A Knight's Persuasion (12 page)

“If you . . . think ’tis best.”

Anticipation throbbed inside Veronique, for now was the ideal moment to mention the ring. “I vow, Landon, you should also be wearing the jewel de Lanceau gave you. Edouard will expect to see it. We do not want to arouse his suspicions.”

“A-all right.” Drawing away, he strode to his wooden chest shoved against the wall by the bed, opened it, and rummaged inside. He drew out a leather bag and tipped the contents onto the chest’s closed lid.

Veronique’s fingers curled into fists. At last.
At last!

Landon went very still, before a strangled cry broke from him.

“What is wrong?” Veronique snapped.

Dismay shivered across his face. “The ring. ’Tis gone.”

Her jaw clamped so tightly that pain lanced through her cheek. “Are you
certain
’tis not there?”

“Aye. Many other jewels are missing, too. Cloak pins, gemstone rings inherited from my sire.” He shook his head. “A chain with a gold cross—”

“Did you put these jewels somewhere else, for safekeeping?”

“Nay. I—” His expression hardened. “Mayda. She took them!”

A likely possibility, considering their bitter fights in the days before she’d died. Trying to control her rage, Veronique said, “Your wife confided in Juliana, did she not? They were the closest of friends.”

“Aye.”

Welcoming the malice burning within her, Veronique smiled. “Let Edouard ride straight through the castle gates. We will be waiting.”

Chapter Eight

The dirt road curved out of a stand of trees, guiding Edouard and his men into open sunlight and the approach to Waddesford Keep. The stone fortress sprawled across the land ahead, with guards visible above the gatehouse and along the battlements.

As his gaze fell upon the lowered drawbridge and raised portcullis, Edouard blew out a sigh of relief. His messenger had reached the keep. They were expected.

Gently squeezing Juliana’s limp body, he murmured, “Help is moments away, I promise.” She hadn’t stirred since waking in the village. Worry for her left a gnawing ache in his gut, but soon, she’d have the care she needed.

Ah, God, he’d sell his fine horse, even the prized dagger belted at his hip, if the healer needed money to purchase special herbs or ointments to save Juliana.

When he neared the keep, Kaine and the other man-at-arms riding a few paces behind, he sensed many gazes upon him. He was used to drawing awed stares, being the son of Moydenshire’s lord. Holding his head high, he tamped down a pinch of nervousness over the meeting he’d promised he’d have with Ferchante, one that now must include blunt questions as to why Juliana was found near dead in the river. Not an easy matter to discuss, but one that mustn’t be ignored.

Aware of the onlookers on the wall walk, Edouard briefly savored the honor of visiting on behalf of his respected father. One day, this castle’s lord would owe allegiance to him. One day, these folk would be his.

Foreboding suddenly pierced the glow inside him, and his gaze shifted back to the gatehouse. For a moment, he sensed . . . malevolence.

Surely not. His sire and Lord Ferchante weren’t enemies, but friends and allies. His taxed nerves must be playing tricks upon his mind.

Mentally shoving aside his unease, he guided his horse onto the drawbridge crossing the moat that looked nearly dry. The scent of stagnant water wafted up to him as the animal’s hoofbeats sounded on the wood. A moment later, Edouard heard the other horses walk onto the drawbridge behind him. The escalating clatter of well-trained mounts, handled by skilled, loyal men, sent reassurance flowing through him.

The guards at the end of the drawbridge—heavily-armed, tough-looking men—bowed as he rode under the wooden teeth of the portcullis into the shadows of the gatehouse. The sun-brightened inner walls of the bailey came into view. A small crowd had gathered in the bailey, an array of castle folk and servants who’d left their daily duties to get a glimpse of him. They were separated from him by warriors, lined up in two opposite rows to form a corridor, a sign of respect when greeting honored guests.

The warriors dipped their heads as he rode past, and Edouard nodded back while keeping a secure hold upon Juliana. When his gaze skimmed the bailey, he saw Lord Ferchante striding out of the forebuilding’s doorway. He looked much the same as the last time Edouard saw him, at a Christmas feast last year. Ferchante smoothed a hand over the front of his tunic, clearly wanting to make the very best impression.

“Lord Ferchante,” Edouard called and reined in his horse. Kaine and the men-at-arms halted their horses a short distance behind him, as they’d been trained to do. They’d keep a lookout for danger. A formality, really, when they were on friendly ground.

