Medieval Rogues (30 page)

She wet her lips. “Milord—”

He released her hand and snapped his fingers. The lutenist began a new song. A few of the servants started to dance. They linked hands, formed a ring, and stepped and turned. The lute player quickened the pace and pounded out the rhythm with his foot, while another musician joined him and drummed the beat on a tabor.

Dominic approached from a far table. “Will one of you beauties accompany me?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

Mildred pouted and took a big gulp of wine. “I am old enough to have birthed you. I know you do not wish to dance with a crotchety old woman.”

“Age brings experience,” Dominic said with a crooked grin. “Come, Mildred. Let us show them how ’tis done.”

The matron cackled. “You are a charmer.” Smiling, she struggled up from the bench, took the arm he offered, and they strolled toward the dancers. When the clasped hands of the revelers parted, Mildred and Dominic joined the ring.

Geoffrey propped one leg up on the bench and leaned sideways against the table’s edge. “You do not enjoy dancing, damsel?”

“’Tis not right to celebrate.” Elizabeth sipped her wine, as dark and red as blood.

“’Tis foolish to dwell on events that may never happen, or ones you cannot prevent.”

He spoke of the melee. Refusing to meet his gaze, to let him see her uncertainty, she watched Dominic and Mildred twirl and dance. The matron’s wrinkled face glowed with the effects of wine and good cheer.

“Dance with me, Elizabeth,” Geoffrey whispered.

The decision was made for her. At that moment, the dancers separated and Mildred whirled toward the table. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her toward the ring.

“Mildred, nay.”

“Please, milady. ’Tis most enjoyable.”

As the dancers turned and stepped in exact time, Elizabeth found herself drawn into the momentum. The music quickened even more, but she sensed the rhythm and kept pace. The melody hummed in her blood.

She dipped and turned, her bliaut billowing at her ankles. She stomped on herbs strewn in with the rushes, and the blended tang of rosemary, thyme, and meadowsweet rose up from the floor. Her braid came loose and hair tumbled thick and wild about her face. Caught up in the swell of music and emotion, she felt more alive than at any other moment in her life.

Mildred grinned, and Elizabeth laughed. The dance quickened again. Faster. Faster she turned, whirling around in a blur of hair. She dipped, turned, and spun . . . until strong arms pried her from the ring and drew her into the stairwell’s shadows.

With a raw groan, Geoffrey pressed her against the cool stone wall. His breath gusted against her brow.

“Ah, damsel. What you do to me.” His lips crushed hers in a kiss so intense, Elizabeth’s knees buckled.

“I must go back,” she whispered, even as she kissed him with equal fever.

“Nay.” Geoffrey lifted her into his arms and took the stairs to the solar two at a time. Striding to the bed, he sat her on the edge, yanked off her slippers, and slid her bliaut over her head in one fluid motion. He kissed her until her she gasped and quivered.

His hand slid beneath her chemise.

“Geoffrey,” she whispered, “we cannot.”

“You belong to me.” With gentle hands, he pressed her back on the coverlet.

She shook her head. “Impossible.”

“If you do not believe me, let me show you.” He coaxed her with his mouth, his fingers, and tender words whispered over her flushed skin.

When the tempest consumed her, Elizabeth cried out. She soared with such joy, she wished she could hold Geoffrey in her heart forever.

She wondered when the dream would shatter around her.

***

Arthur stood in the tent’s entrance and watched Veronique secure a clinking leather sack to the front of her horse’s saddle. He had given her half of the silver in the chest. The remainder she would receive at Branton, providing she kept her end of the bargain. She had not liked his stipulation, but with a furious nod, had agreed.

Veronique turned to him. “Till the morrow, milord.”

“You are a lady of your word?”

She tittered. “Lady, nay. But I will not fail you. The portcullis and drawbridge shall not bar your way if you arrive at Branton Keep as arranged.”

“Do not betray me, Veronique.”

Her eyes flashed in the twilight. “You question my trustworthiness
after
parting with your coin?”

Viscon laughed and heaved his body up onto his horse, a roan as ugly as its master.

“I paid a great deal for your help, Veronique,” Arthur said and started toward her, his surcoat flapping in the breeze. “You, in turn, offer me no guarantees but your word. You must agree ’tis not much to weigh against a sack of silver.” As her gaze hardened, he forced a genial smile. “You will understand, then, why I am sending men to accompany you, to ensure our agreement is met.”

Her mouth tautened with anger, and he thought he heard her mask of rouge and powder crack. “You will draw attention to me. Do you think ’twill be easy for me to bribe the guards without de Lanceau finding out?”

“That is why I paid you well. If you cannot fulfill our arrangement, I will take the coin back.”

“Nay!” Veronique gripped the bag. She looked prepared to gouge out his eyes if he tried to wrest the coin from her. “You may send your escort. Two men, no more.”

