Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  Ewan grumbled. "Mama, my tummy is full."

  "'Tis only three small bites, Button. Do not waste such a wonderful sweet."

  Dominic lowered his arms, shaking out the tension locked between his shoulder blades. Gisela's gentle tone brushed Dominic's soul like a caress, stirring a deluge of regret. While he'd eagerly anticipated the adventures of crusade and escaping his betrothal, he'd known, when it came to Gisela, his decision would wound him for the rest of his life.

  As much as he'd loved her, he couldn't ask her to wait for him to return. He might not survive the Eastern battles. He might be so badly injured that even if he did return to England, she'd no longer want him.

  Now they had found each other again, did she fear their love would rekindle tenfold, consuming them both in its intensity? She claimed she had no husband, but the man clearly held sway over her. Did she worry about being unfaithful—and her husband learning of her betrayal?

  Husband. Dominic ground his teeth. What he would give for information on the man who had claimed Gisela for his own.

  Mayhap he should make a few inquiries.

  As he fingered his hair back into place, Ewan came through the doorway to his side. "Why do you not come back into the house?"

  Dominic smiled. "I will, but only for a moment. I must be on my way."

  Ewan's expression turned solemn. "Are you angry with Mama?"

  "Nay." Putting his hand on the little boy's shoulder, Dominic guided him back into the home. Gisela stood by the trestle table, wrapping up the parcels of food. She didn't look up, but her tensing posture told Dominic she was aware of his approach.

  Her hair tumbled forward in a shiny, golden swath as she reached for the cloth sack. "There is quite a bit of food left."

  "'Tis yours," he said.

  Her head jerked up. Astonishment shone in her eyes, which looked overly moist. "All of it?"

  "Aye."

  "Oh. I . . . We could not. I mean—"

  He smiled. "You have a growing warrior to feed."

  She hesitated, then murmured, "Thank you."

  Dominic fought a tug at his heart. Were those tears in her eyes? Before he could ask, she spun on her heel and carried several packages to the cupboard.

  Ewan pulled at Dominic's sleeve, claiming his attention. "I want another story. Do you have any more tales about dragons?"

  "Another day, little warrior. I must bid you good night."

  "Aw!"

  Returning to the table, Gisela said, "I will see you out."

  Dominic strode through her premises. He waited by the door while she drew the bolts, unlocked the panel, and pulled it open. The evening breeze gusted in.

  How foolish to have forgotten the fine mantle, which matched his tunic, in his room at the tavern. Yet, he was only half-aware of the cool summer night. Gisela stood very close. Directly behind him, one slender hand upon the door's iron handle, waiting for him to walk away so she could lock up her shop again.

  Ah, God, how acutely he sensed her—her fragrance, her body warmth, and the fear she kept tightly leashed.

  He fought the pressing need to face her. The hope that, before he left, she might change her mind and tell him all. If he turned now, he'd see her robed in soft light and shadow, her lovely features set with familiar, touching stubbornness.

  He'd not be able to leave without kissing her.

  "Good night, Gisela." Without looking back, Dominic strode into the inky street. A soft "good-bye" followed him before he heard the door shut and the bolts slide into place.

  Darkness swallowed him like the mouth of an enormous beast, concealing all but the areas limned by moonlight. He trudged on through the streets, following the distant shouts, clapping, and rowdy laughter until he came to The Stubborn Mule Tavern.

  He looked forward to a stiff pint of ale.

  As he crossed the dirt yard by the stable, his gaze fell upon the men standing outside the tavern door. Light streamed over the exquisite green cloak of a man turned in profile, handing coins to a smiling, loose-hipped bar wench.

  Crenardieu.

  Dominic smiled. The Frenchman would know as much as anyone about Gisela. Or, should he say, Anne.

  Twirling a daisy between her fingers, Gisela strolled farther into the meadow grasses. Butterflies danced ahead of her, lifting from the wildflowers to form a white veil, drawing her on into the meadow. Bumblebees ambled from bloom to bloom. How good the warm sunlight felt upon her back.

  Someone was watching her.

  Someone close by.

