A Knight's Vow

  "Easy," the man ordered. "Slow down."

  But she couldn't. If she stopped breathing, she'd die. Like a drowning animal, she clawed at him in desperation, twining her fists in the folds of his tabard, hanging on for dear life.

  He gave her a little shake. "Slow down. You'll faint. Breathe with me."

  "I… I… can't…" The sound was no more than a whispery squeak. No air. No air. She scrabbled at his chest.

  He tightened his grip on her, almost to the point of pain, shocking her from her panic, and barked the ferocious command inches from her face. "Breathe with me. In!"

  He rasped in a breath, and she battled to match his rhythm.

  "Out!" The breath shuddered out of her.

  "In!" She sucked in another draught of air.

  "Out!" She released her breath.

  "In!" They drew in a loud gasp together.

  "Out!" Her breath escaped on a long sigh.

  Then they were breathing together, deeply, calmly, and Hilaire felt her lungs gradually expand to take in all the air she required. For the moment at least, her fears were eased.

  "You see? There's plenty of air," he told her.

  Suddenly ashamed of her panic, she slowly untangled her fingers from the man's tabard. "I'm sorry. I…"

  "Don't be." The man ran his thumb soothingly over her arm, as if to apologize for his harshness. For the first time, she noticed the soft clink of chain mail and felt the rigid contour of his hauberk beneath her hands. She wondered who he was.

  "Thank you, Sir…"

  He didn't enlighten her. Who was he? Who was her savior?

  His hands were rough, the hands of a man accustomed to labor or warfare, as coarse and rugged as his voice, and yet, like his voice, possessing gentleness and warmth. He smelled of earth and iron and leather, and though she could discern neither his age nor his bearing, he exuded strength and comfort enough to assuage her fears.

  "You are a knight?"

  "Aye," he grunted.

  She wondered if she'd seen him before. Her father had so many knights, she honestly didn't know them all by name. But if this man somehow managed to get her out of this hellish grave, she'd embroider his name on every kirtle she owned and remember him in her every prayer.

  The man released her arms, interrupting her thoughts. "What is this place? How came you here?"

  She flushed, forgetting her own curiosity. The tunnel was a mild embarrassment to her, having been constructed exclusively for the immediate family's use and no other.

  " 'Tis an underground passageway," she admitted. "It leads from the keep to beyond the curtain wall."

  "You were fleeing the castle?" he asked.

  "Mm-hmm." Perhaps it was best not to elaborate. After all, she still traveled in disguise.

  "Because of the attack?"

  "Aye."

  "Were you alone?"

  There was no reason to incriminate Martha, God rest her poor soul. "Aye."

  "No one knew of your flight?"

  She bit her lip.

  "Will anyone miss you?" he persisted.

  "Nay. That is, I mean, aye!" She could ill afford to stretch the man's patience, but deception came uneasily to her.

  "I must know," he said evenly, "if anyone will come looking for you."

  "Oh." If he'd brought a torch, he'd have seen her cheeks redden in chagrin. "Oh, aye, I suppose they will. At least, I hope so."

  Her father was not especially pleased with her. She'd begged and pleaded with him to resist the siege so she could escape. In the end, he'd buckled in the face of his only daughter's copious tears. But it had been a gruff farewell he'd bid her, replete with reminders of the King's wrath he invoked with his actions and the great risk he invited in countering the forces of The Black Gryphon.

  Hilaire shivered. If only the ancient tunnel hadn't crumbled, she'd be safe now beyond the wall, far away from the tempers of unsympathetic men like the King, her father, and The Black Gryphon. Safe from the darkness that kept creeping in at the edges of her mind…

  Nay, she must not think of that.

  The man grunted as he struggled with something among the gravel. His low murmur interrupted her thoughts. "He wouldn't have harmed you, you know."

  "Who?"

  "The Black Gryphon."

  She shuddered. "I fear you're mistaken, sir. I heard the blows he thrust upon the outer gate, even from here."

  " 'Tis not his way to slaughter the defenseless."

