by C. C. Wiley
Annora looked up, her eyes filled with fear. “I was his chosen one. He was mine to have.”
“They were in love.”
“And so was I,” Annora cried. “Does not my heart matter?”
Clarice bent to pick up the book, keeping it out of her aunt’s reach. “And what of the lives you have destroyed with your love?”
“Lives?”
“My mother and father.”
“I was to be the lady of Margrave.” Annora waved her hand at Clarice as if sweeping her away. “You were a complication.”
“And Robert?’
“Robert? He is the lord of Margrave now. Just as he was meant to be.”
“Meant to be?” Clarice scrubbed her fingers through the tangled knots in her hair. “Can you be so dull-witted? Without Father to prove his innocence, we have nothing but our word. To claim heritage to a man believed of treason . . . what madwomen we would seem.”
“Robert will repair the damage. You heard him; even now he is turning Henry’s mind from our ruination.”
“How will Robert fare better than my father? All I see is that his claim to Margrave improved upon my father’s death.”
“He promised he would set everything aright. ’Twas even Robert’s idea to return to Margrave.”
Clarice scoured over Annora’s face. “His idea? It was not my father’s decision to come here?”
“Your father,” Annora said, “sought a private meeting with the king, and when he was turned away, he hadn’t the stomach to demand that scoundrel king see his error. Robert is certain he can correct Margrave’s relationship with the crown.”
Clarice’s temper flared. “So Robert set about ridding himself of those who got in his path.”
Annora bolted from the prayer bench. Her hand clutched the amulet swinging between her breasts. “How dare you speak foul lies?”
“Like from like.” Clarice crossed her arms. “Son and mother, using the same means to obtain what they want. You wanted to be the lady of Margrave. Robert wants to be lord. Remove that which stands in your path. You removed your sister. He removed my father.”
Annora’s face paled. “More lies!”
Clarice glanced out the window. There was a small flicker of light near the gate. Nothing more than a flash. Then ’twas gone.
She blinked, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. Hope began to build within her heart. She combed the horizon for movement, for a bit of light, an unexplained shadow.
“Believe what you will, Annora. The truth will win out this time.”
Chapter 32
The scrape of the bolt sliding in the lock echoed amid the snuffles and snorts coming from the corner where Annora slept. Clarice scrubbed the grit from her weary eyes and rose from the prayer bench. Had she not heard that sound more times than she cared to recall? Yet recall it she did.
She gripped the necklace she had found in her mother’s prayer book. The smooth surface of the teardrop stone warmed her palm. The gold filigree links, some bent and broken, bit into her skin. Yet her grip did not lessen. She had read the pages in her mother’s prayer book. Memorized each scribbled word from Angelica’s failing hand.
The radiance of a new day broke behind her. Crimson light infused the room with an early morning glow. A halo radiated around her as if a deity from the heavens had come to visit. Save the soft breeze floating through the window, nothing moved.
The three women kept to their spots. Held their breath. Waited.
Then Annora rushed to the door. “Robert, my darling, your mother forgives you.” Unable to believe her pleas went unnoticed, she crumpled to her knees in despair.
No longer able to ignore the woman’s apparent shock, Clarice deserted her sanctuary. If nothing else, there must be support among women. The door opened as she gently touched Annora’s thickly formed shoulder.
A man with a face wide at the forehead and narrow at the chin stood in the doorway. His eyes were small and black. A mustache wiggled as he spoke. “Lord Robert has told me to convey his wish that you enjoy your stay in the tower.”
Annora untangled her feet from the folds of her skirt and squared her girth before the rat-faced man. “From under what dung heap were you plucked? What gives you the right to address me thus?”
“Name’s Harald.” His mustache twitched, and a slow smile spread under the whiskers. “You’re his mother, are ya? His lordship said you’d be right put out. Was to ignore your arguments of any style.”
