Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  This time, as Mildred sloshed in more of the elixir, she ran her fingers inside his mouth and depressed his tongue. The liquid vanished down his throat, and she nodded. "There."

  Exhaling a shuddered breath, Elizabeth returned Geoffrey's head to the pillow. She trailed her fingers through his silky hair. He had liked that tender caress, most of all after lovemaking. He had once said it reminded him of his mother, of the way she had soothed his stubbed toes and bruises when he was a boy.

  "You love him?" Mildred asked.

  Elizabeth would not deny the emotion that had rooted deep in her heart. "I do. Very much."

  The matron set the flask on the table beside the bed. "I cannot excuse what he has done, but he would have made you a fine husband."

  "Not would, Mildred. Will."

  * * *

  Some time later, Elizabeth admitted two menservants lugging a straw pallet. Both appeared flushed and tipsy. In the brief moment the chamber door stayed open, she noted that despite the late hour, the raucous celebration in the hall continued.

  "There, if you will." She pointed to the floor beside Geoffrey's bed. They dropped the bed with a thump, releasing a cloud of dust.

  Mildred half-coughed, half-snorted. "You cannot think—"

  "I am," Elizabeth said. With a word of thanks and an authoritative wave, she dismissed the two men. They hurried away, no doubt eager to down more ale.

  The matron's brows drew together, and her lips compressed into a forbidding line. "You would be wise to retire to your own bed for a good night's sleep. You look exhausted. Terrible, if I may say so. If aught happens to Geoffrey this eve—"

  "—I wish to be here." Fighting the weariness in every joint in her body, Elizabeth looked at Geoffrey. "He is my betrothed," she whispered. "I cannot leave him now, when he needs me most."

  She stretched a clean blanket over the pallet and settled herself for sleep. Squeezing her eyes shut, she ignored the straw poking into her cheek and the drafts that skimmed under the shutters and across the floor like a ghoul's breath. In the long, dark hours of the night she lay awake and listened to Mildred's snores and Geoffrey's shallow breathing.

  The fire cast indistinct patterns on the stone walls. Unable to drift into slumber, she thought of the first time she woke in Geoffrey's bed, content in his arms, and watched the fire dance on Branton's walls until she fell back to sleep.

  She could not imagine life without Geoffrey.

  He had become part of her soul.

  Rolling onto her side, she stared at his broad hand lying limp atop the blanket, the hand that had wielded his sword and won him all he had desired for so many agonizing years. As he had wished, he was now the rightful lord of Wode, and he had achieved it without killing her father, for which she would forever be grateful.

  How desperately she hoped Geoffrey would not die, after all he fought for lay within his grasp.

  She had not told him how much she loved him.

  Elizabeth squeezed her weeping eyes shut.

  When her eyelids flickered open, daylight shone beyond the shutters. She tossed aside her blankets and leaned over him, and traced his lips with her finger. His breath gusted against her skin.

  A joyous cry burst inside her. Had Mildred not said that if he lived till the morn, he might survive?

  The matron grunted and, with awkward movements, rose from her mattress in the corner of the room. "He lives?"

  "Aye!"

  "Do not smile so, milady. His fever is high. Wash him with herbal water while I check the wound. When you are finished, do it again."

  As Elizabeth rinsed Geoffrey's face for the second time, a knock sounded on the door. She scowled, for the maids who brought wood for the fire knew not to make so much noise.

  She threw open the door.

  Bertrand stood in the corridor. "Milady," he said, looking sheepish. "Your sire asks that you come to the hall. Baron Sedgewick has arrived. He wishes to see you."

  Elizabeth resisted a disgusted groan. Sedgewick had led his army back to Avenley yesterday, and she had hoped not to see him again so soon. She would spare him only the briefest moment. Nodding to Bertrand, she said, "I will be there soon."

