An Oath Taken (2 page)

Of that she had little doubt. “I will be there.”

With a nod he turned his destrier, kicked him forward, and cantered toward Ravenmoor Castle.

Elizabet swallowed hard as her enemy's daunting outline melded into the trees. She'd made the right choice. To doubt herself now could only lead to disaster.

 

As darkness consumed the last flicker of sunlight, fatigue weighing on her, Elizabet halted halfway up the tower steps of Wolfhaven Castle and faced her steward, Lachllan.

Torches set in nearby wall sconces illuminated his wrinkled face, laden with concern, love, and anger. “You will nae pretend to be the castellan's squire. I promised Giric that I would keep you safe. I will nae break my word to your brother.” He shook his head with disgust. “That you sneak out to reive by yourself is enough to set my blood afire. Can you nae see the folly of your going to the castle alone? What were you thinking, lass?”

The frustration simmering in his voice endeared him to her even more. Elizabet laid her hand on her steward's shoulder. “If I thought there was any other way to free my family and our people, I would seek it. There is nae. The few pieces of coin I stole this day couldna feed a goat much less bribe an English guard.” She dropped her hand. At the moment all she wished for was a few hours of sleep. “Once I am inside, I am confident an opportunity to aid our people will arise.”

Lachllan eyed her skeptically. “Even if I were to agree with your foolhardy plan, how will you convince the castellan that you are a lad? Half-hidden within the leaves and your face shielded is a far cry from being in his service where you would work at his side.”

She frowned, having pondered that exact question the entire ride home. “The duties of a squire are familiar to me. As for my attire, I will borrow an old set of clothes from Giric's chest.” If her brother knew of her intent, he would be furious. With the discord between her and her father, she doubted he would care, but she still loved him. Except with them both locked inside Ravenmoor's dungeon, neither Giric nor her father had any say in her decision.

Lachllan gave an unconvinced snort. “You will need more than a change of clothes to convince the new castellan that you are a lad. You look too much like your mother.” His face softened. “And a beautiful woman she was as well.”

Warmth swept her cheeks. “My mother was a strong woman who fought for what she believed in. I am going. I canna let her memory or our people down.”

Red flushed his weathered cheeks. “Did you nae hear a word I said? This time you will nae have your way.” Lachllan lifted a finger in warning. “Your father would skin me hide if I allowed you to leave, nae to mention Giric. And I love you too much, lass, to allow you to take such a risk.”

She threw up her hands, understanding too well—her father would nae care. He'd wanted a second son, nae a daughter. Since her birth, he'd given all of his lauds and attention to Giric. It hurt to think about the years she'd tried to gain his praise.

And failed.

Pointless or nae, she must try. “I will nae stand here and do naught.”

Her steward scowled. “You have tended the wounded below, and over the past few days have spent countless hours reiving. You canna do more.”

A cool breeze tumbled down the carved stone stairs and the flames of the torchlight from the sconces above her danced, casting long shadows along the walls.

They were at an impasse.

Elizabet released a slow sigh, saddened that even from her home, she would be forced to slip away like a thief. But to save her people, she would do what she must. In the morning before she snuck out the escape tunnel, she would pen her steward a note. “I bid thee good night.”

Wizened eyes studied her as if trying to deduce her mood. Regret shadowed his face. “Lass, I wish it could be different.”

She gave him a hug; a silent good-bye. “I as well.” Elizabet started up the stairs. Why couldna he understand why she must take this risk? Even if she could have explained, what assurance could she offer? The answer was simple.

None.

The venture ahead of her lay filled with danger.

She entered her chamber, and memories of her childhood, of those happy times with her mother, filled her. For a moment she reveled in their warmth. Then the reality of her father's coldness erased the comforting thoughts. If nae for Giric's aiding her in her grief when her father would nae, she didna know what she would have done.

Elizabet shoved the door shut. She refused to think of sad memories this night. The past was behind her, and her focus would be on the morrow, on saving her family and the people of Wolfhaven Castle.