  Unease shivered through her. She turned, tensed, ready to run. A man strode toward her, the long grasses dragging with a soft hiss against his legs. Her pulse quickened.

  At first, she couldn't make out his features. She barely dared to hope . . . But, as he neared, she knew her heart spoke true.

  Dominic!

  He grinned, so handsome in the brilliant sunshine. She couldn't resist smiling back. She started toward him, her steps light, joy glowing within her. Drawing near, she threw herself into his arms. He embraced her, pulling her snugly against his broad chest, spinning her around so her feet left the ground. How wondrous it felt to be in his arms.

  "I love you," he said, kissing her cheek. "I love you, Sweet Daisy."

  "As I love you." Tears streamed down her face. "I have missed you."

  Gently, he set her down. How safe she felt standing in his arms. Cherished. Complete. His gaze heavy with desire, he swept his hands into her hair, holding her head between his palms. Her breath seemed to float up like a butterfly, then suspend, waiting . . .

  He lowered his head, and his lips brushed hers. She should not kiss him. Must not. There was danger in kissing him, no matter how much she wanted to. Her conscience cried a warning. Yet, his delicious touch stole every word of her refusal. He kissed her slowly, deeply, and she couldn't deny kissing him back. He tasted of sweet promises. Of pleasure. Of love that knew no end.

  He exhaled a ragged breath before urging her down to the ground. Her body draped easily, like tumbled silk, onto the bed of crushed grasses. She ached for his touch, his kiss, the pleasure he'd shown her long ago. Her yearning seared like scorching sunshine. Oh, how she wanted him.

  He plucked the daisy from her hand. Holding the bloom between his fingers, his trembling hand slid down to her bodice. "Lie with me, Gisela. Be mine. Now. Always."

  Her skin longed for his touch. However, caution welled, intruding on her anticipation of bliss. "Dominic—"

  "Sweet Daisy." His hand slid lower, to her cleavage. There, between her breasts, he tucked the flower. Trailing a finger over the upper swell of her bosom, he said, "Tell me what happened to you. Tell me."

  Hopelessness crushed her rush of pleasure. "Dominic—"

  "Tell me."

  His hand skimmed down to her right breast. Horror bloomed inside her, as insidious as a weed, choking the last of her joy. She tried to speak, to warn him, but she couldn't force air into her lungs.

  The fabric of her gown disintegrated, as though burned away by the sun. Her scarred flesh lay bared to him.

  Dominic's face crumpled with revulsion. He looked at her, his gaze harsh with loathing. He pushed her away.

  With a gasp, Gisela's eyes flew open. She blinked away the wetness clinging to her eyelashes while she heaved in another breath. Her body shivered through an anguished aftershock.

  As her groggy mind began to clear from the dream, she realized she didn't lie on her pallet. The scent of silk rose from beneath her and was accented by the acrid tang of candle smoke. Her forehead rested on her curled arm.

  She'd fallen asleep at her sewing table.

  Gisela shoved up to sitting, wincing at the crick in her neck. Sensation returned to her numb arm like hundreds of pins poking into her. She massaged her flesh and stared in dismay at the unfinished gown, creased by her slumber. Thank the saints she had not drooled all over it.

  How could she have fallen asleep? She knew she couldn't waste one moment finishing Crenardieu's
commission.

  The squeaky rumble of a cart reached her from outside. The townsfolk were beginning their morning routines, which meant she had slept for quite a while.

  "Stupid, stupid!" she muttered, swiping damp hair from her face. When she slid off her work stool, she caught the glisten of wax at the upper corner of her table. Overflowing from the candle holder, the wax formed a milky pool. Moments away from damaging the silk.

  Lurching forward, she whipped the fabric out of harm's way. As she moved, her foot caught the stool's edge. With the screech of wood against wood, it tilted sideways and fell over with a thump.

  Gisela groaned. She might have woken Ewan. She must work quickly, now, to stow the fabric before he came to investigate. So far, she had managed to keep the hiding place beneath the floor a secret from him. 'Twould be best if he never knew.

  With clumsy hands, she folded the silk. If she damaged the expensive cloth, she'd owe Crenardieu most of her hard-earned savings. From this point forward, she must be more careful. She wouldn't fall asleep again.

