Uncommon Vows
by
Mary Jo Putney
New York Times Bestselling Author
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-632-9
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Thank You.
Praise for
Mary Jo Putney
and her novels
Uncommon Vows
"Uncommon Vows is my favorite among Mary Jo Putney's books... Few authors can pull off a medieval backdrop without stripping the era of its darkness or allowing its dramatic historical politics to overshadow the romance, but Putney makes it seem effortless... The result is some of her strongest and most inspired writing.... A romance that definitely qualifies as uncommon."
—All About Romance
Dancing on the Wind
Winner of the RITA Award
"Another A+ read from one of the very best. I count on Mary Jo Putney for a compelling story with characters who live and breathe, and most of all, love... [This] love story is intense, emotional, and deeply satisfying."
—Under the Covers
"Magnificent Mary Jo Putney has provided her fans with another winner and proves the adage that writers do not age, they just get better."
—Affaire de Coeur
"Mary Jo Putney has a gift."
—The Oakland Press
"The characters are appealing, the situations unusual, and the story fascinating. You won't be disappointed!"
—The Time Machine
To my editor, Hilary Ross,
who gets embarrassed when her authors
say how lucky they are to have her.
Foreword
The death of King Henry I in 1135 precipitated the period sometimes called the Anarchy. Henry was a ruthless and capable king, but while he had over twenty illegitimate children, his only legitimate heir was his daughter Matilda, who had been married to the German emperor at a young age. She was much loved in Germany, but was widowed in her early twenties and returned to England, where she was afterward generally called "the empress."
Henry then married his daughter to Geoffrey, the fourteen-year-old heir to the Count of Anjou, a union distasteful not only to the principal parties but also to the entire Norman baronage, since Normandy and Anjou were ancient enemies. Even so, the king had enough power to bully his barons into swearing that they would accept Matilda as Henry's successor.
However, as soon as Henry died, his nephew Count Stephen of Blois (who had been the first to pledge loyalty to his cousin Matilda, and who may once have been her lover) promptly co-opted the crown and the treasury. Stephen was affable and chivalrous and the barons and the Church were happy to accept him as ruler instead of Matilda. However, Stephen's ambition outstripped his abilities and over the next several years he alienated the Church and many of his subjects.
Robert of Gloucester, the oldest bastard son of King Henry, was one of England's greatest landholders and was widely respected for his ability and integrity. In the spring of 1138 he decided to support his half-sister Matilda's claim to the throne and formally defied King Stephen. The west and south of England supported Robert and the country plunged into civil war.
Most battles occurred on the frontier between Matilda's supporters in the west and the eastern majority of the country, which was loyal to Stephen. Many barons welcomed anarchy as a way of increasing their own power and impartially accepted bribes of land and titles from either side. The carnage was notable even for an age of brutality, though Robert of Gloucester did a decent job of keeping order in the lands he controlled.
Matilda came very close to winning the crown but did not succeed. (She was frequently accused of arrogance and high-handedness, traits that would have been considered fairly normal in a king, but which struck the male chroniclers as intolerable in a female. Things haven't changed much.)
After Robert of Gloucester died in 1148, Matilda went back to Normandy. She never returned to England, but her young son Henry took up the Angevin cause (so named for Anjou, home of Matilda's husband and sons). A true descendant of the Conqueror, Henry first invaded England at the tender age of fourteen. He achieved nothing militarily, but in a piece of unbelievable farce, Henry successfully persuaded his cousin King Stephen to pay off Henry's Angevin mercenaries.
By 1148, when most of Uncommon Vows takes place, the country had subsided into an exhausted stalemate. The old division still held: the west for Matilda, the east for Stephen, with friction along the frontier between them.
Prologue
Fontevaile Abbey, Shropshire
December 1137
The pale Christmas sun set on a day of disaster, and the two knights set off on their mission with the embers of the ravaged keep still glowing against the night sky. They rode hard and fast, and through the long, bleak miles they spoke not at all.
It was near midnight when they crested the final hill. By unspoken consent, both the young knight and the old pulled their horses to a halt and gazed into the barren valley below, where the cold silver light of a full moon touched the abbey of Fontevaile with unearthly tranquility.
"I wish to God you were not baseborn." The older man's bitter words were a measure of the grief this evil day had laid on him. Walter of Evesham was captain of the de Lancey guard and had known all of the family, had almost been one of them. In the aftermath of disaster, he wished he had died with them.
The younger man's mouth quirked up with the wry acceptance of one who had early learned his station in life. "You can't wish it more than I, but wishing will not change the fact that my mother was my father's maidservant, not his wife."
The captain's gaze lingered on his companion. Richard FitzHugh had the lanky frame of a lad not yet fully grown, but he was a brave and skillful warrior. Just the previous week he had been knighted, and all who knew him had agreed that he deserved the honor though he was only eighteen.
