by C. C. Wiley
“Would you like me to tell you the tale?” Faith asked.
Startled, Clarice caught the bucket before it hit the ground. Water sloshed out over the edge, drenching her legs. She smiled through gritted teeth. “What tale would that be?”
“How the orphanage was set on fire, silly.” Faith squinted up at her. “Are you always this forgetful?”
Resigned, Clarice choked back a snort. “Go ahead. Tell me your tale.”
Faith pursed her lips. Clarice had begun to think the child had changed her mind, but she could not be so lucky; Faith launched into her tale.
“Erwina says—” She stopped and eyed Clarice. “You really must have Erwina look at your bandage.”
Clarice waved her on. “The tale, if you please.”
“There once was an orphanage that was run by the Brothers of God.”
“Monks?”
“Yes.” Faith cocked her head. Gaining Clarice’s silence, she began again. “One terrible night a fierce knight came to the orphanage demanding a baby. ’Twas many years ago. Nearly a score. ’Tis said that the babe was his own. Yet there was no mother. ’Twas an enchanted baby, for how else would it come to be there? He yelled for his angel, but the angel did not appear. There was a battle and he stole the babe from the nursery and carried it away. In a fit of rage, he torched the orphanage, razing it to the ground. Not once did he stop to consider the other children sheltered there.”
“Were they not under a lord’s protection?”
Faith nodded. “The king was so displeased, he ordered the old lord of Sedgewic to find a home for every child. All but one boy was fostered out.”
Clarice forgot the bucket hanging in her hands until the handle cut into her flesh. “What became of the child who was left behind? Why did no one take him?”
“Erwina says sometimes there is no accounting for taste. Soon after, the boy was called into service for the Prince of Wales.”
Visions of a small redheaded boy, homeless, crying for his mother, threatened to bring her to her knees. “Lord Ranulf was that boy?”
A frown tugged at Faith’s brow. She shook her head. “’Twas so long ago. No one recalls the lad’s name.”
Clarice sighed as she poured the last of the water into the large kettle and sat down to watch it heat. Still pondering Faith’s tale, she spoke her thoughts aloud. “What knight would do such awful things?”
“Erwina says he was once a brave knight, but his broken heart never healed.”
A deep sadness welled up from deep inside Clarice’s soul. She wanted to weep for the lost love. “Was there a name for this knight?”
An identical blond head popped up between them, interrupting Faith’s answer with her own mimicking singsong reply. “Erwina says . . . Erwina says.”
Faith’s twin, Mercy, stood with her hands on her hips, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ll tell you what Erwina says. She says Faith talks too much and should have been back long ago, and if she is not, ’tis I who gets her meat pie.”
“Oh!” Faith jumped up from her perch, and ran past Mercy. Clarice knew at once that Erwina had said no such thing. She recalled the other time she’d observed Mercy baiting her twin. One day that minx would find she needed her precious sister.
Mercy cringed under Clarice’s gaze and mumbled, “Faith does talk too much.”
“A little, but she means well.”
Mercy snorted and turned to go.
Frustrated, Clarice shoved her own sweaty cap of curls out of her face and stomped her foot at the insolent girl’s back. “Now I shall never know that evil knight’s name.”
Mercy paused. “Everyone knows the knight’s name was Margrave.”
Chapter 17
Clarice raced after Mercy, missing her as the girl slipped through the gate.
Furious, she kicked at a raised tree root. Regretting her foolishness, she limped back to the well. Her body ached with each miserable step. Her bandaged arm throbbed. She refused to believe her father could ever do something so vile.
She scooped up the empty bucket and returned to the stone where Faith had perched earlier. She gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out. A few moments ago she had been bemoaning the darkness of her life. Had God forgotten she existed? Just as her own father had abandoned her? She could not push back the persistent question quickly enough. It dug into her mind with sharpened talons. Why did Father leave her for months at a time? What other secrets did he hide?