  Pressing the door closed with her palm, Elizabeth glanced down and despaired at the state of her bliaut. She had not changed garments since yesterday, and had not yet sent a maid to fetch clean clothes. The silk bore smudges of Geoffrey's blood and herbs. She had not even washed her face. Yet 'twould be discourteous not to even make an appearance, when her father requested it, or keep him and the baron waiting. She made her way to the hall.

  Through the pervasive fog of wood smoke, she saw the baron and her father had pulled up chairs near the hearth. The enticing smells of fresh bread and warmed gooseberry jelly wafted to her.

  Sedgewick dropped his roll. "Beloved." He struggled to his feet, licking jelly from his fingertips. His eyes widened at her dishevelment. "You are hurt?"

  "I have been tending Geoffrey," she said.

  "So your father told me." Sedgewick's smile turned cool. "He says you have not left de Lanceau's side. You and the healer slept in his chamber last eve?"

  "We did. He has fever."

  "Ah, fever." Sedgewick cast her father a smug, victorious smile. Doubt taunted Elizabeth, but she refused to quaver before this man.

  "'Tis amusing, milord?" she asked with an edge to her voice.

  "My dear lady." The baron came close and patted her hand as though she were a naive little child. The lust in his gaze, though, told he appreciated her as a woman. "Many afflictions can take the life of a wounded warrior. Gangrene. Infection. Fever. Do you not agree, milord?"

  Her father nodded, looking a little peakish in the morning light. "'Tis so."

  "My love, do not look so miserable. You shall not have to wed the bastard after all."

  Sedgewick's leering smile brought Elizabeth such a wave of despair, she wrenched her hand away. "I promised Mildred I would help her change the poultice," she lied through clenched teeth. "Good day to you, Baron. Father."

  "Wait," her sire commanded.

  Elizabeth halted. She turned, forcing her face into a mask of composure. "Aye, Father?"

  "There is an important matter we must discuss." His gaze traveled over her and softened. Had he sensed the distress she struggled hard to conceal? "Considering the strain of your ordeal," he went on, "I thought to wait a few days before broaching the topic. Yet since the baron honors us with his presence, and is eager to see it done, we will speak of it now."

  Speak of what?her mind screamed. She wished to return to Geoffrey's side, to escape Sedgewick's lecherous stare, but she could not in good conscience be rude to her father. "Of course," she said.

  A smacking sound drew her gaze to the baron. He shoved the rest of his roll between his teeth, chewed, and stared at her in a manner that implied she was his prized possession. Her skin crawled. He was vile indeed to look at her that way.

  Pushing his chair back, Arthur stood, favoring his wounded leg, and smoothed a hand over his brown wool tunic. "When the baron arrived today, he brought a wagon loaded with barrels of wine. Bordeaux, to be exact. The very best to celebrate his nuptials and his new bride."

  "A great kindness," Elizabeth forced herself to say. "'Tis unfortunate we will not wed."

  Arthur hobbled forward and took her hands. "Daughter, that is what we shall discuss."

  Warmth drained from her face. "What?"

  "Sedgewick wishes to proceed with your marriage."

  As though from afar, she heard the baron murmur, "I cannot wait, beloved, to make you mine."

  Her father's hands curled around hers, steadying her, as tremors ran through her body. "I am sorry if the news is a shock, Elizabeth. As the baron said to me earlier, we cannot imagine the horrors you suffered as de Lanceau's hostage, but Sedgewick assures me he will treat you with kindness. He will do all in his power to diminish your unpleasant memories and be a loving husband."

  Her ears rang. She withdrew her fi
ngers and resisted the urge to throw her head back and shriek. Meeting her father's gaze, she said, "I cannot wed the baron. I am betrothed to Geoffrey. You said so yourself at Branton Keep before at least one hundred witnesses."

  "Pah! A mockery of an engagement." Her father shook his head. "I am glad 'twill never result in marriage. 'Tis inevitable de Lanceau will die from his wounds. Upon his passing, you will be free from that accursed arrangement and any loyalty you feel obligated to show him." He smiled and looked pleased. "You will be free to marry Sedgewick."

