Dominic darted forward. “Pity you, fool.” His sword plunged into the mercenary’s stomach with the sounds of cracking leather and spurting blood.
His eyes bulging in their sockets, Viscon collided with the wall. He slid to the stair in a crimson puddle. His breath rushed out on a final, rattled gasp. Whispering a few words, Dominic reached over and closed Viscon’s eyelids.
Geoffrey blew a sigh. “Many thanks, my friend.”
A weak grin tilted Dominic’s mouth. “I owed you twice for saving my life. Now, I only owe you once.”
Behind them, the archers on the battlements unleashed a hail of arrows upon the army in the bailey. Men screamed. Arrows pinged off shields and helms. Horses whinnied, and swords shrieked. As Geoffrey started down the stairwell, the archers fought a concentrated attack from the moat side of the curtain wall. The rain of arrows diminished, and then stopped.
Geoffrey’s blood ran cold. The enemy had control of the bailey.
His fist tightened around his sword as one knight, mounted on a huge bay destrier and wearing a silk surcoat, kicked his horse forward and claimed the ground separating the armies. His helm sat low over his face. The nasal guard obscured his features except for his angular jaw and the glint of his piercing blue eyes. Even so, Geoffrey recognized him.
The man who had killed his father.
At last, vengeance.
Geoffrey’s leather grip burned his palm. The cry to charge forward, slash, and avenge howled inside him, and he sucked in a slow breath. He must not ruin his victory. He must not give Brackendale any reason to cut him down before the battle between them had been fought. His arm trembled with the immense effort, yet Geoffrey sheathed his weapon.
“Geoffrey de Lanceau,” Brackendale roared.
Hands on his hips, Geoffrey strode out of the stairwell’s shadows and halted before the destrier. He stood firm as the older lord’s gaze raked over him, from his hair to his leather boots.
“You bastard!” Brackendale shouted.
Geoffrey did not flinch.
“Where is my daughter?”
“Safe.”
The lord’s mouth curled. “Where?”
Geoffrey smiled, but did not answer.
With a furious growl, Brackendale reached for his sword. The blade whipped out of the scabbard with ferocious speed. He tilted the weapon at Geoffrey’s chest. Warning whooshed through Geoffrey, yet he quelled the impulse to draw his blade, even though the pommel sat close to his fingers.
Brackendale’s eyes glittered with warning. “You are surrounded, de Lanceau. I have superior forces. I will not hesitate to demolish this keep, stone by stone, and kill every living thing within it. Tell me where to find Elizabeth. Now. Or I will give the order.”
“I thought we were to have a melee. Were you afraid to fight me, old man?”
“How dare you!”
“Mayhap you feared I would best you.” Geoffrey folded his arms across his mailed chest, pretending nonchalance. “’Twould be ignoble to die by the sword of Edouard de Lanceau’s son, a traitor’s son, would it not?”
The older lord’s mouth thinned. He shoved the tip of his weapon into Geoffrey’s mail. The pressure bruised, even through the padded gambeson, but Geoffrey did not step back or acknowledge the discomfort. He would not show weakness, not when a battle lay ahead and he aimed to win.
“Your mockery is far from amusing,” Brackendale snapped.
“But true. You attack me with my defenses down. Not a fair fight. Where is the honor in that, Lord Brackendale?”
“You speak to me of honor?” bellowed the older lord. “I see none in falsifying missives.”
“True. ’Twas a necessary diversion, though, and it worked.”
“You made a fool of me.”
“I want Wode. If I thought you would recognize my claim, the ruse would not have been necessary.”
Brackendale’s sword bit deeper. “Did you also plan to defile my daughter?”
Geoffrey flinched.
Behind Brackendale, a bloated knight on horseback swore. He removed his helm and mopped sweat from his brow. Geoffrey scowled. Baron Sedgewick. How could Brackendale have betrothed Elizabeth to this cruel, pathetic excuse for a man? His jaw hardened at the thought of the baron, or any man, touching her the way he had.
When he saw the woman standing in the shadow of one of the watchtowers, tucking a chestnut curl under her mantle’s hood, his scowl deepened. Veronique. He had guessed she was the one who had betrayed him, but the confirmation stung. She cast him a gloating smile before turning and crossing the drawbridge to join the soldiers guarding the moat.
A harsh grin slanted Brackendale’s mouth, as though he had read Geoffrey’s thoughts. “You thought I did not know about Elizabeth?”
Rage and anguish blazed in Brackendale’s eyes, and Geoffrey guessed Veronique’s words had not been favorable or true. “Lord Brackendale—”
“Bastard!” The older lord spat. “You will pay for deceiving me. You will suffer for every wretched moment I wasted riding to Tillenham. Above all, you will pay for dishonoring my daughter.”
“I did naught she did not want.”
Brackendale thrust his sword deeper. “You lie!”
