Vow of Deception (9 page)

A sigh escaped Rose, her eyes damp with unshed tears. It was just another dream. Beads of sweat coated her face and chest, making her shiver. Rose crept slowly from the bed so as not to wake Alison and moved to the washstand, where she splashed cold water on herself to rinse off the perspiration. With a clean linen towel she dried off, rubbing her face briskly to try to erase the lingering remnants of her dream.

That night of her wedding was just the beginning of one humiliation after another she'd endured at the hands of her husband. Later, she learned she was so physically repugnant to him that he could bed her only with the titillation of having his mistress or cousin observe them. Behind the tapestry was a squint in the wall for the lord of the castle to peer into the chapel to observe Mass in privacy. But Bertram had corrupted it for his perverse lecherous proclivities.

With time the memories had faded, but with her upcoming marriage her nightmares were becoming more vivid. Rand had sworn to her he would not expect her to share a bed with him as man and wife, but what real guarantee did she have? Once they were married, as her husband he could demand anything of her and she would have no recourse to deny him.

But first he must defeat Sir Golan in the lists. Rose shuddered at the thought of what would happen should Sir Golan win the joust competition. She returned to the bed, got down on her knees, folded her hands before her, and began to pray fervently that Rand would prevail this day.

 

Rose, Kat, and Lady Alison strolled among the makeshift booths set up south of the Abbey Almonry. Next to the practice field where the lists were situated, wooden stands had been hastily erected over the last two days. Rose was distracted, unable to enjoy various festive entertainments and merchant offerings. The joust between Rand and Sir Golan would be the last of the day and would be celebrated later that evening with a grand feast.

In front of a booth protected from the elements by a black-and gold-striped tent, Kat and Alison were looking at some brightly hued scarves spread out on a board. Kat chose a sheer yellow silk scarf with blue embroidered roses on it. As Kat paid the mercer for her scarf, Rose gazed north past the lists where twenty-some-odd competitors' pavilions were erected. Banners and pennons flew from the top of the various round-and rectangular-shaped tents. She spotted Rand's banner, a golden lion rampant on an azure background, waving in the brisk breeze.

When Rose turned back, she caught Kat staring at her with a speculative look in her eyes. But Kat did not say a word. She smiled, wrapped the scarf around Rose's neck, and tied it loosely over the dark blue cloak she wore.

“Kat, 'tis a lovely scarf, but I cannot accept your gift.” She touched the delicately woven silk.

“Of course you can. Every lady has to have a favor to grant the knight of her choice so he may proudly display it during battle.”

“I had not intended giving anyone my favor.”

“I know. Why do you think I gave it to you? When Rand requests a token, surely you do not wish to embarrass him by denying him?”

Alison sighed and clapped her hands before her chest in girlish infatuation. “Aye, my lady. Sir Rand is so handsome and gallant and brave. You cannot deny him your favor.”

Rose rolled her eyes and answered Kat. “What makes you think Rand will even ask me for one? He is marrying me only because of the loyalty he feels toward my family.”

“Because I know my cousin very well. He shall ask for your favor, and you must be prepared to accept.” Kat cocked her head and stared at Rose. A teasing light flared in her silver-gray gaze. “And to prove that I am right, how about we make things interesting by wagering on it?”

A bloom of caution unfurled in Rose's chest. “A wager? What kind?” When Kat's eyes glowed with mischief, as now, Rose knew to be wary—very wary.

“I am willing to wager that if Rand does not request your favor, I shall kiss a mule's arse before a crowd of spectators. But if Rand does, then you must—”

“Aye? If you are correct, I must what?”

“Then you shall have to kiss Rand before the crowd when you bestow him the scarf as a token.”

 

Rand sat on a bark-denuded portable tree stump outside his round pavilion sharpening his dagger on a whetstone. His nostrils flared at the scent of wood smoke emanating from a number of lit fires in the makeshift encampment. The unusually hot weather had broken and been replaced with a cool, crisp autumnal day.

The whetstone in his left hand, Rand scraped the blade at an angle over the coarse, dusky yellow sandstone. He did it twice, then turned the dagger over and repeated the process on the other edge of the blade. By rote, he sharpened the blade, as his thoughts returned to Rose and the upcoming joust.

Sitting beside him, Will, his squire, polished Rand's gauntlets with a pumice powder and wet cloth. When the youth had both gloves done, he buffed them thoroughly with a dry cloth. A dark-haired knight shouted a greeting as he passed the tent. Rand had accompanied him on a couple of missions for the king.

