A Knight's Vow

by Lynn Kurland

  "What was the problem?"

  "I couldn't fathom the letters," he said. "They moved about and turned themselves around until I wept in frustration. So I conceded the battle and turned my energies to other things."

  "It's probably dyslexia," she ventured, hoping she was right. "The same thing happens to me with my numbers. Half the time they're not in the same place I left them when I go back to read them again. It's very confusing."

  He leaned up on one elbow and looked at her in astonishment. "Nay," he breathed. "For you too?"

  She took a deep breath. She didn't want to promise him something she couldn't deliver, but maybe with enough time, she could help him. And after all, she had all the time in the world and not a lot of distractions.

  "I think you can learn to read," she said slowly. "But it wouldn't be easy."

  He looked as if she'd just come down from heaven and given him his heart's desire. The terrible hope on his face almost brought tears to her eyes.

  "Think you?" he whispered.

  "Anything's possible," she said quietly.

  He rifted one eyebrow as he looked at her, then smiled. "I suppose, lady, that you are proof enough of that. But for now, read me another tale or two and I'll be content."

  She took the book and opened it only to have something fall from the pages. She unfolded it.

  It was Elizabeth's map.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "It's what got me into trouble in the first place," she said dryly. "My friend drew me a map of England. According to her, these places are spots where if you stand on them, you can travel through time."

  "And you stood on one of these?" he asked, tracing the outline of the island.

  "Nope. I sat on a bench in a park. It's the same idea though."

  "Tell me what they say," he urged.

  "Well, I guess they're all to different centuries. The Picts—those were the ancestors of the Scots up north. Vikings—"

  "Aye, I know them," he said with a shudder. "Unpleasant lot."

  "Pirates in the seventeenth century, Jousts in the Middle Ages—"

  "A fine destination," he noted.

  "And this one… here…" She squinted to make out the words—and when she thought she might have the faintest idea what they said, she sat bolt upright. She scrambled out of bed and practically leaped to the table.

  William soon came up behind her, wrapped a blanket around her, and peered over her shoulder. "What does it say?"

  She pulled the candle toward her and held the paper behind it where she could see the words clearly. "It says," she began, squinting to make out Elizabeth's tiny writing, " 'Return to Scotland of the Future.' And there's a note at the bottom that says 'Good from Any Century.'"

  "By all the saints," he breathed. "Think you 'tis true?"

  She could hardly breathe. To think that she might be able to get home. To think the possibility existed and she'd had the answer in her bag all the time. She turned her head to look at him.

  "I can't imagine why Elizabeth would be lying."

  "Julianna!" he exclaimed suddenly.

  She looked back at the map and screeched.

  The paper was on fire.

  William yanked the map away, tossed it on the table and beat the flames out.

  "Crap, crap, crap," she said, hopping up and down. "Did I ruin it?"

  He looked at her with a rueful smile. "Came close, I'd say. You tell me what's gone."

  She took the map and noticed that Trip to the Picts was nothing but a black curl, as was any reference to Vikings.

  "We weren't interested in those anyway," she said, holding the map well away from the flame and peering at it closely. "It's okay," she said with relief. "There the little circle is, right there. Now, if we just had any idea where there was."

  And then she realized what she was saying.

  She had just married a medieval knight and committed herself to a life with him. Even contemplating returning home was something she couldn't allow herself to do.

  Unless he wanted to come along.

  She looked up at him to find him studying her with a thoughtful expression.

  "What?" she asked.

  He smiled faintly. "I'm wondering if we're considering a like foolish notion."

  "A little jaunt to the future?"

  He nodded, then shook his head. "I cannot believe I'm even considering it. It seems passing improbable."

  She sighed. "It's probably a really silly idea anyway—"

  "But one worth considering," he finished. "What think you of a walk on the shore? I've always done my best thinking there."

  "Is there a possibility of breakfast first?"

  "I think, my lady, that too many days of subsisting on your future food has shown you what a foul work it has wrought upon you. Aye, we'll have something edible before we go."

  He took the map from her, folded it carefully and placed it back between the pages of the book. "We'll keep this with us at all times as well. No sense in losing it before we've had a chance to try it."

  "William, we don't have to—"

  "Don't you wish to go home?"

  It had become altogether too possible for her taste. She couldn't move. She couldn't shake her head or nod or even breathe for that matter. There was only one thought that seemed to be clear in the swirling mist of possibilities. She looked at William and smiled.

  "My home is with you."

  "See?" he said with satisfaction. "I told you that you might become fond of me in time."

  She put her arms around him and hugged him. "How right you were."

  "Clothes, food, then the shore," he said, kissing the top of her head and disentangling himself from her arms. "We'll have clearer heads for thinking there."

  Julianna dressed in her medieval clothing and tried not to let her thoughts run amok. Somehow, though, she just couldn't stop them. It was one thing to be stuck in the past and be resigned to it. It was another thing entirely to think that perhaps there was a way back to the future.

  Then again, perhaps she had already made her choice. She'd married a man centuries in the past with every intention of staying with him. A little piece of paper wasn't going to change that.

