Unbroken Vow

By Bree M. Lewandowski

"He pledged his sword to her. She struggled not to surrender her heart in return." 

 

The widow of his brother-in-arms, neither of them were prepared to fall in love. Marrying a Paladin is forbidden, but Ada followed her heart, not knowing forbidden meant more than a jail sentence.

 

Upon Markus' death, Glaive gives his word to protect Ada. Hiding her away as a servant to the king was supposed to keep her safe. Until a man of power can't take "no" for an answer. As punishment, she's sent across an ocean to work for an illustrious crazed queen.

 

A knight of Ardara, a Paladin of the highest rank, Glaive would die before he risks breaking the pledge he made and would give his life to save her.

 

Marrying a Paladin is forbidden...

 

Author Bree M. Lewandowski is back with her first standalone fantasy romance since The Paragon Trilogy. Get swept away with Unbroken Vow!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bree M. Lewandowski
• Release date: Dec 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386592600

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Across marble floors , the hiss of the Paladin’s sword charged. Partaking in practice combat against an invisible enemy, his blade clove through the air. The page swore he’d not be shocked if sheaves of atmosphere dropped to the knight’s feet.

Paladin Leal, Sir.

The tungsten blade, matte black despite rules for the Ardara knights’ weaponry, halted mid-thrust.

Speak.

The page bowed, relieved decorum demanded such deference, leaving him free to avoid the knight’s umber eyes. Sir, the king calls for you.

The black blade was sheathed.

Tell his majesty I won’t offend his presence by appearing before him as I am. Beg he allow me to bathe and honor the uniform I wear.

Yes, Sir. I shall beg on your account.

Few do it better.

Yes, Sir.

Still bent at the waist, the domestic backed out of the training hall, closing the heavy door behind himself with a grunt. 

Son of the country of Patriam.

Become an Ardara. Punish yourself to rank among the Paladin.

Money. Echelon. Camaraderie. First line of defense. None higher. And the first to run like nursemaids when His Majesty beckons.

Striding across the space, he cursed the idea of bathing in the showers at the castle when his own was far preferable, but there was no time to drive to Rexion and King Ladd’s patience, even when begged upon, was thin.

GLAIVE STEPPED FROM the private showers and wrenched a common uniform over damp skin before raking his fingers through his hair and fastening the braided, silver baldric of his blade around his waist.

In the anteroom before the throne chamber, the dukes-in-waiting, the king’s flattery court, favored by King Ladd to hear and soften the cares and struggles of the crown, looked down their long noses.

The antithesis between the Dukes of Court and Paladin was as old as the oaths taken in each respect. One group served His Majesty’s emotional needs. One served his enduring presence in the living world. By some, the rivalry was taken seriously. By others, it was viewed as the trite prattle of children.

Let the dukes-in-waiting take hold a blade’s hilt in their soft hands for once.

Paladin Leal, one fop in a yellow chemise called. His Highness requested your presence near half an hour ago. Would you risk his munificence on personal hygiene? I should come though I drip with mud.

Such sentiments explain why you smell like a sty.

Insolent cur!

He oozed out of the awaiting cluster towards Glaive, yellow fabric dripping from his limbs.

Dare you speak to a man who hears the king’s—

I don’t.

The duke abruptly slumped to his knees, hacking and clutching his neck, dropped by the side of Glaive’s hand into his laryngeal protuberance.

And now I won’t hear your oily voice follow me into the throne chamber. Good day, Duke. 

Squires dressed as harlequins pulled the thick curtain partition aside, their watchfulness ensuring Glaive did not have to slow his pace upon entering the throne chamber.

At attention, his brothers-in-arms stood on the far left. After genuflecting to the man seated on a gilded and carved seat, Glaive took his place in the formation.

You might have arrived sooner had you not argued with Duke Akim, Markus whispered.

The smell of his breath was abhorrent.

Temper.

Mother Hen.

Hearken!

The Paladin, in a synchronized pivot, faced their liege.

Gaunt knees protruded through a lush ermine robe. The king adjusted his posture before speaking again. Many complimented his highness for such command over his thoughts and careful choice of the words he used. Outside the royal city of Regiis, King Ladd was often likened to a crane, slow to move but brilliant when air bound.

There is a reason I called eight of you. You have made me feel as if I could sleep in the slums of Barracon unharmed, provided you were by my side.

Markus, like Glaive, dropped his chin in deference, while other knights  bowed with arms folded across their chests.

You eight are the elite of the elite and were it in my power to raise you higher than Paladin, I would. But, alas, such are the strange restrictions on a king of Patriam. He stood. Still, it is within my power to bestow on you what honors I can.

Long hands smacked together, and the single clap carried the length of the chamber. From a narrow door behind the throne, a servant scurried. In his arms were eight ornate uniforms. Clearly terrified of letting even a thread touch the floor, he held them as high as his thin arms allowed, sweating and breathing like an animal.

The king continued, gesturing to his knights. These are yours now. To be worn at my command so those of Regiis and Patriam know you are my best. And as luck would have it, there is already reason for you to don them. Have you heard the rumors?

He looked delighted.

Rumors were thick in the palace; winding halls buzzed like a mass of flies. Alleys in Rohe, belching factory smoke, cackled like crows clinging to the juiciest bits of gossip, feasting their curiosity. In Rughjone, where men and women broke their backs in the fields, it was the elderly, too brittle to endure the farms, who stitched and fixed each thread of gossip they heard into the patchwork of their memory—likely the only excitement, short of a cow breaching.

