A Knight's Reward

by Catherine Kean

  “There is naught you can do,” she said. “You must be a strong warrior now, Button. Ada needs a knight’s protection.”

  The woman nodded while turning him away from Gisela. “We will look after each other, all right?”

  Harsh voices came from outside, followed by a loud thud. The panel jarred.

  Gisela’s hand flew to her mouth. Surely Crenardieu wouldn’t order his men to smash down her door. He must know how much repairs would cost her.

  “Crenardieu!” she shrieked.

  Another thud. Wood cracked. The top bolt’s wrought-iron fastenings pulled away from the embrasure.

  “Mama!”

  Stumbling backward, Gisela pushed Ewan and Ada toward her home.

  Thud. A loud splintering sound. The bolt flew off and clattered on the floor.

  “Crenardieu!” she yelled. “Cease!”

  Another thud, and the main door lock broke. The lower bolt gave. The panel crashed inward, groaning on its hinges.

  Crenardieu stood on the threshold. His furious gaze pinned Gisela where she stood. Behind her, the door to her house slammed.

  The Frenchman stepped into her shop. With a sharp jerk of his head, two men followed, hauling Dominic along between them. Head drooping, he staggered. He looked barely able to walk.

  “Oh, God,” Gisela whispered, unable to suppress a sob.

  Wavering from side to side, he raised his head. A nasty, purpling bruise encircled his right eye. Blood dripped from his lower lip. The two men yanked him farther forward, sneering when he grimaced.

  “Gisela,” he rasped, his voice eerily slurred. “Be . . . w—”

  “Dominic,” she sobbed, starting toward him. “What have they done to you?”

  Crenardieu flicked his hand. The thugs released Dominic. Wobbling on his feet, he straightened. He attempted to push his shoulders back, but the effort seemed too great. He dropped to his knees.

  Gisela gasped and rushed to his side. She knelt before him, pushing matted hair from his face. With gentle hands on either side of his jaw, she raised his chin to look into his eyes. Sticky wetness dampened her fingertips.

  Blood.

  Tears blurred her vision. “Dominic.”

  His mouth formed a weak smile.

  “Why did they do this to you?” Anger gnawed the edge off her fear. “How dare you hurt him like this?” she said, glancing first at the thugs, then over her shoulder at Crenardieu.

  “How dare I?” Crenardieu chuckled. “I had good reason.”

  “What reason?” she said, even as fear numbed her. The Frenchman knew about Dominic’s mission. He knew Dominic intended to capture him and his men.

  She held Dominic’s gaze, but his eyelids fluttered. She sensed him hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, and his internal battle not to surrender to the pain. His fingers curled into her sleeve, as if to stop himself from collapsing.

  Under his breath, he muttered a few, urgent words. Fie! She could not understand him.

  I love you, she told him with her gaze, sweeping her thumbs over his stubbled jaw. Dominic, how I love you.

  A soft rustle drew her gaze back to Crenardieu, who drew an object from his clothing. He held a rolled parchment, once sealed with wax. The seal was broken.

  Sneering, the Frenchman unfurled the skin. “‘My dearest friend and honorable Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau,” he read in a scathing tone. “With utmost pleasure, I write to tell you I have discovered some of your stolen silks.’” Crenardieu’s sharpened gaze bored into her. “Imagine. He is not a fool merchant looking to buy silk for a client. He is de Lanceau’s spy.”

  “How do you know he penned that note?” she said. “Someone could have given it to him.”

  “Show her.”

  A ruffian reached down, grabbed Dominic’s hand, and held it out for her to see. Black ink stained his thumb and forefinger.

  “He wrote it,” Crenardieu said. “A bar wench at The Stubborn Mule also saw him writing it.”

  Dominic mumbled again, louder this time. She stared down into his swollen face. “Tell me again,” she pleaded. “What?”

  “Be . . . ware,” he wheezed. “R—”

  The closest thug kicked him. Dominic groaned.

  “Stop!” Gisela shrieked. “You have wounded him enough.”

  The two men looked at each other and chortled.

  More voices drifted in from the open doorway. There were other lackeys outside. Standing guard. Or waiting for instructions.

  God above, she would fight them.

