The Secret Heart

By Flora Speer

Roarke and Garit have been searching for Garit’s missing fiancé, Lady Chantal, when they find a woman wandering along a deserted beach. She looks so much like Chantal that Garit believes she has returned to him. But the woman claims to have no memory at all. After repeated questioning she says she thinks her name may be Jenia. This evokes no recognition for Garit. But Roarke has an idea. They will take the woman to the royal court at Calean City and present her as Chantal, in hope of upsetting whoever may be responsible for Chantal’s disappearance.
Jenia readily consents to the scheme, because Calean City is exactly where she wants to go. She has her own plan of revenge. During the journey, while trying to keep Garit at a distance, Jenia gradually falls in love with Roarke. He finds her fascinating, but won’t pursue her, because if she really is Chantal, then she is his best friend’s love.

Along the way, they stop for a night at Nozay Manor, held by Lord Giles, mentor to both men, who trains boys to be honest knights. Giles is also a powerful mage. Intrigued by Jenia’s story, he agrees to meet them in Calean City.

During a later stop at Auremont, Garit’s castle, Jenia sees how he has prepared to receive his love, Chantal, and her heart nearly breaks with tender sympathy.

In Calean City at last, Jenia is presented to King Henryk and Queen Hannorah. Before them she reveals her true identity and accuses the king of a terrible crime. Henryk claims he is innocent, and his queen backs him up. Roarke and Garit both insist the king would never commit such a crime. When Lord Giles and the powerful Lord Mage Serlion both agree, it becomes clear that another villain is responsible for Chantal’s disappearance. One of King Henryk’s spies, newly returned from the neighboring Dominion, suggests a possibility

Now the three friends and Lord Giles set off again, to track down the villain and traitor. This leads to fresh revelations of a complex plot against Sapaudia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flora Speer
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310936036

Flora Speer

Flora Speer is the author of twenty-two book-length romances and two novellas, all traditionally published. The stories range from historical romances to time-travel, to futuristic. Born in southern New Jersey, she now lives in Connecticut. Her favorite activities include gardening (especially flowers and herbs used in medieval gardens,) amateur astronomy, and following the U.S. space program, which has occasionally been a source of ideas for her futuristic romances.

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The Secret Heart

By

Flora Speer

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Published by Flora Speer At Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 by Flora Speer

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I’ll follow my secret heart…

No matter what price is paid…

Sir Noel Coward

English composer

For the valiant heart, nothing is impossible.

Motto of Jacques Coeur

Financier to King Charles VII

Of France

Prologue

Midnight

Calean City, Sapaudia

Early Spring

In a private chamber high in one of the castle towers the spy from the Dominion and the Sapaudian lord stared at the servant who had just delivered news that neither man wanted to hear.

‘Intends to flee?’ the spy repeated.

That stupid girl, the lord muttered. To the servant he said, You may go. If you reveal a word of this information to anyone else, your life is forfeit.

I understand, my lord. The servant bowed and made a hasty exit.

I thought you said the girl was under your control, the spy snarled.

Before the night is over she will be completely and permanently controlled, the lord promised. Seeing the hard look the spy cast upon him he added, Never doubt it.

What do you intend? the spy demanded.

If she should disappear, the search for her will provide a convenient excuse for me to move freely about the country, the lord said, thinking quickly. I can meet with anyone I choose and no one will question my motive. After all, that poor, lost girl must be found before she comes to harm. A brief and thoroughly evil smile crossed his face. You may report to Domini Gundiac that when his army begins to march through the mountain passes no obstacles will remain. Sapaudia will be defeated.

What about the bridges? I am specifically required to ask you about them, the spy said.

Both bridges will be repaired before the snows begin at year’s end. Since the northern bridge over the Nalo River lies within my ancestral lands, I can have the work done by my own people without King Henryk’s men noticing.

And the southern bridge? the spy asked. It’s the more important one because it can be used all year round.

I will see to it. You may tell Domini Gundiac that I give him my word.

Very well, then. The spy offered a bow so slight that it suggested he wished he didn’t have to bow at all to the other man. Until we meet on the field of battle.

Where we will fight side by side. And with my assistance, the Dominion will win. The lord inclined his sleek, dark head in dismissal.

