“Aim!” a mercenary bellowed, somewhere down the wall walk.
Veronique’s head swiveled. “Wait!” she shrieked. “Let de Lanceau draw closer.” The nearest of the mercenary archers, eyes wide with surprise, shouted her order to the other fighters on the battlements.
Clearly unafraid of the mercenaries watching him, de Lanceau urged his horse to a walk. He rode toward the gatehouse. As he approached the castle, he was blocked from Juliana’s view by the exterior stone wall.
Another shout carried, faint but distinct. “Veronique.” The shout repeated again and again, growing in volume as it blew up on the breeze. Now Juliana heard many men’s voices, calling in unison: “Veronique. Veronique.”
Setting her hands on the curve of her hips, Veronique cackled. “They are calling my name. Glorifying me.”
Juliana choked down a stunned laugh. Glorifying? Nay. The repetition of her name was menacing. A warning.
“Veronique. Veronique.”
Glancing at Edouard, Juliana whispered, “Why are they chanting?”
“I do not know,” he said quietly, his attention on the line of men. “I am sure my father has good reason for ordering it.”
Raised voices and a cry drew Juliana’s gaze again to the bailey. His drawn sword gleaming in the sunlight, Tye brushed through the crowd and looked up at the wall walk where Veronique stood. “Mother!”
“What?” Veronique threw up her hands in obvious annoyance. “I told you what to do. Why must you distract me?”
Tye’s expression hardened. “You said not to let anyone in.”
“Then do not!”
“De Lanceau is at the gate. Alone. He asked to speak with you.”
“What in hellfire?” Edouard muttered.
A gasp burned Juliana’s throat. She’d heard tales of his lordship’s bravery and cleverness. Surely, though, he realized confronting Veronique on his own put his life—and the lives of many others—in jeopardy. Why would he take such a risk? Did he believe that by speaking privately with Veronique—by reminding her of their long-ago liaison—he could negotiate for Edouard’s life?
Alarm whipped through Juliana, for in her mind, the likely sequence of events unfolded. Veronique wouldn’t negotiate. She’d kill de Lanceau and Edouard, relishing the gruesome spectacle before these witnesses. Juliana would remain a captive until she finally yielded the whereabouts of the important gold ring, whereupon she’d be murdered. Tye would use the ring’s influence to quickly seize control of Moydenshire and become ruler.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“Veronique. Veronique.”
Running a hand over her indecently tight bodice, Veronique tittered. “Mayhap, Edouard, your father believes he can save you. He has come to plead with me, to beg forgiveness for the past cruelties he inflicted upon me. To surrender to my demands, in hopes of sparing you, his precious wife, and the daughter he loves so much.”
Edouard snorted. “You truly believe that?”
She shot Edouard a smug glare before she called down to Tye: “You were right to consult me. Lower the drawbridge and let your father in. We will see what he wants.”
Tye frowned. “It could be a trap.”
“Aye. However, he is on his own.”
“Still, Mother—”
“One man, who, rumor has it, is still not recovered from his recent illness.” She cackled, drowning out the rest of Tye’s words of protest. “Weakened as Geoffrey is, he will not have his usual fighting prowess. He will be easily defeated. Once his men learn he is dead—and that Edouard is doomed to die, too—they may not bother to stay and finish the fight.”
Juliana couldn’t stop herself from looking at Edouard. Hatred and suspicion lined his features. How lonely he seemed, doubtless torn between the shock of all he’d heard and the questions whirling in his mind.
If only she could reach out and take his hand. To let him know he wouldn’t face the coming moments alone. She’d be with him, as he’d stayed with her every moment till she was rescued from Sherstowe’s well.
“If I let Father in,” Tye said, his tone gruff, “I want to kill him.”
“As I expected.” Veronique smiled and flicked her hand at Tye, a gesture of dismissal. “Today, the destiny you deserve will be yours.”
***
Edouard blinked against the buffeting wind. Why was his father on his own at the keep’s gates? God’s blood, why?
Such rashness, from his sire, made no sense. His father wasn’t a fool. Before every battle, he strategized, calculated, considered all options, as he must have done before deciding to leave the protection of his men and ride alone to confront Veronique.
