Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  “He wants me. And what would you know about it? You cannot tell the difference between love and loathing, or you would not follow me around like a dog, for I do loathe you.”

  Her sneering comment pricked Robert hard, and he drew in a sharp, angry breath. “You have used me just as you tried to use Luc. Did you think Luc cared for you? He never cared for you as anything but a passing whim. And you call me a fool … you are doomed to disappointment, for he would not give up the lady he loves for a light-skirt like you.”

  “You loathsome beast! You are so pathetic … do not dare walk away from me! I will see you dead, I swear it!”

  Furious, Amélie lashed out, slapping Robert hard across the face. The blow, though slight, was hard enough to rock him back a step, and long years of war and training made him react with instinctive retaliation. Amélie’s head snapped back on her slender neck and she flew backward into a heavy table before he could catch her. Then she slumped to the floor and lay still.

  Robert stared down at her, breathing hard, his chest aching with suppressed rage. When Amélie did not move, he grew alarmed and moved to kneel at her side. There was no pulse in her throat. Shaken, he knelt there for a long moment.

  He had killed her. Ah, God, he had slain a woman, and one he had wanted even if he did not love her. Proud dame, haughty lady—false lady. Robert pressed his palms over his eyes and shuddered.

  How long he knelt there, he did not know. But when he regained awareness, it was growing dark. Light at the windows faded and grew dim. He lifted Amélie in his arms and carried her almost tenderly to the wide bed on the other side of the chamber. Placing her on the mattress, he drew up the coverlet to her chin, then stepped back and pulled the bed hangings closed around her still form.

  With Amélie dead, he might well count his days on one finger in Niall’s court. If he was to die, it might as well be fighting instead of as a bull awaiting slaughter. It was time to put his preparations for escape to use.

  When night had fallen and the shadows were deep, Robert slipped from the window and leaped to the ground below. It was a steep drop, and he landed hard so that he had to catch his breath a moment. Then he rose to his feet and crept to the wild hedges that bordered the garden of Niall’s rough manor. Since arriving, he had noted the timing of the sentry that patrolled, and now he waited in silence until he had passed. He knew he had little time to make good his escape, and when the sentry’s shadow faded, he wriggled through the thorny hedge and sprinted across the field toward Northumbria.

  NIGHT FIRES HAD been lit within sight of Wulfridge, beacons in the night to show Oswald that he had come. Luc leaned against the huge trunk of an old oak, staring at the castle with bitter thoughts. It still chafed him that Oswald had managed to elude capture and gather enough men to form an assault. Even with treachery, some men were needed to storm the walls, for Lieutenant le Bec would not yield up the gate without a fierce fight. But how? How had Oswald done it?

  Were that many of his own people against him? Had none of the overtures he’d made since taking Wulfridge made any difference? The chasm between Saxon and Norman had never seemed wider, and Luc fought overpowering discouragement. A handful of faithful was comforting, but he would need more than a token few to hold these lands.

  And God, he had sworn to Ceara that he would protect her with his life, yet she was held captive by Oswald while he was out here, chafing at the distance between them. He wanted to mount Drago and ride straight into Wulfridge, demand that Oswald come out to settle this in trial by combat. But he knew that would be a futile gesture, as Oswald had made plain he had no intention of fighting Luc, whether in single combat or in battle.

  “Rider coming!”

  Luc straightened, turning toward the road as one of his sentries challenged the mounted man. There was a brief exchange, and even as Luc was striding toward them, the rider dismounted and was brought to him, flanked by two soldiers.

  “Giles.” Luc’s eyes narrowed. “What do you here? I thought you were with Lady Amélie and Sir Robert.”

  Giles went to one knee. Mud caked his boots and spurs, and he was breathing hard. “I was, my lord. I have been sent to you with a message.”

  “From Robert?”

  Giles nodded, still breathless, his words coming out on a winded wheeze. “He asks that you lend him aid in his need, my lord.”

  “In need of what? Out with it, man!”

