Medieval Rogues (34 page)

He folded his hands and warmed them with his breath. And what of Aldwin? In different circumstances, his actions might have been considered chivalrous. Would he be executed for believing Veronique’s slander and doing what he believed was right? A moral dilemma Arthur did not want to ponder.

A heated argument started in the bailey. A moment later, the forebuilding’s outer door crashed open, and footsteps thundered on the stone stairs.

“I tell you again, you are not to disturb Lord Brackendale,” Bertrand shouted and lunged up the stairs two at a time in pursuit of Dominic, who had reached the top and was stalking across the hall. “If you do not stop, I will arrest you.”

“Indeed,” Dominic said, his expression savage. “If you insist on throwing yourself upon my sharpened sword, so be it.”

As the knight marched toward the table, Arthur pushed himself to standing. Without missing a stride, Dominic dropped down on one knee and bowed his head in a gesture of respect.

Arthur sighed. Dominic seemed to be the most loyal of de Lanceau’s men who had escorted the wagon bearing their lord. Since arriving at Wode, Dominic had slept in the stable with de Lanceau’s destrier and refused to leave the keep until de Lanceau ordered him to do so, or died.

“Milord, I have come requesting news of my lord and comrade, Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

“Again, I see.”

Dominic charged to his feet, shedding bits of straw. “I beg you, do not deny me the truth.” His eyes were bright behind a grazing of brown lashes. “Does he live, or is he dead?”

“His fate remains uncertain. Yet, at present, he lives.”

Relief softened Dominic’s boyish features. “I would like to see him.”

“As I told you yestereve—the last time you so boldly demanded an audience—Mildred advised against visitors. She insists de Lanceau’s life depends upon it.”

“You care whether he lives or dies?”

Arthur scowled at the challenge in Dominic’s voice. “I despise de Lanceau. I loathe being responsible for his well-being. I do so because he is now the rightful lord of Wode, and my squire committed a rash act and caused him injury.”

“And what is being done about this squire?” Dominic asked, his hand settling on the pommel of his sword.

Bertrand reached to draw his weapon, but Arthur stayed him with a flick of his hand. Though Dominic looked irritated, he did not seem a man to attack without due provocation. “My squire’s name is Aldwin,” Arthur said.

“He—Aldwin—is in the dungeon?”

“For now.”

Dominic’s curse echoed to the smoke-blackened beams overhead. “You protect him? You believe he will be vindicated from a deed he committed in cold blood, before witnesses? If Geoffrey lives, Aldwin’s life will be forfeit.”

Shaking his head, Arthur set his hands flat on the table. “There are other considerations.”

“Such as?”

“His reasons for the impetuous act,” Arthur snapped. “I, for one, cannot blame Aldwin for being incensed by lies that I believed myself.”

Dominic stood very still. “Lies, milord?”

“The courtesan, Veronique, told me de Lanceau bedded my daughter against her will. That he raped her without mercy or remorse.”

An indignant laugh burst from Dominic. “You believed her?”

Arthur pounded his fist on the tabletop. Parchments fell to the floor. “Her lies confirmed all that I feared. He held my daughter hostage. He demanded a ransom. By God’s holy blood, he wanted to destroy me.”

“He did,” Dominic agreed. “I will not deny that his actions were driven by vengeance. But, I promise you, his intentions toward your daughter were noble. Geoffrey is a man of deep passions, but he would never harm a woman. Not one whom he admired.” His mouth curved into a lop-sided grin. “I believe they were destined to become lovers. They are well matched in strength of will and temperament, and in all the ways that matter between a man and a woman.”

Misgiving skittered through Arthur. “How do you know this?”

Dominic grinned. “Have you ever paid homage to a demented boar?”

Arthur shook his head, refusing to digress into metaphor. “Does he love my daughter?”

“That is a question to ask of him, though I expect you know the answer.”

Arthur rubbed his aching forehead. Ask de Lanceau how he felt about Elizabeth? Would the humiliations never cease?

