Secret Heart
Page 12
“I’m glad to see you,” Roarke said to the young man after introducing him to Jenia.
“So am I happy to see you again, my lord,” Elwin replied. “Anders and I were sorely worried after you and Lord Garit rode off leaving us behind. Your departure was so unusual that we were convinced our masters were headed into serious danger and were trying to protect us. Anders wept with relief when he saw Lord Garit return safe and well.
“Lord Garit told Anders and me about your plan,” Elwin went on after a moment spent staring hard at Jenia. “If I may say so, you are indeed much like Lady Chantal.”
“Did you know her?” Jenia asked.
“Only a little. A few times, when Anders was otherwise employed, Lord Garit asked me to carry a message to her,” Elwin said. “Lady Chantal is most gracious and very beautiful. As are you, my lady.”
“I thank you for the compliment.” Jenia smiled at the blushing squire.
“Lord Garit said to tell you,” Elwin continued, “that the clothing and jewelry he sent belong to Lady Chantal, so they ought to enhance your pretense. People at court will recall Lady Chantal wearing them and they will be certain you and she are the same person.”
“That was clever thinking on Garit’s part,” Roarke said, his gaze on Jenia too piercing for her comfort.
“How did Lord Garit obtain Lady Chantal’s belongings?” Jenia asked.
“He bribed the maidservant who was put in charge of cleaning and storing them,” Elwin revealed with a broad grin. “She’s the same maid who once carried messages from Lady Chantal to Lord Garit, and she has always been sympathetic to him.”
“I will order the baskets taken to your room at once,” Roarke said, interrupting confidences that Jenia was finding fascinating. “I suggest you try on the gown now, to make certain it fits. If alterations are needed, you or your maid will have to make them immediately. We leave for Calean City at dawn tomorrow. You will make your first appearance at court at midday.”
“Tomorrow?” Jenia forced the words through lips suddenly gone dry with apprehension. “So soon?”
“Do you have any sensible reason for waiting?” Roarke demanded.
“No.” She shook her head. “No reason at all. Let us be on our way as quickly as possible, so we can finish this business.”
By nightfall of the next day she might well be dead – or locked into yet another dungeon to await execution. She refused to let Roarke see the desolation and the terror that lay behind her every thought, though she admitted the emotions to herself readily enough. They had always been there, since the moment when she had sworn her most solemn oath to seek retribution against a wicked, heartless villain. Whatever the cost to herself, she would fulfill her promise.
She just wished she hadn’t met Roarke along the way, and wished most of all that she hadn’t begun to love him. For love him she did, his imperious demands and frequent sharp words notwithstanding. She wasn’t sure whether her love had begun at the moment when he swept her into his arms and carried her off the beach, or during the night when he had held her and smothered her giggles against his chest while Garit snored beside them. She turned away from Roarke now, knowing if he saw her pain he’d start asking questions again. He asked a question, anyway.
“Jenia, where are you going?”
“To try on the gown, as you suggested,” she said, not looking at him, heading for the stairs as quickly as she dared without seeming to flee from him and his sharp gaze and his too-accurate questions.
“I will want to see you dressed as Lady Chantal,” he said.
“No!” She all but shouted her refusal. “You will not see me until tomorrow morning. Until then, I will be occupied with my preparations.”
“The maidservant who has been dressing you will go with us, of course.” Roarke’s words were a decree, not a suggestion. “You will require an attendant.”
“No,” she said again, more calmly this time. “I refuse to involve anyone else in this, especially not an innocent servant who has been kind to me. I will travel to Calean City with you, your squire, and whatever men-at-arms you choose to take. No one else.”
She had been moving as she spoke and she was partway up the staircase when she finished. If Roarke made any further suggestions, or if he issued any other orders, she did not hear.
The gown fit her almost perfectly, as she knew it would.
