by C. C. Wiley
Exhaustion won out in the war of wills, forcing her to nestle within the pile of furs. She punched the thick mattress one more time and squinted at the window. Lord Ranulf’s veiled threats kept her worried, wondering if he meant to take his interrogation into the evening hours, when no one would witness his cruel treatment.
She pulled the ribbon from under her pillow and slid the satin across her lips. When she had heard a peddler requesting entrance to sell his wares, she had hoped ’twas her peddler standing at Sedgewic’s gate.
Clarice let her imagination bring the dark stranger back to Sedgewic. Determined to succeed in his quest, having searched the lands, he had at last found his lady fair. He would scoop her up, cradling her in his strong arms, promising never to let her go.
She snorted. Instead of a rescuer, her enemy had become her jailer. Instead of freedom outside the walls of Margrave Manor, she had found another prison.
They were an uncivilized bunch here. That child, Hamish, was as unruly as the rest of them. He must have thought his dark tales would frighten her. However, Robert’s behavior had served her well, teaching her that not everything said could be trusted.
She fingered the rough edges where the binding had gouged a ridge along her skin. Tender to the touch, her breasts ached after the release. Sensitive from the coarse linen, her nipples crested as the soft linen slid over their peaks. The ache increased.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Eyes the color of mist rising from the glen surrounding Margrave Manor danced in front of her face. Arms, strong as any steel lock, banded around her waist. She placed a tentative finger against her lips. A wave of warmth spread across her breasts, down through her belly, centering between her thighs.
Restless, she listened to the guards outside the door speaking of their desire to ride with the king. She, too, prayed they would get on with it. Striding to the high window with the fur wrapped around her shoulders, she searched the bailey and the parapet, outlined by the moon, rising from the shadows. More guards remained on the wall.
Her father’s death weighed heavy on her heart. Walls within walls were closing in.
Shivering, Clarice worried about Maud. The chores might prove too much for her frail bones. She knew Annora and Robert would never lift a finger to help themselves, let alone each other. Pulling the fur closer, she drew the soft down to her cheek.
Maud’s words echoed in her heart. Find the wolf. Discover who forced the noose around your father’s neck. Once armed with the evidence of her father’s murderer, she would carry it to King Henry. ’Twas certain the king would then proclaim Nicholas of Margrave’s innocence and forgive all charges against her family.
With or without the lord’s approval, she had to find a way out of Sedgewic.
Clarice paced the floor, the tail of the fur sweeping across the wooden planks with each step. No one brought up a load of logs and the fire in the hearth had long since died. Her stomach complained of its emptiness. Hungry, shivering, and exhausted, she was certain this was some type of torture.
Determined to greet anyone who stuck his head through the doorway with honeyed words and a pasted-on smile, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door was thrown open. All thoughts of graciousness disappeared as she turned on the unwelcome company.
“Oh, ’tis you.”
Despite wanting to disregard Hamish’s presence, she felt her shoulders relax under his quizzical gaze.
“Who’d you think ’twas? Lord Ranulf?”
She lifted her empty hands. “Have no fear. I am unarmed.”
He stayed near the doorway, proving he did not believe her. “I’m not afraid of you.” He responded to the rise in her brow. “You’d already be dead if you were to harm me again.”
“I see.” She wrapped her arms around her middle, warding off the child’s chilling declaration.
Clarice watched as he pulled out a chunk of bread from his pocket. The scent from the warm feast swirled in the chilled room. Its heat curled in little coils of steam. Staunchly pretending not to notice when he smacked his lips over the crusty treat, her stomach betrayed her and growled.
“What consumes your lord’s attention for half a day and into the night?”
Hamish peered over his next mouthful, licking the flaky crust off his upper lip. Shrugging, he bit down before answering. His mouth stuffed, he pushed the wad to the side. “’Tis a secret meeting. Something ’bout traitor swans.”
“Trumpet swans,” she corrected him.
Cocking his head to one side, he squinted, feeling the words. He shrugged and ripped off another bite.
