by The Vow
She must have fallen asleep, for she was jerked awake by Sheba’s growl, and lifted her head. Then she flushed with embarrassment, for standing in the open door of the chamber and looking frozen with panic was Luc’s squire.
“My lord,” Alain said, his quavering voice soft and terrified, “is this the tame wolf?”
Luc had already sat up, one hand on his dagger and his eyes alert. “Yes. What do you here, Alain?”
“I brought the food you requested. Do I leave it in the antechamber for you?”
Shifting, Luc dragged the coverlet up over her, while Ceara nestled beneath it quickly. He flung her an amused glance, and tucked the coverlet around her before he rose from the bed and reached casually for his linen leggings.
“Leave the food in there, Alain. And if you wish to make a friend, toss the mutton joint to the wolf.”
Alain made an inarticulate sound, then squeaked in alarm as Sheba caught the huge mutton joint in her jaws with a growl of satisfaction. Trotting past the squire, she came back into the chamber to curl up by the bed and gnaw her supper. Luc watched curiously, then glanced back at Alain with a grin as he laced his leggings around his waist.
“She would make a brave man quail, I think.”
“Yes, my lord.” Alain swallowed hard. His grin was weak. “I would not want to face the wolf without a weapon.”
Ceara held back the tart words on the tip of her tongue. Soon, she would tell Luc that she could speak his language, and truthfully, she was not sure why she had not yet done so. Caution, perhaps, that bade her wait until she was certain she could trust him. A laugh caught in her throat. Foolish, to not trust him enough to speak his tongue, but allow him access to her body and her emotions.
When Alain left, she rose from the bed and followed Luc into the antechamber, the coverlet wrapped around her body and dragging along the floor. He eyed her with a lifted brow but did not comment except to say there was food and wine.
Warm meat and a round of cheese lay next to a trencher of white bread, and she picked at the bread, tearing off tiny portions to chew slowly while she poured wine. It was new wine, sweet and not heavy, tasting of summer grapes from across the Channel. A musty flavor filled her mouth as she drank, and she watched Luc over the rim of her goblet while he used his dagger to slice off generous slabs of boiled beef.
His bare chest gleamed in the lamplight, a rich golden sheen that made her think of summer days when the sun would darken her skin so that she had to wear long sleeves to keep from being as brown as a peasant. Yet on Luc, the bronze burnish of his muscled skin was attractive.
Ceara perched atop a stool. Her heart clutched at the knowledge that he had become much too important to her. Why had she allowed herself to care about him? To think about him at odd moments during the day, becoming as dreamy-eyed as a serving wench over a stable lad?
Never had she thought to lose herself this way. Not even with Wulfric had she been so moon-eyed, watching for him around every corner and waiting for the sound of his voice. Somehow their physical closeness had bound her to Luc. It had to be that. There was no other reason for her powerless slide into this ridiculous fascination. It left her uneasy, and she frowned as she wondered if he regretted leaving behind the Lady Amélie. Did he think of his lost love often? Did he wish that it was Amélie he had wed instead of her?
It was a question that tormented her at unexpected moments. Never had he indicated his loss, yet she could not forget that scene at York, when he had expressed regret for being forced to wed another, and held the lady so tenderly in his arms. Amélie. She hated even the name, resented being a substitute for another woman.
Glancing up at Luc, Ceara fought an odd sense of betrayal. Had he forgotten Lady Amélie?
She stuffed a wedge of cheese into her mouth, and realized that she was starving. The day had been long and the journey rough, for Luc had pushed them hard to reach Wulfridge before dark and cold overtook them. But at least now they were here, and Sheba was safe, and away from danger. It would never have done to leave her in the stables, for though Paul seemed kind, his new Saxon assistant was Hardred, who had never liked Ceara or the wolf. She was grateful Luc had relented.
