by The Vow
It wasn’t until she had descended the steep slope to the sandy hummocks that rolled toward the sea that she considered what might be said if she was discovered to be gone. But no one would look for her until time for the evening meal, and she had not ventured from Wulfridge since she had returned. This was her first taste of freedom in almost two months.
Oddly, she still felt like a prisoner, for all that she was called lady and granted the respect due her position. None had dared by word or deed offer anything other than deference to the earl’s wife. She had expected no different from those who once served Balfour, but had been a little surprised that not even one Norman had indicated in any way that they remembered how Luc had made her his captive after winning the castle. It was a measure of their respect for Luc, she knew, but it still surprised her that only Jean-Paul had offered her even the remotest insult, and that only because of an error in judgment.
Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul … Luc’s brother seemed subdued, but after learning of his past betrayal, she found it incredible that Luc would allow him to stay even a moment at Wulfridge. There was an old saying that a dog that once developed a taste for chicken eggs would ever after be watching the henhouse, and she was certain of it. How could Luc be so reckless? He had not only himself to think of now, but the people of Wulfridge who trusted him to keep them safe.
A gust of wind tugged at the dragging hem of her kirtle and she thought longingly of the shorter costumes that were more suitable for trudging the sand hills and slopes. It could not be a coincidence that all her former garments were gone, leaving behind only the new clothes that Luc had purchased for her in York. They had been missing since the first night, when she had worn her short tunic into the hallway. She did not intend to give Luc the satisfaction of asking about them, but had made a mental note to quietly acquire more comfortable garb for her needs. He could regulate certain aspects of her life, but not all.
Just ahead of her, Sheba danced madly though the tall waving grasses, until only the tip of her plumed tail could be seen, a white banner streaking through the brown wands of sea grass. Snow still nestled in cracks and crevices of the rocks where the gray light of day did not reach, but had melted over most of the ground. Yet there was a sharp bite to the air that promised more snow, and in the wind that struck her cheeks she could feel icy pellets.
At low tide, the small barrier that was normally underwater provided a thin bridge to the mainland, tufted with bunches of reeds in places, and near invisible to those who did not know of it. It was just another path, but one she had been accustomed to using since she was a small child playing happily in the shadow of the castle. There were dozens of shallow inlet pools in the area, and other pools that were deep and treacherous with quicksand.
She knew them all, and stepped adroitly over the narrow strip of sandy ground to the mainland. Here the grass was thicker, and trees lined the shore in a steady clacking of leafless branches in the wind. Birds called, and overhead a hawk hunted, wings spread wide as it glided through the air on swift currents. Sea waves roared loudly, a whooshing froth of salty water and wind spit that peppered her face with damp sand. It was as exhilarating as it was familiar, and she realized that she had greatly missed the days when she could roam freely with her wolf. But that had been so long ago, before the Normans had come—while Wulfric was still alive.
Already she had seen many changes on the journey to York and back, the ruined villages, ravaged fields, and even burned monasteries and churches. The Danes had oft visited such destruction, but not on so wide a scale as had William. Those barons who did not proffer an oath of allegiance had their lands confiscated, their people scattered. The king was thorough. Few barons had lands large enough to raise up an army against William. The northern barons were the only ones given the power of absolute authority, and that only until William was secure on his throne, she suspected.
Luc spoke very little of business matters to her, turning her attempts to gain details into impromptu lovemaking sessions that usually eliminated any questions she had for him. For by the time she thought of them again, he was gone.
He had been busy. In the week since their return, there was a new air of prosperity that surprised and chagrined her. New walls, full storehouses, repaired buildings and roofs, all the things that had fallen into disrepair during her father’s long illness and her futile attempts to hold on to the land with few resources. Wulfridge would once again be prosperous. Luc had the coin and the mettle to get the work done, and the men and courage to keep the lands against invasion.
It was what she had always wanted. So why was she so unsettled? Miserable at times? Was it because she felt herself falling in love with the man who had conquered her home?
