Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  * * *

  "That is the last of the longbows, milord," Dominic said. "The crossbows have been handed out." The knight tossed a quiver of arrows to a young sentry, while Geoffrey passed the remaining pikes and swords to the bleary-eyed servants and men-at-arms congregated in the bailey.

  Geoffrey squinted up at the wall walk. A handful of trained archers stood in place, poised to fire upon intruders crossing the moat to scale the outer curtain wall. God above, 'twas a tiny force to hold back a large army. In a booming voice, he ordered more armed men to the wall walk.

  The snorts of horses anticipating battle, the jangle of bridles, the tromped footfalls and shouts of trained men carried to him on the breeze. Outside Branton's walls, Brackendale had gathered a formidable force, no doubt with Baron Sedge- wick's assistance.

  At least Branton Keep was well fortified. Brackendale's men would have to cross the moat, and any soldiers forging through the deep water made easy targets for the archers. If the soldiers made it across alive, they would have to break through the drawbridge and portcullis—

  A sound grated down every vertebra in his spine. The drawbridge. Descending.

  "God's teeth!" he roared.

  Dominic turned, his face white with shock. "The gatehouse," he said above the cries of alarm. "Traitors."

  Rage and disbelief thundering in his blood, Geoffrey ran for the looming stone building. The mail hauberk, the repaired armor he had worn in battle at Acre, thumped against his legs and slowed his pace. His chausses lay in a heap beside the bailey wall, abandoned because more important matters had demanded his attention. He could not turn back and put them on.

  He reached the gatehouse's entry door. Locked.

  Geoffrey pounded his fists on the rough wood and bellowed as splinters dug into his skin. No one answered.

  "The wall walk entry," he shouted. Geoffrey bolted up the stone stairs beside the right watchtower with Dominic close behind. He had ascended but a few steps when a hideous roar sounded above him. He glanced up. His belly turned liquid.

  Viscon. A drawn sword gleamed in the mercenary's hand.

  As he reached for his blade, Geoffrey swallowed hard. He had not trusted the mercenary when he bought his loyalty. Fighting for the enemy, the man was an even more fearsome foe. Garbed in a hauberk of boiled leather, Viscon looked like the county executioner.

  Pacing the mercenary along the uneven stair, Geoffrey forced himself to ignore the taunts spewing from the ogre's cracked lips. Geoffrey dodged Viscon's first calculated feint. Grunting, the mercenary lunged again. Their swords clanged. Geoffrey tensed, expecting Viscon to follow with a crushing blow, but, as the sound of metal grinding against metal rent the air, the mercenary leapt back a few steps. He grinned and leered down into the bailey.

  Geoffrey dared a sidelong glance. His gut lurched. The drawbridge was lowered. The portcullis was being winched up at an alarming rate. Mail-clad knights and foot soldiers streamed into the bailey and fanned out to confront the soldiers and terrified servants struggling to find swords and don any remaining armor.

  Viscon chortled and raised his sword. "I pity ye, de Lanceau."

  Eyes narrowed, Geoffrey braced himself for the final attack. He lunged.

  His boot hit a raised stone.

  He stumbled.

  Dominic darted forward. "Pity you, fool." His sword plunged into the mercenary's stomach with the sounds of cracking leather and spurting blood.

  His eyes bulging in their sockets, Viscon collided with the wall. He slid to the stair in a crimson puddle. His breath rushed out on a final, rattled gasp. Whispering a few words, Dominic reached over and closed Viscon's eyelids.

  Geoffrey blew a sigh. "Many thanks, my friend."

  A weak grin tilted Dominic's mouth. "I owed you twice for saving my life. Now, I only owe you once."

  Behind them, the archers on the battlements unleashed a hail of arrows upon the army in the bailey. Men screamed. Arrows pinged off shields and helms. Horses whinnied and swords shrieked. As Geoffrey started down the stairwell, the archers fought a concentrated attack from the moat side of the curtain wall. The rain of arrows diminished, and then stopped.

  Geoffrey's blood ran cold. The enemy had control of the bailey.

  His fist tightened around his sword as one knight, mounted on a huge bay destrier and wearing a silk surcoat, kicked his horse forward and claimed the ground separating the armies. His helm sat low over his face. The nasal guard obscured his features except for his angular jaw and the glint of his piercing blue eyes. Even so, Geoffrey recognized him.

  The man who had killed his father.

  At last, vengeance.

  Geoffrey's leather grip burned his palm. The cry to charge forward, slash, and avenge howled inside him, and he sucked in a slow breath. He must not ruin his victory. He must not give Brackendale any reason to cut him down before the battle between them had been fought. His arm trembled with the immense effort, yet Geoffrey sheathed his weapon.

  "Geoffrey de Lanceau," Brackendale roared.

  Hands on his hips, Geoffrey strode out of the stairwell's shadows and halted before the destrier. He stood firm as the older lord's gaze raked over him, from his hair to his leather boots.

  "You bastard!" Brackendale shouted.

  Geoffrey did not flinch.

  "Where is my daughter?"

  "Safe."

  The lord's mouth curled."Where?"

  Geoffrey smiled, but did not answer.