  She gave a nervous, humorless little laugh. "Then pray tell what happened to his last three wives and their children."

  Cold silence met her query. Then the dull thud of rock upon earth startled her as the man began to pound away at the wall.

  "Besides," she added defensively, " 'tis an easy thing for you to say. You are not betrothed to the monster."

  The banging stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the man's sharp intake of breath seemed to suck all the air from the tunnel.

  Hilaire clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to reveal herself to him. If, by God's blessing, they somehow managed to escape, she'd intended to continue her merry way along the tunnel to freedom, just as originally planned. He'd think no more of her, just bid her good fortune and toddle on back to defending her father's castle, none the wiser.

  But now—now she'd made a mess of things.

  three

  "You're… Hilaire?"

  The musty air thickened, choking Ryance like smoke from a quickly doused fire.

  She tried to deny it. "Nay, I…" Then her resigned sigh blew through his soul. "Aye, I am."

  A dozen emotions roiled through his head—pain, relief, anger, joy, fear—like knights battling in a fierce melee.

  Hilaire. His betrothed. This maiden with the sweet voice, the fragrant hair, the tender touch. This woman who feared the dark, clinging to him with the trust of a drowning kitten. Lord, what would it be like to wake up each morn to such a wife?

  But it was only a fleeting fantasy. They were dying, he reminded himself. There would be no wedding. Besides, he thought bitterly, she did not want him. Forsooth, she'd risked her very life to escape The Black Gryphon.

  It was another tragedy in a long line of tragedies. And it was stinging salt in his wounds that though he'd scarcely met the wench, he suspected he might grow to care for her in time.

  Yet he was damned to destroy all he held dear. Curse the Fates! He'd probably killed her already. It was his fault they were trapped. It was because of him the tunnel had collapsed.

  "You won't tell the others, will you?" she fretted, grabbing at his sleeve.

  "The others?"

  "My father's knights. Will you tell them I ran away?"

  Ryance frowned. The little vixen had sneaked off, leaving her poor father and his knights to defend the castle while she made her escape. It was a childish thing to do, and yet, she seemed little more than a child.

  Not a child perhaps, but barely a woman. She'd probably never had her heart broken, never stolen a kiss, never bedded a man. God's bones—she was too young to die like this.

  "Please, I beg you." Her hand fluttered about and came to rest upon the middle of his chest, too near his heart for comfort. "Do not tell them. Let me go in peace."

  He closed his eyes, almost feeling the warmth of her hand through his tabard and mail and hauberk, and groaned inwardly. "My lady, if I could let you go, I would, but there is no…"

  "Please do not say it again! There has to be a way out."

  She sounded even younger and more vulnerable, and he suddenly regretted his thoughtless words. The lady still hovered on the brink of panic. The last thing she needed was a push over the edge.

  He sighed heavily. Even if by some miracle he happened to find an escape, even if they managed to get out alive, Lady Hilaire was doomed. The King had commanded this union. She couldn't avoid marriage to Sir Ryance Alexander. And once wed, she'd not long avoid the curse of The Black Gryphon.

  "There's always a way out," he told h
er instead, though he'd be damned if he could think of one at the moment. The stone of the fallen castle wall was too dense and tightly wedged to allow escape through the hole he'd originally tunneled out, and the earthen wall of her secret passage might as well be rock, so hardly compacted was it. Given the cramped quarters and the dearth of air, their sole hope was to pray for help.

  "Mayhaps we can dig out," she ventured, "as we did before."

  Ryance grimaced. They could not possibly dig their way out. He had naught to dig with, no spade, no adze, not even a sword, and their bare fingers would wear down to bloody stumps by the time they tunneled out even a yard of earth. It was impossible. But he hadn't the heart to let her know that.

  "Aye, mayhaps," he agreed.

  They might as well try. It would pass the time and prevent her from dwelling on the darkness. Certainly, it would keep his mind off his miserable past. And perhaps, after all, it was a stroke of God's mercy upon him that in his final hours he was closeted in shadow with a woman who knew him not and thus had no cause to fear him.

