An Oath Taken (11 page)

“But a lad?”

“ 'Twas the only way.”

“The only way?” He arched a brow, a familiar gesture he made when he was determined to get to the bottom of things.

She handed him the bowl and again sat by him on the side of the bed. “I will explain while you eat.”

He hesitated then took a sip, then another.

“I took the position as the castellan's squire.”

Broth spewed out as he choked. “Wh-what!”

Shuffled steps scraped outside the door.

They both froze.

“Is he threatening you?” the guard demanded as he moved into the entry, his sword readied in his hands.

“Nay,” she replied. “His wounds are bothering him, and I bumped one by mistake.”

The sentry grunted, sheathed his blade, and returned to his meal.

Giric wiped his chin as she knelt by his side. “Be quiet,” she whispered. “I need to explain.”

“Does our father—”

“He is dead.”

Sorrow filled Giric's eyes, and silence fell between them.

The cadence of men, the daily routine outside the window, filled the somber void.

“When?” he asked.

Grief swept her. “He was dead when I arrived.”

“Caught in a fever,” he said, sadness raw in his voice, “I was nae sure if he had died, or if ‘twas a delusion.”

The image of her father's body in the guard's arms came to mind, but she shoved it aside. She couldna dwell on the horrific sight. “ 'Tis too late for him, but nae for you and the others.”

Giric looked around the room as if for the first time realizing where he was. A frown darkened his brow. “Where am I?”

“In Ravenmoor's keep. On the second floor to be exact.” She paused. “The other men who were captured from Wolfhaven Castle are still locked within the dungeon.”

He cursed. “Why was I brought here?”

“My guess is that because you are a prisoner of importance, and with your being feverish, Sir Nicholas didna want to risk your death.”

“It makes sense.” He eyed her. “And where are you staying?”

She hesitated, dreading this moment. “As the lord's squire, I . . . I sleep within his chamber.”

“In his chamber?” Red slashed his cheeks. “Are you bloody mad?”

“Shhhhh! Lackwit, as his squire, where else would I sleep?” She shook her head as he started to speak, then glanced toward the door, relieved to find the entry empty. Elizabet rounded on him. “I have a pallet by the hearth. Nor does he know that I am a woman.”

“And he is nae going to find out. You are to leave here now! I will nae have you remain and risk your life.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And when I get hold of Lachllan, he will nae be hearing the end of it.”

“Do nae blame him,” she rushed out. “He forbade me to go. I allowed him to believe I agreed, then left him a note of my intent and snuck out in the wee hours of dawn.”

Giric caught the front of her tunic and hauled her to within an inch of his face. “I will nae have you here another moment longer. 'Tis lunacy! Your—”

Horns sounded.

Mary, Mother of God! Elizabet jerked from his grasp. “'Tis Nicholas! Nay say a word. Please!”

“Elizabet—”

“Giric. Trust me. I must go.”

He glowered at her, but time had run out. With a quick hug, she hurried from the door and slowed to a walk as she passed the guard. Once out of sight, she raced down the turret. The last thing she needed was to raise Nicholas's doubts or suspicions.

The rattle of chains spurned her on as she exited the keep. Her heart pounded as she flew across the courtyard toward the stable.

Dust swirled through the gates, preceding the mounted knights.

“Sir Nicholas arrives,” a guard announced.

Hoofbeats pounded on the drawbridge and echoed like a battering ram in her mind.

Nay, she was only halfway across. He couldn't see her now! Elizabet bolted toward the stable.

D
ust swirled around Nicholas as he drew up before Thomas stepping from the stables. A ruddy hue slashed his squire's cheeks. He dismounted, handed the reins to the lad. “You look a bit flushed. Is something wrong?”

Thomas took the reins. “It has been a busy morning, Sir Nicholas,” he replied, breathless. “I hurried through the last of my chores, wanting to be here for your arrival.”

He smiled. “You did well.”

“Sir Nicholas,” a knight called, striding toward him.

“Aye?” he replied.

“Lord Terrick is awake and his fever has broken.”

“'Tis good news indeed.” Nicholas pulled off a gauntlet. “My thanks.”

With a nod, the knight headed toward the keep.

Now, to begin building trust with Lord Terrick. With the hatred he must have after watching his father die in the cell, 'twould be a monumental task indeed, but one he was determined to achieve. Nicholas glanced toward Thomas. “Stable my mount. After, you will accompany me.”

His squire's face paled. “I—I have several chores that need tending.”

Nicholas worked the second gauntlet free, curious at Thomas's reluctance to see the prisoner. Did he know this man? During his interview with the earl, he would watch his squire for any telltale signs. 'Twas most likely the dubious title of the criminal that had shaken the youth. And why not? Lord Terrick's reputation as a fierce warrior preceded him. “As my squire is it not your duty to serve me?”

“Aye, 'tis, but—”

“Thomas—” He shoved back the mail hood and padded coif, appreciating the cool breeze over his skin, then waved him toward the stable. “Go and be quick about it.”

Dread shrouding his expression, Thomas led his mount away.

