A Knight's Vow

  What if he remained this day, as well? What of this night? Guenivere felt her pulse pound in a rhythm born of panic, not excitement. Or so she told herself. Obviously, she could not count upon Beren's disinterest to protect her. Nor could she lock herself away, for it was unseemly to have him shout through her door. Or break it down. Guenivere felt a shiver pass through her at the thought of defying the man Beren had become: strong, confident, and lethal looking.

  What, then, could she do? Fleeing was out of the question, for travel was too difficult, and she had no safe haven but her own home, a keep that now belonged to him. Guenivere swallowed that bitter draught and concentrated. Her recollections of the night were a haze of recriminations, threats, and the overriding fear that he would press her to submit. Fear that she would succumb.

  Unbidden, the memory of his kisses returned, and Guenivere shivered, though she felt suffused with heat. For just a moment, she allowed herself the recollection. How different those kisses had been than her girlish imaginings! She had thought such things involved only a touching of lips, not a melding of mouths and tongues, not a fusing of souls… But perhaps Beren felt no such connection, Guenivere thought. How could he, for he was as a stranger to her now, who refused even to excuse his long absence?

  That knowledge drove away whatever warmth that lingered, and Guenivere hardened herself once more. She had spent many hours of the night angrily wondering why Beren could not simply admit that he had forgotten all who dwelt at Brandeth. Instead, he had blustered and hedged his words and lashed out at her! And as for his claim that he had not wanted to see her married to another, Guenivere would have laughed had she the heart.

  If Beren had wanted her for himself, he had only to claim her, at any time since that moment in her youth when she had first set eyes upon him and vowed to herself that this man was the stuff of her dreams, the other half of herself, her destiny. But such a man would never have left her, or else he would have returned, triumphant, to sweep her off her feet.

  Guenivere made a low sound of disgust, for now she was lapsing into the ways of the romances, a foolishness she had thought long past. Unfortunately, just the sight of Beren seemed to send her slipping into that old habit, for had she not brought up Parzival in their conversation despite her best intentions not to do so? Guenivere winced as she remembered her final words. Such was Parzival's regard for his wife that he did not think of making love to her for three nights after the wedding.

  It was nonsense, for surely nothing could be farther from her marriage than that of the legendary hero and his wife. Yet when she had quoted the romance to him, Beren had left her, angry at the comparison between himself and the knight of the tale. Had he been reminded of the lack of chivalry in his behavior, or had something else stayed his hand? Guenivere did not know, but she hoped that the words would work as well again, if she were pressed by him in the future.

  And after three nights, then what? Guenivere trembled and told herself that Beren would be gone by then, off again to his adventures, leaving Brandeth behind as before.

  Beren, however, was still in residence come supper, and Guenivere felt her nerves stretched taut. She had avoided him all of the day, even going so far as to take the main meal in her chamber. Still, she had hardly been able to swallow a bite, for fear he would search her out, bearding her there, especially after Alice breathlessly reported his absence at the high table.

  Where had he eaten, and when? Guenivere found herself wondering and worrying only to chide herself for slipping into old patterns again. What did she care if Beren starved? More than likely, the simple fare at Brandeth no longer appealed to his more sophisticated tastes. And 'twas not only the food that could be so described, Guenivere thought bitterly.

  She frowned, pushing aside such thoughts to consider what Beren was about. According to Alice, he had shown little interest in the keep or its outbuildings, preferring to remain closeted with Hubard, the old bailiff, going over the books. The notion of another judging her work here annoyed Guenivere, for what did Beren know of this place anymore? Luckily for him, he had not dared to approach her with any questions or quibbles about her management, lest he receive a tongue-lashing far harsher than last night's.

  Guenivere stilled at her place by the hearth, seized by the image, for she now knew other uses for her tongue, and she glanced at the chamber door, fearful she would be tempted to them. Already, twilight was gathering outside her window, Would he come, or not? Guenivere was atremble already, though she knew not which outcome she most dreaded.

