A Knight's Reward (31 page)

A loud snort reached Dominic. The louts were laughing at him again.

Let them laugh. Not for much longer, by God
.

He pointedly blocked out their chuckles and the conversation of the thugs riding close behind him. He shut out the agony in his bones that threatened to steal his consciousness and send him careening off the horse onto the ground. At the same time, he discreetly twisted his tied hands. The rope, pressing against tender wounds, gnawed into his flesh.

His fingertips grazed the knot. Wiggling his fingers, he began to explore the bindings.

The damp, earthy scent of water lingered on the breeze, indicating the river flowed close by. Where, though, in relation to the road they traveled? Dawn hadn’t yet encroached on the shadows, although the first hint of light brushed the sky.

His fingers slid off the knot to touch soft fabric. Silk. The scrap he’d found at Gisela’s and tied around his wrist. He had taken care during his captivity to keep it pushed up his forearm, out of sight. With him sitting upright, it had slipped down to his bonds.

A plan glimmered to life in his mind, just as a loud
thump
, then a
creak
, came from ahead. The sniggering thugs instantly sobered.

“
Merde
,” Crenardieu growled. The wagon rested at an odd angle in the middle of the road. The right back wheel was lodged in a rut.

Holding his torch high, Crenardieu jumped down from the wagon, his cloak billowing behind him like disfigured wings.

“Get down and help!” he bellowed to the two louts ahead of Dominic.

Anticipation whispered inside Dominic with delicious temptation. Two fewer men to guard him. A rare opportunity. If only his wretched bindings were not so tight . . .

The men dismounted. The taller one motioned to Dominic. “What about ’im?”

“If he tries to escape,” Crenardieu said to the men behind Dominic. “Shoot him with the crossbow.”

Bile burned the back of Dominic’s mouth. He knew exactly how much damage such a weapon could cause, especially at close range. A crossbow wound had almost killed Geoffrey several years ago. A miracle, indeed, that he had survived. Many said he would have died, had his and Lady Elizabeth’s love not been so strong.

The memory of Gisela’s pale, lovely face filled his mind. For her, he would not risk escape now. For her—the chance to see and love her again—he’d leave behind a clue.

His fingers brushed the silk again. With careful movements, he maneuvered the scrap until he located the knot. With his fingers and nails, he began to loosen it.

Muttering coarse French oaths, Crenardieu tossed the blazing torch into the dewy grasses along the roadside, where it slowly smoldered. He stormed to the back of the wagon, the two thugs by his side. They braced their weight against the cart. Crenardieu yelled at the wagon driver. The stuck wheel spun, spewing dirt, before the cart bounced forward, mobile once again.

The silk’s knot eased free. Smothering a smile, Dominic curled his palm around the cloth.

His face set in a scowl, Crenardieu strode back to retrieve the torch. It had burned out. Tossing it into the middle of the road, he climbed back onto the wagon. It rumbled on.

The thugs remounted their horses. “Not even a word o’ thanks,” the taller thug mumbled. “’E’d best not be stingy with ’is promised coin.”

“We get the silver today,” the other man said. “As soon as those merchants from London pay ’im.”

“Shh!” came a sharp reprimand from behind them.

The taller thug swiveled. “Why?” Wrapping the reins of Dominic’s horse around his wrist again, he said, “’E’s a dead man. ’E will tell no one.”

Dominic shrugged away a twinge in his right shoulder. His gaze settled on the torch, lying in the road, and he fought a grin.
Foolish oaf, you are the dead man. Just you wait
. . .

The thug pulled on Dominic’s horse’s reins, and they began to walk again. Opening his hand, he released the silk. He dared not glance back to see where it had landed.

On they journeyed, while the road and its surroundings surrendered to the dawn light. Water glistened, visible here and there through the trees alongside the road. They traveled through a forest.

Birds shrilled overhead, while light slipped through the trees, illuminating lush patches of ferns and nettles. A doe and her fawn, grazing on roadside flowers, raised their heads and then bounded away into the brush. As Dominic watched the young deer’s leggy gait, he suddenly thought of Ewan and Gisela. Were they all right? If only he knew.

Just as Dominic shifted his leg, which had gone numb, Crenardieu ordered the wagon down a pitted road winding into the forest. Jarring on the rough ground, the wagon rolled down through the trees to a wide, cleared stretch along the riverbank. A crude wooden dock stretched out into the water. Rowboats rocked on the gentle current. By the opposite bank, ducks paddled and bobbed for minnows.

