by The Vow
The door was ajar, and a single torch lit the dank chamber with fitful light. Ceara drew off the pendant, and stood in front of one of the chests. The lid was heavy, as high as her waist and curved, a massive chest indeed.
With an effort, she managed to open it, straining at the weight of the lid. She was impatient to get back to the hall, and coiled the silver and amber pendant into a jewel-crusted chalice, then slowly lowered the lid, puffing with exertion.
When Sheba snarled, Ceara turned swiftly, letting the lid fall the last bit with a loud crash. The sound was muffled by thick stone, quickly smothered in the gloom. Torchlight flickered. The wolf crouched low, teeth bared, hackles stiff along the line of her back.
Invaders could not have breached the walls in the time it took for her to come down to the vault, Ceara reassured herself, and she moved toward Sheba with cautious steps.
“Who goes there?”
The sound of her demand faded quickly. Just outside the door a shadow moved, and she put her hand on the hilt of her sword. Heart pounding, she cleared her throat and again demanded that they show themselves.
Still no reply, and Sheba’s low snarls grew into violent rumbles. With a hand on the wolf’s back and the other hand around her drawn sword, Ceara approached the vault door. No doubt the wolf just sensed an armed soldier beyond the door, still ever wary since the incident with Oswald’s man.
It was quiet in the bowels of the castle. Her steps made an eerie shuffling sound over the stone floor, and she put out a hand to push the heavy door open wider. Everything happened so quickly that she had no time to think. Someone grabbed her wrist, there was a curse, snarling growls, and the flash of steel, and she was jabbing with her short sword at the shadowed figure of a man, vaguely aware of a white streak of fur before the man screamed. Sheba’s fierce attack brought more curses and screams, and then another man was there, and a sword lifted high into the air, a silvery glitter in the dim light as it descended in a deadly arc.
Ceara screamed at the same time as the wolf, a high-pitched wail of terror and pain and hatred that bounced off the corbeled walls of the hall outside the vault in deafening echoes. A final yelp, then Sheba dropped, her white body spouting blood from a deep slash across her ribs. Ceara fought free of the man holding her, trying to reach the wolf, but she was dragged away. Turning, she lashed out with the sword, slicing it in a wicked gash that met with temporary resistance against vulnerable flesh and bone before wrenching free. The sound of mortal wounding rent the air, and one of the men staggered and slid to the floor near Sheba’s body, his sword clattering uselessly on stone.
The other man held her fast, his arm around her neck though they were of like height, and Ceara grasped his forearm between her teeth and bit down hard. Grunting with pain, he slammed her hard against the wall. Lights exploded in front of her eyes like the brief flare of a thousand candles. The gladius went flying from her hand. Her head rang. Grief and rage choked her, and her hair tangled in front of her eyes so that she could hardly see. Slowly, he began to drag her back into the vault, though she still struggled weakly.
It occurred to her that the man’s curses were in the Saxon tongue, panting and furious but familiar. This was no Norman enemy who dared slay her wolf and assault her, but another Saxon.
With a tremendous burst of strength fueled by fury, she threw off her assailant and sent him hard against the wall. She darted for the door, but he caught her and swung her around, slamming her into one of the heavy chests with a force hard enough to stun her for a moment. Panting, on her hands and knees, she peered up through the tangle of her hair as the man bent to retrieve her sword from the stones. Torchlight slid along the red-stained blade in runnels of reflected light.
“You have bloodied your sword on your own man, my fine lady,” came the hoarse taunt, and Ceara’s blood chilled. He laughed harshly. “Aye, your brave rescuer was cut down by the very one he sought to help.”
Ceara threw a glance toward the still body on the floor, but his face was turned away. She glimpsed fair hair, and closed her eyes. Loathing and grief welled up in an overwhelming tide, and she fought the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop her. She must be alert to thwart this enemy, for she had the sinking feeling that he could bring down not only Wulfridge, but Luc, as well. Why had she not sensed this threat from within?
Opening her eyes, she rallied enough to push herself upright and face the gloating man holding her sword. “Kill me and you will surely die.”
