“Stand aside,” Tye and several mercenaries yelled, as they hurried to walk in front of the rider, their swords at the ready. Castle folk bowed as Edouard’s sire rode past them. “Make way,” Tye shouted, “for the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, lord of all of Moydenshire.”
Edouard scowled at the contempt in Tye’s voice.
Veronique chortled. “Well done, Tye. Bring your father closer. Bring him to his death.”
At the word “death,” Edouard’s sire raised his head a proud notch. He didn’t rein in his horse, but kept the onward pace, the clip-clop of his destrier’s hoofbeats echoing in the tense silence. With a twinge of surprise, Edouard noted that the animal wasn’t his father’s usual horse. Why had he chosen the bay with a white stripe down its muzzle, and not the fast, spirited black that had become his favorite?
Wait. Was there such a bay in his father’s stable?
As his sire headed to the cleared center of the bailey, in plain view of where Veronique stood, he nodded to castle folk—a gesture of acknowledgment and respect, delivered with a touch of arrogance. Yet something about the dip of his head . . .
Suspicion washed through Edouard. He studied the broadness of his father’s shoulders beneath the cloak, and the shape of his chin, not concealed by the helm.
“Milady,” a mercenary shouted from the wall walk near the rear of the keep. “Mil—!”
“Silence!” Veronique screeched at him.
He thrust a hand toward the ground. “But—”
She pointed to the mercenary closest to the one who’d shouted. “Kill him. I want no more interruptions, or I will kill you as well.”
At that moment, the rider drew in his mount, halting the destrier so he faced Veronique. The horse tossed its head; the bridle chimed, the only sound apart from the steady chanting: “Veronique. Veronique.”
“Good morning to you, Geoffrey.” Veronique’s words of welcome were sharp with gloating.
Edouard waited for the rider to speak. His fingers shifted on his horse’s reins, but he didn’t respond. Not surprising. Edouard’s sire’s hatred for Veronique was well known; he obviously didn’t care to show her even the slightest respect by granting her a reply.
The rider’s helm-covered head turned a fraction, and Edouard sensed him assessing the armed men in the bailey and the castle’s defenses—a far more important task than answering Veronique.
Edouard couldn’t resist a smile.
Tye’s face hardened. He clearly interpreted the insult.
Veronique huffed. “Are you a man without a voice? I demand you acknowledge me, Geoffrey. After all, we know each other well.” Her husky laughter carried down to the bailey. “So very well, my lusty lordship, you got me with child.”
A disgusted snort broke from the rider.
Veronique’s posture stiffened. Anger seemed to swirl about her as she glowered down at him. “Have the years made you a fool? You know you are unwise to taunt me.” She gestured to the mercenaries awaiting her order to fire upon him. “I am the one with all the advantage.”
The rider’s chin lifted another notch, a silent gesture of disagreement.
“Veronique. Veronique,” the men outside the walls chanted.
She moved closer to the gap between the merlons. “Acknowledge me, Geoffrey. Do it now, or I will order a start to the bloodletting. I will begin with your beloved Edouard.”
At her vile taunt, the rider pressed his shoulders back, without the slightest sign of fatigue or discomfort. Could Edouard’s father have recovered from the old-wound aches triggered by the illness? Not likely. The suspicion inside Edouard rose to a full roar.
“Edouard,” his sire grated.
Veronique tittered. “You do speak, after all. Although,” her tone turned thoughtful, “your voice sounds different.”
“’Tis hoarsened, because I have been ill. Or were you unaware?”
Silent laughter bubbled in Edouard’s throat, for that voice was definitely not his father’s. It belonged to Dominic de Terre.
“Oh, I knew of your sickness,” Veronique said.
“Good. Then you will understand why I wish to end this conflict as quickly as possible. To begin, you will send Edouard down to me.”
“How forceful you are,” Veronique said, toying with a strand of her hair. “As demanding as when I spread my legs for you and made you groan—”
“Send Edouard down. Now.”
