Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  Luc settled in to besiege Oswald, instructing his men to build cats to shelter their assault on the wooden walls and ordering arrows to be dipped in pitch. He did not expect a long siege, for Oswald’s palisades were of wooden construction, and vulnerable to fire. While his men were obeying these commands, Luc sent out forces to ravage villages and fields, to take what plunder they willed, to destroy Oswald’s resources and bring his people to their knees. It was not a part of war that he relished, but he knew well that to allow the rebel baron any support would only lengthen the conflict.

  Along with his command to ravage, he had also given the stern edict to Remy that women and children were to be spared, that rape would be viewed in the harshest light, and any man who disobeyed would be put to the sword. Captain Remy, reminded of Luc’s wrath when unarmed servants were slain in the taking of Wulfridge, relayed these orders in the bluntest of terms.

  Luc expected these people to bend the knee to him, and while he intended to instill respect and fear, he did not wish to earn unyielding hatred as a cruel Norman overlord. Mercy would be given to those who surrendered, so Oswald would be viewed as the cause of their losses. It was a tactic he had seen stand William in good stead, earning him loyalty from those he conquered. Whether from fear or respect, it did not matter.

  What did matter to Luc was Ceara’s regard. She would not forgive the rampant slaughter of Saxons. Even had he not desired to avoid shedding the blood of those who owed him service, he desired even less the enmity of the Saxon maid who had become his wife. It was she he thought about in odd moments, watching as his men built the portable wooden shelters with which to storm Oswald’s walls, thinking instead of Ceara’s soft skin. He had stormed her citadel with passion and determination, and the spirited surrenders he had won left him aching for even more. Yet she guarded her heart so well that he was still uncertain of her. When he thought perhaps she felt more than a passing fondness for him, she turned, eyes flashing and head lifted with defiance, her tongue sharp enough to flay him to the bone.

  War was more certain than a woman’s mind, he thought with annoyance. In battle, he knew what to do. With his wife, he was too often at a loss. She turned from yielding sweetness to hissing defiance in the blink of an eye. It was enough to unnerve a man at times.

  ROBERT DE BRIONNE was uneasy. Their acceptance by King Malcolm’s vassal was cordial, his hospitality abundant, but as of yet, there was no sign of the king’s seal on the terms of marriage for Amélie. He fretted at the delay, but his requests for explanation were deftly turned aside by Lord Niall, who bent smiles and wiles on him that were intended to soothe his misgivings.

  When the second fortnight passed with no word from the king of the Scots, nor sign of nuptials, Robert announced his intention to depart with the lady unless he was shown proof of their good intentions.

  Niall, stroking his chin thoughtfully, regarded Robert with a lifted brow and slight smile. “I would not do that, were I you, Sir Robert. It might be misunderstood.”

  “There is no misunderstanding.” Robert eyed the men who quietly came to flank Niall with a sudden qualm. “You have not kept your bargain. The Lady Amélie was to be wed with the king’s sanction, yet I see no envoy from Malcolm, nor yet a bridegroom.”

  “He is unaccountably delayed, Sir Robert, as you have been told more than once.” Niall’s eyes narrowed with sly hostility. “Do you think us reluctant to wed our vassal with a lady of William’s choosing?”

  Robert drew in a deep breath. “Yea, I do. The negotiations were said to be complete, yet there is now too much delay, to my mind.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Perhaps the lady and I should depart, and when the king wishes to secure the pact, we will return.”

  “Ah, that would not be wise, Sir Robert. You are our honored guests here, and we would take it amiss were you to attempt to leave our hospitality. Do you not care for the food? Or our diversions? Not a Norman court, perhaps, with a surfeit of silk and comfits, but we are more civilized in our way. And we know how to honor guests.”

  “I feel more prisoner than guest,” Robert said quite bluntly, and knew from Niall’s casual shrug that he was right. His muscles tightened. It was a trick, as he had begun to suspect. “What is expected from us, Lord Niall?”

  “Nothing more than your cooperation, my friend.” Niall smiled. “We know that the new earl of Wulfridge has mounted an assault on our ally, Oswald of Paxton. We would have you send word to him that if he wishes to keep his own, he will withdraw from Northumbria.”

