Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  Elizabeth raised her head a fraction. The crunch of dirt changed to a hiss. The wagon had veered off the road and into grass.

  After a while the jostling slowed, then stopped.

  Mildred groaned. "My body is one big bruise."

  "Mine too." One of the men trapping Elizabeth's hair moved his foot, tugging on her tresses, and she winced. "Barbarians."

  The pressure eased from her hair and clothing. The wagon swayed from side to side. The tarp shifted and was hauled away.

  Elizabeth squinted in the sudden light. The sun had risen well into the sky. She sucked in the fresh morning air and fought the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. She would not succumb to the beckoning darkness.

  Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up to sitting, shoved hair from her eyes, and looked around.

  The ruffians now stood in the waist-high grass. Several guarded her and Mildred, while others moved off to keep watch from a distance. They were all armed.

  The wagon rested at the edge of a meadow. A glassy stream meandered through the field of wildflowers and grasses before it disappeared into a forest. There was no sign of a road.

  Movement drew her gaze to two men striding toward the willows that grew near the stream. She recognized de Lanceau and Dominic. They headed toward horses tethered in the trees' dappled shade. De Lanceau's dark hair glinted silver-blue in the sunlight and hung in waves over his tunic's shoulders, and she cursed herself for paying him the slightest heed.

  The man was a rogue. Worse than a rogue.

  He did not warrant her attention.

  "Are ye goin' to sit there gapin', me foin lady, or do I come in and get ye?"

  Viscon's fingers clamped around her wrist. The guards standing a few yards away chuckled.

  With a loud "oomph" Mildred rose to her feet, her tresses a wild tangle. "Let go of her. This boorishness is unacceptable."

  "Ye too, ye fat old hen," Viscon sneered. "Out. De Lanceau wants ye ta stretch yer legs. While ye can."

  Proving he would get their cooperation one way or another, Viscon drew his dagger with a slow, deliberate rasp.

  Recalling that blade waved in her face, and his earlier threats, Elizabeth rose to her feet. He looked disappointed— he obviously had hoped for a fight—then shrugged and released her.

  Mildred climbed out. Elizabeth gripped the splintered edge of the cart and stepped down to the ground. Her stomach did a sickening turn. Daisies swam beneath her feet. As she pitched forward, Viscon chortled.

  Mildred rushed over. Her arms went around Elizabeth's waist and propped her up. "Can you stand, milady?"

  "I . . . I think so. Aye, the dizziness has cleared."

  The matron's worried gaze shifted to Elizabeth's brow. "Does the gash hurt?"

  Elizabeth nodded. The headache had returned with a vengeance, and her arm throbbed as though goblins hammered at her flesh. A cool breeze whispered through the grass and swirled over her bare ankles, and she shivered.

  Mildred, too, was shivering. When she began to fuss over Elizabeth's bloody hair and cheek, Elizabeth caught her wrinkled hands. They felt like slabs of ice. "You are chilled. Here, take my mantle." Elizabeth unpinned the gold brooch and pulled the cloak from her shoulders. She ignored the men's mutters and stares.

  "Milady! You cannot stand before these ruffians wearing only a shift."

  Disquiet flooded through Elizabeth, but she shook her head. "I do not want you to become ill. My clothing is not indecent, and I doubt de Lanceau's men will harm me. If they wished to do so, they had the chance earlier."

  "But—"

  Lowering her voice, Elizabeth said, "You must stay well, so we can escape."

  "Are you certain you do not need its warmth?"

  Elizabeth resisted the urge to hug herself. "I am."

  With a grateful sigh, Mildred pulled the garment around her shoulders.

  Fingering windblown hair from her cheek, Elizabeth glanced across the meadow, to where de Lanceau and Dominic stood beside the horses. They were taking items from the saddlebags.

  A chill skittered through her. The mantle had given her an added layer of armor against de Lanceau's heated gaze, but now. . .

  She shook off her thoughts. She would not drain her strength by worrying. She must focus on escape.

  Mildred fastened the brooch beneath her chin and rubbed her palms together. "Ah, for a hot draught of mint and nettle." Her gaze slid to Viscon leaning against the wagon, then to the other watchful guards. "Why has de Lanceau run off? The least he could do is offer ointment for

  my lady's wound."

  The mercenary picked at a sore on his face. "'Is whereabouts are no concern of yers."

  "Oaf!" Mildred turned her back to him. "Come, milady. Let me wash the grime from your face. Then I can examine the cut." '

  Sliding her left arm through the matron's, Elizabeth whispered, "On the way, mayhap we will get a chance to flee." They started for the stream, flattening a path through the grasses dotted with poppies and cornflowers.

  "Oy!" a guard called.

  "Where do you think you're going?" another shouted.

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "Ignore them."

  Mildred chuckled. "I shall."

  Irritated voices rose behind them. Grasses crunched as the men followed. Elizabeth quelled the urge to run. With her wounds, and the guards so close, she and Mildred would only get a few paces before they were caught.