Annora attempted to rush through the doorway. Her foot came down hard, narrowly missing his toes. Without a word, he drew his sword. The metal hissed through the air.
“How dare you?” Annora’s voice broke over the tension of the three women in the room.
“Said you’d do that, too.” The red from the sun reflected in his gaze, giving him a demonlike glow. “You,” the rat-faced man said, pointing the tip of his blade at Annora. “Take the wench to the old master’s bedchamber.”
Clarice pushed toward Annora and their guard. “I shall not leave without Maud.”
The man shook his head. “She stays here.”
Clarice glanced at Maud, wagering the outcome of their escape. Together they would not make it past the gate. Nevertheless, if she were no longer locked behind the door, escape would be possible.
Maud pushed at the mattress, struggling to stand and defend her charge.
Clarice met her gaze. “No,” she mouthed.
“Lift your skirts,” Harald, their rat-faced jailor, called out. “Get moving down them stairs.”
While Annora sputtered her outrage, Clarice walked to Maud. She bent to kiss the top of her grizzled head. Annora gripped Clarice’s arm, her fingers digging into the wound. The neat stitches Erwina had placed earlier began to pull away.
Pain radiated from shoulder to fingertips. Clarice buckled forward and fell.
“Hand me that book,” Annora snapped.
“’Tis not yours.” Clarice slipped the prayer book into the pocket under her skirt before rising.
“Here now,” Robert’s guard called out again. “His lordship’s an impatient man.”
He propelled them forward, his blade poking their backs as he prodded them in the direction of the stairs.
Clarice planted her feet in his path, refusing to follow like a lamb to the slaughter. She braced her arms, barring him from moving down the stairs. “Wait. There must be something—”
Her world exploded in pain.
* * *
Clarice slumped on a rickety stool. Her head ached as if the roof had caved in upon her skull. It did not take long for her to realize how the wobbly bit of furniture had escaped the kings’ men. The telltale signs of cow dung and half-chewed hay stuck to the legs.
She closed her eyes again, fearing she would see more than hardened manure. Her heart twisted. The conjured image of her father’s blood smeared on the stool was enough to force them open. Better to see what was than to imagine what was not.
Annora claimed the high-backed chair. She sewed at a bit of embroidery as if it were an everyday occurrence to guard someone with their hands tied behind their back. Clarice noted that in her absence furnishings had begun their return. ’Twould not be long before Robert had refilled the manor house. Whether by fair means or foul, he would gain that which he desired. ’Twas obvious he thought he had beaten the king and his men.
Annora looked up. A tiny gasp escaped and she nearly dropped the hoop on which she worked. Robert’s name was sewn in erratic stitches on the fabric.
“You awaken,” Annora said.
Clarice blinked. If her hands were not tied behind her back, she would have tried to feel the growing lump on the side of her head. As it was, she escaped the self-inflicted torture by knowing the throbbing location must be where she had been struck.
Annora shook her head. “’Twas not my fault. I believe you tripped.”
Clarice worked to moisten her parched throat. “As your sister did?” she croaked.
An
nora’s knuckles whitened. She held the hoop as if it were her salvation from being dragged to hell. Her words were cool. “Angelica was a stumbling fool. She was probably dreaming of Nicholas. Wantonly throwing herself at his feet. Like as not, she forgot to look where she was going.”
“I know what happened that night,” Clarice said.
Annora’s cheeks paled. “You don’t know anything.”
“She spoke to me from the grave.”
The forgotten hoop spun to the floor. “Rubbish.”
“You sent Nicholas away. Tricked him with a rumor of rebellion on our lands.”
“No!”
“You argued with your sister.”
“No!”
“Angelica fell. Her labor began.”
“Don’t you see? Your own words prove I did not kill her.”
“Not then. Later. What was the argument about, Annora?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Clarice pushed.
Annora played with the cuffs of her dress. “Not that I recall.”