His sire would never underestimate Veronique’s malice. What motive, then, could he have for such a dangerous tactic? Did he count on rousing the folk inside the castle walls to fight against her and her mercenaries, while his warriors besieged the fortress? Had he found a way to sneak some of his men-at-arms inside the keep, who would attack when he gave a signal? A dull ache tightened Edouard’s innards as he struggled to figure out the probable course of events.
“Veronique. Veronique,” the men beyond the walls continued to chant. Edouard dug his nails into his bonds again and did his best not to reveal his concern over his sire’s actions. Yet Veronique seemed to know exactly his turmoil.
“Soon, you will watch your father die.” Her face twisted into a grin.
Believe in your father, as he’d expect of you. Prove you will not be swayed by her taunting. Mimicking her grin, Edouard said, “Will I?”
Veronique spread her gnarled hand wide, indicating the surrounding keep. “He thinks to defeat all of us?” She laughed. “Wretched fool.”
“He will destroy you,” Edouard fired back.
“He is arrogant enough to believe he will succeed.” At the grinding squeal of the drawbridge being lowered, Veronique glanced toward the gatehouse. She straightened her gown from breasts to hips, as an eager wench would right her garments before meeting a lover.
“Veronique. Veronique,” continued the riders.
She laughed, obviously reveling in the chant. With an indulgent sway of her hips, she moved closer to the merlons, her hair drifting in the breeze. “The portcullis is rising. Not long now, till I see him again.”
The wood and metal barrier was, indeed, lifting up into the gatehouse. The muffled grating, accompanied by Tye shouting for the crowd in the bailey to stand aside, sent a painful tremor snaking through Edouard.
He forced his stiff fingers into the bonds again.
Father, turn your horse around. Ride back to your men. Protect the future of Moydenshire and the justice in which you believe.
A figure became visible in the murky shadows of the gatehouse. A hush fell over the crowd as Edouard’s father emerged in the bailey. Behind him, on Tye’s shouted instructions, mercenaries ran to block the way out through the gatehouse.
The tall rider paid no heed to the activities intended to entrap him. With his voluminous cloak sweeping from his shoulders, he looked imposing and formidable. When he continued forward, light glinted off his helm and the embroidered image of a flying hawk on his silk surcoat that covered his chain-mail hauberk. Edouard’s mother had embroidered the symbol years ago, conveying her love in each stitch.
What would happen to Edouard’s mother if his sire died today? She’d be overcome by grief. That must never come to pass. Not, Edouard vowed, when his sire was here at Waddesford, risking all, because of him.
“Stand aside,” Tye and several mercenaries yelled, as they hurried to walk in front of the rider, their swords at the ready. Castle folk bowed as Edouard’s sire rode past them. “Make way,” Tye shouted, “for the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, lord of all of Moydenshire.”
Edouard scowled at the contempt in Tye’s voice.
Veronique chortled. “Well done, Tye. Bring your father closer. Bring him to his death.”
At the word “death,” Edouard’s sire raised his head a proud notch. He
didn’t rein in his horse, but kept the onward pace, the clip-clop of his destrier’s hoofbeats echoing in the tense silence. With a twinge of surprise, Edouard noted that the animal wasn’t his father’s usual horse. Why had he chosen the bay with a white stripe down its muzzle, and not the fast, spirited black that had become his favorite?
Wait. Was there such a bay in his father’s stable?
As his sire headed to the cleared center of the bailey, in plain view of where Veronique stood, he nodded to castle folk—a gesture of acknowledgment and respect, delivered with a touch of arrogance. Yet something about the dip of his head . . .
Suspicion washed through Edouard. He studied the broadness of his father’s shoulders beneath the cloak, and the shape of his chin, not concealed by the helm.
“Milady,” a mercenary shouted from the wall walk near the rear of the keep. “Mil—!”
“Silence!” Veronique screeched at him.
He thrust a hand toward the ground. “But—”
She pointed to the mercenary closest to the one who’d shouted. “Kill him. I want no more interruptions, or I will kill you as well.”
