Secret Heart Read online

  From the room’s location Jenia guessed it was at the uppermost level of a later addition to the original building. It looked clean and recently swept, though the furnishings were sparse. A good-sized bed, a wooden stool, a small table on which sat a basin for washing and a clay oil lamp were the only amenities. A row of wooden pegs protruded from one wall, with a man’s linen undershirt hanging from one of the pegs.

  “You will want hot water,” Roarke said, tossing his saddlebags on the bed. “Stay here. I’ll see to it.”

  She didn’t object to his cool, brisk manner. Nor did she ask who would sleep in the bed that night. She gathered Roarke’s cloak around her and sank down upon the stool as if she planned to wait patiently for his return.

  “Don’t leave this room,” he ordered. “You will be safe here.”

  As soon as he was gone she rose from the stool and began to pace from one window to the other, peering out of each as she passed it. Thanks to several cups of water from the stream, the bread and raspberries she had consumed, and the unexpectedly peaceful nap with Garit keeping watch over her, the last of her earlier confusion was gone. She knew who and what she was, and where her duty lay.

  The mountains weren’t as far away as she had thought, which meant Thury Castle wasn’t far, either, perhaps a day’s ride to the north. Thury guarded one of the two passes large enough to allow an invading army into Sapaudia from the Dominion. In peaceful times merchants and travelers used the pass, but the days of peace had ended when Gundolam the Great conquered most of the eastern tribes and forged them into the Dominion.

  Four years ago, Gundolam’s grandson, Gundiac, had become Domini in the same way his father had succeeded to the throne; by killing his father. That was the way of the eastern tribes. When word of the murder reached Sapaudia, King Henryk ordered the two bridges over the Nalo River destroyed and the mountain passes closed. Since then only a few desperate smugglers and the occasional spy crept through the passes. Thury remained a major barrier to invasion in the south, as did Catherstone Castle, which guarded the northern pass.

  Jenia moved away from the window when Roarke returned bearing a large jug of steaming water, a bowl of soap, and a towel, all of which he crowded onto the table. He was followed into the room by a maid who brought a serviceable brown wool dress, a linen headscarf, and a pair of well-worn shoes.

  “Bring up the food as soon as it’s prepared,” he said to the maidservant. She nodded and, after a curious look in Jenia’s direction, she departed without asking any awkward questions.

  “You may use my comb,” Roarke said, pulling a wooden comb from his saddlebag. “While you bathe, I will wait outside to make certain you are not disturbed.”

  She washed her face and hands quickly, before the water cooled in the basin. Then she bent her head and scrubbed her hair as best she could. She wanted more and hotter water; she yearned for a huge tub filled with hot water and scented soap, with pitchers of still more warm water to rinse her hair, and clean linen towels for drying.

  “Haven’t you learned not to wish for the impossible?” she exhorted herself. “Any hot water at all is more than you ever enjoyed in the dungeon. Be grateful that the ocean washed away so much of the grime.”

  When her hair was reasonably clean she dumped the dirty water out the window into the stable yard, then refilled the basin and used the last of the hot water to clean herself from the waist down. And then, with the water almost cold, she washed her linen shift until the salt and sand were rinsed from it. She wrung it out and draped it over two of the wall pegs. If they remained at the inn until morning, which she rather thought they would, since it was growing dark outside, then the shift ought to be dry and it would prevent the coarse wool of the gown Roarke had brought from scratching her skin.

  Finally, unwillingly, she took up the gown and inspected it. The shapelessness of its high necked, long sleeved design and the poor quality of the wool would provide a good disguise. Nobles rarely looked directly at ordinary folk, anyway. She did wonder for a moment about fleas or lice hiding in the folds.

  “Oh, you foolish girl,” she murmured, “when did you become so particular? How long has it been since you wore silk? Considering what you are planning to do, a few small bugs can scarcely matter.” With a shrug she donned the simple garment, then set to work combing and braiding her hair.

  She had just finished when Roarke called through the door to tell her that their evening meal had arrived and that Garit was famished.

