by The Vow
Leofric, Oswald’s boon companion and a man of the same age, studied Luc through hooded eyes as he absorbed the grave implications of the discussion. He was a handsome man, with a florid face and the bright gold hair of the Saxons, his manner bluff and hearty, but his clear blue eyes shrewd. He had spoken of little but trivial things, remaining silent during this exchange, but now cleared his throat.
“It is said that few Saxons have kept their lands since William was crowned. How know we that he will allow us to hold our ancestral estates?”
“Since Hastings, those Saxon barons who have gone home and not taken up their swords against the king have lost nothing. Those who have joined with outlaw earls have been deseisined of lands and titles, and sometimes their lives. It is a brutal choice, but a simple one. Swear fealty to William as your rightful king and live on your lands in peace and prosperity.” His voice hardened, and he saw Ceara turn toward him with pensive eyes as he said, “Take up sword against him, and he will destroy you.”
“And you, Lord Luc, will you destroy those who defy you?”
“Yes.”
It was a swift answer, meant to convince them of his determination, and he saw another quick exchange of glances. Between the three barons, Oswald, Leofric, and Eadwine, only Oswald seemed disinclined. Leofric nodded, and Eadwine, a spare man with nervous gestures and thinning hair, said gruffly that he was willing to offer allegiance to William if his lands would be left alone.
“I am old now, my lord, and not so quick to offer fight when the outcome is uncertain.” Eadwine smiled, and glanced at Ceara. “Already, I have seen Normans and Saxons mingle their blood, and have come to realize that William is here to stay. With all of England united under one ruler, it may be that we can keep the Scots and Welsh at bay, instead of wasting time and lives and money waging petty battles at our borders.”
“Fie on you,” Oswald said angrily, his hand fisting atop the table, “you speak as a sniveling coward, Eadwine.”
Eadwine drew himself up with dignity, his voice cold and steadier than yet Luc had heard it. “It is not cowardice to mislike watching serfs starve in their huts for want of food, or to walk fallow fields that will bear no yield for lack of seed and men to work them—no, and no, I say. I am weary of war. I would have peace, and William offers us what none other has yet attempted—a united kingdom.”
“Well put, Lord Eadwine.” Luc smiled a little, but knew that the barons words would not convince Oswald. “But this is a conversation for another place. Now there are other things to think on, more pleasant subjects to discuss. My steward has planned entertainments for your amusement. Let us deal as companions this eve. Later, as men of judgment, we will come to terms on what is best for us all.”
The next day, the six vassals who had already sworn to Luc arrived to accept his invitation, and Wulfridge was near to bursting with knights, barons, and their retinue. There were not enough chambers, and those who lagged behind ended up sleeping in rolled blankets on the hall floor, lining the corridors at night, and lying under stairwells and in alcoves. During the day, hunts were arranged, with barons ranging out into the forest to bring back game for the tables. A festive atmosphere prevailed for the most part, though there were several tense moments when quarrels broke out.
Through it all, Ceara remained aloof and remote. She had still not forgiven him for leaving her wolf behind. Nor had the beast come back, though four days had passed since he had plucked her from the road and the wolf had run away. Snow lay deep and thick on ground and road, and loud winds had lashed the castle for three days. Paul had not been able to find Sheba, though it was no wonder as the white wolf would most like blend in with the snowy slopes.
Every morning, Ceara would trudge through the snow to the postern gate and call. She repeated this at noon, and again before dusk, but there was no answering howl, no wolf bounding toward the castle to gladden her.
Luc intercepted her on the third Monday of Advent, when the hall was rowdy with merriment, and acrobats and tumblers entertained the guests. He followed her to the gate and caught her by one arm when she would have pushed past him.
“The wolf will return when she is ready, Ceara.”
Pushing at his hand, she flashed him a hot look. “Leave me be. Go to your guests. Play the perfect host and leave me to my own.”
