Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  The pounding of hooves faded. Moving their horses closer to each other, the other men-at-arms talked amongst themselves. The breeze whispered through the meadow, stirring the grasses and sleepy wildflowers raising their heads toward the sun. How empty the meadow seemed, save for a few birds flitting between the branches of the huge tree.

  Anxiety gnawed at her, making her belly gurgle. After checking her satchel was still securely fastened to her saddle, Gisela looked at the nearest man-at-arms, who had leaned forward to pat his horse's neck. He gave her a kindly smile.

  "Will they catch that man?"

  "Aye. De Lanceau is a very clever lord. He will not let him get away."

  Moments passed. The sun crept higher in the sky, spreading light across the meadow and taking the chill from the early morning. Just when she thought she could bear the waiting no longer, riders appeared on the road. She recognized de Lanceau in the lead, with Aldwin and the others close behind.

  When they drew nearer, she saw the lackey riding between them, his mount pinned in the center of the group. His hands were bound to his saddle. Sullen, he refused to meet her gaze.

  "Milord," Gisela said, words rushing from her lips. "Does he know where—"

  De Lanceau raised a hand. "I gave him the journey here to decide whether to speak of his own will." Glancing at the man, he said, "Well?"

  The lackey's lips flattened.

  Flicking his hand, de Lanceau said, "Tie his horse to that tree, Aldwin."

  The man glanced at the tall oak de Lanceau had indicated, which shaded part of the verge. Worry shadowed his gaze.

  "Aldwin is extremely skilled with a crossbow," de Lanceau went on in a mild tone, while Aldwin led the lackey's horse to the oak and secured the reins to one of the lower boughs. "A few years ago, he almost killed me with a bolt through the chest. That took place the day I fought my lady wife's father for the great keep at Wode." He smiled. "Aldwin fired a clean shot from a good distance away. Do you recall that battle? 'Tis mentioned in many chansons here in Moydenshire."

  Sweat began to run down the man's temple. Aldwin guided his horse away, leaving the man alone on the verge. Glancing down at his bound hands, he struggled to get free.

  "Aldwin is so skilled, he can shoot the ears right off your head. One by one. Then shoot holes clean through each of your arms. Not intending to kill you, of course. Nay, he would render you helpless, toy with you for long, painful moments before that happened. He enjoys making his victims suffer. And the blood—"

  Covering her mouth, Gisela fought a horrified gasp.

  As though noting her distress, de Lanceau glanced at her . . . and winked.

  His expression grim, Aldwin rode a short distance down the road toward the river. Then, he turned his horse and halted.

  The lackey whimpered.

  With an ease that bespoke his mastery of the weapon, Aldwin picked up the crossbow, fitted with a deadly, steel-tipped bolt. The man's eyes bulged.

  His gaze narrowing, Aldwin aimed the weapon.

  The lackey moaned.

  "Tell us where to find Crenardieu and Dominic," de Lanceau said, "and spare yourself torment."

  "Aaahhh—"

  The trigger clicked. The bolt hissed from the crossbow. Whizzing past the man's head, it lodged in the tree beside him with a thwack. Bark flew off the trunk, hitting the man on the arm.

  He shrieked. His face crumpled, and he looked close to tears.

  "Hmm. Somehow, I missed." Aldwin reached for another bolt. "This time, milord, I will not fail to take his ear."

  "The left one first," de Lanceau said.

  "As you command, milord." The blond warrior cocked the crossbow again.

  "Nay! Please. I w-will t-tell you," the man blubbered.

  "Where is Dominic?" de Lanceau demanded.

  "H-he . . . Ah . . ."

  De Lanceau nodded.

  Raising the weapon, Aldwin aimed at the left side of the man's head.

  "T-the d-dock by the river. Not far."

  "Crenardieu?"

  "T-there, too."

  "Why were you traveling into Clovebury?"

  "T-to fetch R-Ryle Balewyne a-and the others." His gaze slid to Gisela, then away.

  De Lanceau frowned. "The other men are to help with the cloth sale?"

  Nodding, the man swallowed with great effort. "And a-also . . ."

  "Aye?"

  "T-to kill Dominic once the d-deal is complete."

  "Oh, God," Gisela whispered. The faint drone of the insects in the nearby meadow seemed to rise in volume, to become a shrill scream echoing within her.

