A Knight's Persuasion (Knight's Series Book 4)

by Catherine Kean

  How tempting to lunge at him now. His sword, though, looked deadly sharp. She must be patient.

  His full attention shifted to the wall’s lowest stones.

  “I see it!” she cried. “Right there. ’Tis a bone.”

  “What?” His face whitened. Looking away, he dropped into a partial crouch to examine the shadows.

  Juliana dashed around the extended sword. As his head swiveled, she rammed her hands into his back and shoved with all her might. Cursing, he pitched toward the wall. He lashed out with his sword. The lethal steel swung near her with a faint whistle.

  The man caught his fall by bracing his palm against the wall. Soon he’d straighten and turn on her. She might be quick, but she was no match for an enraged, sword-wielding warrior.

  Rallying her strength, she slammed her whole body against him. He loosed a furious roar. Dropping the garment and bone bag, he swung his burly arm back, grabbing for her, almost catching hold of her sleeve.

  “Ye will not get away—”

  She dodged his swipe, then kicked the inside of his knee, above the rim of his boot. He grimaced, his leg buckled, and his shoulder banged against the wall.

  Before he could raise his sword to her, she shoved him again. With a loud thwack, his head hit the stone. He groaned. His knees gave way, and he slumped to the floor, eyes rolling closed. The sword, still in his grasp, settled beside him with a gritty clank.

  Triumph raced through Juliana. She’d defeated him! She’d done it.

  Stepping back out of his reach, Juliana waited through several agonizing breaths; she must be sure he wasn’t trying to fool her. When not a flicker of cognizance crossed his slack face, she crept to him and pried his fingers from the sword. Then, keeping watch on him in case he roused, she picked up the bag of bones. The contents rattled softly, and she choked down a disgusted moan. She loathed holding such grimness in her hand, but they might be a useful bargaining tool at some point.

  Holding the sword—heavier than she expected—she started toward the tower stairwell. She clung tightly to her excitement, refused to listen to the doubts swirling up inside her. She’d subdued one guard; there was at least one more up by the chamber door. Somehow, she’d find a way to defeat him, too.

  As Juliana started up the stairs that were raised and uneven in places, cool air swept over her; it made her all the more aware of the sweaty dampness of her hand gripping the sword. Her arm, unused to the weapon’s weight, began to shake. After sliding her hand through the drawstring of the bone bag so it hung from her left wrist, she then pushed the bag down inside her sleeve for safekeeping. Gripping the sword with both hands, she continued on, trying to move as quickly but quietly as possible. If she could surprise the guard—

  “Who goes there?” a man called down from above.

  Hellfire, as Edouard would say.

  Hesitating in the stairwell’s shadows, Juliana mulled what to do next. Should she reply? Was it better to stay silent, so mayhap he’d come down and investigate? He’d be suspicious then, which meant she’d have less chance of catching him unaware.

  “Kerr, is that you?” the man shouted. When she didn’t respond, the guard growled, “Answer me! Who goes there?”

  With grudging dismay, she realized her current tactic was likely to fail. That meant she must resort to other, more cunning measures.

  “Please,” she called back, forcing a wobble into her voice. “Is someone there? Can you help?”

  “Help?” From the faint footsteps filtering down to her, she guessed that the guard had walked to the opening to the stairs.

  Hoping she sounded terrified and helpless, she said, “The man-at-arms who was escorting me . . . Kerr . . . he . . .” She managed a tremulous sob. “Something is wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He fell to the floor. He has not moved.”

  A tense silence. “Who are you?”

  Of all the questions to ask! She certainly wasn’t going to reveal she was the woman he’d guarded in the chamber. Fighting her unease, she said, “A . . . visitor. A friend”—she shuddered at the necessary lie—“of Lady Veronique’s. I arrived a short while ago. Will you help this poor man, or must I go find aid elsewhere?”

  “There is no one else about?” The guard sounded doubtful.

