Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  “Leave that, Alain,” Luc ordered from the table, “and send for the scribe. I’ve need of his skills this morn so that William may know the worth of this demesne to him.” He’d spoken in English, an apparent oversight, for he glanced up and repeated it in French with a shrug to excuse his lapse.

  Alain moved away reluctantly, but not before he took a moment to feign inspection of her chains, an act that gave him the opportunity to brush his hands against the bare skin of her leg. Ceara lashed out with one foot, catching him hard enough against his thigh to make him grunt in pain. A scowl creased his brow and his hazel eyes narrowed with anger, but he did not betray himself to Luc.

  Norman curs, they were all alike. Treacherous, sly, rapacious, and lustful. None had yet changed her opinion of them. Not even Luc’s self-denial had greatly altered her estimation of his character, for it was too easy to prate of principles when one had none. Since the Normans had first set foot on English soil, they had valued nothing but destruction. It would hardly change now, nor would one man be likely to be so very different from those before him. No, if Wulfridge was to survive with its glory intact, she would have to save it. Nothing would be too great a sacrifice to accomplish her ends.

  MORNING MIST CRAWLED through the courtyard in silent ribbons, glistening on stone and wood and the steaming hides of restive horses. Pearlescent dampness shrouded the walls of the castle and muffled the sound of men and animals. A salty tang was in the air, smelling of the sea.

  Luc waited for Alain to bring Drago to him, impatient now that all was ready. He would deliver his hostage to the king and collect his reward for it, and put the past behind him. No more would he be just a hedge knight, his sword for hire to whatever power wished to pay, condemned to wander with no home of his own. Now perhaps some of his bitterness would dissipate. Robert was right: it was past time for it.

  A gust of wind stirred tendrils of fog into swirling eddies that momentarily eclipsed the main door to the hall, and when it cleared, he saw Ceara standing beneath an arched entrance. Despite the turmoil of the past day, she remained composed, looking mystical and elegant garbed in a long blue kirtle, boots, and hooded mantle of dyed red wool.

  Where was the pagan princess of hours past? The woman who had knelt before him clad only in lamplight and enchantment?

  Vanished now, exiled by this lovely, remote creature gazing about the courtyard as if she still owned it, as if she was the lady and Luc the interloper. Provoked by some nameless emotion, he walked toward her. She turned to watch him, her eyes unreadable yet drawing him closer. A current of air lifted the edge of her mantle in a graceful swirl. Beneath the outer garment, she wore a pendant, and it gleamed with soft luster against the blue material of her kirtle. Exquisite silver coils formed the familiar knotwork of the Celts, and an amber stone cradled in the middle was richly lucent and textured. It was not an extremely valuable piece, but one that should have caught the eyes of men searching for jewelry.

  Beneath her wary gaze, he reached out to lift the heavy ornament in his palm. The backs of his fingers brushed against her breasts, and she drew in a sharp breath. As he held the pendant, he felt the quickening beat of her heart beneath his hand.

  “A lovely piece, demoiselle. How did it escape the notice of my men?” It was not an idle question. By William’s own command, every item of value in England was to be counted and reported.

  Ceara’s fingers were cool as she closed them protectively around both his palm and the pendant. “God was with me, my lord. This belonged to my mother, and is all I have left of her.”

  “Yet you wear it where all can see. Do you not fear that we brutish Normans will take it from you?”

  She ignored his mockery with a faint smile. “If ’tis what you wish, there would be little I could do to halt you. I am at your mercy, my lord.”

  Luc snorted. “You have never been at any man’s mercy, I think.”

  Her smile deepened. Her gentle fragrance teased him, and beneath the curved shadow of her lashes, her eyes were as deep and placid as the waters of a lake, drawing him in. There was knowledge in their depths, mystical secrets of times gone by, an age-old wisdom that reminded him of things best forgotten: elusive enchantment, silent promises, creamy skin turned rose-gold by lamplight, and the disquieting waver of his resolve. For an instant, he felt as if he were drowning, inexorably pulled beneath the surface of her eyes.