A short while later, knights greeted Nicholas as he entered the great hall along with the scents of spices and roasting venison. Hounds nosed the floor eager to find a scrap of remaining food, and a woman swept away stale rushes and replaced them with fresh dried flowers.

With his squire on his heels, Nicholas strode past, pleased by the changes in Ravenmoor Castle since his arrival, and the fact that his daily rounds along his border now delivered naught but brisk, invigorating rides. A peace he hoped would continue.

He started up the curved stone steps and his thoughts turned to his prisoner. Thank God the man had lived. The Wardens of the Western Marches' reports confirmed Lord Terrick's staunch following among the Scots. With his father's death and newly acquired title, he now held a prestigious position. The man would make a powerful friend or a deadly enemy. His goal during this meeting was to ensure the first.

As he approached the prisoner's chamber, the guard snapped to attention. “Sir Nicholas.”

“Is Lord Terrick awake?” Nicholas asked as he glanced toward the open door.

“And fed,” the guard replied, then glanced toward his squire with a frown. “But then you would be—”

A groan echoed from the chamber.

Nicholas waved off the guard. “I will check on him.” He entered and found Lord Terrick struggling to sit up in the bed, his face white, his body trembling. The gasp behind him reminded him his squire was at his heels. “Thomas, remain here.”

His squire edged closer. “I can—”

God's teeth! Nicholas whirled, not needing a show of bravery here. “Obey me.”

Thomas's face blanched. His eyes cut toward the prisoner with a nervous edge, and he took a step back. “Aye.”

Blast it, why did it seem that everything he did with the lad turned into an event? Would naught ever come easy between them? On a muttered curse, Nicholas strode to the bed. Two paces away, he halted, taking in the warrior before him. “Lord Terrick.”

Ice-blue eyes, hard and unforgiving, scrutinized him with a feral intent.

Only a fool would underestimate this man. Even pale and weak, he was a formidable opponent. “I am Sir Nicholas Beringar, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle.”

Lord Terrick cast a damning glance toward his squire, then back to him. Their eyes locked. The room seemed to hum with unbridled energy; the force that surrounded the man would consume the weak.

Dangerous.

The description fit him well. A deep sense of pride also pulsed within him.

Nicholas silently acknowledged and respected both qualities in Lord Terrick, neither would he back down. He, too, was a man who held his own, regardless the cost.

At Thomas's nervous inhale, protectiveness swept Nicholas. A leader of his people or not, by his own oath, neither this man nor any other would bring harm to those in his care. “I ordered you brought within Ravenmoor's keep to recover.”

Lord Terrick studied him a long moment. “And my men?” His soft question rumbled with demand.

“They remain in the dungeon awaiting my judgment.”

The noble's eyes narrowed in challenge. “Sir Renaud would have slain them.”

“I am not Sir Renaud.”

The earl folded his arms across his chest mirroring Nicholas's action. Though weak, his hard gaze never wavered. “That you are nae, but you still speak the king's English, heel to Longshank's command.”

At Lord Terrick's slang reference to King Edward's height, Nicholas understood—the silent gauntlet had been thrown: Prove to me that you are different. And why wouldn't this man distrust him, question his every move? After Sir Renaud's tyranny, 'twould be easy for this Scot to despise those who supported England's king.

“In the next few days,” Nicholas said, “I will speak with each prisoner and judge them fairly.”

The earl's brow raised, his gaze filled with skepticism. “You would take the word of a Scot?”

His respect for the noble rose a notch. Lord Terrick's questions were for his people, not of his fate. “I am a man who judges from the facts and upholds the truth.” 'Twas easy to see why people would follow this noble, if necessary, to their deaths. Lord Terrick would inspire more than respect, but their loyalty as well, another reason why he needed to gain his trust. Though the Wardens of the Marches enforced the laws, men like Lord Terrick made the rules. “I have met with the Wardens of the Western Marches. I seek peace between our lands.”

A muscle worked in the noble's jaw. “Then release me and my men.”

“You laid siege upon Ravenmoor Castle, the king's possession. 'Twas an act of war upon the crown.”

A ruddy hue slashed up his cheeks as the earl shoved himself up straighter. “Ravenmoor is a Scottish castle.”

Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “Was.”

The Scot opened his mouth to retort, then released a slow, controlled breath. “Aye,” he agreed, his tone anything but acquiescing defeat. Tension sang between them. His hand moved to his side and clenched as if wrapping itself around the hilt of a sword. “And your king would be taking the whole of Scotland if he bloody could.”

“My responsibility is to bring peace to our borders,” Nicholas said, bringing the discussion back to his objective. The actions of King Edward and his intent toward Scotland were beyond his control. He would focus on what was within his authority. “I have reports of stealing along our boundaries.”

“Reiving is a staple along the border,” Lord Terrick said without apology.

Nicholas eyed him hard. “And murder?”

The Scot's eyes blazed. “If there was murdering about, 'twas Sir Renaud who headed the lot.”

He remembered Thomas's same accusation. Nicholas gave a slow nod. “As others have claimed, along with reports of the previous castellan's smuggling. I am determined to uncover the truth—on both accounts.”

