Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  “Would you have me meekly yield up what is mine? Nay, I would not, not to Sir Simon, and not to you. You are like, in that you are both arrogant and insatiable.”

  “You should have considered negotiation. Not even arrogant, insatiable men enjoy losing good men and horses.”

  “I offered Sir Simon a truce when he first came to Wulfridge. He did not take it.”

  Luc fell silent. It had the ring of truth to it, for he had known of Sir Simon, a pompous knight with a reputation for cruelty. After a moment, he looked up at her again, frowning. “What kind of truce did you offer?”

  “What difference does that make? He slew the messenger I sent him, and returned poor Edric’s ears to me with a letter demanding unconditional surrender. Until then, I had offered only token resistance, for I listened to other counsel. But when my advisers saw Sir Simon’s reply, no one could argue that he would be merciful.”

  “If what you say is true, Ceara, then the king will make amends. But if you lie, he will be ruthless.”

  “And do you think the king would believe anything I might say?” She shook her head incredulously. “He will not.”

  “You may be surprised.”

  “I long ago ceased to be surprised by the nature of man, so I doubt seriously that your king can astonish me.” She bent her head to concentrate on the folds of her cloak, as if they were the most important thing in the world.

  Luc regarded her with reluctant compassion, an emotion that was as startling as it was aggravating. Beneath her prickly surface there was an innate dignity and hidden gentleness. The invisible armor she wore was thick enough to deflect pity and compassion from most, but there were moments in which she let down her guard. Like now, staring morosely into the flames, her tender years evident as she clung tightly to the edges of her cloak. It could not be easy for her, yet she refused to retreat, refused to swear a fealty she did not espouse. Her honor, alone, made her admirable to him. He had his fill of those too quick to swear, too quick to deceive.

  It occurred to him as he watched her that perhaps he was becoming too involved with her. And when she glanced up at him with wide eyes and a tremulous smile that made his belly tighten, he knew it for certain.

  Chapter Five

  SPARKS FLEW UP from the fire as a log burned through with a snapping sound. In the distance, a wolf howled, its desolate cry shivering through the night. Ceara’s head jerked up, and she half rose to her feet.

  “It is only a wolf,” Luc reassured her. “It will not come too close to our fires. They avoid man for the most part.”

  “And who said animals were dumb beasts?” Ceara replied in a shaky voice. Her hands trembled as she wrapped them in her cloak. Luc would not have expected this fierce little Saxon to be afraid of a wolf’s cry in the night, not the same woman who had defied Sir Simon to his teeth, and offered Luc a challenge in every breath. He was almost beginning to regret the necessity of taking her to the king.

  It shouldn’t matter to him what happened to her, he reminded himself. But in these fearsome times it was hard for a man to keep his wits about him and remain steadfast, and for a woman to do so was even more surprising. If it was true that she had held Wulfridge against the Danes, it was an astounding feat.

  “Why did word not come to William that Lord Balfour had died?” he asked after a moment, and she turned to him with an odd look in her eyes.

  “Why? ’tis obvious, I would think.”

  “To you, perhaps. But I am slow. Tell me the reason.”

  A faint smile curved her mouth. “I swore our vassals to secrecy. Do you think I wanted to be used as a pawn? If Earls Cospatric or Edgar learned of my father’s death, they would be as like to seize Wulfridge as William. When I explained it thus to Balfour’s loyal vassals, they understood well enough what was at risk. Our numbers were so few after Hastings that only William’s sanction had saved my father from the Scots and Danes who coveted our holdings.” She shrugged. “When the time finally came when I must choose fox or weasel, I chose the least likely to ravage the lands. It seems I was mistaken.”

  “Not so. William would never have sent me to seize Wulfridge had you not attacked Sir Simon.”

  “I would not have attacked Sir Simon had he not slain my messenger, an unarmed boy of only fifteen!”

