A Knight's Reward (24 page)

“I am fine,” Gisela said, hoping she sounded convincing. She must try to keep a focused perspective and decide what to do.

Ada clucked her tongue. Muttering under her breath, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the money Dominic had given her. Holding the silver in her creased palm, she said, “Take it.”

Gisela stared at the coins, enough to feed her and Ewan for a couple of sennights. Yet, Ada earned a modest living as a midwife. “’Tis very kind,” Gisela said, “but Dominic gave that coin to you.”

“Ye ’ave a young ’un ta clothe and feed. I ’ave only meself.” Ada’s tone softened to a whisper. “Ye may not wish ta tell me, but I know ye are in trouble. That clever-tongued lord, ’e brought the trouble with ’im, aye?”

“Nay, he did not—”

Ada snorted a breath and set the coins down by the bowl of nuts. “I am not daft. I see the way ’e looks at ye, when ’e thinks ye do not notice.”

Gisela glanced at Ewan. Chatting to Sir Smug lying prone on the floor, her son carefully folded a linen rag into a makeshift pallet.

“If that Dominic ’ad ’is way, ye’d be off in the nearest field, ’avin’ a good old—”

“Ada!” Gisela blushed.

The woman’s mouth pursed. “Ye know I speak true.”

Gisela looked down at the marred tabletop. After her confessions earlier today, Dominic would not look at her with desire again, only bitterness and dismay.

Ada fingered the coins. “Ye may not want ta tell me what is between ye. But, if I may speak plainly, ye deserve better ‘n’ what ye ’ave in Clovebury. Take the coin. Use it ta go away from ’ere . . . and ’im.”

Pain, as swift and sharp as an arrow, pierced Gisela. Running now would be another betrayal of Dominic and an admission of cowardice. “’Tis a bit more complicated—” she began.

“Mama,” Ewan called.

Crash
.

Gisela whirled. Ewan stood beside her pallet, his eyes huge. The lid of her special box dangled from his hand. The box’s contents lay scattered across the floor.

By his feet lay the remains of her daisy-chain necklace.

***

Dominic walked at a brisk pace down the inky streets. From an alley to his left came scuffling sounds, followed by the
crack
of splintering wood and raucous laughter. Another
crack
. Cheers erupted. Clovebury’s thugs were already at work, like nighttime parasites feeding off the townsfolk’s vulnerabilities.

His strides slowed. He listened, assessing the various sounds. The ruffians were either demolishing a wagon or breaking into one of the local businesses.

As de Lanceau’s loyal knight, he should investigate. Do his best to scare the criminals off. However, he’d be one man, fighting—judging by the different voices—at least four others. Did he risk confronting the ruffians when he might be injured or killed and thus would not be able to fulfill his duty to Geoffrey—or help Gisela and Ewan?

Days ago, he would have drawn his dagger and rushed into the fray. Before he reunited with Gisela and learned Ewan was his son, choices were much clearer. Now . . . Other responsibilities spoke louder than his battle-honed instincts.

Shutting out the continuing smashes and laughter, he continued down the street. Of primary importance, right now, was writing and sending the missive to Geoffrey.

Then, he’d try to round up a few men to help him thwart the thugs.

Strains of music and the drone of lively chatter guided him to the tavern. Despite the early hour, the door stood open and light spilled onto the dirt yard. The mingled smells of wood smoke, ale, and sweat accosted Dominic as he stepped past the men lolling half-drunk at the closest tables and wove through the standing crowd until he reached the rickety staircase. Snatching the tallow candle from the nearest table, he hurried up the stairs, entered his room, and bolted the door behind him.

The sounds of revelry from the main room crept in under the door and through the cracked panel. Ignoring the distraction, Dominic dropped down onto the straw pallet and set the candle on the floor beside him. He reached for his saddlebag and drew out his quill, ink, and parchment. Pressing the skin to the floorboards, he began to write. The quill scratched across the parchment, obliging him with deft black letters.

My dearest friend and honorable Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau,

With utmost pleasure, I write to tell you I have discovered some of your stolen silks. They were concealed in a most unexpected location. The remainder of the stolen shipment remains missing, but I am certain I have discovered the ringleader of the thieves, a Frenchman by the name of Crenardieu. I vow he can tell us where the rest of the silks can be found.