On edge, she crossed to the chest at the end of her bed. After pushing past several worn woolen dresses, her hand rested on cool, smithed-steel. Her fingers trembled as she withdrew the shears. With firm resolve she ran her fingers through her long black hair. Nay longer was she a child, but a woman with responsibilities.

If Sir Nicholas saw her now, would he see her as a woman, or an enemy to be conquered? What was she doing thinking of the castellan as anything but an obstacle to be overcome? Elizabet positioned the shears. Like the last tie to her youth, she severed the first strands. Inky wisps spiraled downward and spilled onto the floor.

She'd made her decision.

There was nay turning back.

S
tripped to his waist, sweat rolled down Nicholas's chest as he, along with several of the other men, lifted the heavy wooden beam. “Now.” Grunts echoed around him as they shoved.

The log toppled onto the roaring fire. Sparks shot up, entangled with the thick, black smoke, then flames spewed from the dismal cloud, engulfing the dry timber within seconds.

The stench of wool, wood, and other mangled items that Nicholas didn't wish to identify crackled and popped in the convoluted heap. Except for the castle walls and the keep, the rest of the shops and homes were unstable, pathetic shacks not fit for vermin. Once they were torn down and burned, his knights and the tenants would begin to rebuild.

At news of his plans, the Scots within Ravenmoor Castle had eyed him warily, more so when he'd announced they were to live inside the keep until each home was rebuilt. The suspicion reflected in their eyes was as searing as the heat of the flames before him; both must be watched and carefully nurtured.

After several days, their skeptical glances were becoming the norm, but he refused to let their distrust dissuade him from his goal. He would rebuild the homes as well as a foundation of trust. When the routine of the castle allowed, he would review the castle's ledger to discover the extent of Sir Renaud's betrayal to their king.

He bent and caught hold of the next piece of timber, then nodded to the others. Together they lifted the wood and turned toward the fire.

“Sir Nicholas,” a knight called from behind him.

“Heave,” Nicholas ordered as he shoved. The termite-infested wood clattered into the flames. With a scrape, it tipped and became wedged in the inferno. Satisfied the rotting log would remain, he turned.

The knight who'd called him gestured toward the portcullis. “A Scottish lad who states his name is Thomas requests to speak with you.”

So he had come. Satisfied his intuition had served him well, Nicholas caught sight of the slender figure shifting nervously at the gate. “Bring him to me.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.” His knight strode toward the entry.

Nicholas wiped his forehead as he took in the youth's appearance. Still garbed in over-large clothes and his face half-shielded by a ragged hood, the lad presented a pathetic sight.

“Sir Jon,” Nicholas called. “Take charge.”

“Aye, Sir Nicholas.”

As Nicholas headed toward his new charge, the lad darted a desperate glance toward the gates. “I would catch you.”

Anger flashed in Thomas's eyes. “I was nae leaving.”

His too-quick response told them both the truth. And why wouldn't the lad be afraid? By law, for Thomas's attempted robbery upon Ravenmoor lands, Nicholas could have ordered his hand severed or the lad hanged. That Thomas had kept his word and come to the castle was enough for now. Although with the way his new squire shifted beneath his gaze, how long would he remain?

Nicholas halted within an arm's length away. “Remove your hood. I would see your face.”

Thomas's fingers trembled as they paused at the edge of the cowled garment and pushed. Aged, brown wool tumbled back exposing a hacked crop of shoulder-length raven black hair, framing his too-small face. An almost feminine face. The lad's mouth tightened, then he lifted his chin in a defiant tilt.

He owed the soft curves of the lad's face to his youth. With dirt slashed across one cheek and his arrogant stance, Thomas appeared as if a Scottish warrior readied for battle. But it was his eyes that held Nicholas. Emerald. A deep, rich shade as green as Scotland's rolling hills, and the lad's expression as fierce as its untamed firths. No words were needed to declare his strong will; it emanated from him in waves.

Timber crashed.