  Luc frowned. He disliked complexities of this nature, for it was never simple to discover who lied. Sir Simon was dead, but there were those still alive who could tell another side to the tale, and Luc determined that he would discover the truth before he delivered this hostage to William. If she lied, she would reap the reward of her perfidy. If she did not, he would plead her cause, though he doubted she would thank him for it.

  Ceara’s eyes were watchful as she stared into the shadows beyond the campfires. When Luc rose to his feet, she leaped up as well, eyes mirroring the dwindling light.

  “Grant me permission to tend my needs in private, my lord.”

  Her terse request made him hesitate. To allow her to wander alone in the wood was to invite trouble, yet there was no other woman to accompany her. Giles had relinquished temporary custody of her to Luc with obvious relief—but now he must be recalled.

  “I grant you leave to tend your needs privately, but must require that you be shackled to your guard by means of a long tether, demoiselle.”

  Bright splotches of color stained her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “Yea, I had forgotten how nervous you Normans can be in the face of such a fearsome foe as an unarmed woman, my lord. Pray, forgive my oversight and call to me the quaking guard who has plagued me with endless complaints since we left Wulfridge behind.”

  “There are moments you sorely test my patience, Ceara. It might be to your advantage to see both sides of the coin at times.”

  “All I see are two sides of a Norman coin, and neither side is pleasing to me.” She held her cloak more tightly around her as the wind caught one edge and lifted it. “It is near dark. I would prefer to go while there is yet light enough not to fall down a ravine. Unless it is your goal to rid yourself of me in that manner?”

  “Were I trying to rid myself of you, the sword would be more swift and less uncertain, demoiselle. Do not tempt me.”

  Luc beckoned Giles to him, and did not miss the quick glance of dislike he directed at Ceara. Unsurprising, as she surely had bedeviled the man-at-arms most unmercifully.

  “When the lady has no further need of you, Giles, I would speak with you,” he added after instructing him to bind her to him tightly. “Bring her back to the fire so that she may eat while we converse.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  By the time they returned, dark had fallen and torches lit the camp. Giles wore the expression of a man greatly harassed, and his lips were taut with anger. As usual, Ceara was coolly composed, and took a seat by the fire as if naught were amiss. When she began to pick at her food with blithe unconcern for the two men watching her, Luc led Giles to one side.

  “I vow, my lord,” Giles burst out in French, “she has a tongue sharp as a blade! It does not matter what is done or not done, it is not to her liking, and her words cut a man like a sword.”

  “I agree that she is a bit difficult. Yet she is a woman, Giles, and a hostage. You must not allow her to bully you.”

  “Allow?” The word came out in a strangled croak. “I would have to kill her to stop her.”

  “That is not an option. Your task is to guard her so that no harm comes to her, and if you must endure hardship, you will have to deal with it as best you can. In fact, I did not wish to talk to you about the lady, but about Sir Simon. You were his man, were you not?”

  Giles nodded rather sullenly. “For two years, since before we left Normandy.”

  “Tell me about Sir Simon’s arrival at Wulfridge.”

  “What is it you wish to know, my lord?”

  “Why were you there?”

  Giles looked puzzled. “Sir Simon was bade by the king to survey and record this region of Northumbria, and t
o determine the intent of the barons here.”

  “Were there records made?”

  “I would not know that, my lord. Sir Simon’s clerk would be better qualified to answer that question. I do know that no inventory was made, as we were refused entry.”

  “Did Sir Simon negotiate with the lady to be admitted to Wulfridge?”

  Giles shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He glanced about the camp, then back at Luc. “Sir Simon was not possessed of tact, my lord. He disliked negotiations and much preferred the language of the sword. He oft said it removed the necessity of lengthy conversation.”

  “And did he slay a messenger sent out from Wulfridge, and cut off his ears, as I have been told?”

  Reddening, Giles nodded slowly. “The messenger brought a plea for time instead of immediate surrender, and that was Sir Simon’s reply.”

  So Ceara had not lied. Not about that.

  “You may rejoin your comrades now, Giles. I will see to the lady for the night.”