  Easing away from Dominic, she rose to her feet and faced Crenardieu. “Why did you injure Dominic and bring him here? Is this your idea of a cruel jest, to mistreat a man so?” Her voice shook with rage. “Whatever you want from me, I will not cooperate.”

  Crenardieu’s face twisted into a leer. “Really?”

  “Really.” Despite the fear churning inside her, she glared at him. “If you want the blue silk, you will leave now. Dominic stays with me. You will not harm him again. Do you understand?”

  Her body trembled with the vehemence of her words.

  Crenardieu raised his eyebrows and laughed. “I do admire your spirit. Especially”—his gaze slid to her right breast—”after all you have been through.”

  Her breath jammed in her lungs. Foreboding rushed from her scalp to her feet, leaving a ghastly chill in its wake. How did he know about her scar? How?

  With a pained moan, Dominic struggled to stand. “Gisela. Rrr—”

  The two men yanked him to his feet, just as rough laughter carried from outside.

  That laugh.

  It tormented her in nightmares. It woke her in the night. It wove into every glimmer of her dreams.

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  Her breathing became a frantic wheeze. Bile flooded her mouth. An eerie whistling sound filled her ears.

  “Oui, Gisela. I vow there is one man who will make you cooperate,” Crenardieu said.

  She watched, paralyzed with terror, as a tall, silver-haired man stepped into her shop.

  Ryle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  His body racked with pain, Dominic registered being bound and tossed belly-down across the back of a stationary horse. Gritting his teeth so tightly his jaw popped, the sweetish odor of horse burning his nostrils, he stared down at the ground. Or, what would be the dirt and stones of the town road if he could bloody well see like an owl in the dark.

  Fighting intense dizziness, he slowly inhaled and exhaled. After dragging him out of Gisela’s shop shortly after Ryle’s entrance, the thugs had tied Dominic’s hands behind his back. The rope bit into his wrists, mocking any intentions of escape. The bastards had also tied his legs—below the knees and at his booted ankles.

  Anger burned. He welcomed the rage, fed it with every ounce of his remaining strength. He would break free from his bonds. He would knock the thugs’ heads together, and then pummel Crenardieu with the same enthusiasm his men had shown Dominic.

  After dealing with them, he’d return to Gisela and rescue her and Ewan from Ryle. Like the knight Ewan—his son—envisioned him to be, he would be victorious. Never again would Gisela live in fear of her former husband.

  He remembered the moment she saw Ryle. The utter horror that had filled her eyes and turned her face skull white would haunt Dominic forever.

  I will fight your dragon, Gisela, despite his fangs, wings, and claws. Even if it means my death. This, I promise you.

  Regret lashed at him, more painful than the ropes binding him, for he’d not been able to spare her from facing the brutal bastard again. Ah, but he had tried. Spurred by a tremendous surge of fury, he had lunged straight for Ryle. Dizziness had slowed his reactions, and Crenardieu’s lackeys had quickly subdued him.

  He couldn’t wait to trounce them in return!

  Simmering rage and excitement burgeoned inside him. His mind spun with the sensation, akin to being drunk on potent liquor. A dissonant ringing sounded in his ears and threatened to drown out th
e conversation of the thugs preparing to ride.

  “Keep watch on him,” Crenardieu said from nearby, followed by the creak of a leather saddle. The Frenchman had climbed onto his horse. “Two of you ride in front of him, two in back. If he tries to escape, knock him senseless.”

  “Why not hit him now?” one of the thugs said. By his voice, Dominic recognized the dark-haired lout he’d confronted in the alley. The man laughed, as did his friends.

  Go on, have a good chuckle. To repay your cruelty, I shall make you eat dirt.

  “Non, fool. You struck him too hard last time. I want him alert enough to answer my questions.”

  The ringing in Dominic’s ears grew louder. He sensed himself on the verge of collapse, teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness.

  Nay. Oblivion was cowardice. He must stay awake. Unconscious, he was as useless as a one-legged mule.

  Despite his predicament—and his injuries—he couldn’t have wished for better circumstances. With luck, the men would take him to the place where they had stored the rest of the stolen cloth. Therefore, he must go along with their plans for him. Not meekly, though. That would make them suspicious. While he must offer enough resistance to prove he loathed their treatment of him, he wouldn’t escape before he knew their hideout.

