Norwyck's Lady

“I—I seem to have lost my memory.”

Silence filled a long, empty interval, and she could feel the little girl’s eyes upon her. Finally, the child spoke, her voice alight with wonder and puzzlement.

“You’ve lost your…You mean you cannot remember—”

“I cannot remember anything,” she whispered in reply.

“Did the wreck take your memories away?”

“I suppose so, though I have no way of know—”

“Your name! You do not even remember your name?”

She fought back tears. “Nay. I do not know who I am. Or where I belong.” She did not even know if English was her own language. It seemed familiar to her in an odd, distant way.

Eleanor made a small sound, then walked around to the other side of the bed. “Will you ever remember it?” The girl’s voice was full of astonishment and sympathy.

She felt the child’s interested gaze upon her.

“I do not know.”

“What will we call you, then?” the child asked.

She bit her lip and tamped down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her again. Who was she? She tried to think of a name that seemed to fit, but could not. Naught seemed familiar, and trying to force the memory only made her head hurt more. “I have no idea.”

“Then we’ll just have to give you a new name,” the child said excitedly. “I will share my name with you. We’ll call you Eleanor…. Nay.” It sounded as if the girl was frowning. “That would be too confusing, with two of us. I know!” The voice brightened. “We’ll call you after King Edward’s wife—Marguerite!”

“’Tis as g-good a name as any, I suppose,” she replied, though it, too, sounded utterly unfamiliar.

“Oh, I forgot!” Eleanor said. “I brought you some clothes. Bartie sent a maid to do it, but I came in her stead.”

“I thank you, Lady Eleanor,” Marguerite replied, somewhat buoyed by the girl’s exuberance. “Tell me, is there a shift or chemise I can put on now? I seem to have…lost all my clothes somehow.”

Eleanor sorted through the stack that she’d brought, and held up something long and white. “This will do,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Marguerite said. The friendliness of the child continued to surprise her, especially after her brother’s antagonistic behavior, and Marguerite felt fortunate that there was at least one gracious person at Norwyck Keep. She did not know if she’d ever needed a friend before, but ’twas clear she needed one now.

Bart took a long swallow of ale as he stood by the fire in the great hall. He’d finished removing his armor, but still wore the soaked and stained undertunic and hose he’d had on all through the night of battle. The rain had not let up, and still there were bodies lined up under a tarp on the beach. Huge piles of debris as well as valuables were under guard down by the sea, and a half-blind woman with no memory lay wounded in his tower.

If she could be believed.

He doubted it. He had to give her credit for a gifted imagination, though. Who would ever have thought of such a ploy? A lost memory.

He shook his head and laughed grimly. She would not be able to keep up the farce for long. ’Twas likely her ship was a Scottish one, and she was afraid to admit her identity.

Bart turned when he heard footsteps approaching. ’Twas young Kathryn, who seemed to suffer most after William’s death, and from what she understood of Felicia’s betrayal.

“Bartholomew,” she said, her expression grave. “Eleanor is in the tower room.”

“I told her to stay out—”

“Yes, but does she ever listen to anyone?” Kathryn asked disdainfully. She tossed her long blond braid behind her, then followed her brother as he crossed the hall and started up the stairs. “She will not mind me, but goes about, doing as she pleases.”

“She’s young, Kate,” Bart said, trying to rouse an interest in his sister’s concerns. Yet the only thing he cared about was that Ellie was in the woman’s room. The stranger could be a Scottish assassin, for all he knew. Odder things had happened in recent months, and Bart was not about to take a chance with Eleanor’s safety.

He reached the tower room and threw open the door.

“Bartie!” Eleanor cried.

“What did I tell you about coming up here?” he demanded.

The woman slipped back under the blankets, while Ellie crossed her arms and slammed them down over her chest. Annoyance colored the glance she threw at Kathryn, even as her red curls quivered with anger. “I was just helping Lady Marguerite—”

“Ah, she has a name, has she?”

“Nay. We just gave her the queen’s name,” Ellie replied. “To use until she remembers her own.”

He looked over at “Marguerite.” Her lips were pressed tightly together, and from the rapid rise and fall of the covers on the bed, he could tell she was breathing heavily.

“You two leave,” he said, “and I’ll help Lady Marguerite.”

“But, Bartie—”

“No arguments, or you’ll dine on bread and water for a week,” he said menacingly, though ’twas a familiar warning. Bart threatened Eleanor so often that it had become something of a jest between them.

“Lady Marguerite needs my help!”

“I’m afraid she will have to do without it,” Bart said as he glanced toward the beautiful lady in the bed. “This time, she will have to be satisfied with mine.”

Chapter Three

Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.

She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.

“Lady Marguerite, eh?”

“Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”

“Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”

“Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”

“Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”

Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.

’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.