“You fought with my mother because you, too, had found my father’s bed. He did lie between your legs and plant his seed. His devoted love, a sham to the both of you,” Clarice pressed. “’Twas a race to the finish. And you were losing.”
Annora lurched from the chair, growling as if she were a wild boar protecting her meal. “That birthing bed should have been mine. I was not about to see my perfect sister steal from me one more time.” She shrugged. “I took an herbal brew that started the cramping. We labored, my sister and I, as if our lives depended on it. And they did.”
“Angelica delivered a daughter.”
“And, within seconds, I delivered a boy.”
“But he was not a legitimate heir to Margrave.”
Annora’s chest lowered and rose with each dragging breath. “Your birth was of no consequence. The male always wins out, I told myself. Yet I had to know ’twas certain. I had to see. I went looking for Nicholas when he did not visit my bedchamber to speak with me and see our son.”
Annora lifted strands of Clarice’s hair and let it run through her fingers as she spoke. “I walked into the master chamber and there was my sister and my lover. The perfect family. He kissed you and called you his other angel. I just stood there. My heart filled with regret and a baby everyone believed to be a bastard from the stables. What else could I do?”
“You made certain my mother did not survive the birthing bed. The bleeding would not stop.”
Annora’s gentle hand hardened against Clarice’s head. “I gave Angelica an herbal infusion. One that draws a babe from the womb. Too much and ’tis the harlot’s life that joins the babe’s descent into the beyond.”
“You made her bleed to death.”
“Later that night you were to die, too,” Annora said. “But I couldn’t do it. I sent you away instead. Convinced everyone that you were dead, wrapping a slaughtered piglet in swaddling. But the nursery maid disobeyed my orders and ran. Took you with her to the monastery to hide.”
“You used my father’s loss. His mistakes. All, against him.” Clarice swallowed the boiling rage. Her arms were beginning to deaden from their bent position. Even if she could break free, she would not be able to mount an attack.
“What have you to complain of?” Annora asked. “’Twas I who suffered. You were returned. A constant reminder of my loss.”
“You stole my mother’s life,” Clarice cried out.
“I took back what was mine. Nicholas needed an heir. He needed to fulfill a promise to Angelica to ensure her dear sister’s future was secure.”
“So he married you.”
“Do not charge all deeds unto me. ’Twas he who plowed my fields and planted his seed. He made promises to love me and protect me.” Annora bent, her face nearly touching Clarice’s. “I, too, had been called his angel.”
Applause erupted from the doorway.
Annora swiveled on her heel and ran to Robert, her arms stretched wide. “My darling boy!”
He swaggered into the room as if he had not a care in the world. Until Clarice looked closer, and saw his eyes glistening with enough fire to put the North Star to shame. Over his shoulder he carried a rope, its end looped and knotted.
“I cannot decide whether to kill you or kiss you.” He lifted Annora’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “This shall have to do. For now.”
Annora winced as Robert squeezed her hand. The ring on her finger cut into the skin and began to bleed.
“Robert, my son,” her voice quavered. “What have I done that vexes you?”
“Lies, dear Mother. Lies you have spun ever since I dandled on your knee.”
“Small tales.” Annora reached out to caress his cheek. “Only to protect you.”
“Your protection,” he said, “cost me my father’s life. Had I known, I would have taken his death less lightly.”
“Stop.” Annora tugged on her fingers, trapped in his grip. “You are beginning to frighten me.”
“I have just begun.” Smiling, he snapped the edge of his riding cloak behind him.
He was dressed to ride at a moment’s notice. Tall boots covered his legs from toe to knee. The thick protective leather tunic covered his padded gambeson.
He flipped the rope from his shoulder. It landed with a deadened thud next to Annora’s feet. “Don’t you love it, Mother? Just as you desired. An end to young Clarice’s life.”
Annora stared at the rope as if it was a snake with two heads writhing at her feet. “I cannot do it.”
