A Knight's Vow (6 page)

Yet every day that passed, a knot of anxiety tightened deeper in her stomach. What did Bolton plan? Was he sending her to London and the king's justice?

The trap door suddenly opened, and a shower of dirt fell to the floor. The rope came down—without a bucket. She got to her feet warily.

"Lady Isabel?" called an unfamiliar voice. "Please step onto the loop."

William stood up beside her. "What do you think this means?"

She shrugged. "I shall go up. We cannot sit here forever. I'll be back for you."

She stepped into the loop and held on. They pulled her up through the hole and she leaped onto the floor. A large man with Viking looks stood impassively before her. She put her hands on her hips and waited.

"I am Galway, Lord Bolton's captain of the guards. You will come with me to the great hall."

When he moved to take her arm she pulled away. "Why would I run? My man is down below. And I cannot escape your guards on foot."

He inclined his head and led her into the inner ward. Isabel took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. The breeze smelled of harvest and apples and the coming winter. How she'd missed the freedom of the outdoors.

She felt the hostile stares of the soldiers as they passed the barracks perched atop the stables. The smithy ceased his hammering to come out and glare.

Isabel's chin rose with pride not defensiveness. After all, if they knew what their master and his family had done, they wouldn't support him so. It was her duty to make sure they all found out.

She walked up the stairs and entered the great hall just ahead of Galway. There were trestle tables being set for supper by maids who gasped and pointed at her. Groups of soldiers and servants and travelers were waiting for their meal, and they too turned to stare as if she were the evening's entertainment. A dog raced up to greet her, sliding through the rushes as it came to a stop. Galway pushed it aside. The smells of hot food were almost overwhelming, but she was brought back to the peril of her situation by the sight of Bolton standing at the hearth next to a black-robed priest.

Isabel's bewilderment was replaced by dread. She felt her steps slowing, saw the priest's mouth drop open. Galway took her arm and led her closer, and she knew it was useless to resist. What was happening?

Bolton stood like a dark, impassive statue. His narrowed eyes bored into hers and she detected a shuttered rage she had never felt from him before. He disdainfully raked her body with his gaze. She stiffened and turned away from him.

The white-haired priest was obviously trying to collect himself. He looked at her garments, at her face, then away, and harrumphed. When he again lifted his gaze, a patronizing smile spread his lips.

"God's blessings, Lady Isabel," he said, nodding his head briefly.

She ignored him and turned back to Bolton. "Why have you brought me to a priest?"

"Ever to the point, dear Angel," he said, and his voice was laced with dark sarcasm.

He suddenly didn't seem like the same man. For the first time in her life, she wanted to run.

"Your presence is requested at a wedding, Angel," he said. "'Tis a shame you didn't dress for the occasion."

The room suddenly seemed to press down on her like the rock walls of the dungeon. Her breath came hard with foreboding.

"And you are the bride."

She knew her face went white, that her chest felt clutched by a massive fist. This couldn't be happening.

Isabel swallowed to moisten her parched mouth. "What kind of torture is this?"

"No torture, my child," the priest said, ignoring Bolton's glare of warning. "The king has graciously given your hand in marriage to Lord Bolton. Joining

your two vast estates will please His Majesty greatly."

She took a swift breath and turned her intense gaze on Bolton. "You demanded to marry me?"

His eyes were the blue of winter ice. "Hardly. I wanted never to see your face again, but the king has other wishes, which I have no choice but to obey."

"Well, I have choices." She turned to leave, and Bolton grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong, almost painful. "Get your hand off me."

"From now on, my hands will do what they want to your body."

With a swift intake of breath, she went for her sword hilt, but of course it wasn't there. "I'll kill you before I let you touch me."

"My children!" the priest said, stepping between them.

Bolton let her go.

"This is not the way to begin a marriage," the priest continued. "Many marriages begin on less than friendly terms. With good will, your lives can be happy."

