by The Vow
Once free of the tent, she glanced up warily. Soldiers lay near dyying fires and beneath brush shelters, still and quiet. The guards were posted in a circle around the camp at staggered intervals, and she paused to get her bearings. Already, she could hear the faint clink of mail and swords, and knew that they were restive. The wolf, no doubt. Guards would definitely be posted with the horses, and she must avoid going near the line where they were picketed. Fleeing on foot would hardly be easy, but she knew this country much better than did the Normans.
Newcastle was not too distant. She and Wulfric had visited the city on numerous occasions. It had been a treat for her to go to market there, and once they had traveled east of the town to an ancient priory to visit old Father Waltheof, who had instructed them in languages, sciences, and history when they were young. Wulfric had gone on to higher education, but as a female, her further education had been in matters of the house. An unhappy decision that had resulted in her first real rebellion. The result of which had been Wulfric’s secret promise to teach her to use a sword. And it was a promise he had made good on until her mother discovered them practicing in the outer courtyard one afternoon. Ah, the furor that had ensued!
What would her mother say if she could see her now? Lady Aelfreda would most certainly disapprove of some of the things she had done, but Ceara could not believe her mother would disapprove of this. Not after all that had happened. And besides, she had not given him her word.
Keeping to the shadows, Ceara edged around the tent toward the river. Her knees were shaking, and she knew that disaster loomed if she were caught. But she must flee before the wolf reached camp. It was Sheba. No other wolf had that little break, the sorrowful sound like a child’s sob in the midst of the lingering howl. It was only a matter of time before the wolf found her. And what would the Normans do then? Past experience had proven to her that few men were rational in the face of a snarling wolf. She could not be sure that she could keep Sheba from being harmed.
The wind was much colder by the river, blowing over the water and riffling tall grasses in a swishing sound that made her look over her shoulder. Her feet sank into the boggy ground, and water drenched her boots. She pulled one foot free with a sucking sound, and lifted her leg high to place it on firmer ground. It was so dark, with no moon to light the area: a mixed blessing. If she could not see, perhaps no one could see her.
Holding up the hem of her cloak and kirtle, she slogged along the riverbank away from the Norman camp. If Sheba was close, the wolf would be able to pick up her scent.
When she could no longer see the light from the campfires, Ceara paused, breathing hard. Then she whistled, a soft low sound like a night bird. But the only sounds in response were wind in the trees overhead, the clacking of empty branches, and the tumble of water over rocks. Her lips were dry. She wet them with the tip of her tongue and tried again.
This time, an excited yip came from close by. Straining to see through the trees and darkness, she could only make out a landscape of dark blues and dense black shapes.
Then something struck her hard between the shoulder blades with such force that she sprawled facedown amid the high weeds and twisted tree roots. She cried out involuntarily—and then realized it was Sheba, the rapturous swipes of a wet tongue on the back of her neck, cheek, and hand ample confirmation. She tried to roll over, but Sheba settled atop her in wolfish ecstasy, whining and pawing at her mistress, quivering with a blend of excitement and anxiety.
“Sheba, off … Sheba—no!”
In her pleasure, the wolf yapped like a dog, high-pitched yips stretching into vibrating moans that became howls. Suddenly terrified the noise would alert the Normans, Ceara summoned her strength and rolled over, grasping Sheba around the neck and pulling her head down to muffle the sounds. The wolf was delighted with this new game, and jerked from her hold to bound away, crouching with her front paws extended and her rear in the air. The elegant plume of her tail swished in excitement, a white flag against the black shadows surrounding them.
“Oh, Sheba, no,” Ceara moaned, but the animal would not be quieted. She pranced about, throwing back her head with howls of joy that the long separation was ended.
Ceara stumbled to her knees, and Sheba pounced, huge paws knocking her backward. Normally, this would have instigated another round of play, but now Ceara gripped Sheba in a desperately tight clasp, and in her sternest voice said, “Be still!”