“You must. You have no choice.” Robert spread his arms wide and looked up at the beam overhead. “Don’t you see? How fitting I have made this gift for you. Angelica died for me. Nicholas died for you. Now Clarice shall die for both of us.”
Annora gripped the back of the chair, the shape of her knuckles showing through her skin. “You killed your father?”
A smile worthy of a proud boy with his first prize at the fair stretched Robert’s mouth. “I suppose I did.”
“H-h-h-how could you do this?” Annora sputtered. “You jeopardized all I have given my soul to.”
She strode up to Robert as if he were still the little boy who cowered from her stern voice and struck out.
He caught her wrist in his grip. “Do not force my hand. Attempt to block my path and I shall remove you as I did Nicholas.” He lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Now Mother, prove to me that you are worthy of my trust.”
Chapter 33
Annora picked up the rope. Her hands trembled as she slid it between her fingers. Her countenance, which Clarice had never seen without an expression of impatience, was tarnished with remorse. Her lips quivered. Her attention remained on Robert’s weapon of choice.
Clarice strained against the strips of leather that bound her wrists. “Annora,” she said, ignoring the fear that welled inside her chest,
“don’t do this. We will go to the king. You and I. Together. We can stop this mad plot. The king will reward you for your duty. Think of your sacrifice. All you desired will be returned to you.”
“Must I do everything?” Robert yanked the drooping noose from Annora and shoved her to one side. Her yelp of pain when she landed on the floor went unnoticed.
“Better to have my murder staining your soul rather than Annora’s,” Clarice said. “Not that you would mind having my death added to our father’s when your soul is accounted for at St. Peter’s gates.”
Robert ignored her and pulled Annora to stand at his side. “Hush, Mother, weep no more. Let me show you how ’tis done.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and placed her hands on the rope. Together, they lifted the noose over Clarice’s head.
Woven threads of hemp scratched against her neck. The weight of the rope pressed her flesh. She gulped the air trapped in her throat.
“Not to fear,” he said. “Unlike the gallows men, I have ensured the noose is one that brings you a quick death.”
He
spoke softly to Annora as he pointed to the beam in the ceiling. “There.”
The door to the bedchamber swung open without a knock for permission to enter, interrupting his instructions.
Robert’s impatience exploded over Harald. “Must I guide you with a boot up your arse? I will let you know when I am ready.”
With their attention diverted, Clarice renewed her efforts against the leather bindings. Robert may know how to tie variations of the gallows knot, but his rat-faced man did not. The leather’s bite began to slacken.
Robert turned, his ire reverting to a sanguine smile. His hand trembled, as if fighting to contain the boiling within his soul. In a matter of a few short breaths, he had forgotten the man at the door and returned to scrutinize his handiwork.
“This is much neater than other ways to die. Poison is too slow and untrustworthy. The blade makes a mess. This we know from personal experience, do we not, Clarice? And a pretty lady should not be covered in blood at her death.”
“Sweet Mary, save us,” whispered Clarice.
His hand brushed across her brow. “I knew a Mary. She did slay me when she withdrew her love. And as God’s word does say, ‘an eye for an eye.’”
The rat-faced man cleared his throat. “Sir . . .”
Clarice looked up, willing to plead with anyone who filled the doorway. Even Robert’s own man.
“’Tis a peddler,” Harald said, thumbing to the man standing behind him. When Robert did not reduce his glare, he added, “We have need of supplies before we take our leave.”
Robert smiled a tight thin line that never reached his eyes. “A peddler, you say?” He strode across the room. “Why do you keep your face covered with that hood? Reveal yourself!”
“My lord, ’tis scars that would turn the bile in your stomach.”
“From the plague?” Robert took a half step back.
“Just returned to me health. Don’t fear, m’lord, the fever has passed.” The peddler hesitated for a brief moment. “If you still wish to witness my discomfort, I shall obey your wishes.”
Robert’s cheeks flared red and held up his hand. “We’ve met. I recognize your stature and voice. You served my father.”
