Clara’s Vow
Madeline Martin
Copyright 2021 © Madeline Martin
CLARA’S VOW © 2021 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
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CLARA’S VOW is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Madeline Martin
1
March 1342
Castleton, Scotland
* * *
Clara Fletcher didn’t need anyone to protect her.
If only her family could be convinced.
“The border is dangerous.” Drake paced the room, a sign her usually stoic brother was agitated. “With ye both living on Skye, there willna be Englishmen about to contend with when she goes to the village. Ye’ll no’ have to worry about them coming to the manor.”
“I can handle myself,” Clara said resolutely.
“It isna safe.” Drake frowned with concern.
“And bringing her to Skye where there are violent clan wars is any safer?” Mum’s fair face flushed. “She’s happy here. She’s made a life here. Why would ye uproot us like that?”
A coil of frustration tightened in Clara’s chest. “I’ll be happy anywhere. There’s no need to—”
“Clara will have a chance for a better life at Dunscaith.” Drake’s voice was firm.
Mum put her hands on her hips and huffed a sigh. “We have the manor.”
“’Tis no’ as safe as a castle,” Drake countered.
Anger burned in the back of Clara’s throat. She hated that everyone saw her as helpless, that her future had to be decided for her as if she were incapable of such a feat.
“I can care for myself.” She kept her tone neutral so they wouldn’t detect her malcontent. “I’m fine here where I can—”
“Ye see?” Mum lifted her chin triumphantly. “She wants to stay. We’ll remain here.”
A muscle worked in Drake’s jaw. “Nay.”
“Aye.”
Clara gritted her teeth. She wanted to slam her fists onto the scarred wooden table and scream at them both to stop. Her unending patience had hit its ragged bottom, and there was nothing left to scrape up.
She pushed herself from the bench, strode from the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. No one stopped her. No one so much as bothered to call out. This decision was one they intended to make for her as if she were inept.
The room was quiet, the way it’d been since her younger sister left nearly a year ago. Once, she’d shared the space with both her sisters. In those days, it had been filled with chatter and laughter.
Clara had loved those days.
Her eldest sister, Faye, had forever been trying to style Clara’s hair a certain way or put her in a new kirtle, having long since given up on doing as much with their youngest sister, Kinsey.
There had been disagreements, aye. But there had also been quiet nights where they talked to one another in the darkness. There had been comfort when one of them hurt, and there had been love.
Angry voices rose from the kitchen as Drake and Mum continued to argue Clara’s fate.
“She canna fend for herself,” Drake said.
“She can,” Mum shot back. “She just willna do it. She’s too gentle.”
Clara’s gaze slid to the trunk at the foot of her bed where she kept her daggers. A costly set of ten, all polished and sharpened to a razor’s edge. She could defend herself; her mother was correct. After years of practice, Clara could hit the center of a target every time, no matter the distance.
If she could see it, she would hit her mark.
But Mum was right, she couldn’t bring herself to harm another person. Was that what made them think her so weak?
If being humane was the essence of defenseless, then Clara would accept the harsh judgment. Putting life above emotion took a strength—one she was proud of.
“Ye’d have her closer to yer grandda?” Mum demanded below, the fiery temper she shared with Kinsey breaking through her control.
Clara winced at the reminder of how Faye had been abducted by their grandfather, the Ross clan Chieftain. Aye, her marriage had worked out well, but the unrest between their family and their unwanted patriarch had been a point of much pain.
There was no good solution. If she chose to remain in Castleton, Drake would worry about them being on the border between England and Scotland. If she chose to go to Dunscaith Castle on the Isle of Skye, where Kinsey lived with her new husband, Mum would be nearer to the father she loathed with such intensity.
Clara didn’t care where she went. She would find a way to be happy. She always did— even if the feeling had to be forced for a while.
She was not happy now. How could she be, when the fate of her wellbeing was tearing her family apart?
Tears welled in her eyes, and she suddenly found herself envious of how Kinsey had decided to leave. She’d resolved to go and then done it.
An offer edged into the back of Clara’s thoughts. One she’d tucked away and never allowed herself to think of again.
Until now.
Several months prior, Clara had aided a nun with a cut on her foot. Sister Seraphina was from a village outside of Glasgow and had said they were in sore need of someone with knowledge of healing for their infirmary at Paisley Abbey. Most young women accepted into the convent had a payment to offer, usually a dowry, in exchange for their place among those hallowed walls. But the nun had said Clara’s skills were strong enough that such financial considerations could be set aside.