  “He is being held hostage, he and the Lady Amélie, and they beg your aid.” Fumbling in a pouch at his waist, Giles withdrew something and held it up. Light from a campfire reflected dully on gold, and Luc took it, slowly turning the ring to look at the familiar Brionne signet.

  “Christ above!” Luc blew a harsh breath between his teeth. “Rise, Giles. Have wine and bread to calm yourself. Remy, bring a cloak for him and have his horse tended. Before God, I am in the mood to set fire to all of Northumbria, so let us hear this tale quickly.”

  IT WAS DARK. Torchlight had dwindled to a sputtering hiss, sparks settling on the floor of the vault and flickering out. Ceara flinched at the throbbing ache in her head. She wanted to shriek her anguish aloud at the painful vision of Sheba’s bloody fur. But she could not exhibit weakness to the gloating man watching her with such satisfaction.

  “You have long been a thorn in my side,” he said in a grating voice. With one hand, he wiped blood from his cheek, a token of her fierce struggle against him. His eyes were glittering, mouth twisted with hatred. “Lord Balfour let you have your own way too often. He should have beat you daily, rather than coddle you.”

  Ceara gazed coolly at Hardred. “My father was a just man.”

  “Your father,” Hardred mimicked, “was a fool. A weak fool. He allowed you to lead him by the nose when he should have wed you to a man able to hold these lands, not that useless cripple.”

  Rage burned hotly in Ceara’s eyes. “Wulfric was more of a man than you could ever be!”

  “A twisted waste of a man was what he was. All knew when Balfour allowed you to wed him that we were doomed. Yet we could do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch, when we knew that one day invaders would come who would not be stayed. That was before the Normans came, but the Scots and Danes were always harrying our borders until we were afraid to leave the shadows of the castle for fear we would be slaughtered like defenseless sheep. No more.”

  “Who is this we you speak of? I see only you, a warped Saxon slave who will die swiftly once Lord Luc returns.”

  Hardred laughed. He leveled her sword at her, gazing at her down the length of the blade as if judging where best to thrust it. “There are enough of us, I vow. Lord Oswald is inside the gates by now, and Wulfridge is Saxon once more.”

  “You opened the gates to him! Ah, you senseless fool. If Saxons could have triumphed, King Harold would still be on his throne. Yet even if Harold had won at Hastings, England would be lost to us. It was not just that one battle, not just that one man, but many who have tried to rend us asunder for far too long. It was destined that England would fall, and we should be glad that it was to William, who at least is capable of binding us into one nation instead of a hundred small kingdoms led by these quarrelsome earls with only their own interests to mind.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. It was true. She knew it was true. And now, honesty bade her admit it.

  Furious, Hardred rose abruptly, and the lethal point of the Roman gladius grazed her chest as he ordered her to rise to her feet. She did so, slowly, and noted distractedly that her kirtle was shredded on one side, leaving her left leg bare almost to the waist. Hardred’s eyes flicked down, then up to her face again, his lips curling into a sneer.

  “Oswald is not a witless fool like Balfour, but strong in his own right. He holds not only you hostage, but the lord’s brother. And he will not bend the knee to Normans, nay, nor let his sluttish daughters warm their beds as you have done. Oswald will retrieve Saxon glory and restore to us that which the Normans have stolen.”

  Eye lev
el with the Saxon who held her sword, she gave him her most disdainful stare. “When Lord Luc arrives, you will rue this most heartily.”

  “Lord Luc has arrived, but cannot find his way into the castle.” Hardred laughed harshly. “The wolf is at our door, but we will leash him well, so that he will roam no more in England.”

  Ceara flinched. “You will never do it, Hardred. He is too strong for you.”

  “He is caught between two forces, and will not escape us. For we have men here, and men behind, and while he waits and thinks to lay siege, we will slowly crush him between. And you, my lady, are the bait that keeps him here.”

  “You lie.”

  “Nay, ’tis no lie. He waits. He is too distracted to guess what fate awaits, and will not know until ’tis too late.” Gesturing with the sword, Hardred backed her to the open door of the vault. “Come now, for Lord Oswald awaits above for the key to the wolf’s heart.”