She kicked idly at a stone, and it rolled down a thick tussock to a stretch of wet sand. Sheba had disappeared again, in search of rabbits, no doubt, or other lively game. The wolf was a quiet hunter, with none of the excited yelping or barking of the hunting dogs.
A gust of wind blew icy rain into her eyes, and she paused, turning her face to the sky. Clouds were low and gray and heavy with the promise of snow. She had come much farther than she had planned, and the air was very cold.
Pulling up the hood to her cloak, she felt icy trickles down the back of her neck and on her cheek. She shivered, and peered about the landscape for Sheba. No plumed tail was seen, nor even the shudder of tall grasses where the wolf might be stalking prey. Ceara called for her, then whistled, a shrill sound that usually worked. Still no Sheba. Nor was there any sign of her along the path she had just trod.
Ceara rubbed her hands together for warmth and trudged up the hill made slick with frozen rain and patches of ice. Her feet slipped slightly, and she grabbed at a patch of brittle brown reeds to keep from falling. Again she called, breathless from her exertions and the cutting bite of the wind against her face and throat. The cold had made her clumsy, and she stumbled as she climbed the sandy hill. Just ahead lay the road from the main-land, an easier trek than the way she had come down the back slopes.
With her hands tucked into her sleeves to keep her fingers from freezing, she hunched her back against the wind and moved toward the frozen tracks of the narrow road that led to Wulfridge castle. Thick weeds and slender saplings lined the road, making it easier to find, and she wobbled onto the ruts with relief.
A dry rustling in the tall weeds caught her attention and she turned, cheered to see Sheba bounding toward her with huge hops and tongue lolling from one side of her mouth. Her gold-brown eyes were alight with adventure as she trotted toward Ceara.
Pausing to wait, Ceara felt rather than saw the riders coming, for the ground vibrated slightly under the thud of many hooves. She glanced up and past the approaching wolf, as around a bend in the road, a dozen mounted men appeared.
One of them saw her, for he raised the alarm and spurred his horse forward. It was then Ceara realized that he meant to slay Sheba, for he leaned low from the side of his saddle, his naked sword glinting in the dull gray light as he pounded toward the loping wolf.
A scream locked in her throat. She tried to signal but her arms were caught beneath the cloak and her feet were slow with cold. She stumbled forward, but Sheba came to a halt, her great head turned with mild curiosity toward the pursuing rider. Ceara’s heart lurched. She would never reach her in time, and Sheba was so used to soldiers that she would not know of the danger until it was too late.
Finally a scream burst from Ceara’s throat, whipping Sheba’s head toward her, the ears snapping forward in surprise. Too late, too late … the soldier was upon the animal, his sword swinging down in a lethal slice.…
A loud yelp rent the air, hooves sounding like thunder and crimson blood splashing, and Ceara was running, numb feet somehow stumbling over deep ruts and through ice-crusted puddles, and someone was screaming so loudly that it was hard to hear even the wind and the pounding roar of the surf over nearby rocks … and then a deep familiar voice cut through it all, calling her name and tel
ling her to stop.
But she couldn’t, not when Sheba was hurt, when the man on the horse had dismounted and was reeling to his knees, and blood splattered on the white-frosted ruts all around him.
The thunder grew louder, and then she was swept up from behind, and Luc’s familiar voice snarled in her ear. “Fais gaffe, tu vas te foutre!”
“No, I won’t fall.” She dangled from his left arm, legs bumping against the side of his horse. Half sobbing, she struggled to get free of his grip. “Let me down! I won’t fall—Sheba … she’s hurt.…”
“You little fool, your bloody wolf is fine. Look at her. Look at her, Ceara.”
Urgently, Luc pulled her up in front of him onto the horse, and turned to face the men who had ridden up behind their companion. They came to a halt several feet away, reining in their horses and furiously demanding an explanation.
Controlling his destrier with his knees, Luc gestured with the tip of his sword. “Your man is hurt.”
“So I see,” replied the front rider in a tight, angry voice. “How did you do it? And why?”
“I did not see the wolf until too late. I thought he was after the lady, and threw my dagger.”
