An Oath Taken (14 page)

Another lad stepped from the stable and nodded. “Sir Nicholas.”

“Where is Thomas?”

“He is in the dungeon, my lord.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw as Nicholas glanced toward the turret. He remembered the night the lad had all but passed out when they had carried the bodies from the dank confines. And now, against his explicit orders, he dared to return. “Why?”

“To aid the healer as he does every day,” he added, his voice hesitant. “Did you wish me to fetch him?”

Stunned he stared at him. “Every day?”

The lad shot a nervous gaze toward the dungeon, then back to Sir Nicholas. His face paled and he nodded. “Aye. Once you depart for rounds he . . .” He cleared his throat. “I—I thought you knew.”

God's teeth, once he was finished with the king's man, he would know why his squire had disobeyed him! Nicholas dismounted and handed the reins to the lad.

The courier followed suit.

Nicholas held out the reins. “Take both horses to the stable and tend to them.”

With a wide-eyed nod, the lad led the horses away.

Nicholas turned to the courier, keeping his simmering temper in check. “Follow me.”

The king's man kept pace as they headed toward the keep.

With each step, Nicholas mulled his squire's deception. After breaking his fast with Lord Dunsten and once the earl had left, he'd departed for his daily rounds. He'd looked forward to the morning's ride, hoping to rid himself of some of his pent-up anxiety after the frustrations of yesterday.

But when he'd spotted the king's courier in the forest, any hope of relief had ended. He'd sent his men on to finish their rounds. With the messenger in tow, he'd returned to the Ravenmoor Castle, sentenced to remain within the walls after all. To make matters worse, upon his return he'd expected to find Thomas readied to tend to his mount. Instead he'd learned his squire had his own agenda.

The dungeon!

Anger rumbled in his chest. After he'd strictly forbidden him from going there. Nicholas fumed as he strode with the courier to the keep, but as the anger faded, understanding bloomed.

Hadn't Thomas said he'd lived at Wolfhaven Castle? He would know those in the dungeon, and 'twould be the lad's way to aid, to nurture. From the first he'd seen it. Not only did his squire perform his duties with great care, but often after he'd finished his chores, he aided others in completing theirs.

Though he didn't want the lad exposed to the horrors of the dungeon, his squire obviously believed it necessary for him to fulfill his duty.

Like it or not, Thomas would learn to obey him or the knight whom he served when given an order.

After he'd left the king's man in the great room with a cup of ale, bread, and a trencher of meat, Nicholas strode toward the castellan's office. Once he shut the door behind them, he broke the blood-red seal and viewed the king's missive.

News that negotiations between the Scottish parliament and King Edward in choosing a new Scottish king pleased him, but the tone of the missive drew his concern.

Ever since Queen Eleanor's death, the king's temperament had worsened. On his few visits to Westminster Abbey he'd witnessed the great affection between them, a closeness he wished within his own marriage when he took a wife.

On his sovereign's journey to Scotland, the queen's illness then sudden death had dealt the king a stunning blow, a wound from which he'd yet to recover. Whispers abounded that without the queen's intercession the king's inherent cruel streak would rage unchecked, spread like wildfire through the realm.

Well aware of his king's volatile temper, Nicholas prayed King Edward could overcome his grief in his dealings with Scotland. Anger would serve to kindle already volatile negotiations between their countries.

Nicholas penned his reply, giving the status of the castle's progress, information as to his concerns about Sir Renaud's inappropriate behavior toward the castle's occupants and the Scots along the border, and his possible involvement with smuggling. Once finished, he rolled the missive and sealed it with wax, again pressing his ring into the cooling liquid.

A short while later Nicholas stood near the stable before the king's man. He handed the missive to the courier. “May God ride at your side.”

“To you as well, Sir Nicholas.” The messenger tucked the missive safely away, mounted, and kicked his steed into a canter. Hoofbeats echoed as he rode from the castle.

A light breeze scented with peat and a hint of heather swept in from the moors as Nicholas watched the man depart. When the courier had disappeared from sight, he focused on a much more immediate concern.

His squire.

On a muttered curse, he strode toward the dungeon. After last night's discussion and everything they'd gone through, he'd believed they'd exposed all of the lad's secrets.

Obviously not.

As he stepped inside the turret, mildew and the faint stench of death usurped the sweet fragrance of the moors. The solid slap of his boots echoed around him as he climbed the spiral, carved steps, debating his censure.

