"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.
"Mama." Ewan pulled on her hand. "I . . . Sir Smug is scared."
Glancing down at her son's upturned face, she squeezed his fingers. "We will be fine."
We. How she and Dominic had spoken of each other, that summer, when they had lain together in the meadow.
The night breeze stirred her hair and forced her to blink several times. What had happened to Dominic? Had he escaped Crenardieu's men? Was he badly injured?
Foolish, mayhap, to worry. He had survived crusade. With his cleverness and fighting skills, he would vanquish the thugs at the first opportunity, force them to reveal the location of the rest of the stolen silks, and then return for Crenardieu. Dominic was, after all, a warrior.
Part of her began to weep while she urged Ewan on. Despite the miracle of her and Dominic reuniting, and the son conceived from their love, they could never be together. She had knowingly lied to Dominic and deceived him. She deserved to be punished to the full extent of de Lanceau's authority. Moreover, Dominic would never want to be bound to a common-born woman who had betrayed his friend and lord—even if she was the mother of his son.
Long ago, she had prided herself for always doing what was right. Before Ryle had cut her breast and threatened to harm Ewan, as well as everyone else she cherished.
If only she had options other than those dictated by desperation.
Ewan yanked on her hand again. "Where are we going? To find Dominic?"
Oh, Button. "Nay," she said, struggling to keep her voice from wobbling. "You and I are traveling far from here." She tried to smile. "'Twill be an adventure."
How it hurt to speak each word. While Dominic had most likely escaped, the lovesick part of her desperately wanted—needed—to know he was all right.
What if he hadn't managed to elude his captors? What if he were still being beaten, or . . . worse? An unbearable thought.
Ewan halted in the middle of the alley, almost pulling her off balance. "I want Dominic."
His face looked heart-wrenchingly defiant in the moonlight. Tears glistened in his eyes. "I know you do, Button."
"We must find him."
"Ewan—"
"He needs us, Mama."
He needs us. The words drove deep, finding the part of her forever devoted to her and Dominic's love. Aye, her soul answered. He does.
A sudden sense of purpose washed through her. A sense of . . . rightness. A knowing that before her lay only one true course.
The realization was so intense, she trembled. When the breeze blew again, bringing with it off-key singing from the tavern, she smiled. Among the men at The Stubborn Mule, she would find a driver with a wagon for hire. For a few extra coins, they would be willing to travel at night.
She'd pay whatever they asked.
"Come on," she said, coaxing Ewan back to a walk. They hurried into the next street.
Footfalls and grumbles came from the blackness ahead. With determined strides, someone headed their way.
One of the thugs she and Ada had earlier rendered unconscious? Had the man awakened, overpowered Ada, and come looking for her? Had he overheard her conversation moments ago?
Gisela looked at Ewan. Pressing a finger to her lips, she motioned to the side of the nearby building. They would crouch there, concealed by the shadows. With luck, the man would walk past them.
She darted toward the building, pulling Ewan after her, but his fingers twisted free from hers. Spinning on her heel, she reached for him again, but he had marched on ahead into a swath of moonlight.
Ewan stood in plain view, his feet planted apart and Sir Smug flung over his right shoulder. Brandishing his sword, the little boy shouted, "Who goes there?"
"Ewan!" Gisela whispered.
"Do not worry, Mama. I will protect you."
A startled grunt came from the darkness before a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged and halted before Ewan. The man's hair and garments glowed an eerie white.
The little boy gasped. His sword wavered, and he stumbled backward. "A ghost."
Gisela rushed to Ewan's side. Pushing her son back behind her, she stared at the man who strongly resembled the baker. Yet, why was he stomping around at night, covered in white powder?
The baker planted his hands on his
hips. A fine white dust puffed into the air. "I did not expect ta see ye in the night street," he said, looking first at her, then at Ewan, peering out from behind her.
"We did not expect to see you," Gisela answered. "What happened? Are you all right?"
The man's mouth pursed. Dipping his head to indicate his garments, he said, "I am not all right. Far from it, Anne." He ran his fingers through his hair, loosing another cloud of dust, and sighed.
"Why do you look like a ghost?" Ewan asked.
"Wretched thieves broke into me shop. I was at the tavern, enjoyin' a drink with me friends. Did not know what 'ad 'appened 'til I returned 'ome."
"I am sorry," Gisela said. She could well imagine the destruction wrought by the thugs.
