The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, their children, Patrick and Christina, and her “lovely assistant”—Samantha, a miniature dachshund. In her ever-shrinking spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

      

      Readers may contact her at P.O. Box 180, Oakville, CT 06779.

      With love and appreciation to my husband,

      Clifford— ever and always my hero.

      Prologue

      

      

      The Welsh Marches, spring 1213

      

      Gillian de I’Eau Clair leaned over the curtain wall of I’Eau Clair Keep and stared down at the new grass covering her father’s grave. Nigh two months gone, yet the pain of his loss had scarce eased. And now to find this among her father’s papers! She crushed the unsigned betrothal contract clasped in her hand with all the strength of her aching heart and cursed the man who’d scrawled his stark refusal where his acceptance should have been.

      Rannulf FitzClifford—once the friend of the child she’d been, later her heart’s desire. As she had been his, so he’d led her to believe. The date on the agreement remained etched upon her brain—her seventeenth birthday, more than two years past—not long after his visits to I’Eau Clair had suddenly ceased, as if he’d vanished from her world forever.

      It seemed her father hadn’t allowed that fact to prevent him from trying to further his plan to see her and Rannulf wed.

      She raised her arm to toss the useless document away, then paused and let it fall to her feet. She dropped to her knees and pressed her cheek against the uneven stones as she fought the despair threatening to overwhelm her.

      She’d sent word of her father’s death to her godfather, the earl of Pembroke; her kinsman, Prince Llywelyn of Wales; everyone she thought might help her fight off the unknown foe who had harried her people and her lands since her father’s passing. She stifled a bitter laugh. By the Virgin, she’d even sent a messenger to her overlord, King John, though she hadn’t a bit of hope he’d bother to fulfill his duty.

      Though it had been two months, none had bothered to reply.

      In her desperation, she’d thought to put aside her wounded pride and contact Rannulf. She had searched through the documents stored away in her father’s chamber for some hint of how to reach him.

      What she’d found destroyed that plan, for ’twas clear by his words he wanted naught to do with her.

      The icy wind beat against her, whipped her unbound hair about her face and sent the crumpled missive skittering toward the edge of the wooden walkway. “Nay,” she cried, and lunged to grab it. The parchment grasped tight in one hand, the edge of the crenel in the other, she rose to her feet and let the cold, powerful gusts blow away the fear and cowardice she’d allowed to beset her.

      She smoothed out the contract and forced herself to read the hurtful message once more. She’d keep it as a reminder, lest she forget yet again that the only person she could depend upon was herself.

      Chapter One

      

      

      Rannulf strode through the dark and silent streets of London, taking care to avoid the noisome puddles, more easily smelled than seen in the fitful moonlight. He’d rather have waited till morning to obey his overlord’s command, but judging from the message he’d received upon his arrival in the city, Lord Nicholas would be put off no longer.

      He’d managed to escape meeting Nicholas Talbot for nigh two years, sending his men under the able command of his lieutenant whenever Talbot required his aid. He’d served Talbot’s uncle, the previous lord of Ashby, long enough to know he’d no desire to deal with another Talbot if he could avoid it.

      Raking his hand through his still-damp hair, he paused before the prosperous-looking merchant’s house Talbot had hired to billet his troops. He’d not arrived too late, alas, for light still showed golden through the shutters. ’Twas past time to learn if this Talbot would prove to be another branch of the same twisted tree as his uncle had been.

      The servant who answered his summons led him through the barracks set up on the ground floor—full of men tossing dice and swilling ale—and up a flight of stairs at the far end of the room. The lackey thrust aside the curtain covering the doorway at the top and motioned Rannulf into the room. “’Tis Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, milord,” he said.

      The tall man who rose from the settle before the fire and turned to face him wore the look of both warrior and courtier—a dangerous combination seen all too often in King John’s court. Rannulf bit back a groan and shoved his travel weariness aside. It seemed Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, had the right of it when he warned Rannulf he’d best be on guard in his overlord’s presence. Nicholas Talbot would bear watching.

      Rannulf stepped into the chamber and bowed. “My lord.”

      “FitzClifford.” Talbot motioned him to a chair before the fire. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last.” He picked up an intricately chased ewer from a nearby table. “Wine?” he asked as he poured a measure into a silver goblet.

      “Aye, thank you.” Rannulf took the drink, casting a swift look about him while Talbot poured himself wine and resumed his seat on the settle.

      The lord of Ashby enjoyed his comforts, from the look of it, for his garments appeared as costly as his surroundings. Gold threads shimmered in the fanciful design embroidered about the neck and cuffs of his deep green tunic, and his boots and belt were the finest leather. Rannulf sipped his wine—a vintage worthy of the cup, he noted without surprise—and glanced down at his own much simpler garb. Though the soft wool and well-worn leather were of good quality, he’d never felt the need to adorn himself in the vivid colors and elaborate embellishments so popular at court.

      Besides, why should he bother? He’d no desire to draw attention to himself, be it from his peers—or from women.

      He’d no place for either in his life.

      Why, then, did the mere thought set up a deep yearning for all he’d lost?

      He quashed the hint of weakness and buried it once again. He deserved nothing more than this new life he’d fashioned for himself—one of duty, of honorable toil, of atonement for his sins.

      Though it would never be enough, he could do naught but try.

      Rannulf forced himself to sit back in the chair and bring the chalice to his lips, to savor the wine and smile with pleasure at finally meeting his overlord.

      “I’m pleased you’re able to join me at last, FitzClifford. I’ve need of your men, ’tis true, but I’ll be glad of your company as well.” Talbot’s mouth curved in a wry smile as he shook his head. “Especially in this latest venture the king has set me upon.”

      Interest piqued, Rannulf straightened. “And why is that, milord?” He raised his cup and took his time draining it, watching Talbot closely all the while.

      “It seems I’ve angered the king yet again.” Talbot thumped down his goblet on a side table and leaned forward.

      “Yet again?” Rannulf asked. “‘Tis’a habit, I take it?”

      “So it seems,” the other man muttered. “Although perhaps ‘angered’ is too strong a word. Our liege finds me more of an annoyance, a fly buzzing along the fringe of his notice.” He grimaced.

      “’Tis dangerous to upset the king, milord, no matter the degree. Best pray he doesn’t decide to slap away the annoyance with the blade of his sword.” It wouldn’t be the first time their liege had dealt thus with his own nobles. But Talbot must