  “Veronique and the others are busy with a prisoner uprising in the bailey.” She forced out a frightened moan. “If you will not help me, just say so and I will bother you no more. This man, I mean, Kerr’s life is—”

  Footsteps carried from above. “Wait there.”

  The guard was heading down to her. His boot falls grew louder as he neared.

  Tightening her grasp on the sword, she quietly continued up the stairs to meet him. Sweat moistened her brow and the curve between her breasts. What she’d do when she faced him, fighter to fighter, she didn’t quite know, but . . . she’d make that judgment then.

  A huff and loud footfalls reached her. The man was very close. She drew back against the wall, a moment before the guard came into view, his sword raised. As soon as he spied her, his eyes widened. “You!”

  Before she said a word, his gaze dropped to the blade clutched in her hands. He chuckled, then stepped down to the next stair, no doubt moving in to attack. “Do you mean to fight me?”

  His taunting sent a raw tremor running through her. “If I must.” She tried not to let show how much her arm was shaking. “But I was not lying about Kerr. He is hurt.”

  “Of course he is.” Only two steps above her now, the guard grinned and shook his head. “’Tis a heavy weapon for a young woman. You will end up getting hurt. Put the sword down on that stair there, and I will be kind.”

  What exactly did he mean by “kind?” He wouldn’t beat her senseless—or worse—before he threw her into the chamber and locked the door?

  His brutishly large fingers shifted on his sword’s hilt. “Do as I say. You really do not want to battle with me.”

  A weak groan came from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Kerr,” Juliana said.

  Not breaking her gaze, the guard’s expression darkened. “That could be anyone.”

  “’Tis Kerr.”

  Uncertainty flickered in the guard’s eyes.

  “Is he your friend?” she said. “Go and help him.”

  “And let you get away?” the guard sneered. “Veronique would gut me alive.”

  Juliana tsked, as though he was a fool. “Where can I go? There is only one way in and out of this stairwell. I doubt you will let me leave these stairs.”

  “True.” The guard’s mouth tightened. “Move from this spot, and I will kill you myself.”

  He edged past her. Turning away, he started descending the stairwell.

  He’d taken only three steps, when she rushed down behind him and kicked him in the back. He lurched forward, his foot twisting on an uneven stair. “You wretched—” He swung his sword back in a cutting slash that barely missed her leg.

  Before he could catch his balance and attack, she lunged forward and kicked him again. He stumbled. Missed a step. Fell on his arse. His free hand scrambled to break his fall as he tumbled down several more stairs, his sword scraping on the stone. He finally came to a stop, facing the wall.

  He groaned. Clutching his head, he tried to sit up.

  She couldn’t let him get away or thwart her efforts to free Edouard. “I am sorry,” Juliana said, before she kicked him again. His forehead knocked the wall, and he went limp.

  She stooped, grabbed his sword, and hefted the weapon. Edouard would need it once she’d freed him.

  Up she climbed toward the tower, hoping she wouldn’t have to face another guard. She softened her steps, listening. When she approached the entry to the small area before the chamber door, she paused.

  Over the sputtering of the torches, she caught a muffled scraping sound. It seemed to emanate from near the door.

  Groaning inwardly, she tipped her head back against the rough wall. Was the
re another guard, after all? Summoning her courage—she must rescue Edouard before the two fallen men roused and warned their colleagues—she dared to peek into the space in front of the chamber.

  Empty.

  As she hurried forward, she wondered what had made the noise. One of the torches, shifting in its metal bracket? A mouse gnawing on the door? Brushing the thoughts aside, she propped one sword against the wall to free her right hand, snatched the key ring from its hook, pushed the key into the lock, and turned. With a prompt click, the lock released.

  Juliana eased the door open. Her gaze fell upon the sunlit planks and the pallet just coming into view. “Ed—”

  Before the sound fully formed in her mouth, the door was yanked from her grasp. She gasped, while she was spun and thrust against the wall. The sword was knocked from her hold.

  With a splintering crash, the door hit the stone beside her.

  A strong hand clamped around her throat.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Edouard,” Juliana croaked.

