And for another, he would be less tied to a job and the need to make money to pay for his room, after his work with Gaius was finished. He could still take his meals there, but it would throw the girl less in his path.
On his third such day off, as the nag plodded through the thickening underbrush, stepping over the trunks of fallen trees, through the clinging strands of new spider webs and patchwork sunlight, he allowed his thoughts to turn to her.
Had he not known her to be the wife of a child-killer, and had he been the sort to have friends, they might have been friends. If he was being fair to her, he would have to admit, even to himself, that she was thoughtful and generous, hard-working and soft-spoken. She was just as much help in the tavern to Percival and Shasta as Gwen was, and still found time to run errands about the town. She would hum to herself under her breath as she worked, if she thought she was alone.
So how – how was she married to such a man? Why? He could tell from their few encounters that she wasn't lacking in sensitivity or intelligence. Surely she was aware of what sort of man her husband was.
The nag dislodged a rock on a slope, and slid a foot or so before catching its balance, and the jolt of it was enough to shake his thoughts free of the girl.
He pulled the nag to a halt and looked around, listening. A light breeze whispered with the leaves, and the birds high above whistled and chirped to one another. Between the trunks of towering oaks and sycamores and feathery evergreens, out over the leafy tops of seedlings he could see down into a sunny glen scattered with wildflowers.
It was a good place, he decided. Peaceful. No one to hear his screams, if he chanced to dream at night.
He squinted up at the trees and branches above him, weighing one against the next as he chose the one in which to make his home. Wolves and bears inhabited the woods, no doubt, and certainly raccoons, skunks, snakes. He needed a place to build a sturdy platform, maybe ten feet off the ground. There, that one was perfect – two thick branches sprung at right angles to each other at the same height, and very nearly horizontal. He'd borrow hatchet, rope, and nails from Gaius on the morrow, but for now…
Merlin stood in the saddle and caught one of the branches he'd chosen, swinging himself up lightly to stand, hand resting against the trunk beside him. The bark gouged tiny pits in his palms, and his nostrils were filled with the pungently sweet smell of living wood. He gazed out toward the meadow a while, letting his lungs regain their rhythm from his brief exertion, then contemplated the forest floor beneath him, where the nag was nosing a clump of new grass. Not too far to fall, he figured; it would be enough to kill the dream without killing himself.
And… if there was to be a future beyond the death of Padlow, he would need to save his money.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Still another week passed.
Gaius continued to chat without expecting a response, and Merlin grew accustomed to the physician's peculiar brand of gruff cheerfulness. Shingling the roof was monotonous and repetitive, but Merlin pushed his pace to make sure his concentration didn't stray. More than once Gaius commented on it, and his wife Alice, the two times she stopped by to check their progress, tried in vain to tease a reason for it out of Merlin.
Tossing the last crust of his breakfast bread to the blind dog, he kicked a small rolling ball back from the street to the side yard, ignoring a little boy's yell of thanks, before he headed for the ladder and the roof.
By midmorning, he'd finished the thirteenth row of wide pine shingles on the second half of the roof, and sat back on his heels for a moment at the street-side end of it to let the breeze cool his damp skin. He was now too far forward toward the peak to reach his work from the ladder, so his faith and all his weight rested on his previous handiwork.
From his vantage point he could see past Mike's Mercantile and the reeve's office, almost to the edge of town, and in the other direction, past the tavern to the tops of the trees where he'd begun his sleeping platform. He watched the women in their bonnets and long skirts with baskets over their elbows, walking the streets, shopping and gossiping. The clang of Elyan's blacksmith's hammer reached Merlin's ears a delayed second after it struck the anvil, and the scratching of Mike's broom was lost in the screams and laughter of the children playing on the sidewalks and darting across the streets, in turn occasionally trumped by the rumble and jingle of a passing wagon and team. The dressmaker's twins jumped rope and chanted.
It looked an ordinary, well-behaved town with amiable citizens. With no vengeance to be bought and paid for, no blood feuds to pay and repay again. A place where he could settle down and send out roots, a place to relax and be productive instead of destructive.
A tempting mirage, that.
