An Oath Taken (4 page)

The dungeon! She gave a quick look to ensure no one noticed her, hurried to the entry, then pushed open the door. Heart pounding, she peered up the steps.

The scrape and shuffle of feet on stone and a grumbled curse echoed from above. A moment later, torchlight illuminated a stocky man descending the stairs, a body draped in his arms.

God no!

'Twas the butcher, a man who'd faithfully served her family for years.

“Move out of the way, lad,” the man grumbled.

Panic swept her as she stumbled back.

The man shoved past.

More steps sounded from above.

On trembling knees, Elizabet glanced up. In the knight's arms lay the chandler, the man who'd gifted her with her first beeswax candle. Bile rose in her throat.

“Help or move,” a man's curt voice ordered.

Tears blurring her eyes, she moved aside.

The man cursed and headed up the steps.

Elizabet swallowed hard. She needed to know. As she reached the landing, the door above shoved open.

A knight, with a body slung in his arms, stepped out. “Move back, lad.”

Elizabet stared in horrified disbelief—her father! Bile welled in her throat and she almost retched. A tremor wracked her body, then another. Her father, a man whose love seemed elusive, a man whose respect she'd fought to earn, was dead. Grief for what would never be suffocated her.

What of Giric? Please, God, let her brother be alive.

Afraid to look, more terrified nae to, she gazed upward in anticipation of the next body.

And froze.

Halted several paces away, Sir Nicholas watched her with unfeigned interest. His eyes glittered with questions, questions she could never answer.

A
s the guard departed the dungeon with the body of the previous Earl of Terrick, Nicholas analyzed the emotions he'd witnessed on Thomas's ashen face—shock, disbelief, and finally horror. And when his squire had lifted his eyes to meet his, he'd seen fear.

Why?

He glanced at the body of the noble a brief moment before the guard disappeared from sight, then back to Thomas. Unease sifted through him. Did his squire know the deceased?

Footsteps of an approaching knight echoed behind him. Nicholas needed to move, but he could not allow the lad entrance to the dungeon and witness the travesty above. “Thomas, return to the keep. Stay there until my return.”

His entire body trembling, his squire held his gaze, but he didn't move.

God's teeth. What had the dead man done to the lad that would warrant such trauma? “Thomas.”

His squire's lower lip trembled as he glanced up the stairs. “I-I came to help wi-with the dead.”

Anger slammed through Nicholas. “Return to the keep now!”

Thomas held his ground as if he would challenge Nicholas. On a broken sob the lad turned and fled.

Blast it. Frustrated, Nicholas took the last few remaining steps to the bottom of the tower, then exited into the night.

He caught the lad's shadowy figure as he raced across the courtyard as if chased by the hounds of Hades. Near the center of the courtyard, Thomas halted and turned toward the gatehouse.

Nicholas froze. Was the lad going to forsake his vow and flee?

After a long moment, his squire glanced toward him, then sprinted to the keep.

 

Her each breath rough, Elizabet stumbled into the great hall, shoved the door behind her, then collapsed against the sturdy frame. Tears burned her eyes at the memories of her father's body slung in the guard's arms.

Mary, Mother of God, what of Giric? Had her brother died as well? She wiped away the tears. Nay, he had to be alive!

“Get on with you, lad,” a woman's voice scolded.

Dazed, Elizabet glanced behind her.

A plump, elderly woman, with her hands on her hips, stood several paces away scowling at her.

With a hard swallow, Elizabet fought for composure. “Yo—You asked me something?”

The woman frowned, her pruned face sagging with disgust. “The castellan and his men will return posthaste and they will be expecting their meal.” She nodded toward a huge pot hanging above the flames in the hearth. “The meat needs to be ladled out. Go help instead of standing there dawdling. On with you now.”

However much Elizabet wanted to escape and find privacy to try to come to grips with this eve's horrendous discovery, she'd aroused too much suspicion with Nicholas moments before. Like it or nae she must continue to play her part in this role to discover if her brother lived.

Fighting back the tears, she walked to the cook fire. The heat spewing from the hearth burned hot against her skin as she ladled out portions of roast pig, wild onions, and herbs onto the platters. Though she'd nae eaten for hours, her stomach rebelled at the idea of food.

A short while later, the keep door scraped open.

Her heart racing, Elizabet scoured the faces of the men entering the great room after their gruesome task, searching for one.

The castellan stepped inside, halted. He grimaced as he scanned the confines, and his gaze paused on her.

