Uncommon Vows Read online

  Sir Walter inhaled and took an involuntary step back, shocked to his core by a resemblance he had never noted before. In the deadly purity of rage, Adrian might almost have been his maternal grandfather, the Sire of Courcy, a warrior of legendary strength and viciousness.

  Courcy's daughter, Lady Eleanor, had been a sweet and gentle mistress of Warfield, and Sir Walter had never thought to see her father's face in her sons. It was a startling, and not wholly welcome, recognition.

  Adrian lifted his head, his eyes no less lethal than the steel of his sword. ''Sir Walter, make me a knight."

  "But... but you are only fifteen. You have not prepared, not bathed or fasted." The captain shook his head. "To be made a knight is one of life's most solemn moments. It is not right to do it in haste."

  "I have been trained in the basic skills of arms, and for over two years I have been praying and purifying myself," the youth said with noticeable dryness. "Even now Burgoigne might be moving to capture the Warfield demesne, and there is no time to be lost. If I am to command, I must be a knight, and I ask that you confer the accolade."

  Sir Walter paused uncertainly, too tired for such a momentous decision. Richard's quiet voice sounded from the shadows. "Adrian is right. A hard task lies before him, and he must face it as a man among men."

  When Sir Walter still hesitated, Richard continued, his voice quieter yet, "If you will not dub him, I will. But it would be more fitting from you."

  Sir Walter bowed before inescapable logic. There was precedent for dubbing a youth who was coming into his inheritance, or a squire on the eve of battle, and both those conditions were true now.

  It was customary to say a few words on the occasion, and the captain cleared his throat, his gaze meeting that of the young man who stood before him with dangerous stillness. "To be a knight is a great privilege, and an equally great responsibility. A knight must serve God and the Church, give fealty and obedience to his lord, and defend the weak."

  He paused, and Richard stepped forward and girded Lord Hugh's sword around his brother's lean waist.

  Sir Walter continued, "May God grant you courage, wisdom, and strength that you might live, and die, with honor. Be thou a knight, Sir Adrian." The captain gave Adrian the colèe, the ritual blow on the shoulder, and the ceremony was done.

  It should have been an incongruous sight, a youth wearing a sword over the white robe of a monk, but it was not. Richard stepped forward and embraced Adrian, then lifted the abbot's gospel from the desk and swore the formal oath of fealty to his brother. Reminded of what was fitting, Sir Walter did the same.

  After gravely accepting their oaths, Adrian turned to face the simple crucifix that hung on the abbot's wall, and sank to his knees. Drawing his sword, he raised it before him so that the cross shape of blade and hilt was aligned with the crucifix.

  "I swear before God and man that I shall rebuild Warfield stronger than before," he said, his voice harsh with intensity. "And I further swear that my family and all those others who died with them shall be avenged, no matter how long it will take, even if it should cost me my life."

  Of the three men listening, only Richard appreciated the significance of the fact that Adrian's oath was not to attempt rebuilding and vengeance, but was a solemn promise to achieve those ends. Knowing what he did of his brother, Richard did not doubt that the vow would be fulfilled.

  * * *

  Outside in the courtyard, the abbot's servant escorted Sir Walter and Richard to the guest hall so they could have some much-needed rest. Adrian knew better than to reclaim his own pallet; the contradictory emotions warring within him would make sleep impossible. Glancing at the sky, he saw that the moon was almost totally obliterated. An eclipse was said to be a portent of great change, and certainly that was true now. After tonight, his life would never be the same.

  He turned right and crossed the court to the abbey church. The vast, echoing interior was lit only by a few scattered candles, and the stone emptiness had a bone-biting chill worse than the winter air outside.

  An hour earlier Adrian had been here with the other novices and choir monks, chanting hymns to the Lord. There had been warmth in the bodies standing close together in the choir, harmony in their uplifted voices, and peace in the belief that he would spend the rest of his life here.

  Now peace was gone, perhaps forever.