  It was a cryptic suggestion that had grave import. Robert paused before replying. If Oswald were allied with Malcolm, that left Wulfridge in grave danger, for Luc’s forces would be divided, the castle vulnerable.

  “And if he does not withdraw, Lord Niall?”

  Shrugging, the old lord sat back in his chair and put his hands together, fingertips against fingertips. “Then his lady wife will not be returned to him.”

  Robert stared at Niall with mounting anxiety. “Where is his lady now?”

  Niall smiled. “She is now, or soon will be, in Oswald’s custody. But do not fear for her. I have agreed to accept her as my guest until we are assured that Northumbria is secure in our hands. It is your part in this, Lord Robert, to persuade Luc Louvat that he must accept our demands.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You will not. Your own life you might risk, but not that of fair Amélie. It would hardly be chivalrous of you, and it is well known how you Normans pride yourselves on feats of chivalry.”

  Scorn underscored his words, and Robert stiffened. If Malcolm supported this insurrection, then nothing could avert war, for William would not suffer it. He looked at Niall. “Does King Malcolm involve himself in this?”

  Niall shrugged. “The king has other concerns at the moment, but if we succeed, he will support us.”

  “You fool. Malcolm is not in a position to defy William. Why would he?”

  “Why, for the rewards, of course. As do I. By the by, Sir Robert, have you met my lady wife?”

  Robert stared at him warily. “Nay, I have not.”

  “She is known to you, I think. And most certainly known to Lord Luc.”

  Once, Robert would have been astonished, but now it was only further proof of the suspected treachery when Lady Adela entered the chamber, her expression triumphant.

  “Robert of Brionne, it has been a long time since I have seen you. Tell me, how is my son?”

  “If you mean Jean-Paul, he was well when last I saw him.”

  “No, I meant my other son—my bastard stepson, Luc. Does he fare well also?”

  “Madam, I have a feeling you know the answer to that far better than I do.” Robert fought his rising frustration. “Did you send Jean-Paul to Wulfridge? Bones of God, you have a lot to answer for, madam!”

  Laughter greeted his furious demand, and Lady Adela exchanged a long glance with her husband before Niall turned back to Robert. “Well, Sir Robert? What have you decided?”

  After a moment Robert nodded, his heart heavy and his voice gruff. “I will send a man to Lord Luc with your damned message.”

  Niall nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. And since you are staying with us awhile longer, Sir Robert, you and the lady may continue to enjoy our pleasant pastimes.”

  “I do not enjoy being hostage,” Robert snapped.

  “Hostage? No, you mistake me. You are merely our guests for a time, until Lord Luc is convinced that to wage war on Northumbria is most unwise.”

  “You have chosen a wolf to make into a lapdog, I fear, Lord Niall. I do not think you will like its bite.”

  “I do not fear the bite of a mongrel. Our borders are besieged, and we will do what must be done to secure them.”

  “Then take care you do not earn the wrath of the lion as well as the wolf, for William will not swallow this insult without retaliation.”

  Niall smiled blandly. “William is far away, and must concern himself with un
rest in other areas. Here, where Saxon earls align with Scots, lies much land that we have long considered our own. We do not yield it gladly.”

  “It is not yours to yield. There will be bitter battle done for this, Lord Niall, mistake it not.”

  “I do not think so. Luc of Wulfridge is one man.”

  “You forget Leofric and Eadwine.”

  “Pah! Eadwine is old and Leofric wavering. If Oswald triumphs, Leofric will sway his forces to our side and the wolf will be overrun. We might have had the lands already if not for Luc Louvat. Had we known they were held by only a maid and her grizzled commander, we would have taken them long before he arrived.

  “Yet the maid held them against you successfully, I hear.”

  Niall rose abruptly. “It is of no matter now. You are here, and when Lord Luc receives our offer, he will make his decision. Pray you that it is in our favor, or you will rue this day, Sir Robert.”

