The Rose of Blacksword (56 page)

Kneeling in front of her, he held the bag out with both hands. When she didn’t take it from him, he gently placed it on her lap.

“These are some of Paul’s things. They forgot to give them to you at the hospital. They were going to send over some stranger to give them to you, but I wouldn’t let them.”

She tried to smile, but the effort it took was too great.

“He saved my life, Kate.” Mitchell’s voice broke. “He saved me and then he died. I’ll never be able to repay him. I don’t know what to do …”

And then this man, who had been through too many injuries to count, who was as tough as nails when it came to the vagaries of his career, began sobbing like a small child. His tears widened the crack in her heart, and she reached out for him.

They held each other for long minutes, and then she sent him away.

He was wiping his face with the back of his hand, standing in the archway that led to the hall, when he suddenly said, “The rose was for you. He wanted you to have it.” Kate’s grief-stricken eyes stared at him blankly, but he didn’t want to have to explain any more and he walked away.

The bag he’d given her had fallen to the floor. As she reached for it, she saw where his teardrops had landed on the tiles. Tangible evidence of pain. Her fingers closed around the bag and she stood, knowing she’d never look inside.

Kate’s mother found her in the guest room. There was a phone call for her. It was Mike Fitzgerald. Did she want to take it?

She hadn’t even heard the telephone ring, but, yes, she wanted to talk to Mike. She always wanted to talk to Mike. He was the best friend she’d ever had.

And when she picked up the receiver and heard him say “Katie? Darlin’?” her loss hit her fully, and the tears finally came.

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Read on for an excerpt from Juliana Garnett’s
The Vow

Prologue

May, 1067

IF YOU ARE
too cowardly to defy the Normans, I will go to fight in your place.”

The words hung in the suddenly still air like drawn swords: a challenge. All motion and conversation ceased; eyes turned toward the slender blond woman standing in the center of the hall. She stood steadfast, chin firm, ice-blue gaze steady beneath a sweep of insolently long brown lashes. No errant thrum of lute or lyre by careless minstrel, no casual comment, could be heard in the hall awash with light from lamp and torch. Those perched on benches or leaning against stone walls seemed to hold their collective breath. Ceara, daughter to the Saxon lord of Wulfridge, waited with nervous defiance for her father’s reply.

Some would like to see her fall, she knew well enough. Fah, she did not care what they thought. Their anticipation was as pungent as the sharp scents of burning pine knots and oil lamps. But all that mattered to her now was vengeance and pride—for ’twas all she had left.

Wulfric is dead, and with him have gone laughter and hope.…

She saw rage in the pinpoint flames that lit Lord Balfour’s bright blue eyes. She did not look away. Their gazes were almost level, for she was as tall as most men—even the Norman foes who raped their lands.

Ceara lifted her chin and her long, loose hair drifted over a bared shoulder, cool and soft against her skin. The gunna and kirtle she wore were her own style—pagan some said, though not usually the men who eyed her shortened attire with sly appreciation. Lecherous fools. Around her waist, instead of a gold-linked or woven girdle, she wore a sword; no mere eating dagger, but a lethal Roman gladius—taken, the tale went, by a long-dead Celtic ancestor from a legionnaire. The weapon had been handed down through her family for hundreds of years. And she could use it most agilely, so that no man dared approach her without good reason.

A sword clinked against stone. Someone coughed, and a slight mutter was quickly silenced. Drifts of smoke lazed across the hall, carried by an errant breeze that stirred flame and bright woven wall hangings indiscriminately. Light from a flickering torch gilded her father’s hair with silver and played across his craggy features. Had he always had such deep creases in his face?

“I swore an oath to William.” Lord Balfour’s aged voice had the hoarse sound of a grindstone. “I do not forswear my oaths.”

“Oaths given under duress are not meant to be kept.”

“And what would a woman know of fealty?” His mouth twisted in an ironic smile that brought heat to Ceara’s cheeks.