  Then behind her in the mist a figure moved, shattering the haze of scent and shadow, and he released the pendant abruptly. A mailed soldier emerged from the archway, no doubt the guard he had earlier ordered to tend her while she made ready to journey to the king, but it was not a man he recognized.

  “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Giles, my lord. Of Caen. I was one of Sir Simon’s men, and was with him when he was killed. Alain de Montbray bade me be the lady’s guard, as I have knowledge of her tongue.”

  “My squire is most efficient, I see. Giles, see you that the lady is mounted and kept close to you. I would not have harm come to her, nor would I find it pleasant to explain to the king why she was not delivered to him as promised. If that should come about, it is to you I will direct the king’s questions. Is that understood?”

  Giles shifted uneasily and nodded. “I understand, my lord. I shall not allow her to come to harm, nor allow her to escape.”

  “Good. I see that we are alike in our purposes. You will be well rewarded for a job finely done.” It was unnecessary to repeat the rewards of failure. Facing a furious king was not a task any sane man would relish, especially when that monarch was William. The king was terrible in his rages, ruthless in his purposes, and few men escaped his wrath lightly. Yet for all the ease with which he could leave a man quaking in his boots, William was possessed of a strong sense of justice. Luc had long admired him, since the time William was only duke of Normandy, and he was still an earl’s cast-off son. It seemed decades ago, when in truth it had only been five years. But it was a long time to a man with little but the bitter dregs of disappointment for his daily fare.

  No longer. Through his own efforts, he had won lands and title, and these he would defend to the end of his strength. No man could take them away from him once William deeded them, none but the king himself. And that would not happen as long as Luc remained steadfast. Unlike his father.

  “My lord, your mount is ready.”

  Just behind Alain was the horse steward, his fists tightly gripping Drago’s halter and lead lines. The temperamental stallion pranced nervously at the end of his tether.

  “He is fresh this morn, my lord,” the steward said, panting. “I can barely keep him from breaking loose.”

  “He will settle in. Like the rest of us, Drago must learn to pace himself.”

  The steward grinned, his weathered face almost splitting at the seams. “I have rarely noticed you taking a slow pace, my lord.”

  “That is for old men like you, Paul.” Luc’s jest earned a chuckle from the steward, for at twenty-six he was younger than his lord by more than five years.

  Alain held out a brimming horn of ale, and Luc drained it quickly, then mounted the edgy destrier. He reined Drago in with a firm hand and looked down at his squire, who had retreated to a safe distance from the lethal hooves.

  “Captain Remy is in command while I am gone. See that he has what is necessary until my return.”

  “I had hoped you would change your mind and allow me to accompany you, my lord.”

  “I do not intend to be gone that long, Alain, and I need you here. Remy’s talent with soldiers is needed to hold Wulfridge, and your talent with servants is needed to make it livable.”

  Alain ducked his head, but not before Luc caught the sulky disappointment in his face. The squire was willful, but adept. He had been with Luc for three years, sent to him by a deseisined father as squire, for it was all that was left open to a young man without funds or prospects. At the time, it had seemed fitting to Luc, a landless squire for a landless knight,
both adrift in a ruthless world. Now there would be opportunity for both, if Alain would see past his resentment to the possibilities ahead.

  The squire murmured his compliance and wishes for a speedy journey, looking up with a tight smile. “I will see to Wulfridge as if it were my own, my lord.”

  “Prudent men are always rewarded well, Alain. It is a truth that I am more inclined to believe in now.”

  THE GROUP LEFT Wulfridge castle and took the narrow, crumbling road that led from the promontory to the marshes beyond. It was cold and damp, and the mist was heavy as the troop settled into a steady pace. They forded the river at a shallow point near a sandy wash, then clambered up the steep banks and entered a shadowed wood where little light penetrated the ancient trees and brush. It was silent here, save for the steady clop of hooves and incessant jangle of bridles and spurs.