  Close by, a horse whinnied, followed by the clip-clop of hooves. Dominic’s horse started to walk. The sound of hooves striking dirt echoed inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find equilibrium in the animal’s stride, which jostled him about like a sack of beans. Had the thugs deliberately given him this ill-paced nag for additional torture, or was he only imagining its clumsiness?

  God’s blood, how many miles would he have to endure, his head to the ground and his arse in the air?

  He might have indulged in a wry groan if the horse hadn’t stumbled. Pain shot through his skull. The discomfort slowly dimmed, fusing into a memory of Gisela lifting his head and her beautiful eyes widening with shock.

  Gisela. Sweet Daisy. Was she all right? What had happened to her and Ewan after Ryle entered her shop?

  Dominic bit back an oath. He stared down into the darkness and blinked against the grime drifting up from the road. I will come for you, Gisela. I will not abandon you, as I did years ago. This, I promise. I pledge my life upon it.

  ***

  Her fingers clenched together, Gisela stood by the table in her home. Ewan sat on the bench beside her, wrapped in Ada’s comforting embrace. A few yards away, Ryle stood with his back to them, ominously silent, his gaze traveling over the interior.

  Fear shrieked inside Gisela like claws scraped across slate. The shrillness superseded the chatter of the two louts Crenardieu had left behind in her shop to stand guard—even though he’d confiscated the silk.

  At first, she’d refused to reveal the cloth’s hiding place, but when Crenardieu’s thugs had started to batter down the door of her home—threatening to beat whoever was inside unless she told them where to find the silk—she’d relented. Ryle at his side, Crenardieu had watched her remove the floorboards, whereupon he’d ordered his men to take the bolts and garments and replace the planks. Then, he had forced her to let him into her home. After a smug glance at Ewan, the Frenchman had walked out, ordering the two men to stay behind.

  “You have what you want!” she’d shrieked. “Let Dominic go. Leave us be.”

  Crenardieu had merely smiled at her. He’d spoken to the men who were lounging by the shop door, drinking from a shared flask, and left.

  Beside Gisela, Ewan sniffled. Ada murmured, “There, there.”

  Gisela fought a moan. She, not the older woman, should be embracing Ewan. Yet, panic pinned Gisela’s feet to the floor. Her limbs felt hewn from stone, her spirit entombed within an unresponsive body. She tried, but couldn’t wrench her gaze from Ryle.

  Sickly sweat trickled down between her breasts. The insides of her shoes felt as cold as snow. Fight, Gisela! her spirit cried. Do not cower before Ryle. Do not let him destroy you and Ewan.

  She struggled to cast her son a reassuring glance. She couldn’t. Ryle stood in almost the exact spot where Ewan had spilled the contents of her box, his fine boots planted apart, one hand on his hip. His other hand clasped a leather flask, from which he had drunk several times.

  Ryle’s silver-gray hair swept the shoulders of his cloak, which draped down to his ankles. Even in the murky light, she discerned the fine quality of the wool woven at the cuffs with silver thread. A costly garment. She wondered just how much coin he had spent to find her—and what he’d paid Crenardieu to reveal her whereabouts.

  The cloak’s inky black—the hue of the darkest, most dangerous night hours—not only enrobed Ryle, but seemed to magnify his physical presence. He looked taller than she remembered, more imposing, as if his anger and hatred had made him grow into even more of a monster. She knew, while she stared in mute terror, that he would not be denied whatever he desired.

  And he wanted her to suffer.

  His head turned. He glanced down at her and Ewan’s pallets pushed against the wall, at Sir Smug lying nearly naked in the make-believe camp. Her attempt at an independent life suddenly seemed a pathetic illusion, as insubstantial as the fire made from a bit of wood, and the bed made of folded cloth. Like Sir Smug, she was vulnerable to Ryle. Her dreams of freedom were exposed, in danger of being trampled beneath his boot.

  Fight, Gisela! her spirit screamed. You must. Have you forgotten what he promised for Ewan and Dominic?

