The Scot's Oath

by Heather Grothaus

  “He has no right,” Hargrave said through clenched teeth.

  “I’ve more right than you,” Padraig spoke up, meeting the man’s gaze. “My claim is by blood—yours is by treachery.”

  Hargrave leaned forward, as if to make a move toward Padraig; Padraig answered the motion.

  Montague stepped between them. “Until the king’s decision, Darlyrede belongs to neither of you,” he interjected. “Lord Hargrave shall continue to see to the business interests of the hold, in light of his experience and station.”

  “False station,” Padraig muttered.

  “The hold will be divided between your households to prevent unnecessary conflict,” Lucan continued pointedly.

  Hargrave interrupted. “But he has no household.”

  “However, the resources shall be shared proportionately.” He looked to Hargrave. “I have been given leave to assign servants and appropriate quarters to Master Boyd fairly, and to thereafter divide the hold as I see fit.”

  “Ah, administrator now,” Hargrave challenged. “You wear many caps, Lucan.”

  “I’ve only come for the truth, Lord Hargrave.”

  The way the knight said the words tickled at Padraig’s curiosity, but now was not the time to indulge in imaginative theories.

  “He should stay in the village,” Hargrave insisted. “He is a stranger to this house, and possibly a danger to those in my care.”

  “I claim full responsibility to the Crown for his actions,” Lucan answered back at once. “And, yes, I—and the troops that accompany me—shall enforce the terms. Fully,” he emphasized.

  Hargrave held Padraig’s gaze for what seemed an eternity—his perfectly coiffed hair seeming to make Padraig’s scalp itch, his immaculate costume causing Padraig’s own rough garb to chafe and emit the odor of so many days’ travel. But Padraig never let his chin drop, never let his glance stray in any sign of submission.

  “I see that I have little choice but to defend that which is rightfully mine against foreign usurpers. Again,” Hargrave insisted bitterly. His tone had modulated, the high color in his cheeks fading, but the man’s eyes had narrowed the tiniest bit, as if desperate to view a thing that was just out of focus. “But as I am confident that the king will not only reward me finally with what I deserve but redress others accordingly, I will, of course, cooperate.” He broke gaze with Padraig to flick a nasty and meaningful glance at Montague. “The redress will be far-reaching, I do hope.”

  “I have no fear of the truth,” Lucan said calmly, and there was so much meaning behind the simple declaration, before he added the deferential “my lord,” almost as an afterthought.

  Hargrave’s noble countenance turned stony, but he did not bother to look at Montague again. Instead, he barked, “Beryl!” The hall was silent. “Beryl, where are you, girl?” He looked over his shoulder with an irritated jerk.

  “I am here, my lord,” a lilting voice answered reluctantly.

  “Well, come here,” Hargrave insisted, his words so obviously strained that the command was gritty and forced.

  The crowd parted, and the beautiful servant girl who had fallen at his feet moved near Hargrave’s side, her pretty face downcast, seeming to try to keep herself turned away from Padraig so that he could barely see her porcelain skin beyond the edge of her veil.

  Already his enemy, was she?

  “My lord?” she queried softly, and Padraig could hear the accented lilt behind her words. Perhaps she wasn’t native to Darlyrede House either.

  “Make your report to Lady Hargrave as she requested,” Hargrave ordered. “And then advise her that I would seek her council before she retires for the evening.”

  Beryl fidgeted. “But, my lord, she is already—”

  “Go,” Hargrave insisted.

  The maid curtsied stiffly and began to slip into the crowd, but then Montague’s arm shot out, grabbing her arm and jerking her back around to face him. Padraig thought there was fear in her gray eyes as she stared up at the knight.

  “What the devil, Montague?” Hargrave demanded.

  Lucan Montague’s glare seemed to slowly sink beneath his high cheekbones and he abruptly released her with a shallow bow. “Forgive me. I only wished to have the girl convey my regards to Lady Hargrave.”

  “Very well.” Hargrave sighed and waved his hand. “See that you do so, Beryl.”

