Merrick Read online

  Merrick

  By Claire Cray

  Copyright 2012 Claire Cray

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 1

  The carriage lurched to a graceless halt, launching me nearly off of my seat. I muttered an oath, lifting my shackled hands to rub my head where it had smacked against the wall.

  “You’d best be working on that vernacular of yours, young William Lacy,” the constable sneered. “Your new master may not be as tolerant as the rest of us.”

  “Tolerant,” I scoffed under my breath, and touched my tongue to the tangy cut on my lower lip, made by the constable’s own ring just two days prior. Or perhaps it had been one of his friends on the night watch?

  Drawing back the curtain of the carriage window, the constable seemed not to hear me. A faint glow illuminated his homely face, and his expression turned a little strange. “Better take my advice, boy,” he said quietly. “For I wouldn’t want to see him angry.”

  I felt a little color drain from my face, and then I frowned with grim resolve.

  I’d done it this time.

  It all started with one of the finest Saturday evenings the world had ever seen. The boys and I were the kings of the tavern, winning at cards and arm wrestling, and my good friend Jeremy, the owner’s son, kept the port flowing. I even had a bit of fun with Molly Wrigs behind the bar before us rascals headed into the streets for I-can’t-remember-what reason. Neither can I recall how we ended up in that garden, though I do recall picking a great deal of roses and lying down in a very comfortable hedge before I heard the sound of glass breaking and a great deal of screaming. And of course, I recall the night watch showing up, and I recall realizing I was the only one who got caught.

  Six broken windows. A judge’s house. I was booked for public intoxication, breaking and entering, trespassing, vandalism, and attempted burglary. Shit’s sake! There was no doubt I’d be in prison now if not for my dear sweet mother.

  My throat tightened up at the thought of what she’d done, and I couldn’t help shooting a glare at the constable. It wasn’t his fault, but he’d been the one to tell me. “You’re lucky your mum’s so young and pretty,” he’d said with an ugly smirk when he came to the murky cell, keys jangling. “Rumor has it there wasn’t nothing she wouldn’t do to get her bastard son out of prison.”

  I had never been much for fighting when I could avoid it, but it was a good thing I was still in shackles – for the memory had me yearning to punch a hole in his fat head.

  Hearing the driver’s footsteps squelching in the mud as he approached the door, I gave myself a stern order: Do what you have to do, stupid. If you muck it up, it’s her in prison, instead of you.

  I’d really done it this time.

  The constable leaned forward to unlock the shackles for the first time in several days. “Hope you’re not thinking of running,” he said. “Remember it’s your poor mum who pays the price for your nonsense now.”

  “Where would I go?” I muttered. I’d seen nothing from the carriage all these two days but trees and fog. Oh, this was a cruel fate!

  The constable looked solemnly at me. I looked over his shoulder at the open carriage door, trying to get a glimpse of the man who’d soon take ownership of my life. His tone softened, which disturbed me mightily.

  “You ought to be thanking your Good Lord, Lacy,” he said. “This Merrick’s been respected in these parts for right near forty years. A skilled apothecary could send you back with the stuff to make a living. Better than a life of crime, ain’t it?”

  I didn’t reply, watching the idiot leave the carriage before me. Who said anything about a life of crime? I just wanted to sell my books. Brainless pigs. They didn’t know a menace from a mouse. They’d throw anyone in stocks given the chance. It was plain enough they’d dump anyone off into servitude. But he was right: five years bound in an apprenticeship was better than a trip to the work house.

  My boots sank into the muck all the way past my ankles before I toppled over. My damn legs were asleep! I muttered another oath as my hands hit the mud. Three days shackled in a rat infested jail, two days in a carriage, and now I was on all fours in the mud. The boys in the city liked to give me trouble for my fastidious habits, but I supposed this level of filth would be even past their limits.

  “Is he infirm?”

  I lifted my head at the low, slow, gravelly voice, and froze solid.

  Chapter 2

  Holding a lantern at the edge of the road was a tall, menacing figure in a dark hooded robe, complete with a veil that completely concealed his face. It was Death himself, come to escort me into the underworld.

  Stones were forming in my gut. Ah, for one last glass of port! Oh, for one more handful of Molly Wrigs!

  “On your feet, boy,” the constable said gruffly, and he and the driver hauled me up by the arms. “He’s fine and fit, Master Merrick. Or is it Doctor Merrick?”

  “Only the villagers call me Doctor. Hold the lantern to him.”

  My legs were still numb. I could hardly heed the constable’s order to stand up straight.

  “He’s been shackled five days, sir,” the constable said as the driver moved the lantern toward my face. I squinted against the glare. “He’ll be steady on his feet soon enough.”

  “Can he ride?”

  I noticed then the black mare in the shadows. I’d never sat on a horse in my life, but the beast was the least of my fears. I looked between the driver and the constable, who seemed even more spooked than I was. Were they really going to leave me with this dark wraith and his nightmare horse? I felt like I’d been whisked out of 1799 and dropped into some medieval peasant’s nightmare. So much for civilized justice in the United States!

