Juliana Garnett

by The Vow

  Marshaling all his concentration, Luc knelt in front of the dented door and took a deep breath. This was no simple lock such as those he was accustomed to picking as a boy. No, this was a lock made of intricate tumblers that he had devised himself. Remy put into his open palm a slender wand of metal, and Luc turned all his fierce attention to the lock.

  Sweat stung his eyes, and twice he had to still his hand from trembling as he slowly maneuvered the steel pick into the lock, fingers aching with strain. A tumbler clicked softly with metallic crispness, and he paused, then moved the steel with painstaking slowness.

  When another tumbler clicked, he tried the door, but it still held. Slowly, his breath harsh in his throat, the rasping sound of it filling his ears, he moved the steel wand again. This time when he tried the clasp and depressed the handle, the door creaked loudly on its hinges and swung outward. Luc stumbled back, regained his balance, and lurched to his feet.

  Silks and linens were strewn on the floor, and he moved to first one chest, then another, calling Ceara’s name. Remy and the others ranged behind him, flinging the chests open.

  “This one is locked, my lord!”

  Luc swung around and seized a heavy mallet from one of the men. One blow, two, and then the padlock sprang open. He grabbed the lid and flung it up, his heart in his throat as he saw the lifeless form curled in the bottom of the trunk.

  Tenderly, he scooped her from the tiny prison and held her against him, hardly daring to hope that she was still alive. How long had she been in there?

  Luc went to his knees on the stone floor and laid Ceara gently atop a pile of discarded silks. He felt for a pulse in her throat, then her wrist, and detected a faint flutter that heartened him.

  “Wine, Remy. Bring wine. Stand back and give her air, for the love of God. Ah, Ceara, Ceara … what have I done to you?”

  Her kirtle was torn to her waist, blue folds falling from her slender thighs, and her bright hair was matted beneath her head. Her face was so pale and still, her chewed lips bloody, and he took her hand between his and rubbed, not knowing what else to do.

  Then a soft breath lifted her chest, and her long brown lashes fluttered slightly. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders to hold her up, and when Remy brought a goblet of wine, held it to her lips. Red liquid cascaded over her mouth and down her chin to her throat, bright as blood. He winced at the sight.

  “Drink, chérie. Drink, my love, my heart. Ah, God, will you ever forgive me?”

  She coughed as he pressed the wine to her lips, and pushed it feebly away. “No,” she said in a cross voice, “not if you drown me.”

  Startled, Luc did not at once move the goblet. It was Remy who reached over his shoulder and took it from his hand, murmuring that perhaps she needed air more than wine.

  Ceara opened her eyes, blinking a little at the light and faces around her. Then she turned her gaze to Luc, rasping, “It was Hardred who locked me in here. Oh, Luc, he betrayed us all!”

  “I know. Shush, my heart. Do not worry about Hardred. I have a notion that Kerwin will give him his just reward for what he has done.”

  Her hand curled into the sleeve of his linen tunic, and she shook her head weakly. “Nay, I want vengeance on him. He has caused so much pain … he slew Sheba, Luc.” Her voice broke slightly. “He killed my beloved Sheba, and one of Oswald’s men has taken her to make into a pelt—”

  “Do not distress yourself. The last time I saw the pelt it was chewing with amazing vigor on the leather gauntlet of the man I set to guard her. No doubt, when we next see your wolf, it will be wearing poor Pierre as a pelt instead.”

  To his surprise, the glad tidings did not make her rejoice, but undid her. She collapsed with shuddering sobs in his arms, and he held her to him tightly, rocking her back and forth as if she were a small child, crooning soft words to her in French and English, endearments and words of love, wild promises that he would always make the sun shine for her, he would never let it rain on her, and anything else he could think of to say to comfort her. It was not a familiar emotion to him, and he felt clumsy and awkward, but could not stop the spate of words that poured from his mouth and his heart.

  It was several moments before he noticed that they were quite alone, Remy apparently having gathered the men and given them their privacy. He made a mental note of where such an elusive thing could be found, but doubted that Ceara would want to come here again after her close brush with death.

  “Are you better, my heart?” he murmured when her sobs ceased and she clung to him quietly. She nodded.

