The Circle Of A Promise

by Helen A Rosburg

  Even Trey seemed affected by his mistress’s mood. His long tail slowed its rhythmic swing and finally drooped between his legs as he padded slowly up the stone steps after Mara.

  The tension was almost more than William could bear. Had he been a fool, after all, to think his plan might work? So many things could go wrong. The timing, for instance, had to be perfect.

  The stable was quiet The animals had been fed and bedded for the night. William listened a minute longer to be sure, and crept from the empty stall where he had spent the day in hiding. A glance out the door at the sun’s angle, low on the horizon, told him what he needed to know. He had to make his move now.

  William sauntered across the castle grounds with his head low, arms swinging loosely at his sides, attitude relaxed and nonchalant. It was a good act, although daggers of apprehension stabbed him with every step. What if the earl was late? What if he disregarded the message, laughed at the plan, and had decided not to come at all? The Earl of Cumbria was unpredictable at best. What had made William think such an impulsive act had a chance of success?

  Greed. He had no hesitation admitting it to himself. As unstable as his lord might be, the man was usually generous with those who pleased him. Vanquishing Ranulf of Ullswater would please the earl very much indeed.

  If the earl failed him, however, he’d be a dead man. William had little choice but to go ahead with his scheme, though.

  No one paid him any heed. William slipped inside the gate tower unnoticed. He closed the door behind him with one hand and, with the other, pulled the dagger from beneath his tunic.

  The anticipation of action and the comfortable feel of the weapon in his hand replaced his anxiety. He’d always been partial to the stealthy use of small, sharp blades, and the trace of a smile touched William’s mouth as he crept silently up the spiraling stone stairs.

  Preparations for the evening meal were supervised by Beatrice. Following a sharp discussion with the cook, she ordered the trestle tables and benches moved from their positions against the long wall and into the center of the room. She made sure Ranulf’s cup of ale was full, and turned her attention to the arrangement of some lilies from her garden. Her favorite hour of the day had arrived, and she welcomed it. The day’s tension had taxed her frail strength, but it was over now and they all would be safe.

  Beatrice smiled, her hands on the lily stems. There were so many things to be thankful for, not the least of which would be a tranquil old age spent in the quiet company of the man she had always adored. The only cloud on her horizon had been her daughter’s future happiness, and that now seemed assured. Within a few days Mara would be wed. Happily.

  Lost in her reveries, Beatrice did not notice at first the sun’s last rays as they fell through the tall, glassed windows. Only when the ruby light fell across her lilies, and stained diem red, did she look up with alarm. With a shiver, she recalled the black wings of premonition that had touched her scant days before.

  They enfolded her now, again, cold and dark. A shadow passed over her vision.

  The connection between them was so strong, so true, Ranulf felt his wife’s tension across the long room. He looked up in time to see the blood drain from her face, and had half risen from his chair when several things happened at once.

  Mara entered the hall, Trey at her heels. Her waist-length braids were in disarray. Pale strands, escaped from the braids, clung to the shoulders of her dark green tunic. Her expression was grave, her eyes dark. Suddenly her dog whirled back toward the doorway and gave a short, sharp bark.

  Douglas burst through the door. He was out of breath, cheeks unnaturally flushed beneath his graying beard. “It’s Earl Baldwin,” he gasped, without preamble. “Riding hard. I don’t like the looks of it, m’lord.”

  “How many ride with him?”

  “A score at least.”

  Ranulf didn’t like the sound of it, either. Baldwin was up to something to approach so boldly. It wasn’t his style at all. “Come to the bailey with me, Douglas,” he ordered sharply. “Send another man to the gate tower. One with a crossbow.”

  “Ranulf, what-”

  “I don’t know what, Beatrice. But I shall soon find out” He turned to his daughter. “Stay here with your mother,” he said. And then he was gone.

  It was going to happen. It was all going to happen!

  A curious and familiar elation flowed hotly through William’s veins as he pulled the unsuspecting guard’s head back with his left arm. With his right, he slit the man’s throat. Never a sound. A warm gout of blood gushed over his hand, its brilliant crimson color magically alight in the sun’s failing rays.