She focused somewhere past his ear to avoid seeing the half-chewed mess in his mouth. “How would you know what they speak of if they meet in secret?”
“I can show you,” he said. “If you’d like to see.”
“Leave this chamber without permission? The guards may have something to say about that.”
“Already told them the lord sent me to fetch you. They’ll never know I lied.” He watched her, weighing his decision, then motioned for her to follow. “I might even show you the hidden tunnel.”
“Why?” Clarice eyed his palm. ’Twas greasy from the spread of butter and creased with black lines of dirt. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Never mind.” Hamish withdrew his hand and rubbed it on his backside. “If you like being locked in here, don’t bother coming with me.”
She knelt in front of him, gently touching his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you punished.”
Hamish glanced at her hand resting on his tunic. He pulled out another chunk of bread from his pocket. “Aren’t you in trouble, too?”
Clarice rocked back on her heels. “You heard this in their meeting?”
He shook his head and handed the bread to her as a peace offering. “No. I heard you tell him in the solar.”
Ignoring the dirt and grease, she snatched the bread from his fingers before he took it away. Savoring every flaky morsel, she took her time as she pondered the boy. ’Twas possible he told the truth. Sedgewic’s household had forgotten her. The lack of food and fuel for the hearth was proof of that. If she were to go with Hamish, she might just slip away without notice.
She licked her lips of the crumbs. “Show me your secret, my dear Hamish.”
He eyed her, looking as if reconsidering his offer. “Do you promise not to tell?”
“I promise. We’ll be as quiet as fairies in the forest.”
His face lit with excitement and he held out his cap. “You’ll want this. There are spiders and such. I don’t want you screaming when they get in your hair.”
An involuntary shudder suppressed, she nodded and tucked in her curls.
Hamish opened the door and led her out. His chest puffed out, he lied with perfection, telling the guard his lordship had requested the prisoner be brought to the solar. Before the guard thought to detain them, they scurried down the hallway and around the corner.
They skittered to a stop in front of a threadbare tapestry portraying a stern-faced rider sitting astride a rearing destrier. The castle’s white spires stood proudly behind his shoulder. Hamish lifted a corner of the dusty wall hanging. He crooked a finger and pointed to the shadows.
“This way,” he said and slipped behind the tapestry. The maw of the stairway led them into darkness.
Stifling a sneeze, Clarice pondered which step would not crumble under their weight. There had to be another way. “Hamish, I don’t think—”
The boy was gone.
Chapter 13
Ranulf stood at the hearth, gripping the back of his neck. With a great sigh, he spun on his heel and headed straight for the pitcher. He lifted it to his lips, draining it dry before dropping it to the table.
The wooden bench groaned as Nathan shifted his long legs. He cast a questioning look toward Ranulf, who chased the drip of moisture formed on the side of the pitcher with his finger. “Problems?” he asked.
Ranulf grunted and threw himself into the chair by the firepl
ace. He brooded over the tips of his boots. Annoyed beyond explanation, he chewed over the words before spitting them out. “I won’t be joining you on your journey to France.”
“What?” Nathan leaned forward. “Surely you jest. By Christ, we need your sword.”
Ranulf shook his head. He looked up, struggling to contain the anger boiling his innards. “He needs me here. Those who plot against the throne are still running loose.”
“But you said Margrave was dead.”
“Yes, Nathan, but nothing was proven before his death.”
Darrick wandered over to the hearth to warm his hands against the heat of the flames. Frowning, he turned to include both men in his news. “I’ve word that Henry’s departure from Southampton has been delayed. He still gathers his men and has yet to leave port.”
Ranulf rubbed the aching spot at his temple “Leaving him vulnerable.”
“More vulnerable than at any other time,” Nathan agreed.
“That is why you must leave at once. You’ll—” A crumbling of stone rattled inside the wall. Bounding to his feet, the conversation forgotten, Ranulf searched the corners of the old solar.
