Shouts carried from the keep’s battlements. Men were relaying orders. Moving figures dotted the wall walk now. Archers, most likely, aiming their bows and arrows at them.
The enormity of what she must do pressed down upon Gisela, as tangible as Ewan’s sleeping weight upon her legs. Anxiety threatened to rip her confidence into tiny, irreparable shreds.
Yet, what she was about to do was right. She must focus on her conviction, not her unease.
“Halt!” a man’s voice boomed into the night.
The baker muttered worried words and slowed the wagon. It ground to a stop a short walk from the edge of the moat.
Gisela sensed the suspicious stares of the sentries in the gatehouse, as well as the men on the battlements. Her pulse thundered against her ribs, but with gentle hands, she moved Ewan off her lap to lie in the wagon bed.
“Mama?” He rubbed his eyes with his fists.
“I love you,” she whispered, kissing his brow. Blinking away tears, she stood.
“Who goes there?” the voice boomed again.
“I . . . I am but a . . . a s-simple man from C-Clovebury,” the baker said.
Gisela braced her hands on the wagon’s wooden side, sat for a moment on the makeshift ledge, and slid down to the ground. Mutters rippled through the darkness above. Holding her head high, she called, “I am Gisela Anne Balewyne. I must speak with Lord de Lanceau.”
More muttering.
“You are a noblewoman?” the voice asked. “An acquaintance of his lordship?”
“Nay, a tailor from Clovebury.”
A curse echoed, followed by disbelieving laughter. “A commoner, then?”
As humble as a daisy growing in the hedgerow. “Aye,” she said.
“Lord de Lanceau is abed.” The speaker sounded annoyed. “Return in the morning.”
Gisela drew a nervous breath. She had expected such a response. Looking up at the battlements near the gatehouse—where the voice originated—she said, “I am here on an important matter. It concerns Dominic de Terre.”
Shocked mutters this time.
“What do you know of Dominic?”
He is the father of my son. The man I will love until the day I die. “He is in danger.”
“How do you know?”
She glanced about. Shadows loomed like monsters, waiting to lunge. From behind her came the creak of the wagon. She sensed Ewan’s gaze upon her and knew he peered over the wagon’s side, watching all that transpired.
Squaring her shoulders, she said, “What I have to say must be relayed to Lord de Lanceau. In private.”
“She is a stubborn wench,” another man groused.
“What might she know about Dominic?” the first voice said, sounding concerned. “Mayhap she speaks true.”
Frustration churned inside her, making her stomach gurgle. “Every moment you delay is a moment lost. Please! Dominic may . . . die.” Her voice cracked with the agony of that word.
Weariness and the strain of the night’s events brought a rush of scalding tears. “Nay,” she said under her breath, fingering away the tears. “I will not cry. I will not!”
A small, warm hand caught hold of hers. Ewan stood beside her, holding his toy sword. “I love you, Mama.”
A sob stuck in her throat. “Button.”
Her little boy scowled at the castle. “Those men will let you in. I will break down the drawbridge. Just watch me—”
“Thank you, Ewan. ’Tis a very gallant offer, but—”
A metallic squeal erupted from the keep. A moment later, the drawbridge began to lower.
Relief almost knocked Gisela to her knees.
Ewan dashed forward, pulling her along after him. “Hurry, Mama.” Looking back at her, his eyes bright, he whispered, “We are going inside a keep.”
“I . . . ah . . . will await ye here,” the baker called after them.
Gisela beckoned to him. “Come on.”
Bowing his head, the baker mumbled what sounded like a frantic prayer. With a reluctant flick of the reins, he urged the horse onward.
Gisela tripped on a half-buried rock, caught her balance, and matched Ewan’s stride. The scents of old stone and water wafted from ahead, a reminder of how very near she was to facing de Lanceau.
Suppressing a shudder, she stood with Ewan in the shadow of the keep and watched the drawbridge lower to the dirt bank. Boots rapped on the wooden planks as four men-at-arms strode out to meet them.
The leader, a young man with corn-silk blond hair, gave her an assessing glance-over. He held a primed crossbow. From his expression, she didn’t doubt he knew how to use the weapon.
