Knight Secrets

by C. C. Wiley

  Father pulled up in front of them. His glance skittered off Annora, still panting from her unaccustomed exertion. “Take your mother,” he said, shoving her into Robert’s arms.

  “What would you have me do with her?”

  Smoothing his hair back, Father’s voice rose with each clipped word. “Remove. Her. From. The. Yard.”

  Robert held out his forearm. “Come, Mother. The lord of Margrave desires to deal with the peasant himself.”

  The scowl etched in his face deepened. Father motioned to Maud, who strayed not far from his side and nodded in Clarice’s direction. “You’d do best to do what you’re told.” His attention returned to Maud. “And you,” he said, pointing a narrow finger. “See that you manage your charge.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Maud bobbed a curtsy and turned. “Come, my dear.”

  Reluctant to do her father’s bidding, Clarice cast a longing gaze toward the peddler’s cart. Her stomach growled in rebellion.

  * * *

  Ranulf tore his attention from the young maiden and did his best to ignore the tingling sensation from where he had held her. He kept his face covered as he searched his bags for food: a haunch of salted pork, a bag of grain. On a whim, he added a bunch of carrots, two eggs, and one onion to the pile.

  He hated having to wait upon the man suspected of plotting against the king. Saints! Although his orders were to watch for Margrave’s cohorts, Ranulf itched to get it over with and deliver him to the king.

  The felon faced any number of punishments including hanging, emasculation, disemboweling, beheading, and drawing and quartering. The king could employ any combination of his choosing. A grizzly sight Ranulf never became used to seeing.

  The accusations of treason had rung false when he first heard them. The man had been the king’s confidant and adviser. He had witnessed their friendship in court and on the march. What had caused him to turn on his monarch and country? Although Lord Margrave had had the unfortunate luck of marrying a harpy, he always carried himself with a quiet spirit. He was a warrior who had lost his desire for battle, a man beaten into submission. This was not a man with the stomach to commit treason against his king.

  Lord Margrave waited for everyone to leave the bailey. Once they were out of sight, he dusted invisible dirt from his tights. “Where is Fat Thomas?”

  Ranulf raised a quizzical brow. “Fat Thomas?”

  “That’s his horse and cart.”

  “Oh.” Ranulf nodded. “He’s feelin’ poorly. Stayin’ at yonder inn.”

  “Hmm.” Margrave pinched the bridge of his nose. “I saw what you did.”

  “M’lord?”

  “I suggest you not make a habit of it. Your betters won’t take kindly to poor treatment. Before you know it, there’ll be a noose bearing your name.” He rubbed the back of his neck and slapped his thigh. “Enough said. I must tell you, I’ve very little coin with me, but I understand our larder is nearly empty.”

  “So ’tis rumored, m’ lord.”

  “The water of the rumor mill runs fast.” Nicholas frowned. His gaze landed on the broken gate.

  “One hears things now and again.” Ranulf tapped his temple. “A smart one knows when to listen.”

  Margrave clapped him on the shoulder. “Never a truer word spoken. I’m told the king’s men confiscated all the livestock. Have you access to a hen or two?”

  Ranulf paused, his grip tightened around the bag of grain. Margrave knew they had lost a few skinny animals but had no concern for the men who stood against the king’s soldiers? He shook free of the outrage, evening his voice. “Fat Thomas keeps a roost of ’em at the inn. Will bring ’em back soon as I’m able. Plannin’ to stay for a while?”

  “I’ve nowhere to go but here,” Margrave said with a wistful smile. “Until my end has come.”

  “Swans?” Ranulf offered, then wanted to kick himself as soon as the word left his mouth.

  Margrave blinked. “Swans?”

  Ranulf had to see where ’twould take him and so pressed on. “’Ave you need for a brace of swans?”

  “’Tis a luxury I cannot afford.”

  “These are special. ’Eard it said they come from the king’s own aviary.”

  “The king, you say?” Margrave shifted, trying to peer into Ranulf’s face. “One never knows. Mayhap I’ll send word for swans.” He nodded and spun on his heel, then paused. “Have we met before?”

