An Oath Broken (23 page)

Regardless of the woman’s advice, as soon as he could make it to his feet, he was heading out.

 

With a heavy heart, Sarra walked through the courtyard of Dunkirk Castle. Sunlight glittered across the land, the wind carrying a hint of warmth. A child’s laugh had her glancing toward the well where children played while their mothers laundered clothes. Two knights walked past, their faces moist with a sheen of sweat from their practice.

Sarra’s heart ached as she watched men in mock battle in the upper bailey where days ago Giric had sparred as well.

She stumbled on her next step, halted as tears burned her eyes. Why did he have to die?

The bells from the church rang.

A desperate longing pierced her as she studied the ornate structure that represented a God she’d turned away from so long ago. In a daze she stumbled toward the church. A muffled groan echoed as she shoved open the thick, handcrafted wood.

The scent of candle wax entwined with a hint of frankincense and myrrh greeted her as she entered. Sarra pushed the door shut. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior.

Two benches sat before an altar adorned with candles, behind which hung a cross, curtained by a swath of rich burgundy velvet.

Pressure tightened around her heart as she stepped forward. Before the cross she knelt. Years had passed since she’d prayed. But here, now, ’twas all she had left.

With her body trembling, she purged her soul into the silence. Seconds gave way to minutes, then the passage of time became a blur. A trickle at first, a sense of warmth filled her, easing the sense of hopelessness.

And in the silence, with the candles flickering like shimmers of hope, she realized that she’d been wrong to banish God from her life. For a while he’d given her Giric, who’d taught her how to love and how to forgive her past. How could she have ever doubted Him?

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she stood, stared at the cross, but a new strength filled her. Though she must go on alone, she had tasted love. She would persevere, for Giric’s sake as well as hers.

The door scraped open.

Sunlight framed Drostan as he stood within the entry. With a frown, he closed the door and shadows engulfed him. Within the candlelight, slowly he came into view. “Sarra?”

The concern in his voice touched her. Since Giric’s death he’d remained steadfast by her side. “I am fine. But, I have come to the decision. ’Tis time that I return home.”

And with her declaration, she realized that she’d delayed attending to her original motive to travel here, her inheritance. That purpose had not altered, but her reasons to claim it had. Not only would she live her life as she chose, but she would use her wealth to rebuild Giric’s home. Though she’d never met his people, through marrying him they’d become a part of her.

Sinclair walked over. “You have nae spoken with my father.”

An image of the wilted man who lay abed each day only to grow weaker filled her mind. “With his failing health, I fear such an opportunity may never arise.”

“Aye. ’Tis difficult watching him deteriorate each day knowing that . . .” He cleared his throat. “’Tis only a matter of time before I will handle his matters. If you wish, we can discuss your inheritance so you may leave.”

“The last thing I wish is to cause you further difficulty at this troubling time.”

He gestured toward the back pew. “My father would wish to see you happy. Please, let us sit.”

Before, she would have refused to remain within the church, but now, with the sense of warmth filling her, Sarra sat.

Drostan settled next to her. His back straight, his hands clasped as if in prayer, he stared at the cross a moment before facing her. “Over the past few days I went through my father’s accounts with the steward,” he stated, his words grief-torn. “I have refrained from stepping in, but I must face the facts and assume my responsibilities.”

“I understand.” And she did, along with empathizing with his grief.

“Over the next week, I will settle matters concerning your estate. From my review, there is little reason why you should nae be given your inheritance or freedom to choose the life you wish.”

She laid her hand on his, gave a gentle squeeze. “My thanks. I know this is difficult.” He set his free hand over hers, catching Sarra off guard. Though uneasy, she didn’t pull away. He needed comfort as well, and if this moment helped give him strength, ’twas asking little.

“There is an issue that I feel is my duty to broach.” In the flicker of candlelight, his eyes searched hers with a sad but almost urgent appeal. “While I believe you should receive your inheritance, the issue of your protection is one of great concern.”

“My protection?” She made to withdraw her hand. For a second his grip tightened, then he let go.

“I understand your wish to live your own life,” he explained, “but the next few months willna be easy for you. You are grieving. Only time will allow you to heal, but a rich heiress alone will be a target for unscrupulous lords who seek naught but your wealth.”

