Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  “My lord … were you—”

  A yelp rent the air, and a brown and white mass of matted fur pushed past Luc. Ceara knelt, her legs too weak to hold her erect any longer, and Sheba bounded across the floor to reach her in almost a single hop. A wet tongue raked her face from chin to brows, smearing tears of gladness and relief. Ceara grabbed Sheba around the neck, pressing her face into fur that smelled of mud and smoke. Her voice broke a little as she murmured, “Oh, Sheba, silly cony … where have you been?”

  Luc watched, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest, his voice dry. “I warrant that I would not rate such a welcome were I to be gone near a week from you.”

  Between swipes of wet wolf tongue and ecstatic yips, Ceara managed to say, “You underestimate yourself, my lord.”

  He smiled as she looked up at him from the floor, trying futilely to calm the excited wolf. “I met a friend of yours, Ceara. He sent you his regards.”

  “A friend?”

  “Sighere.”

  “So that was where she went.” Ceara shook Sheba with hands curled into the thick ruff of her neck, scolding her without much firmness. “You did not come when I called, wicked wolf. Shame on you for being so willful.”

  Sheba flopped onto her belly and put her head between her paws, but there was no real remorse in the gold-brown eyes. Fringed white lashes flickered briefly, then she put out a paw in a gesture of conciliation. Ceara took the paw in her hands and turned it over. Mud and ice crusted the thick white hair between the black pads of her paws, forming hard little balls. She bent to the task of working them free, and when she glanced up again, Luc was gone.

  His silent departure left her feeling suddenly bereft, and despite her joy at having Sheba back, she could not help a pang of sadness. There were moments when she thought she had touched him in some way, when perhaps he felt fondness for her. Was she more to him than just a possession? He claimed he held what was his, but had said nothing about love. He had gone after Sheba, but was it because he had sworn to retrieve what he considered his, or because he wanted to please her?

  Sir Robert’s tale had explained much. But he had not touched on how Luc felt about her. And she did not know how to discover the truth for herself.

  Never had she accepted defeat well, and it was no different now.

  Sheba nudged her, cold nose digging into the cup of her palm, and Ceara stroked the great head, sighing softly. It should be enough that she was lady of Wulfridge and had her beloved pet back. But she knew it was not enough anymore. Unless she could win Luc’s heart as he had won hers, nothing would ever be enough.

  “Still sitting on the floor, wife?”

  Her head jerked up, and Luc was there, looking weary but indulgent. He wagged a mutton joint, and Sheba sat up abruptly to stare at the treat with intense interest. A low warbling moan began low in her throat, escalating into a full howl, with head thrown back and eyes slitted, the black lips of her muzzle folded over her curved teeth.

  Pushing away from the door, Luc tossed the mutton and Sheba leaped agilely to catch it in her great jaws, teeth chomping down on the meat with relish. Then she trotted to the far side of the chamber and sprawled on the stone with the mutton held between her paws.

  Ceara glanced up at Luc, and he grinned. “I felt I had a better chance winning the wolf from you than you from the wolf.”

  “Perhaps you did not try the right inducement.”

  “Perhaps.” The smile still lingered on Luc’s mouth as he crossed to her and held out his hand, and she put her fingers into his open palm and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Do you not wish to know about Sighere?”

  “Is that your inducement? I had thought you more inventive, my lord. Jewels, or fine cloth from the East.”

  Luc swung her about, catching her around the waist with one arm. His smile faded, and there was an intensity to his gaze to equal that of Sheba’s. “I kept my promise, Ceara.”

  “Yea, lord.” She put her palms lightly against his chest, her voice soft. “I had no doubt you would succeed.”

  Some of his tension eased, and he swept up a hand to cup her chin in his palm. “Liar.”

  She laughed. “Yea, lord, so I am at times. You should punish me for my willful ways.”

  “You jest, but do not think I have not considered it, especially when I was knee-deep in snowdrifts.”