  With a furious growl, Brackendale reached for his sword. The blade whipped out of the scabbard with ferocious speed. He tilted the weapon at Geoffrey's chest. Warning whooshed through Geoffrey, yet he quelled the impulse to draw his blade, even though the pommel sat close to his fingers.

  Brackendale's eyes glittered with warning. "You are surrounded, de Lanceau. I have superior forces, and will not hesitate to demolish this keep, stone by stone, and kill every living thing within it. Tell me where to find Elizabeth. Now. Or I will give the order."

  "I thought we were to have a melee," Geoffrey said and raised an eyebrow. "Were you afraid to fight me, old man?"

  "How dare you?!"

  "Mayhap you feared I would best you." Geoffrey folded his arms across his mailed chest, pretending nonchalance.

  "'Twould be ignoble to die by the sword of Edouard de Lanceau's son, a traitor's son, would it not?"

  The older lord's mouth thinned. He shoved the tip of his weapon into Geoffrey's mail. The pressure bruised, even through the padded gambeson, but Geoffrey did not step back or acknowledge the discomfort. He would not show weakness, not when a battle lay ahead and he aimed to win.

  "Your mockery is far from amusing," Brackendale snapped.

  "But true. You attack me with my defenses down. Not a fair fight. Where is the honor in that, Lord Brackendale?"

  "You speak to me of honor?" bellowed the older lord. "I see none in falsifying missives."

  "True. 'Twas a necessary diversion, though, and it worked."

  "You made a fool of me."

  "I want Wode," Geoffrey said. "If I thought you would recognize my claim, the ruse would not have been necessary."

  Brackendale's sword bit deeper. "Did you also plan to defile my daughter?"

  Geoffrey flinched.

  Behind Brackendale, a bloated knight on horseback swore. He removed his helm and mopped sweat from his brow. Geoffrey scowled. Baron Sedgewick. How could Brackendale have betrothed Elizabeth to this cruel, pathetic excuse for a man? His jaw hardened at the thought of the baron, or any man, touching her the way he had.

  When he saw the woman standing in the shadow of one of the watchtowers, tucking a chestnut curl under her mantle's hood, his scowl deepened. Veronique. He had guessed she betrayed him, but the confirmation stung. She cast him a gloating smile before turning and crossing the drawbridge to join the soldiers guarding the moat.

  A harsh grin slanted Brackendale's mouth, as though he had read Geoffrey's thoughts. "You thought I did not know about Elizabeth?"
<
br />   Rage and anguish blazed in Brackendale's eyes, and Geoffrey guessed Veronique's words had not been favorable or true. "Lord Brackendale—"

  "Bastard!" The older lord spat. "You will pay for deceiving me. You will suffer for every wretched moment I wasted riding to Tillenham. Above all, you will pay for dishonoring my daughter."

  "I did naught she did not want," Geoffrey said.

  Brackendale thrust his sword deeper. "You lie!"

  Pain radiated through Geoffrey's flesh. He gritted his teeth and fought the battle yell burning in his throat. He would not attack first.

  "You will die like a dog," Brackendale snarled, spittle foaming at his mouth. "Take a good look around you, for 'twill be your last." He whipped his blade up and back, poised to lop Geoffrey's head from his shoulders.

  Geoffrey drew his sword.

  "Father!Nay!"

  Brackendale's arm jerked. With an awkward turn of his wrist, he halted the sword's arc and stared in the direction of the piercing cry.

  Geoffrey dared to look as well. Elizabeth ran out of the forebuilding, her bliaut flapping about her legs, her tresses streaming out behind her. He would die before he let the baron place a hand on her delicate, scented skin.

  She ran to Brackendale's side. "Father."

  As the older lord reached down and smoothed her tousled hair, his hand shook. "Elizabeth. Thank God you are all right."

  Sedgewick sighed with relief. "Beloved."

  Elizabeth did not even glance at the baron. "Father, please," she said, her skin ashen in the sunlight. "No one has to die."

  Her gaze turned to Geoffrey, and he steeled his emotions against the distress in her eyes, moist with tears. He flexed his hold on his sword's grip, resenting the sweat on his palms. No matter what he felt for her, he must not allow her to distract him or sway him from vengeance.

  His blood buzzed with anticipation. The vow he had shouted years ago, that had branded his soul, echoed in his mind. I will avenge you, Father. God's holy blood, I will avenge you.

  "Get to safety, Elizabeth," Brackendale ordered in a gruff voice. "You need not witness the fight."

  "Please, listen to me."

  The older lord placed a firm hand upon her shoulder. "I will kill him first. I will see him dead, for all he has done to you."

  Elizabeth's eyes flew wide. "Nay! He—"

  "Do as he says, damsel," Geoffrey murmured.

  She gaped at him, looking stunned. Wounded. "Geoffrey?"

  "Pah! You address this cur by his Christian name?" Brackendale sneered.

  "He is as human as you, Father," cried Elizabeth. "You must heed me. Lay down your sword. Let me explain."

  Brackendale signaled to two of his knights and, despite Elizabeth's struggles, they pulled her back into his soldiers' ranks.

  "Father!" she screamed. "Stop!" The knights held her firm.