Chewing, she looked up at him again, and thought of the man he had called his brother. Was it for Jean-Paul that he had hurried back to Wulfridge? But no—she had the distinct impression that his brother’s arrival was a surprise, and an unpleasant one. But why? She knew so little about Luc, other than the few things Robert of Brionne had told her—a fount of useful information if he was approached the right way. Yet when she had asked Sir Robert direcdy about Luc’s family, he had evaded her questions with a skill that did not fool her for an instant.
With one foot tucked beneath her, she swung her other foot idly, reaching for a piece of cheese from the wooden platter as she asked, “Luc, who was that man in the hall?”
Luc paused in pouring wine, then shrugged as he lifted the goblet and drank. When he set it down again, he answered, his voice curt, “My brother.”
“You never mentioned you have a brother.” She ran a finger over the scarred wood of the table, an old one that should have been repaired long ago. It wobbled badly when leaned against, as she was doing now.“ Is he here to stay?”
“Jean-Paul will not dare accost you again. Not even my reckless brother would push me that far.”
She looked up at him, curious at the bitterness in his eyes and tone. “You have no love for him?”
Luc drew in a deep breath and turned away. “I have not seen him since he left Normandy.”
The tone of his voice did not invite more questions, but Ceara could not help asking, “Why is there enmity between you? Was there trouble with an inheritance?”
Luc’s brows lifted, and his mouth twisted in a grimace that held no humor. He snarled, “No, he inherited what he deserved from our father, while I was given the off side of their hands. Now, he bemoans the fate he earned, and would have me do what he would not do years ago.”
When Ceara would have questioned him more, Luc turned to her with a ferocity she had not seen of late, and bade her not ask him anything more. “I will not ruin my night with more thought of Jean-Paul. If you have questions, ask him. He will be more than glad to give you answers, though I doubt they will have the ring of truth to them.”
Unwilling to destroy their growing closeness, she bent her head and nodded. She intended to do just what he suggested. On the morrow, she would ask her questions. If there was to be trouble at Wulfridge, she would know it as soon as possible. And there were few more certain methods of finding out answers than asking the right person. She smiled slightly, and reached for another wedge of cheese.
Alain would know. Squires were usually privy to all manner of secrets, and from what she had seen of this one, he would have the information she wanted.
IT WAS A week before Ceara found the opportunity to query Alain, and he was not at all disposed to reply. His look was cool, and he only shrugged when she approached him in the outer hall and asked how much English he could speak.
Frowning, she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, then affected a winning smile. “Come now, Alain, you must know enough English to deal with the servants here. I think you just do not wish to talk to me. But I understand.”
Alain’s hazel eyes were hostile, and there was no suggestion of a thaw. He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug. “J’ai perdu, vous avez l’avantage, comtesse.”
“Advantage?” She picked out the only word that sounded the same in English and in French, and deliberately misunderstood him. “No, no, Alain. I have not taken advantage of you, if that is what you mean. Your offer of friendship came at a time when I trusted no one Norman, especially those who had invaded my home. Surely you can understand that. Giles was—shall we say—insistent that I yield. He was most unpleasant, and in the end, it would not have mattered to either of us if I trusted you. The kings command is ours to obey, it seems.”
“Il faut lui rendre compte de tout.”
Ceara smiled. “Now, perhaps you will be more at ease if I tell you that I appreciate your former offer of friendship. In these times, a true friend is better than gold.”
Some of Alain’s hostility faded, and there was a flicker of wary sympathy in his eyes. “Les amis sont comme le melon, il faut en essayer plusieurs pour en trouver un bon.…”
He was not as susceptible as she’d hoped, quoting the proverb that one should not trust a new friend or an old enemy, but she sensed that he had begun to soften toward her a little. She took a small risk.
“On connaît les amis au besoin.… An old proverb, but one that is still true, Alain. And a friend in need is what I am.”
Alain’s brows lifted at her French quote and clumsy accent, and now he smiled broadly. “Parlez-vous Français!”
“Un peu. A little. Not well, but I think you speak English well, do you not?”