  The food was plain, and simply served. Garit removed the pitcher and basin from the table and pulled it closer to the bed. The maid reappeared to set a tray on the table, then departed. Meanwhile, Roarke lit the oil lamp. They ate sitting in a row on the edge of the bed, sharing a single bowl of hot stew, a loaf of crusty bread that Garit broke apart with his hands, and a small pitcher of wine.

  Jenia discovered that she was ravenously hungry, but she heeded Roarke’s earlier advice to eat slowly and sparingly.

  “Now,” Roarke said, pulling out his knife, “I think it’s time to talk.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jenia cried, staring at the knife in alarm. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

  Roarke looked from the blade to her, and then to two apples sitting still untouched on the tray.

  “I’m going to slice these, so we can share them,” he said, frowning at her. “What did you think I was going to do?”

  “Cut the apples, of course,” she murmured, embarrassed by her overly emotional response to a routine action.

  “If I were planning to hurt you,” Roarke said, his assessing gaze still on her face, “would I waste good coins on hot water and soap and a gown for you before I hack you into pieces? Do I look to you like the kind of villain who prefers his victims clean and properly dressed?”

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “It’s all right,” Garit assured her. “Only last night you escaped death in the sea. Now you have no memory. I’m not surprised that you are easily alarmed. But truly, Jenia, we mean you no harm.”

  He patted her on the shoulder, but Jenia scarcely noticed the comforting gesture. Her thoughts were elsewhere, lost in a dark and moldy dungeon, where a man’s eating knife was raised high, to slash downward into human flesh while she was made to watch, confined by strong hands so she was helpless to stop the gleaming descent of cruel and undeserved death.

  “Jenia? What’s wrong?” Garit shook her gently.

  Jenia gasped, then clutched at his right wrist as if to stay any further motion of his hand.

  “My dear lady, speak to us,” Garit urged.

  “I just – a memory,” she stuttered. “It was a glimpse of a scene.”

  “What memory?” Roarke demanded. “What scene?” Unlike Garit, who appeared to be genuinely concerned about her, Roarke looked at her with cold eyes and a set face, as if he thought she was lying.

  “It’s gone now,” she said.

  “Is it really?” Roarke’s voice dripped disbelief.

  “For just an instant,” she explained, “my memory cleared and I saw a knife like yours. That’s why I reacted as I did when you pulled out your blade.”

  “Indeed? What was the knife in your memory doing?” Roarke asked, still sounding as if he didn’t believe her.

  “Murder,” she said with a shiver she could not control. “The knife was used for murder.”

  “Dear heaven,” Garit gasped. He put an arm around her shoulders and would have pulled her close, but Jenia threw up one hand to hold him off and he immediately drew away from her. “Forgive me. I know I have no right to touch you. It’s just that you look so much like my dear Chantal. If she were in such distress, I would want to offer what comfort I could.”

  “I understand,” Jenia said. “You meant well. There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Have you quite recovered?” Roarke asked her. “May I cut and eat the apples now?”

  “Roarke, you are the most hea
rtless man I know,” Garit told him.

  “No,” Jenia said. “He’s not heartless. He just doesn’t believe me.”

  “I do not,” Roarke said, and sliced the first apple clean through.

  “What I have told you is true,” she insisted, fighting the certainty that he could see through her as easily as he saw the carved-out core of the apple that he was now quartering and dividing yet again to make eight neat slices. When he looked at her with raised brows as if to demand an explanation, she decided to attack. She had almost forgotten how to do that. She’d been meek and mild for much too long. “You promised to describe to me what you will want me to do in Calean City,” she reminded him in a cold and arrogant voice that perfectly matched his.

  “So I did.” His look was kinder now. Spearing one of the apple slices on the tip of his knife, he offered it to her. She took it without hesitation, and he smiled when she put the slice into her mouth. “Courageous lady,” he said.

  “Stop playing games, Roarke,” Garit told his friend. “You’d better tell me, too, what you want us to do in Calean. I still don’t know your entire plan.”