  And then he was there, opening her door as though he had full use of it, her chamber, and herself. Guenivere drew in a sharp breath and glanced up at him, but his dark eyes were shuttered, and she could read nothing in his expression. Would he suddenly seize her? Scold her for avoiding him? Guenivere set her shoulders and told herself she feared no man, least of all Beren Brewere, lord or no.

  "I went over your accounts today," he said. Guenivere did not deign to look at him. "You have done well."

  Surprised at his words, she glanced up and tried not to stare at the sight of him. Would she ever be used to it? His dark hair swept back, thick and smooth, nearly to his shoulders, which were now broad and wide and strong, as was the rest of him. He had always been tall, but now his body had grown to match it, not an inch bulging or thick, but all hard with muscle, visible even through the linen of his tunic. Guenivere swallowed hard and tore her gaze away.

  "Did you get something to eat?" she asked, carefully neutral.

  "Yes," he said, and then he astounded her by laughing, though it was not a lighthearted sound. "You might not be pleased to know that since neither of us were at the high table, all the keep thinks that we were up here, engaged in newly wedded bliss."

  Guenivere jerked around, nearly choking on her own breath. "B-but, you—! I—" she sputtered, then turned her head angrily away. "Do you listen at keyholes?"

  "Nay. I did not have to," Beren answered. "Brandeth is buzzing with rumors and speculation."

  That would die down, if you would but leave, Guenivere thought. Aloud, she said, "Yes, I heard some of it myself, most notably how you sprouted wings and flew through my window."

  Beren laughed, and this time the sound was soft and low and so compelling that Guenivere had to use all her will to remain still. "Apparently, over the years, the people here have forgotten your unusual talent for climbing," she added.

  Silence met her comment, so long and all encompassing that finally, Guenivere turned to look at him again, only to find that he had wrapped his cloak about him and lay upon the floor, his back to her. Obviously, his brief interest in her charms had faded once more. Guenivere struggled with a sharp sense of disappointment that bordered on pain before convincing herself she ought to be relieved instead.

  Then she rose to her feet and sought her own bed, pulling the drapes close around her and shutting Beren out. But it seemed as if the habit of long years returned, for though he might be out of sight, he was never far from her mind.

  Beren tried to sleep, but it would not come. He had made his bed on harder, colder spots, but none more painful to both body and spirit. All day, he had spent hiding from his past, closeted with Hubard, concentrating on the management of the demesne and redirecting the old man whenever he started to reminisce. But the place pressed upon him, like a weight against his chest, stifling his thoughts and stealing his breath.

  Beren winced as the scent of roses wafted over him, making him dizzy with want, while rousing his blood to a fever pitch. Although he prided himself on his good sense, it appeared to have fled, for why else would he ache and throb for a woman with whom he could not even bear to talk? How had he come to marry the one woman who would not have him? And why was she even here, unmarried after all these years?

  Beren seized upon that question, worrying it until he could not let it go. Had he not heard that she was betrothed at one time? Without examining too closely that memory, he wondered what had happened. Had the ma
n died or been found wanting? The more Beren thought about it, the more tense he became. Finally, he rolled over and, staring at the bedcurtains, he spoke aloud into the dimness.

  "What happened to your betrothed? Why did you not marry?" Beren asked, his voice harsh and accusing as he rose up on one arm. For a long moment, he thought she was asleep or feigning so and would not answer. Angry, he felt like striding over to rouse her; but, in his current state, he knew that was not a good idea. He shouldn't even be looking at her bed, he thought, even as the drapes fluttered and moved.