Once again he noticed the shabbiness of the old tapestries. It appeared no one had cleaned them for some time. He peered closer. A breeze from some unnoticed hole rustled the edges. Eyes narrowed, his hand rested on the sword’s hilt. Ranulf tightened his grip and attempted to regain his focus. “—take your men. See to our king’s safety.”
Nathan nodded and rose to take his leave. “Darrick?”
“A moment.” Darrick paced the short steps to Ranulf, seeking his attention. “We never finished our talk the other night. About your Mary’s death. Have you still no memory of that night?”
“None that makes sense. Bits and pieces. Fragments.”
Darrick rubbed his chin and looked up to where Ranulf was still gazing. “I spoke with your stableboy.”
“Micah?”
“Good lad with the horses but likes to talk. Given enough encouragement, that is. Says you had a visitor that night.”
“Not that I can recall.” Ranulf pinned him with a glance. “What else did he say?”
“Said he came to visit while you were away.” Darrick cleared his throat. “Many times.”
“Did Micah give a name? A description?”
“No. The visitor kept to the lady’s chambers. Came and went without anyone the wiser. Appears no one except Micah ever laid eyes on him.” Darrick tapped his ear. “But they can hear.”
Ranulf’s muscles bunched when Darrick placed a hand on his forearm. He shook himself free. Turning his focus to the wall again, he worked to regain control over his rage. He fisted the hilt of his sword until his bones ached. Fool. Fool. Fool. The word pounded in his blood, impaling his heart.
Nathan joined them to stare up at the spot and nodded. “Rodents.” He angled toward Darrick. “Leave it be. We’ve our king to protect. Have you any message for Henry, Ranulf?”
“Tell him that his wolf will watch his prey from here.”
The walls trembled, drawing Ranulf’s attention.
Darrick stepped back a pace as he spoke. “Henry knows of Mary’s death?”
Nathan lifted the talisman he wore at his neck, kissing it as he moved away as well.
Ranulf shot a look at his retreating friends. It did not surprise him that Nathan was given to superstition, but the wary look in Darrick’s eyes gave him pause. “Of course.”
Nathan’s brows rose, and he raised his palms to the decrepit surroundings. “This is his idea of punishment?”
Ranulf ignored him, but Darrick could not. “Idiot. Mary lived here for almost a year by herself. His young bride waited for him while he was on a mission for Henry.”
“What was so urgent that made you leave your new wife in your matrimonial bed?” Nathan poked Ranulf in the ribs. “Still say you did nothing to gain Henry’s ire?”
Ranulf lunged for Nathan but found his right arm held in an iron-fisted grip.
“Let it go,” Darrick said. “’Tis jealousy that makes his lips flap.”
Ranulf nodded, ready to convince them he did not wish Nathan harm. Laughing good-naturedly, he shrugged off Darrick’s hand and led them to the door.
Nathan spun on his heel and bowed low. “Sir Ranulf, lord of Sedgewic, we go to do your bidding.” He lifted his head and grinned. “So that our king will not serve us up a like punishment.”
Nathan stumbled back as Ranulf’s fist connected, knocking him into Darrick’s arms. Ranulf rubbed his hand, checking for broken bones. A year of frustration and grief, unanswered questions, and regrets had fueled that blow. Good Christ but ’twas satisfying.
He returned to the solar and listened to the quiet rustling buried somewhere in the wall. Time passed at a snail’s pace while he moved about the room, pressing his ear to the stone every few paces.
Saint’s bones. He hated to admit Nathan was correct. Vermin overran his home.
* * *
The king’s wolf? Clarice wanted to scream until her throat bled. Instead, the words tore through her head.
Thanks to the loose stones on the hidden stairway. At one point, she feared they would both go over the cavernous edge. They could not return the way they came. ’Twas now impassable. She and Hamish were trapped behind the wall. Neither one had any idea how to extricate themselves.
She glanced over at the dirty little boy and wondered if he was ever out of trouble. How had he managed to involve her in his adventure in the first place? She must be deranged.
“The wolf,” Hamish whispered with awe dripping from his words. “He is the one the stable lads whisper about. The other night they said that the lord was not really a man but an enchanted beast.” He leaned toward the spy hole and peered through the wall. “Suppose ’tis true?”
