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Authors: Diana Cosby

BOOK: An Oath Sworn
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“Ask your daughter,” Colyne rasped as he frantically looked from one man to the other, his fears of the English duke having reached the king's ear before he'd arrived tragically true.
An ominous smile slanted across King Philip's face. “I have. Thank God she remembers naught. But you—” His glare pierced Colyne like a dagger rammed into his chest. “You will regret the day you dared touch her.” The king stalked to the open door. At the entry, he glared at Colyne. “At dawn, behead him.”
 
Like enraged hornets swarming around their hive, the drone of the crowd cut through Marie's slumber. Groggy, she glanced around.
Her blanket lay rumpled, as if she'd tossed and turned while she'd slept. Nearby, a jug of water sat half full, and her cup lay overturned, further evidence of her disturbed sleep.
A sound blared from the courtyard.
The crowd cheered.
“Papa?”
She remained alone.
With a frown, she rubbed sleep from her eyes, frustrated that she couldn't rid herself of the sensation that something was wrong.
Another cheer from outside piled onto her disquiet.
Marie turned to the open window, the shutters pulled wide, exposing a pale, cloudless, blue morning sky.
As she'd slept through the night, on one of his visits after the storm had passed, her father must have opened the window.
Cheers rose again.
She shoved her remaining covers aside. Her head swam as she stood.
“Marie, what are you doing out of your bed?”
At her maid's worried voice, she started. “Felyse.” She fought to conceal her weakened state as her maid entered her chamber, not wishing to worry her further. Over the years they'd become friends. And whenever she'd taken sick, Felyse fussed over her as if she were her own child.
“You should not be out of bed, my lady,” she gently chided. At another distant cheer, the slender woman with her graying hair neatly secured in a braid scowled at the window. Fury blazed in her eyes as she walked over and closed the shutters with a quick snap.
Somber light smothered the room.
“Is it the Scot being executed?” Marie asked.
Her maid stiffened.
“Oui.”
Disturbed by the thought, Marie rubbed her arms against the sudden chill. Even with the window closed, she could hear that the increasing shouts had taken on a fevered pitch, the jeers and calls for death seeping into the protected silence. “How many men have they caught?”
“Only the one.”
Somehow, she had known. “I would like to see him when he walks through the crowd.” Mayhap his face would prod her memories.
The maid pursed her lips in displeasure. “It is unwise for you to be up and about, nor would I wish you to endure further distress.”
“For a moment. Please.”
“I should insist you return to bed.” The maid hesitated, as if mulling the wisdom of conceding, and then nodded. “For a short time.” She opened the window and grudgingly stepped aside.
Prickles of tension wove through Marie as she crossed the chamber, her feet sinking into the burgundy woolen rug spread on the cold floor. At the window, she clenched the stone, still cool from the rain.
Below, the crowd spread out before her like a macabre sea to witness a man's execution.
Sickened by their grotesque fervor, she looked past the throng filling the bailey to where an elevated wooden platform stood. A large hooded man with an axe waited near the center. She searched the crowd for a man being led through by her father's guards.
Why did thoughts of her abductor cause her such concern?
Her maid touched her forearm. “You are trembling. You must return to your bed.”
“A moment more.”
“Not a whisper longer, my lady.”
Marie's pulse raced as she scanned the path to the dungeon.
The throng jostled and then shifted back.
Her father's guards moved forward, others in their wake. Between them, a man stumbled into view.
The prisoner.
Jeers rose from the crowd as he was led past.
At the high-pitched scream for the Scot's death, Marie leaned out the window in hopes of seeing him better. She still couldn't make out his face.
Frustrated, she withdrew, halted. Angled on a ledge near the hearth sat the volume of tales of King Arthur her father had gifted her with on her eighth birthday. A book rich with tales of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
Like floodwaters as they rushed to engulf all within its path, memories flooded her mind. Her journey across Scotland with Colyne. Their ensuing voyage to France. How they'd made love. And how much she loved him. Tears blurred her eyes.
Mon Dieu, how could she have forgotten him?
She started to shake.
Felyse caught her by the shoulders. “I should not have condoned your getting up. You need to rest, not worry about a man who is better off dead.”
