Sworn Loyalty - A Medieval Romance Page 4

  But surely he was no longer under the blonde’s spell, not after she’d led him to his certain death?

  Waves of dense darkness descended on her. Her thoughts muddled and drifted away like sparks floating up from a dying campfire.

  *

  Mary wearily pushed the hair from her face, struggling up to a seated position. Gentle morning sunlight was streaming through the gaps in the shutters, and Erik was standing at them, attentively watching the forest beyond.

  Mary drew her gaze along his profile. The painting in the keep had been of a young man, a lad on the cusp of maturity, preparing to set out into the world. The soldier before her was weathered, toned, someone who had seen what life held and had tested himself against it. There was a strength within him, a passion that she had never sensed in all the years of staring into the canvas eyes.

  She remembered how he had looked at her, just before turning to fight the five wolves’ heads in the crumbling courtyard. He had laid his fingers against her cheek, and her heart had flamed to life –

  He suddenly turned, and she dropped her eyes to her lap. Her cheeks blazed with a heat she knew had nothing to do with any fever.

  In a moment there were sounds of motion as he strode to the shelves, drawing out bread, butter, and a mug of ale. He brought them over to her with an attentive gaze.

  He knelt at her side. “Feeling better?”

  To Mary’s surprise she was ravenous. She could barely wait for him to smear the butter on the bread before she devoured it, washing it down with the occasional draw on the mug. He smiled in appreciation as she tucked the last end of the crust into her mouth.

  He turned to refill her ale. “I’m glad to see you’ve got a healthy appetite.” His eyes drew down to the blanket. “How does your leg feel?”

  She gave her toes an experimental wiggle. Her calf answered with a solid ache, but it was a far cry better than the searing pain of two days ago. “Healing.”

  “Good.”

  He paused for a moment, holding her gaze. “I know the leg was the worst of it, but sometimes in combat we end up with other injuries we don’t notice. If they fester, they can cause serious trouble. You should check yourself over to make sure the leg is the only thing to keep an eye on.”

  She nodded in agreement. “You are right, of course.”

  He moved to the shelves, taking down a fresh dress for her, laying it across the end of the bed. Then he turned, walking to the arrow slit in the western wall, putting his back to her, giving her what privacy he could.

  She pushed the blankets off and, starting with her toes, went carefully up her body. She drew off her dress as she went, glancing up at Erik, but he remained resolutely in place.

  There were scrapes and bruises in a number of locations, but nothing serious beyond her leg wound. The rest would heal quickly and easily. The leg would take longer, and would leave a nasty scar, but the limb would remain fully functional.

  She drew on the new dress, and then looked at her hands. The brown gloves were still in place, almost a part of her, and she hesitated before drawing them off.

  Even after all these years it was still a shock to look at her hands. She had worn these gloves for so long – almost a decade – that the gloves seemed the natural state of her hands, not this twisted, scarred flesh beneath. The burns had been severe, and it was only through God’s grace that the digits remained functional, that she could still wield a sword and manage a knife.

  She turned her hands before her, fascinated by the mangled flesh. That she could have endured that pain …

  Erik’s voice came from across the room. “Everything look all right?”

  Mary glanced up in panic, but he had not turned. He still stared out into the distance, to the keep he had abandoned ten years ago, the family he had left behind.

  She quickly pulled her leather gloves back into place. “Yes, everything is as it should be,” she informed him. “Only the leg needs tending to.”

  She pulled the blanket back over her. “You can turn around now, if you wish,” she added. “I am decent again.”

  He turned, moving over to one of the chairs, sitting on it and picking up a whetting stone. He took the sword from the table and began sharpening its edge with long, steady strokes. Mary could see the slight hitch in his movements, as he tried to do the action with his left hand when clearly he was used to doing it with the right.

  Mary looked down for a moment. “How is your sword hand doing?” she asked quietly. “I am sorry to have wounded you in such a vital place.”