Now Alain shrugged expansively, and said in thickly accented English, “Enough to give commands.” He frowned then, shaking his head. “I admired you, comtesse. If you thought I meant more, Giles misled you.”
This was not the time to debate the truth, and so she simply smiled. “Giles had his own ends in mind, I think, but he was sorely disappointed if he thought to undo me. I had the best of him long before we reached York, and had only to sit back and watch him destroy himself.”
Lifting his shoulders again, Alain looked down at the ledgers he held. “He has disappointed me. I thought better of him.”
Ceara did not comment on Alain’s sudden command of excellent English, but said instead, “I fear that our visitor is much of the same cloth as Giles. He has his own goals, I think, and it worries me.”
Alain looked a little surprised. “Do you mean the earl’s brother?”
“His name is Jean-Paul. He confronted me in the corridor outside my chamber, and I am afraid our first meeting did not go well.”
A faint smile touched Alain’s mouth. “So I have heard. Servants gossip, and the boy Rudd is no exception.”
“Rudd is a good boy, and quick for his age and size.” She paused, wondering how far she could go to get the information she desired. It was apparent he knew much more than he betrayed, and yet he was still obviously wary of her.
“Rudd is quick enough,” Alain conceded, “and obedient most of the time. As I must be, and Lord Luc has requested these ledgers to be brought to him.”
Alain bowed slightly and moved away, and Ceara asked softly, “Is it true that you are privy to everything of importance that happens here, Alain?”
Her query stopped him and he turned back to face her. “Most of it. I am much more than just squire, but have become vital to the earl.” A flicker of spite flared in his eyes, and he smiled. “Women can be displaced, but a squire who is scribe and steward and valet is hard to replace.”
“No doubt.” Ceara bit back the tart reply on the tip of her tongue, and managed an admiring comment instead. “It is obvious you are a man of consequence. You are most like privy even to personal details that none other would know.”
“Sans doute.”
“That is what I told Captain Remy, but of course, he has no such good opinion of your position.” She had done nothing of the sort, though she had long suspected a rivalry between the captain and the squire, and when Alain’s eyes flashed with outrage and his face reddened, she was certain of it.
“Sacré bleu, je m’en fiche de le capitaine.…” He paused and drew in a deep breath, then blew it out again. Stepping close, he said softly, “The good captain had best watch his back, for he is not in the earl’s best graces after allowing his men to slaughter helpless servants. No, not yet has he won back Lord Luc’s respect, so he should look to his own instead of belittling my influence. If not for me, the earl’s own brother might at this very moment be cast outside the castle with his companions instead of sitting comfortably by a fire.”
“Poor Jean-Paul. But no doubt he deserves his brother’s anger, is that not so?”
Alain shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“But you would have no way of knowing about that, I am certain.…”
“Si fait.” He lowered his voice, stepping even closer to her, so that his breath was warm against her cheek, smelling of wine. “I know that the earl’s brother betrayed him years ago, and if not for the fact that he also betrayed William, Lord Luc would most like be dead by now.”
“Luc betrayed the king?”
“No, no, it was the earl’s father and brother who were accused of treason. Jean-Luc de Montfort lost his head for it, but his son, Jean-Paul, fled to King Malcolm in the north and survived William’s wrath. William was only duke then, and not king, but he made Lord Luc’s father pay dearly for the betrayal.” Shrugging, Alain added, “It was rumored at the time that Luc was involved, and that it was he who convinced his father to fight for King Harold’s side, but it was not true. Sir Luc had been disinherited by his father and sent to Normandy and France, away from his home in England.”
“Disinherited? Why?”
“Some say this, and some say that.”
Ceara kept her tone casual. “And what do you say?”
He laughed. “I agree with them, comtesse. Now I must go to Lord Luc, or he will think I am not doing my job.”
She did not try to delay him again, but watched thoughtfully as Alain hurried down the corridor to the antechamber where Luc preferred meeting with his scribe. A most intriguing conversation. It explained much, but not all. Why would Luc allow his brother close enough to risk betrayal again? If Jean-Paul had betrayed him once, he would most certainly do it again if he thought it profitable.
