by The Vow
True enough. She had seen the scars on him, trophies of battle, she had assumed, as so many fighting men bore. She sipped her wine, gathering her composure.
“Tell me, Sir Robert, what happened to his father and stepmother.”
“Ah, that becomes more difficult. By then, Luc was a man full-grown, and we were separated by circumstance for a time.”
“You once told me that Norman knights form groups for life. How is it he was not with you?”
Robert’s smile was wry. “Your memory is too long and too good. Yes, it is true, but knight service is only required by our overlord for forty days a year. During the rest of the year, we are free to pursue other interests. Luc had been called to England by his father. That was when William was still duke, and King Edward still alive, though the king was deranged at times.”
“He was religious, not deranged.”
Robert’s shoulders lifted in a shrug that indicated his disagreement, and she glared at him. “Tell me the rest.”
“Ah, lady … set me free. Grant me peace and let me slink off to lick my wounds. This is grave business, the telling of secrets that are not mine.”
“It is not secret when half the world whispers of it, Sir Robert.”
“Yea, but if Luc wanted you to know, he would tell you himself.”
“Must I go to his brother to seek the answers I crave?”
Robert’s groan was heartfelt. “You do me an injury by suggesting it. But hear this, my lady, what I tell you next is all that I know of it, and that from Luc himself.” He paused and drew in a deep breath, and Ceara signaled to the page for more wine to be brought. Robert gave her a grateful glance, and sipped freely before setting down the cup and clearing his throat. “Luc was summoned to England by his father. By then, Harold was back in England after having been shipwrecked on the shores of Ponthieu and given into William’s waiting hands. Before he would release him, the duke forced Harold to swear an oath that he would aid William in his quest to be king. When Luc arrived in England, Jean-Luc told him that as King Edward was near dying, the barons had chosen Harold to be king. Luc was most disturbed to hear of this treachery. He warned his father that if Harold broke his oath to William, it would cause conflict between Normandy and England, but Jean-Luc demanded that Luc choose one or the other. He reminded him how he had paid for Luc’s knight’s training and service, and swore that if Luc would yet lend his sword to Harold’s cause, he would share Montfort with his brother.
“When Jean-Paul heard of this offer, he was furious. He did not intend to share Montfort. Jean-Paul was so angry, he involved the wrong man in his scheming. Between them, Tostig and Jean-Paul arranged for Duke William to learn of Luc’s intent to betray him and to fight for Harold. It was a lie, of course, but Tostig had William’s ear, for he was wed to the duke’s sister-in-law.”
“And William believed him?”
Robert smiled. “William knew his man—both of them. Tostig had already asked for William’s aid in taking England once King Edward died, fool that he was to go to the very man who coveted the crown for himself. So the duke believed not what he was told, but the man he knew was honorable. Not everyone was so kind.” He paused. “Jean-Luc had sworn an oath of fealty to Duke William as his overlord, and still owed him knight service. The duke called him up.”
“And Jean-Luc refused.”
“No. He went, but he betrayed the duke’s plans to the Saxons. If not for a fortuitous wind that delayed William’s arrival in England, it might very well have turned out differently. Jean-Luc was found out, and he lost his head for it. Jean-Paul barely escaped with his life, and forfeited Montfort as ransom.”
“And Luc—”
“Was disgraced. Humiliated. There were those who believed him as guilty as his father. Only William did not, and kept Luc in his service. No man dared say aloud what he thought, for the king was no more tolerant of gossip as king than he had been as duke.”
Ceara picked at the embroidery on the cuff of her long sleeve, reflecting on Robert’s tale. Then she looked up at him. “What happened to Luc’s stepmother?”
“Gone. Dead, most like. She fled when William won the day and her husband lost his head. She has not been missed, I assure you.”
“Not even by her only son?”
Robert looked startled. “I do not know.”
“It might be wise to think of such things.” Ceara rose to her feet and set her barely touched goblet of wine on the bench. “If the cruel lady is still alive, might she not blame Luc for her fall?”