“I have managed my life alone quite well,” she replied, but she couldn’t erase the thoughts of the numerous unpleasant suitors who’d shown up to woo her in the past. Then it had been a matter of sending them to her guardian whom she trusted to turn them away. With Lord Bretane out of her life and her wealth in her hands, she must handle every aspect of her life, including those who would try to take what was hers.

“Sarra?”

She cleared her throat. “I will deal with what I must.”

A wan smile touched his face. “Of that I have no doubt. You are a strong, beautiful woman. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.”

Uncomfortable with his praise, Sarra stood. “I must be going.”

“A moment more. Please,” he added when she hesitated.

She nodded.

“I understand that this is nae an opportune time, but I feel that I must raise another issue.”

A tingle trickled down her spine. “And what is that?”

“To ask for your hand in marriage.”

S
arra’s empathy of moments ago faded. “How dare you offer marriage when my husband has been dead less than a fortnight!”

He rose. “You are mistaking my intent.”

Trembling with anger, she stepped back, the pew between them not far enough. “I understand your intent.”

“Listen, please,” he continued, with a soft plea. “My interest is in your well-being. I want none of your inheritance, I swear it. I want naught but to see you safe.”

The urge to flee swelled inside her, but another part cautioned her to listen. She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you care for my safety?”

“That you have to ask disheartens me greatly, but in your distressed state, your doubt is understandable.” He paused. “Our marriage would be in name only. It offers you nae only the protection of my name, but ’twould sever the necessity of your dealings with those who seek your wealth. You need time to heal. ’Tis what I offer.”

Cynical doubts rose before she could stop them. “And I would live here?”

“’Twould be of your choosing. If you decide to return to Rancourt Castle to live out your days, then so be it. We have known each other since childhood, and you are someone I care for deeply. I offer you the protection of my name for your own peace of mind.”

As stunned as she was repulsed by his offer, Sarra remained silent. Mayhap she wasn’t being fair, but her heart, still tormented over the loss of Giric, refused to consider his suggestion.

With a sad sigh, he shook his head. “I have overwhelmed you. ’Tis nae my wish. I could think of nay better way to bring up this delicate matter.” He walked past her, opened the door. Golden rays of the sun highlighted his handsome face, exposed how his gaze rested humbly on hers. “I do nae expect your answer now, but please consider my offer. I will wait a sennight. After that if you decide you wish to remain unwed and deal with the issues of suitors and such, so be it. But if after a sennight you decide to marry me in name only, you are free to live the life you choose.”

“Why?” she said before she could stop herself.

He turned. “Because I love you. Though I know you love Giric and always shall, I would be honored to have you as my wife, even if only in name.” He walked into the sunlight, closed the door.

In the muted darkness, she shivered. He loved her? She’d not suspected the depth of his feelings. Regardless, she couldn’t marry him. The idea was ludicrous. But the thought of the freedom to live her life without men vying for her attention offered its own appeal.

 

Giric chewed thoughtfully on the oatcake, and then swallowed. “You will be departing tomorrow then?”

Iames nodded. “As you are able to walk, ’tis time we go. We will leave you a bit of food.”

“Your hospitality and delay of your travel is more than I have a right to ask.” Giric broke off a bit more of the flat biscuit. “I owe you my life.”

The woman’s eyes softened. “You owe us naught. ’Tis the way of our people to care for our own.”

“With the fight for the Scottish throne, some seem to have forgotten that,” Iames grunted. “Brother has turned against brother. ’Tis a shame to see our country being torn apart when we need to stand together.”

Saddened by the fact, Giric nodded. He finished the oatcake. At the moment he could do little to change the misshapen state of their country. Once he’d brought Sarra home, then he could join Scotland’s political fight to name their next king. “If you ever travel to the western lowlands, you are always welcome at Wolfhaven Castle.”

Iames stood and extended his hand.

Giric rose and accepted it, his shake firm. “A safe journey to you both.”

“You as well.” The couple walked to their pallet. Straw rustled and firelight captured them as they lay on their makeshift bed.

Guilt coursed through Giric as he moved to his pallet. He’d vowed to never again reive. Yet, in a few hours he would, and this time his actions would be worse. Nae only would he take this couple’s only horse, but he would steal from the people who had saved his life.

