by C. C. Wiley
Her eyes wide, she tilted her head as she waited for an explanation.
“I have finally found a task that will keep Hamish out of the way, and Erwina will get her wish. For some time now she has been begging me to work on the inner rooms.”
“All the same, my lord, I know I should have stopped Hamish.”
“Agreed. But it’s over and done with. We have much bigger things to discuss.”
The wary look returned to her eyes. “Such as?”
“Such as what you overheard in the solar.”
“Nothing, my . . . my lord.” Her lips trembled. “What shall you do with me?”
Ranulf felt as if he was questioning one of the children about the theft of a pastry. She lied like no other. He drummed his fingers against his thigh. She told a tale as well as any child. Something tied Robert to her skirt, and that thought tasted like a piece of foul meat.
“I think, for now, we shall keep you to ourselves. I believe Robert will be busy enough hiding from the king’s men. He should have no trouble forgetting a pretty maiden. Even one as succulent as yourself. Until all the Margraves are run to ground, you may consider this your sanctuary.” He rose and dusted off his breeches. “Well?” he said, holding out his hand. “Do you prefer sitting on the cold stone or would you rather a chair?”
A tenuous peace hung in the air with his outstretched hand.
Nodding, she put her hands in his. Although he led her to a more comfortable seat by the hearth, he could feel the fear radiating through her shaking fingers. Jesus on the cross, I’m not taking her to the gallows.
After seeing her settled, he helped himself to the contents from the pitcher on the table. Keeping his distance, he watched Clarice continue to fidget. The fire illuminated hints of scarlet in her dark hair. Dust and dirt sprinkled over her bodice and skirt. Clarice tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. Her delicate mouth formed a firm line. She leaned forward, perched on the edge. A pretty peregrine falcon. “Why do they call you the wolf?”
Ranulf flinched, tipping the cup he had raised to his lips. Regaining his composure, he shook his head. “I know not what you mean.”
“No use denying it. I know what I heard. You are close to the king, are you not?”
“You must have misunderstood. My given name is Ranulf.” He sounded the last slowly, pronouncing each syllable. “A minor lord with a decaying castle.”
“Lord Ranulf—”
“Just Ranulf will do.”
Clarice squinted at him as if she had images of wolves dancing in her head. Releasing a defeated sigh, she conceded, “Ranulf . . . what can you tell me about a red wolf that is said to dwell on these lands?”
“Only grays live in the hills to the north.”
“’Tis the red wolf I am interested in.” Holding up her finger, she indicated the solitary figure. “One red wolf.”
“’Tis an odd curiosity you have.” He moved to the door before she probed further. “I must go now.”
“Wait.” She rose from the chair. “Please don’t lock me in.”
Everything he had learned in the last few minutes rang in his mind. Clarice was close to a man accused of treason and Nicholas’s loathsome stepson, Robert. Her questions about the red wolf bothered him even more. And she had lied about not hearing any of the discussion in the solar. He hated to think of her pretty neck stretched for the executioner. Although Margrave was dead, the plot continued. She might have knowledge he could use to save the king. He had to keep her close. Very, very close. On second thought, perhaps he should allow just enough rope to snare his little rabbit.
“You will come with me.” He held out his hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “’Tis said that idle hands are the source of mischief.”
She let out a breath and followed him obediently to the door. With a commanding nod, the guards moved their speared staffs so they might pass. Her steps dragged as they walked through the hall and beyond the sweating soldiers practicing in the yard.
“This way.” Ranulf looked back when she did not move. He gave another tug. “Come.”
“What is that?” Clarice pointed to the lone tower standing in the corner of the bailey. She dug her heels into the ground and clawed at his hand. “Please, I pray you, don’t take me there.”
Ranulf scratched his jaw. The woman was daft. Mayhap Erwina would have a draught of something to calm her. “Come,” he said again.