The knight guarding the entry opened the door, then came to attention as Nicholas topped the steps. “Sir Nicholas.”

“Sir Jon.” Nicholas stepped past, scoured the narrowed, torch-lit corridor between the cells. No sign of Thomas. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed. “I came to speak with my squire. I see he has left.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas. A short while ago. He went to tend Lord Terrick in the keep.” The guard pointed toward a cell near the end of the dungeon. “The healer is still here mending a wound within if you wish to speak with her.”

“Thomas went alone?” Anger trickled into his voice.

His knight cleared his throat. “He did.”

Was the lad addled? Though Thomas admitted knowing Terrick, the earl was still his prisoner, and a dangerous warrior at that. “Sir Nicholas, the lad has worked side by side with the healer and tended the prisoners for the past several days,” his knight explained. “At first I hesitated to leave your squire's side as he tended the wounded, but he insisted that because he is a Scot he would be safe. After seeing how the prisoners have taken to the lad, I believe him.”

“Unless I give orders otherwise,” Nicholas said, his each word crisp, “my squire is not to be left alone with the prisoners again, especially Lord Terrick. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir Nicholas.”

Scot or otherwise, how dare Thomas risk his life due to his foolish pride? He whirled and stormed down the steps. His blood still pounding hot, moments later, he entered the corridor on the second floor.

At his approach, the guard snapped to attention.

Nicholas shook his head when the guard made to speak. He stepped before the open doorway. Standing beside the prisoner, his squire was bathing the man's face with a tender hand. The blasted fool. If the Scottish lord wished, he could snap the lad's neck in a trice.

Anger burning, Nicholas stepped inside. “Thomas!”

His squire whirled. All color drained from his face.

M
ary, Mother of God, what was Nicholas doing here?

The castellan took a menacing step forward. “Out!”

Heart pounding, Elizabet fought for calm. “Sir Nicholas, I was but—”

“Another word and I will haul you outside, and by God you will rue the day!”

Elizabet dared one last glance at Giric, warning him with a subtle gesture to remain quiet, then hurried out. She held her breath as she rushed past the castellan. Why hadna the guard announced his arrival? Or, so immersed in tending to her brother had she missed that as well? As if it mattered now. After last night's confrontation between them, this was the last thing she needed.

“Thomas,” the castellan boomed.

Halfway down the corridor, she turned.

Nicholas's gray eyes narrowed. “To my chamber.”

“Let me expla—”

“Now!”

With leaden steps, she followed him as he stormed past.

The door to his chamber swung open with an ominous creek as he shoved it. “In.”

She hurried past.

The door slammed.

Fear pounding through her, Elizabet whirled and came a hair's width from colliding with his immense frame. Mary help her! Nicholas towered above her, and his body rippled with battle-honed muscles—every ounce the warrior. With a hard swallow, she took a step back.

“You deliberately disobeyed me!” With sleek speed and grace, he closed the distance.

Torchlight brandished yellow paths of light exposing the fury carved on his face.

“I—I had to.”

His brow raised in a dangerous slant. “What you
had
to do was to follow my orders. I entrusted you to be my squire, to serve me with unyielding loyalty. Instead, you challenge me on every front.”

She wanted to rebel, but he spoke the truth. “You do nae understand,” she said in a rough whisper.

“I understand all too well,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was a lackwit to trust you—ever.” He leaned inches from her face. “And more so to even care if you are foolish enough to endanger your life by tending the prisoners without the aid of a guard!”

“They willna hurt me.”

“Blast it,” he boomed. “Lord Terrick is a dangerous man. My prisoner, for God's sake!”

She stiffened. “He is a Scot!”

He muttered an oath and stared at her as if fairies danced around her head. “A Scot who could end your life with a flick of his hand.”

Elizabet lifted her chin. “He wouldna harm me.”

Fury blazed in his eyes. “You do not know that for certain, but that is not the issue. You are. Blast it!” He prowled the confines of the chamber.

With his each step, her foreboding grew. Never had she seen Nicholas this upset. What was he going to do?

He halted near the window, skewered her with his gaze. Regret flashed in his eyes.

Panic swept her. He was going to release her as his squire. Nay. She couldna lose this lifeline to her brother, especially with Dunsten intent on killing Giric. Her body trembling, she stepped forward. “Please. Let me stay.” Her heartfelt plea echoed between them. Though her every instinct warned her to keep her distance, she took another step closer. “I know these people. They touched my life.” She searched his gaze, desperate for him to understand. “I couldna leave them to die or to go without knowing whether or nae they lived. Though my leaving Wolfhaven Castle was nae the way I would wish, 'twas done out of necessity. Please, I beseech you, allow me to remain.”

