Authors: The Vow
“What precautions do you take?”
“Wulfridge is strong. I have a network of loyal churls on the perimeters who will give the alarm should there be trouble.”
“Can you count on churls to risk their own safety to give warning?” Skeptical, Robert shook his head. “My past experience has been that they look solely to their own.”
“Only if they have not been convinced of the greater good in trusting an overlord to give them succor against the coming of invaders.”
“And the peasants of Wulfridge trust you in so short a time?”
“Not me.” Luc indicated Ceara with a tilt of his head. “It is her they trust. They fought for her before, with pitchforks and scythes, standing alongside veterans who should have been at home in front of fires instead of facing soldiers and knights. Balfour’s vassals have sworn to me, save for Oswald, and the peasantry have been united by Balfour’s old master-at-arms. If needed, they will come, though I think my garrison is well manned enough.”
“You have experienced soldiers that even William envies, I think.” Robert glanced down at the backgammon board and frowned. “Whose turn is it?”
Luc rose, stretching. “Yours. I have in mind another game to pass the night.”
As he turned in the direction of his wife, Robert called after him, “Then you must forfeit our game.”
Luc laughed and replied that it was of little matter to him, and Robert poured himself more wine, slumping onto the bench next to the abandoned game. There were moments he envied Luc, not for his lands or title, but for the promise of contentment within his grasp. Perhaps it was time he left his carefree ways behind and took a wife as well. A fair woman to
enliven his nights and inhabit a home with female things. He thought of his estate in Normandy, empty save for servants and a widowed sister. It was not grand, but comfortable, with broad fields and healthy vines that made excellent wine. Long had he been too restless to remain there, preferring to use his sword in William’s service, whether in France, Normandy, Flanders, or England, wherever there was strife that needed strength of arms. It paid him good coin, but did not lend to a long future.
“Must you sprawl all over the bench like a common churl, Sir Robert?”
Robert sighed, and looked up at Lady Amélie, who stood beside him with pinched mouth and narrowed eyes. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her gaze shifted from Robert down the length of the hall. He did not have to look to know that she was watching Luc and Ceara.
“Your spite is showing, my lady.”
Amélie’s gaze jerked back to him. “Knave. What would you know of anything?”
“Enough to see what everyone else here sees.” His fingers tightened around the pewter stem of the wine goblet. “If you do not mind being the butt of poor jests, pray continue with your covetous ways. But do not expect much sympathy from me when Lady Ceara takes her eating dagger to your lily-white throat, madam, for you will have earned her wrath with your clumsy attempts to win Luc’s affection.”
Amélie’s pale skin had gone the color of ash. She did not speak for a moment, but stared at him with green eyes burning like emerald fires. “You know nothing of which you speak, varlet! Do you judge all by your sluttish ways? I am only conscious of the past friendship between Luc and myself, not—”
Surging to his feet, suddenly angry, Robert grasped her by the wrist, startling a gasp from her. “Do not use me as a dupe, madam, for I am not. Do you think I do not know why you asked the king for
my
escort north? Why you insisted upon coming at a time of year when the roads are at their worst?” He
released her wrist with a slight shove, heedless of curious stares from others in the hall, his voice a low growl of warning. “I would not advise that you continue to view me as a witless fool, for I have known all along your game.”
Amélie retrieved her dignity with a lifted chin and cool gaze. “You have spilled your wine on my gown.”
“I crave your pardon most heartily.” Robert lifted his goblet and drained the last of his wine, then with a tight glance at Amélie, pushed past her and left the hall. It was even colder in the corridor, drafts blowing in between the cracks of the huge double doors guarded by armed soldiers. Luc left little to chance. Sentries were posted on walls and at the outer gates of Wulfridge as well.
Still, he could not help an oppressive feeling of impending doom. It had lain on him heavily the past week. Irritable and restless, smarting from the contempt with which Amélie regarded him, he wandered down the long corridor aimlessly. A shadow flickered at the far end of the corridor where recent repairs had been abandoned because of inclement weather. Wooden partitions had been hastily constructed until stonemasons could be brought to Wulfridge. When a soft thunk caught his attention, as if something had fallen, he moved in the direction of the sound.
