A Knight's Vow Part 3

She sat down as gracefully and as modestly as she could, keeping her eyes on the unstable-looking sword bearer. She wondered what would possibly entertain the kid. She had her G.o.diva, of course, but she had the feeling that would be wasted on him. If his boss thought it was poison, he probably would too.

Okay, so chocolate was out. She contemplated the contents of her bag. Scarf, d.i.c.k Francis mystery, dog-eared copy of The Canterbury Tales for long subway rides, and dire-dire-emergency bottle of pop she never touched. For all she knew, it might save her life one day. She had her Day-Timer with its special section of games for those bored in meetings, and a pair of Cole Haan pumps that never touched anything rougher than Berber carpet. There was her sketchbook and a pencil case full of colored pencils. Oh, and what she'd purchased at the health-food store. She suspected carob-covered carrots were not the way to this kid's heart, but it was the best she had, so she would make do.

She pulled out the crinkly bag, held it in her hand and looked Peter in the eye.

"Now, Peter," she said in the don't-give-me-any-c.r.a.p voice she reserved for civil servants and the super of her building, "I have a few questions for you..."

five.

Two days later, William stood at the edge of the forest, stared off into the mist surrounding his seized castle and cursed his current straits. He should have been inside his keep with a warm fire near his toes and a bottle of something drinkable and sweet at his elbow. And he would have been, and two days ago at that, had events not conspired so strongly against him. Now look at him-out in the rain, staring stupidly at his quarry and finding himself without a strategy.

He sighed and leaned back against a tree. His hope of surprise was gone. Even though he stood in the shadows of a goodly bit of forest, he suspected he was being marked. No doubt Hubert's men had enlightened him at great length and with great merriment about the events at the wall two nights earlier.

William sincerely hoped his sire had laughed long and well. It would be the last thing he'd find to laugh over for some time to come. For even though Hubert was a drunkard and a fool, he couldn't have been fool enough to believe a little refuse would keep William from taking back what was rightfully his.

Of course, that was before William had found himself saddled with a woman who likely couldn't fend for herself if she'd been left inside a secured hall with a larder full to overflowing and two score of the finest mercenaries as guardsmen.

William cursed heartily, though it provided him with little satisfaction. For the first time in his life, he found himself forced to care not only for someone else's, but for his own sweet neck as well, and that was a sorry state of affairs indeed. His value as a warrior had always come from his total disregard for his own safety. He had dared where others had shrunk back in fear. He'd forged ahead where others had hesitated. He'd thrown himself into the heat of battle with abandon where others had stopped to consider the cost. Such had won him a fiercesome reputation and enough gold to see himself fed, wined and wenched to his satisfaction whenever he pleased.

Should any of the victims of his former ruthlessness have been witness to his current state, though, they likely would have laughed themselves ill. William of Artane, callous executor of war, hesitating because of a woman.

Pitiful.

He pushed himself away from the tree and gave himself a good shake. What did he care for a woman who had no business roaming about by herself-and just where was Manhattan, anyway?-and likely deserved whatever fate she met? He was a warrior, by St. George's foul sword, and his business was before him in the keep, not behind him in the chapel.

He looked over said keep with a critical eye. The wall was crumbling in places, but st.u.r.dy enough to still keep out most a.s.sailants. William felt sure he would be pleased by that fact when he was viewing those walls from a different vantage point. The hall itself was small, but perfectly adequate for a minor lord such as himself-at least what he could tell of it from just being able to see the top of it. He hoped to find it defensible on closer inspection.

But how to take back his inheritance? He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he should merely plant himself on the road up to the gate and challenge his father's men to come and meet him one by one. He could dispatch a dozen men, a.s.suming none of them stuck a bolt through him first.

But what if those were men beholden to the keep and not to his sire? He would be killing his own potential guardsmen.

He chewed on that for a bit, then contemplated another idea. He could strip down to his hose, a tunic and a leather jerkin and simply slip over the wall at a vulnerable place, sneak inside the keep and put his father to the sword before anyone was the wiser. He'd done it before with great success.

It was, however, a very dangerous idea.

"d.a.m.n woman," he muttered, then turned and melted back into the woods. What did he care what happened to the wench? The priest had been addled when he'd bound that into the vow. How could William possibly be held to such a thing, especially in light of what kind of creature he'd stumbled upon?