After the spy was gone, he thought for a moment. King Henryk of Sapaudia was no coward. Though he had no heir, Henryk could be depended upon to ignore the cautious warnings of his advisors. He would personally lead his army into battle, and he would not survive. The lord would see to it that he did not. Then, after the Dominion victory Sapaudia would need a new king. And who better to lead the conquered country than the man who had handed Sapaudia over to the Dominion?

That same lord would, of course, succeed Domini Gundiac as ruler of both nations when the sovereign of the Dominion succumbed to an incurable disease. The lord had a plan to make certain of that, too. Then, finally he’d be in a position to learn the truth about the legendary jewel that had enabled Gundiac’s grandfather to forge a nation out of a group of warring tribes. The energy of the Great Emerald of the East, combined with the lord’s own magical Power, would make him undisputed master of the two lands.

A rare expression of pleasure lit his sharp features, until he remembered the girl whose overwrought emotions could spoil his well-laid plans before they were properly begun. He yearned to strangle the unruly wench with his bare hands, except that she might prove useful later. He always liked to keep a weapon in reserve. And to keep his own hands clean.

Stalking to the chamber door, he flung it open, knowing he’d find his trusty man-at-arms standing guard just outside.

Come in, the lord said. I have an assignment for you.

Part I

The Quest

Chapter 1

Early Autumn.

The woman crawled out of the sea toward dawn. Clawing at the wet sand, she fought against the storm-swept pull of the waves that threatened to drag her back into the water. On her hands and knees she began to make her slow way up the beach, only to collapse when the short burst of energy was spent.

By then she was well past the line of broken shells and seaweed that marked the highest reach of the waves, so she knew she could safely stop. At the moment, that was all she knew. She had been acting on instinct, without deliberate thought, wanting only to survive. Her mind was blank, with neither hope nor fear to inspire her to continue moving. Somewhere deep in the core of her being she comprehended that the void was a blessing.

She lay facedown upon sand that was dry, but no warmer than the sea had been. And there, exhausted, she slept.

Do as we agreed. Remember me. Never forget that I loved you.

The whisper in her memory faded even as it wakened her. She opened her eyes to silvery light. All was quiet. Not even the cry of a gull disturbed the silence. The misty sun hung low in the sky, so she knew it was either evening, or early morning. She was so confused that she could not be sure which part of the day it was, or where she was. Of one thing she was certain, though; the dull ache in her stomach reminded her that it had been too long since she had last eaten. She needed to find food, and fresh water, too.

Twice she attempted to stand, and failed. On the third try, groaning at the effort it took but refusing to give up, she made it to her feet. Fighting dizziness and her shaky legs, she squared her shoulders and started to walk. She was aware that her stumbling footsteps formed more of a wavering line in the sand than the straight, determined path she intended, but she kept going because she knew the only direction open to her was away from the sea and the danger that lay there.

As the impression of terrible danger flickered across her consciousness, she experienced a chill stronger and deeper than the cool air alone could impart. Looking down, she realized with a dim sense of surprise that she was wearing only a sleeveless linen shift that reached to her ankles. The fabric was damp, and it was stiff with salt and sand. Her feet were bare, as were her wrists and fingers, and her earlobes and throat when she touched them.

No jewelry. She frowned, as much at the cracked, husky sound of her own voice as in wonder at the lack of gold or silver ornaments, though she did recall standing numb and terrified as her few remaining pieces of jewelry and her clothing were stripped from her by rough hands.

Ye won’t need these, not where yer goin’, a harsh male voice echoed within her mind.

Shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the dreadful memory, she continued to walk away from the water. On her right a high cliff of grey rocks tumbled straight into the sea, offering no way off the beach in that direction. Behind the cliffs reared the jagged heights of the Nalo Mountains that marked the eastern boundary of Sapaudia.

Thanks be to all the heavens, she murmured. At least I haven’t come ashore in the Dominion. And at least I have some idea where I am.

She could see how the cliff ended suddenly, as if a huge knife had sliced through the solid rock. The curving beach to her left was edged with sand dunes, where long, waving grasses grew. Inland, a few trees in the distance lured her onward. Fixing her gaze on the tallest tree, she headed for it.

You made a promise and you will not break it, she whispered to encourage herself. It’s only a short distance. Where you see trees, there may be a stream, too, and perhaps bushes with berries, or an apple tree.