  “I have never been better. Luc, did you mean all that?”

  He flinched, embarrassed and more than a little reluctant to confirm all the flowery phrases he had uttered. But he dragged in a deep breath and nodded, looking down at her as she lay in his arms.

  “Yea, chérie, I meant every word. Save for the part about the sun and rain. I fear my influence does not extend to the heavens.”

  She laughed softly. “Oh, I would not be surprised if it did. But I meant the part about loving me. Do you?”

  “Yea. I love you, Ceara. With all my heart and soul, and with every breath. I will not disappoint you again.”

  “You have never disappointed me, Luc. You are my rock, my strength, a man of honor who keeps his vows. Nay, you have never disappointed me, but I fear I have you.”

  He shrugged. “Annoyed me at times, but nothing worse. When you make a vow, you hold to it, and I know that well.”

  She smiled up at him, and he wiped away the traces of tears on her pale cheeks. After a moment he took a deep breath, and said regretfully, “Now that you are safe, I must leave you again, but it is necessary. I will leave you Remy and Kerwin as guards, and there will be none here who are not loyal.”

  “Leave—no, Luc!” Her fingers clenched around his wrist, and her eyes were filled with panic. “Do not leave—are we not safe here?”

  “Yea, chérie, more safe than ever you have been, for now we know who we can trust. But news was brought to me of Robert and Amélie. They are being held hostage by Niall and my step-mother. They beg my aid.”

  “Your stepmother! Dear God. Niall lures you there to kill you, so he can take Wulfridge. Do not go—send word to the king, and he will—”

  “Ceara. I cannot forsake Robert, for he has long been my friend. I must go.”

  She moaned softly then, and he held her close, a faint smile on his mouth that she would worry so for him. After a moment, he rose, and carried Ceara to the solar they shared, staying just long enough to be certain she was well guarded and would rest.

  Calling only a few trusted men to him, he mounted Drago and rode from Wulfridge to rally others to march on Niall and rescue Robert and Amélie. He only prayed that he was in time to save them.

  CEARA FRETTED. LUC had been gone near a fortnight, with only one message from him, and that more for Remy than for her. Every morning she went up to the battlements to gaze past the inlet to the road where he would approach. She did not stay long, but returned often.

  Sheba was so weak, but her strength was slowly coming back. She had been carrying pups when Hardred attacked her, and she had lost them. Now thin and frail, the wolf wanted to follow Ceara everywhere, and set up a great howl when she was forced to stay behind. Often, Remy would send a man to carry the wolf to the hall for her, as Sheba would drag herself there if left in the solar.

  It was only when Ceara went to visit Alain, who had been all but invalided by the assault, that Sheba did not attempt to accompany her. A nagging sense of guilt in Ceara bade her seek out Alain on his sickbed, for he had come to her rescue and it had been her sword that near cost him a leg. But if he resented it, he did not show it. Instead, he amused himself by teaching her naughty epigrams in French and Latin.

  “To impress your lord husband when he returns,” Alain said with a sly grin that left her no doubt that Luc would be anything but impressed. Yet, still she learned them, more to keep her mind from the fact that Luc had not re
turned than anything else.

  Wulfridge was secure again. Repairs were being made, and the sound of workmen filled the air most of the days. In the fields beyond, crops were planted and new green shoots filled the furrows with the promise of an excellent harvest. Men had been sent from the castle with supplies to help the burned villages rebuild, and the people responded with tributes of livestock and goods. As Wulfridge squatted on the very tip of a promontory thrust into the sea, it guarded the inlet that led to the burgeoning new city on the mainland. Prosperity loomed ahead, with the promise of peace once Northumbria was subdued.

  Remy considered it near accomplished, for William had visited devastation upon most of the northern region. So wasted was the land, it would take years for the people to rebuild, or for forests to grow and crops to thrive. Yet here on the coast, Wulfridge was spared. These people were loyal to William, and loyal to their Norman overlord, and so lived quietly for the most part.

  Ceara moved restlessly from the hall to the ramparts again, to gaze out over the walls and watch for Luc. It would all be for naught if he had been slain. What would she do without him? Their reunion had been so brief, and though heartened to know he loved her, it would yet be more bitter to lose him now.