  Ceara stumbled as he pushed her forward, trying not to glance at the supine body of her wolf sprawled upon the stones. Grief clogged her throat as she was escorted from the echoing corridor outside the vault up the shallow steps to the main floor. Evidence of battle was everywhere, in lifeless bodies and broken doors, and in the distance she could still hear the faint clangs of resistance being waged. Then she was thrust before Lord Oswald, who peered at her with grim satisfaction.

  “You have done well, Hardred. I did not think to have the mate of the Norman wolf snared so swiftly.”

  “I followed her, my liege. She thought to hide her treasure in the vault.”

  “Did she?” Lord Oswald smiled, and lifted his head to listen to the shouts from without the hall. “We are victors, yet must be wary of cunning, for all is not yet secure. Take her back to the vault, Hardred. She will gain us our ends, and must not be risked. When the hall and the woman are mine, the rest will be mine.”

  Ceara’s chin lifted. “You are a fool if you think Luc Louvat will yield one hide of land, Oswald. Not for me, nor for any would he give up that which is his.”

  “Yea, lady, he will yield to keep you safe. For he knows that I will have no great reluctance to slay a traitor to the Saxons. And do it more easily than I would wed her to keep her from spreading her favors among Normans.”

  “Traitor? Not I, Oswald of Paxton, not I. My loyalty lies with the Saxon people so that I am loath to see them slaughtered in vengeance. What of you?”

  Oswald gestured impatiently. “A few deaths are expected when men wage war. It is a small price to pay for freedom.”

  “There will be no freedom in this land until there is peace. And men like you love war more than peace.”

  “She is right, Oswald.”

  Ceara turned toward the voice, and her brows lifted as she saw Jean-Paul approach. Luc’s brother barely glanced at her, but his manner was so casual she stiffened. There was no distress in him, no sign that he had offered resistance to the invaders. Her lip curled with contempt.

  Oswald turned to Jean-Paul. “This is not a matter of who is right. That has been decided. Are you with us?”

  “That depends.”

  Bushy brows swooped low over Oswald’s eyes. “Depends on what? You are Saxon, are you not? Your father died for Harold’s cause.”

  “My father died for his own cause,” Jean-Paul drawled with a laugh. “It was a simple mistake. He wagered on the wrong man winning. When he lost, he lost all.”

  “And you fled to Malcolm like a kicked cur.”

  Jean–Paul shrugged. “Yea, but a live cur. My head, you will notice, is still atop my shoulders.”

  “And you bide in a Norman stronghold, eating at the whim of a Norman.”

  “My brother’s memory is long. I am more a hostage than guest.” Jean-Paul’s gaze flicked to Ceara. There was an odd light in his eyes. “Tell him, my lady, how well I am regarded by Luc.”

  “As well as any traitor, I think.” She returned his gaze coldly.

  “So you see, Oswald? You and I are like. We value our skins above all.”

  “Do not taint me with your brush, for I am no coward.”

  “Are you not? You did not linger at Paxton to receive Luc, I see. Could it be that the Norman wolf instills fear in you after all?”

  “Which side do you claim?” Oswald growled. “You speak too boldly for my liking.”

  Again Jean-Paul shrugged.“ ’tis my way.”

  Uncertainty creased Oswald’s brow as he regarded Jean–Paul with narrowed eyes. A clamor arose in the corridor outside the hall, and the Saxon lord glanced toward the doors as the sounds of the struggle grew loud. Sword blades clashed with metallic harshness, and he looked back at Ceara with sudden decision.

  “The lady must be hidden well, Hardred.”

  “Are you afraid of me Oswald?” Ceara laughed softly. “But ’tis Luc Louvat who will rend you limb from limb when he comes—”

  “Begone with you, shrewish bitch!” Oswald snarled, but apprehension clouded his eyes. “You have been tainted by this Norman wolf who holds your lands, but will not be for much longer. As you are Louvat’s treasure, my lady whore, so you will be kept safely with his other precious stores. Take her below, Hardred, and confine her in the vault until we take her north.”

  Ceara stiffened. North—to Malcolm? Oh, God, Luc would never be able to free her then. Not without fighting a war.…

  “I will take her,” Jean–Paul offered, but Oswald shook his head.