  She kissed the underside of his jaw, along the faint, jagged scar that marked his skin. Dark beard stubble tickled her lips. “If you had not gone, you would not have met Sighere. Did you like him?”

  His arms curved around her. “He was not what I expected from a former huntsman.”

  “He is a Saxon. Once, there were not class distinctions here as there are in Normandy. It was only when Normans brought pride of position to England that it became the mode to say one man was better than the next.”

  “I do not agree. There were Saxon kings, earls, and thegns.”

  “Yea, but the gulf between was not as wide then.” She laid her face against his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart under her cheek. Then she smiled, and tilted her head back to look up at him. “You smell sheepish, my lord husband. Do you wish to wash away the scent, or is it your preference to sleep in the stable?”

  Luc grimaced. “I slept there last night. One of my men suggested I seek other lodging this night, for my temper disturbed the horses.”

  “Cheeky wretch.”

  “I could not chastise him. He was right.” Luc peered at her with a gleam in his eyes. “If I am to be forced to bathe, I demand assistance.”

  “I am certain we can arrange that.” Ceara spread her hand against his chest, pushing him away from her. “I will send for Rudd to bring a tub and soap, and buckets of hot water.”

  He caught her hand when she stepped away, holding her. “And you to wash my back.”

  Contentment bubbled inside her as she promised, and she thought as she moved to the door that if he had not yet said he loved her, he felt it. Soon, he would say the words, would give her his heart as well as his name, and then her world would be complete. Soon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JANUARY PASSED, AND the calends of February was fast approaching. Winter had gripped the land in icy talons and prevented Robert and Amélie from continuing their northward journey. Evenings were spent in the great hall with music, minstrels, and games of chess or backgammon, long lazy nights when the best spot was by the blazing fire. Even a short distance from the flames it was cold, with icy drafts whistling around corners and seeping between layers of clothing to chill flesh and spirit.

  Robert de Brionne was impatient to be on his way, to be rid of the lady he was to escort to Malcolm’s court. “It is wearing to hear her constant complaints in my ear, Luc. How did you ever bear her harping?”

  “It was not her art of conversation that attracted me,” Luc responded dryly, and Robert had to laugh.

  “Admittedly, she is passing fair, but for her sharp tongue. Ah, Luc, would that I had accepted the king’s first offer to court glory in Normandy. Then I would not be here with fair Amélie and your lady wife looking daggers at one another every meal.”

  Luc shrugged. “Ceara has little patience with Amélie’s demands.”

  “No, she has little patience with Amélie’s attempts to gain more than just your attention.” Robert gave a grunt of irritation. “I vow, the lady liked you less when you were still vying for her favors than she does now.”

  “Ah, Robert, do you really not know that that is the way of some women? There are those who will flee at the slightest hint of rejection, and those whose appetites are only whetted by being spurned. If a man wants to win the heart of fair Amélie, he would do better to show her his back than his smile.”

  Robert looked up from the flames dancing on the hearth and regarded Luc thoughtfully for a moment, before he nodded his agreement. Juggling the dice in his hand, he tossed them to the game board without glancing to see how they fell. “S
he is a proud dame. I pity Malcolm’s cousin, for he will not find in her the comfort you have found in your lady.”

  “There are those men who prefer constant challenge to harmony.” Luc picked up the dice, rolling them in his palm with an idle motion. He glanced toward the end of the hall where Ceara stood with one of the young Saxon servants.

  Robert followed his gaze. The wolf lay at Ceara’s feet, returned again from a fortnight’s disappearance. No one knew how the animal had left the castle, but she had suddenly vanished one morning, and as suddenly reappeared without explanation two weeks later. Ceara had feared that one of the soldiers had harmed the beast, but now Sheba was back, although still wary when armored soldiers hove into view. Natural enough, Robert supposed, since the wolf had near been run down by Oswald’s man before Christmas. He turned back to Luc.

  “What news of Oswald?”

  “None.” Luc frowned and rolled the dice against his palm with his thumb. “He swore no oath, to me or to William. But I did not expect it.”