  The hand pinning her fell away. She sucked in a breath, her pain and dizziness slowly subsiding.

  “Juliana, I am sorry. I thought you were a guard.” Edouard touched her arm, then stepped away to look around the open doorway. His head tilted, as though to catch any sounds from beyond. “Are you alone?”

  Rubbing at her neck to ease the discomfort, she nodded.

  He frowned. “Where are the guards?”

  Juliana couldn’t help but smile. “One is lying injured at the bottom of the stairs. The other is unconscious partway up the stairwell. They will not, however, be subdued for long.”

  With each word, Edouard’s eyebrows raised higher. “You defeated two armed men?”

  “I did.” When he whistled softly, pride warmed her breast. Bending down, she picked up her sword. “I brought a weapon for you, too. ’Tis leaning against the outside wall.”

  Edouard disappeared through the doorway and appeared a moment later holding the sword. Standing in the embrasure, he thrust the weapon and swooped it from side to side, then flexed his fingers to adjust his grip. “Not as fine a weapon as I am used to,” he said, “but ’twill do.”

  She shook her head. “The next time I rescue you, I will attack guards with better quality swords.”

  Edouard laughed and executed a gallant bow. “Thank you, Juliana, for coming to my rescue.”

  His roguish grin, the elegant way he bent at the waist, the forward slide of his hair, reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand at Sherstowe last spring. Stifling her regret, she glanced at the pallet where he’d been restrained. The iron links wove across the mattress; the hinged manacles lay open, like the jaws of metallic snakes.

  “How . . ?” she began.

  Edouard held up a hairpin. “Azarel visited while you were with Tye.” Holding out his hand, clearly wanting Juliana to cross to him, he added, “The guards sounded reluctant to let her in, I guess because you were not here. She managed to persuade them, though. One of the guards kept watch while she examined my bruised jaw, but she still managed to slip me the hairpin. I sprung the locks on my manacles and was working on the door before you came in.”

  That explained the noise Juliana had heard.

  She reached his side, and he took her left hand in his. “I did not mean to frighten you earlier or hurt you. The sight of you”—his gaze dropped to her lips—“is indeed very welcome.”

  At his whisper-soft words, a tingling ache dragged through her. God above, she must crush this forbidden yearning. Regardless how she felt about him, he belonged to Nara.

  “Edouard,” she said, struggling to rein in her emotions, “right now, Kaine and your men are trying to break free from the dungeon. Last I saw of Veronique and Tye, they were going off to quell the attempt.”

  Edouard’s eyes glinted. “My men will need my help in that fight.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. As her arm lowered, a muted clatter sounded, and curiosity sharpened his gaze.

  “I have Veronique’s coveted bag of finger bones.” Juliana held out her sleeve to show him. “I took them from a guard. They may be useful in our fight against her.”

  “As disgusting as those bones are, you may well be right.” Edouard motioned her through the doorway. “Come. We must not delay our escape.”

  Without bothering to soften his footfalls, he hurried into the stairwell, his sword at the ready. Either he wasn’t concerned about being attacked or he believed he could best whomever they encountered.

  She followed, keeping a tight hold on her weapon. A moment later, she heard the muffled scrape of his boots as he halted. After racing down several more stairs, she came upon him squatting beside the man she’d left lying by the wall.

  “He’s still unconscious,” Edouard said. “’Tis an ugly bruise on his head. He will have a rotten headache, and will be looking to get even with you.”

  “Then we had best be gone from here.”

  Edouard grinned up at her. “My thoughts exactly.” He unfastened the dagger from the guard’s belt and slipped it under his tunic. “Come on.”

  With Edouard in the lead, they hurried down the rest of the stairs and out into the passageway. Glancing to the left and right, Edouard said, “Where is the other guard?”

  Juliana looked to where she’d felled the sentry. Dread clutched her innards. “He was there,” she pointed to the floor. “I heard him moaning before I attacked the other man.” Looking down the passage, she said, “Do you think he has gone to warn the others?”

  “Aye.” Edouard blew out a breath. “We must hurry. Which way?”