Ignoring her objections, he unlocked the heavy gate. He turned to draw her in, noting her ashen face, her eyes wide with fear. He paused and waited until her struggles dissipated. Her lips parted, she gasped for air. Her bodice rose and fell. He fought the urge to close her open mouth with a kiss. Drawn into her web, his body leaned in of its own accord. A spider’s web of lies, his head argued, or an innocent pawn in a deadly game of power?
He jerked back with a start. Instead of tasting her lips, he touched her jaw with the pad of his thumb. The heat raced to his heart. Riveted by the rapid beat of the delicate vein in the vulnerable hollow of her slender neck, he could not tear his gaze away.
“Draw the water, my sweet. ’Tis time to bathe.”
Ranulf smiled wickedly when her mouth snapped shut in disbelief. “And do not attempt to leave.” He nodded to the parapet, where guards stood watch. “I will know as soon as you set foot outside these walls.”
Chapter 16
Clarice set her jaw in disbelief. He had walked away. If the man’s bones were available, she would have ground them into meal for her bread. Draw the water for his bath indeed. Fortunately for him, he had left before she’d found her tongue. And her teeth. Her lips pressed together, she bit back the words she wanted to fling at his head.
Hands on her hips, she edged toward the garden gate to test its lock. Movement on the wall caught her attention. She froze as the man standing guard lifted a gloved hand in salute. “Save me from idiotic brutes,” she muttered and spun on her heel.
Steaming with anger, she followed a path that led away from the garden gate. She kicked at patches of emerald green lawn. Thoughts of devising a way to sabotage her . . . host’s . . . bath flitted through her mind. One by one, she regarded and discarded each idea.
Disappointed with her lack of creative ideas for retribution, she had to admit that she had no solid proof that he was responsible for her father’s death. Yes, he had led the king’s soldiers to Margrave Manor. But try as she might, she could not imagine Ranulf returning to force her father to hang himself from the broad beam in his chamber. He himself had dealt with her without raising a hand in anger. ’Twas more than she could say for her own family. However, the day was young. She dared not think what he would do once he discovered she was Nicholas of Margrave’s daughter.
She so wanted to discount Maud’s whispered words of her father’s final message. The similarity of Ranulf’s name was nothing more than a coincidence. But she was certain the other knight had called him the king’s red wolf. And if the Lord of Sedgewic was not the red wolf, she had to keep searching.
She ruffled the purple tufts of lavender growing along the path. She had to leave Sedgewic. Find her answers elsewhere.
Lost in thought, she paused, the purple buds in her palm forgotten. Knowing her family as she did, they carried themselves far from king and creditors. Certainly they would not return to Margrave.
Her pulse raced. She must go back to Maud and question her once more. There had to be a missing piece of information. Her dear friend might recall the remainder of the message. With another clue in hand, she might find the right direction and finally be free.
Her gaze cut to the watchtower. First she would have to learn how to scale these fortified walls. Grudgingly she gave Lord Ranulf his due. While setting out to create an impenetrable wall, he had made one that kept them in as well. Young Hamish would know a way to conquer the castle’s barrier, though she hated the thought of involving the lad in her next escape. The knot of purple flowers along the path received a swat of frustration. Th
ere had to be another way.
She stumbled to a stop and stared at the odd sight before her.
Erected in the garden was a tent spreading over the lush garden. ’Twas a ridiculous collage of colored silks. Caught by the gentle breeze, the vibrant silk threads danced and shimmered under the sun. ’Twas reminiscent of the harem tents her father had spoken of on his rare visits. A tent of which any Saracen worth his salt would be envious. Visions of dancing girls, glittering jewels, and kohl-lined eyes drew her closer.
Was the lord of Sedgewic forming a harem? Unable to stop her imagination, she added a man to her vision. She slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the ribbon. The peddler.
Flipping open the tent flap, she peered inside. Shadows wavered as the rose-filled breeze wafted through the silken structure. An oval brass tub stood under the canopy. ’Twas big enough to accommodate the handsome lord’s muscled body, with room for one more. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.
On shaking legs, she stepped inside the doorway to closer examine the container. She groaned. ’Twould take forever to fill.
