Knight Secrets

by C. C. Wiley

  She could smell the fresh polish on his leather boots, the lingering scent of stale wine. “Go away, Robert. You have no business here.”

  “Is this anger necessary? I desire to speak with you. As family,” he said.

  “’Tis not the time. Not here. Not alone.”

  “You injure me with your wrath. How can your words be so ugly when they are surrounded by your beauty?”

  Before she could respond, he snagged a fistful of hair, jerking her head forward. Startled, she let the blade fall from her hand as she grabbed at the pain in her scalp. Too late, she realized her mistake. She slapped the floor, searching for her knife.

  “You don’t have ol’ Nicholas to protect you now,” he taunted, hauling her to her knees.

  “You cannot mean to do this.” Gritting her teeth, she slid her hand over his fist, settling around his wrist. “You are my stepbrother.”

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes widened and narrowed as he swayed to gain his balance. He ignored her efforts to pry open his hand and ran a finger across her lips. His wine-soaked breath wafted past her nose as he whispered, “What is it that makes my mother hate you?”

  “Please, Robert. ’Tis a few hours until dawn. We will speak of this on the morrow.”

  His hold on her hair tightened. A sad smile creased his lips. “I am lord now.” With a twist of his wrist, he pushed her toward the cot. “’Tis time you learned your place.”

  Clarice’s fury uncoiled. Her elbow connected with his throat. Caught off-balance, he grunted as his back slammed into the table.

  She scrambled on hands and knees, searching for the dagger. Find it! Find it!

  The fall of his approaching footsteps drowned out the thundering in her ears. Her lungs burned. Robert’s fingers dug into her ankle, moved up her leg. She glanced back. The hilt lay hidden under the bed, barely out of reach.

  He stood over her, chest rising and falling in fury. The rasp of metal slid against the velvet-lined scabbard hanging at his waist. With the dark shape of steel in his hand, he raised it and lunged.

  Clarice gasped at the explosion of pain in her arm. She rolled to her side, knocking into his leg. His knee buckled.

  She crouched in the shadows, aware of the sticky warmth spreading over her sleeve. Despite the fire racing through her arm, she tightened her grip and surged forward.

  The hiss of air from her dagger slicing in a high, arching sweep caught Robert’s attention. He turned as her blade bit into his leg. His howl of pain ripped open the night.

  The howl turned into a curse when Clarice kicked the soft spot behind his knee. Flailing his arms, he lost the battle for balance and fell. His head struck the side table like a ripe melon hitting the ground.

  Clarice dragged air through her lungs, forcing them to fill and release.

  Breathe. Live. Breathe. Live.

  Chapter 6

  Clarice’s fingers trembled as she checked the saddle once more. After tightening the girth, she cast a wary glance outside the stables. Moonlight quivered between the branches, but nothing else stirred. With a gentle hand, she led Buttercup, her father’s palfrey, toward the remains of the Margrave gate.

  A rustle in the bushes made her muscles freeze. Her heart thumped as rapidly as the rabbit that came bounding out of the shadows. She slid her palm over Buttercup’s velvet muzzle. “Come on, girl,” she whispered.

  They stayed to the edge of the bridge. Her fingers cramping around the reins, she glanced back at the bailey. A shiver ran through her body, threatening to take control.

  Her stepmother would be furious when she discovered Robert, bleeding from his injuries and bound to her cot. The cut on his leg had not bled near as much as the wound on his head. Unable to leave him to die in a pool of blood, Clarice had done her best to staunch the flow with a bed sheet. She quickened her pace, fleeing the tower and the thought of Robert’s condition.

  Once free from the wall, she found a stump and climbed up on Buttercup’s back. The simple act of leveraging her body into the saddle tore into her arm. A wave of nausea mixed with the searing pain. She gasped, waiting for the throbbing to subside, then nudged the horse’s flanks. Together, they slipped into the mist.