"You are the best of Lord Hugh's sons, Richard," Walter said morosely. "It would be far better for Warfield if you were the heir."
The young knight shrugged the compliment aside and gestured at the sleeping abbey. "Don't underestimate my brother Adrian."
"Bah, a sickly, undersized, overgodly boy," the old captain growled. "It will be best if he stays at Fontevaile and takes his vows. What can he do to preserve his patrimony in a land gone mad?"
"There is nothing wrong with Adrian's sword arm or his sense." Richard pulled his wool cloak tighter aro
und his hauberk. In the bitter December wind the metal links were cold as carved ice, but with rebellion stalking the countryside they dared not ride unarmed. "Though he is young, I think he will hold Warfield as well as anyone might."
"I'd forgotten that you both were sent to Courtenay for fostering." Sir Walter spurred his horse down the shadowed hill, his brow furrowed as he wondered if Richard's optimism might be well founded.
"Aye, we were, and we shared a pallet and trained together for five years, until Adrian decided to enter the Church." Richard urged his own mount down the rough track, remembering how two boys who would not admit to homesickness had drawn together amongst so many strange faces. They had truly become brothers, and Richard would fare better with Adrian as his liege than he would have under any of Lord Hugh's other legitimate sons.
"Adrian had aptitude for arms?" There was surprise in the captain's question, for the image did not fit his memories.
"Aye, he had aptitude, and an invincible will as well. We tested our skills on each other, as boys will do." Richard smiled wryly. "Had I not had three years more growth and experience, I would never have defeated him. As it was, the honors were about even."
"He could defeat you?" Startled, Sir Walter looked up from the rough track, convinced that the younger man was jesting, but for once there was no levity on his companion's face.
"Adrian came to Fontevaile because he loved God, not because he feared man." Richard knew that his words were less than the whole truth. Though he had known his younger half-brother well, he would not be so bold as to think that he knew all the reasons Adrian had decided to become a monk. "And because as youngest son, there was naught for him to inherit. Now that has changed."
Still unconvinced, Sir Walter was about to reply when he glanced up at the moon above the abbey. "Sweet mother of God!" he swore, his hand clenching on the reins.
Richard looked up also, then sucked his breath in when he saw what had startled the other man. The full moon had been a perfect circle of silvery white, but now a shadow was devouring the light. The darkened section of moon glowed a dark sullen red, like a lantern from hell.
"It means nothing," Sir Walter said, his voice sharp with anxiety, his eyes fixed on the drama in the night sky. "I have seen this before. It will pass. It means nothing."
He did not believe his own words. An eclipse had always been regarded as an omen of great and ominous events, and perhaps it fit this disastrous day.
The question was, he thought wearily as he spurred his tired horse toward the abbey gates, did it bode well or ill for the youth who was the new Baron of Warfield?
* * *
The porter surveyed the two knights mistrustfully and asked their business before bidding them enter. In these perilous times, even God's servants were wary, and with good cause.
They stabled their horses, then crossed the court to the abbot's quarters as fugitive dead leaves skipped before the chill wind with a brittle rasp. The moon was almost half-covered now, the earth tinted with ominous ruddiness.
Then the pure, fragile sound of monks singing matins floated through the frigid night air from the church. The beauty of the music brought comfort to Sir Walter's weary soul.
His left hand tightened on the scabbard of the scorched sword he carried. God willing, perhaps Richard was right about Adrian.
The abbot's receiving chamber was simple, with the plainest of furniture and a crucifix the only decoration, but there was fire and wine to warm the visitors' frozen bones while they waited for the service to end.
Sinking onto a bench, Sir Walter sipped the wine gratefully, though it was thin, poor stuff. Fontevaile was one of the new Cistercian houses, an order grimly determined not to be corrupted by greed for gold and easy living. The captain had been surprised when Adrian had insisted on Fontevaile. The boy mus have a passion for austerity.
Richard FitzHugh paced about the shadowed chamber, drinking his wine, too restless to sit even after the last exhausting days. Sir Walter watched him fondly. The young knight cut a fine figure, golden-haired and handsome, a courageous fighter.
It was Sir Walter who had suggested that he join the Warfield guard when he left Courtenay, and secretly the captain thought of him as the son he had never had. Lord Hugh had enough sons; surely he could spare the least important of them.
Sir Walter sighed and devoted himself to his wine. Lord Hugh was dead, and Richard could never be Baron of Warfield in his place. Some things could not be changed, and bastardy was one of them.
After matins and lauds were done, Abbot William returned to his quarters. Forewarned of visitors, his features were drawn into a frown. Abbots must be worldly men to guard the interests of their houses, but William had the ascetic face of a monk who had not forgotten that God must be served first.
