by C. C. Wiley
“Who do you seek?” she demanded, pressing her dagger against his neck. “Tell. Me. Now.”
His Adam’s apple jumped with a nervous leap. He blinked and gulped again. Tears began to form.
Clarice feared that to acquire the much-needed answers, she would be forced to harm him. The blade was sharp and honed to a fine edge. If he held any intelligence, he would not dare make any sudden movement.
“Name’s Hamish,” he croaked.
She pressed the weapon closer, praying he believed her threat. “Where will I find this red wolf?”
Hamish stared up at her and did not flinch when sweat trickled down his neck.
“You’ll not leave this spot until you reveal this creature’s whereabouts,” she insisted. Her voice sounded odd in her own ears. Her tongue, thick and heavy.
A drop of liquid fell to the ground. And then another.
She frowned. Each russet drop darkened as it mixed with the dirt. The blood was not his. She made sure to turn the blade’s sharp edge away. Then whose?
Her thoughts muddled, she fought to stay on her feet. Each labored breath filled her ears. The dagger wavered. Her mouth dry, she licked her lips. Rest. A few minutes.
She shook free of the whisper. If there truly was a red wolf, she had to find it. For Father. For truth. To find . . . what was it? Love? A giggle bubbled in her throat. Love. A fairy tale for dreamers.
Clarice wagged her head from the rambling thoughts. “We wait here together—” Her mouth felt stiff. “—until you tell me of the red wolf.”
“He’ll cleave your head from your shoulders,” he shouted in her ear.
She jerked with a start. Her legs crumpled beneath her. Clarice rolled, trying to keep from cutting the boy, and they went down together. He cried out when she landed on top of him.
“Shh.” She pushed away the surge of darkness. “Give me a—”
* * *
Ranulf watched Aldwyn’s ears twitch. He listened, searching for what distressed the battle-strong horse. Muffled cries came from the direction of the nearest crossroads. Wary of marauders, he loosened his sword from its scabbard. There would be hell to pay should someone dare use his lands for evil.
He nudged Aldwyn forward. The curses became clearer as he rode up. Ranulf swore he recognized the voice. That boy had nearly run under Aldwyn’s hooves as they were leaving Castle Sedgewic’s bailey yard. It had cost him nearly an hour’s time to locate the castellan and deliver the child into Mistress Erwina’s care. She had assured him young Hamish would not escape her watchful eye. She had enough chores to keep the boy from following through on his nonsense of becoming the lord’s squire.
When the muffled cries turned to wails, Ranulf dismissed all caution and charged over the knoll. He reined in his mount as he bore down the crest.
Two bodies lay in a tangle. One lay atop the other. A cloak-covered head drooped from a set of lifeless shoulders. A set of short, pudgy legs stuck out from the pile.
Hamish struggled to push the limp body away. “Get off me. Goat-brained idiot.”
Ranulf shook his head. Now that he knew the boy would live, he was ready to string him up by his little thumbs. How the child had made it to the crossroads before him, Ranulf could not fathom. The meeting with his informant had taken longer than expected, but had been necessary. Hamish must have slipped from Erwina’s grasp the minute she turned her back.
Short of breath, Hamish paused, as if weighing his options. “Wake up,” he yelped, kicking out his legs once more. “Get your arse off me.”
Giving a soft command to Aldwyn, Ranulf dismounted and moved toward the boy. Wary there might be more marauders hiding in the brush, he kept his sword in hand. He grabbed the back of the cloak and lifted the body lying atop the boy. Surprised by the marauder’s slight build, he tossed him to the side. The lifeless form skidded across the dirt and came to rest against a nearby tree.
“I thought I gave you an order to stay home,” Ranulf said.
Hamish blinked and then shut his eyes, squeezing them tight. “But you need me here.” He squinted through narrow slits. “If I had not discovered the trap before you came this way, ’tis you who might have been attacked.”
At a loss for words, Ranulf held his pounding temples. His fingertips trailed along the raised scar cutting into his hair. Delays from all fronts had torn his plans asunder. He had a mind to ignore the child, mount up, and ride away.