“Milord,” said Dominic, crossing his arms over his wool jerkin. “What, may I ask, became of Veronique after she told these lies? Is she sequestered at Wode? Enjoying the luxury of this fine keep and your protection?”

Arthur snorted and eased the weight on his wounded leg. “I have not seen her since we besieged Branton and I paid her the rest of her silver. I imagine she has ridden out of Moydenshire and either seeks another lord to cheat, or has booked passage on a ship to the continent to be as far away from here as possible.”

Dominic grunted. “She is hardly wallowing in guilt.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Wry laughter gleamed in Dominic’s eyes. For a moment, Arthur and he shared a smile.

“Your mouth must be dry from all that blustering,” Arthur said after a silence.

Dominic nodded, his gaze wary. “’Tis somewhat parched.”

With one swipe of his arm, Arthur launched the remaining documents onto the rushes. Ignoring Bertrand’s stunned gasp, Arthur drew out a chair and looked at Dominic. “I am ignorant of what happened at Branton Keep during my daughter’s abduction. Indeed, I know little of Geoffrey de Lanceau, but that in his youth he served as page to the Earl of Druentwode. You will enlighten me.”

“’Twill take more than one mug of your stoutest ale to quench my thirst, or loosen my tongue,” Dominic muttered.

Arthur laughed. “That is a challenge I am prepared to win.” He looked at Bertrand, standing beside the table. “Tell the maidservants to bring spiced wine.”

“Aye, milord.”

Bertrand’s strides faded from the hall, and Arthur sat. Despite his overindulgence yestereve, he needed the wine to dull his body’s aches and strained nerves.

No sooner had Dominic rounded the table than Bertrand returned.

“What is it now?” Arthur called to him.

Halting, Bertrand bowed. “A rider from Tillenham, milord. He says the matter is urgent.”

“
Tillenham?
” The pounding in Arthur’s head intensified. “Send him in.”

***

Elizabeth jolted out of slumber. She jerked upright. Her calves hit the hard chair rail and with a groan, she realized she had fallen asleep by the fire in Geoffrey’s chamber, while she embroidered his father’s saddle trapping.

Torn between the mending, which was almost completed, and the gowns for the orphans, she had chosen to finish the task for Geoffrey. The decision was not easy, yet in her heart, she sensed her mother would agree. With each loving stitch that restored the emblem of the hawk, Elizabeth wished for Geoffrey to heal. He must see for himself the trapping’s renewed beauty. She hoped he would be pleased.

A hoarse cry shattered the silence. Geoffrey’s harsh, frantic breaths echoed in the chamber. “Nay!”

She leapt to her feet. Was he waking?

Setting the trapping on the chair, she ran to his side. His eyes were closed. His hair formed sweaty whorls against his cheeks. As his head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, his neck muscles bunched and corded.

“Father,” he moaned.

“Geoffrey?” She clutched his hand.

“He is delirious.” Mildred drew the stoppered flask from her basket. “Lift his head. We must give him more elixir.”

Elizabeth struggled to part his lips. He fought her, strong despite his injury, and she willed him to cease for a moment and let them help him fight his demons. At last, Mildred managed to pour more of the tonic into his mouth. He thrashed, struggled, then quieted on a low sob and fell into a fitful sleep.

“Will he be all right?” Elizabeth asked.

“I do not know.” The matron moistened a linen cloth in cool water and wiped sweat from his face. “He is fighting, milady. But I do not know whether ’twill be enough.”

Buoyed by fresh hope, Elizabeth returned to the chair and resumed her needlework. Yet, when her father strode into the chamber a few moments later, without even a preliminary knock, her insides chilled. He had not set foot within the room since Geoffrey had been brought here. Her sire had not wished even that small measure of respect upon his avowed enemy.

Her father looked tired. Grim. Unsettled. A loathsome secret seemed to weigh on his conscience. He carried a crude wooden box marked on the lid by what appeared to be strokes from a dagger.

Where had he obtained such a container? She had not seen it before.