  His lip curling back from his teeth, de Lanceau spurred his horse nearer to the lackey. "You will take us there. Without delay. I warn you now, if you try to betray us, or give so much as a whisper of warning to your cohorts"—he tipped his head at Aldwin—"he will shoot your ears off. To begin. Understood?"

  The man's head bobbed.

  Looking at Gisela, then his men, de Lanceau said, "Keep alert."

  While Aldwin kept the crossbow trained on the lackey, another of the men-at-arms untied the horse's reins and led it back onto the road. The crunched clop of hooves resumed. De Lanceau rode in the lead, the lackey close behind and surrounded by the men-at-arms, with Aldwin at his back.

  Gisela shuddered a sigh. We are on our way, Dominic, my love. Do not lose hope. We will find you.

  They followed the road running parallel to the river. The forest thickened. The shadows grew deeper, the rich scents of leaves and decaying wood wafting from the forest floor.

  Impatience in the set of his mouth, de Lanceau glared back at the lackey. "How much farther?"

  "N-not far," said the man.

  "For your sake," Aldwin snarled, "you had better not speak falsely."

  They rode on, following the road's twists and turns. An object, caught in the light dappling the shaded road, seized Gisela's attention. Leaning forward, she peered at the ground. "Look!"

  "Fresh dirt thrown up by a wagon wheel," de Lanceau said. "A cart must have become stuck in the rut."

  "There is a torch," one of the men-at-arms said, pointing. "Mayhap they traveled before dawn? Crenardieu would likely have done so."

  "Any traveler could have discarded that torch." His lordship motioned his men to continue on.

  "Wait!" Gisela drew her horse to a halt and dismounted.

  "Gisela!" de Lanceau growled.

  She dashed forward and snatched up the object that glimmered with such vibrancy against the dirt: a scrap of blue silk. The bit Dominic had taken from Ewan's sword. Of that, she was certain.

  With careful fingers, she brushed dirt from the scrap. "Milord, Dominic dropped this."

  "How do you know?"

  "He found this in my home. Proof that I deceived you."

  His lordship held her gaze. Instead of commenting on her admitted deception, he said, "Dominic dropped it on purpose."

  "I expect so." Staring up at de Lanceau, she could not help but smile.

  His mouth curved in an answering grin. "We will find him, Gisela." He raised a brow. "Once you get back on your horse."

  Silently resolving to tuck the scrap into her satchel, she hurried back to her mount. "Aye, milord," she said. "We will find him."

  Dominic watched, anger and worry threatening to choke him, while Ryle dismounted and tethered his horse to a tree. Rage underscored each of Ryle's movements. His face, which some women might consider handsome, looked flushed and taut with barely leashed fury.

  Fear trailed down Dominic's spine. What had made Ryle so angry? What had happened at Gisela's house?

  Finished counting the coins, the Frenchman shoved them back into the bag and pushed to his feet. He nodded to the London merchant. "The cloth is yours."

  The man gestured to his lackeys emerging out of the undergrowth. "Start loading the boats," he said, heading down to the wagon.

  Ryle stormed toward Crenardieu. Dominic stood utterly still, listening, anxious not to miss a word.

&
nbsp; "Good morning," the Frenchman said.

  Gisela's former husband scowled. Reaching into his cloak, he yanked out a flask and gulped the liquor inside.

  "What is the matter?" As Crenardieu glanced over at his two lackeys securing their mounts, one of whom had injured his shoulder, he frowned. "Where is the man I sent to fetch you?"

  Ryle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No man came to find us."

  "I sent him a while ago." Suspicion in his voice, Crenardieu said, "Where are Gisela and the boy?"

  Ryle drank again. "They got away."

  "What?"

  Tremendous relief whooshed through Dominic. Thank God.

  "She hit me with a bowl." Ryle touched the back of his head and winced. "Gave me a lump the size of an egg. Bloody bitch!" he bellowed, his curse echoing out into the forest.

  "Keep your voice down!" Crenardieu spat a crude French oath. "You promised me. You said you would watch them."

  His face an ugly red, Ryle said, "I did not expect her to knock me senseless."

  Laughter, smothered by the gag, tickled Dominic's throat. Well done, Gisela. You are a warrior, just like our son.

