Page 1 of Forgotten Secrets

Prologue

England, 1386

Deserted and overgrown, the secret garden stood forgotten and neglected being naught but a memory of the past.

Morag Douglas dismounted her horse and gently laid her hand on the old garden gate. Hesitant, yet anxious, she prepared to enter a place that she had always respected and admired. So many experiences had happened within these garden walls. Memories of her life were locked within, but would hopefully never be forgotten.

This had once been a place where Morag, her sister, Fia, and her cousins, Willow and Maira, came when they wanted to sneak away from the turmoil and trials of life. It was a place of solace to comfort their souls. It was also where the mysterious old woman, Imanie, who used to live here, had mentored the girls. But now, things had changed. Imanie was dead and everyone was gone. Everyone, that is, but Morag.

“Daughter. Let’s make this a quick visit so we can get back to the castle to collect yer things and head back to Scotland.” Reed Douglas, her father, who was one of the Legendary Bastard triplets of the late King Edward III, slid off his horse to follow her.

“Nay, Da.” Morag held up a halting hand. “I must enter by myself.”

“It’s a garden, Fia. What’s the difference if I’m there or no’?”

“Da! Ye called me Fia!” Morag crossed her arms over her chest and pouted, not liking the fact her own father had referred to her by her older sister’s name. It was as if he couldn’t remember her even though she was standing right next to him.

“Sorry, Morag, but ye ken what I meant. I guess I was just thinkin’ about hurryin’ back to Scotland to spend time with little Oletha. I’m so excited that Fia gave me my first grandchild.”

“Aye, so she did.” Morag’s heart sank in her chest. It seemed she had lived in the shadow of her older sister, Fia, for as long as she could remember. Glancing down to the heart brooch pinned to her chest, she reached out and gently ran her fingers over the smooth surface. This was a pin that symbolized the members of the secret group of strong women started by the late Queen Philippa. Morag was not a chosen member of the Followers of the Secret Heart like her sister and cousins. Nay, she was naught but the forgotten daughter of a royal bastard triplet, not important or memorable enough for the queen to choose for this honorable position.

“If ye’re goin’ to pay one last visit to the secret garden then ye’d better hurry,” instructed Reed. “I want to get back on the road as soon as possible. I’ll wait here. Now go.”

“Thank ye, Da,” said Morag, pushing open the creaky gate and stepping onto the crumbled stone path that wove through the mysterious garden. She took a moment to scan her surroundings. This place had, at one time, seemed so magical and full of life. Tall, colorful flowers, thick bushes, unique trees, and even a variety of vegetables used to grow here. But now, with the girls’ mentor gone, as well as it being so late in the year, the garden had died. Once a sanctuary, now it had been neglected and forgotten over time. Just like Morag.

She pondered this thought as she slowly made her way up the winding, overgrown path. The weather had turned for the worse lately, causing all the beautiful, colorful flowers and lush vegetation to dry up, turning brown and brittle.

Pulling her cloak tighter around her, Morag shivered, not sure if she shook from the cold or from the uneasy feeling that engulfed her as soon as she entered the garden. Focusing on the area up ahead, she walked directly over to Imanie’s grave. The old woman lying beneath the cold earth had, at one time, mentored the other girls. Morag had wanted desperately to be included in this secret group. That is why Imanie had given up her own heart brooch to Morag, making her a member. The action meant the world to Morag at the time. However, now she wished the woman hadn’t given the brooch to her at all.

Approaching the gravesite, Morag swept away the dead leaves with her foot and knelt on the half-frozen ground. A wooden cross that was made of sticks marked the final resting place of the mysterious and very wise woman.

“I miss ye, Imanie.” Tears formed in Morag’s eyes. Imanie had been the only one who ever made Morag feel noticed and important. But the old woman had also told her that no one but the queen was supposed to appoint someone as a member of the secret group. Only once before had Imanie done this and, because of it, someone died. It was like a curse and something that never should have been tampered with in the first place.

“Ye shouldna have given this to me.” Morag unclasped the heart brooch and held it out in her open palm as a regretful form of an offering. “I killed ye,” she whispered, honestly believing that because of her greediness, wanting what her sister and cousins had, she had placed a curse on the old woman that took her life. Nay, it wasn’t Imanie’s bad heart that snuffed out her life, because Imanie had the purest heart of all. “I wish I could return this to ye and bring ye back to life.”

Morag turned the brooch over in her palm, feeling her heart become very heavy. Hadn’t her sister and cousins always teased her and accused her of being the cause of the death of their mentor? Morag had denied it but, deep in her heart, she couldn’t help wondering if it were true. Now she was convinced that it was.

“Hurry up, Morag,” called out her father from the gate. The wind picked up, scattering dried leaves around her. The eerie rustling sound felt like dead souls encircling her, taunting and scolding her for her mistake. It made her shiver. Although there was nothing but death in this garden, the sudden movement of the dried leaves made it seem as if they had a life of their own.

The sun disappeared, replaced by a threatening, dark sky. It seemed as if it were going to snow. Her father calling out to her again interrupted Morag’s perusal of the heavy, dark clouds looming above her.

“Branton went ahead to the castle with the wagon to collect yer things,” he told her. “Let’s go, Morag.”

“Just a minute, Da. I’m no’ finished yet,” she called back over her shoulder. The urgent need to leave this haunting place made her want to flee. Still, something caused her to stay. Her legs felt as heavy as lead as she knelt atop the grave. It was almost as if she were embedded into the ground. A part of her felt as if she belonged here. As she studied the gravesite, the thought of Imanie lying in the frigid earth made her spine stiffen.

Then, looking back to the brooch in her hand, she decided what she had to do. Her cousins and sister had accomplished outstanding things in secret using their unique skills. Because of their actions, it had changed the lives of others. It was what the Followers of the Secret Heart were expected to do.

Morag could never do anything like that. She wasn’t able to use a sword like Maira, or to read people’s actions like her sister, Fia. Neither was she any good at flirting or using the power of persuasion like her cousin, Willow. Nay, Morag didn’t have any skill at all. The only thing she excelled at was gossiping. And that, she was sure, was not a trait to be admired.

“I dinna deserve this brooch and never did.” Morag used a rock to dig into the hard earth, making a hole near the base of the grave marker. Then she brought the pin to her mouth and kissed it quickly before dropping it into the hole and covering it back up. “I have returned yer brooch, Imanie. Ye are the only one who should have ever worn it. Thank ye for noticin’ me when no one else did. Because of ye, I started to believe that I could someday do wonderful things like the others. But I canna, and we both ken it. My sister is married now and has a baby. My cousins are married and pregnant. I will never marry and have bairns, because I am no’ desirable to any man.”

“That’s not true, Morag. You should have a higher opinion of yourself.”

Morag’s eyes popped open wide, thinking at first that Imanie was speaking to her from the grave. Then she realized the faint woman’s voice came from the porch of Imanie’s cottage behind her. She jumped to her feet and turned to look, her jaw dropping open when she spied the wispy image of Imanie standing there, clutching her cloak around her tightly.

“Imanie,” whispered Morag, feeling her heart beating like a drum. Her eyes flashed back to where she’d just buried the brooch, wondering if her wish had come true. Had her action somehow brought the woman back to life?

“Nay, I’m not Imanie,” said the woman, stepping off the porch and coming toward her. “I am Imanie’s sister, Mazelina.”