Had they heard the rumors? Which of countless?

Try as I did to keep my thoughts and hopes to myself, the king began, I succumbed to human inclinations. Those around me may have guessed at my fond hopes.

Translation: the Dukes-in-Waiting had loose tongues.

Jan-Inham’s queen arrives on the morrow. She and I have great aspirations, but politics are a burden and there are many who do not fancy an alliance between our countries. When her yacht comes in sight, I expect protestors. Flotsam with nothing better to do.

Flotsam can be bothersome, Sire, Markus offered.

King Ladd clapped in approval. Precisely Paladin Dine! You, men, are the only ones I trust to ensure that those who feel the need to voice their sentiments don’t grow belligerent. And I’d not dare offend Her Majesty’s sensibilities by showing her my men in any less than the best.

By this time in the monarch’s speech, the uniforms had been fondly laid in their arms like newborn children, the focused excitement in the faces and postures of the men had lapsed. They no longer stood ready to brandish weapons at their sovereign's command, battling for the safety of the country and its people.

Glaive had showered where butlers relieved themselves for this—new clothes, to be shown off like a trumpet of swans.

Markus spoke. You are most generous, Sire. On behalf of my brothers-in-arms, I know I speak for all of us when I say we shall process proudly tomorrow, knowing it pleases you to see us garbed in such resplendent attire.

Hand over his heart, the king’s protruding knees appeared through the thick cloak as he sat down again, informing the Paladins they were to be alongside their vehicles by mid-morning. The vehicles would not be driven, however; they would take air, so those who entertained thoughts of raising voice would see how high in the king’s favor Jan-Inham’s ruler stood.

After King Ladd remained silent for several moments, the court jesters approached and signaled they were free to leave.

Glaive caught Markus by the arm and dragged him to the eastern library alcove. Lit with a fire each morning in the cool months for the pleasure of those who dwelt within the palace, it was forgotten hours later.

Does it not occur to you I might have my own business to attend to, friend?

Glaive shut the door. It does.

And you don’t care?

"Friend, I care about the quality of your bowel movements, but let your business wait or I won’t be responsible for my actions." 

Markus dropped into a chair, upholstered in the latest geometric trend.

Speak.

Is his blood made of syrup? Does anything but peacock feathers tickle his brain? He sends us tomorrow to be nursemaids to a queen who is rumored to bathe in the distillment of her own urine, dressed like Jezebels? Glaive paced the room. I didn’t let my own blood for this.

Neither did I.

Yet you sit here, unfazed?

There are more important things.

Preach more to me.

So defect.

Don’t be an ass.

Then stay your temper and climb off your high horse. It’s not syrup and feathers when the king is angry. Besides, he spoke truth when he said he had aspirations between our countries. It’s known what the queen has accomplished in Jan-Inham and it is worthy of imitation.

Glaive scoffed.

Deny it, then.

I can’t because it’s true.

So, he courts her favor and struts us before her so she might see what lengths he’ll go through to please her.

Groaning, Glaive leaned on the back of an armchair. I hate how often you’re right.

Markus winked. Where would you be without my reason?

Dead.

The bemused expression faded from his face. You know I wasn’t referring—

I know. He pulled his friend from the chair. Tell me, does your reason ever fail you?

Occasionally.

They left the alcove. Glaive begged Markus finish his all-important business and then dine with him; the idea of being a seduction for the queen made him loathe to be alone with his thoughts.

COME MORNING, NOT NEARLY as hungover as he wanted to be, Glaive pulled himself from bed. Ignoring the abomination of a uniform flung across his chair, he went into the lavatory and wrenched the cold-water nozzle in the shower as far as it would go.

Years before, still a page in Ardara, he dared his comrades to outlast him in the coldest spot of the Arthens river. When they were no longer impressed by his endurance, he upped the dare, claiming none could hold their breath under the water for as long as he could.

There was never a need to tell them he grew up with an impish delight in terrifying his mother as a boy. The way she shrieked and flew to him when he emerged from the lavatory, teeth chattering and fingers blue, made him adore her more, if it were possible.

She’d done the unthinkable. Women of rank did not survive scandal in the smooth streets of Rexion. Yet, a squandering husband whose tone with his wife made Glaive’s skin crawl did not make her an object of gossip and pity. Quite simply, one day, Mr. Leal was gone. Clothes and belongings vanished from the house and his mother pretended there had never been a husband and a father living with them.

He still existed in her mind, though. Often Glaive spied his mother, lean and gentle as a willow frond, fighting tears.

That’ s when the frights began. Though she screamed and ran to him, she laughed and swatted at his back, promising she did not know what to do with him and he relished her smiles.

Perhaps, Ardara appealed to him soon after. From his bedroom window, those men dressed in black and silver, eyes keen and features stern, embodied nobility Glaive saw only in his mother. Hers had been borne of strife. He wanted his made from hard work and position. Perhaps it would ease the bitterness from which his mother learned to keep her chin high.

Wearing the bedazzled uniform was sacrilege to the simplicity of traditional Paladin dress, Glaive ignored the mess of bottles on his table and told himself he’d dispose of them after today’s affair.

And after he burned the atrocity he wore.

AMID A FLURRY OF SERVANTS rushing in all directions, the king barked at everyone who neared. Things must be just so for the queen; he would not risk her boredom for one moment. The back of his hand, flocked with rings, struck several across the face. Officers nearby were chewed out with every profanity possible—threats of their rank being removed if they did not get things in order.

Paladin stayed clear.

My, my, one of his comrades exclaimed as