An Oath Taken (6 page)

At his unexpected teasing she found herself charmed. Shaken, she crossed her arms over her midriff, an ineffectual shield to her growing fascination toward him. Elizabet forced her mind away from this dangerous ground, remembering all too well the aches and pains to be found with the training of arms. The tangible reminder would be as welcome as necessary. She needed to keep her perspective.

“Mayhap you are right,” she replied.

A hint of a smile touched his lips, then faded.

The sense of loss was immediate. Elizabet wished things were different, the time, the setting, but she might as well wish for the fairies to appear before her eyes.

Suddenly, a shaft of sunlight danced in a darkened corner, raced up the sturdy wood wall of the stable, then disappeared.

Stunned, she glanced to see if Nicholas had witnessed the miracle of light, but his unmoved gaze assured her he had nae.
'Twas but an errant ray of sunlight reflected off of the hilt of his sword
, but she couldna dismiss the shiver or apprehension racing through her or the question of if a fairy had indeed listened to her plea.

“Upon my return then,” Nicholas said.

She nodded. Her mind a mix of worry for Giric and intrigue for Nicholas, Elizabet saddled his horse.

After mounting his steed, the castellan, along with a small division of his men, cantered through the gates. Dust swirled in their wake, clouding their exit like the confusion muddling her mind.

Rubbing her temple, she stared at the dungeon on the opposing end of the courtyard. Sunlight shattered across the quarried stone filled with macabre blends of grays, browns, and blacks. She frowned, remembering her promise given to Nicholas only moments before. Aye, in the future she would serve him well—except in matters concerning Giric.

Her loyalty toward her brother must come first.

How was she going to gain entrance into the dungeon? She released a frustrated sigh. And when she tried, would the guards let her in? Had Nicholas passed orders to his men to forbid his squire entry?

Hope sliced through her. What if he hadna?

She glanced toward where the errant beacon of light had shimmered with magical promise moments ago. “Please, if you are listening, let his men be ignorant of this fact.” And she prayed the fairies were listening.

Elizabet glanced toward the exit.

The sun's ray now streamed through the crenulations, streaking swaths of golden light along the opposite stone wall toward the earth.

Nicholas would be gone a few hours. She needed to gain access before his return, but how?

“What are you doing?” a curious but cautious young voice asked from her side.

Startled, she turned. About four paces away stood the lad who had chased the pig around the courtyard upon her arrival. In his eyes she read adoration, the kind she'd held for her brother and other men who had commanded respect from her father. Mayhap because of her position as squire, the lad now put her in such a light? The youth's misguided respect left Elizabet feeling all the more a fraud.

“Yo—You were staring at the corner.” He dropped his gaze and shuffled nervously.

She nudged a strand of her unruly hair behind her ear. Had he witnessed the glimmer of light? “I was dreaming.” In reality, with the odds of her getting into the dungeon, she may as well be. But, 'twould behoove her to make friends while she was here. “My name is Thomas.”

The youth lifted his eyes to her. “I am called Malcolm. My position is to assist the cook, but one day, I, too will become a squire and learn to wield a sword.”

“Indeed you will,” she agreed. “Where are you headed?”

“I am on my way to fetch the healer.” He shot her a glance of pure envy. “But I would rather be tending the horses, or another task.” He paused. “When I was walking past, I saw you and . . .”

“I understand,” she finished as an idea formed in her mind. This could be the opening she needed. Mayhap besides bringing the healer to the dungeon, she could aid her as well. That would allow her to discover if Giric still lived. “I am finished here and could fetch the healer for you.”

He grimaced as he mulled the idea. “ 'Tis my responsibility.”

“Indeed, but I have seen you about the castle. You are kept busy.”

“Aye,” he said as if pondering the validity of having another do the task. “The cook is always wanting something, and I still have to chop wild onions and mushrooms for the stew and haul wood for the cook's fire.”

She smiled. “Let me do this for you.”

Malcolm hesitated, then nodded. “ 'Twill give me a few extra minutes to gather some meat from the larder. It would nae be like I was shirking my duties.”

“I did ask,” she assured him, finding herself won over by his indecision, remembering herself at his tender age.

He eyed her a moment. “I doubt Ihon would ever know.”

“Nae from my lips.”

A smile touched his mouth, and his blush deepened. “My thanks.”

Elizabet nodded. “You are welcome.”