With utmost urgency, I ask that you dispatch men-at-arms to Clovebury. Tomorrow morning he will be meeting—

A knock sounded on the door.

Dominic frowned at the wooden panel. “Who is there?”

“Who de ya think, luv?” cooed a female voice.

The barmaid.

Dominic smothered an oath. Not only had she rushed to fulfill Crenardieu’s every demand last evening, she’d made her interest in Dominic blatantly clear. He’d refused. However, she must have seen him arrive and decided to pursue him again.

Nails scratched on the door. “Are ye not goin’ ta open up?”

Shaking his head, he shoved to his feet. He could hardly finish his missive with her making such a cacophony. He drew open the panel, holding it firm with one hand while he leaned the other on the rough-hewn embrasure.

The woman stood in the shadowed hallway, holding a tray bearing three ale mugs. Her brown-eyed gaze glided over him with undisguised lust. “What ye doin’ all alone in there?” Her gaze fixed on his right hand. Glancing over, he saw black ink stained his thumb and forefinger. Luckily the scrap of blue silk, still tied around his wrist for safekeeping, had slid down out of sight.

He winked at her. “You found me out.”

Her eyes brightened with mischievous delight. “Did I?”

“I am writing my lover a bawdy letter.”

She giggled. “Ooh, ye are a naughty one.” Balancing the tray on her hip, she leaned closer, displaying her breasts squeezed into a grubby linen bodice. “A rich merchant like ye likely ’as lots o’ lovers.”

Dominic chuckled, playing along. “Well—”

“Does this ’un live far away . . . or close by?”

“Close by. If you will excuse me—”

Her foot shot into the space between the embrasure and door, preventing him from closing the panel. “Let me in, luv. I will gladly ’elp ye with yer letter.”

“A gracious invitation,” he said. “However, I am managing very well on my own.”

She smiled, revealing all of her crooked, browned teeth, then tapped her head. “I am a clever ’un, ye know. All the men tell me so.”

“Of course, you are.” God’s blood, but she was making a polite rejection difficult for him. “I regret, though, I cannot dally right now. Mayhap later—”

Clucking her tongue, she took one of the ale mugs from her tray. Smiling again, she offered it to him. “Some ale, then, ta ’elp ye while ye work?”

If she went away, aye. “Why not?” Remembering he had given the silver in his coin pouch to Ada, he stepped back to grab his saddlebag. Faster than he thought possible, the bar wench slipped inside his room, her greedy gaze taking in the quill, ink, and parchment.

Warning sparked, but he shrugged it aside. He did not know any barmaid who could read. Still, after taking the ale from her, he guided her back into the hallway where he dug a silver coin out of his bag. “Thank you.”

“Thank
ye
, luv.” Grinning at him, making an elaborate show of her efforts, she poked the coin into her cleavage.

A bosom not half as enticing as Gisela’s.

He gave the wench a last smile, turned back into his room, and locked the door. Sipping the dark ale, he finished his missive and signed it with a flourish. He rerolled the skin. Picking up the candle, he tipped it toward him, causing a fat drop of wax to fall upon the parchment’s edge to form a seal.

Laughter swelled from the downstairs room, followed by the
thump
of fists upon tables. Men were placing bets. Occupied with their wagering, they wouldn’t notice him making arrangements with one of the farmhands to deliver the message. He would hire the lanky, blond-haired lad who had complained last evening to all who cared to listen that he never earned enough in a season to buy his betrothed a ring. A man like him would know the local roads better than anyone, especially at night—and the fastest route to Branton Keep.

Raising his ale mug, Dominic downed the rest of the brew. He stood, tucked the parchment under his tunic, and stepped out into the hall, securing the door behind him. At the top of the stairs, he paused to glance over the crowded, smoky room below.

There, near the door, stood the farmhand. His handsome face pinched into a scowl, the young man shoved a hand through his hair, then swallowed a long draught of ale. After slamming his mug down on the nearest table, he stepped out into the night.

Dominic’s boots pounded on the steps. He brushed past the men gathered around the bottom stairs. One he recognized. The baker.

Under his breath, Dominic prayed the man hadn’t noticed him and would not cause a confrontation. Dominic headed for the open doorway.