  He shook his head, not pausing in his motions. “You risked your life to come in to get me, when nobody else stirred a finger on my behalf,” he pointed out. “A cut on my hand is a small price to pay.”

  Mary’s gaze moved to his jerkin. The thickness of the bandage bulked it out around his abdomen, and she could see the fabric’s whiteness through the slice in the leather. “And the other wound?”

  “It lets me know it’s there, like an angry wildcat, but I am cautious not to twist it open again. If I can be easy on it for another few days it should start to mend.”

  Mary pursed her lips. “The gash was long. Surely we should stitch it?”

  Erik’s voice was dry. “Already did.”

  Mary looked at him in shock. “What, you stitched your own stomach wound?”

  He nodded. “You were both exhausted and feverish. The wound needed stitching to avoid infection. Not much other choice.”

  Mary paled at the thought of the pain he must have endured. “Next time, wake me. I can work through a fever.”

  He turned to look at her, raising his eyebrows. “Next time?”

  She smiled despite herself, and when he smiled in return a flush of heat washed through her.

  He turned away suddenly, his eyes moving to the shelves neatly stacked with loaves of bread and rosy apples. When he spoke his voice seemed rough. “Do you live here alone?”

  Mary’s cheeks burnished with warmth. She dropped her eyes to her gloved hands, pulling a cuff to settle one more firmly around her fingers. “I ask only one thing of you, while we heal up in this tower.”

  He stilled at that, and his gaze moved to the blade before him. “Anything.”

  A tendril of desire traced through her, that this consummate swordsman, a man of honor who had defied his family for the love of a woman, would put himself so fully in her hands. A wealth of longings cascaded through her thoughts, but she pushed them away with well-practiced discipline. She owed it to the Lady who had taken her in to follow her orders to the last.

  Still, her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “I have my reasons for valuing my privacy. Please do not press me for more information. I will give it when I am able.”

  He glanced toward the arrow slit, and at last he nodded. “You ask very little, for what you have done. I doubt anyone at the keep even gave thought to sending out a full rescue party.”

  Mary flushed at that, looking down, letting her hair fall to shield her face. There had been heated discussion in the keep’s central hall when Lynessa’s plan had become known. It was only with the greatest of effort that her counter-scheme had been allowed to move forward.

  She had presented her argument so many times that to summarize it to Erik took little thought. “The Caradocs have nearly fifty men, and no matter how they got their hands on you, they would have hunkered down in that tower,” she pointed out. “If the keep’s troops had tried to get to you with a full show of force, you would undoubtedly have been slain before they reached that final room.”

  Erik did not answer, but his draws of the stone against his sword became angular and hard.

  *

  Something drew Mary into wakefulness, and she blinked her eyes against the soft light, gaining her bearings. It was barely dawn, judging by the soft shadows. Erik was peering through the shutters, his body at full alert, his sword in his hand.

  Mary eased silently from the covers, drawing up the cloak by the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. She carefully hobbled around to stand beside Erik, tilting her head to get a better view without touching the shutters.

  Four men on horseback stood before the outer wall’s gates, staring up at the tower.

  She resisted the urge to draw back, to lunge for her sword. Instead she held stock still. To them the shutters were a dark, impenetrable wall, with only shadows behind. As long as nothing moved suddenly or caught their attention, the tower would seem long abandoned.

  One of the horsemen nudged his steed forward, pushing back his cloak’s hood. The shock of orange-red hair caught Mary off guard. Surely Geoff could not have recovered from the dagger to the throat? She remembered him lying there, dead –

  She shook her head. Of course. It was his brother, the bartender. Her mind searched for a name. Josiah, that was it. They must have called out every last man if he was on the road and not guarding the home base.

  Josiah turned to the other men, his anger clear in his angular movements. “Come on, then,” he called to them. “That bastard has got to be somewhere. We’ll ferret him out, no matter what rat hole he has crawled into.”