  Outraged but outnumbered, Robert could only keep his own counsel as he was shown to the chamber he had occupied since arriving. The old fox had maneuvered slyly and now Luc must make the next move. Did he risk his childhood friend, or his wife and lands? Robert’s heart was heavy, and as he summoned to him a man from the retinue he had traveled here with, he knew with grim certainty what he would do were he Luc. Therefore, it would behoove him to think of a way to extract himself and Lady Amélie from what was certain to be a dangerous position—and thus free Luc from having to decide.

  The messenger arrived, nervous but alert. “Yes, Sir Robert, you summoned me.”

  Robert nodded. “Giles, though I know there was strife between you and Lord Luc, you must put that behind you. He will recognize you and my seal. Deliver to him this message and my ring.…”

  • • •

  IT WAS NEAR dusk. Purple and crimson shadows stained the horizon, reflected in the shimmering waves of the inlet cradling Wulfridge castle. Ceara stood atop the wall clutching her arms to her body, gazing across the water. The wind tugged at the hem of her blue kirtle and blew her loose hair about her face. Luc had been gone over a week, long days and nights had passed since he set out to lay siege to Oswald. Only one message had come, and that soon after Luc’s departure, the weary courier covered with mud and flecks of lather from his horse as he relayed the news that Luc had laid siege and sent his assurances that he was well.

  There had also been a personal note from him, and she had read his neat penned words with a little difficulty, as her training was scant. Still, she knew enough to make out his message to her, and had tucked the wrinkled parchment with his seal beneath her pillow that night.

  He thought of her often. He hoped she heeded his command and her vow, and was safe in the confines of the castle. It had been signed with a flourish, Luc Louvat, earl of Wulfridge.

  Arrogant, perhaps, but the essence of the man was there in the sanded ink and the wax seal imprinted with his ring. The signet depicted a wolf’s head, familiar and defiant. Odd, that a man so named had come to take her lands. It was almost as if her father had sent him to her, for Lord Balfour had said that Wulfridge needed a man who is as fierce as a wolf to hold it, not a she-wolf. At the time, she had been furious. Now, she knew he was right.

  Beside her, Sheba began to pace, huge paws padding along the top of the wall as the animal picked a path over the jagged stones. Ceara followed the wolf’s gaze over the battlement and saw in the distance faint plumes of smoke rising above treetops to smudge the dusky sky. Her throat tightened. Surely Luc would not lay waste to his own lands. Not even if churls defied him or the villagers closed their shop doors against him would he destroy his own resources. Would he?

  She shifted uneasily. In the courtyard below came the rumble of soldiers, and she glanced down uneasily as men began to scurry back and forth with hasty purpose. An air of grim preparation clothed their movements, as cauldrons were dragged from storehouses, leather hides pulled out, and the smell of heating pitch rose into the air. By the time she reached the bailey, the activity was fevered, chaotic.

  She sought out Lieutenant le Bec, castellan in Luc’s absence, charged with keeping the castle safe. He spoke rough English, but was too hurried to do more than tell her that news had come of an army’s approach.

  “Men from the north, my lady, from what we know,” he added, then moved away before she could ask more questions.

  Men from the north? Danes? Or Scots? She hurried to the castle, and found the hall in an uproar. The room was being stripped of valuables which would be hidden in one of the underground vaults Luc had restored. Servants took care to remove everything down to the fragile glazing from the window.

  It was an organized procedure, carried out under the swift, capable direction of the squire, Alain. She found him in the corridor outside the hall.

  “Alain, tell me, what do you know?”

  “Little more than you, most like. Here, boy—Rudd. Do not bother with that tapestry, but take instead the gold and silver vessels to the vault.”

  Ceara grabbed the squire’s arm when he would have pushed past, too agitated to care about property. “Curse you, Alain of Montbray, tell me what word has come to your ears before I flay you for disobedience!”

  That halted the squire, and he looked at her with cold eyes. “I owe allegiance to my lord, not you, with all pardon for my bluntness, Lady Ceara.”

  “Yea, but I am one of Lord Luc’s prized possessions, so do not be so insolent that you allow me to be lost in the confusion.”