The writ! She was mistaken. The man below couldn't be Colyne. Once he'd shown the guards the document from Robert Bruce, they would have immediately escorted him to her father, who would have read the Guardian of Scotland's warning of the English Duke of Renard's treachery.
Except her father had not mentioned the writ. And his references to the Scot had been filled with disgust. “On with you now. 'Tis rest you need, not staying up and tiring yourself further.”
Foreboding filled Marie. “Tell me the man's name!”
The older woman scowled. “ 'Tis the Earl of Strathcliff.”
It couldn't be! “What about the writ?” At her maid's blank stare, she understood. Her father hadn't seen it. Had Colyne lost it when he'd swum with her to shore? “There has been a mistake. The Earl of Strathcliff did not abduct me; he saved my life.”
Her maid cast a frantic glance toward the window.
Mon Dieu!
On shaky limbs, Marie pulled free and ran to the door. At the entry, she caught a guard's shoulder. “Find the king. He must stop the execution.”
“
Oui
, my lady.” Steps echoed as the guard rushed to do her bidding.
A cheer echoed from below. Then a chant for death rose from the crowd.
Panic swept her. Colyne must be nearing the platform. If she waited for her father's intervention, it might be too late!
Ignoring her body's protests, Marie bolted down the corridor. And prayed she wouldn't be too late.
Chapter 19
T
he guard shoved Colyne. “Move along.”
Weakened from days of torture, Colyne stumbled. He righted himself. Barely.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” the onlookers chanted as they parted before him like an angry sea.
An overripe apple slammed the side of his face, the foul juice smearing his cheek. A clump of mud splattered against his chest.
On trembling legs, Colyne wove forward.
“Move back,” a king's man bellowed.
Instead, spewing curses and threats, the crowd surged forward. Hands tore at Colyne's clothes, his hair, stripping him of whatever they could yank loose. Beneath the assault, he collapsed to his knees.
Fists beat him.
A boot slammed into his ribs with a crack.
Pain exploding inside, he started to collapse. On a curse, he jammed his hands into the muck and fought to remain conscious.
“Get back!” the guards ordered, shoving between Colyne and the attackers, slowly forcing the crowd back.
His blood pounding, Colyne regained his focus. A fresh gash lay across his chest, his ribs ached, and blood from several cuts seeped into a puddle of water below him, framed in the muck.
He clenched his jaw against the pain and struggled to his feet. With the crowd around him fading in and out, he forced his legs to move.
As he trudged forward, he scanned the tower windows. He willed Marie to be there.
To see him.
To remember.
The windows remained empty. A painful ache built in his chest, as he fought the grief consuming him. He'd never see her again, ever. When her memory returned, 'twould be too late. Numb, he stumbled forward.
As if in answer to his wish, a woman's figure appeared in one of the central tower windows. Honey-colored hair fluttered in the light breeze.
Marie! Hope exploded inside.
The woman moved from view.
His heart slammed against his chest. Had she nae seen him?
“On with ye.” The guard shoved.
Muck spattered his face as Colyne slammed to his knees. He wiped away the grime and refused to give up hope. By God, she'd seen him!
On a shaky breath, he locked his elbows and looked up. Instead of Marie's window, the executioner's platform blocked his view.
Dread crawled through him as he scanned the scarred steps, the planks worn down by his predecessors, the hewn wood tainted by their blood.
At the cheers of the crowd, he looked over.
A hooded man, his arms thick as oxen, stood on the center of the platform. As their eyes met, his fingers on the axe tightened.
Colyne sucked in a raw breath, fought the churn of panic. A guard caught his arm, hauled him up. “Move.”
His boot clunked on the bottom step with morbid finality. He swallowed hard as he forced his foot up the next rung and faced the truth.
He'd been wrong.
The woman in the window had been another lass.
Any hope of telling Marie that he loved her vanished.
 
Panic wrenching through her, Marie elbowed her way through the crowd. “Colyne!”
The rumble of excited voices smothered her shout.
Mon Dieu
! Water and mud streaked the hem of her gown and slapped against her legs as she pushed another person aside. As she rounded the well, through the sea of people, she caught a glimpse of the man she loved. “Colyne!”
