Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  She glanced away. Her hands swept up and down her arms, as one did to ward off a chill. "I told you, it belonged to my mother."

  "A gift?"

  "Aye." Sadness dulled her voice.

  He sensed her anguish ran deep. He listened to the wind howl around the crenellated stone like a wounded dog, and waited.

  When she spoke, her voice was a raw whisper. "My mother gave the brooch to me on the day she died. She was with child. Her birthing pains had started weeks too soon, and she knew something was wrong." Elizabeth paused. "I saw fear in her eyes. When I asked how I could help . . ."

  "Go on," he coaxed.

  "S-She told me to fetch the brooch. Told me it was mine. Told me to remember her when I wore it close to my heart. She said she would always love me, even when we could not be together any longer."

  A shivered sigh left Elizabeth. "Her hands were so cold. I begged her to lie down and rest. She fell back on the bed, and screamed . . . and screamed . . . the brooch fell into my hand. I could not save her. The midwife could not—" Her words trailed off with a choked sob.

  Geoffrey dragged his hand through his hair. He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms. To comfort her with hushed words. To dry the tears which streamed down her cheeks and she brushed away with shaking fingers.

  He could not offer her comfort. She was danger, soft and tempting. She had the power to destroy him, if she knew how.

  "The babe lived for a day. She was tiny and beautiful. My father was so distraught over my mother's death, he could not look upon his child." Elizabeth sniffled. "I found a maidservant to nurse her. I sat by the fire and rocked her, and held her in my arms through the night. My sister was too weak."

  Steeling himself against her torment, Geoffrey touched her shoulder. "I am sorry."

  "Are you?"

  The words held no challenge, only grief. "I would not have said so if—"

  She shrugged free of his grasp and looked at him. "Now will you return my brooch?"

  "I cannot."

  "You could if you wished." Her wet eyes sparked with blue fire. "You plan to sell the gold to pay for your revenge against my father."

  Geoffrey's fingers closed around the gold. The brooch's fastening, sharp as a fang, bit into his palm. "I respect your love for your mother." Bitterness hardened his tone. "Yet your torment is no different to that of a boy who watches his father die."

  Her posture stiffened. "You were with your sire when—?"

  "Aye."

  "You saw my father kill him?"

  Geoffrey shook his head and fought a flood of anguish. "I did not see the knight's face, for he wore a helm. Yet I saw his back as he jerked his sword from my father's body and walked away. I dragged my father to a horse. I took him to safety. He died in a rat-infested stable."

  Her breath rasped between her lips. "Mayhap 'twas not my sire."

  "We both know it was," Geoffrey snarled.

  The wind screamed, whipping the hem of her skirt against his knees. She rubbed her arms again. "My father and his army carried out an order from the king. Edouard de Lanceau was a traitor."

  "Was he? To my knowledge, my father never abandoned his support for King Henry in written or spoken word, or in deed."

  Her face looked pale against her glistening eyes. "You lie. The king would not have ordered a siege unless he had proof."

  "Mayhap my father was betrayed."

  "Do not twist the truth with falsehoods!" Hair tumbled down over her bodice and the thrust of her breasts, and she flicked it aside with her hand. She glared at him. Tension poured from her like water from an unleashed dam.

  Rage burned in his blood. Desire warred with his reason and conscience. Even now, he wanted her. He longed to touch her, to find oblivion in her kisses and sweet body. He cursed his wretched weakness.

  "Do you believe all that you are told to be true?" he said, returning the sting of her words. "Would you believe me, milady, if I said your betrothed, Baron Sedgewick, is rumored to have beaten one of his wives so she could no longer walk?"

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  "He took the Earl of Druentwode's daughter as his third bride. She was a kind, gentle girl who loved music. I was told she lived in fear of the baron until the day she died."

  "Nay," Elizabeth whispered.

  "I do not know if that rumor is true or a lie. Do you?"

  "I care not what the gossips say about the baron. My father is innocent of wrongdoing." Her voice quavered. "He obeyed the king's command when he besieged Wode. He did so because of your father's treachery. That is the truth. Do not try to sway me with deceit."

  She blazed defiance, determined she was right and he the monster. Easing his hold on the brooch, Geoffrey leaned his elbow on the rough stone merlon. "I remember one night at Wode when my father dined with four or five other lords. I had returned for a visit; for after my eighth summer, my father sent me to the Earl of Druentwode's keep to serve as a page."

  "If you aim to beguile me with more falsehoods about my father, you will not succeed," she warned and crossed her arms.

  He scowled. "Pray, listen. I left the merriment in the hall to fetch a wooden box I had made under the tutelage of the earl's carpenter. I was proud of my work. I could not wait to show my father."

  She made a disparaging sound. "Milord—"

  "When I came back down the stairwell, I heard my father shouting. His bellow frightened me as a boy, and I felt real fear then. I crept down to the bottom stair, held my box to my chest, and listened." He swallowed, the moment reviving in his mind. "I heard him condemning a plot to support the king's son and rebellion. My sire refused to take part. He ordered all his guests to quit the hall and never set foot within Wode's walls again. Two days later, your father attacked Wode."