Nicholas grimaced at the fallen heap that had once housed the blacksmith. Men converged on the rubble and began to haul the splintered timbers toward the fire.

The time, manpower, and expense to raise Ravenmoor Castle to its full potential would be enormous. Most would consider taking on a wayward lad amidst the chaos ridiculous. In truth, with the sad state of relations between the borders, Thomas was the key to proving to the tenants of this castle that Nicholas was sincere.

“Follow me.” Nicholas headed toward the back wall where men were beginning to tear down the barracks.

 

As Elizabet followed the castellan through the courtyard strewn with piled wreckage toward the keep, she took in the sleek play of muscles rippling across his back, finely honed power that could aid as well as wield death.

Fighting for calm, she scanned the grounds, astonished by the mass destruction within the castle's interior living quarters and shops. She acceded that the few buildings standing were safe. The castellan had made a sound decision to demolish the haphazard structures. His interest in rebuilding Ravenmoor Castle seemed genuine. Or, were his acts merely a ploy to gain the trust of the Scots living within?

She studied the knight ahead of her who moved with a steady, cat-like grace. He was a man used to being in charge—and obeyed. Apprehension trickled through her. What if she or another Scot revolted against him? Would his actions be fair, or would his resulting decisions be as self-serving as the previous castellan's?

Uneasy, she scanned each of the four towers on each corner of the castle walls. Her throat tightened. In one of them her family and people were imprisoned. Until she found and freed them, she would do what she must to survive within Ravenmoor.

Instead of leading her to the large amounts of debris needing to be hauled to the fire, the castellan headed toward the keep.

Panic swept her. “Where are we going?”

Sir Nicholas kept walking.

Doubts rekindled. Her knees quivered with each step. Did he regret his decision to ask her to be his squire and had he decided she would be punished? Or, had he realized that she was a woman and now was taking her to his chamber?

“Watch out!” a stocky man yelled as he blundered toward them.

A fat pig, squealing and smattered with dirt, bolted ahead of its pursuer and straight toward her.

Before she could move, the bristle-haired beast shot between her legs. With a yelp, Elizabet tumbled to the ground.

Several feet away, the pig squealed its outrage as a sandy-haired youth headed it off. The stocky man ran past her and grabbed the swine's feet. With a grunt, he lifted the sow and glanced toward the castellan. “Sorry, Sir Nicholas. The bloody beast must know his fate.”

“Aye, Ihon.” Mirth sparkled in the castellan's eyes as he shot Elizabet a knowing look. “ 'Tis the ones you underestimate that give you the most trouble.”

“It is at that.” With a laugh, the man lumbered back toward what must be the kitchen, the squealing pig secured under one arm and the sandy-haired boy following a pace behind.

The lad stole one curious glance toward her, then hurried to catch up to the stocky man.

Heat burned Elizabet's cheeks at the mirth on Sir Nicholas's face.

“Are you hurt?” Nicholas asked.

Only her pride. She hurried to her feet and began to dust off her oversize trews, all too aware of him as a man. “I am nae a wee lad who needs to be coddled.”

The laughter in his eyes faded. “My question was out of concern,” he said with cool authority. “I will not tolerate disrespect from you nor any other who serves me.”

Elizabet dropped her gaze, her mind frazzled, her nerves more so. “I am sorry. 'Tis an unsettling day.” The truth. At dawn she'd snuck from beneath Lachllan's vigilant watch to enter the enemy's castle pretending to be a lad. In addition to all of her fears for her family and doubts that she could pull off this masquerade, it helped little to discover that the man who held the greatest threat was a man she could admire.

After a long moment, Nicholas nodded. “Aye, 'tis at that. Come. There is much to be done.”

In silence she followed, thankful when they passed the entrance to the keep and headed toward the back of the curtain wall.

The stench of smoke and dust permeated the air as they made their way to where five men worked, ripping out boards from the decrepit stable.

She frowned. “You said I was to perform the duties of a squire?” Which, in her experience, involved grooming the horses, cleaning the mail, and other tasks that served the knight.

