A Knight's Vow

by Gayle Callen

  Bolton stood like a dark, impassive statue. His narrowed eyes bored into hers and she detected a shuttered rage she had never felt from him before. He disdainfully raked her body with his gaze. She stiffened and turned away from him.

  The white-haired priest was obviously trying to collect himself. He looked at her garments, at her face, then away, and harrumphed. When he again lifted his gaze, a patronizing smile spread his lips.

  "God's blessings, Lady Isabel," he said, nodding his head briefly.

  She ignored him and turned back to Bolton. "Why have you brought me to a priest?"

  "Ever to the point, dear Angel," he said, and his voice was laced with dark sarcasm.

  He suddenly didn't seem like the same man. For the first time in her life, she wanted to run.

  "Your presence is requested at a wedding, Angel," he said. "'Tis a shame you didn't dress for the occasion."

  The room suddenly seemed to press down on her like the rock walls of the dungeon. Her breath came hard with foreboding.

  "And you are the bride."

  She knew her face went white, that her chest felt clutched by a massive fist. This couldn't be happening.

  Isabel swallowed to moisten her parched mouth. "What kind of torture is this?"

  "No torture, my child," the priest said, ignoring Bolton's glare of warning. "The king has graciously given your hand in marriage to Lord Bolton. Joining

  your two vast estates will please His Majesty greatly."

  She took a swift breath and turned her intense gaze on Bolton. "You demanded to marry me?"

  His eyes were the blue of winter ice. "Hardly. I wanted never to see your face again, but the king has other wishes, which I have no choice but to obey."

  "Well, I have choices." She turned to leave, and Bolton grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong, almost painful. "Get your hand off me."

  "From now on, my hands will do what they want to your body."

  With a swift intake of breath, she went for her sword hilt, but of course it wasn't there. "I'll kill you before I let you touch me."

  "My children!" the priest said, stepping between them.

  Bolton let her go.

  "This is not the way to begin a marriage," the priest continued. "Many marriages begin on less than friendly terms. With good will, your lives can be happy."

  When Bolton said nothing, Isabel realized he actually meant to go through with this farce.

  "Father," she said, never taking her eyes off Bolton, "you cannot force me to marry a man I despise. He and his family ruined mine!"

  She heard Bolton inhale swiftly. "Father, allow me to speak to my betrothed in private," he said. "I'm sure I can persuade her of the king's wisdom."

  The priest bowed and left them alone, the entertainment for a crowd of hundreds.

  Isabel faced Bolton, her chin up. She didn't know what his plan was, but she would not submit.

  "What fool notion is this?" he demanded, closing the distance between them.

  Isabel didn't step back.

  "When are you going to tell me what I have supposedly done to you? I've never seen you before!"

  "Does the name Mansfield mean nothing to you?"

  "Your father, the earl, is dead, and you are his heir. What of it?"

  Isabel felt the blood rush to her face at his callous disregard of her father's life. He had lived the last few years in horrible pain because of Bolton's father. He had walked with a pitiable limp, and raged against his fate, or soaked his misery in ale. And he had never let her forget what the Boltons had done.

  "You do not remember the tournament where your father so cruelly wounded mine?"

  Bolton's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

  "And the siege where your grandfather killed many of my family."

  "I seem to recall there might be more to that story."

  "And the start of it all, when your great- grandmother betrayed my great-grandfather instead of marrying him, beginning a family hatred that's gone down generations!" At each word, her voice grew louder and louder. They were the center of attention now, and more and more people filed into the hall. Let them watch, let them learn of Bolton cruelty.

  "Of course, I've heard of this ridiculous feud," he said, looking angry and exasperated, "but frankly I'd forgotten the family name involved."

  "Forgotten?" she cried, and quickly grabbed the eating knife from his belt.

  Chapter 7

  Isabel took two swift steps back and held the knife before her. It felt at home in her hand. Bolton tried to take it back, but she eluded him.

  "Angel, this is foolish," he said in a low voice.