“Own what?” He grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. Beyond the castle the setting sun painted the sky rose and lavender, making dark lace out of silhouetted tree branches and deepening the flush on Ceara’s angry face. He shook her a little when she refused to look at him. “Own what, by all that is holy! This is your own, Ceara. Look about you. Wulfridge is yet yours, and it is habited by Saxon and Norman alike. If you feel apart, it is of your doing, for my intentions are to have us all as one people here.”
“But we are not one people, Luc. For the love of God, can you not see that? You cannot force people to be what they are not, and there is yet too much enmity between our races to ignore. You are Norman. I am Saxon. We are separate. We will always be separate.”
“You are wrong.” He drew in a deep breath of cold air. “One day all of England will be united. If it is not, it will crumble into too many pieces to resist invaders. If we do not bind together, the Danes will come, and the Scots, and even the Welsh will seize portions of this country and chew them to bits. War will be constant, with neighbor against neighbor, none knowing who to trust. Every baron will have his own country, always holed up in his castle and afraid to leave for fear of being vulnerable. Is that what you want? Think on it, Ceara, for that is where England was headed until William came.”
“That is not true.”
Her answer was swift, but lacked conviction, and his grip on her shoulders eased. “Yes, it is. Even Harold’s own brother Tostig fought against him, bringing King Hardrada of Norway to England to seize the crown. Listen to me, Ceara. William will hold England united under one ruler. The barons may still rebel and war against each other, but with a strong king, it will amount to little more than children’s squabbles.”
Ceara’s taut muscles loosened beneath his hands, and she looked up at him finally, her eyes clear and direct. “I know what you say is true. It is just hard to hear.”
“Yea, it would be. But know that William has England’s welfare at his heart, for it is his chosen land.”
“Even over Normandy?” Her gaze was mocking now, her mouth curled slightly. “It is Normandy he favors over all.”
“He was born there.”
“And so? You were born here, yet I do not hear your praise of your native land, only all things Norman.”
It was a piercing barb, and true. He scowled. “It is not the same with me. William has no ill feelings toward England, only a sense of responsibility. My dislike is personal.”
“You blame a country for what was done to you by a man, Lord Luc?”
Her mockery angered him, and he glared down at her with fierce resentment. “I do not blame fields and fens, no. Yet my demons are my own to conquer, and will not be discussed with you so that you may taunt me with them later.”
“I would never taunt you with what you had not caused, my lord. You mistake me.”
“Do I? I do not think so.”
Ceara pulled away, agitated, her brow furrowed and her mouth tight. “I am not a fool. I may be stubborn, and at rare times mistaken, but I am not fool enough to think you the kind of man to knowingly choose folly over logic. You have proven otherwise in your brief tenure at Wulfridge.”
“Unexpected praise from an unlikely source, madam.”
“Curse you, Luc Louvat.” She flashed him an angry look. “You must know that I cannot help but approve most of what you have done here. Needed repairs are made, more stores saved against lean times, and though you may have the hall looking more like the inside of a goat’s stomach than the once austere beauty I admired, I must admit that you have taken great care and effort to better the castle.”
Luc stared
at her, anger warring with amusement. Rosy light still bathed her face and glinted in her eyes. She lowered her lashes to hide the sudden blue shimmer, and his anger faded. “So you do not approve of Norman furnishings.”
“They are garish.”
“Garish.” His brow lifted in amusement. “By the cross, madam, those hangings cover up shabby walls and crude paintings that look as if someone dipped a dog’s tail in paint and set it loose in the hall.”
“Better that than excessive display and overweening pride! Who do you hope to impress? Oswald?” She snorted. “That fat baron would not be impressed by the pope’s gold scepter. It may not have occurred to you, my lord, but Saxons are more impressed with an abundance of good food and drink in the stead of gold plate and embroidered hunting scenes. If you thought to sway Oswald with a display of wealth, you should have roasted an entire ox in every hearth and set out great tubs of ale for his consumption.”
