A Knight's Reward (7 page)

Indeed, she was.

The lock clicked.

She slipped the key back into her pocket and pushed the door open. Motioning for Dominic to step ahead of her over the threshold, she said, “Come in.”

Chapter Four

A mélange of smells assailed Dominic when he stepped from the sunlit street into the darkened tailor’s shop. He noted first the fading aroma of cooked fare. As he walked farther across the planked floor, he discerned the distinct smells of place, including the earthiness of wooden floors and walls. He also caught undertones of virgin cloth, ready to quiver free of confining bolts, sprawl in careless abandon across a table, and be cut and stitched into garments to delight and pleasure.

He inhaled again. The room’s smell piqued memories of long ago days in the Port of Venice. He’d traveled there with Geoffrey and worked with rich merchants Marco and Pietro Vicenza while Geoffrey slowly regained his strength after surviving grave wounds from crusade.

More recently, Dominic had toiled alongside Geoffrey at Branton Keep, unloading shipments of fine silks and other fabrics Pietro had sent from Venice.

When the shipments arrived, that is.

Dominic halted in the middle of the shop, aware of voices coming from a room beyond. Ignoring the ache in his side, he squinted in the shadows to take in the whitewashed walls, the table covered with tailor’s implements, and the half-finished gown hung on the wall. A rolled length of brown wool rested on the table, alongside other bolts of fabric. He crossed to them and then trailed his fingers over the cloth. Far from the quality of Geoffrey’s imported fabrics. None were silk.

Why, then, had he thought he caught a hint of expensive Eastern silk?

He reached up to rub his brow. Pain lanced through his ribs, almost sending him reeling against the table. He grunted, then winced at the answering twinge in his jaw. With his senses chafed by pain, he couldn’t completely trust his perceptions. He’d imagined the scent of silk, no doubt, because his thoughts had drifted.

Cold, clammy sweat collected between his shoulder blades. Under his breath, he prayed his knees wouldn’t buckle. Just as he wiped sweat from his upper lip, the door to the street closed. The room plunged into inky shadow, streaked here and there by light piercing through holes in the wall.

“I will fetch some light.” Gisela’s voice wavered. Was she worried about being alone with him in the dark? A mischievous voice inside him dared him to roar like a wild beast, to make her shriek, but somehow, he doubted ’twas the right moment for jest.

The chamber’s air shifted as she swept past him. Her floral scent blended into the surrounding smells. He turned, following her scent. Savoring it like perfume.

Gisela did not seem to need light to guide her—she obviously knew the room’s layout in minute detail—for a moment later, there came a soft
click
. Light streamed in through a doorway to an adjoining chamber. Surrounded by a bright stream of light, Gisela looked at him. “Wait here.”

“Why?” he asked, before he thought to caution the question.

Looking at him, she pushed back her hood, revealing her hair’s silken tangle. Resolve gleamed in her eyes, while another emotion—wariness, mayhap—hardened her expression. Without answering, she stepped into the chamber beyond and shut the door.

Dominic sighed. Why did she not invite him into the rest of the premises? Why must he wait here, in this empty room, like an unwanted pup?

He should march across the floor, yank open the door, and stride through . . . But, his wobbly legs might not carry him that far. And, if he guessed correctly, the connecting room was Gisela’s home. Someone had cooked the fare he smelled earlier. Who shared her lodgings? A friend? A relative? Or even . . . a husband?

Anguish pressed upon Dominic’s soul. Aye, could well be a husband. A comely young woman like Gisela wouldn’t be without a companion. Far wiser, then, for him to wait for an invitation, than to barge in like an arrogant ass. He didn’t need any more bruised ribs.

Hushed conversation reached him. Gingerly folding his arms across his chest, he turned to half-sit on the table. How wondrous to take weight off his unsteady legs.

He closed his eyes to the room’s shadows. Let the quiet seep into him.

Listened.

The voices rose, one childlike and insistent. Three people were in the room beyond. Gisela, another woman, and . . . a young boy.

Dominic’s eyes flew open. Was the child the woman’s, or Gisela’s?

He uncrossed his arms and pushed to standing, just as the inner door opened. Gisela stepped through, a cautious smile on her lips. She’d removed her cloak, revealing a worn, woolen gown that disguised rather than accentuated her lovely figure. Holding a tallow candle, she walked toward him. “You may come in now.”

