A Knight's Vow

  He could not ignore the summons, though he had been tempted to send a messenger ahead to inquire about it. After all, he had many demands upon his time, including those of his own demesne, his obligations to the king and the courts of justice, and the people within his domain. Yet now he must leave all to be off on an errand the purpose of which he knew not.

  And well Beren disliked approaching any situation without sufficient information. He had not become this successful by being unprepared. So he approached the holding with the wariness of a battle-hardened soldier, suspecting that things at Brandeth must truly be dire for Clement to call upon him after all this time. But no sign did he see of siege or trouble of any kind, only the stark beauty of the cliffs.

  Here, at last, were heights, rising from rocky stretches of beach into the very clouds, and Beren felt his heart pounding in an old, nearly forgotten rhythm. His first thought was that he had stayed away too long, his second that he never should have returned. Tearing his gaze away from the tall faces of stone, he looked to the road ahead, avoiding distraction, until he turned round the last outcropping and saw Brandeth.

  Beren sucked in a harsh breath. He remembered it rising out of the natural wall behind it as if carved from the very elements, a vast and impenetrable defense, but now the castle appeared dwarfed by its surroundings, so much so that for a moment Beren wondered whether some part had been lost to war or fire. It was only after much contemplation that he realized the place was the same, while he had changed. The keep that had once loomed so large within his vision had been dwarfed by the higher towers and sprawling walls of his own demesne, as well as others he had seen in endless travels.

  Brandeth now appeared small and isolated, little more than an old-fashioned square keep with outbuildings surrounding it in haphazard fashion. Quelling whatever feelings threatening to erupt at that discovery, Beren studied the area carefully, intent not upon reminiscence, but appraisal. Still, nothing appeared amiss, and lifting a hand, he sent his train forward along the path through the village.

  Spilling out from the foot of Brandeth, the hamlet looked peaceful and prosperous, though tiny to Beren's jaded eyes. They passed through it quickly, climbing the rough track meant to keep invaders away, and at the castle gate, they halted, surveying the area carefully before continuing into the bailey, though there were enough men-at-arms to defend themselves against attack.

  Clement had not come out to meet him, which could be a sign that he would not defer to his old squire, and Beren frowned at the slight before he told himself that the lord might simply be ill. That could explain his absence, but what of the summons itself? Why send for Beren after all these years? His mouth tightened in frustration, for he could provide no answers.

  Outside the keep, Beren was greeted enthusiastically by a young man whom he did not know, which was both a relief and an annoyance. He was not eager to see anyone who would recognize him, but he could tell that Farman, ignorant of his master's history here, was disappointed by the lack of pomp and ceremony and cheers to which they had become accustomed. Only Beren knew how unlikely the people of Brandeth were to welcome him in such a fashion. And even should they be so inclined, this was not a rich holding and could ill afford tournaments and such, a realization that somehow pained Beren.

  He pushed the sensation aside, grunting in displeasure as the past loomed up before him. Ever since receiving the summons, he had felt it, the reason he didn't want to be here, why he was relieved that no one who remembered exactly who and what he was came to greet him. Pride, one of a knight's sins, was plaguing him, and no doubt, he would be tested more before this visit was over.

  Hardening in his resolve, Beren took a handful of men and strode inside the hall, prepared to face his first demon. He stood tall, his gaze sweeping the room that immediately fell into quiet. Again, he was surprised by the size, so much less than he remembered, but he was also impressed by the aspect. Although smaller than he recalled, the space was cleaner than his own hall; and though little furniture was about, the walls were painted and covered with colorful tapestries that drew the eye.

  Lest he pause too long in reluctant admiration, Beren dragged his attention away, letting it roam over the few people who stood by, until it rested upon Hubard, the old bailiff. Wrinkled and stooped, the white-haired retainer posed no danger to anyone. Why, then, did Beren feel sorely set upon as the man moved toward him? He stiffened, his body tensed, his hand unwittingly settled upon the hilt of his sword, but Hubard only bowed low as befitting Beren's new stature. Then, to Beren's amazement, the old man began to weep.

