by The Vow
“My lord,” Remy muttered, stumbling over rocks, “is there a sign we should seek?”
“Most likely. But I do not know what it would be.”
Kerwin, Ceara’s former commander, suggested they search the lee side of the slope. “It is less steep there, my lord, and more likely to give us shelter from being seen.”
“No, this is the side that leads to the underground chambers.” Luc knelt, frustrated by the sudden sense of futility. How could he find it when he did not know where to look? Time was running out. Soon it would be light, and Oswald’s men would see them. Any hope of surprise would be lost. Where was that cursed mist when he needed it? Sketchy moonlight poured through the ragged clouds overhead, far too revealing illumination for their purposes, forcing them to keep close to the shadows so as not to alert Oswald’s sentries on the ramparts above.
Crouched there in the dusky shadows, Luc strained his eyes to find anything that might indicate an opening. Then he blinked, for a shred of white fluttered for a moment in the fitful moonlight, and was gone. A trick of light. Yet his instincts led him in that direction, and he crept stealthily toward the brief flicker. Thankfully, the wash of the surf drowned out the slight clink his sword made against stone.
Suddenly a faint but familiar sound arrested him, and he paused. High, feeble, it seeped through the other night sounds, a familiar whine like that of a dog. Or a wolf.
Kerwin heard it, too, and said cautiously that there was something ahead on the slope. Luc scrabbled over rocks, and the moon peeked briefly from behind a cloud to shine dully on a small patch of white. He moved more swiftly now, not quite daring to whistle. Not quite daring to hope.
But when he drew close he saw that it was Sheba. She crawled on her belly, panting, white hair matted with something dark. He knelt beside her, and put out a hand to encounter wet, sticky fur. Blood. He recognized the smell and the feel immediately. Sheba whined, and he motioned for Remy and Kerwin, who stood looking gravely down at the animal.
“The wolf is wounded, my lord.” Kerwin’s voice was sober. “Does she still cling close to our lady?”
“Yes. She would never leave Ceara’s side willingly.”
“So they tried to slay her.”
Sheba’s wet tongue raked across Luc’s hand, and his lips tightened. “They have almost succeeded.”
“Do you think they threw her out here?”
“No, I think she managed to crawl this far. Now I know how she has been leaving the castle without us knowing it. She has found the hidden tunnel.” He stroked Sheba’s head, hating what he must ask of this valiant creature, but knowing no other way. “Ceara. Find her, Sheba. Ceara.”
The English words brought the wolf struggling to her feet. Luc touched her side, saw that the wound was deep and she had lost much blood. To use her now might kill her. Yet he must. Talking softly, stroking the great head, he urged her with gentle words, and Sheba staggered in a tight circle, whining.
After a moment, when he thought perhaps she was too weak to manage, the wolf turned up the slope. Luc moved beside her, supporting the animal as best he could while she moved with stumbling determination. Then he saw it in a sliver of moonlight, the slight crevice that offered entry. It looked barely large enough for a man to squeeze through. Hurriedly, Luc shoved aside some stones and slid inside. Dank air greeted him, but it was clearly the beginning of a tunnel. He looked over his shoulder.
“Remy, send the wolf back to camp with one of the men. I dare not risk her more, for she is weak and might give away our presence.”
One of the men held Sheba gingerly and Luc and the others crawled into the dark tunnel. They worked their way painfully up the steep, narrow incline, and several times Luc had to slide on his belly or pull himself along on his side to fit through.
It seemed to take much too long by his reckoning, so that he began to think the tunnel led nowhere and they had wasted valuable time. Then he saw a faint, thin splinter of light. It was dim, but a beacon nonetheless, and he crawled the rest of the way more quickly, holding his sword in his hands and sliding it over the jagged rocks to wriggle through the last narrow part. Behind him, he could hear the labored breathing of his men and knew they did the same. Remy was panting.
