A Knight's Vow

by Lynn Kurland

  But how she wanted that. She wanted it with all her heart and soul.

  She had read the romances of The Castellan of Coucy and Aucassin and Nicolette. In the latter, Nicolette, a captive maiden without lands, falls in love with the son of a noble-man. She was imprisoned, but finally escaped with her love and joined him in many adventures. She even traveled as a minstrel in her efforts to rejoin him when they were separated again.

  Could it not be the other away around? Could not the daughter of a nobleman run off with a minstrel? Or was love just a fancy, told by minstrels and jongleurs to entertain? She had seen little happiness between her parents and had wondered whether true love existed. She had hoped, but never believed. She'd certainly never expected it.

  Now, as she looked in the minstrel's eyes, she realized it did exist. Three days, and her world had changed. And having tasted it, she must let it go. She would have memories though. And that was more than she had thought to have.

  "I cannot go," she said again, trying to convince herself as much as him. She tried a smile. "I expect you will find a position soon. There is an estate a day's ride from here. I heard some soldiers talking. There is a hunting party. They will be in need of minstrels."

  "You want me to go?"

  "No. But I cannot continue to… disappear, and you are at risk here."

  "I can go to Clenden."

  Her throat grew tight and horror ran through her, cooling the warmth that was like warm molasses. Robin would discover who she was. He would think she had played him for a fool; or worse, he would say something to someone.

  "Everyone is leaving," she said, trying to make her voice indifferent. "There is no longer a need for minstrels."

  He raised an eyebrow. The left side of those crooked lips twisted upward. "You know this?" he stated quizzically.

  "Everyone knows."

  "I hear there is going to be a wedding. The oldest daughter. Surely there would be a need for more musicians. Unless," he added, "you think I am not accomplished enough."

  She felt herself pale. Had her father already broadcast news? Or had Robert? He had been sure enough of himself. If such gossip had already spread, then…

  Her silence seemed to tell him what he asked. He gave her a rare wry smile. "You do not think I can sing."

  "No," she said, "but I was told… the wedding is months away. There is no… need."

  Duncan watched her carefully. She was lying. He could see it in the way her face had paled. Her gaze wouldn't meet his. But why?

  He stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. She was obviously trying to rid herself of him. And yet her eyes sent a different message altogether. There was fear, confusion. Need. Yearning. The kind of yearning—he suspected—that echoed in him. He had more than thirty years and he'd never felt like this before. He had the terrible feeling that he never would again.

  Was there indeed only one true mate for every man?

  He could just grab her and carry her away. But there would be no honor in that. Not even love. Might never overcame that particular emotion. It was the one, he speculated, that had to be returned in full measure. It could not be forced.

  He stepped away from her. He took his lute from his pack and strummed a song that she had taught him. Had it sounded this sad before? He thought not. He sought a way to keep her with him. "If you believe me still so ill-prepared, will you teach me more songs?"

  Her gaze met his. "One more lesson. Will you then leave?"

  "Is that your wish?"

  "Yes," she said defiantly, chin high. And yet it trembled slightly. She really was a very poor liar. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, yet something was keeping her from admitting it.

  But he knew he would learn nothing else by direct questions. If he continued with them, he feared he would never see her again. So he merely nodded and said, "I am grateful."

  She suddenly smiled, a relieved and spontaneous smile. No more personal questions. No more questions she couldn't answer. What was she hiding? A secret deeper than his own? "It is easy to teach you anything," she said. "You have a talent."

  "You do not have to leave soon?"

  "Not until noon."

  "You have a lenient master. Or father." He was probing again, but she merely smiled.

  "I did not bring my own lute," she said.

  He went back to her and gave her his. Her hands ran over the strings. "This is very fine," she said. "You said a friend gave it to you?"

  "Aye. A Welshman."

  Her eyes questioned him. Wales was known for its wildness. And the wildness of its people.

  When he did not elaborate, she strummed the strings and sang a song of a love that could not be. One lover died, then the other killed herself.

  "That is not very cheerful," he noted.

  Her eyes, when she looked up at him, were wistful. "Do you believe people die for love? Or is it a myth?"

  He had always scoffed at the thought before, but now…

  "I would not know, mistress."

  "Have you ever loved anyone?" Her eyes studied him as her fingers continued to play the lute.

  "Yes," he said.

  "And you left her?"

  "No."

  Frustration crept into her eyes. "Will you tell me about her."

  "I do not know much about her," he said. "She appears as if by magic and leaves the same way."

  Surprise crossed her face, then it slowly reddened. "You must not jest that way."

  "I do not jest, mistress. I have already asked you to go away with me."

  "But you never said where, sir. You seem to enjoy your… freedom."

  "My home is south of here. It is modest enough."

  "You have never been wed?"

  "I have been fighting these last ten years, some of them on the continent. There was no time for love."

  She placed the lute next to her and touched his scar again, her fingers running over the ridges. "How did this happen?"

  "Carelessness."

  "I do not like to think of you being hurt." The feeling in her voice made him ache almost unbearably. There had been few people who cared about his health.

  "It was nothing."