“Ah, but, lady, your death is not what will bring the Norman wolf running to meet his own fate.…”
Chapter Nineteen
LUC MOUNTED HIS destrier, grimly rejecting the town mayor’s excuses that he had not seen Oswald. The siege had ended with assault, the successful breaching of the fortress walls and the taking of Oswald’s holding. Yet Oswald had escaped. There was no sign of him. Nor could any of his men say where he had gone. The search had led them from Rothbury Forest north to Oswald’s other holdings.
“Burn it,” Luc ordered, casting a last brief look at the village that had harbored the rebel baron. Torches were lit and set to thatched roofs despite the wails of the occupants who tried to drag out what belongings they could before the flames consumed all. Luc watched dispassionately. He had spent near a week searching for Oswald. It had not taken long to effect the fall of the fortress, yet the search for the rebel baron had ranged far afield, through towns and villages like this last one that had set up a brief resistance. It had been quickly quelled with sword and fire. But no Oswald.
Captain Remy approached, face streaked with soot. Flames cast eerie shadows over them, crimson as blood and flickering wildly. “My lord, he was here, but fled before first light. A villager claims he rode north.”
“Any farther north and we will be in Malcolm’s lap,” Luc retorted. The smell of smoke was thick and choking. It boiled up from the burning cottages in black clouds that blotted out the sunlight.
Turning Drago to the villagers clustered in a tight circle like frightened geese, he bent a stern eye on them. “Now hear this, you people of Oswald’s fief, for what I say to you may well save your lives this winter when the winds blow cold and your storehouses loom empty. I have left you your lives and livestock. I have not killed your children, nor trampled your newly planted fields. But know this—if I find you harbor this rebel baron, I will come back. And I will lay waste to field and stores and beasts until there is nothing left. Your children will cry from empty bellies and the sky will be your only roof, for I will leave you nothing else. This is William’s land now, and any man who defies me, defies the king. Heed my warning and I will show you mercy. Ignore it at your own peril.”
Gaunt, terrified faces stared up at Luc from under shaggy manes of hair, and some of the men tugged at their forelocks in gestures of servility. He nudged Drago close to one of them, and pointed with the tip of his sword. “You. What know you of Oswald’s whereabouts?”
Quaking, the man looked at his companions, but none offered comfort. A few sidled away, as if afraid to be too close to a man noticed by the earl. Mailed Norman soldiers surrounded them, riding back and forth to set fire to cottages and corn cribs. The man thus singled out swallowed hard, and his words were rough and halting.
“I know naught, m’lord, truly. He were here, they say. ’tis all I know.”
“But others here know. I will wait until one of you comes forward to tell me what I want to know, but I will not wait long. I charge you with yielding up this news. Do not fail.”
Wrenching Drago around, Luc rode a short distance away and stopped beneath the sheltering branches of a huge oak. It was dirty work. But it was necessary. He had learned intimidation at William’s side, and he had chosen the man he thought most likely to secure the information he wanted. Within the space of a few moments, the man came toward him, kneading his cap between his hands as he approached.
“Well?” Luc gazed down, expressionless, and the man bobbed his head.
&nb
sp; “M’lord, ’twill not be news well come to ye—but it is said that Oswald rides south to the coast. To Wulfridge.…”
Luc stared at him. Oswald could not have many men with him. What could he hope to accomplish? Yet it was worrisome, and even as he granted the man mercy and spared the village, he puzzled over it. A sense of urgency rode him hard as they turned south toward Wulfridge. There was something wicked afoot.
They pushed their mounts hard, until foam lathered the animals’ necks and sides and flecked the riders’ legs with white specks. When they were within a few miles of Wulfridge, they saw the first sign of trouble: rising plumes of smoke from burned villages.
Grimly, Luc slowed his pace as they rode, taking in the evidence of ruined cottages, still smoldering under the meager April sun. The road was deserted, and he heard Remy swear harshly under his breath at the widespread destruction. It seemed as if all of Northumbria lay charred and smoking beneath the sky.
It was nearing dark when they rounded the inlet and Wulfridge at last came into sight. Across water that was as smooth as polished silver, the castle looked serene and untroubled, and Luc felt a moment’s relief. No smoke rose above ruined ramparts to signal destruction such as he had seen. Ceara was safe.