By now the injured man was on his feet, his face sullen and marked with pain, his sword lying by the side of the road in a puddle of icy water. Ceara gripped the pommel of Luc’s saddle with both hands, suddenly weak. Her muscles ached with strain and cold, and even with Luc’s left arm around her middle, holding her atop the horse, she felt as if at any moment she would pitch from the saddle to the hard ground.
“Please,” she croaked, “it is my fault.”
Luc’s arm tightened. “Yes,” he growled in her ear, “but be quiet for now.”
Ceara glanced toward Sheba, and the wolf moved in an anxious circle, whining fitfully with her ears splayed out. She paced back and forth, out of reach of the soldiers, eyes returning again and again to Ceara.
But as Luc was talking to the men, Ceara realized that these were her father’s vassals, the men who had not come to his standard when she called them, and her attention shifted to the conversation. She sat up straight, eyes narrowed as the man in front said harshly that he had come only because he did not want his villages burned, as others had been.
“All about me are ruined lands. Does William think dead serfs will still labor?”
“This is not a matter to be discussed here,” Luc returned coolly. “I invited you to receive my hospitality. Tend your man, then join me in the hall for hot food by the fire. This misunderstanding can be rectified if you are willing.”
Still obviously angry, the man considered, then gave a short jerk of his head. “I will listen. Do I have your safe conduct?”
“You were given my safe conduct to come, and you shall have my safe conduct to return to your home.”
“I see the welcome you prepared,” the man said in a disgruntled tone, but some of his anger was gone as he regarded Luc and Ceara. “Do you greet all your invited guests with wolves and daggers?”
“Only those worthy enough to pass the test,” Luc returned easily, and the man grinned.
“Aye, then we should be welcome indeed into your hall, for poor Rudrick has borne the brunt of your reception.”
“And borne it well. He shall have all the ale he can drink.”
In a much lighter mood now, the men continued along the rutted road that led up to the castle. Ceara was held closely against Luc’s broad chest.
“Please, let me call Sheba to me, Luc.”
“There’s been enough trouble. I will send Paul out for her later if she does not return on her own.” His arm tightened around her, his voice low against her ear. “Little fool, what did you think to do out here in the wind and snow?”
She pushed angrily at his arm, but it was immovable. “Am I a prisoner, to be held inside a stifling chamber all day? I wanted to walk, and to let Sheba run. We can neither of us bear being shut up like caged birds.”
Luc did not reply, but neither did he loosen his hold on her. It did not help that behind them, Sheba began to howl, shivering wails that pierced the whine of the wind and clatter of horses’ hooves against hard frozen ground, a desolate sound that followed them into the castle grounds.
Chapter Fourteen
IS IT TRUE that a knight’s fee is five hides, Lord Luc?”
Luc eyed the speaker, Lord Oswald, for a moment, then shrugged. “It is my understanding that knights’ services vary from fief to fief. I have not yet set my fees, for I do not know the strength of those who will serve me, or the currency they can bear.”
Oswald snorted. “Rest assured that William knows. He had made it his business to know every knight, every vassal, every cow in England since he set foot in Pevensey.”
“The king is thorough and just. He will not tax a man what he cannot pay, nor pay a man what he is not worth. But neither will he suffer refusal of his requests without redress.”
Lord Oswald flashed him a quick, frowning glance. It was obvious the point had been noted, and Luc let his attention shift to Ceara. Her face was as pale as the snow that now lay in deep drifts outside, save for two bright spots of color on her cheeks that made her blue eyes glitter like brilliant jewels. She had not yet forgiven him for leaving her wolf, nor for following her. He wasn’t certain which made her more angry, for she had railed at him furiously as soon as she was thawed enough to find her voice.
It had not been a pleasant scene, ended only by his insistence that she join him willingly in the hall or be forcibly dragged there.
“Your presence is important, Ceara. These are Saxon barons, and if they think you reluctant, so they might be.”
“Let them be! That knave Oswald, when I called up his knight service he did not come … what do I care if he risks his neck now? I hope you burn down his castle with him inside it.”