He collapsed atop the platform steps.
Non!
The crowd cheered.
Fury swept her.
He would not die!
“Marie!”
At her father's shout, she turned.
With his long robes surrounding him, he stood on the distant steps of the castle, her betrothed at his side. His face red, her father motioned her toward him.
Panicking, she turned toward the platform.
Colyne swayed as a guard hauled him to his feet.
She fisted her hands. Why hadn't her father halted the execution? As the crowd jeered, dread filled her and she understood. With the size of the gathering, the guard had been unable to deliver her message. “Father, halt the execution!”
Her father frowned and then motioned his guards toward her.
Tears burned her eyes. There wasn't time to make her way to him and explain. She shoved her way forward.
A woman stepped back.
Marie slid past. A gap opened ahead and she rushed through.
A man and a woman shifted in front of her, craning their necks in an effort to see the macabre spectacle unfolding on the platform.
“Move aside!” Marie shoved between them.
The man whirled, recognition flared, and his outrage transformed into rapid apologies as he backed away.
She hurried ahead.
A cheer filled the bailey.
Panic whipped through her as she glanced forward.
In the distance, Colyne stumbled toward the center of the platform.
Mon Dieu!
“Stop the execution!” Shouts from the crowd drowned out her command.
The guard seized Colyne's wrists, wrenching them behind his back.
Another man secured his hands.
Tears blurred Marie's vision as she pushed forward.
 
With his wrists bound, a guard pushed his head against the block. Cold, rough wood dug into Colyne's cheek. He leveled his gaze on his executioner. If he were to die, 'twould be looking his executioner in the eye with the courage of a Scot.
On a hard swallow, he clung to the fact that once Marie regained her memory, she would tell her father the truth. Then the bastard Renard's attempt to dissolve Scotland's ties with France would fail.
With a grunt, the shrouded man swung his axe.
Steel dug into the block with a deep thud a hand's width from Colyne's face.
A roar erupted from the crowd.
His heart pounding, he thanked God for having blessed him with Marie.
Rumbles of excitement swept the throng as the headsman raised his axe.
The blade's shadow fell over Colyne.
An expectant hush fell upon the crowd as all awaited the final swing, the slice of steel against flesh.
On a prayer, Colyne inhaled one last time.
“Non!”
Marie's scream pierced the silence.
Blood pounding hot, Colyne jerked his head free and scanned the crowd.
With a curse, the executioner lowered his blade. “Hold him down!”
“Wait!” Colyne shouted as two men caught his head, slamming him against the wood. “Did you nae recognize the king's daughter's call?”
The executioner grunted with disgust. “Quiet! The woman's screams were nae for you. No one will save your worthless arse!” With a scowl, he raised his blade. “This Scottish rebel who would dare threaten our king,” he bellowed, “will now feel the bite of justice!” With a grunt, he began his downward swing.
“Halt, in the name of King Philip!” Marie commanded.
Jarred by the woman's furious demand, the executioner lost the smooth rhythm of his swing. The axe sank a finger's width away from Colyne's neck.
Surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd as Marie, dressed in a gown of white and splattered by mud, broke free of the angry throng before the platform.
Relief swept him, along with a burst of love. “Marie!”
“Colyne!” Tears rolled down her face as she struggled up a step and then began to weave.
Bedamned! Colyne lunged against the guard's hold to reach her.
Strong hands held tight. “Be still!”
Colyne twisted against the hold, cursed as another man helped to restrain him.
Gasping for breath, Marie clasped the rail and pulled herself up step by step.
“Marie, stop!” Her father's indignant roar echoed through the bailey.
Horses whinnied.
People scattered as King Philip rode toward the platform.
Her betrothed cantered in his wake, his face red with fury, his cape waving with uneven slaps.
Gasping for breath, Marie reached the top, her eyes dark with terror. She glared at the guards holding Colyne. “Release him!”
Mouths opening in shock, the men scrambled back.
“Look at you!” she gasped as she crouched beside him as he shoved to his knees.
Joy, relief, and love stormed him. “Marie, I—”
“Look at the cuts, the bruises,” she sobbed as she tore the bonds from his wrists.