  Her veiled threat convinced him, and he sighed impatiently. “The Scots approach. They are garbed for war. It is a great force, and with only a single troop left to defend our walls, Lieutenant le Bec has sent out an urgent message to Lord Luc that we are under attack. I do not think we will be overrun, as our defenses are stout, but it might be difficult for the earl to relieve us if he is in the midst of besieging Oswald.”

  Fear skipped along her spine, but she nodded. “I am not unaccustomed to assault, you may recall. I have experience with this. Have our vassals been summoned?”

  “Messengers have gone out to Leofric and Eadwine. The towns have been warned to shut their gates, those that have walls, and the villagers cautioned to take cover against the invaders. The coastal towns are advised to move all merchant ships from their harbors. That is all that can be done for the moment.”

  “It is enough. We will hold the castle until my lord arrives to defend us.”

  Alain gave her an odd look, a little smile at one corner of his mouth. “You seem confident he will come, my lady.”

  “He will come.”

  “And if he is delayed by Oswald? What then?”

  “Do you seek out worries, Alain?”

  “Not when there are worries aplenty without seeking.” Alain shifted from one foot to the other, anxious to be gone. She did not delay him longer, and hurried to her own chamber, Sheba at her heels.

  The wolf was uneasy with the armed men running to and fro, and let her distress be known by rumbling moans and brief howls. Ceara comforted her briefly, then moved to the wooden chest set against the far wall of the solar. Hidden in the bottom was the gladius that had long been hers, beneath what was left of the Roman armor. The leather straps of the armor were worn almost in two, as they had been for some time. She withdrew the short sword and hefted it in one hand with a smile of satisfaction. Much better than her dainty little eating dagger that was all Luc would allow her to wear, a pitiful weapon in her opinion. This old sword had endured through the ages, kept sharp at the grindstone, carefully cherished by many before her.

  Now she strapped it around her waist, fastening the buckles that held it secure over her blue kirtle. At once, she felt better. If need be, she could defend herself.

  Sheba put back her head and howled again, black lips dark against the white of her fur, eyes slitted. The wolf sensed danger, and reacted with restless anticipation.

  “Shush, cony,” Ceara soothed, stroking the thick white fur of Sheba’s ruff. “There is na
ught to fear. We will hold until our lord comes, and together we shall drive out the invaders. This time, we fight together.”

  Sheba swept a tongue across Ceara’s cheek, but did not cease her restive prowling about the chamber. It was likely to be a lengthy wait, and Ceara finally left the solar to join the others in the hall.

  The wolf came behind her, a low whine in her throat as she followed Ceara through the corridor, now strangely empty of guards. All had been called to man the walls and gates. Dark shadows shrouded the far end of the passageway, where construction was still under way though the hole that had waylaid Robert had been well covered now.

  The hall was empty of Luc’s fine Norman furnishings. Little remained to indicate that woven tapestries had covered the bare walls, or gilt salt cellars and silver nefs had held spices for their food. Even the feather bolsters that cushioned chairs and benches were gone.

  Alain was quite efficient, it seemed. She smiled a little, and moved to the far end of the hall where the table dormant remained in place, a huge, heavy oaken slab that had served her father and his father before him. Motifs of ancient Celtic deities were still etched into the sides and framework of the table, intricate swirls and coils that resembled the ornamentation of her mother’s pendant. At the thought, she put up a hand to touch the amber and silver necklace around her neck.

  In the confusion, it might very well be lost—or taken. It should be in the vault with the other treasures, tucked safely away until danger had passed. Turning, she left the hall again, Sheba a white shadow slinking behind her with hackles raised and eyes alert.

  Below Wulfridge, in the deep chambers dug aeons before by invaders long departed from England, Luc had chosen a single vault to hold valuables. An iron door had been fitted to the only entrance, and a lock secured the door with a thick hasp. It was a good-sized chamber, with walls chiseled of rock that were damp from the cold, musty air of the sea. Huge chests ranged along the walls, lined with spiced wood that had been treated with pitch to withstand the moisture and keep mold from the bolts of precious cloth.