Knight Secrets

by C. C. Wiley

  Fingers digging into the floor, Clarice prayed her stepmother would lose interest and retreat to the hall.

  “Bah.” Annora rose, swatting at the sticky cobwebs. She turned and paused. A smile tugged at her lips as she turned away from the cot. She smoothed the tight material over her hips. Although the boards complained under the weight of her steps, she moved hastily over the wooden planks. The train of her skirt left a trail of smudged dust in its wake. After shuffling her bulk through the doorway, she slammed the door shut.

  Relief crashed over Clarice as she pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes. She had escaped.

  A rustling behind the door pulled her from her internal celebration. The voice she had come to dread scraped across her ears.

  “Clarice. Clarice,” her stepmother cooed. “You’ve been a selfish creature, worrying me as you have. Robert, too, has been most anxious to speak with you. He’ll be here soon. And when King Henry learns of the army of men Robert brings him, our king will be begging for our return to court.”

  * * *

  Clarice paced the room and found its lack of space more restrictive than ever before. But this time she did not want to leave for herself. It was imperative to find a means of escape so she might warn Ranulf and his men.

  Her fingers curled in anticipation of throttling Annora’s neck. Aunt Annora!

  Strengthened by the seething anger boiling in her veins, she broke a leg off the cot. Vengeance poured out as she struck the wall. Ignoring the burning in her arms, the sweat dripping down her bodice, she did not stop until she heard a hollow thud.

  In the far corner of the nursery, under the bench where her father would have her sit and say her prayers, she found the indentation. Time had begun to pull the repairs from the wall. The mortar around the false stone crumbled.

  Clarice knelt down and peered inside. A leather strap was barely within reach. After wiggling her arm into the hole, she caught the strap and tugged it closer. Feet braced against the wall, she dragged the trunk through the hole.

  The chest. ’Twas much smaller than she remembered. After all, she had been a girl of nine years. At that age things always seemed much larger than they really were. Time had a funny way of reducing fearful images to nothing more than faint imaginings.

  Even in her short time away from Margrave, her perspective had changed. Father was not the same man she had left behind. He was a man capable of loving, though imperfectly. The mother who inhabited her dreams lay no farther than the outer wall. Most of all, Annora could no longer hurt her.

  Smoothing her hand over the metal chest, Clarice’s heart thrummed a cadence of joy as she contemplated the contents within. She tested her memory of that fateful day.

  Pretty gowns and escaping confinement in the country were all she had been interested in at that time. The dresses did not serve her well then. She had her doubts they would do so now. Yet here she was again, still searching for her freedom.

  What she needed was Angelica’s prayer book.

  Kneeling beside the trunk, her hands trembled as she tugged at the latch.

  Locked. Christ’s wounds!

  Frustrated, she jumped up and paced the floor. She stopped at the window and looked out at the garden, locating the spot where she now knew her parents waited. “The answer must be here.”

  She explored the horizon. “Where are you, Ranulf? Have you returned to Sedgewic? Are you furiously angry to find me gone?”

  The Southampton seaport was south and in the opposite direction from Margrave. The chance that he would ever come this way was slim indeed. She withdrew the peddler’s ribbon from the pouch hidden under her skirt. It caught on something in the bottom of the purse. An impatient tug brought the metal object spinning out, clattering against the window ledge. She returned the ribbon to the pouch, gasping and lunging for the key.

  The swan’s head gripped in her hand, she knelt beside the trunk. Was this the reason her father had ensured she’d received it?

  She inserted the key into the lock. The narrow end went in without obstruction but did not turn the spring.

  Rocking back on her heels, she stared at the puzzle. “Reveal your secret,” she whispered. Her heart skipped. The rhythm beat a little faster. With great care, she connected the deep marks where the escutcheon had decorated the lock. Around and around, her finger flew until the pattern appeared.

  With trembling hands, she tried the key once more. This time she placed the head of the swan into the center of the missing metal plate. She scrubbed her hands on her skirt, leaving a damp, dirty trail, and turned the key. A sound as quick as a cricket’s chirp clicked into place. The spring turned the small bolt and the latch gave way.