The thought of a crisp, juicy apple quickened her steps until a peculiar sensation shimmered along her spine. She had experienced the same sensation enough times to know what it meant. Someone was watching her. She halted, tore her gaze from the tree she was using as a guide, and turned her head.

A man stood at the crest of a high dune just to her right. Perhaps he appeared so tall and so sinister because she was looking up at him. A black cloak covered him from shoulder to calf. Black hair crowned the head he held at an arrogant angle, as if he habitually regarded the world with his chin high and his elegantly arched, aristocratic nose in the air. For a long moment he stared at her without moving, while she fought to control the unreasoning terror that swept over her.

Had he been sent to kill her? She told herself it could not be. Everyone who wanted her dead must think she already was. But then, perhaps he had been sent to make certain of her death, to search for her lifeless body on the beach. In any case, she was too weak to create the illusion that she was someone else. She’d have to deal with him in her own face and form.

When the man finally moved she could see the knight’s sword beneath his cloak and she caught a glimpse of the shorter blade, the knife that was meant for cutting meat and for eating, but that she knew all too well was sharp enough and long enough for murder, if murder was his intent.

She stood immobilized by fear as he came down the steep slope of the dune with unfaltering steps and crossed the sand to confront her. By the time he reached her, she realized that he was every bit as tall as she had first thought. He towered over her, grim-faced and threatening, and she knew there was no point in trying to escape from him.

She didn’t recognize him, but that meant nothing. The important question was whether he recognized her. Uncertainty about his intentions made her knees quake. Then she decided if he meant to kill her, he’d have to do it while he looked directly into her eyes. And she would fight him with all the courage she could muster. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders as she silently vowed to make her death as difficult for him to accomplish as she possibly could. She owed that much to her beloved—

Woman, said the dark-haired man, interrupting her dire thoughts, what are you doing here on the beach, alone and unclothed?

Who are you, sir? She put out both hands to fend him off. When he responded to her gesture by reaching toward her, she stumbled back a step. Her feet slipped in the sand, so she nearly fell. No, don’t touch me, she cried, suddenly, painfully aware that she was all but naked before him, and that there were far worse threats than immediate death by sword thrust. Or, by the vicious stab of an eating knife.

I only meant to steady you, the man said, lifting both arms out from his sides with his hands open in a movement plainly meant to show he’d do her no harm. I am Sir Roarke of Alton. Let me help you, for you are obviously in need of aid. Who has done this to you?

Done what? Though she longed to turn and flee from him, good sense prevailed over fear, so she stayed where she was. After all, where could she run on that very wide and open beach? Weakened as she was by hunger and imprisonment, how could she possibly escape so large and formidable a man?

An onslaught of painful images swirled through her mind, leaving her thoughts so befogged for a few moments that she couldn’t make sense of what was happening, or of what had happened, or of why she was so terrified of the future.

Perhaps she feared the future because she wasn’t supposed to have one. That wild, not entirely unreasonable thought occurred when the man before her pushed back the edge of his cloak, allowing her a clearer look at his broadsword and his knife. She assumed the movement was intended as intimidation.

She refused to swoon, or to show him how frightened she was. Drawing herself up to her full height, which was a good half a head shorter than Sir Roarke, she faced him boldly, though she was increasingly aware of her unclothed state, and of his piercing dark eyes that seemed to see all of her secrets. She wished he’d stop looking at her in that intense, searching way. She wondered if he was a bully, cruel and violent. If he was, she knew only one way to deal with such a man.

What do you want of me? she demanded with all the hauteur she could command while unclothed and in her bare feet, with what little magical ability she possessed unusable because of her physical weakness.

Only to help you. His gaze on her face seemed to her to become even sharper before he asked her, Will you tell me your name?

My name? She caught her breath, understanding the danger that lay in the simple question and knowing she dared provide only one answer. I – I don’t know.

Do you mean you cannot remember?

No. Please, dear Lord of the Blue Heaven, Great God Sebazious, let him not believe he recognized her.

Did you hit your head? he asked. I’ve known men who were injured in battle, who couldn’t recall their own names or what day it was until they recovered from a head injury.