  Panic burgeoned inside her. She would never marry the baron. "You do not understand."

  He reached out and touched her cheek. "'Tis best—"

  "I love him."

  "You do?" Arthur chuckled and looked at the baron, who slurped wine from a goblet. "Excellent. Sedgewick assures me you will have every luxury you desire."

  "I love Geoffrey."

  Her words seemed to echo like a clap of thunder.

  "You . . . love . . ." Arthur choked a breath.

  Sedgewick's mouth fell open.

  Pride rang clear in her voice. "I swear it upon my soul."

  "You love a traitor's son?" the baron sneered, spitting wine and clots of bread. "He raped you."

  Elizabeth's cheeks burned but she refused to back down from his glare and the accusation in his slitted eyes. "He did not."

  The baron slammed down the goblet. "Do you deny he stole your virtue?"

  "Daughter?" Arthur whispered.

  Love for Geoffrey bloomed in every part of her being. "He did not force me. I wanted to lie with him."

  "God's teeth!" Anger and dismay darkened her father's gaze.

  Elizabeth clasped her hands to steady them.

  The baron gripped the back of his chair, his fat fingers white as unopened lilies against the dark oak. "You deceived me?" he roared. "You spread your legs for him when you were betrothed to me?" His arm swept over the table, hurling food and wine onto the floor. A dog ran, yelping. The chair followed with a splintering crash.

  When he grabbed the edge of the table, her father limped forward. "Baron!"

  Sedgewick straightened, his face puffed and red. "I apologize, milord." His jowls twitched. It appeared an immense effort for him to restrain his temper. "A walk will settle my thoughts." Without a backward glance, he strode from the hall.

  Elizabeth exhaled. Her body still shook, and she wondered if Sedgewick's rampage would have continued, if her father had not stopped him. The baron looked angry enough to commit murder.

  She shoved the frightening thought to the back of her mind. She need not think of him again. He would not wish to pursue the wedding now.

  After a tense silence, her father asked, "Did you speak true of your love for de Lanceau?"

  "Aye."

  "You want to marry him?"

  "With all my heart."

  His gaze softened with concern. "He has not been . . . unkind to you? In any fashion? One that might make you reconsider such a union?"

  Elizabeth shook her head. "Why do you ask?"

  "'Tis difficult for me to believe." He dragged a stiff hand over the back of his neck. "Veronique—"

  "Veronique?" she cried.

  "Geoffrey's courtesan intercepted us on the road to Branton Keep. She told me de Lanceau forced you to his bed." Her father's mouth turned up in a wan smile. "I paid her to get us through the keep's gates."

  "Geoffrey knew he had been betrayed," Elizabeth said. "I am certain what Veronique told you was vicious, spiteful lies."

  "'Twas easy to believe her."

  Elizabeth stared at the ruined, overturned chair and wine-soaked rushes. "I cannot condone all of Geoffrey's deeds," she said, sickened anew by the baron's violence, "but I do love him. He is a good man. I will do all I can so he will live and be my husband."

  "What accursed irony." Arthur's voice broke. "Edouard de Lanceau's rogue son claims Wode, my fortune, you—all that I hold dear—yet you see him as a hero?"

  With her tongue, she moistened her dry lips. "Please try to understand."

  "I cannot. I will not forgive de Lanceau as you have, Daughter. I look forward to the day you bring word of his death."

  Chapter Nineteen

  With a weary groan, Arthur sorted the parchments on the table before him. Too many matters of estate had been neglected during his absence.

  He scowled, irritated by his own pricking conscience, for these were de Lanceau's problems now. Yet, with his death imminent, someone had to ensure the keep's affairs and its people were kept in order before discontent stirred another pot of headaches.