  Giles’s relief was obvious, and he left quickly, as if afraid Luc might change his mind. The men rolled up in blankets beneath trees and small shelters of brush and limbs, but a tent had been set up for Luc’s use. He smiled to see it. How quickly circumstances changed, for only a short time before he had been one of the men shivering by the fire. Now he had a tent, position, and the respect that was given a man as lord.

  At the moment the tent was the most important reward, and he moved toward it. The limber walls shivered in the press of wind, stretched taut by ropes and poles. A light burned inside, a steady inviting glow.

  Luc paused by the fire and held out his hand to Ceara. She stared at it warily for a moment, then rose slowly to her feet. When he did not move, she took a deep breath and gingerly placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers around her palm. “Join me in the tent, my lady.”

  “Do you dare risk being alone with me, my lord? I might be dangerous.”

  Luc laughed softly at her testy tone. “You are most definitely dangerous. But I am a man who loves a challenge, unlike poor Giles. You have terrified the man.”

  “Good. He is a spineless cur. I doubt he has ever used his sword for anything other than shaving, for he is as clumsy a cow as ever I have seen.”

  “Nevertheless, you will cease tormenting him.”

  “Why? It amuses me. And I have done nothing to him, save point out a few of his weaknesses. He will be a better man for it. You should thank me.”

  “No doubt the king himself will wish to show his appreciation for your philanthropy, but I am not so inclined.” His hand tightened around her fingers in a gentle warning. “It would be to your best interests to heed my advice, demoiselle.”

  “That is debatable, but I will take it under consideration since you have asked so nicely.”

  Tension underscored her words, and Luc paused beneath the sputtering light of a pine torch to look at her more closely. The hood shadowed her face, but there was a quivering agitation about her that struck him.

  “What is it you fear, demoiselle?”

  “I fear nothing.”

  The words came quickly, much too quickly, an abrupt denial that did not ring true. His gaze sharpened. Something had unnerved her, and he did not think it was her precarious situation with the king. Did she fear being alone with him in the tent? No, not after the events of two nights before when she had all but flung herself at him. It could not be that.

  “As you say, my lady. Here, step into my tent. It is much warmer out of the wind.”

  As he spoke he urged her toward the open tent flap with firm patience, and after a last brief resistance, she stepped just inside and stopped. It was only when he entered behind her, his body forcing her forward a step, that she moved farther inside. She turned toward him, looking as if she were poised for flight.

  “I prefer sleeping outside, my lord.”

  “Your preference is not mine, however. There are cushions, blankets, and a skin of wine here. It would be foolish to sleep outside when it is much warmer in the tent.” When she stared at him unmoving, he lifted a brow. “Do you fear I will force myself on you?”

  She made a rude noise and shrugged as she began to unfasten the brooch that closed her cloak at her throat. “That is hardly one of my great concerns, my lord.”

  Annoyed that she would treat it so lightly, he demanded with a sharp edge to his voice, “Do you think me incapable?”

  Her fingers stilled on the silver cloak pin, and she looked up at him with a faint smile. “I am not so advanced in age that I have forgotten how … capable … you were on the night before last, my lord. Nor am I so blind that I could not see the size of your capabilities.”

  Luc stared at her, chagrined at the hot flush he could feel rising up his throat and face. “Bon Dieu—you dare to remind me … Jésu! Have you no shame?”

  “Perhaps you have forgotten, but I was not the one who disrobed first. Is it shame only if it is not the man’s idea?”

  For the life of him, he could not think of a worthy response. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and after a moment Ceara shrugged out of her cloak as if he were not standing there in furious, choked silence. She draped the wool garment over a small stool and moved to warm her hands at a brass brazier filled with glowing coals.

  Curse her, she was so cool now, when only a moment before she had displayed such uneasiness. A changeling, with mercurial moods that always left him feeling as if he had made a misstep. It was not a familiar sensation, nor one that he relished.

  “There are blankets on the floor for your use,” he said abruptly. “Give me your word you will not attempt escape, and I will not bind you.”

