The Circle Of A Promise

by Helen A Rosburg

  “Just be careful while I’m gone,” he admonished her. “No more early morning swims.”

  The simple mention of their morning’s beginning brought a stain to Mara’s cheeks. But the boldness of her gaze belied the flush. “Not without you,” she replied frankly.

  Her ingenuousness, lack of affectation or pose, her totally guileless sensuality, nearly overpowered Stephen. He was forced to swiftly banish the memory of her by the lake, when she had risen, dripping, clothed only in her silvery hair.

  The urge to crush her in his arms and devour her lips was almost beyond the remains of his failing self-control. But he could not. Would not. He must not do anything that might damage the fragile bond they had forged between them. It was far, far too precious.

  No, he would court her slowly, carefully, Stephen vowed. And he clenched the hands that had nearly reached for her. He did not want to compromise the untouched purity of her lips with his kiss until he had made her his bride.

  “Your word,” he said at last, his voice husky. “Give me your word. Promise me also you will go nowhere without him.” Stephen nodded at Trey, who sat nearby, tongue lolling.

  Mara chuckled, relieved her betrothed had finally spoken. “I never do go anywhere without him.”

  “Good. Then I shall only have to worry half as much.”

  The calm of the forest enfolded them once more. The only sound to accompany Trey’s panting breath was the faint, high twittering of birds settling in for the night.

  The sun neared its setting. The cool of evening had banished the last traces of its yellow warmth. It was time to return to Ranulf’s hall. Stephen quirked an eyebrow. “We must return, my lady. The hour grows late.”

  Mara glanced about, as if surprised by the sun’s absence and the gloom of twilight under the trees. “I suppose we should,” she admitted reluctantly. “My father plans modest festivities in the hall tonight.”

  “To celebrate our betrothal.”

  “Yes. Our betrothal.”

  Only an owl noted their passing. It hooted mournfully to the falling night.

  Chapter Twelve

  Millie Thurman was concerned. This case had been different from the first. She had never before had a client who had suffered for so long, or who had experienced absolutely no relief whatsoever from the medical community. Although she believed that current-life problems were often rooted in past-life traumas, she did not always like to take on such difficult cases. It had been her policy, for instance, only to take on clients who were spiritually inclined as she was, and who believed in reincarnation. By his own admission, Stephen was a skeptic.

  Yet Millie had known Amanda for several years. She knew the family in general was stable, apparently grounded and well adjusted. That was why, in spite of Stephen’s skepticism, she had agreed to attempt a regression. She had not expected him to go back so readily, so easily, or to become so totally immersed in the life he visited. She had never had a client quite like him. There were other differences as well.

  Almost all her other clients narrated what they experienced; they told her time, place, and what was going on at the moment Stephen did not speak at all. He withdrew to his other world and appeared to be living in that time and place, oblivious of the present. He spoke to the people who inhabited his past life, although she scarcely understood what he said. His words were mumbled, and from what she was able to comprehend, he spoke with a thick accent in a dialect she could only guess was medieval English.

  There was also the dream to consider. Millie had heard the details of it, which were not remarkable in themselves. She had heard of other recurring dreams similar to this. Stephen could be reexperiencing a past-life trauma, or simply a nightmare conjured from the depths of his own imagination. If the event was from a past life, however, she worried about how he would cope with it when-or if-he reached that point in his regression. Everything else so far had been so unusual, so unpredictable. How was he going to react to the event itself? Would he be able to resolve the conflict, the tragedy, and go on with his life? Or might something happen that was not within Millie’s scope?

  Using tried and true relaxation techniques, Millie calmed her mind and focused her attention on her client He appeared to be in deep conversation with someone. As usual, it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying. At one point he seemed agitated, and Millie was tempted to bring him out of the regression ahead of time. But his serenity returned; he appeared, in fact, almost blissful.

  The apparent end of Stephen’s conversation coincided with the end of Millie’s allotted time period. Millie cleared her throat.