When Bolton said nothing, Isabel realized he actually meant to go through with this farce.

"Father," she said, never taking her eyes off Bolton, "you cannot force me to marry a man I despise. He and his family ruined mine!"

She heard Bolton inhale swiftly. "Father, allow me to speak to my betrothed in private," he said. "I'm sure I can persuade her of the king's wisdom."

The priest bowed and left them alone, the entertainment for a crowd of hundreds.

Isabel faced Bolton, her chin up. She didn't know what his plan was, but she would not submit.

"What fool notion is this?" he demanded, closing the distance between them.

Isabel didn't step back.

"When are you going to tell me what I have supposedly done to you? I've never seen you before!"

"Does the name Mansfield mean nothing to you?"

"Your father, the earl, is dead, and you are his heir. What of it?"

Isabel felt the blood rush to her face at his callous disregard of her father's life. He had lived the last few years in horrible pain because of Bolton's father. He had walked with a pitiable limp, and raged against his fate, or soaked his misery in ale. And he had never let her forget what the Boltons had done.

"You do not remember the tournament where your father so cruelly wounded mine?"

Bolton's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"And the siege where your grandfather killed many of my family."

"I seem to recall there might be more to that story."

"And the start of it all, when your great- grandmother betrayed my great-grandfather instead of marrying him, beginning a family hatred that's gone down generations!" At each word, her voice grew louder and louder. They were the center of attention now, and more and more people filed into the hall. Let them watch, let them learn of Bolton cruelty.

"Of course, I've heard of this ridiculous feud," he said, looking angry and exasperated, "but frankly I'd forgotten the family name involved."

"Forgotten?" she cried, and quickly grabbed the eating knife from his belt.

Chapter 7

Isabel took two swift steps back and held the knife before her. It felt at home in her hand. Bolton tried to take it back, but she eluded him.

"Angel, this is foolish," he said in a low voice.

His gaze moved beyond her and she knew he watched his people. She heard the horrified gasps, the angry murmurs, even the clink of metal against metal from the armed men. But none would be so foolish as to rush her when she could so easily harm their lord.

Bolton laughed harshly. "Do you think I want to marry you? You are the last woman I'd choose. It is clear you have no idea what it means to be a wife, to be the mistress of a castle. Maybe you can defend it, but that's all."

She lunged forward with the knife, but he easily dodged it.

"This matter has already gone beyond us," he continued. "The priest is sent by the king, ready to see us married. Do you think I can disobey His Majesty? Do you think I want his anger?"

"Maybe that's just what I want. You deserve it."

"Fine, but when he takes all my lands, he'll take all of yours, too. What a find for King Henry. He wins either way. He'll enjoy giving what's ours to some other panting courtier. Well I'm not ready to be a pauper. Although I hate the notion, I will marry you. After all, many marriages are as horrible as ours will be." He looked at someone over her shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "Galway, stay back!"

Isabel backed towards the heat of the hearth, keeping both Bolton and Galway within sight. She couldn't believe the amount of people in the hall, all looking at her with anger.

"Lady Isabel," Bolton said softly, "the king has given me your lands, your money, and your people. If you leave now, where will you go?"

She took a deep breath, and the first feelings of inevitability swept over her. She had never thought she'd marry, and certainly not to a Bolton. Yet, much revenge might be wielded from within marriage vows. A broken betrothal had begun the feud—would a humiliating marriage avenge it? Was it worth sacrificing herself? she thought forlornly.

Yet what else was left in her life? She had no family, no friends. She only knew how to hate.

James watched Isabel slowly straighten and lower the knife. She glared at him darkly, unbowed, and he did not think she had surrendered totally. He held out his hand and she placed the knife in it. Returning it to his belt, he allowed himself to really look at her. My God, what was he doing? She was nothing like the woman he'd always thought he'd marry—she had not the beauty or refinement, nor even the virginity he so prized. Her hair was a wild, frizzled mass of black curls, her face was smudged with dirt and paint. Her size was monstrous. And she was wearing the same bedraggled doublet.