“Oy!” called a familiar voice behind him. “Coo-eee, luv.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the bar wench hurrying toward him, her breasts jostling with each step. He raised his hand in a fleeting wave before heading outside.

The night air enveloped him, almost smothering in its intensity. He halted in the middle of the yard. On the soundless breeze, he caught the scent of stabled horses, along with the mustiness of earth and moldering wood.

He scanned the dirt yard for the young man. There. Walking to the back of the tavern.

“Leavin’ ta visit yer lover?” The maid stood silhouetted in the doorway. Light outlined her curves, yet she was a poor imitation of how he had seen Gisela surrounded by a golden aura.

With a sultry giggle, the wench approached him. “Did ye finish yer letter?”

“I did.” He smiled before starting in the direction of the young farmhand. “I am sorry, but I must—”

Close by, he heard footfalls. He swung around, reaching for his dagger. Two of Crenardieu’s thugs emerged from the darkness. They grinned. Not pleasant smiles, but the teeth-baring smirks of louts who’d been waiting for him.

Warning seared through him with almost painful intensity. Where were Crenardieu’s other men? Waiting for him . . . or threatening Gisela and Ewan?

He tamped down a surge of unease. “What do you want?” he said, glaring at the thugs. “’Tis dangerous to startle a man in such a manner. I might have mistaken you for thieves and accidentally stabbed you.”
Play the rich fool merchant
, his instincts screamed.
Continue your persona from last evening. Keep them talking, while you decide what in hellfire to do next.

More footfalls.

He glanced back at The Stubborn Mule’s doorway. Crenardieu stepped outside. He had lurked inside, waiting also. Invisible in the crowd.

Sweat beaded on Dominic’s brow. He mentally calculated the distance to the alley. If he could keep the men talking and edge backward, he could dart into the streets.

He
had
to get away. He
had
to send the missive to Geoffrey.

If these thugs found the parchment on him . . .

“Crenardieu,” Dominic said with a feigned laugh. “Call off your mongrels, will you?”

The men scowled.

The Frenchman’s lips formed a smug smile. He looked back at the barmaid. “
Merci
.”

“Me pleasure. ’E ’as the letter on ’im,” she said, toying with her bodice.

Crenardieu handed her coins. Curling her fingers around the money, she smirked at Dominic.

She had betrayed him.
God’s blood!
What had she said to the Frenchman?

“What, pray tell, do you want with me, Crenardieu? Is this your way of saying you wish to continue our discussion from last night?” Preparing to bolt for the alley, Dominic flexed his fingers on his knife. “If so, I really think—”

The rasp of a boot heel, no more, behind him.

An object slammed into his skull.

Dominic staggered. The tavern spun before him, then listed at an odd angle. Lights flared behind his eyes, searing his eyelids.

“Fool,” Crenardieu muttered.

All went black.

Chapter Fourteen

Gisela dropped to her knees before Ewan, amongst the treasures strewn around her. A cry burning her throat, she picked up the fragile daisy chain. Dried petals and stems crumbled in her fingers.

Ruined
.

“Mama,” Ewan wailed. “I did not mean to break it.”

She forced down the grief threatening to erupt in a scream. Blinking back tears, she closed her fingers around the mangled treasure and looked up at him. “I know, Button.”

His face crumpled on a sob. “I only wanted the wood.”

Gisela sighed. He had found the delicate, twisted bit of wood on one of their jaunts to the market. After he’d played with it and lost interest, she had tucked it into her box, along with a lock of hair from his very first cutting, his first shoes, and other assorted mementos.

“I wanted a log for Sir Smug’s campfire,” Ewan said with a sniffle.

Spying the wood beside the pallet, she picked it up. “I understand, Button, but I told you before not to go in my box without asking.”

Ewan sobbed again.

With an awkward huff, Ada dropped to her knees beside Gisela. “’Tis my fault. I told him to make a camp.” She started gathering the fallen items. “If I had known—”

“Do not blame yourself,” Gisela said, retrieving the little shoes made of tan leather.

With a loud sniffle, her son dropped to a crouch, bringing his face to her level. He pushed the box toward her. “I am sorry, Mama,” he said again and threw his arms around her. His words muffled against her neck, he said, “I will make you another daisy chain. An even better one.”