Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  "You?Nay, milady. 'Twould not do."

  Mildred's chest puffed out like a proud mother hen's. "Why not? She is a fine embroiderer."

  Before the maid could utter another protest, Elizabeth curled up in one of the chairs and pulled the tunic onto her lap. Her fingers flew over the silk, each stitch light and deft, and within moments she had mended part of the tear.

  Elena stood and glanced at the lord's table. Elizabeth peered around the chair, and saw the men were still bent over the parchment. Dominic looked to be illustrating a point with his finger while de Lanceau nodded, his brow creased into a frown.

  The maid shook her head. "If milord finds out—"

  Standing next to the hearth, Mildred snorted. "He is far too busy with other matters to worry about a little needlework." She plopped down in an empty chair, folded her hands over her plump belly, and closed her eyes.

  Elizabeth had just resumed her work when a shadow blocked her light. She shifted her weight to take advantage of another slant of sunshine, when realization tore through her in a hot-cold tremor.

  De Lanceau stood behind her.

  "What mischief do you make, milady?" His voice rumbled like thunder.

  Clutching the tunic, Elizabeth leapt to her feet. Partway to the stairwell, Elena spun and looked about to faint with fright. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

  De Lanceau looked from Elena to Mildred, then at Elizabeth. As he folded his arms across his shirt and quirked an eyebrow, she shivered. "Well?"

  Mildred cleared her throat. "Milord, if I may explain."

  His gaze did not move from Elizabeth's face. "Aye?"

  "Milady offered to help Elena with the embroidery," the matron said matter-of-factly.

  "Did she, now?" He snatched the tunic from Elizabeth's hands and scrutinized her stitches. Surprise and admiration lightened his gaze, and his lashes flicked up. "You did this?"

  "I did."

  He swiveled and faced Elena. "Is that so?"

  The maid nodded.

  "Your work is fine, damsel. Very fine, indeed." His mouth curved into a grudging, lopsided grin.

  Elizabeth's breath suspended, caught by a shimmering magic. His smile held no hint of mockery or malice, but genuine respect. A reverent gleam in his eyes, he traced the embroidery with his thumb. She forced herself to look away.

  The matron beamed. "Lady Anne had uncommon skill with a needle and thread, and taught Elizabeth. You were but a scrawny girl when you learned your first stitches, were you not, milady?"

  A groan scratched Elizabeth's throat. "Mildred."

  De Lanceau chuckled.

  The matron tossed her gray braid. "He should appreciate your talent. Many noble ladies embroider, but few have the skill of our dear Lady Anne, bless her departed soul." Her thick brows rose. "Or you, milady. I would wager every good tooth in my mouth that your stitching is the finest in all of England."

  Elizabeth blushed. "Mildred."

  The rogue's grin widened, and Elizabeth's stomach swooped like one of the diving robins.

  "With your talent, he should be paying you to fix that tunic."

  An exasperated sigh burst from Elizabeth. "Mildred, cease!"

  De Lanceau laughed. "Fret not, milady."

  Her face burning, Elizabeth dared to glance at him. His eyes glinted with humor. He bowed his head to her, an elegant, chivalric gesture that made her pulse thump a little faster, and held the tunic out to her.

  She hesitated, pretending she did not care whether she finished the task or not, then took it. His smile broadened, and, to her dismay, her blush deepened. She cursed herself for reacting like a giddy girl.

  "Milord," Elena said in a hushed voice, her fingers knotted into the front of her bliaut. "May I—"

  He dismissed her with a nod. "Resume your duties."

  Elena pointed to the silk in Elizabeth's hand. "The tear?"

  "Lady Elizabeth will finish the repair since she has the greater skill. If she so wishes," he added.

  Confusion and pleasure spiraled within Elizabeth like windblown leaves. He gave her a choice. She looked down at the frayed silk.

  Rebellion nagged. She should refuse. He was her enemy, and she owed him naught but hatred. Yet she would rather linger in the hall with Mildred than be cloistered in her chamber.

  Nor had she forgotten her vow to escape.

  "I will finish it."

  "I thank you," he murmured.

  The maid curtsied and hurried away.

  Brushing a crease from the tunic, Elizabeth turned back to the chair by the fire. De Lanceau did not take his leave. She sensed his stare, and glanced over her shoulder.

  Light played over his face and softened the hard line of his jaw. His gaze narrowed, and her fingers curled into the glimmering silk.

  Emotion blazed in his eyes, yet she could not define his expression. Did he suspect her motives?

  A strange half-smile touched his lips.

  "Milord?"

  "You never cease to amaze me, damsel."

  His husky murmur sent tingles skittering down her spine. Forbidden heat rushed through her. With shocking intensity, she remembered his lips upon hers, his caress, as well as the regret in his eyes when she told of her mother.

  Her legs became unsteady. She dropped into the chair. With stiff fingers, she smoothed out the tunic and yanked the threaded needle into position.