Pain radiated through Geoffrey’s flesh. He gritted his teeth and fought the battle yell burning in his throat. He would not attack first.
“You will die like a dog,” Brackendale snarled, spittle foaming at his mouth. “Take a good look around you, for ’twill be your last.” He whipped his blade up and back, poised to lop Geoffrey’s head from his shoulders.
Geoffrey drew his sword.
“Father! Nay!”
Brackendale’s arm jerked. With an awkward turn of his wrist, he halted the sword’s arc and stared in the direction of the piercing cry.
Geoffrey dared to look as well. Elizabeth ran out of the forebuilding, her bliaut flapping about her legs, her tresses streaming out behind her. He would die before he let the baron place a hand on her delicate, scented skin.
She ran to Brackendale’s side. “Father.”
As the older lord reached down and smoothed her tousled hair, his hand shook. “Elizabeth. Thank God you are all right.”
Sedgewick sighed with relief. “Beloved.”
Elizabeth did not even glance at the baron. “Father, please,” she said, her skin ashen in the sunlight. “No one has to die.”
Her gaze turned to Geoffrey, and he steeled his heart against the distress in her eyes, moist with tears. He flexed his hold on his sword’s grip, resenting the sweat on his palms. No matter what he felt for her, he must not allow her to distract him or sway him from vengeance.
His blood buzzed with anticipation. The vow he had shouted years ago, that had branded his soul, echoed in his mind. I will avenge you, Father. God’s holy blood, I will avenge you.
“Get to safety, Elizabeth,” Brackendale ordered in a gruff voice. “You need not witness the fight.”
“Please, listen to me.”
The older lord placed a firm hand upon her shoulder. “I will kill him first. I will see him dead, for all he has done to you.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide. “Nay! He—”
“Do as he says, damsel,” Geoffrey murmured.
She gaped at him, looking stunned. Wounded. “Geoffrey?”
“Pah! You address this cur by his Christian name?” Brackendale sneered.
“He is as human as you, Father,” cried Elizabeth. “You must heed me. Lay down your sword. Let me explain.”
Brackendale signaled to two of his knights. Despite Elizabeth’s struggles, they pulled her back into his soldiers’ ranks.
“Father!” she screamed. “Stop!”
The knights held her firm.
Geoffrey shuddered. He hated to hear her distress, but at least she would be protected from any harm.
The older lord dismounted from his destrier, removed his helm, and tossed it to his squ
ire. “You want a fight, de Lanceau? You shall have it. We will settle our enmity once and for all.”
Expectation tingled through Geoffrey. “Do you think you can best me?”
“I will defeat you. When you lie broken and dying, you will watch this keep’s walls fall in around you.” Brackendale raised his blade and lunged.
Geoffrey leapt aside and laughed. “That is the best you can do?”
Brackendale growled. He thrust again, aiming for Geoffrey’s midsection. With a snarl, Geoffrey dodged the blow and sliced his blade upward. Brackendale darted back.
Geoffrey smiled and the battle call rang louder in his blood. Every muscle in his body coiled for attack as he circled. Assessed. Struck.
Metal clanged and shrieked. The swords locked until Geoffrey shoved away. Slashing his blade down, he caught Brackendale full across his forearm. The older lord groaned.
Geoffrey paused, breathing hard. Had he fractured bone? Brackendale staggered. Allowing him just enough time to regain his balance, Geoffrey lunged forward. His sword hit chain mail. The links protecting the older lord’s thigh shattered. Blood ran down his leg.
Frantic cries erupted behind Geoffrey. He shut them out. The ambrosial taste of victory flooded his mouth. A growl rumbled in his throat, and he aimed another strike at Brackendale’s injured arm.
The older lord jerked his sword up, and the sharp edge skidded across the front of Geoffrey’s aging armor. Mail links cracked. Snapped. As the weapon’s tip sliced through the padded gambeson and tunic to bare flesh, Geoffrey gasped. He stumbled, feeling the hot trickle of blood. It spattered on his hand.
He saw his father dying. The pool of blood on the dirty straw.
God’s holy blood, I will avenge you.
In a haze of agony, he looked up to see Brackendale grinning. The older lord raised his sword and aimed it at Geoffrey’s broken mail. Blocking out the pain, drawing upon his fury, Geoffrey leapt forward. Slash after slash, he drove Brackendale across the bailey, parting the crowds of soldiers.
The silver-haired lord grunted, weakening under the onslaught. Geoffrey did not relent. Perspiration ran down his face. Blood dripped onto the ground.
Brackendale stumbled. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes.
Seizing the advantage, Geoffrey lunged forward, just as the older lord regained his footing. The weapon cut across Brackendale’s thigh. He cried out. Geoffrey stepped forward, hooked his boot behind Brackendale’s injured leg, and shoved him backward.
The older lord crashed to the ground.
“Father!”