  But what if it were true?

  She could hardly bear the thought of it.

  nine

  William walked down the passageway to his uncle's solar, trying not to think about what the man's reaction would be to the question William had to put to him. He paused before the door, clutched the rolled map in his hand, then knocked.

  "Enter."

  William cast a look heavenward before he blew out his breath and entered his uncle's chamber.

  Henry looked up from his table upon which was spread a variety of sheaves of paper. He smiled. "You left your bride so soon, nephew?"

  "She begged me for a rest."

  Henry laughed heartily. "No doubt, lad. Well, now that your labors have obviously been properly accomplished, what other mischief are you combining?"

  William pulled up a stool and sat facing his uncle. He realized, with a start, that he'd done the same thing scores of times before, except it had been his grandsire sitting opposite him. He found the memory surprisingly hard to face.

  "You too?" Henry asked wistfully. "I can call to mind countless times when I sat in council with my sire exactly thusly."

  William cleared his throat roughly. "Perhaps 'tis unmanly to miss him."

  "He was as much your sire as he was mine," Henry said simply.

  "Aye, he was." William fingered Julianna's map for several moments in silence until he thought he might be able to speak without an embarrassing display of emotion. "And I am grateful for it," he managed finally. "He made a man out of me."

  Henry drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "He would have agreed with your choice, I think."

  "My choice?"

  "To trade that crumbling holding for your lady. Though I wonder what it is you'll do now. Castles are, as you know, bloody expens
ive to build and man."

  William snorted. "You gave me enough gold to at least see to outer walls. Perhaps a tent would serve as the hall."

  " 'Twas the very least I could do," Henry said. "Now, how is it you intend to proceed? Will you wait out your sire, or retake your keep despite your vow?"

  William took a deep breath, then looked his uncle full in the face. "Neither."

  Henry blinked. "Neither?"

  "I would like Peter to have it after Hubert is dead."

  Henry's jaw slid down. "Your squire? And where is it you intend to be?"

  "I'm going to Manhattan with Julianna."

  "And just where is Manhattan?" Henry asked. "I've tried to puzzle it out in my head, but I cannot seem to place it. On the continent?"

  " 'Tis a small island," William said, thinking about the geography lesson Julianna had given him earlier that morning in the sand. Manhattan was an island indeed, though one his uncle never had and never would clap eyes on.

  The saints pity him for a fool that he thought he actually might himself.

  But that didn't stop him from bringing out his map and spreading it out before his uncle.

  "Ignore the words," William said. " 'Tis a jest from someone Julianna knows. But I would know about this mark here." He pointed to the red circle. "I think it lies near Falconberg. What think you?"

  Henry studied the map in silence for a great amount of time. William suspected his uncle was mentally judging William's own wits—or lack thereof.

  "'Return to Scotland of the Future,'" Henry mused. " 'Good from Any Century.'" He looked up at William. "A jest?"

  "A poor one."

  "Who is your wife, William?"

  "No one who needs to be drawn and quartered, uncle."

  Henry seemed to consider, then he smiled briefly. "As you say. Now, you intend to travel to this small red marking?"

  "Aye."

  "And do what once you're there?"

  "What do you think, uncle?"

  "I think 'tis madness, William."

  "Likely so."

  "You needn't give up your keep, nephew."

  William took a deep breath. "Keep my priest, if you will, and my squire. If I get word to you that I've found another place to call mine, send them to me. If not, please let the priest live out his remaining years here. And give Redesburn to Peter."

  Henry looked at him, then shook his head with pursed lips. "I think too much traveling has given you fanciful ideas, lad, but it will be as you wish. And aye, I would say this is close to Falconberg. You know how things are there?"

  "Nay. Should I?"

  "Be aware that 'tis those of Brackwald ilk who hold it."

  "Wasn't there a fire there once?"

  "Aye, a mighty one and it killed the last of the Falconberg line. The younger Brackwald lad rebuilt the hall. 'Twas rumored his elder brother was the one to set the fire and perished thereafter with a knife in his back for the deed. The saints only know who put it there. I suspect, however, that you can count on a decent bite at the board and perhaps even a bed if you ask nicely."

  "Thank you, uncle."

  "When are you planning to leave?"

  William smiled and stretched. "In another day or two. You've a fine goosefeather mattress in that tower chamber, my lord, and I'm loath to leave it."

  "And I do set a fine table."

  "Aye, that as well." William rose. "Thank you, my lord. For everything."

  Henry waved aside his words. "Nothing I wouldn't have done for a brother."

  If sitting on his favorite stool hadn't come near to unmanning him, hearing that certainly did. William left before his uncle could see his tears.

  They left a month later. William tried to convince himself that they needed to depart sooner, but he couldn't manage it. He spent hours walking the paths he'd walked in his youth, reliving moments spent with his grandsire, storing up in his heart the sights, smells and sounds of his home.