On the ground nearby lay three sturdy lances, having been thoroughly checked by his squire for strength and durability. It would not do for a defect or weakness in the wood of the lance to be discovered. Should a lance break too easily upon impact with his opponent's shield, it could spell injury or even death for Rand. Rand would not—nay, could not—allow Rose to be left to the not so tender mercies of Sir Golan. Her very life, Rand was sure, depended on him defeating the vengeful knight.

Sir Justin approached the tent, leading Leviathan by the reins. “'Tis one more joust before your match, Rand.”

Rand stood up, tucked his dagger in the sheath at his waist, and took the gauntlets Will handed him. He moved to Sir Justin, who passed him the reins.

Shifting his gloves to the hand that held his mount's reins, Rand patted Leviathan's neck with his right hand and spoke softly. “Well, my friend, I have placed my faith in you numerous times in the past, and I know you shan't fail me now.”

Leviathan dipped his head and shoved his nose against Rand's chest, snorting a snuffling sound of puffed air from his muzzle. “Good boy.” Rand stroked his horse's neck beneath its black mane. “Let us go show Sir Golan what happens when he crosses me, so he never forgets whom he is dealing with.”

In the raised wooden stands overlooking the lists, Rose, with Kat and Lady Alison by her side, sat to the left of Queen Eleanor. Lord and Lady Briand sat next to the king. A great purple silk canopy with golden fringe shaded the party.

Kat leaned over and whispered, “Rose, the next joust shall be Rand and Sir Golan. Don't forget our wager. If Rand requests your favor for the joust you must kiss him for all to see. 'Tis too late to turn back now.”

Rose plucked her skirt, cursing herself for letting Kat goad her into that ridiculous wager. She did not like bringing attention to herself. The mood of the crowd grew more volatile as the main event approached.

Rose returned her attention to the joust in progress.

Alex and Rose's cousin, William de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, couched their lances as they charged forward. Their destriers' hooves pounded loudly, churning up dirt. With a sudden spurt of speed at the last moment, the two mounted warriors met with a resounding clash. Lord Warwick's lance blow was a direct hit to the younger lord's shield. Lord Lincoln jolted backward, then slowly slid to the side of his mount before falling to the ground.

The crowd in the stands roared with excitement. The tournament herald announced Lord Warwick the winner of the joust. But the main draw of the competition anxiously anticipated by everyone came next. Rose tried to relax her tense shoulders, her eyes fixed on the entrance to the lists. Rand entered first, followed by Golan. A second roar rose from the crowd.

Rand wore over his hauberk a surcoate emblazoned with his coat of arms. Leviathan was caparisoned in the same bold colors. Golan also wore his coat of arms: black and white chevron, or checked pattern, quartered by a white cross.

Rand reined in Leviathan, and Golan proceeded to the far side of the field.

The herald read a list of great feats and the rank of first Rand and then his opponent. All the accolades were announced and pageantry was performed according to the joust rules. The crowd grew suddenly silent as Rand approached Rose in the stands.

Sidling up to the railing, he bowed at his waist before her. “Lady Ayleston, will you do me the great honor of bestowing upon me a token of your esteem so I might do battle in your honor this day?”

Rose felt her face brighten in consternation and embarrassment. Her pulse beat at the base of her throat.

She had little choice but to honor his gallant request, not only because of the wager, but because she refused to dishonor him before the crowd. Sir Golan watched the spectacle with a fierce glare. She perceived the evil menace in his stance, and even in this crowd, it threatened to suffocate her.

She gulped, drawing deep breaths into her chest. Rand shifted in his saddle at her silence. Gray-green eyes dimmed, and his broad smile slipped infinitesimally. She got up from her cushioned seat and stepped down to where Rand waited on his destrier.

After removing the scarf from her neck, Rose leaned over the railing and knotted the silk material around his upper arm. She looked back at Kat nervously. Her friend gave her an encouraging smile.

Rose leaned closer to Rand; his eyes widened.

A shiver raced down her spine as his intense regard held hers with a heat that scorched them both. She pressed her lips to his smooth cheek. The sensation of warmth penetrated her lips and his pleasant scent filled her nose. Gasping, she jerked back in shock.

A jolt of heat speared Rand. He touched his cheek briefly where Rose's soft lips had ventured. She appeared surprised. But surprise could barely begin to describe what Rand felt at that moment. Wonder and amazement beat in his breast. He tried to tame it, without success.

Rand bowed again. “Thank you, my lady. I shall wear your token with pride and honor.” Then he turned Leviathan around and returned to where his squire awaited him.

“Your shield and helm, my lord.”