After giving her instructions on how to reach to the healer's hut, Malcolm turned as if to leave, then hesitated.

“Was there something else?” she asked.

He shuffled his feet then drew in a deep breath. “After you learn how to fight . . . I mean, one day when you are a knight . . . Could you . . .”

She smiled. “When Sir Nicholas teaches me to handle a sword and once I am proficient, I will train you.”

His eyes widened. The respect in his gaze grew. “Th—Thank you. You will nae regret your offer.” A smile pasted on his face, he darted toward the keep.

With a sigh she watched him go. Perhaps she could train him with a sword, but nae here. Neither could she let on that she already knew how to wield a blade.

Setting aside her brush, Elizabet picked up a bucket and walked to the well. Before the round crafted rock, she looked down. A bottomless vat of inky blackness swam before her. Her fear of the dark, of confined spaces, swept over her. Shaken, she shoved aside the horrific event of her past, filled the bucket, and hauled it to the horse.

She glanced toward the still-darkened corner where mayhap a fairy indeed had listened to her plea. She smiled. 'Twould seem an opportunity to gain entrance into the dungeons had been delivered after all.

T
he pungent aroma of sage stood out among the numerous scents as Elizabet stepped inside the healer's hut. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling on forged hooks like a ragged, storm-fed sky. The musty green leaves of sage billowed amidst the faded white flowers of catmint, then entwined with the spiraled tendrils of mandrake and sheaths of horsetail to blend in with a rich myriad of many other herbs.

On an old, roughly crafted table, a ceramic bowl sat on its side, yellowed from use over time. Alongside lay a pestle chiseled from stone. Small ceramic pots, some open and several sealed with wax, sat nearby. In the corner by the hearth, a thick wool spread, void of design, draped over the small, narrow bed of straw shoved against the wall.

“Hello?” Elizabet called.

“I will be right there,” an old woman replied from the back.

Elizabet peered toward the sound. In the far corner, kneeling between dense bundles of herbs, an elderly woman was bent over a basket. Curious, she crossed the room then watched as the healer plucked dried peppermint leaves at a brisk rate.

“I told you I would be right there,” the woman said without turning, irritation sliding through her voice.

“I am sorry.”

The old woman glanced back. Shrewd brown eyes canopied by flesh and time studied her without apology. With a humph, she returned to her task. She pulled several more leaves from the stem. “I have never seen the likes of you before.”

“ 'Tis my second day at Ravenmoor Castle.”

The healer tossed the stripped branch of peppermint into a growing pile on the dirt floor, then grabbed another leaf-filled one. “So why are you here, lad?”

“You are needed at the dungeons to tend to the prisoners. I was sent to bring you.”

With deft hands, she removed the last few leaves, tossed the barren stem aside, then stood. “A sad state of affairs it is,” the healer grumbled as she wiped her hands against her course brown tunic. She shot Elizabet a shrewd glance. “Squeamish about going in?”

“Nae, I have . . .” What? Explain she had nae seen the prisoners but feared for the life of her people? Coldness stole over her, and Elizabet fisted her hands at her side.

“ 'Tis all right, lad.” A heavy smile worked its way into the healer's pruned face. “You would think I would be immune to the sight of blood and death by now, but at times I find myself sickened.”

The grim image of her father's body carried from the dungeon haunted her mind, and Elizabet shuddered. God in heaven, what were the conditions within the dungeon? However horrific, as long as Sir Nicholas didna discover her plans, she would soon find out.

The elder moved with surprising agility and picked up her basket, then set it on the aged table. “Do you have a name, lad?”

Elizabet unfurled her fists. “Thomas.”

“Call me Deredere.” With efficient movements, she packed a small leather pouch between two vials of oil separated by clean cloths, then secured the wicker lid. “Thomas? From where?”

“Wolfhaven Castle.” Why had she given her the truth! 'Twas too late to change her answer now. Regardless, she and the healer were but talking. Nicholas would never learn of her answer.

The healer gave a slow nod. “I have tended to a few people within the castle.”

Nerves slid through Elizabet. “We should be going,” she urged, needing to circumvent further discussion of this topic.

The old woman nodded, but her eyes held Elizabet's a moment longer as if reading her soul.

Trying to shake off her unease, Elizabet gestured toward the basket. “Would you like me to carry that?”