“An honor to see you, Lord de Lanceau.” Ferchante dropped into an elegant bow.

“Please, call me Edouard.”

“If you will call me Landon, milord.”

Edouard smiled. “Agreed. Thank you for opening your gates to us and preparing for our visit.”

Landon smiled back. Somehow, though, his expression seemed strained; ’twas even more evident when he looked at Juliana. His hand swept over his face and, for a moment, alarm gleamed in his eyes.

Disquiet tingled anew in Edouard’s blood. Was Landon worried about Juliana’s condition? She had, after all, been Mayda’s closest friend. Or, was he more concerned that he’d suffer punishment for what had befallen Juliana, since she resided at his keep? Questions to be dwelled upon later.

“Landon,” he said, “as you can see, Juliana is badly hurt. The man-at-arms I sent on ahead was to request the healer. We were told she is here.”

“She is,” Landon agreed. “We have readied for Juliana’s care.”

“Good.”

Landon’s gaze darted to the crowd, and then back. The nervous gesture suggested he wanted to be certain all was in order for this initial meeting.

Yet someone standing within this bailey must know who’d attacked Juliana. Edouard’s sire wouldn’t have let an opportunity pass to coax out a witness; Edouard mustn’t, either. “Lady de Greyne was living at this keep, was she not?” His arm tightened a protective notch around her. “Do you know how she came to be injured? It appears someone tried to murder her.”

“Murder?” Landon seemed to grow tense. Doubtless he was shocked by the thought that someone in his household may have committed such a heinous deed. “Did she . . . tell you such?”

“Nay. She only roused once on our journey here, and only for a moment. Let it be known,”—Edouard raised his voice to carry across the bailey—“I offer a reward to anyone who saw what happened to her.”

A murmur rippled through the throng.

“Please, Edouard.” Landon thrust a hand toward the keep. “Come inside with your men. Refresh yourselves. As you ordered, we must get Juliana to the healer.”

Indeed, the sooner her wound was treated, the better. The unsteadiness of Landon’s tone, though, made Edouard pause.

“My men will see to your horses,” Landon went on. “They—”

“One moment.”

“Aye?” Landon’s hand skimmed over his sweaty face again. A hand that bore only one ring, and it wasn’t the one given to him by Edouard’s sire.

Edouard forced his lips into a genial smile. “My father has certain ways he likes matters to be conducted between his loyal lords. If you would show me what he gave you. A sign, if you will, of the trust between us.”

A curious silence fell upon the crowd, as though all the others, too, awaited that confirmation from Landon. “The ring, you mean.” Landon’s face crumpled on a wry laugh. “I fear I was so busy making arrangements for your visit, I forgot to fetch it from my chamber.”

A fair explanation. Still . . .

“Surely, Edouard, you do not need such proof to know you can trust me?”

A chill crawled through Edouard. He did, indeed, want proof. Why didn’t Landon offer to fetch the ring and prove his loyalty?

Just as he tightened his hold on his horse’s reins to wheel it around, Kaine’s mount nudged alongside his. “Something is wrong,” Kaine said between his teeth. “There are too few guards on the battlements, and that man by the stable . . .”

As Edouard began to turn his horse, he risked a glance. His gaze locked with the unwavering stare of a dark-haired warrior who looked about his age. His hair, tied back with a strip of leather, was long enough to touch between his shoulder blades. He had the physique of a seasoned knight. His obvious fighting strength, however, didn’t cause dread to slam through Edouard.

The man’s face . . .

Familiar
.

He looked like Edouard’s father. A harder, rougher version, but still . . .

Only one man could fit this shocking resemblance: Tye, the bastard son of Edouard’s sire and Veronique. A child Edouard’s father pointedly refused to acknowledge.

If Tye was here, then his ruthless mother must be also.

“Ride! Now!” Edouard bellowed. He spun his horse and kicked it toward the gatehouse.

Shouts erupted behind him, along with the
hiss
of drawn swords, hoofbeats, and running footfalls.

A
creak
echoed: the sound of the drawbridge rising.

Hellfire!
Within moments, they’d be trapped inside these walls.

“Edouard!” Kaine shouted from close behind.