It had been tempting even then to slip away from the manor, to be one less burden for Drake to care for. But she’d stayed for her mother, to help her look after the manor.
Except now, she’d become a burden to them both.
Her mother could go to Dunscaith or stay if she wished. The choice would be hers to make for herself.
And neither of them need worry after Clara, as she would be in a convent.
The very thought lifted the weight of dread from her chest, and she knew immediately that the decision was right.
Drake and their mother discussed Clara’s future late into the night. She’d been half tempted to tell them there was no need, but she knew they would brush off her words.
Instead, she waited until the house went still before carefully gathering her things. She packed her herbs and healing ointments, some food, a wineskin and cooking pot and a fresh kirtle. The latter was more for travel than for her time
at the convent, as she would be given a simple tunic upon her arrival like that of the nun she’d helped.
She penned a note to her mother, much like Kinsey had. Only this time, Mum need not worry. It wasn’t rebels who Clara was joining, but nuns. And while Clara was quick to reassure her mother that she was on her way to join a convent, she did not specify which. Not when she knew Drake and Mum would immediately head her off in an effort to sway her decision. Clara’s mind would not be changed.
After all, what trouble could she possibly find in such a venture?
But the idea set her thinking, so Clara returned to her room and lifted the heavy sack of daggers, along with the special belt to hold several at once. Into this sack, she also tucked her practice trews and leine. Her brother had insisted she keep all on hand for travel, and it wouldn’t do to be unarmed.
With that, she slipped into the stable to saddle her horse, then rode out into the dark night, determined to help her family by releasing them of the burden of her fate.
Reid MacLeod should have been on a special mission in combat for the king, rather than being on his way to Dumbarton with a message. Being the king’s personal messenger was not an honor he relished. Honor wasn’t what Reid wanted out of these raids against the English occupying Scottish territory.
He wanted vengeance.
He wanted to be in the thick of battle, to seek out Lord Rottry and make him pay for what he’d done all those years ago.
Even the thought of the man’s name made Reid’s blood pound.
Normally, carrying messages was squire’s work. However, with so many English about, a warrior needed to be sent, someone who could fight. And these missives were far too important to be diverted. But knowing the purpose of his role didn’t allay Reid’s irritation.
He’d been all over Scotland, drenched in its icy, late winter rains, slogging through the mud-sucking countryside. There had been foul weather, random marauders attacking the road, and that damn pain in his back that hadn’t abated from a knife cut some cur had delivered in a tavern brawl. He had been sent down to the Cumberland border where they received unexpected word of a massive retaliatory English raid planned on Dumbarton Castle.
Thunder rumbled overhead, like a great beast bearing down on Reid, and the dense cast of clouds blotted out the meager afternoon sun. He hunkered deeper into his cloak and tried to ignore that persistent ache of the wound at his back as he clicked his tongue to hasten his horse.
More damned rain.
The impending attack on Dumbarton would happen within a sennight. Not nearly enough time for the king to be informed and summon his men to offer aid. Thus the Scottish West March Warden had sent his fastest runner to the king in Aberdeen, while Reid was left to act as a messenger to inform Dumbarton to prepare for battle. After all, Reid could fight, and the runner could not.
And Dumbarton would need all the warriors it could get.
A scream pierced the air.
Reid straightened in his saddle, immediately on high alert. The wind carrying toward him brought the odor of smoke.
Fire.
The woman shrieked again. Reid wasted no time rushing toward the sound. Toward the fire. And, unfortunately, toward the rise of unwanted memories.
Thick plumes belched up through the trees. He followed to a clearing where a hut smoldered. The underside of the thick thatch roof was dry as tinder and crackled with flames.
Several soldiers stood nearby, a charred torch on the ground at their feet.
Englishmen.
The raw cries of terror came from inside the burning building.
The way it’d been with Reid’s mother.
He didn’t think anymore after that. There was no logic to his next moves as he flew at the men; no mind for the discomfort at his back where that old injury pinched with each move. There was only the smooth power of his attack, practiced over a lifetime. Death would come to those who tortured and hurt the innocent.
One man fell.
A second.
A third.
The other two attacked, but they were no match for Reid, who swung his great sword with lethal precision. They fell as the door to the small hut flew open, and amid billowing smoke, a woman burst from the doorway. She clutched a small boy in her arms.
Reid’s brother had been of a similar age.