Urging Drago faster, he pounded down the rutted road, the wind from his brutal pace whipping against his face and smelling of the sea. He was riding so swiftly that when a figure loomed in the road ahead, he missed a collision only narrowly. Cursing, he swerved to miss the man, and the unaccustomed jerk of the reins against Drago’s neck made the destrier snort and rear, huge hooves pawing into the air with lethal power.
It took several moments for Luc to control the horse, and while he wrestled with the reins, Remy lunged forward, sword lifted to cut down the man in the road. Luc’s harsh shout stopped the captain from completing his strike.
“Hold! I know him.” Controlling Drago with a fierce effort, Luc looked down at the man lurching to his feet. “Do you seek me?”
Swathed in animal skins, red-gray hair tangled and streaming over his shoulders, Sighere muttered something under his breath as he brought his crutch under him again. “Yea, though ’tis a marvel that I still live.” He gestured with the end of his crutch toward Wulfridge. “Traitors lurk in wait for you, my lord.”
“Oswald?”
“Aye, but more than that, there are traitors within the castle.” Leaning heavily on his crutch now, Sighere stumped forward, peering up at Luc in the fading light. “You have been betrayed, my lord.”
Luc steeled himself. Thoughts of Ceara flickered briefly in his mind before he thrust them away. She would not—not even to take back her legacy.… “Who betrayed me?”
“The name is not known to me, but the traitor is fair of hair and face. A Saxon born, though ’tis bitter to admit.”
Not Ceara.…
Luc looked toward Wulfridge lying serenely beneath the beautiful sunset, fading light gilding the high walls with gold and crimson. Perhaps his brother had lent himself to betrayal again.
Bitter news, but not as bitter as before. This time, he had almost expected it. He looked back down at Sighere. “Does Oswald hold the castle now?”
“Yea, my lord. It fell to him only this morning, right after the cock crowed. It did not take might, but deceit to win entry, and I fear for your lady.”
“As do I, Sighere. As do I.” Half-ashamed of his brief doubt of Ceara, he resolved to trust in her, now more than ever. Luc thought of his own trick in gaining entrance to Wulfridge, but he had since taken steps to prevent another from entering the same way. The door was guarded, and bolted securely from the inside. No simple lock now, but a hasp with the keys in possession of the castellan. How had it been done? Had someone let the traitor walk freely in?
Captain Remy nudged close. “Shall we lay siege, my lord?”
Luc shook his head, frowning. “It will do us little good, I fear. I planned well. Wulfridge is no wooden fortress vulnerable to fire, but made of stone and well stocked with supplies. No, Remy, we will have to find another way.” He paused, rage swelling in him at the thought of Ceara coming to harm at Oswald’s hands. Softly, through his clenched teeth, he said, “But I swear, if I have to raze my own castle stone by stone, I will find a way, and if Ceara has been harmed, not even hell will be able to hide Oswald from my vengeance.”
Silence fell, with only the rasping of winded horses and jangling of chain mail and bridles to fill it. After a moment, Sighere limped forward. “Your people are behind you, my lord. Kerwin, Leofric, Eadwine. All of them.”
Luc wrenched his gaze to the old huntsman. He could say nothing around the rage that still burned in his throat, but nodded curtly, and Sighere smiled.
“The villagers did just as you bade them. None were killed, for the warning spread more swiftly than Oswald’s fires. They wait for you now, my lord, with pitchforks and scythes, or whatever weapons you choose for them to wield against the rebel who would seek to harm our lord.”
“So, are Saxons then to avenge Normans, Sighere?”
“Nay, lord. Countrymen are to avenge countrymen.”
Luc took a deep breath, ashamed at his caustic remark. “It is meet that it should be this way. Summon them to me, Sighere. I will devise a way for us to take back that which is ours.”
“Yea, my lord. They will answer your summons.”
Captain Remy watched as the old huntsman limped away, disappearing into the tall reeds by the road and then into the deep shadows of the forest beyond. “Do you think the Saxons will truly come, my lord?”
Luc turned Drago toward Wulfridge and nodded as he said with a conviction he did not feel, “They will come, Remy.”
AMÉLIE’S PERFECT OVAL face was as serene as that of a child. Robert cleared his throat.