  He had shocked her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.

  Her cheeks pinkened, and she looked away. "Mayhap you remember what you wish to believe. 'Tis no sin to remember with fondness those who are dead."

  "I did not invent my memories. I will never forget my father's face when he strode past me, or his silence when I found him in the chapel later." Geoffrey brushed tangled hair from his brow. "Do you believe I speak false of the treachery? Of my father's words?"

  For a long moment, she did not answer. "I cannot pass judgment on what I do not know."

  "What could not be proven," he corrected. He had tried, as had the Earl of Druentwode, but had found naught.

  She closed her eyes against the gusting wind, her lashes dark against her milk white skin. Geoffrey sensed confusion undermining her anger. Again, he fought the urge to touch her.

  His emotions ran high because he had spoken of the past and reopened wounds that bared his soul.

  He could not care for Brackendale's daughter.

  He did not dare.

  "I have no doubt you loved your father," she said, her words hushed by the wind, "as I loved my mother."

  "It seems so.

  "A bitter irony, milord, that we have this in common."

  He nodded. "If I could return your mother's brooch, I would."

  Her gaze cooled. "Spare me your gilded lies."

  "I do not deceive you."

  "Nay?" She whirled, and her skirt flared out around her slender legs. "You know why I treasure the brooch, yet you will not give it back. How foolish that I shared my mother and sister's memory with you. I wish I had not."

  Tears shone along her lashes. "Your heart is as corrupt as your father's. I do not doubt his treachery. I do not doubt my father's guilelessness. Nor do I doubt my sire will rescue me and crush this keep into a heap of blackened rubble."

  * * *

  De Lanceau's eyes hardened to the gray of chilled stone. Relief shivered through Elizabeth, for the compassion in his gaze had vanished. She had to hurt him. She had to reinforce the emotional barricade between them, before she dissolved into a sobbing mess and begged him to wrap his arms around her.

  "So be it, milady," he snarled. He turned and wal
ked toward the guards.

  Elizabeth turned her face into the breeze and inhaled the scents of wind-scoured stone and wheat. Regret washed through her. Her vision blurred, and she blinked to halt fresh tears. She had laid her heart bare to her enemy, and, God help her, he had understood.

  She had shared her grief over her mother's passing with Aldwin and Mildred, but no others. Not even her father, who had changed from the day of her mother's death into a different man. He had shown little outward suffering, but had attacked his duties as though his estates were being overrun by demons of chaos. He had been too busy with demands of the estate to hug her as she wept.

  De Lanceau, in turn, had told her of his sire and possible betrayal. Could his words hold any truth?

  Nay.

  Yet, even if they did, her sire had acted with honor and obeyed his duty to the king.

  Voices cut through the wailing wind. Behind her, the door slammed. She turned to find the guards waiting, their expressions impassive.

  One man pulled the door open, and Elizabeth preceded them into the stairwell. The air smelled smoky and stale, but the familiar scents revitalized her spirit. They reminded her anew of her captivity, her vow to escape, and her foolishness.

  How could she have craved the embrace of her father's enemy? She must find a way out of Branton Keep as soon as possible.

  Squinting in the dim torchlight, Elizabeth guided her descent with a palm on the wall, the guards a few paces behind. To her surprise, they did not escort her to her chamber, but to the great hall. Most of the castle folk had gone, and the tables were covered with empty trenchers, ale mugs, and spilled gravy.

  A coy giggle drew her gaze to the dais. De Lanceau stood with his hands braced on the marred oak, speaking to Veronique who had claimed Elizabeth's place. The courtesan smiled and offered him a goblet of wine. He took it and drank.

  Elizabeth tore her gaze away and wiped her damp hands on her bliaut. She fought a ridiculous pang of jealousy. She did not care what the rogue did with his lover. The fresh air and emotion-laden talk had addled her senses.

  Mildred waved from the trestle table. She looked worried. "Milady."

  Moving away from her guards, Elizabeth started toward her lady-in-waiting.

  Dominic intercepted her and matched her strides. "You are well? You suffered no punishment at milord's hand?"

  "None."

  He grinned. "Good."

  A smile tugged at Elizabeth's mouth. She might have grinned back, if de Lanceau had not straightened and looked at her.

  His lazy grin faded. His gaze shifted to Dominic. "'Tis done?"

  "Aye." Dominic withdrew a rolled parchment from under his belt, strode to de Lanceau, and handed it over. "I included all of your demands."

  Elizabeth halted. "Demands?"

  "Your ransom," de Lanceau muttered.

  Veronique laughed.

  The air seemed to thicken. Elizabeth dragged in a breath, and the tang of burning pitch, drifting from the hearth, burned her nostrils. "Why did you not send it long ago?"

  De Lanceau eased the parchment's edges apart and unrolled the skin. "I wanted to be sure your father missed you, though mayhap he enjoyed relief from your bold tongue."

  She ignored the taunt. "What do you demand of him?"

  "'Tis not a matter for your concern."

