A Knight's Reward (27 page)

A delighted smile spread across Ewan’s face. “Oh. You are very wise, Mama.”

She smothered a wobbly grin as her son scrambled under the table. Flattening himself to the floor, his sword beside him, he peered at her.

The door slowly opened. A scowling thug—one hand clutching the flask, the other on the pommel of his sword—stepped inside.

“’E collapsed?” the man said, looking down at Ryle.

“Please,” Gisela said, wringing her hands and doing her best to sound frantic. “Will you see if he is all right? I feel so . . . helpless. I do not know what to do.”

The man hesitated a moment. Setting aside the flask, he dropped to one knee beside Ryle.

“What is wrong?” muttered the other guard, nudging his way in. He bent forward, his drink-reddened gaze fixed on Ryle. Stooping, he picked up a chunk of crockery. “Why, ’e looks like ’e was—”

With a shrill whoop fit for battle, Ada shoved the door closed and dashed forward, bowl raised. Both men turned, their eyes wide with shock.

Gisela grabbed the bowl from the table. The cool, glazed earthenware felt slick against her sweaty palms.

With a grisly
clunk
, Ada’s bowl connected with the bloodshot-eyed lout’s head. The pottery shattered. Bits of it dropped onto the floor while he howled and staggered sideways, reaching for his sword.

Spitting a curse, the kneeling man began to rise. Gisela sucked in a breath. Raising her arms high, she brought her bowl slamming down. Anticipating the blow, he twisted away at the last moment. The heavy earthenware smacked into his shoulder. Bone cracked. He roared in agony and cradled his wounded arm.

Gisela shuddered at the sound of the man’s pain. Remorse poked at her conscience, but she forced it aside. Qualms had no place in this fight. She would not kill the thug, only stop him from pursuing her and Ewan. Their lives—and Dominic’s—justified desperate measures.

A sharp cry drew her gaze to Ada. Before the red-eyed lout could turn his weapon on her, Ada kicked him in the groin. Shrieking, clutching his crotch, he careened into the wall and slid partway to sitting. Fisting both hands together, Ada walloped him on the head. He crumpled to the floor, his sword landing with a
clang
.

“Ha!” She smacked her hands together. “Got ye.”

Adjusting her grip on her still-intact bowl, Gisela snapped her gaze back to the man before her. Glaring at her, his shoulder positioned at an awkward angle, he struggled to draw his sword. Gisela lifted the earthenware high. The lout stepped back to avoid her strike, but his boot heel hit Ryle’s arm. He stumbled, at the very moment Gisela brought the bowl arcing down. With a loud
crash
, it connected with the man’s skull and shattered into pieces. He wavered, before falling across Ryle’s body. He lay still.

Ada grinned. “Well done!”

Gisela wiped her palms on her skirt, relief rushing through her. “Thank goodness ’tis over.”

Ewan crawled out from underneath the table, leapt up and down, and waved his sword in the air. “Mama, you are a warrior, too.”

A warrior
. Aye, indeed.

“Thank you, Ewan. Now, fetch Sir Smug and your mantle. Quickly, now.” Stooping, Gisela picked fallen coins off the floor and set them back on the table with the others.

“Where are we going, Mama?”

Gisela glanced back at him. He had not budged. “You and I must leave. I want to be far from here before these men awaken.”

A smile brightened Ewan’s face. “Are we going on a journey? Like the bold knights in the
chansons?
”

“Aye. Now, fetch your things, so we can begin.” While she spoke, Gisela hurried to the pallet, lifted it up, and withdrew her box, as well as a jangling bag of silver—her entire savings, carefully hoarded. She stuffed the items into a cloth satchel, donned her cloak, and slung the satchel’s strap over her shoulder. She turned to check Ewan’s progress. Humming under his breath, he was shoving his arms into his outer garment. Never had he put on his mantle so fast.

As Gisela crossed to him, Ada scooped up the coins on the table. Intercepting Gisela, the older woman pushed the money into her hands. “Take this and go far from ’ere,” Ada said, her gaze earnest. “’Tis enough ta pay yer way ta the next county.”

Gisela looked down at the mound of coins. Ada was right. This silver, added to what she’d saved, would be enough to begin a new life. Nowhere near as much as Crenardieu had promised her, but enough.

In her hands, she held freedom.

As though attuned to her thoughts, Ada said, “If that Dominic cares for ye, ’e would not want ye ta be in danger, or yer son.”