“Four,” Arthur said. He would not underestimate Viscon. If he and Veronique decided to flee with the coin, ’twould take four able knights to subdue the brute.

“Four,” she agreed with a sneer, “but I work alone.”

“As long as the deed is done.”

“Christ’s blood! ’Twill be.”

Arthur signaled to the armed soldiers who stood nearby. He picked four of his trusted knights and ordered them to their horses.

“Milord.” Aldwin strode over from the fire, buckling on his broadsword. “I beg you to let me ride escort as well.”

Arthur shook his head. “There is much to do here before the morrow.”

“I
must
go! Milord, I cannot sit idle when Eliz—milady—is being violated by that whoreson.”

“I like it no more than you,” Arthur said with a growl, “but a rash challenge from you will not free her. You will remain with the rest of the soldiers. Go. Check my sword is sharpened and my horse is rubbed down.”

“Already done, milord,” Aldwin said.

“Do the tasks again.”

The squire’s eyes blazed, but he bowed and stalked off toward the horses.

Veronique sat in sullen silence upon on her mount, her curls crushed beneath her cloak’s fur-trimmed hood. He sensed her fury, reined in like the animal beneath her. The wench seethed, and from more than his demand to send an escort. She wanted to see de Lanceau suffer. She wanted to watch him die.

Arthur did not envy de Lanceau in the least.

“Can we trust her?” Sedgewick asked in a low voice, coming to Arthur’s side. The baron had found a meat pie somewhere and crammed it into his mouth.

“Veronique will do as I paid her.”

“My dear Elizabeth.” The baron swiped crumbs from his chin with his tunic’s sleeve. “The morrow shall not come soon enough.”

With a terse command, Veronique kicked her horse toward the road. The sentries followed a few paces behind her and Viscon, and hoofbeats reverberated into the night air until the party disappeared from view. Veronique never looked back, and Arthur did not mistake the slight.

Nor did he miss the anger in Aldwin’s eyes as the squire strode past into the tent.

Arthur sighed and turned to the baron. “Will you join me for more wine?”

The tent’s opening snapped open, and Aldwin brushed by with a woolen blanket. He headed for the tree where Arthur’s destrier was hobbled.

“May I drink with you in a moment?” Sedgewick asked, his eyes bright. “There is a small matter I must see to first.”

“Of course.” Arthur stepped into the stuffy tent that still smelled of rosewater, but after a moment’s hesitation, pulled back the flap and watched the baron hasten after Aldwin. Sedgewick’s belly wobbled from side to side with each of his furtive steps, and he did not slow down until he caught up with the squire. They disappeared behind the destrier.

What did Sedgewick require of Aldwin?

Mayhap he wished the squire to tend his horse or give it an extra ration of oats. Shrugging, Arthur dropped the flap and reached for the wine. Whatever the baron needed, Arthur doubted the matter was of great consequence.

***

Elizabeth awoke to shouts in the bailey. Blinking to clear the sleep from her eyes, she saw the sky beyond the solar’s window was blue-gray. Near dawn. She rolled onto her side, dragging the snug bedding with her, and found Geoffrey had risen. He stood silhouetted against the firelight, pulling on his hose.

A knock rattled the solar’s doors.

“Milord!” Dominic’s cry sounded urgent. A tremor of unease rippled through Elizabeth. Clasping the bedding, she pushed up to sitting.

Geoffrey shrugged into a burgundy tunic, ran to the doors, and yanked them open. Dominic strode in. Alarm buzzed in Elizabeth’s veins. His face grim, he wore a broadsword strapped over a chain mail hauberk. The iron helm tucked under his arm gleamed like a bleached skull.

“What has happened?” Geoffrey demanded.

“An army approaches. At least a hundred knights.”

Tugging down his sleeves, Geoffrey froze. “A siege! I should have foreseen Brackendale’s treachery.”

“Father?” Elizabeth wrapped the linen sheet round her body and leapt from the bed. She ran to the windows and looked out.

Dawn’s watery light glinted off the conical helms of mounted knights. Foot soldiers trailed through the stubbled fields on the other side of the lake, pikes held high as they marched in formation toward the keep. The rumble of wagons carried like distant thunder. She skimmed the lines of men, trying to recognize her sire, but the head of the procession had already passed from view.

Elizabeth whirled to face Geoffrey. The sheet tightened around her body, restricting her movement. “Why has he come here? You agreed to a melee in Moyden Wood.”

His mouth compressed to a bitter line. “I did.”

“Why would my father bring his army to Branton, then?”

“I have been betrayed.”

The dead calm in Geoffrey’s voice slammed into her. Fear tore through her—for her father, for herself, and most of all, for the rogue who had made her soul and body glow.

“Who would dare to betray you?” she shrieked.

He did not answer. His gaze shadowed, and he looked at Dominic. “Send the women and children to the storage rooms below. They will be safe there. Wake every able-bodied man and order them to the bailey. Double the guards at the gate. No one enters or leaves.”