“A squire's job involves whatever his knight tells him to do,” Nicholas replied. “We will begin by helping the men tear down the stable. After that, we will work our way back toward the fire.”

Elizabet nodded and moved to the far end of the stable. The castellan halted by her side and tugged a board loose. She watched the play of his muscles and admired how, with sheer brute strength, he ripped the plank loose. How would those powerful hands feel if they touched her skin?

Shaken by her unwanted musings, Elizabet grabbed an aged bar of steel and worked on loosening a nearby plank. She was here for her people, her family, nae to swoon like a lackwit over a brawny Sassenach whose loyalty belonged to the murderous English king.

Wood groaned as it broke loose. She tossed the board onto a growing pile, then shot a covert glance at each of the four towers. A thought she'd nae considered eroded her fraying nerves. What if her mission here was folly and her people and family were dead? Her body trembled. Nay, they were alive. She refused to believe otherwise. Elizabet pried beneath another rotting timber and pulled. Once she discovered their location, she would set them free.

The August sun crawled high in the sky, its rays relentless on Nicholas's back. Ignoring the heat, he assessed their progress. Three more hovels to raze and burn, then the rebuilding could begin.

A movement to his right caught his attention. Tugging on the end of a plank, Thomas struggled to free a stubborn piece of wood.

“Hold fast, lad.” Nicholas walked over and caught hold on the end of the thick board beside his squire. “Let me help you.”

Sweat streaked the dirt on the youth's face as wary eyes met his. Thomas shrugged, focused on the board, and began to pull.

The plank gave way.

Thomas stumbled back, and Nicholas caught the lad before he fell to the ground. The youth froze in his arms. Nicholas stilled. Beneath the massive folds, the lad was reed thin. Blast it. Considering he'd been taking foolish risks robbing travelers, why had he not guessed Thomas would be starving! Within his protection, he would eat his share each day. That he would see to personally.

His squire struggled. “Release me!”

Nicholas let him go.

Eyes wary, Thomas stepped back.

Nicholas tamped down his frustration. Trust would come, but something about Thomas pulled at him, made it important to gain the lad's faith in him, a reason that extended beyond this castle and these lands. Confused by his strong feelings toward his squire, Nicholas gestured to the bucket twenty paces away. “There is water in the pail. Get a drink.”

“Aye.” With a cautious glance, Thomas left.

Nicholas rubbed his chin as the lad hurried off, pleased by his squire's diligence. Throughout the morning Thomas had worked as hard as any man. And without complaint. But, he'd noticed his squire maintained his distance from the other men. A smile tugged at his mouth. Stubborn pride.

Would the lad also eye him with skepticism if Nicholas suggested he head to the kitchen to break his fast? Likely. Thomas reminded him of his only brother, Hugh, during his youth.

Nicholas frowned at memories of their adolescence. After their father's death, because of Nicholas's younger age, he had been offered a home with his uncle. As the elder, and given their family's connections to the king, his brother, Hugh, had traveled to become the squire to the young Prince Edward.

Tarnished by their father's shame due to his disobedience to the king, their family had lost its title, castle, and lands. Hugh had withdrawn until his only passion was for that of a blade. And his pride.

Now before Nicholas stood another lad afraid and alone, his pride his only shelter. Just like Hugh, a man who suffered to this day.

No, Nicholas vowed. He would guide the lad past whatever atrocities lay in his past. Thomas would not suffer the same lonely fate as his brother.

First, he needed to find a way to break through the lad's misgivings. But how? With the passing hours, he'd hoped to chip away a fragment of his squire's cool reserve at least, except his wall of distrust stood firm.

Thomas set the ladle in the bucket. With hesitant steps, he walked to where Nicholas stood.

Blast it. “Time to return to our task.”

Tight-lipped, his squire nodded.

The clatter of wood and shouts of men sliced through the thick silence as they worked side by side. Thomas gave him a wide berth as he hauled each load of debris to the fire. By the fourth trip, Nicholas's irritation grew.