At that moment, the rider drew in his mount, halting the destrier so he faced Veronique. The horse tossed its head; the bridle chimed, the only sound apart from the steady chanting: “Veronique. Veronique.”
“Good morning to you, Geoffrey.” Veronique’s words of welcome were sharp with gloating.
Edouard waited for the rider to speak. His fingers shifted on his horse’s reins, but he didn’t respond. Not surprising. Edouard’s sire’s hatred for Veronique was well known; he obviously didn’t care to show her even the slightest respect by granting her a reply.
The rider’s helm-covered head turned a fraction, and Edouard sensed him assessing the armed men in the bailey and the castle’s defenses—a far more important task than answering Veronique.
Edouard couldn’t resist a smile.
Tye’s face hardened. He clearly interpreted the insult.
Veronique huffed. “Are you a man without a voice? I demand you acknowledge me, Geoffrey. After all, we know each other well.” Her husky laughter carried down to the bailey. “So very well, my lusty lordship, you got me with child.”
A disgusted snort broke from the rider.
Veronique’s posture stiffened. Anger seemed to swirl about her as she glowered down at him. “Have the years made you a fool? You know you are unwise to taunt me.” She gestured to the mercenaries awaiting her order to fire upon him. “I am the one with all the advantage.”
The rider’s chin lifted another notch, a silent gesture of disagreement.
“Veronique. Veronique,” the men outside the walls chanted.
She moved closer to the gap between the merlons. “Acknowledge me, Geoffrey. Do it now, or I will order a start to the bloodletting. I will begin with your beloved Edouard.”
At her vile taunt, the rider pressed his shoulders back, without the slightest sign of fatigue or discomfort. Could Edouard’s father have recovered from the old-wound aches triggered by the illness? Not likely. The suspicion inside Edouard rose to a full roar.
“Edouard,” his sire grated.
Veronique tittered. “You do speak, after all. Although,” her tone turned thoughtful, “your voice sounds different.”
“’Tis hoarsened, because I have been ill. Or were you unaware?”
Silent laughter bubbled in Edouard’s throat, for that voice was definitely not his father’s. It belonged to Dominic de Terre.
“Oh, I knew of your sickness,” Veronique said.
“Good. Then you will understand why I wish to end this conflict as quickly as possible. To begin, you will send Edouard down to me.”
“How forceful you are,” Veronique said, toying with a strand of her hair. “As demanding as when I spread my legs for you and made you groan—”
“Send Edouard down. Now.”
“I think not.” Veronique’s tone hardened. “You see, his life depends entirely upon you. Do as I command, and he might live. As I said, might. To start, you will acknowledge your other son—your bastard—whom you have spurned for nigh twenty years now.”
“I have but one son.”
How true. Edouard fought not to grin.
“Your other son is beside you.” Veronique gestured to Tye, who stood at the horse’s head, his sword half raised. His pose wasn’t that of a child hoping for a reunion with his father, but of a warrior, readying to strike. Fighting a rush of unease, Edouard worked his fingers again into his bonds, and felt the rope shift against his wrist.
“This man is not my child,” the rider said.
“I believe I am, milord.” Tye’s frosty voice held a determined note.
“He is grown now. Far from the little boy you met at our meeting in the meadow, all those years ago. The day”—Veronique shook with fury—“you so heartlessly rejected him.”
“Did I?”
Tye spat an oath, while Veronique recoiled, as though the rider had reached up and slapped her across the face. “You dare deny that day took place? How very gallant, for a man who vowed to live his life by honor and chivalry.”
As she railed at him, the rider raised his free hand, palm up, a very definite attempt to deflect her accusations. Then he reached for his helm.
With a dramatic flourish, he drew it off. Chestnut brown hair, streaked at the temples with silver gray, fell to his shoulders. A stray wisp brushed the corner of his mouth.
Juliana drew in a breath. “Why, ’tis—”
“Dominic de Terre,” Edouard said with a chuckle. His hopes soared, for his father and most trusted men must be close by.