  She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Sunlight was fading. Soon the chamber would be thrown into darkness. Carefully, she raised the lid.

  “Christ’s holy blood.”

  The golden gown that had once reminded her of moonbeams lay on top. She put it aside and picked up a pair of leather riding gloves that were the color of doves. Although time had taken away their sheen, they would have protected soft hands as they held the reins. Folded beneath the gloves lay a garnet cloak made of velvet. She buried her face in the satin-lined hood and inhaled. Angelica.

  “Would you smell of the garden?” Clarice wondered aloud. “Of roses, lavender, and rosemary?”

  Tears scored her cheeks. The cloak draped over her shoulders, she pulled the folds close, and for the first time in her life she was enveloped in her mother’s embrace. With renewed determination singing through her veins, Clarice searched until the trunk lay on its side, empty of its contents.

  Nothing. I’ve wasted time on a wild-goose chase.

  Dejected, she rubbed her cheek with the velvet hood. Not only hadn’t she found the proof of her birth, she had failed to find a clue about her father’s death.

  The growing shadows of nightfall had shifted, making it harder to see. Clarice tipped her head and squinted. The shadows outlined an uneven edge along the interior of the trunk.

  She caught a piece of the rose-colored lining and pulled until it ripped open. Underneath was hardened brown leather. She rapped the bottom with her knuckles.

  “What have we here? A secret compartment?”

  She ran a shaking hand over the leather and felt the hard-edged spine of a book. Grasping the lining, she yanked harder. The opening ripped a little more and the small book slipped out.

  “Angelica’s prayer book!”

  Bound in soft brown leather, the gilded lettering on the cover read Book of Hours. On each corner was a flower-shaped medallion. Each medallion, topped with a precious stone, surrounded by smaller, similar stones.

  Reverently, she opened the small book where it had been marked with a delicate chain. The chain poured from the book, landing softly at her feet.

  Clarice picked it up and held it to the dwindling light. A necklace. An emerald stone swung from a teardrop pendant. Several damaged links altered the filigree pattern. It pooled in her palm, warming her skin until she hid the necklace in the pouch under her skirt. Why would her mother hide it in the prayer book?

  She moved to the window to catch the last of the sun. One by one, she searched the pages for clues that would lead her to answers. Page after page was a prayer for the day. On some pages were short verses. One for every hour of the day.

  Moments later, she was still no more certain of why her father would give her a key that would fit this chest.

  A cool breeze rose to the window. Thankful for Angelica’s cloak, she lifted the hood and wrapped the folds tight around her body. On the verge of giving up hope, she turned the last few remaining pages. A few had been cut from the inner seam. Now, free of their moorings, the parchment fell to her feet.

  As Clarice bent to pick up the loose sheets of vellum, the clatter of horses’ hooves crossing over the wooden bridge broke through the silence. Whoever rode through the gate did so without thought for their safety or that of their horses. Before she could see
who the careless riders were, the door swung open.

  Maud’s small frame tumbled into the darkened chamber. The flame from the candle she carried wavered but held to the wick.

  “For the love of all that is good,” Clarice scolded. “You will harm yourself so you cannot travel when we’re ready. Return to your chamber before they know you are up and about.”

  The glazed look swept from Maud’s eyes. Her mouth opened and snapped shut and opened again. “Dear Lord, I thought ’twas my lady Angelica, come back from the grave.” She swept her hand over Clarice’s head and smoothed the hood. “You found it.”

  “Come.” Clarice led Maud to the mattress on the floor. “Tell me. Who rides through our gates?”

  “’Tis him! Robert has returned.”

  “And has he many men, as Annora swore he would?”

  “No, but he has a small man riding by his side.”

  The two women jumped up as the door struck the wall.

  “I knew it,” Annora exclaimed. “I knew I would find the two of you when I saw candlelight shining from the window.” She stumbled back. “Angelica. It . . . it cannot be.”