“M’lord … are we near? I fear me that … I cannot abide such … close quarters.…”
Luc laughed softly, exultant as he saw the clear shape of a wall sconce holding a torch. When he reached it, he paused to peer out cautiously. He recognized this as the corridor leading to the treasure vault, and it seemed to be empty. In a moment he was standing up again, relief at being free of confinement changing to grim determination now that he was once more in the castle. The worst was yet ahead of him. He must see how many of his loyal men still lived and free them, then open the gates before he dared look for Ceara. The castle must be secured.
Moving swiftly along the hallway, he kept close to the side and in the shadows, motioning his men to follow. They all knew what must be done. If God and fortune were with them, they would succeed.
Rounding a turn in the corridor, he saw a man’s body sprawled on the stone floor in a spreading pool of blood. He started to pass with little more than a glance, then stopped and turned back. In the same instant as Remy, he recognized the man, and knelt beside him.
“Alain.…”
“He lives, my lord. Look you, he is breathing.”
Alain’s chest rose and fell in rapid gasps. His eyelids fluttered, and one hand moved slightly. Luc bent close to hear him. “Lady … danger.…”
“Is she alive, Alain?”
Licking his lips, Alain grimaced, bubbles flecking his mouth with traces of blood. “Yes … but they have … her.”
“Where?” he demanded, but Alain had slipped back into unconsciousness.
Giving the squire into the care of one of the other men, Luc took the rest and continued down the corridor. Some of the torches had guttered, but enough were lit that he could see evidence of enemy occupation. His lips tightened with fury at the havoc they had wreaked in such a short time.
Remy took two soldiers and moved to the prison cells to free any of Luc’s men kept there, while Luc took the other three and slipped toward the main hall. Just ahead loomed two guards, and he motioned silently. A moment later both guards had been dispatched, throats neatly slit from ear to ear. Luc looked up with a reckless grin.
Kerwin laughed softly. “The devil has been loosed again, my lord.”
Pockets of fighting could be heard, and Luc advanced toward them. They must strike hard and swift, for now that the element of surprise was gone, the advantage would rest with those best armed and most able. If Remy could not manage to get the gates open for his men, they may well die in these halls.
Sword lifted and ready, Luc and his small band stormed down the hall, dispatching any enemy in their way, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs.
The fiercest fighting took place at the entrance to the great hall, where six men swarmed to meet them with fire in their eyes. Luc and the three men with him fought savagely. Kerwin waged battle with fierce energy, laying low those who opposed him with a strength that bespoke the power of a much younger man instead of this grizzled veteran. He was not a Saxon fighting against Saxon, but a man fighting for his lord and lands, and Luc knew he would not doubt his loyalty again.
They fought their way into the hall, and Luc stood panting just inside the entrance, surveying the damaged chamber quickly. At the far end stood Oswald and Jean-Paul, and the bitterness in Luc’s throat rose so hot and high that he thought for a moment he would choke on it. He held his bloody sword aloft, vengeance and hatred in his eyes as he approached the waiting men.
Oswald wore a faint smile that should have warned him, but Luc was unprepared for the two men who burst from behind the trestle tables stacked to one side. Still, he turned on the balls of his feet, sword slashing out in a wicked arc that caught one of the men broadside and folded him over Luc’s blade. Sweeping the blade f
ree, he swung again to catch the other man just below the shoulder. It happened swiftly, and was over.
Turning, Luc glanced at the dais, and halted. Jean-Paul held his sword in an almost negligent grip, the tip hard against Oswald’s throat. “Loose your weapon, Oswald,” he said softly, a faint smile curving his lips, “or you shall have two gaping mouths instead of one.”
“Curse you,” Oswald got out. “You are a traitor to your own kind!”
“Nay, Oswald. I am Saxon through and through, heedless of my father’s birth. But I am also smart enough to have learned who is the better man. And that man is not you, nor the other outlaw earls. It is William, and it is men like my brother, who are strong enough to hold these lands against the Danes and the Scots. You must call Malcolm to you for strength, and that is worse than the Normans. Now drop your sword, and you will live to face my brother’s justice.”