Lord Ranulf had made an effort to point out that he found it necessary that everyone in the castle bathed on a regular basis. Not that she had any aversion to being clean. But this monstrosity was just too big.
The self-centeredness it took to expect a servant to fill the copper tub was unfathomable. Even if he bathed on a monthly basis, let alone once a week, the task to fill it ’twould be great.
She flicked the edge, creating a hollow ringing. Never would she expect Maud or the other servants to carry enough water to fill that thing. At Margrave all she had bathed in was a washbowl. Unless one counted the quick dash to the spring, she had always found the water in her chambers sufficient.
Her nose twitched when she caught her own scent and realized the smell of dirt and sweat had penetrated her clothing. The pungent odor threatened to cover the perfumed soap lying on the worktable.
Lifting the pot of soap, she inhaled deeply. Ranulf did have a few redeeming qualities after all. Sage, rosemary, and mint made for a heady perfume. It reminded her of the night he had come to the bedchamber. Her curiosity grew. Not wishing to examine her next thoughts too closely, she searched for a bucket in which to fill the great tub.
After exploring that area of the gardens, Clarice finally found the well. She cranked the rope up until the end surfaced and discovered the bucket was missing.
Frustrated, she settled herself on a bench outside the tent. What would the lord say when he discovered his bathwater did not await his pleasure? A slow smile began to form. No bath would be drawn for him. She would refuse to bathe as well, letting her stench fill his chambers until he relented. A man so keen on cleanliness would be forced to provide her other accommodations. Then she would work on breaking free from the castle walls.
A sundial nestled in the middle of the lawn. Clarice watched the shadow move gradually to the right. Too soon, the stone bench poked the bruises she had tried to forget. She would rather bite her tongue than admit she was sore from her tumble with Hamish. But the ache was almost beyond ignoring.
Her plan to greet Lord Ranulf with defiance and an empty tub dissolved as the sun bore down upon her head. She was certain that in a matter of minutes ’twould cook her brain. Unable to wait any longer, she had barely taken a step before the garden gate opened. Ready to pounce, she swung around on her captor.
“Saints,” a blond cherub yelped. Her eyes were round as saucers as she balanced a tray on one arm and a large bucket hooked on the crook of the other.
Blood rushed to Clarice’s cheeks, enflaming her face. In an instant it dawned on her. The child had a key. How else did she enter the garden? “Wait.” She put her hand out to stop the child from running away. “Forgive me. No need to be afraid.”
Clarice gripped the rim of the bucket, tugging the thing out of the child’s clawlike grasp. “Not to worry. Lord Ranulf isn’t here.”
The child yelped again and took a step back. She turned, tossing the bucket to the ground. Clarice dodged it, avoiding the wooden missile so it didn’t strike her shins and grabbed at the serving girl’s shoulder.
Air whooped out when the corner of the tray caught Clarice’s stomach. Fighting to regain her breath, she almost dumped the tray, laden with a great crust of bread and one large chunk of cheese. The cloth covering the remainder of the tray’s contents slipped, revealing two golden apples and a pitcher of something cool and wet to quench her thirst.
Her patience lost, she glared at the food. “For Mercy’s sake, will you desist? You needn’t fear me!”
The cherub’s lips trembled as tears pooled in her eyes. Her cap of blond ringlets bounced as she shook her head. “I’m not Mercy.”
With a firm grip on the tray and the girl’s attention, Clarice stated her question directly. “Who are you?”
The cherub ducked her head and refused to answer.
Clarice sniffed dramatically at the aromatic cheese. “There is a great deal here. Would you care to partake with me?” Hoping for the best, she tossed her request over her shoulder as she located a place to sit. “Grab the bucket, won’t you?”
Warmth settled over her as she heard the obedient clank of the bucket. Her new friend followed, albeit at a safe distance. Clarice sat under a shade tree and held out a large chunk of the bread.
“My thanks,” the child murmured around the mouthful. “I’m called Faith.”
Clarice smiled back at the rosy-cheeked angel. “And who is Mercy?”
“She is my twin.” Faith bobbed her head. “Erwina says we are blessed to have each other, but there are some who believe we are a curse instead.”