  Crouching by the opening in the floor, she tucked the gown beside the cut pieces of the flowing, ankle-length cloak and the bolt of remaining silk. Just as she reached for the planks to cover the cavity, the door to her home opened.

  She set down the floorboard and hurried to the door, catching it before it opened too far.

  His hair an adorable mess, Ewan blinked up at her, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "Mama, I heard a noise."

  "I knocked over the wooden stool. 'Tis all. Why do you not go back to sleep?"

  His sleepy gaze darkened with a frown. "When did you wake up?"

  "A while ago." Not quite the truth, but not quite a lie, either.

  "Can I sit with you in your shop?"

  "Mayhap this afternoon." She gestured to his pallet. "Go on. I will wake you later."

  He slowly pivoted on his heel, as though to obey her. Before she guessed his intent, he whirled and darted past her with a cheeky giggle.

  Gisela rubbed her tired brow with her hand. "Ewan!"

  She knew the exact moment he saw the hole in the floor, because his footfalls slowed. Turning, she saw him crouched at the edge, peering in. He glanced back at her, his eyes shining. "'Tis a secret hiding place."

  Gisela nodded. "Now you have seen it—"

  "Are there dragons down there, Mama?"

  The question was so unexpected, she laughed. "Nay, Button."

  His hands clenched. "Are you certain? Mayhap I should get my sword and have a look."

  "Nay, you should not." The last thing she needed this morning was for him to scramble into the cavity and not want to come out. Knowing him, he'd claim it as his fortress. Walking past him, she knelt, picked up a plank, and slotted it back into place.

  "Aw, Mama!"

  Three more boards and the floor returned to normal. "There." She brushed off her hands. Giving him a pointed look, she said, "You must not tell anyone about this hiding place, all right? 'Tis another secret you must keep. Promise me."

  Staring down at the floor, Ewan scowled. "I did not even get a good look."

  "Promise, Button."

  "All right! I promise."

  Gisela headed to her worktable, aware of Ewan stomping along behind her. She swept a small pile of silk scraps, wax, and blue thread onto the planks before crossing the room to fetch the broom. She turned to see Ewan, holding a lump of wax, fingering through the pile.

  He'd be after another bit of silk to replace the one she'd tied to his sword days ago and then destroyed. A disaster.

  "Button, please go and get dressed while I sweep up here."

  His fingers curled around the wax, concealing it. "I want to watch."

  She whisked the broom over his bare toes, and he squealed in surprise. "Hey!"

  "I might sweep you up by mistake if you stand there." Whisk. "Ha! Got you again."

  Laughing, he scampered toward the doorway. "Catch me now, if you can."

  Gisela pretended to pursue him, and he disappeared through the doorway. Resisting a chuckle, she swept up the discards, carried them into the house, and stoked the fire. She tossed the silk into the crackling flames. With a smoky hiss, the evidence disintegrated.

  Humming under her breath, she strolled past the pallets and gave the lump under Ewan's blanket a nudge with the broom. "Got you."

  His head poked out the other end. "Aw, Mama!"

  After replacing the broom and blowing out the candles in her workroom, she made them both bread and honey, then helped him don his tunic and hose. Fatigue weighed down her eyelids and made her limbs ache, but she shrugged her discomfort away. She pulled Ewan's tunic down over his head and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. "Aw, Mama!" he groaned again, but his eyes sparkled with delight.

  Gisela smoothed a crease from his sleeve, unable to resist a sigh. How had she not noticed that the tunic she'd made him two months ago was already too short through the sleeves?

  Never mind. Right now, she had other priorities. Once she'd got them both far away, she would have all the days she liked to sew him clothes.

  Ewan plopped down on the bench so she could fasten his shoes. Swinging his legs, looking down at her crouched by his feet, he asked, "Where are we going?"

  She caught hold of one foot and pushed on his shoe. "We have some errands to attend. Then, we will return home so I can work."

  "I want to play outside. Remember that big field—"

  "Not today."

  He huffed. "You never let me play outside."

  And for good reason, Button. One day, you will understand and forgive me.