 

Nicholas stared at his squire, furious at himself for even listening. But Thomas's loyalty toward his people moved him, more so because after having been banned from the prisoners, he went there to care for them, even at the risk of being caught.

A dangerous decision he knew too well. When he'd stood up for Dougal all those years ago, hadn't he risked censure from his peers as well as losing his position within the monastery? He could have sat by while Dougal had received the beating for his outburst, but like Thomas, when the life of someone he cared about lay in peril, he couldn't stand silently by and do naught. He studied the lad whose guilt lay only in his sincere desire to help.

Blast it! If any of Thomas's actions had been for a selfish cause, 'twould have been easy to cast him from the castle without hesitation. But the lad's every deed was for the sake of others, never himself.

For the first time in his life, Nicholas was at an impasse. By rights he should dismiss the lad for his disobedience, but how could he send him away? Though their causes were different, the reasoning, to protect those they cared about, was the same.

“Sir Nicholas?” Thomas laid his hand upon Nicholas's forearm.

He stared at the slender fingers wrapped over his arm, the gesture intimate. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I know you are angry and have every right to be so, but please, do nae send me away. Give me this one chance.” Desperation tainted his words. “In the future, if I displease you in any manner, I will pack my things and leave without protest. And I will nae bother you again. Ever.”

Compassion collided with the anger of being misled. Admiration warred with the fact this lad was a reiver. Blast it, he was going insane!

Nicholas released a taut sigh unsure how to handle this complex situation. At some point in his time spent with Thomas, he'd lost his objectivity in how to deal with the lad. 'Twould be best once he was within his brother's care.

Guilt at his growing personal feelings toward Thomas eroded his last reservations. “You may tend the wounded Scots, but with a guard nearby.”

Relief tumbled over Thomas's face. “My thanks.”

Nicholas stared at his squire's hand, then jerked his arm away. “Do not thank me,” he snapped, ashamed of the warmth the lad's touch left. “Naught has changed. Once I hear from my brother, you will depart. Remember that.”

Hurt darkened his squire's emerald eyes. With an unsteady breath, he nodded then walked to the door.

The bells of Terce tolled as Nicholas studied Thomas's stoic departure, wanting to remain unmoved. He gave a silent curse, damning the entire situation, wishing the lad was already with Hugh, and damning the day when Thomas would leave.

A hard knock sounded at the door.

Thomas reached for the handle, glanced back.

Nicholas nodded, and his squire opened the door.

Sir Jon hurried inside, glanced briefly at Thomas before facing Nicholas. “The lad Malcolm has fallen into the well!”

“Is he alive?” Nicholas demanded as he stepped forward.

“He is,” the knight replied, “but from his cries, he will not hold out much longer.”

He bolted past Thomas and the knight. As Nicholas shoved open the door of the keep, he spotted the crowd gathering around the brick enclosure. He strode toward the throng. “Move back!”

The knights and Scots huddled around the well parted.

Nicholas reached the edge of the layered rock, peered down the narrow shaft. Blackness greeted him. “Malcolm!”

A whimper rose from the inky depths.

Sunlight warmed his face as Nicholas turned to Sir Jon. “How long has he been down there?”

“Not too long,” his knight replied.

“Find another rope,” Nicholas ordered. Moments later a rough twist of braided hemp was passed to him.

“Sir Nicholas,” Sir Jon said. “We have already tried to lower a line to him. He will not grab it.”

“The lad is in shock.” Leaning over, Nicholas fed the braided cord down the narrow shaft until the faint splash of water alerted him the line had hit the surface. “Malcolm, grab the rope.” His deep voice echoed to a muted call, and he prayed the lad would respond to his authority.

Seconds passed.

The cool, fresh scent of the spring blended with stale rock and moss as Nicholas moved his hand in a circle over the well to trail the rope back and forth, confident that at some point it touched the lad. “Malcolm.”

“I—I canna.” Exhaustion swirled heavy in the boy's weak reply.

God's teeth. This wasn't going to work. Either Malcolm was too scared or weak to try. “Hang on. Someone is coming to help you.” He stepped back and turned. Whoever went down the shaft had to be small. His gaze swept over the men. That immediately ruled out of the remainder of his knights. Neither did he see anyone from the Scots whom he'd consider.