  Ryle glanced about the riverbank. "Where is he?"

  "Dominic?" Crenardieu waved an indolent hand in his direction.

  When Ryle's furious gaze fixed on him, Dominic refused to avert his gaze. Never would he admit to the fear crawling down into his gut.

  Ryle's hands clenched, as though squeezing around someone's neck. "I cannot wait to—"

  "And you shall. First, let us be done with the cloth."

  "You deal with the merchants," Ryle growled. "I will finish him."

  "Nay, leave him." Stopping Ryle with a firm hand upon his arm, Crenardieu said, "I will not have you scaring off my buyers. Your grudge will wait." His lips curled in a depraved smile. "He cannot escape. He will still be there when the merchants row their boats away." Glancing down at the dock, he said, "Let us offer our help, shall we? The sooner the cloth is loaded into the boats, the sooner we can kill him."

  Ryle did not move. Drinking again, he stared at Dominic, loathing blazing in his eyes.

  "Do not be a fool," Crenardieu sneered and strode on ahead. With reluctant strides, Ryle followed.

  Twisting his hands, Dominic struggled again with his bonds. Gisela and Ewan had escaped Ryle, but where had they gone? He had to find them. He had to.

  He exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils and focused on the knot. Over the rough scraping of rope, he heard a rustling sound behind him.

  He froze. Listened.

  The noise originated from the ground.

  An animal? Nay. More likely one of Crenardieu's thugs, sneaking up behind him to indulge in the first stab.

  He jerked his head sideways, trying to see.

  Cold metal pressed against his wrists.

  Thrusting up his hand, de Lanceau drew his horse to a halt. His men immediately reined in their mounts.

  Gisela's pulse lurched into a more urgent rhythm. She, too, had heard the shout. "Milord," she said. "'Twas Ryle. He yells like that when drunk."

  Crenardieu's lackey shifted on his horse.

  De Lanceau tipped his head, a slight but deliberate gesture. The closest man-at-arms whacked the thug on the back of the head. With a groan, he slumped forward.

  "Bind him to a tree," de Lanceau said quietly without looking back. "We will collect him upon our return. Leave the horses here, as well. We will proceed on foot."

  The men-at-arms slid down from their mounts. Several of the guards drew the unconscious lackey down to the ground and began to tie him.

  Drawing Aldwin and another man aside, de Lanceau spoke to them in hushed tones. The two nodded, then slunk into the undergrowth, no doubt sent to assess the situation.

  Gisela dismounted from her horse and untied her satchel. She slung the strap over her shoulder. The bag's weight settled by her hip.

  While de Lanceau relayed instructions to the rest of his men, the distant voices carried again. Oh, Dominic. Fear squeezed her innards, along with a desperate need to know he was all right. If Ryle decided to take out his rage upon Dominic . . .

  "Gisela, you will stay here."

  Disappointment flooded through her. "Milord—"

  "'Tis safest for you." De Lanceau turned to a broad-shouldered guard armed with a bow and arrows. "Watch over the horses and prisoner."

  Underbrush rustled close by.

  The men immediately fell silent. Swords hissed from their scabbards before Aldwin loped out of the forest, his expression grim. "The silks are there, milord. So is Crenardieu. Men are loading the cloth into boats. They are almost done."

  "Dominic?"

  "I did not see him."

  A worried frown creasing his brow, de Lanceau beckoned to his warriors. "Come."

  The men stole into the woods. The muted crunch of leaves and brush faded to forest silence.

  Gnawing her lip, Gisela glanced at the slumbering lackey, securely bound. The tethered horses nibbled at grass alongside the road. Standing on a rise of ground nearby, the bowman returned her gaze before staring past her into the forest.

  How could she just stand here and wait for the men to return?

  I love you, Dominic. I love you!

  Twigs snapped in the woods behind the guard. He turned and scanned the undergrowth.

  Gisela darted into the forest. The carpet of forest leaves whispered under her shoes. Fern fronds slipped against her skirts as she headed toward the riverbank, paying no heed to the bowman's muffled oath.

  Movement ahead captured her attention. Through a gap in the trees, she saw Crenardieu, as bold as a peacock, standing by the river. Ryle stood beside him. Panic lanced through her, almost causing her to fall.