  Startled, Beren stepped forward, uncertain how to react until the bailiff lifted shining eyes to him once more. "Look at you! Just look at you, the greatest knight in all the land," Hubard said, shaking his head, while servants and residents crowded close, whispering in hushed voices. "Clement would be so proud."

  Would be? Beren barely had a chance to note that peculiar choice of words when silence fell upon the hall once more. He glanced up to see a woman, slender and blond and beautiful, as fair as the palest rose, the finest jewel, the clouds that rimmed the highest peaks. It was only after his heart began a fierce thundering in his chest that Beren recognized her as Guenivere, Clement's daughter.

  "Welcome, Sir Brewere," she said, the title stiff and formal on her lips. "Thank you for coming."

  The past that Beren sought to avoid rose up to meet him, and unprepared as he was, he lashed out at this unexpected vision of his former patron's daughter, little changed and yet wholly different. "Where is Clement?" he demanded.

  "My father is dead," Guenivere answered, and a spasm of pain marred her lovely face, only to be quickly masked. When had she learned to dissemble? Beren wondered. When had she begun to hold herself so distant? Like a bright star, beautiful and yet untouchable. But then, hadn't she always been far out of his reach? The thought burned within him, as did her next words.

  " 'Twas I who summoned you," she said.

  "You? Why for?" Beren asked, angry that he had been dragged across the country for what? A woman's whim? His own torment?

  Guenivere eyed him somberly as he tried to reign in his temper. Beren told himself that she knew him not, that her pause in no way reflected his response, and yet her pale blue eyes seemed, as always, to hold the wisdom of the ages and insight into all things, including himself. Beren decided it was merely a trick of the light, but her gaze held his, steady, unyielding, and he felt the flow of her strength, tender in its woman's guise, yet hard as steel.

  "You once vowed to serve this family always and above all others," she said. "Do you not remember?"

  Beren's jaw tightened. Of course, he remembered. His oath had brought him to this pass, though it was little to his liking.

  "Now has come the time of my need. Will you refuse me?" Guenivere asked, her luminous eyes clear and questioning.

  Beren stared at her dumbly, shying away from the expectation there, the accusation implicit in the blue depths. But there was no need for rumination. He could give no answer except one. Drawing a deep breath, he dropped upon one knee at her feet and bowed his head. "What is it you require of me, lady?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse, his throat thick.

  The hall seemed even more silent than before, as if all those about them strained to hear or held their breath in anticipation. Beren felt as though the moment dragged on endlessly while he knelt before her, the past closing in on him, whether he willed it or no. It constricted his chest, choking him, and for a moment he struggled for air. Then he heard her voice, soft and deliberate.

  "I would ask that you marry me," Guenivere said.

  At her words, Beren's head jerked upward, to be followed quickly by his body as he rose to his feet in shocked confusion. Had he heard aright, or was his mind, burdened by the weight of memory playing tricks upon him? He stared at her, his breath coming harshly, his heart thundering. "Why?" he demanded.

  Unmoved by his obvious agitation, Guenivere answered him calmly, as if th
ey were discussing the weather, not this incredible proposition. "Because my father is dead," she replied. "I need a husband, else the lands that I own will be forfeit. My neighbors are clamoring to add Brandeth to their holdings, and I would be married to one of my own choosing."

  "Are you a widow then?" Beren asked, his thoughts a mad jumble.

  "I have never married, Beren. Why would you think so?" Guenivere countered, a sharp edge to her voice for the first time since she had appeared before him, cool and remote.

  He felt like a blabbering fool, rather than a knight and a warrior of some standing. "I had heard that you were betrothed some years ago and assumed…" Aware that he sounded like an idiot, Beren didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he cleared his throat, lest his next words come out a desperate croak. "Why me?"

  Guenivere glanced away, whether by chance or because she was unable to meet his gaze, Beren knew not. "Because you are so strong and powerful that none will dispute your claim and because you own far greater properties, you will not concern yourself with one tiny demesne." She turned to look at him directly once more. "I can maintain my heritage and protect my people, as I have these past few years during my father's illness."