“It is possible, but not likely that she would be able to do him ill. Lady Ceara, no one has seen or heard of the widow in years.”
“Yet her son arrives at Wulfridge before Luc returns from York. Someone has watched him closely enough. Has anyone thought to ask Jean-Paul how he knew where to come?”
“No, I assumed—all of England knew that Luc Louvat had won an earldom. It was no secret. News flies swiftly.”
“Not just to England, it seems.” She smiled at Robert’s perplexed frown. “I am told Jean-Paul fled to the land of the Scots for shelter from William’s wrath.”
“Yes, but that means nothing. North, south, news does travel, my lady.”
“Sir Robert, I do not mean to impugn your intelligence, but think for a moment—why would Jean-Paul leave a land where he is safe to come to one where he may be at risk?”
“Lady, you do raise some interesting questions.”
“It has been on my mind since we returned from York. I do not want to seem presumptuous, but it does seem that Luc should have considered this himself.”
“He has not discussed his brother with me, my lady. It is still a sore subject with him.”
“It will be sorer still if he is betrayed again. He might think on that.”
Glancing up, she saw at the entrance to the hall Lady Amélie, who spied them and turned her steps toward the bench where they stood. “Sir Robert, forgive me, but I have just recalled important duties that cannot wait.”
Robert followed her gaze, and grinned. “Do not leave me alone with the dragon, my lady. She frightens me.”
“Good. Perhaps next time you will think on’t before you bring a dragon to Wulfridge. Good day, sir.”
Robert’s soft laughter followed her as she left the hall, nodding coolly to Lady Amélie as she passed.
Chapter Sixteen
SWEARING, LUC SLASHED at the tall reeds with the flat of his sword. His feet were wet, his horse limping, and he was freezing. All for a wolf. Tame or not, he was ready to slay the beast if he had to wade through slush and bog much longer.
He knelt, studying a snowbank. Brown reeds thrust up through the snow in clumps, rustling slightly in the wind, and huge paw prints could be seen in the wet whiteness. Ice formed tiny crystals in the indentations, indicating that it had been some time since these were made.
Glancing up with a frown, he scrutinized the barren land around him. The boundaries of Wulfridge stretched all the way from the seacoast west to the priory on the River Coquet, then south in a ragged line to the bay, forming a rough three-sided parcel. Moors covered much of it inland, with great bands of ancient forest sheltering the slopes and providing abundant game. Not far from where he now stood, the river flowed eastward to the sea. But the wolf could not have crossed the swift current, and would have avoided the desolate land that lay seaward.
The wolf could be anywhere. A hawk soared overhead, a faint shadow flickering over the white slopes of snow, and a keening cry broke the stillness.
Rising to his feet, he slapped his reins against his palm irritably. Curse the beast. He should not have promised Ceara he would return with the wolf. It was more than a matter of pride should he fail; he did not want to see the sorrow in her eyes, the fear that her pet was dead. Yet, all things died, and if Sheba were gone, it was a verity she must accept—though she had certainly been acquainted with those truths well enough already.
His horse snorted, ears pricking forward and
front hooves stamping nervously in the snow. Luc turned to soothe it. No Drago this time, but a handsome bay gelding less prone to fits of temper. After all, destriers were meant to be used in war, not as pack animals or workhorses.
The bay sidled away from his outstretched hand, nostrils flaring, and Luc paused. The smell of smoke drifted to him on the wind, sharp and acrid. Metal bridle bits and curb chains clanked as the bay tossed its head with another nervous snort.
Luc mounted and followed the smell of smoke until he saw a thin gray curl rise above the snowy slopes. It came from a grove of ancient trees, bare now in the winter, hoary trunks gray with age and weather. He moved closer. Or more precisely, it came from a rough structure squatting beneath the trees, built of stone and wood, the smoke rising from a hole in the thatched roof.
Halting his horse on the narrow slope overlooking the grove, Luc assessed the possible danger. It was a crude hut, with no sign of trouble, but he was wary. Long ago he had learned not to trust appearances. Drifts of snow spilled over a low stone fence and climbed against an arbor made of willow branches and festooned with withered brown vines.