  “When I count to three, Stephen, you will awake feeling refreshed and rested. One, two, three.”

  A prick of apprehension nipped at the base of Millie’s spine. Stephen didn’t respond. She repeated her command, a little louder. Stephen’s eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at her.

  “How do you feel?” Millie asked.

  “Wonderful,” the man replied. “I feel wonderful. Did I say anything this time-that you could understand, I mean?”

  “It was largely incomprehensible, as before. Do you recall anything, anything at all?”

  Stephen’s brow furrowed. “It was a beautiful day. I was with someone I care about deeply. I.” His face went slack. The creases in his brow disappeared. Then the corners of his mouth turned down.

  “What is it, Stephen?” Millie asked. “Is there something that distresses you?”

  “I. I made a promise,” he stammered. “I made a promise to someone. I have to keep that promise, Millie! I have to keep her safe! I-”

  “Deep breaths, Stephen,” Millie said evenly. “I want you to concentrate on taking three very deep breaths. That’s it That’s good. One more.”

  Stephen felt relaxation flow through him. The tattered remnants of his disturbing memory blew away. He felt good again, better than he had in years. He smiled again at Millie. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I can’t believe how much better I feel.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Same time tomorrow?”

  Millie hesitated. “Stephen, I. I’m not sure we should go on with this,” she said finally.

  “But why?” A fear so sharp it was physically painful stabbed Stephen’s chest. “Why, when I’m getting better?”

  He was getting better, it was true. Amanda had said the change in him was remarkable.

  “Please, Millie,” Stephen begged. “We can’t stop now. Not when I’m headed in the right direction.”

  Was he headed in the right direction? That’s where the problem lay. Millie didn’t know. She had never experienced anything like this.

  Outwardly, however, the man was definitely improved. Isn’t that what everyone wanted? How could she turn him away now? What would happen, moreover, if she did?

  “All right, Stephen. We’ll continue. But only as long as you continue to improve and I think it’s safe.”

  “Thank you, Millie. Thank you!” Stephen enveloped her in a bear hug, easily done as she was so tiny and he so tall. He picked her up off the floor and set her down again gently. “I’ll continue to improve, I promise. We’re doing the right thing. I know it. I know it with every fiber of my being.”

  “I hope so,” Millie murmured. As she watched Stephen hurry to the front door she added, “With every fiber of my being, I hope so.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maggie had lain awake long before the first pale rays of dawn had lightened the sky beyond the tower window. She lay very still, knowing the slightest movement would waken the man who slumbered noisily at her side. Awake, depending on his mood, he would either reach for her roughly or send her back to the kitchen with a curse and a slap, perhaps a kick. She sighed softly and closed her only eye.

  She didn’t mind. Not really. To be able to sleep in this wonderfully soft bed with its linens and furs was eminently preferable to the stone floor in a dank corner of the kitchen. She didn’t even mind the brutal sex or occasional beating. She had long ago become inured
to the cruelties of life. Her widowed mother, crazed with drink, had tried to stab her to death when Maggie was only four. She’d lost an eye in the attempt, as well as her mother. Reeling through their hovel, bloody knife poised, looking for the terrified child who had gone into hiding, the addled woman had stumbled into the fireplace. She had been too drunk to get up.

  Maggie had been too horror-stricken, too wounded, and still too fearful of her own life to go to her aid. Her mother had roasted alive.

  The stench had been the worst part, worse even than the screams. When a kindly cook had taken her in to work in the earl’s kitchens, Maggie had feared to relive that hideously sweet odor each time a haunch of meat was spitted in the massive hearth. The odors were not the same, however, and over time she had lost her fear.

  She had lost her dreams as well-if she’d ever had any. There was only day after day of endless drudgery in those dim and grimy kitchens, a few scraps to eat, and a corner in which to sleep. Maggie had clothed herself in rags and attempted to keep the tangles from her long, dark hair with a bit of thorny branch. She had become used to the sobriquet One-Eyed Maggie, and in her wildest imaginings never envisioned herself in a man’s bed.