  Geoffrey shuddered. He hated to hear her distress, but at least she would be protected from any harm.

  The older lord dismounted from his destrier, removed his helm and tossed it to his squire. "You want a fight, de Lanceau? You shall have it. We will settle our enmity once and for all."

  Expectation tingled through Geoffrey. "Do you think you can best me?"

  "I will defeat you. When you lie broken and dying, you will watch this keep's walls fall in around you." Brackendale raised his blade and lunged.

  Geoffrey leapt aside and laughed. "That is the best you can do?"

  Brackendale growled. He thrust again, aiming for Geoffrey's midsection. With a snarl, Geoffrey dodged the blow and sliced his blade upward. Brackendale darted back.

  Geoffrey smiled and the battle call rang louder in his blood. Every muscle in his body coiled for attack as he circled. Assessed. Struck.

  Metal clanged and shrieked. The swords locked until Geoffrey shoved away. Slashing his blade down, he caught Brackendale full across his forearm. The older lord groaned.

  Geoffrey paused, breathing hard. Had he fractured bone? Brackendale staggered. Allowing him just enough time to regain his balance, Geoffrey lunged forward. His sword hit chain mail. The links protecting the older lord's thigh shattered. Blood ran down his leg.

  Frantic cries erupted behind Geoffrey. He shut them out. The ambrosial taste of victory flooded his mouth. A growl rumbled in his throat, and he aimed another strike at Brackendale's injured arm.

  The older lord jerked his sword up, and the sharp edge skidded across the front of Geoffrey's aging armor. Mail links cracked. Snapped. As the weapon's tip sliced through the padded gambeson and tunic to bare flesh, Geoffrey gasped. He stumbled, feeling the hot trickle of blood. It spattered on his hand.

  He saw his father dying. The pool of blood on the dirty straw.

  God's holy blood, I will avenge you.

  In a haze of agony, he looked up to see Brackendale grinning. The older lord raised his sword and aimed it at Geoffrey's broken mail. Blocking out the pain, drawing upon his fury, Geoffrey leapt forward. Slash after slash, he drove Brackendale across the bailey, parting the crowds of soldiers.

  The silver-haired lord grunted, weakening under the onslaught. Geoffrey did not relent. Perspiration ran down his face. Blood dripped onto the ground.

  Brackendale stumbled. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes.

  Seizing the advantage, Geoffrey lunged forward, just as the older lord regained his footing. The weapon cut across Brackendale's thigh. He cried out. Geoffrey stepped forward, hooked his boot behind Brackendale's injured leg, and shoved him backward.

  The older lord crashed to the ground.

  "Father!"

  Geoffrey struggled to shut out Elizabeth's wail and the stinging emotion accompanying it. He raked hair from his eyes and glared down at his enemy, lying dazed at his feet.

  Vengeance at last.

  With a pained grunt, Brackendale groped for his sword that had skidded beyond his reach. Geoffrey shoved the tip of his blade against Brackendale's neck. Fear darkened the older man's eyes, and anticipation of death.

  "Geoffrey, spare him," Elizabeth screamed.

  Something twisted deep in Geoffrey's chest.

  His soul.

  He had dreamed of this glorious moment for eighteen years. With one thrust of his sword, Lord Brackendale would be dead, Geoffrey's father avenged, and Wode free for the claiming.

  Geoffrey had anticipated a rush of triumph. Yet he felt no glory. No joy. No exhilaration. His heart constricted with a soul-deep ache. If he killed the man lying helpless at his feet, Elizabeth would never forgive him. She would hate him.

  He would lose her.

  His hand wavered. He thought of her now, watching the grisly spectacle. He envisioned her tear-streaked face as she waited for him to deliver the mortal blow. He sensed her anguish. He tasted her fear.

  God's blood, he did not want to lose her.

  Geoffrey flexed his fingers on his sword.

  He had no choice.

  "Grant me Wode," he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "and I will spare you."

  Brackendale choked for breath.

  "You will also give me Elizabeth, as my betrothed."

  Shocked murmurs rippled through the throng around them. The older lord's eyes flared. "Never!"

  With deliberate slowness, Geoffrey pressed the blade forward, drawing a streak of blood. A final warning. "I do not want to kill you, but I will. Do you agree?"

  Brackendale hesitated, his gaze hard and bitter.

  His head jerked in a nod.

  "I want your word of honor, as a knight," Geoffrey demanded.

  "You have it," Brackendale muttered. He tried to move his bleeding leg and winced.

  "I will withdraw my sword, and you will stand and confirm our agreement to all who have witnessed," Geoffrey ground out. "If you betray me, I will kill you. Understand?"

  "Aye," the older lord spat.

  Geoffrey lifted his blade to return it to its scabbard.

  A snap broke the bailey's near silence. In the space of an indrawn breath
, he recognized the sound—a crossbow bowstring as the weapon's trigger released.

  The bolt whistled like a demon unleashed.

  His mind yelled for him to move. It was too late.

  The steel-tipped bolt pierced his left shoulder. Mail, flesh, and sinew splintered.

  A scream tore from the depths of his soul and shattered his world into a crimson haze.