  Reluctantly, William let the body drop. It was time to raise the gate. The earl had come!

  The clatter of booted feet on the stone stairs momentarily distracted him from his task, but it didn’t bother William. He could deal with whatever came at him now. Success was within his grasp. With renewed strength, he applied himself to the huge wooden gear that raised the castle gate.

  The ponderous wooden structure groaned in protest. Cries of surprise and alarm arose from the courtyard. William applied himself more diligently.

  And then it was the thunderous clatter of horses’ hooves across the wooden drawbridge that came to William’s ears.

  He stooped to retrieve the fallen guard’s sword. Both hands on the hilt, he held it pointed in front of him and prepared for the men who came charging through the door.

  Ranulf and Douglas stood side by side in the castle courtyard and watched in shocked disbelief as the gate slowly, steadily rumbled upward.

  It couldn’t be happening.

  But it was. And there was only one explanation: treachery from within!

  Ranulf’s flesh turned to ice, and an unfamiliar nausea churned in his belly as he heard Baldwin’s exultant shout of triumph. It was then that he saw him.

  His enemy rode hard on a light gray stallion, galloping over the drawbridge at the head of his men. Ranulf saw his destiny in the mad glint of the man’s pale blue eyes.

  Everything that followed, the last moments of Ranulf’s life, happened in slow motion.

  Almost all his men were posted on the walls, useless lookouts. Ranulf watched as most of them hurried to make their way down into the courtyard, but he knew they would be too late. Too late. Assured of victory, Baldwin rode at the head of his knights, straight in Ranulf’s direction. Though the earl’s short-sword was drawn, he would not strike the killing blow, Ranulf knew, but would leave that messy job for someone else. Someone with a strong arm and a long and heavy blade.

  On foot, before an armed knight astride a war steed in full charge, Ranulf had not the slightest hope of defense or chance for survival. Neither could he turn and run, however. In a chilling flash of knowledge, like the stab of an icicle through his heart, Ranulf realized how his stubborn pride had brought down ruin on them all. He would die in atonement.

  Ranulf pulled his great-sword from its scabbard in time to parry the mounted knight’s first blow, but it rocked him. He wheeled in an attempt to hamstring the charger as it galloped past, but his stroke was ill timed. From the corner of his eye he watched his faithful Douglas unhorse another mounted man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope. It was short-lived.

  His knights were too few, too burdened by their years. He watched as two of his small band were cut down, then another, and another, “till only he and Douglas remained. And the knight who had charged him initially had managed to turn his destrier to come at him again.

  “I have your back!” Douglas shouted.

  “Old friend,” Ranulf murmured under his breath, and turned to face his oncoming foe.

  Then Douglas fell. Ranulf heard the sword that clanged against the knight’s armor. Heard the clatter as Douglas dropped to his knees. He did not have to turn to see the killing blow.

  Barely in time, Ranulf ducked out of the way of the charging warhorse. It was over now. All over. There was but one thing left: to see her beloved face onc
e more. Although it grated against the very core of him, and his soul cried out in protest, Ranulf turned his back on his enemy and ran.

  In single-minded pursuit of his goal, he pounded up the stairs to the great hall. He was oblivious of the sound of metal shod hooves behind him on the steps. His whole attention was on the door in front of him.

  He saw it open.

  Then he saw no more.

  Mara had learned her lesson. Despite every instinct to the contrary, she had obeyed her father and shut the door behind him. One of the serving women whimpered in fear and was silenced sharply by Beatrice. Mara turned to face her mother.

  “If something has happened, if something has gone wrong because of what I did, I.”

  “Hush, child. Don’t say another word.” Beatrice gripped her daughter’s shoulders. “Whatever Baldwin is up to is none of your doing.”

  Still steeped in her guilt, Mara was about to protest when she heard an all too familiar sound. The hair along Trey’s back bristled. “Mother, that. That’s the castle gate. It’s opened!”