Geoffrey struggled to shut out Elizabeth’s wail and the stinging emotion accompanying it. He raked hair from his eyes and glared down at his enemy, lying dazed at his feet.
Vengeance at last.
With a pained grunt, Brackendale groped for his sword that had skidded beyond his reach. Geoffrey shoved the tip of his blade against Brackendale’s neck. Fear darkened the older man’s eyes, and anticipation of death.
“Geoffrey, spare him,” Elizabeth screamed.
Something twisted deep in Geoffrey’s chest.
His soul.
He had dreamed of this glorious moment for eighteen years. With one thrust of his sword, Lord Brackendale would be dead, Geoffrey’s father avenged, and Wode free for the claiming.
Geoffrey had anticipated a rush of triumph. Yet, he felt no glory. No joy. No exhilaration. His heart constricted with a soul-deep ache. If he killed the man lying helpless at his feet, Elizabeth would never forgive him. She would hate him.
He would lose her.
His hand wavered. He thought of her now, watching the grisly spectacle. He envisioned her tear-streaked face as she waited for him to deliver the mortal blow. He sensed her anguish. He tasted her fear.
God’s blood, he did not want to lose her.
Geoffrey flexed his fingers on his sword.
He had no choice.
“Grant me Wode,” he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “and I will spare you.”
Brackendale choked for breath.
“You will also give me Elizabeth, as my betrothed.”
Shocked murmurs rippled through the throng around them. The older lord’s eyes flared. “Never!”
With deliberate slowness, Geoffrey pressed the blade forward, drawing a streak of blood. A final warning. “I do not want to kill you, but I will. Do you agree?”
Brackendale hesitated, his gaze hard and bitter.
His head jerked in a nod.
“I want your word of honor, as a knight,” Geoffrey demanded.
“You have it,” Brackendale muttered. He tried to move his bleeding leg and winced.
“I will withdraw my sword, and you will stand and confirm our agreement to all who have witnessed,” Geoffrey ground out. “If you betray me, I will kill you. Understand?”
“Aye,” the older lord spat.
Geoffrey lifted his blade to return it to its scabbard.
A snap broke the bailey’s near silence. In the space of an indrawn breath, he recognized the sound—a crossbow bowstring as the weapon’s trigger released.
The bolt whistled like a demon unleashed.
His mind yelled for him to move. It was too late.
The steel-tipped bolt pierced his left shoulder. Mail, flesh, and sinew splintered.
A scream tore from the depths of his soul and shattered his world into a crimson haze.
The bolt’s impact sent him reeling back against the stone wall in a spray of blood. The jolt jarred the bolt deeper into his chest.
He screamed again.
Gasping, he stared down at his ruined shoulder. He clutched at the ugly, gaping wound. His numb fingers tried to hold together the broken links of mail and mangled flesh, to staunch the flow of his life’s blood.
He sank to his knees.
A figure emerged from the darkness smothering him. A woman with bewitching blue eyes and hair that shimmered like black silk. The woman he loved.
“Elizabeth,” he moaned.
Pain flared.
Darkness claimed him.
***
“Naaaaayyyyyyyy!”
Elizabeth heard a woman’s shrill scream. She did not recognize her own cry until it trailed off and died on her lips.
Wrenching free of the guards detaining her, she ran to Geoffrey’s side. He lay crumpled in a heap against the blood-smeared wall, the wooden end of the bolt protruding from his mail. His face was as pale as death. Blood ran down his hauberk and pooled around him on the ground.
She knelt in the dirt and smoothed hair from his brow. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wiped the wetness away with her sleeve. Her belly clenched into a sickening knot. How could this have happened?
Dominic dropped to his knees beside her. “He lives, milady?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“I do not know,” Elizabeth whispered.
The knight took Geoffrey’s limp hand and felt for a pulse. “A faint heartbeat. Too faint, I fear.” Anguish deepened the worried lines around his mouth. He squeezed her fingers, shoved to a stand, and stared across the bailey. “You bastard!” he roared.
Blinking away tears, Elizabeth followed his gaze to the young man standing against the far wall, holding a crossbow. His golden hair, the hue of corn silk, gleamed in the sun.
Oh, God.
Her stomach lurched. Bile flooded her mouth. She fought the urge to curl over and retch.
Aldwin had shot Geoffrey.
With assistance from several knights, her father struggled to his feet. He glanced down at Geoffrey’s prone body and at her; then he leveled his glare on the squire. “What have you done?”
Arthur’s shout reverberated in the sudden silence. He limped across the bailey, his wounded leg thumping on the ground.
Aldwin stood firm.
“Why did you fire the crossbow?”
“I saved your life, milord.” Sweat beaded on Aldwin’s forehead.
“Idiot! My life was not in danger.”
The squire flushed. “I saw—”
“De Lanceau intended to sheath his sword. You think me a coward, boy?” Arthur bellowed. “You wished to dishonor me before God and all these witnesses?”
Medieval Rogues Page 27