He walked swiftly back to the chapel, but still it took him a goodly while to get there. By the time he reached the crumbling building, he was cross, soaked to the skin, and wondering what had possessed him to ever have come to the chapel in the first place.

Never discount aid from Above.

William wished his grandsire were there before him, for he would have given him some pointed thoughts on the matter. How could any wench be thought of as help from a celestial source? Aye, 'twas a pity Phillip was no longer alive. William would have retaken his keep, then returned to Artane and dumped his wench of questionable origin off on his grandsire, just to see how she would have changed his mind.

William took a deep breath to stifle what would no doubt have been a sigh of epic proportions, then slipped inside the door of the chapel. He gave his horse a pat, then looked around him to see what sort of madness Julianna was combining today.

He would have cursed, but he was too busy losing his breath. d.a.m.n the woman. Was it not enough that she had befouled his plans? Did she also have to render him dumb and faint in the head as well? If he'd had any idea just what had lain beneath the cesspit refuse, he never would have rescued her.

He wondered absently if he could truly be held to his vow if the maiden in question was of the ilk of wench that could completely distract a man from his manly duties. Perhaps he would question the priest more closely on that-but later. Now 'twas much more satisfying to look at the wench in question and give in to a few well-earned, silent grumbles.

She was sitting on the floor playing-ah, if he could but remember the last time he'd had leisure for a game!-something called checkers with his squire whilst the priest looked on. The game was something she'd unearthed from her sacred relic sack. William was itching to get a more thorough look at the sack's contents, but apparently he'd been too free with her belongings the first night, for no other look had been offered to him. Peter, however, seemed to suffer from no such ban, for he was allowed to paw liberally through Julianna's gear.

That was the first thing that set William's teeth on edge.

The second was the woman who, after cleaning up a bit, had turned out to be not so much beautiful as striking-and would that someone had struck him on the head before he'd rescued her! He hadn't paid much heed to her whilst she'd bathed that first evening, apart from saving her yet again from another disaster by stopping her from tumbling face first into the stream. He certainly hadn't thought of her as he'd taken a well-deserved rest. More unfortunate was he that he'd awoken soon after to find the arresting woman hiccuping fiercely as she tried to make sense of his squire's babbles. William hadn't been able to take his eyes from her, despite his best intentions.

She'd been offering Peter something from the palm of her hand as if he were a whipped pup who needed to be taught to trust again. And d.a.m.n the lad if he hadn't succ.u.mbed fully. Even the priest had stopped making signs to ward off evil long enough to sample something from Julianna's golden box of poison. G.o.diva. Hah. What sort of foodstuffs was that?

The third thing that he found to be more of a distraction than he would have liked was the matter of her origins. Manhattan? He'd never heard of such a place, and he'd seen a goodly amount of villages in his travels. Not only that, how had she found herself without kin or servants, sitting against his wall dressed in clothing he had surely never seen the like of before?

Perhaps these were mysteries he should see to before he ground his teeth to powder.

And perhaps then he might have the peace he needed for planning his a.s.sault.

William stepped out of the shadows and crossed over the broken stone floor. Perhaps when he was lord of his own keep, he would see this chapel restored as well. Despite its distance from the keep, it could be made useful. To be sure he would need all the blessings he could get.

He stopped a handful of paces from his unstable wench and looked down at her. Well, at least today there was no sign of hiccups, nor of those foolish songs she seemed to spout without warning.

Nor was there any acknowledgment of his presence. William almost opened his mouth to chastise her for her lack of respect, but found himself distracted by the substantial amount of curling hair that fell down far past her shoulders. It was tangled and lovely, and he found himself tempted to put aside his cares for a moment and take his fingers to it that he might put it to rights.

And where such a d.a.m.ned foolish impulse had come from he couldn't have said, but he was powerfully tempted to put his hand to his forehead and see if he burned with a sudden fever.

Perhaps Julianna's madness was catching.

Then she lifted her face up and looked at him. And he knew that not only was he feverish, he was fast losing whatever paltry wits remained him.

Striking.