My head does hurt, she said, clutching at the excuse. In fact, she did have a headache, though she was sure it was from lack of food, rather than from any serious injury. So far as she could tell, the only physical hurts she’d taken during her reckless escape were broken fingernails and a few scratches on her hands and knees, and they would soon heal. The damage inflicted upon her heart and soul did not show, though the scars would last forever.

From your appearance, Sir Roarke told her, still inspecting her with shrewd eyes, I conclude that you were washed ashore during last night’s storm. How did you come to be in the sea? Did you fall overboard?

I don’t know, she said again, though she did remember throwing herself from a ship, then fighting huge waves as she struggled to stay alive.

Despite her deliberate plunge to an almost certain watery death, she wanted to live. She wanted justice – and a very personal revenge. The desire burned deep in what was left of her once-tender heart. But she wasn’t going to tell Sir Roarke about the unquenchable need that kept her upright in defiance of her growing lightheadedness.

The man was a stranger to her. She couldn’t be sure he was sincere about wanting to help her, and she didn’t know where his loyalties lay. Let him believe she knew nothing, remembered nothing of her recent past. If she asserted a complete lack of memory whenever he asked a question, she might achieve a modicum of safety that would last until her head stopped aching, so she could think more clearly and decide what she ought to do first and where she ought to go.

What she intended, the quest that drove her, was nearly impossible for a woman to accomplish. Yet, surely, there was someone she could trust, to whom she could appeal for help. Perhaps, a priest of Sebazious, or a mage? But no; a priest would want gold, which she didn’t have, and a mage would only use his Power to probe the dangerous memories she wanted to keep hidden until her quest was complete.

Her somewhat confused attempt to decide upon her next move was interrupted by the sound of a man’s shout. The voice came from the direction of the dune where Sir Roarke had perched when she first saw him. She wondered how many men were with him. Possibly, a whole troop of men-at-arms. Noblemen seldom went anywhere alone.

Hallooo! Roarke, where are you?

Here, on the beach, he called back. His hands were working at the clasp of his long cloak. In a swift movement he swung the heavy wool off his shoulders and around the woman before she could protest. You will want to be covered, he said.

Thank you. She stood unmoving, refusing to be affected by his masculine nearness while he refastened the silver clasp at her throat and then tugged the edges of the cloak close around her so she was completely enveloped in the dark folds. When she drew in her breath a tangy, spicy scent assailed her nose, telling her that Sir Roarke’s clothing was routinely stored with keshan shavings and dried, sweet gallinum to keep the moths away.

One long-fingered hand rested on her shoulder for an instant, and his dark eyes met hers. A slight frown creased his brow. She thought he was going to speak, perhaps to issue a warning of some kind, but the man who had called from the sand dune joined them.

He was almost as tall as Sir Roarke, though more heavily built, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes that at the moment were filled with disbelief. The fine wool of his blue tunic and the quality of his sword and knife all proclaimed him a knight, and a wealthy one, too. But she didn’t need his clothing and weapons to tell her so. She recognized him at once.

Dear Heavenly Blue Sky above us! he exclaimed, gaping at her. Chantal, is it really you? How thin and pale you are. Have you been ill? Is that why you did not search for me, as I have been searching for you?

Let the questions wait, Garit, Sir Roarke said firmly. The lady is somewhat confused. I found her staggering along the beach.

But – but— The newcomer put out one hand, then withdrew it as if he feared to touch her. Chantal, my dearest lady, don’t you know me?

She claims that she cannot recall her own name, Sir Roarke explained.

What? Garit cried. No, that’s impossible. Chantal, my love—

Look at her, Sir Roarke commanded. She has obviously been in the sea. She says her head aches. I would guess she was shipwrecked and washed ashore.

Chantal, where have you been all these months? Garit asked.

His latest repetition of that name was not so disturbing to her as his first exclamation had been. A spurt of bitter amusement cut through her thoughts, banishing the last of her lingering confusion and reminding her just how dangerous her every word and action was going to be until she reached her final goals of revenge and justice. She was amazed that she had survived her long ordeal and then her immersion in the sea. She hadn’t expected to survive. Telling herself she could not fail, for if she was still alive then, surely, she was destined to complete her perilous quest, she looked into Garit’s eyes.