Lost in the past, Clarice propped her back against the stone. She ran a hand over her eyes and tried to imagine her father as the mythical evil knight. ’Twas unfathomable.
Though absent for most of her life, the man she knew was loyal to the king. Quiet and gentle. Maud swore he had demanded the right to care for Clarice when she was an infant. But Father’s sweet nature had been too easy for Annora to conquer. Her stepmother had chipped at his soul until ’twas nothing more than an empty shell.
Now she found she questioned everything about her life. If Father had loved her so much, why had he chosen to hide her? Wouldn’t he have wanted to present his daughter to the world?
She glanced up at the stove. Steam rose and danced above the kettle. Soon, buckets of hot water would have to be carried and heaved high enough to fill the tub. Heavy work before the reward of soothing bliss yawned ahead of her. She groaned at the thought of lifting her arms one more time. When she stood to begin the chore she was blinded by the sun’s reflection, snaking through the lawn.
A spigot she had missed with all Faith’s distracting chatter extended from the kettle. Hinged to the spigot was a steel trough. It ran all the way into the tent. Eager to learn why the steel contraption was wasted here instead of utilized for armor, she followed it until she stood in front of Lord Ranulf’s giant bathing tub.
The end of the trough, tied by a satin rope, hung overhead and out of the way. It stopped just above the tub. She climbed up on a stool and yanked the rope. The trough dropped, angling into the tub.
No more straining backs or burning arms for castle maidens. Poor old Maud and her ailing joints would bless the soul who had thought out this invention. If this contraption carried water all the way from the fire, she would kiss the feet of the creator herself.
She skipped out of the bathing tent and hurried to the kettle. Visions of perfumed bath oils caressing her aching muscles danced in her head.
She turned the spigot. Her eyes widened as the water rushed out and through the metal flume. She raced into the tent and knelt beside the tub. A stream of water cascaded into the bath. Filled to the rim, heat rising, the steam swirled in the air.
Clarice stuck her head out of the flap. Squinting against the sun’s glare, she studied the sundial. The time it should have taken Sedgewic to return was well past. He must have forgotten his orders for her to prepare his bath.
She plucked at her soiled bodice. ’Twas certain if he meant to return, he would have by now. It had been a dreadful day. Robert’s messenger, the tumble from the tunnel, all the spiders and dust held within now scattered on the solar floor, the grueling work it had taken to carry so many buckets to fill the blasted tub.
’Twas not as if she had never worked a day in her life. She had always been eager to do more than most who were her size and age. Many times she had tried to earn her family’s acceptance by working twice as hard. Instead, all her futile efforts ever brought her was chapped hands, Father’s pat on the head before locking the door, and Annora’s threat to sell her for a price.
Hesitant to use the bath despite what Faith had said, Clarice counted until she ran out of all the numbers Maud knew to teach her. Then she started all over again. Impatient, she tapped her toe. After all, she was a patient person and had done everything she was told. Well, almost everything. Lord Ranulf was not returning to claim his bath. She could not let the water cool off without someone enjoying the benefit. Not after all the effort she had put to the task. Could she?
She caught her lower lip with her te
eth. Her arm aching, her pinched-feet burning, the call of comfort was too much to ignore. She scratched at the dried mud sticking to her legs and scurried to claim her enjoyment before anyone else could. Including the lord of Sedgewic.
With one quick check, she tossed back the tent flap. Not a sign that anyone approached. Snapping the flap shut, she dashed from the doorway and proceeded before she changed her mind.
After prying off her slippers, Clarice nearly toppled over for the sheer joy of freedom and the cool grass between her toes. She yanked the gown over her head, tossing the filthy garment in the corner. Withdrawing the peddler’s ribbon from her skirt pocket, she caught the wisps and chunks of what was left of her hair and tied them back.
A row of small bottles filled with perfumed oils stood near the tub. She lifted the glass stopper and sniffed at the different scents. One was of sage and mint. The other was an aromatic blend of lavender and roses. Not sure how much to pour in a tub so large, she tipped the bottle over the water and poured out most of the contents.