Aye, she was that. Her eyes were a blue of such painful vividness, he could scarce look in them. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her face was of a shape to be so pleasing, it was all he could do not to cup it in his hands and kiss a mouth that surely seemed fas.h.i.+oned for just such a thing. But beautiful? Nay, he could not say that about her.

Yet he suspected he would be hard-pressed to forget the sight of her.

She turned her attentions back to the game, and William felt his head clear. He glared at the priest and cleared his throat. The priest leaped immediately to his feet and began bobbing respectfully.

William waved the man away and concentrated his energies on the two still sitting. Peter seemed to feel the heat of his master's gaze still somewhat compelling, because he looked up with only a minor hesitation.

"My lord?" he said.

"On your feet, you ungrateful wretch," William growled.

Peter cast one last, longing look at his game before he crawled to his feet and vacated his place. William

sat down with a grunt and looked at Julianna. "You will," he said without preamble, "show me your

sacred relics."

Her mouth worked a moment or two, and he greatly feared another attack of hiccups. Then she seemed to gather herself together.

And then she shook her head.

William frowned. He was not accustomed to being contradicted. "You will-"

"I want to know the date first," Julianna interrupted firmly. "The year."

"The year?" he repeated in surprise. By the saints, perhaps she was further gone than he'd feared.

"The year," she said, pulling her bag into her lap. "Peter didn't know, and your priest is convinced it is

1250.".

Twelve-fifty? William shook his head. Daft soul.

Julianna carefully put her checkers game into the bag as well.

William frowned. She was supposed to be pulling things out, not putting them away. Ah, well, it didn't

look as if he'd have his look until he satisfied her demented curiosity.

" 'Tis the Year of Our Lord, 1299," he said with a sigh. "A year from the world coming to an end, thoughI don't believe that foolishness." He looked at her to see if she agreed.She was looking at him as if he were the one who was daft."The Year of Our Lord's Grace, 1299," he repeated firmly. "The same as it was yesterday and the day before. And as it will be tomorrow-"

A horrendous rending sound echoed in the chapel. He was on his feet, crouched with his sword drawn almost before he knew he intended to do such.

He looked about quickly, but saw nothing. His squire and the priest had flung themselves behind the altar.

Julianna was staring at him as if he'd just confirmed her worst fears. Then she slowly held up her bag.

"Zipper," she said.

He lowered his sword slowly. "Zipper?"

She pulled on something and the sound rang out again, only more faintly this time. William sank to his

knees, gaping at the sack. By the saints, there was more to this business of carrying sacred relics than he'd expected.

Then another thought occurred to him. Perhaps 'twas the burden of transporting those relics that had wrought the foul work upon her senses. She was, after all, merely a woman and likely not equal to the stamina required for such a thing. Had her obligation to her relics driven her mad?

That was somehow a far sight more comforting than believing she'd arrived in her current state on her own. "I want to go home," she whispered. That was the other thing that puzzled him. Her language was understood well enough, though 'twas spoken a bit strangely. But her habit of throwing in words he could not divine was frankly quite disconcerting.

"You want to go home," he said, immediately deciding that he had no time for such a journey. He had a keep to recover and after it was recovered, he would likely be spending all his time trying to keep it recovered. Besides, his vow only called for rescuing and defending. It didn't call for providing an escort back to wherever she'd come from.

"I'm not really sure how I got here-if here is really a place anyway and not some wacky medieval reenactment boot camp-"

He paused and considered. How had she come to be sitting against his wall with nothing but her relic sack to guard her? Was she a nun? A saint?

"... I'm just not up to this," she was saying, beginning to hiccup again. "I don't-hic-like to camp, I hate to wear nylons-hic-hic-and I think I'm allergic to your d.a.m.ned horses-hic-"

William greatly suspected that saints did not swear. He was almost certain they didn't hiccup in such a ferocious manner.

"Not even sit-hic-com songs are working for me!" she exclaimed, glaring at him as if all that was amiss in her life was directly attributable to him.

A madwoman, he decided with finality. But one possessing sacred relics that he was almost certain would aid him in his task.

'Twas a certainty they couldn't hurt.

"I really want to go home," she said, shutting her eyes as if even the very thought of such a thing pained her.

"I will help," William lied, deciding that whatever he had to say, he would say if it would get him a look inside her bag.