Secrets and Lies

My name is Esmarelda, which means emerald—Esmae for short. It’s not my real name, though I have green eyes. 

Long ago, at my birth, my mother died. My father, already blessed with a son and daughter, witnessed it. He blamed me for her demise. His enraged reaction was to have me exposed - left to die. This act of his, the belief that I was a curse, left a deep scar on my heart.

My midwife, Morag, saved me. Saving a baby should never include rescuing from exposure. First, she lied about preventing my death. She only revealed this truth when it looked like the whole plot could unravel.

Her big lie led to more untruths. Morag lied to the one who nursed me, to her former lover by claiming I was his base-born child, to her sister who added me to her brood for a time, paid for by the one who believed me to be his offspring, and to others that I was a niece who came to stay. Her biggest lie, to the one who thought himself to be my birth father, remained poised over us like a sword ready to decapitate if the truth be revealed. Initially, only my midwife-nurse and her brother knew about it.

When Lord Gerrard’s daughter, by his wife Lady Vivian, died, he took both Morag and me, a six-year-old, to his home, a castle. He told everyone he had adopted me, renamed me Esmarelda after their daughter, and in time, I became their beloved child plus their son Peter, my brother. Lady Vivian found solace after her daughter's death. She had no more children.

Truth be told, I wasn’t related to them. My midwife did not reveal to her mistress, Lady Vivian, that she had been Lord Gerrard’s secret lover. Such is the fate of a servant as opposed to a Lady with goods enough. Gerrard cared for me as his own flesh and blood. I felt eternally grateful.

Despite the privilege I enjoyed, I couldn't shake off the shame of my birth. Morag, who denied being my mother to protect me, instilled in me the stigma of being base-born - born on the wrong side of the sheets. This secret needed to be guarded.

I loved my life. As I looked over my father’s Fief and the homes of his villeins, I felt dizzy. A patched and speckled quilt of greens, browns, gold, and grey lay before me. To my left, the vast ocean. In the distance, I saw the top of another castle and the road leading to it.

Further north, a verdant hill loomed, covered in trees and bushes. I wished to walk up its slope and explore its woods. It meant evading the servant who accompanied me each time I went out . . .

One fine day, I escaped and entered Lord Tytus’s Fife. As I trotted my horse toward the hill, I became aware of another rider. I rode faster, trying to lose him among the trees. My long black hair streamed behind me. I looked like a woman, a woman in a wimple and elegant clothing. It could be dangerous for me, though I am not faint-hearted.

I trotted my steed higher, following a rough track through the trees. I took a few quick glances but didn’t spot anyone following me.

When it became steeper, I dismounted at a clearing and tethered my rouncie. A brook tinkled down over rocks and stones. The cool air smelled of moss and ferns while tall trees surrounded me. Leaves filtered the sun’s rays and imposed a mosaic of dappled light. Everything was still, but I sensed a presence. As I stooped, trailing my fingers in the cool water, a noise behind me made me whirl around - either a branch snapping or someone tripping over a tree root.

“Spy, come hither,” I commanded.

He hesitantly revealed himself. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”

I exuded no fear as I studied him and frowned.

“Who are you?” he asked. A fair question as I had trespassed onto his estate. He shuffled his feet and wrung his hands.

His good-quality clothing looked crumpled. Had he slept in them? This could not be Lord Tytus.

“I’m Esmarelda, daughter of Lord Gerrard of Saelmere. I hope you don’t mind me being here.”

He bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Esmarelda. I’m Roland Tabor, son of Lord Tytus.”

“I know who you are. Your reputation has preceded you." My forehead creased in a frown as I’d heard bad stories about him. But I didn't let it intimidate me.

“What do you know?”

“Do you want me to say? I don’t think so.”

“Perchance, it’s untrue. Otherwise, you should be terrified.”

“Oh, you don’t scare me, Roland Tabor. I just don’t like you,” I said in an unwavering voice.

“You can’t know me!”

“Neither do I want to.” My tone left no room for argument.

 “How dare you be here! I could harm you.”

“Pooh! You’re nothing but a wayward child. You’d not need to be told if you received more harm in your childhood.”

 “I’m sorry you’re disappointed.” His regret appeared genuine. Maybe he also felt shame over his appearance.

 “Disappointed? I never expected to meet you and you’re everything I imagined. Good day to you,” I said with my ready tongue. I strode confidently towards my mount and hoped I was not in peril.

First, I’d stabbed him, then shamed and dismissed him. My last glimpse was of him staring after me with his mouth open, looking like I’d drenched him with a bucket of icy-cold water.

Esmarelda of Saelmere

When I arrived home at Saelmere, the same sunny afternoon I’d first met Lord Roland, trouble brewed as usual since I’d escaped my servant.

Upon my return, Morag, who still behaved as my mother, met me at the door to my rooms. Hands on hips, she scolded, “I know about your conduct. You need to have a servant with you, Esmae. Your independence is folly. What’s with the guilty face?”

I looked down, my face hot. “Morag, don’t fuss. I rode to the . . . hill."

“What hill? We don’t have a hill.”