Their quiet murmurs filtered through the small hut.

Shame, deep and dark, rolled through him. What type of man was he? He closed his eyes seeking to understand why his decision had come down to this, hating what he must do, unable to find another choice.

With each passing day his fear for Sarra’s life grew. This morning when he’d arisen, his unease had grown to a foreboding that had consumed him with an almost suffocating force. Whatever ill was about, he must reach Dunkirk Castle.

Giric waited for Iames and Mary to fall asleep. Their quiet whispers, their laughter, left him with an empty ache.

After the fire in the hearth was naught but embers and the hovel silent, Giric carefully dressed. The note he’d written earlier trembled in his hand. With deep regret, he placed it by their pallet, thankful that during his brief acquaintance he’d discovered Iames could read. The apology within could never explain his wrongful action, nor his promise to return their horse.

With care he exited the hut, closed the door, then hurried to where their mount stood tethered, a torn wool blanket draped over him. He caught the horse’s halter, and then glanced skyward. Through the thick cloak of mist, the shimmer of stars could be seen.

A full moon.

A reiver’s moon.

Shame filled him. In the past few weeks his life had come full circle. The times he’d ridden with his father to plunder came to mind. He’d vowed never again to take, yet here he stood ready to break his oath.

Or did he?

Looking back he realized that his father and their men had only taken from those who could afford to lose their stock. By the same token, when a needy family was on the verge of starvation, his father had replenished their food stores from his own larder.

Now he stood ready to reive a horse, but was he, like his father, truly stealing? What he was doing was improper in a sense, but his decision was made to save Sarra’s life. The churn of turmoil fell away as he realized the truth. At times in each person’s life they are forced to choose. Their decision may nae be the right one, but for the moment ’twas the best choice.

This was such a time.

He drew in a ragged breath, Sarra’s words of the good in him echoing in his mind. ’Twould seem that she had understood what only now did he see. And with the acceptance of his past came a freedom he’d nae felt in a very long time.

Giric swung upon the steed. After one final glance toward the hovel where Iames and Mary slept, he kicked the horse into the night.

 

The call of a hawk drew Sarra’s attention. Through the window she watched the raptor ride the currents over the treetops toward the setting sun. She thought of Sir Galahad. It seemed like forever since she’d left her home. Never could she have imagined how in a few weeks her life could change so irrevocably.

The shifting of covers had her glancing toward where her guardian slept. Another day had almost passed. The few times he’d awakened, he’d rambled to his dead wife. At some point before she departed, Sarra hoped that he would become alert.

Frustrated, she sat in a chair and took in the gaunt man, who even in sleep appeared one step away from death. His each breath rattled from his chest as if a victory.

Did the question she’d ridden here to pose to Lord Bretane matter? Drostan had vowed to sign over her inheritance at the end of this week, and then she could leave and live her life how she chose. With her freedom would come the suitors seeking her wealth.

Sarra traced the delicate embroidery along the cuff of her sleeve. Should she consider Drostan’s offer of marriage? ’Twould give her what she sought, plus protect her from unwanted advances.

Still, she found it odd that he wasn’t married. A handsome lord who would inherit his father’s fortunes would lure many a woman to vie for his attention. He said he loved her, but was he obsessed by her to such a degree that he would shun others and wait for her? Obsessed? A strange word to use. However much he professed his feelings, doubts lingered that he cared for her as he claimed. The child she’d known had loved no one but himself. Yes, as an adult, Drostan seemed different, but she’d witnessed his momentary lack of control, the anger that slipped out before he’d reined it in.

By the rood, she must make a decision as to her future. Mayhap she was being foolish to doubt his sincerity? Anxious, she stood. At the window she watched the last red-orange rays of the sun waver in the sky.

Another day gone.

Unbidden tears misted her eyes. Damn Giric! He should be here by her side holding her, whispering words of love. She hated the empty life ahead of her, or the thought of bearing the name of another. At a rough cough she turned.

Her guardian coughed again, and his body jerked from the effort.

Wanting to ease his pain, Sarra filled a cup with water. “Here, drink this.”

His eyes flickered open. For a moment he stared at her. His brows lifted with surprise, and then a smile, warm and tender, creased his face. “Sarra?”