Freya stepped from Mike's dry goods store across the street, closing the door behind her, adjusting the basket at her elbow, carefully skirting the blind dog on the boardwalk. Over the past weeks she'd put a little weight on her thin frame and lost some of the timidity in her manner that he'd noticed his first night in Emmett's Creek. And when she smiled she could almost be pretty.
And he was going to kill her.
At the end of the boardwalk she stopped to speak to the little boy again chasing his ball, almost to the edge of her skirt. She bent down to his level, the scarf over her hair fluttering in the breeze, and the boy tossed the ball to himself, throwing his head back to laugh. Merlin was smiling in response to the happy, open look on her face before he even knew it.
Out of the mercantile behind Freya stormed a stout farmwife, sleeves rolled up and fists on her hips – Merlin remembered her name to be Ida, the wife of the pig farmer Cedric– and he recognized trouble instantly. Before he had time to draw breath, to call out a warning, even to decide if he should involve himself, Ida had grabbed the boy's arm with one hand and Freya's with the other. She moved the boy behind her wide skirt with as much gentleness as she conversely shook Freya viciously, clearly bawling her out for some perceived injury.
And then her hand came around and slapped the girl full in the face.
Both Freya's hands covered her one reddening cheek, but Ida's diatribe continued – Merlin couldn't hear her words, but obviously plenty of others around could. And he was sufficiently used to watching a person's lips to gather their conversation to see that the woman was berating Freya for talking to her son, and called her more than one filthy name which basically accused her of prostitution.
What? He leaned forward intently, trying to deduce more of the speech.
"Merlin?" Gaius 's voice – abrupt and close – interrupted concentration.
He jumped and gravity pulled him back. He aimed the claw end of the hammer at the last row of shingles in a vain attempt to catch himself – was airborne – landed on his back in the alley in a thud of dust.
The old physician bent above him, speaking, worried, reaching down with his uninjured hand – Merlin struggled to breathe, furious with himself.
"I didn't mean to startle you," were the first of Gaius' words he understood.
He gasped. His lungs burned, and the dust settled in his nostrils, and he had no breath to sneeze. And gasped again.
"I am so sorry, Merlin," Gaius said again as he took his elbow to help him to his feet.
The physician glanced out to the street at the same time as he did, as Freya whisked past, scarf slid back over her short-cut hair. One hand clutched her basket close, the other tried simultaneously to wipe and shield her tears from sight.
Gaius took two steps to the street and turned, with the air of intending to follow her, then heaved a sigh and stopped, watching after her for a moment. Merlin's chest heaved another breath, and he sneezed and coughed at once. Gaius looked back at him with a gaze pure, piercing, and knowing, as if he'd somehow connected Merlin's fall with Freya's tears.
Merlin turned his back and ascended the ladder once again, still concentrating on dragging breath into his burning lungs. It wasn't too far for a fall, and as all his bones and joints seemed to be functioning without too much pain, he determined to work on as hard as ever, punishing himself for his moment of inattention.
After three shingles, Gaius' white-haired head rose above the edge of the roof, and he reached up to lay another handful of shingles where Merlin would need them in a short while, following their routine, but this time Gaius lingered.
"Reeve Whatley told me, the only interest you've shown in anyone or anything was Padlow," the old man mused. "He was asking me again the other day, did I know what business keeps you in town."
Merlin grunted between the nails in his mouth and kept hammering. The reeve had come to the tavern more nights than not, but had ignored Merlin at his table in the corner.
"Alice has some interesting ideas about your fits," Gaius continued. "She says it's like you've got a black beast sitting on your heart, howling day and night that won't let you rest. Driving you." Merlin shifted impatiently and reached for another shingle. "What is it you think you'll find in Emmett's Creek?" Gaius asked him directly. "Are you running from something – a fugitive of the law, maybe?"
An image flashed into Merlin's thoughts with a pang of regret – the memory of the bleeding body of the golden-haired agent sent to conscript him into Uther's service. He shook his head and shifted his weight to the next section of roof. He'd pay for that crime when it caught up with him – no use borrowing trouble on that score. "Tracking one down," he said only.