  The cloak drawn tight around her body, she kept to the shadows and turned in the direction her family had traveled without her year after year. She must reach the king and clear Father’s name. Though how she would ever manage that when no one of influence was even aware of her existence, she did not know. But she had to attempt the impossible. If she were to succeed, she needed to put distance between herself and her family. She tamped down a sob that burbled up her throat, just as she had so many times since Robert had entered her bedchamber. To remain hidden behind Margrave walls no longer offered the illusion of safety. She knew the truth. For a woman, alone and without protectors, the dangers inside and outside the walls were equally fatal.

  After donning a pair of leggings, she had bunched up her gown to hide it under an old cloak she had found in the stables and bound her breasts. To aid her disguise, she had cut her hair until it stopped short of her shoulders. She swiped at the jagged strands of hair sticking to her dampened cheek. The edges of her cloak gripped in one hand and the reins in the other, she prayed for courage.

  Clarice glanced back. Had anyone followed? Seeing no one, she nudged Buttercup with her heels. “Make haste.”

  The air, heavy with early morning fog, enveloped both horse and rider as they traveled along the path. Tiny clouds formed by their heated breaths trailed behind them.

  Soon, the day’s first light exposed the surrounding countryside. The horizon stretched in front of her, the trail vacant of other travelers.

  Her concern for Maud grew. She ached for her friend and cursed the old woman’s stubborn streak. Annora and Robert’s anger would create a harsher existence for Maud. ’Twas one of the reasons Clarice had remained agreeable for so long.

  She knew firsthand of her stepmother’s vengeance. Even at the age of nine, she had experienced the depth of the woman’s animosity and resolve.

  It had been ten years ago and still she could see Robert’s shocked expression, hear his wail of surprise. She shuddered with the memory of that horrid day.

  It had started as a simple child’s game of hide-and-seek, with Father searching the manor for them. It had been Robert’s idea to crawl out on the roof. A perfect place to hide. But then Robert had started kicking at the baby birds nesting in the rafters. They were so small. So innocent.

  Even now, Clarice’s stomach knotted at Robert’s cry as he fell from the roof.

  Panicked by what she had done, she had hidden in the nursery and covered her ears with her hands. Father no longer searched alone. Her stepmother’s angry threats broke through the open window.

  Yet hope remained. The chest in the corner drew her attention. Although the day had not started out as she had anticipated, excitement had bubbled inside her, just as it had the first day she had stumbled upon the false wall and the hidden contents. Buried beneath household cast-offs was the chest, covered in layers of dust, brimming with secrets.

  Caught in her own misery, she had almost missed the soft whisper of the nursery door swinging open.

  “Daughter, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “Father.” It had been too late to dive for cover behind the small cot. Clarice had ducked her head and stood her ground. “I did not wish him harm.”

  “Your stepmother is sorely vexed.” Father rested his hand on her shoulder. “Best keep yourself hid until our departure. We’re already in the midst of preparations for our return to London.”

  “Please take me with you. I swear I won’t be underfoot. And it won’t cost you a penny to dress me. See?” She held up a delicate confection made of fine white linen, shot with blue and silver threads. “Wait here,” she said, ducking behind the dressing screen before he could refuse her request

  Father paced the chamber. Head down, hands behind his back, his stride had brough
t him to the small chest she had dragged from the boarded-up masonry. He bent to retrieve a sleeve of shimmering yellow poking out from under the heavy lid. His knees seemed to crumble under his weight.

  “Father,” she cried, “please, tell me what is wrong!”

  “Who gave you permission to wear this?”

  Clarice would never forget how he had growled like one of the wild animals that prowled the glen surrounding the outer wall.

  “I-I’m nearly grown and want to go with you. I—”

  “Answer me. Where did you get these garments?”

  Her hand had trembled as she pointed to the chest. “I found it. In there.”

  His long fingers stroked the satin material. “Should never have kept them,” he had muttered. “Knew nothing good would come of it. But I couldn’t let her go.”

  Clarice knelt and cupped his chin. “Who, Father?”

  His smile wobbled. “An angel, little one. ’Twas so long ago. Oftentimes I have wondered if she was the remnants of a fantasy.” He smoothed the flyway strands from her cheek. “Then I see your face.”