The warmth with which he was regarding her told her that he was the very person she needed to help her fulfill her heart’s most secret desire. Using him would be risky, but it could be done if she was very careful.

She was not at all certain about Sir Roarke, though, for he was regarding her with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion. Clearly, he was not as tenderhearted about Lady Chantal of Thury as was his friend.

The name Chantal means nothing to me, she said. She frowned, pretending to be thinking deeply, and she dared to hope that both men would assume she was wending her way through a slowly returning memory. "But that name does conjure up another: Jenia. It seems oddly familiar to me. In fact, it is so familiar that I think it must be my name. Do you recognize it? Or me?"

She waited for Garit to respond, hoping he’d not recall the name. She had never in her life spoken to Garit of Kinath before the present hour, though she knew very well who he was. Half Sapaudian, half Kantian, he was a private emissary from Audemar, king of Kantia, to King Henryk of Sapaudia. Garit ought to be in Calean City, attending King Henryk at the royal court. She didn’t think it was wise to inquire what he was doing on the very same beach where she had washed ashore, but all of her senses were by now fully alert.

Who? Who? As if to punctuate her concerns, a large white owl flew low over them, its cry and shape out of place in the hours before nightfall. Within the next heartbeat the bird was gone, leaving the sky empty once more.

You look so much like Chantal, Garit said.

How can you be sure? It was a terrible question to ask a lover. She decided to try humor to soften the pain he must be feeling. She did know how he felt; she understood his grief as few others could. How she wished she could tell him so. She offered a weak smile in place of the truth he deserved. I think it’s far more likely that I look like a half-drowned cat, rather than your Lady Chantal, she said.

Garit is correct, you know. Roarke had remained silent, his gaze fixed on Jenia’s face during his friend’s eager assertions and Jenia’s denial. He spoke slowly, as if he was working through a murky, yet tantalizing puzzle. Your hair is the same reddish-brown color as Lady Chantal’s. Your nose, the oval shape of your face, even your height are all identical to hers.

I am sorry to disappoint you, Jenia said, but I don’t think I’m Lady Chantal. I’m certain I’d know if I were.

Not if you hit your head somehow, Garit insisted. Not if you are confused after being shipwrecked.

She’d been worse than shipwrecked, but she wasn’t going to tell him so – at least, not until she could be absolutely certain that telling him would aid her cause and not harm it.

I am desperately thirsty, and hungry, and very tired, she said, allowing herself to sway. I long for a cup of water that’s not salty.

Of course you do, Roarke agreed. Fresh water we can easily provide. Come along, then.

He reached for her and this time she did not flinch from his outstretched hand. Perhaps foolishly, she was beginning to trust him. Or perhaps her Power was returning. Whatever the cause, she let him take her elbow to guide her off the beach and over a sand dune to the swath of rough grass that ran behind the dunes. When she winced as her bare feet crushed the stiff, autumn-dry stalks, and Roarke swept her up into his arms, she made no protest at all. Instead, she wound an arm around his neck and let him take her wherever he would.

She really was a bit lightheaded, though her continuing weakness could have been in part the effect of being so close to a man who was making no attempt to hurt her or to dominate her. He must have shaved that morning, for no trace of stubble showed on his lightly tanned face. His mouth was firm but not hard, not cruel, just manly. All in all, he was physically very different from the unwashed, sour-smelling males she had dealt with recently. Whether he was unlike them in mind and heart remained to be seen, she thought, struck by a resurgence of the distrust that had kept her alive so far.

Roarke did not set her down until he reached the clump of trees and bushes for which she had been heading when he found her. Two horses waited nearby, their reins looped over one of the bushes to prevent them from wandering. A Sapaudian lance was fastened next to the saddle of one horse. Jenia shuddered to see it. Years ago, just such a lance had killed her father in battle – or had been used to murder him in a way that appeared to be a battle death.

Sit here, Roarke suggested.

As she had guessed, a tiny stream meandered past the clump of trees. It was little more than a trickle of water, but it was enough to allow her to rinse her mouth and then to drink from the wooden cup that Roarke pulled out of his saddlebag. She splashed more water onto her face, trying to remove the caked-on salt and sand.

Are you feeling better now? Roarke asked, squatting beside her. He offered her a chunk of bread. This isn’t much, but I think you ought not to eat a large meal at first. You will want to keep down whatever you eat or drink.

