An Oath Taken

Also by Diana Cosby

 

The MacGruder Brothers:

His Captive

His Woman

His Conquest

His Destiny

His Seduction

His Enchantment

An O
ATH
T
AKEN

eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

At times in life we meet the most amazing people. This book is dedicated to Cindy Baker, an incredible woman, my sister, and a woman who is my hero. I'm blessed to have you in my life.

I would like to thank members of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) for answering numerous questions and their insight into medieval Scotland. The SCA is an amazing organization where reenactors help to keep our history alive. I'd also like to thank The National Trust for Scotland, which acts as guardian of Scotland's magnificent heritage of architectural, scenic, and historic treasures. In addition, I am thankful for the immense support from my husband, parents, family, and friends. My deepest wish is that everyone is as blessed when they pursue their dreams.

My sincere thanks to my editor, Esi Sogah, my agent, Holly Root, and my critique partners, Shirley Rogerson, Michelle Hancock, Karin Story, and Mary Forbes. Your hard work has helped make the magic of Nicholas and Elizabet's story come true. A special thanks to Sulay Hernandez for believing in me from the start.

And, thanks to my mom and dad, my children Eric, Stephanie, and Chris, the Roving Lunatics (Mary Beth Shortt and Sandra Hughes), Nancy Bessler, my family and friends in TX, and The Wild Writers for their friendship and continued amazing support!

 

S
ir Nicholas Beringar, castellan to Ravenmoor Castle, halted his steed near the sheer cliffs. Streaks of afternoon sunlight collided to create a prism across the narrow inlet, igniting a wash of purple and gold across the savage land. “ 'Tis magnificent.”

“Indeed,” Sir Jon, his most trusted knight, replied as he drew his mount to a stop alongside. “ 'Tis understandable why men would lose their hearts to the Scottish borderlands.”

“And fight with their last breath to keep it,” Nicholas added, in awe of the beauty of this untamed wilderness, a land torn asunder by the death of King Alexander III. “How tragic that in the Scots' strife to name their new king, clan has turned against clan. Only through the church's intercession does the fragile bond of unity exist.”

Jon grimaced. “For now.”

“Indeed. I pray King Edward's intervention will aid the Scots in choosing their next king. Meanwhile, my duty remains to rebuild Ravenmoor Castle and end the restlessness of the Scots along the western border.”

“As well as the reiving.”

“Aye,” Nicholas agreed. “God's teeth, I have added patrols, yet sheep and cattle are disappearing at an alarming rate. Within the past two days, the reivers are growing bolder, and have robbed travelers on Ravenmoor land.”

Jon nodded. “It makes no sense. The increased guard should have quelled their thievery, not incited further plundering.”

With a grimace Nicholas glanced toward his knights resting their mounts a short distance away. “We will uncover no answers bartering words. 'Tis time to return to Ravenmoor Castle. Take the men and go. I shall be along posthaste.”

Concern darkened his friend's eyes. “I will leave two knights to accompany you.”

“No.” Nicholas studied the chiseled landscape to the west that transformed into rolling fields of thick grass and peat. “We completed rounds over Ravenmoor's land but moments ago. No one is about.” And he needed time to think. Alone.

“As you wish.” Sir Jon cantered to the waiting knights, waved them to follow.

The clatter of hooves softened, becoming muted as his men reached the turfed lowland. Several moments later they became but a distant fleck, then disappeared into the dense swath of forest beyond.

Nicholas rubbed his brow to quell the throbbing in his head. He must halt the lawless acts of the reivers. As well, he must win the trust of the Scots who remained in Ravenmoor Castle since King Edward had claimed it for his own over a year ago. A challenge, considering the reception he'd had this morning. Before he and his men had departed on rounds along Ravenmoor's border, he'd made a point to speak with several of the remaining Scottish tenants. Their responses had been clipped and cold. All had eyed him with distrust. A reaction that, however much he'd worked to change since his arrival a sennight past, remained.

Sadly, the reason was damnably clear. As the new castellan of Ravenmoor Castle, he'd taken a brief tour of their living quarters. Rotting boards and crumbling foundations were only the beginning of the deplorable conditions.

Closer inspection of the castle revealed a general state of disrepair compounded by the people's inadequate clothing, meager resources, and empty larder, barren except for a few containers of herbs. A quick review of the ledgers revealed misappropriation of funds and abuse of power by the previous castellan, Sir Renaud. Had the knight stood before him, Nicholas would have shackled him and hauled him before King Edward to answer for his gross neglect.