  "He is my father."

  Geoffrey smoothed a ragged corner with his finger. "You wish to know how I will destroy the great Lord Arthur Brackendale?" His ruthless gaze locked with hers. "I demand all that should have been mine. Every plot of land, title, and fortune that I should have inherited from my father, right down to the last bit of silver."

  Elizabeth's outrage burned like dry kindling. "He will not agree."

  "In exchange for your safe return? Do you not think your father will yield?"

  She forced a painful swallow which tasted of bitter resentment and fear. "Is that the sum of your demands, or will you kill him too?"

  "You will learn that answer soon enough."

  "Tell me now."

  His gaze clashed with hers. Beyond the furious glitter, she saw resolve not to tell her more than he deemed necessary. "I suggest you and Mildred spend a few quiet moments by the fire." He looked to the end of the table, where Mildred stood arguing with one of the guards. Geoffrey flicked his hand, and the man stepped aside and let the matron pass.

  Desperation clawed up inside Elizabeth. "Tell me!"

  His mouth thinned. "This is your last warning. Leave us." He pointed to the hearth. "Go, before I decide to lock you back in your chamber."

  Elizabeth gnawed her lip. She must know her father's fate . . . yet at the same time, she feared de Lanceau's answer. Imprisoned within Branton's walls, she could not stop his terrible plot for revenge.

  Unless she escaped.

  Unless he no longer had a pawn with which to barter.

  Tension seethed inside her, but she turned and walked to Mildred. Murmurs and the scrape of chairs rose behind her. She glanced back to see de Lanceau and Dominic hunched over the parchment, weighted down at each corner with goblets. Seated beside Geoffrey, Veronique picked at a fresh trencher of stew and looked vexed.

  Mildred came to Elizabeth side. The matron smiled before linking her fleshy arm through Elizabeth's. "Do not worry," she said in a low voice. "We shall find a way to thwart de Lanceau."

  "Escape," Elizabeth murmured.

  Mildred winked. "When the opportunity arises. For now, we will watch, listen, and wait."

  While they walked toward the massive blackened arch of the hearth, Elizabeth listened to Mildred chatter. Elizabeth was relieved to hear that despite the days spent in solitude, the matron had not been mistreated in any way. Elena also had brought her meals and helped her dress and wash.

  "And you, milady? Have you been treated well?"

  Elizabeth nodded. The temptation to blurt out all that had transpired between her and de Lanceau was overwhelming, but she thought better of giving the older woman cause for concern.

  They neared the fire. Flames roared over the huge mound of logs and cast an orange glow over the glazed hearth tiles. Several chairs and a side table were lined up before the fire's warmth. Elena sat in one of the chairs, her head bowed over a task in her lap. She cursed and shook her head.

  Elizabeth withdrew her arm from Mildred's. "Elena?"

  The maid did not look up as Elizabeth rounded the chair. A silk tunic lay across Elena's lap. In her hand she held part of the embroidered hem, damaged by a jagged tear. She jabbed the bone needle into the fabric.

  "Ouch!" Elena groaned, dropped the cloth, and sucked the spot of blood on her thumb.

  "Elena?" Elizabeth repeated.

  The maid glanced up, her eyes round with worry. "Milady. Mildred."

  "What is the matter?" the matron asked.

  "How will I finish mending this tunic?" Her hands shook, and her face looked pale. Dropping down on her knees, Elizabeth placed a comforting hand on the maid's arm.

  "Milord asked me to fix the rip," Elena said with a sniffle. "I have not yet rinsed all the laundry. Mistress Peg asked me to scrub the kitchen floor and chop cabbage and leeks for chicken pies, and I need to see the children fed." Tears welled in her eyes. "I should not complain, but I have much to do and I am tired."

  "Let me have a look." Elizabeth took the garment.

  "Milady?" Elena whispered.

  With gentle fingers, Elizabeth inspected the tear and frayed silver embroidery threads, and mulled the best way to fix them. Her mother had taught her the most difficult embroidery stitches. With care and patience, even the worst rips could be mended.

  Her fingers stilled. The tunic must be de Lanceau's. For that reason alone, she should not help repair it. Yet, when she glanced up and saw Elena's tear-streaked face, Elizabeth's reluctance melted. She must help the poor woman.

  "The material must be held tighter," Elizabeth said. "Otherwise the silk will sag and be hard to sew. Try to make your stitches smaller. Like this." />
  Elizabeth pressed the needle into the fabric and took three quick stitches. Her swift, neat work won her a smile from Elena.

  Taking the tunic back, the maid tried again. Elizabeth struggled not to frown. Elena's second attempt was better, but her care made her slow. 'Twould take her the entire afternoon to finish the task.

  Elizabeth's fingers itched. It had been days since she had embroidered, and she missed working on the orphans' clothes. Focusing on the stitches, pulling the thread just so, and seeing the pattern form on the cloth would be a pleasant diversion.

  When Elena's slow progress continued, Elizabeth squeezed the maid's arm. "Go to your tasks. I will finish this for you."