Crenardieu leapt down from the wagon. “Stand guard with the cloth,” he ordered his cohort, who began to climb down.

The thugs ahead of Dominic halted their horses. Crenardieu’s boots crunched on the dirt as he strode toward them.

Twisting his hands, Dominic felt the rope’s knot give slightly. Ah. Excellent.

“The buyers will be here soon,” Crenardieu said to his men. “When the merchants arrive, I want you to stand watch by the silks. Naught is to be loaded into the boats until they have handed over the coin.”

“Aye, milord,” the men said.

Crenardieu’s gaze sharpened. A chill prickled the hairs on Dominic’s nape as the Frenchman inhaled a dramatic breath of the crisp, fragrant air, then smiled at him. “A fine place to die,
oui?
”

“I cannot say,” Dominic said with a careless smile, “for I do not intend to perish here.”

Crenardieu snorted. “Still, you believe you will escape? That your loyalty to de Lanceau means aught?” He spat on the ground.

“Killing me will not stop de Lanceau. He has many trusted men in the riverside towns, and he will find you. When he does . . .”

“Ha! Once the silk is gone”—the Frenchman waved his hand—”who is to say I stole it? Who will tell de Lanceau?” He grinned. “Not I. Not you. And not your Gisela.”

Dominic’s pulse lurched at the mention of Gisela. Rage burned the back of his eyes, but he fought the urge to acknowledge Crenardieu’s taunt. “What of your men?” He raised an eyebrow. “They are loyal to you? You pay them well enough to ensure their silence?”

An inkling of doubt shadowed the Frenchman’s gaze. Then, he smiled. “You are a clever one, de Terre. Yet, I grow weary of our talk.” Addressing the thugs, he said, “Get him down from the horse.”

“When do we slay ’im?”

“When the negotiations are done. Then we may take as long as we like. No one will stop us.”

Anger boiled inside Dominic. The impulse to dig his heels into the horse, to spur the animal to a gallop, screamed in his wounded muscles. But, the man with the crossbow would slaughter him before he reached the trees’ protective cover. Better to wait until a more opportune time. Better yet, until he’d seen the faces of the London merchants who would dare to buy de Lanceau’s stolen cloth.

The man by the wagon waved his hand. “Milord.”

Crenardieu’s head swiveled. “What is it?”

“Four boats, headed this way.”

The Frenchman’s expression hardened. “Did they give the signal?”

The thug squinted, then nodded.

Crenardieu laughed. With a swirl of his cape, he turned and strode down toward the dock. “Tie de Terre to one of the trees. Shove a rag in his mouth, so he cannot interfere.” Glancing back, he said, “Count your breaths, Dominic, for they are your last.”

Chapter Nineteen

When de Lanceau led his contingent of men-at-arms into the dark street by her shop, Gisela fought a rush of panic. Her hands clenched on her horse’s reins. The steady ring of hooves,
creak
of leather, and chime of bridles became a discordant melody echoing inside her head. Would Ryle still be sprawled on the floor of her home? Or had he and the thugs awakened and overpowered Ada? They might be hiding inside, waiting to attack as Gisela entered.

De Lanceau, astride his huge gray destrier and holding aloft a burning torch, turned to look at her. His long cloak rippled as he moved. “Which shop?”

“The one with the door ajar, milord.”

He frowned at her premises. Even in the predawn darkness, the building appeared run-down, the wooden walls grayed and peeling. With the door ajar, it appeared . . . deserted.

Nay, never deserted. Apart from Ryle possibly being inside, there were too many memories within, clinging like cobwebs, lingering in the shadows.

Thrusting his torch high, de Lanceau drew his horse to a halt. The men-at-arms halted their mounts, as well. Where once there had been a host of sound, the street fell silent, save for the swish of horses’ tails.

One hand on his sword, de Lanceau dismounted. He motioned his men-at-arms to do likewise. Swallowing down chafing fear, Gisela slid down from her horse and hurried to him.

De Lanceau’s sword hissed from its scabbard. A magnificent weapon. The metal gleamed in the torchlight. Some of his men drew their swords and hurried along the front of her premises to assume a defensive position. Others stood wary and resolute beside their lord.

He glanced at her. “Stay here, Gisela.”