Unnerved by the concern in his eyes, she turned away and threw herself into her task, thankful when he didna confront her. And he would, of that she had no doubt.

As the evening wore on, she moved about her duties, serving Nicholas his food, refilling his goblet when empty. Throughout the meal she listened for scraps of information, but learned naught that indicated if Giric was amongst those who had died.

Frustrated by unanswered questions and exhausted from worry, she stood in the shadows watching Sir Nicholas, waiting for the moment he would signal her and she could leave.

 

The grumbles of his men and the clunks of their tankards as they ate echoed in the great hall as Nicholas speared the last chunk of meat. If only he'd known of the dead in the dungeon earlier. He chewed the meat, swallowed. And what would he have done? Besides removing the deceased earlier, naught. He shoved away his trencher. After wiping and sheathing his dagger, he signaled to his squire.

He studied Thomas's slow approach; exhaustion rode his fragile features and nervousness haunted his eyes. From the lad's strong reaction to the dead noble, at some point, the prisoner had played a significant part in his squire's life. But how? Had the earl taken Thomas into his home? Had he caught the lad reiving and cast him into the dungeon? Or was he the man, or one of many who had molested a homeless lad with nowhere to turn?

His squire set the basin of water before him. “Water for you to wash, Sir Nicholas.”

“My thanks.” He cleaned the grease from his hands then accepted the cloth. Nicholas handed back the linen. “ 'Tis all I will require for the night.”

Relief washed over his squire's face. He retrieved the bowl, then started away.

“Thomas.”

At the edge of the dais he halted, his expression guarded. “You wish for more food, Sir Nicholas?”

He shook his head. As tired as he was, he couldn't help feeling empathy for the stricken expression that shattered the lad's face. “You will accompany me to my chamber.”

Thomas's fingers shook and water spilled over the sides of the bowl. “I-I thought I was to sleep in the stables.” Defensiveness etched his whispered words.

“You will sleep on a pallet by the hearth.”

The little color on his squire's face fled.

The last thing Nicholas wished was to add to the lad's problems, but in this instance there was no way around it. Thomas must learn to trust him.

Exhausted, Nicholas departed the great hall with his squire in tow. At the lad's hesitant step, protectiveness for Thomas overwhelmed him, the depth of it surprising even himself. 'Twas not uncommon to find tragedy striking families during this volatile time. So why did the misfortune of this one lad touch him as none before? The only reason that made sense was because Thomas reminded him so much of his brother, Hugh.

Nicholas glanced at his squire keeping pace by his side as he headed up the turret. God help him. If he had a say in the choices of his future, Thomas wouldn't live such a cold life or know its pain.

At the third floor, he headed to his chamber.After his squire had entered, Nicholas closed the door, then gestured to the trunk at the end of his bed. “You will find blankets inside. Make a pallet for yourself beside the fire.”

The lad's gaze grew wary. “If nae the stable, I could sleep outside your door.” Hope shone in his eyes. “ 'Tis commonplace.”

He wanted to keep an eye on Thomas, for more reasons than he wished to count. “For now you will sleep here.”

The lad's throat worked. “Aye.” With forced movements Thomas knelt and began the task, slanting suspicious glances toward him every so often.

Nicholas poured a cup of wine, tried to focus on the warmth of the fire and the sweet scent of heather on the night breeze, welcome after the stench of death. As his squire glanced at him for the fifth time, Nicholas muttered a curse. “Thomas.”

The lad jumped and dropped the blanket in his hands.

Nicholas grimaced. “I will not harm you.”

His squire picked up the blanket, but his gaze remained unsure.

Frustrated, Nicholas walked to the bed. He couldn't protect him from all of life's horrors, but while the lad remained at Ravenmoor Castle, he would spare him a few. “You are to keep away from the dungeon.”

The lad clenched the edge of the blanket until his knuckles turned white. “ 'Tis my duty to assist you.”

His squire's courage was admirable but on this he would not relent. “Stay out of the dungeon.”

“Sir Nicholas, I—”

“Enough!” he interrupted, confused by his squire's insistence to aid with the grisly task. “'Tis done.” He raised his hand when Thomas started to shake his head. “Do not challenge me. As with any order I give you, 'twill be obeyed. Is that clear?”

Thomas's throat worked. “Aye,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

More than ready for sleep, Nicholas turned to his bed. The day had been long, more so by the morbid discovery in the dungeon. The last thing he needed to deal with was a mule-headed lad who confused him at every step. With a tug, he removed his tunic and threw it on the floor. Warmth from the hearth heated his skin as he undid the laces on his trews and started to shove them down.