Sheba responded by licking her from chin to brow, still wriggling with wolfish delight. But at least she was quiet. Holding on to the animal, Ceara lurched to her feet and stood a moment, listening. No alarm had been given, no hue and cry raised. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Using her dagger, she sliced a strip of cloth from her cloak and wrapped it around Sheba’s neck. It held the wolf now that she had grown calmer, and Ceara took a moment to kneel and press her face against Sheba’s.
“Good girl, Sheba. Ah, I’d like to know how you found me, cony, but I’m glad you did. Come along.”
“Come” was familiar, and Sheba aimed another loving swipe of her tongue, rising on her hind legs to drape her paws over Ceara’s shoulders as she had done since she was a pup. It knocked Ceara slightly off balance, and she flung out a hand to steady herself against the ground.
As she did, Sheba jerked away with a snarl. Startled, Ceara heard nothing else until a voice said from the shadows, “Be calm, and I will slay the beast.”
Luc. And he thought—
“No!” Ceara lunged for Sheba, who had gone into the low stalking position she used before she attacked. The wolf’s throaty growl rose into the air as she eluded her mistress. “Sheba—to me!”
The snapped command was all she could think to do, with Luc separating from the darker shadows around him, dull light glittering along the sharp edge of his drawn sword. The wolf she could stop, but Luc listened to no one.
He came forward with lifted sword, and Sheba did not retreat. The wolf stood in front of Ceara, her snarls growing louder and fiercer. But against the sword, she had little chance, and it was apparent that she would not leave her mistress.
“My lord, please … do not kill her.…” Ceara’s plea was almost a sob, but Luc paused. Kneeling on the ground, she put her arms around Sheba and tried to control the agitated wolf.
Stroking her, whispering soothing words in one breath and broken pleas in the other, Ceara held tightly to her beloved pet.
“You plead for a wolf?”
“Yea, my lord, I do. She is my pet. I do not know how she found me, but she is here … please, my lord. Do not slay her. She is all I have left of Wulfric.”
Silence greeted her. It grew long before Luc asked abruptly, “Who is Wulfric?”
She closed her eyes. Why had she mentioned him? This Norman would never understand. Not a man like him, so full of confidence and arrogant virility.
But Luc would not be stayed, and demanded more harshly: “Who is Wulfric?”
Ceara opened her eyes, and stood slowly, keeping one hand on the wolf still crouched warily between them.
“My husband.”
Chapter Six
IT SEEMS, MY lady,” Luc managed to say calmly, “that you are as full of lies as you are tricks. You swore you were virgin, yet now you say you are married.”
She shook her head, and her pale hair gleamed softly in the faint blue light. “Nay, lord. Wulfric is dead.”
“A fine distinction.” He eyed the wolf a moment, the white beast whose howls had put the entire camp in chaos. Two horses had broken free and fled into the night, and his men were forced to go after them—putting them in unnecessary danger in unfamiliar territory.
Taking a step back, he gestured with his sword. “Do you have a way of containing the beast? If you do not, I will be forced to slay it.”
“Aye, my lord. I do. A leather belt would hold her—”
“As you no doubt can see, I did not pause to don my usual garments and armor. Use something else.” A cold wind blew
through his thin sherte and linen chausses. He hefted his naked blade in his hand, impatient and angry and oddly grieved that she had so boldly lied to him, and that he had been fool enough to believe her.
“I beg pardon, my lord. I … did not notice. I have a strip of cloth somewhere close.” She dropped to her hands and knees and felt around on the ground. The wolf continued to eye him warily and make low threatening noises that did nothing to contribute to his good temper. Just when he was ready to bring up his sword, Ceara straightened.
“I found it. She will not harm you, my lord, not if I tell her not to. I swear it.” Crouched beside the beast, her face and hair a pale haze in the dim light, Ceara stared up at him as she slid the cloth strip around the wolf’s neck and crooned soothing sounds that could only lead him to believe that she was not at all certain the wolf would not attack.