Instead, he let his hand drop and looked down. Dread coursed through his veins as he stared at his fingers. “Yours?”
Hamish looked at the smeared blood. His eyes widened in fear. Gulping, he rubbed his throat.
Ranulf followed the boy’s dirty fingers. They left a streak of dirt across a fold in his plump neck. A tiny scratch nicked his skin. ’Twas not deep enough to cause the stain on the boy’s tunic.
“The stranger asked about you,” Hamish said.
“What?” Ranulf glanced at the still figure lying by the tree trunk.
“Asked about a red wolf.” His sherry-colored eyes shifted up to Ranulf’s head and pointed to the red hair that curled out of the chain-mail hood. “Figured that might be you.”
“You know me as Sir Ranulf, your lord of Sedgewic.” He ruffled Hamish’s wave of nut-brown hair. “And as your lord, I demand you stay put when ordered.”
Hamish pressed his lips together in a stubborn line.
Ranulf turned his back on the urchin. He could ill afford another delay. He did not need to worry about a sprout who had the tendency to get into trouble at every turn. A vision of the tiresome child by his side while in battle was enough to turn his red hair gray.
He glanced over at the lump resting at the base of the tree. Narrow shoulders and twig-thin legs stuck out from under the cloak.
None too gently, he rolled the stranger over, nudging back the hood. A cap of short black curls sprung out from the folds. The contrast of raven lashes resting against the unnaturally pale skin startled him. Not a stub of whisker grew on that smooth jaw. Judging by size and frailty, this youngster should still be attended by his nursery maid.
Ranulf flipped the voluminous fabric and discovered a gown buried beneath the layers. The tail of the skirt, knotted to ride high over a set of leggings. Correction: she.
“’Tis a maiden?” Hamish leaned over to see for himself. “Is she dead?”
“Not yet, but she’ll soon be if we don’t get her help.”
Hamish studied the body lying at their feet. “Why should you care? She tried to kill me.”
Ranulf looked over to see Hamish rub his neck. Mayhap now the boy would understand why he could not be his squire. The king’s business often brought danger.
“Might have killed you, too,” Hamish said. “Should cut out her heart and be done with it.”
Ranulf shook his head at the bloodthirsty boy. “We must discover what brings her to me.”
“We,” Hamish crowed. “That means you and me.”
Patience fading, Ranulf waved his hand at the pest. “I’ve no need for your company.”
He wrestled with the change of plans. She had asked about a red wolf. A select number knew his name spoken among the king’s secret order. Fewer still knew the Knights of the Swan existed. First the swan and now the red wolf. Twice, in less than a fortnight, he had heard these coded words.
He was more than a night’s ride from the port of Southampton. He had information to share. The king would decide how he wished to pursue Lord Nicholas of Margrave and his family. Once that task was completed, Ranulf hoped to sail out across the Channel and reach France with the king’s fleet. However, until he knew why this young maiden had asked about him, he had no right to leave England, not without answers that might well save the king’s life and throne.
Chapter 8
The clatter of horses’ hooves echoed over Sedgewic’s wooden drawbridge, drawing the attention of the castle folk. One of the guards dove out of the way of Hamish’s mount. The palfrey flared its nostrils, shaking
its mane as if to say it had had enough of its rider.
Ranulf reined in Aldwyn beside them. The desire to thrash the boy pushed to the surface again. The orders were on the tip of his tongue. Then he saw Mistress Erwina, the castellan of Sedgewic. Tears of joy coursed down her pale, weathered face.
“My lord,” she said.
“Don’t let him out of your sight again, Mistress. You there, Micah,” he snapped at the stableboy standing nearby, ready to take his horse’s reins.
Micah ran over and bobbed an eager nod. “Yes, m’lord?”
“Easy,” Ranulf ordered as he bent to place the girl in Micah’s arms. He kicked out of the stirrups and dropped down. “Hand her to me. Gently.”
Muttering his thanks, he turned and began the long climb up the stairs to the main hall. “Make way,” he barked at those foolish enough to stand in his path. “Mistress Erwina, you’ll find me in my bedchamber. Bring what you need for tending wounds.”