The detailed reports Sir Renaud had sent to the king bespoke his pious efforts to strengthen relations with the Scots and rebuild Ravenmoor Castle. Had he used the money for his own greedy ventures instead? Or did another reason lay behind the previous castellan's betrayal to his king? Whatever the reason, Sir Renaud chose to ignore King Edward's command to appear before him with a detailed report of the castle's status.

And had paid with his life.

A death served by the neighboring Scots during the latest attack.

Perhaps justice existed after all. With a grimace, Nicholas turned his steed toward Ravenmoor Castle. Mud sucked at his mount's hooves as he skirted the bog, rich with the fragrance of sedge and peat that bordered the marsh. Then he guided him up the gradual incline toward a stand of trees.

However long he pondered his findings, Nicholas discerned no motive as to why Sir Renaud would lie to their king except greed. Neither could he determine the reason for the escalation in the number of attacks on Ravenmoor's borders in recent days.

God's teeth, 'twas a mess. He needed time to rebuild Ravenmoor Castle and gain the Scottish residents' trust, except the deteriorating state of affairs between England and Scotland usurped that luxury.

So, he would focus on what he could control. With the outer defenses in place, over the next few days he would review the castle's ledgers in depth. They should provide a degree of insight into the actual state of affairs. Or, at least a clue as to how to approach the wariness of the surrounding Scots.

A light breeze sifted over the hills, spilled through the stand of thick elm and oak in his path. He glanced west. His men should be arriving at Ravenmoor Castle by now and plenty of work remained to be done. Enjoying the beauty of the borderlands would come later.

Nicholas donned his helm and kicked his mount into a canter.

Without warning an arrow hissed past his head, missing him by inches.

“Bedamned!” Turf flew as Nicholas reined his steed hard to the left. He yanked his sword free and scoured the dense stand of trees for charging men.

Naught.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Precious seconds passed. The expected attack, the clank of metal and the flash of blades as warriors stormed from behind the trees, never came. Who'd fired the arrow? Nicholas kicked his steed forward. He'd bloody find out.

“Halt or the next arrow will find its mark,” a lad's rough burr commanded.

“State your name!” Nicholas called as he reined in his mount. He scanned the leaf and branch shield to pinpoint the youth's position. Was he alone? If not, how many others held their bows trained on him?

A branch quivered.

Nicholas searched the limb.

The tip of a black boot peeked from the leaves.

“You are surrounded,” the lad warned. The leaves on a nearby tree shook in confirmation. “Throw down your gold and you will nae be harmed.”

Nicholas scoured the nearby elm to locate the would-be accomplices, and paused in disbelief. Entwined within the branches and extending through several surrounding trees ran a network of blackened string, all leading back to the youth. A clever ploy to convince his mark that additional men filled the trees.

Compassion for the Scottish lad assailed him. He understood all too well how hard times could alter a life irrevocably. Where were his parents? Had they been killed during the siege on Ravenmoor Castle more than a fortnight past, or during a previous battle in the fight to claim land along the border by both Scotland and England?

“Toss down your gold!” Nervousness crept through the youth's voice.

The tree branch trembled, this time allowing Nicholas a better glimpse of the reiver. The youth was draped within a large black hooded robe two times his size, yet Nicholas made out the shadowy outline of his face.

Though the lad may be a victim of the times, Nicholas refused to tolerate any lawless acts on land beneath his responsibility. “I am Sir Nicholas Beringar, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle. 'Tis upon my land that you brandish your thievery. Come down. Now!”

 

Lady Elizabet Armstrong tugged the folds of her cowled hood closer to her face and sunk deeper into the thick, green shield of leaves. Mary, Mother of God, of all people to rob, why did he have to be the new castellan?

Sweat beaded on her brow, and her hands grew clammy. She should have followed her instincts and returned home with this day's spoils. Except as she'd started to climb down, she'd spied the single rider in the distance and believed relieving him of his coin 'twould be simple.

The castellan's steel-gray eyes locked on hers.

Sensation swept through her. His aura was magnetic, yet lethal. Broad shoulders needed no gambeson or hauberk to increase their dimensions. His trim, well-muscled body attested to his physical adeptness. And he sat upon his steed with the confidence born of years of battles.