  She took one of his hands in hers and studied it, the calluses formed by years of using a sword. Training. Killing. By the saints he was weary of it all. He wanted peace. And this woman represented peace.

  He needed that. Most of all, he knew, he needed her. He did not care about her position or her rank. She had a tranquillity that would win over whoever she met. Even Henry. He had fought ten years for the Tudors. The king could not deny him this. But then he knew the king's fury when someone defied his wishes. He'd wanted a wife for Duncan, but he'd wanted one that would solidify his power. He'd wanted a valuable alliance.

  If Henry opposed a marriage to a commoner, then he might well lose his estates and be forced into exile once again.

  But did she want him? Did she feel the same?

  If he had to leave England, would she leave her country, her family? Was it even fair to declare his intentions and ask before making sure of his position with Henry?

  Her eyes seemed to say so, but did she… want him enough, love him enough to risk everything for him? Were the minstrels and jongleurs right? Was there such a thing as mutual love?

  His hand went up to her face again, touching it with infinite tenderness. His fingers explored her face, seeking to know her thoughts, her very soul. Who was she, this maid of the forest? A siren who could change a man's path and fill him with a longing that he'd never known before?

  Her eyes widened, then seemed to plead with him. Wide and wondering and full of mystery.

  The air between them was expectant with questions unanswered and yet neither was ready to shatter the magic that had wrapped around them. There was a silent intensity, a rare understanding that he knew would vanish if he questioned any longer.

  Duncan leaned down and kissed her again. It was a mistake. The kiss became hungry, desperate, her lips as ea
ger and needy as his. He tried to smother the growing ache in himself, to hide his agonizing need, but he could not, especially not as her body leaned against his, all the hesitant shyness fading.

  His hands touched her back and moved with seductive practice. He felt her tremble again, then his kiss deepened and the fire between them ignited once more, this time with an appetite and greed he could no longer control. And, he knew instantly, neither could she.

  An elemental force bound them now, and it was impossible to contain.

  Even had he wanted to.

  His hands moved up and down her back, causing her body to move into his, and his lips broke away from hers and went to the nape of her neck. He nuzzled it, feeling every movement of her body as it reacted to his hands, to his mouth. His body was responding in the same elemental manner, growing hard under his garments.

  She cried out and his mouth moved from the back of her neck to her lips again, claiming them with a raw need while one hand played with the back of her neck, fingers running over her skin with breeze-light teasing. Hunger was nuanced. Needy yet almost achingly gentle. His fingers went to the ties of her gown and were fumbling with them when he heard the first noise behind him. He heard a profanity, footsteps rushing at him, and then there was pain.

  And darkness.

  seven

  The men appeared so suddenly and the blow fell so unexpectedly, Lynet could not react quickly enough. A scream died in her throat as her minstrel fell over. She barely reacted swiftly enough to stop the blade that was about to drop on him.

  She threw herself over him. "No," she said.

  Robert, the Earl of Kellum, stared at her, then lowered the sword. "We heard you cry out." He looked at the prostrate form on the ground. "I'll kill him."

  "Nay," she said. "He was not attacking me. He has done nothing." Her hands touched the bleeding wound on his head from the blow of a mailed fist.

  "Who is he?" Kellum demanded, his facial expression full of disbelief.

  "An honest man—a soldier—who has done no harm to anyone," she said, knowing as she did that she was destroying herself and quite possibly her father. But she could not let Robin be killed for her own careless actions.

  "Your father told me you were a virgin, a woman above reproach," Kellum said with disgust. "And I find you rolling in the grass with a… commoner." He had put his dirk in its sheath, but his hand was still on its hilt, and she could see he was barely controlling his rage. She had not yet accepted him, and still he was acting the betrayed husband. His brown eyes were dark with fury, his lips bent with contempt.

  She had no excuses to make. Her gown was half off, her hair laced with leaves, and she knew her lips were swollen. Any excuse she might attempt would place blame on Robin and most certainly bring about his death.

  "There is no blame but my own," she said as she stood, positioning herself over the unconscious minstrel.

  His eyes bore into her. "I will leave in the morrow," he said. "My offer, of course, no longer stands. Even your marriage portion could not… make marriage palatable with a…"

  He stopped himself with obvious effort, but he did not have to finish. Five men, including one of her other suitors, stood watching with varying expressions on their faces.

  Lord Manfield stepped up, his eyes sympathetic. He was, she knew, the one her sister wanted. And if his eyes were any test of the soul, he wanted her sister too. He knelt next to Robin. "Not a fatal blow," he said.

  "He must be the trespasser we've been seeking," Kellum said. "A poacher, most likely. We will take him back to Clenden. Her father can decide his fate."

  Lynet looked down at her minstrel. The bleeding had stopped, but he had not moved. Her father would be furious, but he was a fair man. He would not seek the man's death for her own indiscretion. It meant, though, that her father would send her to a convent. He would have no choice. She'd disgraced the family name.

  The thought of never seeing Robin again was devastating. She'd hoped she could avoid a loveless marriage. She'd preferred a tranquil life either at home or in a convent. But that was before she'd known the joy—the exquisite pleasure—of being with Robin. Before irresistible urges had occurred inside her body. The sensations lingered. New and intoxicating and wonderful.

