A Knight's Vow

by Lynn Kurland

  Anger gave him more power than helpless desire, so Beren seized upon it, searching the throng for Guenivere once more. However, the crowd was thinning out now as villagers left and servants took away cups and food, and he did not readily see her. A few of his knights lingered near the hearth, toasting their liege, but few ladies still graced the room.

  Then, abruptly, Beren felt a prickle on the back of his neck that roused all his awareness. He turned slowly, to find not Guenivere, but something else for which he had been searching this hall: an unfriendly face. It was Crispin, an older knight who had long served at Brandeth and made no effort to hide his displeasure at the sight of Beren.

  They stared at each other across the space of tiles. Then, deliberately, Beren stepped forward, seeking out his old nemesis. Memories of jeers taunted him, but he ignored them, focusing on the here and now, where he would judge the knight anew.

  "Well, Crispin?" he asked. "Have you no congratulations for me?"

  The elder man nodded curtly. "Of course… my lord," he said, but his mouth was drawn into a sort of sneer that made his disapproval clear. Here, at last, was someone who did not want to see Guenivere wed to a man such as Beren. The two continued to face each other, Beren well aware of the other man's enmity. It was not a new sensation, but he was an adult now, grown beyond the sting of words. Wasn't he?

  "You have done well for yourself, considering your origins," Crispin said. "But 'twould be perhaps better had you rested on your laurels at Edward's side, rather than return here."

  "And why is that?" Beren asked.

  "You may find that things are not unchanged here."

  Beren affected a smile. "But that is to my advantage, is it not?" he asked, alluding to his own differing circumstances.

  Crispin flushed, but did not retreat. "You may think that you have all you ever desired, Berenger, but I doubt that your wife shares those sentiments." The claim was too close to Beren's own suspicions for comfort. Perhaps Crispin sensed his weakness, for the man pressed his attack. "Indeed. 'Tis not the usual wedding night, is it, when the bride retires alone?" he asked, with a smirk.

  Beren's temper flared. He was tempted to have done with this mockery of civility and challenge his old rival, but two things stopped him: consideration for Guenivere and Crispin himself. The man was no longer young, and whatever dreams he had once nurtured were long gone. He remained as he had always been, a bachelor knight with no lands or men of his own, serving a small demesne that was now owned by a man he professed to despise.

  "I think, Crispin, that I, too, have grown weary," Beren said simply. With that, he turned away and headed for the narrow stair that led to the upper chambers. He strode forward with purpose and authority, having well learned the advantages of appearances, but he felt neither. Crispin's barb had cut deep. He might be the foremost knight in Britain and baron of his own great lands, but now he was perilously close to a past very different from his present, and it threatened to drag him back down to places he did not care to go.

  Worse yet, he had been married only a few hours and already it seemed he was estranged from his wife. Guenivere. Although Beren still found it hard to believe that they were wed, he could all too readily accept the bitter truth of Crispin's words.

  'Tis not the usual wedding night… when the bride retires alone…

  two

  As a knight, Beren had vowed to safeguard all women. Now he wondered bitterly if that included protecting his own wife—from himself. Both anger and pride warred within him, along with lingering remnants of old doubts that urged him not to force the issue of his marital rights, for how could he possibly deserve them?

  Tense and uncertain, Beren felt a measure of relief when he reached the top of the stair and saw that the door to the great chamber was open. Perhaps Crispin's attack was as pointless as the dull thud of a bated weapon, and Guenivere was simply expecting him to join her here. The thought brought Beren's body back to life, and, heart hammering in his chest, he dared not imagine what awaited him.

  Drawing a deep breath, he sought for control over himself and strode to the threshold only to pause in dismay once more. Although there was a fire in the hearth and his things were laid about the room, there was no trace of his wife, nor any signs of her presence.