  “What do you expect?”

  Glancing up, Luc tossed the dice to the game board. “I expect that when the weather eases, Oswald will announce his intentions with a sword.”

  “What precautions do you take?”

  “Wulfridge is strong. I have a network of loyal churls on the perimeters who will give the alarm should there be trouble.”

  “Can you count on churls to risk their own safety to give warning?” Skeptical, Robert shook his head. “My past experience has been that they look solely to their own.”

  “Only if they have not been convinced of the greater good in trusting an overlord to give them succor against the coming of invaders.”

  “And the peasants of Wulfridge trust you in so short a time?”

  “Not me.” Luc indicated Ceara with a tilt of his head. “It is her they trust. They fought for her before, with pitchforks and scythes, standing alongside veterans who should have been at home in front of fires instead of facing soldiers and knights. Balfour’s vassals have sworn to me, save for Oswald, and the peasantry have been united by Balfour’s old master-at-arms. If needed, they will come, though I think my garrison is well manned enough.”

  “You have experienced soldiers that even William envies, I think.” Robert glanced down at the backgammon board and frowned. “Whose turn is it?”

  Luc rose, stretching. “Yours. I have in mind another game to pass the night.”

  As he turned in the direction of his wife, Robert called after him, “Then you must forfeit our game.”

  Luc laughed and replied that it was of little matter to him, and Robert poured himself more wine, slumping onto the bench next to the abandoned game. There were moments he envied Luc, not for his lands or title, but for the promise of contentment within his grasp. Perhaps it was time he left his carefree ways behind and took a wife as well. A fair woman to enliven his nights and inhabit a home with female things. He thought of his estate in Normandy, empty save for servants and a widowed sister. It was not grand, but comfortable, with broad fields and healthy vines that made excellent wine. Long had he been too restless to remain there, preferring to use his sword in William’s service, whether in France, Normandy, Flanders, or England, wherever there was strife that needed strength of arms. It paid him good coin, but did not lend to a long future.

  “Must you sprawl all over the bench like a common churl, Sir Robert?”

  Robert sighed, and looked up at Lady Amélie, who stood beside him with pinched mouth and narrowed eyes. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her gaze shifted from Robert down the length of the hall. He did not have to look to know that she was watching Luc and Ceara.

  “Your spite is showing, my lady.”

  Amélie’s gaze jerked back to him. “Knave. What would you know of anything?”

  “Enough to see what everyone else here sees.” His fingers tightened around the pewter stem of the wine goblet. “If you do not mind being the butt of poor jests, pray continue with your covetous ways. But do not expect much sympathy from me when Lady Ceara takes her eating dagger to your lily-white throat, madam, for you will have earned her wrath with your clumsy attempts to win Luc’s affection.”

  Amélie’s pale skin had gone the color of ash. She did not speak for a moment, but stared at him with green eyes burning like emerald fires. “You know nothing of which you speak, varlet! Do you judge all by your sluttish ways? I am only conscious of the past friendship between Luc and myself, not—”

  Surging to his feet, suddenly angry, Robert grasped her by the wrist, startling a gasp from her. “Do not use me as a dupe, madam, for I am not. Do you think I do not know why you asked the king for my escort north? Why you insisted upon coming at a time of year when the roads are at their worst?” He released her wrist with a slight shove, heedless of curious stares from others in the hall, his voice a low growl of warning. “I would not advise that you continue to view me as a witless fool, for I have known all along your game.”

  Amélie retrieved her dignity with a lifted chin and cool gaze. “You have spilled your wine on my gown.”

  “I crave your pardon most heartily.” Robert lifted his goblet and drained the last of his wine, then with a tight glance at Amélie, pushed past her and left the hall. It was even colder in the corridor, drafts blowing in between the cracks of the huge double doors guarded by armed soldiers. Luc left little to chance. Sentries were posted on walls and at the outer gates of Wulfridge as well.

