As soon as she finished, de Lanceau turned to Aldwin. "Rouse the servants. Rally the men-at-arms. Tell them to break their fast and prepare to ride."
"Aye, milord." Aldwin strode away.
His gaze returning to her, de Lanceau said, "You have given me much to consider, Gisela, including your role in what has happened."
"I do not deny my guilt," she said quietly. "I will accept whatever punishment you wish, milord. Please, I ask only that you . . . that Ewan is well cared for."
If necessary, she would fall to the floor and beg him to keep her son at Branton Keep. Her little boy would fit in among the servants. Now and again, she might be allowed to see him. To still be part of his growing up, even if their lives must be separate.
As though attuned to her desolation, the lady's face shadowed with sorrow.
De Lanceau's mouth flattened. "We will speak again, Gisela." He nodded to his lady wife and walked out of the room.
Fighting to hold back her tears, Gisela smiled down at her son, standing at her side, holding tight to the embroidered dragon.
"Mama," he whispered. "What will happen to you? What about me?"
"Well . . ." How did she tell him they might be separated? Pressing her hands over her heart, Gisela tried to quell the ache threatening to destroy the last of her composure.
"You must both be hungry," Lady Elizabeth said, "and weary after your journey. Come with me to the great hall, and I will have one of the servants bring you some fare."
Ewan's face brightened. "I am starved."
The lady smiled. "I imagine a growing boy like you is always hungry, just like my Edouard." Turning with an elegant swish of her gown, she said, "Follow me."
Gisela carefully took the dragon from Ewan, set it back on the oak chest, and then led him out of the chamber.
At an insistent tap on her hand, Gisela blinked. "Mama, you are not listening."
The memory of heading down to the hall dissipated, and Gisela was aware again of the servants rushing around the tables, the excited chatter, and the tang of a recently stoked fire. Men-at-arms tromped into the hall, many wearing chain-mail armor. Talking among themselves, they sat on benches along the tables.
"Look at Lord de Lanceau, Mama."
Gisela glanced in the direction her son pointed. His lordship stood before the raised dais, on which rested the dining table reserved for him, his family, and their noble guests. He was speaking with Lady Elizabeth, who offered him a goblet of wine. A chain-mail hauberk draped to his knees. A broadsword hung by his side, while he carried an iron helm tucked under his arm. Sipping his wine, nodding as his wife spoke, he looked every bit the ruler of an important castle.
De Lanceau handed back the wine goblet. The lady touched his arm, but he shook his head. Gisela fought a jolt of misgiving. Something in his expression . . .
He glanced her way.
When he started toward her, dread cinched her innards.
She forced herself to calm. Now was not the time to succumb to despair. Whatever punishment he meted out for her crimes, she would accept it with courage and dignity. She must be a good example for her son, in the few free moments she might have left with him.
Gisela bowed her head. "Milord."
De Lanceau halted before their table, his wife strolling close behind. When he frowned down at her, Gisela shivered.
"What is wrong with the bread?" he asked.
"Naught, milord. 'Tis very good. I . . . am not hungry."
He nodded, as though he understood perfectly the emotions roiling inside her. She swallowed again, wishing desperately that whatever he had to say, he would say it quickly and be done with it.
Tension lined his mouth. "My men and I leave for Clovebury shortly. You will stay here, until my return."
As she'd expected, he ordered her to remain at the keep, likely under armed guard. Mayhap even in a dungeon cell. Even as his judgment settled in her mind, the sense of rightness burned within her again. She could not stay here, imprisoned within Branton Keep's walls, while Dominic's life was threatened.
For the love they'd once shared, for all that he meant to her, she must be brave enough to voice what was in her heart.
Drawing a fortifying breath, she looked up at de Lanceau. "I respect your decision, milord, and vow to abide by it . . . upon my return to the keep."
His eyes flared. "Return—?"
"Aye, milord. You see, I must come with you."
"God's blood!"
Fear fluttered beneath her determination, like a butterfly trapped under ice. She didn't intend to sound disloyal or insolent. She had to make him understand. "I know Clovebury's streets," she said quickly. "I know Crenardieu."