Still cursing, Oswald held his blade out to one side, his eyes glittering with hatred. His fingers clenched and unclenched around the bloodied hilt, and Luc started forward, observing the intention in Oswald’s eyes before Jean-Paul did.
Swinging hard, Oswald managed to catch Jean-Paul hard against the side, even as he dodged to elude the sword thrust at his throat. But he did not twist far enough, for Jean-Paul’s blade sliced through the side of his neck in a clean sweep that spouted blood. As Oswald collapsed, his knees striking hard against the stone floor, Jean-Paul turned in a curiously graceful step and slowly sagged to his knees, hands slipping down the blade of his sword heedless of the sharp edge. Already, his eyes were glazing when Luc reached him, catching him as he pitched forward and the gaping wound in his side gushed torrents of blood over both of them.
“Ah, God, Jean-Paul.…”
Grimacing, his brother looked up. His hand caught at Luc’s sleeve, gripping hard. “For … give me, Luc.…”
“Yea, Jean-Paul, you are forgiven all. But do not talk now. Save your strength until—”
“Nay.” The fist in his sleeve tightened. “It is … in vain. Do not think … I mind. I do … not.” He shuddered, and his lips formed faint words that Luc leaned close to hear. “Keep what … you have earned, brother.” He drew in a wet, rasping breath and his eyelids fluttered. “Your lady is … in … the vault. I tried … to help her.”
“She is safe, Jean-Paul. You have redeemed yourself most honorably. Now rest, brother, for you have earned it.”
A faint smile quivered on Jean-Paul’s lips, then his body contorted and he gave a gurgling sigh that was his last. Luc stared down at him, throat tight with emotion, and prayed that his brother would forgive him for his dark suspicions.
“My lord.”
Luc glanced up. Kerwin stood breathing hard, his eyes filled with sympathy but his manner urgent.
“Yes, Kerwin?”
“Remy has opened the gates. Our men are inside, and carrying the day. What should we do with the traitors?”
Luc glanced down at Jean-Paul’s lifeless body, and gently closed the sightlessly staring blue eyes with the edge of his palm. “Do not put them to the sword yet. There is always time for a man to offer penance. Those that swear fealty will be given another chance.”
He rose to his feet, and turned to the entrance. “Find the man with the key to the vault and send him to me.”
Chapter Twenty
CEARA TRIED NOT to breathe. She spaced her breaths, drawing air deep into her lungs before letting it out slowly again. But she felt dizzy. It was a test of endurance, she told herself, and she would wait. Luc would come for her. He had to come.
She closed her eyes. A sword cut on her side ached, but the blood had stopped flowing. Now, her gown was only damp with it and growing stiff as it dried. Time passed so slowly. Was it still night? Or had morning dawned? She thought of her wolf although she tried not to. The vision of Sheba sprawled lifelessly on the stones brought tears to her eyes, but she could not afford the luxury of weeping when air was so close.
Then she thought of Hardred, and the hatred he had nurtured for her all these years. He had been only a thrall in her father’s service, and less than that for the Normans. And he could not abide that she had given all to Luc that truly mattered. For she had. It had happened slowly, so that she did not realize how much she had yielded until it was done. But she did not regret it. Luc was a worthy lord, and worthy of her heart.
She thought of the vow she had once made never to yield willingly. In a way, she had kept that vow. It had been a reluctant surrender, but it was now complete—and willing. Since Luc had gone, she had thought much about what he had said, and knew that he was right. If he did not control the barons, he would lose everything. Oswald should have yielded, as had Leofric and Eadwine. It shamed her that she had protested Luc’s seeming cruelty. He had known better than she what should be done.
Pressing her face against her drawn-up knees, she tried to envision Luc’s face. The dark eyes fringed with black lashes, the often mocking curl of his mouth, the faint scar that stitched his jawline … she could almost feel him kiss her, feel his strong, sturdy body pressed against hers.…
It was so close, and she could not breathe. The chest seemed to grow smaller. It was crushing her, collapsing in on her until she wanted to scream but dared not use the air. Her hands curled into claws, and she drifted into a dreamless haze, anything to escape the confines of the chest.
