A Knight's Vow

by Gayle Callen

  "Riley," she said as the men all gathered around her in a concerned knot, "I need your help getting Lord Bolton to our bedchamber. Do you think you can—"

  The man elbowed everyone out of the way and single-handedly lifted Bolton off the ground, with only one sidestep to position his weight. Isabel led the way inside the great hall. She looked over the worried servants.

  "Annie—" Isabel began, then stopped. She didn't have the first idea what to do. Any other woman would know. She gazed at Annie and tried not to show her desperation and panic, feelings she'd seldom experienced before, and which now threatened to overwhelm her.

  Annie turned toward the kitchens, calling over her shoulder, "I'll bring hot water and bandages, my lady, and send for the healer."

  In their bedchamber, Isabel pulled back the blankets and Riley laid Bolton down. The giant stood up, wiped his hand across his moist forehead, and took a few deep breaths.

  Isabel smiled grimly. "It's nice to see you're human."

  Riley gave her a crooked smile and shrugged, before leaning over to feel Bolton's forehead.

  Isabel watched him. "He's very sick, isn't he?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

  Riley nodded and began to unwrap Bolton's wounded hand. Isabel couldn't hide her shock when she saw the swelling and the angry red discoloration staining the entire finger. Pus oozed from the wound.

  Through the tightness in her throat, she said, "Will he lose this finger?"

  Riley shrugged, but it was a tentative movement, and Isabel saw the inevitability lurking in her future. How would she tell her husband he would lose a finger on his sword hand? She well knew what his reaction would be, knowing she'd feel the same way. Yet what choice was there? She'd seen other injuries where she never thought the man would fight again, but through perseverance, he had. And Bolton had plenty of perseverance.

  Bolton groaned and opened his eyes. He licked his lips and managed a smile. "Angel," he murmured. "Just need to sleep—be all right."

  He had certainly lost none of his confidence. Something close to tenderness moved through her, and she fought the urge to hold his hand. Only yesterday she had been scheming how to avoid him. Now he lay unnaturally still, pale, nothing like her husband—and she wanted him back, the man who could turn a bad situation on its ear with just a witty phrase.

  Where was the healer?

  The woman who entered the room carried a basket on one arm and a bucket of hot water in the other. She wore no wimple, just her plain brown hair tied back at her neck. She didn't look much older than Isabel. How could she have the necessary experience to help Bolton?

  The girl must have been used to such questions, for after introducing herself as Margaret, she immediately said, "Milady, I've spent my whole life learning to heal from my mother. You need have no worries."

  Margaret examined Bolton's hand, even though he didn't want to cooperate. His insistence that he was fine was beginning to grate on Isabel's nerves.

  Margaret finally shook her head. "Milord, we must take at least the littlest finger. If we leave it on, the sickness will only spread."

  Bolton laughed weakly. "I'm feeling better already. Just pat on your medicine, girl, and go back to the garden."

  From across the room, Isabel said, "You are being foolish. The injury is making you sick."

  "Temporarily. I'll be fine."

  No matter what anyone said, he refused to consider having the finger amputated. Isabel couldn't understand his obstinacy. He was usually such a rational, practical man, but now he refused to see how sick he was, and how little the herbs were helping him. She was agitated, uncertain, not herself, and she realized with a shock that she didn't want him to die. Just a month ago, she would have been gleeful. The thought made her feel sick inside.

  Annie wanted to show Isabel how to keep Bolton comfortable, but Isabel knew she was hopelessly clumsy at things every woman took for granted. She let Annie wipe his body with cool wet cloths, while Bolton mumbled and thrashed in a delirium. She felt stupid and helpless, and often went to sit alone in the great hall to wait. It hurt to see him in pain.