“We need only draw the laces a bit tighter on either side, because you are so slender,” the maidservant said. “I thought the gowns that Lord Garit provided for you to wear were lovely, but this one far surpasses anything in the clothing chest. He knows your coloring so well, and the fabric is magnificent.”
“Yes, it is.” Jenia couldn’t force herself to speak another word. She felt as though she was stepping into someone else’s life, a life as close to hers as a twin’s, yet eternally distant. She cleared her throat in hope of removing the hot obstruction that lodged there threatening tears and then she made herself pay attention to what the maid was doing.
The gown was heavy green silk, dark as the shadows in the forest around Thury Castle, and it was trimmed with wide bands of gold and green embroidery at neck, sleeve edges and skirt hem. The neckline was cut remarkably low and the fine linen shift that was made to wear beneath the gown was cut low, too, so a good portion of Jenia’s throat and shoulders were revealed.
She thought with morbid humor that when the moment of her death arrived the headsman would find no obstruction to his axe.
Her fingers trembled as she tried on the jewelry Garit had sent; earrings, two bracelets for each arm, and several rings, all made of gold and flashing with inset green stones. No necklace was included, but the maid fastened a matching brooch set with green stones at the lowest point of the neckline of Jenia’s gown, so it rested between her breasts. The veil she was to wear was sheer, pale green silk, with a gold and green-stone circlet to wear atop it. For this occasion she would leave her hair loose, the shining, reddish-brown length of it reaching to her waist.
When she was dressed the maid held up a tiny hand mirror, moving it about so Jenia could see herself in her finery. Her reflection was dim, made worse by the tears in her eyes, yet even to her worried gaze she appeared to be a noblewoman, a lady worthy to face down and accuse a great villain.
“Now, help me to remove all of this,” Jenia said to the maid. “Then you may go. Please report to Sir Roarke that the gown does fit, and that I will be in the great hall tomorrow at the appointed hour.”
She could not eat any of the bread and cheese the maid brought to her later, though she did drink a cup of wine.
“I expect you are too excited to eat,” said the maid, who knew only that Jenia was to be presented at court. “Do try to sleep, my lady. I’ll be back in a few hours to help with the gown.”
Jenia did not sleep. She spent most of the night pacing while she rehearsed what she would say when she reached King Henryk’s audience chamber. She knew she would have to speak quickly, while the king and his courtiers were still astounded by the unexpected reappearance of Lady Chantal of Thury. In those few moments she would make her accusations, citing the proof of treachery. She went over the words again and again.
As the night wore on she could not help wondering if anyone hearing her would really care. Garit, certainly, would care deeply. Roarke would probably care, too, though he’d be angry that she hadn’t told him what she meant to do and whom she intended to accuse.
Her quest for justice, for retribution, had seemed so important in the beginning that she could not think of anything else. But during her last night at Auremont, with the opportunity for which she had yearned fast approaching, she wasn’t sure whether her sacrifice would make any difference at all.
“My fate doesn’t matter,” she told herself with stern resolve. “Oaths are sworn to be fulfilled. Promises made, must be kept. What others do after I am gone, the steps they choose to take, are not my responsibility. My duty is to speak the truth and to demand justice
. I have to believe someone will mete out that justice in full measure.”
* * * * *
They entered Caen quietly. As far as Jenia could tell, they were unnoticed save for a casual glance from the sentries at the city gate. The day was cool and grey, so no one remarked upon the lady who rode with the heavy fabric of her hood pulled up to preserve her coiffure from the gusty wind. As for the veil covering her face, noblewomen often wore such veils to protect their delicate complexions from the dust of travel.
King Henryk’s castle was a strong fortress with thick walls and high watchtowers. Once inside the bailey, Roarke’s party turned over their horses to a groom who said he was waiting for them on Lord Garit’s orders. Then Roarke and Elwin, who were both familiar with the various entrances, conducted Jenia through a door that they assured her was seldom used. In some haste they escorted her up staircases and along corridors. They passed only a few servants, who all ignored them, and they saw no nobles at all. Clearly, they were using the servants’ passages.
