An Oath Taken (10 page)

Sir Nicholas's eyes narrowed. “You knew the previous castellan?”

Relieved by the change of topic, she nodded. “Of him, to be exact.” She tugged the sheets up, fighting to steady the fury that always accompanied thoughts of Sir Renaud. Once the sheets were drawn tight, she pulled the wool blanket on top, smoothing out the rumples with her hand.

“Of him?” Nicholas asked.

An icy calm settled over her as she straightened. “The previous castellan was an evil man. He reived as many of the other leaders do, but for him 'twas nae enough. 'Tis rumored Sir Renaud even stole from his own king by smuggling goods.” She shook her head. “A more ruthless hand I have never heard of.”

Nicholas remained silent.

She tried to stem the rush of anger, but 'twas too late. Sir Renaud was responsible for the uprising along the border, the deception to his king, and the murder of her father and many others. 'Twas time Sir Nicholas knew the truth.

“Worse,” she continued, outrage fueling her words. “He blamed the Scots in his treachery against the crown and used their deaths as justification for his own barbaric acts. After murdering them in their beds, Sir Renauld claimed he'd chased them after catching them on his land. Or, he would charge the Scots with transporting illegal goods.” A harsh laugh fell from her lips. “But he did nae halt there. He burned the Scots' homes, claimed their land as his own—”

“All with King Edward's backing,” Nicholas broke in, his words tainted with indignance.

She halted, surprised he understood, then nae surprised at all. He was a rare man in this harsh world. “Aye.”

Nicholas's eyes darkened to a dangerous cast. “And with the king behind his claims, none would challenge the right of it.”

She nodded, pleased and distressed by his insight.

“King Edward never knew of Sir Renaud's crimes,” Nicholas said, his voice gentling. “I swear it. He seeks peace. He would not condone the acts you have described.”

She snorted her disbelief. “Your king laid siege and captured Ravenmoor Castle, once held by the Scots. 'Tis an act of war.”

“Nay, 'tis an action of our times.”

'Twas true the land upon the borders was often raided and claimed by the other country, but losing a piece of Scotland to English hands, even the most remote loch, was an unbearable thought.

“And what of your king's seizure of the Isle of Man? Or his negotiations in the Treaty of Birgham? Admit it. Your king doesna seek peace, but wants Scotland beneath his rule.” She angled her jaw. “At least be honest enough to admit that.”

He lifted a skeptical brow. “You are surprisingly well educated on political matters for a homeless Scot,” he said, his voice too soft.

Heat flared on her face as she scrambled for an explanation. “If your country was threatened with war, at risk of being overtaken by another, would you nae listen as nobles discussed your country's fate?”

“Aye.” Though his quiet response agreed, the wedge of doubt in his expression remained.

She stepped toward the door. “The men will be waiting below.”

“So they will.” He strapped on his broadsword, watching her all the while.

Elizabet moved closer toward the exit, tasting freedom.

“Wait.”

Heart pounding, she paused.

“You have given me answers, though not the ones I wish to hear. But we both know that, do we not?” He shook his head as she opened her mouth to speak. “Rest assured, Thomas, in the end I will know.”

Nicholas strode past her to the door, confidence exuding in his every step. When he opened the hewn entry, he turned to face her. Gray eyes narrowed. “I do not lose.”

Icy chills rippled through her. “This isna a game.”

“No, that it is not.” He watched her a moment more. “I expect you downstairs posthaste. Be there or I am coming back for you.” He stepped out, pulled the door shut with a firm snap.

Out of the fire and into the flames; Lachllan's words echoed through her mind, and loneliness for her mentor engulfed her. Except the steward was miles away.

Whatever happened now depended on her.

And in the next few hours somehow she had to manage to keep any of the Scots below from recognizing her.

 

Hours later, anxiety filled Elizabet as she hurried up the turret to the dungeon followed by the healer. At the top, she held up the basket to show the guard.

He nodded, allowing them to pass.

At least something had gone right this day. When the leaders had stayed until late morning, she had wondered if Nicholas would still complete his rounds or send his men to do the task without him. Thankfully he had delayed his knights' departure until his guests had departed. Now he was miles away, but his words from this morning haunted her.

Nay, a man like him didna lose.