The flowery fragrance filled the tent, wafting through the air. “Mayhap it will give our Lord Ranulf hives.”
Clarice dipped her finger into the tub, swirled the water, and watched the oil disappear into the depths. She climbed in, sighing as the soothing water blanketed her from toe to chin.
All too soon, her thoughts returned to her troubles, and she flinched every time she thought someone was coming.
The relentless questions still came. The answers rebounded without proof. ’Twas not in her father’s nature to kill himself. Nor would he ever betray Henry. The years under Annora’s thumb had done their damage. And that fact made the tale of him burning down an orphanage even more confusing. She was his daughter. It made sense that she was that babe. But if so, why had she been left at an orphanage?
Her father’s message to look for the red wolf echoed in her heart. Had he meant for her to seek him out or had he intended it as a warning? Ranulf might have been eight years of age at the time. She would have been a babe. ’Twould give him reason enough for revenge. Although she had trouble thinking of him in that light, she decided it best to distance herself.
Memories drifted in and out, casting their shadows on her thoughts. There were fanciful conversations between father and daughter of an angel bringing another into the world. And there was Annora, spewing angry, hate-riddled venom.
Visions of red wolves and swans skimmed along as she let her mind drift. Peering into the mists, she forced the meaning to surface from behind her father’s cryptic message.
The memories were unrelenting and brought flashes of the peddler who had graced Margrave’s gate on the night of her father’s death.
She would have liked to see his face. Instead, the cloak’s cowl had kept him well hidden. She liked his hands, and the way they settled Fat Thomas’s old nag. His long fingers had stroked the horse’s mane, soothing the beast with his gentle touch. What would it be like to be stroked in that way? Stifling a naughty sigh, she sank a little deeper into the water, her hands roaming over the flat of her stomach.
His kindness toward Maud and her father had warmed her soul. Her heart filled with joy when he bestowed a ribbon upon her. So kind was he. Maud had received a ribbon as well. The dear woman had near been in a fit when she had entered the tower, her bony fists clutching the ribbons. She was nigh to bursting with news of extra food in the pantry and his imminent return. But he never came back. And Father was forever gone.
Warmed by the bath, Clarice yawned and rested her head on the back of the tub.
A pair of graceful swans floated into her dreams, wearing a red satin ribbon draped around their bent necks. They sliced through the water, reaching the bank where she stood. She reached out to lift the ribbon from their necks and her hand was stilled by yet another.
Focusing through the swirling mists, she stared at the sun-bronzed hand resting upon hers. Scarred from battle, there was strength within this masculine hand. Lightened by the sun, the coils of hair shimmered as it brought the gift closer. Gently, she was turned, her hair lifted as the ribbon wove into her hair. Nimble fingers danced through her mane, stroked her neck, caressed her shoulders.
She turned to see the face belonging to those gentle hands. But it was hidden behind the shadows of a peddler’s coarse woven cloak. His identity whispered the peddler. She leaned into his embrace, trusting that no harm would come from this one. His lips touched her fevered brow, traveled to her temple. Cool fingers traced her cheek before plunging again into her hair. His breath danced beside her ear, down her neck, caressing her shoulder. She sought to find his mouth, in search of his lips so she might match them with her own.
The mists shifted and separated, like prisms in a looking glass, catching the peddler’s visage as he bent for another kiss. She recoiled in horror as her darling gentle peddler’s nose grew into a snout. His ears began to point, his coat of fur shimmering streaks of red.
Clarice awoke with a start and ran a trembling hand over her lips. Her stomach dropped, turning liquid at her spine. She had an odd, empty feeling she was not alone. Her skin tingled. Someone was close behind her.
Searching outside the tub for the bathing cloth to cover her nakedness, her hand touched something warm and strong. She felt along muscular planes, the mass too large to wrap her fingers around.
Gradually moving her hand away from the leather-encased leg, she inched her fingers toward the boar-bristled brush resting on the stool. Her pulse racing, she gripped the long wooden handle and thanked the saints above that she had had the foresight to lay it within reach of the tub.
