The Vow (6 page)

I nodded. “You’re wise, my lord.” Even though he hadn’t spoken his thoughts, he was right. I was young. The laws of the land stipulated that I would need the guidance of an adult to help me rule, at least until I turned eighteen. Perhaps Thomas would provide the counsel I required? Even if we hadn’t had time to get to know each other better, I trusted him. He was a good man. And I didn’t want him to leave Ashby.

I knew he couldn’t very well stay in Montfort Castle without his parents there to supervise and chaperone us. And I also knew
that they wouldn’t be able to stay forever. The baron and baroness had their own land and peoples to oversee.

But the thought of Thomas having to leave any time soon filled me with desperation. I wanted to rush over to him and find security in his embrace. I had the feeling that if I did go to him, he would willingly hold me, he wouldn’t turn me away, and he would relish the connection.

However, the sight of Trudy standing guard in the middle of the room, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of us, took away any thought of seeking comfort in Thomas’s arms. Trudy would never allow it, especially not in my bed chamber.

I sighed. It was just as well. Something inside told me I had to be strong and learn to stand on my own first. My grief was still too fresh, my insecurities still too high. If I wanted to be a worthy companion, someone Thomas could respect, I had to mature first.

A scurry in a dark corner of the room brought me off my bench and sent my heart racing with fear. Was it a rat? I was tempted to jump up on my bench, and only the fact that Thomas was watching me kept my feet on the floor.

“The only good news that my messenger brought,” Thomas said, “was that the two men apparently hadn’t died from their torture. Rather, based on wounds to their chests, their hearts had been punctured by the sharp tip of a sword or halberd or knife.”

“Then some passerby took mercy on the men and put them out of their misery?”

“It would appear so.”

That would explain why the two men hadn’t been screaming and writhing in pain when we’d come upon them. The humane deliverer, whoever he was, deserved my deepest gratitude. “If your men discover the angel of mercy, please bring me the news. I’d like to reward him.”

Thomas nodded. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
He merely shifted, glanced at Trudy, and then at the floor. I could see from the intensity of his expression that he wanted to say something more to me but that he longed to do so in privacy.

As if sensing the same, Trudy bustled toward the door and began to close it upon him. “Her ladyship needs to finish her ministrations.”

Thomas backed out. “Then we shall speak later of future plans, my lady.” I caught one last glimpse of his face, of the longing in his eyes, before the door shut. In spite of the grim circumstances, my heart gave a leap of expectation.

Future plans? Was he planning to propose to me?

I hugged my arms across my chest at the thought. If I married him with all haste, then I wouldn’t have to be alone here in the large empty halls of Monfort. I wouldn’t have to face the pains and sorrows of this time alone. I would have the leadership assistance that I needed.

As I took my seat and allowed Trudy to finish readying me, I pushed aside the thoughts that surfaced again, thoughts that warned me against relying too much on Thomas. The desire for his comfort and embrace was too hard to resist.

“There.” Trudy stood back and surveyed me, her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side. “You look presentable, even if your face is as pale as the moon.”

“Thank you, Trudy.”

“I still think you should forgo the feasting.” Trudy eyed me before stepping forward and pressing her cool hand against my forehead. “Even if you’re not running a fever or shaking from chills, I think you’d be much better off in bed.”

I stood and shook my head. “I must attend. I have to at least thank my guests for coming.” There were several distinguished visitors that I had yet to greet, including my godfather, the wealthy Duke of Rivenshire also known as the Noblest Knight. Along with the others, I’d noticed the duke’s stately presence at
the funeral. I couldn’t ignore him. To do so would be a complete breach of etiquette. Not to mention how much such behavior would have disappointed my parents. The duke had been my father’s dearest friend.

Of course, I couldn’t deny that I wanted to see Thomas again as well and learn what it was he wanted to discuss regarding the future, hopefully
our
future together.