  Clarice let the candle cast shadows across her face and stood so that Annora could clearly see Angelica’s cloak.

  The clatter of hobnailed boots striking against the stairway moved closer. Robert skidded to a halt before slamming into his mother’s back. He wiped the clump of hair plastered against his cheekbone. The overgrown patch of beard on his jaw was spotty from the constant rubbing of his helmet. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “Shite! Cease your pathetic sobbing. ’Tis Clarice.”

  Clarice ignored Maud’s plea for silence and stepped forward. “Why, Annora? Is there reason for Angelica’s restless spirit to visit you?”

  Annora arched her back like a cat’s. “You’ll not speak of the dead.”

  “Angelica.” Robert limped past Annora and moved to grab Clarice’s arm. “I know not of this Angelica. Who is she to you?”

  Clarice jerked her arm from his grasp. “My mother. Angelica Stanford. The true lady of Margrave. Is that not correct, Aunt Annora?”

  “Aunt—” Robert began.

  A howl of anguish stretched across the room as Annora lunged for Clarice. Robert grabbed his mother and pushed her toward the mattress.

  “No! He loved me! He did!” Annora cried out. “Then she spoiled everything.” Her sobs grew heavier. “He married my sister instead of me.”

  Robert caught Clarice, his relentless grasp digging into her flesh. “Mother,” he said, “the past is gone. You are lady of Margrave. No one but the king can take that away, and even that I am seeking to rectify.”

  Annora shook her head and buried her face in her hands. “She’ll ruin us,” she cried.

  His lips twisted. “Then we shall have to see that she doesn’t spread falsities. It has been done for another. This time her words shall be silenced. Just like Father’s.”

  Chapter 31

  Annora pushed her rump off the mattress and propelled herself forward. “What do you mean?”

  “Silenced.” Robert’s grip tightened around Clarice’s arm. His blunt nails dug deep into her skin. Turning to Annora, he responded, his mouth forming a cruel arch. “As in the dead shall never speak their tales.”

  Annora’s eyes widened. They were like twin moons in the shadow-cast chamber. “What are you saying?”

  “Mother,” he said in soothing tones, “distress your heart no more. I have taken care of everything.”

  He turned his back on Annora and searched Clarice’s face. Shadows danced across his twisted face. He released her arm, snaking his hand around her wrist before she could make her escape. His warm breath scraped across her flesh. “Such pale skin. You simply glow.”

  Clarice swallowed a terse response. Her pulse, pumped under the pressure of his thumb. The pain increased and her bones threatened to snap. She tested his resistance, trying to free herself from the trap.

  “But your hands.” He jerked her close. “They are as cold as your heart.” He tapped the ridge of her collarbone. “I have my doubts it beats within your chest.”

  Clarice pulled back so that she might meet his eyes. “I never intended—”

  Robert tightened his hold, jerking her close again. His lips pressed into the crown of her head as he spoke. “Ah, my precious Clarice. What it must cost you to return to your tower.”

  “I-I-I am sorry.”

  “Sorry.” He chuckled. “You expect that all can be made well with a single word?”

  Clarice settled her fingers on his forearm. She prayed he did not feel the tremble that shook her core. “I suggest a truce.”

  He smoothed the strands of hair that stuck to the damp side of her throat. His slack arm moved around her shoulders, sliding up to her neck. Laughter rumbled where he pressed her ear against his chest. “A truce, you say?”

  Her lungs burned. Unexpected relief came when Robert adjusted his hold. Clarice gulped in air as if she were drowning.

  “My darling . . . sister . . . or is it cousin?” He gripped her chin and pressed another kiss on the top of her crown. Turning, he acknowledged Annora, who whimpered beside him. “What say you, Mother? Shall it be a truce?”

  Clarice’s eyes watered as his fingers dug into her jaw. She clawed at his hands, his chest. The leather jerkin slid under her nails.

  “What?” he exclaimed. “No answer from the lady of the manor?”

  His voice rose over the pounding in Clarice’s ears. “What say you, Annora? ’Tis obvious to me that we cannot have a truce between siblings. Why is that, d’you suppose?”