“Do not be misled,” he said harshly. “I may yet slay the beast. It matters not if she is your pet if she attacks my horses or men.”
“She will not, I swear—”
“Your sworn word does not carry the weight it might have earlier, demoiselle.”
His clipped response silenced her immediately, and Ceara bent her head to finish restraining the wolf. When she was finished, she rose slowly to her feet and with great dignity and poise she said, “Shall I walk ahead of you, my lord?”
“At sword point.” He hefted his weapon and she strode past him, half dragging the reluctant wolf.
Their arrival in camp brought instant pandemonium, and Luc bellowed an order for his men to fall into file. Grumbling, they lined up in various stages of undress, eyeing the wolf.
“It is a tame wolf, by the lady’s account, so I do not want it yet destroyed.” Luc heard Ceara’s muffled sound of distress, but did not even glance toward her. “I want two volunteers to fashion a cage for the beast, built of sturdy wood that will keep it confined.”
“A cage!” Ceara burst out, for the English and French words were the same. “She is not to be kept in a cage—”
He turned to her. “If you want her alive, she will be caged. It is your choice, my lady.”
After a short pause, she nodded shortly.“ Of course, my lord. A cage will keep your poor men safe enough, I think.”
“Do not try my patience, for I think your wolf will regret it more than you,” he said softly, and her anxious gaze flicked up to him. Light from the recently stoked fire slanted across her face so that he could see the impact of his words. He was satisfied that she believed him.
“Yea, lord. I understand.”
“A bit late, I think.” Luc turned away sharply and beckoned to the two men who had reluctantly stepped forward. “Build the cage quickly, and place it on one of the carts. I want nothing to impede our swift progress to the king.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The speaker hesitated, and glanced at the wolf nervously. Sheba obliged him by showing her teeth in a fearsome snarl that made him take two steps back and turn to Luc, his face white. “Must we also put the wolf into the cage?”
“The lady will do that. For now, bring me a stout length of chain to bind the animal.”
He half expected another protest from Ceara, but she said nothing when he bade her chain the wolf to a thick tree and added, “If it flees, I will send men to kill it.”
Still silent, she nodded and knelt beside the animal, whispering to it and stroking the huge head. In the firelight, he could see that the wolf was almost entirely white, save for faint streaks of brown along the back and on the tips of the ears. In contrast to her matted fur, the tail was thick and bushy, a graceful fan that swished back and forth as Ceara spoke. To his irritated surprise, the wolf lavished a sloppy tongue across her face, then threw back its head and emitted a long, gurgling howl. Immediately, the horses began to shrill frantically, and he heard his men cursing.
“If you wish for a swift fate, my lady, you will encourage the animal in that madness.”
“She cannot help it. She’s a wolf. Wolves howl.”
“I will not have my horses running all over northern England because you cannot control your pet. Either silence the beast, or my sword will.”
Urgency thickened her voice as Ceara took the wolf’s head between her hands and gave it a slight shake. “Stop it, Sheba. Be still. Be still!”
The wolf hung its head, ears splayed to the sides. Despite his reservations and his anger, Luc could not help being somewhat bemused by the relationship between Ceara and this savage beast her husband had given her.
Wulfric … her husband.…
“Leave the beast, now, my lady. We must discuss a certain matter.”
She looked up at him and took a deep breath. “Yea, my lord, we must. May I beg a morsel for Sheba? She’s so thin, she must not have eaten for days.”
“I suppose a well-fed wolf is less dangerous.” Even while he gave the order for a joint of mutton left from their evening meal to be tossed to the wolf, he wondered why he had not just slain it. It would be much less trouble. Yet it was obvious this creature meant a great deal to Ceara, and nothing else had brought her to her knees. If a wolf could accomplish what he could not, then it might well be worth the trouble, after all.
With great reluctance, Ceara left the wolf and walked to the tent, her feet dragging. The hem of her cloak hung at an odd angle, and the pretty blue kirtle she wore was wet and stained, torn in two places. Even her boots were ruined.