  “Nay. You come with me, and lend aid with your sword. I need able warriors to withstand these men Louvat has left to guard his castle.”

  So Hardred dragged her below again, forcing her ahead of him with rough pressure until they reached the gaping door of the vault. She averted her gaze from the man’s body still in front of the door, but saw that Sheba’s body had been removed. No doubt, some man would soon wear a white wolf pelt on his back, a grievous thought that burned into her breast.

  Then Hardred shoved her toward the wall lined with carved furniture. “Get into the chest.”

  Ceara’s eyes widened. She glanced at the chest. It was massive, but confined. “I will smother.”

  “Nay, lady. There are holes on the side for air.”

  “No.…”

  But Hardred was pushing her inexorably forward, the tip of the sword pressing into her skin until she could feel stinging blood ooze from a cut on her shoulder. Bolts of cloth filled the bottom of the chest, and Hardred flung them to one side, then gestured for her to climb in.

  “Get in, or you will be tied on the battlements for Luc Louvat to see. That should bring him running hotfoot, do you not think?”

  Reluctantly, Ceara climbed into the trunk, drawing her knees up and shuddering as the heavy lid was slammed down. Closeness and shadows surrounded her, smelling faintly of spices. She could hear the muffled clink of metal, and knew that he had fastened the hasp. It occurred to her as she huddled in the trunk that if Hardred was slain, no one would find her before she died of suffocation.

  Packed into the darkness, she thought of Luc, and prayed that he would triumph over his enemies and rescue her. And when he did, she would exact a most terrible vengeance on the traitors.

  LUC STARED INTO the dying embers of the fire. It would be light soon. He had not slept all night, mulling over his options long after Remy and the others had rolled into their blankets for sleep. With Oswald in front and Niall at his back, he was caught. The only smart move would be to retreat. But that would give the rebels undisputed control of Wulfridge. Niall and Adela had made it plain that unless he yielded up the castle, Robert and Amélie would remain hostages and perhaps come to harm. Yet Ceara was hostage now, held by Oswald as assurance that he would yield. If only she were free, he would be at liberty to defy Oswald. But until then, he risked her life.

  Closing his eyes, Luc leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree that sheltered him. It was two days from the calends of May. Nights were still cool, but the days were warm and soft. He wore light mail, too tense to disarm, to
o restless to sleep. Round and round in his brain went the dread thought that his brother had once more betrayed him. This time, to Oswald and Adela. Before, to their father. God, why did he not merit love and loyalty from his own kin? There were times he thought himself cursed, for if not, his own father would not have disowned him in favor of another, would not have tried to betray him to William. And now Jean–Paul had taken the first chance to betray him again. Ceara was right. He should not have trusted him.

  Now he was in a damnable position. If he did not discover a way to free himself of this coil, he would be forced to retreat in order to save Ceara and Robert. But even then, there was no assurance that Oswald or Niall would not slay their hostages.

  His hand curled into a fist on his knee. Curse it all, if only he had not worked so hard to make Wulfridge impervious to assault. It seemed that he had sealed his own fate, for now he could not take the castle. He had not guessed that one day he would find himself barred, and had secured every entrance. Not even a mole could get in.…

  Luc sat up and opened his eyes. Ceara had said something not long ago, about the chambers beneath the castle. If animals had managed to get in, perhaps there was yet a way for men.

  Rising, he moved swiftly to his men and kicked them gruffly awake. There was much to be done before light, and he could not waste a moment.

  Groggily, Remy peered up at him, struggling to his feet. “I am awake, my lord.”

  “Arm yourselves. Do you recall how we were garbed when I first took Wulfridge? Don similar garb now, and prepare to come with me.”

  By the time they reached the slope beneath the castle, their feet and legs were wet from sloshing through tidal pools and high reeds. Surf crashed against the rocks. In the deep shadows, Luc searched for the pile of rubble he had cleared from one of the underground chambers. After Robert’s fall, he had explored several of them, and one had stretched much farther than the others. Perhaps all the way inside.