A Knight's Vow (16 page)

Dawn brightened the eastern horizon, and above that hung a deep, dusky blue sky, with no clouds portending bad weather. Though the air was chilled, and Isabel could see her breath, she thought the day would be beautiful. She wondered with a start when was the last time she had considered the day except for comfort and ease of fighting. She would not be so weak again.

After a few minutes, the forest closed about them, sunlight scattered amidst the reds and oranges and yellows of the towering oaks and elders. She found the forest sounds strangely relaxing after the tension of her last few days as mistress of Bolton castle.

She allowed Bolton to continue riding beside her, his three men following behind. She thought they really wished to be abed, but they were alert to protect their master. She wondered why they had not been so when she had robbed Bolton.

"You have not asked where we are going," he said.

Isabel glanced at him, gave a deliberate shrug, and looked back to the packed earth road. "The freedom to ride is more important than the destination."

"Does that include the freedom to take your leave of us?"

She smiled grimly. "That would be foolish. You have William."

"Ah yes," he said, giving a slow nod. "You are quite fond of the boy."

The answer was already so obvious she left it unspoken.

They came out of the forest along a hedge-lined road. The sun was well on its way into the sky, brightening the sheep dotted across the dark grass. In the distance she could see a cluster of small wooden houses. As they approached, children ran barefoot to greet him. The were well fed and happy, calling hellos and looking at her with avid interest.

The elders of the village arrived soon after, displaying the wariness she was more used to. She stiffened her spine and returned their looks with a haughtiness she had never used before, but which might sufficiently embarrass her husband. With only a quick unreadable look, he introduced her. They scrutinized her with momentary wonderment, then ignored her for Bolton.

Isabel let their little speeches flow around her without listening to them. She deliberately looked bored, and even sighed loudly a few times. She almost enjoyed it—if only she knew for certain she was making her husband squirm. But he was so friendly and intent on his villagers, that she might not have even been there.

"Milord, we'd like ye to see the changes we made at the mill," said one small hairy man, who seemed to be in charge.

Just as Bolton turned to look at her, Isabel said, "I am not interested."

She heard low disapproving murmurs, saw a momentary blank look on Bolton's face as he took in her comment. She held her breath, waiting for an explosion, but he simply grinned, and that was worse.

"Gentlemen, you must understand my poor wife," he said with indulgence in his voice. "She has a hard time comprehending such weighty matters. I am sure she will be well occupied waiting for me out here. She has a good communion with animals, and I see plenty of cows here on the village green."

Isabel barely stopped her mouth from dropping open in shock. Embarrassment swept through her as everyone in the gathering laughed. Before she could even form a retort, he had dismounted and walked away, with the crowd fawning over his every uttering.

She was alone, but for the small soldier with the ready smile. Red-faced, he looked casually about the village green, anywhere but at her. She seethed, she fumed, then eventually she fought a small measure of grudging admiration. By the saints, Bolton had a quick way with words.

After a few minutes, the soldier reined his horse in beside hers, grinned, and doffed his hat.

"I'm Mort, milady," he said.

She gave him a cool nod, knowing he'd been chosen as her keeper.

He dismounted, then waited beside her expectantly.

With a sigh, Isabel stepped to the ground. "Why are we here, Mort?"

"Because ye didn't want to see the mill."

She closed her eyes for a pained moment. "No, I mean why are we at this village?"

"Lord Bolton always visits his people, milady. He moves around from castle to castle, just so he can see them all."

"Why?" she asked, wondering how many castles he actually owned.

"They tell him problems, things they wouldn't come to the castle for. It makes them feel better. Less fights, too."

Isabel mulled over his words. She did not remember her father ever bothering to discover the mood of his peasants. That was for his steward to worry about. Surely Bolton coddled his people too much. How could they learn self-reliance, if they could run to him with every little problem?

Mort continued to talk, but if he was trying to put her at ease, he needn't have bothered. She was content under the brilliant sun, a dagger at her hip. Yet she couldn't help but notice the stares she received. Nothing seemed malicious, and even the children continued to hover near. Shouldn't they all be disgusted by her behavior?