Glancing down, Robert shoved at a loose board with the toe of his boot, and was surprised when it shifted to one side. Beneath it, a gaping hole loomed black in the floor, and he knelt beside it, frowning. It was not just a hole, but a chamber of some kind, vast and dank with a musty smell that made him think of the sea. An oubliette? He peered into it, with the brisk whisper of clammy air chilling his face. A board creaked somewhere behind him and he glanced up, but saw only a vague shadow before something hard struck the side of his head. A flash of white lights spun in front of his eyes, and he pitched forward into empty air, trying to catch himself but failing as the black shadows swallowed him.
• • •
L
UC COAXED
C
EARA
into an alcove off the corridor leading from the hall, his hands as insolent as his wicked suggestions. Sternly, she put her palm against his chest, schooling the laughter from her lips as she bade him be more politic.
“The halls are yet peopled, my lord. Can you not wait until we reach the solar?”
“You lesson me greatly with modesty, but I know you too well, lady fair.” He skimmed his fingers along the line of her throat to her covered bosom, grinning at her indignant protest. “What does it matter, here or there? There is little enough privacy for our pleasure.”
“Then perhaps we should command a table in the hall for your display of affection,” Ceara returned tartly, and Luc’s soft laughter warmed her cheek. She tried to maneuver him to one side, but he used his weight as leverage, leaning against her with a mocking grin that let her know he thought her efforts amusing. She bit back her laughter and managed a convincing scowl, poking him in the middle of his chest. “You do not set a proper example for the others in your hall, Luc Louvat.”
“Ah, but I do. They should all be wedded and bedded.” Blocking her flight, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her into the wall with gentle force, leaning into her to hold her, his hands busied with the side laces of her gown.
A low growl emanated from the edge of the alcove, and Luc glanced over his shoulder, muttering about interruptions as he bade Sheba be still. Yet the wolf would not be quiet, and the snarling warning penetrated Luc’s interest in Ceara’s gown enough to turn him around.
Ceara pushed past him, frowning at her pet. “What is it, Sheba?”
Agitated, the wolf flicked white-tufted ears forward, hackles lifted on her shoulder blades, her body tensed as if stalking prey. The huge paws moved across the floor with slow deliberation,
her sharp eyes intent on the far end of the corridor where repairs were being made.
“She sees something, Luc.”
“Shadows.” He grasped her by the arm. “Come. We will go to the solar, if you insist.”
“No, Luc. There is something that disturbs Sheba.”
“Since Oswald, every soldier she sees disturbs her.” He did not release his grip. Impatience edged his words. “There are guards stationed all about the castle, Ceara. If there was trouble, I would have been informed. Now come, before—”
“Luc, I heard something.”
Swearing softly, Luc blew out an exasperated breath, resignation in his tone now as he said, “Let us go see what has so alarmed your wolf that you would refuse your husband his needs.”
She shot him a reproving glance. “Desire and need are different things.”
“Not always, fair lady, not always.”
But he was moving down the corridor, his strides long and determined next to the wolf’s stalking gait. Ceara was not really frightened, for as Luc had said, guards were all about the grounds, but she
had
heard something that sounded alien, despairing, perhaps.
Several steps behind Luc, she did not see the cause when he stopped suddenly and knelt on the floor, exclaiming loudly. Sheba whined, then put back her head and howled, pawing at the floor.
“
Jésu
, the floor must have given way—Ceara, bring me a torch and fetch Alain. I think someone has fallen in a hole left by the workmen. Curse them for their carelessness—go swiftly, for the wolf seems to agree with me.”
Ceara did not wait to hear more, but ran swiftly to fetch Alain and some guards. They gathered rope and torches before returning, and when they reached Luc, he looked up with a grim face.
“It is Robert. Make haste. Give me a length of rope. Light this area—Ceara, move back. You are only in the way. I need some men to lower me down there—by the love of God, I will soon discover what fool left this hole open.”
Ceara moved back, a little indignant that she was so summarily dismissed, but too worried about Robert to protest Luc’s brusque commands. Several men took hold of the end of the rope, bracing themselves as Luc wrapped the other end around his waist and slid over the edge of the hole into darkness.