Tired lines etched the earl's brow. “So what do you want with me?”

“Your cooperation.”

Lord Terrick grunted. “How do I know that if I give it, you willna kill me regardless?”

“Because I give you my word as a knight.” Nicholas uncrossed his arms and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “If I find Sir Renaud has committed the crimes levied against him, I will include it in my report to the king.”

“And my men?”

“They will be released.”

Lord Terrick glanced toward his squire. His eyes darkened then turned back on him. “You have given me your word as a knight. In that I trust your actions will reflect those as inscribed within the code of chivalry.”

An uncomfortable feeling slid through Nicholas. He sensed an underlying anger radiating from this man, as well as a deeper meaning to the earl's question. It felt personal. Why? He'd never met the man before. “I have given you my word. The decision to accept is yours.”

“I will aid you in your quest, for 'tis mine as well. But if you betray me,” he said in cold warning, “there willna be a place far enough from me to hide. I will find you. And when I do, 'twill be my own hand that ends your life. On that you have
my
word.”

Nicholas walked to the bed and glared down at the noble. “My word does not bend like the willow.”

“Nor mine,” Lord Terrick said, dauntless.

Seconds passed.

Each eyed the other.

Nicholas had to admire this man; his values paralleled his own. He extended his hand.

The earl hesitated, then clasped it. Despite his weakened state, his grip was firm.

Releasing his hand, Nicholas stepped back. “Lord Terrick, I will return once you have rested.”

The earl nodded. “And 'tis Terrick to you.”

Relief edged through him. “Terrick.” Nicholas turned and caught his squire's gaze upon him with something akin to relief. “ 'Tis time to leave, Thomas.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.” His squire darted from the room.

Nicholas sighed as he watched the lad flee. This was not working out as he'd hoped, but the lad had only been with him but a short while. What did he expect that by now he'd have the lad's complete trust? 'Twas a foolish thought. Blast it! He was a sorry lot. Disgusted with himself, he strode from the chamber after his squire.

 

Elizabet hurried down the corridor without a backward glance. Thank goodness Nicholas's confrontation with Giric had gone so well. With both men of strong will, she'd feared the worst.

“He seems a fair man,” Nicholas said as he caught up to her at the turret steps.

She started at his voice. “Aye, but nae as intimidating as they say.” His laughter caught her off guard. Surprised, she halted and turned.

Torchlight illuminated him as he towered over her. “Lad,” he said, his smile punctuated by irresistible dimples, and his mouth curved into an enchanting grin. “I could hear your knees shaking the entire time we were in the chamber.”

Heat stroked her cheeks. “My knees didna clatter once!”

Her ardent denial only fueled his laughter.

Caught by how foolish she must sound, she joined in. Her eyes filled with happy tears, she met his gaze.

Torchlight softened the sculptured planes of his face with its golden touch, casting shadows of light that faded into gray as if embracing them in their own private world. The humor of moments ago echoed along the spiraled walls fading into awareness, and the moment shifted.

Desire nearly dropped Elizabet to her knees. Her breath caught, and her laughter faded. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears. Her fingers trembled as she yearned to reach out and stroke the planes of his strong face. And God help her, to lean forward and again taste his lips.

Desire flickered in his eyes, then horror.

What had she done! On a cry she whirled and bolted down the stairs.

His footsteps slapped on the steps behind her. “Thomas!”

Nicholas's confused plea made her feel worse. She ran faster and stumbled. Pain shot through her as she slammed against the wall. She reached for the stone and tried to catch herself before she toppled down the stairs.

Nicholas grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “God's teeth! What were you thinking?” His voice lowered to a shaken whisper. “You could have killed yourself.”

And ended both of us this misery
. She pushed at his chest; her soft fingers connected with hard muscle. How she wanted him! “I am sorry, I . . .”

He muttered an oath under his breath and set her away. Without meeting her eyes, he knelt before her. “Where does it hurt?”

In my heart.
“My leg.” Shame washed through her as she pointed toward her knee.

He laid his hand upon the joint and ran his fingers carefully over the area. “I feel naught broken, 'tis likely a bruise.”

“I shouldna have run. 'Twas foolish.”

A deep sigh rumbled in his chest. He looked up, his eyes filled with guilt. “Thomas, I . . .”

Pain ripped through her. This couldna go on. Nicholas was a good man. He didna deserve the strife she was putting him through. She must tell him the truth. “Please, do nae say anything or apologize. If someone is to blame, 'tis me.”
For more than you could ever begin to know.

The scrape of footsteps echoed from below.

Someone was coming up. Embarrassed, ashamed, and realizing the enormity of what she'd almost done, Elizabet pushed to her feet.

A knight rounded the corner and paused. He glanced from her to the castellan. “Sir Nicholas,” he said, eyeing them both with concern. “I heard the lad yell. Has he broken a bone?”

“He tripped,” Nicholas replied. “Thankfully 'tis naught but a bruise.”

The knight nodded, his face grim. “It can be dangerous travel as the stairway is not well lit.”