  “To the right,” Juliana said. “I know of a lesser used stairwell. It leads down to the far corner of the bailey.”

  “Good.” He loped forward, and she did her best to keep up with his brisk strides. How keenly she sensed his wish to be free of captivity and do whatever he could to save his sire.

  The sword became heavier in her grasp. Her arm muscles ached, but she ignored the discomfort. She wouldn’t slow Edouard down or be a burden to him.

  When voices carried from a connecting passage, he threw up a hand and urged her to flatten back against the shadowed wall; three men-at-arms strode past the opening. Edouard quietly confirmed the rest of the directions with her, and then, after glancing both ways to ensure the route was clear, forged on.

  At last, they came to the dimly lit stairwell. Cobwebs floated from the stone ceiling, while the stench of burning pitch wafted on the faint breeze coming up from below.

  He raised a cautioning hand and listened. His fingers flexed on his sword, suggesting he looked forward to the confrontation to free his men.

  “What is your plan, once we reach the bailey?” she asked.

  He rolled his shoulders, doubtless to ease tension gathered there. She tried not to notice how his tunic stretched taut over his upper torso.

  “Do you know the location of the postern?” he asked.

  Most castles had an alternate door in the thick, surrounding wall, a means of escape in case of mutiny or siege. “’Tis in the keep’s back wall,” she said, dropping the tip of her sword to the floor to rest her tired arms.

  He glanced back at her, then frowned, as though realizing her discomfort. Reaching under his tunic, he withdrew the dagger he’d taken from the guard and offered it to her. “Leave the sword. Take this knife instead.”

  “Thank you.” She set the sword by the wall and unsheathed the dagger.

  “Listen well, Juliana. I want you to stay hidden till ’tis safe for you to slip through the postern. Once you are out, I want you to run from here. Find help. Go to Branton Keep. Tell my father, if he does not already know, all that has occurred here.”

  His harsh tone made her quake inside. “I will. And you?”

  “I will fight to free Kaine and the others. Then, mayhap, we can encourage other folk at this keep to rise up against Veronique and her lackeys.”

  Worry pressed against Juliana’s breastbone. “’Tis a risky
plan. There are so few of you, while Veronique has many mercenaries working for her.”

  “My men are strong and capable.” Edouard headed down into the stairwell. “If we can take Veronique or Tye captive, we will have more of a chance of gaining the castle folk’s help. They may be too afraid to challenge her—unless they have the right leadership.”

  “You,” she said, and began to descend the stairs.

  Glancing back to meet her gaze, he nodded.

  How brave and determined he looked. Yet he could well be killed.

  She didn’t dare tell him, the son of a renowned crusading warrior, not to do battle; ’twas Edouard’s destiny. That fighting spirit ran in his blood. Still, she couldn’t quell a rush of bone-deep terror. “I am afraid for you, Edouard,” she said softly.

  He shrugged a little too swiftly. “Fear not. If I fail to win control of the keep, Veronique and her mercenaries will not kill me. I am of no use to them dead.”

  There were fates worse than death. They might cut his body so badly, he’d long for death. “Edouard, why not come with me to Branton Keep? You will be safe from Veronique and Tye’s wickedness. Without you as a valuable hostage . . .”

  He halted, three steps below her, and slowly faced her. “I considered it. But my men need me. The good folk at Waddesford Keep need me. My sire would never run from such a fight. I will not, either.”

  How her heart ached with concern for him, but she mustn’t hold him back. She nodded and followed him the last few steps down to the stout oak door.

  On the bottom step, he smiled up at her, his gaze bold and determined. “Stay safe, Juliana. I will see you anon.” He depressed the iron handle, shoved open the door, and stepped through to the bailey beyond.

  ***

  While she walked in the keep’s shadows toward the far wall, Juliana forced herself to slow her strides. ’Twas utter torment. Foreboding tightened her limbs, shortened her breath, and raised goose bumps on her arms. The importance of what she must do, and the consequences for Edouard and so many others if she failed, rendered her light-headed.