She fought to quell her rising sense of doom. Time was running out. Only by mentioning Sir Renaud had she sidetracked Nicholas from more personal questions, questions she could never answer. But the time was coming when she couldna avoid the inevitable.

Both knew it.

Elizabet turned her focus to the task. As before, even with the use of lye soap and plenty of water to clean the dungeon, the stench of bodies and death assaulted her. She stanched the rise of nausea, needing her wits to tend to Giric. Had the fever passed? Would he recognize her this day? How was she going to free him along with the other Scots locked within these walls? Patience. She had nae come this far to give up.

“Lad,” the healer called.

She turned. “Aye?”

“We will begin here.” Deredere pointed to the cell on her right.

On edge, Elizabet glanced toward Giric's cell at the end of the narrow corridor. “Yesterday we began with those who needed aid the worst.”

“He is gone.”

Fighting to remain calm, she clutched onto a nearby bar. “Gone?”

“Aye, they carried him out yesterday.”

The healer's words echoed around her.

Her world tilted. She clawed for each breath, for sanity, for reason through this impenetrable grief.

“Lad, are you well?”

The buzzing grew louder. Coldness filled her, a chill so bitter she doubted if she would ever recover. Giric was everything, and since her mother's death, the only person who had truly loved her—ever.

Now he was dead.

T
ears burning her eyes, Elizabet clutched the cell's thick-framed door.
Giric is dead!

A soft yet firm hand touched her shoulder. “Lad?” The healer's voice echoed from far away.

Engulfed in the dungeon's dank surroundings, she lifted her head and met the old woman's concerned gaze. “I—I am fine. A touch dizzy for a moment.”

Deredere's mouth tightened, then she waved her forward.

Tears glazed her eyes as she followed the healer. Everything had changed yet naught was different. Her men remained locked within the dungeon, Scots she would free.

A long while later, with all the people tended, the healer headed toward the exit.

With a heavy heart, Elizabet shoved the dungeon door shut, then followed her down the stairs. As she stepped outside, sunlight glittered in the pristine sky, steel clashed in the distance as knights trained in the practice field, the smithy plied his hammer on glowing red steel, and men worked on the new structures Nicholas had ordered built. 'Twas another day as if naught had changed.

Except Giric was dead.

Deredere frowned. “You look a might peaked, lad.”

She felt like death, sure she appeared little better. “I am . . .” Fine? Nay. She would nae offer the obvious lie again. “I need rest is all.”

Understanding shone in the healer's eyes. “ 'Tis nae an easy task to bind wounds knowing very well the men could easily die by the morrow.”

Tears threatened and she could only nod.

The healer took the basket from her arms. “Get along with you then,” she said, her voice softening. “I will take care of the last prisoner myself.”

A lone tear trailed a path along her cheek as Elizabet stared at her, lost in a numb haze. The pruned face blurred. Her throat constricted in a rough knot.

The healer headed toward the keep.

The last prisoner?
Elizabet scrubbed the tears from her face and ran after the elder. She caught her arm, almost throwing the woman off balance. “The last prisoner?”

“Aye.” Deredere frowned as she studied her. “The man who was running the fever.” She shook her head. “ 'Tis a sorry business.”

“Sir Nicholas stopped by my hut,” the elder continued, ignorant of the myriad of emotions pouring through her. “When I informed him of the prisoner's worsening condition, he ordered the Scot moved to a chamber inside the keep.”

Elizabet wanted to weep with joy. Nicholas hadna let her down. She should have known that he wouldna tolerate a prisoner wasting away with nay even the hope to live. Joy faded beneath the weight of reality. Giric wasna any prisoner, but a noble, a man of importance. The castellan must have learned of her brother's name and title, which is why he wanted to ensure he lived. Why? Did he believe Giric would aid him in bringing peace along the border?

As if now was the time to be worrying about such? Her brother was alive. She would worry about the rest later.

Wizened eyes watched her carefully. “What is the prisoner to you, lad?”

Everything, she wanted to shout. She stared at her straight in the eye. “A man I admire and respect.”

The elder's aged mouth settled into a grimace. “Well, come along then. No sense in us standing out here for everyone to gawk at.”

Sunlight brushed over her face as Elizabet followed. Mayhap the warmth of its rays would touch her soul after all.

At the second floor, Elizabet spotted a knight standing before a door halfway down the corridor. Uneasy, she followed the healer. Nicholas had forbidden her from entering the dungeon, but he'd nae said anything about a room within the keep.