  Beren wasn't sure just what he had expected as an answer, but it wasn't this cold calculation. The past yawned before him now, a dreadful abyss before which he teetered, and he stepped back to take a deep, sustaining breath. Right now he couldn't afford distractions; this was too important. So, pushing aside all else, he tried to concentrate on the here and now, no matter how strange it might seem.

  The king had long accused him of playing the bachelor knight when he had more than enough money and lands to take a wife. And lately Beren even had considered the prospect, with the idea of allying himself with one of the other large landowners. A union with a tiny, inconsequential baronage such as this one was not what Edward had in mind, Beren was certain. And yet, how could he refuse?

  His knight's oath bound him to protect and defend all women in distress, and Beren had gone one step further. On one bleak morning long ago when Clement had girded him as a knight, he had added a vow of his own. In heartfelt gratitude, Beren had pledged his sword to the St. Legers for all time. He had sworn to die for them, gladly. Now how could he refuse to do any less?

  "Very well, Guenivere," Beren said, acutely aware of the sound of her name upon his lips, spoken aloud for the first time in his life. "I will marry you."

  Either Gueniuere was very sure of herself or very sure of him, for Beren soon found that all was in preparation for their nuptials. A priest appeared at once to perform the ceremony, so as to avoid any questions of validity, and Beren wondered if the haste was so he wouldn't have time enough to change his mind. More likely, Guenivere didn't want to be able to change her mind, he thought ruefully.

  In truth, Beren was glad of the speed, for he did not care to think too much upon what was happening. He was tired after the days of travel, weary in both body and spirit to find himself back at his journey's beginning, and unwilling to examine too closely the sudden and bizarre turn of events.

  Beren told himself that he had no choice except to marry Guenivere, that his oath was what bound him, and that it was the only reason he had agreed to the union. But at the edges of his mind the past loomed, mocking his feeble attempts to explain away his actions so easily.

  The wedding itself took on an unreal aspect, and Beren went through the motions like one in a dream. It was only when he took Guenivere's hand in his that he was jolted to full awareness, for the touch of her fingers, soft yet firm, sent a rush of heat spreading through him, startling in its intensity. Long-buried feelings flooded him, and he didn't know whether to weep with the strength of them or bellow his denial.

  Because he could do naught else, Beren added this new promise of marriage to his previous vow. Yet, when he spoke, it was with a conviction born of more than duty, his chest suddenly tight with some unnamed emotion. Bidden to kiss his bride, he hesitated, stunned at the very thought. When he did not move, Guenivere leaned up and brushed his cheek, in a cool, bloodless action that chilled him. Then it was over, and the feasting began.

  As Guenivere called for the celebration, Beren stared numbly after her, adrift once more. He felt like he had fought in one too many tournaments, smote so long and hard with sword and lance that his head rang from it. Drawing a harsh breath, he tried to recover himself, ruthlessly pushing aside all thoughts of other, earlier times in this hall.

  Yet, how could he? Among fee figures of his own men, eager for the coming food and drink, Beren saw some familiar faces. Most appeared content, happy even, but did some eye him with disapproval? If so, how could he blame them?

  Restless, Beren stalked past the revelers as ale and wine began flowing freely, but there was nowhere else to go in the small space. He paused near the tall doors, now thrown open wide in welcome, and halted there, staring out into the setting sun, but even that sight tugged at his memory, and he swore soft and low.

  Although he considered going outside, the thought of old haunts stayed him, and Beren turned his head away. Noticing a movement out of the corner of his eye, he swung round to see a servant boy carrying too much wood upon his back. Anger surged inside of him, as well as something else, deeper and more stirring. "Who bade you bend yourself under such weight?" Beren demanded.

  "No one, my lord," the boy answered, eyes wide with fear. Or was it loathing?

  "Tell me, for I am your lord now," Beren said, though the words seemed to stick in his throat.