  At midnight, she stood alone in their bedchamber and watched Bolton, who had lapsed into a still sleep. She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over him, staring into his gaunt, flushed face. She touched his hot forehead, then slid her hand down his stubbled cheek. Her chest ached and her eyes burned with tears she didn't know how to shed. What was wrong with her? She had been forced against her will to marry this man, and now it terrified her that he might die.

  Could she possibly have fallen in love with him? Was she like every other foolish woman who had melted before the cajoling words of a man? And yet, Bolton had never lied to her, had never taken what she hadn't wanted to give. In his own way, he'd even been kind. These soft feelings burning her heart—were they love?

  She sent for Annie, who stumbled in, wearing her gown half-unlaced, and carrying her baby on her

  shoulder. She took one look at James's hand and gasped.

  "I must get Margaret, my lady. Here, hold Mary." She held the sleeping baby out and Isabel stumbled back a step.

  "But I've never—"

  "Just sit down. She's not even awake."

  Isabel sat hesitantly before the fire and Annie quickly positioned her arms and set Mary's warm body in her lap. She ran out the door before Isabel could even ask if she was doing it right.

  Mary slept on, putting her thumb in her mouth and cuddling against Isabel, who was trying not to move. It was a strange experience to hold a baby, and she realized with a start that she herself could be with child already. She had to fight feelings of panic. She'd never even seen a birth, didn't know what babies ate when they were too old for milk. And as she looked at Bolton, so still and pale, she thought with rising despair that she might have to do it all alone.

  Carefully holding Mary, she stood up and walked over to her husband. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Bolton?" she began, then found herself saying, "James? You are not going to die. I won't allow it. Wake up."

  But he lay still. Margaret arrived and Isabel backed away, absently handing Mary to her mother.

  Margaret examined James's hand for a moment, then lifted her head. "Milady, 'tis spreading to the next finger."

  A sudden calmness descended over Isabel. She didn't know a thing about healing, but she could make decisions. "Take the fingers off—both of them." The moment she said the words, she felt better. She wanted James, she wanted to be his wife, much as it all terrified and bewildered her.

  "But milady, his lordship said—"

  "He is out of his mind with sickness. And he isn't getting better. I want a live husband, not a corpse. Take the fingers off."

  James awoke slowly, but his eyes didn't want to obey him. He lay still, assessing the lingering pain in his hand. It felt better. And he was definitely cooler. The bedclothes were drenched in his sweat, so the fever must have broken. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thank God.

  When he finally managed to open his eyes and lift his head, he saw the sun creeping into the windows, and Isabel rolled in a blanket on the floor. Some things never changed.

  "Angel?" he whispered.

  She was up in an instant, leaning over him, touching his forehead. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then stepped back. James felt something wither inside him at her obvious disgust.

  "The medicines worked," he said. "I told you we didn't need to take the finger."

  She stared at him solemnly, and he knew in that instant that it was too late. He lifted his heavily wrapped hand and stared at it.

  "You took it anyway, didn't you, regardless of my orders."

  She folded her arms across her chest. "You were going to die. I did what I thought best. Margaret said she needed to amputate both fingers."

  "How could you do this to me?" he demanded, propping himself on one elbow although pinpricks of darkness hovered in his sight. "Were you jealous of my skill? Did you
feel the need to be the best swordsman?"

  He thought her face paled, but her eyes glittered with anger. She didn't answer. Some deep part of James knew he was behaving foolishly, that Isabel would hardly have his fingers cut off for no reason —and none of his servants would have allowed it.

  He closed his eyes as the enormity of it all swept over him, chilling him. Not just one, but two

  fingers. His reputation, his presence, were how he controlled his people and managed the king. Now he couldn't even lift a sword. He might as well be an old man drooling by the fire, for all the good he could do Bolton Casde.

  And Isabel—he opened his eyes as she left the room. She had been appalled by his wounds; how much worse his mutilation? Would she cringe when he touched her? In his mind a vivid picture sprang to life, of his mother arraying herself in fine fabrics, hoping to offset her plain face. He remembered his father—and then stepfather—barely noticing she was in the hall, and the quiet devastation in her expression.