  De Lanceau strode away.

  * * *

  Geoffrey returned to the trestle table where Dominic waited. He sat, swallowed some wine, and bade Dominic to continue reviewing the last points of the ransom demand, yet Geoffrey's thoughts refused to settle.

  He imagined Elizabeth's slender hands moving over his favorite tunic, and the whisper of silk against her fingertips.

  Her task seemed intimate, somehow. Or his potent imagination mocked him.

  As Dominic's voice droned on, Geoffrey dragged his gaze from the parchment and looked to the hearth. She sat with her lady-in-waiting, their heads bowed in conversation. How she had hated Mildred telling of her embroidery skill. Yet the lady had an exceptional talent few possessed. Her skill deserved more important projects than mending a tunic.

  He had such a task.

  Painful memories careened into Geoffrey's mind, and he steeled himself against the agony. He had not forgotten and neglected the work, but had saved it until he met an embroiderer with the skill to renew its glory.

  Of all ironies, Lady Elizabeth Brackendale had such skill.

  A sour taste flooded his mouth and he reached for his wine. She would never agree, not when she understood why. Yet now, more than ever, he wanted the work done.

  He would not allow her to refuse.

  Shoving his chair back, he rose. Dominic's head jerked up from the parchment, and he looked puzzled. "Milord?"

  "I must see to a matter. I will return in a moment."

  * * *

  Elizabeth shoved the tunic down on her lap, swiveled in the chair, and glared at her lady-in-waiting. "How could you? Why did you tell that rogue about my mother's skill, and mine?

  "I am sorry." Mildred sighed. "I did not mean to upset you, but I did not think you would mind."

  Elizabeth scowled.

  "'Tis not so terrible, is it?" Folding her wrinkled hands together, the matron smiled. "Now he will treat you with the respect you deserve. He seemed impressed by the revelations."

  "I do not care to impress him." Elizabeth's tone raised a notch. "You and I are hostages. Have you forgotten we were brought here against our will?"

  The warmth vanished from Mildred's gaze. "I have not forgotten. Nor shall I stop trying to find us a means of escape. Yet I will do all I can to protect you. You may be a noblewoman, but all the titles in England cannot save you if de Lanceau decides to take you to his bed."

  A gasp parted Elizabeth's lips.

  Reaching over, Mildred touched Elizabeth's hand. "I do not mean to alarm you, but we have both heard the stories of maidens held for ransom, who return home wi
th bastards in their bellies."

  A log shifted in the hearth. Flames roared, masking Elizabeth's outraged huff. "He would not dare."

  "He seems to have treated you with honor thus far, despite his contempt for your sire." Mildred's lips tilted in a saucy grin. "I do believe de Lanceau respects you. Respect, milady, has a power all its own."

  A draft blew across the floor, and the fire flickered. Elizabeth shivered. Was de Lanceau's kiss in her chamber the prelude to his ravishing her? She stared down at the tunic and found it wadded into a ball.

  "Do not worry." Mildred smothered a yawn with her sleeve. "Keep your wits about you, and all will be well."

  "Good advice, milady."

  Elizabeth started at the sound of de Lanceau's voice. She had not heard him approach. He stood a few paces away, holding a length of blue silk.

  Fighting a blush, she asked, "How long were you listening?"

  "I heard no more than Mildred's last words. Should I have come earlier?"

  "Harrumph!" Mildred waved a disparaging hand. "You must have more important concerns than our chatter."

  "Indeed, I do." Striding closer to Elizabeth, he held out the silk. The tattered, embroidered emblem of a hawk, its wings outstretched for flight, flashed in the sunlight. The faded material was stained and torn almost beyond repair.

  She raised her brows. "Another tunic?"

  Anger glowed in his eyes. "A saddle trapping. One I have kept for eighteen years."

  His words hit her like stones. "Your father's?"

  He nodded. "I took it from his horse the night he died. When you are done with the tunic, I want you to mend this trapping. I expect your finest work."

  Elizabeth tossed the tunic aside and lunged to her feet. "Never!"

  He loomed over her, his face a determined mask. "My destrier will wear it when I ride into battle against your sire. He will know that I am proud to be a de Lanceau, and that I am not afraid to avenge my father."

  Rage shook her to her very soul. "I will not."

  "You will. I know many methods of persuasion." His gaze smoldered with warning, and he stared at her mouth. "I vow you are familiar with a few."

  She was indeed. Her mind and body tormented her with constant reminders. Elizabeth lowered her lashes, refused to let him see her fear. "You are a beast."

  His laughter rumbled. "Then you agree?"

  A scathing refusal welled in her throat. Yet "nay" was a poor answer when he could force her to yield. If he confined her to her chamber, she might never get a chance to flee. Far wiser to say "aye" and escape him before she finished what he demanded.

  Her lips pressed into a line, and she glared up at him with all the fury boiling inside her. "I agree. Not because of your threats, but because you are doomed to fail. Your horse may wear your sire's trapping, but my father will destroy you."