  A little later, however, they might have the perfect opportunity to elude their captors.

  Ignoring her pursuers, Elizabeth slowed her strides to a graceful walk and pretended she had no intentions of fleeing. As she approached the stream, she slipped her arm from Mildred's, raised her shift's hem, and stepped down to the bank. The earthy scent of mud and sun-warmed pebbles rose up to her. Silver-bellied minnows shot out of the glimmering shallows.

  Tucking her shift between her knees, she bent to wash. A bedraggled woman stared back at her.

  How wretched she looked. Her hair was streaked with flour. The dried blood on her cheek enhanced the dark smudges beneath her eyes, and her fine linen shift, embroidered at the cuffs and neck with delicate flowers, was creased and stained. Anger and humiliation blazed through her, and she plunged her hands into the water and rinsed her face.

  Mildred crouched beside her, tore a strip from the hem of her shift and dipped it into the water. "I will be careful, but this may hurt."

  Elizabeth stood. Shutting her eyes, she steeled her nerves against the press of wet cloth. She paid no heed to the approaching footfalls.

  "Come away from the water," a guard snapped.

  "Did you hear something, milady?" Mildred asked with a disdainful sniff.

  Elizabeth smiled. "Naught but the wind's pleasing sigh."

  The guard swore. Another spoke in a tone fraught with concern, and Elizabeth resisted a giggle.

  More footsteps approached.

  "You can tell that rogue de Lanceau we have no intention of cooperating with any of you," Elizabeth said, not opening her eyes. "Tell him I think he is an idiot. If he has even a mote of intelligence in his addled head, he will release us."

  "You may tell me yourself."

  Elizabeth's eyes flew open. De Lanceau stood above her on the bank, his hands planted on his hips. In one fist, he held a scuffed saddlebag.

  "Well?" he said.

  Her cheeks flamed, but her soul would roast in hell before she would allow him to best her. She turned to face him. The abrupt movement set the meadow spinning before her eyes, and she blinked twice before he came back into focus.

  His mouth tightened. "You wish to speak with me?"

  "You heard every word. I have no wish to repeat them." With an annoyed huff, she flicked her hair over her shoulder.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. His expression darkened, and her breath jammed in her throat.

  With agonizing slowness, his heavy-lidded gaze dragged up her torso, across her shift's embroidered front, to her face. Her skin prickle
d. Heated. Burned, as though his fingers, not his gaze, had swept over her.

  He stared at her with fierce intensity. A look that suggested he saw every swell and curve under her shift.

  She forced herself to exhale, and crossed her shaking arms over her breasts. His stare should not fill her with a strange excitement.

  "I heard your words," he murmured. "Foolish words, spoken in haste. But then"—his gaze skimmed over her again—"you seem to have a talent for foolishness."

  Elizabeth's belly somersaulted. She wondered if he referred to her giving Mildred the mantle, or the market incident. How shameful, that she still remembered his body's warmth pressed against her, and that she had once dreamed of his kiss.

  "Come away from the water, before you slip and fall in, and I have to rescue you again."

  She drummed her fingers on her forearms. "I do not take orders from ruffians."

  He arched an eyebrow. "You wish me to come and getyou?"

  "I most certainly do not."

  "We have a long journey ahead of us, and will be leaving soon. There is food and drink at the wagon." He opened the saddlebag. "I brought ointment for your wound."

  Elizabeth turned her back on him. She did not want his fare, or his ointment. She thrust up her chin, tried to walk away, but found her right slipper stuck in the mud. She tugged her foot. It came free with a pjffrrttt, the sound of hearty flatulence.

  Laughter erupted behind her. Elizabeth fought the mortified giggle welling in her throat.

  "I suggest you eat," de Lanceau said, his tone lightened by a chuckle. "We leave when the horses are ready."

  She glared at him over her shoulder. "Where are you taking us?"

  "You will know soon enough."

  "Branton Keep?"

  His expression clouded with wariness.

  Elizabeth smiled. "I heard King Richard had granted you that run down old fortress as a reward for your bravery in the Crusades. How ironic; you return the king's gratitude by kidnapping the daughter of one of his loyal lords."

  De Lanceau scowled.

  "'Twill not bode well for you when the king learns of your actions. You will find your keep under siege for the same reasons your traitorous father was attacked years ago."

  He drew a hissed breath. "You have a bold tongue, milady, and know not what you speak of."

  "And you, sirrah, are an idiot to provoke war with my sire.

  De Lanceau stared at her across the muddy ground. "The sensual heat had vanished from his eyes. Now, he looked angry enough to throttle her.

  Fear whipped through her. She had spoken without forethought. Yet she had held true to her heart, and would never relinquish faith in her father.

  De Lanceau's voice became a rasp. "You are unwise to speak of matters you do not understand. You are an even greater fool to taunt me. Fall into the water. Eat or not eat. I do not care."