“You may enter,” he said, gesturing to the darkness beneath the gatehouse. His voice revealed him as the man who had questioned her from the battlements.
Gisela nodded and, holding tight to Ewan’s hand, stepped onto the drawbridge. Moments later, she heard the clip-clop of hooves and rumble of wagon wheels as the baker followed.
Ewan glanced to and fro, his mouth open in awe, while they walked under the teeth of the portcullis into the gatehouse’s dank shadows and on into the torch-lit bailey. “Mama,” he whispered. “There are many warriors here.”
Indeed, there were. All watching her and Ewan. When Gisela murmured, “Aye,” the blond man glanced at her. His mouth curved into a faint smile.
After handing his crossbow to another guard, he escorted them into the keep’s enclosed forebuilding, up the stone stairs, and into the great hall. At the top of the steps, Gisela hesitated, the expansive, shadowed hall more imposing than she’d ever imagined.
Across the room, a low fire flickered in the hearth far larger than the one in her home. Men, women, and children—the castle’s servants—slept on pallets on the rush-strewn floor; where she and Ewan would sleep, if they lived at the keep. Soft snores carried, along with the restless stirring of dogs. When Gisela and Ewan started down the space between the pallets, mongrels dozing between the warm bodies pricked up their ears and watched them.
The blond man started up a flight of wooden stairs leading to an upper level. His boots made a dull thud on the planks.
“Mama,” Ewan whispered, “where are we going?”
Glancing back at them, the man said quietly, “To see Lord de Lanceau, of course.”
“Why must we go upstairs? Will we visit his bedchamber?” Ewan’s hushed voice grew louder with each word. “What does a lord wear to bed? Does he have special nightclothes? Does he sleep in his undergarments?”
Gisela’s face burned. “Ewan, hush.”
“But, Mama—”
“Rather than speak with you in the hall, which would mean waking the servants,” the man said, clearly trying hard not to grin, “he will receive you in another chamber.”
Gisela murmured her thanks, grateful Ewan had heeded her request for silence. Yet, with each step, her trepidation grew. Each stair brought her closer and closer to the moment she must admit her deceptions, and, also, her responsibility for what had happened to Dominic. If she’d been honest with him about the hidden silks the first time he’d mentioned the shipment, he wouldn’t be in danger now.
Smoke from the fire hovered at the upper level, making her eyes burn. As she and Ewan crossed the narrow landing and stepped into the corridor beyond, she prayed Dominic was all right. I love you, Dominic. More than you can ever know. I will do all I can to save you.
The blond man led them past an imposing set of doors. Farther down the passage illuminated by torches along the wall, he motioned them into a chamber. “Wait here.”
Gisela stepped inside. A red woolen blanket stretched across the floor. A small, wooden wagon, carved animals, a wooden castle, and soldiers lay scattered across the blanket, as though whoever had arranged them had left in mid-play. Her gaze fell upon a cloth dragon, lying on top of a large oak chest, an instant before Ewan gasped, twisted his hand free, and rushed over to it.
He picked up the toy. “Mama, look!”
She crossed to he
r son’s side. “’Tis a magnificent beast.” The dragon’s embroidered scales were exquisitely rendered with gold thread. De Lanceau’s lady wife, Elizabeth, was said to be a very talented embroiderer.
The click of a closing door, then booted footfalls, carried in the passage.
Oh, God, give me strength for what I must say and do.
Linking her clammy hands together, she faced the doorway. A tall man halted just outside, raking his fingers through his brown, sleep-tousled hair. Frowning at the blond man, who stood just inside the chamber, he said, “Aldwin.”
“Milord.” Aldwin tipped his head toward Gisela.
As de Lanceau’s steel-gray gaze shifted to her, Gisela shivered. She dropped to her knees on the blanket, pulling Ewan down beside her. “Lord de Lanceau,” she said, staring at the blanket’s rolled edge.
The rap of boots on the plank floor told her he approached.
“You are?” he asked.
“Gisela Anne Balewyne,” she said, unable to keep from shaking. “This”—she pointed—”is my son, Ewan.”