De Lanceau's lips tautened.
"Geoffrey—" The lady again placed a hand upon his arm.
He thrust up his palm, a clear refusal of his wife's protests. "I will not be distracted by fear for Gisela's safety. The situation could be extremely dangerous."
"I am aware of the dangers," Gisela said. "Yet, I cannot sit idle while Dominic may be suffering. I am to blame for what happened to him."
"Mama." Ewan snatched up his wooden sword lying on the table. "I want to come, too."
"Nay, Button," she said gently. "You must stay here, because"—I could not bear for aught to happen to you—"you are needed to help protect the castle."
Doubt shadowed his eyes.
"'Tis an excellent plan," Lady Elizabeth said with a smile. "You can patrol the battlements with the other guards."
Ewan's eyes grew huge. "Really?"
De Lanceau sighed. "Damsel!"
Gisela sensed her opportunity slipping away. Never must she lose her chance to save Dominic. She rose from the bench, then dropped to her knees on the rushes by de Lanceau's boots, her drab gown pooling around her.
"Please. I beg you. Let me journey with you."
"Gisela—"
"I love him."
De Lanceau stood motionless. "What did you say?"
"I love him. Very much." Her tone roughened with anguish. "I have not yet told him."
De Lanceau was silent a moment. "By law, you are wed to another. But, you love Dominic?"
Another confession she must make, but she'd not let de Lanceau believe she had any loyalty to Ryle. "Aye, milord, I married because I had no other choice. However, I call no man husband now, and for good reason."
"Indeed?"
Gisela met his keen gaze, hoping he'd realize she couldn't divulge more with Ewan nearby. "I will be glad to tell you all, when we return."
His expression sober, thoughtful, he studied her.
"Let me go with you. Please, milord."
"Gisela, you remind me of my lady wife," he said softly. "She is equally as stubborn."
Lady Elizabeth chuckled, a throaty sound rich with love. Leaning forward, she kissed her husband's cheek.
Gisela pushed to her feet, hope surging inside her. "Milord, do you mean . . ."
De Lanceau's mouth ticked up at one corner. His gaze slid to Ewan, then back to her. "My men and I will await you in the bailey. Do not be long."
"'E looks pretty calm fer a man who's goin' ta die."
Despite his black eye, Dominic glared at the two louts who rode ahead of him carrying burning reed torches to light their route. Glancing back over their shoulders, the men spoke of him as though he were as deaf as a tree. The number of times they'd beaten him over the past night, mayhap he should be.
Swaying to and fro on the back of a lumbering mount, his hands bound behind him, he squinted ahead at the horse-drawn wagon leading the way. The gritty clop of hooves and juddered creaks of the cart carried into the surrounding blackness. Eerily silent, the world seemed to wait in breathless anticipation to see what would happen to him next.
Scowling, he blew away stringy hair fallen across his face. Whatever transpired, he did not intend to die. Not this day, and not at the hands of these bastards.
His gaze fixed on Crenardieu, seated at the front of the wagon. Mome
nts ago, the thugs had hauled Dominic from the cold, fireless wooden hut into the even chillier outdoors and propped him up beside a horse. Before they had forced him up onto the mount, he'd heard the Frenchman speaking to one of his lackeys.
"—bring them back here," he'd said. "Ryle is to come, as well." Glancing over at Dominic, the Frenchman had smiled. "Balewyne will enjoy the bloodletting."
A chill had crawled down Dominic's spine. Grinning, the lackey had swung up onto his horse, taken a torch handed up to him by another thug, and galloped off.
Then, Crenardieu had drawn aside the canvas sheet covering the wagon bed. Inside, lying in orderly lines, were bolts of shimmering cloth: De Lanceau's stolen shipment. On the top were the blue silk and garments from Gisela's shop. After smirking at Dominic, Crenardieu had repositioned the canvas again and ordered his cohorts to move out.
A loud snort reached Dominic. The louts were laughing at him again.
Let them laugh. Not for much longer, by God.
