The Iron Knight (The De Russe Legacy Book 3) (34 page)

Colton was furious and agitated. He kicked l’Evereux, who was clearly dead, and punched de Fey in the head as he staggered out of the gatehouse to be grabbed by Gabriel. Pembury, having seen the entire shocking incident, held on to Colton, fearful the man would go on another rampage and everyone would die. Colton was the best young knight in England, without a doubt, but he hadn’t learned yet to control his temper. He was impetuous, angry, and very strong, which could be a deadly combination under the proper conditions.

Lucien watched Gabriel corral Colton, deeply impressed with the young knight’s actions but knowing du Ponte wouldn’t see it that way. He returned his attention to du Ponte, holding up his hands in a gesture of supplication.

“I will come to Gillingham tomorrow morning with everything I own,” he said steadily. “I want the lady returned to me
unharmed
. That is the bargain.”

Du Ponte was furious with what had happened to his knights. He looked at l’Evereux, bleeding out on the dirt of the gatehouse, and then to de Fey, who had a massive knife wound in his leg. Then his focus turned to Lucien.

“I told you what would happen if we were set upon,” he said, his voice trembling with anger. “Did you not believe me?”

Lucien could see that this was about to go very badly and he forced himself not to sound like he was pleading as he spoke. He had to find that knight within him, detached from what was happening, and draw upon him.

He had to find that iron knight again.

“If you harm her, I can promise you that you will not leave Spelthorne alive,” he said. “My men will capture you and I will make sure that your death is as painful and drawn-out as possible. I will strangle you until you are close to death, upon which time I will revive you and make sure you are alert when I cut off your manhood. I will then proceed to stuff it down your throat as I take the same dagger and slit your belly from chin to pelvis. Are you listening, du Ponte? Because after that, if you are still alive, you shall smell your entrails as I burn them. I will make you wish you were dead over and over again. If you harm one hair on Lady de Gournay’s head, you will know the true meaning of pain.”

Du Ponte could see by Lucien’s expression that he meant every word. But he was power-drunk with the control he had over de Russe at the moment by holding close to Lady de Gournay, power-drunk enough to consider actually hurting the woman. But he was starting to sober up as he realized that Lucien would be very capable of quartering him most painfully. He had no desire to feast upon his manhood and smell his innards burning. Still, he could not relinquish the lady, not now. Even if he let her go at this moment, he was quite certain de Russe would throw him in the vault and never let him out. Therefore, for his own sake, he needed the woman to make sure he left Spelthorne alive. With l’Evereux dead and de Fey wounded, that was his only hope.

“Then bring everything to me tomorrow at Gillingham,” he said as he began backing out of the gatehouse again. “I will be waiting.”

“Wait.”

It was de Bretagne. He had remained silent until this point, watching and waiting to see how it developed, but he found that he could remain silent no longer. He had to intervene because none of this was going well, for anyone. His conversation was directed at du Ponte.

“I will ride with you back to Gillingham to ensure the lady’s safety,” he said evenly. “Not to say that I do not trust you, but I do not. Although the lady is your property, obviously, there is some contention here. De Russe wants her and he has made you a very fair offer for her, giving you enough wealth that you can live most comfortably for the rest of your life. That makes the lady a prized commodity and a point of contention.”

Du Ponte liked de Bretagne about as much as he liked Lucien; they were both self-righteous bastards. “Nay,” he said flatly. “You will not ride escort. I do not trust you. I believe you will try to wrest the lady from me.”

De Bretagne’s jaw hardened. “I send a report every month to the king,” he said. “As his garrison commander, it is my duty to inform him of issues pertaining to the laws of England. Right now, your mention in this report will be minimal, even with all of the chaos you have caused. But if you so much as put a scratch on that woman, I will make sure Henry knows every dastardly deed you’ve committed. I will make sure he understands your unworthiness for the Gillingham fiefdom and, believe me, if Henry chooses to take it away from you, there is naught your Aunt Joan can do about it. Therefore, I
am
riding escort with you and there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it.”