Trembling, Colyne wrapped her in his arms. “ 'Tis fine, you are here now.”
“
Non
! Look at what you have been forced to endure, because,” she said on a sob, “I temporarily lost my memory. Forgive me.”
“Marie,” he rasped, her scent filling his every breath, her bravery his soul. “'Tis nae your fault.” Oh, God, there was so much he needed to tell her, so much they needed to discuss.
“Marie!”
At King Philip's furious call, she pulled back, concern darkening her eyes. “We shall explain together.”
Colyne had seen that stubborn expression before. 'Twas the same throughout their journey when she'd made a decision and would nae back down.
Few women would have dared to escape after being abducted, or journeyed across Scotland to preserve a country nae her own. He swallowed hard. How could he ever have contemplated living his life without her? Or have hesitated in giving her his love?
She caught his arm, her fingers digging into his muscles. Together they stood and faced her father.
King Philip dismounted. His face red, he strode toward them, the duke in his wake.
A thousand eyes focused on them, the expectancy thick enough to carve with a sword.
As he reached the top of the platform, the king's gaze was riveted to Marie's hand clasped on Colyne. Outrage mottled his face.
Gaston's eyes narrowed as he took in Marie's protective stance.
Colyne braced himself. Though he'd journeyed to France in service to his king, he'd nae only compromised King Philip's bastard daughter but another man's betrothed. “Sire.” He struggled to bow at King Philip's approach, almost losing his balance. He straightened and then nodded at the duke. “Your Grace.”
“Silence,” King Philip commanded. Concern and love waged their own war in his expression as he scowled at his daughter. “Marie, I demand an explanation.”
Pride shone in her eyes. “Colyne MacKerran, Earl of Strathcliff, has been wrongly accused,” she said, her voice strong. “He did not abduct me, but risked his life to return me to France.”
Stunned murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Her father's skeptical gaze shifted to Colyne.
Hope ignited that with Marie at his side, the king would listen. “The Duke of Renard was behind her abduction,” Colyne rasped, his voice unsteady. “I carried a writ explaining the English noble's ploy.”
“I have seen no writ,” King Philip stated.
“After an accident,” Colyne continued, “the writ became soaked and the ink smeared. The arresting guards believed I lied because the document was unreadable and tossed the missive from Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland into the flames.”
Shrewd eyes turned to his daughter. “Explain how you came to meet and trust this Scot.”
“I escaped the Duke of Renard's knights,” Marie replied, pride in her voice. “En route to a port in Scotland, I found Lord Strathcliff wounded and tended him.”
“She saved my life,” Colyne said, his words somber. “Once I had healed, I escorted her to France.”
Tears in her eyes, Marie nodded. “If not for the earl, I would never have safely returned. I owe him my life.”
The king studied her for a long moment and then whispered to Marie's betrothed.
Irritation flashed on the duke's face.
King Philip strode to Colyne. “I owe you my deepest appreciation for saving Marie's life.” He held out his hand. “And an apology.”
Emotion filling him, Colyne clasped the king's hand. “Had I stood in your stead, Sire, I would have had doubts as well.” With the threat of his imminent death over, Colyne wondered what her father's reaction would be when, later this day, he offered compensation to end Marie's betrothal and then sought her hand?
King Philip raised his hand before his subjects.
The crowd grew silent.
“'Tis come to my attention that the Earl of Strathcliff has been wrongly accused,” the king announced. “The Scot did not abduct Lady Marie but saved her life.” He nodded toward Colyne with gratitude. “For his bravery, he will be honored.”
Surprise, then nods of understanding, rippled through the crowd.
King Philip faced Colyne. “After you have rested and have been cared for by my physician, we will discuss Renard's treachery in detail.” He gestured to a nearby guard. “Ensure that the earl is placed in one of our finest chambers and brought food and a hot bath. Notify my physician to tend to him immediately.”
“
Oui
, Your Majesty.” The guard bowed and hurried away.
“I add my humble gratitude as well for saving Marie's life,” her betrothed offered.
Colyne nodded, but he didna miss the frigidness of the duke's tone, nor did he doubt that the man's fury, if pressed, could turn lethal.

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