A Knight's Reward (26 page)

Go on, have a good chuckle. To repay your cruelty, I shall make you eat dirt
.

“
Non
, fool. You struck him too hard last time. I want him alert enough to answer my questions.”

The ringing in Dominic’s ears grew louder. He sensed himself on the verge of collapse, teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness.

Nay
. Oblivion was cowardice. He
must
stay awake. Unconscious, he was as useless as a one-legged mule.

Despite his predicament—and his injuries—he couldn’t have wished for better circumstances. With luck, the men would take him to the place where they had stored the rest of the stolen cloth. Therefore, he must go along with their plans for him. Not meekly, though. That would make them suspicious. While he must offer enough resistance to prove he loathed their treatment of him, he wouldn’t escape before he knew their hideout.

Close by, a horse whinnied, followed by the
clip-clop
of hooves. Dominic’s horse started to walk. The sound of hooves striking dirt echoed inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find equilibrium in the animal’s stride, which jostled him about like a sack of beans. Had the thugs deliberately given him this ill-paced nag for additional torture, or was he only imagining its clumsiness?

God’s blood, how many miles would he have to endure, his head to the ground and his arse in the air?

He might have indulged in a wry groan if the horse hadn’t stumbled. Pain shot through his skull. The discomfort slowly dimmed, fusing into a memory of Gisela lifting his head and her beautiful eyes widening with shock.

Gisela
. Sweet Daisy. Was she all right? What had happened to her and Ewan after Ryle entered her shop?

Dominic bit back an oath. He stared down into the darkness and blinked against the grime drifting up from the road.
I will come for you, Gisela. I will not abandon you, as I did years ago. This, I promise. I pledge my life upon it
.

***

Her fingers clenched together, Gisela stood by the table in her home. Ewan sat on the bench beside her, wrapped in Ada’s comforting embrace. A few yards away, Ryle stood with his back to them, ominously silent, his gaze traveling over the interior.

Fear shrieked inside Gisela like claws scraped across slate. The shrillness superseded the chatter of the two louts Crenardieu had left behind in her shop to stand guard—even though he’d confiscated the silk.

At first, she’d refused to reveal the cloth’s hiding place, but when Crenardieu’s thugs had started to batter down the door of her home—threatening to beat whoever was inside unless she told them where to find the silk—she’d relented. Ryle at his side, Crenardieu had watched her remove the floorboards, whereupon he’d ordered his men to take the bolts and garments and replace the planks. Then, he had forced her to let him into her home. After a smug glance at Ewan, the Frenchman had walked out, ordering the two men to stay behind.

“You have what you want!” she’d shrieked. “Let Dominic go. Leave us be.”

Crenardieu had merely smiled at her. He’d spoken to the men who were lounging by the shop door, drinking from a shared flask, and left.

Beside Gisela, Ewan sniffled. Ada murmured, “There, there.”

Gisela fought a moan. She, not the older woman, should be embracing Ewan. Yet, panic pinned Gisela’s feet to the floor. Her limbs felt hewn from stone, her spirit entombed within an unresponsive body. She tried, but couldn’t wrench her gaze from Ryle.

Sickly sweat trickled down between her breasts. The insides of her shoes felt as cold as snow.
Fight, Gisela!
her spirit cried.
Do not cower before Ryle. Do not let him destroy you and Ewan
.

She struggled to cast her son a reassuring glance. She couldn’t. Ryle stood in almost the exact spot where Ewan had spilled the contents of her box, his fine boots planted apart, one hand on his hip. His other hand clasped a leather flask, from which he had drunk several times.

Ryle’s silver-gray hair swept the shoulders of his cloak, which draped down to his ankles. Even in the murky light, she discerned the fine quality of the wool woven at the cuffs with silver thread. A costly garment. She wondered just how much coin he had spent to find her—and what he’d paid Crenardieu to reveal her whereabouts.

The cloak’s inky black—the hue of the darkest, most dangerous night hours—not only enrobed Ryle, but seemed to magnify his physical presence. He looked taller than she remembered, more imposing, as if his anger and hatred had made him grow into even more of a monster. She knew, while she stared in mute terror, that he would not be denied whatever he desired.

And he wanted her to suffer.

