The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

he said wryly. “Nor will you. By the king’s decree, we’ve been banished to the hinterlands—at least until his anger abates, or he grows bored and calls me back.”

      By Christ’s bones, was he to be tarred with the same brush as Talbot? Rannulf bit back a groan of frustration. While ’twas his intent to stay close to Talbot for the nonce, he’d no desire to draw King John’s attention.

      Though he had no intention of sharing that bit of information.

      “Where are we bound, milord?” he asked, though the answer mattered to him not a whit. He had his orders and his obligation to his overlord to consider as well. ’Twas idle curiosity that brought the question to his lips, nothing more.

      Talbot rose and crossed to the table to pour more wine, then set his cup aside untouched. “I’ve the writ here someplace,” he muttered. He opened a plain wooden box—conspicuous in its simplicity—that sat next to the ewer of wine, and shuffled through the jumble of scrolls before drawing forth a beribboned parchment. “The king leaves little to chance,” he said, moving closer to the fire. “My orders are set forth here, couched in such terms as to make it appear that I deserve congratulations on my good fortune. I’m to be warden of a keep, and guardian of its lady.” He unrolled the missive and scanned it. “Of course, judging by the king’s mood when he bestowed this upon me—” he brandished the parchment in the air “—’tis just as likely that condolences would be appropriate.” Scowling, he cast another glance at the decree, then held it out to Rannulf. “What do you think this means?”

      Rannulf rose and took the scroll, turning the document into the light as he held it open to read.

      The words shone dark and clear to his disbelieving gaze before the shadows he’d thought locked deep within his heart broke free and jumbled the letters into a meaningless scrawl.

      But that one brief glimpse had been time enough to etch the image upon his brain—and his heart.

      Talbot had become guardian of the lady of I’Eau Clair....

      Gillian.

      Rannulf could have sworn his heart ceased to beat for a moment from the shock of seeing her name. It took several attempts before he could force his voice past his lips. “Congratulations, milord,” he said, his hearty tone at odds with the sense of panic rushing through his veins. “A Marcher keep, it says.” He reached for his drink and brought it halfway to his mouth before he remembered ’twas empty. Biting back a curse, he pretended to drink, then set the cup aside and scanned the words again. He’d best proceed with care, lest he reveal more information than the brief missive contained. “And a noble lady.” He glanced up at Talbot, who stood poised by the fireplace, worry—or was that confusion?—written on his handsome face. By sheer force of will Rannulf curled his mouth into a careless grin. “Just think of the possibilities.”

      “Believe me, I have.” Talbot sat down abruptly, slumping into the chair, his fingers clasped tightly on the carved arms. “Given the king’s mood, I‘Eau Clair Keep is likely naught more than a crumbling ruin, and its lady a crone stooped and withered with age.” He grabbed his wine from the table and gulped it down. “Or a babe still wrapped in swaddling bands. Either way, ’tis no prize I’ve won, FitzClifford. Of that I have no doubt.” He stared into the flickering fire, his expression grim.

      Rannulf’s mind reeled. If Talbot knew the truth of the situation, they’d have left London already. He could only be grateful for his overlord’s ignorance.

      But such good fortune couldn’t last. Talbot could scarce avoid the king’s command for long. Rannulf considered ways to elude this trap before Talbot was ready to set out for I’Eau Clair, but even as his frantic brain sought shelter from his predicament, he knew there was no escape.

      He had his orders, to stay with Talbot at all costs, to observe this crony of the king’s. ’Twas a stroke of luck that the man was his overlord, giving him the perfect opportunity to obey Pembroke’s command. Even if it were possible to send word of the situation to Pembroke, Rannulf knew his orders would not change. Indeed, he could well imagine Pembroke’s pleasure that fate had placed Rannulf in the perfect position to not only keep a close eye on Talbot, but on Pembroke’s godchild as well. Pembroke could not have arranged the matter better had he set it up himself.

      Had Pembroke arranged it thus? He bit back a curse. Nay, his foster father would have told him of Lord Simon’s death, warned him that Talbot was bound for I’Eau Clair. Besides, wouldn’t Pembroke have arranged the wardship for himself, had he any say in the matter? Despite his quarrels with the king, he was Gillian’s godfather. Who better to protect her, after all?

      By Christ’s bones, he sought plots where there were none! He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked them open again to dispel the image of Gillian that rose to fill his mind. The mere thought of her held the power to addle his wits. Time and hard-won maturity had not changed that fact, it seemed.

      He glanced at Talbot, still enthralled by the fire. His displeasure at his fate would be short-lived, Rannulf had no doubt, for once Nicholas Talbot arrived at the mighty stronghold of I’Eau Clair and caught sight of his beautiful ward, the man would count himself twice blessed.

      And Rannulf would be cursed to a purgatory worse than Satan himself could devise.

      ’Twas his lot in life—why expect change now? He’d a job to do. He stood, poured himself a generous measure of wine, then topped off Talbot’s goblet and held it out to him.

      “Come, milord, drink to your good fortune.”

      Talbot looked up, his strange violet eyes still troubled, and accepted the wine. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not the one who might be saddled with a child, or an old woman past her prime.”

      Aye, but I’d gladly be burdened with the lady of I‘Eau Clair. ’Twas all Rannulf could manage to hold back the words. “It cannot be any worse than you’ve surmised,” he said instead.

      Talbot rose. “I pray you’re right, FitzClifford.” He raised his goblet. “To Lady Gillian,” he said. “May she be a beauty beyond compare, a paragon among women....” He drank.

      Rannulf brought his wine to his lips and sipped the heady brew, then nearly choked at Talbot’s next words.

      “...a meek, sweet, silent dove with not a thought of her own.” Grinning now, Talbot quaffed the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down on the table.

      Rannulf set his own wine aside. Unless Gillian had changed—drastically—in the past few years, his overlord could not have been more wrong about the woman who would be his ward.

      He’d not have a moment’s peace between here and the Marches, he could see that clear enough. And once they arrived at I’Eau Clair... Rannulf shook his head. It appeared his time in purgatory had already begun.

      Chapter Two

      

      

      The distant thunder of hoofbeats beyond the castle walls captured Gillian’s attention as she crossed the bailey to the keep. “Riders approaching!” cried a guard. “Close the gates!”

      Several women shrieked and hurried toward the stairs to the hall, while the men in the bailey clustered near the gatehouse. A man-at-arms stepped into the narrow doorway beside the gate to urge several villagers up the path to the castle, then slammed the door closed behind them as the portcullis began its ponderous descent.

      Heart racing, Gillian gathered up her skirts and headed back toward the curtain wall.

      She cast a swift glance at the heavy wooden gate—already barred against intruders, she noted gratefully—before mounting the steep stairs to the guardhouse atop the wall.

      “What do you see, Will?” she asked the guard when she reached the top.

      “‘Tis a party of riders, milady,” he replied. “They’ve got no engines of war, but I can see