  Still, he could not help an oppressive feeling of impending doom. It had lain on him heavily the past week. Irritable and restless, smarting from the contempt with which Amélie regarded him, he wandered down the long corridor aimlessly. A shadow flickered at the far end of the corridor where recent repairs had been abandoned because of inclement weather. Wooden partitions had been hastily constructed until stonemasons could be brought to Wulfridge. When a soft thunk caught his attention, as if something had fallen, he moved in the direction of the sound.

  Glancing down, Robert shoved at a loose board with the toe of his boot, and was surprised when it shifted to one side. Beneath it, a gaping hole loomed black in the floor, and he knelt beside it, frowning. It was not just a hole, but a chamber of some kind, vast and dank with a musty smell that made him think of the sea. An oubliette? He peered into it, with the brisk whisper of clammy air chilling his face. A board creaked somewhere behind him and he glanced up, but saw only a vague shadow before something hard struck the side of his head. A flash of white lights spun in front of his eyes, and he pitched forward into empty air, trying to catch himself but failing as the black shadows swallowed him.

  • • •

  LUC COAXED CEARA into an alcove off the corridor leading from the hall, his hands as insolent as his wicked suggestions. Sternly, she put her palm against his chest, schooling the laughter from her lips as she bade him be more politic.

  “The halls are yet peopled, my lord. Can you not wait until we reach the solar?”

  “You lesson me greatly with modesty, but I know you too well, lady fair.” He skimmed his fingers along the line of her throat to her covered bosom, grinning at her indignant protest. “What does it matter, here or there? There is little enough privacy for our pleasure.”

  “Then perhaps we should command a table in the hall for your display of affection,” Ceara returned tartly, and Luc’s soft laughter warmed her cheek. She tried to maneuver him to one side, but he used his weight as leverage, leaning against her with a mocking grin that let her know he thought her efforts amusing. She bit back her laughter and managed a convincing scowl, poking him in the middle of his chest. “You do not set a proper example for the others in your hall, Luc Louvat.”

  “Ah, but I do. They should all be wedded and bedded.” Blocking her flight, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her into the wall with gentle force, leaning into her to hold her, his hands busied with the side laces of her gown.

  A low growl emanated from the edge of the alcove, and
Luc glanced over his shoulder, muttering about interruptions as he bade Sheba be still. Yet the wolf would not be quiet, and the snarling warning penetrated Luc’s interest in Ceara’s gown enough to turn him around.

  Ceara pushed past him, frowning at her pet. “What is it, Sheba?”

  Agitated, the wolf flicked white-tufted ears forward, hackles lifted on her shoulder blades, her body tensed as if stalking prey. The huge paws moved across the floor with slow deliberation, her sharp eyes intent on the far end of the corridor where repairs were being made.

  “She sees something, Luc.”

  “Shadows.” He grasped her by the arm. “Come. We will go to the solar, if you insist.”

  “No, Luc. There is something that disturbs Sheba.”

  “Since Oswald, every soldier she sees disturbs her.” He did not release his grip. Impatience edged his words. “There are guards stationed all about the castle, Ceara. If there was trouble, I would have been informed. Now come, before—”

  “Luc, I heard something.”

  Swearing softly, Luc blew out an exasperated breath, resignation in his tone now as he said, “Let us go see what has so alarmed your wolf that you would refuse your husband his needs.”

  She shot him a reproving glance. “Desire and need are different things.”

  “Not always, fair lady, not always.”

  But he was moving down the corridor, his strides long and determined next to the wolf’s stalking gait. Ceara was not really frightened, for as Luc had said, guards were all about the grounds, but she had heard something that sounded alien, despairing, perhaps.

  Several steps behind Luc, she did not see the cause when he stopped suddenly and knelt on the floor, exclaiming loudly. Sheba whined, then put back her head and howled, pawing at the floor.

  “Jésu, the floor must have given way—Ceara, bring me a torch and fetch Alain. I think someone has fallen in a hole left by the workmen. Curse them for their carelessness—go swiftly, for the wolf seems to agree with me.”