  Beren stepped inside to look more closely, but no hairbrush or feminine personal items of any kind were to be found, and the pegs and chests were empty of clothing. His gaze settled upon his own gear, undoubtedly delivered by his squire, and his temper returned in full force. Slamming down the lid of the final coffer, he stalked out of the room.

  In the narrow passage, he hesitated, wondering if his old nemesis had lied, taunting him, while Guenivere remained below. But there was no denying he had not seen her recently. So Beren continued until he stopped in front of her old chamber. He knew it well, and memories pressed upon him, urging his attention until he pushed them away forcibly. He pushed just as fiercely upon the door, but his efforts had far less effect, for it was barred against him.

  Beren told himself that there was some mistake, yet he refused to knock. "Guenivere? Are you in there?" he asked. Her name sounded harsh in the quiet, and he swore under his breath. It was this place. If only they were somewhere else. If only he were someone else…

  "Beren?" He heard her voice through the wood that separated them, and the sound of his true name, not his title, might have been welcome, but for what followed. "What do you want?" she asked.

  "I want to retire," Beren answered, annoyed at her foolish question. He was also acutely aware that he stood in the narrow passage that ran along the upper rooms, having a conversation that anyone might overhear. On his wedding night. Outside his wife's bedchamber. How could she do this to him? Surely, she knew how it would look. Did she deliberately humiliate him?

  "I, uh, had your possessions placed in the great chamber," she said, from behind her oaken shield. Was she so cowardly as to hide from him? Or was she feeling too superior in her bloodlines to open the wretched door to such as him?

  "That is very thoughtful of you," Beren answered, through gritted teeth. " 'But I would sleep with my wife."

  Silence came from the other side of the door, a horribly long, telling silence. "I really don't think that is wise," she said, at last. She paused, while his blood began to boil anew. "I want to assure you that you need feel no obligation here. You are free to go back to your own demesne and take up your most pressing duties."

  Right now, the most pressing duty Beren was planning to take up was bedding his bride, his doubts having been driven away by her stark refusal to grant him an audience, let alone his rights. Perhaps another man, with less history here, might have accepted her terms, Beren thought angrily. But, no. One look at her, and any man who did not want to exercise his husbandly claims would have to be either blind or insane.

  "For now, my duty is here with you," Beren said. "Or do you want your overlord questioning your marriage?"

  There came another long pause as she considered that suggestion. "He wouldn't dare," she finally answered. "Acatour wouldn't deign to question you, an intimate of the king himself."

  It was true, of course. Acatour was a minor landholder, with a few small fiefs like this one pledged to him. He would make no protest at having one of the most famous knights in the country, with great lands and men to serve him, as an ally. Guenivere was intelligent and clever and unyielding. The combination infuriated him.

  "Open the door, Guenivere," Beren nearly bellowed, his patience running thin.

  "That was not part of our bargain," she answered back.

  "Nor was this!" Beren shouted. He could call for an ax and break down the door, of course. He had done no less in war, but he had no wish to do so here, among those who might remember his roots and nod sagely that blood willed out. Instead, turning on his heel, Beren strode away, along the passage and down the stairs, past whispering servants who had been drawn by the spectacle of the great knight brought low by a lady.

&nbs
p; It sounded like a poor version of a troubadour's tale, but in such ballads, the cruel woman taunting the knight who loved her was always married to someone else. None of those songs and stories, as far as he knew, had the husband lusting helplessly after his own wife. And this one wasn't going to end that way, either, Beren decided grimly.

  Reining in the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, as well as the memories that pressed him for recognition, he focused instead upon his knight's training and just how to win the battle that lay before him.

  The moon was with him, lighting the bailey enough that Beren need not carry a torch, which was just as well since he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Some knights thought it was enough to be able to wield lance and sword, but he had discovered that his most useful weapon was not a strong arm, but an agile mind.