With that, he turned to Lucien and pulled the man aside. Lucien was reluctant to take his eyes off of Sophina so he moved stiffly, resistant. De Bretagne grabbed him around the head, pulling Lucien’s ear down to his lips.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “I will ensure Lady de Gournay is not harmed but you must mount an ambush the likes of which we have never seen. It will only take us a few hours to get to Gillingham and there are many patches of trees where you can successfully plan an attack. But do it in clothes that outlaws would wear, Lucien. Do not wear de Russe tunics or fly the Tytherington banner. You must become stealth personified. Do you comprehend me?”

Lucien was very interested in what he was saying;
dress as the outlaws do
. Aye, Lucien understood what de Bretagne was telling him. He felt stupid that he hadn’t thought of it himself, but when emotions were involved, it was difficult to think clearly.

An ambush!

“I do,” he said. “Brilliant thinking, Jorrin.”

De Bretagne smiled thinly. “We will beat du Ponte at his own game. Too many times, he has been the attacker. Too many times has he sent men out, or paid men, to ambush travelers on the road and too many times we could not prove it. Now it is time for his comeuppance.
He
shall become the victim this time. Are you up to this?”

He meant Lucien’s old injury and mediocre health. He knew of it, as most of Henry’s fighting men did. Since Bramham, it had been no great secret. But Lucien was more than up to the challenge.

The stakes, for him, had never been so high.

“You needn’t worry about me,” he said. “I will execute the operation perfectly when the time comes.”

De Bretagne believed him. “Leave no witnesses,” he said. “You will make sure that everyone in du Ponte’s party is killed.”

“How many did he bring with him?”

“Thirty soldiers. And you will recognize them all because they will be riding around him. I will keep my men at a distance.”

Lucien nodded, finally feeling the distinct notes of hope and relief. But it was more than assurance that the situation would be resolved, with finality, in his favor.

It was vengeance.

“Make sure you pull your men out of the way when I attack,” he mumbled. “I will not have time to pick and choose my targets.”

De Bretagne looked surprise. “Out of the way? Absolutely not. I intend to help.”

Lucien looked at de Bretagne, sharply, only to see the man fighting off a smile. Lucien, too, fought off a smile. “No survivors,” he muttered.

“No survivors.”

“Du Ponte is
mine
.”

“Without question.”

With that, Lucien turned away from de Bretagne, moving back to where he had been standing, watching Sophina as du Ponte held her. She was gazing at him, wide-eyed with fear, silently pleading for his help. All he could do was look at her, his fragile heart ripped to shreds by what had happened. But now, there was hope. God, his mind and soul and body were soaring with it.

Now, there was a chance.

“What were you two whispering about?” du Ponte demanded. “What did you tell him, de Bretagne?”

“To remain calm,” de Bretagne said without hesitation. “I told him to remain calm and that I would make sure the lady came to no harm.”

Du Ponte snorted as if he didn’t believe it and looked to Lucien. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said. “You had better bring enough wealth to satisfy me.”

“And you had better make sure Lady de Gournay is unharmed and untouched in any fashion.”

Du Ponte actually had the nerve to grin. Since he had Sophina around the neck, it was a simple thing to lick her on the cheek as she squirmed with disgust.

“Lucien!” Sophina squealed. “Do not do anything! Please stay where you are!”

Lucien could hear the panic in her voice, panic that Lucien would try to charge when he saw du Ponte’s disgusting actions. But Lucien remained firm no matter how much it was killing him to do so.

“I won’t do anything,” he assured her. “Be calm. All will be well.”

Sophina was struggling against du Ponte. “Emmaline,” she gasped as he tried to lick her again. “My daughter….”