“Nay.” She slid the basket onto the crook of her arm. “Your escort is enough.”

“I am here to assist you.”

Deredere lifted a doubtful brow. “What would a lad like you know about healing?”

“Let me help, please. Herbs and healing are of great interest to me.” A glint of softening lit the healer's eyes, and Elizabet pressed her advantage. “If I get in your way, I will leave. I swear.”

After a slow, decisive exhale, the healer nodded. “I willna be having you beneath my feet.” She narrowed her thick dapple-gray brows. “The men need to be treated, nae gawked at and pitied.”

Elizabet gave a solemn nod. “I understand.”

“See that you do.” She ambled toward the door. “Let us be on our way then.”

Excitement filled her. Soon she'd discover if Giric was alive! She followed the healer outside, and prayed the guards would allow her in the dungeon.

The sun inched higher into the morning sky as Elizabet, riding beside the healer, cantered toward Ravenmoor Castle. She searched the rolling fields and scoured the dense forest beyond, half-expecting to see Nicholas and his men returning early and catch her.

Naught.

It should be another two hours before his return, but she stole one final glance behind her as they headed through the gates.

The clatter of their mount's hooves thrummed the ground as they rode into the courtyard. The dungeon loomed before them. The weathered rock seemed to whisper of secrets, torture, and death. Trembling, she dismounted and tethered their horses.

Her expression tight, the healer headed toward the tower.

On edge, Elizabet followed. The shadow of the circular stone turret engulfed them in a cool, dismal swath, and a tremor prickled over her skin.

“Lad,” Deredere said.

“Ay—Aye?”

“You are white as sun-bleached cloth. 'Tis nae a problem if you decide you canna face the wounded. One of the guards can assist me.”

“Nay,” Elizabet said quickly, her breathing shallow, her heart pounding. “I must . . .” She paused and tried to calm her fears before she gave herself away, but flashes of her father's body ripped through her mind. “I am fine.” Before the healer could question her further, Elizabet jerked open the door and hurried toward the dungeon.

“The lad has nae a wit of sense,” the healer muttered in her wake.

Elizabet's steps echoed around her as she moved up the steps, each haunting her like a drum of death. In moments she would know. Please let Giric be alive!

“Halt.” The guard blocked her path as she reached the landing.

Sir Nicholas had ordered the guard to nae allow her inside! Frantic, she stepped closer. “Please, I—”

“Enough!” The guard frowned at the healer struggling up the steps. “You should be helping the healer instead of worrying about yourself.” With a sharp look he stepped past her, lifted the basket from the old woman's hands, then he made his way to where Elizabet stood. “Where is Sir Nicholas?”

“He is out on rounds.” She held her breath and prayed he didna refuse her entry.

The guard studied her as if unsure. “You are here to escort the healer?”

Her every nerve sang. “Aye.”

“Next time, carry her basket,” the guard snapped. “ 'Tis heavy.”

Relief filled her. The guard had stopped her because she'd nae aided the healer. “The healer said she could carry it.”

He frowned. “Aye, she is a stubborn one, but 'tis your duty when you are escorting her here.”

“In the future I will.” As he handed her the basket then stepped back, any worries of Nicholas's having left orders for her to be banned entry from the dungeon fled. But the castellan would find out. 'Twould nae matter at that point for she would know the fate of her brother.

Elizabet took in the thick wrought iron door. Please, let Giric be in there and alive.

Metal scraped as the guard pulled the entry open.

Shabby sunlight sifted through the dank chamber in faded streams, and the faint odor of death permeated the air.

Nausea swept her, and she almost wretched. Mary, Mother of God, how could anyone remain in these inhumane confines and survive? Dread filling every step, she scanned the narrow cells. A wash of faces, all familiar, swam into view: several archers, knights, the master of the hunt.

All except Giric.

The air grew thin, hard to breathe. He must have been the man who had died this morning.

“Lad?”

The healer's hand touched her shoulder, and Elizabet jumped. She tried to quell her rising fear. “I . . . I didna expect the conditions to be so wretched.”

The healer eyed her, then nodded toward the far end of the dungeon. “We will treat the severely injured first.” With a tsk, she took the lead.

Numb, Elizabet followed her, nae trusting herself to speak. As they made their way toward the back, several men from Wolfhaven Castle eyed her hard, and a new fear arose. Had they identified her? If so, please let them nae call out her name!