  Luc resisted the temptation to seek out Ceara the first day, but rode at the head of the troop without looking back. Giles would tend her needs, and soon he would be rid of her. He knew he must leave it up to William to decide her fate, but at odd moments a vision of her wide blue eyes flashed before him in silent reproach. There was a part of him that admired her stubborn courage, and was astonished at her effrontery in donning battle gear and taking up a sword against him. That she had beat him in battle and single combat was as admirable as it was annoying. He anticipated many a jest at his expense when William’s court discovered it, as they surely would. In fact, that juicy bit of news would most likely reach William long before he did. Bad news winged swiftly, while good news plodded afoot.

  His great destrier settled into a steady rhythm on the narrow, rough track that passed for a road in this northern region. The frequent passage of carts had formed two ruts that straddled a thin line of frost-killed grass. Much of the road was washed away by rains, or gutted by huge holes that still held slushy puddles of brown water. When they at last broke from the forest into open land, the mist still blanketed the soggy moors stretching beyond the road on both sides. Gray skies melded with the dull gray mist to form a nearly seamless landscape. The dismal view made him long for the sunnier climes of France where he had spent so many years.

  But England was his home now, and what had France and Normandy given him but bitter shame? Nothing. It was here he would make his new life, seize the promise that had once been his and make it manifest.

  “My lord?”

  Luc half turned, lifting a brow when he recognized Giles approaching. The man-at-arms was slightly flushed, and looked uncomfortable when he drew his mount alongside his leader.

  “Yes, Giles, what is it?”

  “It is the lady, my lord.”

  A glance reassured Luc that Ceara was still with them, mounted on a fat gray mare that looked sulky at the brisk pace. The lady looked just as sulky, her mouth pressed in a taut line and her eyes mutinous. He looked back at Giles. “What about the lady?”

  “She is … uncooperative, my lord.”

  “Uncooperative.” Luc stared at Giles so long that the man-at-arms lowered his gaze and shifted uneasily in his saddle. “How is it you wish for her to cooperate?”

  Giles cleared his throat nervously. “She will not obey when I tell her not to rein back her mount to a slower pace. It is very difficult to keep my horse apace with the rest if I must be constantly slapping hers on the rump.” Giles scowled, his eyes flashing with ire. “The lady informed me that she does not have to keep up, that it is my duty to guard her, not drag her down the road.”

  “Did she now?” Luc suppressed a smile. “Then it is clear to me that you must take matters firmly into your own hands, Giles.”

  “But, my lord, she is very willful. When I tried to take the reins from her, she slapped me across the face with them. My cheek bled for near a mile.”

  There was, indeed, a red welt across Gile’s cheek, crusted with dried blood. Indignation glittered in the young man’s eyes, mixed with frustration.

  “Giles, when I bade you watch the lady, I did not say you must suffer insult at her hands. Take her reins and lead her horse, and if she resists, inform her that it is better you who takes them than me.”

  Triumph replaced the frustration in Giles’s face. “At once, my lord. And with great pleasure.”

  Luc watched with interest as Giles reined his mount around and returned to Ceara, and found it difficult to restrain his laughter when she sweetly relinquished her reins before the man-at-arms could even speak. It must have greatly diminished Giles’s satisfaction not to be able to convey the veiled threat he had been authorized to use.

  Looking past Giles, Ceara met Luc’s eyes with an innocent lift of one brow, as if she could not comprehend the man-at-arm’s ire. A clever wench, bold and saucy, cool and poised even with a dagger at her throat. She had the courage of a man, yet the mysterious moods and caprices that marked her actions were as incomprehensible to him as any woman’s.