Thank you. She took the bread. It was hard, probably more than a day old, but she didn’t care. Her stomach was so hollow that she knew what he’d said was true. She’d be wise to eat slowly, in small amounts, until she had grown accustomed to the kind of meals that were served outside dungeon walls.

Have you no squires, Sir Roarke? she asked in an effort to divert him from his concentration on her.

Garit and I are traveling alone at present.

His narrowed eyes and renewed scrutiny warned Jenia that she had made a mistake in revealing her familiarity with the habits of knights and nobles, who usually traveled with squires and servants. She would have to be more careful in future.

Roarke was still squatting next to her, watching her much too closely, when Garit approached with his outstretched hands cupped together.

Here, he said, offering a mound of autumn berries. The bushes are full of them.

She looked at the ripe, red berries, then looked up into Garit’s blue eyes. The tenderness she saw in his gaze nearly broke her heart. For just a moment she wished she could be what he wanted her to be. But she couldn’t. Garit of Kinath was not her love and never would be.

With a murmured word of thanks she accepted the berries and ate them slowly, while Roarke continued to observe her every movement.

If you know your name, Jenia, Roarke said at last, then you must recall other facts about your life. Who are your parents? Are you married, and to whom? Where do you live?

I am sorry, she answered him, choosing her words with great care. I believe my name is Jenia because it came into my mind without any effort on my part, and because it seems so familiar and comfortable to me. But when I try to think of people, or of places, all I perceive is a thick mist. You may trust me, Sir Roarke, when I say that since I first woke upon the beach, I have been trying to answer the very questions you are asking me now. I want to remember, but I cannot.

Leave her alone, Roarke, Garit advised. Perhaps after she’s had a decent meal and a good night’s sleep, she will be able to tell us what we want to know.

Perhaps, Roarke said.

Roarke did not agree with Garit, and he didn’t believe that Jenia – or whoever she really was – couldn’t remember her own life. The woman was lying. He knew it in his bones, in his heart, and in his mind.

He did not doubt that she was a noblewoman. Her low-pitched voice, her accent, and the elegant way she carried herself even when stumbling along the beach, all proved as much. The first moment he’d seen her, even before she spoke, he had known she was no peasant girl or fisherwoman.

He had met Lady Chantal of Thury only a few times. Garit had been far more intimate with her, so Roarke accepted his friend’s declaration that the woman who called herself Jenia was so remarkably like his lost love that they could easily be the same. He regarded her more closely, committing each detail of her features to memory, in case he ever met a woman who claimed to be Lady Chantal – or who actually proved to be her.

Certainly, Jenia was attractive. If she were bathed and combed and properly dressed, she would be lovely, though not the courtly ideal of beauty, which required straight black tresses and blue eyes like Queen Hannorah. Jenia possessed thick, reddish-brown hair and creamy skin. Beneath the layer of dried salt water and sand that her efforts at the stream had not removed, Roarke detected a pale sprinkling of freckles across her straight, little nose. Those freckles alone would disqualify her from the court’s admiration as a beauty. Roarke, always independent, thought otherwise. As he watched, her tongue came out to snare a drop of bright red berry juice from the corner of her mouth. The sight sent a completely unexpected pang of longing through him.

He warned himself to beware. For all he knew, the woman was a trap, sent to entice him – or Garit, who was far more susceptible to feminine wiles. She could be a spy who was only pretending to be a castaway. Roarke had noticed no signs of a shipwreck scattered on the beach. And yet, just looking at her sent an odd lightness into the dark in which he lived, easing the black emptiness inside him, where once his heart had dwelt.

Over the rim of the wooden cup he’d provided she studied him with silent gravity. Jenia’s eyes were the color of fine amber. No other word would adequately describe their golden-brown brightness. At one moment her eyes looked as if all of the sun’s gold was caught in them. In the next moment they glowed with the deep brown of a stream in autumn, when crystal-clear water runs over fallen leaves. Those ever-changing eyes suggested layers of meaning, of intelligence – and of mystery, of unanswered questions.

What do you intend to do with me? she asked him.

Just now, for a little while, Roarke answered, forcing his thoughts back to the secret mission that had brought him to