“Gisela,” de Lanceau murmured with considerable surprise. Her name seemed familiar to him, as though someone had recently spoken of her. “Dominic mentioned you in his earlier missive,” he added.
“H-he did?” Oh, God. What had Dominic said? Had he known, when he sent the missive, about the silk hidden beneath her floorboards? Unable to suppress a stab of anxiety, she raised her lashes to glance up at de Lanceau.
He met her gaze. His handsome face, bronzed by days spent in the sun, eased into a smile. Extending his hand, he said, “Please, rise. I have spent enough time on that floor to know ’tis not very comfortable.”
Gisela blinked. “But, milord—”
Before she could say more, he caught her hand and drew her to her feet.
“Can I stay down here?” Ewan squinted up at them. His sword pushed to one side, he glanced longingly at the wooden toys.
“May I, milord,” Gisela quickly corrected. “I do apologize, Lord de Lanceau, for his lack of propriety. We are not used to speaking with noblemen of your importance . . . I mean, well . . . we are very common folk.”
Inwardly, she cringed. Could she have sounded more like a witless fool?
To her astonishment, de Lanceau’s smile did not falter. “My lady wife and I also have a son, named Edouard. He is younger than your Ewan. Young boys can be most . . . stubborn.” Shaking his head, his expression becoming grave, he said, “Now, I am told you bring word of Dominic.”
She nodded. “I fear his life is in danger. This evening, he was beaten and dragged away—”
“Beaten!” Anger glinted in de Lanceau’s eyes. “By whom?”
“Varden Crenardieu’s men.” She moistened her dry lips. “He is a wealthy merchant who controls our town, Clovebury. He is responsible for . . . He stole your cloth shipment.”
De Lanceau’s gaze sharpened. He glanced at Aldwin, then back at her.
“Dominic confided in me about his mission to find the silks,” she went on. “He discovered Crenardieu’s treachery and tried to send you a missive yester eve, but they found out and captured him.”
“God’s blood.” De Lanceau sounded furious and worried. “You know this man, Crenardieu?”
“Aye.” Her stomach tightened. She braced herself to reveal her involvement. “He and his lackeys often visited my tailor’s shop. I must confess, milord, I—”
“Mama,” Ewan piped up, “tell how you bashed that thug over the head.”
She gasped. “Ewan.”
Holding a wooden soldier in each hand, the little boy whacked them together. “Crash! The bowl smashed into lots of pieces. Just like when you hit Father.”
De Lanceau’s eyebrows raised. He clearly expected her to explain.
Gisela bit back a groan. Not only had she spoken like a dimwit earlier, now he thought her a bowl-smashing madwoman. Pressing a hand to her brow, she said, “Milord, I assure you, I had reason for my actions. You see, I—”
“Geoffrey?” A feminine voice and the whisper of silk carried from the doorway. A young woman, her belly rounded with child, hurried into the chamber as she smoothed the sleeves of her embroidered green gown. Left unbound, her black hair cascaded in glossy curls to the small of her back. “What is the news of Dominic?”
Gisela dropped to her knees again, pulling her little boy over beside her. “Milady.” She sensed the woman’s gaze traveling over them.
“Elizabeth,” de Lanceau said, “this is Dominic’s Gisela.”
“I see.” From the woman’s voice, she had heard of Gisela before, too. “This is your son, Gisela?”
“Aye. He is named Ewan.” She dared to raise her gaze. “Please, milord, do not think me impertinent, but I am not ‘Dominic’s Gisela.’”
The lady was smiling. A warm, knowing smile. Curiosity swirled up inside Gisela like a hundred tossed petals. The lady did not look upon her as though she were a deceitful thief. What, exactly, did Lady Elizabeth know about Gisela?
“She was just telling me about Dominic,” de Lanceau said.
“Good.” Standing at his side, Lady Elizabeth ran a hand over her bodice. “I will listen, too.”
His lordship frowned. “This matter is not of your concern.” His expression softened a fraction as he pressed a tender hand to her belly. “You look weary, damsel. Why do you not return to bed? In the morning, I will—”
“Not tell me a thing,” she said, with a defiant jut of her chin. “I will stay. Dominic is a dear friend of mine, as well.”