“The hill . . . in the next Fief . . . I met someone.” I portrayed a most innocent expression.

“Who? You shouldn’t have been there.”

“Young Lord Roland . . . You warned me about him.”

“For good reason.”

“I think you’re wrong. He’s so boyish and mostly polite. I wasn’t frightened.”

“He’s never grown up. Swear to me, you’ll stay away.” Morag’s eyes glowered.

“You’ve warned me enough. I vexed him sorely. He must hate me.”

“Then what if he complains about your trespass to his father? We want no trouble between our families.”

“I promise I won’t go there again . . . but he didn’t seem so bad.”

Morag’s brows furrowed sternly as she grabbed my shoulders in despair. “Esmarelda. Lack of proper upbringing has ruined him. He has no mother. Trust me, Lord Tytus is a cruel, heartless man. His son may be different, but do you think his shocking reputation bodes well for anyone? There are things you can never know.”

“I’m listening to you, dear. Don’t take on so. But what things?”

“You must never go there because the truth will ruin your life.”

For a moment, a cloud of doom enveloped us. I shrugged Morag off.

“I won’t go there. Don’t fret. I promise it’s over.”

Such a dire warning and Morag’s anguish is genuine. More information will ruin my life? I had not intended to cause such grief. Morag’s tear-filled eyes troubled me, so I hugged her. But I left to remove my riding attire in my chamber, praying there would be no repercussions. I closed the door with a bang before Morag’s remonstrance could continue.

***

A Year Later, Lord Roland has invited our family to Wadeley Keep for a feast.

At Saelmere Castle, I walked slowly upstairs to return to my room after seeing Lord Roland. Lady Vivian came down and eagerly questioned me.

“He desires me to become friends with his sister, Lady Anna.” I understated what had been said.

“But, daughter, he’s such a dashing young man, his family so well-bred, and the Fief is huge. He’s a worthy suitor.” Vivian emphasized in vain.

With my nose in the air, I left her standing as I swished away to my rooms.

The next day, Morag attended me as I dressed after bathing. The scent of lavender and roses surrounded us. Morag’s face fell when I casually mentioned the feast; you could have heard a seed-pearl drop.

“You’re afraid, Morag. It’s that wretched meeting, long ago. He said he’s changed, forgiven me, he even thanked me. I’ll go, but I’ll ignore him.”

“I heard about the invitation. Your mother will be concerned. Don’t be a fool. He’s surely contemplating betrothal. Your circumstances appear ideal. Trust me, a lady has no choice about marriage.”

“You’ve never met him. You despise his father, but you may be wrong about Roland. I’ll tell him he’s not for me, and he’ll not pursue me.”

“I’m right about Roland. He never forgot you after your outstanding coldness last time!”

“My hatefulness had the opposite effect. Prithee, forgive me. This is all my fault.”

“Well, you can’t go.”

“But why can’t I go? It’s a feast, and I’ll meet his sister. What’ll Lord Gerrard say?”

Morag’s face bore disgust.

“Attending one feast isn’t the end of the world!” I couldn’t believe there would be harm in going.

My maid started to shake, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she shut the door for our privacy. I shook my head, clearly not understanding her problem.

“I have to tell you a terrible secret. You must avoid Roland and his family. I once did an unforgivable thing.” She sobbed in despair.

“You’re worrying me. What is it?”

“On the day you were born, I, the one who assisted your birth, was told to dispose of you . . . I saved you and lied.”

“Lord Gerrard?” I felt shocked.

“No, Lord Gerrard is a good father.”

“So, who wanted me dead?”

“Your father . . . Lord Tytus ordered it.”

I felt my mouth become dry, and I started to shake. “But-but that means Roland is my brother. . . that’s what you meant by ‘the truth will ruin my life’?”

“It shouldn’t have come to this. You have to keep away from him. Lord Gerrard, your father, will listen if you emphasize dislike of Roland.”

I cried as the enormity of the situation struck me and I dropped heavily on a nearby chair. “Y-ye know I mistreated him, but he w-wants me to meet his sister. How could this happen? How can I avoid going? A feast will be grand, but . . . I-I suppose I’ll have to be sick on the day.” I sobbed in frustration and grief.

“You suppose? This needs resolution. Your cruel father, Lord Tytus, may recognize you if he knows I’m in your life. You resemble your mother. I daren't attend to watch over you. Roland can never be told. I lied to Lord Gerrard; told him you were our child. . . I wished it to be true.”

I looked at Morag in confusion. “So, I’m not base-born, but now I truly wish to be!”

“Esmarelda! Take a grip of yourself. I did this for you. You deserved the life your brother and sister have. I asked Lord Gerrard for help, but he can never know the truth. He’ll be heartbroken, throw us out. I can’t do this to him or Lady Vivian. Our lives will be ruined, and you could still die.”

“This is beyond terrible. I don’t care for Roland, but if he wants me, we need the protection of my father . . . otherwise . . .” I couldn’t stop wailing. My prior unknown life crisis threatened to ruin my present security. “How can such a terrible thing be true? How could you devise such a thing? Such a lie!” My hands clenched into fists.