  Beryl disappeared into the crowd so quickly that Padraig could not tell the direction of her flight. She seemed to simply vanish before his eyes.

  “The hour is late,” Lucan announced, and although his words were once more crisp and matter-of-fact, Padraig could sense a note of disquiet beneath the cool façade. “The king’s men have ridden far, and I would not detain you further from your evening, my lord. Tomorrow is soon enough for us to lay out the details of the thing.”

  “Upon that point, I find I do agree with you,” Hargrave said. “I assume you will take up your usual quarters?”

  “The barracks will be adequate, my lord,” Montague responded.

  The older man looked upon Padraig as if he were a bit of dung dragged onto the marble floor of the grand entry. “My steward shall show you to a chamber—Boyd, is it?”

  Padraig answered with a curt nod as a dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed, pointed beard stepped forward.

  “In that case,” Hargrave looked between Montague and Padraig, “you are all dismissed.” He turned on his heel and strode toward a staircase springing from the marble paving in the left rear corner of the soaring entry, and the servants scattered like beetles before a torch at night. In a moment the entry was empty save for Padraig, Lucan, and the steward.

  “Rolf,” the knight said. “Please forgive the inconvenience this might cause you in your duties.”

  “Have no care for it, Sir Lucan,” the man said. His face was fish-belly pale within the tight frame of his rich, dark red hair, his eyes like glistening jet. “I am at your service, always.” The man then turned to Padraig. “If you will follow me, lord.”

  Lord.

  Padraig looked to Lucan, suddenly unsure but loath to show it. The great house was cathedral-silent now—the scores of servants vanished and leaving an echoing stillness that somehow seemed ominous to Padraig as he noticed the portraits soaring up a wood-paneled wall, their subjects staring at him accusingly, judging him.

  Montague seemed to read Padraig’s thoughts. “It is well,” he advised quietly. “I would not let you go alone otherwise. However, I would advise that you not take it upon yourself to go exploring in the night.”

  “I shall provide Master Boyd with anything he requires before I retire,” Rolf volunteered.

  “Very good.” Lucan looked back to Padraig. “Keep the bolt thrown until morning.”

  Padraig gave him a nod, but then held up his open hand before Lucan’s doublet to stop him when he would have gone. “The maid you spoke to. Beryl.”

  “What of her?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She was certainly not employed by the Lady Hargrave when last I visited,” he replied.

  Rolf cleared his throat quietly, drawing Padraig’s attention. “If I may; Beryl has only been at Darlyrede for the half year. She is under special duties to the lady.” The man looked back to Lucan. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of Sir Lucan’s calling since the turn of the year; is that not so, sir?”

  “Indeed. January, if I recall, Rolf,” Lucan confirmed. “Until the morn, then.” He gave a shallow bow in Padraig’s direction and then strode quickly toward the rear of the entry, disappearing into a darkened archway.

  Lucan Montague knew Darlyrede House well, obviously—its servants, its corridors.

  “This way, lord,” Rolf repeated, his words barely louder than a whisper, and yet they seemed to carry in a spiral to the very height of the tall ceiling, where they evapo
rated into heavy, pressing silence brought on by the glares of the portraits.

  Padraig followed the steward from the entry, unable to help the feeling that the quiet of Darlyrede House was nothing more than the insulating thickness of decades of secrets.

  And it caused him to wonder where the pretty Beryl had gone, and why she had seemed so afraid.

  Chapter 3

  Euphemia Hargrave’s chamber was empty upon Beryl’s return. The fifteen candles burned low, the tray untouched as usual. The connecting door was shut tight, but, pressed by Lord Hargrave’s directive, Beryl crossed the floor to rap upon it lightly. She would have done so even had Lord Hargrave not bidden her.

  “My lady?” she called. “It is Beryl.”

  There was no answer, and so Beryl pressed the latch, but the door had been bolted on the other side. The woman was so frail, so fragile, Beryl imagined a hundred tragic scenarios that could have befallen the lady in her absence.