Leaning back against the wall, she waited tensely, while the men strained against Luc’s weight and torches flickered eerily over the gaping hole.
“What new diversion is this?” Amélie’s familiar, caustic voice intruded on Ceara’s absorption as she paused to observe the activity. “Is your husband trying to flee your loving arms again?”
Ceara clamped her lips together to keep from saying the words on the tip of her tongue, and held to the pretense that she did not understand Amélie’s French taunts.
“Do not be so smug, my fine Saxon peasant. If not for the king, Luc would be in my arms instead of yours. In fact, he may yet be there. He’ll tire of you soon. I know him. Never has he stayed long with a woman. Your vows will mean nothing when he wearies of living like a crude peasant—”
Pushing away from the wall, Ceara strode away before she yielded to the overwhelming temptation to do great damage to the haughty Lady Amélie. It was beyond her comprehension how Luc could ever have been interested in such a vain creature, or why Robert watched her with such intent eyes. She was lovely, yea, but mean-spirited. Yet she could not say so to Robert, for he would only think her jealous, as did Luc.
But now there were more important things to concern her, for there was a deep cavern under the castle that had been there since the time of the Romans. She prayed that Robert was not badly injured.
Amélie ambled over to one of the guards holding a torch aloft, and asked the cause of the commotion. When she was told Sir Robert had fallen, she gave a soft cry of real concern. A little surprised, Ceara watched as the widow stumbled back out of the way and clung anxiously to a post to watch as the rescue continued.
Panting from exertion, the guards began to haul on the rope, backing slowly across the floor so as not to break it with sudden tension. Robert’s head appeared in the opening, blood on his forehead and matting his hair. They laid him carefully to one side, and Amélie knelt by him at once, murmuring soft assurances.
Ceara watched stoically as the rope was once more cast down to Luc, and only when his dark head thrust up from the yawning cavity did she relax. She knelt then, and put her arms around Sheba, rubbing the soft fur between her hands as Luc moved to his friend’s side.
“Someone hit me,” Robert mumbled groggily, trying to sit up.
“You fell into the hole, Robert.” Luc pushed him back down on the floor, gently but firmly, his hands moving over Robert’s limbs to check for breaks. A broken leg could oft kill a man if not tended properly, and sometimes even with the best of care, corruption set in and resulted in the loss of a limb. Luc sat back after a moment and grinned. “You are still whole, save for your cracked head.”
Robert blinked, his eyes shifting from Luc to Amélie and back. “Someone hit me.”
“Someone should hit you,” Amélie said tartly. “You are an idiot to wander about like a child. Have you no sense? I can hardly go on to Scotland without my envoy. My position demands that I be properly attended, and you may very well have set my marriage back another month with this ridiculous incaution.”
A frown flickered on Robert’s bloodied brow, and he grimaced. “Amélie—” He paused to lick his lips and struggle to a sitting position, then pushed his face close to hers, startling her into drawing back a bit. “Cease your shrewish railing. You put me in mind of a fishwife.”
Ceara clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. Amélie’s features expressed both shock and amazement, and Luc had to turn his head to hide a grin. Amélie’s face went crimson, then white, and she stumbled to her feet with an indignant gasp. Robert blinked crossly, and demanded that Luc help him to his feet. Luc refused.
“You shall rest this night, old friend.”
Before Robert could protest, Luc bent and slung him over his shoulder, carrying him down the corridor to the antechamber outside the solar. The Norman knight was not a small man, but Luc carried him as easily as if he had been a child, and Ceara hurried behind to see that a pallet was laid for Robert’s comfort.
But even when Robert’s head was bandaged and he was laid upon a pallet of straw and fine linen, he was fretful and insistent that he had been struck.
“I tell you, Luc, I was hit. Do you think me witless enough to just tumble into a hole?”
“Calm yourself, Robert. Who here at Wulfridge would have cause to harm you? Have you done anyone here an ill?”
“No, of course not.” He paused, frowning. “I did beat Remy at chess twice, but he does not seem the kind who would take it so amiss to lose a few coins on a friendly wager.”