He pointedly blocked out their chuckles and the conversation of the thugs riding close behind him. He shut out the agony in his bones that threatened to steal his consciousness and send him careening off the horse onto the ground. At the same time, he discreetly twisted his tied hands. The rope, pressing against tender wounds, gnawed into his flesh.
His fingertips grazed the knot. Wiggling his fingers, he began to explore the bindings.
The damp, earthy scent of water lingered on the breeze, indicating the river flowed close by. Where, though, in relation to the road they traveled? Dawn hadn't yet encroached on the shadows, although the first hint of light brushed the sky.
His fingers slid off the knot to touch soft fabric. Silk. The scrap he'd found at Gisela's and tied around his wrist. He had taken care during his captivity to keep it pushed up his forearm, out of sight. With him sitting upright, it had slipped down to his bonds.
A plan glimmered to life in his mind, just as a loud thump, then a creak, came from ahead. The sniggering thugs instantly sobered.
"Merde," Crenardieu growled. The wagon rested at an odd angle in the middle of the road. The right back wheel was lodged in a rut.
Holding his torch high, Crenardieu jumped down from the wagon, his cloak billowing behind him like disfigured wings.
"Get down and help!" he bellowed to the two louts ahead of Dominic.
Anticipation whispered inside Dominic with delicious temptation. Two fewer men to guard him. A rare opportunity. If only his wretched bindings were not so tight . . .
The men dismounted. The taller one motioned to Dominic. "What about 'im?"
"If he tries to escape," Crenardieu said to the men behind Dominic. "Shoot him with the crossbow."
Bile burned the back of Dominic's mouth. He knew exactly how much damage such a weapon could cause, especially at close range. A crossbow wound had almost killed Geoffrey several years ago. A miracle, indeed, that he had survived. Many said he would have died, had his and Lady Elizabeth's love not been so strong.
The memory of Gisela's pale, lovely face filled his mind. For her, he would not risk escape now. For her—the chance to see and love her again—he'd leave behind a clue.
His fingers brushed the silk again. With careful movements, he maneuvered the scrap until he located the knot. With his fingers and nails, he began to loosen it.
Muttering coarse French oaths, Crenardieu tossed the blazing torch into the dewy grasses along the roadside, where it slowly smoldered. He stormed to the back of the wagon, the two thugs by his side. They braced their weight against the cart. Crenardieu yelled at the wagon driver. The stuck wheel spun, spewing dirt, before the cart bounced forward, mobile once again.
The silk's knot eased free. Smothering a smile, Dominic curled his palm around the cloth.
His face set in a scowl, Crenardieu strode back to retrieve the torch. It had burned out. Tossing it into the middle of the road, he climbed back onto the wagon. It rumbled on.
The thugs remounted their horses. "Not even a word o' thanks," the taller thug mumbled. "'E'd best not be stingy with 'is promised coin."
"We get the silver today," the other man said. "As soon as those merchants from London pay 'im."
"Shh!" came a sharp reprimand from behind them.
The taller thug swiveled. "Why?" Wrapping the reins of Dominic's horse around his wrist again, he said, "'E's a dead man. 'E will tell no one."
Dominic shrugged away a twinge in his right shoulder. His gaze settled on the torch, lying in the road, and he fought a grin. Foolish oaf, you are the dead man. Just you wait . . .
The thug pulled on Dominic's horse's reins, and they began to walk again. Opening his hand, he released the silk. He dared not glance back to see where it had landed.
On they journeyed, while the road and its surroundings surrendered to the dawn light. Water glistened, visible here and there through the trees alongside the road. They traveled through a forest.
Birds shrilled overhead, while light slipped through the trees, illuminating lush patches of ferns and nettles. A doe and her fawn, grazing on roadside flowers, raised their heads and then bounded away into the brush. As Dominic watched the young deer's leggy gait, he suddenly thought of Ewan and Gisela. Were they all right? If only he knew.
Just as Dominic shifted his leg, which had gone numb, Crenardieu ordered the wagon down a pitted road winding into the forest. Jarring on the rough ground, the wagon rolled down through the trees to a wide, cleared stretch along the riverbank. A crude wooden dock stretched out into the water. Rowboats rocked on the gentle current. By the opposite bank, ducks paddled and bobbed for minnows.