Memories of her childhood swamped her, his laugh mixing with hers as he twirled her around. “Yes,” she said, breathless. “Please, take a sip.”

A feeble hand curled around the mug. “My-my thanks.”

“You are very sick. I did not think . . .” Tears burned her eyes. “Thank God I have a chance to see you.”

He took a sip, pushed the cup away, and then laid back. He frowned. “How did you know that I was ill?”

“I did not know until I arrived.” With a steadying breath, she spent the next several minutes explaining how she’d received his writ to marry Drostan, her journey to Dunkirk Castle, her aversion to Giric, the man he’d hired as an escort, then her impromptu marriage.

Warmth filled her guardian’s eyes. “So you have found love. ’Tis an occasion to celebrate.”

Like an arrow to her heart, grief sliced through her and she stood.

“What is wrong?”

A fresh wave of despair rolled through her. “He—He’s dead.” The room swayed. She caught the edge of the bed to steady herself.

“Dead?” Though his body trembled from the effort, Lord Bretane sat up.

He held his arms out, and she moved into his comforting embrace. “A messenger arrived with tragic news that needed my husband’s immediate attention a few days past,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “He departed, but a short distance from the castle he was attacked and killed.” With a sniff she sat back. “The man who rode with him returned, but died hours later.”

Lord Bretane studied her. “By the grace of God ’tis tragic.”

She sniffed. “I do not know what to do. All my life I have always known, but now . . .” Sarra wiped her eyes. “I am sorry to break down like this.”

“After what you have been through, you have naught to be sorry for.” A frown marred his brow. “I never sent you a writ to marry my son.”

She stilled. “But . . .”

He exhaled. “Lass, why would I do such a thing? Though you were never told, I promised your father that when the time came to choose your husband, the choice would be yours and yours alone. I would never go against my word.”

The discomfort that had gnawed at her over the last few weeks burgeoned into full-fledged concern.

Her guardian fell into a bout of coughing, and Sarra held his shoulders as his body shuddered. A moment later he quieted. She handed him more water. “Here.” She held the water to his mouth. “Take it easy now.”

After several slow sips, his fragile body trembling, he pushed the goblet away. “My th-thanks.”

However much she wanted to know more, she wouldn’t risk answers at the cost of his life. She prayed that after a few hours’ rest he would be strong enough to continue. “I should be going,” Sarra said, wishing anything but. She started to rise but his fragile hand caught hers.

Concern darkened his gaze. “Tell me all you know of the origin of the writ.”

Sarra settled back in the chair, and drew a steadying breath. “You have been ill. I should not—”

“I will know now,” he said, a flicker of his old fire surging through his voice.

She nodded. “Over a fortnight past, a small entourage of Scots arrived at my home bearing a writ supposedly from you.” She struggled to keep the growing fear from her words. “It stated your wish that I should marry your son.”

He searched her face with distress. “I have never written a message of this sort or authorized the penning of such.”

Confusion flooded her. “If you did not send the writ, then who did?”

Drostan stepped inside the chamber. With a quiet, lethal move, he shut the door. His face twisted in macabre pity as it rested on her. “A shame that my father regained cognizance in your presence.”

Furious, she stood. “How dare you—”

Lord Bretane fell into a fit of coughing.

Sarra helped him until he settled. She glared at Drostan, the vile taste of treachery seeping through her. “You planned this. What did you hope to gain?”

He gave a cold laugh. “Why, everything.”

And she understood. “You manipulated me and your father, for money to aid in your political cause.” Disgust poured through her as she took in the bedridden man who lingered on the edge of death. Aghast, she leveled her gaze on Drostan. “Your father is not sick is he, but poisoned!”

Without warning Drostan stalked over, caught her wrist in a brutal grip. “The pathetic old man will die within a fortnight.”

Fear slammed through her and she tried to jerk free.

His fingers tightened.

“Damn you! What about Giric?” she demanded, wanting to retch at the horrific truth. “You had him murdered!”

Cold eyes narrowed. “Careful what you accuse me of.”

The anger, devastation, and pain that had ravaged her since Giric’s death exploded. Sarra attacked with a wild fury, her nails raking across his face.