The healer halted before the chamber.

The guard's eyes leveled on Elizabet.

“I am assisting the healer,” she blurted, prayed he'd allow her entry.

The guard lifted a questioning brow.

“I do nae have all day,” the healer said with impatience.

Elizabet could have kissed her.

With a grimace, the guard stepped to the side and opened the door. “After the fever broke the prisoner regained consciousness for a short while, then he fell asleep.”

“A good sign.” The healer walked into the chamber.

As the door shut behind them, Elizabet sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

Deredere gave her a wink. “I had a friend once whom I did whatever it took to see. Come on, lad. We have a Scot who needs us.”

Thick curtains canopied over the large bed centered against the wall. Tied back, they framed the tall man lying within.

Giric!

She forced herself to walk to the bed as the healer halted and set her basket on a nearby table.

With a soft groan, her brother's eyes flickered open. He stared at her a moment then frowned as if confused.

Clear. His eyes void of the fever that had almost taken his life. Elizabet swallowed hard. Thank God!

“Here.” The elder held out a damp cloth, ignorant to the emotions pouring through Elizabet. “Wipe his brow while I tend to him.”

Her entire body trembled as Elizabet moved to Giric's side. With care, she began wiping his brow.

Without warning Giric's hand clamped over her wrist, then his fingers trembled and his hand fell to the bed and his eyes fluttered closed.

“I think he recognized you as well,” Deredere said with a smile.

Indeed Giric had. Before her brother had passed out, she'd caught the recognition, and a flicker of outrage.

“I am pleased to see his fever is gone.”

“'Tis a blessing,” Elizabet agreed. Between sneaking out from under Lachllan's parental gaze and trying to keep Nicholas's suspicions at bay, she'd forgotten about having to face Giric's reaction to her attempt to free him.

As if his anger was anything new? When she'd rescued her brother from the bog when he was ten and fifteen summers, he hadna approved her presence then, but she had pulled him out had she nae? Mayhap the fact that she had put the burr under his mount's saddle had been a factor to his getting stuck between two rotting logs, but who was remembering that anyway? 'Twas a youthful prank, one long past.

She took in Giric, shaken by the frailty and his pale skin. But this was different. He needed her. And with their father dead, she needed him.

Gently she again pressed the cool cloth along her brother's brow. He grimaced.

The healer dug out several pouches of herbs. “After battling his fever for the past sennight, he will be weak. He has swallowed little more than a bit of broth each day.” She moved to Elizabet's side. “I will give him a bit of white willow bark to ease the pain, but 'twill be food and rest that put him back on his feet.” She set a small leather sack on the table, away from the others. “ 'Tis chamomile. It will aid his sleep after he has eaten.”

Elizabet nodded, familiar with both. As of late, with her people's attacks on Ravenmoor, both herbs were a staple in her own castle.

The healer mixed the herbs.

Giric's eyes flickered opened, slid toward the healer, then focused on Elizabet. He frowned.

“You have been sick,” the healer said in a soft voice as she gave Giric the mixture.

He grimaced, swallowed.

“Here is some water,” Elizabet said using her pseudomale voice before he could speak.

Ice-blue eyes narrowed.

Before he worked up the energy to use her name, she gently put the cup to his lips. “Drink.” She couldna risk him exposing her true identity.

He made a choking sound.

“Do nae be drowning him there, lad.”

Chagrined, she pulled the cup away. “I—I am sorry.”

At the healer's use of the term
lad,
Giric's eyes darkened with suspicion.

A light gust of wind swirled into the hearth, filled with the scent of heather and smoke. She could almost hear the echo of fey laughter.

“A few sips, nae more,” the healer added, ignorant of her dilemma. She turned to her basket and searched through the sacks of herbs and ceramic pots of ground herbs.

Elizabet pressed her finger to her lips and shook her head at Giric in warning. She'd rarely seen her brother this angry. Mary help her once they were alone.

With a groan he turned toward the healer. “Wh-where am I?” His rough whisper tore at Elizabet's heart.

“You are at Ravenmoor Castle,” Deredere replied. “I am the healer and have tended you since you were brought here.” She gestured toward Elizabet. “The lad is helping me, his name is Thomas.”

After slanting Elizabet a hard glare, he glanced back at the elder. “How long have I been here?”