Isabel saw a well in the center of the village green. Leaving Mort behind, she strode across the grass. The children followed her, gaping up at her height as had every child—and adult—she'd ever known. A young woman was already bent over the well, and Isabel waited for her to finish.

The girl glanced over her shoulder, giving a start. Her bucket overturned and she reached for it with a dismayed cry.

"Take your time, I can wait," Isabel said.

The girl glanced towards a baby playing nearby on a blanket. Then she gave Isabel another frank look.

"Are you passing through, mistress?" she asked hesitantly. "I've never quite seen anyone like you before."

"I live at the castle."

"The only new person at the castle is..." Her words died off as her eyes grew very wide.

Isabel waited, feeling a small smile touch her lips at the girl's shock. Surely she would scoop up the babe and run, upsetting Bolton.

"Are—are you the new lady of the castle?" she finally asked.

"I am."

The girl straightened, coming up to Isabel's neck. "You are like nothing I imagined, my lady. Of course I heard the stories, but—"

"I am everything you imagined, and more," she said shortly, losing her hope that the girl would run.

"Did you really wield a sword against..." She trailed off, blushing.

"Against the earl? Aye." Maybe she should show some teeth, grimace, even growl. Why were these villagers so forthright? Weren't they afraid of the nobility?

She heard footsteps behind her, saw the girl's quick curtsy, and knew exactly who approached.

"Good morning, Agnes," Bolton said in that low, honeyed voice of his.

Agnes blushed and bobbed another curtsy. Isabel wanted to rip the silly smile off the girl's face. How dare Bolton know every woman's name.

"Is that your youngest?" he asked. "My steward wrote me of his birth, but it seems like only yesterday."

"He'll be creeping about soon, my lord," the girl said, pride in her bearing.

"I've missed much, being gone so long to court." Bolton gave Isabel an amused look. "Have you been introduced to my wife, Agnes?"

"We've been chatting, my lord."

"Chatting?" He raised an eyebrow.

Chatting, indeed, Isabel thought.

"My wife has such an easy way with people, don't you think?"

Isabel folded her arms across her chest and let her husband attempt to humiliate her. She didn't have anything to lose, but he certainly did. She had already seen how he cultivated people's opinions.

But the girl surprised her. "My lord, be easy with her. It must be difficult to be new in a place such as

Bolton Castle. Does she have any of her ladies from home to attend her?"

Bolton smiled. "Isabel, have you ladies to bring with you?"

"No."

" Aah, then we must obtain you some. Agnes is right. You need women to sew with. And I could use a new tapestry in the library."

"Only if I can cut it with my sword."

Bolton laughed. "You will have to practice your wifely skills."

He dazzled even her eyes, standing in the sunlight with his brilliant nobleman's garments, shining like a gemstone in maroon and gold, conversing with the most common peasant girl as if she were his equal. He even knew of her baby, by the saints.

He suddenly slung an arm around Isabel's shoulders and she staggered at his weight. Agnes blushed and smiled, looking pleased. For just a moment, Isabel felt the elusive warmth of belonging, but she let it go. She was not that much a fool.

"Come, wife, it is the brewer's turn to feed us and she's waiting."

She tried to shrug him off. "I have not yet had some water."

He didn't release her. "Agnes, have you a dipper for my lady?"

The girl laughed and cast a glance at her baby. "Aye, my lord. Give me a moment."

While Agnes brought up a bucket of water, Isabel fumed at having to endure Bolton's nearness. She could feel the length of his body, the lean hips. Why couldn't she hate the touch of him? Why did she always remember what he looked like unclothed?

Agnes brought a dipper of water to her. Isabel thought Bolton would release her now, but instead he stood against her and watched as she drank. It was too unnerving. Isabel had but a few sips and tried to hand the dipper back.

Bolton took it from her fingers and brought it to his mouth. His eyes met hers as he drank from the same place she had. She couldn't tear her gaze away as she watched his lips form to the rounded dipper, saw his throat muscles work as he swallowed. A single drop of water fell down his chin and she almost reached to wipe it away.