Shaken by her attraction to her enemy, she forced her attention to his mail, his chestnut warhorse, and the finely-tooled broadsword. His trappings bespoke wealth. If he held but even a few coins, she would take them. And if he carried none, she would relieve him of his weaponry. They would bring a fair price at the market.

“If you carry nay gold, leave your sword and dagger,” Elizabet demanded, keeping her voice low.

A deep, impatient sigh rumbled from the castellan's chest.

A slap of anger streaked through her. The Englishman would take her seriously! She nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring taut.

“Such a move would be unwise,” Sir Nicholas said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I know you are alone.”

Her hand shook as she sized up the large man, too confident for her liking. She bluffed. “Obey my command or my men will kill you.”

The castellan's expression darkened. “I see the blackened string threaded through the trees.”

Blind panic shredded her last ounce of calm. What was she going to do? She couldna obey his command. Believing she was a lad, he would most likely punish her, mayhap sever her hand or worse. And what if he discovered she was a woman? Terror raced through her. Before he would touch her, she would fight to her death!

Body trembling, Elizabet lowered her bow. She shifted on the limb to steady herself, and the branch gave a traitorous groan. With a gasp, she caught a nearby limb. She must get rid of him! “I have decided to allow you to pass.”

The foreboding knight studied her a long moment. “Come down, I wish to speak with you.”

She edged closer to the trunk. Why couldna he react like any of her previous targets over the past couple of days? If given the opportunity, each would have fled like the spineless fops they'd been. Instead, Sir Nicholas was proving to be a formidable challenge.

What was she going to do?

A lonely wind howled through the trees, batting the newborn leaves with a careless hand. The scent of peat, tinged with fresh, mountain-fed water, sifted on the breeze. She took in the darkening sky, wishing she was home, safe in her chamber. Again she cursed herself for nae returning to Wolfhaven Castle when she'd had the chance.

“Lad, I will not harm you.”

Though several feet separated them, she sensed his frustration. And resolve. “ 'Tis a trick. I know the penalty for thievery.”

The castellan kicked his mount forward.

She held her breath as he halted beneath the branch she stood on, his gaze straight at her. If he'd stared at her in anger, that she could ignore. But the intensity of his gray eyes probed her as if seeing straight to her soul. Shaken, she pressed farther into the leaves.

“I would offer you a job as my squire.”

A trick! “I am nae a lackwit. If I climbed down you would cut off my hand.” And God help her if he discovered she was a woman.

A frown creased his brow. He lowered his broadsword and laid the flat of his blade across the withers of his mount. “You have my word as a knight that my offer is sincere.”

Hope ignited. What if he spoke the truth? Elizabet ached at the thought of her family and people trapped within Ravenmoor Castle. Were they wounded? Suffering? She hated nae knowing. Worse, with each passing day her belief that they lived dwindled. The coin she'd stolen these past few days was far from enough to bribe a castle guard at Ravenmoor to set her family and people free. If she agreed, could she successfully play the role of a lad?

'Twas unthinkable.

A fool's lot to consider his offer. As if she could ever trust a Sassenach? The slang name for the English suited their lie-infested statements.

Even as she pondered the reasons why such a decision would be dangerous . . . if the castellan's offer was sincere, she must use this opportunity to gain entrance to Ravenmoor Castle. Her family's future depended on it.

“Lad?”

Fighting her nerves, she nodded. “I will be your squire.”

Satisfaction shone on the castellan's face. “Come down. You will ride with me to the castle.”

“Nay. I will make my way on the morrow, at first light.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I have given my word that you will not be harmed.”

She tightened her grip on the nearby branch. “And I have given mine. I will arrive at Ravenmoor Castle at first light.”

“I could come up there after you,” he said with challenge.

She darted a glance to the nearby tree then back to him. His well-honed muscles left no doubt of his prowess. In which case, she would jump. Then, if she didna break her neck, she could outrun him, as he would be slowed by the weight of his armor.

Leather creaked as he shifted in the saddle.

Instinct assured her he knew exactly of her thoughts to escape. Irritated, she tilted her chin in defiance.

Mirth flickered in his eyes. “At first light, then.”

She released a slow breath.

“I would have your name.”

A name? Of course he would expect a name. “Thomas,” she replied before she could change her mind.

“Thomas,” he said without preamble, “if you have not reported to me by Terce, I will track you down.” His brow furrowed. “ 'Twould serve you well to heed me. I do not make false claims.”