  Emboldened by his gentle caress and determined to try once more, Clarice touched the back of his hand. “Please, Father,” she had whispered. “May I travel to London with you? I am all of nine years and have never seen beyond the horizon.”

  Before she had his answer, the door crashed against the wall.

  Annora had filled the doorway, legs spread and arms akimbo. Her reddened face crumbled as she attempted to hold back her tears.

  “Nicholas, I told you to yell out or send a runner if you found her.” She rushed to his side, tugging on his sleeve. “Robert is surely dying whilst you stand here wasting time.”

  Father let his arms drop from Clarice’s shoulders and stepped away to comfort Annora. “Calm yourself.”

  “He needs a physician, not an idiotic village midwife.”

  “’Tis his arm he landed on, not his head. The woman will know whether moving the boy will cause more damage than good.”

  Annora’s concern for her son scattered. “What is that, Nicholas?”

  Her father moved to block her stepmother’s view of the old chest. He had attempted to tuck the gold material out of sight, but ’twas as slippery as a moonbeam and refused to be hidden.

  Annora stepped forward, snapping the material from his hand. The fragile silk caught under the weight of the lid. She tore it from the trunk.

  Her father’s heartrending moan had been as audible as the ripping of the shimmering gown.

  “You.” She shook the tattered material in Clarice’s face. “How did you come by this? Speak up.”

  “I found it, Stepmother. I never meant—”

  Annora turned and searched her husband’s face for an answer. “How could you?” She swiped at the tears on her cheek. “You said you rid your life of all her possessions, yet I would recognize her stitchwork anywhere.”

  Father had folded his fingers over Annora’s hand. “A lapse of memory. It means nothing. You are my wife now.”

  “Yet here they are.” She pulled away and shook the limp fabric at him. “It’s been nine years, Husband. Her mother is long dead.”

  “Annora. Please. Forget this nonsense. Go.” He pressed her toward the door. “Have the wagon brought around. Perhaps your sense of urgency is correct. We should transport your son to a surgeon immediately.”

  Her back rigid, Annora had nodded and walked to the door. She turned, her words etched with warning. “Do not forget to burn the clothes this time. Everything.”

  The door closed on the view of Annora’s retreating backside.

  Clarice had ducked her father’s hand before he could pat her head like one of his obedient hounds. The cold, empty feeling had trickled in, gnawing at her heart. “You are leaving me here again, aren’t you?”

  “’Tis for the best.” He had hefted the trunk onto his shoulder.

  “Those belonged to my real mother, didn’t they?”

  Father dropped his chin and walked away.

  “Wait! Please. Don’t go!” The too-large gown, tangled around Clarice’s legs, mocking her for wanting to be loved. She had fallen to her knees and wept for the mother she never knew.

  Now, ten years later, Clarice could still hear the bolt to the nursery striking home. Her heart still ached with loneliness. She flinched at the sting of tears. Although she held no love for Robert, she had never meant to cause him harm. Only send him away.

  She gripped the wooden pommel, slumping with the realization. Dear God, had the wound she inflicted upon him today been a mortal one? If so, her soul might forever be marked with his blood. ’Twas as Annora had predicted: She was homeless, destitute, and without protection.

  The weight of Father’s blade thumped against her thigh, reminding her that she was no longer defenseless. The truth became clear. She had found freedom and she would fight to stay alive. Although she had allowed others to command her nonexistence, never would she give anyone that right again. Once she fulfilled her vow to discover the truth behind her father’s death, she would make a life of her own. A place where she was loved.

  With each step, Buttercup carried her closer to finding another life outside Margrave Manor. Clarice touched the pouch hidden under the oversize leather tunic. Thanks to the purse she had lifted from Robert’s waist, she had a few coins to help her along the way.

  She shifted her seat and winced. The injury she had sustained throbbed with each step the horse took. By midday she cursed her own idiocy for not packing a morsel of food. By the time the sun had lowered, all thought of eating had dissipated. Instead, wave after wave of nausea coated her tongue.