"Padlow?" Merlin had to give Gaius credit for intelligence; he made a noncommittal sound at the physician's guess. "Are you one of Uther's agents?"
It was a thought. That claim would give him some power in the town, some prestige, some authority. Until Reeve Whatley demanded to see his writ – which, of course, he didn't have. But he didn't have to deny it, either.
"What are you planning?" Gaius pressed. "Padlow won't be back in town until snow flies."
Merlin turned abruptly on the roof to look directly into the physician's mild gray eyes. "Why do you want to know?" he said. "So you can warn him?"
Gaius smiled gently, and patted the new roof and shingles. "Padlow never listens to a word I say," he commented. "I was thinking of Freya."
Merlin swung back around to nail another shingle. Gaius disappeared down the ladder, but when he returned with another handful of shingles tucked inside his sling, he wasn't through.
"Uther's agent or not, you plan to have it out with Padlow," the old man said, and it wasn't a question. "I can't say he doesn't deserve punishment, but it's a fact that he's older than you, and meaner. When the two of you meet, I don't want Freya getting hurt. Whatever he did that set you on his trail, she has no part in it."
"Of course she does," Merlin retorted, slamming the hammer down. "She's his family. She's his wife."
Gaius said only, "Hm." And went for another stack of shingles.
Merlin spent the rest of the day wondering if he'd just dropped a knife into his own foot. He didn't think Gaius was the type to reveal confidences – he was the physician after all, used to keeping patients' secrets – but the last thing he needed was the whole town knowing he was a revenger, and who his target was.
"Funny thing about family," Gaius ventured, as they were cleaning up for the day. "Sometimes you choose who your family is, and sometimes you don't."
And sometimes your family is butchered before you know a thing about it. Merlin dropped his armful of broken shingles right where he stood, and walked away.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Each night for over a month the stranger – Merlin – had claimed the same seat in the corner, a bowl of Shasta's soup of the day, and a single mug of beer.
Freya had long since stopped expecting kindness or courtesy from any save Percival and Shasta and Gwen, Gaius and Alice, and it puzzled her how a man who could look at her with such potent hate in his dark eyes could also be the only one in the room to acknowledge her with civility. And the night he said a quiet thank you as she set his dinner before him, it piqued a curiosity that wouldn't die.
She'd survived the last four and a half years making herself scarce, part of the scenery, part of the furniture. It had saved her much pain and embarrassment, and she didn't mind being ignored if it meant she would be left alone. But she was aware that Merlin watched her, every evening, with a silent intensity that directly contrasted with the neutral treatment of every other person in the room.
Why should I interest him? she often wondered, going about her daily chores at the tavern. He'd never approached her to speak to her, but he'd been in town over a month, and no one knew what kept him there.
Drifters had blown through Emmett's Creek before, but Merlin stayed. Why? And what, if anything, did it have to do with her? He was no ordinary drifter – the fire and passion in his eyes, the fit tone of his body deliberately maintained, and his inexplicable dedication to the work on the physician's office, when no other able-bodied man dared lend a hand, all set him apart. Drifters wore a numb, distanced look, and cared only that their bellies were full and their desire for drink satiated, and both with as little cost to them as possible. Merlin was no drifter.
A hunter, then? she thought as she slipped between the regular evening revelers. He had the look of a hunter, only this wasn't the season for it.
A tipsy ranch hand stepped backwards into her, landing his boot-heel on her toes and jostling her tray of drinks so that beer splashed liberally down the front of the dress she was wearing – one of Gwen's cast-offs – and she gasped at the sudden drenching. There was silence for a moment in a little circle all around her. Then, as she headed for the kitchen without lifting her eyes, she heard the snickering start, and spread.
Percival and Shasta were both busy behind the bar, and Gwen had just turned the other way balancing a full tray of her own; Freya pushed into the empty kitchen alone, and sank down at the small table in the corner with a dish towel to try to mop her damp clothing. On top of her humiliation at Ida's hands that afternoon, it was suddenly more than she could take, and tears filled her eyes.
Then the kitchen door swung open, startling her, and she reached quickly to brush the tears from her cheeks before looking to see who had entered.