  "We shall see, milady."

  "Aye, we shall."

  He pushed the trapping into her hands and stormed away. His muttered voice drifted back to her, as he spoke with Dominic.

  Mildred shook her head. "If I had known he would use your talents in such a way, I would never have—"

  "Do not blame yourself." Elizabeth sat back in the chair and set the trapping on the side table. Lowering her voice, she added, "I will not complete it. We will be free before then."

  The matron grinned.

  Moments later, de Lanceau left the hall, holding the parchment. Dominic walked at his side. As soon as the rogue disappeared from view, Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. Her rigid posture eased.

  Mildred soon succumbed to the fire's warmth and dozed with her chin drooping to the front of her gown.

  As Elizabeth stitched the tunic, she heard the servants talking, the rattle of crockery as they cleared and scrubbed the tables, the yelp of a dog when it got underfoot. She also learned to distinguish the voices of the two guards by the stairwell, who amused themselves with a game of dice as the day passed. From their rough conversation, she gathered the keep had one well, a gatehouse guarded day and night, and too few horses for their liking, details she tucked away at the back of her mind for her and Mildred's escape.

  The fire had burned low when Elizabeth tied the final knot in the thread. Smothering a yawn, she held the tunic up to the fading sunshine and shook out the creases. The embroidery caught the firelight and flashed like a fish out of water.

  "'Tis an excellent repair, milady." The matron smiled and looked refreshed after her nap.

  "It did mend well." Elizabeth inspected the tiny stitches one last time, pleased herself at how she could not see where the tear had once split the hem's pattern.

  Her eyes shining, Elena came to the hearth. "Milady, the tunic looks new again. How can I thank you for helping me?"

  Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand and trapped another yawn. She thought of the agreement Dominic had struck with her that morn which had brought her to the hall, and bit back a disappointed sigh. The rogue had never intended to keep his word.

  Shifting in the chair, she eased the cramp in her bottom from sitting so long on a hard seat. With a rueful laugh, she said, "A hot bath would be wonderful."

  Elena nodded. "I will fetch it."

  Elizabeth almost fell out of her chair. "What did you say?"

  "Milord told me to bring a bath upon your request."

  "He did?" After their heated words regarding the trapping earlier, she had not expected him to follow through with his vow.

  "Lord de Lanceau is a man of great honor. He would never break his word. Not a promise made to a lady."

  "How chivalrous," Elizabeth murmured and glanced at Mildred, who arched an eyebrow.

  "I shall send the bath to your chamber, milady," Elena said. "I will come and assist you as soon as I have fetched soap, towels, and a basin to rinse your hair." She curtsied and hurried away, murmuring under her breath and ticking off items on her fingers as she went.

  At the tromp of approaching footsteps, Elizabeth stood. The guards had come to escort her and Mildred to their chambers.

  After anchoring the needle into the remaining thread, she placed both on the table beside the folded tunic. She turned and hugged Mildred. "I will see you anon."

  She drew away, but the matron took her hand. "I am glad he granted you the bath. The rogue has a heart, after all."

  Elizabeth frowned. "We shall see."

  A smile touched Mildred's lips. "I think we shall."

  * * *

  Geoffrey met Elena in the stairwell. Head down, one hand flat against the stone wall, she almost ran into him as she descended the spiraling passage.

  "Milord." She dropped into an awkward curtsey.

  "You are out of breath." He squinted up at her through the smoky torchlight and wished he could read her expression. "All is well?"

  "I fetch the lady's bath."

  "She has finished the tunic?"

  Elena's head bobbed. "You will be most pleased."

  He stepped to one side and motioned for the maid to pass. Her footsteps faded as he climbed the last steps, two at a time, to the great hall.

  Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey crossed to the empty chairs near the hearth. The garment lay folded on the side table, its design glittering in the firelight.

  As he held it up for a better look, a smile tugged at his mouth. As he expected, the damsel had done well. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he let the tunic slide to the table.

  His gaze shifted to the trapping, pushed to one side. He rubbed his fingers over the tattered, torn fabric. She resented his demand to mend it, but she had the'skill to stitch life back into the cloth, and make the embroidered hawk soar again. He trusted her to make it worthy of his father's memory.

  To make it whole.

  He lowered his arm and his fingers grazed the parchment tucked into his belt for safekeeping. Today he had learned a great deal about Elizabeth, and also the mother she had adored, a lady who had cared enough about her daughter to spend days teaching her difficult
needlework. A vision of Elizabeth's tear-streaked face and anguished gaze flew into his thoughts, and a heavy weight pressed upon his conscience. He forced the memory from his mind.

  A child's giggle carried in the hall, and he turned to see a dark-haired toddler dart behind one of the chairs.

  "Roydon, come at once." Elena appeared at the top of the stairwell, her cheeks flushed and arms laden with linen towels, rags, and a cake of white soap. "Roydon!"