  Strangely, it was not her defiance that nettled him as much as her compliance. Her inexplicable shift from snarling hatred to breathless yielding had nonplussed him most. He could deal with resistance handily, but her surrender had nearly undone him. His hard-won restraint had caused him a restless night and left his temper unreliable. Even now, he could visualize her naked body as if she were before him, the tempting allure of her sweet curves a prodding reminder that it had been overlong since he had been with a woman. When he reached William’s court, he would rectify that lack as soon as discreetly possible.

  As the day wore on, the morning mist finally lifted, and it grew lighter as the sun appeared from behind scudding clouds. With a gentle warmth filtering down over fields and road, the air grew pleasantly crisp. In a welcome contrast to the gloom of mist and cloud, the shafts of hazy light brightened the landscape and Luc’s mood. He felt as if he had the world in his fist.

  On the second night they made camp at dusk near the banks of the Wansbeck River. A thick wood stretched beyond the river, providing ample fuel for the fires. After the arduous day’s ride over miles of rough terrain, the prospect of a warm fire was an agreeable one. The wind was from the northeast, cold and damp and smelling faintly of salt though they were miles from the sea by now. It seeped through mail and clothing with icy fingers, and fires sprung up on the banks as soon as the men could gather wood and light them.

  Guards were posted around the camp at intervals, while others set about picketing horses, cleaning their gear, and preparing food for the evening meal. Luc cleaned his own gear as his squire had remained at Wulfridge, then knelt close to a fire to warm his bare hands. His mail gauntlets provided protection from sword but not the cold, and the heat slowly eased his cramping fingers.

  Ceara watched him silently. He had avoided her until now, leaving her in the care of Giles, who had looked so harried and miserable that Luc had finally relented long enough to order Ceara left in his charge for a time. She was wrapped in her long wool cloak, the hood over her bright hair as she huddled against the wind. The flames reflected in her eyes made them gleam like rare jewels.

  “Where do we go, my lord?” Her sudden question was so casual that he knew she had dwelt on it for some time before asking. Most likely, since they had left Wulfridge the day before. He shrugged.

  “To the king.”

  “Do you think me a lackwit? I am fully aware of the purpose for this journey, but not the destination. Is the king at Winchester?”

  Amused, Luc shook his head. “No, he is not. What would it matter to you where we find the king? His whereabouts will hardly affect his decision as to your fate.”

  She shifted, and held her hands out to the flames. The edges of her cloak parted, and the amber stone dangling against her breast glittered in the firelight. “I did not think it would, my lord. It’s just that I have never been to Winchester.”

  “Ah.” Luc studied her in the flickering glow. “A pity you must take to travel in this manner, then.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she bent her head so that the hood of her cloak
cast a deep shadow across her face. “Just so, my lord. I cannot think what came over me.”

  “Can you not?” Highly amused now, Luc rubbed his hands together briskly and asked, “Why did you break your sworn oath to the king? William does not take treason lightly.”

  “Nor do I.” Her head jerked up, and her eyes were slightly narrowed. “But I never swore an oath of fealty to William.”

  “Your father did.”

  “My father and I did not always agree. He hoped the king would be just.”

  “And you have found William not to be?”

  “Hardly just, to have helpless serfs slaughtered, their huts set afire and kine stolen, I think. But then, I am not Norman, so my views may be different than William’s or Sir Simon’s.”

  “Is that how your father died, demoiselle? Fighting Sir Simon?”

  She expelled a heavy breath that made the flames dance. “I have told you time and again—I set the men against Sir Simon. When he came to Wulfridge to demand that I surrender the castle and all that it contained, I refused.” She shrugged. “In retaliation, he burned villages and serfs, and ravaged the lands. He thought because I was a woman, I would be frightened into yielding.”

  “Instead you called up an army.”

  “Yea, and they fought well, every one of them.” Her voice quivered, and she lapsed into silence for a moment before adding softly, “They were all good men, but few were soldiers. Many of our fighting men were slain when the Danes attacked a fortnight before Sir Simon arrived. All we had left were serfs and a few vassals.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you pressed them into service.”