"Oh – hello, Gaius," she said with relief. But the old physician's compassionate expression and the kind twinkle in his gray eyes caused tears to prick at hers again.
"How are you?" he said. "May I sit with you for a minute?" At her nod, he lowered himself into another chair. "Now, what's troubling you?" She searched for words to explain, and not finding any, only shrugged miserably. "This afternoon?" he said wisely. She nodded, touching the corner of her eye to prevent another tear from slipping. "It's human nature to want to be liked and accepted," he commented. "And it's a hard thing when the reason you're not liked or accepted isn't your fault."
"I just wish sometimes that they would give me a chance," Freya said. "I know that Padlow – that things are rough for a lot of people, making ends meet, but…"
"You wish they wouldn't judge you by him," Gaius finished for her. He leaned forward, setting his hands on his knees deliberately. "That's easy to understand. But the way everyone else sees it, they're on one side, and you're on the other."
"Sometimes I don't know what the right thing to do is," Freya confessed. "But I do know it's right for a wife to respect her husband. No matter how many times he – no matter what he does, I should behave with respect, even if I don't feel it."
Gaius shook his head. "Little of what he does seems right to me," he said. "But I cannot tell you to go against your conscience. It is a matter for you, and you alone, to decide."
She nodded. "I guess if that means people take their anger for my husband out on me, I'll just have to keep bearing it."
"It's a heavy burden," Gaius observed, with keen gentleness. "But you have friends who would help you bear it." Freya nodded again, to herself, and straightened her shoulders. "Speaking of heavy burdens," the old physician continued with deceptive mildness, "I hate to add to yours, but it would be a disservice not to warn you."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Merlin," Gaius said, and a scared, excited thrill ran up her spine. "He's another one carrying a heavy burden. Today he as much as said it's due to Padlow, and he's come here to rid himself of that burden. He means your husband no good, that's for sure, and… well…"
"You think Merlin might intend to harm me?" Freya said. That would explain his attitude toward her.
After a hesitant moment, Gaius gave a troubled nod. "Just be careful around him," he said. "I don't mean to say he's planning anything against you, just…"
"I'll be on my guard," Freya promised.
"Good girl," the old man approved, taking his leave.
Aside from his quick actions to save Freya from the dart Burton had thrown, Merlin had never touched her. Never spoken to her except in response. Never made a move toward her, only watched her. And hated her. Lately he'd been leaving with the last of the evening customers, and stopping by the kitchen in the mornings to have cold scraps wrapped up for his lunch – these were the only times she saw him anymore. She herself was hardly ever alone, except for when she slept, and even then, she shared a side room off the tavern's kitchen with Gwen, as much to protect herself from Burton as it was a natural consequence of working at the tavern. And if she went out on an errand, the streets were full of other shoppers, workmen, loiterers.
At least she knew now why he hated her. The same reason everyone hated her – Padlow and his treatment of them. Even Burton had no friends, though most were too afraid of him to say so to his face. There were plenty to buy him drinks when he was in town, in the hopes that he would remember their generosity and influence Padlow on their behalf.
But another month went by after Gaius' warning, then two, with no offer of violence on Merlin's part toward her. The curiosity that had begun at his politeness in spite of his unspoken hatred grew as she speculated on the specific cause for his hatred. And she began to pity him for whatever wrong he had suffered at Padlow's hand.
There were a couple of incidents when fights broke out – once when Percival had been trying to a show a drunken cowhand to the door just as Merlin came in, and the cowhand had taken the first swing – and once when Cedric had tried again to talk to Merlin, and had shoved the stranger in his frustration at Merlin's disinclination to hear him out. But both times it could be argued that the fight had not been started by the stranger, and Whatley – absent both times – hadn't locked any of them in the jail.
And with the roof finished, Merlin and Gaius – his arm healed but still not full-strength - had begun work on rebuilding the inside furniture. Shelves, desk, cabinets, table, cots… Freya wondered if the work was as endless as it seemed, or if one or the other of the men intentionally drew it out.
