The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

the shadow-filled corridor. “I know not what your game is, milord, but I’ll not give it away for the nonce.”

      A relief to hear, though not completely a surprise. “I appreciated your silence earlier, ’tis true. Though I didn’t expect it.”

      “Man’d have to be a half-wit not to realize something’s going on. You’d never greet my lady thus, so cold and indifferent, without a damned good reason. Christ’s bones, lad—” he nudged Rannulf in the ribs with his elbow “—you ran tame behind these walls for far too long to be treating us like strangers now, unless there’s some plot afoot.” When Rannulf didn’t respond, his stare became more intense. “You do have a reason, don’t you?”

      “Aye. Several, though the only one that truly matters is that Pembroke wishes it so.” Of a certainty, that was the only reason he planned to give Sir Henry. Details of the situation between him and Gillian had remained private for this long—he had no intention of delving into them again now.

      And certainly not with the man who’d been a mentor to him, and Gillian’s protector all her life.

      At the least that way would cut short his stay at I’Eau Clair, if it didn’t bring his very existence to an abrupt end, he thought wryly.

      “That Pembroke asks is reason enough for me,” Sir Henry said. “’Tis a shame he’s at odds with the king. Is that why John gave my lady into another’s keeping?”

      “Aye,” Rannulf replied shortly. “Though I cannot tell you more now.”

      “I’d be glad to hear more about it once we’ve a chance to share a pitcher of mead and the details.”

      That he could do. “You shall have them as soon as we’re settled,” he agreed. He glanced out the narrow window above them and saw that the light was nearly gone. “You’d best hurry if you’re to see Gillian before supper.”

      Sir Henry nodded. “Aye, I’ll get to it right away, milord. Though I’ve already warned our people to treat you and your men as strangers in our midst, same way we’ll treat Lord Talbot’s men till we come to know ’em better. Seemed wise to do so until I had the chance to hear just what was going on.”

      “I thank you,” Rannulf said. “I know that’s one thing Gillian wanted to speak with you about. There could be more, so I’ll let you be on your way.”

      To his surprise, Sir Henry clapped him on the back. “‘Tis glad I am to see you here again, milord. I don’t mind telling you, you’ve been sorely missed these years past. Your lady needs you now that her father’s gone, more than ever before. ’Tis good to see you where you belong.”

      Before Rannulf could respond, the older man gave another nod and headed for the stairs, whistling under his breath.

      Rannulf shook his head and tried not to let his evergrowing burden of guilt weigh him down further. “Ah, Sir Henry, if you only knew the truth,” he muttered. He turned back toward the barracks. Though I’m more glad than I can say that you do not.

      He paused for a moment outside the door, reaching into the pouch on his belt, drawing forth a heavily embroidered riband and holding it up to the flickering torchlight.

      Copper threads shimmered, their brightness untarnished by years of handling. Gillian had done such a fine job of copying the circlet’s design, the resemblance was truly remarkable.

      Although he knew the scent had long ago faded beyond detection, this time when he raised the favor to his lips he could almost imagine he smelled the essence of rose and lavender...Gillian’s fragrance.

      He tucked the favor back into the pouch, but he could not elude the truth it represented.

      No matter what he might say or do, or that he could never claim her, Gillian remained his lady, ever and always, the one truth hidden deep within his heart where it could not fade away.

      Chapter Six

      

      

      Gillian dragged the crude stool across the hard-packed dirt floor of the cotter’s daub-and-wattle hut and set it down next to her patient’s straw pallet. Rowena had given birth to a stillborn child the week before—the second child she’d lost—and despite Gillian’s best efforts to build up her strength with an elixir of healing herbs and good food from the castle kitchen, Rowena remained weak and pale upon her bed.

      “How long, milady, ‘fore...you know, ’fore I can try again?” Rowena asked, her pale cheeks tinged pink. She peered into the cup of tonic Gillian handed her.

      Although Rowena was no more than a year her senior, Gillian’s cheeks heated. She’d never had a female friend her own age to talk with about such things. But Rowena depended upon her to give her aid and advice, so she’d offer what she could.

      “You know ’tis too soon to even be thinking of that,” she cautioned.

      “‘Tis easy to see you’re a maiden still, milady,” Rowena said, her pale lips curled into a faint smile. “Else you’d know the men think o’ little else.”

      “True as that may be, ’tis much too soon. Allow your body to mend, at least.” She stood and concentrated on gathering her simples together in her basket. “It may better your chance of carrying a live babe next time, if you’ve regained your strength beforehand.”

      What must it be like, to carry a babe beneath your heart, tangible proof of the love you’d shared with your husband—your lover?

      And to lose a child... Mayhap she was better off than she knew, to be yet unwed.

      And like to stay that way, if her luck held. Lord Nicholas seemed unlikely to pledge her elsewhere, now that he’d seen what a fine holding he’d the governing of. He’d be a fool to let it slip from his grasp.

      So long as he didn’t decide she should wed him herself, she thought with a grimace. Despite his handsome face and form, he didn’t appeal to her in the least.

      Rannulf’s reasons for refusing her hand rose to her mind yet again. The mere image of his words upon the page sent a chill of loss and dread through her heart.

      Perhaps she was not fit to be wife or mother at all.

      She took up the basket of simples and rose to leave. “I’ll come again tomorrow,” she said, pausing by the door. “See that you take care of yourself.”

      “I thank you for your help, milady,” Rowena said. “’Tis a fine mistress you are, to make time to care for such as me.” She settled back onto the pallet. “May God bless you and keep you safe.”

      Touched, and uncertain how to respond, Gillian nodded and left the hut.

      Many duties awaited her within the keep, especially now that their numbers had increased so dramatically. Evidently the king had received her request for aid, for Talbot had brought a sizable train with him—and supplies to help feed them, she’d been grateful to learn. But it was bound to take some time before they all settled into the new regime.

      Her step lagged the closer she drew to the track leading up to the castle. Gillian stood and stared at the hum of activity, the people everywhere she looked, and knew she could not face them yet.

      The pool in the nearby forest gave the castle its name. There, as she’d done so often in the past, she could escape for a little while, clear her mind and dream her dreams. It was exactly what she needed.

      She turned and set off through the greening fields until she reached the edge of the forest. Her step growing lighter by the moment, she settled her basket of simples upon her arm, kilted up her trailing skirts to avoid the underbrush and wove her way through the trees.

      Eventually she came to a clearing nestled deep within the older trees, an island of peace and beauty not visible from the castle walls. ’Twas a sylvan glade straight from ancient lore. A sparkling waterfall emptied into a small,