  "Shall we try here?" she suggested. The optimism in her voice tugged at his heart.

  "Where?"

  Her hand wandered along the links of his mail until she grasped his wrist. Her fingers couldn't even close the distance around his forearm, but she tugged him along like an unruly child, finally placing his palm upon a section of damp earth.

  He shook his head. If they dug there, they would wind up inside the keep—perhaps forty days hence.

  "Do you not wish to escape the castle?" he asked. " 'Tis the opposite wall that leads to freedom."

  "But if The Black Gryphon…" Her fingers curled atop his hand in fear. "You wouldn't understand." Her troubled whisper brushed his face, perfumed with the faint scent of mint. It was as intoxicating as mead. "If he finds me… if he discovers I was fleeing…"

  He scarcely heard her words. The fragrance coming off of her hair, her skin—what was it? Rose? Lavender?

  "I cannot wed him. I cannot. He is a brute. He is cruel and dangerous and evil. Have you not heard? He murdered his first three wives and…"

  "I have heard!" The words tore from his throat with more force than he'd intended.

  With a silent curse, he began jabbing at the soil, using his blunt fingers like daggers. She couldn't know what pain she dealt him with her careless remarks, how she tortured him.

  "I'm sorry," she muttered, her voice a shade cooler, misunderstanding his outburst. "Mayhaps I should be stronger. You doubtless believe I should honor my vows as you honor yours. But I'm not a knight. I'm only a woman. I cannot bear the thought of throwing myself as sacrifice to a monster when…"

  "He is not a mon—" To Ryance's mortification, his voice broke. Damn his weak spirit! He thought he'd become inured to such accusations, thought he'd grown scaly plate like an armored dragon and could no longer be wounded by mere words.

  He was wrong. His heart plunged in misery, and his eyes stung, weary of aspersions. God's blood—would even his last moments on Earth be corrupted by his vile past?

  "You know him," she whispered with a woman's insight. It was not a question, but an accusation. "You know The Black Gryphon."

  "Nay." He clenched his jaw against foolish self-pity.

  In a sense, he spoke the truth. Once he'd known him well. Once Ryance had been a noble young knight with a blade in his hand, the wind at his back, and adventure in his heart. Now The Black Gryphon was only a nightmare he was forced to live. Nay, he no longer knew the man who lived in the shell of his body.

  "But I've known men like him," he said.

  She was quiet for a long while. Then he heard her retreat. He should have expected as much. Even here in the dark, without the benefit of face or name or reputation, he was capable of inspiring fear in a woman.

  "Who are you?" she finally asked.

  "Nobody." He returned to clawing at the mud.

  "Are you one of my father's men?"

  "I'm a knight. That is all. I go where I'm called. I fight when I must."

  She was stung by his curt answer. Even blind, he could sense her hurt. But it was good. It would keep her away from him, keep her safe from his evil, keep him bastioned from her charms.

  "What is your name?" she asked softly.

  He cursed under his breath. "Are you going to let me dig or ask questions all night?"

  A dissonant twang sounded suddenly beside her as she recoiled. The wench must have a gittern or a harp. As the jangling chord faded, he heard the unmistakable sniffle of feminine weeping.

  He heaved a silent sigh. If one weapon could lay him low in a single blow, it was a woman's tears.

  "Oh, do not weep, lady, I pray you." He turned toward her, chewing at his lip. "Forgive my coarse manner. I am… unaccustomed to the company of women."

  But ladies' tears were not easily stopped, and he silently cursed himself for getting them started.

  "I am called… 'Rag' by some," he admitted at last. It was a name he'd not gone by since he was a boy, one his cousin had stuck him with for the initials of his title, Ryance Alexander, The Gryphon. It was a silly name, and for an instant he regretted divulging such a thing to her. Then he remembered they'd likely die here. She'd never utter the name beyond these walls.

  Hilaire sniffed back her tears. "Sir Rag?"

  He grunted for answer.

  " 'Tis a curious name." She couldn't recall him among her father's men. She wondered what he looked like. Perhaps if she could see his face, it would ease her fears, for his quicksilver moods certainly did naught to comfort her.