  Her head came up, eyes wide and shadowed as she stared at him. The silence stretched. The wind gusted against the tent walls with a thumping sound, and the faint howl of a wolf rent the night air, closer than before.

  Ceara blew out a small breath and smiled faintly. “Do not trust me, my lord, for if the chance should come, I fear that I would do what I felt I must.”

  He had not really expected her to promise, but it was irritating that she would not yield in even this small thing. If she would not swear to this, it was unlikely that she would swear to William. And that monarch would not take her refusal lightly.

  Grimly, Luc bound her right wrist with a stout length of rope, and fastened the other end to the wooden frame of the cot erected for his use. Alone, it would never hold her, but with his weight in the cot, she would not escape.

  With deliberate silence, he examined the reports his scribe had prepared for William, ignoring Ceara. If he had thought to annoy her, it seemed that she was pleased to be ignored, for she said nothing, lying upon the pile of blankets in silent contemplation of the tent ceiling. He read the neatly penned reports for some time, then glanced up.

  Ceara lay in repose, her eyes closed and her hands crossed over her chest as if laid upon a funeral bier. His lips twitched with wry humor. She was either overly dramatic or hoped that he would find her dismissal of him deflating. Even more deflating was the fact that she was right. If ever there was a woman who could shake his confidence, this might be the one.

  Praise God that he would not have to deal with her much longer. Once matters were set aright with William, the king would no doubt find her a suitable husband and send her off to some remote part of England where she would be of little danger to anyone, including herself.

  Rising from the small, hard stool, he stretched to ease his cramped muscles, then moved to the narrow cot and lay upon it fully clothed. Morning would come much too quickly. If William were not back at York, he would have to travel on to Stafford to find him, or worse—Winchester. It would take over-long, when he was anxious to get back to Wulfridge and set about making the land profitable.

  It did not escape him that if not for the stubborn courage of the girl lying so close, Wulfridge might yet be in the hands of the Saxons and he would still be a landless knight. What fate took from one, it
oft gave to another.

  He turned in his cot to look at Ceara in the faint glow of the lamp. She looked lovely and serene, almost vulnerable. For a moment he regretted the necessity of what he must do. But then he steeled himself. It was the way of things.

  Outside, the wolf howled again, and he heard the uneasy snorting of the horses. Then came the sound of men cursing, and a rattle of steel. The men were nervous and on guard. It was not a good night for Saxon wolves to be about.

  THE LAMP GUTTERED and died. Ceara was tensely aware of Luc as she listened to his breathing slip into the even rhythm of slumber. It had seemed as if he would never tire. She was still trying to decide what to do when the mournful wail of a wolf mingled with the rising wind outside.

  Slowly, Ceara slid the stolen dagger from beneath her long skirts, breathing a silent prayer of gratitude that she had been bound with a rope instead of a chain. Since they had left Wulfridge, she carried the dagger fastened to her thigh with a garter. Now with her left hand, she sawed clumsily at the thick rope binding her to the cot, careful not to tug so hard that it would jostle the frame. Curse him for tying her right hand instead of her left. It made this twice as difficult.

  When she finally felt the rope fibers fray and part, she seized the freed end and wrapped it carefully around a heavy pelt. If he felt for her in the dark, he would find the rope anchored by weight instead of hanging loose.

  She fumbled for her cloak in the deep shadows lightened only by the torchlight from outside the tent, pulling it clumsily about her neck. There would be time later to fasten it properly. Now she was propelled by urgency. Stealthily, her progress accompanied by the pounding of her heart, she crawled to the closed flap of the tent. A sliver of light was barely visible between the flap and floor, and with trembling fingers she managed to unfasten the buckle holding it shut. As she lifted the heavy flap, cold air whisked over her face through the narrow gap. It smelled of smoke.

  Sprawled flat on her stomach, she wriggled beneath the stiff, oiled hide. Fallen leaves and dirt scraped her bare palms, and her legs tangled in the long folds of her skirt so that she had to hike it up above her knees.