Oh, God, nay. She couldn’t have any deaths upon her conscience. “Milord, what if Ryle is inside? What if—”

“He is no match for my men.” With a brisk tilt of his head, he motioned his warriors to move to either side of the doorway.

Weapons raised, the men pushed in the door. It flew inward, meeting the wall with a
crash
.

Boots pounded on the boards. Torchlight flickered off the walls. Shouts echoed. The door into her home banged open. More harsh voices.

A moment later, de Lanceau returned to her. “Come inside.”

A command she must obey. Yet, his grim tone—a warning—brought a painful tightness to her chest. Curling her sweaty hands into her skirts, she walked in. The familiar scents and coolness of her shop enveloped her. Her worktable appeared as she’d left it, thread, candles, and implements scattered across the surface.

She stepped into her home. Men-at-arms stood by her trestle table, their presence seeming to suck the air from the interior. As her gaze moved about the room, she gasped.

Her and Ewan’s pallets were slashed by knife marks. Straw was scattered in clumps, obviously ripped from the beds during a screaming rampage. The bench alongside the table lay in pieces. Gouges, like scratches of a dragon’s claws, marred the tabletop.

A hand at her throat, she stepped into her kitchen area. Earthenware shards covered the floor. Judging by the marks on the walls, Ryle had thrown most of the bowls to smash them into insignificant bits.

He had destroyed her home. He’d left his hallmark on each symbol of her independent life.

Pain stabbed through her scarred breast. Pressing her hand to her old wound, she trembled.

“Is this Ryle’s doing?” de Lanceau asked from behind her. Disgust dripped from every word.

She nodded.

“The man has a violent temper.”

A sob welled, but she refused to release it, or the moisture trying to well over her lashes. What Ryle had done was beyond tears. He did not deserve such respect.

How she hated him for the senseless ruination of all she’d worked to establish.

Hated, hated,
hated!

A harsh, rasping sound broke through the fury burning in her mind. With a start, she realized she heard her own breathing.

A hand fell upon her shoulder. She turned around to see de Lanceau studying her, concern in his gaze. “Gisela?”

“He did this because I left him,” she ground out. “Because I would not tolerate his drunken cruelty.”

“He is gone now,” he said, squeezing her arm. The torch in his hand hissed, spewing black smoke.

“For how long?”

Footfalls sounded on her shop’s planked floor. “Milord,” said one of the men-at-arms. “A woman outside says she must speak with you.”

“What does she want? Who is she?”

“I do not know, milord, but she says her name is Ada.”

“Ada,” Gisela echoed, glancing at the man-at-arms. “Please, milord, may I see her?”

Motioning to the sentry, de Lanceau said, “Show her in.”

The torchlight playing across the plank floor shifted, murmurs sounded outside, and then Ada appeared, wrapped in a woolen cloak. Her worried face softened with a smile. “Gisela.”

Tears welled again. Gisela hurried to Ada, meeting her at the inner doorway. Throwing her arms around the older woman, Gisela hugged her tight.

Sniffling, pulling back, she asked, “Are you harmed? What happened?”

“I will tell ye all,” Ada said, gently extricating herself from Gisela’s arms. She dropped into a low curtsy. “Milord.”

“Ada stayed here while Ewan and I traveled to Branton Keep,” Gisela explained.

“I remember. You were her accomplice in the bowl-smashing antics,” de Lanceau said, mirth in his gaze.

“Aye, milord.” Ada flushed and tugged at her cloak. “I kept watch o’er Ryle and the two other men. After a while, I grew ’ungry and weary. I did not want ta fall asleep on such an important duty.” She shook her head. “They appeared ta be oblivious, so I left for me ’ome for a quick meal. Well”—she looked sheepish—”right as I was about to return ’ere, I ’eard voices outside.”

“Whose voices?” Gisela asked.

“I recognized Ryle’s.” Ada shuddered. “Unmistakeable, ’is. ’E was furious, cursin’ Gisela’s name, rammin’ his foot—or maybe ’is fist—into a wall close by . . .
Slam, slam, slam
, it went.” She shuddered again.

Gisela slid her arm around the woman’s shoulders. She could imagine what a frightening experience that had been.

“Did you hear what they said?” de Lanceau asked, his frown deepening.

“They discussed the fastest way ta meet up with Crenardieu. The thugs wanted their share o’ coin, promised ta them after Crenardieu sold the cloth ta the London merchants.”