“I have triumphed in my initial test?” he quipped.

She frowned. “Test?”

“Trial by endurance,” he said. “Waiting here, all alone, for you to return and fetch me.” He grinned, despite the pain in his jaw. “Sheer agony, I assure you.”

Her worried frown intensified. Raising the flickering candle close to his face, she peered into his eyes. How exquisite she looked, her features softened by the golden light, the dewy pout of her lips tantalizingly close—

“Dominic, did one of the men hit you about the head?”

“Mmm?” He snapped his gaze back up to hers. God’s blood, but he could lose his soul in the beauty of her eyes. Thickly lashed and the color of an Eastern sea, they glimmered with the most intriguing secrets.

“Dominic.”

Still holding her gaze, he winked. “Gisela, I was teasing you.”

“Oh. I see.” Lowering the candle, she stepped away. Even in the shadows, he saw her blush. She gestured to the doorway. “Please. This way.”

He followed her to the threshold. Warmth and light enveloped him as he stepped into the small room beyond. The dirt-floored chamber was sparsely furnished, surprisingly so, considering Gisela’s merchant parents were fairly well off. His gaze skimmed the rough-hewn trestle table and bench, the smaller table in the kitchen area for preparing food, a cupboard, side table, and two lumpy straw pallets pushed against the right wall. A fire crackled in the hearth.

His gaze returned to the trestle table and the black-haired woman wearing a stained apron, who eyed him with suspicion. In front of her, protected by her arm across his chest, stood a young boy of about four years old. His eyes were blue, just like his mother’s. His dark blond hair, however, was inherited from his sire, whoever the man was. Wearing a brown tunic and hose that looked a bit too small, the boy carried a cloth doll under his arm—a knight, judging by the toy’s garments.

The woman nudged the boy, who was peering down at Dominic’s spurs. With a little jump, the lad executed a bow. The woman curtsied.

If his ribs were not aching, Dominic would have responded with a gallant bow in return. Instead, he dipped his head. “Good day.”

Gisela gestured to the woman and boy. “Dominic,” she said, “I would like you to meet Ada, a dear friend of mine.”

The woman nodded. “’Allo.”

A curious tension seemed to define Gisela’s posture before she motioned to the boy. “Dominic, this is Ewan. My son.”

The boy was hers. For one stunned breath, Dominic wondered if he looked upon his own child. Nay. He and Gisela had made love only twice. ’Twas unlikely she had conceived. However, from the boy’s age, Dominic guessed she’d married and got with child shortly after he’d left England.

Her husband must not be here at the moment. He’d return, however, to slide his arm around her, kiss her, and draw his son in to join the embrace.

Fighting the unwelcome numbness flooding through him, Dominic smiled at the boy. “Hello, Ewan.”

The boy stared up at him with wide-eyed curiosity. Distrust also glinted in his gaze that shifted from Dominic to Gisela.

“Ewan,” Gisela said in gentle reprimand. “Say hello to Dominic.”

The boy’s lips pursed. Dominic barely resisted a grin. The little lad had a stubborn streak, a trait acquired from his mother.

“Button.”

The child’s shoulders hunched. His eyes narrowed beneath his dark lashes, before he said, “Mama says you are her friend.”

“I am.”

“She says you are a knight.”

“Aye.”

Awe brightened the boy’s gaze. “
Really?
”

Dominic nodded, then fingered damp hair from his brow. He was sweating like a goose turning on a spit. Hardly the way to make a favorable impression.

“Mayhap you should sit down,” Gisela said quickly. She gestured to the battered bench drawn up to the table. “Ada, is there any pottage left?”

“There is.” The older woman turned to the fire.

With a grateful groan, Dominic sank onto the bench that squeaked at his weight. He spread his booted legs out in front of him. With slow, very careful movements, he rested his elbows on the table. His entire body sighed with relief.

Standing by the fire, Ada cast him a disparaging glance before looking back at the steaming pot.

Closing his eyes, Dominic ran his hand over his face. He could only imagine how he looked to the older woman—like a ruffian dragged in by kindhearted Gisela. He vowed to hold true to his promise to be on his most chivalrous behavior. Above all, he must remember not to curse. That was a sensitive issue, it seemed, for Gisela.