To her astonishment, Dominic entered behind her father. As he closed the door behind him, she set down the trapping and stood. Dominic dipped his head in a gracious nod before he strode to the bed, his face fraught with concern.

“Father?” Elizabeth drew his thoughtful gaze from Geoffrey’s sleeping form.

“A messenger arrived not long ago,” her sire said. “The Earl of Druentwode is dead.”

“Oh, Geoffrey.” She imagined his reaction when he awoke and heard of the earl’s passing. The news would cause him grief, mayhap even set back his recovery.

“Aye, Geoffrey.” Her father’s voice sounded odd. Strained.

When she looked at him, puzzled, he pressed the box into her hands. “What is this?” she asked.

“Open it and see.”

She set it on the end of the bed. The knife marks on the top were letters incised as though by a young boy’s hand.

G-e-o-f-f-r-e-y.

I left the merriment in the hall to fetch a wooden box I had made under the tutelage of the earl’s carpenter. I was proud of my work. I could not wait to show my father . . .

An awful tightness gripped Elizabeth’s throat. She raised the lid. When she saw the assortment of childhood treasures inside, her gaze blurred. Three feathers wrapped in a swatch of worn linen. A handful of pebbles. A sling shot. A small dagger, and a beautiful wooden carving of a hawk with its wings outstretched, the exact image of the hawk on the saddle trapping.

She pressed a shaking hand to her lips.

“The documents,” her father said, his tone rough.

There. Flattened against the side of the box. Blinking back tears, she unfurled one of the faded skins with her fingers. She noted the broken remains of a wax seal, the terse signature at the bottom, the lines of formal, scribed Latin.

An official document ratified by the crown.

“’Tis dated seventeen years ago,” she whispered.

Her sire nodded. “A formal pardon for Edouard de Lanceau.”

Her heartbeat suspended, then slammed against her ribs. “
What?!
”

“It seems he was no traitor to the crown.”

A sob tore from her. “Oh, God!”

With a gentle grip, her father steadied her shaking arm. “The other parchment is a letter written to Geoffrey and signed by the earl. He says he got the pardon from the king years ago, but was blackmailed into destroying it by another lord.”

“Blackmailed?” she repeated, horrified.

“Aye. As you see, the earl did not burn the document. Instead, he secreted it away until at last he was free to give it to Geoffrey.”

“When the earl died,” Elizabeth said with a sniffle, “and the blackmailer no longer had power over him.” She dried her cheeks with angry fingers. “Who would blackmail the Earl of Druentwode? Who would deny Geoffrey the truth about his sire?”

Her father shook his head. “I do not know. ’Tis unfortunate the earl did not name the lord.”

“Why not? Why the secrecy?”

“Mayhap we shall never know.” Her sire’s gaze moved to Geoffrey, lying as still as a dead man beneath the blankets. Dominic knelt by his side, his head bowed.

Elizabeth stared down at the precious parchment and wept. For the past eighteen years, Geoffrey had been haunted by a lie.

Would he live to know the truth?
 

Chapter Twenty-One

Hugging her arms to her chest, Elizabeth made her way across the shadowed bailey. Overhead, the black sky gleamed with stars and a swollen half-moon, but she kept her eyes on the pitted ground as she walked and tried to make sense of her tangled thoughts.

The cool breeze stung her tear-streaked face and stirred her mantle. What to believe. Geoffrey had insisted that his father’s loyalty to the crown never wavered. In the end, Geoffrey was right, her father wrong, all because of a secret someone did not want unearthed.

Head down, she skirted a cat devouring its night’s kill and kept walking, her shoes crunching on loose stones. Was it selfish to want Geoffrey to live so very, very much? She would sacrifice all to have him know at last the truth about his sire, to have Geoffrey hold her in his arms again and whisper words of love, while he joined his body with hers.

The night wind gusted, and leaves rustled overhead. Elizabeth looked up, startled, to find she had wandered as far as the garden’s giant apple tree. Ahead, moonlight silvered the stone path dividing Mildred’s neat, tended vegetable and herb beds, and tempted Elizabeth to linger a little longer.