  His gaze moved beyond her and she knew he watched his people. She heard the horrified gasps, the angry murmurs, even the clink of metal against metal from the armed men. But none would be so foolish as to rush her when she could so easily harm their lord.

  Bolton laughed harshly. "Do you think I want to marry you? You are the last woman I'd choose. It is clear you have no idea what it means to be a wife, to be the mistress of a castle. Maybe you can defend it, but that's all."

  She lunged forward with the knife, but he easily dodged it.

  "This matter has already gone beyond us," he continued. "The priest is sent by the king, ready to see us married. Do you think I can disobey His Majesty? Do you think I want his anger?"

  "Maybe that's just what I want. You deserve it."

  "Fine, but when he takes all my lands, he'll take all of yours, too. What a find for King Henry. He wins either way. He'll enjoy giving what's ours to some other panting courtier. Well I'm not ready to be a pauper. Although I hate the notion, I will marry you. After all, many marriages are as horrible as ours will be." He looked at someone over her shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "Galway, stay back!"

  Isabel backed towards the heat of the hearth, keeping both Bolton and Galway within sight. She couldn't believe the amount of people in the hall, all looking at her with anger.

  "Lady Isabel," Bolton said softly, "the king has given me your lands, your money, and your people. If you leave now, where will you go?"

  She took a deep breath, and the first feelings of inevitability swept over her. She had never thought she'd marry, and certainly not to a Bolton. Yet, much revenge might be wielded from within marriage vows. A broken betrothal had begun the feud—would a humiliating marriage avenge it? Was it worth sacrificing herself? she thought forlornly.

  Yet what else was left in her life? She had no family, no friends. She only knew how to hate.

  James watched Isabel slowly straighten and lower the knife. She glared at him darkly, unbowed, and he did not think she had surrendered totally. He held out his hand and she placed the knife in it. Returning it to his belt, he allowed himself to really look at her. My God, what was he doing? She was nothing like the woman he'd always thought he'd marry—she had not the beauty or refinement, nor even the virginity he so prized. Her hair was a wild, frizzled mass of black curls, her face was smudged with dirt and paint. Her size was monstrous. And she was wearing the same bedraggled doublet.

  "Why didn't you change into the garments I sent?"

  "I don't wear gowns," she said coldly.

  James closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steel himself to patience. Not wear gowns? God's teeth, she was a woman, and soon his wife! This would not be tolerated. But the mood of his people was not good, judging by the dark looks and buzz of conversation. He wasn't sure how they'd react if Isabel revealed any more of her lovely personality.

  "I will force myself to marry you," she suddenly said, as if there'd been a doubt. "But only on one condition."

  James wanted to laugh, yet the cold pride in her face held him back. "And that is?"

  "If there is a child, he will inherit my family title."

  His firstborn son, not a Bolton? He tensed, then almost shouted that she was in no position to make demands. Yet the king's priest looked on in avid interest, ready to report back that James was not willingly obeying His Majesty's requests. />
  "What, have you no male relatives to inherit the title?"

  "None."

  "And I'm supposed to beg the king to break his laws for our child."

  "If necessary."

  The priest continued to watch.

  "Agreed," James finally said through gritted teeth. "You do have hips large enough to comfortably bear children."

  He caught her fist before it could strike his face, then pulled her up hard against his body. For her ears alone, he murmured, "Comfortable to lie between, too, I'll wager."

  They stood face to face, for she was barely smaller than he was. Her eyes burned like black fire, and he thought she would spit at him. Instead she gave him a grim smile.

  "We shall see. But first there is the matter of the document."

  James was beginning to lose track of their discussion. He noticed her waist felt decidedly narrower than he had thought, almost—graceful.

  "What document?" he asked, trying to concentrate. He looked at her lips, which were too full by half.

  "The priest will write down the agreement about our heir."

  Her eyes, so close to his, were narrowed, angry, but triumphant. The king was forcing them to marry —could she work even this to her advantage?

  James released her suddenly and stepped away. "Very well."