One cloudy afternoon in early summer, Freya left town on foot, heading west into the woods. There were meadows and clearings scattered through the forested hills, and she wanted to enjoy an hour or two of rare solitude in spite of the questionable weather and gather some green and roots, and blossoms for drying.
As she knelt in the high grass to cut a handful of tough stems with the small knife she carried in her basket, she thought on the strange sequence of events in Emmett's Creek that spring – the fire that had half-destroyed the physician's office, the old physician's injury as he'd tried to save valuable supplies and medicines, Padlow's departure. Merlin's arrival.
An ominous rumble sounded high overhead, and a sudden brisk wind yanked the untied edges of her shawl. She looked up at the sky, the low dark wisps scudding along under the slate-gray underside of rain clouds. It was time to head back to town, to keep dry and safe in the tavern – these sudden summer thunderstorms could be violent, sometimes.
She piled her gathered bounty carefully in the basket, rose, and turned – right into a patter of fat raindrops. The blossoms and grass stalks in the clearing bent before the wind, and the sudden rush of rain.
No time to make it to town, then. Freya ran for the trees.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Another day off, that Merlin didn't want. Another morning spent criss-crossing the land, learning, familiarizing, memorizing another section of the western woods. Necessary or not, at least it kept him busy.
Today he was on foot, never taking the same route twice, but he was closer to his sleeping platform in the woods than town, when the first raindrop fell. He had a heavy oilcloth he slept under to ward off the dew; it would be sufficient protection from the rain. It felt fine, as warm as the weather was, and did him almost as much good as a thorough bath. His skin was slick with sweat under his shirt, so he unbuttoned it and took it off, slinging it over his elbow, to let the rain wash over his body – thinking with satisfaction of the finished roof of the physician's office. The storm would cause no worries, there.
He was almost to his tree when he saw her.
She was kneeling in the mud, a basket of draggled flowers next to her; the shawl draped over her head offered scant protection, as it looked to be soaking through quickly. She had found his platform and sought refuge beneath it, though it was too high off the ground to be much use against the slanting rain.
Merlin stopped in his tracks. She hadn't seen him yet; he could still turn and make his way back to town to avoid her… getting wetter by the minute. Sharing an oilcloth was better than that, he figured. Even with her.
Moving forward, he deliberately set his boot on a twig, which was still dry enough to snap audibly above the pattering of the rain. She startled like a yearling doe at the sound – her eyes widened when they found him. He half-expected her to bolt. She hadn't shown fear of him in the jail cell, nor ever at the tavern, but she'd been avoiding him for almost two months, since he'd revealed to Gaius the aim of his stay in Emmett's Creek. Gaius had likely warned her, but now they were alone in the woods almost a league away from town… he wouldn't have trusted someone like him to approach.
And it occurred to him that now might be the perfect time.
He could kill her easily with his bare hands, and have the rest of the night to bury her body where none would ever find her. He'd seen enough of the way she was treated to know that no one but the physician and the bartender would push for a murderer to be found and punished – though there would be plenty suspicious of him, and Gaius would be sure of his guilt.
And then, when he had Padlow where he wanted him, on his knees in agony, he would describe in detail the death of his wife, before he killed him, too.
If he was going to do it, now would be the time. Now, before he learned any more about her to make him admire her, pity her. Before he changed his mind.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Freya had seen the hate in his eyes, and learned that her husband was to blame. She'd seen Merlin fight like a wildcat at no more provocation than the touch of a man's hand. She'd seen the violence he was capable of, and had taken Gaius' warning seriously.
But his instincts had been to protect her from Burton, before he knew either of them. And associated hate did not have to lead to violence against her.
She took a deep breath, and smiled at him as he approached, soaked and with his shirt over his elbow. It seemed to throw him off his guard just a little – he stopped for a moment, looking at her, utterly unself-conscious about his half-undressed state, then moved around the tree she was kneeling beside. She turned, following him with her eyes as he leaped nimbly up onto the trunk. He was halfway up before she realized that there were uneven sections of tree branch nailed to the trunk for a crude ladder.
He paused, leaning around the trunk to look down at her, sodden black hair plastered close around his face. His expression inscrutable. "You coming?" he said.