  Weary of traveling the whole day without rest, she searched her surroundings. Dappled shadows, thrown off by the setting sun, danced under the canopy of trees.

  The dusty road swam in front of her eyes. She shook her head and licked her dry lips. A safe haven to rest was what she needed. She would have preferred to stop at a village. Yet there was not one building in sight to offer protection from the elements. The clearing was little more than connecting paths and a patch of sweet clover growing nearby. An outcropping of boulders might form a decent windbreak, protection for her back, at the least.

  She swatted at the hair sticking to her overheated face and pain seared a path from elbow to shoulder. The ground lurched toward her. She glanced down at her arm. The strips of cloth no longer staunched the wound from Robert’s blade. She needed someone who knew the ways of healing unguents and a needle. That would take time and money, both in short supply. She had no choice. If she attempted to ride further, she very well might fall and never get up again.

  “God save me.” She groaned as her feet touched the ground and gave the saddle an evil look. “Never fear, Buttercup. ’Tis certain I can unsaddle you.”

  Clarice swore there was a hint of mocking doubt in the mare’s eyes.

  “With just a bit more effort,” she muttered, “the job will be done.”

  The saddle and blanket began to slide over Buttercup’s rib cage. Clarice lunged forward, catching the horse’s tack before it hit the ground. The mare shook her head. The metal rings sewn on her bridle filled the clearing with a pleasant jingle.

  Ignoring the leaden weight of her legs, the pain in her arm, Clarice set to gathering the dry wood scattered along the fringe of the clearing. By the time she had a small campfire she could barely lift her arm. The binding wrapped around her breasts bit into her flesh. Sweat formed over her lip as she dragged the saddle and blanket closer.

  Those tasks completed, she leaned against Buttercup’s sleek neck. The horse looked up from the clover and nickered as if to urge her to keep going. Clarice’s forehead rolled against the mare. Thoughts of rest filled her mind as she stumbled toward a soft grassy spot.

  She nearly missed seeing someone standing on the rise of the knoll. The stranger bounded down the hill. Arms swinging and pumping, he propelled his body over the crest, yelling gibberish as he sped toward he
r.

  Chapter 7

  “Sir R—ulf!” the stranger yelled. “I’m co—”

  The small clearing blurred, her exhaustion winning out. Clarice shook her head, struggling to understand what the stranger shouted as he ran pell-mell down the hillside. Her heartbeat drowned out the pop and crackle of kindling as the fire caught. She shot glances at the surrounding rock formations. Shadows jumped from behind every tree. Her muscles screamed against her demand to draw the blade from her belt. Afraid he intended to plow her over, she braced for impact.

  “Wait, I—” He tripped over a tree root and struck the ground. A rush of air slammed from his lungs. “Wha-mph.” The momentum carried him dangerously close to the fire.

  The world tilted. Through sheer will, she righted it and nearly jumped out of her ill-fitting boots when the stranger groaned.

  His eyebrows arched as he peered through dust-covered lashes. “You’re not him.” He wiped the gritty dirt clinging around his mouth and cleared the dust from his throat. Despite his effort to lower his voice, it cracked as he spoke. “I pray you forgive me—”

  A healthy pink spread over his smooth cheeks. The man was only a boy. Clarice staggered forward. “Are you injured?” She held out her hand and did her best to smile when he grabbed hold. Her grip tightened. “Can you stand?”

  Wide-eyed, he nodded.

  “Good.” She drew him up, but his head barely met her waist. “What brings you here?”

  He shook his head and tried to withdraw his fingers from her grasp.

  “What? You wish me to believe you’ve lost your tongue?” Her skull throbbed as she bent to peer into his dirt-smudged face. “I don’t believe I can do that.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she cocked her head, as if looking at him from a different angle would clear her muddled thinking. A preposterous idea gathered form. Had she heard correctly? Her uneasy stomach twisted. Had he yelled for a red wolf? Her pulse raced at the possibility of the first clue in solving the puzzle of her father’s death.