Almost Innocent by Jane Feather

had believed herself to be, they said did not exist. She had lost one, could not accept the other, and thrashed in a torment of hideous loss and bewilderment. The constant surveillance under which she now found herself turned a stable, generally happy child into a violent rebel, alternating between frenzied storms and equally impassioned sulks. It was as if the escort who had been assigned to protect her became the symbol of this appalling thing that had happened to her. She would talk to no one, refused to go to her lessons, refused to play with the others. All her mental and physical energies were devoted to evading her guard, and she succeeded often enough to drive Lord de Gervais to distraction.
    He told himself that her behavior was not surprising, that she was frightened and uncertain, thrust so suddenly upon center stage in this devious play of Lancaster’s composing. She was taken to court, was visited by all and sundry, whispered about, exclaimedover, and she sat sullen and unmoving throughout, planning her next move in her battle with her escort. She climbed through windows, down apple trees, hid with the hawks in the mews, put spur to her horse and set her to jump the river, catching her guards completely by surprise.
    Gwendoline grew weaker by the day, and Guy watched in wretchedness as she faded before his eyes. But throughout, she struggled with Magdalen, giving her all the loving understanding and kindness that she had within her, praying that acceptance would come to the child soon and this dreadful destructive storm of uncomprehending rage would die.
    One evening, Guy found his wife weeping quietly in despairing frustration at Magdalen’s latest intransigence, and his patience deserted him. He beat the child and sent her supperless to bed. The effect was devastating. Magdalen wept all night with such violence that she became febrile, locked in some wracking tussle with her grief and perplexity. The apothecary cupped her, they purged her until she could barely struggle from the bed, but still the harsh sobs tore through the fragile frame. Finally, summoned by his distraught wife, Guy came into the chamber, leaning over to push the soaked strands of hair from her brow. Her eyelids were so swollen as to be almost closed, and his heart turned over with remorse and pity.
    “There now,” he said softly, aware of his inadequacy in the face of this monumental unhappiness. “Hush now, pippin. Hush now.” He lifted her from the bed and sat with her on his knee. Gradually, words began to emerge through the sobs, gasping, disjointed words of apology.
    “We must pardon each other,” he said when he could finally make sense of what she was saying. “I lost patience, but I cannot suffer it when my lady is unhappy, and you had made her so.”
    Her sobs began to die down as he held her, and thewords began to flow as the tears had done. All her fear, her bewilderment, her anger came forth, and Lady Gwendoline sat beside her husband, holding the hot damp hand in hers. “He does not like me,” Magdalen said with a final gulp. “If he is my sire, why did he look at me with such hatred? Why did he send me to Bellair to make me think that Lord Bellair was my father? Where is my mother?”
    “Your mother is dead,” Gwendoline said, “as we have explained to you.” Gritting her teeth, she told the tale that all knew to be a blatant falsehood. “She was but briefly wed to his grace of Lancaster and died in giving birth to you.”
    “Your identity had to be kept secret for reasons of policy,” Guy said. “As now, for reasons of your safety, you must remain under guard at all times. I have explained that.”
    The child in his arms was very still, the violence of her earlier weeping evident now only in an occasional gulping sob as her body found its ease. Finally, she lifted her head from his chest. Her voice was scratchy after the tempest of weeping, but it was calm. “If it must be, then it must be.”
    The Lord and