Amidst Trudy’s fussing, I finally escaped my chamber and started down the long hallway, my old guard Bartholomew shuffling ahead of me, his shoulders permanently hunched. He led the way with his torchlight, and I followed with my small tallow lamp. When we reached the winding stairwell, I halted and peered up to the entry that led to my parents’ now-deserted chambers on the floor above mine.

Bartholomew had already started down the steps in his lopsided gait. But instead of following him, I tiptoed the opposite way. Something irresistibly drew me upward, and I didn’t stop until I stood in front of the thick paneled door that opened into my mother’s rooms.

I paused and listened. From the absolute stillness and silence, I surmised that the entire floor was unlit and unoccupied. The thought pierced my heart anew. Never again would I hear my parents’ laughter ringing against the brick walls. Never again would the warmth of my mother’s hearth fire beckon to me. Never again would I sneak into her bed on a stormy night to draw comfort from her arms.

Before I lost courage, I pushed open her door, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. I lifted my clay lamp higher, letting the glow fall over the room. My mother’s servants had obviously disposed of all of the linens, medicines, and herbs that had been strewn about her room the last time I’d visited, the day she’d died. But everything else was undisturbed, exactly the way mother had always ordered things.

Her bed had been topped with a feather quilt, the bed curtains tied open, and fresh rushes strewn about the floor, almost as though she were merely on a long trip and expected back any day.

“If only it were so,” I whispered, setting my lamp upon my mother’s dressing table and moving toward the wooden chest at the end of the bed. I wouldn’t have dared to open the chest had my mother been alive. But a deep, keen need to have a part of her back with me urged me onward. I lifted the lid, and the waft of lavender brought a prick of tears to my eyes. ’Twas my mother’s scent, gained from the small bags of dried lavender she kept among the folds of her clothing to help protect them from moths.

I lifted the top garment, the burgundy damask with a pomegranate pattern, and buried my face in it, letting my tears and hot, stifled sobs find release in the heavy material, in the beautiful dress that had been the last gift my father had given my mother.

“No more tears,” I murmured, thrusting the garment back into the chest and swiping at the wetness on my cheeks. It wouldn’t do to descend to the Great Hall and meet my guests with swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

Just as I started to lower the lid, the glint of silver caught my eye — a key tucked into a slit in the flannel that covered the inside of the lid. The key had obviously been hastily put away; otherwise it would have been pushed all the way out of sight. I pried it loose and turned it over in my palm.

What was the key for? A secret chamber within the chest, perhaps?

I slipped my hand into the chest, past the layers of garments, until my fingers made contact with the bottom. I slid my hand along the edges, not really knowing what I was searching for, but the need to find the source of the key was growing. For several
minutes I skimmed over every corner, every grain of wood, every flaw in the structure.

Finally, I sat back on my knees, released a long sigh, and stared at the chest. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a secret chamber. Maybe the key went to some other locked box, like the small cabinets that stood against the opposite wall.

I started to replace the lid, but then stopped. I raised and lowered the lid several times, studying it, before allowing myself a small smile of victory — the first real smile I’d had in over a week. Persistence paid off. I’d figured out my mother’s secret compartment.

This time I opened the chest all the way and smoothed my hand over the layer of flannel until my fingers grazed a tiny lump behind the material — a keyhole. I pried the nearly miniscule hole in the flannel aside and stuck the key in.

It fit perfectly. With one twist, the inside of the lid dropped open to reveal a slim compartment. It was slender enough to hide necklaces and jewels and papers, the most valued possessions my mother owned.

One at a time, I examined the jewels, careful to put them back exactly as I’d found them, although they were now mine and I could do whatever I wanted with them. They were exquisitely beautiful, and most were pieces I’d never seen my mother wear.

When I’d finally taken stock of all the priceless jewelry, my fingers circled around a rolled parchment. I pulled it out and stared at it. It was tied closed with a tiny pink ribbon, or rather a lace edging that looked like it had once formed the hem of a baby garment.