Luc gestured impatiently. “Oswald is not the only baron here. And I did not display gold and tapestry to impress, but to civilize crude lodgings. Hear me, Ceara,” he said harshly when she turned toward him with fire in her eyes, “I may have been born in England, but I am Norman to the bone. Do not think to change me, or that my leanings to Norman ways are only temporary in nature. My father was born in Normandy, and my mother was born in Normandy, and the first eight years of my life were all that I spent on English soil until I became a man full grown. My allegiance is to King William. I owe everything to Normandy. England gave me nothing but pain, and I have no love for the country itself.”
“Yet you force us to your standard, and threaten good Saxons with eviction or death? If you do not love England, then leave it to those who do.”
She was trembling, her eyes wide with angry shadows and her lips quivering between tightly clenched teeth. Pale hair framed her face with gold curls that shone softly in the fading sunlight. Luc shook his head.
“You still do not understand, Ceara. England and Normandy are one now. What I love about Normandy, I will love about England. It takes more than trees and hills to make a country. There is beauty here, just as there is in Normandy, France, and Spain. Yet it is not beauty that bids a man risk his life and honor to hold his home.” He reached out and cupped her chin in his palm, a little surprised that she did not jerk away from him. “You are beauteous, yet it is not your fair face and winsome smile that bids me risk my life to keep you. It is the inherent qualities that you possess that summon me to hold you safely.”
Her eyes widened, lashes shadowing her cheeks as she stared at him. Funny little stick, with her furry brows like the markings of an inquisitive rabbit, endearing and vexing at the same time, a curious blend of child and woman that caught at his heart with unnerving tenacity. But he could not tell her that, could not betray the tenderness he oft felt for her, for it would be his undoing. Had he not erred by even mentioning to Amélie that he wanted her? She had leaped at once to the wrong conclusion, as women were prone to do, and he dared not risk shattering the fragile alliance he had with Ceara by saying the wrong thing.
“My lord.…” She inhaled audibly, then shrugged with a soft laugh. “You undo me.”
As you do me, my beauty, as you do me.…
He smiled wryly. “No doubt, the barons are drunk as friars by now, and my stores you think me so proud of have dwindled to dry lentils and empty corn husks while we stand out here in the snow and cold air to shout at one another. If you think we are done for the evening, my lady, I will escort you inside to the hall.”
“I make no promises about being done shouting, but I will go with you inside if you will allow me to call for Sheba one more time first.”
“S’il arrive que vous avez besoin de moi … c’est ici.”
She stared up at him oddly, and there was a faint tremor at the corners of her mouth. Then she looked away, and gave a little shrug. “I do not understand.…”
“No matter. I will wait here.” He released her chin and watched as she moved gracefully to the postern gate and slid back the bolt. Perhaps he was wrong, but there were moments he was certain she understood. Why would she lie to him? Was she yet unwilling to trust him? Or still willing to betray him? Neither were pleasant thoughts.
Dark shadows filled the courtyard now, flickering over the dry fountain and bare trees, casting the buildings and ground into gloom. It was quiet this night, with no howling wind to drown out the rhythmic murmur of the surf against rocks.
Stars overhead shimmered in the darkened sky, bright against deep blue, tiny beacons of light that reminded him how small were the things in this world. In contrast, he was an infinitesimal speck on a land peopled with others like himself. He thought of the comet-star that had been seen over England during the last week of April in 1066. Some had named it an omen, for it shone brightly with its long trailer of fire for the whole week before disappearing again. And that year William had invaded England, another omen like the comet-star.
But unlike the comet-star, William’s duration would be long. Monks had noted the comet-star, just as they had noted the other bright stars of heaven, and so they would note William of Normandy. Luc had made the right choice, for all that it had cost him. There was no other choice he could have made, none other that would endure.