  She rapped again, slightly louder. “Lady Hargrave, please, are you well?”

  “Beryl?” The call was faint beyond the stout door. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, milady.” She swallowed her relief and tried to steady her voice. “I’ve come to tell you of the happenings.”

  There was a scraping of metal on wood, and then the door opened a crack, revealing a pale slice of the noblewoman’s face.

  “I dared journey on my own to the top of the stair,” Caris whispered, and Beryl could see even in the shadow of the portal the woman’s dry, trembling lips.

  Beryl gasped. “Alone? My lady, forgive me, but what if you had stumbled?”

  “How could I not see for myself, though? Such chaos. I heard everything.”

  “Shall I stay with you?” Beryl wanted her—needed her—to open the door. Perhaps there were a few moments to spare before the terrible lord made his appearance. Moments in which Beryl might reclaim the confidence of the woman, might somehow encourage her to tell that which she had been on the verge of. And if she was present in the chamber, perhaps she might glean details of the evil man’s plans for Darlyrede’s bold claimant.

  Darlyrede belongs to me, he’d said.

  Beryl shook the image from her mind. “I might be of some comfort.”

  “It is unnecessary,” Caris said. “I will be with my lord husband.”

  “I know,” Beryl blurted out, and then felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t meant to be so bold. “Forgive me, my lady. But…if I may speak plainly, I worry—”

  “Nay. Hush. You may not speak plainly,” Caris snapped. But then her hand—pale and cool and dry—shot out from the darkness and clutched at Beryl’s wrist. Beryl turned it to wrap her fingers around the lady’s own—it was like gripping the tiny bones of a bird encased in the thinnest, softest leather.

  “He would never harm me,” Caris whispered. Her fingers tightened, like thin, strong twine. “Never.”

  “If anything were to happen to you, milady, I could not forgive myself.”

  True.

  A ghostly sigh came from the darkened chamber. “Ah, my girl. Seek your bed, and let no dire worries trouble your young dreams. All is well. Think upon it no more.”

  Beryl hesitated, noting the woman had not relinquished her grip. Was she only putting on a brave front?

  “Shall I return later? To see if there is anything you desire?”

  Lady Hargrave gave a rare, low chuckle, and Beryl could imagine the soft lines near her eyes and mouth pressing into her sad, gentle smile. And then she did slip her hand from Beryl’s.

  “Good night, Beryl.” She closed the door soundlessly.

  “Good night, milady,” Beryl whispered, hot, stinging tears coming unbidden to her eyes. She leaned her forehead against the wood and pressed against the door with both splayed hands, wishing in that moment that she could vanish the barrier, or turn it transparent at least.

  But she had been given her instructions, and she would carry them out faithfully.

  Beryl pushed herself away from the door and moved efficiently about the chamber, pulling the heavy drapes closed, straightening the bedclothes. She removed the piece of cheese from the platter and rolled it into a corner of her apron, which she tucked into her waist, and then carried the tray to the corridor, where she placed it on the floor to the side of the doorway. She returned to the chamber to blow out the candles, one by one, save the last, which she pulled from the holder and carried with her to the door.

  She paused in the doorway, the single flame barely pressing back the darkness that wept from the corners, from the seams of floor and ceiling and walls. The chamber seemed pregnant with secrets, and perhaps Beryl had come close to witnessing the bearing of them tonight.

  Fifteen years of darkness. Of mourning and misery and quiet, tragic ritual. Her breath caught in her throat at her sigh. She closed the door with a silent prayer for the noblewoman waiting alone, just out of her reach.

  But as soon as the latch clicked sure, fear for her own safety occupied her thoughts. It was a test of will for Beryl to walk calmly during the long trek to her own chamber from Lady Caris’s wing of Darlyrede House. Her heart pounded in her chest so that her blood crackled against her ears. Every whisper of her own slippers against corridor floor or stair she imagined was a footstep behind her; every creak of rafter or window caressed by the wind outside was a door easing open in the darkness. She met not another visible soul on her downward journey, then into the dark corridor inside the curtain wall, and yet she thought she could feel evil eyes watching her just beyond the meager circle of light provided by the diminishing flame of the candle she carried. The hot wax ran in a sudden, burning rivulet over her knuckles and she gasped, instinctively dropping the tiny stub, and the corridor was at once cloaked in total darkness.