  Ranulf squatted to check one of the horse’s hooves. His back to Margrave, he inspected the frog for stones. “No, m’ lord,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure if we’ve met ’afore, we’d both recall.”

  Silence crackled in the air between them. “I suppose so. Though ’tis odd. There is something quite familiar about you.”

  Ranulf tensed. He kept his hand out of sight, moving it ever so slightly to the short blade hidden inside his boot.

  Margrave cleared his throat. “No doubt a tired old man’s eyes playing tricks on him. See you return with a hen or two. Speak to Maud when you do.” He jerked on the bottom of his surcoat. “I’ll leave you to your labor.”

  Ranulf touched the peak of his hood in salute. “M’lord.”

  Left to fend for himself, he bent to ready the cart. The silver ring emblazoned with the swan emblem swung away from his neck on a leather thong. He slipped it under his tunic as he stood up. The cool metal stroked his flesh, reminding him of his purpose.

  His trip onto Margrave lands had not gleaned near as much information as he had hoped. More questions came to light than answers. Why in all that was holy had he offered the assistance of the Knights of the Swan? ’Twas that relentless gnawing doubt. He could not ignore it. If not Lord Margrave, then who led this plot?

  Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he wondered at the identity of the raven-haired wench. He had hoped her curiosity would get the best of her and she would return despite her orders.

  Finally, the pile of foodstuffs lay on the ground. Even with the lightening of the load, he doubted the raw-boned horse could carry his weight and reach his destination without faltering. He could not bring himself to ride in the cart and decided to walk beside the animal.

  The reins hung in his hand as he pondered the position in which Margrave found himself. Hearing the patter of feet, Ranulf spun around. He crouched low, prepared for attack.

  “You there.”

  Ranulf jerked his hood forward and straightened when he recognized the wizened old servant, Maud. “Yes?”

  “His lordship sends a message to you. Says he’ll take those special swans. Decided when the time comes a brace of them birds just might save his soul.” She held out a coin for him. “I know ’tis odd, but he says to give you this trinket as a payment for your time. I know ’tis not of usual coin, but mayhap you will find a use for it.”

  Ranulf lifted the silver disc and nodded. “Tell your lord it may take a fortnight, but I’ll come by swans one way or another.”

  Maud snorted and shook her head, grumbling under her breath. “Brace of swans. What am I to do with swans, I ask you?”

  “Wait.” Ranulf dug in a pouch hanging from one of the wagon pegs. He held out a tumble of multicolored ribbons. Fat Thomas would make him pay dearly for these. The wide smile on the servant’s wrinkled face was enough to show ’twas worth the price. He grinned. He had gained an ally in the manor.

  “Oh my, I cannot take those.”

  “’Tis for your troubles. And the young maiden.”

  Maud put the ribbons to her cheek and let the cool satin tickle her face. “She’ll be pleased. She doesn’t receive gifts such as these.”

  “Times are ’ard.”

  “Times are always hard for that one.”

  On a whim, Ranulf pulled out the loaf of bread he had intended for his next meal. “Please, take it.”

  “An angel, for certain,” she whispered. Without another word, she lifted her skirt and trotted off toward the door in the tower.

  Once over the bridge, he widened
his stride to reach Cock’s Inn. Margrave had passed him a coin with the shape of a swan stamped on one side. He had acknowledged the need for swans. Swans. The code word used by the Knights of the Swan. Could it be that Lord Nicholas of Margrave understood the trap was set? No matter; he would send the message on to Henry and wait to learn his liege’s desires.

  His plan set in motion, Ranulf’s thoughts were no longer on the pending meeting with Margrave, nor how he would come by a brace of swans on short notice. Instead, they lingered on the maiden.

  Though she did not speak it, ’twas clear she held no warmth for Robert.

  Chapter 4

  Clarice ran the satin ribbon against her cheek. Astonishing. A gift from a peddler. Half a loaf of bread rested on the side table. Amazing. To hear Maud tell it, a miracle had occurred.