  After fastening both of his shoes, Gisela rose, ignoring his frustrated glare. She smoothed a hand over her weary brow and disorderly hair. Today, even if she were able to let him romp in the field, she couldn't dally. She must finish the commission for the blacksmith's wife. There were preparations to make, too, for as soon as she received payment from Crenardieu, she intended to take Ewan and flee.

  Leaving Dominic behind.

  The thought brought a fresh stab of torment. Struggling to ignore it, she slipped her cloak from the peg on the wall.

  "Mama, can I bring Sir Smug?"

  "Of course." Draping her cloak around her shoulders, she said, "Fetch your mantle, Button. I will wait for you by the outer door."

  While she walked through her shop, she cast a quick glance around to be sure she hadn't missed any blue threads. A yawn tugged at her mouth, but she smothered it with the back of her hand. A moment later, Ewan trudged into her shop, the toy knight tucked under his arm. As he neared, he yanked his mantle's hood up over his head.

  "I am glad Sir Smug can come, too. He is bored with being inside. He wants an adventure."

  Gisela smothered a chuckle and drew up her own hood. "Come along, then, my two little warriors." She gave Ewan's hood an extra tug, to ensure his face was completely covered, then opened the door. They stepped into the street, and she locked the door behind them.

  Dust and stones kicked up under her shoes while they walked. Dogs scampered into alleyways looking for scraps, while grubby children tossed rocks in a made-up game. Ewan stared longingly in their direction, almost stumbling over his own feet.

  With brisk strides, Gisela headed toward the shop district. The scent of baking bread, yeasty and enticing, led her to the right street.

  "Mama, you walk too fast."

  She caught Ewan's hand, urging him along when he wanted to investigate a mound of sticks. A few premises away, past a crowd of early shoppers, she spied the shop run by a kindly husband and wife. She often purchased thread and cloth buttons from their well-stocked establishment. They'd even referred several customers to her.

  The front window was open. Relief brought a smile to her lips.

  Ewan's fingers wriggled in hers. How easily he became distracted. "Mama—"

  "Not now, Ewan."

  She skirted two men chatting while eating pastries likely purchased from the baker.

  "Mama!"
>
  The distress in her son's voice made her glance at him. Ewan's anxious gaze darted from her, then away. Holding Sir Smug tight to his chest, he scooted closer to her side.

  A reaction she knew well.

  Glancing back, she saw Crenardieu striding past the two talking men, his cloak almost skimming the ground. His bright gaze slid from her to Ewan.

  Warning buzzed in her mind. The way he looked at her son seemed almost . . . possessive.

  Facing the Frenchman, she drew Ewan against her. Without the slightest protest, he obeyed.

  Crenardieu smiled. "Bonjour."

  "Good morning." She nodded politely, hoping to continue walking. Before she could step away, he moved to block her path.

  Warning shrilled more sharply. Others in the street were watching them. Most likely Crenardieu's thugs.

  Do not let him see your fear, she told herself, forcing her chin higher. Find out what he wants and be on your way as quickly as possible.

  Crenardieu seemed to sense her discomfort, for he smiled. "I would like to speak with you. Do you have a moment?"

  Nay, her mind answered. But, she couldn't refuse him. She needed his payment. Smiling in return, she said, "Aye."

  His hand touched her elbow—a hold that sent shivers racing through her—and he guided her to the side of the street. They stopped beside an empty shop. An iron padlock secured its splintered front window. Gisela remembered the merchant who'd sold pots and pans from this premises, which was recently broken into. His wares ruined, the man had closed up his shop and left Clovebury.

  The blackened space at the bottom right of the window yawned, vacant and eerie.

  "Now then." The warmth of the Frenchman's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I meant to visit you later today. I did not expect to see you wandering through the town."

  Again, his gaze dropped to Ewan. With her arm, she nudged her son behind her, removing him from Crenardieu's view. "Ewan and I had some shopping to finish this morning," she said.

  The Frenchman nodded. "How are you faring with my commission?"

  "The gown is almost done. Both garments will be finished next week as you asked."

  Crenardieu's lips tightened. "Ah. But, you see, I need them in two days."