Exploding out of the water, she swung. The impact jarred the wound on her arm as the brush landed against her target. Her feet, perfumed with oils, slid on the tub’s polished surface and she went down. Her head dunked below the soapy water.
The club fisted in one hand, she pushed up with the other. The water splashed over the sides as she spun around, striking out in another arc of spraying water and boar-bristle club.
A roar of pain shook the tent.
Clarice shoved the hair from her face. Her eyes widened.
Upon seeing her victim clutching his head, she sank down to cover everything below her mouth with water and wished to disappear.
Chapter 18
Ranulf covered the growing welt on his temple and sucked the air between his teeth. “Woman, what runs through your mind!”
“I think I should ask you the same.”
He straightened his shoulders and frowned. “And why should I have to be wary of entering where I please?”
“You shouldn’t go skulking about,” Clarice snapped. Her flushed cheeks flamed higher. “M-m-my lord.”
“Skulking!” Ranulf arched his brows. The motion made his temple throb. “I was responding to your request.”
“I asked nothing of you . . . my lord.”
He edged closer. “Beautiful lady, just moments ago you requested assistance in washing your hair. In truth, you mewed and moaned at my touch.”
The air hissed between her teeth as she sputtered, “I did nothing of the sort.”
Ranulf bit his cheek to keep from commenting on her flaring temper. He pointed to the crown of her head. “How do you explain the lather?”
She raised a tentative hand, snatching it back when she made contact with the residue of creamy suds.
He stepped closer and flicked a glob of soap from her cheek. “I believe this is the point at which, were one so inclined, an apology would be in order.”
Clarice snorted and locked eyes with his. Unwilling to be the first to turn away, he made himself comfortable and waited on the stool.
“You may apologize when ready, my lord,” she said with a dismissive nod.
His jaw clenched. ’Twas unfortunate the maiden had to open her mouth. Their war of wills had just begun. “I meant you, wench.”
“A chivalrous knight would apologize to the lady first and take his leave.”
“If she wer
e behaving as a gently bred lady, I would.” He leaned back with his leg crossed over the top of his thigh. Eyes closed, his fingers locked, he rested his hands upon his knee and prepared for a long siege. “You are not that lady.” Ignoring her outraged gasp, he listed her offenses. “My private bath has been invaded. The bath in which I planned to wash away the sweat and grime of the day has been spoiled by a selfish guest who doesn’t have the decency to see more water is waiting for another.” Sighing ridiculously loud, he added, “And now I must listen to your complaints when you are the one at fault.”
Clarice sank deeper into the water. “You wish for me to apologize for falling asleep?”
Exasperated with her hardheadedness, Ranulf opened his eyes and could not help noting the faint coating of soapy lather had dissipated. Despite the steam that curled over her raven head, the bath would cool in moments. He trusted her slight shiver was from the cooling water and not from memories of her passionate dreams. For whatever reason, he did not find pleasure in thinking her soft sigh was meant for another. “Of course I don’t mean for you to apologize for sleeping.” Ranulf leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He pointed to the bath brush she still gripped in her fist. “You struck me. With my own damn back scrubber.”
“But—” Clarice started to sit up taller; then, realizing her predicament, she slid deeper in the water. She glared up at him. “You startled me.”
“You called out.”
“I thought your plans for bathing had been dismissed.”
His lips twitched. “I assumed you needed help.”
“Not likely,” Clarice muttered.
“I’ll wait here while you form your apology.” Ranulf leaned back and pretended to drift off to sleep.
“Oh, all right. I’m sorry I thought you were someone intent on mauling my person. But, as you can see, I am quite fine.” Her point made, she dipped her chin.
He nodded. “Fine indeed.”
Clarice sank until her lips were just above the crest of the water. One hand frantically searched for the washing cloth and more soap suds to block his view. “Lord Ranulf, if ’tis not too much trouble, please remove yourself from this tent.”