  Mara fell silent. Her mother had already moved past her to open the door and let in the last light of the almost perfect spring day. She opened it onto a sight that would haunt Mara to the very last moments of her life.

  Her father, in headlong flight, had nearly reached the top of the stairs. The mounted knight in pursuit had just urged his huge gray stallion onto the bottommost step.

  Frightened, the animal balked. Then its rider brought the flat of his upraised sword down hard on the horse’s flank and, with a startled snort, the stallion gathered its legs and leapt upward. Mara watched, frozen in horror, as one of the horse’s huge forelegs caught her father a glancing blow and knocked him to his knees.

  Like an animal Ranulf was, readied for the sacrifice beneath the descending sword.

  Her mother’s agonized cry went through Mara as cleanly as the blade that stole her father’s life. Helpless, Mara saw her mother fall to her knees in the doorway, arms outstretched.

  Then the rider was upon Beatrice, too. The charging stallion knocked the frail woman aside and into the cold stone wall. She crumpled like a shattered doll.

  Dimly, screams came to Mara’s ears. As she turned, she had an awareness of people scattering, servants fleeing in all directions, running for their lives. She herself had no intention of running. She merely sought a better place to make her stand.

  Without a pause in her stride, Mara pulled the dagger from the silver girdle at her waist and leapt atop the nearest table. When she turned to face the rider, Trey was at her side. As if of a single mind, they hurled themselves at the oncoming knight.

  The man screamed as canine fangs bit deeply into his unprotected thigh. He reacted instinctively and swung at the beast with his blade. The top of Trey’s head was momentarily obscured in a bright spray of red.

  But the attack had given the blond-haired Fury the opening she needed. With a snarl as vicious as her hound’s, she was upon her foe. Again and again she slashed the knight with her dagger. Most of the blows were deflected by his chain mail tunic, but a few scored his neck, and one opened his chin. Maddened, the knight dropped his horse’s reins and swung at his attacker with his free hand. His animal reared, dislodging both struggling humans from his back.

  The last thing Mara remembered was falling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bellingham Castle was far different from Ullswater. It was older, having been built by a long dead Normal lord during the rule of the Conqueror, William of Orange. The days and years of the subjugation of the Anglo-Saxon people had been brutal ones. The Norman king had shown no mercy to the English. The Angles had fought back bitterly.

  As a result, Bellingham’s sole purpose had been defense. It boasted few of the comforts or amenities of Ullswater Castle, and was a great deal smaller. It did not sprawl along a wooded slope down to a picturesque lake, but was perched upon a barren and windy hill. Its only buildings were the castle keep, a modest stone stable- half of which served as kennel and mews-and a high donjon tower.

  It was an imposing structure, nonetheless, and appeared to watch over the surrounding bleak and hilly countryside, and the tidy hamlet at its foot, like the benign guardian that it was. The fields and meadows of its vassal tenants spread around it on three sides like a homey quilt in shades of green. To the northeast lay the Kielder Water-a dark, tree-rimmed lake whose river flowed to the sea.

  The people of the village of Bellingham who served the castle, and who were served by it in return, were happy with the arrangement and pleased in particular with the lord of the manor, the young and handsome Baron Stephen. They had been delighted to hear of his impending marriage, and looked forward to the upcoming festivities. Despite the early hour, therefore, early even for such hardworking people, they had turned out en masse to call out their greetings and wish their lord well on his way.

  Stephen was glad of the predawn darkness that hid his foolish grin. He was a knight, a proven warrior, hereditary baron of Bellingham, and feudal tenant of the king of England. It didn’t seem quite right to feel such boyish elation. Or to be so completely unable to control the expression on his face.

  Yet the respect and affection the people obviously had for him pleased Stephen. And the errand on which he embarked filled him with something more than mere pleasure.

  It didn’t take long to pass through the village. The chargers were fresh and eager to be away on the crisp spring morning. A last thatched cottage on the left, and the knights were on the open and lonely road. It was yet so dark they could not even see the surrounding hills. But the vision in Stephen’s heart was bright before him.