"They smashed the front of me shop, broke me tables, ruined me breads"—the baker gestured to the powder clinging to his clothes—"and cut most of me flour sacks. 'Twill cost me nigh a month's wages, I vow, ta straighten out the mess." Shaking his head, he said, "I reckon they was called away afore they finished. They did not damage all me flour, or steal me 'orse and wagon. They would 'ave done, I vow."
A knowing ache gnawed at Gisela. The thugs were likely Crenardieu's men, called away to subdue Dominic.
"'Tis all 'is fault," growled the baker. "That deceitful, clever-mouthed—"
"Crenardieu," Gisela said with a firm nod.
"Eh?" The baker's scowl darkened. "Not that French swine. The peddler who was not in truth a peddler at all. Me friends believe they saw 'im at the tavern, wearin' fine clothes."
"His name is Dominic," Gisela said. "He—"
"Ye know 'is name?" The baker wagged a floury finger. "Anne, stay away from 'im. 'E is a—"
"—knight in the service of Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau."
In mid-sentence, the baker quit talking. His mouth gaped. "What?"
"Dominic was sent here to investigate the recent cloth thefts. To spy for de Lanceau." Raising her eyebrows, she added, "A very important duty."
The baker's raised hand shook. "Oh." Curling his fingers into a loose fist, he cleared his throat. "Ye mean, I pummeled an innocent man? De Lanceau's man?"
Gisela nodded.
"That was silly," Ewan said.
Dismay clouded the baker's face. He groaned and dragged a hand over his mouth.
The sense of purpose glowed anew inside Gisela. Smiling, she touched his arm. "Do not worry."
"Why would I not worry? Me shop is destroyed. I wounded de Lanceau's spy."
"You still have a horse and wagon, aye?"
The baker blinked. "Aye."
Gisela reached into her satchel and withdrew the jingling bag of coins. She offered it to him.
His eyes grew wide. "Anne—"
"My real name is Gisela," she said.
"Gisela." He frowned. "Why, then, did ye tell me yer name was Anne? Why—"
"Later, I will explain." She pushed the bag into his hands. "There is enough here to pay for repairs to your shop and to sustain you over the next few months."
"Why are ye givin' it ta me? What of yer tailor's shop?" Glancing at Ewan, who had finally stepped out from behind her, he said, "Ye have a growin' child ta raise."
Gisela drew in a tremulous breath. "Days ago, you told me if I ever needed help, to ask you."
"True."
"I am asking now. I need you to take us to Branton Keep."
"De Lanceau's castle?" The baker's eyes widened even further. "Tonight?"
Gisela nodded. "I must speak with de Lanceau as soon as possible. Dominic's life may be in terrible danger."
The baker shifted the coin bag in his palm. "But, I hit de Lanceau's spy."
"Please." She pressed her hands over his. Unable to stop her voice from breaking, she said, "'Tis my life's savings. Every last bit of silver I own. I beg you, please help me. Together, we will do what is right. We will save Dominic's life."
"Kick him again."
Crenardieu's voice cut into Dominic's slowly returning consciousness. He fought a groan, refusing to yield to the pain throbbing in every muscle in his body. He would not think about the impending kick. Neither would he recall how, after the last lash of the rope, his surroundings had faded to black.
Fear and physical pain would never break his spirit. Never!
Drawing in a breath, Dominic ignored the mutterings of the thugs around him and concentrated instead on the coolness of the dirt floor on which he'd collapsed, the mustiness of damp earth, and the breeze caressing his cheek. He forced himself to recall the meadow where he and Gisela had made love, to focus on the happiness of that memory. Blue sky. Cornflowers. Daisies. Tufted grasses that flattened to the perfect bed.
How gentle the hut's draft felt against his bruised skin. Like the meadow breeze and Gisela's lovely fingers skimming over him—
A booted foot plowed into his belly again. Dominic tried to smother another groan, but the sound escaped, raw and fraught with exhaustion.
Crenardieu laughed.
His delighted guffaw sliced deeper than sharpened steel. The idyllic memory faded away, devoured by a scarlet blur. Dominic ground his teeth, tasting dirt. Torture he could endure. The Frenchman's vile pleasure in eliciting pain, he could not. How wondrous 'twould be to finally slam his fists into Crenardieu's gut.
Filling his lungs with another breath, Dominic gathered his dwindling strength. His physical endurance might be strained, but his spirit demanded that he get his arse up off the floor and fight. And so he would.