  Guenivere wasn't alone in her cleverness. Nor did the trait appear to be governed by birth, for Beren had cultivated it all of his life. Once he had been eager to listen to stories read by another, then he had learned to read and write himself, as did most knights. But he had not stopped there. He had devoured every treatise on knighthood as well as every book he could get his hands on, and he had exercised his brain, watching battle tactics, learning and formulating his own. And now he felt fully confident as he walked along the east wall of the castle, gauging his steps and locating his wife's chamber with ease.

  She had left a candle burning, perhaps to be able to see any attack that came through her barred door or to keep a vigil by it. Instead, she had aided him in finding her window, something he was certain she had not intended. Beren stood beneath it now, smiling grimly as he judged the distance straight up to the softly glowing portal.

  He could use a rope, of course, with an ax that would catch neatly upon the stone ledge. But Guenivere would notice such an intrusion, and there was always the chance that she might toss it back down, hopefully without him on it. Although she might not want to kill her new husband, lest she have to take another, Beren did not care to test her resolve or take any injury. Glancing up once more, he thought about using a ladder, another implement in time of siege, but that, too, could be seen and knocked aside.

  Dismissing such devices, Beren began to consider the moonlit face of stone with careful deliberation, eyeing each crack and crevice. He soon found himself mentally mapping a route, using that first tiny outcropping for a handhold, then moving across and upward. It would not be that difficult, he decided swiftly with the seasoned judgment that accompanied experience, and so he approached the edifice, knowing that only one way would serve his purpose: to climb.

  As a child, he had been fascinated by the cliffs, spending what little time he could spare exploring the jagged outcroppings, the tumbled boulders, and the sheer stone faces, always finding a foothold, always seeking a higher one, always moving upward. A useless waste of time, most deemed it, but his passion had proven the source of his good fortune, and later, the skill many dismissed had served him well when assailing another's defense.

  Beren approached the wall, and in the darkness of the deserted bailey, he sought his first hold, carefully, but with confidence. Just like so much else in life, a man created his own destiny when climbing. If he thought about falling, he fell. Beren had learned that as a child and had put that lesson to good use. He never saw himself failing, only succeeding; and so, always he had moved onward, upward, ever striving, unassailed by doubts until he came back here. Today.

  Beren pushed that thought aside, for he needed all his concentration. He had not done this in a long while, his new lands being bereft of anything more than gentle slopes, and so his fingers did not have the strength they had had once. But still they held on to the most minute of crevices, and he found his way with ease, the sheer joy of the climb returning with each movement. And when, at last, he reached the window, he felt a sense of triumph unmatched by even the greatest of battle victories.

  There, Beren paused just below the ledge to listen, though he heard no sound of Guenivere or her attendants. Hopefully, she was alone. But not for long. Putting more weight on his fingers, he pushed his body upward until he could see inside.

  A candelabra stood at one side of room, but he could not espy his wife. Was she abed? The thought threatened his will, so he swiftly drew himself up and over the stone, dropping noiselessly inside. The chamber was so much smaller than he remembered that for a moment, Beren wondered if he had the right place. Surely, the vast, luxurious room of his youth was not this sparse and simple space?

  And yet, recollection tugged at him. He gazed about, slowly recognizing the settle, the hearth, the heavy hangings that hid the bed. The sight of it caused a low sound to escape him, giving himself away, for he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and saw that Guenivere, standing at the foot, had stirred, turning round gracefully to gasp in surprise. She was not abed, Beren realized, uncertain whether he was relieved or disappointed by the discovery.

  "Beren! How did you come here?" she asked, not bothering to hide her surprise and alarm.

  "By the window," Beren answered, his expression neutral. He found himself unable to say much more as memories and feelings long buried pushed to the surface, begging an acknowledgment he would deny. So he stood, unmoving, while she ran past him to put her hands upon the ledge, as if to see for herself a ladder or implement of some kind.