“Aye, milord.”

Elizabeth held her breath until the doors clicked shut behind Dominic. She trembled. “Geoffrey, what will you do?”

He strode to the wooden chest against the wall, shoved open the lid, and withdrew a suit of mail armor. “What I am expected to do. Fight.”

“You cannot! Please. This must be a misunderstanding—”

He dropped the chain mail on the bed, and the iron links settled with a metallic
chink
. “I knew your father and I would face one another in battle, but I did not imagine ’twould be today.” He smiled at her, but his expression offered neither tenderness nor comfort. “You do not dance with joy, milady?” He reached into the chest again and tossed a padded gambeson and sheathed sword atop the mail. “Why not? You have looked forward to your rescue.”

Elizabeth shivered and turned her back to him. She could not bear his callous words, not when she remembered the taste of his bronzed skin beneath her lips. It had been wondrous to curl up in his arms, to sleep with her back pressed against his chest, to feel each of his breaths pressing his body closer to hers. She would cherish those moments forever.

“Elizabeth?”

Tears misted her vision, but she blinked them away. She crushed her fingers into the sheet. “How can I be joyous, when this may be the last time I see you alive?”

“A lady like you wants naught from a rogue like me.”

She could not stop a sad smile. “Only your heart.”

“Ah.” His laughter sounded strained. “My heart carved out in triumph and displayed on a silver platter. ‘The dark heart of a traitor’s son,’ the soldiers will cheer. ‘Strange how his blood is red like ours.’ Shall you also demand my severed head? My steaming entrails? My—”

“Never!” She swung around to face him, her cheeks wet with tears. “How can you accuse me of such atrocious things? How, after all that we have shared?”

He glanced at the rumpled bed. Anguish clouded his gaze, and he shook his head. “Elizabeth, I—”

“Do you believe I care naught for you? That I wish you dead?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “With all that stands between us, damsel, ’tis not a fair question. As well you know.” He picked up his sword, drew it partway from the scabbard, and checked the lethal blade.

Desperation screamed inside her. “Do not fight my father.” Her words softened to an urgent plea. “I beg you, find another way to resolve your feud.”

Geoffrey sheathed the weapon and dropped it onto the coverlet. “Do not ask me to forfeit my revenge. I cannot and
will
not promise you that. I have waited eighteen years for this fight.”

“I could not bear to see you killed.” A sob wrenched from her before she could put her hand over her mouth.

He bowed his head and cursed. It seemed an eternity before he crossed the few steps between them and gathered her in his arms. He held her in a firm, possessive hug, and she pressed her face against his tunic. “I never thought to hear you say those words,” he murmured into her hair.

“Nor did I.”

With exquisite tenderness, Geoffrey smoothed wayward curls away from her face and tilted her chin up, warming her with his sensual smile. “When the siege is over, we will speak of us again,” he whispered against her lips.

“Promise?” Elizabeth linked her fingers through his. The press of his strong hands offered reassurance, yet fear roiled inside her like a terrible beast. Despite his brave words, Geoffrey might not live to see another dawn.

“I promise,” he said. “With my very breath.”

She managed a weak smile. “’Tis not your breath I want to seal your vow, milord.”

Half-chuckling, half-groaning, Geoffrey dipped his head and kissed her until her pulse pounded and her knees shook. As he drew back, he brushed away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “No more crying, damsel.”

He stepped away, and Elizabeth sniffled and hugged the sheet close to her chest. “What will happen to me?”

He scooped up his gambeson, armor, and sword and strode for the doors. “You will be safe here. Stay in the solar,” Geoffrey said over his shoulder. “I do not want you harmed.”

She huffed a breath. “You cannot expect me to sit idle and wait. I do not want you to die, but I will not allow you to kill my father, either.”

“Stay inside,” Geoffrey repeated, his tone firm. The door slammed behind him.

Elizabeth ran to the window. The stream of knights and soldiers had passed, but a cloud of dust lingered in the air. Distant shouts and commotion reached her.

She could not stay in this solar, alone, and await the outcome of the siege.

Not when Geoffrey’s life and her father’s were at stake.

Not if she could prevent the bloodshed.

She searched the floor for her chemise, yanked it on, and did not bother to tie the laces. Her hands shaking, she pulled on the rose wool and hurried to the doors. They were not locked.

Three guards stood down the corridor, but were preoccupied with lacing another sentry into a battered leather hauberk.

She slipped out into the corridor and hurried away.

***

“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 Sedgewick’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 grating sound sent a ghastly chill down Geoffrey’s spine. The drawbridge. Descending.

“God’s teeth!” he roared.

Dominic’s face whitened 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. Geoffrey glanced up. His belly turned liquid.

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

As Geoffrey reached for his blade, he 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. I 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. 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. 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 was the one who had 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.