  The men looked nervously amongst themselves, and finally a burly man with dark curls spoke up. “But that’s Avoca’s Folly,” he stated almost in awe. “The place is cursed.”

  “God’s teeth, Bronson are you nothing but a mewling infant?” growled Josiah, dismounting and striding toward the gates. “It is a building of stone and wood, and we will search it.”

  He gave a solid push to the gate. There was a wild, drawn-out shriek, somewhere between the cry of a banshee and the howl of the damned.

  Bronson screamed in panic, the horses reared and bucked, and Josiah jumped back a few paces, fear lighting his eyes.

  The
noise stopped, and the men settled the horses. Josiah took in several deep breaths, then stepped forward again, cautiously poking at the door with his sword.

  There was a flurry of motion, and a trio of warthogs streamed through the opening, racing for the safety of the nearby woods.

  Josiah gave a relieved laugh, pushing at the gate with his shoulder, opening it further. He stepped around it, looking at its back side. “Just a warthog nest,” he called out to the others. “Been here a long time, by the looks of it.”

  “See!” replied Bronson, his voice agitated. “Nobody could have gotten in or out. We can mark this place off our list.

  Josiah turned, his eyes bright with fury. “You three get in here now, or I turn you over to Caradoc and explain to him how you shirked your duty to find his brothers’ assassin.”

  The men half looked like they would be willing to face that judgment, but, reluctantly, they dismounted. They drew their swords and came in slowly after Josiah, looking in every direction at once.

  Josiah moved across the dusty courtyard, kicking at a stone with his boot. “Doesn’t look like this ground has been trod in years.”

  Bronson’s movements were tight with fear. “Probably fifteen years,” he muttered. “Since that crazy biddy flung herself out the window and smashed her brains open on this very ground.”

  Erik stiffened, and Mary put her hand out to his arm, feeling the tension that lined each curve. After a long moment he let out a breath, his gaze never leaving the men who crept toward them.

  Josiah looked around the empty courtyard before coming up the three steps to the tower’s main door. He gave it an experimental push. “Locked,” he muttered.

  He took a step back, sheathed his sword, then took a running start at it. The shudder echoed throughout the tower, and a frisson of fear shot through Mary. There were four of them, and if that door gave way …

  Josiah was stepping back, shaking his head. “Could be that rubble is blocking it from the other side,” he mused.

  “Of course it is,” agreed Bronson. “The place has been abandoned for years and years.” He waved his hand at the courtyard. “Clearly nobody has been near this place since that suicide. There’s no way Erik would be in there. Right, Sander?”

  Another man, flaxen haired with hollow eyes, stepped forward. “It was cursed by that unholy act,” he agreed promptly. “Just like your brother Arth-”

  Bronson spun to glare at him, and Sander quickly changed his phrase. “I mean, of course any corner of Lady Cartwright’s land holdings would be the last place Erik would come,” he expanded. “After Erik burned that village to the ground, if he showed his face his own landholders would be the ones to attack him. That new Lady Cartwright and her keep guards wouldn’t even have to stir a finger.”

  A low growl emerged from Erik’s throat, and Mary tightened her grip on his arm. They only had to last a few minutes and the danger would be past.

  Just a few more precious minutes.

  At last Josiah nodded, turning. “You are right, of course,” he conceded. “My guess is that Erik turned tail and fled south, maybe even to get a ship back to France and the Holy Land. He had only been back to England for a year – I would bet that the hot deserts of Jerusalem feel more like home to him now.”

  The other three men were already striding toward the gate. “South it is,” Bronson agreed. “I’m sure Caradoc will see the sense of that.”

  In a moment the four were mounted, riding hard toward the south.

  Erik let out a long breath, resting his head on the shutter for a moment before turning to Mary with hollow eyes.

  “I did not burn down the village,” he stated wearily, as if this had been a discussion he’d had many times in the past.