  Twilight cast faint pink and purple shadows on the land, softening the sharp ridge of trees, and out on the sea, she could see a mist rolling slowly in. When it dipped to blanket the ground in hazy shrouds that would hide any sign of approaching men, she gave up her watch. Dispirited, she moved away from the wall to the steep, winding steps that led downward. Below in the courtyard, men went about their business, tending domestic animals, drawing water from the wells, repairing harness, and cleaning armor. Then a shout went up. A dog yapped, and one of the hounds bayed as she was crossing the bailey toward the main building.

  She glanced over her shoulder and paused, frowning as a man ran to the gates and began to haul on the chains of the windlass that swung open the heavy gates of iron and wood. Another man slid the bar out of its thick metal hasp, and it groaned a protest. Slowly, the gates began to open, and now Ceara heard the pounding thunder of hooves on the road outside the walls.

  Mist dewed the air thickly, shining on metal and stone and forming hazy clouds around the sputtering wall torches. She clenched her hands into the folds of her kirtle, shivering though the night was not cold. Was it a messenger from Luc, perhaps?

  But the noise was too great for just one horse, even muffled by the rolling fog. A “halloo” went up, and she saw through the pearly mist the familiar banner against the gray sky, scarlet and black, the wolf insignia that she had once thought Luc too quick to bear. It was his device, had been his symbol long before he had come to Wulfridge, and now it was most dear to her.

  She stood still there near the fountain, where water splashed now from spouts shaped like fish to cascade into the pool where once Saxon blood had flowed. Sudden fear seized her, that he had been hurt—maimed, perhaps, like poor Alain, or that the Lady Amélie would ride pillion behind him, clinging to her rescuer with dainty hands that always made Ceara feel so big and clumsy—

  Then Luc was there, riding at the head of the line by the standard-bearer, his familiar destrier churning up the damp earth with great hooves, chomping at the metal bit in his mouth and snorting fiercely. No less fierce was his lone rider, garbed in mud-caked armor and long Norman sword, his helmet gleaming wetly under the flickering light of torches.

  Ceara watched as Paul ran forward to take the reins of the destrier and Luc dismounted in a clink of mail and weapons. He swept off his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm, and turned to look up at the rider next to him, saying something she could not hear.

  It was Sir Robert, and he must have been injured for Luc was reaching up to take his arm as he dismounted much more slowly than he had once done. There was no sign of Lady Amélie, and Ceara was almost ashamed of the burst of relief she felt. She hoped the lady had remained in the land of the Scots.…

  Moving forward, she halted just out of the wavering pool of torchlight, hungrily devouring Luc with her eyes, anxious that he was unharmed and still the same man she loved. And then at last he turned and saw her, and held out an arm with a smile. She went to him, giddy with delight and feeling faintly foolish at the same time, but unable to stop herself. His mail was wet and cold against her skin, but she didn’t care as she was swept into his embrace. He smelled of leather and mud. He gripped her hands tightly and brought them to his lips, kissing her fingers.

  Then he smiled down at her, and his voice was husky. “Froides mains, chaudes amours.…”

  “Je t’aime … de tout mon coeur.…” Luc drew back and eyed her quizzically, and she shrugged. “Je parle français, mon époux.”

  “Yea, I hear you speaking French,” Luc said in English, and glanced over his shoulder when Robert was rude enough to laugh. Then he looked back at her with a lazy grin. “It did occur to me on several occasions that you might know more than you betrayed. I should probably box your ears for you, saucy wench.”

  She smiled up at him. “I do not think you want to do that, my husband. I am still proficient with my dagger.”

  “Ah, and would no doubt use it.” Luc sighed, and slid an arm around her shoulders. “I see that I shall have to stay home more often, for when I return you are most undisciplined. Now come, and tell me the news. Did Remy repair the door to the vault? I shall go at once to see it if he did, for I told him what must be done in that message I sent.”

  She pulled away from him, vexed that he cared more for the castle repairs than he did her, but when she glanced up, she saw the laughter in his eyes and knew he was teasing her.

  “I do not see why you would care about the vault door” she said then, stepping back so that Luc could give Robert his arm to lean on as they walked across the courtyard. “It is peaceful here now.”