Like others, he was groping for the right way, hoping for a star to show him the path. William had long been his star, flawed, perhaps, but his very determination a bright beacon. He believed in William, believed in England’s future, and believed in himself. Could he believe in his wife as well?
Iron hinges creaked, and he looked toward the postern gate to see Ceara coming toward him, her shoulders slumping with weary disappointment, no wolf at her heels. Luc went to her and put an arm around her to hold her against his side, steadying her as they made their way across the slick patches of ice in the courtyard.
“Sheba must be dead.” Ceara’s voice was toneless, but betrayed the deep hurt beneath her words. “Never has she stayed away this long.”
“The wolf is not dead. Where did you leave her before? Perhaps she has gone back there.”
Ceara glanced up at him, hope shining in her eyes. “I had not thought of that. I left her in the woods with an old huntsman. She might have gone to Sighere. On the morrow, I will—”
“Hold. The snow is too deep. I will send Paul.”
“Sighere will tell nothing to a Norman, my lord.” Her voice was tart. “He is old, and not as trusting as some of us.”
Luc laughed at that. “God help us all, then. Wait, ma chérie. I will think of another way to find Sheba. Do not despair, for it is my notion that she has gone far afield hunting fat winter hares and does not care to return. When she is hungry enough and cold enough, she will come to you.”
“I hope so.” Ceara sounded forlorn. “She has been with me since she was a pup, and though it may be odd to you, she has been my only friend these past years. None other did I dare trust.”
Luc envisioned a wary maid, her nature prickly to keep away those who might hurt her, and to keep from growing close to those who might die or leave her behind. He knew well the emotions that attended those fears, for he had fought them himself: alone in a strange land, sent away because of a woman’s hatred, spurned by his father. Yes, he knew well how she had felt.
“I will find Sheba for you,” he said softly, and pulled her under a vaulted stairwell to take her face between his cold palms. She stared up at him and nodded.
“If you set out to do it, my lord, it will be done.”
Her faith shattered him, and he bent his head and kissed her, almost fiercely, needing to feel her warmth and her surrender, needing the intimacy. This time it was not the urges of the body that drove him, but the urges of the heart.
Until Ceara put her arms around his neck to kiss him back, and his control splintered. He held her hard against him, his hands moving beneath her heavy cloak to scrub over her curves, palms sliding over the layers of her clothing with impatience. Hidden in th
e dusky shadows of the stairwell, he leaned against her, pressing her back against the wall with his weight, kissing her hungrily, needing to feel her around him, her softness and heat and the small excited noises she made when he entered her.…
“Luc—what are you … here?”
He had the hem of her skirts up, bunching them around her waist, then his hands moved to untie the straps of his linen chausses enough to release the fierce pressure. Ceara gave a shocked gasp when he lifted her legs to wrap around his waist and lunged forward, his length sliding inside her with exquisite friction. Sweet torment, the scrape of her bare thighs against his sides, the pressure of her velvet heat around his shaft, and the soft, panting breaths against his throat as she clung to him.
It was madness, ecstasy, searing pleasure and rising tension that made him forget everything around him, forget all but the lady in his arms. He rocked against her with driving thrusts, and she answered him with fervent arches of her hips, taking all of him, moaning his name in breathless sobs that filled the steamy space between them. The tautness stretched out almost unbearably, release trembling just out of reach, another thrust, another drag of his body that radiated heat and exquisite sensation down his spine, and he held tight to his control until he heard her spiraling cry in his ear, felt her body grow taut with tension and shudder. Then, gripping her hard by the waist, he slammed into her with a final thrust that drained him of everything. Groaning, his mouth pressed into the sweetly scented curve of her neck and shoulder, he held her still against the wall for several moments as he tried to gather the strength to move.
Her hand fumbled for him in the dark, fingers stroking through his hair to cup the back of his neck in her curved palm. Her whisper was soft and replete. “Soon it will be Christmas, Luc.”