Thomas's small frame, wedged between his warriors.

Nicholas waved the lad forward.

His squire's oval face grew chalky white and he didn't move.

“Come here,” Nicholas snapped, irritated by his hesitation. Didn't he realize that every moment counted? “You are the only one small enough to go down into the well. Come here—now!”

His squire stared at the circle of stone. Fear, clear and stark, darkened his eyes.

“Thomas?” In an instant he realized his problems extended beyond the lad in the well, but he brought his focus back to one. For the moment, Malcolm needed saving.

Small shuddered gasps fell from Thomas's lips, each one raw and desperate.

Nicholas handed the rope to Sir Jon. “Move everyone back,” he said, all the while never taking his gaze from his squire.

The lad's eyes widened at his approach. Then he stepped back.

“Thomas,” Nicholas said as he closed, keeping his voice soft. “Malcolm is trapped in the well. You are the only one who can fit inside and is strong enough to save him.”

His lower lip trembled. “I—I do nae think I can.”

He advanced another step. This time his squire didn't pull back; a small victory. “You can.”

The lad's body shuddered. “There must be another way. If we can—” “No!” He'd wanted to avoid pressuring him, but no time to debate the issue remained. Like it or not, he would go. Nicholas clasped Thomas's shoulders, shoulders too small to bear this burden, a lad too young to wear the scares he bore. “I am going to wrap the rope around you,” he said in a cool, firm voice. “Then you will be lowered.”

“I—”

“Once you reach the water,” he continued, giving his squire no room to argue, “tug on the line. Is that clear?”

“Aye—Nay.” The fear in his eyes avalanched to panic. “I—”

“God's teeth! If you do not go down there, Malcolm will die.”

Thomas emotionally withdrew, the clarity harsh, cold in his eyes, but he nodded. “I will go,” he whispered, his voice dull.

Nicholas led him to the opening before his squire had second thoughts. After securing the rope around his waist and double-checking the knot, he lifted Thomas to the ledge of the well.

His squire's boots scraped as he slid them over the edge, then he grasped either side of the stone circle.

“Ready?” So slight was the lad's response, he almost missed it. “When you reach Malcolm, tug on the rope.” Slowly he lowered Thomas into the void. After a moment blackness engulfed him.

A dog barked in the distance, a bird cried overhead as if on a normal day, when it was anything but.

Inch by inch Nicholas lowered the rope, haunted by Thomas's ragged, fading breaths as he lowered him further down the well. Each second seemed an hour. Sweat beaded his brow as he continued to feed line into the black hole.

“Thomas?” Nicholas yelled when he could no longer hear his panicked breaths.

Silence.

Blast it! Had his squire passed out from terror? “Thomas?”

“I—I am here,” came the shuddered reply.

“Thomas is on his way down to help you, Malcolm,” Nicholas called, damning himself for having had to force his squire. If there'd been any other way . . .

The splash of water echoed up.

Nicholas kept a tight hold on the line as he wrapped the end twice on a nearby post to keep the line taut.

He waited for Thomas to signal.

Long moments passed.

Nerves edged through Nicholas. “Thomas.”

Water splashed, then a tug.

“My squire has reached Malcolm,” he yelled, the sigh of relief of the crowd matching his own. As much as he wanted to call down and ask if Thomas was all right, he remained silent. By the tormented state when he'd lowered his squire into the well, the lad was far from fine. Regardless of what had traumatized Thomas in his past so that he feared narrow spaces, at this moment the lad was living his own personal hell. Nicholas grimaced. Whatever the state of his squire when he emerged, he would deal with him once both were safe.

Another tug, though weak, jerked on the line.

“Bring them up,” Nicholas called.

In unison, he and several other men pulled on the rope. The line steadily moved through their efforts.

Another hand's length.

Two.

Shadows fluttered.

Thomas's head came into view, then Malcolm's, who clung to him for his very life.

“Pull!” Nicholas urged.

Another tug, then hands reached down, clasped onto the youth, and hauled Malcolm over the rim. Water poured from his drenched body as blankets were wrapped around his tiny, shivering frame.

“Let me have the lad,” a woman called as she worked her way through the throng. Once she'd gathered him in her arms, she hurried toward the keep.

Nicholas caught Thomas under his right shoulder as Sir Jon grasped him under the left. Together they pulled him up and over. As they set him on his feet, a man stepped forward and wrapped a blanket around Thomas's shoulders, but his squire only stood there, his eyes dull, his body trembling.