Dominic cracked his puffy eyes open. Four men stood hovering nearby. From their disgruntled scowls, they were disappointed he hadn't made their work easy.
Ha! One small triumph for him.
A grin tugged at his lips. Tensing his aching muscles, he waited for a thug to kick out again. He watched the lout's boot swing toward him. Before it connected with his stomach, he caught the boot in both hands. He held tight, keeping the man's foot immobile.
With a startled yelp, the thug hopped on one foot. He fell to the ground.
Dominic chuckled and struggled to rise.
Snarling an oath, Crenardieu crouched beside Dominic, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head back. The sudden movement, combined with the unnatural strain on his neck, sent pain shooting through Dominic's skull.
"You are a stupid man, mon ami."
Dominic smothered a gasp. "I told you before, I will never betray de Lanceau."
A thin smile twisted Crenardieu's lips, a look that implied he hadn't yet run out of methods of coercion. "We shall see."
Aye, you French whoreson, we shall.
Crenardieu wrenched his hand from Dominic's hair and stood, snapping his fingers. Before Dominic could push up to sitting, two lackeys stepped forward and hauled him to his feet.
Nausea slammed through him, bringing fresh sweat to his brow. His legs felt unbearably weak. Still, he thrust up his chin to meet Crenardieu's stare.
The Frenchman was still smiling. "If you refuse to talk to me," he said, wiggling his ringed fingers as though discarding ripped-out strands of Dominic's hair, "mayhap Gisela will help me."
Gisela. Dominic's mouth went dry. He had tried not to contemplate what might be happening to her and Ewan, with Ryle in her home. Worry threatened to drive him mad, to uproot his strength of will and leave him emotionally vulnerable.
Gisela had lied to him about the stolen silks and Ewan, transgressions he couldn't easily forgive. However, the thought of her enduring more cruelty, from Ryle or Crenardieu . . .
Fear for her, as fierce as a call to battle, ran in his blood. Ah, God, he mustn't allow himself to become distracted. He must escape. He must protect her and his son.
Dominic forced a careless expression. "Gisela can tell you naught."
The Frenchman's smug smile did not waver. He seemed to know every thought undermining Dominic's courage.
Shame swept through him. How stupid of him to fall prey to Crenardieu's taunt. For not being strong enough to hide his weakness.
"How
do you know Gisela cannot help me?"
By sheer strength of will, Dominic managed a disparaging laugh. "She is but a tailor."
"You visited her shop more than once. She is far more than an acquaintance to you, oui?"
Bastard!
Dominic refused to cower to the Frenchman's probing stare.
Crenardieu's mouth curled into a sneer. "Did you really believe others would not notice the way you look upon her? The affection you bestow upon her in every glance and word?"
Dismay sank like a rock into the pit of Dominic's stomach. He scrambled for a way to cast doubt upon Crenardieu's words. "There, you are wrong."
"Ryle will know for certain."
"What do you mean?" Rage hammered in Dominic's temple. His arms, pinned by Crenardieu's thugs, shook with the force of his fury. If that dragon of a man dared to set one hand upon her . . .
With agonizing slowness, Crenardieu inspected the largest of his rings, then glanced back at Dominic. "What did you tell de Lanceau in your other letters to him?"
Dominic clamped his jaw.
The Frenchman nodded.
Close behind him, Dominic heard the ominous hiss of uncoiling rope. Not again!
He lunged forward, hoping to break the thugs' hold. How he craved the moment he walloped Crenardieu!
The thugs' fingers dug into his arms. Yanked him back. Forced him, kicking and thrashing, down on his knees.
The rope whistled, an instant before it lashed across his back.
Dominic bit down on his lip, fighting a scream. He crumpled forward, his arms imprisoned by the two thugs. His hair brushed the dirt. His eyes watered with the agony searing through him. Beneath the bandages still wrapped around his ribs, he felt the warm trickle of blood.
Closing his eyes, he focused on a vision of Gisela, standing as he'd last seen her in her shop. So beautiful, despite the fear in her eyes. Fear, aye, but also iron resolve.
As the rope whistled again, bringing more excruciating pain, the image in his mind sharpened. Her flaxen hair streaming behind her like a banner, Gisela stood with her hands clenched around the hilt of a glinting sword. Determination blazing in her eyes, she raised her weapon.
She lunged toward a fire-breathing dragon.
Knights of Valor Page 49