“I think not.” Veronique’s tone hardened. “You see, his life depends entirely upon you. Do as I command, and he might live. As I said, might. To start, you will acknowledge your other son—your bastard—whom you have spurned for nigh twenty years now.”
“I have but one son.”
How true. Edouard fought not to grin.
“Your other son is beside you.” Veronique gestured to Tye, who stood at the horse’s head, his sword half raised. His pose wasn’t that of a child hoping for a reunion with his father, but of a warrior, readying to strike. Fighting a rush of unease, Edouard worked his fingers again into his bonds, and felt the rope shift against his wrist.
“This man is not my child,” the rider said.
“I believe I am, milord.” Tye’s frosty voice held a determined note.
“He is grown now. Far from the little boy you met at our meeting in the meadow, all those years ago. The day”—Veronique shook with fury—“you so heartlessly rejected him.”
“Did I?”
Tye spat an oath, while Veronique recoiled, as though the rider had reached up and slapped her across the face. “You dare deny that day took place? How very gallant, for a man who vowed to live his life by honor and chivalry.”
As she railed at him, the rider raised his free hand, palm up, a very definite attempt to deflect her accusations. Then he reached for his helm.
With a dramatic flourish, he drew it off. Chestnut brown hair, streaked at the temples with silver gray, fell to his shoulders. A stray wisp brushed the corner of his mouth.
Juliana drew in a breath. “Why, ’tis—”
“Dominic de Terre,” Edouard said with a chuckle. His hopes soared, for his father and most trusted men must be close by.
“Dominic?” Veronique shrieked. “Why, you—”
Tye scowled. “Where in hellfire is de Lanceau?”
“Aye. Where is your father?” Juliana whispered to Edouard, before her gaze darted back to the bailey.
Edouard smiled. “I expect he will present himself soon.”
With a careless grin, Dominic settled his helm on his lap. “For shame, Veronique. You are not delighted to see me? Our acquaintance goes back over twenty years. By the way, I do have a son.”
“Geoffrey!” Veronique spluttered. “I demand—”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “Veronique, you never learn. He would not allow himself to be an easy target for you, which is why I am here. I am surprised you did not guess our ploy long ago.”
Veronique shrieked. “Where is he? If you do not tell me—”
“He hoped to surprise you. I believe he spoke of an alternative way in?” Even as she glanced at the rear battlements, Dominic flicked his hand. “Ah. Here he is now.”
With a startled jolt, Edouard noted the mercenaries crumpled on the far wall walk. One of them must be the man Veronique had ordered murdered moments ago; but what of the others? They must have been killed from a distance. Few men had that remarkable skill. Few, that is, except Aldwin Treynarde, one of his sire’s most respected knights, whose astonishing expertise with a crossbow was still recounted in local chansons.
Brisk footfalls echoed in the bailey below. As the crowd looked at whoever approached, Edouard strained to see.
A group of armed warriors strode into view. In the midst of them he recognized Aldwin, his crossbow cocked. There, too, was his father, his broadsword unsheathed. And, protected on all sides by the warriors, was Azarel. She must have slipped from the castle yesterday and located his father’s forces; she’d probably told him of the postern.
>
Edouard suddenly realized the men outside had stopped chanting. They no longer needed to. They’d helped Dominic distract Veronique long enough for Edouard’s sire to get inside the keep.
“Well done, Father.” Edouard murmured. Pride burned in him as he watched his sire cross to Dominic. His father wore a chain mail hauberk over a pewter gray tunic and hose, garments that wouldn’t distinguish him as one of England’s most powerful lords. Yet there was no denying the bold authority that defined his strides.
Veronique’s hands twitched. “Geoffrey!”
As Edouard’s sire halted and looked up at her, sunshine struck his face. Sweat shone on his brow and dampened the sides of his graying, wavy brown hair. His skin was ashen, but his gaze held the familiar strength Edouard had always known. And respected.
“I am Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire,” he roared, his voice easily carrying across the bailey and up to the battlements. “I demand you surrender this keep to me.”
Veronique laughed.
“Surrender,” he repeated. “Without delay. Or my army will attack.” As though sensing Edouard’s gaze, his sire looked directly up at him. And frowned.