When she passed the falconer in his cell, recognition flashed in his gaze, followed by a scowl. Elizabet pressed a finger to her lips and gave a brief shake of her head.

The falconer nodded his understanding, his scowl of displeasure remaining.

However angry the falconer was at her being here, if she saved them, 'twas worth the risk. She glanced forward; the healer was near the end. She hurried to catch up, passing empty cells on occasion, cells that had once housed living, breathing men, mayhap even her brother.

The heavy wheezing of a man a bit farther down broke into her somber musings. Pain rolled from his every breath

She glanced past Deredere and froze. In the cell at the end of the corridor lay her brother.

Another tormented moan rolled from his lips. Giric jerked, then twisted as if fighting an invisible demon. A wool blanket that had once covered him lay tossed onto the cold stone floor.

“Giric!” Elizabet hurried to follow the healer into the cell.

The healer shook her head as she knelt beside her brother. “ 'Tis a shame.” With her eyes on Giric, she waved Elizabet forward.

Trembling, she set the basket on the stone floor. “Will he live?” she asked, wanting to reach out and soothe the man who was everything good in her life.

The elder shook her head as she withdrew several leather sacks and began measuring small amounts of powdered herbs. “I am unsure.” Once finished, she secured each sack, then returned them to the basket. “He has been ill for days and with each that passes, his condition worsens.”

Needing to touch him, Elizabet knelt by his shoulder. She took a rag and dampened it with some cool water from her leather pouch, then wiped his brow.
Live, damn you!

Giric jerked against her touch. “Nay! Bloody Sassenach. To your right, Colyne!”

“Hold him,” the healer ordered as she fought to pin his arms.

Desperation seized her. “Stop it!” Elizabet whispered in his ear, tears rolling down her face, stunned that in his delirium he'd mentioned Colyne MacKerran, the Earl of Strathcliff, who'd offered for her hand, but a man she didna love. Her brother shifted, and she focused on him. “I am here now.”

At her voice Giric settled, and his brow wrinkled into a deep frown. He opened his eyes glazed with pain. “Elizabet?”

Mary's will, what had she done? She glanced at the healer, expecting the worst.

The elder gave a sympathetic tsk then released him, apparently satisfied her patient had calmed down. “ 'Tis naught to worry about, lad. He has mumbled the lass's name on and off since his arrival.”

“Do you know who she is?” Elizabet asked, fighting for calm.

The aged woman shrugged. “Nay.”

That was too close. Nerves slid through her as she watched the healer unwrap his bandages and inspect his wounds. He had several deep cuts on his body, with a nasty gash along his left side.

“ 'Tis probably this wound on his side that did him in,” Deredere said, nodding toward the neatly sewn skin discolored with angry yellows and red. “The injury will have to be drained and repacked daily or the infection will kill him for sure.” After treating the wound the healer rubbed salve on his cuts, then coaxed Giric until he sipped the powdered herbs she had mixed with water.

His throat worked and his face twisted into a grimace when he swallowed.

The healer laid his head back on the straw. “There is little more we can do for now.” She gestured to Elizabet. “Cover him up and we will tend to the others.”

As much as she wished to remain by his side, for now she'd be thankful to have found her brother alive. “I will be back,” she whispered into his ear.

Giric shifted, but this time he didna speak.

The rest of their morning treating the wounded passed quickly. The joy of finding so many of her men alive entangled with the fear that they would die before she could set them free.

Elizabet covered her nerves by asking the healer questions about treating different wounds as they tended to the men. With surprising patience the elder answered each one, explaining the different herbs she used along with the dosage for each.

As their rounds ended and the healer started to leave, Elizabet stole a quick glance down the far end of the dungeon toward Giric.

“Come lad, we are finished for the day.”

She hesitated, wanting to return and see her brother one last time without drawing suspicion. “What about the man who is running a fever? Can you check on him again before we go?”

Sadness filled the healer's gaze, and she shrugged. “Aye, we can, but I doubt there is any more that can be done for him today. Time will decide his fate.”

A knot worked in her throat as Elizabet followed the healer down the narrow hall. When they arrived, thankfully Giric was asleep. His raven hair, mangled by sweat, dirt, and blood, half shielded his face. Elizabet wanted to scream at the injustice of the situation, to bring him to a warm chamber and nurse him back to health.