  Lifting a burning taper, he carried it to the rack of votive candles and lit a flame to the memory of his father, Lord Hugh of Warfield. The baron had been a stern and unsubtle man, inspiring more respect than love, but he had believed in honor, and done his duty as he saw it.

  Adrian set three more candles ablaze for his eldest brother, also called Hugh, and for the wife and infant son who had died with him on Christmas Day. Hugh the younger had been in the mold of his father, and as heir to Warfield, he had been more than a little arrogant. But he had also been unflinchingly brave, and Burgoigne's men must have paid dearly for his death.

  Another candle flared for Amaury de Lancey, a year junior to Hugh. Resenting that he was a landless younger son, it had been Amaury's special mission to prove that he was his older brother's equal in all things, and, for better and for worse, he had been.

  Baldwin was the youngest of the three brothers who had died. He and Richard had been of an age, and Baldwin had always treated the bastard with disdain. Ironic that his despised half-brother had survived because he was pursuing raiders in bitter December weather while the legitimate de Lanceys had enjoyed the comfort of the Christmas feast.

  Adrian took a deep breath, inhaling the faded fragrance of incense and the acrid scent of burning tallow. Was it wicked to be grateful that the one member of his family who survived was Richard, the brother whom Adrian most loved?

  His mouth twisted humorlessly. Wicked he might be, but he could not deny how he fell.

  Then, as always, he lit a candle for his mother, though surely her soul needed no prayers. Instead, he made a humble plea for God's forgiveness. When Lady Eleanor had died the year before, too quickly for Adrian to go to her, he had raged at God for taking a woman of such gentle goodness too soon.

  He should have had more faith. Now he saw that it was God's mercy that his mother had passed quickly and peacefully rather than in the flames of Warfield, surrounded by the screams of her dying family and household.

  Finally, his face grim, Adrian lit every other candle on the rack until dozens of flames blazed, defying the dark with their heat and light. These were for the cooks and scullions, the grooms and guards who had also died at the hands of Burgoigne and his men. As a child Adrian had known most of them, had played with some, learned from others.

  May God have mercy on their souls. They had had a right to expect protection of their master, and Lord Hugh had failed them. Pray God that Adrian never did the same.

  His sandals slapping softly, he crossed the nave to the Lady Chapel, where a candle illuminated the statue of the Holy Mother. He had always loved this chapel, for Mary's gentle face held a timeless serenity that reminded him of his own mother, and of all that was sweet and pure in life. There was deep truth in the fact that men spoke of Holy Mother Church, for the Church was the force of civilization and compassion among nations, just as women brought mercy and gentleness to men.

  He knelt and laid his sword before the altar. Usually candidates for knighthood prayed over their arms the night before, asking for strength and humility, but Adrian reversed that order. Bowing his head, he covered his face with his hands and drew a shuddering breath, indifferent to the chill of the stone beneath his knees.

  As he tried to pray, fragments of thought and feeling swirled within his mind, plans for the future warring with his turbulent emotions. He must protest to the king about Burgoigne's murderous behavior. Stephen would not punish one of his favorites, but perhaps in his guilt the king would waive or reduce the amount of the relief that must be paid for Adrian's right of inheritance.

  Money saved there would be most useful, for Adria
n must rebuild Warfield in stone, not timber, so it could never be burned again. And on another site. Adrian had once suggested that the old keep was too vulnerable and Lord Hugh had scoffed that a mere boy questioned his father's judgment.

  But fees and castles were just worldly problems, capable of solution. What could not be solved was the fact that he was now a baron, with life-and-death power over hundreds of men, women, and children. The life of a monk was not easy, but there was a simplicity to it, and here at Fontevaile he could have governed the dark, destructive side of his nature.

  His mother had recognized her father's savage temper in her youngest son, and she had done her best to curb him by her example of love and gentleness. It was Lady Eleanor who had suggested that Adrian enter the Church. He had recognized the wisdom of her advice, for even as a boy, tilting at the quintain or practicing swordcraft, he could taste the treacherous joys of bloodlust.