Morag placed her hands firmly on my shoulders. “It’s imperative you don’t go! I trust Lord Gerrard will never force you to marry Roland after his arranged marriage with Lady Vivian.

I shrugged Morag’s hands away. My eyes felt hot. “I won’t go, I promise.”

***

On the morning of the feast, I refused to rise.

“Where is Esmarelda? I trust she’s ready?” said my mother, Vivian.

“My Lady, I believe so.”

“I’ll check,” she said, marching away. She looked spectacular in her violet gown embellished with gold thread. A peaked headdress draped with a sheer, golden veil fell over her nut-brown locks coiled into plaits on either side of her head, along with jeweled accessories, enhancing her regal ensemble.

Morag followed her and remained in the doorway.

“Esmarelda! Where are you?” Vivian flounced into the bed chamber to find me ensconced under the covers. “Young mistress, why haven’t you risen?” Her face contorted into a grimace.

“Mother, I’m ill.” I turned away as Mother patted my brow.

“You don’t have a fever. You were well yesterday.”

“Nay, the headache and I feel poorly.”

She puffed with rage. “It’s not your time for a headache! You’re never ill. Moreover, you’ve been reluctant all week. The ride will not kill you. It’d be outrageous not to attend. By the saints, you will get up!” She tore back the covers and dragged me by the arm.

“Ow, Mother! Please don’t make me go.”

“You’re going, indeed. Get dressed this instant!”

I sobbed in frustration, and Mother threw her arms up in despair. 

“You never behave this way! Morag’s the one who should’ve had you up and dressed. Morag! Get Esmarelda ready. If she returns due to illness, so be it, but I don’t believe her dramatics, or you not knowing about it. She is attending!”

Morag reluctantly assisted me. Our deception had failed.

“They’ll be sorry they dragged me along sick. I’ll tell them you had a baby to deliver. You best not come, but don’t fear, dear Morag; I know what is at stake.”

Roland of Wadeley

On arrival at Wadeley, our steeds were led away, and we entered an anteroom to greet Roland, Anna, his sister, and Lord Tytus. Morag had excused herself from attending. The servants removed our mantles. Roland beamed and introduced us to his family. We sat down. I had a deadpan expression. Lord Tytus looked approvingly at the four of us. Peter, a teenager six years younger than me, had much to say. He and our father often hunted together, so they launched into recounting their experiences.

So, it happened. We ladies moved to the other side of the room to converse on gentler topics. I could see Roland’s dismay.

On entering the hall, we stared in awe at the mouth-watering sight of our awaited feast - fit for royalty. Delicious aromas invited us, though the display looked too grand to touch. Roland glowed with pride.

We viewed soups, gravies, a boar, chickens, venison, pheasants, a peacock, pies, dumplings, pandemain-bread, with many vegetable dishes, and sweetmeats, victuals aplenty for a sumptuous repast.

Adding to the scene, between the gaps of hung tapestries, sconces cast light, and two large candleholders in wrought iron stood on either side of the fire, their golden glow combining with the firelight.

Lord Tytus sat at the head, with Lord Gerrard on his left, next to his son Peter, and Lady Vivian next to him. Opposite, Anna was to sit on my right while Roland sat on my left. Williams, who had also been invited and conveniently introduced as a relative, sat below the salt opposite elderly Ida, Anna’s maid. I felt unwell, and my parents requested I sit between them, opposite Roland.

On his father’s right, Roland landed with young Peter on the other side, who continued his incessant babble, paying no heed to Anna on his right. I sat opposite and appeared to avoid Roland, partly concealed by a vase of peacock feathers and greenery. I guess he focused on young Peter to appear as the charming host.

They ate, talked, and enjoyed themselves, all except Roland. No doubt, he thought about me. I felt weak with despair and barely ate. How on earth can I get away? I thought.

The feast and entertainment progressed to everyone’s delight. Neither Roland nor I spoke or smiled. The others conversed near the fire until we ladies excused ourselves. Later, after a nightcap, the menfolk retired. 

In the same wing as Tytus and Roland, rooms had been prepared for Lord Gerrard, Vivian, and Peter. Anna, in another wing, had given up her canopied bed for her new friend while she retired to a smaller bed set up in an adjoining room near elderly Ida. The two servants retired to the servant’s wing.

She Loves Me Not

When the family came down to take their leave in the morning, they had no idea of my whereabouts. I had bid Anna a hurried farewell, found the stables, had my horse bridled and saddled, and left before breakfast. They discussed our betrothal.

Lord Gerrard had promised Morag he’d never force me into marriage. Consequently, a letter was sent the following day.

 It stated:

“Her family regrets informing Lord Roland, the son of Lord Tytus, that Lady Rosheen has declined courtship with him. The decision is irrevocable.

Lord Gerrard of Saelmere.”

He had signed and sealed it.

I hoped the sorry mess would be over. My mother raged. My father simply said, “Dear wife, we want her to wed a worthy suitor. She’s devoted to us and doesn’t love another. As for Lord Roland, he may well persist. Our daughter can marry whom she wishes, provided it is someone we accept.”

I sighed in relief. The secret remained safe. For now . . .