  Ryle closed the flask and put it inside his cloak. “So this is where you have been hiding, wife.” He did not glance at her. Neither did he raise his voice, but the calculated quality of his words frightened her more than his screaming temper.

  Will he kill me now? Or will he kill Ewan first, to spite me, and then murder me?

  “You cast aside all I offered you—my manor, fine clothes, the prestige of a rich merchant’s wife—for this?” Ryle waved his hand, indicating the pitiful furnishings and dirt floor. His shoulders shook in a disbelieving laugh.

  Fight, Gisela! For your son. For Dominic.

  Forcing words through her wooden lips, she said, “I did.”

  Ryle’s chuckle faded. His shoulders stiffened. Gisela sensed anger pouring from him, but still, he didn’t turn and face her.

  “You should not have run away,” he said.

  She shuddered at the whipping lash of his words.

  “I warned you,” he said, too quietly. “I told you what would happen.”

  “Father,” Ewan said, shoving off the bench beside her.

  Alarm jarred her into motion. “Nay—”

  Ryle whipped around, his eyes flashing. Thrusting a finger at Ewan, he roared, “Do not speak to me!”

  Ewan recoiled. His little body lurched back into Gisela. Confusion and fear clouded his face.

  Ryle’s mouth twisted on a sneer. “Sit.”

  Ewan scrambled back onto the bench. A sob broke from him. Clucking her tongue, Ada put her arms around him again.

  Warning bubbled inside Gisela, urging her to watch her words. Yet, months of worry, living in hiding, and scrounging to make ends meet converged into one, powerful spirit that refused to stay silent. “Never speak to Ewan that way again.”

  Ryle’s head jerked. His sharp gaze fixed on her, bored into her, with enmity. “Why in hellfire not? He is my son.”

  He is not. He is Dominic’s son, as you well know! However, she could not say that aloud. Ewan did not yet know.

  “No child deserves to be treated in such a manner.”

  “A child should be taught what is right, and what is wrong,” Ryle said with an ugly smile. “Just like a wife.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  She clenched her fists, her mind whirling for a distraction. “What do you want, Ryle? Why did you come here?” Good. Keep him talking. Keep him occupied.

  His smile did not falter. “I want what is mine.” His gaze traveled down over her worn gown.

  “I have n
ever been yours.” How she meant those words, voiced from the very depths of her soul.

  “You are, Gisela.” Ryle leaned forward as he spoke, looming like a dragon preparing to exhale flames. His breath reeked of liquor. “You fooled the people of this town by hiding behind the name Anne, but you are the woman I married. The priest declared us man and wife. Remember? You belong to me.”

  Belong. Like a garment, or a shoe, or some other possession.

  “You will come home, Gisela.” He reached for her, his broad fingers splayed to close around her arm.

  She lurched backward, bumping into the end of the bench, almost keeling over. “I will never return with you. Never!”

  “You will!” Ryle grabbed for her again.

  “Stop!” Ewan shrieked, leaping to his feet. Tears ran down his face. “Do not shout at Mama.”

  Ryle shoved a dismissive hand at him, ordering him to be silent. His boots creaked as he lunged again. His fingers clamped around Gisela’s wrist in a bruising grip.

  She gasped. His harsh fingers felt like a manacle. Pain and panic spiraled from the place he grasped, flooding through her in a punishing wave. A vision of him raising his arm and striking her a fierce blow across the side of her face flashed through her mind.

  If he struck her unconscious—as he had before—she couldn’t protect Ewan.

  She struggled to free her arm, vaguely aware of her son running from the table. With an irritated grunt, Ryle tightened his hold.

  “Ryle!” she gasped again. “Stop.”

  “Ewan,” Ada said, sounding worried. “Do not—”

  “Let go of Mama!” Ewan yelled.

  Ryle laughed. Still holding her arm, he turned in profile to face her little boy. Ewan stood with his sword raised, ready to attack.

  Gisela drew a shaky breath. Oh, Button. Did he hope to save her from Ryle? She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes.

  “Look at you,” Ryle sneered.

  The boy’s fingers tightened on the sword. “Let go of her.”

  “Ewan!” Ada called, clearly trying to draw his attention.

  The boy shook his head. “He is hurting Mama. I will not let him.”