He heard her walk across the chamber and whisper to Ada, and the
clank
of the cauldron’s ladle. Yet, the rasp of an indrawn breath, along with the sensation of being scrutinized from head to toe, forced Dominic to open his weary eyes. Ewan stood barely a hand’s span away, his little fingers clasped together. They twitched with barely contained excitement. The toy knight, tossed aside in haste, now lay facedown on one of the pallets.

Ewan sucked in his plump bottom lip. “My knight’s name is Sir Smug.”

Sir
what?
“I see. How did he get such a fine name?”

“My mama made him for me. She tried to sew him a smiling mouth, but she could not get it quite right. She said he looks a bit smug.”

Dominic barely smothered a laugh. “He is perfectly named, then.”

After a silence, the boy blurted, “If you are a knight, where is your sword?”

Ah. An astute question. “’Tis in a safe place.”

A frown clouded Ewan’s face. “Does a knight not wear his sword all the time?”

“Most of the time.”

“Ewan,” Gisela said, casting Dominic an apologetic smile. “Dominic would like to rest quietly for a moment. He is wounded, you see.”

“You were in a fight?” Ewan’s eyes were enormous now.

Ridiculous pride welled inside Dominic. “Indeed, I was. I fended off my assailants with my bare hands. I learned all manner of fighting, you see, when I was on crusade.”

“Crusade!” Ewan gasped. “You fought with the king?”

Dominic nodded.

The boy edged even closer. An excited flush reddened his cheeks. “When were you on crusade? Did you meet King Richard? What does he look like? When—”

“Button! What did I tell you?”

“Mama.”

The little boy looked so disappointed, Dominic could not resist a chuckle. “’Tis all right. He is merely curious.”

The barest smile touched Ewan’s mouth. Anticipation still glimmered in his eyes while his hands twisted into the front of his worn tunic. “Did you . . .” He gnawed his bottom lip. “Did you ever—”

“Pottage, milord.” With a brisk
thud
, Ada set the bowl down on the table beside Dominic, a deliberate attempt, no doubt, to cut short the conversation.

Dominic smiled at her. “I thank you, good woman.”

She snorted, sounding remarkably like a rheumatic horse, then looked at Ewan. “Why do you not come with me for a moment? Your mama is running out of flour. We will go to my home and fetch some.”

Ewan shook his head. “I want to stay here.”

“I might have a sugared cake for you.” Ada reached for the lad’s hand. “I will see what I can find in my kitchen.”

Snatching his hand away, Ewan said, “I am not going. I want to show him my wooden sword.”

Gisela walked over, carrying cloth bandages and the ointment pot she’d taken to the stable. “Another time, Button. Now, you will go with Ada.” Worry shadowed her gaze as she looked at Ada. “He must wear his mantle. Do not let him push down his hood. He must stay covered up.”

“Of course,” the older woman said. Her soothing tone implied she’d discussed the matter several times before. “We are only going five houses away. He will be fine.”

Dominic frowned. Five houses away? For such a short distance, and on such a fine summer day, the boy did not need to wear his hooded mantle. Why did Gisela insist upon it? Why did she also keep covered up when outside? He longed to ask, but ’twas not his affair.

Scowling, Ewan crossed his arms. He did not budge when Ada fetched his mantle, cut from coarse, mud-brown wool. She held it out, clucking her tongue. At last, rolling his eyes, the boy relented and shoved his arms into the garment that looked several sizes too big.

Gisela stepped forward to murmur in Ada’s ear. Dominic pretended not to listen.

Drowning in his overlarge mantle, Ewan met Dominic’s gaze. “I have to know,” the little boy said in a whisper. “Did you ever . . .”

Dominic arched an eyebrow. He anticipated the rest of the question. Did you ever kill a man? Fight a Saracen? Dine with the king? “Aye?”

“Slay dragons?”

Slay dragons?

Dominic barely caught an astonished laugh. His eyes watered with the effort. Somehow, he forced a solemn expression. “Indeed,” he said, “I have.”

***

Gisela waited until the outer door closed. Then, she released a heavy, pent-up breath.

Sitting on the bench only a hand’s span away, Dominic chuckled.

“Do not laugh so,” she said, trying not to frown. She removed the lid from the ointment pot, releasing the strong, herbal scent.

“Ewan is a charming boy.”

Aye. He takes after his father
.

“He is,” she said, lining up strips of linen bandages beside the pot on the table, “but you should not have told him you slayed dragons.”