His head turned. He glanced down at her and Ewan’s pallets pushed against the wall, at Sir Smug lying nearly naked in the make-believe camp. Her attempt at an independent life suddenly seemed a pathetic illusion, as insubstantial as the fire made from a bit of wood, and the bed made of folded cloth. Like Sir Smug, she was vulnerable to Ryle. Her dreams of freedom were exposed, in danger of being trampled beneath his boot.

Fight, Gisela!
her spirit screamed.
You must. Have you forgotten what he promised for Ewan and Dominic?

Ryle closed the flask and put it inside his cloak. “So this is where you have been hiding,
wife
.” He did not glance at her. Neither did he raise his voice, but the calculated quality of his words frightened her more than his screaming temper.

Will he kill me now? Or will he kill Ewan first, to spite me, and then murder me?

“You cast aside all I offered you—my manor, fine clothes, the prestige of a rich merchant’s wife—for
this?
” Ryle waved his hand, indicating the pitiful furnishings and dirt floor. His shoulders shook in a disbelieving laugh.

Fight, Gisela! For your son. For Dominic
.

Forcing words through her wooden lips, she said, “I did.”

Ryle’s chuckle faded. His shoulders stiffened. Gisela sensed anger pouring from him, but still, he didn’t turn and face her.

“You should not have run away,” he said.

She shuddered at the whipping lash of his words.

“I warned you,” he said, too quietly. “I told you what would happen.”

“Father,” Ewan said, shoving off the bench beside her.

Alarm jarred her into motion. “Nay—”

Ryle whipped around, his eyes flashing. Thrusting a finger at Ewan, he roared, “Do
not
speak to me!”

Ewan recoiled. His little body lurched back into Gisela. Confusion and fear clouded his face.

Ryle’s mouth twisted on a sneer. “Sit.”

Ewan scrambled back onto the bench. A sob broke from him. Clucking her tongue, Ada put her arms around him again.

Warning bubbled inside Gisela, urging her to watch her words. Yet, months of worry, living in hiding, and scrounging to make ends meet converged into one, powerful spirit that refused to stay silent. “Never speak to Ewan that way again.”

Ryle’s head jerked. His sharp gaze fixed on her, bored into her, with enmity. “Why in hellfire not? He is my son.”

He is not. He is Dominic’s son, as you well know!
However, she could not say that aloud. Ewan did not yet know.

“No child deserves to be treated in such a manner.”

“A child should be taught what is right, and what is wrong,” Ryle said with an ugly smile. “Just like a wife.”

Oh, God. Oh, God
.

She clenched her fists, her mind whirling for a distraction. “What do you want, Ryle? Why did you come here?” Good. Keep him talking. Keep him occupied.

His smile did not falter. “I want what is mine.” His gaze traveled down over her worn gown.

“I have never been
yours
.” How she meant those words, voiced from the very depths of her soul.

“You are, Gisela.” Ryle leaned forward as he spoke, looming like a dragon preparing to exhale flames. His breath reeked of liquor. “You fooled the people of this town by hiding behind the name Anne, but you are the woman I married. The priest declared us man and wife. Remember? You belong to me.”

Belong
. Like a garment, or a shoe, or some other possession.

“You will come home, Gisela.” He reached for her, his broad fingers splayed to close around her arm.

She lurched backward, bumping into the end of the bench, almost keeling over. “I will never return with you. Never!”

“You will!” Ryle grabbed for her again.

“Stop!” Ewan shrieked, leaping to his feet. Tears ran down his face. “Do not shout at Mama.”

Ryle shoved a dismissive hand at him, ordering him to be silent. His boots creaked as he lunged again. His fingers clamped around Gisela’s wrist in a bruising grip.

She gasped. His harsh fingers felt like a manacle. Pain and panic spiraled from the place he grasped, flooding through her in a punishing wave. A vision of him raising his arm and striking her a fierce blow across the side of her face flashed through her mind.

If he struck her unconscious—as he had before—she couldn’t protect Ewan.

She struggled to free her arm, vaguely aware of her son running from the table. With an irritated grunt, Ryle tightened his hold.

“Ryle!” she gasped again. “Stop.”

“Ewan,” Ada said, sounding worried. “Do not—”

“Let go of Mama!” Ewan yelled.

Ryle laughed. Still holding her arm, he turned in profile to face her little boy. Ewan stood with his sword raised, ready to attack.