  As a result, Adrian had early taught himself rigid control. For a time he had believed that he could successfully be both warrior and godly man. Then the stirrings of manhood had intensified his passions, convincing him that his capacity for violence exceeded his ability to control it.

  Adrian exhaled, his breath clouding the cold air as he thought of all that he was losing, not just a way of life, but possibly his very soul. He had entered the Church believing that it offered his only hope of living a devout life, and in renouncing the world he had found fulfillment.

  More than fulfillment, there had been joy in knowing he would spend the rest of his life working and praying at Fontevaile amongst the silences and songs of praise, surrounded by learning and beauty. Few were the worldly temptations here, and the great battles were those of the spirit, noted only by one's confessor, though no less challenging for being private.

  Lust and pride and anger were part of him. Even in a monastary, far from temptation, he had found them to be opponents of overpowering strength and threat.

  Now the world had claimed him for its own. The very sins he struggled against were often honored by worldly men, who considered pride fitting in a nobleman, fury a virtue in a warrior, and unbridled lust a proof of manliness.

  It would be so easy, so exquisitely easy, to become a monster like the Sire of Courcy. Adrian was terrifyingly aware that under his shock, under the grief and regrets for the slaughter of his family, there was fierce exultation that God had not seen fit to leave him at Fontevaile.

  Prostrating himself on the floor before the altar, the icy stone rough against his cheek, he prayed for the strength he would need in the struggle ahead. Not the strength to defend his patrimony, or to rebuild Warfield, or to protect the people under his care. Those things he knew he could do.

  The true test, the one Adrian feared he might be unequal to, was to master himself.

  Chapter 1

  Lambourn Priory, Wiltshire

  July 1143

  It was a glorious high summer day. Meriel de Vere stopped at the top of the hill and unhooded the kestrel, then cast it into the wind, watching in delight as the little falcon soared upward.

  With equal delight, she pulled off her veil and wimple, closing her eyes blissfully as the wind blew through her straight black hair. She had hastened through the first part of her errand to allow time for lingering on her return, and she intended to enjoy every moment of freedom. Not that Mother Rohese would scold her for tarrying. The prioress had always been wonderfully tolerant of her wayward novice.

  Meriel sighed, reminded how quickly time was passing. She had first come to Lambourn Priory as a student when she was ten, and in the five years since she had spent more time with the Benedictine sisters than with her own family at Beaulaine. Sir William de Vere had sent his daughter to the priory with the idea that she would eventually take the veil, and the previous year Meriel had begun her novitiate.

  Lambourn was a small house, but it was a happy place and Meriel loved the sisters and the way of life. Nonetheless, the closer she drew to final vows, the harder it was to imagine spending the rest of her life within the confines of the cloister. The very thought was suffocating.

  Which was exactly why Mother Rohese often chose Meriel for errands to the village and the manor, as a way of relieving Meriel's restlessness. But would she be so restless if final vows were not so near?

  Realizing that her thoughts were starting to chase one another, Meriel set them aside, loath to cloud the perfect day with fretfulness. She hitched up the skirts of her black habit and settled on crossed legs to watch the kestrel.

  She had named the little falcon Rouge because of the reddish-brown bars on its upper body, but had not trained the bird for hunting. Apart from the fact that she didn't have enough time for the slow work of training, falconry would have been most unfitting for a novice nun. It was enough to have the pleasure of Rouge's company, both in the priory and on these occasional expeditions into the country.

  Meriel loved animals: horses, birds, dogs, even cats. Regrettably, she lacked the wisdom to appreciate spiders, but perhaps when she was older and more godly she would learn to love them, too.

  The first glee of free flight having worn off, Rouge was now hovering about twenty feet above the meadow, her tail fanned, her gaze intent as she searched for unwary mice or other prey. Amongst falcons and hawks, females were the birds of choice because they were larger, stronger, and steadier in temperament than the males. Kestrels were so small that even the female could not take game much larger than a sparrow.