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Gisela said, “His son, too.”

“’Is—” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh.” She glanced at Ewan, back at Gisela, and then at Ryle sprawled on the floor. “Oh!”

Gisela blinked hard, fighting to stifle her distress. “Ada, are you certain you can spare the silver?”

“Fer ye and yer sweet boy, aye.” Ada patted Gisela’s hands. The woman’s lips formed a shaky smile. “’Urry, now.”

Drawing an unsteady breath, Gisela took a last glance about her shop, her home for the past months. Her gaze settled again on Ewan, standing by the door, sword in hand and Sir Smug under his arm. He stood guard over the fallen men.

“Thank you,” Gisela whispered to Ada. “I will repay you.”

The midwife flicked her hand. “Nay, Gisela. Now, be off with ye, afore I ’ave ta wallop these louts again. And afore ye say it—or start ta think it—I will not be ’ere when that French idiot returns. ’E does not know where I live. I shall stay out of sight, and all will be well.”

“Mama, come
on
,” Ewan called.

Gisela dropped the silver into her bag of coins, pushed the satchel’s strap up on her shoulder again, and hurried to Ewan’s side. With a last wave to Ada, she said, “Let us begin our journey.”

Chapter Sixteen

As though emerging from a smothering fog, Dominic gradually became conscious of noises around him: boots scraping on dirt; mutters and laughter; and the crackle of a fire.

No longer did he ride on the nag’s back. He lay with his eyes closed, facedown on an earth floor that smelled of mold and rotting leaves. A draft swept over him, coming from somewhere in front of him—a doorway or an open window—chilling his brow and his hands, pressed to the . . . dirt.

He bent his fingers slightly, curling them into the soil until he felt it scrape up under his nails. Thank the holy saints he was not delirious and imagining his circumstances. He shifted his hands ever so slightly, causing his fingertips to drag on the hard-packed earth. The mild discomfort brought the faintest smile to his lips. Good. He still had sensation in his hands. His arms might feel as heavy as stone, but no bones were broken.

With discreet movements, he flexed his toes and then his leg muscles. Relieved his body seemed to be fully intact, he risked turning his head a fraction. A snarled lock of hair fell down over his face. Ignoring the brush of hair against his tender black eye, he squinted in the semidarkness. A newly stoked blaze, ringed by stones, burned a few yards away. Several of the thugs sat talking.

Careless bastards. They didn’t realize he was awake. They had unbound him, expecting him to be unconscious for a while. A mistake he must use to his advantage.

Wherever he was.

Self-condemnation stabbed him like a vicious knife. He’d vowed to stay awake, to glean vital information that would bring about victory for Geoffrey. He’d promised to save Gisela and Ewan. Yet, he’d succumbed to his infirmities. He had failed Geoffrey. Gisela. Ewan.

Failed them all
.

He tried to swallow, but his parched mouth, still tasting of his bloody lip, refused to oblige. An image of his sire forced its way into the haze of Dominic’s thoughts. He tried to ignore it, but the vision persisted, as ruthless as the man he called Father.

Again, as years ago, he stood on the windswept battlements of his sire’s keep. Shrugging his shoulders in that familiar, terse way, his father said, “You disappoint me, Dominic. You will never be an equal to your brother.” His mouth, so quick to offer praise to Dominic’s older sibling, flattened with disapproval.

The anger and resentment of that day returned. “Father, he and I are very different.”

“God’s blood, will you
listen
to me? When will you cease living like a reckless fool and accept you have obligations? You are a lord’s son.
My
son. ’Tis your duty to this family to fulfill the responsibilities of your lineage. To do otherwise is to fail us all. To fail
me
.”

“With all due respect, Father, someone needs to tend to Mother. She . . . Her illness worsens each day.”

“I know.” Dominic’s father stared across the landscape, his silver-brown hair the same color as the stone behind him. “She fills your head with stories. Tales will not win battles, Dominic, or subdue an enemy. Only a skilled warrior can be of use to his family and his king.”

“I can wield a sword and shoot a bow well enough, Father.”

His sire exhaled an impatient breath. “Not as well as your brother.”

A
thump
sounded—a log shifting in the nearby fire. Dominic blinked, rousing from near unconsciousness. He willed his groggy mind to focus. His forehead throbbed with the effort.