After the briefest of greetings, the abbot asked, "You wish to see Adrian de Lancey?"
Tersely Sir Walter explained why, adding, "He has not yet taken final vows, has he?"
"Nay, he lacks a month of his sixteenth birthday." The lines in the abbot's long face had deepened at the grim recital. "Now I suppose he will be lost to us. A pity. I think he has a true vocation." Without further comment he instructed his servant to summon the novice, then sat and waited, his hands folded before him on the table, his eyes hooded.
A few minutes later the object of Sir Walter's mission stepped across the threshold. Only a single lamp burned and the visitors were hidden in the shadows, so Sir Walter took the opportunity of studying Adrian while the youth's attention was on the abbot. The knight had paid little heed to his lord's youngest son in the past, but now he craved knowledge of his new master—knowledge and reassurance.
Adrian de Lancey was no longer the slight, under-sized lad of Sir Walter's memory. On the verge of manhood now, he had reached average height, and under the coarse white Cistercian robe his body was healthy and well made. He moved across the chamber with the physical grace of a warrior, not the other-worldly abstraction of a cleric.
Rather than the golden coloring of his father and brothers, Adrian's hair was so fair as to be almost silver. His finely cut features wore the tranquil containment of a monk, showing neither surprise nor alarm at being summoned from his pallet in the dead of night.
That air of containment had always been part of him from the time he was an infant. Perhaps those grave, reserved eyes were why Sir Walter had never been quite comfortable in the lad's presence.
Adrian bowed to the abbot. "You wished to speak with me, Father?" His voice was low and pleasant, as cool and controlled as his appearance.
"You have visitors." William gestured toward the shadows.
The young man turned. When he saw his half-brother, his gray eyes warmed. "Richard!" With surprise and obvious pleasure he stepped forward and caught his brother's outstretched hand.
Richard gravely returned his clasp. Then Adrian's gaze penetrated the dark to recognize Sir Walter, and warmth was replaced by wariness at the realization that this could be no ordinary visit.
Releasing his brother's hand, he said, "Sir Walter, I bid you welcome. You bring news from Warfield?"
The old knight got heavily to his feet. "Aye, Lord Adrian, and it is evil news indeed." Moving forward into the light, he knelt before the novice and mutely proffered the sheathed sword he carried.
Sir Walter's gesture and salutation conveyed the essence of disaster, if not the detail. For an endless moment the young man stared at the engraved bronze pommel of the Warfield sword. It did not need to be said that the weapon would never have been relinquished while its owner lived.
When it seemed the silence might shatter from tension, Adrian asked softly, his face utterly still, "What happened?''
"Two nights ago, the manor at Kirkstall was attacked and Richard and I took most of the men-at-arms and went in pursuit of the raiders. By chance, all three of your brothers had come to Warfield to celebrate Christmas, so I told Lord Hugh there was no need for him to come with us, that he should enjoy the ti
me with his sons and new grandson."
Sir Walter's voice was heavy with self-condemnation. "I think the raid on Kirkstall was a feint to draw us away. While we were gone, Warfield was attacked before dawn on Christmas morning, while everyone was sleeping.
"The keep was burned, all within slaughtered. A few of the villagers were drawn by the sounds of fighting and saw what happened from the wood. Your father and brothers fought bravely with what arms were at hand, but they had no chance. It was a deliberate massacre." He nodded at the weapon in his hands. "We found your father's sword by his body. It was one of the few things to survive the fire."
Adrian's face had changed during the recital. Without a single muscle moving, the planes and angles shifted and firmed in a new pattern, no longer that of a youth. His fair coloring and pale habit no longer seemed cool; instead, he glowed with the white heat of molten iron.
"Who?" he asked, his voice still soft but with a lethal edge that penetrated every corner of the room.
"Guy of Burgoigne." Sir Walter's bitterness made the name a curse. "A bandit who seeks to build his own kingdom in the northern Marches." Forgetting where he was, the old knight spat on the floor. "As one of Stephen's strongest supporters, he knows the king will not punish him. But who would have guessed Burgoigne would come so far south to slaughter another baron in his own keep?"
Adrian turned and knelt before Abbot William, who had been silently watching. "My lord abbot, I must leave Fontevaile, deeply though it grieves me. Will you give me your blessing?"
"Aye, you have it." Laying a hand on Adrian's silver-fair head, Abbot William murmured a few sentences in Latin, then sighed. "Strive for self-mastery, my son. You are your own most grievous enemy."
"I know that well." Adrian stood and turned, his gray eyes blazing as he took his father's sword from Sir Walter's hands and pulled the weapon from its scabbard. For a moment he ran light fingers along the blade, which glinted lethally beneath the marks of soot and blood. Then he kissed the charred hilt, which had worn to his father's hand.