  Beryl gave up all pretense of bravery now, picking up her skirts in her left hand and running down the passage, her right hand skimming the stones for bearing. The archway to the courtyard near the stables was open, and even though it was fully night, there was enough ambient light from the torches around the barracks for Beryl to reorient herself. She heard the laughter and conversation of the soldiers outside, but she didn’t pause to look through the doorway—in fact she ran faster past the opening, praying that she wouldn’t be seen.

  Stone; wood. Stone; wood. Her fingertips read the corridor like a map. Here, the wall curved into emptiness to the right; to the left was her own passage. Stone, going on forever it seemed, and then, finally, wood again. Beryl threw herself against the door, fumbling with the latch until her trembling fingers could make it work, and then she was at last inside, gasping, her back against the door. She grasped blindly with her left hand, sliding the bolt into place.

  The chamber was black, cold, silent. No one had come to lay her fire, as usual. And still she stood there for another pair of moments, giving her heart time to slow, listening to the darkness. She blew out a long, relieved breath, in control of herself once more, and then pushed herself away from the door, shaking off the weak feeling in her limbs.

  It took her several moments to build a fire in the tiny alcove. It wouldn’t give off very much heat, but the chamber was small enough that it was sufficient. She lit a pair of candles and set one on the little wooden table near her shallow cot and the other in the long, narrow stone inset of what could laughably be referred to as a window. It had at one time been an arrow slit in the exterior side of Darlyrede House’s original curtain wall, whose wide, inner corridor had been made over into a wing of tiny servant cells many years ago. The opening was now covered over with a sheet of horn scraped thin and set in a wooden frame, and although it admitted little light, Beryl appreciated being able to open the small portal on nice days to let some of the chill out. It was far too small to ever admit a person. But…

  The familiar, scalp-tingling scrape of claw on the bone glazing sounded in the next moment, and Beryl returned
to the window, removing the candle and holding it aloft while turning the crude closure and swinging the frame inward. A slithering white stream poured itself through the opening and leaped gracefully to the floor.

  “You nearly had me in the muck today.” Beryl quickly closed the window and replaced the candle. “How many times must I tell you to keep out of the kitchens?”

  “Meow.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking regal, as always.

  She crossed the floor and bent to frame his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “It’s not as if I don’t feed you like a prince, Satin.”

  He pulled out of her hands and stretched out his neck to sniff at the waist of her apron.

  “Not even a proper hello. Oh, all right.” She took up the candle from her small table and moved to the foot of her bed, squatting to pry at the wooden panel that made up her wall. It came loose easily now, after so many times being removed. She slid it aside and reached into the blackness, finding at once the small, dinged metal dish she kept hidden.

  Beryl placed the container on the stingy rug covering the stones and then rose up to fetch the pitcher of water on the table, pouring a little into the flat bowl. She unwrapped the stolen piece of cheese laid in pointless anticipation of a vanished girl’s repast and then squatted once more to the floor, placing the cheese near the bowl. The cat plopped to the floor gracefully and reseated himself, nibbling at once on the pale cheese.

  Beryl left him to his meal while she replaced the pitcher and then returned to the secret compartment behind the paneling, reaching inside to retrieve the thick, square leather packet and then the smaller linen sack. She placed her belongings on the mattress and then returned the candle to the table before feeding the fire that was now crackling comfortingly. At last she was crawling upon the cot to rest her back against the wall.

  She sighed, her hands in her lap for a moment, her gaze turned up to the low ceiling. Satin’s lapping at the water out of sight on the floor soothed her. The night had been a complete disaster, but at least here, she could be herself.