No, it had not been pleasant.
If he had not been so unsettled by the sharp bite of fear he’d felt at thinking her about to be run down by Oswald’s man, he might have been more lenient about the wolf. But all he could think was that she had imperiled her own life for that of her pet. His blood still ran cold at the thought of her being hurt. Nor had he forgotten how she had answered him when he’d spoken in French. Now he wondered just how much French she could understand. Then, the moment had been chaotic, and since, she had not seemed to comprehend the language. Still …
Now she sat like a sullen lump in her chair, staring straight ahead and replying politely but curtly to any pleasantries from Lord Oswald or the others, Leofric and Eadwine, former vassals to Balfour. It must rankle her that they had not answered Ceara’s call to arms, but they would have made little difference in the outcome. Luc would have won the day if their forces had been added or naught, as he had told her.
“My lord,” Oswald said, turning to Luc and snaring his attention once more, “it is said that you were born in England. How came you to be aligned with the Norman cause?”
Luc’s brow lifted. An unwise question to ask in front of all. Was Oswald that foolish? To be so bold and insolent at the table?
Leaning forward, Luc toyed with the stem of his jeweled goblet as his eyes caught and held Oswald’s gaze. “If you have heard that I was born here, then you no doubt heard that my parents were Norman by birth.”
Beyond Oswald, Jean-Paul laughed shortly. “Yea, but if a man is born in a kennel, it does not necessarily follow that he is a dog, I warrant.”
Luc’s gaze shifted to his brother. Wine flush had heightened Jean-Paul’s color, and his eyes were fever-bright. “You choose an unflattering comparison, Jean-Paul. Do you suggest that my mother slept in kennels?”
Silence fell. Jean-Paul looked down at his empty wine goblet. “No, of course not. As you said, an unflattering comparison. It was unwise of me to speak thusly, and I beg pardon for any offense.”
Oswald and Leofric exchanged glances, a gesture Luc noted well. This was not the impression he wanted to make on these visiting Saxon
barons, and he turned again to Oswald in an attempt to smooth over any dissension.
“Lord Oswald, my father was granted lands in England by your own king, Edward, many years ago. He held them long and well, and until he broke with William, was still Norman in his thinking. If he had not betrayed the duke, he might still hold those lands, but his loyalties were withheld from William and given first to Edward, then to King Harold.”
From Oswald’s nod, Luc knew that the baron was well aware of all this, and most like, the entire truth behind Jean-Luc de Montfort’s fall from ducal grace. At a time when men’s loyalties were being tested, Jean-Luc had made the decision he considered best for his future, and that of his son and heir, Jean-Paul.
And he had betrayed his oldest son for not following him, for choosing Duke William over the Saxon king.
It had been a decision both father and son would come to regret, though for far different reasons.
“There were rumors, of course,” Oswald murmured, and his eyes focused on the jeweled goblet instead of his host. “In these times, one never knows what to believe, for much is said that is not true.”
“Hear this, Oswald de Paxton, for I tell you only the truth—William of Normandy has taken firm hold of England, and will deal fairly with all who deal fairly with him. If a man swears an oath, it will be expected that he hold to his sworn word. We have all seen that the church frowns on men who forswear oaths, even when a kingdom is at stake.”
The unsubtle reminder of how King Harold had lost the church’s favor in his claim to England still had the power to sting, and Luc saw it in Oswald’s narrowed eyes. But it was the truth, however unpleasant, and there were men who needed to be reminded of what brought them to this point.
An ugly flush stained Oswald’s cheeks. His voice was tight. “William tricked Harold into swearing an oath over the bones of saints.”
“Yea, but Harold was willing to swear to an oath he did not mean to keep. Listen well, Oswald—William will not be stayed. If he must resort to trickery, he will do it to have his way. Yet he will not lie, and if he makes a promise, he keeps it. Never have I known him to renege on his sworn word, whether to prince or peasant, and if he promises you will keep your lands if you are loyal to him, then that is how it will be. Think on it.”