And this time it might cost Luc more than just a bitter betrayal—for now he risked Wulfridge and possibly even his life.
Ceara’s mouth thinned into a taut line, and she glanced toward the hall entrance. Perhaps it was time she took Luc’s suggestion and talked to his brother herself. Then she could form her own opinion of his intentions.
But her only contact with Jean-Paul had been their meeting in the corridor outside her chamber, and one other brief encounter in the great hall when she had chosen to ignore him, and by tacit consent, he had done the same.
Yet she had often glimpsed him near Luc, at times with one hand on the hilt of the dagger at his waist, a speculative gleam in his eyes that worried her. Luc would not be amenable to anything she might suggest about his brother, for he refused to discuss him at all with her. Perhaps it would not be so troublesome if strange occurrences had not set her on edge.
A stone from the wall top had nearly fallen on Luc, and if his reflexes had not been so sharp, he would have been killed or at the least gravely injured. Another time, a chance arrow had been loosed, barely missing him. No one admitted loosing the shaft, nor could anyone be found with a similarly marked arrow in their possession. Stranger, and stranger still, the unexplained flagon of tainted wine set on the table Luc used to study his ledgers. If not for the chance of young Rudd spilling it so that a castle hound lapped the spillage and went into convulsions, Luc might have drank it unawares and sickened.
Yet all these things did Luc ignore, citing simple explanations for them. A man frequently risked life and limb in battle, and a careless arrow was hardly cause for alarm. Nor was a thoughtless worker. And from what he had seen of Wulfridge’s store of wine, it was a wonder all of them had not sickened and died from the mere taste of it. Saxons should stick to ale and mead.
All simple explanations.
Thoughtfully, Ceara wrapped herself in her hooded cloak and took Sheba for a walk in the outer courtyard. It was easier to think out here, away from the hall that bore the strong stamp of Norman decorations. She hardly recognized it, even in the single week since their return it had changed much. Instead of the Saxon wahrift that once covered the walls, stiffly woven tapestries had been hung, and the horn panels in one of the windows had been replaced with glazed crystal that diffused rare winte
r sunlight and made it brighter. Scattered mats of elaborate patterns covered the stone floors in places, but thankfully, the beautiful tile patterns were still left visible for the most part.
Ah, God, everything was so different—including herself. Now she accepted without comment the rash of servants that crowded Wulfridge: pages, seneschals, stewards, and scribes, a different man for every post, it seemed. The sound of construction filled the days, and new structures had sprung up almost overnight in the courtyards to house men and beasts. York had been chaotic; here, at least, the sea winds and fresh air swept away the sounds of bickering servants and the tensions of the day.
Ceara paused beside the still-dry fountain in the outer bailey, letting the wind tangle her hair as she considered her options. The wolf cavorted in the cold air, gleeful at being free and blithely ignoring the soldiers who scuttled from her path with quick glances of trepidation.
One of the old Wulfridge hounds ambled outside, and Sheba gave a sharp yip of excitement, gamboling about the dog, proffering an obvious invitation to play. When the old dog showed his preference for a kind word and pat from Ceara, the wolf clawed at him with a huge front paw. She scolded the wolf, “Leave him be, Sheba. Can you not see he has grown too old and sedate to frolic with you?”
Sheba threw back her head and howled. Immediately, other howls resounded through the brisk air, stirring the domestic animals into a frenzy. Even the old dog began to whine, while Sheba sat back on her haunches and put up her head again, her eyes closed and her white muzzle skyward as she yowled in a long shuddering cry.
Ceara knelt beside the wolf, clutching her by the shaggy scruff of her neck to shake her gently. “You’ll have all the castle in an uproar, silly cony,” she muttered, and tugged at Sheba until she rose to her feet. Urging the animal along, she hurried to the postern gate before someone came to chasten her for setting the domestic beasts into turmoil, and slid back the iron bolt to slip through.