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."
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."
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 brot
her." 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."
Knights of Valor Page 48