The smoke made long streamers in the wind, white-gray and drifting through the tops of the trees. A flash of white smoke caught his attention—and then he realized it was not smoke, but a shaggy beast that had streaked along the ground waving a plumed tail. Sheba.
Luc nudged his horse down the slope, and the bay snorted again, ears pricked forward as it picked its way over dead grass and fallen limbs. Hooves made crunching sounds in the wet snow, and Luc noticed the flicker at the unshuttered window of the hut. He had been seen.
He halted the gelding near the hut. White frost clouds blew from the agitated bay’s nostrils, and it shifted nervously in a small circle.
“ ’tis the wolf you seek.”
The strange voice was deep, Saxon words spoken with authority, emanating from a hidden source. Luc’s eyes narrowed.
“Show yourself.”
“Aye, as soon as I know your intentions. Who comes to my door?”
“Luc Louvat, lord de Wulfridge and your overlord as well. This cottage is on my land.”
Laughter greeted his words. “I have heard of you, Luc Louvat. Your fame has spread far, and ’tis said that you are a fierce fighter but new at lordship.”
“Show yourself. I do not care to speak to the wind.”
Leather creaked as Luc shifted in his saddle, and after a moment a figure stepped from behind a clump of bushes near the hut. Limping, the man approached, wrapped in animal skins with furry heads and feet still dangling. Long matted hair of reddish-gray straggled to his shoulders, and a thick beard reached to the middle of his chest.
“You are Sighere,” Luc said, and the man nodded.
“Yea. I am. You have heard of me as well.”
“Lady Ceara has spoken of you.”
“She sent you for Sheba.”
Luc nodded. “Yea. Will the wolf come to you?”
“Sooner than to you, my fine Norman friend.” A dry cackle accompanied that comment, and Sighere beckoned to Luc to dismount. “Come. There is a hot stew in the pot, with rabbit and barley broth.”
Without waiting to see if Luc accepted his hospitality, Sighere turned and limped back to the hut, dragging one leg through the snow and supporting himself with the aid of a gnarled crutch. Luc dismounted and sheltered the bay beneath the sloped roof of a small lean-to built against the side of the cottage.
He had to duck to enter the low doorway, and was at once struck with an assortment of pungent scents. Animal skins lay everywhere. Rows of bared teeth greeted him from cluttered shelves and hooks over the door and window, tiny creatures long dead and staring out with empty eye sockets. A huge cauldron bubbled over an open fire, with smoke rising up to the large vent hole in the thatched roof. A cup was thrust into his hand, smelling strongly of honey and spices.
“Mead,” the old man said shortly. “Our Saxon wine.”
Sighere dipped a goodly portion of stew into a wooden bowl and held it out, and Luc accepted it with a murmur of thanks. A chunk of brown bread was proffered, and then Sighere lowered his weight onto a stool without the courtesy of waiting for permission or offering a chair to his lord. He glanced up at Luc expectantly.
“Tell me of my lady. It has been overlong since I have seen her. Is she well? Does she speak often of Sighere?”
Luc looked about him, and in the dim light of fire and badly smoking candle, found a stool for his use. He pulled it to him with his foot, and seated himself. Sighere was eating the stew with his fingers and bread as utensils. Luc looked down at his bowl.
“Your lady is well. But she misses her wolf.”
“And you came to find it for her.” Sighere smacked his lips, eyeing Luc over his bowl. “Why did she not come for herself?”
Luc dunked his bread into the steaming stew and scooped up a mouthful. He ate several bites before replying. “I bade her stay at the castle.”
“Ah.”
After several moments, when Sighere made no other comment, Luc said, “The snow is deep. It can be treacherous to the unwary.”
Sighere nodded, his concentration bent on the stew and not Luc. They ate in silence, and Luc began to grow impatient. The old man was toying with him.
“Can you call the wolf, Sighere? I would get her back to Wulfridge before dark.”
“How?”
Luc stared at him. Sighere met his gaze, fingers dripping with gravy as he regarded him with lifted brows. “I brought a rope,” Luc said.