  Another movement, closer to her, snared her focus. She blinked, trying to discern exactly what she saw. Hands. Twisting.

  Scarcely visible to her, a man stood bound to a tree.

  She crept closer. Measured step by measured step.

  Dominic!

  Her heart pounded so fiercely, she thought the sound would echo up to the sky. Barely resisting the need to rush forward and throw her arms around him, she edged nearer.

  His struggles ceased. Had he sensed her approach?

  Tears dampened her eyes. A filthy gag bound his mouth. His clothes were torn and bloodstained. His swollen face proved the cruelty he had endured.

  Cut him free! her mind screamed. Quickly. Get him to safety. Later, you can talk, kiss him, and weep over his wounds.

  Biting her bottom lip, Gisela moved directly behind him. She slipped her sewing shears from her satchel and nudged the blades against his bindings.

  A muffled hiss broke from him. He fought to look at her.

  "Hold still," she whispered, squeezing his fingers in reassurance.

  His body went utterly still. "Mffmmm?"

  "Aye. De Lanceau is here, too, with his men-at-arms." She dared a glance at the riverbank. The men continued talking and loading the boats. None of Crenardieu's thugs had noticed her. "Do not move. I will cut you free."

  She tried not to look at the bruises coloring his wrists, the flesh worn raw by ropes and . . . God knew what else.

  He made a low sound of distress. A sound that, somehow, conveyed every physical pain and frustration he experienced.

  With careful snips, she cut the ropes. Each metallic clip of the shears raised the hairs on her nape, for at any moment, Crenardieu's men might hear.

  Moments seemed to stretch into the space of tormented breaths before the ropes finally fell away from Dominic's wrists. Dropping to her knees, she cut the rest of his bindings. She rose, tucking the shears back into her bag.

  Dominic stood before her, yanking away the gag. For a breathless instant, she could only stare at him. Words, jamming together, bubbled inside her. What did she say to him? How did she begin to convey the emotions knotting up inside her with excruciating intensity?

  In two strides, he crossed to her. His arms cl
osed around her. A sound like a sob broke from him before his hungry lips closed over hers.

  She kissed him back, frenzied, ravenous, tasting his pain and uncertainties. Each sweep of her tongue, each gasped breath, told him of her anguish at being apart. "Dominic," she whispered between kisses. "Oh, Dominic."

  He shuddered against her. "Thank God you are all right."

  "What they did to you—"

  "Do not speak of it now." Catching her hand, he linked his fingers through hers. "We must get you away from here. Any moment, Ryle is coming to kill me."

  "But—"

  Moisture glistened in his eyes. "Gisela, please. I lo—"

  A roar erupted behind them.

  Dominic spun around, blocking her with his body. Yet, in the moment before he whirled to protect her, she saw Ryle standing by the tree. Less than three steps away.

  Ryle tossed aside the flask in his hand. Men crashed through the brush, surrounding them. Her fingers still entwined with Dominic's, Gisela pressed against him, terror's bitter taste scalding her mouth.

  "Bring them out here," Crenardieu said, his drawn sword gleaming. Thugs seized Gisela's arms, while Ryle and two others grabbed hold of Dominic. They dragged both of them onto the expanse of ground leading down to the dock.

  Gisela straightened, shivering when Crenardieu's hard gaze fixed upon her.

  "How did you come here?" he demanded.

  "I rode my horse."

  "Alone?" He adjusted his grip on his weapon. "How did you find this place?"

  Dominic wavered on his feet. Ryle jerked hard on his arm, causing him to lurch forward. Dominic gasped. His face contorted with pain.

  "Stop!" Gisela shrieked. "He is wounded enough."

  Ryle's lips drew back in a cruel smile. "I have not even begun to hurt him."

  Fear seared through her, along with the urge to lower her gaze, to acknowledge Ryle's power over her. If she looked away, he might be merciful.

  Nay! She couldn't let Ryle win. For those she loved, she would not yield.

  Forcing her trembling chin higher, she stared at him. Her eyes burned. Her body shook, betraying her inner turmoil. But, she did not look away. "Do not hurt Dominic."

  Slowly lowering his hand from Dominic's arm, Ryle laughed. His teeth, yellowed like a dragon's, glinted in the sunlight. "You will stop me?"