He mustn’t let his thoughts drift again. He must focus on escape. On fulfilling his mission for Geoffrey. On returning to Gisela’s home to take her and Ewan to safety. On triumph, not failure.

His narrowed gaze fixed upon the men by the fire, chatting with their heads close together. He silently willed them to stay that way. Once he gathered his strength, he’d leap up, rush over, and—
crack!
—slam their heads together. Two dealt with, a few more to—

Footsteps approached. The draft swirled over Dominic’s body, sending a shiver dancing down his spine.

“He is awake.”

Crenardieu
.

Dominic shut his eyes, opening his uninjured one only the barest crack. The Frenchman’s expensive leather boots appeared in Dominic’s line of vision. Crenardieu halted less than a hand’s span from Dominic’s face, so close he saw the fine dust coating the Frenchman’s boots.

The thugs by the fire lurched to their feet.

“Idiots,” Crenardieu snapped. “I told you to inform me when he awoke.”

“We did not realize.”

“He made no movement,” another man said. “Not a sound.”

“
Non
, he is more clever than that,” Crenardieu said. Before Dominic could recoil, the Frenchman drew back his foot and kicked Dominic’s arm. He bit down on his tongue not to cry out.

“Sit up,” Crenardieu commanded.

Burn in hellfire
, Dominic silently snarled. Closing his eye, he lay completely still, pretending to be oblivious.

An ominous
creak
, followed by the whisper of fabric, warned him Crenardieu had moved. Was he going to kick again? Dominic opened his eye again to see the Frenchman squatting before him, his cloak pooled about him on the dirt.

Their gazes locked.

Crenardieu smiled. “I give you one more chance,
oui?
Sit up.”

Dominic forced his mouth into a return smile, while he coiled his aching body to spring. “Actually, I am quite comfortable here.” He patted the cold floor. “Far better than that clumsy horse.”

Crenardieu growled. His fist flew toward Dominic’s head.

Shoving up with his hands, Dominic leapt back to a crouch; he gasped as the room spun before coming back into focus. The Frenchman’s fist met only air. When his face twisted with fury, Dominic kicked out. His foot slammed into Crenardieu’s knee. Astonishment registered in the Frenchman’s eyes before he fell backward, his hands flailing.

Pain screamed through every muscle in Dominic’s body, but he rose to standing. Squinting, he looked for a door, a window . . . any way out of the building which appeared to be a dilapidated hut.

“Stop him,” Crenardieu spluttered.

Men rushed toward him.

Metal hissed—the sound of a drawn sword.

“God’s teeth,” Dominic muttered, darting past the fire. His body protested every movement. The annoying ringing in his ears resumed.

The thugs surrounded him.

The tip of a sword pressed against his neck.

Dominic froze. The room whirled, making his stomach pitch. He sucked in a breath, fighting the need to vomit. He would
not
retch in front of these men.

Crenardieu edged into view, his sword level at Dominic’s neck. An exquisite blade, newly sharpened. One slash, and Dominic would not have to worry about his aching limbs ever again.

Failed, again
.

“The rope,” Crenardieu said, not taking his gaze from Dominic.

The dark-haired thug brought over a length of frayed cord, wrapping one end around his hand while he walked. The rope whispered, a sinister sound that raised the hairs at the back of Dominic’s neck. His legs threatened to give out.

“I am of no use to you. I will not betray de Lanceau.”

As the Frenchman stepped back a few paces, the thug moved forward, letting the rope’s free end dangle toward the ground like a snake.

“Brave words,” Crenardieu said. “But, I will get the information I want from you one way”—he gestured to the rope—”or another.”

***

Holding tight to Ewan’s hand, Gisela hurried down the street. The surrounding buildings stood silvered by watery moonlight. With each step, her satchel bumped against her hip, eliciting a muffled
thump
. Her sewing shears—shoved in while she rushed Ewan through her shop—must have settled against the wooden box.

She did not want to draw the attention of thieves. Exhaling a nervous sigh, she urged Ewan to a faster pace and rammed the satchel with her elbow. The coins inside clinked, a reminder of the urgency of her escape . . . and the choice before her, as real as the shadows crowding in upon them.

She had enough silver to hire a wagon and driver, flee Clovebury, and never look back. To realize her dream that had sustained her. She could abandon all she loathed—and
loved
—in exchange for freedom. Her past would become a secret, held tight within her, never to be spoken of again.