  Headaches, indeed. Arthur grimaced and massaged his throbbing brow, an aftereffect of yestereve that matched the nagging pain in his leg. He was glad of the quiet hall. Not a soul disturbed him, not even the dogs who lay stretched out by the fire. Thank the saints, not the baron. Composed since his outburst but still rankled, Sedgewick had gorged himself at the midday meal and accepted Arthur's offer of a

  guest chamber where he could sleep off his meal. And, Arthur hoped, his foul temper.

  Arthur skimmed the first grievance, filed by a villein whose leeks had been eaten by a neighbor's sow, and tossed it aside. Leeks? Pigs? How could he think on such matters when Elizabeth's revelations spun through his mind and scattered his thoughts like dry leaves in an autumn gale?

  She loved Geoffrey de Lanceau.

  Disbelief and remorse jabbed at him like two cantankerous old crones. He had suspected Veronique could not be trusted, yet he had believed her lies. She had manipulated him, the baron, Aldwin, all of them. Aye, she had wanted the silver, but above all had wanted de Lanceau dead and his revenge forfeit.

  Arthur shuddered. He wanted de Lanceau's death too. He had wished for it even as he heard his daughter confess she loved the rogue, and longed to be his bride. Part of Arthur felt numbed, betrayed. Was it sacrilege to hope Edouard's son never lived to claim Elizabeth's fair hand?

  An image flashed through Arthur's mind, a knight silhouetted against the dawn sky, the young man who had bested him. Arthur recalled the cool calculation in de Lanceau's eyes when he demanded Elizabeth as his betrothed, an emotional blow that proved his ambition to impregnate her and beget a blood claim to Wode and all Arthur owned. Yet was that de Lanceau's motive? Or had something more glimmered in those gray eyes, something Arthur had not wished to recognize before now?

  He folded his hands and warmed them with his breath. And what of Aldwin? In different circumstances, his actions might be considered chivalrous. Would he be executed for believing Veronique's slander, and doing what he believed was right? A moral dilemma Arthur did not want to ponder.

  A heated argument started in the bailey. A moment later, the forebuilding's outer door crashed open, and footsteps thundered on the stone stairs.

  "I tell you again, you are not to disturb Lord Brackendale," Bertrand shouted and lunged up the stairs two at a time in pursuit of Dominic, who had reached the top and was stalking across the hall. "If you do not stop, I will arrest you."

  "Indeed," Dominic said, his expression savage. "If you insist on throwing yourself upon my sharpened sword, so be it."

  As the knight marched toward the table, Arthur pushed himself to standing. Without missing a stride, Dominic dropped down on one knee and bowed his head in a gesture of respect.

  Arthur sighed. Dominic seemed to be the most loyal of de Lanceau's men who had escorted the wagon bearing their lord. Since arriving at Wode, Dominic had slept in the stable with de Lanceau's destrier and refused to leave the keep until de Lanceau ordered him to do so, or died.

  "Milord, I have come requesting news of my lord and comrade, Geoffrey de Lanceau."

  "Again, I see."

  Dominic charged to his feet, shedding bits of straw. "I beg you, do not deny me the truth." His eyes were bright behind a grazing of brown lashes. "Does he live, or is he dead?"

  "At present, he lives. Yet his fate remains uncertain."

  Relief softened Dominic's boyish fe
atures. "I would see him."

  "As I told you yestereve—the last time you so boldly demanded an audience—Mildred advised against visitors. She insists de Lanceau's life depends upon it."

  "You care whether he lives or dies?"

  Arthur scowled at the challenge in Dominic's voice. "I despise de Lanceau. I loathe being responsible for his well-being. I do so because he is now rightful lord of Wode, and my squire committed a rash act and caused him injury."

  "And what is being done about this squire?" Dominic asked, his hand settling on the pommel of his sword.

  Bertrand reached to draw his weapon, but Arthur stayed him with a flick of his hand. Though Dominic looked irritated, he did not seem a man to attack without due provocation. "My squire's name is Aldwin," Arthur said.