De Lanceau scowled. A flush darkened his cheekbones. “Elizabeth.”
She smiled most sweetly. “Geoffrey.”
The two stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Uncertain quite what to say or do, Gisela rose to her feet, then glanced down at Ewan. He sat in the midst of the toys, looking wide-eyed at his lord and ladyship.
“Mama,” he whispered. “I hope she does not hit him with a bowl.”
De Lanceau laughed.
Lady Elizabeth exhaled on a chuckle. “What?”
Grinning, his lordship said, “Ewan told me his mother bashed two men over the head with bowls.”
“I see.” Admiration glowed in the lady’s eyes. Slanting her husband a wry look, she said, “Was she trying to knock some sense into them?”
Gisela blushed. “Oh, nay! You misunderstand. I—”
“You had best tell us all,” de Lanceau said, and his lady wife nodded. “Start from the very beginning of your tale, Gisela. Be sure to reveal all you know of Dominic’s predicament.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Mama, you must eat some bread.” Ewan stuffed more of the grainy loaf into his mouth while he spoke. “’Tis delicious.”
“Mmm,” Gisela said, picking at the wondrously soft, fresh bread before her. She should try to break her fast, but her stomach still clenched with nerves.
She and her little boy sat in the great hall, cleared of the sleeping servants. The pallets on the floor were gone, replaced by trestle tables arranged in rows. Servants hurried about the hall, some adding logs to the blaze in the hearth, others delivering wooden boards of bread and jugs of ale to the tables. A wolfhound sat at Ewan’s elbow, watching every morsel that went into his mouth.
The frantic activity began after she finished telling Lord and Lady de Lanceau her tale. Gisela had relayed the events in detail, including her involvement with the stolen silks. Holding de Lanceau’s gaze and confessing her deceptions was difficult. However, at the same time, a tremendous weight had lifted from her conscience.
She withheld naught. Naught, that is, except Ryle’s slashing of her breast. While Ewan knew she was unwell months ago, she had never shown him the wound or told him of it, and she still preferred to spare him the grim truth. Neither did she reveal that Ewan was Dominic’s son. Until she and Dominic were able to tell the little boy themselves, she reserved the news to share with de Lanceau in private.
As soon as she finished, de Lance
au turned to Aldwin. “Rouse the servants. Rally the men-at-arms. Tell them to break their fast and prepare to ride.”
“Aye, milord.” Aldwin strode away.
His gaze returning to her, de Lanceau said, “You have given me much to consider, Gisela, including your role in what has happened.”
“I do not deny my guilt,” she said quietly. “I will accept whatever punishment you wish, milord. Please, I ask only that you . . . that Ewan is well cared for.”
If necessary, she would fall to the floor and beg him to keep her son at Branton Keep. Her little boy would fit in among the servants. Now and again, she might be allowed to see him. To still be part of his growing up, even if their lives must be separate.
As though attuned to her desolation, the lady’s face shadowed with sorrow.
De Lanceau’s mouth flattened. “We will speak again, Gisela.” He nodded to his lady wife and walked out of the room.
Fighting to hold back her tears, Gisela smiled down at her son, standing at her side, holding tight to the embroidered dragon.
“Mama,” he whispered. “What will happen to you? What about me?”
“Well . . .” How did she tell him they might be separated? Pressing her hands over her heart, Gisela tried to quell the ache threatening to destroy the last of her composure.
“You must both be hungry,” Lady Elizabeth said, “and weary after your journey. Come with me to the great hall, and I will have one of the servants bring you some fare.”
Ewan’s face brightened. “I am starved.”
The lady smiled. “I imagine a growing boy like you is always hungry, just like my Edouard.” Turning with an elegant swish of her gown, she said, “Follow me.”
Gisela carefully took the dragon from Ewan, set it back on the oak chest, and then led him out of the chamber.
At an insistent tap on her hand, Gisela blinked. “Mama, you are not listening.”
The memory of heading down to the hall dissipated, and Gisela was aware again of the servants rushing around the tables, the excited chatter, and the tang of a recently stoked fire. Men-at-arms tromped into the hall, many wearing chain-mail armor. Talking among themselves, they sat on benches along the tables.
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