  They avoided my shocked gaze. The driver tossed me my satchel and held the door for the constable, who climbed back into the carriage. “Mind yourself, boy,” he said over his shoulder. “Think of your mum.”

  The carriage rattled off down the road, leaving me alone in the dark with the faceless Merrick and his lantern.

  “Come,” Merrick said.

  Was I to share a horse with him? I swallowed, trying to make my feet move. “Beg your pardon, sir. My legs are a bit dead from the shackles and the ride. Perhaps I ought to stroll beside you…”

  “You are late already, and we must be back.”

  I reluctantly pulled my tingling feet out of the mud, hissing softly at the pins and needles, and plodded closer.

  He clucked at the horse. It knelt, and he beckoned me with one gloved hand.

  Fancy trick. I trudged forward and straddled the horse uncertainly, nearly falling over when she straightened her legs. I took the lantern when Merrick held it out to me, trying to ready myself for when he sat behind me. Lord, he was terrifying! I could scarcely believe I was to spend the next five years bound to this living ghoul.

  Feeling his thighs, hips and chest press up against me was startling to say the least, especially since they felt hard as st
eel. Not what I expected of an old man. When the mare started forward and I teetered precipitously, he flattened a large hand against my abdomen and pulled me back against him.

  I flinched at the pressure against my bruised ribs, but was chilled solemn when he didn’t remove his hand. I supposed I did seem a bit unsteady on the horse, or at least that’s what I tried to reason – but then I felt him rubbing my abdomen, feeling back and forth as though he were testing my muscles. When his fingers wandered up to my chest, I froze.

  Splendid. Just splendid. I’d officially gotten myself into the worst possible predicament. I’d heard plenty of stories of young apprentices and their unspoken extra duties: my own friend John once confided in me that he ran from his apprenticeship after waking up with the blacksmith’s burly body pinning him to his pallet, his rough hands squeezing the poor chap all over. Plenty of street rats were born that way.

  Well, no way I was getting ravished by some backwoods ghoul! I wondered now if John’s lecherous blacksmith was as monstrous as my Grim Reaper.

  But remembering my predicament, I felt my heart sink. What was I to do about it with poor Mum under the judge’s thumb, her own freedom collateral for my servitude? I clenched my teeth as the gloved hand roamed down my leg and back up…

  …and then took the reins again.

  I stared ahead into the darkness beyond the light of the lantern, my body stone-still and tingling from his unexpected touch.

  “You’re healthy,” he said in that gravelly voice.

  I breathed a secret sigh of relief. So it had been an impromptu examination, then. It seemed a bit odd, to be sure, but I latched onto the explanation happily enough.

  We rode in silence, occasionally taking up a canter when the road allowed it. He seemed in a modest hurry to get home.

  At last we reached a strange dwelling, at least to my city-bred eyes. Merrick’s home was a stone cottage tucked into a jagged face of rock rising from the forest floor. It was hard to see much of the surrounding landscape in the dark, but I guessed it was like the rest of the New England forest: damp, dense, and miserable.

  All right, perhaps I was wallowing a bit.

  Merrick dismounted first, then took the lantern from me and held out his other hand. I accepted his help awkwardly, grabbing his wrist and sliding off of the horse with only a somewhat stupid-looking stumble when I hit the ground. The horse immediately began to saunter away.

  “You must always be clean before you enter,” Merrick said.

  I looked after the horse, confused. “Aren’t you going to tie the…”

  “Weather looks after herself. Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “If you would advise me as to where I might…”

  “There is a wash tub in the lean-to, and rags and soap for bathing.” He passed me the lantern again. “Don’t miss a hair. Leave your clothes there. You can wash them tomorrow.”

  I blinked at him, then reminded myself that he could see me staring even if I couldn’t see him. I looked down. “Yes, sir.”

  His robe flared slightly as he turned and entered the house.

  I sighed and headed toward the wooden lean-to just left of the cottage. It was good to move my legs freely, at least, and though I found his demand for a thorough washing spectacularly odd, at least it was in line with my own spectacularly odd fastidiousness.

  The shed was well-constructed, with three plank walls against the side of the stone cottage, and hung with a variety of mystifying tools along with several bunches of dried plants. To my relief, the wooden wash tub was being kept warm on a low brick stove. I couldn’t strip fast enough. As I dipped a rag into the water and lathered it with the soft soap again and again, scrubbing and rinsing my aching body, I noted with some surprise what a pleasant atmosphere the little shed had. The plants and the steamy wood emanated a pleasant smell, and how often did I get to wash up with heated water?

  When I was so clean my naked skin squeaked under my wet fingertips, I took a breath and headed awkwardly over the stone path to the entrance. I pushed the partially open door carefully, trying to shield my private bits with my other hand, and jumped slightly when Merrick opened it the rest of the way.

  He was still sporting the hood and veil. This was well and truly odd. And he stood there at the doorway staring at me – at least I had to suppose so, for I couldn’t see his eyes. I shivered a bit, though it wasn’t much cold.