  But dangerous. Very dangerous feelings for someone like her. And Robin.

  "Let him go," she said.

  "Nay, my lady. I think not. Your father should be made aware of your… conduct. And this… knave's. I believe Lord Clenden would want to know this man has been skulking around, seducing his daughter."

  She stood tall. Her eyes met his. "The man is twice the man you are, Robert. He did not avoid the king's service."

  The slur appeared not to bother him. "It depends which king you are talking about, my lady. Is he York? Or Lancaster?"

  A trap. She knew it instantly. He could use her answer against her. And her father.

  Manfield faced Kellum. "Enough," he said. "This man needs care. And I do not care for your attitude toward Lady Lynet. She has not accepted you. She owes you nothing."

  Gratitude surged through her. Her sister was fortunate.

  "Thank you," she said.

  His face softened. "One cannot choose whom they love," he said, his glance going to Kellum, then returning to the man still lying on the ground. "And often for good reason. But I do think it wise to take this man to Clenden. He needs attention."

  Kellum granted with disgust. He kicked away the lute on the ground, and Lynet reached down to rescue it. It was obviously Robin's only possession of any value.

  Robin moved slightly and groaned.

  Kellum signaled for the accompanying men in arms to take him, but Manfield pushed them aside and stooped down again. He shook the minstrel once, then twice. Another slight groan but his eyes did not open. He turned to Lynet. "What is his name?"

  "Robin."

  Kellum's eyes narrowed. "Robin what?"

  Lynet could not answer, and the silence was damning. Not only was she cavorting with a commoner, she did not even know his full name.

  "Mayhap our host can solve this mystery at Clenden," Kellum said. "I for one do not intend to waste more time there. Do as you wish." He strode away toward the trees and then and only then, did Lynet see the horses there. How could they both have missed the approaching horses and men?

  Then she remembered that magical moment when nothing existed in the world but Robin and herself, and the feelings flooding them. How could that have happened?

  She heard Kellum riding away, two men with him. Waiting with her was Manfield, the Clenden huntsman and one of Clenden's retainers. Both were looking at her with concern. Both were friends. But even through the concern, she couldn't help see their shock.

  Her conduct had been outrageous.

  But mayhap she could convince them to take them into the village.

  Manfield seemed to read her mind. "Kellum will be telling his version, my lady. You should be there to tell your father your own."

  Lynet's fingers touched Robin's face, then his thick hair. What would be best? All she wanted was to make him safe. To protect him. It was a strange feeling and one she doubted he would appreciate. There had been such assuredness to him. Confidence. Even an odd grace that seemed to belie what he was.

  Would he be better in the village? But there was no physician, certainly none as competent as her own two hands. Why did he not wake? Or his eyes open? If they took him to the village, he may or may not receive the care he needed. And her father would still find him. "We will take him to Clenden," she said.

  It took two men to put him on a horse. She took his lute and mounted her own mare as he was secured to the heavy saddle.

  They turned toward Clenden. Her heart pounded as she realized what she would face. And Robin. But nothing mattered if he lived. And her own memories would sustain her. They would have to.

  Duncan woke in a dark, damp place. His head seemed to explode. His eyes could barely make out the ridges of the stone wa
lls through a small piece of light filtering in through a window.

  As he moved, pain rolled over him like thunder during a storm. He tried to stand but his legs would not hold him. He touched his cheek and felt the stiffness of new bristle and the sticky moisture of seeping blood.

  He tried to remember the last hours. Then panic seized him. And fear.

  He didn't know where he was.

  More importantly, he could not remember how he got here.

  Lynet had never seen such disappointment, such grief touch her father's face. Even worse was the bewilderment. How could his daughter do something like this?

  Her mother's countenance was, as always, cold. But Lynet saw the glitter of rage there.

  "You will go to Holy Cross Convent at Wyckford tomorrow," she said. "You have ruined this family. You have destroyed your sisters' futures. You may even have sentenced your father to death. He needed the good favor of the Lancasters. Now we have no hope of it."

  Lynet ignored her mother. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had touched her or sung a lullaby to her or showed any interest other than disdain. Lynet had always felt she was a threat to her mother's beauty, to her eternal quest for youth. And she knew her mother had wanted sons, not daughters. The three of them represented failure.

  "I want to know that he will be tended, then set free with his belongings," she said.

  "He seduced you," her father thundered. "I can have him hanged for poaching, for… touching you."

  "I am still a virgin, Father. And he did nothing I did not want," Lynet said. "I would tell a court that."

  "Not if he does not live," her mother said. "No one will blame us if… he dies of his injuries."

  Lynet knew her father had the power of life and death, and now the anger to use it. She did not recognize the fond, indulgent parent she had loved.

  "I will do anything…"

  "You can do nothing now, Daughter," her father said. "Kellum and Wickham have left, and no doubt will spread this tale throughout England. Manfield has not, but he has asked for your sister's hand. Ordinarily I would refuse until you were wed, but now… I must admire the young man for his offer at this time."