"Why didn't you change into the garments I sent?"

"I don't wear gowns," she said coldly.

James closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steel himself to patience. Not wear gowns? God's teeth, she was a woman, and soon his wife! This would not be tolerated. But the mood of his people was not good, judging by the dark looks and buzz of conversation. He wasn't sure how they'd react if Isabel revealed any more of her lovely personality.

"I will force myself to marry you," she suddenly said, as if there'd been a doubt. "But only on one condition."

James wanted to laugh, yet the cold pride in her face held him back. "And that is?"

"If there is a child, he will inherit my family title."

His firstborn son, not a Bolton? He tensed, then almost shouted that she was in no position to make demands. Yet the king's priest looked on in avid interest, ready to report back that James was not willingly obeying His Majesty's requests.

"What, have you no male relatives to inherit the title?"

"None."

"And I'm supposed to beg the king to break his laws for our child."

"If necessary."

The priest continued to watch.

"Agreed," James finally said through gritted teeth. "You do have hips large enough to comfortably bear children."

He caught her fist before it could strike his face, then pulled her up hard against his body. For her ears alone, he murmured, "Comfortable to lie between, too, I'll wager."

They stood face to face, for she was barely smaller than he was. Her eyes burned like black fire, and he thought she would spit at him. Instead she gave him a grim smile.

"We shall see. But first there is the matter of the document."

James was beginning to lose track of their discussion. He noticed her waist felt decidedly narrower than he had thought, almost—graceful.

"What document?" he asked, trying to concentrate. He looked at her lips, which were too full by half.

"The priest will write down the agreement about our heir."

Her eyes, so close to his, were narrowed, angry, but triumphant. The king was forcing them to marry —could she work even this to her advantage?

James released her suddenly and stepped away. "Very well."

He brought the priest over, found parchment and a sharpened quill and dictated the brief proclamation that practically gave their first child to her family. He didn't believe his own words. But perhaps the priest did, for he made no comment as he wrote. After James satisfied Isabel by having two different people read the agreement back, he signed his name and handed her the quill. His stomach clenched as she made a bold A'as her mark.

The ceremony before the chapel doors was brief and quiet, although the inner ward was so silent every strained word could be heard. James tried not to look at anyone, because any chance sympathy and compassion would only humiliate him further.

When the ceremony was over, he felt a heavy weight restricting his breathing. It was done. He was shackled until his death to a woman who wanted him dead, whose goal would be to make him miserable. He tried to imagine how his life had come to this, what he had done wrong, but he couldn't. The last few years of his life had been spiraling out of control, starting with his brother Edmund's death, and finally ending at rock bottom with marriage to a woman who despised him. Could he even call her a woman?

After mass, they returned to the great hall. James thought he might as well give the king's priest something good to take back to court, besides the tale of Bolton's knife-wielding, thieving bride. He made a great show of seating the priest on the dais for supper, and was about to join him, when he remembered he had a wife.

Isabel didn't know what to do next. She stood in a great hall full of people, but she might as well have been totally alone. They went out of their way to avoid her, to turn their faces away. But she was their mistress, married to a husband she could barely look on without wanting to kill.

Liar, she thought again.

The marriage ceremony was only a vivid memory now. She had felt nothing but despondency as she stood in the cold autumn wind and gave away her life to a Bolton. She knew he, too, had not wanted this marriage, but she couldn't help blaming him. He was the one who had written to the king.

How did he treat a reluctant wife, who'd so recently tried to kill him? She knew how he had behaved to his betrothed—he'd forced himself on her. Isabel's stomach clenched tight with apprehension.

She stood in the center of the great hall, where servants and soldiers gave her wide berth. Food was carried in on immense platters and the smell alone made her dizzy with hunger. But what was she supposed to do, how was she to behave? Was she still a prisoner, or the free mistress of the household?