Jenia knew the castle fairly well, yet she was soon confused enough to be glad of her guides. She doubted she could find her way out by the same route, but that scarcely mattered. She did not expect to leave the castle alive. As they moved farther into the keep her heart began to pound.
“At last!” Garit halted his agitated pacing when they entered his chamber. “You are late; it’s nearly midday. The nobles will be assembling now, waiting for King Henryk and Queen Hannorah to appear. My lady, please keep on your cloak and veil for the moment. Elwin and Anders, here, will hold them for you later, after you remove them, until you need them again.”
“I understand.” By this point Jenia was so frightened she could scarcely believe that she was still able to speak coherently. A wild, panic-stricken part of her wanted to suggest that the squires keep the cloak handy to use as her shroud, for they would surely need a grave wrapping within the next hour or so.
She looked around and saw the fair-haired, cheerful Elwin smiling at her and noticed Garit’s squire, a dark, rather dour-looking lad. She tried to smile at them and failed. Her lips simply would not curve upward.
“Are you ready?” Roarke asked her.
Jenia nodded.
“Remember,” Roarke said, offering a last bit of instruction to his erstwhile pupil, “all you have to do is seem to be Lady Chantal. Say as little as possible. Let your appearance provide the illusion.”
“The four of us will stay close to you,” Garit promised. “No harm will come to you. If the person who is responsible for Chantal’s disappearance makes the smallest move toward you, we will stop him.”
Jenia realized that both men were alert and on edge. With a great effort of will she made herself stop thinking about them and stop worrying about what would happen in the next few minutes. She considered instead the words she must say to King Henryk.
Then, with Roarke on one side of her, Garit on the other, and the squires trailing behind, they headed for the king’s audience chamber.
The chamber was a large room and it was crowded with nobles dressed in silks and fine woolens. The glittering jewels worn by the lords and ladies caught the meager daylight that filtered in though narrow windows. Tapestries on the walls and beautifully wrought gold or silver ornaments shimmered in the candlelight that was necessary if the king and the knights who guarded him were to see anything at all.
Jenia was finding it difficult to breathe. Her heart was pounding and her hands were damp as she clenched her fists. When she caught slight of King Henryk as he entered the room, fresh terror scalded through her, setting all her limbs atremble. Yet she retained sense enough to remind herself that this was her one chance to demand justice and retribution. She had made a promise and, in addition, she had promised herself that she would not give way to fear no matter what was done to her. She would see her sworn duty through to the end.
“Help me now,” she whispered to the dear one to whom she had promised justice. “Lend me your strength. Oh, guide me, please.”
Immediately, she felt gentle warmth suffusing her frame. A sudden calmness stilled her treacherous quaking, and she knew her plea had been heard and answered. Her heartbeat slowed. The hand with which she pushed back her hood was steady. She squared her shoulders in preparation. When Elwin lifted the cloak from her and Anders carefully slid the concealing veil away from her face, leaving the sheer green silk and the gold circlet, Jenia stepped forward.
Clothed in green and gold splendor to equal anything worn by the other nobles, she walked in perfect serenity, her chin high, her back straight, hands clasped at her waist. She kept her pace stately and deliberate, so everyone would have ample time to see her face.
She heard gasps and the rustle of silk as people moved aside to let her pass. She was aware of Roarke and Garit at her right and left shoulders where they had promised they would be, and she knew the squires walked with her, too. She even knew that Roarke was staring at her as if he had never seen her before.
But she couldn’t spare a thought for Roarke; she could only move forward through the crowded room. What sustained her during that long, slow progress from the entrance of the audience chamber to the dais where King Henryk and Queen Hannorah stood was the unseen presence of the beloved soul for whom she was doing this.
At last she stood at the foot of the dais and stared at the kindly, aging face of the villain whom she was formally meeting for the first time.