“But my lord, do you think ’tis wise—”
He ignored the irksome woman and made his way to the one room in the decaying castle fit for habitation: his personal chambers.
After placing the injured soul on his bed, he turned and opened the shutters to let in the sun’s early morning light. He sat on the edge of the mattress and slowly peeled back the bloody cloak.
Close on his heels, Erwina rushed in, her arms loaded with towels and bandages. She tossed instructions over her shoulder, ordering the servants to heat the room and send up more water.
“Goodness. Goodness,” she clucked like a hen after chicks. A crease formed between her brows at her attempt to take over the care. “Your lordship, if you please.”
Ranulf grunted and blocked her hands. “Go slow. ’Tis not a fresh wound but dried to her clothing.”
“How long has she been in this deep sleep?” Erwina asked, wringing out the water from the cleaning cloth.
He shrugged. “From the story Hamish told me, he said she attacked him and then fell atop him. We rode through the night to get here.”
“’Tis a blessing the wound started to seal.” Erwina set the bowl and medicinals on the small table beside the bed. “Any more jarring and she could have bled to death.”
“’Tis that bad?” He glanced up, catching the censure in her tone. Ranulf pushed back the young maiden’s hood. Short tendrils of ebony wrapped around his fingers. The silken strands caught the morning sun. His hand hovered, resisting the temptation to touch the glistening cap.
“My lord, if you please,” Erwina said, nudging him out of the way. “If you cannot help, I must request you depart this chamber and send another in your place.”
He tore his attention from the maiden, squaring on Erwina. “She held a blade to the boy’s throat. Would you wish the same?”
“Hmph.” Erwina waved her hand. “She’s no bigger than a fairy. By the look of her, she won’t be causing trouble for a while.”
He scowled down at the girl, so pale and small. “No matter. I will stay until you are finished.”
Erwina’s deep exhalation became a statement that her patience drew thin. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but you can see she’s in capable hands.” She paused in the removal of blood and dirt. “My lord, because you are here, there are other matters of business that must needs tending.”
“Hamish? The rascal can stew in his own mess for a time.”
She lifted her eyes from their patient. “I suppose, given the state in which you rode through the gates, that you missed the additional men filling the bailey?”
His head jerked in the direction of the old garrison building.
Erwina supplied the answer to his unspoken question. “The king’s army rode in last eventide, stationing themselves in the stables.”
His gut clutched, burning a path into his throat. Why were they here unannounced? Eyes narrowed, he waited, listening to the sounds below.
“’Tis nothing to fear. Ol’ Scoggins recognized them and bade them enter. Go.” She fluttered her hands at him, shooing him toward the door. “Though I doubt the girl will have the strength to cause trouble, I promise to call out.”
The object of concern lay on his bed, her face gravely pale. The urge to run a soothing hand over her brow rose in his heart. He started to reach out, but a shout from the bailey below broke the siren’s call. Ranulf frowned, curling his fingers into his palms and turned away.
The old woman was correct. ’Twould be a while before he heard the young maiden’s tale. In the meantime, he had a castle to protect.
“You’ll find a guard stationed outside the chamber door.”
* * *
Clarice refused to open her eyes. Someone, watching and waiting, observed her as she slept. She bit back a sob, pressing it against the back of her throat. The more she fought, the more powerful it became. A thin stream of air seeped through her clenched teeth.
Memories of her flight from the only home she had ever known came in pieces. Darkness trailed behind Robert’s attack. It slithered through her thoughts, tugging her into a deep abyss. In the silence of the room, the fear of her wickedness leaped out at her. Had she killed her stepbrother? Could she do something so vile and not recall it?
The pounding in her ears rose to a deafening roar. Flashes of the night came back to her. The boy at the campsite. Had she harmed the child in the woods?
Tossing the blanket aside, she rolled onto her shoulder and gasped. Pain shot down her left arm. It trailed to her fingertips, throbbing through her nails. Fire was everywhere, eating her alive with its flaming tongue.