  He shoved a small earthenware pot into one of the men's hands, slung the saddlebag over his shoulder, and stalked off.

  Elizabeth blew a sigh. She uncurled her hands, flexed her numb fingers and resisted the impulse to watch him walk away.

  "We should use the ointment and eat the food he has offered," Mildred said, her tone soothing. "If he is taking us to Branton, we shall not reach there till nightfall."

  "I would rather starve." As Elizabeth spoke, her stomach gurgled.

  "You cannot best de Lanceau if you faint from hunger."

  Elizabeth sighed. She could not escape, either. She took Mildred's arm. The matron snatched up the ointment pot and they headed back to the wagon.

  De Lanceau stood with several of his men, adjusting the bridle of a gray destrier. He looked up, but Elizabeth refused to meet his narrowed gaze. She swept past him and surveyed the food set out on a blanket on the wagon's lowered edge— bread pitted with stones, and wedges of yellowed cheese, to be washed down with mead from a battered pigskin flask.

  Her stomach whined, and she loosed a silent groan. At least when Fraeda baked bread she picked the bigger stones out of the flour to spare one's teeth.

  Mildred popped open the pot and sniffed the contents. With a finger, she scooped out some of the greasy yellow ointment.

  "Sit on the edge of the wagon, milady. This smells vile, but 'tis all we have."

  Elizabeth sat. As Mildred dabbed at her temple, Elizabeth broke off some bread, nibbled the crust, and watched a butterfly flit through a cluster of daisies. Under other circumstances, she would have loved this pretty spot perfumed with wildflowers.

  As Mildred pressed on a tender spot, Elizabeth winced. She sensed de Lanceau's assessing stare, and smothered another groan.

  The sooner she escaped, the better.

  * * *

  Geoffrey gave his destrier an affectionate pat on the neck before starting toward the wagon. Wariness shadowed Elizabeth's eyes. She brushed breadcrumbs from her lap and rose from where she sat beside Mildred on the wagon.

  So he made the lady uneasy. Good.

  Striding past her, he grabbed a slice of the coarse bread. As he bit off a piece, she moved away and stared toward the forest. The breeze blew her shift against her body. The sheer fabric clung to her figure, and mocked him with its filmy drape, light and shadow.

  He didn't want to gape like a randy green squire, but he couldn't help himself.

  The cloth outlined all of her woman's curves. Her glorious black tresses curled down over the swell of her breasts and tumbled to her slim waist. How foolish, that he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to savor its scent, to feel its shiny weight in his hands. As he stared, drawn by the sunlight playing over her tresses, she brushed strands off her throat.

  His loins stirred. She was a magnificent creature.

  She was Brackendale's daughter. Forbidden.

  A tiny stone slipped down his throat.

  Choking, he groped for the flask, raised it to his mouth, and took a sip. The mead was warm. Sweet as a virgin's first kisses. As sweet as Elizabeth's lips.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and cursed his mind for wandering where it should not.

  Elizabeth took another step, and Geoffrey frowned. She swayed a little. It clearly took effort for her to keep her balance. She cradled her right arm.

  Unwelcome guilt tore through him. In the Earl of Druentwode's tiltyards and on Acre's bloodstained battlefields, he had seen enough wounded to recognize physical injury. She had hurt more than her forehead when she fell.

  He gripped the flask and chewed more bread. He would see her wounds healed, but would not feel sorry for her. The lady had enjoyed a privileged life, without the slightest want or need, and had done so because his father had died.

  His honorable sire had never deserved to be named a traitor.

  He had never deserved to be slaughtered.

  Geoffrey forced himself to swallow the mouthful. If he shut his eyes, if he allowed the despair and memories to surface, he again felt his father's icy fingers gripping his own, and smelled blood-soaked straw . . .

  "Have you finished with the mead, milord?" Mildred asked.

  Geoffrey's eyes snapped open. He quelled a violent tremor, and glanced at Mildred. "What?"

  "A drink, if I may?"

  He tossed her the flask and looked back at Elizabeth. She bent to pick a flower. By abducting her, he could well end up with his head lopped from his neck. Yet he could no longer live the bitter lie which had haunted him since he was ten years old.

  He could not find proof to exonerate his father—and by God, he had tried—but the simple truth remained. His sire had wanted him to rule the de Lanceau legacy, the lands granted to his proud Norman predecessors by William the Conqueror, and passed down through the oldest male sons.

  And so he would.

  By force and cunning, Wode and all its lands would be his. He would have his inheritance, and revenge.

  A grim smile touched his lips. No one would stand in his way. Above all, Brackendale's daughter.

  * * *

 
; Grasses rustled behind Elizabeth, and she tensed. Moments ago, she had sensed de Lanceau's brooding gaze upon her, prowling over her body in a manner that shot goose bumps over her skin. She had ignored him and hoped that, like an irritating wasp, he would be distracted and go away.

  A futile wish.

  "We leave now," de Lanceau said. His voice held command and a warning not to disobey.