“Are you all right, Son?” he shouted.
“Aye,” Edouard called back, while anchoring his fingernails deeper into his bindings; they loosened a fraction more.
His sire’s attention shifted to Veronique. “’Tis a good thing Edouard is not harmed. If he were—”
“An empty threat,” Veronique said with a sniff. “Now that you are here, Geoffrey,”—she glared at Dominic—“and your senseless little game is finished, you will yield to me.”
“Is that so?”
Edouard sensed his father working to keep his temper under control.
“You will put down your weapons and fall to your knees on the dirt,” Veronique continued, her lips curling. “You, the great lord of Moydenshire, will sign all rights to your estates over to your son.”
Edouard’s sire raised his brows. “Edouard already is my heir. Years from now, when I am dead, he will have all, as is his birthright.”
“Not Edouard,” Veronique said through her teeth. “Tye.”
“A man I do not recognize.”
“You will,” Veronique sneered.
“Will I? You have undeniable evidence that I sired him?”
Fear edged into Edouard’s consciousness. His bastard brother, looking angrier by the moment, stood dangerously close to Dominic and the other men-at-arms. Close enough to lunge in an attack.
Beware, Father, for Tye is ready to run you through with his sword.
“Tye is near you.” Veronique motioned to him. “Seeing you two together, there is no doubt he looks like you, as he has since he was a young boy. Ask anyone here if they can deny a resemblance. That, Geoffrey, is proof enough.”
Edouard’s sire glanced at Tye, whose expression held both anguish and loathing.
An odd look flickered over his father’s features. Surprise? Recognition?
“Hello, Father,” Tye ground out.
Edouard waited for his sire to reply. Silence carried, ominous and strained. Then, without a word, de Lanceau looked back at Veronique. “I told you before, and I will say so again. You have not proven he is my son.”
Tye chuckled, a bitter sound. “We expected your refusal.” From the front of his tunic, he withdrew a rolled parchment, tied with twine, and thrust it forward.
His eyes narrowed in a scowl, Edouard’s sire said, “I will never sign.”
“Never? That is a strong word, Father.”
Beware, Father. Beware!
“My answer is, and always will be, never.”
Come on, come on! Edouard silently pleaded as he worked again on his bonds.
The knot loosened further.
“Your reluctance, too, was anticipated,” Veronique said with a wicked giggle. “I know we will change your mind.” She looked back over her shoulder at Kaine, then Edouard, then, with bright, glittering eyes, Juliana. “Kill her.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Veronique’s words slammed into Juliana’s mind.
She was going to die.
Now.
Before the horror fully bloomed in Juliana’s thoughts, the mercenaries eased aside their weapons to haul her forward, toward the wall walk’s edge.
Juliana dug her heels into the rough stone beneath her feet. She twisted her upper body to and fro, trying to break their punishing hold.
“Nay!” Edouard roared behind her. “Take me instead.”
“Edouard!” Juliana screamed, while she struggled. But the mercenaries were too strong. With brutal tugs, they brought her to the open space between the merlons, giving her an unhindered view of the steep drop to the ground and the shocked crowd below. The mercenary on her left shoved his knife near her face, a reminder of what was to come.
Sickening shudders ran through her. Her breath whistled sharply in her throat. She’d vowed not to yield. What more, though, could she do? How did she break free of these thugs and fulfill her vow to fight?
Tears slipped down her cheeks. Edouard, my chivalrous protector, how I wish we’d never disagreed in the past. How I wish you weren’t betrothed to Nara. How I wish we were both free and could begin anew. I weep, in my very soul, that I never had the chance to love you.
“Release her,” Lord de Lanceau bellowed from below.
“Kill her!” Veronique shrieked.
The mercenary at Juliana’s right, holding his sword at hip level, wrenched her arm and thereby tugged her body sideways as though to better thrust his blade into her belly. Ignoring the dagger close to her cheek—she’d die anyway, unless she got free—she fought the thugs’ hold.