  Then, one day when Maggie was eleven, one of the table servants had abruptly dropped dead at a most inconvenient time. Dinner had been laid in the hall, and all knew the earl’s temper if it was not served in a timely manner.

  “Pick up that platter!” the frantic cook had directed. “Make yourself useful. Serve the earl first and be quick about it.”

  She had been so afraid, Maggie’s eye had remained downcast the entire time she had stood at the nobleman’s side. Holding the tray with trembling hands, she had not seen his prominent and watery eyes appraise her, or the grim smile on his thin mouth. Maggie had been astounded, therefore, when she was summoned to the earl’s sleeping chamber high in the dungeon tower. She’d been even more amazed when she realized why she had been called; when his soft, pale, long-fingered hand had reached to tear the rags from her body.

  Dawn gave way to the full light of day, and still the earl slept at Maggie’s side. It might be best, she thought, to slip away before he roused. Carefully, the girl rolled onto her side and propped herself on an elbow.

  Her lord and master’s countenance, she had to admit, was bleakly unattractive. But her own visage was not much to gaze upon either. It was her body, she knew, that was her greatest asset. Her breasts were heavy, her hips wide, and her flesh-because she was not yet twenty-still firm. Her form, no doubt, helped to keep the earl’s interest and explained the taste he had developed for her in his bed. Maggie also suspected, however, he took a perverse satisfaction in having someone around who was uglier than he. That was all right.

  What wasn’t all right, and what was the reason Maggie ultimately decided to remain in his bed, was the talk she had heard lately of the earl taking a wife. She gazed once more at her slumbering lover.

  A wife would change everything for Maggie. There’d be no more nights in this great bed. At least not at first- and not ever, if the lady took exception to her husband’s philandering. Maggie would no longer have the privilege of finishing the scraps from the earl’s fine meals.

  The threat loomed large on Maggie’s horizon. Her lord had talked quite a bit lately of taking a spouse. He had done more than merely talk; he had raved. Whoever the lady was, the one with the strange name vaguely similar to her own, Earl Baldwin seemed obsessed with her. Maggie was frightened.

  As if he had read her mind-which Maggie sometimes suspected he was able to do-the earl’s eyes opened. He was instantly and completely awake.

  “What are you staring at?” he snapped.

  “Nothing, m’lord. Wasn’t lookin` at all. Was just admirin‘.” Maggie gave him her most winning smile. It worked.

  The hard glare softened to a lascivious gleam. His hands roughly fondled her breasts. He pulled her down over him.

  Maggie’s smile never faltered.

  The view from the tower was breathtaking, and that was the reason he preferred to have his quarters here rather than in the manor proper. Baldwin gloated each time he stood at the slitted windows and gazed over his domain. Everything was so neat, well manicured, and prosperous. Even the village was tidy and thriving-not one of those hodgepodge hamlets that sprawled about the strongholds of the lesser nobility and boasted only the meanest of trades, dirty little villages that eked out existence in subservience to some minor lord. No. Here was a veritable hub of commerce. His craftsmen were the finest. People came from all over to trade at the village of the Earl of Cumbria. Some came simply to gaze upon his magnificent castle.

  Baldwin chuckled mirthlessly. No mean little fortress was this, crouched on a hilltop. No ugly fortifications, moats, or drawbridges. His keep had none of the trappings of those poor, weak little nobles who quarreled endlessly among themselves, who grabbed each other’s lands, then retreated inside the safety of their ugly stone walls to await the consequences of their actions.

  No, indeed. There was no such ill-favored architecture here. Only a great, grand manor built in the most modern style around a massive courtyard. Oh, there was a wall, surely. But only to keep out the riffraff who would beseech him incessantly for favors. He had no need for fortifications. His wealth was vast, his power entrenched.

  Feeling momentarily beneficent, Baldwin turned to the woman who still lay upon the disarray of his bed, and he smiled. “You’ve been particularly attentive of late, Maggie.” He inclined his head in his most gracious manner. “Even after all these years, you continue to amuse me. I am pleased with you. So pleased that I’ve decided to share something with you.”