  The meager fire in the hearth stirred as the door to Clarice’s chamber was thrown open.

  “A word with you, my dear,” her father said, striding in.

  Thoughts of the peddler slipped away as easily as the ribbon through her fingers. Clarice fought to keep from commenting on Father’s unkempt appearance. His hair, always kept tied with a leather thong, hung loose about his neck. Black ink marred his fingers. A bit of red sealing wax stuck to the cuff of his wrinkled white linen shirt. Mud coated his polished boots and he carried a thin, flat packet under his arm. After fiddling with the string tied around the end, he placed the packet near the foot of her cot.

  Ever the lord surveying his lands, he gazed out the chamber window. Legs braced, as if preparing for battle, he took a deep breath. “I fear I’ve failed you.”

  “You fail me not.” Clarice rose from the bench to stand beside him. She looked out, wondering if he saw the manor as she did. Though this was her home, it, too, was her prison. Her heart skipped a beat. Would their trouble with the king change her father’s mind? He would feel the need to protect her. Mayhap they would flee the land together. Oh, what she would give to leave. Despite her fractured relationship with her stepmother and stepbrother, she would ask to join them.

  “A man should know what takes place under his own roof,” he whispered. “Blindness has besmirched my good name and now my life.”

  “Father—” Clarice began.

  He gripped her arms. Desperation glittered in his eyes. “I intend to repair the damage.”

  “’Tis Annora who—”

  His hold tightened, silencing her response. “Have patience with your stepmother. She is distraught and cannot help her sharp tongue. The one good thing of this hideous predicament is that you are safe here. Only a handful of people know you are my daughter. You’ll be safe once I leave,” he repeated.

  “Father, if you are to flee England, I should go with you.”

  His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. “You are safer here.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t noticed but the gate is damaged and no longer stands.”

  “I will see it repaired.”

  She jerked her arms free “Every time you leave me behind... you break my heart.” Her limbs trembled in anger. “I am a dutiful daughter. I deserve better.”

  “I’ve hurt you?” Father stiffened, as if she had struck him. “I never intended . . .” He swept up her hands, holding them to his chest. “I vow, Daughter, if you do as I say, I will remedy your ill-treatment.”

  She searched his face, looking for the truth buried within his promise.

  “I’ve sent word for help.” He continued, his grip tightening on her fingers. “Once I prove that my guilt lies in being a damn fool, I will be free of King Henry’s ire. We’ll be back in his good graces.”

  “How long—” Clarice started, but stopped when he released her.

  “I’ll send for you when I am ready to depart.” He kissed her forehead before leaving her chamber. His steps were not as heavy they had been when he’d entered.

  The shadows in Clarice’s chamber grew and faded into the darkness of night. She lay on her little cot, her head resting upon the meager pillow and wondered when her father would return.

  His promise to send a messenger with news of their preparations for travel never came.

  Restless, she kicked out her feet. The packet Father had carried into her chamber earlier that day had fallen to the floor. Tempted to see what it contained, she nudged it with her toe.

  Casting a glance toward the door, she listened for footfalls that did not come. “Who’s the fool now?” she muttered. “No one is coming for you tonight.”

  Unable to ignore her curiosity, she moved closer to examine the packet. The looped string caught all four corners. Although tied in a knot, it was loose enough to lift with her fingertip. ’Twould be simple enough to peek inside. If intended for another, she could repair it without anyone the wiser.

  After slipping the string over a corner, she unfolded the linen wrapping. Candlelight danced across a dagger’s steel, her image reflected across the blade’s edge. The hilt, bound in leather, fit perfectly in her hand.

  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. At least for that night, she would sleep with it by her side.

  * * *

  When dawn broke across the cobalt sky, the first piercing wail rang through the bailey. Grim-faced, Maud soon appeared at the chamber door.

  Clarice led her to the side table and poured a cup of watered wine. She shoved it into Maud’s hands. “Drink.”

  Maud shook her head. “You must come at once. Your—stepmother—”

  “Is that who raised such a hue?” Clarice gave a disgusted snort. “What is that woman demanding now?”