“Get away from there,” she hissed. “He might hear you!”
“No, his ear is pressed against the stone by the chimney.”
The hole in the wall tapestry offered her enough light to see the tired shadows under Hamish’s eyes. Upon entering the tunnel, she had been terrified of finding him at the bottom of the stone passageway. Had she been quick thinking she could have kept him from climbing down into the dark abyss. She should have been surer of foot, lighter of body—the list was endless. However she looked at it, she was to blame for finding herself caught inside the castle walls. She would save his scolding for later.
Seeing that he was going to dine on yet another dirty fingernail, Clarice dug in her apron and found the small bite of bread she had tucked inside her belt.
Hamish looked at the offering, his stomach grumbling before he reached out to take the tiny morsel.
She pushed back a ringlet of his soft cap of hair. “Have you thought of another way out?”
His head dropped, his chin trembling against his chest. With a violent shake of his head, he confirmed what she had dreaded. Her stomach threatened to do a dizzying dance.
“Mayhap there’s another tunnel? There has to be a way for sound to travel to the other side of the room.”
Hamish considered that possibility and nodded in agreement. He pressed his ear to the hole. “Wait! ’Tis someone else in the solar.” He rolled a shoulder to look up at her. “Lord Ranulf doesn’t sound very pleased neither.”
* * *
Erwina stood in the solar, looking more frazzled than Ranulf had ever seen her. “My lord, if you please. If I may have a word.”
“Hmm?” His brows furrowed. He had no desire to hear any more complaints regarding the leaking ceilings, crumbling walls, or sagging floors. It seemed the endless list of repairs grew with every day. He was tempted to turn over the responsibilities to someone more deserving and request—no, beg—for a mission that sent him far away from the daily concerns surrounding his broken-down castle.
He waved her in, hoping her complaints would not take long. A scratching sound came from within the walls, drawing his attention. “Wait. Did you hear that?”
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Shaking her head, she hurried to his side. She eyed him closely, her hands fidgeting with her apron.
Incredulous, he leaned in. “You cannot possibly say you don’t hear anything.”
Erwina rocked on her toes. “’My lord, ’tis urgent that I tell you about the young . . . guest in your bedchamber.”
Ranulf grabbed her arm, drawing her closer. The attempt to shut out what he was convinced was the impossibility of pounding coming from within the walls and outside the door was in vain. “There. You had to have heard that thumping sound. Clearly, it sounds as if it’s coming from inside the walls.”
“My lord,” her voice rose. “If you please—”
Startled by her tone, he released his hold. Mistress Erwina looked at him as if he had grown three eyes and a tail. His gaze leveled upon the poor woman and shut out the sounds that surely everyone in Christendom heard. “Speak.”
“The maiden, Clarice.” Her trembling fingers pressed against her lips before she spoke again. “She is not a child,” she whispered. “She is a young woman.”
Keeping his face hidden behind a mask, cool and calm, he bent over and whispered in her ear, “I know.”
He turned as a round-cheeked maiden popped her head into the solar. “What is it . . . ?”
“Faith,” Erwina said, interjecting the servant’s name.
The cherub bobbed her head once. “Sir Nathan sent me to tell you that a stranger rides this way.”
“Christ’s blood on the cross.” Ranulf gripped the back of his neck, kneading the tense muscles there. The siren’s call of the battlefield grew stronger. He needed to leave this all to someone more deserving. Perhaps Sir Nathan Staves . . .
“Please.” Erwina grabbed Ranulf’s sleeve, blocking his path. “Before they arrive.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Until a few days ago I believed her dead, but now I have to believe otherwise. She is—” Mouth gaping, she stumbled back.
A man dressed in homespun leggings and a plain tunic barged past Erwina. His rat-faced mouth pinched tight. Beneath a woodsman’s cap, his eyes glittered with excitement as he stopped in front of Ranulf. He swept back his cloak and bent his knee. “I come to you, my lord, with a message.”