  Robert bent his head to Clarice. He mouthed the word, his lips hovering over her as he whispered the single word. The pressure on Clarice’s jaw increased. “Say it!” Robert said. “Say it again. So everyone can hear.”

  He dragged Clarice with him and cast a pointed look at Maud. “Say it loud enough that the deaf one hears you. Say it one more time. Your last time,” he goaded.

  Her throat ached from the pressure. Her tongue pressed against the prison of her lips. “Bastard,” she croaked through gritted teeth. “You are a bastard.”

  Released, Clarice dropped to her knees. She clutched her throat, dragging in a breath.

  “No,” Annora cried. “Not true.”

  His dagger drawn, Robert pointed it toward Maud. “Stay rooted to that spot, old woman. Don’t move until I take my leave.”

  Without a sound, Maud bent her shoulders in submission.

  “Robert. Wait.” Annora rushed toward the door. Her departure stalled by the razor-sharp edge pointed in her direction, her footsteps slowed. “Put that thing away,” she snapped. “Let me pass.”

  “Afraid the bastard child might disgrace himself or the Margrave name?”

  Annora snorted. “Rubbish. The stench of your accusation fills my nostrils.” She tried pushing past, but Robert continued to block her way. The point of his blade never wavered far from her face.

  “And the knowledge I am a by-blow smells as fetid as a dung heap.”

  “Your father—”

  “Was not Nicholas of Margrave.”

  “’Tis not true! He—”

  “Admit it. You know not who my father was.”

  Annora’s eyes widened. Her lips pursed. “Whether you are his son or not, it matters little. He accepted you as his. Besides, who is to prove otherwise? No one of any consequence is among us.” She pressed closer toward the door. “That one over there?” She tilted her head. “The old woman has ears like two stones.”

  “And the other one? Nicholas of Margrave’s daughter,” Robert said. “Exactly.”

  A slow smile drifted across Annora’s face. “Silence it will be.”

  “See, Mother?” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “You are not of a simple mind. Those who know must be removed so they won’t tell tales in their sleep.”

  Annora opened her arms to draw him into her embrace. “My son.”

  Robert
stepped away.

  Her breath sucked in as she stared at the empty space between her arms.

  The door locked behind him, he called through the surrounding cracks, “Think you I would lose my hold on Margrave Manor now that I have inherited the title? Think on your own silence, Mother. Ponder how you’ll prove your allegiance to me. Keep your silence. Keep your neck.”

  * * *

  Clarice tucked the velvet riding cloak around Maud’s thin back. She swore she could see each indentation where her joints attached like a string of pearls.

  Annora shuffled past the cot and sniffed loudly. For the hundredth time since Robert’s exit, she asked, “What will he do? Who will care for him?” Gaining their silent response, she continued, “He needs me. He must know he needs me.”

  Clarice could not listen to another whimper. “God’s blessed bones, Annora, you’ll find that no matter how long you pace, your journey won’t take you through that door.”

  Annora glared back and refused to stop. “’Tis your fault. Had you bedded the king as I instructed, we would be dining on roast pheasant and wild boar.”

  “What purpose would it serve for me to go to the king?” Clarice spat the words at the woman. “Thanks to my family’s machinations, I could have shouted from the rooftops that I was a Margrave and no one would have believed me.”

  “Selfish girl,” Annora snarled. “You could have warmed his cock. Bent his mind to forget the problems of Margrave.”

  “And when I found out you murdered my mother, I would have shouted it from his bed.”

  Annora’s face blanched in the early morning light. Her knees buckled. She caught her weight on the prayer bench and sat down.

  Angelica’s book of prayers fell. The jeweled stones clicked, dancing over the floor. The pages fluttered before settling at the center.

  Annora read the words aloud. “‘A prayer for justice.’” A low keening came from deep within her as she swayed from side to side. “It cannot be.”

  “Why?” Clarice came to stand in front of her. She fisted her hands to keep from striking the woman. “Why did you have to do it?”