Once inside, Ceara moved swiftly to the far wall and turned to glare at him, grim and wide-eyed with apprehension. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her chin was lifted in a gesture he’d come to recognize, while her mouth was set in a taut, stubborn line.
He did not delay. “You have tried to play me for a fool, my lady. That does not set well with me.”
“My lord—”
He put up a hand to forestall her excuses. “Do not bother concocting another wild tale. It is not me that you will have to tell. But you had best invent another, more plausible tale for the king, for he will not so easily swallow such a lie.”
“It is no lie. You never asked if I was married.”
Caught between incredulity and anger, Luc stared at her. “Perhaps you have told so many lies you’ve forgotten this one, but you said plainly that you were virgin. Normally, a damsel does not remain virgin after marriage, unless Saxons have found a new way to circumvent that.”
“No, my lord, but—”
Anger overrode restraint, and Luc was in front of her in two strides, grabbing her by the upper arms to give her a vicious shake. “If you dare tell me some ridiculous tale of virginity after bedding, I will not be responsible for what I do.”
His rough handling had whipped the hair into her eyes, and the look she gave him through the bright tangled strands was dark with defiance. “It’s true.”
“Jésu!” Because he was so near to losing control, he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling backward. “Tell me this—how long were you wed before he died?”
“That is not the point, my lord, for you see—”
“How long, my lady?”
At the menace in his tone, she snapped, “Three years.”
“Three years.” He repeated the words slowly, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from wrapping them around her deceitful neck. “Yet you expect me to believe that he did not bed you.”
“I did not say we did not share a bed, only that—”
“By all the saints, if you finish that sentence I will make you sorry.” He inhaled deeply, but the rage that had been building up in him since she had blurted out her husband’s name did not fade. “This, of course, explains many things that puzzled me,” he said when he could speak calmly. “Few untried maids are so casual about a man’s body as you were. Or as casual about their own. I should not have been surprised by your offer or—”
He broke off, raking her mutinous face with a slow, assessing gaze before saying softly, “But perhaps I have misjudged. Since you were so willing before, my
lady, I see no reason to delay. I intended to avail myself of the favors of une putain when I reached York, but why wait? After all, you are here and it has been a long time.”
Clad only in his chausses, boots, and linen sherte, it would not take him long to disrobe, and he eyed her startled face with bleak satisfaction. “What? No coy pretense? No bold acceptance? Which are you, Ceara of Wulfridge, whore or maid?”
She watched him uncertainly, her eyes moving to his bare chest as he tossed aside his linen sherte, then back to his face when his hands dropped to the cross-garters that held up his chausses.
“You would not dare—”
“Oh, yes, Ceara, I would most certainly dare.” Holding her gaze, he untied his chausses and let them drop to the floor, then kicked free of his boots. “Come along, wench. Disrobe for me, as you did last time. I wish to see what I have bartered for.”
“Bartered!” The word came out in an explosive rasp. “I am no bread loaf to be haggled over!”
“True. But neither are you the virgin you pretended to be. One more man can hardly make a difference to you, and since ’tis you who began this game, I shall be the one to end it. Now remove your clothing.”
She flung up a hand when he tucked his thumbs into the waist of his loincloth, her mouth trembling a little. “Do not pursue this further, my lord. There is something I must explain—”
“No. No more lies.” In a swift motion, he removed his loincloth and cast it aside to stand boldly before her. Ceara stood as if frozen. He had been such a fool, refusing to take her because she was an untried maid. How she must have laughed at him. But she would not laugh now. Now, he intended to humble her. Her shame would be small penance for the trouble she had caused him, for the past two nights when he had lain awake and restless, his body afire with need for her, the memory of her unclad curves and sultry promise scalding him.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do you not wish to disrobe for me? Please, go slowly, ma biche, as I wish to savor the moment. Ofttimes, the anticipation will enhance the act, much as fine wine is best when it has aged.”