  “You’ve been beaten.”

  “Er…” I stammered. “Yes.” I sneaked glances around the room. There were herbs hanging from every spare inch of the ceiling and glass jars covering wooden shelves and stone nooks all over the walls. Several potted plants rested in the sills of the shuttered windows, and a heavy wooden table sat at the center of the room. There were stacks and stacks of books about, and the air was redolent with the scent of the plants. At the rear of the room hung a heavy leather hide, evidently covering a doorway.

  Most interesting to me were the books. I hoped I’d get the chance to look at them more closely – that would certainly be some comfort. A pang of sorrow went through me when I thought of my own books back in the city, and the living I’d started to make with my peddling and appraisals of rare volumes.

  I’d started trading books at age ten for the sheer love of it, and all the shops in the city came to know me so well over the years that it was only natural when they started to ask for my opinion on new items in their collections. By the time I had turned eighteen the previous winter I’d even started to build a good reputation among the wealthier residents of Manhattan, who loved to flaunt their cultured tastes through their carefully cultivated private libraries. The fees I collected for appraisals had grown from pocket change into a decent living, and I had started to feel like a real success in my own right.

  Ah, well. So much for that.

  He stepped back to allow me room to enter, and I stepped forward. He closed the door behind me and circled around my back. “And what was your crime?”

  “They say I smashed a judge’s windows.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I was asleep in a hedge. Everyone was quite drunk.” I thought of copping to the rose-picking, but thought better of telling an herbalist I’d just violated a garden.

  “Are you in the habit of such behavior?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you read and write?”

  I wished I knew where he was looking. I shifted on my feet a little, feeling goose bumps rise as I stood naked on the wooden floor. “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you do so well?”

  I nearly scowled at what sounded like condescension before I caught myself. “Yes, sir, as well as anyone I know.” Better, in fact. By leaps and bounds.

  “Then you can read and sign our contract while I prepare a poultice for your injuries. Put on this night shirt.” He gestured to the heavy wooden table where a sheaf of paper sat next to a folded night shirt.

  I did as I was told, watching him move through the leather curtain into the back room. A glow began to flicker around the edges of the hide. I looked at the contract, written in a script that was surprisingly elegant and controlled for an old man’s. The contract was ordinary for this type of arrangement. I was committed to him for the next five years, during which time I would perform all the tasks he saw fit to put me to while he trained me in his craft. He would report to the courts every so often to assure them I was still in line with the arrangement.

  There were a few peculiar rules, though. I was to wash my entire body daily – again, odd, though certainly not unfavorable for me. I was to retire to bed as he instructed – that seemed a little strange. And I was not to reveal information about Merrick or the cottage, however trivial, to anyone without his approval. That was less surprising, I supposed, as it only stood to reason that most masters would guard their trade secrets jealously.

  Oh, well. This contract was a formality, anyway. I supposed I appreciated the gesture, as it allowed me to feel I was entering this of my own
will – but the fact was, this was my jail sentence, and my mother’s freedom and clean record depended on my compliance. If I displeased Merrick, if he sent me back to the city, my mother would bear fines while I went back to prison. And if I became a fugitive, she’d be the one in shackles.

  I squeezed the quill a little too hard as I signed my name, my lips thin. That damned spiteful judge. So much for the next five years of my life – and all for a couple of broken windows that weren’t even my fault. It wasn’t fair!

  “Come here when you are finished, William.”

  I looked up at the call, confused for a moment as I thought it was someone other than Merrick speaking. His voice sounded smoother than before. Rising from the table, I went to the back room and pulled back the leather to find an actual damn cavern.

  The leather covered the mouth of a cave in the rock the cottage stood against! At the back of the chamber there hung another hide, which I guessed concealed the passage to another cave chamber. God only knew how deep it went…

  I must have shown something on my face, for Merrick said, “Are you leery of caves, William?”

  “I’ve never been in one before, sir.” Truth be told, I was leery of it all. The floor here was not wood, but stone. A double-sized bed stood in the corner nearest the entrance. An assortment of strange ornaments hung from the ceiling above it. On the wooden nightstand was a stone bowl where some sort of resin was burning, letting off a fragrant smoke.

  “Hold your nightshirt up to your neck and lie on your back.”

  I looked at the bed, then back at him. I couldn’t help thinking of John and the lecherous blacksmith, but sternly pushed the idea out of my head. The man was an apothecary and a healer, and I was badly bruised. There was nothing else to it.

  Once I was on my back, Merrick came near with a steaming wooden bowl and a small stool. Sitting beside me, he set the bowl on the nightstand and began to pull off his leather gloves.

  I was somehow reluctant to see his hands. What was all that leather and gauze hiding if not some terrible deformity? I thought I might as well wait until the touching part was over before I tried for a glimpse, and so I fixed my eyes to the odd trinkets above. They were mostly beads and wooden shapes, along with some leather pouches. I realized slowly that many were Indian amulets, some resembling the ones my own mother kept tucked away.