“Dominic?” Veronique shrieked. “Why, you—”
Tye scowled. “Where in hellfire is de Lanceau?”
“Aye. Where is your father?” Juliana whispered to Edouard, before her gaze darted back to the bailey.
Edouard smiled. “I expect he will present himself soon.”
With a careless grin, Dominic settled his helm on his lap. “For shame, Veronique. You are not delighted to see me? Our acquaintance goes back over twenty years. By the way, I do have a son.”
“Geoffrey!” Veronique spluttered. “I demand—”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “Veronique, you never learn. He would not allow himself to be an easy target for you, which is why I am here. I am surprised you did not guess our ploy long ago.”
Veronique shrieked. “Where is he? If you do not tell me—”
“He hoped to surprise you. I believe he spoke of an alternative way in?” Even as she glanced at the rear battlements, Dominic flicked his hand. “Ah. Here he is now.”
With a startled jolt, Edouard noted the mercenaries crumpled on the far wall walk. One of them must be the man Veronique had ordered murdered moments ago; but what of the others? They must have been killed from a distance. Few men had that remarkable skill. Few, that is, except Aldwin Treynarde, one of his sire’s most respected knights, whose astonishing expertise with a crossbow was still recounted in local chansons.
Brisk footfalls echoed in the bailey below. As the crowd looked at whoever approached, Edouard strained to see.
A group of armed warriors strode into view. In the midst of them he recognized Aldwin, his crossbow cocked. There, too, was his father, his broadsword unsheathed. And, protected on all sides by the warriors, was Azarel. She must have slipped from the castle yesterday and located his father’s forces; she’d probably told him of the postern.
Edouard suddenly realized the men outside had stopped chanting. They no longer needed to. They’d helped Dominic distract Veronique long enough for Edouard’s sire to get inside the keep.
“Well done, Father.” Edouard murmured. Pride burned in him as he watched his sire cross to Dominic. His father wore a chain mail hauberk over a pewter gray tunic and hose, garments that wouldn’t distinguish him as one of England’s most powerful lords. Yet there was no denying the bold authority that defined his strides.
Ver
onique’s hands twitched. “Geoffrey!”
As Edouard’s sire halted and looked up at her, sunshine struck his face. Sweat shone on his brow and dampened the sides of his graying, wavy brown hair. His skin was ashen, but his gaze held the familiar strength Edouard had always known. And respected.
“I am Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire,” he roared, his voice easily carrying across the bailey and up to the battlements. “I demand you surrender this keep to me.”
Veronique laughed.
“Surrender,” he repeated. “Without delay. Or my army will attack.” As though sensing Edouard’s gaze, his sire looked directly up at him. And frowned.
“Are you all right, Son?” he shouted.
“Aye,” Edouard called back, while anchoring his fingernails deeper into his bindings; they loosened a fraction more.
His sire’s attention shifted to Veronique. “’Tis a good thing Edouard is not harmed. If he were—”
“An empty threat,” Veronique said with a sniff. “Now that you are here, Geoffrey,”—she glared at Dominic—“and your senseless little game is finished, you will yield to me.”
“Is that so?”
Edouard sensed his father working to keep his temper under control.
“You will put down your weapons and fall to your knees on the dirt,” Veronique continued, her lips curling. “You, the great lord of Moydenshire, will sign all rights to your estates over to your son.”
Edouard’s sire raised his brows. “Edouard already is my heir. Years from now, when I am dead, he will have all, as is his birthright.”
“Not Edouard,” Veronique said through her teeth. “Tye.”
“A man I do not recognize.”
“You will,” Veronique sneered.
“Will I? You have undeniable evidence that I sired him?”
Fear edged into Edouard’s consciousness. His bastard brother, looking angrier by the moment, stood dangerously close to Dominic and the other men-at-arms. Close enough to lunge in an attack.
Beware, Father, for Tye is ready to run you through with his sword.
“Tye is near you.” Veronique motioned to him. “Seeing you two together, there is no doubt he looks like you, as he has since he was a young boy. Ask anyone here if they can deny a resemblance. That, Geoffrey, is proof enough.”
Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels) Page 27