Rand pulled on his metal helm first, tied the laces to his hauberk, and then slipped his left arm through the braces of his leather-covered wooden shield. The first horn blew, calling the participants to take their initial positions. The spectators cheered. Rand maneuvered Leviathan into position, reached down and took his lance from Will. He tested the weight and balance, and, deeming it perfect, tucked it under his arm.

Silence reigned over the crowd, the only noise the jangle of horse tack as their restive destriers shifted in anticipation. Rand stared at Sir Golan in fierce concentration.

He could not let Rose down. She was counting on him to rescue her from a life of servitude and humiliation as Golan's wife.

The horn blared, and Rand spurred his mount. Leviathan shot out, and Rand lowered his lance and couched it next to his chest. Hooves pounded. The crowd roared. Golan came closer and closer, racing toward Rand on the left. The blunted tip of Rand's lance smashed into Golan's shield, and at the same moment Rand absorbed Golan's lance blow. Rand jerked back, pain vibrating through his shield arm at contact. He turned around and made his way back to his station.

In that first round, neither gained an advantage, each scoring a point. Two more rounds remained. Before the next one could commence, though, a commotion broke out behind Rand. He spun around on Leviathan and stared in horror as flames curled up the wall of a large pavilion, a billow of smoke rising above it.

Inside the tent, a horse screeched with fear. A squire, heedless of his safety, ran into the burning pavilion. Rand jerked his reins. Leviathan sidestepped nervously, kicking up his forelegs. The spectators in the stands scrambled from their seats. Several charged toward the fire while others sought to flee from the threat. But Rand was oblivious. His heart seized in fright as he was plunged back to the day of the stable fire, when he'd rushed into the building and tried to save his horse.

 

Flames all around him, Rand charged toward Caesar's stall near the back. He swung his hand before his face, dispersing the smoke impeding his vision. His eyes stung, but he did not turn back. Then, suddenly, he tripped over a large bulk on the floor. Lunging headfirst, he landed with his hands outstretched, scraping his knees. He looked back, and upon seeing the giant stable master's eyes open wide in death, he yelped. His heart thundered in his chest.

Puny little brat, you are a disappointment to the Montague lineage,
his father's voice echoed accusingly in his ears. “Nay!” he shouted in denial. Determination to prove to his father he was not weak and ineffectual imbued him with steely resolve.

Groaning in pain, he lurched to his feet and continued. As he approached Caesar's stall, he noticed the fire enveloped the entire back of the building and crawled across the ceiling beams. The left divider wall of the stall and one wooden column were ablaze. Caesar reared up slamming against the other wooden divider in an attempt to avoid the blaze. His large dark brown eyes rolled back in fright.

Overhead, timbers groaned heavily. The intense heat and thick black smoke seized Rand's lungs. He choked, falling to his knees. He coughed uncontrollably. Time was running out; he needed to retrieve Caesar and get out of there quickly, before the ceiling collapsed. With his last ounce of strength, he pulled himself up by the stall door and flung it open.

Rand entered the neighboring stall and slapped Caesar on the hindquarters. The panicked palfrey shot out of the stall and toward the stable exit.

“Rand?! Where are you?! Can you hear me?! Rand?!” A shrill feminine voice called out.

Rand heard his mother's shout a moment before she appeared through the smoke.

“Mother, get out of here! The ceiling is about to collapse!”

Holding a handkerchief over her nose, she held out her hand. “I am not leaving without you, son! I refuse to lose another child!”

Stricken with guilt, for she did not know the truth of his cowardice when he'd let his sister drown, Rand grabbed her hand and they turned as one.

There was a sudden booming clap. Rand looked up. A beam above them plummeted straight down. He shoved his mother toward the entrance a moment before a heavy, crushing pain seared his back. As he was pinned beneath the burning beam, bright white pain struck him and his world went black.

He woke, choking. The section of the beam lying on his back was no longer aflame. Wheezing, his mother dipped a bucket into a nearby barrel of water. She hurried back and tossed the contents on the fiery beam, extinguishing it. Then she bent down and tugged on the heavy timber. He blinked, his wet hair straggling in his eyes.

His mother's ethereal, frightened countenance blurred before him.

“Mother, I pray you, go, save yourself,” he begged, his voice weak and thready. “The beam is too heavy. You cannot lift it. 'Tis hopeless.”

Staring down at the beam, a sharp V etched between her blond eyebrows, his mother concentrated on lifting and tugging the beam off him. At his words, her head suddenly shot up. She stared into his eyes, her soft hazel gaze darkening with conviction. “Naught is ever hopeless, my darling boy. Do not
ever
believe otherwise. Do you promise me?”