“Do you intend to drag the wolf?”
“If need be. The wolf knows me.”
“Ah, and that is why she came to you so freely.” Setting down his bowl, Sighere wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve. “Sheba is tame when it suits her. Like your lady.”
Luc smiled at that, if a little ruefully. “I think you are right. If I must bind the wolf, so be it. I swore to find the beast for Ceara, and I will keep that promise.”
“There are promises and promises, my lord. Most of them are made by men who seek only their own ends.”
Luc’s mouth tightened. “If I never saw the wolf again, I would not care. But it would please my lady to have her back. Do you help or not?”
“Ah, a great Norman lord asking for help from a Saxon churl? I can die happy now, for having heard that.”
“Lest I am tempted to hasten that happiness, lend me your aid in summoning the wolf. Ceara says the beast knows you.”
“Aye. She does. If I call her, she will come. But do I call her to her own grief? The wolf trusts me. I do not wish to betray that trust.”
Leaning forward, Luc fixed the old man with a stern eye. “Neither do I wish to betray a trust. My lady wants her pet returned to her, and I swore to do so. Would I harm the animal after plowing through snow and field to find her?”
Sighere did not reply for a moment, but surveyed Luc from beneath the tangled shelf of his bushy brows. Then he nodded. “I wondered as to the kind of man you be. Some say you are just, but Kerwin bought his life from you for an oath, so I did not know whether he spoke from truth or fear. You have offered peace, but also given strife. Your king is a dread lord. No man who thwarts him lives long. And you, Lord Luc of Wulfridge? What do you offer the people of your lands?”
It was insolent. Another lord might have slain the old man right there, but Luc had spent too long among peasants not to recognize stiff pride and the promise of unyielding loyalty. To win over a man like Sighere would be worth ten barons like Oswald.
Luc held Sighere’s gaze and answered softly: “I offer peace and prosperity. It will not come without a price, but that is the way of things. Those who rally to me will have my sword and my protection. What is mine, I keep. I allow no other to abuse those who belong to me.”
“And those who oppose you? Who refuse your protection?”
“Will be dealt with accordingly. In these times, a man who is not a master must choose a master. I chose mine, and I chose w
ell. William is a strong lord, and will hold what he has taken. Just as I will.”
Sighere leaned back on his stool and pulled his crutch to him. He rose with the aid of the gnarled branch and took a limping step forward. Then he slowly knelt and put out his hands, palms together in the same gesture of fealty the barons swore.
“Once I was a young, strong man, a master-at-arms for my lord, his housecarl, then his loyal huntsman when I could no longer fight. My station is low, but I am not without pride. My honor comes from serving an honorable master. We Saxons are a proud people, used to being our own masters in ways that Normans do not understand. Yet I see the way the wind blows from Normandy, and have seen with mine own eyes the honor of men who are not Saxon. You are a fierce man, my lord, but a just one. I swear to serve you, if not with a sword, with my honor and my life.”
Luc gravely covered the old man’s hands with his own and accepted his oath. “Now rise, Sighere. You are welcome at Wulfridge and in my hall.”
Sighere rose clumsily to his feet and stood proudly a moment, swaying a bit with the crutch under his arm but his body held stiffly straight. Then he smiled. “The wolf will go with you, my lord.”
CEARA PACED the floor of the solar with growing concern. Dark had fallen, and still Luc had not returned. The fool—he did not know this land as she did. He should not have been so determined to go alone, and if not her, at least taken another who was familiar with the bogs and forest.
Candles flickered on the table, and a draft swept across the chamber to stir wall hangings and bed curtains. Ceara paused. She stood stiff and still, listening with rising tension. Were those hoofbeats in the courtyard? No, of course she would not hear them, not here in the solar when the hall was so thick with people.
But she held her breath when there came a muffled sound from the corridor outside the solar, and moved slowly to the door that led to the antechamber. It was quiet—until the door was flung open, and Luc filled the portal, smelling of wind and snow. Her throat tightened, and as glad as she was to see him, there was no wolf at his feet.