In her mind, she suddenly saw Mayda, poised at the edge of the wall walk, fighting for her life. Mayda, I am sorry. I failed in all you asked of me.
The glint of metal warned her of the moving sword. Her tear-blurred gaze fell to Lord de Lanceau, his grim stare fixed upon her. Even as she struggled, her stomach clenched, preparing to feel the weapon’s sharp bite.
As though the passing moment had somehow slowed, she saw de Lanceau nod, the barest dip of his head.
The blond man beside him, holding a crossbow, aimed his weapon at her. Fired.
The steel-tipped bolt streaked through the air toward her. A merciful death. They’d taken the right to her life from Veronique.
Edouard, I am forever lost—
The sword’s tip touched her stomach.
Blood splattered across her face and torso. It dripped from her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and awaited agonizing pain.
Through a fog of expectation, Juliana heard the mercenary to her right groan, followed by the clank of metal by her feet.
The mercenary wielding the dagger gasped. Shouts erupted along the battlements. Veronique shrieked, her voice accompanied by the whistle of fired arrows.
Juliana opened one eye to see arrows flying down into the bailey, where servants and warriors had started fighting. The mercenary who’d aimed to plunge his sword into her had crumpled over, clutching at his chest, where the feathered fletching of the bolt poked out. His blood stained her clothes.
Relief and hope raced through her. As the wounded mercenary turned his bloody head to glare at her, and tried to pick up his sword, she brought her leg up and slammed her foot into his thigh. He reeled against the nearby merlon. With a strangled roar, he lost his balance, tripped on uneven stone, and fell over the side, down to the bailey below.
A sharp tug snapped her focus back to the other mercenary. His lips drew back from his blackened teeth, and the knife gleamed as he tilted it, clearly readying to strike. Before she could draw in air to scream, a crossbow bolt spliced through his neck, from throat to nape, with a grisly fwoop and crack of bone. Eyes rolling, he fell backward onto the wall walk, the dagger still in his hand.
She was alive. Alive!
“Get her!” Veronique shrieked.
Dragging in a breath, Julia
na dropped to a crouch before the fallen sword and sliced her bonds. Then she snatched up the weapon. Keeping an eye on Veronique and her lackeys, she glanced over the battlement, to thank de Lanceau’s crossbowman who’d saved her. Yet the bailey was a seething battle scene, with castle folk fighting mercenaries, the wounded crying for help, and the dead sprawled on the ground. De Lanceau and the crossbowman were nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Tye.
“Do not let her escape!” Veronique shrieked. Raising the sword, Juliana spun around to face a bald mercenary, one of the men who’d restrained Edouard. A knife flashed in the mercenary’s grasp.
She glared at him. Then, quickly, at Veronique. Juliana focused all her hatred and resolve into her stare; never would she let the murderous woman who’d caused so much grief at the castle win this battle.
Veronique’s stare sharpened. “I was right. You remember.”
“I do. Everything.”
“Get that sword from her,” Veronique snapped to the mercenary. “I want her as my hostage. Now!”
The mercenary lunged forward, and Juliana darted back several steps. She dared a glance at Edouard. Pride shone in his gaze, and he winked.
Juliana’s pulse fluttered—oh, how she savored that wink—even as she guessed he wanted her to keep this lout distracted. Her arms, though, had started to tremble from the weight of the weapon.
The mercenary grinned. “’Ow long, lovey, till ye ’ave ta put the sword down?”
She scowled, for Veronique was edging in toward her. She would not be Veronique’s captive again. At least this time, when facing Veronique, Juliana had a weapon.
A pained grunt, then the clang of falling metal came from behind the bald mercenary. As he spun, knife at the ready, Juliana saw Edouard had thrown aside his bonds. His remaining guard stood with one arm crossed over his belly, his dagger on the stones several yards away.
“Well done, milord!” Kaine struggled against his two captors.
His face dark with fury, Edouard’s guard staggered back, then reached into his boot, no doubt for another knife.
Edouard snatched up the fallen dagger and looked at Juliana. “Bring me the sword.”
A Knight's Persuasion (Knight's Series Book 4) Page 27