  Mary knew she should soothe him, should celebrate the departure of the threat. But his words lanced at a sore within her, ripped off the scar, and stirred into life the pain and grief which always seemed to boil so near the surface. She turned away from him, shielding her face, sinking down onto the bed.

  “What did happen, then?” she asked, striving to keep her tone even.

  His eyes flashed, but after a moment he nodded, moving to the barrel and pouring out a mug of ale for each of them. He handed her one, then took the other and sat down at the table.

  “With all you have done for me, you have the right to ask any question you wish,” he stated at last.

  He took a long pull on his mug. “I was sixteen, and I thought I knew everything.” He sighed, looking off toward the west, toward the shadow of a keep through the narrow beam of light. “I could best any man in the region. I was the only child, in line to inherit the keep and its lands from my mother. I was young and arrogant.”

  He took another drink. “When rumors of bandits came to us, I laughed at them.” He shook his head at the memory. “I insisted I be given command of the troops and assess the situation.”

  He ran his thumb along the edge of the mug’s handle. “Cintersloe was the name of the town. It was a beautiful little farming village, nestled alongside a gentle stream, with a small church and even a cozy tavern. The people were friendly and warm. They were nervous about the threat, of course, but when I arrived it put their hearts at ease.”

  His brows drew together, and he looked down.

  Mary waited, her ale untouched between her hands, her heart pounding. Lady Cartwright had refused to speak on the subject, had refused to speak one word about what had caused the rift between her and her son. Even the staff at the keep had been little help. The stormy fight had gone on behind closed doors, in the Lady’s bedroom. Afterward, all they had seen was the boy storming out, saddling his horse, and thundering away into the night.

  Erik ran a hand through his blond hair, riffling it. “Word arrived that Lynessa was traveling with a small entourage perhaps three miles to the south, and that the bandits had been seen in the same area. I did not hesitate. I gathered up the men, and we headed south.”

  Iron bands constricted Mary’s chest. She remembered the stirring of the men, the wheeling of the horses, and the baffling confusion coursing through her as they streamed away south, toward miles of empty forest.

  Her voice was a mere whisper. “You took all the men.”

  He glanced at her sharply, his eyes defensive, but after a long moment he nodded. “I thought Lynessa was in trouble,” he stated in a low voice. “She was special to me. I had hoped that someday she would consent to be my bride.” He paused for a moment. “I had pledged to protect her. I took that vow seriously.”

  He took another long draw on his ale. “But in the end I could not find her. It was pitch dark by then, moonless, so we made camp in a small clearing, and waited until morning to return to the village.”

  Mary put her head down. The screams had lasted all night long, the angry licking of the flames as they pulled down the houses, the sharp grunts of the bandits finishing off the survivors. She had huddled, alone, unable to breathe, in the bottom of the grain storage bin where her mother had hid her.

  Erik’s voice was flat. “They were all dead by the time I returned,” he stated. “The buildings were smoldering ash heaps; the bodies were strewn everywhere. We went immediately back to the keep, to let them know what had happened and to make sure the rest of the villages were warned.”

  Mary’s voice was tight. “And your mother had a talk with you.”

  He gave a low laugh, finishing off his ale, standing to pour himself a fresh one. He stared at the barrel for a long moment. “A talk,” he repeated. “She was beyond furious. She had always been a hard woman, and perhaps the death of my father and my aunt had something to do with that. But I had never seen her in a rage like this. I could understand it, but when –”

  He shook his head, returning to sit. “She accused Lynessa of being involved in the atrocities, and I snapped. I told her that Lynessa would soon be my wife and mistress of this keep. My mother swore she would disown me before she saw that happen.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “I challenged her to do it.”

  He looked down at his hands as if the shock of the scene, ten years ago, was fresh in his vision. “And she did,” he murmured, his voice resonating with surprise. “In one instant, all I held dear was gone. You should have seen the look in her eyes. It was absolute and final.”