“Say that again, my lady.”
“Oh, you heard me, Robert. Do not pretend ignorance. You have known all along what I wanted, so why feign innocence now?”
Clenching his hands behind his back to keep from striking her, Robert said calmly, “I have known you want what you cannot have. That is Luc Louvat.”
“Pish. Luc will yet be mine.”
“And your betrothal to Niall’s son?”
“As false as the message you sent to Luc.” She smiled. Tracing a finger over the smooth fur of a cony skin muff, she glanced up at him with assessing eyes. “Do not tell me—you really did not know.”
“Know that I have betrayed my best friend? No, I did not know. But then, I am not as experienced in guile as you seem to be, Amélie.”
She laughed as if he had paid her a lavish compliment. “It is all an illusion, Robert, as with the smoke and mirrors that wizards use at fairs. Nothing is real. My entire life has been spent living a lie.” She slid him a secret smile. “Even my concern over your injury was a lie, if you would know it. You chanced upon us as we were discussing Oswald’s capture of the castle, and before I could stop him, he struck you. You were not meant to fall down the hole, however.”
“Who struck me—Oswald? He had gone from Wulfridge. I doubt me he would have slunk in unnoticed.”
“Do not be a fool. Of course it was not Oswald. Do you think he can be in two places at once? There are those in the castle who do not like the lady, and would see her cast down from her position. See, Robert, I am not the only one who dislikes her.”
“Curse you—” He took a deep breath to calm his temper. “Do you think the king will accept this tamely?”
“If I must annoy William with my little ruse, he will soon see that it is for the best. After all, it was the king who first sent me to Luc with the possibility of marriage.”
“William is hardly a man to pander, Amélie. There would be no benefit to England or to Normandy for you to wed Luc Louvat. Your lands are small, your influence nil. If he sent you to Luc, it was not for the reason you think.”
She shot him an annoyed frown. “Do not be so blind, Robert. Try to see beyond the moment to the future. Oswald wants Ceara. Niall wan
ts Northumbria and William wants England. I want Luc. If I yield up Luc’s crude Saxon wife to Oswald, she will be with her own people again. With her as hostage, the Saxon rebels will have leverage to demand peace and sovereignty over their own holdings, as Luc will not wish to endanger his wench. In time, Luc will realize she means nothing to him, but by then, Niall will have a firm hold on Northumbria once his ally, Oswald, has succeeded in securing his own lands. Luc will still have Wulfridge, and because of my influence with the king, I will have Luc. He will soon see the sense in allying with Niall instead. See how simply it works?”
“Why do you think you will have influence with William? His wife is your cousin, perhaps, but that is no guarantee that he will excuse your betrayal of his baron.”
“You fool. That is the beauty—he will never know. Unless you are imbecile enough to tell him, but of course, you risk being implicated as well if you do. And I will be happy to tell him how you forced me to go along.” She smiled then, and her eyes looked very green. “It could easily be pointed out that you insisted upon accompanying me to Scotland, and that you did not warn Luc—your best friend—that Niall meant to side with the Saxons. Everyone knows that you want me. It will be believed that you betrayed Luc and the king as well if you mention my part in it.”
Robert could not help an angry laugh. “I stand amazed at the workings of your mind, Amélie, rather like the twisted tunnels of a rabbit’s warren. Alas, there are so many holes in your scheme, you are doomed to failure.”
Coldly, Amélie said, “I do not see how it can fail. Oswald will take Ceara and hold her while Niall negotiates terms with William. Luc will certainly influence the king and even after William cedes Northumbria to the rebels and the Scots, he will still hold Wulfridge. With his wife out of the way, I will flee to him for shelter and he will take me in. We will be together at last.”
With growing fury, Robert shook his head. “You little fool, all you have done is endangered Luc’s life as well as taken his lands and wife. Oswald is too clever to agree to your scheme, though he may well have told you how wonderful it is. He wants Wulfridge, not Ceara. And Niall wants all of Northumbria, not just Oswald’s holdings, which he might just be able to seize if he holds enough border positions against the king. You have no doubt started a war you will not forget, and you will never have Luc. He does not want you. He wants Ceara.”