“Over a fortnight.” The elder woman gave a nod. “You have had a fever. For several days I didna know if you were going to live. Now, I say your chances are excellent.” She extended her palm, which held a small pile of herbs. “Swallow them as well. They will ease your pain.”

After downing the herbs, he accepted the cup from Elizabet than drank. “What now?” he asked as he handed her the empty container.

“Upon his return,” the elder replied, “I reckon the castellan would be wanting a word with you.”

Anger flashed in Giric's eyes. “Sir Renaud?”

“Nay,” Elizabet answered, thankful the previous castellan lay dead. “Sir Nicholas.”

Giric pinned her with a hard glare.

“Sir Renaud died nae too long after your imprisonment. Sir Nicholas arrived more than a fortnight ago.” She paused, steadying her voice. “The new castellan is a fair man.”

He lifted a brow at that, but before he could question her further, the healer lifted her basket of herbs. “Nay more questions. You need to rest.”

Elizabet darted a quick look toward her brother. “Aye, he is tired and overwrought
.
”
And furious and waiting to get me alone
.

“Go the kitchens and bring him some broth.” Deredere pointed toward where she had set the small jar of herbs. “If I am gone before you return, after he has eaten, give him a cup of chamomile tea.”

She nodded, thankful for the chance of a few moments alone with Giric. Outside she paused before the guard. “The healer bid me to fetch broth for the prisoner.”

The knight nodded.

Through a high window, sunlight streamed in golden ribbons upon the floor, a blunt reminder of the passage of time. Nicholas should finish his rounds soon. Desperate for at least a few minutes alone with her brother before his return, once out of sight on the turret steps, she ran.

In the kitchen, Elizabet silently cursed the cook who'd bid her to wait while she'd prepared an extra meal for the guard. She was losing precious time! Only a short while remained before she must go to the stables to await Nicholas's return, like a well-trained squire would.

As she approached the guard balancing the meals in her hands, his watching her with unfeigned skepticism far from eased her nerves. She handed over the extra fare.

He eyed the chunk of roasted venison swimming in broth with great anticipation. “I will accompany you inside,” he said, setting the bowl on the floor. “Though sick, the man is dangerous.”

“The healer—”

“Has left.” He opened the door and gestured for her to go ahead of him.

This time when she entered, Giric watched her. His gaze flicked warily to the guard then back to her.

“I have brought you some broth,” she said, her voice a bit breathy, nae even beginning to match the turmoil churning inside. “'Twas made fresh this morning.” Sweet Mary but she sounded the lackwit. And she'd best stop rambling.

The guard gave a grunt of irritation.

Elizabet sat on the edge of the bed, giving neither Giric nor the guard a chance to stop her. “He is weak as a babe. I should be fine.” She held the steaming bowl to his mouth. “Just a sip now. 'Tis a wee bit hot.”

The scent of meat, onions, and herbs rose in a steamy mist between them. With trembling hands, he cupped the bowl and tipped it higher.

At the hungry growl from the guard's stomach, she glanced back, praying she appeared calmer than she felt. “I will see that he eats. After, I will give him the herbs the healer left.” She gestured to where the secured sacks sat, thankful for the excuse.

The guard crossed his arms over his chest. “The man is a murderer.”

Nay more than the English who laid siege to Ravenmoor Castle, she wanted to scream. “Whatever drove him to his actions, for the moment he can barely eat, much less wield a sword.”

Giric coughed, and she retrieved the bowl from his trembling hands. Sweat had broken out across his brow from his effort. She helped him to take another sip. Elizabet glanced back at the guard. “Please eat. If I need your aid, I will call.”

The knight glanced toward the door where his meal had begun to cool. He grimaced as if mulling over the wisdom of such a move. “I am leaving the door open. If I hear anything, I am coming in.”

She nodded, then sighed with relief as he stepped into the corridor.

“Saint's breath! Your explanation had best be good!”

At Giric's fierce whisper she jumped. “I—”

He shoved the bowl into her hand. Warm broth sloshed over the side and trickled down her fingers. “And your hair.” His eyes raked over her. “You have cut it off!”

She set the bowl on the table and started to rise, but he caught her wrist. “I want an explanation—now!”

“I—I didna know if you were alive or dead.” Her voice broke. A tremor slid through her body, then another. “One way or the other, I had to know.”