“More than most men, I daresay, though ’tis not a woman’s lot to decide her own fate.” She dragged in a deep breath that tasted of smoke and incense and the residue of a thousand evening meals, her cold gaze riveted on her father though her heart had begun to thump against her ribs. “Must it always come to this with us? Can you not listen to
my
counsel as you did to Wulfric’s?”

Balfour leaned forward. “Nay. I cannot. You are not Wulfric. He is dead, and I am left with a daughter who is more willful than obedient. You have barely sixteen winters to you, Ceara. Surely, you did not think
you
could replace Wulfric’s wise counsel.”

The softly spoken words fell on her like harsh blows. As she answered, her own voice shook slightly, but she steadied it with fierce resolve, her nails digging deeply into the palms of her hands. “Nay, of course I cannot. Wulfric is—was—a man, while I am only a witless female, meant to sit at cooking pots and looms instead of war councils.”

“Aye, but you seem to have forgotten that.”

“Nay, not for a moment have I forgotten how you wish to keep me in a corner, unnoticed and unheard. Yet in days of old, women’s voices were heeded as well as the men’s. Now, the Normans have done more damage than the Romans or even the Vikings. They have laid waste to the entire country and made us into curs groveling at their heels, yet you prate of fealty to their bastard king as if it is a matter of honor to lay down our arms and do his bidding like tamelings!”

When she paused, anger making her tremble as if with a chill, her father lifted a hand to beckon two of his thralls forward. They flanked her swiftly. Her chin lifted at this insult, but she made no move to flee.

“You will be escorted to your chamber until you have reconsidered your hasty words,” Balfour said coolly, but flames lit his eyes with the heat of a hundred torches.

Ceara met his gaze steadily. Cowards. All of them. Including Balfour, though he was her father and lord of their lands.
Wulfric would never have yielded
.… Yea, but Wulfric was gone, she reminded herself. And by all that was sacred, no man would force her to swear a loyalty she did not feel.

Raking the two thralls with a scathing glance, Ceara crossed her arms over her chest. Her mocking smile stretched into a taut grimace. “I shall grow old and withered in my chamber before I will consider yielding to the bastard duke of Normandy.”

Fine white lines etched Balfour’s eyes as he glowered at her; he turned suddenly on his heel and moved away. He wore the tunic and fur-lined robes of a baron—a Saxon lord—though since the coming of the Normans, the fur was not as thick, the robes increasingly threadbare. Balfour crossed the beautiful tiled floor slowly, the once vibrant pattern of moon and stars beneath his feet now faded. He stepped onto the dais to take his customary seat in the high-backed stone chair made comfortable with bolsters of stuffed feathers and fur.

“You are insolent, my daughter.”

Ceara allowed a faint smile to touch her mouth. “Yea, my lord, I learned insolence at your knee. But you know I am right as well as insolent.”

Balfour studied her narrowly. “You would have me flee to Malcolm for succor? I am to yield to the king of the Scots what the Norman king has not yet taken? What, then, is the difference, I ask you?”

“The difference is couched in your own words—’tis better to give freely than to be taken from.”

Balfour leaned forward, his words a soft hiss between tight lips. “To use your own words—never.”

“Then you doom us to—”

“Nay! If I deal fairly with King William, he will deal fairly with me. Wulfridge needs a man who is as fierce as a wolf to hold it against invaders, not a she-wolf who snaps and snarls at every wind. Now go. Think of all that could be lost with hasty action just to further foolish vengeance.”

Balfour dismissed her with a slight jerk of his head. Stinging from his sharp words, Ceara whirled about on a sandaled foot. Her loose hair swung around her shoulders and against her waist as she paused a few feet from the dais and snapped her fingers. “Sheba, to me.”

Lying in a half crouch nearby, a huge white wolf-bitch rose in a lithe movement, the gold-brown eyes watchful. No one moved as Ceara quit the hall, the white wolf at her heels and her escorts trailing behind.