  The turn of events still amazed him. It was like the story an old woman might tell to children by the fireside at night. It was surely not something that happened in real life.

  Yet it had.

  Fresh as the new day, Stephen’s great chestnut war stallion pranced ahead of the other three riders: two of Stephen’s knights, and his ever-present servant, Jack. Now, as if reading his mind, Thomas Strong pulled even with his lord.

  “It all seems almost too good to be true, doesn’t it, my lord?”

  “My very thoughts,” Stephen replied. “I am indeed a fortunate man, as you will soon see.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Your descriptions have been so thorough, I hardly need to see her at all. You have most ably painted her picture.”

  “Still, mere words cannot do her justice.”

  The first pale hints of dawn lightened the gloom, and Stephen was able to make out the angular planes of his friend’s face. He looked directly into Thomas’s wide-set hazel eyes. “I am also most fortunate to have a friend like you. And to have had your assistance in winning over the others.” He glanced back pointedly at Alfred, who rode beside Jack, then shared a knowing look with the other man.

  It hadn’t been easy smoothing the ruffled feathers of the men who had lived the bachelor life with him for so long. No one had wanted the rather pleasant state of things to change. Alfred, in particular, had been difficult; the older man had served Stephen’s father when Stephen was still a lad, and had been leery of such a hasty marriage. He was the knight who’d tried to assist Stephen in choosing a squire, and always espoused caution. Still, while Stephen admired the older knight’s wisdom, he also knew himself to be a good judge of certain things. Just look how Jack had turned out!

  “It was wise to bring Alfred,” Thomas said in an undertone. “The honor has pleased him. And if the lady is all you say-as I am sure she is-she herself will win him more effectively than any words of yours. He, and all the others for that matter, have certainly not been able to deny the political wisdom of this union.”

  Stephen frowned and turned his gaze to the greening hills now visible all around them. Politics. Up until now they had simply been a fact of life to be dealt with whenever necessary. Baldwin of Cumbria, already powerful, sought to increase his wealth and stature. To maintain the balance and curb the rapacious earl,
the merger of Ullswater and Bellingham had been both desirable and necessary. Baldwin could not overcome their combined strength, either on a field of battle or in the king’s court Thus Stephen had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to the match with Ranulf’s daughter.

  That had been the political necessity, and it was now dealt with.

  Thank God, he thought. Thank God Ranulf was an honorable man and loving father. Thank God Baldwin’s offers had not tempted him for a moment, as they might have a lesser man. Stephen shuddered. The thought of Baldwin with his hands on Amarantha was like blasphemy.

  “Something is amiss, my lord?” Thomas was always alert to the moods of his friend. “You look as if you felt a chill wind.”

  “In a manner of speaking, I did. I was thinking of the earl.”

  It was Thomas’s turn to frown. “Never a happy thought. Particularly now. Do you fear he’ll cause trouble?”

  “I know he’ll cause trouble. It’s simply a matter of when and how, and that’s one of the reasons I’ve taken such pains to expedite this marriage. With Mara well away from Ullswater and safely wed to me, the immediate temptation for Baldwin will be removed. Fearing reprisal from me may also make him think twice about any petty vengeance he might wish to visit upon Mara’s father.”

  “So, why the long face?”

  “Because she is not yet wed to me and not yet safely away.” Without further explanation, Stephen kicked his mount into a mile-eating lope.

  The hours passed, the riders alternately cantering and jogging their horses to conserve stamina, and the landscape subtly changed. For the first several miles, the rolling hills were gaily decorated with patches of purple and white headier. Farther on, an occasional stand of trees sprouted from the side or crest of a hill. Eventually, the hills flattened. The trees became windbreaks, then forest.

  Sunlight glinted off of water here and there, and Stephen’s party paused twice, briefly, to refresh both men and mounts. Although they made good time, their pace was still not rapid enough for their leader. A queer sense of foreboding had gradually settled on him throughout the course of the day. It was all Stephen could do to keep from kicking his stallion into a flat out run.