  “First, I must tell Jenia a story,” Roarke said.

  “What kind of story?” she asked, fearful of what was to come. Still, she longed to hear his version of the tale, which she knew would be the version that a man in power had secretly ordered to be told. She didn’t doubt that the truth would be distorted by the same man’s self-serving lies.

  “Once there was a lady named Chantal of Thury, heiress to large estates and several titles, who lived in eastern Sapaudia, between the Plain of Ishi and the Nalo Mountains,” Roarke began.

  “The lady whom you claim looks remarkably like me,” Jenia said.

  “She looks exactly like you,” Garit corrected her.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Roarke ordered the two of them.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jenia said. “I am eager to hear the rest. Please continue.”

  “When Lady Chantal’s parents died she was made the ward of her mother’s older brother, Walderon the lord of Catherstone. That estate is located in northern Sapaudia, on the shore of Lake Nalo, if you have not heard of the place, or do not remember it. The lake is the source of the mighty Nalo River which, together with the mountains, protect our eastern border from the Dominion.”

  “Thank you for that valuable information, Sir Roarke.” She couldn’t resist teasing him. The urge to do so surprised her, for she had no reason at all for humor. His only response was an odd look at her before he went on with the story that was accurate so far, though it was incomplete in one important detail.

  “As is the duty of the guardian of a lady with a large dowry of lands and titles, Lord Walderon arranged a marriage for his ward and asked King Henryk to approve the contract.”

  “Which the king did,” Garit interrupted, “even though I begged him not to agree.”

  “Garit,” Roarke warned.

  “No, she needs to know this,” Garit insisted. “Perhaps these details will help her to remember. Chantal and I met in Calean City three years ago, during one of my missions to King Henryk’s court on behalf of King Audemer. We grew to love each other and we planned to wed. I was merely waiting for my father to gain King Audemer’s permission and then send word to me, so I could approach King Henryk on the matter. I am not a poor man. In fact, I am a better prospective husband for Chantal than the despicable Lord Malin whom Walderon chose for her. She despises Malin! And rightly so, for in addition to being a coward, he has a predilection for pretty little boys.”

  “Garit!” Roarke shouted at him. “Be quiet!”

  “Every word I say is true,” Garit stated. “You know it is.”

  “You are entirely too emotional about this,” Roarke said.

  “Well, of course he’s emotional, if he truly loves the lady,” Jenia said, her words earning her a fierce glare from Roarke and a grateful look from Garit. She didn’t care about Roarke’s reaction. At the moment she was more concerned about Garit. Poor, devoted Garit. Very possibly, poor, useful Garit.

  “May I continue?” Roarke asked his friend. “Or are we to sit up all night discussing how much you love Lady Chantal while we reach no conclusions at all as to how to help her?”

  “Go on,” Garit said. “I will be quiet.”

  “Thank you,” Roarke responded sarcastically. Then he spoke to Jenia again. “Half a year ago, just two days before her marriage to Lord Malin was to take place at Calean City, with King Henryk and Queen Hannorah as the chief witnesses, Lady Chantal disappeared. Her guardian, Lord Walderon, began an immediate search for her. A month passed and she could not be found.”

  “How can a noblewoman vanish without anyone noticing in which direction she went?” Jenia asked. “Didn’t she have a maidservant with her? And a guard to protect her?” She stopped when she realized she had said too much and thus, once again she had betrayed her knowledge of noble life. Roarke said nothing; he just glared at her and went on with the story.

  “Rumors hinted that Lady Chantal had fled to a beguinage to avoid an unwanted marriage, or that she was dead, or she had been abducted and was being held for ransom. Even Garit came under suspicion, because quite a few people at court knew of his devotion to Lady Chantal. But he was cleared of any complicity in her disappearance when King Henryk realized that he was even more frantic to find her than was Lord Walderon.