  Ofttimes Julianna came with him on his little rambles, but just as often she stayed behind. In such cases, he found her almost without fail in the company of his aunt, bludgeoning the woman with questions. His aunt answered everything with endless patience. William had laughed behind his hand the first time he'd seen the two women at it. He half suspected his aunt feared she would drive Julianna off some hidden precipice into madness if she did not humor her. If she thought there was aught amiss with his lady, she said nothing of it. And on the morn of their leave-taking, she presented Julianna with a satchel full of womanly things—from cuttings from her garden to all manner of threads, needles and cloth.

  Julianna, likely much to his aunt's relief, accepted all in stunned, grateful silence.

  They traveled in relative luxury, with a horse each and a packhorse loaded up with as much gear as Henry had been able to force on them. Not being sure where their travels would take them, William had accepted all and ignored his discomfort over the charity. He was too old for such quantities of gifts, but for all he'd known, that would be what sustained them for quite some time.

  Well, that and the bags of gold hanging from his saddle that clanked like hammers on anvil with each fall of hoof.

  And so William had kept a crossbow loaded and loose in his hands as they traveled, certain their wealth would be a beacon to any and all ruffians in the countryside. Adding to his unease was Julianna stopping them several times, telling him that she was certain she'd heard someone traveling behind them.

  William had heard nothing, though, so he passed it off as her preoccupation with his aunt's gifts, which she delved into every chance she got.

  It took them well over a fortnight to reach Falconberg. They hadn't traveled with haste, and William wondered if Julianna's reluctance mirrored his.

  What if the map was wrong?

  "Is this it, do you think?"

  His lady wife's voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked at her and smiled grimly.

  "Falconberg? Aye, but I think we won't trouble the lord for a bed. He'll send someone to see who we are, no doubt, and we'll give him what answers he wants. But I've no mind to find myself inside walls this eve." He unloaded his crossbow and hooked it over his saddlebag. "Let us find a place to camp and see if we can look as harmless as possible."

  She nodded and reined in her horse.

  Then she froze.

  "William, look."

  He followed her gesture, then felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up of their own accord.

  There, not ten paces before them, was a circle. A faery ring was what some folk called it. The circle of flowers bloomed eagerly, as if it wanted nothing more to invite the hapless soul within its bounds.

  "By the saints," he managed in a choked voice.

  "Do you still want to go?"

  He swallowed with difficulty. "Aye."

  "Then let's do it now," she said, dismounting. "I think we need to hurry."

  Her urgency became his. He dismounted as well and led both his horse and the packhorse into the circle. Julianna followed him. Her horse had scarce placed all four feet inside the circle when he heard the crack of a twig.

  And then the sound of something far more lethal.

  He turned instinctively at the sound of a crossbow bolt being pulled back into place. Likely one of Falconberg scouts—

  He froze at the sight that greeted him.

  "Good morrow to you, son."

  William wondered absently if he would have the time to slip the dagger from his belt, flip it so he grasped it by the blade with his fingertips, then fling it into his father's eye before the fool squeezed the trigger and sent the bolt flying home.

  Hubert smiled in triumph. "Did you think I would simply fade into oblivion?"

  A body could hope. William glared at the man who had sired him. "You have your keep. Isn't that enough?"

  "Ah," Hubert said, looking at Julianna briefly, then back at William, "but I have no lady to share it with."

  "Find your own," William said, slipping his othe
r dagger down from inside his sleeve. "You'll not have mine."

  "Won't I?" Hubert mused. "I suppose we'll soon see—"

  And with that, Hubert released the crossbow bolt.

  And at the same moment, William sent his blade hurling toward his sire.

  "No!" Julianna said, and, to William's complete horror, threw herself in front of him.

  "Julianna, nay!" he cried out, trying to jerk her back. He set her aside, then looked down at his chest, fully expecting to see an arrow protruding from between his ribs. He wondered, absently, why there was no pain. Perhaps that was a gift for the dying…

  Then he realized something quite astonishing.

  There was no bolt.

  He looked up.

  His father was gone as well.

  "Oh, my goodness."

  William turned his attentions to his wife, wondering if he might find the arrow lodged somewhere in her precious form. But she was standing on her feet with apparent ease. Her eyes were huge in her face, those beloved eyes of vivid blue, as she looked around them.

  "The trees," she whispered. "Look at the trees."

  "Julianna," he began.

  "Look at the forest," she insisted.

  William scowled. There were several things that were of much greater importance than observing the forest around them, such as finding out where his father had hidden himself and why neither of them was bleeding from a life-threatening wound.

  Then he understood the words she had spoken.

  Forest?

  He looked down. They were still standing in the midst of a faery ring, but the trees surrounding them were far different than they had been but a moment before. Gone were the shorter, leafier trees. In their place were tall, close-set evergreens that cast the glade into deep shadow.

  William gaped at his wife. "Think you we're in Scotland… ?"

  "I don't know what else to think."

  William looked around him, searching the shadows for his father. But the man was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the knife that William had flung at his sire.

  He suspected this was not a mystery that would be easily solved.

  "Let us mount up," he said, handing her the reins and giving her a leg up. He swung up onto his own horse. Wherever they were, and whoever might or might not be following them, they would no doubt be served well by removing themselves from an open glade. "We should keep watch for my sire."