Free Knights by Linda Lael Miller

the attic of the house that had been her father’s and was now hers, staring at the contents of the last trunk, the one in the farthest, dustiest corner. Edwenna had taken great care to hide the truth about her adopted daughter.
    The first item Gloriana removed was wrapped in porous cloth, and even before she unwound the bandagelike covering, she knew the doll would be inside. The elegant model of a queen yet to be born, with its bright Tudor hair and pale skin, its jeweled dress and tiny slippers.
    “Elizabeth I,” Gloriana whispered. She who would come to the throne in the sixteenth century and reign over a turbulent England for a great many years. She whose nickname Gloriana had taken for her own.
    Gloriana closed her eyes and swayed slightly, there in the stifling, dusty heat of the attic. Carefully, with trembling hands, she laid the costly doll aside and tookanother bundle from the trunk. Trousers—jeans, she’d called them, in that other incarnation. A small garment—a T-shirt, she remembered—cut to fit a child. Shoes, hard-soled and yet flexible.
    Studying these items, Gloriana felt exultation, followed by a surge of nausea. With a combination of tenderness and fear, she tucked them all back in the trunk and closed the lid quickly. She did not begin to understand what had happened to her, all those years ago, but she knew that Edwenna had been wise in hiding them. The people of Hadleigh Village would surely deem her a witch if they saw these strange belongings.
    Although Gloriana had never seen anyone burned or hanged for having dealings with the devil, she knew such things were not uncommon. Staring at the trunk, her grubby hands knotted together in her lap, Gloriana racked her brain. A part of her wanted to destroy everything, to burn the whole house to the ground if that was what it took, but another part cherished these odd possessions. They were, after all, her last link with Megan, the child she had been, and the faraway world that had spawned her.
    She swallowed and leaned forward, like a supplicant before the altar of God, her forehead pressed to the filthy lid of the trunk. If only there were somebody she could go to, somebody who would give her counsel and comfort. But she dared trust no one—not Edward, her closest friend, not Gareth, generous as he was, and especially not Kenbrook, her erstwhile husband. He wanted to be rid of her in order to take the Frenchwoman to wife and might even betray her in order to be free.
    Gloriana’s breath was quick and shallow, and she began to feel light-headed, as if she would swoon. No,she told herself, clutching her stomach with both hands now, like a poison victim, and rocking back and forth on her knees. No, Dane would never permit her to be burned as a witch. But he might well put her away in a convent, as Gareth had banished Elaina to the abbey; it would salve Kenbrook’s conscience if he could say his first wife was mad. He’d be granted an annulment, no doubt, and no one would blame him for marrying again.
    Gloriana rose shakily to her feet, smoothing her kirtle with fitful motions of her hands, though it was hopelessly crumpled and much soiled. She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Perhaps, she reflected, feeling sick, she really was a witch, an unwitting tool of Lucifer. The thought made her shudder, for although Gloriana was rebellious, daydreaming during mass and often falling asleep in vespers, refusing to cover her hair except when she was actually inside the church, there was no evil in her.
    She must get rid of the items inside the chest at the first viable opportunity and never speak of what she remembered.
    She crossed the attic floor and stooped to pass through the tiny doorway, which opened onto a step and narrow staircase, every step hewn from solid oak. Trailing dirty fingers along the wall, she made her way down to the second floor and then the first. The familiar furniture gave her comfort; she could almost make herself