At Thomas's gasp, he turned.

The lad stared at him, his mouth agape and his eyes shimmering with fear. Slowly, a blush swept across Thomas's face, then he averted his gaze.

Nicholas swore softly, cursing the men who'd raped the lad. He hadn't thought twice about disrobing in his own chambers, but then again, it came back to the issue of trust. Regardless of the circumstance, his squire must learn that he would never do him harm. “I know your past has led you to distrust men, but I have given you my word that I will never harm you.”

Silence.

As if he expected different? 'Twould take time. “Go to sleep, Thomas.” The feather-stuffed mattress sank under his weight. He tugged the heavy wool blanket halfway up to his chest then closed his eyes. An owl hooted in the distance. A cow bellowed from the courtyard below. Wind blew in a quiet hush, the clean scent of the night and of the moors he was coming to love filled the chamber, but sleep evaded him.

Nicholas stared out the arched window to where stars filled the sky, exasperated by his inability to deal in the correct manner with this one lad.

Throughout the years he had handled numerous difficult situations with finesse. Often he would be called upon to end fights or to instill logic when none seemed about. On the Isle of Man after a major confrontation, through negotiations he had played a significant role in defusing conflicts that had cooled tempers and erased rumblings of further rebellion—the reason King Edward had chosen him to serve as castellan of Ravenmoor Castle.

In the past common sense had served him well, but 'twould seem on matters concerning his squire, his every gesture of good will ended up in shambles. Why?

The soft slide of the blanket sounded.

Nicholas glanced over. “I know you are awake.”

The flames sputtered then swayed erratically in the hearth. An owl, closer this time, called into the night.

After a long moment, Thomas rolled over and faced him. “Aye?”

A thousand questions spun in his mind. Should he ask about his past? No, his previous efforts assured him 'twould serve to make the lad withdraw. Ask about his family? Nay. Mayhap 'twas their differences, or those perceived by the lad, that erected the wall between them. If his squire saw that his own path hadn't been easy, mayhap 'twould be the key to forming the all-important first steps to trust.

“When I was six and ten I had the fortune of being sent to a monastery to study.” Nicholas smiled as the past tumbled into his mind. “I remember the pride of that day, of riding alongside my uncle into the grand courtyard surrounded by walls that had taught a myriad of students, diplomats from other countries, sons from influential families, and royalty. Only through King Edward's intercession had I been granted permission to attend.”

“You are a priest?” Confusion and a touch of awe filled Thomas's voice.

Remorse tainted Nicholas's thoughts, and his smile fell. “Nay.” The sense of loss after all of these years still cut deep. “I never finished my studies.”

A log settled in the hearth. Flames skittered and danced around the thin column of smoke lazing up into the night. Silence, thick with unanswered questions, filled the chamber like the scarred memories haunting his mind.

He waited for the questions of why, but after a long silence he realized that his squire would not pry. If Nicholas chose to share the innermost secrets of his past, his pain, the decision would be his.

The revelation shook him. He'd not expected this depth of understanding, or mayhap deep down he'd known. That would explain the draw, the unexplainable need to share with this one lad more about his personal life than he had with anyone else—ever.

The moment grew thick with barely restrained emotion, a quiet force that threatened to consume him. The sharing of this tragic event to establish a venue of trust became more than an act of good will, it became a necessity. He couldn't explain it if asked, but the need to reach out, to reveal this life-altering issue of his past to Thomas was as essential as his next breath.

The anger, frustration, and despair that had simmered deep inside flooded through his mind. He'd believed himself far beyond the hurt of that tumultuous time so long ago, but here in the murky darkness tainted with smoke and the night, confessing his soul to a lad, he found the truth, the pain of emotions too long denied.

“For the first five months at the monastery my studies went well,” Nicholas started, not surprised by the rawness of his voice, a pain he doubted would ever leave. “I enjoyed the lessons and appreciated the chance to learn. One day a young man from Gretna, a Scottish town not far from here, arrived at the school. Though there were many differences in our cultures, we became fast friends.” He smiled, remembering the quick laughter in the young man's eyes, his loyalty given to his friends. “His name was Dougal, and he fared from the clan MacNaughton.”

His smile fell away as the pain of the remembrance severed the warmth. “He came from a prominent home, was betrothed to a maiden whom he loved, and was to fulfill not only his own dream of attending his studies, but upon his graduation, his father's as well. Several months passed. . . .” His throat tightened, and he stared at the stars in the sky as they blurred before him.