Gisela drew a shaky breath.
Oh, Button
. Did he hope to save her from Ryle? She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes.

“Look at you,” Ryle sneered.

The boy’s fingers tightened on the sword. “Let go of her.”

“Ewan!” Ada called, clearly trying to draw his attention.

The boy shook his head. “He is hurting Mama. I will not let him.”

“You will stop me?” Ryle laughed. “You are not even four years old.”

Scowling, Ewan said, “I am a little warrior.”

“
Little warrior
,” Ryle mocked. “Did your mother call you that?”

“Leave him alone!” Gisela choked out.

“Did your mama fill your head with stupid notions of being a knight?”

“Nay, not Mama,” Ewan said. “Dominic.”

Ryle’s face whitened. His mouth compressed into a line before his face turned scarlet. “
Dominic!
”

“He fought on crusade. He went into battle with King Richard. He knows all about being a warrior knight—”

Fear seized Gisela’s heart. “Ewan—!”

Before the cry left her lips, Ryle struck out. His fist flew toward her son.

“Nay!” she screamed, struggling to get free.

A grisly
thud
echoed.

Ryle howled. “Little whoreson!” His face contorted into a pained grimace, and he shook out his arm.

Stepping back, Ewan raised his sword again. Pride glowed in his eyes.

“Ewan,” Ada said, pulling at him. “Come over ’ere, now, with me—”

Ryle’s hand flexed. He was going to lash out again at Ewan. Harder and faster than before.

Gisela’s gaze flew to the table.
The bowl
.

Holding her breath, she waited.

The very instant he moved, she jerked back on her arm. He lost his grip, and she broke free. Snarling like a beast, Ryle glanced at her, but she threw her weight against him, shoving him off balance.

He stumbled sideways.

Gisela grabbed the earthenware bowl, scattering the coins underneath. As Ryle straightened, she smashed the bowl into his head. Chunks of pottery and hazelnuts rained onto the floor.

Ryle froze. His whole body taut, his hands splayed in surprise, he stared at her. Murderous rage glowed in his eyes.

Oh, God. Oh, God
. She had not hit him hard enough. Now he would—

Ryle reached up to touch his head. His eyes glazed. Rolled backward. He slumped to the floor.

Ewan rushed to her and flung his arms around her legs, his sword bumping against the back of her calf. “Mama, I was scared.”

“You were
very
brave,” she said, kissing the top of his tousled head.

“As were ye, Anne. Or, should I say, Gisela.” Ada crossed to them and peered down at Ryle’s prone body. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “If I were ye, I would ’ave run away from ’im, too. ’E well deserved that knock on the pate, and the wretched ’eadache ’e will ’ave when ’e wakes.”

Aftershocks of panic rippled through Gisela. “I cannot say how long he will be unconscious.”

Ada grinned. “As long as ye need. Ye have more bowls, do ye not?” Spinning on her heel, she hurried toward the kitchen area.

A knock pounded on the door. “What goes on in there?” demanded one of Crenardieu’s men.

Ewan shivered. Gisela’s arms tightened around him, while she scrambled for an explanation to pacify the thugs. “We—”

Ada raised her head from a cupboard. “We need ’elp!” she shouted.

Gisela stared at the older woman. “
What?
”

With a brazen wink, Ada held up several stacked bowls. She jabbed a plump finger at the door.

Gisela swallowed. Two more men to render senseless. Yet, ’twas a good plan.

“Hide under the table,” she whispered to Ewan, steering him toward safety. “Aye!” she shouted to the men beyond the door. “My”—she forced out the despicable word—”husband has collapsed.” With her foot, she pushed pottery shards and hazelnuts under Ryle’s bent arm.

After setting one bowl on the table within Gisela’s reach, Ada pressed back against the wall, her face lit with gleeful determination.

“I want to fight,” Ewan grumbled.

Voices sounded outside the door. The men were clearly debating whether or not to come in.

Raising his sword, the little boy glared at the panel.

“Not this time, Button. Go under the table. Hurry!”

“I am not a coward.” His gaze darkened with indignation.

God above!
“Of course not. I”—
could not bear to see you hurt, my precious son
—”want you to conserve your strength. Your fighting skills are needed in other battles.”