  Although he had tried to forget everything to do with the lady of Brandeth, Beren knew that no matter how long he lived, he would ever remember the sight of those curtains parting. Whatever he thought, he wasn't expecting that, and he held his breath in tense anticipation, his heart thundering. When at last Guenivere was revealed in the dim light of the fire, he could see she was fully clothed, yet still he felt hot desire run rampant through him, for there she was, kneeling upon the covers, her hair loose and flowing…

  " 'Twas broken off," she said simply. As if that marked the end of her comments on the subject, she reached up to draw the curtains once more. Beren's heart lurched, as if it would leap out of his chest in order to stay her hand.

  "By whom?" he asked, hoarsely.

  "By me," she answered, her eyes downcast.

  She looked as if she did not care to speak of it, but suddenly it was imperative to Beren that he know. What had the man done? "Why?" he demanded, ready, despite all, to battle on her behalf.

  With a sigh, Guenivere swung her legs round to sit on the edge of the bed. "As I grew older, Father became concerned because I had shown no marked partiality for any who sought my hand," she explained in a flat voice, still without looking at him. "So, he thought to force a decision from me by betrothing me to William of Langbane. I thought that, rather than cause trouble for my sire, I should accept," she said, and though her words rang true, Beren's gut churned.

  "I believed that I could do it," she said. And while Beren stared, she took an interest in a decorative cord that dangled from the drape beside her, rubbing it between her fingers as though it would give her comfort or strength before dropping it abruptly. "But I could not," she murmured. "I finally told Father that I could not in all good conscious commit myself to the marriage when I felt I would fail William as a wife."

  Beren swallowed a protest, for Guenivere had never failed at anything. And he knew of no man who was worthy of her, not even himself.

  "Since my father cared very much for my mother, he was reluctant to compel me into a loveless union, especially when it would take me away from him," she added, finally meeting Beren's gaze with a rather defiant look. "And so, that was the end of my betrothal. William was very gracious about it and married Elizabeth Trowford a few months later."

  Beren knew he should have been relieved at her words. Instead, he felt a wild euphoria beyond all reason. He was glad that there had been no love between the two, all too glad! And fast on the heels of his elation came a surge of possessiveness. At that moment, Beren wanted nothing more than to go to her, take her in his arms, and make her forget every other man she had ever known.

  "What of you? Why have you not wed?" So lost was he to his emotion that Beren barely heard her voice, but Guenivere's question penetrated his thoughts, staying his rampaging impulses and scattering them all like the fancies they were. He pulled his cloak about himself tightly.

  "Mayhap I was a bachelor knight too long to change my ways," Beren muttered. Then he turned over once more, shutting her out and hiding from the past that she would dredge up, lest he be laid bare before her.

  four

  Beren stood at the doors of the hall, staring out to the sea and wondering what he was doing here when it was the last place he wanted to be. He ought to leave. There were no obstacles to his doing so, certainly not the wishes of his wife. And yet, something held him here—whether the past or the future, he wasn't sure.

  Meanwhile, he was accomplishing nothing, reluctant as he was to come to terms with his history, while other duties waited for him at his own demesne. Back home. Yet even as he thought the words, it seemed to Beren that his new lands were not his home, that his destiny lay here, with his roots. He shook his head with a grunt of denial.

  "Are you still here?" As if his own thoughts were being voiced aloud, Beren heard the question, but he had not spoken. He turned slowly to find Crispin standing behind him, a sneer on his lips.

  "This is my keep now, Crispin. Would you try to rout me from it?" Beren asked, in no mood for the older knight's taunts. His patience had already been worn down to nothing by his bride. For a moment, Beren thought Crispin might challenge him, and his own hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but the other man only crossed his arms over his chest.

  "Nay, for I'm sure you'll be gone soon enough," he said. "Linger for now, if you must, though for what purpose, I wonder? No one remembers you, and those few who do wish they did not."

  Beren might have disputed his claim, for from what he had seen, Crispin was in the minority. The other people of Brandeth treated him with courtesy, if not enthusiasm, he noted, surprising himself with the realization. As if to bear him out, another of the keep's knights strode by, calling a greeting.