Bolton had seen, he Anew that she'd meant to touch him. There was triumph in his brilliant eyes, and a dark intensity that surged through her. How could he make her so aware of him, of his body? This was his own brand of revenge and it was working too well.

Isabel ducked beneath his arm and walked to her horse.

"Lady Isabel," he called. "We're off to the brewer's. Did you not remember?"

The little boy holding the reins of her horse looked happy and relieved to continue petting the animal. Isabel sighed and turned to follow her husband.

The brewer was a large, merry woman, with a makeshift ale sign outside her timber-framed house. Isabel recognized the crude drawing of a tankard easily enough. She ducked beneath the thatched roof and stepped down inside. Smoke and the odor of many people filled the air. The house had one large room on the first floor, with several trestle tables set up. These began to fill with villagers and yeomen, come to see the lord—and surely to stare in horror at his wife.

Isabel was determined to put on a show. She stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, declining what was obviously the best stool, placed next to her husband's. Her head touched the dried plants hung from the ceiling. The brewer went by her carrying a tray, and Isabel picked up a tankard before being offered one. Her eyes on Bolton, she drained half of it, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

The room was eerily silent, a solid wall of disapproval.

Bolton's long legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He grinned and patted the stool beside him. "Isabel, wait until you taste the food."

She hesitated, but what else could she do? She wasn't about to wait by the horses for hours while Bolton ate. She approached him, but his long legs were in the way. Just as she stepped over them, he deliberately moved, tilting her off balance. He caught her waist and neatly pulled her onto his lap.

The laughter reverberated through the room and Isabel smoldered with frustrated anger. She tried to stand up, but he gripped her hips tightly and had the gall to kiss her cheek.

"She's such an eager bride," he said.

He practically dumped her onto her own stool, then proceeded to ignore her for the meal and the company of his friends.

Isabel only wished she could ignore Bolton as easily. His thigh pressed the length of hers, and their shoulders overlapped. She practically had to lean sideways to avoid the touch of his arm against her breast.

What was she stopping herself for? she suddenly thought in exasperation. Didn't she want him to lose control, to see him as he was, a seducer of women, a

man unable to control his baser impulses? She finally straightened, even though it pressed her breast against him. She stared straight ahead, although she knew he glanced at her. She wouldn't look at what was surely his amused smile. Let him think he had the upper hand now. At night he would know who wielded the true power.

James found himself more distracted than he cared to admit. Since he never knew what Isabel's next move would be, he was in a constant state of readiness to toss out a quick amusing line, or to laugh at her or ignore her. He was appalled that his carefully controlled image was under attack by a thief, a mere woman—his wife.

He tried to concentrate on the conversations of the villagers. He knew they discussed the recent harvest, someone's new oxen, the planting of the winter wheat crop. It always amazed him how much he enjoyed their company. They had earthier cares than those at court, but he knew where he stood with them. There was no duplicity in their manner, no false faces hiding greed and ambition. Why had he stayed away so long?

But he knew why. He had needed to escape, to forget the upheaval in his life that had lost him a betrothed and two brothers. Perhaps his choice to back Henry Tudor for king had been a poor decision —his family certainly thought so. And too many people had been hurt. But he looked around at these simple happy faces, well fed since the recent harvest, and wondered what would have become of them if he'd backed King Richard, and been punished when Henry took the crown. Why couldn't his family see that he had done what he thought best, that he had to protect his people and his lands?

But Katherine, his betrothed, had been almost killed by a man in his employ, a man he had not known well enough. James had only meant to keep her safe at the monastery, because she knew secrets highly placed men would kill for. She had known who would turn against the king—but she hadn't known about her own betrothed.

The twinge of guilt took him by surprise, as always. He had seen that King Richard was through, that a new king would rule. His family's survival hung in the balance. Though he had tried to keep Katherine safe from men who would kill her, she had been placed in grave danger, and if his own brother hadn't rescued her, she would have died.