  “King Henryk ordered me to investigate every beguinage and every school of Power in Sapaudia,” Roarke continued, “which I did. I also included a few religious houses beyond the borders of Sapaudia, in Morenia to the east and even across the Nalo River in the Dominion. By then, Garit was creating such a stir at court that I asked for his help in my mission. We have checked every town or city from which a ship of any size might have departed for ports across the Sea of Alboran. We have offended Lord Malin by searching his castle from tower keep to storage cellars, though he has no reason to hide the lady who was intended to be his wife.

  “Half a year after Chantal’s disappearance, we still don’t know what happened to her. No female body has ever been found that was of an age close to hers. No ransom demand was ever received. Nor did we uncover any hint that she had eloped with some unknown lover. So far as I know, Garit is the only man she ever showed any interest in, and he remains as distressed today as he was the day after her disappearance.”

  “What about Lord Walderon?” Jenia asked, interrupting without compunction because Walderon’s was the one name Roarke had not mentioned as being investigated.

  “He claims to be as baffled as we are,” Garit answered the question before Roarke could.

  “You sound as though you don’t believe him,” Jenia said.

  “I admit that I don’t like Walderon,” Garit said.

  “You must also admit that Chantal’s disappearance spoiled his plans to marry her off to his friend, Malin,” Roarke pointed out. “Three months ago, Malin married another girl with a large dowry. Walderon was probably more disappointed than Malin was when their joint plans came to naught. Once Chantal’s marriage to Malin was consummated, Walderon was supposed to receive as part of the marriage settlement a property that he wanted badly. I don’t think it likely that he had anything to do with Chantal’s disappearance.

  “I do not like unsolved puzzles or unanswered questions,” Roarke continued. “I intend to carry out King Henryk’s command to learn what has happened to Lady Chantal, no matter how long it takes.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Jenia had a pretty good idea by this time, but she wanted to hear Roarke say it out loud.

  “I want you to impersonate Lady Chantal,” he said. “I will provide you with the clothing you will require and with a suitable escort. Garit and I will personally conduct you into King Henryk’s presence.”

  “And once you are there, you will lie to your king about who I am?” she said.

  “When we explain later, Henryk will understand. He is no stranger to subterfuge,” Roarke inf
ormed her.

  “What, exactly, will be the purpose of my impersonation?” she asked.

  “We hope that someone who knows where Chantal is will be surprised enough to give himself away when you unexpectedly appear before the king.”

  “How interesting,” Jenia murmured, thinking the situation was interesting indeed, and not in the way the two men probably imagined she meant. She wished with all her heart that she could put an end to Garit’s worries by telling him everything. But she couldn’t. What little safety she could hope for, and possibly Garit’s and Roarke’s safety, too, depended on her keeping silent about what she knew, until she stood before King Henryk. If she spoke before that moment, the chances were good that she would not live long enough to face the king. In which case, all of her efforts and all of the suffering of the months just past would be for naught.

  “Sir Roarke,” she asked, “what do you expect me to say to King Henryk? What story have you prepared for me to tell?”

  “I want you to say to him what you have said to us,” he replied. “We will present you as Lady Chantal, and you will declare that you have no memory of where you’ve been, or of what has happened to you.”

  “And then the false Lady Chantal will be restored to the guardianship of Lord Walderon,” she said. “A man whom Garit views with deep suspicion.”

  “Please, Jenia,” Garit urged, “we need your help.”

  “So long as you insist that you can recall nothing, including your own name, no one will have any reason to harm you,” Roarke told her.

  “Not so. I perceive two flaws in your reasoning,” she declared. “First, whoever caused Lady Chantal’s disappearance will want me dead out of fear that my false Chantal will regain her memory and make an accusation against him. Second, anyone who may have already killed her will know beyond a doubt that I am an impostor. That person will accuse me of being an impostor, and will still want me dead.”

  Jenia knew her objections scarcely mattered, for she intended to speak out and reveal her own secret in the first instant when she faced King Henryk. She wasn’t fool enough to wait for the villain to give himself away. What happened after that must be left to heaven, and probably, to the mages.