  “So I saw on my return. It was a much more peaceful ride than the one that took me to Niall.”

  She flashed him a quick glance, then looked at Robert.

  “Are you hurt badly, Sir Robert? Shall I run ahead and have a surgeon ready his instruments?”

  Robert shook his head. “No, it is a small injury. I just had it lanced again, and now it has begun to heal, but it has left me sore and limping like a three-legged dog. Your husband is not the most gentle of surgeons.”

  “It was me or Sighere, and you see how he already limps,” Luc retorted. “You might have ended up skinned, with your head displayed on his shelf like a grinning fox.”

  “Sighere went with you?” Ceara looked at them with surprise.

  “No, but we were forced to stop at his cottage on our return, when Robert’s leg worsened.” Despite Robert’s protest, Luc lifted him and carried him up the steep flight of steps to the entrance hall. Then he set him down and turned to Ceara. He held out his hand. “Robert can find his own way now, and we have much to discuss, wife. Come.”

  She put her hand in his, and went with him to the antechamber of the solar they shared, where she helped him remove his armor. It was crusted with mud and dark reddish stains that she did not want to examine closely, and she laid it aside for Rudd to clean. The boy had become quite proficient of late, taking up the duties that Alain was still too slow to do. One day, Alain had promised, Rudd might become a squire, and then a knight if he found a sponsor. It was an unlikely dream, but Ceara thought that many unlikely dreams had come true.

  Warm water and a tub were brought, with pots of soap and thick cloths, and Ceara lovingly bathed Luc’s back and washed his hair, her heart full as she performed duties she once would never have considered. Food had been brought to the chamber. and Sheba roused for her morsel, limping back to her bed of straw and rags in the comer to happily gnaw a meaty bone.

  Then Luc rose from the tub, water splashing all about the floor, his body wet and gleaming in the soft light of candle and torch. Ceara’s heart lurched, for she recognized the glitter in his eyes as he held out a hand.

  Suddenly
shy, she indicated the tray of food with a sweep of her arm.“My lord, your supper awaits.”

  “Let it. My hunger is great, but not for food. It has been overlong since we were together, and I find that I cannot wait.”

  “My lord….”

  But Luc moved to her in a single long stride, sweeping her up and ignoring her gasping protest that he was wet as he carried her from the antechamber into the solar.A fire burned in a brass brazier, and a single candle flickered in a tall stand on the small table near the bed. He lay her down and stretched across her, his damp skin heated and smelling of sandalwood. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and shoulder and breathed deeply.

  He shifted to one side, smiling lazily at her as he traced an imaginary line around her mouth with one finger. “1 dreamed of you at night. when I was lying on the cold ground listening to Robert or the other men snore. And I wanted nothing more than to be with you.”

  She caught his hand and turned it over to kiss his palm and calluses. “And now you are.”

  “Yea, chérie, now I am. And I intend to stay. This is my home and heart, and I am weary of war.”

  Ceara drew in a deep breath of happiness, then asked the question that had worried her since he had returned. “My lord, Sir Robert has returned, but I thought that the messenger said both he and Lady Amélie needed your aid.”

  Luc propped himself on one elbow, his long body sprawled beside her, and tucked a curl of her blond hair behind her ear. “Lady Amélie is dead, I fear.”

  “Dead? How?”

  Silence spun between them, then Luc sighed and shook his head. “ ’tis a tale best told once, then forgotten. She betrayed us all, and for reasons that were spun out of air. In a … struggle … with Robert, she was killed. Robert was fortunate to escape Niall and Adela with his life, and he almost lost that on the road. If I had not come upon him when I did, he would now be dead as well. There was a fierce fight, but Niall has retreated. I do not think he and my stepmother will plan any more nefarious schemes for a while. This last one cost him dear.” He smiled slightly. “William is in negotiations with King Malcolm for a truce. They barter back and forth as kings so often do, so that Niall may now find himself fighting both England and Scotland. Amélie’s death will not please William, though no doubt he will not be as grieved once he learns of her betrayal. He is not a man to long bemoan the fate of traitors, as you may know. Nor is Malcolm pleased to offer sanctuary to rebel earls anymore, so Niall is losing all his allies.”