Men swarmed in around Edouard’s horse to block his escape. They grabbed for his mount’s reins and reached for Juliana. As he struggled to keep hold of her and draw his sword, Edouard kicked the nearest lout, sending his head snapping back with a loud
crack
.

The force of the blow sent Juliana bumping against Edouard. He gasped and fought to regain his balance. Kicking out again, he caught another warrior full in the chest. The man careened back into the throng.

Cursing under his breath, Edouard abandoned his attempt to free his sword. Yanking his knife from his belt, he slashed out at a man tugging at his left leg, then rammed his heels into his horse’s sides. There was still a chance to reach the drawbridge.

Tossing its head, the horse merely sidestepped; a mercenary had a firm hold on its bridle.

A coarse laugh carried across the din. “You are trapped.”

Edouard’s head swiveled. His furious stare locked with that of the dark-haired thug who resembled his sire.

As though he were some kind of god, the sea of men parted to let the thug through. His broadsword, pointed at an angle toward the ground, glinted with lethal sharpness. With insolent, swaggering strides, he crossed to Edouard.

“Who are you?” Edouard glared at him, refusing to look away.

A woman’s laugh, shrill with glee, floated from near the forebuilding.

Veronique?
Oh, God. Oh, God
.

The dark-haired man reached Edouard’s side. “My name,” he said with a cold smile, “is Tye. At last, we meet,
Brother
.”

Chapter Nine

Edouard glared down at the man who’d dared to call him brother, the bastard who’d suggested, in that one word, that he had a birth right to be part of the revered de Lanceau lineage. The lout grinned, obviously relishing Edouard’s hatred.

From what Edouard knew of Tye, he’d been presented, without any forewarning, to his sire in a meadow when a young boy, a pawn in one of Veronique’s prior schemes. Edouard’s sire had refused to believe he’d fathered Tye. While insistent that the boy was, indeed, of de Lanceau blood, Veronique had offered no definite proof.

When Tye was a child, his developing features might not have been distinct. In the grown man—the shape of Tye’s mouth, the boldness of his gaze, the angles of his face—Edouard saw the resemblance to his father.

Their
father.

Or a man who looked very much like Geoffrey de Lanceau.

Refusing to break Tye’s stare, Edouard tightened his grip on his knife. How diligently his sire had tried to keep this bastard from influencing any part of his life. He’d striven to spare the family from the anguish of his past liaison with Veronique, an ambitious, French-born commoner who believed herself worthy of the privileges of the noble elite. While they all knew of Veronique and Tye, the two were akin to an unpleasant secret, spoken of only when necessary.

Regardless of the truth of Veronique’s claim, Edouard had no doubt Tye’s intentions toward him were hostile. He’d never allow himself to be manipulated into a plot to destroy his sire. He
had
to get Juliana away from peril.

“I demand that you withdraw your lackeys. Let me and my men leave,” Edouard said, not caring to soften the lashing whip of his voice.

Tye didn’t even blink. “Demand.” He laughed while he looked to the men around him. They, too, chuckled. “Why would I let you go? We only just met. As brothers, we have much in common to discuss.”

“I have naught to say to you, whoreson.” Edouard glanced over his shoulder. “Landon! Order these men to move aside, or—”

“Ferchante no longer rules this keep.” Tye flipped up his sword; the tip rested at Juliana’s thigh, atop the blanket wrapped around her. With one thrust, the blade would slice through to her delicate skin and deeper still. He’d leave her crippled. More likely, she’d slowly bleed to death.

“I do not wish to hurt her,” Tye said, “especially when she is already so gravely wounded. You must care about her, aye, to have brought her to the healer?”

Edouard glowered. He wasn’t going to honor this thug with a response. Tye, though, seemed to read the answer in Edouard’s expression, for he smiled.

“Since she is important to you, you will do exactly as I say. Sheath your knife and hand it to me. Unbuckle your sword belt and drop it as well.” He motioned to the nearby mercenaries, who edged forward to take the weapons.

Edouard’s gaze shot to the drawbridge, almost completely raised. Was there any chance of escape? Any way of getting Juliana away from here?

“There is no escape.” Tye’s words rang with command. “Do as I say.”

Grunts and scuffling sounds of a struggle drew Edouard’s gaze to Kaine, trying to fight off mercenaries hauling him down from his mount. Kaine fought well, but there were too many opponents. He vanished beneath a swarm of men.