  "N-no one, I swear! I was just trying to save myself another trip," the youth said. His innocent reply flustered Beren. With a grunt, he sent the boy about his business, only to find another nearby servant eyeing him, obviously curious about his odd behavior. Beren drew a deep breath. He had reacted overmuch in this instance, but he knew all too well the back-breaking toil of one not born to the manor.

  With that thought, the past crowded in on him again, and since he could go nowhere to escape it, he searched for what little comfort he could find. At last, he found Guenivere in the throng, his gaze touching upon her long, blond tresses with a kind of awe. Warmth, unbidden and long denied, seeped into him, driving away all the years of toil and war and proving of himself, almost as if they had never been. Dangerous thoughts, Beren acknowledged, with a frown. Some knights were enamored of tender emotions, and some even wrote poetry, but not working knights, not men who had to make their own ways in the world.

  So Beren held at bay the tide of memory that threatened to engulf him, watching her now with new eyes, more calculating and less dewy with youth. And what he saw was a woman full-grown, past her girlhood, but possessing a rare beauty that was only enhanced by time. Why had she not married? What had Clement been thinking to leave his heritage in such disarray? Beren frowned once more. Guenivere said he had been ill. Perhaps he had not been thinking clearly.

  Beren found it hard to concentrate himself as he watched her. She moved with an easy grace, as regal as her namesake, but with an open demeanor that encouraged small gifts from the children in the hall. Beren saw her bend down to receive a flower and give a kiss of thanks, and it seemed as though the path he had climbed for so long was shifting, altering the life he had led in some irrevocable fashion. He felt light-headed, like he was falling, dropping from dizzying heights. Or had he merely returned to the ground where he belonged?

  Refusing to acknowledge such fancies, Beren held himself tall and straight and apart, as befitting the knight he was, surveying all about him in the long habit of a warrior warily assessing his surroundings. And as the evening wore on, Beren decided that he had good cause to be cautious. Indeed, he studied his bride with growing concern, for although she seemed to greet castle residents and servants and villeins alike with cordiality, she did not extend the same consideration to one of her guests, namely her husband. Even his own men were obviously entranced by the lady of Brandeth, and she did not hold them at a distance, but she stayed away from Beren.


  At one point, he thought perhaps it was his own lingering on the edges of the gathering that caused his ostracism, and so he entered the fray, inching closer to Guenivere, only to see her slip away. It was not obvious to the casual observer, perhaps, but Beren could hardly ignore it. And his temper, barely leashed since his arrival here, began to tug at his restraint.

  What was she about? At her command, he had married her. Did she intend to shut him out of her life, now and always? Immediately, old doubts and suspicions swamped him. Had she taken his name to protect her interests, while disdaining him as too ill-bred and lowborn to be her true consort? Beren's mouth tightened into a hard line. She was wrong, if she thought to dismiss him so easily.

  She might be using him, but he would be her husband, for that was part of the bargain. Did she think to wed him and send him on his way? Did she not realize what happened between husband and wife?

  Although Beren had not allowed himself to consider all the ramifications of his nuptials, his reaction to that acknowledgment was swift and sure. His body grew hard, his braies tightening around him, at the very thought of bedding Guenivere. Tonight. Every night. He drew in a harsh, unsteady breath and tried to master himself, for obviously his bride was not quite as eager as he.

  Did she think to cuckold him? Beren's blood boiled. He had vowed to serve this family, but not to that extent, not to his own disgrace. And did he not deserve an heir? Why should he tender his hard-won lands back to the crown? Although he had rarely thought about passing on his holdings, now the vague idea became a very real possibility. And Beren was surprised at his own reaction as a fierce yearning shook him to the core. Suddenly, he wanted a son, and not just with anyone, but with this woman.

  The notion of Guenivere round with his child sent heat surging through him again, but it was not simply lust that affected him. Pride and hope and long-forgotten dreams pressed in upon him, constricting his chest. For a moment, Beren dared not breathe, so precious was the vision, but before long, he exhaled harshly, dismissing his fantasy. For how would such an idyll come to pass when his bride wanted naught to do with him?