If she followed, what would he do? But a man wouldn't offer invitation to someone he intended to harm, would he?
She hooked her basket over her elbow and followed, damp skirts getting in her way. When she reached the platform, he had already unfolded a large oilcloth to hang over a branch above them. He didn't reach to help her from ladder to platform, but she was unused to such courtesies, and clambered to safety by herself.
"There's a nail, there and there," he said shortly, indicating where she should fasten the edges of the cloth. She watched him, then mimicked his actions on her side, to form a small tent above the platform.
He was seated before she was through, long legs crossed to give her space, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his shirt but not bothering to button it up in front. She set her basket near the edge of the platform and tried to seat herself gracefully – not an easy thing considering the unevenness of the branches forming the structure. The heel of her overlarge shoe caught for a moment, and she lost her balance. She flung out her arms, knocking the basket over the edge.
Without thinking, she lunged to catch it – and sprawled half-off the platform, Merlin's iron grip around her wrist keeping her from tumbling to the ground after the basket. He righted her without comment and seemingly without effort.
She tucked her skirts around her legs, embarrassed. "Thank you," she said softly.
Moments passed. They listened to the patter of rain on the oilcloth. She removed her shawl - it wasn't wet enough to be able to wring moisture from it - and spread it across her knees to dry as much as possible, inhaling the pungency of wet pine on the air.
"So this is where you live, now," Freya said finally, to break the silence. He didn't bother to answer, didn't even glance at her. "Why are you so quiet?" she asked him directly, trying to keep from offending him with her tone; she meant it as an honest question.
Merlin took his time, but finally responded, "Not much to say."
His voice was low and even, no trace of anger. Maybe it was a risk, but, "Merlin, why do you hate me?" she said, then.
He turned and looked her full in the face for the first time that day. And, for the first time, his deep-blue eyes were empty of hate. Just empty.
"How did you come to know my name?" he said. Not as an answer to her question, and not as if he wanted to change the subject, but as if he hadn't even heard her properly.
She blushed a little. "The days you were – ill – you said many things. Merlin is your name, isn't it?"
His eyebrows, just as black as his hair, drew together angrily, and she looked away. "You told others my name," he said, and there was a menace to his voice. "Did you tell anything else of what you heard?"
"I – No, I said nothing," she stammered, glancing back up. His gaze pierced her like a shaft of light. "Honestly. I understood little of what you – said."
He turned his head so she could no longer see his eyes, and it surprised her that she wanted to. He was very close to her, she could see each hair that made the rough blur of stubble on his chin. He had a freckle behind his ear. She noticed also the line of his collarbone through his open collar and the curve of his muscle through his sleeve stretched taut and damp over his arm.
She looked away abruptly, pulled her wet scarf off and began to comb through her short hair with her fingers.
"Did you talk to Gaius?" he asked, startling her a little.
"Not lately," she said, then realized the question was a follow-up to his previous one. "I told him only that you were restless in your sleep and spoke out occasionally."
"He wanted to know what I said?"
"He didn't ask, specifically," she answered.
"Would you have told him if he had?" Those deep blue eyes were back on her, she knew. She could feel it.
She wrung out her scarf and retied it over her hair. "If I thought it affected his care of you as a patient, maybe," she said honestly. She waited a moment, risked a glance, then ventured, "The dreams are very real, aren't they?"
His eyes closed. He swallowed, then nodded. And turned his face away from her again. He didn't move, but she could see that every muscle in his body was rock hard with tension. She reached to touch his shoulder, to offer comfort, then stopped and drew back. Padlow would backhand her without thinking, if she did the same to him.
"I still dream of my mother sometimes," she said. He still didn't move. "She died when I was fourteen years old. It was only a few days after that, that Padlow married me. The nightmares are often very real."
"How did your mother die?" His voice was husky.
"A lung disease," Freya said. "She coughed all winter. We knew she likely wouldn't recover, and made arrangements for me to travel to stay with a distant cousin of hers. Padlow was supposed to take me there. But instead he married me. And here I am."
"Your father?" he said.