  He brought the priest over, found parchment and a sharpened quill and dictated the brief proclamation that practically gave their first child to her family. He didn't believe his own words. But perhaps the priest did, for he made no comment as he wrote. After James satisfied Isabel by having two different people read the agreement back, he signed his name and handed her the quill. His stomach clenched as she made a bold A'as her mark.

  The ceremony before the chapel doors was brief and quiet, although the inner ward was so silent every strained word could be heard. James tried not to look at anyone, because any chance sympathy and compassion would only humiliate him further.

  When the ceremony was over, he felt a heavy weight restricting his breathing. It was done. He was shackled until his death to a woman who wanted him dead, whose goal would be to make him miserable. He tried to imagine how his life had come to this, what he had done wrong, but he couldn't. The last few years of his life had been spiraling out of control, starting with his brother Edmund's death, and finally ending at rock bottom with marriage to a woman who despised him. Could he even call her a woman?

  After mass, they returned to the great hall. James thought he might as well give the king's priest something good to take back to court, besides the tale of Bolton's knife-wielding, thieving bride. He made a great show of seating the priest on the dais for supper, and was about to join him, when he remembered he had a wife.

  Isabel didn't know what to do next. She stood in a great hall full of people, but she might as well have been totally alone. They went out of their way to avoid her, to turn their faces away. But she was their mistress, married to a husband she could barely look on without wanting to kill.

  Liar, she thought again.

  The marriage ceremony was only a vivid memory now. She had felt nothing but despondency as she stood in the cold autumn wind and gave away her life to a Bolton. She knew he, too, had not wanted this marriage, but she couldn't help blaming him. He was the one who had written to the king.

  How did he treat a reluctant wife, who'd so recently tried to kill him? She knew how he had behaved to his betrothed—he'd forced himself on her. Isabel's stomach clenched tight with apprehension.

  She stood in the center of the great hall, where servants and soldiers gave her wide berth. Food was carried in on immense platters and the smell alone made her dizzy with hunger. But what was she supposed to do, how was she to behave? Was she still a prisoner, or the free mistress of the household?

  Everyone in the hall was seated and enjoying their meal, laughing and talking with their neighbors. Isabel felt humiliated to be standing in their midst, welcome nowhere. Thoughts of revenge returned to her heart and her trepidation eased. Steeling herself against everyone's hatred, she sauntered to the dais and approached her new husband. She leaned over the table deliberately, until his gaze lifted to hers. Even the priest stopped eating.

  Without a word, Isabel ripped a leg off the pheasant displayed so prettily on a tray. She saw Bolton's eyes widen, then narrow in anger he could barely keep hidden. She tore a piece of meat off with her teeth and chewed it, trying not to let the ecstasy of the taste show on her face. She had never imagined anyone could cook meat like this.

  When her new husband didn't invite her to sit, the priest anxiously said, "Lady Bolton, why have you not joined us?"

  She barely spared him a look. She took James's tankard of ale and her pheasant leg, and sauntered to the nearest hearth. She sat down on the ground and proceeded to eat.

  The meal lasted too long, and some of Isabel's purpose was taken away when one of the maids timidly began to bring her a sample of each dish. The girl had flaming red hair the color of fire, and soft brown eyes that actually seemed to look on in sympathy.

  Isabel turned away. She didn't want to care what anyone thought of her. It would only make it harder in the end when she had to repeatedly go against their lord.

  What seemed like hours later, the servants began to clear away the tables and dismantle them. Isabel kept her back turned, legs pulled up to her chest with her head resting on her knees. She drowsed in the fire's warmth, trying not to think what the rest of the evening would bring. Was it actually fright she felt, this hard ache that made her meal sit like a rock in her stomach? She didn't think she'd ever experienced true fear before and she didn't like it now. But soon she would have Bolton's hands on her, and she guessed he could easily take his revenge on her body.