  She approached him warily, crouching beside him to help scratch at the dirt. This close, she could detect the faint scent of his bath beneath the tang of iron and leather and sweat, the scent of bergamot and woodruff.

  "Do you… have a family?" she asked.

  "Nay." His voice was gruff, short, to the point.

  A long silence ensued, broken only by the sound of fingers fruitlessly scraping against earth, a silence Hilaire soon felt compelled to fill.

  "Mayhaps I have seen you in my father's ranks. Tell me, what are your features like?"

  "Plain. Dark. You'd not remember me."

  His abrupt tone bruised her, but she refused to give up. If he'd not speak to her, she would do the talking.

  "You are not the knight who lamed de Lancey at the spring tournament?"

  "Nay."

  She struggled with a cobblestone lodged fast in the dirt. "The one who plied Lady Anne so diligently with roses last year?"

  "Nay."

  The stone came loose. She tossed it aside. "Then are you…"

  "Nay! You'd not know me," he said impatiently. "I serve no man save the King."

  She gasped. "You're a knight-errant."

  A fevered flush stole up her cheek. No man led such a provocative and fascinating life as a knight-errant, pursuing impossible, noble quests, living by his wits and his sword, staring danger in the eyes, never flinching, traveling a long and solitary road.

  She turned impulsively toward him, her cheeks still warm with excitement. "Do you ever get… lonely?"

  He stopped at his labors and cleared his throat, as if he thought deeply about her question. But he answered as briefly as ever. "Nay."

  "I think it must be lonely being a knight-errant," she disagreed. "Perhaps you have a lady love?"

  "Nay!" He grunted as he plowed his hands hard into the soil, and she worried that he might break his knuckles on a rock.

  "Alas, I have no love either," she told him. "Only this wretched beast they have betrothed me to."

  He didn't answer, but she heard his labored breathing as he struggled against the unyielding wall.

  Suddenly, the full weight of her situation settled upon her like a millstone. She needn't fret about The Black Gryphon, the brute she was to marry, because she wasn't going to get out of here. Even this strong knight-errant could not carve more than a small niche in their prison. They were going to die.

  When she thoug
ht about dying, she thought about her father and her pet falcon, the flowers that had just begun to pop up in the meadow below her window, the sky and the people and the seasons she might never see again. Though she continued to scrape in futility at the wall with her one good hand, tears wet her lashes, and her heart ached as if it would break in two.

  It was a travesty. She was but seven and ten. She'd scarcely lived. She'd never given her favor to a knight in tournament, never written a rebus to a secret love on St. Valentine's Day, never bestowed her affections upon a man.

  Though she tried to stem them, her tears spilled over, and soon she was sniffling softly again.

  Yet even as grief wrapped suffocating fingers about her burning throat, angry denial sprouted beneath her sorrow. It couldn't be true, she decided, desperate for the man with her to speak further reassurances, even false ones. She couldn't die now. She was too young, barely a woman.

  What reason had God to punish her? She'd done naught so evil. Except perhaps to run away from her betrothed. And defy the King. And leave her entire household in peril.

  She swallowed guiltily.

  "You play that thing?" Sir Rag asked quietly after she'd been weeping a few minutes. By his gentle voice, he clearly knew she was crying again, but was too chivalrous to mention it.

  She blinked back her tears. "The harp?"

  He grunted.

  "Aye," she said around the hitching in her chest. "My father says… I play… like an angel."

  "An angel." He chuckled low. It was a sad sound. "Well, angel, will you play for me?"

  For one instant, her spirits soared. There was naught she loved better than playing her harp. What should she play for him? A roundelay to spring? A madrigal about love? A heroic ballad to inspire him? But all at once she remembered her injured hand, and her heart sank.

  "I… I cannot," she said on a sob.

  Sir Rag stopped digging. She heard him turn to her.

  "My hand was smashed in the rock slide," she explained.

  He dropped whatever stone he'd hefted and moved toward her. "Let me see."