  “No, child.” The servant set the cup on the table and gripped Clarice’s hands. “’Tis your father.”

  “The king . . .” Clarice’s legs threatened to turn to water. “They’ve come for him?” She tore her hands from Maud and headed for the stairway. “Why didn’t anyone summon me?”

  “Wait—”

  Worried for her father’s safety, Clarice raced into the main hall. She followed the sound of weeping echoing against the empty walls. It led her to the master’s library. She skidded to a halt when Robert appeared and blocked the doorway.

  “Let me pass,” she said, wincing as his fingers dug into her shoulders.

  “No. I cannot.”

  “I must speak with Father.”

  He drew her close. His arm draped over her shoulders. The scent of stale mead filled her nose. “He’s dead.”

  “Wh-what?” she stammered, clawing at his hands as she leaned past him to see inside the room.

  He shut the door, but not before the image of her father hanging from the rafters was imbedded in her mind. Clarice cried out in horror.

  Robert pulled her to his chest and stroked her back. “Not to worry. Your life will soon return to what it has always been. I’ll see to it. I promise.”

  * * *

  Clarice stared out the narrow window of her chamber. The sun bled out its final rays before setting for the evening. Torchlight danced across the lawn. Under the cover of twilight, the mourners moved in silence. By eventide, they would lay Father to rest in a remote corner of the garden. He would have an unmarked grave to hide the sinner who took his own life.

  She scrubbed her face with the back of her fist. Damn the empty space where her stepmother’s heart should beat. Earlier, a tearful Maud had brought Lady Annora’s latest decree. “Clarice is not to set foot outside her bedchamber until all the mourners depart through the manor gates.”

  Although her prayer had always been for her lot in life to change, never had she prayed for Father’s death.

  Maud’s account of recent events replayed in her mind. In the taking of his own life, Lord Nicholas of Margrave—her father—had committed a sin so great, the church would not bury him with their blessing. Despite censure and rumors of treason swirling over her husband’s name, Annora had commanded the old servant to find someone to mourn his demise.

  Maud had ridden to the Cock’s Inn. She’d found a few travelers willing to le
ave the crowded room. It took little effort to convince them to abandon their spot on the hard wooden floor. Given enough coin, they gladly wept copious tears for the lost soul.

  Clarice offered up her own prayer as the coffin passed below. “I love you, Father,” she whispered. She added the often-repeated request: “Take me with you.”

  Remaining at the window, she watched the flickering torchlight wind down the path. The meager flames wavered against the evening breeze.

  She searched for her stepmother’s form among the followers and found only paid mourners. Just as she had suspected. Lady Annora had left her husband’s side long before they tossed the first shovel of dirt. Clarice uttered a curse and added Robert’s name to the list of absent family members.

  The chamber door swung open and the sweet perfume of violets wafted in. Recognizing the cloying scent, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Annora stood in the doorway, dressed in a soft black woolen gown and matching cloak. Her fawn-colored hair was neat and tidy, not a strand out of place. The soldiers may have left the Margrave’s manor house and accounts in desperate condition, but she had managed to protect a few jewels. The amulet she always wore on a heavy gold chain remained safe around her neck. Rings encrusted with rubies and sapphires winked in the waning light. Only the darkened smudges under her eyes spoke of recent heartache.

  She huffed at Clarice’s silence and stepped into the chamber. “Come, my dear.” She held out her hand to draw her near. “Turn away from the window.”

  “A moment longer.” Clarice continued to follow the faint glow of the torchlight. “They have not yet laid Father to rest.”

  Annora wiped at a tear. “You would ignore me? I strive to protect you from your loss and this is how you thank me?”

  Half-turning, Clarice saw the pain on Annora’s face. Her resentment melted. “Please, I ask for your forgiveness. ’Twas not my intention to cause you harm.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Annora’s thick fingers smoothed the sleeve of Clarice’s gown. “You never intend to cause pain, do you?”

  Encouraged by the sudden tenderness, Clarice caught her stepmother’s hand. “I ask that you would grant me a request.”