  His kiss flamed to life in her mind, and though she tried to will it away, the memory brought a flare of heat into her stomach, and lower. What wicked evil had he worked on her senses to make that kiss seem so darkly exciting? Why couldn't she forget the hot feel of his open mouth on hers, the thrust of his tongue that had made her shiver? His body had not been gentle as he held her against the wall, but she hadn't wanted him to be. She'd wanted to know what it was like to be as other women, to feel surrounded and dominated by a hard, powerful man.

  And now she'd married him. She must slow her beating heart, must make him think his touch merely bored her. He was arrogant enough to feel humiliated when his prowess produced no response.

  Isabel heard the strumming of a lute, and a sudden burst of merry laughter. Slowly she turned and looked about her. Most people were gathered about the hearth at the opposite end of the hall, listening and talking as her new husband played the instrument. Servants moved about in the smoky torchlight. No one was even looking her way.

  Freedom called to Isabel from beyond the large double doors. She had no illusions that she could escape the inner ward itself without anyone seeing her, not as she had before. But to smell the air, to see the stars once more, she would give anything for that.

  She rose to her feet and began to walk softly along the tapestried wall. No eyes turned towards her. Bolton's head was bent over his instrument, and he did not look up. She had almost reached the door.

  "It appears my wife is ready for her wedding- night bath." Bolton's voice was raised in authority, laced with cold mocking arrogance.

  Isabel stiffened and slowly turned to face him. He stood up, the lute forgotten at his side. He was an imposing man, expensively attired, and he seemed to know he drew people's eyes to him. A few titters were heard scattered through the crowd, but most of his people seemed too tense to laugh. Over their heads, Bolton's gaze burned into her, through her.

  And then it all hit her in a painful rush—that she was his property now, that he could take everything that was hers, beat her, and no one would stop him. Although it was senseless, this new feeling of fear welled up inside her and she ran.

  For James, the sight of his bride bolting from him seemed to tear loose everything civilized
inside him. He didn't even remember the lute falling from his fingers. He was suddenly vaulting over a wench who sat adoring at his feet, and crossed the great hall in a few seconds. Before the first guard at the door could halt Isabel's progress, James caught her from behind. She flailed against him, kicking, but not screaming like a hysterical woman. He wrapped both arms around her and squeezed, pinning her hands at her sides.

  "Be still," he hissed into her ear.

  He heard the ragged gasp of her breathing, felt her squirm. A shudder moved through her as she stilled. For a moment, James wondered what it must feel like to be her, with enemies all about and nowhere left to go. A reluctant sense of compassion moved through him.

  "Angel, this will not help," he said softly, keeping his back to the room to shield her. "You cannot escape."

  "I was not trying to escape," she whispered hoarsely. "I just wanted—"

  She broke off and was silent. James held her until her breathing slowed, trying not to think about her breasts rising and lowering against his arm.

  "Can you walk upstairs calmly or must I drag you?"

  "Release me," she said coldly.

  When he did, she turned away from him and began to walk towards the wide stone staircase at the back of the hall. Everyone was silent, watching her. She was a proud, remote figure, wearing men's black garments, her head high, one fist on her hip as if she rested it upon a sword hilt.

  James sighed. Would every night be like this? He could imagine himself living at court for the rest of his life, just to escape this tumult. But for now, his bride waited—his filthy bride, fresh from the dungeon.

  As James followed her, he caught the gaze of Annie, the little red-headed maid, and motioned towards the kitchens. She'd surely realize he'd be needing linens. Another nod to the soldiers, and two

  followed behind him to guard outside the door. Mustn't have the bride escape.

  The Angel obviously knew her way about from her last escapade in his bedchamber. She waited inside, arms folded across her chest, looking out one of the glass-paned windows into the darkness. James closed the door behind him. A fire warmed the room, and lit candles were scattered everywhere, dispelling the gloom he so hated. His bed was turned down, but he didn't dwell on that. It would soon be too hard to pretend he didn't care that his wife had known other men. He leaned back against the door and just watched her with narrowed eyes, feeling his simmering anger begin to bubble again.