Ceara felt their eyes on her as she walked the length of the hall with measured tread, continuing through the colonnaded Roman archways to the long corridor that led to her chamber. Ivy climbed the outside walls of the corridor, poking spiny green fingers inside open windows. As she passed, she plucked a three-lobed leaf for good luck and tucked it into the leather sword belt circling her waist.

Her hand went to the pendant that hung around her neck, a legacy from her mother, with glowing amber stone and intricately wrought silver. Her only ornament. The only thing of value she had left since the Normans had come, save pride and self-reliance. Yea, the lady of Wulfridge had left her daughter a legacy of spirit that would not wane in the face of hardship or danger, and it was that, she thought, that pricked her father most.

When Lady Aelfreda died, she’d taken the light from her husband’s eyes. Ceara had watched helplessly, raging against the fates that had taken her mother and left her father a changed man. But it had changed her as well.

Once, she had been close to her father, his beloved princess, always at his heels or his side, adoring and adored. Now she felt so alone, isolated from everyone save Sheba. The wolf-bitch was all that remained to her of unconditional love and loyalty.

Behind her, Sheba’s huge paws padded over stone with faint clicking sounds from her claws. The thralls stayed a healthy distance from the wolf-bitch, a respect well earned when an unwise individual once dared lay a hand on the shaggy head. The bite had been deep, the lesson swift.

Ceara smiled. Aye, ’twas true that she was like the wolf-bitch that most named her, but she wore the epithet proudly. It was a glorious compliment to be called after the lithe, fierce beast. And they were like, in that neither tolerated fools nor cowards gladly. The mere scent of fear was enough to raise her hackles, and Ceara was filled with anger that her father cared more for his hide than his honor.

A chill swept over her, and Ceara spun on her heel in the open doorway of her chamber. Her escorts jerked to a halt and eyed her warily. She lifted a brow. “As even you oafish clods can see, I am safely arrived. Go back to my father’s hall, and to the buxom wenches who may want your pathetic company.”

One of the thralls shot her a glance of resentment. “You’ve an evil tongue, my lady, for all that you are so fair. ’Tis said you are consort to the Dark One, and I am most like to believe it myself.”

Ceara’s brow lowered at the man’s harsh tone. Sheba came to stand protectively at her side, the thick white fur ruffling beneath the fingers of her mistress’s left hand. The animal sensed her tension, and she saw the thrall’s eyes flick downward nervously. Now she smiled. “Believe it, Hardred. I whisper with the old ones of the trees of a night. I dance with the demons beneath the sacred oaks, and I can rid myself of paltry men like you with a mere snap of my fingers.”

Lifting one hand, she snapped her thumb and finger together and Sheba crouched, a low growl emanating from her throat. Hardred took a hasty backward step, then another, keeping one hand on his sword hilt, and both eyes on the wolf.

“You are evil,” he choked out, “both of you!”

Hardred stumbled into the other thrall as they both quit the dimly lit corridor. Ceara listened to the sound of their swift retreat with satisfaction. Fools. She had nothing but contempt for them. Yet fools were all that were left since King Harold lost to the bastard duke and so many good men died with him. Only a few served Balfour now, when once there had been many brave warriors filling the halls. She turned restlessly, unable to bear thinking of those days.

A small lamp of precious oil burned fitfully on the low table near the rope bed she had slept in since she was a small child. No fish oil was used for fuel in her lamp, for it stank and filled the room with foul smoke. She opened the shutters that covered her windows and breathed in air spiced with the beckoning promise of the sea. The draft stirred the
wahrift
, the bright-colored medley of woven stuff decorating the wall. Soon it would be spring, and the land would put forth new life, tiny green shoots rising from the sleeping fields. Where would she be then?

Sheba nudged her hand, whining low in her throat, a question and reminder. Ceara closed the shutters and turned away from the window. A small slab of meat, round of cheese, and half loaf of flat bread lay on a wooden platter, and beside it was a carved pewter flagon of mead. She poured the rich liquid into a small cup. Then she tossed Sheba a chunk of the mutton, which the wolf downed in a single gulp. Ceara smiled slightly.