  James had tried so hard his entire life to never let that happen to him. He'd been blessed with looks and charm, but even they weren't enough for an earl. Now his competence, his protective presence, were gone. He'd never be the same man again. He felt weary, despairing, and he let sleep wash it all away.

  Hours later, James smelled something utterly delicious. His stomach gave a low rumbling growl and he opened his eyes to find Isabel sitting beside

  him. She held a tray with a steaming wooden bowl on top.

  "Are you hungry?" she asked.

  He nodded and started to sit up, then gasped as a burning pain shot through his hand. He saw Isabel recoil, and knew she tried to hide it. He felt sick inside. Using his left hand, he leveraged himself to a sitting position, trying to ignore the waves of pain in his right one.

  "You're not going to feed me," he said sternly.

  "I never gave it a thought."

  She set the tray across his lap, placed the bowl of soup and spoon on top, then sat back. Watching, he supposed, to see if he was capable of a task he'd been doing since he was a babe. What a change in his life—instead of Isabel admiring him for his prowess and strength, she could now admire him for feeding himself.

  James ate in silence, as it took all his effort to bring the spoon to his mouth. He was so weak. "How long have I been unconscious?" he finally asked.

  "Only a few days," she said.

  "Has anything of importance happened that I should know about?"

  "Someone in Rosenfield village had a baby and they wanted me to tell you."

  Was she being sarcastic? "Aah, Roddy's new wife gave birth."

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't know the girl's name?"

  "Edith."

  There was an uneasy silence, and James continued to eat, knowing she wouldn't leave until he'd finished. He was sick of wondering what she was thinking.

  After she'd left, he lay looking at the ceiling. It finally came to him that he was drowning in self- pity before he'd even tried to hold a sword. His own behavior would drive his people away. My God, had he sunk so low? Was he ready to give up without a fight?

  That was something he could learn from his mother. She had never stopped trying. No matter how many times either of her foolish husbands disregarded her, she gamely tried again.

  By the saints, he would learn to fight even if he had to use his left hand. He would not sit like a useless lump before the fire, watching Isabel's disgust.

  Chapter 24

  By the evening, James had begun to walk about his bedchamber, but Isabel could tell he did not feel ready to face the great hall. Annie brought up a tray and proceeded to set dinner on a small table before the fire. The maid laid out snowy white tablecloths, with beeswax candles in a silver candelabra. She used the finest silver plates and glass goblets, then made another trip to the kitchens for the food itself. By the time she bid them goodnight, there was a full feast for two people.

  Isabel had not meant her to go to such trouble, but she thought she understood the workings of Annie's mind. Annie wanted Isabel to be happy at Bolton Castle, and she'd seen that good food helped.

  She sat down in her chair and James took the chair opposite her. Spread out before her was fried fish, steaming white bread and soft cheese, and baked pears dripping with sauce.

  She closed her eyes and just inhaled, then reached across the table to spear a piece of fish.

  "No, not like that," James said, pushing her hand aside. "Ask me to pass the platter."

  She frowned. "What results do you see in these pointless lectures of yours?"

  "I see a wife who can eat in front of guests without them gaping at her."

  Isabel had once been happy when she had succeeded in embarrassing him. But now there was a constant ache in her chest when she was near him. She really didn't know how to eat in front of people, and it made her feel inferior, worthless. She was only good at one thing.

  "Let me join the knights in practice at the tiltyard," she suddenly said.

  He set down his spoon. "You are not a man. I won't have my wife—"

  "I miss training, I miss being outside. I have nothing to do here!"

  "You will learn."

  "Not if you don't give me a reason to."

  James used his knife to awkwardly break a piece of bread from the loaf. He held it out and she shook her head. He lifted one eyebrow.

  "My men have not forgotten that you robbed me," he said, "that you made fools of them."