  Meriel smiled dreamily and pulled a sprig of meadow timothy, placing it in her mouth so she could suck the tender end while she let her imagination run free. What would it be like to be a falcon, to have the lightness and freedom to ride the wind, to hover and glide with the swift powerful beat of wings, to cleave the air fiercely as she seized her quarry?

  Chuckling, Meriel decided not to go as far as imagining what a grasshopper tasted like. That was one part of the kestrel's life she had no desire to share!

  Linking her hands around her knees, she watched Rouge fondly. Kestrels were the most lowly of all hunting birds, and were sometimes contemptuously called hoverhawks. They were the only breed which could lawfully be flown by those of peasant birth, but what kestrels lacked in dignity, they made up for in charm. Rouge was a playful and affectionate creature, and she had become a pet to everyone in the priory.

  The bailiff had found the starving young falcon in the spring. Meriel spent much time in the Beaulaine mews, and she'd the bird back to health. Now Rouge followed her about, fluttering from perch to perch to be near her mistress, occasionally even invading the church when the sisters were at their devotions.

  Once the kestrel went so far as to perch on the statue of the Virgin during prime. After the service, Mother Rohese had said rather dryly that, while the Blessed Virgin would doubtless forgive the transgression, it would be well if the bird was persuaded to stay out of the church when the bishop visited.

  Meriel had agreed meekly. Tactfully she refraind from mentioning the priest who brought his sparrowhawk to services and tethered it to the altar rail while he performed the Mass.

  After half an hour of drifting, uncomplicated enjoyment, Meriel reluctantly stood and prepared to return to the priory. Rouge had hunted her fill and didn't wait for the lure, but flew down and perched on her mistress's gloved hand, then hopped to her shoulder, making soft mewling noises.

  Meriel scratched delicately at Rouge's head, then glanced at the sun. Frowning, she realized that the afternoon was far advanced. She must hurry or she'd miss vespers.

  Rouge on her shoulder, Meriel picked up her veil and wimple and set off at a brisk pace. The most direct route to the priory was a steep path over a high wooded hill, and she climbed steadily for a quarter of an hour, warmed by her exertion even though she moved in the shade of the trees.

  At the top of the hill she stopped to catch her breath, her gaze scanning the valley far below, where a road to the north followed the river. This part of England had been relativ
ely unscathed during the last years of civil war, but safety could never be taken for granted.

  The hard flash of light reflecting from bright metal caught her gaze. She narrowed her eyes to study it further. Her brother Alan said that she had spent so much time with falcons that she had their vision. Perhaps he was right, or she would never have been able to discern the ambush below.

  Chilled, Meriel drew in her breath when she realized that armed men lined both sides of the road just north of a curve. It was impossible to guess who the ambushers were, or for whom they waited, but from the sizable cloud of dust being raised on the road, their prey was at hand, riding into the trap.

  Even as she watched, a troop of perhaps two dozen knights and men-at-arms rode into view a scant hundred yards from the waiting ambush. There had been rumors of fighting to the south, and she guessed that the groups below were warring adherents of King Stephen and Empress Matilda.

  It didn't much matter who they were. Any group of armed men was a threat to the innocent, and atrocities had been committed by both sides. The whole of England was being torn not just by those who fought for their causes, but by outlaws whose only loyalty was to themselves, whose only goal was plunder. Sober men lamented the passing of King Henry, whose iron hand had kept his barons in check.

  Sensing Meriel's tension, the kestrel stirred restlessly on her shoulder. She hooded the bird so it wouldn't fret. Her instinct was to race back to the priory to warn of possible danger, but she stayed, hoping for more information.

  The group riding down the road looked weary and battle worn, and Meriel drew in her breath, wishing she could warn them but knowing her voice would never carry against the wind. Though she knew nothing of the men below and what they stood for, her sympathies lay with the travelers who were about to become victims of treachery.