"I never knew him," she said without bitterness. "He left when he found out she was expecting me." He turned his head again and studied her coolly, no readable emotion in his eyes. She grew uncomfortable, aware again of his proximity, and Gaius' suspicions. "What?" she said.
"How well do you know him?" he said, and she knew he referred to her husband.
"I don't know," she answered, confused. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"When he travels, he always leaves you here?"
She nodded. "Percival and Shasta let me stay at the tavern whenever he's gone, and I help out as much as I can in return."
"And what does he tell you of his travels?" Merlin asked.
Freya hesitated. If this man was one of the governor's agents, she was required to answer all his questions as truthfully as she could. But it wasn't right for her to betray or vilify her husband, especially to a stranger – whether she liked it or not, her loyalty belonged to Padlow.
"Not much," she said. "He spends most of the year collecting taxes for this region, and when he comes back he discusses the trip with Burton – they're partners. And he keeps a record book."
Merlin made no movement, but she sensed his focus drawing to a point. It was very like a thundercloud piling up on itself before breaking loose in a terrible storm. She waited, but he asked nothing further for a long time, staring out in the rain and dimming light.
"So, not a peddler," he mused, finally. "Tax farmer."
She shivered. The impression of sharp intelligence was something new from Merlin, and added to the intense hatred and nearly-ruthless violence she'd seen in him before, it frightened her. She was afraid of what he'd find out about Padlow, what he might already know – things she didn't, but suspected from rumors and gossip about town – she was afraid of what he'd do.
"Do you want to try to make it back to town before nightfall?" he asked. It was such an unexpectedly ordinary question, it threw her a little off balance.
"I should," she answered slowly. "No one will notice but Percival and Shasta and Gwen, but they may worry."
"Is your home near here?" he said.
"Three and a half leagues north-west," she replied. "So it's closer to go to town, and safer for me anyway… because of Burton."
"His partner," Merlin said, as if to himself. "It was typical behavior for him to throw that dart at you?"
"Yes," she admitted, embarrassed.
"And – your husband – he does nothing to stop his partner from abusing his wife?" Freya couldn't see his face, but she heard the contempt clearly.
"Burton doesn't do it when he's around." She hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of her husband. "Padlow was raised by his father," she hedged. "He doesn't see anything wrong with the way – anybody – treats me."
"Does he love you?" It was growing too dark for her to make out his expression from his profile.
"You'd have to ask him that," she said softy.
A long silence followed. Freya imagined the steady drip-drip on the oilcloth was lessening.
"It's getting dark, you should go," Merlin said abruptly, moving to his knees and reaching to untie the edges of the sheltering oilcloth.
Freya got to her feet, half-bent over under the tented material, and arranged her drying shawl over her shoulders. "Thank you for letting me stay here to keep dry." He ignored her, so she swung herself around the tree trunk and descended to the ground on the pieces of wood serving as a ladder.
He wasn't far behind her, climbing down with the oilcloth bundled in one arm. He'd discarded his shirt again, perhaps to keep it as dry as possible, and as he stretched down to the last step, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and stretched under his wet skin. She noticed a thick white scar on his back, neatly set between two ribs, a short straight scar; she blushed to catch herself watching him and turned away, and so was unprepared for him to drape the oilcloth over and around her.
"I can't take this," she protested, but he was already gone, to return a moment later with her basket. And a draggled handful of greens she was surprised to recognize as her little harvest, scattered when she'd dropped the basket from his platform.
"You know your way?" he said, shoving her basket into her hands and the sodden stems, leaves, and blossoms into the basket, before wrapping the trailing edges of the cloth clumsily but securely around her.
"Yes, I won't get lost," she said. "But you – you'll be soaked through. You might catch a chill."
"What would that matter to anyone?" he said, devastatingly casual.
"Gaius would miss you – he says you did a good job on his shelves. And I – Shasta and Gwen would hate to think of you out here by yourself, and sick."
"It's happened before, and it'll happen again. Anyway it's the wrong season for catching chills. Go." He gave her a little push.
She looked over her shoulder to say, "Thank you again. And good-bye." Expecting no response, she only smiled to herself when he turned away.