  "I made a fool of you—there's a difference."

  He smiled. "You could be harmed."

  "You've fought me. Can they so easily vanquish me? I've been watching them all, and I could tell you each of their weaknesses. And if that isn't good enough, I will only train with William. Let me do what I'm good at."

  "I will make a bargain with you," he said.

  Isabel gave him a skeptical look.

  "For every hour you train in the tiltyard, you must spend an hour learning to behave like a woman."

  She knew deep in her heart that she would fail, that she was not the woman he thought he deserved. But perhaps she could carve out a place for herself in his household—and also wield her sword.

  "Very well," Isabel said. "'Tis a bargain."

  He nodded solemnly, but she could tell he wasn't happy. They both continued to eat in a silence full of awkwardness and misery.

  James watched her face, knowing she was trying to distance herself from him. The thought of being in the same room with him, of his hands touching her, must repulse her now. Did she hate him so

  much that she deliberately reminded him that he couldn 't train, might never hold a sword again?

  Annie and Margaret returned to take away the remains of the meal, and to change the dressing on his hand. James didn't have to worry that Isabel would see his deformity. She stayed on the far side of the room, her eyes averted in disgust. Hell, even he couldn't look.

  After the servants had gone, James lay back in bed and watched Isabel disrobe down to her shirt, but no further. When she actually walked to the fire with her blanket, something snapped inside him.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

  She took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. "I am going to sleep."

  "Not over there you're not."

  "But I always—"

  "You became my wife body and soul a few days ago. I demand you sleep in my bed. And it's freezing on the floor!"

  "Very well," she said, climbing into bed beside him. She faced away from him and pulled the blankets up to her neck.

  Stunned and baffled at her acquiescence, James lay still. The temptation of her body was so bittersweet. How he ached to run his hand down the

  curve of her waist, to slide his thigh between hers. But he could picture how she'd react when he touched her with this bandaged mutilation that was once a hand.

  Isabel waited for James to touch her. It was a foolish hope, and one he quickly dashed by rolling away from her. He must certain
ly have been angry at her when she wouldn't even care for his wounds. What kind of wife—no, what kind of woman was she?

  She cared for him too much, and he would never care for her. She was a thief, a savage. How could he care, with all that she'd done to him, how she'd spoken to him after they'd shared a bed?

  Early in the morning, James dressed himself one- handedly in the simplest tunic and shirt he could find. He paused at the head of the stairs, trying to brace himself for everyone's pity. But in the hall, he was met with cheery good wishes, and expressions of gladness that he was well. He looked hard, but caught no sadness—no pity at all.

  William kept him company at the head table, chattering away about what James had missed while he was gone. But James had a hard time

  concentrating. He was waiting grimly for Isabel to appear and keep her part of their bargain.

  He turned to find William watching him.

  "My lord," the boy said softly, "they were all worried about you. The hall was shrouded in grief for many a day."

  James didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to say they should still grieve because he wasn't the same man. He stopped himself, remembering his vow to put aside such self-pity. Instead he simply thanked William.

  Over the next few days, James did his best to turn Isabel into the ideal wife, one he wouldn't have to be ashamed of at court. But nothing worked out as planned. She was hopelessly clumsy at embroidery, forever picking out the strings and starting over. Instead of learning to bake, she licked bowls, and praised Cook. In the dairy, she gazed out the window at the tiltyard instead of churning, ruining a batch of butter. Isabel had no sympathy to heal the sick, whom she thought should be up and about rather than pitying themselves.

  James's frustration reached a boiling point when he was called to the sewing room to remove his wife. He had been prepared to yell, to lecture, but he found her towering above a group of scolding women, dripping blood from her hand. He pulled up

  in the doorway and just looked at her. Her dark eyes were crinkled in amusement, and her lips twitched at the corners, as if she were trying desperately not to laugh. The sight of her made him ache inside, and his anger fled.