  Spying nothing, she turned to stare at him with a mixture of horror and wonder, just as though she thought he had sprouted wings and flown through the opening. There had been a time when she thought him capable of any feat, perhaps even that one, he mused, with bitterness. Apparently, the years had altered her view, and she thought him unable even of being a proper husband to her.

  "You might have been killed!" she whispered, her hand at her throat and either accusation or fear in her eyes. Beren decided on the former, for Guenivere could ill afford to lose her new spouse. "Why would you dare such a thing?" she demanded, then she stepped back, frowning. "Why have you come?"

  Beren met her gaze directly. "I am here because I intend to sleep with my wife," he answered.

  Whatever else she might have felt, her dismay now was obvious. "That was not part of our bargain." she repeated.

  "There was no bargain," Beren said. "I recall only that you ordered me to wed you, and I did. Never did you say that you wanted only a mockery of the holy union."

  His words had the desired effect, for Guenivere appeared flustered and bit her lip, an innocent gesture that acted like a kick in his gut, for he remembered it well. It was an old habit of hers, but after all these years Beren viewed it differently. Now the movement drew his attention to her mouth and stirred his body in a way it never had before in the innocence of youth.

  "Now, Beren, you cannot expect a typical marriage when I will be here and you will be far away, at court or your estates or wherever you will be," she said. She waved her hand, as if to dismiss his whereabouts. Beren noted an odd tenor of accusation in her voice that he could not comprehend. But what did he understand of this situation? Nothing beyond his own simmering anger and growing frustration, and he had no patience for this sparring of words that could only dredge up things better left buried.

  "I expect an heir, Guenivere, and you had better become reconciled to that fact," Beren said, speaking as bluntly as possible. Ignoring both her startled expression and his own misgivings, he stepped toward her.

  She held her ground as he approached her, as he knew she would, tilting her head upward in defiance. "What? Would you force yourself upon me, Beren? What happened to your knightly vows, your oath to protect women?" she taunted.

  Beren felt like telling her that her vaunted opinions of knights, based upon the romance stories she so loved, had very little to do with reality. In his long years of fighting, he had seen few men who even remotely resembled those paragons of virtue. And although he had taken his vows more seriously than most, they would not prevent him from kissing his own wife.

  "What about—"


  He cut her off, stopping her words with his mouth, taking her gasp of startled breath as his own, and then his lips touched hers, and he knew nothing, not anger, not disappointment, not the press of old memories, nothing except the heady wonder of her taste.

  Softer than roses were her lips and fragrant as crushed petals her scent. Leaning close, Beren lifted his hands toward her shoulders, where they hovered inches from their goal as he hesitated, still certain he did not have the right to touch the lady of the manor. But Guenivere was suddenly within his reach. And she was not fighting him, either, he realized, with sudden surprise.

  Indeed, for someone who had protested his intent loudly, she seemed most compliant. Her lips moved under his, soft and yielding. Beren lifted his head and saw that her lovely neck was arched backward, her eyes closed, and a becoming flush tinted her beautiful cheeks. The sight of her, so obviously struck by desire, stirred both his mind and his body. The kiss he had given half in anger, to assert himself, now seemed a gift, a precious thing far beyond price.

  Watching her face with deliberate regard, Beren very carefully, very slowly set his hands upon her shoulders. Though his fingers met the fine material that gowned her, he could feel her supple form beneath, and for a long moment he simply stared at the picture they made: His tanned, rough hands settled where he never thought them to be, upon the body of Guenivere St. Leger. The sight was startling in its simplicity, yet so very moving that Beren wasn't sure what was the dream, the past few hours when he had taken her to wife or all the years before, spent in hopeless yearning.

  So fierce were the emotions raging through him and so loath was he to break whatever spell lay upon them that Beren paused, savoring the heat beneath his palms, perhaps too long. For while he stood watching her, Guenivere gradually returned to awareness, like a sleeper struggling awake. As she did, her body stiffened, her lashes lifted to reveal not the dazed wonder that he felt, but the glint of accusation.