  "Good day, my lord!" the younger man said, adding a welcoming gesture that would hardly be feigned, and with a nod Beren acknowledged the man's passing. Then, he turned back to Crispin, his dark brows lifted in query.

  "Those who don't know you may bow and scrape to Edward's lackey, but no one wants you here," the old knight fairly snarled. "I told you that things have changed, so you might as well be gone! And lest you think the lady of Brandeth still pines for your presence, she came to her senses long ago and curses your name as well as any other!"

  With that, Crispin turned on his heel and marched away, though he had not been given leave to go by his lord. Beren stared after him, too stunned to dispute his dismissal. Guenivere pining for him? He shook his head, unable to believe it, but he knew Crispin was not clever enough to spin such a lie. Despite his best judgment, hope leapt to life within his breast, and Beren knew that he must discover the truth ere he left Brandeth.

  And there was only one way to find out: by asking Guenivere.

  Although he had again avoided dinner, that night Beren took supper in the hall, and he had to wonder just what had kept him away. Besides Crispin, who sent him dark looks, none other there seemed to harbor ill feelings toward him. And if some older resident bid him recall the past, Beren simply changed the subject. Indeed, that was an easier task than trying to explain away the absence of his bride. He suffered a few good-natured, if ribald, comments concerning her condition.

  Beren let them go, enduring even more when he left the table early to seek his wife's chamber. And yet, eager though he had been to confront her, his steps lagged as old doubts assailed him. What would he say? Even as he wondered, Beren was well aware that the past he so denied might rise up to smite him.

  Still, he could not bring himself to leave Brandeth without knowing this one truth, and so he entered their chamber, finding her seated on the settle before the hearth, staring into the flames as if the weight of the world sat upon her shoulders. And in that moment, Beren realized that he had done her ill. She had asked for his aid, and though nominally providing his name, he had thought of nothing but his own pride, ignoring her woes and worries, the burden she carried of her father's loss and the responsibility of holding her lands together. Even if she cared naught for him, Guenivere deserved more than his petulance.

  Slowly, Beren approached her. This time, when he dropped to his knee, it was not a gesture born of duty, but one heartfelt. Memories nudged at him, but he ignored them and drew a deep breath. "How may I serve you, lady?" he asked, bowing his head.

  To Beren's astonishment, Guenivere burst into tears. Confused, he watched helplessly, then lifted a hand toward her, though he was not quite certain how to provide comfort. But
she moved out of his reach before he could touch her. Rising to her feet, she dashed away her tears, yet there was no hiding her heightened emotions.

  "Do not mock me!" she said, turning upon him, and Beren was stunned to see the passion that she usually withheld glowing like a brand. "Would you destroy everything that I once held dear?"

  "What is it? What have I done?" Beren asked, bewildered and yet aroused by this woman, alight with an inner flame he had never witnessed before. She was grown now, and not only in body, and Beren's blood heated in acknowledgment.

  She glared at him, a flush rising in her cheeks, her fury evident. "You? You have done nothing, of course!" Then, as swiftly as it had come upon her, the rage faded away, leaving her looking so lost and forlorn that Beren felt his chest constrict.

  "I am at fault," she whispered. "For I placed all my hopes and dreams and love in the hands of another, who failed me."

  She turned away from him then, and hid her face in her hands and wept once more.

  Beren stood staring in shock, for until today, he had never seen Guenivere in tears. In her youth, she had been too contented, too composed to cry over slights to her happy existence. And now, as a woman grown, she had seemed too cool and remote to be touched by such fierce emotion, but there was no denying her distress.

  Something inside Beren jerked to life, and feelings long buried rose to match her own. Who had done this to her? Moved beyond all caution, he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, drawing her back against him. But the comfort that he intended was hampered by his own anger and jealousy. "Tell me, who stole your dreams? Who failed you? Who…"—Beren nearly choked on the words—"spurned your love?"