There was a ringing in her ears, and her trapped breath whispered over her folded arms. She was dying. They would find her too late. Her air was almost gone, the holes in the chest were much too small.…
A loud noise rumbled. She could barely breathe. Only a little air now. So stuffy. Her lungs ached, and her chest began to hurt. She wanted to die quietly, but her body would not allow it. Deprived of air, she arched involuntarily, arms flinging outward, clawing at the walls of her tiny prison. The noise again, barely discernible now over the thundering beat of her heart. It pounded in her ears, a dreadful din, and she made awkward noises that hurt her throat. She pushed against the ceiling of her prison with both hands, desperate for air, and tried to hold on to her slipping awareness. She thought then of Luc, and tried to visualize his face. But it was growing so dim.…
• • •
THE KEY COULD not be found to unlock the vault. Luc stared at the solid iron door. It had been built with the hinges inward, so none could remove it from the outside. Heedless of the congealing blood on the floor, he paced in front of the vault while Remy and Kerwin searched for another key.
Finally, he ordered the door smashed, and men came with heavy staves and axes. The blows dented it heavily, but it did not yield. Remy sought to comfort him.
“There is air aplenty in the vault, my lord. She may be hungry and thirsty, but no harm will come to her.”
Luc nodded grimly. He surveyed the door closely. Bolts held the iron strips overlaying wood. If all the bolts were undone, then the wood could be splintered or burned, and thus yield entrance. God in heaven, it would take so much time to accomplish, but as Remy had said, the vault was spacious.
A yelp rent the air behind him, and Luc turned, frowning when he saw a young Saxon being dragged toward them with blood streaming from his head and mouth.
It was Kerwin who thrust him forward brutally, a fist gripping the young man’s collar. “This is Hardred, my lord. He betrayed you, I fear, by giving Oswald’s men entrance to the gates. He has all the keys.”
Hardred was pushed to his knees in front of Luc, his face white but still defiant. It was obvious he had received rough treatment, for one eye was swollen shut, and there were cuts etched on his face.
Luc eyed him without pity. “You have bought yourself a harsh death, Hardred.”
Hatred gleamed in the Saxon’s eyes. “Yea, I may well have done so, but the wolf will rule here without his mate.”
Something in the man’s face chilled Luc’s blood, and when Kerwin cuffed the prisoner, Luc put up a hand to hold the next blow. “Is the lady in the vault, Hardred?”
/> “Aye, that she is. And there she will die.”
Luc gazed at him dispassionately, though fear had spurted in his breast at the certainty in Hardred’s voice. He gave a careless shrug as if disputing the claim. “There is air enough for her to survive until we break down the door. The vault is large.”
“Yea, Norman, the vault is large.”
Kerwin shook the man viciously. “Give us the key.”
“I threw the key down the well.”
When Kerwin drew back his fist, Luc halted him. “Wait. There is something he has not said. Tell me, Hardred, what you know.”
Triumph settled on the battered face, and Hardred’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. “Your lady is indeed in the vault, as I said. She rests most comfortably in a prison of wood and iron.”
Luc knelt in front of him, and there was hoarse menace in each word as he said softly, “Tell me the rest, or you will beg for death long before it releases you from your pain.”
Their eyes were level, Hardred’s one open eye a pale glitter as he smiled. “As your greatest treasure, I put her safely where you keep your finest silks. She is where no rain or damp can mold her, nor musty air tarnish her treacherous hide.…”
Luc looked up, and saw his own horror mirrored in Remy’s eyes at the implication. He rose swiftly then, ignoring Hardred’s wild shriek as Kerwin dragged him away.
“My lord,” Remy began helplessly, “if she is in one of those chests—”
“Bring men to batter the door.”
“My lord—”
“Curse you, Remy, bring them! Ah, God, if he has killed her I will flay him alive and wear his skin as a cape … no. Wait. Remy, bring me a small piece of metal. Perhaps … Ah, fool that I am for not thinking of it already. It must be slender and sturdy. Hurry, Remy, for every moment we waste is precious to her.”