“Hush, child. You’ll find safety here.”
A cool, papery hand settled on her forehead.
“Where am I?”
“Speak up. These ears are too old for mumbled gibberish.” The watcher shuffled about the room. “Name’s Mistress Erwina. I am castellan here. Take care of everyone in Sedgewic.” The sound of heavy keys sliding against a metal ring punctuated her pronouncement. “And now I’m here to tend to your wound. Tell me, dear, what is your name?”
Clarice froze and waited.
“No sense in trying to ignore me,” Mistress Erwina said. “I’m not going away until you do.” The woman tapped an impatient beat on the wood floor. “I already know one of your secrets.”
Restless, Clarice shifted under the weight of curiosity but kept her silence. She squeezed her eyes closed and willed the woman to leave.
“I’d wager you are wondering if I can keep your secret.”
“What secret puffs you up like an adder?” Clarice muttered into the pillow.
“Hmph. Rude girl. Believe I’ll let you stew a while longer.” The woman moved about the room, rearranging the furnishings, stoking the fire in the hearth.
Clarice startled when the metal tongs clanged against the grate. A shower of sparks shot from the logs.
The woman—Mistress Erwina—dropped the tool in place and returned. “Tell me, if you can,” she said. “Which of your secrets do I know and the lord of Sedgewic does not? At least,” she added with a wink, “not yet.”
“Sedgewic?” Her stomach rolled, twisting in knots. That name represented the moment her mundane life had shattered and forced her out of what she had believed was safety. “How did I come to be here?”
“Don’t you remember?” Mistress Erwina fluffed and patted, straightening the bedding. Each movement, exact, without waste. “Ah, I suppose not. ’Tis another bit of information I possess and you do not.” She clapped her hands together. “Well? Do you wish to guess? An exchange of secrets, hmm?”
Clarice lifted her uninjured shoulder, feigning indifference. She picked off a downy feather from the mattress. “It matters not.”
Mistress Erwina trailed her finger along the bandaged arm. “Think it matters not that you carry a wound on the back of your left arm? ’Tis I who tended to that wound. Took several stitches to draw your flesh together. ’Tis fortunate you thought to bind it tight. And more so that I have a steady hand.”
“I suppose you wish me to reward you.”
“Yes.” Mistress Erwina bent forward. “I would know your name and how you came by this.”
Clarice slid her gaze to the bloody piece of embroidered material held out under her nose. Father’s standard of three interlocking wreaths. Now, barely discernible under the dried blood. The family edict to keep her identity hidden raged in her head. She swallowed to loosen the knot of tension growing in her chest. “And what will you do with this knowledge?”
Mistress Erwina placed the ruined embroidery on the side table. “Years ago, I searched for answers to questions that stole my sleep for many a night.” She tapped the edge with her fingertip. “I believe you have those answers.”
Clarice bit down on the fear that threatened to choke her.
“I see you tire from our chat,” the castellan said, straightening her back. “Mayhap by morn you will be ready to speak.”
“By morning, I daresay, I will no longer be here.”
“No. You are still weak and need rest,” Mistress Erwina cautioned. “Sleep is what you need. We’ll speak afterward.”
“Am I not free to go?” Clarice struggled to sit up. Fire seared through her arm. It wrung the air from her lungs. “This cannot be.”
She tried not to flinch when Mistress Erwina braced Clarice’s uninjured shoulder and held her there until she gained her balance.
“You threatened injury to a favorite of his lordship’s household servants,” Mistress Erwina said. “Give him and yourself some time. At this moment I daresay he hasn’t the patience to deal fairly with you.”
“I must leave at once,” Clarice croaked. She licked her lips. Her mouth was as parched as a dry riverbed.
“Hush, child. There is a guard on the other side of yon door. He is under orders to stop you.” Her cool fingers smoothed the tendrils from Clarice’s fevered cheek. “Stay and rest a while. We’ll sort things out. For now, I’ve another knot to untangle.” She turned to walk away, muttering. “Although how I’ll ever convince the lord not to allow that child to disrupt his life again, I’ll never know.