Clarice held a cup of watered mead to Faith. Gracefully, the little one took it from her hands and waited for her to pour her own.
Although Clarice had been kept from outsiders, Maud had made a point to ensure that when the time came she would have grace and manners so that she would not embarrass herself. She saw that Faith had been taught the same.
“How do you and your sister come to be here? Where are your mother and father?”
“Erwina says we all come from heaven.” Her blond curls bounced as she shrugged her shoulders. “Erwina says since our father went to help the king’s men, the king’s men can help our father.”
“Mistress Erwina knows your father? What of your mother? Does she not have a say where you and your sister are fostered? Surely there are more . . .” Clarice searched for the right words as the child’s lips begin to tremble. “More exciting places to live. Filled with fairs and laughter.”
Faith shook her head. “Our mother and father are gone now. Father died fighting the Welshmen. Erwina says Mama died of a broken heart.”
“But why here?”
“Erwina says since the orphanage burned down long ago, Castle Sedgewic has been a place for orphans. Sedgewic can better serve King Henry by allowing us to stay here.”
Clarice drew a finger through the green lawn, separating the blades of grass. She dreaded the answer but had to ask. “How did the orphanage burn down?”
Faith’s eyes rounded. “You don’t know?”
“No. I fear not.”
“You have never heard the tale?” Puffed with pride to have a willing listener, Faith launched into her story. “Erwina says—”
Clarice groaned. “Does anyone besides Erwina say anything?” Faith’s brows furrowed as she pondered the question. “Mercy. But Erwina told us both, so it doesn’t matter what Mercy says, does it? And Micah tells us stories, although I wish he wouldn’t tell them so soon before bed. Mercy says I behave like an infant, but Micah’s tale of intruders in the night frighten me. Erwina says he makes them up to hear us squeal. And of course, Lord Ranulf tells us things.” Faith leaned over. “But he doesn’t raise his voice like he does with the soldiers. Erwina says—”
Clarice waved her hand in surrender. “Pray tell, what did Erwina say?”
Faith paused, cocking her head to one side like
a curious little bird. “About what?”
Clarice stifled a groan and rubbed her pounding temples. “I forget.”
Faith swung her feet and tapped the rim of the bucket. “Are you ever going to heat the water?”
“I don’t think I shall.”
Faith’s round face registered shock. “Why not?”
The child’s delicate sniff told Clarice more than she wanted to know.
“Don’t you care to be clean?”
When Faith added that question, Clarice realized she’d heard enough. Without another word, she snatched up the dreaded bucket and marched toward the tent. She stopped. She had no idea how she was to draw the blasted water.
Faith continued, oblivious to the fact that what she was saying barely registered in Clarice’s mind. “No one has ever been allowed to bathe in the lord’s tub before now. Nor have we ever been allowed in his bathing tent.”
“Wha . . . what?” Clarice sputtered. She was the one to take a bath, not Lord Ranulf?
Faith pointed to the corner of the garden. “Over there is the well for fresh water. Beside it is the stone hearth Lord Ranulf built to warm the water. It’s kept burning all the time. Hamish says in case of attack it will already be lit.” Sensing Clarice’s dismay, she tugged on her sleeve. “Don’t worry; ’tis only a few paces. I would help, but Lord Ranulf has declared me too young to carry a heavy bucket.”
Faith eyed Clarice’s dirty gown, ignoring the bandage wrapped around her forearm. “I don’t think you are much stronger than I, but I shan’t ignore his orders.” She plopped her bottom on the nearby bench and sat with regal bearing to watch Clarice haul the water up from the well.
Clarice bit her tongue. ’Twas all she could do to keep from throwing the bucket down the well and walking away. However, she had no idea where to go. Setting out without a plan had not worked well for her so far. Instead, she kept hauling up the bucket and pouring it into the various kettles on the fire.
She was relieved Faith had decided to watch in silence. It gave her ears some rest. Her breath came faster and faster as she worked. The sun’s glare beat down, amplifying the fire’s heat.