Crenardieu leapt down from the wagon. "Stand guard with the cloth," he ordered his cohort, who began to climb down.
The thugs ahead of Dominic halted their horses. Crenardieu's boots crunched on the dirt as he strode toward them.
Twisting his hands, Dominic felt the rope's knot give slightly. Ah. Excellent.
"The buyers will be here soon," Crenardieu said to his men. "When the merchants arrive, I want you to stand watch by the silks. Naught is to be loaded into the boats until they have handed over the coin."
"Aye, milord," the men said.
Crenardieu's gaze sharpened. A chill prickled the hairs on Dominic's nape as the Frenchman inhaled a dramatic breath of the crisp, fragrant air, then smiled at him. "A fine place to die, oui?"
"I cannot say," Dominic said with a careless smile, "for I do not intend to perish here."
Crenardieu snorted. "Still, you believe you will escape? That your loyalty to de Lanceau means aught?" He spat on the ground.
"Killing me will not stop de Lanceau. He has many trusted men in the riverside towns, and he will find you. When he does . . ."
"Ha! Once the silk is gone"—the Frenchman waved his hand—"who is to say I stole it? Who will tell de Lanceau?" He grinned. "Not I. Not you. And not your Gisela."
Dominic's pulse lurched at the mention of Gisela. Rage burned the back of his eyes, but he fought the urge to acknowledge Crenardieu's taunt. "What of your men?" He raised an eyebrow. "They are loyal to you? You pay them well enough to ensure their silence?"
An inkling of doubt shadowed the Frenchman's gaze. Then, he smiled. "You are a clever one, de Terre. Yet, I grow weary of our talk." Addressing the thugs, he said, "Get him down from the horse."
"When do we slay 'im?"
"When the negotiations are done. Then we may take as long as we like. No one will stop us."
Anger boiled inside Dominic. The impulse to dig his heels into the horse, to spur the animal to a gallop, screamed in his wounded muscles. But, the man with the crossbow would slaughter him before he reached the trees' protective cover. Better to wait until a more opportune time. Better yet, until he'd seen the faces of the London merchants who would dare to buy de Lanceau's stolen cloth.
The man by the wagon waved his hand. "Milord."
Crenardieu's head swiveled. "What is it?"
"Four boats, headed this way."
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The Frenchman's expression hardened. "Did they give the signal?"
The thug squinted, then nodded.
Crenardieu laughed. With a swirl of his cape, he turned and strode down toward the dock. "Tie de Terre to one of the trees. Shove a rag in his mouth, so he cannot interfere." Glancing back, he said, "Count your breaths, Dominic, for they are your last."
When de Lanceau led his contingent of men-at-arms into the dark street by her shop, Gisela fought a rush of panic. Her hands clenched on her horse's reins. The steady ring of hooves, creak of leather, and chime of bridles became a discordant melody echoing inside her head. Would Ryle still be sprawled on the floor of her home? Or had he and the thugs awakened and overpowered Ada? They might be hiding inside, waiting to attack as Gisela entered.
De Lanceau, astride his huge gray destrier and holding aloft a burning torch, turned to look at her. His long cloak rippled as he moved. "Which shop?"
"The one with the door ajar, milord."
He frowned at her premises. Even in the predawn darkness, the building appeared run-down, the wooden walls grayed and peeling. With the door ajar, it appeared . . . deserted.
Nay, never deserted. Apart from Ryle possibly being inside, there were too many memories within, clinging like cobwebs, lingering in the shadows.
Thrusting his torch high, de Lanceau drew his horse to a halt. The men-at-arms halted their mounts, as well. Where once there had been a host of sound, the street fell silent, save for the swish of horses' tails.
One hand on his sword, de Lanceau dismounted. He motioned his men-at-arms to do likewise. Swallowing down chafing fear, Gisela slid down from her horse and hurried to him.
De Lanceau's sword hissed from its scabbard. A magnificent weapon. The metal gleamed in the torchlight. Some of his men drew their swords and hurried along the front of her premises to assume a defensive position. Others stood wary and resolute beside their lord.
Knights of Valor Page 51