“She will be safe here with me. Have no fear, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.
That seemed to calm Sophina a great deal, enough so that she relaxed and du Ponte was able to get in another lick. It was a taunt, trying to force Lucien into doing something stupid, but Lucien remained where he was. He didn’t say a word. But inside, he was planning du Ponte’s death down to the last breath. The man was going to die as painfully as possible.

Lucien would make sure of it.

De Bretagne went with du Ponte as he dragged the lady from the gatehouse. Lucien stood there and watched the entire thing. He didn’t say a word, fearful that if he said one thing to her, it would break the dam and everything he was feeling would come spilling out. He couldn’t show that lack of control in front of du Ponte. So he watched as du Ponte and Sophina cleared the gatehouse, his heart breaking into a million pieces. It was hope, however, that restored that shattered heart.

Hope in what needed to be done.

“You let him take her, Lucien.” Colton was standing beside him now, watching the sickening event. “In God’s name, why did you allow it? You will never get her back now.”

Lucien drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Aye, I will,” he said, turning to Colton and Gabriel. “De Bretagne and I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

Lucien nodded, a deadly gleam in his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “Listen closely, lads.”

They did.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
ophina recognized the
lake.

Other than the fact it was the bucolic body of water where she and Emmaline very nearly lost their lives, she would have recognized it anyway because the carriage was still there, half-out of the water. As their party passed by, du Ponte sent his men to pull the carriage out of the water completely.

Du Ponte seemed quite excited about the carriage, admonishing his men to be careful with it as they hauled it up to the road. He finally went to inspect it, pulling Sophina off of the horse they had been riding on, together, and forcing her to accompany him as he looked the carriage over. He had her by the wrist, unwilling to let her go with de Bretagne and five hundred men trailing behind him. He was convinced that de Bretagne would take her away from him given the chance. Therefore, he towed her around like a barge as he inspected the carriage. Sophina dragged her feet the entire time.

The carriage, other than being partially waterlogged, seemed to be okay. But without horses to pull it, du Ponte appointed some of his soldiers to be the wagon team. Therefore, travel was slow once they resumed their trip to Gillingham, with ten weary soldiers lugging a very heavy, fortified carriage along the dusty, bumpy road.

Sophina ended up seated in front of du Ponte again as they continued down the road. He held on to her firmly with one hand and, at one point when she’d moved as if trying to slide off the saddle, he’d grabbed her firmly by the hair. That seemed to be his control point with her, yanking on her hair to keep her in check. He’d done it more than once. Sophina was tired of getting her hair pulled every time she moved.

Oddly enough, there had been no conversation between them. Not one word. Du Ponte spent his time humming or yelling at his men, but he’d ignored Sophina for the most part. Once they’d collected the carriage, he seemed far more concerned for that soggy vehicle than for her. He spoke to one of his men about cleaning it up once they reached Gillingham. Something else was strange in that he’d not mentioned the men he’d left behind, the dead knight and the wounded knight. Sophina was coming to realize that St. Michael du Ponte was a strange and petty man in general, much as Holderness had so crudely described to her.

In truth, he’d been right.

Sophina couldn’t even think about what was going to happen once they reached Gillingham Castle. She didn’t want to. She kept her fear in check by thinking of her daughter, safely tucked away in the keep of Spelthorne, and in thinking of Lucien. He’d told her that all would be well but he’d meant that he would produce every last bit of property and coinage he owned for her freedom. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the man giving up everything for her. It simply wasn’t right. Surely, there had to be another way.

How was it right for a man who had worked all of his life, as Lucien had, to give up everything at the spur of the moment? They’d known each other so short a time. She’d lamented that fact before. But would she have been hurt if Lucien hadn’t offered to give up everything he owned for her? Of course she would have been. She would have been devastated. But it would have been a more sensible decision on Lucien’s part. They weren’t young lovers, without the experience and wisdom that a long life can bring. They were older and, presumably, more reasonable people. Lucien was in his fortieth year and she was just a few years younger. They were certainly old enough to know that giving away everything one had worked for could quite possibly ruin one for the rest of his or her life.