  Not a flicker of emotion showed on Maggie’s scarred features. Inwardly, however, she cringed. Baldwin often “shared” things with her-usually the subtle or overt cruelties he intended to inflict upon one of his numerous victims in repayment of some real or imagined slight. Sometimes, however, she herself was the recipient. She wondered which lay in store.

  The earl did not make her wonder for long. “You well knew my intention to take a bride,” he began jovially. “As you also knew, I had selected a most suitable candidate.”

  Baldwin paused to watch for the slightest reaction, the least trace of emotion, on Maggie’s face. In his disappointment, his smiled faded.

  “Her father, however, finds some. some northern baron,” he spat, “preferable to myself.” Clouds formed on his brow. Maggie shrank against the bed linens.

  “As it happens, I have changed my mind about taking a wife. What do I need with a wife when I have you, my little one-eyed wench?”

  This time she couldn’t help it; Maggie blinked.

  “Ah, I thought that might please you.” The earl’s scowl faded, and his smile returned. He crossed his arms over his skinny chest. It had been three days since the blond witch had humiliated him. Baldwin’s temper had cooled, allowing him time to dwell more rationally on the perfect revenge.

  “I should tell you though, Maggie,” he continued. “I’ve decided it would be most pleasant to have, shall we say, a change from time to time? And the blond beauty, Ranulf’s daughter, will do quite nicely, I believe.”

  Baldwin positively beamed at her. Maggie did not move a muscle.

  “This is much better than marriage-don’t you agree, my ragged little tart? After all, a wife would most probably banish you from my bed, if not from my hall altogether. You’ll much prefer this arrangement. Won’t you, my Maggie!”

  She nodded slowly, as she was expected to do.

  “Ranulf, of course, is not going to like this,” the earl went on in a businesslike tone. He turned his back on her and focused his gaze somewhere beyond the window. “So I have developed a plan. Brilliantly simple, really. And who’s to stop me from carrying it out? The King?” He uttered a sharp, derisive bark of laughter. “I think not.”

  Baldwin steepled his fingers and touched them to the point of his chin. “Henry, our noble monarch, is currently occupied with
his nemesis, Simon de Montfort. Most convenient, I must say. Oh, do remind me, Maggie dear, to wish Simon luck with his new nationalist party. Quite original, isn’t it? ”England for the English,“ is his motto I believe. In truth, his ploy is simply to rouse the little people against us. He has even accused us-the nobility-of pursuing a `selfish class policy.” “

  Baldwin laughed. “Well, of course we are!”

  “Still, I’m grateful to the man. Although Henry will undoubtedly deplore my action, what is he going to do about it when all his time and attention is devoted to my good friend Simon? Not a great deal, I’ll warrant Not enough to worry me. No. All will go well,” the earl said. “All will happen just as I’ve planned.”

  He strolled to the window and, when he turned back to Maggie, she saw a smile light his features even as the sun haloed his head. His grin was feral, and his yellowed teeth gleamed moistly. “No more of this dealing and bargaining,” he snarled. “No more offers of land or wealth in exchange for a mere woman. No. I am simply going to take what I want And what I want, Maggie, is everything.”

  His tone, as much as his skull-like visage, chilled her. Maggie pulled a fur up over her naked breast as a frisson of fear ran down her spine.

  “Everything that belongs to Ranulf of Ullswater,” the earl went on evenly. “His lands, his chattel, his daughter. His life.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ullswater Castle had been built by Ranulf’s father, a man of great wealth, energy, and dreams. Though Ranulf was his only surviving child out of seven, he had envisioned founding a long line that would populate Ullswater for generations to come. As a result, no cost had been spared in the castle’s construction. The manor was large, well laid out, and it supported within its perimeter walls all necessary services. Mara lifted her hem out of the dust as she hurried behind her mother in an inspection of one outbuilding after the next, and wondered how her frail parent kept up the pace. She herself was exhausted.