Except there had been no warrior there to rescue them as Reid did now. Nay, his da had been their only defense from slaughter, a man whose skills lent themselves to the soil rather than the sword.
The woman ran toward Reid now, her face streaked with soot and tears. “Help me.”
“Is there anyone else inside?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes still wide with horror as she watched her home burn.
An arrow darted out from the surrounding woods and sank in the soil near Reid’s feet. He put himself in front of the woman and her boy. “Go to the nearby village.” He didn’t look back to ensure they complied.
Nay, he charged into the woods, determined to kill the archer. He saw the bastard between the trees—an Englishman, nocking another arrow.
A stick cracked in the distance. Someone else was nearby.
Reid ignored them and rushed at the archer, who fired another arrow. It sailed past him as two soldiers came at Reid. The archer quickly shot in the direction where the stick had snapped.
Hopefully, that meant there would be more Scotsmen to fight the English whoresons .
Reid dispatched the two soldiers with ease as the archer sent another arrow through the woods. No sooner had Reid’s opponents fallen than he was on the archer, jerking the man’s head hard to the right, so his neck gave a sickening crack that reverberated through Reid’s hands.
In that moment, something slammed into Reid’s back, a sharp pressure near the already aching wound. The impact of it made him jerk forward as a burning pain blazed out from the spot. He pitched over the body of the archer with a grunt.
The agony was breathtaking and left white-hot stars winking behind his closed lids.
The gentle shush of footsteps over dry grass pulled his attention momentarily from his suffering. Someone was there.
To ensure he was dead?
He was in no condition to fight back. The bloody coward. Reid gritted his teeth.
At least he had saved the woman and her child. He hadn’t been able to do the same for his own family. And no one else had been there to help. Mayhap now, he would finally join them.
He only wished he’d killed Lord Rottry first.
A delicate lavender scent swept over the odor of blood, followed by the soft intake of breath.
“Ye’re not English?” A feminine voice sounded close to Reid’s ear, not quite Scottish. But not quite English, either.
“Neither are ye,” he ground out. The ache of his injury had intensified to the point where even breathing hurt.
“I hit ye.” The woman’s tone was horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
Reid scoffed and pushed himself onto his side to face the woman who had sunk a dagger into his back. But as he looked up, the discomfort in his back faded away, along with the bodies and the blood and the ugly memories dredged up by the burning hut.
He took in the woman’s silky, dark hair, her pale blue eyes and the sweetness behind them. Her flushed cheeks and earnest expression gave her an innocence that pierced his very soul.
It was her.
Kinsey’s sister.
Clara.
A woman he knew from simply looking at her that he would never be worthy of—a woman he had wanted since that day he’d caught sight of her at the market.
Now she was here before him.
There was so much he ought to say, so much he had imagined. But as he tried to turn the thoughts into words, darkness permeated his mind, and everything went black.
2
Clara had killed him.
A whimper escaped her as she knelt next to the man she’d hit with her dagger. Just before he’d collapsed, hi
s eyes had gone wide as they’d found hers.
All around her was death. Slain Englishmen scattered about the forest, and this man who had saved the family trapped in the burning cottage.
He’d saved them, and she’d killed him.
Nay. Perhaps not. She was rushing ahead of herself, being led by her fear. It would not be the first time she’d let anxious feelings get the better of her.
Her dagger still jutted from his back, buried no more than an inch deep. Thanks be to God. It would not have caused too much damage. She pressed gently around the blade, confirming the tip had likely caught on one of his ribs.
Not dead then, just in enough pain to lose awareness.
A swift glance around indicated no Englishmen still lived. At least none she could see, which meant she could hastily staunch his wound before finding a way to get him to safety. For the time being, at least she could ensure he didn’t lose too much blood.
Acting quickly now, she pulled the dagger from his back. It slid free with a wet, sucking sound as blood trickled freely from his wound and darkened the surrounding area of his gambeson. A filthy gambeson, at that.
Such things were the makings of infection, a warrior’s worst enemy.
She tugged a strip of clean linen from the leather pouch she’d brought with her and pushed it against the wound. It was fortunate the cave she’d stayed in the night before was not too far off. His wound would need to be thoroughly cleaned and tended to lest it turn.
She bound another length of linen around his chest, keeping the wadded bit taut against the injury. That was the easy part.
She got to her feet, slung her bag over one shoulder and regarded the massive man at her feet. Moving him would prove difficult. Never one easily deterred, she gripped his thick wrists and tugged. He inched forward.
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