Henryk, king of Sapaudia, was a tall, powerfully built man in his middle fifties. His thick hair, once black and glossy, was now almost completely grey. His clothing, though made of rich fabric, was dark and plain, and the narrow gold crown he wore was without decoration.
Beside him, Queen Hannorah looked like a pale, blue butterfly in shimmering silk. She was much younger than Henryk, a second wife wed in some haste after the death of his first queen. So far, she showed no sign of producing an heir, though Henryk kept her close to him and was said to be extremely attentive.
Jenia looked upon the royal couple with cold distain.
“Welcome, Lord Garit, and you, too, Sir Roarke,” King Henryk said in a loud and cheerful voice that carried throughout the room. “I see you have succeeded in your mission. After all this time you’ve brought Lady Chantal back to us. My dear lady, my queen and I both welcome you.” Henryk held out his hand as if to lift Jenia from the deep curtsey that noblewomen were supposed to make when approaching the king. She took one more step forward.
Jenia heard Roarke hissing at her under his breath to curtsey as he had instructed her. She refused to bend her head. She kept her back stiff and she glared at the king, noting the puzzled expression that spread across his face.
“I am not Chantal of Thury, as you very well know,” she declared, speaking as clearly and loudly as she could. “I am Chantal’s cousin, Lady Matilda Jenia of Gildeley, whom you ordered imprisoned along with Chantal, so you could steal her lands, and mine. You wanted us dead. But I survived to accuse you. Murderer!” she cried, her voice ringing in the suddenly quiet audience chamber.
She was fully aware of the violent emotions swirling around her. She saw King Henryk’s bewilderment and growing outrage. But no guilt showed in his face. That surprised her. She had expected him to betray at least a glimmer of remorse for what he had done. Even more strongly than King Henryk’s reaction, or the scandalized murmurs of his courtiers, she sensed Garit’s stunned horror at her words. And she felt Roarke’s swift anger.
“Is she mad?” King Henryk asked of Roarke. “Is her madness why she disappeared?”
“I do not think she is mad, my lord,” Roarke answered. “I know she wanted to come to Calean City to fulfill some secret purpose, which she several times referred to as a quest. It seems now that her purpose was to accuse you of a crime that I know you would never commit.”
“Jenia, please, I beg you,” Garit cried, his voice breaking with undisguised anguish, “where is Chantal? If you know, please tell me, so I can go to her.”
“No!” Garit exclaimed. “It cannot be.”
“I saw her murdered,” Jenia said. “It was done at King Henryk’s command. I could not help her. The guards held me back and would not let me go to her until her death was certain. When I finally wrenched away from them so I could hold her in my arms, Chantal bid me remember the promise we had sworn to each other as we lay, night after night, in that terrible dungeon. We swore that if either of us survived, she would demand vengeance on the wicked man who ordered the other’s death. I am here today to demand that vengeance of you, Henryk!” she shouted, whirling away from Garit to face the king she despised.
“Beyond any question, she is mad,” King Henryk said. “Roarke, where did you find her? Was she confined somewhere safe, where she could not harm herself or others? If so, I do wonder why you have released her and brought her here.”
“Jenia, what are you doing?” Roarke demanded. Grabbing her arm he forced her to turn and look at him. “Is this the dark secret you’ve been keeping?”
“Yes, it is. I am not mad, Roarke. I am simply demanding retribution for Chantal’s death. I am willing to risk my life in that cause, but I will not risk your life, or Garit’s. That is why I have repeatedly refused to tell you what I planned to do. Henryk,” she said, again deliberately and most pointedly refusing to use his title, “I do swear on my unblemished honor that these two men with me knew nothing of my intention in coming here. They were desperate to find Chantal, so they decided to present me as Chantal, in hope of flushing out the person responsible for her disappearance. You and I know who that person was. It was you, Henryk. Admit it, you wicked murderer!”