A chilled breeze slithered under my bodice and up my backbone. I glanced to the windows with their bull’s-eye panes, now completely shuttered and unable to allow in a breeze. A part of me wanted to slam the chest closed, scramble from the room,
and pretend I’d never seen the secret compartment. Something told me that whatever was in the rolled parchment would not be pleasant.

But another part of me remained calm, reminding me that there was no use trying to run from or fight against fate.

Gingerly, I untied the baby pink lace. It fluttered to the floor. The parchment crinkled from age as it slowly unwound, almost as though it had a mind of its own. Once it was open, I smoothed back the crusty paper until it was nearly flat.

There at the top, in bold black ink, were written the words, “The Ancient Vow of Hannah.”

My breath caught.
Vow?

The last words my mother had spoken to me before she’d died had been, “The vow.” Was this secret piece of paper what she’d been trying to tell me about?

With a wildly beating heart, I skimmed the first neatly printed paragraph, which said something about the woman Hannah from the Old Testament, how when she’d been barren she’d cried at the temple until the priest Eli had prayed to God on her behalf for a child. Hannah had promised to give the child back to God for a life of service to Him. God had granted her desire and she’d fulfilled her vow by taking her firstborn, Samuel, to live in the temple once he’d been old enough.

My heart ceased beating at the next paragraph. “In exchange for a sacred Tear of the Virgin Mary, the Earl and Countess of Montfort do hereby pledge to fulfill the Ancient Vow of Hannah. They promise to give their firstborn child back to God for a life of service to Him upon the child’s eighteenth year of life. The child will enter the Ashby Convent for a life of celibacy and devotion to God.”

I could only stare at the words, uncomprehending, but somehow knowing that this was the fate that had drawn me to
my mother’s chamber. This was the news that my mother had been trying to tell me upon her deathbed.

I let the parchment slip from my fingers. It fell into my lap, rolling up with a finality that snapped through my body.

“No,” I whispered into the empty room. “There must be some mistake.” I knew my parents had been unable to conceive a child for many years. They’d told me I was a miracle baby, that I was special, that God had blessed them with me.

But they’d never once mentioned that I’d have to live in the convent when I turned eighteen. My mind reeled at the thought of returning to the convent and having to remain forever. One week had been difficult enough. How could I stand having to live there the rest of my earthly life?

A frantic need to find some explanation or a reversal to the vow swept through me. With shaking hands, I emptied the secret compartment, strewing the contents onto the floor. Then I tossed my mother’s garments out of the chest, searching for another parchment or for anything that could nullify the vow my parents had taken. I ransacked the cabinets, emptied another trunk of clothes, dumped a small chest on the dressing table. I even checked under the bed and mattress.

I found nothing.

Surely if their vow had meant something, they would have told me about it by now. After all, they’d had fourteen years to share the news with me — if they’d planned on telling me at all.

The vow.
My mother’s soft, dying words swirled around me like a ghost.
The vow. The vow. The vow.
The chant grew louder and louder, clanging through my head until it was all I heard.

I wanted to run from the room, lock myself in my chambers, and hide under my coverlet. I needed to get away from the inevitable truth, the truth that my mother had tried to tell me about the vow. Yet, even as I longed to escape, I knew there was nowhere I could run. The vow would pursue me everywhere.

My legs felt as weak and wobbly as those of a newborn foal. I crumpled to the floor and buried my face in my hands.

A rap on the door was followed by a creak and slow, measured footsteps.

I didn’t have to look up to know who those steps belonged to.

“Lady Rosemarie?” came the abbot’s voice.

“There she is, Father Abbot.” My old guard Bartholomew shuffled into the room, raising his torch so that the light rained upon me.

“My child,” the abbot said. “Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”

I had no doubt I looked as wretched as I felt.

He crossed to me and lowered himself onto one knee. “Lady Rosemarie, you must tell me what is wrong.”

At the anxiety in his tone, I lifted the rolled parchment.

He took it, smoothed it out, and gave it the briefest of glances before letting the parchment roll back together. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His actions and silence told me all I needed to know: The vow was real. There was no mistake.