Knowing better than to disagree with his mother, Rand croaked out, “I promise, Mama.” He bravely gulped down tears in the back of his throat.

She nodded her approval and gripped the beam again. Grunting and straining, her breath harsh, she gave a mighty heave. A long, torturous groan expelled from her throat. The beam shifted. But she lost her grip and stumbled backward.

Another thunderous crack rumbled above them. Several more beams came crashing down. He yelled hoarsely, “Mother, run!” and then a paroxysm of coughs overtook him.

The beams missed her, but her body jerked up short. She twisted around. A heavy beam trapped her long, trailing velvet skirt, flames catching it ablaze.

She screeched, batting at the flames with her hands.

“Mother, jerk your skirts free and douse yourself in the water barrel.”

But the fire jumped and spread to her lower back. The long end of her braid caught aflame.

His heart beat in his throat and his eyes grew wide in terror as her screams rent the air. Rand struggled beneath the beam, desperate to escape and help his mother, but it was useless.

As she frenziedly twisted and turned, the fabric finally tugged free. In panic, though, she ran instead of dousing the fire. Her whole skirt was ablaze, and soon the flames engulfed her head. Rand wailed, watching as she crumpled to the ground and writhed in agony as the fire consumed her.

“Naaay, Mother!” His cry ended on a hoarse croak.

Blessedly, a great agonizing pain seized his back and blackness descended on him.

 

“Rand, are you coming to put out the fire?”

Rand started, and stared at Justin. The knight gazed at him oddly.

Disoriented, Rand glanced around. Only moments had passed. The crowd was running in all directions in panic, and cries of fright filled the air. Having dismounted Leviathan without realizing it, Rand clutched the destrier's reins in his white-knuckled grip and sweat beaded his brow. His shield, gauntlets, and helm were on the ground beside him.

Where is Rose?
He searched for her in the crowd. The king was calmly assisting the queen and the rest of the royal party from the stands. Rose was not among them.

His heart fluttered in panic. Rand swung his head this way and that, searching the chaos. People ran with buckets of water from the Abbey Almonry to put out the fire. Merchants were loading their wares in carts in case the fire spread. At a booth not far from the stands, a group of women were collecting linen for bandages, one of whom wore a wimple and veil headdress.

Rose stared at him, but he was unable to read her expression. Rand shuddered in relief.

“My lord?” Justin queried.

His gaze jerked back to his friend. “Aye, Justin, I shall be right behind you,” he said gruffly, embarrassed. He prayed his friend did not guess at the secret depths of his fear of fire.

Justin hesitated, then nodded and headed for the tents. Rand threw back his shoulders and followed Justin. By the time he reached the burning tent, a fire line had formed. He joined in next to Justin about a third of the way down the line.

He gritted his teeth as bursts of flame shot into the air. Ignoring the heat blasting his face, Rand passed the buckets down the row. Sweat trailed down his temple and his heart pounded.

While the fire distracted everyone and the crowd dispersed, a dark-clothed man waited till the lists were deserted. He quickly switched Sir Rand's lance with one made of a piece of defective ash. The exchange happened in moments, with none the wiser. The outlaw Golan had hired returned to the tents and joined the men in the fire line.

When the fire was extinguished, Rand handed the bucket to a liveried page as King Edward approached Rand. A fierce frown marred the king's face. Could the king have seen him freeze with fear in the lists when he'd first spied the fire? Rand braced himself, expecting the king's reproach for his cowardice.

“Well done, Rand. The fire could have caused great harm if it had spread. 'Tis a miracle no one was hurt.”

Rand breathed an inward sigh of relief and wiped his moist brow with the sleeve of his surcoate. “Aye, Sire. We are blessed indeed. I wonder what could have started it, though?” His gaze shifted to Sir Golan, standing not far away. The man's hard, menacing glare did not shift or waver.

Hands on hips, Edward nodded to a nearby fire, which was now sputtering from the recent dousing. “Probably a spark from that fire. It is somewhat gusty today.”

“Aye. No doubt you're right.”

Edward turned and addressed Sir Golan. “Come, Sir Golan. Now that the fire is put out, the joust shall proceed.”

Rand looked over and saw Rose examining the back of a young man's hand for burns. She glanced up at Rand, her gaze worried. Rand lifted his hand to half-staff to assure Rose he was unharmed. She looked away swiftly. He dropped his hand, feeling like a fool. Of course, her concern was not directed toward him specifically. She was a healer and never liked to see either man or beast injured or hurt. To believe she had special feelings for him was to head down a path that could only end up hurting them both.